into a round. My round, as I discovered when the bill came later.
“Look at the label on your beer, Mr Cooperman. Does it say COLD? ” Billy Savitt was smiling. I turned the cool bottle in my hand.
“Yes, it does. Why?”
“It’s a little trick they have out here. If the beer is warm, you can’t see the word COLD . Ha! They don’t prat about, these locals. How’s that for the inscrutable ingenuity of the mysterious East? Ha! I mention it only as an example of these blokes getting the jump on us. We don’t have invisible writing in our adverts yet, do we?” I smiled as I tried to figure out how they did it.
“You’ll get on to the ways of this place, Mr Cooperman. It only takes time. However illogical it may seem, there’s usually a reason behind everything. The money, for instance.” The priest began to line up his change on the tabletop so I could see the different values. Billy Savitt, on seeing this, began laying out folding money, like a hand of solitaire.
“You’ll get used to the big numbers, Mr Cooperman. I still feel like a toff whenever I count out the price of a glass of plain.”
“It’s based on the French franc, except that they’ve divided it into a thousand parts instead of one hundred.” I wasn’t writing any of this down, and I certainly wasn’t taking it all in. My Memory Book remained closed in my pocket.
“That way, Mr Cooperman,” Savitt continued, “it made for the easy conversion of the old English money with its sixpences and florins and half-crowns. Of course, when the Brits went decimal, we were left with an unneeded virtue. That soured a few stomachs in Takot. Nowadays we have to let the banks figure it out.”
“You’ll get on to it, dear boy, don’t worry.”
But Savitt wouldn’t let go. “In the old days, you knew that 250 mils equaled half a crown. And now that they’re on to the new currency, there’s nothing but confusion over here. There’s a bank that still takes the old money!”
“Is Miranam in or out of an economic union?”
“They’re waiting. They’ve made changes, but they’re still waiting.”
“Why bring in the English money? I thought the main influence here was French.”
“Trade, dear boy,” Father O’Mahannay said, waving his right hand airily. “It’s trade. It spins the globe.”
“These chaps don’t mess about,” Savitt said.
In his enthusiasm, Mr Savitt had managed to spill his drink. He mopped it up with a paper handkerchief from his pocket. “Sorry about that, Vicar,” he said, wringing the sopping tissue out on the patio stones. While he was doing this, the good father was telling me that he had learned to tell French money by the famous faces shown on the bills: two Victor Hugos make one Cardinal Richelieu, five cardinals equal one Henri IV. Something like that.
My head was swimming with all the information about currency, some of it no longer in use. Confusion was rising up my spine and panic was inches away. I would have been glad to welcome an interruption. I took the money from my wallet and laid it on the tabletop. “There!” I said. “Can you arrange this pile of coins and bills in order?” Mr Savitt finished mopping up the table while Father O’Mahannay moved cups and drinks to one side. Talk of money overrides our sense of who we are and reduces us to our essentials.
“You’ll get the hang of it, with more practice, dear boy,” said the priest, the Irish in his voice smothering the Middle West. “Just remember not to fold your banknotes. The locals don’t like to see the general’s face creased or folded. That’s why they favor European-sized billfolds.” I smiled and so did Savitt, but I could see that the tip had been serious.
“Seriously, Vicar, they can send you up for it. You don’t want to mess with the courts or the jails in Miranam.”
I began unfolding my “folding money.”
“What are the jails like down here?”
“Unsurvivable. Especially the Central Prison. I can’t
“Look at the label on your beer, Mr Cooperman. Does it say COLD? ” Billy Savitt was smiling. I turned the cool bottle in my hand.
“Yes, it does. Why?”
“It’s a little trick they have out here. If the beer is warm, you can’t see the word COLD . Ha! They don’t prat about, these locals. How’s that for the inscrutable ingenuity of the mysterious East? Ha! I mention it only as an example of these blokes getting the jump on us. We don’t have invisible writing in our adverts yet, do we?” I smiled as I tried to figure out how they did it.
“You’ll get on to the ways of this place, Mr Cooperman. It only takes time. However illogical it may seem, there’s usually a reason behind everything. The money, for instance.” The priest began to line up his change on the tabletop so I could see the different values. Billy Savitt, on seeing this, began laying out folding money, like a hand of solitaire.
“You’ll get used to the big numbers, Mr Cooperman. I still feel like a toff whenever I count out the price of a glass of plain.”
“It’s based on the French franc, except that they’ve divided it into a thousand parts instead of one hundred.” I wasn’t writing any of this down, and I certainly wasn’t taking it all in. My Memory Book remained closed in my pocket.
“That way, Mr Cooperman,” Savitt continued, “it made for the easy conversion of the old English money with its sixpences and florins and half-crowns. Of course, when the Brits went decimal, we were left with an unneeded virtue. That soured a few stomachs in Takot. Nowadays we have to let the banks figure it out.”
“You’ll get on to it, dear boy, don’t worry.”
But Savitt wouldn’t let go. “In the old days, you knew that 250 mils equaled half a crown. And now that they’re on to the new currency, there’s nothing but confusion over here. There’s a bank that still takes the old money!”
“Is Miranam in or out of an economic union?”
“They’re waiting. They’ve made changes, but they’re still waiting.”
“Why bring in the English money? I thought the main influence here was French.”
“Trade, dear boy,” Father O’Mahannay said, waving his right hand airily. “It’s trade. It spins the globe.”
“These chaps don’t mess about,” Savitt said.
In his enthusiasm, Mr Savitt had managed to spill his drink. He mopped it up with a paper handkerchief from his pocket. “Sorry about that, Vicar,” he said, wringing the sopping tissue out on the patio stones. While he was doing this, the good father was telling me that he had learned to tell French money by the famous faces shown on the bills: two Victor Hugos make one Cardinal Richelieu, five cardinals equal one Henri IV. Something like that.
My head was swimming with all the information about currency, some of it no longer in use. Confusion was rising up my spine and panic was inches away. I would have been glad to welcome an interruption. I took the money from my wallet and laid it on the tabletop. “There!” I said. “Can you arrange this pile of coins and bills in order?” Mr Savitt finished mopping up the table while Father O’Mahannay moved cups and drinks to one side. Talk of money overrides our sense of who we are and reduces us to our essentials.
“You’ll get the hang of it, with more practice, dear boy,” said the priest, the Irish in his voice smothering the Middle West. “Just remember not to fold your banknotes. The locals don’t like to see the general’s face creased or folded. That’s why they favor European-sized billfolds.” I smiled and so did Savitt, but I could see that the tip had been serious.
“Seriously, Vicar, they can send you up for it. You don’t want to mess with the courts or the jails in Miranam.”
I began unfolding my “folding money.”
“What are the jails like down here?”
“Unsurvivable. Especially the Central Prison. I can’t
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