Faith is under the left nipple.
~~~
There's something sordid about money. Of course, only someone who has enough money can afford such sentiments. You wouldn't even have a chance of counting as an intellectual unless you looked down from a great height on 'worldly affairs' and the commerce of the little people. Money?! For heaven's sake!
At the bank, the light gleaming off the trashy silver metal, the dust on the floor almost visible because one can see footprints everywhere. A small bank, something one might expect to see in a sleep provincial town. Everyone knows, for instance, where the kids of their colleagues are studying, who is having an affair, etc., etc.
The money changers come in one hour late. A maulvi wearing jeans and a black and white Tartan shirt. A Bay City Rollers fan? Here? He brings with him two kids-they can't be more than eighteen years old. One is a body builder and has perfect teeth. The other, his sidekick, just looks like a poor Indian villager. The way in which they count the money, their fingers effortlessly flowing and clicking over the notes, you suspect they've been doing this for a while. It's almost as if they've been groomed to do this (what a terrible thought!). But you do wonder about their lives.
One of the kids asks for a calculator. He calls it a "punshee". The maulvi makes fun of him, asking him in a baby voice if he wants the poon-shee. This brings great merriment. There's a kind of camaraderie here that one rarely sees in academic circles. Without romanticizing it you wonder if it doesn't have something to do with passing along something with one's hands, the sharing of some tangible object (as opposed to ideas)?
There are different circles: guards have their own in-jokes, their own reliable and immediately understandable gestures. The bankers, too. And one imagines there's a warmth to the company of thieves as well.
The security guard slumps in his chair, thoroughly bored by these transactions. Seen it all before. He wears thick black army boots with the laces going up to his lower shin. He has the thickest and darkest moustache you've seen for a while. A real solid trapezium. His balding head and his whole demeanour make me think of Larkin. He wears a huge ring on his left hand, a visible sign, perhaps, of his faith. Stones are never really just stones. This large red stone, obviously fake. A link to an older kind of faith, one that came before abstraction and theorizing.
Shahazad is an incredible banker. Don't know if he'll do well in this field-but I really hope he does. He gets up to help an old woman cash her cheque, jokes with the lowly clerks without any condescension, reassures me about the transaction and keeps a keen eye on the money changers (who have now removed some money from under their shirts!). They keep their extra money there, strapped on with big thick grey tape. Under the left nipple!
They are never stopped by the police. There's a whole network thing going on here. Lots of phone calls. Lemon juice is given to all parties. The cash machine counts the notes, flicking them at rapid speed. One of the bankers places ten piles of fifties (pounds) on the table and turns them over, two at a time, starting from both ends simultaneously. This could be Vegas.
Sweat. Wipes his brow. The money reflected in his glasses. A faint image. Not the real thing.
When all the money is stacked up it's time for the final deal, the closure. I'm asked to put my hand on the money. This is a formality, some kind of ancient ritual since I don't have to actually hand the money over. There are knowing smiles, nods to one another. There's a web of human relations here.
A certain social fabric somehow exists.
---Bagehot
~~~
Loose strands that I will tie together one day. Bind and cast a spell. A certain fabric exists between us. An image. Red. Beneath that white. And a fluttering red heart like the flapping of a tattered flag in a spring breeze. Then, again, a white room. In which I find my name, my heart, a shadow of yours.
~~~
There's something sordid about money. Of course, only someone who has enough money can afford such sentiments. You wouldn't even have a chance of counting as an intellectual unless you looked down from a great height on 'worldly affairs' and the commerce of the little people. Money?! For heaven's sake!
At the bank, the light gleaming off the trashy silver metal, the dust on the floor almost visible because one can see footprints everywhere. A small bank, something one might expect to see in a sleep provincial town. Everyone knows, for instance, where the kids of their colleagues are studying, who is having an affair, etc., etc.
The money changers come in one hour late. A maulvi wearing jeans and a black and white Tartan shirt. A Bay City Rollers fan? Here? He brings with him two kids-they can't be more than eighteen years old. One is a body builder and has perfect teeth. The other, his sidekick, just looks like a poor Indian villager. The way in which they count the money, their fingers effortlessly flowing and clicking over the notes, you suspect they've been doing this for a while. It's almost as if they've been groomed to do this (what a terrible thought!). But you do wonder about their lives.
One of the kids asks for a calculator. He calls it a "punshee". The maulvi makes fun of him, asking him in a baby voice if he wants the poon-shee. This brings great merriment. There's a kind of camaraderie here that one rarely sees in academic circles. Without romanticizing it you wonder if it doesn't have something to do with passing along something with one's hands, the sharing of some tangible object (as opposed to ideas)?
There are different circles: guards have their own in-jokes, their own reliable and immediately understandable gestures. The bankers, too. And one imagines there's a warmth to the company of thieves as well.
The security guard slumps in his chair, thoroughly bored by these transactions. Seen it all before. He wears thick black army boots with the laces going up to his lower shin. He has the thickest and darkest moustache you've seen for a while. A real solid trapezium. His balding head and his whole demeanour make me think of Larkin. He wears a huge ring on his left hand, a visible sign, perhaps, of his faith. Stones are never really just stones. This large red stone, obviously fake. A link to an older kind of faith, one that came before abstraction and theorizing.
Shahazad is an incredible banker. Don't know if he'll do well in this field-but I really hope he does. He gets up to help an old woman cash her cheque, jokes with the lowly clerks without any condescension, reassures me about the transaction and keeps a keen eye on the money changers (who have now removed some money from under their shirts!). They keep their extra money there, strapped on with big thick grey tape. Under the left nipple!
They are never stopped by the police. There's a whole network thing going on here. Lots of phone calls. Lemon juice is given to all parties. The cash machine counts the notes, flicking them at rapid speed. One of the bankers places ten piles of fifties (pounds) on the table and turns them over, two at a time, starting from both ends simultaneously. This could be Vegas.
Sweat. Wipes his brow. The money reflected in his glasses. A faint image. Not the real thing.
When all the money is stacked up it's time for the final deal, the closure. I'm asked to put my hand on the money. This is a formality, some kind of ancient ritual since I don't have to actually hand the money over. There are knowing smiles, nods to one another. There's a web of human relations here.
A certain social fabric somehow exists.
---Bagehot
~~~
A man lays a hand on his chest when he takes an oath, as he may clutch his brow when he is solving a problem. Why should such instinctive gestures be taken less seriously than theories that faith is an inner state, thought is in the head, love is in the will and so on? Faith, like thought, is often visible.~~~
Loose strands that I will tie together one day. Bind and cast a spell. A certain fabric exists between us. An image. Red. Beneath that white. And a fluttering red heart like the flapping of a tattered flag in a spring breeze. Then, again, a white room. In which I find my name, my heart, a shadow of yours.
1 comment:
the social fabric of banking ...
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