Sons of Fortune

Nat didn’t laugh as he replaced the receiver. He leaned over and kissed his wife before running to the door.

“You’re not wearing a tie,” said Su Ling.

“By tonight I might not be wearing a shirt,” Nat replied.

When they had moved from Boston to Manhattan, Su Ling had found an apartment only a cab ride away from Wall Street. As each bonus came in, she’d been able to furnish and decorate the four rooms, so that Nat soon felt able to bring his colleagues and even some clients back for dinner. Seven paintings—few that laymen would have recognized—now adorned the walls.

Su Ling fell back into a half sleep as her husband left. Nat broke with his usual routine as he leaped down the stairs in twos and threes, not bothering to wait for the elevator. On a normal day, he would have risen at six, and phoned the office from his study to ask for an update. He rarely had to make any major decisions over the phone, as most of their positions were locked in for several months. He would then shower, shave and be dressed by six thirty. He would read the Wall Street Journal while Su Ling prepared breakfast, and leave the apartment around seven, having looked in on Luke. Rain or shine, he would walk the five blocks to work, picking up a copy of the New York Times from a box on the corner of William and John. He immediately turned to the financial section and if the headline grabbed his attention, he would read it on the move, and still be at his desk by seven twenty. The New York Times wouldn’t be informing its readers of the French devaluation until tomorrow morning, by which time, for most bankers, it would be history.

When Nat reached the street, he hailed the first available cab, and removed a ten-dollar bill for a five-block journey, and said, “I need to be there yesterday.” The driver immediately changed lanes, and they pulled up outside his office four minutes later. Nat ran into the building and headed for the first open elevator. It was packed with traders, all talking at the tops of their voices. Nat learned nothing new, except that the simple announcement had been made by the French Ministry of Finance at ten o’clock, central European time. He cursed as the elevator stopped eight times on its slow progress to the eleventh floor.

Steven and Adrian were already at their desks in the trading room.

“Tell me the latest,” he shouted as he threw off his coat.

“Everyone’s taking a bath,” said Steven. “The French have officially devalued by seven percent, but the markets are discounting it as too little too late.”

Nat checked his screen. “And the other currencies?”

“The pound, lira and peseta are also going south. The dollar is climbing, the yen and the Swiss franc are holding steady, while the deutschmark is bobbing.”

Nat continued to stare at his screen, watching the figures flick up and down every few seconds. “Try and buy some yen,” he said as he watched the pound drop another point.

Steven picked up a phone linked directly to the trading desk. Nat stared in his direction. They were losing valuable seconds as they waited for a trader.

“How much is the trade?” barked Steven.

“Ten million at 2068.”

Adrian looked away as Steven gave the order.

“And se

ll any pounds or lire we’re still holding because they’ll be the next to devalue,” said Nat.

“What about the rate?”

“To hell with the rate, just sell,” said Nat, “and get into dollars. If it’s a real storm, everyone will try to shelter in New York.” Nat was surprised how calm he felt amidst the barrage of shouting and cursing around him.

“We’re out of lire,” said Adrian, “and are being offered yen at 2027.”

“Grab them,” intoned Nat, his eyes not moving from the screen.

“We’re out of the pound,” said Steven, “at 2:37.”

“Good, transfer half our dollars back into yen.”

“I’m out of guilders,” shouted Adrian.

“Switch them all into Swiss francs.”

“Do you want to sell our deutschmark position?” asked Steven.

“No,” said Nat.

“Do you want to buy any?”

“No,” repeated Nat. “They’re sitting on the equator and don’t seem to be moving in either direction.”