Kapitoil (24 page)

JOURNAL DATE RECORDED: DECEMBER 23

After burning the midnight oil for several days, I completed a draft of the epidemiology paper at the office on Wednesday. The writing was Karim-esque, but it stated the central ideas clearly and the math and programming examples were elegant. It could be a strong launch pad from which connoisseurs in the field might refine Kapitoil.

That night, as I put on the rented tuxedo Mrs. Schrub had delivered to me at my apartment, I debated ditching the party. I was not 100% certain that Mr. Schrub was being dishonest with me, and I was also not 100% certain my epidemiology idea would function. At significant crisis moments some people feel confident about themselves and some people lack confidence, and although I ultimately trust my skills, I do not think I will ever be the class of person who is infinitely certain of himself.

The fund-raising event was at a hotel near the Schrubs’ apartment. It was in the ballroom, and when the young female guard asked for my name, I identified myself, and she said, “Issar…I don’t see you here.” I became nervous and I spelled my name in case she didn’t see it. Then she said, “My mistake—you’re on the special guest list of Helena Schrub. Go on in, sir.” The people behind me on line paid more attention to me as she allowed me to enter.

The ballroom was littered with men in tuxedos and females in black dresses but no fur coats like there were at Mr. Schrub’s luxury box in Yankee Stadium. There were also many waiters carrying food, and since I didn’t see Mr. or Mrs. Schrub, I ate some stuffed vegetarian grape leaves.

Then I saw Mrs. Schrub in the middle of a cluster. She waved for me to come over. “Karim, I’m so glad you could make it,” she said. She introduced me to the five people with her, who were all her age or older. “Karim is from Qatar, and he’s worked his way up to a top position at Schrub Equities in just a few months. Derek says he’s one of his most gifted employees.”

Even though Mr. Schrub made a similar statement at the Yankees game, I didn’t know he had said this, which sounded much more impressive because he said it to his wife and not to his associate. The only thing that bothered me is that she pronounced it “Ka-tar” instead of “cutter,” which most Americans do, so I am typically careless, but I had used the correct pronunciation with her several times in Greenwich.

Two of the men in the circle also worked in finance at other firms, and soon we launched our own conversation. I was surprised that they wanted my opinion, especially on the 1,000-mile view of e-commerce.

“There are golden opportunities now,” I said, “but I believe investors are overestimating the value of the Internet. At the end of the day, consumers still sometimes prefer the human interaction that machines cannot deliver.”

Two other men joined us, and they continued asking for my theories, and soon I forgot why I was at the fund-raiser. When a waiter brought us a tray of small pastries containing cream, I took one without thinking, and it was so delicious that I remembered it was haraam but I couldn’t restrict myself and I consumed two more.

I was talking so much about my ideas that I was unprepared when one of the men, who was the senior member of our cluster and ran a rival hedge fund which was less powerful than Schrub, said, “Your boy Karim is giving away all your secrets,” and Mr. Schrub placed his hand on the back of my neck and said, “Not all, I hope,” and winked at me and compressed his hand slightly harder than necessary.

I didn’t know how to approach asking to speak to him privately, so I didn’t say anything as he greeted the other men. They all moved back a few inches to let him center himself.

“I take it Karim’s been tutoring all you dinosaurs on millennial advancements?” he asked. “This kid is the future. He’s got brains and vision.” I had to bite the inside of my lip so that I wouldn’t smile.

Then he said, “Just goes to show, being smart and hardworking still counts for something in America. You don’t need to come from a wealthy family or go to an Ivy, or even have a business degree.” Even though he was overall complimenting me, I quickly felt less like a VIP again, and I wondered if all the men now thought my previous ideas lacked value because of my poor qualifications.

Soon a female started speaking on a microphone. She thanked everyone for coming and spoke about her organization’s goals. One of Mr. Schrub’s friends, who was the youngest and whose name was Mr. Slagle, motioned for a waiter. The waiter was a Mexican man who waited as Mr. Slagle selected three dates contained inside bacon. After he consumed them he had a remainder of three toothpicks, and since we weren’t near a trash bin or a table and the waiter had left, he dropped them on the floor.

Mr. Schrub whispered to his friends, “Remind me who we’re giving our money away to for this one?”

Mr. Slagle said, “Kosovo.”

“Kosovo,” Mr. Schrub said. “It’s beautiful there. They don’t need any money.”

Mr. Slagle laughed. Mr. Schrub looked at him. “You find that humorous, Dick?” His tone of voice was as serious as when he yelled at his sons.

Mr. Slagle’s eyes rotated to the others. “Sure,” he said.

“Well, it’s not,” Mr. Schrub said. “My great-grandfather was from there.”

His friends looked uncomfortable. “Hey, I’m sorry, Derek,” Mr. Slagle said.

“You’re sorry?” Mr. Schrub asked.

Mr. Slagle looked at the others as if he required help. “Honestly, I don’t know what to say,” he said. “I thought you were making a joke.”

The female finished her speech and the crowd applauded, but Mr. Schrub remained silent. I wanted to say something to help Mr. Slagle, but I didn’t know what I could say and of course I was afraid.

Then Mr. Schrub said, “I’m just joking, Dick,” and he contacted him on his shoulder and smiled. “What do you take me for, some kind of monster?”

Mr. Schrub laughed and then Mr. Slagle did and the other men followed, and the tension around them deleted. However, my muscles still felt restricted, as if I were exercising with weights. It reminded me of when Dan pretended he had cancer.

The others began talking again, and Mr. Schrub seemed to be in a positive mood, so I said to him quietly, “I am ready to discuss the contract.”

He looked at me and said, “Let’s go to my car.” He told his friends he would see them later, and he called Patrick to bring the car around. We exited the ballroom together. Walking with him was again parallel to walking through the restaurant: People pretended not to observe him, but they were all doing it.

We had to wait a minute on the street for the car, and I didn’t know what to say, and Mr. Schrub said nothing either, and I again felt a lack of confidence and wished I hadn’t told him I was ready to discuss the contract, but now I was there and I had to continue my plan.

The limo arrived and we got inside and Mr. Schrub told Patrick to drive us around the area for a few minutes. Mr. Schrub raised the internal divider between us and Patrick, and the world outside muted. The windows were also cloudy from the combination of interior heat and exterior cold, so it was as if we were contained inside a small egg with no sounds and few lights as we drove down 5th Ave.

“So?” he asked. It is difficult to proceed when someone launches a conversation with that.

I commanded myself to be strong and said, “I have finished the epidemiology paper. But I am not signing the contract, because I believe it transfers ownership to you.”

The lights of the luxury stores and their neon Christmas decorations passed by our dark windows in undefined shapes. “It transfers ownership so we can improve it,” he said. “You still get a healthy raise and plenty of stock. You’re not getting a raw deal here in any way.”

“It is not about the money,” I said. “Kapitoil has already independently outpaced quants revenues from all of last year by 3%. Possibly this can help people.”

“You already are helping people,” he said. “This is not a zero-sum game, Karim. Do you know how many people in our office would be looking for jobs now if not for Kapitoil? Or how many other people it’s created opportunities for?” I didn’t say anything. “Look, I want to help people, too. But I’m a realist. The program might work for predicting the spread of diseases. But it definitely works for predicting oil futures. You don’t cut open the goose that lays golden eggs.”

“I understand I am helping some people,” I said. “But Kapitoil is a zero-sum game. It leverages problems elsewhere and transforms a loss into financial gain.”

He shook his head. “If we don’t do it, someone else will. Maybe you wish otherwise, but those are the rules of the game. If you can’t play by them—well, then, you’re not man enough to be in this business. And I had you pegged wrong.”

The car stopped quickly, and to stabilize myself I placed my hand on the window and deleted a section of the moisture. It was interesting how by making something clear I simultaneously left a mark. Through the small hole was St. Patrick’s Cathedral and its two tall towers in the front that looked like antennae.

“I’ve discussed with George promoting you and giving you a raise,” he continued. Then he stated a figure I never expected to earn in my life.

“Don’t answer now,” he said. “I’ll be away for Christmas, but my secretary will set up a meeting on the 30th with a new contract and all the terms spelled out clearly.”

He asked if I wanted to return to the fund-raiser, but I said I could walk home. Before I exited, he said, “Remember what I said about the goose, Karim.”

But as I walked home, instead of considering the goose or the rules of the game or if I was cut out to be in business, I thought about the toothpicks Mr. Slagle had deposited on the ground, and I wondered how long it would take until someone located them and picked them up, and how they would probably remain hidden for weeks or months with small pieces of dates and bacon on them and turn rotten. It was not the correct subject to be thinking about, but sometimes it’s difficult to control where your brain routes itself.

in the ballpark = an estimated value

man enough = possessing the strength and power to succeed

raw deal = a deal that is unfavorable for one party

JOURNAL DATE RECORDED: DECEMBER 26

The next day I still didn’t know what to do. I could consult with Barron, but
(1)
I still didn’t want to reveal what Kapitoil was, and
(2)
I was afraid he would think I was greedy for considering taking the money. And I had already not told the 100% truth to Rebecca and couldn’t disclose to her all the details.

My mother would have also been a valuable advisor in this situation. She would not have judged me like my father would. And she would not have been as inexperienced as Zahira is in subjects like this. She also would be able to see multiple POVs, e.g., maybe the epidemiology proposal wouldn’t function and I might lose this program that would certify Zahira and I had sufficient funds for the future, or maybe it would function and some ventures like this merited the risk.

On the day of Christmas Eve I watched television for several hours. Most channels displayed shows or movies with Christmas as the subject. In one, a family invited a homeless man to their Christmas dinner, even though they were poor themselves. In the end he revealed that he was in fact a millionaire, and for their generosity he rewarded them. It was unrealistic and false although it still made me feel slightly enhanced at the end, but the more I thought about it after, the less I liked it.

By nighttime I felt quarantined in my apartment. I had seen advertisements on the news the entire day about Midnight Mass at St. Patrick’s Cathedral, and driving past it with Mr. Schrub had already made me think about attending it, and I had nothing else to do.

I walked along 50th St. to the cathedral. The black sky was littered with snowflakes like rays of sun underwater. I thought of how they would melt and sink into the ground for trees, and then the trees would eject water vapor, which produces more rain in return. The world can be so elegant when it is left alone to itself.

I wished I could share that moment and that thought with Rebecca, or with Zahira.

On a large monitor a few blocks from the cathedral, an anchorman was discussing a story about a famous female singer who sang for soldiers at an American base on Christmas Eve. Below it the scrolling font displayed: INSIDERS PREDICT “ANY GIVEN SUNDAY” WILL WIN HOLIDAY WEEKEND BOX OFFICE…

I followed the crowd entering the cathedral and powered off my cellular. The interior had long white pillars that curved at the top to form a ceiling that reminded me of the New York mosque’s dome. White lights looked like the snowflakes from the nighttime sky, and the blue glass windows were like the daytime sky. Although it wasn’t midnight yet, members of the church wearing white robes that looked like the class men wear in Qatar were singing in the front in Latin. There were no open seats, so I stood in the rear and closed my eyes and listened to the singing for several minutes. Of course it was a foreign language, but it was simultaneously not foreign at all.

The rest of the service was a combination of music, reading from the Bible, and rituals with candles. I imitated the people around me, and different religious ceremonies usually follow similar classes of algorithms and procedures, and although I looked different, I believe I merged well with the Christians, except when they launched the ritual of communion and I remained in the rear.

When I left, it was snowing more heavily and the frozen ground looked like a clean tablecloth. I didn’t want to ruin it, so I walked only in the paths other people had produced.

I woke up on the morning of Christmas and remembered I had powered off my cellular. I had two messages.

I was surprised to hear my father’s voice on the first one. He sounded volatile and all he said was to call him back ASAP. The next message was also from him and provided a different number.

I called, and a female voice answered “Hamad General Hospital,” and my lungs inhaled air too rapidly.

It took me several seconds to ask for my father. In a minute he was on the telephone.

“There has been an accident with Zahira,” he said.

I could not speak. My brain produced a series of images similar to the ones from the bad dreams I sometimes have about her.

A small bomb had exploded in a trash bin in the Mall early in the morning, he said, and Zahira was there. The bomb did not hurt her, but the explosion knocked her against a wall and she hit her head. She had a concussion and was taken to the emergency room.

“Is there any serious damage?” I finally asked.

“Not from the concussion,” he said. “But the doctors say they found something abnormal with her blood and are running additional tests.”

“What is it?” I asked.

“I do not know,” he said. “The way they speak, it is impossible to understand. We are allowed to talk to her in a few hours.”

I didn’t know what else to say. So I asked, “What was the reason for the bomb?”

He spoke slowly. “They say it was a group here that is protesting the development of new malls in Qatar.”

“Did anyone—” I paused. “Did anyone else get hurt?”

“A few other people had minor injuries,” he said. “But there was a boy standing between Zahira and the trash bin.”

“What happened to him?” I asked, and immediately I wished I hadn’t.

His voice became very quiet. “I think he was taken to the burn unit.”

We were mute for a while. I asked him to have Zahira call me at her earliest convenience.

I disconnected, then sat up in bed and looked out my window. The Schrub monitor displayed: MERRY XMAS…BRONCOS VS. LIONS 4:15 P.M. KICKOFF…MIX OF FREEZING DRIZZLE AND LIGHT SLEET THROUGH DAY…I watched for several minutes, but there was nothing about the bombing.

My eyes moved up to the neon-green Schrub hawk against the gray sky. It was strange. I always thought of it as setting down the
S
and
E
, but now it looked as if it were picking them up in its talons.

The solitary positive was that Zahira was too young to remember which hospital it was.

I didn’t leave the apartment because I wanted to certify Zahira could reach me. I prayed, but not for Zahira’s health, because I know that only frustrates you when it fails. Finally my cellular rang in the afternoon.

“It is me,” Zahira said when I answered it. She sounded exhausted.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“I’ve felt healthier,” she said, “but I’m okay.”

“Father said they were running tests,” I said.

“That is why I am calling,” she said, and again my stomach rotated. “They think I have something called ulcerative colitis. It’s a disease in the colon. I have been losing weight for several months, and this is why.”

I closed my eyes with force. “How serious is it?”

“Because they found it early, they’re going to put me on medication, and they believe it will help,” she said. “If they had discovered it later, it could have required removal of the colon.”

I opened my eyes again. Three of the chairs at the table were in order, but the fourth one was out of line, and the asymmetry bothered me. “What causes it?”

“No one knows,” she said. “It’s just poor luck.”

“Maybe you have been losing weight because you have been studying so much. When I work hard I sometimes forget to eat well.”

“No. I have been eating less because everything I eat makes me feel ill,” she said. “I did not tell anyone what was happening to me because I was humiliated.”

“You should get a second opinion,” I said.

“Three different doctors here all agree.”

“Still, doctors are sometimes wrong.”

“I have it!” she said. “All right? I have it.”

I aligned the fourth chair with the other three and sat in it. “This is not right. It is not fair for you to get this.”

“Stop it, Karim. Don’t make me sad about this.”

“I’m not trying to make you sad. I am upset for you.”

“Well, don’t be!” she said. “I’m trying to see the better side. It could have been worse. They could have discovered this in six months and I could be preparing to lose my colon. Or the accident could have been worse. I could have been that boy.” She stopped.

“I am going to fly home tomorrow,” I said.

“No,” she said. “I can handle this. They say I am anemic and require a blood transfusion and they want to observe me here for a few more days. The visiting hours are short and there is no need for you to miss your last week of work if you are already coming home on the 31st.”

I hadn’t told her that if I signed a new contract, Schrub would therefore probably extend my stay beyond my initial departure date. We argued more about it, but finally I said I would call her each day. Then I asked, “How is father?”

“Haami and Maysaa are with him now,” she said. “It is hard to tell with him. He has been very quiet.”

Before the nurse made us disconnect, I asked, “Zahira, why were you in the Mall?”

“I was buying a gift,” she said.

“Who was it for?”

She paused. “It was for myself.”

It was difficult to continue talking, but I said, “I have missed our conversations.”

She said, “So have I.”

At night I called Rebecca. “We have family friends over, so I can’t talk long,” she said.

“Okay,” I said.

She talked about the activities like cross-country skiing she had done with her family and the many milkshakes she had consumed and a class of cheese she enjoys that she consumes there. “I may even need to set foot in a gym to shed these 30 new pounds,” she said. I didn’t respond, and she laughed and said, “That’s an exaggeration. I’ll never go to a gym.”

I said, “My sister has had some health issues.”

She immediately said she was very sorry and asked how she was. I told her, but I didn’t include the bombing. “What about you?” she asked. “You all right?”

“It does not matter how I am,” I said.

“Okay,” she said. “Is it a good hospital?”

I felt pressure behind my eyes as I did in Rebecca’s bedroom at her party, and my throat began restricting itself. My voice was unstable as I said, “I am receiving another call. It may be my family.”

“Take it.”

“Good-bye,” I said, and now my voice was very volatile.

“Bye,” she said. “I guess I’ll touch base with you when I’m back.”

I disconnected and stood there for several minutes with my eyes closed until my body stabilized. When I opened them, my black table and its four ordered chairs looked very spacious and voided.

touch base = reestablish contact