Lying on the Couch (26 page)

Once Peter and his ex-wife began to communicate better, his relationship with the children improved. With Marshal's help, he drew up a plan for an additional five-million-dollar trust for each child, to be distributed over the next ten years when certain specific targets were achieved: graduation from college, marriage, two years in some established, intrinsically worthy professional endeavor, and service on boards of community-oriented projects. This generous but strictly structured trust worked wonders for the children, and in a remarkably short time their attitude toward their father changed drastically.

Marshal devoted a couple of the sessions to Mr. Macondo's propensity for guilt assumption. He hated to disappoint anyone and, though he tended to minimize the scores of brilliant investment decisions he had made for his investors—a faithful group of Swiss and Scottish bankers—he vividly remembered every single poor decision and grew sad in Marshal's office as he recalled the faces of his few disappointed investors.

Marshal and Mr. Macondo spent most of the fifth session on a single investment incident. About a year earlier his father, a distinguished professor of economics at the University of Mexico, had flown to Boston from Mexico to have triple coronary bypass surgery.

After the operation, the surgeon, Dr. Black, to whom Mr. Macondo was exceedingly grateful, asked for a donation to the cardiovascular research program at Harvard. Not only did Mr. Macondo readily agree but he expressed a wish, as well, to make a gift to Dr. Black personally. Dr. Black declined, stating that the sur-

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gical fee of ten thousand dollars adequately compensated him. However, in a conversation Mr. Macondo casually mentioned that he expected to make a considerable profit in a large position he had taken the day before in Mexican peso futures. Dr. Black immediately made the same investment, only to lose seventy percent of it the following week when Luis Colosio, the presidential candidate, was assassinated.

Mr. Macondo was awash in guilt about Dr. Black. Marshal made strenuous efforts to confront him with reality, reminding his patient that he had acted in good faith, that he had also lost heavily, that Dr. Black had made an independent decision to invest. But Mr. Macondo continued to ruminate about how he could make things right again. Following the session, and despite Marshal's protests, he impulsively sent Dr. Black a personal check for thirty thousand dollars, the amount he had lost in the investment.

But Dr. Black, to his credit, sent the check right back with thanks but a curt reminder that he was a grown-up and knew how to deal with reversals. Besides, Dr. Black added, he could use the losses to offset some capital gains from investments in sugar futures. Eventually Mr. Macondo settled his conscience with an additional thirty-thousand-dollar donation to Harvard's cardiovascular research program.

Marshal got a charge from his work with Mr. Macondo. None of his patients had been in quite this stratospheric a financial league. It was thrilling to have an intimate, insider glimpse of great wealth and to share in decisions about dispensing a million here, a million there. He couldn't help salivating at Peter's account of his generosity to his father's doctor. More and more he daydreamed about his grateful patient directing money his way. But each time Marshal hastily brushed away the fantasy; the memory of Seth Pande's excommunication for professional misconduct was all too vivid. It was malpractice to accept sizable gifts from any therapy patient, but especially from a patient who was pathologically generous and scrupulous. Any ethics board, certainly any ethics board on which he was a member, would strongly condemn a therapist for exploiting such a patient.

The most difficult challenge in Mr. Macondo's therapy was his irrational fear of discussing the prenuptial agreement with his fiancee. Marshal took a systematic and disciplined approach. First, he helped work out the terms of the prenuptial contract: a flat million-dollar sum that would increase sharply according to the

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longevity of the marriage and would change after ten years to a one-third share of his entire estate. Then he and his patient role-played the discussion several times. But, even so, Mr. Macondo expressed doubt about confronting Adriana. Finally Marshal offered to facilitate the discussion and asked him to bring in Adriana for a three-way session.

When the two arrived a few days later. Marshal feared he had made a mistake: never had he seen Mr. Macondo so agitated—he could barely stay in his chair. Adriana, however, was the epitome of grace and calm. When Mr. Macondo opened the session with a painfully fumbling statement about conflicts between his matrimonial wishes and family claims to his estate, she immediately interrupted and commented that she had been thinking that a prenuptial marital agreement would be not only appropriate but desirable.

She said that she could well understand Peter's concerns. In fact, she shared many of them. Just the other day her father, who was quite ill, had spoken to her of the wisdom of keeping her own estate outside of marital community property. Even though her holdings were small compared to Peter's, she would eventually come into a much larger estate—her father was a major shareholder in a large chain of California movie houses.

The matter was resolved on the spot. Peter nervously presented his terms and Adriana enthusiastically accepted, with the additional proviso that her personal resources remain in her own name. Marshal noted, with displeasure, that his patient had doubled the amounts that they had previously discussed, probably out of gratitude to Adriana for making things so easy. Incurable generosity. Marshal thought. But there are worse diseases, I guess. As the couple left, Peter turned back, clasped Marshal's hand, and said, "I shall never forget what you did for me today,"

Marshal opened his door and invited Mr. Macondo to enter. Peter wore a luxuriously soft auburn cashmere jacket to match the silky brown hair that slipped gracefully over his eyes and had to be guided back into place again and again.

Marshal devoted their final session to reviewing and solidifying their gains. Mr. Macondo regretted the end of their work and stressed how incalculably indebted he felt to Marshal.

"Dr. Streider, all my life I've paid consultants considerable sums

for what usually amounted to be of little or no value. With you I've had the opposite experience: you've given me something of inestimable value and in return I've given you practically nothing. In these few sessions you've changed my life. And how have I reciprocated.^ Sixteen hundred dollars? If I am willing to endure the tedium, I can make that kind of money in fifteen minutes investing in financial futures."

He rushed on, speaking faster and faster, "You know me well. Dr. Streider, well enough to realize that this inequality doesn't sit well with me. It's an irritant: it'll stick in my throat. We can't ignore it because—who knows?—it may even cancel out some of the gains I've made as a result of our work. I want, I insist, that we even the score.

"Now you know," he continued, "I'm not good at direct interpersonal communication. And I'm not too good at fathering. Or at confronting females. But there's one thing I'm very good at, and that's making money. You would be doing me a great honor by allowing me to make you a gift of a portion of one of my new investments."

Marshal flushed. He felt faint, overcome by a clash of greed and propriety. But he gritted his teeth, did the right thing, and declined the opportunity of a lifetime: "Mr. Macondo, I'm touched but it's entirely out of the question. I'm afraid that in my field it is considered unethical to accept a monetary gift, or any other gift, from patients. One issue we never discussed in therapy is your discomfort in accepting help. Perhaps if we ever work together in the future that should be on the agenda. For now there is only time for me to simply remind you that I have set, and you have paid, a fair fee for my services. I embrace the same position as your father's surgeon, and assure you there is no debt."

"Dr. Black? What a comparison. Dr. Black charged ten thousand dollars for a few hours' work. And thirty minutes after surgery, he put a bite on me for a million for a Harvard chair in cardiovascular surgery."

Marshal shook his head emphatically. "Mr. Macondo, I admire your generosity; it's wonderful. And I'd love to accept. I enjoy the idea of financial security as much as anyone—more than most, since I yearn for the free time to write; I have several projects on analytic theory struggling to be born. But I cannot accept. It would violate the ethical code of my profession."

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"Another suggestion," Mr, Macondo countered quickly: "not a monetary gift. Please permit me to open a futures account for you and trade for you for a month. We'll converse daily and I will teach you the art of making money by daily trading in currency futures. Then I take back my original investment and turn over the profits to you."

Now this suggestion, this possibility of learning insider trading technique, was extraordinarily appealing to Marshal. It was so painful to refuse that his eyes filled with tears. But he bolstered his resolve and shook his head even more vigorously. "Mr, Macondo, if we were in some other . . . uh . . . situation ... I'd gladly accept. I'm touched by your offer, and would like to learn trading techniques from you. But no. No. It's not possible. Also, something I forgot to say before. I've gotten more than my fee from you. There's something else, and that's the pleasure of seeing your improvement. It's very gratifying to me."

Mr. Macondo slumped back helplessly in his chair, his eyes filled with admiration for Marshal's professionalism and integrity. He held out his hands palms up, as though to say, "I surrender; I've tried everything." The hour was over. The two men shook hands for the last time. On the way out the door, Mr. Macondo seemed lost in thought. Suddenly he stopped and turned.

"One last request. This you cannot refuse. Please be my guest for lunch tomorrow. Or Friday. I leave for Zurich on Sunday."

Marshal hesitated.

Mr. Macondo quickly added: "I know there are rules against socializing with patients, but with that final handshake a minute ago we are no longer doctor and patient. Thanks to your good services, I'm over my illness and we are both again fellow citizens."

Marshal considered the invitation. He liked Mr. Macondo and his insider stories of the making of wealth. What was the harm? There was no ethics violation here.

Seeing Marshal's hesitation, Mr. Macondo added, "Though I will briefly return to San Francisco from time to time for business—certainly twice a year for board meetings, to see my children, and to see Adriana's father and sisters—we will be inhabiting different continents. Surely there is no rule against a post-therapy luncheon."

Marshal reached for his diary. "One o'clock Friday.^"

"Excellent. The Pacific Union Club. You know it?"

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"On California, top of Nob Hill. Next to the Fairmont. There's parking in the back. Just mention my name. See you then."

On Friday morning Marshal received a fax: a copy of a fax Mr. Macondo had received from the University of Mexico.

Dear Mr. Macondo,

We are delighted with your generous gift to endow the annual Marshal Streider Lecture Series: Mental Health in the Third Millennia. We will, of course, per your suggestion, invite Dr. Streider to serve on the three-member committee to select the annual speakers. The president of the university, Raoul Menendez, will be contacting him shortly. President Menendez asked me to send you his personal greetings; incidentally, he lunched with your father earlier this week.

We are indebted to you for this and your many other gifts in support of Mexican research and education. It is painful to imagine the plight of this university without the sustaining force of you and a small group of like-minded, visionary benefactors.

Sincerely,

Raoul Gomez

Provost, University of Mexico

Peter Macondo's accompanying note:

I never say no. Here is a gift even you cannot refuse! See you tomorrow.

Marshal read the fax twice, slowly, sorting out his feelings. The Marshal Streider endowed lecture series—a memorial that would extend into perpetuity. Who wouldn't be pleased? The perfect self-esteem insurance policy. Years from now, whenever he felt diminished, he could think of his endowed lecture series. Or fly to Mexico City for the lecture and rise, reluctantly, hand held aloft, turning slowly and modestly to acknowledge the applause of a grateful audience.

But it was a bittersweet gift, poor solace for letting the financial opportunity of a lifetime slip through his fingers. When would he ever again have a mega-wealthy patient who wanted nothing more

than to make him a wealthy man? Mr. Macondo's offer of a gift— "a portion of one of his investments"—Marshal wondered what it might have been. Fifty thousand? A hundred thousand? God, what a difference that would make in his life! And he could parlay that quickly. Even his own investment strategy—using a computer program to time the market and moving in and out of the Fidelity select funds—had netted him sixteen percent each of the last two years. With Mr. Macondo's offer to trade in the foreign exchange currency markets, he could probably double or triple that. Marshal knew he was the puny trading outsider—any scraps of information that came his way were invariably too late. Here, for the first time in his life, he had been given the chance to be an insider.

Yes, as an insider he could set himself up for life. He didn't need much. All he really wanted was to free up time and devote three or four afternoons a week to research and writing. And the money!

And yet he had had to turn all this down. Damn! Damn! Damn! But what choice did he have? Did he want to go the way of Seth Pande? Or Seymour Trotter? He knew he had done the right thing.

On Friday, as he approached the massive marble doorway of the Pacific Union Club, Marshal was thrilled, almost awed. For years he had felt closed out of such fabled places as the P.U. Club, the Burlingame Club, and the Bohemian Grove. Now doors were opening for him. He paused at the doorstep, took a breath, and strode into the deepest lair of the insiders.