Of Tallyrand and Banks

"Good Morning Chief" he said as he does almost every morning that he swans into my office to annoy me about some trivial matter or the other, and to steal chocolate, always stealing chocolate. I looked up from doing actual work, and noticed he looked a bit "different." I couldn't resist, so I asked "you look like death eating a cracker, something wrong?" He smirked at the insult, sat down heavily, and replied "I under slept a little." In fact, it looked like he had not slept at all, and I figured I was about to get the reason why. He likes to use me as a sounding board, and then generally does what he wants to anyway, but I indulge him, because shifting his fat ass out of my office would take a crane, and I don't own a crane. I gave him the opening he was going to take anyway, and asked "so what's the rumpus?"

"Aren't you so very clever?" he replied. "It's not like I hide the lack of sleep well, so I guess I'll lay it on you, and see what you think. Sadly, this time chief, I think I may have to leave the solution of this problem in your lap. I am very sorry for that, but once I explain it (using too many words) you will understand why I do not think I have much of a choice." He popped a chocolate in his mouth, chewed it slowly as if to give him time to think of how to start, even though we both knew he had already "written" it out in his head hours ago when he was not sleeping. I waited with as much patience as I could muster, which these days is not much, but rushing him generally doesn't do a whole lot of good. Plus, generally he can tell a good tale when the mood strikes him, and it had appeared the mood had struck him several times over the course of a sleepless night.

"I have a moral dilemma chief, and one of my long held theories is that when I have a moral dilemma, I always ask myself "what would Tallyrand do?" He sighed and waved his hand "I know this is going to require a bit of a side trip through history, but I owe a lot of money to the student loan people, so let consider this as a benefit of my classical (and as yet, unpaid for) education. Charles Maurice de Tallyrand, to give him most of his names, was an absolute bastard of a Frenchmen who lived from 1754-1838. A pretty wild time to be alive, and French. The main thing to admire about our boy Tallyrand is that he was able to serve as a high government official to King Louis XVI, to the government of the Revolution, to Napoleon, to King Louis XVIII, and finally, to King Louis-Phillipe. I understand that most people don't understand the talent it takes to pull off such a feat, and I struggle to put it in modern terms, but let's just say that collection of governments and masters were pretty much the entire "political spectrum" in France during his life. Sort of like being a Capulet and a Montague at the same time."

"One of my favorite quotes from Tallyrand is 'I condemn not, I praise not, I merely tell a tale' well chief, that's what I am about to drop on you, a tale (full of sighs) that I have been unfortunate enough to be a minor player in, involved mostly against my will. Well, at least for the last part." This last part was said with a grin, because he had noticed my arched eyebrow, and the skeptical look on my face. "One other thing to remember about our boy Tallyrand, is that he served a lot of masters, but few, if any of them every really trusted him, but he was the best they had, so they used him in some really important shit, like sending him to the Congress of Vienna. Also, he was not the only bastard around, Napoleon was not a sweetheart, and his rival the Minister of Police was a bit of a bastard as well. One last thing about Tallyrand that drew me to him years ago as I was borrowing the price of a F-35 jet fighter to get my education, was that he shared a certain physical handicap that I also possess. It was as close to an inspiration as I was likely to get."

"But let's leave Tallyrand, at, or near the top of the many greasy poles he climbed (handicap notwithstanding) for the nonce, and move on to part two of this story." Part two concerns banks, and Fat Uncle Carl." I interrupted "who the hell is Fat Uncle Carl, and what is this nonsense about banks, are you drunk, as well as sleep deprived?" He chuckled "sadly I am as sober as a judge, and it will all make some sense at the end I promise. Let's start with banks, since they are only a small part of the story, but still a critical one. We need not go through the history of banking, delving into the Fuggers, and the Welsers, and their near banking monopoly of the 16th century economy in Europe, it is an interesting tale, but one that does not need to detain us at the moment. A famous thief was once asked why he robbed banks, and he replied "that's where they keep the money." pretty simple, and a very clever idea. I mean why waste time robbing the liquor store, that's bush league. Go big or go home, rob a bank, write your name large in the history of thieving."

"As you're aware, I am a prole, and once a prole, always a prole in my view, and therefore I am not overly fond of banks. As an institution I understand why it has to exist, and I even use a bank on occasion, but that doesn't mean I have to like them. As Winston Churchill once said of his view on the church, "I could hardly be called a pillar of the Church, I am more in the nature of a buttress, for I support it from the outside." That's sort of my view of the institution of banking, necessary, but not exactly something I can get behind with any sort of enthusiasm. Besides there are so ever many choices in the banking world, and I just can never pick out which one is best for me. Some people stay with the same bank for years, and I guess that's commendable, but I also think that at some point familiarity breeds contempt. Maybe people get tired of the same bank after so many years, and want to take their money elsewhere. Who knows why people do the things they do? All banks are not exactly created equal."

"However, that's is enough about the joys and perils of banking, at least directly, for now let's move on to Fat Uncle Carl's Kleptomaniacs. No one is every really sure if there is actually a Fat Uncle Carl, there is a place, a club, a hangout, or a shithole (depending on one's tastes) that goes under the name of "Fat Carl's", but no one is really sure if he exists, or why the word Uncle got added to his description (it's just Fat Carl's on the sign). I suppose he might be a bit like Keyser Soze, a myth to keep the thieves that come to his club in line. Give us our 15% of the take, or Fat Carl will break your knees, don't steal from other member or Fat Carl will burn your house down to the ground with you in it. I don't know if Fat Carl is real or not, and even if he is, I sure as fuck never, ever want to be (knowingly) in the same room with him. There is no honour among thieves, but they can be convinced to act right by fear, and a healthy fear of Fat Carl keeps many a thief in line. Several miscreants have been led away to face the modern version of the Minister of Police because they broke Fat Carl's rules."

"Fat Carl's club is the hangout for a bunch of low characters, which is why I go there a lot. I like to fit in, and Fat Carl's is generally a judgement free zone. After all, you can't really look down your nose at a thief if you are polishing the silverware you nicked the night before from some unsuspecting citizen's house now can you? Fat Carl's club has a few unique rules. You can't just walk in off the street like some yeg, and expect people in there to accept you like you're one of Ali Baba's forty.  A vetting system, of which few people understand, is in place to keep the absolute riff raff out is in place. Also, there is a password system in place that is a twist on the usual password game. For to get into Fat Carl's requires a password, but the twist is that each 'patron' has their own, unique password, and you give that at the door to the guy with the password book. You say your password i.e. Kumquat, and he looks in the book and decides if your 'nest' is ready. Another unique thing about Fat Carl's is there isn't really a public room. There are sets of "nests"  two (or at a pinch) three seat stalls with curtains that allow you to conduct your business in private. If you see another cove at Fat Carl's it is usually only a fleeting glance, and you are best to forget the sighting as soon as possible."

"There is also a 'rent' system in place, you have to give Fat Carl his share or your nest ceases to exist. Maybe that's where the Uncle title originates.  Fat Carl is the jovial uncle that loves his nieces and nephews as long as they pay the rent, but skip a payment and Fat Carl's sunny, sweet disposition starts to cloud over. No one wants to cloud over Fat Carl's sunny disposition. We are all thieves at Fat Carl's hence the "kleptomaniacs" addition to the title. Of course, it is unofficial, can't put that on the sign out front, and not expect the gendarmes not to get wise to the idea. Obviously, there are more thieves that are 'members' of Fat Carl's than there are nests (it isn't an overly large establishment), and when you give your password at the door, you have to wait to see if your nest is free. Fat Carl's other innovation is the "time sheet." When you get there is not the important bit it is the when you leave that matters, and you have to sign a book when you leave. Each cove has his or her own book, and they are kept separately  by the gorilla at the door (for he is a large, large man who's bad side you never want to be on).  It is a system designed purely to protect Fat Carl. He has the ability to say to the gendarmes "nope don't know what time he got here, how long he stayed, or who he talked to, but this is the time he left. Hope that helps officer." Fat Carl is loyal only up to a point, and between you and him, Fat Carl will pick himself every single time."

"Now that the majority of the background is out of the way, I can get to the actual dilemma." You see I have my password book at Fat Carl's  and I know other people who do, of course we have to pretend like we don't but you don't get into Fat Carl's by openly wearing a mask, so sometimes a glance is exchanged in the joint. The other trick concerns the fact that me and this other thief got pretty cozy a few years back, and I sorted out their password. If I had to, I could access their visit book, and tell you what time on what day they left Fat Carl's. Not that I would. There is some honour among thieves, but if the gendarmes are trying to pin something on me that I know this dodgy cove may have had a hand in, well, honour is great, but freedom is greater. Which leads to the exact problem, I am about 92% sure that this daft cunt has pulled a bank job, I am also just a sure that the gendarmes have figured that part out as well, and in their rounding up of the "usual suspects" I am sure to have my chance to hold a number up in front of me, turn to the right, turn to the left, and speak some random line to an audience I can't see 'in a normal speaking voice'.  I've been there and done that, and it isn't pleasant. I also wasn't a part of the job, but I knew about it (I had seen them planning it at Fat Carl's in one of those accidental meetings we try ever so hard to avoid, and I put it together rather quicker than most)."

"One of the problems I have with the gendarmes is they aren't the type to accept Sargent Schultz's "I know nothing, I see nothing, I hear nothing" excuse. They want things simple. They want their man (or woman) they want them now, and they want it as neatly done as possible. Don't get me wrong, my hypocrisy only extends so far, I have pulled a bank job or two in my past, and I am not fan of banks, or what they represent, but I also like waking up in my own (or a pretty girl's bed) without having to wonder if there is an over eager gendarme waiting for me on my walk to the corner store to buy beef jerky and fizzy water." I held up a forestalling hand, "so what is the actual dilemma?" He sighed "I have a copy of the book..." He trailed off shaking his head,  "and I don't know which group wants to know what I know more, the gendarmes, or Fat Carl." I don't want to go to stir, especially for something I didn't do, but I also don't want Fat Carl to break my damn legs." I stopped him again, handed him a piece of paper that I had scribbled something on, and stood up ( I had work to do) "here go talk to this guy, tell him all of this, and if he doesn't throw you out on your ass, he might help you."  I watched him take the paper, unfold it, read what I had written, and with a look of bewilderment ask "who the fuck is Serge, and what the hell do I want to know about his apples?"

A Romantic Death

On this day, X number of years ago the Romantic made a decision that would ultimately lead him to receive the knife between the ribs that killed him. I know this because I have, finally, completed my exhaustive investigation into the many records he left behind him. Truth be told, today is the anniversary not of the beginning of the decision that would kill him, but the end of the beginning. He had put his feet on the path that lead to his demise about 60 days or so earlier, although it took him 30 days to figure out that he was headed the right direction. He never was the swiftest horse in the stable, and sometimes things just were beyond his understanding until they were spelled out for him. Which may be the reason he (and myself) were/are such terrible spellers. We've also been accused of writing with the skill of a poorly educated 13 year old, but I suppose that's never stopped us before (though it has given us considerable pause, and is part of the reason for the dearth of posts lately).

It seems that the Romantic not only liked to flirt with death, he liked to invite him home with him, have a romp with it, and then buy it cookies. No wonder the damn fool came to a bad end. With that kind of cavalier attitude towards death it is a wonder he managed to stay alive as long as he did. Perhaps the gods do smile on fools and children. However, it is no wonder that his death was as messy as it was, he just couldn't fathom certain things that when told to him were untrue.  It was that inability to discern a lie when it was told to his face (no matter how pretty the teller, or how pretty the lie) that distinguishes the two of us. I have a tendency to believe no one about much of anything, no matter what the situation or who they are. If you expect the worst out of people or things then when it happens (as it usually does) then you are rarely disappointed. I am not sure it is a better approach that my Romantic friend, but I think it will at least make the knife I get in the ribs (which I am sure awaits me at some point) less of a surprise and more of a relief.

The decision he made that day cannot be changed, and for better or worse I am still dealing with the results of it today. Maybe the anniversary thing has made me maudlin, or maybe it is just the need to write something, anything no matter the topic, and this was the only thing I could come up with last night before I passed out asleep, but it does feel like a release to be "writing" again even if it like a poorly educated 13 year old. My investigation into the records the Romantic left behind has been quite the education. The problem is I am not sure what the education is actually going to teach me. Sometimes it feels like he is trying to teach me maths, but my textbook is about German. Like sitting down to lunch, ordering a steak, and the waiter brings you chicken salad "because he thinks it's better for you." It is a twisted record, and although it is linear in nature it is still, at times, very difficult to follow. I know what I am supposed to be looking for in the record, but sometimes the Romantic took the long way around to get what he wanted or to express what he meant, and I have to follow that meandering trail, and try not to get lost in the forest of his obfuscation.

He had to be vague for reasons that need not detain us here, but sometimes vagueness can lead to a major misunderstanding, and since he is no longer around to question about his intent or his motives, one must be cautious with the conclusions that one tries to draw. I have been able to ascertain that he had a plan, a goal, and a future in mind when he did what he did X years ago. I don't think (though I am not sure) that the plan was fully developed on that anniversary day. I believe that he had the outlines of an idea, but was taken off guard when the idea was accepted by the other party as something they were on board with doing. Typical of the idiot that he was, he basically just closed his eyes and hoped for the best, and when the best happened, he was completely taken off guard. Like hitting a bullseye with your eyes closed. Fortune favors the brave, as the saying goes, and he was brave in his own way, probably as an offshoot of him also being stupid. He was just too dumb to be afraid, and when things didn't fall to shit at the beginning, he was committed, and that is when (I believe) the plan came into being. He talked about the "plan" gave it a name, and sketched it out with just enough detail to give you the general idea, but not too much as to make it easily apparent to anyone else.

In his defense, and I have no real desire to defend him, he was not the only "sinner" that day. The decision he made required a partner, like the getaway driver at a bank robbery, and his partner probably knew more about what was going to happen that day than he did. It doesn't excuse his stupidity, but it does goes a little way in helping us understand it. The less said of that partner the better their "guilt" in this conspiracy against common sense is their burden let them bear it, if they can. That they put the Romantic on the path to destruction should bother them, but if it doesn't there isn't a lot I, or anyone else can do about it. We have to "push our own rock up our own hill" and for his partner that is between them and whatever god/fate they choose to believe exists. It is not for us to judge, even though it is difficult not to do, it is still not our place. Their role in the passion play that led to the death of the Romantic is significant, but my fate is no longer entwined with theirs. The record is pretty clear that the "plan" the Romantic formulated, was agreed to by his partner, and maybe that absolves him ever so slightly from the charge of being an absolute idiot.

Another sad conclusion that I can draw from the record is that he would probably do the same thing again given the chance. Hindsight is 20/20, and we all hope we learn from the mistakes of our past, but given his track record, it is my opinion that, if he were alive, (and we thank fuck daily that he's not) he would follow the exact same path again. It is one of the multitude of reasons that the knife had to go into his ribs. Fool me once shame on you, fool me twice, shame on me, was not a saying that the Romantic seemed to understand. At some point doing the same thing and expecting difference results puts one on the road to the madhouse, and his inability to understand that lead him to the grave. Maybe, just maybe that is the way he wanted it. He was (as he mentions in the record several times) a man out of touch with his time, and maybe he realized that he was never going to get "in step" with the times, and this was his solution. He might have seen the problem as unsolvable, and taking that into account decided that the world needed one less Romantic. Lacking the courage to do it himself he managed to walk himself into the knife wielded by someone else with more sense. Perhaps it was an attempt at release or redemption.  Release from the inescapable prison of his "rinse and repeat" life, or redemption for the sins of his youth. 

The good news, if there is to be any good news, is that the death of the Romantic wasn't the end of the story, a new, hopefully brighter (in more ways than one) regime has taken over after the Romantic's demise, and for now things seem to have regained a sense of normalcy, or at least as close to normal as we can get. Yesterday's tragedy is tomorrow's triumph due to today's steadfastness.