“Absolutely not,” said Gorham. And when the historian stopped and said he reckoned that was pretty much what his book was about and, with a twinkle in his eye, that maybe when it came out, Gorham would like to buy a copy, Gorham assured him: “I shall buy several and give them to friends. You have no idea,” he added, “how much I envy you.”

The man looked quite surprised. “You make far more money, and enjoy a lot more respect in the world than most authors do,” he said mildly.

“But what about the mind?”

“Many of the bankers I know, besides being highly intelligent, have jobs that require a full use of their intellect. The challenges of running a business are quite as great as those of mastering a piece of history.”

“I’m not sure that’s true,” said Gorham, “but even if it were, you’ll have one thing I never will.”

“Which is?”

“You will produce something that you can call your own. Your book will remain there, forever.”

“Forever is a long time,” the man responded with a laugh.

“Everything I do is ephemeral,” said Gorham. “When the banks get together to make a big loan, they announce the fact in the newspaper with an ad describing the loan and listing all the main participating banks. We call it a tombstone. So I guess you could say that my life has been preparing a bunch of tombstones.”

“They represent enterprises that wouldn’t be there otherwise. I see birth in what you do, not death.” The writer smiled. “An appropriate thought, as Christmas is approaching.”

Gorham smiled too, and they parted. But alone that night, he asked himself: What have I done that I can put my hands on? What can I look back on in my career and say, “This is mine. This is what I created and left behind”? And he could find nothing, nor could he feel anything but a terrible, spiritual emptiness.

In January 2001, Gorham Master signed on with a headhunter. He told no one, not even Maggie. Perhaps the headhunter could find something for him that would make sense of his life, before it was too late.

The Board Game

September 8, 2001

GORHAM GLANCED AT his watch just as the telephone rang. It was time to go. If he and Maggie had privately quarreled the night before, no one seeing them now would have guessed it.

The boys were all excited: Gorham, Jr., Richard, and Gorham, Jr.’s, best friend Lee. Gorham was looking forward to it, too. They were going to a Yankee game, for God’s sake.

“It’s John Vorpal,” said Maggie. Why the hell did Vorpal have to bother him now?

“Tell him I have to go to the game,” said Gorham.

“Honey, he says he has to talk to you.”

“He’s coming to dinner this evening, damn it.”

“He says it’s private. Board business.” Maggie gave him the phone.