War to the knife and fork

I am just putting on an order of mussels and French fries, only these are Belgian fries, called frites, and come on very nicely at that, when in wanders this white headed guy who looks like a department store Santa Claus, except you can see at a glance there is no ho ho hoing for him.

Then I catch his eye and who is it but Wim, the guy they set up to run this new central bank they plan for Europe, I keep a line open to him and signal what happens in our markets, someone there needs to know and it may as well be Wim.

Sit down, I tell the poor guy, take your cares off your feet, you look as if you leave the gold reserves in a taxi, it cannot be that bad, but he just groans and says, Oh, yes, it can, here we are late in the evening and the guys do not finish their lunch.

Of course not, I say, this is Belgium, eating is a staple industry here, or one of them, it is what brings me over, we get asked to finance a local restaurant chain which plans to open up in England on a franchise basis, either as Mussels from Brussels or as Frites-U-Ites.

Herbie, he says, you do not understand, these lunchers are all heads of governments, Helmut and Jacques and the rest of them, they are due at the ceremony where they commit to my bank, but now it is war to the knife and fork, and, Mom, with this he begins to weep into my mussels, which are salty enough as it is.

Well, what can I do, I pour a glass for him and invite him to explain, which is my 24-carat mistake, he is the longest winded explainer on the whole conference circuit, he goes on all thru the coffee breaks, the effect is catatonic.

Finally he puts it across that the French shaft him, well, what else is new in life, he says they let him do all the work and make believe that he is home and hosed, and then they start their horse to run against him, they say maybe Wim can sit in the chair just long enough to put a dent in the cushion, but after that their guy moves in and Wim can go home to buff up his clogs and grow tulips.

So the lunch is held up and Helmut is fuming and up jumps this new guy called Tony who fancies himself as a moderator, Come along, chaps, he says, give a little, get a little, let's see that forced smile and that unconvincing handshake, but hurry, I do not have all the time in the world, last week I fix Ireland and tomorrow I am due back in London to fix the Middle East.

This goes down truly badly, Wim says, the guy does not even hold stock in our bank and now he runs around playing Shirley Temple, simpering to bring the quarreling grown-ups together, it is too much, I say, Herbie, just order another platter of those frites, I eat all of yours without thinking.

He stokes himself up and rolls on like a tidal wave, someone has to get this bank ready for business, he says, we open our doors in July and shift into top gear in January, but our balance sheet is a blank, no-one knows what is supposed to be in it, and as for our reserve ratio, what is it, I ask you?

It is no use asking me but there is no stopping him, Herbie, he says, this is a matter of lunch and death, central banks earn their living by making other banks deposit money with them, this is what pays the governor's salary, except somehow in London they manage without a reserve ratio at all, maybe the Bank of England has a private income, or maybe Eddie does.

So (Wim says) I have this dilemma, if I set our ratio too high all Europe's banks vamoose to London, and if I set it too low, my salary check bounces, but can I get any sympathy from Jacques and Helmut, no, they are too busy booking their places in history, and if they do not look out they succeed.

By now his glum mood is infectious, I already invest all this friendly advice in him and figure that we stand to get an order out of it, but if he is beaten before he starts, then that goes for us too, I must find some way to wind him up and brace him for the fight.

OK, Wim, I say, start with the contract, you read the small print, I suppose, but the poor sap explains he does not need to, it is all in the treaty, he says, whoever gets this job holds it for eight years and nothing can budge him, but the French somehow put it around that this only applies to a Frenchman.

Mom, I figure this for a no brainer, I tell him to get straight back into lunch and tell him he now feels his age and in four years time he expects to have a bellyache, and then to sign the contract, quick, before they split the difference and give it to some female Finn, and who knows if in four years' time he suddenly feels better?

At least this gets rid of the guy and it is only from the blatts that I find out what happens next, Wim shows up all meek and mild rubbing his abdomen and signs on the dotted line and lunch is over, and Tony smirks and Helmut sulks and the French carve one more notch in their rifle.

But the very next day Wim jumps up and says, Fooled you, a contract is a contract, and as for a gentleman's agreement, I only make these with gentlemen, so I plan to stay put and see out my term and tell everybody what to do and give no-one any reasons, or not for the next sixteen years, any sooner would be premature, so there.