Date: Fri, 12 Oct 2001 08:22:42 -0600 From: Robyn Herrington Organization: University of Calgary Subject: [WRITERS] SUB: CONTEST: Blood Money This makes three! Contest deadline is Monday, October 15th. Critiques to me at rmherrin@ucalgary.ca ---------------------------------------- "Blood Money" It was the summer of my thirty-fourth year when I was summoned back to the family estate. The message, delivered by our family attorney, Winston Berkfeld, was short and to the point: "Master Rothschild has passed away. Your presence is requested at once." And so it was then that I returned home after more than a decade, reluctantly, to face my destiny. My wife, Jennifer, and I made the journey from San Diego by chartered jet. We arrived at the family compound in Great Neck shortly before sunset. Winston met us at the door. He was a wizened man who had served as our family attorney and caretaker of the estate for as long as I could remember. He was old even when I was child, and despite his pleasant manner always struck me as a bit too formal. Father used to dismiss this as the naivety of a young boy, and assured me that he trusted Winston not only with his business but personal affairs as well. "Master Aaron, welcome home," Winston said, ushering the two of us through the massive front door and into the grand foyer. Winston bowed as I introduced him to Jennifer, taking careful note of her round belly. "How many months pregnant are we?" he asked. "Five," she said. "It will be our first child. A boy." "Of course," he said. "Right on track, aren't we?" And odd comment, I thought. But he was a strange man, after all. "But enough with that," he continued. "You must want to get off your feet after such a long journey and have a hot cup of tea." Jennifer agreed and two house servants suddenly appeared. One snapped up our bags and disappeared into the cavernous house. The other led Jennifer toward the drawing room. Winston took me by the elbow and said he needed a few moments of my time. "Master Aaron will join you shortly," Winston assured her, then led me from the room. As Winston and I walked through the house, memories of my childhood suddenly overcame me. So many good and bad times within these walls. And then they ended, in one abrupt moment graduation weekend at Harvard. That was when I received my MBA and announced my intentions to eschew the family business. Father and I had not spoken since then. He was incensed. But I was determined not to live in his shadow and take for granted the family fortune. I also never forgave him for devoting all his energy to the business while Mother was sick. After she died, I realized he cared more for the business than his family. From that point forward, we were never close. By the time I was 18, I had silently vowed not to live like him. When I graduated from Harvard Business School, I was 23 and convinced I knew everything. Father was just as stubborn. He called my choice "the folly of a young, foolish man." "The family business is in your blood," he said. "One day, you will take it over from me, just as I did from my father, and he did his father. You can't hide from it forever." I shrugged him off as a bitter old man. Despite his warnings, I fared well. After graduation, three friends and I founded a software development firm. We were highly successful and sold our interests to a large public company. My partners sunk their money into dot-coms and lost everything. I was more fortunate. My money went primarily into real estate, and I did quite well. By the time I was 30 I was a multi-millionaire and recently married. Taking over the family business was the last thing on my mind. And then, four years later, Father died. "Master Aaron," Winston said, his voice disrupting my solemn thoughts. "We must tend to Master Rothschild's will." We entered Father's study. Winston sat behind my father's large oak desk and removed a orderly stack of documents from a manila file folder. "As I'm sure you are aware, it was your father's bequest that you assume the reins of the family business, along with the estate," Winston said. I nodded. "Yes, I know," I said. "It is my destiny. Father told me as much. The family business, he said, is in my blood." "It is," Winston said, assuringly. "The Rothschilds have a gift. The type of gift that many people would pay a high price to possess." "Indeed," I replied, thinking of Mother. "Indeed, Winston." Time passed quickly as Winston began to brief me about my new holdings and I became more involved in the business. Jennifer made the best of it and set out to make the old house feel like a home. She enlisted the servants to make over the bedrooms and sent for our favorite belongings from San Diego. She also took an interest in the family historical albums. They were thick tomes, filled with pictures and newsclippings of my ancestors. I used to pore over them when I was a child. The Rothschilds came to America from Romania in the mid-nineteenth century. In the old country, they had been merchants and bankers, widely respected and feared by their contemporaries. Father told me stories about generation of Rothschilds that wielded power in the world of business. I spent most of my time in Father's study, learning from Winston about the business. Father had his hands in everything telecommunications, health care, pharmaceuticals, oil, government bonds, securities, foreign capital markets, military technology. The diversity was impressive. True to my word, I did not let the business pull me away from Jennifer. We dined together every evening and, as her due date drew nearer, made final preparations for the arrival of our first child. One night, during Jennifer's seventh month of pregnancy, she revealed a disturbing fact about my past that Father apparently tried to hide. "Did you know that your mother had another child before you?" she asked. "A boy, named Jacob." "No," I replied, taken aback. "I was told I was an only child." "Look here," she said, and opened a photo album she said she found among Father's books. The picture was of my mother, standing beside a bureau. She was noticeably pregnant. "At first, I thought that was you," Jennifer said. "But then I noticed the date on the calendar behind her, 1965. You were born in 1968." I removed the picture and took a closer look. Sure enough, the calendar read 1965. Three years before I was born. "Either they lied to me about my age or they lied about my being an only child," I said. "And look at this," Jennifer said, turning the album to another page. It was a death notice recounting the passing of Chaim Rothschild, son of Samuel and Ruth Rothschild. My grandparents. Chaim was one week old when he died of a sudden illness. "My father told me he was an only child as well," I said. "He never mentioned a brother who died when he was an infant." "How old was your father," Jennifer asked. "68," I replied. "The date says 1932," she said. "That is two years before your father was born." The following day, I went back to the ledgers and began looking for patterns. Only one seemed out of the ordinary. It appeared our family had a knack for making money, no matter the economic conditions. Grandfather pulled out of the market just prior to the Great Depression. He hoarded cash, and at the onset of World War II, made a fortune in steel. In the late 1960s, Father bought oil futures and profited handily during the oil crisis of the early '70s. He also invested heavily in military technology six months before the Gulf War and Internet technology just prior to the dot-com boom. I couldn't help but think about my own business experience. I always had perfect timing, as if I could predict the whims of the marketplace. Maybe there was a connection. I went looking for Winston. It seemed he had been around forever so perhaps he could help shed some light on the situation. As I reached his office I thought the better of it. Was I was being paranoid? Business was simply in our blood. We understood it. Lived it. Breathed it. Business was something all Rothschilds just knew, nothing more than that. I turned to walk back across the great hall but suddenly stopped when I heard voices. Winston was talking on the phone with our division head in Kuala Lampur. Something was wrong with a deal that was supposed to be signed today, a snag in the final negotiations. It sounded like a trouble-shooting session. But then Winston said something seemingly innocuous that chilled me to the bone. "I wouldn't worry about this so much, Mr. Akuli," he said. "These things always work themselves out. Contact the Ministry and reiterate our final offer. Remind him you work for the Rothschilds." Two days later, Winston informed me that we had successfully secured the rights to some very key telecommunications frequencies in Kuala Lampur. He also passed along the news that there had been an explosion at the government building that housed the Ministry of Communications. "Was anyone hurt?" I asked. "Several casualties," he said. "They believe it was a terrorist." That evening, I convinced myself that our family's luck wasn't luck after all. Instead, we were the beneficiaries of foul play. And, based on the day's news about Kuala Lampur, it appeared Winston was somehow involved. None of this went over well with Jennifer, and we soon came to the conclusion that whatever tragedy had befallen first-born children within our family was somehow connected to our fortunes and the misfortunes of others. She was due in less than a month, and we decided it best that she leave at once to be with her mother. If Winston was a threat, Jennifer and the baby would be out of harm's way. I informed Winston that Jennifer went to be with her sister in Toledo. He barely reacted, other than to suggest that perhaps I should go join her for the birth of our child. I explained how I was needed here, and that seemed to satisfy him. A few weeks later, when Jennifer gave birth to our son, I celebrated privately with a bottle of wine from the family cellar. But my joy was short-lived. Exactly one week later, I received a troubling phone call. It was Jennifer. She was sobbing. "What's wrong," I said. "It's the baby," she cried. "He's sick. The doctor doesn't know why." "How bad is it?" I asked. "Should I catch a flight out there?" "Bad," she admitted. "And the doctor says it's getting worse." It was then that Winston appeared at my door. I put my hand over the phone. "It's the child," I told him. "He's gravely ill." Winston nodded. "My regrets," he said. "But such is the price of success." His words froze me and I told Jennifer I would call her right back. I motioned Winston into my office and asked him to sit. "What do you mean, price?" I asked. "The price your family agreed to for its unrivaled success, Master Aaron. Didn't your father explain all this to you years ago?" Suddenly, it dawned on him. My estrangement with Father had cut off all lines of communication. I knew little or nothing about our past. He rose and put a hand on my shoulder. "All of this comes with a terrible price," he said. "I thought you knew." As he left my office I held my head in my hands and cried. What would I tell Jennifer? What could I tell her? As despair began to set in, I realized the power of the curse that was the family business. Nothing would ever be the same again. -- ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Robyn Herrington New Currents in Teaching and Learning / InfoServe Phone: 220-2561 Email: rmherrin@ucalgary.ca Story ideas are like rabbits that have ventured unwittingly into view. The slightest noise or movement can spook them and they bolt off into the dark undergrowth never to be seen again. -- Adrian Bedford ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~