Boomerang_ Travels in the New Third World - Michael D. Lewis [43]
The top executives of all three big banks operated in a similar spirit: they bought shares in their own companies right up to the moment of collapse, and continued to pay dividends, as if they had capital to burn. Virtually all of the big Irish property developers who behaved recklessly signed personal guarantees for their loans. It’s widely assumed that they must be hiding big piles of money somewhere, but the evidence thus far suggests that they are not. The Irish Property Council has counted twenty-nine suicides by property developers since the crash—in a country where suicide often goes unreported and undercounted. “I said to all the guys, ‘Always take money off the table.’ Not many of them took money off the table,” says Dermont Desmond, an Irish billionaire who made his fortune from software in the early 1990s, and so counts as old money.
The Irish nouveau riche may have created a Ponzi scheme, but it was a Ponzi scheme in which they themselves believed. So, too, for that matter, did some large number of ordinary Irish citizens who bought houses for fantastic sums. Ireland’s 87 percent rate of homeownership is the highest in the world. There’s no such thing as a nonrecourse mortgage in Ireland: the guy who pays too much for his house is not allowed simply to hand the keys to the bank and walk away. He’s on the hook, personally, for whatever he borrowed. Across Ireland people are unable to extract themselves from their houses or their bank loans. Irish people will tell you that, because of their sad history of dispossession, owning a home is not just a way to avoid paying rent but a mark of freedom. In their rush to freedom, the Irish built their own prisons. And their leaders helped them to do it.
JUST BEFORE THE closing bell, the two men who sold the Irish people on the notion that they were responsible not merely for their own disastrous financial decisions but also for the ones made by their banks arrive in the chamber: Prime Minister Brian Cowen and Finance Minister Brian Lenihan. Along with the leader of the opposition, and the third in command of their own party, both are children of politicians who died in office: Irish politics is a family affair. Cowen happens also to have been the minister of finance from 2004 until mid-2008, when most of the bad stuff happened. He is not an obvious Leader of Men. His movements are sullen and lumbering, his face numbed by corpulence, his natural resting expression a look of confusion. One morning a few weeks before, he went on national radio sounding, to well-trained Irish ears, drunk. To my less trained ones he sounded merely groggy, but the public is in no mood to cut him a break. (Four different Irish people told me, on great authority, that Cowen had faxed Ireland’s 440-billion-euro bank guarantee into the European Central Bank from a pub.) And the truth is, if you were to design a human being to maximize the likelihood that people would assume he drank too much you’d have a hard time doing better than the Irish prime minister. Brian Lenihan, who follows on Cowen’s bovine heels, comes across, by comparison, as a decathlete in peak condition.
On this day, incredibly yet predictably, the Parliament decides not to hold a vote to fill three of its four empty seats. Then they adjourn, and I spend an hour with Joan Burton. Of the major parties in Ireland, Labor offers the closest thing to a dissenting opinion and a critique of Irish capitalism. As one of only eighteen members of the Irish House of Commons who voted against guaranteeing the banks’ debts, Burton retains rare credibility. And in an hour of chatting about this and that she strikes me as straight, bright, and basically good news. But her role in the Irish drama is as clear as Morgan Kelly’s: she’s the shrill mother no one listened to. She speaks in exclamation points with a whiny voice that