Boomerang_ Travels in the New Third World - Michael D. Lewis [63]
Through a friend of a friend of a friend I’d landed Charlotte, a sweet-natured, keenly intelligent woman in her twenties who was also shockingly steely—how many sweet-natured young women can say “lick my ass” without blushing? She spoke seven languages, including Mandarin and Polish, and was finishing up her master’s in Intercultural Misunderstanding, which just has to be Europe’s next growth industry. By the time I realized I didn’t need her I’d already hired her, and so she had ceased to be my interpreter and become my driver. As my interpreter, she would have been ridiculously overqualified; as my chauffeur she is frankly preposterous. But she’d taken on the job with gusto, going so far as to hunt down an old German translation of Dundes’s little book.
And it troubled her. For a start, she refused to believe there was such a thing as a German national character. “No one in my field believes this anymore,” she says. “How do you generalize about eighty million people? You can say they are all the same, but why would they be this way? My question about Germans’ being anally obsessed is how would this spread? Where would it come from?” Dundes himself actually made a stab at answering the question. He suggested that the unusual swaddling techniques employed by German mothers, which left babies stewing in their own filth for long periods of time, might be responsible for their energetic anality. Charlotte was not buying it. “I’ve never heard of this,” she says.
But just then she spots something and brightens. “Look!” she says. “A German flag.” Sure enough, a flag flies over a small house in a distant village. You can spend days in Germany without seeing a flag. Germans aren’t allowed to cheer for their team the way other people do. That doesn’t mean they don’t want to, just that they must disguise what they are doing. “Patriotism,” she says, “is still taboo. It’s politically incorrect to say, ‘I’m proud to be German.’”
The traffic eases, and we’re once again flying toward Düsseldorf. The highway looks brand-new, and she guns the rented BMW until the speedometer tops 210 kilometers per hour.
“This is a really good road,” I say.
“The Nazis built it,” she says. “That’s what people say about Hitler, when they get tired of saying the usual things. Well, at least he built good roads.”
BACK IN FEBRUARY 2004 a financial writer in London named Nicholas Dunbar broke the story about some Germans in Düsseldorf, working inside a bank called IKB, who were up to something new. “The name IKB just kept coming up in London with bond salesmen,” says Dunbar. “It was like everybody’s secret cash cow.” Inside the big Wall Street firms there were people whose job it was, when the German customers from Düsseldorf came to London, to get a wad of cash and make sure the Germans got whatever they wanted.
Dunbar’s piece appeared in Risk magazine and described how this obscure German bank was rapidly turning into Wall Street’s biggest customer. IKB had been created back in 1924 to securitize German war reparation payments to the Allies, morphed into a successful lender to midsized German companies, and was now morphing into something else. The bank was partially owned by a German state bank, but was not itself guaranteed by the German government. It was a private German financial enterprise, seemingly on the rise. And it had hired a man named Dirk Röthig, a German with some experience in the United States (he’d worked for State Street Bank), to do something new and interesting.
With Röthig’s help IKB created, in effect, a bank, incorporated in Delaware and listed on the exchange in Dublin, Ireland, called Rhineland Funding. They didn