The Unknown

1980’s Banestado saving plate, all green with the bank logo in orange.

Comprehension is not corroboration.

The stories about Big Dollar were far from fairness or at least rich in the upholstery of orthodoxy. In a country where heterodoxy seems always fine, but bare when the deed comes to proper execution terms, one could consider convenience a mighty selective pivotal aspect under the circumstances. Some throughout an entire nation and part of the press presume it had been his case.

Big Dollar came from a Jewish family which fled from Poland because of the II Great War. His father had once settled in Argentina and the only opportunity he found to raise his family with some comfort and support was of a dollar dealer. There was a strong employment of currency dealing at that time if black market comes one to any sort of South American historical setting: the local crowned heads used to perform thousands of methods of tax evation by flying abroad their dollars, gold and any type of possible treasure.

Until, one day, his father found love in operating this black market when he saw himself in his private paradise, The Triple Frontierland: the encounter of the borders of three countries with almost nothing in authority regulations.

Big Dollar’s father did it, so did his brother and he himself tried hard to be kind of honest or bring some dignity on by the time he was a humble bank clerk. He also tried the wheel of fortune upon a very short experience as a solicitor, but the family’s call of duty was much stronger… or convincing: black market dollar was, by far, more prestigious and a way more efficacious to boost the best proceeds from reliable and unreliable social network.

The amount of money his brother and father made was much, much more persuasive.

If nothing else came from that, he would find better fate with women at least: money buys everything, including morality.

DEA was not conceived to fight drugs. It was created to track the money back to the US. Over half of South and Central America’s population had this impression, and it was really tough to get rid of it: if the intention was to stifle any chance a Wall Street sissy could have of snorting, the Administration lost that war so long ago.

The perception was not all that wrong: how would one realise a third of the US GDP easily found buried in rural Colombia along the 1980’s on a monetary archeology the Federal Reserve would have blushed? That money — to some extent — was supposed to go back home: the defeat was hard to get over, and the winner took it all? No way, Jose. The plant only grew in that part of the world, working miracles on so many balance sheets: it sounded really unfair to the Administration a bundle of cucarachas having all the dosh by the means of very well succeed trade enterprises of a very questionable product.

The greatest of all DEA & drug lords’ fears: someone sneezing at the party or switching on the fan at the end of the cooking. God bless?!

Big Dollar was born for that: fractal operations for the interests of so many bosses, no matter how legal they were or not. It could be anyone, from street vapeurs to members of a governmental agency. In the case of bringing such kind of proceed back home — regardless how ethical that bread had been won — the unknown was the key of keeping civilization off: as an operator, he was expected to perform in all possible interstitial spaces.

The lad was amazing when landing on that, interstitial spaces. A master, much better than his father. He’d been for dealing dollars as Pelé was for football or Dvořák was for music: trillion of dollars left South America to a New York branch of Banestado until the turn of the century, and from New York to far, far away venues, in such way any absent-minded neophyte at the Prosecution Office would have his eyes popped out — at least wide open — at once.

Things came to an end: this life metaphor — everyone knows we all have our last day — happens in unbelievable ways, sooner than anyone can presumably imagine. This appaling inexorability took place 12 years later when a dollar dealer aspirant to the position of big fish was under severe surveillance of The Starlet — a provincial federal judge — and Glassy Surfer, a member of the regional Prosecution Office whose dream was of hacking receits for public money corruption schemes — naivety is a fact of life Winnicott probably left aside in his sincere observations. Both The Starlet and Glassy Surfer were about Dollar Aspirant, but guess who they found in the way? The warmest and dearest ‘ald porter, Big Dollar.

The Starlet didn’t think twice and advised Glassy Surfer about the technique Big Dollar had been using to develop the black market dollar dealings — the unbearable of life, in this case, was that everyone in South America knows the dark sites, especially in The Triple Frontierland, but The Organism thinks, or believe, no one knows them.

Betrayal, as usual.

When Swiss Kiss, in his epic four, five hour live broadcastings on the web, said he had laid his hands on the third layer list of Banestado, a huge amount of trolling, attacks and disdain were aimed at him. When The Thai has allerted the local Left that list was hot, he was advised to dismiss both the mission of digging Banestado deeper and his ever-implacable intuitions. Banestado was Brazil’s institutional and political the walking dead, with subtle tentacles beneath the start of the further Car Wash operation.

Thank for Swiss Kiss and The Thai, a whole country could dream again about how things were operated to destabilise a life which had everything to be good. The list, and everyone involved in Banestado investigations at that time, didn’t have any clue to the possibility of meeting The Starlet and Big Dollar at the same side of the table, but a very strange feeling arose: did they have the same training, education and doctrine from the same school? Were they ways around the same roundabout?

The fun of it at all: a car wash was laundering money… and… who was there? Big Dollar again! The chance The Starlet was waiting for making himself into a nationwide Mr. Right.

Who could say he wasn’t for The Organism at any point in the past?

Paraná and Winnicott may have a break for a while.



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Marcelo Rayel Correggiari

Marcelo Rayel Correggiari

Novelist & translator, author of “Areias Lunares” (short-story reunion) and “O Verão no Café Atlântico” (novel.) Blogger & columnist. From/In Santos, Brazil.