Credit

"2E99423A4ED27608A15AH..."

"YQM9XKAH4CJ4UPA8DFG0..."

"AUVHDNGEOEWVRPGU4SE..."

Jane stared blankly at the ivory pages of the black book in her hand. She did not recognize the handwriting.

"He didn't look like a courier,” said the concierge. “He was tall, middle-aged and bald, with blue jeans and a nice jacket. He was in a rush to leave.”

She looked back at the inside cover:

“TO JANE”. Nothing else.

She closed the book. she slid it in a fold of her exercise bag and walked to the elevator to finish her morning routine. She looked at herself in the elevator mirror. She wore a troubled expression. She looked at the news display in the corner of the elevator: February the twelfth. She quickly turned away from the display and stared at the elevator, waiting impatiently for the door to open at the top floor.

Going through the motions of her daily routine did nothing to change her mood. She left her suite just as the shadows draping over the tall buildings around her Toronto condominium were being broken by the rise of the sun.

Jane walked on the promenade overlooking the railroad to Union Station. The sky was windy, but clear, and the sun was now out. The wind was cold, with a bitter chill. The people walking in the other direction were shrugged over and had their faces hidden. Jane’s posture did not hunch or stiffen like the others. On days like today, where she could see the buildings reaching for the sky in such a strong backdrop of blue, she thought they looked the most beautiful. The CN Tower stood proudly, greeting Jane with the same firmness as her posture. Its structure is bare, she thought, revealing exactly what it stands on. If people were only half as honest as that tower, my job would be easier. But then I would enjoy it less.

...

Jane arrived outside her work. The panels of the building were fitted with a special trim that made the whole building look like an impossible mixture between gold and glass.

She spied her colleague outside in a shaded corner, away from the wind, but out of the sun. He was shivering with a smoke in his hand. He put it out as he noticed her approaching.

“No, Jane, as always, I’m not proud of myself.”

Jane’s father had been a smoker. Had been.

She scowled at him. “I don’t want to think about that. Not today. Could you help me with something, now?”

They took the elevator to their floor. The metal sign expertly fitted into the granite wall read:

“LOANS AND CREDIT RISK”

They walked to Jane’s office. At twenty-four, she was young for having an office to herself; that fact was of no surprise to anyone working with her. She turned approvals for personal loans into a personal religion. When she knew that the applicant did not deserve what had been asked, she was no longer a banker, but a judge – not a judge, but a high priest. And she denied salvation with as much zeal as she could muster. Such satisfaction did she take out of ensuring that only the righteous would be permitted.

The two of them sat down in Jane’s office. She glanced at her login screen: February the twelfth. She looked away and went into her bag. She produced the black book and showed it to her colleague. He studied the writing for some time.

“Each string is 64 characters,” he said, “the maximum for inputs of all kinds… and perhaps, codes for secure keys… for instance, for-“

“Cryptocurrency,” Jane said.

“Exactly.”

Jane tried entering the first code from the book into the secure system her bank used. The code cleared, and a dollar value appeared on her screen. She entered the rest. The total passed over twenty thousand dollars.

Her colleague was watching as this happened. He hoped to see a look of excitement, of pleasure, of joy. She gave a disapproving frown. He thought that he should have known better.

“Who would give me this?” she asked aloud. “What have I done to earn it?”

He had no answer.

...

Jane ignored the buildings on her way home. The setting sun, gazing directly into her eyes as she walked the promenade back, was not a bearable ordeal. Not now. Her face closed even tighter than it was before.

It was dark by the time she reached her suite.

She received a message.

She recognized the name of the sender. It was her uncle. She recalled her concierge’s description; that solved the first mystery of who, but not of why. She read the message.

“Jane,

I hope what I left you is enough to convince you to see me tonight. You will have to forgive me for the timing, among other things.”

Jane knew what timing he was speaking of. She had been trying to ignore the date all day -February the twelfth. She could no longer evade what it meant to her. It was the twelve-year anniversary of her father’s passing. It was twelve years since her father’s wicked habit caught up with him. It was twelve years since her uncle abandoned her and vanished. It was twelve years since she had to start learning how to make sense of the world on her own.

It was twelve years since Jane decided that justice and cruelty go hand in hand.

She left to meet him. She told herself that it would be a conversation. The fervor in her eyes indicated it would be an inquisition.

...

Jane arrived at the restaurant. She found her uncle sitting, uneasy, in a corner booth.

“Jane.” He made a half-motion to get up.

“How dare you.” She sat down.

He sat back down slowly and tried to speak. Nothing came out. He stared at Jane. Then, he broke from his frozen stance, and looked down at the table. His shoulders drooped.

“This is the hardest thing I have ever done,” he said.

“Crucify yourself?” she retorted.

“Try to make the world right again,”

“That will not be possible until you leave.”

“It will only be possible if I stay. And if we talk.”

Jane grimaced. Her father, a criminal prosecutor, was a knight in her eyes. From such a high horse did he fall when he finally admitted his diagnosis to her. She refused to see him in the hospital for his last few weeks. Only her uncle was there to witness his end. He was only one to hear her father’s dying wishes. She resented him for it. She wanted him gone.

“I do not understand,” she said, “and I am not sure that I want to.”

He studied her frown for a moment, then reached for something in his pocket. He did not reveal what he had taken out. He was squeezing it tightly.

“You work with money,” he began, “is that right?”

“I work for a bank. I deny and approve high-risk loans to individuals.”

“I take it you deny more often than you approve.” He clenched the object in his fist and his hand trembled as he spoke.

“Yes.”

“Why do you think that is?”

“Because there is seldom anyone with enough integrity to earn what they are asking for.”

His hand stopped moving. “Having integrity,” he said, “is an important thing to learn.”

“Yes.”

“How do you know that the clients you approve have integrity?” He asked.

She answered quickly. “Their history. They have proven that they make good on their promises. They pay their debts, with interest. They don’t buy things they can’t afford. All in all, they are honest-“

“-honest, not only to others, but perhaps, to themselves,” he interrupted.

Jane did not say anything. He continued.

“A man with integrity is honest with himself. He acknowledges that things aren’t always what he wants them to be, but because he admits it, he is able to work with what’s there. When he knows that something is the right thing to do, he doesn’t fool himself into working against that truth. Your clients are rewarded with your approval for their integrity.”

Jane said nothing, but her hard, discerning face began to show a hint of meekness. Of a pain that had not healed for a long time.

Her uncle said to her, “Now let me try to show mine.”

He placed what he had been holding on the table. It was a medallion, the center of which had a large triangle with a large “V” inscribed in the middle. Around the edge of the medallion was written:

“TO THINE OWN SELF BE TRUE”

He spoke. “I needed to be honest to myself to earn this. I had a problem with my vices. And yes, like your father, it was of my own doing. But I admitted it. Before it was too late. I sought help.”

Jane sat back in her seat. He continued.

“The money you received today – it’s yours. Your father wanted you to have it when the time was right. I left, and I abused his trust. I should have brought it back earlier. But I did bring it back. With interest. Along with something else he left for you.”

He took out a small chest from his bag lying underneath the table.

She received the chest and opened it. It was a box of folded letters. They were labelled: “HIGH SCHOOL”, “SENIOR YEAR”, “COLLEGE” …

She closed the chest.

“I have made the first move towards doing right by myself,” he said, looking into her misty eyes. “I need you to make the next. Whatever you decide that is, I will accept it. I am ready to bear whatever punishment you think is necessary. That includes never seeing you again. But I promise you, that it is possible, in this life, for us to get to know each other better. The choice is yours.”

Jane grabbed the chest and ran. It was dark out. The buildings blurred into the night sky.

...

It was late in the morning. Jane had taken the day off to clear her mind. She could not bring herself to read any of her father’s letters. She picked up a folded letter, marked, “YOUR FATHER”. She held it for some time. Then, she put it in her pocket and left home.

She walked down the promenade. The day was foggy, and the buildings around her were made drab by the overbearing grey. The faces walking around her were blank.

Jane went to work, on her day off, to relax. She spent her time looking at her archives of old applicants. She usually liked to think of the ones that failed. Today, though, she thought of the ones she approved. Many of them struggled in their history, some even went bankrupt. But they proved that they could repair their credibility. She thought of her uncle’s words: “rewarded with your approval for their integrity…”

She was calm. She reached into her pocket and opened the letter.

“Jane,

You will be angry with me for a long time. I know this because I raised you. And you will be right. That is justice. My life’s work revolved around this truth. But a long time ago, I began to understand that this passion for justice, should it really mean anything to me, must be exercised in both matters of evil as well as for the good. To be mindful of only one side of the matter means to forget that the coin is a whole. And that, in turn, means looking for what’s good and growing it where you can.”

...

Jane walked home in the early afternoon. The fog had lifted and the sun was again permitted to shine. She saw friendly faces skating, leaning over the edge of the promenade, speaking with carefree chatter. She looked at the Tower, starting at its base, then to the top. It was basking in the sun.