【英语生活】奖金一百万英镑都嫌少

Normally, if someone was to give me a large sum of money, say £1m or so, I'd be quite pleased. But if I was an investment banker, I probably wouldn't be. Just like the thousands of them who at this time of year will be receiving more than £1m, I'd be eaten up with insecurity, envy and greed.

The granting of investment bank bonuses is one of the rummest compensation systems ever. In fact, it's not a system at all: it is a ruinously expensive, tiring and highly political game in which almost everyone emerges a loser. The rules of the game aren't obvious to the outsider, but last week I took some lessons from a couple of master players and I think I can now explain roughly how to play.

The game starts each year before the leaves on the trees start to colour. From July onwards, senior managers are locked in endless meetings to decide how much to pay out. By September, all investment bankers have started to lobby as if their lives depended on it.

One banker says that his firm's internal meetings are sparsely attended all year but, in autumn, are packed as everyone fights to be seen. In corridors all over the City and Wall Street, investment bankers are talking loudly and authoritatively about successful deals that they weren't involved in, creating the idea that they had been. Even more loudly, they are dropping hints that they might be about to jump ship – in spite of the fact that times are sufficiently bad that no one much is going anywhere.

Senior bankers are busy with pre-bonus lobbying of the newspapers. One banker, voice cold with envy and spite, drew my attention to a puffy diary piece that one of his colleagues had skilfully placed in a UK paper last week. It works, he said bitterly.

Another matter-of-factly informed me that he asks his clients to write letters saying how invaluable he has been in helping them create shareholder value. He then circulates the letter to all his seniors.

Everyone seems to play games like this: not doing so is a grave error. The boss is trying to pay everyone as little as he can get away with – and trying to have a quiet life. So underlings who don't seem on the verge of jumping ship and who don't make a fuss are crying out to be passed over.

Playing the game too assiduously can have a cost too. I know one investment banking boss who penalises underlings for lobbying crassly. He gets so tired of the frenzied rabble outside his office door blowing their own trumpets that he quietly deducts $10,000 from the bonus of anyone who is being too obstreperous.

By the time the big day arrives everybody is in a state of towering anxiety. The running order is important. Most bosses are relatively weak and so have the easy conversations first. To get called in at 9am is a good sign. The boss then comments on the banker's stellar performance, but says 2007 has been a difficult year for the bank and that times are tight. He then mentions the “number”. Note that when the money is this close to being handed out, it is no longer called a bonus. It is more brutal than that: it is a number. Even if the number is high, the banker must still look devastated and protest: “I shot the lights out last year. I'll have to think about it.” This little charade won't secure any more for this year but it will put a marker down for next. And the boss may well approve of the moan: he will take it to be a sign of hunger, and hunger is good.

Afterwards the banker must walk back to his desk, giving no clue to the fact he is $5m richer than he was 10 minutes earlier.

The bad interviews come later in the day and last longer. The recipients will be dismayed. A 28-year-old analyst protested to his boss last week that he really couldn't live on less than $1m and that a swanky flat had been bought in expectation of something much bigger. “That's not a bonus! It's a tip!” another distraught banker exclaimed last year on hearing this his “number” was $250,000.

Over magnums of Bollinger, news of others' numbers come spewing out. And then, human nature being what it is, any initial pleasure quickly goes flat. A $4m bonus may seem insulting if someone else is rumoured to have got $4.5m.

In the end it isn't about money. It is about love. Investment bankers are competitive over-achievers desperate for recognition. And the only way of getting that recognition is by getting a bigger bonus than their colleagues.

So how could the “system” be made better? At one boutique investment bank, the scope for politicking and sucking up is reduced as the bosses tell all 50 partners what each other got: last year the range was from zero to about $10m. Apparently this makes them behave like grown-ups and they go round slapping each other on the back saying: “I saw your number. You had a cracking year last year, you deserve it.”

Transparency would be a new thing to the big houses – at the moment the only thing that is transparent is the games bankers play. But I doubt if it will happen. For managers, secrecy is power. And in this dog-eat-dog world, if money can't be depended on to bring one any sense of achievement, power is all one has left.

Another way would be to give out gold stars instead. The scheme has great appeal in that it is free (and suitably childish). Something tells me it might not catch on. You can't buy a penthouse with a gold star.

通常，如果有人给我一大笔钱，比如说100万英镑，我会十分高兴。但如果我是投行的人，那就不一定了。与成千上万在每年此时拿到100万英镑以上奖金的投行银行家一样，我会被不安全感、嫉妒和贪婪所淹没。投行年终奖发放，是有史以来最为古怪的薪酬制度之一。事实上，它根本算不上一个制度：它只是一个异常昂贵、使人疲惫而且勾心斗角的游戏。在这一制度下，几乎每个人都是输家。局外人并不了解这种游戏的规则，但上周，我从几位大师级玩家那里学到了一些东西，我觉得自己现在有资格对此解释一番。

每年，当树叶的颜色还没有变黄的时候，游戏就开始了。从7月份起，高层经理终日淹没在没完没了的会议中，以决定奖金的多少。到了9月份，所有投行人士则全力以赴，展开各自的游说活动。

一位银行家表示，一年到头，公司内部会议出勤率一向不高，秋季则是例外，所有的人都会挤在会议室，奋力提高自己的“出镜率”。在伦敦金融城和纽约华尔街所有的办公室走廊，投行人士会大声用一种权威的口吻，谈论一些自己并未参与的成功交易，以制造出一种自己好像参与了这些交易的假象。他们甚至会更大声地暗示，自己有可能跳槽——尽管实际上形势相当糟糕，基本上没有人会挪窝。

就高层投行银行家而言，他们则忙于年终奖发放前的报纸游说。有一位银行家用饱含嫉妒与愤恨的冰冷声音提醒我注意，他的一位同事撰写了一篇自吹自擂的日记性文章，并在上周巧妙地将这篇文章发表在一份英国报纸上。这位银行家苦涩地承认，文章起作用了。

另外一位银行家煞有介事地告诉我，他让自己的客户致信公司，称在创造股东价值方面，他为客户提供的帮助简直是无价的。然后，他将信件转给了所有的上级。

似乎，每个人都在玩着这样的游戏，不这么做绝对是个严重失误。老板试图尽可能少给每个人发奖金——而且还想耳根清净。所以，那些似乎不会马上跳槽或是没有大肆活动的下级，只能抱怨自己被忽略了。

但是，一个劲儿地玩这个游戏也可能会付出代价。我认识的一位投行老板就会惩罚那些过分游说的下级。他对自己办公室门外的疯狂玩家集会（全都是在吹嘘着自己）十分厌倦，会悄悄地从那些过于喧哗的家伙身上扣掉1万美元奖金。

等到那个重要的日子真的来临之时，所有的人都已处于一种极度焦虑的状态。每个人面谈的顺序非常重要。大多数老板相对较为软弱，所以会从较为容易的面谈开始。上午9点被老板点名是个好兆头。老板会点评一下这位下级的优异表现，但表示，对于这家银行而言，2007年相当困难，目前时局也十分艰难。然后，他会提到那个“数字”。注意，在这么快就要拿到钱的时候，它已不再被称之为“奖金”。现实要更为冷酷：它只是一个数字。即便这个数字很高，银行家还是要显得备受打击并表示抗议：“我去年的成绩远超指标，看来我真得好好考虑一下了。”这种小伎俩不会为今年赢得更多奖金，但却会给明年打下伏笔。而且老板很可能会对这种抱怨持赞赏态度：他会认为这是野心的迹象，而野心是件好事。

随后，这个银行家走回自己的座位，要一点也看不出来他比10分钟前多了500万英镑身家。

老板会把难一些的面谈安排在当天晚些时候，持续的时间也会长一些，面谈者则会很沮丧。上周，一位28岁的分析员向老板抗议，如果奖金少于100万英镑，他真的无以维生，而他在自以为奖金会远高于目前水平的情况下，已经购买了一套漂亮的公寓。另外一位悲痛欲绝的银行人士去年在惊闻自己的“数字”只有25万美元时，疾呼：“这不是奖金，这是小费！”

在畅饮大瓶Bollinger香槟时，关于其他人数字的消息会逐渐传开。这个时候，人的本性就开始显现出来，一些人最初的喜悦迅速消失。与传闻中他人得到的450万英镑奖金相比，400万英镑似乎就是一种侮辱。

归根结底，这不完全是钱的问题。这与爱有关。投行人士都是竞争意识强烈的超级成功者，拼命想要得到他人的认同。而得到认同的唯一方式，就是得到比同事们更高的奖金。

那么，怎样才能改善这一“制度”呢？在一家小型投行，勾心斗角与拍马溜须的空间变小了，因为老板向所有50位合伙人透露了各人的奖金情况：去年的额度从零到约1000万美元不等。显然这样做使得他们像成年人那样行事，他们走来走去，拍着彼此的肩膀说：“我看到了你的数字。你去年干得太棒了，那是你应得的。”

对于大型投资银行而言，透明度将是一个新鲜事物——目前，那里唯一透明的东西就是银行家玩的游戏。但是，我怀疑是否会有透明的一天。对于管理者而言，保密就是权力。在这个竞争激烈的世界里，如果不靠金钱来给人带来某种成就感，那就只剩下权力了。

除此以外，另一种方式就是派发小五角星了（译者注：五角星是英国小学教师用来鼓励孩子的一种小纸片，类似中国小学教师发的小红旗或小红花）。这种做法很有诱惑力，因为它是免费的（而且又幼稚得恰如其分）。不过，有种感觉告诉我这可能行不通。因为你无法用小五角星去买豪宅。

译者/李碧波

《FT商学院》