by Bruce Wydick
He did some elementary math in his head. Twenty-five-cent difference times forty—that’s ten bucks, a bit more than the cost of a bag of regular old beans. No way a bag of fair trade cost the café more than double the price of good ol’ free trade. He had his espresso, got a bite to eat, and thought about it some more. Even bigger price differential with lattes. It was troubling, and he couldn’t stop thinking about it. There was something significant here.
He returned to his apartment upstairs and sifted through a pile of old mail and magazines. He had forgotten to cancel his subscription to the Economist, and the issues had piled up behind the mail slot in his door while he was away. The espresso was kicking in now, giving him a little more energy. He had some time before settling down for the evening, and figured it might be as good a time as any to call Sofia. He punched her name on his cell phone, and they talked for a while about Rich’s return and setting up a time to meet with Angela and Alex across the Bay.
December 15, 2007
Rich had a car in Berkeley, a 1978 Chevy Impala that he had driven out to California from his parents’ home in rural Georgia. During his time in the field, it had been garaged at his friend Stuart’s place up in the Berkeley hills. Stuart was a grad student friend of Rich’s who had stumbled upon a cushy house-sitting assignment for a professor at UC Berkeley. The professor was in the physics department, and a year before, he had initially left for Europe as a visiting scholar on an ostensibly short-term research project. In the meantime, it seemed that he and his collaborators had made a breakthrough where they found themselves continually on the cusp of identifying some kind of new particle. As a result, the physics professor was perpetually extending his European assignment and Stuart’s house-sitting job, which was by no means a problem for Stuart.
Rich strode up through a rose-lined walkway to the lovely house and greeted his friend. Stuart opened up the garage door for him.
“The old war wagon,” uttered Rich to himself as he set eyes on it again for the first time in many months. As he fired up the aging Impala with the white vinyl top, blue smoke spewed out of the car’s rear, filling the garage. Stuart hid his nose and mouth in the collar of his T-shirt and fled to the front yard. It must have been due to the car’s inactivity, thought Rich. He backed it out slowly, revealing a large oil stain on the professor’s otherwise pristine garage floor, courtesy of the Impala. Rich and Stuart worked for a while, trying to scrub out some of the oil stain with Ajax. Then Rich drove away to pick up Sofia.
Sofia and Rich chatted and listened to an oldies station on the Impala’s grainy AM radio as they drove the car over the Bay Bridge to San Francisco. They had the windows rolled down, and Sofia hung her arm outside of the passenger window. It was a nice day, especially for December, and a warm California breeze blew through the car. One of her boots rested on the cracked dashboard in front of her as they talked.
The Bay was a light steely-blue, and the late afternoon sun reflected off the ripples in the water, creating a ballet of dancing pinpoints of orange. A curl of fog rolled between the towers of the Golden Gate Bridge, and a large container ship loaded with imports from Asia passed under the bridge as they passed over it in the Impala. Another container ship, not quite as heavily loaded, made its way out of the gate, sailing toward Asia. Sofia and Rich joked about the difference. It was the trade deficit in action.
They met up with Angela and Alex at a seafood restaurant down by the marina, a favorite of Angela’s. Rich gave her a friendly hug and a Latin kiss on the right cheek. Alex offered his left hand to Rich with a sheepish grin. His right wrist remained ensconced in a white bandage. Rich hugged him with the embrace of two men who have been through adversity together, then so did Sofia.
“Let me see that wrist,” she asked gently.
Alex carefully pulled back the bandage to reveal the long, reddish scar still adorned with a pattern of stitch marks that looked like the seams of a badly sewn baseball.
They discussed more of what they had learned about Lourdes’s death, which wasn’t much, even though Rich had one other opportunity to talk with Fernando and Juana before he left. It was a difficult topic for everyone, especially Alex. They moved on to Angela and Alex’s second-year development economics classes, Rich’s and Sofia’s plans for the academic job market, and the trials of research. There was a pause in the conversation when Sofia spoke.
“There’s going to be a meeting in Berkeley next month.”
“What kind of meeting?” asked Angela.
“About bringing together the different parts of the research from the project. We think we may be getting close to having some conclusive results about the impact of fair trade coffee on the growers,” she said. “Do you two think you could give a presentation to the group on your work? I must tell you, there will be some fair trade association executives present at the meeting and at least one faculty member who is a committed fair trade activist. Things could get a little heated, but we thought it important that they attend.”
Angela and Alex looked at each other.
“I think we could be ready for that,” said Alex. Angela agreed.
They left the restaurant and walked back to Rich’s car. Rich thought he had been lucky and found a free parking spot, but apparently it had been free because it was in a loading zone. The Impala now sat forlornly in its parking space in the marina with a ticket tucked under its windshield wiper. Rich opened the envelope. “What, seventy-five bucks? What do they think I am, freakin’ King Midas?” He muttered to himself, “Probably next to nothing for folks who live in this neighborhood . . . buy a new yacht each time the old one gets wet . . .” The muttering faded away as he opened the heavy door of the Impala and settled down in the tattered driver’s seat.
The others piled into the car, and they headed toward the university. The weather was pleasant that evening, and there seemed to be more to say. They decided to take a walk in Golden Gate Park. Rich parked the car, this time in a legal parking space. In the park a gentle wind was blowing through the coastal pines. It smelled like the pines and the sea. Sofia and Alex talked as they walked along the path through de Laveaga Grove. Rich and Angela, walking behind them, listened.
“I’m so sorry about Lourdes.” Sofia put her arm on Alex’s shoulder.
Alex hesitantly asked, “Sofia, do you believe in God?”
“Yeah . . . I do.”
“If he is supposed to be good, how does he allow Lourdes to die for being willing to carry the baby of the man who violated her?”
Sofia’s face became troubled. “To be honest, it is hard to conceive of anything less fair, Alex. But perhaps in some mysterious way, he may even be able to use even the worst tragedies like this for good.”
“Yes, something like this she told me before too. But even her baby has died. What kind of good will come out of this, Sofia?”
“I don’t think anyone who knew Lourdes will be the same after knowing her. That makes for a lot of possibilities.” She looked at him with a hopeful smile, and they continued to walk side by side in front of Angela and Rich as they passed the Conservatory of Flowers.
“She was so genuine, Sofia, maybe the most genuine person I have known. It was like she could see colors that I could not see. And simple in her thoughts, in her faith—a simple faith, Sofia, but no, I would not say simplistic. Like why does she forgive that man? He does not deserve to be forgiven. And did you know even that she told me she prayed for your snakes fear? Can you believe—”
It was only upon saying this that he remembered the story Angela had told him later about the barba amarilla at the shrine of Pascual Abaj. “Were you . . . ?”
“I was startled, to be sure, Alex, but surprisingly not scared, at least as before. Then we stepped back and watched it wind its way into the woods.”
“You would not pretend to me, Sofia.”
“No, Alex, I would not.”
Alex laughed softly to himself and hung his head.
Sofia took a deep breath
and reflected for a moment. “We think we have everything to give to the poor, and nothing to receive. Unfortunately, sometimes they may see it that way too. But I can’t imagine what is more valuable than what Lourdes gave to those who knew her.”
Alex could sense Sofia looking at him as they walked, and as he glanced back at her, she spoke softly to him and said, “Perhaps there was a part of Lourdes that was always meant to develop more fully in you.”
They had walked in a long loop and had returned to the Impala. They piled back into the aging car, and Rich and Sofia dropped Alex and Angela off near their apartments, which were next to the campus.
“Don’t forget about the meeting,” reminded Sofia. “March fifth—Wednesday.”
Angela assured them, “We’ll be ready.”
CHAPTER 29
Alex
January 24, 2008
ALEX WAS AN ACTIVE MEMBER OF THE INTERNATIONAL Justice Club at the university, which held its meetings on Thursdays during the noon hour. The club was populated primarily by undergraduates, but Alex didn’t feel too old or too wise to be out of place. The club met weekly to discuss international economic, political, and environmental issues and to present forums on these issues to the campus community. The president of the club was Genevieve Wilkins, a senior-class student from Sausalito majoring in peace and conflict studies.
The club had organized a debate between two of their professors. One of the professors had taken a stance against sweatshops in developing countries. The other had argued that despite its flaws, international investment promoted economic development. It had been a civil debate, but there was no question regarding the victor in the eyes of the club members. The antimultinational professor had won the debate with a barrage of anecdotes documenting the use of child labor in multinational firms. The promultinational professor had lost badly. He could neither match his opponent’s gloomy stories with an equal number of happy stories of his own, nor match the other professor’s charisma. It was a blowout, and the club members went home satisfied.
The next day, Alex was lying on the lawn in front of the library doing some of his class reading. It was January, a month that in San Francisco has some fair-weather days that catch even its long-term residents by surprise. In his reclined position on the sunny lawn, Alex was having a hard time staying awake. As he read, the sentences became blurrier and blurrier, and the angle of the book drooped lower and lower. Finally, as he closed his eyes in the warm afternoon, A Modern Introduction to Econometric Analysis settled gently and harmlessly on his chest.
His vulnerable position made him a prime target for Genevieve, who spotted him snoozing on the lawn as she strolled across campus.
She quietly leaned over Alex, put her legs on either side of his waist, and tickled him hard on both sides of his ribs. “IT’S TIME FOR THE TEST!” she shouted playfully, eighteen inches from his face. Alex sprung up like a jack-in-the-box and let out a yell that caught the attention of some nearby students, who laughed, but nowhere near as loudly as Genevieve.
“Oh, why do I make friends with the undergraduates,” said Alex, after he recovered. “You are like puppies; you don’t know boundaries.”
“Puppies, huh?” Genevieve started to tickle him again. She tickled hard, apparently sharing the same unrestrained passion for tickling as she did for social justice, which was quite extensive. Alex suspected that she also may have had a bit of a crush on him.
“No more, please . . . Genevieve . . . okay . . . now I am officially begging you at this moment to stop . . .” She finally relented.
“You can make up for calling me names by telling me what an awesome debate I organized last night.” She proposed the deal with a puckish grin. Alex looked at her. It was not the first time he noticed she was a very attractive girl.
“Genevieve, I commend you for hosting a most excellent and enlightening debate,” said Alex, injecting mock formality into his congratulation.
They began to talk about the evening. “Can you believe those stories about Nike plants in Indonesia? What supervisors do to those workers . . .”
“Yes,” said Alex. “Indeed, it is clear that Nike sucks very much.”
“No question,” she agreed fully. “And not just Nike. We should ban all of them, Alex. Every one. I swear, I want to commit my life after college to making sure every last one of those multinational factories in poor countries is boarded up.”
Alex thought about this. “Every last one?” he asked, to see if she was exaggerating simply to make a point.
“Yep,” affirmed Genevieve, staring straight ahead and nodding determinedly.
“Hmmm . . . I think an across-the-board ban probably wouldn’t be the best idea.”
“What do you mean? Why would you want to go halfway in fighting exploitation?”
“Because it’s good to work for economic justice, but you have to think carefully about how things impact people,” said Alex.
“Freeing people from virtual slavery seems like a pretty worthwhile cause, don’t you agree, Alex? Remember, $1.35 a day?” she recalled to him from the debate. “$1.35 a day, Alex. That’s a crime.”
“I know, it is terrible,” agreed Alex sincerely. “But if you were to ban all multinationals in poor countries, this would indeed create first a lot of unemployment, and then lower wages because you are in actuality removing capital from the country while flooding the country with unemployed labor. I don’t say that we shouldn’t monitor multinationals to put stops to worker abuses, but you have to consider effects on people of removing all these jobs, even if they are jobs that neither you or I would ever want.”
“I still think no job is better than a horrendous job with terrible wages,” she said.
“Unfortunately, Genevieve, I’m not sure the people in the factories would agree. They could always have no job if they wanted to. They could just quit. Since they don’t quit, they must prefer that job to no job.” He was listening to himself speak, and the logic he was using sounded like something coming from Rich, a thought he found a little disturbing. Thank God Rich wasn’t around. It would have been embarrassing.
“What about those kids they talked about last night? You think it’s okay for those thirteen-year-old kids to be working in the factory instead of going to school?” she asked.
“I hate that those kids are working in the factory,” said Alex. “I sincerely do hate it. I wish all of the kids had chances to go to school. We need to do way more to help them go to school. I even think that in most cases, children should be banned from working . . .”
Genevieve interrupted, aghast. “Most cases? Alex, what do you mean, most cases? Obviously, all child labor should be banned!”
“Look, Genevieve, I am not for two seconds saying that I am voting for child labor. But I have to tell you something: for poor people there are even worse things.”
“Worse things? Like what?”
“Like starvation.”
These were strong words, and Genevieve was silent for a moment. Alex continued. “What if a child has to work so that the family will not starve? It is better to miss school than to starve to death. Before saying such a thing, you have to think. I don’t like child labor, but what would be the impact of banning all of child labor everywhere? No child labor on farms for the coffee harvest, no teenagers working in shops to feed their younger brothers and sisters, no kids shining shoes in the market to earn extra money for their family . . . I agree every kid should be in school, but in some cases imposing simplistic solutions could make matters worse.”
Genevieve got up and said, “Sorry, Alex. I think your arguments about ‘impact’ just add confusion to issues that are pretty much clear to everyone except egghead economists. I’m not really concerned with impact. I just want to do some good in this world.”
She left Alex and stormed off to the library.
CHAPTER 30
Angela
March 5, 2008
IN PREPARATION FOR THE MEETING, ANGELA COMPILED THE dat
a from her survey, and Alex worked on writing up the results of his experiments. They were eager to share the results with Sofia and Rich and the faculty members at Berkeley working on other phases of the project. The meeting was to be held at the UC Berkeley campus.
That morning Angela arrived punctually at Alex’s apartment. To her dismay, he was still putting the finishing touches on his presentation slides. “Alex, we can’t be late!”
Alex kept his eyes on the screen. “Five more minutes. I must finish the last two slides only.”
Angela waited for several minutes, each one like an epoch, staring down at the rug of the bachelor pad littered with beer bottles and video game controllers.
“What have you been doing all week? We’ve got to catch the BART train!”
“Okay, okay. So sometimes I have a little bit of procrastinator problems.”
“Bring your laptop and finish it on the train.” She reached over and slammed the lid on Alex’s laptop, cramming it into his backpack. They ran to the Muni stop just in time to watch the bus that would take them to the BART station pull away.
“We can’t wait for the next one. I’m going to call a cab.” The wait for the cab felt interminable, but finally one came for them that dropped them off at the Civic Center BART station where the train would take them to Berkeley.
A frenetic debate about the order of Alex’s slide presentation was temporarily drowned out as the train loudly plunged into its tunnel running underneath the San Francisco Bay. The train reemerged from its undersea voyage and made a few more stops. Only seconds before the train arrived at the Berkeley station, Alex clicked File, Save.
They scurried up the escalator to the street level and ran two blocks east toward the campus. The meeting was due to start several minutes ago. Angela withdrew the now sweaty map out of her pocket that Sofia had e-mailed them to locate the proper building. The sweat had blurred the words and lines on the map to the point that they fumbled to decipher it. “You should have printed with laser jet, not ink jet,” remarked Alex, nearly out of breath.