The Capitalist

by Peter Steiner

  Dimitri had had his own Road to Damascus moment. But he did not find Christ or goodness or even remorse.

  * * *

  Senator Bob LaPlacca had received outsized contributions from St. John Larrimer during the previous election campaign five years past. Thankfully, Larrimer had never asked anything of him, but the senator, who was watching the 60 Minutes interview with intense interest, saw now how he could both repay Larrimer’s largesse and do himself a favor at the same time.

  As the chairman of the Senate Finance and Banking Committee, he had been conducting hearings on the exploitation of Asian workers by American companies, and in the process had called numerous witnesses—professors of economics, business analysts, other politicians—trying to gain some traction with the public. But no one was watching. It was an important issue, but who wanted to hear American business criticized? Certainly not the businesses themselves, and they were the ones that owned the newspapers and television networks.

  “Jess,” LaPlacca said to his administrative assistant, “this guy Larrimer is huge right now. Did you see 60 Minutes? A thief gone good. No wonder he’s all over the news. And you know what? Our hearings line right up with this foundation he’s starting. Let’s get him as a witness. It’ll shine a spotlight on the issue, on his foundation, and on us. People won’t have any choice but to pay attention.”

  “And it won’t hurt your reelection chances either, Senator.” LaPlacca was being opposed by the same Afghanistan War veteran as last time. And he would have lost, too, if it hadn’t been for Larrimer’s last-minute infusion of cash into the campaign.

  “You know damn well, Jess, I don’t operate that way. That’s not what these hearings are about. Goddamn it, Jess!” The senator saw profanity as proof of his integrity and forthrightness. His great bushy eyebrows settled into a disapproving scowl.

  “I’m only saying,” said Jess, sucking deeply on his diet drink.

  St. John was more than happy to testify. “Anything to bring the plight of the impoverished to public attention.” He swore “to tell the whole truth, etc., etc.,” and then was seated before an overflow audience in one of the large Senate hearing rooms. Flashbulbs popped. Bob LaPlacca hadn’t seen so many cameras pointed at him in a very long time.

  St. John began his testimony with a brief recapitulation of his own wrongdoing and salvation. “I am not here to cast aspersions,” he said. “I am not here to accuse anyone, or even suggest what anyone ought to do. Who am I to do so? I am the lowliest sinner.” There was astonished silence. No one could remember such words ever having been spoken in the halls of the United States Congress.

  St. John began his opening statement, which was an impassioned plea for the improvement of working conditions and safety standards around the world. He believed, he said, that remarkable improvements could be achieved in South Asia in particular, where the need was so dire. But they could be achieved everywhere in the world. Why not? Anything was possible. And, he went on, he believed, no, was convinced it could be achieved without harm to the overseas affairs of American enterprise. He thought, in fact, that instead of slowing the engines of free trade, by improving conditions, you would improve trade.

  The solution to most of the world’s problems was international cooperation. Cooperation would lead to reduced and more focused regulation. He believed that a free world marketplace with minimal government interference would cause prosperity to flourish and spread. Prosperity, he believed, was contagious. A well-ordered and transparent marketplace was ultimately, he believed, the best regulator of all.

  Republican members of the committee praised his embrace of the free market; Democrats praised his call for improved standards and protections around the world. St. John dismissed their praise as undeserved. He had been a villain and now he was not, but his villainy was still the largest part of his personal history, he said.

  St. John’s forthrightness and humility only made them love him more. Every senator was in his thrall, but less for his plan, such as it was, and more for his demonstration of the miraculous power of public contrition. This man, a convicted felon, had reversed his fortunes and was on the road to achieving enormous influence by means of … repentance. He had stolen billions of dollars, and yet everyone loved him because … he was sorry.

  The senators ignored his disclaimers. Instead they now tried to outdo each other by lavishing praise on him, praising his perspicacity, praising his plans. And each senator recalled his own personal stumble and subsequent salvation. “I was defeated the first time I ran for office,” said the senior Republican on the committee. “Trounced, in fact. But it turned out to be the best thing that had ever happened to me.” He did not say why.

  “I was unfaithful to my wife, but she has forgiven me and, in so doing, made me a better man and a better husband. I love you, Betty,” said another.

  “I remember my dear little son looking up at me with tears in his eyes when I ran over his puppy. ‘Darryl Junior,’ I said, ‘I didn’t mean to do it,’” said yet another.

  More than one of the senators managed to squeeze out a tear. Some invoked God, or Jesus, or God and Jesus. Saint Paul came up a few times. The trouble was each senator was new to contrition, and none was willing to confess to genuinely serious misdeeds, the kind that might land him in trouble with the Senate Ethics Committee, or the IRS, or that might land him in jail. No one regretted taking illegal campaign contributions or cheating on his taxes or lying under oath.

  Anyway, St. John Larrimer had stolen three billion dollars and had been to jail for it. How could anyone compete with that? Still, when the hearing adjourned, each senator managed to feel cleansed and purified. Each felt that his soul had been purged of whatever darkness had once resided therein. The only exception was the senator who had confessed his infidelity. Betty had definitely not forgiven him, and as he was leaving the hearing room, he was handed a subpoena for his tax and financial records going back through the entire twenty-plus years of his marriage.

  The launch of the New Beginnings Foundation in the Grand Ballroom at the Pierre was attended by celebrities from every sector. An army of reporters and photographers circulated with microphones and cameras at the ready. The New York Times featured the launch in a front-page story and wrote a moving lead editorial about St. John’s transformation from scoundrel to champion of the forgotten poor.

  St. John Larrimer has gone from disgrace to admiration in a very short period of time, too short some might say, given the magnitude of his crimes. At the launch of his New Beginnings Foundation Saturday evening, he spoke with a newfound humility and contrition about his own conversion to the cause of poverty and workers’ rights, which he has decided to make his life’s work.

  Despite a great deal of reporting by this newspaper and others over the years, there is still widespread ignorance about the unspeakable conditions under which many tens of millions of people who manufacture the things we buy must live and work. They are woefully abused, poorly paid, and live and work in conditions of constant deprivation and danger. “South Asia—India, Pakistan, Bangladesh—is where we will begin,” Mr. Larrimer said, “but that is only the beginning. Few people are blessed as I have been blessed. And I freely admit: Few have squandered their blessings as I have. Until now.

  “By the grace of God I still have great energy and great resources at my disposal. With the New Beginnings Foundation, I intend to use these resources, for the good of the world’s poor.”

  One cannot help but admire the enormous breadth of Mr. Larrimer’s vision and the seriousness of his purpose. One hopes that he is able to harness the forces he thinks he can harness. For if he succeeds, then the entire world will be all the better for it.

  LXIII

  IT WAS A SUNNY SUMMER day. The sky was an improbable shade of blue. You could never have painted it, thought Louis. It was physical, chemical maybe. You didn’t just see it; you took it in. If you licked your lips, you could almost taste it. And the clouds, white at their feathery e
dges and lavender inside, barely moved and yet seemed to be dancing. Louis and Pauline were both in the garden, their faces in shadow from their broad hats. The short-handled hoes in their hands were all but forgotten as they looked around. A day like this made you greedy for more time.

  They were standing in the garden watching the neighbor’s cows grazing nearby when Renard came up the drive. The cows—Holsteins—black and white on a normal day, were golden and purple today and cast violet shadows beneath them. Renard got out of the car with a copy of Le Monde under his arm. The three friends greeted one another with kisses. “I’ll make coffee,” said Pauline. Louis and Renard sat down at the table while Pauline went inside. “You look tired,” said Louis.

  “I got called in the middle of the night. Madame Chalon wrecked her car.”

  “Is she all right?”

  “Amazingly, she is. At seventy-five, all she’s got is a few bruises. She was drunk and hit a pole.”

  “Uh-oh,” said Louis.

  “Yeah. She’s going to jail. It’s her second offense.”

  “You can’t get her into a program?”

  “I’ve tried. Several times. She won’t go. Pierre can’t walk anymore, and she’s got to look after him. And now she’ll go to jail. So who will look after Pierre? Anyway…” Renard slid the paper across the table and Louis picked it up. “Look at page three,” said Renard.

  Louis opened the paper and read for a minute. Then he closed it, folded it back up, and pushed it away.

  Pauline came out carrying a tray with a tart and coffee on it. She poured the coffee and gave everyone a slice of tart.

  “Mmmm,” said Renard. “A good year for plums.”

  “What’s in the paper?” said Pauline.

  “A tale of redemption,” said Louis.

  Pauline opened Le Monde and read the story describing Larrimer’s crimes, conviction, and the launch of the New Beginnings Foundation to fight against poverty and for workers’ rights. When she had finished, she closed the paper, got up, and walked out to the garden. She looked out over the garden and beyond it for a while. Then she knelt and began weeding.

  “Jean-Baptiste?” said Renard.

  “She misses him,” said Louis.

  The men finished their coffee. Pauline waved as Renard drove off. After a while Louis walked over to where she was. “I’ll finish the leeks,” she said. “You do the spinach.” They weeded the adjoining rows, each chopping with the hoe and pulling the weeds out by the roots. When they had finished both rows, Pauline said, “Let’s go make supper. They put the tools in the barn near the fake masterpieces stacked in the corner facing the wall.

  Pauline put on water for pasta. They sautéed garlic and onion and peppers and spinach in a little white wine. They drained the cooked pasta, put it back in the pot with the vegetables, added some chopped tomatoes, some white beans, and basil, and let it all simmer for a while. They carried it to the table outside and ate in silence.

  “Do you believe Larrimer?” Pauline said finally.

  Louis had been mopping up sauce with a chunk of bread. He stopped in mid swipe. “Believe him?” he said.

  “Believe he’s a changed man?”

  “I don’t know. He may be. I don’t know what to believe anymore. Do you?”

  “No,” she said. “And even if I did…”

  “It wouldn’t matter,” he said.

  “No, it wouldn’t matter. The people he cheated are still cheated. The lives he ruined are still ruined.”

  “And what about his rehabilitation and redemption?” said Louis.

  “That’s not rehabilitation. He went to prison and changed his mind. I don’t see changing your mind as rehabilitation. It’s too easy.”

  “Well, and I don’t see the redemption either,” said Louis. “What Larrimer got isn’t redemption. He got a gift from a gullible world. It’s drama, that’s what it is.”

  “Yes,” said Pauline. “But that’s what redemption is, isn’t it? It doesn’t depend on regret or remorse or atonement. It comes because … it just comes, whether you ask for it or deserve it or not. God just reaches in, and you’re redeemed.”

  “God, or the SEC or the US Congress,” said Louis. “That’s who redeemed St. John Larrimer,” said Louis. “The SEC, the attorney general, Congress, and the Almighty Marketplace. He was redeemed because we liked his drama. We bought his story: from shameful avarice and crime to abject humility to punishment to a glorious epiphany.”

  “And will he do what he says he’s going to do? Work to help the poor, improve conditions for workers, eliminate child and slave labor?”

  “You know, Pauline, I deluded myself. I somehow imagined I could impose rough justice, when all I accomplished was to compound the disorder and unhappiness I was trying to fix. I thought he was a character in my drama, when in fact I was a character in his. Maybe I still am; maybe we all still are.”

  “You’re still angry, aren’t you?” she said. They carried the dishes to the sink and set them down. She put her arm around his back and pressed her face against his.

  “Maybe,” said Louis. “Yes. At him, and at the world that makes people like him possible.”

  “Well,” said Pauline, “it’s the world we’ve got. It doesn’t behave like a storybook. The good are seldom victorious; the meek never inherit the earth. It’s not a place where people are rewarded for their honesty. Sometimes the evildoers are punished, but only when not doing so would bring the game to an end.

  “So, big deal: Instead of a resolution, the Larrimer story ended in unresolved confusion. The way real stories always do. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You did a good thing, and in doing it, you made a bit of a mess.”

  “The Larrimer story isn’t over,” said Louis.

  “You think not?” said Pauline. She pulled his head to her and kissed him. “I hope it’s over.”

  “Larrimer has started plan B. And there’s still the Russian. He’s still out there,” said Louis.

  “There’s always still the Russian,” said Pauline. “He’s always still out there.”

  LXIV

  EARLY ON A SUNDAY MORNING as he was being served breakfast by his pool, Richard Smythe’s cell rang. He was surprised it was St. John calling. He waved Carlos away and hesitated for a few rings more before he answered.

  “Well, hello, stranger,” said Richard.

  “Hello, Richard,” said St. John.

  “My goodness, it’s been a long time,” said Richard. “What a lovely surprise. I’m delighted you called. How are you?”

  “I wasn’t sure you would take my call.” St. John could hear parrots in the background.

  “How could you think such a thing, Sinj?” said Richard. “I’m so glad to hear from you.”

  “Well, I’m assuming you know my story. I’ve been convicted of crimes, sent to prison, and now I’m in the process of turning my life around. So I just didn’t know whether you’d want to talk to me—”

  “My goodness, St. John, our friendship is too big for that to matter. I’m just very glad to hear your voice. Really, I am.”

  “Well, that’s a relief. I’m glad to hear your voice too. And how are you, Richard?”

  “I’m doing really well, St. John, really well indeed. The banking business is picking up as you must know. We’re managing more money than ever. I’m in Acapulco right now. Listen: This will interest you. I’ve been looking at some Aztec artifacts: the most spectacular little pottery figurines. Sacrificial stuff, as I understand it. I’m in a bidding war with the Louvre and the Met. Great fun, great fun. And you, Sinj? I’ve been following your adventures. I want to hear all about everything. Are you buying art these days?”

  “I’m fine, Richard. No, no, I’m not buying art. In fact most of my collection was confiscated and sold as part of the retribution process. I’m in Manhattan now, but I’ve got some important travel coming up. Of course I have to clear it with my PO. That means parole officer, Richard.”

  “Yes. I see,” said Richa
rd. There was something different about St. John, a newfound diffidence, a guarded quality. His voice seemed thinner, his expression flatter, less expressive, more cautious. Maybe prison did that to you. Or maybe someone was with him, listening.

  “Not on Terre-de-Haut then?”

  “No, Richard, not Les Saintes. Manhattan. That’s where I’m working now. Working hard to build up the new foundation. We call it New Beginnings. A new beginning for me, of course. It’s my way of atoning for my sins. But new beginnings for others too, for the oppressed and abused. And for the cynical, Richard. For the cynical.”

  Oh, brother, thought Richard. “Yes, I’ve read about it. But tell me more, St. John. I want to hear all about it from you.”

  “Well, Richard, that’s what my life is about these days, improving working conditions for the poor around the world, and fighting poverty. There is no need for poverty. It’s my belief that poverty can be eradicated in our lifetime.”

  “You haven’t become a socialist on me, have you, Sinj?” Richard laughed, but St. John didn’t. He remained silent for a long moment, as though he was allowing Richard’s frivolity to dissipate.

  “No, Richard. You don’t understand. That’s not it.”

  “You’re right, St. John, I don’t understand.”

  “The sins were mine alone, Richard. I’m not blaming the capitalist system. I’m talking about the next iteration of capitalism. Think of it: a smarter, even broader marketplace than we had before. I’m talking about a truly worldwide marketplace, where everyone, and I mean everyone, is a player, where avarice is replaced by generosity.

  “The money, Richard, the sheer dollars available for an enterprise that can transform and save the world, it’s mind-boggling. The foundation has taken off because people see the promise of an expansive and expanding system.” St. John abruptly went silent. Then, just when Richard thought their call had been dropped, St. John was back. His voice was soft, almost a whisper. “We have to see each other,” he said.