A Young Man's Guide to Late Capitalism

by Peter Mountford

  "Oh my God," he said. He said it aloud by accident.

  "What?" Catacora said. He waited a moment and then said, "Are you there?"

  "Yes. Did—" He had no idea what else to ask. There was nothing to say. He needed to try to comprehend the thing, but he was supposed to meet the president-elect and his mother, and possibly Lenka herself, in ten minutes. It seemed like it should be funny. He wanted to laugh about it, but on some level, he knew it would have deep repercussions. And it was horrendous.

  "Did what?" said Catacora.

  "Nothing." He took a deep breath. "What, um—what about Brazil? Won't Lula—"

  "Evo already talked to Lula this morning. Lula is not happy, obviously, but our countries have a lot of common interests, and I think Lula respects that this is Bolivia's most important resource and that we are in a dire situation economically. He understands how important it is for us, and for the region, that we are able to lift our country up."

  Gabriel didn't say anything. He was searching for an angle, trying to see how Catacora might be attempting to deceive him—looking for some way that meant Lenka had been telling the truth—but it didn't make any sense. It began to dawn on him what it meant. It began to dawn on him how serious it was that Lenka had tried to sabotage him.

  Gabriel stayed quiet. Catacora said, "Is that what you were looking for?"

  "Not exactly," Gabriel said.

  "Excuse me?"

  "Yes, I mean. It's fine. Are you sure?"

  "I'm sure. It's going to be a secret for the first couple months of the year, and the policy will be officially unveiled on May Day and effective immediately. I'm sorry if this rumor has already made it out. You can still have the exclusive on the story of my appointment."

  "Thank you. Excuse me, I need to go."

  He hung up the phone, turned around, and walked back up the hill.

  At the crest, he found a plaza and sat on a bench. He had a few minutes. The palace was three blocks away. A young boy in a black ski mask offered to shine his shoes and Gabriel accepted, adding that he was in a hurry. Gabriel looked at the boy's blackened fingertips rubbing inky liquid into his shoes. He'd bought those shoes, narrow oxfords with chunky heels, before he'd started working at Calloway, and they'd seemed expensive then. They were made by Hugo Boss and had cost eighty-five dollars at the Loehmann's in Sheepshead Bay. He'd bought them on a Sunday and had taken the bus back to Greenpoint afterward, listening to his iPod and making eyes at a waifish pixie hipster nearby. It was a warm spring day. She wore a tank top and had lovely breasts. On the back of her hand, a new tattoo showed two skipping dice—the dice were green and the surrounding skin puffy and inflamed.

  Now, a couple years later, sitting on that bench in La Paz and having his shoes shined, Gabriel reached back for the moment, and although he remembered the day vividly and fondly, it was completely foreign to him. He looked back and he couldn't identify with the person he had been. When he'd left Claremont for Brown, he'd looked back at life in Claremont with a similar detachment, as if it were someone else's memories that had become misplaced and ended up in his mind. The experience was absolutely inaccessible. He could not put his finger on a single way in which his outlook had changed in the last two years, yet it was obvious that everything about him was different. It had all somehow changed when he wasn't paying attention.

  Though the inauguration was weeks away, Evo and some of his core staff had been given a section of the palace's second-floor offices for the purpose of organizing a smooth transition. Gabriel showed his passport at the door and was waved along to a desk, where a scrawny bureaucrat with a thin beard took down Gabriel's information. At an adjacent desk, Gabriel spotted the zaftig receptionist from the front of MAS's office typing away on a computer.

  One of the guards escorted Gabriel through the palace, which was, Gabriel could tell, really just an immense brownstone. Upstairs, he was directed into an elongated reddish room with a window facing the bright square. From across the dark room, the air outside appeared to be ablaze. In the dim foreground, he saw Evo and his mother seated in the center of the room, beside what looked like a nonfunctioning fireplace. Another man, some unfamiliar assistant with a dreary gaze, sat on a nearby chair with a folder on his lap. He might be security or he might be a secretary or he might be something else. Gabriel's escort announced his name before ducking out. Gabriel approached, apologizing for being late and saying it was no one's fault but his own. "I got lost," he said. "It's a beautiful city, but it's confusing too."

  They were seated on dainty Georgian furniture. Evo looked at Gabriel uncertainly. It was an odd place to encounter a man like Evo, who was nothing if not down-to-earth—down-to-earth in such a way that the cliché itself seemed damaged by his sincerity. Being a farmer and the child of miners, he was genuinely of the earth, as connected to terra firma as a person could be. Gabriel had supposed, though he'd never say it to anyone, that Evo was the inside-out version of George W. Bush: overreliant on a political persona both ballsy and blue collar. Evo too felt his way to his conclusions instead of thinking his way there. Both men were defiant cowboys who trafficked domestically in a kind of folksy populism that won them huge majorities among the ill-educated. Looking at Evo now with his mother, Gabriel knew Evo was genuine, and he knew what it said about his mother that she so ardently supported this man.

  "My son," she said, "I was just telling you—"

  "It's a pleasure," Gabriel said and extended his hand to the still-seated Evo.

  They shook hands and Evo didn't stand up. He looked a little curious, as if he half recognized Gabriel.

  "We met the other day," Gabriel explained. "I interrupted your meeting at your office around the corner."

  "An interview with Lenka?" he said, remembering.

  "Yes. I'm a freelance journalist." Gabriel could feel his mother look away when he lied to Evo; he could feel her horror.

  He sat down on the sofa beside the unnamed adviser. Lenka was nowhere to be seen and Gabriel knew why, now.

  And if she showed up, what then? Would there be a scandal? Would she make a scene and tell the assembled the truth about Gabriel? No. To do so would be to condemn herself too. Would she mind ruining her own career? Definitely. It didn't make sense—she had too much riding on this to sacrifice it all. Still, what would happen if she did out him? He pondered it quickly, tried to organize some probable outcomes. Some were obvious:

  a. Evo kicks him and his mother out of the offices, and then bad things occur.

  b. Evo kicks him out of the office and keeps his mother there; same outcome.

  c. Evo has him arrested (was this plausible? He didn't know. Probably not. No, certainly not).

  Nothing else came to mind right away. Except that maybe, just maybe, Lenka had somehow made an honest mistake. Or maybe Catacora was misleading him. Could Catacora be wrong? Someone was wrong. But this was not a normal mistake. How could two people so close to Evo have such different stories about his plans? Unless Evo was telling different advisers different stories, which seemed unlikely. The only thing Gabriel knew for certain was that one of the two, whether by design or accident, was wrong. And if that was true, then why had Gabriel chosen to believe Catacora so quickly? Only Evo could sort out the confusion, and fortunately he was handy. Unfortunately, proximity aside, Gabriel wasn't in a position to ask Evo whatever he wanted. He was tagging along with his mother, and there were expectations.

  She questioned Evo for almost an hour without pause. Gabriel, vigilant of the time, didn't exactly listen—he leaned forward with a thoughtful expression on his face, nodding once in a while, and directing his gaze at whichever one of them happened to be talking. Meanwhile, he silently ran through the questions and problems he'd encountered. His thinking was circular, and like all circular thinking it served mainly to elucidate the particulars of the situation rather than illuminate a solution.

  A clock somewhere chimed the quarter hours, sonorously, helpfully. After he heard a third chime, he knew th
at his mother would pass the questions to him soon. And although she expected him to ask about ecotourism, solar power, or some other featherweight issue, he'd have to ask questions about natural gas, the same ones that had been vexing him since he'd arrived in La Paz. It was unfortunate, but it had to be done.

  The conversation between Evo and his mother had probably been quite interesting. From what he heard, she had pressed Evo on a few issues. There were predictable queries about coca production, and whether Evo would grant proper representation to the wealthy and politically/ geographically isolated people in gas-rich jungles, and about a slew of items that meant nothing to Gabriel. As he sat and circled through his thoughts again, he began wondering what would happen with Lenka in the long run. Even if she didn't burst into the room now, she still might do something. Would she have him barred from the party tomorrow? He thought it likely. Even if she didn't attempt anything else, she'd do that, he guessed. Or maybe not?

  "Gabriel, that was your concern, right?" he mother was saying now, gazing at him. She was finally punting the ball in his direction, and he'd completely lost track of their conversation.

  "You mean the solar—" He looked at his mother questioningly.

  "And ecotourism, right?" she said, her face reddening.

  "Yes, those are both my questions, in a way. Ecotourism and solar power. I guess the question behind those questions is about the sustainability of Bolivia's fiscal situation, because those plans, you know, are fiscally difficult. All of those other issues are subordinate to that question. So I know you have great plans, but how can you finance those plans if you don't nationalize the gas?"

  Evo shrugged. "I will nationalize the gas, I have been saying—"

  "No, no, I know—I know you will, but when and how will you do it?"

  Gabriel's mother was staring at him now, surprised by the questions. Alarmed by the seriousness of his line, perhaps. He couldn't help her with that.

  "I gather that the rumor is out already," Evo said.

  "I heard it this morning, something about May first—is it true?"

  "You can't write this—neither of you can—because I will not officially announce my plan until then, but we are letting the companies know now."

  "You're going to break the contracts and make them renegotiate?" Gabriel said.

  "Well—yes, those contracts were signed by an administration that was a puppet of the United States government."

  "I know," Gabriel said, if only to cut short the train of thought before it got moving. "And you're going to give the companies until the end of the year?"

  Evo shot a look at Gabriel: not quite affronted, but not so benign either. He was surprised that Gabriel knew so many of the details. Maybe that aspect hadn't been leaked yet. Gabriel's mother gave him a similar look—he could feel it torching the side of his face.

  Eventually, Evo nodded. Gabriel sat back in his chair and took a deep breath; he glanced at his mother, then back at Evo. He was done there now.

  The silence didn't last long. Evo's unnamed assistant pointed out that Mr. Morales had something else scheduled in five minutes. Gabriel's mother flipped to a new page in her notebook. "So I—um—do I have time for one more question?" she said.

  "Of course," Evo said. He looked as before: as if he were mildly upset about something but wouldn't do anything about it. His face was unlined but weary, his expression was limpid. She asked her question. He blinked once or twice, thinking, and then replied. This was a nuisance for him. Already, he was thinking about the rest of his day.

  Outside, Gabriel resisted the overwhelming urge to light up a cigarette. His mother was upset and he had to deal with that, and then he had to deal with all of the other, more urgent, problems ahead of him. They walked into the center of the plaza. He could feel her staring at him. He could feel an argument taking shape in her head, but he didn't know where she'd take it. He stopped and turned to face her by the lamppost where Villarroel had been hanged.

  "What was that about?" she said.

  "What do you mean?" Playing stupid was an easy if not especially effective defense with her. It bought him time, at least.

  "I thought you wanted to know about environmental subsidies or something. I thought you were going to ask about ecotourism."

  "I was—in a way. I was wondering if he's going to be able to pay for such things."

  "I didn't hear you ask about his interest in the projects. I just heard you ask about his fiscal situation."

  "It's the same thing, Mom."

  "No, Gabriel, it's not the same thing." She switched to Spanish, saying, "And where is this Lenka woman? I thought she'd be here. I was looking forward to meeting her. Are we going to see her and her mother this afternoon?"

  "I don't know." He was in Spanish too now. Lenka had invited them over in last night's text message. But if she'd intentionally told him that lie, she might tell his mother the truth. She might tell anyone. Or not quite anyone—she wouldn't want Evo to know the truth, which might have been why she skipped the meeting. "I think we've broken up," he said.

  "Oh," she said and her face softened. "I'm sorry to hear that." She switched gears as best she could at that velocity. "What—um—what can I do?"

  "You can't do anything. I'm sorry. Thanks for offering. But we shouldn't go and see her or her family. Look, can I meet you later? We'll get a nice dinner at this place I've heard of that's near your hotel. It's called La Comédie. It'll be great. I've had a horrible day, Mom, and I've still got a dozen stressful appointments ahead. I just need a few hours. Is that okay?"

  "I leave tomorrow."

  "I know. I'm sorry, Mom, but I told you that I'm very busy here."

  "Busy?"

  "Yes. Busy."

  "BellSouth? Or, wait, you're a freelance journalist? Or, no, maybe you're working for an investment firm in California? Are you still living in New York, Gabriel? Or have you moved to Palo Alto? When was the last time you were at their office in California? Why are you not telling me—"

  He shook his head and waved his hands at her—it was way too much. "I have to go, right now. I have an urgent telephone meeting. We can talk about all this later, but I just don't have time now. This is too important. I'm sorry. I'll pick you up at seven."

  "How much of what you've told me is true?"

  He leaned in and kissed her on the cheek. "I have to go. I love you." He walked briskly away from her and didn't look back. There were a million things he could have said to soften it, but he didn't have the time.

  He turned the corner and headed toward Gloria, trying to organize his next steps. He had to communicate with all of the people he had supposedly misled before. He'd have to explain that he had been more or less right after all. It would be a more awkward, if considerably less stressful, task than it would have been if things had gone according to plan and he had lied to them successfully. His mother would remain furious for a while, but he could make amends that night at dinner. He'd make jokes and play the rascal. She'd get over it. She had no choice.

  Priya was first. He called her by the time he made it to Potosí. "False alarm," he said as he crossed the street at the courthouse. A bus ground its gears as it churned up a nearby hill. A child inside gawked at the bandages on Gabriel's face.

  "Good," Priya said. It was the response that he'd hoped for.

  "The specifics are slightly different from what I'd heard," he continued.

  "How so?"

  "It turns out he's not going to begin the process until the first of May, but it's going to be an open secret until then. From May until the end of the year, companies will be invited to 'renegotiate' their contracts with Bolivia."

  "Invited? Ha! As in 'We'd like to invite you to get twenty percent instead of eighty'?"

  "That's the idea. Except I think it's seventeen percent."

  "And if they refuse to go along with the new plan, they're out of the deal altogether?"

  "Right."

  "Well, that's that," she said. "Thank you."
/>
  He waited, but she said nothing else. So he said, "That's it?"

  "Yes, that's it. You're done there."

  "Just like that?"

  "Yup. You're done. And you did surprisingly well, Gabriel. It paid off. I hadn't expected anything to come of this, but we did well this morning and it was a terrible morning otherwise, so we owe it to you. You earned your bonus, at any rate. What was it? Two fifty?"

  "My salary is two thirty-four."

  "Two thirty-four. I'll let Anne know. Bonuses are delivered the second week in January."

  "Second week in January," he repeated.

  "Do you have an accountant?"

  "No," he said. "Should I?"

  "Yes. You'll need to file quarterly. Most of us use a Norwegian named Life, of all things. Odd guy, but he's very astute, very meticulous. I'll refer you if you're interested."

  "I am, I guess." When she'd mentioned referring him to her accountant, Gabriel apprehended that he'd truly passed whatever test she had had in mind for him. From now on, he would be viewed differently by her. He was inside now.

  She said, "So, you'll return tomorrow?"

  "No. I have some things to tie up here." No need to mention his mother, much less Lenka. "I'll fly back on Friday." He turned the corner at Potosí.

  "Fine. Once you get home, take a long shower and replenish the mothballs in your closet, haul the junk mail out to your recycling bin. Treat yourself to some good food and get a massage. I know a fantastic masseur named Ofir. Jordanian, hands like an orangutan. He does house calls. I can give him your name."

  "Right. Okay, thanks. I might need that, I don't know. I'll think about it." He was approaching Gloria now.

  "Good. In the meantime, you should start looking into Telavisa. Have you heard of it?"

  "No. Is that with an a?" he asked. He stopped walking, took out his pen and pad, flipped to a new page, and set the pad against the wall of a nearby building.