“Which brings us back to the task at hand,” Pilgrim said somewhat reluctantly but firmly. He enjoyed listening to his young team at play. They were all more than a quarter of a century his junior. He had personally recruited each of them straight out of graduate school. Age had been a key factor in his recruitment policy.
Studiously avoiding the Ivy League, he had sought out young men who were neither softened by privilege nor embittered by want or slight. He wanted graduates who had studied the gamut of social, economic, and political structures, all the isms, past and present, and knew the fallout from each one. He wanted minds as sharp and defiant as those he saw in the emerging nations, minds that did not toe the line of popular thinking, minds that drew no satisfaction from being white and right all the time. The recruits for Pilgrim Boone’s team of analysts must be able to see only the brilliance or idiocy of an argument, without being encumbered by distractions like race and color and creed.
“Okay, synthesizer. What do you have?”
Damian Bettencourt leaned forward and spoke in a measured voice. “Simple. We get the developing countries to rip up their rail lines, we make credit easily available to them to build regular roads, and then we get the auto companies to come up with enticing purchase plans for vehicles—cars, trucks, and buses.”
“And hearses,” mumbled Cunningham. It was a principled but half-hearted stance for a cause that even he himself had already given up as lost.
The minds around the mahogany table locked silently into Bettencourt’s proposed solution. Jackets had long come off and ties loosened. Two bottles of imported water—one still, one sparkling mineral—had been placed with a Hoya crystal glass at each person’s place. They had not been touched. Coffee and tea stood at the ready on an antique sideboard. That, too, had not been touched. There was no cigarette smoke, no cigar smoke, no kind of smoke, just five young men slouched in their chairs, staring into space.
Pilgrim rose quietly from his seat at the head of the table and stood at the gleaming plate-glass window overlooking the East River, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his fingers curled in loose fists.
He smiled to himself as he counted backward from sixty.
He always gave the men exactly one minute. He could almost hear their brains clicking, almost see their inner eyes darting back and forth as scenario after scenario whizzed by as if on the screen of an old microfiche machine. He knew that on the door outside, superimposed by a small magnet on the square of polished brass that announced CONFERENCE ROOM, was another square of steel that read:
BRAINS IN ORBIT
ENTER AT YOUR OWN PERIL
It had been placed there, as usual, by whoever was the last of the five to enter the room. Featherhorn, this time. No one dared enter the room when that sign was up. Not even Lawton’s own secretary, Miss Hatherby, a trim, fear-inspiring spinster who had been with him from the time he had started the firm.
Lawton no longer remembered when the sign first appeared and he did not care. It had become a respected practice. He himself dutifully retrieved it from the tiny wall cabinet in the corridor and placed it outside the door when he was the last to arrive.
God, how he loved these men. He felt a thrill of excitement, like a warm current of electricity, tingling through his body. He couldn’t wait for what was about to happen.
Zero!
He turned from the window and at that precise moment their thoughts exploded into the open.
“Third World governments will never buy it. Railroads are good for their countries. They’re a cheap way to move people and farm produce and they’re low maintenance. Those guys will never buy it.”
“I second that. The people in power in those countries are well educated and smart, and they’re all socialists. They’ll see such an idea as a capitalist plot to further enrich the rich nations, not to mention the multinational corporations, ‘the bastions of capitalism.’ Not that they’re wrong about that.”
“Oh, I doubt that. Most of these Third World leaders are essentially ordinary city boys enjoying the chance to show off their mastery of the flair and oratory of the European colonials who taught them in school. They know, or care, nothing about business, really. They are true products of the information they were fed by their colonial masters and later by their socialist heroes, both of whom taught them to be contemptuous of business. And that is precisely how they behave. Like civil servants. What did one of their own say about them? That they’re ‘armchair socialists who have learned to balance a teacup on their knees,’ or something like that. Some of them act like they still can’t believe they’re prime ministers and presidents.”
“That was Dr. Eric Williams who said that great line about ‘armchair socialists’ learning to balance a teacup on their knees, wasn’t it? He was the first prime minister of Trinidad and Tobago, the petroleum islands. Now there was a man who had no blinders on when it came to capitalism and the games capitalists play. If he were still around we would have a hell of a time trying to sell the Caribbean on the idea of ripping up their railroads.”
“But the ones who are there will be suspicious anyway. They know history and won’t trust anything coming out of the West. How do we get them to buy into the idea?”
“By appealing to their desire to stay in power until they die, and at the same time convincing them that they’re securing the people’s welfare. We remind them, subtly of course, of how nasty an unhappy bourgeoisie can become. Keep driving home the importance of making life comfortable for the bourgeoisie, with cars and good roads to drive on in the city. At the same time, we sell them on the idea of building roads that will link their villages and even their neighboring countries, roads that will make it easy for farmers in their brand-new trucks to drive their produce to the markets in the cities and towns, roads that brand-new, modern buses will drive on to take the people where they want to go, whether they live in the city or in the rural areas. And, best of all, roads to get their children to school on time.”
“I can see it now. Nation after nation rallying behind road-building schemes. A road going from, say, Guyana to Brazil and on to Argentina. A Pan-American highway even, linking North, Central, and South America. Any nationalist’s dream.”
“What about Asia and Africa? You can’t rip out the railroads in Africa. Those railroads support all those mining industries. In fact, the same is true in the Caribbean and South America. Even tiny Guyana has its bauxite and manganese, and all that gold and diamonds.”
“I don’t think Damian is talking about touching the private lines that the mining companies built and maintain on their own. Even if we wanted to, those companies wouldn’t let us.”
“How do the governments make money in all this? So far, all we’re telling them to do is borrow, borrow, borrow and spend, spend, spend. Somebody’s bound to raise that issue. Aside from keeping the lumpen proletariat and the bourgeoisie happy, how do they make money for all the social schemes they’re talking about? You know, hospitals, schools, housing—all that basic stuff every self-respecting human society needs?”
“Taxes. They can slap all kinds of import taxes on the cars and trucks and buses. Hell, they can even put tolls on the roads.”
“Perhaps get the multilateral lenders to throw them some free money, a few grants here and there for going along.”
“So who exactly is going to sell them on all this?”
“Why don’t we let the clients figure that out? I don’t think that’s part of our assignment.”
“He’s right. Christ, they’ve got to use their own brains at some time.”
“True, but you know they’ll ask for our ideas on that.”
“We’ve spoiled them. They’ve become intellectual sluggards.”
“That means, gentlemen, that we are running the free world.”
“Big deal. That knowledge is hardly fungible.”
“Running the free world, my ass. The clients tell us when to jump and how high. They can reject what we tell them at a
ny time, and there isn’t a damn thing we can do about it.”
“Show me precedent.”
“So when they ask for our recommendations along those lines…”
“We tell them to make the very same socialists the messengers. It’s easy. In each of those regions—Latin America, Asia, the Caribbean, Africa, the
Middle East—there’s bound to be at least one head of state who thinks he and his country are better than all the others. Single them out and butter them up. Inflate their egos with praise about how well they’re running their countries. Get them to feel like they’re on equal footing with the big boys. Invite them for tête-à-têtes with the heads of state of the main auto manufacturing countries and throw them the line. They’ll bite.”
“And all the rest will follow.”
“Can we really get away with telling them how well their countries are doing? Surely they know the truth since they’re the ones running the show.”
“You jiggle the numbers a little. It’s been done before.”
“What if no one bites?”
“You put someone in power who will.”
“They’ll still need independent parties to help grease the wheels.”
“Use local consultants. There’s a whole bunch of bright guys out there who can do the job.”
Just as suddenly as it had exploded, the room fell silent. Lawton Pilgrim sat up straight. During the debate he had slipped down into his chair, his head on the headrest, eyes closed, his fingers interlocked on his flat stomach. He had followed every word.
He sat up now and spoke. “Any moral issues for American voters? Anything liberals or conservatives can rip apart?”
“Nothing whatsoever. Nobody’s killing anybody.”
“Or selling arms or pushing dope.”
“We’re just selling cars and trucks and buses.”
“And…”
“Keep a lid on it, Willy. You did your Custer’s Last Stand already.”
“Keeping American autoworkers employed.”
“Power to the people!”
Lawton sighed. “Great! I want each of you to take one aspect of this discussion and give me a written report on it based on what was said today. When I get them back, I want to see the problem defined as perceived by our client and analyzed according to what’s real and what’s hypothetical. And I want to see the recommendations, defined and analyzed the same way, with names named on all fronts. We’ll meet here again at the end of the week to put it all together and go over it again. I know you’re all working on other projects, but this one takes priority. Good day, gentlemen.”
3
Georgetown, Guyana August 20, 1986
Nelson Roopnaraine stood on the sidewalk on Lamaha Street and surveyed the rusting carcass of the Morris Mini Minor, wondering how he was going to haul it out of the trench. He needed it to boost the skimpy load of scrap metal he had collected over the last several days.
It was about two in the afternoon and the sun was angry.Those who weren’t at work or at school were taking refuge indoors or under their houses. Thick, wooden or cement pillars held their homes several feet above the floodwaters when the rainy season came.
Nelson had paid one hundred dollars at Mayor and Town Council for the right to remove the old car, plus an extra twenty to a clerk to make sure the document stamped APPROVED would not disappear on its way from the office in the back. It was that extra twenty that had put him over the top. Stingy old Janairaine Singh had stormed out of the bureau sucking his teeth and cursing to high heaven about whose rass—Guyanese for ‘ass’—he was going to fix.
That they both had gone after the wreck in the first place was a sign of how bad business was becoming. Scrap was in short supply these days. Nelson’s father complained bitterly every time he checked off the loads that came in. “Every blastid t’ing is plastic, plastic, plastic! Soon ahwe gwan see kyars mek outta plastic! Mark my words!”
And the scrap runs kept netting smaller and smaller loads.
The constant worry that plastic was replacing good, strong metals to the point where even cars made of plastic were imaginable drove old Roopnaraine’s blood pressure to heights that would leave him in bed. He advised Nelson to remove the car from the Lamaha before Janairaine Singh got his hands on it for the steel.
“See dat rusty kyar in de Lamaha? Bettah move it out before Jainaraine get ‘e han’ pun um. Dat ol’ kyar full wid scrap,” he told Nelson when he could no longer stand the dwindling reserves in the backyard.
The elder Roopnaraine spoke only Guyanese Creole, the earthy patois born of the languages spoken in cultures that had left their imprint on the tiny South American country. That Creole is peppered with influences from the indigenous Indians, European tongues, and the tongues of those whom the Europeans brought in from Africa and Asia to work on their plantations and in their rice paddies and sugar factories.
Nelson’s father, a first-generation Guyanese who grew up in a small village on the East Coast, spoke Creole with the distinct accent of an East Indian, rolling his r’s and pronouncing his t’s and d’s as if the tip of his tongue kicked the sounds out from the roof of his mouth. His parents had been brought to Guyana at the turn of the twentieth century to work as indentured servants in the rice paddies and cane fields.
Guyana was British Guiana then.
Roopnaraine Scrap Metal Co., Ltd. was Nelson’s father’s own creation, built up from a pushcart operation he started when he grew tired of fetching and carrying for Toolsie Persaud Enterprises on Water Street. He had refused to farm rice like his parents and brothers. Instead, he moved to Georgetown to try his hand at “somet’ing else.” He would push his cart around the city in the sweltering, five-degrees-north-of-the-Equator heat, calling out in his rich singsong: “Scrrraap aiyan! Scrrraap aiyan!”
At his cry, housewives—or the children sent by their mothers who were too ashamed to be seen hustling for a few pennies—would come running with old pots and pans and broken pieces of this and that. The “scrap aiyurn man,” as they called Roopnaraine in their city accent, would select the items with great ceremony, weighing them in his hands and rejecting those that were not pure iron. He would pay for his selections with the big round pennies that went a very long way in those days.
Around three in the afternoon, he and the other scrap iron vendors would make their way to the big Sprostons dock on Lombard Street, near to the sawmills, to sell their load.
The rear of the Sprostons yard and sawmills faced the Demerara River, forming a continuous line of wooden docks. Once his business was done, Roopnaraine would stand on the Sprostons dock and watch the men unload the ships berthed along the riverfront or load them up with lumber and scrap. Sometimes he was lucky enough to see one of the huge vessels sailing down the river, sounding its horn in short, sharp blasts to announce its safe arrival from across the Atlantic.
And as he watched the men and the ships and their comings and goings, he would feel a warm thrill throughout his dark, bony frame, and he would thank God once again that he was part of this commerce without end, which meant his children would always be well housed and clothed and fed and schooled. And his wife would have gold in her teeth and jewelry bought at Portuguese Pawnbrokers Ltd. High-carat gold. With fine filigree work.
The scrap that he and the other vendors sold to Sprostons traveled on these very same ships to steel mills in Europe and America to feed the construction and auto industries in those countries. Sprostons would also sell to local ironmongers, who blasted it and beat it into shoes and other accessories for the horses and donkeys that pulled the wooden carts used to transport everything from people to farm produce. And into simple tools and cooking utensils—coal pots, and the wok-like karahis to burn sugar for black cake or to deep-fry pancakes on Shrove Tuesday, floats for Wednesday’s salt fish, and pholourie to sell to school children. And the flat, heavy tawas to bake roti and dhal puri.
There was no love lost between the ironmongers and the scrap vendors. The v
endors refused to sell directly to them because Sprostons paid them more.
“Dem na pay good money like ‘Praston,” old Roopnaraine explained to Nelson, who sometimes worked the city with his father during school holidays.
By the time Nelson came full-time into the business, after graduating from a technical college in Trinidad and Tobago, his father had already bought four lorries and employed enough drivers to go around the city and out into the outlying districts to collect scrap.
Increasingly, the lorries traveled east along the Atlantic coast, as far as Berbice County, or in the opposite direction to the towns along the west bank of the Demerara River and sometimes across the river to Parika and into Essequibo County. They would be gone for a week or two on these longer trips, but the loads they brought back were growing smaller and smaller.
But the yard on Lombard Street was still buying.
Nelson scratched his head as he contemplated the wreck of the Mini Minor. The car had been sitting in the Lamaha trench for years and was half-covered by muddy water. It had ended up there following a collision with another car and had remained stuck, held fast by the mud. The driver, fortunately, had been thrown from the car before it plunged into the water and had escaped serious injury.
All efforts to pull the wreck from the Lamaha had failed and the Mini Minor soon became Lamaha Street’s most commonly used landmark. “Meet mi pun Lamaha Street by de Mini Mainuh,” or, “De house ‘bout t’ree doors before yuh reach de Mini Mainuh,” or “If yuh pass de Mini Mainuh, yuh pass de place,” people would say when giving directions.
The Guyana Contract Page 4
