American Subversive (27 page)

He came back with the drinks.

“So, she was beautiful?”

“Yeah. I guess.”

“Like the photograph?”

“Tell me something,” I said. “Why didn't you come to Vermont?”

“Aidan, I can't spend my life flying friends up and down the East Coast. I had things I had to—”

“Oh, bullshit. I wasn't asking you to take me to some beach party in Bar Harbor. This was real and you knew it. You knew it back on Fishers when—”

“
So what if I did
. Huh? You want the truth, Aidan? Here it is: this isn't my business. And it's not yours either. Of course I knew you might be onto something. But we're not talking about an ordinary crime here. We're talking about treason. Do you know what that is? Do you have any idea at all? It happens to be the only crime specifically mentioned in your precious Constitution, and
you
could be charged with it
right now
. I'm sorry, I hate to sound so dire but—”

“Treason is an act against a government.”

“A nation. Not a government. There's a difference.”

“Well, I'm not the one blowing up buildings, Julian.”

“Yes, but apparently you know who is, and that's just the same . . .” His voice trailed off. He took a sip of his drink and pushed his thick, dark hair off his forehead. “Let me tell you something now, and then we won't speak of it again. It's the story of my father's best friend, Eduardo López. They grew up together, same private schools, same wealthy neighborhood. The López family owned textile factories and was very respected in Caracas. Soon, they became politically involved, as my family did—as every family did that had something to lose—and when Eduardo came of age, he was sent to school in America. Dartmouth, I believe. My father, as you know, was at Harvard. This was the fashion of the time. Now, of course, we're sent to America out of necessity: it's the one place Chávez can't touch us. It was Eduardo López who introduced my father to my mother—at a regatta in Newport—and that's an act not quickly forgotten where I'm from. Eduardo and my father remained the best of friends for a long time. Even after Chávez took over in '98 and they grew apart politically.”

“What do you mean?”

“The López family businesses remained untouched while my father's concerns—the mines and all that—were nationalized. It was nothing more than chance: the mines were deemed valuable to the state. Eduardo stayed in Caracas and became an economic adviser to
Chávez; my father chose to speak out against the socialists and was forced to flee south. Even so, the two friends talked every week, as if nothing had happened.

“And then there was the coup. Everyone wanted it. Even the Caracas police sided with the rebels. My father, of course, was heavily involved as a liaison between the old guard—his people—and the labor unions who also supported change. He tried hard to convert his friend to the cause—he even told him of the coup beforehand, when it would happen, and how—but if Eduardo had no love for Chávez, he had no stomach for revolution either. Two days before the uprising, Eduardo left Caracas with his family to wait things out at his country estate. As it turns out, Chávez was back in power before the week was over, and when the dust cleared—or smoke . . . do you say
dust
or
smoke
?”

“Either, I guess. Was there actual smoke?”

“Some. There was shooting.”

“So smoke.”

“Okay, when the smoke cleared, Chávez went on a rampage. He went after everyone he thought might have betrayed him. The lucky ones were imprisoned after show trials. The others disappeared.”

“Such a fine South American tradition, your disappearances.”

“Ah, yes, we learned from the best,” Touché said, clearing his throat. “But let me get to the point now. Which is Eduardo López. Which is the
death
of Eduardo López. Because that's what happened, Aidan. He came back to Caracas and Hugo Chávez had him killed. Shot dead on the street by men in masks. And why? Because he knew of the coup in advance and didn't speak up. He never lifted a finger against Chávez. Never participated in the plots against him. And still . . .”

“Jesus.”

“Which, to answer your question, is why I hesitate to learn too much about your lovely friend.”

“But you were all gung ho in the beginning.”

“People are always gung ho in the beginning. In the same way they're liberal when they're young. To be honest, a part of me thinks you should tell everything to Cressida and let her take it from there. Or the two of you could break the story together. A
grand exposé
. It could do wonders for your relationship.”

“And the other part?”

“The other part . . .” Touché shifted in his seat. He picked up his drink and held it in his hands, and when he spoke again, his voice was so quiet and intense that if I'd heard it over the phone, I wouldn't have recognized its owner.

“The other part thinks that you . . . could
help
her.”

“You mean, get involved?”

“God no. You don't even understand what she's doing. Or why. But it's hard to feel sorry for Indigo Holdings, no? If that was indeed her intended target. What I'm talking about is
indirect
support—a ride somewhere or a place to stay. That is, if you ever see her again. And I don't say this because I believe in her methods—political violence is a worn-out theory, my friend, a black hole of misplaced idealism. It's a thing that scars great nations. But too much prosperity can ruin them.”

Touché stood up and started pacing the room. “I'm speaking of the American malaise. The triumph of the wealthy: complete disengagement, derived not from admirable self-sufficiency but sickening self-regard. Fishers Island. Nantucket. The Hamptons. This is wealth of another kind. And the new money is more dangerous than the old. Look at Palm Beach. Look at Aspen. Look at our cities, Aidan. A hole has been ripped in the fabric of the American middle class, and still Manhattan is like a theme park, but safer even, and more homogeneous. And, yes, I realize I'm part of the problem. I go along with it all. I laugh at golf stories and speak mindlessly of real estate at cocktail parties. But what choice do I have? We are the walking dead, my friend: America's winners. Too tired making money to
live
. And the rest of the country? Too tired living to fight.” Touché sat on the edge of an armchair and leaned toward me, conspiratorially. “Eduardo López sent my father a book once, by the Italian anarchist Alfredo Bonanno. This was in the months before the coup, when politics was still intoxicating and the future might belong to anyone. The book was meant as a counterargument to unrestrained free enterprise, but my father was bothered by its theories and put it aside. I found it in his office during one of my visits, and intrigued—for my father is many things but most definitely
not
an anarchist—I skimmed it. Only one sentence was underlined. I still remember it, for my father had scrawled a giant
question mark in the margin: ‘Beyond the crises, beyond other problems of underdevelopment, beyond poverty and hunger, the last fight that capital will have to put up, the decisive one, is the fight against boredom.' And you know what? That makes a certain sense to me. Something at the end of prosperity is broken.”

We sat there a moment. I wasn't sure what to say, and Touché seemed none too sure of what he'd
just
said. Then, as if dismissing his own sudden depth, he stood back up and waved his hand through the air as if brushing away a fly.

“But enough of this,” he announced. “You shouldn't listen to me. I suffer from that foolish pessimism particular to South Americans. Read your friend Márquez, you'll understand.” He started walking toward the kitchen. “I'm thinking of throwing a party on Friday night. Some music people. If you and Cressida are on speaking terms, you should bring her. If not, I'll introduce you around.”

And just like that, we came back to ourselves, to our roles, our lives—alluring and glamorous and utterly vapid. I left Touché's apartment sometime later, drunk on big ideas and vodka, and caught a cab back to deserted Weehawken Street. It was almost three in the morning. It was always almost three in the morning. I climbed the stairs and fiddled with the locks, and when I got inside I paced around awhile, unsteady and unsettled. I turned on the TV, opened a bottle of wine, and dialed Cressida's number. We'd gone five days without speaking, and when you're in a relationship, five days is four too long. It was my fault, this extended silence, proliferating as each day passed, making it that much more difficult to initiate contact. The issue of her columns had lived its half-life and fallen away. This was something else now. A contest. Cressida had become an adversary—in life and love.

She didn't pick up. I tried again, and this time left a message.

My windows were still open, and the wind must have changed for I could suddenly smell the river. I had the idea then of walking back outside and across the highway to the edge of the island. I could lean out over the lapping water like a million young men before me, men who'd encircled themselves in this city of angles and sought out answers in the bleakness before dawn. Because the odds evened out at night. The clock reset itself, the opposition rested. I'd never been to the waterfront at that hour, alone under a universe I couldn't see.
I wasn't the kind of person who howled at the moon. And I didn't that night either. No, I sat there drinking cheap wine, gazing at a televised war, soldiers slogging through some dusty desert, and to this day I have no idea what I was watching—what battle in what country. Was it the news, a documentary, a movie? At some point I got up to pour another drink, but the bottle was empty. And it was this unfortunate fact that led me back outside to hail another cab. It was 3:45 a.m. Surely Cressida would have wine, or answers, one or the other, it didn't matter which.

PAIGE
 

WHEN I RELATED THE STORY, I WAS CAREFUL TO LEAVE OUT CERTAIN
specif
ics—Aidan's name, address, and the name of his blog. It was more than an issue of trust; I needed something—
anything
—that no one else had. I was tired of being the one in the dark. Keith listened intently until I was finished, then rubbed his growing beard.

Will he stay quiet? Lindsay asked.

I think he has so far, I said.

Except now he knows you exist.

Yes, but I didn't say anything incriminating.

It sounds like you didn't deny anything either, Lindsay responded.

Whose side are you on?

I'm just saying.

What? What are you saying?

Lindsay glanced at Keith. I'm saying you've put us in real danger.

Really? Wow! That was almost an original thought.

Excuse me?

Girls,
Keith said.

Girls?
I repeated. Who the fuck do you— I stopped, abruptly, and stood up. The cigarettes were on the kitchen counter. Calm as I could, I took them and walked out to the deck. I managed to close the sliding door without slamming it, all the while thinking of that well-worn
Kipling line about keeping your head while everyone around you is losing theirs. The poem was about becoming a man, and Bobby, the earliest of bloomers, taped it to his wall when he was eleven or twelve. I used to read it when he wasn't around. And then one day he took it down. I guess he didn't need someone else telling him how to grow up. Later, in college, I bought Kipling's collected works at a used-book sale, and I still have it—or did, when I had things. It's funny what we cling to.

But even Kipling couldn't assuage me. These were the same people who'd originally suggested I confront Aidan Cole, and now, now that questions were piling up like leaves set to burn, I was being blamed. It could have been any one of us captured in that photograph. That's what I kept telling myself. I lit a cigarette and took a deep drag. Behind me, the door slid open, and Lindsay stepped outside. She was barefoot.

I'm sorry, she said solemnly. I shouldn't have—

Don't. I mean, don't apologize. We're all under pressure.

It was a stale response, but noncombative, and all I could manage just then. Lindsay produced one of those wrinkly smiles that so often lead to tears. But the tears didn't materialize. Instead she came over and hugged me, her bony arms wrapping tightly around my body. I must have reciprocated, though I can't remember. I was too busy wondering if Keith had sent her out to do this, too.

Lindsay went back inside. I stayed on the deck until I'd calmed down enough to be around them again. When I walked in, Lindsay was draped across the couch. Keith was at the computer.

Well, I'm exhausted, Lindsay said almost immediately. I'll leave you two to . . . you know . . . and with that she climbed the stairs and disappeared. I, for one, didn't know. And so I waited.

I don't understand what's in it for him, Keith said finally. If he's not a journalist, why not just go to the cops and wash his hands of the whole thing? Hell, he'd be a
hero
.