Crash.
They were the words that Job had heard about for years from the basura as they talked on the street corners. Quiebra Grande. Alboroto-oro. Dinero-fuego —the Great Crash, the gold riot, the money fire, a dozen other terms in the chachara-calle that was their common language. But nothing that told him what it was, or what it did.
"Seven years ago." The professor blinked at Job. "Seven years ago I had a dozen jobs open to me, all around the world. And then, four years ago, there were none. Not here, not abroad. No more foreign visitors, no foreign conferences. That's when I knew that the economic crash and the poverty were global ."
Job didn't argue. But it seemed to him that Professor Buckler had no idea what poverty was. Poverty was Cloak House, not Bracewell Mansion. It was walking through snow in worn-through shoes or no shoes, not riding in limousines. It was stale bread or no bread, not a choice of a dozen dishes. It was winter rooms where water froze in the jugs, not the cozy mugginess of abundant steam heat. It was cold water with no soap, not long, hot showers or the mink-oil bubble baths that the women talked about.
"Or almost global." Buckler was not talking to Job now, he was talking to himself. "The trick is to find the pockets of money. They're still there, you know, the ones that control wealth. You have to get close to them."
Wealth.
A month ago Job didn't know what that word meant, but with Buckler's informal tutelage he had been learning. Wealth was more than having enough to eat, and clothes to wear, and a place to live. Wealth was so much food that half of it was thrown away uneaten. Wealth was so many clothes that most of them you never wore at all. Wealth was—still remote and almost unimaginable for Job—helicopters and airplanes and ships, on call to take a few people wherever they needed to go.
No. Not needed to go. Wanted to go.
Job's thoughts turned to a summer night, to barricades and protection systems and watchtowers, to helicopters lifting and whirring away through the warm air.
"You mean, pockets of money like the Mall Compound?"
"My boy, the analogy is well-intended. But it is not appropriate." Buckler's lids had drooped shut. He had refilled his glass with an effort from the bottle that stood on the floor next to his armchair. "If the Mall Compound is a pocket of money, then the Monument that stands within it is a toothpick. For within the Mall dwell the chosen people, the five hundred and forty worthy representatives who control the expenditures of this great nation. Do not demean the Compound by calling it a 'pocket' of wealth. Call it, if you will, a vast and bloated sock. And be thankful for its existence, and raise your glass to it." Buckler did so as he spoke. "Your meals and mine, and the very existence of Bracewell Mansion, are owed to the Mall Compound. We are all its slaves—its willing slaves."
He fell silent. If the evening ran true to form he would sleep for an hour or two, to wake clear-eyed and in good humor.
Job went quietly out and up to the kitchen. Before he ran an errand tonight, in the cold and snow, he wanted warm food inside him. He helped himself from the hot buffet and was still eating when Tracy came to the door.
"Good." She stayed at the threshold. "You're here. Go get your warmest clothes, then come right back. I'll wait. I don't know what's going on, but it's hell upstairs. Miss Magnolia wants you to go the minute it's ready."
Job ran up the stairs, and back down. He was coughing and holding his chest when he returned to the kitchen. Tracy came over and put her hand on his arm. "Are you all right? You shouldn't be going out on a night like this."
"I'm fine." Job hated sympathy, even from someone as nice as Tracy. He stifled another cough and sat down. "I choke a bit, but I'm real lucky compared with other people. Professor Buckler told me all about what happened to him at the university, and about poor Miss Magnolia, and her husband."
"Told
They were the words that Job had heard about for years from the basura as they talked on the street corners. Quiebra Grande. Alboroto-oro. Dinero-fuego —the Great Crash, the gold riot, the money fire, a dozen other terms in the chachara-calle that was their common language. But nothing that told him what it was, or what it did.
"Seven years ago." The professor blinked at Job. "Seven years ago I had a dozen jobs open to me, all around the world. And then, four years ago, there were none. Not here, not abroad. No more foreign visitors, no foreign conferences. That's when I knew that the economic crash and the poverty were global ."
Job didn't argue. But it seemed to him that Professor Buckler had no idea what poverty was. Poverty was Cloak House, not Bracewell Mansion. It was walking through snow in worn-through shoes or no shoes, not riding in limousines. It was stale bread or no bread, not a choice of a dozen dishes. It was winter rooms where water froze in the jugs, not the cozy mugginess of abundant steam heat. It was cold water with no soap, not long, hot showers or the mink-oil bubble baths that the women talked about.
"Or almost global." Buckler was not talking to Job now, he was talking to himself. "The trick is to find the pockets of money. They're still there, you know, the ones that control wealth. You have to get close to them."
Wealth.
A month ago Job didn't know what that word meant, but with Buckler's informal tutelage he had been learning. Wealth was more than having enough to eat, and clothes to wear, and a place to live. Wealth was so much food that half of it was thrown away uneaten. Wealth was so many clothes that most of them you never wore at all. Wealth was—still remote and almost unimaginable for Job—helicopters and airplanes and ships, on call to take a few people wherever they needed to go.
No. Not needed to go. Wanted to go.
Job's thoughts turned to a summer night, to barricades and protection systems and watchtowers, to helicopters lifting and whirring away through the warm air.
"You mean, pockets of money like the Mall Compound?"
"My boy, the analogy is well-intended. But it is not appropriate." Buckler's lids had drooped shut. He had refilled his glass with an effort from the bottle that stood on the floor next to his armchair. "If the Mall Compound is a pocket of money, then the Monument that stands within it is a toothpick. For within the Mall dwell the chosen people, the five hundred and forty worthy representatives who control the expenditures of this great nation. Do not demean the Compound by calling it a 'pocket' of wealth. Call it, if you will, a vast and bloated sock. And be thankful for its existence, and raise your glass to it." Buckler did so as he spoke. "Your meals and mine, and the very existence of Bracewell Mansion, are owed to the Mall Compound. We are all its slaves—its willing slaves."
He fell silent. If the evening ran true to form he would sleep for an hour or two, to wake clear-eyed and in good humor.
Job went quietly out and up to the kitchen. Before he ran an errand tonight, in the cold and snow, he wanted warm food inside him. He helped himself from the hot buffet and was still eating when Tracy came to the door.
"Good." She stayed at the threshold. "You're here. Go get your warmest clothes, then come right back. I'll wait. I don't know what's going on, but it's hell upstairs. Miss Magnolia wants you to go the minute it's ready."
Job ran up the stairs, and back down. He was coughing and holding his chest when he returned to the kitchen. Tracy came over and put her hand on his arm. "Are you all right? You shouldn't be going out on a night like this."
"I'm fine." Job hated sympathy, even from someone as nice as Tracy. He stifled another cough and sat down. "I choke a bit, but I'm real lucky compared with other people. Professor Buckler told me all about what happened to him at the university, and about poor Miss Magnolia, and her husband."
"Told
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