The Corrections (15 page)

“We’ve petitioned the IMF and World Bank for assistance,” Gitanas said. “Since they encouraged us to privatize, maybe they’re interested in the fact that our privatized nation-state is now a zone of semi-anarchy, criminal warlords, and subsistence farming? Unfortunately, IMF is handling complaints of bankrupt client states in order of the size of their respective GDPs. Lithuania was twenty-six on the list last Monday. Now we’re twenty-eight. Paraguay just beat us. Always Paraguay.”

“Ouch,” Chip said.

“Paraguay being for some reason the bane of my existence.”

“Gitanas, I told you, Chip is perfect,” Eden said. “But listen—”

“IMF says expect delays of up to thirty-six months before any rescue can begin!”

Eden slumped into her chair. “Do you think we can wrap this up fairly soon?”

Gitanas showed Chip a printout from his briefcase. “You see, here, this Web page?’ A service of the U.S. Department of State, Bureau of European and Canadian Affairs.’ It says: Lithuanian economy severely depressed, unemployment nearly twenty percent, electricity and running water intermittent in Vilnius, scarce elsewhere. What kind of businessman is going to put money in a country like that?”

“A Lithuanian businessman?” Chip said.

“Yes, funny.” Gitanas gave him an appreciative look. “But what if I need something different on this Web page and others like it? What if I need to erase what’s here and put, in good American English, that our country escaped the Russian financial plague? Like, say, Lithuania now has an
annual inflation rate less than six percent, per capita dollar reserves same as Germany, and a trade surplus of nearly one hundred million dollars, due to continued strong demand for Lithuania’s natural resources!”

“Chip, you’d be perfect for this,” Eden said.

Chip had quietly and firmly resolved never to look at Eden or say a word to her again for as long as he lived.

“What are Lithuania’s natural resources?” he asked Gitanas.

“Chiefly sand and gravel,” Gitanas said.

“Huge strategic reserves of sand and gravel. OK.”

“Sand and gravel in abundance.” Gitanas closed his briefcase. “However, so, here’s a quiz for you. Why the unprecedented demand for these intriguing resources?”

“A construction boom in nearby Latvia and Finland? In sand-starved Latvia? In gravel-starved Finland?”

“And how did these countries escape the contagion of global financial collapse?”

“Latvia has strong, stable democratic institutions,” Chip said. “It’s the financial nerve center of the Baltics. Finland placed strict limits on the outflow of short-term foreign capital and succeeded in saving its world-class furniture industry.”

The Lithuanian nodded, obviously pleased. Eden pounded her fists on her desk. “God, Gitanas, Chip’s fantastic! He is
so
entitled to a signing bonus. Also first-class accommodations in Vilnius and a per diem in dollars.”

“Vilnius?” Chip said.

“Yeah, we’re selling a country,” Gitanas said. “We need a satisfied U.S. customer on site. Also much, much safer to work on the Web over there.”

Chip laughed. “You actually expect American investors to send you money? On the basis of, what. Of sand shortages in Latvia?”

“They’re already sending me money,” Gitanas said, “on the basis of a little joke I played. Not even sand and gravel,
just a mean little joke I played. Tens of thousands of dollars already. But I want them to send me millions.”

“Gitanas,” Eden said. “Dear man. This is completely a point-incentive moment. There could not
be
a more perfect situation for an escalator clause. Every time Chip doubles your receipts, you give him another point of the action. Hm? Hm?”

“If I see a hundred-times increase in receipts, trust me, Cheep will be a wealthy man.”

“But I’m saying let’s have this in writing.”

Gitanas caught Chip’s eye and silently conveyed to him his opinion of their host. “Eden, this document,” he said. “What is Cheep’s job designation? International Wire Fraud Consultant? First Deputy Co-Conspirator?”

“Vice President for Willful Tortious Misrepresentation,” Chip offered.

Eden gave a scream of pleasure. “I love it!”

“Mommy, look,” April said.

“Our agreement is strictly oral,” Gitanas said.

“Of course, there’s nothing actually illegal about what you’re doing,” Eden said.

Gitanas answered her question by staring out the window for a longish while. In his red ribbed jacket he looked like a motocross rider. “Of course not,” he said.

“So it isn’t wire fraud,” Eden said.

“No, no. Wire fraud? No.”

“Because, not to be a scaredy-cat here, but wire fraud is what this almost sounds like.”

“The collective fungible assets of my country disappeared in yours without a ripple,” Gitanas said. “A rich powerful country made the rules we Lithuanians are dying by. Why should we respect these rules?”

“This is an essential Foucaultian question,” Chip said.

“It’s also a Robin Hood question,” Eden said. “Which doesn’t exactly reassure me on the legal front.”

“I’m offering Cheep five hundred dollars American a
week. Also bonuses as I see fit. Cheep, are you interested?”

“I can do better here in town,” Chip said.

“Try a thousand a
day
, minimum,” Eden said.

“A dollar goes a long way in Vilnius.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” Eden said. “It goes a long way on the moon, too. What’s to buy?”

“Cheep,” Gitanas said. “Tell Eden what dollars can buy in a poor country.”

“I imagine you eat and drink pretty well,” Chip said.

“A country where a young generation grew up in a state of moral anarchy, and are hungry.”

“Probably not hard to find a good-looking date, if that’s what you mean.”

“If it doesn’t break your heart,” Gitanas said. “To see a sweet little girl from the provinces get down on her knees—”

“Uch, Gitanas,” Eden said. “There’s a child in the room.”

“I’m on an island,” April said. “Mommy, look at my island.”

“I’m talking about children,” Gitanas said. “Fifteen-year-olds. You have dollars? Thirteen. Twelve.”

“Twelve years old is not a selling point with me,” Chip said.

“You prefer nineteen? Nineteen comes even cheaper.”

“This frankly, um,” Eden said, flapping her hands.

“I want Cheep to understand why a dollar is a lot of money. Why my offer is a valid offer.”

“My problem,” Chip said, “is I’d be servicing American debts with those very same dollars.”

“Believe me, we’re familiar with this problem in Lithuania.”

“Chip wants a base salary of a thousand a day, plus performance incentives,” Eden said.

“One thousand per week,” Gitanas said. “For lending legitimacy to my project. For creative work and reassuring callers.”

“One percent of gross,” Eden said. “One point minus his twenty-thousand-dollar monthly salary.”

Gitanas, ignoring her, took a thick envelope from his jacket and, with hands that were stubby and unmanicured, began to count out hundreds. April was crouched on a patch of white newsprint surrounded by toothed monsters and cruel scribbles in several colors. Gitanas tossed a stack of hundreds on Eden’s desk. “Three thousand,” he said, “for the first three weeks.”

“He gets business-class plane fare, too, of course,” Eden said.

“Yes, all right.”

“And first-class accommodations in Vilnius.”

“There’s a room in the villa, no problem.”

“Also, who protects him from these criminal warlords?”

“Maybe I’m a criminal warlord myself, a little bit,” Gitanas said with a wary, shame-faced smile.

Chip considered the mess of green on Eden’s desk. Something was giving him a hard-on, possibly the cash, possibly the vision of corrupt and sumptuous nineteen-year-olds, or maybe just the prospect of getting on a plane and putting five thousand miles between himself and the nightmare of his life in New York City. What made drugs perpetually so sexy was the opportunity to be other. Years after he’d figured out that pot only made him paranoid and sleepless, he still got hard-ons at the thought of smoking it. Still lusted for that jailbreak.

He touched the hundreds.

“Why don’t I get online and make plane reservations for you both,” Eden said. “You can leave right away!”

“So, you gonna do this thing?” Gitanas asked. “It’s a lot of work, lot of fun. Pretty low risk. No such thing as no risk, though. Not where there’s money.”

“I understand,” Chip said, touching the hundreds.

In the pageantry of weddings Enid reliably experienced the paroxysmal love of
place
—of the Midwest in general and suburban St. Jude in particular—that for her was the only true patriotism and the only viable spirituality. Living under presidents as crooked as Nixon and stupid as Reagan and disgusting as Clinton, she’d lost interest in American flag-waving, and not one of the miracles she’d ever prayed to God for had come to pass; but at a Saturday wedding in the lilac season, from a pew of the Paradise Valley Presbyterian Church, she could look around and see two hundred nice people and not a single bad one. All her friends were nice and had nice friends, and since nice people tended to raise nice children, Enid’s world was like a lawn in which the bluegrass grew so thick that evil was simply choked out: a miracle of niceness. If, for example, it was one of Esther and Kirby Root’s girls coming down the Presbyterian aisle on Kirby’s arm, Enid would remember how the little Root had trick-or-treated in a ballerina costume, vended Girl Scout cookies, and baby-sat Denise, and how, even after the Root girls had gone off to good midwestern colleges, they all still made a point, when home on holiday, of tapping on Enid’s back door and filling her in on the doings chez Root, often sitting and visiting for
an hour or more
(and not, Enid knew, because Esther had told them to come over but just because they were good St. Jude kids who naturally took an interest in other people), and Enid’s heart would swell at the sight of yet another sweetly charitable Root girl now receiving, as her reward, the vows of a young man with a neat haircut of the kind you saw in ads for menswear, a really super young fellow who had an upbeat attitude and was polite to older people and didn’t believe in premarital sex, and who had a job that contributed to society, such as electrical engineer or environmental biologist, and who came from a loving, stable, traditional family and wanted to start a loving, stable, traditional family of his own. Unless Enid was very much
deceived by appearances, young men of this caliber continued, even as the twentieth century drew to a close, to be
the norm
in suburban St. Jude. All the young fellows she’d known as Cub Scouts and users of her downstairs bathroom and shovelers of her snow, the many Driblett boys, the various Persons, the young Schumpert twins, all these clean-cut and
handsome
young men (whom Denise, as a teenager, to Enid’s quiet rage, had dismissed with her look of “amusement”), had marched or would soon be marching down heartland Protestant aisles and exchanging vows with nice, normal girls and settling down, if not in St. Jude itself, then at least in the same time zone. Now, in her secret heart, where she was less different from her daughter than she liked to admit, Enid knew that tuxes came in better colors than powder blue and that bridesmaids’ dresses could be cut from more interesting fabrics than mauve crepe de chine; and yet, although honesty compelled her to withhold the adjective “elegant” from weddings in this style, there was a louder and happier part of her heart that loved this kind of wedding best of all, because a lack of sophistication assured the assembled guests that for the two families being joined together there were values that mattered more than style. Enid believed in matching and was happiest at a wedding where the bridesmaids suppressed their selfish individual desires and wore dresses that matched the corsages and cocktail napkins, the icing on the cake, and the ribbons on the party favors. She liked a ceremony at Chiltsville Methodist to be followed by a modest reception at the Chiltsville Sheraton. She liked a more elegant wedding at Paradise Valley Presbyterian to culminate in the clubhouse at Deepmire, where even the complimentary matches (
Dean & Trish
♦
June 13, 1987
) matched the color scheme. Most important of all was that the bride and groom themselves match: have similar backgrounds and ages and educations. Sometimes, at a wedding hosted by less good friends of Enid’s, the bride would be
heavier or significantly older than the groom, or the groom’s family would hail from a farm town upstate and be obviously overawed by Deepmire’s elegance. Enid felt sorry for the principals at a reception like that. She just
knew
the marriage was going to be a struggle from day one. More typically, though, the only discordant note at Deepmire would be an off-color toast offered by some secondary groomsman, often a college buddy of the groom, often mustached or weak-chinned, invariably flushed with liquor, who sounded as if he didn’t come from the Midwest at all but from some more eastern urban place, and who tried to show off by making a “humorous” reference to premarital sex, causing both groom and bride to blush or to laugh with their eyes closed (not, Enid felt, because they were amused but because they were naturally tactful and didn’t want the offender to realize how offensive his remark was) while Alfred inclined his head deafly and Enid cast her eye around the room until she found a friend with whom she could exchange a reassuring frown.

Alfred loved weddings, too. They seemed to him the one kind of party that had a real purpose. Under their spell he authorized purchases (a new dress for Enid, a new suit for himself, a top-quality ten-piece teakwood salad-bowl set for a gift) that he ordinarily would have vetoed as unreasonable.

Enid had looked forward, some day when Denise was older and had finished college, to hosting a really elegant wedding and reception (though not, alas, at Deepmire, since, almost alone among their better friends, the Lamberts could not afford the astronomical Deepmire fees) for Denise and a tall, broad-shouldered, possibly Scandinavian young man whose flaxen hair would offset the defect of the too-dark and too-curly hair Denise had inherited from Enid but who would otherwise be her match. And so it just about broke Enid’s heart when, one October night, not three weeks after Chuck Meisner had given his daughter Cindy
the most lavish reception ever undertaken at Deepmire, with all the men in tails, and a champagne fountain, and a helicopter on the eighteenth fairway, and a brass octet playing fanfares, Denise called home with the news that she and her boss had driven to Atlantic City and gotten married in a courthouse. Enid, who had a very strong stomach (never got sick, never), had to hand the phone to Alfred and go kneel in the bathroom and take deep breaths.