The Angel Esmeralda - By Don DeLillo Page 0,56
mind, where she was leading us.
Laurie said softly, in a lilting voice: “Who do we trust? Where do we turn? How do we ever get to sleep?”
Kate said briskly, “Can computer technology keep up with computerized trading? Will long-term doubts yield to short-term doubts?”
“What is a fat-finger trade? What is a naked short sale?”
“How many trillions of dollars pledged to bleeding euro economies?”
“How many zeros is a trillion?”
“How many meetings deep in the night?”
“Why does the crisis keep getting worse?”
“Brazil, Korea, Japan, Wherever.”
“What are they doing and where are they doing it?”
“They’re on strike again in Greece.”
“They’re marching in the streets.”
“They’re burning banks in Greece.”
“They’re hanging banners from sacred temples.”
“Peoples of Europe, rise up.”
“Peoples of the world, unite.”
“The tide is rising, the tide is turning.”
“Which way? How fast?”
There was a long pause. We watched and waited. Then the news report reached its defining moment, do-or-die, the point of no return.
The girls recited together:
“Stalin Khrushchev Castro Mao.”
“Lenin Brezhnev Engels—Pow!”
These names, that exclamation, delivered in rapid singsong, roused the inmates to spontaneous noise. What kind of noise was it? What did it mean? I sat stone-faced, in the middle of it, trying to understand. The girls repeated the lines once, then again. The men yelled and clamored, these flabby white-collar felons, seeming to reject everything they’d believed all their lives.
“Brezhnev Khrushchev Mao and Ho.”
“Lenin Stalin Castro Zhou.”
The names kept coming. It resembled a school chant, the cry of leaping cheerleaders, and the men’s response grew in volume and feeling. It was tremendous, totally, and it scared me. What did these names mean to the inmates? We were a long way from the funny place-names of earlier reports. These names were immense imprints on history. Did the inmates want to replace one doctrine, one system of government with another? We were the end products of the system, the logical outcome, slabs of burnt-out capital. We were also men with families and homes, whatever our present situation. We had beliefs, commitments. It went beyond systems, I thought. They were asserting that nothing mattered, that distinctions were dead. Let the markets crash and die. Let the banks, the brokerage firms, the groups, the funds, the trusts, the institutes all turn to dust.
“Mao Zhou—Fidel Ho.”
The aisles, meanwhile, were still and hushed—guards, doctors, camp administrators. I wanted it to be over. I wanted the girls to go home, do their homework, withdraw into their cell phones.
“Marx Lenin Che—Hey!”
Their mother was crazy, perverting the novelty of a children’s stock market report. The inmates were confused, stirring themselves into mindless anarchy. Only Feliks Zuber made sense, pumping his fist, feebly, a man who was here for attempting to finance a revolution, able to hear trumpets and drums in that chorus of names. It took a while before the energy in the room began to recede, the girls’ voices becoming calmer now.
“We’re all waiting for an answer.”
“Accordingly, analysts say.”
“Eventually, investors maintain.”
“Elsewhere, economists claim.”
“Somewhere, officials insist.”
“This could be bad,” Kate said.
“How bad?”
“Very bad.”
“How bad?”
“End-of-the-world bad.”
They stared into the camera, finishing in a whisper.
“F. Harry Stowe.”
“F. Harry Stowe.”
The report was over but the girls remained onscreen. They sat looking, we sat looking. The moment became uneasy. Laurie glanced to the side and then slid off her chair and moved out of camera range. Kate stayed put. I watched a familiar look slide into her eyes and across her mouth and jaw. This was the look of noncompliance. Why should she submit to an embarrassing exit caused by some dumb technical blunder? She would stare us all down. Then she would tell us exactly how she felt about the matter, about the show itself and the news itself. This is what made me want to get up and leave, to slip unnoticed out of the row and along the wall and into the dusty light of late afternoon. But I stayed and looked and so did she. We were looking at each other. She leaned forward now, placing her elbows on the desk, hands folded at chin level like a fifth-grade teacher impatient with my snickering and fidgeting or just my stupidity. The tension in the room had mass and weight. This is what I feared, that she would speak about the news, all news all the time, and about how her father always said that the news exists so it can disappear, this is the point of news, whatever story, wherever it is happening. We depend on the news to disappear, my father says. Then my father became the news. Then he