of the power centers was important in countries with weak institutions. If an angry mob massed outside the President’s palace, a rapid and organized display of force was important not only tactically, but psychologically. Considering that Venezuela had experienced four attempted coups in the last quarter century, it was important to have the guards’ bedrooms near the President’s bedroom.
Luis turned into another side street, and they drove past another grand nineteenth-century building, this one faced with columns and topped by a large gilded dome.
“The Legislative Palace,” said Luis, “where the National Assembly meets. And also the Constituent Assembly that our bastard President has created to strip the National Assembly of its power. Both groups say the other is the enemy of the country, and no one knows who is in charge.”
“Sounds like Washington,” said Brodie.
“We would be lucky to have a government such as yours, señor.”
Well, that put things in perspective.
Luis looked up at the gold-domed building as they drove past it. “The National Assembly is the real voice of the people. If there is any hope to get rid of Maduro, it is with them.”
Well, there was another way, but it involved tanks in the streets. Luis’ version sounded better. Brodie said, quoting Churchill, “Democracy is the worst form of government, except for all the others.”
Luis thought about that and nodded.
Brodie said, “We’d like to take a walk around.”
“Sí, señor. The area around Plaza Bolívar is good for this.” He added, “Safe.” He pulled over and pointed out the direction of the plaza.
“We’ll meet you back here in twenty minutes,” said Brodie.
“Sí, señor.”
Brodie and Taylor got out of the car and walked around a corner to enter the old quarter of the city surrounding Plaza Bolívar. The narrow cobblestone streets likely followed the same grid pattern originally laid out by the Spanish settlers four hundred years prior, though many of the buildings here were of shoddy new construction.
“I could use a Coke,” said Brodie.
They ducked into a hole-in-the-wall joint called Arepa Planet. It was a long, narrow place with purple-painted walls and bright fluorescent lighting. A printed menu hung above the order counter, and the listed prices next to each item were covered with taped-on handwritten scraps of paper indicating the updated prices. Just keeping up with the plummeting value of the bolívar must have been a part-time job. Another handwritten sign hanging next to the menu read: NO HAY CARNE. No meat.
A dim seating area in the back was full of people watching a baseball game on a mounted flat-screen. Brodie remembered hearing that in Venezuela, unlike the rest of Latin America, baseball, not soccer, was the local obsession. The spectators here were mostly older men, and only a few of them seemed to be eating anything. They were here for the game, and maybe the companionship.
Brodie noticed that a number of patrons were watching them, a few with less than friendly looks. The cook behind the counter, a man in his mid-forties with a shaved head and muscular build, was watching the TV while forming fresh arepa patties out of cornmeal. Brodie noticed the counter waitress, a woman in her twenties who could have been in the running for Miss Venezuela. She wore a tight-fitting T-shirt with an “Arepa Planet” logo stretched taut over her considerable assets.
Brodie commented, “It’s a big planet, maybe Jupiter.”
Miss Venezuela said something to them in Spanish. Taylor replied, and they conversed briefly.
Taylor translated, “She wants to know where we’re from, and what we’re doing here. She says tourists don’t come here anymore.”
“Did they ever?”
“How do I know?”
“Tell her we’re stupid Americans. We make bad life choices.”
The woman smiled and nodded as if she understood, and Taylor ordered two Cokes.
Miss Venezuela retrieved a couple of Coke bottles from a fridge behind the counter, cracked them open, and put them on the counter. She told Taylor the price and Taylor took a fat stack of bolívars from her pocket, peeled off about twenty or thirty bills of funny money, and handed them to Miss Venezuela. They took their Cokes and left.
Taylor observed, “That woman was beautiful.”
“I didn’t notice.”
“How could you? You never took your eyes off her tits.”
“My infantry training. Look for the most prominent terrain feature.”
Taylor laughed.
They rounded a corner and entered Plaza Bolívar, a large, leafy square surrounded by colonial-era buildings. Elevated on a high black marble pedestal in the center of the plaza was a large bronze statue of the Great Liberator on horseback. He was decked out in formal military