A Textbook Case

locals like cheap seeds.
    Hence,
Roberto
.
    “You live in Argentina,” Moreno said to the journalist, who was a slight man, balding and dressed in a tie-less blue shirt and threadbare black suit. “Buenos Aires?”
    “That’s right.”
    “Do you know about the name of the city?”
    De la Rua said no; he wasn’t a native.
    “The meaning is ‘good air,’ of course,” Moreno said. He read extensively—several books a week, much of it Latin American literature and history. “But the air referred to was in
Sardinia
, Italy, not Argentina. So called after a settlement on top of a hill in Cagliari. The settlement was above the, let us say, pungent smells of the old city and was accordingly named
Buen Ayre
. The Spanish explorer who discovered what became Buenos Aires named it after that settlement. Of course that was the
first
settlement of the city. They were wiped out by the natives, who didn’t enjoy the exploitation by Europe.”
    De la Rua said, “Even your anecdotes have a decidedly anti-colonial flavor.”
    Moreno laughed. But the humor vanished and he looked quickly out the window again.
    That damn glint of light. Still, though, he could see nothing but trees and plants in the garden and that hazy line of land a mile away. The inn was on the largely deserted southwest coast of New Providence, the island in the Bahamas where Nassau was located. The grounds were fenced and guarded. And the garden was reserved for this suite alone and protected by a high fence to the north and south, with the beach to the west.
    No one was there. No one could be there.
    A bird, perhaps. A flutter of leaf.
    Simon had checked the grounds not long ago. Moreno glanced at him now, a large, quiet Brazilian, dark-complected, wearing a nice suit—Moreno’s guard dressed better than he did, though not flashy. Simon, in his thirties, looked appropriately dangerous, as one would expect, and want, in this profession but he wasn’t a thug. He’d been an officer in the army, before going civilian as a security expert.
    He was also very good at his job. Simon’s head swiveled; he’d become aware of his boss’s gaze and immediately stepped to the window, looking out.
    “Just a flash of light,” Moreno explained.
    The bodyguard suggested drawing the shades.
    “I think not.”
    Moreno had decided that Eduardo de la Rua, who’d flown here coach class at his own expense from the city of good air, deserved to enjoy the beautiful view. He wouldn’t get to experience much luxury, as a hardworking journalist known for reporting the truth, rather than producing puff pieces for corporate officials and politicians. Moreno also decided to take the man to a very nice meal at the South Cove Inn’s fine restaurant for lunch.
    Simon gazed outside once more, returned to his chair and picked up a magazine.
    De la Rua clicked on the tape recorder. “Now, may I?”
    “Please.” Moreno turned his full attention to the journalist.
    “Mr. Moreno, your Local Empowerment Movement has just opened an office in Argentina, the first in the country. Could you tell me how you conceived the idea? And what your group does?”
    Moreno had given this lecture dozens of times. It varied, based on the particular journalist or audience, but the core was simple: to encourage indigenous people to reject U.S. government and corporate influence by becoming self-sufficient, notably through microlending, microagriculture and microbusiness.
    He now told the reporter, “We resist American corporate development. And the government’s aid and social programs, whose purpose, after all, is simply to addict us to their values. We are not viewed as human beings; we are viewed as a source of cheap labor and a market for American goods. Do you see the vicious cycle? Our people are exploited in American-owned factories and then seduced into buying products from those same companies.”
    The journalist said, “I’ve written much about business investment in Argentina and other South American countries. And I know about your movement, which also makes such investments. One could argue you rail against capitalism yet you embrace it.”
    Moreno brushed his longish hair, black and prematurely gray. “No, I rail against the
misuse
of capitalism—the
American
misuse of capitalism in particular. I am using business as a weapon. Only fools rely on ideology exclusively for change. Ideas are the rudder. Money is the propeller.”
    The reporter smiled. “I will use that as my