Brief Encounters With Che Guevara_ Stories - Ben Fountain [41]
“That a fact,” said Sonny, who was pretty sure he was being put on.
“It only makes sense,” McClure continued, “golf’s the ultimate bourgeois sport. And what do the bourgeoisie want? They want peace. They want order. They want security. They want a social structure that’s good for business so they can do what they do best, making tons of dough. That’s the civilizing effect of your bourgeois middle class, and without it democracy’s basically D.O.A. in Myanmar.”
Sonny accepted his beer and took a long drink, grateful for the chance to look away from McClure; with his tense, arcane patter and serial-killer stares, he came across as a marginally presentable member of the Manson family. On Sonny’s other side Hayden was negotiating a deal, some sort of exotic oil swap out of Kazakhstan.
“Think about it,” McClure was saying, “business is all about relationships and trust, am I right? That’s why anywhere you go, if you’re looking to hook into the deals and big money, the first thing you do is head for the course. Take this guy, for instance”—he nodded at Hayden—“the deals he’s done the last few years, I bet he’s added a couple of points to the GNP just by himself. But he wouldn’t have gotten anywhere without golf. That’s how he met the generals, how he got their trust. Now he’s the go-to guy in Myanmar—anybody looking to do an oil deal here, Merrill’s the man who can make it happen.”
To Sonny’s relief Hayden clicked off and stowed his phone. “Sorry,” he said, reaching for his drink.
“I was just telling Sonny how vital golf is to Myanmar’s future,” said McClure. “How he’s positioned to make a real contribution here.”
Hayden was nodding. “That’s true, Sonny has certainly helped to facilitate some things for me. Which reminds me, Sonny, I’ve been meaning to get you in the loop on this. We’ve got an investor group that’s putting together their plan for a golf resort down on the peninsula, and we’d like the benefit of your expertise. Tour the site, look over the architect’s plans, that sort of thing. I think your name recognition in the golfing world would give the project a real credibility boost.”
Sonny almost laughed—name recognition, right, with various bill collectors? “I’m not sure how much I can do for you, but I’d be glad to help.”
“Super, that’s just great. Does seventy-five thousand sound fair? For your fee, I mean.”
Sonny tried to stay cool. “Sure, that’s fair. More than fair.”
McClure sat back, grinning, spreading his arms wide. “This is outstanding,” he declared, “I’m just so proud of you guys. This is exactly the kind of investment Myanmar needs.”
Hayden gave him a bland look. “You’re more than welcome to go in with us, Kel. We’re still accepting investors.”
McClure laughed; he started backpedaling with his hands. “Unh-unh, you guys are way outta my league. I’m just a poor boy, remember? Just an honest public servant trying to do his job.”
Sonny couldn’t sleep. At night the bungalow closed around him like a coffin, a recurring personal drama that was greatly enhanced by the power grid’s collapse every evening at ten. No lights, no air conditioning, no civilization of any kind; Sonny lay there grazing the coffin lid with every breath and listening to the wildlife beyond his walls, the jet-turbine roar of frogs in heat, the fricative screech of insect group sex. Together with the slurry flow of thoughts in his head it all merged into a riot of nightly delirium, and yet there were times when he could leave his body and float above it, like a dream where he watched himself from outside—from this perspective life seemed more surreal than ever. Burma, he’d whisper, trying to make it real, Burma, Burma,