Read The Merchants of Zion for Free Online Page B

excerpts from an article written by Robespierre, the pseudonymous demagogue, while I cooked dinner. Storebrand spaghetti and Storebrand canned tomato sauce. Fancy.
    “I have a subscription.”
    “To make it easier for Honest Abe to track you?”
    “They don't care if you just read it.”
    “You know you're on a list somewhere, right?”
    “Definitely. But not for this.” He flashed his shit-eating grin.
    I dropped the subject, and a moment later he pestered me about my “wealthy benefactors,” as he called the Felkins. When was I going to introduce him to them? Invite them over for dinner, maybe. His treat. I hadn't mentioned James to Helen beyond the night of his arrival, and my rare interactions with Robert consisted of his brusque relaying of Helen's wishes. I wasn't going to let him sell his magic beans to the Felkins, and informed him of this in no uncertain terms. He pouted and went back to reading about America's imminent dissolution.
    I shouldn't exaggerate; in reality he was little more than an annoyance. Despite being too broke to pay rent, he scrounged enough money to go out almost every night. When pressed about it he made vague claims about “knowing people,” or a hitherto unseen ability to score free drinks from the ladies. Usually he returned late, very late, somewhere between my witching hour bedtime and Dimitri's ritual, aubadic calisthenics. Some days I wouldn't see him until after I returned from tutoring. He said he was spending the night in one girl or another's bed to keep his presence from becoming an undue burden.
    My instinct was to treat every word out of his mouth as a lie unless I'd seen it happen with my own eyes, but I'd seen James troll enough clubs and bars to give him the benefit of the doubt. He'd start with the hottest girl in sight, then work his way down the hierarchy of attraction until he found a receptive audience. James bragged his game was unmatched, but it was unmatched in the same manner as a dumpster diver's access to free food.
    Dimitri and I floated additional possibilities, some plausible, others more far-fetched. He thought James was in the closet, and spent his nights indulging in activities he'd deny to the grave. His hyper-masculine posturing and claims of relentless skirt-chasing were nothing more than aggressive overcompensation.
    I formulated two scenarios, each equally likely: James had a girlfriend who didn't know the reality of his situation, or he was pursuing some cloak and dagger money-making scheme. Dimitri pointed out that if he were making money—if there was the potential of him making so much as a single dollar—he couldn't help but brag. Maybe not explicitly, but he'd allude to jobs and projects on the horizon. The moment a business opportunity presented itself, however slim, James would be screaming from the rooftops how no one hustled like him and that Dimitri and I were nothing more than losers without ambition.
    Whatever the truth of the matter, the world revolved despite his mysterious double life. I continued tutoring Elly and not writing. Dimitri continued his research as he began looking for other sources of funding.
     
    * * *
     
    Any admonitions from the Expert about my habitual tardiness filtered to Helen and no further—from her I never received anything but effusive praise. She thought I was the greatest tutor since Aristotle. As the tutor, however, I knew better. Though Elly excelled at and enjoyed the tablet's science and math lessons, she dreaded reading and writing. About a week after James moved in she threw her first full-fledged temper tantrum, a situation with which I had no experience. She locked herself in her room and screamed and cried until I promised to cut the lesson short. When she repeated the behavior the following day, I came to understand the curriculum as more of a set of guidelines rather than the word of God. Theory—and software—after all, have to compromise with the gritty texture of reality, and what is