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desperately poor. Our principal goal, at this point, has to be to alleviate the human suffering.”
    â€œBrazil is one of the richest countries in Latin America, by your measure,” Jonathan said.
    â€œThere are persistent problems with inequality.”
    â€œAre you trying to fix that? Are you pushing for fiscal reform? Are you asking for an increase in taxes on the rich?” Jonathan was hitting his stride now.
    â€œThat kind of thing is really a domestic political issue. At best, it is a question for the IMF territory, but I don’t think they would want to insert themselves that deeply into a country’s fiscal policy,” Vincenzo said. The truth was more complicated, but there was no point in trying to explore it with Jonathan Paris. He had finished his cappuccino and was eager to get back to his office to await any fallout from his argument with Hamilton, or maybe there had been a message from Leonora. When he was at his computer, he sometimeshit refresh on his e-mail again and again and again, as if trying to draw up something new that couldn’t be drawn up. “Anyway,” Vincenzo said, aiming to deal out a quick coup de grâce, “I thought your position was that we should interfere less in their governance?”
    Jonathan shook his head and pursed his lips. “Where did you learn how to make a conversation into a game of dodge-ball? God —is there a special school for people like you?”
    â€œYes, there is.” Vincenzo stood up. “I think you went there.”

    When Vincenzo called Wolfowitz’s office the assistant patched him through.
    â€œVincenzo,” Wolfowitz said, “did you talk to the kid from that rainforest group?”
    â€œI did.”
    â€œAnd what was his position? That we shouldn’t favor development over ecology?”
    â€œMore or less.”
    â€œBut we’re the World Bank, not the World Rainforest Preservation Organization.”
    â€œThat’s what I said.”
    â€œGood,” he chirped.
    A pause. Vincenzo looked at his vanilla pudding phone, the butterscotch pudding console. It was awful how little a person had to be concerned, how little a person had to awaken before the whole event—what was now underway—was understood to be useless. As a rule, it was all useless. Every conceivableway of being upset, that was useless, too. Every form of sorrow, confusion, fury—each one a small thing pretending to be something big, each masquerading as another feeling. But life was more astonishing and terrestrial than the great gestures that seemed to be occurring here.
    â€œBy the way,” Vincenzo said, sensing with some certainty now that this mission he’d been sent on had been a cover for something else, something to do with Hamilton. It was too convenient a coincidence. So instead of playing the innocent, he thought he’d put Wolfowitz on the spot with a direct question. “Have you spoken to William Hamilton today?”
    â€œNo. Why do you ask?” That sounded honest and Paul wasn’t going to lie, after all, not like that. And this was not what Vincenzo expected.
    Moreover, Paul’s question was framed with a distinct forward momentum, which demanded a true and clear answer, so Vincenzo made room, saying, “We had breakfast today.” Then he added, “He wanted to talk about Bolivia.” And by now he was starting to wonder if he shouldn’t have just kept his mouth shut.
    â€œBolivia?” Wolfowitz sounded circumspect. “Did he want to know whether we would be cutting aid in response to Morales’s election?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAnd you told him to get lost?”
    â€œThat is exactly what I did.”
    â€œWell done.” Neither of them said anything for a while. Vincenzo was baffled. Was Paul not so friendly with Hamilton, after all, or was he just not going to put that friendship in frontof his duties? Vincenzo, having lost