The Pickup by Nadine Gordimer Read Free Book Online

of the bright stuff in the vaults—
    â€”Shift over and make room for platinum, wha’d you think—
    â€”No profitable future in mining gold here, anyway—
    â€”all that outcry about robbing the poor of their jobs, killing the industry—the unions, the government must face facts—economics of the past don’t work, unemployment’s not going to be solved by shoring up an industry that’s lost its place in terms of global finance. It’s the end of an old industrial era, not just something on a calendar—
    â€”With an increase in operative efficiencies some mines—
    â€”strikes? Huge labour problems?—
    â€”Look, it was a bad day, sector down twenty-three percent—
    â€”relief buying, block traders—
    â€”I don’t know … pretty broad-based recovery, a dedicated programme of expansion … chromium… —
    â€”software—more hostile take-over bids—
    â€”oh and more unbundling coming, you’ll see—
    â€”You must have at least a whole day for Ellora and Ajanta even though the road, my God, you can’t believe your bones won’t rattle apart.— A counterpoint of voices was exchanging enthusiasm about a holiday in India; as if she had spied a familiar artifact or perhaps out of a well-intentioned move to draw into conversation someone who did not seem to be heard anywhere in the company, a woman wearing individualhandcuffs of silver bangles turned, jangling, to speak to the stranger.
    â€”I long to go again, can’t explain, so
belonging
there, I think I’m some sort of old soul who once had a previous existence… I suppose you were born here, but your ancestors … have you ever been home to India?—
    â€”I’m not Indian.—
    He doesn’t offer an identity. She jerks her head in dismissive apology (if that’s what’s called for) and makes some remark about the delicious food; —I’m on my way for seconds of Danielle’s fish.— The set of her back is the conclusion: some sort of Arab, then.
    â€”but when the Dow and Nasdaq differ significantly—
    â€”a twenty-one percent rise in headline earnings, four billion—
    â€”ah but that’s well below expectations—
    â€”how’d the Minister put it—‘toughing it out against inflation’—I mean three and six percent as a test case at the whim of the global financial system—
    â€”how to hammer into their thick heads … their survival, privatization’s the only answer, when a service must make profit it’s made to work cost-efficiently, and that’s when the public gets what it needs—
    â€”I have a hunch, everyone rushing in, it’s going to boom or bust with IT—
    â€”our company’s been reaping the benefit of rising exports in base metals and chemicals, pretty satisfying—
    â€”look, nothing—zero—
nada
will happen unless the Reserve Bank—
    The other black man among the guests was sitting forward in his chair, palms on knees. —Ah-heh… I don’t dispute diversification, no no not at all. But our real problem is that there is not enough venture capital. Not enough in equities.—
    â€”no question, global buffeting has queered our pitch for growth in many ways, currency down-down, oil prices up-up—
    â€”turnover more than thirteen billion, futures dominating—
    The enthusiastic interruption by the guest returned from India has deflected Julie’s companion’s attention only momentarily; his reply a polite aside. She watches how he listens to this intimate language of money alertly and intently—as he never listens at the EL-AY Café; always absent, elsewhere, entering whatever discussion only now and then, when confronted. She is overcome by embarrassment—what is he thinking, of these people—she is responsible for whatever that may be. She’s responsible