THE CONVERSATION


                       It was during the rainy season that we were seated in the Spanish style patio, of my adobe dwelling. I had made the  furniture, so we sat around a rustic table, on comfortable, sturdy benches, with a bottle of rum in front of us. There were three of us: a young man getting his MBA, a Menenol Catholic Priest and myself, who had taught them both Spanish at my school. It was a kind of celebration. 
                      A fine rain began to fall, making its own music on the corrugated, tin roof. The college student and myself imbibed, while the priest refrained from the liquor. He was a thin, wiry sort of a fellow, with a scraggly beard. He seemed to like to curl up, rather than sit, and remained eternally restless. The college student was a wholesome American type. He poured the rum, adding Pepsi, while I squeezed the lemons. The priest only drank Pepsi.
                            "We were kicked out of Venezuela for trying to help the poor people, in the rural areas."
                            "What kind of help were you giving?" I inquired, taking a sip of my drink and lighting a cigarette.

                             "Well, we gave them loans so that they could bring in portable water and then electricity."

                             "They must have lived very far out."

                             "They did, and the government almost forgot them."

                             "They didn't forget them, but obviously didn't like your Socialistic methods." the NBA candidate concluded, scoffing the charitable efforts of the Catholic Church.

                               "There was no question about the political or ideological issue here. The people were in need and we were able to help them, but the government didn't like it, so they began by killing the peasants and then finally they killed a priest. That was when the rest of us left."

                              "And Socialism went the way of the ex U.S.S.R."

                              "Paid for by capitalistic bullets."

                              "And sanctioned by the billion dollar racket in Rome, where the Vatican bank is run by the Mafia," the student ranted, as the rain picked up a little and he refreshed our drinks, with a humph and a physical shrug.

                         I felt the edge of their differences as blatant as the opposite axes-es and expected a verbal poniard, to pierce each other's hearts, as a final decision. There was a brittle silence, which was broken only by the rain, before the priest could find the words his mind was seeking:

                              "I don't know the economic status of the Vatican, but I do know that good deeds require money and that the salaries of the priests are minimal."

                               "And therefore your project failed. Now if a private company would have gone into the same countryside, with the measure and means of profit involved; the employees would have been well paid for their efforts and the plan would have been carried out efficiently," the student proclaimed, gulping his drink triumphantly.

                          The rum was definitely making its effect, I noted, as he poured us another drink and the priest took more Pepsi. I felt that they were equally right in  their separate ideologies. It might have been due to the liquor, which always made my thinking more tractable, but I desired to find a measure of acceptance in their lingering confrontation. As such, I ventured to suggest:

                               "But what would happen if the lamb and lion lied down together in peace? I mean here Socialism and Capitalism, metaphorically."

                               "Well, if the lamb doesn't eat the lion then the lion has to eat the lamb. That's nature and capitalism too!" the NBA man exclaimed, with final conviction.

                               "Perhaps that's true, but I still prefer to remain a priest," the other concluded, as the rain stopped and he took his leave for the evening.

                           The student stayed, for one more serious drink. He drained it quickly, as though he had acted too rashly, in his logic. This became apparent, when he stood up to go, and in an unsteady manner remarked:

                                "Maybe I was a little too hard on him," he admitted, while I walked him to the front door, "but I still say capitalism is the best system!" he concluded, walking off into the night.