Free The Legacy by D. W. Buffa Page B

has made you all so fabulously wealthy—what does it mean if not the abolition of all those national boundaries and policies which for Marx were impediments to history, vestiges of the late stages of capitalism? Whether you know it or not, you have all become Marxists.”
    Lowering his eyes, Bogdonovitch ran the tip of his thick middle finger around the circumference of the thin cup in front of him. A shrewd, subtle smile etched itself on the left corner of his mouth.
    “The last stage before communism was not the so-called dictatorship of the proletariat; it was what Marx called the 'withering away of the state,' ”he said, turning his head to take a glimpse of Robert Sanders. “Isn't that what you people really want: no government at all? Isn't that what you people really believe: that economics is the only thing that matters? Isn't that it, Mr. Sanders—politics doesn't matter, government doesn't matter, only the unrestricted access to worldwide markets? Now, Mr. Sanders, consider if you will that by doing this, by turning everything into a question of economics and worldwide markets, by producing through science everything everyone needs, have you not moved closer to the end of history the way Marx meant it: not by the victory of state socialism—which is what the Soviet Union represented—but through the victory of what for lack of a better phrase I'll simply call 'market socialism'?”
    Though Sanders tried to strike a pose of unruffled urbanity, he could scarcely contain the rage that was boiling up within him. “That's very interesting, Mr. Bogdonovitch,”he said in a peremptory tone. “But of course it makes no sense at all. The simple fact is that the Cold War is over and we won it.”
    “Yes,”Bogdonovitch acknowledged, “you're perfectly correct: The Cold War is over.”
    He paused and seemed to consider what he was going to say or if he was going to say anything more at all. He had been speaking in a voice that enveloped the room, speaking with tremendous energy and force; but now, when he began to speak again, his voice was little more than a whisper, and instead of the large gestures he had made with his hands and the lively expression that had taken possession of his features, he shrugged his shoulders with a sort of weary indifference and folded his hands in his lap.
    “But what have you won? For fifty years both sides thought they were engaged in something important. The competition between us imposed a discipline on everything we did, both of us. This of course is just my opinion, but I've lived in both countries, and I believe there is a sense in which both of them—the United States and the Soviet Union—were necessary to each other; that they were in a way mirror images of each other; that the destruction of either one had to lead to the destruction of the other. Yes, Mr. Sanders, the Cold War is over; but while it lasted, all of us were engaged in a struggle to achieve something we thought important—more important than ourselves. What do we have now? I am not being entirely ironic, Mr. Sanders, when I suggest that while we Marxists always denied that the soul existed, you Americans seem not to have noticed when you lost the soul you had.”
    No one knew quite what to say. Albert Craven seized the moment to announce that we were all about to have the privilege of meeting the famous chef who had done us the honor of preparing our dinner. The mood around the table changed immediately. Everyone began to talk at once, gratified they could talk about something they understood, something that was really important. The chef, a young man in his early thirties with a small mustache, a crooked smile, and a name so obviously contrived that you hesitated to think him a fraud, made his appearance and, like a visiting dignitary, took questions from the floor.
    I glanced across at Bogdonovitch. He was smiling to him-self—rather sadly, I thought—while he slowly drank what was left of his coffee. He