A Young Man's Guide to Late Capitalism [antikvár]

Article IV Report Friday, November 25, 2005 IT BEGAN WITH a single reedy voice calling out an incomprehensible refrain, some nasally phrase that would repeat all morning. Gabriel opened his eyes. The day's first light glowed pale at the edge of the curtains. He'd requested an eighth-floor room hoping to avoid this. He closed his eyes again, optimistically. Another voice—this one burpy, froggish—joined in,- this phrase was shorter. What could they be selling at that hour? A third voice entered and they were a chorus singing some garbled tune, a puzzle of phrases intoned with the distinctive eagerness of street vendors across the world. Car horns added a percussive layer. A policeman blew a whisde, hoping to introduce order, but all he added was a shrill note. Still, the sound didn't truly find its center until the buses and micros joined in, shoving their way down the narrow roads. Gabriel knew that the noise had reached its peak register then: a din that would blast for sixteen hours. A symphony forever tuning up before its concert—it brayed him awake, brayed him to sleep. It was pure dissonance, but as he lay there he found that the anticipation of future harmony was palpable.