Treasure of the World

by Tara Sullivan

  “So,” says Victor casually, “as much as I love your visits, you really need to stop staying over. Some of the other guys . . . they’re not so nice. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

  “Okay,” I agree, because I’d realized that myself. “If I come to visit you again, I’ll make sure to leave enough time to get home before dark.”

  “Good.”

  “So”—I mimic his tone—“are you still drinking?”

  Victor is quiet for a moment, but beside me his shoulders have gone as rigid as the mountain, so I know he heard me.

  “Who told you?” he asks finally.

  “No one,” I say honestly.

  Victor doesn’t press.

  “I’m not judging you,” I say softly, “but my papi was a drunk and it didn’t help him—or us—ever. Does drinking make anything better for you?”

  Victor sits up and scrubs his hand over his face.

  “Not for very long,” he admits with a wry smile.

  I’m about to press him for more, but just then, I hear the metallic clank of a key and the rattle of the shop opening. I slip under the wrought-iron grille as it lifts and I’m showing the bottle to the pharmacist before he even has a chance to polish his glasses.

  He pulls out a bottle identical to my empty one from a shelf behind the counter. But he won’t hand it to me until I’ve paid. It makes me angry, but I suppose I look pretty rough and dirty right now, so I try not to judge him too harshly. I put the fifty-boliviano bill on the counter.

  “You’re short fifty-two bolivianos, eighty centavos,” he says in a bored voice.

  I gape at him. Panic twists my insides. Not once did it occur to me that I wouldn’t have enough to pay for the medicine. I reach into my manta, as though willing more money to appear out of thin air. My fingers brush against Yenni’s coin purse.

  I pause. I can’t. I can’t spend Yenni’s money. And yet . . . César needs this medicine.

  She’ll never miss it, says a voice in my head. But the voice hisses like the air tubes choking the entrance to the mine, and I know it’s the voice of the devil.

  “Well?” says the man, yawning.

  I’m not stealing, I tell myself. I’m borrowing. I’ll pay her back right away. The devil inside me only laughs.

  Slowly, not believing I’m doing it, I pull the coin purse out and empty it onto the counter. The man’s fingers flick over my friend’s money, tallying my sin. I feel like Judas from the Bible, betraying a friend for a handful of coins.

  Victor joins me at the counter. “What’s wrong?” he asks, seeing my face.

  “You’re still short,” the man says. He’s getting annoyed now.

  “How much?” asks Victor.

  “Four sixty-five.”

  “I’ve got you,” says Victor, and he puts a five-boliviano coin on the counter. I couldn’t feel worse. Not only have I borrowed money from Yenni without asking, but now I’m taking money from Victor too. Knowing that he literally bled for that money makes my stomach churn. But César needs the medicine, and my whole family needs César. I nod at the man.

  As the man hands Victor thirty-five centavos and puts the bottle on the counter, I wonder what I would have done if Victor hadn’t been here. Would I have stolen the medicine? The bitter irony of how poor we are when the mayor says we live on a mountain that was practically made of money burns inside me.

  Clutching the bottle like it’s made of silver itself, I walk out of the store.

  “Thank you,” I say to Victor once we’re outside.

  “Anytime,” he says breezily.

  I snort.

  “Yes. Anytime I’m in desperate need of super-expensive medication to keep my stepfather breathing, I should shake you down for your blood money to make up the difference of what I can’t pay.”

  Victor breaks into a lopsided grin.

  “Exactly,” he says. “Catch you later, Ana.” And with that, he turns and starts to walk off in the direction of his hovel.

  “Victor!” I call after him.

  He turns, looking wary.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry for nagging you earlier,” I say. “I just hate to see you hurting yourself.”

  Victor sighs.

  “Yeah,” he says softly. “But sometimes life feels like such a trap, you know? Like there’s no way out. I don’t like getting beat up. I just don’t know what else to do. I’m no good at anything other than mining, and I won’t do that. I’m not going to beg either. At least when I drink, I forget about all that for a bit.”

  “You don’t have to beg,” I say, thinking furiously, trying to come up with an answer that makes sense. Surely there’s something else he could do—I get that he can’t go back to school when he has to cover his own rent and food, but there must be some skill from when he was a miner that he could use now to get a job. “You’re strong, you know how to use dynamite and tools. You could do construction!”

  Victor is shaking his head.

  “You don’t use dynamite to build a house, silly.”

  “You do in demolition,” I counter. “Like when you build a road.”

  “I don’t think they let kids play with dynamite outside the mine. Besides”—he looks away—“I don’t want to work with dynamite anymore. I know you say it’s not my fault, but I just . . . I just don’t want to, okay?”

  I get it. I was terrified of working with dynamite in the mines, and that’s not even counting the guilt I know he still carries from the accident he believes he caused. I can understand why he would never want to touch dynamite or mining gear again. It would remind him of that terrible day every single time he used it.

  “Okay.” Then I remember a different day from our time in the mines and the conversation I overheard last night. “What about Joaquín?” I blurt out.

  Victor raises an eyebrow in my direction. “What about him?”

  “He said last night he was training to be a mechanic.”

  “I knew you weren’t asleep,” Victor teases.

  “Okay, okay, I was faking,” I agree. “But seriously, he’s a nice guy, right? If he knows about how to fix cars, maybe he could show you how? Introduce you to his teacher?”

  “I don’t know anything about cars!”

  I can tell he’s laughing this off, but I have to make him see.

  “So what? You love to learn about machines! Remember that air compressor you fixed with César?” Victor blinks at me. I race on. “You were so interested in learning how that dumb thing worked. You got it working again with him, and later you told me how good it felt to actually fix something. Imagine if you could do that with your whole life?”

  Victor stares at me a moment, considering. He doesn’t say anything, but he’s not laughing me off anymore either.

  “It’s got to be better than getting beat up every day,” I add. “Think about it, at least?”

  “Yeah,” he says slowly. “I guess it would be. I’ll think about it.” Then his face clears and his usual smile pops back into place. “Now get home and put my ‘blood money’ to good use.” And with a wave over his shoulder, he turns the corner and is gone.

  “Bye, Victor,” I say softly to the empty street.

  Clutching the precious bottle of medicine to my chest, I head toward the tall stone arch that leads out of the city.

  I don’t go anywhere near the posada. I couldn’t eat Carmencita’s sweet bread even if they gave me a whole loaf of it. I stumble up the rocky incline, head bent against the wind, a wreck inside. I feel horrible having taken Yenni’s money.

  César, I remind myself. It’s for César. Your family needs you right now.

  But even though I’m nowhere near the mines, I feel like I’ve finally let the devil inside. It makes me feel dirty and bad. The cathedral’s bells clang hollowly behind me, a taunting reminder from G
od.

  I have to find a way to repay Yenni.

  19

  The look on Mami’s face when I walk in the door and hand her the bottle of cough medicine is a beautiful thing, no matter the cost it took to put it there. She rushes at once to give some to César.

  Since it’s a Saturday, Belén and Abuelita are out at the slag heap, so for a moment I’m alone in the main room. I sink onto the bucket seat and take a moment to savor how good it feels to be warm and off my feet. Through the closed bedroom door I can hear the rustle of Mami tending to César, and I sit there with my eyes closed, letting my body relax, listening to their quiet murmur.

  Ten minutes later, Mami comes out.

  “Would you like some soup?” she asks.

  “Yes, please,” I say. Other than the loaf of bread I shared with Victor last night, I haven’t eaten anything since yesterday’s popcorn. The last time I had a hot meal was the night before that.

  Mami gets down a bowl and serves me from a pot that she had wrapped in a blanket on the counter to keep it warm. Gratefully, I take it from her and sip it, breathing in the savory steam and breathing out my frustrations. Too quickly it’s gone, but I know not to ask for more. Even in César’s house, money doesn’t stretch to second helpings.

  “Thank you,” I say, putting the bowl down.

  “Thank you,” Mami says. “Maybe with the medicine he’ll be able to get some sleep. Did you have any trouble getting it? How was your night at the posada?”

  Briefly, I consider telling her that I didn’t spend the night at the posada and that there wasn’t enough money to cover the cost of the medicine. But I don’t know how I’d answer her questions about Victor, and I’m ashamed I took Yenni’s money. I’m too tired right now to get into the conversations those facts will lead to.

  “My night wasn’t so bad,” I say, dodging the question. “The biggest problem was that I had to wait the extra day for the pharmacy to be open. I was worried about César the whole time.”

  Mami nods slowly, her face drawn with concern.

  After a pause, I ask, “Mami . . . is he very sick?”

  “I just don’t know,” she says quietly. “I’m not a doctor, but I’ve spent a lot of time listening to coughs with your brother. I don’t like the sound of this one. He needs to rest, but I don’t know if he can take the time off work . . .” Her voice trails off.

  The mention of work gets me thinking.

  “Do you want me to sit with him so you can work, or do you want me to take your place as a palliri today?” I don’t really want to spend my day in a sickroom, but I give her the choice because she’s been locked up with him for a whole day already.

  “Actually,” Mami says, shaking off her mood, “I need you to go find Don Carmelo, the head of the mining cooperative, and tell him that César’s sick and won’t be able to work for a few days. They’ll need to assign someone else to cover his shift.”

  My legs ache when I stand, but all I say is, “Okay,” and I head out the door.

  * * *

  I haven’t been near El Rosario since I snuck in and got trapped, and I’m in no hurry to go there now. Since it’s a Saturday, I decide to check Don Carmelo’s house first to see if he’s home before I go looking for him at the mine.

  When I knock on the door, he answers.

  “What do you want?” he barks.

  Don Carmelo is a thin, wiry man not much taller than me. I’ve never liked him. Once, when Daniel and I were about nine, we came around a corner of the Cerro quickly and surprised a condor that was eating something dead in the rocks. Before it took to the skies, flapping its enormous wings, each one bigger than we were, it looked at us. And even though I knew I had nothing to fear from the bird, it creeped me out. For weeks afterward I saw those eyes whenever I slept. Don Carmelo has those same eyes. I wonder to myself, briefly, if they’ll be in my dreams tonight.

  “Don Carmelo,” I say politely, staring at his shoulder so I can avoid his condor eyes, “I came to tell you that my stepfather, César Jansasoy Herrera, is sick. My mother asked me to tell you so that you could make sure his shift is covered. Six to six, at El Rosario,” I add, trying to be helpful.

  “I know what shift he works,” Don Carmelo snaps.

  I close my mouth.

  “How long will he be gone?”

  “A few days, maybe. Not long.” I pray I’m right. César’s cough does not sound like it will be gone in a few days, but I don’t want to get him in trouble.

  Don Carmelo humphs. “And I suppose this means that he would like an extension on his loan as well?” he growls.

  “His loan . . . ?” I’m lost.

  “Yes,” he grumbles. “The idiot took a giant advance on his wages to pay off the medical debts for that new cripple stepkid of his.” His gaze sharpens on me. “I guess that would be your brother, then. Well, I hope he’s worth it.”

  My mouth has gone completely dry. I had no idea César had gone into debt to help Daniel. That would explain why there was so little money in the jar and why we don’t have soup for breakfast anymore.

  “Yes,” I manage. “He would also like an extension on the loan.”

  “Very well,” he says brusquely. Clearly he thinks we’re done.

  My head swims. We don’t have more money at the house—I know because I took it to pay for the medicine. We still need to eat while César gets better. Plus, I need forty-eight bolivianos and fifteen centavos to give to Yenni. And now, apparently, we’re also in debt to this carrion-eater. If we default on a loan to the cooperative, César could lose his house. Our house.

  Don Carmelo is turning away, closing the door, when I speak up.

  “Don Carmelo!”

  He pauses, his predator eyes considering me from the shadows of his house.

  “What?”

  “Is there”—I have to swallow a few times to work up the nerve—“is there any work I could do for the cooperative?” My mind flashes back to that day, all those mornings ago, when I stood with Papi in front of César and asked a similar question. “I know I can’t work in the mine,” I rush to add, not wanting to think about what it would be like to head into that hellhole when everyone blames me for the collapse and César’s not there to protect me, “but is there anything I can do around it? For it?”

  Don Carmelo stares at me for a beat. He sucks on his teeth like he’s tasted something sour. “Yes,” he says, “I suppose there is something you could do for the cooperative.”

  I wait while he considers.

  Don Carmelo gives me an oily smile. “There is an opening for a guarda.”

  I blink at him.

  Of course they have an opening for a guarda and of course they still need one. I snuck into the mine just fine three weeks ago. Who knows who else has managed to sneak in? I shudder thinking of the mystery men. Yes, the mine needs a guard. But to actually be the one doing the work . . . ? Cold washes over me as I remember Mariángela. Being a guarda is a scary job, and you don’t get paid much to do it. But . . . if I can add to what Mami and Abuelita already make picking rock . . . maybe it will be enough to buy César the time he needs to get better. It will certainly give me enough that I can pay Yenni back. I can figure out a way to manage the danger. It’s not great, but it’s the best option I have right now.

  I sigh. No good choices.

  “I’ll take it,” I say, pulling the words out of myself like the dentist pulls rotten molars.

  As I try not to think too hard about what I’m signing myself up for, we agree on the details. I’m expected at the mouth of the mine tonight at sunset. I’ll make thirty-five bolivianos for every night of fear and loneliness I put in. It’s not much. But, I remind myself, it’s something. And it’s guaranteed. Even the men who work in the mining cooperative aren’t guaranteed their pay. They only get paid a portion of what they can bring out. If they don’t manag
e to bring out much, like on the day of the disaster when Papi was killed, or if what they bring out is mostly poor-quality rock, low in the ores that the manufacturing plants want, then they don’t get paid much. If they’re sick, or hurt, or don’t work for whatever reason, they don’t get paid at all.

  It’s something. And something is more than nothing.

  “Well then,” says Don Carmelo, “I guess I’ll see you tonight.”

  “I’ll be there,” I hear myself saying. “Thank you, Don Carmelo.”

  * * *

  After leaving the condor’s house, I walk until I get to the slag heap where Mami and Abuelita are working with half a dozen other women. Belén’s not with them. She must have run off to play with friends. I think wistfully to the days when I was young enough that I could run away from work. I am not that young anymore. I tuck my shaking hands behind my back so the women won’t see my fear.

  “Ana!” Abuelita calls. “It’s good to see you. Mónica told us the whole story of how you waited overnight to make sure you got the medicine. Good job.”

  I smile at her, wondering what that story will be embroidered into by the end of the day.

  “Come,” Mami says, indicating a boulder near her for me to sit and work with them. “Belén’s at home in case César needs anything. You can sit here and work with us.”

  I feel a twinge of sadness that I was wrong about Belén still being allowed to play. It makes me feel even less like listening to Doña Elena complain about her aching hip and Doña Marisol talk about her daughter’s upcoming wedding. But I fold onto my knees at the edge of the group and start breaking rocks anyway because I’m not quite sure how to say what I need to.

  It turns out the women are in the middle of a fairly intense conversation. It seems rude to interrupt them with my news, so I sit quietly and wait for an opening.

  “. . . I still say the government should nationalize the mines again,” Doña Marisol is saying. “This switch to little cooperatives leaves us all vulnerable.”