Open Pit

by Marguerite Pigeon

  There’s a long pause before André returns the text. SHE EVER GOING TO SELL THAT PLACE?

  Aida frowns. NOT SURE. Her mother will never sell. But Aida knows André isn’t curious about the house. It’s Danielle he’s talking about. He doesn’t try very hard to hide his dislike of her, which hurts a little, even if Aida understands. The less they discuss her mother, the better. Aida does enjoy a fiddlehead. FORGET THE PLANT FD. I ’LL DO IT.

  NO. IT’S FINE. I WILL, MON ANGE.

  Aida smiles again. She’s his angel. It’s not André’s fault he’s huffy. He’s French, from a rich-ish family in Paris. They loved Aida when they visited Toronto, let her know how much they’re looking forward to getting to know her. If only Danielle had been so pleasant the first time she met André. Or ever been that way with Aida, for that matter.

  But. Watering plants is a painless task requiring two visits to this relic, tops.

  Aida goes to check out the fern in the dining room. On the way, she passes a pile of papers, stops to look. It’s a stack of envelopes held together by a thick elastic band, another sticky on top. Please read these in the spirit of forgiveness, which is what I hope for. We can discuss when I get back. Over a glass of wine? — Danielle Aida tugs off the elastic. Each envelope is addressed to Danielle’s old friend Neela Hill, but at a street address Aida doesn’t recognize. She takes the top envelope and pulls out a single sheet, unfolds it. The paper is gritty and thin, nearly see-through, the handwriting rough, like Danielle was in a hurry. It’s dated January 20, 1980.

  Dear Neela,

  This is first moment I’ve had to myself since we arrived. I’m writing you so you don’t think I got lost, never to be seen again. I’ll figure out later how the hell to send it. The trip here was weird and exhausting. We sort of went in circles. Turns out they have to switch up the routes they take, bringing journalists across. But no one explained that until later.

  So here I am in guerrilla territory! This morning they handed me a Styrofoam plate of tortillas and beans and a tin mug with coffee so sweet my fillings nearly fell out. A woman our age (I think), very serious, shook my hand and said, “Compa.” (Everyone calls everyone that.)“We are proud to have you witness our struggle.” Not a bad start.

  From what I can see Morazán is nothing like the places where I lived with my parents (Dad studies coastal soils, as in beaches).

  Aida freezes at the mention of her grandparents. Is she prepared for more about them? About a young Danielle? Excavating her mother’s “authentic self” isn’t what she’s had in mind. She glances back at the letter, but now the old wall phone rings in the kitchen. She gets up to answer, then changes her mind. No one knows she’s here except André and Danielle, and they usually text — Danielle begrudgingly. Aida doesn’t need any hassles about her mother’s unpaid bills. She reopens the letter. We’re inland, so the mountains are dry and dramatic. You’d like the pine trees — and the views.

  So far, the faction seems. . . informal? Not sure what else to call it. The guerrillas don’t even have uniforms, so it’s hard to tell who’s who. A lot of teenagers are sitting around with guns like they’re waiting for orders. My primary contact at Command is supposed to be here tomorrow. He’ll decide where they’re sending me first.

  I feel like I’ve made the right decision, Neela. I feel brave.

  DB

  Brave? Danielle? Aida tries to let the oxymoron sink in. The stack of letters is suddenly unstable terrain, threatening an avalanche of revelations. All she wanted to do was feed the plants and go home to André.

  Her ringtone startles her. Unknown caller. “Hello?”

  “Aida?”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Neela. Hill. Have they called?”

  “Neela?”

  “Foreign Affairs. . .”

  “What? About these letters?”

  “Oh. Those letters. I forgot. No, Sweetie. It’s your mother.”

  6:00 PM (Central Time). Foothills, northeast of Los Pampanos

  How long? How long can this fifty-year-old body walk? Danielle is not fit. She has a bunion, two so-so knees. All afternoon she’s trudged, watching her shadow lengthen, eventually stretching all the way to Martin, ahead of her. Now the sun has gone behind a hill to her left, the evening air is cooling, and still no sign of a destination. Not a word from anyone — besides Pierre. He said, “Sacré!” when he tripped over a tree root and went down. The shorter masked man turned from where he’s been all along, in the lead, and flicked him on the head with the back of his hand. Pierre was instantly on his feet, stiff with rage but walking.

  As far as Danielle can tell, he hasn’t made another misstep since. Pierre exudes determination, his wiry arms confidently pushing back branches. But determined to what, Danielle wonders? Has he considered that what happens next could be worse? Danielle’s only clue to her future is Ramón, who looked extremely compliant when the short man shoved a paper into his hand and ordered him back to San Salvador. Ramón and that paper say these men aren’t about to execute anyone. Not yet. They want something. Aren’t the others bothered, not knowing what it is? Tina is fast on Pierre’s heels, Antoine next. Only Martin looks as unsteady as Danielle feels. He’s not good at anticipating oncoming twigs. Every so often he ducks awkwardly to avoid gouging out his eyes. But Danielle lags far behind even him, rejecting this madness with every step. The taller masked man is only further back there to avoid losing her altogether.

  Now something strange. A faint rumbling. The ground shaking. Danielle puts her palms out to the sides, feels like she’s hula-hooping as the earth shifts left, then right. Everyone stops, steadying themselves. Danielle thinks her luck cannot be this bad. There can’t also be an earthquake today.

  “Tell them it will pass,” the short man calls out, completely calm. He moves a few steps to one side and makes eye contact with Danielle. “Tell them.”

  Danielle realizes he wants her to translate. She doesn’t relish the responsibility, but no one else in the group has Spanish, and they look bewildered as motion continues under their boots. She repeats the man’s words in English. Ten seconds later, the rumbling stops. Martin looks at her like, what the hell was that? Danielle can’t begin to imagine.

  The short one approaches, glaring around, apparently unhappy that the quake has interrupted his uphill marathon. “Give them water,” he growls at his tall accomplice, who immediately removes the pack he’s been carrying, unzipping its main compartment. He pulls out a cowboy hat and places it over his dark mask, which makes him look like a dummy in a hat store window. Then he lifts out a large canteen, handing it to Danielle without making eye contact. She sips eagerly, ignoring him as he hovers, waiting to grab it back.

  “And you can piss over there,” the shorter one adds, pointing behind a large tree.

  Danielle says this in English and Tina beelines for the spot, Antoine right behind her. Danielle crosses her arms. She has no urge to piss on the ground like a dog, no desire at all except to get wherever they’re going. The only place she can envision is the guerrilla camp she stayed in longest in 1980, which had a cook tent, bunkers, latrines.

  By the time the short one tells them to get back in line, the last light of day is disappearing. Danielle changes her mind. The ground looks inviting. She’s prepared to go K 9, put her pack down and call it home, paw the bruise on her scalp where her hair was pulled. But the tall one reaches into his loot bag once more and pulls out a handful of battery-powered lights, each no bigger than a quarter. He attaches them near the bottom of every pack and gets the grouPMoving, single file. The one on Martin’s bag give off a dim, pulsing green flicker every other second. Danielle moves forward, following what rapidly becomes her sole sign of life.

  7:20 PM. Hotel El Rosario, San Salvador

  Mitch Wall tells his new favourite joke, pausing before killing the punchline. “So the Quebecker yells back, ‘Toilette pepper! Toilette pepper!’ ”

  For a moment it doesn’t look like anyone besides the
Danish call centre owner gets it. Then Carlos chuckles behind a slanted index finger and the rest, mostly locals, join in. Mitch laughs too. His wife subscribed him to some online outfit that sends one Canadian-themed joke a week to his inbox. This was the best so far.

  A woman in a black vest and crisp white shirt comes around with a tray of mini quiches. Mitch takes two onto a napkin while Carlos heads to the bar, returning with Scotch glasses.

  “Salud,” says Mitch, taking one, then tells the Dane about the expansion at El Pico — more, probably, than the guy wants to hear. El Salvador is drowning in call centres and he’s late to the party. Mitch is not normally a gloater, but he can’t help going into detail about NorthOre’s forecasted earnings.

  Afterwards Carlos suggests they take a walk, and he and Mitch cross through French doors and wander towards the pool area where more guests are mingling, their clothes reflecting ripples of light from fixtures under the water’s surface. A band whose female lead is stuffed into a tube dress plays a slow, romantic song in Spanish. The air is humid, flowery.

  “You think those guys even knew where Canada is?” says Mitch to Carlos, shaking his head.

  “Do most of your friends outside your industry know where El Salvador is? Anywhere in Latin America — besides Cancún? Or Veradero?”

  Mitch grins. If his friends could see him now. Everyone knows he considers lefties to be one illogical opinion away from certifiable. But here he is, taking jibes from Carlos Reyes, a well-known former guerrilla strategist. “So listen, I’d really like to get you up to the site. Definitely before the launch.”

  “Of course. I’d have come sooner, but —”

  “You’re busy.” Mitch nudges him. “Hey, Rome wasn’t built in a day. Neither is a political career, right?”

  “I will make time next week, Mitch.”

  “Machine’s fueled and ready when you are.” Mitch’s BlackBerry vibrates. He pulls it from his jacket. “Hunh. Security. Hold on,” he says, stepping away, a finger to his ear to listen over the band. “Everything alright, Manuel?”

  “I am pulling into the hotel, Señor Wall. Please. Come to the entrance.”

  “Here? Why, what’s going on?” Mitch looks back at Carlos, who’s swirling his Scotch, deep in thought. The band has just put down their instruments for a break. Mitch sees the singer go out of her way to make eye contact with Carlos as she walks inside. He’s a dapper man. Great suit.

  “Please, Jefe. I will explain.”

  Twenty minutes later Carlos and Mitch sit across from one another in a tranquil, moody corner of the hotel’s lobby, the drooping frond of a potted palm extending overhead. Manuel Sobero, Mitch’s chief of security, is on his phone nearby, busy doubling his manpower at the mine.

  “What can be taking them so long?” says Mitch, rechecking the screen of his handheld device for the email he’s been expecting from the Canadian embassy.

  “Probably they’re verifying that it isn’t a hoax,” says Carlos. “Let me make my own calls, see what I can find out. We do not always have — receive — the best information through official channels.”

  Carlos is being extra-precise with his English. Mitch wants to tell him not to bother. He does better than ninety-nine percent of the Salvadorans Mitch deals with. And he’s offering concrete help.

  So far, the embassy has only doled out crumbs, saying some kid dropped a ransom note on their doorstep today from a man claiming that he’s got five Canadian hostages and that he wants something from NorthOre. The embassy wouldn’t say what. They were supposed to forward the note ten minutes ago.

  Sobero approaches. “Someone will drive your car back to the apartment, Jefe. I’ve posted men there. You can ride with me.” Sobero eyes Carlos, who’s getting up to make his calls, then adds, “I cannot secure this location. We should go.”

  Mitch has the feeling Sobero doesn’t like Carlos Reyes. The optics must be strange to a former military man like Manuel, Mitch chumming around with a man who was so firmly on the other side of El Salvador’s civil war. It’s strange for Mitch too. But he knows Carlos has undergone a complete transformation since the old days. He travels in powerful circles now. He’s a leftie with a twist — and contacts.

  “Thanks, Manuel. But I think I’ll stick around while Carlos does his research.” Mitch has worked too hard for anything to go wrong so close to the El Pico launch.

  Carlos sits back down. “Mitch, let me tell you what I —” he stops, turning slightly.

  Mitch understands. He nods towards Sobero, who obliges, withdrawing, giving them privacy. “Manuel is good at what he does, you know.”

  Carlos ignores the remark. “You need rest, Mitch. We can speak tomorrow.”

  “Rest? I can’t go to bed. No offense, but your country’s not exactly highly organized. Dealing with a kidnapping at home would be bad enough. On your turf, I’m screwed. How do I make this go away?”

  Mitch’s BlackBerry buzzes before Carlos can answer. “Fuck, finally,” says Mitch, pulling up the embassy’s email and forwarding it to Carlos and Sobero. All three are silent as they read the attached, scanned ransom note. Struggling through the Spanish, Mitch finishes last.

  To the Ambassador,

  Today I have detained five tourists from your country. They are unharmed. In exchange for their freedom, I demand the following:

  1. NorthOre must cease operations at its Mil Sueños mine, including all blasting on the mountain called El Pico.

  2. The Argentinean team led by Alejandro Reverte must be brought to the mine to exhume the remains of my family, who were murdered on El Pico before NorthOre took control of the land.

  3. The remains must be given a Christian burial.

  The first demand must be met no later than Monday, April 11. I will then send instructions for where to search for the remains and I will release one detainee. If the demands are not met, we will execute one of the foreigners and we will continue to take another life every day.

  My family has been on El Pico in silence, without justice, for too long. I will not let their memory be destroyed along with the mountain.

  A humble Salvadoran peasant

  Mitch is at a loss. A shutdown. This close to the launch date. The very thought of it makes his stomach churn. He turns to Carlos, desperate for his take.

  Carlos has a hand to his chin, running it back and forth, as he often does before speaking. In the six months Mitch has known him, he has never once seen Carlos rush. Eventually, leaning forward, Carlos puts both palms on the low coffee table between them and looks Mitch in the eye. “A hostage situation involving foreigners and your mine will be a big story here, in the press. You must appear relaxed and calm. Like this has nothing to do with you.”

  “But it doesn’t!”

  “Exactly.” Carlos pauses again. “Why don’t I come to the mine sooner — tomorrow, even? I’ll keePMaking calls to my people close to the police. By then, I’ll have more for you. We can discuss in person, prepare a strong response for the newspapers and TV.”

  Mitch smiles, regaining his balance slightly. “Probably this guy’s bluffing, right?”

  “He — or they — may be bluffing,” says Carlos, sounding doubtful. “It’s too soon to say.”

  Sobero is standing by patiently. Nothing has registered on his face since reading the note, and it’s clear he’s not about to share his thoughts with Carlos around. “For your safety, Jefe. We should leave.”

  Carlos nods, encouraging Mitch to listen.

  Mitch gets up, thanking his stars that he knows both these Salvadoran insiders. That’s his edge and he’s got to use it. Because one thing is certain: El Pico will launch on schedule in two weeks’ time. “Forget about the apartment,” he says. “Send someone to pick up some clothes, Manuel. I’m going to my mine. Tonight.”

  February 19, 1980

  Dear Neela,

  A few things, if you ever get it in your head to cover a revolution in Central America:

  1. food sucks

 
2. fleas

  3. tampon shortages

  4. avoid being low woman on the totem pole

  You don’t want details on 1–3, trust me. But 4’s even trickier. The faction won’t let me out of camp, even though I’ve heard Times and Herald reporters are out there as we speak. A student paper isn’t high priority, I guess.

  I’m trying to be patient — and to prove myself. I did a good interview with a fifteen-year-old who joined up because her family couldn’t afford to feed her and the faction can (but see #1 to keep this in perspective). She’s training to be a fighter, says she wants to be a Comandante one day.

  I’m dying for more material like this, but camp only provides so much. Most people our age are in the actual war. Here, it’s older people (mostly women) doing the cooking, laundry, etc., and young recruits who aren’t ready to be sent anywhere else. They’re all from the countryside, very shy and reserved. They stare at my red hair, which was funny for a while. When I’ve tried to talk to them about the war, they just repeat clichés like “You can’t hold back the people.” Nothing original for my stories.

  Still figuring this place out, I guess.

  DB

  MONDAY

  APRIL 4

  DAYBREAK. Foothills, Morazán province

  Step-step, step-step. Danielle stares at the outline of her boots as, improbably, they continue to carry her forward, the details of their laces and purple and brown seaming clarifying as the inky night recedes. She has not experienced this moment of the day in years. She once found it hopeful. Anything might be possible before the sun is up, before objects and people are cemented back into their static forms.

  Suddenly, she ploughs into Martin’s pack. He’s come to a stop.