“We’ve wanted to make a statement before the mine’s expansion begins at El Pico. Here’s our chance. How can we amplify our voice? You remember the bullhorns in the camps?” The crowd laughs as Marta mimics the comical overuse of this device by zealous guards in the Honduran refugee camps where many of those gathered survived the civil war. “Well, think how a tool can make you loud. That’s what we need to be. We have a vision, a cosmovisión that involves this land and its people living harmoniously. How are we going to compete with Los Estados if we don’t have clean water? Productive land for our children to live on? How, if we don’t have real jobs? Compañeros y compañeras, por favor! We have tools. Mass demonstration is one of our best. We must make ourselves as loud as we’ve ever been. Louder!” Marta finds herself nearly shouting as she stomps a foot down. She inhales deeply. “Now, let’s break into groups and discuss how we can best bring our cosmovisión into the world using this opportunity. Then we vote. Vaya entonces.”
A murmur as people rise, bumping into one another and laughing. Watching them order themselves into groups, Marta is impressed, as she so often has been, with the effectiveness of playing to people’s democratic urge. She is also happy to remember how public speaking improves her mood — even when she’s scared as hell.
Ever since she gave up waiting for the delegation at the market it has started to feel like old times. Threats. Intimidation. Fear. Before the abduction even hit the front page this morning, she got her first heavy-breathing phone call. Cancel your meeting, they said. Manuel Sobero and MaxSeguro have wasted no time. Or the police haven’t. In Marta’s experience, private security and law enforcement are often indistinguishable. The mine has also made a show of muscle, driving a bus full of MaxSeguro guards through Los Pampanos. This afternoon, a senior Committee member called to say he’d been approached to act as a spy for an anonymous party. Again: the police? The mine? It’s hard to say. But cancel her meeting? No. Jamás. This is it. Marta’s last shot at NorthOre.
She approaches a table where the discussion has stalled. “What’s happening over here? Someone give me an idea — any idea,” she says, taking a chair. From the corner of her eye she catches sight of a man she has not seen in a long time, except on the news. She throws herself into conversation, hoping he’ll leave, but she soon feels a tap on her shoulder.
“Dying to talk to me, as always.”
Marta leans away. “I’m busy.” But the people at the table are becoming distracted. Carlos Reyes is still a hero to many in Los Pampanos, a guerrilla who pulled off some incredible feats. How many times will Marta have to remind them that his famoso helicopter attack was a group effort? That one of the snipers who took it down was a woman?
“Comandante!” one elderly gentleman says with pride, raising a raw wood cane. Marta has to resist rolling her eyes. This, for the man whose new party, the DAP, is trying to rob the legitimate ex-guerrilla party of its voter base.
Carlos smiles. “May I borrow your leader for a moment?”
Exaggerated gestures of approval all around. Marta gets up, resigned. “You should start correcting them. They should call you El Presidente. That’s your long-term goal, isn’t it? People are saying it is.”
“How are you, Marta?”
“How do you think? The police have been to my house twice in two days asking loaded questions. The mine parades their hired guns around town. Your friend Mitchell Wall won’t budge on the kidnapper’s perfectly achievable demands — let alone ours that he take himself home. Business as usual. But not for you. You seem to be doing excessively well, now that your reports about the police are so generous.”
“Marta,” Carlos says, still smiling, shaking his head. “You are always spirited.”
“I’m often angry, if that’s what you mean. Why are you here?”
“Didn’t they tell you? I wanted to see if I could address the crowd, let them know I’m monitoring the situation, that any police work related to this abduction will be closely watched.”
Of course. An angle. Carlos Reyes always has one. “So you want to use this kidnapping, then, to get votes? Or win favour with the mine? Or both. Which is more important to you?” Marta is still figuring it out as she speaks.
“I use what’s at my disposal. Just like you. Though you’ve also profited from the support of your foreign friends. The privileges of living abroad, yes?”
Marta glares at him, outraged. This man has not changed. Thirty years on, he is still the same shameless kid who tried to recruit her into a guerrilla cell at the university — into the sack, too. Both efforts dramatic failures. “I don’t think you really want to get into a tit-for-tat about privilege.”
“It’s true. Five minutes of your supporters’ time is all I ask.”
“Impossible.”
Carlos opens his mouth to challenge her, but he’s engaged by another of the people at the table, who throws an arm around him and pleads for a war story. There’s no denying Carlos can weave a good one. When those brown eyes focus on you, they seem so honest. If Marta hadn’t been certain of her own mission back then, that her place was in San Salvador, organizing people, who knows? He might have convinced her to follow him to the mountains.
Carlos breaks from the conversation to address her again. “And this Reverte?” he says, casually. “From the forensic team. You know him.”
Marta is taken aback. She was as surprised as anyone to read Alejandro Reverte’s name in the papers — nearly as surprised as when she found out the kidnapper is asking for anything besides money. Marta has indeed known Reverte for years, but so do half the activists in Latin America. Reverte is a fixture, travelling everywhere and anywhere to dig up evidence of human rights violations. This hostage taker has done his research; if anyone can conduct a last-minute forensic dig on the grounds of a hostile mine, it’s Reverte. But why does Carlos Reyes care? Is he looking for new information to pass along to his political cronies — Mitchell Wall, even? It has always been difficult, with Carlos, to know how your words will be used. He was that way in the war too, Marta knows, gained a reputation for creative interpretations of the rules. After ’92 he carved out his plum position heading a police watchdog, a cozy spot to hatch his ambitions for office. Marta tries to formulate an answer about Reverte that Carlos won’t be able to trade on.
But now the entire room starts to shake, fluorescent lights faltering, folding chairs screeching. No one panics. The mine has simply added an evening shift to their endless schedule of dynamiting. Hairline cracks through house walls, scattered livestock, the entire municipality covered in a thumb length of grey dust — those weren’t enough for Mitchell Wall, apparently. He needs to shake people up some more. Everyone pauses until it stops.
“They never let us forget,” Marta says, seeing Carlos put on a face like the blasts have nothing to do with him. But that’s a lie. All those faithful men and women Carlos led into the mountains in the 1980s? A lot of them are still here. And without any other economic prospects, many have sold the very parcels of land they went to war over to NorthOre. MaxSeguro bullied and intimidated plenty more into doing the same. Marta has long believed that Carlos and others like him left the mountains too fast, dropping everything, the details of people’s broken lives, tedious wrangling over the peace accords, for people like her to pick up, piece by piece, like restoring a thousand cracked eggs. “I’m sure MaxSeguro has security people planted here,” she says, feeling her anger surge. “You know, to rattle us from the inside.”
Carlos looks around a little more nervously than Marta expected. “It’s possible,” he says. “But come on. Who else can they think is asking for the mine to be closed but someone from Los Pampanos? From the uncompromising Committee for the Environment? It is quite a coincidence that these foreigners were here to visit you.”
Marta will not to dignify the insinuation with a response. “I have to get back,” she says, with finality.
“Good luck, Marta,” Carlos turns away. A few steps on, reporters h
urry to accost him.
Marta watches Carlos settle in, responding to all their questions, gesturing in his confident way. Then she gets it. He hasn’t come to address this crowd, or even to prod her for information, as he’s let her believe, but to be seen, to be documented as having attended, in case there’s some gain to be got from it later.
Shortly afterwards, the people in the hall vote with raised hands. Those in favour of beginning a series of major demonstrations in the capital to demand that Mil Sueños close for the forensic exhumation carry the day.
March 12, 1980
Dear Neela,
I’ve made my first friend. This crazy Belgian priest who was in San Salvador doing religious training until last year. He got so inspired by the struggle he quit and came here to give Mass to the compas wherever he can find them. Also, I’m finally allowed to travel — with him! My chance to jump the totem pole! And I’ll have someone to talk to (he doesn’t even seem bothered by my atheism). When he describes this conflict, I remember why I came. These people need land. They’re willing to die for it. They were already dying without it! In camp, you can forget that. The days are all the same. Same bored kids. Same tedium. Same war songs every night on the same homemade guitars.
I need a change of tune. ¡Viva El Salvador!
DB
TUESDAY
APRIL 5
11:30 AM (EST). Toronto
The camera pans the length of the conference table, pausing to name and title the speakers: Catharine Keil, Canadian Ambassador to El Salvador; Raul Schiffer, Salvadoran Attorney General; Antonio de la Riva Hernández, Captain, Anti-Kidnapping Unit, Salvadoran Civilian Police; and Xavier Barraza, Spokesperson, NorthOre Inc. Fronting each is a full glass of water and a skinny microphone. By the time the camera cuts to a wide shot of all of them, Aida knows she will learn nothing from these people. They’re putting on a show, their faces balanced between hope and the possibility of tragedy. They’ll say whatever it takes to buy time while they pray for this abduction to stop. Which isn’t unreasonable. Danielle and her group have put these people’s jobs on the line. It’s just disappointing. Aida has missed work again on the slim hope that something here could change her mind.
André is beside her on the couch, fingers threaded together and resting against his thighs. Though Aida has so far avoided discussing it with him, he must sense the effect Danielle’s letters are having on her. He approved of Aida’s decision to take another day off, despite his general view that an entire day spent at home under any circumstances is a waste.
The camera comes in on the Attorney General. Raul Schiffer is a striking man with a near-bald head that makes Aida think of an eagle. She’s surprised to see that he doesn’t look at all Latino — far less than she herself does. The several flashes going off as he leans into his mic accentuate pale skin and blue eyes.
“Gracias por su presencia esta mañana.” The network’s simultaneous interpreter begins over him in English. Aida picks up the boxy remote, but the button is stuck. She longs for the apartment she shares with André, where everything functions. Staying at Danielle’s house is probably a mistake. But Foreign Affairs says it’s best, in case there’s an attempt at contact. They’ve already sent someone to install a recording device on the phone. Aida digs with her nail until the volume goes up.
“We want to provide an update on the status of the investigation into the abduction of five Canadian citizens —” Reading from his paper, Schiffer lays out the essence of Danielle’s predicament.
“Weird,” Aida says, under her breath. It’s a novel experience, having already absorbed — as much as possible — the news others are only now getting from the TV. André unknits his fingers to squeeze her elbow, but it comes off badly, like he’s honking a horn. André is not good at pity.
The Attorney General, who turns out to be very boring, digresses into a discussion of his government’s commitment to the War on Terror, which he says takes many forms, including zero tolerance of gangs, drug cartels and kidnappers, as well as the continuing presence of Salvadoran soldiers in Iraq.
“Too much politics,” says André.
True, thinks Aida, nodding. André prizes the idea of self-care first, just like her. Aida has been trying to keep it up. She’s been dressing especially nicely since finding out about Danielle. Today: a wool skirt and the grey cashmere sweater André gave her for her birthday. Unlike her mother, Aida doesn’t wallow or look for someone to blame for her problems. Personal choices matter. Dressing well makes her feel like she can cope.
Eventually, Schiffer passes the floor to the ambassador. “Thank you,” says Catharine Keil, her voice unexpectedly husky. She’s short, but has a grey pageboy that helps make up for it. Keil lauds the Salvadoran police and their professionalism then says that while her government doesn’t negotiate with terrorists she is open to “reasoned dialogue.” To Aida, this sounds like the same thing. “It is in the interest of all parties to take a calm, measured approach,” Keil insists. She repositions the microphone and looks up, speaking directly to the camera. “I do not pretend to know what could motivate a crime like this. No past act can excuse it. However, there are options besides violence.”
The ambassador, Aida realizes, is speaking to the person who took Danielle, the one who signed his ransom note “A humble Salvadoran peasant.” Aida has read the note a dozen times, but its meanings still evade her. Why would someone wait so many years before looking for his family? How can he be so sure they’re dead and buried where he says they are? Maybe Keil’s got a plan. Maybe an ultimatum is coming that will guarantee Danielle’s freedom — Aida’s too.
“The Bishop of San Miguel has offered to act as a neutral third party. Meanwhile, I’ve taken the step of contacting the team of forensic specialists, led by Alejandro Reverte, named in the letter. Right now, this team is in Guatemala. It will be difficult to obtain their services in the restrictive time frame provided. My discussions with them can continue, but only if there is a clear demonstration of will from those who have imperiled these innocent lives. They must contact the Bishop’s office immediately to work with us towards a peaceful resolution.”
Keil pauses a moment, as if weighing something, whether to say more. Aida tenses. This woman must have something up her sleeve. Some leverage. But the ambassador puts a hand over her papers and passes the floor to NorthOre’s spokesperson, the wide-faced Barraza. Aida feels herself deflate into the couch.
As Barraza plants his palms on the table, Danielle’s phone rings. André gets up. He knows the drill: if it’s a journalist, he’s to say “Not interested” and hang up. If it’s the kidnappers, he’s to hand the receiver to Aida and use his cell to dial the number Foreign Affairs gave them. Aida cannot envision that moment, how it would be to talk about Danielle’s capture — her life, the imminent threat against it — with some outlaw kidnapper who has a grudge against a gold mine.
“It’s your mother’s friend,” André calls from the kitchen.
That means Neela. André knows her name, so it bothers Aida that even now he won’t deign to pronounce it — as he tends to avoid saying Danielle’s. Is it really so hard? Aida goes into the kitchen to take the call. The only house left in Toronto with a rotary phone bolted to the wall. And Danielle actually uses it.
“Can you believe this?” says Neela. “Keil says they don’t negotiate with terrorists. They spend half their time cutting deals for leeches like NorthOre! But that’s not terrorism. Oh, no.”
Aida says nothing. Neela’s moral outrage makes her want the couch and her sane, rude fiancé.
“Anyway, I won’t keep you long. Just wanted to touch base. Have you thought more about tonight?”
Aida is still unable to see herself at the vigil Neela has organized. But she hopes it might work — like the press conference won’t, apparently — to surprise her. She needs a jolt, a reason to reject the scheme forming in her mind. “I think I’ll come, yes.” She enjoys the brief pause that follows, Neela at a loss f
or words.
“Wonderful. I’ll pick you up.”
“I prefer if we meet you there.” Aida hasn’t broached the idea of the vigil with André yet. He’s even more allergic to activists than she is. She strains around the corner, where André has returned to the television.
“Either way. Oh — did you see Mitch Wall in the papers?”
“I saw him.” Aida actually spent some time with the photo of NorthOre’s CEO. She scrutinized Mitch Wall, trying to determine what kind of man he is. Here was the one person with the power to get Danielle home. Logically, Aida should’ve been angry. Wall has completely rejected the kidnapper’s demand for a shutdown at his mine. Instead, she found that he looked decent. Standing in front of a helicopter with another man, a Salvadoran, Wall looked genuinely proud of his business, his success. Probably he’s just wishing the kidnapping would blow over before too much harm is done, much like the ambassador on TV. Like Aida.
“The statement he put out! He takes no responsibility for what he’s done to that town. Self-serving prick.” Neela is headed towards a rant.
Aida hopes to stave it off. “I read it. I get it. And I really do have to go —”
Neela drowns her out with angry rustling of the newspaper where Mitch Wall’s picture and statement appear. “This guy is sucking the water table dry!” she shrieks. “Los Pampanos will be a dust bowl if this expansion at Pico goes ahead. And the river! You have no idea what’s getting into the river. Do you know why he’s really refusing these demands? Money, my dear. Wall can’t afford a shutdown. He’s scared, and he’s blaming the victim.”
That word. Victim. One of Neela’s favourites. In her world, victims are always justified, as they are for Danielle — as they are, Aida realizes, for the kidnapper. For all of them there are no mines, no dust or damage. But life isn’t like that. There’s always damage. Aida feels her throat constrict. Neela deserves some of the blame here. Handing those letters back to Danielle after all these years has changed everything. “So?” she says.
Open Pit Page 5
