Open Pit

by Marguerite Pigeon

  Back at the creek, Pepe foists the pen and paper back at her impatiently and Danielle bends down, laying the sheets across a thigh. She feels out of practice. At home, she runs an editing business, and her computer, pens and reams of paper are like extensions of herself. Here, writing and its instruments are alien. She begins to list the names with their occupations in brackets. Doing so forces more memories back to her with carnivalesque horror, memories she’s hoped to revisit more slowly, on her own time.

  “Vaya,” says Pepe. “It’s not hard to make a list. Unless you’re inventing.”

  “I’m not.”

  “We’ll see.”

  They’re quiet for some time, with just insects buzzing in Danielle’s ears and getting under her collar as she puts down the names of all her main contacts from 1980, many of whom had more than one war-given nickname, something she always found confusing and, she believes, also led to confusion among the guerrillas. She sees their faces. Chepe, the young messenger she befriended, was also Enano, because he was so short. Gabi, one of the cooks, was La Gallina for being such a gossip. Freckle-faced Renaldo was Pecoso. Danielle herself was La Rojita, for her red hair, and sometimes Delgadita, for how thin she got when she had stomach bugs, which was often. Then she adds Sosa, her friend the priest.

  Eventually Danielle has to decide what to do about Adrian. It seems conspicuous, somehow, to put him last. He was the most “important” person she knew. She squeezes his name into the middle of the list, a decision she immediately regrets. Why protect him? She remembers Adrian telling her that, at his rank, names could change depending on the importance of the mission. Sometimes the insurgency didn’t even want members of a particular guerrilla unit to know the true identity of the person assigned to lead them. Secrecy was paramount. But Danielle can’t recollect whether Adrian ever told her what his other name was. He was Adrian to her, so that’s what she writes, followed by his occupation: commando, Special Forces.

  Pepe holds out his hand. “Homework for later,” he says, folding the paper back into his pocket. “Now. Something else.”

  Danielle feels the blood drain from her face: he’s going to abuse her, rape her in this muddy place.

  But Pepe makes no sudden moves. “If you are a journalist, you write well.”

  “I am not one.” Danielle’s hands remain in tight fists. “I work as an editor — by myself. Freelance.”

  “Bien,” says Pepe, not conceding the difference. “You can write something for me. With you, I can document episodes of my life. So the people understand my motives.”

  “But who will read —?”

  Another of Pepe’s withering looks stops Danielle mid-question. “Go!” he says, standing behind her, waiting for her to move out.

  3:00 PM. Canadian embassy, San Salvador

  Mitch pauses at Catharine Keil’s door, reminding himself to be nice. But Keil does not return the smile he offers when he walks in, or even bother getting up from her desk.

  “Please,” she says, indicating a chair facing hers.

  Mitch sits, sinking lower into the seat than he expected. He lifts a foot over the opposite knee, trying to compensate. “I didn’t know you guys were in this building,” he says, still failing to get any height. “I actually ran into an acquaintance at the elevators — exploration guy. Small world!”

  “I’m sure,” says Catharine Keil, tucking a section of hair behind her ear. It’s greyer than last time Mitch saw her in person, evenly silver. Has she dyed it that way, he wonders? She’s not even that old.

  “Do you need clarification on something in particular, Mr. Wall?”

  “Okay. Let me first say that no one could’ve anticipated these demands.” Out of the corner of his eye Mitch can still see Keil’s assistant, who showed him in from reception. Mitch assumed he would leave before the meeting began, but the man has taken up a spot by the window. Mitch tries to ignore him while appealing to the ambassador’s reason. “We’ve been blindsided — as you have.”

  Keil picks up her pen, stands it on her desk, then lays it down again. “These things happen. We have policies. Your insurers have probably briefed you before.”

  “About employee abductions? Oh, sure. But that’s completely different. These tourists weren’t my employees!” Mitch starts to laugh, looking towards the assistant, who is stony-faced.

  “One interesting thing about those cases is that companies regularly pay a ransom rather than risking people’s lives unnecessarily,” says Keil.

  Mitch remembers this smug attitude from last time he chatted with Keil, at some event for Canadian businesses abroad. In that gruff voice, everything is a lecture.

  “Some would say it’s the price of doing business in markets like this one, that are, otherwise, very cost-effective,” she adds.

  “We’re launching a multi-million-dollar expansion,” says Mitch, trying to put across the simple truth of what’s at stake. “This month.”

  “The abduction has posed some extreme challenges for everyone,” says Keil, stubbornly neutral. “And as the owner of the property, it’s within your rights to refuse this exhumation. Regardless of consequences.”

  Mitch questions his decision to ask for this meeting. Keil is about as pliable as a brick. He searches for a new tack. “The reason I came by is I felt we should speak face to face about the police. I know Captain Hernández comes off a little strong. But I have it on good authority that the anti-kidnapping unit really is ready to end this at a moment’s notice without any danger to anyone.” The mention of Hernández seems to freeze Keil’s facial muscles. With concern? “I know that’s not your preferred option,” Mitch says, guessing. “But there’s no need to let a dangerous situation linger either —”

  “No one in this embassy wants the abduction to last even one minute longer,” says Keil, jumping on his last word. “Nor do we control how the local police react. As the Captain has made clear, it’s his jurisdiction. But hasty action in cases like these is always risky, as past examples in this country have shown.”

  “But no risk, no reward, right?” says Mitch, smiling.

  Keil furrows her brow. “Mr. Wall, are you aware that some of the families of the hostages are travelling to San Salvador because they want to show how important it is to resolve the abduction safely? Maybe you would consider meeting them, hearing their point of view about the exhumation.”

  Mitch tries to look regretful. “That would be great. But I’ve been advised by my legal team not to speak directly to anyone so close to the kidnapping. For my own safety.” Mitch’s PR people did get a couple of calls about the families, but Mitch has no interest in having parents bawling in his office over something he can’t do anything about. He’s not the one who took their kids hostage. “I sincerely hope everyone is reunited,” he goes on, illustrating his hope by weaving together the fingers on both his hands. “At the same time, these families can’t possibly keep perspective on the demands. They’ve been put in an impossible position. Your own office has a travel warning in place. People have to know what they’re getting into when they leave Canada to fraternize with — well, we all know that group in Los Pampanos, that ‘Committee,’ is a fringe organization. Who’s to say they didn’t invite the delegation here expressly to stage this kidnapping? In the end, this is a police matter.”

  “I understand your point of view. And I will express it to Foreign Affairs as we go forward. But until we can come to a resolution, we need the police to stay in dialogue with all parties, rather than stepping in too soon,” says Keil in a new tone, which sounds to Mitch like someone trowelling mortar, adding a layer to a tall wall. She rises with her hand extended.

  Mitch stares at it from his low chair, his lips pressed together. Bad words are straining to get out. For the moment Keil can afford to look down at him, watching as he swallows them back.

  3:10 PM. Morazán

  They are nearly at the campsite — today, a dank, earthen cave. Danielle hurries towards it through the trees. Earlier,
she recognized small piles of guano in that cave. When night falls, the bats will descend. Danielle doesn’t want any delay in leaving for their night’s walk before that happens. She gets close enough to hear Cristóbal’s voice, starts towards it.

  “No. Keep going.”

  Danielle stops to look back at Pepe, confused, but he just signals that she has to walk the other way, guiding her left and right with clipped orders until they reach a spot where Danielle assumes he slept earlier. A few of his effects are there. It smells like him too, of warm canvas and sweat — and something else. A sweet, lingering odor. Has Pepe masturbated here? Danielle doesn’t want to dwell on the possibility, or worse, on thoughts of who else Pepe might be having sex with. Not Rita! Already, Danielle and the others have sensed a partnership between her and Cristóbal, extreme loyalty between the two men. But is Pepe making do with Delmi, then?

  Pepe drags a large stone forward, gauging the dirt. He invites Danielle to use it as a seat, choosing for himself one of the tarps he seems to have in plentiful supply. He hands her the writing instruments and folded paper that he took back earlier. “Put down everything I say” is his only instruction.

  He seems almost nervous as he shifts his rifle over his legs, which are crossed at the ankles of his heavy lace-up boots. He pulls a large beige object from his belt. Danielle has noticed it before. Now she identifies it as a telephone. Rectangular and bulky, probably works off a satellite. She has to work not to let her interest show in this device, which could bring a rescue team to them within hours — less! El Salvador is tiny. Pepe cradles the phone lightly in one hand, as if he enjoys the feel of it, before putting it down protectively by his side, exhibiting it, letting Danielle know she’s more likely to get her hands on an actual satellite.

  Then, as if the phone isn’t there at all, he starts talking. Danielle resolves to put aside her discovery for a time when she can mull over the phone’s potential. She focuses on the movement of Pepe’s full lips in his mask. She tells herself that this mouth belongs to a normal face, that Pepe is just skin and bones, just a man. She guesses his age by his voice, putting it at forty-four.

  The strangeness of her task amazes and frightens her, for though Danielle has been yearning to know the reason for her kidnapping, she hasn’t wanted to feel anything about it, to know more than the facts. But as she responds to Pepe’s firmly pointed finger, which insists that she get started, and her pen starts moving awkwardly across the page on her lap, she can’t stop herself from feeling a heady mix of things: nostalgia, excitement, shame. Then two more sensations she has steeled herself against for a long, long time: sympathy and political outrage.

  “Now, rewrite them,” Pepe says when he has finished speaking, pointing at Danielle’s notes. “Make a story. Like for the newspaper.” She has forty-five minutes, he says. Then he picks up his phone and leaves.

  Is it a trick? She has to run. But which way? How far will she get before she’s hungry? Thirsty? Danielle tries to calm herself. Two nights now they’ve walked steadily uphill all night long. She’s seen practically no signs of human life except a few rooftops in the distance, some thin smoke from a chimney. Pepe knows how to keep hidden — just as the faction did in 1980. There is nowhere to run. Danielle closes her eyes and listens to the world around her. Never-ending insects and birds and the breeze. She breathes deeply, opens her eyes again. The late afternoon sun is beautiful where it illuminates the nearest treed ridge, tingeing the foliage gold. She thinks of a trip she took last year with Aida to a beach town on Georgian Bay. One of her attempts to spend quality time with her daughter.

  They sat side by side on lounge chairs the entire afternoon, two days in a row, not fighting at all. A record Danielle craves the chance to beat. She bends her head to the paper on her lap.

  When Pepe reappears, Danielle is startled. She’s become totally engrossed in her task, her hand aching with effort. Pepe sits back down loudly on his tarp, his short legs folded in front of him, and lights a cigarette, which creates a brief, terrible distraction for Danielle. If he offers her one, she won’t say no. Cessation did not prepare her for captivity. The thought obviously doesn’t cross Pepe’s mind, however. He orders her to read aloud, in Spanish, everything she’s written. Nervously, Danielle starts, her own voice sounding strange to her, tinny in the wide open air.

  “My name is Danielle Byrd. You can verify that I am the author of this report by asking my daughter to confirm a birthmark I have behind my left ear. The person responsible for my detainment wants people to know he is not a terrorist. He has been subject to what he calls the ‘tides of history.’

  “ ‘Enrique’ was only twelve when his family was disappeared by the Salvadoran military. This is the reason behind his present actions.

  “It was common then for the military to raid villages and abduct young men. In 1977 they came to Enrique’s village. His family was killed and he was taken for basic training. This was at the time when the U.S. was advising the Salvadoran military. Enrique was among the first to learn from American specialists.

  “He came to admire his trainer, Colonel Evans. Evans could be brutal. Many students were beaten. But he also gave them plenty of rewards. Enrique had the best food of his life during this time. American food. Meat and mashed potatoes every day.

  “The Americans weren’t supposed to take part in missions, but that didn’t stop Evans. He said you couldn’t trust a Salvadoran to do the job. He got the recruits to work highway checkpoints. Evans ordered them to humiliate any man who couldn’t produce his documents fast enough. Enrique was surprised at how easy it was to make people do what you wanted.

  “Then they started going into villages. They would arrive at nightfall and go house to house, looking for insurgents.

  “Once they went to a hamlet that reminded Enrique of the one he grew up in. He’d heard a rumour that Jesuits were teaching countrywomen black magic and he got nervous. It felt like there was a bad spirit there.

  “They entered a house that belonged to an older couple. The woman looked a bit like his mother, which paralyzed him. He stood by while his unit searched the place. They were just leaving when Evans walked in and came over to Enrique. He asked what they’d found.

  “Nada, said Enrique.

  “Evans laughed. Nada? He turned to the old man, addressing him as Papa, which sounded strange. His Spanish wasn’t good. Tell this soldier where you are hiding the guns, Papa.

  “The old man mumbled that there were no guns. He tried to laugh like Evans did. Evans smiled. Papa! Don’t lie. We hate lies. Your son has joined the boys in the mountains. You’re hiding their guns.

  “This time the old woman said something about her son being gone to work on the milpa, and Evans got mad. He walked up to Enrique, grabbed him, and forced him across the room to her. Then he pulled the pistol out of Enrique’s holster. He forced it into Enrique’s hand and pushed his finger onto the trigger until it fired. The woman slumped over.

  “When Evans turned the other way, towards the husband, Enrique shook him off. He was his own man. He pulled the trigger himself, aiming for the chest.

  “Evans went to the only shelf in the house. He lifted the corner of an old blanket and pulled out a leaflet, holding it like you hold a dead mouse. He said to Enrique, This is not nothing. It was a promotion for a local farm cooperative. Pin it to the door and move on, Evans said.

  “That night, Enrique remembers that he was more tired than he’d ever been in his life. But he didn’t feel bad. He’d been in limbo since his family was killed. Now he wasn’t. God had chosen a new life for him and he was relieved.

  “From then on, it was possible to carry out his commanders’ orders without much thought. He did many terrible things. Over time, he became suicidal, but his religious belief and a vision of his mother being worried about his soul kept him from going through with it.

  “Later, he was glad he didn’t die. His life changed again. He got out. That’s not what he wants people to know about first, th
ough. He wants to tell the other part, when he was responsible for hurting others. He says there’s a difference between what he did then and what he’s doing now. He says that what he’s doing now is right.”

  Danielle looks up. Pepe’s cigarette has been smoked to the nub.

  “Leave the paper here,” he says, putting it out against a stone. “Your food is waiting for you.” As Danielle gets to her feet, he adds, “If you tell the others anything, I’ll kill you. I’ll say it was necessary, that you worked for the CIA during the war. They’ll believe me.”

  Danielle returns to the cave alone. There, she faces the questioning eyes of her fellow hostages and of Rita, who looks like she will spit, taking in Danielle’s clean clothes, which she had hoped to deny her. Danielle ignores her as best she can, but the others are harder to block out. They’ve all finished eating supper and have nothing else to distract them. Danielle seesaws between guilt and defensiveness. It’s been exhilarating to rework Pepe’s words. A sad irony, so many years after her journalistic ambitions were quashed in this very place. But she hasn’t done anything more. She isn’t telling secrets. If only she could explain.

  Rita is busy scanning her like an X-ray over and over with ravenous eyes, waiting for any reason to pounce. And so Danielle picks up her plate of food. Beans, tortillas and a dollop of bright orange canned spaghetti. The kidnappers have a system for cooking that involves an underground fire and a tunnel to channel the smoke. This was a guerrilla technique during the war, a way to avoid attracting attention from military aircraft. But Danielle can’t imagine that any of her abductors were ever part of the guerrilla army. The women are too young. Cristóbal seems too mellow to have been any kind of soldier. And Pepe, unless he’s a seriously good liar, was on the other side. He did those “terrible things.” What kinds of things? What could be worse than shooting defenseless old people? Danielle shivers as fantasies of torture and brutality mingle with the cooling air. A word comes to her: capucha. The name for the military’s local form of torture: covering people’s heads with a transparent bag and tying it. The person who controls her fate now could have techniques.