Danielle changes her mind. She wishes the bats in this cave would awaken early, fly to Pepe, tangle their leather wings in the material of his mask, and force him to run back with his guilty face exposed. She tears off a hunk of tortilla and begins to eat without pleasure.
7:00 PM (EST). Business district, Toronto
They pull over on the north side of King Street, just west of Bay. Neela is there with her placards, a rolled-up banner and a bullhorn. Seeing this apparatus, Aida wants to go back, but Neela has already caught André’s eye and beckons them.
NorthOre’s offices are in Vancouver, so Neela has chosen to protest the company where their shares are traded. Due to automation, there’s little left of the physical stock exchange. Just an office tower that contains the exchange’s head office and, at its base, a media centre. The location, Neela has decided, at least has symbolic value. The particular patch of sidewalk where she’s setting up is becoming a scene. A few people have gathered, including a thin, middle-aged man in a jean jacket and a girl, younger than Aida, dressed in punk clothes.
There’s a large TV screen set up inside the windows of the building across the street. It pours blue light over Aida and André as they approach. The screen shows an all-news channel, a fast-moving ticker under the news anchor providing updates of headlines, stock quotes, currency values and other information Aida is normally very interested in. She’s wanted to work in business ever since she can remember. Using books her grandfather brought home from the university, baking cookies with her grandmother, she ran successful yard sales as a girl to supplement her allowance. Now she’s a work term away from her MBA, and besides the few thousand dollars her grandparents left her, she’s done that on her own too. She has anticipated that André’s family, all business people, will help her get her first real job. That future has seemed so close! Stepping up onto a street corner in good heels and a trench, carrying her work papers in a leather satchel on her way to an important meeting — or to grab lunch with André. But it all seems laughably far-fetched tonight. Aida has already missed several days of work at her co-op placement. She can’t see herself graduating in June, or even going back to her desk tomorrow, as she should. It’s like the present has opened up and swallowed her whole.
Neela is handing out candles to a group of people who’ve just shown up. Aida reluctantly takes one in her gloved hand. Nearby, the banner she saw earlier unfurls, reading: Bring the hostages home! And NorthOre too!
André lights Aida’s wick. “It’s like church,” he says, waving it. The shadows cast by the candlelight further chisel his sharp features.
Aida smiles. She’s touched that he’s come. They argued earlier, after André told her she should give the letters back to Neela so she’ll quit obsessing over them.
“How long do we have to stay?”
“It should be short,” Aida says, but she really has no idea how long protests last.
The punk teenager has a laptop, and presently she and Neela sit on the street corner, shivering happily in their jackets and tuques, taking their sweet time reading postings the teenager wants to show Neela, which have been written in response to the commentary Neela put up on the PJA website earlier. Neela claps with delight, impressed by the speed at which her words have travelled through the activist community. She’s made a good bet: since publicizing the hostages’ names, she’s been asked to do a string of interviews. Aida turns away, preferring to watch traffic.
Suddenly, two TV news vans pull out of the flow of passing cars, each disgorging a camera crew. Neela gets up and orders people to take their positions for a chant, which she leads: “No tainted gold! No tainted gold! Bring the hostages home!” There are fewer than thirty demonstrators altogether, but when they all bunch up, as they do now, Aida realizes it will be enough to fill the small screen. Neela actually knows what she’s doing.
Instinctively, Aida moves away. But as she does, each news crew, led by a well-dressed journalist, follows. A light goes on in Aida’s face.
“What is your response to the hostage video, Ms. Byrd?”
Aida takes several more fast steps away. Video? Someone else is calling her name. “Aida!” yells Neela. “It’s your mother!”
Aida stops, turns, her candle dropping. Neela is pointing to that big television screen, now half a block down. Aida doesn’t recognize the person whose head and torso appear there: an old woman with unruly hair, a blank green expanse behind her. She starts walking back, ignoring the reporters and their cameras. By the time she’s standing fully in the screen’s blue glow she sees: that old woman is Danielle. Her shoulders bent inward. Graying red hair curling every which way. Dark circles under her eyes. Her lips are moving.
André, at Aida’s side now, puts his arm around her shoulder and pulls her close. Neela comes up alongside. “They recorded them,” she says, repeating what someone is telling her over her cell. “They sent a video out.”
The punk girl trots up with her computer open. “It’s streaming on the newspaper website.” She holds the laptop out to Aida. “Here. Take it. I can get it back later.”
Aida hates touching other people’s electronics. So grimy. But she’s grateful. She makes eye contact with this teen she would normally have no time for, then takes the computer.
“I’ll come pick it up tomorrow,” says Neela.
André helps Aida into the first taxi he can flag down, the news cameras still trailing them, unsatisfied.
“It means she’s alive,” Aida says, when the door shuts.
“Yes. She’s alive.”
Aida clicks “play” and there, full-screen, but more humanly proportioned now, is a man she’s never seen before — attractive, young, in a loose shirt.
“My name is Antoine Thériault, of Québec. I am a member of the Partners for Justice in the Americas delegation to the municipality of Los Pampanos, El Salvador. I urge the government to do whatever is necessary to secure our release by Monday, April 11th. Otherwise, these people will start taking our lives.”
He pauses, looking off camera. Aida faintly hears a voice speaking Spanish. Antoine continues again, switching to French to say something more, talking to his family. There’s a sharp edit and his head is replaced by someone else’s — a man, Martin, who crosses himself and cries. Then a pretty Native girl named Tina, followed by a thin, angry-looking man named Pierre. Each of them repeats the same statement. Each time, their words are followed by some Spanish from off camera.
And then, finally, Danielle. She does her own translation of the statement before switching back to English. “Aida, hi. I — I probably look worse than I am.” Danielle pats her hair. Like it could be smoothed so easily. “I’m sorry it’s happened now, in the middle of your placement. Please don’t worry. Not that you will, but I’m alright. We have lots of food and water. And I can communicate. Tell Neela that I’m doing that, for the others, thanks to Mom and Dad. So I’m thinking of them. I’m thinking of you. But I’m not worried. I’m going to be fine.”
The video ends on the word “fine” while Danielle’s mouth is still open. Aida pulls the cursor back across the video and watches her mother move and talk again. “Please don’t worry. Not that you will. . .”
“Is that all?” André asks.
That is all. Enough for Aida. She has heard the exact core of her relationship with her mother. The desire and restraint. The hope and disappointment. And she’s heard a call. Not Danielle’s, but her own. She’s glad she booked her ticket before the vigil, because all she wants to do now is sleep.
May 20, 1980
Dear Neela,
Adrian is staying the whole week, overseeing that training I told you about. Everything is different with him here. Time goes so fast. People come to talk to him. Interesting people — unlike the usual camp crowd.
On that note, I’d say the mood is finally improving. It’s been two months since Archbishop Romero was assassinated. For a long time, a lot of people in camp would cry together every day and do these el
aborate prayer sessions. This week, all that stuff tapered off. Sosa says Romero was El Salvador’s Martin Luther King and Malcolm X put together. Personally, I have trouble with the way religion and revolution get mixed up. Sosa says I’m too much of a lapsed Protestant to get liberation theology. Maybe he’s right. One more thing to make me feel like an outsider.
DB
WEDNESDAY
APRIL 6
2:30 PM. 28 KM east of previous campsite, Morazán
Antoine is heavily into a game of Thirty-One with Martin, and Danielle is bored enough to keep up. Martin transfers his cigarette to his mouth for a drag, displays his cards. He has started accepting cigarettes from Delmi and smokes often, but like an amateur. His hand shows 27 points. “You’ll take this round,” Danielle says, because he hasn’t won one yet. Despite Pepe’s strict no-talking policy, she knows that when Cristóbal and Delmi are on duty, as they are now, a smattering of words won’t get a rise out of them.
“I’m sorry, but no,” says Antoine, smiling in his shy, self-assured way. He puts down three sixes, giving him 30 ½, the second-best possible hand.
Martin starts gathering up the cards in a hurry, erasing the game. He’s let his cigarette dangle too low from his lip and it tips out onto the tarp. Marlon Brando, he is not. He seems dejected, actually. The men were allowed to shave back at the creek, but it’s left him with a nasty nick on his chin, which presently he picks at in a gross fashion. Such bad luck for a guy like this to have ended up here. Danielle tries to think something nice. Martin’s blond hair does have a good wave to it, and it’s becoming lighter, practically golden, despite the tree cover they are nearly always kept under. Maybe he’s someone Aida could find attractive. Danielle generally finds the men Aida dates humourless and old before their time — or at least Danielle doesn’t get their jokes. Like the latest, Mr. Moneybags, smirking his way through life. Supposedly they’re engaged. Moving to Europe forever. Danielle will believe it when she sees it. Aida always falls so hard. Danielle has too, but at least she feels she’s gone for edge and drama, not cash and cheekbones.
She keeps watching Martin as he shuffles the deck concertedly. She remembers the description he gave of himself at dinner the night they all landed in San Salvador. “Me? I’m in risk assessment — commodities sector, mostly base metals. I’ve been at Newton-Thomson two years. We basically advise people who buy stocks.”
Pierre leveled a cool stare at him. “You encourage people to invest in companies like the gold mine we’re going to visit.”
Martin blinked. “No. Like I said, I do base metals. I don’t know about precious metals. That’s someone else’s file.”
Tina stepped in. “So why did you come on a delegation about a gold mine?” Unlike Pierre, her question wasn’t loaded with judgment.
“I’m just interested, that’s all,” Martin said.
There must’ve been more to it, though. Danielle translated Martin’s video message home. He said he knew God hadn’t abandoned him, that everything happens for a reason. Did Martin come to El Salvador as penance? To see where all those profitable mining companies do their dirty work? If so, he must be pissed at his God! Maybe even experiencing religious doubt. Danielle can only hope. But it makes her wonder what useful doubt the situation might yield for her. She thinks none, except about having come here at all. Neela justified giving her the letters by saying Danielle was “sleepwalking through life” and letting her past control her. From this distance, that sleepy life looks nearly ideal.
Martin notices her staring and throws her a defensive look. Danielle turns away, towards Pierre and Tina, seated side by side across the abandoned shed — their latest hiding place. Pierre’s arms are laid out straight in his lap, a position that shows off the long tattoo on his left forearm. Danielle is willing to bet he doesn’t even know the meaning of its intricate Japanese script. She’s never had time for body art, as her neighbour’s son calls it. On this one point, at least, she and Aida are in full agreement, though for different reasons. To Aida, so immaculate, so into the purity of her body, tattoos are a desecration. To Danielle, they’re just silly.
Pierre is gagged with that blue bandana, but somehow manages to flirt with Tina anyway, which irritates Danielle. How can he act like nothing’s happened? His outburst during the tapings has put her in a worse position than the rest. Translator, and now ghostwriter. Danielle expected the others to feel at least a little bad for her, even if they don’t know what Pepe took her away for. It could’ve been torture! But she gets the impression they’re suspicious. Neither Martin nor Antoine asked if she wanted to join their game. Tina and Pierre have been huddling for hours, not once looking directly her way.
Danielle leans against splintered wood. Under her tarp, prickly, disintegrating hay is making her legs itch. This place is miserable, cramped, dim, bare, derelict. A hole. Danielle closes her eyes, craving all the small spaces she’s ever enjoyed. It’s 1980 and she’s in the tiny office she occupied at the university student paper. The walls are covered in clippings, a production board, images of trendy revolutionaries. Sandino rubbing shoulders with Mao. She’s considering a trip to El Salvador to prove her politics to herself and to her proto-hippie parents. In the fantasy, she decides against it. The next year, she begins an internship at the city daily. Her writing career takes off. She has a string of romances, but never marries. She doesn’t age. Currently, she lives in New York, where she collects sculpture. She is very happy.
A flea bites her leg and Danielle scratches hard, drawing blood. Her fantasy oozes away.
“You want some water?” Tina says to Pierre, quite loudly. Everyone looks over. It’s strange to hear any bold, full-volume voices besides those of the kidnappers.
Pierre nods and Tina gets Delmi’s attention so she’ll go over to pull up the bandana from Pierre’s mouth. When Delmi does, Pierre lets out a long, loud sigh, sucking air and letting his eyes close with evident pleasure. At the end of his narrow nose the nostrils flare and collapse like tiny sacs. Tina gives him the canteen and he takes a big drink. “Merci,” he says, looking right at her.
Even from where she’s sitting, Danielle can feel heat pass between them. Not like before — not only flirtation. It’s friendship. Or maybe love. Who knows what emotions these young people are experiencing? Their inner lives are off limits.
The corners of Pierre’s mouth have become chapped from his gag, and suddenly Danielle can’t resist reaching for something. “Are you sore?” she asks. She’s stupid. A fool. She’s promised herself never to appear desperate with these kids. But the terror of being ostracized has taken hold of her voice box.
Pierre shakes his head lightly.
“I haven’t done anything, you know,” Danielle blurts out, not loudly, but wanting them all to hear. Someone has to be the link between the group and the kidnappers. It may as well be her. “He’s making me take down his —”
“Daniela,” says Cristóbal, picking up on the emotion in her voice, and maybe feeling that something more is being discussed besides Pierre’s water drinking. He and Delmi seem to know no English.
Pierre looks at Danielle angrily, communicating that he thinks she’s a liar. As soon as he empties the canteen, Delmi goes over and puts his gag back on. Tightly. Eventually, Rita comes in and Delmi, in moping mode (the counter to her giggling), shuffles out. Danielle has memorized the kidnappers’ routines. They get about six hours of sleep per day, though they split it up. The women manage a bit more. Rita and Delmi are allowed to nap alongside the hostages in the middle of the night, when they always stop the walk from campsite to campsite for a long rest, while either Pepe or Cristóbal keeps watch and the other disappears — to act as lookout, Danielle assumes. The only part she hasn’t figured out is what Pepe does during these late afternoons when he isn’t around. She feels certain he doesn’t only sleep. She’s had visions of him hiking out to meet secret collaborators. He sent that video to the media somehow. And now there’s the story she wrote for him. He cou
ldn’t have planned for that, and so whatever arrangement he has must be flexible, an open line to someone. Danielle decides Pepe is using his satellite phone. If only she could snatch it from him. She craves those buttons against her fingertips. But Pepe keeps it nearly always on his belt loop.
On his way off shift, Cristóbal lingers a moment, standing outside the door of the shed speaking quietly to Rita, who looks almost human as she leans gently towards him. Danielle notices that when they’re together, Rita acts differently, less mean. They seem married, but how could that be? How could Cristóbal, Danielle’s favourite, who seems utterly lacking in cruelty despite everything, with his gangly limbs, his caved-in chest and his goofy hat-over-ski-mask ensemble, choose Rita as a wife? Danielle wonders if there’s more to this compact woman than she’s letting them see.
As soon as Cristóbal leaves, though, the Rita Danielle has come to abhor returns. Steely. Hungry for conflict. It takes her five minutes to figure out how to start one of her games. The painted mouth in her ski mask turns up in a leer. She pulls a small MP3 player from her pocket, tucks the earbuds under the mask and turns up the volume so loud it’s audible throughout the shed. Danielle doesn’t recognize the tune — she rarely listens to music — but when she looks over, Martin is glaring at Rita, his mouth forming the words “One love. One love.” Now Danielle remembers him handing the player over after they were yanked from the bus. The kidnappers took everything. Music, watches, nail clippers, keys. Access to these possessions is controlled by Pepe, who decides when they need everything from fresh underwear to a hairbrush.
Martin clearly wants his music back. He puts yet another cigarette in his mouth, unlit. Rita pretends not to notice. She bobs her head and hums out of tune like a teenager alone in her bedroom. Two songs in, when she must feel she’s sufficiently agitated them, she puts the player away. She stands and saunters in her loosely tied boots over to Pierre and Tina, taking a seat on the far side of Pierre, dispersing hay dust. She knows a little English. More, anyway, than Danielle thought, because she starts talking to Pierre, keeping her voice at a whisper so that he has to lean in. This is meant to scare the rest of them, and it works.
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