More shots snap, this time coming from the trees. And then Rita’s gun rattles, going off several times more in reply.
Cristóbal finally reappears. Everyone is on the ground except Rita, who is standing, shaking, holding her gun, the hair at the bottom of her mask sticking out, seemingly electrified, her eyes like saucers. But she isn’t hurt. Danielle, still hugging the earth, is strangely, hugely relieved. She has time to wonder what the relief means about her feelings towards Pepe and Cristóbal, and even Rita — despite everything, she doesn’t seem to want them dead — before Pepe breaks through into the clearing. Cristóbal has already gone to stand in front of his wife, looking her over as if searching for holes. He shakes his head slowly but determinedly at his cousin until, eventually, Pepe lets his weapon down.
Delmi takes this as her signal to get up from the dirt and begin to push the hostages with the tip of her gun, forcing them to return from wherever they’ve crawled or run to and get back onto their tarps. When she reaches Antoine, he won’t move. “Get up,” she says, adding one of her reflexive giggles. She pokes him again.
Danielle, on her scraped knees now, feels herself melting back towards the ground: there’s blood.
“Get up!” Delmi says, more loudly, but Pepe walks over quickly and pushes her away. He puts his hand on Antoine’s back. He’s been shot there. There’s a lot of blood.
Pierre panics. He gets up and starts to run. Cristóbal goes after him, grabbing him after just a few unrushed steps on his long legs and bringing him back. Cristóbal does not raise his gun. He doesn’t need to. Pierre looks like he’s had all of his bones removed. When Cristóbal lets him go, he falls to his knees and crawls towards his friend like an insect.
Pepe turns to Danielle and tells her to translate. “He’s dead. It was an accident.” His voice is even, despite his heavy breathing, despite the blood. His face is as closed as it was on that very first day, when he lined them up against the bus and let them believe he was about to shoot them all. “We will bury him and then we will move at sunset, like normal.”
Danielle can’t say this the first or second time she tries. “He’s dead,” she finally articulates. Two words like small fires igniting in her mouth. Martin promptly throws up. Tina tries unsuccessfully to hide under her own hair and shakes where she sits.
Pepe takes away Rita’s gun and orders Cristóbal to tie her hands. The cousins, who, moments ago, were struggling for control, who might have killed one another over Rita, work in concert. Cristóbal seems to understand that his wife has betrayed him. He pulls her hands tightly behind her back. Rita is as silent as if Pepe has cut out her tongue. She and Danielle exchange a look. It’s not regret, but it’s not gloating either. Rita seems shocked to be alive. As soon as she’s tied up, Pepe pushes her to the ground onto her stomach and orders Delmi to keep guard. Then he rushes back out through the trees.
Danielle wants to hope that Rita at least managed whatever she was trying to do — make a call out, likely, remembering Rita’s words to Pierre that night: “El teléfono. . . distráelo.” Distract him. Danielle hopes Rita was prepared with the right phone number, a name, whatever will guarantee her precious transit across the border. If so, the shooting might not have been for nothing. They could all be freed. But Danielle is quite certain there wasn’t enough time. And anyway, such an unlikely success won’t change what has happened to Antoine. There’s no going back.
12:45 PM. San Salvador
Aida argues with the taxi driver, but he refuses to take her any closer. She wonders if she’s using the right words. “Me voy a la catedral,” she repeats. I’m headed to the cathedral. The young man glances into his rearview from under a cap decorated with a stylized image of the blessed heart of Jesus wrapped in a thorny crown. He tells her firmly that he can’t risk his car by getting any closer, that she’d be smart to let him take her someplace else and that otherwise she should pay up and get out. Aida counts the fare they agreed on, hands it over and slams the door. Four blocks to go. She assumes the aggressive look on her face — like an indifferent scowl — that she’s learned deters harassment from men, and starts walking. Quite a lot of people seem to be moving in the same direction. Two come to a stop in front of her.
“Hey,” says one of them, a girl about Aida’s age, her hands stuck into the back pockets of low-slung jeans. “Sorry about your mother. We are really grateful for her writing.”
Aida just looks at her. How dare this person lump Danielle in with the kidnappers’ cause? “She didn’t have a choice,” Aida replies, altering her course to go past the girl and her friend.
But the young woman steps back into her path. “Salvadorans need to read what she’s said about that man. Especially our parents. They don’t get many chances to express their feelings about the war.”
Aida sidesteps her yet again. “Half of it’s probably not even true.”
The girl looks like she’ll laugh. She swings out one elbow to indicate the crowd. “True enough for all of these people.”
Aida hurries on. How can anyone be so delusional? Probably that girl also buys Marta’s logic that the violence of the abduction is comparable to the supposed violence NorthOre’s mine is causing. Which is insane. A gold mine is a business, not some random act of criminals. Aida continues to berate the girl inwardly until the cathedral comes into view. And then her breath goes out of her in amazement: there must be a thousand people crowding the plaza, maybe more. The girl’s words echo back: true enough for these people. Aida wonders if that’s how things are measured in El Salvador — in increments of truth. She can’t remember ever being surrounded by so many bodies, except once, as a teenager, when her friends dragged her downtown for an appearance by the Spice Girls. Not exactly the same scene. Haven’t they heard that the very committee that organized the rally is now implicated in the kidnapping? Aida can only conclude that people feel a personal connection with Marta Ramos, the woman who’ll hug you like you’re her best friend and fight for whatever cause you throw at her. A sentimental reaction to her arrest must be drawing them here. Aida has to compel herself to mix with them.
Suddenly, several people block her way. Reporters. She tries to avoid them, veering right, but they’re like a swarm of mosquitoes. Their microphones prod her as they did at Neela’s vigil in Toronto. Except Aida doesn’t have Neela or André to shield her now, and she’s cornered into doing several short interviews with Canadian and Salvadoran outlets before she can move away. “How do you feel about the kidnapper breaking his promise to release a hostage?” one asks. “What do you make of the arrest of Marta Ramos?” shouts another. “Which of the hostages do you think the kidnapper has chosen to die first?” Aida turns to glare at the reporter who’s blurted out this question, a man not much older than she is. He wears an innocent expression of curiosity. Finally, she breaks free, but the question lingers.
She hasn’t gone far when a police officer asks to see ID. Several curious people gather to stare as Aida produces her passport. The officer orders them all to back off and scrutinizes the picture, then pulls up his radio, presumably to check with someone more senior, let them know that one of the family members is on hand. Chances are such a person will order him to send her home, so Aida straightens her back and interrupts the call loudly, explaining that she’s here to meet Carlos Reyes. He’s already warned the police not to interfere with her movements, and she will be forced to report anyone who causes her to be late. Her bullying seems to work. The officer puts down his radio and gives her back her passport.
On two sides of the plaza fronting the cathedral, police cars are parked end to end, like opposing teams. Two officers stand in front of each car, legs slightly apart. Aida isn’t particularly bothered by them. Actually, they reassure her. The crowd itself feels like the unruly element here. As she presses forward with difficulty, she sees yet more people pouring from two dilapidated school buses. The passengers wear cowboy hats and patterned dresses and carry cooking pots. Real campesinos, like the o
nes Aida has seen in pictures.
Far across the way, on the cathedral steps, Aida sees some people clustered together where she knows the microphone stand will eventually be placed. She strains to see if Marta has arrived yet — part of her hoping she has, as this will prove that Marta has been released from custody. But another part of her resists this scenario. Marta won’t be fooled like that officer. If she has the slightest inkling that the demonstration might get out of hand, she’ll make Aida leave. Which only makes Aida want to stay as long as possible. She’s embracing spontaneity, breaking from the habits of acting, of feeling, that have locked her and Danielle into an impasse at home. She’s staying, no matter what anyone says.
When the embassy called last evening with word that the kidnapper had faxed a map and instructions for how to locate the remains of “Enrique’s” family on the grounds of Mil Sueños, Aida was ecstatic. She’d left Marta’s by then. It was too lonely there after her phone call with Carlos. When Ralph rang to see how she was doing, she jumped at the chance to spend the evening with the other families. Staying with them felt natural.
They only had an hour to celebrate, however, before the embassy called back with bad news: the kidnappers were refusing to release anyone and were now imposing their own Thursday deadline to match NorthOre’s. Benoît, who’d taken the call, picked up the phone to throw it across the room in frustration. Only by rushing over with her freckled arms up was Sylvie able to stop him. Aida slumped into a chair beside Ralph: no one was coming back.
She got up a moment later and left the room, wandering through the common space of the guest house to a desk where there was another phone for visitors. She dialed Carlos. She needed to tell him, needed a better ending to their conversation than the one she’d had earlier. A woman answered his cell, sounding groggy.
“Está Carlos?”
The woman — his wife? girlfriend? — hesitated, but a moment later Carlos came on the line. “Sí?”
“Carlos. Habla Aida.”
“Aida. It’s 1:00.”
“It’s just — the kidnappers. They’re going to kill someone. Thursday. No matter what — unless the mine lets the exhumation go on indefinitely. It’ll be Danielle. I know it. I don’t know what to do. I wish I was home right now.”
Aida heard Carlos walk somewhere with the phone, then a faint click as a door closed. “In Toronto,” he said. “Maybe this is a good idea.”
“What? No. I didn’t really mean —” Aida felt idiotic. How had she ever imagined she could call a near stranger in the middle of the night for comfort?
“I’m only saying that if you decide to go home, you’ll be safer. You’ll have more support. Whatever you do, let me know. And tomorrow, please do not attend the Committee’s demonstration. My police contacts tell me it could be dangerous. I would be very concerned.”
Aida held the phone tightly. “I’m planning to be there,” she said, which became true as she uttered the words. Carlos just wanted her gone, didn’t want to have to listen to her read him old letters or babysit her anymore.
“No, Aida. Going will be a mistake.”
She hung up on “mistake.” She walked back to Sylvie and Benoît’s room, where she found the others descending into their blackest mood yet.
Now, continuing to walk through the crowd, Aida tells herself she made the right decision. Benoît’s anger and Sylvie’s crying, Ralph’s restrained disappointment, and Neela’s endless phone calls would be too much to endure.
“No a la mineria! No a la mineria!” a group of students chants as she passes. Aida mouths the words, just to see how it feels. But a call of disapproval follows, emerging from a different group of people to Aida’s right. “Booooh! Baaahh!” The students lose their rhythm and go silent a moment, then start back up with verve. “NO A LA MINERIA! ” The second group chimes in again, and it’s a mess of voices and calls.
“Buenas tardes,” says a man’s voice over the crowd, interrupting them. Someone is testing the microphone on the cathedral steps. “Good afternoon,” he says again, and the microphone squeaks. One of Marta’s committee members. “We are very happy to see so many of you. Welcome! We have had word that there are some individuals in the crowd today who represent forces working against us, and against our committee.”
Aida looks around. Only some of the people nearby are listening. The students are bunched together, rehearsing a new chant. Others are laughing, enjoying the get-together. Still others are readying banners and drums.
“Do not react if someone tries to provoke you. I want everyone to remain calm. We are going to keep our program short, and then we ask that you please disperse. Now, I want to introduce our only speaker today, whom we are very happy to have among us: Marta Ramos —” his voice is nearly drowned out by a loud cheer.
So she’s out. Aida checks herself and finds that she is mostly relieved. She strains to catch a glimpse of her host.
“Thank you,” Marta says, her voice a little shaky. “I want to acknowledge your presence and to tell you that I appreciate your support. My arrest yesterday morning was unwarranted. Another instance of the reverse justice that still predominates in this country, where the people who work for democracy are persecuted, and those who oppose it walk free.” The crowd makes a variety of noises. “This is why tomorrow we will not be gathering here.”
Aida is surprised. Many nearby are booing. Is Marta giving up?
“But wait! I said we will not gather here, where the police can harass us, and where people hired to do so can provoke us. We reject these tactics of NorthOre. We reject police brutality. But we will meet! At a different location. One with great symbolic value. The Río Rico has fed our land for a millennium. Currently, it is being poisoned by NorthOre and the Mil Sueños mine. This will be our gathering place. We do not exist only to shut down mines, as our critics will try to make people believe. We support clean water, clean air, healthy soil, healthy futures.”
The crowd erupts in a roar of cheers. But there are nearly as many heckles, and Marta is forced to stop speaking for a long while. When the yeas and nays finally settle, she picks back up. “We’ve arranged for buses to leave from the Estación del Oriente tomorrow at 6:00 to take people to the mouth of the river, one hour north of here. Our committee members will contact the various organizations in the next few hours to determine how many will come. And now, all of you, do what is safe and go home. And Aida Byrd —”
Aida freezes.
“— please make your way to the east side of the cathedral, beside the steps, so we can take you back.”
Aida is at once self-conscious and happy. She checks around her; no one recognizes her as the object of this address. They’re too busy with one another. The mood is changing. A restlessness has gripped people. Aida looks for an easy path. Despite her tough self-talk, she suddenly wants to go exactly where Marta has suggested. She starts in a beeline east, but an older man puts out his arm to stop her. “Señorita. There’s a fight that way. Don’t go.”
“But,” Aida begins, trying to explain. Before she can, everyone around them seems to get the same message and they turn like a wave, forcing Aida to either squeeze through or be swept along with them. She decides to let herself go with the flow and double back at a distance. A few steps on she turns to see that a scuffle is indeed spreading to where she just was. Several men jostle one another and a tense line has formed between the students and hecklers. “A thousand nightmares for a thousand years,” say the students, in a play on the Mil Sueños name. “Viva El Salvador!” say the others, less imaginatively.
Sticking close to the older man Aida makes a left towards the centre of the plaza’s garden, but five paces along she narrowly avoids being punched by a man who’s just taken a wide swing at another, who receives the hit directly on the left eye. His hat goes flying, and Aida marvels as someone else manages to catch it and quickly lower their arm, claiming it. She stands in shock watching the punched man fall to the ground in a heap before tearing herself
away.
“Everyone, por favor,” Marta is saying, but it’s becoming more difficult to make out her words over the racket. Aida starts to hope Marta will use her name again. “Please leave in an orderly fashion.
Please do not —” And then Marta’s voice is lost and the world slows considerably as Aida hears an entirely unfamiliar sound: a phhooomff, a whistle in the air, a sharp plonk, a rattle and a hiss. A puff of silver smoke appears, maybe forty feet away. Aida tries to retreat from it, but the smoke moves at tremendous speed and is quickly around and beyond her. She stops, her toes tightening in her sandals. An intense burning sensation comes over her, buckling her knees, and she’s down, the bare skin of one of her kneecaps smacking hard earth below the grass. There’s gas in her mouth and her ears, her eyes and her nose. She gropes at the damp blades, unable to breathe.
Suddenly, two people, women, pick her up by the arms so firmly Aida grimaces. They drag her along, she doesn’t know which way. But she’s willing. She’s grateful. She’ll go anywhere that the smoke isn’t. Wherever they want to take her. Aida asks herself how a single scuffle turned into tear gas. It seems disproportionate.
Eventually, they get clear of the thickest smoke. Aida hacks and coughs, but is able to keep up, to inhale enough air. That’s when she looks over and sees them: riot police, advancing, slapping their batons against their shields like in a movie. Thud. Thud. Thud. The two women just stare. “Vamos,” Aida says, and encourages them to retreat with her. They press past people in the direction Aida first came from after the taxi dropped her off and are nearly at the mouth of a side street when another set of sounds — phhooomff, whistle, plonk, rattle, hiss — sends a huge cloud of gas up into the air just behind them.
Aida is momentarily paralyzed. Her stomach folds over itself and she throws up, her eyes burning, her lungs feeling like they’re being fried inside her chest. Only when she’s finished heaving does she realize that the women have gone on running without her. She calls after them, stumbling around, eventually coming across several people sharing splashes of bottled water. Still bent over, Aida reaches out her hand and she groans with relief when she feels her palm fill with liquid. She brings the water to her eyes, catching a small amount in her mouth.
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