Open Pit

by Marguerite Pigeon

  Many others stumble as she does, through clinging silver wafts of gas, hurriedly tying scarves or t-shirts around their noses as they scatter, each carving their own path, but everyone with the same goal: to leave behind the emptying canisters that Aida now understands are being lobbed from the tops of the buildings lining the central plaza. But what about the riot police? Why aren’t they helping? How will she get home? Where is home? Marta’s house? Her host’s paranoia about the police returns to Aida now as a warning she has been too stupid to heed. And this, in turn, makes her doubts about Marta waver dramatically. Nothing seems as clear as it used to.

  Aida has never been more aware of how unprepared she is to face real violence. She cries unabashedly for defying the others, for leaving that taxi, assuming things would remain in control, as they always have for her until this week, for wearing these clothes — an impractical skirt and flimsy sandals. The skirt is splattered with the blood of that man who was punched earlier; one of her shins is cut where she’s fallen. Aida is filled with the sudden knowledge that if anyone really looks at her now, instead of just bumping into and streaming past her as they are, they’ll see something truly pitiable: a fake, a war orphan.

  “Marta! Marta!” Aida screams out Marta’s name because she has no one else to scream for. But now her eyes widen at a new sound and her pupils burn for it. An echoey rat-tat. Gunfire. Aida hits the ground like everyone else around her. People scream. She can tell that the chaos is more intense closer to the cathedral, and she wonders how Marta got out — whether she got out. Aida is suddenly convinced that she will be shot. She clasps her hands over the crown of her head.

  An arm grabs her shoulder. Aida lifts both hands and turns from the ground to protect herself, or to accept help if it’s the same two women as before. But it’s Carlos she sees. Carlos Reyes.

  “Vente!” he says, and with the sound of bullets firing not far away they run towards one of the old yellow school buses Aida saw earlier. When they get to them, they round one, Carlos puts his arm over her and they press against the side of the vehicle. Ahead of them and behind, others also take shelter this way.

  Carlos turns Aida’s head left, then right to look her over. Behind him, people are running. He wipes her mouth with his hand and Aida realizes she must still have vomit there. Carlos pulls out a handkerchief and, using a small bottle of water, wets it and ties it around her face, covering her nose and mouth. “When I say so, we are going to get up and run to that street corner — over there.”

  Rat-tat. Aida jumps.

  “They’re not aiming this far from the cathedral,” says Carlos. “They’re mostly scattering them. Take a few more breaths,” he says, and nods at her as if answering all the questions she might come up with.

  Aida looks more closely at him. Carlos is dressed incongruously again, this time, in a collared shirt and thin sweater. He doesn’t fit. Doesn’t want to.

  “Vamos!” he says, and takes her hand.

  Aida goes with him, but there’s a catch, something off about the way it feels to hold Carlos’s hand — the one with the scar. The feeling is so strong she momentarily lets it go. “I have to get to Marta,” she says, turning back to see what’s happening at the cathedral, if Marta is still on the steps. But it’s hopeless. There are too many layers of people and clouds of smoke.

  Carlos finds her hand again and pulls. On they go, stopping and starting, out of the plaza and down the same set of streets Aida came in on, all of which are packed. They move around people, ducking flying objects (people are breaking glass, it seems) and hiding briefly in doorways. “Vamos, Aida. Vamos,” Carlos says every so often, and Aida does her best not to lag.

  And then they’re at a locked door and Carlos is banging loudly, saying his name. They wait, listening as a helicopter makes a huge racket flying low along the next lane, moving towards the crowd. Carlos has just put down his fist and is turning to leave when the door opens a crack.

  A moment later it’s over. Aida is in the same café where she and Carlos had their first meeting. Rows of clean glasses behind the gleaming bar. Two clients crouching in one corner below window level, puffing nervously on their cigarettes. The thick door closes and the sounds beyond it, of the helicopter and approaching sirens and people yelling, are muffled. The person who’s let them in, a big man, brings a large bucket of water and a rag, and Carlos starts washing Aida’s face and her neck. But she pulls the rag from him and finishes the job herself. Then she drinks some water that the big man offers her before he goes to check on his customers. Tears pour involuntarily down Aida’s cheeks.

  “I have to leave,” says Carlos. “I am very late. One of the family members, Sylvie, called the cell number I gave you all. I came to find you. But I can’t stay. You’ll be alright. Don Felipe will give you a phone. The others will be worried.”

  Aida shakes her head. Her vague distrust of Carlos has burrowed in somewhere very deep. Of course he’s going. He will never give her his time. She no longer even wants it. She starts to cry in earnest, and Carlos looks away like he’s seen something ugly.

  “I should not have spoken to you the way I did before. I’m going to do something important,” he says, then pauses. “I have to repair things.”

  Leaning against the cool bar, Aida feels strong revulsion building inside. There is no repair for the damage Carlos has caused. She reaches into her skirt pocket and slides an envelope towards him across the polished wood. “Before you go,” she says.

  Carlos looks at the letter with genuine fear. He starts shaking his head. “Aida, no.”

  “Okay. Then I’ll do it,” she says, grabbing it back, pulling the sheets from the envelope so roughly both nearly tear. She scans the text for the final section of the letter she read to Carlos at the mall. She withheld it before, from him and from André, out of embarrassment and, she thinks now, because she didn’t really want to understand Danielle’s reasons for abandoning her. “Nine months before I was born,” she says, then reads the passage aloud.

  Back in camp, neither Isidrio nor I breathed a word about what happened in the village, but people knew I never made it to the literacy centre for my story. They must’ve. No one asked me anything.

  Then last night I was alone in the spot I told you about before, reading with my flashlight, when I heard a noise. My heart almost stopped when I saw it was Adrian. I wanted to say the words: murderer, traitor.

  He didn’t ask if I was okay. Didn’t talk about the incursion or that kid. He said we must always be willing to be truthful about our mistakes. I couldn’t tell if he meant his “mistake” of having shot the boy, or my mistake for being there. Did he want me to admit I’d seen him?

  I started shaking. He put his arm around me. I froze. Then, without another word, he started to feel me all over. He looked me right in the eye, but it was like he was staring at a blank wall. He took off my clothes and had sex with me. The whole time I was like a statue. And then he got up and left.

  Now it’s almost morning and I haven’t slept at all, and I’m writing this letter fast because my flashlight battery’s dying. I think you will never want to speak to me again after reading this, but I had to tell someone. Don’t be mad. Please. I thought I loved him.

  DB

  Aida glares at Carlos. “You did this.”

  Carlos’s handsome face comes apart and puts itself back together more than once, the performer trying to overcome the guilty party.

  The man from the café, Felipe, approaches, excusing himself, saying he’s checked and it looks safe for Carlos to leave from the service door.

  Pale now, sweating, Carlos nods, then leans towards Aida and whispers, “I would like to know you, Aida.” He stays close a moment, so close that he could touch her face or lay a palm on her shoulder, maybe add something more, but probably knowing he has no right to contact, to any claims to her affection. Then he leans away, passes into a back room and is gone.

  After a moment, Felipe asks if Aida would like to use the phone t
o call home. How can he know she doesn’t have one?

  4:00 PM. Mil Sueños mine

  Manuel Sobero normally dislikes this time of day. The guards’ shift change, followed by routine paperwork, keep him from what he most enjoys: sitting in his office where he can plan in peace. But this evening is unique. He has an unexpectedly pleasant task to perform. “It’s not possible for you to see Señor Wall,” he says, stepping closer to the front window of the mine’s reception area, his phone pressed to his ear. He can just glimpse the car Carlos Reyes has arrived in. It’s parked at the main gate of the mine. “You’ll speak to me.”

  “You made Mitch change the plan,” says Carlos, on the other end of the line.

  “In fact, I didn’t. You did.”

  Sobero watches as the door to the car flies open. The two guards standing nearby hike up their rifles. “You forget yourself,” says Sobero.

  The car door stays open, but Carlos makes no move to get out. “Mitch has to override the Thursday deadline,” he says. “He has to let the exhumation go on.”

  Sobero laughs out loud. Mitch’s assistant appears where the reception room abuts the main hallway, but Sobero sends her back with a pointed finger, as he did a few minutes ago. He isn’t finished.

  “If this is about the documents implicating Marta Ramos,” says Carlos, “my source says he can get more evidence that will prove definitely that she’s involved.”

  Sobero clicks his tongue admiringly. “You would do this? For Señor Wall? How kind.”

  “Put Mitch on.”

  “Yes, such a friend you’ve been. Coming all this way! You must have rushed from the capital. One of my colleagues watched you leave your office and walk to the cathedral just a few hours ago. You have been so generous with your time, really since the day you met Señor Wall. You remember that day, don’t you?”

  Silence from Carlos’s end.

  “I’ll remind you. You gave a speech to which, at the last minute, Señor Wall happened to receive an invitation. You used the example of this mine to illustrate your point. Very flattering. And yet, it’s odd that this example came to you when you had a different one in the written version of the speech — an Australian water filtration company, I believe. Truly odd. Almost as if you changed the example on purpose to create a pretext for getting to know Señor Wall.”

  Carlos swears under his breath.

  “I have to say I was surprised to learn how little some of the employees at your Consejo Policial are paid, Señor Reyes. I had no trouble finding one who was open to incentives. And your office has many interesting files. Hard copies of all your official speeches.”

  Sobero hears Carlos’s engine start up. “Wait,” he says. “Don’t you want to know how Señor Wall reacted when I gave him the original version of the speech? The one that had nothing whatsoever to do with him?”

  The door to the car slams closed and a moment later Sobero sees the vehicle backing away. The phone line remains open.

  “We know where they are,” says Sobero, nearly shouting now, tasting success. “And I am the only one who can do anything about it. The police, they are still sitting on their hands because of the Canadian Ambassador who, you’ll agree, has been very troublesome to them.”

  Sobero pivots from the window to face Mitch Wall, who is sitting in the receptionist’s chair, a fist to his lips. “Curious that your friendship with Señor Wall has coincided so closely with this crisis,” Sobero says to Carlos. “Could it be that you knew someone was intending to ask for the mine to be closed? That you wanted to influence Señor Wall’s decision in favour of meeting that demand?”

  Carlos hangs up on him. Sobero holds out the phone to Mitch in a gesture of mock helplessness. “I guess now we will never know.”

  WEDNESDAY

  APRIL 13

  11:15 AM. Main Road, Mil Sueños mine site

  Dear Mr. Wall,

  We who have gathered peacefully outside your gates demand that you extend the deadline you have imposed on the exhumation at El Pico. We believe that if there are human remains on this land resulting from a crime committed during El Salvador’s civil war, they must be brought up in the name of our country’s collective memory.

  We want to acknowledge your decision to impose a stop-work order this week, including an end to blasting, and we call your attention to the silence and peace this pause has brought throughout the municipality. We thank you and our children thank you for the respite. We hope we can now enter into more meaningful dialogue about the mine’s responsibilities towards local people.

  Sincerely,

  Concerned Citizens of Los Pampanos

  Marta holds the note out to the guard who is preventing her from stepping from the bus. “Give it to the boss.” The guard looks at the note like it’s made of uranium, but calls back to one of many others manning the roadblock. Each is dressed like him, with the stupid MaxSeguro logo of a breached lock stitched on the upper sleeves of their black shirts. One guard breaks from the line, trots up, retrieves the note, turns and runs past the barrier all the way down the road to the front gate of the Mil Sueños mine.

  Ten minutes later, Marta is still perched on the bus’s lowest step, still staring at the first guard’s puffed chest, when something beeps on his lapel. He presses a button there, then puts a finger to his miniature earpiece. He nods and steps aside.

  It takes Marta a moment to realize this means they can pass. “Adelante!” she says to the driver, and everyone on the bus cheers. Except the Canadians, Marta notices. Sitting at the back, they’ve been completely silent since the convoy was stopped.

  Marta fibbed. It’s an old trick — but a good one — to throw off police and hired agitators, at least for a while, by announcing a false gathering point for a rally. It works best if you can make sure the media find out otherwise, which of course she did. The Río Rico is nice, but Mil Sueños is the only place worthy of continuing the demonstrations.

  Yes, she’s afraid. Of more police, tear gas, rubber bullets, arrests. Two people ended up with gunshot wounds yesterday, scores more beaten, handfuls unlawfully detained. But every one of the people on these buses has chosen to come here of their own volition. They’re used to risk. As for Marta, she doesn’t believe in destiny, but if she did, she’d say she’s going to outlive all the Hernándezes and MaxSeguros. In return, she just has to keep working, organizing. She’ll do it for as long as she can find anyone willing to be organized. Today she has six buses’ worth. So what if MaxSeguro has somehow gotten wind of her plan? The police will too, sooner or later.

  Now, as they clear away the roadblock and the lead bus moves forward, approaching NorthOre’s main gate, followed by the rest of the convoy, Marta waits for what Manuel Sobero has planned for them next. A line of guards is converging at a slow, military-style jog, taking up places along the road, to the east and west of the main entrance. Yet another set of guards has formed a pen around the journalists who, Marta sees, have already arrived. Two satellite trucks, camerapersons and their gear, photographers and individual reporters with notebooks and cell phones are clumped together, looking frustrated and hot.

  The buses go right past them and park further east, on the south shoulder of the road. Marta takes her bullhorn and gets off, seeing the other senior committee members do the same at the doors of the other buses. She announces that everyone will have to work together to ensure an orderly demonstration. As people step out, she asks for volunteers to set up a makeshift cooking facility; of course, only women respond. As she speaks, the reporters come alive, hurrying to film or write notes about the protesters’ movements. The guards keep pace with them but take pains not to interfere with all these cameras around. Manuel Sobero isn’t that stupid.

  Marta turns and sees that Aida Byrd is standing at the top of the bus steps, ahead of the other family members. Marta gestures for them to descend. She really didn’t expect the families to come — Aida least of all. But last night, Ralph called to say that they’d taken a group vote and wan
ted to be here. Poor souls. They look like they fear an ambush. Marta leads them to a slightly shaded spot on the gravel shoulder, where they pass around drinking water. Paco stands nearby, as Marta has asked him to.

  “Hola,” she says, hugging each of the Canadians in turn, nodding at Aida to please translate. “A change from the plaza in San Salvador, no? When the demonstration is over, Pedro will take you into Los Pampanos. There’s a family in town that you will billet with.”

  Sylvie and Benoît hold hands and force smiles.

  “You really going to camp out here?” Ralph asks.

  “Of course. This is normal for us,” says Marta in English, smiling, then switches back to her own language. “Aida, can I speak with you?” She steers the girl away as the others watch. “I was so worried yesterday.” It’s true. Marta was frantic until Neela called with the news that Aida had returned by taxi from the demonstration to the guest house, unharmed.

  Aida keeps her eyes averted.

  “Those documents they have about me. They’re not real.”

  “I know.”

  Marta sighs, surprised. Aida has been suspicious of her from day one, but Marta has tried not to interfere with whatever process she has needed to make up her own mind. “You weren’t hurt?” she asks, checking Aida over. She looks fine, as put together as always, her light hair tucked neatly behind her ears. Maybe more fidgety than usual — biting a fingernail. She seems to be on the verge of unburdening herself, trying to decide whether to speak her mind. “You were really in the thick of it.”

  “Some people helped me,” says Aida.

  Marta smiles. Aida is giving her a half-truth of some kind, but she won’t probe. She feels great sympathy towards Aida Byrd. She has been foolish, but daring too, in her own way. An essential combination in a young woman. There’s still the self-confidence bordering on arrogance that Marta noted from the start, but it seems to have been productively troubled. “Some people helped me too,” Marta says, smiling. “Our members have a lot of experience with these kinds of situations.”