Open Pit (6 page)

“I came to write about
la guerrilla
.” She's scrambling again, needs to rescue herself. “It was just a student newspaper, and they took — I lost my notes. The articles never got published.”

Danielle knows the others might be able to pick up stray words from her Spanish:
guerrilla,
or
estudiante,
or
publicados
. Will they guess the rest? She can feel them trying to weave together a meaning. Only Pierre really knows. He got the basics about her past, back in San Salvador, when he pressed her on why she was leading the delegation instead of Neela. Danielle was forced to confide how, back in the dinosaur age, in her last year of university, she'd applied for permission to live with one of the five guerrilla factions that were starting a war against El Salvador's oligarchy. She instinctively left out everything else. These omissions have now morphed into a dark mystery Danielle can feel the others trying to probe as much as Pepe. She can practically hear them asking themselves who this old woman in front of them really is. Rita, who has stepped in closer to the group, is listening intently with the energy of a vulture as she, too, probes the mystery, her gun pointed.

“Where were you?” says Pepe, still addressing Danielle.

“Here. In Morazán.”

Pepe's eyes widen ever so slightly, their steadiness shaken. Then, suddenly, he swings back towards Pierre and puts so much pressure on his neck that the boy begins to choke. “Listen to me,
hijo de puta
. I am going to squeeze the life out of you in front of your friends. And then I'll leave a bullet in your skull so you understand. How much will it count for then, your devotion to El Salvador?”

Pierre, who clearly has only the vaguest idea of what is being said to him, tries to articulate words between gasps. No one makes them out. But just as abruptly, Pepe lets go, raises his chin, pulls back his shoulders and returns to his position behind the camera. “Tell him he has thirty seconds to talk or I'll shoot him,” he says, bending down to adjust the
LCD
screen. He might as well be talking about the weather. The bomb has been abruptly defused.

Danielle numbly repeats these words. She watches Pierre pull his t-shirt collar away and rub his neck. He wobbles as he gets to his feet, looking smaller, rumpled, the cult leader dethroned. When he gets to the stump he puts down a hand, steadying himself before sitting.

Danielle can't stop crying. Stupid, stupid, she thinks, angry with herself for it — for everything. “ ‘I urge the government to do whatever is necessary to secure our release by Monday, April
11
th,
2005
,' ” she says. “ ‘Otherwise, these people will take our lives one by one.' ”

Repeating the statement, Pierre's voice is a clash of squeaks and croaks.

“Now something for his family,” says Pepe, not moving his eyes from the camera.

When Danielle echoes this in English, Pierre just shakes his head. Danielle worries that another, worse explosion of anger will result — a mushroom cloud no one can survive. But Pepe mustn't care much either way about the personal stuff because he presses a button to end the recording.

“Now you,” he says to her, as Cristóbal leaves the campsite, returning with a length of rope and a blue bandana. He pulls Pierre to one side and starts tying.

Pepe is putting the video camera back into its case.

Cristóbal approaches. “
Listo
.”

Pepe glances back at the hostages to assess whether Pierre's hands and mouth have been adequately bound. He gives the camera to his cousin. “Pack this away. And tell Rita to go easy on them.”

Cristóbal tilts his hat, letting in some air. “
Sí,
” he replies, but he keeps his eyes averted. He takes the case and turns it over absently.

“Your wife could be dangerous for us if she overreacts.”

Cristóbal shakes his head. He knows Rita can put up a fuss. That's her way. Unlike Delmi, who has no spine, who will do whatever Rita or Pepe tells her.

“She will be,” says Pepe, insisting.

Cristóbal still doesn't look back at him, and the men stand, just a foot from one another, in an edgy silence until, in a sudden move, Pepe lifts a fist towards Cristóbal, who flinches, his hand going up to protect himself. But the fist slows, coming to land with a light touch across Cristóbal's left bicep. “If she's hard on you, it's okay,” Pepe says teasingly, and uses his knuckles to grind into the arm muscle.

Cristóbal smiles, relieved. Rita is their one source of conflict. Pepe has openly debated several times whether it's been a mistake to take advantage of her eagerness to be in on the plan, but Cristóbal always reminds him that it was better to include only people they know. His wife and her sister are both hard workers. And Cristóbal is as eager as Rita for the money Pepe is going to pay them. They'll use it to buy passage into the U.S. The best
coyotes
charge $
8
,
000
, and Cristóbal won't chance it on the cheaper kind, the ones who might leave you stranded halfway across a swollen river. He hopes Pepe will join them in
Los Estados
. But everything depends on Pepe placing a small amount of trust in Rita.

Pepe holds up the camera's memory card. “If Rita did her job, this will get to San Salvador.”

“She did.”

“We'll see.” Pepe walks off. “I have to take the call. Don't wait. Pack up.”

Cristóbal watches him leave and sees Pepe catch Delmi's eye. Cristóbal knows Rita has encouraged a relationship between the two. “He either fucks my sister or he'll end up fucking one of the foreigners. Which is easier for you?” she said, and Cristóbal conceded because he knew she was right. But he and Pepe have never discussed it. Delmi simply went to Pepe at some point, and Rita looks after the money. She's always thinking of money, but Cristóbal believes she's doing it for them, for their future.

As far as he knows, Pepe doesn't have any relations with women except paid ones. At least it's been that way since the war ended. That's when the cousins ran into one another at a construction site in San Miguel. “Missed a spot,” said a man standing behind Cristóbal as he was washing his hands in a bucket. Turning around, Cristóbal couldn't believe his eyes. There was his childhood companion, José Molina Domingo,
Pepito,
smiling, teasing as he always had. They became inseparable. “
Puro Indio,
” Pepe always calls him. And it's true. Cristóbal looks Indian. But he doesn't know anything about the Lenca, the ancient people Pepe says they're descended from, and he always worries that Pepe is insulting him. Cristóbal only did a few years of school and doesn't read the way Pepe does — especially not the news, which Pepe has an insatiable appetite for. Pepe is much more capable than he is, but they manage to get along anyway. Better than manage. Cristóbal attributes this affinity to shared blood.

As Pepe disappears from the campsite and Cristóbal tucks the camera back into his large canvas bag, he remembers those early days after the war, when Pepe was still drinking. He'd get into fights. One time Cristóbal knew just from the face of the man challenging his cousin that he wanted to murder Pepe. The wounds from the war were still so fresh. People acted on impulse. Pepe took the first punch like he wasn't planning on doing much to stop the next, or the next. Like he wanted to see how many the man had in him. Cristóbal broke it up, but in the commotion Pepe hit him in the head several times. Later, Cristóbal couldn't tell whether it had been even partly accidental. A lot of ex-militants have calmed down in recent years. Not Pepe. His turn to violence is like a tap valve popping off. He doesn't need a reason.

Last year, when he asked for Cristóbal's help, Pepe said there'd be no turning back once they talked details. He required a full commitment. But Cristóbal knew right away that he would do it, and not just for his share of the money Pepe had accumulated by means Cristóbal has never asked about, or even because he missed life as a guerrilla soldier so very much and wanted any chance to recreate it. He'd do it because he and Pepe have a bond.

6:30 PM
. Community hall, Los Pampanos

“One at a time,
por favor
.” Marta is hollering to be heard, something she's very good at. People must sense that tonight will be different. Attendance has tripled and everyone is clamouring to say their piece. “Please!” she repeats, then points to a raised hand several rows back. “You. Go.”

A chair scrapes as a man in a too-big t-shirt and work pants stands. “
Compañeros y compañeras,
I fought in the war against the
imperialistas
.” Someone passes him a microphone attached to a long extension cord, itself plugged into one of only two outlets in the hall. “I worked in the refugee camps to keep our people positive.” A hum of approval from the crowd. “I came back and helped rebuild this community when the government wished we would disappear.” More approving sounds. “And since
1996
I have been fighting this mine.”

Onstage Marta feels a creeping impatience. She doesn't like to interrupt speakers. The whole point here is to encourage community participation. But there is always one man who can drone on forever. “
Compa
. What is your comment tonight?”

“I have fought against this mine,” the man reiterates, “and now I think we need to support our brother who has taken a step to close it down.”

“Thank you,
Compa
. And what about the women here? We never hear enough from our sisters. Yes — you!”

A shy-looking woman seated nearer the back, directly under one of the tube lights that run the length of the hall's peaked tin roof, takes the mike. Several news crews, who've made the trip from the capital city for the first time in ages, crowd around her. Despite everything Marta knows about the media and their distortions, she is delighted. The Committee needs the coverage.

“
Compañeros y compañeras,
I don't support this abduction because I think it will bring a negative image to the fight against the mine, and the message of
Jesus Cristo
and
Monseñor
Romero was to use violence only when there is no other choice, and today is not like that, even though the mine is poisoning our water and my cousin has skin rashes from it and some people think this is reason enough to resort to violence, but I think they're wrong, and we need to continue our work of closing the mine down, but we should not support violence, which is bad for the struggle.”

“Good,” says Marta, “Thank you.” She paces her plywood stage. People tilt left and right to see her. Many stir the heavy air with paper fans. “So. We've heard many views tonight. Some of us are worried. Some of us want to fight. But brothers and sisters, we also have to think strategically, no? Whether or not we support the person who is demanding that the mine be shut down temporarily — and I repeat, temporarily — we still have an opportunity to use the media who are naturally being drawn to this case, as you see.” She sweeps an arm towards the cameras. Lenses whir, tightening their focus.

“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.