Open Pit (2 page)

“Eets closed,” Pierre says to him, his accent thickening with irritation. He rolls his eyes towards Danielle like she should have known.

She's about to tell him to back off, there's been some mistake, but she's distracted by Ramón. He pulls the keys from the ignition, but instead of turning to offer an explanation, he levers the creaky folding door open and gets out. The group is silent as he disappears without looking back. Danielle thinks of an actor leaving a stage. Something about it makes her rise in her seat. She tries to hide her concern, to look like she can manage. Nothing's wrong here.

But stepping outside, she isn't so sure. Ramón is gone.

11:57 AM
. Los Pampanos, Morazán

A thin honk. Pedro is early, as usual, and Marta Ramos hurries to gather her things. She shuts the office door, testing the lock with a few hard tugs. Ever since the mine's goons forced their way in last year she wishes the Committee could afford an alarm. No one was charged, of course. But Marta has no doubt. If she weren't so
loca
about backing up data, the water sampling numbers would have vanished with her laptop.

She stands on the threshold until Pedro has thoroughly checked the area, then steps into the car. Pedro closes her door. “They haven't called,” she says, perplexed, as he takes the wheel and backs them out. “Neela was very clear that they would call. I better see if I can reach the one in charge — Neela's friend from Toronto. Is it possible I met her once?” Pedro is not a talker, and Marta long ago stopped waiting for answers from him. “Red hair,” she adds, fumbling for her cell, noticing that she's missed two callers. “
Díos mío!
” she says, reviewing her messages. “Members. . . trying to get out of tomorrow's meeting.” She snaps the phone shut. “Do they think El Pico will be magically spared while they're out dancing?”

Pedro shakes his head in shared dismay at the weak links in the fight against the Mil Sueños gold mine. He keeps a steady speed as they cruise along the main highway that cuts through Los Pampanos, past
Clic-Clic,
the Internet café and ice cream joint, then the steep driveway leading to the crumbling community radio station, after which comes the cinderblock former office of decommissioned guerrillas, now meeting place for AA, NA, Alateen. Opposite that is the giant new evangelical church where, if the windows were open, Marta can guarantee she would hear determinedly cheery singing. Finally, the market comes into view. It's silly, really. The whole distance would take fifteen minutes on foot. But Pedro doesn't like her to walk, and anyway, Marta prefers air conditioning. They park and head to the main doors, where Marta speed dials one of her delinquent committee members. “We can't give up now,” she tells him, though she's said this too many times, to too many supporters.

“
Licenciada Ramos!
” shouts a man near the market doors, smiling broadly. “
Adios! Adios!
”

Marta waves, acknowledging the salutation even as she continues her call. One last stab at convincing the member to show up to the meeting. “It will be short — just one hour.”

Pedro taps his watch face and gives her a look.

“I know,” she mouths. She hangs up to dial Neela's replacement —
Daniela
something — but someone else has just stepped out of the market: a former nurse and mother of four, now unemployed and sick, who lives downriver from the mine. Marta has been meaning to get a statement from her for months. She hustles over and hugs the woman, asking after her family. Then, as she does every time she comes to her home town, Marta completely loses track of time.

12:05 PM
. Roadside stop, Hwy 18

“Ramón?”

Danielle waits for an answer. Long enough to become conscious of the specific feel of the air, remembering it with sudden clarity, its fragrance and weight, the way it once made her feel enclosed, like she was trapped in a zoo. “Ramón!”

She rounds the bus to face the homemade-looking juice stand. “Ramón!” she yells, feeling stupid.

“Go check the front,” says Martin.

Danielle turns to see him pointing out a window of the bus towards the highway beyond the wooden structure. The other three delegates are looking out with the same concerned expression he wears. Danielle inspects the stand. Several boards are missing from the back wall. The inside is in deep shadow. “It looks abandoned,” she calls back. Still, to be thorough, she starts walking towards the far side.

A loud crash to her right makes her glance in that direction. Two men appear from the trees beyond where the bus is parked. For half a second Danielle thinks: oh, they work here. But the men, one tall, one short, are carrying weapons. Each has his head covered in dark material. Their shoulders bend forward as they eat up the distance between the trees and the bus.

“Danielle!” someone shrieks from inside. Then Tina screams, “What going on? What's going on?”

The short man is within a foot of Danielle before she can form a thought. He sticks the tip of his gun to her chest. Danielle steps backwards, dumfounded, trips, ends up on her side. The man's black ski mask juts towards her as he reaches down to grip her upper arm. Behind two small holes in the material, his eyes are steady.

Danielle recoils. She scrambles, hands and feet forming a wall. The man is silent as he works to stay clear of her kicking boots. “No no no no,” she yells, aiming for him. But he simply releases her arm and grabs her by the hair. Danielle comes to standing in a split second, the pain leading her up like a winch. The man switches his hold, locking a forearm around her shoulders so that she faces away. Danielle looks over that big arm, down at her feet, which are still jerking. Her hiking boots appear idiotically new. The man walks her around the front of the bus, the engine tick-tick-ticking as it cools.

Up the steps, banging loudly. Everyone on the bus screaming, Danielle joining in. “Stop this, please! Stop!”

BOOM-da-BOOM BOOM. Dah-da-dah-dah. BOOM-da-BOOM. Ramón's reggaeton, pounding.

“Help!” Martin pleads. “Help!”

“
Non!
” cries Antoine.

The second, taller masked man is already aboard, yelling “
Callense! Callense!
” in a high-pitched tone. The one holding Danielle edges past him, repeating “
Abajo!
” His voice is a counter to the other's: deep, rumbling with an emotion Danielle can't name. “
Abajo!
” he says, over and over, his gun aimed at each of the delegates in turn. He doesn't seem angry. The voice is too even. More like certain. The way a doctor tells you how to treat your disease: if you want to live, just shut up and do it.

“
Abajo!
”

But Martin is upright, doesn't understand the Spanish. Still holding Danielle like a rag doll, the compact man rushes him. “
ABAJO, PUTO !
” he yells, shoving the butt of his gun into Martin's midsection. Martin folds in half with a sharp exhalation and collapses onto the floor, his shaking hands covering the back of his head. The taller man comes and pulls him up onto one of the seats.

Danielle screams. The man holding her backs up and forces her into a row nearer the front then joins his partner at the centre of the aisle. She hears the delegates breathing hard into their laps behind her, Tina making a squeaking sound, maybe hyperventilating.

A strong smell pervades the space. Piss. Danielle looks back. As she does, Pierre glances up the aisle towards her, sees her see him, sees her smell it, his face turning a deep red. Danielle looks away.

The music is shut off with a small click, and Danielle, bending, glimpses Ramón. He's back. He starts the bus and puts it in gear, pulls onto the highway, drives ten, maybe twenty minutes. Upwards. Up and around a lot of corners, then more slowly, as Danielle watches a handful of two-storey buildings cross through the windows above her. Los Pampanos. Then trees, a near stop, a sharp right — off the highway? Yes. Danielle hears gravel being dispersed, the road getting rougher, dust coming through the windows, everyone bouncing on their seats like freight. She has time to consider the irony of something this bad happening to her here, and now. She thinks of Neela, then of Aida.

The bus stops. “
Afuera!
” says the compact one, and the confusion starts up again as his tall partner starts seizing people's arms, forcing them to stand. They're marched off and lined up along the side, where the tall one searches their pockets, removing Danielle's papers, her phone, some loose change. When he gets to Ramón, he completely ignores him. Danielle swears she sees her driver smile.

5:30 PM (EST)
. East End, Toronto

Aida puts down her bag. The smell of her own childhood nearly overwhelms her. She turns on the hall light, takes off her coat and boots, makes enough room in the musty, overstuffed closet so nothing in there will touch them, loosens her scarf and goes into the kitchen. A blue sticky note curls on the stove:
REAR BURNERS OUT
. As if Aida is about to cook. She folds the note in half and puts it on the counter.

Nothing has changed. Even the same arrangement of fridge magnets Aida saw last time she was in the house, several months ago. Her grandfather's research books are still rotting on the built-in shelves under the stairs. She runs her hand along their weakening spines as she walks back down the hall, hoping she'll feel him. Nothing. It's been too long.

She wanders upstairs and sits on the bed in her old room. Hard as ever. She quickly gets up and checks her phone. André said he'd check in when he left the university. She goes into the bathroom, touches up her makeup, decides she could use a manicure, then pees. She lifts a book from the bin beside the toilet.
Excavating Your Authentic Self
. Is that what Danielle's doing? The book is pristine. Aida lets it drop back to where she expects it will remain, exactly that way, forever.

Back downstairs she searches the kitchen for the plant food her mother asked her to use. Opening the cupboard she locates the bag, which contains about a tablespoon of powder. Aida slams the door and sighs. The three-bar melody of her text notification chimes. She smiles, relieved. It's André.

STILL THERE?

Aida detects annoyance. TRAFFIC. BACK SOON, PROMISE.

KEEP YOUR PROMISE AND I'LL COOK FOR YOU. AT STORE NOW. SUPERB FIDDLEHEADS.

Aida prefers asparagus, but she loves when André makes a fuss for her. PERFECT, she replies. BUT ONE FAVOUR FIRST? Aida hates favours and feels strange texting for one, especially from André, who generally prefers to guess what she needs and offer it rather than to have her ask. But Danielle's plants should not pay the price for her mother's neglect. Aida asks him to buy some of the plant food, typing in the brand name.

There's a long pause before André returns the text. SHE EVER GOING TO SELL THAT PLACE?

Aida frowns. NOT SURE. Her mother will never sell. But Aida knows André isn't curious about the house. It's Danielle he's talking about. He doesn't try very hard to hide his dislike of her, which hurts a little, even if Aida understands. The less they discuss her mother, the better. Aida does enjoy a fiddlehead. FORGET THE PLANT FD. I 'LL DO IT.

NO. IT'S FINE. I WILL, MON ANGE.

Aida smiles again. She's his angel. It's not André's fault he's huffy. He's French, from a rich-ish family in Paris. They loved Aida when they visited Toronto, let her know how much they're looking forward to getting to know her. If only Danielle had been so pleasant the first time she met André. Or ever been that way with Aida, for that matter.

But. Watering plants is a painless task requiring two visits to this relic, tops.

Aida goes to check out the fern in the dining room. On the way, she passes a pile of papers, stops to look. It's a stack of envelopes held together by a thick elastic band, another sticky on top.
Please read these in the spirit of forgiveness, which is what I hope for. We can discuss when I get back. Over a glass of wine? — Danielle
Aida tugs off the elastic. Each envelope is addressed to Danielle's old friend Neela Hill, but at a street address Aida doesn't recognize. She takes the top envelope and pulls out a single sheet, unfolds it. The paper is gritty and thin, nearly see-through, the handwriting rough, like Danielle was in a hurry. It's dated January
20
,
1980
.

Dear Neela,

This is first moment I've had to myself since we arrived. I'm writing you so you don't think I got lost, never to be seen again. I'll figure out later how the hell to send it. The trip here was weird and exhausting. We sort of went in circles. Turns out they have to switch up the routes they take, bringing journalists across. But no one explained that until later.

So here I am in guerrilla territory! This morning they handed me a Styrofoam plate of tortillas and beans and a tin mug with coffee so sweet my fillings nearly fell out. A woman our age (I think), very serious, shook my hand and said, “
Compa.
” (Everyone calls everyone that.)“We are proud to have you witness our struggle.” Not a bad start.

From what I can see Morazán is nothing like the places where I lived with my parents (Dad studies coastal soils, as in beaches).

Aida freezes at the mention of her grandparents. Is she prepared for more about them? About a young Danielle? Excavating her mother's “authentic self” isn't what she's had in mind. She glances back at the letter, but now the old wall phone rings in the kitchen. She gets up to answer, then changes her mind. No one knows she's here except André and Danielle, and they usually text — Danielle begrudgingly. Aida doesn't need any hassles about her mother's unpaid bills. She reopens the letter.
We're inland, so the mountains are dry and dramatic. You'd like the pine trees — and the views.

So far, the faction seems. . . informal? Not sure what else to call it. The guerrillas don't even have uniforms, so it's hard to tell who's who. A lot of teenagers are sitting around with guns like they're waiting for orders. My primary contact at Command is supposed to be here tomorrow. He'll decide where they're sending me first.