Open Pit (5 page)

Carlos doesn't return the smile. “El Pico will be a great achievement, Mitch. But today, it is only an idea. It can only succeed if you handle this abduction.”

Mitch smoothes his hair against the hot breeze. Any fear Carlos felt up above has apparently burned off. His voice is rock solid, and his warning strikes Mitch as overly dire. Usually they're too busy dreaming of the future — of the Pico expansion, of how they're going to help this shithole of a country grow — to get bogged down by obstacles. “Someone is trying to hurt me,” he says, feeling wounded by the change in his friend's demeanour. Then he realizes. “It's not the squatters. It's that Committee!” Mitch doesn't like to use the full name of the group that's had it in for him since day one. The Committee for the Environment — like they know anything about it; he's the one with environmental science Ph.D.s on staff. “From Los Pampanos. The ones who are always bad-mouthing me,” he says, recalling every trick, every ruse those nuts have tried against him so far — none successful. “They want to derail El Pico.”

Carlos gives him a long, assessing look. “It is important to find out who took the hostages, obviously. But maybe not as important as it seems. The Canadians have to live, regardless of who is responsible. That is the priority. Your ambassador has already understood this. Her own reputation is at stake.”

“The ambassador? What's she got to do with it?”

“One of my contacts tells me she's requested meetings at the top political levels. She's nervous about casualties if the police intercede.”

“But she can't really — she's not a factor here.”

“Oh?”

Just the way Carlos says it, Mitch begins to doubt.

“It would be worth deciding for yourself,” Carlos adds as they begin walking towards the portables.

He often drops hints like this, morsels that Mitch will later conclude are in fact good ideas. Mitch recalls the first time he ever saw Carlos Reyes. He received an invitation out of the blue to a speech Carlos was giving and thought, why not? Carlos showed up looking elegant and told his audience that countries like El Salvador are being forced onto new ground, politically, that no one can afford to dwell in the past. He emphasized that El Salvador needs large-scale investment to survive. And then he used the example of Mitch's mine, saying the name,
Mil Sueños,
making it an example. Mitch was so pleased he proudly elbowed the man seated beside him. Carlos ended his speech by saying that too many Salvadoran ex-guerrillas are afraid of the future. But he isn't. He will be the first to take the leap, wear the brave face. Mitch approached him afterwards to shake his hand. They've been in touch ever since.

A guard opens the door. The air-conditioned hallway feels cold after the noonday heat. Mitch leads the way to his office.

“I'm seeing them tonight, by the way,” says Carlos. “That Committee for the Environment.”

Mitch stops, the air suddenly icy.

Carlos just laughs at Mitch's discomfort, coming alongside him and wrapping a warm palm around the base of Mitch's neck, a Latin move Mitch would normally find too intimate. Somehow, Carlos pulls it off.

“Don't worry,” Carlos adds. “You need all the information you can get.”

2:00 PM
. Wooded area, Morazán

“First say your name.”

“Tina Chiblow.”

Danielle looks down at the handwritten note: “Now repeat: ‘I am a member of the Partners for Justice in the Americas delegation to the municipality of Los Pampanos, El Salvador.' ”

Tina says the words quietly, looking straight into the camera, the chords in her long neck clearly defined, her cheeks shining with tears or sweat. Probably both.

Danielle consults her paper again. “ ‘I urge the government to do whatever is necessary to secure our release by Monday, April
11
th,
2005
. Otherwise, these people will take our lives one by one.' ”

Tina pauses then lets the same words fall from her mouth like lead weights.

Danielle looks over at the kidnapper who calls himself Pepe. He pulls his attention away from the small viewing screen and nods her on. Danielle is struck all over again by the oddness of interacting with someone wearing a ski mask. “Now you have a minute to say something to your family,” she says, looking away. She hates that steady pressure Pepe applies with his eyes.

Tina is on a low stump about five feet off, her hiking boots planted in a scatter of dry leaves, her kneecaps forced up near her chest. She looks momentarily horrified at the idea of addressing her family. Danielle wants to say that she understands; this is not exactly a cozy setting. Stuck out on an ant-eaten tree trunk in dirty clothes, underslept, hot, traumatized, strangers ogling you — four of them wearing balaclavas and carrying rifles. But Tina's eyes also seem angry, maybe at Danielle for overseeing the translation of the videotaping. And so Danielle also has the urge to defend herself. She can't exactly go off script here. Pepe's gun hangs with nauseating heft from the strap on his shoulder. So she nods at Tina as empathetically as she can and silently begs her to get on with it.

The young woman pulls nervously on the tip of her ponytail and looks back into the camera. “Um. Okay. Well. What can I say? Mom, I'm fine. I'm not hurt. I don't want you to worry.”

This Tina is much more hesitant than the one Danielle spent a half day with in the capital city. The cool, knowing tone is gone. Tina continues ad-libbing what she seems to understand can't sound like the last message she'll ever send her family. “Uncle Ralph, we'll have to wait a while on that presentation I promised you. . . . John, looks like we're in the same boat now. At least you have a lawyer.” She nearly smiles, touching her hair again, tilting her head.

So this is what full-time yoga does for you. Tina's shapely face (only slightly swollen with bug bites) and her body are simultaneously soft and firm. Danielle wishes she could put up a barrier so that all the men — not just the kidnappers, but the other members of their group — couldn't gawk so blatantly. Danielle scans the faces of her fellow Canadians. Pierre is checking Tina out with a blend of judgment and boredom. Beside him Antoine has a worried, questioning expression, like he's silently asking her to please tell him when he can go back to peaceful, self-contained Quebec City. A few feet away Martin shifts his rump and stares at Tina with open, hopeless attraction.

“I miss you lots, John. Call Mum. She hates it when you don't call.”

Tina's done. Pepe must understand enough to know, because he straightens up and looks expectantly at Danielle, who repeats back Tina's statement in Spanish. How horrible! Reiterating these kids' personal messages has felt like spying. Martin, just before Tina, cried so hard Danielle could barely make out his words about how he still believed God would protect him. Antoine spoke to his parents with achingly straightforward affection. Pepe has listened closely through it all, his dark, almond-shaped eyes unwavering. Now something about them stirs a memory. Pepe reminds Danielle of someone she knew many years ago. But no. Not him. She tries to shake away the disturbing connection. More likely what she's remembering is just the choking atmosphere of violence.

Pepe sends Tina off. Danielle knows her turn is coming. She's going to have to say something to her daughter. She won't try for anything too lovey-dovey. That always backfires with Aida. But Pepe chooses Pierre instead. Wasting no time, Rita takes him by the arm. Rita, with her small head and tufts of bushy, dyed blonde hair that stick out from under her mask near chin level. She has a jerky way of moving and a meanness about her that seems to go beyond her role here. But she feels it again as Rita conveys intense pleasure in hauling Pierre up as roughly as possible. The cigarette he's been smoking falls to the ground. The kidnappers have been plying them with smokes — as pacifiers, presumably. Danielle gets it all too well. She sees herself crawl over to pick up Pierre's, brush it off, inhale. She quit a decade ago, but a slow, unhurried cig is still among the most desirable things she can think of. Fear keeps her glued to her spot beside the camera, of course, and Pierre doesn't try to reach for it either, even though it's practically begging to be rescued, right at his feet. Instead, he angles his head towards Antoine, trying to look like he's above it, then yanks his arm back from Rita so hard she loses her grip. Rita only snorts, content to clamp down doubly, but the interaction provokes a discernible spike in Danielle's anxiety.

Pierre comes to sit on the decayed log that faces the camera. Filling out the shot is a green tarp like the kind they all slept on. The kidnappers have strung it between low branches. Behind that, above the trees, Danielle can see the range of mountains that she remembers well, that mark the border between El Salvador and Honduras. A long, long way from Toronto.

When Pepe gives her the signal, she begins rereading the statement. “Start with your na —” but Pierre doesn't wait for her to finish.

“Elvis Presley,” he says expressionlessly.

Danielle forces a smile, like he's joking. “Your
real
name.”

“John Lennon.”

Danielle's palms moisten. She glances around. The others all seem confused, except Antoine. The fingers of both hands are crawling up his face towards his temples as if he's scared, expecting something bad from his friend. The other kidnappers, Rita and Delmi, along with Pepe's gangly sidekick, Cristóbal, exchange quizzical looks.

“
No tengo patiencia para burlos,
” says Pepe without looking up from his screen.

“He's getting impatient, Pierre. Just say your name, please.”

“Pierre Charbonneau, of
Québec
.”

“Now repeat . . .” Danielle reads out Pepe's script before pausing, waiting for Pierre to talk. He squints at her.

“
C'est d'la merde
.”

Danielle tries to understand. Could this be pride? Neela said Pierre is active in the Quebec nationalist movement. So he thinks he's a rogue? Sees himself as a grownup playing by his own rules, maybe. Her heart beats faster: she has been abducted alongside a man-child with delusions of difference.

“
Qué, cabrón?
” Pepe is standing straight now, addressing him.

Pierre looks right back at him. “
Me — erde,
” he repeats. “I'm not going to say his words.” He turns to Danielle. “What's he going to do? Shoot us — every one? How's he going to get his million, or whatever he wants, if we're all dead? I'm here for El Salvador. For the people. To learn. Do they even know? Why we came 'ere?”

Pepe looks towards Danielle too, his eyes glowing with interest. He's waiting for the Spanish. But Danielle can't produce it. Why is she here? Not for the same reasons as Pierre who, for all his bluster, probably really has come on this observational delegation because of his idealism and for its stated aim of seeing how rural Salvadorans live, listening to their stories about the trouble a foreign mine is causing them. Danielle's own agenda goes so far beyond this her tongue cannot form words for it. Which might be reasonable enough, except that Pepe is reaching for his gun — his second, smaller one. As he untucks it from the belt of his fatigues, Danielle flashes back to the moment on the bus, just after Pierre pissed his pants. His eyes weren't only red and scared. They were vicious. He was humiliated, belittled. He looks exactly like that now, as Pepe rushes him. He's still wearing the same pants.

“I am not a tourist,” Pierre yells. “You have to listen.”

Pepe picks the young man up by the collar with one fist. Pepe is shorter by nearly a foot, but he has heavy, muscular legs and those big, dense arms that Danielle knows firsthand are capable of applying crushing pressure. He pushes Pierre backwards, towards a tree, which the young man thumps against hard.

Antoine steps forward, as if to help, but Tina has the good sense to put a hand to his chest before any of the kidnappers can react.

“
Daniela!
” says Pepe, raising his voice to Pierre but addressing her.

Right. Translation. Danielle stutters out in Spanish everything Pierre has said about the delegation coming to El Salvador for the people, that they aren't tourists.

Taking in this information, Pepe still seems relatively calm, like he's confident that he can intimidate Pierre out of whatever notions of bravery have gripped his immature mind. He doesn't even raise his voice. “Tell this
desgraciado puto
that if he's ready to die for El Salvador, to say one more word.”

Danielle translates through sudden tears.

“Tell him I think he's bluffing,” says Pierre, seething.

“No, Pierre! Don't do this,” Danielle says, but immediately regrets it. Her words sound chastising, parental. She imagines Aida hearing them, crossing her arms. “Just stop, please,” she implores. “Stop talking.”

“Why should I? He has to listen — to you especially. You're the one who wrote abou —” Pierre catches himself, changes tack. “You're supposed to be the leader!”

But it's too late. Pepe pins Pierre by the neck and turns to Danielle, his laser eyes finding hers. “What did he say?”

“He says. . .”

“Tell me!” Pepe yells, and Danielle can see that his calm is breaking, ready to splinter like a homemade bomb. His gun is pressed directly to Pierre's head.

Danielle knows that they are all going to suffer for Pierre's big mouth. For her past, too. She wishes she'd burned those letters. Then she wouldn't even be here. She and Aida could've gone on like before. “He says you should listen to us.”

“He said ‘wrote.' What about writing? Who wrote?” Then, though he seems already to understand, Pepe repeats at the top of his lungs “WHO?”

“I did,” says Danielle.

“When?”