“Yeah. Old Francisco told me the story—how we think we’re just calling him ‘uncle,’ but really, the Spaniards put the statues in the mine tunnels when they forced the Inca to work in them. They told them the statue was a god—a dios—that would kill them if they left early. Over time that word—dios—came to be tíos.”
“That’s messed up,” I tell him. I bet Abuelita knows that story. I wonder if she believes it. I wonder if that’s part of the reason she’s so mad at me right now.
“I know, right?” says Victor. “At least we can come up here and take a break without thinking some god is going to kill us for it. The Spaniards made them work in the mine for months at a time, and they never saw the sun.”
That makes me shiver.
“I know it’s just a statue,” he says softly, as if he’s afraid of being overheard, “but it still gives me the creeps.”
“Me too,” I admit.
Though, to be honest, the devil statue was only one of many things today that has creeped me out. I feel the other miners’ eyes on me as they talk in voices too low for me to hear. Determined to make the most of my short time aboveground, I ignore them and stare at the sky.
Too soon, César is walking among the miners, getting everyone on their feet for another six-hour shift. When he gets to us, he pauses. He jerks his head, indicating that he wants Victor to get a head start.
Victor gives my hand a reassuring squeeze and hustles to join the line of miners reentering El Rosario, pulling his helmet on as he does so. I stare after him. I hadn’t noticed he was holding my hand.
When the rest of the crew has cleared out and it’s just the two of us in the entry lot, César crouches down in front of me and meets my eyes.
“You could go home,” he says quietly. It’s a statement of fact. Not a criticism; not a command.
I lift my chin.
“I could,” I say, “but I’m not going to.”
César considers me for another minute, then nods.
“Okay,” he says, and gets to his feet.
Standing to follow him, my muscles ache from the unusual work. But the pain in my back and arms is nothing to the pain in my soul as I walk toward the dark mouth of the mine and push myself into the shadows once again.
* * *
We’re working away when, with a rattling groan, the air compressor dies. So far, the space we’re in has been filled with the constant noise of the humming motor and the shush of the pressurized air through the hoses.
Victor waves a hand over the opening.
“No air,” he confirms.
César grunts in annoyance. “Come on,” he says, and turns up the tunnel.
We fall in behind him again, retracing our steps to the outside. No one wants to stay behind in a section that’s not being ventilated. I wonder if it’s my imagination, but it already feels like there’s less air to breathe; that it’s hotter; that our flames are duller than they used to be. I tell myself it’s my imagination. But all the same, I hurry behind César and Victor.
When we get to the main entryway to El Rosario, I immediately scuttle out of the way, back to where I was sitting earlier. I’m glad to have any excuse for a bonus break and I sink down gratefully in the sunlight. I expect Victor to join me, but instead I see him head directly to the compressor with the men. I wonder whether I should have gone over there too, but decide to stay where I am.
César hefts the dented yellow chassis off the outside of the compressor and the men lean in to examine the guts of the machine. It’s like each of them is a dusty yachac, trying to read the cause of illness in its entrails.
But after about ten minutes of standing around, muttering, and pointing, Victor’s papi wanders away to smoke a cigarette on the far side of the lot. Only Victor stays with César. I drift closer, curious despite myself.
“. . . and lift that hose there,” César is saying when I get close enough to see what’s going on. “Keep your fingers well away from those fan blades!”
Victor is forearm-deep in the machine, following César’s instructions. His face is intent, but unlike when we have to concentrate in the mines, or even when we had to concentrate in school, he seems relaxed. Almost as if he’s enjoying himself.
“Like this?” he asks.
César nods. “Now, while you hold that out of the way, I’ll clean the dust out of this filter. Once that’s done, let’s see if I can get the engine to turn over . . .” César’s head disappears behind the bulk of the air compressor. I hear clanking. Victor keeps his hands exactly where he was told, but he cranes his neck to see what César is doing on the other side of the machine.
I don’t understand what’s so fascinating: it’s a machine. Just another hulking, clunking piece of scrap that is struggling to work in the altitude. Don’t get me wrong: I appreciate the air that the compressor delivers into those hellish tunnels. But I just don’t see anything interesting about the thing itself. Its rusted guts twist between colored wires and black rubber hoses. None of it makes any sense to me.
“Hey, Victor,” I say.
“Not now, Ana,” he says, never taking his eyes from what César is doing.
I shrug and return to my sunbeam, leaving him to his machine.
About half an hour later I hear a cranky chunk-chunk-chunk that changes to a steady drone, accompanied by a whoop from Victor. I look over to see him and César grinning at each other over the top of the whirring machine. They struggle to replace the chassis now that it’s shaking from side to side, but eventually they manage. I can again hear the snaking hiss of air through the tubes.
César claps Victor on the shoulder and hands him a rag from his pocket to wipe the thick black stripes of engine oil off his arms and hands.
“Let’s go!” calls César, buckling his helmet on.
The rest of us fall into line behind them and head to where we were working before. The air tube hisses comfortingly when we get there, and the four of us settle once more into the routine of the work.
“What was that all about?” I ask Victor.
“Hmm?” His face still wears a happy, distracted look. “Oh, see, it turns out, not only had the dust gummed up the filter, but some debris had made its way into the fan. The grit made it so the blades couldn’t turn, which overheated the motor and made the whole thing fail.” He grins. “Once we cleaned it all out, César was able to reset the thingy—I forget what he called it, I’ll have to ask him later—and get the whole compressor working.”
“Uh-huh,” I say.
“What?”
“And you would rather have been doing that than getting an extra half-hour break? I’m sure César could have figured that out without you.”
“Maybe,” Victor admits, looking off into the distance. “But I liked helping.”
“Whatever,” I say, teasing.
But Victor is serious.
“No, really, Ana. Look at what we do all day—smash this, lift that—it’s all just movement, but none of it is going anywhere. But this . . . it was different. I worked hard at something for a little while and then, because of what I did, it was better than it was before. It was kind of nice. That doesn’t happen much.”
I don’t tease him again because he’s right. There’s not much up here that any of us does that moves forward. So much of our work is just what has to be done in order to do more work or survive another day. I imagine how it would feel if I could make something better, truly better with my efforts.
“Okay,” I say, giving him a soft punch on the arm. “I guess that does sound like fun.”
Victor grins at me and we both get back to work.
* * *
I thought the worst part of my day was behind me when I finally exited the mine at six o’clock. For some reason I’d forgotten about the hour-and-a-half walk home. And if that slow, agonizing trudge around the mountain wasn�
�t already adding insult to injury, at the end of it I had to go inside and face my family.
When we finally come around the last bend of the mountain, I see the far-off shapes of Mami and Abuelita standing in the door together, their hands unusually idle. When she sees us, Mami slumps in relief. I hurry my steps, desperate to be home and have this day behind me.
When I walk in, Mami seems torn between fussing over me and venting her frustration at me.
“Get out of that suit,” she snaps. But when I do, she hangs it up for me and holds my face in her hands, resting her forehead against my sweaty one. “Are you okay?” she whispers.
“I’m fine, Mami,” I say, because Papi’s standing right there and I’m not about to admit weakness now. I go outside and wash my face and hands. The cut from this morning has scabbed and reopened so many times that the cuff of my sweater is stained with blood. I scrub at the cut the best I can, wincing at the fresh pain. The lines on my blackened fingers look like they’ve been traced with ink. Remembering Daniel’s first day, I don’t even bother trying to get it out.
I walk inside and slump onto the floor. Mami hands me a bowl of stew and a spoon. Abuelita hasn’t spoken to me since I walked in. Disapproval radiates off her like steam rising off boiling water.
Daniel’s still not well enough to join us, and soon after we finish our tense dinner, Papi heads out. Now that I’m working for the money he’s drinking through, I feel mad all over again, but I force myself to let that go.
We’re washing the dishes together when Mami notices my cut palm.
“What’s that?” she asks, grabbing my hand and examining the wound.
“I cut my hand today,” I say, stating the obvious.
“You can’t let that get infected!”
Not satisfied with my cleaning job, she scrubs at my palm with the hard block of soap until tears sting my eyes and then she pats it dry and wraps it in a clean cloth. I think she’s done, and I move to pull my hand away, but she holds on for a second. We stand there as she stares at my hand, clasped between us.
“Promise me you’ll stop,” she finally says, squeezing my fingers gently. “We’ll find another way. You can’t keep doing this.”
I glance at where Daniel is tossing fitfully on our shared bed and then at the door where Papi has vanished.
“I have to,” I answer softly.
Mami follows my gaze. She lets me go without another word.
* * *
That night, my dream changes.
In the washed-out light of dreams, I stand outside the mine. But this time when the mine inhales, it sucks me into it. I’m pulled, screaming, into the darkness, only to be met by a grinning devil. Two cigarettes are smashed in his broken-glass teeth; one is burning, the other gone out. The strings of drool slathering his jaws stink of alcohol. I press myself against the wall opposite him, but the sides of the mine are hard and offer no escape. My movement calls his attention and the devil’s glowing eyes meet mine.
So, you think you’re a miner now? he asks, his voice a death of snakes and a rending of metal.
I shake my head, but as I do, I feel the heavy bob of the lantern on my forehead, the uncomfortable press of the belt at my waist.
The devil laughs.
I wake up.
For a moment I lie there, gasping, bathed in sweat and a terror so complete I don’t know if it has a bottom or edges. Then I force myself to get out of my blankets and go outside to the latrine.
The freezing night air cuts like a knife through my clothes, but the misery returns me to my body. When I climb into my covers, I push a fold of the blanket between my teeth so that their chattering won’t wake Abuelita or Daniel. I force the air in and out of my lungs around the blanket. Slowly my body relaxes. If only I could do the same for my mind. Because the truth is more frightening than the dream.
The truth is that tomorrow I’m going to have to go back and do it all again.
I stare at the ribbed sheet of tin over my head and let the tears creep out of my eyes. It takes me a long time to fall asleep, and when I do, the devil’s laughter echoes through my dreams.
6
Next morning, Mami can’t meet my eyes and Abuelita still isn’t talking to me. I try once to start a conversation, but she holds up a bony hand and walks out of the house. I pull my hair into double braids again and let my eyes wander around the room. At the end of my bed, one of them has laid out my nicest skirt and favorite top, clean and folded, a gentle option to Daniel’s filth-encrusted miner’s suit hanging across the room on the hook. But Papi is waiting for me, and Daniel’s thin breaths wheeze through his half-parted lips. As usual, there isn’t a good choice.
When I step out of the house with Papi, Mami’s eyes snap up from her washing, but when she sees what I’m wearing, her lips thin and she bends her head again. Abuelita is nowhere in sight. Everything aching, I head up the road toward the mine, the weight of their disapproval heavier than the mountain itself.
* * *
I didn’t think there could be anything harder than going into the mine when I had no idea what to expect.
I was wrong.
Standing in front of the entrance to El Rosario in the milky predawn light, I know exactly what lies ahead of me. And that makes it so much worse.
Papi leaves me at the edge of the lot to find his work crew without a backward glance. I hesitate there until a shoulder bumps mine. I flinch, but then I see Victor’s infectious grin and I relax.
“Hey, Ana,” he says.
“Hi, Victor.”
“Where are you working today?”
“I don’t know.”
“César’s right over there.” He points. “Let’s go find out.”
With Victor beside me I find I can brave the walk across the open space. Even the stares and the whispers of the other miners, though they still unsettle me, don’t frighten me as much as they did before.
We catch up to César at the edge of the mine, talking with a crew of men who are working the slag heaps.
“Puangi,” I call, and his eyes meet mine. I can tell he’s not exactly happy to see me, but I don’t offer an apology. I worked hard yesterday. “Where do you want us today?” I ask. “Same place?”
César scowls slightly. “We’re not blasting today. Victor, you’re in zone two with your papi. I already gave him instructions.”
“Got it,” says Victor. “Catch you later, Ana.” He lights his helmet and waves to me, then jogs off to find his father.
César turns to me.
“You’ll be hauling ore out of the mine for the breakers to work on.” I can tell, from the way he says it, that I’m not going to like this job. Then again, I didn’t like yesterday’s job either. In all honesty, it’s probably a mercy to use a different set of muscles than yesterday.
“Okay.”
He sighs in response and points me toward a three-man crew pushing a large metal bin on wheels along the narrow-gauge track that runs into the mine.
“Don César said I’m to work with you today,” I say, trying to come across as someone who belongs here; someone you’d be okay having assigned to your team for the day.
The two men on my side of the bin stare at me stonily for a moment, taking me in. Then the man on the other side straightens and I see his face. I feel something in my chest loosen.
“Oh, hi, Papi.”
Papi humphs and glares at the other two men.
“Guillermo, Francisco, behave yourselves today. This is my daughter. She’s helping out until my son gets better.”
Francisco has a long, gaunt face. His skin is weathered and the lines bracketing his mouth hint at frowns rather than smiles. He looks old, but sometimes it’s hard to tell with a miner. They often look a lot older than they really are. Guillermo is much younger than Francisco, but his smooth, narrow face holds suspicious eyes. Neit
her of them looks very friendly.
“Hi.” I give them both a small smile and a wave.
The men give me sullen nods in return, but I can see that Papi is the leader of this little crew and I know I’ll be safe enough. Again, César is taking care of me.
“Let’s get going, then,” says Papi. And with no more introduction than that, we’re off.
Gathering ore turns out to be a backbreaking job, even more so than hand-drilling holes in solid rock. With two of us in front, and two behind, we push the heavy rail bin into the mine. We have to strain against it on the downhill slopes and push hard the few times the track slants upward. Then, when we get to the part of the tunnel nearest yesterday’s blast zone, we load chunks of rock into the bin. Some of the rocks are small enough for one person to do, but sometimes it takes two of us to lift them.
The pile we’re working from is on the floor of zone one. Another crew has the job of loading the rock fragments from zone eight into baskets and slings and carrying them up to us. As awful as it is to be on the ore-cart crew, I am very glad I didn’t get assigned to carry rocks over the wobbly-bridged ravine and up those spindly ladders.
Once the trolley is full, we have to push it back out. The cart is so heavy at this point that we all have to strain behind it to get it to roll uphill, and whenever there is a small downhill, we break into a run to get some momentum behind us for the next time the tunnel slopes up. Other miners in the tunnel leap out of our way when they hear the rumble of our wheels because the mine carts have no brakes. Next to me, Guillermo whispers about a miner who didn’t get out of the way in time and was crushed by the rolling tons of rock. His eyes glitter when he sees his story makes me uncomfortable. I like him even less.
Shivering against the image his words put in my head, I push harder, praying for everyone to get safely out of our way. There are so many ways to die in here, I’m losing count.
We make it out of the mine to the slag heap and dump the cart over. I consider it a minor miracle that we’ve all survived so far, but no one else seems to notice. Instead, we head in and do it again.
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