Poso Wells

by GABRIELA ALEMÁN

  Afternoon came, Salém still had not put in an appearance, and calling his cellphone yielded only dead air. At sunset, the British tour group who had been entranced by the quetzal that morning showed up in the plaza to await the bus that would take them back to Otavalo. José María inquired and found that a gift to their driver, of a monetary sort, would let him and his entourage join in. He didn’t see any point in hanging around where they were until after dark, because there was no way he and the blind men were going to spend the night in the mining camp barracks without Salém. The election would happen the next day. There would be nothing to do but follow the news reports and projections. All the polls said Andrés was the sure winner, but of course, it was Andrés who had commissioned them.

  Varas thought that if you wanted to end your life, there was no need to commit suicide. All you had to do was get yourself trapped someplace like Poso Wells. After his phone call to Banegas he went to see Montenegro to bring the old man up to date. Montenegro did not seem at all stunned, having lived long enough that nothing could surprise him. But the news did cause him alarm. Weren’t those the same men who were now going around with Vinueza? The same ones he’d seen that sleepless night, passing in front of his house? Varas nodded but said nothing more. Benito was still at Varas’s apartment with Valentina and Témoc. Once the women were found, Valentina’s testimony would be needed, but until then there was no need to submit her to the spectacle that the excavation and search were sure to become. The show would begin as soon as the bulldozers appeared. No doubt about that, because Banegas was an expert in such things. And indeed, that’s how it went. The prosecutor arrived at 11 a.m. with a TV crew, a battalion of workers, two bulldozers and a dozen cops. Varas and Montenegro were there, too, both in lightweight cotton pants and short-sleeved shirts. The sun was almost at its zenith, the heat intense, but Banegas had on a black felt sombrero with a silver band and an enormous brim, a black-and-white three-piece suit, sunglasses, cowboy boots, and his ever-present pocket watch and chain. He embraced Varas and asked to be shown the hole leading to the tunnels. Then he climbed onto one of the machines and raised his hand, pointing out where to begin tearing up the ground. Thus he launched one of the most eventful workdays of his career.

  Holmes was fed up with problems caused by peasants and environmentalists. They were the same all over the world, but he found the Latin Americans to be the most exasperating. They seemed to take every polluted river so much to heart, every animal migration route interrupted, every tree that was felled—as if something inside of them shattered when these things occurred. Plants, insects—some died, others were born, what difference did it make? Latin Americans had no vision of the future. All they knew was how to live in the present. They didn’t understand anything about progress, which was why they were in the shape they were in. Nothing could change his opinion that the root cause of their underdevelopment lay in their lack of concentration and inability to project into the future. Letting themselves get sidetracked, they lost their way so easily. Still, though he saw this trait as a defect, he couldn’t deny that—in the right circumstances and with the right people—it made his job easier. If some defended a mangrove swamp with their lives, others (again in the right conditions, this was the key) were equally inclined to sell the subsoil rights to their entire country, without hesitation, for the right amount and with minimum benefit to the inhabitants. It was no longer done with colored beads, or even paper money. No, just zeroes and ones flowing through a digital network, moving quantities beyond human imagination from one account to another, from one country to the next. Air—really he trafficked in thin air. He laughed, though nothing was funny. In fact, everything was going poorly. His shares of Barrick Gold had tumbled precipitously after the destruction of Andean glaciers in Pascua Lama, wreaked in pursuit of ten billion dollars’ worth of gold, had been called to the attention of the world press by Chilean peasants. And now some sonofabitch radical ecologists were daring to distribute fake nuggets emblazoned with the words “dirty gold.” So what if a bit of water got removed from the landscape, when water was everywhere, all around us? What most offended Holmes’s refined and exquisite sense of language was the obvious oxymoron. Gold glowed, gold was perfect; gold was scarce, everyone wanted it. What people want can never be dirty, he thought. It can be many other things, but dirty? No. Gold was beautiful, just like copper. That was its essence. Hadn’t Yeats said so? How can we tell the dancer from the dance? And those damn troublemakers in Cotacachi—what good did the forest do them, sitting on millions of dollars in copper? He laughed again. You didn’t need much sense of humor to find some amusement in your own troubles, especially when you knew they could be overcome. That’s what power was for, to move forward and shake off the debris. And power was something of which he had more than enough.

  In the mountains, nothing had gone right for José María. Now, on the way to Otavalo, the bus had blown two tires, and why? Because the tourists had insisted on the scenic route, a filthy track little more than a goat path, as José María had thought from the outset. So here they were, with nobody around to help them. The landscape was nothing to write home about, but when one of the twenty Brits announced the sighting of a caracara overhead, the rest forgot the fix they were in and began comparing notes and discussing the characteristics of the animal’s flight to ascertain whether it was indeed a kind of falcon or, as the most daring among them maintained, a condor.

  “All this fuss about a buzzard,” the driver muttered while installing the one spare tire and wondering what to do with the British bird fanatics he was guiding and the five evil-looking men who’d boarded at the last minute in García Moreno.

  When he was done, he gathered them all around the bus and explained the situation: no help could reach them because night was already falling, but someone would come early in the morning so that he could get them to Otavalo as planned. Meanwhile he’d managed to get in touch with a friend who lived in a nearby community and was willing to put them up. It wouldn’t be like a hotel, but he could promise them dinner and a roof over their heads. Moreover, the dawn would be impressive because they’d be near the Cusín volcano, which along with the Cubilche, the Azaya, the Pangladera, and Cunrru made up the Imbabura volcanic complex, and there was no better vantage point from which to see the northern mountains catching the first rays of the sun. The Brits, enthused, quickly collected their backpacks. José María did not share their excitement.

  “How long has it been since those volcanoes erupted?” he wanted to know.

  The group was now in motion behind the guide, who answered over his shoulder without stopping.

  “A long time. I’m more worried about getting where we’re going while we’ve still got light. But these are young mountains, morphologically speaking, not very worn down by erosion. If I had to predict, I’d say that of all the volcanoes in Ecuador, they’re the most dangerous.”

  After all, the guy had asked.

  José María and the blind men, hand in hand, ran after the group before it could disappear over a hill.

  XIV

  The Sovereign People

  For Vinueza, things were going swimmingly. There was his name on all of the ballots that had rolled off the presses of the Instituto Geográfico Militar, now disseminated throughout the national territory. The hand had been dealt, all that remained was to play it. The blind men, as he’d thought, were indeed the ace up his sleeve. He had to thank his father, who, if he hadn’t taught him much, had taken care that his son should learn how to pull off a successful bluff. He’d played the past two weeks with his best poker face, and he was getting away with it. He couldn’t even believe it himself. It was a perfect union of the human and the divine: his disappearance, his sufferings, his redemption, and then the pardon of his own tormentors. No public relations professional could have dreamed up a better image for the new president of the Ecuadorian people. He had managed to convince, at the least, two million of them. His eyes watered with happiness, i
magining all he could do once he reached the presidency. He was happy. He was a truly happy man.

  “Can you get over here right away?” Varas said into his phone.

  “What’s happening?” Benito asked, worried.

  “Man, where should I start? Banegas insisted on using bulldozers even though I told him that half of the Cooperative was built on top of tunnels and garbage.”

  “And one of the tunnels collapsed under the machines?”

  “Güey, you’ve got a future as a clairvoyant, or writing disaster films. Yes, that’s what happened.”

  “And what do you want me to do?”

  “We need to get to work. You told me about that woman around here that everybody respects. Bring her for me to introduce to Banegas. Montenegro already went home because this is turning into a tabloid special. Everyone’s screaming, the police are setting up a perimeter and every once in a while the crowd . . .”

  “But . . .”

  “No more predictions, Benito, go find your Bella and bring her, okay? And what about Valentina? Is she doing okay?”

  “She discovered a guitar and she’s trying to remember a tune. Take it easy, I’m leaving right now. Témoc will watch her till we come back.”

  When lights glimmered in the distance, the guide relaxed. A family had offered up their house, where a roaring fire in the middle of the single room cast impressive shadows on the adobe walls. Off in one corner, some guinea pigs huddled against the wall. Above the fire hung a pot showing the signs of years spent resisting the flames. Fava beans and corn were boiling in the pot, while a plate on the ground held a large hunk of homemade cheese and a knife. The tourists came in and arranged themselves around the fire, but as soon as the blind men entered, guided by José María, the guinea pigs began emitting high-pitched cries. A man came in and picked up three lifeless bodies. He showed the dead animals to the guide and whispered something in his ear in Quichua, then left. The guide went directly to José María and told him another fire was being built outside for him and the blind men, who couldn’t remain in the house. The hooting of an owl could be heard piercing the night.

  “What are you talking about?” said José María, annoyed. “We’re tired, I just want to lie down in a corner and sleep, then get up early in the morning and leave.”

  “Guinea pigs are very sensitive animals. Three of them died of fright when you and your companions came in. The community has been very friendly in letting you remain at all, even outside. Please follow me. I’m sure you can get your rest around the other fire.”

  The fifteen Brits looked at them like they were pariahs. It was late, and José María could smell a hostile environment. He went out, leading the blind men, who had stayed completely silent. The night was immense. It felt as if objects had forgotten their shapes and colors, and everything was on its knees before the enormity of the world. The five men sat around a small fire built on large black stones.

  “It’s an omen,” said one of the men.

  “The sacrifice did not come in vain,” continued another.

  “Lie down and sleep,” José María advised imperiously. “Tomorrow you’ll have to get up at dawn.”

  “It’s a sign, the spirits are coming from heaven, as in the prophecies and hymns.”

  José María decided to ignore them. Someone had put out a few donkey hides, so he took one and wrapped himself in it. He smelled something alive, primeval, and distant, but sleep overcame him right away. The blind men didn’t sleep. They stood up and walked into the darkness. Before they disappeared, one could be heard saying that the angels would guide them.

  At Bella’s door, Benito could barely stay on his feet. He knocked, and when she opened he said that love was a rebellious bird that no one could trap. He waited for the uncomfortable silence that would follow such an outburst, but Bella responded right away.

  “I can lend you some cages,” she said, and then she smiled. “I make them myself.”

  What a woman this was, he thought.

  Once she invited him in, Benito told her everything Valentina had recounted. Then he asked for her help in organizing the women’s rescue because, from what he understood, things were getting chaotic on the empty lot. So she went with him to the sinister spot, the Bermuda Triangle, the stinking hole at the center of Poso Wells. Indeed all hell was breaking loose. Benito spotted Varas, and they went over to him. Benito did the introductions.

  “Who’s in charge of this?” Bella asked.

  Varas pointed out Banegas, who was bending over to pick up his sombrero after somebody had taken a swing at him for not being allowed to cross the police line.

  “Good afternoon,” Bella said.

  Banegas looked at Varas, who nodded.

  “Do you live here, Señora?” Banegas asked.

  “Yes, and if you could be so kind, could you tell me what you’re doing?”

  “We came to rescue some women.”

  “Where are you going to put them? Did you bring any clothes so they can cover themselves once they get out? Why don’t I see a doctor anywhere? Have you gotten anyone out yet?”

  Benito smiled, a big smile that spread across his lips.

  “Allow me,” Bella said, and took the bullhorn from Banegas’s hand. She flipped the switch and turned toward the hundreds of onlookers who had gathered around the lot. “Prosecutor Banegas is here to carry out an investigation, and if you don’t let him work in peace, the police presence could go on indefinitely. Do you hear me? Indefinitely. I’m sure he’ll keep us informed about what’s happening. Isn’t that so?” She turned to Banegas, who nodded. “But please, right now, get moving, will you?”

  The people began to leave, and Banegas thought to himself how much he needed someone like this in his department. He’d have to talk with her before he left.

  “Now, Prosecutor, don’t you think you should have some tents put up, for when the women come out? I remember there were some soldiers stationed here during the search for Vinueza. Colonel Alcíbar Peña was in charge of the operation, so he knows the territory. And the Corps of Engineers could speed up the search in the tunnels, don’t you think? A call to the Red Cross wouldn’t be a bad idea either.”

  Banegas followed the suggestions and in less than an hour the fallen bulldozer had been retrieved. A Red Cross ambulance arrived, and a surprised Col. Peña found himself taking orders from Bella.

  The night was peopled with scores of secrets that the men interpreted as they wished while they climbed the lower slopes of the volcano. The four blind men sank into the loose sand as they walked. The sand of an hourglass. They sensed they were moving backward as they neared their ancestral lands. None of them remembered their grandfathers’ teachings, since from earliest childhood all they had ever done was repeat the incoherent notions of which they had managed to convince themselves. And now, really, it didn’t matter. Their scattered beliefs were nothing in the face of the immense architecture of the universe. They walked for hours, knowing they were lost, until they felt rain on their heads. Except that what was plummeting from the sky was not rain, but birds, falling around the blind men like a torrent of hail. The men didn’t run for shelter, there was nowhere to go. They lay down on the ground and covered their faces. And waited for the end of the world.

  Which wasn’t too far off.

  XV

  Without You . . .

  Vinueza got the call right after voting at his local polling place. José María’s voice was breaking up, but from what Vinueza could catch, he’d been arrested, accused of stealing the crown from the statue of Our Lady of Sorrows in the town of Totoras. What the hell was José María doing there, messing around with the local Virgin? Weren’t the blind men enough, as far as saints were concerned? He also heard that the four remaining blind men had disappeared, that José María had been searching for them all morning until he’d been detained by the parishioners of the church. Salém had never reached García Moreno, and residents of Junín had taken over the mining facilities. Vinuez
a turned on the television. None of the channels talked about the elections, only about the orange alert issued by the mayor of Ibarra due to the imminent eruption of the Imbabura volcano. All morning, birds had been falling from the sky around the complex of five volcanoes. The inhabitants had fled as soon as they smelled the gases emerging from various locations of the terrain surrounding the Laguna de San Pablo. Volcanologists who had hurried to the region were saying that water vapor mixed with sulfur dioxide had condensed into sulfuric acid. The Supreme Electoral Tribunal was considering canceling the elections. If vapor was escaping, this was because some tectonic plate was in motion, which suggested there could be an earthquake of tremendous proportions, releasing lava from the entrails of the volcanos. Whether the gases had all escaped or would mix with the lava, there would be plenty of fireworks either way. Depending on the craters that would form and the weight they could support, the lava flows could reach as far as the coast, and most certainly would cover the land around the volcanoes.

  “Intag!” Vinueza thought, and hurried to call Holmes.

  On Sunday afternoon, Banegas issued statements to the national media that pointed directly to the blind men who had been accompanying Vinueza in his short electoral campaign, implicating them in the kidnapping of more than a hundred women who had now been rescued from the tunnels that lay under the main streets of the slum settlement called Cooperativa Poso Wells, on the southern edge of the country’s main port.