Chapter 20

20

ON THE THURSDAY BEFORE THE DEMONSTRATION, VALENTINA RODE THE SOUTHBOUND train all the way to the city. She was off to do an errand that, yes, she could have asked Joaquín to do for her, but the last time she had entrusted him with a similar task—delivering the letter to the Presidential Palace—it had not gone so well. Better on this occasion, she thought, just to do it herself.

It had been over a week since she and Joaquín had come to Gatún. Every morning when Valentina woke now, she was seized by the sort of vigor and purpose she had not felt in years. At her insistence, everyone had gathered again to plan a demonstration, and together they had decided on a date (Monday, October 14), a time (10:00 a.m.), and a place (in front of her childhood home). When Alfredo asked just what they thought a demonstration would accomplish, Valentina explained that they would sit side by side, creating a sort of barricade, although the real goal was to attract enough attention that someone from the zone government or the Panamanian government or even the Land Commission would come. “And then what?” Alfredo had asked. “And then we can talk,” Valentina said. “We can voice our concerns as we did in the letter, but this time to their faces, which will have greater effect.” Reina Moscoso, the town baker, had agreed to bring food. Flor Castillo had said she had a full barrel of water, already boiled, that she could distribute to people in cans and bottles. Raúl volunteered to bring noisemakers to “enhance the atmosphere,” as he said. And Máximo, who knew some of the former municipal officers, had promised he would tell them of the plan. They had no real authority now that municipalities had been eliminated by the U.S.-run zone government, but perhaps there was still something they could do.

Aside from the meeting, while Renata and Joaquín were at work, Valentina had made it a point to visit every shop and business in town, inviting the owners to the demonstration the following week. She stopped people on the street, trying to drum up support.

Once, she had even crossed the river to see with her own eyes the place where the North Americans were proposing the entire town of Gatún should be moved, and the sheer logistics of what would be required—taking apart nearly one hundred homes as well as the school and the church, herding everyone’s cattle and goats and pigs over the river, replanting farms and remaking roads—seemed insane to her. Valentina had walked out past the steam shovels and the labor tents already present and had stood by herself on a patch of open land, gazing back across the river where she could see her town—for now. If Gatún disappeared, only to be replaced by an enormous earthen dam, the cruelest thing, Valentina realized as she stood there, might not be the disappearance itself, but the fact that from this opposite shore, the people of Gatún would be able to see the place where they used to live and be confronted with its burial day after day.

The only good that had come from that crossing had been when she had spotted a man sitting on a wooden box in front of his tent. He was reading a newspaper she had never heard of before, something called The Canal Record it appeared when she tried inconspicuously to see. Later, when she had mentioned it to Joaquín, he had said, yes, yes—in the city he sometimes saw Americans reading that. “Perfect,” she had said. And though he had looked at her, puzzled, Valentina had not felt the need to explain. She should have guessed that the Americans had their own newspaper. They had their own everything, but for once, that might work to the advantage of the people of Gatún. The Americans were exactly the audience they needed to reach.

***

THE CITY, WHEN she arrived, was more boisterous than Valentina remembered. So much noise, so many people, such sticky restlessness in the air! She had moved here only because of Joaquín. But after these ten days away, it was suffocating to be plunged into it again.

She walked all the way to the editorial offices of the newspaper. There, outside the door, Valentina smoothed her hair and took a deep breath. Then she twisted the knob. The door swung open so easily that she stumbled inside, and she found herself suddenly in a room full of desks, each occupied by someone who, upon her clumsy entrance, stopped what they were doing and looked up. Valentina used her heel to nudge the door closed behind her. She flashed her winningest smile.

A man at the desk nearest her said something, or he asked something—it was impossible to know which. Unfazed, and with all eyes still trained on her, Valentina said, “?Alguien habla espa?ol?”

The people at the desks—both men and women—looked at each other in confusion, some of them shrugging, some of them shaking their heads. Outwardly, Valentina kept the smile on her face, but inwardly she frowned. Could it be that not one of them had learned Spanish by now?

“?Espa?ol?” Valentina tried again.

Finally, from a desk in the rear, a man in a dark suit stood and motioned for her to come back. As gracefully as she could, Valentina walked between the desks as everyone watched her. Thankfully, when she got to the back, the sound of clattering typewriters resumed.

The man, who had a prominent cleft in his chin, remained standing and in passable Spanish asked her why she was there.

“I am from the town of Gatún, where, as I am sure you know, there are plans to build a dam for the canal. The dam means, however, that our town will be forced to move, which, as you might imagine, will cause the residents there considerable pain. So we, the people of Gatún, have organized a demonstration to take place on Monday at ten o’clock in the morning to voice our objection.”

The man was staring at her. Valentina was not certain how much he understood. From the desk to the left, a young girl—her long blond hair was so fine that she probably needed no cremes—was also staring, clearly eavesdropping. She had her fingers on the typewriter keys before her, but she was not moving them.

To the man, Valentina said, “It is our hope that the newspaper will write a story about it.”

The man nodded. “Gracias.”

Valentina waited. What did that mean? Was he going to write an article about it or not?

“It is very important,” she said.

“Sí. Gracias.”

Again—what did that mean? Did “sí” mean that yes, he agreed it was important?

“Monday,” she said again. “At ten o’clock in the morning. In Gatún.” She wanted to make sure he had caught the relevant details at least.

“Gracias.”

At the third “gracias” Valentina felt herself deflate. She was doing no better, it seemed, than Joaquín. Although she was inside at least, so perhaps that was progress, even of the smallest sort. But just as she thought that, the man extended his arm as though he were directing her out.

“Se?ora,” he said with all the pretense of civility.

She could see what he was doing. Rudely trying to push her out while pretending to be polite. Well, she had said what she had come there to say, no? And obviously it was not in her interest to anger him if she wanted him to write the article, so Valentina smiled widely again, hoping to appear friendly and reasonable. Without delay, she turned and, with her head held high, walked out the way she had come in, though if the man had been a true gentleman, she thought, he would have been courteous enough to see her to the door.

***

SITTING AT HER desk, her fingers resting lightly atop the typewriter keys, Molly watched the woman walk out. It was only her second day on the job. Earlier that same week Molly had heard the sad news that Marian Oswald, whom Molly had always found more sincere and less frivolous than many of the women she usually interacted with, had passed away. It had jolted her. Life was short. What was she doing spending hers inside a commissary, sorting payment coupons and stacking fruit? All while her camera was gathering dust. She had asked her father if he might pull some strings to get her a job at The Canal Record instead. They did not run photographs from what she knew, but a job there—any job—could be the first step to a career. And maybe, Molly thought, if she took photographs that were important enough, the paper would use them. She could be a pioneer, just like Jessie Tarbox Beals.

For the time being, however, she was an assistant doing the menial work of typing up more senior reporters’ field notes. But that day a petite woman had come in, telling Mr. Atchison, the editor who worked at the desk next to Molly’s, about a demonstration in the town of Gatún, and Molly, who had taken the time to learn a fair bit of Spanish, had listened to every word the woman had said.

***

VALENTINA STOPPED AT her apartment in the city before getting back on the train. She walked up to the second floor and let herself in. Everything was as they had left it—cluttered, overstuffed. Much like the city itself. She raised the window to let in some air.

In the bedroom, she opened the door of the old wooden armoire where she kept her clothes. It smelled musty, having been unopened for weeks, and she hoped it had not become infested with moths. Valentina owned only a few dresses, and of those, she prized one above the rest—her pollera. She lifted it out of the armoire and held it up. It was the traditional style, with a long, full skirt and an off-the-shoulder blouse, both of which were adorned with hand embroidery and tiers of lace. She had not worn it in years, but when she stripped off the dress she had been wearing for weeks and pulled on the pollera instead, she was pleased to see it still fit.

Valentina walked back out to the front window and closed it again so that she could catch her reflection in the thick glass. She smiled at the image she saw. Yes, if nothing else, a dress like this would draw attention all right.