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'Are we going to find my people today?'
'No, not today, Ben, they're away in the mountains.'
'Those mountains down there?'
'No, those are small mountains compared with the big ones. You'll see for yourself
The plane descended in Paraguay, and people got on and off, and then what they saw beneath them were green-and-yellow plains, and cattle, and soon they would be in Humahuaca. Antonio and Alfredo between them had decided that it would be much better to arrive there, with the miners and engineers and other workers for the mines, than in Jujuy, where they might look at travel documents more seriously. As the plane came down it could be seen that a lot of people were drifting along below them towards the mines. No one made a fuss here about frontiers, or how people crossed them: thousands of people — who could say how many? — traversed frontiers which in their minds were no more than imaginary divisions.
At the little airport building Teresa was prepared to bring forth her identity paper, but the man at the desk recognised Alfredo: he had once worked in the mines himself. Alfredo said Teresa was his sister. The official did give Ben another look, but waved through this big bulky man who in this crowd did not seem so remarkable.
Meanwhile the plane they had come on departed for the short hop to Jujuy: on it were mostly workers bound for the tobacco plantations there. Alfredo had telephoned a friend to ask him to come with his car to Humahuaca, to meet them. He had not arrived yet. They sat on chairs under a tree, glad of the shade. It was stingingly hot. Teresa said she had a headache, the altitude was getting to her. Ben said he felt fine: he did not seem able to take in the concept of altitude, until Alfredo pointed to the Andes, and said that Ben must imagine the sea at the foot of the mountains, and then imagine himself climbing up, counting with each step.
Ts that where we are going to find my people?'
'Yes, it is.'
Ben sat smiling, making the rough little sounds that were a song, if you knew him.
They were watching people coming past them, to the mines.
'Mines need workers,' said Alfredo. 'And they don't ask questions.'
'And what questions could they ask you?' she asked, feeling she was on the edge of a precipice. 'What are you afraid of in the airport in Jujuy?'
'When they took me on at the institute they asked where I had worked. I said Jujuy. I didn't say Humahuaca: never tell them more than you have to. So if they wanted to get me into trouble over getting Ben out of The Cages, and driving him down to Rio, then they would have telephoned Jujuy. But I think they won't bother with that, I am sure they have worse plans in their mind for Ben.'
They were talking in Portuguese, and Ben heard his name and said, 'What are you saying?' 'Only that we took you away from that place.'
Alfredo went on, in Portuguese, using the local accent they shared, which was almost impossible for an outsider to understand, as if afraid of someone overhearing — though there was no one within earshot. 'But there's something else, Teresa. When I came here to the mines it was because I was in trouble. That was seven years ago. But they keep records — the police have my name from that time.'
And he told her a story she felt she had heard so often she could have taken the words from him and gone on herself.
Getting out of the favela had been as difficult for him as for her. He had been in a street gang, committed petty crimes, and the police knew him. One night there had been a fight between him and the gang leader — a knife fight. The boy had not been killed, but he was hurt quite badly, and he blamed Alfredo, though it was he who started the fight.
Alfredo decided to remove himself from Rio. Three years later, with money saved and skills learned in the mines, he returned. The street gang he had been part of had gone — disappeared, and the boy whom he had wounded was dead, because of another fight. Alfredo was a man now, full of responsibility and competence: he had got work easily, and ended up at the institute.
Now this was where Teresa should tell him about herself, and it was so hard for her, her voice got lower, and stumbled, and was inaudible. She had to tell this man, whom she knew she loved, that she had been a whore. Alfredo was embarrassed. He shifted about as he sat, even seemed about to get up and walk away. 'Teresa, you tell me another time. You tell me when you want to.'
'But I must tell you. I have to tell you.'
'Listen, Teresa, you forget, I came to the favelas, just like you. I know about ... I have a sister there still. She hasn't got out yet. Later I will help her.' He leaned forward, smiling, though she knew it was not easy for him, and took her hand. 'We will help her together, Teresa.'
'Are you talking about me?' Ben asked again.
'No, about us,' said Teresa, in English.
Now Alfredo's friend, Jose, arrived with his car, and they drove the ninety kilometres to Jujuy. The two sat in the front, talking, and Teresa was with Ben in the back. She knew he would feel sick: it was an old rattly car.
The mountains rose up on their right, and they were in their shadow.
'Are we going tomorrow?' Ben asked.
'No. We have to arrange things to take with us.'
'When are we going?'
'Perhaps the day after.'
She was trying to make herself say, 'Look, Ben, you don't understand, we haven't explained it well...' But she could not get it out. What are we going to do? she was asking herself. How are we going to tell him?
Jose had been with Alfredo working in Humahuaca. When Alfredo left, and Antonio, he took a course in mining engineering, which lifted him out of the rut of common miners. He had a little house in Jujuy. He had a wife, who worked there. Most weekends he came home to her. She was not there now: she was visiting relatives.
It was a neat little house, with three rooms, and a kitchen, and a shower. There was television and radio. It was like the house Alfredo had been sharing near the institute: it was like houses for people of their kind all over the world.
They ate their supper, with the television on, but no one was watching it. Ben was in his dream, and the men were talking, and Teresa watching and listening. She was pleased Alfredo had this good friend — had two good friends, because this made her feel supported herself. A man with good male friends — she knew the value of that, for a wife. Her father had had his friends, in that time that seemed long ago, in their village, but since coming south, no friends, only his wife. In the favela, no men to sit around with, and talk. He drank, alone. He got drunk.
Teresa knew that since she had met Alfredo half the weight and worry of her life had been lifted off her. Already, so soon after knowing him she found it hard to imagine what it had been like, alone, with only herself to depend on.
When it came to the time of going to their rooms then there could be no doubt that Alfredo would be with Jose, and not only because they had not finished exchanging news. Now, if she had been alone in the house with Alfredo — but he lifted his hand to her, with a smile, as a goodnight and went with Jose. It was she who had to be with Ben because he trusted her. She was thinking that in Alex's place Ben had his own room, but now there were two beds, within touching distance. She put on a nightshirt, in the shower room, and found Ben lying dressed on his bed when she returned. She knew it was because in his imagination he was already begi
'Not tomorrow, Ben. I told you.'
She turned out the light at the door and went into her bed, thinking that since she had known Ben he had been most of the time sick, frightened, cowed, and she had not seen him as he really was, happy and confident. Even in the half dark of the room she could see that face of his, and he was smiling. This was the moment when she should say, 'Look, Ben, there's been a mistake .' But moments, then minutes, passed and she was silent.