Thirty Dollars
by
Gregory Norris

I stood back, thinking out the most efficient approach.  I shivered; we were excavating a pre-Columbian Arawak settlement high in the hills at the north-eastern tip of the Andes and the altitude made the mornings chilly.  Though I was the leader, I was the team’s only American.  At times that made things awkward.

Pilar came over when I called and crouched down to look.  ‘So small,’ she said.

‘Aged three, maybe four.  Can you do a sketch for me?’

‘Sure.’  Pilar was a genius at recording finds with a pencil and sketchpad.

I got down into the trench.  Using the trowel point I eased the dusty earth from around the bones and flicked it away with a paintbrush.

‘You shouldn’t rush,’ Pilar said.  ‘Not with a child’s grave.’

‘I’m not rushing,’ I said.  ‘These bones aren’t as fragile as they look.’

‘I don’t mean about fragile bones.  I mean because a child needs more respect.’

‘Logically that doesn’t make much sense.’

She put her sketchpad aside and joined me.  Different archaeologists have different styles of digging.  I always kneel and excavate with outstretched arms, looking down on the tip of my trowel to get a good overview.  Pilar lies on her front and excavates just a few centimetres from her eyes, her face very close to the earth.  She digs like she’s a part of it.  Her dark hair often drapes over her work and hides what she’s doing. 

She said, ‘Why should it make sense?  Perhaps not logic, but still it is true.  Any woman would tell you a child’s remains deserve more care.’

I slowed my pace but only a little.  I wanted the extraction done that day.  The preservation was excellent and forensic tests might later reveal the cause of death.  I logged each bone into a separate polythene bag; alongside our tents we had a battered caravan in which we catalogued our finds.

‘You should delay your holiday by one day,’ said Pilar.  I shook my head, picturing Marianne’s reaction if I wasn’t waiting for her at the airport.  She was a Bloomingdales kind of girl; a day alone in Caracas would test her survival skills.

We worked steadily, lifting each fragment of skeleton with clinical precision.  The child’s bones felt like rough sticks but lighter, so light the breeze seemed to lift them from the earth.  I was taking a long drink of water when Pilar called out, ‘See here!’

‘All I can see is your hair,’ I said.

She pushed her hair aside.  Beside the sternum Pilar had found a clam shell.

It was clearly a grave good.  Arawak society was matrilineal and grave goods were usually found with female but not male remains, even for pre-adults.  Nowhere else will you find girls with more grave goods than boys.

‘It’s carved but I can’t make it out,’ I said.

‘I can.  I’ll show you.’  Pilar lay with her face close to the shell and using her penknife scratched the earth from around the edges.  A work of great beauty emerged: the clam shell had been trimmed to create two wings, the corrugations of the shell capturing the texture of feathers.

‘It’s a guacharo,’ said Pilar, and I recognised the form of Venezuela’s cave-dwelling bird.

It was very delicate and a small triangle broke away when Pilar moved it to a finds tray.  We gazed at it.  ‘It’s a beautiful gift,’ she said.  ‘I can see the child’s mother kneeling to place this in the grave.  I can feel the mother’s. . .’  She trailed off.

‘Don’t be fanciful,’ I said.

She was angry for no reason.  ‘You’re so far from understanding this!  Does your heart never beat?  Carl, why do you never -’ 

She turned and walked off.  I carried on working.  She returned after a few minutes.

‘You okay?’ I asked.

‘Sure.’

‘Clam shell opens up a lot of possibilities,’ I said.  ‘Trading routes must have brought it up here from the Caribbean beaches.  I think we might need to revisit our assumptions about Arawak economic complexity.’

‘Sure.’

During the rest of the day I found six smooth and rounded pebbles, encrusted with earth.  They were gathered near the crook of the left arm and it wasn’t altogether clear what their presence indicated.  They intrigued me.  I extracted them and added them to yet another polythene bag. 

*

The next morning I woke before dawn.  I pushed some clothes into a rucksack and wished they were cleaner.  Marianne and I were going to spend a couple of days in Caracas, visiting the museums, then we were heading for a few days on Margarita, the Caribbean island where pearl divers hold their breath for several minutes.

Pilar was up and about.  ‘Hi Carl,’ she said.  ‘Got everything?’

‘I think so.’

I gave her some suggestions for the dig.  ‘Make sure there’s nothing more in the child’s grave before moving on,’ I added.

‘Of course.  Well, have a good time, Carl.’

‘See you in a week.’

I hiked the four miles down to the main road and sat by the roadside, waiting for the bus to Barquisimeto.  It was very cold.  Dew was still forming on the leaves and the early morning haze obscured the peaks. 

The bus approached and stopped when I waved.  There were only men aboard.  After a couple of hours we reached a mining settlement called Macas.  Trucks loaded with bauxite nudged their way through narrow streets and a shanty town stretched along the main road.  It was at Macas that a girl tried to board the bus.

She was eighteen or so, dark, tall, with protruding teeth, and she carried a baby in a shawl.  She tried to slip through to a seat but the conductor jumped up from his place by the driver and blocked her path with an outstretched arm.  Looking more closely I could see she had no shoes; anyone could tell she couldn’t afford to travel by bus.

‘I have money,’ said the girl.  ‘I will travel to the city.’

‘Hand it over then,’ said the conductor.  ‘I know how you earn your money.’

The girl reached into wrappings around the baby’s head.  The baby didn’t stir.  She pulled out some notes but the conductor won’t let her pass.  I realised there were only two notes; he held them at the corner, one in each hand, and said, ‘You think this is enough?’

‘I must travel.  My baby is sick.  There is a hospital in the city.’

‘The fare is double this, and more.’

The girl stood there, arms protecting her baby.

‘Come on, get off this bus,’ said the conductor.  ‘Go earn some more before you travel.’

‘How far will my money take me?’

‘This?  To Corozal.’

‘Then I will travel to Corozal.’

The conductor shrugged. 

The girl sat down two rows in front of me, on the other side of the bus.  She leaned over the baby and rocked.  I wondered what she’d do at Corozal and whether I should offer to help.

We continued north, overtaking dozens of ore-filled trucks that lumbered up inclines and freewheeled down the other side.  As we lost altitude it got hotter but the road was dusty, too dusty to open the windows.

We reached Corozal.  The girl refused to get off.

‘Move, you dirty whore,’ shouted the conductor.  ‘Get off the bus.  Do you want a beating?’      

The driver called, ‘Shift her, these damn trucks are making us late.’

The girl pretended not to hear, she stared out the window and clutched her baby.  I saw one bare foot anchor itself against the stanchion of the seat ahead, as a foothold in case the conductor tried to drag her.

A passenger said, ‘Throw her off!’

‘Her baby is sick,’ said another.  ‘Why not let her stay?’

‘She won’t go just by asking,’ said the first.  ‘He’s got to drag her, if he wants her off.’

‘He won’t bother, not in this heat.’

The conductor was staring down at the girl.  His hand reached towards the baby and she crouched over to shield it.

‘Sweet Mary,’ said the conductor.  ‘That baby’s dead.’

‘Did he say the baby is dead?’ said the passenger.

‘Your baby is dead,’ said the conductor.  ‘You get off here and return home.  The hospital in Barquisimeto is no good now.  It’s too late.’

‘My baby is sick.  There’s a hospital in the city, I must travel.’

‘Sweet Mary.’  The conductor looked at the driver.  The driver shrugged.  ‘Sweet Mary,’ the conductor said again.

‘Let me take my baby to the hospital.  My baby is sick.’

‘Your baby is dead.’ 

The conductor explained to the rest of us.  ‘The baby’s dead.  It’s been dead a long time.  It was dead long before she got on our bus.’

Nobody said anything.  The driver put the engine into gear and pulled out onto the road.  The conductor went to sit by the driver.  The girl rocked her baby.  Each time we stopped the conductor whispered to new passengers and they stared at the girl and found a seat a long way off. 

We arrived in Barquisimeto at noon.  It was an ugly town and the pollution immediately weighed down on me.  The bus was late and I didn’t have much time till the train to Caracas.  A taxi driver touting for business offered to take me to the station but he paused when he heard the chatter from the passengers.  The girl got off last, the shawl still wrapped around the baby.

‘Where is the hospital?’ she asked the taxi driver.  ‘Will you take me to the hospital?’

‘Listen, your baby is dead now,’ said the conductor.  ‘The hospital is too late.’

We were all standing around her and the girl raised her head and stared back.  She was very pale around the eyes and her lips had no colour.  There was a strange quietness on her face, a blankness as if her despair was too great to show any ordinary emotion.  She took her baby to the kerb and sat down.

The bus passengers were poor, the conductor’s trousers were torn, the taxi was a battered old Chrysler.  I had money in my pocket.  I pulled out thirty dollars and offered it to the girl but she turned away and refused to look.  I caught sight of the baby.  Its eyes were closed and the tiny lips were slightly parted, the skin colour was yellow with a touch of greyness.

I didn’t know what to do.  I returned to the taxi.  One onlooker spat in my direction.  He said, ‘She’s a dirty small-town whore.  That baby had no father.’

‘She needs money to return home,’ I said.

‘She can earn the money.  She knows how.’

The taxi driver took my bag and I got in beside him.  The railway station was only a couple of minutes away.  The driver had a broken front tooth and he played with an unlit cigarette, placing it in the gap and twiddling it with his tongue.  His hair was greasy and his hands left sweat marks on the steering wheel.

We reached the station and the driver finally lit his cigarette.

‘Listen my friend,’ he said.  ‘Give me your dollars.  I will return and persuade that girl to accept it.  I’ll make sure she has a bus home.’

It was a very bare taxi, without the usual holy pictures and dangling crucifixes and protective beads.  The driver wasn’t insulted by my hesitation.  He sat there, very quiet, very patient. 

I handed over the thirty dollars. 

*

Over the next few days I thought about it.  I remembered the driver’s expression, it was the same as the girl’s, the quietness forged from very great distress.  I felt they were kin, that taxi driver and the girl.  I had faith he’d give her the money. 

I told Marianne this.  She laughed at my naivety and it hurt that she didn’t trust my judgement.  We seemed different to the couple who’d got engaged.  We didn’t travel on to the pearl island of Margarita.  Decisions were made in a businesslike manner but things were strained all the same.

It was evening when I returned to the excavation.  The scent of brazilwood resin seemed to warm the cool mountain air and the silence eased my long-tensed muscles.

I found Pilar working in the caravan.  She was leaning over pieces of charcoal, her hair hiding her face.  ‘Back early,’ she said when she saw me.

‘Change of plans,’ I said.

‘Oh.’  She bent over her work again.

I sorted through the polythene bags till I found the round pebbles we’d unearthed near the child’s left arm.  I poured some water in a bucket, lit a lamp and went to sit outside.

The pebbles looked grey.  I washed each in turn, loosening the earth with my fingertips.  Freed of the dirt they felt smoother than glass.  I heard Pilar come out of the caravan and sensed her sit beside me.

‘What are you doing?’ she said.

‘I’ve got a theory.’

I lifted the pebbles from the water and in the lamplight their new-found colours gleamed: pale blue, leaf green, reddish brown, pearl white.

‘I think these were collected by a child from a stream,’ I said.  ‘I think they were chosen for their beauty.  I think they were donated to the grave of a sister.’

‘Don’t be fanciful,’ said Pilar.

She moved the lamp closer and took one of the pebbles from my hands.  Her fingertips ran over its surface.  She leaned towards me a little.

She said, very softly, ‘They belonged to a girl aged five.  Her tiny sister died in the night’s coldest hour.  When morning came the little girl watched her parents prepare a grave, and though so young she already knew the hardness of death.  She ran to her sleeping place and retrieved her only possessions: nothing but stones, six pretty stones found one day while playing in a stream.  How she wished she had more to give.  But I can see her kiss these stones with her lips and with her tears, and I can see her small fingers reach out to gently touch her lost sister’s face.’

The past was very close.  In the mountain stillness I could feel my heart beating.

‘Yes,’ I said.  ‘I can see it too.’