Treasure of the World by Tara Sullivan (best romantic books to read txt) 📗

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