The Passage by David Poyer Read Free Book Online Page B

her gloved hand reached out for the next stalk of cane.
    She worked through the morning and when the sun was high had sheared eighty yards of field twelve feet wide and left eight huge square stacks of stalks behind her along the rows of what were now
stubbled fields. Each stalk was sheared off close to the ground so that next year it would grow again.
    A distant whistle signaled the end of the morning. She carefully put the hose back on her blade, took off her gloves, and turned and trudged back to the road. Other figures came out of the fields with her, most in ragged cotton work dresses or trousers, a few in army fatigues. They gathered by the road, squatting and exchanging a few words, and presently the trucks came into sight.
    They rolled into the buildings at the crossroads and eased themselves down. No one could work now, at the peak of the day. Those who were too hungry to wait joined the line in front of the dining hall. The others found shade and huddled in it, waiting their turn to eat. Graciela looked at the line, then headed for the shade. When she had settled in it, a man joined her.
    â€œTomás.”
    â€œFeeling better today, Cousin?”
    â€œI’m well, but …” She examined her cousin’s familiar swarthy face. She wanted to tell him about the man in the cane field, but something held her back. What was it he’d said … “Someone is lying”? He meant the informers, the chivatos. Now she feared to speak her mind even to her relatives.
    â€œThey say this is the end of the harvest—the last day of cutting.”
    â€œI thought there were some fields left over by Alcorcón.”
    â€œThey moved in an army unit and cut those yesterday. No, this is the last field, the one you’re working.”
    â€œWhat are you doing today?”
    â€œWork assignment. Cleaning out the hog pens.”
    â€œSo that’s why you smell like a pig.”
    She liked his quick grin. “I don’t care. As long as they pay me, I’m happy. If that makes me a pig, I’ve been called worse. Any letters from Armando yet?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œHe hasn’t written once since they took him.”
    â€œNo,” she said, wiping sweat from her hair. “I worry, Tomás. He wasn’t well when they came for him. The first time he nearly died, and now he’s not a young man.”
    â€œHe’ll return,” said Tomás fiercely in a low voice. “If the Batistianos couldn’t kill him, the Fidelistas never will. Are you eating? There’s no line now … . What are they giving us today, chico ?” he called to a passing boy.
    â€œRice, beans, a shred of pork, coffee, Comrade Tomás.”
    â€œShall we go in?” Tomás said, offering his arm like a gentleman to a great lady. She smiled sarcastically and struggled up, grateful for his strong arm under hers.
    â€œThank you, Señor Guzman. Let us go in to dine.”

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    THE afternoon was like the morning, only hotter, as if the whole earth itself was baking and nearly done. A group of older workers grew in the shade of the trucks, those who’d fainted or cut themselves, or couldn’t finish for whatever reason. Graciela worked on, though her hands had gone numb and her shoulders felt like lead. Now she no longer thought about the man in the cane or about her missing husband, but only about the next stalk to be grasped and when the water would come around again. She finished her quota but kept on without slackening. The men and women sitting glumly by the trucks would not be paid today, though they’d labored through the morning. They hadn’t made the meta. But once you had, you didn’t stop. You had to keep cutting, for the revolution.
    When at last the whistle sounded, she staggered back, straightening with a great effort. Her back was iron, twisted with pain. Her clothes were soaked dark and her hands shook as she fitted the hose back