Even Silence Has an End (12 page)

I asked if we could have the newspaper and insisted that my request be given to the commander before the newspaper was thrown into the garbage pit. Cesar agreed. Our
receptionista
was assigned the task of reclaiming the newspaper, and after lunch she brought over a small stack of sheets, still damp but nevertheless legible.

We sorted them into two piles and sat down with our reading material, happy to have found something to pass the time and a suitable use for our table. The guards had been changed. It was now the turn of the nurse’s boyfriend. He had positioned himself almost hidden by the large tree to which our chains were attached. He wouldn’t take his eyes off me, and I felt uncomfortable being watched so closely. Never mind. I had to learn to shut it out.

The sheet in front of me was out of
El Tiempo
from a Sunday in March, more than a month earlier. It was the gossip section dealing with the world of entertainment, politics, and the country’s social scene—required reading if you wanted to be up on the capital’s gossip. I was about to turn over the sheet to look for more substantial news when my attention was caught by a photograph in the middle of the page. I looked again and examined it carefully. A seated priest was wearing an embroidered chasuble in purples and greens on top of his alb. He was looking at two photographers holding large cameras with ridiculously long telephoto lenses that were pointed toward an invisible target. What struck me was not the photo itself, but the priest’s expression, the tension on his face, his obvious pain, yet also a certain anger that came across in the sheer stiffness of his body. Curiosity led me to read the caption. It described the priest watching with consternation a crowd of journalists jostling to photograph the coffin of Gabriel Betancourt.

I felt an invisible hand pushing my head underwater. The words danced before my eyes, and I had trouble understanding them. I read them again and again, and the concept took shape slowly in my numbed brain. When I finally made the link between the word “coffin” and my father’s name, I froze with shock and could no longer control my breathing. There was no more air entering my lungs. I was in a void, my mouth wide open, like a fish out of water. I was suffocating without understanding why; I felt as if my heart had stopped and I was going to die. Throughout my agony, I thought,
It can’t be him. It must be someone else. They made a mistake.
I grabbed the edge of the table, sweating from the chill, witnessing the dual horror of his death and mine, until I managed to tear my eyes from the newspaper and beseech the sky for air.

And then my gaze met his. The guard had been watching me from behind his tree, fascinated by my transfiguration, like a child in front of a fly whose wings he wants to pull off. He knew everything—he knew about Papa’s death, and he was waiting for me to discover it. He had chosen the best seat in the house and was reveling in my suffering. I hated him instantly. My hatred forced me to regain my self-control, as if I had been lashed across the face.

I quickly turned away, red with fury. I didn’t want him to see me. He had no right to look at me. I was going to die, I was going to implode, I was going to end my days in this shithole of a jungle. Good. I would be joining Papa. I wanted to go. I wanted to disappear.

That’s when I heard his voice. He was there, just a few yards from me. I couldn’t see him, but I could smell him. It was the smell of his white hair, the hair I’d kissed when I said good-bye. He was standing to my right, like the centuries-old tree that covered me with its shadow, just as tall and just as solid. I looked toward him and was blinded by a white light. I closed my eyes and felt the tears running slowly down my cheeks. It was his voice—no words, no speech. He had kept his promise.

I turned to my companion and, mustering all my strength, articulated the words: “Papa is dead.”

EIGHT

TAMING THE HORNETS

A MONTH EARLIER, MARCH 2002

It was Easter Sunday. The camp was still under construction. Young Cesar had organized the building of a
rancha
¹⁸
next to the stream that circled the camp, the
economato
for storing provisions, and, in the middle of the circle of tents, the
aula,
or classroom.

I liked to walk around the
rancha
to see how they prepared the food. At first they cooked over wood fires. Eventually a heavy gas stove arrived, transported on a man’s back along with an enormous gas cylinder. But my real interest was focused on two kitchen knives always sitting on the table in the
rancha,
and I would gaze at them longingly. I told myself we would need them for the escape I was planning. While I sewed, wrapped, sorted, and selected items for our departure under my mosquito net, I observed life at the camp. There was one young man in particular who was having a difficult time. He was called “El Mico,” the monkey, because his ears stuck out and he had a big mouth. He was greatly smitten with Alexandra, the prettiest of the
guerrilleras,
and had succeeded in seducing her. But at the end of each day, a tall, strong, handsome guy would turn up at the camp who also had his heart set on Alexandra. They called him the
masero
.
¹⁹
His role was to connect two worlds: the legal world, where he lived in a village just like the next person, and the illegal world, where he brought provisions and information to the FARC camps. Alexandra responded to his advances, while El Mico went around in circles, racked with jealousy. So badly was he affected that during his turn at guard duty he was incapable of taking his eyes off his girlfriend, and he completely forgot about watching over us. I prayed that on the day of our escape he would be the one on duty. I was convinced that we could leave right under his nose and he wouldn’t notice a thing.

During these days of preparation, luck served us well. While the camp was in turmoil and the guerrillas were working like dogs, cutting wood and bringing it back for all sorts of construction, one of them left his machete near our tent. Clara spotted it, and I had managed to hide it in the
chontos.
The
chontos
they had made for us here were located between some bushes. Anticipating future needs, they had dug six square holes, each three feet deep. Once the first was full, it would be well covered and the next one would be started.

I hid the machete in the last hole and covered it with earth. I had attached a piece of string to the handle and let it poke discreetly through the top, so that on the day of our escape we would only have to pull on the string to recover the machete and not have to put our hands in the dirt to look for it. I took the precaution of carefully explaining to my companion where the machete was buried so that she didn’t use that particular hole, which would have made recovering it very unpleasant.

It was already holy week. I meditated every day, drawing courage from my prayers. Papa’s birthday was at the end of April, and I worked out that by leaving one month beforehand, we had every chance of being able to surprise him.

I went through my list of tasks one by one and concluded with satisfaction that we were ready for the big departure. I thought this Sunday would be a good day to attempt our escape. I had noticed that on Sunday evenings Young Cesar gathered his troops together for some recreational activities. They played, sang, recited, and invented revolutionary slogans, which diverted the attention of the guards who wanted to join in but couldn’t.

We had to wait for the right opportunity, and so every evening at nightfall we were ready, as if it were a practice session. I was tense beyond description, incapable of sleeping, thinking in my insomnia of all the obstacles we might have to face.

One afternoon, on my way back from the
chontos,
I noticed Clara hastily hiding something in her bag. Out of curiosity and playfulness, I tried to find out what she was trying to conceal. To my astonishment I discovered that she had already broken into our reserves of cheese and vitamin C tablets. I felt betrayed. That significantly reduced our chances, but more than that, it created a climate of distrust between us.

That was the one thing we had to avoid at all costs. We had to remain united and bound to one another; we had to be able to rely on each other. I attempted to explain my concerns to her as best I could. But she was staring straight through me. I took her hands in mine to try to bring her back.

That Sunday had been a slow day. The camp had lapsed into a dozy calm. We had everything ready, and there was nothing to do but wait. I had tried to sleep, telling myself that we were in for a terrible ordeal and that we had to conserve our strength. I made every effort to be easygoing and was careful about what I did and what I said in order to avoid arousing any suspicion. I was only too aware that I was not myself. I was gripped by immense feverishness at the thought of putting an end to our captivity, but I was also deeply anxious about being caught. If I didn’t control myself, I would be swallowing my food whole, forgetting to rinse after bathing, and asking the time every two minutes. As it happened, I did the opposite: I chewed my food slowly, I took my time over the day’s tasks and threw myself into performing them as best I could in order to mimic what I believed to be my usual behavior. I spoke without seeking conversation. It was one month and one week since we had been captured. They were proud to be keeping us prisoner. I felt a thrill at the thought of leaving them.

The guerrillas pretended to be nice, and I pretended to be getting used to living among them. Anxiety hovered over all our words, each of us trying to gauge what lay behind the other’s mask. The day went on, slowing down as my impatience intensified. My anguish became suffocating. So much the better: This mounting, unbearable surge of adrenaline was more effective to help us flee than the fear that our captivity would be endless.

At exactly 6:00 P.M. on Sunday, March 31, 2002, there was a change of guard. The person taking over was El Mico, the very one who was madly in love with Alexandra, the pretty
guerrillera.
My heart leaped—it was a sign from destiny. We had to go. Six-fifteen was the ideal moment to leave the
caleta,
walk toward the
chontos,
and disappear into the forest. By 6:30 it would be night.

It was already 6:10. I left my rubber boots in plain view outside the
caleta
and started putting on my own shoes, which I was going to wear for our escape.

“We can’t leave, it’s too risky,” said Clara.

I looked around me. The camp was getting ready for the night. Everyone was busy. El Mico had left his post. He had moved away and was waving madly at the object of his desire at the very moment the handsome
masero
made his entrance into the camp. The young girl had been about to come up toward us but stopped dead when she saw her other admirer arrive.

“I’ll wait for you at the
chontos.
You have three minutes, no more,” I whispered to Clara in response, my feet already outside the mosquito net.

I cast a final glance at the guard and was immediately annoyed with myself for doing so. If he’d looked at me at that moment, it would have given the game away. But he was caught up in his own drama. He was next to a tree, observing his rival’s success. Nothing else in the world interested him. I headed straight for the hole in which we had buried the machete. The string I’d left poking out was still there. Unfortunately, the hole had been used, and the smell was disgusting.
Take it easy, take it easy,
I repeated silently to myself, pulling on the string and retrieving not just the machete but all sorts of other unspeakable matter.

Just then Clara arrived, breathless, and knelt down next to me, trying to hide herself from the guard’s view. We were concealed by palm leaves.

“Did he see you?” I asked.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Do you have everything?”

“Yes.”

I showed her the machete, which I quickly cleaned with some leaves. Her face screwed up in disgust.

“I hadn’t realized,” she apologized with a nervous giggle.

I took the cane that I’d hidden in some nearby shrubs and rushed into the bush, continuing straight ahead. The sound of the cicadas was deafening in the forest, flooding the brain to the point of dizziness. It was exactly 6:15. The cicadas knew better than we did—they were as punctual as a Swiss watch. I smiled. No one would ever hear the din we were making as we walked through the leaves, the dry branches snapping horribly under our feet. Once night fell completely, the noise of the cicadas would give way to the croaking of the toads. Our steps would then be audible, but by that point we would be far enough away. Through the bushes I could make out the light coming from the camp. I could see human shapes entering and leaving the
caletas.
Under the cover of the vegetation we were already in darkness. They would no longer be able to see us.

Clara held on to my shoulder. An enormous tree trunk had fallen to the ground and was blocking our path. I climbed onto it in order to get by and turned to help her, and it was as if someone had just switched off the lights. All of a sudden, we were in the most intense darkness. From now on we would have to feel our way. I used the cane like a blind person to identify obstacles before us and cut a path for us between the trees.

At a certain point, the trees started to thin out and eventually clear. This made the walk easier and encouraged us to talk. I had the impression the path was gradually sloping downward. If that was the case, we were better off moving back into the forest. A path was synonymous with guards, and I had no idea how many security rings had been set up around the camp. We risked walking straight into the arms of our captors.

We’d been heading like this for almost an hour, in darkness and silence, when I suddenly sensed we were not alone. The feeling was immediate, and I stopped dead in my tracks. Someone was definitely moving around in the dark. I distinctly heard the rustle of leaves underneath his feet, and I almost thought I could hear his breath. Clara tried to whisper something in my ear, and I put my hand over her mouth to stop her. The silence was leaden. The cicadas had gone quiet, and the toads were late starting their chorus. I could hear my heart pounding in my chest and was convinced that whoever was out there would be able to hear it, too. We had to stay absolutely still—if he had a flashlight, we were doomed.

He approached slowly. His footsteps glided noiselessly, as if he were walking on a carpet of moss. He seemed able to see in the dark, because there was no hesitation in his step. At just two paces away from us, he stopped. I had the feeling he knew. I felt him looking at us.

A cold sweat ran down my spine, and a new surge of adrenaline chilled my veins. I was paralyzed, unable to make the slightest movement or produce the slightest sound. And yet we had to move, distance ourselves one step at a time, find a tree, try to get away from him before he could switch on his flashlight and grab us. That was impossible. The only part of my body I could move was my eyes, rotating them in their sockets. I strained to pick out even a shadow, but it was so dark that I thought I truly had gone blind.

He came closer. I could feel the heat from his body. A dense steam clung around my legs, and his odor rose to my nostrils, feeding my panic. It was strong and rancid. But it was not what I was expecting. My brain was working at full speed, processing all the signals my senses were sending it. Out of instinct I looked down. What was near me was not a man.

The creature growled at my feet. It came up as high as my knees and was close to brushing up against me. It was a wild animal; I was certain of that now. Minutes that lasted forever went by in the deathly silence. And then it moved off, just as it had come, in a ripple of wind and a rustle of leaves.

“It was a jaguar,” I whispered in Clara’s ear.

“Are you sure?”

“No.”

“Let’s switch on the flashlight. We have to see what it was.”

I hesitated. We could not be too far from the camp. They would be able to see the light and come after us. However, there was no noise, no voices, no lights.

“We’ll switch it on for a second and then turn it off.”

The animal disappeared in the undergrowth like a yellow spark. In front of us, a small trail wound its way downward. We took it instinctively in the hope that it would lead somewhere. A few feet below, it came out onto a small wooden bridge that crossed a dribble of water. On the other side, the terrain grew flatter and barer, the soil sandy and spotted with clusters of mangroves. I was no longer afraid. The light had given me back my faculties.

But I was worried, because taking a path was not a good idea and using the light made us dependent on it. We decided to follow the riverbank. We walked quickly to gain as much ground as we could. Lightning flashed across the night sky, and the wind picked up, sweeping through the trees and crushing the leaves. With no time to lose, we set to work. We had to build a shelter as quickly as possible. A piece of string between two mangroves, the large plastic sheet over the top, and we would have ourselves a roof. We sat underneath, huddled up so we would both fit. I laid the machete I’d just used at my feet, and I slumped forward onto my knees, overcome by desperately needed sleep.

I awoke shortly afterward with the unpleasant sensation of having my backside in water. We were being drenched. A long, eerie creaking sound followed by an explosion made sure I was completely awake—a heavy tree had just crashed to the ground a few yards from our shelter. It could have crushed us. I reached out for the machete and put my hand into two inches of water. The storm was raging. The water level was actually rising and flooding us. How long had we been asleep? Long enough for the stream to increase its volume tenfold and burst its banks.