Even Silence Has an End (19 page)

The day seemed endless. Immediately after a solid breakfast, at which, to my great pleasure, I was given one of the hen’s feet to share, we went back down toward the valley to follow a road that wandered through the forest. Ferney and Jhon Janer, a young man who had recently joined the troops and whom I found more mischievous than disagreeable, had been assigned as our guards. Visibly, the rest of the troops had taken a different route. We came to a crossroads, by which time I was dragging myself, limping on the edges of my feet, and in the distance, like a mirage, I could make out my toothless peasant holding two old nags by the bridle. As soon as he saw us, he began to walk toward us, and I collapsed on the ground, incapable of taking another step. What a joy it was to see the old man again and to be able to exchange a few words with him. I know he would have liked to do more.

We were each given one of the nags, and we set off again at a slow trot. The guards ran by our side, holding the horses firmly by the neck. We had to catch up with the troops, and they expected that it would take us most of the day. On horseback I thought,
I don’t mind—they can take all day if they want, and all night and the next day, too.
I silently thanked the heavens for this godsend, only too aware, now, of what I’d gained.

The forest we were going through was different from the thick jungle where we’d been hiding all those months. The trees were immense and sad, and the rays of the sun reached us only after they had penetrated the thick layer of branches and leaves far above our heads. The undergrowth was bare, with neither ferns nor shrubs, just the trunks of those colossal trees like the pillars of an unfinished cathedral. The place was strange, as if a curse had been cast upon it. My mood seemed to correspond to the nature around me, and it opened up old wounds that had never completely healed. And now that my physical pain had been assuaged, with my bloody feet hanging loose and relieved from any excruciating contact, it was the pain in my heart that was aroused, for I was incapable of letting go of my past life, a life I so loved and that was no longer mine.

The rain fell with a brute force, as if someone were gleefully tipping buckets of water on us from the treetops. Once again the road had become a quagmire. The water covered the guys’ boots almost completely, and the suctioning mud held them prisoner with each step. We had caught up with the troops, and now we began to pass them one by one, as they were bent beneath the weight of their burdens, their faces hardened. I felt pity for them: Someday I would get out of this hell, whereas they had knowingly condemned themselves to rot in this jungle. I did not want to meet their gazes as I rode by. I knew only too well that they were cursing us.

The march continued all day long through the endless storm. We left behind the tree cover and crossed
fincas
rich with fruit trees. The rain and fatigue left us indifferent. The guys didn’t have the strength to stretch out their hands to pick up the mangoes and guavas rotting on the ground. I didn’t dare, from the height of my horse, pick the fruit on my way, for fear of irritating them.

Turning a corner, we came upon some children playing, jumping in the puddles. They had bags full of mandarin oranges that they had left to one side. When they saw us arrive, because we were on horseback they took us for the guerrilla commanders, and they gave all of us some fruit from their reserve. I accepted with gratitude.

It was still raining at dusk, and I was shivering feverishly, wrapped up in a plastic sheet that no longer protected me from the rain but did help me stay warm. We had to give up our horses and continue on foot. I was biting my lips to keep from complaining, as with each step I felt a million needles stabbing my feet and penetrating my limbs. We walked for a long time, until we reached an ostentatious
finca.
An opulent house majestically overlooked countryside that undulated like velvet in the evening twilight. We were guided toward a landing stage, where we were allowed to sit down and wait for the arrival of a motorboat, an enormous iron launch with enough room for all the guerrillas, all the backpacks, and a dozen sturdy plastic bags filled with provisions.

Clara and I were made to sit in the center. Andres and Jessica sat just behind us, next to William and Andrea, his attractive but disagreable girlfriend, who’d been escorting us when we were chased by the helicopters. They were talking loudly, so that we would overhear.

“I guess we got rid of the
chulos
again!”

“If they think they’re going to get hold of our cargo that easily, they’re in for a surprise.”

They were laughing maliciously. I didn’t want to listen to them anymore.

“They took everything that was left after the bombing and burned the rest. The old women’s mattress, their Bible, all the shit they had collected.”

“So much the better—there’s less to carry now!”

“And to think they wanted to swim away from us, stupid old bags. Now they’re with us for years!”

“They’ll be grandmothers by the time they get out.”

That made them laugh even harder. There was a silence, and then Andres turned to me and said disdainfully, “Ingrid, hand over the
mochila
. It’s mine now.”

SEVENTEEN

THE CAGE

We traveled for days, heading down rivers that grew ever wider. Most often we moved at night, so no one would see us. Sometimes, but rarely, we risked traveling during the day, beneath a baking sun. And I always made sure to look into the distance, to search the horizon, to fill my soul with beauty, because I knew that once we went into the forest, I would no longer see the sky.

Walls of trees rose a hundred feet above the riverbanks in a compact formation that blocked all light. We glided through the jungle, aware that no human beings had ever ventured here before, on a mirror of water the color of emeralds that parted like velvet as we passed. The sounds of the jungle seemed to grow louder inside this tunnel of water. I could hear the cry of monkeys, but I couldn’t see them. As a rule, Ferney would sit next to me and point out the
salados.
I stared at the riverbank, hoping to see some mythological beast emerge, to no avail. I confessed that I didn’t know what
salados
meant. He laughed at my expense, but he eventually explained that
salados
was where the tapirs, the
lapas
,
²⁴
and the deer went to drink. This was the place hunters always looked for.

No one, however, was able to name any of the thousands of birds that crossed our sky. I’d been surprised to see kingfishers, egrets, and swallows, and I was delighted that I could recognize them just as if they were flying out to me from the pages of a picture book. The parrots and parakeets with their brilliant, deceptive feathers were outraged by our passage. They flew away from their shelters, then returned as soon as we went by, giving us a chance to admire their magnificent wings. There were also those that flew off like arrows, skimming the water alongside us, as if they were racing our boat. They were little tiny birds with marvelous colors. Sometimes I thought I could see cardinals or nightingales, and I remembered my grandfather watching out for them for hours from his window, and now I understood him, the way I understood so many things I hadn’t taken the time to grasp before.

One bird fascinated me more than all the others. It was turquoise, the underside of its wings was fluorescent green, and its beak was bloodred. When I saw it I alerted everyone, not only in the hope that someone might be able to tell me its name but above all from a need to share the sight of this magical creature.

I knew these visions would remain etched forever within me. But not as good memories, for good memories are only those you can share, especially with your loved ones. If only I had known the name of that bird, I would have felt I could bring it back with me. But there, nothing was left.

We finally reached the end of our journey. We had sailed down a wide river, which we then left behind to head up a secret tributary hidden behind thick vegetation and winding unpredictably around a small hill. We disembarked in dense jungle. We sat on our belongings and waited while the guys went at it with their machetes to clear a space for our camp.

In a few hours, they built a wooden dwelling with a zinc roof, closed on all sides, with a narrow opening for a door. It was a cage! I was afraid to go in. I anticipated that this new walled-in space would exacerbate the tension between Clara and me.

After my third escape attempt, when Yiseth had recaptured me near the river, a group of six guerrillas, including Ferney and Jhon Janer, erected an iron fence all around the cage. At night they locked us in with a padlock.

Behind the metal fence, the feeling of imprisonment plunged me into unbearable distress. I stood there for days praying in an attempt to find an explanation, some meaning behind my misfortune.
Why, why?

Ferney was on duty once and came over. He handed me a tiny radio that he could just squeeze through the mesh of the fence. “Here, listen to the news, it will take your mind off things. Hide it. Believe me, this fence hurts me more than it does you.”

After they had locked us in like rats, they spent several days digging a hole behind our cage, taking turns. At first I thought they were setting out to dig a trench. Then, when I saw that the hole was getting deeper and that they weren’t digging it all the way around the cage, I concluded it must be a grave, so they could kill us and throw us in. I had not forgotten that FARC had threatened to assassinate us after one year of captivity. I lived in terrible dread. I would have preferred for them to announce my execution. Uncertainty was eating away at me. It was only when the porcelain toilet made its appearance that I realized they were merely building a cesspool. They had just finished digging nine feet down, as they’d been ordered. They thought it was great fun to jump into the hole and climb out again without any help, just the strength of their arms, slithering up a wall so smooth and shiny it looked polished by a machine. Someone came up with the idea of letting me have a go, too, and I refused at once, adamantly.

My obstinacy only served to get them all the more excited. They pushed me in, and I found myself at the bottom of the hole, frightened yet determined. They had placed their bets. Everyone was shouting and laughing, eager for the show to commence.

Clara came up to the hole and gave a doubtful look. “She’ll make it,” she predicted.

I did not share her conviction. Ultimately, however, I proved her right, with much effort and just as much luck. The joy of the two guerrillas who had placed their bets on my success made me laugh. For a moment the barriers that kept us apart had fallen and another division, subtler, very human, had surfaced. There were those who disliked me because of what I represented. They saw in me everything that they were not. And then there were the others, like Ferney and Jhon Janer, the ones who were curious to know who I was and who were ready to build bridges rather than walls. And there was Clara, who had played the referee this time, and who had come out in my favor. In spite of the tension between us, she had wanted me to succeed, and I was grateful to her for that.

This interlude of peace among all of us helped us to prepare our first Christmas in captivity. We had to let bitterness flow between our fingers like water you can’t hold back anymore.

To me the most unbearable thing of all was the distress I must be causing my family. This was their first Christmas without my father, and without me. In a way I felt more fortunate than they were, because I could imagine them together on Christmas, which is also my birthday. But they knew nothing about what had happened to me, and they didn’t even know whether I was still alive. The idea of my son, Lorenzo—who was still a young boy—of my teenage daughter, Melanie, and of Sebastian, already an adult, all tormented by the horrors their imagination might construe regarding my fate was driving me mad.

To escape from my labyrinth, I busied myself with making a manger from the clay that had been dug up for the cesspool, molding figurines dressed in the tropical bulrush that grew abundantly in the surrounding swamps. My work attracted the attention of the young girls. Yiseth wove a lovely garland of butterflies with the metallic paper from cigarette packs. Another came to cut out cardboard angels with me, and we hung them from the tin roof just above the manger. Finally, two days before Christmas, Yiseth came back with an ingenious system of Christmas lights. She had obtained a supply of little flashlight bulbs that she’d fastened to an electric wire. All it took was contact with a radio battery and we had Christmas lights in the middle of the jungle.

I was surprised to see that they had also decorated their
caletas
for the occasion. Some of them had even put up Christmas trees, the branches draped with surgical cotton and decorated with childish drawings.

On Christmas Eve, Clara and I hugged each other. She gave me some soap from her supply. I made a greeting card for her. We had somehow become a family—and as is the case with real families, we hadn’t chosen each other. Sometimes, like that day, it was reassuring to be together. We prayed and sang our few
villancicos,
traditional Colombian carols, and we knelt on the ground by our makeshift manger, as if our songs could take us home again even if just for a few moments.

Our thoughts bore us far away. Mine traveled to another space and another time, to the place where I had been a year earlier with my father, my mother, and my children, amid a happiness I thought was unshakable—and that only now could I fully appreciate.

Lost in our meditation, we had not noticed that there was a crowd behind us: Ferney, Edinson, Yiseth, El Mico, Jhon Janer, and the others had come to sing with us. Their strong, steady voices filled the forest and seemed to resonate ever louder, beyond the barriers of thick vegetation, toward the sky, beyond the stars, toward the mystical North, where it is written that God dwells, and where I imagined he could hear the silent quest of our hearts only he could answer.