Even Silence Has an End (49 page)

SIXTY-EIGHT

MONSTER

MAY 2006

The Dwarf arrived, out of breath.

“Take your
equipos
just as they are. Don’t take anything more. We’re leaving right away.”

The helicopters were whirring above our heads, their rotors slowly stirring the air with a deafening sound of cataclysm. William, the nurse, ran off right away. He was always ready. The rest of us always wanted to slip something precious in our packs at the last minute.

I didn’t try to go any faster. Papa always said, “Get dressed slowly if you are in a hurry.”And death? I didn’t give a damn. A bullet—quick, clean, why not? I didn’t believe it would happen to me. I knew that was not my destiny. A guard was barking ferociously behind me. I looked up. Everyone had left.

The guard pushed me, took my
equipo,
which was still open, and left at a run. Above my head a helicopter was hovering. A man was seated in the door, his feet dangling, looking at the ground. He was wearing big goggles, and his gun barrel was aimed at the same spot he was looking at. How could he not see me, right there below him? Maybe it was my camouflage pants. He might take me for a guerrilla and shoot me. I had to signal that I was a prisoner. I’d show him my chains. Maybe it would be too late, and they’d leave me lying there in a puddle of blood, and the military patrols would discover my body.

“¿Vieja hijue madre, quiere que la maten?”
⁷⁸

It was Angel. He was hysterical, bent over behind a tree with my
equipo
in his arms. The blast from the helicopter was making him squint, his head to one side as if he were in pain.

A hail of bullets raked the forest. I jumped. I ran straight ahead, grabbing Lucho’s mosquito net, with the egg still inside, and I landed next to a tree, to crouch beside Angel.

There was no letup in the firing, just next to us but not at us. The helicopter went on circling above us. Angel didn’t want to move. In a row of trees in front of ours, other guerrillas were waiting, like us.

“Let’s go!” I said. I wanted to move.

“No, they’re shooting at anything that moves. I’ll tell you when to run.”

I still had the egg in my hand. I wondered what I could do with it now. I slipped it into my jacket pocket and tried to roll up the mosquito net so it could fit into my
equipo.

“Now’s not the right time,” said Angel, growling.

“You bite your fingernails, I put my things away—you have your way, I have mine!” I answered, annoyed.

He looked at me, surprised, and then he smiled. I hadn’t seen that side of him for a long time. He took my
equipo
and tossed it neatly over his head to wedge it on his own pack against his neck. Then he took me by the hand and looked me straight in the eye.

“On the count of three, we run, and you don’t stop until I do, got it?”

“Got it.”

Other helicopters were coming toward us. The one directly above climbed higher and went into a bank. I could see the soles of the soldier’s boots getting smaller. Angel ran, the devil on his heels, and I followed.

Three-quarters of an hour later, we were making our way through the bush once again. I showed the egg to Lucho. “You’re silly,” he said, delighted.

The egg was all that mattered. Having the army come to rescue us seemed like an impossible dream.

The forest was dressed up in pink and purple. This happened twice a year with the flowering of orchids. They grew around the tree trunks and they awoke all at the same time, in a flurry of color that lasted only a few days. I picked them as we walked, to put in my hair, tucked behind my ears, and wove them through my braids. My companions would hand me some, pleased to rekindle the gestures of gallantry they had forgotten.

We walked for days, and then we would find the
bongo
farther away. Enrique always crowded us together in the stern, next to the fuel cans, but we were too tired by the march to mind.

Behind a little cluster of trees, the gray-blue water of the river seemed immobile, like a mirror. Gradually the light changed. The trees stood out, as if drawn with Japanese strokes against the artificial paradise of the pinkish red background. The cry of a pterodactyl broke the air. I looked up. Two guacamayas soared across the heaven in a train of rainbow colors and gold dust. “I’ll draw them for my Mela and my Loli.”

The sky darkened. There was nothing left but stars when the
bongo
arrived.

We came to a disused FARC camp. We set up off to one side, on a slight slope overlooking a deep, narrow stream that capriciously formed a right angle just in front of us, creating a pool of blue water above a bed of fine sand.

Enrique magnanimously authorized each of us to bathe when it suited us. My
caleta
was built first, in the row going up the slope. I had an incomparable view over the pool. I was as happy as I could be. The water flowed icy and crystal clear. Early in the morning, it was covered in vapor, like thermal waters. I decided to go for my swim just after the morning meal, because no one seemed to want to argue over that time slot, and I wanted to stay in for a long time. The current was strong, and a tree trunk lodged in the curve was an ideal support for swimming in place.

The next day Tiger was on duty, and his vicious gaze did not leave me during the entire time I did my exercises.
He’s going to make my life hell,
I thought. The day after that, Oswald replaced him at the same time.

“Get out,” he brayed.

“Enrique said we could stay in as long as we like.”

“Get out.”

When the Dwarf came on his rounds, I asked him for permission to swim in the pool.

“I will bring it up with the commander,” he replied, the model FARC guerrilla.

With the FARC, not a single leaf on a tree could be cut without permission from the leader. This centralized power meant that things moved very slowly. But it proved very useful for putting a wrench in other people’s works when it suited. If a guard wanted to turn down a prisoner’s request, he would reply that he’d ask his superior. The Dwarf’s answer was the equivalent of a refusal. So I was surprised when he came back the next day and declared, “You can stay in the water and swim, but watch out for the stingrays.”

Tiger and Oswald moved their rifles to the other shoulder. If they were on duty when it was my bath time, they would try to outdo each other repeating, “Watch out for the stingrays!” just to annoy me.

I hung some sheets that my companions had given me around my hammock so that I could change without having anyone look at me.

Monster arrived one afternoon, introducing himself to the prisoners in a friendly way. I was surprised by his name, and at first I thought it was a joke, but then I remembered that they did not speak English and that “Monster” must not have the same resonance for them as for me. He asked me a few questions, acting in a very friendly way, but when he went away again, I said to myself,
Otro Enrique.
⁷⁹

That very evening Oswald was on duty. He came and planted his uptight person before me and roared, “Get this shit out of here!” pointing to the hanging sheets.

This was a hard blow. I really needed some privacy.

Exasperated, Oswald pulled down my sheets himself. I asked to speak to Monster, hoping that he had not yet been contaminated. It was worse than that. He knew that he’d get a standing ovation if he treated me harshly.

From that day on, Monster began to despise me with an easy conscience. No matter what I asked, he invariably said no.
It’s character-building,
I kept telling myself.

Before Monster arrived, I had begged them to build us a screen of leaves in front of the
chontos.
They had dug them right next to the
caletas,
and I could see my companions when they squatted down. Huddling behind a big tree whose roots hid me, I made a hole with the heel of my boot and relieved myself, praying that the guards wouldn’t compel me to use the hole in front of everybody. One evening on my way back, my foot caught in a root. As I fell, I rammed a sharp branch into my knee. I understood what had happened before I even felt it. I got up cautiously and saw that the tip of the branch was soaked in blood from a gaping hole in my knee that was opening and closing spasmodically.
I’ve done something nasty there
was my instant diagnosis.

As I expected, I was denied any medication. So I decided not to move from my
caleta
until the wound closed, and I just prayed to the heavens that there would be no raids until my knee had scarred over. I thought it would be a matter of two days; it took two weeks of complete immobilization.

Lucho was worried and asked around for some alcohol. One of our companions had a permanent stock, and he had the last squeeze of a tube of some anti-inflammatory cream—miraculously, they both ended up in my hands. He also got permission from Monster to bring me a jug of water from the stream every day so I could wash, giving us the chance to exchange a few words, a privilege that brought me all the happiness I could hope for.

I quickly told Lucho about the business that had so upset me. One evening before I hurt my knee, Tito shook me in my hammock. He wanted to speak to me in secret. I feared a repetition of Mono Liso’s advances, so I rejected him. Before returning to his guard post, he whispered, “I can get you out of here, but we have to be quick!”

I paid no attention. I knew how the guerrillas liked to set traps, and I imagined that Enrique had sent him to sound out my intentions. But I didn’t see Tito again.

Efrén came to see me. He brought a brand-new notebook and some colored pencils. He wanted me to draw the solar system.

“I want to learn,” he said.

I rummaged in my memory to situate Venus and Neptune, filling the paper with a universe that I created at my whim, with balls of fire and giant comets. He loved it and asked for more, and he came back every day for his notebook and his new drawings. He had a thirst for knowledge, and I needed to keep busy. I invented all kinds of subterfuges in order to bait him with subjects I knew well, and he would take the bait, delighted to come back for more the next day. So it was that I discovered, in casual conversation, that Tito had run away with a girl and another guy. They had been caught and shot. Tito’s face, with his lazy eye, came to haunt me in my nightmares. I regretted that I hadn’t believed him. The chain I wore around my neck twenty-four hours a day now seemed heavier than ever. My one consolation was that Lucho no longer had to wear his during the day.

I got out of my bath and dried off quickly: The morning pot had arrived. We didn’t eat much, and this was the only meal that sated my hunger. I rushed over, forgetting my good manners, wondering how I could manage to get the biggest
arepa.
Marulanda was in front of me. I was jubilant—he would get the little one, and mine would be the big one, the next on the pile. Tiger was serving, he saw me coming, he looked at the
arepas
and understood why I was pleased. He took the pile and turned it over. Marulanda got the big one and I the little one.

I was ashamed of myself for succumbing to such petty desire. So many years fighting against my basic instincts, to no avail. I vowed not to look at the size of the portions anymore and take whatever I was served.

However, the next morning when they unlocked my padlock, despite my resolution to behave like a fine lady, the demon in me got out when it smelled the
arepa
and I realized to my dismay that my eyes were boring into the pile of
cancharinas
and that I was ready to bite the hand of anyone who tried to take my turn.

So I decided I would wait until the very last moment to go for my food. Unfortunately, the moment the pot arrived, another “me” took over.
This isn’t normal,
I reflected.
My ego is interfering.
Much to my dismay, there was no way around it. Day after day I failed the test.

SIXTY-NINE

LUCHO’S HEART

It was on one of those mornings, as I was standing in line to get my first meal, that I saw our three American companions coming along the path that led to the guerrillas’ camp. I was surprised it made me so happy.

Marc, Tom, and Keith were all smiles. I hurried to greet them, with a warmth that proved contagious to my fellow prisoners. Tom hugged me affectionately and began speaking English, knowing how happy I would be to resume our English lessons.

Monster scowled at me as he went by and heard me talking to Tom.

The next morning he announced with obvious glee, “The prisoners are allowed to talk among themselves. Except to Ingrid.”

Everyone forgot the rule when a poor stingray drifted into the pool. I saw it while I was taking my bath. It had tiger stripes, like the ones I’d sometimes seen in Chinese aquariums. Armando gave the alert, and the guard came to hack off its tail with a blow from his machete. Then it was put on display, not for the exceptional patterns of its skin, but because the guerrillas ate its genitals for their aphrodisiac properties. The prisoners gathered to examine the poor specimen, clearly a source of great interest, due to its resemblance to human male organs.

That day, Enrique agreed to let the hostages enjoy watching DVDs.

Some of our companions who were on good terms with the guerrillas insinuated that it might be therapeutic for the depression coming in waves among the prisoners. It’s true that at night we were often awakened by one of our companions screaming. My
caleta
was next to Pinchao’s, and his nightmares were more and more frequent. I tried to rouse him from his dream by calling his name, putting on my best sheriff’s voice.

“The devil was attacking me.” he would confess, still in the grip of a vivid vision.

I did not want to admit that we were all as disturbed as he was. It was happening to me more often. The first time, Pinchao woke me. I said, horrified, “Someone was strangling me.”

“That’s the way it is,” he whispered to reassure me. “You don’t get used to it. It only gets worse.”

Enrique hadn’t wanted to appear weak by entertaining his “detainees.” Maybe he changed his mind to impress the Americans. Maybe he was concerned about our mental health. Whatever. The guerrillas liked films with Jackie Chan and Jean-Claude Van Damme. But the ones they knew by heart starred their Mexican idol, Vicente Fernández. I watched the men as they watched the movies and was intrigued to discover they always identified with the good guys and had tears in their eyes during the soppy love scenes.

One afternoon we left the stingray camp, unhurriedly and halfheartedly, and went once again deep into the
manigua.
On occasion I had been at the front of the line during the marches, because Enrique knew that I walked slowly, so he made me leave earlier. Very quickly some of my companions would catch up, ready to trample over me to get ahead. I would often wonder why grown men would bother vying to be in the lead of a line of prisoners.

LATE OCTOBER 2006-DECEMBER 2006

The new camp boasted two places to bathe. One was the river itself, which was rare, because they generally tried to hide us from places where there was traffic, and another was on a little waterfall with turbulent water, farther inland.

When we went down to the river, I would swim upstream and manage to go a few yards. Some of my companions followed my example, and bath time became a sort of sports competition. The guards didn’t go after anyone but me. So I swam in circles or on the spot, convinced that my body was benefiting from it just as much.

When, for reasons that were not revealed, they ordered us to take our bath in the waterfall, we had to go past a clearing they had made into their volleyball court, created with sand from the river, then along the outside of their camp. As we went by, in their
caletas
I could see papayas, oranges, and lemons, which I looked at longingly.

I had asked Enrique for permission to celebrate my children’s birthdays. For the second year in a row, he refused. I tried to imagine how different my children’s faces must be. Melanie had just turned twenty-one, and Lorenzo was eighteen. Mom said his voice had changed. I had never heard it.

The flatness of life, the boredom, time that was forever starting over again just the same—it all acted like a sedative. I watched the girls practicing a dance for the New Year on the volleyball court. Katerina was the most talented. She danced the
cumbia
like a goddess. These good-natured activities filled me with melancholy and impatience to recover my freedom.

We were all obsessed by our need to run away. Armando grew very excited as he explained in detail the escape he had planned, always for sometime soon. He even claimed he’d already gone through with it once.

“But I had to come back. You see, I was wandering around like that at night, and I saw the commander headed straight for me. I thought he was going to kill me. But he didn’t. It was too dark. He didn’t recognize me. ‘Where are you going, son?’ he asked. ‘I have to take a leak, comrade!’”

“That’s a shameless lie! You never even set foot outside your mosquito net.”

“You don’t believe me? You’ll see, I’ll surprise you all!”

I, too, could think of little else but the idea of escape. They had eased my regime considerably. I was allowed to speak with Lucho for an hour a day during lunch break and with the others without restriction, although English was strictly forbidden.

When my hour with Lucho was over, Pinchao took his place. It had become usual to make appointments between prisoners. We took pride in making it clear when we didn’t want to be disturbed. Living together, twenty-four hours a day with hardly anything to do, led us to raise imaginary walls. Pinchao came for our daily chat.

“When I grow up,” I liked to say playfully, “I’ll build a city in the Magdalena where the
desplazados
⁸⁰
will have fine houses with the best schools for their children, and I’ll make Ciudad Bolívar into a Montmartre, with lots of tourists, good restaurants, and a place of pilgrimage for the Virgin of Freedom.”

“Do you really want to be president of Colombia?”

“Yes,” I answered, just to annoy him.

One day he asked, “Aren’t you afraid?”

“Why are you asking?”

“Yesterday, just to try it, I wanted to go outside my
caleta
without asking the guards’ permission. It was so dark I couldn’t even see my hand.”

“And?”

“I was too frightened. I’m a coward. I’m useless. I’ll never be able to escape the way you did.”

I heard myself say very softly, “Every time I left the camp, I thought I would die of fear. Fear is normal. For some people it acts as a brake; for others it’s an engine. The important thing is not to let it control you. When you make the decision to escape, it’s a cold, rational decision. Preparation is essential, because in the midst of action, when fear takes hold of you, you mustn’t think about it—you have to act. So you do it in stages. I have to take three steps forward, one, two, three. Now I get down and I go under that big branch. Then I turn to the right. Now I start running. The movements you make must take all your concentration. You feel your fear, but you accept it and you put it aside.”

A few days before Christmas, we moved to a makeshift camp that was less than half an hour from where we were. Hastily built, it had no
caletas,
no hammocks; everybody slept on plastic sheets on the ground. Everything was somewhat improvised, and the guards were not as attentive, so I was able to sit next to Lucho.

“I think that Pinchao wants to escape,” I confided to him.

“He won’t get far. He doesn’t know how to swim.”

“If there were three of us, we’d have a better chance.”

Lucho looked at me, a new glow in his gaze. Then, as if he refused to show any enthusiasm, he said, frowning, “Have to think about it!”

I hadn’t realized until now that during our entire conversation he’d been ill at ease, shifting position, worried, as if he were having trouble getting comfortable with his own body.

“Ah, I’ve got a cramp,” he said breathlessly.

He stretched out his arm, and I thought he’d hurt himself.

“No, not there. It’s in the middle of my chest. It really hurts, as if someone were pressing on it, right here in the middle.”

He went from white to gray. I had already seen this. Papa to begin with and then, in a different way but just as acute, Jorge.

“Lie down and don’t move. I’ll get William.”

“No, wait, it’s nothing. Don’t make a fuss.”

I let go of him and reassured him. “I’ll be right back.”

William was always wary. He’d often gone running to look at a patient, only to find a gifted actor scheming to get more food.

“If I help you, out of friendship, the day we really need medication, they’ll refuse,” he’d explained, back in the days when we were chained up together.

“You know I wouldn’t come and get you if I didn’t think it was serious,” I said.

William’s diagnosis was instantaneous. “He’s having a heart attack. We need some aspirin right away.”

Oswald gave me a chilly reception.

“We need some aspirin, quickly. Lucho has just had a heart attack.”

“There’s no one around. They’re all working on the site.”

“And the nurse?”

“There’s no one, and as far as I’m concerned, the old guy can die.”

I leaped back, horrified. Tom had witnessed the scene. When I came over to him, Lucho opened his closed fist to show me his treasure: Tom had just given him a spare aspirin he’d been keeping since Sombra’s prison.

Even when the nurse eventually came, there was no aspirin for Lucho. As if to apologize, old Erminson told me in confidence, “They had to clear some land to plant the coca. Enrique’s going to sell it, because we have no more money, and the Plan Patriota cut us off from our suppliers. That’s why there’s nothing left and we’re all busy.”

The men had been complaining about the hard work they had to put in. Harsh blue smoke had wafted over us as they burned the land, making it hard to breathe, and we’d noticed that they changed the guard only twice a day. They were all very busy.

Two days before Christmas, we went back to the old camp by the river, set up our antennas to listen to the program devoted to our families. Saturday, December 23, 2006, was a strange night. Wrapped up in my hammock and my solitude, I heard my mother’s faithful voice and the magical ones of my children. Mela spoke to me in a wise and maternal voice that broke my heart.

“I hear your voice in my heart, and I repeat all your words. I remember everything you told me, Mom. I need you to come back.”

And I cried just as hard when I heard Lorenzo’s voice. It was his voice, my little boy’s voice. But it had changed, and in it there echoed a second voice. My father’s voice, his grave, warm tone, like velvet. As I listened, I saw my child and I saw Papa. And not just Papa, but also his hands, his big hands with square fingers, dry and smooth. It gave me such happiness that it made me sob. And I also heard Sebastian. He had recorded his message in Spanish, which brought him closer to me. I felt blessed in hell. I could not listen anymore. My heart couldn’t take this much emotion. “Have I told Sebastian how much I love him? Dear Lord, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know that purple has been my favorite color because of that purple pareo he gave me and that I refused to wear.” I laughed at my memories and my guilt. “I will get out of here alive to be a better mother,” I said, resolved. At dawn, with swollen eyes and my hammock soaked, I got up, so they could free me to use the
chontos
.

As early as it was, the guards were already drunk. Armando swore he would carry out his plan that same day, and I wanted to believe him. The night was moonlit, and the guards were drunker than ever. It was a perfect night, but Armando didn’t escape. The next morning Pinchao came up to me.

“Armando didn’t leave. He’ll never be able to.”

“And you, could you?” I asked.

“I don’t know how to swim.”

“I’ll teach you.”

“My God! It’s my dream to learn, because I want to teach my son to swim. I don’t want him to feel ashamed, like I do.”

“We’ll start tomorrow.”

Pinchao returned the favor. He appointed himself my trainer, and he put together a strict routine of exercises that he performed by my side. The hardest for me was pull-ups. I couldn’t get the weight of my body up even one inch. In the beginning Pinchao held my legs. But some weeks later my body kept going until my eyes were above the bar. I was thrilled. I was able to do six pull-ups in a row.

We were working out far from the ears of the guards, when I asked him straight out.

“You can count on me,” he said immediately. “With you and Lucho, I would go to the end of the earth.”

We started work right away. We had to gather supplies.

“It’s easy. We’ll exchange our cigarettes for dark chocolate and
farinha,
” I suggested.

I had only recently discovered
farinha.
They’d given it to us during the march. It was cassava flour, dry and coarse. If you mixed it with water, it tripled in volume and cut your appetite. It came from Brazil, which made me think we must be somewhere far in the southeast of the Amazon region.

Pinchao easily got hold of a supply of nylon line and hooks; he often helped the fishermen in the camp, and they liked him. I set about making some new
mini-cruseros
and getting some flotation devices, and I collected all of our cigarettes, much more easily now because Lucho had stopped smoking after his heart attack. I used them for barter with Massimo, an old black man from the Pacific coast; he had a good heart, and he liked Lucho, because his family had always voted for him.

When we heard rumors that the army was in the region, we knew we could be moving camp. We quickly got together to figure out how to distribute our extra food supplies, eight pounds of chocolate and
farinha.
Carrying them would be a torture.