News of a Kidnapping

by Gabriel García Márquez

  That night Marina displayed all her irresistible Antioquian charm. The guards followed suit, and they all said what they had to say in their God-given voices, except the majordomo, who even on the high seas of intoxication still spoke in whispers. Spots, emboldened by drink, found the courage to give Beatriz a bottle of aftershave: "So you can all smell nice when you get a million hugs on the day you're released," he said to the women. The boorish majordomo could not let it pass and said it was the gift of a secret admirer. A new terror was added to the many that plagued Beatriz.

  The party consisted of the hostages, the majordomo and his wife, and the four guards. Beatriz had an unbearable lump in her throat. Maruja felt nostalgic and embarrassed, but even so she could not hide her admiration for Marina who looked splendid, rejuvenated by makeup, with her white gown and snowy hair, her delicious voice. It was inconceivable that Marina could be happy, but she made everyone think she was.

  She joked with the guards who lifted their masks to drink. Sometimes, when the heat got to be too much for them, they asked the hostages to turn their backs so they could take a free breath. At midnight, when the fire engine sirens wailed and the church bells rang, they were all crowded into the room, sitting on the bed, on the mattress, sweating in the infernal heat. The national anthem began to play on television. Then Maruja stood and told them all to get to their feet and sing with her. When it was over she raised her glass of apple wine and made a toast to peace in Colombia. The party ended half an hour later when the bottles were empty and nothing was left on the platter but bones and the remains of some potato salad.

  The hostages greeted the replacement crew of guards with a sigh of relief, for they were the same ones who had been waiting for them on the night of the abduction and the prisoners knew how to deal with them. Maruja in particular felt a sense of deliverance, for her poor health had kept her in low spirits. At first her terror had taken the form of erratic pains all over her body, which forced her into uncomfortable postures. But then the pain became concrete as a result of the inhuman regime imposed by the guards. Early in December, to punish her rebelliousness, they would not allow her to use the bathroom for an entire day, and when at last they gave permission, nothing happened. This was the beginning of a chronic cystitis, and then bleeding, which lasted until the end of her captivity.

  Marina, who had learned sports massage from her husband, committed her meager strength to healing her. She still had high spirits left over from New Year's Eve. She remained optimistic, told stories: She was alive. The inclusion of her name and photograph in a television campaign in support of the hostages restored her sense of hope and joy. She was her old self again: She existed again, she was there. Her picture was always shown in the first segment of the campaign, and then one day, with no explanation, it did not appear. Maruja and Beatriz did not have the heart to tell her that perhaps she had been removed from the list because no one thought she was still alive.

  December 31 was important to Beatriz because that was the latest date she had fixed for her release. She was so devastated by disappointment that her cellmates did not know what to do for her. At one point Maruja could not look at her because when she did, Beatriz broke down and burst into tears, and they began to ignore each other in a space not much larger than a bathroom. The situation became untenable.

  The most reliable distraction for the three hostages, in the endless hours following their bathroom privileges, was to massage their legs with the moisturizing cream their jailers supplied in sufficient quantities to keep them from going mad. One day Beatriz realized it was running out.

  "What are we going to do when there's no more cream?" she asked Maruja.

  "Well, we can always ask for more," Maruja replied in a caustic tone. And she added with an emphasis that was even more caustic: "Or else we'll just have to make a decision when the time comes. Okay?"

  "Don't you dare talk to me like that!" Beatriz shouted in a sudden explosion of rage. "Not when it's your damn fault I'm here!"

  The explosion was inevitable. In an instant she said everything she had kept to herself during so many days of repressed tensions, so many nights of horror. The surprise was that it had not happened earlier or been more rancorous. Beatriz had kept to the sidelines, holding back, swallowing her rancor whole without tasting it. The inconsequential effect, of course, was that sooner or later a simple, thoughtless phrase would release the fury that terror had suppressed. But the guard on duty did not think that way, and fearing a major blowup, threatened to lock Beatriz and Maruja into separate rooms.

  They were dismayed. The dread of sexual assault was still very much alive. Certain that being together made it difficult for the guards to attempt a rape, they were alarmed by the thought of being separated. On the other hand, the guards, who were always in pairs, did not get along and seemed to keep a cautious eye on one another as a way of maintaining internal discipline and avoiding serious incidents with the hostages.

  But the repression of the guards created an unhealthy atmosphere in the room. Those on duty in December had brought in a VCR and watched violent films with strong erotic elements, and some pornographic movies. At times the room became saturated with unbearable tension. Furthermore, when the prisoners went to the bathroom, they had to leave the door partially opened, and on more than one occasion they had caught a guard watching them. One of the guards, who insisted on holding the door with his hand so it would not close all the way while the women were using the bathroom, almost lost his fingers when Beatriz slammed it shut. Another unsettling sight was a pair of homosexual guards who worked the second shift and kept each other in a perpetual state of arousal with all kinds of perverse games. Spots's excessive vigilance at Beatriz's slightest gesture, his gift of aftershave, and the majordomo's insolent remark were all unsettling. The stories the guards told each other about their rapes of strangers, their erotic perversions, their sadistic pleasures, rarefied the atmosphere even further.

  At the request of Maruja and Marina, the majordomo had a doctor come to see Beatriz on January 12, sometime before midnight. He was a young, well-dressed man with beautiful manners, wearing a yellow silk mask that complemented his outfit. It is difficult to believe in the seriousness of a hooded physician, but this one demonstrated his skill as soon as he came in. His self-assurance was comforting. He carried a fine leather bag as big as a suitcase, with a phonendoscope, a tensiometer, a battery-operated electrocardiograph, a laboratory kit for home-analysis, and other emergency equipment. He gave each hostage a thorough examination, and analyzed their blood and urine in the portable laboratory.

  As he was examining Maruja, the doctor whispered in her ear: "I am the most embarrassed person in the world at having to see you in this situation. I want to tell you that I am not here voluntarily. I was a great friend and supporter of Dr. Luis Carlos Galan, and I voted for him. You don't deserve to suffer like this, but try to endure. Serenity is good for your health." Maruja appreciated his explanations but could not overcome her astonishment at his moral flexibility. He made identical comments to Beatriz.

  The diagnosis for both women was severe stress and incipient malnutrition, for which he ordered an enriched, more balanced diet. He discovered circulatory problems and a serious bladder infection in Maruja, and prescribed a course of treatment based on Vasoton, diuretics, and tranquilizers. He prescribed a sedative for Beatriz's gastric ulcer. As for Marina--whom he had seen before--he only advised that she take better care of her health but did not find her very receptive. He ordered all three to walk at a brisk pace for at least an hour every day.

  After this, each woman was given a box with twenty tranquilizers. They were to take one pill in the morning, another at noon, and the third before they went to sleep. In an emergency they could exchange the tranquilizer for a powerful barbiturate that allowed them to escape many of the horrors of their captivity. Just a quarter of a pill was enough to make them lose consciousness before the count of four.

  At one o'clock that mor
ning, they began their walks in the dark courtyard with the nervous guards, who kept their submachine guns, safeties off, trained on them. The women felt dizzy their first time out, in particular Maruja, who had to lean against the walls to keep from falling. With the help of the guards, and sometimes Damaris, they grew accustomed to the exercise. At the end of two weeks, Maruja was able to circle the yard up to a thousand times--two kilometers--at a quick pace. Their spirits rose, and this in turn improved domestic tranquillity.

  The courtyard was the only part of the house they saw except for their room. They took their walks in the dark, but on moonlit nights they could make out a large laundry area half in ruins, clothes hung out to dry on lines, and a great jumble of broken packing cases and worn-out household articles. Above the canopy over the laundry, there was a second story with a sealed window, its streaked panes curtained by sheets of newspaper. The hostages thought it must be where the guards slept when they were not on duty. There was a door to the kitchen, another to the room where the prisoners were kept, and a gate made of old boards that did not reach all the way to the ground. It was the gate out to the world. Later they would learn that it led to a quiet pen where Easter lambs and a few hens were kept. It seemed very simple to open it and get away, but it was guarded by a German shepherd that looked incorruptible. Still, Maruja became his friend, and at a certain point he stopped barking when she came close to pet him.

  After Azucena's release, Diana was alone. She watched television, listened to the radio, at times she read the papers with more interest than ever, but knowing the news and not having anyone to discuss it with was almost worse than not knowing anything at all. She thought the guards treated her with decency, and she recognized their efforts to accommodate her. "I don't want, and it isn't easy, to describe what I feel at each moment: the pain, the anguish, the terrifying days I've experienced," she wrote in her diary. She feared for her life, in fact, in particular because she dreaded an armed rescue attempt. The possibility of her release was reduced to a single, insidious phrase: "Pretty soon, now." She was terrified at the idea that this was a delaying tactic, a way of waiting for the Constituent Assembly to convene and reach concrete decisions on extradition and amnesty. Don Pacho, who used to spend long hours with her discussing various matters and keeping her well informed, grew more and more distant. With no explanation, they stopped bringing her the papers. The news, even the soap operas on television, acquired the slow pace of a country brought to a standstill by the New Year's holiday exodus.

  For over a month they had distracted her with the promise that she would meet Pablo Escobar in person. She rehearsed her attitude, her arguments, her tone, sure she would be able to open a negotiation with him. But the eternal delay had brought her to inconceivable depths of pessimism.

  In this horror, her tutelary image was that of her mother, from whom she inherited, perhaps, her passionate nature, unshakable faith, and elusive dream of happiness. They had a gift for communicating with each other that appeared, like a clairvoyant miracle, during the dark months of captivity. Each word uttered by Nydia on radio or television, each of her gestures, the most casual emphasis, conveyed volumes to Diana's imagination in the dark days of her confinement. "I have always felt she was my guardian angel," she wrote. She was sure that in the midst of so many frustrations the final victory would belong to her mother's devotion and strength. Encouraged by this certainty, she conceived the illusion of a Christmas night release.

  That illusion kept her in a state of anticipation during the party that the owners of the house had for her on Christmas Eve, complete with barbecued meat, salsa records, liquor, fireworks, and colored lights. Diana interpreted this as a going-away party. Even more: she had her bag--prepared in November so as not to lose any time when they came for her--ready on the bed. The night was freezing and the wind howled through the trees like a pack of wolves, but she interpreted this as an omen of better times. While they gave gifts to the children, she thought about her own, and consoled herself with the hope that she would be with them the following night. The dream became less improbable when her jailers presented her with a lined leather jacket, chosen perhaps to keep her warm in this foul weather. She was certain her mother had supper waiting for her, as she did every year, and had hung the wreath of mistletoe on the door with a message for her: Welcome. Diana was so sure of her release that she waited until the final holiday lights were turned off in the distance, and another morning dawned, full of uncertainties.

  The following Wednesday she was sitting alone in front of the television, changing channels, and all at once she saw Alexandra's little boy on the screen. It was a Christmas show put on by "Enfoque." Her surprise increased when she realized it was the Christmas Eve she had requested of her mother in the letter delivered by Azucena. Maruja's and Beatriz's family were there, and all of the Turbays: Diana's two children, her brothers and sisters, and her tall, morose father in the center. "We were in no frame of mind for celebrations," Nydia has said. "Still, I decided to give Diana her wish, and in one hour I set up the Christmas tree and the creche by the fireplace." In spite of everyone's best intentions not to leave the hostages with a sad impression, it was more a mourning rite than a celebration. But Nydia was so sure Diana would be released that night that she hung the Christmas decoration on the door with the sign in gold letters: Welcome. "I confess my sorrow at not being there, not sharing the day with all of them," Diana wrote in her journal. "But it cheered me so, I felt very close to everyone, it made me happy to see them all together." She was delighted by how Maria Carolina had grown, concerned about Miguelito's shyness, and recalled with alarm that he was not yet baptized; her father's sadness made her sad, and she was moved by her mother, who had put a gift for her in the creche and hung a welcome on the door.

  Instead of feeling demoralized by the disillusionment of Christmas, Diana's reaction was to turn against the government. At one time she had shown a certain enthusiasm for Decree 2047, the basis for the illusions of November. She was encouraged by the efforts of Guido Parra, the diligence of the Notables, the expectations for the Constituent Assembly, the possibilities for amendments to the capitulation policy. But her frustration at Christmas overflowed the dikes of her understanding. She was appalled when she asked herself why the government could not even conceive of a dialogue that was not determined by the absurd pressure of the abductions. She made it clear that she was well aware of how difficult it was to act under threat of blackmail. "I'm pure Turbay as far as that's concerned," she wrote, "but I believe that as time has passed, things have moved backwards." She could not understand the government's passivity in the face of what she considered deception by the abductors. She could not understand why the government was not more energetic in pursuing their surrender if it had established a policy and satisfied some of their reasonable requests. "As long as that is not demanded of them," she wrote in her journal, "they will feel more comfortable about taking their time, knowing they have in their power the most important weapon for exerting pressure on the government." It seemed to her that good offices and mediation had turned into a chess game in which the players moved their men around until somebody declared a checkmate. "But which piece am I?" she asked herself. And answered the question without any evasions: "I can't help thinking we're all dispensable." As for the Notables--now extinct--she gave the group her coup de grace: "They started out with an eminently humanitarian mission and ended up doing a favor for the Extraditables."

  One of the guards finishing his tour of duty in January burst into Pacho Santos's room.

  "It's all fucked up," he said. "They're going to kill hostages."

  According to him, this was in retaliation for the death of the Priscos, Escobar's close associates. The communique was ready and would be released in the next few hours. First they would kill Marina Montoya, and then one hostage every three days in this order: Richard Becerra, Beatriz, Maruja, and Diana.

  "You'll be the last," the guard concluded by way of consolati
on. "But don't worry, this government can't stomach more than two dead bodies."

  Pacho made his terrified calculations based on the guard's information: He had eighteen more days to live. Then he decided to write to his wife and children, and with no rough draft he composed a letter that filled six full-size sheets of notebook paper, printing the words in lowercase letters as he always did, but these were more legible than usual, and his hand was steady though he knew this was not only a letter of farewell, but also his will and testament.

  "My only wish is for this drama to end as soon as possible, regardless of the outcome, so that we may all have some peace at last," it began. He was profoundly grateful, he said, to Maria Victoria, with whom he had grown as a man, as a citizen, and as a father, and his only regret was having given greater importance to his work as a journalist than to his life at home. "I take this remorse with me to the grave," he wrote. As for his children, who were still babies, he was reassured by the certainty that he was leaving them in the best hands. "Tell them about me when they can understand what happened and accept with some equanimity the needless pain of my death." He thanked his father for all that he had done for him in his life, and asked him only "to take care of everything before you come to join me so my children can receive their inheritance without major difficulties." In this way he led into a subject that he considered "boring but fundamental" for the future: financial security for his children and family unity within El Tiempo. The first depended in large part on the life insurance the paper had purchased for his wife and children. "I ask you to demand what they promised," he said, "because it would not be fair if my sacrifices for the paper proved to be completely useless." As for the professional, commercial, or political future of the paper, his only concerns were its internal rivalries and disagreements, though he knew that in great families discord is never trivial. "It would be very sad, after this sacrifice, if El Tiempo were broken up or sold to outsiders." The letter closed with final words of gratitude to Mariave for the memory of the good times they had shared.