Kidnapped and a Daring Escape

by Gian Bordin

  Seeing André’s hesitation, the young woman sharing the desk duty hands the clerk a note. He takes it with an annoyed frown, visibly displeased that she dares to interrupt him while he is talking to a guest, but then his eyes light up. "Ah, señor, here is your lucky day. There is one other possibility. A day-trip to San Agustin to see the world-famous statues and sculptures in its archaeological park."

  "But I was told one needed at least three days for that," replies André.

  "Yes, señor, that is correct if you travel by bus over the arduous pass of the Cordillera Central. But apparently three other guests have chartered a Cessna for a return flight to Pitalito, less than an hour by car from the park. I see here that they have even ordered a taxi to take them to San Agustin and back. That would give you a six- to seven-hour window for sightseeing, ample if you hire a Jeep to travel between the most spectacular sites. In fact, one person in the party has already arranged for that. Would this interest you too, señor?"

  "Definitely. I would be happy to share in all costs."

  "Excellent. Leave it in my capable hands, señor. I will send a note to your room with details about departure, etc. You can pay me tomorrow morning prior to taking the taxi to the airport."

  "Capable hands?" André questions silently, thanking the clerk.

  * * *

  The staircase to the guest rooms is situated in the spacious, colonnaded inner courtyard of the hotel. Rock music pulsates up from the bar at the far side. People dance on the oval marble space between the fountain in the middle of the courtyard and the umbrella-covered tables in front of the bar. André pauses at the white stone balustrade and looks down to the dancers going through their contortions. With one or two exceptions, all seem to be in their early twenties, women outnumbering men. He catches an occasional word, punctuated by laughter. It sounds Italian.

  The smiling face of a young woman, partnered by another girl, catches his eyes. Short, dark curly hair; her eyes black in the subdued light shed by the lamps around the oval; white teeth between full red lips. Her black top reveals an enticing cleavage and leaves a tanned midriff bare. She has the generous hips he associates with his image of the perfect female figure. Hip-hugging white slacks emphasize her round buttocks. She moves like a feline, sinuous, suggestive. He becomes aware of a tightening in his loins. She laughs, throwing her head back, and their eyes meet. For once, he resists the temptation to tag her with a nickname. She waves a hand, inviting him to join, laughing again. He slowly shakes his head. She contradicts him with exaggerated nodding, folding her hands in prayer. It is now his turn to laugh. "OK" he signals.

  He quickly goes to his room, refreshes his face, splashes some Dolce & Gabbana aftershave on his face, changes into a wine-colored silk shirt, and hurries down the stairs. The band is playing a salsa. He spies her dancing with an immaculately groomed man in his mid to late thirties; a sprinkle of gray in his sideburns; a receding hairline above a high forehead; large gold-rimmed glasses that give him the air of an intellectual. His movements are stiff and lack rhythm. Occasionally he falls out-of-step with the music. It is painful to watch him paired with that young woman whose body flows gracefully with the dance. At one point, he steps on her toes and apologizes profusely. ‘Monsieur maladroit’ enters André’s mind, rather too long for a nickname, he muses.

  Taking advantage of that lapse, he goes over to them, lightly touches the man’s shoulder, and says in Spanish: "Excuse me, señor, may I have this dance with your partner?"

  "Oh, by all means," the man replies, "Bianca will be grateful to you, and salsa is not my strength." He turns brusquely and strides away to the bar.

  "May I?" André asks, as he engages the girl in the rhythm of the dance. He knows that he is an accomplished dancer and gets it confirmed when her whole face lights up with a smile of pleasure.

  After a minute or so of silent dancing he says softly: "Salud … Bianca, that name fits you well. I’m André."

  "Hello André … Your accent tells me that you are not Colombian. Are you French?"

  He loves her fresh, melodious voice, but notices that her pronunciation of ‘accent’ is Italian, not Spanish.

  "No, Swiss," he answers, switching to Italian, "and yours tells me that you’re Italian, as seems to be the case for most of the young people around."

  "Ah, that’s easier. My Spanish isn’t up to scratch yet. Yes, we’re all on an archaeological tour as part of our last University year. Last week we tramped to La Ciudad Perdida."

  "The lost city in the Sierra Nevada along the Caribbean coast?"

  "Yes, you’ve been there?" Her tone of voice is a mixture of excitement and hopeful expectation.

  "No, not yet."

  "Oh, you must. It’s fascinating, so different from any archaeological sites I’ve seen in Europe, and its setting in the lush jungle is unbelievably beautiful."

  Her enthusiasm makes him smile, and she responds, blushing slightly.

  "If you say so, I will visit it, but you must promise to be my guide."

  "You’re teasing me."

  He winks. "I wouldn’t dare."

  She laughs. They continue dancing in silence, occasionally exchanging a smile.

  When the tune ends, she looks up to him and exclaims: "Thank you, André. I love salsa."

  "Then maybe you’re willing to share the next one with me too. You do it like a local."

  "Oh, I wish I did."

  "You do." The band launches into its next tune. "Here we go again." After a pause he adds: "And the rather … clumsy gentleman from whom I stole you, is he part of your group too?" He stops himself just in time before calling the man ‘Monsieur maladroit’.

  "Yes, Professor Visconti is our tour leader and guide." She sounds proud.

  "And is his archaeology better than his dancing?"

  A brief frown chases away the smile, as if she disliked his mocking tone, and then she replies primly: "He is a renowned international expert in South American archaeological sites."

  "No offence intended, Bianca. It just pained me to watch him dance with you. I had the urge to come to your rescue."

  Now she laughs. "I didn’t need rescuing, but yes, he basically hates dancing and only did it because I begged him. I still hope that in time he’ll get better at it."

  "But why do you want him to improve?"

  "He’s my fiancé. We will be married by the end of university examinations." Her tone of voice sounds proud.

  "Oh." He experiences a vague sense of dismay. They seem such an unlikely pair, she bursting with life, he rather staid. "I guess I should congratulate you for marrying such an internationally renowned expert, but to tell the truth, I’m shattered."

  "You’re mocking me again." She purses her lips, looking to the ground.

  "Sorry. That wasn’t my intention. In fact, when I saw you wave up to the balcony, I thought that this was my lucky day, that I had found my dream girl. I was willing to do anything to make you mine."

  "You’re still mocking me, and I don’t believe a word you say." But this time she is smiling. "But you may dance with me."

  He engages her more vigorously in the salsa movements. At the end of the dance, she is breathing hard, but her eyes shine with pure pleasure.

  "I think a need a short rest to catch my breath," she says. "Thank you again."

  "Oh, the thanks are mine. You’re a joy to dance with, but I think I should apologize to your fiancé for so rudely snatching you away."

  "There’s no need for that, really."

  "Still …," he murmurs, leaving the sentence hanging.

  He follows her to the bar where Visconti is engaged in a conversation with a young man, one of his students, he figures, although he gets the distinct impression that it is a rather one-sided conversation, more like a lecture.

  Visconti briefly turns to Bianca, saying: "Ah Bianca, here you are."

  "Franco, André …," she turns to him, "I don’t even know your last name."

  "Villier."

 
"André Villier would like to apologize to you."

  "Yes, Professore, please accept my apology for having so rudely interrupted your dance and taking your fiancée away from you."

  A fleeting frown flits across Visconti’s face, replaced by a condescending smile. "No need to apologize, young man," he answers. "As I said, Bianca was surely grateful to you."

  His haughty tone and mien toward both his fiancée and him provoke an almost instant dislike for the man.

  "Oh, Franco, you know that isn’t true," she exclaims, sounding hurt. "I love dancing with you."

  "Dear girl, it is all right. I do not have to be an expert in everything." With that he turns back to his student and resumes his lecture.

  "Good night, Professore, thank you again, Bianca," André murmurs. "It was nice meeting you."

  She still looks hurt and fails to acknowledge him.

  This young woman is wasted on the professor, André muses, as he makes for his room. On the writing desk is a note from the concierge with the details for tomorrow’s excursion and his share of the cost.

  * * *

  Sleep is hard to find. The moment he is horizontal, fragments of that overheard conversation surface in his mind. He dissects the separate parts he recalls, trying to fill in the missing words. Some are obvious, like ‘I have received advice from my bank this morning that 200,000 Euros have been credited with your agent in Antigua.’ What makes him uneasy is the part about keeping her alive. The people blackmailed would want proof that the woman is still alive before paying the ransom. That part is obvious. But the exchange that followed sounded ominous. It could imply that ‘le richard’, the person arranging the kidnapping, would prefer that the woman be killed or maybe worse, forced into sex slavery. His laugh sounded hellish.

  The fact that they also may have made a drug deal at the same time has slipped from his mind.

  He berates himself for not having done something right away. He should have tried to get a good look at ‘le richard’, even followed him, and then maybe notified the police anonymously. But he felt impotent at that moment, frustrated by the lack of an obvious course of action — reporting it to the police — as he would have chosen in Europe without much deliberation. He curses the pimp, if that was his trade, for interfering right at the crucial moment.

  Finally, he makes a concerted effort to forget about the whole thing, reminding himself again that it really is none of his business. He deliberately brings up the vision of Bianca, as he first saw her from the balcony, her laughing eyes, her impish plea with folded hands enticing him down, her sensuous movements in the rhythm of the music. He cannot help smiling. It was the highlight of his day.

  2

  Bianca watches André walk away. Franco’s unjust accusation that she prefers dancing with somebody else has soured her joy of doing the salsa with the Swiss. On the dance floor, she had seen her fiancé’s remark as a joke, maybe a shade cynical. But repeating it in front of a fellow student and a stranger can only imply that he really meant it. And it wouldn’t have happened if the Swiss hadn’t insisted on apologizing. She suddenly resents having fallen for his smooth charm.

  Sure, it would please her if Franco were a better dancer. But she likes dancing with him, particularly the more traditional ones, like waltzing, or even just rock. She admires his distinguished face with its aristocratic features, like a Roman statue. It was that and the way he could enthuse her with his knowledge that made her fall in love with him. His erudite and articulate way of explaining archaeological matters and theory enthralls her. She is even willing to admit that she is attracted by the fact that he is the titular heir to a count. It may have played a small part. Her father, she remembers, was honored when the eminent Professor Franco Visconti requested an interview on a highly personal and private matter. He was thrilled when the latter asked for the hand of his oldest daughter. Afterward, he boasted that the size of the dowry would be befitting to such a prestigious marriage.

  Her family’s admission into those exclusive aristocratic circles imparts undeniable prestige. She will no more be simply the daughter of an upstart industrialist, but the wife of a count, a countess, even if the title isn’t used formally anymore. It pleases the romantic side of her nature.

  Franco dismisses Paolo and puts a hand on her shoulder. "Oh, my little dove. What happened? You are pouting. Are you unhappy?"

  "It isn’t true that I prefer dancing with somebody else. I’ve told you many times."

  "But Bianca, that was an innocent joke. Show some humor sometimes. And if we are honest, we must admit that I am a hopeless dancer. In fact, I do not even like dancing, and since you are so passionate about it, I am not jealous if you indulge in this passion with somebody else."

  "Don’t say you’re a hopeless dancer. I love waltzing with you."

  "Yes, I can just manage moving to those old-fashioned tunes… So who was that cocky fellow?"

  "André? All I know is that he’s Swiss and speaks both Spanish and Italian fluently. He may be from the French-speaking part, going by his name."

  "How presumptuous of him to think that I would frown on you dancing with him and then even having the bad manners to point that out."

  "But he only apologized."

  "That is just it, can you not see? He was trying to rub it in. That is why he apologized. Who does he think he is?"

  The thought the Swiss could have wanted to score points has not occurred to her. Could Franco be right or is there an element of jealousy in his assertion? "Do I detect jealousy?" It slips out, and she regrets it the instant she sees the haughty mien slide over his face.

  "Me, jealous of a nobody. You make me laugh, my dear Bianca, although the way he eyed you up and down, I think he is smitten. He was virtually undressing you."

  "Was he?" She is puzzled. Franco’s words and his tone of voice do not strike her as congruent. But she is even more surprised by his claim. While dancing with André she never had the impression that he was undressing her in his mind. It is a response she often gets from men. Sometimes she even provokes it — like pushing out her breasts or swaying her bottom while walking — before she becomes fully aware of what she is doing. And she has no idea what got into her when she so blatantly flirted with him after spying him on the balcony. He looked so handsome up there and his smile so inviting. It felt like a fun thing to do at that moment. So she almost expected to get that kind of response from him. But no, while they danced and talked, his eyes never strayed to her breasts. He was all attentive.

  What’s happening between Franco and me? she wonders. Why do we seem to rub each other the wrong way? Back in Rome, he was always so attentive, maybe at times almost too protective and a shade paternalistic, something she found endearing and accepted, given the age difference between them. She grew up in a family where this was the norm. She still is her father’s little girl.

  Franco, to her, has always been a real gentleman, with impeccable manners, her vision of a true aristocrat. Although she senses that his manners have changed in subtle ways on this trip, it took her a few days before she became fully aware of it. He is showing a side of himself she hasn’t seen before. He is easily impatient, particularly with her. He seems unaware that his clever cynicism, much appreciated in class when it was directed at other experts or the world in general, hurts his students when they become its target. And if they protest, he laughs it off as a joke. She has wondered more than once what could be behind this change. Maybe it is simply the responsibility and strain of having to look after two dozen students, and several have unknowingly or knowingly done stupid things. He carries the whole responsibility for thinking of all the details that each excursion, each move to a new place entails. She offered to help, but he firmly rebuffed her. She resolves to be more loving toward him.

  "Bianca, why do you not answer? I am talking to you."

  His annoyed tone shakes her out of her thoughts. "Sorry, Franco. I was distracted for a moment. I didn’t hear you."

  "You mean, y
ou did not listen."

  This doesn’t start well. "No, Franco. I didn’t hear you. I was somewhere else. Please, forgive me. What did you say?"

  "Still thinking about that Swiss guy, were you?"

  He is jealous, but she decides to ignore it. "No, I was in fact thinking about our future together." Why does he make me lie? She feels the heat rise in her cheeks?

  "Were you?" His tone of voice hints that he does not believe her. "Anyway, you need not worry about our future. Rest assured, you will be well looked after by me."

  She reminds herself of her resolution to be more loving toward him and gives him a warm smile. "Yes, I know … Please, will you now repeat what I missed."

  "It’s of little importance."

  "Tell me anyway, please, Franco."

  "Paolo just informed me that a fourth person has signed up for tomorrow’s flight to San Agustin. He even wants to share the excursion by Jeep. That will make the whole thing quite a bit cheaper for you. So I instructed Paolo to advise the concierge to let that person join."

  He didn’t even ask me first; he simply decided. She feels ignored, passed over. And it isn’t of little importance. What if this fourth person is someone unpleasant or an old man who expects his wishes to get priority? Saving a few euros hardly matters to her. Her father gave her ample funds. She suppresses the urge to point that out. Hasn’t she promised to herself just minutes ago to be more understanding toward him and less sensitive to minor and unimportant lapses like this, especially if they are intended for her welfare? So she simply nods.