Kidnapped and a Daring Escape

by Gian Bordin

  As he speaks, a shiver goes up her spine. His somber face, as he begged her not to go across the river, rises in her mind. "Why didn’t you tell me what you knew?" she interrupts him.

  "Would you have believed me? No, Bianca, you would have laughed. You’d have thought me crazy and probably justifiable so."

  "And knowing that —"

  "— not knowing, only suspecting."

  "And suspecting that, you still came along. Why?"

  He does not answer, just meets her eyes. His tell her more clearly why than any words would have. She lowers her head, overwhelmed and bewildered by the feelings expressed in them and at the same time ashamed that she has doubted him again, that only two days earlier she had even convinced herself he was party to the kidnapping. She remembers his words after she mocked him and said that she was going to San José de Isnos: ‘So be it. I’ll come along.’ He had been willing to risk his life for her, risked it already several times since.

  She is troubled by her own conduct toward him, by how readily she dares to contradict him, belittling what he says, even calling him names. It is out of character, against her upbringing. Never in her life before has she dared doing this to a male. But somehow the vibes she senses coming from him seem to give her permission for it. What disturbs her even more is that he takes it without reacting angrily or putting her down, the way Franco would have done. In fact, he seems to enjoy sparring with her.

  They both remain silent for a while, each munching on the little snack of chocolate and figs. Although she does not dare looking at him directly, she is aware that he smiles at her from time to time.

  The four men are disappearing on the far side of the superpàramo.

  "I think we should be on our way too," he says, getting up.

  "You think we’re safe now. They won’t be back."

  "Not these four. But, dear Bianca, that doesn’t mean we’re safe. In this world of satellite communications, they may already have summoned other help, particularly if el commandante discovered that his safe is empty."

  "Oh André, I thought we were safe and now you frighten me again. I told you not to steal that money."

  "No, you didn’t. You only asked if I was going to do it."

  "The intended meaning was the same."

  "How could I guess that? … Next time make sure that your words fully reflect your intended meaning," he replies, chuckling.

  Why does he turn everything into a joke? "This is not funny." She emphasizes each word.

  "I agree. It isn’t."

  His ready admission throws her. She expected that he would defend himself, but no. "You’re the strangest man I’ve ever met. You always do the unexpected."

  "I take this as the compliment it is intended to be."

  She can’t help smiling at how he turns her reproach into a compliment.

  "I like you better when you smile. Your whole face lights up and sparkles. No longer angry with me?"

  It feels strange to have a trivial thing like a smile referred to as something beautiful. Franco never commented on personal things of that sort, except to point out that she was pouting, like he did that last night in Popayàn. "I was never angry. I was afraid and confused. I still am. And whenever I think I understand you, you spring a new surprise on me."

  "We would both still breathe the stale air of a small prison room with a bucket to relieve ourselves if I were 100 percent predictable."

  Yes, that’s right, she agrees silently.

  "Let’s go. The track should be down there." He points to the southwest and shoulders the pack.

  * * *

  As the sun begins to dip under the western horizon, the track passes a stone’s throw away from the lake the map indicates as a source of the Caqueta.

  "Let’s camp over there for the night," says André, pointing to the far side of the lake."

  "Is that safe?" Bianca questions. "Shouldn’t we continue to get as far away as possible?"

  "As safe as we can ever hope to be as long as we’re in Colombia. I’m afraid, Bianca, that danger may not only come from the camp. If el commandante has summoned reinforcement, it’s just as likely to come up this track than down from the tops. Amongst the boulders and trees over there we may find a good spot to camp hidden from the track, and this time we won’t have to contend with dogs. I may even catch us a fish for dinner."

  "If you say so …"

  "Yes. We must though make sure not to leave any visible footprints once we leave the path. Only stand on solid and sufficiently large stones, never on earth or grass, and be careful not to displace any stones. So watch where I step."

  He takes a big step to a stone barely sticking out of the ground and continues in this way.

  She follows, feeling a bit like as a small child when she hopped from stone to stone on a rocky shore of the Mediterranean. On the fourth stone, she slips and cries out: "Oh, André, I lost my balance. I’m sorry."

  "Don’t worry, just continue down to the shore and wait for me."

  She expected him to be displeased, to chide her for being clumsy, as her father or Franco, for that matter, would have done. But no, he simply smiles. Relieved, she smiles back. As she slowly makes her way to the shore, she reflects that she has never seen him angry. In their several arguments, and she is aware that she started most of them, he always remained calm and never lost his humor.

  From the shore she watches how he carefully obliterates the footprints she left in the sandy soil, as well as any imprints on the stones. The going becomes easier on the larger rocks and stones along the shore. They settle on a campsite at the far end of the lake. Large trees hide it from the track coming down. A few boulders offer shelter for a small fire. She finds a nearby spot of soft leaf mold under the forest canopy, just right for spreading out their plastic sheet to sleep on.

  His comment about fish for dinner is still wistful on her mind. Just the thought of a succulent baked fish makes her mouth water. "Do you really think that there are fish in the lake?" she asks.

  "Would you like to eat fish for dinner?"

  "Yes."

  "Then I’ll catch one for you."

  He is teasing me again. "But there may be none," she exclaims, exasperated. "How can you promise when you don’t even know?"

  He points to his nose. "This delicate organ here smells fish."

  "You are pulling my leg."

  "No Bianca. Can’t you smell it?"

  All she smells is the aromatic scent of some trees. "No, and I bet, neither can you."

  "What are you willing to bet? That I get one of your delicious smiles if I catch a fish for you?"

  She laughs, feeling flirtatious. "I’ll even give you a kiss."

  "Oh, what heaven! I’ll hold you to that."

  She shakes her head, amused by his exuberance.

  He fetches the fishing tackle from the pack and uses a knife to search for worms. He quickly digs up two. "Come and watch," he says, as he carries everything down to the shore. There he removes his boots and rolls up his pants. He baits the hook and throws the line as far out into the water as he can. Nothing happens.

  She doesn’t know whether she should be triumphant or disappointed. She really would have liked to eat fish.

  "Patience, Bianca, patience." He slowly pulls the line in. Suddenly it jerks.

  "I think I caught a shoe," he chuckles and continues pulling in the violently swaying line. In the rapidly fading light, she can barely discern a silvery shape fighting to get away. She guesses the fish is almost a foot long.

  "Don’t let it get away," she cries.

  "Here, hold the line, while I grab it."

  She wraps the nylon string around her right hand and holds the struggling fish. He wades into the water, hooks the fish by its gill and carries it to shore, where it flops for another few second and then grows still. "That’s yours. And now comes mine."

  It takes only another few minutes and he has his second catch. His whole face is beaming, as he lifts it out of the wate
r. She responds with a wide grin, expecting him to demand his kiss, but he only winks. She is confused. Doesn’t he want her kiss?

  Half an hour later, the fish are slowly baking on two large flat stones placed at the edge of glowing coals. She wouldn’t have thought of cooking the fish like this, but can hardly wait until they are done.

  "How will we eat them without plates?"

  "We’ll eat them directly off the stones. I’ll simply shift them a bit away from the fire."

  When they are done, he peals away the skin on to topside of one fish and shows her how to remove the flaky meat with the hunting knife. He even produces salt from the pack. She is convinced that this is the best meal she has eaten in a long time. They both are so intent on slowly savoring the succulent meat that they hardly talk.

  But there is more than just the food. There is the serenity of the place, the clear night sky above with countless dots glimmering in it, the cozy glow of the coals, the occasional white cinders rising from it like fireflies, and André’s reassuring presence. For a moment she even forgets that they are still hunted. Sated, they remain by the fire, smiling at each other from time to time.

  "I owe you a kiss," she finally breaks the silence.

  "I know."

  She expects him to come closer, but he simply smiles.

  "Don’t you want one?"

  "All in good time, Bianca. There’s no rush. It can be a goodnight kiss."

  She experiences a strange sort of disappointment. The whole atmosphere of the scene has put her in a mood for a quick flirtatious kiss, like tasting a forbidden fruit. It felt right, but no, he again does the unexpected. She knows her cheeks have turned pink and hates herself for it.

  "Bianca, I’m filthy. I can hardly tolerate my own smell."

  She is suddenly aware that she is filthy too. Was he giving her a subtle hint? Her cheeks grow even redder, knowing he has seen it.

  "I wouldn’t want you to turn up your nose," he continues. "I want to have a thorough wash in the lake before I come close to you. In fact, I’m going to do this right now."

  His assertion sounds genuine. It wasn’t an oblique hint intended for her, she reflects, relieved.

  He rummages through the pack and removes a bar of soap and a small towel. Then he turns his back on her and undresses, draping his clothes over a low rock. The glow of the fire gives his taut skin an orange hue. There is a fine fuzz of blond hair all the way down his backside. He carries not an ounce of superfluous fat on his athletic body. She is annoyed that at that moment Franco’s soft flab around the waist rises in her mind. She cannot help but admire, not only André’s body, but also the uninhibited, natural way he carries himself, as he walks down to the shore.

  I need a thorough wash too, she reminds herself. How many days has it been since my last shower? … Almost five. Is it only five days? she wonders. It feels so much longer. So many things happened. Spontaneously, she strips too and runs to the lake. She does not feel embarrassed. It seems the most natural thing to join André. The night sky will reveal no more than her silhouette. He is standing in knee-deep water, splashing water over himself.

  "Oh shock horror," he exclaims, noisily sucking in air through his teeth. "This water is cold."

  It is. For a second, she is tempted to forget about washing, but then bravely splashes herself.

  "Here, have the soap." He hands her the cake.

  She lathers her hands and rubs her whole body vigorously, feeling the skin tingle all over.

  "Shall I do your back?" he asks, taking back the soap.

  She turns and rounds her shoulders. It must be way back when I was a child that somebody washed my back, she muses. The firm movement of his hands feels more like a massage. It is invigorating.

  "Will you do mine?" he begs, turning his back to her.

  She rubs his shoulders. She has never touched hard muscles like these.

  "Thank you," he says when she is finished, "I think I’ll wash my hair also." He dunks his head into the water and lathers soap into his mane.

  "And now the ultimate cruelty," he exclaims. He steps into deeper water and submerges his whole body and head quickly twice.

  He wades out of the water.

  She feels a sudden panic to be left alone in the dark water. "André, please wait. I want to wash my hair too."

  He climbs on a flat rock at the shore. The moon is just creeping over the eastern horizon, its light and shadow sculpting his body. After rinsing out her hair, she lifts her arms to squeeze out the water, while walking slowly toward him. She senses, rather than sees his eyes seek her raised breasts, suddenly, aware that they are both naked, and looks down her torso. The moonlight has turned her nipples almost white. They feel painfully hard.

  "Oh woman," she hears his murmur. Looking up, her own eyes are drawn to his erect manhood. The desire expressed in these two words, his physical reaction to her nakedness, go straight to her well. Instantly, she feels aroused.

  On impulse, she steps into his outstretched arms, her own enfolding his neck, her breasts pressed against his chest, her face lifted to offer the kiss she promised. His lips playfully touch hers. Then the pressure increases, crushing, searching, their tongues meeting, the five-day old bristles of his unshaven face feeling unfamiliar.

  "Take me, André, take me," she whispers. The words are out before she becomes fully aware of what she said.

  He studies her face for a second, lifts her up and carries her to the plastic sheet she spread out earlier. He lies down next to her, his lips searching hers again, his right hand caressing her breasts, exploring her body. Her craving to have him inside becomes almost unbearable. She reaches for his erect penis. "Come," she whispers, not daring to say ‘I need you’.

  She feels him slide into her wet well and takes his full measure. She answers each thrust, eager for the next one, each one hastening her response, arousing sensations she has not known existed, rushing her toward the climax. When it overwhelms her far too quickly, she cries out, fights the bliss verging on pain, puts her teeth into his shoulder in a desperate bid to endure, to make it bearable. André’s thrusts get more powerful. Suddenly he stiffens, arching his torso, and she experiences his manhood pulsate inside her, quickening again her own rapture that has never fully subsided.

  He kisses her again, kisses even more searching, as if he cannot get enough of her. She senses his penis slowly go soft, marvels at her feeling of utter contentment, loves that he remains inside her. She knows that she has never experienced such wanton frenzy, such complete surrender.

  "Woman, you don’t know how much I love you," he murmurs softly. "I want you to be mine forever."

  "Yes, I want that too" is her silent reaction, and then Franco’s serious face rises in her mind. I’ve been unfaithful, she chides herself, but somehow she doesn’t feel guilty. It was a spontaneous fusion. It felt right. It may never happen again. That thought triggers a vague sense of regret.

  "Bianca, I’m afraid you have to brave that cold water once more and rinse yourself."

  "I’m on the pill," she protests.

  "You were on the pill. You already missed five days. Come." He pulls her up.

  He thinks of everything, even things I should have thought of myself, flashes through her mind. She doesn’t know whether she should be annoyed or pleased.

  He carries her down to the lake, kissing her every few steps and she responds. Holding hands, they wade into the water until it reaches their waist. She lets the cold water enter her, pushing it out repeatedly.

  He picks up the small towel they left unused on a rock at the shore and pats her dry. Then they walk hand in hand back to the embers of the fire. He embraces her again, kissing her, nuzzling her neck. She can feel the hardening of his penis against her groin.

  "I want to make love to you, Bianca, slowly this time."

  Her renewed arousal ambushes her. The protest forming in her mind dies before it reaches her lips. "Yes," she whispers, pressing herself harder at him.

&n
bsp; 7

  Bianca wakes up with a sense of physical well-being. It feels like floating on a cushion of contentment. A warm body perfectly matches her back, an arm wrapped around her waist, a hand flat at the bottom of her rib cage. She stirs and hears André murmur: "I love you."

  Suddenly, reality asserts itself. She had sex with André, passionate sex, as she had never experienced before. She doesn’t even recall how many times she climaxed last night. She feels the heat rise in her cheeks just thinking of it. And then guilt raises its ugly head, guilt to have been unfaithful to Franco, to have strayed a bare five months before the wedding. How could she have been so remiss, so thoughtless?

  André raises himself on an elbow and lightly caresses her cheek. She meets his gaze. His eyes are a vivid blue, darker than she remembers. Concern replaces his smile.

  "You feel guilty about last night, don’t you?"

  She nods. He always seems to know my mind, she muses.

  "Do you have regrets?"

  Do I have regrets, she questions herself? Strange as it seems, no, not really. She knows that last night it seemed the most natural thing to do. And it was more than simply lust. Last night she sensed a strong bond with André. It felt right. It still does, but that does not allay her guilt. She lets his question hanging.

  "Bianca, on special occasions something drives two people together that is stronger than them, like an explosion. That is what we shared last night. Accept it as something beautiful. But I promise it won’t happen again, unless you want it."