Kidnapped and a Daring Escape

by Gian Bordin

  "Let’s have a lunch break." André’s voice is a welcome respite from her turmoil.

  The sun is at its zenith. They are on the banks of a creek. André puts his pack down. Sitting on a rock, he retrieves the last of the chocolate bar and figs. They eat in silence.

  The water is clean, inviting. "Do you think it’s safe to drink this water?" she questions.

  "Yes, I think so. Anyway, we don’t really have much choice."

  She steps across a few rocks to get closer to the stream. André’s call, more like a sharp hiss, "Bianca, don’t move. Be absolutely still!" almost makes her lose her balance. She freezes. At the very corner of her vision she can just make out the rigidly raised body of a large snake, ready to strike. Its forked tongue is testing the air. She breaks out in cold sweat. Her whole body trembles. The urge to break and run becomes overwhelming. And then it is over. The head of the animal disintegrates simultaneously with the dry report of the rifle shot shattering the silence. Belatedly, she runs and collapses on the raised stream bank. André lifts her up, and she puts her arms around his chest, shaking, glad to be able to hold on to him, to feel the protection of his embrace.

  "That was close," he murmurs. "Are you OK?"

  She nods. Slowly, her shaking subsides. She melts into his arms, does not want to let go of their safety.

  "It was probably dumb to shoot it. Advertising our presence for miles around. But I didn’t know how else to stop it from striking, although it might never have for all I know." Then he chuckles and adds: "Look at it from the bright side. We got to embrace each other." He holds her closer.

  There he goes again, seeing humor while I’m still shaken to death, she muses.

  "I love you," he whispers into her ear.

  Yes, she believes him. She senses his heartbeat. He is swaying her body slowly from side to side. She doesn’t want him to stop. When he finally lets go, it feels as if he has abandoned her.

  "Come, sit. I’ll get you some water."

  He gets the cup from the pack and brings it to her full of the cool liquid. She drinks, and suddenly tears roll down her cheeks. He sits next to her, his right arm around her shoulder.

  "Tell me why you cry?" He brushes the tears away with his left hand.

  "You’re always so kind to me. You saved me from that snake, and I’m always so mean to you."

  "It’s all right, Bianca. It’s just the stress, the uncertainty, the constant danger."

  A half-sob, half-chuckle escapes her. "You see, now you even apologize for me."

  He strokes away the new tears, holding her gently to his chest. After a while he murmurs: "But this isn’t really why you’re crying, is it?"

  He’s right. He knows me so well. He’ll know what to do. "Franco only came to dinner when we were almost finished."

  "At around eight thirty?"

  "How do you know?"

  "The mystery man, as you labeled him so aptly, left the bar around eight fifteen, and it takes fifteen minutes to walk from the Alcazar Bar to the Cipriano."

  "I looked for him shortly after seven. He wasn’t in his room."

  "Where did he learn Spanish? I think the mystery man had a hint of a Catalan accent."

  "In Barcelona. He studied and worked there for several years in his early twenties."

  "So that fits too. I’m sorry, Bianca."

  "But we don’t know for sure."

  "No, we don’t."

  "We have no motive." She doesn’t know why she brings that up. It is as if deep down part of her still wants to believe in his innocence, and she needs to cling to anything that supports that.

  "Financial troubles the most likely reason. Didn’t you say his family owns a castle near Lago di Bolsena? … That can bankrupt even a rich family."

  "He mentioned once that it needed renovations badly. But the dowry papà promised would have gone a long way toward it and I’m sure papà would have given him a loan on favorable terms."

  "Have you considered the other possibility that …" he stops abruptly. "No, forget it."

  "André say it."

  "No, it will only hurt you more."

  "Please." She needs to know, but braces herself for another blow to her self-esteem.

  "Maybe he wants the money, but not you. Maybe there is already another woman."

  No, she cries silently, as a new wave of despair threatens to drown her, and then, as if somebody had thrown her a lifeline, her heart lightens. She sees the flaw in his argument. "No, that argument doesn’t make sense. It can’t be that. I would return after the ransom is paid. I would still be his fiancée. He would not be rid of me." She feels triumphant. "It cannot be Franco."

  André again has that somber look that she has learned to dread.

  "There is one further point I hoped I would never have to disclose to you." He pauses. All at once she finds it hard to breathe. "The mystery man told ‘le trapu’ that they had to keep you alive until the ransom was paid — for obvious reasons, and when ‘le trapu’ asked: ‘And after that?’, the mystery man replied: ‘Use her or make her disappear. How, I leave that up to you.’ And then he laughed, an ugly laugh."

  A bout of nausea grips her. She wretches. André forcefully slaps her back, saying: "Hold it, Bianca, hold it. You cannot afford to vomit. You need your strength."

  She swallows dry several times.

  "Come." He pulls her up. "Let’s walk around a bit … Breathe deeply … Yes, that’s good. Just continue breathing deeply."

  One arm supporting her at the waist, the other hand holding one of hers, he leads her around in a circle. Slowly, the nausea subsides.

  "Are you OK again?"

  She nods. It seems as if her whole world has suddenly caved in, leaving her feeling numb.

  "Up to marching on again?"

  They resume their traverse across the pastures, seeking the shade under the canopy of trees wherever possible. She follows behind him, lethargic, forcing her legs forward one step at a time. She feels empty, bereft as if she lost a loved one, her mind constantly screaming ‘why? why?’ She notices that André periodically looks back to her, concerned. Twice he says: "Courage, Bianca, courage."

  By sundown, they cross over a low pass into a north-facing valley and shortly afterward, André sets up camp under the canopy of a copse of trees near a small river.

  Things seem to be happening around her like in a dream. André feeds her warm corn mash. She dutifully drinks the water he gives her. He guides her to a place where she can relieve herself. He helps her wash her hands and face, and then makes her lie down on the sheet of plastic, covering her with the dead man’s parka. A short time later he snuggles up to her and drapes his arm around her waist. It is comforting, safe. Her last thought before she sinks into a troubled sleep is "He’ll look after me."

  8

  Bitter sobbing wakes André. It is still dark. Clouds are hiding the moon. It takes him a second before the meaning of the sound sinks in. Bianca is sitting, her whole body shaking with every sob. He enfolds her in his arms, gently pressing her head against his chest.

  "Shhh, Bianca. You’re safe. I’m with you," he whispers.

  Sniffles gradually replace the sobbing. He realizes that she is not fully awake. After a while she melts into his embrace. She is again fully asleep. He lowers her down, covers her with the parka, and snuggles up again.

  Lying there, he is puzzled about what might have triggered her nightmare. She did not suffer any the last two nights. Was it the hurt of the professor’s betrayal? Of how close she came to being killed without realizing it? He knows that his greatest wish, his greatest hope, is to gain her love, but he doesn’t want her on the rebound, as a reaction to that betrayal. It would not be a good basis for a lasting relationship. Sooner or later she will get over the betrayal. The need for comfort, the need for a substitute will fall away. Gratitude alone will not hold her to him, nor would he want that. Maybe he should distance himself a bit from her. But how? When he sees her in distress, confused, frightened,
or sad, it hurts and he reacts by instinct to comfort her, to offer her solace. He doesn’t see what else he can do, at least until they are both safe, and true safety will only begin once they are on a plane out of Colombia.

  * * *

  At dawn he cooks the last of the corn grits. It is time we return to civilization, he reflects. Hopefully, later that day they will get to the road.

  He has to wake Bianca. She responds to his smile when he sits next to her with the pot of hot corn mash.

  "Do you want to do the honors," he asks, handing her their only spoon.

  "Yes, I’ll do the honors," she replies, still smiling, and then offers him the first spoonful.

  "Did I dream or did you hold me last night?" she asks.

  "I held you most of the night."

  "I mean when I cried?"

  "Yes, you fell asleep in my arms."

  "It seems that I have been held in your arms more often than by any other person for as long as I can remember."

  "Don’t you like it? Don’t you want me too?"

  "Oh, you silly man. I wouldn’t let you if I didn’t need it or want it."

  "I’m glad. I love holding you in my strong arms." He stretches his arms in front of him as if carrying somebody and winks.

  "Yes, I know." She winks back, blushing at the same time, remembering how he carried her naked like this.

  "By noon today we should reach the road. Are you up to another four-hour march? It seems we have lost our pursuers. My guess that they will search along the tracks first seems correct."

  She nods. "Once we are on the road, will we be safe?"

  "Safe? No." He shakes his head. "Maybe a bit safer. I will only feel truly safe once I’m on a plane out of this country."

  "Oh," she utters, the smile fleeing from her eyes. "I so hoped that it would be over once we’re on the road and reach a town."

  "I’m afraid not. I will definitely not lower my vigilance yet."

  * * *

  They do reach a four-wheel-drive track within less than an hour, and an hour later observe a plume of dust creeping over the landscape half a mile or so ahead.

  "That must be the road," exclaims Bianca, pointing to the dust plume.

  "I guess you’re right … Bianca, will you let me do the talking and do what I say without protest or hesitation, please?"

  "Why?"

  "Because we can’t tell the truth, and if only I tell our story, so to speak, it will be consistent, and we don’t risk contradicting each other. Please, trust me."

  "All right, but shouldn’t we go to the police right away and report the kidnapping and our escape?"

  "That’s the last thing I’d do. I’ll stay as far away from the police as possible."

  "Because of the money you stole?"

  "That’s a minor consideration. No, because the police may well be in cahoots with whoever kidnapped us. And even if they aren’t they may retain us as foreigners, particularly since we have no identification papers. For this reason, I’ll also get rid of the rifle before we reach the road. I wish we could get rid of the pack too, although it’s a fairly standard one, but I’ll throw away anything that we don’t need anymore, the ammunition, the previous owner’s dirty clothes."

  "You really don’t trust anybody, do you?"

  "I trust many people. I trust you, but in this country I don’t trust officials, the police, or the army. Even the Lonely Planet on Colombia recommends not to trust the police and to stay away from them, but also warns that they might not stay away from you."

  "You studied the Lonely Planet before you came here?" There is a mocking tone in her voice.

  "I studied many things. I read two books of accounts on real cases of kidnapping that occurred in the last twenty years in Colombia. I read reports of several journalists who have sought interviews with both the paras and FARC. I studied the political and economic history of Colombia during the last one hundred years to get a feel for the political climate. I read anything I could put my hands on that might be of relevance to my assignment and the dangers in this country, including the recent use of Burundanga, the drug they gave you. I ploughed through hours and hours of Internet searches."

  "I’m sorry, André. I didn’t mean to belittle the Lonely Planet, and without you I would still be incarcerated in that little room." Suddenly, tears well at the corner of her eyes. "And I might never have left it alive."

  He hugs her. "It’s all right, Bianca. So we’re agreed, aren’t we?"

  "Yes," she murmurs, wiping her face with the sleeves of her shirt. "But tell me what you plan to do."

  "As I said, before we reach the road, we’ll get rid of anything we don’t need or that could be suspicious, but that doesn’t include the money. Once on the road, we try to catch a bus or hitchhike north toward Popayàn. If we find a sizable town, I’ll try to change some dollars. I’ve only those two ill-fated peso notes, which won’t get us far."

  "We need some clean clothing."

  "I agree, and hopefully we can take a bath or shower before we change. I would hate to put on clean things on a filthy body."

  "Do you think that my parents have already paid the ransom?"

  "I doubt that. If the kidnappers are ex-paras or FARC, it normally takes weeks before the ransom demand is made. Furthermore, your father is unlikely to pay unless he has proof that you’re still alive. I guess they would have provided that proof by letting you talk to him via an image-capable satellite cell phone. At least that’s what ‘le trapu’ mentioned. But it may be a good idea if you called your parents as soon as possible."

  "That’s what I was thinking."

  "Would you also want to let Franco know?" He deliberately uses his first name rather than the derogatory ‘the professor’, so as not to annoy her.

  She looks at him thoughtfully without answering.

  "I mean not necessarily because of him, but so that your classmates know that you’re free. I’m sure it would lift their spirits to know that."

  "You really think of everything. Yes, I should. Do you think that they are still in Popayàn?"

  He ponders that for a moment. "If Franco is the mystery man, then I predict that he continued with the tour. He wouldn’t want to be readily accessible to the police for questioning. If he isn’t, then he might have done the decent thing and cancelled the rest of the tour, sent his charges either back to Italy or on the way to the next destination on their own, and stayed in Popayàn waiting for developments, at least for ten days or so. But we can easily find out. At the next town, I call the Cipriano and ask for Professor Visconti."

  "I should call."

  "No, that could be risky. The clerk might recognize your accent and that may allow him to put two and two together. He might report his suspicions to the police. No, I’ll call. And if Franco has left, then you should be able to figure out where the tour party is right now."

  "I already have. They should be in Peru by now, in Cusco, getting ready for the ascent to Machu Picchu. I even remember the name of the hotel, Los Incas."

  "I can see from your face that you dearly wish Franco to be still in Popayàn, right?"

  "Yes, then maybe he wasn’t the mystery man in spite of all the signs to the contrary."

  "Bianca, if I set up such a kidnapping, I would stay in Popayàn and be very active in the search for you."

  "Yes, you would, but then you always do the unexpected."

  "I see, you’re getting to know me."

  * * *

  They have walked maybe half a mile on the road, before they encounter the first traffic. A tractor with a trailer catches up with them. The man slows down when he is at their level.

  "Buenas tardes, señores, I’ll give you a lift to the next town. Hop on the trailer."

  "Buenas tardes, señor, gracias," André answers and nods to Bianca.

  While the tractor continues at a walking pace, he drops his pack on the trailer deck, helps Bianca up, and then hops on himself. The tractor speeds up again. The landscape has be
come more agricultural. They come past planted fields, goats, sheep, and the occasional horse, donkey or mule grazing in fenced off pastures. Below a farmhouse, a young brown-skinned man waves to the tractor driver and stares at them for a long time. André reckons that few foreigners, particularly blonde ones like him, are ever seen here. The week-old stubbles in his face will also attract attention. It gives away that they have spent considerable time in the mountains, away from civilization — few tourists have ventured into these mountains over the last thirty years of on and off guerrilla activity. Their clothing also shows them up as foreigners. He would have preferred to blend in, but it cannot be helped.

  Two miles on, they enter a one-street settlement. A faded, bullet-riddled sign, hanging crooked on a wooden pole, names it Las Delicias. A few old men and women, several of them toothless, dressed in black woolen garments, sit in the shade in front of the mostly single-level houses. Most either nod to the tractor driver or raise a hand. They pass by a post office. It is closed, and so is the store next door — siesta time. A couple of young men stand under the veranda of the Bar Bolivar, its sign advertising a local beer. One of them shouts to their driver, asking if he will join them shortly.