Kidnapped and a Daring Escape

by Gian Bordin

  Under the street light next to it, André briefly stops, opens the petrol tank and checks the fuel level. He is greatly relieved when he finds it still three quarters full. He hopes that this will be enough to get them close to Popayàn, particularly if he doesn’t push the engine. Unfortunately, they have long left the area covered by the cartographic map he took from ‘le vilain’. All he remembers from the general maps he studied prior to leaving Popayàn is that the only sizable town on the road north is Timbio, some twenty miles southwest of Popayàn. That is where he hopes to get to by noon and where they can exchange dollars and tidy themselves up before continuing to Popayàn the next day. He figures that they will be safe in Timbio, probably safer than in Popayàn itself.

  9

  It is around midnight — the waning moon illuminates the landscape brightly — when André leaves the road and rides a short stretch up a narrow track along a creek. He kills the engine and says: "Let’s stretch our legs a bit."

  Bianca just manages to climb off the bike. Her knees buckle, refusing to support her. She is grateful that André catches her before she falls. He helps her remove the pack. It feels as if every bone, every piece of flesh of her body has been knocked loose by the incessant jolts and bumps of the ride on the potholed road. She sways a bit, and he takes her into a tight embrace. She feels him kiss her hair. Such a strange man, he is, she reflects silently. I abuse him and he shows me his love.

  "You still hate me?" he murmurs.

  She raises her face and their eyes lock on to each other. "I don’t hate you. I never hated you. I was only mad at you."

  "Because what I said about Franco hurting you? Did it come too close to the truth?"

  She averts her gaze. Why can’t I admit that he’s right?

  "Bianca, look at me."

  She meets his eyes. There is a glow in his.

  "I love you, Bianca."

  "I know … kiss me."

  He does. His kisses are so different from any she has ever received. They are both giving and demanding, searching yet soft, yielding yet firm. They trigger a need for him she has never felt for a man, a need to unite with him. She presses herself more against him. After a while, he disengages and says: "Come, let’s walk back and forth to give our legs some circulation."

  She hooks arms with him, matching his steps. She notices that he is taking smaller ones than when he walks alone. He’s even adapting his steps to mine, she muses, remembering that Franco never did. In fact, he seemed to hate it if she hooked arms or tried to hold hands.

  "Why did you know that these men were coming after us? If you hadn’t rushed me to finish the meal, they would have caught us at the table. Was it another of your premonitions?"

  "No premonition this time. I simply registered what was happening around us, not just in actions, but also in atmosphere. Didn’t you notice that Dolores, the woman at the guesthouse, behaved differently? At lunch, she smiled, I guess pleased that we liked her food. At dinner, she never smiled; she refused to meet my eyes; she seemed nervous; and didn’t you see her checking outside several times, as if she expected somebody to arrive?"

  "I noticed she was different, but —"

  "— you didn’t give it any further thought."

  "No, I didn’t."

  "Our survival depends on watching our environment. Maybe I’m a bit paranoid seeing danger everywhere, but it has kept us safe until now."

  Yes, it has. I could be dead by now without you, flashes through her mind. She nods and looks at his profile, an almost black silhouette against the light of the moon.

  "But Bianca, you’ve not yet given me an answer to my question."

  "Which question?"

  "About getting too close to the truth. Tell me."

  She lowers her face and murmurs: "Yes, you were right. I was terribly hurt." She hesitates for a moment. She has the urge to say more.

  "Go on, Bianca."

  "How do you know there is more?"

  "The look in your face tells me." He smiles.

  "Things have not been going well with Franco." She turns to him and stops walking. Suddenly, like the floodgates being opened, she has the urge to pour it all out. "Ever since the start of the trip he was distant. He got easily impatient over minor matters and was often cynical. When I dared pointing it out, he belittled me, telling me not to be so touchy, to show a bit of humor. He did it not only to me, but also to other students. I thought it might be the stress of having to look after us, having to arrange everything, but he refused help. He didn’t even want to kiss me anymore, just a quick peck on a cheek and only when nobody was around. He didn’t want any hanky-panky between students and said we had to lead by example."

  "And when he hurt you in front of me, you blamed me because it was my apology that caused it. Wasn’t that so?"

  "Yes … Oh André, I’m so ashamed." She hides her face on his chest.

  "You’ve nothing to be ashamed of. Look, if we hadn’t gone through all this together, we might never have gotten as close as we are now." He pauses. "I feel that you love me, even if you’re not yet willing to admit it to yourself."

  "I do love you," she murmurs, relieved that she finally has the courage to voice it, feeling safe in his embrace.

  * * *

  They resume their ride. The road passes through a wasteland of deeply eroded valleys, almost bare of any vegetation. André reckons that it is the continuation of the wasteland he spotted from that ridge, prior to their encounter with the four pursuers. In places the road gets even worse than before, full of small rocks that have rolled down from the often steep scree slopes. He has no choice but to switch the headlight on low beam and slow down drastically if he does not want to risk skidding. The strain of holding the handlebars in a tight grip is taxing. It takes almost an hour before they climb out of the wasteland over another low pass up and down numerous switchbacks, and reach the first patches of woodland.

  They are going around a wide bend coming out of a small forest when the headlights of two vehicles almost blind him. The vehicles are stationed on the road in front of what looks like a bridge, some three hundred yards farther on at the bottom of a long declivity. A roadblock, is André’s instant reaction. He immediately switches off his light, brakes sharply and says: "Hold on tight."

  "What’s happening?"

  "A road block, probably the military," he replies, while turning the machine around and going back around the curve into the forest, avoiding using the brakes and thereby activating the brake light. At a place where he earlier saw a partially overgrown track, probably the old road, he slowly enters, keeping on the gravel, making sure to leave no signs of disturbance. The track keeps more or less parallel to the road maybe six to eight feet below the road surface. He kills the engine and lets the machine slowly roll down.

  "Wouldn’t they let us through? Would they detain us?"

  "No to the first, yes to the second. We’ve no papers. I don’t even have my driver’s license — the first thing they’ll ask for. I don’t want to risk it."

  Half a minute later, a vehicle passes by at high speed on the road above, while they continue rolling silently down the track.

  "So what do we do?" Her voice betrays her anxiety.

  "If we’re on the old road, which I think this track is, then there must be a ford at the river. That should get us past the road block."

  "And if it isn’t?"

  "Then I’ll think of something else."

  As they get closer to the bridge, he sees a ramp leading down to the river. His heart takes a leap. What luck, he rejoices; there is a maintained ford for the use by heavy trucks. About thirty yards from the bridge he engages second gear. Almost instantly, the machine roars into life. He switches the headlight on, accelerates and shoots across the shallow water, up the ramp on the other side and back onto the road.

  "We made it," he shouts, speeding away, just as the rattle of machine gun fire erupts, quickly followed by Bianca’s scream.

  "I’ve been hit
."

  "Where?" he shouts, continuing at his mad pace.

  "I don’t know. I just felt it in my back."

  "Does it hurt?"

  She hesitates for a moment. "No."

  "Can you move your legs?"

  Again she hesitates a second. I hope it’s not her spine, he prays silently.

  "Yes."

  "And still no pain?"

  "No."

  "We’ll check it out later, but you tell me if you get any pain."

  While they talk, he occasionally checks the rear mirror. The second vehicle has turned and taken up the pursuit. They’ve no chance, he muses to himself, as long as Bianca is OK. Let’s show them what a motorcycle can do on these curvy roads. He continues racing around the turns and twists of the road as fast as he dares. The road surface has, in fact, improved. At the end of a straight, he again checks the rear mirror. The vehicle has not come into sight yet. He has already gained more than half a mile on it. Checking periodically for lights, he observes the vehicle falling farther and farther behind.

  A short time later the road surface becomes paved and they drive through a small town. The sign at its entrance names it La Sierra. He rides through at a fair speed while keeping the motor noise as low as possible.

  "No pain yet?"

  "No, but it definitely felt like having been punched in the back."

  "Maybe the banknotes stopped the bullet," he jokes, not really believing it. It is more likely that she was hit by a rock flicked at her by a bullet, he figures.

  The road out of town is also paved and continues for thirty kilometers more or less on a northerly course. It passes over hilly country through picturesque farmland and several sleepy villages. In the little town of Las Rosas they join the major road from Popayàn to Pasto, part of the Trans-America Highway. All too quickly another tortuous pass of many switchbacks slows them down. By then there is a hint of dawn toward the east and he can ride without lights.

  "Holding up, Bianca?"

  "Yes," she replies, hugging him more tightly for a few seconds.

  * * *

  Coming over a small hill, he sees below them the expanse of red roofs and white buildings of a sizable town. It must be Timbio, he reckons, and gets that soon confirmed by a road sign. He guesses the hour to be around eight in the morning and is surprised that there is so little traffic, just a couple of cars and scooters and a few pedestrians, most of them well-dressed. Then he remembers. The day is Sunday, and they have wanted to do shopping. It will have to wait until tomorrow.

  He begins looking for a convenient place to abandon the motorcycle, the faster the better, he reckons. Foreign looking, riding without helmets, their risk of being stopped by police rises sharply. They come past a church. A steady stream of worshipers is entering it. To its right a few cars and a two dozen or so scooters and motorcycles are parked on the gravel. For a moment he is tempted to leave the machine with the other motorcycles, but then decides against it. There are too many people around who could see and remember them because of their unusual clothing. So he rides on. A short stretch later, a road sign points to a soccer stadium. That may just be the right place at this time of day. Nobody around yet.

  He rides down the road. There is ample parking space all along the small stadium. At the far end, trees provide some shade. That is where he parks the Honda. Bianca again needs help to get off the machine. He steadies her and removes her backpack.

  "I’m so glad to be off that seat!" she exclaims, as she exercises her legs. "I can still feel the vibration of the motor on my legs."

  "But it was fun, especially the last stretch on the paved road."

  "Yes, but I’ve never sat on a motorcycle for that long and over such horrible roads, and it took me a while to relax. I was terribly scared at the beginning, and you were going so fast. And that punch into my back gave me a real fright. What do you think happened?"

  "Let’s check to pack."

  There is in fact a small hole roughly at the level of the shoulder blades. He opens the pack and pulls out the two shrink-wrapped bags of twenty-dollar notes. There is a bullet almost completely embedded in one of the tight bundles. Its tip just pierces the other side, but the metal frame of the pack must have stopped it. His hands begin to shake, and he sees Bianca go all white. He holds her close, stroking her until her trembling ceases.

  "Are you all right?" he murmurs.

  She only nods. Suddenly, he smiles. "Now you see how wise it was of me to take that money along. It saved your life."

  "You could not know that and it is not funny." She emphasizes each word.

  "No, it was too close, but it’s true nevertheless."

  He puts the plastic bags back into the pack and takes off his rain jacket.

  "Why do we stop here?" she queries, her voice still shaken.

  "We’ll continue into town on foot and tomorrow take the bus to Popayàn. We then blend in better with the people. Riding that bike makes us a target for the police." While he says that, he folds up the jacket and stuffs it into the pack. "Take your jacket off too. We will be less noticeable in shirts."

  While she does, he wipes all surfaces on the machine that he might have touched. He answers her questioning look: "Finger prints."

  A few minutes later they leave the parking area. André briefly glances back at the Honda. It is a beautiful machine. He guesses, that with the key still in the ignition, somebody else will soon steal it.

  Half an hour later they wander through the town square. People are just coming out of another old church and stand around chatting. On the far side of the square is the sign for the bus depot, so he steers toward it. It is always a good place to find notices for cheap accommodation. They indeed quickly spot a cork board with cards of various sizes and colors pinned to it. One of them shows a small diagram with directions to Casa Familiar Yacinta, a guesthouse in one of the side street a few hundred yards beyond the bus station.

  At the Yacinta, an elderly man answers the bell. His face reminds André of a goat, and the nickname ‘la chèvre’ rises unbidden. He scrutinizes them suspiciously. Their tired looks, disheveled hair, badly crinkled clothes, and beaten-up backpack are not confidence inspiring.

  "Yes, we have a room available," says ‘la chèvre’, seemingly reluctantly, adding that they will have to pay for an extra half day, since it is only nine in the morning. He wants their passports. André expected that. He apologizes and explains that their passports and luggage, except for the pack got stolen and that they will only be able to have new travel documents issued in Bogotà. The man shrugs, crumples up the form he has started filling in, and gives André the key to the second room on the left along the upstairs corridor. Yes, he is willing to accept American dollars, and he tells them if they come again down right away, they will still be able to share breakfast with their other guests.

  The room is luxury after the one in Las Delicias. It even has rugs on each side of the bed and running water, but no shower or toilet. Its single window overlooks a backyard, where two children play on a swing attached to a sturdy branch of the only tree. André quickly removes a few twenty-dollar notes from one of the bundles, while Bianca washes her hands and face. She holds the nice smelling towel to her nose and murmurs: "Back to civilization."

  He also washes up, and then they go down into the breakfast room. There is only one other couple there, who answer André’s greeting of "buenos dias". The young woman smiles shyly and eyes them furtively.

  Both dig into the corn fritters and spicy beans, oblivious to the stares of the other couple. The coffee is hot and strong, just the way André likes it best. After gratifying their first pangs of hunger, they eat in a more civilized manner.

  They are the last to leave the breakfast room. At the desk, he pays for the room with two twenty-dollar bills. The old man gives him a twenty-thousand-peso note change. André figures that with the ten thousand pesos change from Las Delicias this should be enough to have lunch and dinner in a cheap restaurant. Hopefully Mond
ay morning he will be able to exchange a few hundred dollars into pesos at a currency exchange, provided they do not insist in seeing identification papers.

  They each take a long shower in the separate bathroom at the top of the stairs. Bianca overcomes her fear to be alone, but insists that André waits outside. He sits on the top step of the stairs. She wants to be locked into their room while he showers.

  When he returns, she is already asleep in the narrow double bed. He joins her and snuggles up to her back, an arm around her waist, his left cupping her right breast. She mumbles something, but he cannot make it out. He too is asleep within minutes.

  * * *

  Bianca wakes, but keeps her eyes closed. She becomes aware that her head lies on a hairy chest and that she has one arm around a torso. For a moment she is confused, not knowing where she is. Then she opens her eyes. She is lying partly on André. The covers have slipped. His manhood lies exposed, a small, limp thing. She studies it. She has never really seen a penis from close up. She remembers that Franco didn’t like it if she touched him there. She reaches for it, lifting it up, and then lets it slip from her hand. It is so pliable. It is hard to believe that this little thing could grow several fold and become hard and rigid. She folds her hand again around it. It feels cool and soft. She squeezes and notices that it begins to swell. Amused, she slowly pulls the foreskin down, gradually revealing a shiny pink tip with a small slit, slightly open, like the mouth of one of the small fish in her fish tank at home. She almost expects it to open and close. She pulls the foreskin down more. The shaft has become hard and ribbed. She feels wet and has the sudden urge to have him inside.

  André’s low murmur startles her. She lets go of his penis and meets his eyes. There is again that glow in them, the glow she knows means love.