The only thing he never forgot was that he had children. Oddly enough, he talked about three children, although I had only been aware of the existence of two of them. He wanted to know if they had come to see him. I explained that nobody could come to see us but that we received their radio messages. He grew impatient to tune in to the show and listen to the latest messages, but he often became very dozy, and the next morning he had completely forgotten everything.
The longest broadcast with messages was on Saturdays at midnight. My heart felt as if it had shriveled. There hadn’t been a single message for Lucho. Unable to admit it to him, I found myself making up a story.
“What did they say?”
“That they love you and that they’re thinking about you.”
“Okay, but tell me what they talked about.”
“They talked about you, how much they miss you—”
“Hold on, what about Sergio? Did he talk about his studies?”
“He said he’s been working hard.”
“Ah! That’s good, that’s very good. . . . And Carope, where is she?”
“She didn’t say where she was, but she said this would be the last Christmas without you, and—”
“And what? Tell me exactly!”
“And that she dreamed of being with you for your birthday and that . . . uh—”
“And what?”
“And that . . . she’ll call you on your birthday.”
My God! It made him so happy that I wasn’t even ashamed of having lied to him.
In any event, I said to myself, to ease my conscience, he’s going to forget everything I just told him in two seconds.
But Lucho didn’t forget this. My little lie helped him to hold on to the present and, what’s more, to get out of his labyrinth. He lived for the call. On his birthday he was back among us again, and he delighted everybody with his sense of repartee and good spirits. Keith, who had prompted the search for the knives, seemed to want to be forgiven. He gave Lucho a hug and explained in detail everything he had done to revive him with a fan. Lucho looked at him and smiled. He had lost a lot of weight; he looked fragile but he had regained his sense of humor. “Now I remember seeing you!” he said. “That’s why I was so scared about coming back!”
One effect that prison had over us was, too often, to make us lose our perspective on things. The various quarrels among us were safety valves that pacified tensions stronger than any of us had ever known. Perhaps this explains why, after we’d been living crammed in Sombra’s prison for over a month, it felt oddly like a family reunion to see Keith and Lucho getting together and chatting.
I sometimes thought this way about Clara. One day I said to her, “We are like sisters, because whatever happens, we have to go through this part of life together.” We did not choose each other—it was fate—and we had to learn to put up with each other. It was a hard reality to accept. In the beginning I felt as if I needed her. But in the long run, captivity frayed even this feeling of attachment. Our need became a burden. Yet the more I carried that weight, the lighter it seemed to grow. I found it easier to reach out to her, because I no longer expected anything from her.
This was also what I could observe between Lucho and Keith, and in a general fashion among us all. Accepting the other made us feel less vulnerable, thus more open. We were learning how to temper ourselves.
I went to get the presents I’d had made for Lucho. Gloria and Jorge did the same—an extra pack of cigarettes (a huge sacrifice for Gloria, who had become a heavy smoker) and a pair of “almost new” socks from Jorge. The three of us began to sing around Lucho with our presents in our arms. One by one, all the others came over, each with some small thing to give.
Seeing that others were interested in him—and feeling that he was important to the rest of the group—fueled Lucho’s desire to live. He regained his memory, and with it a growing impatience to hear the messages his family had promised him. I was incapable of confessing my white lie.
The following Saturday he stayed up all night, his ear glued to his radio. But once again, as on the previous Saturday, there was no message for Lucho. He went to get his cup of coffee early in the morning, as soon as he heard the sound of the pots, and came back with his head bowed. He sat down next to me, looked at me for a long time, and said, “I knew.”
“What did you know, Lucho?”
“I knew they weren’t going to call in.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because generally that’s the way it is.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Yes, look, when you want something very badly, it doesn’t happen. If you don’t think about it, then boom! It lands in your lap.”
“Do you think so?”
“Yes, and in any case they had told me they were traveling over Christmas. . . . They didn’t call, did they?”
I didn’t know what to say. He smiled at me affectionately and added, “Come on, I’m not mad. They were with me in my heart, all the time, like in a dream. That was the best birthday present of all!”
THIRTY-FIVE
A SAD CHRISTMAS
DECEMBER 2003
A few months before I was captured, I visited the Good Shepherd women’s prison in Bogotá. I had been impressed by those women who wore makeup and wanted to lead a normal life in their isolated world. Prison was a microcosm, a little planet of its own. I noticed sheets hanging behind bars and laundry drying on every floor of the building. When I visited the men’s prison, there was none of that. I felt sorry for the women, and I was touched by the anxious way they had of asking for little favors, as if they were asking for the moon: a lipstick, a pen, a book. I must have promised them things and then gone on to forget. I lived in another world then, and I thought I was doing more for them by speeding up the legal proceedings on their behalf. How mistaken I was. It was the lipstick and the pen that could have changed their lives. Now I understood.
After Lucho’s birthday I promised myself I’d watch out for the others’ birthdays, too. But I came up against a wall of indifference. During the month of December, there were three of us on the birthday waiting list. When I suggested that we should celebrate one anothers’ birthdays, my companions went into a sulk. Some of them refused because they didn’t like the person whose birthday it was, while others adopted an attitude of “What’s the point?” Still others looked up suspiciously, as if to ask, “Is she trying to give us orders?” Lucho laughed at my lack of success. “I warned you!” he said. I decided to act on my own.
The week following Lucho’s party, when I woke up, I heard on the radios—they were all switched on at the same time, to the same program—the voice of Orlando’s wife wishing him a happy birthday. It was impossible to pretend we hadn’t heard it. Orlando was standing in line to get his cup of coffee while the others pretended to ignore the only event that might have changed our routine. It was written like a flashing neon sign all over Orlando’s forehead: He was waiting for someone to congratulate him. I hesitated, to be honest. I wasn’t very close to Orlando.
“Orlando? I’d like to wish you a happy birthday.”
His eyes lit up. He was a sturdy man, and his hug was like a bear’s. He looked at me differently for the first time. The others reacted and extended their birthday wishes as well.
The days leading up to Christmas were different. The radio was switched on all day long so we could hear the seasonal classics. Listening to this music was a truly masochistic experience for us.
We knew all the tunes and all the words by heart. I could see Consuelo playing cards with Marc, one of the American hostages, at the big table and furtively drying her tears on a corner of her T-shirt. The radio was playing “La Piragua.” Now it was my turn to be sentimental. I could visualize my parents dancing next to the big Christmas tree at my aunt Nancy’s house. Their feet glided on the white marble floor, perfectly synchronized. I was eleven years old and wanted to do the same. We could not escape the memories that came pouring
in with every song. And besides, no one wanted to escape them. This sadness was our only satisfaction. It reminded us that in the past we’d had the right to happiness.
Gloria and Jorge had set up their hammocks in a corner that no one else ever fought over. Lucho and I tried to get closer to them, by hanging one hammock for two from the corner of the fence. It wasn’t very comfortable, but we’d been able to chat for hours.
One evening suddenly there was a loud thud. Jorge and Gloria had fallen out of the hammock and were sitting on the ground where they had landed, with all the dignity they could muster to avoid looking ridiculous. Everyone burst out laughing. We all rolled up our hammocks, creating some space to dance a few steps, to the sound of that music that beckoned us irresistibly. Was it the warm breeze blowing through the trees, a gorgeous moon overhead, the tropical music? I could no longer see the barbed wire or the guards, only my friends, our joy, our laughter. I was happy.
Then came a sound of boots, someone running over, shouting, threats, the flashlight beam upon us. “Where do you think you are? Switch off that fucking radio! Everybody inside the barracks—no more noise, no light, understand?”
The next morning at dawn, the receptionist came to inform us that Sombra wanted to speak with each of us, one on one.
Orlando came up to me. “Watch out, there’s a plot against you!”
“Really?”
“Yes, they’re going to say that you’re monopolizing the radio and that you’re keeping them from sleeping.”
“It’s not true. They can make up all the stories they like. I don’t care.”
I talked about it with Lucho, and we decided to warn Gloria and Jorge. “Let them say what they want, and we’ll concentrate on asking for what we need” he advised. “It’s not every day that old Sombra agrees to receive us!” As always, Jorge’s words were full of common sense.
Tom was called in first. He came back with a big smile and declared that Sombra had been very amiable and had given him a notebook. The others followed. All of them came back delighted at their meeting with Sombra.
I found Sombra sitting in a sort of rocking chair in the corner of what he called his office. On a board that he used as a table, there were a dirty white computer and printer. I sat down where he showed me to sit, across from him. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered me one. I was going to refuse, because I didn’t smoke, but then I accepted. I could keep it for my companions. I took it and put it into my jacket pocket.
“Thank you, I’ll smoke it later.”
Sombra burst out laughing and handed me a brand-new pack of cigarettes from under the table.
“Here, have this. I didn’t know you’d started smoking.”
I didn’t answer. La Boyaca was next to him. She observed me in silence. It felt as if she were looking right through me.
“Go and get her a drink. What do you want, a Coke?”
“Yes, thank you, a Coca-Cola.”
Next to his office, Sombra had built a room that was completely fenced in and locked with a padlock. This was apparently where he stored all his treasures. I could see alcohol, cigarettes, candies and snacks, toilet paper and soap. On the floor next to him was a big wicker basket containing several dozen eggs. I averted my eyes. La Boyaca came back with my drink and placed it in front of me, then left again immediately.
“She wanted to say hello to you,” said Sombra, watching her leave. “She likes you.”
“That’s nice. Thank you for telling me.”
“It’s the others who don’t like you.”
“Who are ‘the others’?”
“Well, your fellow prisoners.”
“And why don’t they like me?”
“Maybe they thought they were going to have a party. . . .” He said it in a mischievous way. I glared at him. “I was joking. I think they’re annoyed because all the talk on the radio is about you.”
I had so many things on my mind. “I don’t know. There could be a number of explanations, but I think above all that Rogelio has poisoned them against me.”
“What’s he got to do with any of this, poor Rogelio?”
“Rogelio has been very rude. He came into the prison and insulted me.”
“Why?”
“I was defending Lucho.”
“I thought it was Lucho who always took your defense.”
“Yes, that’s true. Lucho is constantly taking my defense. And I’m very worried about him. When he had his diabetic fit, you behaved like monsters.”
“What do you want me to do about it? We’re in the jungle!
“You have to get him some insulin.”
He explained he had no way of refrigerating it.
“Well, then give him different food—fish, canned tuna, sausages, onions, any kind of vegetables. I know you have some. Even eggs!”
“I can’t give preferential treatment to any of the prisoners.”
“But you do, all the time. You have to help, Sombra. If he dies, you will be responsible.”
“You really like him, don’t you?”
“I adore him, Sombra. Life is horrendous in this prison. The only sweet moments I have in a day are because of things Lucho says, because of his company. If anything happened to him, I would never be able to forgive you.”
He stayed silent for a while, then added, as if he had just made a decision, “Okay, I’ll see what I can do.”
I smiled and held out my hand. “Thank you, Sombra.”
I got up to leave, and then on impulse I asked him, “By the way, why didn’t you give me permission to make a cake for Lucho? It was his birthday a few days ago.”
“You didn’t ask me.”
“Yes I did. I sent you a message, through Rogelio.”
He looked at me, surprised. Then, suddenly very sure of himself, he added, “Ah, yes, I’m the one who forgot.”
I imitated his gesture, pursing my lips, squinting my eyes, and said as I walked away, “That’s right, I know you forget everything!”
He laughed and shouted, “Rogelio! Take the doctora back to the barracks!”
Rogelio came out from behind the house, gave me a murderous look, and signaled me to hurry up. Two days before Christmas, Sombra sent Lucho five cans of tuna fish, five cans of sausages, and a bag of onions. And it wasn’t Rogelio who brought them. He had been replaced by Arnoldo, a smiling young man who made it clear from the start that he wanted to keep his distance from everyone.
Lucho picked up his cans and went, his arms filled, into the barracks. He put everything down on the desk and came over to hug me, blushing with delight. “I don’t know what you said to him, but it worked!”
I was as pleased as he was. He let me go to stand back and have a better look at me, and he added mischievously, “In any case, I know you did it more for yourself than for me, because now I’m going to have to give you some!”
We burst out laughing, and the echo resonated around the barracks. But I quickly restrained myself, feeling self-conscious to seem so happy in front of the others.
I felt embarrassed above all in front of Clara. It was her birthday. I had listened to the messages, and there weren’t any for her. For two years her family had never sent her a single word. Mom always sent her greetings in her messages to me and sometimes mentioned that she’d seen or spoken to Clara’s mother. One day I asked Clara why her mother never called in, and she explained that she lived out in the country and it was difficult for her.
I turned to Lucho. “It’s Clara’s birthday, today.”
“I know. Do you think she would be pleased if we gave her a can of sausages?”
“I’m sure she would be!”
“You go ahead.”
Lucho tried to avoid Clara as much as he could. Some of her attitudes were shocking to him, and he could not be swayed from his decision not to have anything to do with her. But he was a generous man, with a good heart. Clara was touched by his gesture.
Christmas Day finally arrived. It was very hot and
dry. We passed the time taking siestas, because it was a good way to make the hours go faster. Our Christmas messages had come early, because the radio program “Las Voces del Secuestro” was broadcast only from Saturday midnight until Sunday at dawn. And Christmas that year fell in the middle of the week. The program, transmitted in advance, had been disappointing, because President Uribe had promised to send a message to the hostages, and in fact he hadn’t done a thing. We did, however, have the heads of the army and the police, who addressed the officers and NCOs, hostages like us captured by the FARC, to ask them to stand firm. It was depressing. As for our families, they had waited for hours to go on the air with Herbin Hoyos, the journalist who had organized this live broadcast from the Plaza de Bolívar. It was a freezing night in Bogotá. We could hear the wind in the microphones, and the distorted voices of those who tried to say a few words in the cold. There had been the call of the faithful, in particular the family of Chikao Muramatsu, a Japanese captain of industry who had been kidnapped a few years earlier and who received messages from his wife religiously, speaking to him in Japanese, against a background of Zen music, which only served to enhance the pain conveyed by words I did not understand, obviously, but could grasp only too well. Then there was the mother of the boy David Mejia Giraldo, who had been kidnapped when he was thirteen years old and must now be about fifteen; his mother Beatriz was asking him to pray and not to believe what the guerrillas said to him and not to emulate his abductors. Recently young Daniela Vanegas’s family had joined the faithful. The mother wept, the father wept, the sister wept. And I wept just as much. I listened to all the messages, one after the other, all night long. I waited for Ramiro Carranza’s fiancée to call in. She had the name of a flower, and her messages were all poems of love. She never missed the occasion, and that Christmas she was there as usual, with all of us. The sons and daughters of elderly Gerardo and Carmenza Angulo were there, too, oblivious to the passing of time, refusing the idea that the old couple might no longer be alive. Finally there were the families of the deputies from the Valley of Cauca. I was particularly moved by the messages from Erika Serna, the wife of Carlos Barragán. Carlos had been kidnapped on his birthday, which also coincided with the day his little boy was born: Andres had been growing up over the radio. We’d listened to his first gurgles and his first words. Erika was madly in love with her husband, and she had passed this love on to her little baby, who had learned to speak to his unknown father as if he’d just left him moments before. There was also little Daniela, the daughter of Juan Carlos Narváez. She must have been three years old when her father disappeared from her life. But she clung to his memory with a desperate tenaciousness. I was amazed by this little four-and-a-half-year-old girl who, on the radio, told herself the story of their last conversation, as if her father were the only one who could hear her.
Even Silence Has an End: My Six Years of Captivity in the Colombian Jungle Page 29
