“I’m going to give birth here, on this bed,” she said, inspecting the place for the hundredth time. “There’s a girl who comes every day to massage my stomach. I think the baby is facing the wrong way.”
Obviously, she was at risk. But what was the point of talking about it? The best thing would be to create a trusting environment, not to add anxiety to the long list of disturbing factors.
“I got the clothes you made for the baby. I love them. I’ll keep them always—thank you!”
As she spoke, she brought out the bag with the things I’d sewn. There was a tiny sleeping bag, a little shirt with a round collar, mittens, matching booties, and—the thing I was proudest of—a kangaroo pouch so she could carry the baby with her hands free.
The sheet of pale blue gingham cloth I used had belonged to one of my companions. Lucho had helped me get it by bringing the wherewithal to barter. This cloth was an incredible godsend in the middle of the jungle. I had cut it out as best I could so as not to waste any, and from Orlando I had obtained the needle and thread I needed to get started. Finally I showed it to Gloria before sending it. She had given me some precious advice on how to get little buttons and zippers, and I’d finished it all with a decorative border scalloped in white thread. I had sent it to my companion through Arnoldo. I’d imagined that she was far away in a hospital in the middle of nowhere and that my package would take hours, by boat, to reach her.
We spent the rest of the day chatting, unaware of the passage of time. For me it was an opportunity to speak to her about her pregnancy and prepare her for what would follow. I told her it was important for her to talk to her baby before it was born. I tried to introduce her to the ideas of Françoise Dolto, because for me they had been fundamental. From memory I attempted to describe the clinical cases that had marked me the most when I read Dolto’s books, the best illustration, in my opinion, of the importance of the bond of speech between mother and child. I also encouraged her to listen to music, to stimulate her baby’s awareness of the outside world. And above all to be joyful.
The next day I saw her sit down to read out loud in the shadow of the big ceiba tree, caressing her protruding stomach, and felt I had accomplished something good. As on the previous day, I set up my hammock between one of the corner beams of the hut and a tree outside. Half of my body was outside, but it hadn’t been raining for days, so there was a good chance I might spend a decent night. Clara came over to me, and somewhat formally she said, “I’ve been giving it a lot of thought: I would like you to be the child’s godmother. If anything should happen to me, I would like you to look after it.”
Her words caught me unawares. There was such a history between us. It was not a commitment to take lightly.
“Let me think about it. It’s a decision that needs time to ripen, as it’s an important one.”
I thought about it all night long. If I accepted, I would be bound to her and to her child for life. But if I refused, it meant I was running away and letting her down. Could I take on this role? Did I have enough love to give the child about to be born? Could I really adopt it, if the situation arose?
Early in the morning, I realized something: I was the only person who knew who child’s father was. Did that constitute a moral obligation?
“Well, have you decided?” she asked.
Silence fell upon us. I took a deep breath.
“Yes, I have. I accept.”
She hugged me.
She was allowed fish soup for breakfast. She laughed as she told me that every day her receptionist went fishing for her on the order of the commander. The chicken run was, in fact, the solution that Sombra had devised to improve my companion’s situation while avoiding accusations of favoritism. She still had no access to medical care, though, which was indispensable. I held on to the thought that they would call in the military nurse, who was a part of the other group of prisoners.
I heard the sound of footsteps behind me. It was Sombra, furtively moving along behind the bushes, a hunting rifle over his shoulder. I waved to him.
“Shh!” he replied, looking around anxiously. “Don’t tell anyone you saw me.”
He moved away without giving me a chance to talk to him. A few minutes later, Shirley, a pretty girl who filled in as a nurse, appeared, equally stealthily. She came up to me and asked, “Have you seen Sombra?” When she realized I knew just what was going on, she added with a laugh, “I’m supposed to meet him, but if La Boyaca sees us together, she’ll kill us!” She went away, delighted she’d found someone to confide in.
I stayed there, watching her leave, like some wild animal among the vegetation, and I wondered how they could live so carefree and at the same time work the strings to the drama of our lives.
I was lost in thought when I heard someone calling. I was startled and turned around: It was Lucho. He came over, his face lit up with a big smile. He was carrying a completely full backpack, while the guard trooped along behind him looking sullen.
“We had a fight over your departure, so I’ve been extradited, too!”
He sat down with Clara and me and gave us a detailed narration of the latest events inside the barracks.
“I don’t want to go back to that prison,” said Clara.
“Neither do I,” Lucho and I said in unison.
We burst out laughing, and then, more thoughtfully, Lucho concluded, “Here we are again, like in the beginning, just the three of us. Maybe it’s better like this.”
While we were chatting, a team of guerrillas came and energetically erected a hut identical to Clara’s. In less than two hours, we all had a bed and a roof for the night. At the end of the afternoon, pretty Shirley came over; Sombra had sent her to inspect the premises. She’d just been appointed receptionist for the chicken run and as such was the only guerrilla authorized to come into the enclosure. She pouted as she looked at our hut.
“It’s too dreary like this. Let me take care of it,” she said, turning on her heel.
Ten minutes later she reappeared with a round table and two little wooden chairs. She made another trip and brought back some shelves. I was so happy that I gave her a hug. She had transformed our huts into veritable dollhouses.
We sat down on our chairs, our elbows on the table, like old friends. It took Shirley ten minutes to tell me her life story and hours to relate her love affair with Sombra.
“How can you be with that ugly old potbellied guy?” I asked her. “Don’t tell me that you, too, are a ranguera?”40
Shirley burst out laughing. “La Boyaca is a ranguera. She’s got the big slice of the cake. I’m not entitled to anything. But I like the old guy. From time to time, he seems so lost it’s touching. I like being with him.”
“Wait, are you in love with him?”
“I think I am.”
“And so . . . what about your socio?41 Are you still together?”
“Yes, of course. He doesn’t know anything!”
“He’s a cute guy. Why are you cheating on him?”
“I’m cheating on him because he’s too jealous.”
“I think you’re going too far.”
“Well, you want to know the whole story? I saved old Sombra’s life. It was during a bombardment. I found him with his head in the mud, collapsed on the ground. He was completely drunk. People were running past him, and no one was helping him. I put him over my shoulders and carried him. A minute later a bomb fell right where he’d been. Since then we’ve been good buddies. He likes me a lot, do you understand? He shows me a lot of tenderness, and he makes me laugh, too.”
We spent a good part of the night together. She had finished all her primary school, something she was very proud of, and she’d nearly made it to the secondary-school final exams. But then she fell in love with a guy who persuaded her to join FARC. Shirley was an exception: As a rule, the guerrillas were poorly educated. Few of them knew how to read or write. When I asked her to explain the basis of her revolutionary commitment, she cleverly changed the subje
ct. She became wary and kept her distance. Why had a girl like Shirley ended up in the FARC? She seemed to have a need for adventure, to live life to the fullest, that I hadn’t found among her peers. The others had entered the ranks of subversion because they were hungry.
The next morning Shirley showed up early with a television in her arms. She put it on the table, plugged in a DVD player, and let us watch Like Water for Chocolate, based on Laura Esquivel’s novel.
“I know this is the anniversary of your father’s death,” she said. “This will help take your mind off it.”
It made me think of Mom, who had begged me several months before my abduction to go with her to the premiere of this film. I had refused. I didn’t have time. Now time was about all I had. I had no mom there with me, and I would never have my papa again. As I watched the film, I made myself two promises: If ever I got out of there, I would learn to cook for the people I loved. And I would have time, all my time, to devote to them.
Lucho was delighted to be in the chicken run. The absence of tension had restored his spirits. He took hold of a shovel to make chontos so large that they would last a month. At the end of it, he had huge blisters on his hands.
“I can’t bear the thought of going back to that prison,” he said.
“Hush. Don’t even say it!”
As if echoing my fears, Shirley came to see me.
“Your fellow prisoners have been complaining because one of the guards told them that you have better living conditions than they do. They want you back.”
I was speechless.
That night I had only just closed my eyes when I felt someone jump on me. Shirley, distraught, was shaking me vigorously.
“There are helicopters overhead. We have to leave right away. Take your things, and let’s get out of here!”
I did as I was told. I pulled on my boots and grabbed my bundle. Shirley immediately took it from me.
“Follow close behind me,” she said. “I’ll carry your things. We’ll go faster.”
We headed into the darkness, with the helicopters just above our heads at the tops of the trees. How could I have slept and not heard them? They went back and forth along the river, making a hell of a racket. We arrived at the economato, a big shed with a zinc roof, surrounded by a thick fence, where bags of supplies were piled up to the ceiling. Lucho and Clara were already there, anguish mingled with annoyance on their faces.
We were told to follow a line of guerrillas heading into the jungle.
“Do you think we’re going to walk all night?”
“With them anything is possible!” said Lucho.
Shirley was walking ahead of us in silence. For a split second, the idea of suggesting she escape with us crossed my mind. But it was impossible—we had a pregnant woman with us. How could I even have thought of such a thing?
We would have to grin and bear it. After we’d walked for an hour, we stopped. They made us wait, sitting on our bundles, until dawn. At daybreak the helicopters departed; we were taken back to our chicken run.
After breakfast a team of guards appeared. In the space of fifteen minutes, they had dismantled our hut. We looked at each other with heavy hearts. We knew what this meant.
Clara took me by the arm. “I have a favor to ask you,” she said.
“Yes, what can I do for you?”
“Don’t tell anyone I’m here. Don’t tell them we saw each other. I’d prefer they think that I’ve been taken to the hospital. Do you understand?”
“Don’t worry. I won’t say anything. Neither will Lucho.”
I embraced her before we parted, my heart aching.
THIRTY-EIGHT
BACK IN THE PRISON
MARCH 24, 2004
Everything happened very quickly. On leaving the chicken run, I noticed Shirley as I went by: She wanted to reassure me, to tell me that everything would be fine.
When the steel gates of the prison creaked open, I felt that I was at the gates of hell again. I summoned all my courage and walked in. The morbid satisfaction on the face of one of my companions struck me like a blow.
“You didn’t stay away long,” he hissed viciously.
“I’m sure you missed us,” answered Lucho curtly. “Maybe it was you who insisted we come back quickly?”
The man sniggered. “Well, we, too, have some influence.”
His laugh turned sour when he saw that the guards were clearing a space next to the toilets. A plastic roof was set up. Shirley had sent along the little round table, the two chairs, and the shelf. In the courtyard of the prison, they were building a hut like the one in the chicken run.
Brian and Arnoldo were in charge of the operation. I looked on in silence. When they had finished their work, they picked up their tools and left.
Brian turned to me and spoke loudly, so that everyone could hear. “The commander doesn’t want any more problems. You will sleep in here, and no one will bother you. If anyone behaves disrespectfully, you must call the receptionist.”
I began to organize my little belongings, so that I wouldn’t have to face their angry gazes. I heard someone spit, “That’s fine! Let her live in the smell of shit!”
I was mad at myself. Why did this still keep on hurting? I should have been immune to it by now. I felt an arm go around my shoulders. It was Gloria.
“Hey, come on. Don’t start crying. Why give them the pleasure? Here, go on, I’ll help you. You know, I’m very sad for your sake that they made you come back. But I’m so happy for my own—I missed you! And then without Lucho, there was no more laughter in this prison!”
Jorge came over, as courteous as ever. He kissed my hand and used a few words of French that he had learned to welcome me. Then he added, “Now I don’t know where to hang my hammock. I hope you’ll invite us chez toi, madame chérie.”
Marc came over, shyly. He and I had only rarely spoken, and always in English. I’d often observed him because he always stood apart from the group, and he was the only one among us all who had never gotten into a dispute with anybody. I’d also noticed that his two companions respected him and listened to him. The other two were always arguing, going from a spiteful silence where they ignored each other ferociously to verbal explosions that were short but harsh. Marc was the go-between, smoothing the edges. I could tell he wanted to keep at a distance, particularly from me. I had no difficulty imagining what he might have heard, and I hoped that over time he might change his attitude.
So I was surprised to see him standing there, unmoving, while we were cheerfully chatting away—Lucho, Jorge, Gloria, and me. Everyone’s gestures were very calculated in the prison; none of them wanted to look as if they might be begging for anything or expecting anything, because that would have placed them in an inferior position. Yet there he was, waiting for the right moment to step in and join our conversation. We all turned around. He gave a faint, sad smile and said in his hesitant Spanish, where all the verbs were still in the infinitive, that he was happy to see us again, Lucho and me.
I was deeply touched, but caught in an inexplicable rush of emotion, I was unable to mutter anything more than a perfunctory thanks. In a way his gesture reminded me too cruelly of the others’ animosity, and I was feeling sorry for myself. I was too vulnerable, and I felt ridiculous. In hell you don’t have the right to show that you’re in pain.
“Hey, I must be dreaming—you’ve started speaking Spanish! I leave for just three weeks, and before you know it . . . !” Lucho had just decided to count him in.
Everyone laughed, because Marc answered right back without missing a beat, in his fractured Spanish. He would translate American expressions literally, and to our delight they were miraculously just as caustic in Spanish. Then he politely took his leave and went back to the barracks.
The next morning something unexpected happened. The prisoners in the soldiers’ barracks sent us a box of books. I found out that when they had been held in the demilitarized zone, during the negotiations with the Pastrana governmen
t, the hostages’ families had managed to send them entire libraries. When the peace process failed and they were forced to flee from the army, they all took one or two books in their backpacks and exchanged the books among themselves. The march was very trying, and some of them, exhausted by the weight, had had to remove anything heavy or less important from their backpacks. So the books were first to go. The ones that now came to us were those that had survived. They were real treasures. There was a bit of everything—novels, classics, psychology books, Holocaust memoirs, philosophical essays, spiritual books, esoteric manuals, stories for children. They gave us two weeks to read them, and after that we would have to send them back.
It changed our lives. We were all off on our own, devouring as many books as possible. I began with Crime and Punishment, which no one else seemed to want, while Lucho was reading The Mother by Maxim Gorky.
I later discovered that someone had Maurice Druon’s Iron King, and Gloria and I put ourselves on the waiting list to have a chance to read it before the deadline. To ensure that the books would rotate more quickly, we suggested making a shelf behind the door to the barracks so that they could be placed there when their readers weren’t using them.
That enabled us to leaf through most of them and set our own priorities. There were some books that would be impossible to read, because everyone was waiting for them. I remember in particular The Dark Bride by Laura Restrepo, and El Alcaraván by Castro Caycedo. But the one I really wanted to read, and couldn’t even get near, was The Feast of the Goat by Mario Vargas Llosa.
Even Silence Has an End: My Six Years of Captivity in the Colombian Jungle Page 31
