“What about you? How are you going to sleep?”
“Oh, I’ll be all right. They put some palm leaves over the caleta. It will be enough.”
“You want me to lend you a blanket?”
“No, I have my jacket. It keeps me warm,” I answered unconvincingly.
“But I have two blankets. Besides, I would rather you took it. I’d have fewer things to carry.”
We were both so pleased with our trade! I asked for permission to go and sit with Lucho at the table, and the guard agreed. It was already dark, and this was a special moment to share secrets.
“What do you think?” Lucho asked in a hushed voice.
“I think they’re going to release us.”
“I don’t think so. I was told they’re taking us to another camp with all the other prisoners.”
The guards let us talk and didn’t try to interfere. The air felt good, with a warm breeze coming through the trees. I found real pleasure in listening to this man. Everything he said interested me, everything seemed structured and thoughtful. I knew that his presence was doing me a world of good. It was a sort of therapy, to be able to share with someone else everything that was boiling in my head. I hadn’t realized the extent to which I’d missed having someone to confide in.
At daybreak we were cheered unexpectedly by the arrival of a pretty blond guerrillera who introduced herself as our receptionist. Lucho had woken up in very good spirits, and he began to bombard her with compliments. The girl teased him in return. We were all laughing. Lucho had no way of knowing that this charming girl was the commander’s girlfriend. When Giovanni came to see us at the end of the day, he was a changed man. He held out his hand to greet us and invited us to join him at the table. His socia must have put in a good word for us, I thought. Giovanni proved to be an excellent conversationalist and stayed until late in the night, telling us his life story.
“We were in the thick of the battle. The paramilitaries were thirty yards across from us, and they were firing in all directions. There were a lot of casualties on both sides. At one point, when I was crawling along the ground to get near the enemy lines, one of my men called out to me over the radio. He was shit scared. There I was, bullets whistling right by my ears. I tried to talk to him as best I could, as if I were talking to my own son, to get him to keep going and give him courage.
“Can you picture the scene? As I am speaking into the radio, I see the enemy. He doesn’t see me—he’s right there in front of me, talking on the radio. I approach very quietly, like a snake—he doesn’t see me coming—and what do you know! I realize he is the one speaking to me over the radio. It was awful. I thought I was talking to one of my guys, and he thought he was speaking to his chief. But the jerk was speaking to me! And now I’ve got him right there in front of me, and I have to kill him. I was going crazy! I couldn’t kill him—he was just a kid, you understand? He wasn’t an enemy anymore.
“So I pushed him, took his gun, and ordered him to get the hell out of there. He had a close call, the idiot. If he’s alive, I’m sure he still remembers.”
Giovanni was pretty young himself, not yet thirty. He was a very sharp guy, with a great sense of humor and an innate talent for command. All his troops adored him. I observed his behavior with interest. He was very different from Andres. He trusted his men, but he also demanded a lot from them, and he controlled them. It was easier for him to delegate than it was for Andres, and his men felt more worthy. With this group I no longer felt I was being spied on. There was surveillance, of course, but the guards’ attitude was different. Among themselves, too, the atmosphere was completely different. I saw no trace of the mistrust between FARCs that I’d seen before, with the others. They knew their comrades were not spying on them. Everyone seemed to breathe more easily under this commander.
Giovanni got into the habit of coming every afternoon to play with us a game that Lucho had devised, which consisted of moving pieces along a board—using beans, lentils, and peas—while eliminating the other players’ pieces along the way. I never managed to win. The real duel began when only Lucho and Giovanni were left face-to-face. It was a sight not to be missed. They would goad each other mercilessly, with every political and social prejudice they could think of. It was hilarious. The troops came to watch the match the way you’d go to a show.
Very quickly we got used to Giovanni’s familiar, pleasant company. We asked him outright if he believed we were going to be released. He thought we were. It would take a few more weeks, because they had to put together the “final details,” and that still exclusively depended on the Secretariado. But we should get ready for our release, he said. That soon became the dominant topic of our conversations.
In very little time, we learned the names of all the guerrillas in the group. There were thirty or so. Giovanni had done his best to integrate us, going so far as to invite us to the “salon” for their evening activities. That had greatly surprised me, because in the camp we’d just left, Andres had been very strict, making sure that we could never hear what he said, even from a distance. This was an hour to relax, when the younger guerrillas enjoyed playing team games. They had to sing or invent revolutionary slogans, unravel riddles, and so on. It all took place in a very good-natured atmosphere. One evening as I was leaving the salon, one of the guerrillas came up to me.
“They’re going to let you go in a few days,” he told me. “What are you going to say about us?”
I looked at him with surprise. Then, trying to smile, I replied, “I’ll say what I saw.”
His question left me with a bitter taste. I was not sure my answer was the best one.
We were eating our morning meal when I heard the sound of engines. I gestured to Lucho. Before we could even react, the place was filled with excitement. Jorge Briceño, alias “Mono Jojoy,” perhaps the best known of the FARC leaders after Marulanda, made his entrance. I almost choked on my drink. He came forward slowly, with his eagle’s gaze, and took Lucho in his arms, embarrassing him with a huge hug. Mono Jojoy was a formidable man, probably the most bloodthirsty of all the FARC leaders. He had earned his reputation, rightfully, as a hard and intransigent man. He was the great warrior, the military man, the steely combatant, and he aroused the admiration of all the young people that the FARC had recruited, mainly from the poor regions of Colombia.
Mono Jojoy must have been in his fifties. He was a man of medium height, stocky, with a big head and practically no neck. He was blond, his face was bloated and red, and he had a prominent belly that made him walk like a bull.
I knew he had seen me, but he did not come over immediately. He took his time to speak with Lucho, although he must have been aware that Clara and I were waiting for him, standing outside our caletas, practically saluting. What had I become? Prison psychology distorted our simplest behavior.
The last time I’d seen him, he was next to Marulanda. It was the day I went with Piedad Córdoba to Los Pozos, in the demilitarized zone. He hadn’t wanted to say hello to me, and I had hardly noticed him. I wouldn’t have noticed him at all had it not been for the unpleasant remark that he’d made to his comrades: “Oh, you’re with the politicos? You’re wasting your time! The best thing we can do with them is take them as hostages. At least that would keep them out of harm’s way. And I’ll bet that if we kidnap some politicos, this government will have to release our comrades from jail!”
I had turned to Marulanda and confronted him with a laugh. “Well! Really? You’d contemplate kidnapping me just like that, in the middle of the road?”
The old man had made a gesture with his hand, as if to wave away the bad idea Mono Jojoy had just given him.
But now, barely four years later, I was forced to concede that Mono Jojoy had carried out his threat. He finally walked over to me and hugged me tightly, as if he wanted to crush me.
“I saw your proof of life. I like it. It’s going to be released soon.”
“At least it’s clear I’m not suffering from Stockhol
m syndrome,” I retorted.
He gave me a nasty look that chilled me. In the second that followed, I understood that I had just sealed my own fate. What was it that he resented? Probably the fact that I didn’t need or want his approval. I should have kept quiet. That man hated me; I was his prey, and he would never let me go.
“How are you treated?”He looked at Giovanni, who came over.
“Very well. Giovanni is very good to us.”
There, too, I felt I had given the wrong answer.
“Make your list of all the things you need and give it to Pedro; I’ll make sure everything is sent to you quickly. I’m going to leave you in the company of my nurses. They’ll do a report on your health. Tell them if there is anything wrong.”
He went away, leaving me immersed in an inexplicable anxiety. Everyone agreed that Commander Jorge was courteous and generous. I could see that much myself, but I knew instinctively that his visit was a very bad omen. I sat next to Pedro, while Lucho went for his medical checkup, and I dictated my list of needs to him, according to Mono Jojoy’s precise instructions. The poor man was sweating hard, unable to spell the names of the products I needed. Lucho, who was listening, was writhing with laughter under the nurse’s stethoscope. He could scarcely believe I dared to add beauty and care items to my list. “Ask for the moon while you’re at it!” he teased. I added a Bible and a dictionary.
The next morning one of the nurses came back. She was massaging Lucho’s back; he had been suffering terribly. Now he was in seventh heaven and let her have her way with him.
I lifted my head when I heard a squeal of brakes on the road. It all happened very quickly. Someone barked orders.
Giovanni came running over, looking pale. “You have to pack everything. You’re leaving.”
“Where are we going? And you?”
“No, I’m staying. I’ve just been relieved of my mission.”
“Giovanni . . . ?”
“No, don’t be afraid. Everything will be fine.”
A guy came in at a run and whispered something in Giovanni’s ear.
Giovanni struck his thighs with his fists. Then he took hold of himself and said, “I have to blindfold you. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. Oh, shit!”
The world collapsed. Shouts, guards running all around. Shoving me, pulling me. They bound my eyes with a thick blindfold, I couldn’t see a thing. Except the image of Mono Jojoy’s venomous gaze that stayed etched in my memory, pursuing me, unfolding before my closed eyes like a curse.
TWENTY-FIVE
IN THE HANDS OF THE SHADOW
SEPTEMBER 1, 2003
I was blindfolded and tied up. I lost all confidence, and an instinctive fear paralyzed me; I didn’t know where to put my feet. Two men took my arms on either side. I made an effort to stand up straight and walk normally, but every two steps I stumbled and found myself being held up by my watchers, making headway despite myself, dispossessed of my balance and my will.
I heard Lucho’s voice just ahead of me. In the hope of reassuring me, he was talking loudly so that I would know he was not far away. I could also hear Giovanni’s voice somewhere off to my right. He was talking with someone and was not pleased. I thought I heard him saying that he had to stay with us. Then there were more shouts, and orders coming from all sides. There was a muffled sound. I ducked my head into my shoulders, as if I expected to receive a blow or to bang into something.
We were out on the road. I could tell from the gravel under my feet and the immediate heat of the sun on my head. An old engine was throbbing nearby, belching fumes of acid that stung my throat and nose. I wanted to scratch, but the guards thought I was trying to take off the blindfold. They reacted violently, and my protests only managed to irritate them further.
“Hurry up! Load the cargo!”
The man who’d just spoken had a thundering voice that pained me. He must have been standing right behind me.
A moment later I was being hoisted into the air and thrown onto what I supposed was the back of a truck. I landed on some old tires and tried to get comfortable. Lucho joined me within a few seconds, as did Clara and half a dozen guerrillas who pushed us back into the truck. I groped around for Lucho’s hand.
“Are you all right?” he breathed.
“Be quiet!” shouted someone sitting opposite me.
“Yes, I’m okay,” I whispered, squeezing his fingers, clinging to him.
Someone covered the back of the truck with a tarp, a door was closed fast with much creaking and clicking, the vehicle grunted before lurching forward as if it were going to fall apart for good, and then it headed off at a crawl in a grotesque din. The air was very hot, and the exhaust from the engine filled our space. The stinking fumes got stronger, asphyxiating us. We were overcome by headaches, nausea, and anxiety. After an hour and a half, the truck stopped with a squeal of brakes. The guerrillas jumped down and, I believed, left us alone under the tarp. We must have been in a little village somewhere, because I could hear music coming from what I imagined to be a tienda, a sort of makeshift café where you could find all sorts of things, drinks in particular.
“What do you think?”
“I have no idea,” replied Lucho, shattered.
Trying to cling to one last hope, I said, “And what if this was the meeting place with the French envoys?”
“I don’t know. What I can tell you is that I don’t like it. I don’t like it one bit.”
The men climbed back into the truck. I recognized Giovanni’s voice. He was saying good-bye; he would be staying in the village. He had come part of the way with us. The truck started up again and went through the village. The voices of women and children and young people playing soccer grew fainter and finally disappeared. All that was left now were the explosions of the engine and the horrible fumes that attacked our throats straight from the nearby exhaust pipe. We went on like this for over an hour. The uncertainty of not knowing what was going to become of us gnawed at me. Eyes blindfolded, hands tied, I tried to drive away the signs that our captivity was about to go on indefinitely. What if our release had just been aborted? How could this be? They had all assured us that we were on our way back to freedom! What had happened? Had Mono Jojoy intervened to derail the negotiations? Taking political figures hostage to obtain the release of the guerrillas was a strategy that he had conceived, defended, and imposed upon his organization. When we left behind the Southern Bloc under the aegis of Joaquín Gómez to move to the Eastern Bloc, we had fallen into the web that Mono Jojoy had woven around us from the day of our abduction. He wanted to have us under his thumb, and now it was done.
The truck stopped abruptly on a slope, nose downward. They removed our blindfolds. We were once again by the edge of a powerful river. Two motor canoes moored to the riverbank were pitching impatiently on the rough water.
My heart leaped. If we were about to board a boat again, it must be the sign of the curse that was pursuing me. A little man, with a barrel-like stomach, was already sitting in one of the boats. He had short arms and a butcher’s hands, a toothbrush mustache and a copper complexion. There were heavy bags full of supplies piled at the fore of each canoe. He gestured to us to hurry and shouted authoritatively, “The women here with me! The man in the other boat!”
All three of us looked at one another, the blood draining from our faces. The thought that we were about to be separated made me sick. We were human wrecks, and we clung to one another to keep from sinking. Because we had no idea what was going on, we felt that no matter what lay in store for us, if we could share it, it would become less painful.
“Why are you separating us?” I implored the man.
He looked at me with his round eyes, and as if he suddenly understood our torment, he said, “No, no! No one is going to separate you! The gentleman is going on the other boat so that we can divide up the weight. But they’ll be next to us during the whole trip, don’t you worry.”
Then he added with a smile, “My name is Sombra. Mart
ín Sombra. I am your new commander. I’m very honored to meet you. I saw you on television.”
Sombra: the shadow. He reached out his hand without getting up from his seat and shook ours energetically. Then, turning to his troops, he shouted instructions. There were fifteen men or so, all very well built, all very young. These were the troops of the Eastern Bloc. They were the FARC’s elite troops, the pride of their revolutionary youth. Martín Sombra treated his squad roughly, and the young men hurried to show their obedience.
In less than two minutes, we were heading downriver, deeper and deeper into the Amazon jungle.
Martín Sombra didn’t stop asking me questions during the journey. I paid careful attention to all my answers, trying to avoid repeating the same mistakes I’d made in the past. But I also wanted to establish the sort of contact that would ease communication with the man who would be our commander for the coming weeks, perhaps months, or—who knew?—even years.
He behaved cordially with me. But I had also seen him at work with his troops and knew that he could be nasty. As Lucho pointed out, we should be wary of the ones who seemed nice.
Under a baking sun, the boats stopped at a bend in the river, in the shade of a weeping willow. The men stood at the edge of the boat and entertained themselves by seeing who could piss the farthest. I asked if I could get off to do the same, only more discreetly. The jungle was denser than ever. The idea of running off and getting lost did cross my mind. But of course that would have been sheer madness.
I tried to reassure myself by thinking that the time would come for my escape, but I would have to prepare it, down to the smallest detail, if I were to succeed. In my belongings I was dragging around a rusty machete that El Mico had mislaid near the landing stage after going fishing, a few days before we left Andres’s camp. Thinking that I was about to be released, I’d wanted to keep it as a trophy. I had wrapped it up in a towel, and so far no one had discovered it. But this new group did not look as if they’d be easy to deal with. I would have to take more precautions. Just thinking about it made my heart beat wildly.
Even Silence Has an End Page 23
