“Don’t worry,” I said, “it’s nothing. Let me take care of it. I’ll come over to you.”
I managed to make my way over to Lucho by pulling on the rope, which had somehow gotten twisted and knotted around one of the submerged branches of the tree. We couldn’t let go of each other to try to free it, since the current was too strong. I had to duck underwater and follow the rope’s path backward, in order to untie all the knots.
By the time we were free again, it had been daylight for a long time. Luckily, no boats belonging to the guerrillas went by. We managed to get ashore and hide again. Only then did I realize that I had left my fishing hook back on the beach where the ants were.
SIXTY-THREE
THE CHOICE
This was a hard blow. We didn’t have many hooks. I had one left, just like the one I’d lost, and another slightly larger one, and half a dozen very rudimentary hooks that Orlando had made back in Sombra’s prison.
I told Lucho only when I felt sufficiently serene to announce it to him without getting upset. I added that we still had others in reserve.
We were on a little beach, hidden by mangroves that led to an elevated terrain. We immediately climbed up, well aware that in a storm this beach would disappear completely when the waters rose.
The elevated terrain opened onto a clearing of felled trees piled in a jumble in the middle, as if to open a skylight in the thickness of the forest, allowing a baking sun to concentrate its rays. The access to this sunlight coming straight upon us like a laser beam was a godsend. I decided to wash our clothes, rubbing them with sand to remove the smell of mold and spread them out in the implacable noonday sun. The bliss of wearing dry, clean clothes helped me forget the misfortune of my lost fishhook. As if to discipline ourselves, we sacrificed a day of fishing and fell back on the sugared powder they’d given us in the camp shortly before our escape.
We had daydreamed all afternoon, stretched out on our plastic sheets looking at the clear sky. We had prayed together, with my rosary. For the first time, we spoke of the risk of a diabetic coma.
“If that happens,” said Lucho, “you’ll have to go on alone. You’ll make it out of here, and if you’re lucky, you can come and get me.”
I thought carefully before I answered. In my mind I pictured the moment, with freedom in one hand and Lucho’s life in the other. “Listen to me. We escaped together. We’ll get out of here together or we won’t get out at all.”
Put like that, it became a pact. Our words echoed in the air, beneath a heavenly dome that wore the dust of diamonds sprinkled alongside the constellations of our thoughts. Freedom—such a precious jewel, one we were prepared to risk our lives for—would lose all its brilliance if it were to be worn in a life of regret. Without freedom our awareness of self deteriorated until we no longer knew who we were. But now, lying on my back admiring the grandiose display of stars, I felt a lucidity that comes of freedom so dearly regained.
The self-image that captivity returned to me had brought back all my failures. All the insecurities unresolved during my teenage years, insecurities that later shaped my failings as an adult—they all came back like a hydra, inescapable.
I had fought against it in the beginning, more from idleness than discipline, obliged to live in a cycle of time that was forever starting again, where the irritation of discovering that I was still there with all my petty little weaknesses, unchanged, drove me to strive once again for a transformation that seemed inaccessible.
That evening, under a starry sky that recalled faraway years of happiness in the days when I’d counted shooting stars in the belief that they carried the promise of a future grace to come, it dawned on me that I had just experienced one of those moments that allowed me to bring back the best part of myself.
We went back into the river beneath a shower of stars. The river had slowed, and this gentler movement of the waters led us to hope that the cachiveras were not so big after all, or might not even exist. On either shore entire swaths of earth had crumbled away, exposing the roots of the trees that had not collapsed but still clung to a scarlet wall only waiting for the next high water to give way, too.
We progressed without difficulty, carried along in the opaque, warm water. In the distance a couple of “water dogs”75 were frolicking near the shore, with their siren tails interlaced as they played their love games. I turned to Lucho to point them out. He was letting himself be carried by the current, his mouth half open, his eyes glassy. We had to get out right away.
I pulled him toward me with the rope, nervously hunting in my pockets for the bottle where I kept the sugar for emergencies. He swallowed the handful I put on his tongue. And then a second one, which he carefully savored.
We went ashore by the roots of a dead tree. We had to climb the wall of crimson clay to reach the riverbank. Lucho sat on a trunk, his feet in the water, while I opened a passage. Once we were both up there, I set about preparing to fish while Lucho rested.
I settled on my trunk, but the fish weren’t biting there. So I walked farther out. Right then Lucho called to me, and I heard an engine coming up the river. I figured I would have time to hide. But just as I was about to retrace my steps, the nylon line went taut. The hook was caught in the branches of the trunk below the water. We could not afford to lose another hook. Too bad. I dove in. I could hear the sound of the engine getting closer. I clung to my obsession of getting the hook, but it was solidly stuck in a tangle of branches. I tugged in despair and brought up the nylon line, a full quarter length shorter. The hook was missing. I rose to the surface, very nearly out of breath, in time to see a man go past me, standing next to his engine, in a boat filled with crates of beer. He hadn’t seen me.
Lucho was gone. I climbed up, anxious, and found him collapsed in the trance-like state that preceded his hypoglycemia. I took all the supplies of sugar out of my bag and gave them to him, praying that he would not lose consciousness.
“Lucho, Lucho, can you hear me?”
“I’m here, don’t worry, I’ll be all right.”
For the first time since our escape, I looked at him with the eyes of memory. He had lost a great deal of weight. His features seemed to have been etched with a penknife, and the twinkle in his eyes had vanished.
I took him in my arms. “Yes, you’ll be all right.”
I had made my decision.
“Lucho, we’ll stay here. It’s a good spot, because from here we can see the boats coming.”
He looked at me with immense sadness. The sun was at its zenith. We put our rags out to dry, and we prayed the Rosary together, watching the majestic river winding at our feet.
During our flight we often debated hailing passing boats, concluding that it was a risky option. The guerrillas dominated the region and controlled the rivers. There was a good chance that those who picked us up would be militia taking orders from the FARC.
We no longer had the option of continuing to go downstream. Lucho needed food. Our chances of making it depended, more than anything, on our ability to feed ourselves. I had only one hook left, and we had finished our reserves.
So we waited, sitting on the edge of the embankment, our feet dangling. I did not express my fears, because I could tell that Lucho was struggling against his own.
“I think we might have to retrace our steps to get the hook we forgot at the campsite with the ants.”
Lucho made a sound of acknowledgment and incredulity. The sound of an engine drew our attention. I got up so I could see better. Coming from our left was a boat filled with peasants on their way upstream. Some were wearing straw hats, others white caps.
Lucho was looking at me in a panic.
“Let’s go and hide. I don’t know. I’m not sure they are peasants.”
“They are peasants!” shouted Lucho.
“I’m not sure!”
“And I am. And in any event, I have no choice. I’ll die here.”
The world stopped. I saw myself beneath the dust of stars, like a w
ink from life taking me at my word. I had to choose.
In seconds the boat would be opposite us. It was crossing the river over by the far shore. We would have only one chance to make ourselves seen. After that the boat would move on and we would disappear from the occupants’ line of sight.
Lucho was clinging to me. I took his hand.
We stood up together, shouting at the top of our lungs, waving our arms energetically.
On the far side of the river, the boat stopped, maneuvered quickly, its prow pointing toward us, and then accelerated in our direction.
“They’ve seen us!” exclaimed Lucho, overjoyed.
“Yes, they’ve seen us,” I repeated. As the boat drew closer, I discovered with horror the faces beneath the white caps: Angel, Tiger, and Oswald.
SIXTY-FOUR
THE END OF THE DREAM
They approached, like a snake moving toward its prey, cutting through the water in their boat, staring intently, enjoying the terror they caused. There was an unfamiliar dark purple tinge about their complexions, and they had bags under their red eyes, which only accentuated their mean look. “My God,” I said, frozen, making the sign of the cross. I stiffened. The sight of these men made me clench my teeth. I turned to Lucho. “Don’t worry,” I murmured. “Everything will be fine.”
I knew I could be angry with myself, I could berate the heavens for not having saved us. But there was no room for any of that now. All my attention was focused on observing these men and their hatred. Before my eyes was the physical incarnation of evil. Mom used to say, “People wear the face of their soul.” In that boat, beneath the mask of familiar features, were the glaring faces of pride and anger, as if possessed by the devil.
“Well, the white caps did the trick,” whistled Oswald perfidiously, with his Galil assault rifle on his shoulder, so that I could see it.
“You took long enough!” I said, to save face.
“Shut up, take your things, and get on board!” said Erminson, an old guerrilla who was trying to rise in the hierarchy. Between his teeth he added, “Hurry up, if you don’t want me to drag you by the hair.” And he laughed. He gave me a sidelong look, to see if I was surprised. I didn’t expect this from him. He used to treat me with a certain kindness. How could his heart now be so miserly?
Lucho got our things. I would have preferred to leave them there. With our timbos and our backpacks, they would know we had swum down the river, and I didn’t want to give them any information.
When I stepped on board the boat, I remembered the warning from the fortune teller. I sat to the fore, with a mad desire to jump and thwart destiny. Lucho, next to me, was filled with despair, his head between his hands. I heard myself say, “Mother Mary, help me understand.”
Going back, I did not recognize the river we had traveled down. Behind me the guerrillas were swapping jokes, and their laughter hurt. Lost in thought, trying to imagine what was in store for us, I had the impression that the return trip took no time.
“They’re going to kill us,” Lucho said breathlessly.
“Unfortunately, we won’t be that lucky,” I answered, before they told us to shut up.
It began to rain. We took cover under a plastic sheet. There, sheltered from their gaze, Lucho and I agreed. We must not say anything.
On the landing stage, with his arms crossed in front of him, Enrique was waiting, holding his AK-47 with both hands, motionless. He watched us climb out of the boat with his unmoving little eyes and pinched lips, then turned around and went away. The first blow of a rifle butt between my shoulder blades projected me forward on the wooden walkway, but I refused to hurry. The prison rose up among the trees, its wall of barbed wire over ten feet high. There my companions lived their lives. Like in a zoo, I thought, observing one of them delousing another’s scalp. A henhouse door opened up before me, and a second blow landed me inside the prison.
Pinchao ran up to hug me.
“I thought you’d be already in Bogotá by now! I’ve been counting the hours since you left. I was so glad you managed to slip away from us!” Then he added reproachfully, “Some of the people here are very happy you got caught.”
I did not want to hear that. I had failed. It was hard enough as it was. The mirror we held up to one another was so immediate, so close, it was difficult to bear. I knew this, and I did not hold it against my companions. The frustration of being a hostage was all the more overwhelming when others managed to carry off the very exploit we all dreamed of. I felt an unspoken affection for these men who had been captives for so many years and who were relieved to see us return, as if our failing could somehow lighten their ordeal. They all wanted to tell us what had happened after the night of our escape, and their words helped us to accept our defeat.
The prison door swept open. A squadron of men in uniform appeared. They threw themselves on Lucho. They tied a huge chain around his neck, closed with a heavy padlock that hung on his chest.
“Marulanda,” one of them called out.
The sergeant stood up, glancing about him warily. They fastened the other end of Lucho’s chain around his neck. Lucho and he looked at each other, resigned.
The guerrillas began to walk toward me in a circle, slowly, to surround me.
I was walking backward, hoping to gain some time to reason with them. Very quickly I was stopped by the barbed-wire fence. The men rushed me, twisting my arms while blind hands pulled me backward by the hair and wound the metal chain around my neck. I struggled wildly. In vain, because I knew in advance that I had lost. But I was not there, in that place and time. I was in another time, elsewhere, with men who had hurt me and who were just like these, and I was struggling against them, struggling to no avail, struggling for everything. Time was no longer linear; it had become impermeable, a system of communicating valves. The past returned to be lived again like a projection of what might come.
The chain was heavy, and it burned me to carry it. It reminded me of how vulnerable I was. And once again, as before when I escaped alone, I found in myself a strength of a different nature. That of submitting, in a confrontation that could only be a moral one, tied to the idea of honor. An invisible strength, rooted in a value that was futile and cumbersome but that changed everything—because it saved me.
We stared at one another: They were inflated by their power, I was holding on to dignity.
They attached me to William, the military nurse. I turned to him and apologized. “I’m the one who’s sorry,” he replied. “I don’t like to see you like this.” Bermeo, too, came up to me. He felt awkward. He was mortified by the scene he’d just witnessed. “Don’t try to resist them anymore. They dream of nothing better, to have the opportunity to humiliate you.”
When I managed to regain some calm, I saw he was right.
Gira, the nurse, came through the prison door. She was doing her rounds among her patients to say that there was no more medication.
“Reprisals,” said Pinchao behind me, almost imperceptibly. “They’re going to begin to tighten the screw.”
She walked right by me, staring at me, her gaze full of reproach.
“Yes, look at me carefully,” I said to her. “Don’t ever forget what you see. As a woman you should be ashamed to be part of this.”
She went pale. I could see she was trembling with rage. But she continued her rounds, without saying a word, and went out.
Of course I should have kept my mouth shut. Humility begins with holding one’s tongue. I had a great deal to learn. If God didn’t want me to be free, I had to accept that I wasn’t ready for freedom. This notion became a life buoy.
It was cruelly distressing to see my Lucho. We were forbidden to be near each other, or even to speak. I would see him sitting there, chained to fat Marulanda, alternately looking at his feet, then at me, and it took an excruciating effort to hold back my tears.
President Uribe had made a proposal that the guerrillas had rejected. The idea was to release fifty guerrillas detained in Colombian p
risons, in exchange for the liberation of a few hostages. The FARC attached a condition to any negotiation: the prior evacuation of troops from the municipalities of Florida and Pradera, at the foot of the Andes, where the chain let the Río Cauca through. The government gave the impression that it would accept, then retracted the offer, accusing the FARC of manipulating public opinion with offers that really only sought tactical military advantage to find an escape for its guerrillas who had been cordened off by the Colombian army.
I was tired of listening to the commentary about the government’s offer on the opinion programs. The country was divided in two. Anyone who supported the creation of a secure zone in order to open a dialogue with the government was immediately suspected of collaborating with the FARC. It was no longer a question of trying to put an end to our tragedy. For the government and the guerrillas alike, it was a question of saving face. And our lives had simply become bottle corks bobbing in raging oceans of hatred.
I yearned to hear my mom’s messages again. I wanted for her to tell me about her daily life, what she was eating, what she was wearing, who she was spending time with. I did not want to hear the usual lamentations and the hollow litanies that our loved ones repeated tirelessly.
I sat uncomfortably on the remaining floorboards. The order had been given to gather up everything. The guerrillas were afraid that, with the efforts they’d made in looking for us, the military might have gotten wind of our presence.
The guerrillas had confiscated a large part of my belongings. I had managed to save Mom’s letters, the photograph of my children, and the newspaper clipping where I had read about Papa’s death. I cried without tears.
“Think about something else,” William said, not looking at me.
“I can’t.”
“Why are you scratching?”
Even Silence Has an End Page 48
