by Gian Bordin
While he fills the other glass, she has a quick look around. Several weapons are stored on a rack between two doors on the wall facing her. The door on the left is partially open. She can see the metal frame of a bed. There are also two sets of handcuffs and chains hanging from hooks next to the other door.
He shoves the glass toward her. "Here, have some of our best local wine." He must have noticed her hesitation. Another crooked smile crosses his face. "Don’t worry. I am drinking the same." He lifts the glass to a toast and takes a sip. "Go ahead. Taste it. You will like it."
Again she obeys. It is palatable, a bit rough and very strong, definitely stronger than the wines she is used to.
"Do you have any complaints about how you are treated? Don’t be afraid. Just say."
She shakes her head.
"Enough food?"
She nods and murmurs: "Si señor, gracias."
"Come, señorita, enjoy the wine. You won’t get that every day."
She takes another sip. It warms her stomach. The tension inside her eases somewhat. Maybe this is just a friendly chat.
"Is there something you would want. I can’t promise that you will get it. This place is rather isolated."
His speech has sped up. She has to strain herself fully to follow him.
"Nothing?" he questions, when she does not answer.
"A wash cloth and a towel, por favor, and maybe a bit of soap."
"That can be arranged. Rafaele will bring them tomorrow… Anything else?"
What she really wants to know is how long they will keep her prisoner. Instead, she summons her courage and asks: "Could you get me something to read, señor, por favor?"
He scratches his head. "I guess you are bored?"
"Si, señor."
"It is against the orders I received, but if you cooperate with me, I may be able to help."
"I promise to cooperate, señor," she replies and instantly wishes she had not said that, when she sees the leer return to his face.
He goes to a cupboard in the corner and brings back a thick, much-handled hardcover. "Here, señorita," he says, grinning all over, as he places the book on the table. "It may not quite be the kind of reading you are used to." Then he laughs.
She reads the writing on its spine, guessing the partially obliterated letters. ‘Karl Marx — Das Kapital, Spanish Translation by …’. The name is not legible anymore. She sees right through his laugh, but does not mind. Any reading is better than none, and this is a very famous text. It seems to confirm that her captors are from FARC.
"Satisfied?"
She nods, trying to smile. "Si señor. Gracias."
He refills both glasses. "Señorita, drink, drink to our health." He lifts his glass and waits for her to comply before he drinks. "You are a most beautiful woman and must feel terribly lonely. You know, I could move you into this house. You would be much more comfortable living here with me, wouldn’t you? What do you think? … Why not enjoy what life can offer?"
He gets up. "Come, I show you the room."
Sudden fear grips her. She looks frantically for a way to escape, but he does not give her a chance. He takes her by the elbow and drags her through the half-open door into the bedroom. An old-fashioned metal double bed is at the far wall. In the subdued light entering from the living room, she can see that the mattress is covered by a dirty sheet, with a top sheet and blanket partially folded over the bedstead.
"See, what luxury, don’t you agree? What do you say if we try it out right away?"
He places both hands on her shoulders and pulls her close. She tries to squirm away, begging: "Please, señor. No! Please!"
"You promised to cooperate. Is that how you keep your promise?" He slaps her face, not too hard, but it stings nevertheless. An ugly expression has appeared on his face. He hisses: "Señorita, you can either do it willingly and you won’t get hurt, or I can force you. It’s your choice … Get undressed before I rip your clothes off."
No, this cannot happen. André said that FARC people don’t rape female hostages. She closes her eyes, shaking all over.
"Get on with it … now." His tone has turned mean.
She does not dare to refuse nor look at him. She knows that she is completely in his power. Refusal would only mean getting hurt, and she is frightened of getting hurt. With trembling hands, she removes her boots and socks, opens the top buttons of her shirt and slips it over her head. Then she drops her slacks, standing there only in her black bra and thong, folding her hands across her chest, shivering.
"Go on. Take it all off," he growls.
She has just undone the clip of her bra and is slipping off the shoulder straps when she hears a hoarse gasp. Startled, she looks up. A tall man holds her tormentor around the neck, choking him. The latter’s eyes bulge from their sockets. Ineffectually, he tries to pry away the hands. It takes her a moment to recognize André. But he is dead! She almost screams, slamming her hand onto her mouth. In horror, she watches her tormentor slowly go limp. André lets him slip to the ground and drags him to the bedstead. She hears the click of handcuffs being closed. Then he gags the man with a sock and a strip of cloth. The man stirs, moans and opens his eyes. He too seems in shock when he sees André standing over him.
"Ah commandante, you are again among us, but rest assured, you won’t walk for a while," says André and stamps his boot full force on the man’s foot. The latter grunts, goes white, faints and slumps back. This time the raw violence of his action provokes a shriek of fright. André turns, facing her.
She has not moved, a hand still on her mouth, not sure whether the man in front of her is real.
"Bianca, I’m not a ghost." She sees him smile. "Oh, woman, you look gorgeous like this … but maybe it would be a good idea to get dressed. We are in a bit of a hurry."
She looks down at her exposed breasts, goes crimson, quickly encloses them in the cups of her bra and hooks up the back strap. Then she slips on the rest of her clothing and follows André into the front room. He is inspecting what looks to her like a rifle, one of the weapons she saw on the rack. He looks strange, if not ridiculous, in clothing far too small for him. She has not spoken a word yet.
"What are you doing here?" she finally asks.
"Isn’t that obvious? Rescuing you from our kidnappers. Where is your rain gear?"
"In the other house … So you are not one of them?"
He casts her a quick questioning glance. "One of them?"
"I meant, you really came to rescue me?"
"What does it look like?"
He puts an AK47 into the empty space of the weapon rack and begins searching through the drawers of the cupboard. When he finds what he is looking for — a whole carton of cartridges — he loads the magazine of the rifle, clips it on and stuffs the carton into a pocket, while saying: "Find a coat in the bedroom, one that is likely to hold out the rain."
She looks at him uncomprehending.
"Go, do it."
She starts to leave. He gives me orders like my captors. Something inside rebels. "Why?"
"So you won’t freeze to death at night."
Suddenly, it clicks. She rushes into the bedroom and searches the various garments strewn on the floor and hanging on the walls. A lined leather jacket seems to be about the right size. She tries it on. It is a bit large, but will do. She almost collides with André when she leaves the room while he comes charging back in.
She watches him go to the unconscious man, afraid he may do him further violence. But he only searches through his pockets, finally pulling out a set of keys. Around his neck hangs a pair of binoculars. He rushes back to the front room and tries various keys on a small safe inside the cupboard. The third one opens it.
"Mon dieu, qu’est-ce que ça?" he exclaims, pulling out a shrink-wrapped packet. Inside are wads of tightly packed US twenty-dollar notes. He stares flabbergasted. "Look at all that money, Bianca."
He pulls out a second identical package. "Do you know how much this is?" He does not
wait for her answer, and stuffs the two packages down the front of his coat. "120,000 US dollars. Mon dieu. … and here is another thing we need, a cartographic map." He also puts it down the front of his coat.
"You aren’t stealing that money, are you?"
"You bet I am. Why shouldn’t I? It’s all stolen anyway."
It still does not feel right, even if the money was stolen, but she refrains from saying anything more. He seems too intent on what he is doing.
He closes the safe and returns to the bedroom.
"What are you doing now? You aren’t going to kill him!" she exclaims once more alarmed.
"No, just returning the key."
Two seconds later he is back. "Come, let’s go."
When she hesitates, he resolutely takes her hand and leads her down a narrow corridor into a kitchen. The young man who brought her food is gagged and roped to a chair. She feels sorry for him, but is glad that he does not seem to be hurt. André quickly transfers the two packages and the map into a backpack, shoulders it and then blows out the kerosene lamp. Holding the rifle in one hand, he again grabs her hand and leads her out into the open. In the moonlight, she sees two dogs ripping into the innards of an animal that looks like a goat, occasionally snarling at each other.
"Stay close, please," he murmurs, as they pass by the dogs. She makes sure to have André between her and the beasts. He takes the uphill path, leading away from the houses, setting a fast pace.
Isn’t this the wrong direction? she wonders. "Shouldn’t we go down that way?"
"No. They will expect us to go back to San Agustin, so we do just the opposite. It will give us a larger lead."
She is utterly confused and does not know what to think anymore. Nothing seems to make sense. André is supposed to either be dead or be part of the kidnap plot, and there he appeared at exactly the moment she was sure that this vile man was going to rape her, and now he is fleeing with her. That at least seems to prove he doesn’t belong to the kidnappers, but it still doesn’t explain how he survived the jump from the cliff.
"You’re OK?" he asks, "or am I going too fast?"
"Yes … no."
"What do you mean … yes no?"
"Yes, I’m OK … No, I’m not OK. I don’t know anymore what’s going on. You are supposed to be dead."
"Oh, I’m very much alive, more so than ever, now that we’re together again and will be so for several more days."
"Please, André, don’t start that again," she begs, "I can’t take it now. I need to know what happened and what we’re going to do. Please."
"Sorry, Bianca. Agreed. No more. I just wanted to cheer you up. I’ll explain everything later, when we take a rest. Right now, we must put as much distance between them and us as we can. All right? But you must tell me if I’m going too fast."
Although his voice is calm, there is a firm undertone to it that precludes questioning. "All right," she concedes meekly.
The walk in the deep silence of the night, under a bright moon, soothes her frazzled nerves. She fills her lungs with the fresh, nippy air. It leaves no space for the horror in the bedroom. It revives her spirits and lifts her mood. She enjoys the vigorous freeing activity and the comfort of seeing André stride ahead of her. And he also seems to know what he is doing. It raises her confidence.
Looking back, his sudden appearance in that bedroom feels like a miracle. Not only that he came right at that moment, but that he came at all. He escaped and rather than simply save his own skin, as most people would have done, especially someone who would never be able to raise a ransom, he came back for her. How could she have misjudged him so badly? Was it simply a reaction to his open wooing or was it something else? … Or had her own current insecurity about her relationship with Franco, his negative reaction to the Swiss, affected her judgment? After this rescue, Franco must surely view André more positively. The Swiss would be a fun friend to have. He is even able to see humor in situations where other people only see despair.
* * *
When clouds cut off the light of the moon shortly after they reach an area of open grasslands, André calls a rest on a small rise. She is exhausted, both mentally and physically. The ups and downs of the track have tired her legs.
"It’s getting too dicey without light. We could easily get lost in the superpàramo," he explains. "And amongst these boulders we can find some shelter from the wind."
In fact, a fairly sharp wind is blowing. She assumes it to be a westerly, but cannot be certain without the help of the moon.
"I want to change into my own things," he remarks, fetching the clothes she saw him wear in San Agustin from the pack. He simply turns his back to her, strips down to his underwear and puts on his own garments, including his rain jacket. She wonders for what reason he wore the clothes that are far too small for him, but that can wait. Right now she wants to know how he survived the jump from the cliff.
Finished dressing, he says: "I’m sure you’re tired," while spreading a sheet of plastic onto the humid grass in the lee of a big boulder
"Yes, I am, but first I want to hear what happened at that cliff. I was told you jumped."
"All in good time, Bianca. That won’t run away, but sleep cannot wait if we want to be rested for tomorrow’s slog. Come, lie down on this sheet, close to the boulder."
She is of two minds. She is tired, but she also wants to know. "André, tell me. You promised."
"I will, but not now. Now I order you to sleep."
She can only guess that he is smiling, because the last is said in a light tone. He lies down himself and pats the space next to him. "Come."
Reluctantly, she obeys. He snuggles up to her back, matching the shape of her body, and folds an arm lightly around her waist. She has never lain with a man like this. But it feels right, safe. She doesn’t wonder why.
"Let’s hope it won’t rain," he murmurs.
She closes her eyes, trying to find sleep. After a while, the cold makes her shiver. André must have noticed. He fetches the clothes he shed earlier from the pack and says: "Here, put on this pullover and these pants over yours." Before she can object, he adds: "I know they stink, but I’m sure you’ll rather suffer that than being cold."
He helps her out of the leather coat. Shivering, she quickly slips the woolen garments on. Once she is lying, he covers her hips and legs with the parka of the dead man. Then he joins her again. She welcomes the arm that enfolds her. It gives her a sense of protection.
* * *
The smell of smoke wakes her. André is stirring the by now familiar corn mash in a beat-up pot over a fire between stones. He used dry pieces of frailejones stems as fuel. She wonders where he found water. Her mouth is watering at the thought of hot food.
When he sees her sit, he greets her with a warm smile. "Hungry?"
She nods.
"Only a few minutes more. Come, stir while I fetch water for drinking." Half a minute later, he returns and offers her a cup full of water. "We will have to eat from the same pot and share the only spoon I have."
They do, sitting close to the fire for warmth, alternating spoonful on spoonful. In fact, she takes over and feeds both of them. While they eat, he tells her about how he evaded getting drugged and the planning and execution of the jump from the cliff.
"But that was crazy," she interrupts him. "You could have killed yourself. It seems foolish enough to cliff jump with a parachute, but without …?"
"Maybe you’ll think differently, after I’ve taken you tandem parachuting out of a plane and you experience the thrill of gliding in free fall."
"Oh, I would never dare."
"You will, Bianca, you will," he says smiling.
He seems to be so certain about it, but how could he. She doubts that Franco would allow her to do such a dangerous thing, nor does she think that she would have the courage for it.
He takes up his tale of how he tracked them and then scouted out the settlement.
"I was there again yesterday at dusk
," he continues. "I wore the clothing of the dead guy, hoping that his smell would confuse the dogs enough so they’d not raise the alarm. I put on every piece of clothing he had, his gloves, his parka, his smelly socks stuck into the sleeves, and I had his bandanna wrapped over my mouth and nose. Everything so that his odor would conceal mine."
"And they were really fooled?" she asks.
"Yes, they were. I must admit, I was frightened it might not work, but they only growled a bit as I approached and held the gloves under their noses. I planned to free you after everybody went to sleep. But when I saw the guy take you to the big house, I knew there was trouble, that I had to get you out of there quickly. That’s when I appeased the dogs, so to speak, by offering them the goat I had killed earlier. I really hated killing that poor animal."
"How did you?" she asks, curious, but at the same time already repelled by the likely answer.
"I broke its neck. So it was quick. Then opened up its belly and let the dogs have it. The guy in the kitchen was still cleaning up and opened the door when I knocked. He offered no resistance when he saw the gun pointing at him. The rest you know."
She nods, blushing again that he caught her half-naked in front of that vile man. He must have guessed her thoughts and smiles.
"Bianca, you’ve nothing to be ashamed of. And besides, you’re a gorgeous woman."
She blushes even more. He has such a direct way of talking, never beating about the bush, goes through her mind.
"I haven’t thanked you yet for coming to my rescue."
"Then don’t. I did it as much for myself as for you. And in case you still don’t believe it, I’ll say it out loud … I love you. I think I fell in love with you when I spotted you on the dance floor, and you smiled up to me. But don’t be afraid. I’ll not act on it."
She lowers her head, certain that he means it, but not knowing what to think, how to respond. No man has ever told her that he loves her in such a matter of fact voice, as if he were talking about the weather. In fact, only one man ever said the words ‘I love you’ to her. The guys she dated before Franco might have said ‘I want you’. Franco whispered several times, on special occasions, that he was fond of her. But ‘ti amo’, the form young people like her nowadays expect from a lover, he said only once in the almost two years they have been dating, and that was when they made love the first time.