Even Silence Has an End Part 46

"Nothing. And you?"

"It did affect me. I saw him leave the camp with his empty equipo. equipo. He was on his way to die. No one knows the place or the time. All the ones who were so hard on us came to a bad end. Did you know that Sombra was captured?" He was on his way to die. No one knows the place or the time. All the ones who were so hard on us came to a bad end. Did you know that Sombra was captured?"

"Yes, I heard it on the radio. Rogelio died, too, in La Macarena."

"Rogelio? The receptionist at Sombra's prison?"

"Yes. He was killed in an ambush. He had gotten really nasty with us."

"And s.h.i.+rley, the pretty girl who acted as a nurse and dentist at Sombra's camp, what happened to her?"

"I saw her not long ago. She's in a group of soldiers with Romero and Rodriguez. They're part of the convoy that's ahead of us. She's with Arnoldo now, the one who took over from Rogelio at Sombra's prison."

This was our world now. These men and women who held us prisoner were our community, our social references.

Marc and I started doing gymnastics together. We were constantly changing camp, but it was no longer a continuous march. We spent two weeks by a stream, three weeks by a river, one week behind a coca field. Wherever we went, we would find a way to set up parallel bars and something to make weights with. Our training routine had a precise goal, that of preparing our escape.

"We have to flee toward the river. Then we have to go wherever the helicopters are," said Marc obstinately.

"The helicopters are constantly moving around. We can't predict where they'll be. We have to do what Pinchao did. We have to head north."

"That's totally crazy, to head north! We'll never have enough supplies to get as far as Bogota!"

"It's even crazier to think we could reach the helicopter base. It's never permanent. One day they're here, the next day they're somewhere else."

"All right," Marc eventually agreed, "we'll go to the river where the helicopters are, and then we'll head north."

But our plans to escape were running into more and more difficulties.

The business of the letters became a serious source of tension. I tried to avoid the topic, but he kept coming back to it. I gradually put more distance between us, limiting our moments together to our workouts. I felt sorry, but I couldn't see my way out of this absurd confrontation over the letters.

One evening after a discussion that was more heated than usual, one of the guards came to see me.

"What's your problem with Marc?" he asked.

I replied evasively.

Later William lectured me. "They're the ones in charge here," he warned me. "They can search you at any time."

I knew he was right. At any moment our letters could end up in the guerrillas' hands. I decided to burn those I had in my possession, certain that Marc wouldn't give me back mine. During one of the short marches that were now routine, I managed to burn a few without being seen.

Or at least that's what I thought, because one of the guerrilleras guerrilleras had watched me at it and notified Enrique. I was summoned. William took me to one side and said, "Don't lie. They already know about the letters." had watched me at it and notified Enrique. I was summoned. William took me to one side and said, "Don't lie. They already know about the letters."

Enrique was short with me. "I don't want any problems between prisoners. Give your comrade what belongs to him, and I'll make him give you what is yours," he said.

Despite the humiliation the situation caused me, Enrique's att.i.tude gave me some peace of mind. He didn't seem to be interested in the letters per se. He was delighted to be able to play the referee between Marc and me. It was his personal revenge for having me back.

Marc, too, was summoned. We were in a different camp, right in the middle of a budding coca plantation, with fruit trees in the center and, along the periphery and at each corner, tall, solitary papaya trees. There were also two adjacent wooden houses and an open-air clay oven. They had put us off to the side of the plantation, in the woods. Enrique had pitched his tent right behind the wooden houses, in the garden, before the edge of the forest.

Marc stayed talking with Enrique for a long time. When he returned, I went up to him. He seemed in low spirits, and he made me wait until he'd finished putting his things away before he would give me his attention. This whole business was really stupid. It would have taken just one word for the walls rising between us to crumble. His dark look stopped me from speaking, though. I handed him the roll of letters, and he took it without glancing at it. I thought about telling him that they weren't all there, and I waited stiffly, unsure about how to say it. Misunderstanding my reason for waiting there, he said, "I'm sorry, but I'm keeping yours, too."

I could not understand why he wanted to keep my letters. What did he want to do with them? I had become increasingly suspicious.

The next morning after breakfast, Enrique sent El Abuelo as courier. We had to take our equipos equipos and go into one of the little wooden houses. and go into one of the little wooden houses.

"We're going to show you some films," he announced.

El Abuelo convinced no one, because the order to take our backpacks with us could only mean something else.

The group was divided in two. El Abuelo asked Marc to open his bag and took out all his belongings. He carefully inspected every single object and was particularly interested in Marc's notebook, the one he used as a diary. He called me over.

"Does this belong to you?" he asked, showing me the notebook.

I stood where I was in the little house, refusing to cross the s.p.a.ce between us. Another guard came up.

"Get a move on. Can't you see the comrade is calling you?" he said, exasperated. The little houses were built on posts three feet from the ground. I jumped down and walked over.

"It's not mine," I answered.

For a moment Marc seemed troubled, and then, as if to regain his composure, he said, "Can I put my things away now?"

El Abuelo scowled at him. His two other companions were shouting and waving their arms in exasperation, outraged that they'd been made to wait there with their equipos, equipos, too. El Abuelo was irritated by Marc's comment and their impatience. He was about to leave, his mission over, but then he changed his mind. too. El Abuelo was irritated by Marc's comment and their impatience. He was about to leave, his mission over, but then he changed his mind.

"You! Open your equipo equipo!" he said, raging against Keith. There was a deadly silence.

I heard the other guard shout, sharp as ever, "That will teach him to act like Rambo!"

The other guerrillas who were standing near the oven, busy cooking, burst out laughing. Ma.s.simo was there with them. He came over to me as he watched the scene.

"Ouch!" he said, shaking his hand as if it hurt. "What a viper's tongue that guy has!"

This wave of reactions left me with a bitter taste. What a waste, What a waste, I thought, sadly, watching Marc pack up his belongings. I didn't care for the letters anymore. His friends.h.i.+p was the only thing worth fighting to keep. I thought, sadly, watching Marc pack up his belongings. I didn't care for the letters anymore. His friends.h.i.+p was the only thing worth fighting to keep.

EIGHTY.

THE SACRED HEART.

JUNE 2008.

I was overcome with melancholy. That I couldn't speak to Marc-not because the guerrillas had separated us, but because of our own stubbornness-left me feeling disgusted with everything.

Before we got to the campsite with the two little houses, when we were still on the march, Asprilla had brought me a big Larousse dictionary, the one I'd asked for from Mono Jojoy years earlier. I had known for a long time that it was in the camp. Consolacion and Katerina had first told me, back in the days when they were my guards, during my isolation and convalescence in Chiqui's group, that the Larousse had arrived.

Monster had been carrying it around. He had later let me leaf through it for a few days, in exchange for which he wanted me to explain the history of the Second World War. The girls were delighted to be able to use it, too, and together we had looked through the dictionary while they braided my hair. Once Monster died, I figured no one wanted to carry it.

I waited for Marc to give some sign that he'd like to use it, but he refused to show any interest. Keith often asked for it, and we agreed that I would leave it for him beside my equipo equipo while I was working out so that he could use it at his convenience. But his curiosity quickly faded, and in the end only William remained absorbed by it. while I was working out so that he could use it at his convenience. But his curiosity quickly faded, and in the end only William remained absorbed by it.

One afternoon when I was waiting for William to finish using it and I was killing time fiddling with the dial on the shortwave radio, a man talking about the promises of the Sacred Heart caught my attention. Perhaps because as a child I often went to the Basilica of Sacre-Coeur in Paris, or maybe because the word "promises" had struck a chord, the fact remains that I stopped turning the k.n.o.b to listen to what the man had to say.

He was explaining that June was the month of Jesus's Sacred Heart, and he made the list of graces that would be granted to those who invoked it. I quickly went to fetch a pencil and a cigarette pack, and I wrote down the promises I'd managed to remember.

There were two in particular that seemed to express my deepest hopes: "I will give blessings on all their plans" and "I will touch even the hardest hearts." My plan was none other than our freedom. It had become an immediate reflex. Likewise, the transformation of hardened hearts was a promise tailor-made for me. During my discussions with Pinchao, we often used the same expression. There were too many hardened hearts around us-the hard hearts of our jailers, of those in the outside world who maintained we must be sacrificed for reasons of state, and of those who were simply indifferent and turned their backs on us.

Without thinking, I appealed to Jesus. "I don't dare to ask for my immediate release, but if your promises are true, I want to ask you for one thing: During this month of June, which is yours, help me to understand how much longer we will have to live as captives. You see, if I knew how long it is going to be, I could hold on. Because I would know that there is an end in sight. If you tell me, I promise you I will pray every Friday for the rest of my life. That will be the proof of my devotion to you, and that you did not let me down."

But the month of June yielded little hope. Of course I listened to the appeals of the Green parties, of members of the European Parliament, of the support groups demanding the release of all those who were still in the jungle. There had been huge marches at the beginning of the year, not only in France and the rest of Europe but also, for the first time, in Colombia. The support groups campaigning in favor of the hostages had grown in number, and there were now thousands of activists everywhere. All the presidents of Latin America had expressed their support for talks with the FARC, and in Argentina, during Cristina Kirchner's inauguration as president, she had opened the doors so that our families could appeal for help from her peers.

But in the month of June, our situation seemed more deadlocked than ever. Operation Phoenix, led by the Colombian army on March 2, 2008, into Ecuador to kill Raul Reyes, the FARC's second in command, created a serious diplomatic crisis between Colombia, Ecuador, and Venezuela. Talks for the release of new hostages were suspended.

On March 24 the announcement of the death of Manuel Marulanda, the FARC's leader, chased away our last hopes. As Reyes, Marulanda's immediate successor, had been killed two weeks earlier, the organization seemed to have been beheaded. The exchange of prisoners would be postponed, indefinitely.

There won't be anything for you, I thought, to avoid nurturing any illusions. However, on June 28, I had a surprising visit. Enrique crept quietly up to my I thought, to avoid nurturing any illusions. However, on June 28, I had a surprising visit. Enrique crept quietly up to my caleta, caleta, trying to find his way in, visibly intending to sit down and speak to me. I a.s.sumed that new misfortune was about to befall me. I didn't like seeing Enrique. I froze, my muscles tense. trying to find his way in, visibly intending to sit down and speak to me. I a.s.sumed that new misfortune was about to befall me. I didn't like seeing Enrique. I froze, my muscles tense.

"A commission of Europeans will be coming to see you. They want to talk to you all and check on the health of the hostages. You have to be ready. We will have to move. There's a possibility that one or several of you may be released."

I had learned not to show my emotion. Nevertheless, my heart leaped from my chest like a fish from a bowl. I did not want Enrique to think he could fool me. He would have taken too much pleasure in my disappointment. I pretended not to be interested.

"I've ordered new clothes and smaller backpacks to be delivered to you. Take just the bare essentials-no tent, no mosquito net, just your hammock, a change of clothes, and that's all. Leave your equipos equipos here with all the rest." here with all the rest."

He went around the caletas, caletas, talking to everyone in the same weary, conscientious tone, no doubt following his orders. Members of FARC were not encouraged to act on their own initiative. Once Enrique had left our camp, everyone had a personal interpretation of what he'd said. There was a flurry of debate. I had only one thing in mind: I'd just been given the answer I was waiting for. Right before the end of June, the Colombian government had authorized European delegates to travel into the Amazon to meet with Alfonso Cano, the new FARC leader. These delegates were Noel Saez and Jean-Pierre Gontard, two men who had devoted years to our cause. If they restored contact with the FARC, then there was a chance that negotiations might be forthcoming. talking to everyone in the same weary, conscientious tone, no doubt following his orders. Members of FARC were not encouraged to act on their own initiative. Once Enrique had left our camp, everyone had a personal interpretation of what he'd said. There was a flurry of debate. I had only one thing in mind: I'd just been given the answer I was waiting for. Right before the end of June, the Colombian government had authorized European delegates to travel into the Amazon to meet with Alfonso Cano, the new FARC leader. These delegates were Noel Saez and Jean-Pierre Gontard, two men who had devoted years to our cause. If they restored contact with the FARC, then there was a chance that negotiations might be forthcoming.

The next morning Lili came into the camp with her arms full. There were plaid s.h.i.+rts and new pants for the men and for me some jeans and a turquoise T-s.h.i.+rt with a low scoop neck. Marc refused to wear the new clothes and handed them back to Lili. Tom put on his new s.h.i.+rt right away. You could tell they wanted to put us onstage. I'd wear my old clothes, I decided, emulating Marc's gesture.

EIGHTY-ONE.

THE TRICK.

When our cambuches cambuches were dismantled and they had picked up everything, we were made to go up to one of the little wooden houses. We were very surprised to find the hostages from the other two groups already chatting in one of the houses. Armando and Arteaga in the lead were having animated discussions with Corporal Jairo Duran, and police lieutenant Javier Rodriguez, Corporal Buitrago, who was known as Buitraguito, and the ever courteous Sergeant Romero. We were all happy to see them. We'd become friends during the marches, because we sometimes had long waits for the were dismantled and they had picked up everything, we were made to go up to one of the little wooden houses. We were very surprised to find the hostages from the other two groups already chatting in one of the houses. Armando and Arteaga in the lead were having animated discussions with Corporal Jairo Duran, and police lieutenant Javier Rodriguez, Corporal Buitrago, who was known as Buitraguito, and the ever courteous Sergeant Romero. We were all happy to see them. We'd become friends during the marches, because we sometimes had long waits for the bongo bongo together. We'd go from one person to the next, wanting to find out all the news in a minute, exchanging our reactions and our feelings about what was coming. n.o.body knew a thing. No one dared ask if they believed there'd be releases, because none of us dared to admit we hoped there might be. together. We'd go from one person to the next, wanting to find out all the news in a minute, exchanging our reactions and our feelings about what was coming. n.o.body knew a thing. No one dared ask if they believed there'd be releases, because none of us dared to admit we hoped there might be.

I went up to Armando. I liked his company and his irrepressible optimism. He hugged me, delighted. "You'll be next!" I laughed with him-he didn't believe it any more than I did. "Look, Arteaga's got a girlfriend," he said, changing the subject. I turned around to have a look. It was sweet. Miguel had a little tame cosumbo cosumbo on his shoulder, and he was kissing it on the nose. on his shoulder, and he was kissing it on the nose.

"Who gave him the cosumbo cosumbo?"

"It's not a cosumbo, cosumbo, it's a coati!" it's a coati!"97 said Armando, the specialist. said Armando, the specialist.

"Hey, what's a coati?"

"It's like a cosumbo. cosumbo."

We were laughing, for no reason. The idea of a change in routine made us lighthearted.

"So where are we going?"

"Nowhere. We're staying in Cambodia," he said sarcastically.

That was his favorite expression, to imply that anything could happen and that we were in the worst possible mess, as if we were in the hands of Pol Pot. It always made me laugh. On the surface it might have seemed incongruous. And yet it was so true-the same jungle, the same extremism and fanaticism wrapped up in the same communist rhetoric, and the same cold-blooded cruelty.

"He eats more than leishmaniasis!" Armando said, pointing to his back.

I laughed even though I didn't know who he was talking about. Off to one side in a corner, huddled over his bowl, Enrique was gorging himself on the morning's leftover rice.

Our equipos equipos were piled up in a room in the little house, behind a door locked with a big padlock. were piled up in a room in the little house, behind a door locked with a big padlock. We'll never see them again, We'll never see them again, I thought, glad that at the last minute I had taken out the belts I'd woven for Mela, Lorenzo, and Sebastian years earlier. Eventually the key to the padlocks ended up in Enrique's pocket. He was cleaning his new AR-15 Bushmaster, an upgrade on his previous AK-47, and seemed oblivious to time. Lili came to inform him. The I thought, glad that at the last minute I had taken out the belts I'd woven for Mela, Lorenzo, and Sebastian years earlier. Eventually the key to the padlocks ended up in Enrique's pocket. He was cleaning his new AR-15 Bushmaster, an upgrade on his previous AK-47, and seemed oblivious to time. Lili came to inform him. The bongo bongo was waiting. was waiting.

The pa.s.sage was surprisingly short. They had covered our heads with a huge tarpaulin, but I managed to see the opposite sh.o.r.e, with a scattering of neat little buildings painted in bright colors.

Where are we? I wondered, surprised to see so many civilians. I wondered, surprised to see so many civilians.

We moored below an imposing estate. A fine garden, planted with palm trees fanned out in the middle of an impeccable lawn, led up to a house on piles divided into three perfectly harmonized sections. The central part looked like it must be a sort of common room. A huge table with a mult.i.tude of plastic chairs seemed lost in a big room that was anything but crowded, despite the presence of an equally huge billiards table in the far corner.

We were immediately led into the left wing of the building. As a rule we were put inside henhouses or laboratories, not in real houses. We were told to set our backpacks on the ground, at the back of the house, and to take out our bathing things. In no time at all, we were in the river.

"You're a real soldier now," said Rodriguez jokingly.

Someone brought out a half-full bottle of shampoo.

"Wow!" said everyone in unison.

Shampoo was a treasure that normally was not shared. But today everyone was feeling good-humored, and the bottle was pa.s.sed around. The scent of the shampoo made me long for another life, and I sank into the water to play mermaid as I rinsed out my hair.

"Betancourt, out!" barked Oswald.

I picked up my piece of soap and got out before the others. I smiled, thinking that someday this would all come to an end, and I walked up to my equipo equipo to change quickly, before the mosquitoes started attacking. to change quickly, before the mosquitoes started attacking.

One of the guards opened the side door of the left wing of the building.

"Take your backpacks inside and get your chains ready," he said smugly.

I saw my companions crowding together to be the first ones in. I looked at the sky one last time. The night was clear. Not a cloud. Above me the first star had just twinkled.