Even Silence Has an End Part 7

"It was a jaguar," I whispered in Clara's ear.

"Are you sure?"

"No."

"Let's switch on the flashlight. We have to see what it was."

I hesitated. We could not be too far from the camp. They would be able to see the light and come after us. However, there was no noise, no voices, no lights.

"We'll switch it on for a second and then turn it off."

The animal disappeared in the undergrowth like a yellow spark. In front of us, a small trail wound its way downward. We took it instinctively in the hope that it would lead somewhere. A few feet below, it came out onto a small wooden bridge that crossed a dribble of water. On the other side, the terrain grew flatter and barer, the soil sandy and spotted with cl.u.s.ters of mangroves. I was no longer afraid. The light had given me back my faculties.

But I was worried, because taking a path was not a good idea and using the light made us dependent on it. We decided to follow the riverbank. We walked quickly to gain as much ground as we could. Lightning flashed across the night sky, and the wind picked up, sweeping through the trees and crus.h.i.+ng the leaves. With no time to lose, we set to work. We had to build a shelter as quickly as possible. A piece of string between two mangroves, the large plastic sheet over the top, and we would have ourselves a roof. We sat underneath, huddled up so we would both fit. I laid the machete I'd just used at my feet, and I slumped forward onto my knees, overcome by desperately needed sleep.

I awoke shortly afterward with the unpleasant sensation of having my backside in water. We were being drenched. A long, eerie creaking sound followed by an explosion made sure I was completely awake-a heavy tree had just crashed to the ground a few yards from our shelter. It could have crushed us. I reached out for the machete and put my hand into two inches of water. The storm was raging. The water level was actually rising and flooding us. How long had we been asleep? Long enough for the stream to increase its volume tenfold and burst its banks.

I was still crouched down, groping for the machete, when I felt the water around my feet gathering speed-we were in the middle of a current!

I switched on the flashlight. No point continuing the search for the machete. It had been swept away. We had to gather our things together and get out as quickly as possible. That was when I remembered what the guerrillas had said. In winter the land on either side of the stream flooded, hence the wooden paths built on stilts, which I'd taken for randomly erected bridges. Winter had hit us in a matter of minutes, and we could not have picked a worse place to spend the night.

Without the machete, and with our fingers swollen from the water and the cold, dismantling the shelter became an arduous task. I was still trying to undo the knots and retrieve the precious string when the water reached our knees. I looked up. The branches of the mangroves were woven into a tight mesh a few inches above our heads. Water was rising fast. If we didn't find the way out, we were going to drown in the limbs of the mangrove trees. I quickly glanced around, the trail was engulfed with water.

The pounding rain, water up to our waists, and the strength of the current were all conspiring against us. The flashlight stopped working. My companion was panicking and shouting, not knowing what to do in the dark, trying to go around me and putting me off balance in a current that was already extremely dangerous.

"Listen," I said, "we're going to get out of here. Everything will be all right. The first thing we need to do is put new batteries in the flashlight. "We'll do it together, slowly. Take the batteries out of the bag one by one and pa.s.s them to me, and make sure you put them securely in my hand. I have to find the right end. There. Give me the other one. That's it, done."

The operation took many long minutes. I wedged myself between the branches of a small bush to stabilize myself against the current. I had just one fear: that the batteries would slip from my fingers and get lost in the water. My hands were trembling, and I had trouble keeping a good grip on them. By the time I finally managed to push the switch, the water was up to our necks.

At the first sweep of light, my companion forged straight ahead. "This way!" she shouted, going deeper into the water. It wasn't worth arguing. I remained perched on my bush, scanning the area, trying to find an indication of which direction we should take.

She returned defeated and looked at me in confusion.

"Over there," I told her.

It was more than intuition. It was like a calling. I let myself be guided, and I walked. An angel! An angel! I thought, without finding it absurd. Now, looking back, I like to think that angel was Papa. He had just died, and I didn't yet know. I thought, without finding it absurd. Now, looking back, I like to think that angel was Papa. He had just died, and I didn't yet know.

I went deeper into the water but continued in the same direction, stubbornly. Farther on, the terrain rose steeply. Three more strides and we were out of the water, looking over a huge swamp. The small bridge had disappeared, as had the stream. It was now a flowing, raging river, flooding everything in its path.

We walked on, our backs hunched, soaked to the skin, s.h.i.+vering with every step and exhausted. The first glimmer of dawn was cutting through the thick vegetation. We had to take stock of our losses and wring out our clothes. Most of all we had to prepare our hideout for the day. They were surely on our tail already, and we had not made sufficient headway.

The sun came out. Through the thick foliage, we could see patches of pale blue, evidence that the clouds were breaking up. Slanted rays of light pierced the vegetation, heating the ground with such intensity that the soil released fragrances that seemed to turn the place into an enchanted forest. The jungle had lost the sinister aspect of the previous night. We spoke in whispers, planning meticulously the tasks we would each be allocated during the day. We'd decided not to walk at night, given that there was no moon to light our path because it was hidden behind the heavy clouds of the rainy season. But we were afraid of walking during the day, since we knew that the guerrillas would be searching for us and were probably pretty close. I looked around for somewhere to hide and spied a hole left by a gigantic root that had been literally ripped out of the soil by the weight of the falling tree. The exposed earth was red and sandy-filled with small creatures crawling around. Nothing too nasty-no scorpions or "Indian beards," the large, rainbow-colored venomous caterpillars. I thought we could spend the day camouflaged in this hollow. We needed to cut some young palm leaves to hide ourselves. The kitchen knife I had "borrowed" was a good subst.i.tute for the machete.

We had finished fabricating a screen by crisscrossing branches and palm leaves when we heard Young Cesar's loud voice bellowing out orders, followed by the sound of several men running a few yards to our right. One of them was cursing as he bolted past us. He moved farther and farther away before disappearing altogether. Instinctively we huddled together tightly and held our breath. Then calmness returned; the wind blew through the treetops, water could be heard babbling all around us as it found its way toward the river, the birds started to sing. Man was conspicuous by his absence. Had we been dreaming? We hadn't seen them, but they'd been very close. It was a warning. We had to move. Our clothes had already dried on us. Our leather boots were full of water. Placed in the right spot under a powerful ray of sun, they produced a beautiful swirl of steam. The smell had attracted a swarm of bees that clung to them in cl.u.s.ters and took turns sucking them to relieve them of their salt. Covered in bees like that, they looked more like a hive than a pair of boots. After a while I noticed that the bees' activity was having a beneficial effect: They were like a team of cleaners, replacing the rancid odor with the sweet smell of honey. Encouraged by this discovery, I had the unfortunate idea of drying my underwear on a branch in full sun. When I went to check on it, I burst out laughing. The ants had cut out and carried off circles of fabric, and what was left had been invaded by termites using it as material to build their tunnels.

We decided to leave at dawn the next day. We would use the cut palm leaves as a mattress. One of the plastic sheets could go on top, and the other could be draped to serve as a roof. We were at the crest of a hill. If it started raining again, at least we would not be flooded. We broke off four branches and pushed one into each corner of our makes.h.i.+ft tent. We could thus enjoy the luxury of our mosquito net.

We had just completed our first twenty-four hours of freedom! Outside the mosquito net, s.h.i.+ny hard beetles tried in vain to get through the mesh. I closed my eyes after making sure there were no gaps in the net; it was well secured by our body weight.

When I woke up with a start, the sun was already high in the sky. We had slept too long. I hastily gathered our things, scattered the palm leaves so as not to leave any trace of our presence, and listened intently. Nothing. They had to be far away. They'd probably already struck camp. The realization that we were completely alone made me calm and anxious in equal measure. What if we went around in circles for weeks and got lost forever in this labyrinth of chlorophyll?

I didn't know which direction to take. I moved forward by instinct. Clara followed. She had insisted on bringing a host of small items-medicine, toilet paper, anti-inflammatory cream, Band-Aids, a change of clothes, and of course food. She had wanted to take my overnight bag, which was not only bursting at the seams but weighed a ton. I'd done everything I could to dissuade her. But I hadn't wanted to push the argument too far, because I realized that in this small bag she was storing all the antidotes to her own fear. After an hour of walking, she was doing her best not to appear handicapped by the load and I was doing my best to appear not to notice.

I tried to get my bearings from the sun, but large clouds had filled the sky with a layer of gray, turning the world beneath the trees into a flat s.p.a.ce with no shadows and therefore no clues as to direction. We both kept our ears open for any sound that would alert us to the presence of another living soul, but this was an enchanted forest, suspended in time, absent from the memory of men. There was only us, and the sound of our footsteps on the carpet of dead leaves.

Without warning, the forest changed. The light was different, the jungle sounds were less intense, the trees seemed farther apart, and we felt more exposed. We slowed our pace and proceeded with more caution. A couple of steps later and we were on a road, wide enough to accommodate a vehicle, a proper road in the middle of the jungle. I turned around immediately, taking my companion by the arm to hide in the vegetation, where we crouched among the enormous roots of a tree. A road! It was the way out! But it was also the greatest danger.

We were fascinated by our find. Where could the road lead? Was it possible that by following it we would end up somewhere inhabited, in some corner of civilization? Was this the location of the guerrillas whom we'd heard the previous day? We talked this over in hushed tones, looking at the road like a forbidden fruit. Any road in the jungle was the work of the guerrillas.

It was their domain, their territory. We decided to walk alongside it, albeit at a reasonable distance, and keep ourselves under cover at all times. We wanted to make as much headway as possible during the day, as cautiously as possible.

For hours we followed our initial plan. The road climbed and fell steeply, wound its way around sharp bends and appeared to have no end. I hastened my step, to try to gain as much distance as possible during daylight hours. Little by little, my companion started to lag behind, biting her lip so as not to admit she was suffering from the weight of her load.

"Give it to me, I'll carry it."

"No, it's okay. It's not heavy."

The road became significantly narrower, and it was increasingly difficult to stay to the side of it. The landscape was insane. Ascents became climbs, and descents became toboggan rides. We stopped after three hours at a small wooden bridge over a creek. The water was crystal clear and babbled tunefully over a bed of small white and pink stones. I was dying of thirst, and I drank like a horse, kneeling on the riverbank. Then I filled my small water bottle. Clara did the same. We laughed like children at the simple pleasure of drinking clean water. What we'd been ruminating over in the solitude of our individual thoughts now became the subject of discussion: We had walked all morning without encountering a soul. The guerrillas knew we were unaware that this road existed. If we took it, we could cover ten times the distance. We agreed to walk in strict silence so we could jump for cover at the slightest sound, and I kept my eyes focused well into the distance in an effort to discern any movement whatsoever. We became wrapped up in the mechanics of walking, and my mind gradually grew more absorbed in concentrating on the physical effort than in observing the vigilance we had promised each other.

After turning a bend, we came to a fairly long bridge that crossed a dry river-bed. Our boots were encrusted with mud, and the latest rains made the wooden bridge look as if it had been washed down with soap and water. We decided to pa.s.s underneath to avoid leaving footprints. As I edged my way along the underside of the bridge, I noticed creeper tendrils hanging down in twists over the moss. I had already observed this bizarre form of vegetation on a few trees and thought it bore a strange resemblance to dreadlocks. I could have imagined any number of things, except that it was hornets' nests. I spotted them cl.u.s.tered on one of the bridge's beams and jumped back in fright. I warned Clara, who was a few steps behind me, pointing to a ball foaming with insects. Had it not been for an increasingly loud buzzing sound a second earlier, I would have slammed right into it. As it was, the noise alerted me to the fact that the wasps had taken flight and were about to punish us for having disturbed them.

I saw the squadron in triangle formation rus.h.i.+ng toward me. I shot like an arrow to the other end of the bridge and ran as fast as I could along the path until I thought I had distanced myself from the noise. I stopped, breathless, and turned around, only to be met with the most nightmarish vision: My companion was standing a few yards away from me, black with hornets. The insects, having noticed that I had stopped, abandoned their initial prey to come toward me like a fighter squadron. There was no way I could start running again and leave Clara at the mercy of the warring swarm. Before I could give it any further thought, I, too, became covered in raging insects; they latched onto me everywhere, curling up on themselves to drive their powerful stingers into me as deeply as they could. I remembered one of the guards talking about African wasps whose sting could kill livestock within seconds.

"They're African wasps!" I heard myself scream.

"Stop it! You'll excite them even more!" replied Clara.

Our voices echoed in the forest. If our captors had heard us, they would know where to come and find us! Gripped by panic, I continued to cry out from the pain of each sting. Then, all of a sudden, reason returned. I left the road and rushed toward the nearest bush. I noticed that by moving I was able to shake off some of the wasps. I felt emboldened again. The proximity of denser vegetation had confused some of them, and others simply abandoned me to rejoin the main swarm. But there were still a lot stuck to my pants. Using two fingers, I grabbed them by their furiously beating wings and plucked them off one by one, mercilessly crus.h.i.+ng them under my foot. I shuddered at the crunching sound but forced myself to continue methodically. Most of the time I ended up breaking them in two, leaving the still-quivering abdomen embedded in my skin. I thanked heaven it was I who had experienced this and not my mother or my sister; they would have died of fright. I made a major effort to control myself, in part because of fear but mainly because I was in the grip of a nervous aversion to touching the cold, damp bodies of these insects-I was trembling with revulsion. Finally I won the battle, surprised not to feel any pain, as if I had been anesthetized. I saw that Clara had won her battle, too, except that her attack had been far worse than mine, and she'd managed to keep her cool better than I had.

"My father kept hives in the country. I got used to them," she said testily. The hornet attack had shaken us. I thought about the noise we'd made and could not dismiss the idea that our pursuers had dispatched a reconnaissance mission.

The hornet bridge was the first in a long series of wooden bridges erected every fifty yards, similar to those we had crossed to reach the camp from which we'd escaped. At times these bridges looked like viaducts because they went on interminably, meandering between the trees over hundreds of yards. They must have been built in previous years and abandoned. The planks were rotting and the sides crumbling, eaten away by hungry vegetation. We walked over them, six feet aboveground, inspecting each plank and beam as we made our way forward, terrified we might fall through at any moment. We were aware of the risk of being spotted if guerrillas were in the area, but these bridges saved us from getting trapped in the tangle of roots and creepers that were lurking underneath.

We decided to take turns carrying the bag. Without eating and having drunk little, we had succ.u.mbed to exhaustion.

Once the bridges became less frequent, we decided to hang the bag over the stick I'd been using as a cane, placing one end of the stick on the shoulder of the person in front and the other on the shoulder of the person behind. This technique made the walk easier, and we continued like this at a faster pace for a few more hours.

The forest began to lose its color, and the air gradually became cooler. We had to find somewhere to spend the night. Straight ahead the path climbed, with a final wooden bridge awaiting us after a bend. Beyond the bridge, the forest seemed less dense; the light filtering through was different. We might be very close to the river and, who knows, to finding peasants, a boat, or any type of help.

But my companion was exhausted. I could see how her feet had doubled in size. The wasps had stung her all over. She wanted to stop before we crossed the bridge. I thought for a moment. I was aware that tiredness was a very poor counselor, and I prayed that I would not make any mistakes. Or maybe it was because I sensed I was was making a mistake that I called to the heavens for help. In less than an hour, it would be dark, and the guerrillas would be back at camp, reviewing another day they had returned empty-handed. The thought calmed me down. I agreed to stop, and I explained to Clara the precautions we needed to take. What I didn't see was that she had left the bag propped up against a tree in full view of the path, before going down to drink from a spring flowing just below us. making a mistake that I called to the heavens for help. In less than an hour, it would be dark, and the guerrillas would be back at camp, reviewing another day they had returned empty-handed. The thought calmed me down. I agreed to stop, and I explained to Clara the precautions we needed to take. What I didn't see was that she had left the bag propped up against a tree in full view of the path, before going down to drink from a spring flowing just below us.

I heard their voices. They had come up from behind and were talking normally as they walked, not imagining for one moment that we were a few yards away. My blood froze. I saw them before they saw me. If Clara hid in time, they would pa.s.s by without noticing us. There were two of them, the pretty guerrilla who in spite of herself had served to distract the guard and thus facilitate our escape, and Edinson, a wily-looking youth who was always guffawing. They were talking loudly enough to be heard from a distance.

I took my eyes off them and turned toward Clara. She dashed up to get her bag, moving completely into the open-and came face-to-face with Edinson. The kid stared at her, his eyes popping out of his head. Then she turned to look at me, the blood draining from her face, fear and pain deforming her features. Edinson followed her movement to where I was standing. We looked at each other. I closed my eyes. It was all over. I heard Edinson's carnivorous giggle, which cut through the air like a razor, then the sound of a machine gun being fired into the air to celebrate their victory and announce it to the others. I hated them for their happiness.

NINE.

THE STRAINS OF COMMUNAL LIFE.

SUMMER 2003.

I was with Papa. He was wearing his square, horn-rimmed gla.s.ses that I had not seen on him since the happy days of my childhood. I was hanging on to his hand and crossing a busy road, swinging my arm back and forth to get his attention. I was a little girl. I was laughing from the delight of being with him. Once on the sidewalk, he stopped abruptly without looking at me and inhaled deeply. He pressed my hand, still held in his, against his heart. His voice became strained as he grimaced in pain, and my joy suddenly turned to anguish.

"Papa, are you all right?"

"It's my heart, my darling, it's my heart."

I looked everywhere for a car, and we bundled into the first taxi heading toward the hospital. But it was at home that we arrived, it was into his bed that I put him; he was still unwell, and I tried frantically to reach his doctor, my mother, my sister, but the phone remained silent. Papa collapsed against me. I caught him and shook him, but he was too heavy, his weight was smothering me, he was dying on me, and I didn't have the physical strength to put him back into bed or help him, save him. A muted scream remained lodged in my throat, and I found myself sitting under my mosquito net, panting, covered in sweat, wide-eyed, and blind. Dear G.o.d! Thank goodness it was only a nightmare! . . . But what am I talking about? Papa is dead, and I am a prisoner: The real nightmare is waking up here. Dear G.o.d! Thank goodness it was only a nightmare! . . . But what am I talking about? Papa is dead, and I am a prisoner: The real nightmare is waking up here.

I cried for hours and hours, waiting for daybreak so that I could bury my pain in the everyday gestures I would perform mechanically, to give myself the impression of still being alive. My companion was head to tail next to me and was annoyed.

"Stop crying, you're keeping me awake."

I took refuge in my silence, my soul ravaged to the core at having to endure a fate that would not even allow me to cry in peace. I was angry at G.o.d for turning against me. I hate you, I hate you! You don't exist, and if you do, you are a monster! I hate you, I hate you! You don't exist, and if you do, you are a monster! Every night for more than a year, I dreamed that Papa was dying in my arms. Every night I would wake up terrified, disoriented, in emptiness, trying to work out where I was, only to discover that my worst nightmares were nothing compared to my reality. Every night for more than a year, I dreamed that Papa was dying in my arms. Every night I would wake up terrified, disoriented, in emptiness, trying to work out where I was, only to discover that my worst nightmares were nothing compared to my reality.

The months went by in devastating sameness, empty hours that needed to be filled, punctuated only by meals and bathing. La.s.situde set in, creating a distance between Clara and me. I no longer spoke to her, or at least very little-just what was required to move forward or sometimes to give us heart. I refrained from revealing my feelings so as not to start a conversation I wanted to avoid. It began with the little things-a silence, embarra.s.sment at having seen in the other something we did not want to discover. It was nothing; we were just settling in to daily life in spite of the horror.

In the beginning we shared everything without keeping count. Very soon we had to divide meticulously what was allotted to us. We gave each other dark looks, we were annoyed with the s.p.a.ce we each took from the other, and we slid imperceptibly toward intolerance and rejection.

The feeling of "every man for himself" was gradually surfacing. It was definitely not something to verbalize. There was a boundary or, better still, a bulwark, between us and our abductors, composed of our secrets, our conversations that were inaccessible to them in spite of their constant surveillance. As long as we maintained our unity, I felt we would remain armored. But daily life was wearing us down. One day I asked the guard for a piece of line to hang our laundry on. He didn't want to help. The line nevertheless turned up the following day, and I set about installing it between the trees, using the entire length as efficiently as possible. I went to fetch my laundry, and when I came back, I discovered that there was no room for my things. Clara had taken up all the s.p.a.ce with hers.

Another day the area under the mosquito net became a problem. Next it was the issue of hygiene to control odors. Then noise management. It was impossible to agree on the most basic rules of behavior. In this enforced intimacy, there was a major risk of becoming indifferent and cynical and ending up forcing the other person, shamelessly, to put up with you. One evening, after asking Clara to move over because I had no room in the bed, she exploded. "Your father would be ashamed of you if he could see you!" Her words stung my heart as if she'd slapped me. I was overwhelmed by the gratuitousness of the insult and devastated to realize that I would no longer be able to lean on her.

Every day brought a new dose of pain and acrimony. I saw us drifting apart. It took considerable strength not to seek relief from the guards' constant humiliation by humiliating in turn the person sharing the same fate. It was surely neither conscious nor desired, but it was a form of release for our bitterness.

Yet, estranged as we now were, we were still chained to a tree twenty-four hours a day, sitting crammed together in a s.p.a.ce six feet long by four feet wide.

I persuaded them to bring us fabric and thread, and I thanked heaven I had spent time listening to my elderly aunt Lucy, who, when I was a teenager, insisted on teaching me the art of embroidery. My cousins were too bored to stick around, but I stayed out of curiosity. Now I realized that life supplies us with everything we need for the journey. Everything I had acquired either actively or pa.s.sively, everything I had learned either voluntarily or by osmosis, was coming back to me as the real riches of my life, even though I had lost everything.

I was surprised to find myself repeating my aunt's gestures and using her words and mannerisms to explain to Clara the rudiments of cross-st.i.tch, straight st.i.tch, and blanket st.i.tch. Before long, when they weren't on guard duty, the young women of the camp started coming over to watch us work. They, too, wanted to learn.

The hours, the days, and the months went by less painfully. The concentration required for embroidery lightened our endless silences. There was a kins.h.i.+p in our gestures, which made our fate more bearable. It lasted many months in many camps until the thread ran out. But while we were sewing, I understood how crucial it was to entertain my body in order to be able to free my mind.

A few weeks after our failed escape, with no explanation, they made us gather our belongings to leave in the opposite direction from what I had been calling "our way out." We ventured even deeper into the jungle, and for the first time there was no path, no sign of human life. We walked in single file, one guard up front, another at the rear. These sudden changes in location filled me with immense anxiety. The coincidence of this feeling, which we sensed was the same for both of us, made our war of silence-a war fed by the constant strain of defining our s.p.a.ce and our independence from each other-vanish instantly.

We would look at each other and all was said. It was in these terrible moments, when our destiny seemed to be sinking even further into the abyss, that we acknowledged defeat, recognizing only then how much we needed each other.

While the guerrillas finished breaking down the camp and we witnessed the dismantling of this s.p.a.ce, which we had ended up adopting as "ours," while the last of them were pulling up and throwing into the bushes the stakes that had supported our tent until there was nothing left but an indistinct, muddy area, and any proof of our existence in this place had just been eliminated, Clara and I would take each other silently by the hand in an instinctive effort to give strength to the other.

I applied myself to memorizing everything in the hope of retaining some spatial consistency in my brain that could potentially enable me find my way back. But the more we walked, the more new obstacles had to be incorporated into my calculations. Feverish chills ran over my skin, and my hands were so damp that I had to wipe them continually on my pants. Then came the nausea. I was well aware of the process that took place each time a departure was announced. In one and a half hours, at most, I would have to dash behind a bush, where I could throw up without being seen. I always made sure to have a small roll of tissue to wipe my mouth and clothes, a somewhat superfluous gesture given that I was already covered in mud.

The new camp that awaited us was very different from the previous one. The guerrillas thought it prudent to build our caleta caleta away from their own dwellings. From where they placed us, it was impossible to see what they were doing or how they organized themselves. We were isolated, with a gloomy-looking guard posted a few feet from our mosquito net, obviously unhappy at being condemned to the boredom of being separated from his comrades and the embarra.s.sment of being so close to us. away from their own dwellings. From where they placed us, it was impossible to see what they were doing or how they organized themselves. We were isolated, with a gloomy-looking guard posted a few feet from our mosquito net, obviously unhappy at being condemned to the boredom of being separated from his comrades and the embarra.s.sment of being so close to us.

I preferred it this way. It would be easier, if circ.u.mstances permitted, to dupe the surveillance of just one man.

We had already gotten our bearings again and had resumed our embroidery when I saw Patricia, the nurse, walking toward us with a man I'd never seen before. He was young, in his thirties, with copper-colored skin, a small, s.h.i.+ny black mustache, and short hair. He was wearing regulation khaki pants, the usual rubber boots, and a s.h.i.+rt unb.u.t.toned to the navel, revealing a hairy bulk that stopped just short of being fat. Around his neck hung a gold chain bearing a large, yellowed tooth.

He arrived all smiles, rolling his shoulders, and I couldn't help thinking that there was something bloodthirsty about him. Patricia made the introductions.

"This is Commander Andres!" she said with an adulation that took me by surprise.

The man obviously wanted to make a bold entrance and impress the troops who had gathered a few yards away to witness the scene.

"What are you doing?" he asked me, half authoritarian, half friendly.

"h.e.l.lo," I replied, looking up from my work.

He looked me straight in the eye, as if trying to read my thoughts, and burst out laughing as he stroked his mustache. Then, still smiling, he continued, "What is that?"

"This? It's a tablecloth for my mother."

"Let me see!" he ordered.

I pa.s.sed him my sewing, taking care not to raise my mosquito net too much. He pretended to inspect my work with the eye of a connoisseur and was about to return it to me with a "not bad" when a striking young woman who was standing behind me and whom I had not seen before s.n.a.t.c.hed my work from his hands with a confidence that left no doubt as to the nature of their relations.h.i.+p. "Oh! It's so pretty! I want to do this! Please!" She rolled her hips with the full intention of enticing him. Andres looked delighted. "Maybe later," he replied, laughing.

Patricia chimed in. "He is the new commander!"

So this was the man with whom we had to get along from now on. I was already missing Young Cesar, who had obviously been dismissed because of our escape attempt.

"What's that you have around your neck?" I asked.

"This? It's a jaguar's tooth."

"A jaguar's?!"

"Yes, it was huge. I killed it myself."

His black eyes shone with pleasure. His expression changed, and he became almost charming.

"Those animals are on the verge of extinction. You shouldn't kill them."

"Oh, we're eco-conscious in the FARC! We don't kill, we execute!"

He turned on his heel and left, followed by his retinue of women.