Even Silence Has an End Part 10

Beto came to see me again. He wanted to show me another belt with different colors he had made using a new technique. He promised to teach me how to do it. Then, for some reason, during the course of the conversation he said, "You must be ready to run when we tell you to. The chulos chulos are close by. If they get here, they will kill you. They want to be able to say that the guerrillas did it, and that way they won't have to negotiate your release. If I'm here, I'll run. I'm not going to get killed for your sake. No one will." are close by. If they get here, they will kill you. They want to be able to say that the guerrillas did it, and that way they won't have to negotiate your release. If I'm here, I'll run. I'm not going to get killed for your sake. No one will."

On hearing his words, a strange sensation came over me. I felt sorry for him, as if, by admitting that he would think only of himself at the moment of great danger, he was condemning himself to receiving no help from others when he would most need it.

He left the camp the following day "on an a.s.signment," which meant he was probably in charge of our provisions for the coming months. One evening as the guards were talking among themselves, convinced we were sound asleep, I learned that he had been killed in an ambush by the Colombian army-the same operation in which El Mocho had lost his life. It was a terrible shock. Not just because the echo of his final words and, with them, his fierce desire to live came back to me, but all the more so because I could not understand how his companions, his comrades, could speak of his death without a shadow of regret, as if they were talking about the latest belt he was finis.h.i.+ng.

I could not rid my thoughts of that macabre wink from destiny, that fateful connection, understanding that in a way he did get killed "for me" after all, because of this particular chain of events that had brought us together in spite of ourselves: He as my keeper, I as his prisoner. As I was finis.h.i.+ng the belt he'd helped me to start, lost in my meditation, I thanked him in the silence of my mind more for the time he'd spent talking to me than for pa.s.sing on his art. For I was discovering that the most precious gift someone can give us is time, because what gives time its value is death.

FOURTEEN.

MELANIE'S SEVENTEENTH BIRTHDAY The days were all alike and seemed to last forever. I had trouble remembering what I'd done on the previous day. Everything seemed to be happening in a thick fog, and all I could remember were the camp transfers, because I found them so difficult. Nearly seven months had gone by since I was kidnapped, and I could feel the changes. My center of interest s.h.i.+fted; the future no longer interested me, nor did the outside world. They were simply inaccessible to me. I was living the present moment as in an eternity of relentless pain, without the hope it would ever end.

And yet before I knew it, it was my daughter's birthday, as if time had accelerated capriciously just to annoy me. For two weeks I'd been weaving a belt for her. I was proud of it. The guerrillas would file past the shack to come and inspect my work. "The old girl is learning!" they said, with a hint of surprise, as a compliment. Calling me the cucha cucha in their particular slang had no pejorative connotation. They used the same word to speak to their commander, in a tone meant to be familiar and respectful at the same time. However, I was having trouble getting used to it. I felt as if I'd been shoved irrevocably into a closet of relics. But the fact remained, my daughter was turning seventeen: I was old enough to be their mother. in their particular slang had no pejorative connotation. They used the same word to speak to their commander, in a tone meant to be familiar and respectful at the same time. However, I was having trouble getting used to it. I felt as if I'd been shoved irrevocably into a closet of relics. But the fact remained, my daughter was turning seventeen: I was old enough to be their mother.

So I went on weaving, lost in the hundreds of thoughts that laced themselves together like the knots I patiently added to my handiwork. For the first time since I'd been captured, I was in haste to finish something. The day before Melanie's birthday, at six o'clock in the evening, just before they locked us up, I completed the last knot of her belt. I was proud.

Melanie's birthday had to be a day of joy. I told myself it was the only way to honor her, my little girl, who had shed light on my life, even in the depths of this green hole. All night long I'd gone through her life in my mind-the day of her birth, her first steps, the terrible fright she got from a windup doll that walked better than she did. I saw her again as she was on the first day of school, with her pigtails and her white toddler boots, and I watched her gradually grow up, following her until the last time I'd held her in my arms. I cried. But my tears now were of a different kind altogether. I was thankful, thankful that I had been there, that I had known so many moments I could now draw on in my thirst for happiness. To be sure, it was a sad happiness, because I felt so acutely my children's physical absence, but it was the only happiness I could reach.

I got up long before they unlocked the door. I was sitting on the edge of the bed, singing "Happy Birthday" in my head, hoping the vibrations would reach my daughter, traveling mentally from the wooden house, above the trees, above the jungle, above the Caribbean, and all the way to her room on the island of Santo Domingo, where she lived with her father. I could picture her sleeping just as I'd left her. I imagined waking her up with a kiss on her cool cheek. I firmly believed that she could sense my presence.

The day before, I'd asked for permission to make a cake, and Andres had granted it. Jessica came to help me, and we prepared the batter with flour, powdered milk, sugar, and black chocolate (extraordinary concessions) that we melted in a separate saucepan. Because we had no oven, we fried it. Jessica took care of the icing. She had used a packet of the powder for making strawberry-flavored drinks, mixing it with powdered milk and a little bit of water. The thick paste that resulted transformed the black cake into a candy-pink disk, and on it she wrote : FROM FARC-EP.

Andres allowed us to borrow his ca.s.sette player, and Jessica came back into the house with it, the cake, and El Mico, under whose nose we had escaped. He was there as a dancing partner, because Jessica was determined to make the most of the occasion. As for me, I had also gotten ready. I had dressed up, wearing the jeans I'd had on when I was kidnapped-jeans that Melanie had given me for Christmas-and the belt I'd made for her, because I had lost a lot of weight and my pants were sliding down.

For a few hours, these young people changed as if by magic. They were no longer guards, or terrorists, or killers. They were young people, my daughter's age, having fun. They danced divinely, as if they'd never done anything else their entire life. They were perfectly synchronized with one another, dancing in that shack as if it were a ballroom, whirling around with elegant self-awareness. You couldn't help but watch. Jessica, with her long, curly black hair, knew that she was beautiful. She moved her hips and shoulders, just enough to reveal the contours of her curves. El Mico was a rather ugly boy, but that night he was transformed. The world was his. I wanted so much to have my children there! It was the first time I thought this. I would have liked for them to know these young people, to discover their strange way of life, so different and yet so close to theirs, because all adolescents in the world are alike. These young people could have been my children. I had known them to be cruel, despotic, humiliating. I could only wonder as I watched them dance whether my children, under the same conditions, would not have acted the same way.

That day I understood that we are all fundamentally the same. I thought back to my tenure in Congress. For a long time, I had singled out people, as a way to unmask corruption in my country. Now I wondered whether that had been right. It was not that I doubted the truth of my accusations, but rather I had grown aware of how complex we human beings are. Because of that, compa.s.sion appeared to me under a new light, as an essential value for dealing with my present. It is the key to forgiveness, It is the key to forgiveness, I thought, wanting to set aside any inclinations of vengeance. The day of Melanie's birthday, I understood that I did not want to miss the opportunity to hold out my hand to my enemy, when the time came. I thought, wanting to set aside any inclinations of vengeance. The day of Melanie's birthday, I understood that I did not want to miss the opportunity to hold out my hand to my enemy, when the time came.

After that day my relations.h.i.+p with Jessica changed. She came and asked me if I could give her English lessons. Her request surprised me: I wondered what a little guerrillera guerrillera could do with English lessons in the jungle. could do with English lessons in the jungle.

Jessica showed up on the first day with a brand-new notebook, a pen, and a black pencil with an eraser. Being the girlfriend of the commander had certain advantages. But it was also true that right from the start she had all the characteristics of a good student-neat handwriting, spatial and mental organization, excellent concentration, very good memory. She was so happy to learn that this in turn pushed me to better prepare my lessons. I was surprised to find myself looking forward to her visits. As time went by, we mingled English lessons with more intimate conversations. She s.h.i.+vered as she shared with me descriptions of her father's death-he had also been part of the guerrilla movement-and of her own recruitment. She talked about her relations.h.i.+p with Andres. From time to time, she raised the tone and talked about communism, about how glad she was to have taken up arms to defend the people, how women were not discriminated against in FARC, how s.e.xism was strictly forbidden, too. She would lower her voice to talk to me about her dreams, her ambitions, and the problems in her relations.h.i.+p. I realized she was worried that the guards might be listening.

"I have to be careful, because they might misunderstand and ask for an explanation at the aula. aula."

That was how I learned that problems were discussed out in the open. They were all under scrutiny and were obliged to inform the commander in the event of any suspicious behavior on the part of a comrade. Informing was an intrinsic part of their regime. They were all subject to it, and they all practiced it, indiscriminately.

Once she came with the words to a song in Spanish that she loved. She wanted me to translate it into English so that she could sing it herself. She wanted to sing like an American. She worked hard perfecting her accent.

"You are so gifted, you should ask Joaquin Gomez to have the FARC send you abroad to train. I know that a lot of the sons of members of the Secretariado are in the best universities in Europe and elsewhere. They might be interested in having someone like you who speaks good English. . . ."

I saw her eyes light up for a moment. Then she quickly took hold of herself and raised her voice to be heard, saying, "We are here to give our lives to the revolution, not to go to some bourgeois university."

She never came back to her English lessons. I was sorry. One morning when she was on guard, I went up to her to ask her why she had dropped the English cla.s.ses when she was learning so well.

She glanced around her and said in a hushed voice, "I had an argument with Andres. He forbade me from continuing the English lessons. He burned my notebook."

FIFTEEN.

RESENTMENT AND REMISSION.

One morning almost at dawn, Ferney came to see us. "Pack up all your things. We're leaving. You have to be ready in twenty minutes."

I felt my guts turn to liquid. The camp had already been half dismantled. All the tents had been folded up, and the first guerrillas were leaving with their backpacks, hiking in single file over by the river. They made us wait.

Right at noon Ferney came back, took our things, and ordered us to follow. Crossing the coca fields was like walking through a furnace, the sun was so strong. As we went by the lemon tree, I picked up a few lemons and filled my pockets. It was a luxury I could not pa.s.s up. Ferney looked at me impatiently, and then he decided to take some, too, while ordering me to go on walking. We went back into the manigua manigua-the swamplike terrain covered with tropical bushes. The temperature changed immediately. We had moved from the stifling heat of the coca field into the damp coolness of the undergrowth. There was a smell of rot. I hated this world that was decomposing perpetually, inhabited by horrendous swarming insects. It was truly a living tomb-all it would take was a slight inadvertent gesture on our part and we would be doomed. The water was only twenty yards or so away; we were near the banks of the river. So we could expect to be transported by boat. But there were no boats waiting. The temperature changed immediately. We had moved from the stifling heat of the coca field into the damp coolness of the undergrowth. There was a smell of rot. I hated this world that was decomposing perpetually, inhabited by horrendous swarming insects. It was truly a living tomb-all it would take was a slight inadvertent gesture on our part and we would be doomed. The water was only twenty yards or so away; we were near the banks of the river. So we could expect to be transported by boat. But there were no boats waiting.

The guard flung himself on the ground, pulled off his boots, and made as if he were settling down for a while. I looked everywhere in the hope of finding a decent spot to sit. I turned in circles, undecided, like a dog trying to sit down on its tail. Ferney reacted with a laugh. "Wait a minute!" He pulled out his machete and vigorously cleared a s.p.a.ce around a dead tree, then cut down some huge leaves from a wild banana tree and carefully spread them on the ground.

"Have a seat, Doctora Doctora!" he said mockingly.

We were made to wait all day long, by an old tree trunk on the riverbank. Through the thick foliage, the sky was turning a darker shade of blue by the minute, and it filled my soul with regret. Lord, why? Why me? Lord, why? Why me?

The sound of an engine roused us from our drowsiness. We all got to our feet. In addition to the captain, who turned out to be Lorenzo, Andres and Jessica were already on the boat. I relaxed when I saw we were headed upstream. We came out on a river that was twice as wide as the previous one. In the pale gloom of twilight, I could see more and more little lights s.h.i.+ning here and there, the lights of houses. I tried my best not to yield to the hypnotic effect of the engine's vibrations. The others were snoring around me, curled in twisted, uncomfortable positions to avoid the wind that blew straight into our faces.

We disembarked two days later by a small house. There were horses waiting for us, and we were led by the bridle across an immense farm with enclosures filled with well-fed cattle. Once again I prayed, My G.o.d, please make this be the path to freedom! My G.o.d, please make this be the path to freedom! But we left the farm behind and followed a little dirt road that was very well maintained, with freshly painted fences scattered here and there. We were back in civilization. A feeling of lightness came over me. This had to be a good omen. We came to a crossroads and were told to dismount; the guerrillas gave us back our belongings to carry, and we were ordered to start walking. I looked up and saw a column of guerrillas ahead of us, marching into the forest again, making their way up a very steep slope. I didn't know how I would manage to do the same. But with a rifle in my back, I succeeded, one foot in front of the other, like a mule. Andres had decided to set up his new camp at the top. But we left the farm behind and followed a little dirt road that was very well maintained, with freshly painted fences scattered here and there. We were back in civilization. A feeling of lightness came over me. This had to be a good omen. We came to a crossroads and were told to dismount; the guerrillas gave us back our belongings to carry, and we were ordered to start walking. I looked up and saw a column of guerrillas ahead of us, marching into the forest again, making their way up a very steep slope. I didn't know how I would manage to do the same. But with a rifle in my back, I succeeded, one foot in front of the other, like a mule. Andres had decided to set up his new camp at the top.

It seemed to be easier to get supplies at this new camp. There was a delivery of the shampoo and care products that I had been requesting for months. Yet when I saw the box full of supermarket bottles, I grew weary knowing that my release was not on the agenda. They expected me still to be there at Christmas. We also received a delivery of underwear. There must be a store not too far away. The road we'd taken had to lead somewhere. And what if there was a police station nearby, or perhaps even a military detachment?

I decided to start up a daily routine that would allay their suspicions, and I made it a regular habit to keep an eye on all their movements. Clara and I were living in a caleta caleta they had put together for us beneath a huge black plastic sheet. We were also ent.i.tled to a little table with two facing chairs and a bed just big enough for our one mattress and our mosquito net. I had asked Andres for permission to have a they had put together for us beneath a huge black plastic sheet. We were also ent.i.tled to a little table with two facing chairs and a bed just big enough for our one mattress and our mosquito net. I had asked Andres for permission to have a pasera pasera23 built so that we would have somewhere to put our things. Jessica was just behind him, and she scoffed wryly, "They're set up like queens, and still they complain!" Her resentment surprised me. built so that we would have somewhere to put our things. Jessica was just behind him, and she scoffed wryly, "They're set up like queens, and still they complain!" Her resentment surprised me.

A slope that turned muddy overnight led to a dreamy brook that wound its way along the bottom of our hill. The water was absolutely transparent, flowing over a bed of aquarium pebbles that reflected the light in a mult.i.tude of colored beams.Going there was the best moment of the day. We would descend to the brook at the beginning of the afternoon in order not to disturb the cooks in their work; this was where they came to fetch water and wash the pots in the morning.

Two girls were our escorts for the time it took to wash our laundry and bathe. I had the unfortunate idea of mentioning how extraordinary the spot was and how much I liked diving into the crystal water. Worse than that, I had lounged in the water for just an instant too long when my eyes met the spiteful gaze of one of the guards. From that moment on, the girls who guarded us stared at their watches and made us hurry from the second we got there.

But I was determined not to let them spoil my pleasure. I spent the shortest time possible on my laundry in order to enjoy my bath. On one particular day, it was Jessica's turn to escort us, along with Yiseth. As soon as we arrived, she went away annoyed, because I had jumped into the water playfully. I guessed she would go and complain, irritated, arguing that I took too long to bathe. But we had pa.s.sed Ferney on the way down, and I was counting on him to clear things up. I was not at all prepared for what happened.

We were naked, rinsing out our hair, our eyes full of soap, when we heard male voices shouting insults as they came down the path to the river. I didn't have time to cover myself before two guards ordered us to get out of the water, their rifles pointed at us. I wrapped myself up in my towel, protesting, demanding that they go so we could get dressed. One of the guards was Ferney, and he looked at me viciously as he ordered me to leave the place immediately. "You're not on vacation here. You'll get dressed back in your caleta caleta!"

OCTOBER 2002.

I s.h.i.+elded myself behind the Bible, turning to what was easiest, the Gospels. These texts, written as if there were a hidden camera following Jesus everywhere, stimulated my imagination. And thus a character came to life before my eyes, a man who had relations with people around him and whose behavior intrigued me all the more in that I felt I would never have reacted like him.

Yet my reading triggered something in my mind. For instance, the story about the wedding at Cana. There was a dialogue between Jesus and his mother that struck me, because I could have experienced something similar with my own son. Mary, realizing that there is no more wine for the feast, says, "They have no wine." And Jesus, who understands perfectly that behind her simple remark there is a request for him to act, replies in a bad mood, almost annoyed at feeling manipulated. Mary, like all mothers, knows that despite his initial refusal her son will end up doing what she suggested. This is why she goes to speak to those who are serving, asking them to follow Jesus's instructions. Just as Mary suggested, Jesus transforms water into wine, beginning his public life with this first miracle. There was something undeniably pleasing and almost pagan about his first miracle-to make sure the feast could continue. The scene stayed with me for days. Why had Jesus refused at first? Was he afraid? Intimidated? How could he be mistaken about the fittingness of the moment, when he was supposed to know everything? The story fascinated me. Thoughts spun around in my brain. I searched, I reflected. And then suddenly it dawned on me: He had the choice!

How silly-it was obvious. But this changed everything. This man was not some robot programmed to do good and suffer punishment in the name of humankind. Of course he had a destiny, but he'd made choices, he'd always had the choice! . . . As for me, what was my fate? In this state of total absence of freedom, did I have the possibility to make a choice? And if so, which one?

The book I held in my hands became my trusted companion. What was written there had so much power that it forced me to stop avoiding myself, to make my own choices as well. And through some sort of vital intuition, I understood that I had a long way to go, that it would bring about a profound transformation within me, even though I could not determine its essence, or its scope. In that book there was a voice, and behind that voice there was an intelligence that sought to establish contact with me. It was not merely the company of written words that distilled my boredom. It was a living voice, speaking. To me.

Aware of my ignorance, I read the Bible from the first line to the last, like a child, asking all the questions that might come to mind. For I noticed that often, when some detail in the narrative seemed incongruous to me, I would put it to one side in a mental basket that I had created to store things I did not understand, stamping it consciously with the word "errors"-and this led me to go on reading without asking any questions and to be receptive to the voice as the words progressed.

My initial interest lay in the Virgin Mary, quite simply because the woman I had discovered at the wedding at Cana was very different from the ingenuous and somewhat simple-minded adolescent I thought I'd known up to now. I went over the New Testament painstakingly, but there was very little about her. She never spoke, except in the Magnificat, which took on a new dimension, and I decided to learn it by heart.

I had found something to do with my days, and my anxiety receded. I opened my eyes in the morning impatient to start my reading and my weaving. Lorenzo's birthday was coming soon, too, and I intended to make it as joyful as Melanie's. I had made it a life precept. It was also a spiritual exercise, that of forcing oneself to find happiness in the midst of the greatest distress.

I had set about making Lorenzo a special belt, weaving little boats that stood out on either side of his name. Because I was getting rather skilled at it, I managed to finish it well before the date. My innovative design had promoted me to the rank of a "pro." I exchanged technical conversations with the top weavers in the camp. Having a creative outlet made me feel I was capable of something new in a world that had rejected me, and it freed me from the burden of failure that my life had become.

I also continued to exercise. Or at least that's how I thought about it, because what I really needed was a pretext to do the physical exercise that would enable me, in the future, to escape.

The Bible reading had helped to smooth my relations.h.i.+p with Clara. One afternoon, during a torrential storm, when we were confined together under our mosquito net, I ventured to share with her the results of my nocturnal ruminations. I explained to her in detail how to get out of the caleta, caleta, how to avoid the guard, how to erase our tracks, how to find the road that would lead us to freedom. The rain made such a din on the plastic roof that we had trouble hearing each other. She asked me to speak more loudly, so I raised my voice to go on with my explanation. It was only when I'd finished outlining my detailed plan to her that I noticed a movement behind our how to avoid the guard, how to erase our tracks, how to find the road that would lead us to freedom. The rain made such a din on the plastic roof that we had trouble hearing each other. She asked me to speak more loudly, so I raised my voice to go on with my explanation. It was only when I'd finished outlining my detailed plan to her that I noticed a movement behind our caleta. caleta. Ferney was hidden inside, behind the shelf that Andres had finally agreed to build for us. He'd heard everything. Ferney was hidden inside, behind the shelf that Andres had finally agreed to build for us. He'd heard everything.

I collapsed. What would they do? Would they chain us up again? Would they search us again? I could have killed myself for being so careless. Why had I not taken all the necessary precautions before speaking?

I kept a close watch on the guards' att.i.tude in order to try to detect any change. I fully expected to see Andres arrive with the chains in his hand. Then it was Lorenzo's birthday. I asked for permission to bake a cake, sure that they would refuse to let me anywhere near the rancha. rancha. However, they did grant me permission, and this time Andres asked us to make enough cake for everybody. However, they did grant me permission, and this time Andres asked us to make enough cake for everybody.

As I had sworn it would be, it was a day of remission. I was able to let go of all my thoughts of sadness, regret, and uncertainty, and I immersed myself in a task that would bring pleasure to everyone, as a way of giving back, in return for having received so much with the birth of my child.

That evening for the first time in months, sleep overcame me. Dreams of happiness, where I was holding three-year-old Lorenzo in my arms and running through a field scattered with yellow flowers, invaded these few hours of respite.

SIXTEEN.

THE RAID.

At two o'clock in the morning, I was violently awoken by one of the guards shaking me and shouting, the beam of his flashlight s.h.i.+ning in my face. "Get up, b.i.t.c.h! Do you want to get killed?"

I opened my eyes, not understanding, panicking at the fear I could hear in his voice.

Military planes were flying very low over the camp. The guerrillas were grabbing their backpacks and running away, leaving everything behind them. The night was pitch black, you couldn't see a thing except the silhouettes of the airplanes you could sense above the trees. Instinctively I grabbed everything within reach: my handbag, a bath towel, the mosquito net.

This only made the guard bleat all the louder. "Leave everything! They're going to bomb us, don't you get it?"

He was trying to wrench my things out of my hands, and I was clutching onto them and grabbing more things on the way. Clara had already fled. I rolled everything into a ball and began to run in the same direction as the others, pursued by the guard's cries of rage.

I had managed to save my children's belts, my jacket, and some clothes. But I'd forgotten my Bible.

We crossed the entire camp and took a footpath I did not know existed until then. I stumbled every other step, grabbing onto whatever was within reach, and my skin was lacerated by the vegetation. The guard was annoyed, insulting me, all the more spiteful because he had no witnesses. We were the last, and we had to catch up with the rest of the group. The engines of the military planes droned above us, flying off, then coming back, with the result that we were often plunged into terrible darkness, because the guard would not switch on his flashlight until the planes were well away. I managed as I ran to put the few belongings I'd rescued into a satchel, but I was out of breath and my burden slowed me down.

The guard poked the end of his rifle into my ribs, trotting behind me all the while, but the more he mistreated me, the more I lost my balance, and I often found myself on my knees in fear of an immediate bombardment. He was beside himself with rage, accusing me of doing it deliberately, dragging me by the hair or my jacket to pull me to my feet. During the twenty-plus minutes that we ran over flat terrain, I more or less managed to make headway, like a hounded beast, not really knowing how. But then the terrain changed, with steep downward slopes and difficult climbs. I couldn't stand it anymore. The guard tried to take my bag, but I was afraid his aim was not to help me but rather to get rid of it along the way, as he had threatened to do. I clung to my little bag of belongings as if it were my life. Then suddenly, without any transition, I began to walk slowly, indifferent to his shouts and threats. Run? Why? Flee? Why? No, I wasn't going to run anymore. Never mind about the bombs, never mind about the planes, never mind about me, I was not going to obey, nor was I going to submit to the whims of an overexcited, panicky young man.

"Stupid b.i.t.c.h, I'm going to stick a bullet in your head to teach you how to walk!"

I turned around like a wild animal to face him. "If you say one more word, I won't take another step."

He was surprised, and regretted having lost face. He went to shove me with the b.u.t.t of his rifle, but I reacted more quickly than he did. "I forbid you to touch me."

He restrained himself, suddenly made of stone. I then realized that it was not I who had intimidated him in this way. Andres was taking great strides toward us along the footpath.

"Quickly, quickly, hide in the manigua. manigua. Total silence, no lights, no movement." Total silence, no lights, no movement."

I found myself sprawled in a ditch, crouched over my bag, certain I would see soldiers at any moment. My mouth was painfully dry, prey to a mortal thirst, and I wondered where Clara was. Andres had stayed there for a while, crouched next to me, and then he went away again. But before he left, he said to me, "If you don't strictly obey orders, the guards have very precise instructions, and you run the risk of not being here tomorrow."

We stayed there until dawn, when Andres ordered us to walk toward the valley, cutting through the forest.

"Those chulos chulos are so stupid that they flew over our heads all night long and didn't even locate the camp! They're not going to bomb. I'll send a team to pick up everything that stayed behind." are so stupid that they flew over our heads all night long and didn't even locate the camp! They're not going to bomb. I'll send a team to pick up everything that stayed behind."

We did as he said. We were on a hill. Through the thick foliage, I could see spread below us an immense wooded savanna, crisscrossed with emerald green pastures, as if the English countryside had appeared by magic in the middle of the Colombian jungle. It must be wonderful to live down there! Such a world existed outside, and it was forbidden to me-it seemed unreal. And yet it was just beyond the trees, beyond their rifles.

Right then we were shaken by an enormous explosion. We were already quite far away, but it must have come from our camp.

As soon as we ran into other guerrilla troops, they talked of nothing else.

"Did you hear?"

"Yes, they bombed the camp."

"Are you sure?"

"I've no idea. But Andres sent a team back to reconnoiter. It's almost sure."

"They only bombed once."

"What do you mean? We heard several explosions. There was a series of attacks."

"At least all the planes are gone now. That's something."

"We have to watch it. They made a landing. They've got troops on the ground. We'll have helicopters over us all day long."

"Those sons of b.i.t.c.hes, I can't wait to see them face-to-face. They're chickens, every one of them."

I watched in silence. The most cowardly ones were the most aggressive.

We stopped in a tiny clearing where a small stream ran alongside. Clara was already there, sitting against a tree with dense foliage and generous shade. I needed no coaxing-I was exhausted. From where I sat, I could see the roof of the little house and a column of blue-gray smoke rising from the chimney. In the distance I could hear the voices of children playing, like an echo of happy days lost in my past. Who were those people? Could they know that just behind their garden there were guerrillas, hiding captive women?

One of the girls, in her camouflage uniform, her boots s.h.i.+ning as if for an important military parade, her hair perfectly styled in a large braid rolled into a chignon, came over to us, smiling from ear to ear, with two enormous plates in her hands. How did she manage to look so impeccable after running the whole night?