Even Silence Has an End Part 29

I turned around: walking toward us was a tall young guy with copper skin, a neatly trimmed mustache, and an impeccable uniform.

Before he reached us, Gloria went up to him and bombarded him with questions. The man smiled, delighted by the importance we were according him.

"Come here, all of you!" he shouted, friendly and authoritarian at the same time.

Lucho went up warily, and I stood behind him.

"Are you Betancourt? You look terrible. You've been very sick, or so I've been told."

I hesitated to answer, not really knowing what to say.

Gloria broke in, "This is our new commander. He's going to give new radios to everybody!"

The group gathered more closely around him, everybody wanting to know more, and above all trying to make a good impression.

The man began to speak again, knowing how important it was to weigh his words. "I won't be everyone's commander, just a part of this group. The doctora doctora Ingrid and Ingrid and doctor doctor Perez are going elsewhere." Perez are going elsewhere."

I felt a spasm somewhere in the region of my liver. Out of pride I refused to allow myself to ask the hundreds of questions going through my mind. Fortunately, Gloria asked all of them for me in the s.p.a.ce of thirty seconds. That much was clear: Lucho and I were going to be separated from the rest. Who knew-perhaps forever.

Jorge came over to take me in his arms. He squeezed me so tightly I could hardly breathe. His eyes were filled with tears, and in a broken voice, trying to hide his face on my shoulder, he said, "Madame cherie, take good care of yourself. We're going to miss you." take good care of yourself. We're going to miss you."

Gloria came up behind him and scolded him. "Not here, in front of them!"

Jorge got hold of himself and went to embrace Lucho. I was doing my best to restrain my tears too. Gloria took my face between her hands and looked me right in the eyes. "Everything will be fine. I will pray for you, all the time. Don't worry."

Clara came up. "I wanted to stay with you," she said.

As if to downplay what she'd said, she began to laugh, then concluded, "They're bound to put us back together again in a month or two!"

Guillermo came back to get us.

We went through our section, then through part of the guerrillas' camp, and finally along the stream for a few minutes before coming to a place covered in sawdust, where they obviously had set up a temporary sawmill. I sat down on a tree trunk the moment Guillermo ordered us to wait. There was already a guerrilla in place to guard us.

I began thinking. What could it all mean?

I didn't have time to answer. Coming toward us was a group of eight soldiers chained together in pairs. They were ordered to wait. I got up to welcome them and hugged them one by one. They were smiling and kind, and they looked at us with curiosity.

"I suppose we're all going to be in the same group now!" said Lucho by way of introduction.

We started talking right away. They all had their own ideas, opinions, ways of seeing things. They listened carefully to one another, courteously, weighing their words, so as not to give the impression that they were contradicting one another.

"How long have you been prisoners?" I asked.

"I've been with FARC longer than most of these kids," replied a pleasant young man. Then, turning to the guard, he said, "Hey, friend, how long ago did you enlist?"

"Three and a half years ago," answered the adolescent guard proudly.

"You see? Just as I said! I've been rotting here for nearly five years." His eyes became red and s.h.i.+ning. He swallowed his tears, gave a laugh, and began to sing, "La vida es una tombola, tombola, tombola!" "La vida es una tombola, tombola, tombola!"51 It was a song they played constantly on the radio. Then he became serious again and added, "My name is Armando Castellanos, at your service, subintendent of the National Police." It was a song they played constantly on the radio. Then he became serious again and added, "My name is Armando Castellanos, at your service, subintendent of the National Police."

Our new group was made up of eight other men. Jhon Pinchao, also from the police, was chained to an army officer, Lieutenant Bermeo, the same one who had asked for me to be carried in a hammock. Castellanos was chained to Sub-lieutenant Malagon, Corporal Arteaga with Florez, who was also an army corporal. Finally there was Corporal William Perez, the army nurse, chained to Sergeant Jose Ricardo Marulanda, who was visibly the oldest of all these prisoners.

Their presence immediately made me feel at ease. My separation from my companions suddenly seemed like a relief; I was determined to take the time to create direct relations with all of them and to avoid any situations that might create tension between us. They were open and interested in getting to know us. They had also been through difficult times and had learned from them. Their att.i.tude toward Lucho and me was radically different from that of my former companions.

Lucho remained wary. "We don't know them. We have to wait."

"I would feel better if we could also change commander," I whispered to Lucho.

It was Sombra who came to get us. He stood before us, legs spread, his hands on his hips. I had not noticed the guard who must have overheard my comment, because he said, as if it were a secret, "You're out of luck. You're going to have Sombra for a long time still!" And he laughed.

The next morning we woke up to a torrential downpour. We had to wrap up all our things in the storm and begin the march soaking wet. We had to begin by climbing an incredibly steep slope. I was too slow and above all too weak.

After the first half hour, my guards decided that they would rather carry me than wait for me. So there I was once again, hanging for hours in a hammock that was soaked and filled with rainwater, which the guerrillas would drain by shaking me on the ground whenever the terrain allowed it. Most of the time, they would hoist me up, then drag me, one man tugging in front, the other pus.h.i.+ng from behind. Several times they let go of the pole and I slid perilously, picking up speed, to crash against a tree that stopped my downward slide. I pulled the hammock over my eyes so I wouldn't see. I was beaten black and blue. I prayed, repeating prayers whose meaning I'd forgotten but which kept my mind full of words and stopped me from thinking and yielding to panic. He who could hear my heart knew that I was crying out for help.

Going down the other side, they would leap like mountain goats and land on tree roots that restored their balance, with my weight on their shoulders, my hammock swinging violently, banging against the trees. They didn't even try to avoid them anymore.

The next day my companions left the camp before dawn. I stayed where I was, alone, waiting for instructions. The bearers had gone ahead to drop off their equipos, equipos, and they would come back to get me during the morning. Sombra had left a girl named Rosita to guard me. I had noticed her during the march. She was tall, with an elegant way of walking and a face of refined beauty. She had radiant black eyes, copper skin, and a perfect smile. and they would come back to get me during the morning. Sombra had left a girl named Rosita to guard me. I had noticed her during the march. She was tall, with an elegant way of walking and a face of refined beauty. She had radiant black eyes, copper skin, and a perfect smile.

While we were waiting, under a fine, irritating drizzle, I set about rearranging the few things I had left. Rosita watched me in silence. I didn't feel like talking. She came up to me, crouched down, and began to help me.

"Ingrid, are you all right?"

"No, I'm not all right."

"Me neither."

I looked up. She seemed to be terribly upset about something.

She wanted me to ask her why. I wasn't sure I wanted to. I maintained the silence as I finished packing my equipo equipo. She stood up and made a shelter on a tree trunk that was rotting on the ground. She put the backpacks under it and invited me to come sit with her beneath the shelter.

"Do you want to tell me what's wrong?" I asked her, resigned.

She looked at me, her eyes full of tears, smiled, and said, "Yes, I think if I don't speak to you, I'll die."

I took her hand and whispered, "Go ahead, I'm listening."

She spoke slowly, avoiding my gaze, lost in her memories. Her mother was a paisa, paisa, the term used to describe inhabitants, of Spanish descent, of the Antioquia region, and her father was from the Llanos, the Colombian gra.s.s plains. Her parents were hardworking but didn't manage to feed all their children. Like her elder siblings, Rosita had left the family home as soon as she was old enough to work. She had enlisted in the FARC so she wouldn't end up in a brothel. the term used to describe inhabitants, of Spanish descent, of the Antioquia region, and her father was from the Llanos, the Colombian gra.s.s plains. Her parents were hardworking but didn't manage to feed all their children. Like her elder siblings, Rosita had left the family home as soon as she was old enough to work. She had enlisted in the FARC so she wouldn't end up in a brothel.

As soon as she'd joined, a minor leader, Obdulio, wanted to make her his girlfriend. She resisted, because she wasn't in love with him. I knew Obdulio. He was a man in his thirties, with silver chains dangling from his neck and wrists, already bald, half his teeth missing. I had seen him only once, but I remembered him because I thought he must be a cruel man.

Obdulio had been sent to provide backup to Sombra's units. He belonged to another front and took his orders from another commander. In the group he'd put together to join forces with Sombra, he had included Rosita, in the hope of overcoming her resistance.

She eventually had to agree to sleep with him. In the FARC it was frowned upon to turn down a leader's advances. A girl had to show proof of camaraderie and of revolutionary spirit. Women in uniform were expected to a.s.suage the s.e.xual desires of their brothers in arms. In practice, there were two days a week when the guerrillas could request to share a caleta caleta with someone else: Wednesdays and Sundays the young men handed the commander their requests to sleep with a with someone else: Wednesdays and Sundays the young men handed the commander their requests to sleep with a guerrillera. guerrillera. A girl could refuse once, twice, but not three times, or she would be called to order for a lack of revolutionary solidarity. The only way to avoid censure was to declare, officially, that you were part of a couple and to obtain permission to live together under the same roof. But if a leader had his eye on one of the girls, it was unlikely that another guerrilla would try to intervene. A girl could refuse once, twice, but not three times, or she would be called to order for a lack of revolutionary solidarity. The only way to avoid censure was to declare, officially, that you were part of a couple and to obtain permission to live together under the same roof. But if a leader had his eye on one of the girls, it was unlikely that another guerrilla would try to intervene.

So Rosita had capitulated. She had become a ranguera, ranguera, a girl who "a.s.sociated" with a high-ranking officer, someone who had "rank" and access to certain luxuries, FARC style-better food, perfume, little pieces of jewelry, small electronic devices, and nicer clothes. Rosita didn't care about any of that. She was unhappy with Obdulio. He was violent, jealous, and petty. a girl who "a.s.sociated" with a high-ranking officer, someone who had "rank" and access to certain luxuries, FARC style-better food, perfume, little pieces of jewelry, small electronic devices, and nicer clothes. Rosita didn't care about any of that. She was unhappy with Obdulio. He was violent, jealous, and petty.

When she arrived in Sombra's unit, Rosita met a young man called Javier. He was good-looking and brave. They fell madly in love. Javier asked to share his caleta caleta with Rosita. Sombra agreed to the young couple's request, and this only served to infuriate Obdulio. He was not Javier's leader, so he could only take it out on Rosita. He inundated her with ch.o.r.es. Jobs that were increasingly exhausting-the hardest and most disgusting ones-were systematically reserved for her. This just made Rosita fall all the more deeply in love with Javier. And when the young man finished his work, he would run to help her with her ch.o.r.es. with Rosita. Sombra agreed to the young couple's request, and this only served to infuriate Obdulio. He was not Javier's leader, so he could only take it out on Rosita. He inundated her with ch.o.r.es. Jobs that were increasingly exhausting-the hardest and most disgusting ones-were systematically reserved for her. This just made Rosita fall all the more deeply in love with Javier. And when the young man finished his work, he would run to help her with her ch.o.r.es.

During the march I had seen Javier rus.h.i.+ng past like a crazy man to be the first to arrive at the camp. He'd thrown down his equipo equipo and gone straight back to get Rosita's. He put it on his back, took Rosita by the hand, and they ran off laughing toward camp. and gone straight back to get Rosita's. He put it on his back, took Rosita by the hand, and they ran off laughing toward camp.

The following morning they had divided the groups of prisoners. Javier went off with his unit in one direction, and Obdulio got Rosita back. He wanted to force her to return to him.

"That's the way it is in the FARC! I belong to a different front. I'll never see Javier again," said Rosita in tears.

"Run away with him. Leave the FARC, both of you."

"We don't have the right to leave the FARC. If we do, they'll go and kill our families."

The bearers had come up, and we hadn't noticed. They were standing in front of us, scowling.

"Get out of there," one of them barked at Rosita.

"Come on, get in the hammock. We don't have all day!" said the other one to me, with venom in his voice.

I looked at Rosita. She was already on her feet, her Galil rifle on her shoulder.

"Get the h.e.l.l over to the camp. And don't drag your feet if you don't want to end up with a bullet in your head." Then, turning to me, "And you, too, just watch it. I'm in a foul mood, and I would love to put a bullet between your eyes."

I cried throughout the rest of the day. Because of Rosita. She was my daughter's age. I wanted to comfort her, to give her tenderness and hope. Instead I'd left her in fear of reprisal.

I often think about her. One thing she said stayed with me, a dagger in my heart: "You know, for me the most horrible thing of all is knowing that he will forget me."

I lacked the presence of mind to tell her that it was impossible; she was simply unforgettable.

FIFTY-FOUR.

THE ENDLESS MARCH.

On October 28, 2004, we were the last to leave and the first to arrive at the campsite, ahead of Lucho and the rest of my new companions. I was told they had gotten lost, but as I listened to conversations, or at least what I could gather from their whispering, I learned that my companions had narrowly avoided disaster. They'd been a few hundred yards from an army squadron.

It was still raining, a stubborn little rain that never let up. It was cold. Just enough to chasten me but not enough to make me get up and walk around. Here time stretched to infinity; ahead of me there was nothing.

I heard a commotion above my head. A group of fifty or more monkeys were making their way through the foliage. It was a well-populated colony, with the big males leading and the mothers with their babies clinging to them bringing up the rear. They had seen me from above and were looking down at me with curiosity. Some of the males became aggressive, shouting and dropping down just above me, hanging from their tails, making faces at me. I smiled. These rare moments when I came into contact with animals restored my desire to live. I knew it was a privilege to be there among them, to be able to look at them as equals, their behavior unaffected by the barbarity of men. The moment the guerrillas got out their guns, the enchantment would vanish. It would be the story of little Cristina all over again. The monkeys p.i.s.sed on me, bombarded me with broken branches, in the innocence of their ignorance.

The guards had seen them, too. Through the bushes I watched as they grew excited and gave the order to load their guns. I couldn't see anything anymore, I could only hear their voices and the monkeys' cries. And then a first detonation, and a second, and yet another, the sharp sound of branches cracking and the thuds on the carpet of leaves. I counted three. Had they killed the mothers to capture the babies? Their perverse satisfaction in killing disgusted me. They always had good excuses to give themselves a clean conscience. We were hungry, we hadn't eaten a real meal for weeks. All that was true, but it wasn't a good enough reason. I found hunting difficult to tolerate. Had I always felt like this? I was no longer sure. I'd been profoundly upset by the business with the guacamaya that Andres had killed for pleasure, and by the death of Cristina's mother. She had fallen from her tree, and the bullet had gone through her stomach. She'd put her finger in her wound and looked at the blood coming out. "She was crying, I'm sure she was crying," William had said to me with a laugh. "She showed me the blood on her finger, as if she wanted me to do something about it, and then she put her fingers back in the wound and showed me again. She did that a few times, and then she died. Those animals are just like humans," he concluded. How could you kill a creature that has looked you in the eye, with whom you've established contact, for whom you exist, who has identified you? Of course, none of that mattered anymore when you had already killed a human being. Could I kill? Oh, yes, I could! I had every reason to think I had the right. I was filled with hatred for those who humiliated me and took so much pleasure in my pain. With every word, every order, every affront, I stabbed them with my silence. Oh, yes-I, too, could kill! And I would feel pleasure in seeing them put their fingers in their wounds and look at their blood as they became aware of their imminent death, waiting for me to do something. And I wouldn't move. I would watch them die.

That afternoon, under that wretched rain, curled around my unhappiness, I understood that I could be like them.

My companions arrived, exhausted. They'd made a long detour that had obliged them to go through a mosquito-infested swamp, and they'd had to cross over a steep pa.s.s in order to reach us. They could hear crossfire not far away. There had been fire contact with the army. The guerrillas had managed to "save" them.

We began to look for a place to set up our tents.

"Don't trouble yourself with that, Doctora, Doctora," said one of the soldiers. "Between Florez and me, we'll have those tents up for you in no time."

This was Miguel Arteaga, a young corporal with a pleasing smile. "We've perfected our own technique. Florez cuts the stakes, and I drive them in," he explained.

And they were indeed very nimble at the job and made it look very easy. I couldn't help admiring them, both for their skills and for their heart. They always offered to help me set up my tent during the following four years we were together.

The trees opened in circles above our heads, revealing a heavenly vault full of constellations I was by now familiar with. We all sat on the ground on our plastic sheets to wait for them to bring us some food. Our conversation quickly focused on our shared anxiety. Some were whispering, not to be overheard by the guards-one of us had received information alleging that we would be handed over to another front.

The guard arrived, lugging two huge stewpots.

"Bring your bowls!" he shouted. "Today you're spoiled-you've got mico mico and rice!" and rice!"

"Stop lying," said Arteaga. "You'll have to come up with something better. You really expect us to believe your story about monkey meat?"

I leaned over the stewpot. It was indeed monkey meat. They might have skinned it and cut it into pieces, but you could identify it-the arms, forearms, thighs. The meat had been cooked so thoroughly, probably on charcoal, that the muscles were charred.

I could not eat a bite. It felt like partaking in some sort of experiment in cannibalism.

I said I wouldn't eat any, and this gave rise to a general outcry.

"You're p.i.s.sing us off with your Greenpeace behavior!" said Lucho, mocking me. "Before you start showing so much concern about endangered species, you'd do better to show some concern about us. us. We're the ones on the verge of extinction." We're the ones on the verge of extinction."

"I don't think it's monkey meat," said someone else. "It's too scrawny. I think it must be one of us." And he began counting heads.

Meat was one of those rare things we dreamed about the most. n.o.body wanted to know where it came from, still less to ask existential questions about whether it was appropriate to eat it or not.

For me the situation was different. I'd been shaken by my own murderous impulses. If I was capable of acting like them, then I was in danger of becoming like them. The worst would not be to die; the worst would be to become something I abhorred. I wanted my freedom, I clung to my life, but I was determined not to become a murderer. I would not kill, even to escape. Nor would I eat monkey meat. I don't know why the two seemed to go together in my mind, but it made sense.

It was our first day of rest since we'd left Sombra's prison on October 1, and the men spent the day sewing and repairing their equipos. equipos. I spent mine sleeping. Guillermo came. I was not glad to see him, although he brought me some more boxes of medicine. I'd made the inventory of my possessions. He had taken everything for himself. All he left me was my Bible. I spent mine sleeping. Guillermo came. I was not glad to see him, although he brought me some more boxes of medicine. I'd made the inventory of my possessions. He had taken everything for himself. All he left me was my Bible.

I found it easier to let go of the objects that were precious to me than of my grudge against him. I had hoped that he would be staying with the other group and that I'd never have to see him again. He could sense the unpleasant effect his presence had on me, and his pride was wounded. Oddly enough, he did not react with his usual scorn and insolence. On the contrary, he suddenly became friendly and charming, and he sat at the foot of my hammock to tell me his life story. For many years he had worked for the mafia, in charge of finances for a drug trafficker operating somewhere in the Colombian Llanos region. He described the luxury he'd lived in, the women and money he once had at his disposal.

I listened, in silence. He went on to explain that he had lost an important sum of money and his boss had put a price on his head. He had joined the FARC to escape from that, becoming a nurse out of necessity, to meet the FARC's requirements for study. He had taken some training courses and the rest he'd learned on his own, reading and doing research on the Internet.

Nothing he told me made me feel sorry for him. For me he was a barbarian. I knew he was capable of putting a gun to my head and pulling the trigger without hesitating. What irrepressible pleasure I took in bombarding him with a detailed list of all the things he'd pocketed! I saw him shrinking by the second, surprised that I was able to account for everything so quickly.

"Keep it all," I said, "because clearly you don't know how to make people obey you."

He was irritated when he left, and for the first time in many months I didn't care. In Sombra's prison the group pressure had been so strong that I'd slipped into a cautiousness that sometimes turned into obsequiousness. I didn't like to see it in other people, even less in myself. I had often been afraid of Guillermo, of his ability to detect my needs, my desires, and my weaknesses and to use his power to hurt me. When I had to confront him, my voice trembled, and I was angry with myself for my lack of self-control. Sometimes I would spend an entire day preparing how to ask him for a certain medication or for some absorbent cotton. My att.i.tude would trigger in Guillermo reactions of impatience, abuse, and domination.

The wheel of life had turned: I was reminded of Maria, a secretary who had worked with me for years. She was greatly intimidated by me, and her voice broke when she wanted to speak to me. I felt myself becoming like Maria, disturbed by power, paralyzed by the awareness I had of the need to please the other in order to obtain whatever, at a given moment, might seem vital. How many times had I been Guillermo? Had I also answered impatiently, annoyed by the other person's fear? Had I believed I was truly superior because someone else needed me?

I hardened my heart while listening to Guillermo, because I was condemning everything in him that I did not like in myself. I was beginning to understand that humility, wherever one might be on the wheel of fortune, was the key. I'd had to go to the bottom of that wheel to understand.

The next day, Sombra came over. He seemed to want to talk, and he had time. He sat down on a tree trunk and signaled me to sit next to him.