Even Silence Has an End Part 44

Willie's voice roused me from my torpor; he was already holding my arm, looking for a vein.

"Did you hear the message from your mother and daughter this morning?"

"Yes, I think I heard them."

"What did they say?" he asked, as if asking me to recite my lesson.

"I think they were talking about a trip?"

"Not at all. They were telling you that your dog Pom died. Melanie was very sad."

Now it came back to me. La Carrillera had started with a beautiful song from Yuri Buenaventura composed for the hostages. I had the impression he was singing my story, and I was deeply shaken. I heard Mom next. She told me that Pom had been sniffing everywhere, trying to find my smell. She nuzzled my clothes and went from room to room inspecting every little corner. My little Pom, she's gone ahead to prepare my arrival. My little Pom, she's gone ahead to prepare my arrival.

I thought I was ready to go, too. There was a certain order to it all, and I liked that. Then I disconnected myself from the world, the needle in my arm filling my vein with a deadly chill.

I came back suffering terrible convulsions. I wanted to disconnect the drip; I felt instinctively that it was killing me. The panicked guard forbade me and began shouting for help. Monster came running. He tried to make me stay down flat in my hammock, and when he felt that my body was rus.h.i.+ng away at a gallop, he ran, disappearing in a panic the way he had come.

William arrived and immediately disconnected the drip. The convulsions stopped. He wrapped me in a blanket, and I fell asleep again, dreaming that I was an old glove.

The drip eventually stabilized my condition. William came to see me very often. He ma.s.saged my back and talked to me about my children. "They're waiting for you, they need you." He would feed me with fish broth, spoon by spoon: "One for your mother, one for your daughter, one for Lorenzo, one for Pom." Then he stopped there, knowing I would refuse any more, and came back later to try again. When I thanked him, he got angry. "You have nothing to thank me for. Those monsters agreed to let me come because they need a proof of life."

SEVENTY-SEVEN.

THIRD PROOF OF LIFE.

OCTOBER 2007.

This news upset me greatly. In a spiral of depression, I clung to the words I had loved, to keep from falling. I reread Marc's letters. And I recited poems I had always kept in my memory: "Je suis le tenebreux-le veuf,-l'inconsole . . ." "Je suis le tenebreux-le veuf,-l'inconsole . . ."93 I savored the words as if they were the finest nourishment. I savored the words as if they were the finest nourishment. "Porque despues de todo he comprendido / que lo que el arbol tiene de florido / vive de lo que tiene sepultado." "Porque despues de todo he comprendido / que lo que el arbol tiene de florido / vive de lo que tiene sepultado."94 I saw Papa, standing with his finger raised, aware of the mesmerizing effect he had on me; while reciting these verses, he was arming me for life. It was his words that I heard in my words. I saw Papa, standing with his finger raised, aware of the mesmerizing effect he had on me; while reciting these verses, he was arming me for life. It was his words that I heard in my words. "'There is no silence that does not end, "'There is no silence that does not end,95'" he said and I repeated after him, killing my fears with Pablo Neruda's claim over death. he said and I repeated after him, killing my fears with Pablo Neruda's claim over death.

This immersion in the past boosted my spirits. It wasn't the IV that had allowed me to recover. It was the words! Back in my secret garden, the world I could observe through the peephole of my indifference seemed less insane.

Enrique came by one morning at the end of October when I was already seated on my bench. At the sight of him, the nausea grabbed me by the throat, like a cat.

"I have some good news!" he shouted from a distance.

I played blind and deaf. He came toward me, acting mischievously, hiding behind trees playing peekaboo. Consolacion watched him, amused, giggling at her boss's clowning. Dear Lord, forgive me, but I hate him, Dear Lord, forgive me, but I hate him, I professed silently, looking at the toes of my impeccably clean boots. I professed silently, looking at the toes of my impeccably clean boots.

He went on acting the buffoon, seeming more ridiculous by the second. He must have realized that he was getting nowhere with me. Finally he planted himself before me.

"I have some good news," he said again, not backing down. "You're going to be able to send a message to your family," he continued, scrutinizing my reaction.

"I have no message to send," I replied firmly.

I'd had plenty of time to think about it. I only wanted to write a letter to my mother, a letter just for her, a sort of testament. I would not be part of the circus that the FARC wanted us to perform in.

Naturally, I had gotten wind of President Hugo Chavez's efforts to obtain our release. He was trying to sell the FARC on the idea that releasing the hostages could be a jackpot for them in political terms. He was the only one who could talk with the FARC, probably because Marulanda saw him as an ally, a fellow revolutionary. He had also won the trust of the Colombian president, Uribe.

Uribe initially gave Chavez free rein to deal with the FARC; I thought Uribe was convinced, as I was, that the FARC would never yield. They wanted to make us their window display, never selling their goods. Uribe probably thought to unveil their true intentions, show the world that the FARC had no peace plans and therefore no interest in letting us go.

But Chavez was moving fast. He had already met with the FARC delegates, received a letter from Marulanda, and even announced that the Secretariado was going to entrust him with our proofs of life. He would hand them personally to President Nicolas Sarkozy during his trip to France, scheduled for the end of November. I couldn't believe there would be a positive outcome for us; it was just a game to show the FARC off.

I would have no part of their manipulative pretense. My family was suffering enough as it was. My children had grown up in anxiety, and they had reached adulthood chained, as I was, to uncertainty. I had made my peace with G.o.d. I felt there was a sort of lull in my suffering, because I'd accepted what had happened to me. I hated Enrique. But in a way I knew that I could let go and not hate him anymore if I wanted. When he had looked at me and said, "You know I can get this proof of life no matter what," he'd already lost. I almost felt sorry for him. Of course he would get it, but it didn't interest me anymore. There lay my victory. He no longer had a hold on me. Because I had already accepted that I could die. My entire life I had believed I was eternal. My eternity had stopped here, in this rotten hole, and the presence of imminent death filled me with a peace of mind that I savored. I no longer needed anything; there was nothing I desired. My soul was stripped bare. I was no longer afraid of Enrique.

Having lost all my freedom and, with it, everything that mattered to me-my children, my mom, my life and my dreams-with my neck chained to a tree-not able to move around, to talk, to eat and to drink, to carry out my most basic bodily needs-subjected to constant humiliation, I still had the most important freedom of all. No one could take it away from me. That was the freedom to choose what kind of person I wanted to be.

With this realization came the understanding that I was no longer a victim. I was free to choose to hate or not to hate. I was a survivor.

When Enrique went away, he was satisfied. So was I. I would write a letter to my mother and nothing more. I had emptied the s.p.a.ce around me. I had only a day to do it. I put down the sheets of paper sweet Consolacion had hastened to bring to me, on her little table. I wanted my words to bring Mom to me, where I was. I wanted her to smell me and breathe me. I wanted to tell her that I had been listening to her, because she didn't know. And I wanted my children to speak to me. To prepare them at last, as I had prepared myself, to face death without regrets. To restore their freedom and give them wings for life.

I did not have much time to put myself back into a conversation that had been interrupted six years earlier. I had to go straight to the essential. But I knew they would find meaning in every word, in all our codes of love; they could smell my skin in the way I formed my letters and hear my voice in the rhythm of my sentences.

It was a monologue that lasted eight hours, without interruption. The guards didn't dare disturb me, and my bowl sat empty next to me the entire day. My hands carried me over thousands of words at a dazzling speed, following thoughts that had flown thousands of miles away.

When Enrique reappeared to take my letter, I hadn't finished. He left again, grumbling with irritation, but I'd obtained an extra hour to say good-bye. It was wrenching. I had just spent a day with my loved ones, and I didn't want to let them go.

Enrique came back just as I was signing, and he s.n.a.t.c.hed up the letter with a covetous impatience. I felt naked in those sheets of paper he was slipping so inelegantly into his pocket. I should have made an envelope, I should have made an envelope, I thought. I thought.

"I see you're in great shape," he said.

He was so stupid, I was no longer listening to him. I was tired. I wanted to go back under my mosquito net to my coc.o.o.n.

"Wait, we haven't finished. I have to film you."

"I don't want you to film me," I said, surprised and weary. "We agreed that I would write a letter and that was all."

"The commanders agreed to the letter, but they also want images."

He pulled out his digital camera and aimed it at me. The red b.u.t.ton lit up and went out again.

"Go on, say something. Say a little h.e.l.lo to your mom."

The red light came on for good. He had lied to me. The letter would never reach my mother. I sat stiffly on Consolacion's bench. Lord, you know that this proof of life exists against my will. May your will be done, Lord, you know that this proof of life exists against my will. May your will be done, I prayed in silence, and I swallowed my tears and my pride. I did not want my children to see me like this. I prayed in silence, and I swallowed my tears and my pride. I did not want my children to see me like this.

Before leaving, Enrique deposited my notebook on the table-the one they had taken away in the last frisk. I didn't have the strength even to rejoice.

I was surprised when, three weeks later, the radio announced that Chavez did not give the proof of life to Sarkozy. Was Mono Jojoy playing his own game, trying to abort a mediation process I now wanted to believe in, against my better judgment? Sarkozy had made the Colombian hostage situation an issue of global importance, working relentlessly since his election to advance the talks with the FARC.

If Marulanda had announced proofs of life, and if they had been collected in time, why didn't Chavez get them? Was there a latent struggle within the FARC between a militaristic wing and a more political faction?

I discussed it with Willie endlessly. I knew this was Willie's tactic to get me to take an interest in the world again. He had shown himself to be unfailingly constant, checking on my recovery hourly. He persuaded the guerrillas to provide me with some energizing supplement pills, and he sat down next to me to make sure I took them when our meals arrived.

But with Willie I spoke primarily about my children and Mom. He came every day to ask me if I had listened to their messages, and I thanked him for repeating their words to me, because it gave me the opportunity to talk about them.

"And you, why don't you receive any messages?" I asked him once.

"It's hard for my mother. She works all the time."

He closed up like a clam, avoiding any topic that concerned him. One day, however, he sat next to me with the intention of talking to me about his his lost world, too. lost world, too.

I wanted to know more about his father. But Willie refused to say anything about him. As if to excuse himself, he eventually said, "I think I still hold it against him, but it's less and less true. I would like so much to take him in my arms and tell him how much I love him."

The next morning on the radio program, his mother sent him a message. I was startled when they announced her presence, knowing how much joy it would give him to hear her, and I listened intently.

Her voice was that of a very sad woman, carrying a burden that was far too heavy on her shoulders.

"My son," she said, "your father has died. Pray for him."

Willie came as on every day. We sat side by side in silence for a long time. There was nothing to say. I didn't even dare to look at him so that he wouldn't be ashamed of his tears. Finally I uttered, very quietly, "Talk to me about him."

We left the camp. I couldn't carry my backpack, so they spread my things out among the guerrillas. Half of them I would never see again. It hardly mattered. I had my Bible and my letters on me.

Suddenly the radio announced that the army had seized some videos from young militia hiding in a neighborhood south of Bogota. They were the proofs of life that Chavez had never received. Chavez's mediation had just been suspended, as the result of a virulent confrontation with Uribe. Mom was crying on the radio. She had learned I'd sent her a letter, because excerpts had been published in the press, but the authorities refused to give it to her. The images Enrique had recorded were also seized.

Lucho and Marc had reacted just as I had, refusing to speak in front of Enrique's camera, I discovered. Marc had also written a letter to Marulanda that had been found with the proof of life. He had asked to be reunited with me. Without knowing, we had fought the same way. This gave me great peace of mind. We were connected by our gesture of protest, united against all the forces that had tried to destroy our friends.h.i.+p.

Something had happened with the discovery of these proofs of life that revealed our mental and physical conditions. For the first time in so many years, there was a change of heart. Testimonies of compa.s.sion and solidarity were being heard everywhere.

President Sarkozy sent a harsh televised message to Manuel Marulanda. "A woman in danger of dying must be saved. . . . You bear a heavy responsibility, I urge you to rise to it," he had declared. It's the end of the nightmare, It's the end of the nightmare, I thought. I fell asleep, as if lulled by an incantation. Words-the words of others-had healed me. The next morning, for the first time in six months, I wanted to eat. I thought. I fell asleep, as if lulled by an incantation. Words-the words of others-had healed me. The next morning, for the first time in six months, I wanted to eat.

It was December 8, the feast of the Virgin, and an urgent need to listen to music from the outside world grabbed me . I had a thirst for life again. By chance I heard a countdown of Led Zeppelin's best songs, and I wept in grat.i.tude. "Stairway to Heaven" was my hymn to life. Hearing it reminded me that I was born for happiness. I had collected all their records, and they were my treasure back in the days when music came only on vinyl records.

I knew that among die-hard fans it was frowned upon to like "Stairway to Heaven." It had become too popular. Connoisseurs were not supposed to share the taste of the ma.s.ses. But I never disowned my first loves. From the age of fourteen, I'd been convinced that the song was written for me." On hearing the song again in that impenetrable jungle, I wept at the promise of freedom made to me long ago, that I had never understood before: "And a new day will dawn for those who stand long, And the forests will echo with laughter."

SEVENTY-EIGHT.

LUCHO'S RELEASE El Chiqui had warned us we'd be marching at New Year's; this was only a temporary camp, despite the commotion there was that morning. It was not the signal of a new departure, since the guerrillas' tents had not been dismantled.

At around eleven o'clock, the girls showed up carrying paper plates with chicken and rice, nicely decorated with mayonnaise and tomato sauce. I had not seen anything like this in my nearly six years of captivity. Then, in the middle of the table that had been built the day before, they set down an enormous fish cooked in banana leaves. I was disconcerted.

The guerrillas were calling to me, coming up to me with bags full of wrapped presents. Behind me my companions were shouting joyfully at the sight of this unexpected Christmas. I felt a sudden rush of anxiety. Instinctively I looked all around. The girls were getting ready to hug me, and it would be anything but gratuitous. That is when I saw Enrique, hidden behind the bushes. Once again the red light betrayed him. He was filming in secret with his little digital camera. I rushed to take refuge under my mosquito net, leaving unopened the package the girls had placed in a corner of my caleta. caleta.

I switched on my radio, furious, to distract myself from the shameful charade that Enrique had cooked up. I was sure that this new footage he was making had no other aim than to improve the FARC's image, for it had been seriously tarnished by the discovery of our proofs of life. The images of the human rags and bones into which they'd transformed us had given the FARC bad press.

I was brooding over this when the radio program was interrupted by a news alert I heard: "The FARC has announced the pending liberation of three hostages." Consuelo, Clara, and her son, Emmanuel, were going to be released! I leaped from my hammock and ran over to my companions, who greeted the news with hugs and smiles. Armando came up, swaggering. "We're next!" A wave of well-being washed over me. "It's the beginning of the end," I repeated over and over, imagining Clara's and Consuelo's happiness. We prisoners shared a theory: If one of us got out, the others would follow. Pinchao had paved the way. His success had echoed within us like a signal. It must be our turn soon.

We moved to another camp the next day, down the river, our tents bunched together, which meant the real beginning of a march. Guerrillas I hadn't seen for a long time walked through our camp, carrying heavy wood on their shoulders. "Look," said William, "those are the guards from the other group. They must be right nearby."

Christmas came, and with it the hope that we would all meet again. It was a hot day. As we were making our way back from the bath session, clinging to tree roots as we climbed a very steep riverbank, a torrential storm shook the forest and drenched us before we reached our caletas. caletas. Everything was torn by the raging wind and soaked through by a las.h.i.+ng, horizontal rain. Everything was torn by the raging wind and soaked through by a las.h.i.+ng, horizontal rain. It's the dry season, It's the dry season, I thought. I thought. It shouldn't be raining. It shouldn't be raining. It almost made me forget my birthday. It almost made me forget my birthday.

I had spent my time imagining what my children must be doing. I'd heard them call in, after midnight, together with their father, to wish me a happy birthday. It gave me great peace of mind to know they were all together. I knew they had read my letter, and I felt that something essential had been accomplished. They had heard my inner voice. There was a lightness and hope in their words. Wounds had begun to heal.

Sebastian, Melanie, and Lorenzo were growing their wings, strong in their knowledge of my love. Mom and Astrid were as solid as a rock, building my resilience with the tenacity of their faith. And I liked to think that if Fabrice had been there with me, he would have lifted up my backpack and given me his hand and not let go.

The day after Christmas 2007, we began marching again. Though I was carrying hardly anything in my backpack, my muscles seemed to have melted, and I trembled with every step.

From the beginning, Willie had been very attentive. He helped me to fold up my tent, to close my equipo. equipo. He b.u.t.toned my jacket up to my neck and pulled my hat down over my ears, put on my gloves, and handed me a bottle of water. He b.u.t.toned my jacket up to my neck and pulled my hat down over my ears, put on my gloves, and handed me a bottle of water.

"Mind you, drink as much as you can," he ordered, like a doctor; he left with a group after me but arrived first at the site of the new camp.

When I got there, everything was ready for me. He had collected the belongings that others had carried for me, and he'd put up my tent and set up my hammock. I arrived at nightfall, very tired.

I slept fitfully, anxious at the thought of the next day's march, and I got my things ready before the guards called so that when Mom was on the air, nothing would distract me from her words. My sister was there again. I loved Astrid's messages. Her judgment was always sharp, like my father's. It's been years since she had a Christmas, or a New Year's, or a birthday party, It's been years since she had a Christmas, or a New Year's, or a birthday party, I thought with a heavy heart. Along with Mom she had asked President Uribe to let Chavez mediate with the FARC once again. Armando had also heard their message, as well as his mother's, who called in every day. I thought with a heavy heart. Along with Mom she had asked President Uribe to let Chavez mediate with the FARC once again. Armando had also heard their message, as well as his mother's, who called in every day.

"They're optimistic. You'll see, we'll be next!" he said.

I hugged him, wistfully. I didn't think we'd be so lucky.

We stopped the march on December 31. New Year's was the only feast the guerrillas allowed themselves to celebrate. We came to a marvelous place, with a waterfall of crystal-clear water winding merrily through huge trees. We were a day's walk from the other group. My companions found items belonging to Lucho, Marc, and Bermeo in the spots we were going to use after them to put up our tents and hammocks. William was pleased; Monster had given him a good location for his caleta, caleta, next to the water. next to the water.

I was hesitant, as I knew he didn't like the rituals that connected us to the outside world. "William, I would like to ask you a favor."

He looked up, amused. "I don't have time," he answered jokingly. We had nothing to do.

"Well, it's Mom's birthday. I'd like to celebrate it in one way or another. I thought of singing 'Happy Birthday,' but I believe the sound waves have a better chance of reaching her if there are several of us. To be honest, I don't want to sing alone."

"You want me to act like a clown just to make you happy?" he said, unconvinced. "Go on, you begin!"

We sang, in low voices, and it made us laugh, like two children up to mischief. Then he pulled out a little packet of cookies he'd saved from Enrique's fake Christmas party, and we pretended to be sharing a cake.

"It's the last day of the year," I told him. "Let's make a list of all the nice things that have happened to us this year, to thank the heavens." I smiled. In the jungle I no longer prayed prospectively, for what I hoped to come, but rather for what I had already received.

"No, no," said Willie. "I haven't been talking to G.o.d for a long time. I'm mad at him, just as he is surely mad at me. You see, I am a Christian. I was raised very strictly and with high moral standards. I can't start talking to him if I haven't set things right."

"Look at it as a question of being polite. If someone does something for you, you say thank you."

Willie clammed up. I had just overstepped the bounds. I tried to backtrack.

"Okay, let's just make a list. Look, there was Pinchao's freedom, and now there's Consuelo, Clara, and Emmanuel."

"And we also have the release of the politicians from the Cauca Valley," he replied bitterly.

I knew that he was talking about their tragedy, so as not to have to talk about his own. Then, as if he were coming from far away, he said, "This is a very nice place. We're lucky to be waiting for New Year's here. Let's call the place Cano Bonito."