Even Silence Has an End Part 9

Then Ferney came to my rescue.

"I don't think I left it here. I remember taking it with me. I think I left it where we were cutting the wood, when I went to fetch some planks. I'll take a look later. Come on, let's go."

He had spoken without even looking at me and turned on his heel with his companions following, delighted to be relieved of their ch.o.r.e.

My companion and I were drained. I took the book from her trembling hands and tried to resume reading. But it was impossible to focus on the page. I let the book drop onto the mattress. We looked at each other as if we had just seen the devil, and we burst into nervous laughter, bending forward so the guard couldn't see us.

As ridiculous as it seemed, that evening I felt the stirrings of guilt for fooling the too-trusting Ferney.

The chains were not put back on. We could move freely around the caleta. caleta. However, we spent most of the day sitting in the five-by-five-foot s.p.a.ce of our mosquito net, because we were used to it. The veil separating us from the outside world formed a psychological barrier, protecting us from the contact, curiosity, and sarcasm of the other side. For as long as we were under the mosquito net, they didn't dare speak to us. But the feeling of being able to leave "our However, we spent most of the day sitting in the five-by-five-foot s.p.a.ce of our mosquito net, because we were used to it. The veil separating us from the outside world formed a psychological barrier, protecting us from the contact, curiosity, and sarcasm of the other side. For as long as we were under the mosquito net, they didn't dare speak to us. But the feeling of being able to leave "our caleta caleta" and walk a hundred feet in front of it if we so chose was a freedom we appreciated all the more now that we understood how easily it could be taken away from us. We used it sparingly, for fear that they would detect how thrilled we were and might use it as an instrument of blackmail.

Little by little I was beginning to detach myself from both the small and the big things, for I did not want to be subjugated to my desires or my needs, because having lost the ability to satisfy them only made me more a prisoner in my jailors' hands.

They also brought us a radio. It was so unexpected that we weren't even pleased. El Mocho had sent it, in all likelihood because in our last conversation I'd said that I no longer knew what was going on in the world and, to my astonishment, didn't care. In fact, since I'd learned of Papa's death, the outside world seemed foreign and distant to me. Back then the radio was a nuisance.

It was a large Sony that the youngsters called "the brick" because it was black and shaped like one. It had a powerful speaker, so it was popular among the guerrillas, since they could listen to the latest pop music at full blast all day long. When Jessica brought it to us, it was immediately obvious that she did not approve of her commander's gesture. Worse still, she was outraged by our indifference.

"This is as good as it gets around here!" She took our reaction as a sign of contempt, believing that in civilian life we were used to much better. She could not understand that in our mental state all we were interested in was freedom.

She took revenge in her own way. The following day she came to look for the penknife El Mocho had given me before he left. When she came to get it on the pretext that Commander Cesar had asked for it, I knew very well she was going to keep it for herself. She was the commander's girlfriend. She could do whatever she wanted. I gave it to her reluctantly, arguing that it was a gift, but that only added to her pleasure.

Gradually the radio became a source of friction. At the beginning Clara and I would take turns following the news bulletins during the day. The radio was temperamental, and you had to move it around like a radar gun, turning it in all directions before finding the most effective angle and the best reception, which was always full of interference. What I found surprising was that in the caleta caleta next door they had exactly the same "brick," but theirs, in contrast, had perfect reception. I discovered that they tampered with the sets by "poisoning" the circuits and inserting pieces of cable to increase the reception. I asked if they could "poison" my brick. They sent me to Ferney. next door they had exactly the same "brick," but theirs, in contrast, had perfect reception. I discovered that they tampered with the sets by "poisoning" the circuits and inserting pieces of cable to increase the reception. I asked if they could "poison" my brick. They sent me to Ferney.

"Of course, I'll take care of it. We'll do it when you move into your new house."

I was stunned. "What new house?"

"The wooden house that Commander Cesar ordered to be built for you. You'll be very comfortable there. You'll have your own room, and you won't have to worry anymore about people peeping on you!" he said.

That was the least of my concerns. A wooden house? They were going to keep us prisoner for months! I would not be home for Melanie's birthday, or for Lorenzo's birthday-he was turning fourteen. He wouldn't be a child anymore. It broke my heart to miss that, too. My G.o.d, what if this went on until Christmas?

Unable to rid myself of the anguish, I lost my appet.i.te completely.

Once the planks were cut, the house was built in under a week. It had been constructed on stilts, with a roof made of woven palm leaves that had been a.s.sembled with astonis.h.i.+ng beauty and skill. It was a simple rectangular structure, with wooden walls six feet high on three sides and the fourth side completely open and facing the camp. In the left-hand corner of the s.p.a.ce, they had erected two interior walls to create a bedroom with a proper door. Inside, four planks resting on trestles const.i.tuted the bed, and pieces of wood in the corners provided shelving. Outside the bedroom were a table and a small bench for two people.

Andres was eager to show us our new lodgings. He was proud of his team's work. I could barely hide my distress. The door would be locked with a huge padlock at night, and it was hard to see how we would escape. I tried my luck.

"It needs a window The room is very small and dark. We'll suffocate!"

He threw me a highly suspicious look, and I let it drop. But the following day a team was sent over with a chain saw to open one up. With a window we might have a chance.

Our life changed. Paradoxically, although this s.p.a.ce was definitely an improvement compared to our previous living conditions and enabled us to dictate our own schedule and create our own routine, the tension between Clara and me became unbearable.

I fixed a daily schedule that allowed me to remain active while staying out of her way. Her reactions were unpredictable. If I swept, she would follow me around and s.n.a.t.c.h the broom from my hands. If I sat at the table, she would want my seat. If I paced to get some exercise, she would block my path. If I closed the door to rest, she would demand I leave. If I didn't, she would pounce on me like a cat with its claws out. I no longer knew what to do. Another morning, on discovering a hive in a corner of the kitchen, she began to scream. s.n.a.t.c.hing the broom and swinging it wildy, she sent everything on the shelves along the wall cras.h.i.+ng to the ground. Then she ran off toward the jungle. The guards brought her back, shoving her with their rifles.

When Ferney came to fix our radio, he brought a brand-new broom he had made especially for us.

"Keep it. It's better that you don't ask to borrow things. It annoys people."

He spent time explaining which broadcasts we could pick up and what times they came on. Before six-thirty in the morning, there was nothing. In the evening we were spoiled for choice with all the national stations. However, he forgot to tell us the most essential thing: We did not know that a special program existed for hostages, and it aired messages every weekend from our families.

Tension mounted one morning at dawn when I was disturbed by a terrible crackling sound. Clara was sitting against the wall with the radio between her legs, turning the k.n.o.bs back and forth, oblivious to the noise she was making. The padlock to our door was not removed until six. I sat there waiting, my increasingly black mood filling the room. I reminded her as calmly as I could that there was no reception before six-thirty in the morning, hoping that she would turn off the set. Yet she dismissed me. She wanted nothing more than to make the set crackle. I stood up, sat back down, paced in circles between the bed and the door, showing how irritated I was. Just before they removed the padlock, she finally agreed to silence the "brick."

The following day the scene played out exactly the same way, except that this time I could not get her to switch it off. I watched her listen intently to the crackling noise and thought, She's going mad. She's going mad.

One morning after I had already gone outside to clean my teeth in a bucket of water that a guerrilla usually dropped off at the other end of the house, I heard a crash in the bedroom. Dreading what I might find, I ran back to see Clara, arms hanging at her sides, with the radio broken at her feet. She explained that it had slipped out of her hands. "Never mind. We'll see if someone can fix it," I said, doing my best not to hold this against her.

TWELVE.

FERNEY.

Every evening at six, while it was still daylight, the guard would come by to put the padlock on our door. He would walk around behind the house to lock the solitary window with another large padlock before moving to the front of the house to take up his post for the night. I followed his movements with intense interest, trying to find a flaw in the system that would enable us to break out.

We would have to execute our escape in two stages. Before six, Clara would jump down from the window and run into the bushes behind the house, taking the bag containing our supplies. The guard would come by at six on the dot to lock the door. He would see me and a decoy beside me in the bed. He would put on the padlock and go to lock the window at the back, giving me just enough time to jump out the window myself and climb up onto the roof to hide. After padlocking the window, he would a.s.sume his position at the front of the house, leaving me free to join Clara at the back. We would then veer to the right to get away from the camp and make a ninety-degree turn to the left, which would take us to the river. We would have to swim and let the current carry us as far as possible. We would hide during the day, as they would be on our tail, combing the entire area. But after two nights of searching, without knowing which way we had gone, they would not be able to trace us. We would run into a peasant dwelling and risk asking for help.

I was anxious about swimming in the dark waters of this jungle in the night, having seen the s.h.i.+ning eyes of the caimans, camouflaged on the riverbanks, scoping out their prey. We would need a rope to tie ourselves together so we wouldn't get separated by the current and lose each other in the darkness. If one of us was attacked by a caiman, the other could come to the rescue-and, fortunately, we had the machete. We had to make a sheath for it so we could carry it on our belts without being hindered while we swam. We would take turns carrying the backpack. The contents would have to be wrapped meticulously in plastic bags and sealed tightly with rubber bands. Surviving in the water was a major challenge. We needed to make flotation devices so we could swim for hours.

I solved this problem by using a Styrofoam cooler in which the nurse had received some medicine. When I asked if I could keep it, Patricia laughed. She obviously found my request odd and handed me the box as if handing a child a broken b.u.t.ton to play with. Proud of my acquisition, I returned to the room, and with the door tightly shut Clara and I used the machete to saw it into pieces, loudly talking and laughing to mask the squeaking noise of the blade on the Styrofoam. We took the entire side panels of the box and made them into devices large enough to rest our bodies on and small enough to fit in our knapsacks.

The rest of our preparations were easier to take care of. One evening, just before they shut us in for the night, I discovered an enormous scorpion, a female with all her offspring attached to her abdomen, more than five inches long on the strut of the door. The guard killed it with a blow of his machete and put it in a jar with some formalin. It would yield an antidote, which, he said, would perform miracles. I emphasized the danger of having no light inside the room and stressed the fact that the creature could easily have landed on the back of my neck when I closed the door. Andres sent us the flashlight I was dreaming of for our escape.

However, although we were ready to leave, our plan kept getting delayed. First came a week of extremely low temperatures, especially at dawn. "It's the freeze from Brazil," the guard told me knowingly. I was thankful we had not yet left. Then we were held up by my catching a cold. As they refused to give us medicine, the fever and cough had persisted. But the greatest obstacle to our escape was Clara's manic-depressive behavior. One day she explained that she was not going to escape because she wanted to have children, and the effort of escaping could disrupt her capacity to conceive.

Another afternoon, seeking refuge in the bedroom, I overheard an astonis.h.i.+ng conversation. Clara was telling the girl on guard about an episode in my life that I had revealed to her, describing it with exactly the same words I'd used. I recognized my expressions, my pauses, the intonation of my voice. It was all there. What was disturbing was that my companion had subst.i.tuted herself for me in her narration. It will only get worse, It will only get worse, I said to myself. I said to myself.

I felt we needed to talk. "You know, they could switch our camp at any moment," I said one evening before she fell asleep. "At least here we already know their routine. We know how they operate. And now that we're in this house, they're less watchful. This is a good time. Of course it will be hard, but it's still possible. There are dwellings two or three days' swim from here-it's not the other end of the world." For the first time in weeks, she was the person I used to know. Her comments were sensible and her questions constructive. I felt a genuine sense of relief at being able to share my thoughts with her. We set our departure date for the following week.

When that day came around, we washed our bath towels and hung them on a line strategically placed to block the guard's view. I checked that from where he was standing; our guard would not be able to see our feet under the house between the stilts when we jumped out the back window. We followed our regular routine exactly. But we ate more than usual, perhaps, which raised the eyebrow of our receptionist. It was a beautiful sunny afternoon. We waited until the last possible moment.

When the time came, Clara climbed up to the window as planned but got stuck, one part of her body outside and the other inside. I pushed her with all my might. She landed off balance but quickly recovered. I threw the bag out the window, and just as she was running toward the bushes, I heard a voice calling me. It was Ferney. He was coming from the direction of the chontos. chontos. Had he seen her? Had he seen her?

"What are you doing?"

"I'm trying to see the first stars," I replied, as if I were Juliet gazing out from her balcony.

I gaped at the sky, hoping he'd leave. Darkness was falling rapidly. The guard was about to padlock the door. I had to cut the conversation short. Furtively I glanced over to where Clara was. There was no sign of her.

Ferney continued, "I know you are very upset about your father. I wanted to say something earlier, but I didn't find the right moment."

I felt like an actor in a bad play. If anyone had been watching us, they would have found the scene comical. There I was, leaning against my window, looking up at the stars, attempting to trick a guerrilla in order to escape, with him at my feet, or rather below my window, as if he were about to serenade me. I stayed there silently, imploring providence to come to my rescue.

Ferney took my silence and my anxiety for emotion.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't make you think of sad things. But have faith-one day you will get out of here, and you will be a lot happier than before. You know, I never say so because we're communists, but I am praying for you."

He said good night and walked away. I turned around at once. The guard was already there, inspecting the room. I had no time to make a suitable decoy.

"Where is the other prisoner?"

"I don't know. At the chontos, chontos, probably." probably."

Our attempt had failed miserably. I prayed that Clara would realize that and return as quickly as possible. But what would she do if they found her with the bag? And in the bag the machete, the ropes, the flashlight, our food. I broke out in a cold sweat.

I decided to go to the chontos chontos myself without asking the guard's permission, hoping to distract his attention so that my companion could get back into the room. myself without asking the guard's permission, hoping to distract his attention so that my companion could get back into the room.

The guard ran after me screaming and struck me with the b.u.t.t of his rifle to force me to turn around. Clara was already back in the room when we got there. The guard swore at her and locked the door.

"Do you have the bag?"

"No, I had to hide it beside a tree."

"Where?"

"Near the chontos. chontos."

"Dear G.o.d! We have to think. . . . How can we get it back before they discover it?"

I couldn't sleep the whole night. Dawn was breaking. I heard voices and shouts from near the chontos. chontos. People were running toward the house, they had discovered our bag. Once this conclusion turned into certainty, all the anguish that had been building up in me during the night vanished. I instantly found absolute peace and serenity. They would punish us. Of course. It didn't matter. They would be cruel, humiliating, maybe even violent. That no longer frightened me. I would never give up. People were running toward the house, they had discovered our bag. Once this conclusion turned into certainty, all the anguish that had been building up in me during the night vanished. I instantly found absolute peace and serenity. They would punish us. Of course. It didn't matter. They would be cruel, humiliating, maybe even violent. That no longer frightened me. I would never give up.

The door opened before six in the morning. It was Andres, surrounded by a large portion of the troop. In an imperious voice, he ordered, "Search them from top to bottom." The girls took over, combing through all our belongings. They had found our bag and emptied it out. I was numb. The search complete-they had taken everything from us-they dispersed. Only Andres remained.

"Go ahead," he said to someone behind me. I turned around.

Ferney was standing there with a large hammer and an enormous box of old, rusty nails. He strode into the room and in a frenzy began hammering nails into every board. After two hours he had not yet covered the entire room. From the start he had wrapped himself in absolute silence and carried out his task with unhealthy zeal, as if he wanted to pin me to the boards. Then he climbed up onto the roof and continued his job, sitting astride a beam, angrily nailing areas where it was clearly unnecessary, until his complete stock of nails ran out.

I knew exactly what he must be feeling. He had found his machete and felt duped. He was remembering the conversation we'd had at the window. In the beginning I was embarra.s.sed, feeling terrible for having deceived him. But as the hours pa.s.sed, I found him grotesque, with his hammer and nails, his obsession, and this room he had transformed into a bunker in fury.

He brushed past me, enraged.

"You are ridiculous!" I yelled, unable to stop myself.

He did an about-face, slammed both hands on the table as if he would like nothing better than to jump on me, and hissed, "Repeat what you just said."

"I said I find you ridiculous."

"You steal my machete, you make fun of me, you try to escape, and I I am ridiculous." am ridiculous."

"Yes, you are ridiculous! You have no reason to be angry with me."

"I'm angry with you because you betrayed me."

"I did not betray did not betray you. you. You abducted me, you are keeping me prisoner. I have every right to escape." You abducted me, you are keeping me prisoner. I have every right to escape."

"Yes, but I offered you my friends.h.i.+p. I trusted you," he retorted.

"And the day your leader tells you to put a bullet in my head, will I still have your friends.h.i.+p?"

He did not reply. I did not see him again for some time. Then one evening he arrived for guard duty once again. Before putting on the padlock, he produced a fistful of candles from his jacket pocket and handed them to me.

He closed the door before I had time to thank him. These forbidden candles were his answer. I stood there with a lump in my throat.

THIRTEEN.

LEARNING TO WEAVE.

In my boredom I read the Bible and wove. I had been given a Bible, a very large one with maps and ill.u.s.trations at the back. Could I have discovered the riches of the Bible in any other way? I don't think so. The world in which I'd lived had no place for meditation, or for silence. But given the absence of distractions, my brain kneaded the words back into shape, as if they were clay being molded to create something new. And so I would reread pa.s.sages, and I would discover why they had stayed with me. It was like finding c.h.i.n.ks, secret pa.s.sages, links to other thoughts, and different interpretations of the texts. The Bible became a fascinating world of codes, insinuations, and hidden meanings.

Perhaps that was also why it was easy for me to devote so much time to weaving. Thanks to manual activity, my mind entered a state of meditation, and I could reflect on what I had read while my hands were moving.

It all began one day when I was on my way back from talking to the commander.

Ferney was sitting on his mat, repairing the straps of his backpack. Beto, the boy who shared a tent with him, was standing in front of one of the supporting poles, focused intently on weaving a belt with nylon thread. I had often seen them do this. It was fascinating. They had acquired such dexterity and moved their hands so quickly that they looked like machines. At each knot a new shape appeared. They could make belts with their own name written across them. They would then dye them at the rancha rancha by boiling them in large cauldrons of fluorescent water. by boiling them in large cauldrons of fluorescent water.

I stopped for a moment to admire his work. Beto's lettering was the most attractive of any I'd seen so far.

"He's the best of all of us!" said Ferney unreservedly. "The time it takes me to make one, Beto can make three."

"Really?"

I had trouble seeing why it was an advantage to go fast in a world where there was so much time to kill. That night during my nocturnal musings, I began to think that I would like to learn to weave belts, too. The idea excited me. But how would I go about it? Ask Andres for permission? Ask one of the guards? I had learned that in the jungle there is nothing to be gained by acting impulsively. The world where I was a prisoner was an arbitrary one. It was an empire of whims, ruled by those who had the ability to say no.

One day there was a terrible storm. The downpour lasted from morning to night. I was sitting on the floor watching the spectacle of nature unleashed. Sheets of rain formed a screen so dense you could see only the caletas caletas nearest to you; the rest of the camp seemed to have disappeared. The guards remained at their posts without moving, like lost souls, covered from head to toe with black plastic sheets. They looked like they were floating on a lake. Unable to absorb all the rain, the ground was under several inches of brown water as far as the eye could see. Whoever ventured outside returned covered in mud. The camp came to a standstill. Only Beto kept on weaving his belt, oblivious to the storm. I couldn't take my eyes off him. nearest to you; the rest of the camp seemed to have disappeared. The guards remained at their posts without moving, like lost souls, covered from head to toe with black plastic sheets. They looked like they were floating on a lake. Unable to absorb all the rain, the ground was under several inches of brown water as far as the eye could see. Whoever ventured outside returned covered in mud. The camp came to a standstill. Only Beto kept on weaving his belt, oblivious to the storm. I couldn't take my eyes off him.

The following day Beto and Ferney came over together, smiling. "We thought you might like to learn to weave," said Beto. "We asked for permission, and Andres agreed. Ferney will get you nylon thread, and I'll show you how to do it."

Beto spent several days with me. First he taught me how to prepare the warp. They had a small hook to secure the warp. Ferney made me a pretty one, and I felt set up like a pro. Beto came by in the evening to review what I had done during the day. "You have to stretch the thread more tightly over the hooks," he told me. And then, "The knots need to be tighter" and "You have to pull on it twice-otherwise it will run." I put all my energy into learning the proper technique, correcting my mistakes, and following his instructions to the letter. I had to wrap my fingers in pieces of fabric so that the nylon thread wouldn't cut into my flesh when I pulled it. With my work in front of me, I no longer felt the burden of time. The hours pa.s.sed quickly. Just like monks, Just like monks, I thought, who, when practicing meditation, dedicated themselves to crafting precious objects. I felt that reading the Bible and the meditations that arose from my hours of weaving were doing me good. I was more peaceful, less defensive. I thought, who, when practicing meditation, dedicated themselves to crafting precious objects. I felt that reading the Bible and the meditations that arose from my hours of weaving were doing me good. I was more peaceful, less defensive.

Beto came to tell me one day that I was ready to make a real belt. Ferney turned up with a full reel of thread, and we cut it into the appropriate lengths. The measurements were jungle measurements. Two "armfuls" of thread were needed to obtain one "quarter" of a belt. An armful was the distance between a hand and the opposite shoulder, and a quarter was the distance between the thumb and the small finger with the hand open wide.

I wanted to make a belt with Melanie's name woven into it with hearts at the beginning and end of it. I asked around, and no one knew how to do it. So I improvised and found a way, which started a new fas.h.i.+on in the camp, because all the girls wanted to have hearts on their own belts.

The opportunity to be active, creative, and inventive brought respite. There were only two weeks left until Melanie's birthday. I decided that the belt would be ready before then, even if I had to spend entire days on it. The exercise sent me into a trance. I felt as if I were communicating with my daughter-and therefore in touch with the best part of myself.