Kidnapped and a Daring Escape (21 page)

    
Things seem to be happening around her like in a dream. André feeds
her warm corn mash. She dutifully drinks the water he gives her. He
guides her to a place where she can relieve herself. He helps her wash her
hands and face, and then makes her lie down on the sheet of plastic,
covering her with the dead man’s parka. A short time later he snuggles
up to her and drapes his arm around her waist. It is comforting, safe. Her
last thought before she sinks into a troubled sleep is "He’ll look after
me."

8

Bitter sobbing wakes André. It is still dark. Clouds are hiding the moon.
It takes him a second before the meaning of the sound sinks in. Bianca is
sitting, her whole body shaking with every sob. He enfolds her in his
arms, gently pressing her head against his chest.

    
"Shhh, Bianca. You’re safe. I’m with you," he whispers.

    
Sniffles gradually replace the sobbing. He realizes that she is not fully
awake. After a while she melts into his embrace. She is again fully
asleep. He lowers her down, covers her with the parka, and snuggles up
again.

   
Lying there, he is puzzled about what might have triggered her
nightmare. She did not suffer any the last two nights. Was it the hurt of
the professor’s betrayal? Of how close she came to being killed without
realizing it? He knows that his greatest wish, his greatest hope, is to gain
her love, but he doesn’t want her on the rebound, as a reaction to that
betrayal. It would not be a good basis for a lasting relationship. Sooner
or later she will get over the betrayal. The need for comfort, the need for
a substitute will fall away. Gratitude alone will not hold her to him, nor
would he want that. Maybe he should distance himself a bit from her. But
how? When he sees her in distress, confused, frightened, or sad, it hurts
and he reacts by instinct to comfort her, to offer her solace. He doesn’t
see what else he can do, at least until they are both safe, and true safety
will only begin once they are on a plane out of Colombia.

* * *
 

At dawn he cooks the last of the corn grits. It is time we return to
civilization, he reflects. Hopefully, later that day they will get to the road.

    
He has to wake Bianca. She responds to his smile when he sits next to
her with the pot of hot corn mash.

    
"Do you want to do the honors," he asks, handing her their only spoon.

    
"Yes, I’ll do the honors," she replies, still smiling, and then offers him
the first spoonful.

    
"Did I dream or did you hold me last night?" she asks.

    
"I held you most of the night."

    
"I mean when I cried?"

    
"Yes, you fell asleep in my arms."

    
"It seems that I have been held in your arms more often than by any
other person for as long as I can remember."

    
"Don’t you like it? Don’t you want me too?"

    
"Oh, you silly man. I wouldn’t let you if I didn’t need it or want it."

    
"I’m glad. I love holding you in my strong arms." He stretches his
arms in front of him as if carrying somebody and winks.

    
"Yes, I know." She winks back, blushing at the same time, remembering how he carried her naked like this.

    
"By noon today we should reach the road. Are you up to another four-hour march? It seems we have lost our pursuers. My guess that they will
search along the tracks first seems correct."

    
She nods. "Once we are on the road, will we be safe?"

    
"Safe? No." He shakes his head. "Maybe a bit safer. I will only feel
truly safe once I’m on a plane out of this country."

    
"Oh," she utters, the smile fleeing from her eyes. "I so hoped that it
would be over once we’re on the road and reach a town."

    
"I’m afraid not. I will definitely not lower my vigilance yet."

* * *

They do reach a four-wheel-drive track within less than an hour, and an
hour later observe a plume of dust creeping over the landscape half a
mile or so ahead.

    
"That must be the road," exclaims Bianca, pointing to the dust plume.

    
"I guess you’re right … Bianca, will you let me do the talking and do
what I say without protest or hesitation, please?"

    
"Why?"

    
"Because we can’t tell the truth, and if only I tell our story, so to
speak, it will be consistent, and we don’t risk contradicting each other.
Please, trust me."

    
"All right, but shouldn’t we go to the police right away and report the
kidnapping and our escape?"

    
"That’s the last thing I’d do. I’ll stay as far away from the police as
possible."

    
"Because of the money you stole?"

    
"That’s a minor consideration. No, because the police may well be in
cahoots with whoever kidnapped us. And even if they aren’t they may
retain us as foreigners, particularly since we have no identification
papers. For this reason, I’ll also get rid of the rifle before we reach the
road. I wish we could get rid of the pack too, although it’s a fairly
standard one, but I’ll throw away anything that we don’t need anymore,
the ammunition, the previous owner’s dirty clothes."

    
"You really don’t trust anybody, do you?"

    
"I trust many people. I trust you, but in this country I don’t trust
officials, the police, or the army. Even the
Lonely Planet
on Colombia
recommends not to trust the police and to stay away from them, but also
warns that they might not stay away from you."

    
"You studied the
Lonely Planet
before you came here?" There is a
mocking tone in her voice.

    
"I studied many things. I read two books of accounts on real cases of
kidnapping that occurred in the last twenty years in Colombia. I read
reports of several journalists who have sought interviews with both the
paras
and FARC. I studied the political and economic history of
Colombia during the last one hundred years to get a feel for the political
climate. I read anything I could put my hands on that might be of
relevance to my assignment and the dangers in this country, including the
recent use of Burundanga, the drug they gave you. I ploughed through
hours and hours of Internet searches."

    
"I’m sorry, André. I didn’t mean to belittle the
Lonely Planet
, and
without you I would still be incarcerated in that little room." Suddenly,
tears well at the corner of her eyes. "And I might never have left it alive."

    
He hugs her. "It’s all right, Bianca. So we’re agreed, aren’t we?"

    
"Yes," she murmurs, wiping her face with the sleeves of her shirt.
"But tell me what you plan to do."

    
"As I said, before we reach the road, we’ll get rid of anything we don’t
need or that could be suspicious, but that doesn’t include the money.
Once on the road, we try to catch a bus or hitchhike north toward
Popayàn. If we find a sizable town, I’ll try to change some dollars. I’ve
only those two ill-fated peso notes, which won’t get us far."

    
"We need some clean clothing."

    
"I agree, and hopefully we can take a bath or shower before we
change. I would hate to put on clean things on a filthy body."

    
"Do you think that my parents have already paid the ransom?"

    
"I doubt that. If the kidnappers are
ex-paras
or FARC, it normally
takes weeks before the ransom demand is made. Furthermore, your father
is unlikely to pay unless he has proof that you’re still alive. I guess they
would have provided that proof by letting you talk to him via an image-capable satellite cell phone. At least that’s what ‘
le trapu
’ mentioned.
But it may be a good idea if you called your parents as soon as possible."

    
"That’s what I was thinking."

    
"Would you also want to let Franco know?" He deliberately uses his
first name rather than the derogatory ‘the professor’, so as not to annoy
her.

    
She looks at him thoughtfully without answering.

    
"I mean not necessarily because of him, but so that your classmates
know that you’re free. I’m sure it would lift their spirits to know that."

    
"You really think of everything. Yes, I should. Do you think that they
are still in Popayàn?"

    
He ponders that for a moment. "If Franco is the mystery man, then I
predict that he continued with the tour. He wouldn’t want to be readily
accessible to the police for questioning. If he isn’t, then he might have
done the decent thing and cancelled the rest of the tour, sent his charges
either back to Italy or on the way to the next destination on their own,
and stayed in Popayàn waiting for developments, at least for ten days or
so. But we can easily find out. At the next town, I call the Cipriano and
ask for Professor Visconti."

    
"I should call."

    
"No, that could be risky. The clerk might recognize your accent and
that may allow him to put two and two together. He might report his
suspicions to the police. No, I’ll call. And if Franco has left, then you
should be able to figure out where the tour party is right now."

    
"I already have. They should be in Peru by now, in Cusco, getting
ready for the ascent to Machu Picchu. I even remember the name of the
hotel, Los Incas."

    
"I can see from your face that you dearly wish Franco to be still in
Popayàn, right?"

    
"Yes, then maybe he wasn’t the mystery man in spite of all the signs
to the contrary."

    
"Bianca, if I set up such a kidnapping, I would stay in Popayàn and be
very active in the search for you."

    
"Yes, you would, but then you always do the unexpected."

    
"I see, you’re getting to know me."

* * *

They have walked maybe half a mile on the road, before they encounter
the first traffic. A tractor with a trailer catches up with them. The man
slows down when he is at their level.

    
"
Buenas tardes, señores
, I’ll give you a lift to the next town. Hop on
the trailer."

    
"
Buenas tardes, señor, gracias
," André answers and nods to Bianca.

    
While the tractor continues at a walking pace, he drops his pack on the
trailer deck, helps Bianca up, and then hops on himself. The tractor
speeds up again. The landscape has become more agricultural. They
come past planted fields, goats, sheep, and the occasional horse, donkey
or mule grazing in fenced off pastures. Below a farmhouse, a young
brown-skinned man waves to the tractor driver and stares at them for a
long time. André reckons that few foreigners, particularly blonde ones
like him, are ever seen here. The week-old stubbles in his face will also
attract attention. It gives away that they have spent considerable time in
the mountains, away from civilization — few tourists have ventured into
these mountains over the last thirty years of on and off guerrilla activity.
Their clothing also shows them up as foreigners. He would have
preferred to blend in, but it cannot be helped.

    
Two miles on, they enter a one-street settlement. A faded, bullet-riddled sign, hanging crooked on a wooden pole, names it Las Delicias.
A few old men and women, several of them toothless, dressed in black
woolen garments, sit in the shade in front of the mostly single-level
houses. Most either nod to the tractor driver or raise a hand. They pass by
a post office. It is closed, and so is the store next door — siesta time. A
couple of young men stand under the veranda of the Bar Bolivar, its sign
advertising a local beer. One of them shouts to their driver, asking if he
will join them shortly.