Kidnapped and a Daring Escape (23 page)

    
He realizes that the moment for making love has slipped away, but
something pushes him on to continue challenging her. "Maybe because
I want you to see Franco for what he really is. A narcissistic man,
superficially charming and maybe a brilliant archaeologist, a man who
steps on other people’s toes, both literally and figuratively, and laughed
when he told ‘
le trapu
’ he would leave it up to him to do with you
whatever he wanted."

    
"Oh, I see. You’re now also an amateur psychologist. But you’re
wrong. Franco has always been considerate and unselfish toward me."

    
"How he belittled you in front of Paolo and me when I apologized to
him, you call that considerate? I could see you were hurt, and your
reaction also told me that it wasn’t the first time he did it. Not to speak
of the paternalistic tone he used with me." He perfectly imitates Franco’s
haughty voice and elocution. "No need to apologize, young man. As I
said, Bianca was surely grateful to you." Switching back to his normal
way of speaking, he continues: "Our age difference is hardly large
enough to justify calling me ‘young man’, but then he may already
consider himself as an old wise man."

    
"You’re so mean. I hate you." She turns away from him.

    
"Yes, I was mean right now, but the truth is sometimes ugly."

    
"Ha, the truth!" She shoots around, facing him. "I clearly remember
your lecture that there is no such thing as the truth. But when it’s
convenient for you, it suddenly exists."

    
He cannot help smiling. "You’re correct again. So let me rephrase it:
my perception of the truth … But Bianca, don’t you see how well we suit
each other. Even fighting with you is entertaining and brings us closer."

    
"Bringing us closer? Oh, what arrogance!" she exclaims, exasperated,
but the smile is back in her eyes. "You want to fuck me now, sorry, I
mean make love to me now?"

    
"No, my love, that can wait, but the food can’t. I prefer it hot. Can’t
you smell it?"

    
Strong kitchen smells are wafting in through the partially open
window. He gets up and checks his underpants. They are almost dry. He
dresses. She remains sitting on the bed, her arms still hugging her legs.
He tosses her dry thong and bra to her.

    
"Bianca, I would like your company for dinner. Please, join me."

* * *

Dinner is a tomato chicken stew, delicately seasoned, with corn mash and
a ratatouille dish made from local vegetables he does not recognize. They
share it with another man. André cannot tell why the nickname ‘the
peddler’ immediately comes to mind. Is it something in the man’s
demeanor that paints him as a door-to-door salesman?

    
The dishes are excellent, but the atmosphere has changed, not only
between Bianca and him, but particularly with Dolores, their hostess. She
shows signs of nervousness. The worry lines in her face are carved in
deep. She does not smile when she serves them, as she did at lunch, and
she avoids his eyes. He observes that she twice goes to the bead curtain
and looks outside, as if she were expecting somebody. He has the sudden
urge to run, get away from the village. His face has turns somber again.

    
"I’m sorry Bianca, but you must hurry up. We have to leave."

    
She scrutinizes his face for a second or two and then nods, quickly
chewing and swallowing the last few bites. Once back in their room, he
locks the door from inside, leaving the key blocking the hole and wedges
the door handle again with a chair. When Bianca reaches for the light
switch, he says: "No light."

    
Then he takes the rope from his pack and loops it around the center
post of their window.

    
She watches with a frown. "What’s going on? What are you doing?"

    
"We’re leaving … via the window."

    
"Why?"

    
"Because I expect that any moment now we will get visitors we don’t
want to meet … Yes, it’s another of my premonitions. Put on the leather
jacket."

    
"I thought we were to stay the night here. I don’t want to go."

    
"Please, Bianca. You promised to do what I ask you to."

    
"But —"

    
"Psst," he interrupts her.

    
Shouts come from the street. A few seconds later, several people are
noisily trampling up the stairs. He holds the leather jacket open. Now she
quickly slips it on. After checking the alley under the window, he throws
one end of the rope outside and then helps her onto the windowsill. He
gives her the end hanging down outside, while holding the rope looped
around his back. "Hold the rope firmly, … stretch your legs, … and now
lean back. I’ll hold you." She is leaning out, her boots on the windowsill.
"Now as I lower the rope, walk slowly down the wall, always bracing one
leg against it, and keep leaning back. Yes, that’s good."

    
He watches until she jumps the last yard or so. The footsteps have
come to a halt outside their door. Somebody tries to open it, shaking the
handle. "Here," he hears a voice, and then a key is inserted into the lock.
Low swearing erupts. He experiences an adrenalin rush, as he now climbs
outside the window, the pack on his back. He closes both window panes
and the shutters as much as he can and, holding on to both ends of the
rope, lowers himself quickly. Once on the ground, he lets go of one half
and pulls the rope down, winding it into tight loops at the same time. He
stuffs it into the pack. Loud banging and shouts of "open up" can be
heard.

    
"Follow me," he whispers and quickly moves along the wall toward
the street below.

    
Peeking around the corner, he sees a mud splattered pickup truck and
two off-road motorbikes in front of the guesthouse entrance. The only
man around, in army fatigues, is leaning against one of bikes. It is
obvious that he is keenly listening to what is happening on the balcony.
An easy target, André reckons.

    
"Wait here until I call," he whispers, handing her the pack, "and then
bring this."

    
He silently flits toward the motorcycles. His flat hand hits the guy at
the side of the neck like a blade. Unaware, the man collapses into a heap
without at sound. He sees Bianca peek around the corner and beckons her
over. Then he inspects the bikes for a second or two. One is a newish
Honda 650, the other an older Yamaha 500. He inserts the blade of the
imitation Swiss army knife into the front tire of the Yamaha, until he
hears the hiss of the escaping air.

    
"Wear the pack," he whispers, as he mounts the Honda. "Hop on, and
hold on tight around my chest."

    
She does. He feels her tremble against his back. He starts the bike,
switches on the headlight, and roars off down the street, while Bianca
tightens her hold on him. Within a few seconds they leave the village
behind, speeding away on the road north. It winds through a highly
broken up valley, full of twists and turns. He checks the rearview mirror
for any signs of pursuers, but can never see any lights. After eight or so
miles, they approach another village. He shuts off the motor and light and
lets the machine roll silently through the street. A few houses have lit
windows, but otherwise the village seems already asleep. Not even dogs
are barking as they pass. Before putting the bike into gear to start the
motor, he asks: "Are you OK? Holding up? Or is the pack too heavy."

    
"Yes, I’m fine. This is only the second time I sit on a real motorcycle."

    
"It’s fun, isn’t it?"

    
"Yes, but also scary."

    
He briefly presses her hands around his chest, glad to have her safely
at his back. "Just hold on to me tightly."

    
Past the village, the road veers gradually south and then rises slowly
toward another low pass, where it turns again more northerly. Whenever
the road goes downhill, he shuts off the motor. "To save fuel," he
exclaims. The low whine of the chain and the crackling of pebbles on the
road is the only noise then. He keeps alert for any sound of a vehicle
pursuing them, but there is none. A short time later, they come to San
Sebastian, more than simply a one-street village. There are still people
and the occasional vehicle around. Loud music blares from one of the
three pubs along the main street. There is even a gas station.

    
Under the street light next to it, André briefly stops, opens the petrol
tank and checks the fuel level. He is greatly relieved when he finds it still
three quarters full. He hopes that this will be enough to get them close to
Popayàn, particularly if he doesn’t push the engine. Unfortunately, they
have long left the area covered by the cartographic map he took from ‘
le
vilain
’. All he remembers from the general maps he studied prior to
leaving Popayàn is that the only sizable town on the road north is Timbio,
some twenty miles southwest of Popayàn. That is where he hopes to get
to by noon and where they can exchange dollars and tidy themselves up
before continuing to Popayàn the next day. He figures that they will be
safe in Timbio, probably safer than in Popayàn itself.

9

It is around midnight — the waning moon illuminates the landscape
brightly — when André leaves the road and rides a short stretch up a
narrow track along a creek. He kills the engine and says: "Let’s stretch
our legs a bit."

    
Bianca just manages to climb off the bike. Her knees buckle, refusing
to support her. She is grateful that André catches her before she falls. He
helps her remove the pack. It feels as if every bone, every piece of flesh
of her body has been knocked loose by the incessant jolts and bumps of
the ride on the potholed road. She sways a bit, and he takes her into a
tight embrace. She feels him kiss her hair. Such a strange man, he is, she
reflects silently. I abuse him and he shows me his love.

    
"You still hate me?" he murmurs.

    
She raises her face and their eyes lock on to each other. "I don’t hate
you. I never hated you. I was only mad at you."

    
"Because what I said about Franco hurting you? Did it come too close
to the truth?"

    
She averts her gaze. Why can’t I admit that he’s right?

    
"Bianca, look at me."

    
She meets his eyes. There is a glow in his.

    
"I love you, Bianca."

    
"I know … kiss me."

    
He does. His kisses are so different from any she has ever received.
They are both giving and demanding, searching yet soft, yielding yet
firm. They trigger a need for him she has never felt for a man, a need to
unite with him. She presses herself more against him. After a while, he
disengages and says: "Come, let’s walk back and forth to give our legs
some circulation."

    
She hooks arms with him, matching his steps. She notices that he is
taking smaller ones than when he walks alone. He’s even adapting his
steps to mine, she muses, remembering that Franco never did. In fact, he
seemed to hate it if she hooked arms or tried to hold hands.

    
"Why did you know that these men were coming after us? If you
hadn’t rushed me to finish the meal, they would have caught us at the
table. Was it another of your premonitions?"

    
"No premonition this time. I simply registered what was happening
around us, not just in actions, but also in atmosphere. Didn’t you notice
that Dolores, the woman at the guesthouse, behaved differently? At
lunch, she smiled, I guess pleased that we liked her food. At dinner, she
never smiled; she refused to meet my eyes; she seemed nervous; and
didn’t you see her checking outside several times, as if she expected
somebody to arrive?"

    
"I noticed she was different, but —"

    
"— you didn’t give it any further thought."