Kidnapped and a Daring Escape (4 page)

    
Franco dismisses Paolo and puts a hand on her shoulder. "Oh, my little
dove. What happened? You are pouting. Are you unhappy?"

    
"It isn’t true that I prefer dancing with somebody else. I’ve told you
many times."

    
"But Bianca, that was an innocent joke. Show some humor sometimes.
And if we are honest, we must admit that I am a hopeless dancer. In fact,
I do not even like dancing, and since you are so passionate about it, I am
not jealous if you indulge in this passion with somebody else."

    
"Don’t say you’re a hopeless dancer. I love waltzing with you."

    
"Yes, I can just manage moving to those old-fashioned tunes… So
who was that cocky fellow?"

    
"André? All I know is that he’s Swiss and speaks both Spanish and
Italian fluently. He may be from the French-speaking part, going by his
name."

    
"How presumptuous of him to think that I would frown on you
dancing with him and then even having the bad manners to point that
out."

    
"But he only apologized."

    
"That is just it, can you not see? He was trying to rub it in. That is why
he apologized. Who does he think he is?"

    
The thought the Swiss could have wanted to score points has not
occurred to her. Could Franco be right or is there an element of jealousy
in his assertion? "Do I detect jealousy?" It slips out, and she regrets it the
instant she sees the haughty mien slide over his face.

    
"Me, jealous of a nobody. You make me laugh, my dear Bianca,
although the way he eyed you up and down, I think he is smitten. He was
virtually undressing you."

    
"Was he?" She is puzzled. Franco’s words and his tone of voice do
not strike her as congruent. But she is even more surprised by his claim.
While dancing with André she never had the impression that he was
undressing her in his mind. It is a response she often gets from men.
Sometimes she even provokes it — like pushing out her breasts or
swaying her bottom while walking — before she becomes fully aware of
what she is doing. And she has no idea what got into her when she so
blatantly flirted with him after spying him on the balcony. He looked so
handsome up there and his smile so inviting. It felt like a fun thing to do
at that moment. So she almost expected to get that kind of response from
him. But no, while they danced and talked, his eyes never strayed to her
breasts. He was all attentive.

    
What’s happening between Franco and me?
she wonders. Why do we
seem to rub each other the wrong way? Back in Rome, he was always so
attentive, maybe at times almost too protective and a shade paternalistic,
something she found endearing and accepted, given the age difference
between them. She grew up in a family where this was the norm. She still
is her father’s little girl.

    
Franco, to her, has always been a real gentleman, with impeccable
manners, her vision of a true aristocrat. Although she senses that his
manners have changed in subtle ways on this trip, it took her a few days
before she became fully aware of it. He is showing a side of himself she
hasn’t seen before. He is easily impatient, particularly with her. He seems
unaware that his clever cynicism, much appreciated in class when it was
directed at other experts or the world in general, hurts his students when
they become its target. And if they protest, he laughs it off as a joke. She
has wondered more than once what could be behind this change. Maybe
it is simply the responsibility and strain of having to look after two dozen
students, and several have unknowingly or knowingly done stupid things.
He carries the whole responsibility for thinking of all the details that each
excursion, each move to a new place entails. She offered to help, but he
firmly rebuffed her. She resolves to be more loving toward him.

    
"Bianca, why do you not answer? I am talking to you."

    
His annoyed tone shakes her out of her thoughts. "Sorry, Franco. I was
distracted for a moment. I didn’t hear you."

    
"You mean, you did not listen."

    
This doesn’t start well. "No, Franco. I didn’t hear you. I was somewhere else. Please, forgive me. What did you say?"

    
"Still thinking about that Swiss guy, were you?"

    
He is jealous, but she decides to ignore it. "No, I was in fact thinking
about our future together."
Why does he make me lie?
She feels the heat
rise in her cheeks?

    
"Were you?" His tone of voice hints that he does not believe her.
"Anyway, you need not worry about our future. Rest assured, you will be
well looked after by me."

    
She reminds herself of her resolution to be more loving toward him
and gives him a warm smile. "Yes, I know … Please, will you now repeat
what I missed."

    
"It’s of little importance."

    
"Tell me anyway, please, Franco."

    
"Paolo just informed me that a fourth person has signed up for
tomorrow’s flight to San Agustin. He even wants to share the excursion
by Jeep. That will make the whole thing quite a bit cheaper for you. So
I instructed Paolo to advise the concierge to let that person join."

    
He didn’t even ask me first; he simply decided. She feels ignored,
passed over. And it isn’t of little importance. What if this fourth person
is someone unpleasant or an old man who expects his wishes to get
priority? Saving a few euros hardly matters to her. Her father gave her
ample funds. She suppresses the urge to point that out. Hasn’t she
promised to herself just minutes ago to be more understanding toward
him and less sensitive to minor and unimportant lapses like this,
especially if they are intended for her welfare? So she simply nods.

    
"You know, I am relieved that you will not be alone with just a guide
… but I still worry about you going to San Agustin. You recall what I
told the whole group, that the official from the DAS, the
Departamento
Administrativo de Seguridad
, warned me of renewed guerrilla incursions
into the mountains east and south of San Agustin and advised strongly
against taking my study tour into the area. On the strength of this advice,
what could I do but cancel that part of my carefully devised itinerary? It
would be irresponsible to expose my charges to that sort of potential
danger, although, as I said, it is a great pity to miss out on San Agustin.
That is why I left it open for anyone who wanted to go there at their own
risk, insisting only that they fly rather than go by road."

    
"Don’t worry, we’ll only be in San Agustin for a few hours, and the
park should be safe."

    
"I hope so, but I am really of two minds about you going." Deep worry
lines appear on his forehead. "It would be regrettable if you missed out
on this most important archaeological site in South America. I just wish
you would not have to expose yourself to possible danger."

    
He is really worried about my safety. It is his way of showing that he
cares for me. "Franco, I’m touched by your concern. I’m sure everything
will be fine."

    
"Yes … though now it is important that you get ready for tomorrow.
Remember, the plane is scheduled to take off at six thirty." He guides her
by the elbow toward the stairs to the guest rooms.

    
"Oh, you are sweet to worry so much about me. It will only take me
a few minutes to pack."

    
"Make sure you pack extra warm clothing and do not forget your rain
gear, just in case the weather turns bad. One never knows in the
Cordilleras. I put Paolo in charge, should weather conditions prevent you
from returning by the evening. He has the name of a guesthouse in
Pitalito, and the schedule of busses from Popayàn to Ipiales to catch up
with the group."

    
But Paolo is hopeless! Why didn’t he ask me? But again she refrains
from voicing it.

    
"I even advise you to take some essential toiletries along, just in case.
And wear your sturdy hiking boots."

    
"I will." It comes out rather more abruptly than she intended. She
finds his concern both endearing and exasperating. Right now, it feels
being treated like a small child who isn’t yet capable of thinking for
herself. Again, she reminds herself of her resolution. She tries to make
up for her shortness by putting an arm around his back and leaning her
head against his shoulder. Maybe, if they made love, he would again
become his old self. They have not been together since their arrival in
Colombia. "
Amore
, will you come to my room later tonight?"

    
He backs away from her. "Bianca, you know you should not ask for
that. It is off-limits during the tour."

    
"Please Franco, nobody will know, nor would they really care. They
all know we’re going to be married soon."

    
"No, there are certain principles that I must uphold as the leader of
this tour. I made it quite clear at our briefing before we left that I do not
want any consorting between the participants, and therefore it behooves
me, and through me also you, to lead by example."

    
She feels chastised. They reach the door to her room. "All right," she
sighs, disappointed, but also at the same time annoyed by his pompous
language. She wishes he would shed his lecturing style when talking to
her. Reluctantly, she offers him her cheeks for a kiss. He quickly pecks
both and then strides off. He doesn’t even properly kiss me anymore, she
reflects, while watching him go, again confused and uncertain about their
relationship, wistful for the rare moments of intimacy they stole prior to
the trip.

* * *

In the soft dawn light the church across the street from the hotel still
seems asleep when André comes out of the hotel. Within a few minutes
it will be fully day, the transition from night to day short near the equator.
Two young men are stowing their backpacks into the trunk of a taxi. He
recognizes one of them as Paolo, the student who talked with Visconti,
or rather, who was talked to by the latter. Paolo introduces him to
Giuglio, his fellow student. André has no pack. His tiny digital camera,
all his belongings, including an airline-issue toothbrush kit, are in his
rain jacket that he is wearing against the cold of the flight.

    
"You’re late, Bianca," Paolo shouts.

    
André turns and watches her scamper out of the hotel. He notices the
brief frown and the short hesitation in her step, when she spots him.

    
Relieving her of the backpack, he greets her with a smile: "Good
morning, Bianca. What a pleasant surprise! I hope it’s with you that I’ll
share the Jeep, so that you can be my guide."

    
Her ‘
buon giorno
’ is curt, offered without a smile. "Yes, we will share
the Jeep, and there will be a local guide." She hardly glances at him.

    
Her body language and pointed reply feel like a rebuff. Maybe she’s
one of those people who are in a bad mood early in the morning, he
muses and opens the rear door of the cab for her. Her two fellow students
cram in beside her, leaving him no choice but to take the front seat. It
takes barely five minutes to reach the small airport that serves only a
handful of commercial flights and handles mainly small private aircraft.
The three students in the back murmur a few remarks that are drowned
out by the noisy motor of the old-vintage American taxi.

    
The pilot of the Cessna is already waiting for them in front of the
terminal. He leads them through a side gate to the six-seater Cessna.
André has the distinct impression that Bianca is consciously avoiding
him.
Tant pis
, he reckons to himself, falling naturally into his mother
tongue. If that’s the way she wants to play it, I won’t let my day be
spoiled. After stowing their packs onto the far seat of the third row, the
pilot invites Bianca to take the seat next to his. André slips into the
empty place by the luggage. A few minutes later they are in the air. The
craft turns southeast, flying over the western suburbs of Popayàn,
laboring to gain height rapidly. The harsh drone of the engine renders
conversation impossible. One or the other of the student occasionally
draws the attention of the passengers to some landmark or feature in the
landscape. Paolo is busy clicking away on his big Canon camera. Some
thirty kilometers to the South, the snow on the 4,500-meter-high peak of
Volcan Sotará glitters in the low sun, while Volcan Puracé is shrouded
by a long bank of clouds. The patchily forested land rises sharply before
leveling into the gently sloping yellowish grasslands stuck like a half
bowl between these two volcanoes. André figures that the bowl is at least
twenty kilometers across. The young River Cauca has carved a bed
through its entire length. He takes two shots of Volcan Sotará, lit up by
the morning sun, with the expanse of the grasslands in the foreground.