The Girl With No Name: The Incredible True Story of a Child Raised by Monkeys (30 page)

It was never my intention to harm a hair on Imelda’s head, but it might at least stop the fat lady from singing.

When I returned to the refectory, Sister Elvira pounced on me. ‘Rosalba!’ she hissed. ‘Where have you been? What are you doing walking away from breakfast?’

‘Please, Sister Elvira,’ I said, ‘I just felt so ashamed of all the bad things I’ve been doing that I decided not to eat breakfast and instead to fast, pray to the Virgin Mary and ask for forgiveness from God.’

Sister Elvira glared at me, not buying my story for an instant. ‘Open your mouth!’ she commanded, then inspected it carefully, to see if there was any trace of bread in there.

‘Hmm,’ she said, finally. ‘Well, I suppose this is good. All right. I will allow you to continue, child.’

‘Thank you, Sister,’ I said politely, and continued on my way, silently thanking the Virgin Mary as I went.

And perhaps Imelda’s prayers, in the end, did bear fruit. Because it was only the next day that I found exactly the thing I’d been looking for: a means to scale the high convent walls.

It was another tree that was to be my salvation. Looking back, trees have played such an important role in my life. There was my special tree in the jungle, the tree in the garden of the brothel, the trees in San Antonio Park, the Santoses’ Mamoncillo and this time the tree was another mango. It was a big, spreading one that grew just outside the convent wall, and some of its boughs leaned over it, above the
lavaderos
. These deep concrete sinks had been built against the wall, and the branches of the mango tree provided shade above them, a boon for anyone out there washing clothes.

And also a boon for me. If I could just climb high enough to reach the branches, I could then crawl across them, above the wall, and climb back down on the other side. At which point, I realised with mounting excitement, I would be free.

I made a closer inspection around the lavaderos, albeit a sneaky one. There was hardly any time of day when the sinks weren’t in use, and this morning was no exception.

But I didn’t need to look for long to see that there were some potential hand- and footholds available as well. There were a number of metal protrusions above a couple of the sinks, which had perhaps been put there in order to hang a washing line up. This would be it, I decided happily. This would be my escape route. All I had to do now was think of a way that I could arrange to have the area to myself.

Once again I thought hard, and over a period of days a plan began to form in my mind. My first idea was to start a small fire in another part of the convent – perhaps the church, because I hated it so much. But I soon dismissed the idea. How would I feel if it got out of control and in my haste to escape I caused harm to my friends, maybe even somebody’s death? No, I decided, I would have to think of something safer. But before long I returned to my original idea. Why not just pretend there was a fire in the church? If I made enough fuss, then surely everyone would run there to see what was going on? Shouting fire alone would create enough panic, surely? And I was nimble and fast. I was confident that I could be up the tree and over the wall in seconds.

I would do it, I decided, in the middle of the morning, while everyone was busy and preoccupied with work. It would be the last thing they expected. They would have to stop what they were doing, and, with luck, the whole place would be full of squawking headless chickens. Except me. I would be on my way to freedom.

*

‘FIRE!!!’ Even to me, my voice sounded strange and desperate. ‘Fire!’ I bellowed. ‘Help! There’s a fire!!!!’

It was around eleven-thirty in the morning, and I had made sure to look the part. I had upset my hair – which took little doing, for it was a mass of wild curls anyway – and adopted the expression I had been practising for days now – wide eyes, unfocused and terrified. I had also left nothing to chance. There was a girl in the convent who was something of an artist and would do face painting on the children for fun. She was very talented, and her speciality was to paint on realistic cuts and bruises. I had asked her to paint some bruises on my neck and shoulders so I could tell Maruja, when I found her, that the nuns beat me. It was a wicked lie, but I was just so terrified she’d send me straight back that I needed a convincing reason why she shouldn’t.

My plan was at long last in action. I had bellowed my warning from the steps of the church and now ran, arms flailing, to the lavaderos. Shocked faces greeted me. ‘Fire!’ I screamed again. ‘The church is on fire! Oh, please come!!’

Sopping clothes were thrown down, hands wiped hastily on aprons, and nuns and orphans alike began running towards the church. Watching them go – and still yelling, just to keep up the momentum – I was shocked at just how simple it had been.

I hadn’t just chosen the church in a fit of pique, either. It was the place furthest away from where I now stood and was also out of sight of the branches of the mango.

But I had no time to waste. I hauled myself up onto the lavaderos, then up the wall and, by stretching as far as I could, got my hand around a sturdy mango branch.

Now I was in my natural territory it was only a matter of a few more seconds before I was high up in the tree, on top of the wall and on my way to liberation just below me.

I allowed myself to breathe out. I could hear confused voices by the church, as, one by one, everyone wondered quite where the fire was. But I was safe. The dense foliage shielded me from view, and, besides, who’d even think to look up?

I looked down, then, to see the best place to climb over, and realised it might be slightly trickier than I had thought. The top of the wall was studded aggressively with little shards of broken glass. Very God-like, I thought. I had purposely left my
alpargatas
(the thin sandals we were made to wear) in the dormitory, as I’d known they’d hinder my climbing, but how would my bare feet cope with such mean and treacherous terrain?

I didn’t have very long to ponder. I had perhaps been optimistic about how long everyone would be duped before realising it was me who had raised the alarm and coming to find me and discipline me. And I had perhaps been naive about how likely the nuns would be to work out the reason why I’d done it. Had Imelda shopped me? I didn’t know. But I did know one thing. The nuns were running back and, yes, they were looking up. I had to get on the other side of this wall, fast.

There was no time to edge along and down to other lower branches, no time to consider and plan a sensible route onto the street. There was nothing for it. I would simply have to jump from where I was – a drop of what looked like about twelve feet.

So I jumped, landing hard on the stubbly grass below the tree, and felt a searing pain shoot up both legs. But there was very little time to sit yelping and rubbing them. Assuming they weren’t snapped, I had to move them, and quickly, because along the street I just knew that the convent gates were opening. I could hear the familiar sound of the big plank behind the convent door being lifted up.

I staggered up just as the convent gate began to open. Desperate to get away before any of the nuns saw me, I plunged into the road, causing cars and trucks to swerve around me and their drivers to swear at me – ‘Estúpido gamina!’ ‘Estúpido!’ ‘Estúpido!’ – before diving into some trees on the other side of the road and scrambling up them, panting hard.

The trees were known locally as Matarratones, which translates literally as ‘rat killer’, because the berries are poisonous, but for me, a little monkey, they were a lifesaver. Within seconds I was once again looking down on the street. I saw a few nuns come out, including Sister Elvira, but as none of them had seen me climb into the bushes, it obviously never occurred to them that that’s where I might be. I would run away, surely? That’s what they’d be thinking. And even though the convent security man looked around for a bit, it never occurred to him to look up. After several minutes, he swore, slapped his leg and walked away. The job was done. I had escaped. I was free again. And one step closer to my beloved Maruja.

It took several hours to find my way back to Maruja. I stayed in the Matarratones for a good half an hour. I wanted to be sure I could get away without anybody seeing me, and I didn’t put it past the nuns to have posted a watch by the convent entrance. It seemed ridiculous: surely they would have been glad to get rid of me? But from the way I’d seen Sister Elvira powering up the pavement, I was pretty sure they didn’t see things like that. They’d been told to take care of me, and my escape meant they’d failed.

Once I felt safe, I slipped back down to the street and made my way, bit by bit, across the city. My route was uncertain. I didn’t know this part of Cúcuta well, but, using lorries and buses to catch free rides when they were stopped at traffic lights, eventually, having zigzagged my way around several times, I saw places and landmarks I recognised.

By the time I reached the district where I’d lived with the Santoses, my weary feet hurt as much as my legs. I was also nervous. Supposing one of the family was out and about and spotted me? I decided it would be safer to keep my distance a little and find someone else to get a message to Maruja.

Happily, a likely candidate presented himself fairly quickly in the form of an innocent-looking little boy who was playing in the street. Stationing myself in the doorway of what looked like a derelict house, I whistled and then, once I had his attention, beckoned him over with my finger.

He looked a little nervous as he approached me, but he was obviously pretty streetwise. ‘Hey,’ he said. He was a good foot shorter than I was. Around ten? I wasn’t sure. But a bold ten. ‘What are you calling me for?’ he wanted to know. ‘I can knock you out in a second if you mess with me!’ he added.

I waved a hand dismissively. ‘I have a job for you. You want it?’

‘What?’

‘I need you to go to a house.’ I told him which street it was. ‘The first one,’ I added, describing it to him as best I could. ‘The other side of the bridge, OK? Ask for Maruja – you got that? Maruja. And whisper this message to her. It’s very important that you whisper. Tell her Rosalba is waiting for her. Then bring her back here, to me.’

The boy pulled a face. ‘And you expect me to do this for free?’ He was obviously a true Colombian-raised child.

‘I have many sweets in my pocket,’ I said. ‘And you can have them all as soon as you bring the lady to me.’ I was lying, of course, but this would be a valuable lesson for the boy. Never trust a Colombian.

‘So show me the sweets,’ he said. He was learning pretty fast.

‘I said only when you return with her. Didn’t you hear me the last time? Tell her Rosalba is waiting. Go on. Hurry! Hurry, or I’ll be gone before you’re back. And then you’ll get nothing. OK?’

I watched the boy run away and could feel my heart pounding. Would she be there? Would she come? Was she even still alive? I tried not to think what I’d do if the boy didn’t return.

I was just beginning to think he had run away, sweets or no sweets, when Maruja appeared from around the corner. I felt joy and relief swell inside me as she approached, but she seemed markedly anxious about seeing me. She was dressed smartly, I noticed, and carrying a purse. I felt panic rise in me. Was she already planning to get a taxi and take me back?

‘Rosalba!’ she said, taking me by the shoulders and shaking me. ‘What are you doing here? Why did you come? It’s too dangerous for you here!’

I started to answer, but she was too cross to listen and carried on, ‘Why did you run away? You were safe there! Oh, no
…
’ She began looking around frantically in all directions. ‘Rosalba, you have to understand, they are looking for you. They have their gang working to search for you and kill you. Don’t you realise?’

I shook my head miserably. I hated that she was shouting at me. ‘I came to find you,’ I whimpered. ‘I came to find you.’

Maruja’s expression softened. ‘Oh, Rosalba
…
’ she said.

‘I came to find you because you didn’t come. You said you’d come every Saturday. But you didn’t. I was so worried
…
’

‘Oh, Rosalba,’ she said again. ‘Rosalba, I couldn’t. It was too dangerous for me to go to you. They were after you. They were seriously out to find you and kill you. You have no idea how scared I was that they would. And I felt sure they had an idea that I was in some way connected, Rosalba. They were watching me too – that’s why I couldn’t come to you. I didn’t dare to. They could have followed me. They probably would have followed me. And I would have led them straight to you. And they would have found a way
…
’

She fell silent, glancing up and down the street again. I saw that the little boy was lingering a few yards away, but apart from that the street was empty. For now, at least.

‘Come on,’ said Maruja, having obviously decided on a course of action. ‘Come on, come with me. We have to take you straight back there.’

‘But I don’t want to go back! I want to stay with you!’

‘Rosalba, you can’t. You know that.’

‘But I can’t go back there! I won’t! They beat me, Maruja! They beat all the orphans!’ I yanked at the collar of my dress so she could glimpse my ‘bruises’.

She gasped. ‘They beat you?’

I nodded miserably.

‘Oh, but that’s terrible. I had no idea!’

I started to cry now, not because I was quite the actress I wished to be but because it mattered so much that Maruja didn’t leave me. And she wasn’t immune to my tears. She hugged me. ‘Then you can’t go back,’ she said. ‘How could I possibly send you back there? Oh, you poor child
…
’

‘So can I stay with you now? Please?’

She shook her head. ‘I can’t let you. It’s too dangerous – for both of us. For my family as well. And, Rosalba, my son Guillermo is going out with Consuela now. So they would find out so easily. I can’t let you stay.’

I clutched at her dress, having nothing else left to hold on to. ‘But where will I go?’ I begged. ‘What can I do? Please don’t leave me.’

‘Rosalba, you have to
…
’ She seemed unable to speak now. Was she crying too? ‘Rosalba
…
’ She looked up at the sky, as if for answers. ‘How can I do this?’ she said to it. ‘How can I?’