Red April

Sunday, March 12 / Tuesday, March 21

The institutional parade at Lent had been established by decree in 1994 at the request of the archbishop. It began with the several branches of the armed forces passing before the dais in the Plaza de Armas and saluting the competent authorities of the state, the Church, and the military high command. After the hussars and the rangers, and always to the music of the National Police Band, various schools and institutions paraded past while an official introduced them over the loudspeakers:

“The María Parado de Bellido School: established by ministerial resolution 000578904 and governed by municipal statute 887654333, for two years this school has been training young Ayacuchan seamstresses and serving the interests of national handicrafts. The Daniel Alcides Carrión Institute: created by ministerial resolution …”

Associate District Prosecutor Félix Chacaltana Saldívar liked parades, the sonorous passing by of national symbols. The uniforms made him feel secure and proud, the young students allowed him to trust in the future, the cassocks guaranteed respect for traditions. He enjoyed hearing the National Anthem and the March of the Flag under the brilliance of trumpets and military braid. He sat proudly in the officials' box, dressed in his best black suit, his good tie, and a handkerchief in his pocket. The year before, after his arrival, he had participated by reciting a poem by José Santos Chocano, and the crowd had applauded loudly the seriousness of his recitation and the solemnity of his diction.

He did not like as much what came afterward, when the parade ended and the functionaries gathered for a fraternal celebration in the municipal ballroom. The year before, he had been invited to the celebration because of his poem. This year, perhaps it was a mistake. Although he felt proud to be considered one of the high-ranking officials, he never really knew what to say on those occasions. The competent authorities circulated around him, holding glasses of rosé, without ever stopping beside him. Many of the mid-and low-ranking functionaries spoke to him for a while but looked elsewhere, searching for someone more important with whom to converse. It was easier to communicate with them in writing.

As the celebration progressed and the alcohol made the rounds, the subject became limited to enumerating the women each man desired and the details of a hypothetical sexual encounter. For the moment, Associate District Prosecutor Félix Chacaltana Saldívar did not want to desire any woman. He tended to respond to these catalogues by nodding and wondering when he could say something, a word at least, trying to think of some woman who had attracted his attention. As a consequence, he normally preferred not to be present, to stay home tending to his mother's room or reading to himself the poems of José Santos Chocano. He liked small places, where no one heard his voice. But now he had a reason to go. He had to speak to Captain Pacheco, who had not yet responded to his inquiries. A case as important as this one ought to move to the highest levels as quickly as possible.

As he reached the ballroom, he met Judge Briceño, a short, nervous man with the little eyes and teeth of a guinea pig. They greeted each other. The judge asked:

“And how are things going in the Office of the Prosecutor? Are you getting used to Huamanga?”

“Well, as it happens, right now I am pursuing a case of the utmost importance …”

“I want to buy a car, Chacaltana. Even if it's a Tico. But a judge has to have a car. Don't you agree? I mean, am I right?”

“Absolutely. The case I am pursuing has to do with a recently deceased individual who …”

“A Tico or a Datsun? Because some 1990 Datsuns have come in that have hardly been driven …”

The judge discoursed on the topic for ten minutes, until Chacaltana caught sight of Captain Pacheco near the national pavilion in the ballroom, chatting with an official wearing a sky-blue tie and an officer in uniform. Judge Briceño noticed where he was looking.

“I see that you're aiming high,” he said in a complicitous tone.

“Excuse me?”

“Commander Carrión,” the judge indicated. The prosecutor understood that he was referring to the military man in the group.

“Of course, I have sent him some reports,” he replied.

“Oh, yes? Why? Are you looking for a promotion?”

“What? No, no.” And then he had second thoughts. “Well, one always wishes to serve with more efficiency …”

“Of course, efficiency. That's fine. He's the one who decides here.”

The prosecutor had heard that lie several times but was certain that moving up in the ranks of the Ministry of Justice was independent of any pressure or interference. He tried to say so in response but could not really find the words to formulate a reply.

“Of course,” he agreed at last, involuntarily.

The judge talked about two other car models until he spotted someone more important and left the prosecutor alone. Then the prosecutor approached Pacheco's group and greeted him with martial courtesy. No one introduced him or stopped talking. The prosecutor raised his voice slightly to address Captain Pacheco:

“Excuse me, Captain, hello … I stopped by your office this week with regard to the unfortunate homicide that …”

Pacheco was talking about the advantages of FAL rifles over a limited impact weapon. He seemed annoyed by the interruption.

“Yes, yes, I haven't been able to get back to you, I've been so busy. I'll send you a report soon, Chacaltana.”

“I have already written a report, but I need yours to collate the forms.”

The army officer laughed. The functionary seemed uneasy. The police officer did not want to change the subject. He repeated:

“I'm sorry, really. I'll send you the report as soon as possible …”

“In any event, I am interested in knowing if any missing persons were reported in the past few months in the municipality of Quinua.”

His question resonated uncomfortably with the group. The army officer, who was observing the prosecutor with an ironic look, decided to intervene:

“With Carnival alone ninety percent of faithful husbands must have disappeared.”

Everyone laughed except Associate District Prosecutor Félix Chacaltana Saldívar, who insisted:

“I need that datum to complete my report. If you could forward that to me as soon as …”

He noticed that they had stopped laughing. The army officer looked at the prosecutor in surprise. The police captain was obliged to make introductions. First he introduced the civilian, Carlos Martín Eléspuru, of the Intelligence Service. Then Commander Alejandro Carrión Villanueva.

“Yes. I have sent you several reports,” the prosecutor said in greeting.

The prosecutor did not believe a military man could be concerned with promotions, but perhaps he could facilitate the process. His presence might serve to motivate the police officer to act efficiently with regard to the case. The captain would not refuse to do what was required in the presence of a military man. But the commander looked seriously at the prosecutor.

“Information regarding disappearances is classified,” he said. “If you want that information you'll have to ask me for it. I won't give it to you, but send in your request.”

“It is just that if there is a missing person, it could be the dead man we found.”

The commander seemed irritated by this civilian's impertinence. Eléspuru remained silent. The commander picked up another glass that the waiter brought on a tray. The rose-colored liquid gleamed. Suddenly, a smile appeared on his face:

“Ah! You're the one investigating the case of the cuckold!”

New laughter from everyone except Félix Chacaltana Saldívar.

“The cuckold, Señor?”

The commander took a good-humored sip of his drink.

“The man burned in Quinua. The cuckold must have been pretty angry, don't you think?”

“I am afraid it is too soon to know what happened, Señor.”

“Please, Chacaltana. Three days of Carnival and a man dies. Jealousy. A fight over broads. It happens every year.”

“No family member has claimed the body.”

“Because they never talk. Or haven't you noticed that yet? The campesinos always avoid coming forward, they hide.”

“That is precisely the reason they would not kill this way, Commander. Not so violently.”

“Oh, no? You'd have to see me after a three-day drunk.”

The prosecutor pondered the legal basis for that reply. While he was thinking, the commander seemed to forget him. He joined in the laughter of the other two and continued talking. He said something about the mayor's wife. They laughed. When Chacaltana had begun to seem like a decoration on the national pavilion, he decided to respond to the commander.

“Excuse me, Señor. But I am afraid your reasoning lacks juridical foundation …”

The commander broke off speaking. The man in the sky-blue tie looked uncomfortable. Captain Pacheco began to talk about how attractive the Lenten festivities were turning out. He spoke in a very loud voice. The commander did not stop looking at the prosecutor, who felt totally convinced of his argument. Yes. He was doing it well. Perhaps when the commander had confirmed his professional zeal, he would consider some kind of recommendation for him. The commander said:

“And what do you suggest?”

The police officer closed his mouth again. The prosecutor saw his opportunity to emphasize the gravity of the case and display his powers of deduction:

“I would not presume to discount a Senderista attack.”

He had said it. The silence that followed his words seemed to reach the entire ballroom, the entire city. The prosecutor imagined that with this information they would take the case more seriously. It was a matter of the highest security. Civil law and the Ministry of Justice would collaborate for the common goal of achieving a country with a future. The commander seemed to reflect on his attitude. After a long while, he interrupted the silence with a laugh. Pacheco hesitated for a moment, but then he began to laugh too. And then the man in the sky-blue tie, Eléspuru. After them, the rest of the ballroom and the universe began to laugh just a little and then very loudly, until the air thundered.

“You're paranoid, Señor Prosecutor. There is no Sendero Luminoso here anymore.”

And he turned away to end the conversation. With the pride of an archivist, the prosecutor countered:

“It has been twenty years since the first attack …”

The commander gestured with his hand as if he were brushing away the prosecutor's words.

“Bullshit! We finished them off.”

“That first attack was carried out during an election …”

The military man began to lose patience:

“Are you arguing with me, Chacaltana? Are you calling me a liar?”

“No, but …”

“You aren't one of those politicized prosecutors, are you? You aren't an Aprista or a Communist, are you? Do you want to sabotage the elections? Is that what you want?”

In the face of the unexpected turn in the conversation, the prosecutor opened his eyes very wide and was quick to clarify matters.

“Not at all. If there is a boycott against the elections, rest assured I shall open an investigation as soon as I receive a formal complaint, Commander.”

The commander looked at the prosecutor in disbelief. He thought he was an impossible man. Then he laughed again. This time he laughed slowly, paternally.

“You're pathetic, little Chacaltita. But I understand you. You haven't been here very long, have you? You don't know these half-breeds. Haven't you seen them hitting one another at the fertility fiesta? They're violent people.”

The prosecutor had been at that fiesta several times. He remembered the blows. Men and women, it did not matter. All of them hitting in the face, where it bleeds the most. They believed their blood would irrigate the earth. He remembered the bloody noses and black eyes. The prosecutor usually classified the fiestas as “consensual violence for reasons of religious belief.” Many strange things were done for reasons of religious belief.

“And the Turupukllay?” the commander continued. “What do you think of that? Isn't that bloody?”

The prosecutor thought about the fiesta of the Turupukllay. The Incan condor tied by his claws to the back of a Spanish bull. The bull bucking violently as it bleeds to death, shaking the enormous, frightened vulture that attacks the bull's head with its beak and tears open its back. The condor tries to break free, the bull tries to strike it and knock it off. The condor tends to win the fight, a flayed and wounded victor.

“That is a folkloric celebration,” he said timidly. “It is not terror …”

“Terror? Aha, I understand. And the Uchuraccay massacre, do you remember?”

Chacaltana remembered. He had the feeling it was a very recent memory. But it was almost twenty years old. The corpses, the pieces of their bodies covered with earth, the interminable interrogations in Quechua, pounded at his memory. He felt relieved that things had changed. He did not want to say anything. They seemed distant words that it was better to keep distant.

“I'll remind you about Uchuraccay,” the commander continued. “The campesinos didn't ask those journalists anything. They couldn't, they didn't even speak Spanish. The journalists were outsiders, they were suspicious. They lynched them right away, dragged them through the village, stabbed them. They were so battered they couldn't let them go back. They killed them one by one and hid their bodies the best they could. They thought nobody would notice. What's your opinion of the campesinos? Do you think they're good? Innocent? That all they do is run through the fields with feathers in their hair? Don't be naive, Chacaltana. Don't see horses where there are only dogs.”

Chacaltana had turned pale. He tried to articulate a reply:

“I only … I thought it was a possibility …”

“You think too much, Chacaltana. Get one thing into your head: in this country there is no terrorism, by orders from the top. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Señor.”

“Don't forget it.”

“No, Señor.”

“I want to see your report when you finish with this case. Keep me apprised of what you find out. Perhaps it's still not the right time to cede responsibility to civil jurisdiction.”

The commander turned his back and left. Félix Chacaltana Saldívar, Associate District Prosecutor, could not obtain the required police report that afternoon.

On Monday the 13th, Prosecutor Chacaltana woke with a start at 6:45 a.m. He was perspiring. He had had a nightmare. He had dreamed about fire. A huge blaze that spread through the city and then the fields until it destroyed everything. In the dream, he was in his bed and began to feel that it was raining inside his bedroom. When he got up, he discovered that it was raining blood, that every millimeter of his room was oozing warm red liquid. He tried to escape but the house was flooded, and he could not move through the dense liquid.

When he began to drown and taste the blood in his mouth and lungs, he woke up. He went to the bathroom. There was no water, but the prosecutor had a barrel in reserve for these occasions, which allowed him to wash his private parts and wet his head. He opened it with a trembling hand. It was a relief to verify that there was nothing but water in the barrel. He washed, then combed his hair back as his mother had taught him to do when he was a boy, as he had combed his hair every day of his life. Immediately afterward he went to his mother's room and opened the window. He let in the air and greeted her. Then he took a picture of Señora Saldívar de Chacaltana to have breakfast with him. He chose a photograph that showed him at the age of five, hugging her. She was smiling.

While he ate his breakfast of bread and cheese and mate, he told the picture about his plans for the day and all the documents he hoped to complete. He did not forget that he would have lunch at El Huamanguino to pay his debt to the girl at the counter. For the rest of the morning at the office, the words the commander had said to him the day before resounded in his head. A fight over broads. If the commander said it was a fight over broads, it was a fight over broads. The commander had fought so much that he would know. Yet in the prosecutor's opinion, something did not fit. But Chacaltana was a serious, honest bureaucrat. He was not supposed to have an opinion. Besides, the commander had asked him for his reports. He would read them personally. It was a great opportunity. He thought about Cecilia, his ex-wife. Perhaps this would show her what he was worth. He did not really care about her anymore; it was simply a question of pride. He could be somebody.

Without warning, when it was almost time for lunch, the commander's words began to mix in his head with images from the pathologist's table until he could not concentrate on what he was doing. In a mental flash he saw the face of the dead man wreathed in smoke, the slit up to his shoulder, his black hair. Violence. Jealousy. The word “terrorist” formed in his mind again. It took him back to electric pylons exploding. Ambulance sirens. He thought about his mother to fill his mind with another image. But he succeeded only in evoking the image of fire.

To distract himself, he decided to go out exactly at lunchtime and not fifteen minutes later, as he usually did. He left the Office of the Prosecutor and went to the previously mentioned restaurant. The same girl as the last time was working behind the counter, but now she wore black slacks and low-heeled shoes. The blouse was the same. Pink. With embroidery. This time she wore her hair pulled back in a bun.

“How nice that you came back. Your table's ready.”

Now he had a table, as if he were a regular customer. It was the only place in the world other than his house where he had a table. It was the same one as the last time, beside the door. In fact, the table was already set. Again the restaurant was empty. She announced:

“Today we have deep-fried guinea pig.”

The prosecutor nodded his agreement. While she went to the kitchen, he looked at the television on the wall. On the screen, a woman was hitting a man, the two of them surrounded by an audience that cheered the hair-pulling and biting. The prosecutor found out that she was his fiancée and that he had deceived her with her sister, her cousin, and her great-aunt. He did not want to see any more. Twelve minutes later, the girl came out of the kitchen. She served him the guinea pig and an Inca beer. The Associate District Prosecutor brought the flatware to the plate and saw the rodent's face. Its mouth was open and it had long, aggressive front teeth. It seemed to Félix Chacaltana that the guinea pig wanted to eat him. He put down the knife and fork.

“It's not that hot,” the girl said defensively.

“Thank you. It is just that … I was thinking.”

“You think a lot, don't you?”

You think too much, Chacaltana.

“No, it is … I just work.”

“And what were you thinking about? If you don't mind my asking.”

She laughed as if she had asked a very naughty question. Associate District Prosecutor Félix Chacaltana Saldívar tried to think up a convincing lie.

“A dead man,” he said.

His mother had already told him he did not know how to lie. The girl did not seem surprised. She began to wash some dishes.

“There are a lot of them around here,” she said.

“Yes.”

“I talk to them.”

“Are you serious?”

“With my papa and mama. I go to see them in the cemetery and talk to them, I bring them flowers.”

“Of course. I do the same thing. With my mother. Her memory is always with me.”

Suddenly, he felt comfortable in this place. As if he were home. She turned around. She did not stop washing but gestured toward the guinea pig with her nose.

“Aren't you going to eat?”

“Yes … Yes. Right away.”

He tried to pick up a piece of meat with the fork. The bones were mixed up with the skin. The best thing was to eat with his hands. Touch it. And bite it. On the screen, the same man was still being hit, now by two women at the same time.

“What would you like them to do with you when you die?” the girl asked as she dried some flatware.

“What?”

“I wouldn't want to go to the cemetery. It's like … having a house where you don't live. And my family would have to go all the way out there. In the end they'd get lazy and stop going.”

“Maybe they can bury you in your house.”

“No. My house is very small.” She dried her hands. “You don't like the guinea pig, do you?”

“Yes I do! Very nice. It is just … just that I would like a mate with it … please.”

“Today we only have coffee.”

“Coffee would be fine.”

“Coffee with guinea pig? You're very strange, Señor …”

“Félix. Call me Félix.”

“Don Félix.”

“Just Félix. Please.”

She took a jug of boiling water off the fire and poured a cup. She placed it on the table and beside it the little pitcher of coffee essence. The prosecutor poured the liquid into the hot water. The coffee color began to spread in the water, like dark blood. The prosecutor hated Ayacuchan coffee. Watery. Weak.

“I'd ask to be cremated,” she said.

“What?”

“To be cremated. Turned into ashes. Then my family could have me at home when they wanted to see me.”

An oven. Fire. A crematory. A furnace that feeds on people. It was simple, really.

“And where would you do that?”

“In the Church of the Heart of Christ. They have an oven. And it's closer to my house than the cemetery.”

“They have that? Churches don't have ovens.”

The prosecutor asked as if he were a tourist. She laughed again. In a corner of her mouth she had a silver filling that glistened in the light.

“This one does. What about you? You'd be buried, wouldn't you?”

“I have to go.”

He stood with the feeling that something was boiling in his head. Perhaps he had time to stop by that church before his lunch hour was over. In any event, if not he could claim the pressure of work. He had not made note of it in the morning, but perhaps he could send a memo correcting his statement regarding justified absences. Perhaps the proof that they were not terrorists would be there. Jealousy. It had to be jealousy. It had to be demonstrated that it was jealousy. She watched him get up from the table. She seemed disappointed.

“You could at least taste it before you say you don't like it!”

“Oh, no … you do not understand. It is just that I am in a terrible hurry. I promise that tomorrow … What is your name?”

“Edith.”

“Edith, of course. I promise that tomorrow I'll come and really eat lunch. Yes, I promise.”

“Sure, go on.”

The prosecutor tried to say something clever. All he could think of was jealousy. He left the restaurant, reached the corner, and remembered that he ought to pay the bill. He did not want her to think he was an opportunist. He turned and walked toward the restaurant. Then he thought that if he paid, she would think he was not returning the next day. In the middle of the street, he wondered what he should do. He looked at his watch. He would go to police headquarters and to the church. It would be better not to be distracted from his work. He looked toward the restaurant one last time. Edith was cleaning his table. He waited for her to look up. To wave good-bye to him. She finished the table and then swept up a little. She looked at the sky. The sky was clear. Then she disappeared again into the interior. The prosecutor thought about the oven. Edith had cooperated with the law without realizing it. He retraced his steps to the restaurant. He went in. She was surprised to see him return. He said:

“Thank you. Thank you very much.”

“You're welcome.”

She smiled. He realized then that he was smiling too. Feeling calmer, Félix Chacaltana Saldívar continued on his way.

He stopped by police headquarters, where the same sergeant as last time received him:

“Good afternoon, I am looking for Captain Pacheco.”

“Captain Pacheco?”

“That is correct.”

The sergeant wrote down the prosecutor's information again on a piece of paper and went into the office. He came out nine minutes later:

“The captain is very busy right now but asks that you send him a written request, and he'll study it carefully.”

“It is just that … the police ought to carry out this investigation. I cannot move forward if I do not see that you are moving forward too.”

“Of course, I understand. I'll let the captain know.”

The Church of the Heart of Christ was beyond the Arch, almost where the mountain began. The principal nave was completely overlaid with wood and gold leaf, and the stained-glass windows were representations of the Stations of the Cross. In one corner there was an altar to Our Lady of Sorrows with the seven daggers in her bosom. On the other side, near the sacristy, was an image of Christ dragging the cross to Golgotha. There were short red candles before each holy image. The image of the crucified Christ looked down on the main altar. Félix Chacaltana stared at his somber nakedness, the drops of blood running down his face, the wounds of the nails on his hands and feet, the gash in his side.

A hand touched his shoulder.

The prosecutor jumped. Behind him was a priest still dressed in the vestments of the Mass. He carried several objects of silver and glass. He was about fifty years old and had very little hair.

“May I help you? I'm Father Quiroz, the pastor of Heart of Christ.”

The prosecutor accompanied the priest as he put away the implements of the Mass in the sacristy, explaining the situation. On the wall hung a chiaroscuro image of Christ raising his hands to God. His perforated hands. The crown of thorns circled his head like a red and green tiara. Chacaltana wanted to say something agreeable:

“How beautiful your church is,” was what occurred to him.

“Yes, it's beautiful now,” the priest responded as he placed the wafers in a plastic box. “We've restored it recently with money from the government, this church and all the others. There are thirty-three churches in this city, Señor Prosecutor. Like the age of Christ. Ayacucho is one of the most devout cities in the country.”

“Religion is always a consolation. Especially here … with so many dead.”

The priest polished the paten and chalice carefully.

“Sometimes I don't know, Señor Prosecutor. The Indians are so impenetrable. Have you ever seen the churches of Juli, in Puno?”

“No.”

Quiroz took off the green and gold chasuble and the cordon that tied the stole around his waist. He folded the cloth articles and placed them delicately in a chest in order not to wrinkle them. Each gesture seemed like another ritual of the Mass, as if each movement of his hands had a precise meaning. He said:

“They are open-air churches, like corrals. The Jesuits built them during the colonial period to convert the Indians, to have them attend Mass, because they worshipped only the sun, the river, the mountains. Do you see? They didn't understand why worship was held in an enclosed place.”

“And did it work?”

The priest locked with a key each of the chests in which he had placed articles. He carried the keys on a large ring.

“Oh, yes, to keep up appearances. The Indians were delighted to attend Mass, and at Mass … They prayed and learned canticles, they even took Communion. But they never stopped worshipping the sun, the river, and the mountains. Their Latin prayers were only memorized repetitions. Inside they continued worshipping their gods, their huacas. They deceived the Jesuits.”

Father Quiroz stood facing the prosecutor. He was tall. Félix Chacaltana thought he ought to contribute something to the conversation. He wondered what Commander Carrión would say. He asked:

“What would you have recommended?”

“One reaches the true spirit only through suffering. Pleasure and nature are corporeal, worldly. The soul is full of suffering. Christ endured blood and death to save us. Penance is the only way to reach the heart of man. Shall we go down now?”

The prosecutor nodded. He had not understood very well what the priest had said about suffering. In general he did not like suffering. They left the church and walked down a short alleyway that led to the small parish house. In the living room there was an accumulation of old furniture, cardboard boxes, and church decorations. Quiroz made an embarrassed gesture. He said:

“Forgive the disorder. I usually see people in the parish office. I'm the only one who comes in here and that's only to sleep. The oven is down below.”

The prosecutor remarked:

“I did not think Catholics had crematories.”

“We don't. The body should reach the day of the Final Judgment to be resurrected with the soul. The basement of the parish house was a storeroom. The recent crematory was built in the 1980s at the request of the military high command.”

“The high command?”

They stopped at a heavy wooden door. The priest took out another key and opened it. In front of them were damp unlit stairs. Holding on to the walls, they climbed down to the basement. It smelled of incense and enclosure.

“Too many dead. The city was often under siege, and the cemeteries were full. One had to dispose of the bodies.”

“And why did they do it here?”

“In wartime, every request from the military is an order. The high command considered us the ones who took care of people after they were dead. According to them, the logical thing was for us to take care of the oven.”

Down below a faint light came from a small, high window of opaque glass that faced the alley. The priest turned on the overhead light. It was a white neon bulb, like the one at the morgue, but round. When he turned it on, more boxes appeared piled up in a corner. And beside them, in the stone wall, was an opening with a metal door and lining. A chimney, which must have gone up to the roof of the house, protruded on one side. As if it were a baker's oven, the priest showed him how it operated. The body was introduced vertically into the oven, lying on a grate. The fire was fueled by gas and distributed uniformly around the body until it was reduced to powder. The ashes were collected in a metallic tray that was reinforced to withstand the heat, and from there they went down to the urn or jar where they would rest forever.

“We haven't used it for a long time. The people here are very tied to the earth. And I don't like the idea of destroying the body, either. Only God should dispose of bodies.”

The prosecutor placed his hand inside the opening. He touched the walls, the door. They were cold.

“Could it have been used recently without your consent?”

“Nothing is done here without my consent.”

The priest adjusted a cross hanging on the wall. It was a black cross without the image of Christ. Just a black cross on a gray surface. The prosecutor did not want to think about the cross burned into the forehead of the corpse.

“And on the night in question did you notice anything unusual? Any noise? Anything unexpected?”

“I don't know, Señor Prosecutor. I don't know which is the night in question.”

“I thought I told you. Forgive me. It was Wednesday the 8th. Just after Carnival. The body was found on the same day it died.”

The priest made an ironic face.

“How appropriate.”

“What do you mean?”

“Ash Wednesday. It's time to purify bodies after the pagan festivities and begin Lent, the sacrifice, the preparation for Holy Week.”

“Ash Wednesday. Why Ash?”

The priest smiled pityingly.

“Ah, secular public education. Nobody taught you the Catechism at your school in Lima, Señor Prosecutor? On that day a cross of ashes is marked on the foreheads of Catholics, as a reminder that we are dust and will turn to dust.”

His mother had taken him to church from time to time and that sign had been put on him by a cold, black hand. He touched his forehead, as if he wanted to wipe away the mark.

“To remember that we are going to die?” he asked.

“That we are going to die and will be resurrected to a purer life. Fire purifies.”

Without knowing why, the prosecutor felt as he had days earlier in the office of Dr. Posadas. Faint. He wanted to cancel the visit. There was no jealousy here. He decided to ask something that had no answer, something that would leave the crematory like a dead-end street, something to be forgotten.

“What … other persons have access to this place?”

“As I told you, this place is hardly used. I have the only key. Do you consider me a suspect?”

“Oh, no, Father, please. But I think perhaps someone could have tried to make the corpse disappear in your oven. Do you know if anyone could have had access to a copy of the key?”

The priest reflected for a few seconds.

“No.”

The Associate District Prosecutor felt more and more relieved with each answer. There was nothing else to do here. To be certain he had fulfilled the duties of his position, he insisted:

“Some worker or civilian who offered his services, for example?”

“Well, a few weeks ago I had to dismiss a cleaner. He had stolen a chalice. A rather dim-witted Indian, actually. I don't consider him capable of planning anything. But if he had wanted to, he might have had access to the key, I suppose.”

The prosecutor unwillingly took out his notebook. He regretted having insisted on the question.

“Aha. His name?”

“Do you think he brought a corpse here at night and then carried it through the streets only partially burned? I don't believe that poor soul of God …”

“It is just routine. I will verify it for my report.”

“If I remember correctly, his name was Justino. Justino Mayta Carazo.”

“Thirty-one.”

“What?”

“Nothing, forget it.”

The Associate District Prosecutor again felt perspiration on his forehead. He wanted the police here. He looked at the oven again. He wanted to be buried when he died.

in this city the ded arent ded. they walk the streets and sell candy to the children. they greet the adults. they prey in the churches.

sometimes there are so many i wonder if im ded too. maybe im skinned and cut up, my peeces at the bottem of a pond. everything i see is only what my eyes see and maybe there not here anymore.

maybe i dont know it anymore.

but hes really ded. really. his ashes cant wander around. his arm isnt an arm anymore. his skins got nothing to cover. thats why he talks to me that way. thats why he complanes. and i tell him you cant do anything anymore, you son of a bitch. ha. you cant do anything anymore.

too many sins. all there in your chest like the worms that eat you. the fire. but you cant do anything anymore. your cleen.

thanks to me.

i came from hell to save you. i cleened your blood and your semen out of the sewers so there wont be more sins like you. bastard. i did it for you. your skins good for feeding the dogs. your spit. your spit.

some day men — ded men — will look back and say the 21st sentury began with me.

but you wont see the 21st sentury now.

your cleen.

because of me.

Associate District Prosecutor Félix Chacaltana Saldívar spent the rest of the week trying to locate Justino Mayta Carazo for the pertinent interrogation. He had recovered somewhat from the grim impression made by the crematory. In fact, he was calmer. He thought the commander was right. Unmistakably a fight over broads. Mayta Carazo had tried to make the evidence disappear, but a body takes a long time to turn into ashes. He must have seen that he would be found out and pulled the body out in time. The cross on the forehead was to mislead the authorities. In the end he said that he had found the body to deflect the suspicions of the police. No terrorists, just a crime of passion. With motive and opportunity. The commander would be pleased with his investigation.

In order not to waken his fears, the prosecutor sent to the domicile of the suspect three subpoenas and two summonses to appear as a witness. At the same time, he sent Captain Pacheco an account of the facts so the police could locate the suspect. By means of briefs, he inquired about him in the municipality of Quinua and in the appropriate parish.

On Friday he still had not received a reply. The messenger ser vice at the Office of the Prosecutor informed him that they had not sent out a single envelope all week because the messenger was sick. Maybe he'd feel better next week. Or maybe not. The prosecutor thought that if matters were put off too long, the commander would forget about his case. He himself wanted to forget about it as soon as possible. The case seemed to inflame his memories. That night he discussed the situation with his mother:

“I really don't know, Mamacita. If I don't resolve this case, they won't give me another good one. I've learned by now that you have to fight your way up.”

He remembered a voice saying: You're an incompetent with no future, Félix. You'll never amount to anything. It was not his mother's voice, but he remembered it clearly. He remembered an empty pillow, like his mother's. He remembered the Lima fog at the windows of the enormous building where he worked, on Avenida Abancay. He did not want to go back there.

“I'm going to look for Mayta myself. I'm going to prove to the commander that I'm an exemplary prosecutor. Even if it fucks me up, excuse my language, the fact is this case makes me very nervous.”

On Saturday the 18th he got up at seven and had breakfast with a photograph of his mother in Sacsayhuamán, in her native Cuzco. It was a sunny, tranquil photo, as if meant to begin a good day. After saying good-bye, he closed the windows of his mother's room because he would be out late. He went to the jitney stop and took public transport. He sat between a woman carrying a hen and two boys who looked like brothers. When they left Ayacucho he enjoyed the view of the dry, interminable mountains and the river far below. The sky was clear. On the road to Quinua, the landscape became greener and more lush in places. At the end of the trip, the doors of the houses decorated with little ceramic churches indicated that he was close to his destination.

The prosecutor got out of the jitney beside a soccer field where about ten boys without shoes were playing. The two who had ridden with him ran to join the others. He realized too late that his trousers were covered with their snot. He cleaned it off with his handkerchief, passed the shops for tourists, and entered the village. He asked a street vendor:

“Mamacita. I'm looking for Justino Mayta Carazo. Have you seen him?”

The vendor did not take her eyes off her altarpieces and weavings. She said:

“Well, who's he I wonder?”

“Don't you know Justino? Don't you live in the village?”

“Well, what's he look like I wonder?”

“Do you know where this address is?”

“Not too far, right over there.”

Then she mumbled a couple of phrases in Quechua. The prosecutor understood that “not too far” could mean “two days away.” He remembered how difficult it is to question Quechua speakers, especially if they also do not feel like talking. And they never feel like talking. They are always afraid of what might happen. They do not trust anybody. Street by street he looked for the address he had written down on a piece of paper. Finally he came to a narrow house that seemed to have only one room downstairs and another upstairs, with one window. He knocked at the door. He had the impression that someone was watching him from the upstairs window, but when he looked up he did not see anything. After a long wait, an old woman opened the door a crack. In the darkness all he could see was one of her eyes and part of her long black braid.

“Well, what is it I wonder, Señor?”

“Good morning, Mamacita, I am looking for Justino Mayta Carazo. I am from the Ministry of Justice.”

She closed the door and when she was inside she asked him to show his identification. The prosecutor passed it to her under the door. He thought he heard whispering inside. He waited a while longer until the woman opened the door again and asked him to come in. The house was scantily furnished with a table and two chairs. It had no light and no bathroom. The sofa was on bricks instead of legs and had a blanket thrown over it. Two children watched curiously from the hand ladder that went up to another bare brick space.

“Justino isn't here,” said the woman. “He left.”

“Where could I find him?”

“Well, where is he I wonder? He left.”

“When did he leave?”

“A while ago now.”

“Do you mind if I take a look around the house? It is … an official investigation.”

She looked upward. She said nothing but did not try to stop him either. The prosecutor checked the small first floor, but there was nothing of interest. He began to climb the creaking ladder. The children watched him in silence. He greeted them, but they did not respond. They simply stared at him. He climbed up with difficulty because the ladder seemed about to fall. One of the boys coughed. The prosecutor got a splinter in his hand. He licked the puncture. Then he heard the thud. It was like a large sack of potatoes landing on the street. He went up two more rungs and was on the second floor. The upstairs window was open. He turned to go down but missed his step and fell to the bottom of the ladder. When he stood up, he felt a pain in his leg but went to the door and looked out. He caught sight of a man racing around the corner. For a second he wondered if following him was the responsibility of the Associate District Prosecutor or if he only had to pass along the information. Then he remembered the fire. He thought that pursuit was the responsibility of the National Police, and if he ran after the man, he could be liable for usurpation of duties. He looked at the woman:

“Who was that?”

“Who?”

“The one who left here.”

“Nob'dy left here. Nob'dy.”

He knew it would make no sense to accuse the woman of obstruction of justice. He went to the offices of the municipality. He was going to slip his official documents under the door but remembered that no one could sign the receipt certificate on a Saturday. He considered his official activities over for the day.

Before returning to the city, he decided to visit the Quinua plain. He climbed the highway until he reached the flatland crowned in silence that extended between the mountains in front of him. He was out of breath after the climb, but he was no longer limping. And it was peaceful. The only thing up there with him was the huge marble monument to the Liberators erected by the military government of Velasco. He imagined the heroic battle that had given the nation its freedom. He thought of the sound of weapons tearing apart the eternal silence of the plain. In the distance, past where the plain ended, he could see the tops of trees moving in the wind, and a stream. He was overcome by a feeling of pride and freedom. He sat down next to the monument to look at the landscape. He used his handkerchief to wipe the perspiration from his forehead, searching out parts of the cloth that had not been dirtied with snot. He noticed that he could not hear anything. Not a sound. He felt a whistling in his ears, the acoustic illusion produced when there is silence around us. The plain was transmitting the music of death.

He spent several minutes breathing the clean sierra air until he decided to go back. When he stood, he heard breathing behind him. He had just started to turn when he heard another thud, this time a fist landing directly on his jaw, and then another dry thud, like the handle of a shovel or something like it landing on the back of his neck. He felt everything going black around him, he did see a red wool mountain hat, a pair of shoes with tire soles running, racing away from him, and a man hurrying across the plain while silence invaded everything.

He woke as it was growing dark, a sharp pain in his head. Above him the sky was turning red, announcing the darkness, as if it were bleeding onto the setting sun. He touched the back of his neck. It felt warm and wet. He stood, returned to Quinua, and took another jitney to Ayacucho. When he reached home he hurried to wash his wounds. He did not know if he should file charges, he did not know why he had been hit. He had never been hit in his life. Or had he? No. He had never felt a blow. He told himself he would be able to think more calmly the next day. This case was becoming a headache. He went to bed, not without first bringing into his room a photograph of his mother in the rocking chair, smiling warmly. He wondered who would take care of her if anything should happen to him. He was afraid for her. He did not want to leave her alone, not again.

He thought that if it were a case of terrorism, it would be under military jurisdiction. If not, the police ought to intervene. His work had ended honorably, with the greatest effort on his part, even with wounds received in the line of duty.

But for the next two nights, nightmares gave him no peace.

Added to his dreams about fire were dreams about blows, dry thuds, and a woman's screams. On Sunday he had to sleep in his mother's bed to feel safe. On Monday he woke shaken by the blows in his dreams. As soon as he opened his eyes, he was certain the institution of the police would take charge of the case that same day.

In the afternoon, after he left the Office of the Prosecutor, he went to police headquarters. He had a bandage on the back of his neck covering the wound.

“Good afternoon, I am looking for Captain Pacheco.”

The sergeant on duty was the same one as before. Chacaltana wondered if he lived in that desk.

“Captain Pacheco?”

“That is correct, yes.”

Nervously the sergeant went into the side office. He stayed for six minutes. Then he came out.

“Unfortunately the captain isn't here right now. He's gone to the barracks with respect to certain operations.”

“Do you know when he will be back?”

“I have no specific knowledge in that regard.”

It was late. The prosecutor thought about the work piling up in his office for the next day: sending his regrets for two banquets, and preparing a memorandum for the provincial prosecutor regarding sexual crimes in the region. Prosecutor Chacaltana considered the request from the provincial prosecutor as a way to finally recognize his work in the field and his thinking about this social misfortune. Furthermore, he had to write a document concerning electoral transparency before the next elections. It was very difficult for him to make the decision, but he had no time to lose. And he did not have anything better to do to fill the hours after work. After thinking it over for a moment and finding a chair to sit on that had fewer holes, he said:

“I will wait for him here.”

He sat down. The sergeant was not expecting that answer. He seemed nervous. He looked at the office. Then he looked again at the prosecutor.

“No, the fact is … The captain won't be back for hours. Maybe he won't come back at all. But I'll inform him that you …”

“I am in no hurry, but I do feel some urgency.”

“He left word that he'd send you a report with regard …”

“I prefer to see him, thank you.”

The sergeant's look turned into an entreaty. He sat down and took a deep breath. So did the prosecutor. The sergeant let half an hour go by before he spoke again, with a yawn.

“I don't think he's coming back anymore today, the captain.”

“If he comes tomorrow morning, I will still be here. Or Thursday. Or whenever.”

He was surprised by his own decisiveness, but it was true that the functioning of the mechanisms of inter-institutional communication in Ayacucho left much to be desired. He thought that perhaps in this way he might be able to improve them. He could be very bold if he put his mind to it. He shifted in his seat and let time pass. At 8:00, two gendarmes came in and the sergeant had them go into the office. They came out at 9:00, cheerfully saying good-bye to someone inside. At 10:30, the sergeant repeated that he would inform the captain that the prosecutor had stopped by. At 10:31, the prosecutor replied that it would not be necessary because he would be in the reception area when the captain arrived. At 11:23, he took off his jacket and arranged it over his body as if it were a blanket. At 11:32, he began to snore with a muffled whistle. Finally, at 12:08, the sound of a door wakened him. Captain Pacheco came out of the office, looked at the prosecutor with hatred, and kept walking to the bathroom. He stayed inside for seven more minutes, after which he came out drying his hands to the sound of the toilet flushing. The sergeant stood to greet him:

“Good evening, Captain! I didn't know you were here. The prosecutor came to the office to …”

“Shut up, damn it. Go in, Chacaltana. You want to talk? We'll talk.”

The Associate District Prosecutor followed him into the office, victory shining in his smile. Captain Pacheco sat down heavily behind his desk, beside the national flag, beneath the photograph of the president. On the wall hung the coat-of-arms of the police with its motto: “Honor is their shield.”

“Before you begin, allow me to say that you are really a pain in the balls,” he said by way of official greeting. “What happened to your head?”

The prosecutor was afraid to say that he had been beaten. He would not be respected if he said that.

“Nothing, I fell. And I am sorry for recent events, Captain, but I have sent a brief to your off …”

“Yes, yes, yes. Mayta Carazo. I've seen it.”

“Unfortunately, your response in this regard seems to have been lost and never came into my possession …”

“I didn't send you a response, Chacaltana. And I'm not going to send you one. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“No, Captain. I need your cooperation and collaboration to close the case of …”

“Chacaltana, are you an Aprista or an imbecile?”

“Excuse me, Captain?”

“Didn't you hear Commander Carrión when he spoke to you?”

“Yes, Captain. And I believe, in fact, that I have found confirmation of his suspicions … I have evidence that indicates that the aforementioned Justino …”

“I don't want to know what evidence you have. I don't want to know anything having to do with this case. Elections are just around the corner. Nobody wants to hear about terrorists in Ayacucho.”

“Permit me to express my surprise at your words …”

“Look, Chacaltana, I'll be totally frank with you, and I hope this is the last time we talk about this subject. The police are controlled by the Ministry of the Interior, and the interior minister is a military man. Doesn't that tell you something?”

“That does not constitute an irregularity. Members of the armed forces are authorized to …”

“I'll try to say it so even you can understand: They make the decisions here. If they don't want an investigation, there's no investigation.”

“But it is our duty …”

“Our duty is to shut up and do what we're told! Is it so difficult for you to get that into your head? Listen, I have no interest in helping you because I don't feel like it. But even if I did want to help you, I couldn't. So don't get me involved in this because you'll fuck up my promotion. Please, I'm begging you! I have a family! I want to go back to Lima! I can't be bothering Commander Carrión.”

In the hierarchical gears that constituted the mind of Associate District Prosecutor Félix Chacaltana Saldívar, there was no place for the possibility of not being promoted because of following procedures. To the contrary. He tried to explain the point, but the captain interrupted him:

“Why don't you write a report and close the case once and for all? Attribute it to a fire or a car accident … And everybody's happy.”

Chacaltana opened his eyes in genuine surprise.

“But I … I cannot do that … Doing that without the police report is illegal, Captain.”

The captain buried his head in his hands. He closed his eyes. He moved his lips gently, as if counting to one hundred in silence. When he was calmer, he said:

“Chacaltana, this is an emergency zone. A large part of the department is still classified as a red zone. Laws are legally suspended.”

“Moreover, the survivors of the deceased could demand …”

“He has no survivors! Nobody knows who he is! The case has not been leaked to the press. Nobody will complain, the Indians never complain. They don't care. And neither do I.”

The picture of the president seemed to tremble at his back when he said that. Then the office sank into silence. On his desk, the captain had national ID-size photographs of his family, two children and a wife. Chacaltana liked families. But at that moment he rose to his feet in genuine indignation.

“I also want to close this case as soon as I can, Captain, but your report has to reach me because procedure demands it. I cannot conclude the process without a report. I am keeping a record of how the details of the proceedings are being executed.”

Chacaltana walked with dignity toward the exit. The captain leaned back in his chair. Just before Chacaltana opened the door, the captain said:

“Is that all?”

Chacaltana stopped. He did not turn around. He knew he had won.

“It is why I have come.”

Chacaltana said this in a firm tone of voice, standing rigid beside the door. The captain demanded confirmation:

“If I give you a report written by my experts and signed by me, there won't be any more problems?”

“The only problem we have is the administrative irregularity that does not allow us to close the case.”

The captain sketched a smile. Then he stopped. He frowned. Chacaltana maintained the imperturbable face of the professional prosecutor. The captain gave a clear laugh.

“Fine, Chacaltana, I understand. I'll speak to my people and get my men together. You'll have your report tomorrow first thing in your office. Thanks for the visit.”

In reality, that was the only thing the Associate District Prosecutor was waiting to hear.

He left police headquarters with the feeling that he had engaged in a great battle and won. Still, he understood the misgivings of the police. He should not forget they were living in a red zone, and that always made people more suspicious.

At that hour everything in the city was closed. No one was in the streets except for an occasional patrol, a leftover of the curfews. He walked through the silent blue night to his house, breathing the clean provincial air. When he reached his house he went to his mother's room. It was cold because the window had been open all day. He apologized as he closed it.

“I'm sorry, Mamacita. I left you alone all day. It's just that this case is very difficult, Mamacita. Very sad. The deceased has no survivors. Can you imagine? How sad.”

Still speaking, he took from a drawer the warmest wool pajamas and laid them out on the sheets.

“If you die without anyone to remember you it's like dying twice. Where can this man's family be? Who'll remember something nice about him, or turn down his bed at night, or give him his pajamas? Nobody at all, Mamacita. Nobody to look at his photograph or say his name at night. Do you see how it is? When someone ceases to exist like that, it's as if he never had existed, as if he had been a ray of sunlight that leaves no trace afterward, when night falls.”

He caressed the pajamas and the sheet. Then he picked up a photograph from the bureau, the one of his mother alone, with her sweet young gaze. He carried it to his room and put it on the table beside his bed, to feel less alone after he closed his eyes.

The next morning, in fact, the police report was lying on his desk. The prosecutor opened it and looked it over. It was very badly written, full of redundancies and spelling mistakes, but the content was simple and legally valid. The police version differed from his hypothesis but contributed definitive proofs suggested by their experience in the investigation of malefactors and homicides. Throughout the day he verified certain data. They were correct. He called police headquarters, where Captain Pacheco answered the phone personally, certified his procedures, and offered all the cooperation at his disposal.

The prosecutor had no ambition to play a leading role. He did not want to engage in controversy or doubt the good faith of institutions. If the competent authorities offered a more solid version of events than his, he accepted it. His job was to facilitate the operation of the forces of law and order, not stand in their way. True, he did feel proud about the change in attitude he had caused in Captain Pacheco, who had overcome his resistance and collaborated, finally, with the greatest efficiency. In the long run, the captain would realize the advantages of cooperation among institutions in times of peace. And thank him.

He accepted the police report as valid and decided to close the case with the information at his disposal. He wrote a report that did not satisfy him on account of its excessive length. He threw it in the wastebasket. He wrote another page but found it full of simplifications and omissions. Again he threw it out and wrote a third page, being especially careful about syntax and punctuation: simple, nothing excessive, sober. As he corrected the commas and tildes, he felt relieved. Images of the burned man would not bother him again. And above all, the channels of inter-institutional communication had proved themselves effective. One more sign of progress.

On Tuesday, the seventh day of March, 2000, when festivities to celebrate Carnival were in progress, an electrical storm was pragmatically verified visually in the highlands of Huancavelica, producing a significant amount of material and personal damage in unpopulated areas.

Subsequently, the aforementioned meteorological phenomenon moved in the direction of the province of Huamanga, where its verification has not been duly corroborated as a consequence of the alcoholic condition of the inhabitants of said province during the abovementioned celebration.

The deceased in question, a one-armed man whose identity could not be established, demonstrating that this is a matter of a traveler and/or foreign tourist, presented himself, due to the abovementioned meteorological conditions, to take shelter for the night in the residence of Nemesio Limanta Huamán (41), who refused the aforesaid permission, although due to the fraternizing that took place on the above-referenced dates, he has no memory in this regard.

Despite the refusal of Nemesio Limanta Huamán (41), the deceased in question had recourse to his prerogative to take shelter for the night, thus committing the crime of breaking and entering and unlawful use of private property, entering the hayloft, said appurtenance serving as well as a repository of kerosene and other combustible liquids utilized in the process of small-scale farming and animal husbandry.

The deceased in question remained in the environs of the hayloft for a period of two days when, in an effort to evade the consequences of his crime, he hid in the straw to avoid being seen by the inhabitants of Quinua, a reason that contributes to the explanation of the general lack of memory with respect to his presence in this locality.

On Wednesday, the eighth day of March, 2000, at approximately the hour of dawn, an electrical charge, caused by unfavorable meteorological conditions, produced in the form of a lightning bolt a fire in the residence of Nemesio Limanta Huamán, precisely in the locale of the hayloft where the abovementioned deceased in question was taking shelter for the night. Struck on his shoulder by the meteorological phenomenon, which opened a wound, and bursting into flames, the deceased in question revealed his ignorance of rural customs when he attempted to extinguish the fire with certain combustible liquids, which, combined with the action of the electrical charge, intensified the process of combustion and deteriorated into a blaze of considerable proportions which, however, due to the dampness of the element of straw, did not spread to other structures on the aforementioned property.

In conclusion, in the corresponding fall to the ground of the aforementioned deceased, his face hit the hay harrows, producing a sharp cruciform puncture wound on the frontal cranial area.

In witness whereof this is signed, on Friday, the seventeenth day of March …

Now it was perfect, with appropriate conjugations and correct pauses. Along with the relief of seeing the report completed, there was also the knowledge that there was no murderer loose in the province. No terrorists. The war was over. Not even a crime of passion. Certainly, concerned with the consequences of his being discovered, Justino Mayta Carazo had fled the prosecutor, who did not believe it necessary to denounce him because of that. His fear was also normal.

The prosecutor made the necessary copies and placed them in their respective envelopes. He sent them with the satisfaction of a job well done. He thought about his mother. She would be proud of him. He thought about Edith. In the turmoil of the case, he had forgotten to seek her out during the past week. He ought to stop by the restaurant. He suddenly felt his appetite return.