Red April

Thursday, April 20

On Wednesday, the nineteenth day of April, 2000, when it was close to midnight, in the act of making the rounds on the night shift in Cell Block E for terrorists in the maximum security prison of Huamanga, police officer Wilder Orozco Pariona verified the absence of the inmate Hernán Durango González, alias Comrade Alonso, from his respective cell. The appropriate guards in the penitentiary having been alerted, Colonel Olazábal summoned the inmates to form in rows in the courtyard of the abovementioned cell block, where the thesis of Officer Orozco was confirmed in practice in the sense that the convicted terrorist had proceeded to escape the prison during the night.

The police garrison at the prison, which affirms that the escape lacked viability and that it has not discovered tunnels or other practical means of escape for the inmate, immediately proceeded to comb the area surrounding the prison to discover some clue regarding the unknown whereabouts of the above-cited inmate, with almost no results during the first hours of the search.

In the early-morning hours of Thursday, the twentieth day of April, as a police patrol was returning to the maximum security prison following a search operation in which the fugitive had not been captured, the duly constituted authorities in this regard declare having seen a bonfire on one of the hills adjacent to the perimeter of the prison, on the slope that faces away from the penal institution, so that in practical terms the fire was not visible from the prison. Considering that the presence of fire was unusual in proximity to the aforesaid penal institution, the patrol resolved to approach for purposes of investigation as well as prevention of sinister possibilities pertaining to the forest.

Having reached the slopes of the aforementioned hill, the police officers state that they were surprised by what appeared to be a human figure of considerable proportions at the foot of the bonfire. However, despite reiterated calls by the patrol, the supposed person did not turn around or give any sign of responding to their calls, appearing instead to have lingered there in thought. Because the darkness did not permit them to distinguish the features or political or criminal affiliation of the abovementioned person, the members of the National Police affirm that they drew their respective weapons in order to proceed to make an approach to the person, who displayed no sign of attempting to flee or of being surprised at their appearance.

Having reached the foot of the bonfire, in the act of requesting the person to stand on his feet with his hands behind his head, which corresponds to procedures employed for reasons of security in searching suspects, the officers declare that they discovered that the object in question, which they had taken for a person, lacked all signs of life and was identified instead as a corpse, whose considerable proportions seem to have been due to the fact that it was resting in a cruciform arrangement on a tree two and a half meters high, to whose branches the upper extremities had been nailed at the wrists.

Similarly, one of the lower extremities had been attached to the lower portion of the trunk by the same method, it having been verified that the other extremity was not found in the same circumstances due to the fact that it was totally missing from the body, from which it had in fact been torn off. The cadaver, by all accounts, displayed a crown tightly encircling its forehead, consisting of approximately a meter and a half of barbed wire, rolled around the head and tightened on it under conditions in which it pierced the skin of the entire cranial perimeter. A cut on the left side, at the height of the heart, was still bleeding.

The officers who effected the discovery have required psychological treatment subsequent to this action. Nevertheless, early the next morning, other police officers, such as Wilder Orozco Pariona and Colonel Olazábal himself, identified the deceased as the fugitive Hernán Durango González, alias Comrade Alonso, and lamented the outcome of his unfortunate escape.

The prosecutor raised his head from the typewriter. This time, he did not even check the syntax of his report. It seemed to him that it was simply a useless piece of paper. The data were not enough. The narrated facts had nothing to do with the murder but with its discovery. It was as if in order to describe a fishing run, one learned how the fish is served at the lunch table. It had nothing to do with what was really important. In reality, none of his reports had anything to do with what was important. He thought the relevant information was precisely what the report did not contain: who did it, why, what was going through his head. A truly useful report ought to be written knowing each detail in the lives of those involved: their pasts, their memories, their habits, even their most irrelevant conversations, the perversions that crossed their minds at the moment of execution, everything that no one could know. A real report, he concluded, could be written only by God, at least by someone with a thousand eyes and a thousand ears who could know everything. But if there were people like that, he thought, reports would not be necessary.

That morning, for the first time, he had been present at the place where the crucified corpse was located. At the top of the tree, like a placard saying INRI, was a note written in the corpse's blood:

KILLED FOR BEING A RAT

Sendero Luminoso

Impossible to know if it was the same writing as on the earlier note. One does not write the same with a pencil as with the tip of a knife. In fact, although being present at the place where the body was discovered had seemed more professional, he did not know more about this body than he had about the previous ones. Nearby were the tracks of a truck, but this was the road to the prison. Almost all the vehicles that drove there were trucks carrying food, inmates, or relief guards.

He returned to the city at six in the morning, when the Masses were over and workers were beginning to decorate the churches with loaves of bread, grapes, and lambs. Ayacucho smelled of the aromatic herbs that the faithful were boiling on braziers.

After writing his report, he went to see the pathologist.

“I can't tell you it's a pleasure to see you more and more frequently,” was Dr. Posadas's greeting as he handed him a mask. The prosecutor was going to tell him that the smell of death filled the obstetrics ward, but he decided to say nothing. It was not his problem. He already had enough problems.

The body, which had been taken down from his cross, lay on the usual table, uncovered. The holes in his forearms and only leg permitted a view of the surface of the table underneath. The crown had been fitted tightly to his forehead.

“Spare me the sordid details, Doctor. What's new?”

“More sordid details, Señor Prosecutor. That's the only thing that's ever new here.”

The doctor said this with a half smile as he lit a cigarette. He never seemed overwhelmed; on the contrary, he looked almost happy. The prosecutor wondered if the doctor liked his work, if he scrutinized the bodies with real pleasure in what he did.

“Again it looks like the action of a cell. One man on his own couldn't have staged that whole show in so short a time.”

“Of course. Then we are talking about a few men.”

“It could have been only two. And a woman, usually.”

“A woman?”

“A strange thing about the terrorists. They organized into groups of men led by women. I don't know if they're still doing it, one never knows with them. But apparently the women were always the strongest ideologically. And the most bloodthirsty. The men were errand boys, so to speak. They were good for confrontations and technical jobs. But if you had to give a coup de grâce, the woman in charge took care of that.”

“A woman couldn't do this.”

“No. But she could order it.”

The prosecutor collapsed into a chair. He looked exhausted. He said:

“I don't even know if it makes sense to look very hard at the body. Now there are other incomprehensible details. The escape, for example. How did Durango disappear from a maximum security prison without anyone seeing him?”

The doctor took out a chocolate and began eating it. Now he held the chocolate in one hand and the cigarette in the other.

“Is that what's bothering you? If you guarantee your discretion, I'll give you an answer: Colonel Olazábal is a cretin who thinks of nothing but a promotion. They must have bribed him. For a long time he hasn't cared who he works for.”

It was the last straw. Now the best allies of the terrorists were the police. But there was still something that did not fit:

“And Durango escaped in order to die?”

“Maybe they're the ones who killed him.”

“If you had seen the faces of the police when they found the body, you would not say that.”

“That's another problem. I only know what I'm telling you. And remember, I haven't told you anything.”

The light flickered. The doctor was right. It really was another problem. But it was the principal problem. All the victims seem to have gone directly, almost willingly, to their murder. With Mayta and Durango it was reasonable. They trusted their comrades, they went along. The first one, Cáceres, also had an explanation: he was hopelessly mad, mad with blood. People who have killed too much never recover. It doesn't matter which side they did it for.

The doctor made a general description of the wounds: hematomas on the shoulders and bruises that indicated a strenuous struggle before being nailed up. Muscular lacerations resulting from long nails in the extremities. Chacaltana did not listen. He barely noticed the mixture of liquids that ran from the wounds. The red of blood and something greenish black: he had no idea what it could be. And he did not ask. He was lost in his own thoughts.

He left the hospital plunged into dark nausea. A crowd had gathered around the bishop of Huamanga, who performed the traditional washing of the twelve beggars. The prosecutor had the report to deliver to Carrión. As he passed through headquarters, he asked himself what in hell he was going to tell him. That he had no idea about anything, that the terrorists were still at large, that he had no more theories, that he had never had any theories. He realized that his eyes were filling with tears. He thought about what his mother would have done in this situation. He decided to leave the report at reception and continue on to the Church of the Heart of Christ. He found Father Quiroz about to leave. Father Quiroz was always about to leave. When the prosecutor appeared, he greeted him with a smile that barely disguised his annoyance.

“Today I really am sorry, Señor Prosecutor, but it's Holy Thursday and, as you can understand, I cannot attend to you. Besides, these aren't working days. Why don't you continue your investigation on Monday?”

“I have not come to investigate, Father.”

“Ah, no?”

“I have … come to confess.”

“Well, perhaps that can wait too. God will understand.”

The priest looked toward the door, where two nuns were waiting for him. He looked at his watch. The prosecutor said:

“There's a new corpse.”

The priest began to lead him slowly by the arm to the door as he listened to him.

“I'm sorry. How did he die?”

“You don't even want to know. But I know who killed all of them.”

“Are you serious?”

The priest did not seem to be listening carefully. He appeared lost in his own thoughts.

“It was me,” said the prosecutor.

The priest turned pale. He seemed to stop breathing. As if to recuperate, he sighed deeply and turned toward the nuns at the door. With a gesture he told them to continue on their way. They seemed disappointed but submissive. Then, Quiroz took the prosecutor to a confessional and each of them took his place. The prosecutor kneeled when he heard the confessor's screen move and said:

“I don't know how to do this, Father. I haven't confessed for a long time.”

The priest quickly whispered some formulas that Chacaltana could not make out. Then he said:

“Just tell me. We're not going to give you an intensive course on the sacraments now.”

The prosecutor swallowed. He looked at the Baroque images in the church, the red candles at each altar, before he said:

“All the people I talk to die, Father. I'm afraid. It's … it's as if I were signing their death sentences when I leave them.”

“My son,” said the priest. Suddenly Chacaltana had stopped being Señor Prosecutor. “Perhaps … perhaps you are carrying too much … These deaths aren't your fault.”

“I'm afraid. I don't sleep well. This … all of this is as if I had already seen it. There's something in all this that has already happened, something that speaks of me. Do you understand? You don't understand, do you?”

“My son, the terrorist madness knows nothing of reasons or feelings. If you allow yourself to be morally destroyed by them, you're letting them win. That's what they want. For you to collapse. Then their work will be easier.”

Tears escaped again from the prosecutor's eyes:

“I've seen things … Things you cannot imagine. They …”—he had just noticed how hard it was for him to say it—“they tear off limbs … They cut off arms and legs …”

“Don't underestimate me, my son. I also fought. I know what you know. I know them.”

“Why, Father? Why can't they simply kill? Why does it have to be like this?”

“There is a reason beyond barbarism.” The priest's paternal warmth was congealing into a serious, dry tone. “In the Andes there is the myth of Inkarri, the Incan King. It seems to have emerged during colonial times, after the indigenous rebellion of Tupac Amaru. After suppressing the rebellion, the Spanish army tortured Tupac Amaru, they beat him until he was almost dead …”—blows, blows, blows, thought the prosecutor—“then they attached his limbs to horses until he was pulled to pieces.”

The images of Tupac Amaru quartered followed one another in the mind of the prosecutor as if he had experienced them. His mother had told him the story once, in Cuzco, the city that the chief had besieged and where he had been killed. The prosecutor's mother was Cuzcan. The priest continued:

“The Andean campesinos believe that the parts of Tupac Amaru were buried in different places throughout the empire so that his body would never join together again. According to them, those parts are growing until they can rejoin. And when they find the head, the Inca will rise again and a cycle will be closed. The empire will rise again and crush those who bled it. The earth and the sun will swallow the God the Spaniards brought in from outside. At times, when I see the Indians so submissive, so ready to accept anything, I wonder if on the inside they aren't thinking that the moment will arrive, and that someday our roles will be reversed.”

“What does Sendero Luminoso have to do with that?”

“A great deal. Sendero presented itself as the resurgence. And it was always conscious of the value of symbols. They killed a woman and blew up her body with explosives to shatter her into pieces. In this way, her parts will never unite again. Her resurrection was made impossible.”

“Against whom are we fighting, Father? They're everywhere and at the same time they're not. They're invisible. It's like fighting ghosts.”

“It's like fighting the gods we don't see. Perhaps we're fighting the dead.”

They remained in silence for a few minutes. Suddenly, Quiroz seemed to remember something:

“When did they kill the last one?”

“Last night, almost at dawn, after the procession of the Meeting.” The prosecutor felt relieved at having spoken with the priest, but exhausted, as if he had lost all his breath in the conversation. He sighed. “There was no special security. We had deployed it for Palm Sunday, and even Monday, but more could not be justified.”

The priest thought for a moment and said:

“There's … another Andean myth that perhaps you ought to know about. In general, beginning on the night of Holy Wednesday, the Indians abandon themselves to the most … sinful celebrations. Torrents of alcohol flow, and a good deal of sex, and usually there are violent incidents. It goes on until Resurrection Sunday.”

“Until the Sunday of Glory.”

The priest was annoyed:

“It's called Resurrection Sunday. Only the ignorant and the blasphemous call it the Sunday of Glory.”

“Forgive me. And why do they do that?”

“It's another Andean superstition. Starting on Holy Wednesday, the day of Christ's Calvary, God is dead. He no longer sees. He no longer condemns. There are three days for sinning.”

When he heard this Chacaltana understood he had no time to lose. He would have to reactivate security. It was as if he had recovered consciousness after a long mystic interval. The priest, too, had things to do. When he left the confessional, Chacaltana shook his hand with sincere gratitude:

“Thank you very much, Father. I feel much better. And you have given me many useful clues. I have spo …” He stopped himself. Then he decided to say it. “I have spoken with people who do not trust you very much. But there are others who have expressed their appreciation of your person.”

The priest smiled as he walked to the door. The prosecutor noticed that he was the only figure who smiled in that church.

“I won't ask you to tell me who has spoken ill of me, but I would like to know who has spoken favorably.”

The prosecutor felt he was trustworthy. He thought it would not be a bad thing to tell him. Just the opposite.

“Edith Ayala. The woman in the restaurant on the square.”

The priest gave him a big smile.

“Of course I know her! She would come here frequently. Poor girl, she has suffered a great deal on account of her parents.”

“Her parents?”

“Don't you know?”

“She does not talk about them very much.”

“It's understandable. Her parents were terrorists. They died in an attack on a police barracks. The two of them together.”

The prosecutor remembered his conversation with Edith: How did they die? On account of the terrorists. On account of. Not killed by the terrorists but in their name. As he was saying good-bye to the priest, he tried to forget he had heard that. He had more urgent things to think about. He hurried to headquarters, past people visiting churches and enjoying typical food at the stalls in the Plaza Mayor. He thought that any one of them could be a member of the Senderista renascence. He reached headquarters and went in as far as Carrión's waiting room. His secretary looked nervous.

“May I go in?” he asked.

She looked at him in anguish.

“He doesn't want to see anybody. He's been locked in there since Friday. He hasn't even gone out to eat. We bring him food, but he hardly touches it.”

“Perhaps I can do something.”

“Try, please. Maybe he'll listen to you. If I attempt to announce you, he won't answer the intercom.”

Prosecutor Chacaltana opened the door of the office. It was dark inside, and it smelled. The curtains were closed and two full plates of food were rotting beneath the worktable. The commander was sitting at his desk, dark circles under his eyes, gaunt, looking as if he had not bathed in months. He did not greet him.

“Did you hear about Durango?” asked the prosecutor.

The commander seemed to return from a very distant place before responding in a cavernous voice:

“That's no longer my affair.”

The commander handed him a sheet of paper he was holding in his hand. The prosecutor managed to read it in spite of the half-light. It was a letter to Carrión from Lima with the letterhead of the Joint Command of the Armed Forces, announcing his retirement.

“It is not time for you yet.” The prosecutor was surprised.

“Here it's time for whatever they want. They've modified the chains of command to their liking. It's over.”

They sank into a dark silence that the officer broke only minutes later:

“Did you leak information to Eléspuru, in Intelligence? Did you talk to him about this?”

“No, Señor. I do not know how they could have known …”

“They know everything, Chacaltana. Everything. But I suppose that doesn't matter anymore. My replacement will arrive when the festivities are over. Perhaps he doesn't even have anything to do with this. There will be new elections, maybe they want to place an officer here who's less irritable than me, or more manageable, or whatever the hell it is.”

It was difficult to know if his voice expressed relief or frustration. The prosecutor felt abandoned, betrayed. It seemed to him that for the commander to leave when he was caught in the middle of these problems was the easy way out. He looked carefully at the officer and changed his mind. Nothing seemed easy for that man.

“And what are you going to do?” the prosecutor asked.

“I'll go north, to Piura or Tumbes. I want a quiet place. And most of all, one very far from here.”

The prosecutor dropped into a chair. In spite of the size difference between the seats, this time he did not seem smaller than the commander.

“You cannot leave like this,” he said with aplomb. “We have not finished yet.”

The commander laughed. At first very quietly, then in great bellows. When he managed to control himself, he lit a cigarette between coughs. The prosecutor had never seen him smoke. Carrión said:

“Finished? This is only the beginning, Chacaltana. Our work of two decades has just gone all to hell. We can't even guarantee our own security. We'll never stop them. They'll keep coming back.”

“But it is our job …”

“To fight the sea? Because that's what we're doing. After all, I've been reading during the days I've been inside. Ayacucho is a strange place. The Wari culture was here, and then the Chancas, who never let themselves be conquered by the Incas. And then the indigenous rebellions, because Ayacucho was the midway point between Cuzco, the Inca capital, and Lima, the capital of the Spaniards. And independence in Quinua. And Sendero. This place is doomed to be bathed in blood and fire forever, Chacaltana. Why? I have no idea. It doesn't matter. We can't do anything. I suggest that you leave too. You must be on the blacklist by now, you'll be next.”

“We ought to investigate Olazábal. Durango's escape is very suspicious. Don't you think so? And perhaps it was the colonel who sent a report to Lima about this.”

“Are you deaf? Today's a holiday, and on Monday I'm leaving. Do whatever you want, I don't care. And keep the pistol. It's a gift.”

Then he made the gesture he always made when he said “Thanks, you can go.” But he did not say anything. Again they remained in silence.

“I want to ask you for something …,” the prosecutor said at last. “I have reason to believe that the next attempts will take place in the next few days. I want to double security.”

The irritation intensified in the already irritated eyes of Carrión.

“Again, Chacaltana? Haven't we already been ridiculous enough?”

“Believe me this time. I am not wrong.”

Carrión looked at him as if he were his son, his heir, with more tenderness than pride.

“I was once like you, Chacaltana. I thought we could stop this. But it's stronger than the two of us. This is the history of a country. Spare yourself the disappointment.”

Chacaltana was no longer a boy. But perhaps he felt strong in spite of everything. He felt he was coming closer, that his life, after all, would have some meaning, even if that meaning were found in death. It was an idea that no longer seemed contradictory to him. He held Carrión's gaze and said:

“I have to stay. That is also stronger than me. You are still an authority. Sign the security order. I will take care of everything else.”

The commander took a blank sheet of letterhead out of his desk and signed it.

“Dictate whatever you want to say to my secretary. It's the last favor I'll do for you, little Chacaltita. I'll ask for one in return: take care of yourself, please.”

Chacaltana took his leave of the commander with a military salute. He thought about embracing him but did not dare. In any case, he would have liked to. It would have been like embracing a father. Commander Carrión had been anything but a good man, but at least, perhaps, his final gestures had redeemed him through fear. Perhaps that was the only way to really be redeemed.

Twenty minutes later, he went to police headquarters with the signed order. The usual sergeant was at the door.

“Good afternoon, Señor Prosecutor. Unfortunately, Captain Pacheco has told me to say that for the moment he isn't in, but that if … Señor Prosecutor. Señor Prosecutor!”

Chacaltana went directly to Pacheco's office and opened the door. Inside were the captain and Judge Briceño. The sergeant at the door pulled at the prosecutor's arm as he spoke to the captain.

“Excuse me, Señor! I informed the prosecutor that you were absent, but …”

“Shut up, you imbecile!” replied Pacheco. “And get out. Come in, Señor Prosecutor. Since you have lost your manners, at least have a seat.”

Without sitting down, the prosecutor placed the paper on his desk.

“I have an order from Commander Carrión to double security, effective immediately.”

“From whom?” asked the captain, looking as if he did not recognize the name.

“Commander Carrión, who has made clear to me his concern regarding …”

“I'm afraid he hasn't heard what happened,” intervened Judge Briceño. The captain smiled. “It's understandable. It's clear you're too distracted by your own matters. The commander is no longer in command here.”

They seemed pleased by the news. Perhaps they had just been celebrating it. The prosecutor replied:

“His retirement is not yet in effect, Señor Judge.”

“When people die,” answered the judge, “one doesn't wait for their death to be in effect. They just die, Prosecutor Chacaltana.”

Chacaltana looked from one to the other. Then he said:

“The order is in response to the need for extreme security measures …”

“In the absence of the commander, I decide what security measures are needed,” said Pacheco. “And I'm not going to deprive my men of their time off without a good reason. Unless you have a judicial order. Why don't you ask Judge Briceño for one? Ah, I forgot, it's a holiday, the judge isn't working!” He became serious. “Neither are we.”

“You do not understand. There is a killer on the loose!”

“A killer?” asked the judge. “We don't know about any killer. There's no record of any complaint of murder in the judicial district. I don't know if you've been whispering about something with your commander, but we don't know anything. If you want institutions to function, you have to transmit your information to them, Señor Chacaltana. If not, what can we do?”

Chacaltana hesitated. Then he recovered his confidence:

“You two will be complicit if you do not carry out the order.”

“Excuse me,” a falsely offended Briceño replied. “Are you accusing us of something? If that is so, say it clearly, please. You could be guilty of contempt or insubordination. What are you calling us?”

He made a gesture of taking notes as he waited for Chacaltana's response. The police captain continued smiling, with a smile like that of the president looking at him from his photograph on the wall. The prosecutor thought they were in this office together, law and order. And he understood that it made no sense to continue to insist.

“Nothing, Señor Judge. This … must have been a misunderstanding.”

“Of course, a misunderstanding,” Captain Pacheco confirmed.

The prosecutor noticed that both were looking in his eyes, penetratingly, as if trying to find out something else, something lodged in the interior of his optic nerve, perhaps. Briceño said:

“Now that things are clearer, you ought to sit down. Perhaps we're still in time to chat about the future. The captain and I in fact were coordinating plans with regard to the absence of Commander Carrión. Perhaps you should join our working group.”

A month earlier, perhaps, the invitation would have flattered him. He would have visited Edith to celebrate his entrance into the circles of Ayacuchan power. He would have enthusiastically participated in the meetings of the working group, turning in reports and suggesting reforms to streamline administrative processes. But the offer was late, as if it had come to him from another time in his life. He realized that he felt like a mature man now, perhaps for the first time in his life, an adult who would make decisions consulting only with himself. He looked at both functionaries and could not contain a small smile that barely played at the corners of his mouth, a smile of superiority, of self-sufficiency.

“I see that you like the idea,” said Briceño. On the other side of the desk, Captain Pacheco seemed to limit his function to smiling and celebrating each of the judge's ingenious, arrogant phrases. The prosecutor first shook his head while continuing to smile. Then he pronounced his decision:

“No, no … I think it would be better if I did not.”

To the surprise of the other two, he walked to the exit and left the office, slamming the door behind him. He imagined the judge and the captain laughing inside, celebrating death with Holy Week, preparing to drain the city's blood like two vampires. Carrión the cat was out of combat. The mice were beginning to play even before he left the city.

It was already dark outside. There were no processions that day, and the tourists filled the streets in a disorderly way, not going anywhere in particular. Drunks were piling up at the corners of the Plaza Mayor. Chacaltana could not watch over the whole city by himself. He could not have a thousand eyes and a thousand ears; he was not even very good at writing a report. He realized he had not eaten lunch. He needed to sleep. He decided not to look for anyone, not to see anyone, to go directly to his house. He returned home, greeted his mother, fixed some chicken soup, and went to bed. He was sad and tired, tired of not being able to do anything. He thought that tonight there would be another dead body and he was the only one who knew it. Then he became aware that it might be his turn to be the victim. With the tranquility of someone making preparations for supper, he got up and locked the door and the windows of his house. He even put a padlock on his mother's window, begging Señora Saldívar de Chacaltana's pardon for the inconvenience and assuring her it was a temporary measure. He pushed the sofa and an armchair against the door to the house, and the bureau and armoires against the windows. He went back to bed, making certain he had his weapon close by. As he tried to fall asleep, he thought about Edith. Better not to look for her. He would only put her in danger. Everyone I talk to dies, he thought. It occurred to him to masturbate with the memory of her smooth breasts that tasted of trout. He did not have time for that. In spite of his fear, he felt his eyelids closing.

At two in the morning, he was assailed by a new nightmare. It had to do with fire and a church. Blows on a bleeding body in a temple. He saw a white man with a Limenian accent hitting a woman. He saw her blood staining the baptismal font, the white cloths of the altar, the chalice, the chasuble. And then the explosion, the fire devouring both of them. But the man did not stop hitting the woman, kicking her on the ground, shouting at her. He tried to get closer to defend her and went through the flames. The shouts seemed familiar. The man's voice especially, he knew it in some corner of his memory that he had allowed to be consumed by flames. He was closer and closer to the aggressor. In the dream he did not have the weapon but was sure he could bring down the savage with his own hands. Now the blood did not seem to stain the church but to flood it. The pool was growing beneath his feet, it reached his knees, his waist, and interfered with his movement toward the violent man, who had not stopped beating the woman as he began to drown in the red liquid. Once at his side, he took the man by the shoulder and wheeled him around to face him. It was like turning around a mirror. It was his own face held up by the aggressor's shoulders.

He woke with a start, sweating. He went to the bathroom to wash his face. He looked at himself in the mirror. He felt old. He thought about what he had said that morning in the confessional. Everybody I talk to dies. He felt a palpitation. He tried to go back to sleep but could not. He got up, dressed, and moved the furniture away from the door, scratching the floor. He went out. One hundred meters later, he turned and went back to his house. Silently, so his mother would not hear him, he went to his night table. He took out the pistol, hung it under his jacket, and went out again to the Church of the Heart of Christ.