2666 (62 page)

There were no other deaths of women in May, with the
exception of those who died of natural causes, that is, of illness or old age,
or in childbirth. But the end of the month marked the appearance of the church
desecrator. One day a stranger came into the
church
of
San Rafael
,
on Calle Patriotas Mexicanos, in the center of Santa Teresa, during the early
service. The church was almost empty. There were just a few of the faithful
clustered together in the front pews, and the priest was in the confessional.
The church smelled of incense and cheap cleaning products. The stranger sat in
one of the last pews and got right down on his knees, his head buried in his
hands as if it ached or he felt ill. Some of the elderly parishioners turned to
look at him and whispered among themselves. One little old lady came out of the
confessional and stood motionless staring at the stranger, as a young woman
with Indian features went in to confess. When the priest had absolved the
Indian woman of her sins, the service would start. But the little old lady who
had come out of the confessional just stood there staring at the stranger,
although sometimes she shifted her weight from one foot to the other, doing a
kind of dance step. She knew immediately that something was wrong with the man
and she intended to go and warn the other old ladies. As she walked up the main
aisle, she saw a pool of liquid spread across the floor from the pew where the
stranger was sitting and she smelled urine. Then, instead of moving on toward
where the old ladies were clustered, she turned around and returned to the
confessional. She knocked several times on the priest's little window. I'm
busy, my child, he said. Father, said the little old lady, there's a man here
who's polluting the house of the Lord. Yes, child, I'll be with you in a
moment, said the priest. Father, I don't like this one bit, do something, for
the love of God. As she talked, the little old lady seemed to dance. I'm
coming, my child, be patient, I'm busy, said the priest. Father, there's a man
doing his business in the church, said the little old lady. The priest poked
his head out between the threadbare curtains and peered through the sepia dusk
at the stranger, and then he stepped out of the confessional and the woman with
Indian features also stepped out of the confessional and the three of them
stood frozen watching the stranger who was moaning faintly and kept urinating,
wetting his pants and loosing a river of urine that ran toward the vestibule,
confirming that the aisle, as the priest had feared, was worryingly uneven.
Then the priest went to call the sexton, who was having his coffee at the
sacristy table and looked tired, and the two of them went up to the stranger to
scold him and throw him out of the church. The stranger saw them coming and
gazed at them with his eyes full of tears and asked them to leave him alone.
Almost at the same moment, a blade appeared in his hand, and as the old ladies
in the front pews screamed, he stabbed the sexton.

The case was entrusted to Inspector Juan de Dios
Martinez
, who was reputed to be capable and
discreet, a quality some policemen associated with religious faith. Juan de
Dios
Martinez
talked to the priest, who described the stranger as a man of about thirty,
average height, dark-skinned, sturdy, your average Mexican. Then he talked to
the old ladies. To them, the stranger was no average Mexican, he was the devil
incarnate. So what was the devil doing at the early service? asked the
inspector. He was there to kill us all, said the old ladies. At two in the
afternoon, accompanied by a sketch artist, Juan de Dios
Martinez
went to the hospital to take the
sexton's statement. The sexton's description matched the priest's. The stranger
smelled of liquor. The smell was strong, as if he had washed his shirt the
night before in a basin of ninety-proof alcohol. He hadn't shaved for days,
although you couldn't really tell because he didn't have much of a beard. How
did the sexton know he didn't have much of a beard? Juan de Dios
Martinez
wanted to know.
By
t
he way the hairs grew on his
face, skimpy and every which way, like they were stuck there in the dark by his
bitch of a mother and his cock-sucking faggot of a father, said the sexton.
Also: he had big, strong hands. Hands maybe too big for his body. And he was
crying, no question about that, but he also seemed to be laughing, crying and
laughing at the same time. Do you know what I mean? asked the sexton. Like he
was high? asked the inspector. Exactly. That's it. Later Juan de Dios
Martinez
called the Santa
Teresa asylum and asked whether they had an inmate who matched the description
he had compiled. They said they had two, but neither was violent. He asked if
they were allowed out. One is and the other isn't, he was told. I'm coming to
see them, said the inspector. At five, after eating lunch at a coffee shop
where cops never went, Juan de Dios
Martinez
parked his metallic gray Cougar in the asylum parking lot. He was received by
the director, a woman of about fifty, with her hair dyed blond, who had coffee
brought in for him. The director's office was pretty and struck him as
tastefully decorated. On the walls there were two prints, a Picasso and a Diego
Rivera. Juan de Dios
Martinez
spent a long time gazing at the Rivera print as he waited for the director. On
the desk were two photographs: one was of the director, when she was younger,
with her arms around a girl looking straight into the camera. The girl had a
sweet, blank expression on her face. In the other photograph the director was
even younger. She was sitting next to an older woman, regarding her with an
amused expression. The older woman had a serious air about her and stared at
the camera as if she thought it was frivolous to have her picture taken. When
the director came in at last, the inspector could see immediately that many
years had gone by since the pictures were taken. He observed further that the
director was still very attractive. For a while they talked about the mental
patients. The dangerous ones weren't allowed out, the director informed him.
And there weren't many dangerous ones, anyway. The inspector showed her the
sketch the artist had made and the director examined it carefully for a few
seconds. Juan de Dios
Martinez
stared at her hands. Her nails were painted and her fingers were long and
looked soft to the touch. On the back of her hands he counted
a
few
freckles. The director said the sketch wasn't good and it might be anyone. Then
they went to see the two patients. They were in the yard, an enormous yard with
no trees, a dirt yard like a soccer field in a slum. A guard dressed in white
T-shirt and trousers brought out the first inmate. Juan de Dios
Martinez
heard the director
ask how he felt. Then they talked about food. The patient said he could hardly
eat meat anymore, but he said it in such a scattered way that the inspector
couldn't tell whether he was complaining about the menu or informing the
director of a recently acquired aversion.
 
She talked about protein. The breeze in the yard ruffled the patients'
hair. We need to build a wall, he heard the doctor say. When the wind blows it
makes them nervous, said the guard dressed in white. Then they brought out the
other inmate. Juan de Dios
Martinez
thought at first that they were brothers, although when the two were side by
side he realized the resemblance was deceptive. From a distance, he thought,
maybe all madmen look alike. Back in the director's office, he asked how long
she'd been the head of the asylum. For ages, she said, laughing. I can't even
remember how long. As they drank more coffee, of which the director was clearly
very fond, he asked if she was from Santa Teresa. No, said the director. I was
born in
Guadalajara
and I studied in
Mexico City
and then in
San Francisco
,
at
Berkeley
.
Juan de Dios
Martinez
would have liked to keep talking and drinking coffee, and maybe ask whether she
was married or divorced, but he didn't have time. Can I take them with me? he asked.
The director looked at him uncomprehendingly. Can I take the patients with me?
he asked. The director laughed in his face and asked if he was right in the
head. Where do you want to take them? To be part of a kind of lineup, said the
inspector. The victim is in the hospital and can't go anywhere. You lend me
your patients for a few hours, I'll take them on a ride to the hospital, and
you'll have them back before dark. You're asking me? said the director. You're
the boss, said the inspector. Bring me a court order from the judge, said the
director. I can get one, but it's just red tape. Also, if I come with a court
order, your patients will be brought in to the station, they might be kept a
night or two, it won't be any fun for them. But if I take them with me now,
it'll be easy. They ride in the car with me, I'm the only cop, and if the
victim makes a positive identification, you still get your boys back, both of
them. Doesn't that seem easier? No, not to me it doesn't, said the director,
bring me a court order from the judge and then we'll see. I didn't mean to
offend you, said the inspector. I'm shocked, said the director. Juan de Dios
Martinez
laughed. Well, I
won't take them, then, and that's the end of it, he said. But will you promise
to do your best to make sure neither of them leaves the asylum? The director
got up and for a moment he thought she was going to kick him out. Then she
called
h
er secretary and asked for
another cup of coffee. Would you like one? Juan de Dios
Martinez
nodded. Tonight I won't be able to
sleep, he thought.

That night the stranger from
San Rafael
found his way to the
church
of
San Tadeo
, in Colonia
Kino, a neighborhood springing up amid the scrub and rolling hills of
southeastern Santa Teresa. Inspector Juan de Dios
Martinez
got a call at midnight. He was
watching TV and after he hung up he collected the dirty plates on the table and
put them in the sink. From the drawer of the night table he took his gun and
the sketch, which he had folded in four, and went down the steps to the garage
where his red Chevy Astra was parked. When he got to San Tadeo some women were
sitting on the adobe steps. There weren't many of them. Inside the church he
caught a glimpse of Inspector Jose Marquez questioning the priest. He asked a
policeman whether the ambulance had come yet. The policeman looked at him with
a smile and said there were no casualties. What the fuck was all this? Two
crime scene technicians were trying to find prints on a statue of Christ next
to the altar, on the floor. This time the freak didn't hurt anyone, Jose
Marquez told him when he was done with the priest. Juan de Dios
Martinez
wanted to know
what had happened. Some tripped-out asshole showed up here around ten, said
Marquez. He was carrying a switchblade or a knife. He sat in the last row.
There. Where it's darkest. An old woman heard him crying. Because he was sad or
happy, I don't know. He was pissing. Then the old woman went to call the priest
and he jumped up and started to smash statues. Christ, the Virgin of Guadalupe,
and a couple of other saints. Then he left. And that's all? asked Inspector
Juan de Dios
Martinez
.
End of story, said Marquez. For a while the two of them talked to the
witnesses. The description of the perpetrator matched the description of the perpetrator
at
San Rafael
.
Juan de Dios
Martinez
showed the priest the sketch. The priest was young and seemed tired, not
because of what had happened that night but because of something that had been
wearing him down for years. Looks like him, the priest said indifferently. The
church smelled of incense and urine. The chunks of plaster scattered across the
floor reminded him of a movie, but he couldn't remember which one. With the tip
of his foot he nudged one of the fragments. It looked like a piece of a hand
and it was soaked. Have you noticed? asked Marquez. What? asked Juan de Dios
Martinez
. The bastard
must have a huge bladder. Or else he holds it as long as he can and waits until
he's inside a church to let go. When Juan de Dios
Martinez
came out, he saw some reporters from
El Heraldo
del
None
and
La Tribuna de Santa
Teresa
talking to bystanders. He went for a walk through the nearby
streets. It didn't smell of incense there, although at times the air seemed to
waft directly from a septic tank. The streets were barely lit. I've never been
here before, Juan de Dios
Martinez
said to himself. At the end of the street he spotted the shadow of a big tree.
It stood in a poor imitation of a
plaza,
the tree the only thing that
gave the barren semicircle any resemblance to a public space. Around the tree
were some clumsily built benches where the neighborhood residents could sit and
get a breath of fresh air. There used to be an Indian settlement here,
remembered the inspector. A policeman who'd lived in the colonia had told him
so. He dropped onto a bench and gazed up at the imposing shadow of the tree
silhouetted menacingly against the starry sky. Where are the Indians now? He
thought about the director of the asylum. He would've liked to talk to her just
then, but he knew he wouldn't dare call her.