Red April (10 page)

The National Office of Electoral Processes, according to what he was told at the police station, had been set up in the house of Johnatan Cahuide Alosilla, who owned some fields under cultivation outside the village and would be in charge of the polls and
the counting of votes. As soon as he entered, the Associate District Prosecutor saw a poster of the president, like Captain Pacheco's, but bigger. He introduced himself. Johnatan Cahuide, the head and sole functionary in the office, greeted him pleasantly. He assured him that everything was ready for the elections. The prosecutor remarked:

“Excuse me, Johnatan, but we will have to take down that photograph of the president. The law stipulates that electoral advertising is forbidden two days prior to the ninth of April.”

“That? That's not electoral advertising. This is an office of the state. It's a photograph of the chief.”

“But the chief is a candidate.”

“Yes, but there he doesn't appear as a candidate but as the president.”

The Associate District Prosecutor—now Provisional Electoral Inspector—promised himself that he would review the relevant clause in the law.

“How many people are going to vote here?”

“Three thousand. Tables will be set up in public school Alberto Fujimori Fujimori.”

“That is the name of the school?”

“That's right. The president founded it almost in person.”

“And do you think we could cover over that name? The law stipulates that electoral advertis …”

“That isn't electoral advertising. That's the name of the school.”

“Of course. Has the training been completed for the poll workers?”

“Yes.” Johnatan Cahuide showed him the registration sheets. “The authority approved two people.”

“Two?”

“That's right, Señor Chacaltana. Most of the poll workers have to travel by mule for two days and bring their family because they
don't have anybody to leave them with. And so they don't come. We're lucky if they come on Sunday to vote.”

“But are they informed about the candidates … about their rights?”

“The army boys …”

“The personnel of the armed forces.” The prosecutor corrected him.

“That's right. They go up there and tell the campesinos they have the technology to know who it is they vote for. That is, they'll all vote for the president.”

“But that is … that is false and illegal.”

“Well, yes. They're bastards, those army boys,” replied Cahuide with a mischievous smile.

The prosecutor wondered if the official himself had completed the relevant training courses.

After eating lunch with him, the prosecutor went alone to see the school where the voting tables would be set up. The Alberto Fujimori Fujimori School was small, with two classrooms and a courtyard in the center of the building. There would be two tables in each of the classrooms. He made some notes, but in general he thought the location was adequate. He returned to the street. Since the dogs had been taken down, the village was coming back to life. Campesinos walked by with their tools, and women went down to the river to wash clothes. At times the prosecutor managed to forget about the morning's episode.

When he turned a corner, he bent down to tie his shoe. Out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw the same figure he had glimpsed in the distance as he was approaching the village. A campesino, closer to him now. He turned to look at him, but no one was there. He thought perhaps he had only imagined it. He walked to the corner. Only women were out on the dirt streets of the village.

That night, he returned to his lodgings. When he walked in,
the entire family was crowded into the back room, not speaking. The prosecutor's things were where he had left them, intact, beside a woolen blanket.

“Good evening,” he said.

No one answered. He did not know if he should undress in front of all of them. He found it embarrassing. He took off his jacket, tie, and shoes and lay down in his place. It did not take him long to fall asleep. He was very tired. In his dream, his mother was crossing the mountains in the cold sierra night, between enormous bonfires that lit up the countryside. She walked with a sweet gaze and a smile filled with peace. She seemed to be approaching her son, who waited for her with open arms. But when she was very close, she turned away. She began to walk toward one of the fires. Félix Chacaltana ran to stop her, but it was as if he were running in place, not moving forward, while she approached the flames without losing her smile. He shouted, but she did not turn around. He felt tears rolling down his cheeks as she walked closer to the bonfire. It seemed to him that his tears were made of blood, like the tears of the Virgins. When she placed her foot on the flames, he heard the explosion.

He sat up in a sweat, his heart pounding. He supposed the explosion had been part of his dream. He turned toward Teodoro's family, who had not moved from their corner. When his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, he saw them looking at him, crouching in their corner like frightened cats. They were not asleep. Perhaps they had not been asleep all night. He wondered if he might have called out during his nightmare.

He turned toward the wall and tried to go back to sleep, but he heard noises, echoes, distant shouts. The sound seemed to come from everywhere but remain distant. He tried to understand what they were saying. The tone of voice, the timbre, sounded familiar. Then he heard the second explosion.

The family had not moved from their place.

The prosecutor stood up:

“What is going on?”

No one in the family replied. Huddled together, this time they gave him the impression of a nest of snakes. The prosecutor began to lose patience.

“What is going on?” he shouted, picking Teodoro up by his shirt. He felt the man's alcohol breath on his face. Teodoro began to speak in Quechua. His voice sounded like a lament, as if he were apologizing for something.

“Talk to me in Spanish, damn it! What is going on?”

The quiet lament continued. His wife began to cry. So did the children. Félix Chacaltana let Teodoro go and went to the window. There was fire in the mountains. Lights. The image of his mother was fixed for a moment in his mind. He opened the door and went out. Now he heard the shouts more clearly. They were the same shouts he had heard many years before, on the bus that had taken him to Ayacucho. Slogans. Enormous bonfires topped the mountains at each of the cardinal points. Up above, just behind him, the figure of the hammer and sickle outlined in fire hovered in the night over the village.

The prosecutor ran to the police station. No one passed him in the street. Not even any people looking out the windows. The houses seemed like mass graves, blind, mute, and deaf to what was happening in the hills. He reached the station and pounded on the door:

“Aramayooooo! Aramayoooo! Open up!”

No response. Only howls from the hills. Long Live. The Communist Party of Peru. President Gonzalo. They seemed to grow louder and surround him, suffocate him. He wondered if the terrorists would come down and where he would hide if they did. He beat on the door again. Finally it opened. The five policemen and the lieutenant were inside. The lieutenant's shirt was open and he held a bottle of
pisco
in his hand. The prosecutor walked in shouting:

“It's an attack, Aramayo! They're all around us!”

“We've seen it, Señor Prosecutor,” the police officer responded calmly.

His passivity hurt Chacaltana more than the shouts from the mountains. He grabbed him by the front of his open shirt, just as he had grabbed Teodoro earlier.

“And what are you going to do! Answer me! What are you going to do!”

The lieutenant did not lose his serenity:

“Chacaltana, let me go or I'll smash your face in.”

Chacaltana became conscious of his hysteria. He released the police officer, who offered him some
pisco
. The rest of the police were on the floor, petrified, holding their weapons. They were so young. Outside, the shouts continued. The hammer and sickle were reflected in the window of the police station. Chacaltana took a drink, returned the bottle, and collapsed into a chair. He apologized. Aramayo walked slowly and deliberately to the window.

“The show's ending,” he said. “They'll start to quiet down.”

Chacaltana buried his face in his hands.

“Is it always like this?”

The lieutenant took another drink from the bottle.

“No. They're pretty calm today.”

One of the police burrowed beneath his sheets. Aramayo said:

“I don't think there are any dogs today. At the most some graffiti. Tomorrow we'll have to go out early to wash them off. Your buddy Carrión is coming to visit us.”

Chacaltana felt a flash of relief. He said:

“Excellent. The high command should know what is going on …”

Aramayo interrupted him with a laugh.

It seemed to Chacaltana that his laughter was morbid. With his back still turned to the prosecutor, the lieutenant said:

“The high command doesn't see us, Señor Chacaltana. We're invisible. Besides, the command doesn't command. Lima's in charge here. And the guys in Lima won't find out there's a war until they get a bullet up the ass.”

He walked heavily to his mattress. He put the bottle to one side and lay down.

“But don't worry, Señor Chacaltana,” he said with a yawn. “They'll realize it sooner or later. And they'll come, naturally they'll come. They'll send commissions, members of congress, reporters, military men, they'll put up a monument to peace … The only problem is that for this to happen, we'll all have to be dead.”

No one else spoke that night. The prosecutor curled up beside the door. He did not have the strength to move. He heard the volume and frequency of the shouts gradually diminish. Hours later, when sleep overcame him, the hammer and sickle were still burning in the mountains.

He opened his eyes. The police station was empty and the sun filtered in through a window over his head. His body ached, and he needed a shower. He rubbed his face to get rid of the sleep in his eyes and shake off his drowsiness. As he was trying to comb his hair, trying to see his reflection in the window, Aramayo came in:

“Good morning, Señor Prosecutor, did you sleep well?”

“It's not funny, Aramayo.”

Aramayo laughed, displaying his missing canines.

“Carrión's in the village. Poor Yupanqui had to climb the mountain to get rid of the remains of the bonfires. The others have spent the morning painting the walls. You'll see how pretty the village looks. Like Miami.”

He handed him a basin of cold water so he could wash his face. The prosecutor missed his toothbrush. He said:

“I have to speak with the commander.”

“The elections are tomorrow, so you won't have to spend many more bad nights. You can go back tomorrow night with the military transports carrying the urns.”

The prosecutor dried his face with his shirtsleeves and said:

“I am not the point. Somebody has to tell the commander what happened. Before they kill everybody.”

He looked at himself again in the window glass. He seemed a little more presentable. He walked to the door. Before he stepped outside, the lieutenant blocked his way with his arm.

“Don't tell them anything, Señor Prosecutor.”

“What? You need reinforcements. You have to immediately ask for …”

“There's nothing to ask for.”

“Let me try. The commander will understand.”

“The security of this village is my responsibility. If you complain to the high command you'll make a problem for me.”

“You already have a problem, Lieutenant. Didn't you notice that last night?”

He had to push away the lieutenant's arm in order to pass. The lieutenant looked as if he were about to speak again, but the prosecutor's eyes dissuaded him. As he was going out, Chacaltana heard the policeman's voice behind him.

“You don't know what a real problem is, Chacaltana.”

He did not want to hear him. When he walked out, he recognized the smell of fresh paint on some facades. Under the yellow, green, and white colors, the slogans in red paint were still visible. He looked for Carrión. His presence was felt in the number of armed soldiers walking the streets and standing guard at the corners. On the square were the jeep and the truck that had brought them here. Wherever the greatest density of soldiers was, that is where Carrión would be. And the greatest density of soldiers was in the National Office of Electoral Processes, where the commander was talking to Johnatan Cahuide. The prosecutor did not need to identify himself to approach them, and they greeted him
with the remains of a breakfast and smiles. Carrión said in good humor:

“Dear little Chacaltita, my trustworthy man! Have some coffee.”

“Commander, we have to talk, Señor.”

“Of course. Johnatan Cahuide has been telling me about your efficient and meticulous work …”

“We have to talk about that too. I have reason to believe that certain prominent members of the military in this zone are preparing a fraud behind your back.”

Carrión's smile suddenly froze. Cahuide gulped. The commander put his cup down on the table and shifted in his chair.

“What did you say?”

“It is true. Perhaps a training course in democratic values is necessary for members of the armed forces who …”

“There you go again with training courses, Chacaltana, what a pest you are.”

“There are indications that …”

“Chacaltana …”

“The soldiers are campaigning in favor of the government …”

“Chacaltana …”

“Even coercing the vote of the peasants …”

“Chacaltana, damn it!”

They were silent. Carrión got up from his chair. Johnatan Cahuide looked at the prosecutor in terror. Carrión shouted at two soldiers in the doorway to get out, and he closed the door. Then he sat down. He let a few seconds go by while he calmed down.

“What are you doing, Chacaltana?”

“Presenting an oral report, Señor,” the prosecutor replied, surprised at the question.

At that moment the door opened and in came the functionary with the sky-blue tie whom Chacaltana had seen next to Carrión on the day of the parade. He was wearing the same tie and a badly
pressed suit. The commander introduced him as Dr. Carlos Martín Eléspuru. With almost no voice, the man gave a somber greeting and sat in another chair. He poured some coffee. The prosecutor was still standing. Carrión had regained his composure and brought the newcomer up to date.