Red April (6 page)

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: