Red April (8 page)

“I am from Ayacucho, Señor.”

“I know. And that too fills us with pride.”

Prosecutor Chacaltana wondered what one had to do to be from a place. What made him more from Ayacucho than from Lima, where he had always lived? He thought his place was where his roots and affections were. And Ayacucho was fine. And getting better.

The weeks following the presentation of his report had been unexpectedly pleasant. Suddenly Associate District Prosecutor Félix Chacaltana Saldívar seemed to have been promoted. He stopped receiving a subordinate's assignments, and even Judge
Briceño sent his congratulations in writing on the speed and efficiency with which he had resolved the question of Quinua without needing to alarm the public. The day after he closed the case, he received his new typewriter and enough carbon paper to make the copies he needed for all his cases. Even his dreams had become serene, a curtain of peace closing over his nightmares about fire. And at the end of the week, the commander had sent for him. It was unusual for the commander to meet with functionaries, and even more unusual for him to invite them to his office. The prosecutor felt content, but he did not want to take advantage of his position:

“I believe the entity that should really be thanked for its investigation is the National Police, which gave constant indications of efficiency and commitment …”

“You are an example of humility, Señor Prosecutor. Captain Pacheco has already informed me that this case would not have moved forward if it had not been for your decisiveness and courage.”

“Thank you, Señor.”

The commander leaned back in his chair and drank a little
mate
. He seemed relaxed. He did not look as menacing as he had the first time. The prosecutor attributed this to the fact that they were gaining confidence in each other. The commander continued:

“The majority of these cases are never resolved. Often proceedings are not even opened because nobody demands it. But it is always better to have everything archived and organized legally. Our best weapon is doing things well, don't you agree?”

“Of course, Señor.”

Feeling authorized to do so, the prosecutor also took a sip of
mate
. He thought of Edith. He had not wanted to go to her restaurant with the bandage on his neck; he had not wanted her to see his injury. He did stop by one morning to say hello. She
had welcomed him with her brilliant smile. He had promised to return and walked out backward so she would not see his wound. But that morning he had removed the bandage. And the scar did not look bad. Perhaps he ought to stop by when he left the commander's office so she would not think he was an opportunist. And to celebrate.

“That is precisely why I wanted to see you,” the commander continued. “Now the time has come for us to concentrate on the elections. We need trustworthy people who believe in legality, and in Peru, to face the great challenges of the twenty-first century.”

“I will be delighted to do whatever I can, Commander.”

“As I am that you'll collaborate with us. But first I'd like to ask a few questions.”

The commander took a folder from his desk. It was a thick file filled with papers and some photographs. The prosecutor recognized the documents. It was his work file, though it looked much thicker than a normal work dossier. The commander put on his glasses and turned several pages. He stopped at one:

“It says here that you personally requested your transfer to Ayacucho.”

“That is correct, Señor. I wanted to return home.”

“You left here after the death of your mother, is that so?”

“Yes, it is. I went to live with her sister, who resided in Lima.”

“How did your mother die? Was she … a victim of terrorism?”

“No, Señor. She died … years before the start of all that …”

A dark mass agitated his memory. He tried to go on without trembling:

“She died in a fire. I was nine.”

For the first time, the commander gave signs of having an emotion.

“I'm sorry,” he said.

“It is all right, Señor. She will always be alive … in my heart.”

“And your father?”

“I never knew him, Señor. I never asked about him. In a sense, I never had a father.”

There was a photograph in his memory. His mother with a man, smiling. He looked white, perhaps a Limenian. It was in his mother's room, on the bureau. No. It was not there anymore. It never had been there.

“It also says that you're married.”

“Yes, Señor.”

“I don't think we've seen Señora Chacaltana here.”

Félix Chacaltana Saldívar felt uncomfortable. He remembered a cup with no coffee, an empty space in bed, the absence of a voice at the bathroom door in the morning.

“There is no Señora Chacaltana anymore, Señor.”

“Did she pass away too?”

“No, no! She simply left. A little over a year ago. She said I … had no ambition. Then I requested my transfer.”

He wondered why he had said that to Commander Carrión. He had not asked for so many details.

“Not having ambitions is a good thing,” the military man replied. “There are more than enough ambitions here. Children?”

With his glasses bent over the folder, the commander looked back and forth from his papers to the prosecutor, who seemed to grow smaller in his chair.

“No. I believe that was another reason she left.”

“That doesn't constitute grounds for divorce.”

“I did not ask for one. I thought that … there was no need. I did not want to marry again. Ever. Excuse me, Señor. Am I authorized to ask why … ?”

He did not want to say more. The commander removed his glasses and gave him a father's smile. What probably was a father's smile, at least.

“I'm sorry to ask you these personal questions. Believe me, they're necessary. But I don't need to know any more. I think
you're perfect for the work we need. You have no family, and so you can travel. Further, you're a man who loves his home and respects the family, an honorable man.”

The kind of man who dies with no survivors, thought Chacaltana. He asked himself who would smooth his sheets after he died.

“Will it be necessary to travel, Señor?”

“You'll see, Chacaltana. The elections are on Sunday and we need qualified personnel committed to the defense of democracy. Do you understand?”

He did not understand anything.

“Yes, Señor.”

“In the villages that will be visited by reporters we'll need electoral prosecutors we can trust.”

Chacaltana reviewed mentally the electoral laws and the statutes of the Ministry of Justice. He found a contradiction.

“Commander, the electoral prosecutors do not belong to the Ministry of Justice. They are functionaries of the National Election Board or the National Office of Electoral Processes …”

“Yes, of course. But we don't want to get involved in titles and words. That's for the politicians. After all, a prosecutor is a prosecutor, Chacaltana, for whatever his country requires of him. And you are perfectly qualified.”

“It is a great honor … I do not know if I have time to take the corresponding training course or prepare myself … Besides, I have to speak to my superiors …”

“We have confidence in your ability, Chacaltana, forget about training courses. I'll attend to all the details: you can take a paid leave for granted, and don't worry about bureaucratic obstacles. The high command of the armed forces will take care of all the paperwork.”

The commander took out another file. Inside was a signed accreditation as an electoral prosecutor with Chacaltana's photograph, some money for travel expenses, bus tickets, a booklet on
electoral legislation, and other papers. Chacaltana felt like a privileged individual.

“It is an honor that you have thought of me to …”

“You absolutely deserve it, Prosecutor Chacaltana.”

“Where will you send me, and when?”

“To Yawarmayo. Your bus leaves in two hours.”

“That soon?”

“The nation has no time to lose, Señor Prosecutor. And the elections are on Sunday. Any questions?”

“No, Señor.”

“You can leave, then. I hope this is the start of a promising career, Chacaltana.”

“Thank you, Señor.”

He left the building with a quiver of emotion in his jaw. For the first time in many years he felt euphoria. He wiped the perspiration from his brow with his handkerchief. At last, his work was being recognized. He felt he had to share his success with someone before he took the bus. Almost unconsciously, he found himself at El Huamanguino. He greeted the waitress with a big smile.

“I bought some
mate
for you. And today there's a spicy
puca,”
she greeted him in return.

“I did not come in for lunch. I …”

“The tables are for eating lunch. If you don't have lunch, you can't sit down.”

“Bring me one, then.”

He waited the prescribed length of time, longing to speak. A soap opera was playing on television, and a woman was weeping copiously for her man. This time, on the plate Edith served him, there were cracklings, a pig's foot, and warm potatoes.

“I am being sent on a trip,” Chacaltana said proudly.

“Really?”

“Yes, yes. I did some good work. And I have been appointed to supervise the elections.”

“Congratulations! That deserves a little glass of
chicha.”

“No thanks. I don't drink.”

Still, she poured him a glass of sweetish, dark red liquid.

“You don't have any vices, do you? Your wife must be happy …”

“I don't have a wife, either.”

“Ah. Are you going to try the
puca?”

“It is just … just that I do not have time … but listen … When I get back … in a few days … I think I will be invited to some galas. High command affairs. Important engagements.”

“And you won't come back anymore?”

She seemed sad when she said that. The prosecutor was encouraged to see that.

“On the contrary. I will come back. But I would also like … well …”

“Yes?”

“The authorities attend these events with their wives, their spouses.”

“Of course.”

“I would like to take you, Edith. If you would not mind.”

He realized that now he, like Edith, was using the formal
usted
. She laughed.

“Me? Why me?”

“Because … because I do not know anyone else in the city …”

Now she frowned. He tried to rectify his mistake. He had lost the habit of saying certain things, but perhaps he had never said them.

“… anyone as pretty as you.”

“Now you're talking foolishness!”

“It is not foolishness.”

“Are you going to eat or not?”

“It will not be possible. I am leaving now. I have to hurry and pack my bag. Will you go with me when I get back? Will you?”

She turned as red as a chili pepper. She laughed. She seemed to
laugh at everything. And when she laughed, she appeared to shine. On television, the villainess of a soap opera threatened her rival because she was trying to take her man.

“Yes,” said Edith.

The prosecutor felt that his day was complete. That his year in Ayacucho was complete. He felt happy as he stood up. Surreptitiously, he left the money for lunch on the table so she could not refuse it. He approached her to say good-bye. She was holding a rag. He opened his arms. Then he lowered them. He did not want to take liberties. He held out his hand. She took it. He said:

“Thank you. We will see each other soon.”

She nodded and seemed embarrassed. The prosecutor hurried to his house.

“Mamacita, I don't have time to explain everything to you, but I'm happy.” He took the underwear he found and put it in an old sports bag. “You'll see how well everything turns out, Mamacita. I'm sure that after this they'll pay me more and I'll buy you new pajamas, you'll see.” He packed ties and shirts and took two jackets and a pair of trousers from their hangers. “And then Edith. You'll meet Edith. You'll like her. Good-bye, Mamacita.”

He closed the doors and windows and hurried to the terminal. Halfway there he stopped and went back. He found the house keys in the suitcase and went in. He hurried to the back room, took a photograph of his mother when she was very young, posing for the camera in an embroidered dress. He noted carefully that there was no photograph of her smiling with a man who looked as if he came from Lima. He confirmed it. He kissed the photograph, put it in his bag, and went out again.

There was mass confusion in the terminal. The four o'clock bus was full, and his name did not appear on the reservation list. A woman with four children shouted at him for trying to steal her place. The driver ordered him to get off and stop causing trouble. Finally, after fifteen minutes of arguing, a surly employee of
the bus line asked him to take the night bus. Prosecutor Chacaltana thought he would have more time to eat with Edith and say good-bye to his mother, and he agreed. Then it occurred to him that if the military people saw him outside the station, they would think he was abandoning his post, and so he sat down to wait seven and a half hours for the departure of the next bus after making certain that this time his name was on the reservation list. He used the time to review the electoral laws and the regulations for observers.

That night, his bus left only fifteen minutes late. Another sign that Ayacucho was moving with a firm step toward the future. Yawarmayo was seven hours to the northeast, toward Ceja de Selva. Although the darkness did not allow him to see anything through the window, the prosecutor made the trip guessing at the unpaved roads the bus was rattling along, the flat-top hills that surrounded the city, and then the progressive change of the countryside from dry sierra to the wild green of the mountains. From time to time he dozed off and was awakened by the jolting of the bus over some pothole. A moment came when he did not know if he was asleep or awake, if his happiness was real or dreamed.

Until he opened his eyes.

The bus had stopped. He looked at the time: four in the morning. He saw the fogged-over glass in the windows. He wiped his so he could look outside. Lashed by the wind, the rain fell horizontally. It was hailing. He noticed that the person sitting beside him had disappeared, along with a good number of other people. The lights were turned on and the bus was half empty, occupied only by women with sleep-crusted eyes. From the door, someone, perhaps the driver, was shouting: