Red April (20 page)

“Don't worry, Mamacita, I'm not going to open it, don't be afraid. It's just so you'll know I've brought it here. I think … I think the best thing is to keep it in the night table, just in case,
though nothing's going to happen. Because nothing's going to happen, right? Nothing's going to happen.”

He continued repeating those words without taking his eyes off the weapon for at least two hours, until someone rang the doorbell. Before he opened the door, he hid the package in his night table. He was not convinced. He took it out and put it under the bed. Not that either. The doorbell kept ringing. Nervously, he left it behind the barrel of water he used when the water supply was cut. Yes. Nobody would look for it there. Before he opened the door, he took the pistol out again and returned it to the night table. He hurried to the door. It was Edith.

“They gave me the day off because tomorrow I work all day,” she said.

They spent the afternoon walking through a city they did not recognize, one filled with blond people with an accent from the capital. A couple of drunk Limenians whistled at Edith when she walked by. The prosecutor shouted at them:

“Beat it, motherfuckers!”

Edith laughed, but when they sat down to eat at a chicken shop, she said:

“You're nervous. What's the matter?”

“Things at work. Nothing important.”

“You were at Heart of Christ today, weren't you? They saw you with Father Quiroz.”

“Who saw me?” The prosecutor could not repress a touch of distress in his voice.

“I don't know. People. Ayacucho is a very small town, everybody knows everything. Why?” She gave him a mischievous smile. “Was it a secret?”

“No, no. It's just that … I'm working on a difficult case.”

“That's what happens when they promote you, isn't it? They give you more responsibility.”

“Yes, that's true. Did they see me anywhere else?”

“I don't know. I only heard that. Can't you tell me what your case is?”

“It would be better if you didn't know. It would be better for me not to know.”

“That priest is a good person. I go to that church a lot. He's very nice.”

“Yes. Nice.”

“When are you going to take me to Lima?”

For the prosecutor, Lima was merely a memory filled with smoke and sorrow. His work, his ex-wife were disappearing voluntarily from his memory and would never come back. In any event, he replied:

“Soon. When this case is finished.”

They watched the twilight from the lookout on Acuchimay, next to the statue of Christ. Edith insisted on going there in spite of his protests. As she drank an Inca Kola and held his hand, the prosecutor began to calm down. He thought that Christ had not protected him very much, but Edith had.

“Last week I talked to a terrorist,” he dared to tell her. “And I think this week I'll have to do it again. It frightened me.”

Simply by saying that, he understood that he needed to talk. At least, as much as he could. And with someone who would respond. He thought of Justino's body. In the sky, the buzzards seemed to be expecting another meal. She let a few seconds go by before she said:

“Don't be afraid. That's over. The war's over.”

He noticed that she called it the “war.” No one, except the military, called what had happened there a war. It was terrorism. He grasped her hand even tighter.

“This prairie could catch fire at any moment, Edith. All you need is the right spark.”

“The sun's beginning to go down,” she indicated. She didn't like talking about that.

Down below, the procession of the Lord of the Vineyard was
setting out. Associate District Prosecutor Félix Chacaltana Saldívar remembered that it was Passion Saturday, and with that in mind, he asked himself if trying to make love to Edith would show a lack of respect for her and Our Lord. To chase away those thoughts, he tried to say something pleasant to her.

“My mother would like you very much.”

Edith did not reply.

And she let go of his hand.

On Palm Sunday, after the blessing of the palms and the Mass, Christ entered the city of Ayacucho on the carpets of flowers that decorated its streets. First to appear were hundreds of mules and llamas adorned with broom and wearing trappings of multicolored ribbons and hanging bells. The villagers leading them set off rockets and firecrackers on the way, in the midst of the general uproar. At the front of the procession, sitting on a spirited charger, rode the principal steward, wearing a white and red sash across his chest. The celebration had been announced and was accompanied by a platoon of riders, male and female, on the back of horses adorned according to Huamanguina traditions. The troupe included the prefect, the subprefect, and the muledrivers and campesinos who blew into bulls' horns to celebrate the arrival of the Lord.

The Associate District Prosecutor was in the crowd, beside a carpet of red and yellow flowers that represented the heart of Jesus, alert to any suspicious movement, nervous because of the fireworks at the celebration. He could recognize the agents dressed as civilians because they were the only ones wearing suits, ties, and white sports socks, and because their sentries' attitude needed only a sign saying “secret agent” on each of their foreheads. They were, however, well distributed. There were at least two on each block of the route of the animals, and a net of vigilance covered everything, including the exits from the city. As the celebration approached the center of the city, the prosecutor ran into Captain Pacheco, wearing the dress uniform of the National
Police but in the middle of the crowd, not on the stand of honor. Chacaltana wanted to move away when he saw him, but the captain approached:

“Would you care to explain what's going on, Señor Prosecutor?”

“It is the celebration of Palm Sunday, Captain.”

A firecracker went off near them.

“Don't fuck around with me, Chacaltana! Commander Carrión cancels all his appointments except with you. You leave the office and suddenly all the police have to work double shifts. Do you know how my people feel? How do I explain why their leaves have been canceled?”

“I do not know what you are talking about, Captain. I met with the commander only to hand him a report.”

At a corner of the square, one of the horses was about to bolt because of the noise and the crowd. The rider managed to control the animal.

“Do you think I was born yesterday, Chacaltana? My horse should have been one of those. I rented the best one and had to give it to my idiot son-in-law because I'm on foot duty. What do you have against us, Señor Prosecutor? Why do you like fucking us up so much?”

“I never wished to disturb your relationship with your son-in-law, Captain. The commander is very concerned with security during these festivities. That is all.”

A throng of tourists came between them. The captain pushed against the crowd to say:

“Don't think I'm not aware of things. I know a lot about you. And you should be more careful about the people you go around with. Your friends can make problems for you.”

Then he let himself be carried away by the crowd. He disappeared before the prosecutor could respond. What had he meant by those words? Did he know about his real relationship with the commander? Or was he referring to the terrorist? The police exchange
information, probably Colonel Olazábal had told the captain about his visit to the prison. He was afraid it could be misinterpreted somehow. He thought it would be a good idea to inform Commander Carrión at the first opportunity that he had gone to the maximum security prison and had done so in strict compliance with his duties.

The beasts of burden began to enter the Plaza Mayor to walk around it. The prosecutor thought that for the llamas, Palm Sunday was the longest route to the slaughterhouse, because afterward the villagers would eat them all. But they kept walking with that imbecilic face that cows have too, that look of not understanding anything. Lucky for them.

A delegation stopped beside the cathedral, in front of the courtyard of the municipal building, to lay down the palm frond that would rest there until it was burned the following Sunday. As they ceremoniously lay down the palm leaves, to flashbulbs and applause, another explosion could be heard. And shouts. These were shouts not of joy but of terror.

The prosecutor and the two police officers on his block hurried toward the shouts. They had to move in the opposite direction from the procession, which was going to the center of the city. Ahead of them, two tourists were on the ground. People had formed a circle around them. Another four police officers in plain clothes arrived at the same time. Two were left to watch over the wounded tourists. The rest ran in the direction indicated by the crowd. The prosecutor saw the backs of several young men running away, pushing their way through throngs of people. They followed them. As they left the square the crowd thinned out, and they could run faster, but this gave an advantage to the men in front. On the way, some uniformed police reinforcements joined the pursuit. Curious onlookers, who at first were in their way, began to let the officers through, but the information they gave only confused them more: “This way, no, that way.” When they left the center of town, the young men being pursued separated to
escape down the narrowest streets. This was not a makeshift group. They knew what they were doing. The prosecutor chose the ones closest to him and followed them with two of the officers. The fugitives crossed a new construction of similar residential buildings, trying to slip away through the passages between them. The officers divided up to cover the exits and ambush them. One radioed for reinforcements. At the far end of the site, they saw a boy running. The three of them followed. The site ended in a settlement of houses made from rush matting and corrugated tin, on unpaved streets. The perfect hiding place. The three pursuers tried to follow the young man, who had been joined by another boy, around the corners and intersections of the settlement. They separated again. The prosecutor realized he was running alone. He asked himself what he would do if he caught up with one of the young men, how he would stop him, what if his life was at risk, who was pursuing whom. He did not stop. And he did not have time to be surprised at his own courage. As he turned a corner, almost at the edge of the settlement where the slope of a hill began, he found himself face-to-face with one of the officers. They had gotten that far.

“Shit!” said the prosecutor, trying to catch his breath. He had to lean against a wall. The second officer came up a few seconds later.

“They have to be in one of these houses,” said the first policeman. “This is as far as they could have gone.”

They stood there, not knowing what to do, taking in air in great gulps. One of the officers went in a shop for something to drink. The prosecutor felt frustrated and furious. He followed the officer into the shop, where a girl of about fourteen waited on them. The other policeman remained outside. The girl placed two Inca Kolas on the counter. There was nothing else in the shop but Inca Kola and Field saltines. As they were taking the first swallows, the officer stared at the girl. He seemed to hesitate. He
looked toward the back room, hidden behind a curtain. Then he shook his head, as if he had been confused. He smiled at the girl:

“Will you give me some crackers too, Mamacita?”

The girl turned her back to take down the crackers. They were on a high shelf. When she raised her arm, the officer took out his pistol, a 9mm like the one the prosecutor had at home, and jumped over the counter. He grabbed the girl around the neck and pressed the barrel to her head. Then, using her as a shield, he pushed her toward the back room, aiming the weapon and shouting:

“Don't any of you move, damn it, or I'll kill her! Damn it, don't move!”

He went into the back room. The prosecutor did not know what to do. Alerted by the shouts, the other officer came in holding his weapon. In the back room, the shouts of the first officer and two other voices could be heard:

“No, Papacito, we haven't done anything, Papa! Leave us alone!”

The officer pointed at the door. There was the sound of blows, breaking glass, objects falling from shelves, the weeping of a woman, that is, a girl.

“Hands on your head, damn it! Back!”

With hands behind their heads, two young men came out of the back room. The prosecutor recognized the white undershirt of one of the boys he had pursued. The officer waiting for them outside, aiming at their faces, became angry when he saw them:

“You two? Motherfucker …”

They put them against the wall, always aiming at their heads, and the prosecutor searched them: he found two clasp knives and a small revolver, a .28. The policemen kicked them a little and had them lie down on the ground, their arms extended, until the patrol wagon came to take them away. They had the girl lie down with them as well.

“You can't be a delinquent in Ayacucho,” said the officer who had recognized the girl. “Everybody knows everybody here.”

One of the detainees sobbed.

“Shut up, damn it!” said the other officer. He kicked him in the stomach. The other boy held back a sob.

“Who are they?” asked Chacaltana.

“Them? Nothing but trash. When Sendero Luminoso was already dying, it lowered the age of its cadres. It began recruiting kids ten or eleven years old, even nine. They gave them weapons and trained them to handle explosives. Then Sendero was finished, but the kids were still wandering around, nothing but common criminals.”

The prosecutor stared at the two boys lying on the ground. One was about eighteen. The other, younger than fifteen.

“And why are they still active?”

“What should we do with them? Until a little while ago they were underage. And there's no reformatory here. But the veterans like this motherfucker,” and he kicked the face of the older one, “have been training kids like this one for years,” and he stepped on the hand of the younger one. The prosecutor heard him sob from the ground. It was like the whimpering of a child. “The age gets lower and lower and they get worse and worse. And there's nothing we can do.”

The prosecutor noticed that the girl had a black eye.