Santiago Roncagliolo - Red April

“Until the Sunday of Glory.”

The priest was annoyed:

“It's called Resurrection Sunday. Only the ignorant and the blasphemous call it the Sunday of Glory.”

“Forgive me. And why do they do that?”

“It's another Andean superstition. Starting on Holy Wednesday, the day of Christ's Calvary, God is dead. He no longer sees. He no longer condemns. There are three days for sinning.”

When he heard this Chacaltana understood he had no time to lose. He would have to reactivate security. It was as if he had recovered consciousness after a long mystic interval. The priest, too, had things to do. When he left the confessional, Chacaltana shook his hand with sincere gratitude:

“Thank you very much, Father. I feel much better. And you have given me many useful clues. I have spo …” He stopped himself. Then he decided to say it. “I have spoken with people who do not trust you very much. But there are others who have expressed their appreciation of your person.”

The priest smiled as he walked to the door. The prosecutor noticed that he was the only figure who smiled in that church.

“I won't ask you to tell me who has spoken ill of me, but I would like to know who has spoken favorably.”

The prosecutor felt he was trustworthy. He thought it would not be a bad thing to tell him. Just the opposite.

“Edith Ayala. The woman in the restaurant on the square.”

The priest gave him a big smile.

“Of course I know her! She would come here frequently. Poor girl, she has suffered a great deal on account of her parents.”

“Her parents?”

“Don't you know?”

“She does not talk about them very much.”

“It's understandable. Her parents were terrorists. They died in an attack on a police barracks. The two of them together.”

The prosecutor remembered his conversation with Edith: How did they die? On account of the terrorists. On account of. Not killed by the terrorists but in their name. As he was saying good-bye to the priest, he tried to forget he had heard that. He had more urgent things to think about. He hurried to headquarters, past people visiting churches and enjoying typical food at the stalls in the Plaza Mayor. He thought that any one of them could be a member of the Senderista renascence. He reached headquarters and went in as far as Carrión's waiting room. His secretary looked nervous.

“May I go in?” he asked.

She looked at him in anguish.

“He doesn't want to see anybody. He's been locked in there since Friday. He hasn't even gone out to eat. We bring him food, but he hardly touches it.”

“Perhaps I can do something.”

“Try, please. Maybe he'll listen to you. If I attempt to announce you, he won't answer the intercom.”

Prosecutor Chacaltana opened the door of the office. It was dark inside, and it smelled. The curtains were closed and two full plates of food were rotting beneath the worktable. The commander was sitting at his desk, dark circles under his eyes, gaunt, looking as if he had not bathed in months. He did not greet him.

“Did you hear about Durango?” asked the prosecutor.

The commander seemed to return from a very distant place before responding in a cavernous voice:

“That's no longer my affair.”

The commander handed him a sheet of paper he was holding in his hand. The prosecutor managed to read it in spite of the half-light. It was a letter to Carrión from Lima with the letterhead of the Joint Command of the Armed Forces, announcing his retirement.

“It is not time for you yet.” The prosecutor was surprised.

“Here it's time for whatever they want. They've modified the chains of command to their liking. It's over.”

They sank into a dark silence that the officer broke only minutes later:

“Did you leak information to Eléspuru, in Intelligence? Did you talk to him about this?”

“No, Señor. I do not know how they could have known …”

“They know everything, Chacaltana. Everything. But I suppose that doesn't matter anymore. My replacement will arrive when the festivities are over. Perhaps he doesn't even have anything to do with this. There will be new elections, maybe they want to place an officer here who's less irritable than me, or more manageable, or whatever the hell it is.”

It was difficult to know if his voice expressed relief or frustration. The prosecutor felt abandoned, betrayed. It seemed to him that for the commander to leave when he was caught in the middle of these problems was the easy way out. He looked carefully at the officer and changed his mind. Nothing seemed easy for that man.

“And what are you going to do?” the prosecutor asked.

“I'll go north, to Piura or Tumbes. I want a quiet place. And most of all, one very far from here.”

The prosecutor dropped into a chair. In spite of the size difference between the seats, this time he did not seem smaller than the commander.

“You cannot leave like this,” he said with aplomb. “We have not finished yet.”

The commander laughed. At first very quietly, then in great bellows. When he managed to control himself, he lit a cigarette between coughs. The prosecutor had never seen him smoke. Carrión said:

“Finished? This is only the beginning, Chacaltana. Our work of two decades has just gone all to hell. We can't even guarantee our own security. We'll never stop them. They'll keep coming back.”

“But it is our job …”

“To fight the sea? Because that's what we're doing. After all, I've been reading during the days I've been inside. Ayacucho is a strange place. The Wari culture was here, and then the Chancas, who never let themselves be conquered by the Incas. And then the indigenous rebellions, because Ayacucho was the midway point between Cuzco, the Inca capital, and Lima, the capital of the Spaniards. And independence in Quinua. And Sendero. This place is doomed to be bathed in blood and fire forever, Chacaltana. Why? I have no idea. It doesn't matter. We can't do anything. I suggest that you leave too. You must be on the blacklist by now, you'll be next.”

“We ought to investigate Olazábal. Durango's escape is very suspicious. Don't you think so? And perhaps it was the colonel who sent a report to Lima about this.”

“Are you deaf? Today's a holiday, and on Monday I'm leaving. Do whatever you want, I don't care. And keep the pistol. It's a gift.”

Then he made the gesture he always made when he said “Thanks, you can go.” But he did not say anything. Again they remained in silence.

“I want to ask you for something …,” the prosecutor said at last. “I have reason to believe that the next attempts will take place in the next few days. I want to double security.”

The irritation intensified in the already irritated eyes of Carrión.

“Again, Chacaltana? Haven't we already been ridiculous enough?”

“Believe me this time. I am not wrong.”

Carrión looked at him as if he were his son, his heir, with more tenderness than pride.

“I was once like you, Chacaltana. I thought we could stop this. But it's stronger than the two of us. This is the history of a country. Spare yourself the disappointment.”

Chacaltana was no longer a boy. But perhaps he felt strong in spite of everything. He felt he was coming closer, that his life, after all, would have some meaning, even if that meaning were found in death. It was an idea that no longer seemed contradictory to him. He held Carrión's gaze and said:

“I have to stay. That is also stronger than me. You are still an authority. Sign the security order. I will take care of everything else.”

The commander took a blank sheet of letterhead out of his desk and signed it.

“Dictate whatever you want to say to my secretary. It's the last favor I'll do for you, little Chacaltita. I'll ask for one in return: take care of yourself, please.”