Santiago Roncagliolo - Red April

Chacaltana had turned pale. He tried to articulate a reply:

“I only … I thought it was a possibility …”

“You think too much, Chacaltana. Get one thing into your head: in this country there is no terrorism, by orders from the top. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Señor.”

“Don't forget it.”

“No, Señor.”

“I want to see your report when you finish with this case. Keep me apprised of what you find out. Perhaps it's still not the right time to cede responsibility to civil jurisdiction.”

The commander turned his back and left. Félix Chacaltana Saldívar, Associate District Prosecutor, could not obtain the required police report that afternoon.

On Monday the 13th, Prosecutor Chacaltana woke with a start at 6:45 a.m. He was perspiring. He had had a nightmare. He had dreamed about fire. A huge blaze that spread through the city and then the fields until it destroyed everything. In the dream, he was in his bed and began to feel that it was raining inside his bedroom. When he got up, he discovered that it was raining blood, that every millimeter of his room was oozing warm red liquid. He tried to escape but the house was flooded, and he could not move through the dense liquid.

When he began to drown and taste the blood in his mouth and lungs, he woke up. He went to the bathroom. There was no water, but the prosecutor had a barrel in reserve for these occasions, which allowed him to wash his private parts and wet his head. He opened it with a trembling hand. It was a relief to verify that there was nothing but water in the barrel. He washed, then combed his hair back as his mother had taught him to do when he was a boy, as he had combed his hair every day of his life. Immediately afterward he went to his mother's room and opened the window. He let in the air and greeted her. Then he took a picture of Señora Saldívar de Chacaltana to have breakfast with him. He chose a photograph that showed him at the age of five, hugging her. She was smiling.

While he ate his breakfast of bread and cheese and mate , he told the picture about his plans for the day and all the documents he hoped to complete. He did not forget that he would have lunch at El Huamanguino to pay his debt to the girl at the counter. For the rest of the morning at the office, the words the commander had said to him the day before resounded in his head. A fight over broads. If the commander said it was a fight over broads, it was a fight over broads. The commander had fought so much that he would know. Yet in the prosecutor's opinion, something did not fit. But Chacaltana was a serious, honest bureaucrat. He was not supposed to have an opinion. Besides, the commander had asked him for his reports. He would read them personally. It was a great opportunity. He thought about Cecilia, his ex-wife. Perhaps this would show her what he was worth. He did not really care about her anymore; it was simply a question of pride. He could be somebody.

Without warning, when it was almost time for lunch, the commander's words began to mix in his head with images from the pathologist's table until he could not concentrate on what he was doing. In a mental flash he saw the face of the dead man wreathed in smoke, the slit up to his shoulder, his black hair. Violence. Jealousy. The word “terrorist” formed in his mind again. It took him back to electric pylons exploding. Ambulance sirens. He thought about his mother to fill his mind with another image. But he succeeded only in evoking the image of fire.

To distract himself, he decided to go out exactly at lunchtime and not fifteen minutes later, as he usually did. He left the Office of the Prosecutor and went to the previously mentioned restaurant. The same girl as the last time was working behind the counter, but now she wore black slacks and low-heeled shoes. The blouse was the same. Pink. With embroidery. This time she wore her hair pulled back in a bun.

“How nice that you came back. Your table's ready.”

Now he had a table, as if he were a regular customer. It was the only place in the world other than his house where he had a table. It was the same one as the last time, beside the door. In fact, the table was already set. Again the restaurant was empty. She announced:

“Today we have deep-fried guinea pig.”

The prosecutor nodded his agreement. While she went to the kitchen, he looked at the television on the wall. On the screen, a woman was hitting a man, the two of them surrounded by an audience that cheered the hair-pulling and biting. The prosecutor found out that she was his fiancée and that he had deceived her with her sister, her cousin, and her great-aunt. He did not want to see any more. Twelve minutes later, the girl came out of the kitchen. She served him the guinea pig and an Inca beer. The Associate District Prosecutor brought the flatware to the plate and saw the rodent's face. Its mouth was open and it had long, aggressive front teeth. It seemed to Félix Chacaltana that the guinea pig wanted to eat him. He put down the knife and fork.

“It's not that hot,” the girl said defensively.

“Thank you. It is just that … I was thinking.”

“You think a lot, don't you?”

You think too much, Chacaltana.

“No, it is … I just work.”

“And what were you thinking about? If you don't mind my asking.”

She laughed as if she had asked a very naughty question. Associate District Prosecutor Félix Chacaltana Saldívar tried to think up a convincing lie.

“A dead man,” he said.

His mother had already told him he did not know how to lie. The girl did not seem surprised. She began to wash some dishes.

“There are a lot of them around here,” she said.

“Yes.”

“I talk to them.”

“Are you serious?”

“With my papa and mama. I go to see them in the cemetery and talk to them, I bring them flowers.”

“Of course. I do the same thing. With my mother. Her memory is always with me.”

Suddenly, he felt comfortable in this place. As if he were home. She turned around. She did not stop washing but gestured toward the guinea pig with her nose.

“Aren't you going to eat?”

“Yes … Yes. Right away.”

He tried to pick up a piece of meat with the fork. The bones were mixed up with the skin. The best thing was to eat with his hands. Touch it. And bite it. On the screen, the same man was still being hit, now by two women at the same time.

“What would you like them to do with you when you die?” the girl asked as she dried some flatware.

“What?”

“I wouldn't want to go to the cemetery. It's like … having a house where you don't live. And my family would have to go all the way out there. In the end they'd get lazy and stop going.”

“Maybe they can bury you in your house.”

“No. My house is very small.” She dried her hands. “You don't like the guinea pig, do you?”

“Yes I do! Very nice. It is just … just that I would like a mate with it … please.”

“Today we only have coffee.”

“Coffee would be fine.”

“Coffee with guinea pig? You're very strange, Señor …”

“Félix. Call me Félix.”

“Don Félix.”

“Just Félix. Please.”

She took a jug of boiling water off the fire and poured a cup. She placed it on the table and beside it the little pitcher of coffee essence. The prosecutor poured the liquid into the hot water. The coffee color began to spread in the water, like dark blood. The prosecutor hated Ayacuchan coffee. Watery. Weak.

“I'd ask to be cremated,” she said.

“What?”

“To be cremated. Turned into ashes. Then my family could have me at home when they wanted to see me.”

An oven. Fire. A crematory. A furnace that feeds on people. It was simple, really.