Mario Llosa: Who Killed Palomino Molero?

“I was informed that some smugglers were coming in,” answered the lieutenant without blinking an eye.

“One day you’re going to pay for all your little tricks let me warn you.”

“Thanks for the warning,” said the lieutenant, smiling and puckering his lips obscenely to blow her a kiss. “Oh, maaaama!”

“My fingers are all stiff, I’ve completely lost my touch. When I was a cadet, I could play any song I heard even once. Now I can’t even scratch out ‘ La Raspa.’ Shit.”

Lieutenant Silva had in fact been trying several songs and they’d all come out flat. Lituma barely heard his boss because his mind was occupied by a single thought: what the fuck would happen now that they’d turned in a report like that?

They were on the fishermen’s beach, between the two piers. It was after midnight: a blast from the refinery siren had just announced the new shift. Lituma and Lieutenant Silva were smoking a cigarette with old Matías Querecotillo, while his two helpers pushed The Lion of Talara into the surf. Doña Adriana’s husband also wanted to find out if what people all over Talara were saying was true.

“And just what are people all over Talara saying, Don Matías?”

“That you two already know who killed Palomino Molero.”

Lieutenant Silva told him what he told everyone who asked him that (although how the rumor had spread so quickly was still a mystery to him): “We can’t say anything yet. Soon we’ll tell what we know, Don Matías. I can tell you personally that the announcement’s going to come any time now.”

“I hope so, Lieutenant. I hope that, for once, justice is done and the people who always win find out what it’s like to lose.”

“Who do yon mean, Don Matías?”

“Who else? You know as well as I do. The big guys.”

He walked off, bouncing along like a bottle on the waves, and scrambled expertly onto his boat. He didn’t act like a man who coughs up blood; he seemed robust and seaworthy for his age. Perhaps all that about his being sick was nothing more than Doña Adriana’s imagination. Did Don Matías know that Lieutenant Silva was after his wife? He’d never shown it. Lituma noticed that the fisherman was always friendly to the lieutenant. Perhaps when you got old you stopped being jealous.

“The big guys… Do you think the big guys left this guitar on our doorstep as a gift for us?”

“No, Lieutenant. It was Colonel Mindreau’s daughter. You yourself heard her say she had the kid’s guitar.”

“If you say so… but somehow I don’t see it. I didn’t see any letter or card or anything else that would prove she brought, the guitar to the station. I don’t even know for sure if this is Palomino Molero’s guitar.”

“Are you kidding me, Lieutenant?”

“No, Lituma. I’m trying to distract you a little because you’re so edgy. Why are you so edgy? A Guardia Civil should have balls like a brass monkey.”

“You’re a bit jumpy yourself, sir. Don’t try to deny it either.”

Lieutenant Silva laughed involuntarily. “Of course I’m jumpy. But I cover it up so people can’t see. You look as though you’d shit in your pants if you heard a mosquito fart.”

The moon shone so brightly they could clearly see the outlines of the houses belonging to the gringos and the executives of the I.P.C. up on the cliff, near the blinking lighthouse. Everyone talked about how wonderful the Paita moon was, but the moon right here was the brightest and most perfectly round Lituma had ever seen. People should be talking about the moon of Talara. He imagined the kid on a night like this, singing right on this very beach, surrounded by captivated airmen:

Moon, moon

Month of June

Tell my baby

I’ll be back soon…

Lituma and the lieutenant had gone to the movies and seen an Argentine film with Luis Sandrini which made everyone but them laugh. Then they had a talk with Father Domingo at the church door. The priest wanted a Guardia Civil to scare off the Don Juans who were molesting the Talara girls when they came for chorus rehearsals. Several mothers had withdrawn their daughters from chorus because of those wise guys. The lieutenant promised he would do it, provided, of course, he had a man available. When they got back to the station, they found the guitar the lieutenant now had on his knees. Someone had left it leaning against the door. Anyone could have taken it. If they decided to have dinner instead of returning directly to the station. Lituma had no doubts about the significance of the guitar:

“She wants us to return it to the kid’s mother. She felt sorry-maybe because of what I told her about Doña Asunta-and that’s why she brought it.”

“That may he what you think, but I don’t buy it.”

Why was the lieutenant always joking like that? Lituma knew very well that his boss was in no mood for laughter, that he had been uneasy ever since he sent in his report. The proof was that they were in the station at that hour of the night. After dinner, the lieutenant picked up the guitar and suggested they stretch their legs. They walked down to the fishermen’s beach, in silence, each one immersed in his own worries. They watched the men prepare the nets and gear and then set sail.

Once they were alone, the lieutenant had started to strum Palomino’s guitar. Perhaps he was too nervous to get a song out of it. That was it, even if he tried to hide it by telling jokes. For the first time since he’d begun to serve under him, Lituma hadn’t heard him mention Doña Adriana even once. He was just about to ask him if he might bring the guitar to Doña Asunta the next time he went to Piura-”At least let me give this small consolation to the poor lady, Lieutenant”-when he realized they were no longer alone.

“Good evening,” said the shadow.

He’d materialized suddenly, as if he’d sprung from the sea or dropped from the sky. Lituma started, speechless, opening his eyes wide. He wasn’t dreaming: it was Colonel Mindreau.

“Good evening, Colonel.” Lieutenant Silva jumped out of the boat in which he was sitting, dropping the guitar into the sand. Lituma saw his boss half reach for the pistol he always wore on his right hip.

“Please stay seated,” said the colonel’s shadow. “I was looking for you and I suspected the nocturnal guitar player I’d been hearing might be you.”

“I was just seeing if I still remembered how to play. But I seem to have lost my touch. Lack of practice, I guess.”

The shadow nodded. “You’re a better detective than a guitar player.”

“Thank you, Colonel.”

“He’s come to kill us.” Lituma watched Colonel Mindreau step toward them, his face suddenly illuminated by the moonlight. Lituma could see his wide forehead, the two deep furrows on his brow, and his precise military mustache. Had he been this pale the two times he’d seen him in his office? Maybe it was the moon that made him seem so pale. His face was neither threatening nor angry, but indifferent. His voice had the same haughty tone it had that last time in his office. What now? Lituma felt an emptiness in his stomach: “This is what we were waiting for.”

“Only a good detective could clear up the murder of that deserter so quickly. Barely two weeks. Right, Lieutenant?”

“Nineteen days, to be precise, Colonel.”

Lituma never took his eyes off the colonel’s hands, but they were not in the moonlight. Did he have his revolver out? Would he threaten the lieutenant, demanding he retract what he’d put in the report? Would he just shoot him two or three times? Would he shoot Lituma as well? Perhaps he’d come to arrest them. Maybe he had his MPs surrounding them while he distracted them with this gab. Lituma sharpened his ears and looked around. No one was coming, and except for the sea, there was no other noise. In front of him, Lituma had the old pier, which rose and fell with the waves. The sea gulls slept on the rusty ladder encrusted with shells and starfish that ran up and down the pier. The first order Lieutenant Silva had ever given Lituma was to chase off the kids who climbed up the ladder to ride the pier up and down on the waves.