Mario Llosa: Who Killed Palomino Molero?

“Nineteen days,” echoed the colonel after a while.

He was speaking without irony, without rage, in glacial tones, as if nothing in all this mattered or affected him in the slightest. Deep in his voice there was an inflection, a pause, a way of accentuating certain syllables, that reminded Lituma of his daughter’s voice. “The Unstoppables were right,” he thought. “I’m no good at this stuff, I don’t like being afraid.”

“Not bad at all, especially when you think that it takes years to solve some of these crimes. Some are never solved.”

Lieutenant Silva said nothing. There was a long silence in which none of the three men moved. The pier was seesawing violently. Could some kid be up there bouncing? Lituma heard the colonel’s breathing, as well as his own and the lieutenant’s. “I’ve never been so afraid in my life.”

“Do you think you’ll be rewarded with a promotion for this?” Lituma realized that, with only a short-sleeved shirt on, the colonel must be cold. He was a short man, at least half a head shorter than Lituma. In his day, there must not have been a minimum height requirement for the service academies.

“I don’t come up for promotion until July of next year, Colonel.” Now. Now his hand would rise and he’d start shooting: the lieutenant’s head would splatter like a ripe papaya. But just then the colonel raised his right hand to wipe his mouth, and Lituma could see it was empty. So why had he come? “In answer to your question, sir, no, I don’t think I’ll be promoted for solving this case. Speaking frankly, I think this business is going to cause me a lot of headaches, Colonel.”

“Are you so sure you’ve found the definitive solution?”

The shadow didn’t move, and Lituma realized that the colonel spoke without parting his lips, like a ventriloquist.

“Only death is definitive,” murmured the lieutenant. His posture and speech betrayed not the slightest apprehension, as if this conversation didn’t concern him in any way, as if they were talking about other people. “He’s playing along with the colonel,” Lituma thought.

The lieutenant cleared his throat and went on: “Some details are still unclear, but I think the three key questions have been answered. Who killed Palomino Molero. How he was killed. Why he was killed.”

Either the colonel had stepped back or the light had shifted: his face was again in darkness. The pier rose and fell. The cone of light from the lighthouse swept the water, turning it gold.

“I read the report you sent to your superiors. The Guardia Civil informed my superiors, and they were kind enough to send me a copy.”

His expression hadn’t changed; he spoke neither more quickly nor with more emotion than before. A gust of wind ruffled the colonel’s sparse hair, which he immediately smoothed. Lituma remained tense and frightened, but now he had two extra images in his mind: the kid and Alicia Mindreau. The paralyzed girl watched in horror as they shoved the boy into a blue van. On the way to the rocky field, the airmen tried to please the officer by putting out their cigarettes on Palomino Molero’s aims, neck, and face. When he screamed, they laughed, nudging each other. “Make him suffer, make him suffer,” thundered Lieutenant Dufó. Then, kissing his fingers: “You’ll be sorry you were ever born, that I promise you.” He saw that Lieutenant Silva had moved away from the boat and was contemplating the sea, his hands in his pockets.

“Does this mean the matter will be covered up, Colonel?”

“I have no idea,” replied the colonel dryly, as if the question were too banal or stupid, a waste of his precious time. But almost immediately he began to doubt: “I don’t think so, not now anyway. It’s hard, it would be… I just don’t know. It depends on my superiors, not on me.”

“The big guys again,” thought Lituma. Why did the colonel talk as if none of this mattered to him? Why had he come if that was the case?

“I have to know one thing, Lieutenant.” He paused, and Lituma thought he looked at him for an instant, as if only now he’d noticed him and had at the same time decided that he could go on talking in front of this nobody. “Did my daughter tell you I took advantage of her? Did she say that?”

Lituma watched Lieutenant Silva turn toward the colonel.

“She did suggest that…” he murmured, swallowing hard. “She wasn’t explicit, she didn’t actually say ‘took advantage.’ But she suggested that you… that she was a wife and not a daughter to you, Colonel.”

Lieutenant Silva was nonplussed and tongue-tied. Lituma had never seen him so confused. He was sorry for him, for Colonel Mindreau, for the kid, for the girl. He was so sorry for the whole world he felt like crying, damn it. He realized he was trembling. Josefino had defined him to a T, he was a sentimental asshole and would always be one.

“Did she also tell you that I would kiss her feet? That after taking advantage of her I would get down on my knees and beg her to forgive me?” Colonel Mindreau wasn’t really asking questions but confirming what he already seemed certain of.

Lieutenant Silva stuttered something Lituma couldn’t understand. It might have been “I think so.” Lituma wanted to run away. If only someone would come and interrupt this scene.

“Then I, mad with remorse, would hand her my revolver so she would kill me?” the colonel went on in a low voice. He was tired and seemed far away.

This time the lieutenant did not answer. There was a long pause. The colonel’s silhouette was rigid and the old pier rose and fell, buffeted by the waves.

“Are you all right?”

“The English word for it is ‘delusions,’ “ said the colonel firmly, as if speaking to no one in particular. “There is no word for it in Spanish. Because ‘delusions’ means illusions, fantasies, deception, and fraud. An illusion which is also a deception. A deceptive, fraudulent fantasy.” He breathed deeply, as if hyperventilating, and then put his hand to his mouth. “To take Alicia to New York, I sold my parents’ house. I spent my savings. I even mortgaged my pension. In the United States they cure every sickness there is, they work scientific miracles. Isn’t that what they say? Well, if that was true, then any sacrifice would be worthwhile. I wanted to save my daughter and myself as well.

“They didn’t cure her. But at least they discovered she had delusions. She’ll never be cured, because it’s something that never gets better. It just gets worse. It grows like a cancer, as long as the cause is there to stimulate it. The gringos explained it to me in their usual crude way. Her problem is you. You are the cause. She holds you responsible for the death of the mother she never knew. All the things she invents, these terrible things she makes up about you, the things she told the nuns at the Sacred Heart School in Lima, the things she told the nuns at the Lourdes School in Piura, that she told her aunts, and friends-that you beat her, that you’re stingy, that you torment her, that you tie her to the bed and whip her. All to avenge her mother’s death.

“But you haven’t seen anything yet. Get ready for something much worse. Because later, when she grows up, she’ll accuse you of having tried to kill her, of having raped her, of having had her raped. The most horrible things. And she won’t even realize she’s lying. Because she believes and lives her lies just as if they were the truth. Delusions. That’s what they call it in English. We have no word for it in Spanish.”

There was a long silence. The sea had become almost silent, too, just a low whisper. “I’m hearing a lot of words I’ve never heard before,” thought Lituma.

“That may well be the case,” he heard the lieutenant say in a severe and respectful tone. “But… the fantasy or madness of your daughter does not explain everything, if you don’t mind my saying so.” He paused, perhaps waiting for the colonel to say something or perhaps because he was searching for the right words. “I’m thinking about the way the boy was tortured.”