Mario Llosa: Who Killed Palomino Molero?

“You mean he liked being in the service?” Lituma was shocked: the impression he had of the bolero singer was completely false.

“That’s the part I don’t understand,” she wailed. “Why did you do it, Palomino? You, in the Air Force? You? You? In Talara? Planes crash; do you want to scare me to death? How could you do it without talking to me first? Because if I did, you’d have said no, Mama. But why, Palomino? Because I have to go to Talara. Because it’s a matter of of life and death, Mama.”

“And why was it a life-and-death matter for your son to go to Talara?”

“I never found out.” She crossed herself for the fourth or fifth time. “He wouldn’t tell me and he’s taken his secret to the grave. Oh! Why did you do this to me, Palomino?”

A brown goat with white spots poked its head into the room and stared at the woman with its big, pitying eyes. A shadow pulled it away.

“He must have been sorry as soon as he joined. When he discovered that military life is not fun, games, and girls but a lot of drill, spit, and polish. That’s probably why he deserted. That much I can understand. What I don’t get is why they killed him. And in such a cruel way.”

He’d been thinking out loud, but Doña Asunta didn’t seem to notice. So he enlisted to get out of Piura, because it was a matter of life and death. Someone must have threatened him here in town and he thought he’d be safe in Talara, on the Air Force base. But he couldn’t take military life, so he deserted. The person or persons he ran away from found him and killed him. But why like that? You’ve got to be crazy to torture someone who’s still just a kid. Lots of guys join up because their love life has fallen apart. Maybe he was turned down. Maybe he was in love and the girl gave him a hard time, or cheated on him. He got bitter and decided to get away. Where? Talara. How? By enlisting. It seemed believable and unbelievable all at the same time. He nervously scratched his neck again.

“Why have you come to my house?” Doña Asunta suddenly turned toward him.

He felt he’d been caught in a lie. Why had he come? No good reason, unhealthy curiosity.

“To find out if you could give me any clues,” he stuttered.

Doña Asunta’s disgust showed in her eyes, and Lituma thought she knew he was lying.

“You had me over there for three hours telling you all I know,” she whispered, grieving. “What more do you want? What more? Do you think I know who killed my son?”

“Don’t get mad. I don’t want to upset you, so I’ll be on my way. Thanks for talking to me. We’ll get in touch with you if we find out anything.”

He got up, said good night, and went out without shaking hands with her, afraid she wouldn’t take his hand. Outside, he stuck his cap on his head and calmed down after walking a few steps down the dirt road, under the glittering stars. The distant guitar had fallen silent. All he could hear were the shrill voices of children fighting or playing, the chatter of the adults in front of their houses, and some dogs barking. What’s wrong with you? He thought. What’s gotten into you? The poor kid. He couldn’t be the easygoing guy from La Mangachería again until he understood how there could be people in the world that evil. Especially because everybody was saying that Palomino wouldn’t hurt a fly.

Lituma reached the Old Bridge, but instead of crossing over to the city, he went into the Río Bar, which was built on the ancient bridge over the Piura River. His throat felt like sandpaper. The Río Bar was empty. No sooner did he sit down than the owner, Moisés, came over. His ears were so huge everyone called him Dumbo.

“Just can’t get used to seeing you in uniform, Lituma,” he mocked, handing him a glass of lúcuma juice. You look like you’re in disguise. Where are the Unstoppables?”

“They went to a cowboy movie,” said Lituma, gulping down his drink. “I’ve got to get back to Talara right away.”

“What a fucking mess that Palomino Molero business is. Did they really cut his balls off?”

“They didn’t cut them off, they pulled them off.” Lituma was disgusted: that was the first thing everyone wanted to know. Now Moisés would start making jokes about the kid.

“It’s all the same.” Dumbo moved his enormous ears as if they were the wings of some huge insect. His nose and chin also stuck way out. A total freak.

“Did you know him?”

“Yeah, and so did you, I’m sure of it. Don’t you remember him? The rich boys would hire him for serenades. They had him sing at parties, at any special event, even at the Grau Club. He sang like Leo Marini, I swear. You must have met him, Lituma.”

“That’s what everybody says.]osé, Mono, and Josefino say we were all together one night when he sang at La Chunga ’s place. But I just can’t remember it.”

He closed his eyes and conjured up a series of identical nights, sitting around a small wooden table bristling with beer bottles, the cigarette smoke burning his eyes, the stink of booze, drunken voices, blurred silhouettes, and guitars playing waltzes and tonderos. Could he find, in that chaos, the young, crooning, caressing voice that made you want to dance, hold a woman, and whisper sweet nothings in her ear? No, he couldn’t turn up a thing. His cousins and Josefino were wrong. He just drew a blank: Lituma had never heard Palomino Molero sing in his life.

“Did you find out who killed him?”

“Not yet. Were you a friend of his?”

“He’d come by now and then to have a drink. We weren’t buddies, but we’d chat once in a while.”

“Was he lively, a talker? Or was he serious and cold?”

“Quiet and shy. Romantic, kind of a poet. Too bad they drafted him. He must have suffered with all that military discipline.”

“He wasn’t drafted; he was exempt. He enlisted. His mother can’t figure it out, and neither can I.”

“That’s what happens when you get a broken heart.” Dumbo wagged his ears.

“That’s what I think, but that doesn’t tell me who killed him or why.”

Some men came into the Río Bar, and Moisés went to take their order. It was time to find the truck driver, but Lituma felt himself going slack. He didn’t move. He saw the slim boy tuning his guitar; he saw him in the half light of the streets where Piura ’s purebreds lived, beneath the wrought-iron bars on the balconies belonging to girls he could never love, captivating them with his pretty voice. He saw him pocketing the tips the rich boys would give nim for serenading their girls. Did he buy his guitar with those tips saved up over the course of months? Why was it a matter of “life and death” for him to leave Piura?

“Now I remember,” said Moisés, flapping his ears furiously.

“What do you remember?”

“That he was crazy in love. He told me something. An impossible love. That’s what he said.”

“A married woman?”

“How would I know, Lituma? There’s lots of impossible loves. You can fall in love with a nun, for instance. But I remember hearing him say that. ‘So what are you so down in the mouth about, kid?’ ‘Because I’m in love, Moisés, and it’s an impossible love.’ That’s why he joined the Air Force.”

“Didn’t he tell you why it was an impossible love? Or who she was?”

Moisés wagged his head and his ears.

“That’s all he said. That he had to see her in secret. He serenaded her, but not under her window. From afar.”

“I get it.” He imagined the kid running away from Piura because of a jealous husband who’d threatened to kill him. “If we knew who the woman was, why it was an impossible love, we’d have something to go on.” Maybe that’s why he’d been tortured: the rage of a jealous husband.