Mario Llosa: Who Killed Palomino Molero?

“If Matías did all that, that kid must have sung like an angel, because Matías doesn’t get excited that easily, he’s sort of cold.”

“Then he’s serving you to the lieutenant on a silver platter,” thought Lituma. Sure enough, the lieutenant was licking his lips like a hungry cat.

“You mean he can’t cut the mustard, Dofia Adrianita? I’d be happy to heat you up anytime you like. I’m like a house afire.”

“I don’t need anybody to heat me up.” Doña Adriana laughed. “When it’s cold out, I use a hot-water bottle to heat up the bed.”

“Human warmth is so much nicer, honey.” The lieutenant purred, puckering his lips toward Doña Adriana as if he wanted to drink her in.

lust then, Don Jerónimo appeared. He couldn’t drive right up to the restaurant because the street was sandy and he’d have gotten stuck. So he’d left his Ford on the main road, about a hundred yards away. Lieutenant Silva and Lituma signed the voucher for their breakfast and bade farewell to Doña Adriana. Outside, the sun pounded them mercilessly. It was like midday even though it was eight-fifteen. In the blinding light, it seemed as if things and people might simply dissolve at any moment.

“Talara is buzzing with rumors,” said Don Jerónimo as they walked toward the van, their feet sinking into the sand. “Lieutenant, you find the murderers, or they’re gonna lynch you.

“Let ‘em lynch me.” Lieutenant Silva shrugged. “I swear I didn’t kill him.”

“Well, people are saying lots of strange things. Your ears must be burning.”

“My ears never burn. What are they saying?”

“That you’re covering up because the murderers are big shots,” said Don Jerónimo, cranking up the motor. And he repeated winking at the lieutenant, “There are some big shots in this, right, Lieutenant?”

“I don’t know if there are big shots or nobodies in this thing, but we’ll get them no matter what. Lieutenant Silva gets his man, big or little, Don Jerónimo. So let’s go, I don’t want to be late for my meeting with the colonel.”

The lieutenant was an honest man, and that’s why Lituma esteemed and admired him. He had a big mouth, was a smooth talker, and lost his head only when it came to the plump hostess. In all the time Lituma had been working under Lieutenant Silva, he’d always seen him do his best to be fair and not play favorites.

“What have you found out up till now, Lieutenant?” Don Jerónimo blew his horn uselessly; the kids, dogs, pigs, donkeys, and goats that wandered in front of the taxi made no attempt whatever to get out of the way.

“Not a goddamn thing.”

“Not much to brag about,” mocked the driver.

Lituma heard his boss repeat what he’d said earlier that morning: “Today we’ll find out something. You can smell it in the air.”

By now they were on the outskirts of town, and on both sides of the road oil derricks punctuated the bare, rocky landscape. Off in the distance, the roofs of the Air Force base were shining in the sun. “I hope to God something turns up-anything,” Lituma said to himself, echoing the lieutenant. Would they ever know who killed the kid and why? Instead of wanting justice or vengeance, he just wanted to see their faces, to hear them explain why they did what they did to Palomino Molero.

At the guardhouse, the duty officer looked them over from head to foot as if he’d never seen them before. And he kept them waiting in the white-hot sun, not thinking to ask them to sit in the shade of his office. As they waited, Lituma looked the place over:

“Shit. Talk about the good life. That’s what this is.” On the right were the officers’ houses, all identical, all raised up on posts, all painted blue and white, with small, well-tended geranium gardens, and window screens. He saw women with children, and young girls watering flowers; he heard laughter. The airmen lived almost as well as the foreigners at the I.P.C, for chrissake! Just seeing everything so clean and neat made you jealous. They even had a pool, just behind the houses. Lituma had never seen it, but he could imagine it, full of women and kids in bathing suits, sunbathing and splashing each other.

Off to the left were the hangars and offices and, farther down, the landing strip. He could see some planes parked in a triangular formation. “They really live it up. Like the gringos at the I.P.C, these lucky bastards live like movie stars behind their fences and screens. The gringos and the Air Force people could look each other straight in the eye-right above the heads of the slobs in Talara, who were roasting down there in the town, sprawled along the dirty, oily ocean. From the base, Lituma could look right over Talara and see a rocky headland, a fence patrolled night and day by armed guards, and the houses inhabited by the engineers, technicians, and executives of the I.P.C. They, too, had their pool, complete with diving boards. In town they said the foreign women went swimming half naked.

After making them wait a long time, Colonel Mindreau finally had them sent into his office. As they walked toward the commander’s door, Lituma looked at the officers and airmen. “Some of these fuckers know what happened.”

Lieutenant Silva and Lituma snapped to attention at the door and then advanced to the center of the room. On the desk there was a tiny Peruvian flag, a calendar, an engagement book, some forms, a few pencils, and photographs of Colonel Mindreau with his daughter, or his daughter alone. The neatness of the office reflected the colonel’s compulsive personality. Everything was in its place: the file cabinets, the diplomas on the walls, and the huge map of Peru, which served as backdrop for the commander-in-chief of the Talara Air Force Base. Colonel Mindreau was a stubby little man, barrel-chested, with a deeply lined face and a precisely trimmed salt-and-pepper mustache. The man mirrored the office. He studied them with gray, iron-cold eyes that betrayed not the slightest welcome.

“What can I do for you?” His friendly tone contradicted his glacial face.

“We’re here again about the murder of Palomino Molero, sir. We need your help, Colonel,” said the lieutenant.

“Haven’t I already helped?” the colonel cut him off. In his low tone there was an undercurrent of mockery. “Weren’t you both in this very office three days ago? If you’ve lost the memorandum I gave you, I have a copy.”

He opened a folder he had in front of him, removed a sheet of paper, and read in a toneless voice:

“Molero Sánchez, Palomino. Born Piura, 13 February 1936. Legitimate son of Doña Asunta Sanchez and Don Teófilo Molero, deceased. Education: primary school; three years of secondary at the San Miguel National High School of Piura. Enlisted in 1953. Began tour of duty Talara Air Force Base 15 January 1954. Third Company, under command Lieutenant Adolfo Capriata. Went through basic training along with other recruits. Went AWOL on night of 23-24 March. Did not report in after a twenty-four-hour pass. Declared a deserter and reported to military police.”

The colonel cleared his throat and looked at Lieutenant Silva. “Do you want another copy?”

“Why do you hate us?” thought Lituma. “And why are you such a bully, asshole?”

“No need for that, Colonel.” Lieutenant Silva smiled. “We haven’t lost the memorandum.”

“Well, what more do you want? What kind of help can I give you? The memorandum contains everything we know about Palomino Molero. I myself carried out the investigation, in consultation with the officers, noncommissioned officers, and airmen in his company. No one saw him and no one knows who could have killed him or why. I sent my superiors a detailed report and they are satisfied. You, apparently, are not. Well, that’s your problem. The staff of this base is absolutely innocent of any involvement in this matter, and there’s nothing more to be learned here. Molero was a quiet fellow who didn’t pal around with anyone and confided in no one. He doesn’t seem to have had any friends or, for that matter, enemies on the base. According to his performance reports, he was barely mediocre. Maybe that’s why he deserted. Investigate on the outside, find out who knew him in town, the people he was with from the time he deserted until he was killed. You’re wasting your time here, Lieutenant, and I have no intention of wasting mine.”