Evelio Rosero - Feast of the Innocents

“So you haven’t been able to track down the float.”

“Hard to follow the doctor on this scooter,” Puelles said, and pointed to the Vespa, battered and covered in mud, beside him. “The doctor went to Tumaco, to the Laguna Verde, up the volcano, he got to Las Lajas, and everywhere he went all he did was make love. This float you’re on about doesn’t exist.”

“There’s still time before tomorrow,” Quiroz said. “Speak to the little doctor, make friends with him — you’re smart, make him believe you think as he does, that you’re on his side, and he’ll tell you where the float’s hidden. Meanwhile, we’ll look for it on our own account too; we’re all working to the same end, you know? We couldn’t leave such a responsibility to you alone, you were never going to be up to the job on your own, we already knew that. Make friends with him, I tell you.”

The poet got on the Vespa, he did not want to hear another word, far better to get away from the Carnavalito than have to swallow that lunatic’s complaints. But suddenly he saw the lunatic right on top of him: it was as if the two of them were revealing their true colours for the first time. Quiroz confronted him, thrusting his face an inch away from him:

“This is serious stuff, Puelles. That little doctor is worse than the policeman. Do you understand me?”

Puelles did not.

And then he did not believe it.

It was as he supposed.

This isn’t happening, he thought.

And then:

Not me.

“That doctor is a worthless bastard,” he said. And now he could not hide his desperation. “But he’s not worth a damn. The float is just a rumour. Think of the hassle — the doctor is an innocent little angel.”

“He’s poison, and the purest kind, the worst. An anti-Bolívarian, no less. An enemy of the people. Understand, chickenshit? This time we’ll explain who we are, so there’ll be no room for doubt. This time we’ll leave our indelible signature. A new force is on the horizon. The future. Us. These people are my people, your people, our people. Are we going to defend them or not? Not one step back, not even to get a run-up — and down with the rich, dammit!”

Puelles nodded, as he switched on the Vespa and sped off without knowing where to go.

He fled.

He fled, zigzagging through the bodies lining the street, a row of blurs scattered in the Carnavalito: he saw two girls dressed in green, twins; a drunk man hugging a tree, talking to it; another drunk asleep on the pavement; three or four nuns holding hands — real nuns or fancy dress ones? And just then he spotted him: Doctor Justo Pastor Proceso López, his target — slouching, hands in pockets, tubby but tall, a huge black hat on, the kind an old hippie would wear — standing stock still. What was he staring at so attentively? The shuttered facade of Mandarina’s big old townhouse, no less.

The secret poet shivered.

He braked and got off the scooter. And he joined the doctor, stood by his side, shared a silence for two — will he suspect me? No, it often happens during carnival that a random stranger follows your steps, Doctor, poor doctor, or rather happy doctor, as far as women were concerned. Even though it was only Carnavalito — Puelles thought — that parade of imps and monsters was just like the grown-up Black and White Carnival that was coming soon: the jaws were identical. A jubilant racket ran up and down the street: toy drums; goblins and clowns faced each other. The doctor turned his face towards him — no child’s face could be more innocent or happy — and he drew a bottle of aguardiente from his pocket and deliberately poured half on the ground: the aguardiente seemed to boil on the paving stones.

“For the dead,” he cried.

Puelles shivered again; such a greeting almost unhinged him.

“Here’s to them,” he answered.

The doctor held the bottle out to him; Puelles took a long swig. The doctor did not take his eyes off the townhouse:

“When will they open?”

“That house is a night-time business,” the poet said.

“Well, love should be morning, noon and night, for the incurable. Now I’ll have to wait.” The doctor took back the bottle and looked at him attentively. “Would you like to have lunch with me?”

The poet Puelles stopped shivering.

The doctor’s eyes scanned Mandarina’s house again. He drank thirstily.

“The time will pass more quickly,” he said.

They left the scooter safe in a garage, and did not have lunch: without agreeing it, without discovering who was leading who, they went from the illuminated street of the Carnavalito into a sort of subterranean labyrinth — like they jumped down into it — a bar near Mandarina’s house, with neither name nor windows, just a metal door and a few steps resembling a descent into Hell, Puelles thought; they came out into a room half lit by ruddy candles, where music was pounding from rectangular black speakers hanging from the ceiling; in the space completely filled with bodies, shadows were dancing to “La Múcura” and singing along: a single voice, a single body, and one and the same sweat — the smell of hot, damp clothing — eyes like torches, hundreds of eyes glowing white in the gloom, because still further in there was no light, only that massed glow of eyesabove concealed bodies, linked together, sleeping bodies that danced.

And they walked in, feeling their way like blind men.

At the table they ordered aguardiente. Nearly all the tables were occupied by couples embracing, tightly clasped. What a place to talk, Puelles thought, but only if he was drinking could he talk to the doctor— dare to talk, he thought — and something similar might happen to the doctor: he might talk to his heart’s content, even confirm once and for all that the float was a lie, and everyone would be happy. But what if the float exists? He said it out loud, as a waiter poured their aguardiente : “ What if the float exists? ”

“What did you say?” the unsuspecting doctor enquired from the other side of the table. With “La Múcura” blasting out it was hard to hear.

“Does the float exist or not?” the poet made up his mind to bellow, then drank the aguardiente down in one.

The doctor hesitated a moment. In the end he gave a shrug. He nodded silently — not as though responding, only as if talking to himself — and drank his aguardiente , adjusted the ridiculous hat, put a banknote on the table and stood up.

“Don’t go, Doctor Proceso,” Puelles held him back. “Doctor Justo Pastor Proceso López. Sit down just for a minute, I have to tell you something of interest to you. Afterwards you can go where you like. To Mandarina’s? I’ve had a visit pending too since I was fifteen, but listen and the time will pass more quickly, as you want it to.”

The doctor sat down again. Who was this ghost? Did he know him? He had seen him somewhere before.

So they were going to kill him.

At least, that is what the kid shouted into his ear, in an exaggerated whisper. What extraordinary news: according to the kid he should make a “quick” visit to Mandarina’s place, and then pack his bags and skip the country “until it’s all blown over,” they don’t call Pasto Colombia’s “Surprise City” for nothing.

“Are you having me on? You’re making fun of me.”

“No, Doctor, I’m not: Innocents’ Day already came and went. I’m just warning you, it’s up to you. Remember the beating crazy Chivo got? Who shook up Cangrejito Arbeláez, artist of the enemy? Now things are going from bad to worse, Doctor, now they won’t just do you over, they’ll send you to the other side. You’ll see. Cheers.”

“And all this over Bolívar’s carriage?” the doctor puzzled. “Who are you people?”