Evelio Rosero - Feast of the Innocents

Doctor Justo Pastor Proceso López woke up on January 6 in his own bed, without Primavera at his side. It was the most important day of his life: the day of his death — as Enrique Quiroz would put it.

One day earlier, in the parish church, Quiroz himself had said: “I want him alive, so I can be the one to bury him.” And, as Ilyich turned up with no news, he had burst out: “It’s now or never.” He issued orders: eight members of the group, led by Boris — Quiroz’s brother — and Catiri from the plains, would pay a visit to a shed on the outskirts of Pasto that night where they believed — based on unreliable information — the float was to be found. Their mission had but one objective: blow up Bolívar’s carriage, without further ado. Meanwhile, Ilyich and Vladimir would scour heaven and earth for the doctor. And yet, after receiving their orders, the group members did not move. A heavy silence pinned them in their places. It was not their own mission that seemed to shock them — the annihilation of the float — but the mission Quiroz and Platter took upon themselves, a mission they all, in their heart of hearts, considered a done deal, and which for that very reason scared them. Quite simply, they did not want to believe it. And there they stayed, surrounding their leader and Platter, as if waiting for an explanation: Was it all decided? Would they find Doctor Proceso? And then what? Would it really happen? Must it? They did not take their eyes off Quiroz and Platter — astonished, but still incredulous, you might say scared stiff. Quiroz and Platter let themselves be looked at, exalted. It was an oppressive situation, accompanied by a silence that, in spite of everything, was judgemental, and lasted only a few seconds. Quiroz and Platter had flushed; they were so different, but now they looked alike: their gaze was fixed, eyes wide open, as if they had both just been on the receiving end of an identical and terrible insult, and just the two of them, acting as one, were required to do something about it. Ultimately, their attitude and determination convinced the group: they displayed utter conviction that their action was justified; the whole world depended on the result; they were predestined to do this; they were going to kill.

“What are you waiting for?” Quiroz rebuked them. “Get a move on.”

Immediately the group flew from the church, without a word. Their shadows moved resolutely through the night of wet streets. Quiroz and Platter were left alone.

“Shall we do it?” Quiroz yelled.

“Yes,” Platter said, but in a hoarse, glad whisper.

“Yes,” Quiroz repeated. And they both yelled it at once as they set off running into the rain, in search of Doctor Proceso.

And in fact they had looked for him the remainder of the night, fruitlessly: he was not to be found at his house or the houses of any of his abettors. In their frenzy, running from street to street in the rain of January 5, surrounded by the carnival on all sides, Ilyich and Vladimir imagined in despair that they crossed paths with the doctor on more than one occasion and did not recognize him — Pasto was like that, too. And still not knowing how the bombers had fared, when only a few hours remained for sleeping, they agreed to conclude their mission on January 6, during the parade of floats, the most important day of the doctor’s life, the day of his death — Quiroz had said — on he would have to appear so he could be disappeared: it will be the fireworks of our carnival, the great test.

The morning of January 6, a noise like muffled thumping at the foot of his bed had woken the doctor. He discovered the thumps were coming from inside the chest where Primavera kept the sheets. He heard the defeated cry, the hopeless weeping of a child. He wanted to open the trunk, but it was locked; he had to break the catches. To his horror, an utterly terrified boy jumped from the chest and fled without saying a word. His head had been sheared and smeared with bird droppings. Who was it? He heard him go sobbing down the stairs, and out of the house with the distant slamming of a door.

“What’s going on here?” the doctor asked himself.

His clothes from the night of the fifth lay scattered across the floor, still wet, muddy, testament to who knew what meetings and misses, where are you now Primavera, what are you up to? He put on his dressing gown and leaned out of the window overlooking the garden. He saw Sinfín, Floridita and the maid gathered round an ape— the ape —lying face up on the lawn, in the shape of a cross.

Homero.

“What’s going on here?” the doctor asked.

“Nothing, señor , just that Homero got drunk and nobody can wake him up,” Sinfín answered. “He’s gone round scaring half of Pasto dressed up as a monkey, but it looks like he scared himself the most.”

“Take off the costume, and let him breathe,” the doctor said, “I’ll come down.” He was going to step back from the window but a burning question got the better of him: “Where’s my wife?”

“She went to pick up Luz de Luna, who slept at her aunt Matilde’s. She’ll be back soon. She said for you to wait for her.”

Sinfín was examining him from below; her eyes, accustomed to making things out in the distance, continued to scrutinize him inside and out; her sly face smiled indulgently:

“The señora woke up with you, Doctor, it’s just that she woke up first, very early. She had to go for Luz de Luna: the girl stayed the night at her aunt’s, without permission, you see? Wait for the señora , and don’t despair, what else can you do?”

“The carriage,” the doctor said. “Has the procession started yet?”

“It will in an hour. Just stand on Avenida de los Estudiantes and you’ll see it go past sooner or later, but wouldn’t you rather wait for the señora ? Wait and see it with the señora , it’ll be nicer.”

The doctor did not reply. His whole life turned on a different question: where could Primavera have gone, with whom? The excuse about Luz de Luna sounded ridiculous to him — and he considered himself ridiculous too, for doubting. He did not want to remember the details of the night before, at the late Belencito’s house, under the window with witnesses, he did not want to recall those details: their bittersweet aftertaste was embarrassing to him. He convinced himself to go out and find Primavera at the height of White Day: having her in front of him, face to face, he would know what to do, or they both would.

When he got down to the garden, Sinfín and the maid were pulling the costume from the gardener: they had just taken off the gorilla’s head, exposing his reddened face, wrinkled and wet with aguardiente . Completely drunk, he was still in a stupor, he babbled incoherently, slapping himself, and all in front of Floridita, an observer of every gesture, every stutter, deliciously fascinated. Floridita’s presence reminded him immediately of the locked-in, crying boy, a few minutes before. He was shocked observing her, so calm. He heard her say:

“He looks dead.” And she nudged the gardener with the toe of her sandal.

“Leave him, girl,” Sinfín said. “Let him sleep, he needs it.”

The doctor picked up the disguise, and, just as he had done exactly ten days earlier, slung it over his shoulder. Then he turned to his daughter:

“There was a boy locked in the linen chest.”

“So that’s where he was,” Floridita sounded surprised. “We were playing hide-and-seek yesterday. Nobody could find him, he beat us all.”

“Oh, Floridita,” Sinfín butted in, and shook her head. “It’s a wicked, wicked, wicked world.”

And she said no more.

“He ran off, that boy,” the doctor said. “Who is he?”