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  “I'd ask to be cremated,” she said.

  “What?”

  “To be cremated. Turned into ashes. Then my family could have me at home when they wanted to see me.”

  An oven. Fire. A crematory. A furnace that feeds on people. It was simple, really.

  “And where would you do that?”

  “In the Church of the Heart of Christ. They have an oven. And it's closer to my house than the cemetery.”

  “They have that? Churches don't have ovens.”

  The prosecutor asked as if he were a tourist. She laughed again. In a corner of her mouth she had a silver filling that glistened in the light.

  “This one does. What about you? You'd be buried, wouldn't you?”

  “I have to go.”

  He stood with the feeling that something was boiling in his head. Perhaps he had time to stop by that church before his lunch hour was over. In any event, if not he could claim the pressure of work. He had not made note of it in the morning, but perhaps he could send a memo correcting his statement regarding justified absences. Perhaps the proof that they were not terrorists would be there. Jealousy. It had to be jealousy. It had to be demonstrated that it was jealousy. She watched him get up from the table. She seemed disappointed.

  “You could at least taste it before you say you don't like it!”

  “Oh, no … you do not understand. It is just that I am in a terrible hurry. I promise that tomorrow … What is your name?”

  “Edith.”

  “Edith, of course. I promise that tomorrow I'll come and really eat lunch. Yes, I promise.”

  “Sure, go on.”

  The prosecutor tried to say something clever. All he could think of was jealousy. He left the restaurant, reached the corner, and remembered that he ought to pay the bill. He did not want her to think he was an opportunist. He turned and walked toward the restaurant. Then he thought that if he paid, she would think he was not returning the next day. In the middle of the street, he wondered what he should do. He looked at his watch. He would go to police headquarters and to the church. It would be better not to be distracted from his work. He looked toward the restaurant one last time. Edith was cleaning his table. He waited for her to look up. To wave good-bye to him. She finished the table and then swept up a little. She looked at the sky. The sky was clear. Then she disappeared again into the interior. The prosecutor thought about the oven. Edith had cooperated with the law without realizing it. He retraced his steps to the restaurant. He went in. She was surprised to see him return. He said:

  “Thank you. Thank you very much.”

  “You're welcome.”

  She smiled. He realized then that he was smiling too. Feeling calmer, Félix Chacaltana Saldívar continued on his way.

  He stopped by police headquarters, where the same sergeant as last time received him:

  “Good afternoon, I am looking for Captain Pacheco.”

  “Captain Pacheco?”

  “That is correct.”

  The sergeant wrote down the prosecutor's information again on a piece of paper and went into the office. He came out nine minutes later:

  “The captain is very busy right now but asks that you send him a written request, and he'll study it carefully.”

  “It is just that … the police ought to carry out this investigation. I cannot move forward if I do not see that you are moving forward too.”

  “Of course, I understand. I'll let the captain know.”

  The Church of the Heart of Christ was beyond the Arch, almost where the mountain began. The principal nave was completely overlaid with wood and gold leaf, and the stained-glass windows were representations of the Stations of the Cross. In one corner there was an altar to Our Lady of Sorrows with the seven daggers in her bosom. On the other side, near the sacristy, was an image of Christ dragging the cross to Golgotha. There were short red candles before each holy image. The image of the crucified Christ looked down on the main altar. Félix Chacaltana stared at his somber nakedness, the drops of blood running down his face, the wounds of the nails on his hands and feet, the gash in his side.

  A hand touched his shoulder.

  The prosecutor jumped. Behind him was a priest still dressed in the vestments of the Mass. He carried several objects of silver and glass. He was about fifty years old and had very little hair.

  “May I help you? I'm Father Quiroz, the pastor of Heart of Christ.”

  The prosecutor accompanied the priest as he put away the implements of the Mass in the sacristy, explaining the situation. On the wall hung a chiaroscuro image of Christ raising his hands to God. His perforated hands. The crown of thorns circled his head like a red and green tiara. Chacaltana wanted to say something agreeable:

  “How beautiful your church is,” was what occurred to him.

  “Yes, it's beautiful now,” the priest responded as he placed the wafers in a plastic box. “We've restored it recently with money from the government, this church and all the others. There are thirty-three churches in this city, Señor Prosecutor. Like the age of Christ. Ayacucho is one of the most devout cities in the country.”

  “Religion is always a consolation. Especially here … with so many dead.”

  The priest polished the paten and chalice carefully.

  “Sometimes I don't know, Señor Prosecutor. The Indians are so impenetrable. Have you ever seen the churches of Juli, in Puno?”

  “No.”

  Quiroz took off the green and gold chasuble and the cordon that tied the stole around his waist. He folded the cloth articles and placed them delicately in a chest in order not to wrinkle them. Each gesture seemed like another ritual of the Mass, as if each movement of his hands had a precise meaning. He said:

  “They are open-air churches, like corrals. The Jesuits built them during the colonial period to convert the Indians, to have them attend Mass, because they worshipped only the sun, the river, the mountains. Do you see? They didn't understand why worship was held in an enclosed place.”

  “And did it work?”

  The priest locked with a key each of the chests in which he had placed articles. He carried the keys on a large ring.

  “Oh, yes, to keep up appearances. The Indians were delighted to attend Mass, and at Mass … They prayed and learned canticles, they even took Communion. But they never stopped worshipping the sun, the river, and the mountains. Their Latin prayers were only memorized repetitions. Inside they continued worshipping their gods, their huacas. They deceived the Jesuits.”

  Father Quiroz stood facing the prosecutor. He was tall. Félix Chacaltana thought he ought to contribute something to the conversation. He wondered what Commander Carrión would say. He asked:

  “What would you have recommended?”

  “One reaches the true spirit only through suffering. Pleasure and nature are corporeal, worldly. The soul is full of suffering. Christ endured blood and death to save us. Penance is the only way to reach the heart of man. Shall we go down now?”

  The prosecutor nodded. He had not understood very well what the priest had said about suffering. In general he did not like suffering. They left the church and walked down a short alleyway that led to the small parish house. In the living room there was an accumulation of old furniture, cardboard boxes, and church decorations. Quiroz made an embarrassed gesture. He said:

  “Forgive the disorder. I usually see people in the parish office. I'm the only one who comes in here and that's only to sleep. The oven is down below.”

  The prosecutor remarked:

  “I did not think Catholics had crematories.”

  “We don't. The body should reach the day of the Final Judgment to be resurrected with the soul. The basement of the parish house was a storeroom. The recent crematory was built in the 1980s at the request of the military high command.”

  “The high command?”

  They stopped at a heavy wooden door. The priest took out another key and opened it. In front of them were damp unlit stairs. Holding on to t
he walls, they climbed down to the basement. It smelled of incense and enclosure.

  “Too many dead. The city was often under siege, and the cemeteries were full. One had to dispose of the bodies.”

  “And why did they do it here?”

  “In wartime, every request from the military is an order. The high command considered us the ones who took care of people after they were dead. According to them, the logical thing was for us to take care of the oven.”

  Down below a faint light came from a small, high window of opaque glass that faced the alley. The priest turned on the overhead light. It was a white neon bulb, like the one at the morgue, but round. When he turned it on, more boxes appeared piled up in a corner. And beside them, in the stone wall, was an opening with a metal door and lining. A chimney, which must have gone up to the roof of the house, protruded on one side. As if it were a baker's oven, the priest showed him how it operated. The body was introduced vertically into the oven, lying on a grate. The fire was fueled by gas and distributed uniformly around the body until it was reduced to powder. The ashes were collected in a metallic tray that was reinforced to withstand the heat, and from there they went down to the urn or jar where they would rest forever.

  “We haven't used it for a long time. The people here are very tied to the earth. And I don't like the idea of destroying the body, either. Only God should dispose of bodies.”

  The prosecutor placed his hand inside the opening. He touched the walls, the door. They were cold.

  “Could it have been used recently without your consent?”

  “Nothing is done here without my consent.”

  The priest adjusted a cross hanging on the wall. It was a black cross without the image of Christ. Just a black cross on a gray surface. The prosecutor did not want to think about the cross burned into the forehead of the corpse.

  “And on the night in question did you notice anything unusual? Any noise? Anything unexpected?”

  “I don't know, Señor Prosecutor. I don't know which is the night in question.”

  “I thought I told you. Forgive me. It was Wednesday the 8th. Just after Carnival. The body was found on the same day it died.”

  The priest made an ironic face.

  “How appropriate.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Ash Wednesday. It's time to purify bodies after the pagan festivities and begin Lent, the sacrifice, the preparation for Holy Week.”

  “Ash Wednesday. Why Ash?”

  The priest smiled pityingly.

  “Ah, secular public education. Nobody taught you the Catechism at your school in Lima, Señor Prosecutor? On that day a cross of ashes is marked on the foreheads of Catholics, as a reminder that we are dust and will turn to dust.”

  His mother had taken him to church from time to time and that sign had been put on him by a cold, black hand. He touched his forehead, as if he wanted to wipe away the mark.

  “To remember that we are going to die?” he asked.

  “That we are going to die and will be resurrected to a purer life. Fire purifies.”

  Without knowing why, the prosecutor felt as he had days earlier in the office of Dr. Posadas. Faint. He wanted to cancel the visit. There was no jealousy here. He decided to ask something that had no answer, something that would leave the crematory like a dead-end street, something to be forgotten.

  “What … other persons have access to this place?”

  “As I told you, this place is hardly used. I have the only key. Do you consider me a suspect?”

  “Oh, no, Father, please. But I think perhaps someone could have tried to make the corpse disappear in your oven. Do you know if anyone could have had access to a copy of the key?”

  The priest reflected for a few seconds.

  “No.”

  The Associate District Prosecutor felt more and more relieved with each answer. There was nothing else to do here. To be certain he had fulfilled the duties of his position, he insisted:

  “Some worker or civilian who offered his services, for example?”

  “Well, a few weeks ago I had to dismiss a cleaner. He had stolen a chalice. A rather dim-witted Indian, actually. I don't consider him capable of planning anything. But if he had wanted to, he might have had access to the key, I suppose.”

  The prosecutor unwillingly took out his notebook. He regretted having insisted on the question.

  “Aha. His name?”

  “Do you think he brought a corpse here at night and then carried it through the streets only partially burned? I don't believe that poor soul of God …”

  “It is just routine. I will verify it for my report.”

  “If I remember correctly, his name was Justino. Justino Mayta Carazo.”

  “Thirty-one.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing, forget it.”

  The Associate District Prosecutor again felt perspiration on his forehead. He wanted the police here. He looked at the oven again. He wanted to be buried when he died.

  in this city the ded arent ded. they walk the streets and sell candy to the children. they greet the adults. they prey in the churches.

  sometimes there are so many i wonder if im ded too. maybe im skinned and cut up, my peeces at the bottem of a pond. everything i see is only what my eyes see and maybe there not here anymore.

  maybe i dont know it anymore.

  but hes really ded. really. his ashes cant wander around. his arm isnt an arm anymore. his skins got nothing to cover. thats why he talks to me that way. thats why he complanes. and i tell him you cant do anything anymore, you son of a bitch. ha. you cant do anything anymore.

  too many sins. all there in your chest like the worms that eat you. the fire. but you cant do anything anymore. your cleen.

  thanks to me.

  i came from hell to save you. i cleened your blood and your semen out of the sewers so there wont be more sins like you. bastard. i did it for you. your skins good for feeding the dogs. your spit. your spit.

  some day men—ded men—will look back and say the 21st sentury began with me.

  but you wont see the 21st sentury now.

  your cleen.

  because of me.

  Associate District Prosecutor Félix Chacaltana Saldívar spent the rest of the week trying to locate Justino Mayta Carazo for the pertinent interrogation. He had recovered somewhat from the grim impression made by the crematory. In fact, he was calmer. He thought the commander was right. Unmistakably a fight over broads. Mayta Carazo had tried to make the evidence disappear, but a body takes a long time to turn into ashes. He must have seen that he would be found out and pulled the body out in time. The cross on the forehead was to mislead the authorities. In the end he said that he had found the body to deflect the suspicions of the police. No terrorists, just a crime of passion. With motive and opportunity. The commander would be pleased with his investigation.

  In order not to waken his fears, the prosecutor sent to the domicile of the suspect three subpoenas and two summonses to appear as a witness. At the same time, he sent Captain Pacheco an account of the facts so the police could locate the suspect. By means of briefs, he inquired about him in the municipality of Quinua and in the appropriate parish.

  On Friday he still had not received a reply. The messenger ser vice at the Office of the Prosecutor informed him that they had not sent out a single envelope all week because the messenger was sick. Maybe he'd feel better next week. Or maybe not. The prosecutor thought that if matters were put off too long, the commander would forget about his case. He himself wanted to forget about it as soon as possible. The case seemed to inflame his memories. That night he discussed the situation with his mother:

  “I really don't know, Mamacita. If I don't resolve this case, they won't give me another good one. I've learned by now that you have to fight your way up.”

  He remembered a voice saying: You're an incompetent with no future, Félix. You'll never amount to anything. It was not his mother's voice, but he rem
embered it clearly. He remembered an empty pillow, like his mother's. He remembered the Lima fog at the windows of the enormous building where he worked, on Avenida Abancay. He did not want to go back there.

  “I'm going to look for Mayta myself. I'm going to prove to the commander that I'm an exemplary prosecutor. Even if it fucks me up, excuse my language, the fact is this case makes me very nervous.”

  On Saturday the 18th he got up at seven and had breakfast with a photograph of his mother in Sacsayhuamán, in her native Cuzco. It was a sunny, tranquil photo, as if meant to begin a good day. After saying good-bye, he closed the windows of his mother's room because he would be out late. He went to the jitney stop and took public transport. He sat between a woman carrying a hen and two boys who looked like brothers. When they left Ayacucho he enjoyed the view of the dry, interminable mountains and the river far below. The sky was clear. On the road to Quinua, the landscape became greener and more lush in places. At the end of the trip, the doors of the houses decorated with little ceramic churches indicated that he was close to his destination.

  The prosecutor got out of the jitney beside a soccer field where about ten boys without shoes were playing. The two who had ridden with him ran to join the others. He realized too late that his trousers were covered with their snot. He cleaned it off with his handkerchief, passed the shops for tourists, and entered the village. He asked a street vendor:

  “Mamacita. I'm looking for Justino Mayta Carazo. Have you seen him?”

  The vendor did not take her eyes off her altarpieces and weavings. She said:

  “Well, who's he I wonder?”

  “Don't you know Justino? Don't you live in the village?”

  “Well, what's he look like I wonder?”

  “Do you know where this address is?”

  “Not too far, right over there.”

  Then she mumbled a couple of phrases in Quechua. The prosecutor understood that “not too far” could mean “two days away.” He remembered how difficult it is to question Quechua speakers, especially if they also do not feel like talking. And they never feel like talking. They are always afraid of what might happen. They do not trust anybody. Street by street he looked for the address he had written down on a piece of paper. Finally he came to a narrow house that seemed to have only one room downstairs and another upstairs, with one window. He knocked at the door. He had the impression that someone was watching him from the upstairs window, but when he looked up he did not see anything. After a long wait, an old woman opened the door a crack. In the darkness all he could see was one of her eyes and part of her long black braid.