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  “Well, what is it I wonder, Señor?”

  “Good morning, Mamacita, I am looking for Justino Mayta Carazo. I am from the Ministry of Justice.”

  She closed the door and when she was inside she asked him to show his identification. The prosecutor passed it to her under the door. He thought he heard whispering inside. He waited a while longer until the woman opened the door again and asked him to come in. The house was scantily furnished with a table and two chairs. It had no light and no bathroom. The sofa was on bricks instead of legs and had a blanket thrown over it. Two children watched curiously from the hand ladder that went up to another bare brick space.

  “Justino isn't here,” said the woman. “He left.”

  “Where could I find him?”

  “Well, where is he I wonder? He left.”

  “When did he leave?”

  “A while ago now.”

  “Do you mind if I take a look around the house? It is … an official investigation.”

  She looked upward. She said nothing but did not try to stop him either. The prosecutor checked the small first floor, but there was nothing of interest. He began to climb the creaking ladder. The children watched him in silence. He greeted them, but they did not respond. They simply stared at him. He climbed up with difficulty because the ladder seemed about to fall. One of the boys coughed. The prosecutor got a splinter in his hand. He licked the puncture. Then he heard the thud. It was like a large sack of potatoes landing on the street. He went up two more rungs and was on the second floor. The upstairs window was open. He turned to go down but missed his step and fell to the bottom of the ladder. When he stood up, he felt a pain in his leg but went to the door and looked out. He caught sight of a man racing around the corner. For a second he wondered if following him was the responsibility of the Associate District Prosecutor or if he only had to pass along the information. Then he remembered the fire. He thought that pursuit was the responsibility of the National Police, and if he ran after the man, he could be liable for usurpation of duties. He looked at the woman:

  “Who was that?”

  “Who?”

  “The one who left here.”

  “Nob'dy left here. Nob'dy.”

  He knew it would make no sense to accuse the woman of obstruction of justice. He went to the offices of the municipality. He was going to slip his official documents under the door but remembered that no one could sign the receipt certificate on a Saturday. He considered his official activities over for the day.

  Before returning to the city, he decided to visit the Quinua plain. He climbed the highway until he reached the flatland crowned in silence that extended between the mountains in front of him. He was out of breath after the climb, but he was no longer limping. And it was peaceful. The only thing up there with him was the huge marble monument to the Liberators erected by the military government of Velasco. He imagined the heroic battle that had given the nation its freedom. He thought of the sound of weapons tearing apart the eternal silence of the plain. In the distance, past where the plain ended, he could see the tops of trees moving in the wind, and a stream. He was overcome by a feeling of pride and freedom. He sat down next to the monument to look at the landscape. He used his handkerchief to wipe the perspiration from his forehead, searching out parts of the cloth that had not been dirtied with snot. He noticed that he could not hear anything. Not a sound. He felt a whistling in his ears, the acoustic illusion produced when there is silence around us. The plain was transmitting the music of death.

  He spent several minutes breathing the clean sierra air until he decided to go back. When he stood, he heard breathing behind him. He had just started to turn when he heard another thud, this time a fist landing directly on his jaw, and then another dry thud, like the handle of a shovel or something like it landing on the back of his neck. He felt everything going black around him, he did see a red wool mountain hat, a pair of shoes with tire soles running, racing away from him, and a man hurrying across the plain while silence invaded everything.

  He woke as it was growing dark, a sharp pain in his head. Above him the sky was turning red, announcing the darkness, as if it were bleeding onto the setting sun. He touched the back of his neck. It felt warm and wet. He stood, returned to Quinua, and took another jitney to Ayacucho. When he reached home he hurried to wash his wounds. He did not know if he should file charges, he did not know why he had been hit. He had never been hit in his life. Or had he? No. He had never felt a blow. He told himself he would be able to think more calmly the next day. This case was becoming a headache. He went to bed, not without first bringing into his room a photograph of his mother in the rocking chair, smiling warmly. He wondered who would take care of her if anything should happen to him. He was afraid for her. He did not want to leave her alone, not again.

  He thought that if it were a case of terrorism, it would be under military jurisdiction. If not, the police ought to intervene. His work had ended honorably, with the greatest effort on his part, even with wounds received in the line of duty.

  But for the next two nights, nightmares gave him no peace.

  Added to his dreams about fire were dreams about blows, dry thuds, and a woman's screams. On Sunday he had to sleep in his mother's bed to feel safe. On Monday he woke shaken by the blows in his dreams. As soon as he opened his eyes, he was certain the institution of the police would take charge of the case that same day.

  In the afternoon, after he left the Office of the Prosecutor, he went to police headquarters. He had a bandage on the back of his neck covering the wound.

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

  The sergeant on duty was the same one as before. Chacaltana wondered if he lived in that desk.

  “Captain Pacheco?”

  “That is correct, yes.”

  Nervously the sergeant went into the side office. He stayed for six minutes. Then he came out.

  “Unfortunately the captain isn't here right now. He's gone to the barracks with respect to certain operations.”

  “Do you know when he will be back?”

  “I have no specific knowledge in that regard.”

  It was late. The prosecutor thought about the work piling up in his office for the next day: sending his regrets for two banquets, and preparing a memorandum for the provincial prosecutor regarding sexual crimes in the region. Prosecutor Chacaltana considered the request from the provincial prosecutor as a way to finally recognize his work in the field and his thinking about this social misfortune. Furthermore, he had to write a document concerning electoral transparency before the next elections. It was very difficult for him to make the decision, but he had no time to lose. And he did not have anything better to do to fill the hours after work. After thinking it over for a moment and finding a chair to sit on that had fewer holes, he said:

  “I will wait for him here.”

  He sat down. The sergeant was not expecting that answer. He seemed nervous. He looked at the office. Then he looked again at the prosecutor.

  “No, the fact is … The captain won't be back for hours. Maybe he won't come back at all. But I'll inform him that you …”

  “I am in no hurry, but I do feel some urgency.”

  “He left word that he'd send you a report with regard …”

  “I prefer to see him, thank you.”

  The sergeant's look turned into an entreaty. He sat down and took a deep breath. So did the prosecutor. The sergeant let half an hour go by before he spoke again, with a yawn.

  “I don't think he's coming back anymore today, the captain.”

  “If he comes tomorrow morning, I will still be here. Or Thursday. Or whenever.”

  He was surprised by his own decisiveness, but it was true that the functioning of the mechanisms of inter-institutional communication in Ayacucho left much to be desired. He thought that perhaps in this way he might be able to improve them. He could be very bold if he put his mind to it. He shifted in his seat and let time pass. At
8:00, two gendarmes came in and the sergeant had them go into the office. They came out at 9:00, cheerfully saying good-bye to someone inside. At 10:30, the sergeant repeated that he would inform the captain that the prosecutor had stopped by. At 10:31, the prosecutor replied that it would not be necessary because he would be in the reception area when the captain arrived. At 11:23, he took off his jacket and arranged it over his body as if it were a blanket. At 11:32, he began to snore with a muffled whistle. Finally, at 12:08, the sound of a door wakened him. Captain Pacheco came out of the office, looked at the prosecutor with hatred, and kept walking to the bathroom. He stayed inside for seven more minutes, after which he came out drying his hands to the sound of the toilet flushing. The sergeant stood to greet him:

  “Good evening, Captain! I didn't know you were here. The prosecutor came to the office to …”

  “Shut up, damn it. Go in, Chacaltana. You want to talk? We'll talk.”

  The Associate District Prosecutor followed him into the office, victory shining in his smile. Captain Pacheco sat down heavily behind his desk, beside the national flag, beneath the photograph of the president. On the wall hung the coat-of-arms of the police with its motto: “Honor is their shield.”

  “Before you begin, allow me to say that you are really a pain in the balls,” he said by way of official greeting. “What happened to your head?”

  The prosecutor was afraid to say that he had been beaten. He would not be respected if he said that.

  “Nothing, I fell. And I am sorry for recent events, Captain, but I have sent a brief to your off …”

  “Yes, yes, yes. Mayta Carazo. I've seen it.”

  “Unfortunately, your response in this regard seems to have been lost and never came into my possession …”

  “I didn't send you a response, Chacaltana. And I'm not going to send you one. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

  “No, Captain. I need your cooperation and collaboration to close the case of …”

  “Chacaltana, are you an Aprista or an imbecile?”

  “Excuse me, Captain?”

  “Didn't you hear Commander Carrión when he spoke to you?”

  “Yes, Captain. And I believe, in fact, that I have found confirmation of his suspicions … I have evidence that indicates that the aforementioned Justino …”

  “I don't want to know what evidence you have. I don't want to know anything having to do with this case. Elections are just around the corner. Nobody wants to hear about terrorists in Ayacucho.”

  “Permit me to express my surprise at your words …”

  “Look, Chacaltana, I'll be totally frank with you, and I hope this is the last time we talk about this subject. The police are controlled by the Ministry of the Interior, and the interior minister is a military man. Doesn't that tell you something?”

  “That does not constitute an irregularity. Members of the armed forces are authorized to …”

  “I'll try to say it so even you can understand: They make the decisions here. If they don't want an investigation, there's no investigation.”

  “But it is our duty …”

  “Our duty is to shut up and do what we're told! Is it so difficult for you to get that into your head? Listen, I have no interest in helping you because I don't feel like it. But even if I did want to help you, I couldn't. So don't get me involved in this because you'll fuck up my promotion. Please, I'm begging you! I have a family! I want to go back to Lima! I can't be bothering Commander Carrión.”

  In the hierarchical gears that constituted the mind of Associate District Prosecutor Félix Chacaltana Saldívar, there was no place for the possibility of not being promoted because of following procedures. To the contrary. He tried to explain the point, but the captain interrupted him:

  “Why don't you write a report and close the case once and for all? Attribute it to a fire or a car accident … And everybody's happy.”

  Chacaltana opened his eyes in genuine surprise.

  “But I … I cannot do that … Doing that without the police report is illegal, Captain.”

  The captain buried his head in his hands. He closed his eyes. He moved his lips gently, as if counting to one hundred in silence. When he was calmer, he said:

  “Chacaltana, this is an emergency zone. A large part of the department is still classified as a red zone. Laws are legally suspended.”

  “Moreover, the survivors of the deceased could demand …”

  “He has no survivors! Nobody knows who he is! The case has not been leaked to the press. Nobody will complain, the Indians never complain. They don't care. And neither do I.”

  The picture of the president seemed to tremble at his back when he said that. Then the office sank into silence. On his desk, the captain had national ID-size photographs of his family, two children and a wife. Chacaltana liked families. But at that moment he rose to his feet in genuine indignation.

  “I also want to close this case as soon as I can, Captain, but your report has to reach me because procedure demands it. I cannot conclude the process without a report. I am keeping a record of how the details of the proceedings are being executed.”

  Chacaltana walked with dignity toward the exit. The captain leaned back in his chair. Just before Chacaltana opened the door, the captain said:

  “Is that all?”

  Chacaltana stopped. He did not turn around. He knew he had won.

  “It is why I have come.”

  Chacaltana said this in a firm tone of voice, standing rigid beside the door. The captain demanded confirmation:

  “If I give you a report written by my experts and signed by me, there won't be any more problems?”

  “The only problem we have is the administrative irregularity that does not allow us to close the case.”

  The captain sketched a smile. Then he stopped. He frowned. Chacaltana maintained the imperturbable face of the professional prosecutor. The captain gave a clear laugh.

  “Fine, Chacaltana, I understand. I'll speak to my people and get my men together. You'll have your report tomorrow first thing in your office. Thanks for the visit.”

  In reality, that was the only thing the Associate District Prosecutor was waiting to hear.

  He left police headquarters with the feeling that he had engaged in a great battle and won. Still, he understood the misgivings of the police. He should not forget they were living in a red zone, and that always made people more suspicious.

  At that hour everything in the city was closed. No one was in the streets except for an occasional patrol, a leftover of the curfews. He walked through the silent blue night to his house, breathing the clean provincial air. When he reached his house he went to his mother's room. It was cold because the window had been open all day. He apologized as he closed it.

  “I'm sorry, Mamacita. I left you alone all day. It's just that this case is very difficult, Mamacita. Very sad. The deceased has no survivors. Can you imagine? How sad.”

  Still speaking, he took from a drawer the warmest wool pajamas and laid them out on the sheets.

  “If you die without anyone to remember you it's like dying twice. Where can this man's family be? Who'll remember something nice about him, or turn down his bed at night, or give him his pajamas? Nobody at all, Mamacita. Nobody to look at his photograph or say his name at night. Do you see how it is? When someone ceases to exist like that, it's as if he never had existed, as if he had been a ray of sunlight that leaves no trace afterward, when night falls.”

  He caressed the pajamas and the sheet. Then he picked up a photograph from the bureau, the one of his mother alone, with her sweet young gaze. He carried it to his room and put it on the table beside his bed, to feel less alone after he closed his eyes.

  The next morning, in fact, the police report was lying on his desk. The prosecutor opened it and looked it over. It was very badly written, full of redundancies and spelling mistakes, but the content was simple and legally valid. The police version differed from his hypothesis but contri
buted definitive proofs suggested by their experience in the investigation of malefactors and homicides. Throughout the day he verified certain data. They were correct. He called police headquarters, where Captain Pacheco answered the phone personally, certified his procedures, and offered all the cooperation at his disposal.

  The prosecutor had no ambition to play a leading role. He did not want to engage in controversy or doubt the good faith of institutions. If the competent authorities offered a more solid version of events than his, he accepted it. His job was to facilitate the operation of the forces of law and order, not stand in their way. True, he did feel proud about the change in attitude he had caused in Captain Pacheco, who had overcome his resistance and collaborated, finally, with the greatest efficiency. In the long run, the captain would realize the advantages of cooperation among institutions in times of peace. And thank him.

  He accepted the police report as valid and decided to close the case with the information at his disposal. He wrote a report that did not satisfy him on account of its excessive length. He threw it in the wastebasket. He wrote another page but found it full of simplifications and omissions. Again he threw it out and wrote a third page, being especially careful about syntax and punctuation: simple, nothing excessive, sober. As he corrected the commas and tildes, he felt relieved. Images of the burned man would not bother him again. And above all, the channels of inter-institutional communication had proved themselves effective. One more sign of progress.