Red April

by Santiago Roncagliolo

  “Nothing, Señor Judge. This … must have been a misunderstanding.”

  “Of course, a misunderstanding,” Captain Pacheco confirmed.

  The prosecutor noticed that both were looking in his eyes, penetratingly, as if trying to find out something else, something lodged in the interior of his optic nerve, perhaps. Briceño said:

  “Now that things are clearer, you ought to sit down. Perhaps we're still in time to chat about the future. The captain and I in fact were coordinating plans with regard to the absence of Commander Carrión. Perhaps you should join our working group.”

  A month earlier, perhaps, the invitation would have flattered him. He would have visited Edith to celebrate his entrance into the circles of Ayacuchan power. He would have enthusiastically participated in the meetings of the working group, turning in reports and suggesting reforms to streamline administrative processes. But the offer was late, as if it had come to him from another time in his life. He realized that he felt like a mature man now, perhaps for the first time in his life, an adult who would make decisions consulting only with himself. He looked at both functionaries and could not contain a small smile that barely played at the corners of his mouth, a smile of superiority, of self-sufficiency.

  “I see that you like the idea,” said Briceño. On the other side of the desk, Captain Pacheco seemed to limit his function to smiling and celebrating each of the judge's ingenious, arrogant phrases. The prosecutor first shook his head while continuing to smile. Then he pronounced his decision:

  “No, no … I think it would be better if I did not.”

  To the surprise of the other two, he walked to the exit and left the office, slamming the door behind him. He imagined the judge and the captain laughing inside, celebrating death with Holy Week, preparing to drain the city's blood like two vampires. Carrión the cat was out of combat. The mice were beginning to play even before he left the city.

  It was already dark outside. There were no processions that day, and the tourists filled the streets in a disorderly way, not going anywhere in particular. Drunks were piling up at the corners of the Plaza Mayor. Chacaltana could not watch over the whole city by himself. He could not have a thousand eyes and a thousand ears; he was not even very good at writing a report. He realized he had not eaten lunch. He needed to sleep. He decided not to look for anyone, not to see anyone, to go directly to his house. He returned home, greeted his mother, fixed some chicken soup, and went to bed. He was sad and tired, tired of not being able to do anything. He thought that tonight there would be another dead body and he was the only one who knew it. Then he became aware that it might be his turn to be the victim. With the tranquility of someone making preparations for supper, he got up and locked the door and the windows of his house. He even put a padlock on his mother's window, begging Señora Saldívar de Chacaltana's pardon for the inconvenience and assuring her it was a temporary measure. He pushed the sofa and an armchair against the door to the house, and the bureau and armoires against the windows. He went back to bed, making certain he had his weapon close by. As he tried to fall asleep, he thought about Edith. Better not to look for her. He would only put her in danger. Everyone I talk to dies, he thought. It occurred to him to masturbate with the memory of her smooth breasts that tasted of trout. He did not have time for that. In spite of his fear, he felt his eyelids closing.

  At two in the morning, he was assailed by a new nightmare. It had to do with fire and a church. Blows on a bleeding body in a temple. He saw a white man with a Limenian accent hitting a woman. He saw her blood staining the baptismal font, the white cloths of the altar, the chalice, the chasuble. And then the explosion, the fire devouring both of them. But the man did not stop hitting the woman, kicking her on the ground, shouting at her. He tried to get closer to defend her and went through the flames. The shouts seemed familiar. The man's voice especially, he knew it in some corner of his memory that he had allowed to be consumed by flames. He was closer and closer to the aggressor. In the dream he did not have the weapon but was sure he could bring down the savage with his own hands. Now the blood did not seem to stain the church but to flood it. The pool was growing beneath his feet, it reached his knees, his waist, and interfered with his movement toward the violent man, who had not stopped beating the woman as he began to drown in the red liquid. Once at his side, he took the man by the shoulder and wheeled him around to face him. It was like turning around a mirror. It was his own face held up by the aggressor's shoulders.

  He woke with a start, sweating. He went to the bathroom to wash his face. He looked at himself in the mirror. He felt old. He thought about what he had said that morning in the confessional. Everybody I talk to dies. He felt a palpitation. He tried to go back to sleep but could not. He got up, dressed, and moved the furniture away from the door, scratching the floor. He went out. One hundred meters later, he turned and went back to his house. Silently, so his mother would not hear him, he went to his night table. He took out the pistol, hung it under his jacket, and went out again to the Church of the Heart of Christ.

  you been talking abowt me, fadder?

  you been talking abowt me to god?

  talk to him about me. tell him to make me a plase. ill make him lissen to you. yes, hell lissen to you. youll be able to put your bald hed on his lap and lick his legs. hell let you touch him, run your hand down his back. youll like it. open your mowth, fadder, like that. let me see your holey tung. let me see your wite teeth. i like wite things, pure things. i have a treet fore you. taste the body of christ.

  thats it, much better. now your nice and calm, you know? its better to stay calm. now everythings coming to an end. now its over, now. payshuns. all things have to have an end so they can begin again. you, me, well all have an end. yes. mines close too. but yours is allreddy here. ha. son of the devil.

  your dirty, you know? dirty like the beggers in the sity. todays the day to wash you. ill leeve you spotless. oh, youll like it. dont say nothing, fadder, dont talk with your mowth full. its dirty. thats better. do you see how your getting cleen, fadder? your all full of sin. we all remember you here because of that. the bodys you berned remember you for that. did you forget abowt that? did you forget abowt there bodys disapeering into your oven? abowt there ashes?

  they didnt forget abowt you. there they are, with god, like youll be, and they think abowt you every day. they cant live again, there bodys arent there anymore. its better. now they have life forever, dont they? true life. now youll meet with them, because your cleen, now you can see them. you and they will talk, yes. world withowt end.

  move a little. the holey water has too touch you everywhere. its like a baptisim, unnerstand? a sacramint. a baptisim of fire for you. we lerned that with you. fire cleens. if not, whats the point?

  do you heer something? seems like you have a visiter. did you invite another begger to wash him? your charitabel. your good. hoo is it? ah, now i know hoo it is. yes. we seen each other before. he came soon. have you been talking too him about me, fadder? thats good, im not mad at you. well make him one of ours, yes? well love him a lot with our tungs of fire. well wash away his impuritys too, fadder. we have a lot to share.

  It was 2:30 in the morning when the prosecutor reached the parish house. There were still some tourists on the street with their Ayacuchan girlfriends, all high but not as noisy now. Some were fighting among themselves or perhaps shouting at the hometown boyfriends, abandoned for the celebration. The faithful had gone to sleep in preparation for the next few nights, the most important ones of the festivities. Prosecutor Chacaltana did not even notice them. He walked resolutely, becoming accustomed with each step to the weight of the pistol at his side, and more and more certain as he approached the door. Before he rang the bell, he wondered how he would justify a visit at this hour. Then he told himself that the priest would understand his concern perfectly, that perhaps he was waiting for him. Without hesitating he rang the bell.

  He waited for a moment. He thought he heard somethi
ng inside, perhaps a voice. He replied by saying who it was.

  “I only came to see if everything is all right,” he added.

  No one answered, and he heard no other sound. The noise of a dull thud attracted his attention. It had come not from inside the house but from beside it. He wondered if he should stay in the doorway or look for its cause. He remembered that just above the basement a narrow window opened onto the alleyway. He wondered if a person could get out of the house that way. He rang the bell again, with the same result as before. The noise died away, and a few seconds later it began again. The prosecutor walked toward the alleyway that separated the house from the church. He saw no one from the corner, but now a faint groaning came from behind an angle of the church. He caressed the pistol and walked closer. He stopped before he went to the other side of the angle, hugging the wall. Now the echo of a constant scraping and the bang of trash cans joined the groaning, as if someone were pushing the cans against the wall. He realized that his hand was clutching the butt of the pistol though he had not opened the sheath. He did so with his fingers, not moving from where he stood. It seemed to him that what he heard was the agitated respiration of two people, probably agitated because they were dragging a body. He asked himself if they were armed. Considering that these were terrorist assassins, he told himself they were. He was confused. In a gunfight, he was bound to lose. Perhaps the best thing would be only to see who they were without letting himself be seen, and then to pursue them in the light of day. Or perhaps he should drop the case and visit Judge Briceño to take part in his working group and buy a Datsun someday. He thought it was too late for that. After all, the killer was following him and almost seemed to be playing hide-and-seek with him. He thought, this is a case I cannot drop. Perhaps I will not be able to drop it even if I solve it. Solve it. Until a month ago, his function was simply to submit reports, not to solve things. He inhaled deeply, trying not to make noise. Holding his breath, he looked on the other side of the angle. In a corner, behind the trash cans, two shadows were moving in an agitated way. Their backs were to him. The prosecutor thought he could take advantage of the opportunity to apprehend them officially in the name of the law. He was aware that he did not have the legal authority to arrest anyone. As he was making his decision, he took a step forward and kicked a beer can, which noisily hit the stone wall. The two shadows stopped panting and moving. They whispered a few words. The prosecutor discovered that in fact only one figure had his back to him, a tall blonde who murmured in a foreign accent and held the other one, a woman, against the wall as she wrapped her legs around him. The prosecutor moved his hand away from the weapon. He could not suppress a choked sigh of relief as he leaned against the wall. His eyes met those of the other two. The man had remained motionless, not knowing what to do. It was the girl who said:

  “Are you a cop?”

  The prosecutor replied:

  “What? Oh, no. Of course not.”

  “Then get the hell out of here, damn it!”

  She certainly had a Peruvian accent. Chacaltana thought about making them leave. They showed a lack of respect for Father Quiroz and for the church. But he felt ridiculous. He went back to the door of the parish house. He wondered if someone might have opened it while he had been distracted. There were still no lights on inside, but that did not mean anything. He rang the bell again. Perhaps the priest was not even inside. His encounter with the couple made him think that perhaps his nerves were getting the better of him. Perhaps the priest had left Ayacucho and stayed in some village to sleep. Impossible. Not during Holy Week. He thought about going in through the window, but it had wrought iron bars. He rejected the idea of going in through the little basement window. The couple would not allow him to. Besides, he would have to break it. It occurred to him to look for a telephone, but he did not even know if there was one in the parish house. The priest had used the phone in his office. Then too, if he did not answer the door, he would not pick up the phone either. Guided by an irritated, frustrated impulse, he put his hand on the doorknob. To his surprise, the door responded to his push. Inside everything was dark. He stood for a few minutes in the doorway. Now he would have to go in. He supposed he wanted to but did not know if he really wanted to. He wanted only to sleep quietly. He called to Father Quiroz. There was no answer. He looked around. The street was empty. He took two steps inside without closing the door, to take advantage of the streetlamps. The shadows produced in the house by the lights on the street seemed to move, shaken by the night breeze. As he looked for the light switch, he called again:

  “Father Quiroz?”

  Now he heard it clearly. It was the sound of something dragging along the floor, like a deep hissing.

  “Father? It's Félix Chacaltana.”

  He found the switch and turned on the light. He was startled by the image of a man, but it was really a crucifix a meter high. The room was in the same disorder he had seen the last time. The heavy door to the basement was open. He went through the living room to the priest's bedroom. He opened the door, standing to one side. Since nothing came out, he turned on the light.

  Here, by contrast, everything was in the most scrupulous order. There was only a worktable, a bureau, and a meticulously made bed with no wrinkles on the sheets. On the wall hung another crucifix, a very small one, which seemed to watch over the peace of the bedroom. He heard the hissing again outside, in the living room. Almost by instinct, he unsnapped the holster and took out the weapon. He returned to the living room pointing straight ahead, at the chests, and cocked the gun so the bullet would come out faster in case of an emergency. He realized his hand was trembling. He leaned his back against the wall and began to move that way around the perimeter of the room, edging past the chests where they stood, then taking out his handkerchief to wipe away perspiration. He was soaked. He reached the door to the basement and began to go down the stairs, still hugging the wall. He did not know where to aim the weapon. He opted to point down, where the darkness was most dense. He recognized the smell of incense and dampness, mixed with a chemical odor he could not identify.

  When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he tried to remember where the switch was located. Since he had the weapon in his right hand, he felt up and down along the wall on the left with his free hand. All he found was the cold, mildewed wall. He moved the weapon into his other hand and repeated the operation on the right. There it was, fairly low on the wall. He turned it on. The flickering light suggested there was someone else in the room. He raised the weapon in his direction and shouted:

  “Freeze, damn it! I'm armed!”

  There was no reply. When the light stopped trembling, he could see more clearly. The body, in reality the half body coming out of the oven, was Father Quiroz. He was still wearing the vestments for Mass, his arms in gathered sleeves opened in a cross. Overcoming his revulsion, the prosecutor moved closer. Something emerged from the priest's mouth, like a rigid, very long tongue. When he was beside him, the prosecutor discovered that it was the hilt of a knife. The rest was inside, piercing the priest's throat to the nape of his neck. The blood flowing out of his mouth had not yet coagulated. It was still dripping on the damp floor of the basement and staining the edges of the oven. The death was very recent. Blood was not the only thing dripping. Before or after the execution, the killer had poured acid on the face and arms of the priest. The open bottles were still to one side. The body parts that had touched the liquid looked eaten away and liquefied, the skin creased and torn, transformed into a sticky gum of flesh. Inside the oven, the prosecutor saw that one leg had been separated from the trunk. He shuddered and moved back. The priest's face looked blindly at the basement ceiling, perhaps trying to see heaven, but for him heaven was underground.

  The prosecutor heard a sound on the stairs. Despite the horror of what he had found, or perhaps precisely because of it, he reacted in time. He turned and fired. It was the first time in his life he had fired a gun. The shot sounded much louder than he expected and
pushed him backward until he tripped over the body. The bullet rebounded against the walls, thundering through the house with sharp echoes as it crashed against stone. In a corner he saw the little window. He estimated that the couple outside were only a few meters away. They must have heard it. Perhaps they would call the police. He hoped to God they had. Now he clearly heard a metallic clink coming from the stairs. The sound was moving away. He supposed the killer did not have a firearm and was fleeing. He ran after him. He threw himself onto the stairs just in time to see the basement door close. Before he reached the top of the stairs he heard the key turning in the lock. He shouted. He banged on the door with all his strength. He kicked it. But the door did not move a millimeter.

  Slowly he went downstairs again. Father Quiroz seemed to be waiting for him. His face gave the impression of a disillusioned grimace. The prosecutor decided to wait. The authorities would come, alerted by the gunshot. He could explain to them what had happened. Perhaps they would come in time to pursue the killer. Then he reconsidered: What could he explain to the authorities? What could he say to them? They would find him locked in with a corpse, carrying an unlicensed firearm, near all the instruments of the crime. Then he thought too that each of the last three victims had spoken to him shortly before dying. He tried to clear his head. No. He was innocent. That same afternoon he had requested protection for the city streets. His request had been denied. Protection for the streets. He had not mentioned the parish house. It might seem that he had requested protection precisely to provide himself with an alibi. Pacheco would be delighted to sign that investigation, and Judge Briceño would sentence him with the same pleasure. Perhaps not even Commander Carrión would feel sure about him.

  His heart began to pound. He imagined himself before the judges, who probably would transfer him to military jurisdiction. Or perhaps civil jurisdiction. He would face a prosecutor, a prosecutor “like you,” the terrorist had said, referring to the one who had cleared the way for Special Forces in the maximum security prison. If he were his own prosecutor, he could write thousands of probative briefs against himself. He imagined the documents: “Friday, the twenty-first day of April, 2000, with regard to the discovery of Félix Chacaltana Saldívar in possession of a firearm …” He could not even get rid of the weapon in that place. He tried out a defense: “I was attempting to pursue the murderer.” He saw Judge Briceño clearly: “Why didn't you request the intervention of the police? Prosecutors don't go around pursuing thieves. I mean, after all.” Attempted usurpation of functions would be added to his charges. Perhaps withholding information as well. None of the accusations had reached the Judicial Branch. Carrión would prefer to deny everything rather than find himself involved with a serial killer.