Red April

by Santiago Roncagliolo

  “You've killed as if you were in your own home! Even the terrorists left fewer clues when they placed bombs!”

  The prosecutor did not even look up. The captain recovered his serenity and continued:

  “It's understandable, Chacaltana. It isn't justifiable, but it is understandable. Death floats in the air of this city. I've seen others like you lose their heads. But no one in the way you did. For now, you can be certain of life imprisonment, and thankful the death penalty was never enacted. Still, your regimen in prison can be made easier to the extent that you cooperate. Do me a favor, do yourself a favor …”

  The prosecutor did not react. He seemed stupefied, beaten. The captain showed him some papers. They were the Senderista notes left on the bodies of Durango and Mayta.

  “Let's go one step at a time,” he said. “Did you write these notes? You can tell me in confidence. Just tell me that. Did you write them?”

  The prosecutor looked at the papers. He remembered the notes. He remembered the scrawls in Edith's room. The signature: Sendero Luminoso.

  “You did it badly,” said the captain. “Very badly. Sendero never signed like that. They signed PCP, Peruvian Communist Party. Or they simply left their slogans: Long Live the People's War, Long Live President Gonzalo, that kind of thing. Hmm? How obvious it is that you didn't live here in the time of terrorism. Your efforts to throw us off wouldn't have convinced an eight-year-old. These papers don't help you. On the contrary, they work against you. And your methods. The Senderistas were savages, but they made a certain political sense. Do you understand? But what you did is slaughter plain and simple, Señor Prosecutor.”

  For the first time, the prosecutor showed signs of responding. He moved his mouth, as if he had to get rid of the numbness in order to speak. Then he said, in an inaudible whisper:

  “It wasn't Sendero?”

  Pacheco, who'd had a moment of animation, seemed disappointed again.

  “Señor Prosecutor, show us a little respect and stop acting like an imbecile. Confess everything once and for all and get it off your conscience. We'll bring you a statement, you'll sign it, and you'll be able to rest easy. After all, you're one of our own, Chacaltana. That will be taken into consideration, no one will hurt you.”

  “It wasn't Sendero …,” the prosecutor repeated.

  Now he did feel incompetent. All this time he had been following a dead end, pursuing ghosts, pursuing his own memories rather than a reality that was laughing at him. Then, only then, the light began to shine in his mind. Perhaps the light of the fire, perhaps the light of the burning torches on the hills, but a bright, intense light beginning to make its way through the darkness of his reason. He remembered Pacheco warning him about evil companions. This is a small town, everybody knows everything. They had been following him, they had always known where he was going, they had always known to whom he spoke. His eyes lit up. With recovered self-assurance, he asked:

  “Did you say you have my reports? How is it that on Thursday you did not have the reports and now you do?”

  “Excuse me?” said Pacheco. He still wore a peaceable smile.

  “Why did you obstruct the entire investigation and suddenly take it over now?”

  Pacheco's smile of superiority was disappearing from his face.

  “Well, the departure of Carrión has left a gap in the city's security that …”

  “Why was I free if witnesses incriminated me on Thursday and again on Friday night? Why didn't you come for me right away?”

  Pacheco began to stammer. He had suddenly turned pale.

  “The witnesses … well … the fact is …”

  “You want to incriminate me. You want to incriminate me in this! You want to lock me away!”

  “Chacaltana, calm down …”

  Chacaltana did not calm down. He got up from the table and lunged at the captain. He grabbed him by the neck. Everything was so clear and so late. Now that he was lost, perhaps he would at least be able to take Pacheco to hell with him. He threw him to the floor and began to squeeze his neck, the way he remembered Mayta squeezing his. In the end, the killers are exchanging faces, he thought, they become confused with one another, they all turn into the same one, they multiply, like images in distorted mirrors. Pacheco tried to throw him off, but the prosecutor was too enraged. The captain was turning purple when the prosecutor felt the blow to his head. He tried to squeeze a little more as he felt himself losing consciousness, sinking into sleep, while everything around him turned into the same, single darkness.

  The last dream Associate District Prosecutor Félix Chacaltana Saldívar had before what subsequently occurred was very different from all his previous ones: there was no fire or blood or blows. There was only an enormous, peaceful field, an Andean landscape, perhaps. And a body lying in the middle of it. Little by little, slowly at first, then with increasing agility, the body was getting up until it stood on its feet. Then it could be seen clearly. A body made of different parts, a Frankenstein sewn with steel threads that did not close the seams very well, for clots and scabs were dripping from them. It had two different legs, and the arms did not correspond either. It had a woman's trunk. The sight of the body was macabre, but it did not seem to have a violent attitude. It limited itself to standing and recognizing itself gradually as it became aware of itself. What really startled the prosecutor came only at the end of the vision, when the monster finished standing, and on its shoulders the prosecutor saw his own head, trapped on that body he had not chosen, before the light became more and more intense until it blinded him completely in a luminous white darkness.

  Then he awoke. Beside him, the bars of the cubicle were open. Two police officers extended their hands toward him and dragged him out. They shoved him into the captain's office and threw him at Pacheco's feet. The prosecutor thought that everything was over, that he would not even deserve a trial, that they would simply take him to one of the graves and that would be the end. Case closed, no terrorists here, and nothing ever happened. He thought about the grave almost with relief as he raised his head toward his captor.

  “You have powerful friends, Señor Prosecutor,” said Pacheco. “Who's in this with you?”

  The prosecutor did not understand the question. The captain looked furious.

  “I shouldn't ask, right? Sometimes there are so many things you shouldn't ask that you no longer know which ones you can ask. Sometimes, Señor Prosecutor, I wonder who we're working for. Especially when I see you.”

  The prosecutor began to stand. It seemed, in fact, that the body he inhabited was not his, that it was made of other people's parts, that someone had lent it to him to use like a marionette.

  “Is it an Intelligence matter?” the captain asked again. “That's it, isn't it?”

  The prosecutor did not respond. The captain seemed satisfied by his silence.

  “Get out,” he said.

  “What?”

  He was certain he had misheard.

  “Get out, I said! There's no record of your being here, Señor Prosecutor. You never came here. But know I won't be responsible for this, Chacaltana. And at the first opportunity, I'll cut you down. Take him away.”

  Chacaltana tried to protest but did not know what to protest about. Then it occurred to him to ask something. Again, he did not know what. He let himself be dragged by the same officers to the door. The noise on the street seemed like a distant, vague memory. When they let him go on the corner of the square, his own legs felt strange, as if he had to grow accustomed to them. He wondered if the odor of punch and the sound of bands on the square were the sound of heaven. Or of hell.

  He walked to his house. His whole body ached. When he arrived, he hurried to his mother's bedroom. He gathered all the photographs and placed them on the bed. Then he lit candles in the four corners of the room, as if he were performing a ceremony for his mother. He kneeled beside the bed and kissed the sheets. He caressed the wood of the canopy. He wept.

  “I know what has ha
ppened, Mamacita. I know what they have done to me. A body is missing, you know? Tomorrow is Easter Sunday. And the head is missing. I am the head, Mamacita. Tonight they are going to kill me.”

  He stayed there for several hours, wondering what death was like. Perhaps it was not all that terrible. Perhaps it was a soft bed with a wooden canopy. Perhaps it was simply nothing. Living in no one's memory, because everybody you knew was dead. He wondered when his killers would come for him. It was after midnight. He wondered if he would be safer in the cell at police headquarters. He laughed weakly at his own idea. He waited for them impatiently. He imagined the saw that would cut his neck. He thought of it passing with difficulty through his vertebrae, his veins. At a certain moment he grew annoyed, he wanted them to come and be done with it. He spent some time meditating, remembering isolated, chaotic images of his mother smiling at him, advising him, embracing him, waiting for him there where she was, where she had always been, in the fire. When he evoked the image of his mother emerging from the flames, an idea took shape in his mind. Perhaps all was not lost. Perhaps there was a place where he could be safe. Only one, the last one. He made a decision. Before acting on it, he kissed all the photographs of his mother one by one, in a kind of long, affectionate farewell on the sheets. Affectionately, he put out each of her candles. Then, with new energy, he returned to his room, took out the weapon, loaded it, placed it in the holster under his arm, and went out. He felt that perhaps he would not die that night.

  He walked through the street festivities like a zombie, brushing against people who were dancing and singing. Sometimes those who saw him approach moved aside to let him pass. He understood that he did not look clean and decent. He did not think about it anymore. After walking for about ten minutes, he reached military headquarters. Perhaps because of the celebration, there were no guards at the door. And he did not see anyone inside. He pressed the intercom and the commander opened the door for him from his office. He sounded pleased to hear him. The prosecutor crossed the gloomy courtyard and climbed the wooden stairs that creaked beneath his feet. When he reached Commander Carrión's office, he went in without knocking. The commander was inside, packing a suitcase. When he saw the prosecutor, his face contracted into an expression of shock:

  “Chacaltana. What the hell happened to you?”

  “Don't you know?”

  “Nobody tells me anything anymore, Chacaltana. My retirement has broken speed records.”

  He said it sadly. He felt nostalgia in advance for the Ayacuchan horror. Chacaltana took a few steps forward and caught a glimpse of his reflection in a mirror in the office. He really did look awful. As if he had come out of a sewer. Or a mass grave.

  “They accused me of the murders,” the prosecutor explained, “and then they let me go again. Strange, isn't it? These weeks have been very strange.”

  “I know. They haven't been easy for me.”

  The prosecutor noticed the things the commander was putting in the suitcase. Photographs, papers, old albums of his military promotions. Memories. Only memories. Outside was the sound of fireworks and voices and singing, but dim, as if it came from another world. The commander went to the window and looked at the festivities. He closed the curtain.

  “Sendero did not do the killings,” said the prosecutor. He had not sat down. “Did you know that? It seemed … but no.”

  The commander smiled faintly.

  “I was afraid of that. Sometimes I think it's better that I've been retired. I won't be the one bearing the weight of all this. Is there some new line of investigation?”

  The commander lit a cigarette. He offered one to the prosecutor, who declined.

  “There is something, yes,” he replied.

  The commander exhaled smoke while he waited for the prosecutor to explain. The prosecutor had an absent gaze, as if he were seeing fireworks through the blinds.

  “And?” asked the commander. “Don't leave me like this. Whom do you suspect?”

  The prosecutor seemed to return to himself. Then he said:

  “You, Commander.”

  The commander laughed, as if he appreciated the joke. Then he realized that the prosecutor was not joking.

  “I think … I don't understand,” he said.

  “Neither do I, Commander. I thought you would explain it to me.”

  The commander took some papers from his desk without losing his composure. Chacaltana had seen that they were all written in lower-case letters and filled with spelling errors. The commander closed the suitcase and said:

  “I'm afraid you're making a mistake …”

  “You were the only one who could have sent my reports to the police, because you were the only one who had them, Commander.” The prosecutor's voice had risen in volume and authority. “You were also the only one aware of all my movements. And the only one interested in wiping out your own past, the 1980s. Pacheco was posted to Ayacucho much later, and the only thing he wanted was to get out. Just like Briceño, just like everybody.”

  Commander Carrión took a long drag on his cigarette. His eyes pierced the prosecutor. Now they were like the eyes of Edith's parents in the photographs. The prosecutor continued:

  “You sent me to Yawarmayo so that Justino could get me out of the way. But Justino failed. He was so terrorized he could not even kill an unarmed, cowardly man like me. Besides, he talked too much. What he really wanted was to accuse you. Then you killed him too and decided to hand over the investigation to me in secret to keep me quiet and, in the process, get rid of everyone who could ever incriminate you: Quiroz, Durango … In the end you would incriminate me … or to make certain of my silence you would kill me too, as you planned to do tonight. That is why you ordered the police to let me go. Here no one says no to a top military officer, even if he is retiring. Lima knows everything, the Intelligence Service is aware of what you have done. But it's an old story, isn't it? When the pus spurts out, they retire you or transfer you. Nobody touches a military officer. It's what they did with Lieutenant Cáceres.”

  “Cáceres was an animal!” said Carrión, suddenly losing his patience. “Everything was fine, everything was quiet until that shit came back from Jaén. He said they kept him behind a desk. He said he was a war hero, that he had risked his life for this country. He wanted to be recognized. He's the biggest killer we've had. And he wanted us to build him a monument, the son of a bitch! He assumed the right to organize civilian defense militias. Defense against what?”

  “Maybe against all of you.”

  The commander seemed larger now and was breathing hard, like a wounded animal. He ignored the interruption:

  “He left us no alternative. He was reviving old phantoms. The population realized that. The Senderistas in Yawarmayo were more agitated than ever. It wouldn't take long for some opposition shit to let the press know that the lieutenant had returned to Ayacucho. Or even worse, there would be a terrorist attempt during the elections and Holy Week. If that happened, we'd be done for. I tried talking to Cáceres, I tried explaining things to him, I tried calming him down. Cáceres was my friend, Chacaltana, we had fought together. Do you know what it means to hurt a friend? I understood what he was feeling. I felt the same way! We shed blood for this country!”

  “But that blood was not yours, Commander.”

  “Don't interrupt me, damn it!” he shouted. Then he paused to calm down. It was a sad pause, dedicated perhaps to his old dead friend. “It was easy to convince Justino Mayta to get rid of the lieutenant for us. No soldier would have killed another soldier.”

  The prosecutor thought: No soldier except you.

  “Justino, on the other hand,” the commander continued, “remembered very well the police coming into his house. And he wanted to avenge his brother. He believed … he believed his brother was acting through him, that he was like the hand of God. Some religious shit. That stupid man was very devout. It occurred to him to use Quiroz's oven to disappear the body. And Quiroz agreed, because he also had a great deal
to lose if Cáceres talked. It was all a disaster from the outset. The oven was so old that it fucking broke down halfway through the burning. Quiroz and Justino didn't stop shouting at each other. We had to pull out the scorched body, take it to Quinua, and leave it there. Even after that we thought everything would stay calm and nothing would happen. Everything was going to be fine. It would end there. But you showed up and everybody got nervous. Quiroz wanted to throw suspicion on Justino. Justino didn't even know what he wanted. They had to be silenced. Just like Durango … There was no way to know what you talked about with Durango … Or with your girlfriend, that lousy terrorist.”

  His last words cut Chacaltana like a knife.

  “Edith Ayala wasn't a terrorist, you son of a bitch.”

  “It doesn't matter now, Chacaltana. She isn't anything now. You handed her over to us. After the scene you made last night, it was very easy for me to finish her off. I even thought I was doing you a favor because you didn't have the courage.”

  The commander's gaze was not repentant but defiant, like a sudden blaze or a gust of wind. The prosecutor thought about him, Durango, Justino, Cáceres, Quiroz. Murderers killing murderers. Killers exterminating one another, a spiral of fire that would not stop until we were all one, one single giant of blood. But not Edith. Not her at all. He thought of her remains scattered on the bed. He thought of her entire body surrendered in that same bed, forced, broken in advance.

  “You are a monster, Carrión. Even if what you say is true. Why like this? Wasn't a bullet in the back of the neck enough for you? Wasn't that the usual method?”

  The commander darkened his gaze. He showed him the papers he held in his hand.

  “I've written down everything. I've explained everything.”

  Chacaltana took the papers and tried to read. But there was nothing to understand in them. Only incoherence. Barbarity. Not simply spelling errors, it was everything. There is no error in chaos, and in those papers not even the syntax made sense. Chacaltana had spent his entire life among ordered words, Chocano's poems, legal codes, sentences numbered or organized into verses. Now he did not know what to do with a heap of words thrown haphazardly at reality. The world could not follow the logic of those words. Or perhaps it was just the opposite, perhaps reality was simply like that and all the rest was pretty stories, like colored beads designed to distract and pretend that things have some meaning.