Death in the Andes

by Mario Vargas Llosa

  “I wouldn’t advise you to go down there to look for them,” he said in a tone that struck Lituma as more insidious than amiable. “It’s a miracle those shafts haven’t collapsed. They’ll cave in at the first false step. Besides, the tunnels are full of gases. Yes, they must still be in there, in that labyrinth, if the muki hasn’t eaten them yet. You know who the muki is, don’t you? The devil of the mines, he takes revenge for the hills that are misused by human greed. He only kills miners. I’d better not say any more, Corporal, sir. As soon as you know, you’re a dead man. You wouldn’t last an hour. I was going to tell you for money, even though I knew it meant sending you to be slaughtered. We need money to get away from here. You know that. They’re closing in, they could come any time. After you and your adjutant, my wife and I are second on their list. Maybe first. They don’t hate just cops. They hate anybody who drinks and fucks, anybody who makes other people drink and fuck. Anybody who has a little fun in spite of hard times. They’ll stone us to death, too. We have to get out. But with what? It’s lucky you don’t have money to buy the secret from me. That saved your life, Corporal, sir!”

  Lituma ground out the cigarette with his foot. Maybe the cantinero was right, maybe his ignorance had kept him alive. He tried to picture them hacked to pieces at the bottom of those damp, eternally dark tunnels, in passageways filled with explosive fumes and sulfurous poisons. Maybe Señora Adriana had told the truth. Maybe they were killed for superstitious reasons. Sendero didn’t throw people down mine shafts, Sendero left the corpses in plain view so everybody could see. The cantinero knew exactly what had happened. Who could have done something like that? What if he put the Smith & Wesson in Dionisio’s mouth and threatened him? “Talk or you’ll find yourself at the bottom of a mine shaft, too.” That’s what Lieutenant Silva in Talara would have done. He gave a brief chuckle.

  “Let me in on the joke, Corporal.”

  “It sets my nerves on edge, that’s why I’m laughing,” Lituma explained. “Don’t forget, I knew one of them very well. Pedrito Tinoco helped us fix up the post, and he lived with us from the time my adjutant brought him to Naccos. He never hurt a soul.”

  He rose to his feet and took a few steps, breathing deeply. Again he felt the oppressive, crushing presence of the immense mountains, the deep sky of the sierra. Everything here moved upward. With every cell of his body he longed for the deserts, the endless Piuran flatlands studded with carob trees, flocks of goats, white sand dunes. What are you doing here, Lituma? And again, as he had so often over the past few months, he felt certain he would not leave Naccos alive. He’d end up like the other three at the bottom of a shaft.

  “It’s a waste of time to try to understand, Corporal, sir,” said the cantinero, who was sitting now on the flat stone previously occupied by Lituma. “People are hotheaded on account of what’s going on. And when people are like that, anything can happen.”

  “You’re all very gullible, very naïve,” replied Lituma. “You believe anything, like stories about pishtacos and mukis. In civilized places, nobody believes things like that anymore.”

  “You people from the coast are very sophisticated, aren’t you,” said Dionisio.

  “It’s too easy to blame the disappearances on Satan, like your wife does.”

  “Poor Satan.” Dionisio laughed. “Adriana is just going along with the crowd. Isn’t he always blamed for every bad thing that happens? Why are you so surprised?”

  “Come on, you don’t think Satan’s so bad,” Lituma remarked, observing him.

  “If it wasn’t for him, men wouldn’t have learned how to enjoy life.” Dionisio challenged him with his sardonic eyes. “Or are you opposed to people boozing, like those fanatics?”

  “As far as I’m concerned, everybody can fuck and live it up as much as they want to,” Lituma replied. “It’s what I’d like to be doing here. But there’s nobody to do it with.”

  “What are you waiting for? Why don’t you fuck your adjutant?” Dionisio laughed. “The kid’s not bad-looking.”

  “I don’t like that faggot shit,” Lituma said angrily.

  “It’s just a joke, Corporal, sir, don’t get mad,” said the cantinero, standing up. “Well, since we can’t do business, I’ll leave you in the dark. I’ll say it again, you’re better off. And I’m worse off. I know I’m in your hands now. If you decide to tell anybody about this conversation, I’m a dead man.”

  He said this without a trace of concern, as if he had no doubt the corporal could never betray him.

  “I know how to keep my mouth shut,” Lituma said. “I’m sorry we couldn’t make a deal. But it’s not up to me. I may wear a uniform, but I’m a nobody.”

  “Let me give you some advice,” said Dionisio. “Just tie one on and forget about it. People are happy when they don’t think. Anything I can do for you, I’m there in the cantina. See you soon, Corporal, sir.”

  He gestured vaguely with his hand and walked away, not along the path that led down to the camp, but circling around the mine. Lituma sat down on the rock again and, with perspiring hands, lit his second cigarette of the morning. The cantinero’s words whirled inside his head, like those dark birds flying toward the snowfields. No question about it: the terrorists had a lot of allies in camp. That’s why Dionisio was frightened and wanted to get away, even if he had to sell out some of his patrons. Did those three refuse to go along with something, or somebody, is that why they ended up at the bottom of the shaft? If the terrucos set fire to the post one night and he and Tomasito were burned to a crisp, headquarters would send condolences to their families and mention them in the order of the day. Some consolation.

  He took drag after drag on his cigarette, and his mood changed from anger to demoralized gloom. No, it couldn’t have been Sendero. It must have been some stupid serrucho witchcraft. He stood and walked toward the mine entrance partially blocked by stones. Were they in there? Or was this just a tall tale invented by a drunk who wanted to pick up a few soles any way he could and get out of Naccos? He and Tomasito would have to go down and see what they could find.

  He tossed the cigarette away and started the climb down. Carreño must be fixing breakfast by now. Tomasito had his mystery, too. Suddenly starting to cry at night. Was it just on account of the Piuran? Pretty funny, come to think of it. The world falling apart, executions, disappearances, devils, mukis, pishtacos, and Civil Guard Tomás Carreño cried because some broad left him. Well, she was his first lay, the one who took his cherry, the only girl that green kid ever fucked.

  Early that morning, as she did whenever she was leaving on a trip, Señora d’Harcourt woke while it was still dark, just seconds before the alarm went off. And with the same tingle of excitement she always felt each time she traveled to the countryside, either for work or for pleasure (they were indistinguishable as far as she was concerned), even though she had been doing it for nearly thirty years now. She dressed quickly, tiptoed out of the room so as not to wake her husband, and went down to the kitchen to make coffee. She had left her packed bag by the front door the night before. As she was rinsing her cup, Marcelo appeared in the kitchen doorway, wearing his bathrobe and yawning, his feet bare, his hair tousled.

  “No matter how hard I try, I always seem to make noise,” she apologized. “Or does my unconscious mind betray me? Perhaps I really want to wake you.”

  “I’ll give you anything if you don’t go to Huancavelica.” He yawned again. “Shall we negotiate? I have my checkbook right here.”

  “The moon and stars, just for openers.” She laughed, handing him a cup of coffee. “Don’t be silly, Marcelo. I’m safer up there than you are, going to the office. Statistically speaking, the streets of Lima are more dangerous than the Andes.”

  “I’ve never believed in statistics.” Yawning and stretching, he watched her, observing the orderliness with which she arranged cups, saucers, and spoons in the cupboard. “These trips of yours are going to give me an ulcer, Hortensia. If they don’t give me a heart att
ack first.”

  “I’ll bring you some nice fresh cheese from the sierra.” She brushed a lock of hair off his forehead. “Go back to bed and dream about me. Nothing will happen, don’t be silly.”

  Just then they heard the jeep from the Ministry pull up outside, and Señora d’Harcourt hurried to leave. She kissed her husband, reassuring him that there was nothing to worry about, and reminding him to send the envelope with the photographs from the Yanaga—Chemillén National Park to the Smithsonian. Marcelo accompanied her to the door, and when he said goodbye, he told Cañas, the engineer, what he always told him: “Bring her back safe and sound, Señor Cañas.”

  The streets of Lima were deserted and wet. In a few minutes the jeep reached the central highway, where traffic was still fairly light.

  “Does your wife get as nervous as my husband does when you travel, Señor Cañas?” asked Señora d’Harcourt. In the milky glow of dawn, they were leaving the lights of the city behind them.

  “A little,” the engineer said, nodding. “But Mirta’s not very good at geography, and she has no idea that we’re going into the lion’s den.”

  “The lion’s den?” said the driver, and the jeep bucked. “You should have told me before, Señor Cañas, and I wouldn’t have come. I’m not going to risk my neck for the miserable salary they pay me.”

  “Pay us.” Cañas laughed.

  “Pay the two of you,” declared Señora d’Harcourt. “I don’t earn a red cent. I do all this for the sake of art.”

  “You know you love it, señora. You’d pay them to do the work.”

  “Well, yes, that’s true,” she admitted. “It fills my life. It must be that plants and animals have never deceived me, but people sometimes do. And you love it, too, Señor Cañas. You wouldn’t stay at the Ministry if it weren’t for something more significant than your salary.”

  “You’re to blame, señora. I’ve told you before: I read your articles in El Comercio. You whetted my appetite and made me want to travel through Peru and see the wonderful things you described. It’s your fault I studied agronomy and ended up in the Forestry Agency. Doesn’t your conscience bother you?”

  “Thirty years of preaching and at last I have a disciple.” Señora d’Harcourt clapped her hands. “Now I can die happy.”

  “You have a good many,” Cañas declared with conviction. “You’ve made us see what a privileged land we live in. And how badly we treat it. I don’t think any Peruvian knows this country as well as you.”

  “If we’re paying compliments, it’s my turn now,” said Señora d’Harcourt. “My life has changed since you came to the Ministry. Finally, someone who understands the environment and fights the bureaucrats. It’s not just words, Señor Cañas. Thanks to you, I don’t feel like an orphan anymore.”

  When they reached Matucana, the sun was beginning to break through between the hills. It was a dry, cold morning, and for the rest of the trip, as they crossed the frozen peaks of La Oroya and the temperate Jauja Valley, the engineer and Señora d’Harcourt were planning how to obtain new backers for the reforestation project in the Huancavelica sierra, which had been sponsored by the FAO and Holland: they were going now to inspect the early results. It was a victory they had celebrated together a few months earlier at a Chinese restaurant in San Isidro. Close to four years of meetings, memos, conferences, articles, letters, negotiations, recommendations. And finally success. The project was under way. Instead of being limited to herding and subsistence farming, indigenous communities would begin to raise trees. In a few years, if they could keep their funding, leafy queñua forests would once again give shade to those caves filled with magical inscriptions, drawings, messages from remote ancestors, and as soon as there was peace again, archaeologists from all over the world could come to decipher them. It was essential for more countries and foundations to give money. They needed teachers to show the campesinos how to use animal dung instead of wood for cooking and heating; there had to be an experimental station and at least ten more nurseries. In short…Señora d’Harcourt was a practical woman, but she sometimes let herself be carried away by her imagination, restructuring reality to match her desires even though she knew reality all too well, for she had spent half her life doing battle with it.

  They reached Huancayo in the early afternoon and stopped to have a quick lunch and allow the driver to fill the jeep’s tank and check the motor and tires. They went into a restaurant on a corner of the square.

  “I almost convinced the Spanish ambassador to come along,” Señora d’Harcourt told the engineer. “He couldn’t because he had to meet with some kind of delegation from Madrid. He promised me he’d come the next time. And make inquiries to see if the Spanish government will help us. It seems ecology is becoming fashionable there, too.”

  “I’d like to visit Spain,” said Cañas. “My maternal grandfather came from Galicia. I must still have relatives over there.”

  They could barely talk during the second part of the trip because of the violent jarring and bouncing on the ruined highway. The ruts and fallen rock between Acostambo and Izcuchaca were so severe that they almost turned back; they clutched at their seats and at the roof, but with each pothole they crashed into each other and were almost thrown from the jeep. The driver was enjoying it, shouting “Look out below!” and “Wild bull on the loose!” It was dark by the time they reached Huancavelica. They had put on sweaters, woolen gloves, and scarves to protect themselves from the cold.

  The prefect, who had received instructions from Lima, met them at the Hotel de Turistas. He waited while they cleaned up, and invited them to have supper with him there in the hotel. They were joined by the two technicians from the Ministry who would accompany them, and the garrison commander, a short, cordial man who saluted in military fashion and then shook hands.

  “It’s a great honor to welcome someone so important, señora,” he said, removing his cap. “I always read your page in El Comercio. And I’ve read your book on the Huaylas Canyon. What a shame I don’t have it with me now so you could sign it.”

  He told them the patrol was ready; they could start their inspection at seven the next morning.

  “A patrol?” Señora d’Harcourt questioned the engineer with her eyes.

  “I explained to you that we didn’t want an escort,” Cañas said to the prefect.

  “And I conveyed that information to the commander,” the prefect replied with a shrug. “But the crew doesn’t give orders, the captain does. This is an emergency zone under military authority.”

  “I’m very sorry, señora, but I can’t allow you people to go up there without protection,” the commander informed them. He was a young man, with a carefully trimmed mustache, and he was making an effort to be pleasant. “It’s a dangerous area, the subversives call it ‘liberated territory.’ I can’t assume the responsibility. I assure you the patrol will not interfere in any way.”

  Señora d’Harcourt sighed and exchanged dejected looks with the engineer. She would have to explain it to the commander, as she had explained it to prefects, subprefects, captains, majors, commanders, Civil Guards, National Guards, and ordinary soldiers, ever since violence began to fill these mountains with corpses, fear, and phantoms.

  “We’re not political and we have nothing to do with politics, Commander. Our concern is nature, the environment, the animals and plants. We don’t work for this government; we work for Peru. All of Peru. The military as well as those hotheads. Don’t you understand? If they see us surrounded by soldiers, they’ll have a false impression of what we are and what we do. I appreciate your good intentions, but I assure you we don’t need anyone to take care of us. Our best protection is to go alone and prove we have nothing to hide.”

  The commander was not convinced. It had been rash enough to travel overland from Huancayo to Huancavelica, where there had been dozens of assaults and ambushes. He apologized for insisting. They might think him impertinent, but it was his obligation, and he wanted no recriminations lat
er.

  “We’ll sign a paper freeing you of all responsibility,” Cañas proposed. “Don’t take offense, Commander, but for our work we shouldn’t be identified with the military.”

  The discussion ended only when Señora d’Harcourt declared that if the officer insisted on a patrol, she would cancel the expedition. The commander drew up a document and had the prefect and the two technicians sign it as witnesses.

  “You’re a hard man,” Señora d’Harcourt commented in a conciliatory way when she said good night. “But thank you for your kindness. Let me have your address, and I’ll send you a little book of mine on the Colca Valley that’s coming out soon. It has some very nice photographs.”

  Señora d’Harcourt went to Mass the next morning at the Church of Saint Sebastian, where she spent some time looking at its majestic colonial arches and antique retables of sleepy-eyed archangels. They left in two vehicles, she and the engineer in the jeep, the technicians and the prefect in an old black Ford. On the road to the Santa Barbara mines, they encountered a patrol of soldiers who carried their rifles with fixed bayonets and seemed ready to fire. A few kilometers farther on, the road became an indistinct trail, and the jeep reduced its speed so as not to leave the Ford too far behind. For an hour or two they drove up and down hill through semi-desert, passing a succession of barren mountains; on the slopes, in occasional touches of life and color, a few huts came into view, and fields planted in potatoes, barley, beans, oca, and mashua. The Ford was no longer in sight.

  “The last time I was here, there weren’t so many painted slogans and red flags,” Cañas observed. “What the commander said must be true. It seems they control this area.”

  “I just hope that doesn’t interfere with the reforestation project,” said Señora d’Harcourt. “That would be too much. Four years to get the project off the ground, and when it finally happens…”

  “I haven’t put in my two cents yet, and that’s a fact,” the driver interjected. “But if you ask me, I would’ve felt a lot happier with that escort.”