Death in the Andes

by Mario Vargas Llosa

  “Talking in broad daylight about the things you whisper into someone’s ear in the dark, I don’t know, Corporal. I swear, it almost made me angry. But the feeling left as soon as she started to play with my hair.”

  “I know you don’t like me to talk about what happened,” said Mercedes, becoming serious again. “But I still don’t get it, how you could see me only a couple of times and not even say a word to me and then fall in love like that. Nobody ever said those things to me, hour after hour, even when he was finished. Nobody ever got down on his knees and kissed my feet, like you did.”

  “You got down on your knees and kissed her feet?” Lituma was astonished. “That’s not love, that’s worship.”

  “My face is burning, honey, I don’t know what to do with myself,” the boy joked.

  He looked for the towel that he remembered leaving at the foot of the bed the night before. It was on the floor. He picked it up, wrapped it around his waist, and got out of bed. As he passed Mercedes, he bent down to kiss her.

  With his mouth on her hair, he whispered: “What I told you is what I feel. What I feel for you.”

  “A hard-on is what you felt,” Lituma grew animated. “Did you fall into bed again?”

  “I just got my period, so don’t get all excited,” said Mercedes.

  “It’ll be hard for me to get used to the way you talk,” Carreño said, laughing and letting her go. “Do you think I’ll ever get used to it, or do I have to change you?”

  She patted him on the chest.

  “Go on, get dressed, let’s get some breakfast. Aren’t you hungry after everything you did last night?”

  “I once went to bed with a whore who had her period, at the Green House in Piura,” Lituma recalled. “She only charged me half. The Invincibles drove me crazy, saying it would give me syphilis.”

  Carreño was laughing as he left the room. The shower and sink were dry, but there was a washbasin filled with water, and he gave himself a sponge bath. He dressed, and they went down to the restaurant. The tables were crowded now, and a good many faces turned to look at them. It was afternoon, and people were having lunch. They sat at the only free table. The boy who waited on them said it was too late for breakfast. They decided to be on their way. They paid for the night, and the manager told them that the bus and jitney offices were near the Plaza de Armas. Before going there, they stopped at a pharmacy to buy sanitary napkins for Mercedes. And in the market they bought alpaca sweaters for the cold in the Cordillera.

  “It was lucky Hog paid me in advance,” said Tomás. “Imagine if we didn’t have a cent in our pockets.”

  “Didn’t that dealer have a name?” asked Lituma. “Why do you always call him the man, Hog, the boss?”

  “Nobody knew his name, Corporal. I don’t even think my godfather knew.”

  They had cheese sandwiches in a small café and went to the offices to make their inquiries. They decided to take a car that was leaving at five and would reach the capital at noon the next day. The guards at the checkpoints along the highway would be less vigilant at night. It was a little after one. They lingered on the Plaza de Armas, where the heat seemed less intense in the shade of the great trees. Carreño had his shoes shined. The vast square swarmed with shoeshine boys, peddlers, street photographers, and tramps who basked in the sun or slept on the benches. There was a heavy traffic of trucks loaded with fruit arriving from the jungle or leaving for the sierra and the coast.

  “And now what’s going to happen when we get to Lima?” Mercedes asked.

  “We’ll live together.”

  “So you decided everything all by yourself.”

  “Well, if you want, we’ll get married.”

  “That’s called moving fast,” Lituma interrupted. “Were you really serious about getting married?”

  “In church, with a veil and a white dress?” asked Mercedes, intrigued.

  “Whatever you want. If you have family in Piura, I’ll go there with my mother to ask for your hand. Because I don’t have a father. Anything you want, honey.”

  “Sometimes I envy you.” Lituma sighed. “It must be fantastic to fall in love like that.”

  “Now I know it’s true.” Mercedes leaned against him, and the boy put his arm around her shoulders. “You really are crazy about me, Carreñito.”

  “More than you’ll ever know,” he whispered in her ear. “I’d kill another thousand Hogs if I had to. We’ll get out of this, you’ll see. Lima’s a big place. Once we get there, they’ll never catch us. But something else is worrying me. You already know how I feel. But what about you? Are you in love with me, even a little?”

  “No, no I’m not,” Mercedes answered immediately. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I can’t say what isn’t true.”

  “And she started in about how she didn’t like to lie”—Tomasito grew sad—“and how she wasn’t one of those girls who fall in love one two three. We were in the middle of that when all of a sudden, out of the blue, there was Fats Iscariote standing in front of us.”

  “Have you gone crazy? What are you doing here? You think this is any time to be smooching in public with the girlfriend of the man you just bumped off, you stupid—”

  “Calm down, Fats, take it easy,” Carreño said.

  “He was absolutely right,” Lituma acknowledged. “They must’ve been looking for you in Tingo María, in Lima, everywhere. And you were just living it up.”

  “We only have one life and we have to live it, Corporal,” said Tomás. “And since the night before, I was living it to the hilt with my sweetheart. What did I care about Hog, or if they were after me, or would send me to jail? Nobody could take that happiness away from me.”

  Iscariote’s eyes bulged, and the basket of tamales in his hand shook with his rage. “You can’t be this dumb, Carreño.”

  “You’re right, Fats. Don’t get so upset. Do you want to know something? I’m really happy to see you. I thought I’d never see you again.”

  Iscariote wore a tie and jacket, but his shirt was too tight, and he tugged at the collar so much he seemed determined to pull it off. His bloated face gleamed with perspiration, and he needed a shave. He looked around in alarm. The shoeshine boys observed him with curiosity, and a tramp lying on a bench and sucking a lemon stretched out his hand, begging for money. Iscariote dropped to the bench next to Mercedes but stood up immediately, as if he had received an electric shock.

  “Everybody’s looking at us.” He pointed at the Hotel de Turistas. “We’re better off inside, room 27. Just go up without asking for me. I stepped out for a minute to buy tamales.”

  He strode away, not looking back. They waited a few minutes, took a turn around the square, and followed him. In the Hotel de Turistas, a woman mopping the lobby floor showed them where the staircase was. Room 27 was next to the stairs, and Carreño knocked and then pushed the door open.

  “He was fat, he ate like a pig, and he was the dealer’s bodyguard,” Lituma concluded. “That’s all you’ve told me about Iscariote.”

  “He had some kind of connection to the police,” said his adjutant. “My godfather introduced us, and I never knew much about his life. He didn’t work full-time for Hog. Just occasional jobs, like me.”

  “Lock it,” the fat man ordered but did not stop chewing. He had taken off his jacket and was sitting on the bed, holding the little basket between his legs and eating tamales with his hands. His handkerchief was tucked like a napkin into his collar. Tomás sat next to him, and Mercedes took the only chair in the room. The leafy tops of the trees on the square, and the old gazebo with its faded balustrade, were visible through the window. Not saying a word, Iscariote offered them the basket; there were two tamales left. They declined.

  “They used to taste better than this,” said Iscariote, stuffing half a tamale into his mouth. “I’d like to know what you’re doing in Huánuco, Carreñito.”

  “We’re leaving this afternoon, Fats.” Tomás patted him on the knee. “They may not be
very good, but you sure can put them away.”

  “I get hungry when I’m nervous. My hair stood on end when I saw you in the square. Well, to tell you the truth, everything makes me hungry.”

  He had finished eating. He stood, went to his jacket, and took out a pack of light-tobacco cigarettes. He lit one.

  “I talked on the phone to my contact, the one they call Mameluke,” he said, blowing smoke rings. “I filled him in on everything. How the boss had been shot and how you and the dame disappeared. He got an attack of hiccups. What do you think his reaction was? ‘So he sold him out to the Colombians. And the whore too, that’s for sure.’” The half smile on Iscariote’s face abruptly turned into a grimace. “Did the Colombians pay you, Carreñito?”

  “He was a little bit like you, Corporal. He couldn’t get it through his head that anybody could kill for love.”

  “Iscariote, Mameluke, Hog.” Lituma laughed. “Those names are right out of a movie.”

  The fat man nodded, his expression wary. Behind a new set of smoke rings, his slanted eyes, half buried in the fat pockets of his cheeks, examined Mercedes from head to foot.

  “Were you already fucking her?” he asked, with an admiring whistle.

  “A little more respect,” Mercedes protested. “Who do you think you are, you elephant…”

  “She’s with me now, so treat her the right way.” Carreño took the woman’s arm possessively. “Mercedes is my fiancée now, Fats.”

  “All right, let’s not make a big deal out of nothing,” Iscariote apologized, looking from one to the other. “I only want to be sure of one thing. Are the Colombians behind this?”

  “I didn’t have anything to do with it,” Mercedes said quickly.

  “It was just me, Fats,” the boy swore. “I know it’s hard for you to believe. But it was just like I told you. A spur-of-the-moment thing.”

  “At least tell me if she was already your girlfriend,” Iscariote insisted. “At least tell me that, Carreñito.”

  “We never even talked. I only caught a glimpse of her when we picked her up and dropped her off at the airport, in Pucallpa and in Tingo María. That’s how it was, Fats, you have to believe me.”

  Iscariote continued smoking, shaking his large head, overwhelmed by so much stupidity.

  “It’s so crazy,” he murmured, “it must be true. So you killed him because—”

  “All right, all right,” the boy interrupted, laughing. “Let them think the Colombians paid me, what difference does it make?”

  Iscariote flicked the cigarette out the window and watched it zigzag through the air before landing among the pedestrians on the Plaza de Armas.

  “Hog wanted them off his back, he was tired of the Colombians taking the lion’s share. I heard him say it a lot of times. Somebody could have tipped them off, and then they had him killed. Doesn’t that make sense?”

  “It does,” the boy acknowledged. “But it isn’t true.”

  Iscariote scrutinized the crests of the trees on the square. “It could be true,” he said at last with a vague gesture. “Anyway, it’s the truth that does you the most good. Do you understand what I’m saying, Carreñito?”

  “Not a word,” said Lituma in surprise. “What was he cooking up?”

  “This elephant is one smart cookie,” said Mercedes.

  “She understood.” Iscariote sat down again on the bed next to Carreño. He put a hand on his shoulder. “Give the corpse to the Colombians as a gift, Tomasito. Didn’t Hog want out? Didn’t he want to set up on his own, do the refining and exporting himself, write them off? You did them a favor when you got rid of a competitor. They’ll have to do something for you, damn it. What are they drug lords for if they can’t take care of you?”

  He stood, looked through his jacket, and lit another cigarette. Tomás and Mercedes started smoking, too. They were silent for a moment, dragging on their cigarettes and exhaling mouthfuls of smoke. Outside, the bells in various churches began to ring. Harsh or high-pitched, with long or brief echoes, the sound filled the room, and Mercedes crossed herself.

  “As soon as you get to Lima, put on your uniform and go see your godfather,” said Iscariote. “Say ‘I got rid of him, now they don’t have to worry about him. I did a big favor for the Colombians, Godfather, and you can present them with the bill.’ The commander knows them. He’s in touch with them. He gives them protection, too. You’ll turn a bad thing into something good, Carreñito. And your godfather will forgive you for what you did.”

  “That fat man was pretty sharp,” said Lituma admiringly. “Damn, what an imagination.”

  “Well, I don’t know,” said the boy. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe that’s what I should do.”

  Mercedes looked from one to the other, disconcerted. “What’s this about putting on your uniform?” she asked.

  “Fats had thought it all out,” the boy explained. “He had his plan. Make the Colombians think I killed Hog to get in good with them. Iscariote’s dream was to work for the international Mafia and get to New York one day.”

  “This way, something good will come out of something bad, for you, and even for me,” Iscariote said with satisfaction. “Will you go to your godfather and tell him what I said, Carreñito?”

  “I promise I’ll go, Fats. Let’s stay in touch in Lima.”

  “If you get there,” said Iscariote. “That’s still up in the air. You won’t have me as a guardian angel every time you do some damn stupid thing.”

  “That fat man is becoming more interesting than you fooling around with the Piuran,” Lituma exclaimed. “Tell me more about him.”

  “A great guy, Corporal. And a great friend, too.”

  “Until it’s time for you to leave, you’d better not go around engaging in indecent behavior on public thoroughfares,” Iscariot recommended. “Didn’t they teach you that when you put on the uniform?”

  “What uniform is he talking about?” Mercedes asked Tomás again in an irritated voice.

  Iscariote burst out laughing, then abruptly turned to face her and asked an unexpected question: “How did you do my friend to make him fall for you like this? What’s your secret?”

  “How, how did she do it?” Lituma cut him off. “Doggie-style?”

  But Mercedes ignored him and continued to question the boy. “What’s this about a uniform, what does he mean?”

  “She’s your fiancée and you haven’t told her yet that you’re in the Civil Guard?” Iscariote asked mockingly. “That’s a bad deal you made, comadre. Trading a drug boss for an ordinary cop.”

  “The son of a bitch was right, Tomasito.” Lituma laughed. “Your Piuran made a rotten deal.”

  5

  “Do you mean we’re under arrest?” asked Señora Adriana.

  It was pouring, and her voice could barely be heard in the clatter of heavy raindrops on the tin roof. She was sitting on a sheepskin on the floor, staring at the corporal, who was perched on a corner of the desk. Dionisio stood next to her, his expression remote, as if nothing going on around him was his concern. His eyes were bloodshot and glassier than usual. The guard Carreño stood as well, leaning against the wardrobe-armory.

  “You understand, there’s nothing else I can do.” Lituma nodded as he spoke. He was not happy in these Andean storms, with their thunder and lightning; he had never gotten used to them. It always seemed to him that they would become more and more violent until they exploded in a cataclysm. And he was not happy either about detaining the drunken cantinero and that witch. “It would be better if you helped us out, Doña Adriana.”

  “And why are we under arrest?” she insisted, showing no sign of emotion. “What have we done?”

  “You didn’t tell me the truth about Demetrio Chanca, or, should I say, Medardo Llantac. That was the foreman’s name, wasn’t it?” Lituma took out the radiogram he had received from Huancayo in reply to his inquiry, and waved it in front of the woman’s face. “Why didn’t you tell me he was the mayor of Andamarca, the one who
escaped the Senderista massacre? You knew why he came here to hide.”

  “Everybody in Naccos knew,” the woman said calmly. “Worse luck for him.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me when I questioned you last time?”

  “Because you didn’t ask me,” she replied just as calmly. “I thought you knew, too.”

  “No, damn it, I didn’t.” Lituma raised his voice. “But now that I do, I also know that after your fight with the unlucky bastard it was easy to take your revenge and turn him over to the terrucos.”

  For a long while Doña Adriana looked at him with pitying irony, her prominent eyes scrutinizing him. Finally she began to laugh.

  “I don’t have dealings with the Senderistas,” she exclaimed sarcastically. “They like us even less than they liked Medardo Llantac. They weren’t the ones who killed him.”

  “Who was it, then?”

  “I already told you. Destiny.”

  Lituma felt like hitting both of them, her and her drunken sot of a husband. No, she wasn’t pulling his leg. She might be as crazy as they come, but she knew exactly what had happened; she had to be an accomplice.

  “At least you know that three corpses are rotting in a shaft in the abandoned mine, isn’t that true? Didn’t your husband tell you? He told me. And he could confirm it if he wasn’t falling-down drunk.”

  “I don’t recall telling you anything,” Dionisio muttered, grimacing and playing the fool. “I guess I was a little high. But now I’m in fine shape, and I don’t remember ever talking to you, Corporal, sir.”

  He laughed, contorting his soft body a little and then becoming distracted again, adopting an impassive attitude, eyeing the objects in the room with interest. Carreño walked to the bench behind the woman and sat down.

  “Every finger in Naccos is pointing at the two of you,” he declared, but Señora Adriana did not turn to look at him. “They all say you planned what happened to them.”

  “And just what is it that happened to them?” She guffawed in a badgering way.