They said nothing for a while, and Carreño ordered two cups of tea.
While they were drinking, Mercedes spoke again. Not with anger, but firmly: “Even though I saw you kill a man, you seem like a good person. And that’s why I’m telling you this for the last time, Carreñito. I’m sorry you fell in love with me. But I can’t love you back. It’s the way I am. I decided a long time ago not to let anybody tie me down. Why else do you think I’m not married? That’s why. I only have friends, with no commitments, like Hog. That’s how it’s always been with me. And that’s how it’s always—”
“Until we go to the United States,” he interrupted.
Mercedes finally smiled. “Don’t you ever get mad?”
“I’ll never get mad at you. You can keep telling me the most awful things.”
“The truth is, you’re racking up points,” she acknowledged.
The boy paid the bill.
As they were leaving, Mercedes said she wanted to call her apartment. “I lent it to a girlfriend while I was in the jungle.”
“Don’t tell her where you’re calling from, and don’t say anything about when you’ll be back.”
The phone was next to the register, and Mercedes had to squeeze behind the counter to use it. As she spoke, although he was not listening to what she said, Carreño knew she was hearing bad news. She came back visibly upset, her chin trembling.
“Two men were asking for me at my house, and they insisted that my friend tell them where I was. They were cops, they showed her their papers.”
“What did you say?”
“I told her I was calling from Tingo María and would explain everything later,” said Mercedes. “My God, what am I going to do now?”
“And what happened to the Meche your friend sold to the dyke so he could go on playing poker?” asked Tomás.
“She just vanished into thin air, nobody ever knew where,” replied Lituma. “A mystery nobody in Piura could solve.”
“Now you’ll go to sleep and forget all about it,” said the boy. “Nobody will come looking for us at Aunt Alicia’s. Don’t worry, sweetheart.”
“And La Chunga never would tell us what happened to Mechita.”
“The missing men seem to be haunting you, Corporal. Don’t blame Dionisio or Doña Adriana so much, or the terrucos or the pishtacos. From what I can see, you might be the one responsible for the disappearances.”
7
It was still dark when Francisco López shook a startled Corporal Lituma awake. They ought to leave right away because López had to be back in La Esperanza before nightfall. He had made coffee and toasted some bread on the portable burner. The engineers and the professor were still asleep when they set out for Naccos.
It had been a three-hour drive to La Esperanza, but the trip back took almost twice as long. It had rained heavily the night before in the uplands of the Cordillera, and the road was flooded and blocked by landslides. The corporal and the driver were obliged to stop and roll boulders out of the way so the jeep could drive through. When it sank into mud, they had to push the vehicle or lay boards or flat stones under the wheels to free it.
At first, Francisco López’s attempts to make conversation with Lituma failed. When he spoke, all he got in return were grunts, monosyllables, or nods. But after an hour or so, the corporal suddenly broke the silence, murmuring behind his scarf: “That has to be it, the damn serruchos sacrificed them to the apus.”
“Are you talking about the disappearances in Naccos?” Francisco López shot him a disconcerted glance.
“It may be hard to believe, but that’s what those motherfuckers are like.” Lituma nodded. “And no question that Dionisio and the witch put the idea in their heads.”
“That Dionisio is capable of anything.” Francisco López laughed. “I guess it isn’t true that alcohol kills. If it did, how could that drunk still be alive?”
“Have you known him a long time?”
“I’ve been running into him all over the sierra ever since I was a kid. He was always showing up at the mines where I worked. I was a contractor before I went into security. In those days, Dionisio didn’t have his own place, he was an itinerant cantinero who went from mine to mine, village to village, selling pisco, chicha, aguardiente, and putting on shows with a troupe of performers. The priests finally got the damn cops to run them out. Sorry, I forgot you were one, too.”
Lituma kept his head buried in his scarf, his kepi pulled down low on his forehead: all the driver could see were cheekbones, a flat nose, and dark eyes that scrutinized him through half-closed lids.
“Was he already married to Doña Adriana?”
“No, he met her later, in Naccos. Didn’t you hear the story? It’s one of the great scandals in the Andes. They say that to get her he knocked off the miner she was married to. And then ran away with her.”
“It never fails,” exclaimed Lituma. “Wherever that guy goes, everything turns degenerate and bloody.”
“That’s all we needed now,” said the driver. “Noah’s flood.”
The rain had begun to pour down with real fury. The sky darkened quickly and filled with thunder that rumbled across the mountains. A heavy curtain fell against the windshield, and the wipers did not provide enough visibility for them to avoid potholes and flooded stretches of roadway. They advanced very slowly, the jeep bucking like a skittish horse.
“What was Dionisio like back then?” Lituma’s eyes were glued to the driver. “Did you spend much time with him?”
“I got drunk with him sometimes, that’s about it,” said Francisco López. “He always showed up at fairs and festivals with his musicians and some Indian girls who were pretty much whores; they did some wild dances. Once at the carnival in Jauja I saw him go crazy doing the Jalapato. Have you ever seen that Jaujan dance? They dance and dance and then, while they’re still moving, they pull the head off a live duck. Dionisio pulled the heads off every one, he wouldn’t give the others a chance. They finally kicked him out.”
The jeep moved at a snail’s pace through a landscape devoid of trees and animals, crawled past rocks, ravines, peaks, and meanders shaken by the violent downpour. But not even the storm could distract Lituma from his obsession. His brow was creased into a deep frown, and to withstand the jolting he clutched at the door and roof of the jeep.
“That guy gives me nightmares,” he confessed. “He’s the one responsible for everything that’s happening in Naccos.”
“It’s funny the terrucos haven’t killed him yet. They execute faggots, pimps, whores, every kind of degenerate. Dionisio is all those things and more.”
Francisco López shot a rapid glance at Lituma. “You seem to believe Red’s stories, Corporal. You shouldn’t, that gringo has an active imagination. Do you really think they’d sacrifice those three men? Well, why not? Around here they kill anybody for anything. They’re always finding graves, like that one outside Huanta with the ten Protestant missionaries. Why shouldn’t there be human sacrifices too.”
He laughed, but Lituma did not find his joke funny.
“It’s no laughing matter,” he said. A succession of thunderclaps cut off the rest of what he had to say.
“I don’t know how we’ll get all the way to Naccos,” Francisco López shouted when he could make himself heard. “If it’s raining there like it is here, the road down will be a mudslide. Why don’t you come back to the mine with me?”
“No way,” Lituma said quietly. “I have to straighten this out once and for all.”
“Why do you care so much about the missing men, Corporal? After all, what difference can it make to you if there are three poor bastards more or less in the world?”
“I knew one of them. A little mute who cleaned up the post for us. A very decent guy.”
“You want to be another John Wayne, Corporal. Another Lone Ranger.”
A couple of hours later, when they reached the spot where the jeep had to turn, the rain had stopped. But the sky was still overcast, a
nd in the distance the storm’s thunder rumbled like the unrhythmic beating of a drum.
“I don’t know, I don’t like leaving you here alone,” said Francisco López. “Maybe we should wait awhile until the road dries.”
“No, I’d better do it now,” said the corporal, climbing out of the jeep. “Before the rain starts again.”
They shook hands, and he barely listened as the head of security at La Esperanza thanked him for making the trip and writing up the reports. When he began to climb down the slope, the engine engaged and the jeep drove away.
“You motherfuckers!” he bellowed then at the top of his lungs. “Fucking serruchos! Goddamn Indians, you superstitious pagan sons of bitches!”
He heard his voice repeated in echoes that rebounded along the high walls of the mountains invisible in the fog. The explosion of insults made him feel better. He sat down on a rock, cupped his hands to protect the flame from the wind, and lit a cigarette. That’s what had happened, it was obvious. The mystery had been solved by that Prof who was so crazy about Peru. So that’s what history was good for. He remembered the course at San Miguel Academy in Piura taught by Professor Néstor Martos. He had a good time in that class because Professor Martos, who showed up in the strangest outfits, wrapped in a shawl, bearded, high on chicha, explained everything like a Technicolor movie. But it had never occurred to Lituma that studying the customs of the ancient Peruvians might help him understand what was going on now in Naccos. Thank you, Red, for clearing up the mystery. But he felt more discouraged and confused than ever, because although his head told him there could be no doubt, that all the pieces had fallen into place, his heart did not want to accept it. How could a normal person with even a shred of intelligence believe that Pedrito Tinoco and the two laborers had been sacrificed to the spirits of the mountains the highway would disturb? And that poor bastard of a mayor, coming here to hide and changing his name to escape the terrucos, only to end up smashed to pieces at the bottom of a mine.
He tossed away his cigarette and watched the wind whirl it through the air. He started walking again. It was all downhill, but the rain had washed away the trail, the ground was as slippery as soap, and he had to step very carefully in order not to fall flat on his back. Two days ago the walk had taken him and Francisco López an hour and a half, but it would be three times longer now. But better go slow and not break a leg in this barren place where there wasn’t even a bird to make you feel less of an orphan. What would Tomasito say? He imagined his adjutant’s face, the disbelief in his eyes, how he would want to throw up. Or maybe not; thinking about his Piuran girlfriend had inoculated him against feeling discouraged. Doña Adriana had convinced them; if they wanted to avoid a catastrophe at the construction site—a huayco, an earthquake, a massacre—there was only one thing to do: find human blood for the apus. And to soften them up and make them accept her advice, that faggot got them drunk. I can’t believe it, Corporal. That’s what happened, Tomasito. That’s why they all say those two were behind it. But one thing wasn’t clear. If this was an offering to the apus, wasn’t one enough? Why three? Who knows, Tomasito. Maybe a whole tribe of apus had to be placated. A highway has to cross a lot of mountains, doesn’t it?
He slipped and found himself sitting in the mud. He stood and fell again, this time on his side. He laughed at his own clumsiness but really felt like crying. For the disastrous condition of his uniform and the gashes on his hands, but most of all because the world, his life, had become unbearable. He wiped his palms on the seat of his trousers and continued on his way, holding on to the rocks at every step. How was it possible that the laborers, many of whom had adopted modern ways and at least completed primary school, who had seen the cities, listened to the radio, went to the movies, dressed like civilized men—how could they behave like naked, savage cannibals? You could understand if they were Indians from the barrens who had never set foot in a school and still lived like their great-great-grandfathers, but with guys like these who played cards, who had been baptized: how could it be?
The sky had cleared slightly, and far below, through the grayness of the day, Lituma could make out the lights of the camp. That was when he realized that for some time, along with the distant thunder, he had been hearing a deep rumble, a constant shuddering of the earth. What the hell was it? Another storm coming up behind him? Even the weather betrayed you in the goddamn Andes. What the fuck was happening? A tremor? An earthquake? No question now: the ground was trembling beneath his feet and there was a turpentine smell. All around him a hoarse, deep sound came from the heart of the mountain. On every side, between his feet, pushed or chased by invisible hands, pebbles and rocks were rolling down the slope, and then he realized that in an unconscious effort to find shelter, he had crouched down on his hands and knees beneath a high, pointed ledge covered with patches of yellow-green moss.
“Oh my God, what is it, what’s happening?” he shouted, crossing himself, and this time there was no echo because the dense, complex, unending noise, the granitic rumble that came rolling down the mountainside, had swallowed up every other sound. They said that Dionisio’s mother had been struck by lightning. Was another lightning bolt going to kill him now? He trembled from head to foot, his hands sweating with fear. “Dear God, I don’t want to die, please, by all that’s holy,” he called out again, and his throat felt cracked and dry.
The sky had turned even blacker, and although it was early afternoon it seemed as dark as night. As if he were dreaming, he saw a vizcacha as big as a rabbit jump out from among the stones and race past him down the hill, its ears rigid with terror, leaping blindly, stumbling till finally it disappeared from view. Lituma tried to pray but couldn’t. Was it an earthquake? Was he going to die, flattened by the boulders bouncing past him, crashing into each other, splitting and shattering in all directions with a maddening din? Animals had a sixth sense, they could smell catastrophes, that’s why the vizcacha had fled its hole, running for its life: it could smell the end of the world. “Forgive my sins,” he bellowed. “I don’t want to end this way, damn it.” He huddled on all fours against the rock, and on either side, and over his head, he saw stones, chunks of earth, every imaginable kind of rock hurtle past him, and he felt the ledge shudder with the impact as they broke against it or careened away. How much could it withstand? He had a presentiment of an enormous boulder rolling down from the very top of the Cordillera, heading straight for the ledge that protected him, crashing into it and, in a matter of seconds, pulverizing the rock and him along with it. He closed his eyes and pictured his body turned into a glob, a stinking, bloody mush of bones, blood, hair, pieces of clothing and shoes, all mixed together, buried in the mud, dragged down the mountain, down, down, and only then did it occur to him that this avalanche, this collapsing, crumbling mountain, was carrying its load of missiles straight for the camp. “It’s a huayco,” he managed to think, keeping his eyes closed, trembling as if he had tertian fever. “It’ll flatten me first and then everybody down below.”
When he opened his eyes, he thought he was dreaming. To his right, in an immense cloud of dust, and scattering snow in every direction, a boulder as big as a truck came crashing down the slope, taking everything in its path, opening a furrow as wide as the bed of a great river. It was followed by a dizzying whirlwind of more boulders, rocks, pebbles, tree branches, clumps of ice and earth, and Lituma thought he could see animals, beaks, feathers, bones in the midst of that tumultuous confusion. The noise was deafening, and the dust grew thicker and covered everything, including him. He coughed and choked, and his hands were bloody from clutching at the muddy soil. “It’s the huayco, that’s what it is, Lituma,” he repeated to himself, feeling his heart pound in his chest. “It’s killing you little by little.” Then he felt a blow on the head and recalled in a flash the time when he was a kid and had been knocked out in a brawl with Camarón Panizo under the Old Bridge in Piura, and saw stars, moons, suns, just like now, as he went under and everything turned black.
He rolled slowly from side to side and spat, for his mouth was clogged with dirt. The silence was incredible after that terrifying noise. A silence you could see and hear and touch. Sensation was returning to his limbs, and he managed to sit up. When had he lost his left boot? No bones seemed to be broken. Everything hurt, but nothing was especially painful. He had survived, that was the fantastic thing. Wasn’t it a miracle? Nothing less than a huayco had passed over him. Or beside him. And here he was, worse for wear but alive. “We Piurans are hard nuts to crack,” he thought. And he was filled with anticipatory vanity as he imagined the day when he would be back in Piura, sitting in La Chunga’s bar, telling the Invincibles about this great adventure.
He was on his feet, and all around him in the pale moonlight he could see the devastation caused by the avalanche. The gash the immense stone had opened. Rocks and mire everywhere. Patches of snow here and there in the mud. But no wind, no sign of rain. He looked into the darkness down below, toward where the camp should be. He could not see any lights. Had the cataract of earth, mud, and rock buried it all—barracks, people, machines?
Death in the Andes Page 17