Puelles was not drunk: he was stunned.
The day before, at midday on January 5, in the midst of the carnival hullabaloo, he had taken the Vespa to Enrique Quiroz’s house, and not found him at home: he was out having fun on Black Day, no-one was there, except his servants—he thought — maids and ranch hands from his estates who were not celebrating Black Day because they had to work. He left the Vespa with them, and a note written while drunk: Rodolfo Puelles says goodbye. Don’t count on Puelles for a thing.
He would never know whether the servants delivered the note, but it was Enrique Quiroz who found him, hours later — or they found each other, somewhere neither of them had dreamed of: church.
A church open at the height of carnival — Puelles had thought, peering in. He was on his way from Mandarina’s townhouse, but the open church on Black Day intrigued him. Not even an echo — no-one there? From the furthest reaches of the altar, Father Hoyos headed for the confessional, and shut himself in, what was Father Hoyos doing in this church? What was he doing shutting himself in the confession box? Whose confession was he planning to hear? Mine, he shouted to himself. And he moved towards the confessional, thinking: how did he find out? And the fact was that it had been a century — starting the day before, on the fourth, on Carnavalito — since the secret poet Rodolfo Puelles had remembered the man buying milk on the corner, the dead man, and the open church brought him right back, unassailably: his dead man. Father Hoyos had been his religious studies teacher when he was a boy, gave him the sacred host the day of his First Communion, heard his confession, why not confess again? A Jesuit priest had placed himself in his path to hear it — ah, he thought, he would say: “Father, save me from myself.” He had tried to share the burden of the policeman with Doctor Proceso, and yet the doctor had not heard him, or maybe he had; he’d listened too closely and said: “If you’re going to kill me get on with it, don’t keep me hanging about.”
Rodolfo Puelles set off resolutely for the confession box. He would say to Father Hoyos: “Forgive me Father, for I have sinned in not coming to Mass for years,” and the priest would say to him: “You haven’t come to confess that.” And he would respond: “You already know what I would like to confess.” And the father: “Everybody knows. Now God needs to.”
“What are you going over there for, what are you up to?” came the urgent voice of Enrique Quiroz.
Enrique Quiroz was in the middle of one of the church pews, and he was praying on his knees. Praying? The church was not empty: Quiroz was there praying, on his knees. The puzzled Puelles saw Quiroz getting to his feet, summoning him with a look. And they left the church in complete silence, one behind the other.
Outside it no longer seemed like carnivaclass="underline" the meeting with Quiroz or Enriquito or Vladimir cast a shadow over the day and throttled joy — the secret poet thought — the sun hid itself, it was going to rain, how tedious, what a bore, how annoying that idiot is, and yet I obey him, why hold myself in such low regard? I could knock him down if I wanted to, I’m more than he is, practicing what he only preaches, I’ve already shown that.
Silent in the midst of the uproar, one behind the other at all times, they arrived at the parish church of Nuestro Señor de los Despojos, where they found Platter Ilyich and three strangers. Who were they? He had never seen them before, not in Pasto, not in Bogotá, and they were old fogies, he thought, about forty, in boiler suits, not in a party mood at alclass="underline" they were unamused by the carnival, rather grim-faced, they did not look him in the eye when he greeted them. There were people from the neighbourhood celebrating Black Day in the corridors of the church, with the consent of Father Bunch — who must be tucked away in some nook surrounded by young men — but the secret poet Rodolfo Puelles did not share their feelings, it seemed to him that the happy faces and shouting accentuated his immeasurable sorrow, which was the same sorrow that ran through the parish and the whole world, all around.
Platter and the three strangers were in the most sacred corner of the parish church of Nuestro Señor de los Despojos, no less, behind the altar, near the sacristy door, and grouped around what looked like a carnival donkey. Puelles gathered that they were getting it ready for January 6. Two people would operate it: one at the front — arms pushed down inside the hollow forelegs, each one extended with a wooden stick like a cudgel, head and shoulders occupying the huge donkey head — and the other man behind, his own limbs down inside the hind legs, or cudgels, his back bent over, his body becoming the animal’s rear end — he’ll have a job to dance, Puelles thought.
The splendid disguise concealed them: the multicoloured flaps at the sides which brushed their shoes, the thick rope tail and the great head of a fairy-tale ass; Quiroz was at the front — he showed himself now — Platter at the back. When did they get into it? And they operated the legs like they belonged to a donkey gone berserk, banging into things, lurching from left to right, around in circles, zigzags, suddenly they launched themselves at the wall and pounded away, kicking: bits of pulverized brick went flying, so great was the rage they attacked with. Platter and Vladimir, draped with the magnificent covering, donkey tail swishing, donkey head laughing, took a turn around the altar, knelt before the cross, piously, and carried on trotting around deliberately. They galloped, pawed the ground, brayed. They are going to sweat buckets in there, Puelles thought: it was a donkey in all its dumbness, decorated with coloured cloth, stuffed with hay and hemp, and with four lethal wooden hooves, yet a genuine-looking donkey for all that, no-one would know whether it was real or pretend, all in all a donkey, the one that would kick Doctor Proceso, finally killing him with an almighty blow, the very next day — he thought — January 6, if they don’t find him today, on the fifth.
Quiroz emerged from the donkey, and then Platter.
“I’m off to look for the swine,” Platter said.
Puelles felt crushed: it was as if they held him responsible.
Platter Ilyich dried his sweaty hands on his knees; his face was painted black, but the orbs of his different-coloured eyes shone very white; he did not seek Puelles out on leaving, as though Puelles did not deserve the attention. He said goodbye only to Quiroz.
And Enrique Quiroz said to him, like an ultimatum:
“You will bring him to me.”
The three strangers set about measuring and weighing up the donkey, going over it — Puelles thought — inside and out, worse than a gun.
“This donkey’s for tomorrow, in case we don’t find him today,” Quiroz said. “We’ll give him a good kicking, in disguise. Don’t be scared, Puelles, don’t say a word against us, we’re not going to hassle your friend, although we ought to kill a sonofabitch from time to time for them to take us seriously, eh? But Ilyich will soon find him. The swine will come. We’ll reason with him. He’ll tell us where to go to destroy the float, and all will be well. And if Ilyich doesn’t find him, better stilclass="underline" I will find him tomorrow. And let the float go out on parade, we’ll blow it up on sight. I’ve even started to think it would be sweeter that way.”
Just hearing him talk frightened Puelles: the crazy plan was true. Some Black Day this was: that morning he had woken up outdoors, in a corner of the children’s park; at midday he had left a drunken note at Quiroz’s house — fatal in its recklessness — but he never imagined this nightmare: him, in the church, witnessing the creation of the lethal donkey, what a black day, he thought, and devoted himself to listening to Quiroz’s reasoning, without understanding it; the pale mouth moved before him, no sound came out, and Puelles nodded, Quiroz never blinks, he thought; one of the strangers asked where the urinals were, I need a pee — me too, Puelles said, and led him to the toilets, but did not go in, he left, fled the parish church, managed it. He got away.