Doctor Justo Pastor Proceso López woke up on January 6 in his own bed, without Primavera at his side. It was the most important day of his life: the day of his death — as Enrique Quiroz would put it.
One day earlier, in the parish church, Quiroz himself had said: “I want him alive, so I can be the one to bury him.” And, as Ilyich turned up with no news, he had burst out: “It’s now or never.” He issued orders: eight members of the group, led by Boris — Quiroz’s brother — and Catiri from the plains, would pay a visit to a shed on the outskirts of Pasto that night where they believed — based on unreliable information — the float was to be found. Their mission had but one objective: blow up Bolívar’s carriage, without further ado. Meanwhile, Ilyich and Vladimir would scour heaven and earth for the doctor. And yet, after receiving their orders, the group members did not move. A heavy silence pinned them in their places. It was not their own mission that seemed to shock them — the annihilation of the float — but the mission Quiroz and Platter took upon themselves, a mission they all, in their heart of hearts, considered a done deal, and which for that very reason scared them. Quite simply, they did not want to believe it. And there they stayed, surrounding their leader and Platter, as if waiting for an explanation: Was it all decided? Would they find Doctor Proceso? And then what? Would it really happen? Must it? They did not take their eyes off Quiroz and Platter — astonished, but still incredulous, you might say scared stiff. Quiroz and Platter let themselves be looked at, exalted. It was an oppressive situation, accompanied by a silence that, in spite of everything, was judgemental, and lasted only a few seconds. Quiroz and Platter had flushed; they were so different, but now they looked alike: their gaze was fixed, eyes wide open, as if they had both just been on the receiving end of an identical and terrible insult, and just the two of them, acting as one, were required to do something about it. Ultimately, their attitude and determination convinced the group: they displayed utter conviction that their action was justified; the whole world depended on the result; they were predestined to do this; they were going to kill.
“What are you waiting for?” Quiroz rebuked them. “Get a move on.”
Immediately the group flew from the church, without a word. Their shadows moved resolutely through the night of wet streets. Quiroz and Platter were left alone.
“Shall we do it?” Quiroz yelled.
“Yes,” Platter said, but in a hoarse, glad whisper.
“Yes,” Quiroz repeated. And they both yelled it at once as they set off running into the rain, in search of Doctor Proceso.
And in fact they had looked for him the remainder of the night, fruitlessly: he was not to be found at his house or the houses of any of his abettors. In their frenzy, running from street to street in the rain of January 5, surrounded by the carnival on all sides, Ilyich and Vladimir imagined in despair that they crossed paths with the doctor on more than one occasion and did not recognize him — Pasto was like that, too. And still not knowing how the bombers had fared, when only a few hours remained for sleeping, they agreed to conclude their mission on January 6, during the parade of floats, the most important day of the doctor’s life, the day of his death — Quiroz had said — on he would have to appear so he could be disappeared: it will be the fireworks of our carnival, the great test.
The morning of January 6, a noise like muffled thumping at the foot of his bed had woken the doctor. He discovered the thumps were coming from inside the chest where Primavera kept the sheets. He heard the defeated cry, the hopeless weeping of a child. He wanted to open the trunk, but it was locked; he had to break the catches. To his horror, an utterly terrified boy jumped from the chest and fled without saying a word. His head had been sheared and smeared with bird droppings. Who was it? He heard him go sobbing down the stairs, and out of the house with the distant slamming of a door.
“What’s going on here?” the doctor asked himself.
His clothes from the night of the fifth lay scattered across the floor, still wet, muddy, testament to who knew what meetings and misses, where are you now Primavera, what are you up to? He put on his dressing gown and leaned out of the window overlooking the garden. He saw Sinfín, Floridita and the maid gathered round an ape—the ape—lying face up on the lawn, in the shape of a cross.