“No. The celebrations are superimposed. Carnival is originally a pagan celebration, the harvest festival. And during Holy Week there are also echoes of the Andean culture that preceded the Spaniards. That's because it doesn't have a fixed date, like Christmas, but depends on the seasons. As I told you last time, the Indians are unfathomable. On the outside, they follow the rituals that religion demands of them. On the inside, only God knows what they are thinking.”
The prosecutor observed all the beggars who had gathered on the benches of the eating hall, presided over by an image of the bleeding Christ wearing the crown of thorns. Another beggar approached to ask for a blessing, which the priest gave. The prosecutor remarked:
“They seem very devout to me, Father Quiroz.”
“I honestly don't believe that all the campesinos who come to Ayacucho for Holy Week know exactly what the meaning is of what they are doing. Even though this is the Holy Week with the longest tradition in the world. Did you know that? This and the one in Sevilla. Ayacucho keeps the memory of the older Christianity. Friday of Sorrows, for example, is no longer celebrated in most of the world.”
The prosecutor wondered in which province of Peru Sevilla might be. He promised himself to check it on a national political map when he had time. He continued to ask questions:
“Then what significance do the campesinos attribute to Holy Week?”
“I suppose it simply forms part of their cycle. It is the myth of eternal return. Things happen once and then they happen again. Time is cyclical. The earth dies after the harvest and then it is reborn for sowing. Except they disguise the goddess Pachamama with the face of Christ.”
The prosecutor was missing a fact. He overcame his embarrassment to ask:
“And what significance do we attribute to it?”
The priest seemed annoyed. He stared into the prosecutor's eyes reprovingly, as he would with a poor student.
“You were doing so well with your biblical quotations …” But then he smiled at the corners of his mouth. “Death, Señor Prosecutor. We celebrate the death of Christ and we represent it in order to die with him.”
“Oh, I understand that, but … I mean … Why do we celebrate death? Isn't that a little strange?”
“We celebrate it because we don't really believe in it, because we consider it the transition to eternal life, a life more real. If we don't die, we cannot be resurrected.”
That same afternoon, Chacaltana tried to explain to Carrión the little he had understood of his conversation with the priest. But the commander listened to his words with a disappointed grimace.
“Catholic terrorists, Chacaltana? But they're a bunch of damn communists!”
Papers had accumulated in the office, among them the prosecutor's reports, and dishes with the remains of food. The prosecutor guessed that the commander was not taking steps or making visits personally, that he asked for reports on everything, that he did not move from his office even to sleep at home. But he listened to the prosecutor. In fact, Chacaltana had gone through the entrance and the central courtyard of the headquarters building, up to the second floor, with no checkpoints or questions. Captain Pacheco was in the anteroom to the commander's office. The secretary was telling the police officer that Carrión was at a very important meeting but had let the prosecutor go in without a word. Pacheco had looked at him with hatred. The prosecutor knew he would have problems with him. But for now, his problem was how to convince the commander of what he was saying when he himself was not very convinced.
“The two killings are filled with religious references, Señor. They are something like … celebrations of death.”
“Have you been seeing too many movies, Chacaltana?”
Chacaltana thought about the television set in Edith's restaurant. No. He had not been seeing too many movies.
“It is … what I have found out … Señor.”
Prosecutor Chacaltana felt foolish, slow-witted, like a poor investigator. He thought he would have preferred never to have moved up, to have continued his devotion to his poems and memoranda. He did not like being important, and he specifically did not like being important in this case. If he were just a nobody, at this moment he would be with Edith, thinking about other things. About things that concerned him. About his life and not a pile of dead people. The commander turned and looked at him with suspicion.
“And what did you tell the priest? That we have a serial killer?”
“I did not give him too much information, Señor. Only what was indispensable. He guaranteed his discretion.”
“Discretion! A priest! He must have run to the archbishop's to shout about it there. Priests are like gossiping women. That's why they wear skirts.”
“I think we can trust him, Señor.”
“Trust!” Carrión laughed out loud. “Trust. Do you know why there's a crematorium in the Church of the Heart of Christ?”
“No, Señor.”
“To get rid of inconvenient corpses, Chacaltana. It was a good logistical alternative. Fire instead of graves. They offered to implement it themselves. But the solution itself turned out to be inconvenient. It was too visible, all that smoke in the center of the city. Besides, it meant opening a direct window for the priests onto our confidential operations. As it turned out, we hardly ever used the oven, and when we did, we knew that everybody up to the pope knew about it. You can't trust them. If they offered to install it, it was only to spy.”
“They offered … themselves?”
“It sounded reasonable. We all had the same desire to rid ourselves of the terrorists, didn't we?”
The prosecutor considered it reasonable. But, in any event, he believed in Father Quiroz. He had proven to be very cooperative. Besides, the prosecutor had to believe in somebody. If everything is a lie, he thought, then nothing is. If one lives in a world of falsehoods, those falsehoods are reality. Quiroz spoke of eternal life as a life more real. For a moment, the prosecutor thought he understood what he was referring to. The commander leaned back in his chair. He looked annoyed.
“And you, Chacaltana?” he asked. “Can we trust you?”
Chacaltana wanted to say no, they should not trust him.
“Of course you can, Señor.”
The commander was wearing the shirt and trousers of his uniform, but he looked untidy. His shoes and decorations had not been polished. On his lean face the first signs of a thin beard were making their appearance, more like dirt stains than facial hair.
“They're coming for me, Chacaltana. I know it. I can feel it. Every second we spend here is an opportunity for our killers.”
“They will not come for you, Señor. That is why we are here: so that will not happen.”
The commander flashed a brief smile of thanks. Then his face darkened:
“They'll come in any case,” he said sorrowfully. “Death forces its way in. I know that all too well.”
At times, Prosecutor Chacaltana realized in a flash that he was carrying out an investigation under orders from a killer. At times he wondered if it was possible to avoid that anywhere in his city or in any other city. But those thoughts always disappeared from his mind by themselves, so he would not be distracted from his duties.
“Perhaps you're right,” the commander concluded. “Perhaps this has to do with Holy Week. But not the way you think. You're a strange guy, Chacaltana. You're always about to hit the bull's eye and you always miss.”
“Thank you, Señor,” said the prosecutor. He wondered if he should have said that.
“They're trying to spoil the celebration. The symbol of Ayacucho, the pacified city. The record tourism of Holy Week. They're trying to show that they're back all over the uplands. And in the middle of the millennium, for fuck's sake. A blow struck for effect. Lucky we managed to hide it from the press. Being in the news would excite them. They don't have many resources yet, but they've become more sophisticated. These kinds of things didn't occur to them before.”