“In that case, it is possible to predict that their next blow will be tomorrow. Palm Sunday. The official beginning of Holy Week.”
“The triumphal entrance of Christ into Ayacucho.”
“Exactly, Señor.”
Commander Carrión thought for a few seconds. Then he called his secretary on the intercom and turned toward the prosecutor.
“They're going to think I'm crazy, but what the hell. I'll cancel all leaves for the police and request military reinforcements. I'll have them patrol the entire city, armed but in civilian clothes, so as not to cause any alarm. And I'll invent something to justify it internally. You can go, Chacaltana. And thank you.”
The prosecutor stood up. The commander thought of something else:
“Are you carrying your weapon?”
“What? Excuse me?”
“Where's the pistol I gave you? You're not carrying it? Carry it, don't be an asshole! You're a possible victim too. Very possible.”
“Yes, Señor.”
The prosecutor left headquarters thinking about the commander's final words. He had not been aware that he too was a possible victim. It was difficult for him to get used to the idea of being an official important enough to be annihilated. Annihilated, he repeated to himself. Turned into nothing. He thought it was a horrible word. He went to his office and opened the drawer. He took out the pistol carefully, verifying one more time that the safety was on. He contemplated it on the desk and then he raised it in front of the bathroom mirror. He tried to imagine himself shooting. He could not. He put it in the sheath and placed it in a large manila envelope. It was too big, and the envelope did not conceal it. He placed the envelope inside the typewriter cover. He went out carrying it as if it were a baby. He walked quickly to his house, nervously bumping into groups of tourists and vendors, afraid the gun would go off in spite of the safety because the devil carries weapons. When he was home, he took the package to his mother's room and put it on the bureau.
“Don't worry, Mamacita, I'm not going to open it, don't be afraid. It's just so you'll know I've brought it here. I think … I think the best thing is to keep it in the night table, just in case, though nothing's going to happen. Because nothing's going to happen, right? Nothing's going to happen.”
He continued repeating those words without taking his eyes off the weapon for at least two hours, until someone rang the doorbell. Before he opened the door, he hid the package in his night table. He was not convinced. He took it out and put it under the bed. Not that either. The doorbell kept ringing. Nervously, he left it behind the barrel of water he used when the water supply was cut. Yes. Nobody would look for it there. Before he opened the door, he took the pistol out again and returned it to the night table. He hurried to the door. It was Edith.
“They gave me the day off because tomorrow I work all day,” she said.
They spent the afternoon walking through a city they did not recognize, one filled with blond people with an accent from the capital. A couple of drunk Limenians whistled at Edith when she walked by. The prosecutor shouted at them:
“Beat it, motherfuckers!”
Edith laughed, but when they sat down to eat at a chicken shop, she said:
“You're nervous. What's the matter?”
“Things at work. Nothing important.”
“You were at Heart of Christ today, weren't you? They saw you with Father Quiroz.”
“Who saw me?” The prosecutor could not repress a touch of distress in his voice.
“I don't know. People. Ayacucho is a very small town, everybody knows everything. Why?” She gave him a mischievous smile. “Was it a secret?”
“No, no. It's just that … I'm working on a difficult case.”
“That's what happens when they promote you, isn't it? They give you more responsibility.”
“Yes, that's true. Did they see me anywhere else?”
“I don't know. I only heard that. Can't you tell me what your case is?”
“It would be better if you didn't know. It would be better for me not to know.”
“That priest is a good person. I go to that church a lot. He's very nice.”
“Yes. Nice.”
“When are you going to take me to Lima?”
For the prosecutor, Lima was merely a memory filled with smoke and sorrow. His work, his ex-wife were disappearing voluntarily from his memory and would never come back. In any event, he replied:
“Soon. When this case is finished.”
They watched the twilight from the lookout on Acuchimay, next to the statue of Christ. Edith insisted on going there in spite of his protests. As she drank an Inca Kola and held his hand, the prosecutor began to calm down. He thought that Christ had not protected him very much, but Edith had.
“Last week I talked to a terrorist,” he dared to tell her. “And I think this week I'll have to do it again. It frightened me.”
Simply by saying that, he understood that he needed to talk. At least, as much as he could. And with someone who would respond. He thought of Justino's body. In the sky, the buzzards seemed to be expecting another meal. She let a few seconds go by before she said:
“Don't be afraid. That's over. The war's over.”
He noticed that she called it the “war.” No one, except the military, called what had happened there a war. It was terrorism. He grasped her hand even tighter.
“This prairie could catch fire at any moment, Edith. All you need is the right spark.”
“The sun's beginning to go down,” she indicated. She didn't like talking about that.
Down below, the procession of the Lord of the Vineyard was setting out. Associate District Prosecutor Félix Chacaltana Saldívar remembered that it was Passion Saturday, and with that in mind, he asked himself if trying to make love to Edith would show a lack of respect for her and Our Lord. To chase away those thoughts, he tried to say something pleasant to her.
“My mother would like you very much.”
Edith did not reply.
And she let go of his hand.
On Palm Sunday, after the blessing of the palms and the Mass, Christ entered the city of Ayacucho on the carpets of flowers that decorated its streets. First to appear were hundreds of mules and llamas adorned with broom and wearing trappings of multicolored ribbons and hanging bells. The villagers leading them set off rockets and firecrackers on the way, in the midst of the general uproar. At the front of the procession, sitting on a spirited charger, rode the principal steward, wearing a white and red sash across his chest. The celebration had been announced and was accompanied by a platoon of riders, male and female, on the back of horses adorned according to Huamanguina traditions. The troupe included the prefect, the subprefect, and the muledrivers and campesinos who blew into bulls' horns to celebrate the arrival of the Lord.
The Associate District Prosecutor was in the crowd, beside a carpet of red and yellow flowers that represented the heart of Jesus, alert to any suspicious movement, nervous because of the fireworks at the celebration. He could recognize the agents dressed as civilians because they were the only ones wearing suits, ties, and white sports socks, and because their sentries' attitude needed only a sign saying “secret agent” on each of their foreheads. They were, however, well distributed. There were at least two on each block of the route of the animals, and a net of vigilance covered everything, including the exits from the city. As the celebration approached the center of the city, the prosecutor ran into Captain Pacheco, wearing the dress uniform of the National Police but in the middle of the crowd, not on the stand of honor. Chacaltana wanted to move away when he saw him, but the captain approached: