The prosecutor stared at the two boys lying on the ground. One was about eighteen. The other, younger than fifteen.
“And why are they still active?”
“What should we do with them? Until a little while ago they were underage. And there's no reformatory here. But the veterans like this motherfucker,” and he kicked the face of the older one, “have been training kids like this one for years,” and he stepped on the hand of the younger one. The prosecutor heard him sob from the ground. It was like the whimpering of a child. “The age gets lower and lower and they get worse and worse. And there's nothing we can do.”
The prosecutor noticed that the girl had a black eye.
“And what would you do with them?”
The other policeman answered:
“If it was up to me, I'd lock them up and throw away the key. There's no changing them. As the tree grows …”
The older boy turned to look at the policeman with hatred. The officer spat at him and said:
“What are you looking at, damn it? You're all grown up, huh? You must be at least twenty, but you play the snot-nose kid, damn undocumented shit. With your record, we can send you to be fucked in maximum security. So don't look at me too much because I'll turn you into a woman, see?”
The prosecutor understood why he did not know anything about them. There were no complaints at the Ministry of Justice, no papers on these boys. As Commander Carrión had said, they did not even have a name.
He went back to the center of town with his head lowered, preoccupied. As he crossed the residential tract he thought someone was walking behind him. When he turned, there was only a woman with some flowers for the procession.
Later, at police headquarters, the officers informed him that the tourists who had been attacked did not have even minor wounds. Pure fright, they said. The one who had taken their complaint remarked:
“Gringos, Señor Prosecutor, they're all faggots. They scream and carry on and nobody's done anything to them. They weren't even robbed because they all started shouting. We ought to export some criminals to them so they'll know what a real robbery is and stop wasting our time with stupid bullshit.”
Associate District Prosecutor Félix Chacaltana Saldívar spent the rest of the afternoon watching the festivities. He saw the Lord of Palms leave the Monastery of St. Teresa mounted on a white donkey, accompanied by twelve Ayacuchans dressed as apostles, and the principal civilian authorities of the city. After them came another donkey carrying baskets of fruit. When they reached the cathedral, the sculpture of Christ was taken down and brought into the temple to the sound of hurrahs and applause. The prosecutor recognized the carpet of the Heart of Jesus that he had seen at the beginning of the ceremony. After the passage of people and animals, it had been destroyed. The figure of the heart was torn to pieces, shreds of it still hanging from the hooves of the donkeys.
On Monday afternoon, after having lunch with Edith, the Associate District Prosecutor walked to the maximum security prison of Huamanga. His entrance was easier than the last time. Colonel Olazábal welcomed him with open arms and offered him a mate because he knew it was his favorite drink. The prosecutor did not ask how he knew. He imagined the answer: Ayacucho is a small city, everybody knows everything. He assured Olazábal that he had interceded on behalf of his promotion, and then he could see Hernán Durango González, alias Comrade Alonso.
“You're becoming very fond of me, Señor Prosecutor,” was the first thing the terrorist said. “I don't have many visitors who are so faithful.”
“I have come on a professional matter, Señor Durango.”
“Call me Alonso, please.”
“Your name is Hernán.”
On the previous occasion, the terrorist had been aggressive and self-assured. Now, a certain irony seemed to emanate from his eyes, otherwise as fixed and stony as always. Knowing that Durango always had an answer even before knowing the question, the prosecutor decided to move ahead to what he had to say.
“I want to know what connections …”
“Why do you think I'll tell you anything, Señor Prosecutor?”
It was a good question. The prosecutor shuffled through possible responses: because I cannot think of anyone else to talk to, because I have no idea what is going on here, because I am not a policeman and do not know how to investigate, because I have to turn in a report and for the first time do not know how to do it …
“Because you like to talk, Señor Durango,” he finally said. “You feel superior to all of us and you like to flaunt it.”
“It's quite a stretch from that to betrayal, don't you agree?”
“I have already told you there is nothing left to betray. Your people are finished. But I am dealing with a special case, and you might perhaps be helpful.”
“Thank you,” he said sarcastically. “Can I smoke?”
As on the previous occasion, the terrorist was handcuffed. The prosecutor thought he might relax a little with a cigarette. He opened the office door and asked the guard for one. Chacaltana coughed when he lit it. He went back in and gave the cigarette to the terrorist. Durango inhaled deeply and looked out the window.
“Tell me, it's Holy Week out there, isn't it? I noticed because of the holiday visits.”
“Don't tell me you did not know.”
“I haven't kept track of time for a long while now.”
The prosecutor detected a hint of sadness in the terrorist's voice. He thought it was one of his strategies to confuse him. He tried to confuse him in turn:
“I never would have imagined you were so devout.”
The terrorist's eyes were glued to the window. He turned and looked at the prosecutor, and suddenly began to recite:
“And Jesus went into the temple and cast out all them that sold and bought in the temple, and overthrew the tables of the money changers, and the seats of them that sold doves, And said unto them, It is written, My house shall be called the house of prayer; but ye have made it a den of thieves.”
He kept staring at the prosecutor with pride. The prosecutor asked:
“Is that in the Bible?”
“In the Gospel of St. Matthew. There are things that are universal, Prosecutor Chacaltana, like indignation at the dens of thieves.”
“Interesting. Is there … any kind of relationship between your movement and some religious prophecy? The Apocalypse or … something like that?”
Now the terrorist burst into laughter. He let the explosion of laughter resonate along the bare walls of the office. Then he said:
“We are materialists. But I suppose you don't even know what that is.”
“What do you think will happen after death?”
Comrade Alonso gave a nostalgic smile.
“It will be like the Indian servant's dream. Do you know it? It's a story by Arguedas. Do you read?”
“I like Chocano.”
Now the terrorist laughed sarcastically. There was something like cultural petulance in his attitude. He did not consider the prosecutor to be an intellectual.
“I prefer Arguedas. They don't let us read here, but I always think about that story. It's about an Indian, the lowest of the slaves on a plantation, a servant of the servants. One day the Indian tells the master that he's had a dream. In his dream, they both died and went to heaven. There God ordered the angels to cover the Indian with manure until all his skin was hidden by shit. But he ordered the rich man to be completely bathed in honey. The master is happy to hear the Indian's dream. He thinks it reasonable, he thinks that is exactly what God will do. He urges him to go on and asks: ‘And then what happens?’ The Indian replies: ‘Then, when he saw the two men covered in shit and honey respectively, he says: Now lick the other's body until it is completely clean.’ That must be divine justice, the place where everything's turned upside down, where the defeated become the victors.”