The prosecutor oozed discomfort. He cleared his throat.
“That is a story,” he said. “I was referring to whether or not you believe in heaven or the Resurrection …”
The prosecutor thought it was a very strange question for an interrogation, but the entire case was more than strange, so he supposed it was an adequate question. The terrorist took his time looking out the window and smoking a little more before he began to speak:
“About four years ago, Comrade Alina was given a radio by one of her visitors, a … small battery-operated radio, almost invisible. Sometimes she even managed to get it to us in the men's block. We listened to it for a couple of nights and then sent it back one way or another. Often the police themselves would carry it back and forth in exchange for cigarettes or something to eat. For us it was an event. For years we hadn't seen television or heard the news, no papers, nothing to read. We kept the radio for a couple of months until one of the guards fought for some reason with Comrade Alina, some damn stupid thing, I suppose, and told his superiors that we had it. Colonel Olazábal demanded that the radio be turned in. Comrade Alina and the party members refused. They said we had the right to have a radio according to all the laws and treaties on human rights. The colonel threatened a round of searches, but the comrade didn't give him the radio. She said it would be over her dead body …”
The terrorist's voice broke. He threw the cigarette to the floor and stepped on it. He seemed to have collapsed. At first the prosecutor was surprised by his vulnerability but thought again that he was trying to confuse him. Durango continued:
“Olazábal didn't dare to provoke an uprising, and everybody forgot about it. But two days later he had the men and women arrested for terrorism line up in the central courtyard. The rest of the inmates were locked in their cells. We thought it would be a routine inspection. Until the doors opened and in came the Force for Special Operations, accompanied by a prosecutor … a prosecutor like you, of course. The prosecutor said he would conduct a search for illegal material and asked if anyone had any object to declare. After a long silence, Alina raised her hand and mentioned the radio but refused to turn it in. The prosecutor asked her for it twice, without result. Then he said he had done what the law required … He declared us mutinous … and put the officer at the head of the Special Forces in charge. He left. Then …”—now his eyes swelled. Threads of spittle formed inside his mouth as he spoke—“when the door closed, the Special Forces attacked us, Señor Prosecutor. There were about two hundred of them armed with clubs, paralyzing gases, and chains, set loose like mad dogs coming toward us across the courtyard. Most of our people were handcuffed or shackled. Some of us, the ones who were free, ran to surround Alina, to defend her …”—he stopped for a second. It seemed as if he would not continue, that he would break down. “About twenty of them came directly toward her. They sprayed chemicals into our faces, and when we couldn't see they clubbed us down to the ground. And didn't stop until they made sure we couldn't get up for a long time … They hit me in the head, the testicles, the stomach … But they weren't satisfied with that.” Now Durango looked at some point on the white wall, some infinite place. “The women, they …”—he closed his eyes—“they tore off their clothes, and then, in front of us, they brandished their clubs and laughed, telling them things like ‘Come on, Mamita, you'll like it,’ they said … Do you want … do you want to know what they did to them with those clubs, Señor Prosecutor?”
No. The prosecutor did not want to know. He wanted to stand up and leave, he wanted to close his eyes and clench his teeth forever, he wanted to tear out his ears so he would not have to go on listening. The terrorist no longer hid the tears rolling down his cheeks.
“You should know,” he continued, staring now at the prosecutor with hatred. “You should know what they did with their clubs to the women, because then they did the same thing to us men …”
He tried to control himself, to swallow his tears of shame and rage. The prosecutor tried to do the same. He remained silent. The terrorist, after sobbing for a moment, concluded:
“You asked me if I believed in heaven. I believe in hell, Señor Prosecutor. I live there. Hell is not being able to die.”
Félix Chacaltana Saldívar, Associate District Prosecutor, returned to the city at 7:00 in the evening, when the procession of the Lord of the Garden was leaving the Temple of the Good Death on its way to the Plaza Mayor. The platform was decorated with pineapples, fruit, ears of corn, tall candles, and olive branches in memory of Jesus' prayer on the Mount of Olives, when he asked his father to save him from dying. The prosecutor asked himself why no one in the world can choose either not to die or to die later. And his answer was that perhaps no one on high is listening to our pleas, perhaps prayers are only things we tell ourselves because nobody else wants to hear them.
In the procession for Holy Monday no fireworks were set off, since this was a remembrance of an act of sorrow. But that night, as he advanced on Edith's body, trying not to go too far, the prosecutor thought again about blows. Blows that thundered in his ears and on the back of his neck, blows like God's hate, blows that only fire could stop, turn into ash, into silence, into mute supplication. Suddenly, he could not go on.
“What is it?” she asked.
The prosecutor thought of telling her. He remembered Lieutenant Aramayo in Yawarmayo. He remembered his inability to speak.
“I love you,” was his only reply.
And then he continued to touch her, to press against his body the first warm body offered to him in years, the only living body he had touched in recent days. He made an effort to remove her underwear, but she resisted. Then he lay on top of Edith and tried to rub his groin against hers, until Edith moved away from his attacks, annoyed.
“That's all you want, isn't it?” she asked.
What concerned the prosecutor most was not the impulse to say yes, at that moment it was the only thing he cared about and he did not feel capable of controlling himself anymore. In reality, what concerned him most was the certainty he could achieve it, so easily, barely stretching out his hand, no longer being as good as he usually was, so amiable, so weak. Almost without realizing it, he tried again. He nibbled at her ears and ran his palms along her back. This time, when she stopped him, she pointed at a photograph hanging on the wall. His mother was observing them and did not seem to approve of what they were doing.
“It's as if she were here,” said Edith.
Then, they did not have the courage to continue.
That night, after walking Edith home, he returned to his house, said good night to his mother, made certain he had closed her door carefully, and masturbated in the bathroom, afraid she would hear him.
On Tuesday, the prosecutor had to take part in the procession of the Lord of Judgment, which was the responsibility of the personnel of the Judicial Branch. Normally he would have been proud to be part of the procession, but that day he did not want to. He felt drained and could think only of Edith's bosom. The image of Christ captured by the Jews had its hands tied and displayed evident signs of torture. Out of the corner of his eye he stared at that livid, exhausted body, its welts and scars. He felt he could not look directly at the platform during its passage.
Before the platform went out, Judge Briceño, one of the eight stewards of the procession, came up to him:
“You look tired, Señor Prosecutor,” he said with a rat's smile. “Did you have a long night? I hear you're having more of a social life lately …”
“It is just … I just did not sleep well.”
He felt his temples throbbing. Judge Briceño seemed very happy.
“I suppose you've dreamed about Captain Pacheco. Recently, I don't know why, that gentleman has taken an immense dislike to you, if you don't mind my saying so.”
“I cannot imagine why, Judge.”
“It's inexplicable, isn't it? Well, I want to indicate my pleasure at your sharing this procession with us. It's always a good idea for colleagues to share, isn't it? Keeping things all to oneself isn't very nice.”
The prosecutor did not even feel like understanding the subtext of what the judge was saying.
“Of course,” was all he replied.
“And now I'll leave you with your thoughts,” said the judge as he left.
The prosecutor took part in the procession mechanically, like an automaton, stopping at the fourteen stations required to pray the Via Crucis, intoning from memory the sacred songs in Quechua and Spanish. No one had died that day. He used the prayers to ask for an end to the murders, only two were more than enough for one week, he asked that there not be more, that the prediction of the return of Sendero not be more than that — a prediction. At no moment during the procession, however, could he stop thinking about blows, blows, blows …
you heer? its like a pownding.
its time for you to free yourself. its time for you to fly. they had you too long cownting hours, days, seconds. you had to wate. you have to wate for important things. but you dont have to no more.
did you see the proseshun of the meeting today? it was bewtiful. all the faithful were upset, yes, sad, yes, they felt deth close by. today he died. the nazareen. the sisters of saint clare spent too days dressing him and preparing him, cutting his hair and beerd that grew since last yeer. he dies every yeer.
come heer, closer, thats it, good. you know something? i bin lisening to you all this time. yes. i herd your voise. talking with all those peepel, with the comrades, with the watch dogs of the empire. your voise reeched me. your watch dogs are stupid, they sleep when you toss them a peese of meet. so today is your day. i lisened to you all this time, did you lisen to me? you must of herd me. i talk in your dreems, at the edge of your mind, at the doors to eden. like this sownd, can you heer it now?
they made him meet his mother. the nazareen. she was in black. oh what pane she felt. i felt it with her. there were coruses of men. they sang. yes. they sang for you. veronica was there too, wiping away the blud and swet of the nazareen so he wood die cleen. you wood have liked it. what a shame you coodnt go. then veronica went to saint john to tell him she had bin with jesus. the hoor. she showed him the hankerchif. and everybody sang.
you like this? shore you like it. you were born for this. dont complane. we all have a cross to bare. it can hurt a little. everything that matters is gotten with a little pane. history is washed only with blud. yes. you tawt me that. im a good student, rite? were all good students because a lot of us are wateing to wake up. youll leed us. i chose you, yes, so youll cross the river of blud.
christ has a tunic of red and gold. they say too angels made it in a nite and then ran away. too angels like us, rite? too angels making christ in their image and likeness, in ours, so that every yeer he can walk the rode to calvary.
no. dont resist. this is your place. you erned it. we fouwt a lot to give it to you. now do you remember me? no? this isnt the first time we seen eech other. and it wont be the last. we saw eech other before, when we were alive. maybe were still alive now. these days i cant reely tell the difrense. you smell good did I tell you? you smell of prarie and the lords day. happy lords day.
my voise was small before, like a little streem. littel by littel its bin growing, like a grate flud. it did that by itself, its bin taking up more room in my memory, it took the place of the others. there are no more voises now. now theres only me and the eckos. yes. eckos of faraway times. but i talk lowder. like now see? your voise isnt herd. only mine is herd and the sownd of the nails, do you heer, going thru wood, going thru flesh, going thru time.
yes. now you heer them.