“Did you hear about Durango?” asked the prosecutor.
The commander seemed to return from a very distant place before responding in a cavernous voice:
“That's no longer my affair.”
The commander handed him a sheet of paper he was holding in his hand. The prosecutor managed to read it in spite of the half-light. It was a letter to Carrión from Lima with the letterhead of the Joint Command of the Armed Forces, announcing his retirement.
“It is not time for you yet.” The prosecutor was surprised.
“Here it's time for whatever they want. They've modified the chains of command to their liking. It's over.”
They sank into a dark silence that the officer broke only minutes later:
“Did you leak information to Eléspuru, in Intelligence? Did you talk to him about this?”
“No, Señor. I do not know how they could have known …”
“They know everything, Chacaltana. Everything. But I suppose that doesn't matter anymore. My replacement will arrive when the festivities are over. Perhaps he doesn't even have anything to do with this. There will be new elections, maybe they want to place an officer here who's less irritable than me, or more manageable, or whatever the hell it is.”
It was difficult to know if his voice expressed relief or frustration. The prosecutor felt abandoned, betrayed. It seemed to him that for the commander to leave when he was caught in the middle of these problems was the easy way out. He looked carefully at the officer and changed his mind. Nothing seemed easy for that man.
“And what are you going to do?” the prosecutor asked.
“I'll go north, to Piura or Tumbes. I want a quiet place. And most of all, one very far from here.”
The prosecutor dropped into a chair. In spite of the size difference between the seats, this time he did not seem smaller than the commander.
“You cannot leave like this,” he said with aplomb. “We have not finished yet.”
The commander laughed. At first very quietly, then in great bellows. When he managed to control himself, he lit a cigarette between coughs. The prosecutor had never seen him smoke. Carrión said:
“Finished? This is only the beginning, Chacaltana. Our work of two decades has just gone all to hell. We can't even guarantee our own security. We'll never stop them. They'll keep coming back.”
“But it is our job …”
“To fight the sea? Because that's what we're doing. After all, I've been reading during the days I've been inside. Ayacucho is a strange place. The Wari culture was here, and then the Chancas, who never let themselves be conquered by the Incas. And then the indigenous rebellions, because Ayacucho was the midway point between Cuzco, the Inca capital, and Lima, the capital of the Spaniards. And independence in Quinua. And Sendero. This place is doomed to be bathed in blood and fire forever, Chacaltana. Why? I have no idea. It doesn't matter. We can't do anything. I suggest that you leave too. You must be on the blacklist by now, you'll be next.”
“We ought to investigate Olazábal. Durango's escape is very suspicious. Don't you think so? And perhaps it was the colonel who sent a report to Lima about this.”
“Are you deaf? Today's a holiday, and on Monday I'm leaving. Do whatever you want, I don't care. And keep the pistol. It's a gift.”
Then he made the gesture he always made when he said “Thanks, you can go.” But he did not say anything. Again they remained in silence.
“I want to ask you for something …,” the prosecutor said at last. “I have reason to believe that the next attempts will take place in the next few days. I want to double security.”
The irritation intensified in the already irritated eyes of Carrión.
“Again, Chacaltana? Haven't we already been ridiculous enough?”
“Believe me this time. I am not wrong.”
Carrión looked at him as if he were his son, his heir, with more tenderness than pride.
“I was once like you, Chacaltana. I thought we could stop this. But it's stronger than the two of us. This is the history of a country. Spare yourself the disappointment.”
Chacaltana was no longer a boy. But perhaps he felt strong in spite of everything. He felt he was coming closer, that his life, after all, would have some meaning, even if that meaning were found in death. It was an idea that no longer seemed contradictory to him. He held Carrión's gaze and said:
“I have to stay. That is also stronger than me. You are still an authority. Sign the security order. I will take care of everything else.”
The commander took a blank sheet of letterhead out of his desk and signed it.
“Dictate whatever you want to say to my secretary. It's the last favor I'll do for you, little Chacaltita. I'll ask for one in return: take care of yourself, please.”
Chacaltana took his leave of the commander with a military salute. He thought about embracing him but did not dare. In any case, he would have liked to. It would have been like embracing a father. Commander Carrión had been anything but a good man, but at least, perhaps, his final gestures had redeemed him through fear. Perhaps that was the only way to really be redeemed.
Twenty minutes later, he went to police headquarters with the signed order. The usual sergeant was at the door.
“Good afternoon, Señor Prosecutor. Unfortunately, Captain Pacheco has told me to say that for the moment he isn't in, but that if … Señor Prosecutor. Señor Prosecutor!”
Chacaltana went directly to Pacheco's office and opened the door. Inside were the captain and Judge Briceño. The sergeant at the door pulled at the prosecutor's arm as he spoke to the captain.
“Excuse me, Señor! I informed the prosecutor that you were absent, but …”
“Shut up, you imbecile!” replied Pacheco. “And get out. Come in, Señor Prosecutor. Since you have lost your manners, at least have a seat.”
Without sitting down, the prosecutor placed the paper on his desk.
“I have an order from Commander Carrión to double security, effective immediately.”
“From whom?” asked the captain, looking as if he did not recognize the name.
“Commander Carrión, who has made clear to me his concern regarding …”
“I'm afraid he hasn't heard what happened,” intervened Judge Briceño. The captain smiled. “It's understandable. It's clear you're too distracted by your own matters. The commander is no longer in command here.”
They seemed pleased by the news. Perhaps they had just been celebrating it. The prosecutor replied:
“His retirement is not yet in effect, Señor Judge.”
“When people die,” answered the judge, “one doesn't wait for their death to be in effect. They just die, Prosecutor Chacaltana.”
Chacaltana looked from one to the other. Then he said:
“The order is in response to the need for extreme security measures …”
“In the absence of the commander, I decide what security measures are needed,” said Pacheco. “And I'm not going to deprive my men of their time off without a good reason. Unless you have a judicial order. Why don't you ask Judge Briceño for one? Ah, I forgot, it's a holiday, the judge isn't working!” He became serious. “Neither are we.”
“You do not understand. There is a killer on the loose!”
“A killer?” asked the judge. “We don't know about any killer. There's no record of any complaint of murder in the judicial district. I don't know if you've been whispering about something with your commander, but we don't know anything. If you want institutions to function, you have to transmit your information to them, Señor Chacaltana. If not, what can we do?”
Chacaltana hesitated. Then he recovered his confidence: