An oven. Fire. A crematory. A furnace that feeds on people. It was simple, really.
“And where would you do that?”
“In the Church of the Heart of Christ. They have an oven. And it's closer to my house than the cemetery.”
“They have that? Churches don't have ovens.”
The prosecutor asked as if he were a tourist. She laughed again. In a corner of her mouth she had a silver filling that glistened in the light.
“This one does. What about you? You'd be buried, wouldn't you?”
“I have to go.”
He stood with the feeling that something was boiling in his head. Perhaps he had time to stop by that church before his lunch hour was over. In any event, if not he could claim the pressure of work. He had not made note of it in the morning, but perhaps he could send a memo correcting his statement regarding justified absences. Perhaps the proof that they were not terrorists would be there. Jealousy. It had to be jealousy. It had to be demonstrated that it was jealousy. She watched him get up from the table. She seemed disappointed.
“You could at least taste it before you say you don't like it!”
“Oh, no … you do not understand. It is just that I am in a terrible hurry. I promise that tomorrow … What is your name?”
“Edith.”
“Edith, of course. I promise that tomorrow I'll come and really eat lunch. Yes, I promise.”
“Sure, go on.”
The prosecutor tried to say something clever. All he could think of was jealousy. He left the restaurant, reached the corner, and remembered that he ought to pay the bill. He did not want her to think he was an opportunist. He turned and walked toward the restaurant. Then he thought that if he paid, she would think he was not returning the next day. In the middle of the street, he wondered what he should do. He looked at his watch. He would go to police headquarters and to the church. It would be better not to be distracted from his work. He looked toward the restaurant one last time. Edith was cleaning his table. He waited for her to look up. To wave good-bye to him. She finished the table and then swept up a little. She looked at the sky. The sky was clear. Then she disappeared again into the interior. The prosecutor thought about the oven. Edith had cooperated with the law without realizing it. He retraced his steps to the restaurant. He went in. She was surprised to see him return. He said:
“Thank you. Thank you very much.”
“You're welcome.”
She smiled. He realized then that he was smiling too. Feeling calmer, Félix Chacaltana Saldívar continued on his way.
He stopped by police headquarters, where the same sergeant as last time received him:
“Good afternoon, I am looking for Captain Pacheco.”
“Captain Pacheco?”
“That is correct.”
The sergeant wrote down the prosecutor's information again on a piece of paper and went into the office. He came out nine minutes later:
“The captain is very busy right now but asks that you send him a written request, and he'll study it carefully.”
“It is just that … the police ought to carry out this investigation. I cannot move forward if I do not see that you are moving forward too.”
“Of course, I understand. I'll let the captain know.”
The Church of the Heart of Christ was beyond the Arch, almost where the mountain began. The principal nave was completely overlaid with wood and gold leaf, and the stained-glass windows were representations of the Stations of the Cross. In one corner there was an altar to Our Lady of Sorrows with the seven daggers in her bosom. On the other side, near the sacristy, was an image of Christ dragging the cross to Golgotha. There were short red candles before each holy image. The image of the crucified Christ looked down on the main altar. Félix Chacaltana stared at his somber nakedness, the drops of blood running down his face, the wounds of the nails on his hands and feet, the gash in his side.
A hand touched his shoulder.
The prosecutor jumped. Behind him was a priest still dressed in the vestments of the Mass. He carried several objects of silver and glass. He was about fifty years old and had very little hair.
“May I help you? I'm Father Quiroz, the pastor of Heart of Christ.”
The prosecutor accompanied the priest as he put away the implements of the Mass in the sacristy, explaining the situation. On the wall hung a chiaroscuro image of Christ raising his hands to God. His perforated hands. The crown of thorns circled his head like a red and green tiara. Chacaltana wanted to say something agreeable:
“How beautiful your church is,” was what occurred to him.
“Yes, it's beautiful now,” the priest responded as he placed the wafers in a plastic box. “We've restored it recently with money from the government, this church and all the others. There are thirty-three churches in this city, Señor Prosecutor. Like the age of Christ. Ayacucho is one of the most devout cities in the country.”
“Religion is always a consolation. Especially here … with so many dead.”
The priest polished the paten and chalice carefully.
“Sometimes I don't know, Señor Prosecutor. The Indians are so impenetrable. Have you ever seen the churches of Juli, in Puno?”
“No.”
Quiroz took off the green and gold chasuble and the cordon that tied the stole around his waist. He folded the cloth articles and placed them delicately in a chest in order not to wrinkle them. Each gesture seemed like another ritual of the Mass, as if each movement of his hands had a precise meaning. He said:
“They are open-air churches, like corrals. The Jesuits built them during the colonial period to convert the Indians, to have them attend Mass, because they worshipped only the sun, the river, the mountains. Do you see? They didn't understand why worship was held in an enclosed place.”
“And did it work?”
The priest locked with a key each of the chests in which he had placed articles. He carried the keys on a large ring.
“Oh, yes, to keep up appearances. The Indians were delighted to attend Mass, and at Mass … They prayed and learned canticles, they even took Communion. But they never stopped worshipping the sun, the river, and the mountains. Their Latin prayers were only memorized repetitions. Inside they continued worshipping their gods, their huacas. They deceived the Jesuits.”
Father Quiroz stood facing the prosecutor. He was tall. Félix Chacaltana thought he ought to contribute something to the conversation. He wondered what Commander Carrión would say. He asked:
“What would you have recommended?”
“One reaches the true spirit only through suffering. Pleasure and nature are corporeal, worldly. The soul is full of suffering. Christ endured blood and death to save us. Penance is the only way to reach the heart of man. Shall we go down now?”
The prosecutor nodded. He had not understood very well what the priest had said about suffering. In general he did not like suffering. They left the church and walked down a short alleyway that led to the small parish house. In the living room there was an accumulation of old furniture, cardboard boxes, and church decorations. Quiroz made an embarrassed gesture. He said:
“Forgive the disorder. I usually see people in the parish office. I'm the only one who comes in here and that's only to sleep. The oven is down below.”
The prosecutor remarked:
“I did not think Catholics had crematories.”
“We don't. The body should reach the day of the Final Judgment to be resurrected with the soul. The basement of the parish house was a storeroom. The recent crematory was built in the 1980s at the request of the military high command.”
“The high command?”
They stopped at a heavy wooden door. The priest took out another key and opened it. In front of them were damp unlit stairs. Holding on to the walls, they climbed down to the basement. It smelled of incense and enclosure.