“Too many dead. The city was often under siege, and the cemeteries were full. One had to dispose of the bodies.”
“And why did they do it here?”
“In wartime, every request from the military is an order. The high command considered us the ones who took care of people after they were dead. According to them, the logical thing was for us to take care of the oven.”
Down below a faint light came from a small, high window of opaque glass that faced the alley. The priest turned on the overhead light. It was a white neon bulb, like the one at the morgue, but round. When he turned it on, more boxes appeared piled up in a corner. And beside them, in the stone wall, was an opening with a metal door and lining. A chimney, which must have gone up to the roof of the house, protruded on one side. As if it were a baker's oven, the priest showed him how it operated. The body was introduced vertically into the oven, lying on a grate. The fire was fueled by gas and distributed uniformly around the body until it was reduced to powder. The ashes were collected in a metallic tray that was reinforced to withstand the heat, and from there they went down to the urn or jar where they would rest forever.
“We haven't used it for a long time. The people here are very tied to the earth. And I don't like the idea of destroying the body, either. Only God should dispose of bodies.”
The prosecutor placed his hand inside the opening. He touched the walls, the door. They were cold.
“Could it have been used recently without your consent?”
“Nothing is done here without my consent.”
The priest adjusted a cross hanging on the wall. It was a black cross without the image of Christ. Just a black cross on a gray surface. The prosecutor did not want to think about the cross burned into the forehead of the corpse.
“And on the night in question did you notice anything unusual? Any noise? Anything unexpected?”
“I don't know, Señor Prosecutor. I don't know which is the night in question.”
“I thought I told you. Forgive me. It was Wednesday the 8th. Just after Carnival. The body was found on the same day it died.”
The priest made an ironic face.
“How appropriate.”
“What do you mean?”
“Ash Wednesday. It's time to purify bodies after the pagan festivities and begin Lent, the sacrifice, the preparation for Holy Week.”
“Ash Wednesday. Why Ash?”
The priest smiled pityingly.
“Ah, secular public education. Nobody taught you the Catechism at your school in Lima, Señor Prosecutor? On that day a cross of ashes is marked on the foreheads of Catholics, as a reminder that we are dust and will turn to dust.”
His mother had taken him to church from time to time and that sign had been put on him by a cold, black hand. He touched his forehead, as if he wanted to wipe away the mark.
“To remember that we are going to die?” he asked.
“That we are going to die and will be resurrected to a purer life. Fire purifies.”
Without knowing why, the prosecutor felt as he had days earlier in the office of Dr. Posadas. Faint. He wanted to cancel the visit. There was no jealousy here. He decided to ask something that had no answer, something that would leave the crematory like a dead-end street, something to be forgotten.
“What … other persons have access to this place?”
“As I told you, this place is hardly used. I have the only key. Do you consider me a suspect?”
“Oh, no, Father, please. But I think perhaps someone could have tried to make the corpse disappear in your oven. Do you know if anyone could have had access to a copy of the key?”
The priest reflected for a few seconds.
“No.”
The Associate District Prosecutor felt more and more relieved with each answer. There was nothing else to do here. To be certain he had fulfilled the duties of his position, he insisted:
“Some worker or civilian who offered his services, for example?”
“Well, a few weeks ago I had to dismiss a cleaner. He had stolen a chalice. A rather dim-witted Indian, actually. I don't consider him capable of planning anything. But if he had wanted to, he might have had access to the key, I suppose.”
The prosecutor unwillingly took out his notebook. He regretted having insisted on the question.
“Aha. His name?”
“Do you think he brought a corpse here at night and then carried it through the streets only partially burned? I don't believe that poor soul of God …”
“It is just routine. I will verify it for my report.”
“If I remember correctly, his name was Justino. Justino Mayta Carazo.”
“Thirty-one.”
“What?”
“Nothing, forget it.”
The Associate District Prosecutor again felt perspiration on his forehead. He wanted the police here. He looked at the oven again. He wanted to be buried when he died.
in this city the ded arent ded. they walk the streets and sell candy to the children. they greet the adults. they prey in the churches.
sometimes there are so many i wonder if im ded too. maybe im skinned and cut up, my peeces at the bottem of a pond. everything i see is only what my eyes see and maybe there not here anymore.
maybe i dont know it anymore.
but hes really ded. really. his ashes cant wander around. his arm isnt an arm anymore. his skins got nothing to cover. thats why he talks to me that way. thats why he complanes. and i tell him you cant do anything anymore, you son of a bitch. ha. you cant do anything anymore.
too many sins. all there in your chest like the worms that eat you. the fire. but you cant do anything anymore. your cleen.
thanks to me.
i came from hell to save you. i cleened your blood and your semen out of the sewers so there wont be more sins like you. bastard. i did it for you. your skins good for feeding the dogs. your spit. your spit.
some day men — ded men — will look back and say the 21st sentury began with me.
but you wont see the 21st sentury now.
your cleen.
because of me.
Associate District Prosecutor Félix Chacaltana Saldívar spent the rest of the week trying to locate Justino Mayta Carazo for the pertinent interrogation. He had recovered somewhat from the grim impression made by the crematory. In fact, he was calmer. He thought the commander was right. Unmistakably a fight over broads. Mayta Carazo had tried to make the evidence disappear, but a body takes a long time to turn into ashes. He must have seen that he would be found out and pulled the body out in time. The cross on the forehead was to mislead the authorities. In the end he said that he had found the body to deflect the suspicions of the police. No terrorists, just a crime of passion. With motive and opportunity. The commander would be pleased with his investigation.
In order not to waken his fears, the prosecutor sent to the domicile of the suspect three subpoenas and two summonses to appear as a witness. At the same time, he sent Captain Pacheco an account of the facts so the police could locate the suspect. By means of briefs, he inquired about him in the municipality of Quinua and in the appropriate parish.
On Friday he still had not received a reply. The messenger ser vice at the Office of the Prosecutor informed him that they had not sent out a single envelope all week because the messenger was sick. Maybe he'd feel better next week. Or maybe not. The prosecutor thought that if matters were put off too long, the commander would forget about his case. He himself wanted to forget about it as soon as possible. The case seemed to inflame his memories. That night he discussed the situation with his mother:
“I really don't know, Mamacita. If I don't resolve this case, they won't give me another good one. I've learned by now that you have to fight your way up.”