The peasants, owners of their own lands by then; the workers, owners of their own factories by then; government officials, conscious that now they were serving the community and not imperialists, millionaires, political bosses, or local parties, would feel the same. With discrimination and exploitation abolished, the foundations of equality established through the abolition of inherited wealth, the replacement of the elitist army with a popular militia, the nationalization of private schools, and the expropriation of all companies, banks, businesses, and urban property, millions of Peruvians would feel that now indeed they were progressing, the poorest first. The hardest-working, most talented, and most revolutionary would get the important jobs, instead of the richest or the best connected.
And every day the chasms that separated the proletariat from the bourgeoisie, the whites from the Indians, blacks, and Asiatics, the coastal people from the mountain and jungle people, the Spanish speakers from the Quechua speakers, would be bridged just a bit more. Everyone, except the tiny group that would flee to the United States or die defending their privileges, would take part in the great production effort to develop the country, end illiteracy, and do away with the stranglehold of central authority. The fog of religion would fade with the systematic rise of science. The worker and peasant councils, in their factories, on their collective farms, and in government ministries, would prevent the outsized growth and consequent ossification of a bureaucracy that would freeze the revolution and use it for its own benefit.
What would he do in that new society, if he was still alive? He wouldn’t accept any important place in government, in the armed forces, or in the diplomatic service. Maybe a political post, a minor one, perhaps in the country, on a collective farm in the Andes, or on some colonization project in the Amazon region. Social, moral, and sexual prejudices would give way little by little, and it wouldn’t matter to anyone, in that crucible of work and faith that Peru would be in the future, that he would be living with Anatolio. By then, they would have gotten back together, and it would be more or less obvious that, alone, free of stares, with all due discretion, they could love each other and enjoy each other. He secretly touched his fly with the hand grip of his weapon. Beautiful, isn’t it, Mayta? Very. But how far off it seemed …
Nine
The community of Quero is one of the most ancient in Junín province. Today, the people of Quero — just as they did twenty-five years ago and probably just as they did centuries ago — grow potatoes, beans, and coca. They pasture their cattle on mountains which can be reached from Jauja by following a steep trail. If the rains don’t turn the road into a swamp, the trip takes a couple of hours. The potholes make the pickup seem like a bucking bronco, but the countryside more than makes up for the rough ride: a deep pass, bound at each end by twin mountains, paralleled by a foamy, rushing river whose name changes — first it’s called Molinos, and then, nearer to the town, Quero. Luxuriant cinchonas, their leaves made even greener by the morning dew, line the route toward the little town that stretches out along the pass. We go in at about eleven.
In Jauja, I heard contradictory versions of what took place in Quero. The town itself is in a war zone and in recent years has been the scene of innumerable attacks, executions, and large-scale operations by both the rebels and counterinsurgency forces. According to some, Quero was under rebel control and its plaza was fortified. Others said the army had an artillery company stationed there, as well as a training camp complete with U.S. advisers. One person was sure I’d never be allowed to enter Quero, because the army uses it as a concentration camp and torture center. “That’s where they bring prisoners from all over the Mantaro Valley to make them talk. They use the most up-to-date methods. When they’ve finished with the prisoners, they take them up in helicopters and drop them out over the jungle to terrorize the Reds, who are supposedly watching from below.”
Tales. In Quero, there’s not a sign of either insurgents or soldiers. I’m not surprised that reality contradicts these rumors. Information in this country has ceased to be objective and has become pure fantasy — in newspapers, radio, television, and ordinary conversation. “To report” among us now means either to interpret reality according to our desires or fears, or to say simply what is convenient. It’s an attempt to make up for our ignorance of what’s going on — which in our heart of hearts we understand is irremediable and definitive. Since it is impossible to know what’s really happening, we Peruvians lie, invent, dream, and take refuge in illusion. Because of these strange circumstances, Peruvian life, a life in which so few actually do read, has become literary.
The real Quero, where I’m walking around now, bears no resemblance to its image in the fictions I’ve heard. You see not a trace of war or combatants (of either side) anywhere. Why is the town deserted? I supposed that all eligible men would have been conscripted either by the army or by the guerrillas, but, as a matter of fact, you don’t see old men or boys either. They must be working in the fields or inside their houses. Probably they get scared whenever an outsider walks into town. As I stroll through the little church, built in 1946, with its stone tower and tile roof, and wander around the gazebo in the center of the plaza, surrounded by cypress and eucalyptus trees, I get the feeling it’s a ghost town. Could it have had the same image that morning when the revolutionaries rolled in?
“The sun was shining brightly, and the plaza was full of people, because it was the time for communal labor,” don Eugenio Fernández Cristóbal assures me, as he points his cane at the sky filled with ashen clouds. “I was here in the square. They came right around that corner over there. About this time of day, more or less.”
Don Eugenio was justice of the peace in Quero at that time. Now he’s retired. What’s extraordinary is that after all those events in which he was absolutely and totally involved — at least since Vallejos, Mayta, Condori, Zenón Gonzales, and their following of seven children arrived here — he went back to his judicial functions and lived several years more in Quero, finally retiring. Now he lives on the outskirts of Jauja. Despite all the apocalyptic tales about the region, I didn’t have to ask him twice to go with me to Quero. “I always liked adventure,” he tells me. And I didn’t have to ask him twice to tell what he remembered about that day, the most important in his long life. He answers my questions quickly and with absolute certitude, even with regard to insignificant details. He never doubts, never contradicts himself, and leaves no loose threads that might call his memory into question. Not an easy game for an octogenarian who, besides, I have no doubt, hides some things from me and lies about many others. What exactly was his part in the adventure? No one knows for sure. Does he know himself, or does the version he’s cooked up convince him as well?
“I took no notice, because it wasn’t odd for pickups carrying people from Jauja to come to Quero. They parked right over there, next to Tadeo Canchis’s house. They asked where they could eat. They were very hungry.”
“And you didn’t notice that they were all armed, don Eugenio? That, besides the weapon each one had, there were rifles in the truck?”