“Of course they’re sure,” says don Eugenio, speaking for all of them. “You have to remember that those were other times — who would ever have thought that was a revolution? Remember, too, that they robbed two banks before leaving Jauja …”
He laughs, and the others laugh as well. In that half hour they were here, were there any incidents involving police and members of the community? No, none. The guards were convinced right then and there that the “rustlers” had gone and that the people of Quero had nothing to do with them and knew nothing about what had happened in Jauja. Other times, no doubt about it: then the police didn’t think that any man wearing a poncho and sandals was — until he proved otherwise — an accomplice of the subversives. The Andean world hadn’t yet been polarized to the degree it has today, when its inhabitants can only be either accomplices of the rebels or accomplices of the repressors of the rebels.
“In the meantime,” says the justice of the peace, his eyes once again watery, “we were getting soaked to the skin.”
The rain poured down fifteen minutes after they’d left Quero. A rain so heavy it sometimes seemed like hail. They considered looking for a place to stay dry until it let up, but there was no place. How the landscape has changed, Mayta said to himself. He was probably the only one not bothered by the cloudburst. The water poured off his skin, saturated his hair, ran between his lips, and felt like balm. At the point where the Quero farms ended, the land immediately began to curve upward. It was as if they had once again crossed into a different region or country, because this land had nothing whatever in common with the land between Jauja and Quero. The dense cinchonas, the pastures, the birds, the roar of the waterfalls, the wildflowers, and the reeds waving along the side of the road had all disappeared. On this bald slope, there wasn’t even a trace of a road, and the only vegetation was some giant, thick-armed, spiny cacti that looked like candelabra.
The very earth had become black and hunchbacked, with huge, sinister-looking rocks and stones. They walked in three groups: the mules and arms in front, with Condori and three joeboys; then the rest of the boys, led by Zenón Gonzales, about a hundred yards behind; and finally the last group, the lieutenant, Mayta, and the justice of the peace. He also knew the way to Aína, in case they lost the others. But up to now Mayta was able to keep the other two groups in sight, up ahead, above, at the foot of the mountains, two spots that appeared and disappeared as the land rose or fell and the rain got lighter or heavier. It must have been the middle of the afternoon, although the grayness of the sky suggested nightfall. “What time is it?” he asked Vallejos. “Two-thirty.” When he heard that, Mayta remembered a joke the students at the Salesian School would make whenever someone asked the time. “I don’t know, my cock has stopped,” and they’d point to their fly. He smiled, and in that moment of distraction, he almost fell.
“Carry your weapon with the barrel pointing down, so the rain doesn’t get in,” Vallejos said to him. The rain made the ground muddy, and Mayta tried to step from stone to stone, but the stones had loosened because of the rain, so he was constantly slipping. On the other hand, on his right side, the Quero lawyer — tiny, huddled over, his hat oozing water, his nose and mouth covered with a multicolored handkerchief, his ancient boots caked with mud — walked this mountain trail as if he were on a smooth sidewalk. Vallejos, too, walked easily, hunched forward a bit, his sub-machine gun on his shoulder, and his head down, so he could watch where he stepped. He led the way the whole time, and Mayta and don Eugenio would have to sprint from time to time to catch up to him. Since leaving Quero, they had barely spoken a word. The idea was to reach the pass called Viena, on the eastern slope, where it was milder. Condori and Zenón Gonzales thought it would be possible to get there before nightfall, if they hurried. It wasn’t advisable to camp out on the uplands because of the danger of snow or a storm.
Although he was tired and still occasionally bothered by the altitude, Mayta felt fine. Were the Andes finally accepting him after tormenting him for so long? Had he received his baptism? Yet, a short time later, when Vallejos said they could take a rest, he dropped to the muddy ground, exhausted. The rain had stopped, the sky was clearing, and he could no longer see the other two groups. The three men were in a deep hollow, flanked by rock walls from which sprouted moist clumps of ichu grass. Vallejos came over, sat next to him, and asked to see his weapon. He looked it over carefully, moving the safety on and off. He returned it without saying a word, and lit a cigarette. The young man’s face was covered with drops of water, and, through the cigarette smoke, Mayta could see he was tense with worry.
“You’re the one who’s always optimistic,” he said to him.
“I’m still optimistic,” replied Vallejos, taking a drag and expelling smoke out his nose and mouth. “But …”
“But you still can’t figure out what happened this morning,” said Mayta. “You’ve lost your political virginity, my friend. The revolution is more complicated than any fairy tale, brother.”
“I don’t want to discuss what happened this morning,” Vallejos cut him off. “There are more important things to do now.”
They heard a snore. The justice of the peace had settled down on his back on the ground, with his hat over his face, and appeared to have fallen asleep.
Vallejos looked at his watch. “If I’m right, the guards should be getting to Jauja now. We’ve got about four hours on them. And out here in these badlands we’re like a needle in a haystack. We’re out of danger, I think. Okay, let’s wake up the justice and be on our way.”
No sooner had he heard Vallejos’s last words than don Eugenio jumped to his feet. Instantly he clapped his soaking hat on his head. “Always ready, lieutenant,” he said, giving a military salute. “I’m an owl, I close only one eye when I sleep.”
“I’m amazed you’re with us, doctor,” said Mayta. “At your age, and with all the work you have, you have good reasons to look out for yourself.”
“Well, frankly, if someone had given me the word, I probably would have taken off,” the justice confessed, without the slightest embarrassment. “But they never said a word to me, they treated me like trash. So what else could I do? Wait for the police, so I could be the sacrificial lamb? What jerk would do that?”
Mayta began to laugh. They had started walking again and were scrambling up out of the hollow, slipping all the time, when he saw Vallejos freeze, crouched over. He looked from side to side, listening.
“Shots,” he heard him say in a low voice.
“Thunder, man,” said Mayta. “Sure it’s shots?”