Now the prosecutor felt that the look on the colonel's face came from a place light years away from his problems. He promised to do what he could and left the building, walking as quickly as he could, almost running, although he maintained the dignity appropriate to an official of his rank. As he crossed the plain that separated the prison from the city, he felt he was being watched. He turned. There was nobody for three kilometers around.
When he returned to the Office of the Prosecutor, he wrote his report.
Now, as the sun was setting, he continued his meticulous revision of the document, asking himself if it was worth sounding the alarm or if there was no alarm to sound or if talking about it would cost him his rank and his job. He understood the reasoning of Lieutenant of the Army of Peru Alfredo Cáceres Salazar and his investigative methodology, but it was not clear to him that Edwin Mayta was a terrorist. Perhaps he was merely thinking too much about the entire case. Perhaps Justino had simply lost his mind after his brother's arrest and thought the prosecutor had something to do with it. In any case, the prosecutor recapitulated, the whole problem is limited to one corpse and has already been resolved, there are plenty of corpses in Ayacucho and it is better not to poke your finger into any in particular because pus is gushing out of all of them. There was no terrorist threat. Terrorism was finished. The rest was nonsense propounded by the terrorists themselves in order to confuse people. He put the report in a drawer, under the pencils and forms for requesting supplies. Then he looked at his watch. It was time to go. He gathered his things and left punctually. He felt strangely nervous. Out on the street the tourists arriving for Holy Week were beginning to give a livelier image to the city. Most came from Lima but there were even some gringos, Spaniards, perhaps a Frenchman or two, the kind who travel through the Andes with backpacks. Prosecutor Chacaltana decided to stop at the restaurant and see Edith and relax a little. Perhaps it was also time to apologize for his absence. He had begun in a very impetuous way with her and then had disappeared. That was not how gentlemen behaved.
In the restaurant, for a change, she was alone. The prosecutor sat in his usual place, but Edith did not seem to be in a very good mood.
“Where have you been eating lunch?” she said. “You don't come here anymore.”
“I just have a lot of work. But that does not mean I don't want to.”
“Sure, now it seems you're too important to come here. We have stewed tripe. Do you want some?” she asked without enthusiasm, as if he were just another customer in a crowded restaurant. He thought the best thing would be to agree and improve the mood of his hostess. Fifteen minutes later she put the plate down on the table and went to one side, her back turned, to wash glasses. An American sitcom was on television. Two blond girls fought nonsensically over a tall, good-looking boy who did not know which one to choose.
“I even bought a dress for the parties you invited me to,” Edith said.
With a gesture she indicated one of the chairs, where a pink lace dress was hanging, covered with embroidered arabesques and decorations. She had kept it there for days to show to the prosecutor when he came in. By now it even smelled of the kitchen. The prosecutor thought it was pretty. And he felt guilty for having made her spend her money. He was not hungry. His eyes moved back and forth between his plate and the young woman, and he did not know where to rest them. He wanted to say that he was very busy, that it was not always possible for him to have lunch, given all his meetings, dinners, and work-related travel. Finally he said:
“I'm not important.”
“What did you say?” She stopped and turned around. Her straight hair hung loose over her shoulders, her neck, her forehead.
“I'm not … important at all, Edith. I don't have a car. And I won't have one. They won't invite me to the parties for high-placed officials. In fact, I don't think I'm very good at those parties. When I try to speak no one listens. Perhaps it's because I never understand what's going on at parties … I don't think I even understand what's going on in this city or this country. Recently I've thought I don't understand anything about anything. And not understanding frightens me.”
It embarrassed him to tell a woman that he was afraid. But the words had left his mouth automatically, like a burst of bullets from a Star machine gun in a helicopter flying overhead. He had not been able to control them. That, perhaps, was what frightened him most. Knowing there was something he could not control, something inside him, terrified him more than what he could not control on the outside, what depended on whispers in bathrooms, on galas, on offices decorated with flags, on parades. He had lowered his eyes to his untouched plate, so that only the scent of Edith's cheap shampoo made him aware that she had approached him and almost touched him.
“Nobody understands anything here,” she said. “But nobody admits it, either. You have to be brave to say that.”
“I'm a coward, Edith. I always have been.”
Suddenly the prosecutor felt warmth on his hand, an agreeable, protective feeling he had not experienced for a long time. It took him a few seconds to move his eyes away from the tripe and discover it was Edith's hand that had interlaced fingers with his. They remained silent for several minutes while the tourists made more and more noise as they searched for bars where they could spend the evening. Two Limenians came into the restaurant.
“Do you sell beer?”
“We're closing,” she replied.
The prosecutor wanted to tell her not to stop working because of him. The tourist business would be very good for the restaurant, and in any event, his problem was not that serious. In fact, he was not even sure what “his problem” was, and it was not worthwhile for her to worry so much about it. But the pressure of those slim fingers on his and the odor of tripe coming from that small woman seemed to have sealed his lips. When the tourists left, Edith locked the door, put the prosecutor's plate in the refrigerator, and went out with him. They walked in silence to the prosecutor's house. Chacaltana remembered what it was like to walk down the street with a woman beside him, the feeling of four legs walking in rhythm, not like guards marching but with a free step, calm and slow. From time to time they smiled for no reason.
“During Holy Week I'll work at the restaurant in the mornings too,” she said. “There'll be lots of tourists. You can come for breakfast if you want. Because you eat in the mornings, don't you?”
“Call me Félix.”
“I have a small farm with my cousins in Huanta. I work here now because the harvest is over. I'll come back next year.”
“Every year.”
“Every year. Time is like that here. Everything is repeated over and over again. Planting, harvesting …”
“Maybe life can change. When somebody disappears, nothing is the same anymore. When somebody falls in love, nothing is the same either. Some things are forever.”
“I hope so.”
When they were in his house, the prosecutor offered her a mate. They sat in the living room to talk. The prosecutor wondered if her impulsive visit to the house was a sign she would end up in his bed. Then he realized he did not really want to go to bed with Edith, at least not that night. That night he felt like talking to her, being lulled by her voice and her patience, perhaps embracing her. That was all. At least, that was what he thought.
“How did your parents die?”
“It was the terrorists,” she replied.
“It was a horrible time, wasn't it?”
“I don't want to talk about it.”
Nobody wanted to talk about it. Not the military, or the police, or civilians. The memory of the war had been buried along with its dead. The prosecutor thought the memory of the eighties was like the silent earth in cemeteries. The only thing everyone shares, the only thing no one talks about.