“Never in my life,” stuttered Lituma, confused.
“And who is this asshole? What’s he doing here? Where’d this motherfucker come from?”
“Don’t worry about him. He’s okay, he’s my assistant, a guy you can trust.” Lieutenant Silva calmed him down again. “And don’t worry about Colonel Mindreau, for that matter.”
“Shh-shh. No names, damn it.”
“Right, right, I forgot. Fathers are always put out when their daughters get married. They don’t want to lose them. Just let time pass, he’ll let up and the two of you will get married. Want some advice? Get her pregnant. Then her Old man won’t have any choice. Now tell me about Palomino Molero.”
“Lieutenant Silva is a genius,” thought Lituma.
“Her old man won’t ever let up because he’s not human. He’s got no soul, can’t you see that?” Another choking spell came over him, mixed with drunken hiccups. Litunia figured that by then his boss’s shirt must have been pure slime. “A monster who’s treated me like some damn nigger, get me? Now do you understand why I’m fed up? Do you understand why the only thing I can do is drink till I drop every night?”
“You better believe I understand, buddy. You’re in love and you’re pissed off because you can’t see your woman. But who in his right mind would fall for the daughter of that bully. Come on now, pal, tell me once and for all about Palomino Molero.”
“You think you’re real clever, don’t you?” It was as if he were no longer drunk. Lituma was about to grab him; it looked as if he might try something with Lieutenant Silva. But he didn’t; he was too drunk. He couldn’t sit up straight and fell over again against Lieutenant Silva.
“Come on, buddy, it’ll do you good, it’ll take your mind off your problem. You can forget about your girl for a minute. Did they kill him because he tried something with an officer’s wife? Is that it?”
“I won’t tell you a fucking thing about Palomino Molero! You can kill me first.”
“That’s the thanks I get for fishing you out of the whorehouse alive. They would’ve cut your balls off. I brought you here so you could sober up and then go back to the base in good shape and not get reported. I’m your handkerchief, your pillow, and your crying towel. Just look at what you’ve done to my shirt, drooling all over me. And you won’t even tell me why they killed Palomino Molero. Are you chicken or what?”
“He won’t get a thing out of him,” thought Lituma, depressed. They’d been wasting time, and, which was worse, he’d got his hopes up. This drunk wasn’t going to reveal anything.
“She’s a shit, too, a bigger one even than her old man,” the pilot complained through clenched teeth. He choked, then gagged, then went on, “But even so I love her. Damn right. Heart and soul. And what a piece of ass.”
“But why did you say your girl’s a shit, too, pal? She’s got to follow her old man’s orders, same as you, or is it that she doesn’t love you anymore? Did she tell you to get lost?”
“She doesn’t know what she wants. She’s her master’s voice, like the little dog in the RCA ads. She only does and says what the monster tells her to. The one who told me to get lost was him speaking through her.”
Lituma tried to remember exactly what the girl looked like when she made that brief appearance in her father’s office. He could reconstruct the words they exchanged, but he couldn’t remember if she was pretty or not. He could draw a mental picture of her silhouette—she was slim; and she must have had a strong personality, to judge by the way she talked. She was certainly vain, with a face that would have looked good on a queen. She’d wiped the floor with this poor pilot, wrecked him completely.
‘Tell me about Palomino Molero, man. Anything you want. At least, if they killed him for messing around with an officer’s wife over in Piura. Come on, at least that.”
“I may be drunk but I’m not an asshole, and you’re not gonna treat me like your nigger here.” He paused and then added, bitterly, “But if you want to know something, here it is: he asked for it and he got it.”
“You mean Palomino Molero?”
“Why don’t you call him the motherfucker Palomino Molero.”
“Right, the motherfucker Palomino Molero, if you prefer it that way,” purred Lieutenant Silva, patting him on the back. “How did he ask for it?”
“Because he reached too high. Because he poached on somebody else’s territory. You pay for mistakes like that. He paid, and how.”
Lituma had goosebumps. This guy knew everything. He knew who killed the kid and why.
“I’m with you, buddy. A guy who reaches too high, who poaches on somebody else’s territory, usually pays for it. But whose territory did he poach on?”
“Yours, motherfucker.” The pilot tried to stand up. Lituma watched him crawl, get halfway up, and fall flat on his face.
“No, it wasn’t my territory, pal, and you know that for a fact. It happened over in Piura, on the Air Force base. In one of the houses on the base, right?”
The pilot, still on all fours, raised his head, and Lituma thought for a second he was going to start barking. He stared at them with a glassy, anguished look, and seemed to be fighting hard against the alcohol. He was blinking incessantly.
“And who told you that, motherfucker?”
“I always remember what that Mexican comic Cantinflas says in all his movies: ‘There’s this little problem.’ You’re not the only one who knows things. I know a few things mvself. I’ll tell you what I know, you tell me what you know, and we’ll solve this mystery together.”
“First, tell me what you know about the Piura base.” He was still on his hands and knees, and Lituma thought he wasn’t drunk anymore. He was speaking clearly and no longer seemed afraid.
“Sure, pal. My pleasure. But sit down over here and have a smoke. You’re feeling better now, right? Good.”
He lit two cigarettes and handed the pack to Lituma, who took one out and lit it.
“Look, I know that Palomino Molero had a girlfriend over in the Piura base. He would serenade her with his guitar, singing in that beautiful voice he was supposed to have. Only at night and in secret. He sang her boleros, his specialty. That’s it. That’s all I know. Now it’s your turn. Who did he serenade?”
“I don’t know anything!.” He was frightened again. His teeth were chattering.
“Of course you know. You know that the husband of the woman he serenaded found out about it, or maybe caught them in the act. And you know that Molero had to get out of Piura on the double. That’s why he came here and enlisted in Talara. But the jealous husband found out where he was, came looking for him, and bumped him off. For doing just what you said, pal. For reaching too high, for poaching on someone else’s territory. Come on, don’t hold back. Who did it?”
The pilot started gagging again. This time he vomited bent over, and made spectacular noises. When he’d finished he wiped his mouth with his hand and began to grimace. He ended up crying like a baby. Lituma was disgusted and sorry for him. The poor guy was really suffering.
“You wonder why I keep asking you to tell me who it was.” The lieutenant was blowing smoke rings. “Curiosity pal, that’s all. If the guy who killed the kid was from the Piura base, what can I do? Nothing. You all have your own laws and rights, your own courts. I can’t even stick my nose in. Just curiosity, see? And besides, I want to tell you something. If I were married to a certain chubby woman I know, and someone came to serenade her and sing her romantic boleros, I’d nail him, too. Who knocked off Palomino Molero, pal?”
Even at a time like that, he was thinking about Doña Adriana. He was sick. The pilot moved away from his own vomit and sat down on the sand, in front of Lituma and his boss. He put his elbows on his knees and buried his face in his hands. He must be feeling the tail end of the booze. Lituma could remember that feeling of emptiness and chills, an undefined, general malaise he knew only too well from his days as an Unstoppable.
“And how did you find out he serenaded her o
n the Piura base?” At times he seemed frightened, at others mad, and now he was both at once. “Who the fuck told you?”
Just then, Lituma noticed shadows moving toward them. A few seconds later, they were standing in a half circle right in front of them. There were six. They carried rifles and billyclubs, and in the moonlight Lituma recognized their armbands. Air Force MPs. They patrolled the bars, parties, and the bordello, picking up any Air Force personnel making trouble.
“I’m Lieutenant Silva of the Guardia Civil. Something wrong?”
“We’ve come to pick up Lieutenant Dufó.”
“Brush your teeth before you say my name, boy.” He managed to get up on his feet, although he weaved back and forth as if he might lose his balance at any moment. “No one takes me anywhere, goddamn it.”
“Colonel’s orders, Lieutenant. Sorry, but we have to take you back.”
The pilot rasped out something and slowly collapsed on the ground. The warrant officer gave an order and the other silhouettes closed in. They picked up Lieutenant Dufó by his arms and legs and carried him off. He let them, mumbling some incomprehensible complaint.
Lituma and Lieutenant Silva watched them disappear in the darkness. In a few minutes, they heard a far-off jeep start up. They finished their cigarettes in silence, absorbed in thought. The lieutenant got up first to begin the trip back. As they passed the whorehouse, they heard music, voices, and laughter. A full house.
“You really are something for getting people to spill their guts, Lieutenant. What a job you did, bringing him along until he told at least something.”
“I didn’t get all he knows. If we’d had more time, he might have told the whole story.” He spit and took a deep breath, as if to fill his lungs with the sea air. “I’ll tell you something, Lituma. Know what I think?”
“What, Lieutenant?”
“That on the base everybody knows what happened. From the cook to Mindreau.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised. At least that’s the impression I got from Lieutenant Dufó. That he knows perfectly well who killed Molero.”
They walked a good distance in silence through a sleeping Talara. Most of the wooden shacks were dark, except for an occasional candle. Up above, behind the fences in the restricted zone, it was also pitch-dark.
Suddenly the lieutenant spoke in a different tone of voice. “Lituma, how’d you like to do me a big favor? Go down to the fishermen’s wharf and see if The Lion of Talara has set sail. If it’s gone, just go to bed. But if it’s still there, I’ll be over at Doña Adriana’s.”
“What, Lieutenant? This must mean that . . .”
“It means I’m going to make my move. I don’t know if tonight’s the night. Maybe yes, maybe no. But why not take a shot at it? It’s taking much longer than I ever thought it would, but someday it’s gonna happen. Know why? Because I’ve made a vow: I won’t die until I screw that fat bitch and until I find out who killed Palomino Molero. Those are my two goals in life, Lituma. Even more important than a promotion—although I wouldn’t take that too seriously if I were you. Go on, get going.”
“How can he feel like doing that now?” He thought about Doña Adriana curled up in her bed, dreaming, unaware of the visit she was going to get. “Damn! What a crazy fucker this Lieutenant Silva’d turned out to be. Would he screw her tonight? No way.” Lituma was sure Doña Adriana would never give in. Most of the boats had already sailed, and there were only a half dozen on the beach. The Lion of Talara was not one of them. He checked them one by one to be sure. Just as he was leaving, he noticed a shadow leaning against one of the beached boats.
“Good evening.”
“Evening,” said the woman, as if annoyed at being interrupted.
“For God’s sake, what are you doing here at this hour of the night, Doña Adriana?” She wore a black shirt over her dress and was barefoot, as usual.
“I came to bring Matías his lunch. And after he left, I stayed to cool off. I’m not sleepy. And you, Lituma? What brings you down here? Meeting a girl?”
Lituma laughed. He hunkered down in front of Doña Adriana, taking advantage of the dim light to examine her abundant figure, those generous curves Lieutenant Silva lusted after.
“What are you laughing at? Have you gone crazy, or are you drunk? I know, you’ve been over at Liau’s place.”
“Nothing like that, Dofla Adriana. If I tell you, you’ll die laughing, too.”
“Tell me, then. And don’t laugh by yourself like that; you look like a jerk.”
Doña Adriana was usually in a good mood and was a spirited woman, but Lituma could see that tonight she was a bit melancholy. She had her arms crossed in front of her chest and was digging in the sand with one foot.
‘Something bothering you, Doña Adriana?” Now Lituma was serious.
“Bothering me? No. But something’s got me worried Lituma. Matías won’t go to the clinic. He’s so stubborn and I can’t convince him.”
She paused and sighed. She said that for at least a month her husband had been hoarse and when he coughed hard he brought up blood. She bought him some medicine at the pharmacy and almost had to force it down his throat, but it hadn’t helped. It might be something serious you couldn’t cure with drugstore medicine. He might need X-rays or an operation. He wouldn’t even hear of going to the clinic; he always said it would go away by itself, that only fairies went to the doctor for a cough. But he couldn’t fool her: he felt worse than he let on, because every night it got harder for him to go out fishing. He forbade her to mention the spit-up blood to their sons. But she was going to tell them anyway on Sunday when they usually visited. Maybe they could drag him to a doctor.
“You really love Don Matías, don’t you, Doña Adriana?”
“We’ve been together for almost twenty-five years. It seems incredible how fast the years go by. Matías caught me when I was just a girl, about fifteen years old. I was afraid of him because he was so much older. But he kept after me for so long that he finally wore down my resistance. My folks didn’t want me to marry him. People said he was so much older that the marriage couldn’t last. But they were wrong, see? It’s lasted, and through it all we’ve gotten along pretty well together. Why did you ask me if I love him?”
“Because now I’m a little ashamed to tell you what I was doing here.”
The foot digging in the sand stiffened a few inches away from where Lituma was hunched down. “Stop being mysterious, Lituma. Or is this a guessing game?”
“Lieutenant Silva sent me down to see if Don Matías has gone out to sea,” he whispered in a malicious tone. He waited, and since she asked no more questions, he added: “Because he went to pay you a visit, Doña Adriana, and he didn’t want your husband to catch him. He must be knocking on your door right now.”
There was a silence. Lituma heard the nearby waves lapping on the shore. After a moment, he heard her laughing, slowly and mockingly, holding it in, as if she didn’t want him to hear. He started to laugh all over again. And they both laughed out loud.
“It’s not right for us to be laughing at the lieutenant’s passion this way, Doña Adriana.”
“He must still be there, knocking at the door and scratching at the window, begging and begging for me to let him in. Promising me the moon and the stars if I let him in. Ha-ha-ha! Talking to the man in the moon! Ha-ha-ha!”
They laughed some more, and when they fell silent, Lituma saw that Doña Adriana’s foot had again begun to dig methodically and obstinately in the sand. In the distance, the refinery whistle blew, announcing a new shift. He could also hear the sounds of trucks out on the highway.
‘The truth is, the lieutenant’s crazy about you. If you ever heard him. He doesn’t talk about anything else. He doesn’t even look at other women. For him, you’re the Queen of Talara.”
He heard Doña Adriana give a pleased little laugh. “He’s got a dozen hands, that guy, and someday he’ll get slapped for getting fresh with me. Crazy about me? It’s just a game Lituma. H
e’s got it in his head that he’s got to conquer me and since I won’t give in, he won’t give up. Do you think I can believe that a boy like him is in love with a woman who’s old enough to be his mother? I’m not a fool, Lituma. Some fun, that’s all he wants. If I did it just once, you’d never hear another word about love.”
“And are you going to do it—just once—Doña Adriana?”
“Not a chance in the world.” Her voice was angry, but Lituma could see she was faking. “I’m not one of those women. I have a family, Lituma. No man but my husband touches me.”
“Well, the lieutenant’s going to die then, Doña Adriana. Because I swear I’ve never seen a man as much in love with anyone as he’s in love with you. He even talks to you in his sleep, imagine that.”
“And what does he say to me in his sleep?”
“I can’t tell you that; it’s dirty.”
When she finished giggling, she stood up with her arms still crossed and walked off. She went toward the restaurant followed by Lituma.
“I’m glad we ran into each other. You made me laugh and forget my worries.”
“I’m happy, too, Doña Adriana. Our talk made me forget the dead kid. He’s been on my mind ever since I saw him up in the pasture. Sometimes I even get nightmares. I hope tonight I won’t.”
He said goodbye to Doña Adriana at the door of her restaurant and walked to the station. He and the lieutenant slept there, Silva in a large room next to the office and Lituma in a sort of shed near the cells. As he walked through the deserted streets, he imagined the lieutenant scratching at the restaurant windows and whispering words of love to the empty air.
At the station, he found a piece of paper stuck on the door handle so someone would see it. He carefully took it down, went inside, and turned on the light. The note had been written in blue ink by an educated person with good handwriting:
Palomino Molero’s killers kidnapped him from Doña Lupe’s house in Amotape. She knows what happened. Ask her.
The station regularly received anonymous notes, usually about unfaithful wives or husbands or about smugglers. This was the first about the death of Palomino Molero.