Pacazo (56 page)

- Our father is dead, says Ciro and our mother is gone.

I offer my condolences and another taxi comes.

Spain and Paraguay, scoreless to the end, and Karina sits on the couch, stares at me, says that either she is part of it or she is not.

- That is a false dichotomy. You are part of most parts of it.

- What does that mean?

- That I need you immensely in many senses but not tonight.

She waits for me to explain. When I do not she takes up her purse. I tell her that it will not be long. She asks if I think it will still matter by then. I do not know precisely what this means, and do not have to. She closes the door quietly behind her.

I set two envelopes on the dining room table. One bears Casualidad’s name and one bears Socorro’s and I hope it will be enough. I call to Socorro so that she will find them, leave before she has come, find a mototaxi, ride to the airport, walk.

Everyone is waiting in the courtyard, everyone except Iván and Ciro. I do not ask for permission to speak this time. Instead for good luck I give them each an image of Sarita Colonia, propose the project again, am told that there would be no point. In truth I believe they are afraid. One must never be afraid. I say that they are surely correct, that I need to leave for a moment, that if they are gone by the time I get back I will meet them on the streets of La Primavera.

Waiting at the end of the alley are the boys. We walk the six blocks to Reynaldo’s aunt’s house. When I ask if I might borrow her car for a few hours she says that he hasn’t called. I say that he is surely very busy. She doesn’t answer. I say that I know he will get in touch at his earliest opportunity. She stares at her hands, appears no longer aware that I am present. I ask if I can use her bathroom, get no response, and find the keys in a dish on her nightstand. Back in the living room I tell her that Reynaldo will be home soon with splendid stories to tell, and that I will return her car by midnight.

We stop first at my house for my toolbag. I tell the boys to stay in the car, enter as quietly as possible. Mariángel is already asleep. I go to my room, take up the bag, and Socorro stands in the doorway.

She thanks me for the money and says that it means nothing. I nod. She says that I am no longer fit to be Mariángel’s father. I say that that was always the case. She says that if I do not become more of a father soon she will take Mariángel to live with her in Catacaos. I look at her, wonder how much she knows, how much Karina has told her. I say that I am so very close, that it is only a matter of days or at most weeks.

Socorro starts to cry, and I lift her gently, set her to one side. Back to the car, and out and along and up. I park along the south wall, and the three of us walk around to the front gate. There is a light on in the chapel, but I see no movement.

Back to the station wagon. Its top will not bear my weight but its hood is strong, and Ciro climbs up beside me. I take him under the arms, heave him to the top of the wall, and he scrambles over. Now Iván, and there is a small cry as he lands. I ask if they are all right, and after a moment they say that they are.

There are footsteps, and I slide to the ground, lean against the station wagon, cross my arms and hum. A woman walks by, or a man. I wait, and whisper that the tools are on their way, throw the bag and wait again. I remind the boys to take the hammer and chisel in case the shed is locked, and hear metal clank against metal.

It takes them twelve minutes to fetch a ladder and bring it to the wall. I call to Ciro to tie the rope to one end and throw it over, and he calls back that I do not need to tell him anything else, that he has not forgotten any part of the plan. The boys lift their end as I pull, and the ladder slides neatly across. I climb, and the bamboo bends but does not break. I slide over the top of the wall, pull the ladder along after me, set it in place for our climb out.

The boys come from where they stood beneath a ceibo. The darkness is incomplete as there is a slab of moon. Together we walk, and I know the number of the tomb but am suddenly unsure of the route. Around a corner and up. Dogs begin to bark and I stop, but they are outside the wall. I ask Ciro in which direction the chapel lies. He points, and Iván corrects him. They argue for a moment, at last come to consensus. Thirty yards farther along, fifty, another corner and halfway along and yes, shoulder-high, yes.

I set down the toolbag, tell Ciro to hold the flashlight steady, ask Iván for the hammer and chisel. He brings them from where they were hidden. I strike once at the edge of the frontal stone, and the boys make noises in their throats.

I turn to look at them. They do not look well. I wait, and finally Ciro asks if the woman is still inside.

- Of course.

- Dead? says Iván.

- Look, I say. We have no new clues, and this is the one place old clues might be found. You heard what I said at last night’s meeting. The police were not given enough time to inspect this woman’s body. They might well have missed something we cannot do without.

The boys say nothing. I ask if they have a better idea. Iván says he wants to go home.

- But I need your help, I say. How about this: we are huaqueros, the three of us, and this is the Chachapoya tomb we must rob, high on a limestone cliff.

They look at me.

- All right, I say, not Chachapoya. Have you heard of the Lord of Sipán?

Both boys nod.

- Excellent, I say. And this structure is his pyramid. I am Ernil Bernal and you are my helpers and this niche is a tomb full of gold that will soon be ours.

- No it isn’t, says Ciro. It’s just a woman that’s dead.

I consider, and say that in truth I need them most as scouts, as lookouts, as soldiers unafraid to stand guard. They are glad to hear this. I make them pledge to alert me immediately if they hear or see anyone coming, and send them to the nearest corners.

I cover the chisel head with a patch of bark and even so make far too much noise. Ten minutes, twenty. The cement is of poor quality and slowly the stone comes loose. I ease it out and down, and there is a first scent of rot.

The end of the coffin, the burnished wood now dull, and Ciro is beside me whispering that men are coming. I ask how many. He says three, possibly four.

How many are truly needed to guard the dead? He says that he does not know, and I had not meant to ask the question aloud. I tell him that he must be very careful, must run slowly enough to be seen but quickly enough not to be caught, must squeeze out through the front gates just as the men reach for him, must circle back to the south wall, find a way up and over, wait at the ceibo. I ask if he understands. He nods, smiles, says that running is something he is good at.

We wait, wait, and I send him off. There are shouts and bobbing flashlights. I hiss to Iván, tell him to stay close in case I need him to run as well. Then I return to my work. The coffin is wedged tightly into the niche. I chip at the sides and top but cannot get it to move in any direction.

I rest for a moment, lift my chisel again, my hammer, strike at the corners of the coffin itself. It is not an expensive model, and the wood splinters easily. The smell strengthens. I work across the top and down the right side. The smell has become a stench but then a breeze rises, bears it away, brings me the scent of cypress.

I strike again and again but now mango, now sage. Her marinera dress and her tears each year and I strike. Máncora, and she nurses Mariángel, the blurred world and I strike again and again and stop, pachamanca and how she laughed and I gather it, gather it all, push it back in, deeper down, strike and stop again because there are footsteps.

I wipe my face. The men are only thirty or forty feet away. I whisper to Iván that his mission is at hand and he must not fail: be seen but not caught, slip out through the bars just in time. He sweats and nods and sprints. The men hesitate, then chase as they must. I hear Iván squeal and struggle, the tearing of cloth and more running and I strike again, again, again.

The end of the coffin is open. The breeze has died and the stench is strong but I am stronger. I reach in, have a thought of rats and pull back. I listen. There is no sound. My hands trace the smooth soles of her shoes, the knotted weave of her stockings.

Daniela Rocío Espinoza Farfán, I am very, very sorry.

I take hold of her ankles, and they are so thin; I pull, but her body is stuck to the bottom of the coffin. I pull again, and nothing. I pull much harder and something rips, scrapes, and she comes out to the waist.

Her shoes look as though once they were white. Perhaps I am not strong enough. I pull again and the body comes out and I stumble, kneel, I am holding her rigid and light in my arms, her dress is torn and I retch but do not drop her, am careful not to look, not yet.

I lay her down, work her into a canvas sack. The sack is too short and I tie it closed around her knees. I wedge the stone back into place, gather bits of concrete and throw them as far as I am able. I put my tools into the bag and shoulder it, check to see that nothing has been forgotten, kneel again and lift her.

I breathe through my mouth, and carrying her is not hard, along and around and along and to the ceibo. I set down my tools, carry the body up the ladder, balance her on top of the wall. The two boys are crouching in the shadow of the station wagon. They wave when they see me, and all is as it should be.

We load the body and tools into the back, roll down all the windows, drive slowly through the dense dark night. I park at the mouth of the alley, roll the windows back up and lock all of the doors. I lift the body, and carry it to the courtyard.

Iván stands to my right and Ciro to my left. Most of the other Resolvers are already back from their search. They are gathered around the outside table, appear to have found nothing, turn as we approach. When they see what I am carrying they stand and curse me and shout into the house.

I set the body down on the table, ask for more light to be brought. The others surround us. Segismundo arrives last, has trouble speaking at first, says that Satan has taken hold of me. I do not argue, and ask him to help with the rope. Instead he turns and walks back into the house, and one by one the others follow, until only the five boys are left.

I hand my flashlight to Ciro, ask Iván to see if there are any candles in the kitchen. He goes, is back a moment later with a mesh bag full of white votives and a box of matches. I encircle the body with candles, light them all. If I am lucky they will burn long enough.

The boys stand in a small tight group beside me. I ask if they are sure they want to see what is to come. There is silence for a moment. Iván says he will not touch the body but wants to watch. The others nod. I untie the rope and remove the canvas sack and the boys run away, all but Ciro.

Again the stench. Her mouth and eyes are gaping, her cheeks drawn, her hair dull, her skin dark and dry. I remove her shoes and set them aside. She is wearing a long-sleeved dress, pale green and now soiled, stuck tightly to her body and stiff with dried fluid. I take out my knife and cut the dress into pieces. Even so it is not easy to remove, and in places the skin comes off as well.

Her bra and her underwear, her stockings: I slash and peel and tear. I do not know what to look for, and look all the same. The only jewelry is a medallion on a chain around her neck, some saint or other, badly failed. Her skin everywhere rough to the touch. Ciro stands close to me and holds to the hem of my shirt.

There does not seem to be anything to see except a few small cuts on her arms and legs, one at her throat and another on her stomach. I comb through her hair with my fingers, prod her shriveled breasts. Her legs are spread slightly and I look and detest myself but must look again and do.

I check her hands and feet and there is nothing. I try to lift one arm and it will not move; I try with greater force and her skin rips open, a new wound, the purpled tissue underneath and I lower her arm quickly. I glance at Ciro, and he has seen. I ask for his assistance in rolling the body over. He shakes his head, but helps me move the candles away, then back into place.

There are flecks of blood dried black in her hair. The back of her skull has been repaired with painted plaster. On one shoulder blade are four cuts, the waxing crescent moons of fingernails dug into flesh.

It seems that no animals have been at her, not here and not in the desert, no dogs, no insects, and this is so fortunate, so unfair. I cover the body with the canvas bag and look through her clothes. Ciro lets go, steps away. Nothing in the bra or underwear or stockings. Nothing on the front of the dress, but on a piece of the back I find a hair. It is much shorter and straighter than the woman’s own, is probably meaningless, most likely from whomever bathed and prepared her body for the tomb. I place it in my wallet all the same, and send Ciro for my toolbag.

I tape the underclothes onto the body, drape the dress over her and tape it in place as well. I put her shoes on, work her into the bag, wrap the rope around and call that the thing is done. The Resolvers come slowly, ask if I found anything. A hair, I say. And also some cuts that look to be from fingernails.

The men look down. I had hoped to show them more. Segismundo says I should not come here anymore. I nod, and ask Iván and Ciro if they are ready to help me put the body back. Segismundo forbids them to have anything more to do with me. I look at the old man, and know that he is right. I lift Daniela Rocío Espinoza Farfán once again, and turn away.

THREE NIGHTS, BARS AND STREETS AND BRIDGES and the bird god ruffled her feathers as I came in today at dawn. I tighten my tie, kiss Mariángel. Now back out. Turning, and past the park. The matacojudo trees have emptied and there is wind at times though never chill.

I slow, turn again. Cabeza de Vaca said something and I cannot remember and the Second Rebellion fails. Along the avenue. Manco escapes into the jungle but his wife is captured, Cura Ocllo, and she rolls in her own excrement to keep the Spaniards from raping her.