Read Online Red April by Santiago Roncagliolo - Free Book Online Page A

March, 2000, at approximately the hour of dawn, an electrical charge, caused by unfavorable meteorological conditions, produced in the form of a lightning bolt a fire in the residence of Nemesio Limanta Huamán, precisely in the locale of the hayloft where the abovementioned deceased in question was taking shelter for the night. Struck on his shoulder by the meteorological phenomenon, which opened a wound, and bursting into flames, the deceased in question revealed his ignorance of rural customs when he attempted to extinguish the fire with certain combustible liquids, which, combined with the action of the electrical charge, intensified the process of combustion and deteriorated into a blaze of considerable proportions which, however, due to the dampness of the element of straw, did not spread to other structures on the aforementioned property.
    In conclusion, in the corresponding fall to the ground of the aforementioned deceased, his face hit the hay harrows, producing a sharp cruciform puncture wound on the frontal cranial area.
    In witness whereof this is signed, on Friday, the seventeenth day of March …

Now it was perfect, with appropriate conjugations and correct pauses. Along with the relief of seeing the report completed, there was also the knowledge that there was no murderer loose in the province. No terrorists. The war was over. Not even a crime of passion. Certainly, concerned with the consequences of his being discovered, Justino Mayta Carazo had fled the prosecutor, who did not believe it necessary to denounce him because of that. His fear was also normal.
    The prosecutor made the necessary copies and placed them in their respective envelopes. He sent them with the satisfaction of a job well done. He thought about his mother. She would be proud of him. He thought about Edith. In the turmoil of the case, he had forgotten to seek her out during the past week. He ought to stop by the restaurant. He suddenly felt his appetite return.



“First of all, I want you to know we are very proud of you, Prosecutor Chacaltana. And that the Armed Forces of this Nation count on your Tireless Efforts on behalf of Law and Order.”
    It seemed to Prosecutor Chacaltana that all those words were spoken in capital letters, like the certificates, not to mention the medals and flags, covering the walls of Commander Carrión's office behind his immense desk chair. While a lieutenant served two cups of
mate
, Chacaltana noticed that the commander looked taller from the small armchair where the prosecutor had been seated.
    “Thank you, Señor.”
    “I must confess we had our doubts as to whether civil justice could contend with a case of this kind. If you don't mind my saying so, not all bureaucrats are prepared to understand what goes on here. Those from Lima, even less so.”
    “I am from Ayacucho, Señor.”
    “I know. And that too fills us with pride.”
    Prosecutor Chacaltana wondered what one had to do to be from a place. What made him more from Ayacucho than from Lima, where he had always lived? He thought his place was where his roots and affections were. And Ayacucho was fine. And getting better.
    The weeks following the presentation of his report had been unexpectedly pleasant. Suddenly Associate District Prosecutor Félix Chacaltana Saldívar seemed to have been promoted. He stopped receiving a subordinate's assignments, and even JudgeBriceño sent his congratulations in writing on the speed and efficiency with which he had resolved the question of Quinua without needing to alarm the public. The day after he closed the case, he received his new typewriter and enough carbon paper to make the copies he needed for all his cases. Even his dreams had become serene, a curtain of peace closing over his nightmares about fire. And at the end of the week, the commander had sent for him. It was unusual for the commander to meet with functionaries, and even more unusual for him to invite them to his office. The prosecutor felt