Read Online Who Killed Palomino Molero? by Mario Vargas Llosa - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mario Vargas Llosa
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door, they could see the slumped-over little Church of St. Nicholas, heroically resisting the passage of time. A few hundred yards beyond the dunes was the highway and the trucks going to Sullana or Talara. Lituma and the lieutenant had hitched a ride on a truck loaded with chickens. They’d been dropped off on the highway, and as they walked through the town they’d seen curious faces pop out of every shack in Amotape. The lieutenant asked which place was Doña Lupe’s, and the chorus of kids around them instantly pointed out the place where he and Lituma were now sipping chicha out of gourds.
Lituma sighed in relief. At least the woman existed, so the trip might not be a wild-goose chase. They’d had to ride on the back of the truck, deafened by the clucking, with the smell of chicken shit in their noses and with feathers flying in their mouths and ears. The unrelenting sun had given them a headache. When they went back to Talara, they’d have to walk all the way to the highway, stand there, and wait until some truck driver condescended to give them a lift.
“Afternoon, Doña Lupe,” Lieutenant Silva had said as they walked in. “We’ve come to see if your chicha , your banana chips, and your kid stew are as good as people say. We’ve heard a lot of good things about your place; I hope you don’t let us down.”
Judging by the way she looked at them, Doña Lupe hadn’t swallowed the lieutenant’s story. Especially, thought Lituma, when you consider how sour her chicha is and how tasteless this stew is. At first there were children crowding around them, but little by little they got bored and drifted out. Now the only ones left in the shack were three half-naked little girls sitting around the stove playing with some empty gourds. They must have been Doña Lupe’s daughters, though it was hard to see how a woman her age could have such young kids. Maybe she wasn’t as old as she looked. All their attempts to strike up a conversation with her failed. They’d talked about the weather, the drought, this year’s cotton crop, how Amotape got its name—and she’d answered every question the same way: yes, no, I don’t know, or just plain silence.
“I’m going to say something that’s going to surprise you, Lituma. You think Doña Adriana’s fat, right? Well, you’re wrong. What she is is plump, which is not the same as being fat.”
When was the lieutenant going to get started? How-would he do it? Lituma couldn’t sit still; his boss’s tricks constantly surprised him and aroused his admiration. It was clear that Lieutenant Silva was as eager as he was to untangle the mystery surrounding Palomino Molero’s death, and he’d seen how excited the lieutenant had become when he read the anonymous letter. Sniffing at the paper like a bloodhound sniffing a trail, he declared, “This isn’t bullshit. It’s a promising lead. We’ve got to go to Amotape.”
“Know the difference between a fat woman and a plump woman, Lituma? A fat woman is soft, covered with rolls, spongy. You poke her, and your hand sinks in as if she were made of cottage cheese. You think you’ve been fooled. A plump woman is hard, filled-out, she’s got what it takes and more. Everything in the right places. It’s all well distributed and well proportioned. You poke her and your finger bounces off. There’s always enough, more than enough, enough to take all you want and even to give some away.”
All the way to Amotape, as the desert sun bore its way through their caps, the lieutenant kept on talking about the anonymous note, speculating about Lieutenant Dufó, Colonel Mindreau, and his daughter. But from the moment they entered Doña Lupe’s shack, it was as if his interest in Palomino Molero had gone into eclipse. As they ate, he talked only about how Amotape got its name, or—of course —about Doña Adriana. And out loud to boot, totally unconcerned that Doña Lupe might hear his lascivious remarks.
“It’s the
Lituma sighed in relief. At least the woman existed, so the trip might not be a wild-goose chase. They’d had to ride on the back of the truck, deafened by the clucking, with the smell of chicken shit in their noses and with feathers flying in their mouths and ears. The unrelenting sun had given them a headache. When they went back to Talara, they’d have to walk all the way to the highway, stand there, and wait until some truck driver condescended to give them a lift.
“Afternoon, Doña Lupe,” Lieutenant Silva had said as they walked in. “We’ve come to see if your chicha , your banana chips, and your kid stew are as good as people say. We’ve heard a lot of good things about your place; I hope you don’t let us down.”
Judging by the way she looked at them, Doña Lupe hadn’t swallowed the lieutenant’s story. Especially, thought Lituma, when you consider how sour her chicha is and how tasteless this stew is. At first there were children crowding around them, but little by little they got bored and drifted out. Now the only ones left in the shack were three half-naked little girls sitting around the stove playing with some empty gourds. They must have been Doña Lupe’s daughters, though it was hard to see how a woman her age could have such young kids. Maybe she wasn’t as old as she looked. All their attempts to strike up a conversation with her failed. They’d talked about the weather, the drought, this year’s cotton crop, how Amotape got its name—and she’d answered every question the same way: yes, no, I don’t know, or just plain silence.
“I’m going to say something that’s going to surprise you, Lituma. You think Doña Adriana’s fat, right? Well, you’re wrong. What she is is plump, which is not the same as being fat.”
When was the lieutenant going to get started? How-would he do it? Lituma couldn’t sit still; his boss’s tricks constantly surprised him and aroused his admiration. It was clear that Lieutenant Silva was as eager as he was to untangle the mystery surrounding Palomino Molero’s death, and he’d seen how excited the lieutenant had become when he read the anonymous letter. Sniffing at the paper like a bloodhound sniffing a trail, he declared, “This isn’t bullshit. It’s a promising lead. We’ve got to go to Amotape.”
“Know the difference between a fat woman and a plump woman, Lituma? A fat woman is soft, covered with rolls, spongy. You poke her, and your hand sinks in as if she were made of cottage cheese. You think you’ve been fooled. A plump woman is hard, filled-out, she’s got what it takes and more. Everything in the right places. It’s all well distributed and well proportioned. You poke her and your finger bounces off. There’s always enough, more than enough, enough to take all you want and even to give some away.”
All the way to Amotape, as the desert sun bore its way through their caps, the lieutenant kept on talking about the anonymous note, speculating about Lieutenant Dufó, Colonel Mindreau, and his daughter. But from the moment they entered Doña Lupe’s shack, it was as if his interest in Palomino Molero had gone into eclipse. As they ate, he talked only about how Amotape got its name, or—of course —about Doña Adriana. And out loud to boot, totally unconcerned that Doña Lupe might hear his lascivious remarks.
“It’s the
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