When he saw the Indian woman appear at the door of the shack, Lituma guessed what she was going to say. And she did say it, but she was mumbling in Quechua while the saliva gathered at the corners of her toothless mouth.
“What’s she saying, Tomasito?”
“I couldn’t catch it, Corporal.”
The Civil Guard addressed her in Quechua, indicating with gestures that she should speak more slowly. The woman repeated the indistinguishable sounds that affected Lituma like savage music. He suddenly felt very uneasy.
“What’s she saying?”
“It seems her husband disappeared,” murmured his adjutant. “Four days ago.”
“That means we’ve lost three,” Lituma stammered, feeling the perspiration break out on his face. “Son of a bitch.”
“So what should we do, Corporal?”
“Take her statement.” A shudder ran up and down Lituma’s spine. “Have her tell you what she knows.”
“But what’s going on?” exclaimed the Civil Guard. “First the mute, then the albino, now one of the highway foremen. It can’t be, Corporal.”
Maybe not, but it was happening, and now for the third time. Lituma pictured the blank faces and icy narrow eyes that the people in Naccos—laborers at the camp and comuneros, the Indians from the traditional community—would all turn toward him when he asked if they knew the whereabouts of this woman’s husband, and he felt the same discouragement and helplessness he had experienced earlier when he tried to question them about the other men who were missing: heads shaking no, monosyllables, evasive glances, frowns, pursed lips, a presentiment of menace. It would be no different this time.
No comments:
Post a Comment