Red April by Santiago Roncagliolo Read Free Book Online

Catechism at your school in Lima, Señor Prosecutor? On that day a cross of ashes is marked on the foreheads of Catholics, as a reminder that we are dust and will turn to dust.”
    His mother had taken him to church from time to time and that sign had been put on him by a cold, black hand. He touched his forehead, as if he wanted to wipe away the mark.
    “To remember that we are going to die?” he asked.
    “That we are going to die and will be resurrected to a purer life. Fire purifies.”
    Without knowing why, the prosecutor felt as he had days earlier in the office of Dr. Posadas. Faint. He wanted to cancel the visit. There was no jealousy here. He decided to ask something that had no answer, something that would leave the crematory like a dead-end street, something to be forgotten.
    “What … other persons have access to this place?”
    “As I told you, this place is hardly used. I have the only key. Do you consider me a suspect?”
    “Oh, no, Father, please. But I think perhaps someone could have tried to make the corpse disappear in your oven. Do you know if anyone could have had access to a copy of the key?”
    The priest reflected for a few seconds.
    “No.”
    The Associate District Prosecutor felt more and more relieved with each answer. There was nothing else to do here. To be certain he had fulfilled the duties of his position, he insisted:
    “Some worker or civilian who offered his services, for example?”
    “Well, a few weeks ago I had to dismiss a cleaner. He had stolen a chalice. A rather dim-witted Indian, actually. I don't consider him capable of planning anything. But if he had wanted to, he might have had access to the key, I suppose.”
    The prosecutor unwillingly took out his notebook. He regretted having insisted on the question.
    “Aha. His name?”
    “Do you think he brought a corpse here at night and then carried it through the streets only partially burned? I don't believe that poor soul of God …”
    “It is just routine. I will verify it for my report.”
    “If I remember correctly, his name was Justino. Justino Mayta Carazo.”
    “Thirty-one.”
    “What?”
    “Nothing, forget it.”
    The Associate District Prosecutor again felt perspiration on his forehead. He wanted the police here. He looked at the oven again. He wanted to be buried when he died.

in this city the ded arent ded. they walk the streets and sell candy to the children. they greet the adults. they prey in the churches.
    sometimes there are so many i wonder if im ded too. maybe im skinned and cut up, my peeces at the bottem of a pond. everything i see is only what my eyes see and maybe there not here anymore.
    maybe i dont know it anymore.
    but hes really ded. really. his ashes cant wander around. his arm isnt an arm anymore. his skins got nothing to cover. thats why he talks to me that way. thats why he complanes. and i tell him you cant do anything anymore, you son of a bitch. ha. you cant do anything anymore.
    too many sins. all there in your chest like the worms that eat you. the fire. but you cant do anything anymore. your cleen.
    thanks to me.
    i came from hell to save you. i cleened your blood and your semen out of the sewers so there wont be more sins like you. bastard. i did it for you. your skins good for feeding the dogs. your spit. your spit.
    some day men—ded men—will look back and say the 21st sentury began with me.
    but you wont see the 21st sentury now.
    your cleen.
    because of me.

Associate District Prosecutor Félix Chacaltana Saldívar spent the rest of the week trying to locate Justino Mayta Carazo for the pertinent interrogation. He had recovered somewhat from the grim impression made by the crematory. In fact, he was calmer. He thought the commander was right. Unmistakably a fight over broads. Mayta Carazo had tried to make the evidence disappear, but a body takes a long time to turn into ashes. He must have seen that he would be found out and pulled the body out in time. The cross on the