Free Death in the Andes by Mario Vargas Llosa

better off believing in devils.”
    Those French kids in Andahuaylas, for example. They took them off the bus and beat their faces to a pulp, according to Radio Junín. What was the point of being so brutal? Why not just shoot them and be done with it?
    â€œWe’ve gotten used to cruelty,” said Tomasito, and Lituma noticed that his adjutant looked pale. The anisette had made his eyes shine and weakened his voice. “I’m speaking for myself now, and I mean every word. Did you ever hear of Lieutenant Pancorvo?”
    â€œCan’t say I have.”
    â€œI was in his squad when the terrucos slaughtered the vicuñas in Pampa Galeras. We caught one, and he wouldn’t open his mouth. ‘You can quit acting so innocent and looking at me like you don’t understand,’ the lieutenant told him. ‘I’m warning you: if I start the treatment, you’ll sing like a canary.’ And we gave him the treatment.”
    â€œWhat was the treatment?” Lituma asked.
    â€œWe burned him with matches and lighters,” Carreño explained. “Starting with his feet and then the rest of him, little by little. No lie, with matches and lighters. It was very slow. His flesh started to cook, he smelled like roast pork. I was pretty green in those days, Corporal. It made me sick to my stomach and I almost passed out.”
    â€œImagine what the terrucos will do to you and me if they take us alive,” said Lituma. “And you gave him the treatment, too? After something like that, how could you hand me a song and dance about Hog smacking that girl around in Tingo María?”
    â€œThat wasn’t the worst of it.” Tomasito was deathly pale now, and stumbling even more over his words. “It turned out he wasn’t even a terruco. He was retarded and didn’t talk because he couldn’t. He didn’t know how. Somebody from Abancay recognized him. ‘Listen, Lieutenant, he’s a half-wit from my town, how can Pedrito Tinoco talk if he’s never made a sound in his life?’”
    â€œPedrito Tinoco? You mean our Pedrito Tinoco? The little mute?” The corporal drank from a fresh glass of anisette. “Are you kidding me, Tomasito? Son of a bitch, son of a bitch.”
    â€œHe was the caretaker on the reserve.” Tomás nodded and took a drink, too; he held the glass in shaking hands. “We fixed him up the best we could. The squad took up a collection for him. We all felt bad, even Lieutenant Pancorvo, and me more than all of them put together. That’s why I brought him here. Didn’t you ever see the scars on his feet, his ankles? That’s when I lost my cherry, Corporal. After that, nothing could scare me or make me feel bad. I became hard like everybody else. I didn’t tell you before because I was ashamed. And without the anisette I wouldn’t have told you tonight, either.”
    To keep from thinking about the mute, Lituma tried to imagine the faces of the three missing men smashed to a bloody pulp, the eyes bursting out of their sockets, the bones pulverized, like those French kids, or burned over a slow fire, like Pedrito Tinoco. Son of a bitch, he couldn’t think about anything else.
    â€œLet’s get out of here.” He swallowed the rest of the anisette and stood up. “Before it turns any colder.”
    As they were leaving, Dionisio blew them a kiss. The cantinero was circulating among the tables, which were crowded with laborers now, clowning the way he did every night: doing dance steps, filling his patrons’ glasses himself with pisco or beer, encouraging them to dance with each other since there were no women. His unashamed camping always irritated Lituma, and when the cantinero went into action, the corporal left. They said good night to Doña Adriana, who was tending bar. She responded with an exaggerated, somewhat sarcastic bow. She had just tuned in Radio Junín, and Lituma