Free Death in the Andes by Mario Vargas Llosa Page A

recognized the bolero “Moonbeam.” He had once seen a movie by that name, and Ninón Sevilla, a blonde with long legs, had danced in it. Outside, the generator that provided light for the barracks had just been turned on. A few silhouettes in hard hats or ponchos moved around the area and responded with a grunt or a nod when the police officers greeted them. Lituma and Carreño covered their mouths and noses with scarves, and set their kepis firmly on their heads so they would not blow off. The wind whistled with a melancholy sound that rebounded off the hills, and they hunched over as they walked and kept their heads down.
    Suddenly, Lituma came to an abrupt stop. “Son of a bitch! It makes me sick to my stomach,” he exclaimed indignantly.
    â€œWhat does, Corporal?”
    â€œAll of you torturing the poor mute there in Pampa Galeras.” He raised his voice, trying to see his adjutant’s face in the lantern light. “Doesn’t something that barbaric give you a guilty conscience?”
    â€œIt did at first, I felt awful,” Carreño said softly, his head down. “Why do you think I brought him to Naccos? Up here I was making amends. What happened to him wasn’t my fault, was it? And we treated him fine here, we gave him food and a roof over his head, didn’t we, Corporal? Maybe he’s forgiven me. Maybe he knows that if he’d stayed up there in the barrens, they would’ve killed him by now.”
    â€œTo tell the truth, I’d rather hear about your adventures with Mercedes, Tomasito. The story of what happened to the mute makes me feel like shit.”
    â€œI wish I could forget it too, I swear.”
    â€œThe things I’ve found out in Naccos,” Lituma grumbled. “Being a Civil Guard in Piura and Talara was a piece of cake. The sierra is hell, Tomasito. And no wonder, it has so many serruchos.”
    â€œWhy do you hate mountain people so much, if you don’t mind my asking?”
    They had begun to climb the slope to the commissary, and since they had to bend over to walk, they took the rifles from their shoulders and carried them in their hands. As they moved away from the camp, they were plunged further into darkness.
    â€œWell, you’re a serrucho and I don’t hate you. I like you a lot.”
    â€œThanks for the compliment.” The guard laughed. And a moment later: “You shouldn’t think that people in camp are unfriendly because you’re from the coast. It’s because you’re a cop. They’re cold to me, too, and I’m from Cuzco. They don’t like anybody in uniform. They’re scared that if they get close to us the terrucos will put them on trial for being informers.”
    â€œTo tell the truth, you have to be pretty dumb to join the Civil Guard,” Lituma commented. “The pay is lousy, nobody can stand you, and you’re the first one they blow up with dynamite.”
    â€œWell, a few take advantage of the uniform, and that gives all of us a bad name.”
    â€œIn Naccos you can’t even take advantage of the uniform,” Lituma complained. “Damn. Poor Pedrito Tinoco. The week he disappeared, we hadn’t given him his tip yet.”
    He stopped to take out a cigarette. He offered one to his adjutant. They had to make a shelter with their bodies and their kepis to light the cigarettes because the gusting wind blew out the matches. The wind was everywhere, howling like a pack of hungry wolves. The guards resumed their deliberate pace, testing the slippery rocks with the toe of their boots before putting down their weight.
    â€œAfter you and I leave, I’m sure all kinds of faggot shit goes on in the cantina,” said Lituma. “What do you think?”
    â€œIt makes me so sick I don’t even like to go there,” the adjutant replied. “But you’d die of loneliness if you never left the post, never went out for a drink. Sure,