Free Death in the Andes by Mario Vargas Llosa Page B

disgusting stuff goes on. Dionisio makes them all drunk and then he gives it to them up the ass. You want to know something, Corporal? I don’t feel sorry when Sendero executes a faggot.”
    â€œThe funny thing is, I feel a little sorry for all these serruchos, Tomasito. Even though they’re so hard to get along with. They have a sad life, don’t you think? They work like mules and hardly make enough to live on. So let them enjoy themselves a little, if they have the chance, before the terrucos cut off their balls or some Lieutenant Pancorvo shows up and gives them the treatment.”
    â€œAnd isn’t our life just as sad, Corporal? But we don’t get drunk like animals or let that pervert put his hands all over us.”
    â€œWait a few months and then who knows, Tomasito.”
    The afternoon rainstorm had left the ground covered with puddles. They made slow progress, and were silent for a long while.
    â€œYou’ll probably tell me to mind my own business, Tomasito,” Lituma said suddenly. “But since I like you, and the anisette has loosened my tongue, I’ll say it anyway. I heard you crying last night.”
    He noticed that the rhythm of the boy’s walking changed, as if he had stumbled. They were lighting their way with lanterns.
    â€œMen cry too, when they have to,” Lituma went on. “So don’t be ashamed. Tears don’t mean a man’s a faggot.”
    They continued climbing the hill, but the young guard did not say a word. The corporal made an occasional comment.
    â€œSometimes, when I think to myself: ‘Lituma, you’ll never get out of Naccos alive,’ I start to feel desperate. And then I want to cry, too. So don’t be ashamed. I didn’t say it to make you feel bad, but because it’s not the first time. I heard you the other night as well, even though you were crying into the mattress. I don’t like to see you suffering like that. Is it because you don’t want to die in this godforsaken place? If that’s the reason, I understand. But maybe it’s not good for you to think about Mercedes so much. You tell me about her, you confide in me, but then you fall apart. Maybe you shouldn’t talk about her anymore, Tomasito, maybe you should just forget about her.”
    â€œNo, it’s a relief to tell you about Mercedes.” His adjutant spoke at last in a muffled voice. “So, I cry in my sleep? Well, I guess I’m not so hard after all.”
    â€œLet’s put out the lanterns,” Lituma whispered. “I’ve always thought that if they were going to ambush us, it would happen on this curve.”

    They entered Andamarca along the two roads leading into the settlement—the ones that come up from the Negromayo River, cross the Pumarangra, and skirt Chipao—and along a third, a trail worn by people from the rival community of Cabana, which climbs the gorge of the Stream That Sings (its name in the archaic Quechua spoken in the area). They came at first light, before the campesinos had left to tend to their fields, or the shepherds to pasture their flocks, or the itinerant peddlers to continue on to Puquio or San Juan de Lucanas in the south, or to Huancasancos and Querobamba. They had walked all night or slept just outside town, waiting for a little light before they invaded the village. They did not want anyone on the list to get away under cover of darkness.
    But one did, one of those they most wanted to put on trial: the lieutenant governor of Andamarca. And in such an absurd way that afterward people found it hard to believe. Because of a severe attack of diarrhea, Don Medardo Llantac spent the whole night scurrying out of the only bedroom in the house on the extension of Jorge Chdvez Boulevard where he lived with his wife, mother, and six of his children, and squatting down by the outside wall of the building, which was next to the cemetery. He was there, straining, emptying