Free In Evil Hour by Gabriel García Márquez, Gregory Rabassa

elections, the police had confiscated and destroyed the electoral documents of the opposition party. The majority of the inhabitants of the town now lacked any means of identification.
    “Those people moving their houses,” the mayor concluded with his arms open, “don’t even know what their names are.”
    Judge Arcadio could understand that there was a sincere affliction behind those open arms. But the mayor’s problem was simple: all he had to do was ask for the appointment of a civil registrar. The secretary simplified the solution even further:
    “All that’s necessary is to send for him,” he said. “He was already appointed over a year ago.”
    The mayor remembered. Months before, when they communicated to him the appointment of a civil registrar, he’d made a long-distance phone call to ask how he should receive him, and they’d answered: “With bullets.” Now the orders that came were different. He turned to the secretary with his hands in his pockets, and told him:
    “Write the letter.”
    The clack of the typewriter produced a dynamic atmosphere in the office, which echoed in Judge Arcadio’s consciousness. He found himself empty. He took a crumpled cigarette out of his shirt pocket and rolled it between the palms of his hands before lighting it. Then he threw his chair back to the limit of its springs and in that posture he
was startled by the definite certainty that he was living out a minute of his life.
    He put the phrase together before he said it:
    “If I were in your place, I would also appoint a deputy of the public ministry.”
    Contrary to what he had hoped, the mayor didn’t answer right away. He looked at his watch, but didn’t see the time. He settled on the evidence that it was still a long time until lunch. When he spoke, he did so without enthusiasm: he wasn’t familiar with the procedure for appointing a deputy of the public ministry.
    “The deputy used to be named by the town council,” Judge Arcadio explained. “Since there’s no council now, the government by state of siege authorizes you to name one.”
    The mayor listened, while he signed the letter without reading it. Then he made an enthusiastic comment, but the secretary had an observation of an ethical nature to make concerning the procedure recommended by his superior. Judge Arcadio insisted: it was an emergency procedure under an emergency regime.
    “I like the sound of it,” the mayor said.
    He took off his cap to fan himself and Judge Arcadio noticed the circular mark printed on his forehead. From the way in which he was fanning himself, he knew that the mayor hadn’t finished thinking. He knocked the ash off his cigarette with the long, curved nail of his pinky and waited.
    “Can you think of a candidate?” the mayor asked.
    It was obvious that he was addressing the secretary.
    “A candidate,” the judge repeated, closing his eyes.
    “If I were in your place, I’d name an honest man,” the secretary said.
    The judge caught the impertinence. “That’s more than
obvious,” he said, and looked alternately at the two men.
    “For example,” the mayor said.
    “I can’t think of anyone right now,” said the judge, thoughtful.
    The mayor went to the door. “Think about it,” he said. “When we get out of the mess of the floods we’ll take up the mess of the deputy.” The secretary sat hanging over his typewriter until he no longer heard the mayor’s heels.
    “He’s crazy,” he said then. “A year and a half ago they busted the head of the deputy with rifle butts and now he’s looking for a candidate to give the job to.”
    Judge Arcadio leaped to his feet.
    “I’m leaving,” he said. “I don’t want you to spoil my lunch with your horror stories.”
    He went out of the office. There was an ominous element in the composition of noontime. The secretary, with his sensitivity to superstition, noticed it. When he put on the padlock he felt that he was performing a forbidden act. He fled. At