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classified the fiestas as “consensual violence for reasons of religious belief.” Many strange things were done for reasons of religious belief.
    “And the Turupukllay?” the commander continued. “What do you think of that? Isn't that bloody?”
    The prosecutor thought about the fiesta of the Turupukllay. The Incan condor tied by his claws to the back of a Spanish bull. The bull bucking violently as it bleeds to death, shaking the enormous, frightened vulture that attacks the bull's head with its beak and tears open its back. The condor tries to break free, the bull tries to strike it and knock it off. The condor tends to win the fight, a flayed and wounded victor.
    “That is a folkloric celebration,” he said timidly. “It is not terror …”
    “Terror? Aha, I understand. And the Uchuraccay massacre, do you remember?”
    Chacaltana remembered. He had the feeling it was a very recent memory. But it was almost twenty years old. The corpses, the pieces of their bodies covered with earth, the interminable interrogations in Quechua, pounded at his memory. He felt relieved that things had changed. He did not want to say anything. They seemed distant words that it was better to keep distant.
    “I'll remind you about Uchuraccay,” the commander continued. “The campesinos didn't ask those journalists anything. They couldn't, they didn't even speak Spanish. The journalists were outsiders, they were suspicious. They lynched them right away, dragged them through the village, stabbed them. They were so battered they couldn't let them go back. They killed them one by one and hid their bodies the best they could. They thought nobody would notice. What's your opinion of the campesinos? Do you think they're good? Innocent? That all they do is run through the fields with feathers in their hair? Don't be naive, Chacaltana. Don't see horses where there are only dogs.”
    Chacaltana had turned pale. He tried to articulate a reply:
    “I only … I thought it was a possibility …”
    “You think too much, Chacaltana. Get one thing into your head: in this country there is no terrorism, by orders from the top. Is that clear?”
    “Yes, Señor.”
    “Don't forget it.”
    “No, Señor.”
    “I want to see your report when you finish with this case. Keep me apprised of what you find out. Perhaps it's still not the right time to cede responsibility to civil jurisdiction.”
    The commander turned his back and left. Félix Chacaltana Saldívar, Associate District Prosecutor, could not obtain the required police report that afternoon.
    On Monday the 13th, Prosecutor Chacaltana woke with a startat 6:45 a.m. He was perspiring. He had had a nightmare. He had dreamed about fire. A huge blaze that spread through the city and then the fields until it destroyed everything. In the dream, he was in his bed and began to feel that it was raining inside his bedroom. When he got up, he discovered that it was raining blood, that every millimeter of his room was oozing warm red liquid. He tried to escape but the house was flooded, and he could not move through the dense liquid.
    When he began to drown and taste the blood in his mouth and lungs, he woke up. He went to the bathroom. There was no water, but the prosecutor had a barrel in reserve for these occasions, which allowed him to wash his private parts and wet his head. He opened it with a trembling hand. It was a relief to verify that there was nothing but water in the barrel. He washed, then combed his hair back as his mother had taught him to do when he was a boy, as he had combed his hair every day of his life. Immediately afterward he went to his mother's room and opened the window. He let in the air and greeted her. Then he took a picture of Señora Saldívar de Chacaltana to have breakfast with him. He chose a photograph that showed him at the age of five, hugging her. She was smiling.
    While he ate his breakfast of bread and cheese and
mate
, he told the picture about his plans for the