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day and all the documents he hoped to complete. He did not forget that he would have lunch at El Huamanguino to pay his debt to the girl at the counter. For the rest of the morning at the office, the words the commander had said to him the day before resounded in his head. A fight over broads. If the commander said it was a fight over broads, it was a fight over broads. The commander had fought so much that he would know. Yet in the prosecutor's opinion, something did not fit. But Chacaltana was a serious, honest bureaucrat. He was not supposed to have an opinion. Besides, the commander had asked him for his reports. He would read them personally. It was a great opportunity. He thought about Cecilia, his ex-wife. Perhaps thiswould show her what he was worth. He did not really care about her anymore; it was simply a question of pride. He could be somebody.
    Without warning, when it was almost time for lunch, the commander's words began to mix in his head with images from the pathologist's table until he could not concentrate on what he was doing. In a mental flash he saw the face of the dead man wreathed in smoke, the slit up to his shoulder, his black hair. Violence. Jealousy. The word “terrorist” formed in his mind again. It took him back to electric pylons exploding. Ambulance sirens. He thought about his mother to fill his mind with another image. But he succeeded only in evoking the image of fire.
    To distract himself, he decided to go out exactly at lunchtime and not fifteen minutes later, as he usually did. He left the Office of the Prosecutor and went to the previously mentioned restaurant. The same girl as the last time was working behind the counter, but now she wore black slacks and low-heeled shoes. The blouse was the same. Pink. With embroidery. This time she wore her hair pulled back in a bun.
    “How nice that you came back. Your table's ready.”
    Now he had a table, as if he were a regular customer. It was the only place in the world other than his house where he had a table. It was the same one as the last time, beside the door. In fact, the table was already set. Again the restaurant was empty. She announced:
    “Today we have deep-fried guinea pig.”
    The prosecutor nodded his agreement. While she went to the kitchen, he looked at the television on the wall. On the screen, a woman was hitting a man, the two of them surrounded by an audience that cheered the hair-pulling and biting. The prosecutor found out that she was his fiancée and that he had deceived her with her sister, her cousin, and her great-aunt. He did not want to see any more. Twelve minutes later, the girl came out of the kitchen. She served him the guinea pig and an Inca beer. The AssociateDistrict Prosecutor brought the flatware to the plate and saw the rodent's face. Its mouth was open and it had long, aggressive front teeth. It seemed to Félix Chacaltana that the guinea pig wanted to eat him. He put down the knife and fork.
    “It's not that hot,” the girl said defensively.
    “Thank you. It is just that … I was thinking.”
    “You think a lot, don't you?”
    You think too much, Chacaltana.
    “No, it is … I just work.”
    “And what were you thinking about? If you don't mind my asking.”
    She laughed as if she had asked a very naughty question. Associate District Prosecutor Félix Chacaltana Saldívar tried to think up a convincing lie.
    “A dead man,” he said.
    His mother had already told him he did not know how to lie. The girl did not seem surprised. She began to wash some dishes.
    “There are a lot of them around here,” she said.
    “Yes.”
    “I talk to them.”
    “Are you serious?”
    “With my papa and mama. I go to see them in the cemetery and talk to them, I bring them flowers.”
    “Of course. I do the same thing. With my mother. Her memory is always with me.”
    Suddenly, he felt comfortable in this place. As if he were home. She turned around. She did not stop washing but gestured toward the guinea pig