Red April by Santiago Roncagliolo

yellow, green, and white colors, the slogans in red paint were still visible. He looked for Carrión. His presence was felt in the number of armed soldiers walking the streets and standing guard at the corners. On the square were the jeep and the truck that had brought them here. Wherever the greatest density of soldiers was, that is where Carrión would be. And the greatest density of soldiers was in the National Office of Electoral Processes, where the commander was talking to Johnatan Cahuide. The prosecutor did not need to identify himself to approach them, and they greeted himwith the remains of a breakfast and smiles. Carrión said in good humor:
    “Dear little Chacaltita, my trustworthy man! Have some coffee.”
    “Commander, we have to talk, Señor.”
    “Of course. Johnatan Cahuide has been telling me about your efficient and meticulous work …”
    “We have to talk about that too. I have reason to believe that certain prominent members of the military in this zone are preparing a fraud behind your back.”
    Carrión's smile suddenly froze. Cahuide gulped. The commander put his cup down on the table and shifted in his chair.
    “What did you say?”
    “It is true. Perhaps a training course in democratic values is necessary for members of the armed forces who …”
    “There you go again with training courses, Chacaltana, what a pest you are.”
    “There are indications that …”
    “Chacaltana …”
    “The soldiers are campaigning in favor of the government …”
    “Chacaltana …”
    “Even coercing the vote of the peasants …”
    “Chacaltana, damn it!”
    They were silent. Carrión got up from his chair. Johnatan Cahuide looked at the prosecutor in terror. Carrión shouted at two soldiers in the doorway to get out, and he closed the door. Then he sat down. He let a few seconds go by while he calmed down.
    “What are you doing, Chacaltana?”
    “Presenting an oral report, Señor,” the prosecutor replied, surprised at the question.
    At that moment the door opened and in came the functionary with the sky-blue tie whom Chacaltana had seen next to Carrión on the day of the parade. He was wearing the same tie and a badlypressed suit. The commander introduced him as Dr. Carlos Martín Eléspuru. With almost no voice, the man gave a somber greeting and sat in another chair. He poured some coffee. The prosecutor was still standing. Carrión had regained his composure and brought the newcomer up to date.
    “Prosecutor Chacaltana has been … alarmed at the alleged behavior of some soldiers in the elections. Where did you get this information, Señor Prosecutor?”
    Chacaltana looked at Cahuide, who gave him a pleading glance.
    “Statements by the residents, Señor,” he replied.
    Carrión put on that paternal smile again.
    “Please, my dear Chacaltana, the residents can't even speak Spanish. I don't know what they tried to tell you, but don't worry about it.”
    “Excuse me, Señor, but in elections …”
    Carrión interrupted him:
    “The people here don't give a shit about the elections, don't you know that?”
    “But the fact is that according to the law …”
    “What law? There's no law here. Do you think you're in Lima? Please …”
    Carrión sat down. The man in the sky-blue tie passed him a paper, which the commander read calmly. They began to talk quietly. They seemed to have forgotten about the prosecutor. Chacaltana cleared his throat. They continued, not looking at him. Chacaltana had the impression that they did not want to look at anything else either, not anything that was real, not anything standing beside them, clearing his throat. He made a decision and spoke:
    “Permit me to say, in that case, I do not understand what my function here is.”
    Eléspuru and the commander stopped reviewing their papers.Carrión looked as if he were summoning all his patience in order to respond:
    “Reporters will come to fuck over the armed forces. You have come to defend us. You can