Red April by Santiago Roncagliolo Page B

streets. The sounds were much closer than the ones the night before. Cahuide closed the window. Chacaltana tried to look out.
    “What is going on now?”
    “Don't get involved, Félix, don't fuck around anymore.”
    “I have to know what is going on.”
    “Félix. Félix!”
    The prosecutor went outside, followed by Cahuide. In the streets, young men were running, pursued by soldiers hitting them with their clubs. The jeep and the truck had closed off the two principal exits from the village. Patrols of soldiers with rifles were stationed around the perimeter. At times they fired into the air. The pursuers did not carry firearms but they did have clubs that they used to beat the fugitives who had fallen to the ground. Farther away, two soldiers broke down the door to a house. The wails of a woman were heard inside. A few minutes later, theycame out with two boys about fifteen years old. They had twisted their arms against their backs and kicked them to make them walk.
    “What is all this?”
    Cahuide tried to make Chacaltana go back inside the house.
    “Let it go, forget it.”
    “How can I forget it? What are they doing?”
    “Don't be an asshole, Félix. This is a press.”
    “Press conscriptions are illegal …”
    “Félix, stop thinking like a law book. Did you want security measures? Now you have security measures.”
    “Where are they taking them?”
    “They'll perform their obligatory military service. And that's it. They'll have work. There's nothing to do here. What do you want them to do? Study engineering? It's better for them. Félix. Félix!”
    Chacaltana was hurrying to the police station. He remembered that electoral law prohibited detentions twenty-four hours before elections. He knew he would seem ridiculous, but he could not think of anything else to do.
    Near the station was another military truck, toward which soldiers were shoving the young men they had hunted down. If they refused to climb in they were forced to by blows with a club to the face, stomach, and legs, until they had been hurt so much they could not refuse anymore. Three meters from the door of the police station, two soldiers stopped the prosecutor. He tried to resist and showed his identification, but they barred his way. One put his hand on his revolver. The prosecutor calmed down. He said he would wait. Farther away, in the dust raised by the skirmish, he could see the commander with the official in the sky-blue tie and Lieutenant Aramayo. Eléspuru seemed unperturbed and looked away while the commander shouted something at the lieutenant. The police officer looked down and nodded, appearing repentant, like a little boy admitting his mistakes, while the furious commander criticized him. After shouting several times in the confusionof the roundup, the commander walked away. He gestured to an officer, and his jeep drove up. He and Eléspuru climbed in. Only then did the prosecutor manage to break through and approach the vehicle.
    “Commander! Commander!”
    Carrión sighed. The prosecutor's presence exhausted him. He barely looked at him as he came up sweating, covered with dust in spite of his handkerchief and the clean, pressed suit he had worn for the occasion. Chacaltana panted as he spoke to him:
    “Commander, this operation must be stopped. This is … it is …”
    “Take it easy, little Chacaltita. We're picking up people without documents and those wanted for questioning. So they won't frighten you.”
    The commander laughed, but not like a father. The jeep drove away, and behind it came the two military trucks filled with villagers and soldiers. In five minutes, even the town's dust was still, as if it were dead. A few meters away, the lieutenant followed on foot, chewing on his rage. The prosecutor tried to talk to him; he wanted to offer his cooperation in finding help at the highest level. But when he reached his side, the lieutenant spat in his face:
    “Chacaltana, you motherfucker! I told you not to say