was very fine, even blondish. And he had the best manners of any man I’ve ever known. Not even Ricardo or my father have manners like his. No one would have believed he’d gone to public school or that he was from Castilla. The only thing cholo about him was his name, Palomino. And his second name was even worse, Temistocles.”
Again it seemed to Lituma that his boss had laughed. But he didn’t have the slightest desire to laugh at what the girl was saying. He was puzzled and intrigued. Was she sorry or angry at the boy’s death? There was no way to guess. The colonel’s daughter talked as though Palomino Molero hadn’t been killed in the horrible way they all knew he had, as if he were still alive. Could she be a bit crazy?
“Where did you meet Palomino Molero?” asked Lieutenant Silva.
They had reached the rear of the church. That was the white wall that Teotonio Calle Frías used as the screen for his portable outdoor movie house. Those who wanted to sit down to see the movie had to bring their own chairs, but most people just hunkered down or stretched out on the ground. To get a good view, you had to pay five reales, which allowed you to sit, crouch, or recline on the other side of a rope. The lieutenant and Lituma could always get in free. Those who didn’t want to pay could always watch the movie free from outside the roped-off area. Of course, the view was bad and gave you a sore neck.
Many people had already taken up positions and were waiting for it to get dark. Don Teotonio Calle Frías was setting up his projector. He had only one, which worked thanks to a wire he himself had run to the power line on the corner. After each reel, there was an interruption while the next was loaded. The movies, accordingly, were strung out in pieces and were extremely long. Even so, the improvised theater was always full, especially in summer. “Ever since the kid’s murder, I haven’t been to the movies once,” thought Lituma. What was on tonight? A Mexican movie likely as not. Yes, Hidden River, starring Dolores del Rio and Columba Dominguez.
“I met him at Lala Mercado’s birthday party over in Piura.” She’d taken so long to answer that Lituma forgot which question she was answering. “He’d been hired to sing at the party. All the girls were saying how beautifully he sang, what a pretty voice, how good-looking he is, he doesn’t look like a cholo. It’s true he didn’t.”
“These damned whites.” Lituma was indignant.
“And did he dedicate any songs to you, miss?” The lieutenant oozed respect for her. Periodically, Lituma realized, his boss revealed yet another interrogation tactic; this one combined infinite respect with extraordinary politeness.
“Three. ‘The Last Night We Spent Together,’ ‘Moonbeam,’ and ‘Pretty Baby.’”
“She’s not normal; she’s off her rocker,” Lituma decided. Alicia Mindreau’s bicycle, which the lieutenant was pulling with his left hand, had begun to screech intermittently. The recurring, piercing sound put Lituma’s nerves on edge.
“We danced together, too. Just once. He danced with all the girls once. But twice with Lala Mercado—because it was her party, not because he liked her more. Nobody thought it was wrong for him to dance with us. In fact, we all wanted to dance with him. He behaved just like one of us. And he was a terrific dancer.”
Just like one of us, thought Lituma, carefully stepping over a dried-out starfish covered with ants. “Would Alicia Mindreau think of Lieutenant Silva as ‘one of us’? Not me, of course. I’m a purebred cholo,” be thought. “From La Mangachería, and proud of it.” He had his eyes half closed and he wasn’t seeing how Talara’s afternoon was quickly giving way to night. He was seeing the party and the garden, all the well-dressed young couples over in that whites-only part of town near the sand flats by La Chunga’s place on Buenos Aires Street. Lala Mercado’s house. He was seeing a couple dancing in a corner, staring into each other’s eyes, speaking only with their eyes: Alicia Mindreau and Palomino. No, it was impossible. And yet she was the one telling the story:
“When we started dancing, he told me that the moment he saw me he’d fallen in love with me.” Not even now was there a note of sadness in her voice. She was speaking quickly, without emotion, as if dictating a message.