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    Death in the Andes: A Novel
    Death in the Andes: A Novel
    Death in the Andes: A Novel
    Ebook313 pages5 hours

    Death in the Andes: A Novel

    By Mario Vargas Llosa and Edith Grossman

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    About this ebook

    Plunge into the heart of the remote Peruvian Andes in Mario Vargas Llosa's stunning novel, Death in the Andes.

    This narrative weaves an intricate tapestry of stark political realities, age-old Andean mysticism, and a chilling mystery that leaves no stone unturned.

    The book promises a riveting blend of genres, serving as both a political allegory and a gripping detective novel. It shimmers with an undercurrent of magical realism, embroiling readers in the nooks and corners of an isolated community caught in the web of violent guerrilla warfare.

    Immerse yourself in the ancient Dionysian rituals of Greece mirrored in unsettling, cannibalistic sacrifices, unveiling profound connections to Peru's Indian heritage and pre-Hispanic mysticism. The narrative's panoramic view of Peruvian society illuminates its violent present, deeply entrenched in its rich yet haunting past.

    A breathtaking exploration of South American literature from Nobel Prize-winning author Vargas Llosa, Death in the Andes is a resounding tribute to Latin American literature and an unforgettable journey into the pulsating heart of Peru.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherMacmillan Publishers
    Release dateMar 4, 2011
    ISBN9781429921589
    Death in the Andes: A Novel
    Author

    Mario Vargas Llosa

    Mario Vargas Llosa was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature "for his cartography of structures of power and his trenchant images of the individual's resistance, revolt, and defeat." He has also won the Miguel de Cervantes Prize, the Spanish-speaking world’s most distinguished literary honor. His many works include The Feast of the Goat, In Praise of the Stepmother, and Aunt Julia and the Scriptwriter, all published by FSG.

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    Reviews for Death in the Andes

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    • 3/5
      Jim sent me some books last week and included in that wonderful package was Death In the Andes by Mario Vargas Llosa. This is not an author I ever would have turned my attentions to on my own, and that's one of the reasons I love this place, because so many great authors would pass me by if it weren't for the barn.Llosa knows the craft of writing and this book gives praise to that. Set against the backdrop of the Andes, you head straight into the mysterious disappearance of three men, the passionate story of a young man who has known the joy and agony of his first love, and underneath those stories, always rushing the novel along, are the tensions of political unrest which pervade this land, often matched against the dark superstitions which the natives of Peru cling too. What leaves the reader knowing they've discovered a very skilled writer is the fact that Llosa takes all of these elements and ties them so neatly together to give you a novel which never stumbles on itself. By the time I was nearing the end of this story, I was turning back to the first pages to see what else he had written, because here is an author worth pursuing. Thank you Jim! This was a great discovery.
    • 5/5
      Remarkable! One of the best novel's I've read in some time and the best I've read by Vargas Llosa. Many plot lines are developed, but the technique is masterful as it is unique. Main characters are fascinating, but even more impressive is how quickly the author can create and make the reader care about minor figures like poor Pedrito Tinoco. I'll certainly read this novel again.
    • 3/5
      “as everybody in the Andes knows, when the devil comes to work his evil on earth he sometimes takes the shape of a limping gringo stranger."This is my first experience of the author and even on completion I am somewhat non-nonplussed by his methodology.The book is split into two distinct parts with an epilogue and as the title suggests is set in the mountains of Peru. However, the main protagonist of this novel is an outsider, a man from the coast, Corporal Lituma. Lituma is a police officer who along with his adjutant Carreno has been sent to offer token protection from guerilla attacks at a road construction camp in the remote mountain village of Naccos. Three men mysteriously vanish from the camp and whilst Lituma becomes obsessed by the disappearances this is much more than a murder mystery tale. Intertwined throughout is Carreno's reminiscences of the murder that he had committed whilst supposedly acting as a bodyguard and the subsequent naive love affair he had with a prostitute alongside tales of the guerillas (Senderistas) and their victims. The Senderistas are portrayed as being both brutal and dogmatic but the author deliberately avoids giving them little more than a peripheral role in both this novel and perhaps in Peru in general, in contrast their victims are given greater prominance. However, their inclusion alongside Correno's ill fated love affair seems aimed purely at distracting both Lituma's and the reader's attention from the on-going case. This idea is further enforced when despite it transpiring that all three missing men had previous encounters with the guerrillas, not to mention Lituma's and Correno's own precarious situation, they virtually disappear from the second half of the novel. Instead this half centres on yet another sub-plot, one that is equally dark and violent but one far more far more difficult to fathom.Lituma suspects that Dionisio and his wife Dona Adriana, the keepers of the local cantina, have some involvement with the disappearances. Both are degenerates. Dionisio encourages the workers to drink and dance with himself and one another when drunk whereas Adriana reads fortunes and is viewed as a witch. They are knowledgeable of local folk lore which includes pishtacos, vampires who leach the fat from their victims' bodies, and apus, ancient spirits of the mountains, who were placated by Indian women with human sacrifices before undertaking any new project, eg a road. Lituma finally discovers that the three missing men were not victims of the guerillas but rather of a sadistic ritual. The author intimates that human blood was as important as mortar as a building material back within mountain communities. A Scandinavian anthropologist informs Lituma how ''Aztec priests stood at the top of the pyramids and tore out the hearts of the victims'' and suggests that the serruchos, local villagers' Christianity, with its very own human sacrifice, is secretly enmeshed with the cults of their ancestors. Equally the Senderista purges are necessary tools as they attempt to build a new society of their own design. Llosa seems to intimate this as an unholy trinity and that many Andean communities haven't really advanced that much at all.There are some beautifully written vignettes but they are often difficult to mesh together and the murder mystery element ultimately seems strangely peripheral to the novel. Instead it can be viewed as a vehicle to remind Lituma and educate the reader on Peru's bloody past. Personally I feel that the author would have been better advised to concentrate on one of these mountain myths rather than trying to incorporate so many. I generally enjoyed the author's writing style but sadly felt that the plot was often muddled. This has rather intrigued rather than deterred me from reading some of the author's other works but overall OK rather than great.
    • 5/5
      During my reading of this story, I felt that Llosa was taking me deep into the Andes with their violence, morbidity, superstitions, hopeless people, drugs, poverty and into the clashes between the ingenious habitants and those trying to modernize the area. The two main characters' constant inner struggles between hope and despair, love and gloom endears them. I was mystified by the beautiful poetic narrations of Llosa. He well deserves the Nobel prize.
    • 3/5
      This was my first taste of Vargas-Llosa, and it was interesting to say the least. This novel starts off kind of slow, but it gets better as the reader becomes more and more curious about what exactly has happened (and is going on) and as the characters become more and more intriguing.


    • 5/5
      Such a morbid tale filled with creative prose and plots. Llosa changes narrators with ease and the resultant episodic plot lines are well placed. Originality at its finest.
    • 2/5
      Ostensibly this book is about the disappearances of three men in the mountains of Peru which two Civil Guards are sent to investigate. However this is not much more than a plot device for the author to explore broader themes such as poverty, violence and hopelessness. And he throws in a dash of romance (of the cruder variety) for levity.

      If I’d read anything about this book before picking it up from my local library I wouldn’t have brought it home with me because it is exactly the kind of book my brain cannot process. Although it didn’t take me as long, reading it reminded me very much of the long four months it took me to plod through Gabriel Garcia Marquez’ Love in the Time of Cholera a few years ago because everyone said it was so wonderful. I once again thought I’d have made about as much sense of the book if I’d read it in its original (and to me incomprehensible) language. In short I don’t ‘do’ magical realism and this book is full of it.

      The two investigators, Captain Lituma and his sidekick Tomás, treat the local villagers as little better than savages or simpletons, especially when they discover that the locals still practice ancient spiritual beliefs and attribute the disappearances of the three men to these mystical elements. I won’t even pretend I understood these beliefs which seemed to have a heavy supernatural element and the only thing I’ll remember is the ‘pishtacos’ which are some kind of fat-sucking spooky thing that I don’t think it would be pleasant to meet.

      Aside from this element the book is extremely violent, not surprisingly I suppose as it looks in-depth at the brutal reign of the communist guerrillas known as Sendero Luminoso (or Shining Path) and their impact on local people and politics. Lituma believes they’re responsible for the disappearances rather than any mystical being and he spends a lot of time talking about murders, rapes and torture he has witnessed or knows of. There wasn’t much room for sunshine and happiness in all of this. I imagine Lituma’s endless fascination with his off-sider’s romantic attachment to a prostitute he went on the run with when he shot her client while she was servicing him was meant to provide that lighter element to the book but honestly I just found it needlessly crude and bordering on repulsive.

      The combination of a narrative told from a constantly changing point of view, a major fantasy element and the endless violence and crude language did not appeal to me at all. Even the translation provided a bit of a struggle as many words were left in the original language with no explanation provided as to why. There were moments where I was engaged enough by a snippet of narrative to want to learn more about the plight of the people (or, heaven forbid, find out the outcome of the mystery) but these were few and surrounded by too much surrealism for me. In fact I wouldn’t have bothered finishing the book at all if it weren’t for the fact that I needed to read a book set in Peru for a reading challenge. However, there are plenty of very positive reviews of Death in the Andes here and elsewhere so don’t take my non-fantasy-loving brain’s word on it
    • 4/5
      A tense story of two civil guards assigned to oversee a road crew high in the Andes dealing with superstition, obsession, terror, and the elements. The struggle to make sense of various disappearances and maintain their own equilibrium is the focus of the book. An excellent, though disturbing book.
    • 4/5
      It's been a long time since I've read a book like this. Kind of reminded me of Crime and Punishment (but less confusing), One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest (with fewer acid trips), and a little of Marquez's writing (but better). There are a few chapters I am still really scratching my head about, and readers that like books with all the ends tied up should avoid this book. Definitely feels like a book to give a second reading (which I won't because I never do) to for comprehend all the stories that Llosa wove together. In fact, I think some of the book's characters did not even exist, as was a popular trend in mid nineties movies and film.
    • 5/5
      The old mingles with the new in Garcia Llorca’s Peru. Human sacrifices and spirits of the mountains, road building, terrucos – uncompromising, ruthless and cruel freedom fighters coming out of nowhere and conducting their cruel people trials, and superstitious mountain people (serruchos) are the backdrop for the plot and its main characters. Captain Lituma and his adjutant Tomasito, people from the new, more modern world, are posted in a remote mountain village to guard the road building against the terrucos. The terrucos don’t attack them, yet three people go missing without a trace. Captain Lituma is obsessively trying to piece what happened to them. At the same time his adjutant, Tomasito, can’t stop thinking about Mercedes, a prostitute he has fallen in love with and for whom he is longing. Tradition and superstition, death, love and obsession interweave and drive the plot in this tale. It was very well written, and I loved the style and the sinister charm of this strange world.
    • 4/5
      Death in the Andes is a tense novel of passion, superstition and obsession that ranges from remote mountain villages to the crowded coastal cities of the author's native Peru. The principal character is police Corporal Lituma, who has been dispatched with his adjutant Tomas Carreno to the remote mountain village of Naccos to investigate the disappearance of three men. Naccos is in an area where the Maoist "Shining Path" guerrilla forces are active, so Lituma first suspects that the insurgents have carried off the three missing men. But things don't add up, and the reticence of the local residents--mostly laborers working on a road project--suggests that there is some darker explanation.In a parallel narrative, nightly Tomas is telling Lituma the story of Tomas's love and devotion for a drug dealer's girlfriend named Mercedes, and the dangers he had subjected himself to to run away with her. The novel also breaks away occasionally in place and time to depict the backgrounds of key characters and incidents from the brutal war with the Maoist guerrillas. This multi-threaded style, typical of Mario Vargas Llosa's writing--is complex but not confusing. One of the key features of this novel is its depiction of the Indian culture and its animist beliefs. There are tales, for example, of a creature known as the "pishtaco," like a vampire only craving human body fat instead of blood. There are also tales of violent and orgiastic native rituals that bear a strong resemblance to the Dionysian rites of the ancient Mediterranean. (One of the characters is even named Dionisio to drive home this point.) It is fascinating to speculate on the similarities of such dark beliefs and practices in lands so widely separated.Death in the Andes is a panoramic depiction of the darker side of Peru--insurgency, drug trafficking, poverty, corruption, and superstition--but in Lituma's devotion and Tomas's love for Mercedes the author provides a counterbalancing sense of hope for the future.
    • 4/5
      Lituma, now a corporal, is working at a remote Civil Guard post attached to a road-building camp in the Andes. There is more tension in his new post, as Lituma has to get to grips with the superstitions of the mountain people as well as the dark shadow cast by the Shining Path guerrillas who are known to be in the area and could attack the camp at any time. When three men disappear over a period of a few weeks, the Civil Guards wonder if they could have been killed by guerrillas or have gone to join them, but it is a while before you realise what the men who disappeared had in common. Often two separate conversations or scenes would be intertwined, very much like in a film that has keeps flicking between two scenes. So you need to concentrate when reading as Lituma thinks aloud about the case while his colleague tells him about the mess he got into when he met the woman who broke his heart, or you lose track of what is happening. I've got two more Mario Vargas Llosa books to read & am really looking forward to them.
    • 5/5
      Corporal Lituma and Guard Tomás Carreño have been stuck in a post high in the Andes in the village of Naccos, where a road is being built. Three men from the camp has disappeared, including a mute Tomás brought with him when he reported to the post. At first Lituma fears the terruchos, a terrorist guerrillas of the Sendero Luminosa (Shining Path), a Marxist style rebel group that has been operating in the area, brutally killing “enemies of the people”. But no one in the camp wants to talk about what happened. There are two ambiguous camp members, Dionisio, a cantinero (cantina owner) and his wife, Doña Adriana--and that should be a tipoff as to what direction a good part of the story will take.But there are several stories woven into one. Tomás, at night, tells the story of his love for Mercedes, a prostitute he “saved” from a drug lord. The narrative is so interwoven, past with present, that the reader is right there with Lituma’s and Carreño’s present comments while the story is told in flashback style. This device works brilliantly, not only for the love story but later on, as the main story--what really did happen to the three men--takes an ominous turn, and the story of Doña Adriana and Dionisio unfolds.Over all this hovers the ancient spirits of the Peruvian Andes, the apus in Qechuan, who are not terribly pleasant deities, and only gradually do we learn to understand their role in life. Pishtacos--a sort of Peruvian vampire somewhat akin to Tony Hellerman’s Navajo ghost walkers--appear. Lituma oscillates wildly between modern cynicism and complete belief in these ancient Andean beliefs.Based on real events--the years of the Sendero Luminosa rebellion--this beautifully written story relates a clash between indigenous folk culture and attempts to modernize an area that has resisted outsiders for a thousand years. It is a disturbing tale. Highly recommended.
    • 4/5
      Naccos is a remote Andean town within the Ayacucho Region of Peru, which is populated by miners and construction workers from other regions along with serruchos, local Indians who maintain ancient tribal customs and beliefs. Life there is hard and often brutal, due to the lack of female companionship for the mostly single men, the difficult working conditions, the climate that fluctuates rapidly between bitter cold and intolerable heat, and the fear of huaycos, landslides from the surrounding mountains that threaten to bury houses and disrupt the road project.The towns in the region are also menaced by Maoist guerrillas of the Shining Path movement, who live in the mountains and strike without warning, ambushing vehicles on the roads and marching into villages, as they isolate those whom they oppose and dispense justice in a most brutal fashion.Corporal Lituma from the Peruvian Army, assigned to the region to protect the workers during the construction project, is informed of the murder of three villagers. His is accompanied by and lives with Tomás Carreño, a local young man who escaped from the Civil Guard after committing a crime of passion, who keeps Lituma entertained and on edge by telling him the story of this crime and the woman who inspired him. As Lituma investigates the disappearances, we learn more about the missing men, the clash of cultures between the workers, serruchos, and Lituma, who comes from a modern coastal city, and the violent beauty of the region. Tensions build as Lituma and Carreño suspect that the guerrillas killed the men and will make them their next victims.Death in the Andes is a solid work of fiction, filled with passion, intrigue and humor. The story focuses mainly on Lituma and Carreño, and the reader doesn't learn much about the Shining Path guerrillas, who are portrayed as merciless and wanton killers, or the serruchos, which would have made this a more complete and fulfilling novel for me. It is a well written, captivating and worthwhile read; I wouldn't recommend it as the first book to read by MVL, but I think that his fans will likely enjoy it.
    • 3/5
      This is the first book i've read of Llosa, recently awarded with Literature's Nobel. I have always felt fascinated with South American countries, like Peru and Chile. This book remembers me the origin of that fascination. It tells the story of two men, civilian guards, in Naccos, a little village in the Andes. Led by their desolation in that place and indifference by the workers, who also lived there, Tomasito and Lituma (the two man's name)begin to talk about the past love life of Tomasito.As Tomasito can't stop thinking of his loved one, Lituma can't stop thinking about three men that disappeared in the village.Isolation, popular beliefs, civil war, love and obsession are some of the ingredients that make this book a good dessert for disocuppied afternoons.
    • 3/5
      This wandering, twisted, semi-mystery, semi-thriller shows off its best side perhaps in the romantic subplot it weaves between a lady of ill-begotten means that becomes the object of worship of a young adjutant. The adjutant steals the show as it were from the Corporal trying to solve a mystery of a series of disappearances in a mining community in the mountains of Peru. The story focuses on such a small number of players, with a few very differing but local settings, that it seems ideally suited to a play. Larger-than-life barkeeper and his wife whisper toward some untoward but perhaps realistic activities, and the story lays out historical and current realities of living in a society where increasing guerilla activities in more remote parts of the country keep it from being a modern state. Spiritual without being symbolic, animalistic without being energetic, and romantic without being maudlin, it satisfies outside of the laconic storyline.
    • 4/5
      Vargas Llosa is a brilliant writer - this work is darker than others of his that I have read, but the period he wrote about in this was dark and violent, and he has captured that disturbingly well. More realistic, less magical than his early work. Well worth reading regardless.
    • 5/5
      A great book to get the flavour of Peru around the time when 'Shining path' were pretty active there. A good story
    • 4/5
      Bought this novel to read during a trip to Peru since the novelist is Peruvian and the topic is particularly about the effects of Peruvian politics. There are some powerful scenes here. However, overall, I preferred Llosa's novel "The Green House."

    Book preview

    Death in the Andes - Mario Vargas Llosa

    Part One

    1

    When he saw the Indian woman appear at the door of the shack, Lituma guessed what she was going to say. And she did say it, but she was mumbling in Quechua while the saliva gathered at the corners of her toothless mouth.

    What’s she saying, Tomasito?

    I couldn’t catch it, Corporal.

    The Civil Guard addressed her in Quechua, indicating with gestures that she should speak more slowly. The woman repeated the indistinguishable sounds that affected Lituma like savage music. He suddenly felt very uneasy.

    What’s she saying?

    It seems her husband disappeared, murmured his adjutant. Four days ago.

    That means we’ve lost three, Lituma stammered, feeling the perspiration break out on his face. Son of a bitch.

    So what should we do, Corporal?

    Take her statement. A shudder ran up and down Lituma’s spine. Have her tell you what she knows.

    But what’s going on? exclaimed the Civil Guard. First the mute, then the albino, now one of the highway foremen. It can’t be, Corporal.

    Maybe not, but it was happening, and now for the third time. Lituma pictured the blank faces and icy narrow eyes that the people in Naccos—laborers at the camp and comuneros, the Indians from the traditional community—would all turn toward him when he asked if they knew the whereabouts of this woman’s husband, and he felt the same discouragement and helplessness he had experienced earlier when he tried to question them about the other men who were missing: heads shaking no, monosyllables, evasive glances, frowns, pursed lips, a presentiment of menace. It would be no different this time.

    Tomás had begun to question the woman, writing her answers in a little notebook, using a blunt pencil that he moistened from time to time with his tongue. The terrorists, the damn terrucos, aren’t too far away, thought Lituma. Any night now they’ll be all over us. The disappearance of the albino had also been reported by a woman: they never did find out if she was his mother or his wife. The man had gone out to work, or was on his way home from work, and never reached his destination. Pedrito had gone down to the village to buy the two Civil Guards a bottle of beer, and he never came back. No one had seen them, no one had noticed any fear, apprehension, sickness in them before they vanished. Had the hills just swallowed them up? After three weeks, Corporal Lituma and Civil Guard Tomás Carreño were as much in the dark as on the first day. And now it had happened a third time. Son of a bitch. Lituma wiped his hands on his trousers.

    It had begun to rain. The huge drops rattled the tin roof with a loud, unrhythmic noise. It was not yet three in the afternoon, but the storm had blackened the sky, and it seemed as dark as night. In the distance, thunder rolled through the mountains with an intermittent rumbling that rose from the bowels of the earth where the serruchos, these damn mountain people, thought that bulls, serpents, condors, and spirits lived. Do the Indians really believe all that? Sure they do, Corporal, they even pray to them and leave offerings. Haven’t you seen the little plates of food by the caves and gullies in the Cordillera? When they told him these things at Dionisio’s cantina, or during a soccer game, Lituma never knew if they were serious or making fun of him, a man from the coast. From time to time, through a crack in one of the walls of the shack, a yellowish viper bit at the clouds. Did the mountain people really believe that lightning was the lizard of the sky? The curtains of rain had erased the barracks, the cement mixers, the steamrollers, the jeeps, the huts of the comuneros among the eucalyptus trees on the hill facing the post. As if they had all disappeared, he thought. There were some two hundred laborers, from Ayacucho and Apurímac, and especially from Huancayo and Concepción in Junfn, and Pampas in Huancavelica. Nobody from the coast, as far as he knew. Not even his adjutant was a coastal man. But though he was a native of Sicuani and spoke Quechua, Tomás seemed more like a mestizo. He had brought Pedro Tinoco with him when he came to Naccos. The little mute had been the first to disappear.

    Carreño was a man without guile, though somewhat given to melancholy. At night he would confide in Lituma, and he knew how to open himself to friendship. The corporal told him soon after he arrived: You’re the kind of man who should have been born on the coast. Even in Piura, Tomasito. I know that’s a real compliment coming from you, Corporal. Without his company, life in this wilderness would have been grim. Lituma sighed. What was he doing in the middle of the barrens with sullen, suspicious serruchos who killed each other over politics and, as if that weren’t enough, went missing too? Why wasn’t he back home? He imagined himself at the Rfo Bar, surrounded by beers and the Invincibles, his lifelong buddies, on a hot Piuran night filled with stars, waltzes, and the smell of goats and carob trees. A wave of sadness made his teeth ache.

    I’m finished, Corporal, said the guard. The lady really doesn’t know too much. And she’s scared to death. Can’t you tell?

    Say we’ll do everything we can to find her husband.

    Lituma attempted a smile and gestured to the Indian that she could go. She continued looking at him, impassive. Tiny and ageless, with bones as fragile as a bird’s, she was almost invisible under all her skirts and the shabby, drooping hat. But there was something unbreakable in her face and narrow, wrinkled eyes.

    It seems she was expecting something to happen to her husband, Corporal. ‘It had to happen, it was bound to happen,’ she says. But of course she never heard of terrucos or the Sendero militia.

    With not even a nod of goodbye, the woman turned and went out to face the downpour. In a few moments her figure dissolved into the lead-colored rain as she walked back to camp. For a long while the two men said nothing.

    Finally, the voice of the adjutant rang in Lituma’s ears as if he were offering condolences: I’ll tell you something. You and I won’t get out of here alive. They have us surrounded, what’s the point of kidding ourselves?

    Lituma shrugged. Usually he was the one who felt demoralized, and Carreño had to cheer him up. Today they had changed places.

    Don’t brood about it, Tomasito. Otherwise, when they do come, we’ll be in such bad shape we won’t even be able to defend ourselves.

    The wind rattled the sheets of tin on the roof, and little gushes of rain spattered the interior of the cabin. Surrounded by a protective stockade of sacks filled with stones and dirt, their quarters consisted of a single room divided by a wooden screen. On one side was the Civil Guard post, with a board across two sawhorses—the desk—and a trunk where the official record book and service reports and documents were kept. On the other side, next to each other for lack of space, stood two cots. The guards used kerosene lamps and had a battery-operated radio that could pick up Radio Nacional and Radio Junín if there were no atmospheric disturbances. The corporal and his adjutant spent entire afternoons and evenings glued to the set, trying to hear the news from Lima or Huancayo. There were lamb and sheep skins on the packed-dirt floor, and straw mats, a camp stove with a Primus burner, pots, some crockery, their suitcases, and a dilapidated wardrobe—the armory—where they stored rifles, boxes of ammunition, and a submachine gun. They always carried their revolvers and kept them under their pillows at night. Sitting beneath a faded image of the Sacred Heart—an Inca Cola advertisement—they listened to the rain for several minutes.

    I don’t think they killed those men, Tomasito, Lituma said at last. They probably took them away to the militia. The three of them may even have been terrucos. Does Sendero ever disappear people? They just kill them and leave their leaflets behind to let everybody know who did it.

    Pedrito Tinoco a terrorist? No, Corporal, I guarantee he wasn’t, said Tomás. And that means Sendero is right outside the door. The terrucos won’t sign us up in their militia. They’ll chop us into hamburger. Sometimes I think the only reason you and I were sent here was to be killed.

    That’s enough brooding. Lituma stood up. Fix us some coffee for this shit weather. Then we’ll worry about the latest one. What was his name again?

    Demetrio Chanca, Corporal. Foreman of a blasting crew.

    Don’t they say things come in threes? With this one we’ll probably solve the mystery of what happened to the other two.

    The guard went to take down tin cups from their hooks and light the Primus.

    When Lieutenant Pancorvo told me back in Andahuaylas that they were sending me to this hole, I thought, ‘Great, in Naccos the terrucos will finish you off, Carreñito, and the sooner the better,’ Tomás said softly. I was tired of living. At least that’s what I thought, Corporal. But seeing how scared I am now, I guess I don’t want to die after all.

    Only a damn fool wants to die before his time, asserted Lituma. There are some fantastic things in this life, though you won’t find any around here. Did you really want to die? Can I ask why, when you’re so young?

    What else could it be? The guard laughed as he placed the coffeepot over the blue-red flame of the Primus.

    The boy was thin and bony but very strong, with alert, deep-set eyes, sallow skin, and jutting white teeth—on sleepless nights Lituma could see them gleaming in the dark.

    The corporal ventured a guess, licking his lips. Some sweet little dame must have broken your heart.

    Who else would break your heart? Tomasito was visibly moved. And besides, you can feel proud: she was Piuran too.

    A hometown girl, Lituma approved, smiling. How about that.

    The altitude did not agree with la petite Michèle—she had complained of a pressure in her temples like the one she got at those horror movies he loved, and of a vague, general malaise—but, even so, she was stirred by the rugged, desolate landscape. Albert, on the other hand, felt marvelously well. As if he had spent his entire life at an altitude of three or four thousand meters, among sharp peaks stained with snow, and occasional flocks of llamas crossing the narrow road. The old bus rattled so much it sometimes seemed about to break apart as it faced the potholes, ruts, and rocks that constantly challenged its ruined body. The young French couple were the only foreigners, but they did not seem to attract the attention of their traveling companions, who did not even look around when they heard them speaking a foreign language. The other passengers wore shawls, ponchos, and an occasional Andean cap with earflaps as protection against the approaching night, and carried bundles, packages, tin suitcases. One woman even had cackling hens with her. But nothing—not the uncomfortable seat or the jolting or the crowding—bothered Albert and la petite Michèle.

    "f« va mieux?" he asked.

    Out, unpeu mieux.

    And a moment later la petite Michèle said aloud what Albert had also been thinking: he had been right at the Pensión El Milagro in Lima, when they argued over whether to travel by bus or plane to Cuzco. On the advice of the man at the embassy, she had wanted to fly, but he insisted so much on the overland route that la petite Michèle finally gave in. She did not regret it. On the contrary. It would have been a shame to miss this.

    Of course it would, Albert exclaimed, pointing through the cracked pane of the small window. Isn’t it fabulous?

    The sun was going down, and a sumptuous peacock’s tail opened along the horizon. An expanse of dark green flatland on their left, with no trees, no houses, no people or animals, was brightened by watery flashes, as if there might be streams or lagoons among the clumps of yellow straw. On the right, however, there rose a craggy, perpendicular terrain of towering rocks, chasms, and gorges.

    Tibet must be like this, murmured la petite Michèle.

    I assure you this is more interesting than Tibet, replied Albert. "I told you so: Le Ptrou, ga vaut le Pfrou!"

    It was already dark in front of the old bus, and the temperature began to drop. A few stars were shining in the deep blue sky.

    Brrr… La petite Michèle shivered. Now I understand why they all wear so many clothes. The weather changes so much in the Andes. In the morning the heat is suffocating, and at night it’s like ice.

    This trip will be the most important thing that ever happens to us, you’ll see, said Albert.

    Someone had turned on a radio, and after a series of metallic sputterings there was a burst of sad, monotonous music.

    Albert identified the instruments. Charangos and quenas. In Cuzco we’ll buy a quena. And we’ll learn to dance the huayno.

    We’ll put on a costume party at school, fantasized la petite Michèle. "La nuit piruvienne! Le tout Cognac will come."

    If you want to sleep a little, you can lean on me, Albert suggested.

    I’ve never seen you so happy. She smiled at him.

    I’ve dreamed about this for two years, he agreed. Saving my money, reading about the Incas, about Peru. Imagining all this.

    And you haven’t been disappointed. His companion laughed. Well, neither have I. I’m grateful to you for urging me to come. I think the Coramine Glucose is working. The altitude isn’t bothering me as much, and it’s easier to breathe.

    A moment later, Albert heard her yawn. He put his arm around her shoulders and leaned her head against him. In a little while, in spite of the jolting and bouncing of the bus, la petite Michèle was asleep. He knew he would not close his eyes. He was too full of excitement, too eager to retain everything in his memory and recall it later, to write it down in the journal he had scrawled in each night since boarding the train in the Cognac station, and then, later still, to talk about it in detail, with only an occasional exaggeration, to his copains. He would show slides to his students with the projector he would borrow from Michèle’s father. Le Pérou! There it was: immense, mysterious, gray-green, poverty-stricken, wealthy, ancient, hermetic. Peru was this lunar landscape and the impassive, copper-colored faces of the women and men who surrounded them. Impenetrable, really. Very different from the faces they had seen in Lima, the whites, blacks, mestizos with whom they had managed, however badly, to communicate. But something impassable separated him from the serranos, the mountain people. He had made several attempts, in his poor Spanish, to engage his neighbors in conversation, with absolutely no success. It isn’t race that separates us, it’s an entire culture, la petite Michèle reminded him. These were the real descendants of the Incas, not the people in Lima; their ancestors had carried the gigantic stones up to the aeries of Machu Picchu, the sanctuary-fortress he and his friend would explore in three days’ time.

    Night had fallen, and in spite of his desire to stay awake, he felt himself succumbing to a sweet lightheadedness. If I fall asleep, I’ll get a crick in my neck, he thought. They were in the third seat on the right, and as he sank into sleep, Albert heard the driver begin to whistle. Then it seemed as if he were swimming in cold water. Shooting stars fell in the immensity of the altiplano. He felt happy, although he regretted that, like a hairy mole on a pretty face, the spectacle was marred by the ache in his neck, his extreme discomfort at not being able to rest his head on something soft. Suddenly, someone shook him roughly.

    Are we in Andahuaylas already? he asked in a daze.

    I don’t know what’s going on, la petite Michèle whispered in his ear.

    He rubbed his eyes and there were cylinders of light moving inside and outside the bus. He heard muffled voices, whispers, a shout that sounded like an insult, and he sensed confused movement everywhere. It was the dead of night, and a myriad of stars twinkled through the broken windowpane.

    I’ll ask the driver what’s happening.

    La petite Michèle did not let him stand up.

    Who are they? he heard her say. I thought they were soldiers, but no, look, people are crying.

    Faces appeared fleetingly, then disappeared in the movement of the lanterns. There seemed to be a lot of them. They surrounded the bus and now, awake at last, his eyes growing accustomed to the darkness, Albert saw that several had their faces covered with knitted balaclavas that revealed no more than their eyes. And that glinting had to be weapons, what else could it be?

    The man at the embassy was right, murmured the girl, trembling from head to foot. We should have taken the plane, I don’t know why I listened to you. You can guess who they are, can’t you?

    Someone opened the bus door and a blast of cold air ruffled their hair. Two faceless silhouettes came in, and for a few seconds Albert was blinded by their lanterns. They gave an order he did not understand. They repeated it, more emphatically.

    Don’t be afraid, he whispered into la petite Michèle’s ear. It doesn’t have anything to do with us, we’re tourists.

    All the passengers had stood up and, hands on their heads, were beginning to climb out of the bus.

    Nothing will happen, Albert repeated. We’re foreigners, I’ll explain it to them. Come on, let’s get out.

    They climbed down, lost in the press of passengers, and when they were outside, the icy wind cut their faces. They remained in the crowd, very close together, their arms entwined. They heard a few words, some whispers, and Albert could not make out what they were saying. But they were speaking Spanish, not Quechua.

    "Señor, porfavor? He pronounced the words syllable by syllable, speaking to the man wrapped in a poncho who stood next to him, and a thundering voice immediately roared: Quiet!" Better not open his mouth. The time would come for him to explain who they were and why they were here. La petite Michèle clutched at his arm with both hands, and Albert could feel her nails through his heavy jacket. Someone’s teeth were chattering: were they his?

    Those who had stopped the bus barely spoke among themselves. They had surrounded the passengers, and there were a good number of them: twenty, thirty, maybe more. What did they want? In the shifting light of the lanterns, Albert and la petite Michèle could see women among their assailants. Some in balaclavas, others with their faces bare, some armed with guns, others carrying sticks and machetes. All of them young.

    The darkness was shattered by another order that Albert did not understand either. Their traveling companions began to search their pockets and wallets and hand over identification papers. Albert and his friend took their passports from the packs they wore around their waists. La petite Michèle was trembling more and more violently, but to avoid provoking them he did not dare to comfort her, to reassure her that as soon as these people opened their passports and saw that they were French tourists, the danger would be over. Perhaps they would take their dollars. They weren’t carrying much cash, fortunately. The traveler’s checks were hidden in Albert’s false waistband and with a little luck might not even be found.

    Three of them began to walk among the lines of passengers, collecting documents. When they came to him, Albert handed the two passports to the female silhouette with a rifle over her shoulder, and said haltingly: French tourists. We no speak Spanish, señorita.

    Quiet! she yelled as she snatched the passports out of his hand. It was the voice of a young girl, sharp with fury. Shut up!

    Albert thought how calm and clean everything was up there, in that deep sky studded with stars, and how different it was from the menacing tension down here. His fear had evaporated. When all this was a memory, when he had told it dozens of times to his copains at the bistro and to his students at school in Cognac, he would ask la petite Michèle: Was I right or not to choose the bus instead of the plane? We would have missed the best experience of our trip.

    They were guarded by half a dozen men with submachine guns, who constantly shone the lanterns into their eyes. The others had moved a few meters away and seemed to be conferring about something. Albert assumed they were examining the documents, subjecting them to careful scrutiny. Did they know how to read? When they saw that they were foreigners, French tourists without much money who carried knapsacks and traveled by bus, they would apologize. The cold went right through him. He embraced la petite Michèle and thought: The man at the embassy was right. We should have taken the plane. When we can talk again, I’ll ask you to forgive me.

    The minutes turned into hours. Several times he was sure he would faint with cold and fatigue. When the passengers began to sit on the ground, he and la petite Michèle imitated them, huddling very close. They were silent, pressing against each other, warming each other. After a long while their captors came back and, one by one, pulling them to their feet, peering into their faces, bringing their lanterns up to their eyes, shoving them, they returned the passengers to the bus. Dawn was breaking. A bluish band appeared over the rugged outline of the mountains. La petite Michèle was so still she seemed asleep. But her eyes were very wide. With an effort Albert got to his feet, hearing his bones creak, and he had to help la petite Michèle stand by supporting both her arms. He felt exhausted, he had muscle cramps, his head was heavy, and it occurred to him that she must be suffering again from the altitude sickness that had bothered her so much when they began the ascent into the Cordillera. Apparently, the nightmare was ending. The passengers had lined up single file and were climbing into the bus. When it was their turn, two boys in balaclavas at the door of the vehicle put rifles to their chests and, without saying a word, indicated that they should move to one side.

    Why? asked Albert. We are French tourists.

    One of them approached in a menacing way, put his face up to his, and bellowed: Quiet! Shhh!

    No speak Spanish! screamed la petite Michèle. Tourist! Tourist!

    They were surrounded, their arms were pinned down, and they were pushed away from the other passengers. And before they really understood what was happening, the motor of the bus began to gurgle and vibrate, its hulk to tremble, and they saw it drive away, rattling along that road lost in the Andean plateau.

    What have we done? Michèle said in French. What are they going to do to us?

    They’ll demand a ransom from the embassy, he stammered.

    They haven’t kept him here for any ransom. La petite Michèle no longer seemed afraid: now she appeared angry and rebellious.

    The other traveler who had been detained with them was short and plump. Albert recognized his hat and tiny mustache. He had been sitting in the first row, smoking endlessly and leaning forward from time to time to speak to the driver. He gestured and pleaded, shaking his head, moving his hands. They had encircled the man. They had forgotten about him and la petite Michèle.

    Do you see those stones? she moaned. Do you see, do you see?

    Daylight advanced rapidly across the plateau, and their bodies, their shapes, stood out clearly. They were young, they were adolescents, they were poor, and some of them were children. In addition to rifles, revolvers, machetes, and sticks, many of them held large stones in their hands. The little man in the hat fell to his knees and swore on a cross that he formed with two fingers, raising his face to the sky. Until the circle closed in on him, blocking him from view. They heard him scream, beg. Shoving each other, urging each other, imitating each other, the stones and hands rose and fell, rose and fell.

    We are French, said la petite Michèle.

    Do not do that, señor, shouted Albert. We are French tourists, señor.

    True, they were almost children. But their faces were hardened and burned by the cold, like those roughened feet in the rubber-tire sandals that some of them wore, like those stones in the chapped hands that began to strike

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