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the request of the archbishop. It began with the several branches of the armed forces passing before the dais in the Plaza de Armas and saluting the competent authorities of the state, the Church, and the military high command. After the hussars and the rangers, and always to the music of the National Police Band, various schools and institutions paraded past while an official introduced them over the loudspeakers:
    “The María Parado de Bellido School: established by ministerial resolution 000578904 and governed by municipal statute 887654333, for two years this school has been training young Ayacuchan seamstresses and serving the interests of national handicrafts. The Daniel Alcides Carrión Institute: created by ministerial resolution …”
    Associate District Prosecutor Félix Chacaltana Saldívar liked parades, the sonorous passing by of national symbols. The uniforms made him feel secure and proud, the young students allowed him to trust in the future, the cassocks guaranteed respect for traditions. He enjoyed hearing the National Anthem and the March of the Flag under the brilliance of trumpets and military braid. He sat proudly in the officials' box, dressed in his best black suit, his good tie, and a handkerchief in his pocket. The year before, after his arrival, he had participated by reciting a poem by José Santos Chocano, and the crowd had applauded loudly the seriousness of his recitation and the solemnity of his diction.
    He did not like as much what came afterward, when the paradeended and the functionaries gathered for a fraternal celebration in the municipal ballroom. The year before, he had been invited to the celebration because of his poem. This year, perhaps it was a mistake. Although he felt proud to be considered one of the high-ranking officials, he never really knew what to say on those occasions. The competent authorities circulated around him, holding glasses of rosé, without ever stopping beside him. Many of the mid-and low-ranking functionaries spoke to him for a while but looked elsewhere, searching for someone more important with whom to converse. It was easier to communicate with them in writing.
    As the celebration progressed and the alcohol made the rounds, the subject became limited to enumerating the women each man desired and the details of a hypothetical sexual encounter. For the moment, Associate District Prosecutor Félix Chacaltana Saldívar did not want to desire any woman. He tended to respond to these catalogues by nodding and wondering when he could say something, a word at least, trying to think of some woman who had attracted his attention. As a consequence, he normally preferred not to be present, to stay home tending to his mother's room or reading to himself the poems of José Santos Chocano. He liked small places, where no one heard his voice. But now he had a reason to go. He had to speak to Captain Pacheco, who had not yet responded to his inquiries. A case as important as this one ought to move to the highest levels as quickly as possible.
    As he reached the ballroom, he met Judge Briceño, a short, nervous man with the little eyes and teeth of a guinea pig. They greeted each other. The judge asked:
    “And how are things going in the Office of the Prosecutor? Are you getting used to Huamanga?”
    “Well, as it happens, right now I am pursuing a case of the utmost importance …”
    “I want to buy a car, Chacaltana. Even if it's a Tico. But a judge has to have a car. Don't you agree? I mean, am I right?”
    “Absolutely. The case I am pursuing has to do with a recently deceased individual who …”
    “A Tico or a Datsun? Because some 1990 Datsuns have come in that have hardly been driven …”
    The judge discoursed on the topic for ten minutes, until Chacaltana caught sight of Captain Pacheco near the national pavilion in the ballroom, chatting with an official wearing a sky-blue tie and an officer in uniform. Judge Briceño noticed where he was looking.
    “I