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with her nose.
    “Aren't you going to eat?”
    “Yes … Yes. Right away.”
    He tried to pick up a piece of meat with the fork. The bones were mixed up with the skin. The best thing was to eat with his hands. Touch it. And bite it. On the screen, the same man was still being hit, now by two women at the same time.
    “What would you like them to do with you when you die?” the girl asked as she dried some flatware.
    “What?”
    “I wouldn't want to go to the cemetery. It's like … having a house where you don't live. And my family would have to go all the way out there. In the end they'd get lazy and stop going.”
    “Maybe they can bury you in your house.”
    “No. My house is very small.” She dried her hands. “You don't like the guinea pig, do you?”
    “Yes I do! Very nice. It is just … just that I would like a
mate
with it … please.”
    “Today we only have coffee.”
    “Coffee would be fine.”
    “Coffee with guinea pig? You're very strange, Señor …”
    “Félix. Call me Félix.”
    “Don Félix.”
    “Just Félix. Please.”
    She took a jug of boiling water off the fire and poured a cup. She placed it on the table and beside it the little pitcher of coffee essence. The prosecutor poured the liquid into the hot water. The coffee color began to spread in the water, like dark blood. The prosecutor hated Ayacuchan coffee. Watery. Weak.
    “I'd ask to be cremated,” she said.
    “What?”
    “To be cremated. Turned into ashes. Then my family could have me at home when they wanted to see me.”
    An oven. Fire. A crematory. A furnace that feeds on people. It was simple, really.
    “And where would you do that?”
    “In the Church of the Heart of Christ. They have an oven. And it's closer to my house than the cemetery.”
    “They have that? Churches don't have ovens.”
    The prosecutor asked as if he were a tourist. She laughed again.In a corner of her mouth she had a silver filling that glistened in the light.
    “This one does. What about you? You'd be buried, wouldn't you?”
    “I have to go.”
    He stood with the feeling that something was boiling in his head. Perhaps he had time to stop by that church before his lunch hour was over. In any event, if not he could claim the pressure of work. He had not made note of it in the morning, but perhaps he could send a memo correcting his statement regarding justified absences. Perhaps the proof that they were not terrorists would be there. Jealousy. It had to be jealousy. It had to be demonstrated that it was jealousy. She watched him get up from the table. She seemed disappointed.
    “You could at least taste it before you say you don't like it!”
    “Oh, no … you do not understand. It is just that I am in a terrible hurry. I promise that tomorrow … What is your name?”
    “Edith.”
    “Edith, of course. I promise that tomorrow I'll come and really eat lunch. Yes, I promise.”
    “Sure, go on.”
    The prosecutor tried to say something clever. All he could think of was jealousy. He left the restaurant, reached the corner, and remembered that he ought to pay the bill. He did not want her to think he was an opportunist. He turned and walked toward the restaurant. Then he thought that if he paid, she would think he was not returning the next day. In the middle of the street, he wondered what he should do. He looked at his watch. He would go to police headquarters and to the church. It would be better not to be distracted from his work. He looked toward the restaurant one last time. Edith was cleaning his table. He waited for her to look up. To wave good-bye to him. She finished the table and then swept up a little. She looked at the sky. The sky was clear.Then she disappeared again into the interior. The prosecutor thought about the oven. Edith had cooperated with the law without realizing it. He retraced his steps to the restaurant. He went in. She was surprised to see him return. He said:
    “Thank you. Thank you very much.”
    “You're