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welcome.”
    She smiled. He realized then that he was smiling too. Feeling calmer, Félix Chacaltana Saldívar continued on his way.
    He stopped by police headquarters, where the same sergeant as last time received him:
    “Good afternoon, I am looking for Captain Pacheco.”
    “Captain Pacheco?”
    “That is correct.”
    The sergeant wrote down the prosecutor's information again on a piece of paper and went into the office. He came out nine minutes later:
    “The captain is very busy right now but asks that you send him a written request, and he'll study it carefully.”
    “It is just that … the police ought to carry out this investigation. I cannot move forward if I do not see that you are moving forward too.”
    “Of course, I understand. I'll let the captain know.”
    The Church of the Heart of Christ was beyond the Arch, almost where the mountain began. The principal nave was completely overlaid with wood and gold leaf, and the stained-glass windows were representations of the Stations of the Cross. In one corner there was an altar to Our Lady of Sorrows with the seven daggers in her bosom. On the other side, near the sacristy, was an image of Christ dragging the cross to Golgotha. There were short red candles before each holy image. The image of the crucified Christ looked down on the main altar. Félix Chacaltana stared at his somber nakedness, the drops of blood running down his face, the wounds of the nails on his hands and feet, the gash in his side.
    A hand touched his shoulder.
    The prosecutor jumped. Behind him was a priest still dressed in the vestments of the Mass. He carried several objects of silver and glass. He was about fifty years old and had very little hair.
    “May I help you? I'm Father Quiroz, the pastor of Heart of Christ.”
    The prosecutor accompanied the priest as he put away the implements of the Mass in the sacristy, explaining the situation. On the wall hung a chiaroscuro image of Christ raising his hands to God. His perforated hands. The crown of thorns circled his head like a red and green tiara. Chacaltana wanted to say something agreeable:
    “How beautiful your church is,” was what occurred to him.
    “Yes, it's beautiful now,” the priest responded as he placed the wafers in a plastic box. “We've restored it recently with money from the government, this church and all the others. There are thirty-three churches in this city, Señor Prosecutor. Like the age of Christ. Ayacucho is one of the most devout cities in the country.”
    “Religion is always a consolation. Especially here … with so many dead.”
    The priest polished the paten and chalice carefully.
    “Sometimes I don't know, Señor Prosecutor. The Indians are so impenetrable. Have you ever seen the churches of Juli, in Puno?”
    “No.”
    Quiroz took off the green and gold chasuble and the cordon that tied the stole around his waist. He folded the cloth articles and placed them delicately in a chest in order not to wrinkle them. Each gesture seemed like another ritual of the Mass, as if each movement of his hands had a precise meaning. He said:
    “They are open-air churches, like corrals. The Jesuits built them during the colonial period to convert the Indians, to have them attend Mass, because they worshipped only the sun, the river, the mountains. Do you see? They didn't understand why worship was held in an enclosed place.”
    “And did it work?”
    The priest locked with a key each of the chests in which he had placed articles. He carried the keys on a large ring.
    “Oh, yes, to keep up appearances. The Indians were delighted to attend Mass, and at Mass … They prayed and learned canticles, they even took Communion. But they never stopped worshipping the sun, the river, and the mountains. Their Latin prayers were only memorized repetitions. Inside they continued worshipping their gods, their
huacas
. They deceived the Jesuits.”
    Father Quiroz stood facing the prosecutor. He was tall. Félix Chacaltana