Woes of the True Policeman

“Of course, there was nothing uncanny about it. While I was looking all over the house for the room, the old son of a bitch had gone straight there. That was all. But the scare of it almost killed me. The first thing I managed to say was: mi general, what are you doing here? The old man didn’t answer or if he did I instantly forgot what he said. Next to him on the bed was a shape with the sheet pulled up over its head. The general got up and motioned for me to come and take a look. I crept forward, boys, and lifted the sheet. I saw the face of a man who might have been sixty or eighty, his face covered in wrinkles, some of them deep grooves, though his hair was black, jet-black, cut very short, fierce, if you know what I mean. Then the general spoke. I swung around as if I’d been touched with a live wire. The general was sitting on the other bed. He’s dead, isn’t he? he asked. I think so, mi general, I said. But I uncovered him again, the dead man was wearing only his pajama top, but this time I pulled the sheet down to his knees, Christ, I’ve never liked the genitals on a stiff, boys, and I examined him carefully to see whether there were any signs of violence. Not a one. Then I checked his pulse. He had rigor mortis up the ass, as our friend Dr. Cepeda says, and I covered him back up with the sheet. This man is dead, mi general, I said. I thought as much, he said, and then for the first time he seemed to collapse, though it was just for a second, I thought he was about to fall apart, bit by bit, but as I said, it was just for a second. He pulled himself together instantly, rubbed his unshaven face, and ordered me to sit across from him, on the dead man’s bed. The funeral home will have to be called, he said. I thought to myself that who he should really be calling was a doctor to issue a death certificate, and the police, but I didn’t say anything, after all, I was the police and there I was, wasn’t I? Then mi general, seeing that I wasn’t asking any questions, said that the dead man was his employee, his only employee, and that he had been with him for longer than he could remember. This man, he said, this motherfucking corpse, saved my life three times, this bastard was by my side all through the Revolution, this dead meat nursed me when I was sick and took my kids to school. He repeated this several times: he nursed me when I was sick and took my kids to school. Those words made an impression on me, boys. They summed up a whole philosophy of dedication and hard work. Then mi general looked at me again that way he had of looking at you like he was grabbing your heart and he said: you’ll go far, kid. Me, sir? I hope you’re right. And he: yes, you, jackass, but if you want to go far and hold on to what’s yours you have to keep your head on straight. Then it was as if he had fallen asleep and I thought: poor guy, the shock of finding his man dead must have exhausted him. And I started to think, too, about what he’d said to me and about other things and the truth is that suddenly I felt this great sense of calm or quiet fill me, sitting there on the dead man’s bed, across from mi general, whose head had fallen to one side and who was snoring a little. But then the general opened one eye and asked me whether I knew where Nicanor was from and I gathered that Nicanor was the dead man and I had to tell him the truth, which was that I didn’t know. Then mi general said: he was from Villaviciosa, damn it. And I took note of that. And mi general said: those jackasses are the only men in all of Mexico who can be trusted. Really, mi general? I asked. Really, he said. Then I called the funeral home and I led mi general into another room, so he wouldn’t feel bad when he saw Nicanor being put into a coffin. We talked until his lawyer and secretary got there. That was the last time I saw mi general. The next year he died,” said Don Pedro as he ordered his fifth whiskey.

“He must have been quite a man, General Sepúlveda,” said one of the policemen.

“More than a man, he was a hero,” said Pedro Negrete. The policemen nodded.

“And now get to work,” said Don Pedro. “I don’t want any bums on the force.”

The policemen got up instantly. Two of them were wearing shoulder holsters under their tracksuit jackets and the other two were carrying their guns on their hips.

“You stay here, Pancho, I want to talk to you,” said Don Pedro.

Pancho Monje said goodbye to his comrades and sat down again.

“What are you working on?” asked Don Pedro.

“The shooting in Los Álamos,” said Pancho.

“Well, you’ll have to take a break for a few days to tail a university professor. I want a complete report in a week.”

“Who’s the individual?” asked Pancho.

Don Pedro pulled a bundle of papers from his suit pocket and began to go through them one by one.

“His name is Óscar Amalfitano,” said Gumaro. “He’s Chilean. He teaches philosophy at the university.”