Death in Veracruz Read Free Page A

you?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œIt’s the carnival of Corpus Cristi in Papantla.”
    â€œDid they get killed at the carnival?”
    â€œIn part. They all died in the same incident.”
    He waited for me to ask about the incident. I asked, “What incident?”
    â€œAt the market in Papantla,” he explained. “The police report said a group of armed men burst into the market screaming insults against Antonio Malerva. This guy.”
    He pointed to a naked man with a big belly on the top row with two punctures in his ribs. He had a large mustache and a thinning curl of pompadour.
    â€œHe was eating lunch at a food stall when they caught up with him,” Rojano went on. “Witnesses said shooting broke out, and the death toll is what you’re looking at. But there’s a problem.”
    He paused, waiting for me to ask what problem.
    â€œWhat problem?” I asked.
    â€œAntonio Malerva was unarmed,” Rojano said and again fell silent as if certain of the effect this revelation would have.
    Granting the effect of the revelation and with due curiosity, I asked the required question. “Then who did the shooting?”
    â€œNo one knows. The fact is that none of the attackers were killed. The other fatalities were the woman who owned the food stall and her daughter.”
    He pointed to the photos on the right in the lower row: a woman with Indian features who had been shot in the neck; and a girl with full lips and two bullet holes in her adolescent breasts.
    â€œThe two customers eating next to Malerva were also killed,” Rojano continued. “Prospero Tlamatl, a local Indian who helped at the church during carnival. He was identified by the priest.” He pointed to the left end of lower row: two shots to the neck, a blood soaked dress shirt, and a jaundiced complexion that contrasted with a scruffy whitish beard.
    â€œAnd this last guy’s nameless. He was never identified.” He now pointed to the emaciated effigy of a peasant with leathery skin and no teeth whose blazing, half-open eyes recalled the photo of the dead Che Guevara.
    â€œWhat makes this guy last?” I asked. “You’ve got three photos to go.”
    From left to right next to the shot of Malerva were thephotos of a man, a woman, and the child who caught my eye first.
    â€œThat’s precisely what I’m getting to.” Rojano said. He placed them in the middle of the desk. “What strikes you about them?”
    First of all, they were bloodier than the others. The only blood-free part of the woman’s face was the tip of her nose. It was a classical face, the kind an artist might draw with a straight nose descending from a rounded forehead to flaring nostrils. Her widely spaced eyes lay deep in their sockets, and her high cheekbones all but disappeared in their final ascent to her temples from which a liquid seemed to flow, covering her lifeless features with a patina of wax.
    â€œThey belong to the same family,” Rojano said. He pointed to the adults. “Raul Garabito, who was a farmer, and his wife. The child is theirs. Now look closely. There are bullet wounds in the Garabitos’ bodies just like the others. The women and the child have wounds to the chest, the man’s are in his abdomen and ribs.” He pointed with his pen to the wounds in the photos. “But look carefully at their heads.”
    There followed the requisite pause.
    â€œDo you see the problem with their heads?”
    I nodded mechanically.
    â€œI’m talking about the source of the bleeding.” Rojano sounded vaguely impatient.
    â€œFrom the wounds,” I said.
    â€œFrom the wounds to the forehead,” Rojano asserted. “That’s exactly the problem.”
    I drained what remained of my drink and once again put myself on the line. “What exactly is the problem?”
    â€œThey were all killed, but the only ones they made sure of were the ones