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For a Bowl of Soup [a Short Story of Murder in Lima]

Foreword: I have found it necessary to change the names—at the same time, to remove part of the name—of the persons mentioned in this article; venal sin at best. In any case, the names don’t matter as long as the source of the story reflects the truth that lies beneath the scene, and the reader will definitely identify with the characters if they want to.

Twenty-five years have passed since this happened. When I asked about this, I spoke to the psychologist who was involved in the case, and I asked him why he did what he did, and his answer was, “Because of a bowl of soup, I quit my job.” To be fair, I thought at the time. Because after he killed his patient, there was no more murder in Lima, Peru. But I am moving forward with my story. Let’s go back twenty-five years or so, in this historical fiction (setting the events before the arrest).

It was a very hot day in Lima, Peru, in the late 1970’s, I didn’t know why I was there, the place to be I thought was as good as any other place. What I heard was about a murder, and the police were finding body parts all over the city. It had nothing to do with me but I couldn’t help but wonder how it could be, being cut alive and parts of my body buried all over the city, and suddenly, someone found an arm or a leg and said: “Hay. , look here! They were all talking about killing a lot of people whom they named: “The Butcher of Lima.”

I admit, I couldn’t think of anything worse in the world.

I kept hearing about Butcher, Butcher, on the radio, on television, in cafés and reading about him in newspapers, as if there was no other story. He was the star of Lima, famous. So it’s no wonder that I couldn’t get him out of my mind.

Lima had its problems, without this person I thought, and that was enough. It was 11:00 in the morning. I came out of a sweaty dream; as macabre as they get. When I went to get a taxi to eat at my favorite café in Miraflores, the streets were as hot as a gun that had just been fired. The summer dust is being washed away for a few days.

I had eggs and hash browns for breakfast; and behind the face of Marybell, my waitress – a young woman, with two twin sons, very beautiful – she, like everyone in Lima, shuddered and opened the paper to see what evil the Witch might have done. last night. I moved the paper a little, not looking at it too long, thinking that some people would think that I like to read nonsense, but everyone is doing the same thing. So, I didn’t leave the site with its filth exposed for too long.

(I knew that something was wrong, my senses told me that, it told me that this constant killing was so unpleasant for me that I could just stop; because the whole city shook because of it. in Miraflores, to be like shaking, as I did in the Plaza de Armas a few kilometers away trying to think if I could search my friends at the hotel and researching more about this story.)

I have to have a long vacation, and if I work. I often connected them both. I was trying to finish a book that wasn’t about mass murder. But this was becoming a concern for me, however. I became known as an American writer in Lima, and the presentation of my old book at a bookstore. So, I had some news in the newspaper, as well as an interview with the television station, and an urgent matter at the university. This attracted the attention of my friends at the hotel, especially in the dining room; writers and journalists who had to publish the story: that, The Butcher of Lima.

“Just look at what is happening in this country,” said one of the customers in the hotel’s dining room. “We can no longer walk the streets at night!” I didn’t really want to buy their grief, not mine, or them. I just want to go to my wedding-the Ol-way; you know, from typeface to typeface, and from hotel to hotel; and leave them with abominable things.

There were six of us at the hotel, writers and journalists that I knew; or they all claim to be of this race. In any case, we discussed the case at hand, that of the Butcher that it would be a good story if one of us knew who he was and exposed him. As for me, I let them know, I didn’t want to get the benefit of finding him, I like lazy things. None of them seemed willing to investigate the matter more closely, although all their expenses were paid by their employers: two boys from New York City, one from Chicago, and another from Detroit; and another from the same Lima; and I from St. Old Paul, Minnesota.

So there were six of us at the hotel on one floor; room after room, all facing each other; three rooms on one side, and three on the other. It reminded me of a barracks: beds and rooms piled close together. Surprisingly, it was a hotel where women, single women were not on the same floor as us. And the rich were above us. I saw them as I was leaving the hotel in the sun, yawning and stretching, trying to wash off the drunken night.

Diaz

It got to the point where Diaz harassed me.

I have never known anyone like him.

I don’t know where they came from, probably Peru, so it was seen at the time. He had a thin face, a long tongue, it always seemed to obstruct his breathing, and when he opened his mouth there were teeth before it. He had bright black hair. His mouth had a proud tinge to it, as if the world was stupider than he was, and he could outdo them, if he wanted to at any time.

Diaz chose me immediately when I arrived at the hotel. They made me smarter than all the other TVs in the hotel. He used to sit next to me at the bar when we all sat down and talked about what was worth talking about, and he would say to me under his breath, in a clear, sarcastic tone.

He knows, and blames the others for not getting to kill more people, if they could have tried. But he was lazy like everyone else. However, I didn’t say anything about that, let them rest when they fell asleep I told myself. Let me repeat myself, he was not happy with many people at the hotel, including me, he once said, “…you are all very lazy people who are attracted to the puss of life.” Well, so be it, I thought to myself, maybe he was right. We all seem to have a magnet when it comes to gangsters and killers, making them famous if not heroes somewhere. As I said, I left alone, just wondering if he fell into his group. Or he was too close to the mountain to see.

He had a charming smile, which clung to him with some kind of mesmeric power. It reminded me of a charismatic preacher who can change his mind to fit the sermon.

“You know my friend,” he says, “no one cares how the matter ends, as long as the money is paid.”

Diaz lit a cigarette, and blew the smoke in my face, I walked away and was tied.

“You see how hard it is to get you to move,” he said with a happy gasp from his stomach.

“I bet your ex-wife can handle all the moves you make,” he added with a serious look on his face.

–The city and the summer didn’t do much to make me dirty, I looked as depressed as any gringo, white that is, white as a ghost. Many conversations with Diaz made me cynical if not, very intelligent and sometimes sarcastic.

I didn’t know what was going to happen down the road, but I knew very well that Diaz was going to do something, and call it a military intelligence. He showed unusual tendencies toward danger. He passed through the streets as if no car could hit him. He sat on the window sill as if he would not fall. The list goes on but he had blue blood I believe.

Morning at the Café

One night I did not join Diaz in the dining-room, and when I read the morning paper in the restaurant I was accustomed to in Miraflores the next morning, my insides suddenly went numb, and the expression on my face must have looked twice as dumb. Marybell nodded at me, wanting to know if I wanted to order breakfast, as I took my seat in the outdoor café – luckily; his eyes followed me behind the paper, it was open on the table, I was speechless. He looked at me and started laughing.

Laughter was supposed to tell me, but I said, “What’s so funny?”

The traffic around the restaurant was slow, honking as usual, but I didn’t hear much. I sat tight.

“Okay,” I replied.

“It’s your friend Diaz – he… he’s the ‘Butcher!” He was scared inside I could see.

To this day I don’t remember what I said, or even if I smiled. I think I tried to do that, which is natural for me. All I remember was the awful silence that came over me, until someone said, “Hey you!” which awakened myself and Marybell, and from our thoughts as we live.

Note: Posted at the cafe in Roseville, Barnes and Noble, 5/20/05

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