PERSPECTIVEnTHE PTERODACTYLS OF LIMA by Momcilo Selicn”Whitman can sing confidently and in blitheninnocence about democracy militant becausenAmerican Utopia is confused with andnindistinguishable from American reality.”n—Octavio Paz, Walt WhitmannAs we left for Ayacucho, Lucho Monasi Cockburn tooknout his machete from under his car seat and put itnbetween the two of us. “It’s a bad road,” he said and lookednat me. His eyes were blue, almost lost between the wrinklesnof his smile. “One cholo less or more, who cares!”nI looked at his machete, in its tooled leather scabbard.n”Permiso?” I said and took it out. It was dull and rusty.n”Sefior,” said Jorge, as we sat in an Ayacucho hotel bar.n”What kind of a country are we, what kind of people?”nJorge was a cholo drinking his 15th bottle of beer. “To yournhealth, Sefior,” he said, raising his glass.n”Salud compadre,” I said. “I can see that you are notnalways happy.”nAfterwards, I listened to Jorge caress his black, worn-outnguitar, coaxing her to sound like a blind beggar’s flute—thenreed flute of the Andes, which the Indios play to tell thenworld of their existence.nThen Jorge sang some marineras from the coast, as sad asnthe mountain music. “Know any Mexican tunes?” I askednhim.n”I know everything, Sefior, I’m an artist,” he said, andnwent on singing his marineras.n”The gringito’s been looking for you,” said Jorge, whennwe met in Cuzco next night.n”Which gringito?”n”The little one from Ayacucho, who listened as wensang.”n”Oh, Oscar,” I said. “But Oscar’s not a gringo. He’snPeruvian, like you.nI could see Jorge laughing slyly. “Sure,” he said.nIn Peru, as elsewhere, people hate each other. LuchonMonasi Cockburn, the traveling salesman, took out a dullnmachete to defend himself from half-breeds, laughing as hendid that, but the quarrel between different sorts of Peruviansnwas not a lovers’ one. Both Jorge and Oscar hated the Indiosnfor different reasons. The Indians, on the other hand,nwatched the world impassively, defeated as no other peoplenI have ever seen.n”It all began with a suspicion (perhaps exaggerated) thatnthe Gods did not know how to talk. Centuries of fell andnfugitive life had atrophied the human element in them; thenmoon of Islam and the cross of Rome had been implacablenwith these outlaws. Very low foreheads, yellow teeth, stringynmulatto or Chinese mustaches and thick bestial lips showednthe degeneracy of their Olympian lineage. Their clothingncorresponded not to a decorous poverty hut rather to thensinister luxury of the gambling houses and brothels of thenBajo. A carnation bled crimson in a lapel and the bulge of anknife was outlined beneath a close-fitting jacket. Suddenlynwe sensed that they were playing their last card, that theynwere cunning, ignorant and cruel like old beasts of prey andnthat, if we let ourselves be overcome by fear or piety, theynwould finally destroy us.n”We took out our heavy revolvers (all of a sudden therenwere revolvers in the dream) and joyfully killed the Gods.”n—Jorge Luis Borges, RagnaroknI had a feeling that the Indios were forever wordless, theirnlips like slashes in their faces. Even their children werensilent, questioning with their eyes—everyone and every-nnnAUGUST1987/9n