A friend of mine, who has probably never read Kafka, telephoned Inspector Dolores Morales the other day, who, now retired, has his own private detective office in Managua – and has also never read Kafka. He told the Inspector that everyday in Nicaragua we find ourselves in a Kafkaesque situation: former political prisoners are rearrested, violently removed from their homes without a warrant, and taken to undisclosed detention centers to be convicted of charges predetermined by faceless judges who merely fill in their names.
Inspector Morales then remembered that another friend, who has read Orwell, had told him the day before that we live in an Orwellian country where official lies seek to take precedence over the truth, creating a parallel reality that, repeated often enough, becomes pervasive. This friend, who is a professor of literature at the National Autonomous University of Nicaragua (UNAN), uses a pseudonym out of fear of losing his job because of his views.
The Inspector doesn’t know who Orwell is, but he does know what his friend is talking about. Recently, a hooded man entered Managua’s Metropolitan Cathedral and set fire to a centuries-old image of the Blood of Christ. The image, one of the most beautiful and venerated in Nicaragua, was seriously damaged. Priests, temples and images are under attack today.
The official spokesperson for the regime, Rosario Murillo, who is also Nicaragua’s vice president and first lady, hastily stated in her daily radio address that the fire was the result of an accident caused by a candle that had set light to a curtain. Once the fictional truth has been spread, it must be carried on to the bitter end, no matter how ridiculous the lie is, says the professor of literature.
Cardinal Brenes – the Archbishop of Managua – refuted Murillo’s claims, stating that the chapel doesn’t have curtains and there are no candles. Therefore, it was a premeditated act of desecration carried out by a terrorist who had planned his escape route.
In response, the police arrested the witnesses by forcibly removing them from the cathedral, and they ended up stating that they hadn’t seen any hooded men enter. The truth was already on its way to being adjusted to reflect the official version of events.
The next step was to discover a small 200ml spray bottle of alcohol at the crime, the type used for disinfecting hands. Based on this significant finding, the forensic experts concluded that the fire was caused by a chemical phenomenon known as “solvation,” where alcohol vapors were ignited by a candle.
The candle couldn’t be left out, because it was at the center of the first lady’s initial explanation – and reality should be shaped by her words. Where there are no candles, a candle appears; where there are no curtains, curtains appear out of nowhere. And the hooded terrorist ceases to exist.
Inspector Morales scratches his head and returns to the police statement: the solvation was caused by a tiny spray bottle of isopropyl alcohol. But the bottle, which fits in the palm of the hand, appears intact at the crime scene, with no visible damage despite its destructive potential.
Nobody has called him to investigate, and he has unresolved cases which he usually carries out: wives who need photographs of their husbands in their lover’s homes, surprised at the intimacy that is not advised due to social distancing. But he is passionate about the case of the incendiary fanatic – and the lies behind it.
He thus turns to another one of his friends, a chemist by profession, who also hides his name because he works for a government institution – another person who would lose his job. “The isopropyl alcohol,” he explains, “reaches its flash point at 12℃. In order for it to produce vapors that accumulate in the air – causing a similar flare-up – one would need at least 60 liters, which is approximately a barrel of alcohol.”
Inspector Morales writes down the information in his usual notebook, even if only for his own use, and then he draws up his conclusions on the case: “The regime in Nicaragua cannot stop its criminal activities. Let’s suppose the terrorist who wanted to burn the image is a fanatic who sees in the church the main enemy of the regime. Let’s suppose it wasn’t premeditated, but rather, was a spontaneous act. The regime has no choice but to justify it, to invent a candle, a curtain, a spray bottle of alcohol.” And on the next page: “they have no choice but to create that parallel lie that my friend, the professor, calls Orwellian, because the regime doesn’t have supporters, but rather accomplices who cannot be punished. That is how they wreak havoc; that is how they kill. Impunity is the price of complicity, even if the Pope contradicts them from his balcony in St. Peter’s Square. All they are left to do is protect each other, those above and those below, and that is how they all fall together.”
Later in the night he calls me, because I also count myself as one of his friends. Could you lend me a Kafka book? Which should I start with? I would recommend Metamorphosis. He asks me to explain what it is about. He listens intently: “One day, we are all going to wake up in this country as cockroaches,” he tells me, and he laughs with his laugh that I know so well.
*Translated by Isaac Norris.
