The Cubs and Other Stories

by Mario Vargas Llosa

  “Let me tell you, you look really funny that way, Señora Merceditas. I just don’t know what you look like.”

  In the darkness at the back of the inn, the Jamaican rises up like a serpent: elastically and noiselessly. He remains bent over, his hands resting on the counter. Two yards in front of him in the circle of light the woman is rigid, her face pushed forward as if she were sniffing the air: she too has heard. It was a slight but very distinct sound, coming from the left, standing out above the crickets’ singing. It bursts out again, longer: the branches in the wood crackle and break. Something is approaching the inn. “He’s not alone,” whispers the Jamaican. “There’re several of them.” He reaches into his pocket, pulls out the whistle and places it between his lips. He waits, not moving. The woman stirs and the Jamaican curses between his teeth. He sees her squirm in place and jerk her head left and right, trying to free herself from the gag. The noise has stopped: is he already on the sand, which muffles his footsteps? The woman has her face turned toward the left and her eyes, like a squashed iguana’s, bulge from their sockets. “She’s seen them,” the Jamaican mutters. He places the tip of his tongue on the whistle: the metal is sharp. Doña Merceditas goes on twisting her head and groans in anguish. The goat bleats and the Jamaican crouches down. Seconds later he sees a shadow descending over the woman and a naked arm stretching toward the gag. He blows with all his might at the same time that he jumps on the newcomer. The whistle fills the night like a fire and is lost amid the curses exploding right and left, followed by hurried footsteps. The two men have fallen on the woman. The lieutenant is fast: when the Jamaican stands up, one of his hands seizes Numa by the hair and the other holds the revolver to his temple. Four guards with rifles surround them.

  “Run!” shouts the Jamaican to the guards. “The others are in the wood. Quick! They’re going to get away. Quick!”

  “Keep still!” shouts the lieutenant. He does not take his eyes off Numa, who is trying, out of the corner of his eye, to find the revolver. He seems calm; his hands hang at his sides.

  “Sergeant Lituma, tie him up.”

  Lituma puts his rifle on the ground and uncoils the rope he has at his waist. He ties Numa by his feet and then handcuffs him. The goat has come up and, smelling Numa’s legs, begins to lick them gently.

  “The horses, Sergeant Lituma.”

  The lieutenant sticks the revolver back in his holster and bends toward the woman. He takes off the gag and the ropes. Doña Merceditas stands up and goes to Numa after kicking the goat out of the way. She strokes his forehead without saying anything.

  “What’s he done to you?” asks Numa.

  “Nothing,” says the woman. “Want a cigarette?”

  “Lieutenant,” insists the Jamaican. “Do you realize the others are there in the woods, just a few yards away? Didn’t you hear them? There must be at least three or four. What’re you waiting for? To order a search for them?”

  “Shut up, nigger,” says the lieutenant, without looking at him. He strikes a match and lights the cigarette the woman has put in Numa’s mouth. Numa begins to suck in long puffs; the cigarette is between his teeth and he blows the smoke out through his nose. “I came looking for this guy. Nobody else.”

  “Okay,” says the Jamaican. “So much the worse if you don’t know your job. I did mine. I’m free.”

  “Yeah,” says the lieutenant. “You’re free.”

  “The horses, Lieutenant,” says Lituma. He holds the reins of five animals.

  “Put him up on your horse, Lituma,” says the lieutenant. “He’ll go with you.”

  The sergeant and another guard take Numa and, after untying his feet, seat him on the horse. Lituma mounts behind him. The lieutenant moves toward the horses and takes up the reins of his own.

  “Listen, Lieutenant, who’m I going with?”

  “You?” says the lieutenant, with one foot in the stirrup. “You?”

  “Yeah,” says the Jamaican. “Who else?”

  “You’re free,” says the lieutenant. “You don’t have to come with us. You can go wherever you like.”

  From their horses, Lituma and the other guards laugh.

  “What kind of joke is this?” asks the Jamaican. His voice is trembling. “You’re not going to leave me here, are you, Lieutenant? You can hear the noises in the woods. I’ve behaved myself. I did my part. You can’t do this to me.”

  “If we ride fast, Sergeant Lituma,” says the lieutenant, “we’ll reach Piura by dawn. It’s better to travel through the desert at night. The animals don’t get so tired.”

  “Lieutenant,” shouts the Jamaican. He has grabbed the reins of the officer’s horse and shakes them frantically. “You can’t leave me here. You can’t do such a spiteful thing!”

  The lieutenant lifts one foot out of the stirrup and kicks the Jamaican away, hard.

  “We’ll have to gallop from time to time,” says the lieutenant. “Think it’ll rain, Sergeant Lituma?”

  “I don’t think so, Lieutenant. Sky’s clear.”

  “You can’t leave without me!” the Jamaican hollers at the top of his voice.

  Señora Merceditas begins to laugh loudly, holding her stomach.

  “Let’s get moving,” says the lieutenant.

  “Lieutenant!” shouts the Jamaican. “Please, Lieutenant, please!”

  Slowly the horses go off. The Jamaican watches them, dazed. The light from the lamp shines on his contorted face. Señora Merceditas continues to laugh thunderously. Suddenly she grows quiet. She cups her hands around her mouth.

  “Numa!” she shouts. “I’ll bring you fruit on Sundays.”

  Then she starts laughing again at the top of her lungs. Out of the wood comes the sound of snapping branches and dry leaves.

  On Sunday

  He held his breath for an instant, dug his fingernails into the palms of his hands and said very quickly: “I’m in love with you.” He saw her blush suddenly, as if someone had slapped her cheeks, which were radiantly pale and very smooth. Terrified, he felt his confusion rising in him, petrifying his tongue. He wanted to run away, to put an end to it: in the gloomy winter morning there rose up from deep inside him the weakness that always discouraged him at decisive moments. A few minutes before, in the midst of the lively, smiling crowd strolling in Miraflores’ Central Park, Miguel was still repeating to himself: “Right now. When we get to Pardo Avenue. I’ll get up the nerve. Oh, Rubén, if you knew how much I hate you!” And still earlier at church, seeking out Flora, he had glimpsed her at the base of a column and, opening a path with his elbows without begging pardon of the women he was pushing aside, succeeded in getting close to her. Saying hello in a low voice, he repeated to himself, stubbornly, as he had that dawn lying in his bed, watching day break: “There’s no other way. I’ve got to do it today. In the morning. You’ll pay for this yet, Rubén.” And the night before, he had cried for the first time in many years when he realized how that dirty trick was being planned. People were staying in the park and Pardo Avenue was deserted. They walked down the tree-lined promenade under the tall, densely crowned rubber trees. I’ve got to get a move on, Miguel thought, if I’m not going to foul myself up. Out of the corner of his eye he looked around him: there was no one about; he could try. Slowly, he stretched out his left hand until it touched hers; the contact made him aware that he was sweating. He begged for some miracle to happen, for that humiliation to be over. What do I say to her now? he thought. What do I say to her now? She had pulled back her hand and he was feeling forsaken and silly. All his brilliant lines, feverishly rehearsed the night before, had dissolved like soap bubbles.

  “Flora,” he stammered, “I’ve waited a long time for this moment. Ever since I met you, you’re all I think about. I’m in love for the first time, believe me. I’ve never known a girl like you.”

  Once again a compacted white space in his brain—a void. The pressure could not get any higher: his skin gave way like rubber and his fingernails struck bone. Still, he wen
t on talking with difficulty, pausing, overcoming his embarrassed stammer, trying to describe an impulsive, consuming passion until he found with relief that they had reached the first circle on Pardo Avenue, and then he fell silent. Flora lived between the second and third trees past the oval. They stopped and looked at each other: Flora was still red, and being flustered had filled her eyes with a moist brightness. Despairing, Miguel told himself that she had never looked more beautiful: a blue ribbon held her hair back and he could see the start of her neck as well as her ears, two tiny, perfect question marks.

  “Look, Miguel,” Flora said; her voice was gentle, full of music, steady. “I can’t answer you right now. But my mother doesn’t want me to go with boys till I finish school.”

  “Flora, all mothers say the same thing,” Miguel insisted. “How’s she going to find out? We’ll see each other whenever you say, even if it’s only on Sundays.”

  “I’ll give you an answer but first I’ve got to think it over,” Flora said, lowering her eyes. And after several seconds she added: “Excuse me, but I have to go now; it’s getting late.”

  Miguel felt a deep weariness, a feeling that spread throughout his entire body and relaxed him.

  “You’re not mad at me, Flora?” he asked humbly.

  “Don’t be silly,” she replied animatedly. “I’m not mad.”

  “I’ll wait as long as you want,” Miguel said. “But we’ll keep on seeing each other, won’t we? We’ll go to the movies this afternoon, okay?”

  “I can’t this afternoon,” she said softly. “Martha’s asked me over to her house.”

  A hot, violent flush ran through him and he felt wounded, stunned at this answer, which he had been expecting and which now seemed cruel to him. What Melanés had insidiously whispered into his ear Saturday afternoon was right. Martha would leave them alone; it was the usual trick. Later Rubén would tell the gang how he and his sister had planned the situation, the place and the time. As payment for her services, Martha would have demanded the right to spy from behind the curtain. Anger suddenly drenched his hands.

  “Don’t be like that, Flora. Let’s go to the matinee like we said. I won’t talk to you about this. I promise.”

  “I can’t, really,” Flora said. “I’ve got to go to Martha’s. She stopped by my house to ask me yesterday. But later I’ll go to Salazar Park with her.”

  He did not see any hope even in those last words. A little later he was gazing at the spot where the frail, angelic figure had disappeared under the majestic arch of the rubber trees along the avenue. It was possible to compete with a mere adversary, not with Rubén. He recalled the names of girls invited by Martha, other Sunday afternoons. Now he was unable to do anything; he was defeated. Then, once more, there came to mind that image which saved him every time he experienced frustration: out of a distant background of clouds puffed up with black smoke, at the head of a company of cadets from the naval academy, he approached a reviewing stand set up in the park; illustrious men in formal attire with top hats in hand, and ladies with glittering jewels were applauding him. A crowd, in which the faces of his friends and enemies stood out, packed the sidewalks and watched him in wonder, whispering his name. Dressed in blue, a full cape flowing from his shoulders, Miguel led the march, looking toward the horizon. His sword was raised, his head described a half circle in the air; there at the center of the reviewing stand was Flora, smiling. He saw Rubén off in one corner, in tatters and ashamed, and confined himself to a brief, disdainful glance as he marched on, disappearing amid hurrahs.

  Like steam wiped off a mirror, the image vanished. He was at the door of his house; he hated everyone, he hated himself. He entered and went straight up to his room, throwing himself face down on the bed. In the cool darkness, the girl’s face appeared between his eyes and their lids—“I love you, Flora,” he said out loud—and then Rubén with his insolent jaw and hostile smile: the faces were alongside each other; they came closer. Rubén’s eyes twisted in order to look at him mockingly while his mouth approached Flora.

  He jumped up from the bed. The closet mirror showed him an ashen face with dark circles under the eyes. “He won’t see her,” he decided. “He won’t do this to me; I won’t let him play that dirty trick on me.”

  Pardo Avenue was still deserted. Stepping up his pace without pausing, he walked to the intersection at Grau Avenue. He hesitated there. He felt cold: he had left his jacket in his room and just his shirt was not enough to protect him from the wind blowing off the sea and tangling itself with a soft murmuring in the dense branches of the rubber trees. The dreaded image of Flora and Rubén together gave him courage and he continued walking. From the doorway of the bar next to the Montecarlo movie house, he saw them at their usual table, lords of the corner formed by the rear and left-hand walls. Francisco, Melanés, Tobias, the Brain—they all noticed him and after a moment’s surprise turned toward Rubén, their faces wicked and excited. He recovered his poise immediately: in front of men he certainly did know how to behave.

  “Hello!” he said to them, drawing near. “What’s new?”

  “Sit down,” said the Brain, pushing a chair toward him. “What miracle’s brought you here?”

  “You haven’t been around here for ages,” Francisco said.

  “I felt like seeing you,” Miguel answered pleasantly. “I knew you’d be here. What’s so surprising? Or aren’t I one of the Hawks anymore?”

  He took a seat between Melanés and Tobias. Rubén was across from him.

  “Cuncho!” shouted the Brain. “Bring another glass. One that’s not too greasy.”

  Cuncho brought the glass and the Brain filled it with beer. Miguel said, “To the Hawks,” and drank.

  “You might as well drink the glass while you’re at it,” Francisco said. “You sure are thirsty!”

  “I bet you went to one o’clock mass,” said Melanés, winking in satisfaction as he always did when he was starting some mischief. “Right?”

  “I did,” Miguel said, unruffled. “But just to see a chick, nothing else.”

  He looked at Rubén with defiant eyes but Rubén did not let on; he was drumming his fingers on the table and whistling very softly, with the point of his tongue between his teeth, Pérez Prado’s “The Popoff Girl.”

  “Great!” applauded Melanés. “Okay, Don Juan. Tell us, which chick?”

  “That’s a secret.”

  “There are no secrets between Hawks,” Tobias reminded him. “You forget already? C’mon, who was it?”

  “What’s it to you?” Miguel asked.

  “A lot,” Tobias said. “Got to know who you’re going around with to know who you are.”

  “You lost that round,” Melanés said to Miguel. “One to nothing.”

  “I’ll bet I can guess who it is,” Francisco said. “You guys don’t know?”

  “I do already,” Tobias said.

  “Me too,” said Melanés. He turned to Rubén with very innocent eyes and voice. “And you, brother, can you guess who it is?”

  “No,” said Rubén coldly. “And I don’t care.”

  “My stomach’s on fire,” said the Brain. “Nobody’s going to get a beer?”

  Melanés drew a pathetic finger across his throat. “I have not money, darling,” he said in English.

  “I’ll buy a bottle,” announced Tobias with a solemn gesture. “Let’s see who follows my example. We’ve got to put out the fire in this booby.”

  “Cuncho, bring half a dozen bottles of Cristal,” said Miguel.

  There were shouts of joy, exclamations.

  “You’re a real Hawk,” Francisco declared.

  “A friendly son of a bitch,” added Melanés. “Yeah, a real super Hawk.”

  Cuncho brought the beers. They drank. They listened to Melanés telling dirty, crude, wild, hot stories and Tobias and Francisco started up a heavy discussion about soccer. The Brain told an anecdote. He was on his way from Lima to Miraflores by bus. The other passengers got off at Arequipa Av
enue. At the top of Javier Prado, Tomasso, the White Whale, got on—that albino who’s six feet four and still in grammar school, lives in Quebrada, you with me? Pretending to be really interested in the bus, he started asking the driver questions, leaning over the seat in front of him while he was slowly slitting the upholstery on the back of the seat with his knife.

  “He was doing it because I was there,” asserted the Brain. “He wanted to show off.”

  “He’s a mental retard,” said Francisco. “You do things like that when you’re ten. They’re not funny at his age.”

  “What happened afterwards is funny.” The Brain laughed. “‘Listen, driver, can’t you see that whale’s destroying your bus?’”

  “What?” yelled the driver, screeching to a stop. His ears burning, his eyes popping out, Tomasso the White Whale was forcing the door open.

  “With his knife,” the Brain said. “Look how he’s left the seat.”

  At last the White Whale managed to get out. He started running down Arequipa Avenue. The driver ran after him, shouting, “Catch that bastard!”

  “Did he catch him?” Melanés asked.

  “Don’t know. I beat it. And I stole the ignition key as a souvenir. Here it is.”

  He took a small, silver-plated key out of his pocket and tossed it onto the table. The bottles were empty. Rubén looked at his watch and stood up.

  “I’m going,” he said. “See you later.”

  “Don’t go,” said Miguel. “I’m rich today. I’ll buy us all lunch.”

  A flurry of slaps landed on his back; the Hawks thanked him loudly, they sang his praises.

  “I can’t,” Rubén said. “I’ve got things to do.”

  “Go on, get going, boy,” Tobias said. “And give Martha my regards.”

  “We’ll be thinking of you all the time, brother,” Melanés said.

  “No,” Miguel yelled out. “I’m inviting everybody or nobody. If Rubén goes, that’s it.”