The Time of the Hero

by Mario Vargas Llosa

  “Then what?” Arróspide asked.

  “They looked at him sort of surprised,” Cava said. “There were ten of them, don’t forget. But that was when they took us to the stadium. Out there, a lot of others gathered around us, twenty or more, a whole gang of cadets from the Fourth. And he still laughed in their faces. ‘You’re going to initiate me, are you?’ he asked them. ‘How nice, how nice.’”

  “And?” Alberto said.

  “‘Are you a killer, Dog?’ they asked him. And listen to this, he went and jumped them. And he was still laughing. I tell you there were ten or twenty of them, maybe even more, but they couldn’t grab him. Some of them took out their belts and started swinging at him, but I swear by the Virgin they didn’t get close to him, they were all too scared, and I saw a bunch of them fall down, just listen to this, some of them were grabbing their balls, some of them had bloody noses, and all the time he kept on laughing and shouting, ‘You’re going to initiate me, are you? How nice, how nice.’”

  “Is that why you call him the Jaguar?” Arróspide asked.

  “I didn’t name him,” Cava said. “He named himself. They had him surrounded and they’d forgot all about me. They were threatening him with their belts and he started to insult them and even their mothers. Then one of them said, ‘We’ll have to show this animal to Gambarina.’ So they called over a great big cadet with a face like a bruiser. They said he was a weight-lifter.”

  “Why did they call him over?” Alberto asked.

  “So they’d fight,” Cava said. “They told him, ‘look, Dog, you think you’re so brave, here’s somebody your own size.’ So he told them, ‘they call me the Jaguar. Watch out when you call me a Dog.’”

  “Did they laugh?” someone asked.

  “No,” Cava said. “They made room for them. And he was still laughing, even while he was fighting.”

  “Who won?” Arróspide asked.

  “They didn’t fight very long,” Cava said. “I could see why they called him the Jaguar. He’s quick, he’s damned quick. He isn’t too strong, but he’s just like an eel. Gambarina strained a gut but he couldn’t grab hold of him, and the Jaguar kept giving it to him with his head and his feet again and again, and Gambarina couldn’t do a thing. So he said. ‘We’ve had enough fun for today. I’m worn out.’ But everybody could see he was all beat up.”

  “Then what?” Alberto asked.

  “That’s all,” Cava said. “They let him go and started initiating me.”

  “Go get him,” Arróspide said.

  They were squatting in a circle. A few of them had lit cigarettes, which were passed from hand to hand. The latrine began to fill up with smoke. When the Jaguar came in, behind Cava, they all realized that Cava had been lying to them: the Jaguar’s chin and cheekbones were bruised and so was his flat bulldog nose. He stood in the middle of the circle and looked at them from under his long blond lashes out of strange, violent blue eyes. The sneer on his lips seemed forced, like his insolent posture and the calculated slowness with which he studied them one by one. The same was true of his sudden, cutting laughter when it echoed in the room. But no one interrupted him. They waited, motionless, until he had finished examining them and laughing at them.

  “They say the initiation lasts a whole month,” Cava said. “We can’t put up with this shit for all that time.”

  The Jaguar nodded. “That’s right,” he said. “We’ve got to defend ourselves. We’ll get revenge on the Fourth, we’ll really make them pay for their fun. The important thing is to remember their faces, and their names and sections if you can. We’ve got to go around in groups. We’ll hold our meetings at night after taps. There’s another thing: we’ve got to think up a name for our gang.”

  “The Falcons?” someone suggested timidly.

  “No,” the Jaguar said. “That sounds like kid stuff. We’ll call ourselves the Circle.”

  Classes began the next morning. During recesses, the cadets from the Fourth bullied the Dogs by setting up duckraces: ten or fifteen Dogs, lined up in a row with their hands on their hips and their knees bent, waddled forward at the word of command, imitating the movements of a duck and quacking at the top of their voices. The losers had to form right angles. The cadets from the Fourth also frisked every one of the Dogs, taking away their money and cigarettes, and they mixed cocktails of gun grease, oil, and soap which the Dogs had to drink in one gulp, holding the glass in their teeth. The Circle began its counterattack two days later, shortly after breakfast. The three Years swarmed noisily out of the mess hall and spread across the field like a stain. Suddenly a hail of stones flew over their bare heads and a cadet from the Fourth rolled on the ground, moaning. After they fell in, they saw the wounded cadet being taken to the infirmary by his friends. On the following night, a sentry from the Fourth was attacked by masked shadows while he was sleeping on the grass. The bugler found him at day break: he had been stripped naked and tied up, his body was covered with bruises and weak from shivering in the cold. Others were stoned or beaten up. But the most daring stroke was an invasion of the kitchen to empty bags of shit in the soup kettles of the Fourth Year: this sent many of them to the infirmary with dysentery. The cadets of the Fourth were enraged by these anonymous reprisals, and carried on the initiations even more brutally. The Circle met every night, various proposals were discussed, and the Jaguar chose one of them, worked out the details, then gave his instructions. The month of automatic confinement to barracks passed quickly, in the midst of wild excitement. The tension created by the initiations and the actions of the Circle was increased by a new excitement: their first passday was approaching and their navy-blue uniforms were being made. The officers gave them an hour’s lecture each day on the conduct of a uniformed cadet in public.

  “A uniform attracts the girls like honey,” Vallano said, rolling his eyes greedily.

  It wasn’t as bad as they said, it wasn’t even as bad as I thought it was at the time, not counting what happened when Gamboa came into the latrine after taps, you can’t compare that month with the other Sundays without passes. On Sundays, that month, the Third Year took over the Academy. There was a movie in the middle of the day and then their families arrived. The Dogs wandered around the parade ground, the field, the stadium and the patios, surrounded by doting relatives. A week before the first pass, they tried on their wool uniforms: navy-blue trousers, jackets with gilt buttons, white caps. Their hair grew out slowly and they were more and more eager for the pass-day to come. After the meetings of the Circle they talked about their plans for the first pass-day. And how did he know about it, was it just by chance or did somebody squeal, and what if Huarina’d been on duty, or Lt. Cobos? Yes, at least not so fast, it seems to me that if the Circle hadn’t been discovered the section wouldn’t’ve turned into such trash, we’d’ve been sitting pretty, not so fast. The Jaguar was standing up, talking about one of the cadets from the Fourth, a brigadier. The rest of them squatted as usual as they listened to him. They kept passing around their cigarettes. The smoke rose up, bumped against the ceiling, came back down and circulated through the room like an opaque, multiform monster. “But even if he did, Jaguar, it isn’t something to kill a guy for,” Vallano said, “It’s all right to get revenge but not like that,” Urioste said, “What really stinks about all this is he might end up by losing an eye,” Pallasta said, “People get what they’re looking for,” the Jaguar said, but who knows what would’ve happened, and which came first, the bang on the door or the shout? Lt. Gamboa had either pushed open the double door with his hands or kicked it open, but the cadets went on squatting there, not hearing the noise at the door and Arróspide’s shout, but watching the stale smoke flow out into the dark barracks through the open door. It was almost filled by the tall figure of Lt. Gamboa, who was holding the halves open with both hands. The cadets dropped their cigarettes, but since they were all barefoot they could not stamp them out. They all stood at attention in rigid, exaggerated postures. Gamboa stepped on the cigare
ttes and then counted the cadets. “Thirty-two,” he said. “The whole section. Who’s the brigadier?”

  Arróspide stepped forward.

  “Tell me what’s going on here,” Gamboa said in a quiet voice. “From the beginning. And don’t leave anything out.”

  Arróspide glanced at the others out of the corner of his eye while the lieutenant waited as motionless as a tree. What about the way he complained to him? And then we were all his sons after we began complaining, and what a dirty deal, Lieutenant, you don’t know the way they initiated us, don’t men have the right to defend themselves, and what a dirty deal, Lieutenant, they beat us up, they really hurt us, they insulted our mothers, look at what happened to Montesinos, look at his ass from all those right angles, Lieutenant, and he was looking at the ceiling, what a dirty deal, without saying a word to us, except he said, just tell me the facts, never mind your remarks, speak one at a time, don’t make such a racket, you’ll wake up the other sections, and what a dirty deal, the regulations, he began reciting them, I ought to expel the whole bunch of you but the army is tolerant, it understands that you kids still don’t know about military life and respect for your superiors and team spirit, but I don’t want any more of this, Yes, Lieutenant, this time but it’s the last time I’m not going to report you, Yes, Lieutenant, all I’m going to do is hold back your first pass, Yes, Lieutenant, let’s see if you can learn to behave like men, Yes, Lieutenant, if it happens again there’ll be a court-martial, Yes, Lieutenant, so memorize the regulations if you want a pass for the Saturday after next, now get some sleep, you guards get back to your posts, I’ll be checking you in five minutes, Yes, Lieutenant.

  The Circle never met again, though later the Jaguar used the same name for his own group. That first Saturday, the first section spread out along the rusty iron railing to watch the Dogs from the other sections, proud and excited, stream out into Costanera Avenue and dye it with their shining uniforms, their immaculate white caps, their gleaming leather satchels. They saw them gang up at the battered Malecón, with the sea rasping behind it, to wait for the Miraflores-Callao bus, or go down to Palmeras Avenue to get to Progreso Avenue, which cuts through a cluster of small farms and enters Lima by way of Breña, or, in the opposite direction, swings down in a wide, smooth curve to Bellavista and Callao. They watched them all disappear, and when the avenue was empty again, and wet with fog, they still stood there with their faces against the bars until they heard the bugle calling them to the mess hall. Then they walked away, slowly and silently, leaving behind them the statue of the hero, whose blind eyes had regarded the explosive joy of the departed and the gloom of the punished section as they disappeared among the lead-colored buildings.

  That same afternoon, as they left the mess hall under the languid gaze of the vicuña, the first fight in the section broke out. I wouldn’t have let him pick on me, neither would Cava or Arróspide, who would? Nobody, just him, because the Jaguar isn’t God and everything would’ve been different if he’d talked back, or if he’d made a joke of it, or if he’d grabbed a rock or a stick, or even if he’d run away, but to start trembling, man, anything but that. They were still crowding down the stairs, and suddenly there was complete confusion and then two of them stumbled and fell down on the grass. As they sat up, thirty pairs of eyes watched them from the stairs as if from a grandstand. No one had a chance to break it up, or even to understand at first what had happened, because the Jaguar turned like a cornered cat and hit the other one square in the face without any warning and then jumped on top of him and hit him again and again on the head, in the face, on the shoulders. The cadets stared at those two unrelenting fists without even hearing how the other one said, “Excuse me, Jaguar, I didn’t mean to push you, it was just an accident, honest it was.” What he shouldn’t have done was get onto his knees, he shouldn’t have done that. And besides, when he put his palms together he looked like my mother during the novenas, or like a little kid getting first communion, you’d’ve thought the Jaguar was the Archbishop and the other one was confessing, I remember all about it, Rospigliosi said, and it made my stomach turn over, man. The Jaguar was on his feet, looking down contemptuously at the kneeling cadet, his fist still raised as if he were going to hit that livid face again. The rest of them were silent. “You make me sick,” the Jaguar said. “You haven’t got any guts or anything else. You’re just a slave.”

  “Eight-thirty,” Gamboa said. “Ten more minutes.”

  The whole class groaned and shifted in their seats. I’m going to smoke a cigarette in the latrine, Alberto thought as he signed his exam. At that same moment a little ball of paper hit his desk, rolled a few inches and came to a stop against his arm. He glanced all around before picking it up. When he raised his eyes again, Lt. Gamboa was smiling at him. I wonder if he noticed, Alberto thought. Just as he lowered his eyes the lieutenant said, “Cadet, would you like to give me that thing that just landed on your desk. The rest of you keep your mouths shut!”

  Alberto stood up. Gamboa took the ball of paper without looking at it. He uncrumpled it and held it up to the light. As he read it, his eyes were like two grasshoppers, jumping back and forth between the paper and the desks.

  “Do you know what this is, Cadet?” Gamboa asked.

  “No, Sir.”

  “The answers to the exam, that’s all. What about that? Do you know who sent you this present?”

  “No, Sir.”

  “Your guardian angel,” Gamboa said. “Do you know who he is?”

  “No, Sir.”

  “Give me your exam and sit down.” Gamboa tore it to shreds and put it on the desk. “Your guardian angel,” he said, “has got exactly thirty seconds to stand up.”

  The cadets looked at each other.

  “Fifteen seconds,” Gamboa said. “I told you thirty.”

  “I did it, Sir,” a weak voice told him.

  Alberto turned to look: the Slave was on his feet, white in the face, deaf to the laughter of the others.

  “Your name,” Gamboa said.

  “Ricardo Arana.”

  “You understand that each cadet has to answer the questions by himself?”

  “Yes, Lieutenant.”

  “Very well,” Gamboa said. “Then you also understand that I’ll have to confine you to the grounds on Saturday and Sunday. That’s how the army has to be. No favors to anybody, not even to the angels.” He looked at his watch and added, “Time’s up. Hand in your exams.”

  3

  I was in Sáenz Peña and when I left I was going back to Bellavista on foot. Sometimes I ran into Skinny Higueras, who was one of my brother’s friends before Perico was drafted by the army. He always asked me, “What do you hear from him?” “Nothing. He hasn’t written since they sent him into the jungle.” “Where are you going in such a hurry? Come on and talk for a while.” I wanted to get back to Bellavista as soon as I could, but Higueras was older than I was and he always did me the favor of treating me like someone his own age. He took me into a bar and asked me, “What’ll you have?” “I don’t know, it doesn’t matter, whatever you have.” “Okay,” Skinny said. “Waiter, two shots!” And then he slapped me on the back: “Watch out you don’t get drunk.” The pisco burned my throat and made my eyes water. “Suck a piece of lime,” he said, “it’s smoother that way. And smoke a cigarette.” We talked about soccer, about my brother, about my school. He told me a lot of things about Perico I didn’t know. I always thought he was easygoing but it turned out he liked to fight, one night he even got into a knife fight over a woman. And you’d never have guessed it but he was a ladies’ man. When Higueras told me how he’d knocked up one of his girl friends and they almost made him marry her, I couldn’t say a word. “Yes,” he said, “you’ve got a nephew who must be about four years old by now. Doesn’t that make you feel old?” But I was only delayed for a short time, because I made up an excuse to leave him. When I got home I felt very nervous and I was afraid my mother would get suspicious. I took out my books and sa
id, “I’m going to study next door,” and she didn’t say anything. She barely moved her head. Sometimes she didn’t even do that. The house next door was larger than ours, but it was also very old. Before I rang the bell I rubbed my hands together till they were red, but even so they were still sweaty. Sometimes Tere came to the door. I always felt wonderful when I saw her. But usually her aunt let me in. She was one of my mother’s friends. She didn’t like me, they say that when I was a kid I pestered her all the time. “Go study in the kitchen,” she growled, “the light’s better there.” We studied together while her aunt cooked their dinner, and the room was full of the smell of garlic and onions. Tere was always very neat, it was wonderful to see the neat covers on her books and notebooks and her small, even handwriting. There were never any blots, and she underlined all the headings in two colors. I told her, “You’re going to be a painter,” to make her laugh. Because she laughed every time I opened my mouth, in a way you couldn’t forget. It was a real honest laugh, a good loud one, and she also clapped her hands. Sometimes I’d meet her coming back from school and anybody could tell she was different from the rest of the girls, her hair was never mussed up and she never had ink spots on her fingers. What I liked best about her was her face. Her legs were too thin and you still couldn’t see her breasts, or maybe you could, but I don’t believe I ever thought about her legs or even her breasts, only about her face. If I was playing with myself at night in bed and I suddenly thought about her, I felt ashamed of myself and went to the toilet to piss. But I thought all the time about kissing her. When I closed my eyes and pictured her, I could see both of us already grown up and married. We used to study together every afternoon for at least two hours, sometimes longer, and I always lied, I said, “I’ve still got lots to do,” so we could stay in the kitchen a little longer. I’d tell her, “Look, if you’re getting tired I’ll go home,” but she never got tired. That year they gave me very high grades and all the teachers were good to me, they held me up as an example, they asked me to go to the blackboard and sometimes they made me a monitor, and the guys from Sáenz Peña called me teacher’s pet. I didn’t get along with my classmates, I’d talk with them during school but I’d leave them as soon as we got out. I only spent time with Higueras. I’d see him on a corner of the plaza in Bellavista and the minute he spotted me he’d come over. During all that time the only thing I thought about was getting back by five o’clock and the only thing I hated was Sunday. We studied together through Saturday, but on Sunday Tere and her aunt went into Lima to visit relatives, and I’d spend the whole day in the house or I’d go to Potao to watch a soccer game. My mother never gave me any money and she was always complaining about what a small pension my father left her when he died. “And think of it,” she’d say, “he served the government for thirty years.” The money was just barely enough to pay the rent and the food bills. Before I began studying with Tere I used to go to the movies sometimes with a few of the guys from school, but I think that during that whole year I never went anywhere, not even to a soccer game or anything. The year after that I had some money, but I always felt bitter when I remembered how I used to study with Tere every afternoon.