The Time of the Hero

by Mario Vargas Llosa

  “You won’t have any sister,” she said. “I forgot to tell you.” He spent the rest of the day brooding about his mistake, and it was torture to realize how he had betrayed himself. That night, in bed, but with his eyes wide open in the dark, he saw a way of making up for his blunder: he would keep his words to them to the absolute minimum, he would spend as much time as possible in the storeroom, he would… Then his thoughts were interrupted by the sound of an angry voice, and suddenly his room was rocked by a thunderous voice using words he had never heard before. It terrified him. At moments, among his father’s shouts and insults, he could hear his mother’s weak, pleading cries. There was silence for a moment, then the sound of a loud slap, and by the time his mother had screamed, “Richi!” he had already leaped out of bed. He ran to the door, opened it, and burst into the other room shouting, “Don’t hit my mamma!” He could see his mother in her nightgown, her face was dim in the shaded light, he heard her murmur something, and then a great white silhouette loomed up in front of him. He’s naked, he thought, and he was terrified again. His father hit him with his open hand and he fell down without uttering a sound. He got up again immediately but everything was spinning around him. He wanted to say that nobody had ever hit him before, he wouldn’t be hit, but before he could say it his father hit him again and he fell down on the floor. He was dazed but he could see his mother jump off the bed and his father stop her and throw her back onto it, and then he saw him coming toward him, still bellowing, and he felt himself hoisted in the air and he was back in his own room, his own bed, and the man who looked white in the darkness hit him in the face again, and he could see how the man got between himself and his mother when she came to the door, and how he dragged her away as if she were a rag doll, slamming the door behind him. Then he sank down and down in a turbulent nightmare.

  4

  He got off the bus at the Alcanfores stop and walked with long strides down the three blocks to his house. As he crossed one of the streets he passed a group of small boys. A sarcastic voice asked him, “Are you selling chocolates?” The others all laughed. Years before, he and the other boys in the neighborhood also used to shout “Chocolates for sale!” at the cadets from the Military Academy. The sky was leaden gray but the weather was not cold. The Alcanfores Inn looked deserted. His mother opened the door for him and kissed him.

  “You’re late,” she said. “Why, Alberto?”

  “The Callao streetcars are always crammed full, mamma. And they only go by once every half hour.”

  His mother had taken his bag and cap and she followed him to his room. It was a small house, all on one floor, and shining clean. Alberto took off his jacket and tie and threw them on a chair. His mother picked them up and folded them carefully.

  “Do you want lunch right now?”

  “I’d like to take a shower first.”

  “Have you missed me?”

  “Yes, mamma, a lot.”

  Alberto took off his shirt. Before he took off his trousers he put on his bathrobe: his mother had not seen him naked since he had become a cadet.

  “I’ll clean and press your uniform. It’s awfully dusty.”

  “I know,” Alberto said. He put on his slippers, opened a bureau drawer and took out a shirt, underwear, socks. Then he took a pair of gleaming black shoes out of the bedside stand.

  “I polished them this morning,” his mother said.

  “You’re going to ruin your hands. You shouldn’t have done it, mamma.”

  “Who cares about my hands?” his mother sighed. “Now that he’s deserted me…”

  “We had a real tough exam this morning,” Alberto said, interrupting her. “I didn’t do very well.”

  “Oh?” his mother murmured. “Don’t you want me to fill the tub for you?”

  “No. I’m going to take a shower.”

  “All right. I’ll go and fix our lunch.”

  She turned away and walked as far as the door.

  “Mamma.”

  She stopped in the doorway. She was a small woman, with very white hair and sunken, lifeless eyes. She was not wearing any make-up and her hair was disheveled. She had on a faded apron over her skirt. Alberto remembered the time, not too long ago, when his mother used to spend hours in front of her mirror, rubbing face cream into her wrinkles, lining her eyes, powdering her face. She went to the beauty shop every afternoon, and when she was going out somewhere, selecting a dress to wear would bring on an attack of nerves. She had changed completely after his father left her.

  “Have you seen my father?”

  She sighed again and her cheeks reddened. “Imagine it, he was here just this Thursday,” she said. “I opened the door without knowing who it was. He hasn’t got the least bit of shame, Alberto. You can’t guess what he’s like. He wanted you to go see him. He offered me money again. He wants to torture me to death.” She raised her eyes and lowered her voice: “You’ve just got to accept it, my son.”

  “I’m going to take a shower,” he said. “I’m filthy.”

  He walked past his mother, patting her head and thinking, We’ll never have a centavo. He spent a long time in the shower. After soaping himself thoroughly, he scrubbed his body with both hands and turned the water back and forth from hot to cold. As if I were trying to sober up, he thought. Then he got dressed. It was the same as on other Saturdays: his civilian clothes felt strange at first, too soft, his skin missed the harsh touch of khaki. His mother was waiting for him in the dining room. They ate lunch in silence. Each time he finished a piece of bread, his mother anxiously passed him the bread basket.

  “Are you going out?”

  “Yes, mamma. I’ve got to do an errand for a buddy who’s confined to the grounds. I’ll be back right away.”

  His mother blinked at him several times and Alberto was afraid she would start weeping.

  “I never see you at all,” she said. “When you go out you spend the whole day away from the house. Don’t you ever think of your mother?”

  “I’ll only be gone for an hour, mamma,” Alberto said uncomfortably. “Maybe even less.”

  He had been hungry when they sat down at the table, but the meal seemed endless and tasteless. Every week he dreamed about his pass, but the moment he got home he felt irritable: his mother’s overwhelming attentions were as hard to put up with as the Academy. Also, there was something new to get used to. Before, she sent him out of the house on any pretext whatsoever, in order to gossip with the flock of women friends who came to play canasta every afternoon. But now she clung only to him, begging him to give her all his free time, and Alberto spent hours listening to her complain about her tragic fate. And she always worked herself into a state where she called on God and prayed at the top of her voice. That was another difference. She had often forgotten to go to Mass at all, and Alberto had frequently caught her sniggering with her cronies about the priests and the pious hypocrites. Now she went to church almost every day, and she even had a spiritual adviser, a Jesuit she referred to as “a holy man.” She also went to novenas, and one Saturday Alberto found a life of St. Rosa of Lima on his bedside stand. His mother gathered up the dishes and brushed the crumbs off the table with her hand.

  “I’ll be back by five,” he said.

  “Berto,” she said, “I’ll buy some cookies for our tea.”

  The woman was fat and greasy and dirty. Her lank hair kept falling over her eyes and she kept pushing it back with her left hand and then scratching her head. She had a square of cardboard in her other hand, using it to fan the reluctant fire. The charcoal got damp at night and when it was lighted it smoked. The kitchen walls were black with soot and the woman’s face was thoroughly smudged. “I’m going to go blind,” she muttered. The smoke and the sparks made her eyes water, and her eyelids were always swollen.

  “What did you say?” Teresa asked from the next room.

  “Nothing,” the woman growled, bending over the pot. The soup had still not come to a boil.

  “What?�
� the girl asked.

  “Are you deaf? I said I’m going to go blind.”

  “Do you want me to help you?”

  “You don’t know how,” the woman said gruffly. She stirred the pot with one hand and picked her nose with the other. “You don’t know how to do anything. You can’t cook, you can’t sew, you can’t do a thing. Poor little you.”

  Teresa refused to reply. She had just come back from work and was cleaning up the house. Her aunt did the housework on weekdays, but on Saturdays and Sundays Teresa did it. It was not a hard job, because the house only had two rooms besides the kitchen: a bedroom, and another room that served as dining room, living room and sewing room. The house was old and rickety, and almost without furniture. “Go see your aunt and uncle this afternoon,” the woman said. “Let’s hope they won’t be as stingy as they were last month.”

  A few bubbles had finally started rising to the surface, and the woman’s eyes brightened a little.

  “I’ll go see them tomorrow,” Teresa said. “I can’t go today.”

  “You can’t?” The woman waved the piece of cardboard she used as a fan.

  “No. I’ve got a date.”

  The piece of cardboard stopped dead and the woman raised her head. Her surprise lasted for several seconds. Then she went back to fanning the fire.

  “A date?”

  “Yes.” The girl had stopped sweeping and she held the broom a few inches off the floor. “I’ve been invited to the movies.”

  “The movies? Who?”

  The soup was at a full boil now but the woman seemed to have forgotten about it. She turned toward the next room, waiting for Teresa’s answer, worried and motionless, her hair down over her forehead.

  “Who invited you?” she insisted, and began to fan her face.

  “The boy on the corner,” Teresa said, resting the broom on the floor.

  “Which corner?”

  “The brick house. The two-story one. His name’s Arana.”

  “Is that their name? Arana?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is he the one that wears a uniform?” the woman asked.

  “Yes. He’s from the Military Academy. He gets a pass today. He’s calling for me at six.”

  The woman went over to Teresa. Her bulging eyes were wide open. “He’s from a good family,” she said. “Welldressed. They’ve even got a car.”

  “Yes,” Teresa said. “A blue one.”

  “Have you ever been in it?” the woman asked her harshly.

  “No. I’ve only talked with him once, two weeks ago. He was going to come last Sunday but then he couldn’t. He sent me a letter.”

  The woman suddenly turned around and lumbered into the kitchen. The fire had gone out again, but the soup was still boiling.

  “You’re almost eighteen,” she said, pushing her hair back. “It’s time you realized it. I’ll go blind and we’ll starve to death if you don’t get around to doing something. You can’t let that boy get away. You’re lucky he’s noticed you. At your age I was already pregnant. Why did the good Lord have to give me children if He was just going to take them away from me? Bah!”

  “I know, Aunt,” Teresa said.

  As she went on with her sweeping she looked down at her high-heeled gray shoes. They were dirty and worn-out. What if Arana took her to a high-class theater?

  “Is he a soldier?” the woman asked.

  “No. He’s a cadet at the Leoncio Prado. It’s an academy like the rest, but it’s run by the army.”

  “The Academy?” The woman snorted indignantly. “I thought he was a man. Bah! You don’t care if I’m getting old. All you want is for me to die so you’ll be rid of me once and for all.”

  Alberto was tying his tie. That clean-shaven face, that well-combed head of hair, that bright white shirt, that lightcolored tie, that trim gray jacket, that handkerchief peeking out of his breast pocket, that scrubbed and elegant person reflected in the bathroom mirror, was all that really himself?

  “You’re a good boy,” his mother said from the living room. Then, sadly: “You look just like your father.”

  Alberto came out of the bathroom and leaned over to kiss her. His mother offered him her forehead. She only came up to his shoulders and he thought how fragile she was. Her hair was almost white. She doesn’t dye it any more, he thought. She looks a hundred years old.

  “Here he is!” his mother said.

  And a moment later the doorbell rang. “Don’t answer it,” his mother said when Alberto started toward the door, but she made no move to stop him.

  “Hello, papa,” Alberto said.

  His father was a short, heavily-built man, going somewhat bald. He was dressed in an impeccable blue suit, and when Alberto kissed his cheek he could smell a sharp perfume. His father smiled, patted him on the back, and glanced around the room. His mother was standing in the little hall that led to the bathroom, looking completely resigned: her head was bowed, her eyes were half-closed, her hands were folded on her skirt, and her neck was thrust forward a little as if to be helpful to the executioner.

  “Good morning, Carmela.”

  “What did you come back for?” his mother asked without moving.

  His father closed the door without the slightest embarrassment, tossed his leather brief case on a chair and then sat down, still smiling, still casual, and motioned to Alberto to sit down beside him. Alberto looked at his mother; she had not moved.

  “Carmela, come here, girl,” his father said in a breezy voice. “Let’s have a little chat. We can talk in front of Alberto, he’s a man now.”

  Alberto felt pleased. His father, unlike his mother, seemed younger, healthier, stronger. There was something irrepressible in his voice, his expressions, his gestures. Was that because he was happy?

  “There’s nothing to talk about,” his mother said. “Absolutely nothing.”

  “Come, now,” his father said. “We’re civilized people. We can settle the whole thing if you’ll just calm down.”

  “You monster! You devil!” his mother screamed. She shook her fists at him, and her usually meek face was red and contorted and her eyes were flashing. “Get out of here! This is my house! I pay the rent myself!”

  His father clapped his hands over his ears, grinning. Alberto looked at his wristwatch. His mother had begun weeping and her body was racked with sobs. She made no attempt to wipe away the tears that coursed down her cheeks.

  “Carmela, calm down,” his father said. “I don’t want a fight. Let’s try to be sensible. You can’t go on like this. It’s ridiculous. You’ve got to get out of this dump, hire some servants, start living again. You can’t let yourself go to pieces. Think of your son.”

  “Get out!” she screamed. “This is a decent home. You haven’t got any right to disgrace it. Go on, go back to your loose women. We don’t want anything to do with you. And you can keep your money too. I’ve got more than enough to educate my son.”

  “Nonsense. You’re living like a beggar,” his father said. “Don’t you have any self-respect? Why in the name of God won’t you let me give you an income?”

  “Alberto!” his mother shrieked. “Don’t let him insult me! He isn’t satisfied to disgrace me in front of all Lima. Now he wants to kill me. Do something, Alberto!”

  “Please, papa,” Alberto said dully, “please don’t fight.”

  “Keep quiet,” his father said, looking very solemn and superior. “You’re too young. Some day you’ll understand. Life isn’t so simple.”

  Alberto wanted to laugh. He remembered the day he saw his father in downtown Lima with a beautiful blonde. His father saw him too, and looked away. That night he went to his son’s room with the same pompous expression on his face and told him the very same thing.

  “Carmela,” his father went on, “I’d like to make you a proposition. Listen to me for a moment.”

  His mother froze into her tragic attitude again, but Alberto could see that she was looking at his father with a calculating expres
sion in her eyes.

  “What you’re really worried about,” his father said, “is the gossip. I can understand that. It’s important to keep up appearances.”

  “You cynic!” his mother cried, then bowed her head again.

  “Don’t interrupt me, girl. If you want, we can live together again. We’ll rent a decent house in Miraflores. Perhaps we can even get the one we used to have in Diego Ferré. Or we can live in San Antonio or wherever you want. The one thing is, I insist on having complete freedom. I want to live my own life.” He was speaking calmly, with that bright sparkle in his eyes that had surprised Alberto. “And of course we’ll have to stop having scenes. We don’t come from good families for nothing.”

  His mother was weeping noisily by now, and between her sobs she screeched insults at his father, calling him an adulterer, a degenerate, a bundle of filth. Alberto said, “Excuse me, papa. I’ve got to go out on an errand. Will you let me leave?”

  His father seemed disconcerted for a moment, but then he smiled amiably and nodded his head. “Yes, son, of course. I’ll try to convince your mother. It’s the best way out. And don’t worry about it. Study hard, you’ve got a fine future ahead of you. I’ve already told you I’ll send you to the United States next year if you do a good job on your exams.”