The Time of the Hero

by Mario Vargas Llosa

  Alberto ran to the barracks, his heart bursting with impatience. He met Arróspide in the doorway. “We aren’t confined any more,” he said. “The captain must’ve gone crazy.”

  “No,” Arróspide said. “Haven’t you heard? Somebody ratted. Cava’s in the guardhouse.”

  “What? You mean they squealed on him? Who did it?”

  “That’s what we’re going to find out,” Arróspide said.

  Alberto went into the barracks. As on all important occasions, the atmosphere had changed, and the clump of his boots sounded strange in the tense silence. Many pairs of eyes followed him from the bunks. He went to his own bunk and gave a look around: the Jaguar, Curly and the Boa were all absent. Vallano was reading a comic book on the next bunk.

  “Do they know who it was?” Alberto asked.

  “It’ll get out,” Vallano said. “They can’t expel Cava without it getting out.”

  “Where are the others?”

  Vallano nodded toward the latrine.

  “What are they doing?”

  “It’s a meeting. I don’t know what they’re doing.”

  Alberto got up and went over to the Slave’s bunk. It was empty. He pushed open one half of the latrine door. He could tell that the whole section was watching him. They were hunched in a corner, the three of them, with the Jaguar in the middle. They glared at him.

  “What do you want?” the Jaguar asked.

  “To take a leak,” Alberto said. “I believe it’s allowed.”

  “No,” the Jaguar said. “Get out.”

  Alberto turned back into the barracks and went over to the Slave’s bunk again.

  “Where is he?”

  “Who?” Vallano asked without raising his eyes from the comic book.

  “The Slave.”

  “He got a pass.”

  “What?”

  “He left after class.”

  “With a pass? Are you sure?”

  “How else would they let him out? His mother’s sick, I think.”

  That squealer, that liar, I might’ve known from that face of his, why did he get a pass, maybe his mother really is dying, if I go in the latrine and say Jaguar the Slave’s the squealer, you can’t do anything right now because he’s out on pass, he made everybody believe his mother’s sick, but don’t worry, it won’t be long, let me join the Circle, I want to get revenge for that peasant Cava too. But Cava’s face had vanished into a mist that also obscured the Circle and the rest of the barracks. It lessened the anger and contempt that had overwhelmed him a moment before, but in its turn the mist dissolved and he saw that pale face with its sorry attempt at a smile. Alberto went to his bunk and lay down. He searched his pockets but only found a few shreds of tobacco. He swore. Vallano raised his eyes from his comic book and looked at him for a moment. Alberto put an arm over his face. He felt a tremendous anxiety and his nerves prickled under his skin. He had a vague fear that someone would somehow detect the hell that was inside of him, and to hide it he yawned noisily. I’m an idiot, he thought. He’ll wake me up tonight and I know what kind of a look he’ll have, I can see him as if he were here, as if he were here, as if he were telling me you double-crosser you invited her to the movies and you wrote to her and she wrote back and you never told me anything about it and you let me talk about her all the time, that’s why you let, why you didn’t want, why you said, but no, he won’t have time to open his mouth or wake me up because I’ll jump him before he touches me, before he gets to my bed, I’ll knock him down and I’ll keep on punching him and I’ll yell get up everybody I’ve got the shit-assed squealer that told on Cava. But these thoughts became tangled with others and he was oppressed by the continuing silence in the barracks. When he opened his eyes he could make out, through the narrow slit between his shirtsleeve and his face, a few fragments of the barracks windows, the ceiling, the almost black sky, the glow from the lights around the parade ground. He could be there right now, he could be getting off the bus and walking through those streets at Lince, he could be with her already, he could be asking her to be his girl friend, with that disgusting look on his face, I hope he never comes back, mamma, and you’re abandoned there in your house in Alcanfores and I’m going to abandon you too, I’m going to the United States and you’ll never hear from me again, but first I swear I’ll smash his creepy face and I’ll stomp on him and I’ll tell everybody look how I took care of this squealer, smell him, touch him, feel him, and I’ll go to Lince and I’ll tell her you’re a cheap little broad and you’re just right for that squealer I just finished beating up. He lay rigid on his narrow bunk, staring at the mattress above him: it seemed ready to break through the wire network that held it up, and to fall on him, to crush him.

  “What time is it?” he asked Vallano.

  “Seven.”

  He got up and went out. Arróspide was still in the doorway, his hands thrust in his pockets; he was looking intently at two cadets who were arguing at the top of their voices in the middle of the patio.

  “Arróspide.”

  “What?”

  “I’m going out.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “I mean I’m going to jump over the wall.”

  “It’s all the same to me. Go speak to the sentries.”

  “Not at night,” Alberto said. “I want to go right now. While they’re marching to the mess hall.”

  This time Arróspide looked at him with interest.

  “I’ve got to,” Alberto said. “It’s very important.”

  “A date or a fiesta?”

  “Will you report me present?”

  “I don’t know,” Arróspide said. “If they find out they’ll screw me too.”

  “All they do is fall in,” Alberto said. “Just report that everybody’s present.”

  “Okay,” Arróspide said. “But that’s all. If there’s another formation I’ll report you absent.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  “The best way out is through the stadium,” Arróspide said. “Go and hide there right now, they’ll be blowing the whistle any minute.”

  “Yes, I know,” Alberto said. He went back into the barracks and opened his locker. He had two soles, enough for the bus fare.

  “Who are the sentries on the first two watches?” he asked Vallano.

  “Baena and Curly.”

  He spoke with Baena, who agreed to report him present. Then he went to the latrine. The three cadets were still in a huddle. When he saw him the Jaguar got up. “Didn’t you understand me?”

  “I have to speak to Curly for a minute.”

  “Go speak to your mother. Get out of here.”

  “I’m going to jump over the wall. Right now. I want Curly to report me present.”

  “You mean right now?” the Jaguar asked.

  “Yes.”

  “All right,” the Jaguar said. “Did you hear about Cava? Who was it?”

  “If I knew, I’d’ve beaten the hell out of him. What do you think I am? You know I’m not a squealer.”

  “I hope not,” the Jaguar said. “For your own good.”

  “Whoever it is, don’t touch him,” the Boa said. “Just leave him to me.”

  “Shut up,” the Jaguar said.

  “Bring me a pack of Incas,” Curly said, “and I’ll report you present.”

  Alberto nodded. As he went back into the barracks he heard the whistle and the voice of the noncom ordering them to fall in. He ran out among the assembling cadets, crossed the patio, and then ran along the parade ground, covering his insignia with his hands in case he ran into an officer from another Year. At the barracks of the Third the battalion had already fallen in. He stopped running and walked quickly but naturally. He saluted the officer in charge as he went by. The officer returned the salute automatically. When he reached the safety of the stadium, far away from the barracks, he felt a profound relief. He skirted the soldiers’ quarters, where he could hear them talking and swearing, and ran along the boundary wall to the corner. The bric
ks and adobes that had served for other escapes were still lying there. He dropped to the ground and looked back very cautiously toward the barracks, which were separated from him by the rectangular green expanse of the soccer field. He could see almost nothing but he could hear the sound of whistles: the battalions were marching to the mess hall. He could not see anyone near the soldiers’ quarters either. Without standing up he gathered a few of the bricks and piled them against the foot of the wall. What if he was not strong enough to hoist himself up? He had always jumped over the wall on the other side of the grounds, next to “La Perlita.” He took a last look around him, jumped to his feet, climbed up on the bricks and raised his arms.

  The surface of the wall was uneven. Alberto pulled himself up until his eyes were above the top of the wall. He could see the empty fields, almost in darkness now, and beyond them the neat row of palm trees that lined Progreso Avenue. A few seconds later he slipped back, and could only see the wall, but his hands still gripped the top. That’s right, I swear to God you’re going to pay me for it, Slave, you’re going to pay me in front of her, if I fall and break a leg they’ll call my house and if my father comes I’ll tell him what happened, they’re expelling me for jumping over the wall but you left our house to go chasing your whores, that’s worse. His knees and feet clung to the rough surface of the wall, they braced themselves in the cracks, they fumbled their way upward. When he reached the top, he hunched there like a monkey just long enough to pick out a bit of level ground. Then he jumped, landed and rolled over, closed his eyes, rubbed his head and his knees, sat up, got up on his feet. He began to run across a plowed field, trampling on the seedlings. His feet sank into the soft earth and he could feel the shoots pricking his ankles. Some of them broke under his boots. And what a fool, anybody could see me, could tell who I am from my cap and my insignia, that’s a cadet, he’s running away, like my father, and what if I went to see Golden Toes, but mamma please that’s enough, after all you’re old now and you’ve still got your religion, but those two are going to pay for all this, along with that old witch of an aunt, that madame, that lousy seamstress, that gabby bitch. There was no one at the busstop. The bus arrived at the same time he did and he had to jump on while it was in motion. Once again he felt a profound calmness. He was squeezed in among a crowd of people. He could not see anything from the windows because the night had fallen, but he knew the bus was traveling past the empty fields, the small farms, a factory or two, a slum section with tin and cardboard shacks, the bull ring. And he went in, he said hello to her with that cowardly smile, she said hello sit down, that old witch came out and started gabbing and calling him señor and then she went out and left them alone, and he said I’ve come here to, in order to, I mean that I, don’t you know that I, the thing is that I, that I sent word with—er—Alberto, oh yes he took me to the movies but that’s all and yes I did write to him but I’m really crazy about you and then they kissed or they’re kissing or they’ll be kissing, mouth to mouth, dear God let them be kissing when I get there, let them be stark naked dear God. He got off at Alfonso Ugarte and walked toward the Bolognesi Plaza, weaving among the clerks and officials who were coming out of the cafés or standing in groups on the corners. He crossed the four lanes of traffic and reached the plaza. There was another bronze hero in the center of it, collapsing in the shadows, riddled with Chilean bullets. Pledge allegiance to the flag of the fatherland, to the blood of our heroes, and we were scrambling down the cliff to the beach when Pluto said look up there and I saw Helena, so we swore allegiance and the Minister blew his nose and then scratched it, and my poor mother, no more canasta, no more fiestas or suppers or trips, papa take me to the soccer game, no, that’s a game for Negroes, my boy, next year I’ll get you into the Yacht Club, into a crew, but then he went out chasing the girls, girls like Teresa. He walked along Colón, which was as empty as if it were a street in another world, as anachronistic as its square nineteenth-century houses, occupied now by people who could only pretend to be upper class: lighted signs on the housefronts, an absence of traffic, dilapidated benches and statues. Then he got on the Miraflores express, which was as bright and gleaming as the inside of a refrigerator. The people around him were silent and unsmiling. He got off at the Raimondi Academy stop and walked through the gloomy streets of Lince: a few little stores, dim street lights, dark houses. So you’ve never gone out on a date, what’re you trying to tell me, but after all with that face God gave you, yes the Metro is very nice, don’t tell me, we’ll see if the Slave takes you to the downtown matinees, I’ll take you to a park, to the beach, to the United States, I’ll take you to Chosica on Sundays, so that’s what you had in mind, so mamma I’ve got to tell you something, I fell in love with this little broad and she cheated on me the way my father cheated on you, but before we get married, before I ask her, before everything, what can you tell me? He had reached the corner of the street where Teresa lived and was pressed against the wall so that the shadows would hide him. He looked all around, but the streets were deserted. They were moving furniture in the house behind him: someone was pushing a dresser into place or out of place, slowly, methodically. He ran his hand over his hair, smoothing it down, fingering the part in it to be sure it was straight. He took out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead and his lips. He straightened his shirt. He raised one foot and polished his shoe against his pantleg, then did the same with the other one. I’ll go in, I’ll shake hands with him, I’ll be all smiles, I can only stay a moment, excuse me, Teresa, give me my two letters, please, here are yours, be quiet, Slave, you and I’ll talk later, man to man, we don’t want to fight in front of her, or aren’t you a man? Alberto was opposite the door, at the foot of the three concrete steps. He listened but he could not hear anything. Yet he was sure they were in there: the door was outlined by a thread of light, and an instant before he had felt an almost ethereal touch, as of a hand seeking support. And I’ll come by for you in my new convertible, with my silk shirt, my filter-tip cigarettes, my leather jacket, my hat with its bright red feather, I’ll honk the horn, I’ll tell them to get in, I just came back from the United States yesterday, let’s go for a ride, let’s go out to my house in Orrantia, I’d like you to meet my wife, she’s an American who used to be a movie star, we got married in Hollywood the same day I graduated from the Academy, come on, Slave, get in, come on, Teresa, get in, would you like me to turn on the radio?

  Alberto knocked twice on the door, more loudly the second time. After a moment he saw a woman’s figure in the open doorway, a silhouette without features. The light from inside only showed her head and shoulders. “Who is it?” she asked. Alberto did not answer. Then she moved aside, and the light struck him in the face.

  “Hello, Teresa,” he said. “I’d like to talk with you for a minute. It’s very important. And please tell him to come here.”

  “Why, hello, Alberto,” she said. “I didn’t recognize you. Come in, come in. You scared me!”

  He went in and glanced quickly, suspiciously around the empty room. The curtains that closed off the other room were still swaying back and forth. He could see an unmade bed, with a smaller one on the other side of the room; both of them were empty. He smiled and turned around. Teresa was closing the door, and Alberto noticed that before she left it she patted her hair and smoothed her skirt. Then she faced him. Suddenly he realized that the face he had pictured so many times in the Academy was not as soft, as gentle, as the face he was seeing now, the face he had seen at the Metro, or at the door when she said goodbye, a timid face, with such timid eyes that she would not look at him. She was smiling but ill at ease: she folded her hands, unfolded them, dropped them, folded them again.

  “I ran away from the Academy,” he said. He blushed and lowered his eyes.

  “You ran away?” Her lips were still open but that was all she said. She looked at him anxiously and reached out her hands. “What happened? Please tell me. But sit down. Nobody’s here. My aunt went out.”

  A
lberto stared at her. “But what about the Slave?”

  “Who?”

  “Ricardo Arana.”

  “Oh,” she said. She was calm, she was smiling again. “You mean the boy that lives on the corner.”

  “He didn’t come see you?”

  “Me? No. Why should he?”

  “Tell me the truth!” Alberto shouted. “Why do you lie to me? I mean that…” He broke off, mumbled something, stopped.

  Teresa looked at him and shook her head. She was still unsure of her hands but there was something new in her eyes, a look of—was it?—suspicion. “Why do you ask me that?” Her voice was very low and smooth, and a bit ironic.

  “The Slave got a pass. I thought he’d come here to see you. He told them his mother was sick.”

  “But why would he come here?”

  “Because he loves you.”

  This time, Teresa blushed. “I didn’t know,” she said. “I hardly know him. But…”

  “That’s why I jumped over the wall,” Alberto said. He was silent for a moment. Then he said, “All right, I was jealous. I’m in love with you too.”

  7

  She always looked so neat, so clean, that I thought, Why don’t the rest of them look like that? And it wasn’t just changing her clothes, it wasn’t that, because what clothes did she have? When we were studying together and she got ink on her hands, she pushed her books aside and went to wash her hands. And if a page she was writing got even a little blot on it, she tore it up and started over. “But you’re losing a lot of time,” I told her. “The best thing is to erase it. Use a razor blade and you won’t be able to tell the difference.” She shook her head. It was the only thing that made her angry. Her temples began to throb—slowly, like a heart—under her black hair, and she pursed her lips. But when she came back from the bathroom she was smiling again. Her school uniform was a blue skirt and a white blouse. Sometimes I saw her coming back from school and I thought, Not a wrinkle, not a speck. She also had a plaid dress that covered her shoulders and fastened at the neck with a ribbon. It was sleeveless, and she wore a reddish-brown jacket over it. She only buttoned the top button, and when she walked, the ends of the jacket flapped in the breeze, and how nice she looked. That was the dress she wore on Sundays when she went to visit her relatives. Sundays were the worst days. I got up early and went to the Bellavista Plaza. I sat on a bench or looked at the movie posters, but I always kept an eye on the house, nobody could leave without my seeing them. On weekdays Tere went to buy bread at Tilau’s bakery, which was next to the movie theater. I told her, “What luck, we’re always running into each other.” If the bakery was crowded, Tere waited outside and I pushed my way in. Tilau always waited on me first because we were friends. One day, when Tere and I went in together, Tilau said, “Ah, here come the sweethearts. The same as usual? Two hot chancay for each one?” The other customers laughed, Tere blushed, and I said, “Come on, Tilau, lay off the jokes and wait on us.” But the bakery was closed on Sundays. I watched them from a bench or the entrance to the Bellavista movie theater. They waited for the bus that went along Costanera. Sometimes I put on an act: I stuck my hands in my pockets and walked past them kicking a stone or a bottle cap along in front of me, and without stopping I said, “Good morning, Señora, hi, there, Tere,” and then went into my house or to Sáenz Peña.