The Time of the Hero

by Mario Vargas Llosa

  When Alberto left his house it was already beginning to grow dark, even though it was only six o’clock. He had taken at least half an hour to get ready, polishing his shoes, combing his hair, knotting his tie. He had even used his father’s razor to shave off the thin fuzz on his upper lip and below his sideburns. He walked down to the corner of Ocharán and Juan Fanning, then whistled. A moment later Emilio appeared at the window. He too was all dressed up.

  “It’s six,” Alberto said. “Hurry up.”

  “Two minutes.”

  Alberto looked at his watch, inspected the crease in his trousers, rearranged the handkerchief in his breast pocket, and stole a look at his reflection in a windowpane. The pomade had done its job, not a hair was out of place.

  Emilio came out the side door. “The living room’s full of people,” he told Alberto. “There was a luncheon. God, it was awful. Everybody’s drunk now, the house smells of whisky from top to bottom. My father’s so drunk he won’t listen to me. I tried to get my allowance but he wouldn’t stop clowning.”

  “I’ve got some money,” Alberto said. “Do you want me to lend you part of it?”

  “If we go someplace, I’ll need it. But if we stay in the park, never mind. Look, what do you have to do to get your allowance? Hasn’t your old man seen your report card?”

  “Not yet. Just my mother. But when he sees it, he’s going to blow up. It’s the first time they’ve flunked me in three courses. I’ll have to study all summer. I’ll hardly get out to the beach at all. But I’d rather not think about it. And anyway, he might not get mad. They’re having a big fight at home.”

  “What happened?”

  “My father didn’t come home last night. He showed up this morning, all shaved and showered. He’s really something.”

  “He’s a killer, all right,” Emilio agreed. “He’s got rafts of women. What’d your mother say?”

  “She threw an ash tray at him. Then she started wailing at the top of her voice. The whole neighborhood must’ve heard her.”

  They walked down Juan Fanning toward Larco. When they passed the little store where the Japanese sold fruit juices, he waved his hand to them; a few years before, they used to go there after the soccer games. The street lights had just come on, but the sidewalks were still shadowy because the leaves and branches of the trees blocked off the light. As they crossed Colón they both looked at Laura’s house. The neighborhood girls usually gathered there before going to Salazar Park, but they had not arrived yet and the living room windows were dark.

  “Maybe they went to Matilde’s house,” Emilio said. “Pluto and Babe went there after lunch.” He chuckled. “That Babe must be out of his mind to go to Quinta de los Pinos, and on a Sunday, too. If Matilde’s parents hadn’t been around, those bullies would’ve given him a real beating. And Pluto too, even though he didn’t have anything to do with it.”

  Alberto laughed. “He’s crazy about her,” he said. “Head over heels in love.”

  Quinta de los Pinos was a long way from the neighborhood, on the other side of Larco Avenue, beyond the main park, near the streetcar tracks to Chorrillos. A few years earlier, Quinta was enemy territory, but things had changed and the neighborhoods no longer had impassable boundaries. The outsiders strolled along Colón, Ocharán and Porta, visited the girls, courted them, went to their parties, took them to the movies. As a result, the neighborhood boys had to find girl friends in other places. At the beginning, they went in groups of eight or ten to explore the closest neighborhoods in Miraflores, such as the 28th of July and Francia Street; then the more distant ones, such as Angamos and Grau Avenue. (This last was where Susuki, the rear admiral’s daughter, lived.) Some of them found girl friends in these other neighborhoods, and became part of them, though without renouncing their loyalty to Diego Ferré. In a few of the neighborhoods they ran into opposition: ridicule and sarcasm from the boys, rebuffs from the girls. But in Quinta de los Pinos the hostility of the local boys turned into violence. When Babe started going around with Matilde, they attacked him one night and doused him with buckets of water. Nevertheless, Babe kept on going there and other boys from the neighborhood went with him, because Matilde was not the only girl in Quinta without a boy friend: there were also Graciela and Molly.

  “Look, there they are,” Emilio said.

  “No. Are you blind? That’s the García girls.”

  They were on Larco Avenue, about twenty yards from the park. The traffic moved slowly toward the park, turned on itself in front of the esplanade, disappeared in the mass of parked cars, and emerged, in lesser numbers, on the other side; then it turned and went down Larco Avenue in the opposite direction. Some of the cars had their radios on, and Alberto and Emilio could hear dance music and a torrent of young voices and laughter. The sidewalks where Larco bordered Salazar Park were crowded. But none of this caught their attention. The magnet that attracted the teen-agers of Miraflores to Salazar Park had been at work for a long time. They were not strangers in that crowd, they were part of it: well-dressed, clean-smelling, happy, at home. They looked around them and saw smiling faces, heard voices speaking a language that was their own. These were the same faces they had seen a thousand times around the swimming pool at the Terrazas Club, on the Miraflores beach, in the Herradura, at the Regatta Club, in the Ricardo Palma and Leuro and Monte Carlo movie theaters; the same faces they saw at the Saturday night parties. But they were not only familiar with the looks and mannerisms of the young people who were arriving like them for their dates in Salazar Park: they also knew all about their lives, their problems, and ambitions. They knew that Tony was unhappy, even though his father gave him a sports car for Christmas, because Anita Mendizábal, the girl he was in love with, was a sly little flirt, everybody in Miraflores could see it in her green eyes behind the shadow of her long silken lashes. They knew that Vicky and Manolo, who had just gone by them hand in hand, had not been going together for very long, a week or ten days. They knew that Paquito suffered because he was the laughingstock of Miraflores, what with his boils and his hunched back. They knew that Sonia was leaving the next day for a foreign country, perhaps for a long time, because her father had been appointed ambassador, and that she was unhappy about leaving her school and her friends and her riding lessons. Moreover, Alberto and Emilio knew that they were bound to that crowd by mutual ties: the others knew all about both of them. In their absence, the others discussed their romantic successes or failures, analyzed their love affairs, talked them over when making out a list of those to be invited to a party. In fact, Vicky and Manolo had been talking about Alberto at the very moment they passed them. “Did you see Alberto? Helena finally said she’d go around with him, after turning him down five times. That was just last week. And now she’s going to break it off. Poor Alberto.”

  The park was full. Alberto and Emilio walked along the low fence that enclosed the smooth green squares of grass. There was a pool in the center, with red and golden fish and a yellow-brown monument. Their expressions had changed: they parted their lips, their eyes glowed and wandered, and their smiles were exactly like all the smiles they saw. There were several groups of outsiders leaning against the wall of the Malecón, watching the crowd as it circled around the squares. It was divided into two lines, moving in opposite directions. The couples greeted each other with a nod that did not alter their fixed half-smiles, a quick mechanical motion that was more a sign of recognition than a greeting, a sort of password. Alberto and Emilio took two turns around the park, observing their friends, their acquaintances, and the outsiders that had come from Lima and Magdalena and Chorrillos to look at the girls, who must have reminded them of movie stars. The outsiders tossed phrases toward the crowd, fishhooks they dangled among the shoals of girls.

  “They haven’t come yet,” Emilio said. “What time is it?”

  “Seven. But probably they’re here and we just haven’t seen them. Laura told me this morning they were coming no matter what. She said she was going to get Hele
na.”

  “She’s stood you up. It wouldn’t be the first time. Helena seems to love to do you dirt.”

  “Not now,” Alberto said. “That was before. Now that she’s going with me, it’s different.”

  They took a few more turns, anxiously looking all around but without discovering them. They did see several couples from the neighborhood: Babe and Matilde, Tico and Graciela, Pluto and Molly.

  “Something’s happened,” Alberto said. “They ought to be here by now.”

  “If they show up, you can go meet them alone,” Emilio said in a peevish voice. “I don’t stand for this sort of thing. I’ve got a little pride.”

  “Probably it isn’t their fault. Their parents wouldn’t let them out, or…”

  “Baloney. When a girl wants to get out, she gets out, even if the world comes to an end.”

  They continued walking, silent, smoking one cigarette after another. A half hour later, Pluto signaled to them. “There they are,” he said, pointing to the corner. “What are you waiting for?” Alberto hurried off in that direction, pushing his way through the couples. Emilio followed him, muttering under his breath. The girls were not alone, of course: a circle of outsiders surrounded them. “Excuse me,” Alberto said, and the boys moved away without putting up any argument. A few moments later, Emilio and Laura, Alberto and Helena, were strolling slowly around the squares, hand in hand.

  “I was afraid you weren’t coming.”

  “I couldn’t get out sooner. My mother was alone and I had to wait till my sister came back from the movies. And I can’t stay very long. I’ve got to be home by eight.”

  “By eight? But it’s already seven-thirty.”

  “No, not yet, it’s only a quarter past.”

  “That’s just about the same.”

  “What’s the matter? Are you in a bad mood?”

  “No. But try to understand my situation, Helena. It’s pretty awful.”

  “What’s pretty awful? I don’t know what you’re getting at.”

  “I mean the situation between you and me. We’re hardly ever together.”

  “You see? I told you this was going to happen. That’s why I didn’t want to go around with you.”

  “But that hasn’t got anything to do with it. If we’re going together, it’s only natural we should see each other a little. Before you became my girl friend, they used to let you go out like the other girls. But now they shut you in as if you were a baby. I think Inés is to blame.”

  “Don’t say anything against my sister. I don’t like people to talk about my family.”

  “I’m not talking about your family, but your sister isn’t any too likable. I know she hates me.”

  “You? She doesn’t even know your last name.”

  “That’s what you think. Every time I see her at the Terrazas Club I say hello and she doesn’t answer, but then I catch her watching me on the sly.”

  “Perhaps you’re in love with her.”

  “Will you please stop needling me? What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing.”

  Alberto squeezed her hand and looked into her eyes. She seemed very serious. “Try to understand me, Helena. Why are you acting like this?”

  “Like what?” she asked him curtly.

  “I don’t know. It’s just that sometimes I think you don’t like to be with me, and I’m more and more in love with you every day. That’s why I get so desperate when I don’t see you.”

  “I warned you at the beginning. Don’t try to blame it on me.”

  “I’ve been following you around for over two years. And every time you turned me down, I thought: ‘But someday she’ll pay attention to me, and then I’ll forget all this.’ But now it’s even worse. At least I used to see you all the time.”

  “Do you want to know something? I don’t like you to speak to me like that.”

  “You don’t like me to speak to you how?”

  “I mean, saying what you did. You ought to have some pride. You shouldn’t beg.”

  “I’m not begging. I’m telling you the truth. Aren’t you my girl friend? Why do you want me to be proud?”

  “I’m not saying it for my sake, only for yours.”

  “I’m the way I am. I can’t change now.”

  “Oh? So that’s that.”

  He squeezed her hand again and tried to meet her eyes, but this time she avoided his look. She seemed even more serious.

  “Let’s not fight,” Alberto said. “We see each other so little.”

  “I’ve got to tell you something,” she said.

  “All right. What?”

  “I’ve been thinking.”

  “About what, Helena?”

  “I’ve been thinking it would be much better if we were simply friends.”

  “Friends? Are you trying to pick a fight? On account of what I told you? Don’t be silly, Helena. Just forget everything I’ve told you.”

  “No, it isn’t that. I was thinking about it before. We ought to go back to the way we were. We’re very different, you know.”

  “I don’t care about that. I’m in love with you, no matter how you are.”

  “But I’m not in love with you. I’ve thought it all over, and I’m not.”

  “Oh,” Alberto said. “Well, all right, then.”

  They continued to walk slowly around, forgetting they were still holding hands. They went on for another twenty yards, without speaking, without looking at each other. As they went by the pool, she loosened her fingers in his hand, but gently, as if she were just making a suggestion. He understood and let go. But they kept on walking together, completely around the park, looking at the couples who came in the opposite direction and nodding to their acquaintances. When they reached Larco Avenue, they stopped and turned face to face.

  “You’ve really thought it over?” Alberto asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “Yes, I believe I have.”

  “In that case, there’s nothing to say.”

  She nodded, and smiled for an instant, but then she was serious again. He reached out to shake hands. She took his hand and said, “But we’ll go on being friends, won’t we?” There was a note of relief in her voice.

  “Of course,” he said. “Of course we will.”

  Alberto walked away, through the labyrinth of parked cars. When he reached Diego Ferré, he found it was empty, and he walked down the middle of the street. As he reached Colón he heard somebody running up behind him. A voice called his name. He turned around. It was Babe.

  “What’re you doing here?” Alberto asked. “And where’s Matilde?”

  “She left. She had to be home early.” He patted Alberto on the shoulder. There was a friendly, even brotherly, expression on his face. “I’m sorry about Helena,” he said. “But you’re better off. That girl isn’t right for you.”

  “How did you know? We just got through fighting.”

  “I knew last night. We all did. But nobody wanted to tell you ahead of time.”

  “Never mind the double talk. Say what you mean.”

  “You won’t get sore at me?”

  “No, man, tell me.”

  “Well…look, Helena’s in love with Richard.”

  “Richard?”

  “You know, the guy from San Isidro.”

  “Who told you?”

  “Nobody. But everybody knows. They were at Nati’s last night.”

  “You mean the party at Nati’s house? Don’t lie to me. Helena didn’t go.”

  “Yes, she did. That’s what we didn’t want to tell you.”

  “She told me she wasn’t going.”

  “Sure she did. Believe me, she isn’t right for you.”

  “But you really saw her?”

  “We all saw her. And she danced with Richard the whole time. Ana went over and asked her, ‘Have you broken up with Alberto?’ and she said, ‘No, but I’ll get rid of him tomorrow.’ Don’t get sore at me for telling you.”

  “Bah,” Alberto said. “I don’t
give a damn. I was getting tired of her anyway.”

  “Fine!” Babe said, patting his shoulder again. “That’s just what I wanted to hear. Go out and get yourself another girl friend. That’s the best way to even things up.” He thought for a moment, then smiled. “Say, what about Nati? She’s terrific! And right now she hasn’t got a boy friend.”

  “Well, maybe,” Alberto said. “It isn’t a bad idea.”

  They walked down the second block of Diego Ferré, and Alberto said good night at the door of his house. Babe patted his shoulder once more, to show that he understood. Alberto went directly upstairs to his room. The light was on, and his father was standing in the middle of the room with the report card in his hand. His mother was sitting on the bed, looking more worried than usual.

  “Hello,” Alberto said.

  “Hello, son,” his father said. He looked as dapper as ever. A dark suit, a clean shave, a fresh haircut, everything right. He tried to appear stern, but his look softened as he took in his son’s gleaming shoes, his neat tie, the snow-white handkerchief in his breast pocket, his well-kept hands, the cuffs of his shirt, the crease in his trousers. He examined him with a restless, ambiguous, complacent look, and then his expression recovered its assumed hardness.

  “I left early,” Alberto said. “I’ve got a headache.”

  “You must be coming down with a cold,” his mother said. “You’d better go straight to bed, Albertito.”

  “But first we’re going to have a little talk, young man,” his father said, shaking the report card at him. “I’ve just finished looking at this.”

  “I didn’t do too well in some subjects,” Alberto said. “But the important thing is, I got through the year.”

  “Be quiet,” his father said. “Don’t talk like a fool. This has never happened in my family. I’ve never been more ashamed. Do you know how long we’ve taken first place in school, in the University, everywhere? For two hundred years! If your grandfather could see this report card, he’d die on the spot.”