The Time of the Hero

by Mario Vargas Llosa

  I should’ve told her and perhaps she’d’ve given me some advice, do you think what I’m going to do’ll make it worse, will they make me the goat? Am I sure, who can be sure? You can’t fool me, you son of a bitch, I can see it in your face, I can promise you’re going to pay for it. But should I? Alberto looked around and was surprised to see the wide, grassy esplanade where the cadets of the Leoncio Prado assembled on the 28th of July for the grand parade. How had he got there? The empty field, the slight chill in the air, the dusk falling on the city like a dark rain, made him think of the Academy. He looked at his watch: he had wandered aimlessly for three hours. I’ll go home, go to bed, call the doctor, take a pill, sleep for a month, forget everything, my name, Teresa, the Academy, be an invalid all my life so as not to remember. He turned and walked back in the direction he had come. He stopped in front of the monument to Jorge Chávez: in the darkness, the compact triangle and its flying figures seemed to be made of tar. A stream of cars filled the avenue, and he waited on the corner with a group of other people. But when the stream halted and the people around him crossed the avenue in front of a wall of bumpers, he stayed where he was, gazing blankly at the red light. If I could start over again and do things differently, that night, for example, I’d ask him where the Jaguar was, he’d say he didn’t know, I’d say okay, so long, and that’d be that, and so what if they stole his jacket, everyone has to take care of himself the best he can, that’s all there is to it, and I wouldn’t be so worried, no problems, just listening to my mother, Albertito, your father’s still the same, running around with those women day and night, those prostitutes, he’s still the same. Then he was at the express stop on 28th of July Avenue and had left the bar behind him. He had only taken a quick look at it as he went by, but he could recall the noise, the glaring lights, the smoke that drifted out into the street. The express arrived, the people who had been waiting got on, and the conductor asked him, “How about you?” And since Alberto stared at him dully, without moving, he shrugged his shoulders and closed the door. Alberto turned and walked along the same stretch of the avenue for the third time. He reached the door of the bar, and this time he entered it. The noise battered him from every direction, and the glare hurt his eyes and made him blink. He managed to get to the bar, squeezing through men who reeked of tobacco and alcohol. He asked for a telephone book. They’re eating him now, little by little. If they started with his eyes, the softest part, they must be down to his neck by now, they’ve already eaten his nose, his ears, they’ve got in under his fingernails like chiggers and they’re devouring the flesh, what a banquet they must be having. I should’ve telephoned before they started eating him, before he was buried, before he died, before. The noise upset him, it kept him from concentrating on the name he was looking for. At last he found it. He picked up the receiver quickly, but when he reached out to dial the number, his finger stopped a fraction of an inch away. There was a harsh buzz in his ear. He glanced toward the bar and saw a white jacket with wrinkled lapels. He dialed the number and listened to it ring: silence, a ring, silence, a ring. He looked around him. Someone at a corner table was making a toast, roaring out a woman’s name. The others held up their glasses and repeated it. The telephone went on ringing. Then a voice said, “Hello.” He was speechless for a moment, he felt as if there were a lump of ice in his throat. The white shadow in front of him moved, came toward him. “I’d like to speak with Lt. Gamboa, please,” Alberto said. “American whisky is shit,” the white jacket said, “English whisky is good whisky.” “Just a moment,” the voice said, “I’ll call him.” The man who had made the toast was now making a speech. “Her name’s Leticia and I’m not ashamed to tell you I’m in love with her. Marriage is a serious business, but I love her and I’m going to marry my half-breed.” “Whisky,” the shadow said. “Scotch. Good whisky. Scotch, English, doesn’t matter. Not American. Scotch or English.” “Hello,” he heard another voice say. He felt himself shivering, and took the receiver a few inches away from his ear. “Hello,” Lt. Gamboa said, “who’s calling?” “I’m off the booze for good. I’ve got to behave myself from now on. Got to earn lots of money to keep my half-breed happy.” “Lt. Gamboa?” Alberto asked. “Montesierpe pisco,” the shadow said, “that’s bad pisco. Motocachi pisco, that’s good pisco.” “Yes, speaking. Who is it?” “So here’s to my half-breed and here’s to my friends.” “A cadet,” Alberto said, “a cadet from the Fifth Year.” “In my personal opinion,” the shadow said, “it’s the best pisco in the world,” but then he qualified his statement: “Or one of the best, gentlemen, one of the best. Motocachi.” “Your name,” Gamboa said. “We’ll have ten kids, all of them boys, and I’ll name every one of them after my friends. Not one of them after myself, just after my friends.” “They killed Arana,” Alberto said. “I know who it was. Can I come to your house?” “Your name,” Gamboa said. “Do you want something really special? Give him Motocachi.” “Cadet Alberto Fernández, Sir, first section. Can I come over?” “Yes, right away. 327 Bolognesi Street, Barranco.” Alberto hung up.

  Everybody’s different now. Maybe I am too, only I don’t notice it. The Jaguar’s changed so much it’s enough to scare you. He’s always angry, you can’t talk to him, if anybody just goes up and asks him a question or asks him for a cigarette, he acts as if it was an insult and starts saying the worst things he can think of. He hasn’t got any patience at all, he gets sore at anything, and then, bang, he laughs the way he does when he fights and you’ve got to calm him down. Jaguar, what’s the matter, I didn’t do anything, don’t get sore, there isn’t any reason to get sore. But no matter how you beg his pardon, he’s apt to start swinging, he’s beaten up several cadets these last few days. And he isn’t like that with just the others in the section, he’s like that with me and Curly, it’s hard to believe he’d be like that with us, we’re in the Circle. But the Jaguar’s changed on account of what happened to the peasant, I can tell it for sure. I don’t care how much he laughed and made believe he didn’t care a damn, it changed him when the peasant Cava was expelled. I’ve never seen him get so mad before, his whole body trembles, and what things he says, I’ll burn everything, I’ll kill everybody, I’ll burn down the administration building, I want to cut the colonel’s belly open and wear his guts for a necktie. It seems like years since the three of us left in the Circle got together, ever since they locked up the peasant and we tried to find the squealer. It isn’t fair what’s happened, the peasant up there with the alpacas, his whole life screwed up, and the guy that squealed on him scratching his stomach and laughing up his sleeve, I think it’s going to be tough to find out who it was. The Jaguar said, “We’ll know who it is in two hours, no, in one, just keep sniffing around, you can smell a squealer right away.” But that’s crap, you only find out a peasant with your nose or your eyes, the other sons of bitches know how to put on an act. That must be what’s got him down. But at least he should get together with us two, we’ve been his pals from the start. I don’t know why he stays alone. All you’ve got to do is go near him and he gives you a dirty look, it’s as if he’s ready to jump on you and bite you. They gave him a good nickname, it fits him exactly right. I don’t think I’ll go near him any more, he’ll think I’m ass-kissing, but I only tried to speak to him like a friend. It’s a miracle we didn’t have a big fight yesterday, I don’t know why I held back, I should’ve put him in his place, I’m not afraid of him. When the captain took us to the assembly hall and started talking about the Slave, that you have to pay dearly for your mistakes in the army, get it into your skulls that you’re in the armed forces and not a menagerie if you don’t want the same thing to happen to you, if we’d been at war that cadet would have been a traitor to the fatherland because he was irresponsible, what horseshit, it made my blood boil to hear him blabbing about a dead guy, Piranha you filthy bastard, you ought to get a bullet in the brain yourself. But I wasn’t the only one that got furious, everybody did, you just had to look at their faces. So I
said to him, “Jaguar, he shouldn’t be talking like that about a dead guy, why don’t we start a chant and drown him out?” He said, “Shut up, you’re an animal, you always say stupid things. Don’t speak to me unless I speak to you first.” He must be sick, that isn’t the way a sane person behaves, mentally sick, completely out of his mind. Don’t think I need to hang around you, Jaguar, I used to follow you because it was a way of passing the time, but I can get along without you, we’ll be out of this dump pretty soon and I’ll never see you again. When I leave the Academy I’m not going to see anybody here again. Except for Skimpy. Maybe I’ll steal her and keep her for my own.

  Alberto walked along the quiet streets of Barranco, among big, discolored houses in the style of the beginning of the century; they were separated from the street by deep gardens. The leaves of the tall trees cast spidery shadows on the pavement. Now and then a crowded streetcar went by, its passengers looking out of the windows with a bored air. I should’ve told her everything, just listen to what’s happened, he was in love with you, my father’s out with the prostitutes, my mother’s telling her beads and holding up her crucifix and confessing to the Jesuit, Pluto and Babe are talking in somebody’s house, listening to records in somebody’s living room, your aunt’s nibbling at her hair in the kitchen, and all the time the worms are eating him because he wanted to see you and his father wouldn’t let him out, just think about that, it doesn’t seem like much to you? He had got off the streetcar at La Laguna. There were couples or whole families enjoying the evening coolness on the grass under the trees, and the mosquitoes whined at the edge of the pool near the motionless boats. Alberto crossed the park and the playground. The light from the avenue showed him the swings and seesaws; the parallel bars, trapezes, and other games were hidden by shadows. He walked as far as the lighted plaza, but avoided it. He turned toward the Malecón, which he knew was not far off, beyond a mansion with cream-colored walls; it was taller than the others, and bathed in the slanting light of the street light. At the Malécon, he went to the parapet and looked over. The sea at Barranco was not the same as it was at La Perla. There, it always showed signs of life, and murmured angrily at night, but here at Barranco it was silent, waveless, a lake. You’re to blame too and when I told you he was dead you didn’t cry, it didn’t upset you at all. You’re to blame too and if I’d told you the Jaguar killed him you’d say, “The poor thing, do you mean a real jaguar?” But you wouldn’t cry about that either, and he was absolutely crazy about you. You’re to blame too and the only thing that’s upsetting you is the serious look on my face. Golden Toes is just a cheap whore but she’s got a bigger heart than you have.

  It was an old, two-story house, with balconies over a flowerless garden. A narrow walk led from the rusting gate to the front door; it was an ancient door, carved with dim designs that looked like hieroglyphics. Alberto rapped with his knuckles. He waited a few seconds, noticed the doorbell, pressed his finger on the button and quickly released it. He heard footsteps, and came to attention.

  “Come in,” Gamboa said, stepping aside.

  Alberto entered, and heard the door close behind him. The lieutenant passed him and walked down a long, dark hallway. Alberto followed him on tiptoe. His face was almost touching Gamboa’s shoulders, and if the lieutenant had stopped suddenly, he would have bumped into him. But the lieutenant did not stop until he reached the end of the hallway and opened a door. Alberto waited on the threshold until Gamboa turned on the lights. It was a living room with green walls, and there were pictures in gilt frames. A man gazed fixedly at Alberto from a table top: it was an old, yellowed photograph, and the man sported sidewhiskers, a patriarchal beard, and a pointed mustache.

  “Sit down,” Gamboa said, nodding toward an armchair.

  Alberto sat down, and he felt himself sink into it as into a dream. Then he remembered he was still wearing his cap. He snatched it off, excusing himself in a low voice. But the lieutenant was closing the door and did not hear him. He turned, sat down in front of Alberto on a chair with ornate legs, and said, “Alberto Fernández. From the first section?”

  “Yes, Sir.” He leaned forward a little and the springs in the armchair creaked.

  “All right,” Gamboa said, “what’s it all about?”

  Alberto looked at the floor. The carpet had a blue and cream-colored design, one square within another within another. He counted the bands: twelve, with a gray square in the center. He raised his eyes. There was a cabinet against the wall behind the lieutenant. It had a marble top and the drawer pulls were metal.