The Time of the Hero

by Mario Vargas Llosa

  “I don’t understand a word of it,” the major said. “Not a word.”

  He was fat and red-faced, with a little mustache that did not reach the ends of his lips. He had read the report carefully, from beginning to end, blinking the whole time. Before looking up at Capt. Garrido, who was standing in front of the desk with his back to the window, to the dark fields and gray sea of La Perla, he reread a few paragraphs in the ten typewritten pages.

  “I don’t understand,” he repeated. “Explain it to me, Captain. Somebody’s gone crazy, and I don’t think it’s me. What’s happened to Lieutenant Gamboa?”

  “I don’t know, Sir. I’m as surprised as you are. I’ve talked with him several times about this affair. I’ve tried to show him that a report like this is ridiculous.”

  “Ridiculous?” the major said. “You shouldn’t have let him put those boys in the guardhouse, and you shouldn’t have let him make out a report like this. We’ve got to put an end to the matter right away. There isn’t a minute to lose.”

  “Nobody knows about it, Sir. The cadets are incommunicado.”

  “Call Gamboa in,” the major said. “Tell him to get here on the double.”

  The captain hurried out. The major picked up the report again. As he reread it, he tried to bite the reddish hairs of his mustache, but he had very small teeth and he only succeeded in scratching and irritating his lip. One of his feet was tapping nervously. A few minutes later the captain returned, followed by the lieutenant.

  “Good morning,” the major said, in a voice that rose and fell because of his annoyance. “I’m very surprised, Gamboa. You’re an outstanding officer, your superiors think a great deal of you. What ever led you to hand in this report? You’ve lost your mind, man. This is a bomb. A real bomb.”

  “What it says is true, Sir.” The captain glared at him, his jaws working furiously. “But some things still aren’t clear. I’ve found out everything I can. The court-martial will have to…”

  “What?” the major said, interrupting him. “Do you think there’ll be a court-martial? Don’t talk nonsense, man. The Leoncio Prado is an Academy, we’re not going to have any scandals. I really think there’s something wrong with your head, Gamboa. Do you actually believe I’d let this report get to the Ministry?”

  “That’s what I’ve told the lieutenant, Sir,” the captain said. “But he insists.”

  “We’ll see,” the major said. “We’ve got to keep hold of ourselves, we’ve got to act calmly. We’ll see. Who’s the boy that made the accusation?”

  “Fernández, Sir. A cadet in the first section.”

  “Why did you put the other one in the guardhouse without waiting for orders?”

  “I had to begin the investigation, Sir. It was important not to question him until I had separated him from the rest of the cadets. Otherwise the whole Year would have heard about it. I’ve also been careful to keep the two of them apart.”

  “The accusation is idiotic, preposterous,” the major said. “And you shouldn’t have given it the slightest importance. This is kid stuff, nothing else. How could you put any trust in such a fantastic story? I never thought you’d be so credulous, Gamboa.”

  “Possibly you’re right, Sir. But let me make one comment. I was like you, I didn’t believe they stole exams, formed gangs of thieves, brought cards and liquor into the Academy. But I’ve proved these things personally, Sir.”

  “That’s something else,” the major said. “Obviously the Fifth Year doesn’t have any respect for discipline. No doubt about it. But in this instance, you’re the ones responsible. Captain Garrido, you and Lieutenant Gamboa are in plenty of trouble. The boys have made fools of you. Just picture the colonel’s face when he hears what goes on in the barracks. There’s nothing I can do, I’ll have to hand on the report and straighten things out as best as possible.” He tried to bite his mustache again. “But the other matter is out. It’s completely absurd. The boy shot himself by accident. The incident is closed.”

  “Excuse me, Sir,” Gamboa said, “but it hasn’t been proved that the boy shot himself.”

  “No?” the major said, his eyes flaming. “Would you like me to show you the official report on the accident?”

  “The colonel explained the reason for that report, Sir. It was to avoid complications.”

  “Ah!” the major said with a triumphant gesture. “Exactly. And did you submit this horror story to avoid complications?”

  “It’s different now, Sir,” Gamboa said calmly. “Everything’s changed. Before, the accident theory was the likeliest one, or rather, the only one. The doctors said the bullet hit him from behind, but I and the other officers thought it must have been a stray shot, an accident. If that was the case, it was all right to blame the mistake on the victim himself, so as not to damage the Academy’s reputation. In fact, Sir, I even thought Cadet Arana was to blame, at least partly, for having been out of position, or for being too slow. But everything’s changed now that someone tells us a crime was committed. The accusation isn’t really ridiculous, Sir. The cadets’ positions…”

  “Nonsense,” the major said angrily. “You must like to read novels, Gamboa. We’re going to clear up this mess right now and stop wasting time. Go to the guardhouse and send the two cadets back to their barracks. Tell them that if they say a word about all this, they’ll be expelled without any academic credits. And write a new report, omitting what you said about Cadet Arana’s death.”

  “I can’t do that, Sir,” Gamboa said. “Cadet Fernández won’t withdraw his accusations. As far as I’ve been able to discover, he’s telling the truth. The cadet he accuses was directly behind Arana in the exercises. I’m not saying there’s proof of murder, Sir, but technically the accusation is admissible. The only way to decide is to hold a court-martial.”

  “I’m not interested in your opinions,” the major said contemptuously. “I’m giving you an order. Keep these fantasies to yourself and do what you’re told. Or do you want a court-martial too? Orders are orders, Lieutenant.”

  “Court-martial me if you want, Sir,” Gamboa said in a quiet voice. “But I’m not going to change my report. And please remember your obligation to hand it on to the commandant.”

  The major stood up. He had turned pale with anger, and he tried desperately to reach his mustache with his teeth, making astonishing faces.

  “All right!” he said, his eyes glittering. “You don’t know me, Gamboa. I’m easygoing when I’m treated right. But I’m a dangerous enemy, as you’ll soon find out. You’re going to pay dearly for all this. Right now, don’t leave the Academy until everything’s cleared up. I’ll hand on your report, but I’ll also report the way you behave toward your superiors. Now get out.”

  “Yes, Sir,” Gamboa said and walked out of the office.

  “He’s crazy,” the major said. “He’s gone mad. But I’ll cure him, just wait.”

  “Are you going to submit his report, Sir?” the captain asked.

  The major stared at him, as if surprised to find him there. “I can’t do anything else,” he said. “And you’ll get screwed too, Garrido. It won’t look good on your service record.”

  “But Major,” the captain stammered, “it isn’t my fault. It’s all happened in the first company, and that’s Gamboa’s. The others behave perfectly, as if they were running on rails, Sir. I’ve always followed the book to the very letter.”

  “Lieutenant Gamboa is your subordinate,” the major said. His tone was curt. “If it takes a cadet to tell you what goes on in your battalion, where have you been all the time? What kind of officers are you? You can’t even discipline a bunch of schoolboys. Take my advice and try to straighten out the Fifth. All right, that’s all.”

  The captain turned away, and it was not until he reached the door that he remembered he had not saluted. He whirled about and clicked his heels, but the major was rereading the report again, moving his lips and scowling. Garrido walked quickly, almost trotted, toward the office of the Fifth
Year. When he reached the patio he blew his whistle as hard as he could. A few moments later the noncom Morte ran in through the office door.

  “Tell the officers and noncoms of the Fifth to get here,” the captain said. He rubbed his hand over the violent twitching of his jaws. “You’re all to blame, nobody else, and by God you’ll get what’s coming to you. Why are you standing there with your mouth open? Go do what I told you.”

  6

  Gamboa hesitated, unable to decide whether to open the door. He was upset. Was it because of these troubles, he asked himself, or because of the letter? He had received it a few hours earlier. “I miss you terribly. I shouldn’t have made this trip. Didn’t I tell you it would be better for me to stay in Lima? I couldn’t keep from vomiting in the plane and everybody looked at me and I felt even worse. Cristina and her husband were waiting for me at the airport. I’ve already told you how nice he is. They took me straight to their house and called a doctor. He said the trip wasn’t good for me but everything would be all right. But my headache didn’t go away and I still felt sick, so they called him again and he said I’d be better off in the hospital. They’ve got me under observation. They’ve given me lots of injections and I have to stay in bed without any pillow, that bothers me a lot, you know how I like to sleep almost sitting up. Mamma and Cristina are with me all day and my brother-in-law comes to see me as soon as he gets off his job. They’ve all been very good to me but I wish you were here, that’s the only way I could really feel right in my mind. I’m a little better now but I’m awfully afraid of losing the baby. The doctor says the first time is complicated but everything will go all right. But I’m very nervous and I think about you all the time. Please take care of yourself. You miss me, don’t you? Not as much as I miss you.” As he read it, he began to feel his confidence draining away. And as he was rereading it, the captain came to his room with a peevish look on his face. “The colonel knows the whole story,” he told him. “He isn’t happy about what you’ve done. The commandant wants you to get Fernández out of the guardhouse and take him to the colonel’s office.” Gamboa was not alarmed, but he felt a complete lack of spirit, as if the affair were suddenly none of his concern. It was not often that he allowed himself to be overcome by apathy and disgust. He folded the letter, put it in his wallet, and opened the door. No doubt Alberto had seen him coming, for he was waiting at attention. The cell received more light than the one the Jaguar was in, and Gamboa could see that Alberto’s khaki pants were ridiculously short. They clung to his legs like a ballet dancer’s tights, and only half the buttons on his fly were buttoned. His shirt, on the other hand, was far too big for him: the shoulders drooped, and it bulged out behind as if he were humpbacked.

  “Where did you change from your dress uniform?” Gamboa asked him.

  “Right here, Sir. I had my regular uniform in my bag. I take it home on Saturday to have it washed.”

  Gamboa could see his white cap and the shiny buttons of his jacket lying on the cot.

  “Don’t you know the regulation?” he asked brusquely. “Your regular uniform gets washed at the Academy, you can’t take it outside. And what’s the matter with that uniform you’re wearing? You look like a clown.”

  Alberto became nervous. With one hand he tried to button the top buttons on his pants, sucking in his stomach as far as possible, but he could not do it.

  “The pants shrank and the shirt stretched,” Gamboa said in a flat voice. “Which one did you steal?”

  “Both of them, Sir.”

  Gamboa was somewhat startled: the captain was right, this cadet considered him an ally. “Shit,” he said, as if speaking to himself. “Don’t you realize you’re in for it? Even Jesus couldn’t save you. You’re worse off than anybody else. I’m going to tell you something. You did me a bad turn by coming and telling me your problems. Why didn’t you go to Huarina or Pitaluga?”

  “I don’t know, Sir,” Alberto said. Then he quickly added, “You’re the only one I trust.”

  “I’m not your friend,” Gamboa said, “or your accomplice, or your protector. I’ve simply done my duty. Now it’s in the hands of the colonel and the court-martial. Come with me, the colonel wants to see you.”

  Alberto turned pale, and his eyes widened.

  “Are you afraid?” Gamboa asked.

  Alberto did not answer. He was standing rigid, blinking.

  “Come on,” Gamboa said.

  They walked to the administration building, and Alberto was surprised to see that Gamboa did not return the salutes of the soldiers on guard. It was the first time he had ever been inside the building. It resembled the other Academy buildings on the outside—tall, gray, moldy walls—but everything within was different. There was a thick carpet in the vestibule that silenced their footsteps, and the artificial light was so strong that Alberto closed his eyes several times, half blinded. There were pictures on the walls; as he went by, he thought he recognized some of the persons whose pictures were in his history book. They were acting out their supreme moments: Bolognesi firing the last shot, San Martín raising a flag, Alfonso Ugarte leaping into the abyss, the President of the Republic receiving a medal. Beyond the vestibule there was a large, empty, brightly lighted room, with diplomas and sports trophies on the walls. Gamboa led him to a corner and they entered the elevator. The lieutenant pushed the button for the fifth floor, which was probably the top one. Alberto thought how ridiculous it was that in almost three years he had never noticed how many floors there were to this building. It was off limits to the cadets, a grayish monster that was somewhat satanic because it was where the confinement lists were made out and where the Academy authorities had their dens. In the minds of the cadets it seemed as distant from the barracks as the archbishop’s palace or the beach at Ancón.

  “Step out,” Gamboa said.

  They were in a narrow corridor with gleaming walls. Gamboa opened a door. Alberto saw a desk, and behind it, next to a portrait of the colonel, a man in civilian clothes.

  “The colonel is expecting you,” the man told Gamboa. “You can go right in, Lieutenant.”

  “Wait here,” Gamboa told Alberto. “They’ll call for you.”

  Alberto sat down in front of the civilian, who was studying some papers. The pencil in his hand moved back and forth in the air, as if it were following the rhythm of a secret melody. He was a short man, well dressed, with an anonymous face. His collar seemed to bother him: he kept jerking his head, and his Adam’s apple leaped up and down like an excited animal. Alberto tried to make out what was being said in the next room, but he could not hear a word. Therefore he started to daydream: Teresa was smiling at him from the Raimondi stop. Her image had haunted him ever since they had removed the corporal from the cell next to his. He could only picture the girl’s face, suspended against the pale walls of the Italian school at the edge of Arequipa Avenue; he could not see her body. He had spent hours and hours trying to remember her body. He thought up elegant dresses for her, and jewelry, and exotic coiffures. Then he blushed, telling himself he was playing at dressing a doll, like a little girl. He searched for a sheet of paper in his pockets and his bag, but it was no use, and he could not write her a note. Instead, he composed imaginary letters, full of grandiloquent phrases, in which he spoke of the Military Academy, love, the death of the Slave, his guilt feelings, the future. Suddenly he heard a bell. The civilian answered the phone, nodding his head as if the person on the other end of the line could see him. He hung up with a delicate gesture and turned to Alberto.

  “Are you Cadet Fernández? Go into the colonel’s office, please.”

  He went to the door and rapped three times with his knuckles. There was no response. He pushed the door open, and saw a huge room with fluorescent lighting; it was so brilliant that it hurt his eyes. Ten yards away, there were three officers seated in leather armchairs. He glanced around, and noted a large desk, a floor lamp, diplomas, banners, pictures. There was no rug on the floor, and it was so highly polished that
his boots slid as if he were walking on ice. He approached the officers slowly, afraid of slipping and falling down. He kept his eyes on the floor, and only looked up when he saw a khaki-clad leg and the leather-covered arm of a chair. Then he came to attention.