The Time of the Hero

by Mario Vargas Llosa

  That night I went to the fields at Bellavista and slept in a ditch. Or rather, I lay on my back, staring into the darkness, freezing to death. As soon as it was daylight I went to the Bellavista Plaza. I hadn’t been there for two years. Everything looked the same, except the door of my house had a new coat of paint. I knocked, but nobody answered. I knocked harder, and somebody inside shouted, “Wait a minute, damn it!” A man came to the door and I asked for Señora Domitila. “I don’t know who she is,” he said. “Pedro Caifás lives here, and that’s me.” Then a woman came up beside him and said, “Señora Domitila? An old lady that lived here all alone?” “Yes,” I said; “I think so.” “She’s dead,” the woman told me. “She lived here before we came, but that was quite a while ago.” I thanked them and went and sat down in the plaza. I spent the whole morning watching the door of Teresa’s house to see if she’d come out. About noon, a boy came out. I went over and asked him, “Do you know the address of the woman and girl that used to live in your house?” “I don’t know a thing,” he said. I went back to my old house and knocked again. The woman came to the door. I asked her, “Do you know where Señora Domitila is buried?” “No,” she said. “I never even met her. Was she related to you?” I was going to tell her she was my mother, but then I remembered the cops were looking for me and I said, “No, I just wanted to find out.”

  “Hello,” the Jaguar said.

  Apparently he was not surprised to see him there. The sergeant closed the door and the cell was dark.

  “Hello,” Alberto said.

  “Have you got any cigarettes?” the Jaguar asked. He was seated on the cot with his shoulders resting against the wall. Alberto could see one half of his face clearly, because it was in the small shaft of light that entered through the window; the other half was a dark blur.

  “No,” Alberto said. “But the sergeant’s going to bring me some a little later.”

  “Why’d they put you in here?” the Jaguar asked.

  “I don’t know. And you?”

  “Some son of a bitch went and squealed to Gamboa.”

  “Who was it? What did he say?”

  “Listen,” the Jaguar said, lowering his voice. “You’re sure to get out of here quicker than me. Do me one favor. But come up close, I don’t want them to hear me.”

  Alberto went over to him and stood a few inches away, so close that their knees touched.

  “Tell Curly and the Boa there’s a squealer in the section. I want them to find out who it is. Do you know what he told Gamboa?”

  “No.”

  “The guys in the section, what do they think I’m in here for?”

  “On account of the stolen exams.”

  “Yes,” the Jaguar said. “That’s part of it. He told Gamboa about the exams, the Circle, the stolen clothing, the gambling, the liquor. Everything. We’ve got to find out who it was. Tell them that they’re screwed too if they don’t find out. And so are you, and the whole barracks. It’s somebody in the section, nobody else would’ve known.”

  “They’re going to expel you,” Alberto said. “Maybe they’ll even send you to jail.”

  “That’s what Gamboa told me. And I’m sure they’re going to screw Curly and the Boa too, on account of the Circle. Tell them to find out who it was and then toss a piece of paper through the window here with the squealer’s name on it. If I’m expelled, I won’t have a chance to see them.”

  “What can you gain by that?”

  “Nothing,” the Jaguar said. “I’m already fucked. But I have to get revenge.”

  “You’re a shit, Jaguar,” Alberto said. “I’d like to see them send you to prison.”

  The Jaguar made a slight movement: he was still sitting on the cot, but straight up now, without leaning against the wall, and he turned his head a few inches to look straight at Alberto. His whole face became visible.

  “Did you hear what I said?”

  “Don’t shout,” the Jaguar said. “Do you want the lieutenant to come? What’s the matter with you?”

  “A shit,” Alberto whispered. “A murderer. You killed the Slave.”

  Alberto had taken a step backward and was standing in a crouch, but the Jaguar did not attack him, did not even move. Alberto could see his blue eyes shining in the darkness.

  “That’s a lie,” the Jaguar said, also in a very low voice. “A slander. They said that to Gamboa just to screw me. Whoever squealed is someone who wants to ruin me, some coward, some fairy. Can’t you see it? Tell me something: does everybody in the barracks think I killed Arana?”

  Alberto did not reply.

  “They couldn’t,” the Jaguar said. “Nobody’d believe it. Arana was just a poor devil, anybody could push him around. Why would I want to kill him?”

  “He was a lot better than you,” Alberto said. The two were speaking secretively, and the effort they made to keep their voices down caused their words to sound forced and theatrical. “You’re a murderer, you’re the one who’s a poor devil. The Slave was a good guy, you wouldn’t know what that means. He was decent, he never bothered anybody. You screwed him all the time, day and night. He was normal enough when he got here to the Academy, but you and the others gave him such a hard time you made an idiot out of him. And just because he didn’t know how to fight. Well, your luck’s run out, Jaguar. They’re going to expel you. Do you know what your life’s going to be like? You’ll just be a cheap crook, and sooner or later you’ll land in prison.”

  “That’s what my mother told me.” Alberto was surprised, he had not expected a confidence. But he understood that the Jaguar was talking to himself: his voice was a dull mutter. “So did Gamboa. My life is my own business. But I wasn’t the only one that screwed the Slave. Everybody bullied him, you too, Poet. Everybody screws everybody in the Academy if you let them get away with it. It isn’t my fault. The reason they couldn’t fuck me was, I’m more of a man. It isn’t my fault.”

  “No, Jaguar,” Alberto said, “you’re not more of a man. You’re a murderer, but I’m not afraid of you. You’ll see when we get out of here.”

  “Do you want to fight with me?” the Jaguar asked.

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t know how,” the Jaguar said. “Tell me, are they all mad at me in the barracks?”

  “No,” Alberto said. “I’m the only one. And I’m not afraid of you, I told you.”

  “Shhh, don’t shout. If you want, we’ll fight outside the Academy. But I’m warning you, you can’t handle me. You’re just excited. I didn’t do anything to the Slave. I only hazed him like everybody else. I didn’t have any grudge against him, I was only having fun.”

  “What difference does that make? You bullied him and the rest of them imitated you. You made his life sheer hell. And then you killed him.”

  “Don’t shout, you idiot, they’ll hear you. I didn’t kill him. When I get out of here, I’ll find the squealer and make him confess in front of everybody that that’s a lie. You wait and see.”

  “It isn’t a lie,” Alberto said. “I know for sure.”

  “Don’t shout, goddamn it.”

  “You’re a murderer.”

  “Shhh.”

  “I’m the one that squealed on you, Jaguar. I know you killed him.”

  This time, Alberto did not move, although the Jaguar had crouched as if to spring from the cot.

  “You told that to Gamboa?” the Jaguar asked very slowly.

  “Yes. I told him everything you’ve done, everything that goes on in the barracks.”

  “Why did you do it?”

  “Because I felt like it.”

  “Let’s see if you’re the man you think you are,” the Jaguar said, and stood up.

  7

  Lt. Gamboa left the colonel’s office, nodded to the civilian, and waited a few moments for the elevator. When it failed to arrive, he walked down the stairs, taking them two at a time. In the patio he discovered that the morning had grown clear under a shining sky. There were many white clouds on t
he horizon, standing motionless above the glitter of the sea. He walked quickly to the barracks of the Fifth Year and opened the office door. Capt. Garrido was at his desk, hunched over like a porcupine. Gamboa saluted him from the doorway.

  “Yes?” the captain asked, leaping up.

  “The colonel told me to tell you not to register the report I submitted, Sir.”

  The captain’s face relaxed, and his eyes, which had been hard, smiled with relief. “Of course,” he said, thumping the desk. “I haven’t even bothered to register it. I knew what the decision would be. What happened, Gamboa?”

  “The cadet withdrew his accusation, Sir. The colonel tore up the report. We’re to forget about the whole thing, that is, about the supposed murder, Sir. As for the rest, we’re to maintain stricter discipline.”

  “Stricter?” The captain laughed loudly. “Come here, Gamboa. Look.” He held up a sheaf of papers. “See this? More paperwork in three days than during all last month. Sixty cadets confined, that’s almost a third of the Year. The colonel doesn’t have to worry. We’ll get them back in line, and we’ll see that they stay there. As for the exams, I’m going to take special precautions. I’ll keep them in my own room until the moment they’re needed in the classrooms. Let the cadets come looking for them if they dare. I’ve doubled the cadet sentries and the patrols by the soldiers. The noncoms will ask for reports every hour. We’ll hold a clothing inspection twice a week, and the same goes for their rifles. Do you think they’ll keep on cutting up?”

  “I hope not, Sir.”

  “And who was right?” the captain asked him, leaning forward with a triumphant smile. “You or me?”

  “It was my duty,” Gamboa said.

  “You’re too fussy about the regulations,” the captain said. “I’m not criticizing you, Gamboa, but sometimes it’s better to be practical. That is, sometimes it’s better to forget the regulations and use your common sense.”

  “I believe in the regulations,” Gamboa said. “I’m going to confess something to you: I can recite them from memory. And I want you to know I don’t regret anything I’ve done.”

  “Cigarette?” the captain asked. Gamboa accepted one. The captain smoked imported cigarettes; they were made from black tobacco that gave off a dense, fetid cloud. The lieutenant fondled the oval cigarette for a few moments before putting it to his mouth.

  “We all believe in the regulations,” the captain said. “But you have to know how to interpret them. Above all, we soldiers have to be realists, we have to act according to the situation at hand. You can’t make facts fit the rules, Gamboa. It’s the other way around. The rules have to be adapted to fit the facts.” The captain’s hand made circles in the air; he clearly felt inspired. “Otherwise, life would be impossible. Stubbornness does more harm than it does good. What are you going to gain from having stood up for that cadet? Nothing, absolutely nothing. You simply got yourself in trouble. If you’d only listened to me, the results would be the same and we’d have avoided a lot of problems. Don’t think for a minute that I’m glad about what’s happened to you. You know how much I respect you. But the major’s furious and he’ll try to make trouble for you. The colonel must be thoroughly disgusted also.”

  “Bah,” Gamboa said scornfully. “What can they do to me? Besides, I don’t care what they do. My conscience is clean.”

  “A clean conscience might help you get into heaven,” the captain said in an amiable voice, “but it won’t help your career. In any case, I’ll do what I can to prevent all this from causing you harm. Now, then, what did they decide about the two cadets?”

  “The colonel said they were to return to their barracks.”

  “Go and see them. Give them a little advice. Tell them to keep their mouths shut if they don’t want a lot more trouble. They’re the ones who’ll gain the most by forgetting the whole affair. But watch out for the one you’ve been protecting. He’s plain insolent.”

  “Protecting?” Gamboa said. “A week ago I didn’t even know he existed.”

  The lieutenant walked out without asking the captain’s permission. The barracks patio was empty, but it was almost noon and the cadets would come back from the classrooms like a swelling, roaring, overflowing river, and then the patio would be all noise and turmoil. Gamboa took the letter out of his wallet, held it in his hand for a moment, and replaced it without opening it. If it’s a boy, he thought, he won’t be a soldier.

  At the guardhouse, the lieutenant on duty was reading a magazine, and the soldiers sitting on the bench were looking at each other with vacant eyes. When Gamboa entered, they stood up like automatons.

  “Good morning.”

  “Good morning, Sir.”

  Gamboa’s manner toward him was easy and friendly, but the young lieutenant had served under him and still treated him with a certain respect.

  “I’ve come for the two cadets from the Fifth.”

  “Yes,” the lieutenant said. “One of them wanted to leave, but he didn’t have a written order. Shall I bring them out? They’re in the right-hand cell.”

  “Together?” Gamboa asked.

  “Yes. I needed the other one. There’s some soldiers being punished. Should I have kept them apart?”

  “Give me the key. I’m going to talk with them.”

  Gamboa opened the door of the cell slowly, but entered with a bound, like a lion tamer. He saw two pairs of legs dangling in the shaft of light that came in through the window, and heard the heavy breathing of the cadets, but his eyes were not accustomed to the darkness and he could barely make out their silhouettes and the shape of their faces. He took a step toward them and shouted, “Attention!”

  They stood up, but without any haste.

  “When a superior enters,” Gamboa said, “his inferiors come to attention. Have you forgotten? Six points for each one. Take your hand away from your face and come to attention, Cadet!”

  “He can’t, Sir,” the Jaguar said.

  Alberto removed his hand, but immediately put it over his eye again. Gamboa pushed him gently toward the light. He could see the swelling over the cadet’s cheekbone and the drying blood on his nose and mouth.

  “Take your hand away,” Gamboa said. “Let me see it.”

  Alberto lowered his hand, and winced with pain. His eye had been forced shut by a huge violet-colored bruise, and his swollen eyelid looked as if it had been scorched. Gamboa also saw the splotches of blood on his shirt. Alberto’s hair was matted with sweat and dust.

  “Come here.”

  The Jaguar obeyed. The fight had not left many marks on his face, but the wings of his nostrils were trembling and there was a crust of dried saliva around his lips.

  “Go to the infirmary, both of you,” Gamboa said. “After they take care of you, go to my room. I’ll be waiting for you. I’ve got some things to tell you.”

  Alberto and the Jaguar left the cell. The lieutenant on duty turned toward them when he heard their footsteps. His vague smile abruptly became an expression of astonishment, of shock.

  “Halt!” he bellowed. “What’s going on? Don’t make a move!”

  The soldiers had run forward toward the cadets and were staring at them.

  “It’s all right,” Gamboa said. Then he told the cadets, “Get going.”

  Alberto and the Jaguar left the guardhouse. The lieutenants and the soldiers watched them walk away through the clear noonday light. They walked shoulder to shoulder but without turning their heads, not speaking, not looking at each other.

  “He wrecked that kid’s face,” the young lieutenant said. “I don’t understand it.”

  “You didn’t know what was going on?” Gamboa asked.

  “No.” The lieutenant seemed completely confused. “And I was right here the whole time.” He looked at the soldiers. “What about you? Did you hear anything?”

  The four soldiers shook their heads.

  “They fought without letting out a grunt,” the lieutenant said. He had recovered from his surprise
and confusion, and even sounded a little like a sports fan. “I’d’ve broken it up if I’d heard them, but I didn’t. What a pair of gamecocks! It’s going to be a long while before that kid’s face looks all right. What were they fighting about?”