The Time of the Hero

by Mario Vargas Llosa

  “They think I’m a squealer,” the Jaguar said. “Do you understand what I’m saying? They didn’t even try to find out the truth. The minute the lockers were inspected, they turned their backs on me. Have you seen the walls in the latrines? ‘Jaguar the Squealer,’ ‘Jaguar the Coward,’ everywhere. What could I gain? Let’s see if you can tell me, Sir. Nothing, isn’t that right? Everything I did was for the section. I don’t want to be with them for another moment. They were like a family to me, that’s why they make me even sicker.”

  “That isn’t true,” Gamboa said. “You’re lying. If their opinion means so much to you, would you rather have them know you’re a murderer?”

  “I don’t care about their opinion,” the Jaguar said quietly. “It’s their ingratitude that bothers me, that’s all.”

  “All?” Gamboa asked with a mocking smile. “For the last time, I’m asking you for the truth. Be frank. Why didn’t you tell them it was Cadet Fernández who made the accusation?”

  The Jaguar’s whole body seemed to fold up, as if surprised by a sudden stab of pain.

  “But his case is different,” he said hoarsely, forcing out the words. “It isn’t the same at all, Sir. The others betrayed me out of plain cowardice. He wanted revenge for the Slave. He’s a squealer and that’s the worst thing you can be, but he did it to get revenge for a friend. Don’t you see the difference, Sir?”

  “Get out of here,” Gamboa said. “I don’t feel like wasting any more time with you. I’m not interested in your ideas about loyalty and revenge.”

  “I can’t sleep,” the Jaguar stammered. “That’s the truth, Sir, I swear to God it is. I didn’t know what it was like to have everybody against you. Don’t get angry, try to understand me, I’m not asking a big favor. They all say, ‘Gamboa’s the strictest of the officers, but he’s the only one that’s just.’ Why won’t you listen to what I’m saying?”

  “All right,” Gamboa said. “I’m listening. Why did you kill that cadet? Why have you written me this note?”

  “I was wrong about the others, Sir. I wanted to rid them of a character like that. Think about what happened and you’ll see how anybody could be wrong. He had Cava expelled just so he could get outside. He didn’t care if he ruined a buddy’s career as long as he got a pass. That’d make anybody sick.”

  “And why have you changed your mind?” Gamboa asked. “Why didn’t you tell me the truth when I questioned you in the guardhouse?”

  “I haven’t changed my mind,” the Jaguar said. “It’s just that I…” He hesitated for a moment, then nodded as if to himself. “It’s just that I understand the Slave better now. To him, we weren’t his friends, we were his enemies. Haven’t I told you I didn’t know what it was like to have everybody against you? We all bullied him, so much we sometimes got tired of it—and I was the worst of all. I can’t forget his face, Sir. I swear to you, I don’t know in my heart how I came to do it. I’d been thinking of beating him up, of giving him a scare. But that morning I saw him right in front of me, with his head up, so I aimed and fired. I wanted to get revenge for the section, Sir. How could I know the rest were worse than he was? I think the best thing is to put me in prison. Everybody said that’s where I’d end up, my mother, you too. You can be happy now, Sir.”

  “I can’t remember him,” Gamboa said, and the Jaguar stared at him in amazement. “I mean, his life as a cadet. I know all the others, I remember how they performed during the field exercises, how they wore their uniforms. But not Arana. And he was in my company for three years.”

  “Don’t give me any advice,” the Jaguar said, confused. “Don’t tell me anything, please. I don’t like…”

  “I wasn’t talking to you,” Gamboa said. “Don’t worry, I’m not thinking of giving you any advice. Go on, now. Go back to the Academy. Your pass is only good for half an hour.”

  “Sir,” the Jaguar said. He stood with his mouth open for a moment, then repeated, “Sir.”

  “The Arana case is closed,” Gamboa said. “The army doesn’t want to hear another word about it. It would be easier to bring Arana back to life than to convince the army it’s made an error.”

  “You aren’t going to take me to the colonel?” the Jaguar asked. “Then they wouldn’t send you to Juliaca, Sir. Don’t look so surprised. Do you think I don’t know they’ve screwed you on account of this business? Take me to the colonel.”

  “Don’t you know what useless objectives are?”

  “What did you say?” the Jaguar murmured.

  “Look, when an enemy lays down his arms and surrenders, a responsible soldier doesn’t fire at him. Not only for moral reasons, for military reasons too: for economy. Even in war there shouldn’t be any useless deaths. You understand what I mean. Go back to the Academy, and from now on try to see to it that the death of Cadet Arana serves some use.”

  He tore the piece of paper he had in his hand and dropped it on the ground.

  “Go on,” he added. “It’s almost time for lunch.”

  “You aren’t coming back, Sir?”

  “No,” Gamboa said. “Maybe we’ll see each other some day. Good-by.”

  He picked up his suitcase and walked down Palmeras Avenue in the direction of Bellavista. The Jaguar stood watching him for a moment. Then he picked up the pieces of paper at his feet. Gamboa had torn the note in half, but he was surprised to find there were two other pieces besides those of the leaf from his notebook on which he had written: “Lieutenant Gamboa: I killed the Slave. You can make out a report and take me to the colonel.” The other two halves were a telegram: DAUGHTER BORN TWO HOURS AGO STOP ROSA AND BABY DOING FINE STOP CONGRATULATIONS STOP LETTER FOLLOWS, ANDRES. He tore the four scraps into little bits, and strewed them along the ground as he walked toward the wall that ran along the cliffs. As he passed one of the houses, he stopped for a minute: it was a large house, with a wide garden in front, the house where he had committed his first robbery. He walked on until he reached Costanera Avenue. He looked at the sea far below: it was less gray than usual, and the waves broke on the shore and died almost instantaneously.

  There was a penetrating white light that seemed to burst from the roofs of the houses and ascend straight up into the cloudless sky. Alberto had the feeling that his eyes would explode from the reflections if he stared hard at those wide windows that caught and shot back the sun. His body was sweating under his light silk shirt, and every few minutes he had to mop his face with his towel. The avenue was strangely deserted: usually, at that hour, there was already a stream of cars heading toward the beaches. He looked at his watch, but neglected to notice the time: his eyes were too fascinated by the glitter of the hands, the dials, the case, the goldplated band. It was a beautiful watch, with a solid gold case. The night before, in Salazar Park, Pluto had said, “It looks just like a chronometer.” “It is a chronometer,” he told him. “And besides that, it’s waterproof and shockproof.” They pretended not to believe him, so he took the watch off and handed it to Marcela: “Drop it on the pavement and you’ll see.” She was afraid to, and kept letting out little squeals. Pluto, Helena, Emilio, the Babe and Paco all egged her on. “Do you really and truly want me to?” “Yes,” Alberto told her, “go ahead and drop it.” When she let it fall, the others were all silent, waiting for it to shatter in a thousand pieces. But it just gave a little bounce, and when Alberto picked it up it was intact, without a scratch on it and still running. Then Alberto himself submerged it in the park fountain, to show them it was waterproof. Alberto smiled as he remembered the incident, thinking: I’ll wear it in swimming today at Herradura. His father had given it to him for Christmas. “For your good marks in the exams,” his father told him. You’re finally beginning to live up to the family name. I doubt if any of your friends has a watch like this. You can put on airs.” And he was right: the night before, in the park, the watch had been the main topic of conversation. My father knows what life’s all about, Alberto thought.

  He turned down Primavera Avenue.
He felt lively and contented as he walked between that double row of mansions, each with its broad, carefully-tended garden, and he enjoyed seeing the tangles of light and shadow that ran up and down the trunks of the trees or quivered in the boughs. How wonderful summer is, he thought. Tomorrow’s Monday, but for me it’ll be just like today. I’ll get up at nine and meet Marcela and we’ll go to the beach. In the afternoon, the movies, and at night, the park. And the same on Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, every day till the end of summer. And after that I won’t have to return to the Academy, just pack my bags. I’m sure I’m going to like the United States a lot. He glanced at his watch again: nine-thirty. If the sun was already so bright, what would it be like at noon? A perfect day for the beach, he thought. He was carrying his bathing trunks in his right hand, rolled up in a whitebordered green towel. Pluto would be meeting him at ten o’clock: he was early. Before he entered the Academy, he always arrived late at the neighborhood get-togethers. Now it was the opposite, as if he wanted to make up the lost hours. And to think he had spent two summers shut up in his house, without seeing anybody! Yet the neighborhood was so close that he could have left the house any morning, gone to the corner of Colón and Diego Ferré, and re-established his friendships with a few words of explanation. “Hello. I haven’t been around this year on account of the Academy. But now I’ve got a three-month vacation and I want to spend it with you people and not think about the confinements, the officers, the barracks.” But what did the past matter now? The morning stretched out before him as a luminous, protective reality. His unhappy memories were like snow: the golden heat would melt them away.

  But the thought of the Academy still awoke that inevitable feeling of revulsion and gloom which made his heart contract like the mimosa. Now, however, those states of utter misery were much more ephemeral, like a speck of dust in his eye: a few minutes later he was feeling fine again. Two months earlier, if he remembered the Leoncio Prado he felt nothing but disgust, confusion, and despondency for the rest of the day. Now he could remember many of the events as if they had been episodes in a motion picture, and for days at a time he could avoid thinking of the Slave.

  He crossed Petit Thouars Avenue, stopped in front of the second house, and whistled. The front garden overflowed with blossoms and the damp lawn shone in the sunlight. A girl’s voice said, “I’ll be right down!” He could not see anyone: Marcela must have called from the stairs. Would she ask him in? Alberto intended to suggest that they take a stroll until it was ten o’clock. They would walk toward the streetcar tracks, under the trees that lined the avenue. Perhaps he would be able to kiss her. Then Marcela appeared at the far side of the garden; she was dressed in slacks and a loose blouse with garnet and black stripes. She came toward him with a smile, and he thought, How lovely she is. Her dark eyes and hair contrasted with her white, white skin.

  “Hello,” Marcela said. “You’re early.”

  “If you want, I’ll go away,” he said. He felt very much in command of himself. At the beginning, especially in the days after the party at which he had asked Marcela to be his girl friend, he felt somewhat timid in that world of his boyhood, after the three-year parenthesis in which he had been separated from everything that was pleasant and good. He always felt sure of himself now: he could keep up a steady stream of jokes, and consider himself an equal among equals, or even, at times, a bit superior.

  “Stupid,” she said.

  “Do you want to take a walk? Pluto isn’t coming till ten.”

  “Yes, let’s,” Marcela said. She raised a finger to her temple. What was the meaning of that gesture? “My folks are still asleep. They went to a party last night, in Ancón. It was awfully late when they got home. And I came back from the park before nine o’clock.”

  When they were a few yards away from the house, Alberto clasped her hand. “Have you noticed the sun?” he asked her. “It’s perfect for the beach.”

  “I’ve got to tell you something,” Marcela said. Alberto looked at her: she was smiling at him, impertinently, maliciously, charmingly. He thought, She’s absolutely lovely.

  “What is it?”

  “I saw your sweetheart last night.”

  Was this a joke of some sort? He had still not adjusted completely to the group: sometimes there was an allusion which everyone from the neighborhood caught but which left him ignorant, blind, lost. And how could he retaliate? Not with the kind of jokes they had cracked in the barracks, certainly. In his mind’s eye he saw the Jaguar and the Boa spitting on the Slave while he was asleep.

  “Who?” he asked in a cautious voice.

  “Teresa,” Marcela said. “The girl that lives in Lince.”

  He had forgotten about the heat, but suddenly he was aware of its aggressive, powerful, crushing strength. He felt that it was suffocating him.

  “Teresa, you said?”

  Marcela laughed. “Why do you think I asked you where she lives?” There was a note of triumph in her voice: she was proud of her accomplishment. “Pluto took me there in his car, after we left the park.”

  “To her house?” Alberto stammered.

  “Yes,” Marcela said. Her dark eyes were flashing. “Do you know what I did? I knocked on the door and she answered it herself. I asked her if this was where Señora Grellot lived. Do you know who the señora is? My nextdoor neighbor!” She paused for a moment. “So I got a good look at Teresa.”

  He smiled as best he could, and murmured, “You’re crazy.” But once again he felt uneasy and even humiliated.

  “Tell me the truth,” Marcela said. Her voice was still sweet, but still mischievous. “Were you really in love with that girl?”

  “No,” Alberto said. “Of course not. It was just that I was in the Academy.”

  “She’s ugly!” Marcela said. “She’s an ugly little nobody!”

  Alberto still felt confused, but he was also gratified. Marcela’s crazy about me, he thought. She’s as jealous as anything.

  “You know I only love you,” he said. “I’ve never loved anybody else the way I love you.”

  Marcela squeezed his hand. He stopped, reached out his arm, and pulled her toward him; but she resisted, turning her head from side to side to make sure no one was watching. There was no one in sight. Alberto merely brushed her lips with his. They went on walking.

  “What did she tell you?” Alberto asked.

  “Her?” Marcela laughed an elegant little laugh. “Nothing. She told me Señora Somebody-or-Other lived there. It was a peculiar name, I can’t remember it. Pluto almost died laughing. He began to make remarks from the car and she shut the door. That’s all. You haven’t gone back to see her?”

  “No,” Alberto said. “Of course not.”

  “Tell me, did you take her to the Salazar Park?”

  “I didn’t even have time. I only saw her a few weekends, at her house or in Lima. I never took her to Miraflores.”

  “And why did you break up with her?”

  It was unexpected. Alberto opened his mouth but no words came out. How could he explain to Marcela what he could not wholly explain to himself? Teresa was a part of those three years at the Military Academy, one of those corpses it was best not to revive.

  “Bah,” he said. “When I got out of the Academy I realized I didn’t care for her. I didn’t go back to see her.”

  They had reached the streetcar line. They walked down Reducto Avenue. He put his arm around her shoulder, and under his hand he could feel her warm, smooth skin, which he touched only lightly and carefully, as if it were fragile. Why had he told Marcela about Teresa? Everybody in the neighborhood talked about their girl friends and boy friends, and Marcela herself used to date a boy from San Isidro; therefore he had not wanted them to think he was a beginner. The fact that he had graduated from the Leoncio Prado Academy gave him a certain prestige in the neighborhood: they regarded him as a prodigal son, a person who returned to his home after living through grand adventures. What would have happened if he had not run across the n
eighborhood boys and girls that afternoon, there on the corner of Diego Ferré?

  “A ghost!” Pluto said. “Yes, sir, a ghost!”

  Babe embraced him, Helena smiled at him, Tico introduced him to the ones he had never met, Molly said, “We haven’t seen him for three years, he forgot all about us,” and Emilio called him a snob and patted him on the shoulder affectionately.

  “A ghost,” Pluto repeated. “Aren’t you afraid of him?”

  Alberto was wearing civilian clothes. His uniform was on a chair in his room, although his cap had fallen on the floor. His mother was out, the empty house bored him, he wanted to smoke, he had only been free for two hours and he was disconcerted by the infinite possibilities for spending his time that had opened up in front of him. I’ll buy some cigarettes, he thought, and then I’ll go see Teresa. But after he had gone out and bought cigarettes, he did not get on the express; instead, he wandered for a long while through the streets of Miraflores like a tourist or a tramp. Larco Avenue, the Malecones, the Diagonal, the Salazar Park, and suddenly he came across Babe, Pluto, Helena, a great ring of smiling faces that welcomed him back.

  “You returned just in time,” Molly said. “We need another man, we’re going to Chosica in a few days. Now we’re all set, eight couples.”

  They stayed there talking until nightfall, and arranged to go to the beach in a group on the following day. After he said good-by to them, Alberto went home, walking slowly, absorbed with new concerns. Marcela—Marcela who? he had never seen her before, she lived on Primavera Avenue, she was new in Miraflores—had asked him, “But you’ll be sure to come, won’t you?” His bathing trunks were old and faded, he would have to persuade his mother to buy him a new pair the first thing in the morning, so he could wear them on the Herradura beach.

  “Isn’t that something?” Pluto said. “A flesh-and-blood ghost!”

  (“That’s right,” Lt. Huarina said. “But go and see the captain, on the double.”

  They can’t do anything to me now, Alberto thought. They’ve already given us our grades. I’ll tell him what he is to his face. But instead of doing so, he came to attention and saluted respectfully. The captain smiled at him, examining his dress uniform. It’s the last time I’ll put it on, Alberto thought. But he was not completely overjoyed by the thought of leaving the Academy forever.