The Time of the Hero

by Mario Vargas Llosa

  “What are you doing here?”

  The lieutenant came up to Alberto, who gazed over the officer’s shoulder at the splotches of moss on the stone base that held up the hero’s statue, or rather he saw them in his mind because the lights of the guardhouse were dim and far away, or else he invented them, it was possible that on that same day the soldiers on duty had scraped and scrubbed the pedestal.

  “Well?” the lieutenant asked. “What’s going on?”

  Alberto stood motionless, his right hand held rigid to his cap, all of his senses alert as he faced that short dark figure. The officer also stood motionless, his hands still on his hips.

  “I’d like to ask you for some advice, Sir,” Alberto said. I could tell him I’m dying of a bellyache, I’ve got to have an aspirin or something, my mother is seriously ill, somebody killed the vicuña, I could even ask him to…“What I mean is, personal advice.”

  “What the hell are you mumbling about?”

  “I’ve got a problem,” Alberto said, still standing at attention. I could tell him my father is a general, a rear admiral, a marshal, and for every point I’m docked he’ll lose a year of promotion, and I could… It’s…it’s personal.” He stopped, hesitated a moment, then lied: “The colonel told us once we could ask advice from our officers. I mean, about personal problems.”

  “Name and year,” the lieutenant said. He had dropped his hands from his hips and now he looked even smaller, even more fragile. He took a step forward and Alberto could look down at him more closely. At his pouting lips. At his scowling, froglike eyes, though without the life of a frog’s. At his round face, contracted in an expression that was meant to be implacable and was only pathetic, the same expression he put on when he ordered the punishment lottery, which was his own invention (“Brigadiers, give six points to all the number threes and multiples of three!”).

  “Alberto Fernández, Sir, Fifth Year, first section.”

  “All right, now get to the point.”

  “I think I’m sick, Lieutenant. I mean mentally, not physically. I have nightmares every night.” Alberto had lowered his eyes, feigning humility, and he spoke very slowly, his mind a blank, letting his lips and tongue talk on by themselves, letting them weave a spider web, a labyrinth. “They’re awful, Lieutenant. Sometimes I dream I’m a killer, or sometimes these animals with human faces are chasing me. I wake up sweating and shaking. It’s horrible, Lieutenant, honest.”

  The officer studied the cadet’s face. Alberto discovered that the frog’s eyes had come to life: surprise and suspicion peered out of them like two faint stars. I could laugh, I could cry or scream, I could run away. Huarina finished his scrutiny. He took a sudden step backward, and said, “I’m not a priest, goddamn it! Go take your personal problems to your father or mother!”

  “I didn’t mean to bother you, Lieutenant,” Alberto mumbled.

  “Wait a minute, what’s that arm band?” The officer pushed his snout closer, his eyes widening. “Are you on guard duty?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Don’t you know you should never leave your post except when you’re dead?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Personal problems! You’re a fuck-up.”

  Alberto held his breath. The scowl had vanished from the officer’s face, his mouth was open, his eyes were squinting, there were wrinkles on his forehead: he was laughing. “You’re just a fuck-up, goddamn it. Get back to your post. And you should be grateful I’m not reporting you.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Alberto saluted, made a half turn, and glimpsed the soldiers at the guardhouse sitting huddled over on the bench. He heard from behind him, “We aren’t priests, goddamn it.” In front of him, toward the left, there were three cement hulks: the Fifth Year, then the Fourth, and finally the Third, which was the barracks of the Dogs. Beyond that the stadium sprawled out: the soccer field covered with weeds, the track full of hollows and holes, the wooden stands warped by the dampness. On the other side of the stadium, beyond the ruined building that was the soldiers’ quarters, there was a grayish wall where the world of the Leoncio Prado Military Academy ended and the open fields of La Perla began. And if Huarina’d looked down and seen my boots, and if the Jaguar hasn’t got the chemistry exam, or if he’s got it and won’t trust me, and if I go see Golden Toes and tell her I’m from Leoncio Prado and it’s the first time I’ve come, I’ll bring you good luck, and if I go back to the neighborhood and borrow twenty soles from one of my friends and leave him my watch in hock, and if I don’t get hold of that chemistry exam, and if I don’t have laces for my boots for the personal inspection tomorrow I’m screwed and that’s for sure. Alberto walked slowly, dragging his feet a little. He had not had any laces in his boots for a whole week, and his boots threatened to come off at every step. He had covered about half the distance between the Fifth Year and the statue of the hero. Two years ago the assignment of the barracks was different: the cadets of the Fifth were in the barracks next to the stadium, and the Dogs were nearest to the guardhouse. The Fourth had always been in the middle, between their enemies. But when there was a change of directors, the new colonel decided on the present assignment, and explained it in a speech: “The privilege of sleeping near our great hero is one that ought to be earned. From now on the cadets of the Third Year will occupy the barracks farthest away. Then each year they’ll move closer to the statue of Leoncio Prado. And I hope that when they leave the academy they’ll resemble him a little, because he fought for the freedom of a country that wasn’t even Peru. In the army, Cadets, you’ve got to have respect for symbols, damn it.”

  And if I steal some laces from Arróspide, I’d be a real shit to steal from a guy from Miraflores when there’s so many peasants in the section that spend the whole year shut in as if they’re afraid of the street, they’ll probably have some laces. And if I steal them from somebody in the Circle, from Curly or that slob of a Boa, but what about the exam, I don’t want to flunk chemistry again. And if I steal them from the Slave, what a joke, that’s what I said to Vallano and it’s true, you’d think you were pretty brave if you hit a dead man, except you’re hopeless. You can tell Vallano’s a coward like all the Negroes, you can tell it from his eyes, what eyes, what fear, what jumping around, I’ll kill the bastard that stole my pajamas, I’ll kill him, the lieutenant’s coming, the noncoms are coming, give me my pajamas back, I’ve got to get a pass this weekend and I’m not saying anything to start a fight, I’m not saying anything about your mother, I’m not insulting you, just asking what’s going on or something, but to let somebody grab your pajamas right during inspection without doing anything, that’s too much. What the Slave needs is for somebody to knock the fear out of him. I’ll steal the laces from Vallano instead.

  He had come to the narrow passage that led to the Fifth Year’s patio. In the moist darkness, that was filled with the sound of the sea, Alberto imagined the bodies curled up in their cots behind the cement walls, in the crowded shadows of the barracks. He must be in the barracks, he must be in the latrine, he must be in the field, he must be dead, where have you gone to, little Jaguar? The deserted patio, vaguely lit by the lamps on the parade ground, was like a village plaza. There were no guards in sight. He must be playing a few hands, if I just had a coin, just one fucking coin, I could win those twenty soles, maybe more. He must be gambling and I hope he’ll trust me, I’ll write you some letters and stories, but actually he’s never asked me for anything in three years, oh hell, I’m sure they’re going to flunk me in chemistry. He went through the lobby without running into anyone. He went into the barracks of the first and second sections; the latrines were empty, and one of them smelled foul. He looked into the latrines in the other barracks, deliberately making a lot of noise as he went down the aisles, but there was no change in the calm or feverish breathing of the cadets. He stopped in the fifth section, a little before he got to the door of the latrine. Someone was talking in his sleep, but he could only make out a woman’s name i
n that babble of words: “Lidia.” Lidia? I think Lidia’s the name of the girl friend of that guy from Arequipa, the one that showed me the letters and photos she sent him and told me all his troubles, write her a good letter for me because I really love her, I’m not a priest, goddamn it, you’re a fuck-up. Lidia? There was a ring of bundle-shaped forms in the seventh section next to the urinals: they all looked like hunchbacks as they squatted in their green jackets. There were eight rifles on the floor and another one leaning against the wall. The latrine door was open and Alberto could make them out from a distance, from the barracks door. As he went toward them a shadow intercepted him.

  “What’s up? Who is it?”

  “I’m the colonel. Have you got permission to gamble? You should never leave your post except when you’re dead.”

  Alberto went into the latrine. The tired faces of a dozen guards looked up at him. Smoke hovered in the room like an awning over their heads. Nobody he knew: identical faces, all dark and rough.

  “Have you seen the Jaguar?”

  “He hasn’t been here.”

  “What’re you playing?”

  “Poker. Want in? First you’ve got to be the lookout for a quarter of an hour.”

  “I don’t play poker with peasants,” Alberto said. He put his hand to his penis and aimed at the players. “I just mow them down.”

  “Get out of here, Poet,” one of them said, “you’re bothering us.”

  “I guess I’ll have to tell the captain,” Alberto said, turning away. “Captain, the peasants are playing poker during guard duty.”

  He could hear them insulting him. He was out in the patio again. He hesitated for a few moments, then walked toward the open field. And if I’d been sleeping in the grass, and they’d stolen the exam during my tour of duty, that’d be tough to explain, or if I’d jumped the wall, and if… He crossed the field to the back wall of the Academy. That was where they used to jump over, because the ground was level on the other side and there was no danger of breaking your leg. At one time, you could see shadows clearing the wall every night and coming back just before dawn. But the new colonel expelled four cadets from the Fourth who were caught leaving and since then a pair of soldiers patrolled the other side every night. So there were fewer attempts to get out, and never at this spot any more. Alberto turned around. In the distance he saw the patio of the Fifth, dim and empty. Then he glimpsed a small blue flame out in the field. He walked toward it.

  “Jaguar?”

  There was no answer. Alberto took out his flashlight—besides their rifles, all the guards had flashlights and purple arm bands—and snapped it on. A lax face, with a smooth, beardless skin and timid eyes, was squinting up into the beam of light.

  “You? What’re you doing here?”

  The Slave raised a hand to shield his eyes from the flashlight. Alberto turned it off.

  “I’m on guard duty.”

  Was Alberto laughing? The sound shook in the darkness like an attack of belching, stopped for a moment, then broke out again. A sound of sheer contempt, harsh and mirthless.

  “You’re taking the Jaguar’s place,” Alberto said. “You make me sick.”

  “And you imitate the Jaguar’s laugh,” the Slave said quietly. “That ought to make you even sicker.”

  “I only imitate your mother,” Alberto said. He unslung his rifle, laid it on the grass, turned up the lapels of his jacket, rubbed his hands together and sat down beside the Slave. “Have you got a cigarette?”

  A sweaty hand brushed his and drew away, leaving him a limp cigarette without any tobacco in the tips. Alberto lit a match. “Watch out,” the Slave whispered. “The patrol might see you.”

  “Shit,” Alberto said, “I burned myself.” The parade ground stretched out in front of him, glowing dimly like a great avenue in the heart of a fog-bound city.

  “How do you make your cigarettes last you?” Alberto asked. “I always run out by Wednesday or even sooner.”

  “I don’t smoke very much.”

  “Why are you so damned timid?” Alberto asked. “Aren’t you ashamed to be taking the Jaguar’s turn?”

  “I do what I want,” the Slave said. “What difference does it make to you?”

  “They treat you like a slave,” Alberto said. “Hell, they all treat you like a slave. What are you scared of?”

  “I’m not scared of you.”

  Alberto laughed. Suddenly he cut his laughter short. “You’re right,” he said. “I’m laughing like the Jaguar. Why does everybody imitate him?”

  “I don’t imitate him,” the Slave said.

  “You’re like his dog,” Alberto said. “He’s got you screwed.”

  Alberto tossed the butt away. It glimmered for a few moments in the grass, then went out. The patio of the Fifth was still deserted.

  “Yes,” Alberto said, “he’s got you screwed.” He opened his mouth, then closed it. He put his fingers to the tip of his tongue, picked off a shred of tobacco, cut it in two with his nails, put the two bits on his lips and spit them out. “You’ve never had any fights, have you?”

  “Just one,” the Slave said.

  “Here?”

  “No. Before.”

  “That’s why you’re screwed,” Alberto said. “Everybody knows you’re scared. You’ve got to slug somebody once in a while if you want them to respect you. If you don’t, they walk all over you.”

  “I’m not going to be a soldier.”

  “Neither am I. But you’re a soldier here whether you like it or not. And the big thing in the army is to be real tough, to have guts, see what I mean? Screw them first before they screw you. There isn’t any other way. I don’t like to be screwed.”

  “But I don’t like to fight,” the Slave said. “Or the thing is, I don’t know how.”

  “It’s something you can’t learn,” Alberto said. “It’s a question of guts.”

  “That’s what Lt. Gamboa said one day.”

  “And it’s the truth, isn’t it? I don’t want to be a soldier either, but you learn how to be a man here. You learn how to take care of yourself. You find out what life’s all about.”

  “But you don’t fight very much,” the Slave said, “and still you don’t get screwed.”

  “I make believe I’m crazy. I mean I play stupid. You could do that too, so they wouldn’t walk all over you. If you don’t defend yourself tooth and claw they jump on you. That’s the law of the jungle.”

  “Are you going to be a poet?” the Slave asked.

  “Are you kidding? I’m going to be an engineer. My father’s going to send me to the United States to study. I just write letters and stories so I can buy my cigarettes. But that doesn’t mean a thing. You, what are you going to be?”

  “I wanted to be a sailor,” the Slave said. “But I changed my mind. I don’t like the services. Maybe I’ll be an engineer too.”

  The fog had grown thicker, and the lamps along the parade ground looked smaller and their light was dimmer than ever. Alberto fished in his pockets. He had run out of cigarettes two days before but he repeated the action automatically whenever he wanted to smoke.

  “Got any cigarettes left?”

  There was no answer from the Slave, but a moment later Alberto felt an arm against his stomach. He found a hand, which was holding out an almost full pack of cigarettes. He took one and put it between his lips, running the tip of his tongue over the end of it. He lit a match and brought the flame up close to the Slave’s face. The light flickered gently in the little grotto of his cupped hands.

  “What the fuck are you crying for?” Alberto asked. He opened his hands and dropped the match. “Goddamn it, I burned myself again!”

  He took out another match and lit the cigarette, dragging the smoke in and exhaling it through his nose and mouth.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked.

  “Nothing.”

  Alberto took another drag. The tip glowed and the smoke mingled with the fog, which was very low, almost hugging t
he ground. The patio of the Fifth had disappeared. The barracks were a huge, motionless blotch.

  “What’ve they done to you?” Alberto asked. “You shouldn’t ever cry, man.”

  “My jacket,” the Slave said. “They’ve screwed me out of my pass.”

  Alberto turned his head. The Slave was wearing a dark brown sleeveless sweater.

  “I’ve got to go out on pass tomorrow,” the Slave said. “They’ve got me screwed.”

  “Do you know who it was?”

  “No. They took it out of my locker.”

  “You’ll get docked a hundred soles. Maybe more.”

  “It isn’t that. There’s an inspection tomorrow. Gamboa’s going to put me on the shit list. I’ve already been two weeks without a pass.”

  “What time have you got?”

  “Quarter to one,” the Slave said. “We can go back to the barracks.”

  “Wait a while,” Alberto said, getting up. “There’s plenty of time. Let’s swipe a jacket.”

  The Slave leaped to his feet but then stood there without taking a step, as if paralyzed.

  “Let’s go,” Alberto said.

  “But the sentries…”

  “The hell with them,” Alberto said. “Can’t you see I’m going to risk my pass to get you a jacket? Yellowbellies make me sick. The sentries are in the latrine in the seventh section. There’s a game going.”

  The Slave followed him. They walked through the thickening fog toward the invisible barracks. The nails on their boots scraped through the wet grass, and the beat of the sea, mingling with the whistle of the wind, invaded the rooms of the doorless, windowless building that stood between the classrooms and the officers’ quarters.

  “Let’s go to the ninth or the tenth,” the Slave said. “Those midgets sleep like logs.”

  “Do you want a jacket or a bib? We’ll go to the third.”