The Time of the Hero

by Mario Vargas Llosa

  2

  When the morning wind sprang up at La Perla, scattering the fog, pushing it toward the sea, and the grounds of the Leoncio Prado Military Academy grew clearer, like a smoke-filled house whose windows have just been opened, an anonymous soldier appeared in the doorway of the soldiers’ barracks, yawning, and walked toward the barracks of the cadets. The bugle he carried swung back and forth with the movements of his body, and shone dully in the pale, dim light. When he reached the Third Year, he stopped in the exact center of the patio. He was hunched up inside his greenish uniform, and with the last remnants of the fog blurring his shape, he looked like a phantom. He stood motionless for a few moments, then slowly came to life, rubbing his hands and spitting. Then he blew his bugle. He heard the echo of his own notes, and a few seconds later the cursing of the Dogs, who swore at him for putting an end to their sleep. The bugler walked on to the barracks of the Fourth Year, escorted by those diminishing insults. A few of the sentries from the last watch had come out of the Fourth after hearing the reveille at the Third. They mocked him and insulted him; sometimes they threw stones at him. Then he went on to the Fifth. The bugler was wholly awake by now, and walked more briskly. There was no reaction at the Fifth: the veterans knew they had fifteen minutes between reveille and the whistle that called them to fall in, and they stayed in bed till half the time was gone. The bugler returned to his barracks, rubbing his hands and spitting again. He was not disturbed by the cursing of the Dogs or the insults of the Fourth: he scarcely noticed them…except on Saturdays. There were field exercises on Saturdays, reveille was an hour earlier, and the buglers dreaded that duty. At five o’clock it was still completely dark, and the cadets, half-drunk with sleep and rage, bombarded the bugler from the windows with anything they could lay their hands on. Therefore the buglers violated the regulations on Saturdays: they blew reveille from the parade ground, a safe distance from the patios, and they blew it as rapidly as possible.

  The cadets in the Fifth could only stay in their bunks for two or three minutes on Saturdays, because they only had eight minutes, not fifteen, to wash, dress, make their bunks, and fall in. But this Saturday was an exception. The field exercises had been canceled because the Fifth was scheduled to take the chemistry exam. By the time the veterans heard their reveille, at six, the Dogs and the Fourth were already marching out the front gate toward the open fields between La Perla and Callao.

  A few moments after reveille, Alberto thought: Today’s the day we get passes. Somebody said, “It’s only four minutes to six. We ought to kill that bugler.” Then the barracks was silent. He opened his eyes, and saw that a pale gray light was filtering through the windows. The sun ought to shine on Saturdays at least. The latrine door opened and Alberto saw the pallid face of the Slave. The upper bunks kept cutting off his head as he came down the aisle. He had already shaved. He got up before reveille to be the first to fall in, Alberto told himself. He closed his eyes. When the Slave stopped at his bunk and touched his shoulder, he half-opened his eyes again. The Slave had a large head but it topped a skeleton body that was swallowed up by his blue pajamas.

  “Lt. Gamboa’s on duty today.”

  “I know,” Alberto said. “I’ve still got time.”

  “All right,” the Slave said. “I thought you were still asleep.” He smiled vaguely and went away.

  He wants to be a friend of mine, Alberto thought. He closed his eyes again and lay inert. The pavement along Diego Ferré is shining with the dew. The sidewalks along Porta and Ocharán are strewn with the leaves the night wind blew down. A natty young man is walking along, smoking a Chesterfield. I swear to God, I’m going to see the whores today.

  “Seven minutes!” That was Vallano, bellowing from the doorway. And then the rush: the bunks creaked, the lockers squeaked and slammed, boot heels hammered the tiles, the cadets grunted as they grazed or bumped into each other. But the loudest noise was their cursing, which was like tongues of fire in a cloud of smoke. Their curses were not aimed at any definite target: they swore at such abstractions as God, the Officers, the Mothers of Others, with more music than meaning.

  Alberto jumped out of his bunk and put on his socks and boots. His boots were still without laces, and he swore. By the time he got the laces in, most of the cadets had made their bunks and were dressing. “Slave!” Vallano shouted, “sing me something. I like to hear you while I’m washing.” “Sentry,” Arróspide roared, “they stole one of my laces!” “You’re to blame.” “You’ll be confined to the grounds, you bastard.” “It was the Slave,” someone said, “I know, I saw him.” “We’ll have to report him to the captain,” Vallano said, “we don’t want crooks in the barracks.” “Oh, my,” a cracked voice yelled, “our poor little Negress is afraid of burglars,” “Ay, ay,” some of them sang. “Ay, ay, ay,” the whole barracks howled. “You’re all sons of bitches,” Vallano said. He went out, slamming the door behind him. Alberto got dressed and ran to the latrine. The Jaguar was combing his hair at the next sink.

  “I need fifty points for the chemistry exam,” Alberto said with his mouth full of tooth paste. “How much?”

  “They’re going to flunk you, Poet.” The Jaguar peered in the mirror and tried to smooth down his hair, but the stubborn blond spikes kept bobbing up behind the comb. “We haven’t got the exam. We didn’t go.”

  “You didn’t get the exam?”

  “No. We didn’t even go.”

  Then they heard the whistle. The steady buzz that came from the barracks and latrines increased and suddenly stopped. The voice of Lt. Gamboa was like thunder out in the patio: “Brigadiers, write down the last three that fall in.” The buzz started up again, in a lower tone. Alberto began to run. He had his comb and toothbrush in his pocket and he wrapped his towel around his waist under his jacket like a sash. The formation was half assembled. He bumped into the cadet in front of him and someone grabbed him from behind. Alberto held on to Vallano’s belt, hopping up and down to avoid the kicks with which the newcomers tried to break up the clusters of cadets in order to find a place. “Don’t muss me up, you bastard,” Vallano said. Little by little the front ranks straightened out and the brigadiers—the cadet noncoms—began to count those present. In back, the disorder and struggling continued, with the latecomers trying to make themselves places by elbowing and muttering threats. Lt. Gamboa watched the formation from the edge of the parade ground. He was tall and heavily built. His cap was insolently cocked to one side. He turned his head back and forth very slowly, and his smile was contemptuous.

  “Silence!” he shouted.

  The cadets stopped murmuring. The lieutenant had his hands on his hips. When he dropped them to his side, they swung back and forth for a moment before becoming motionless. Then he began walking toward the battalion, his face hard and stern now, and very dark. Three of the army noncoms—Varúa, Morte, and Pezoa—followed him a few steps behind. Gamboa halted and glanced at his watch.

  “Three minutes,” he said. He gazed from one end of the formation to the other, like a shepherd inspecting his flock. “The Dogs fall in in two and a half minutes.”

  There was a wave of stifled laughter throughout the battalion. Gamboa raised his eyebrows, and immediately there was silence again.

  “I meant, the Third Year cadets.”

  Another wave of laughter, this time more daring. The cadets’ faces remained serious, the laughter came from their bellies and died on their lips without changing their expressions. Gamboa put his hands on his hips. There was silence again, as sudden as the stab of a knife. The noncoms stared at him, hypnotized. “He’s in a good mood,” Vallano whispered.

  “Brigadiers,” Gamboa said, “check them by sections.”

  He accented the last word, drawing it out, while his eyes narrowed slightly. There was a sigh of relief from the tail end of the battalion. Gamboa took a step forward and looked down the rows of motionless cadets.

  “And don’t forget the last three,” he added.

  A low bu
zzing arose from the rear of the battalion. The brigadiers went through the ranks of their sections with pencils and slips of paper in their hands. The buzzing sounded like a swarm of flies trying to escape from a sheet of flypaper. Out of the corner of his eye Alberto could see who the three victims in the first section were. Urioste. Núñez. Revilla. And he could hear Revilla murmur, “Come on, Monkey, swap places with me. You’re already on the shit list for another month. What difference will six more points make?” “Ten soles,” the Monkey said. “I’m broke right now, but I’ll pay you later.” “Go fuck yourself.”

  “Who’s talking there?” the lieutenant shouted. The muttering lessened but went on.

  “Silence!” Gamboa roared. “Silence, goddamn it!”

  This time he was obeyed. The brigadiers emerged from the ranks, stood at attention two yards from the noncoms, clicked their heels and saluted. After handing in the lists, they asked permission to return to their sections. The noncoms nodded or said, “Go on,” and the brigadiers ran back to their places. Then the noncoms handed the lists to Gamboa. The lieutenant had his own way of returning a salute: his heels clicked like the crack of a pistol, and instead of bringing his hand up to his brow, he curled it over his right eye. The cadets stood rigid as they watched him take the lists. He glanced through them, dangled them, waved them about like a fan. What was he waiting for? He gave the battalion an amused look. Suddenly he grinned.

  “Six points or a right angle?” he asked.

  There was a wave of applause, and some of the cadets shouted, “Viva Gamboa!”

  “Am I losing my mind or is somebody talking in the ranks?” the lieutenant said. The cadets were silent. Gamboa walked by the brigadiers, his hands on his hips.

  “Bring the last three out here,” he shouted. “On the double. By sections.”

  Urioste, Núñez, and Revilla ran out from their places at the rear. As they went by, Vallano said to them, “You’re lucky it’s Gamboa, you suckers.” The three cadets stood at attention in front of the lieutenant. “Which do you want,” Gamboa asked them, “a right angle or six points? Take your choice.”

  All three of them said, “A right angle.” The lieutenant nodded and shrugged his shoulders. “I know them as if they were my own kids,” he mumbled to himself as Urioste, Núñez, and Revilla smiled gratefully. “All right,” Gamboa told them, “take the right-angle position.”

  The three cadets bent over like hinges, their upper bodies parallel with the ground. Gamboa studied them for a moment, then lowered Revilla’s head a little with his elbow. “Cover your balls,” he said. “With both hands.”

  He motioned to the noncom Pezoa, a small, muscular half-breed with a big, carnivorous jaw. Pezoa was an excellent soccer player and his kick had tremendous force. He measured the distance and swayed a little, and his foot flashed up and landed. Revilla let out a whimper. Gamboa motioned to the cadet to go back to his place.

  “Bah!” he said. “You’re getting soft, Pezoa. You didn’t even budge him.”

  The noncom turned pale. His slanted eyes were fixed on Núñez. This time he put everything into it. Also, he kicked him with the toe of his boot. The cadet screamed as he fell forward, staggered on all fours for a couple of yards, and then collapsed. Pezoa glanced anxiously at Gamboa, who smiled at him. The cadets also smiled. Even Núñez, who had got up and was rubbing his buttocks with both hands, had a smile on his face. Pezoa took aim again. Urioste was the huskiest cadet in the first section, perhaps in the whole Academy. He spread his legs a little to balance himself better. The kick scarcely rocked him at all.

  “Second section,” Gamboa said. “The last three.”

  Then the cadets from the other sections were punished. The ones from the eighth, ninth and tenth were so small that the noncom’s kicks sent them tumbling to the edge of the parade ground. Gamboa never forgot to ask each one if he preferred a right angle or six points. He told all of them, “Take your choice.”

  Alberto paid attention to the right angles for a while, but later he tried to remember the last chemistry classes. He could only recall a few vague formulas, a few scattered terms. I wonder if Vallano’s done his studying? The Jaguar was standing beside him; he had taken someone else’s place. “Jaguar,” Alberto whispered, “give me at least twenty points. How much?” “You’re crazy,” the Jaguar said. “I already told you we didn’t get the exam. So stop talking about it. For your own good.”

  “Fall out by sections,” Gamboa told them.

  The formation broke up and the cadets stampeded into the mess hall, jabbering and shouting as they crowded to their places. Each table seated ten, with a cadet from the Fifth at the head. When the cadets from the Third were at their places the mess sergeant blew his whistle and they stood at attention in front of their chairs. When he blew it again they sat down. During other meals the loudspeakers poured out military marches or Peruvian music—waltzes, folk songs from the coast, folk songs from the Andes—but during breakfast the only sound was the endless, chaotic chatter of the cadets. “Things are going to change around here, because if they don’t, Cadet, are you going to eat that whole slice of beef by yourself? you’d better leave us a little of it, a hunk of gristle, Cadet, sure, they had it as bad as we do, come on, Fernández, give us some more rice, some more meat, some more Jello, Cadet, come on, don’t spit in the food, Cadet, you think I’m kidding, I don’t look tough for the fun of it, don’t fart around with me, Dog, and if my Dogs spit in my soup I’d get Arróspide and we’d make them strip naked and we’d goose-step them until they croaked, what did you say, do you want another serving, who’s going to make my bed, I am, Cadet, who’s going to give me a cigarette, I am, Cadet, who’s going to buy me an Inca Cola at La Perlita, I am, Cadet, who’s going to kiss my ass, tell me that.”

  Then the Fifth came in and sat down. Three-fourths of the tables were empty and the mess hall looked larger than it was. The open fields stretched out beyond the windows, with the vicuña standing motionless in the tall grass, its ears raised, its big, liquid eyes staring at nothing. “Maybe you don’t know it but I’ve seen you shoving in so you can sit beside me. Maybe you don’t know it but when Vallano asked who was the waiter and everybody shouted the Slave and I said why not your mothers, tell me why not and they all sang Ay, ay, ay, I saw you put your hand down and almost touch my knee.” Eight high-pitched voices went on singing effeminate ayes, and several of the cadets made circles with their thumbs and forefingers, and held them out toward Alberto. “You mean I like to bugger them?” he said. “And what’ll you do if I drop my pants?” “Ay, ay, ay.” The Slave got up and filled their cups. They told him, “If you don’t give us enough milk we’ll cut your balls off.” Alberto turned to Vallano: “Do you know any chemistry?”

  “No.”

  “Whisper the answers to me. How much?”

  Vallano looked at him suspiciously, and said, “Five letters. Good ones.”

  “And your mother,” Alberto asked, “how’s she doing?”