The Time of the Hero

by Mario Vargas Llosa

  “Poor little you,” Alberto said. “I bleed for you. Here.” He took a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and held it out. The boy looked at him suspiciously and was afraid to reach out his hand.

  “Take two,” Alberto said. “That’s to show you we’re okay.”

  The Slave was watching them absently. The cadet reached out very timidly without shifting his glance from Alberto’s face. He took two cigarettes, and smiled.

  “Thanks, Cadets,” he said. “You really are okay.”

  “Don’t mention it,” Alberto said. “But one good turn deserves another. Come around tonight and make up my bed. I’m in the first section.”

  “Yes, Cadet.”

  “Let’s go,” the Slave said.

  The entrance to Paulino’s hide-out was a tin door leaning against the wall. It was not fastened, and a strong wind could blow it down. Alberto and the Slave went over to it after making sure there were no officers around. From outside they could hear laughter and the Boa’s raucous voice. Alberto was on tiptoe, signaling to the Slave to keep silent. He put his hands on the door and shoved. There was a metallic crash and in the opening they could see a dozen terrified faces.

  “You’re all under arrest,” Alberto said. “Drunkards, fairies, degenerates, jack-offs, everybody goes to the guardhouse.”

  They stood in the doorway. The Slave was right behind Alberto, with a meek, submissive expression on his face. A quick, monkey-like figure jumped up from among the cadets sprawling on the ground and ran over to Alberto. “Come on in, damn it,” he said. “Hurry up, hurry up, they can see you. And never mind your gags, Poet, some day you’re going to get us all screwed.”

  “Don’t talk like that to me, you damned half-breed,” Alberto said as he went in. The cadets all turned to look at Paulino’s frowning face. His big, swollen lips opened up like a clam.

  “What’s the matter, whitey?” he asked. “Do you want me to bow to you, or what?”

  “Or what?” Alberto asked, flopping down on the ground. The Slave lay down next to him. Paulino began shaking with laughter. His lips gaped open for a moment and revealed his jagged teeth and the holes among them.

  “So you’ve brought your little whore,” he said. “And what’ll you do if we rape her?”

  “Good idea!” the Boa yelled. “Let’s all fuck the Slave!”

  “Why not this monkey Paulino?” Alberto said. “He’s a lot sexier.”

  “You’re just trying to pick a fight,” Paulino said, shrugging his shoulders. He lay down next to the Boa. Someone had put the door back in place. Alberto found a bottle of pisco among the crowd of bodies. He stretched out his hand for it but Paulino grabbed it.

  “It’s fifteen centavos a slug.”

  “You crook,” Alberto said. He took out his wallet and gave him a five-sol bill. “Okay, ten slugs.”

  “Just for you,” Paulino asked, “or including the little woman?”

  “For both of us.”

  The Boa laughed loudly. The bottle went from hand to hand. Paulino kept track of the slugs, and if anyone drank more than his share, he snatched the bottle away from him. When the Slave took a swallow he coughed and his eyes filled with tears. “These two’ve been together every minute for a whole week,” the Boa said, pointing at Alberto and the Slave. “I’d like to know what’s going on.”

  “Okay,” one of the cadets said, resting his head on the Boa’s shoulder, “but what about the bet?”

  Paulino became extremely excited. He laughed, he patted everyone, he said, “Let’s start, let’s start,” and the cadets took advantage of his excitement to steal extra swallows of pisco. In a few minutes the bottle was empty. Alberto, his head on his arms, looked over at the Slave: there was a small red ant on his cheek and apparently he was not aware of it. His eyes had a moist gleam and his face was flushed. And now the half-breed’ll fish out some money or a bottle or a pack of cigarettes, and then there’ll be a pestilence, a pool of shit, and I’ll open my pants, and you’ll open your pants, and he’ll open his pants, and the half-breed’ll start trembling, we’ll all start trembling, I wish Gamboa could stick his head in and smell the smell there’ll be. Paulino was squatting down, digging in the ground with his fingers. A little later he stood up again, holding a small sack. When he moved it, there was a clinking of coins. His whole face revealed his tremendous excitement: his nostrils were dilated, his wide-open purplish lips were thrust forward as if in search of prey, his temples throbbed, his forehead and cheeks were streaming with sweat. And then he’ll sit down, he’ll start panting like a dog, the spit’ll run down his chin, his hands’ll go crazy, his voice’ll crack, get your filthy hand off me, he’ll dance around, he’ll whistle and sing and shout, he’ll roll around on the ants, his hair’ll fall over his eyes, get your hand away or I’ll cut your balls off, he’ll sprawl on the ground, he’ll bury his head in the dirt and the weeds, he’ll cry, his hands and his body’ll be still, they’ll go dead.

  “Here’s ten soles in fifty centavo pieces,” Paulino said. “And there’s another bottle of pisco for whoever’s second. But he’ll have to give everybody a drink.”

  Alberto had put his head between his arms. He explored a miniature dark world, but his ears rang with that loud excitement: laughter, Paulino’s frantic breathing, the sound of bodies stretching or moving about. Then he turned over on his back. Above his head he could see a piece of tin and a piece of the gray sky, both of them the same size. The Slave was lying beside him. His pallor was not only in his face but also in his neck and hands, and the blue veins showed through his white skin.

  “Come on, Fernández,” the Slave whispered. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “No,” Alberto said. “I want to win that bag of money.”

  The Boa was laughing wildly now. By turning his head a little, Alberto could see the Boa’s large boots, his thick legs, his naked belly sticking out between the tails of his khaki shirt and his unbuttoned pants, his bull neck, his lightless eyes. Some of the cadets lowered their pants, others merely opened their flies. Paulino dashed around in the circle of bodies with drool running from his lips. He was jingling the bag of coins with one hand and waving the bottle of pisco with the other. “The Boa wants them to bring him Skimpy,” someone said, but no one laughed. Alberto unbuttoned his pants very slowly, his eyes half-closed, and tried to remember the face and body of Golden Toes, but the image was fleeting and when it vanished it was replaced by another, that of a dark-skinned girl, which also vanished but returned, and he could see her hands, her sensitive mouth, and the drizzle was falling on her, moistening her clothes, and the red light at Huatica Street was shining in the depths of those dark eyes and he said shit and then the fleshy white thighs of Golden Toes returned and vanished again and Arequipa Avenue was crowded with cars going by the Raimondi Academy stop where he and the girl had waited.

  “And you, what are you waiting for?” Paulino asked indignantly. The Slave had stretched out and was lying motionless with his head on his hands. The half-breed was standing over him, and he looked enormous. “Fuck him,” the Boa shouted. “Fuck the Poet’s sweetheart. If the Poet makes a move, I’ll break his neck.” Alberto looked at the ground: he could see some black dots but he could not find a stone. His body stiffened and he clenched his fists. Paulino had bent over, with his knees spread out on either side of the Slave’s legs.

  “If you touch him, I’ll break your jaw,” Alberto said.

  “He’s in love with the Slave,” the Boa said, but his voice showed he had lost interest in Paulino and Alberto. It was a weak voice now, muted and distant. The half-breed grinned and opened his mouth, and his tongue wiped away the mass of foam on his lips. “I’m not going to do anything to him,” he said. “It’s just that he’s so slow. I want to help him.”

  The Slave was motionless, looking up at the bit of roofing while Paulino unfastened his belt and unbuttoned his pants. Alberto turned his head away and looked up: the tin was white, the sky was gray, and he could hear musi
c, the dialogue of the red ants in their subterranean labyrinths, labyrinths with red lights, with a reddish glow in which everything seemed dark including the skin of that woman who was devoured by fire from the tips of her adorable little feet to the roots of her dyed hair, there was a large stain on the wall, the cadenced rocking motions of that boy kept time like a pendulum, anchoring the hide-out to the ground, keeping it from rising in the wind and falling into the reddish spiral of Huatica Street, onto those thighs of milk and honey, the girl walking in the drizzle with light, quick, graceful steps, but this time the volcanic flow was here, definitively here in some part of his soul, and it began to grow, to spread its tentacles through the secret passages of his body, driving the girl from his memory, his blood, and secreting a perfume, a liquor, a form below his belly that his hands were caressing now, and suddenly something burning and enslaving arose and he could see, hear, feel the pleasure that was advancing, smoking, unfolding in a tangle of bones, muscles, nerves, toward infinity, toward the paradise the red ants could never enter, but then he was distracted because Paulino was panting so loudly, was flopping on the ground somewhere nearby, and the Boa was muttering broken phrases. He could feel the ground under his shoulders again, and when he turned to look, his eyes felt as if they had been pierced by needles. Paulino was beside the Boa, who let him stroke his body, completely ignoring him. The half-breed was gasping for breath, was uttering little cries. The Boa had his eyes shut, his body was writhing. And now the smell begins, we’ll empty the bottle in seconds, we’ll start singing, and somebody’ll crack some jokes and the half-breed’ll get sad, and my mouth’ll feel dry, and when I smoke I’ll want to vomit, and I’ll feel like going to sleep, and then the hangover, and some day I’ll get TB because Dr. Guerra said jacking off is as bad for you as screwing a woman seven times in a row.

  The Boa was shouting now, but he ignored him: he was a tiny being asleep in the convoluted heart of a rose-colored shell, where no wind, no fire, no water could penetrate his refuge. Then he came back to reality. The Boa had the half-breed down on the ground and was hitting him, shouting, “You bit me, you goddamned half-breed, I’m going to kill you, you peasant!” Some of the others had sat up and were watching with languid eyes. Paulino made no attempt to defend himself and after a moment the Boa let him go. The half-breed stood up, wiped his mouth, then reached down for the bag of coins and the bottle of pisco. He handed the money to the Boa.

  “I finished second,” Cárdenas said.

  Paulino went toward him with the bottle, but Villa, who was next to Alberto, stopped him. “That’s a lie,” he said. “It wasn’t him.”

  “Who was it, then?” Paulino asked.

  “The Slave.”

  The Boa stopped counting the money and his little eyes switched to the Slave, who was still on his back, his arms stretched out at his sides.

  “Who’d’ve guessed it,” the Boa said. “He’s got a cock like a real man’s.”

  “And you’ve got one like a burro’s,” Alberto said. “Button your pants, you freak of nature.”

  The Boa roared with laughter and started to prance around the hide-out, jumping over the sprawled bodies with his penis in his hands, chanting, “I piss on everybody, I fuck everybody, I’m not called the Boa for nothing, I can kill a woman with one shot.” The others cleaned themselves and adjusted their clothes. The Slave had opened his bottle of pisco, and after taking a long swallow and spitting, he passed it to Alberto. Everyone drank and smoked. Paulino was sitting in a corner, with a drawn, melancholy expression. And now we’ll leave and wash our hands and later they’ll blow the whistle and we’ll fall in and march to the mess hall, one, two, one, two, and we’ll eat and leave the mess hall and go to the barracks and someone’ll shout, a contest, and someone’ll say we already had one at Paulino’s and the Boa won, and he’ll say the Slave was there too, the Poet brought him along and wouldn’t let us screw him and he even came out second in the contest, and they’ll blow taps and we’ll sleep and then tomorrow and Monday and how many weeks?

  Emilio slapped him on the shoulder and said, “There she is.” Alberto raised his head. Helena was leaning over the rail of the lobby. She looked at him and smiled. Emilio nudged him and repeated, “There she is. Go ahead, go ahead.” “Shut up, man,” Alberto whispered, “can’t you see she’s with Ana?” A dark-skinned girl had appeared beside the redhead as she leaned over the rail: it was Ana, Emilio’s sister. “Don’t worry about her,” Emilio said. “I’ll handle her. Let’s go.” Alberto nodded and they went up the stairs of the Terrazas Club. The lobby was full of young people, and there was music coming from the rooms on the other side of the club. “But don’t get near us, for any reason at all,” Alberto murmured as they climbed the stairs. “And don’t let your sister interrupt us. Follow us, if you want, but keep a good way off.” As they drew near them, the two girls laughed. Helena looked older. She was slender, sweet looking, radiant, and at first glance there was nothing to suggest boldness. But the boys in the neighborhood knew her. When the other girls were accosted in the street, they started crying, or lowered their eyes and looked embarrassed, or trembled with fright, but Helena stood up to her assailants, she defied them with burning eyes, like a little wild animal, and her strong clear voice hurled back sarcasm for sarcasm, or else she took the initiative and called the boys by their most offensive nicknames and even threatened them, her face proud, her body tense and straight as she waved her fists at them, holding off the whole ring of boys, breaking through it, and marching away with a look of triumph. But that was before. Some time ago—no one could remember exactly what month, what season of the year (perhaps during the July vacation when Tico’s parents gave him a birthday party)—the hostile atmosphere that existed between the boys and girls began to disappear. The boys no longer waited for a girl to go by so that they could scare her or make fun of her; instead, they were pleased when one of them came in sight and felt a timid, stammering sort of cordiality. And on the other hand, when the girls were on the balcony at Laura’s or Ana’s house and one of the boys went by, they stopped talking in their ordinary voices, whispered mysteriously in each other’s ears, and greeted him by his correct name, and besides feeling flattered he could sense the excitement his presence had aroused in them. When the boys were lounging in the garden at Emilio’s house they talked about different things than formerly. No one mentioned soccer games any more, or foot races, or trips down the cliff to the beach. They smoked almost incessantly (not choking now) as they tried to figure out the best way of getting in to see the For Adults Only movies, or discussed the possibilities of another party. Would their parents let them play the record-player and dance? Would it last as long as the last one, that ended at midnight? And each of them described his meetings and conversations with the various girls of the neighborhood. The parents of all of them, boys and girls, had now taken on a vast importance. Some, like Ana’s father and Laura’s mother, enjoyed a unanimous esteem, because they greeted the boys pleasantly, allowed them to talk with their daughters, asked them about their studies. Others, like Tico’s father and Helena’s mother (strict, possessive), intimidated them and chased them away.

  “Are you going to the matinee?” Alberto asked.

  They were walking by themselves along the Malecón. He could hear the footsteps of Emilio and Ana behind him. Helena nodded and said, “Yes, to the Leuro.” Alberto decided to wait: it would be easier to ask her in the darkness of the theater. Tico had explored the ground for him a few days earlier, and Helena had said, “You never can tell. But I might agree to go around with him if he asks me in the right way.” It was a clear summer morning, with a bright sun in a blue sky over the nearby ocean, and he felt optimistic: the omens were all favorable. He was never unsure of himself with the girls in the neighborhood, he could crack clever jokes for them or talk to them seriously, but Helena made conversation difficult. She argued about everything, contested the most innocent statement, never talked for the sheer fun of it, and expre
ssed her opinions in as cutting a manner as she could. Once, Alberto told her he had been late for Mass but had got there before the Credo at least. “That’s not worth a thing,” she said. “If you die tonight, you’ll go straight down to Hell.” On another occasion, Ana and Helena watched one of the soccer games from the balcony. Afterward, Alberto asked her, “What did you think of the game?” And she answered, “You play very badly.” But the week before, in the Miraflores Park, when a group of boys and girls had gotten together and were strolling around, Alberto walked next to Helena and she treated him in a friendly manner. The others turned to look at them, and said, “What a good-looking couple.”

  They had left the Malecón and were walking along Juan Fanning toward Helena’s house. Alberto could not hear the footsteps of Emilio and Ana now. “Will we see each other at the movies?” he asked her. “Are you going to the Leuro too?” Helena asked him with wide-eyed innocence. “Yes,” he said, “I am.” “Good, then perhaps we’ll see each other.” On the corner near her house, she held out her hand. Colón Street, which crossed Diego Ferré in the heart of the neighborhood, was completely empty: the boys were down on the beach or at the Terrazas swimming pool. “You’re really going to the Leuro, aren’t you?” Alberto asked. “Yes,” she said, “unless something happens.” “What could happen?” “I don’t know,” she said very seriously. “An earthquake or something.” “I’ve got something to tell you at the movies,” Alberto said. He looked her in the eyes, and she blinked at him and seemed astonished. “You’ve got something to tell me? What?” “I’ll tell you at the movies.” “Why not right now? It’s better to get things out of the way as soon as possible.” He tried not to blush. “You already know what I’m going to tell you,” he said. “No,” she said, apparently even more astonished. “I can’t begin to guess what it could be.” “If you want, I’ll tell you right now,” Alberto said. “That’s better,” she said. “Take a chance.”