The Time of the Hero

by Mario Vargas Llosa

  He paid for his cola and went back to the parade ground. Earlier that morning he had presented four reports: the stealing of exams, the bottles of liquor, the gambling in the barracks, the jumping over the wall. Theoretically, more than half of the cadets in the First should be court-martialed. They should be severely punished, and some of them should be expelled. And his reports only referred to the first section. There was no point in inspecting the others, because the cadets had had plenty of time to get rid of their cards and bottles. Gamboa had not even mentioned the other companies: after all, they had their own officers.

  Capt. Garrido read the reports in his presence, looking more and more disturbed and hostile.

  “What’s the meaning of all these reports, Gamboa?”

  “I don’t understand your question, Sir.”

  “The case is closed. And we’ve taken every precaution to keep it closed.”

  “The case of Cadet Fernández is closed, Sir. But not the rest.”

  The captain waved his hand in disgust. He picked up the reports again and leafed through them, his jaw muscles working tirelessly and spectacularly.

  “I asked you, Gamboa, why all these reports? You’ve already given me an oral report. Why write it all out? We’ve already confined almost the whole first section. What more do you want?”

  “If there’s a court-martial, Sir, they’ll demand written reports.”

  “Ah!” the captain said. “You can’t get the idea of a courtmartial out of your head, I see. Do you want us to punish the whole Year?”

  “I’ve only reported on my own company, Sir. The others don’t concern me.”

  “All right,” the captain said. “You’ve given me your reports. Now forget the whole matter and leave it in my hands. I’ll take care of everything.”

  Gamboa left. From that moment, the discouragement he had been feeling grew worse. This time, he was resolved not to concern himself with the matter any longer, not to take the initiative again. The best thing I could do tonight, he thought, is get good and drunk. He went to the guardhouse and handed the letter to the officer on duty, asking him to send it by registered mail. As he left the guardhouse, he saw the commandant, Altuna, standing in the doorway of the administration building. Altuna signaled to him to come over.

  “Hello, Gamboa,” he said. “Come on, I’ll go with you.”

  The commandant had always been very cordial with Gamboa, although their relations were strictly professional. They walked toward the officers’ mess.

  “I’ve got to give you some bad news, Gamboa.” The commandant walked with his hands behind his back. “This is private information, between friends. You know what I mean by that, don’t you?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “The major is very angry with you, Gamboa. So is the colonel. I advise you to get to the Ministry as fast as you can. They’ve requested your immediate transfer. I’m afraid the thing’s pretty far along, so you haven’t got much time. Your fine service record protects you, but you know yourself that influence is always useful in cases like this.”

  She won’t be happy about leaving Lima, not now, Gamboa thought. I’ll have to leave her here for a while, with her family. Until I find a house and a servant.

  “I’m very grateful to you, Sir,” he said. “Can you tell me where they might send me?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if it was a jungle garrison. Or way up in the mountains. They don’t change personnel at this time of year except when there are posts to fill in the more difficult garrisons. So don’t lose any time. Perhaps you can get yourself assigned to one of the larger cities—Arequipa, say, or Trujillo. Oh, and don’t forget that what I’m telling you is confidential, friend to friend. I don’t want to get into hot water.”

  “Don’t worry, Sir,” Gamboa interrupted. “And thanks again.”

  Alberto watched him leave the barracks: the Jaguar came down the aisle without paying any attention to the hateful or mocking looks of the other cadets, who were stretched out on their bunks smoking cigarettes and flicking the ashes into scraps of paper or empty matchboxes. He walked slowly, without looking at anyone but without lowering his eyes. When he reached the door he pushed it open with one hand and then slammed the door behind him. Alberto asked himself again how it was possible that the Jaguar’s face remained unmarked after what they did to him. However, he still walked with a slight limp. On the day of the brawl, Urioste claimed in the mess hall, “I’m the one that gave him that limp.” But on the following day, Vallano asserted that he was the one who had done it, and so did Núñez, Revilla, and even the weakling, García. They argued the question at the top of their voices in the Jaguar’s presence, as if they were talking about someone who was not there. The Boa, on the other hand, had a swollen mouth and a deep, bloody scratch on his neck. Alberto searched for him with his eyes: he was lying on his bunk, with Skimpy stretched out on top of him, licking the scratch with her long pink tongue.

  The strange thing is, Alberto thought, he doesn’t talk with the Boa either. I can understand why he doesn’t have anything to do with Curly, because Curly ran away, but the Boa defended him and took an awful beating. He doesn’t know what gratitude means. Also, the section appeared to have forgotten the Boa’s part in the affair. They talked with him, swapped wisecracks with him, just as before, and handed him their cigarettes when they were smoking in a group. The strange thing is, Alberto thought, they didn’t get together and agree to give him the cold shoulder. And it’s better they didn’t. That day, during recess, Alberto had watched him from a distance. The Jaguar left the patio of the classroom building and strolled around in the field, kicking pebbles, with his hands thrust in his pockets. The Boa went over to him and started walking at his side. No doubt they had an argument, because the Boa shook his head and waved his fists. Then he left him. During the second recess, the Jaguar did the same thing. This time it was Curly who went over to him, but the Jaguar gave him a shove and Curly returned to the patio with a red face. In class, the cadets talked, insulted each other, bombarded each other with spitballs, interrupted the teachers by neighing, snorting, grunting, miaowing, barking: life was normal again. But they all knew there was an exile among them. His arms crossed on the desk, his blue eyes fixed on the blackboard, the Jaguar spent the hours in the classroom without opening his mouth, without taking any notes, without turning his head to look at the other cadets. It’s as if he was giving us the cold shoulder, Alberto thought, not the other way around. It’s as if he was punishing us. Alberto had been waiting for the Jaguar to ask him for explanations, to force him to tell the others what really happened. But the Jaguar ignored him, just as he did everyone else. Therefore Alberto supposed that the Jaguar was preparing a terrible vengeance.

  He got up and left the barracks. The patio was full of cadets. It was that ambiguous, indecisive hour when the afternoon and the night are in balance and seem to neutralize each other. The shadows confused the perspectives of the barracks, and although the outlines of the cadets in their heavy jackets were still clear, their faces were dark blurs. The patio, the walls, the parade ground, the empty fields were all the same, ashen gray. The deceptive light also falsified motions and noises: everyone seemed to walk more swiftly or more slowly in that dying glow, and to speak between clenched teeth, or murmur, or shriek; and when two bodies came close together, they appeared to be caressing or fighting each other. Alberto walked toward the field, turning up the collar of his jacket. He knew the ocean must have grown calm, because he could not hear any trace of surf. When he came across a body sprawled on the grass, he asked, “Jaguar?” Either there was no answer or they insulted him: “I’m not the Jaguar, but if you’re looking for a nice long dick, I’ve got one right here. Come on.” He went to the latrine in the classroom building. It was in darkness, and all he could see were the little red dots that hovered over some of the toilets. “Jaguar!” he called from the doorway. No one answered, but he knew they were all looking at him: the red dots of their cigarettes had b
ecome motionless. He returned to the field and went to the latrine near “La Perlita.” No one used it at night because it swarmed with rats. From the doorway he could see a glowing dot and a silhouette.

  “Jaguar?”

  “What?”

  Alberto walked in and lit a match. The Jaguar was standing up, fastening his belt. There was no one else. He dropped the burnt match.

  “I want to talk with you.”

  “We haven’t got anything to talk about,” the Jaguar said. “Go away.”

  “Why haven’t you told them I’m the one that reported them to Gamboa?”

  The Jaguar laughed that ironic, mirthless laugh which Alberto had not heard since before the Slave was wounded. There was a frantic scurrying of small feet in the darkness. His laugh even frightens the rats, Alberto thought.

  “Do you think everybody’s like you?” the Jaguar asked. “You’re wrong. I’m not a squealer and I don’t talk with squealers. Get out of here.”

  “Are you going to let them go on thinking it was you?” Alberto found himself speaking respectfully, almost cordially.

  “I taught all of them how to be men,” the Jaguar said. “Do you think I care about them? They can go fuck themselves for all I care. I’m not interested in what they’re thinking. Or you either. Go away.”

  “Jaguar,” Alberto said, “I’ve been looking for you because I want to tell you I’m sorry about what’s happened. Honest, I’m very sorry.”

  “Are you going to start crying?” the Jaguar said. “Don’t speak to me again. Not a word. I’ve already told you I don’t want to have anything to do with you.”

  “Don’t act like that,” Alberto said. “I want to be your friend. And I’ll tell them you didn’t do it, I did. Let’s be friends.”

  “I don’t want to be your friend,” the Jaguar said. “You’re a rotten squealer and you make me vomit. Get out.”

  This time, Alberto obeyed him. He did not return to the barracks. He lay down in the field until the whistle blew for chow.

  Epilogue

  …in each lineage/deterioration exercises its dominion.

  —CARLOS GERMAN BELLI

  When Lt. Gamboa reached the door of the office of the Fifth Year, Capt. Garrido was putting a notebook into a cabinet. He had his back to him, and Gamboa noticed that his tie was so tight it wrinkled his collar. He said, “Good morning, Sir,” and Garrido turned around.

  “Hello, Gamboa,” he said, smiling. “Ready to leave?”

  “Yes, Sir.” The lieutenant entered the room. He was wearing his dress uniform, and when he took off his cap there was a thin furrow running across his brow and his temples. “I’ve just said good-bye to the colonel, the commandant, and the major. You’re the only one missing.”

  “When’s the trip?”

  “Early tomorrow morning. But I’ve still got a lot of things to do.”

  “It’s getting hot already,” the captain said. “We’re going to have a wicked summer this year. But what do you care about that? Up in the mountains, summer and winter are the same.”

  “If you don’t like the heat,” Gamboa joked, “we could swap places. I’ll stay here in your job and you go to Juliaca.”

  “Not for all the money in the world,” the captain said, taking him by the arm. “Come on, I’m standing you to a drink.”

  They left the office. In the doorway of one of the barracks, a cadet with the purple badge of a sentry was counting a stack of clothes.

  “Why isn’t that cadet in class?” Gamboa asked.

  “You’ll never change,” the captain said with a chuckle. “What do you care what the cadets do now?”

  “You’re right. It’s practically a vice.”

  They went into the officers’ club and the captain ordered a bottle of beer. He filled the two glasses himself, and they clinked them together before drinking.

  “I’ve never been in Puno,” the captain said, “but I hear it isn’t a bad city. You can get there from Juliaca by train or car. And now and then you could spend a leave in Arequipa.”

  “Yes,” Gamboa said. “I’ll get used to it.”

  “I’m really very sorry for you,” the captain said. “You don’t believe it, but I regard you very highly. Remember the advice I gave you. And from now on, remember that in the army you teach lessons to your subordinates, not your superiors.”

  “I don’t like you to be sorry for me, Sir. I didn’t become a soldier to lead an easy life. The garrison at Juliaca or the Military Academy, it’s all the same to me.”

  “So much the better. All right, we won’t argue. Bottoms up.”

  They drank what was left of the beer in their glasses and the captain refilled them. They could see the open field from the window. The grass seemed taller and brighter. The vicuña ran past the window several times; it seemed irritable, and kept looking from side to side with its intelligent eyes.

  “It’s the heat,” the captain said, pointing at the vicuña with his finger. “She can’t get used to it. Last summer she acted half crazy.”

  “I’ll be seeing lots of vicuñas in Juliaca,” Gamboa said. “And maybe I’ll learn to speak Quechua.”

  “Do you know anybody up there?”

  “Muñoz. He’s the only one.”

  “That burro Muñoz? He’s a good guy. What a drunk!”

  “I’d like to ask you a favor, Sir.”

  “Why, of course, man. Just tell me.”

  “It’s about one of the cadets. I have to talk with him in private, outside the Academy. Could you give him permission?”

  “For how long?”

  “Half an hour at the most.”

  “Aha!” the captain said with a malicious grin.

  “It’s a personal matter.”

  “I can see that. Are you going to hit him?”

  “I don’t know,” Gamboa said, smiling. “Probably.”

  “Is it Fernández?” the captain asked in a low voice. “If so, it’s a waste of time. There’s a better way of taking care of him. Just leave it to me.”

  “Not him,” Gamboa said. “The other one. And anyway, you can’t do anything to him now.”

  “Why not?” the captain asked in a serious voice. “What if he has to repeat the year? Isn’t that something?”

  “It’s too late,” Gamboa said. “The exams ended yesterday.”

  “Bah,” the captain said, “that’s nothing. They still haven’t made out the report cards.”

  “Do you really mean that?”

  The captain quickly recovered his good humor. “I’m joking, Gamboa,” he said with a laugh. “Don’t worry, I won’t do anything unjust. Take that cadet outside and do what you want with him. But look, don’t hit him in the face. I don’t want any more trouble.”

  “Thank you, Sir.” Gamboa put on his cap. “I’ve got to leave now. I hope we’ll meet again soon.”

  They shook hands. Gamboa went to the classroom building, spoke to one of the noncoms, and then returned to the guardhouse, where he had left his suitcase. The lieutenant on duty came out to meet him.

  “Here’s a telegram for you, Gamboa.”

  He opened it and read it hurriedly. Then he put it in his pocket. He sat down on the bench-the soldiers got up and moved away-and remained motionless, a far-off look in his eyes.

  “Bad news?” the officer on duty asked him.

  “No, no,” Gamboa said. “Family matters.”

  One of the soldiers was making coffee, and the lieutenant asked Gamboa if he would like a cup; he nodded. A moment later, the Jaguar appeared in the guardhouse doorway. Gamboa gulped his coffee and stood up.

  “The cadet is going outside with me for a minute,” he said. “He has the captain’s permission.”

  He picked up his suitcase and went out onto Costanera Avenue. He walked along the level ground at the edge of the cliff, with the Jaguar following him a few steps back. They reached Palmeras Avenue. When the Academy was out of sight, Gamboa put down his suitcase and took a piece of paper out of his
pocket.

  “What’s the meaning of this note?” he asked.

  “It’s clear enough, Sir,” the Jaguar said. “I don’t have anything else to say.”

  “I’m not an Academy officer any more,” Gamboa said. “Why did you address it to me? Why not to the captain of your Year?”

  “I don’t want anything to do with the captain,” the Jaguar said. He was rather pale, and his eyes avoided Gamboa’s look. There was no one near them. The roar of the surf sounded very close. Gamboa pushed his cap back and wiped his brow.

  “Why did you write this?” he asked.

  “That doesn’t concern you,” the Jaguar said in a soft, docile voice. “The only thing you have to do is take me to the colonel. Nothing else.”

  “Do you think things are going to get settled as easily as the first time?” Gamboa asked him. “Is that what you think? Or are you just having some fun at my expense?”

  “I’m not like that,” the Jaguar said with a scornful gesture. “But I’m not afraid of anybody, Sir, the colonel or anybody else. When we entered the Academy, I defended them from the cadets of the Fourth. They were scared to death of the initiations, they trembled like women, and I taught them how to be men. And now they’ve turned against me. Do you know what they are? They’re a pack of traitors, that’s what they are. All of them. I’m fed up with the Academy, Sir.”

  “Never mind your stories,” Gamboa said. “Tell me the truth. Why did you write this note?”