The Time of the Hero by Mario Vargas Llosa

  They had not been so serious earlier, however. Urioste had pushed open the barracks’ door with his fists and told them the news—“The Slave’s dead!” he gasped—and they could see how flushed his face was, how his lips trembled, how the sweat dripped from his forehead and his cheeks; behind him, they could see the Poet’s ashen face and staring eyes. But even then there were jokes. As soon as the door slammed shut again, Curly said, “He’s probably gone straight down to hell, what a shame.” And some of the others laughed. But their laughter was not as fierce and raucous as usual: instead of being the savage howls that greeted any announcement, it was brief, impersonal, perfunctory, almost defensive. And when Alberto shouted, “If anybody cracks another joke I’ll kill him, you motherfucking bastards!” no one said a word. The cadets remained on their bunks or in front of their lockers, gazing at the moldering walls, the dark red floor tiles, the starless sky beyond the windows, the double doors of the latrine. They were silent for a number of minutes, hardly even glancing at each other. Then they went on straightening up their lockers, making their bunks, reading their comic books, mending their field uniforms. Little by little they began talking again, but not about the customary topics: there was no more joking, no more snarling, no more filth. And at first they even spoke in whispers, as they did after lights out, using short, careful sentences and avoiding any mention of the Slave. They asked each other for black thread, bits of cloth, cigarettes, class notes, writing paper, copies of exams. Later, they talked all around the subject, being cautious not to refer to their real concern. They asked each other questions—“What time did it happen?”—or made indirect comments—“Lt. Huarina said they were going to operate on him again,” “He probably died on the operating table,” “I wonder if they’ll let us go to the funeral.” At last, they began to talk openly about what had taken place. “To get it when you’re still so young, that’s pretty tough.” “He should’ve died out there in the fields.” “It’s hell to take three days to die.” “And with only two months to go, what rotten luck.” There were indirect tributes, variations on several themes, and long intervals of silence. Some of the cadets remained silent, agreeing with a nod of their heads. When they heard the whistle they left the barracks without the usual hubbub, and took their places without any pushing or arguing; then they straightened their lines as precisely as possible, and came to attention before the brigadiers gave the command. They hardly spoke a word during supper: in that huge mess hall they could sense that the eyes of hundreds of cadets were turned toward them, and some times they could overhear remarks from the tables where the Dogs were sitting: “They’re from the first, that was his section.” A few of the Dogs even pointed toward them. They chewed their food mechanically, without tasting anything, and on the way out they answered with a grunt or a curse when the cadets from the other Years or sections became inquisitive enough to ask them questions. Afterward, in the barracks, the whole section gathered around Arróspide, and the Negro Vallano said what everyone was thinking: “Go tell the lieutenant we want to stand guard.” He looked at the others and added, “At least, that’s what I want to do. He was in our section, we owe it to him.” No one cracked a joke at him; some of them nodded, others said, “Sure,” “Of course we do,” “Sure, go tell him.” The brigadier went to speak with the lieutenant. When he came back, he said that they were to put on their dress uniforms, including their gloves, and to be sure their shoes were polished, and to fall in in half an hour with their rifles and bayonets but without their white belts. Everyone insisted that Arróspide had to speak with the lieutenant again, to tell him they wanted to stand guard all night, but when he returned again he reported that the lieutenant had refused permission. And now they were there—had been there for over an hour—in the shadowy dimness of the chapel, listening to the woman’s ceaseless complaint and glancing now and then at the coffin. It rested alone in the center of the chapel, and it looked as if it were empty.

  But no, he was there inside it. They knew this for certain when Lt. Pitaluga came into chapel, announced by the squeaking of his shoes. The sound drew their attention away from the mother’s lament, and they were fascinated when they saw he was actually going up to the coffin. They watched him as he halted just before stepping on a wreath, bent his head a little to see more clearly, and stood motionless for almost a minute. Then they felt cold shivers run down their spines when he raised his hand, took off his cap, crossed himself hurriedly, and straightened up. His face looked swollen and his eyes were completely blank. He turned around and disappeared toward the back of the chapel. As he left their range of vision, as his footsteps died out, they were aware again of the mother’s unending murmur.

  Pitaluga returned almost at once. He walked along both lines of cadets, repeating in a low voice that they could put their rifles down and stand at rest. The cadets took advantage of this opportunity: they rubbed their aching shoulders and they moved a little closer together, slowly, almost imperceptibly. The lines closed up with such a grave, respectful silence that the movement increased the solemnity instead of disturbing it. Then they heard Pitaluga talking, and they understood immediately that he was talking to the mother. He must have been trying hard to speak in a low voice, and perhaps he was embarrassed because he could not. His voice was hoarse, even harsh, at the very best; and he also believed firmly in the idea that virility and a strong voice are inseparable. Therefore, they could make out at least part of what he was saying, especially the name of Arana—which they hardly recognized at first because they had known him as the Slave. Apparently the woman was not payiny any attention: she never once stopped lamenting, and the lieutenant would give up for a brief while, then try again.

  “What’s Pitaluga telling her?” Arróspide asked, speaking through his closed teeth without moving his lips. He was at the head of one of the lines. Vallano, who was next to him, repeated the question, so did the Boa, and it was passed on to the other end of the line. The last cadet, the one nearest the bench where Pitaluga and the woman were, said, “He’s talking about the Slave.” And he went on to repeat the phrases he heard, without adding or subtracting anything; he even mimicked the lieutenant’s voice. But it was not difficult to parrot that monologue: “An outstanding cadet, held in high esteem by all the officers and noncoms, very popular with his classmates, a brilliant and hardworking student, everyone deplores this tragic loss, the silence in the barracks, the sorrow, he was orderly, martial, upright in every way, always the first to line up, he would have made an excellent officer, loyal, brave, he looked for danger in the field exercises, we could trust him to carry out the most difficult missions without questions or complaints, but accidents like this can always happen, life is uncertain, we have to control our grief, the officers and teachers and cadets all share the family’s loss, the colonel himself will be here to express his deeply felt condolences, the cadet will be buried with military honors, his classmates will be present in their dress uniforms, with their rifles and bayonets, the fatherland has lost one of its finest sons, but patience and resignation, his memory will be a part of the Academy’s traditions, alive in the hearts of succeeding classes, the family has nothing to worry about, the Academy is assuming the responsibility for all the funeral expenses, the wreaths were ordered almost immediately after this misfortune, the one from the colonel is the largest.” By this improvised means of transmission the cadets were able to follow Lt. Pitaluga’s words, while still hearing the woman’s interminable murmur. Occasionally, masculine voices interrupted Pitaluga for a moment or two.

  Then the colonel arrived. They could recognize his short, quick, pigeon-toed steps. Pitaluga and the other men stopped talking, and the mother’s complaining grew softer, more distant. The cadets came to attention without waiting for the command. They did not shoulder their rifles again, but they brought their heels together, stiffened their bodies, and looked straight ahead. A few moments later they heard the colonel’s thin little voice. He spoke much more quietly than Pitaluga, and
since they were also at attention now, the human telephone line could not operate: only those who were nearest the benches heard what he said. None of the cadets could see him, even out of the coiners of their eyes, but they remembered how he looked in front of the microphone at assemblies, complacent, arrogant, puffed up with his own importance, raising his hands to show that he was not using a prepared text. No doubt he was talking once again about spiritual values and how military life creates a sound mind in a sound body and how discipline is the basis of good order. They could picture him very clearly in their minds: he was wearing his most grave and ceremonious expression; his soft little hands fluttered back and forth, up and down, in front of the woman’s reddened eyes, or alighted for a moment on the belt around his stately paunch; he had spread his legs to balance the weight of his body. And they could guess the lessons he would drive home, the examples he would evoke, that parade of illustrious heroes, the martyrs of the War for Independence and the War with Chile, the valiant immortal soldiers who had so generously shed their blood during every peril to the fatherland. When the colonel finished, the woman had stopped murmuring. It was so great a surprise that the whole chapel seemed different, and some of the cadets glanced at each other uncomfortably. The silence was brief, however, because the colonel and Lt. Pitaluga, along with a civilian in a dark suit, walked up to the coffin and stood looking at it for a few moments. The colonel had his hands folded on his stomach, his under lip covered his upper lip, and his eyes were half-closed: it was the expression he saved for very important occasions. The lieutenant and the civilian stood on either side of him. The civilian had a white handkerchief in his hand. The colonel turned toward Pitaluga and whispered something in his ear. Then both of them turned toward the civilian, who nodded two or three times, and they all walked back to the rear of the chapel. The woman began murmuring again, and even after the lieutenant told them to file out into the patio in front of the chapel, where the second section was waiting to replace them, they were still conscious of her voice.

  They went out in single file, walking to the door on tiptoe. As they passed the benches they all looked sidewise, in the hope of seeing the cadet’s mother, but their view was blocked by a group of men—the colonel, the lieutenant, and three others—standing around her, all of them looking very solemn. Outside the chapel they met the cadets from the second section, who were also wearing their dress uniforms. The first section fell in a few yards behind them. Their brigadier looked down the lines to make sure they were straight, then went off to report. They waited at attention, but they talked under their breath about the mother, the colonel, the funeral. After a while they began asking each other if Pitaluga had forgotten about them. Arróspide walked back and forth in front of them but without saying a word.

  When the lieutenant finally came out of the chapel, the brigadier went up to him, saluted, and asked for instructions. Pitaluga told him to march them back to their barracks, but just as Arróspide was turning to give the command, a voice from the rear said, “Someone’s missing.” The lieutenant, the brigadier, and the cadets looked back and forth, and other voices said, “Yes,” “He’s right,” “Someone’s missing.” The lieutenant nodded at Arróspide and the brigadier counted the section, using his fingers to make sure his tally was correct. “Yes, Sir,” he said when he finished. “We were twenty-nine before, now we’re twenty-eight.” “It’s the Poet,” someone shouted. “Cadet Fernández is missing, Sir,” Arróspide said. “Did he go into the chapel with the rest?” Pitaluga asked. “Yes, Lieutenant, I saw him.” “I hope he isn’t dead too,” Pitaluga muttered, and gestured to the brigadier to follow him.

  They were scarcely inside the door when they saw him. He was in the middle of the chapel—his body hid the coffin from them, but not the wreaths—with his rifle tilted to one side and his head bent over. The lieutenant and the brigadier stopped near the door. “What’s that fool doing in here?” the lieutenant asked. “Get him out.” Arróspide walked forward, and as he passed a small group of people his eyes met those of the colonel. He nodded respectfully, but he could not tell if the colonel returned the nod because he immediately turned his head toward the front. Alberto did not move when Arróspide took his arm. The brigadier forgot his errand for a moment to look at the coffin. Its cover was also of smooth black wood, but there was a small pane of glass set into it, and he could dimly make out a face and a cap. The Slave’s face was wrapped in a white bandage, and was swollen and dark red. Arróspide shook Alberto by the arm. “They’re all in formation,” he said, “and the lieutenant’s waiting at the door. Do you want to be confined again?” Alberto did not answer, and followed Arróspide like a sleepwalker. Outside, the lieutenant said to Alberto, “You bastard, you just love to look at corpses, don’t you?” Alberto still kept silent: he walked on to the formation and took his place, while the rest of the section stared at him. A few of them asked him what had happened, but he ignored them. And a few minutes later, as they were marching to the barracks, he seemed not to hear when Vallano, who was beside him, said, “Look, the Poet’s crying.”

  3

  She’s well again now but she’s always going to have a lame leg. There must be something wrong inside, a twisted bone or cartilage or muscle, I’ve tried to straighten her leg but I can’t, it’s as stiff as an iron hook, no matter how hard I try I can’t do anything with it. And Skimpy starts whining and kicking, so now I leave it alone. She’s getting used to it now, little by little. She walks kind of funny, she keeps dipping to the right, and she can’t run the way she used to, she takes a few leaps and then stops. It’s natural she’d get tired so soon, with only three legs to walk on, she’s a real cripple. Besides, it’s a front leg, worse luck, so her head weighs the other one down, she’ll never be the same again. They’ve changed her name in the section, they call her Gimpy now, I don’t but the others do. I think it must’ve been the Negro Vallano that started it, he’s always making up nicknames. And everything else is different here, just like Skimpy, in all the time I’ve been here there hasn’t been so much happening in such a few days. First they got the peasant Cava for stealing the chemistry exam, they tried him and kicked him out. He must be back in the mountains by now, with the Indians and the guanacos, poor guy. It was the first time they ever kicked anybody out of the section, and when you start having bad luck there isn’t any end to it. That’s what my mother always says and I know what she means, because right after Cava there was the Slave. You can’t be unluckier than that, not only a bullet in your head but all those operations, God knows how many. So the guys in the section aren’t the same any more, it’s easy to see the difference. Maybe they’ll change back again, but right now they all act different, they even look different. The Poet’s a good example, he’s like a stranger, nobody bullies him or says anything to him, it’s as if it was normal to see him with that blank face. He never talks any more. It’s over four days since his buddy’s funeral, he could’ve got over it by now, but he’s even worse. I knew he was broken up when he stayed in there next to the coffin. The truth is, he was his pal. I think he’s the only pal the Slave had—I should say, Arana—in the whole Academy. But only recently. Before, the Poet used to haze him like all the rest. What happened, why did they suddenly start going everywhere side by side? They got kidded a lot, Curly told the Slave, “You’ve found yourself a husband.” And that’s how it looked. He stuck to the Poet all the time, he followed him up and down and around, looking at him, talking to him in a low voice so nobody could overhear. Or they’d go out to the field so they could talk in peace. And the Poet started defending the Slave when they gave him a bad time. Not straight out, though, because he’s very tricky. If somebody started hazing the Slave, a little later the Poet was cracking jokes about the other guy, and he almost always got the best of it, the Poet’s real fierce when he makes wisecracks, at least he used to be. Now he just stays by himself, he doesn’t crack jokes, it’s as if he’s walking in his sleep. You can really see the change, he used to ra
zz somebody every chance he got. It was fun to hear his comebacks when somebody razzed him. “Poet, make up a poem about this,” Vallano said, grabbing himself in the crotch. “All right,” the Poet said, “but give me a minute or two, I’ve got to get inspired.” And a little later he recited it to us:

  What’s Vallano holding in his hand?

  If you think it’s a peanut, you’re wrong.

  It isn’t a peanut, it isn’t a pea,

  It’s just his cute little dong.

  He was a card, he could make everybody laugh, he razzed me a lot and sometimes I wanted to murder him. He made up some good poems about Skimpy, I’ve still got one of them copied in my literature notebook:

  Skimpy, you prick-licking bitch,

  I’ve never seen a dog so thin.

  How come you don’t curl up and die

  When the Boa rams it in?

  I almost killed him the night he woke up the whole section and went into the latrine shouting, “Look what the Boa does with Skimpy when he’s on guard duty!” He was a card, all right. But he couldn’t fight very well, the time he had that fight with Gallo he got flattened. He’s somewhat Creole, the way the coast people ought to be, and he’s so thin I feel sorry for him. There aren’t many whiteys in the Academy, the Poet’s one of the most passable. They’ve got the others scared, “Yah, yah, you’re a whitey shit, watch out for the half-breeds or you’re going to get hit.” There’s only two of them in our section and Arróspide isn’t a bad guy either, but he’s a terrible ass-kisser, three years in a row as brigadier. One time I saw Arróspide in town, he was in a big red car and he was wearing a fancy yellow shirt, my jaw dropped a whole foot when I saw how he was dressed, Jesus, I thought, he’s a whitey with lots of cash, he must live in Miraflores. It’s funny that the two whiteys in the section don’t even talk to each other, Arróspide and the Poet never got to be pals, they’ve always kept apart, I wonder why. If I had money and a big red car like that, I wouldn’t’ve entered the Academy, not even at gun point. What’s the good of having money if you’re in here getting screwed like just anybody? I remember when Curly asked the Poet, “What are you doing here? You ought to be in a seminary.” Curly’s always talking about the Poet, maybe he’s envious of him, maybe he’d like to be a poet too. He asked me today, “Have you noticed how the Poet’s almost like an idiot now?” And it’s the plain truth. Not that he does anything idiotic, he just doesn’t do anything at all. He stays in his bunk all during free time, sleeping or pretending to sleep. Curly went over and asked him to write him a story, and the Poet said, “I don’t write stories any more, leave me alone.” I don’t know if he writes letters either, before all this he used to hunt for clients like mad, perhaps he’s got more than enough money right now. When we get up in the morning, the Poet’s already outside. Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and now today, he’s been the first one in the patio in the morning, standing there with that long face of his and looking at God knows what, as if he’s dreaming with his eyes open. And the guys at his table tell me he doesn’t eat. “The Poet’s all broken up,” Vallano said to Mendoza, “he leaves half his food and doesn’t even sell it, he doesn’t give a damn when the others grab for it, and he never says a word during the whole meal.” He’s broken up for sure by his buddy’s death. That’s how the whiteys are, they’ve got men’s faces and women’s hearts. The Poet’s sick all right, he’s the one that’s been hit hardest by the death of the—I mean Arana.