B004QGYWDA EBOK (21 page)

Then he walked on behind the company, using his fieldglasses. From a distance, the operation looked like a simultaneous advance and retreat: when the first line hit the ground, the second charged past them and took the lead, and then the third line replaced the second. On the next advance, the three lines returned to their original order, and seconds later they merged into a single line. Gamboa waved his hands and shouted, he seemed to be aiming and shooting at certain cadets with his finger. Capt. Garrido could not hear him but he could guess what he was saying.

And suddenly the captain heard the firing. He looked at his watch. Right, he thought. Exactly nine-thirty. He raised his field glasses, and saw that the first line had reached the prescribed position. Then he looked up at the targets but could not make out the hits. He ran forward about twenty yards and raised his glasses again. This time he could see that the targets had a dozen perforations. The soldiers are better, he thought, but these cadets are going to be reserve officers when they graduate. It’s scandalous. He kept moving ahead, without taking the glasses from his eyes. The lines continued to advance ten yards at a time. The second line fired, and the echo had scarcely died when the whistle ordered the front and rear lines to advance. The cadets looked very small against the horizon as they ran and then threw themselves down. Another whistle blast and another line fired. After each round of firing the captain inspected the targets and estimated the hits. As the company neared the hill, their shooting was more accurate: the targets were riddled by now. He looked at the faces of the cadets who were firing. They were red, infantile, beardless faces, one eye closed and the other fixed on the sight. The recoil jarred those young bodies, but although their shoulders hurt already, they would have to leap up, run forward, hit the ground and fire again, surrounded by an atmosphere of violence that was only a simulacrum. Capt. Garrido knew that war was not like that.

A moment later he noticed a green silhouette, and he would have stepped on it if he had not swerved in time; he also saw a rifle with its muzzle buried in the ground, against all the instructions for the care of weapons. He could not guess the meaning of that fallen body and gun. He leaned over. The boy’s face was distorted with pain and his mouth and eyes were wide open. The bullet had struck him in the head. A little stream of blood ran down his neck.

The captain dropped the field glasses he was carrying in his hand. He picked up the cadet, putting one arm under his shoulders and the other under his legs, and began running headlong toward the hill, shouting, “Lieutenant Gamboa, Lieutenant Gamboa!” But he had to run a number of yards before they could hear him. The first company—identical green beetles clambering up the slope toward the targets—was too absorbed in Gamboa’s commands and the effort of climbing to look behind. The captain tried to locate the lieutenant’s light-colored uniform or one of the noncoms. Suddenly the beetles stopped and turned around, and the captain realized he was being watched by dozens of cadets. “Gamboa, noncoms!” he shouted. “Come here, hurry!” The cadets were running down the hill toward him and he felt foolish with that boy in his arms. I’ve got a dog’s luck, he thought. The colonel’s going to put this on my record.

Gamboa was the first to reach him. He stared at the cadet in astonishment and bent over to look closer, but the captain shouted, “Quick, get him to the infirmary! As quick as you can!”

The two noncoms, Morte and Pezoa, picked up the body and started racing across the field. They were followed by the captain, the lieutenant, and the cadets. The cadets came running up from all directions to take a shocked look at that face as it bobbed up and down: a pale, emaciated face which all of them recognized.

“Faster,” the captain said, “faster.”

Suddenly Gamboa grabbed the cadet away from the noncoms, hoisted him onto his shoulders, and ran ahead. In only a few seconds he was already several yards away.

“Cadets,” the captain shouted, “stop the first car that comes by!”

The cadets left the noncoms and cut across the field on the run. The captain remained behind, with Morte and Pezoa.

“Is he from the first company?” he asked.

“Yes, Captain,” Pezoa said. “The first section.”

“What’s his name?”

“Ricardo Arana, Captain.” He hesitated for an instant, then added: “They call him the Slave.”

I feel sorry for poor Skimpy, last night she kept howling and howling. I wrapped her up in my blanket, and even put my pillow on her, but you could still hear the noise she was making. Every little while she seemed to be choking and suffocating, and her howling was terrible, it woke up the whole barracks. It wouldn’t’ve made so much difference before, but now they’re all so nervous they started to swear and shout insults and tell me, “Get her out of here or else,” and I had to talk tough with some of them from my bunk. By midnight it was just too much. I was as sleepy as the rest and Skimpy kept howling louder and louder. Finally some of them got up and came over to my bunk with boots in their hands. I didn’t want to have a fight with the whole section, now that we’re all so upset anyway. So I pulled her out of my bunk and carried her down to the patio and left her there, but the minute I turned my back I could tell she was following me and I had to bawl her out. “Shut up, you bitch, and stay where I put you.” But Skimpy kept following me, with her bad leg held up so it wouldn’t touch the ground, and it was pitiful to see how hard she tried to catch up with me. Then I picked her up again and carried her out to the field, I put her down in the weeds and scratched her neck for a while, then I came back and this time she didn’t follow me. But I didn’t sleep well, in fact I didn’t sleep at all. Just when I’d be falling asleep, bang, my eyes’d open by themselves and I’d start thinking about the poor dog, and besides that I started sneezing because I didn’t put on my shoes when I took her out to the patio, also my pajamas are full of holes and I think there must’ve been a cold wind, maybe it was even raining. Poor Skimpy, freezing out there, and she always feels the cold so much. Lots of times I’ve made her angry at night because I turn over and she gets uncovered. She growls a little and pulls at the blanket with her teeth until she’s covered up again, or she burrows down to the foot of the bed so she can feel the warmth from my feet. Dogs are very faithful, more so than relatives, no doubt about that. Skimpy is a mongrel, a mixture of every kind of dog, but she’s got a heart of gold. I don’t remember when she came to the Academy. I’m sure nobody brought her here, she was going by one day and decided to come in and look around. She liked it, so she stayed. I think she was already in the Academy when we arrived. Maybe she was even born here, she may be a native of the Leoncio Prado. When I first noticed her she was very small, she kept coming into the section all the time, beginning with the days of the initiation, she seemed to think it was her home, if anybody from the Fourth came in she rushed at his feet and barked and tried to bite him. And she was stubborn, they’d send her flying with a kick but she’d get up and charge again, still barking and showing her teeth, the little teeth of a half-grown pup. She’s full-grown now, she must be over three years old, that’s old for a dog because they don’t live too long, especially if they’re mongrels and don’t get much to eat. I don’t remember ever seeing Skimpy eat very much. Sometimes I toss scraps to her, they’re the best meal she gets. She doesn’t eat grass, she only chews it for the juice and then spits it out. She’ll take a mouthful of grass and chew it for hours and hours like an Indian chewing coca. She was always around in the section and some of them said she had fleas and they ran her out, but Skimpy always came back, they chased her away a hundred times but a few minutes later the door began creaking a little and you could see her muzzle down at the bottom next to the floor. We had to laugh at how stubborn she was, and sometimes we let her in and played with her. I don’t know who thought of calling her Skimpy. Nobody ever knows where nicknames come from. When they started calling me the Boa, I laughed at first but then I got mad and asked everybody, who made it up, but they just said What’s-his-name and now I can’t get rid of that nickname, they even use it in the neighborhood. I think it must’ve been Vallano. He was always telling me, “Give us a demonstration, piss over your belt,” or “Show us that cock of yours that hangs down to your knees.” But I’m not sure it was Vallano after all.

Alberto felt someone grasp his arm. He could not recognize the cadet’s face, but nevertheless the boy was smiling at him as if they knew each other. A shorter cadet was standing behind him. He could not see them clearly: it was only six in the afternoon, but the fog had already come in from the sea. They were in the patio of the Fifth, near the parade ground. Groups of cadets were passing back and forth.

“Wait a minute, Poet,” the boy said. “You know all kinds of things, is it true that ovary means the same as balls, only feminine?”

“Let go,” Alberto said. “I’m in a hurry.”

“Don’t be like that. It won’t take a minute. We’ve got a bet on.”

“About a song,” the smaller one said, coming forward. “A Bolivian song. He’s half Bolivian and he knows some songs from there. Strange kinds of songs. Go ahead, sing it for him so he can see.”

“I told you to let go,” Alberto said. “I haven’t got time.”

But instead of releasing him, the cadet gripped him harder; then he sang:

With what sharp pangs

My ovary is torn
,

Because of the little one

Soon to be born
.

The smaller cadet laughed.

“Are you going to let go?”

“No. First tell me if they’re the same.”

“That isn’t fair,” the smaller one said. “You’re telling him what to say.”

“Yes, they’re the same,” Alberto shouted and yanked himself free. As he walked away, the two boys remained where they were, arguing. He hurried toward the officers’ quarters, skirted them, and was only ten yards from the infirmary. But he could hardly distinguish its outline, and the doors and windows were all hidden by the fog. There was no one in the entry, nor in the little guard room. He went up to the second floor, taking the stairs two at a time. There was a man in a white apron near the doorway. He had a newspaper in his hands but he was not reading it; he was staring at the wall with a sinister look.

“Get out of here, Cadet,” he said, straightening up. “It’s off limits.”

“I want to see Cadet Arana.”

“No,” the man growled. “Nobody can see Cadet Arana. Nobody.”

“But it’s important,” Alberto said. “Please. Or let me talk to the doctor on duty.”

“I’m the doctor on duty.”

“You’re lying. You’re an attendant. I want to talk with the doctor.”

“I don’t like your attitude,” the man said. He had let the newspaper fall to the floor.

“If you won’t call the doctor, I’m going in to look for him,” Alberto said. “I’m going in whether you like it or not.”

“What’s the matter with you, Cadet? Are you crazy?”

“You bastard, call the doctor!” Alberto shouted. “Goddamn it, call the doctor!”

“This Academy’s nothing but a bunch of savages,” the man said. He got up and went down the corridor. The walls had been painted white, perhaps recently, but the dampness had already stained them with big gray patches. A few moments later the attendant returned with a tall, thin man with glasses.

“What do you want, Cadet?”

“I want to see Cadet Arana, Doctor.”

“You can’t,” the doctor said with a helpless gesture. “Didn’t the soldier tell you you can’t come up here? They could punish you for this.”

“I came here three times yesterday,” Alberto said. “The soldier wouldn’t let me in. But he isn’t here today. Please, Doctor, let me see him, even if it’s just for a minute.”

“I’m very sorry, but it isn’t up to me. You know what the rules are like. Cadet Arana can’t have any visitors, nobody can see him. Is he a relative of yours?”

“No,” Alberto said. “But I’ve got to talk with him. It’s very important.”

The doctor put his hand on his shoulder and looked at him sympathetically. “Cadet Arana can’t talk with anyone. He’s still unconscious. But don’t worry, he’ll be all right. Now get out of here, please. Don’t make me call an officer.”

“Can I see him if I bring an order from the captain?”

“No,” the doctor said. “Only with an order from the colonel.”

I waited for her three or four times a week outside her school, but she didn’t always come past me. My mother got used to eating lunch alone, though I don’t know if she really believed I was going to a friend’s house. But anyway it was better for her not to have me there, because that way she spent less on food. Sometimes when I did come home for lunch she’d give me a disgusted look and ask me, “Aren’t you going to Chucuito today?” What I really wanted was to wait for her every day, but they wouldn’t let me out early at the 2nd of May school. It was easy to sneak away on Mondays, we had physical education on Mondays and after recess I’d just hide behind a pillar until the class went away with the instructor, Señor Zapata, and then I’d walk out the front gate. Señor Zapata was a boxing champion in his day, but after he got old he didn’t like to work and never even called the roll. He’d take us out to the playing field and say, “All right, get up a soccer game, it’s good exercise for your legs. But don’t go too far away.” Then he’d sit down on the grass and read a magazine. I couldn’t get out early on Tuesdays because the mathematics teacher knew all of us by name, but on Wednesdays it was easy again because we had art and music and the teacher, Señor Cigüeña, lived on the moon or somewhere-anyway, he didn’t live in this world. I could get out the back way during the eleven o’clock recess and catch a streetcar half a block from the school.

Skinny Higueras kept on giving me money. He always waited for me in the Bellavista Plaza, and invited me to have a drink and a cigarette while he talked about my brother, about girls, about everything. “You’re a man now,” he told me, “one hundred percent.” Sometimes he gave me money before I asked him for it. He didn’t give me very much, fifty centavos or a sol, but it was enough for the fare. I’d go to the 2nd of May Plaza, walk down Alfonso Ugarte Avenue to her school, and wait for her as usual in the corner store. Sometimes she came over to me and said, “You got out early again today?” and then she started talking about something else and so did I. She’s very intelligent, I thought, she changes the subject so I won’t feel embarrassed. We walked toward her relatives’ house, about eight blocks away, and I always made sure we walked slowly, either by taking short steps or by stopping to look in the store windows, but it never took us longer than half an hour. We talked about the same things: what happened in our schools that morning, what we’d be studying that afternoon, what the exams’d be like and whether we’d pass them. I knew all the girls in her class by their names and she knew the names and nicknames of my friends and my teachers; she also knew the jokes about all the best-known students at the 2nd of May. One day I thought of telling her, “Last night I dreamed we grew up and got married.” I felt sure she’d ask me a lot of questions, so I made up all sorts of answers that’d keep the conversation going. The next day, while we were walking down Arica Avenue, I suddenly told her, “You know, last night I dreamed that…” “What about? What did you dream?” she asked me. And I only said, “I dreamed that both of us passed our exams.” “I just hope your dream comes true,” she said.

While I was with her we always came across some of the students from the La Salle in their light brown uniforms, and that was another topic of conversation. “They’re fairies,” I told her. “They’d look sick at the 2nd of May. Look at their white faces, you’d think they came from the Academy of the Marian Brothers in Callao, that’s where they play soccer like little girls, if they get kicked they start yelling for their mothers, just look at their faces.” She laughed and I went on talking about them, but finally I couldn’t think of anything else to say and I told myself, We’re almost there. The thing that really made me nervous was the idea that she’d get bored at hearing me talk about the same things all the time, but then I remembered how she kept repeating things and I didn’t get bored. Like when she’d tell me twice or even three times about the picture she and her aunt saw on Monday. We were talking about the movies when I finally got up the courage to tell her something serious. She asked me if I’d seen some picture, I forget which one. I said no, and she asked me, “Don’t you ever go to the movies?” “Now and then,” I told her, “but last year I used to go every week. With a couple of friends from the 2nd of May. We could get in free at the Sáenz Peña on Wednesdays because one of my friends had a cousin who was a city cop and when he was on duty there he let us go up to the balcony without any tickets. We waited till the lights went out, then we went downstairs and got better seats. We just had to jump over the rail.” “But didn’t they catch you?” she asked me. “Sure they did,” I said, “but they couldn’t kick us out. I told you my friend’s cousin was a cop.” She asked me, “Why don’t you go with them any more?” “They go on Thursdays now,” I said, “because the cop’s day on duty there was changed.” “And you don’t go with them?” she asked me, and without even thinking I said, “I’d rather go to your house and be with you.” Then I realized what I’d said and I stopped talking. It got worse, too, because she gave me a very serious look, and I thought, Now I’ve made her mad. So I said, “Maybe I’ll go with them one of these weeks. To tell the truth, though, I don’t care very much about the movies.” Then I began to talk about something else, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the look I’d seen on her face, a look that was different from any I’d seen before, as if she’d guessed everything I was thinking but didn’t dare say to her.

One day Skinny Higueras gave me a sol and a half. “So you can buy cigarettes,” he told me, “or get drunk if you’re having girl trouble.” The next day I was walking with her along Arica Avenue, near the Brenda movie theater, and we happened to stop in front of a bakeshop window. There were some chocolate pastries on display, and she said, “How delicious they look!” I remembered the money I had in my pocket, and I’ve hardly ever felt so happy. I said, “Wait here, I’ve got a sol, I’m going to buy one of those,” and she said, “No, don’t waste your money, I was only joking,” but I went in and asked the clerk for one of those pastries. I was so excited I didn’t even wait for my change, but the clerk was honest, he caught up with me and said, “You forgot your change. Here.” When I gave her the pastry, she told me, “But it isn’t all for me. We’ll go halves.” I didn’t want to and I tried to convince her I didn’t feel hungry, but she insisted and finally she told me, “At least take a bite,” then she reached out and put it to my mouth. I took a bite and she laughed. “You’ve got it all over your face,” she said, “what an idiot I am, it’s my fault, I’ll clean it off.” She raised her other hand and brought it up to my face. I stood still and my smile froze when I felt her touching me, I didn’t dare breathe when she ran her fingers over my mouth, my lips would’ve moved and she would’ve realized I wanted to kiss her hand. “There,” she said, and we went on walking toward La Salle without saying a word, I was dazed by what had just happened and I was sure she’d gone slow when she ran her fingers over my mouth, or that she’d done it several times, and I told myself, Perhaps she did it on purpose.