B004QGYWDA EBOK (36 page)

Alberto saw Commandant Altuna get to his feet. He was a tall, fleshy man, very different from the colonel. The cadets called them Fat and Skinny. Altuna was a reserved and silent person who rarely entered the barracks or the classrooms. He went to the desk and came back with a handful of papers. His shoes creaked like the boots of the cadets. The colonel took the papers and held them up in front of Alberto’s eyes.

“Do you know what these are, Cadet?”

“No, Sir.”

“Of course you do. Take a look at them.”

Alberto read a few lines, and only then understood what they were.

“Now do you recognize them, Cadet?”

Alberto saw a head appear over the back of a chair: Lt. Gamboa was looking at him. He blushed violently.

“Obviously you recognize them,” the colonel said, almost with a laugh. “They’re documents, they’re concrete evidence. Now, then, read us a little of what they say.”

Alberto suddenly thought of the initiation of the Dogs. For the first time in almost three years he had that deep feeling of impotence and humiliation that he had experienced when he entered the Academy. But this was even worse, because he was suffering it alone.

“I told you to read something to us,” the colonel said.

Alberto forced himself to start reading. His voice was weak and at moments it broke. “She had big, hairy legs, and her ass was so enormous that she looked more like an animal than a woman, but she was the most popular whore in the fourth block because all the worst characters wanted her.” He stopped and waited tensely, expecting to hear the colonel’s voice ordering him to continue. But the colonel remained silent. Alberto felt profoundly tired. This, he thought, was like the contests in Paulino’s cave: it was so humiliating that it exhausted him, weakened every muscle, clouded his brain.

“Return those papers to me,” the colonel said. Alberto handed them to him. The colonel leafed through them slowly. His lips moved and he murmured some of the words and phrases. Alberto could see portions of titles he hardly remembered, some of them written the year before: “Lulu, the Incorrigible Flirt,” “The Mad Woman and the Burro,” “The Whore and the Whoremaster.”

“Do you know what I should do regarding these papers?” the colonel asked. His eyes were half closed and he seemed crushed by some painful but inescapable obligation. His voice sounded weary and rather bitter. “I shouldn’t even order a court-martial, Cadet. I should expel you this very minute, for being a degenerate. And I should talk with your father so that he could take you to a clinic. Perhaps the psychiatrists—do you understand what I’m saying, Cadet?—could cure you. This is a scandalous affair, scandalous. Only a twisted mind, a diseased mind, could write this sort of filth. These papers are a disgrace to the Academy, a disgrace to all of us. Have you anything to say, Cadet? Speak up, speak up.”

“No, Sir.”

“Of course not,” the colonel said. “How could you defend such disgusting documents. You couldn’t. Now answer me frankly, man to man. Don’t you deserve to be expelled? And shouldn’t we inform your parents that you’re a degenerate who also corrupts others? Yes or no?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“These papers have ruined you, Cadet. Do you think any school is going to admit you after you’ve been expelled from here as a delinquent with a perverted mind. You’ve ruined your career. Yes or no?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“What would you do if you were in my place, Cadet?”

“I don’t know, Sir.”

“But I know what I
should
do, Cadet. I have a duty to perform.” He paused. His expression became less belligerent, became almost kind. He settled back into the armchair again, and his stomach contracted and seemed more normal. He scratched his chin as he glanced about the room; it was as if he were debating a number of conflicting ideas. The commandant and the lieutenant were silent and motionless. Alberto waited for the decision, concentrating his attention on the colonel’s foot: the heel of his shoe rested on the polished floor, but the toe was raised. He was afraid that at any moment the colonel would start tapping his foot once more.

“Cadet Fernández Temple,” the colonel said in a solemn voice. Alberto raised his eyes. “Are you sorry about what you’ve done?”

“Yes, Sir,” Alberto said without hesitating.

“I’m a sensitive man,” the colonel said. “And I find these documents extremely painful. They’re a blatant insult to the Academy. Look me in the eye, Cadet. You have the appearance of a real soldier. You’re not like the riffraff we usually get. So I want you to behave like a man. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“And will you turn over a new leaf? Will you try to be a model cadet?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good. But seeing is believing,” the colonel said. He paused again. “I’ve decided to forget my duty. Just for this once. My duty is to expel you right now. But I’m not thinking about you, I’m thinking about the Academy. To me, the Academy is sacred. I like to think of the Leoncio Prado as one big family. Therefore, I’m going to give you a last chance. I’ll keep these papers, these incriminating documents, and I’ll also keep a sharp eye on you. If your superiors tell me at the end of the year that you’ve earned the trust I’m giving you now, that your record is completely clear, I’ll burn these papers and forget the whole sordid story. But, Cadet, if you commit a single misdemeanor—and one will be more than enough—you’ll be expelled in disgrace. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Sir.” Alberto lowered his eyes and added, “Thank you, Colonel.”

“So you realize what I’m doing for you?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“That’s all, then. Go back to your section and behave yourself as you should. Be a true Leoncio Prado cadet. Respect your superiors and yourself. Dismissed.”

Alberto saluted and started to walk toward the door, but he had only taken three steps when the colonel’s voice halted him.

“One moment, Cadet. Naturally you’ll keep absolutely quiet about what we’ve been saying. I mean, about these papers, and the imaginary murder, and everything. And from now on, keep your fantasies under control. The next time you feel like playing detective, remember that you’re in the army, that your superiors make sure that everything is carefully investigated and carefully judged. That’s all.”

Alberto saluted again and left the room. The civilian did not even look up as he went by. Instead of taking the elevator, he walked down, thinking. The stairs glittered like all the rest of the building.

It was not until he was outside, in front of the statue of the hero, that he remembered his bag. It was still in the guardhouse, along with his dress uniform. He walked slowly over to the guardhouse. The lieutenant on duty nodded to him.

“I’ve come to get my things, Sir,” Alberto said.

“What?” the lieutenant asked. “You’re still a prisoner. Gamboa’s orders.”

“But they told me to go back to my barracks.”

“No, Cadet,” the lieutenant said. “Not a chance. Don’t you know the regulations? I can’t let you go without written authorization from Gamboa. So you go back in.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Put him in the cell with that other cadet,” the officer told the sergeant. “I’ve got to make room for the soldiers Capt. Bezada wants to punish for whatever it was they did.” He scratched his head. “This place isn’t an Academy, it’s a prison.”

The sergeant was a solidly-built man with Oriental features. He opened the cell door, kicking it back with his foot. “All right, get in, Cadet.” And he added in a low voice, “Don’t worry, I’ll bring you something to smoke when they change the guard.”

Alberto entered. The Jaguar was sitting on the cot, looking at him.

Then there was the time Skinny Higueras hung back, he didn’t want to go with us, it was as if he suspected that something was sure to go wrong. A few months before, the Bull sent him a message saying, “Either you work with me or you stay out of Callao if you don’t want to get your face pushed in,” and Skinny said to me, “He’s back, I knew this’d happen.” He’d worked with the Bull when he was a kid, in fact it was the Bull who taught Skinny and my brother how to be crooks. Then the Bull got caught and the two of them went on by themselves. Five years later the Bull got out of jail and formed another gang. Skinny kept ducking him but one day two toughs from the gang ran across him in a bar and made him go with them to see the Bull. Skinny told me they didn’t do anything to him, the Bull put his arm around his shoulder and said, “I love you like a son.” Later they got drunk together and said good-by like old friends. In about a week, though, he got that message. Skinny didn’t want to operate in a gang, he said it was bad business, but he also didn’t want to have the Bull for an enemy. So he told me, “I’m going to join up. After all, the Bull doesn’t cheat. But you don’t have to go with me. If you want my advice, go back home with your mother and study to be a doctor. You must’ve saved plenty of money by now.” I didn’t have a single centavo and I said so. “Do you know what you are?” he said. “You’re a whoremaster, that’s what you are. Did you spend all your money in the brothels?” I told him yes. He said, “You’ve still got a lot to learn. It isn’t worth it to spend all you’ve got on the whores. You should’ve saved at least something. Well, what do you want to do?” I told him I’d stay with him. That same night we went to see the Bull. He was in a real dump of a bar, and the waitress only had one eye. The Bull was an old man, a halfbreed, and he hardly knew what he was saying because he kept calling for another shot of pisco. The others, five or six of them, half-breeds and Chinks and peasants, kept giving Skinny dirty looks, but the Bull always listened to him when he talked, and laughed at all his jokes. He hardly even looked at me. We started working and at first everything went all right. We cleaned out houses in Magdalena and La Punta, San Isidro and Orrantia, Salaverry and Barranco, but not in Callao. They used me as a lookout and never sent me inside to open the door. When they divvied up, the Bull gave me the measliest share he could, but afterward Skinny gave me part of what he got. We formed a pair and the rest of the characters in the gang didn’t trust us. One time we were all in a whorehouse and Skinny and the half-breed Pancracio started fighting over one of the whores, and Pancracio took out a knife and slashed my friend on the arm. That made me sore and I went at him. Another half-breed jumped in and said he’d take me on. The Bull told everybody to stand back and give us room, and the whores all screamed. At first the half-breed insulted me, that was while we were sizing each other up, he laughed and said, “You’re the mouse and I’m the cat,” but I gave him a couple of good butts with my head and then we had a real fight. The Bull bought me a drink and said, “My hat’s off to you. Who taught you how to fight like that?”

After that, I fought with the half-breeds and Chinks and peasants in the gang for any reason at all. Sometimes I took a beating, but sometimes I held my own and even got the best of it. Every time we got drunk we ended up fighting. And we fought so much we finally got to be friends. They invited me to drink with them, they took me with them to the whorehouse or the movies. I remember we went to the movies the night before it happened. The Bull was waiting for us outside, and he was more excited than I’d ever seen him. We went to a bar and when we got there he said, “This is it, this is the best deal yet.” But then when he said that the Priest had looked him up and suggested a job, Skinny interrupted him. “Not with those guys, Bull. They’d screw us for sure. They’re big-time operators.” The Bull didn’t pay any attention to him, he went on explaining the setup. He was very proud that the Priest wanted him, because he had a large gang and everybody was jealous of them. They lived like respectable people, they had good houses and they all owned cars. Skinny wanted to argue about it some more but the others made him shut up. It was set for the next night, and it sounded easy. We met at the Quebrada de Armendáriz at ten o’clock at night, the way the Bull told us to, and a couple of the Priest’s men were there waiting for us. They both had mustaches and were very well dressed, they smoked imported cigarettes, it looked as if they were going to a party. We waited there till midnight and then went to the streetcar line, walking in pairs. Another guy from the Priest’s gang was waiting. “It’s all set,” he told us. “The house is empty. They left just now. We can start right away.” The Bull showed me where to be a lookout, off at one side of the house behind a wall. I asked Skinny, “Who goes in?” He said, “Me, the Bull and the Priest’s men. The rest of you are lookouts. That’s the way they work. This is what you call a sure thing.” I couldn’t see anybody from where I was, not even any lights in the houses, but before we got there, Skinny stopped talking and looked pretty worried about what was coming. Pancracio showed me the house as we went by. It was enormous, and the Bull said, “There should be enough money in there to make a whole army rich.” Quite a while later I heard the whistle blasts, the shots and the yells, and I started running in that direction, but then I saw the three patrolmen on the corner. I turned around and escaped. I got on a streetcar at the Marsano Plaza and in Lima I took a taxi. When I got to the bar I only found Pancracio. “It was a trap,” he said. “The Priest tipped off the cops. I think they caught everybody. I saw them beating up the Bull and Skinny on the ground. The four guys from the Priest’s gang were laughing, some day they’ll get what’s coming to them. Right now we’d better clear out.” I told him I was flat broke. He gave me five soles and told me, “Go and live in a different neighborhood and don’t come back here. I’m going to get out of Lima for a while.”

That night I went to the fields at Bellavista and slept in a ditch. Or rather, I lay on my back, staring into the darkness, freezing to death. As soon as it was daylight I went to the Bellavista Plaza. I hadn’t been there for two years. Everything looked the same, except the door of my house had a new coat of paint. I knocked, but nobody answered. I knocked harder, and somebody inside shouted, “Wait a minute, damn it!” A man came to the door and I asked for Señora Domitila. “I don’t know who she is,” he said. “Pedro Caifás lives here, and that’s me.” Then a woman came up beside him and said, “Señora Domitila? An old lady that lived here all alone?” “Yes,” I said; “I think so.” “She’s dead,” the woman told me. “She lived here before we came, but that was quite a while ago.” I thanked them and went and sat down in the plaza. I spent the whole morning watching the door of Teresa’s house to see if she’d come out. About noon, a boy came out. I went over and asked him, “Do you know the address of the woman and girl that used to live in your house?” “I don’t know a thing,” he said. I went back to my old house and knocked again. The woman came to the door. I asked her, “Do you know where Señora Domitila is buried?” “No,” she said. “I never even met her. Was she related to you?” I was going to tell her she was my mother, but then I remembered the cops were looking for me and I said, “No, I just wanted to find out.”