B004QGYWDA EBOK (38 page)

“Don’t move, even if it burns,” the attendant said. “If it gets in your eye you’ll be seeing fireworks.”

Alberto saw the iodine-soaked wad of gauze approaching his face, and he gritted his teeth. A fierce pain ran through his whole body like a shudder; he opened his mouth and shrieked. Then the pain restricted itself to his face. With his good eye he could see the Jaguar over the attendant’s shoulder. The Jaguar looked back at him, indifferently, from a chair at the far side of the room. Alberto felt dizzy from the smell of iodine and alcohol. It almost made him vomit. The infirmary was white, and the tile floor reflected the blue-white glare of the fluorescent lights. The attendant had thrown away the piece of gauze and was soaking another one, meanwhile whistling between his teeth. Would it hurt as much this time? When he was being punched by the Jaguar on the floor of the cell, struggling in silence, he had not felt any pain, only humiliation. Because almost as soon as they began fighting, he knew he would lose: his fists and boots hardly touched the Jaguar, he grappled with him and knew almost at once that he should release that hard and amazingly elusive body which advanced and retreated, always present, always evading his blows. The worst part was the butting: Alberto raised his elbows, tried to jab with his knees, went into a crouch, and it was all useless, the Jaguar’s head rammed against his arms, separated them, and found its way to his face. He thought confusedly of a hammer pounding an anvil. Then he let himself drop to the floor, in order to catch his breath. But the Jaguar would not wait until he got up, would not stop proving he had won. He leaped on top of him and continued to beat him with those tireless fists until Alberto managed to stand up and run to the far corner of the cell. Seconds later he was down on the floor again. The Jaguar straddled him and went on punching him until he lost consciousness. When Alberto opened his eyes he was sitting on the cot beside the Jaguar, hearing him gasp for breath. He had scarcely had time to gather his wits when Gamboa’s voice boomed in the cell.

“There you go,” the attendant said. “Now we’ll have to wait till it dries. Then I’ll bandage it. Don’t move around, and don’t touch it with your dirty fingers.”

The attendant left the room, still whistling between his teeth. Alberto and the Jaguar looked at each other. Alberto felt curiously calm: his anger had vanished. Even so, he tried to speak in an insulting tone.

“Why are you looking at me?”

“You’re a squealer,” the Jaguar said. His pale eyes regarded Alberto coldly. “That’s the rottenest thing a man can be. There’s nothing worse, nothing filthier. A squealer! You make me puke.”

“Some day I’ll get even,” Alberto said. “You think you’re real tough, right? I promise you, some day you’ll be kneeling at my feet. Do you know what you are? You’re a criminal. You ought to be in prison.”

“Squealers like you,” the Jaguar said, without paying any attention to what Alberto was saying, “should never’ve been born. Maybe they’ll screw me on account of what you told them. But I’m going to tell the whole section, the whole Academy, that you’re a squealer. You ought to be dying of shame for what you’ve done.”

“I’m not ashamed,” Alberto said. “And as soon as I can get out of the Academy, I’m going to tell the police you’re a murderer.”

“You’re crazy,” the Jaguar said in a flat voice. “You know I haven’t killed anybody. Everybody knows the Slave shot himself accidentally. You know it too, you squealer.”

“You’re not worried at all, are you? Because the colonel, the captain, everybody here, they’re all like you, they’re your accomplices, they’re just a gang of bastards. They don’t want anybody to talk about what happened. But I’m going to tell the whole world that you killed the Slave.”

The door opened. The attendant was carrying a bandage and a roll of adhesive tape. He bandaged Alberto’s whole face, only leaving open his good eye and his nose and mouth. The Jaguar laughed.

“What’s the matter?” the attendant asked him. “What’re you laughing at?”

“Nothing,” the Jaguar said.

“Nothing? Don’t you know that only lunatics laugh at nothing?”

“Really?” the Jaguar said. “I didn’t know that.”

“There,” the attendant said to Alberto. “Okay, you’re next.”

The Jaguar sat down in the chair where Alberto had been. The attendant, whistling even more enthusiastically, dipped a cotton swab in the iodine. The Jaguar only had a few scratches on his face and a small bruise on his neck. The attendant began swabbing his face with elaborate care. He was whistling furiously now.

“You shit!” the Jaguar yelled, pushing the attendant away with both hands. “You stupid Indian! You peasant!”

Alberto and the attendant laughed.

“You did it on purpose,” the Jaguar said, covering his eye with his hand. “Damn fairy.”

“Why did you move your head?” the attendant asked. “I told you if it got in your eye it’d burn like hell.” He made him raise his face. “Take your hand away. Let some air get at it, that’ll stop the burning.”

The Jaguar removed his hand. His eye was red and full of tears. The attendant treated it. He had stopped whistling, but his tongue, just the tip of it, protruded from between his lips like a small, pink snake. After using a swab of iodine, he put on some small bandages. Then he washed his hands and said, “That’s it. Now sign right here.”

Alberto and the Jaguar signed the report book and left the infirmary. The day was even clearer now, and except for the wind that swept across the field, it was as if summer had finally, definitely arrived. The cloudless sky seemed infinitely deep. They walked across the parade ground. No one was in sight, but when they passed the mess hall they could hear the voices of the cadets and the rhythms of a creole waltz. As they walked by the officers’ quarters they met Lt. Huarina.

“Halt,” he told them. “What’s all this?”

“We fell down, Sir,” Alberto said.

“You won’t get passes for a month, not looking like that.”

They went on toward the barracks, in silence. The door of Gamboa’s room was open, but they hesitated to enter, standing outside and looking at each other.

“Well, what’re you waiting for?” the Jaguar asked. “He’s your bosom buddy.”

Alberto knocked once.

“Come in,” Gamboa said.

The lieutenant was sitting down, holding a letter. He put it away quickly as soon as they entered, then stood up, walked over to the door, and closed it. He motioned toward the bed with a brusque gesture. “Sit there.”

Alberto and the Jaguar sat down on the edge of it. Gamboa picked up a chair and set it in front of them; it was turned around, and when he sat facing them he rested his arms on its back. His face looked damp, as if he had just finished washing it. His eyes were tired, his shoes were dirty, and his shirt was partly unbuttoned. He rested his cheek on one hand, while the other drummed on his knee. He looked at the two cadets intently.

“All right,” he said after a moment, with a gesture of impatience. “Now you know what it’s all about. I suppose I don’t need to tell you what you’ve got to do.”

“I don’t know anything, Sir,” the Jaguar said. “I only know what you told me yesterday.”

The lieutenant questioned Alberto with his eyes.

“I haven’t told him a thing, Sir.”

Gamboa stood up. It was obvious that he felt uncomfortable, that he disliked the interview.

“Cadet Fernández presented an accusation against you. You know what it was. The authorities have decided that it lacks a foundation.” He spoke slowly, seeking impersonal words and phrases; now and then there was a small, stiff smile on his lips. “This affair isn’t to be discussed any further, not even here and now. It’s something that both harms and offends the Academy. Since the matter is closed, you’re to go back to your section and behave with the most absolute discretion. The smallest infraction you commit will be severely punished. The colonel in person ordered me to tell you that if there’s any indiscretion, you’ll both suffer the consequences.”

The Jaguar had listened to Gamboa with his head bowed. But when the officer finished, he raised his eyes to his.

“Now do you see, Sir? I told you it was just a slander this dirty squealer made up.” He nodded contemptuously toward Alberto.

“It wasn’t a slander,” Alberto said. “You’re a murderer.”

“Shut up!” Gamboa roared. “Shut up, you little farts!”

Automatically, Alberto and the Jaguar came to attention.

“Cadet Fernández,” Gamboa said, “two hours ago—in my presence—you withdrew your accusation against your comrade. You can’t bring up this affair again without suffering a very harsh punishment. And I’ll see to that punishment myself. I think I’ve made the situation perfectly clear.”

“But Lieutenant,” Alberto stammered, “when I was in front of the colonel I didn’t know what to do, that is, I couldn’t do anything else. He didn’t give me a chance to do anything. Besides…”

“Besides,” Gamboa said, interrupting him, “you’re in no position to accuse anybody, to judge anybody. If I were running this Academy, you’d be out in the street. I hope that from now on you’ll stop selling your pornography, unless you don’t want to graduate.”

“Yes, Sir. But that’s something else. I…”

“You told the colonel you withdraw the accusation. So shut your mouth and keep it shut.” Gamboa turned to the Jaguar. “As for you, I guess it’s possible you didn’t have anything to do with the death of Cadet Arana. But you’re still in plenty of trouble. I can tell you right now, don’t laugh at the officers any more. I’ll be watching you, believe me. Now get out, both of you, and don’t forget what I’ve told you.”

Alberto and the Jaguar departed, and Gamboa closed the door behind them. Outside, they could hear the far-off confusion of voices and music. The waltz had given way to a
marinera
. They crossed the parade ground. The wind had died, and as they walked across the field each blade of grass was erect and motionless.

“The officers are shits,” Alberto said without looking at the Jaguar. “All of them. Even Gamboa. I thought he was different.”

“Did they find out about the stories?” the Jaguar asked.

“Yes.”

“You’ve screwed yourself.”

“No,” Alberto said. “They blackmailed me. I agreed to withdraw the accusation, they agreed to forget about the stories I used to sell. The colonel didn’t put it like that, but that’s what he meant, all right. It’s hard to believe they could be such sons of bitches.”

“Are you crazy?” the Jaguar asked. “Since when have the officers protected me?”

“Not you. They’re protecting themselves. They don’t want any trouble. They’re a bunch of shits. They don’t give a damn about what happened to the Slave.”

“You’re right,” the Jaguar said, nodding. “I heard they wouldn’t even let his parents see him when he was in the infirmary. Just think what it must be like to be dying and only see lieutenants and doctors. They stink, all of them.”

“You didn’t care if he died either,” Alberto said. “You just wanted to get revenge because he told on Cava.”

“What?” the Jaguar said, stopping dead and looking at Alberto. “What’s that?”

“What’s what?”

“The Slave accused the peasant?” His eyes were glowing.

“Don’t be a shit,” Alberto said. “Don’t be a phoney.”

“I’m not a phoney,” the Jaguar said. “I didn’t know he squealed on Cava. It’s a good thing he’s dead. All the squealers ought to be dead.”

Alberto could not see well with one eye bandaged, and could not judge the distance. He reached out to grab him by the front of his shirt, but his hand closed on empty air.

“Swear to me you didn’t know the Slave accused Cava. Swear it in the name of your mother. Tell me she can drop dead if you did know. Swear it.”

“My mother’s dead already,” the Jaguar said. “But I didn’t know.”

“Swear it, if you’re a man.”

“I swear I didn’t know.”

“I thought you knew,” Alberto said. “I thought you killed the Slave on account of it. If you really didn’t know I was wrong. Excuse me, Jaguar.”

“It’s kind of late to be sorry,” the Jaguar said. “But from now on, don’t squeal on anybody. There’s nothing worse than a squealer.”

After lunch, the cadets returned to the barracks like a river in flood. Alberto could hear them coming: they crossed the empty field with a rustle of trodden grass, then clattered across the parade ground, and suddenly the patio was a wild torrent of sound, from the hundreds of boots that hammered on the pavement. The noise became more and more frenetic until the double door swung wide open and familiar figures surged into the barracks. As they entered, Alberto heard them pronouncing his own name and the Jaguar’s. The tide of cadets divided into two currents, one of them racing toward his bunk, the other toward the far end where the Jaguar was. Vallano was at the head of the group that came over to him; they were all gesturing and their eyes were bright with curiosity. He felt dazed by so many stares and such a babble of questions. For a moment he had the impression they were going to lynch him. He tried to smile, but it was pointless: they could not see it as the bandages almost covered his face. They called him Dracula, the Monster, Frankenstein, Rita Hayworth. Then there were more questions. He decided to talk in a hoarse, weak voice, as if the bandages were suffocating him. “I had an accident,” he murmured. “I just got out of the hospital this morning.” “It looks to me as if you’re going to be uglier than ever,” Vallano said in a friendly voice, and another predicted, “You’re going to lose an eye, and then we won’t call you the Poet, we’ll call you One-Eye.” They stopped asking him questions, no one wanted the details of the accident, they engaged in a tacit contest to invent ridiculous and brutal nicknames for him. “I got hit by a car,” Alberto said. “It knocked me down on 2nd of May Avenue.” But now the group around him was growing restless; some of them went to their bunks, others came up closer and laughed at his bandages. Suddenly someone shouted, “I bet it’s all a lie. The Jaguar and the Poet had a fight.” A roar of laughter shook the barracks. Alberto felt grateful to the attendant at the infirmary: the bandage covering his face was a perfect mask, no one could read the truth from his features. He was sitting on his bunk watching Vallano, who was in front of him, and Arróspide and Montes. He could only see them rather cloudily, and had to guess what the rest of them were doing; but he heard them making wisecracks about the Jaguar and himself. “What’ve you done to the Poet, Jaguar?” one of them asked. “Poet,” another asked, “do you fight with your fingernails like a woman?” Alberto tried to make out the Jaguar’s voice in the hubbub, but he could not hear him. He could not see him either, because the bunks, the lockers and the bodies of his comrades were in the way. The jokes continued, with Vallano’s voice standing out, a venomous, treacherous hiss. The Negro was inspired, and shot off burst after burst of sarcasm and humor.

Suddenly the Jaguar’s voice dominated the barracks. “That’s enough! Leave him alone!” The loud talk died down at once, and there were only a few mocking snickers, furtive, timid. With his one free eye, which dizzily opened and closed, Alberto watched the cadet who moved near Vallano’s bunk, who leaned his arms on the upper bunk and pulled himself up and then climbed onto a locker. After that, Alberto could only see his long legs, with blue socks falling down over chocolate-colored boots. The other cadets had not noticed anything yet; the hidden snickers continued. When he heard Arróspide’s thundering words, Alberto did not think that anything unusual was happening, but his body understood better: it grew tense, and his shoulder pressed so hard against the wall that it ached. Arróspide repeated his bellow: “Stop, Jaguar! Don’t shout, Jaguar. One moment.” There was complete silence now, the whole section had turned to look at the brigadier, but Alberto could not see his face: the bandages made it hard to raise his head, and his blinking cyclops eye saw only that motionless pair of boots, then the darkness behind its lid, then the boots again. Arróspide went on saying angrily, “Stop there, Jaguar! One moment, Jaguar.” Alberto heard a rustle of bodies as the cadets who were lying on their bunks sat up and craned their necks toward Vallano’s locker.

“What’s the matter?” the Jaguar asked at last. “What’s up, Arróspide. What’s on your mind?”

Alberto, without moving, watched the cadets nearest to him. Their eyes were like pendulums, swinging back and forth from one end of the barracks to the other, from Arróspide to the Jaguar.

“We’re going to talk,” Arróspide yelled. “We’re got lots to say to you. In the first place, don’t shout. Do you understand, Jaguar? Lots of things have happened in the barracks since Gamboa sent you to the guardhouse.”

“I don’t like to have people speak to me in that tone,” the Jaguar said, calmly but in a low voice. If the other cadets had not remained silent, his words could scarcely have been heard. “If you want to talk to me, get down off that locker and come here. Like a gentleman.”

“I’m not a gentleman,” Arróspide screamed.

He’s furious, Alberto thought. He’s dying of rage. He doesn’t want to fight with the Jaguar, what he wants is to shame him in front of everybody.

“Yes, you’re a gentleman,” the Jaguar said. “Of course you are. Everybody from Miraflores is a gentleman.”

“Right now I’m talking to you as a brigadier, Jaguar. Don’t try to start a fight, don’t be a coward, Jaguar. Afterward, anything you want. But right now we’re going to talk. Strange things have been happening, do you hear me? They’d hardly put you in the guardhouse and do you know what happened? The lieutenants and noncoms suddenly went wild. They came to the barracks, opened all the lockers, took out the cards, the bottles, the dice. Then a steady stream of orders and confinements. Almost the whole section is going to have to wait a long time to get passes, Jaguar.”

“So?” the Jaguar said. “What’s that got to do with me?”

“You’re still asking?”

“Yes,” the Jaguar said quietly. “I’m still asking.”

“You told Curly and the Boa that if you got screwed, you’d fuck the whole section. And that’s what you’ve done, Jaguar. Do you know what you are? You’re a squealer. You’ve screwed all of us. You’re a traitor, a coward. I’m speaking for the rest when I tell you you don’t even deserve to have us beat you up. You’re a shit, Jaguar. Don’t think anybody’s afraid of you. Did you hear me?”

Alberto hitched over a little on his bunk and then leaned his head back. In that way he could see him: Arróspide, up there on the locker, looked taller than ever; his hair was disheveled, and his long arms and legs accentuated his thinness. He was standing with his feet apart, his eyes wide open and hysterical, his fists clenched. What was the Jaguar waiting for? Once again, Alberto could only see things through a sort of mist, because his eyelid twitched without stopping.

“You’re trying to say I’m a squealer?” the Jaguar asked. “Is that it? Go ahead, Arróspide. Is that what you’re trying to say, that I’m a squealer?”

“I’ve already said it,” Arróspide shouted. “And I’m not the only one. Everybody says so, the whole barracks, Jaguar. You’re a squealer.”

Suddenly Alberto heard a rapid pounding of boots: someone was running through the middle of the barracks, among the lockers and the motionless cadets. The figure stopped within his range of vision. It was the Boa.

“Get down, you fairy,” the Boa shouted. “Get down, get down.”

He was standing in front of the locker, and his head with its shock of hair was swaying like a tuft of plumes a few inches from Arróspide’s boots. I know what’s going to happen, Alberto thought. He’s going to grab his feet and dump him on the floor. But the Boa did not raise his hands, he merely challenged him: “Get down, get down.”

“Go away, Boa,” Arróspide said without looking at him. “I’m not talking to you. Go away. Don’t forget that you suspected the Jaguar too.”

“Jaguar,” the Boa said, glaring at Arróspide out of his inflamed little eyes, “don’t believe what he says. I doubted you for a moment but not any more. Tell him it’s all a lie and you’re going to kill him. Get down from there, Arróspide, if you’re a man.”

He’s his friend, Alberto thought. I never dared to stand up for the Slave like that.

“You’re a squealer, Jaguar,” Arróspide repeated. “And I’ll say it again. You’re a dirty squealer.”

“He’s just making it up, Jaguar,” the Boa said. “Don’t believe him. Nobody thinks you’re a squealer. Nobody’d dare. Tell him it’s a lie and break his jaw.”

“Cut it out, Boa,” the Jaguar said. His voice remained calm and measured. “I don’t need anybody to defend me.”

“Cadets,” Arróspide shouted, pointing at the Jaguar, “there’s the one that squealed. Look at him. He doesn’t even dare deny it. He’s a squealer and a coward. Did you hear me, Jaguar? I said you’re a squealer and a coward.”

What’s he waiting for? Alberto wondered. A few moments before, his whole face had begun to throb with pain under the bandages, but he scarcely noticed it. He was resigned to what he was sure would happen, and waited impatiently for the Jaguar to toss his name out into the barracks the way you toss a scrap of meat to the dogs. Then everyone would turn to him, surprised and infuriated.

But the Jaguar said, in an ironic voice, “Who goes along with that Miraflores gentleman? Don’t be cowards, damn it, I want to know who else is against me.”

“Nobody, Jaguar,” the Boa shouted. “Don’t pay any attention to him. Can’t you see he’s a damned queer?”

“Everybody,” Arróspide said. “Look at their faces and you can tell it, Jaguar. Everybody hates you.”

“All I can see is a bunch of cowards,” the Jaguar said. “That’s all. Just cowards and fairies.”

He doesn’t dare, Alberto thought. He’s afraid to accuse me.

“Squealer!” Arróspide shouted. “Squealer! Squealer!”

“We’ll see,” the Jaguar said. “I’m tired of all these cowards. Why doesn’t anybody else start shouting? Don’t be scared.”

“Start shouting,” Arróspide said. “Tell him what he is to his face. Tell him.”

They won’t, Alberto thought. They wouldn’t dare. Arróspide chanted, “Squealer! Squealer!” frenetically, and from various parts of the barracks, anonymous allies joined him, repeating the word in low voices and almost without opening their mouths. The chant spread as it did in their French classes, and Alberto began to distinguish some of the voices that stood out in the chorus: Vallano’s thin piping, the songlike voice of Quiñones, others. The chant was loud and general now. He sat up and looked around him. Their mouths were opening and closing in unison. He was fascinated by the spectacle, and suddenly he was no longer afraid that his name would explode in the barracks, that the hatred which the cadets were directing at the Jaguar would be turned toward him. His own mouth, from the mask of the bandages, started whispering, “Squealer, squealer.” He closed his eye, because it was now like a burning abscess, and did not see what happened until the brawl was almost at its height. The pushing, the shoving, the collisions. The lockers rattled, the bunks creaked, the curses broke up the rhythm of the chant. And yet it had not been the Jaguar who started it. He learned afterward that it was the Boa: he had seized Arróspide by the ankles and tumbled him to the floor. It was only then that the Jaguar had acted, running up from the far end of the barracks. No one tried to stop him, but they all kept up the chant, shouting it even louder as he ran past them. They let him reach the Boa and Arróspide, who were struggling on the floor halfway under Montes’ bunk; they even stayed still when the Jaguar, without leaning over, began to kick the brigadier, savagely, as if he were no more than a bag of sand. Then Alberto was aware of confused shouting, a sudden charge: the cadets ran from all sides to the center of the barracks. He had dropped back on his bunk, to keep from being hit, with his arms over his face as a shield. By peering between his arms with his free eye, he could see the cadets surround the Jaguar, drag him away from Arróspide and the Boa, then crash him to the floor in the middle of the aisle. The noise and commotion grew wilder, but Alberto made out the faces of Vallano and Mesa, Valdivia and Romero, and heard them egging each other on: “Hit him hard!” “Dirty squealer!” “Beat the shit out of him!” “He thinks he’s tough, the bastard!” They’re going to kill him, he thought. And the Boa too. But a moment later it was all over. There was the blast of a whistle, the noncom in the patio roared that the last three out in each section would be written down, and the tumult stopped as if by magic. Alberto ran out of the barracks and was one of the first to get into the formation. He turned around and tried to locate Arróspide, the Jaguar and the Boa, but they were not there. Someone said, “They’ve gone to the latrine. It’s better they don’t comeout here till they’ve washed their faces. And the hell with any more fighting.”

Lt. Gamboa left his room, and paused for a moment in the hallway to wipe his forehead with his handkerchief. He had just finished writing a letter to his wife, and now he was going to the guardhouse to give it to the Officer of the Day so that it would be sent out with the rest of the mail. When he reached the parade ground, he turned, almost without thinking, toward “La Perlita.” As he crossed the open field he could see Paulino opening rolls with his dirty fingers: he would put sausage meat in them and sell them during recess. Gamboa wondered why he had not taken any measures against Paulino, despite the fact that his report had mentioned the half-breed’s illegal sale of liquor and cigarettes. Was Paulino the real owner of “La Perlita,” or merely a front? But he was bored by these thoughts. He looked at his watch: in two hours he would be off duty and would have twenty-four hours of freedom. Where should he go? He was not interested in the idea of shutting himself up in his solitary house in Barranco; he would be worried and restless. He could visit some of his relatives, they were always happy to see him and scolded him for not coming more often. At night, perhaps he would go to the movies: there was always a war or gangster picture in the movie houses in Barranco. When he was a cadet, he and Rosa went to the movies every Sunday afternoon and evening, and sometimes they sat through the picture twice. He used to make fun of her because the Mexican melodramas frightened her and she grasped his hand in the darkness, as if seeking protection; but actually that sudden contact thrilled him. It was hard to believe that eight years had gone by since then. Until a few weeks ago, he had never remembered the past, spending his off hours in making plans for the future. Thus far he had realized his objectives, and no one had taken away the post he obtained when he graduated from the Military School. Why was it, he wondered, that ever since these recent problems arose, he thought constantly, and with a certain bitterness, of his youth?