B004QGYWDA EBOK (39 page)

“What’ll you have, Lieutenant?” Paulino asked with a respectful nod.

“A cola.”

The warm sweet drink almost made him gag. Had it been worth the while to spend so many hours learning those dust-dry pages by heart? To give the same importance to his study of the rules and regulations as he gave to strategy, logistics and military geography? Justice is constituted of order and discipline, he recited to himself with a wry smile, and these are the indispensable instruments of a rational collective life. Order and discipline are obtained by accommodating the facts to the laws. Capt. Montero had made them memorize the regulations, even the introductions. They used to call him the Lawyer because he was forever citing them. A good teacher, Gamboa thought. And a fine officer. Is he still rotting away in that garrison at Borja? When he left the Military School at Chorrillos, Gamboa imitated Capt. Montero in everything. His first assignment was at Ayacucho, and almost at once he had a reputation for keeping strictly to the book. The officers nicknamed him the Judge, the troops nicknamed him the Whip. They all made jokes about his strictness, but he knew that at heart they respected and even admired him. His company was the best trained, the best disciplined. It was not even necessary to punish the soldiers under his command: after telling them exactly what he expected of them, and reminding them of it from time to time, he never had any trouble. It was as easy to impose discipline on others as it was to impose it on himself. And he thought it would be the same in the Military Academy. Now he was full of doubts. How could he maintain his blind faith in authority after what had happened? Perhaps it would be more sensible to go along with the rest. Capt. Garrido was surely right when he said that the regulations had to be interpreted according to the situation at hand, and that above all you had to keep an eye on your own security, your career. He remembered that incident with the corporal, shortly after he came to the Leoncio Prado. The corporal was an insolent peasant who laughed in his face while he bawled him out. Gamboa slapped him hard, and the corporal said, “If I were a cadet, you wouldn’t have hit me, Sir.” He wasn’t so stupid after all, Gamboa thought.

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 become 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.