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The Time of the Hero

The Time of the Hero

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by Mario Vargas Llosa

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The action of The Time of the Hero, Nobel Prize-winning author Mario Vargas Llosa's first novel, takes place at the Leoncio Prado Military Academy in Lima, Peru. There, four angry cadets who have formed an inner circle in an attempt to ward off the boredom and stifling confinement of the military academy set off a chain of events that starts with a theft and


The action of The Time of the Hero, Nobel Prize-winning author Mario Vargas Llosa's first novel, takes place at the Leoncio Prado Military Academy in Lima, Peru. There, four angry cadets who have formed an inner circle in an attempt to ward off the boredom and stifling confinement of the military academy set off a chain of events that starts with a theft and leads to murder and suicide. The Time of the Hero presents, with great accuracy and power, the cadets' nightmare life: brutal initiation rights, poker in the latrines, drinking contests; and, above all else, the strange military code which, whether broken or followed, can only destroy.

When The Time of the Hero was first published in Peru in 1962, it was considered so scandalous that a thousand copies were burned in an official ceremony at the Leoncio Prado Military Academy. That same year, the book received the Biblioteca Breve Prize, an award given to the best work of fiction in the Spanish language.

"…[A]s with other fine writers, Vargas functions on more than a single level of meaning." - The New York Times

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The Time of the Hero

By Mario Vargas Llosa, Lysander Kemp

Farrar, Straus and Giroux

Copyright © 1966 Grove Press, Inc.
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4299-2252-4


"Four," the Jaguar said.

Their faces relaxed in the uncertain glow which the light bulb cast through the few clean pieces of glass. There was no danger for anyone now except Porfirio Cava. The dice had stopped rolling. A three and a one. Their whiteness stood out against the dirty tiles.

"Four," the Jaguar repeated. "Who is it?"

"Me," Cava muttered. "I said four."

"Get going, then. You know which one, the second on the left."

Cava felt cold. The windowless latrine was at the far end of the barracks, behind a thin wooden door. In other years the wind had only got into the barracks of the cadets, poking through the broken panes and the cracks in the walls, but this year it was stronger and hardly any place in the academy was free from it. At night it even got into the latrines, driving out the stink that accumulated during the day, and also the warmth. But Cava had been born and brought up in the mountains, cold weather was nothing new to him: it was fear that was giving him goose pimples.

"Is it over?" the Boa asked. "Can I go to bed?" He had a huge body, a deep voice, a shock of greasy hair over a narrow face. His eyes were sunken from lack of sleep, and a shred of tobacco dangled from his jutting lower lip. The Jaguar turned and looked at him.

"I have to go on guard at one," the Boa said. "I want to grab a little sleep."

"Go ahead, both of you," the Jaguar said. "I'll wake you up at five to."

Curly and the Boa went out. One of them tripped on the threshold and swore.

"Wake me up as soon as you get back," the Jaguar said to Cava. "And don't take too long. It's almost midnight."

"I know it." Usually Cava's face was expressionless, but now it looked exhausted. "I'm going to get dressed."

They left the latrine. The barracks was dark, but Cava could find his way along the two rows of double bunks without a light: he knew that long, tall room by heart. It was silent except for a few snores and murmurs. His bunk was the second on the right, about a yard from the outside door. As he groped in his locker for his trousers and his khaki shirt and his boots, he could smell the tobacco-sour breath of Vallano, who slept in the upper bunk. Even in the darkness he could make out the double row of the Negro's big white teeth, and they reminded him of a rat. Slowly, quietly, he took off his blue flannel pajamas and got dressed. He put on his wool jacket and went down to the Jaguar's bunk at the other end of the barracks, next to the latrine, walking carefully because his boots squeaked.


"Okay. Here, take them."

Cava's hand reached out and touched two hard, cold objects, one of them rough. He kept the flashlight in his hand and slipped the file into his pocket.

"Who's on guard?" Cava asked.

"Me and the Poet."


"The Slave's taking my place."

"What about the ones from the other sections?"

"Are you scared?"

Cava did not answer. He tiptoed to the outside door and opened it as carefully as he could, but it still creaked on its hinges.

"A crook!" somebody shouted in the darkness. "Kill him, sentry!"

Cava could not recognize the voice. He looked out into the patio. It was completely empty in the dim light from the lamps around the parade ground, which lay between the barracks and a weed-grown field. The drifting fog obscured the outlines of the three cement hulks where the Fifth Year cadets were quartered, making them look unreal. He went outside and stood for a few moments with his back against the barracks wall. He could not count on anyone now: even the Jaguar was safe. He envied the sleeping cadets, the noncoms, the soldiers in their barracks at the other side of the stadium. He knew he would be paralyzed by fear unless he kept going. He calculated the distance: he had to cross the patio and the parade ground; then, protected by the shadows in the field, he had to skirt the mess hall, the offices and the officers' quarters; and finally he had to cross another patio — this one small and paved with cement — that faced the classroom building. The danger would end there, because the patrol never went that far. Then, the trip back to his barracks. In a confused way he wanted to lose his will and imagination and just carry out the plan like a blind machine. Sometimes he could go for several days following a routine that made all the decisions for him, gently nudging him into actions he hardly noted. This was different. What was happening tonight had been forced on him. He felt unusually clearheaded and he knew perfectly well what he was doing.

He began to walk, keeping close up to the wall. Instead of crossing the patio he went around it, following the curved wall of the Fifth's barracks. When he came to the end of it he looked around anxiously: the parade ground seemed vast and mysterious, outlined by the symmetrically-placed lamps around which the fog was gathering. He could picture the shadowy field beyond the lamps. The sentries liked to stretch out there, either to sleep or to talk in whispers, when it was not too cold. But he was sure that tonight they were all gambling in one of the latrines. He began to walk quickly in the shadows of the buildings on his left, avoiding the splotches of light. The squeaking of his boots was drowned by the crash of the surf against the cliffs bordering one side of the Academy grounds. When he reached the officers' quarters he shivered and walked even faster. Then he cut across the parade ground and plunged into the shadows of the field. A sudden movement near him, as startling as a blow, brought back all the fears he had begun to overcome. He hesitated for a moment; then he could make out the eyes of the vicuña, as bright as glowworms, regarding him with a wide, gentle stare. "Get out of here!" he said to it angrily. The animal remained motionless. That damned thing never sleeps, Cava thought. It doesn't even eat. What keeps it alive? He moved on. Two and a half years ago, when he came to Lima to finish school, he was amazed to find that creature from the mountains wandering calmly among the gray, weather-beaten walls of the Leoncio Prado Military Academy. Who had brought the vicuña to the Academy? From what part of the Andes? The cadets used him as a target, but the vicuña hardly paid any attention when the stones hit him. He simply walked away from the boys with a look of utter indifference. It looks like an Indian, Cava thought. He went up the stairs to the classrooms. He was not worried now about the sound of his boots: the building was empty except for the desks and the benches, the wind and the shadows. He crossed the upper lobby with long quick strides. Then he stopped. The faint beam of the flashlight showed him the window. The second on the left, the Jaguar had said. And yes, he was right, it was loose. Cava started gouging out the putty with the pointed end of the file, collecting it in his other hand. It felt damp and decayed. Then he carefully removed the pane of glass and laid it on the tile floor. He groped until he found the lock, and swung the window wide open. Inside, he turned his flashlight in every direction. On one of the tables, next to the mimeograph machine, there were three stacks of paper. He read: Bimonthly Examination in Chemistry, Fifth Year. Examination Time, 40 Minutes. The sheets had been mimeographed that afternoon and the ink was still somewhat moist. He copied the questions hurriedly into a notebook without understanding what they meant. He turned off the flashlight, went back to the window, climbed up and jumped. The pane of glass exploded into hundreds of strident splinters. "Shit!" he grunted. He remained crouching, listening, trembling with terror. But he could not hear the wild tumult he expected, the pistol-shot voices of the officers: only his own panting. He waited for a few more seconds. Then, forgetting to use the flashlight, he picked up the broken glass as well as he could and put it into his pockets. He walked back to his barracks without taking the slightest precaution. He wanted to get there as soon as he could, he wanted to climb into his bunk and shut his eyes. As he crossed the field he took the broken glass out of his pockets and threw it away, cutting his hands as he did so. He stopped for a moment in the doorway to his barracks, catching his breath. A dark shape loomed up in front of him.

"Okay?" the Jaguar asked.


"Let's go in the latrine."

The Jaguar went first, pushing at the double door with both hands. In the yellow light Cava could see that the Jaguar was barefoot, could see and smell his big pale feet with their long dirty toenails.

"I broke the glass," he said in a low voice.

The Jaguar's hands came at him like two white claws and fastened on the lapels of his jacket. Cava swayed backward but kept his eyes on those of the Jaguar, who was glaring at him from below his curled-up lashes.

"You peasant," the Jaguar muttered. "You're just a peasant. If they catch us, by God I'll ..."

He was still holding on to the lapels, so Cava put his hands on the Jaguar's, timidly trying to loosen them.

"Keep your hands off!" the Jaguar said. "You're just a peasant!" Cava could feel the spit spraying his face. He lowered his hands.

"There wasn't anyone in the patio," he said. "They didn't see me."

The Jaguar released him and stood nibbling the back of his hand.

"You know I'm not a squealer, Jaguar. If they find out, I'll take the whole blame. So just forget it."

The Jaguar looked him up and down. Then he laughed. "You gutless peasant," he said. "You're so scared, you've pissed your pants. Look at them."

He had forgotten about the house on Salaverry Avenue, out in Magdalena Nueva, where he had lived until the night he arrived in Lima for the first time, and the eighteen-hour trip by car, the procession of ruined villages, dead fields, tiny valleys, occasionally the ocean, cotton fields, villages, dead fields. He sat there with his face pressed to the window, feeling a tremendous excitement: I'm going to see Lima. Sometimes his mother pulled him toward her, murmuring: "Richi, my Ricardito." Why is she crying? he wondered. The other passengers were asleep or reading, and the driver was cheerfully humming the same song over and over again. Ricardo fought off sleep all during the morning, the afternoon, the early evening, without turning his eyes from the horizon, waiting to see the lights of the city appear unexpectedly in the distance like a torchlight parade. But little by little his body grew tired, his senses dulled; he told himself, in a haze of fatigue, I won't fall asleep. And suddenly someone was gently shaking him. "Wake up, Richi, we're here." He was on his mother's lap with his head resting on her shoulder. He felt cold. Familiar lips brushed against his mouth and he had the impression that in his sleep he had been changed into a kitten. The car was moving slowly now. He saw vague houses, lights, trees, on an avenue longer than the main street in Chiclayo. It was a few moments before he realized that the other passengers had got out. The driver was still humming, but without any enthusiasm. What will it be like? he asked himself. And he felt the same fierce anxiety he had felt three days ago when his mother, calling him aside so that his Aunt Adelina would not overhear, had told him, "Your father isn't dead, that was a lie. He's just got back from a very long trip and he's waiting for us in Lima." Now his mother repeated, "We're here." "Salaverry Avenue, right?" the driver asked. "Yes, number thirty-eight," his mother said. He closed his eyes and pretended he was asleep. His mother kissed him. Why does she kiss me on the mouth? Ricardo wondered. His right hand clutched at the seat. The car finally stopped after making a number of turns. He kept his eyes closed, curling up against his mother. Suddenly his mother's body stiffened. "Beatriz," a voice said. Someone opened the door. He felt himself being lifted out and set down without any support. He opened his eyes: his mother and a man were embracing and kissing each other on the mouth. The driver had stopped humming. The street was silent and empty. He looked at them fixedly, his lips counting the moments. At last his mother stepped back from the man, came over to him, and said, "It's your father, Richi. Kiss him." Once again, two unknown masculine arms lifted him up. A face drew close to his, a voice murmured his name, dry lips pressed against his cheek. He remained rigid.

He had also forgotten the rest of that night, the chill of the sheets on that hostile bed, the loneliness he tried to overcome by forcing his eyes to make out some object, some glimmer, in the darkness of the room, and the anxiety that troubled his thoughts. His Aunt Adelina had told him once, "The foxes in the Sechura Desert always howl like demons at nightfall. Do you know why? To break the silence that terrifies them." He wanted to cry out, so that there would be some life in that room where everything seemed to be dead. He got up, barefoot, half-dressed, trembling at the thought of the shame and confusion he would feel if they suddenly came in and found him up. He went over to the door and put his ear against it, but he could not hear a sound. He went back to bed and started crying, with both hands over his mouth. When the daylight came into the bedroom and the street was alive with noises, his eyes were still open and his ears were still listening. A long time later, he heard them. They were speaking in low voices and it was only an incomprehensible murmur. Then he heard laughter and movements. Still later he sensed the door opening, footsteps, a presence, known hands that drew the sheets up to his chin, a warm breath on his cheeks. He opened his eyes: his mother was smiling at him. "Good morning," she said tenderly. "Won't you give your mother a kiss?" "No," he said.

I could go and tell him I've got to have twenty soles, but I know what'd happen, he'd get all weepy and he'd give me forty or fifty, but that'd be just like telling him I forgive you for what you've done to my mother and you can keep on whoring around all you want as long as you give me good bribes. Alberto's lips were moving silently under the wool muffler his mother had given him a few months before. His jacket and his military cap, which he had pulled down to his ears, protected him against the cold. He was so used to the weight of the rifle that he hardly felt it. I could go and tell him there's no half way, not even if he sends us a check every month, until he repents of his sins and comes back home, but then he'd just start crying and say that everyone has to bear his cross like Our Lord, and even if he agreed, they'd take a long time to get things settled and I wouldn't get my twenty soles tomorrow. The regulations said that the cadet guards had to patrol the patios in front of their own barracks and also the parade ground, but he spent his tour of duty strolling along the tall rusty fence that protected the front of the military academy. As he looked out through the bars, which reminded him of the flanks of zebras, he could see the paved road that snaked along the fence and the edge of the cliffs. He could hear the sound of the sea, and when the fog thinned for a minute he could glimpse, far off, what looked like a shining lance — it was the jetty of the bathing resort, La Punta — thrust out into the sea like a breakwater, and in the other direction the fanlike glow of Miraflores, the district where he lived. The captain of the guard checked the sentries every two hours, and at one o'clock he would find him at his post. Meanwhile, Alberto planned what he was going to do on Saturday. Maybe even ten of the guys are dreaming about that movie, and after seeing all those women in panties, all those legs and bellies and all, maybe they'll want me to write them some little stories, but they won't pay in advance and how can I write them if the chemistry exam is tomorrow, I'll have to pay the Jaguar for the questions unless Vallano whispers the answers to me if I promise to write some letters for him but who can trust a Negro. Maybe they'll want some letters but who can pay right off at this time of the week because it's only Wednesday and everybody's spent his last centavo in "La Perlita" or the poker games. I could get twenty soles to spend if the guys who're confined to the grounds ask me to buy cigarettes for them and I could pay them back with letters or stories, or it'd be even better if I could find twenty soles in a wallet somebody lost in the mess hall or the classrooms or the latrine, or right now I could sneak into the barracks where the Dogs are and go through the lockers until I found twenty soles but it would be better to take fifty centavos from each one so it wouldn't be so obvious and I'd only have to open forty lockers without waking anybody up but I'd have to find fifty centavos in each one, or I could go to one of the noncoms or a lieutenant and say, lend me twenty soles, I'm a man now and I want to go see Golden Toes, and who's that shit that's yelling like that ...


Excerpted from The Time of the Hero by Mario Vargas Llosa, Lysander Kemp. Copyright © 1966 Grove Press, Inc.. Excerpted by permission of Farrar, Straus and Giroux.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

What People are Saying About This

Alastair Reid
"Mario Vargas's book makes the majority of novels in our day look shabby and thin by comparison...the narrative on the grand scale is magnificently managed; but so are the book's particularities -- the states of mind, the contradictory realizations, the small revealing details, the painful confusion of adolescence."

Meet the Author

Mario Vargas Llosa is Peru's foremost author and the winner of the 2010 Nobel Prize in Literature. In 1994 he was awarded the Cervantes Prize, the Spanish-speaking world's most distinguished literary honor, and in 1995 he won the Jerusalem Prize. His many distinguished works include The Storyteller, The Feast of the Goat, Aunt Julia and the Scriptwriter, Death in the Andes, In Praise of the Stepmother, The Bad Girl, Conversation in the Cathedral, The Way to Paradise, and The War of the End of the World. He lives in London.

Mario Vargas Llosa is Peru's foremost author and the winner of the 2010 Nobel Prize in Literature. In 1994 he was awarded the Cervantes Prize, the Spanish-speaking world's most distinguished literary honor, and in 1995 he won the Jerusalem Prize. His many distinguished works include The Storyteller, The Feast of the Goat, Aunt Julia and the Scriptwriter, Death in the Andes, In Praise of the Stepmother, The Bad Girl, Conversation in the Cathedral, The Way to Paradise, and The War of the End of the World. He lives in London.

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The Time of the Hero 4 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 2 reviews.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
It was ok, not particularly engaging, but not bad.
BooksterNC More than 1 year ago
Llosa, the winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature in 2010, writes poignantly about the students at a military academy in Peru. "The Circle" consists of a small number of boys who, with a toss of the dice, set in motion the events of the rest of the novel. I appreciated the author's artful juxtaposition of the realities of military "politics" and youthful ideals. Will the truth be told? Who allows the truth to be told? And perhaps most importantly, what purpose does telling the truth serve--and who? Set against the backdrop of a changing South American country, The Time of the Hero explores human issues that transcend age, country, and culture. I enjoyed the truths of the book itself, which Llosa successfully buries between the lines of the story. Digging up those truths is worth the effort. This is the second of two books I have read by Llosa (the other being The Bad Girl), and he writes eloquently. I continue to be haunted by this book and highly recommend it.