The Time of the Hero Read online

  He had also forgotten the days that followed, monotonous and humiliating days. He got up early, his body aching from lack of sleep, and wandered through the half-furnished rooms of that unfamiliar house. There was a sort of small storeroom up on the roof, with stacks of old magazines and newspapers, and he would spend whole mornings and afternoons distractedly leafing through them. He avoided his parents, and spoke to them only in monosyllables. “What do you think of your father?” his mother asked him one day. “I don’t,” he said, “I don’t think a thing.” And on another day: “Are you happy, Richi?” “No.” The day after they arrived in Lima, his father came to his bed, smiling and offering his cheek to be kissed. “Good morning,” Ricardo said without moving. A shadow crossed his father’s face. The battle began that same day. Ricardo stayed in bed until he heard his father close the outside door. When he saw him at lunch time, he mumbled, “Good afternoon,” and ran up to the storeroom. Sometimes they took him out for a ride after lunch. Ricardo sat alone in the back seat of the car, pretending to take an enormous interest in the parks, avenues, and plazas.

  He never opened his mouth, but kept his ears open to everything his father and mother were saying. Sometimes the meaning of certain allusions escaped him, and on those nights his sleeplessness was like a fever. He was always on guard. If they spoke to him unexpectedly he said: “Huh?” or “What?” One night he heard them talking about him in the next room. “He’s hardly eight years old,” his mother said. “He’ll get used to you.” “He’s had more than enough time,” his father said, and his voice was different: flat and curt. “But he didn’t know you before,” his mother protested. “It’s just a matter of time.” “You haven’t brought him up right,” his father said. “It’s your fault he’s the way he is. He acts like a girl.” Then their voices sank to a murmur. A few days later he was seriously frightened: his parents began to talk in riddles and their whole manner was strangely different. He spied on them even more carefully, not missing the slightest glance or gesture. But he could not solve the mystery by himself. One morning while she was hugging him his mother asked, “What if you had a baby sister?” He thought: If I kill myself, it’ll be their fault, and they’ll both go to Hell. He was growing more and more impatient, because it was the end of summer and in the autumn they were going to send him to school and he would be out of the house most of the day. One afternoon, after thinking for a long time up in the storeroom, he went to his mother and asked her, “Can’t you send me to a boarding school?” He had tried to speak in what he thought was a natural voice, but his mother’s eyes filled with tears. He thrust his hands into his pockets and said, “I don’t like to study very much. Remember what Aunt Adelina said in Chiclayo. And that would make papa mad. In a boarding school they make you study.” His mother looked at him intently and he felt confused. “But who’d keep your mamma company?” “She would,” Ricardo answered without hesitation. “Who?” “My baby sister.” The anxiety vanished from his mother’s face; there was only a look of weariness in her eyes.