The Time of the Hero

1966

“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 has 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 awake 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 he looked exhausted. “I’m going to get dressed.”
They left the latrine…

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