said, “or looks at anyone else’s exam, will automatically flunk. And besides that, six points. Brigadier, pass out the exam.”
“The Rat.”
Pezoa started and flushed, and his eyes looked like two slashes. He straightened his shirt with his babyish hand.
“The deal’s off,” Alberto said. “I didn’t know we’d get the Rat. I’d rather copy from the book.”
Arróspide passed out the exams. The noncom looked at his watch.
“Eight o’clock,” he said. “You’ve got forty minutes.”
“The Rat.”
“There isn’t a one of you that’s a man!” Pezoa roared. “I’d like to see the face of that hero that keeps saying ‘The Rat.’”
The desks came to life: they rose up a fraction of an inch and banged down on the floor, at first in disorder, then in rhythm, while a chorus of voices shouted, “The Rat! The Rat!”
“Shut up, you cowards!” the noncom bellowed.
Suddenly Lt. Gamboa and the chemistry teacher entered the room. The teacher was a slight, nervous-looking man, and next to Gamboa, who was tall and muscular, he seemed very insignificant in his civilian clothes, which were somewhat too large for him.
“What’s going on, Pezoa?”
The noncom saluted. “Just a little horseplay, sir.”
Everything stood still. There was absolute silence.
“Oh, really?” Gamboa said. “You go to the second section, Pezoa. I’ll take care of these youngsters.”
Pezoa saluted again and left. The chemistry teacher followed him. He seemed to be intimidated by so many uniforms.
“Vallano,” Alberto whispered, “the deal’s back on.”
Without looking at him, the Negro shook his head and ran his finger across his throat. Arróspide had finished passing out the exams. The cadets bent their heads over the pages. Fifteen plus five, plus three, plus five, blank, plus three, blank, blank, plus three, no, blank, that’s—what—thirty-one, right in the neck. If it’d end in the middle, if they’d call him out, if something’d happen so he’d have to leave in a hurry, Golden Toes.
Alberto answered the questions slowly, printing the words. Gamboa’s heels clicked on the tile floor. Whenever a cadet raised his eyes from his exam, they always met the mocking eyes of the lieutenant, who said, “Do you want me to whisper you the answers? Keep your head down. The only people I let watch me are my wife and the maid.”
When he had finished answering all the questions he could, Alberto glanced at Vallano. The Negro was scribbling furiously, biting his tongue. Then Alberto very cautiously looked around the room. Some of the cadets were only pretending to write, moving their pens a fraction of an inch above the paper. He reread the exam and answered two more questions by sheer guesswork. There was a distant, underground noise. The cadets stirred restlessly in their seats. The air grew denser: something invisible floated above those bent heads, a warm, impalpable something, a nebulosity, a diaphanous emotion, a dew. How to escape the lieutenant’s watchfulness for just a few seconds?
Gamboa laughed at them. He stopped walking about and stood in the middle of the classroom. His arms were crossed, his muscles showed under his cream-colored shirt, and his eyes took in everything at a glance, as they did in the field exercises when he sent his company through the mud and had them charge through the scrub or the boulders with a mere flick of his hand or a short blast on his whistle: the cadets under his command felt proud when they saw the anger and frustration of the officers and cadets from the other companies, who always ended up by being ambushed, surrounded, trounced. Gamboa, with his helmet shining in the early light, would point his finger toward a tall adobe wall, calmly, casually, imperturbable in the face of the invisible enemy occupying the heights and the nearby defiles and even the stretch of beach beyond the cliffs, and shout: “Over the wall, you birds!” And the cadets of the first company
“The Rat.”
Pezoa started and flushed, and his eyes looked like two slashes. He straightened his shirt with his babyish hand.
“The deal’s off,” Alberto said. “I didn’t know we’d get the Rat. I’d rather copy from the book.”
Arróspide passed out the exams. The noncom looked at his watch.
“Eight o’clock,” he said. “You’ve got forty minutes.”
“The Rat.”
“There isn’t a one of you that’s a man!” Pezoa roared. “I’d like to see the face of that hero that keeps saying ‘The Rat.’”
The desks came to life: they rose up a fraction of an inch and banged down on the floor, at first in disorder, then in rhythm, while a chorus of voices shouted, “The Rat! The Rat!”
“Shut up, you cowards!” the noncom bellowed.
Suddenly Lt. Gamboa and the chemistry teacher entered the room. The teacher was a slight, nervous-looking man, and next to Gamboa, who was tall and muscular, he seemed very insignificant in his civilian clothes, which were somewhat too large for him.
“What’s going on, Pezoa?”
The noncom saluted. “Just a little horseplay, sir.”
Everything stood still. There was absolute silence.
“Oh, really?” Gamboa said. “You go to the second section, Pezoa. I’ll take care of these youngsters.”
Pezoa saluted again and left. The chemistry teacher followed him. He seemed to be intimidated by so many uniforms.
“Vallano,” Alberto whispered, “the deal’s back on.”
Without looking at him, the Negro shook his head and ran his finger across his throat. Arróspide had finished passing out the exams. The cadets bent their heads over the pages. Fifteen plus five, plus three, plus five, blank, plus three, blank, blank, plus three, no, blank, that’s—what—thirty-one, right in the neck. If it’d end in the middle, if they’d call him out, if something’d happen so he’d have to leave in a hurry, Golden Toes.
Alberto answered the questions slowly, printing the words. Gamboa’s heels clicked on the tile floor. Whenever a cadet raised his eyes from his exam, they always met the mocking eyes of the lieutenant, who said, “Do you want me to whisper you the answers? Keep your head down. The only people I let watch me are my wife and the maid.”
When he had finished answering all the questions he could, Alberto glanced at Vallano. The Negro was scribbling furiously, biting his tongue. Then Alberto very cautiously looked around the room. Some of the cadets were only pretending to write, moving their pens a fraction of an inch above the paper. He reread the exam and answered two more questions by sheer guesswork. There was a distant, underground noise. The cadets stirred restlessly in their seats. The air grew denser: something invisible floated above those bent heads, a warm, impalpable something, a nebulosity, a diaphanous emotion, a dew. How to escape the lieutenant’s watchfulness for just a few seconds?
Gamboa laughed at them. He stopped walking about and stood in the middle of the classroom. His arms were crossed, his muscles showed under his cream-colored shirt, and his eyes took in everything at a glance, as they did in the field exercises when he sent his company through the mud and had them charge through the scrub or the boulders with a mere flick of his hand or a short blast on his whistle: the cadets under his command felt proud when they saw the anger and frustration of the officers and cadets from the other companies, who always ended up by being ambushed, surrounded, trounced. Gamboa, with his helmet shining in the early light, would point his finger toward a tall adobe wall, calmly, casually, imperturbable in the face of the invisible enemy occupying the heights and the nearby defiles and even the stretch of beach beyond the cliffs, and shout: “Over the wall, you birds!” And the cadets of the first company
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