The War Of The End Of The World - Mario Vargas Llosa [253]
“In the beginning I thought that they didn’t believe me,” he says. “That they were convinced I’d written that to excuse my defeat. I know now, though, why the officers of the General Staff aren’t doing anything.”
“Why is that?” Lieutenant Pinto Souza asks.
“Are they going to change the uniforms of every last corps of the Brazilian Army? Aren’t all of them made of flannel and wool? Are they going to throw all the boots on the dump heap? Toss all the Mannlichers we have in the sea? We have to go on using them, whether they’re any good or not.”
They have arrived at the camp of the Third Infantry Battalion, on the right bank of the Itapicuru. It is close by the town, whereas the other camps are farther away from Queimadas, upriver. The huts are lined up facing the hillsides of reddish earth, strewn with great dark rocks, at the bottom of which the blackish-green waters of the river flow. The soldiers of the company are waiting for him; floggings are always well attended since they are one of the battalion’s very few diversions. Private Queluz is all ready for his punishment, standing with his back bared in the middle of a circle of soldiers who are teasing him. He wisecracks back, laughing. As the two officers walk up to them, their faces grow serious, and in the eyes of the man about to be disciplined Pires Ferreira sees a sudden fear, which he tries his best to hide beneath his insolent, mocking manner.
“Thirty blows,” he reads in the daily report. “That’s a lot. Who put you on report?”
“Colonel Joaquim Manuel de Medeiros, sir,” Queluz mutters.
“What did you do?” Pires Ferreira asks. He is putting on the leather glove so that the friction of the cane will not raise blisters on his palm as he whips the man. Queluz blinks in embarrassment, looking right and left out of the corner of his eye. There are snickers, murmurs from the hundred soldiers standing in a circle watching.
“Nothing, sir,” he answers, swallowing hard.
Pires Ferreira eyes the bystanders questioningly.
“He tried to rape a bugler from the Fifth Regiment,” Lieutenant Pinto Souza says disgustedly. “A kid who’s not yet fifteen. It was the colonel himself who caught him. You’re a pervert, Queluz.”
“That’s not true, sir, that’s not true,” the soldier says, shaking his head. “The colonel misunderstood my intentions. We were just innocently bathing in the river. I swear to you.”
“And was that why the bugler started yelling for help?” Pinto Souza says. “Don’t be impudent.”
“The fact is, the bugler also misunderstood my intentions, sir,” the soldier says, looking very earnest. But as these words are greeted by a general guffaw, he, too, finally bursts out laughing.
“The sooner we begin, the sooner we’ll be finished,” Pires Ferreira says, seizing the first cane from among a number of them that his orderly is holding within reach of his hand. He tries it in the air, and as the flexible rod comes whistling down, the circle of soldiers steps back. “Shall we tie you up or will you take your punishment like a man?”
“Like a man, sir,” Private Queluz says, turning pale.
“Like a man who buggers buglers,” someone adds, and there is another burst of laughter.
“Turn around, then, and grab your balls,” Lieutenant Pires Ferreira orders.
The first blows he gives him are hard ones, and he sees him stagger as the rod turns his back red; then, as the effort leaves him too drenched with sweat, he lets up a little. The group of soldiers sings out the number of strokes. Before they have reached twenty the purple welts on Queluz’s back begin to bleed. With the last one, the soldier falls to his knees, but he rises to his feet immediately and turns toward the lieutenant, reeling. “Thank you very much, sir,” he murmurs, his face dripping with sweat and his eyes bloodshot.
“You can console yourself with the thought that I’m as worn out as you are,” Pires Ferreira pants. “Go to the infirmary and have them put