Captain Pantoja and the Special Service

by Mario Vargas Llosa

  “I know it only too well. In seven months I’ve only been able to see him once,” Captain Pantoja raises his rifle again and shoots at an empty tortoise shell, making it jump in the dust. “Do you think that’s fair, Bacacorzo? On top of its being a difficult mission, Scavino keeps an eye on me. He thinks I’ve got a shady character. As if I invented the Service.”

  “You didn’t invent it, but you’ve done miracles with it, Captain,” Lieutenant Bacacorzo plugs his ears. “The Special Service is already a reality and in the garrisons it’s not only approved of but acclaimed. You should feel proud of your work.”

  “I still can’t—you’re wrong,” Captain Pantoja throws away the empty shells, wipes his forehead, reloads his rifle and hands it to the lieutenant. “Don’t you see? The situation’s crucial. At the cost of economizing and great effort, we guarantee five hundred weekly services. And that’s like pulling teeth. It leaves us gasping. And do you know the demand we should meet? Ten thousand, Bacacorzo!”

  “Little by little,” Lieutenant Bacacorzo hardly points toward a tree, shoots and kills a pigeon. “I’m sure with your firmness and your work system, you’ll reach those ten thousand lays, Captain.”

  “Ten thousand weekly?” General Scavino wrinkles his forehead. “It’s a raving exaggeration, Pantoja.”

  “No, General,” Captain Pantoja’s cheeks are getting red. “A scientific statistic. Look at these charts. It’s a question of careful calculation, a conservative one, even. Here, look: ten thousand weekly services correspond to the ‘primary psychological-biological need.’ If we tried to achieve the ‘virile totality’ of noncommissioned officers and soldiers, the figure would be 53,200 weekly services.”

  “Are you sure that the poor tiny angel was still bleeding from his little hands and feet, Mother?” Pochita stammers, opening her eyes, her mouth, wide. “That all the ‘brothers’ and ‘sisters’ were soaked with the blood gushing from his body?”

  “You’re going to give me a fainting fit,” Father Beltrán pants. “Who’s put this aberration into your noodle? Who said that ‘virile totality’ is only achieved by fornicating?”

  “The most prominent sexologists, biologists and psychologists, Father,” Captain Pantoja lowers his eyes.

  “I’ve told you to call me Commander, damn it!” bellows Father Beltrán.

  “Excuse me, Commander,” Captain Pantoja clicks his heels, becomes confused, opens an attaché case, takes out papers. “I’ve permitted myself to bring along these reports. They are extracts from works by Freud, Havelock Ellis, Wilhelm Stekel, Reader’s Digest and Dr. Alberto Seguín, our countryman. If you prefer to consult the books, we have them in the library at the logistics center.”

  “Because in addition to women, you distribute pornography in the barracks,” Father Beltrán is pounding on the table. “I know it very well, Captain Pantoja. In the garrison at Borja your aide the dwarf handed out this filth: Two Nights of Pleasure and The Life, Passion and Loves of María the Tarantula.”

  “With the purpose of accelerating the men’s erections and thereby gaining time, Commander,” explains Captain Pantoja. “We do it on a regular basis now. The problem is we don’t have enough reading material. They’re cheap editions and they fall apart as soon as you open them.”

  “He had his little eyes closed, his little head fallen over his heart, like a miniature Christ,” Mother Leonor folds her hands. “He looked like a baby monkey from a distance, but that white body drew my attention. I approached, went up to the foot of the cross and then I realized. Oh, God, Pochita, when I’m on my deathbed I’ll still see that poor little angel.”

  “In other words, it wasn’t just that one time or the initiative of that fiendish dwarf,” Father Beltrán wheezes, sweats, chokes. “It’s the Special Service itself that gives those books to the soldiers.”

  “We lend them. There’s no budget for giving them away,” Captain Pantoja clarifies. “A convoy of three or four specialists has to service fifty, sixty, eighty clients a day. The novels have given good results and so we use them. The soldier who reads those books while waiting in line completes the servicing two or three minutes faster than the soldier who doesn’t. It’s explained in the Service’s reports, Commander.”

  “My God, I’ll have heard of everything before I die,” Father Beltrán waves his arms in the cloakroom, grabs his kepi, puts it on and stands at attention. “I never imagined my country’s army would ever fall into such decadence. This meeting is very painful for me. I request your permission to leave, General.”

  “You have my permission to leave, Commander,” General Scavino nods at him. “You see what a state that cursed Special Service puts Beltrán in, Pantoja. And of course, with good reason. I request that in the future you spare us the scabrous details of your work.”

  “How deeply I feel for your mother-in-law, Pochita,” Alicia uncovers the saucepan, samples the food with the tip of the spoon, smiles, turns off the burner. “It must have been terrible for her to see that. Is she still a ‘sister’? They haven’t bothered her? Seems the police are putting everyone from the Ark under arrest in search of the guilty parties.”

  “Why have you asked for this meeting? You know I don’t want to see you here,” General Scavino is checking his watch. “The more to the point and the shorter it is, the better.”

  “We’re completely overextended,” Captain Pantoja worries. “We’re making superhuman efforts to live up to our responsibilities. But it’s impossible. By radio, by telephone, by letter they’re overwhelming us with requests we’re not in a position to satisfy.”

  “What is this shit? In three weeks not a single convoy of specialists has come to Borja,” Colonel Casahuanqui is becoming infuriated, shaking the receiver, shouting. “You’ve made my men miserable, Captain Pantoja. I’m going to complain to headquarters.”

  “I asked for a convoy and they sent me a sample,” Colonel Máximo Dávila bites the nail of his little finger, spits, grows indignant. “Does it strike you that two specialists can attend to one hundred thirty soldiers and eighteen noncommissioned officers?”

  “And what do you want me to do if I don’t have any more girls available?” Chuchupe is shaking her hands, spitting on the radio apparatus. “Lay whores like chickens lay eggs? Besides, we sent you only two, but one was Knockers, who’s worth ten. And finally, since when are you so formal with me, Alligator?”

  “I am going to complain to the Command of Region V about its discrimination and favoritism, period, end of sentence,” Colonel Augusto Valdés is dictating. “The garrison on the Santiago River receives a convoy every week and I get one every month, period. If you think artillery men are less men than infantrymen, comma, I am ready to demonstrate the contrary, comma, Captain Pantoja.”

  “No, they haven’t bothered my mother-in-law, but Panta had to go to the commissioner to explain that Mother Leonor didn’t have anything to do with the crime,” Pochita also tastes the soup and exclaims it came out fine, Alicia. “And a policeman came to the house to ask questions about what she had seen. You’re crazy—she’s not a ‘sister’ anymore. She doesn’t want to hear about the Ark, and as for Brother Francisco, she’d crucify him for the bad time she’s had.”

  “I know all this only too well and it saddens me,” General Scavino agrees. “But it doesn’t surprise me. When you play with fire, you get burned. People have been corrupted and naturally they want more and more. The mistake was in starting. Now the avalanche can’t be stopped. Each day the requests will continue to increase.”

  “And each day I’m able to service fewer of them, General,” grieves Captain Pantoja. “My collaborators are exhausted and I can’t demand more from them or I’ll run the risk of losing them. It’s imperative that the Service be expanded. I’m asking authorization to increase the unit to fifteen specialists.”

  “As far as I’m concerned, request denied,” General Scavino balks, makes a face, rubs his bald head. “Unfortunately, the strategists in Lima have the last wo
rd. I’ll transmit your request, but with a negative recommendation. Ten prostitutes on the Army’s payroll are more than enough.”

  “I’ve prepared these reports, evaluations and charts on the expansions,” Captain Pantoja is unfolding Bristol boards, pointing, underlining, working hard. “It’s a very careful study. It’s cost me many sleepless nights. Observe, General: with a budgetary increase of twenty-two percent, we can elevate the operational volume by sixty percent, from five hundred to eight hundred weekly services.”

  “Granted, Scavino,” Tiger Collazos decides. “The investment’s worthwhile. It’s much cheaper and more effective than the bromide in the food, which never gave any results. The dispatches speak for themselves: since the SSGFRI began operation, incidents in the towns have decreased and the troops are happier. Let him recruit the five specialists.”

  “But what about the Air Force, Tiger?” General Scavino spins in his chair, gets up, sits down. “Don’t you see we have the entire Air Force against us? They’ve let us know several times they disapprove of the Special Service. And there are officers in the Army and Navy who think this organization is not compatible with the armed forces.”

  “My poor old lady had grown fond of these crazy people from the Ark, Commissioner,” Captain Pantoja is shaking his head with shame. “From time to time she went to Moronacocha to see them and to take some clothes for their children. A strange thing, you know—she never had been very interested in religious things. But this experience has cured her, I promise you.”

  “Give him the money, you faker, and don’t hold back much,” Tiger Collazos laughs. “Pantoja is doing all right and we’ve got to support him. And tell him to choose knockouts for new recruits, don’t forget.”

  “You make me very happy with that news, Bacacorzo,” Captain Pantoja takes a deep breath. “Those reinforcements are going to get the Service out of a big fix. We were on the verge of collapse because of overwork.”

  “See, you got your way. You can contract five more,” Lieutenant Bacacorzo hands him a dispatch, makes him sign a receipt. “What does it matter having Scavino and Beltrán against you if the big shots in Lima, like Collazos and Victoria, back you up?”

  “Naturally we won’t bother your dear mother. Don’t worry, Captain,” The Commissioner takes him by the arm, accompanies him to the door, shakes his hand. “I confess it’s going to be difficult to find the ones who did the crucifying. We’ve detained one hundred fifty ‘sisters’ and seventy-six ‘brothers’ and they’re all the same. Do you know who nailed the boy up? Yes. Who? I did. One for all and all for one, like in The Three Musketeers, that movie with Cantinflas. Did you see it?”

  “Besides, they’re going to allow me to make a qualitative change in the Service,” Captain Pantoja rereads the dispatch, strokes it with the tips of his fingers, dilates his nostrils. “Up till now I chose the personnel on the basis of functional factors. It was only a question of yield. Now, for the first time, the aesthetic-artistic factor will come into play.”

  “Hallelujah,” applauds Lieutenant Bacacorzo. “You mean they’ve found a Venus de Milo here in Iquitos?”

  “But with both arms and a face good enough to raise the dead,” Captain Pantoja coughs, blinks, touches his ear. “Excuse me, I’ve got to leave. My wife’s at the gynecologist’s and I want to know how he finds her. It’s only two more months until the cadet is born.”

  “And if instead of a cadet a little specialist is born, Mr. Pantoja?” Chuchupe starts to laugh, falls silent, is frightened. “Don’t get upset, don’t look at me like that. Lord, a person can’t even make jokes with you. You’re too serious for a man your age.”

  “Haven’t you read this security motto, you who should be setting the example here?” Mr. Pantoja points at the wall.

  “‘No jokes or games during service,’ Mama,” Freckle reads.

  “Why isn’t the unit ready for inspection?” Pantoja is looking right and left, clucking his tongue. “Is the medical examination over? What are they waiting for to line up and call the roll?”

  “Get in line, Specialists!” Freckle forms a loudspeaker with his hands.

  “Get flying, mothels!” choruses Chino Porfirio.

  “And now call out your name and number,” Chupito is strutting among the Specialists. “Let’s go, let’s go, right away.”

  “One, Rita!”

  “Two, Penelope!”

  “Three, Coca!”

  “Four, Pichuza!”

  “Five, Knockers!”

  “Six, Lalita!”

  “Seven, Sandra!”

  “Eight, Maclovia!”

  “Nine, Iris!”

  “Ten, Peludita!”

  “Hele and accounted fol, Mistel Pantoja,” Chino Porfirio bows.

  “It’s knocked the superstition out of her, Panta, but she’s becoming a fanatic,” Pochita traces a cross in the air. “You know your mother’s slipping out that had us so intrigued—do you know where she was going? To the Church of St. Augustine.”

  “Medical Corps report,” Pantaleón Pantoja orders.

  “‘The examination was carried out. All the specialists were found to be in condition to leave on the mission,’” Freckle deciphers. “‘The one nicknamed Coca shows signs of hematomas on her back and arms that perhaps will impair her work output. Signed: Health Assistant for the SSGFRI.’”

  “A lie. That degenerate hates me because I slapped him and he wants to get even,” Coca lowers her strap, exposes her shoulder, arm, looks with hatred toward the infirmary. “I’ve only got a few scratches my cat gave me, Mr. Pantoja.”

  “Well, anyway, it’s better this way, baby,” Panta shrugs under the sheets. “If with age she turns to religion, better if it’s the true one and not barbaric beliefs.”

  “A cat named Juanito Marcano and he’s identical to Jorge Mistral,” Knockers whispers in Rita’s ear.

  “Oh, you’d want him even if it was only for the National Holidays,” Coca zigzags like a viper. “Pig tits.”

  “A fine of ten soles to Coca and Knockers for talking in line,” Mr. Pantoja stays calm, takes out a pencil, a notebook. “If you think you’re in condition to leave with the convoy, you can, Coca, since the Health Service authorizes you to, so don’t get hysterical. And now, today’s work schedule.”

  “Three convoys. Two of forty-eight hours and one that returns this evening,” Chuchupe emerges from behind the formation. “I already drew lots, Mr. Pantoja. One convoy of three girls to the encampment at Puerto América on the Morona River.”

  “Who commands it and who forms it?” Pantaleón Pantoja moistens the point of his pencil with his lips and takes notes.

  “I am commanding it and Coca, Pichuza and Sandra are going with me,” Freckle indicates. “Crazy is already nursing the Delilah so we can leave in ten minutes.”

  “Make sure Crazy behaves and doesn’t pull his usual stunts, Mr. Pan-Pan,” Sandra points to the hydroplane rocking on the river and to the little figure mounted on it. “Remember if I kill myself you’re the one who loses. I’ve left you my daughters as an inheritance. And I’ve got six.”

  “Ten soles for Sandra, for the same reason as the others,” Pantaleón Pantoja raises his index finger, writes. “Take your convoy to the dock, Freckle. Have a good trip, and work with spirit and conviction, girls.”

  “Convoy to Puerto América, march,” Freckle orders. “Grab your suitcases. And now to the Delilah, on the double.”

  “Convoys two and three are leaving on the Eve within the hour,” from Chuchupe. “In the second, Iris, Peludita, Penelope and Lalita. I’m leading it, to the Bolognesi Garrison on the Mazán River.”

  “And what if the little cadet is born a freak from so much fright over the little crucified boy?” Pochita screws up her face. “What a horrible tragedy that’d be, Panta.”

  “And the thild go with me upstleam to Camp Yavalí,” Chino Porfirio slices the air with his hand. “Letuln Thulsday noon, Mistel Pantoja.”

  “Good. Get going
and behave the way you’re told to, you clown,” Pantaleón Pantoja says goodbye to the specialists. “Chino and Chuchupe report to my office for a minute. I have to speak to you.”

  “Five more girls? What good news, Mr. Pantoja,” Chuchupe rubs her hands together. “As soon as this convoy returns, I’ll get them. There won’t be any problem—there’s a flood of applicants. Like I told you, we’re getting famous.”

  “Very badly done. We shouldn’t come out into the open,” Pantaleón Pantoja points to the security motto that says: “Closed lips give no tips.” “I’d prefer it if you brought me about ten candidates so I can choose the five best ones. Four, really, because for the other I’ve thought of—”

  “Of Olguita the Blazilian!” Chino Porfirio traces breasts, hips, legs. “Blilliant idea, Mistel Pan-Pan. That statue give us fame. I letuln flom tlip and light away look fol hel myself.”

  “Go look for her right now and bring her to me at once,” Pantaleón Pantoja blushes; his voice changes. “Before Snotnose enlists her for his brothels. You still have an hour, Chino.”

  “Hey, what a rush, Mr. Pantoja,” Chuchupe oozes marmalade, sugar, meringue. “How I’d like to see that pretty face of Olguita’s again.”

  “Calm down, sweetie, don’t think about that anymore,” Panta is absorbed, cuts a piece of cardboard, paints it, hangs it. “From now on, it is expressly forbidden to speak of the crucified boy and those crazy people of the Ark in this house. And so you don’t forget, either, Mama, I’m going to hang a security motto.”

  “Delighted to see you again, Mr. Pantoja,” the Brazilian devours him with her eyes, wiggles, perfumes the air, chirps. “So this is the famous Pantiland. Really, I’d heard so much about it and I couldn’t imagine what it’d be like.”

  “The famous what?” Pantaleón Pantoja pushes his head forward, brings up a chair. “Please sit down.”

  “Pantiland, that’s what people call this,” the Brazilian spreads her arms, shows her shaved armpits, laughs. “Not only here in Iquitos, but everywhere. I heard of Pantiland in Manaos. What a funny name—does it come from Disneyland?”