8
“Wake up, son, it’s six o’clock already,” Mother Leonor taps at the door, enters the bedroom, kisses Panta on the forehead. “Oh, you’re up already.”
“I’ve been bathed and shaved for an hour, Mother,” Panta yawns, makes a gesture of boredom, buttons his shirt, bends down. “I slept very badly; those terrible nightmares again. Did you get everything ready for me?”
“I’ve packed clothes for three days,” Mother Leonor assures, leaves, returns, dragging a suitcase, shows all the clothing arranged. “Will it be enough for you?”
“More than enough; I won’t stay longer than two,” Panta is putting on a little jockey cap, is looking at himself in the mirror. “I’m going to Huallaga, to Mendoza’s, an old school buddy. We went to Chorrillos Military Academy together. Centuries since I’ve seen him.”
“Well, up till now I didn’t want to give it any importance, because it didn’t seem to have any,” General Scavino is reading telegrams, consulting officers, studying files, attending meetings, speaking by radio. “The police asked us for help months ago; they can’t cope with so much fanaticism. Sure, of course, from the Ark. Did you get the reports? This business is getting ugly. Two new attempts at crucifixion this week. In Puerto América and in Dos de Mayo. No, Tiger, they haven’t nabbed them.”
“But drink your milk, Pantita,” Mother Leonor is filling the cup, putting in sugar, running to the kitchen, bringing bread. “And the toast I made you? I’ll put a little butter and marmalade on it. Eat something, my boy, I beg you.”
“Just a little coffee, that’s all.” Panta remains standing, takes a sip, looks at his watch, grows impatient. “I’m not hungry, Mama.”
“You’re going to get sick,” upset, Mother Leonor smiles, insists gently, grabs him by the arm, makes him sit down. “You’re not trying even a mouthful, you’re just skin and bones. You’re making me a nervous wreck, Panta. You don’t eat, you don’t sleep, you work the whole blessed day. This can’t go on; you’re going to get pneumonia.”
“Oh, Mama, be quiet, don’t be silly,” Panta resigns himself, drinks the cup down in one gulp, nods his head, eats a piece of toast, wipes his mouth. “After thirty, the secret of health is fasting. I’m fine, don’t worry. Here, I’ll leave you a little money in case you need it.”
“You’re whistling ‘The Mexican Hat Dance’ again,” Mother Leonor plugs her ears. “You don’t know how I’ve come to hate that blasted music. It was driving Pocha crazy too. Can’t you whistle anything else?”
“I was whistling? I didn’t even realize it,” Panta blushes, coughs, goes to his bedroom, sadly looks at a photo, lifts his suitcase, returns to the dining room. “As for Pocha, if a letter comes from her…”
“I don’t like the Army to get mixed up in this mess,” Tiger Collazos reflects, worries, vacillates, tries to catch a fly, fails. “Fighting witches and fanatics is work for priests or the police anyway. Not soldiers. Has it gotten that serious?”
“I’ll take good care of it until you get back. Of course I know—don’t give me stupid suggestions,” Mother Leonor becomes angry, gets down on her knees, shines his shoes, brushes off his pants and shirt, touches his face. “Come here so I can bless you. Bless you, my son, and try, do what’s possible….”
“I know already, I know. I won’t look at them, I won’t say a word to them,” Panta closes his eyes, clenches his fists, twists his face. “I’ll give them their orders in writing and with my back to them. Don’t you give me stupid suggestions either, Mama.”
“What have I done to God for Him to punish me like this?” Mother Leonor sobs, raises her hands to the ceiling, becomes exasperated, taps her feet. “My son among fallen women twenty-four hours a day, and on Army orders. We’re the talk of all Iquitos; on the street they point at me with their fingers.”
“Calm down, Mama, don’t cry, I beg you—I don’t have time now,” He puts his arm around her shoulders, caresses her, kisses her on the cheek. “Excuse me if I raised my voice at you. I’m a little nervous. Don’t pay any attention to me.”
“If your father and your grandfather were alive, they’d die of shock,” Mother Leonor wipes her eyes with the hem of her skirt, points to a yellowed portrait. “They’d turn over in their graves if they saw what you’ve been put in charge of. In their time officers didn’t stoop to such things.”
“You’ve been repeating the same thing four times a day for the past eight months,” Panta shouts, repents, lowers his voice, smiles without wanting to, explains. “I’m a military man, I have to obey orders, and until they give me something else, my duty is to do this job right. I’ve already told you, if you prefer I can have you sent to Lima, Mama.”
“Rather surprising, yes, General,” Colonel Peter Casahuanqui digs around in a bag, takes out a handful of cards and photos, makes a packet, seals it, orders dispatch this to Lima for me. “In the last uniform inspection we discovered that half the soldiers had Brother Francisco prayers or prayer cards of the boy martyr. I’m sending you some samples.”
“I’m not like certain people who leave home at the first problem—don’t get me wrong,” Mother Leonor straightens up, shakes her index finger, adopts a belligerent posture. “I’m not one of those who decide to move out overnight without even saying goodbye, one of those who steals a daughter away from her father.”
“Now don’t start in on Pocha,” Panta walks down the hallway, trips on a flowerpot stand, curses, rubs his ankle. “Another one of your obsessions has turned up again, Mama.”
“If she hadn’t stolen little Gladys from you, you wouldn’t be this way,” Mother Leonor opens the street door. “Maybe I can’t see how you’re eating yourself up alive with sorrow for your little girl, Panta? Go, leave right now.”
“I can’t put up with any more—quick, quick,” Panta climbs the gangway of the Eve, goes down to the cabin, falls on the bunk, murmurs. “Where I like it, there. On my throat, on my ear. Not just nibbles, but real slow bites. C’mon now.”
“Glad to, Panta,” the Brazilian sighs, looks at him without interest, points to the dock, draws the porthole curtain. “But at least wait till the Eve leaves. Subofficer Rodríguez and the sailors are getting on and off every minute. It’s not for my sake but yours, sonny.”
“I’m not waiting another minute,” Pantaleón Pantoja tears off his shirt, drops his pants, takes off his shoes and socks, sinks down. “Close the cabin door, come here. Little pinches, little nibbles.”
“Jesus, you’re inexhaustible, Pantita,” the Brazilian bolts the door, strips, climbs on the bunk, sways. “You alone give me more work than a regiment. What a surprise you’ve been to me. The first time I saw you I thought you’d never cheated on your wife.”
“And it was true, but now be quiet,” Pantita gasps, leans, rises, falls, enters, leaves, returns, chokes up. “I’ve told you I’m distracting myself, damn it. On the ear lobe, on the ear lobe.”
“Know you can get TB sinking birdies so much?” the Brazilian laughs, moves, becomes bored, looks at her fingernails, stops, squats, hurries up. “It’s true; lately you’re skinnier than an eel. But that doesn’t stop you. You’re hotter every time. Yeah, I know, I’ll shut up. O.K., on the ear lobe.”
“Ohhhhh, at last, ohhhhh, that’s good,” Pantita explodes, pales, breathes, enjoys himself. “My heart’s about to pop out and I’m dizzy.”
“With all the reason in the world, Tiger, I don’t like to get the troops involved in police matters either,” General Scavino takes planes, crosses rivers in motorboats, inspects towns and encampments, demands details, sends messages. “That’s why I’ve put up with this thing until now. But the business in Dos de Mayo is enough to upset you. Did you read Colonel Dávila’s dispatch?”
“How many times a week, Pantita?” the Brazilian sits up, fills basins, washes and rinses off, dresses. “More than one specialist, that’s for sure. And when there are candidates, you might as well stop counting. With the habit you’ve picked up of—what do yo
u call it?—professional inspection? How shrewd you are.”
“This’s work, not play,” Panta stretches, sits up on the bunk, gets his energy up, drags his feet into the bathroom, urinates. “Don’t laugh, it’s true. Besides, you’re the guilty party; you gave me the idea when I gave you your physical. It hadn’t occurred to me before. Think this fooling around’s easy?”
“Depends on the woman,” the Brazilian throws the sheet on the floor, inspects the mattress, scrubs it with a sponge, shakes it. “With a lot of them, your birdie won’t even stand up.”
“Course not; I eliminate them right away,” Pantaleón Pantoja lathers himself, dries off with toilet paper, pulls the chain. “The fairest way to choose the best ones. There’s no fooling the birdie.”
“We’re leaving now, the Eve’s begun to shake,” the Brazilian opens the porthole, moves the mattress so the sun will hit the wet part. “Come here, help me open the window, we’re suffocating, when are you going to buy a fan? And now don’t start feeling sorry, Pantita.”
“They crucified the old woman Ignacia Curdimbre Peláez in the little square in Dos de Mayo at midnight with 214 inhabitants of the town present,” Colonel Máximo Dávila dictates, revises, signs and dispatches his report. “Two policemen who attempted to dissuade the ‘brothers’ were given a terrible beating. According to the testimony, the old woman’s agony lasted until dawn. The worst part is what follows, General, sir. The people smeared their faces and bodies with blood from the cross and they even drank it. Now they’ve started to worship the victim. There are prayer cards of Santa Ignacia in circulation already.”
“I wasn’t like this,” Pantaleón Pantoja sits on the bunk, holds his head in his hands, remembers, laments. “I wasn’t like this, goddamn it, I wasn’t like this.”
“You’d never cheated on your faithful wife and you only dropped a birdie every fifteen days,” the Brazilian shakes out, washes, wrings, hangs up the sheet. “I know it all by heart, Panta. You came here and you wised up. But too much, sonny; you went to the other extreme.”
“At first I blamed the climate,” Pantaleón Pantoja puts on his shorts, undershirt, socks, shoes. “I thought the heat and humidity inflamed a man. But I’ve found out something really strange. This work’s to blame for what’s happening to my birdie.”
“You mean being so close to temptation?” the Brazilian feels her hips, looks at her breasts, grows vain. “That you learned to cheep-cheep from me? What a compliment, Panta.”
“You can’t understand it; even I can’t understand it,” Panta observes himself in the mirror, smoothes down his eyebrows, combs his hair. “It’s something very mysterious, something that’s never happened to anyone. A sense of the unhealthy obligation, same as a sickness. Because it’s not moral but biological, Corporal.”
“Or maybe you already see, Tiger, these fanatics are capable of anything,” General Scavino climbs into the jeep, crosses mud holes, officiates at funerals, consoles victims, instructs officers, speaks on the telephone. “This isn’t a matter of little groups. There are thousands of them. A couple of nights ago I went by the cross of the boy martyr in Moronacocha and I was astonished. There was a sea of people. Even soldiers in uniform.”
“You mean you have the desire all day long because of your sense of obligation?” the Brazilian remains petrified, her mouth open, she lets out a guffaw. “Look, Panta, I’ve known a lot of men, I have more experience in these things than you. I assure you no one’s birdie stands up just for the sake of duty.”
“I’m not like everybody, that’s my rotten luck. What happens to them doesn’t happen to me,” Pantaleón Pantoja drops the comb, loses himself in thought, thinks out loud. “As a boy I had less appetite than now. But no sooner did they give me my first assignment—rations for a regiment—than a ferocious appetite was awakened in me. I spent all day eating, reading recipes; I learned to cook. They changed my assignment and poof! goodbye, food. I started getting interested in tailoring, clothing, styles; the chief of barracks thought I was a queer. They’d put me in charge of the garrison’s uniforms—get it?”
“I hope they never put you in charge of a nut house, Panta; the first thing you’d do is go crazy,” the Brazilian points to the porthole. “Look at those devils, spying on us.”
“Get out of here, Sandra, Viruca,” Pantaleón Pantoja runs to the door, unbolts it, bellows, takes action. “A fine of fifty for each one, Freckle!”
“And what are the priests for, what do we pay chaplains for?” Tiger Collazos strides around his office, examines balance sheets, adds, subtracts, becomes indignant. “So they can scratch their bellies? How’s it possible for garrisons in the Amazon to be filling up with ‘brothers,’ Scavino?”
“Don’t stick out your body so far, Panta,” the Brazilian grabs him by the shoulders, brings him back into the cabin, closes the door. “Have you forgotten you’re half naked?”
“Me forget you?” Captain Alberto Mendoza elbows aside the sailors and the soldiers, jumps aboard, opens his arms. “How could you think that, pal? Come over here and let me shake your hand. After so many years, Panta.”
“What a pleasure, Alberto,” Captain Pantoja claps, disembarks, shakes officers’ hands, responds to the salutes of subofficers and soldiers. “You’re just the same, the years haven’t changed you.”
“Let’s have a drink at the officers’ mess,” Captain Mendoza grabs him by the arm, leads him across the post, pushes open a screen door, chooses a table under the fan. “Don’t worry about the fucking. Everything’s ready and here it always goes like clock-work. Alférez, you take charge of everything and tell us when the party’s over. So while the soldiers are getting their rocks off, we can have a few beers. Great to see you again, Panta.”
“Listen, Alberto, now I remember,” Captain Pantoja watches through the window the specialists entering the provisions storehouse, the lines of soldiers, the controllers who are taking up their positions. “I don’t know whether you know that that specialist, the one they say…ahh…”
“The Brazilian. I know; for her only ten, according to the book. Think I don’t read your instructions?” Captain Mendoza feints a jab at him, orders, opens bottles, fills the glasses, makes a toast. “Beer for you, too? Two, really cold. But it’s absurd, Panta. If you like that woman and their screwing her bugs you, why not give her full exemption from service? What are you the boss for if not for that?”
“No, not that,” Captain Pantoja coughs, blushes, stammers, drinks. “I don’t want to fail in my duty. Besides, I promise you that that specialist and I…really.”
“All the officers know it and they like it that you’ve got a girlfriend,” Captain Mendoza licks the foam from his mustache, lights a cigarette, drinks, asks for more beer. “But nobody gets this system of yours. A guy can understand you’re not pleased with the troops throwing themselves at your woman. So why this ridiculous formality? Ten lays are the same as a hundred, pal.”
“Ten is what the regulation calls for,” Captain Pantoja sees the first soldiers leaving the tents, the second and third shifts entering, swallows saliva. “How am I going to break it? I made it myself.”
“Always the same, with an electronic brain; you can’t,” Captain Mendoza throws his head back, half closes his eyes, laughs nostalgically. “I still remember you were the only cadet in Chorrillos who’d shine his shoes to go out and muddy them up on maneuvers.”
“The truth is that ever since Father Beltrán requested his discharge, the Corps of Military Chaplains has left a lot to be desired,” General Scavino receives complaints, attends to recommendations, hears masses, presents trophies, mounts horses, goes bowling. “But in the last analysis, Tiger, it’s a general phenomenon throughout the Amazon; the barracks couldn’t be exempt from the disease. Anyway, don’t worry. We’re taking a firm hand in the matter. Thirty days at hard labor for carrying a prayer card of the boy martyr or of Santa Ignacia, forty-five for a photo of Brother Francisco.”
Captain Pantoja and the Special Service Page 19