Captain Pantoja and the Special Service

by Mario Vargas Llosa

  “The future of the Service,” General Scavino deciphers, comes very close to him, observes him with commiseration and delight, speaks almost kissing his face. “So you think the Special Service still has a future? It no longer exists, Pantoja; the damned thing died. Kaput, fini.”

  “The Special Service?” Captain Pantoja feels a sharp gust of cold air, feels the floor moving, sees the rainbow that has appeared, wants to sit down, to close his eyes. “Already dead?”

  “Don’t be naïve, man,” General Scavino smiles, tries to catch his eye, speaks with pleasure. “Did you think it was going to survive a scandal like this? The same day as the events at Nauta, the Navy took back its boat, the PAF its plane and Collazos and Victoria agreed it was necessary to put an end to this folly.”

  “I ordered them to shoot, but they didn’t obey me, Colonel, sir,” Lieutenant Santana shoots twice into the air, curses at his soldiers, sees the last “brothers” disappear, calls the radio operator. “There were too many fanatics, especially women. Maybe it was better; there would’ve been a massacre. They can’t get very far. Once the reinforcements get here, I’ll go out after them and nab them, you’ll see.”

  “That order must be revoked as soon as possible,” Captain Pantoja stammers without conviction, feels nauseated, leans against the desk, sees people carrying water out of their houses in buckets. “The Special Service is at its peak, three years’ work is beginning to bear fruit, we’re going to extend it to the subofficers and officers.”

  “Dead and buried forever, thank God,” General Scavino rises to his feet.

  “I’ll present detailed studies, statistics,” Captain Pantoja continues to stammer.

  “It’s been the only good thing to come out of that whore’s murder and the scandal at the cemetery,” General Scavino contemplates the city lit up by the sunlight but still dripping. “The damned Special Service was at the point of putting an end to me. But it’s over with. I’ll be able to walk the streets of Iquitos calmly again.”

  “Charts, surveys,” Captain Pantoja does not make sounds, does not move his lips, notices that things are blurring. “It can’t be an irrevocable decision; there’s still time to rectify it.”

  “Mobilize the entire Amazon region if you have to, but capture that messiah for me in twenty-four hours,” Tiger Collazos is reprimanded by the ministry, reprimands the Chief of Region V. “Do you want them laughing at you in Lima? What kind of officers do you have that four witches can snatch a prisoner out of your hands?”

  “And I recommend that you request your discharge,” General Scavino sees the first motorboats appear on the river, the smoke rise from the huts on Padre Island. “It’s a friendly piece of advice. Your career is finished; you commited professional suicide with that farce in the cemetery. If you stay in the Army with that stain on your service record, you’ll rot away as a captain. Hey, what’s the matter? Are you crying? Tighten your belt, Pantoja.”

  “I’m sorry, General,” Captain Pantoja blows his nose, sobs again, rubs his eyes. “Too much tension these past few days. I wasn’t able to contain myself. I beg you to excuse me for this weakness.”

  “You should close the location on the Itaya today and hand over the keys to the quartermaster unit before noon,” General Scavino signals that the interview is over, sees Pantoja snap to attention. “Leave for Lima in the Faucett plane in the morning. Collazos and Victoria will be waiting for you at the ministry at 6 P.M. so you can tell them about your exploit. And if you haven’t lost your mind, follow my advice. Request your discharge and look for some job in civilian life.”

  “Never that, General, sir. I’ll never willingly leave the Army,” Captain Pantoja still does not get his voice back, still does not raise his eyes, still remains pale and ashamed. “I told you once that the Army is the most important thing in my life.”

  “Get going then,” General Scavino condescends to shake his hand quickly, opens the door for him, stands looking at him walk away. “Before you leave, blow your nose again and wipe your eyes. Hell, no one is going to believe that I’ve seen an Army captain cry because they shut down a whorehouse. You’re excused, Pantoja.”

  “With your permission, Captain, sir,” Sinforoso Caiguas runs up to the command post, flourishes a hammer, a screwdriver, stands at attention, wears overalls covered with dirt. “Should I also take down the big map, the one with the little flags?”

  “That too, but don’t tear it,” Captain Pantoja opens his desk, takes out a sheaf of papers, leafs through, tears, throws on the floor, orders. “We’ll return it to the Cartography Office. Did you finish with those drawings and charts, Palomino?”

  “Oh, my God, get down on your knees, weep, cross yourselves.” Sandra shakes her hair, makes a cross with her arms, “He’s dead, they killed him, they don’t know how. It’s true, it’s true. They say Brother Francisco’s been crucified on the outskirts of Indiana village. Oh, God!”

  “Yes, Captain, sir, I took them down,” Palomino Rioalto jumps off a bench, lifts a loaded box, goes toward the truck parked at the door, deposits his load, returns on the double, stamps the floor. “There’s still this bunch of file cards, notebooks, folders. What’s to be done with this?”

  “Destroy them too,” Captain Pantoja turns off the light, disconnects the transmitter, wraps it in its cover, entrusts it to Chino Porfirio. “Or better still, carry this pile of garbage to the clearing and make a good bonfire. But quick, let’s get going, step lively, step lively. What’s the matter, Chuchupe? Crying again?”

  “No, Mr. Pantoja, I promised you I won’t,” Chuchupe wears a flowered kerchief on her head and a white apron, is making packages, folding sheets, piling up pillows in a trunk. “But you don’t know how hard it is for me to hold it in.”

  “The work of so many hours turned to ashes in a few seconds, Mr. Pantoja,” Freckle emerges from a chaos of folding screens, boxes and suitcases, points to the flames, the smoke from the clearing. “When I think of the nights that were spent making those charts, those filing systems.”

  “Me too feel a gleat pain you no can imagine, Mistel Pantoja,” Chino Porfirio throws a chair, a bundle of hammocks, rolled-up posters into the back. “I love this place like it was my own home, I sweal.”

  “Grin and bear it,” Pantaleón Pantoja unplugs a lamp, packs some books, takes apart a bookshelf, loads blackboards. “That’s life. Hurry up, help me take out all this, throw away what’s no good. I have to turn over the depot to the quartermaster before noon. Let’s see, you carry the desk.”

  “No, it wasn’t the soldiers—it was the ‘brothers’ themselves,” Peludita cries, hugs Iris, clutches Pichuza’s hand, looks at Sandra. “The ones who were rescuing him. He asked them do it, commanded them to do it: Don’t let them catch me again. Crucify me, crucify me.”

  “I tell you one thing, Mistel Pantoja,” Chino Porfirio stoops, counts one, two, heave! and lifts. “So you know how happy I was hele. I nevel put up with bosses even fol one month. And how long with you? Thlee yeals. And if it up to me, all my life.”

  “Thanks, Chino, I know,” Mr. Pantoja grabs a bucket, whitewashes the mottoes, sayings and warnings on the wall. “Let’s see, be careful on the stairs. That’s it, in small steps. I’d gotten used to this too, to all of you.”

  “I’m telling you, I’m not going to set foot around here for a long time, Mr. Pantoja. I’d burst into tears,” Chuchupe places douches, chamber pots, towels, robes, shoes, socks in the trunk. “What dopes! It’s incredible they’d think of shutting this place down in its heyday. With the beautiful plans we had.”

  “Man proposes and God disposes, Chuchupe—what’re you going to do?” Pantoja unhooks Venetian blinds, rolls up straw mats, counts the boxes and packages in the truck, scares away the curiosity seekers surrounding the entrance to the logistics center. “Let’s see, Freckle, are you strong enough to carry that file?”

  “Teófilo Moley and his buddies ale to blame. If not fol them, we left in peace,” Chino Porfirio tries to c
lose the trunk, fails, makes Freckle sit on top, fastens the latch. “Damn people, they destloyed us, light, Mistel Pantoja?”

  “In part, yes,” Pantaleón Pantoja loops a rope around the trunk, ties knots, tightens. “But sooner or later this was going to come to an end. We had very powerful enemies within the Army itself. I see they’ve taken off the bandages, Freckle. You’re moving your arm like new.”

  “One bad apple spoils the barrel,” Chupito sees the veins standing out on Chino Porfirio’s forehead, Mr. Pantoja’s sweat. “Who’s going to understand something like this? Why enemies? We were happiness to so many people, the soldiers got so glad when they saw us. They made me feel like Santa Claus when I went to the barracks.”

  “He chose the tree himself,” Rita clasps her hands, closes her eyes, drinks the concoction, strikes her chest. “He said this one—chop it down and make the cross this size. He chose the place himself, a nice one next to the river. He told them, stand it there, it has to be here, Heaven decrees it here.”

  “Never a lack of envious people,” Chuchupe brings in and passes around Coca-Colas, sees Sinforoso and Palomino feeding the bonfire with more papers. “They couldn’t swallow how well this was going, Mr. Pantoja, the progress we were making, thanks to your schemes.”

  “You ale a genius with these things,” Chino Porfirio drinks from the bottle, belches, spits. “All the gils say so: only Blothel Flancisco above Mistel Pantoja.”

  “And those filing cabinets, Sinforoso?” Mr. Pantoja takes off his overalls and throws them on the fire, cleans the paint off his hands and arms with kerosene. “And the folding screen from the infirmary, Palomino? Quick, get all that up on the truck for me. C’mon, guys, step lively.”

  “Why don’t you accept our suggestion, Mr. Pantoja?” Freckle keeps bags of toilet paper, bottles of alcohol and Mercurochrome, bandages and cotton. “Get out of the Army, where they pay you so bad for your efforts, and stay with us.”

  “Those benches too, Chino,” Mr. Pantoja checks that nothing is left in the infirmary, rips the red cross off the medicine cabinet. “No, Freckle, I’ve already told you no. I’ll only drop the Army when the Army drops me or when I die. The little picture too, please.”

  “We’re going to get rich, Mr. Pantoja; don’t miss your big chance,” Chuchupe drags brooms, feather dusters, clothes hangers, pails. “Stay. You’ll be our boss and you won’t have bosses anymore. We’ll obey you in everything; you’ll set the commissions, the salaries, whatever seems right to you.”

  “Let’s see, this easel between the two of us—lift, Chino!” Pantaleón Pantoja puffs, sees that the curiosity-seekers have returned, shrugs his shoulders. “I’ve already explained it to you, Chuchupe. I organized this at the orders of my superiors; as a business it doesn’t interest me. Besides, I need to have bosses. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t know what to do, the world would fall out from under my feet.”

  “And his saintly voice consoled those of us who were crying: don’t cry, brothers, don’t cry, brothers,” Chameleon wipes away the tears, does not see Knockers being hugged by Monica and Penelope, kisses the ground. “I saw it all, I was there, I drank a drop of his blood and my weariness from walking hours and hours up the mountain melted away. I’ll never touch man or woman ever again. Oh, I feel him calling me again, I’m rising, I’m an offering.”

  “Don’t tuln youl back on fotune,” Chino Porfirio sees that the curiosity-seekers are approaching, grabs a stick, hears Mr. Pantoja say leave them alone, there’s nothing left to hide. “Blinging specialists to soldiels and civilians, we’ll make millions.”

  “We’ll buy gliders, launches, and as soon as we can, a little plane, Mr. Pantoja,” Freckle wails like a siren, snores like a propeller, whistles “The Mexican Hat Dance,” marches and salutes. “You don’t need to put up half. Chuchupe and the girls are investing their savings and that’s more than enough to start with.”

  “If we have to, we’ll go into debt, we’ll ask for loans from the banks,” Chuchupe takes off her apron, the kerchief on her head, her hair explodes in rollers. “All the girls agree. We won’t ask for explanations from you; you do what you want. Stay and help us—don’t be mean.”

  “With oul capital and youl blains, we build empile, Mistel Pantoja,” Chino Porfirio rinses his hands, face and feet in the river. “C’mon, make up yol mind.”

  “It’s made up and the answer’s no,” Pantaleón Pantoja examines the bare walls, the empty space, stacks the last useless things in the doorway. “C’mon, don’t pull those long faces. If you’re so enthusiastic, get the business going yourselves and I hope it goes well for you. I really hope so. I’ll go back to my usual work.”

  “I have a lot of faith and I think the thing’U turn out good, Mr. Pantoja,” Chuchupe takes a little medallion from her breast and kisses it. “I’ve made a vow to the boy martyr so he’ll help us. But of course, nothing like if you stayed on as boss.”

  “And they say he didn’t even cry out, didn’t shed one tear, didn’t feel pain or nothing,” Iris carries her recently born son to the Ark, asks the apostle to baptize him, sees the boy lick up the droplets of blood his godfather spills. “He said to the men who were nailing him up, harder, brothers, don’t be afraid, brothers, you’re doing me a favor, brothers.”

  “We have to carry out that plan, Mama,” Freckle throws a rock at the corrugated iron roof and sees a rooster flap its wings and fly off. “What’s left for us if we don’t? Go back and open a brothel in Nanay? We’d die; it’s impossible to compete with Snotnose anymore—he’s got a big advantage over us.”

  “Another house in Nanay—go back to where we were before?” Chuchupe knocks wood, contradicts, crosses herself. “Bury ourselves in a cave again, that boring, miserable work again? Break our backs so the stool pigeons can suck all our blood? Not even when I’m dead, Chupón.”

  “Here we’ve gotten used to working on a grand scale, like up-to-date people,” Freckle embraces the air, sky, city, jungle. “In the daylight, with our chins held high. For me, the best part of all this is that it always looked like doing a good deed, like giving charity, consoling a guy who’s been down on his luck or curing a sick man.”

  “The only thing he asked for was for them to hurry: nail, nail, before the soldiers get here, I want to be up there when they come,” Penelope picks up a client on the Plaza of 28 July, services him in the Hotel Requena, collects 200 soles from him, says goodbye to him. “And to the ‘sisters’ who were rolling around and crying, he said be happy, because up there I shall be with you, my little sisters.”

  “The girls say it over and over, Mr. Pantoja,” Chuchupe opens the truck door, gets in, sits down. “‘He makes us feel useful, proud of our work.’”

  “It really killed them when you said you wele going,” Chino Porfirio puts on his shirt, gets behind the wheel, warms up the motor. “I hope we can give ’em that optimism, that spilit, in new business. It basic, light?”

  “And where’s the corps gone? They disappeared,” Pantaleón Pantoja closes the door to the pier, fastens the crossbar, takes a final look at the logistics center. “I wanted to shake their hands, to thank them for their collaboration.”

  “They’ve gone to the House of Mori to buy you a little present,” Chuchupe whispers, points to Iquitos, smiles, gets sentimental. “A silver identification bracelet with your name in gold letters, Mr. Pantoja. Don’t tell them I’ve told you, play like you don’t know anything; they want to surprise you. They’ll bring it to the airport.”

  “Heck, what a thing to do!” Pantaleón Pantoja spins his key ring, locks the main gate, climbs into the truck. “They’re going to end up making me very sad with this kind of thing. Sinforoso, Palomino! Come out or I’m leaving you inside—we’re going. Goodbye, Pantiland, so long, Itaya River. Step on it, Chino.”

  “And they say the same moment he died the light went out of the sky, it was only four o’clock, everything got dark, it began to rain, the people were blinded by the lightning and deafened by t
he thunder,” Coca tends bar at the Mau Mau, travels to lumber camps in search of clients, falls in love with a knife-sharpener. “The animals on the mountain began to grunt, to bellow, and the fish came out of the water to bid farewell to Brother Francisco, who was ascending.”

  “I’ve already packed the suitcases, son,” Mother Leonor shuffles bundles, packages, unmade beds, takes inventory, gives up the house. “I’ve only left out your pajamas, your shaving things and your toothbrush.”

  “Fine, Mama,” Panta brings suitcases to the Faucett office, sends them ahead as unaccompanied luggage. “Were you able to speak to Pocha?”

  “It was hard to, but I did,” Mother Leonor telegraphs the hotel reserve rooms Pantoja family. “She sounded terrible. One good piece of news: she’ll travel to Lima tomorrow with little Gladys so we can see her.”

  “I’ll go so Panta can kiss the baby, but I warn you that your son will never be forgiven for this last dirty trick, Mother Leonor,” Pochita hears radios, reads magazines, listens to gossip, feels they are pointing at her on the street, thinks she is the talk of Chiclayo. “All the newspapers here keep talking about the cemetery, and do you know what they’re saying about him? Pimp. Yes, yes. Pimp. I’ll never be on friendly terms with him again, Mother Leonor. Never ever.”

  “I’m happy. I want to see our little girl so bad,” Panta goes through the stores on Lima Street, buys toys, a doll, bibs, an organdy dress with a sky-blue belt. “How she must’ve changed in a year—right, Mama?”

  “She says Gladys is perfect, a little chubby, very healthy. I heard her playing over the telephone—ohhh, my pretty little granddaughter,” Mother Leonor goes to the Moronacocha Ark, embraces the “brothers,” buys medallions of the boy martyr, prayer cards of Santa Ignacia, crosses of Brother Francisco. “Pochita was very happy to learn they were taking you out of Iquitos, Panta.”