B004L2LMEG EBOK (18 page)

No other industry in this progressive city, which has always distinguished itself by the push of its businessmen, can count on the technical resources of Pantiland. And if you don’t think so, here’s proof, irrefutable facts: is it or is it not true that the improperly named Special Service has at its disposal its own telephone line; a Dodge pickup truck with license plate number “Loreto 78–256” a radio transmitter-receiver, with its own antenna, that would make any station in Iquitos pale with envy; a Catalina 37 hydroplane that of course bears the name of a biblical courtesan,
Delilah;
a two-hundred-ton boat cynically named the
Eve;
and the most coveted and in-demand commodities of this whole region on the Itaya River, such as, for example, air conditioning, which very few of the honorable offices in Iquitos have? Who is this fortunate Mr. Pantoja, this Peruvian Farouk, who in only a year and a half has managed to build such a formidable empire? It is a secret to no one that the long tentacles of this powerful organization, whose center of operations is Pantiland, are stretched throughout the Amazon in every direction, carrying its whorish flock
…to where
, dear listeners?
To where
, respectable listeners?
Into the barracks of the Homeland
. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, this is the hand-over-fist moneymaking business of the Pharaonic Mr. Pantoja: to convert the jungle garrisons and encampments, the frontier bases and installations, into little Sodoms and Gomorrahs, thanks to his flying and floating brothels. Just as you hear it—exactly as I’m telling you—there is not a syllable of exaggeration in my words; and if I’m distorting the truth, let Mr. Pantoja come here and prove me wrong. Democratically, I’ll grant him all the time he needs on my program—tomorrow or the day after tomorrow or whenever he wants—to contradict Sinchi if Sinchi is lying. But he won’t come. Of course he won’t come, because he knows better than anyone else that I am telling the truth and nothing but the overpowering truth.

But you haven’t heard everything, dear listeners. There are still other matters, even more serious, if that’s possible. Without restraints and without scruples, this individual, this Emperor of Vice, not content to bring sexual commerce into the barracks of the Homeland, into the temples of Peruvianhood—in what sort of artifact do you think he mobilizes his concubines? What sort of hydroplane is that apparatus painted in red and green and improperly called the
Delilah
, which we’ve seen so many times, our hearts filled with anger, plowing the diaphanous sky of Iquitos? I dare Mr. Pantoja to come here and say in front of this microphone that the hydroplane
Delilah
is not the same Catalina 37 hydroplane in which, on a glorious day for the Peruvian Air Force, March 3, 1929, Lieutenant Luis Pedraza Romero, of such fond memory in our city, flew nonstop between Iquitos and Yurimaguas for the first time, filling all the citizens of Loreto with joy and enthusiasm for progress with the feat he accomplished. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, truth is bitter but deceit is worse. Mr. Pantoja iniquitously tramples and denigrates a historic national monument, sacred to all Peruvians, utilizing it as a means of transportation for his traveling teams of whores.
The Voice of Sinchi
asks: Are the military authorities of the Amazon and the country as a whole aware of this national sacrilege? Has this Peruvicide been reflected on by the chiefs of the Peruvian Air Force and, principally, by the high command of Air Battalion No. 42 (Amazon), who are called upon to be the jealous guardians of the airship in which Lieutenant Pedraza completed his memorable deed? We refuse to believe it. We know our military and aviation chiefs, we know how honorable they are, the self-sacrificing tasks they perform. We believe and we want to believe that Mr. Pantoja has mocked their vigilant attention, that he has made them the victims of some base maneuver to perpetrate a horror of this kind, which is to convert, by the art of meretricious magic, a historical monument into a mobile brothel. Because if it weren’t so and if, instead of being deceived and surprised by the Great Pimp of the Amazon, there had been some sort of collusion between these authorities and him, then, dear listeners, it would be enough to make you cry. It would be, listener friends, enough to make you never believe in anyone and never respect anything ever again. But it must not and cannot be so. And that sink of iniquity must shut its doors and the Caliph of Pantiland must be expelled from Iquitos and from the Amazon region with his entire caravan of odalisques sold at auction, because we, the citizens of Loreto, who are wholesome and plain, hard-working and proper people, do not want or need them here.

And now, listener friends, we move on to our section “Sinchi on the Street: Interviews and Reports.” We’re not going to drop the section at hand. We don’t want the Czar of Pantiland to rest on his whorish laurels. You know Sinchi, respectable listeners, and you know that when he undertakes a campaign for justice, for truth, for culture or for the morality of Iquitos, he does not stop working until he achieves his goal, which is to contribute to the progress of the Amazon—even if it is only by putting a little wood on the fire. So then tonight, as a vivid and direct complement to the evil we have denounced on our own “Commentary of the Day,” as living, dramatic and warmly human testimony,
The Voice of Sinchi
is going to offer you two exclusive tapes, obtained with difficulty and danger, which in themselves denounce the shady Pantiland and the character of the person who created and builds his fortune by means of it; and who, carried away by his pecuniary greed, does not hesitate to sacrifice what is most sacred for a man—namely, his reputation, his family, his honorable wife and his little daughter. Dreadful in their naked and loathsome truth, these are two testimonies that Sinchi puts into your ears, my dear listeners, so that you may recognize the daily traffic of carnal love at immoral Pantiland in all its innermost, Machiavellian mechanisms.

Here, seated before us with an embarrassed expression because of her lack of familiarity with the microphone, we have a woman who is still young and good-looking. Her name is Maclovia. Her last name is unimportant, and besides, she prefers it not to be known, since, very humanely, she does not want her family to identify her and to suffer, knowing her real life, which is, or—excuse me—has been, was, up until now,
prostitution
. Let no one throw the first stone; let no one tear his hair. Our listeners know very well that a woman, no matter how far she has fallen, can always redeem herself, if she is given the opportunities, and the moral help to do it, if friendly hands are extended to her. The first thing for returning to the decent life is to want to. Maclovia, as you are going to hear for yourself in a few moments, wants to. She was a “washerwoman.” “Washerwoman” in quotation marks, of course. Undoubtedly it was because of hunger, by necessity, because of the fatality of life that she practiced that tragic profession: to go offering herself to the highest bidder through the streets of Iquitos. But later—and this is the part that interests us—she worked in vicious Pantiland. And for that reason she will be able to reveal to us what lies hidden under that circus name. Life’s misfortunes pushed Maclovia toward that den of iniquity so that a Mr. X might exploit her and make his greasy profits out of her woman’s dignity. But it’s better for her to tell us everything herself, with the simplicity of a humble woman who was not given the opportunity to study and to become cultured, but only to acquire vast experience through life’s harsh treatment. Come a little closer, Maclovia, and speak right here. Without fear and without shame. Truth neither offends nor kills. The mike is yours, Maclovia.

Thanks, Sinchi. Look, that part about my last name’s not so much for my family. The truth is, except for my cousin Rosita, I don’t have any relatives, at least close ones. My mother died before I worked in what you talked about, my father drowned on a trip to the Madre de Dios and my only little brother went up into the mountains five years ago so’s he wouldn’t have to be in the Army and I’m still waiting for him to come back. It’s more because—I don’t know how to tell you, Sinchi—Maclovia only goes with the job, it’s not my name either, just the opposite. My real name goes with everything else, for example with my friendships. And you’ve brung me here only to talk about this, right? It’s like I was two women, each doing different things and each with a different name. That’s what I’ve gotten used to. I know I’m not explaining it real good. What? How? Oh, sure, I’m getting off the point. O.K., now I’ll talk about that, Sinchi.

Yeah, well, before I entered Pantiland I was a “washerwoman,” like you said, and later I was in Snotnose’s place. Some people think “washerwomen” coin money and live the good life. A lie this big, Sinchi. It’s fucking work, real exhausting, walking all day long, your feet get this swollen, and lotsa times for nothing at all, just to go home with your hair done up, without raising one customer. And on top of that your pimp bugs you because you haven’t even brung cigarettes. You’ll say what’s a pimp for, then? Because if you don’t got one, you feel unprotected, and besides, Sinchi, who likes to live alone, without a man? Yeah, I got off the subject again. Now I’m talking about that. It was so you’d know why, when suddenly the word got around they were giving contracts in Pantiland with fixed salaries, Sundays off and even travel, well, the “washerwomen” went crazy. It was the lottery, Sinchi, don’t you understand? Guaranteed work, without going looking for customers because there were enough to give away, and on top of that, treated with all respect. Well, it seemed like a dream to us. There was a stampede for the Itaya River. But though we all went flying, there were only contracts for a few of us and there was a crowd of cunts—Oh, excuse me! And besides, with Chuchupe the boss there, there was no way to get in. Mr. Pantoja listened to all her advice and she always picked the ones who’d worked in her house in Nanay. Like with the ones from the competition, Snotnose’s prostitutes—she kept them waiting around and gave them all kinds of trouble and collected some huge commissions from them. And with the “washerwomen” she was even worse. She demoralized us, telling Mr. Pantoja she didn’t like the ones who came off the street, like little bitches, but the ones who worked in some known house. She meant Casa Chuchupe, for sure. Bitch, she blocked my way for at least four months. More rumors, vacancies on the Itaya, I flew down and each time I went I was banging my head against that mountain, Chuchupe. So I went to Snotnose’s place, not his old brothel, but the one he bought from Chuchupe, in Nanay. But I’d only been there a couple of months when there was another opening in Pantiland. I ran down and Mr. Pan-Pan stood looking at me during the examination and he said you’ve got presence, girl, get in that line. And he chose me for my good body. So I got into Pantiland, Sinchi. I remember clear as day the first time I went to the Itaya, already under contract, for the physical exam. I was as happy as the day of my First Communion, I swear. Mr. Pantoja made a speech to me and the four girls who came in with me. He made us cry, I’m telling you, saying now you’ve got another rank, you’re specialists and not whores, you’ve got a mission to fill, you serve the Homeland, you work with the armed forces and I don’t know how many other things. He speaks beautiful as you, Sinchi, and one time, I remember, you made Sandra, Peludita and me cry. We were going in the
Eve
along the Marañón River and you started talking over the radio about little orphans in the Children’s Home, and our eyes filled up….

Thank you, Maclovia, for what you say about us. It moves us to know that we reach all groups and that
The Voice of Sinchi
is able to strike deep chords in the individuals most hardened by life’s circumstances. What you tell me is a great reward, and it’s worth more, for us, than all the ingratitude we meet with. So, Maclovia, that was how you fell into the nets of the Pimp of Pantiland. What happened then?…

Believe me, Sinchi, I was happy. I spent the days traveling, getting to know the barracks, the bases, the encampments all over the jungle, me who up till then had never gone up in a plane. The first time they got me on the
Delilah
it scared me, tickles in my belly, shivers, I got nauseous. But later just the opposite, I loved it, they’d call for “Volunteers for an aerial convoy!” and always “Me, Mr. Pantoja, me, right here!” Now, getting back to what I was saying earlier, let me tell you one thing, Sinchi. Your programs are so beautiful, you do those great crusades, like the one for orphans, that nobody can understand why you’re attacking the Brothers of the Ark, why you’re slandering them and insulting them all the time. How unfair, Sinchi. We only want good to reign and for God to be pleased. What? Yeah, I’ll talk about that now. Excuse me, but I had to say it to you for the sake of public opinion. So then we’d go to the barracks and the soldiers would receive us like queens. If it was up to them, we’d of spent our whole lives there, making the duty more bearable. They’d organize hikes for us, they’d loan us boats to go on the river with, they’d invite us to barbecues. Treatment like you seldom see in this business, Sinchi. And besides, the peace of knowing the work’s legal, not living in fear of the police, of pigs jumping you and taking away in one minute what you earned in a month. What security working with the soldiers, feeling yourself protected by the Army—isn’t that right? Who was going to make trouble for us? Even the pimps went around meek as mice. They’d think twice before raising a hand, out of fear we’d go complain to the soldiers and they’d put ’em in the cooler. How many of us were there? In my time, twenty. Not now; there’re forty, all of ’em happy they’re in Paradise. Even the officers were dying to take care of us, Sinchi, can you picture it? Yeah, it was a pleasure. Oh, God, it makes me miserable when I think how I left Pantiland out of plain dumbness.