Authors: Mario Vargas Llosa
“No, not from the budget—that’s sacred,” Captain Pantoja makes out a mouse running quickly across the window sill a few inches from General Scavino’s head. “You have a copy of the accounting and you can check it. From my own salary. I’ve had to sacrifice five percent monthly of my salary to shut that blackmailer up. I don’t understand why he’s done this.”
“For the sake of professional scruples, for the sake of moral indignation, for the sake of human solidarity, Pantoja, my friend,” Sinchi comes into the logistics center slamming the door, climbs the stairs of the command post like a gust of wind, tries to embrace Mr. Pantoja, takes off his jacket, sits on the desk, laughs, thunders, harangues. “Because I can’t stand the fact that there are people, here in this city where my sainted mother brought me into the world, who scorn your work and sling mud at you all day long.”
“Our agreement was very clear and you’ve broken it,” Pantaleón Pantoja bangs a ruler against a panel, has flaming eyes and lips wet with saliva, grinds his teeth. “What the hell do you think I pay you five hundred a month for? For you to forget I exist, that the Special Service exists.”
“But I’m human too, Mr. Pantoja, and I know how to assume my responsibilities,” Sinchi asserts, calms him down, gestures, hears the propeller roar, sees the
Delilah
racing downriver raising two walls of water, sees it lift off, disappear into the sky. “I have feelings, drives, emotions. Wherever I go, I hear you insulted and I get worked up. I cannot allow them to slander such a gentleman. Especially since we’re friends.”
“I’m going to give you a very serious warning, you big cheat,” Pantaleón Pantoja grabs him by the shirt, dances him backward and forward, dances him forward and backward, sees him getting frightened, reddening, trembling, lets him go. “You already know what happened last time, with your attacks against the Service. I had to hold the specialists back; they wanted to tear out your eyes and nail you up in the Army Plaza.”
“I know only too well, Pantoja, my friend,” Sinchi rearranges his shirt, tries to smile, regains his aplomb, his neck muscles tighten. “Do you think I didn’t find out that they had nailed up my picture on the gate to Pantiland and spit at it when they came in and went out?”
“The truth is, Tiger, it’s a huge problem,” General Scavino imagines uprisings, artillery charges, dead and wounded, bloody newspaper headlines, discharges, verdicts, sentencings and tears. “In three weeks we’ve laid our hands on nearly five hundred fanatics who were hiding in the jungle. But now I don’t know what to do with them. It’d cause a scandal to send them to Iquitos. There’d be demonstrations; thousands of ‘brothers’ are walking around free. What does the general staff think?”
“But now they’re happy with the compliments I pay them on my program, Mr. Pantoja,” Sinchi puts on his jacket, goes as far as the banister, says goodbye to Chino Porfirio, returns to the desk, pats Mr. Pantoja’s shoulders, crosses his fingers and swears. “When they see me on the street, they blow kisses at me. C’mon, Pan-Pan, my friend, let’s not turn this into a tragedy. I wanted to help you. But if you prefer,
The Voice of Sinchi
will never mention you ever again.”
“Because the first time you name me or speak about the Service, I’ll throw all fifty specialists on top of you, and let me warn you, they all have long fingernails,” Pantaleón Pantoja opens a desk drawer, takes out a revolver, loads and unloads it, spins the cylinder, takes aim at the blackboard, the telephone, the rafters. “And if they don’t put an end to you, I’ll finish you off myself, with one shot in the head. Understood?”
“Perfectly, Pantoja, my friend, not another word,” Sinchi multiplies salutes, smiles, goodbyes, backs down the stairs, starts to run, disappears down the trail to Iquitos. “Clear as daylight. Who’s Mr. Pan-Pan? No one knows him, he doesn’t exist, he’s never been heard of. And the Special Service? What’s that, how is it eaten? Right? Sure we understand each other. Five hundred this month, like always, with Freckle?”
“No, no, surely not that,” Mother Leonor whispers with Alicia, runs to the Augustine Fathers, listens to the director’s secrets, comes home choking, receives Pantoja protesting. “You appeared in church with one of those harlots! And in the Church of St. Augustine, no less! Father José María has told me.”
“First hear me out and try to understand, Mama,” Panta tosses his cap into the clothes closet, goes to the kitchen, drinks some papaya juice with ice, wipes his mouth. “I never do it, I never show myself in the city with any of them. It was a very special situation.”
“Father José María saw you two entering arm in arm, completely at ease,” Mother Leonor fills the bathtub with cold water, tears the wrapping off a bar of soap, puts out clean towels. “At eleven in the morning, just when all the ladies of Iquitos are going to mass.”
“Because that’s the hour for baptisms. It’s not my fault; let me explain,” Pantita takes off his sport shirt, pants, undershirt, shorts, puts on a bathrobe, slippers, enters the bathroom, disrobes, sinks into the bath water, half closes his eyes and murmurs how refreshing it is. “Knockers is one of my oldest and most able workers. I was obliged to do it.”
“We can’t manufacture martyrs; the ones they make are enough,” Tiger Collazos checks over notebooks of newspaper clippings marked with red pencil, holds private meetings with officers from the Intelligence Service, the Police Bureau of Investigation, proposes a plan to the municipal government and executes it. “Keep them there in the barracks for a couple of weeks, on bread and water. Then scare them and let them go, Scavino. Except for ten or twelve leaders: send them to Lima.”
“Knockers,” Mother Leonor flutters around the bedroom, the hall, sticks her head into the bathroom, sees Panta moving his feet and splashing the floor. “Just look at the kind of people you work with, the kind you go around with. Knockers…Knockers! How is it possible for you to show yourself in church with that fallen woman, who, on top of everything else, has that awful name. I don’t know which saint to pray to anymore. I’ve even gone on my knees to beg the boy martyr to take you out of this den of iniquity.”
“She asked me to be her little boy’s godfather and I couldn’t refuse, Mama,” Pantita soaps his head, face, body, rinses off in the shower, wraps himself in towels, jumps out of the bathtub, dresses himself, puts on deodorant, combs his hair. “Knockers and Chameleon made the friendly gesture of giving my name to the baby. His name’s Pantaleón; I christened him myself.”
“Such an honor for the family,” Mother Leonor goes to the kitchen, brings a mop and rags, dries the bathroom, goes into the bedroom, hands Panta a shirt, a newly ironed pair of pants. “Since you have to do that dreadful work, at least do what you promised me. Don’t walk around with them, so people won’t see you.”
“I know, Mama, don’t be a pest, upsy-daisy, up to the ceiling, upsy-daisy,” Panta gets dressed, throws dirty clothes into a hamper, smiles, moves close to Mother Leonor, hugs her, lifts her up into the air. “Oh, I forgot to show you. Look, a letter came from Pocha. She sends photos of little Gladys.”
“Let’s see—hand me my glasses,” Mother Leonor straightens her skirt, blouse, snatches the envelope, goes over to the window. “Oh, how cute, my pretty little granddaughter, look how fat she’s gotten. When are you going to give me what I ask for, Holy Christ of Bagazán? I spend my afternoons in church praying, I say novenas so you’ll take us out of here, and you don’t do anything.”
“You’ve gotten so pious in Iquitos, old woman; in Chiclayo you didn’t even go to mass, you only played canasta,” Panta sits in a wicker rocking chair, leafs through a newspaper, solves a crossword puzzle, laughs. “I think your prayers don’t work because you mix the Church up with superstition: the boy martyr, the Holy Christ of Bagazán, the Lord of Miracles, Santa Ignacia.”
“Don’t forget, it’ll be necessary to divert people and money for the pursuit and repression of the crazy people from the Ark,” Colonel López López takes planes, jeeps and launches, travels through the Amazon region, returns to Lima, makes the officers in Accounting and Finance work overtime, edits a report, appears at Tiger Collazos’ office. “That means large expenses for the Army. And the Special Service is bleeding us dry; it operates at a complete loss. Aside from other problems.
“Here’s Pocha’s letter. There’s only four lines; I’ll read it to you,” Panta hears music, strolls with Mother Leonor through the Army Plaza, works in his bedroom until midnight, sleeps for six hours, gets up at the crack of dawn. “They’ve gone to Pimentel, with Chichi, to spend the summer at the beach. She doesn’t say anything about coming back, Mama.”
“Starting from scratch,” Tiger Collazos shoves his kepi on his head, lets General Victoria and Colonel López López go out in front of him, sits in the front seat of the car, orders the chauffeur to Rosita Ríos fast. “Yeah, sure, it’s one of the possible solutions, the one Scavino would choose right away. But isn’t it a little rash? I don’t see the reason or the urgency for declaring the Special Service a failure. After all, the incidents it’s brought on are insignificant.”
“I’m not concerned with the negative things about the Special Service, but the positive ones, Tiger,” General Victoria chooses a table in the open air, sits at the head, loosens his tie, studies the menu attentively. “What’s serious are its fantastic successes. As far as I’m concerned, the problem lies in the fact that, without wanting to or knowing it, we’ve set an infernal machine in motion. López has just traveled through all the jungle garrisons and his report is disturbing.”
“I see myself with the immediate necessity of recruiting ten specialists with all speed,” telegraphs Captain Pantoja. “Not to expand the Service, but to maintain the rate of work achieved up to present.”
“The truth is that Pantoja’s specialists have become the central concern of all the garrisons, encampments and frontier posts,” Colonel López López orders shish kebab and corn on the cob to start with and marinated duck with extra chili for the second course. “I’m not exaggerating in the least, General, sir. Believe me, I could scarcely talk about anything else with the officers, subordinates and soldiers. Even the Ark crimes take second place when it comes to the specialists.”
“The reason is the many patrols and groups for the search and capture of the religious murderers,” Captain Pantoja puts in code. “As my superiors know, those commandos are hidden in the mountains, developing a civilian police action of the first order.”
“The proof’s here in this suitcase, Tiger,” General Victoria decides in favor of the marinated fish and the kidneys with white rice. “Guess what these papers are. Reports on the state of air-land-river defense of our borders with Ecuador, Colombia, Brazil and Bolivia? Cold. Suggestions and plans to improve our own security and attack system in the Amazon? Cold. Studies on communications, logistics, ethnography? Cold, cold.”
“The Special Service took it as its duty to have convoys of specialists travel to these commandos wherever they may be found,” radios Captain Pantoja. “And we’ve achieved just that, thanks to the enthusiastic effort of all the personnel, without exception.”
“Only requests concerning the SSGFRI, General,” concludes Colonel López López. “Honey and nut pastry for dessert, and to drink, Pilsen beer, very cold. All the subordinate officers in the Amazon region have signed memos asking that they be allowed to use the Special Service. Here they are in order: 172 sheets.”
“For this purpose, I have created flying brigades of two or three specialists and that fragmentation of the personnel would have prevented me from continuing to ensure the regular covering of the utilization centers,” telephones Captain Pantoja. “I hope I haven’t overstepped my authority, General.”
“And López López’s poll of the officers is even more unbelievable,” General Victoria pushes with a small piece of bread, accompanies each mouthful with swallows of beer, wipes his forehead with his napkin. “From captains on down, ninety-five percent of the officers also demand specialists. And from captains upward, fifty-five percent. What do you say to that, Tiger?”
“In accordance with the figures Colonel López López has communicated to me concerning his unofficial poll, I must totally modify my minimal plan to increase the SSGFRI, General, sir,” Captain Pantoja winces, scribbles in notebooks, takes amphetamines in order to be at the command post at dawn, sends voluminous registered envelopes. “I beg you to consider the project I sent you null and never received. I am working night and day on a new plan. I hope to send it to you very soon.”
“Because, in addition, I’m sorry to tell you that Pantoja, although he’s crazy, is absolutely right, Tiger,” General Victoria attacks the kidneys energetically, jokes the French are right, if you find the proper rhythm you can eat any number of dishes, eighteen, twenty. “His argument is irrefutable.”
“In view of the potential doubling of the number of users, if we are going to include the subordinate officers and intermediate ranks”—Captain Pantoja discusses with Chuchupe, Freckle and Chino Porfirio, reviews the candidates, fires “washerwomen,” talks to pimps, bribes madames—“I should communicate to you that the minimal plan for regular services, always at a rate below the minimum sexual drive, would require four boats of the
Eve
’s tonnage, three planes like the
Delilah
and an operational corps of 272 specialists.”
“If that Service is conceded to noncommissioned officers and soldiers, why not to subordinate officers?” Colonel López López separates the onions, the bones, and finishes the marinated duck in several bites, smiles, watches a woman walk by, winks and exclaims what a knockout. “And if to them, why not to the officers? Everybody raises the question. And honestly, there’s no answer to it.”
“Naturally, if the expansion to officers is considered, my estimates would register new variations, General, sir,” Captain Pantoja visits witch doctors, takes
ayahuasca
, has hallucinations in which armies of women march across the parade grounds singing “The Mexican Hat Dance,” vomits, works, exults. “I’m making a feasibility study, just in case. We’d have to create a special section, a group of exclusive specialists, of course.”