B004L2LMEG EBOK (28 page)

“Your duty?” General Scavino screeches out with joy, stands, paces, stops in front of the window, sees that it’s raining cats and dogs, that the fog hides the river. “To make a fool of the Army? To play the part of a nincompoop? To reveal that an officer is acting as a wholesale pimp? That was your obligation, Pantoja? Which enemy is paying you? Because that’s pure sabotage, pure fifth-column work.”

“You see? What’d I bet ya? The ‘brothers’ saved him,” Lolita claps, nails a baby frog to a cardboard cross, kneels, laughs. “I just heard it, Sinchi was telling it on the radio. They were going to put him on a plane to bring him to Lima, but the ‘brothers’ jumped the soldiers, rescued him and ran into the jungle. Oh, how wonderful! Long live Brother Francisco!”

“Only a couple of months ago the Army paid tribute to Dr. Pedro Andrade, who died when he was thrown from his horse, General, sir,” Captain Pantoja reminds, sees the windowpanes riddled with raindrops, hears the thunder roar. “You yourself read a wonderful eulogy at the cemetery.”

“Are you trying to insinuate that whores in the Special Service are in the same position as doctors assigned to the Army?” General Scavino hears a knock at the door, says come in, accepts a book an orderly hands him, shouts I don’t want to be interrupted, “Pantoja, Pantoja, come down to earth.”

“The specialists render the armed forces a service no less important than the assigned doctors, lawyers or priests,” Captain Pantoja sees the lightning snake through the leaden clouds, waits and hears the thunder in the sky, “Begging your pardon, General, but that’s the way it is and I can prove it to you.”

“At least Father Beltrán isn’t here to listen to this,” General Scavino collapses onto a sofa, leafs through the book, throws it into the wastepaper basket, looks at Captain Pantoja, half disturbed and half fearful. “You would have knocked him cold with what you just said.”

“All our noncommissioned officers and soldiers serve better, are more efficient and disciplined, and tolerate life in the jungle better since the Special Service has been in existence, General, sir,” Captain Pantoja thinks Tuesday little Gladys will be two years old, becomes emotional, grieves, sighs. “All the studies and surveys we’ve made prove it. And as for the women who carry out this work with true self-denial, what they do has never been acknowledged.”

“Then you really believe those nasty lies,” General Scavino suddenly becomes nervous, walks from one wall to another, talks to himself while making faces. “You really think the Army should be grateful to those whores for deigning to fuck with the troops.”

“I most firmly believe it, General, sir,” Captain Pantoja sees the torrents of water sweeping down the deserted street, washing the roofs, windows and walls, sees that even the most robust trees are swaying like pieces of paper. “I work with them, I’m a witness to what they do. Step by step, I follow their difficult, compulsory, poorly paid and, as has been seen, dangerous work. After what happened at Nauta, the Army had the duty to render them a small homage. Their morale had to be raised somehow.”

“I can’t get angry, I’m so amazed,” General Scavino touches his ears, forehead, bald head, shakes his head, shrugs his shoulders, has a victimized face. “It doesn’t so much make me angry. I have the feeling I’m dreaming, Pantoja. You make me feel that everything’s unreal, a nightmare, that I’ve turned into an idiot, that I don’t understand anything that’s happening.”

“Were there shots, deaths?” Knockers is terrified, clasps her hands, prays, gathers the specialists together, asks them to console her. “Santa Ignacia, don’t let anything happen to Chameleon. Yes, he’s there, he went to Mazán like everybody else to see Brother Francisco. Not because he’s a ‘brother’, he went out of curiosity.”

“I assumed that this initiative wouldn’t be looked upon favorably by my superiors and therefore proceeded without going through bureaucratic channels,” Captain Pantoja sees the rain stop, the sky clear, the trees become very green, the street fill with people. “I know I deserve to be punished, of course. But I didn’t act thinking about myself, but about the Army. Especially about the future of the Service. What happened could have caused a desertion of specialists. I had to warm their spirits, inject a little energy into them.”

“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 close 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.”