Authors: Mario Vargas Llosa
“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 the 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.”
“Oh, really? Well, it was logical,” Panta enters the Loreto Flower Shop, chooses an orchid, takes it to the cemetery, places it in the Brazilian’s niche. “But she couldn’t have been as happy as you were. You’ve shed twenty years since I gave you the news. The only thing you haven’t done is go sing and dance in the streets.”
“On the other hand, you don’t look at all pleased,” Mother Leonor copies recipes for Amazonian dishes, buys necklaces made of seeds, fish scales, fangs, flowers made from feathers, bows and arrows with multicolored strings. “And I really don’t understand, that, dear. Looks as though it makes you sad to leave that dirty work behind and be a real soldier again.”
“And then the soldiers came and the bums stopped dead in their tracks when they saw him dead on the cross,” Pichuza plays the lottery, catches an illness in her lung, works as a servant, begs for charity in churches. “Judases, Herods, devils. What’ve they done, the idiots, what’ve they done, the idiots, that guy from Horcones who’s a lieutenant now kept saying over and over. The ‘brothers’ didn’t even hear him: they were on their knees praying and praying, with their hands lifted up.”
“It’s not that it makes me sad,” Pantita spends his last night in Iquitos wandering the deserted streets of Iquitos by himself and with his head down. “After all, it’s three years of my life. They gave me a very difficult assignment and I executed it. Despite the difficulties, the lack of understanding, I did good work. I built something that had life, that was growing, that was useful. Now they destroy it with one blow and don’t even thank me.”
“You don’t see how it bothers you? You’ve gotten used to living among prostitutes and outlaws,” Mother Leonor haggles over a
shambira
hammock, decides to carry it in her hand along with her travel bag and purse. “Instead of being happy about leaving here, you’re bitter.”
“On the other hand, don’t have any illusions,” Panta calls Lieutenant Bacacorzo to say goodbye, gives his old clothing to the blind man on the corner, reserves a taxi to pick them up at noon and take them to the airport. “I doubt very much if they’ll send us anyplace better than Iquitos.”
“I’ll be happy anywhere so long as you don’t have to do the filthy business you did here,” Mother Leonor is counting the hours, the minutes, the seconds until they leave. “Even if it’s to the end of the world, son.”
“O.K., Mama,” Panta goes to bed at dawn but doesn’t shut his eyes, gets up, showers, thinks today I’ll be in Lima, does not feel happy. “I’m going out for a minute to say goodbye to a friend. Want anything?”
“I saw him go out and it looked like a good time, Mother Leonor,” Alicia gives her a letter for Pocha and this little gift for Gladys, accompanies her to the airport, kisses and hugs her. “Shall I take you to the cemetery quick so you can see where that w——-is buried?”
“Yes, Alicia, let’s slip out,” Mother Leonor powders her nose, puts on a hat, trembles with anger at the airport, gets on the plane, is frightened by the takeoff. “And afterward, come with me to St. Augustine’s, to say goodbye to Father José María. You two are the only friends from this place I’m going to have fond memories of.”
“His head had fallen on his heart, his eyes shut, his features had gotten real gaunt and he was very pale,” Rita is taken on by Snotnose, works seven days a week, comes down with the clap twice in one year, changes pimps three times. “The rain had washed the blood from the cross, but the ‘brothers’ had caught that holy water in rags, buckets, dishes, they drank it and were cleansed of their sins.”
“Amidst the rejoicing of some and the tears of others, hated and beloved by a divided citizenry”—Sinchi deepens his voice, uses the roaring of planes as a sound effect in the background—“today at noon the much-discussed Captain Pantoja left for Lima by air. He was accompanied by his mother and the conflicting emotions of the people of Loreto. With the proverbial courtesy of Iquitos, we limit ourselves to wishing him
bon voyage
and better behavior, Captain!”
“How embarrassing, how embarrassing,” Mother Leonor sees a green sheet, thick clouds, the snowy peaks of the Andes, the sandy beaches along the coast, the ocean, steep cliffs. “All the w——-s of Iquitos at the airport, all of them crying, all of them hugging you. Up until the very last minute this city had to make me mad. My face is still burning. I hope I never see anyone from Iquitos ever again in my life. Listen, just think—we’re about to land.”
“Excuse me for bothering you again, miss,” Captain Pantoja takes a taxi to the hotel, has his uniform pressed, appears at headquarters of Administration, Supply and Logistics of the Army, sits in a chair for three hours, slouches. “Are you sure I should keep on waiting? My appointment was for six and it’s nine
P.M.
Perhaps there was some mix-up?”
“No mix-up, Captain,” the young lady stops polishing her nails. “They’re meeting there and have ordered you to wait. A little patience; they’ll call you soon. Can I offer you another photo-novel by Corín Tellado?”
“No, thanks a lot,” Captain Pantoja pages through all the magazines, reads all the newspapers, consults his watch a thousand times, is hot, cold, thirsty, feverish, hungry. “The truth is I can’t read; I’m a little nervous.”
“Well, it’s not for nothing,” the woman is making eyes at him. “What they’re deciding in there is your future. I hope they don’t give you a harsh punishment, Captain.”
“Thanks, but it isn’t just that,” Captain Pantoja blushes, remembers the party where he met Pochita, the years of courtship, the arch of sabers his classmates made for him on the day of his wedding. “I’m thinking about my wife and little girl. They must have arrived a while ago, from Chiclayo. I haven’t seen them in ages.”
“Exactly, Colonel, sir,” Lieutenant Santana crosses and recrosses the jungle, arrives at Indiana, is speechless, telephones his superiors. “Dead for a couple of days and rotting like cream of wheat. A sight to make anybody’s hair stand on end. Do I let the fanatics carry him away? Bury him here? He’s not in a condition to be transported anywhere. He’s been here two or three days and the stench makes you vomit.”
“It wouldn’t bother you to give me your autograph again?” the young lady hands him a book bound in leather, a fountain pen, smiles admiringly at him. “I forgot about my cousin Charo; she collects celebrities too.”