Captain Pantoja and the Special Service Page 12

  “I’m afraid it probably comes from Panta,” Mr. Pantoja looks her up and down, side to side, smiles at her, grows serious, smiles again, perspires. “But you’re Peruvian and not Brazilian, aren’t you? At least in the way you speak.”

  “I was born here. They gave me that name because I lived in Manaos,” the Brazilian sits down, hikes her skirt, takes out her compact, powders her nose, the dimples in her cheeks. “But you see, everybody goes back to the country where he was born—just like in the song.”

  “It’d be better if you took that motto out of here, son,” Mother Leonor covers her eyes. “Having to read ‘Speaking of the martyr prohibited’ makes Pochita and me talk about nothing else the whole blessed day. What ideas you have, Panta!”

  “And what do they say about Pantiland?” Pantaleón Pantoja drums on the desk, rocks in his chair, doesn’t know what to do with his hand. “What have you heard back there?”

  “You can’t believe people, they exaggerate a lot,” the Brazilian crosses her legs, arms, acts coy, winks, moistens her lips while she talks. “Just imagine, in Manaos they said it was a city several blocks wide with armed guards.”

  “Well, don’t be deceived, we’re just beginning,” Pantaleón Pantoja is smiling, showing himself to be friendly, sociable, talkative. “I can tell you for now we already have a boat and a hydroplane. But I don’t like that international publicity at all.”

  “They said there was work for everyone, with fabulous conditions,” The Brazilian raises and lowers her shoulders, plays with her fingers, flutters her eyelashes, sways her neck. shakes her hair. “That’s why I got excited and took the boat. I left my eight girl friends in a very good house in Manaos packing their bags to come to Pantiland. They’re going to wear the same outfit I am.”

  “If it doesn’t bother you, I’ll request you to call this place the logistics center instead of Pantiland,” Mr. Pantoja struggles to look serious, confident and functional. “Did Porfirio explain to you why I had you come?”

  “He gave me an idea,” the Brazilian wrinkles her nose, flutters her eyelashes, lowers her eyelids, her pupils glow. “Is it true there’s the possibility of work for me?”

  “Yes, we’re going to expand the Service,” Pantaleón Pantoja is swelling with pride, looking at a chart with graphs. “We began with four, then we increased to six, to eight, to ten, and now there’ll be fifteen specialists. Who knows—someday we’ll be what they say.”

  “I’m very pleased. I’d been thinking of going back to Manaos because I saw things were getting sticky here,” the Brazilian bites her lips, wipes her mouth, checks her fingernails, flicks a speck of dust off her skirt. “I thought I hadn’t made a good impression on you that day we met at Aladdin Panduro’s Lamp.”

  “You’re wrong. You made a very good impression, a very good one,” Pantaleón Pantoja is arranging pencils, notebooks, opening and closing desk drawers, coughing. “I would’ve hired you sooner, but there was no room in the budget.”

  “And is it possible to know the salary and the duties, Mr. Pantoja?” The Brazilian cranes her neck, makes a bouquet of her hands, warbles.

  “Three convoys a week, two by air and one by boat,” enumerates Pantaleón Pantoja. “And a minimum of ten services per convoy.”

  “Convoys are the trips to the barracks?” the Brazilian is astonished, claps her hands, lets out a laugh, winks mischievously, exaggerates. “And services must be…Oh, how funny!”

  “Now, let me explain one thing to you, Alicia,” Mother Leonor kisses the small picture of the child martyr. “Yes, they performed an unspeakable horror. But deep down, it was fear, not evil. They were terrified by so much rain and they thought that with the sacrifice God would postpone the end of the world. They didn’t want to hurt him. They thought they were sending him straight to Heaven. Haven’t you seen how they’ve erected altars to him in all the Arks the police are uncovering?”

  “As for your percentage, it’s fifty percent of what is deducted from the noncommissioned officers’ and soldiers’ pay,” Pantaleón Pantoja writes on a piece of paper, hands it to her, making the details clear. “The other fifty percent goes back into upkeep. And now, though I know it’s not necessary with you, because what you’re worth is—er—obvious, I have to comply with regulations. Please take off your dress for a second.”

  “Oh, how embarrassing,” the Brazilian puts on a mournful face, stands up, takes a few steps like a fashion model, makes another face. “It’s my time of the month, Mr. Pantoja, it came just yesterday. Does it matter if you go in through the back door, just this once? They love to in Brazil—they even like it better.”

  “I only want to look at you, to give you the O.K.,” Pantaleón Pantoja stands rigid, grows pale, raises his eyebrows, speaks clearly. “It’s the physical that everyone has to pass. Your imagination’s overheated.”

  “Oh, well, I was wondering where we were going to do it, since there isn’t even a rug here,” the Brazilian gives a little stamp on the floorboards, smiles with relief, undresses, folds her clothes, poses. “Look O.K. to you? I’m a little thin, but I’ll get my weight back in a week. Think I’ll be a hit with the boys?”

  “Without the slightest doubt,” Pantaleón Pantoja looks, admits, trembles, clears his throat. “You’ll be more successful than our star, Knockers. O.K., approved. You can get dressed now.”

  “And not only that, Mother Leonor,” Alicia examines the picture, crosses herself. “Just imagine, in addition to pictures and prayer cards, statues of the little child martyr have also begun to show up. And they say that instead of decreasing, there are more ‘brothers’ and ‘sisters’ now than before.”

  “What are you doing here?” Pantaleón Pantoja leaps out of his chair, takes long steps to the top of the stairs, motions furiously. “Who gave you permission to come in here? Don’t you know that when I’m administering an examination it’s absolutely forbidden to come up to the command post?”

  “A man named Sinchi is looking for you, Mr. Pantoja,” Sinforoso Caiguas stammers, stands there mouth agape.

  “It’s urgent and very important, Mr. Pantoja,” Palomino Rioalto is staring, hypnotized.

  “Get out of here, the two of you,” Pantaleón Pantoja obstructs their view with his body, bangs on the railing, stretches out his arm. “Let him wait. Out of here—it’s forbidden to look.”

  “Bah, don’t worry. It doesn’t matter to me. This doesn’t get used up,” The Brazilian is putting on her slip, blouse, skirt. “So you’re named Panta? Now I understand the business about Pantiland. What people don’t think of!”

  “My Christian name is Pantaleón, like my father and my grandfather before him, two distinguished military men,” Mr. Pantoja is stirred, comes closer to the Brazilian, stretches two fingers toward the buttons on her blouse. “Here, let me help you.”

  “Couldn’t you raise my cut to seventy percent?” the Brazilian purrs, walks back until she’s pressed up against him, breathes in his face, searches with her hand and squeezes. “The house is making a good acquisition. I’ll show you when my period is over. Be understanding, Panta—you won’t regret it.”

  “Let go, let go—don’t grab me there!” Pantaleón Pantoja gives a little jump, gets excited, ashamed, irritated. “I have to warn you about two things: you can’t address me informally, only formally, like all the specialists. And no liberties with me.”

  “But if I made your pants puff up, it was to do you a favor, not to offend you,” the Brazilian is distressed, feels sad, is surprised. “Excuse me, Mr. Pantoja. I swear to you I’ll never do it again.”

  “Considering that you’re a first-class addition to the Service, and as a very special exception, I’ll give you sixty percent,” Pantaleón Pantoja repents, accompanies her to the stairs. “And also because you came from so far away. But don’t breathe a word of this or you’ll create a terrible mess for me with your co-workers.”

  “Not a word, Mr. Pantoja. It’ll be our little secret. Thanks a lot,” the Bra
zilian recovers her smile, charms, flirtatious manner, goes down the steps. “I’ll be leaving now. I can see you have a visitor. When no one can hear us, can I call you Mr. Pantita? It’s cuter than Pantaleón or Pantoja. Bye-bye—see you later.”

  “Of course what they did seems horrible to me, Pochita,” Mother Leonor raises the fly swatter, waits a few seconds, strikes and watches the corpse fall to the floor. “But if you knew them the way I do, you’d realize they’re not naturally evil. Ignorant, yes, not perverted. I’ve visited them in their homes and talked with them: shoemakers, carpenters, bricklayers. Most of them don’t even know how to read. Since becoming ‘brothers,’ they don’t get drunk anymore or cheat on their wives or eat meat or rice.”

  “Delighted, glad to meet you, gimme five,” Sinchi makes a Japanese bow, crosses the command post like an emperor, sucks on his cigar and exhales smoke. “At your service, anything I can do for you.”

  “Good morning,” Pantaleón Pantoja sniffs the air, becomes embarrassed, has a coughing fit. “Have a seat. How can I help you?”

  “That knockout of a woman I met at the door left me cockeyed,” Sinchi points to the stairs, whistles, gets enthusiastic, smokes. “Jesus, they told me Pantiland was a paradise of women and I see it’s true. What pretty flowers grow in your garden, Mr. Pantoja.”

  “I have a lot of work to do and I can’t waste my time, so get to the point,” Pantaleón Pantoja grumbles, grabs a notebook and tries to disperse the cloud that envelops him. “As for this business of Pantiland, I’m letting you know in advance that it doesn’t please me. I don’t have a sense of humor.”

  “I didn’t make up the name, the people’s imagination did,” Sinchi opens his arms and speaks as if he were before a roaring multitude: “The imagination of Loreto—always so sharp and spicy, so ingenious. Don’t take it so hard, Mr. Pantoja. You always have to be responsive to popular creations.”

  “You’re scaring me, Mother Leonor,” Pochita touches her belly. “Even though you’ve left the Ark, at heart you’re still a ‘sister.’ How fondly you talk about them. I hope you never think of crucifying our little cadet.”

  “Don’t you have a program on Radio Amazon?” Pantaleón coughs, chokes, dries his tearing eyes. “At six in the evening?”

  “That’s me! You have before you the very famous Voice of Sinchi in person,” Sinchi deepens his voice, clutches an invisible mike, declaims. “Terrorizer of corrupt officials, scourge of venial judges, whirlwind against injustice, the voice that takes and transmits the pulse of the people over the airwaves.”

  “Yes, I heard your program once. Quite popular, isn’t it?” Pantaleón Pantoja stands up, moves away searching for fresh air, breathes deeply. “I’m very honored by your visit. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m a man of my time, without prejudices, progressive, so I’ve come to lend you a hand,” Sinchi stands up, goes after him, shrouds him in smoke, holds out his limp fingers toward him. “Besides, I like you, Mr. Pantoja, and I know we can be good friends. I believe in friendship at first sight and my nose for these things never fails me. I want to help you.”

  “I appreciate that,” Pantaleón Pantoja lets his hand be shaken, his shoulders be patted; he resigns himself to going back to his desk, to continue coughing. “But really, I don’t need your help. At least not at the moment.”

  “That’s what you think, you candid and innocent man,” taking in the entire space with a gesture, Sinchi is scandalized, half-seriously, half-jokingly. “In this erotic enclosure you live far from the madding crowd and apparently you are not aware of how things really are. You don’t know what they’re saying out in the street, the dangers that surround you.”

  “I have very little time, sir,” Pantaleón Pantoja checks the time, grows impatient. “Either explain to me what you want right now or do me the favor of leaving.”

  “If you don’t demand that she apologize to me, I’m never going to set foot in this house again,” Mother Leonor threatens, cries, locks herself in her room, does not want to eat. “Crucify my future grandson! Do you think I’m going to put up with such nastiness, no matter how nervous she is about her pregnancy?”

  “I am subjected to irresistible pressures,” Sinchi crushes the cigar in the ashtray, shreds it, is upset. “Housewives, fathers of families, schools, cultural institutions, churches of every hue and color, even witches and drug addicts. I’m human, my resistance has its limits.”

  “What poppycock is this? What are you talking about?” Pantaleón Pantoja is smiling, seeing the last little cloud of smoke disappear. “I don’t understand one word of it. Be more explicit and get to the heart of the matter quickly.”

  “The city wants Pantiland to sink into ignominy and you to go bankrupt,” Sinchi smilingly synthesizes. “Didn’t you know that Iquitos is a city with a corrupt heart but with a puritan façade? The Special Service is a scandal that only a progressive and modern person like myself can accept. The rest of the city is horrified over this mess and, speaking plainly, they want it destroyed.”

  “For me to be destroyed?” Pantaleón Pantoja grows very serious. “Me? The Special Service to be destroyed?”

  “There’s nothing in the Amazon built solidly enough that The Voice of Sinchi can’t blow it down,” Sinchi snorts, waving his fingertips in the air, puffing himself up. “Modesty to one side, if I take aim, the Special Service won’t last one week and you’ll have to leave Iquitos on the double. It’s sad but true, my friend.”

  “You mean you’ve come to threaten me?” Pantaleón Pantoja sits up straight.

  “Nothing like that—just the opposite,” Sinchi lunges at specters, clutches at his heart like a tenor, counts imaginary money. “Up until now I’ve resisted the pressures on me because of my combative spirit and because it’s a question of principle. But from now on, since I, too, have to live, and one can’t live off thin air, I’ll do it for minimal compensation. Doesn’t that seem fair to you?”

  “You mean you’ve come to blackmail me?” Pantaleón Pantoja stands up, his face falls, he upsets the wastepaper basket, runs to the top of the stairs.

  “To help you, friend. Just ask and you’ll see the cyclonic force of my broadcasts,” Sinchi puffs out his chest, stands, walks, gestures. “They overthrow judges, police officers, marriages. Whatever I attack falls apart. For a few miserable cents I’m prepared to defend on the radio both the Special Service and the brain behind it. To fight the war for you, Mr. Pantoja.”

  “Let that old witch who doesn’t understand jokes apologize to me,” Pochita smashes cups, throws herself face down on the bed, scratches Panta, sobs. “Between the two of you, you’re going to make me lose the baby because of these blow-ups. Do you think I said it seriously, you half-wit? It was just a fib—I was joking.”

  “Sinforoso! Palomino!” Pantaleón Pantoja is clapping, shouting. “Attendant!”

  “What’s wrong with you? Don’t get upset, calm down,” Sinchi stays quiet, lowers his voice, looks around him with alarm. “You don’t have to answer me right away. Ask around, check on who I am and we’ll talk next week.”

  “Get this scoundrel out of here and throw him in the river,” Pantaleón Pantoja orders the men who come running to the top of the stairway. “And don’t ever let him enter the logistics center again.”

  “Listen here, don’t cut your own throat, don’t be irresponsible, I’m a superman in Iquitos,” Sinchi waves his arms, shoves, defends himself, slips, backs off, disappears, is soaked. “Let go of me! What does this mean? Listen, you’re going to regret this, Pantoja, I came to help you. I’m your frien-n-n-n-nd.”

  “Sure, he’s a big phony, but even the rocks listen to his program,” Lieutenant Bacacorzo leafs through a magazine left lying on a table in Lucho’s Bar. “I hope that dunking in the Itaya doesn’t make problems for you, Captain.”

  “I prefer those problems to giving in to his dirty blackmail,” Captain Pantoja is intrigued by a caption asking Do You Know Who Yacuruna Is and What He Does? �
��I’ve sent a dispatch to Tiger Collazos and I’m sure he’ll understand. But really, something else is bothering me, Bacacorzo.”

  “The ten thousand services, Captain?” He manages to read between Lieutenant Bacacorzo’s fingers: An angel or demon of the waters, who causes cyclones and floods. “Did they go up to fifteen thousand with the summer heat?”

  “Gossip,” He rides on the back of alligators or on the skins of giant water snakes, says an illustration that Captain Pantoja is bending over. “There’s really so much gossip? Here in Iquitos? About the Service, about me?”

  “Last night I dreamed the same thing again, Panta,” Pochita touches her temple. “They crucified you and me on the same cross, one on each side. And Mother Leonor came and stabbed us with a spear, me in the belly and you in your little dickie. Isn’t that a crazy dream, sweetie?”

  “Naturally, you’re the most famous man in town,” He wears tortoise shells for shoes, assures a sentence interrupted by Lieutenant Bacacorzo’s elbow. “The man most hated by women, most admired by men. And Pantiland, begging your pardon, is the hub of every conversation. But since you don’t see anyone and live only for the Special Service, what does it matter to you?”

  “For me it’s no problem, but it is for my family,” And at night he sleeps protected by curtains made of butterfly wings, Captain Pantoja manages to read at last. “My wife is very sensitive and if she discovers this in her present condition, it’ll have a tremendous effect on her. And I’m not even mentioning my mother.”

  “As for the gossip”—Lieutenant Bacacorzo throws the magazine on the floor, turns, recalls—“I have to tell you something very amusing. Scavino received a committee of leading citizens from Nauta, headed by the mayor. They came to bring him a petition, ha ha.”

  “We consider it an offensive privilege that the Special Service belongs exclusively to the army barracks and the naval bases,” Mayor Paiva Runhuí pulls down his glasses, looks at his companions, adopts a solemn posture and reads. “We demand that senior citizens with military service from these neglected Amazonian towns have the right to utilize that Service and at the same reduced rates as the soldiers.”