Captain Pantoja and the Special Service Page 21

  “I must have acidic blood because insects never bite me,” Captain Pantoja walks past the crazy dolphin, the white dolphin, the red dolphin, stops in front of the carpenter ant, reads “is nocturnal, very dangerous, in one night it can destroy a small farm, they move in hundreds of thousands, when adult they sprout wings and become potbellied.” “On the other hand, my poor mother, it’s terrible, she walks out on the street and they eat her alive.”

  “Do you know these ants here eat toast with salt and bananas?” Lieutenant Bacacorzo passes his finger over the crest of a dissected iguana, over the multicolored feathers of a toucan. “You have to take care of yourself, you’re very thin. You must’ve lost at least twenty pounds these past few months. What’s wrong, Captain? Work? Worries?”

  “A little of both,” Captain Pantoja bends and tries vainly to catch sight of the eyes of the great, jumping and venomous black widow spider. “When everybody tells me, it must be true. I’m going to put myself on a diet to fatten up, to regain the lost pounds.”

  “I regret it very much, Tiger, but I’ve had to order the troops to assist the police in capturing the fanatics,” General Scavino receives petitions, complaints, accusations, investigates, vacillates, consults, makes a decision, informs. “Four people crucified in six months is too much. These crazy people are changing the Amazon into uncivilized territory and the time has come to use an iron hand.”

  “You’re not taking advantage of your bachelorhood,” Lieutenant Bacacorzo grasps the magnifying glass, enlarges the huayranga wasp, the bell wasp and the shiro-shiro wasp. “Instead of being happy and satisfied with the freedom you’ve regained, you go around gloomier than a bat.”

  “It’s just that bachelorhood isn’t much good to me,” Captain Pantoja goes ahead to the big-cat section and rubs up against the stuffed black tiger, the otorongo or prince of the jungle, the ocelot, the puma and the spotted wildcat. “I know most men get fed up with the monotony of family life after a while and would give anything to get rid of their wives. That wouldn’t have been the case with me. Truth is, it hurt me when Pocha left. And especially taking away my little girl.”

  “No need to say it hurt you; it shows in your face,” “Young chameleons live in trees, larger ones in the water,” Lieutenant Bacacorzo hears. “Well, such is life, Captain. Had any news from your wife?”

  “Yes, she writes me every week. She’s living with her sister Chichi back there in Chiclayo,” Captain Pantoja counts the snakes, the river boa or mother of the waters, the black boa, the mantona, the sachamama or mother of the jungle. “I’m not annoyed with Pocha, I understand her very well. My assignment turned out to be very irritating to her. No decent woman would have put up with it. What’re you laughing at? It’s no joke, Bacacorzo.”

  “Excuse me, but it is funny,” Lieutenant Bacacorzo lights a cigarette, blows the smoke between the bars of the paucar’s cage, reads: “It imitates the song of the other birds and laughs and cries like children.” “You’re so picky, so strict when it comes to moral questions. And with the worst reputation that can be imagined. Here in Iquitos they all think you’re some terrible escaped criminal.”

  “Why wasn’t she right to leave, ma’am—don’t shut your eyes,” Alicia hands the skein of wool to Mother Leonor, makes a ball, begins to knit. “Mothers put their daughters under lock and key when they see your Pantita passing by, they cross themselves and give him the horns. Realize it once and for all and pity Pocha instead.”

  “You think I don’t know it?” Captain Pantoja entertains himself feeding the exotic fish, seeing iridescent neon tetras phosphoresce. “The Army gave me a bad deal when they entrusted this work to me.”

  “No one would guess you regret it, seeing you work in the Special Service with so much drive,” Lieutenant Bacacorzo observes the blue tetra, the scaly window-washers and the carnivorous piranha. “Yes, I know—your sense of duty.”

  “The first two patrols have returned, General,” Colonel Peter Casahuanqui receives the men from the expedition at the door of the barracks, congratulates them, invites them to have a beer, silences the shouting prisoners, orders them locked up in the guardhouse. “They’ve got half a dozen fanatics, one of them with tertian fever. They were part of the crucifixion of that old lady in Dos de Mayo. Do I keep them here, hand them over to the police, dispatch them to Iquitos?”

  “Listen, you still haven’t told me why you made an appointment with me in this museum, Bacacorzo,” Captain Pantoja measures the paiche with his eye, the largest known fresh water fish in the world.

  “To give you the bad news in the midst of ophidians and arachnids,” Lieutenant Bacacorzo glances indifferently at the eel, the manta ray, at the turtles or water tortoises. “Scavino wants to see you urgently. He’s expecting you at command headquarters at ten. Be careful, I’m warning you he’s fuming.”

  “Only the impotent, the eunuchs, the asexual can pretend that”—The Voice of Sinchi rises and falls among arpeggios, declaims, becomes furious—“the brave defenders of the Homeland, who sacrifice themselves by serving there on our complicated borders, live in spinsterish chastity.”

  “He’s always fuming, at least with me,” Captain Pantoja goes out on the embankment, looks at the water sparkling under the murderous sun, the motorboats and rafts coming into the port of Bethlehem. “Do you know what the tantrum is about this time?”

  “About Sinchi’s damned broadcast yesterday,” General Scavino does not respond to his salute, does not ask him to sit down, puts on a tape and turns on the recorder. “The scoundrel didn’t do anything but talk about you; he devoted the thirty minutes of his program to you. Seem like such a small thing to you, Pantoja?”

  “Must our valiant soldiers resort to debilitating onanism?” The Voice of Sinchi questions, dances to the beat of the waltz “La Contamanina,” waits for a reply, asks again, “Return to infantile self-gratification?”

  “The Voice of Sinchi?” Captain Pantoja hears the recorder crackle, stammer, go dead, sees General Scavino shake it, hit it, try all the buttons. “Are you sure, General, sir? He attacked me again?”

  “He defended you, he defended you again,” General Scavino finds that the plug has come loose, mutters what a fool, connects the machine again. “And it’s a thousand times worse than if he attacked you. Don’t you see? This makes the Army look ridiculous and slings mud at it at the same time.”

  “Yes, I’ve followed them to the letter, General, sir,” Colonel Máximo Dávila confers with the second lieutenant in charge of the quartermaster unit, reviews the provisions storehouse, draws up menus with the mess sergeant. “Only a serious problem of provisioning has come up: there are fifty detained fanatics and if I feed them, I’ll have to ration the troops. I don’t know what to do, General.”

  “I’ve categorically forbidden him to even mention me,” Captain Pantoja sees a little yellow light go on, the reels turn, hears metallic sounds, echoes, becomes furious. “I’m at a loss for words. I promise you that—”

  “Shut up and listen,” General Scavino orders, folds his arms, crosses his legs, looks at the tape recorder with hatred. “It’s enough to make you vomit.”

  “The highest government officials ought to decorate Mr. Pantaleón Pantoja with the Order of the Sun,” The Voice of Sinchi bursts forth, sparkles between Lux the Soap That Perfumes, Coca-Cola the Pause That Refreshes and Pepsodent Smiles, dramatizes and demands. “For the praiseworthy labor he carries out in procuring the satisfaction of the intimate necessities of the guardians of Peru.”

  “My wife heard it, and my daughters had to give her smelling salts,” General Scavino turns the tape recorder off, crosses the room with his hands behind his back. “He’s turning us into the laughingstock of all Iquitos with his hot-air harangues. Didn’t I order you to take steps so The Voice of Sinchi wouldn’t talk about the Special Service anymore?”

  “The only way to plug up that person’s mouth is to shoot him or pay him off,” Pantaleón Pantoja listens to the radio, sees th
e specialists arranging their suitcases for going on board, Chuchupe getting on the Delilah. “Putting me in charge of it would make a mess; there’s no other way out than greasing his palm with some cash. Go tell him to get here, Freckle, however long it takes.”

  “You mean you allocate part of the Special Service’s budget to bribing journalists?” General Scavino looks him up and down, spreads his nostrils, wrinkles his forehead, shows his incisors. “Very interesting, Captain.”

  “I’ve got the people who crucified Subofficer Miranda here on ice,” Colonel Augusto Valdés pulverizes the patrols, doubles the hours of duty, cancels leaves and passes, extenuates, infuriates his men. “Yes, he’s identified most of them. Only with so much mobilization of my people after the Brothers of the Ark, I’ve got an unprotected border. I know there’s no danger, but if some enemy wanted to attack, they’d push us back to Iquitos in a minute, General, sir.”

  “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 straigh
tens 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.”