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The Voice Of Sinchi!

A half hour of commentary, reviews, anecdotes, information—all in the interests of Truth and Justice. The voice that takes and transmits over the airwaves the pulse of the people in the Peruvian Amazon. A lively and down-to-earth human program, written and broadcast by that well-known journalist Germán Láudano Rosales
—The Voice of Sinchi—
which is broadcast daily, Monday through Saturday, between 6 and 6:30
P.M.
over Radio Amazon, the first radio station of western Peru.

Night of February 13–14, 1958

The gong resounds, the echo hangs quivering in the air and Pantaleón Pantoja thinks: She’s gone, she’s left you, she’s taken your little daughter away. Rigid and somber, he is in the command post, his hands resting on the banister. He tries to forget Pochita and Gladys, he fights back his tears. Now, in addition, he’s overwhelmed by terror. The gong has sounded again and he thinks: Again, all over again, the damned parade, doubles from that dream again. He is perspiring, trembling, his heart aches for those summers when he could run to bury his face in Mother Leonor’s skirts. He thinks: She’s left you, you won’t see your daughter grow up, they’ll never return. But
getting up his courage
, he pulls himself together and concentrates on the spectacle.

At first glance, there’s no reason to be alarmed. The patio of the logistics center has been expanded sufficiently to serve as a coliseum or a stadium, but except for its magnified proportions, it is identical to its old self: over there are the partitions covered with posters containing mottoes, proverbs and instructions, the beams painted with the symbolic red and green colors, the hammocks, the little cubicles containing the specialists’ lockers, the white screen of the Health Service and the two wooden doors with the fallen crossbar. No one here. But this familiar and uninhabited landscape does not calm Pantaleón Pantoja. His distrust grows and a tenacious buzzing bothers his ears. He is stiff, frightened, expectant, and repeats to himself: “Poor Pochita, poor Gladys, poor Pantita.” Elastic and resonating, the sound of the gong makes him jump in his seat: It is going to start. He calls up all his will power, his sense of the ridiculous; he secretly prays to Santa Rosa of Lima for help and to the boy martyr of Moronacocha so he won’t get up, run down the staircase in leaps and bounds and leave the logistics center
like a soul carried away by the devil
.

The door to the pier has just been opened (gently) and Pantaleón Pantoja makes out shadowy silhouettes, standing at attention, waiting for the order to enter the logistics center. The dream twins, the dream twins, he thinks,
with his hair standing on end
, feeling his body beginning to go cold from bottom to top: his feet, his ankles, his knees. But the parade has already begun and nothing justifies his panic. It is only a matter of five soldiers, who are advancing, Indian file, from the door toward the command post, each one pulling a chain, at the end of which trots, leaps, struggles…what? Seized by an anxiety that soaks his hands and makes his teeth clatter, Pantaleón Pantoja stretches his head forward, sharpens his gaze, scrutinizes intently: they are little dogs. A sigh of relief inflates and deflates his chest:
his soul returns to his body
. There is nothing to fear; his suspicion was silly; they are not death knells but different types of
man’s best friend
. The soldiers have come closer, but they still remain far from the command post. Now Pantaleón Pantoja can distinguish them better: between one soldier and another there are several yards of light and the five little animals are lined up exactly, as for a contest. They have been noticeably bathed, clipped, brushed, combed, perfumed. Besides a collar, all of them wear around their necks red and green ribbons tied in cute little clumps of bows. The soldiers march very seriously, looking straight ahead, without hurrying or falling behind, each a short distance from the animal under his care. The dogs obediently let themselves be led. They are of different colors, shapes and sizes: dachshund, Great Dane, German shepherd, Chihuahua and wolfhound. Pantaleón Pantoja thinks: I’ve lost my wife and daughter, but at least what’s going to happen here won’t be as horrible as other times. He sees the soldiers approach him and he feels dirty, vile, wounded, and he has the impression that mange is erupting over the length and breadth of his body.

When the gong sounds again—this time the vibration is acidic and reptilian—Pantaleón Pantoja suffers a sudden fright and he shifts uncomfortably in his seat. He thinks:
Put your hand in the lion’s mouth and you’ll get bit
. He makes an effort and looks. His eyes leap from their sockets, his heart beats so furiously that it might explode like a plastic bag. He has grasped the banister and his fingers hurt from holding on to the wood so hard. The soldiers are already very close and he would be able to recognize their features if he looked at them. But he only has eyes for what bumps, rolls and rattles at the end of the chains: there, where the dogs were, are huge shapes now, animated and horrible, beings that repel and fascinate him. He would like to examine them one by one, in detail, to record their harsh images before they disappear, but he cannot individualize them: his eyes jump from one to another or take them in all at once. They are enormous, half human, half monkey, with tails that lash the air, many eyes, breasts that kiss the ground, ash-colored horns, pulsating scales, hunchbacked hoofs that grate like drills in flagstone, hairy trunks, tongues and slobber adorned with flies. They have harelips, bloody scabs, noses dangling strands of mucus, feet armored with calluses, curled with ingrown toenails and bunions, and fur like thorns, among which giant lice swing and leap just like monkeys in the jungle. Pantaleón Pantoja decides
to throw his fate to the wind
and flee. Terror wrenches out his teeth, which fall onto his lap like grains of corn; they have tied his hands and feet to the banister and he will not be able to move until
they
pass in front of the command post. He is begging for someone to shoot, for someone
to blow his brains out
and finish with this torture once and for all.

But the gong has sounded again—its interminable echo vibrates along every one of his nerves—and now the first soldier is passing in slow motion in front of the command post. Tied, feverish, gagged, Pantaleón Pantoja sees: it isn’t a dog or a monster. The chained figure who smiles at him impishly is a Mother Leonor into whose features have been injected, without displacing them, those of Leonor Curinchila, and to whose thin skeleton has been added—once again, thinks Pantaleón Pantoja, swallowing bile—the breasts, the buttocks, the bulges and the outjutting walk of Chuchupe. “It doesn’t matter that Pocha has left, my little boy, I’ll go on taking care of you,” says Mother Leonor. She bows and moves away. He does not have time to reflect, since here is the second soldier: the face is that of Sinchi, as is the corpulence, the animal assurance and the microphone he carries in his hand. But the uniform and the general’s stars are those of Tiger Collazos, and likewise the way of pounding his chest, of scratching his mustache, and the good-humored self-confidence of the smile and the transparent skill of giving orders. He stops for a second, just the time necessary to raise the microphone to his mouth and to bellow: “Courage, Captain Pantoja: Pochita will be the star of the Special Service in Chiclayo. As for little Gladys, we’ll make her the mascot of our convoys.” The soldier yanks on the chain and Sinchi Collazos moves away, jumping on one foot. Now in front of him, bald, tiny in his green uniform, showing him his drawn sword, which sparkles less than his sarcastic eyes, is General Freckle Scavino. He barks: “Widow, cuckold, cocksucker! Pantaleón, queer, coward!” He moves away with a quick step, elegantly turning his head inside his collar. But already, here is Commander Beltrán with slanting eyes and a honeyed voice, admonishing and severe in his dark soutane, coldly blessing him. “In the name of the maltyl of Molonacocha, I condemn you to lemain without wife and without daughter folevel, Mistel Pantaleón.” Tripping on the hem of his robe and shaken with laughter, Father Porfirio follows after the others. And here is the one who ends the parade. Pantaleón Pantoja struggles, gnaws, tries to free his hands in order to ask forgiveness, to loosen the gag to beg, but his attempts are useless and the figure with a gracious silhouette, black hair, a tawny complexion and scarlet lips is there below, haloed by an endless sadness. He thinks: I hate you, Brazilian. Hurt, the little figure smiles and her voice fills with melancholy: “Panta, you don’t know your Pochita anymore?” She takes a half turn and moves away, dragged by the recruit, who yanks on the chain with force. He feels drunk with solitude, rage and fear while the gong beats deafeningly in his ears.

“Wake up, son, it’s six o’clock already,” Mother Leonor taps at the door, enters the bedroom, kisses Panta on the forehead. “Oh, you’re up already.”

“I’ve been bathed and shaved for an hour, Mother,” Panta yawns, makes a gesture of boredom, buttons his shirt, bends down. “I slept very badly; those terrible nightmares again. Did you get everything ready for me?”

“I’ve packed clothes for three days,” Mother Leonor assures, leaves, returns, dragging a suitcase, shows all the clothing arranged. “Will it be enough for you?”

“More than enough; I won’t stay longer than two,” Panta is putting on a little jockey cap, is looking at himself in the mirror. “I’m going to Huallaga, to Mendoza’s, an old school buddy. We went to Chorrillos Military Academy together. Centuries since I’ve seen him.”

“Well, up till now I didn’t want to give it any importance, because it didn’t seem to have any,” General Scavino is reading telegrams, consulting officers, studying files, attending meetings, speaking by radio. “The police asked us for help months ago; they can’t cope with so much fanaticism. Sure, of course, from the Ark. Did you get the reports? This business is getting ugly. Two new attempts at crucifixion this week. In Puerto América and in Dos de Mayo. No, Tiger, they haven’t nabbed them.”

“But drink your milk, Pantita,” Mother Leonor is filling the cup, putting in sugar, running to the kitchen, bringing bread. “And the toast I made you? I’ll put a little butter and marmalade on it. Eat something, my boy, I beg you.”

“Just a little coffee, that’s all.” Panta remains standing, takes a sip, looks at his watch, grows impatient. “I’m not hungry, Mama.”

“You’re going to get sick,” upset, Mother Leonor smiles, insists gently, grabs him by the arm, makes him sit down. “You’re not trying even a mouthful, you’re just skin and bones. You’re making me a nervous wreck, Panta. You don’t eat, you don’t sleep, you work the whole blessed day. This can’t go on; you’re going to get pneumonia.”

“Oh, Mama, be quiet, don’t be silly,” Panta resigns himself, drinks the cup down in one gulp, nods his head, eats a piece of toast, wipes his mouth. “After thirty, the secret of health is fasting. I’m fine, don’t worry. Here, I’ll leave you a little money in case you need it.”

“You’re whistling ‘The Mexican Hat Dance’ again,” Mother Leonor plugs her ears. “You don’t know how I’ve come to hate that blasted music. It was driving Pocha crazy too. Can’t you whistle anything else?”

“I was whistling? I didn’t even realize it,” Panta blushes, coughs, goes to his bedroom, sadly looks at a photo, lifts his suitcase, returns to the dining room. “As for Pocha, if a letter comes from her…”

“I don’t like the Army to get mixed up in this mess,” Tiger Collazos reflects, worries, vacillates, tries to catch a fly, fails. “Fighting witches and fanatics is work for priests or the police anyway. Not soldiers. Has it gotten that serious?”

“I’ll take good care of it until you get back. Of course I know—don’t give me stupid suggestions,” Mother Leonor becomes angry, gets down on her knees, shines his shoes, brushes off his pants and shirt, touches his face. “Come here so I can bless you. Bless you, my son, and try, do what’s possible….”

“I know already, I know. I won’t look at them, I won’t say a word to them,” Panta closes his eyes, clenches his fists, twists his face. “I’ll give them their orders in writing and with my back to them. Don’t you give me stupid suggestions either, Mama.”

“What have I done to God for Him to punish me like this?” Mother Leonor sobs, raises her hands to the ceiling, becomes exasperated, taps her feet. “My son among fallen women twenty-four hours a day, and on Army orders. We’re the talk of all Iquitos; on the street they point at me with their fingers.”

“Calm down, Mama, don’t cry, I beg you—I don’t have time now,” He puts his arm around her shoulders, caresses her, kisses her on the cheek. “Excuse me if I raised my voice at you. I’m a little nervous. Don’t pay any attention to me.”

“If your father and your grandfather were alive, they’d die of shock,” Mother Leonor wipes her eyes with the hem of her skirt, points to a yellowed portrait. “They’d turn over in their graves if they saw what you’ve been put in charge of. In their time officers didn’t stoop to such things.”

“You’ve been repeating the same thing four times a day for the past eight months,” Panta shouts, repents, lowers his voice, smiles without wanting to, explains. “I’m a military man, I have to obey orders, and until they give me something else, my duty is to do this job right. I’ve already told you, if you prefer I can have you sent to Lima, Mama.”

“Rather surprising, yes, General,” Colonel Peter Casahuanqui digs around in a bag, takes out a handful of cards and photos, makes a packet, seals it, orders dispatch this to Lima for me. “In the last uniform inspection we discovered that half the soldiers had Brother Francisco prayers or prayer cards of the boy martyr. I’m sending you some samples.”

“I’m not like certain people who leave home at the first problem—don’t get me wrong,” Mother Leonor straightens up, shakes her index finger, adopts a belligerent posture. “I’m not one of those who decide to move out overnight without even saying goodbye, one of those who steals a daughter away from her father.”

“Now don’t start in on Pocha,” Panta walks down the hallway, trips on a flowerpot stand, curses, rubs his ankle. “Another one of your obsessions has turned up again, Mama.”

“If she hadn’t stolen little Gladys from you, you wouldn’t be this way,” Mother Leonor opens the street door. “Maybe I can’t see how you’re eating yourself up alive with sorrow for your little girl, Panta? Go, leave right now.”

“I can’t put up with any more—quick, quick,” Panta climbs the gangway of the
Eve
, goes down to the cabin, falls on the bunk, murmurs. “Where I like it, there. On my throat, on my ear. Not just nibbles, but real slow bites. C’mon now.”

“Glad to, Panta,” the Brazilian sighs, looks at him without interest, points to the dock, draws the porthole curtain. “But at least wait till the
Eve
leaves. Subofficer Rodríguez and the sailors are getting on and off every minute. It’s not for my sake but yours, sonny.”

“I’m not waiting another minute,” Pantaleón Pantoja tears off his shirt, drops his pants, takes off his shoes and socks, sinks down. “Close the cabin door, come here. Little pinches, little nibbles.”

“Jesus, you’re inexhaustible, Pantita,” the Brazilian bolts the door, strips, climbs on the bunk, sways. “You alone give me more work than a regiment. What a surprise you’ve been to me. The first time I saw you I thought you’d never cheated on your wife.”

“And it was true, but now be quiet,” Pantita gasps, leans, rises, falls, enters, leaves, returns, chokes up. “I’ve told you I’m distracting myself, damn it. On the ear lobe, on the ear lobe.”

“Know you can get TB sinking birdies so much?” the Brazilian laughs, moves, becomes bored, looks at her fingernails, stops, squats, hurries up. “It’s true; lately you’re skinnier than an eel. But that doesn’t stop you. You’re hotter every time. Yeah, I know, I’ll shut up. O.K., on the ear lobe.”

“Ohhhhh, at last, ohhhhh, that’s good,” Pantita explodes, pales, breathes, enjoys himself. “My heart’s about to pop out and I’m dizzy.”

“With all the reason in the world, Tiger, I don’t like to get the troops involved in police matters either,” General Scavino takes planes, crosses rivers in motorboats, inspects towns and encampments, demands details, sends messages. “That’s why I’ve put up with this thing until now. But the business in Dos de Mayo is enough to upset you. Did you read Colonel Dávila’s dispatch?”

“How many times a week, Pantita?” the Brazilian sits up, fills basins, washes and rinses off, dresses. “More than one specialist, that’s for sure. And when there are candidates, you might as well stop counting. With the habit you’ve picked up of—what do you call it?—professional inspection? How shrewd you are.”

“This’s work, not play,” Panta stretches, sits up on the bunk, gets his energy up, drags his feet into the bathroom, urinates. “Don’t laugh, it’s true. Besides, you’re the guilty party; you gave me the idea when I gave you your physical. It hadn’t occurred to me before. Think this fooling around’s easy?”

“Depends on the woman,” the Brazilian throws the sheet on the floor, inspects the mattress, scrubs it with a sponge, shakes it. “With a lot of them, your birdie won’t even stand up.”

“Course not; I eliminate them right away,” Pantaleón Pantoja lathers himself, dries off with toilet paper, pulls the chain. “The fairest way to choose the best ones. There’s no fooling the birdie.”

“We’re leaving now, the
Eve
’s begun to shake,” the Brazilian opens the porthole, moves the mattress so the sun will hit the wet part. “Come here, help me open the window, we’re suffocating, when are you going to buy a fan? And now don’t start feeling sorry, Pantita.”

“They crucified the old woman Ignacia Curdimbre Peláez in the little square in Dos de Mayo at midnight with 214 inhabitants of the town present,” Colonel Máximo Dávila dictates, revises, signs and dispatches his report. “Two policemen who attempted to dissuade the ‘brothers’ were given a terrible beating. According to the testimony, the old woman’s agony lasted until dawn. The worst part is what follows, General, sir. The people smeared their faces and bodies with blood from the cross and they even drank it. Now they’ve started to worship the victim. There are prayer cards of Santa Ignacia in circulation already.”

“I wasn’t like this,” Pantaleón Pantoja sits on the bunk, holds his head in his hands, remembers, laments. “I wasn’t like this, goddamn it, I wasn’t like this.”

“You’d never cheated on your faithful wife and you only dropped a birdie every fifteen days,” the Brazilian shakes out, washes, wrings, hangs up the sheet. “I know it all by heart, Panta. You came here and you wised up. But too much, sonny; you went to the other extreme.”

“At first I blamed the climate,” Pantaleón Pantoja puts on his shorts, undershirt, socks, shoes. “I thought the heat and humidity inflamed a man. But I’ve found out something really strange. This work’s to blame for what’s happening to my birdie.”

“You mean being so close to temptation?” the Brazilian feels her hips, looks at her breasts, grows vain. “That you learned to cheep-cheep from me? What a compliment, Panta.”

“You can’t understand it; even I can’t understand it,” Panta observes himself in the mirror, smoothes down his eyebrows, combs his hair. “It’s something very mysterious, something that’s never happened to anyone. A sense of the unhealthy obligation, same as a sickness. Because it’s not moral but biological, Corporal.”

“Or maybe you already see, Tiger, these fanatics are capable of anything,” General Scavino climbs into the jeep, crosses mud holes, officiates at funerals, consoles victims, instructs officers, speaks on the telephone. “This isn’t a matter of little groups. There are thousands of them. A couple of nights ago I went by the cross of the boy martyr in Moronacocha and I was astonished. There was a sea of people. Even soldiers in uniform.”

“You mean you have the desire all day long because of your sense of obligation?” the Brazilian remains petrified, her mouth open, she lets out a guffaw. “Look, Panta, I’ve known a lot of men, I have more experience in these things than you. I assure you no one’s birdie stands up just for the sake of duty.”

“I’m not like everybody, that’s my rotten luck. What happens to them doesn’t happen to me,” Pantaleón Pantoja drops the comb, loses himself in thought, thinks out loud. “As a boy I had less appetite than now. But no sooner did they give me my first assignment—rations for a regiment—than a ferocious appetite was awakened in me. I spent all day eating, reading recipes; I learned to cook. They changed my assignment and poof! goodbye, food. I started getting interested in tailoring, clothing, styles; the chief of barracks thought I was a queer. They’d put me in charge of the garrison’s uniforms—get it?”

“I hope they never put you in charge of a nut house, Panta; the first thing you’d do is go crazy,” the Brazilian points to the porthole. “Look at those devils, spying on us.”

“Get out of here, Sandra, Viruca,” Pantaleón Pantoja runs to the door, unbolts it, bellows, takes action. “A fine of fifty for each one, Freckle!”

“And what are the priests for, what do we pay chaplains for?” Tiger Collazos strides around his office, examines balance sheets, adds, subtracts, becomes indignant. “So they can scratch their bellies? How’s it possible for garrisons in the Amazon to be filling up with ‘brothers,’ Scavino?”

“Don’t stick out your body so far, Panta,” the Brazilian grabs him by the shoulders, brings him back into the cabin, closes the door. “Have you forgotten you’re half naked?”

“Me forget you?” Captain Alberto Mendoza elbows aside the sailors and the soldiers, jumps aboard, opens his arms. “How could you think that, pal? Come over here and let me shake your hand. After so many years, Panta.”

“What a pleasure, Alberto,” Captain Pantoja claps, disembarks, shakes officers’ hands, responds to the salutes of subofficers and soldiers. “You’re just the same, the years haven’t changed you.”

“Let’s have a drink at the officers’ mess,” Captain Mendoza grabs him by the arm, leads him across the post, pushes open a screen door, chooses a table under the fan. “Don’t worry about the fucking. Everything’s ready and here it always goes like clock-work. Alférez, you take charge of everything and tell us when the party’s over. So while the soldiers are getting their rocks off, we can have a few beers. Great to see you again, Panta.”

“Listen, Alberto, now I remember,” Captain Pantoja watches through the window the specialists entering the provisions storehouse, the lines of soldiers, the controllers who are taking up their positions. “I don’t know whether you know that that specialist, the one they say…ahh…”

“The Brazilian. I know; for her only ten, according to the book. Think I don’t read your instructions?” Captain Mendoza feints a jab at him, orders, opens bottles, fills the glasses, makes a toast. “Beer for you, too? Two, really cold. But it’s absurd, Panta. If you like that woman and their screwing her bugs you, why not give her full exemption from service? What are you the boss for if not for that?”