B004L2LMEG EBOK (5 page)

Night of August 16–17, 1956

Under a blazing sun, the bugle for reveille begins the day in the barracks of Chiclayo: buzzing commotion in the barracks, shouts of joy in the yards, cottony smoke from the kitchen chimneys. In a few seconds everybody has awakened and everywhere there reigns a warm, benevolent, stimulating atmosphere of alert readiness and lively abundance. But, meticulous, uncorruptible, punctual, Lieutenant Pantoja is crossing the open area—the taste of coffee with boiled goat’s milk and toast with preserved eggfruit still in his mouth—where the band practices for the National Holidays parade. The columns of one company are marching up and down in straight lines and high spirits. But, rigid, Lieutenant Pantoja is now overseeing the distribution of breakfast to the soldiers: his lips are silently counting and, prophetically, when he mutely reaches 120, the mess sergeant serves the last drop of coffee and hands out piece of bread number 120 as well as the 120th orange. But now Lieutenant Pantoja, standing still as a statue, watches how some soldiers are unloading sacks of provisions from the truck: his fingers follow the rhythm of the unloading like a conductor following the measures of a symphony. Behind him, a firm voice, with an almost imperceptibly masculine depth to it that only an ear as sharp as a scalpel could detect, Colonel Montes paternally asserts: “Better food than Chiclayo’s? Gentlemen, neither the Chinese nor the French have anything to compare with seventeen varieties of duck with rice.” But now Lieutenant Pantoja is carefully tasting the contents of the kitchen kettles without moving one facial muscle. The mulatto Chanfaina, the head cook, has his eyes fixed on the officer, and the sweat on his forehead and the quivering of his lips reveal anxiety and panic. But now Lieutenant Pantoja, in the same meticulous and inexpressive way, is examining the clothes the laundry returned, which two privates are stuffing into plastic bags. But now, in reverent gestures, Lieutenant Pantoja is presiding over the distribution of boots to the recently weighed-in recruits. But now Lieutenant Pantoja, with an expression—yes, now he is animated and almost loving—is pinning little flags onto some charts, correcting the statistical curves on a blackboard, adding a figure to a logistics chart. The company band is playing a lively folk dance.

A humid nostalgia has saturated the air, clouded the sun, silenced the bugles, the cymbals and the bass drum—a sensation of water trickling between the fingers, of spit swallowing up the sand, of burning lips that turn gangrenous when they brush a cheek—a feeling of a balloon that has burst, of a movie that has ended, of a sadness that is suddenly frightening: hear how the trumpet (for reveille? for mess? for taps?) again tears the warm air (of morning? of afternoon? of night?). But now a growing tingling has sprouted in his right ear and rapidly spreads throughout the entire lobe and then infects his neck, encircles it and scales his left ear: deep within, it too has started to tremble—shaking its invisible fuzz, opening its innumerable thirsty pores in search of, asking for…and now the disobedient nostalgia, the fierce melancholy, have been replaced by a secret fever, a diffuse apprehension, an uneasiness that takes a pyramidal shape like a meringue, a corrosive fear. But Lieutenant Pantoja’s face does not reveal it; one by one he scrutinizes the soldiers who are getting ready to enter the clothing storeroom in an orderly manner. But something provokes discreet laughter from those parade uniforms looking down from way up there, where the roof of the storeroom ought to be but where the reviewing stand of the National Holidays is instead. Is Colonel Montes present? Yes. Tiger Collazos? Yes. General Victoria? Yes. Colonel López López? Yes. They have begun to smile timidly, concealing their mouths with their maroon leather gloves, turning their heads a little to one side, whispering? But Lieutenant Pantoja knows how, what, why. He does not want to look at the soldiers who await the whistle to enter, collect their new clothes and turn in the old, because he suspects, knows or guesses that when he looks, confirms and positively knows, Mother Leonor will know and Pochita will too. But his eyes suddenly switch their look and examine the military formation: ha ha, how funny—oh, what a disgrace. Yes, that’s how it happened. As thick as blood, the anguish flows under his skin. While he watches, a prisoner of icy terror, fighting to hide his feelings, he looks at how they’re done up, they’re filling out the recruits’ uniforms in the chest, in the shoulders, in the hips, in the thighs, their hair is flowing from under their caps, their features have grown smooth, sweet and blushing, the masculine stares grow tender, ironic and mischievous. The panic has been replaced by rebellious and sarcastic ridicule. He makes the abrupt decision to put all his eggs in one basket, and sticking his chest out a little, he orders: “Unbutton your shirts, damn it!” But already they are passing under his eyes, the buttons undone, the buttonholes empty, the backstitched edges of their shirts swaying, the flitting, erect nipples of the recruits, the wobbling and alabaster, the delicate and earthy breasts swinging to the beat of the march. But Lieutenant Pantoja is already leading the company, his sword raised, his profile severe, his forehead noble, his eyes clear, stamping the asphalt decisively: one-two, one-two. No one knows how he curses his luck. His suffering is profound, his humiliation great, his shame infinite because behind him, marking time without any martial rhythm, blandly, like mares in the mud, come the recently inducted recruits, who did not know enough to bind their breasts, to wear deceptive shirts, to trim their hair to the five centimeters prescribed by regulations and to cut their nails. He senses them marching behind him and guesses they are not trying to imitate masculine expressions; they are aggressively exhibiting their feminine qualities: they stick out their busts, grind their hips, wiggle their backsides and shake their long hair. (A shudder: he is about to pee in his pants. Mother Leonor would find out when she irons his uniform, Pochita would laugh when she sews on his new stripe.) But now it is necessary to concentrate chicken-heartedly on the parade because they are crossing in front of the reviewing stand. Tiger Collazos remains solemn, General Victoria hides a yawn, Colonel López López assents understandably and even gaily. The poison would not be so hard to swallow if, off in one corner, rebuking him with sadness, anger and disappointment, there were not also the gray eyes of General Scavino.

Now it does not matter so much to him anymore: the ticking in the ears has flared up violently and he, ready to risk everything, orders the company: “On the double! March!” and sets the example. He moves at a rapid and harmonious cadence, followed by soft, warm and inviting footsteps, while he feels a warmness up and down his spine like the steam from a pot of duck and rice just taken off the stove. But now Lieutenant Pantoja has stopped dead in his tracks, with the disorderly company right behind him. With a slight blush on his cheeks, he makes a rather unclear gesture, which, nevertheless, everyone understands. The machinery has been set in motion, the awaited ceremony has begun. The first section marches in front of him and it is annoying that the standard-bearer, Porfirio Wong, wears his uniform so sloppily. He manages to think: “He’ll need a reprimand and training in the use of uniforms,” but the recruits have already begun, while passing in front of him—as he stands motionless and expressionless—to unbutton their jackets rapidly, to show their hot breasts, to stretch out their hands to lovingly pinch his neck, ear lobes, upper lip, and then, advancing—one after another, one after another—his head (he makes it easy for them by bending), to enticingly nibble the tips of his ears. Sensations of eager pleasure, of animal satisfaction, of maddening and far-reaching happiness, erase the fear, the nostalgia, the ridicule, while the recruits pinch, caress and nibble Lieutenant Pantoja’s ears. But among the recruits, some familiar faces blow cold gusts over his happiness, stabbing him with uneasiness: unhorsed and grotesque in her uniform, Leonor Curinchila passes by, and hoisting the standard with the quartermaster’s insignia, comes Freckle; and now, closing up the final section—anguish that gushes like a jet of oil and soaks Lieutenant Pantoja’s body and spirit—a still indistinct soldier: but he knows—the suffocating fear, the tormenting ridicule, the intoxicating melancholy have returned—that under the insignia, the cap, the baggy pants and thin drill shirt a very sad Pochita is sobbing. The bugle sounds loudly and Mother Leonor is whispering to him: “Pantita, your duck and rice is ready.”

S S G F R I

Dispatch Number Two

The undersigned, Capt. (Quartermaster) Pantaleón Pantoja, PA, officer in charge of the SSGFRI, respectfully presents himself to Gen. Felipe Collazos, Chief of Administration, Supply and Logistics of the Army, salutes him and reports:

1. (a) That in Dispatch Number 1, of 12 August, in the section relating to the number of women the SSGFRI would require in order to meet the demand for 104,712 monthly services—a sum obtained by rough calculation of the first market estimate (permission is hereby requested of the administration to use this technical term)—the undersigned calculated that number to be “a permanent corps of 2,115 specialists in the maximum category [20 daily services], working full time and without accident.”

(b) That this calculation suffers from a grave error—for which the only person responsible is the undersigned—due to a masculine view of duty that inexcusably caused him to forget certain personal problems of the female sex, said problems demanding in this instance clear correction of the estimate, unfortunately with an unfavorable result for the SSGFRI. Thus the undersigned forgot to deduct from the specialists’ number of workdays the five or six days per month when they are menstruating (“that time of month” or “period”), during which time they can be considered incapacitated to offer their services—as much because of the widespread masculine custom of not having carnal relations with women during their menstruation as because of the myth, taboo or scientific anomaly, which is firmly rooted in this section of the country, that to have intimate contact with a bleeding woman produces impotence. All of which clearly invalidates the earlier estimate.

(c) That taking this factor into account and fixing an approximate monthly average of 22 functional days per specialist (excluding five for menstruation and only three Sundays, since it is not extravagant to suppose that one Sunday in each month will coincide with the menstrual cycle), the SSGFRI would require a staff of 2,271 specialists in the maximum category, operating full time and without accident—that is, 156 more than the earlier dispatch had incorrectly calculated.

2. (a) That he has proceeded to recruit his first civilian coworkers in the aforementioned persons of Dispatch Number 1: Porfirio Wong, alias the Chink; Leonor Curinchila, alias Chuchupe; and Juan Chupito Rivera, alias Freckle. (b) That the first of the aforementioned will receive a basic wage of 2,000 (two thousand) soles per month and a bonus of 300 (three hundred) soles for each field mission and will fulfill the duties of a recruiting officer (for which he has been prepared by his many dealings on behalf of women with a dissipated way of life—both in “houses” and as “washerwomen”) and chief of convoy in charge of the protection and control of the shipment of specialists to utilization centers.

(c) That the hiring of Leonor Curinchila and of the person living with her (which is Freckle’s connection to her) turned out to be easier than the undersigned had supposed when he proposed collaboration with the Special Service during their time off. Thus, with a friendly atmosphere of trust created on the second visit paid by the undersigned to Casa Chuchupe, the aforementioned Leonor Curinchila revealed to him that she was at the point of closing down and that she had been considering selling her establishment for some time. Not because of a lack of clientele, since the number of people visiting the premises increases daily, but due to weighty obligations of various kinds that inevitably siphoned off her income into protection by the police and the auxiliary forces. Thus, for example, in order to obtain annual renewal of her operating permit, for which she applies at Police Headquarters, Leonor Curinchila has to put up, in addition to legal fees, large sums in the form of gifts to the chiefs of Lenocinios and Bares districts. Beyond that, the members of the city’s Police Bureau of Investigation (PBI), who number more than thirty, as well as a large number of police officers, have taken to demanding free service at Casa Chuchupe, in regard to both alcoholic beverages and women, under threat of filing a report on the place accusing it of being a public nuisance, which is grounds for closing it at once. In addition to this persistent economic bleeding, Leonor Curinchila has had to resign herself to their geometrically raising the rent on her place (whose owner is none other than the chief of police) under penalty of eviction. And, finally, Leonor Curinchila found herself already worn out by the intense devotion and the feverish, irregular pace demanded by her work—bad nights, foul air, threat of quarrels, swindle and blackmail, lack of vacation or a day of rest on Sundays—without any of these sacrifices resulting in appreciable gains. For all these reasons she gladly accepted the offer to collaborate in the Special Service, taking upon herself the initiative for proposing not a contingent work schedule, but an exclusive and permanent one, and demonstrating great interest and enthusiasm when she was informed of the nature of the SSGFRI.