So like I was telling you, Mr. Pantoja never forgave me for running away with poor Teófilo. He hasn’t let me come back to Pantiland, no matter how much I begged him, and I guess now, after what I’ve told you, that’s the end of it forever. But you gotta live, right, Sinchi? ’Cause another of Mr. Pan-Pan’s taboos is talking about Pantiland. To nobody, not to family or friends, and if they ask you, deny it exists. Isn’t that another crazy thing? As if even the rocks in Iquitos didn’t know what Pantiland is and who the specialists are. But what d’ya want, Sinchi? Each to his own craziness, and Mr. Pantoja has more than enough of that. No, it’s not true what you said once, that he runs Pantiland with a whip, like a slave driver. You have to be fair. He’s got everything so well organized—another craziness of his is order. All of us used to say this seems like a barracks, not a brothel. He makes us line up in formation, call roll, you have to be still and silent when he speaks. The only things we didn’t have were reveille and they didn’t make us march, thank God. But really, that craziness was funny and we put up with it because in everything else he was a fair and good person. Only when he flipped, fell in love—he got hung up on the Brazilian—the unfair favoritism started; for example, he made them give her the only private cabin on the Eve for the trips. She has him under her thumb, I swear to you. Listen, are you going to put this on too? You better erase it, I don’t want any trouble with the Brazilian—she’s half witch and might give me the evil eye. Besides, she’s already got a pair of corpses behind her, don’t forget. Erase what I said about her and Mr. Pantoja. When all’s said and done, every guy’s got the right to fall head over heels in love with whoever pleases him most, and the same for every woman too, don’t you think? I think Mr. Pantoja would’ve forgiven me my running away with Teófilo if I hadn’t written that letter to his wife—and I didn’t even write it, I dictated it to my cousin Rosita, the teacher. I really put my foot in my mouth and that’s why I got into trouble, Sinchi, I put the knife in my own back. What d’ya want—I was desperate, dying of hunger, I would’ve done anything to get Mr. Pan-Pan to put me under contract again. And I wanted to help Teófilo too; they had him starving in a jail in Borja. It’s true Rosita warned me: “You’re doing a crazy thing, Maclovia.” But at the last minute it didn’t look that way to me. It occurred to me I could touch his wife’s heartstrings, that she’d sympathize, she’d speak to her husband and Mr. Pantoja would let me in again. It’s the only time I saw him so furious; he looked like he was going to kill me. Fool that I was, thinking his wife would’ve interceded, that it’d already be smoothed over, I went to see him in Pantiland, sure he was going to tell me I forgive you, a fine, a physical examination and you’re in again. The only thing he didn’t do, Sinchi, was take out a gun. He even said filthy things to me, him who’s not used to using bad words. His eyes were red, he was losing his voice, foaming at the mouth. That I’d destroyed his marriage, that I had stabbed his wife in the heart, that his mother had passed out. I had to leave Pantiland running ’cause I thought he was going to beat me. But poor him, too—right, Sinchi? His wife didn’t know nothin’ about nothin’. Mr. Pan-Pan’s story came out in the open with my letter. Boy, did I put my foot in my mouth, but I’m no fortuneteller—how could I think his wife was so innocent she didn’t know what her husband was up to to bring home the bacon. There’re simple people in this world, aren’t there? It seems his wife left him and took their little girl to Lima. Look at what a row broke out on my account. And so here I am again a “washerwoman.” Snotnose didn’t want me back ’cause I left him to go to Pantiland. He’s laid down this law so’s he won’t be left by the women in his houses: the woman who goes to work for Mr. Pan-Pan never returns again to Snotnose’s brothels. So here I am again like at the beginning, walking up and down, not even able to pay a pimp. Everything’d be O.K. if on top of everything I hadn’t gotten varicose veins. Look at my legs—did you ever see anything more swollen, Sinchi? And in spite of the heat I have to go around with thick stockings on so they don’t see my veins standing out; if I didn’t, I’d never pick up a customer. Well, I don’t know what else to tell you, Sinchi, that’s my story….
Well, then, very good, Maclovia, that’s right. On behalf of the listeners to The Voice of Sinchi, over Radio Amazon, who, we’re sure, understand your tragedy and pity your bad luck, we thank you for your frankness and spontaneity. We are very grateful to you for your testimony denouncing the scabrous activities of the Bluebeard of the Itaya River, even though we may not agree with you that all your calamities come from having left Pantiland. We think that the lurid Mr. Pantoja did you great service when he let you go, giving you—of course, without intending to—the opportunity to rehabilitate yourself and to return to an honorable and normal life, which we hope you desire and achieve soon. Good afternoon, Maclovia.
[A few arpeggios. Commercials on record and tape: 30 seconds. A few arpeggios.]
The last words of this unfortunate woman whose testimony we have just brought to your ears, dear listeners—I’m referring to ex-specialist Maclovia—have dramatically put a finger on the sore spot of a tragic and painful matter which she pictures better than a photograph or a Technicolor movie—the peculiarities of the person who displays on his record the black deed of having created in Iquitos the most unsuspected and populous house of ill repute in the country and perhaps in all Latin America. Because, in fact, it is established and credible that Mr. Pantaleón Pantoja has a family, or better said, that he had one, and that he has been leading a double life, submerged on the one hand in the pestilential swamp of sexual commerce, and on the other, feigning a dignified and respectable home life under the protection of the ignorance in which he kept loved ones—his wife and their little daughter—concerning his real and filthy activities. But one day the light of truth entered his unhappy home and his wife’s ignorance gave way to shock, to shame, and with every justification, to anger. Then, with dignity, with all the nobility of a mother offended, of a wife deceived in her most sacred honor, this upright lady determined to abandon that hearth tainted by scandal. At Lieutenant Bergerí Airport in Iquitos, in order to bear witness to her pain and to accompany her right to the stairway leading up to the modern Faucett seaplane that would carry her off through the air of our beloved city, The Voice of Sinchi was THERE!
[A few arpeggios, sound of airplane engine that rises, falls and remains as a background sound.]
“Good afternoon, madam. You’re Mrs. Pantoja, aren’t you? Delighted to meet you.”
“Yes, I am. Who are you? And what’s that you have in your hand? Gladys, child, be quiet, you’re ruining my nerves. Alicia, give the baby her pacifier and see if that will quiet her.”
“The Voice of Sinchi, from Radio Amazon, at your service, madam. Will you allow me to steal a few seconds of your precious time for a very short interview?”
“An interview? Me? But about what?”
“About your husband, madam. About the illustrious and renowned Pantaleón Pantoja.”
“Go and interview him, sir. I don’t want to know anything about that person or his reputation, which makes me laugh, or about this loathsome city I hope I never see again, not even in a painting. Please, do me one little favor. Get away from here, sir—don’t you see you could step on the baby?”
“I understand your pain, madam, and our listeners understand it, and you should know that you can count on all our sympathy. We know that only your suffering could drive you to refer in this offensive way to the Pearl of the Amazon, which hasn’t done anything to you. Rather, it’s your husband who’s doing this area so much harm.”
“Forgive me, Alicita, I know you’re from Loreto, but I swear to you I’ve suffered so much in this city that I hate it with all my heart and I’ll never come back, you’ll have to come see me in Chiclayo. Look, my eyes are filling up with tears again in front of everybody. Oh, Alicia, how embarrassing!”
“Don’t cry, Pochita dear, don’t cry, be strong. And me, idiot that I am, I didn’t even bring a ha
ndkerchief along. Give me—hand me little Gladys, I’ll take her for you.”
“Allow me to offer you my handkerchief, madam. Here, please, I beg you. Don’t be ashamed of crying. Weeping is to a lady what dew is to flowers, Mrs. Pantoja.”
“But what are you still here for? Alicia, isn’t this guy annoying? Didn’t I tell you I wasn’t going to give any information about my husband? And what’s more, he won’t be my husband for much longer. I swear to you, Alicia, once I get to Lima I’m going to see a lawyer and I’ll start divorce proceedings. We’ll see if they don’t give me custody of little Gladys, with the filthy mess that miserable man is making here.”
“It was exactly about that that we dared hope for a statement, however brief, from you, Mrs. Pantoja. Because you are not unaware, apparently, of the irregular business that—”
“Get out of here, get out of here once and for all if you don’t want me to call the police. I’m getting fed up with you. I’m warning you, I’m in no mood to put up with rudeness right now.”
“You better not insult him, Pochita. If he attacks you on his program, what are the people going to say? More nasty talk. Please, sir, understand her: she’s humiliated, she’s leaving Iquitos, she doesn’t feel up to talking on radio about her difficulties. You must understand.”
“Of course we understand that, my dear lady. We are aware that Mrs. Pantoja has gotten ready to leave due to the uncommendable activities to which Mr. Pantoja dedicates himself in this city and which have deserved the citizens’ energetic censure. We—”
“Oh, how embarrassing, Alicia. If everybody’s found out, if everybody except me knew it, what a fool I am, what a dumbbell! I hate that louse, how could he have done this to me? I’ll never speak to him again, I promise you; I won’t let him see little Gladys so he can’t smear her.”
“Pocha, calm down. Look, they’re already calling you, your plane’s leaving. What a shame you’re going, Pochita. But you’re right, dear, that man has behaved so bad he doesn’t deserve to live with you. Little Gladys, sweetie, give your Aunt Alicia a kissy-kissy.”
“I’ll write you once I get there, Alicia. Thanks so much for everything. I don’t know what I’d have done without you, crying on your shoulder these awful weeks. Remember: you’re not going to say anything to Panta or to Mother Leonor for two or three hours, so they don’t call by radio and make the plane turn back. Ciao, Alicia, bye-bye.”
“Have a good trip, Mrs. Pantoja. Depart with the best wishes of our listeners and with our generous understanding of your tragedy, which is also, in a way, the tragedy of all of us and of our beloved city.”
[A few arpeggios. Commercials on record and tape: 30 seconds. A few arpeggios.]
And in view of the fact that the Movado clock in our studio indicates that it’s already 6:30 P.M., we must close our show with this impressive radio document that makes clear how the master of Pantiland has not hesitated in his dismal odyssey to bring pain and grief to his own family, in the same way he is bringing them to our land, whose only crime has been to welcome him and show him hospitality. And a very good afternoon, dear listeners. You have been listening to…
[Bars of the waltz “La Contamanina” rise, fall and continue in the background.]
The Voice Of Sinchi!
[Bars of the waltz “La Contamanina” rise, fall and continue in the background.]
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.
[Bars of the waltz “La Contamanina” rise, fall and are cut completely.]
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.