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  “As for me, I could live here in the hotel for the rest of my life,” Pochita is lying on her back on the bed, stretching out. “They do everything for you. You don’t have to worry about anything.”

  “And would it be right to have Cadet Pantoja in a cheap hotel?” Panta is taking off his tie, his shirt.

  “Cadet Pantoja?” Pochita opens her eyes, unbuttons her blouse, leans an elbow on the pillow. “Really? Can we take care of that now?”

  “Didn’t I promise you we would once I got my third stripe?” Panta shakes his trousers, folds and hangs them up. “He’ll come from Loreto—how does that strike you?”

  “Great, Panta,” Pochita is laughing, clapping, bouncing up and down on the mattress. “Whee, I’m happy—the little cadet, Pantita Junior.”

  “We have to take care of this right away,” Panta opens his hands, comes closer. “So he gets here soon. Come over here, babe—where are you running to?”

  “Hey, what’s wrong with you?” Pochita jumps from the bed, runs toward the bathroom. “Have you gone crazy?”

  “C’mon, c’mon, for Pantita’s sake,” Panta stumbles over a suitcase, knocks over a chair. “Let’s take care of it right now. C’mon, Pochita.”

  “But it’s eleven in the morning. We just got here,” Pochita spars, pulls back, shoves, gets mad. “Let go; your mother’s going to hear us, Panta.”

  “To break in Iquitos, to break in the hotel.” Pantita pants, fights, embraces, slips. “Come here, beautiful.”

  “Now you see what’s been gained by so many threats and dispatches,” General Scavino is brandishing a written communiqué covered with stamps and signatures. “You’re also to blame for this, Commander Beltrán. Look at what this guy’s beginning to organize in Iquitos.”

  “You’re going to tear my skirt,” Pochita hides behind the wardrobe, throws a pillow, begs for a truce. “Panta, I don’t recognize you. You’re always so…so formal; what’s happening to you? Let go—I’ll take it off myself.”

  “I wanted to cure a disease, not cause one,” Commander Beltrán reads and rereads General Scavino’s flushed face. “I never imagined the medicine would be worse than the sickness, General. Unthinkable, terrible. Are you going to permit this atrocity?”

  “The bra, the stockings,” Pantita perspires, throws himself down, leans back, stretches out. “Tiger was right: in this humidity, you breathe fire, your blood boils. C’mon, nibble me where I like it. The ear, Pocha.”

  “I’m embarrassed in the daytime, Panta,” Pochita complains, wraps herself in the bedspread, sighs. “You’re going to fall asleep. Don’t you have to be at headquarters at three? You always do.”

  “I’ll take a shower,” Pantita kneels, bends over, straightens up. “Don’t talk to me, don’t distract me. Nibble my ear. Like that, just like that. Ahh, I already feel like I’m coming. Oh, babe, I can’t tell who I am.”

  “I know very well who you are and why you’ve come to Iquitos,” mutters General Roger Scavino. “And straight off I’ll tell you that your presence in this city doesn’t please me one bit. Let’s get things clear from the start, Captain.”

  “Excuse me, General,” Captain Pantoja stammers. “There must be some misunderstanding.”

  “I’m not in favor of this Special Service you’ve come to organize,” General Scavino moves his bald head nearer the fan and closes his eyes for a moment. “I was opposed from the beginning and I still think it’s an outrage.”

  “And above all, an unspeakable act of immorality,” Father Beltrán is fanning himself furiously.

  “The commander and I have kept silent because our superiors are the ones who give the orders,” General Scavino unfolds his handkerchief and wipes the sweat from his forehead, temples, neck. “But they haven’t convinced us, Captain.”

  “I didn’t have anything to do with this project, General,” Pantoja, motionless, perspires. “It was the surprise of my life when they told me about it, Father.”

  “Commander,” Father Beltrán corrects him. “Can’t you count stripes?”

  “Excuse me, Commander,” Pantoja lightly clicks his heels. “I didn’t have anything to do with it, I promise you.”

  “Aren’t you one of the brains in the quartermaster unit who thought up this nonsense?” General Scavino grabs the fan, puts it in front of his face, his skull, and clears his throat. “Anyway, there are some things that have to be understood from the start. There’s no way I can stop this from happening, but I’ll see to it that this touches the armed forces as little as possible. No one is going to spoil the image the Army has won for itself in Loreto since I’ve been in charge of the Fifth Region.”

  “That’s what I want too,” Pantoja is looking over the general’s shoulder at the muddy water of the river, at a barge filled with bananas, at the blue sky, at the fiery sun. “I’m ready to do what I can.”

  “Because if the news leaked, there’d be an ugly mess,” General Scavino raises his voice, stands up, rests his hands on the window sill. “The strategists in Lima calmly plan dirty tricks at their desks, because it’s General Scavino who’ll have to weather the storm if the thing becomes public.”

  “I agree with you, you have to believe me,” Captain Pantoja sweats, sees the sleeves of his uniform getting wet, implores. “I never would’ve asked for this assignment. It’s something so different from my usual work, I don’t even know if I’ll be able to carry it out.”

  “Your father and your mother came together on wood to make you, and the woman who carried you struggled and opened her legs to give birth to you on wood,” Brother Francisco is screeching and thundering up there in the darkness. “The wood felt HIS body, grew red with HIS blood, received HIS tears, grew moist with HIS sweat. The wood is sacred, the plank brings health. Sisters! Brothers! Open your arms to me!”

  “Dozens of people will march through that door. This office will be filled with protests, with signed documents, with anonymous letters,” Father Beltrán gets agitated, takes a few steps, comes back, opens and shuts his fan. “All the Amazon District will raise the roof and think the mastermind of the scandal is General Scavino.”

  “I can already hear that demagogue Sinchi vomiting out his slander against me on the radio,” General Scavino turns, is suddenly disturbed.

  “My instructions are for the Special Service to function with the greatest secrecy,” Captain Pantoja dares to take off his kepi, to rub a handkerchief across his forehead, to wipe his eyes. “I’ll keep those orders very much in mind at every moment, General.”

  “And what the hell could I invent to placate the people?” General Scavino shouts, goes around the desk. “Have they given any thought in Lima to the role I’ll have to play?”

  “If you’d rather, I can ask for my transfer today,” Captain Pantoja grows pale. “To prove to you that I have no interest in the Special Service.”

  “What a euphemism these geniuses have thought up,” Father Beltrán taps his heels, his back turned, looking at the glistening river, the cabañas, the level stretch of trees. “Special Service…Special Service.”

  “Nothing doing with transfers; they’d send me another officer in a week,” General Scavino sits down again, fans himself, wiping his bald pate. “It’s up to you whether this hurts the Army or not. You’ve got a responsibility on your shoulders as big as a volcano.”

  “You can sleep peacefully, General,” Captain Pantoja stiffens, throws back his shoulders, looks straight ahead. “The Army is what I respect and love most in life.”

  “The best way you can serve it now is to keep far away from it,” General Scavino softens his tone and attempts a friendly expression. “While you’re in command of that Service, at least.”

  “I’m sorry,” blinks Captain Pantoja. “What are you saying?”

  “I don’t want you ever to set foot in the quartermaster’s or in the barracks at Iquitos,” General Scavino turns the palms and backs of his hands to the humming, invisible blades of the fan. “You’re excused from a
ttending all official functions, parades, Te Deums. Also from wearing a uniform. You’ll dress only in civilian clothes.”

  “I even have to come to work in mufti?” Captain Pantoja continues to blink.

  “Your work is going to be very far away from the quartermaster’s,” observes General Scavino with misgiving, with consternation, with piety. “Don’t be naïve, man. Do you think that I’d be able to open an office for you here—for the traffic you’re going to organize? I’ve arranged for a depot on the outskirts of Iquitos, by the river. Always dress as a civilian. No one must find out that that place has any connection with the Army. Understand?”

  “Yes, General,” the astonished Captain Pantoja is nodding. “Only…well, I wasn’t expecting anything like this. It’s going to be—I don’t know—like changing my personality.”

  “Remember that you’ve been assigned to the Intelligence Service”—Commander Beltrán comes away from the window, approaches him, gives him a benevolent smile—”and that your life depends on your ability to go unnoticed.”

  “I’ll try to adapt, General,” stammers Captain Pantoja.

  “Nor is it advisable for you to live on the army base, so go look for a small house in the city,” General Scavino is mopping a handkerchief over his eyebrows, ears, lips and nose. “And I want you to have no relations with the officers.”

  “You mean friendly relations, General?” Captain Pantoja chokes.

  “They’re not going to be amorous,” Father Beltrán laughs or grunts or chokes.

  “I know it’s difficult, that it’s going to be hard on you,” General Scavino agrees in a friendly way. “But there’s no other way, Pantoja. Your mission will place you in contact with all kinds of people in the Amazon District. The only way to avoid any reflection on the Army is by sacrificing you.”

  “In short, I must conceal my position as an officer,” Captain Pantoja sees in the distance a naked boy climbing a tree, a lame pink heron, a horizon of burning underbrush. “Dress as a civilian, mix with civilians, work as a civilian.”

  “But always think as an officer,” General Scavino is banging on the table. “I’ve appointed a lieutenant who will serve as a liaison between us. You’ll see each other once a week and through him you’ll give me an account of your activities.”

  “Don’t worry at all. I’ll be quiet as a tomb,” Lieutenant Bacacorzo raises the glass of beer and toasts the other’s health. “I’m on top of it all, Captain. Is it all right if we meet on Tuesdays? I thought the meeting place should always be bars and brothels. You’ll have to hang out a lot in those places now, won’t you?”

  “He made me feel like a delinquent, some kind of leper,” Captain Pantoja is examining the stuffed monkeys, parrots and birds, the men who drink standing at the bar. “How the hell am I going to start working if even General Scavino is sabotaging me? If my own superior starts out by discouraging me, by asking me to disguise myself, by not letting me be seen.”

  “You went to headquarters so happy and you come home again with that dumb face on,” Pochita stands on tiptoe and kisses him on the cheek. “What happened, Panta? Did you get there late and get hollered at by General Scavino?”

  “I’ll help you as much as I can, Captain,” Lieutenant Bacacorzo offers him potato chips. “I’m not an expert, but I’ll do what I can. Don’t complain; a lot of officers would give anything to be in your shoes. Think what freedom you’re going to have. You’ll choose your own hours, your own schedule. Besides all the other tidbits—eh, Captain?”

  “We are going to live here, in this ugly place?” Mother Leonor is looking at the peeling walls, the dirty floors, the cobwebs on the ceiling. “Why didn’t they give you one of those pretty houses on the army base? Once again, Panta, you’re not enough of a man.”

  “Don’t think I’m becoming a defeatist, Bacacorzo; it’s just that I’m really at a loss,” Captain Pantoja tastes, chews, swallows, mumbles delicious. “I’m a good administrator, sure. But they’ve taken me out of my depth and now I don’t know my ass from a hole in the ground.”

  “Did you take a look at your center of operations yet?” Lieutenant Bacacorzo is filling the glasses again. “General Scavino has sent around an order: no officer in Iquitos can go near that warehouse on the Itaya River, under penalty of thirty days hard labor.”

  “Not yet. I’ll go tomorrow, early,” Captain Pantoja drinks, wipes his mouth, holds back a burp. “Because let’s be frank: to do this the way they’re asking, you’d need some experience in the business. Know the night world, have been a little wild.”

  “Are you going to the quartermaster’s like that, Panta?” Pochita comes near him, touches the sleeveless shirt, sniffs at the blue pants, the little jockey cap. “What about your uniform?”

  “Unfortunately, that’s not my case,” Captain Pantoja grows sad, sketches an embarrassed gesture. “I never was wild. Not even when I was a kid.”

  “We can’t get together with the officers’ families?” Mother Leonor flourishes the feather duster, the broom, a bucket, dusts, cleans, scrubs, becomes frightened. “We have to live as if we’re civilians?”

  “Just think—when I was a cadet, I chose to stay in school studying on the days when we had leave,” Captain Pantoja is remembering nostalgically. “Grinding away at math, most of all, is what I like best. I never went out to parties. Though maybe it sounds like a story to you, I only learned the easiest dances: the bolero and the waltz.”

  “Not even the neighbors can know you’re a captain?” Pochita wipes windows, scrubs floors, paints walls, gets scared.

  “So what’s happening to me is awful,” Pantoja looks around distrustfully, speaks into the man’s ear. “How can someone who’s never had any contact with ‘specialists’ like them organize a Special Service, Bacacorzo?”

  “A special assignment?” Pochita waxes doors, papers cupboards, hangs paintings. “You’re going to work in the Intelligence Service? Well, now I’m beginning to get all the mystery, Panta.”

  “I picture the thousands of soldiers who are waiting, who are counting on me,” Captain Pantoja examines the bottles, gets emotional, dreams. “Who tick off days and think they’re already on their way, they’re going to get here, and my hair stands up on end, Bacacorzo.”

  “I don’t give a damn about military secrets,” Mother Leonor puts closets in order, sews curtains, dusts screens, plugs in lamps. “Secrets from your mother? Tell me, tell me.”

  “I don’t want to cheat them,” Captain Pantoja is getting upset. “But where am I going to start?”

  “If you don’t tell me, you’re going to wind up being sorry,” Pochita makes beds, puts down throw rugs, varnishes furniture, arranges glasses, plates and napkins in the cabinet. “No more little pinches wherever you like, no more nips on the ear. You choose, sonny boy.”

  “To start with, Captain”—Lieutenant Bacacorzo cheers him on with a smile and a toast—”if the Special Service doesn’t come to Captain Pantoja, Captain Pantoja must go to them. It’s the simplest way, it seems to me.”

  “As a spy, Panta?” Pochita rubs her hands together, looks around the room, mutters how much we’ve improved this pig sty—right, Mother Leonor? “Like in the movies? Oh, sweetheart, how exciting.”

  “Take a little stroll this evening through the red-light districts of Iquitos,” Lieutenant Bacacorzo scribbles addresses on the napkin. “The Mau Mau, the 007, The One-Eyed Cat, the Little San Juan. To familiarize yourself with the atmosphere. I’d be happy to go with you, but Scavino’s instructions are final, you know.”

  “Where are you going in that outfit?” Mother Leonor answers yes, no one would recognize it, Pochita; we should get a prize. “My God, how dressed up you are. A tie, even. You’re going to roast in this heat. A top-level meeting? At night? How funny that you’re a secret agent, Panta. Yes, I know. Shh, shh—I’ll be quiet.”

  “Ask in any of those places for Chino Porfirio,” Lieutenant Bacacorzo folds the napkin and puts it in his pocket. “He’s
someone who can help you. He procures ‘washerwomen’ at home. You know what they are, don’t you?”

  “For this reason HE did not die by drowning, by burning, by hanging or by flogging,” Brother Francisco is moaning and shouting above the sputtering of the torches and the murmuring of the prayers. “For this reason HE was nailed to a piece of wood, for this reason HE chose the cross. Let him who wants to listen, listen; let him who wants to understand, understand. Sisters! Brothers! Beat your breast three times for me!”

  “Ahem…I mean hello,” Pantaleón Pantoja blows his nose, sits on the stool, leans on the bar. “Yeah, a beer, please. I just got to Iquitos, I’m taking a look around town. They call this place the Mau Mau? Oh, because of the arrows, the totems. I get it now.”

  “Here you go, ice cold,” the bartender serves the beer, dries the glass, points to the dance floor. “Almost nobody’s here ’cause it’s Monday.”

  “Uh, I want to find out something…umm, ah”—Pantaleón Pantoja clears his throat—“if it’s possible. Just for the information.”

  “Where can you find chicks?” The bartender makes a circle with his thumb and index finger. “Right here, but today they all went to hear Brother Francisco, the saint of the cross. They say he came all the way from Brazil on foot and that he can perform miracles. But look who’s coming in. Hey, Porfirio, over here. I want to introduce you to this gentleman. He’s interested in a little tourist information.”

  “Blothels and dames?” Chino Porfirio winks at him, bows, shakes his hand. “Of coulse, mistel. With pleasule; I tell you what’s goin’ on in two minutes. It not goin’ to cost you much mole than a beel. Cheap, light?”

  “Glad to meet you,” Pantaleón Pantoja motions him to sit down on the next stool. “Yeah, sure, a beer. Now don’t get the wrong idea—I don’t have any personal interest in this myself, just a technical one.”

  “Technical?” The bartender turns up his nose. “You’re no stool pigeon, are you, mister?”