Part 1, The Capture

Napoleon said that women are only baby machines. George disagrees: they are also excellent machines for cooking and cleaning. He has abandoned his pregnant girlfriend in Georgia, and has run off to Honduras to escape child support. Once there, he repeats his actions with Susana, a young Honduran woman. Unfortunately for him, her father Don Pablo is looking for a demonstration subject for a grand project: to reform a man by re-forming him into someone else entirely. George would serve as the perfect subject, since he has already done his best to disappear. Over the course of two years, he will be reshaped, body and soul, into the very model of George's own ideal woman: a Honduran peasant girl who lives to serve others. If the project succeeds, George (to be known henceforth as Pansy-Ann) will ask to serve Susana as a simple maidservant, to assist in raising the child he gave her.

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January 1 -- At 1 AM George and Petunia were rudely aroused by a man bursting into their room. George sat up, caught in flagrante delicto. “ ¡Seá±orita Baca!  ¡Qué desgracia!” the intruder cried to Petunia. More men entered. “ ¡Agá¡rrenles!” the first ordered: “ ¡Seize them!”

“ ¡No!  ¡You have no right!” Petunia protested. George shouted, “Get out of here!”

The leader ignored him and replied coldly to Petunia, “Seá±orita, Don Pablo sent us to fetch you two. Your behavior is a scandal.” Seizing George’s arms, they hauled him out of bed wearing only his blue pajama top. His wrists were quickly tied behind his back.

“You can’t… I can’t go like this!” George cried.

“ ¿Cá³mo no?” his captor asked, grinning maliciously: “We take you like you found.” He allowed Petunia to dress in private, though, and she quickly donned her clothes without protest. She seemed cowed by the men, and George assumed she knew Don Pablo. Her passive acceptance of the intruders’ authority suggested that they were in serious trouble. In any case, they couldn’t resist.

The men tied his ankles, carried him to an ancient red Ford Fairlane, and stowed him in the back seat like a sack of meal. Petunia was pushed in after him. One man sat between them in the back; the others climbed into the front. The car started with a cough and a series of backfires, and they left. The lovers weren’t allowed to talk. One captor declared in Spanish that both should just have been killed. The driver said that Don Pablo had a better idea. George didn’t know what he had in mind, but he suspected it wasn’t pleasant. However, the men promised they wouldn’t be hurt if they didn’t struggle, and they kept their word.

Although the window was filthy and the night was pitch-black, George tried to observe where he was being taken. They left the hotel and sped through deserted commercial streets in the wee hours. Once out of the city center the car pulled over. Petunia and George began to protest again, but their captors paid no attention. “Aquá­ está¡ oscuro,” announced the driver. “Hector, Miguel, Paco, es el tiempo para adormecerles.” “Time for beddy-bye,” one of the men said as he held a cloth over George’s nose and mouth. A cloying odor assaulted him. He struggled as he heard Petunia cry out, but he was helpless and quickly fell into black oblivion.

The car drove back onto the street and threaded its way through a maze of residential back streets. Soon it reached a gated estate; the ornate gate swung wide and the car entered. At the rear of the building two green-coated attendants met the car with a gurney. “Here’s the norteamericano and his girlfriend,” the driver told the attendants. “Doctor Ibá¡á±ez is waiting for him. The girlfriend’s going to Las Rosas, to see Don Pablo.”

George went onto the gurney and into the building, where an attendant gave him an injection, noting “That’ll keep the bastard quiet a while” The gurney took George through an ornate hall, brightly lit by chandeliers held over from its days as the home of a wealthy planter. An elevator, seemingly out of place in the elegant ambiance, took him to another corridor, bare and antiseptic in contrast to the lower floor. His destination was a whitewashed room filled with shelves of equipment and bottles. Large machines adorned with dials, buttons, and switches stood along the walls. Doctor Ibá¡á±ez waited at an operating table, surrounded by assistants. He remarked, “ ¡At last, my prize subject!” and motioned to the attendant to shift George onto an operating table. “ ¿He had the temporary anesthetic?”

“Of course, Doctor.”

Ibá¡á±ez turned to an assistant. “Prepare him. This’ll take a long time.” While George was being hooked to the anesthetic and to monitors, Ibá¡á±ez walked to a sink, washed, and donned gloves and mask. A second doctor watched. Ibá¡á±ez told him, “Jesáºs, I’m glad you’re observing. Seá±or Deon will be a joint masterpiece–an irrefutable demonstration of the effectiveness of direct mental control. I’m aware of your misgivings, but remember, this man’s life is forfeit. If it weren’t for our work, he’d be dead. Or worse.”

Ibarra shrugged. “I know. I don’t really feel much sympathy for him. Very little. As you know, my objection is that we’re moving very fast. Too fast. Too much will be done; it’ll be difficult to isolate the mental and psychological effects of each procedure. Very difficult. Still, the opportunity is too good to pass up.  ¿Just what are you going to do?”

“He’s getting everything. It’s all tested on other subjects, but no one has ever received the full battery. I’d rather not have him under the knife more than needed, so I’m implanting all the hardware now. The chips will control many of his brain functions–sensations, emotions, and such–without his knowledge, and I’ll also be able to monitor brain activity. One last item: I’m implanting a miniaturized radio transponder in the bone of his skull. We’ll be able to monitor his position at any time.” He smiled: “A lot of the electronics is composed of biodegradable organics. In a couple years they’ll begin to disappear, resorbed by the body. In four years, they’ll be completely gone, with no trace left of our tampering.”

Ibarra nodded. “Yes, I see. And my methods complement yours. But I think the project is attempting to do too much. Far too much. The psychological effects of our own work will be hard enough to understand. With the added complication of drastic physical alterations to his body, separating causes and effects will be impossible. Also, the possibility of sickness or injury is a lot higher. Any physical trauma could ruin our study. Ruin it completely. If Seá±or Deon were to die, all our work would be wasted. Completely and unnecessarily wasted.”

The assistants completed the preparation. Ibá¡á±ez sighed and returned to the operating table. “I agree, Jesáºs, but the don insists–and as I told him, the successful metamorphosis of Seá±or Deon would certainly make our own task easier. I think it worth the risk. In any case, the plan is set.” Turning to George, he remarked, “Let’s begin.” He made his first incisions and began to peel skin from the surface of the skull.

Hours later, George had been sewn back up. Ibá¡á±ez sagged into a chair and poured himself a cup of coffee. “Take him to Room 317,” he told an aide. “Keep him under anesthesia until Wednesday.” Ibarra asked whether more would be done. “Yes, but only a little. Mostly he needs to heal.” Ibarra had more questions, but Ibá¡á±ez begged off: “I’m sorry, Jesáºs, but I’m exhausted. I think I need to sleep for a day or two.” Ibarra apologized, and they left the patient to the care of attendants.

While George was undergoing surgery, Petunia woke up in a bed in a small bare room, no longer bound. Her head hurt, and her mouth tasted bad. A woman watched her from a chair in the corner. When she saw Petunia awaken, she told her, “Don’t worry, Seá±orita, you won’t be hurt, but you got to stay here. Now, it’s late. You can sleep here tonight. In the morning the don will explain what’s going on, and why you’re here.” She folded her arms and leaned back in the chair. Obviously she had been assigned to guard Petunia.

“ ¡But George!  ¿Where is he?” she cried, frantic to find out what had happened to her lover.

The woman shrugged and told her she knew nothing about him. “Don Pablo will answer you in the morning. In the meantime, there’s nothing to do but wait. You might as well get some sleep.”

“ ¿Don Pablo?  ¿Don Pablo Herrera?” The woman nodded. Petunia knew him. He ran this area as his personal fief. He had more power than most feudal lords ever dreamed of. She thought he might be a distant cousin, but the relationship, if real, was too distant to make a difference. But she and George had done nothing wrong. It had to be a mistake. There was nothing to do now, though. If Don Pablo wanted her here, she’d have to stay. And she didn’t want to escape–not without George. She had to find out what they had done with him. For now she’d follow the advice and wait until morning. Then she’d clear this up.

Shortly after dawn a maid looked in on Petunia. She was awake; fear for George and for herself had kept her sleepless. Gathering her courage, she insisted, “Please, Seá±orita,  ¡I must see Don Pablo!”

“The don will see you this morning, Seá±orita. In the meantime, you’re his guest, free to wander or to leave. I’ll bring you breakfast if you wish.  ¿Will 9 AM be OK for your meeting?”

“Yes.  ¿And may I have breakfast? Ham, eggs, and coffee with orange juice would be fine.”

“Very good, Seá±or. I’ll return soon.”

Petunia’s fear abated somewhat. Don Pablo didn’t appear to be a monster, although he had a reputation for administering a harsh sort of justice. Maybe he’d be reasonable. She waited impatiently for breakfast, but when it arrived she ate without really tasting it. At 8:50 the maid reappeared to take her to Don Pablo.

As she entered the library, a wiry man, of uncertain age but in his middle years, arose to greet her. He was dressed elegantly, if in a somewhat old-fashioned manner. The maid announced Petunia’s arrival and left them.

“Good morning, Seá±orita. I am Pablo Herrera. Welcome to Las Rosas. I apologize for the method of your arrival, and I regret the circumstances that brought you here.”

“As do I, Seá±or. I have a simple question.  ¿What have you done with George?”

“Ah, you do not waste time on formalities, I see. Very well, Seá±orita. I will give you an answer and an explanation. Neither is complete, but soon you will learn everything. First the explanation; I doubt that Seá±or Deon told you everything about his past, but I will fill in a little. The most important point, for now, is that he seduced and abandoned my daughter, leaving her to raise his child alone.”

She recoiled. She hadn’t known, but it wasn’t a shock. Men did that sort of thing, unfortunately. He wouldn’t have done it to her, of course, but still she disapproved. But George was now in the hands of the father of the girl he had wronged–a man who believed in punishment, not forgiveness. “I understand. If you’re correct, then George was wrong, and I won’t defend him. I will beg for your forgiveness. I hope and I trust you are civilized, Seá±or, and won’t treat him barbarously.” She knew the traditional penalty for such transgressions and she shuddered at the thought that George might suffer such a punishment. Even if he survived, which wasn’t certain, he’d be maimed.

“There is more, Seá±orita. My daughter was not the first. He did the same, or worse, with a campesina maid in his employ, and he also abandoned a woman with his child in the United States. It is probable that he would have treated you no better. The man is a scoundrel, unworthy of his manhood.”

Her heart sank at the implied threat. “Seá±or, please, I beg you. Punish him if you must, but I love him, even if he’s imperfect. Please, for my sake, don’t… don’t…” She couldn’t finish.

The don understood her fear. He smiled, but it wasn’t a kindly expression. She was reminded of a shark, preparing to devour its prey. “Seá±orita, I will not kill him, nor leave him forever sexless. I have a novel punishment in mind for him. He will suffer for two years. Then he will be released, still healthy.”

She shuddered. Two years of punishment! But at least he’d be physically sound. “ ¿May I see him, Seá±or? I accept your word, but please, I love him. I need to see him, to be sure that he’s unharmed.”

He smiled again. “Your own position is not blameless, Seá±orita. You were found in bed with this man.” She looked away from him, embarrassed. “Now, my interest is not with you, but as the patrá³n, I have a responsibility for maintaining public morality.” Petunia stiffened. The threat of punishment was clear. But the don went on: “Still, I am minded to grant your request. I will allow you to see him. Not yet, but in ten weeks. And there are conditions. You may not discuss or reveal the location or fate of Seá±or Deon. My promises concerning his well-being are predicated on my being able to impose an alternative punishment. If you should make that punishment difficult or impossible, I will not consider myself bound by them. His safety and continued health–and your own–are in your hands.  ¿Agreed?”

She looked down at her hands. There was no choice: Don Pablo was all-powerful here. “Very well, I agree.”

“In mid-March I will allow a visit. In fact, I will do more. You teach in Siguatepeque,  ¿true?” She nodded. “If you wish, I will offer you that job here at Las Rosas, at the same salary, for several months–say, until August. You will have no restriction besides those already mentioned. You will be allowed to stay with him during that time to see that I keep my word. After that, Seá±or Deon will work for a year as a servant for my daughter, and you will not be able to see him until his release.”

What hadn’t he told her? What he had said was bad enough: that George would be a captive for two years, and would become a servant. But there had to be more. She was confused, but afraid to inquire further. Whatever the don planned, there was little she could do. “I… I agree.  ¿I can return in March, then?”

“Mid-March, yes. Let us say, the 15th. I will expect you, and George will be waiting for you.” He stood to indicate the end of the interview. “My manager, Jaime, can drive you back to Siguatepeque if you wish, Seá±orita.”

She arose as well. There was little more she could do, except pray. He rang, and the same maid came to escort her back. She was home in Siguatepeque that evening.

Back at home, she tried to tell herself that George would survive, that the don could have done worse. There would be no permanent injury, he had implied, and in two years he’d release her lover. But he had hinted–no, he had stated baldly–that George would suffer. But there was nothing she could do. She knew Don Pablo well, if only by reputation, and he was untouchable. Any attempt to contact the American embassy, or George’s family, was doomed to failure; George would only be the worse for it. She could only hope that the don’s reputation as a man of his word was accurate, and that George would survive.

January 2 -- Doctor Ibá¡á±ez’s suite at the Institute for the Mind was large and well appointed, as befit his title of director. Degrees from Stanford and Yale were displayed behind his broad cedar desk. One wall was filled with journals and books; a second was nearly filled by a bay window looking out towards a formal garden, a relic of the days when the building had been the manor house of an estate. Just now the view was dreary, as the steady rain of a norte fell from a gray and sodden sky. The doctor was unaffected by the dismal weather. Although physically and mentally exhausted by his hours of delicate work on the previous day, he was exhilarated. He knew he had completed a technical masterwork: instrumentation of a human brain sufficient to control the subject to a degree undreamed of. “Except by Delgado,” he reminded himself. “He’d have given his left arm, and maybe a leg also, for this opportunity. Writing it up properly will be difficult, but I can worry about that problem later.” There was still a little more to be done. For example, he needed to link the sensors to the chips by computer, to automate some of the planned conditioning. It would require delicate calibration and testing. “That testing should begin soon,” he thought. “I’d better make some arrangements.” He sat at his keyboard and began to type. When he was finished, he chuckled with anticipation. He had complained to Don Pablo about the unnecessary complexity of the proposed experiment, but now that the project was actually beginning, he saw so many potentialities that he began to think that George Deon might turn out to be a godsend for his work. It was fortunate that Doctor Ibarra had developed such wonderful methods for controlling a subject’s memories, he thought. Ibarra’s abilities complemented his own so well, and between them, they could control a subject’s inner reality completely. Then he corrected himself: that degree of control had yet to be demonstrated. Still, it was a reasonable prediction, based on the success that had attended both his own and Ibarra’s work, with both animal and human subjects.

January 6 -- Five days after his capture George awoke, fully clothed, in an unfamiliar room. He was groggy, but he seemed to be intact, although his head was bandaged. He was lying on a queen-size brass bed. Along the wall was a wooden dresser with a large mirror. An open closet contained his own clothes. He was shackled to the bed with a light chain attached to his ankle, but it proved to be long enough to allow him to move about the room and into three adjacent rooms. The first contained an ancient and dirty couch standing against a wall, and a beat-up heavy wooden table; three folding metal chairs sat next to the table The room was tiny, but an enormous mirror along one wall made it appear more spacious. . A kitchenette held a mini-refrigerator, an ancient electric range, a sink, and a tiny cupboard. The bathroom had a toilet, sink, and shower. George was surprised to see that he had his radio, his CD player, and his books. It appeared that he was expected to stay here for some time.

Soon a plump mestizo entered. “Buenos dá­as, amigo. I is Jaime Lá³pez. You is nuestro huésped–our guest–for a while.” Seá±or Lá³pez was about George’s height, with a smooth round face and a high voice. He continued in his accented English, “Amigo, you in a bad trouble. You know how bad?”

George replied angrily, “If I’m such a friend, then release me! You have no right to treat me like this!”

Lá³pez laughed. “You no can go. No one but los obreros know you here, and no one find out. You do what the don order, two years. Then you free.” George’s throat wouldn’t be slit on the spot, it seemed.

The don? Who in hell was that? “I’ll be missed. I insist you let me go!”

“Amigo, you no can insist. Don Pablo say, you bad. You betray Susana. You deserve punish, and you have it now.” George was shaken; Suzi was behind his abduction, and he knew he was in deep trouble. His captor continued: “You live now because Don Pablo say so.” He shrugged. “If he tell to me, kill you, then you dead.”

George knew he was lucky to be alive. This Don Pablo must be Suzi’s father, or maybe her brother. He remembered now that Suzi had told him about some place called Las Rosas, where she had grown up. But maybe he wasn’t so lucky at all. There were other nasty punishments he could suffer, and he doubted he had been seized only to be scolded. He pleaded for a measure of mercy: “I understand, and I’m grateful to… to Don Pablo for my life. But I was carried away by passion. I’m sorry; I know that’s no excuse, but I’ve been lonely here, and a man isn’t supposed to live alone; I needed a woman. And Petunia–what about her? At least let her go. She’s done nothing to harm you. Please, let me talk to Don Pablo.” He realized he was babbling, and shut his mouth.

“There no reason in beg; Don Pablo already decide your punish,” Jaime declared. “I no make decision. I here to tell to you your punish.” He paused, then continued: “You no see Petunia now, but she no is hurted. Esta muchacha tonta say she love you and want stay with you. She return in a few months.” George didn’t trust him, but there was no option but to hope he was telling the truth. Petunia’s presence meant there’d be a witness. If Jaime told the truth, Don Pablo couldn’t afford to do too much to him.

Jaime went on: “Other men like you is beated, or killed, or lose cojones. You deserve the most punish, but Don Pablo have mercy on you. First he think to cut your cojones, and eyes and tongue. Sin anestesia. You recover OK, you free of pain al fin, but you no leave Honduras. Never. You go to Susana then. Rest of life, you is her blind slave, work hard, give no trouble.” He grinned: “You no tell nobody nothing, never.”

George begged, “There must be another… another choice! That’s inhuman! The American government, the American newspapers would raise a stink. Please, it’s… it’s unreasonable!”

Jaime giggled at the incongruous choice of words. “No reason Don Pablo is reasonable. And life sin cojones is more quiet. Castraciá³n is right for you, amigo. Maybe blind is… un poco crudel, but the punish is good lesson for Petunia too. Los norteamericanos no hear about you never. What they think is no important.” A sinking feeling hit George. The man was right. He had tried to disappear, and no one would know what happened to him. Jaime continued: “En toda casa, Don Pablo wants try a different punish. Like I say, you stay aquá­ en la finca. You wear little radio on ankle–you see?” So that’s what the anklet was. “It tell where you are. You take off, or you break, or you leave, we know and punish. You was sin vergá¼enza–without no shame–abusando a Susana and then abandoná¡ndola.” George flushed; Jaime was right. “Tus acciones suggest a punish muy bueno. El patrá³n say he tell you su juicio when he see you. He give to you a good punish, even better than first idea.”

Horrified, George shrank from him. What was the don planning for him? It didn’t sound as if he intended to deliver a strong reprimand and then release him. “He can’t punish me! He has no right! I’m an American! Even if I did wrong, I have a right to a trial, to a lawyer!”

Jaime shrugged. “You see Don Pablo maá±ana. Tell to him. Maybe he listen to you. Buenos dá­as, amigo.” He turned and left.

George couldn’t think clearly. He had to escape! He checked his cell, but he was efficiently caged. There was nothing to do but wait for his meeting with Don Pablo, to plead his case. He lay on the couch for an hour, and then got up. He had his books and CD’s; he put on a Judy Collins ballad and chose a Ngaio mystery. For some reason he had trouble concentrating. Later, a young woman–a maid?–brought a light meal of (what else?) rice and beans. She wouldn’t talk to him. Jaime returned before dusk and entered without knocking.

“Buenas tardes.  ¿Qué tal, amigo?”

“Nothing good’s happening. I repeat, I demand to be released. Let me go.”

“Like I tell you, amigo, maá±ana you talk to Don Pablo. He tell me release you, then you go. But yo creo que no. Now, is anything you need?”

George asked that his fetters be taken off. “Chains aren’t needed. I can’t escape anyway. Please, give me that much freedom.” Jaime agreed and took out a key. “Veo que tus cadenas son problemas. I remove them; Don Pablo agree, not needed. The room is locked; if you go out, you lose cojones. It is painful; I no advise.” He freed George’s wrist and ankles. As George sat on the bed, Jaime told him, “Bueno. Hasta maá±ana,” and left.

After Jaime left, George explored his prison. It was comfortable, for a cell. He had three rooms: bedroom (with bath), living room, and kitchen. A window in the living room, decorated with frilled light-blue lacy curtains (and newly fitted with bars), opened onto a garden, where a fountain played continuously. He could smell the heady aroma of the flowering shrubs. A grape arbor ran up one wall, although the vines had no leaves now. The bedroom held a television in addition to the dresser and the bed, and a small window with curtains matching those in the living room gave a view of the pine woods. The kitchen contained a small table with three chairs, a stove and refrigerator, and shelves for food and utensils. His surroundings were actually more pleasant (and much more tastefully decorated) than his La Ceiba apartment. He fixed himself a snack, read for a while, then went to bed. The night passed slowly for George. The room was comfortable enough–the highland night air was cool–but his situation didn’t allow him to sleep well. He finally dozed fitfully.

January 7 -- When George awoke in the morning, he was disoriented, until he remembered the events of the previous day. He felt terrible! His head ached (from his head injury, of course). Most of his own clothes had been delivered to his closet, so he dressed quickly in a sport shirt and blue jeans, then shaved. Seating himself on the couch, he tried to lose himself in an old Hillerman mystery.

At midday Jaime knocked and entered without waiting for a reply. “Amigo,  ¡buenos dá­as!”

George responded sullenly, “Buenos dá­as.”

“You like your room, amigo?”

“Under the circumstances, I can’t complain. Not effectively, anyway. Tell Don Pablo my prison’s better than some of the hotels I’ve stayed in. I presume I don’t have the run of the grounds?”

He chuckled: “Creo que no. The room is locked and watched. You no leave without guard. I telled you, it painful if you is outside. You stay here, follow instrucciones, you find life no too bad. Don Pablo is generous. He want you healthy. Your punish no is pain, but you is changed to servant for Susana.” George sighed audibly in relief. To have to to work for Suzi wouldn’t be fun, but it was better than blindness, not to mention castration. And sooner or later he’d find a chance to escape. “But I no come to tell noticias malas. You comed to Honduras to teach, and Don Pablo want you teach here. In two weeks you have class. They is all girls, but you no complete man now. The doctor tell us tus cojones no do nothing, ahora o nunca.” George was shocked; surely he was mistaken! Then he realized that he hadn’t felt any sexual urge since his arrival. But maybe it was only the stress of captivity. It must be! Jaime added, “Now, tell me cuales cosas se necesitan to teach.”

“Why should I teach? I’m a prisoner, and you don’t offer me much incentive.”

“Ah, you need– ¿cá³mo se dice?–incentive. Maybe you keep tus cojones. They no work, but you still have.”

“How many students?”

For the next hour they discussed details–exactly what he’d teach (elementary algebra), the students’ background (they spoke little English), and what he’d need (a blackboard, pencils and paper, textbooks). Then George asked, “And what about Petunia? Where is she? How is she?”

Jaime frowned: “A bad question, amigo. Pero puedo decirte que she no is hurted and she go home now. You see her pronto. No ask again.”

“What happened to my head? It hurts like hell, and it’s bandaged.”

Jaime grinned and told him, “You no remember? You fighted, and you hitted hard on the head. You sleep long time. Today is enero 7.”

“Damn you and your Don Pablo too! I demand to see him! I have a right to face my accuser!”

His jailer nodded. “He want to talk with you. I take you now.”

The outside air was much cooler than the sweatbox of La Ceiba. The aroma of pine reminded George of the scrubby woods on Cape Cod, or the piney woods of north Georgia. Roses bloomed luxuriantly around the doorway of the main house. Jaime ushered him inside. The building was well appointed, with comfortable modern furniture. It could have been any home in the States–probably somewhere in the southwest, as the decor was vaguely Spanish. George knew little about furniture, but the look of the house suggested understated wealth. The impression was bolstered when they entered a study. Not at all modern, it looked as if it had been preserved unchanged from the nineteenth century. Ornately carved heavy chairs and a sofa, upholstered in rich brocade, lined the walls. A heavy table–mahogany?–stood in the center. A silver coffee urn and porcelain cups sat on the table. Books by the thousand, mostly leather-bound, filled two walls. In a corner was an old roll-top desk. Tapestries on the other walls and a thick rug muffled sounds. From the ceiling hung a lead-glass chandelier. Small windows showed the pine forest outside, the brilliant morning sunlight contrasting with the darkness inside. Only the fluorescent lights on the desk and table were out of place. A slender man of medium height, with receding gray hair and a dark mustache, sat in one of the chairs. He motioned George to another. George let himself into the chair and sat stiffly. Could he reason with this man after seducing his daughter?

His host gestured to Jaime. “Puedes salir. Quisiera hablar con el Seá±or Deon solo.” Jaime left as ordered, and the man poured himself coffee. “Now, Seá±or, I believe you asked to speak with me. That is good. I too wish to speak with you.” Don Pablo’s English was excellent, although his speech was stilted and his accent was strong. George began to speak, but the don held up his hand. “In time, Seá±or, in time. First, I have a few questions. Suzi told me something about you, but I wished to meet you myself. I was told you are a scientist?”

“Yes. But why should I answer your questions?” George’s tone was truculent. “Just let me go! You have no right to keep me prisoner!”

“Please, Seá±or, honor the amenities. Address me with courtesy. ‘Don Pablo’ is proper, or simply ‘Seá±or’. As to why you should answer: First, I can make your life uncomfortable. Jaime has told you a little about my plans for you. You can fulfill those plans with a minimum of discomfort, or you can fulfill them in pain and in sickness. The choice is yours. Second, I can drug you, and then you will not refuse me. I prefer to treat you with at least a minimum of courtesy, though. Does that answer your question?”

George hesitated. “I suppose it does–Seá±or.”

“Thank you. Now, let me introduce myself. As you know by now, I am Pablo Herrera Enrá­quez, Susana’s father. My family has owned this finca, Las Rosas, since colonial days, and I have some power locally, both official and unofficial. I hold a position with the Honduran government. More precisely, I support research under government sanction but with my own resources. It explores the nature of the human mind, and its possible control. I will tell you more about that research soon.” George wondered why the man was telling him all this, but kept silent. The don continued: “You do not need to introduce yourself, Seá±or. I have made it my business to become familiar with your background. You are George Deon, twenty-five years old, born in Akron, Ohio. Your parents are Tom and Gwen Deon; you have two brothers, Jack and Larry, and a sister, Amy. Your grandparents, who are still alive, are Marcus and Miriam Deon, and Henry and Janet Wilson. You like sports, although you only play an occasional game of tennis; you especially enjoy watching the Cleveland Indians. Your hobby is botany, and you fancy yourself an expert on orchids. You attended the Massachusetts Institute of Technology in Boston, where you majored in chemistry. After graduating you accepted a job with Bishop Chemical in Atlanta, which you left suddenly and without notice after seducing a woman in your office. Your superiors at Bishop were quite unhappy with you, by the way, and Celia Tolliver is still searching for you. You came to Honduras to hide, and you taught algebra and chemistry at La Ceiba until you seduced Suzi and ran away again. Most recently you have been teaching at Siguatepeque while you seduce another woman, Petunia Baca. I know her family; they are peasants, but honorable people, if less well off than my own. I arranged replacements for you in both La Ceiba and Siguatepeque, by the way, since you did not.” George flushed; the don knew far too much about him. His host noted the reaction and went on. “I also investigated your beliefs and opinions. You are a conservative Republican and a Catholic, although you seldom attended Holy Family Church in Atlanta, and your girlfriend was a Baptist. Her mother disapproved of her association with you, partly because of your religion. However, I was especially curious to find out your views concerning women. Seá±or, what is your opinion of women? Their abilities, their proper position in society?” The don sipped his coffee as he awaited George’s reply.

Taken by surprise–he wasn’t prepared for a philosophical discussion–George stuttered, “I… I… Th..they… Well, I suppose…” He stopped. “Seá±or, under the circumstances, I don’t think I can give you an adequate answer. First, the answer is complicated, and second, my position is, let’s say, awkward.”

Don Pablo nodded. “‘Awkward’? Fair enough, if understated. Let me summarize: Women are the weaker sex, mentally as well as physically, no?” George hesitated, then nodded. His captor continued: “They exist for the procreation of the human species, and for the pleasure and convenience of men. To these ends, they should keep their men happy, raise children, and keep house. ‘Women’s work’, I think you call it. They should be content with this; gender rá´les should be well defined and well separated. Women should be subservient to men, and not compete with men. Their physical and mental natures are adapted to this purpose, and other attributes–their clothing, their demeanor–should also reflect this. Is that not so?” He handed George a letter. It was the note George had sent to Susana on October 5. “This describes your opinions, true?”

In the face of the letter, it was difficult to dispute the don’s assertion, but George tried to soften it. “I was angry when I wrote that, Seá±or, and I went too far. I’m sorry, I don’t really…” He paused, then changed his tack. Complete denial wasn’t plausible in the face of the evidence in his hand. “I put it too strongly, Seá±or, but in general, I agree with some of that. From what I’ve seen of Honduras, a lot of men here would agree with me.”

“Yes, you are right. I share it to some degree, although as you say, you overstate it. Now, what are the duties of a man?–the stronger and smarter sex, as you seem to believe.” George began to stutter again. The don leaned forward and interrupted: “I will give you the Honduran version, since, as you note, it seems to agree with yours. Men must defend women and guard their honor. They protect, support, and cherish their women, and any children they bring into the world.” He paused briefly, but George didn’t respond. Then the don sat back and folded his hands in his lap. “Now let us return to the matter at hand. I am the father of an unmarried daughter, and by these principles I must guard her honor. Or, since it is now beyond guarding, I must avenge it. As for your responsibilities as a man: do you defend your actions? Do you believe that you fulfilled the implied masculine duties that accompany your masculine rights?” He tilted his head and raised his eyebrows as he awaited a reply, and for a moment George was struck by his resemblance to his daughter.

The don’s captive looked at the wall, then at the chandelier. He knew it was impossible to defend his behavior. He finally muttered, “Well, perhaps I acted without thinking…”

“Perhaps you did, Seá±or. Perhaps you did. Let me change the subject to a related topic. I spoke to your former maid, Mará­a. You treated her disgracefully.”

George protested, “But she was just a campesina! And I paid her well. She chose to stay with me!”

Don Pablo smiled, but it wasn’t a pleasant expression. “I see. ‘Just a campesina.’ I know her choices, Seá±or. Now, let me return to the subject of the your punishment. Traditionally, of course, I should simply remove the source of the problem.” George swallowed nervously, then licked his lips. The statement could mean his death, or, more likely, simple castration. Neither was thinkable. The only reason for not attempting an immediate (and undoubtedly futile) escape was the word “should”, implying an alternative. The don continued: “As it happens, I am minded to try a different approach, one that may prove equally effective. You are going to receive an education concerning ‘women’s work’. For the next few months, you will be trained–thoroughly trained–to do housework, to sew, to wash dishes and launder clothing, and to care for infants. Some time next year, you will be given to Suzi, to work for her. By then, of course, Suzi will have borne your child, so you are being given the opportunity to provide the assistance you promised her. At the end of next year, your punishment will be completed, and you will be free to leave.” He offered to warm George’s coffee, and repeated his offer of a pastry.

His “guest” accepted both the refill–it was excellent coffee–and the pastry, but he told the don, “That’s stupid, Seá±or. I worked for many years to become a chemist. When I offered to help Suzi, I meant… I meant to give support for the child. Money, I mean. That would be much more useful to her.” He looked down, then straight at his captor. The don had agreed that such work was suitable only for women. “Besides, I’m a man. If I have to work for you–or for Suzi–at least have me do something more appropriate.” He wouldn’t stay captive for long, of course, but he’d rather have some other work, even for a brief time. “Maybe you can’t use a chemist, but I can teach, I can do bookkeeping, marketing… Or even physical labor.” Maybe his bodybuilding might serve him in his plight. “You’re saying I should do women’s work? That’s a job for a maid–for a peasant girl!”

His host nodded. “A good point, Seá±or. I agree that, in general, such duties are not for men. And indeed, I wish you to teach.” For a moment George was relieved, but the don continued: “However, you have proven yourself unfit as a man, and unwilling to perform a man’s duties.” If possible, his smile grew bleaker. “Therefore, your punishment is to perform a woman’s duties for two years. You will become Suzi’s ‘peasant girl’.”

George’s eyes widened in disbelief. He protested, “But… But Seá±or… That’s crazy! Even if…” He swallowed; his mouth was dry and his stomach had a sick feeling. Being forced to work off his debt to Suzi was bad enough, but this insanity? Would the don really try to make him work as a maid? “The… the idea’s foolish! I… I wouldn’t be any good at that. If… if you make me do woman’s work, it’d just be a pointless humiliation!”

“Humiliation, yes, but pointless? I think not. Humility is a virtue you lack. Perhaps you will learn it as you serve Susana. But I know that your assumption of a woman’s duties will not be easy, so I will allow you to take them on gradually. By the end of your captivity, you should become highly skilled in your new profession.”

“Never! I’ll get away from here as quickly as I can. Or at least that’s what I’ll do if you keep your word, Seá±or. You did say I’d be released in two years, didn’t you? That I’ll be free to just walk away?”

The don agreed. “Yes, you will be ‘free to just walk away’. I will free you where we found you, sound in body and in mind, with your passport and money, and with no restrictions. You have my word on it. You may choose another option: you can kill yourself before two years is over. I have sworn not to execute enemies–but I do not object to suicide. Coincidentally, several men to whom I had taken a dislike chose to end their own lives.”

“I won’t give you that satisfaction! If I… If I die, you’ll have to arrange it yourself!”

The don waved his hand, dismissing George’s statement. “I will not kill you, Seá±or. But enough of that. Are there any other matters about which I can enlighten you?”

George remembered what Jaime had said about his sex life. “Yes, there is. What… what about my manhood? Jaime said… he said I’m… I’m impotent.”

“Yes, for the moment that is correct. I have taken steps to remove–temporarily–your ability to perform in bed. However, my doctors tell me you should be fully capable of intimate relations with the opposite sex after your release. If they are correct, you should be able to enjoy a normal marriage–although so far you have shown no inclination to accept marital responsibilities. Is there anything more?”

“Yes: Turn me loose, or I’ll sue you for every dime you have!”

Don Pablo chuckled. “You are not thinking clearly, Seá±or. You have just articulated a reason why I cannot turn you loose. Having kidnapped you and left you impotent, I would indeed be foolish to allow you your freedom now, to report what I have done. In a few months I may take the chance, when I am certain you will keep silent.”

Keep silent about this outrage? The man was crazy! But it wouldn’t be a good idea to point that out, just at present. “Who appointed you God? You have no right to take the law into your own hands!”

“Seá±or, I may not be God, but here I am the law. For two centuries my family has had the responsibility for enforcing justice in this region, and we have done it as best we can–well enough to earn the respect and trust of the local people, and well enough to hold the responsibility through war and revolution. If I overstep my bounds, my family will forfeit that trust, and we will lose the responsibility.” He smiled: “I am in no danger in your case.” The smile disappeared. “Beyond that, I am Suzi’s father. I have the right–no, the duty–to punish you.”

Pursuing that line was foolish, George realized, and he dropped it quickly. “What do I do with myself during my enforced stay as your guest? I’ll go mad stuck in a room with nothing to do. Am I allowed outside?”

He nodded. “Keeping yourself occupied will be no problem. I have arranged for you to have your books and music. Also, you will have tasks to fulfill. As I said, I want you to teach while you are here. More important: you will receive training in your new duties. You must learn, you will learn to be an excellent maidservant. Also, I will insist that your behavior and appearance must be appropriate–that is to say, you must learn to behave like a proper maid. I know that adopting feminine traits will be a ‘pointless humiliation’, but that is part of the punishment. Honduran society is highly stratified, and you will find yourself at the bottom. As a peasant, you will find that you are considered socially inferior, fit only for menial tasks. As a servant girl…” He smiled. “Your own prejudices concerning a woman’s proper place in the world are widely shared here. I need say no more.

“As for going outside: yes, but not yet. Soon you will be allowed free run of the finca in your free time. I have ordered that you be treated well, although you will find that many of my people are not well disposed towards you, after your behavior.” He told George that everyone on the finca knew his crimes and his penalty. “As I said, a major purpose of the punishment is that I be seen as a stern, but just, ruler of my small domain; that is one of the tasks of a patrá³n. You may be interested in the reactions to your fate. The first, of course, is skepticism. It cannot be done, they say. However, everyone is curious to see how complete your transformation will be. The men here believe the penalty is just, if repulsive. They do not really wish to think about it, and hope that it does not fully succeed. Lose your cojones, yes; that they understand. It is traditional.” George shuddered. “But to be forced to become a maid? It is unthinkable. The women like the idea–especially after I shared with them the letter you sent to Susana–and they hope for complete success. Their opinion is that ‘It’s about time a man learned what women have to put up with.’ They look forward to training you. Susana, of course, is fully of that opinion.”

Emboldened by the answers to his questions, George declared, “You’re crazy! I may accept doing women’s work as a stupid punishment…”–after all, it beat the traditional penalty–“…but I’ll never really become a maid! And if I get a chance to escape, of course I will. But I’m not saying anything you don’t know already.”

The don nodded and warned him against trying to escape. “My security will prevent you from leaving the finca. I suggest that you not test it. If you do–or when you do, as I expect you to attempt to escape–I assure you that you will regret it. You will also be punished for any attempted removal or disturbance of your ankle monitor. You should not try. In addition, you have been given a drug–a mild euphoriant. It is in your morning pill, and you are already addicted to it. The positive effect of the drug is minor, but the effect of withdrawal is truly terrible. If you flee, you will endure torment, and you will find that you must return to obtain your ‘fix’. Until you do, you will suffer greatly. And one last matter: for my own purposes, I wish to have you take psychological tests at regular intervals. You will take the first after you leave me today. Do you have any further questions?”

George had none–or none worth asking. Don Pablo summoned Jaime, who escorted him to a room where he took the promised test, a standard psychological test designed to evaluate his personality. He did his best to answer the questions truthfully after Jaime warned him that frivolous or wrong answers would be noted and punished; it was too trivial a matter to risk any trouble. The rest of the afternoon was spent studying Spanish in his room. He’d need a much improved command of the language to assist him in the escape he had yet to plan.