Part 2, The Transformation Commences

George is coerced into cooperating in his own metamorphosis. But it's all reversible. Isn't it?

 
 
January 8
-- George lay in bed until 10 AM. There wasn’t much point in getting up early. After showering, dressing, and shaving, he fixed scrambled eggs and coffee. He ignored a large blue pill on the table. It was clearly the euphoriant to which he was intended to become addicted. From a window he saw a concrete pad with stripped yellow berries spread to dry; he guessed he wouldn’t lack fresh coffee. Afterwards he watched television. It was all in Spanish, of course, but he got the gist of the dialog. In fact, TV Spanish was easier than the backwoods campesino Spanish he had struggled with in La Ceiba. He was like a foreigner who had learned English (British variety) in Europe, and who now had to listen to a rural Alabama farmer.

Jaime returned after lunch, accompanied by a woman in her mid-thirties. He spoke briefly with her, then turned to George. “Ella se llama Yolanda. She remove hair. Cada tarde, she remove barba. Sabés, una criada no debe ser barbata.” Yolanda was a sensuous and slender woman with slightly Indian features and light-olive skin. She wore a red nylon blouse and white slacks. Jaime told her, “Comenzé con el bigote,” and left. Yolanda ordered firmly, “Acostate aquá­, hombre,” gesturing as she did so. George was dumbfounded by the prospective loss of his beard. He’d have to look like a maid, the don had warned–but this was crazy! He considered refusing, but decided against it. Don Pablo could easily enforce his will. He lay down on the bed, and Yolanda took a needle, attached to an electric cord, from a bag. She plugged it in and drew up a stool. George’s head was at a convenient level for her. She motioned to him not to move, and began to probe his upper lip with her needle. A slight tingle accompanied each prick as a tiny shock hit the follicle, killing it.

After about 90 minutes, she finished the electrolysis session and rubbed a cream into his facial skin. Then Jaime returned to ask if George needed anything. “A plane ticket to Miami!” George replied.

Jaime laughed. “ ¡Por supuesto, es posible! But only after two years. Can I to get for you anything now?”

Knowing that Jaime had himself suffered from the don’s justice, George hoped he might show sympathy. “Please, Seá±or, help me escape. You know how unreasonable Don Pablo can be. I’ll… I’ll be very grateful. Grateful with cash. He’ll never know you helped me. How much would you want? I’ll pay anything I can!”

His jailer grinned. “The don expect you try pay for escape. You try once, is reasonable. I tell Don Pablo. You try second, me or cualquiera tell, you lose cojones pronto.  ¡Asá­ lo creé!”

So much for sympathy. George shut up and waited until Jaime closed and locked the door.

Left to himself the rest of the day, George investigated his prison. The barred windows were secure, and the door was locked. He saw guards set to watch. Except for his position, though, he was comfortable. He thought, “If I weren’t trapped, with a terrible sentence, and if I had more to do, this’d be a nice place for a vacation.” He saw pine-covered mountains from the rear of the cottage. The countryside looked more like Wyoming than his notion of Central America. La Ceiba hadn’t been quite what he had expected either, but it was closer to the tropical stereotype than this! He was surprised at the modernity of the finca, too, although Susana had described it. She’d said it was almost a town in itself, with a village for the staff, areas of cornfield and coffee groves and gardens, and pine forest and cloud forest. There was a gasoline-powered electric generator. The new Cajá³n dam had promised to provide electricity for this part of the country, but much of the backwoods wasn’t hooked in, and poor planning had negated much of the generating capacity in any case. Knowing now that he was at Finca Las Rosas, he could place himself geographically in the mountains somewhere north of Comayagua.

George didn’t intend to await the don’s pleasure. Security was tight, but it would slacken, and then he’d escape. “It must be possible!” he told himself. “I have to get out of here. My procrastination has to end!” But how? He checked the tiny radio wired to his ankle. There was no way to remove it without breaking the connection around the ankle. That would alert his captors and bring punishment. He could probably destroy it quickly and easily, but that was foolish too, unless he could get away quickly.

By 4 PM George’s head ached, he felt nauseous, and his muscles twitched. He attributed his problems to nerves, but he felt worse by evening. Jaime visited him before bedtime, and when George complained, Jaime laughed. “Oh, you no take pill, hmmm? Before we give you drug in food, but now you need pill. It get worse. You better take now.” By 11 that night George broke down and took the pill. His symptoms quickly vanished, and a wonderful feeling of euphoria replaced his sickness. He recognized his feeling as a drug high, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered any more; he could overcome anything! He drifted off to sleep in a dreamy haze.
 
 
January 11
-- On January 9 George had refused his pill again. He resisted until the morning of the 11th, through a day and two sleepless nights of muscle cramps, a vicious headache, a cold sweat, and nausea (all chip-induced). When he could endure no longer, he swallowed his pill. His health improved as soon as the pill took effect (or so he thought). “They’ll just give it to me in the food anyway,” he rationalized. “It doesn’t matter.” Jaime reported the success to Don Pablo, who in turn congratulated Ibá¡á±ez. The doctor nodded with satisfaction when the don told him what had happened. He explained that the surgery had weakened the subject’s will, but not destroyed it. “Episodes of rebellion are needed for conditioning. Every time he disobeys, he’ll be miserable. The constant negative reinforcement’ll gradually make him less inclined to rebel, and he’ll slowly become more docile. I don’t want him too submissive, without enough spirit to fight against your orders–although I can put him into that state, when its desirable. It’s a delicate balance, you see: he has to be able to fight us in order to receive the negative conditioning, but I want to keep his will power low enough so that he won’t be able to resist with any strength.”

After the don left, the doctor reminded himself that the technique had drawbacks. One of his earliest subjects, Juan Espinoza, had discovered that he was being manipulated by a method that seemed like sorcery, and he had attempted suicide. He was prevented from succeeding, but he had since become insane. George Deon, with his numerous chips, would require delicate handling and careful monitoring.
 
 
January 14
-- After almost a week, George was still unharmed. Initial terror had been replaced successively by relief that he hadn’t been killed, indignation at imprisonment, renewed terror at the prospect of some other punishment, resignation to his fate (terror is an emotion that is hard to sustain), and finally a growing boredom. He had books, but he couldn’t read forever. He watched TV, but he didn’t follow it well. What little he did follow, told him that the programs (mostly telenovelas, or soap operas) were worse than those at home. Jaime did provide him with a radio, although George could see that Jaime disapproved of coddling him. He was also given new paperbacks–the Spanish-language equivalent of Harlequin romances. George couldn’t yet read them easily (the process was more like translation), but the lack of other new reading material made the effort worthwhile.

George also acquired a doctor. He had checked George’s head (about time!) and concluded that it had healed well. Doctor Garcá­a seemed sympathetic, but he worked for Don Pablo, and George couldn’t trust him.

His mustache had lost its luxuriance, and looking alarmingly thin. Sexual activity wasn’t possible, as Don Pablo had noted, and in fact he didn’t seem to miss it. It was almost as if he had forgotten what sex was like. Their treatment, even in its early stages, appeared to be effective.

Worried, George determined to plan his escape; but no opportunities presented themselves. He watched and waited, but the building remained secure and well guarded.
 
 
January 19
-- After breakfast Jaime told George that his math course would begin that afternoon. Don Pablo had given him four teenage girls, all from nearby towns. Ana Mará­a, Mará­a Pilar, Elena, and Consuela had proven to be good students in earlier courses, Jaime said, but they had only a little English; George would have to teach in Spanish. Jaime would observe as he taught the course. “Maybe I learn a little too,” he commented.

They arrived soon after lunch. As Jaime had said, all spoke only mediocre English. They were a little young for George’s taste, even had he been whole–although he could make an exception for Mará­a Pilar. He wondered how much they knew, and somehow, without intending it, he let slip his curiosity. They were quick to tell him.

Ana Mará­a Villas, a girl from Las Rosas, was dark and a bit chubby, with black hair in a single long braid; she was the shortest of the four (about George’s height) and the most Indian in appearance. She giggled at his question and told him, “Yes, we know. Don Pablo told us about your punishment–he’s going to make you over, into a maid for his daughter–so we wouldn’t be shocked at your appearance.” She giggled again, nervously. “Don’t worry, when you wear strange things, we’ll understand.” She was plainly disturbed by what she had been told–whether by George’s crime or his punishment, he couldn’t say.

Mará­a Pilar Hinojosa (“Mapy”), taller and fairer with long dark-brown hair framing a classic oval face, was the prettiest and most serious, and also the oldest at nineteen. Her home was near La Libertad, twenty miles to the north, but she attended school in Comayagua, where she was studying to become a teacher. She was sympathetic to George’s plight: “I think it’s awful, Seá±or George.  ¡Don Pablo’s got no right to do such a horrible thing!  ¡I don’t care what you did! I feel sorry for you.”

Consuela Eloy, a seventeen-year-old girl from the nearby village of San Jerá³nimo, was skinny, angular, and pimply. “They told us what you did to Seá±orita Herrera. I think it’s only fair.” She giggled. “It’ll be fun to watch while you’re changed into her maid.” A budding feminist and man-hater, obviously. George ignored her comments.

Elena Carvajal, the youngest at fourteen and also from San Jerá³nimo, was hardly more than a little girl. She was plain, and dressed plainly, but George thought she’d be beautiful in a couple of years. The brightest of the quartet, she said little, but that little was generally well informed and to the point. She didn’t comment on his problem, and she was visibly relieved when the conversation turned to algebra.

The class went smoothly. The four students had a good background, as Jaime had said. George tried hinting that he’d like one of them to smuggle a message for him, but they giggled and refused. Mapy, the most congenial of his students, explained that it would be unwise to try to help him. “I’m sorry, Seá±or, but Don Pablo is our patrá³n, and he’s good to us. Besides, if we disobey him, he’ll punish us.”

After class George tried to think of a way to use the students to his advantage, but nothing came to mind. The damned radio on his ankle wasn’t really much of an impediment; more important, he was still guarded efficiently. He knew he’d been addicted to something nasty, but that wouldn’t keep him from running if an opportunity arose. He’d take his chances; it couldn’t be worse than what Don Pablo planned for him, if he’d been serious. His identity, and his very manhood, depended on an escape.
 
 
January 20
-- A chill rain blotted the view of the Comayagua valley from Don Pablo’s library. Leaning back in his chair, he held a letter from Suzi. She was learning from experience the consequences of her foolishness, but Don Pablo promised himself that he wouldn’t punish her beyond those natural consequences. She was a woman, and weak; God willing, she’d realize that now. When she returned, he had a possible husband in mind for her. A good match. She’d take his advice now, he thought. He slit open the envelope.

Padre caro: My accursed pregnancy proceeds normally, and I will give you a grandson next July. I fear I will not love him; I will see the father in the child. I very much look forward to having George work for me. I’ll need help, and that arrogant scoundrel deserves to learn what it is like to be a lowly servant. But can you really make him into a good household servant? The bastard had no such talent when I knew him. And I will not put my baby into the hands of a slipshod servant. In any case, whether he cares for the baby or not, I will see that he works hard for his living, even if he never becomes the ideal worker. --Your repentant daughter

Don Pablo smiled ruefully. A woman’s vengeance could be a terrible thing. He’d have to warn her not to mistreat her new maidservant. He would be too valuable to science. Seá±orita Deon’s new status would be sufficient punishment. He picked up his pen and began to write.

Mi cara hija: I cannot promise that Seá±or Deon will be perfect. However, my doctors have proven they can reshape a personality, and I guarantee that Seá±or Deon will be much improved. You will not know him. When I give him to you, he will be eager to serve you faithfully, and his training will enable him to do just that. In particular, he will be able to care for your infant. Although I promised him freedom to leave after two years, I believe he will continue to serve you after that time. Do not worry about his arrogance or pride. They will be erased; he will be compliant and docile, like any lowly peasant. Believe me, you will fully approve of him. --Your loving father

The don leaned back and thought about his daughter, exiled in disgrace to California. Her fear that she might not love her infant was baseless, as she unwittingly revealed in her reluctance to give the child over to an untrustworthy caretaker. No, she’d be a good mother. He understood her need for retribution, though. It was only natural. She’d have her revenge when Seá±or Deon was delivered to her, but in the meantime perhaps she should be given the chance to confront her betrayer. He added a postscript:

Carita, I know that you are not innocent, but equally I know that you were deceived. You deserve to see Seá±or Deon soon. I will arrange a visit in a few weeks, if you like.

He nodded. When she discovered the nature of her betrayer’s punishment, her pleasure would be even greater.
 
 
January 22
-- Slowly George succumbed to cabin fever. After his students left, he complained to Jaime, “I need to go out. I need exercise. Tell Don Pablo that even a condemned criminal is allowed to have fresh air and exercise. Please, Jaime, I beg him.” Jaime dutifully passed the request on to Don Pablo.

“Not quite yet, Jaime. Soon, but not yet. Tell him that.”

After Jaime left, Don Pablo considered his captive and the punishment he was receiving. In truth, Seá±or Deon was guilty, but in justice Suzi had to bear part of the blame. If Seá±or Deon hadn’t abandoned a pregnant woman in the U.S., and criminally mistreated a poor campesina, he might have been let off with a lesser penalty. Don Pablo had seen this sort of man before, unfortunately. Left alone, he’d leave a trail of dishonored women behind him. And any woman who did marry him, would find that he made a terrible husband. No, he couldn’t be turned loose. Killing him was beyond the limits of justice–although suicide would be tolerable. And a simple physical mutilation, such as he had decreed for Jaime, was impractical, as the public-relations consequences would be undesirable upon Seá±or Deon’s return to the U.S. His doctors’ request was a godsend. Seá±or Deon would serve their needs, and his shameful behavior would come to an end. Even if the project was less successful than hoped, he’d be unable to repeat his misdeeds.
 
 
January 23
-- After two weeks, George’s mustache was gone and his beard was thinning, although he hadn’t been allowed to shave. Jaime told him, “You never need shave, amigo. Yolanda take off whiskers. Para siempre. She help make you look like muchacha muy bonita, she think. When you go to Suzi, you is real pretty maid.”

At least the math class was a pleasure. It was an oasis of enjoyment in a desert of gloom. The girls were quick studies and grasped the fundamental nature of algebra with ease. In speaking to them, he found that the four had been among a group of local children selected by Don Pablo several years ago for their intelligence. He had seen that they received special tutoring, starting with a year in the United States to learn English. George had thought of Don Pablo as a self-serving tyrant, and he was surprised to find that Don Pablo took seriously his duty as protector and benefactor of his people. Still, in his mind there was no justification for this punishment. Men were men, and should be expected to act as he had. Don Pablo might have some right to punish him, since he had been stupid enough to get caught; but not like that!

After class George asked Jaime for the response to his request. “Pronto, dice Don Pablo. Pronto, pero ya no. You need wait a little, amigo. He let you out of room soon.”
 
 
January 25
-- When George had breakfast, there was no pill on the table, and at class Mapy told him, “Jaime said we needed to give him a little extra time with you today. He didn’t know whether you’d be able to teach us tomorrow. I don’t know why.” The girls left a little early.

A sinking feeling enveloped George. He expected a visit from Jaime, which wouldn’t improve his situation. He didn’t have long to wait. Jaime entered and gave his usual cheerful greeting in his ridiculous voice. George did not return it. “What do you want, Jaime,” he asked bluntly.

Jaime grinned. “You talk good to me, amigo, con cortesá­a. En toda casa, Don Pablo want your hair different. He say, cortale. Cut it in…” He frowned. “In ‘bangs’, he say. Como muchacha. Like girl. Then you get pill.”

More of the don’s “feminine traits”! “No! I won’t let you turn me into some kind of… of pansy!” George spoke without thinking, but after blurting it out he felt he’d done right. He’d had enough. The don was crazy!

Jaime frowned at the unfamiliar slang, but the context brought the meaning clear. He grinned even more widely. “Está¡ bién, amigo. Yo no le cortaré. I no cut it, if you no like.”

George waited a moment, then told Jaime, “OK, that’s settled. Get out of here, then.”

Jaime laughed. “I leave scissors. You have un espejo–mirror. I return en la maá±ana, it cut. Yo no le cortaré; vos le cortará¡s. You cut it. Real pretty. If you do good, you feel mejor. Si no, no. If you cut hair short, Don Pablo cut tus cojones–balls–short. Hasta maá±ana, amigo.” He gave George a pair of barrettes, telling him he’d have to wear them too. “And brush hair good. You be real pretty–how you say?–pansy.” Then he left, giggling.

As the door shut, George began to worry. What had he done? He tried to tell himself that he’d had no choice; he couldn’t allow such things. Don Pablo wouldn’t dare carry out his threat. Still, his worry grew to a fear that left him shaking. After all, he was at the don’s mercy. That night he fell ill. His stomach grew queasy and he lost his supper. A headache grew to pounding agony, and nausea was joined by stomach cramps. “Drug withdrawal!” he thought. “I didn’t get my dose! Damn, I don’t like this. I don’t know how long I can take it. And Mapy said she didn’t know if I’d teach tomorrow. Don Pablo must’ve planned this whole thing!” But he determined to hold out.
 
 
January 26
-- After a sleepless night, George got out of bed as dawn began to break. “It’s not that important,” he thought. “My hair doesn’t matter. I’ll cut it. I’ll save my rebellions for more important matters. God, but this sucks!” He stumbled to the bathroom, stood before the mirror, and carefully trimmed his hair in front to a girlish bob. He brushed it out, then added the pink barrettes along the side, holding his long hair back a bit. “There, that’s done, damn them!” He had complied, if reluctantly; surely they’d release him from his pain now. As he anticipated the end of his torment, his fear receded. The pain and nausea remained, for the moment.

Jaime appeared at 7 AM. “Ah, amigo. You no look good; you maybe sick?  ¿El está³mago, la cabeza? No matter; your hair look good, like for a maid. Or a pansy. You no glad tu bigote se fué? You look real funny with it now, la muchacha bigotuda. Bueno, aquá­ está¡ tu socorro.” He held out a large blue tablet.

George seized it and swallowed it. Jaime nodded and left; within ten minutes his symptoms had abated. By class time he was well, and he was able to keep his appointment with his class. The girls giggled at his appearance, but he gave no explanation and they didn’t ask. After all, they knew what was being done to him.

In the big house, Jaime reported to Don Pablo. “ ¿And is he healthy?” the don asked.

“I can’t say. I’m no doctor. He seems healthy enough, after he finally obeyed you. He was stubborn at first.”

“Good: Without disobedience he will not learn to fear punishment. But another matter: In six days he takes his next step.”

“Five days, I think…” Jaime paused to calculate. “No, you’re right, Seá±or. Six days.”

“Right. On February 1 we will also grant his request to leave his room. He will learn to be careful with his requests, for fear they might be granted. Bring him to the casa a little past 1:30 and introduce him to Evelina. She will begin to teach him the finer points of housecleaning.”
 
 
February 1
-- Still in a bathrobe, George was finishing a papaya when Jaime appeared at his door. Hopefully he asked, “Jaime, I asked Don Pablo about leaving my room for exercise? He said soon. How soon?”

“Sá­, hombre. á‰l dice que sá­, hoy. But you no like, I think. First, otra cosa. You have new duty. You shave legs and under arms like woman,” he ordered sternly. “You keep smooth at all times. No let them is hairy. Every few days you shave them. Shave good. You punished, por supuesto, if you no obey good–and then you shave anyway.” He gave George half a dozen bright-pink Gillette “Venus” razors. “You start now.” George shaved then and there under Jaime’s vigilant eye. Then Jaime announced, “Today is primero de febrero. En el primero dá­a de cada mes, you get one more thing. Enero, tu barba. Febrero, you begin shave like woman. Marzo…” He shrugged. “Yo no sé. Pero entonces hará¡ alguno má¡s. El aá±o prá³ximo, aparecés como criada propia. Like you say, you look like a… a proper maid?” He cocked his head, then looked George up and down. “Don Pablo even say, you is muchacha lindá­sima soon. Dudo que es posible, but he usual tiene verdad.”

George had already been told that–but of course he didn’t intend to be there in a year. He ignored Jaime’s baiting and asked, “And my request? The don said I could go out today?”

“Sá­, sá­. You be ready a las uno y media en punto. You begin learn work en la casa grande. Don Pablo say, time to learn maid work. Lots of exercise.”

“I’m a scientist–a chemist–I can’t be a maid!” Unreasonably, as he protested, he felt a pang of terror race through him. Surely the don wouldn’t punish him just for complaining! Would he? George knew he did not want to be punished. He told himself he’d accept what he must until he could escape. “I’m sorry,” he quickly amended. “I’ll do it. I’ll be ready.” Immediately he felt better.

In the casa, Ibá¡á±ez watched the spycam and beamed at Don Pablo. “Obviously the fear chip is effective. Now having given in out of fear, he’ll probably rationalize his surrender with the punishment for refusal. Of course, that would be a valid reason for his behavior. But he might’ve resisted anyway. And if this touch of panic is insufficient, then we can supply more. I believe Evelina will find him a good student, if a trifle reluctant.”

At 1:25 that afternoon Jaime arrived to escort George to the main house. George’s relief at his release from the cottage where he had spent the last month was tempered by his distaste for the task at hand. Nevertheless, he appreciated the tiny freedom of being allowed to walk outdoors, and to feel the pine-scented breeze on his face. Jaime brought him through a back entrance to the casa. Somewhere he heard an infant squalling. He was told this was part of the servants’ quarters. After a turn down a short hall George was led into a drab whitewashed room without any furniture. Evelina awaited him there.

Evelina, a sour and severe woman somewhere between thirty and sixty, was thin and stringy. Her angular face was lightly lined with a few wrinkles. Thin spectacles perched atop a beaklike nose. Her dark hair, streaked with iron-gray, was held in a tight bun. She reminded George of his fourth-grade teacher, whom he had detested. She looked at George as if he were an errant child. “Don Pablo me dice que vos tenés que aprender a conducirte como mujer. Como moza de servicio. Bueno. Yo aprobo. Yo sé que vos hiciste, y merecés tu destino. Ahora, tenés que empezar a aprender tu nueva profesiá³n. Tenés que aprenderla muy bién.” Turning to Jaime, she asked, “ ¿Entiende ella suficiente espaá±ol?” Apparently she intended to treat George as if he were really a girl.

Jaime replied, “Creo que sá­. No habla bién, pero me aparece que puede entender. En toda casa, tiene que aprender espaá±ol mucho mejor. Trabajar bajo su mano asistirá¡ a ella en su lenguaje.”

True to Jaime’s words, George understood. He understood far too much for his equanimity. The harridan fully approved of his transformation to Susana’s maid. She’d see that he’d begin to learn his new profession now. Learn it well. “I protest…” he began.

Evelina stopped him with a glare. “Aquá­ hablará¡s solamente espaá±ol, muchacha. Sos criada. Nada má¡s. Una criada estáºpida, quien no habla bién el idioma. Pero le aprenderá¡s pronto.  ¿Comprendés?”

He understood. Clearly, the woman had trained as a drill instructor at Parris Island. “Sá­, comprendo.  ¿Qué puedo hacer para Usted?” Do what you must, he reminded himself.

What he could do for her was scrub floors. Evelina told him, “La primera obligaciá³n de criada es limpiar, muchacha. Limpiar las ropas, limpiar los platos y las ollas, limpiar las salas. Lavar las paredones, lavar los pisos. Empezá¡ aquá­ y ahora con esto piso. Hay agua y jabá³n y cepillo.” She indicated a bucket of hot water, a cake of hard yellow soap, and a stiff brush.

Under her critical eye George learned the art of washing floors on hands and knees. This particular floor was old linoleum, badly stained. She allowed nothing to be skimped, and he had to repeat his scrubbing of several stains with more vigor. When the floor was done to her standards, she led him to the next room, where the furniture had been moved, and directed him to return the furniture to its original place. By the time he had moved a large wood table, six chairs, and two shelves full of knick-knacks, he was bone-tired, with sore muscles, aching back, and raw hands. Nevertheless, Evelina set him to work washing another floor. When Jaime finally returned at five, rescuing him from his labors, she reluctantly let him go.

“Hasta maá±ana, muchacha, a las uno y media. Creo que podrá­as hacerte criada pasable.”

George was almost too tired to eat, but he managed to fix his usual rice and beans. He read a little bit of his latest Harlequin novel, and fell asleep in his chair. Jaime had to awaken him, to send him to bed.
 
 
February 7
-- Evelina continued to take a toll of George’s body and his will. She would have him clean every room in the big house, it seemed. He endured it, learning to scrub with vigor and with care. If he missed a spot or seemed to rest a little, she would be on his neck, accusing him of being a lazy girl, unworthy of her attention. Today she had baited him unmercifully. “Pero Don Pablo dice que vos será¡s criada para Suzi, y será¡s. Criada bonita, también.” She grinned at him evilly: “ ¿Qué creés, muchacha?  ¿Anticipá¡s con placer tu cambio?  ¿Llevar una faldita blanca, una blusa?  ¿Qué decá­s?” When he didn’t answer, feigning incomprehension, she laughed. “Lo creo. Creo que propiamente debés ser moza. No merecés cojones, muchacha má­a. Anticipo con placer verte en el uniforme de criada, con tu gorro y tu delantal. Muy cuca.”

That evening Doctor Garcá­a examined his head injury and pronounced it healed. George reported the symptoms he’d suffered when he refused his drug, and he inquired about the nature of the drug, but could get no answer. Still, Doctor Garcá­a appeared sympathetic, clucking his tongue at the treatment accorded George.

George resolved to escape soon, but he was well guarded constantly. The locks on his door at night seemed impregnable. When he did leave his apartment under escort, he had a feeling of impending danger, as though he were being watched. He was afraid they would allow him just a little rope, the better to hang himself with. He needed inside help. Possibly Doctor Garcá­a? He seemed to be the most sympathetic person here.
 
 
February 9
-- When Yolanda appeared in the evening, she peered at George’s face, rubbed her hand over his cheek, and smiled. By signs she indicated that his beard and mustache were gone. “Pero ahora tengo que arrancar las cejas.” George’s Spanish had improved, but he didn’t understand until she began on his eyebrows. “No!” he exclaimed, but Yolanda told him he had no choice, it was the don’s orders. Still he resisted; at last she gave up, warning him that his refusal was unwise. “Jaime me dijo que vos tenés que obedecer. Sá­ no… pues, no sé que pasará¡, pero no será¡ bueno. No te gustará¡.” With that vague warning, she left.

His Spanish had reached the point where he understood her quite well. “I don’t know what will happen, but it won’t be good. You won’t like it.” Well, it was too late to change his mind now, and he wasn’t inclined to anyway. Out of habit he considered escaping. He was sure the guards would eventually be withdrawn, but they hadn’t been yet. And the locks remained secure. He resigned himself to whatever punishment might await him.

Jaime came to him at suppertime. His face was serious. “Hombre, Yolanda me dice que vos desobedeciste.  ¡Qué lá¡stima!” He switched to his fractured English. “She right, you know. Bad mistake. When you change mind, digame. O digá¡ a Paco, next your door. He get me then.” Then he left.

That evening,shortly after sunset, George began to feel vaguely ill. Depression settled over him as he contemplated his situation. It was hopeless. He’d never escape, and his prospects were intolerable. He even thought of suicide, but he couldn’t think of a good way to accomplish it. Besides, he was too afraid.

By eleven his vague illness had settled into a faint nausea and the hint of stomach cramps. He recognized the symptoms of withdrawal. He couldn’t understand how he could be feeling sick. It was far too early, but there was no mistaking the pangs. He lay on his bed, unable to sleep. He had never felt so bad in his life. “Jaime was right,” he told himself. “I can’t take this. My eyebrows aren’t worth it” He arose and staggered to the door. It was locked of course, but he banged on it. Paco came immediately. “Paco, por favor, get Jaime. Jaime!”

Paco laughed. “Hay problemas,  ¿no? Maá±ana, hombre, maá±ana. Tenés que esperar.”

Wait till morning? He couldn’t! But he had to. And he did, suffering through the wee small hours.
 
 
February 10
-- Shortly after dawn Jaime found George on his bed holding his head. A faint odor of vomit hung in the air. He looked up hopefully. “Jaime, for the love of God, help me! I’m sorry I refused Yolanda!”

Jaime looked sympathetic, but offered no help. “ ¡Qué lá¡stima! You look bad, mi amigo. I sorry about you.”

“Don’t just feel sorry for me!” George fought back a retch. “I need help. Please!”

“I no can help yet, hombre. Yolanda trabaja–she work–until noon. Then you go to her, beg her to finish work on you. tenés que persuadir a ella. You must persuade her.”

“Then I’ll get better?”

“Yes and no. You will get un poco mejor. When you think of something extra you offer, una cosa má¡s para ceder, then you get better all the way.”

“Something to surrender? But I don’t have anything! I mean, I have my books, my CD’s, but… I don’t know what you mean!”

“You think of something. Claro que sá­. Hasta luego, amigo. I see you at noon.”

Nausea, headache, and cramps continued through the morning with no improvement. His class was canceled; he was too ill to think of teaching. George’s stomach had been emptied early on, but dry heaves continued. Shortly before noon Jaime returned as promised. George could barely walk, but desperation drove him out. There was no thought of escape, only of relief.

“We almost there, hombre.” They approached a small wooden cabin surrounded by flowers. Roses again, a part of George’s mind noted clinically. Jaime knocked on the brightly painted door. George heard footsteps and the door opened. Yolanda looked at Jaime, then at George.

“Hola, Jaime.  ¿Qué pasa con él?”

“Es su castigo. á‰l quiere suplicar a tá­, Yolanda.” Turning to George, he said, “Ask her.”

George tried to pick his words to persuade her. He no longer cared about his ongoing feminization; his only concern was his return to health. “Please forgive me–favor de perdoner… de perdonarme.  ¡Ayáºdame, por favor! Mis cejas…” He pantomimed, pulling his eyebrows. “Como una mujer.  ¡Por favor!”

She looked surprised, then smiled. “ ¡Pobrecito! Por supuesto te ayudo en tu deseo para la belleza.  ¡Momentito!” She disappeared to a back room, reappearing with her equipment. “Regresamos a tu casa.”

Back at the cottage, she quickly finished her work. George was left with thin and gracefully arched brows. His face in the mirror was distinctly androgynous. “Mucho mejor,” she observed. “Don Pablo me dice que podré ayudarte en tu cambio a mujer bonita, y también por qué. Tendrá¡s mucho para aprender. Creo que me gustará¡ mucho enseá±arte.” George’s Spanish had improved greatly in six weeks, and by now he comprehended the gist of her words. They didn’t reassure him, but he was too sick to care.

But he had obeyed his orders. “Now can I get well?” he begged. “Please, I have to get better.”

“Aquá­ está¡ tu remedio,” Jaime answered, proffering a blue tablet. “As I tell you, it no fix all, but it help.”

George swallowed the pill. “But how can I get back to well? Please, Jaime, please tell me.”

“I tell you already. Ceda alguno. You offer something. You think. I see you maá±ana.”

George could get no more from him. Still, the pill seemed to help, as promised. By 2 o’clock that afternoon the nausea had receded to a slight queasiness and the cramps had lessened to an occasional twinge. He still felt miserable, but he had some interest in living. With his improvement came a heartfelt longing for complete health. He no longer doubted that he was addicted to something nasty. How it had been administered was of no interest now; the overriding fact was that it had been given and it could be taken away. Nor did he harbor the slightest inclination to test his ability to endure further withdrawal symptoms. But what did they want from him?

That evening he still felt terrible and couldn’t finish supper, throwing up what little he had managed to swallow. A headache prevented him from enjoying the novel he tried to read. He went to bed early for lack of anything better to do, but he had trouble sleeping. The possible answer to his question of what to offer came to him that night as he tossed and turned.

The more he thought about it, the more certain he became. What the don insisted on was an offer, a free offer on his part, to give up some further part of his male identity. The only remaining question was: how much (or how little!) would it take to satisfy him. If he lowballed, he’d only have to offer more in the end, he was sure. He decided on his offer, and finally dozed off to a fitful slumber.
 
 
February 11
-- Morning found him no better; he gave up hope that he could wait out his semi-withdrawal. Life like this was intolerable. He’d offer whatever was necessary. Eagerly he awaited Jaime and salvation.

He waited and he waited. Jaime was certainly in no hurry. At noon he managed to fix himself a small meal of beans and rice, and his stomach managed to tolerate it. Jaime didn’t appear until 3 PM. As was his custom, Jaime greeted him with a cheery “Buenos dá­as, amigo.  ¿Cá³mo está¡s? You feel better?”

“Better, but not good. Jaime, I thought about what I… what I could offer…” He had trouble finishing.

Jaime prompted him: “ ¿Sá­, amigo?  ¿Qué ofrecés? What you have? You still look bad. You feel better after.”

“Jaime, would Don Pablo accept it if I offered to use makeup? Eye shadow, maybe?” Jaime looked puzzled, and George mimed applying eye shadow. Jaime’s face showed that he understood. “Would he accept that?” Jaime shook his head, and George’s heart sank. What else could he do? “Lipstick! I’ll use lipstick!”

His keeper seemed puzzled briefly, then replied, “Ah,  ¡lá¡piz de labio! Amigo, you need to ask to use, and give to me good reason. You do, then es posible que you allowed to use. And es posible que you get much better.”

George was worn down; he had no pride left. Formally he requested, “Seá±or, por favor, may I be permitted to use makeup? I am becoming a girl, and I wish to wear lipstick and eye shadow, as is proper for me. Please.”

Jaime’s face broke into a smile. “ ¿Cá³mo no? Como me dijiste, es apropiado para Seá±orita Deon.” George’s heart sank at the title. “I bring you maquillaje–makeup–maá±ana.” He handed George another tablet. George snatched it and swallowed. “Claro que Susana enjoy to know cada dá­a you become more close una muchacha.”

By suppertime George was a bit better. Physically he felt decent, if not good: no cramps and only a slight headache. The nausea remained–he couldn’t eat supper–and he was still depressed. Part of the problem, he was certain, was imposed, but at least part of the depression arose from the knowledge that he had been tested and had broken. He tried to tell himself that the pressures were irresistible, that anyone would have given in; but it didn’t help. Jaime was justified in addressing him as “Seá±orita”. Or at most, just a trifle premature. He had taken one more step, a big step, towards womanhood. As a twinge of nausea struck him again, he realized that he actually did want to use lipstick. He wanted it badly.

What could he do? Suicide was impractical–and it would only give Don Pablo the satisfaction of driving another enemy to self-destruction. If he could only escape! That withdrawal, though… The alternatives left to him weren’t attractive. But if he didn’t act, he certainly would be! “I will master my fears–and the addiction–and flee before it’s too late,” he told himself. Somehow he’d find a way.