Part 7: Doom!

 
 
June 17
-- That morning, at 2 AM, two figures crept out of the cottage. Petunia had told her friend (no longer lover) that the power was going off at exactly that hour, and sure enough, the light they’d left on, flickered off. Pansy had asked Petunia to stay behind. She could just give him the directions he’d need. “Petunia, you’re six months pregnant!” he protested. “You’re carrying my child! You can’t go off tramping across the mountains as if you were walking to the grocery! I’m a capable person. I can find my way if I know where I’m going, and your friend can pick me up by myself. Stay here!”

She wouldn’t stay, of course. “No way. You’d never make it. It’s not hard–I can do it easily. It’s just that you’d get lost. Or stumble into a village and be caught. You need me.” He finally agreed.

Pansy had borrowed a pair of Petunia’s pink slacks–all he had were dresses and skirts–so he could move more easily through the brush. He had put on earrings and touched up his lipstick. They had discussed what to wear; he had pointed out that he looked like a girl whatever he wore, and that he’d attract less attention if he didn’t try to pass as a man. She agreed reluctantly; Don Pablo’s crazy scheme had already taken a heavy toll. Still, he had one testicle left, she told herself. His changes could be reversed after they escaped. But this would probably be his last chance. The last vestiges of his masculinity would soon vanish. His last bridge would be burned.

If they could make it over the mountains, Petunia thought they might succeed. The ankle monitor was gone. Pansy had cut it off as soon as the power went, and it couldn’t betray their location now. If they fled rapidly enough, they could lose themselves in Tegucigalpa until Pansy could arrange to leave Honduras.

The weather favored the fugitives. There was no moon. The night was cool and humid, but rainless and fogless. Dew from the coffee bushes soon soaked them. As they walked silently through the cafetal, Petunia heard a lone rooster give a desultory crow. They reached the edge of Finca Las Rosas and slipped through a gap in a double fence, carefully creeping under a motion sensor on their bellies (Petunia worried that the power might have been restored by now). A path over the mountain led through remnants of cloud forest to neighboring fincas, and to the villages beyond. Petunia estimated that by 7 AM they could reach Siguatepeque.

Back at Las Rosas, the sabotage was discovered at 4:45 AM, when Jaime arose and found that the light in his room wouldn’t work. Five minutes later Don Pablo was awake. He immediately dispatched men to check the power supply and the emergency power; both seemed to be disabled. While electricity was being restored, Jaime checked on their “guests”. Their absence didn’t surprise him, but it imparted an urgency to the efforts to restore power. In the meantime, Hector took a truck to check the road out of the finca, as far as Comayagua.

By 5:30 the source of the problem was found. It was repaired within ten minutes. The don was sure the outage was sabotage, although it could plausibly have been accidental. He silently congratulated the escapees and their unknown accomplice; they had planned the break well. Ibá¡á±ez had assured him that the system was unbeatable, but clearly it had weaknesses. He wondered how Pansy or Petunia had gotten around it. Well, he’d worry about that later. His first priority was their recapture. He tuned in on Pansy’s tracer. The red dot marking her position faded onto the screen. The fugitives were well off the finca, some distance east of Siguatepeque. They must have headed west on foot through the mountains, avoiding the roads. A good strategy, he told himself. If not for the radio, they’d have had a good chance to escape. As it was, they had a good head start, but Ibá¡á±ez had told him the radio would enable him to find Pansy anywhere in the country. Then he reminded himself: Ibá¡á±ez had also told him that escape was impossible in the first place. He sent for Jaime, and ordered him to lead a team to seize the pair. Then he radioed Ibá¡á±ez in San Pedro, ordering him to Las Rosas at once. He considered activating the chip that would send Pansy deep into unconsciousness, but decided to wait until the fugitives could be apprehended without the need to carry Pansy for a long distance. When they reached the Siguatepeque road, where Jaime could pick them up more easily, he’d put her out. Jaime left the finca ten minutes later, in a van equipped with a portable receiver tuned to Pansy’s transmitter. He brought enough men with him to ensure that they could recapture the pair with little trouble, and he also carried a small control panel to activate Pansy’s chips.

By the first light of dawn Pansy and Petunia were walking through open grassy pine forest. A small owl serenaded them with mechanical, but musical, toots. As the light slowly waxed, ranks of pine trunks appeared ghostly in the cool morning mist. The liquid flutelike gurglings of the jilgueros, small shy thrushes, began shortly before sunrise. A piney aroma filled the air. With delight, Jack pointed out bromeliads perched on the branches. Petunia in turn was delighted to see him in such high spirits.

They reached a dirt road east of La Laguna just after sunrise. People were about, but they were just two more women headed for town. Suddenly Pansy grunted and collapsed at the side of the road. Petunia pulled him off the road and tried to arouse him without success. He was breathing normally, his pulse was strong, and when she checked his pupils, there was no sign of injury, but she couldn’t waken him. As she tried to think of what to do next, a blue Isuzu van pulled up. The driver opened the window and asked, “Seá±ora,  ¿are you Petunia Baca?” Petunia gasped with relief. “ ¡Yes, I am!  ¡Thank God you’re here! My friend fainted. Please, help me get him–her–in the van. I’ve got to get her to Tegus. She can see a doctor there.” Their savior carried Pansy easily and put him on a mat in the back of the van. He told Petunia, “No problem, Seá±ora. We’ll be in Tegus in no time.” Petunia climbed in and sat next to Pansy. The driver shut the door and they were left in darkness, as the van had neither windows nor a light in back. They began moving, as the van started along the dirt road towards their salvation.

Pansy stirred and awakened within three minutes. He was alarmed to find himself in total darkness, but Petunia reassured him, hugging him in relief. “My friend kept his word,” she told him. “We’re headed for Tegucigalpa. But what happened? You passed out on the road, and I couldn’t wake you up.”

He frowned in the darkness. “I don’t know. I got dizzy. Next thing I knew, I woke up here. But I’m OK now, I think. I feel OK, anyway.” Petunia helped him find the couch in the back–the van hadn’t been designed for passengers–and they carefully eased themselves onto it.

As they bounced along the dirt road in total blackness, Petunia explained that their benefactor was the brother of a man punished by Don Pablo. “I contacted him during one of my trips to town, and told him that Don Pablo was holding my girlfriend prisoner. He didn’t ask for any details. He doesn’t much care who you are or what you did, he just wants to stick a thumb in the don’s eye. In turn, I didn’t ask for any of the details of what he’d do, except for what we needed to know, to be able to meet the van. His driver’s taking us to Tegucigalpa. We’ll get a room there, and then we can figure out what to do next.”

Pansy didn’t care what the man’s reasons were. He was free! “I have to leave the country,” he told Petunia. “As long as I’m here, I’m in danger. The don can’t afford to have me escape–I know too much–and he’ll be looking for me high and low. He’ll find me if I stay.” Petunia nodded, but her face was unhappy, and Pansy added, “I need medical help, too, and I can get it in the U.S. Petunia, I still love you, but…” He glanced at his chest, invisible in the blackness. “Well, I’m not much of a man right now. After my body’s fixed up, I’ll come back. Or you can come to the U.S.” Problems waited for him there too, he knew. Celia certainly hadn’t forgotten him, not with his baby to remind her. Still, those problems paled in comparison with what awaited him here in Honduras. He dismissed his difficulties: “We’ll worry about it later. Right now, I have to get away.”

“But won’t you have a problem? I mean, you have no papers. No passport, no other identification. And… Well, you know… You don’t look much like the Seá±or Pinkerton who arrived here a year ago.”

“That shouldn’t matter. I’ll explain that I was kidnapped and my papers were stolen. I can’t be the first tourist to lose his papers. And I’m sure I can establish who I really am.”

“But you don’t know who you are. Don Pablo stole your first name.”

He acknowledged her point. “Yes, it’s a problem. I’ll claim amnesia. It’s true enough. Anyway, now that I’m free, I’ll find my name. I’ll just call people back in the States–family, friends, people like that. And they’ll send money, too, so I can get out of here. I’ve got to do it quick, before Don Pablo finds me and finishes his project.”

“You don’t need to do that. It’ll take too long. I’ll lend you the money, and you can send it back to me when you reach home.” She hated the thought of his leaving, but he was right. He had to get away as quickly as possible, if he was to recover his manhood.

Back at Las Rosas, the signal from the implanted transmitter cut off. The don called Ibá¡á±ez, who was already on his way to the finca. “Doctor, you told me the chips were as secure as prison bars. ‘There is no way to beat it,’ you assured me. Clearly you were wrong.  ¿What happened?”

Over the radio the doctor’s voice betrayed his frustration. “I don’t know, Seá±or. Of course, when the power was shut off, we couldn’t use the chips. The prison doors were opened, so to speak. It also kept us from detecting the subject’s transmitter signal.  ¿But now? I don’t know yet. The only thing I can think of is that something’s blocking the transmission. He’s got to be in a metal enclosure of some kind.”

“I do not think you mentioned that possibility before, Doctor.” Then the don took a deep breath. Recriminations would have to wait. He asked, “ ¿What do you suggest now? We cannot afford to allow our subject to escape.”

In his black Toyota south of Lake Yojoa, the doctor puzzled over the problem and replied, “Well, Seá±or, the transmitter will tell us where they are when the shielding is removed. They may be headed for Tegucigalpa, or possibly San Pedro. The transmitter range isn’t sufficient for either. If he goes to San Pedro, he’ll be picked up on the Institute equipment, and one of my men’ll tell us where he is. I have another receiver with me. I suggest I take it to Tegucigalpa.”

“Jaime can help you. He has already left, but I will send him there. Meet him at the Hilton.”

The fugitives arrived in the capital by mid-morning and found a cheap room. After they were settled, Pansy looked at himself critically in the mirror. His shape was womanly, but he thought he could still pass for a man. If he bound his breasts and cut his hair… Yes, it should be possible. Petunia agreed, but pointed out that his face was girlish. “It’s the lips,” she told him. “And the eyebrows. There’s nothing we can do about the eyebrows, or your lack of whiskers either, but I’ll get some makeup to help the lips.” She looked at him critically and shook her head. “You’ve got to get medical attention, Jack. You need a lot of help, after what those sadists did to you.”

“I know,” he replied. “But I can’t do it here. Not now. My first priority is, get out of Honduras as quick as I can. Then I’ll get help.” Petunia cut his hair, leaving it moderately long but definitely masculine. She left then to shop for men’s clothes and a natural lip coloring, while Pansy waited. He worried about becoming sick, as he had on his previous escape attempt, and he wanted to be safely away from the don before the sickness struck. Still, there was no sign of it so far. He wondered about that, but he was grateful for its absence.

When Petunia returned, Pansy stripped, taped his bosom, pulled on male clothing, and covered his lips with a neutral shade. There was nothing they could do about the baby-smooth face with no trace of whiskers, nor the thin arched eyebrows. In the mirror he saw an effeminate-looking man, but it was a man–or at least he tried to believe that. Petunia shook her head again in dismay, but told him, “That’ll have to do, Jack. You look… passable.”

“Good.” He thought for a minute. “I’ll go to the embassy first. I have to escape as soon as I can, and I’ll need identification. Maybe the don can’t find me right away, now that the damned tracer’s off, but I’m sure he’s begun a search, and I’m sure he has the resources to make it a thorough one.” Petunia agreed.

He took a bus to the embassy, in a wealthy residential district. A guard admitted him, and he was soon seated by the desk of an embassy visa official–Andrew Pierce, by his desk plate–to whom he explained that he’d been robbed. The impatient clerk wanted to dispose of this nuisance quickly. “All your identification was stolen, and your money too? The embassy can’t really do much for you, sir. I suggest you get in touch with your family. Have them mail you cash and a new ID. A copy of your birth certificate, perhaps, and something with a photo.”

Pansy looked at the floor, then at Mr. Pierce. “I can’t wait that long. I’m in danger here in Honduras, and I have to leave as soon as I can. I’ve already been attacked, and the men who did it are still after me. It’s not the money I’m worried about–I know you can’t help me there–it’s the passport I need replaced.”

“Sir, unless and until you can prove that you’re Pinkerton and that you’re American, I can’t help you.”

Clenching his fist in frustration, Pansy admitted to the man, “My problem is really even worse than I said. When I was attacked, I… well, I lost part of my memory. I’m not even sure of my first name. Please, help me. I must be in your files somewhere. I got my passport just this year. Don’t you have a record of it? Not here, I mean, but maybe back in the U.S.? Can’t you check? Just look up ‘Pinkerton’.”

“We’re not detectives. As I said, you’ll have to find some way to establish your identity before I can issue a replacement passport.” Pierce began to rise in dismissal.

Pansy remained seated. “Please! I am American! Just listen to me! At least help me find my name so I can get my proof!” He leaned over the desk and begged, “Look me up! Please! You have my last name, and I’ll give you my birthplace, my social security number… Whatever you need!”

“I repeat, we’re not detectives.” But then he sagged into his chair and sighed. “Very well, I’ll do that much. Yes, I can look up a record of recent passports–that is, within the past few years. And I can check your social security number in an emergency. Give me the number, and your other vital statistics–birthplace, date of birth, whatever. And your mother’s maiden name. I’ll do what I can. But I still won’t be able to issue a new passport until you provide proof.” Pansy wrote down the information and handed it to him. “Wait here,” Pierce told him, and left through a rear door. Pansy sat back to wait. He picked up a Time magazine and idly leafed through it, but his eyes passed over the pages without comprehension.

Mr. Pierce returned in ten minutes, visibly annoyed. “Sir, there’s no record of any passport issued within the last four years to anyone by the name of ‘Pinkerton’. And the social security number you gave me is registered to a woman in Boise, Idaho. I don’t know what you’re trying to do, but I can’t help you. Good day.”

Pansy protested, but there was nothing to do. Bewildered, he walked blindly out of the building as he tried to think of what to do next. What had gone wrong? Why wasn’t there any record of his passport?

As he walked towards the bus stop, he became dizzy, and quickly passed out. A van parked across the street from the embassy opened its doors and two men emerged. They quickly reached the unconscious man on the sidewalk, picked him up, and carried him back to the van. Jaime supervised the men as they loaded him into the back, then drove to Pansy’s hotel, where he left one of the men to inform Petunia of her lover’s capture.
 
 
Indeterminate
-- Pansy awoke in a stupor, barely conscious. Soon walls swam into focus–familiar walls. He was slumped on a couch in Don Pablo’s library. The don was opposite him, and Doctors Weiss and Ibá¡á±ez sat nearby. “At last you have returned to us,” the don remarked. “You have been asleep for some time.”

His mind was fogged. Why was he here? “Asleep? But I… What…?” His confusion began to dissipate. He recalled his escape, and the fiasco at the embassy, but nothing after that. Clearly the don’s men had captured him and taken him back to Las Rosas. Sitting erect, he looked down at himself. He was wearing a thin rose-pink top, trimmed with white lace and adorned with hot-pink hearts and a scattering of lavender sequins. On the front, across his bosom, was printed an exhortation: “♥ Béseme–Soy Princesa de Amor ♥.” A scooped neckline and a pink push-up bra displayed his cleavage. A heart-shaped locket hung from a silver chain around his neck, nestling in the hollow between his breasts–were they even larger? A snug denim skirt stopped just above his knees. Open-toed strappy lavender pumps with six-centimeter heels showed his toenails, adorned with hot-pink glitter polish. He looked at his hands: he was wearing a charm bracelet, and his manicured fingernails glowed with the same pink glitter polish. He shook his head, trying to clear it, and heavy earrings brushed the sides of his neck. His hand came up and felt five-centimeter hoops.

Don Pablo commented, “I believe Seá±or Pierce at the consulate would be even more skeptical of your claim to be a norteamericano. You will never again be mistaken for a man, true?”

“No!” Pansy insisted. “I…” He cleared his throat–something was wrong with his voice. “I will get myyyiii…” His words rose to a squeal, and he tried to clear his throat again. “What’s the matter with my…” The statement was intelligible this time, but the pitch remained stubbornly high. His voice was weak and slightly whispery, and it wouldn’t come down. Weiss smiled as Pansy put a hand to his throat. “What happened to…” He tried again to lower his tone, but succeeded only in sounding like a twelve-year-old girl unsuccessfully trying to imitate a man. “What did you do to me–to my voice?” he demanded.

Ibá¡á±ez raised an eyebrow. “You can’t tell? You sing soprano now. Quite a high soprano, I should say.”

Weiss confirmed it. “Look at your throat, Frá¤ulein. Note that you no longer have an Adam’s apple. We operated on your larynx, making it quite a bit smaller. As a result, your throat is feminine and, more important, you have a woman’s voice.” He paused and smiled. “I suppose you might say, you possess an Eve’s apple.”

Ibá¡á±ez contradicted him. “It’s not a woman’s voice, not quite. It’s too high, really a girl’s voice. The surgeon who gave it to you told us it’ll become slightly lower over the years, but not much–it’ll always remain girlish. But don’t worry: for a pretty girl like you, it’s proper, and soon you’ll think of it as just your normal voice. Or better, you won’t think of it at all. Of course, very few people will accept your claim to be a norteamericano, not with that voice. And that figure.” More seriously he added, “There’s a psychological purpose to giving you that voice. As Seá±or Herrera told you, we want you to accept that you are a peasant girl. This is one more tool to persuade you. Not only how others see you, but also your own self-image will be affected. You look like a girl–a young girl–you sound like a young girl: therefore, you are a young girl. Your subconscious will accept it, whether you wish it or not. Look at yourself, Seá±orita. Surely you could not be a man–could not ever have been a man.”

“But I am,” Pansy insisted, forcing himself to ignore the detestable timbre of his voice. “You know I am!”

Don Pablo contradicted him: “No, you are not. In all truth, you are the girl you appear to be.”

The implication hit Pansy. Of course! The penalty for the first escape attempt had been… “I… You…” She shut her eyes. “You took… No!” It was finished, she thought. Tears began to course down her cheeks.

Weiss nodded. “Yes, of course I castrated you.” He shrugged: “The loss had no practical effect: what remained of your original equipment was no longer functional, and your hormonal balance was already female. However, we also did a great deal of constructive surgery, and when you make your first visit to a gynecologist, his examination–his vaginal examination–will confirm that you are female.”

Ibá¡á±ez continued, “Although sexual reassignment surgery is a well-established field, our team has advanced the frontiers of what is possible.” He pointed to a full-length mirror next to his chair. “Come, Miss Pinkerton,” he ordered. “Look at the new you.” Unwillingly Pansy walked to the mirror. Her eyes widened. She didn’t recognize the girl reflected there. The surgeons had given her eyes a slight epicanthic fold. Her lips, already full and rosy, protruded in a slight pout, and it took an effort to keep them from parting. Her nose was a little smaller and flatter, her chin was more delicate and receded slightly, and her cheekbones were higher. The skin was slightly darker, but her complexion was flawless. Her hips–broader now?–were set off by a slim waist. Even her arms and legs were girlishly slender. Taken altogether, her figure was not quite womanly, but rather that of a teenage girl. Her attire and hairdo supported that impression: the sleeveless pink top and tight denim skirt, gold hoop earrings, glitter nail polish, lavender pumps, and an ankle bracelet; and dark hair permed into a tumble of curls. An irregular pink streak had been dyed from front to back. “Oh my God!” she squealed in shock. “I’m… I’m pretty!”

As Pansy stared in despair at the mixed-race high-school girl in the mirror, the don told her, “My doctors say that you have been in denial, Seá±orita. You reject the identity we build for you. I do not know if you will accept it now, but at the least, rejection will be more difficult.” He paused, then added, “Doctor Weiss tells me that there is no way back. Any attempt to restore a masculine appearance–not to speak of your manhood–would be prohibitively expensive and entirely futile. No, Seá±orita: whatever happens now, your future is as a woman. Not truly a beauty, but pretty enough to attract a man, as you noted. Accept it, and perhaps you may build a new and satisfying life–after you finish your maid service.” He leaned back in his chair. “As I told you, I would hope that you will work as a maid here in Honduras for the rest of your life–but I will not force you. Perhaps you can escape and return to the United States.” A slight smile appeared. “After all, you wanted to hide from Celia Tolliver. You should thank me for assisting you. I have given you a new identity and she will never find you. That identity is Honduran, of course, and you may have some difficulty persuading the immigration authorities to allow you into the United States.”

Pansy shook her head. “That’s not… It’s not… not me. I… I don’t…” She fell silent.

“Look in front of you, muchacha,” the don ordered as she continued to stare at her image. “That is a mirror. That is your reflection in the mirror. That is you. You are female, now and forever. Your identification is in your purse.” He pointed to a cheap plastic shoulder bag on a chair. It was scarlet, with purple pansies on the sides. “Seá±or Pinkerton is no more. According to your papers, you are Pansy-Ann Pinkerton, a fifteen-year-old girl born in Comayagá¼ela.” He paused, then noted, “Of course, your Spanish is not at a level appropriate for a hondureá±a, but do not worry about it: the next year will see it improve, and by the time you are freed, you will speak Spanish as well as any other catracha. Now we must take photographs to document the final loss of your masculinity. Then you will take your purse and return to your room. Tomorrow you will resume your training.”

When Pansy entered the cottage, Petunia was watching a telenovela. She looked up expectantly, but her face face lost its hopeful expression when she saw the sweet-faced girl who had entered. “ ¿What are you doing here, chica?” she asked. “ ¿Please, where is Seá±or Pinkerton? Don Pablo called me back here today and promised that Seá±or Pinkerton would return.  ¿Are you going to take me to him?  ¿Or can you tell me something about him?”

Pansy felt her eyes fill with tears as she tried to answer, “I… Yes, he… he returned. I’m…” She choked as she heard her own childish voice again.

Surprised at the response in English, Petunia switched to that language. “Speak up, girl. If he’s here, then take me to him! Please!”

“I’m… I’m him. I’m Pansy… I’m Ja… Jack.”

Petunia stared at the girl in front of her. “That’s impossible! Don’t joke. Where is he?”

“Pe… Petunia, I am him! It’s me! Don… Don Pablo changed me! He took… he took my balls and made me into… into this!” Pansy gestured towards herself. “Into a… a fu… fu… fucking s… s… schoolgirl!”

“But…” Her jaw dropped. “ ¡Dios má­o!  ¡No es posible!”

Pansy tried to answer, but despair and frustration overcame her, and she collapsed into a chair, sobbing. Petunia ran to her and hugged her. “My poor darling!” she exclaimed, then began to cry herself. The two lovers wept in each other’s arms until Petunia disengaged. “Don Pablo sent me away after… after he caught us,” she told Pansy. “He wouldn’t tell me what he’d… what he’d do to you, but I guessed, of course. I b…begged to come back–I still love you, and I knew you’d need me. He finally told me I could come back to… today, but not to tell anyone about you.” She sniffled, pulled a handkerchief from her purse, and blew her nose. “I tried to find out about you–about Seá±or Pinkerton–and to tell the Embassy people that you were being held here, but… but no one would listen. I kept trying, but I cou… couldn’t do anything! I guess that’s why he let me go. He knew.” She got up from her chair. “But can I… can I make you something to eat? Or d…did you have supper already?”

“Is it… su… suppertime?” Pansy looked down, saw the slogan adorning her bosom, and looked away. “No… no thanks, Petunia, for some reason I’m not… not hungry.” A thought struck her. “But… What’s today’s date?”

“Today? I… Wait a minute…” She thought. “It’s July 23.”

“July 23? But… A month? A whole month?”

“Over five weeks, actually. I was frantic about you!”

“He should’ve killed me. The day he kidnapped me, he should’ve just killed me. All that shit he gave me about never killing an enemy–that was just crap. He’s a sadist.” Pansy spoke the words in a dull monotone.

Petunia was shocked. “No! You still… still have a life!”

“No I d…don’t. J…Jack Pinkerton is gone. That damned shithead Don Pablo has planned Pansy Pinkerton’s life–as a fucking m…maid. I don’t want it.”

“You can escape! And even if you don’t, even if you have to work as a maid for Suzi–even if his plan succeeds completely–he promised to free you,” Petunia pointed out. “If he promised, he’ll keep his word. And Jack Pinkerton isn’t gone–he’s just… well, he’s just disguised.”

“So well disguised, even I can’t see him. I see a fucking schoolgirl. And I don’t even know his name. Never mind,” she told Petunia as her friend tried to continue her protests. “I need to go to bed. Don Pablo wants me up bright and early to continue training for my new fucking career.” She headed for the bathroom to prepare for bed.

Pansy unzipped her skirt and pulled her panties down. Without thinking, she reached down and found a void. A moment later, Petunia heard renewed sobbing. She rushed to the bathroom to comfort her friend, and found her standing by the toilet, weeping bitterly. “It’s g…gone!” Pansy cried. “I… I knew it was gone–he told me–but… but this… but I…” She looked down again. In place of the missing penis there was a slit with fleshy folds on either side: the external genitalia of a woman. The surgery had been exquisitely performed.

Petunia concealed her own shock. She hugged Pansy and guided her to the toilet, where she urinated. “It’s OK, darling–well, not OK, never OK, but you can survive this. Be strong. They wants to break you down. Don’t break! You–the real you!–Jack Pinkerton–isn’t gone. You’re still in there, in that head, whatever you look like. Don’t let him change that!” She hugged Pansy again, but without response. After explaining to Pansy that as a woman, she had to wipe after peeing, and after demonstrating the proper technique, Petunia led her unresisting friend to the bedroom, dressed her in a nightgown, and put her to bed. Then she allowed herself to weep.

That evening, Herná¡ndez discussed Pansy’s transformation to a mestiza with Weiss, “Yes, Doctor Marcus did a remarkable job. When her bandages came off a week ago I was amazed by how well he succeeded in giving her the facial features of an india. The man’s an artist!”

“The only defect is her light skin. She’s still too pale. But I understand that you’re working on that.”

Herná¡ndez beamed: “Yes, I’m proud of that touch: it has commercial applications. I used a different technique from the one I used for the sex-hormone enzyme. Instead of a bacterium, a ‘designer’ virus infects her skin and hair cells. It’s harmless, and it dies off within months, but it readjusts the dermal DNA genes that control the production of melanin in skin and hair. She won’t pass as a blanca much longer. Her skin is already a little darker, and her hair is dark brown, but soon it’ll be jet black. They’ll fit well with the face Doctor Marcus gave her. Her ancestry will seem to be mestiza with a little negra, and it’ll be clear to everyone that she’s a morena.”

Weiss nodded, then wrinkled his brow. “How does it work?”

“Do you remember when Anderssen found a cure for Alzheimer’s three years ago?”

“Yes, I think so. Wasn’t it a spin-off of the human genome project?” Herná¡ndez nodded, and Weiss went on: “If I remember correctly, they cut a healthy man’s chromosome into fragments and spliced the correct gene sequence into a virus, I think. I don’t know all the details. The tailored virus then replaces the faulty gene in the patient. Anderssen and his coworkers got the Nobel prize, I remember.”

“I used their method, but I chose another gene sequence–or several sequences, actually; several loci control melanin. The alleles I used–the ones that’ll replace Pansy’s original genes–were from a Gará­funa girl.” His enthusiasm for his work was plain. “The process has been commercialized, although most people use it in reverse, to produce a lighter skin. It can give a smooth, soft, almost hairless skin, too–like a young girl’s skin, only permanent. Women pay a fortune for the treatment; Pansy got it free.” He sipped his coffee, then added, “It’ll be a while before her color stabilizes. Months, I suspect. She’ll think it’s only a good tan at first. And she won’t have to shave her legs ever again. And I made another virally-mediated change in her genome as well.”

Weiss was the first to take the bait. “And what was that change?”

“George’s Y chromosome is on its way out. As his cells go through the normal cycle of death and replacement, the regenerating cells will eliminate his Y chromosomes and replace them with an X taken from his girlfriend Petunia. Soon a genetic sex test will ‘prove’ that Pansy is a natural-born female. It is very convenient that such tests normally use the most rapidly replaced cells, such as those from cheek scrapings.”
 
 
June 24
-- It was still cool when Pansy awoke in the morning. Wisps of fog curled through the pine forest outside her window, but already at 6:30 the sun was burning the mists away. At first, before she awakened completely, she was pleased by the beauty of the day, but then she went to the bathroom and the horror of her mutilation returned when she had to sit to pee. Donning a bra was routine now, but the panties she had been forced to purchase on her trip to town now fit only too well. She chose a thin pink top and a knee-length flowered red skirt; she had nothing less girly. Looking into the mirror, she noted with dismay that the skirt hung much better from her broader hips.

When Petunia joined her, she had sunk back into depression. Petunia hugged her friend, who returned her embrace. But then Pansy pulled back: Petunia had grown! She seemed to be at least six centimeters taller than Pansy, maybe more. “You… you’re taller!” she exclaimed.

“No, I’m the same…” She paused. “No, you’re shorter. I’m a hundred fifty-seven… Yes… I’d say you’re under a hundred and fifty centimeters tall. Less than…” She thought briefly. “A bit less than five feet.”

“Less than a meter and a half?” thought Pansy, and began to weep again. Petunia comforted her as best she could, and began breakfast. Pansy ate little, answering Petunia’s attempts at conversation without interest.

Jaime escorted Pansy to her morning training. Conchita was puzzled when they appeared in the kitchen. “Don Pablo told me you’d bring Pansy here,” she told Jaime. “ ¿Why did you bring this girl?  ¿Who is she? I don’t recognize her.”

“I know,” Jaime replied. “He didn’t warn me either. This cute little girl is Pansy Pinkerton.”

“Don’t be silly,” she told him. “This ain’t Pansy.  ¡She don’t look the least bit like her!  ¡And she’s way too short!”

“I know, but this is Pansy anyway. The doctors changed her face. It took over a month for her to recover, and that’s why she hasn’t been here. She was even more surprised than you are, when she saw that pretty girl in the mirror.”

Conchita turned to Pansy. “ ¿Is he telling the truth, girl?  ¿Are you really Pansy?”

“Yes, Seá±ora,” Pansy answered listlessly. “I am Pansy.”

“ ¡Amazing!  ¡You’re so much prettier!  ¡And you even sound like a girl!”

“She is a girl,” Jaime told Conchita. “The doctors took away Seá±or Pinkerton’s prick–but they left Seá±orita Pinkerton with a nice place for some lucky fellow to put one.”

“Susana will be delighted to hear all this. I know she looks forward to having a new maid.  ¡But enough talk!” Turning to Pansy, she ordered her to cook a sausage omelet. “Susana likes her eggs that way, and you got to please her.”

Pansy was given several dishes to prepare. She followed directions obediently, but showed no expression in her face or in her voice. Conchita scolded her severely when she added sugar to the tortilla soup instead of salt, and threatened to send her back to Evelina. Pansy accepted the criticism without protest and promised to try to do better. Mollified, Conchita set her to plucking chickens. At the end of the day Pansy returned to her room. As on the previous evening, Petunia’s attempts to draw her friend into conversation failed completely.
 
 
July 25
-- Two day after Pansy’s awakening, Ibá¡á±ez told Don Pablo she needed time off. “Weiss says that her body has healed, but psychologically she’s not healthy. During the last few months she was in denial, not having accepted that she’d really have to spend the rest of her life as a woman. Now she knows that her new body is a fait accompli, but it’s put her deep into depression. Perhaps a respite from her duties will help her become reconciled to her new gender.” The don agreed, and so shortly after noon Jaime accompanied Pansy to Sanborn’s, a small restaurant in downtown San Pedro that served American-style meals. She hadn’t recovered from the psychological blow of castration (could she ever?), but the mundane reality of walking to a restaurant, sitting down, and ordering a meal, forced her to stop dwelling on her personal tragedy quite so single-mindedly. She was still self-conscious in a dress, as she had been in earlier visits to the city, but Jaime pointed out that she was no longer impersonating a woman. “You’re truly a girl now, Pansy. The men are looking at you, yes, but it’s only to be expected: they’re admiring a pretty young woman. Relax, enjoy yourself.” The thought did not cheer her up. Unable to tolerate the thought of a full meal, she ordered a fudge sundae and a cup of coffee. When she was done, she needed to visit the rest room. Out of habit she entered the door marked “Caballeros”, but she retreated quickly when a man protested, “ ¡Get out of here, Seá±orita!  ¡Pay attention!” Jaime watched, amused, as she escaped in confusion into “Damas”. Afterwards he reminded her that she was banned from the men’s room. “You’re a girl– ¡for real! Act appropriately. I was told you know what’s proper; you certainly told Suzi how to behave.” She was relieved when they returned to the finca.

Petunia continued to try to bring her out of her depression. “Jack, I think they’re done with you now,” she told her. “Physically, at least. There’s not much else left. But you aren’t a real woman, in spite of all they did.”

“Does it matter?” Pansy spoke listlessly, without anger. “No, I’m not a real woman, but so what? I’m a damn good imitation, top to bottom. And if we’d escaped, what then? I doubt it would’ve helped. OK, I’d’ve been free. OK, maybe I could’ve beat the withdrawal–it would’ve hit eventually–after going through hell. But then? Where would I go? Petunia, I’m not Jack anymore, I’m Pansy Pinkerton now. Without papers, without credentials, without anything, I’d’ve been trapped as securely as I ever was.”

Angry, Petunia snapped, “You are not ‘Pansy Pinkerton’! There’s no such person! And you aren’t a woman either. A damn good imitation, like you say: give the devil his due, the doctors are good at their work. You’re stuck with it, I think. But it’s all appearance. Inside, you’re still my Jack!”

Pansy smiled wanly. “Appearances count for a lot, Petunia. At lunch today, the men certainly treated me like a girl. And it’s not just appearances. Weiss is just cosmetic, true. What he took didn’t work, and what he gave me doesn’t function either. And I’m certainly not a genetic female. But they tell me my chemistry’s female now. Petunia, I’m beginning to feel like a woman, react like a woman, just like they said. And I’m definitely not a man any more. Why should I fight it? I hate it, I want to fight it, but I’m tired, Petunia. I’m so tired.”

“I’ll help you, Jack. I still love you, even under that masquerade costume.”

Pansy hugged her friend. “I still love you too, Petunia. I’ll try.”
 
 
July 29
-- Six days after awakening, Pansy visited Weiss at the San Pedro clinic for a physical. She submitted to it stoically, but asked for details of what had been done. At first he was evasive, telling her, “I made you a woman. Didn’t you notice?” Pushed further, he told her that he had rebuilt her pelvis, in addition to redirecting the associated plumbing. “That’s why you needed a long recovery. I had to be certain that the bone could withstand stress. And it’s why you walk a little differently, with a slight sway in your hips. Have you noticed? Others have. It’s very feminine, quite attractive–and totally involuntary. I’m proud of that work. Your hips are still too angular, but don’t worry: from the rear, no one would ever mistake you for a man. Your estrogen level is high, so that over the next few months, the continuation of normal female-pattern fat deposition should pad them nicely.” She almost spat in his eye, but decided he wasn’t worth it. However, she did compare him unfavorably to Josef Mengele.

Later, Petunia told Pansy that the doctors had given her a green light. “They think you’re on the way to a speedy recovery, but you need exercise. Especially, you need to walk. The don says you can have a break in your training for a few days, and then you’ll resume your normal schedule.” After breakfast she asked Pansy to walk with her. “We might as well take advantage of your vacation, Jack. You’ll be working again soon enough.” Petunia was afraid that her friend’s spirit would be crushed by the loss of any hope for a return to his old identity. She hadn’t had much interest in anything since the operation. That Pansy should lose the will to live was understandable, but Petunia had no intention of watching her friend waste away. Man or woman or neither, Jack or Pansy, Petunia loved the person in that body, and she would fight to save her.

At first Pansy refused, but finally Petunia’s efforts succeeded. “I don’t know, Petunia. I don’t really care, but if you want, I’ll join you.”

They walked a quarter mile or so, Petunia in red slacks and pink sleeveless top and Pansy in a white peasant blouse and knee-length red skirt. Pansy tired easily after her extended bed rest, but Petunia’s real worry was her friend’s lack of interest in the natural world around her. Blooming orchids were passed unremarked upon, and several colorful birds brought no notice. Petunia protested to Pansy that she needed to snap out of it, but she responded, “Why? It’s all over, Petunia. There’s nothing left. Even if I could escape, why bother? No, I’m not really a woman. I know that. I’m still really a man inside, I still want to… to love you. But so what? I’m a man trapped in this… this mutilated travesty of a body. In my mind, I still want a woman–I still want you–but I’ll never be able to satisfy that need now. I’d be better off dead.” Her voice had no expression in it.

Petunia didn’t argue with Pansy, but later she asked to speak with Don Pablo. “Jaime, he needs help. I don’t know if anyone else has noticed–or cares–but that’s a human being there, not a lab animal to be discarded. And even as a lab animal, which seems to be the doctors’ only interest, he’ll be no good to them soon. I need to talk to Don Pablo. Soon.”

That afternoon Don Pablo received her in the library. “Petunia,  ¿what can I do for you?” he asked.

“Thank you for seeing me, Seá±or. You can’t do much for me, but you must do something for… for Pansy.” The use of the name galled her, but under the circumstances she made herself use it.

“ ¿Pansy? The doctors tell me she is recovering well.”

“His body, yes. Physically, yes. But I’m afraid for him. I think if you don’t find some way to help him, he may die. You, Susana, those damned doctors of yours–you’ll all be so disappointed when your experiment ends in an unmarked grave.”

Don Pablo seemed skeptical, but he inquired, “ ¿And what do you see that the doctors missed? I know you disapprove of them, but really, they are good at their profession.”

“I have no doubt. But I think he doesn’t wants to live any more. You’ve finally broken him, Seá±or. He has no interest in food, his books, walking, his plants. He’s going through the motions. I think he’ll probably do whatever you’d like right now. For a while. Until he just goes. I think he may subconsciously be taking the only escape route left to him.”

He thought for a moment, then nodded: “You could be right, Petunia. I admit, I am not surprised.” The doctors had warned him that suicidal depression was likely. “Thank you. I will see what I can do. I do not wish to lose her.”

Petunia was relieved, but she pressed him. “Seá±or,  ¿haven’t you done enough? He’s still a man in his head, with a man’s desires, even if he has a woman’s shape.  ¿Can’t you just let him go? You’ve taken enough vengeance to satisfy any man, and your doctors have had their time with him. Their cursed scientific data should satisfy them. Please,  ¡let him go!”

He shook his head. “No. I promised Susana that her seducer would become her maid. I will try to keep my word. But I must deliver her in good health. I will try to cure Pansy’s depression and help her to adjust to her new situation.” He looked down. “There is also this, Petunia: I suspect that if I were to free Pansy now, if I just turned her loose, she might be even worse off. Think, Petunia.  ¿What would she do? The root cause of her depression would not go away. She is a woman now, for better or worse, and she has to live with it–or die with it, as you say. She has to become a woman inside her head, as you put it. I will see that she has help. And you can help. But part of your help, I suspect, could be your acceptance of her new status. Petunia, she knows she is not ‘Jack’. Take her as she is. As she is now. I am not a psychologist, but I think it would help. I will obtain professional advice–unbiased professional advice–but I think that advice will be the same.”

Petunia stood up, ready to leave. “Thank you, Seá±or. I didn’t expect you to free him, but I hoped. But…”

He waved her down again. “Sit for just a minute, Petunia, if you will. First, satisfy the curiosity of an old man.  ¿Exactly where would you and Pansy have gone, had you escaped? I considered letting you go free longer, just to find out.”

She sat. “ ¿Where? I’m not sure. Somewhere–anywhere–safe from you and your damned doctors.”

“Think, Petunia. First, it is not possible.  ¿Do you think I am so careless as to allow you to roam the finca without ensuring that you can not escape by simply walking away? You must have a low opinion of my intelligence. We know where Pansy is at all times. Yes, I reduced the security, and she could walk away from the finca if she chose. As she did choose. However, as she discovered, she cannot escape her punishment that way. She not only has no identity papers, she really has no identity other than the new one I am creating for her. That was true even before the completion of her metamorphosis.  ¿Why did you think she could escape for more than a few hours?  ¿What could you tell people?”

Flustered, Petunia replied, “I don’t know.  ¡I don’t know! We’d’ve thought of something. Maybe the truth, that he’s been kept a prisoner, that you’re using him for terrible experiments.”

“No one would believe whatever cock-and-bull story you came up with. Including the truth. Especially the truth. Petunia, you and your girlfriend were on a fool’s errand.”

She began to weep. “We had to do something. We couldn’t just let you continue to torture him.”

“Pansy suffers no physical pain; her mental anguish–or maybe Jack’s–is deserved. Next year she will serve Susana as a maid. At the end of that year she will be free, and will be permitted to do whatever she wishes. You may as well accept it.”

Petunia’s weeping subsided to sniffles. She took a handkerchief from her purse, wiped her eyes, and blew her nose. “ ¿And then?  ¿When you release him? He is destroyed. His life is ruined.”

“That is exactly my point, and the point of my project. Not that her life is ruined–it is not–but that Seá±or Pinkerton is destroyed, as you have said. She–and it is she, by the way; my doctors have completed her transformation to a woman–can no longer live as ‘Seá±or Pinkerton’. Even if she were free, she could not. She is a woman with no training or aptitude for the life a woman leads. For the next year and a half, Pansy will be trained to do ‘women’s work’, but more importantly, she will learn to live as a woman. At the end, when I free her, she should be able to cope. I think she will continue to work as a maid–I fully intend it–but I will not force her, and perhaps she can find another direction to her life. In any case she will have to make a new life. As. A. Woman.” He raised an eyebrow. “Surely you admit, the condition of being female is not intolerable.”

“No,” she admitted, “But… He… Jack…” She pulled her thoughts together. No, womanhood wasn’t in itself a terrible state. Not at all. And Jack–no, Pansy–would be freed. But her dream of marriage was dead.

The don went on as if he had read her thoughts. “True, Pansy cannot be your lover. But your dream was in vain from the beginning. Seá±or Pinkerton had already abandoned two pregnant women. You would have been the third. Perhaps now Pansy can become a true friend instead of a false paramour. We will see. Anyway, you may stay as a teacher, if you wish, so that you may help Pansy. She needs a friend. You are not a prisoner. You are a guest, free to come or go in spite of being a considerable nuisance.” He smiled. “I will see to Pansy, and I thank you for coming to me. I will try to help her adjust, so that she can become useful, not only to my daughter, but also to herself, and to society in general. As Seá±or Pinkerton was not.” He rose and wished her a good day.

Petunia considered his words. She didn’t accept everything he said, but she decided he was right about two things: “Jack” was gone for good and she, Petunia, had better accept it; and neither she nor Pansy (especially Pansy) should be alone at the moment. She’d stay with her friend.

After Petunia left, Don Pablo called Ibá¡á±ez. “Doctor, I need to consult with you and with a clinical psychologist, immediately. We have a problem, and I want it straightened out quickly.” He repeated his conversation with Petunia.

At the other of the line, Ibá¡á±ez considered. He was an expert in experimental behavioral psychology, not a therapist, and the girl could be right. Was probably right. But there were other considerations. “I may be able to find your clinical psychologist,  ¿but what will you tell him? The truth may not be wise, and Pansy would certainly tell him all she knows. Let me try to handle the problem myself for the time being.”

“Very well. Keep me informed.”

Ibá¡á±ez looked through references and consulted colleagues, finally concluding that Pansy was in no immediate danger. A change of routine might help her. If more than that proved to be necessary, then it could be arranged later. He called up Don Pablo and explained what he proposed to do. Don Pablo agreed.
 
 
July 30
-- At 9 AM Jaime visited Pansy at the clinic to tell her that Don Pablo would speak with her tomorrow. “He’ll visit you here. He keeps his word to the letter,” he told her. “His penalties are severe, but he’s honorable and he keeps his promises. Hasn’t he kept his word to you so far?”

She retorted that most of his promises concerned her punishment. “I prefer that he not keep them. My life is better then.” Jaime reminded her of the promise that she wouldn’t be tortured, and that she’d be free in another eighteen months. She admitted without enthusiasm that she wanted those promises kept.

There seemed to be little to look forward to, though. A life as Suzi’s maid, as the don had promised? Or even a normal life as a woman… Why bother? Until now there had been at least a spark of hope, but now, there was none. When Petunia finally realized that her Seá±or Pinkerton was gone at last, even she would abandon her. She’d be alone among enemies. Even if she escaped after she was released–or tomorrow!–she couldn’t get back what she lost. And she still desired all the pretty young women she saw, even without the equipment to take advantage of them. Did that make her a lesbian? No, she wanted to love them as a man would, not like some dyke. Maybe she should just kill herself. It was the only escape possible now.
 
 
July 31
-- When Pansy showered in the morning, she examined herself. Belly scars were visible, but barely. Pubic hair was growing back. The groin seemed natural–for a girl. “Maybe by now my loss wasn’t all that important,” she tried to persuade herself. “Nothing down there worked anyway.” She cheered up briefly: “My body may be ruined, but my mind’s still OK. I’m still ‘me’ inside.” But then: “I’m destroyed anyway. What good is a mind in this body?” Nevertheless, she told herself “I have to look my best,” and she chose her clothes carefully, selecting a pale-pink linen dress with puffed sleeves. Pink barrettes held her dark brown hair, still short and curly with a pink streak. Ceramic roses hung from her ears and a string of pearls encircled her neck. Makeup was applied sparingly and with care. She was dissatisfied, though: she still looked like a teenager. A very pretty teenager.

Don Pablo had originally planned to talk with Pansy in his library, but on the doctors’ advice he changed his plan. As he walked to the front door of the clinic, Don Pablo considered the results so far. The sex change was completed. In fact, all the experiments had succeeded. Seá±or Deon had lost his manhood, his status, and his very identity. They had hoped that Seá±orita Pinkerton would adapt to her new situation, but her present state of mind threatened to preclude total success. Ibá¡á±ez told him she needed to be made angry, to break her out of her depression. Then she should be given some hope for the future, that it still held something worth living for.

“She’ll be given a light dose of hypnotic just before she’s brought to you,” Ibá¡á±ez had told him finally. “Not enough to control her, but just enough to make her suggestible. She should accept whatever you tell her–if it’s reasonable–and if you tell her there’s hope at the end for a decent life, even as a woman, she should believe it. Her anger should drive her, once she believes it’s possible. With luck, that anger should drive her out of her depression enough to endure the trials ahead.”

Jaime arrived at Pansy’s room at precisely 10:30. He escorted Pansy to the don’s office and then left them alone. The don was pleased at Pansy’s appearance; she had clearly taken pains to look attractive. The hormones administered by Doctor Herná¡ndez had done their work, and her figure swelled the bodice of her dress. He found it necessary to remind himself that this apparent schoolgirl had once been a man–the man who had dishonored his daughter. She was nervous but determined; her jaw was set. The don greeted her courteously, rising to offer her a chair. She thanked him in Spanish and sat facing him, arranging her skirts neatly beneath her. Don Pablo took notice of the feminine gesture as he sat again and poured them both coffee. He addressed her in English: “Seá±orita Pansy, my English is fair, I am told, but I am not comfortable in that language. Jaime tells me that you make progress in Spanish. If you are able, and with your permission, may we speak in Spanish?”

She agreed: “I am able to understand the language good enough now. You know I speak with your people here in Spanish. One reason for I accept the position here was for improve my Spanish. I no speak Spanish good, but I will try.”

“I understand you asked for this interview, but I am not certain why. I had planned to speak with you in any case–I wish to follow your transformation as it progresses–but I do not understand your own motive for wanting to see me.” He offered her coffee, but she refused. “You seduced Susana, and you must understand that your present difficulties are only proper retribution. She had your baby a short time ago, as you know: the baby for whom you refused to be a proper father.” Pansy flushed and started to reply, but Don Pablo held up a hand. “You abandoned your pregnant girlfriend Celia, and now Petunia too carries a child. Your child. She will be an unwed mother, and that is a disgrace. Traditionally I should have killed you, or at the minimum had you castrated without anesthetic.  ¿Would you have preferred that I defer to that tradition?”

She didn’t speak for a moment. He began to repeat his statement more slowly, with simpler words, but she stopped him: “I understand most of it,” she told him; “Your Spanish is more easy than the campesino Spanish. I am able to understand most of words, but I need time to… to make my words. Seá±or, I no try to… to force Suzi. Yes, I am father of her baby.” She looked down at her bosom, and laughed bitterly. “ ¡Father, I say! But I no force her. You know her;  ¿you think I force her?  ¿That I can trick her? Her child is made out of love. Seá±or,  ¿you no believe that?”

“You are correct, except that I would use the word ‘lust’, not ‘love’. Yes, Susana shares the blame. Her disgrace is her punishment; she has borne your bastard child. But women are weak creatures, easily led astray. In this country, the man who takes advantage of the weakness of a woman, as you took advantage of Suzi, must bear a severe punishment.”

In disbelief Pansy asked, “ ¿You believe that your daughter is weak, that she has weak will? Suzi has strong will. I believe that her will gave… has given many problems to you.  ¡She no is ‘easily led astray’!”

Don Pablo sighed. Pansy was right–Suzi had always been headstrong, and not easily led--but she missed his point. “You are correct, of course, but you mistake my meaning. I do not mean she is easily persuaded by others. She is easily led astray by her own nature as a woman. It was your duty as a man not to take advantage of that nature–or, having done so, to accept the responsibility of caring for her and the child. You shirked a man’s responsibility; therefore, you are no longer a man. You will live the rest of your life as a woman, performing a woman’s duties. We are training you for those duties. Your new body, flowing with female hormones, should push you in the proper direction. Also, society’s expectations should shape your new nature. Within the next year, you should become fully assimilated to your new status. Your mind–your thoughts, your emotions and instincts–should become feminine. More, your personality should approach that of a peasant woman–a woman like Mará­a Banderas, satisfied to accept a menial occupation. At the end of next year I will release you. You have my promise.” He sipped his coffee. “But your release will not matter. My doctors expect you to ask to remain as Suzi’s maid–as befits the peasant girl you will have become–even as you know you could have been her husband.”

She set her jaw again. “‘ ¡Should, should, should!’  ¡It will not happen! I fight it. I fight you.”

He agreed: “Yes, of course. I expect it, although I must punish disobedience–such as attempts at escape. And you may be right, in that we may not succeed–except, of course, that your physical changes are irreversible: you are a woman.”

“ ¿Punish my disobedience? You intended to do this… this thing to me from the beginning.”

“I intended to make you a woman, yes; but your childish voice is extra, a penalty for your flight. Every time you speak, you will hear a young girl. It will remind you that you must obey your superiors, lest you receive additional alterations.” He stroked his mustache idly. “Perhaps giving you an incurable lisp would be in order. One of my doctors suggested it.”

Pansy let his threat pass. “You can not force me to remain a maid. I will never accept that for my life.”

“I will not force you.  ¿Are you stupid?  ¿Did you not hear me? Upon release, you will not be a slave, nor a captive. Your addiction will not hold you; you are already weaned from it.” Her eyes widened. That was an unexpected bit of good news. “When you are free, you will simply find few choices open.  ¿Do you really believe you can return to the United States? Think: your only papers identify you as a hondureá±a. Indeed, you cannot even say who you claim to be–no, who you once were–other than ‘Pansy-Ann Pinkerton’–and of course we will soon replace ‘Pinkerton’ with a more suitable name.” He sipped more coffee. “Maybe you can escape. I promise that, after the end of your captivity, we will not compel you. We are hoping that your new feminine nature–your body, your personality, your very speech–will induce you to act as we intend: Your freedom of choice will be the test of how well we succeed. If we fail, we will not stand in your way. Of course, even if you do not become a campesina and you avoid a career as Susana’s maid, you can never escape the new you. I know that you have never truly accepted that you would spend your life in skirts. That reality still has not penetrated fully to your subconscious, but it is now irrevocable. You will remain a woman named ‘Pansy-Ann’ until you die.”

She tried to control herself, but she couldn’t, weeping with suppressed anger as she protested, “I… I will escape. I w…will recover my… my old identity.” She knew she was trapped in the body of a woman–Don Pablo was correct in that–but she’d get back her professional life and her status. She would! And she’d change that hateful name.

He smiled to himself; the rage was there. Hope was needed. “Pansy, you resent that I am transforming you into a campesina. You never had to work for your high status, and I believe that you have no real drive to succeed. If you had the courage and drive of some women–Suzi, for example, or Petunia–maybe you might escape. Not your womanhood, of course, but your low status. Maybe you could even recover your old identity, as you say you will. But I am persuaded that you lack these attributes–not because I took them from you, but because you never had them. If I am right, then you will remain a maid.” He leaned back in his chair and folded his hands in his lap. “However, even if I am mistaken in that, I am sure you will not dishonor more women. I would guess you have recently been somewhat frustrated in your relations with what once was the opposite sex,  ¿true? For example,  ¿with your girlfriend Petunia?” He ignored the look of hatred that Pansy shot him, and continued: “But no matter. I hear that you are beginning to attract men. You will find it easy to get a boyfriend.”

“I do not want a boyfriend.  ¡I will never want a boyfriend!” she spat out.

“It will be as you yourself choose. Perhaps you will become– ¿how do you say in English?–an ‘old maid’. That would be unfortunate. Women–especially peasant women like you–are valued for their bodies, not their minds. That is to say, for their ability to please men, and to bear children. You have been given an attractive body, and I expect you will find it to be an asset. We will see.” He rang for Jaime, who took Pansy back to her quarters. Her coffee remained untouched.

Pansy respected her enemy, but she hated his guts. His boast that he didn’t kill his enemies was empty: he had killed Seá±or Pinkerton as surely as if he had shot him. Now Pansy Pinkerton would have to work hard at retaining her sanity. Don Pablo had promised to warp her mind as well, and she’d have to remain on guard to keep her essential self intact. And when she was freed, she’d kill the bastard. That would be her purpose in life.
 
 
August 3
-- Pansy recovered enough to accept an offer of limited freedom. The day after her meeting, Petunia took her to El Cusuco in the Sierra Merendá³n near San Pedro. Pansy thought it almost insulting that they were given such freedom, although now she knew that escape was impossible–had always been impossible. Petunia also recognized it, calling her former lover by her new name. She no longer talked about Pansy’s return to her old life.

They took a trail through a coffee grove, then entered a remnant patch of cloud forest. Petunia knew that Pansy was feeling better when she began to explain the plants and animals. “Petunia, did you wonder why some of the forest here is cloud forest, while nearby at the same altitude we see ocotal, or ocote pine forest?”

Petunia smiled; Pansy was smothering her problems in combined nature and pedagogy. She commented, “I’m aware that ocotal is ocote pine forest. I grew up here–give me credit for some knowledge!” Pansy flushed and Petunia went on, “But no, I didn’t wonder. I always assumed it’s just a matter of rainfall, or humidity.”

Pansy brightened: “That’s part of it. That’s the biggest part, but it’s not everything. In some areas, like here, other factors are important too. Look at that.” She pointed to a protruding rock. “It’s limestone. The soils are calcium-rich. Good soil for cloud forest. Good for cafetal, too. That hillside over there’s ocotal, at about the same elevation, and I’d bet at about the same humidity and rainfall. The bedrock there’s volcanic ash. Rhyolite tuff, I think. That rock’s poor in calcium and magnesium, rich in silica. Poor soil forms on it, and it’s not so good for cloud forest. Pines do well on it, though.” She paused and listened. “I think I hear a robin. I’ve got to find it.” In a moment Pansy was headed off the trail.

“Pansy, come back here! You can’t go over there, you’re wearing a skirt! Stay on the trail!” Too late. Pansy had cut through a patch of guamil, or second-growth brush.

A cry came from the brush patch: “Aaaaiiiyyy!! Dammit, dammit, dammit!” Soon a disheveled Pansy reappeared, rubbing her bare left arm. “I found a remarkable plant in there. Petunia, do you know mala mujer?”

Petunia giggled. “I’m sorry, I can’t help it! Yes, I learned it the hard way, like you!”

She looked hurt; “I’m not just learning it. I knew what it looked like, and I know what it does. It’s like a giant nettle. I just wasn’t paying attention.”

Petunia laughed again, then explained, “Pansy, Jack, whoever, I don’t think I should worry about you any more.” She looked even more hurt, and Petunia went on, “You haven’t changed. I mean, look at you! You have breasts, your hair’s permed, and you’re wearing a skirt. You’re a girl now. I’m sorry, but it’s true. I’m laughing because I see that you haven’t changed! Whatever you’re called, whatever you look like, you haven’t changed! Not inside! And I’m glad!” Petunia ran to her and hugged her. Then she looked at Pansy’s arm, breaking out in serum-filled blisters. “Ouch!! I bet that smarts! We’d better get back and treat it.”

Pansy didn’t want to leave–”That might’ve been a black robin. It’s a new bird! And I found a wonderful orchid too. I think it was an Oncidium.”–but Petunia persuaded her that it was getting late, and they returned to the village, where they caught a bus for town.

Back at the hotel, they discussed Pansy’s future. “I can’t run, Petunia,” Pansy told her friend. “I believe Don Pablo. If I just accept his plans for eighteen more months, I shouldn’t lose much more than I’ve already lost. If I cross him, if I try to run, I’m afraid he’s right: I’ll fail, and I’ll suffer for it. He’s convinced me that I can’t escape–not until he releases me–and also that he can do even more than he has, if I give him cause.”

Reluctantly Petunia agreed. “I think you’re right. If you can survive that long, then you can begin to put your life back together. Yes, you’re a woman. I hate to admit it, but there’s no way to deny it. Believe me, though, it’s not the end of the world. Really, it’s tolerable.” She looked at her friend. “I still love you, Pansy. Not like a woman loves a man–that’s over, I know–but like my own sister. Please, don’t give up. Hang on. You can come out of this. OK, so you’ll work for Susana for a while. Afterwards you can make a new life.”

“I hope so. I’ll try. But Don Pablo’s not finished. He told me he wants–no, he intends–to turn me into a damned peasant. Not just a woman, but a real, honest-to-God, Honduran peasant. I don’t see how he can do it, but after what he’s already done, I can’t be sure. I don’t mean just what he did to my body; I’m thinking of my mind–my memories. Those damned doctors might be able to make me forget everything that makes me me!”

“That’s foolish. No one could take you for a hondureá±a, never mind a campesina. You just don’t look right; you’re too pale.” She smiled ruefully and added, “And I hate to say it, but your Spanish is still poor. You just don’t seem to have any aptitude for it.” More seriously she told her friend, “Look, Pansy: You speak bad Spanish, you look like a norteamericana, and you’re too well educated. No one could ever confuse you with a campesina. Even if the doctor persuaded you, it’d be wasted effort. No one else’d be convinced.” Pansy thought about it and agreed, and then Petunia asked, “What do you think you’ll do after you’re released?”

Shrugging, Pansy answered that she didn’t know. She wouldn’t tell anyone of her plan to kill the don. “I have a problem, you know. That bastard Don Pablo made it very hard to prove who I really am, even if I find out. But assuming I can solve that problem–both problems: finding out, and proving it–then I want to return to my professional life. I still have my technical education, and I can still use it. I’ll have to do it under my new identity, I think.” She smiled self-consciously. “Maybe I can finally take advantage of some of those affirmative-action programs that the feminists shoved through. But it’s too early to make plans.”

Petunia agreed. A woman was more than just nature’s way of producing babies–although that was a part of her nature, to be sure. Any woman ought to be able to pursue a career of her own, in spite of the macho nonsense spouted by so many Honduran men, and she was certain Pansy could overcome the obstacles Don Pablo had put in her way. It wouldn’t be as easy as Pansy seemed to think, but that didn’t matter now. What mattered was her will to live. She needed to accept her new body and her new existence. Her life would be different now, Petunia thought, and she’d need to do a lot of adjusting. Nevertheless, she was cheered by Pansy’s optimism, and thought that there was hope for her. “I’m afraid you’ll be in for a hard time for a year and a half, but you know that already. Just remember, it’ll end; and then, like you say, you can escape. But Pansy, I think you’ll have to learn to be a maid. A real, honest-to-goodness, hardworking maid, just like the don intends. At least temporarily.”

Pansy leaned back in her chair and stared at the bare whitewashed wall. She knew that, and dreaded it. Suzi wouldn’t make life easy for her. “Yes, I will, and I won’t enjoy it. But the don promises I won’t be mistreated–or no more than any maid would be. I’ll survive it. Thousands of women manage to survive it, and I can do as well as they can. Believe me, I’m being trained thoroughly.” With a touch of gallows humor she told Petunia that she had always needed a Home Ec course. “My housekeeping and cooking have always been poor, but Conchita and Evelina are excellent tutors. At least I’ll get something positive out of this couple of years. And when my two years is over, I won’t be a campesina, in spite of the don.”
 
 
August 5
-- Although Pansy had some respite from her duties as a maid-in-training, she wasn’t spared all attention. After lunch on this day, Yolanda reappeared in her room.

“Don Pablo says you got to learn to make yourself pretty. I’ll give you a really pretty face today,” she announced. “I know you use makeup, but your inexperience is clear. I’ll teach you to do better.” She led Pansy to a chair and ordered, “Sit here, girl.” Pansy sat and Yolanda tilted the chair back. She gave the hair a quick shampoo, followed by a wash with an acrid chemical. After a few minutes she dried it, then soaked it with another smelly potion. Pansy lay there for more minutes; then her hair was tugged and held in curlers. “ ¡You have such pretty hair!” Yolanda commented; “But that pink is childish. I’m getting rid of it and giving you a nice perm. But it’s got to be re-done regularly.” Next, a plastic cap was fitted over the hair, and hot dry air was blown through it. “Hold still for a while, dear, while your curls set,” Yolanda ordered. “In the meantime, there’s more to do.” She wheeled over a cart of cosmetics. It had a small attached mirror. She handed Pansy a small cape. “Put this over your shoulders. It’ll keep you from fouling your blouse. Then you’ll put this on your face.” Pansy obeyed and took a makeup kit. “Start with this foundation. It hides skin blemishes. Spread it on with a finger. That’s it, rub it in. Now the face powder. Use the pad.” She guided Pansy’s hand to pat powder over forehead, cheeks, nose, and chin, then looked at Pansy critically and handed her the rouge: “You look a little pale. Here’s a bit of color for your cheeks.” She told Pansy to blend it in so that it would look natural. “Now your eyes. Eye shadow makes your eyes appear larger and brighter. Women have used it for thousands of years.” She thought briefly. “With your green eyes, you should use green shadow. Now use this dabber here, and use only a little. Don’t be heavy with it. That’s right, spread it thinly and evenly, so it fades at the edges. You got to have a light touch. You’re a woman, not a clown.” Again she peered critically at the results. “ ¡Excellent! Now, eyeliner and mascara. You won’t use all this makeup every time, but you got to learn, and I’ll see you do it right.” Pansy applied the eyeliner with difficulty, but the mascara went on more easily. “That’ll do for now. It’ll be easier as you gain experience. Now apply your lipstick, and then I’ll show you how to use lip gloss.” Pansy took the tube, twisted the base, and looked at the rosy pink cylinder; it matched exactly the polish that still gleamed on her nails. She stared into the mirror and carefully applied the lipstick under the eye of her tutor. For a moment her resentment, hatred, and despair resurfaced. She was a professional, not a tart! “ ¿Am I not– ¿how is it said?–too dressed? All this no is necessary,” she complained. It was a stupid waste too, she thought. She had no desire to catch a man’s eye, even if pretty was better than ugly.

“Don Pablo says you got to look pretty,” Yolanda replied. “Women should look attractive for their men. Yes, you’re right, usually you won’t be fancied up like this. Most of the time you’ll just braid your hair–after it grows long enough again–and maybe use a touch of lipstick, but you got to know how to make yourself attractive. It’s important for a woman.”

Pansy nearly choked; she had said as much to Susana–was it just a year ago? With a sinking feeling she recalled what Don Pablo had told her in turn: she wasn’t just going to be a woman, she was intended to become Seá±or Pinkerton’s ideal of a woman. Skirts and makeup; cooking and laundry; husband and babies… Now that Seá±or Pinkerton had himself become female, the job description seemed unfair. Well, she could live by those rules until her release, she thought. She had to. Then she’d go back to a real life. For now, though, she’d play along.

“I know, you’re still thinking like a man,” Yolanda went on. “But you’re a girl now. Soon you’ll get to like men and you’ll want them to like you; it’s only natural.  ¡You’ll see! Yes, this makeup and jewelry are a little overdone, but Don Pablo says you got to learn these skills, and he’s right. I’ll see that you do. Now, your hair’s done.” Pansy took off the cap and brushed out her curls under Yolanda’s critical eye. “ ¡Perfect!” Yolanda exclaimed; “ ¡You do have a pretty face, now that you’re properly made up!” She took a small vial of perfume from a drawer and anointed Pansy’s wrists and throat. A faint but unmistakable odor of jasmine filled the air. “We’re almost done now,” she reassured Pansy, and swiveled the chair upright. Her right ear was held firmly, then her left, as pendant earrings of pink pearl were attached. A matching double-stranded pearl necklace was fastened around Pansy’s neck, reaching almost to her too-apparent bosom. “ ¡You’re lovely!” Yolanda told her pupil. “ ¡You’ll be the focus of every man’s eye!” The praise pleased Pansy. In contrast to the disgust George had felt when he had first been forced to use makeup, Pansy now wanted to be pretty and enjoyed working at it–although the attention of men was still unwelcome.

Removing the cape, Yolanda led Pansy to a mirror, saying, “See how nice you look. You’re a very attractive girl. You were wasted as a man–you really should’ve been born a girl. Don Pablo just corrected nature’s mistake.” Pansy caught her breath: she saw a pretty young woman–no longer a schoolgirl–with brown curls and small but nicely rounded breasts, in a mint-green blouse tailored to her figure, and a calf-length forest-green skirt. “I’m really a girl,” she admitted to herself. “I’m Pansy.” Then, reflexively, “But I’m not! I’m really…” Her memory mocked her: “Pansy,” it insisted. The mirror agreed. There was no hint of masculinity. But the image didn’t bother her any more. She was accustomed to it. The don was right, and so was Petunia: she was forever a woman. But she was not forever a maid! The mirror showed a woman who could make something of herself, if only she could hold out for seventeen months. She’d have some bad times, she knew. But she’d endure and triumph–and get her revenge.

Yolanda loaned Pansy an umbrella for her return to the cottage, as the afternoon rain threatened to ruin her new hairdo. She stepped carefully around the muddier areas and managed to get back to the room intact. Petunia, encouraged by Pansy’s emergence from depression and despair, told her friend, “You look very pretty, Pansy.” She agreed with Don Pablo on one point: Pansy would need to learn all the arts of womanhood to succeed with her new life. Petunia had been afraid that, even if Pansy accepted her lot intellectually, she’d never adapt emotionally. Now it seemed that Pansy might be more flexible than she had guessed.

Pansy shrugged. “I have a choice: I can be a pretty girl or an ugly girl. I doubt the second is better. I’ll just have to develop a taste for lemonade.” It was a good enough rationalization for her conditioning.

While Pansy was being educated, an old acquaintance reminisced about times past. Celia was caring for her six-month-old son Jimmy, who was then squalling in his crib. Celia hadn’t forgotten George. During the darkest period, when she had lost her job and had gone on welfare, her quest had been interrupted. Then she had gotten an anonymous note telling that George was in Honduras. She sent the note to her detective agency and they followed it up. The report was accurate, but not much help, as the trail ended with another dead end. Literally–George had drowned. “Too easy a death for the bastard,” she thought. “I’m left with the baby. I’m managing better now, but the life of a single mother is hell. Awfully convenient death report, too.” The body had been unrecognizable, and she didn’t believe the identification. “He’s just trying to hide his trail. He’s still alive, and I’ll see him in hell yet.”