Part 9, You Fixed Me Up For A Date?!?
 
 
November 11
-- On Friday Pansy awoke earlier than usual. The eastern sky was just beginning to lighten. She looked at her watch and realized she wasn’t due in the kitchen for an hour. She thought of returning to sleep–she hadn’t slept well–but then she recalled her dreams. She had watched her Best Friend marry Rico, and she had been so jealous and unhappy, even though she was the Maid of Honor. She was angry that Mará­a had stolen him, but then her sister Amy had told her there’d be other men. “You’re a pretty girl, Pansy má­a,” she’d said: “You’ll find a good husband, even if you are just a maid,” and suddenly Pansy had been at the altar herself, in a snow-white bridal gown. The priest asked if she took this man to be her lawful wedded husband, and she said, “I do.” The scene changed again: she was standing at a sink in her maid’s dress, washing dishes while a toddler pulled at her skirt and the family rooster crowed outside their hut. She had awakened then to a real rooster crowing. No, she wouldn’t go back to sleep, not if she might return to that nightmare when she had almost lost Rico. She wondered why they had ever broken up in real life, even for a short time–the cause had been a silly argument over a cockfight–when she had always wanted to marry him, ever since she was fourteen. Then she woke fully. Rico wasn’t real, she told herself firmly. But she still wanted him! He had been her high-school sweetheart. “NO!” she insisted. “I was never a girl; I grew up a boy, in the U.S. I don’t want a boyfriend!” She recalled José’s taunt: “You’ll have a family here. You’ll ‘remember’ you were always a girl. At first you’ll know that your girlhood memories are fake, but eventually you’ll accept them as real.” She had thought then that he was lying; there was no way she could believe that! But now? If they could reshape her memories… How could she know what was true and what wasn’t? Stubbornly she resisted her false memories of Pansy Baca’s past. “I’m… I’m Seá±or Pinkerton,” she told herself. “I was a chemist–a norteamericano. Petunia was my fiancée.” Holding to that, she arose and showered. Conchita would appreciate it if she started breakfast preparations early.
 
 
November 12
-- No one at Las Rosas seemed to know that she had once been called Pansy Pinkerton, not Pansy Baca. Some of them must have known better–Jaime certainly did–but no one would admit it. Her memories of girlhood as Pansy Baca were clear and detailed. It would be so easy to just accept that she had always been female. If everyone else believed she was just another campesina; why not just go along with it? She knew that over the short run, there was no way she’d forget that she had been a man–but next year? In ten years? If they twisted her memory even more? She couldn’t be certain she would always know what was real.

She wondered about Petunia. It was four months since she had left for… for… She couldn’t recall. Had the knowledge been erased? Or was it just a natural lapse? She couldn’t be sure. That was one of the worst effects of the treatment: she couldn’t trust what was inside her own head. Fortunately, she could still distinguish between reality and the fantasy they had imposed on her. Her girlhood memories were clear and vivid, and her memory of the boyhood of Seá±or Pinkerton was uncertain and tattered, but she still knew which was fact and which, fiction. The don’s doctors weren’t omnipotent! As she hung out the laundry, a stablehand walked by and smiled at her. A good-looking guy, she thought, giggling slightly and thrusting out her bosom reflexively.
 
 
November 15
-- The multiple surgeries from the summer had left almost no traces. It was hard for Pansy to recall that she had not always been a woman, and a maid, as one day followed another, bringing the same familiar tasks. There was an almost total disconnect between her daily routine and the old life of Jack Pinkerton. Even language cut her off from her former existence, as she functioned almost totally in Spanish. Only occasional visits to Doctor Weiss gave her any opportunity to speak English at all.

A recent change–one she regretted–was the end of wetnurse duty. Her initial dislike of the chore had slowly turned to enjoyment. The attendant physical pleasure had helped, but she had also grown fond of the babies. Herná¡ndez had explained, “Yes, your lactation is decreasing. Our hormonal manipulation is drying it up.”

He warned her there might be other changes. “You have a new anatomy, a new chemistry. They will affect your psyche.” Pansy told him she hadn’t noticed any changes. He smiled. “We check your blood chemistry. You are awash with estrogens–as you have been for some months–but now they are produced by your own body. They cause women to be attracted to men. Soon you may find men to be… let us say, more interesting.”

Weiss warned him, “Don’t be sure. Pansy was already–what is your term?–conditioned? Yes, naturally conditioned to be attracted to women. I think a lesbian outcome may be more likely.” He chuckled. “I wonder, what will be the reaction of others when Suzi’s maid is… How do you say? Gay? I think that is not an easy life.”

“Of course, that is possible,” Herná¡ndez responded. “But Ibá¡á±ez…”

“Please, doctor, we shouldn’t discuss Ibá¡á±ez’s work here, in front of Pansy. I have already said more than I should. And really, this whole course of treatment is unprecedented.”

“True, we don’t know. In any case, I will be very curious to see how her sexuality manifests itself.”

Pansy knew how easily Seá±or–Pinkerton? It was hard to recall that name, she was just Pansy Baca–had seduced women and shuddered. She hoped Herná¡ndez was wrong, but if not, she’d guard herself. At least getting pregnant wasn’t possible; she had most of the attributes of a woman, but making babies was surely not among them.

That evening Pansy worked again in the casa. Conchita was visiting with family, and two temporary maids, Paulina and Amalia, had been hired in her absence The three women were assigned to clean the kitchen, and they chatted amicably as they worked. Knowing nothing about Pansy and curious about her strong accent, they inquired about her background, but she wouldn’t tell them anything other than to confirm that she was indeed a norteamericana. Their talk then turned to other topics, mostly men and children. Pansy had felt terribly isolated since Petunia’s departure three months earlier, and she joined in the conversation eagerly. Amalia Urraba, a petite brunette with long braids, an angelic face, and a full figure, was friendly and talkative. It didn’t occur to Pansy that she felt no attraction to the two young women, who earlier would instantly have aroused George’s libido.

As Pansy emptied a box, Amalia asked, “ ¿You got a boyfriend? I ain’t never seen you with a guy.  ¡That ain’t healthy!”

Pansy laughed. “No, I am afraid not, ’Malia. Life is simpler that way. I am only here a short time, I think. Better to stay free.” She didn’t mention that she had no intention of getting involved with a man, nor any desire to do so. She knew how Seá±or Pinkerton had treated his women, and she’d never find herself in a similar relationship.

Amalia grinned. “I heard other girls say the same thing, Pansy. Somehow they all ended up in some guy’s arms. And into his bed. Me included, of course. You too, I think–I seen you admiring the guys and giggling at them.  ¡Just you wait!”

Pansy demonstrated that giggle in spite of herself. “Maybe you right. But I do not know men here. I just began work a little time ago. I think I am gone before I slip, like you say.  ¿What is your man like?”

Laughing, Amalia told her he was taken. “He’s pretty good. Handsome, nice big muscles. Good in bed too–he has a nice big prick. He gets me all hot. He’s good to me. He only hits me when he’s drunk, and that’s not even once a week.”

Pansy blushed. She had heard this sort of talk before, in locker rooms and at stag parties. Now it seemed she’d hear the other side. “I promise I will not try to take him, ’Malia. I hope I find one as good, but not now.” She promised herself she’d never let any man treat her like that, but there was no reason to tell Amalia that.

“ ¡You just don’t get out enough, girl!  ¡You ain’t never going to find a good man–or any man–unless you try!” She paused. “I got a cousin–he’s probably a couple of years older than you–who’d love to go out with a cute girl like you.  ¡Let me fix you up with him!  ¡You’d have a wonderful time! Nothing serious, just a one-time date, so it won’t matter if you leave soon. You going to thank me for it if you accept.” She giggled. “ ¡And so will he!  ¡He’ll owe me a favor!”

How could she deal with this thoroughly unwelcome offer? “I don’t… I don’t know, ’Malia. I can’t just… Well, I don’t know your cousin at all. And I don’t think Don Pablo will give me the time off.”

She grinned. “I’ll guarantee my cousin–he’ll give you a good time, and no problems. As far as Don Pablo goes–well, we’ll have to see.  ¡So you agree, then!  ¡Good!”

Alarmed, Pansy objected: “I… I’d like to, but I… I can’t…  ¡I can’t just walk off when I please! You don’t…”

Amalia overrode her. “ ¡Of course not! But Don Pablo, he gives you the time off,  ¡then you can do it!  ¡Great!”

Well, that should take care of that problem! She wouldn’t ask Don Pablo, and then she could say she didn’t have permission. “OK, ’Malia. But your cousin,  ¡he better be good!”

“Don’t you worry none,  ¡’Renzo knows how to treat a girl real good!”

That night Jaime returned her old clothes. “They won’t fit, but El Patrá³n sent them back.” She put them on, but he was right. The pants were too tight around her hips and rear, and a seam tore. The waist was too loose. Two buttons popped on the front of a shirt. A dress fit so much better–and besides, she looked so much better in it.
 
 
November 16
-- “’Chita, I will like to go to town, if Don Pablo will permit it. Tomorrow, if I am possible, or later if I must.” Except for surgery and Sunday Mass, Pansy hadn’t had a real day off since her August excursion to Puerto Cortés. Her duties as a maid, a babysitter, and a wet nurse had kept her busy constantly, and she needed a break. “I not had a day for three months. If I am maid, I should have days off like the other maids, and I like to go to San Pedro.”

“I’ll ask the don, Pansy.” She added, “I expect he’ll give permission. You’ll need a ride too.”

“I can drive, you know. If Don Pablo will lend me the old Ford, I drive myself.”

Conchita laughed. “I don’t think so, Pansy. If you go, Hector will drive you to Comayagua before breakfast, and I’ll go with you too. You got to take the bus from there. But I’ll ask.”

That afternoon Conchita brought the reply from Don Pablo. “Yes, you can go. No car, though; Hector will take you to Comayagua, as I said. You got to be back that night. The last bus from San Pedro arrives at Comayagua at 10, and Hector will pick you up. You’ll have your wages to spend. It’s not a great deal, but it’s something.”

It was that easy, it seemed. Don Pablo no longer worried about an escape. Pansy recalled her first night at Las Rosas, chained to a bed, and the succeeding months, guarded day and night, unable to leave the central compound. For a moment Pansy thought about escape now, and dismissed the idea. Don Pablo was right; he didn’t need to keep her locked up now. She was more efficiently imprisoned than she had ever been, but now she carried her fleshly prison with her. Where would she go? What could she do? She had no identification, no money, no way to contact anyone. Hell, never mind her identification: her identity had been obliterated! After she had recovered the lost past of Seá±or Pinkerton, she could find a way to escape–but for the present she was securely trapped. And besides, she knew that every escape attempt had ended in disaster. She didn’t know what additional punishment Don Pablo might inflict now–and she didn’t want to discover what it might be.

Conchita added that Don Pablo had insisted on one condition, a quid pro quo. “Yes, you can go. But in return for the day in town, Don Pablo wants you to agree to dance lessons next month.  ¿All right?”

Pansy shrugged: why not? As a man, she had enjoyed dancing. Although she didn’t relish pairing with a man, she supposed she could tolerate it. And certainly he could force her, if she refused. “Tell him… tell him I agree.”

“Then that’s settled. Now, you got clothes to wash.  ¡Back to work, chica!”
 
 
November 17
-- Pansy was up before dawn. She was happy to escape her duties, even if only for a day. From her closet she chose a pale-green short-sleeved dress and low heels, and a light white coat for the morning’s chill. Her hair was carefully brushed out, and she added scarlet barrettes and a hair ribbon. She used little makeup, but applied it carefully. The feminine face in the mirror was beginning to look familiar to her, and it was quite nice-looking. As was the body. Had she really ever been a man?

After breakfast Jaime gave her an envelope. “You need a full set of ID,” he told her. “Some can go in a drawer–like the baptismal certificate. When you go out, though, carry the picture ID.” In the envelope was a laminated plastic card, scratched and battered, with a faded photo of a peasant girl: Pansy-Ann Baca Gá³mez, born on April 1–April Fool’s Day, she noted–nineteen years ago in Comayagá¼ela. A wrinkled and slightly stained copy of a birth certificate agreed, and identified her parents as Jorge Baca Pérez and Rosa Gá³mez de Baca. Sighing, she stuffed them in her purse. Suddenly she realized: Suzi had indeed renamed her. She was Pansy-Ann Baca Gá³mez.

Hector picked them up at 6:45. The sun had risen during breakfast, and its warmth began to dispel the night’s chill. Pansy was glad she had worn the jacket, though.

The wait at the Comayagua bus stop was about half an hour, and the ride to San Pedro took the first part of the morning. On the bus Pansy asked Conchita, “ ¿What would you like to do? I thought of seeing a movie and shopping. I like to buy some new books. And clothes, too.” As she had promised.

“You need new clothes. You been wearing Susana’s castoffs, ever since you outgrew the clothes she got you last May. They fit pretty good, but you can do better. Don Pablo says your body’s fully developed now and you can get a complete new wardrobe.” She scowled. “I need some new clothes too. I put on a little weight, and my old clothes don’t quite fit neither.”

Conchita took Pansy back to Vá¡squez Brothers, where Suzi had forced Seá±or Pinkerton into a teenager’s yellow sundress; but now her full figure brought her to the women’s department. She found that buying women’s clothes was not easy. Somehow, finding clothes that fit all parts of her anatomy was harder than it had been for Seá±or Pinkerton; nothing seemed to fit bust, waist, and hips simultaneously. While she was looking at a rack of skirts, she noticed another young woman in a low-cut thin white sweater that showed off her figure. “She’s really attractive,” Pansy thought. “Maybe if I get some clothes like hers, I could look that nice.” She finally bought a powder-blue sleeveless cotton dress, a bright red sundress with a low neckline, three skirts, five blouses, a lace-trimmed short-sleeved white sweater much like the one she had admired, lingerie, and a blue-and-white one-piece bathing suit. “I guess I’ve really come to accept my new identity,” she thought. “I’d never have thought I’d freely choose clothes like this, even as recently as August.” She wore the sweater from the store, and it showed her figure well.

Pansy drew a lot of male interest. Some was only admiring looks, but there were many compliments and a few lewd remarks. She blushed, but the attention wasn’t unwelcome. Some of the men were real hunks: well-muscled, with neat mustaches and darkly handsome faces. Reflexively she smiled back at them and giggled, hoping they might… Her eyes widened with horror and she raised her pink-tipped hand to her open mouth: She had giggled at them, flirting like the teenage girl she seemed to be! Worse, she was… she was attracted to them! “I cannot let myself become interested in men. I will not!” She recalled Weiss’s words: “Your new anatomy and chemistry will affect your psyche. You’ll be attracted to men.” It seemed that he–and Suzi–had been right. She was becoming a normal woman. Well, she’d follow his advice. No sex for her, no matter if she had come to appreciate a masculine aesthetic. Still, she took out her compact and carefully redid her lipstick.

After a movie they returned to the bus station, loaded down with purchases. “’Chita, I had so much fun. I almost felt free again. Of course, I am not,” she added, suddenly bitter. “I here only by permission. I am on a… a string. I should not have to ask to come and go. I am an adult; I should be able to do as I please.”

Conchita wasn’t sympathetic. “Don’t be silly. Don Pablo’s our patrá³n, and we work for him. We got to do what he says. He’s pretty easy; don’t get him mad at us.” She looked at her charge and saw only a pretty teenage girl. Was this really the same man who had arrived at Las Rosas less than a year ago? She had thought the don’s grand project to be impossible, “Girl, listen to me: you’re lucky to be alive. Don Pablo done good, making you into a very attractive young woman. You ain’t going to have no problem in finding a good man to marry, and you can have a good life, raising a family.”

Pansy began to protest, but stopped. ’Chita was was just a campesina, and knew no better. “I’ll never accept that life,” she thought. Man or woman, she was her own person. She might be trapped–she was trapped–in a girl’s body, but she’d never live like a typical campesina. One way or another, she’d regain a professional status.

They were back at Las Rosas before midnight. Pansy felt renewed. She could face the future and defeat the worst it could throw at her. Yes, she was a woman, as ’Chita had said. So what? As Jaime had said, half the world was female. And she’d rise above the limitations of her unwelcome gender.
 
 
November 18
-- Pansy had been Pansy Baca for eight days. Her “Baca” memories should have kicked in, Jesáºs Ibarra thought, and he wanted to know how well they had taken root. Did Pansy realize that a new past was being created for her? He also wanted to try out a new drug, tested on only a few other human subjects. Don Pablo had granted permission, and today Doctor Ibarra was at Las Rosas to see his subject.

Conchita let him in. “Pansy’s ready. Jaime put her to sleep, but she’ll wake up in half an hour or so.”

“ ¡Good!  ¿She’s in her room?”

“No, she’s in the library. Don Pablo wants to watch while you do whatever.”

“That’s fine. Take me to her, please.”

Don Pablo greeted him in the library: “Good afternoon, Doctor. Pansy is over there.” He pointed to a couch where she lay unconscious. “I am curious to see your new drug in action, if you do not object.”

“Of course I don’t, Seá±or. I don’t mind at all.  ¿Do you remember how it works?”

“In part, yes. I am afraid I did not understand your technical explanation, but I believe you told me it prevents Pansy from recalling anything that happens while she is under its influence.”

Ibarra nodded in agreement. “That’s correct. Basically correct. The drug acts on the hippocampus…”

The don shook his head: “Never mind, doctor. I do not need to understand. Just begin, as soon as possible.”

The doctor gave Pansy an injection. He began to explain how the shot would affect her, and how he’d overcome the blood-brain barrier for drugs, but the don wouldn’t listen. They sipped coffee and discussed Ibarra’s other projects while they waited for Pansy to awaken. It took forty minutes. She was slightly disoriented when she found herself in Don Pablo’s library, but she accepted it without any questions.

Doctor Ibarra told her, “Pansy, I am Doctor Ibarra. Do you know me?”

She looked at him. Neither the name nor the face was familiar. “No, I don’t know you,” she replied shortly.

“Good, good. You shouldn’t. I’m testing your memory. I want to know what you recall of your childhood, and other subjects. In return, I’m willing to answer questions you may have concerning your memories.”

“Any questions?” There had to be a catch.

“Yes, any questions. Anything at all.” Then he asked, “First, what are your parents’ names?”

Pansy froze. “You did it!” she accused. “You must be the… the…”–she tried to find an epithet to hurl at him, but none came–“…the man who put those fairy tales in my head!”

“Yes. Those memories will help you in the long run. I’m giving you a new background so you’ll fit better into your new life. It’s a fascinating project, truly fascinating. When I finish, you’ll have all the appropriate memories for a hondureá±a. At first you’ll know they are ‘fairy tales’, as you say, but I think you’ll believe them in the end, even if it takes a long time. Now I need to know how much of it you recall. Your parents, please.”

The origin of her new memories was no surprise. That someone had played with her head was the only rational explanation, and this confirmation would help her retain her real self. She didn’t tell Ibarra that, but only replied that her parents were Jorge and Rosa Baca. “I know they’re not real, like you say, but you’re wrong to think I’ll ever accept them.” Then she added, “If you’re going to answer my questions, tell me: What’s my real name?”

Ibarra chuckled, then replied, “Your real name is Pansy-Ann Baca, now and for the rest of your life. However, your former name was George Deon. I think that was what you wanted.”

Relief swept over her. She could regain her past! Then she wondered: How could she trust him? The name he’d given was unfamiliar. Hadn’t it been “Pinkerton”? She couldn’t know if he told the truth, as she told Ibarra. He nodded. “We anticipated your skepticism. Here’s your passport.” He handed it to her and she opened it. Her former face–the masculine version–was inside the cover, and “George Theodore Deon” was printed below it. His birthplace was Akron, Ohio–wherever that was; his birthday, September 5. But hadn’t she–he–been born in Oklahoma? Ovid, Oklahoma? On April 1! Was this a forgery? She examined it carefully; it had a coffee stain on the first page. Yes, it was hers–no, his. What was going on? She looked up with renewed suspicion.

Ibarra read her face and smiled. Retrieving the passport, he replied, “Yes, it’s real. We altered a few details in your memory. Just a few. This document tells the truth, although I admit, you have reasons not to trust what you learn about your former life. Or anything you recall.” That was a nasty feature of Pansy’s predicament–she’d never be able to trust even those details which were accurate. “Now, tell me about being a quinceaá±era.”

Satisfying Ibarra’s curiosity was a small price to pay for the gift of her past, and she described her fifteenth birthday for ten minutes, as Ibarra quizzed her. Every detail was clear in her mind. Then she asked him, “How did you put that into my head? It seems so real, but I know it wasn’t. It couldn’t have been!”

“But it was real,” he told her. “We staged it, yes, but everything you recall really happened. In the flesh, so to speak. It will remain clear in your memory, I hope, along with the other material we gave you. Now, tell me: What was your old name, before we changed it to Pansy?” He glanced at Don Pablo as he asked; he wanted to prove that his new drug worked as promised, and that Pansy wouldn’t recover what had been erased.

“My old name? My real name? It was…” It was “Pinkerton”, but of course she couldn’t let him know she remembered it. He had erased it, back in June. “You stole it. I don’t know it any more.”

Ibarra nodded and told her, “If you answer my questions, I’ll tell you what it was. Now, what do you know about your Uncle Juan Gá³mez?”

The questioning went on for two hours, until Ibarra was satisfied that Pansy had kept the biography that he’d given her. Further, he explored the collateral losses she had suffered during the erasures. They were extensive. He explained to Don Pablo, “Her new past was imposed under the influence of mnemosine, so those memories are fixed. Firmly fixed. Seá±or Deon’s true past, that part of it we didn’t erase, should fade with time, like any normal memories–or more accurately, I expect they should fade faster than normal, as those memories will be incompatible with the persona of Pansy Baca. And they’ll become confused with the new ones, so that she won’t know which to trust.”

Pansy overheard the conversation and seized on the name “Deon”. Had they slipped up? She thought she’d really been named “Pinkerton”, as she had written on the secret slip of paper. Neither seemed familiar. Ibarra turned back to her, and she decided to ask him straight out. The worst he might do would be to refuse. “Is my real name ‘Deon’?” she asked. “Please, tell me.”

In spite of his knowledge of her position, Ibarra was annoyed. He had told her eleven times already! Then he caught himself and laughed. He could tell her all afternoon, and she’d never remember it. “Yes, or rather, it used to be ‘Deon’,” he told her. “You were George Deon, and you were born in Akron, Ohio. Your mother’s name was Gwendolyn. But you won’t remember it. You’ll forget, just as you did when I told you five minutes ago. You can’t remember anything right now. Not for long.”

Horrified, she tried to understand. “I won’t remember? Why not? What did you do to me? I… I’m George… George Deon, you said.” She was reassured. The name was unfamiliar, but she hadn’t lost it.

“You’ll hold it for a just a bit, and then you’ll forget again. I blocked your long-term memory, and as soon as your attention’s diverted, it’ll fade from short-term memory. You’ll forget we ever had this conversation.”

Pansy promised herself she wouldn’t forget. Her name was George Deon, she told herself, trying to fix it in her mind. Her name was… It was George Deon. The name seemed… It seemed slippery, somehow. And her mother’s name was… It was almost gone, but she succeeded in retrieving it: it was Gwen… Gwendolyn. She wanted to write it down, but she had no way to do it.

Ibarra’s voice broke in again: “Pansy, I’m done now. Thank you for your cooperation.” He turned to Don Pablo: “My expectations are fulfilled, Seá±or. Pansy will be unhappy when ‘Deon’ fades away, but it’ll be a short-lived sorrow. As I told her, by tomorrow she’ll forget all about this conversation. I have one warning, though: see that she doesn’t have the chance to write down any of the information I gave her. As far as her new memories are concerned, I’m pleased. Her new biography’s well planted in her memory. I’m excited, really excited, about this experiment. This is by far the most thoroughgoing test of my ability to impose a new background, and it’s going better than I’d hoped.  ¡Much better!”

Jaime arrived, and Don Pablo directed him to take Pansy back to Conchita. “She must not write anything down, Jaime. See that she goes directly to work helping Conchita with dinner. After she finishes the dinner dishes, she can do whatever she likes, but not until then.” Jaime agreed and ushered Pansy out. “Conchita will keep you busy,” he told her. “I don’t know why the don has forbidden you to write anything, but I’ll see that Conchita’s told about it.”

Pansy repeated her old name in the privacy of her mind as she walked to the kitchen. Conchita set her to work peeling potatoes, and she still repeated it. Then she tried to recall her mother’s name, but it was gone. She began to weep, then wondered, “Why did I think I remembered it? I got my old name back–it’s… it’s George Deon. Isn’t it?” How did she know that? She said it out loud; the name was foreign to her ears. Could it be right? Who could have told her that? No, her name was Pinkerton. She had written it down before they stole it. As the potatoes piled up in the bottom of her pail, it occurred to her that she usually sewed before dinner. Why was she here now? She tried to think of why she had been assigned to kitchen duty, but she drew a blank. Why couldn’t she remember? And she was still weeping silently, for no reason she could recall. That was silly. She pushed it from her mind and continued working. No more thoughts of who she was troubled her, and she served supper soon thereafter. As the don instructed, Conchita excused her absentmindedness that evening.
 
 
November 23
-- Pansy was sick and irritable, with a fever and cramps. Maybe she had picked up a virus, or she had eaten bad pork, or something of the sort; or maybe it was a result of her operation. The latter seemed likely, because she found blood on her panties. Jaime noticed and asked how she was feeling. After she told him, he laughed. “Your introduction to a woman’s curse,” he informed her. “You’re beginning your monthlies. You’ll bleed a little, but after a couple of days you’ll be OK again. I told you: you’re female now. Don’t worry, it’s normal. Weiss told me to expect it, but he didn’t know when. Remember, though: you’re a baby machine now. Your body’s built to attract men, and it’s built so that you’ll want them, too. Think.  ¿Remember Petunia? She wanted you, but she didn’t want to get pregnant. Her body betrayed her, and you knew just how to arouse it, just how to get it to turn traitor. Other men have that same skill.”

Shocked, Pansy reverted to English: “No! It can’t be! That’s not possible!” Switching back to Spanish, she went on: “ ¡NO!  ¡I just look like girl!  ¡I no really female!  ¡I can’t be!  ¡You can no do that!”

He smiled–a little sadly, Pansy thought. “Be warned, girl: you are really female now–in every way. Doctor Weiss gave you a woman’s body. The evidence is there in front of you. You’ll be reminded once a month.” Pansy was stunned. She had thought the changes were only superficial, but the evidence to the contrary was unmistakable. Jaime continued: “Don Pablo intends that you suffer exactly as Susana did. You’ll be attracted to some man, and he’ll seduce you. Your new body will betray you, like Susana’s did, like Petunia’s. You are intended to get pregnant, Pansy. Maybe you can fight it. I don’t think they’ll force you; rape isn’t their intention. They want you to fall from your own weakness, just like Susana. Maybe you can beat them. See that you wait until you’re free. Thirteen months, and you can do what you like.”

Pansy responded angrily, “ ¡I am not like Susana!  ¡I do not want a man!  ¡I will not get pregnant!”

He giggled at her: “You’re like a seven-year-old girl who’s just been told about the birds and the bees and the boys.”

“ ¡I not can have want sex! Sex for me is…  ¡is with a woman! That’s not possible no longer, so  ¡I have no sex!  ¡Never!” She ignored the stirrings, and more than stirrings, of heterosexual interest she had begun to feel.

He laughed again. “You’re a woman. Your duty will be to pleasure men and bear their children. God arranged matters so you’d cooperate. You’ll see, Pansy. Sex’ll be different now; you won’t give seed, you’ll receive it and nurture it in your body. I think you’ll find it’s better to give than to receive in sex. But hold out for marriage. You wouldn’t enjoy life as a slut.” Jaime suggested she discuss her “female problem” with Conchita, who told Pansy she had left her adolescence behind: “You’re a functional woman, dear. Don Pablo told me that the doctors hoped your womanhood would be complete, but they didn’t guarantee it.” She explained that cramping and discomfort were normal, and that Pansy would bleed, more or less freely, about once a month until (until?!) she got pregnant. She also explained the use of tampons. Intellectually Pansy had known about menstruation, but it was a shock to actually experience it. It wasn’t fair!

Conchita also mentioned that Amalia had spoken to her. “She set up a date for you with her cousin. I checked with Don Pablo, and he gave his approval, so next week Lorenzo Martá­nez will pick you up at 5 PM.” She smiled at Pansy and added, “I’ve met ’Renzo, and he’s a nice fellow. It’s about time you got to meet a few men. I think you’ll have a good time.”

Pansy’s eyes widened. “ ¿She whaaaaat? But I…” But she had agreed. “No, I… I can’t… I just…  ¡I can’t!” Go out on a date? With a man? It was unthinkable!

“Yes you can. Like I told you last week, you’re a pretty young woman, and you’re going to have to learn to deal with men on that basis. And like I said, I know ’Renzo. ’Malia done you a favor, setting you up with him. He’s a decent young man–and a good-looking one.”

“But…” She stopped. Maybe they were right. She’d have to deal with men as a woman, and in captivity she had had social contact only with women. And maybe she would enjoy it. Women were treated well on dates–pampered, even–and certainly she could use some pampering! ’Chita and ’Malia both vouched for this Lorenzo whatever-his-name-was, and he should be a good practice date. “OK, ’Chita, you’re probably right.” But with a man? She pushed her doubt–no, her terror–aside. “I’ll… I’ll do it.” It felt like leaping from a cliff–or at least, agreeing to a root canal.

Conchita saw her distress, in spite of her agreement, and chuckled. “Don’t worry so much. He’s going to do his best to give you a good time. ’Malia told me he wants to take you out to eat in Comayagua, and then to a movie.” She paused, then went on: “I understand, this is a big change from your previous dates, but you got to get used to being a girl, and this is a part of it.” Her smile was genuine. “Men can be great fun, Pansy.  ¡They’re not vicious beasts! Or at least most aren’t.”

It was settled, then. She had a week to get used to the idea.