Part 13, It Can't Get Any Worse
 
 
April 15
-- The plane circled the island once, then came in for a landing behind the outer reef. Ibarra was grateful; he never trusted small planes. He wished José could carry out this experiment himself. They taxied to a ramp. Once on firm land, Ibarra appreciated the beauty of the hideaway. José met him there. “ ¡A wonderful place, José!” he exclaimed to his host. “ ¡The setting is magnificent!  ¡Truly spectacular!  ¿But isn’t it too isolated? After you’ve spent a week or ten days here,  ¿don’t you crave more civilized surroundings?”

“You’re right, Jesáºs,” he replied. “I’ve stocked the villa with enough supplies for longer, but two weeks is about my limit. Remember, I have my plane, and I can hop back to San Pedro easily. And the radio keeps me in touch.” He grinned. “And with Pansy here, I can always find something to occupy me. With the help of Ibá¡á±ez and his gadgets, she’s very good at helping me pass the time. You’ll see.”

They walked towards the villa. The sun was directly overhead, and the intense heat made Ibarra grateful for the steady breeze from the northeast. “You told me Pansy’s doing as expected. I assume that means she hasn’t recovered any of the material I erased.”

“That’s right. Her English is rather poor for a native speaker, but for a Honduran peasant girl it’s not bad at all. She hasn’t heard much English spoken here, so there’s been little opportunity to correct her speech. As you may know, Ibá¡á±ez gave her a strong incentive not to read at all–English or Spanish. Her accent in English is strong, too. We’re supposed to turn her over to Susana in a month or two as a compliant little campesina, and she’s a good approximation of that right now.” He grinned with malice. “Now she’ll be even more like a traditional campesina.”

As they entered the villa, Pansy was fixing lunch. Her eyes widened at the sight of Ibarra, then narrowed with hatred. She didn’t comment, though, only asking if they were ready for lunch. “Seá±ores, I have hard-boiled eggs, tuna sandwiches, fruit salad, and stuffed tomatoes. To drink, you can have ice water, fruit nectar, cold beer, or a rum drink.”

“Fruit salad, a sandwich, and a cold beer, and we’ll eat on the veranda.  ¿You, Jesáºs?”

“The same.”

“Very well, Seá±ores. In five minutes.” She curtsied and left to fetch lunch.

The two men walked onto the shaded veranda overlooking the lagoon. The heat and light were intense, but the shade and the breeze kept them comfortable. The usual frigatebirds sailed effortlessly over the water, and a few terns called raucously. José let himself down into a beach chair. Ibarra followed suit and commented, “She seems well-trained, José. She recognized me, I’m sure, but she behaved as a good maid should.  ¿Ibá¡á±ez again?”

“Yes. His devices are fully as good for conditioning as he claimed they’d be.”

Pansy brought their meal and asked, “ ¿Is there anything else I can get you?”

“Thank you, Pansy,” José replied. “Not right now. Doctor Ibarra and I will go fishing this afternoon, I think. We’ll eat at around seven. With any luck, we’ll have our catch for dinner.”

“Very well, Seá±or. I will be in the laundry room if you need me.” She left, wondering why Ibarra was there, but knowing that there wasn’t any point in asking. If José wanted her to know, he’d tell her. And whatever the purpose, there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it.

After Pansy’s departure, Ibarra asked, “ ¿Does she know what’s planned for her?”

“No, and I’ll keep it that way. In fact, I don’t want her to find out until you’ve left. It may be a while before she discovers what she’s lost. She’ll be drugged tonight.  ¿Can you work late?”

“No problem. In fact, if you’d like, I can erase her memory of my visit.”

“ ¡Excellent! Every day’s like every other, so the loss of a day won’t even be noticed.”

José and his guest returned from their fishing trip with a good catch of snapper, and Pansy cleaned and cooked them. The men retired to José’s den while she cleaned up after supper. Pansy had feared that José would give her to Ibarra that night, but to her relief he kept her in his own bed. After he’d had his enjoyment they shared a drink, and she fell asleep immediately.

José and Ibarra carried her to the annex for memory erasure. While she was still unconscious they strapped her into the chair and Ibarra administered her the appropriate drugs.. In fifteen minutes Pansy began to regain consciousness. Ibarra asked her, “ ¿Are you awake, Pansy?  ¿Do you hear me?”

“Yes, I am awake. I hear you.”

“I want you to think of everything that happened today. Tell me what happened.”

She recounted the day’s events. He applied shocks at regular intervals, repeating the process until she responded that she didn’t remember. “I rather think she’ll forget my face and name entirely, José,” Ibarra told his host when the first part of the erasure was done. “It’s not my intent, but it’s a collateral loss. No matter; now let’s get to the main task.”

He gave Pansy a science book in English and told her to read it aloud. After she had read for five minutes he applied shocks, more intense than any before. After two repetitions, she had difficulty in reading. A few more finished the task: when he gave her a Spanish text, she couldn’t read it at all. “I think this’ll finish her ability to read or write,” he told José. “That part of her brain’s pretty well burnt out. I’m afraid this work–taken with our other erasures–will do more than that. I’ve done some experiments along this line with other subjects, and the ability to speak and understand one’s native language often seems to become impaired. Quite severely damaged, in many cases. Fortunately Pansy’s Spanish should remain fluent; second languages seem to be stored in a different area of the brain, and I’m not doing any erasures there. Her knowledge of science will be adversely affected too–or at least those areas of science covered in the reading sample. Now another erasure…” He showed Pansy a series of flash cards. The cards contained the letters of the alphabet, both in block letters and in script, in capital letters and in small. He ordered Pansy to identify the letters, and to tell him what sound each letter represented. And he erased them. He spent three hours destroying more English vocabulary. English numerals, days of the week, months of the year–all were erased. Math followed. She kept only simple integer addition–with some changes: for example, four plus five would now be eight (indelibly, with the help of mnemosine). Henceforth, accurate addition or subtraction would require the use of fingers–and toes, beyond ten. As an afterthought, he renamed Seá±or Cualquiera’s old family: his kid brother remained Carl, but younger and older sisters corresponded to her Honduran family. His parents became George and Rose. “I’m making it easier for him to conflate his two pasts,” he explained. Finally, a few more Gará­funa words and phrases were planted. She would recall her grandmother calling her nibari, or my grandchild, and buiti binafi became an alternative to buenos dias.

Finally, he changed her biography so that Pansy Baca had dropped out of school in the second grade, and had never quite learned to read, due to a learning disability. Her illiteracy would be nothing unusual for a peasant girl.

After Pansy was returned to José’s bed, Ibarra gave her one last shot, designed to keep her unconscious for ten more hours. Afterwards, José asked Ibarra over a cup of coffee, “ ¿How effective do you think this procedure’s been?”

Ibarra shrugged. “I don’t know. This is all experimental. I’ll ask you that question in a week or two, after you’ve had a chance to see its effects. It should work just fine. If I’m right, she should be totally illiterate: unable to read a primer or to recite the alphabet. There are two more questions as well, and I’ll expect you to provide the answers. First, I expect there’ll be collateral damage to her fluency in both languages, as I told you earlier, and I want to know more about it. I’ve brought a tape recorder, and I’d appreciate it if you’d make a recording of Pansy’s speech patterns for the next couple of weeks. I think if we get a record of her speech tomorrow afternoon, in three days, in one week, and in three weeks, it’ll help define both the amount and the permanence of damage to her language. The Spanish should recover quickly, but the damage to her English is probably permanent. You’ve already noted that her English has deteriorated; some of that’s collateral damage due to our earlier erasures. The second question is,  ¿does the procedure affect the ability to re-learn how to read? I used rather strong shocks, and I believe she’ll have to use a different part of her brain to become literate again. I’m pretty sure it can be done; there’s already data from naturally brain-damaged subjects–mostly stroke victims. However, given her present circumstances, it’s likely that she’ll never be able to read or write with anything like her old ability.” Then Doctor Ibarra took a sip from his cup and asked a question of his own: “ ¿How well has Ibá¡á±ez’s training taken hold?” He told José about Ibá¡á±ez’s theories concerning hormonal conditioning. “Her emotions’ve been controlled through the chips for some months now. Ibá¡á±ez predicts they should become conditioned to respond to the same stimuli without direct control.  ¿Any sign of that yet?”

“Yes, very clearly. Her sexuality is strongly conditioned. I haven’t used the chips for a few weeks now, and her lust is undiminished. Her character’s a lot more docile, and she’s lost a lot of her original desire for autonomy–she’s actually happier now when she has orders to follow, and no decisions to make. And Seá±or Deon’s love for reading is gone. Ibá¡á±ez gave her a strong dislike for it.” His satisfaction was plain. “When she wakes up, I doubt she’ll even realize she’s lost the ability to read, at least not immediately. And I think her conditioned dislike will probably make it harder to relearn.”

“There’ll be no way to check that hypothesis, I’m afraid. No way at all. As I told you, I suspect her brain is permanently disabled in that area. Not totally, but permanently.” He shook his head. “That was my objection at the beginning of this project. We’re doing too many things at once. There’s no way to separate the effects of one action from those of another.”

“True–but that can be sorted out later. In the meantime, we’re demonstrating how completely we can remake a person by a combination of procedures. Pansy certainly doesn’t much resemble George Deon. And there’s more to come. Ibá¡á±ez predicts she’ll have a normal maternal instinct to love her baby. And Josecito too. And later she’ll fall in love with some man. Not just sexual lust–although that’ll be a part of it, she’s a horny little girl now–but real love.”

“It sounds like you’re doing her a favor.” Ibarra, like most who knew José, didn’t see him as a philanthropist.

“Not really. She’ll be devoted–but he won’t necessarily feel the same way.” He reflected for a moment. “He might, though. After all, we’re tryiing to create Seá±or Deon’s ideal woman–sexy, compliant, hard-working, devoted to her man and to her children. Maybe her man’ll reciprocate.”

Ibarra had one morsel of information concerning Petunia. “By the way, Don Pablo had George’s girlfriend brought into my lab last week. She was given a little re-education.”

José was only mildly interested, not having any interest in George’s last girlfriend, but he asked, “ ¿Oh?  ¿And what did she learn?  ¿Has she forgotten her old lover?”

“Not at all. But he drowned. She saw his body–or so she remembers.”

“That’d hardly seem to require much re-education.”

“It didn’t. That part took only a few minutes. It took longer to erase her memories of the time spent at Las Rosas, but that went quite successfully as well. No, most of the time was spent in rebuilding her memories to agree with those of our subject, so she’ll confirm what we gave Pansy. The don intends them to meet again.”

They turned to other subjects, and Ibarra filled José in on results of his other experiments. Some promised to have commercial value, and in fact Don Pablo had already begun to market Ibarra’s services, while keeping the techniques secret. They shared a rum coke and turned in.
 
 
April 16
-- Pansy awoke late. Ibarra had been picked up by another plane, and she didn’t remember his visit. She felt odd–slightly dizzy, and maybe a bit feverish. When she realized how late it was, she jumped up. The dizziness passed quickly, but she still felt wrong. When José saw her, he told her, “Pansy, you’re finally awake. You’ve been a little sick, so I let you sleep late.  ¿How do you feel?”

She tried to answer, but her tongue felt thick. Or maybe it was her thinking that was fuzzy. “I… I think… I OK.  ¿Wha’ hap… happen? I fo’… I fo’get.”

“You had a bit of a fever. Go back to bed. I’ll bring you breakfast.”

She stayed in bed for the rest of the day. José brought her needlepoint project to work on, and she played her music. During the day some loss of Pansy’s language ability was evident to José, and he made a tape of her speech. Even as soon as the evening, though, she had improved, and after supper she felt imprisoned in the bed. “Seá±or,  ¿may I get up now?” she implored. “I think I pretty well better now.”

“Very well. I think you’re right. I’m going swimming.  ¿If you’d care to join me…?”

She left her bed. She seemed almost recovered, but she still felt not quite normal. Not drunk–there were no physical symptoms–but something like it. She had to work to make her thoughts come out clearly. “Yes, I well… I am well now. I join… I will join you.”

The disability didn’t affect her body at all, she noted. Once she donned her bikini and ran down to the water, she forgot there had been any problem. As the sun dropped into the Caribbean, setting the towering evening thunderheads on fire, she pulled herself out of the water and looked down at her waist. She couldn’t be sure whether her pregnancy showed, but after her visit to the clinic three days earlier– ¿or was it four? It was hard to keep track–she had no doubt that she’d become a mother in the fall.
 
 
April 17
-- José had stayed too long on the island. “This island is Paradise,” he told Pansy, “but I get hungry for a taste of earth now and then.” In the morning, at his direction, Pansy wore a long bright-red skirt, an embroidered white cotton blouse, sandals, and hoop earrings. Her hair was in a single long braid with a red hair ribbon tied in a bow. She was the image of a campesina. She had to know what she looked like, but she didn’t seem to care. They had breakfast, Pansy cleaned up, and they took off for Tela.

A car waited for them at the airport. It was air-conditioned, and the heat and humidity of the lowlands could be ignored. A brief but intense thundershower struck as they arrived in town, and José drove through the narrow cobbled streets to a muddy lane. The car splashed through puddles to a small but elegant house on the edge of town near the beach. The walls were a light blue, barely visible through the bougainvillea. Pansy recognized it; it was Susana’s old place. “The house belongs to Don Pablo,” José commented. “I know you’re familiar with it, and I thought it might be nice to return. Of course, your status is different now. You’ll see Tela from a different angle.” After Pansy carried the luggage into the house, he told her to change into her uniform, and to clean the place up. “I’m going out to get a drink. I’ll be back in an hour or so.” He left and drove back towards the town center.

Pansy looked around the kitchen with regret. Seá±or Cualquiera had stayed here with Susana in happier days, and they had been in love here. She put that thought away from her mind, seized a broom, and swept out the rooms. The house was small: living room, bedroom, kitchen, and bathroom with shower. Susana hadn’t lived here in luxury. Others had stayed here since Susana, and the place was messy. After an hour’s work, she had cleaned the place fairly well. By the time José returned, the house was presentable. “Good job, Pansy,” he complimented her. “Now, we’ll need something to eat. Go to the market and buy us some groceries. We need everything: meat, vegetables, fish, sugar, salt. And get me a newspaper; I want to see what’s gone on in the world while I’ve been out of it.” He gave her enough lempiras to cover the purchases.

“I can not carry all that, Seá±or. You have to drive me, or I can get enough for one meal. Or you can eat out tonight.”

He grumbled, but agreed, and told her to get a steak and some vegetables. “You know what I like. Just put together a dinner for tonight. I’ll be gone until 6.”

She left for the ten-minute walk to the market. At least the rain had stopped. At the market she was surprised that no one there seemed to realize that she wasn’t a native-born hondureá±a. Then she remembered her image in the mirror. Don Pablo’s plastic surgeon had been an artist. She purchased a steak, sweet potatoes, rice, and some pastries for dessert. During housecleaning, she’d seen that the staples were already stocked.

Pansy picked up a newspaper and glanced at the headlines. After all, she’d been more out-of-touch than José. The headlines read “”¡â•—צﻛ אּюҰ”¡ צצ”¡”¡â•—Ò° ”¡ï»›ï»›î „” It was gibberish, and worse: she couldn’t even recognize the letters. She shook her head and looked again. No, she couldn’t read it. With a sick feeling she looked at a street sign, then a storefront. It was the same. She couldn’t read, period. She bent over and tried to print her name in the mud with a finger. Her mind was blank. Terrified, she tried to print the first letter of the alphabet. It was called… She couldn’t do it: she was totally illiterate.

Pansy walked to the house in a daze. She couldn’t comprehend how this could have been done to her. It had been less than a week since she had taken tests for Ibá¡á±ez at the clinic. And written essays, in both English and Spanish. When she arrived at the villa, she collapsed into a chair and stared blankly into space. She was still there when José returned.

“ ¡Pansy!  ¿Where’s dinner?” he demanded.

She ignored him. He repeated his demand, a little louder. Again she didn’t reply. At his third demand, she responded, “Yes, Seá±or. I’ll get it,” then went to the kitchen and began to prepare dinner. He ate a little later than expected, but said nothing. Pansy cleaned up afterwards and sat down without eating.

Alarmed, José asked, “ ¿What’s wrong, Pansy? You have to eat something.  ¿Are you sick?”

“I can not read.”

“ ¿So? You’re only a maid; you don’t need to read. Illiteracy is common enough among campesinas, so you’ll fit right in.” Then he added, “I was angry when you disobeyed me and wrote letters off from the island. Now you won’t write any more.”

“No, Seá±or.” Her voice was dull and expressionless.

“Pansy, you have to eat. Go make yourself a meal.”

“Yes, Seá±or.” She went to the kitchen and took leftovers from José’s meal out the refrigerator. After eating a couple of bites, she put it back. When José told her to eat more, she obeyed, but then threw up. Silently she cleaned up after herself, then told José she couldn’t eat any more. He let her be, in the hope that she’d snap out of it. That night he gave her a touch of the pleasure chip, with no apparent effect.
 
 
April 19
-- By noon two days later, José was more worried. Pansy hadn’t eaten much, and she hadn’t slept either. She still served him, but her replies were monosyllabic, and in her free time she did nothing at all. José decided to confer with Ibarra and Ibá¡á±ez. He called Doctor Ibarra first, telling him of Pansy’s behavior since she had discovered her illiteracy. “ ¿Have any of your other subjects shown this reaction to your treatment?”

“No. But none endured such radical reconstructions of their egos. None lost nearly as much of their old selves. I told you, this procedure is experimental, and I can’t foresee all the results. I think we might’ve just pushed her one step too far, and she may be in trouble. If she is, so are we; we put a hell of a lot of work into her, too much to lose her.”

“ ¿Physical trouble, or do you think she just has a psychological problem?”

At the far end of the line, Ibarra controlled his temper. “Doctor, you of all people should know better than call it ‘just a psychological problem’. She could die of ‘just a psychological problem’. And she’s pregnant; the fetus could suffer, even if she pulls out of this major depression. You should’ve called sooner. We need to consult. I’ll call Ibá¡á±ez.”

“Yes, you’re right. I’m sorry, Doctor, I wasn’t thinking. I really do know better, that’s why I called. I’ll give her a tranquilizer for now, until we decide how to treat her.”

Ibarra swore. He was a psychologist, but his specialty was neurophysiology. Ibá¡á±ez was no better, and it was clear José Herrera couldn’t help. Herná¡ndez and Weiss, who’d sculpted her body, were useless. They needed a clinical psychologist. There was such a person with the Institute, but not on a full-time basis; Doctor Zumaya had his own private practice. Well, he’d be the best choice for Pansy. First, he needed Ibá¡á±ez’s concurrence, and even more important, the approval of Don Pablo. Well, he’d talk to Ibá¡á±ez now, and worry about the don later.

Ibá¡á±ez agreed that they should consider consultation with a clinical psychologist. “I’m not altogether certain. Something like this happened after Seá±or Deon lost his balls last year, and Don Pablo himself suggested that we check with a specialist. At that time I didn’t think it was necessary. I thought the subject would come out of depression by herself. I was right, as it turned out.  ¿Now? I’ll make the call after I’ve seen her.”

“ ¿Shouldn’t we check with Zumaya anyway, to arrange an appointment if it’s warranted?”

Shaking his head, Ibá¡á±ez reminded Ibarra that they wanted to keep as few people as possible involved. “In the meantime, let’s discuss our plans for any more experiments on our subject.”

Ibarra noted that his part was about over. “I’ve cut all connections that could’ve been used to trace her back to George Deon–or at least all that we had planned to cut, starting with his name. I’ve given her childhood memories suited to her new identity, and ensured that they were integrated into a consistent biography. Her technical knowledge is greatly reduced. Almost erased. Her English is degenerate. And now she’s illiterate. For all practical purposes, Pansy has the intellectual equipment of a campesina, and little more. It completes my experimental protocol. Anything else would just be polishing the chrome a little. My main interest now is finding out just how stable is the new Pansy Baca.”

Ibá¡á±ez nodded in agreement. “That’s about where I am. There’s no longer any need to use my chips for direct control. Her conditioning’s about finished, both for her personal tastes and more importantly, for her sexuality; Doctor Herrera tells me he no longer finds it necessary to use the chips. Her new body received its last finishing touches over five months ago. All that’s left for all of us is simply to monitor her socialization into her new persona.

“If she falls apart on us, we lose all that preparation,” Ibarra pointed out. “We can’t monitor a suicide. We could try to remove all memory of the previous persona, and persuade her that she’s always been an illiterate hondureá±a.” He shook his head. “All along I thought that would be the best course to follow.”

On the other side of the table, Ibá¡á±ez shifted in his chair and considered the matter. “Yes, we could. If we decide there’s no alternative, we might. That solution has two drawbacks. First, the don would object, just as he has in the past. His aim is to trap George Deon in the body of a campesina, and if we follow your suggestion, then Seá±or Deon will be gone. The second objection is related. One of the interesting facets of this experiment is the interplay between the Deon and Baca personas.  ¿What’ll happen in, say, five or ten years?  ¿Will the resulting personality be more like that of George Deon, or like that of a normal lower-class hondureá±a? If we erase the Deon persona, an important goal of the research will be sacrificed.”

Ibarra got out of the chair and paced the room nervously. He looked at Ibá¡á±ez. “ ¿What about your chips? I’d think you have sufficient control over her emotions to bring her out of this depression.”

Ibá¡á±ez nodded. “You’re right. I can give her a lift with the pleasure chip. Or one of the others; sex or fear would distract her from her difficulties. But it wouldn’t solve the underlying problem, and she’d return to her funk after stimulation ended.”

“She might. Perhaps it’s even probable.  ¿But isn’t it worth a try? She’d gain time to come to terms with her new loss. Don’t use fear, though. It might push her over the edge to madness. I’d favor trying sex and pleasure.”

Puffing on his cigarette, Ibá¡á±ez pondered the alternatives. Finally he stubbed out his butt and told Ibarra, “I agree. But I’ll consult with Don Pablo and with Doctor Herrera, and I’ll discuss the possibility of bringing Doctor Zumaya onto the case. We need a clinical psychologist.”
 
 
April 21
-- Doctor Juan Zumaya Alvarado was frustrated. “But Doctor Herrera, I can’t properly diagnose the difficulty without interviewing the patient.  ¡Surely you must understand!”

“Of course I do, Doctor. But it’s simply not feasible at the moment. Don Pablo has asked that you do what you can under these limitations. He understands that you’re working under a handicap, but he knows you’ll do the best you can; and he tells me that your best, even under a handicap, is better than most doctors could do. Please, help us. You’ll be well paid.” José added, “Oddly enough, the woman took a series of psychological tests shortly before suffering her stroke. The results are available, and they’ll fax them to you. In the meantime, if you agree to help, I’ll fill you in on the background of the case.”

Greed and flattery were sufficient, and the doctor agreed. José told him that Pansy was an educated girl whose family had suffered reverses, and who had been forced to seek work as a domestic. “As you can guess, she was under a lot of stress. Then, two days ago, she suffered what seems to be a minor stroke.” Ibarra had assured José that the effect of his treatment was similar to that of a stroke. “The physical damage was minor, and it’s been taken care of. Don Pablo saw to it that she received a doctor’s care, and the prognosis is good. But she’s lost the ability to read and write. There are no other physical symptoms from the stroke, but that loss on top of her other problems has left her severely depressed. Doctor,  ¿what do you recommend?”

Zumaya hemmed and hawed, then told José, “Send me what you have on her, including the tests you mentioned. I really can’t choose the proper treatment without seeing her, but I’ll do what I can. Give me your number; I’ll get back to you after I’ve seen the records.”
 
 
April 22
-- José set down the telephone. Zumaya’s advice was simple. First, he prescribed an antidepressant. “It’s a temporary crutch,” he told José, “but it’ll keep her functional until she becomes accustomed to her loss. Second, make it clear that the damage is reparable. She can learn to read again. Give her some hope. Third, keep her busy. If there’s an activity that gives her pleasure, indulge her. And change her surroundings.” José agreed to that. Zumaya added that he wasn’t pleased with the case. “I spoke with your father, and Don Pablo insisted that I help without seeing her. I agreed, but if her condition worsens, I persuaded him to let me interview her in person. Don Pablo may have her best interests in mind, but I still don’t approve. Doctor Herrera, please, keep me informed.” José agreed again.
 
 
April 25
-- After talking with Ibá¡á±ez, José followed Zumaya’s advice and used the sex and pleasure chips, giving Pansy something to think of besides her illiteracy. He also told her that no more changes were planned: “We’re satisfied that no more is needed. Your body was finished in December, and you must agree, nobody’d take you for anything but a natural-born hondureá±a. We’re well pleased with your training, too, and nothing more is needed. You’re an excellent maid, and good in bed too. If you behave, maybe we’ll let you relearn your letters. If you can.”

She looked at him with hatred. “Seá±or, I know you think you got me stuck. You do, for now. You know it, I know it. Yes, I’ll behave. I got to. But I will not going to be a campesina forever. Some day I’ll be more than a maid, I promise.” Then she returned to her ironing, afraid if she said more, she’d let slip her intent to kill him after she was freed.

Her bitter retort relieved José; it was a sign that she’d been forced out of her depression, and wasn’t about to fade away. Nevertheless, he kept her on the antidepressant and on the pleasure chip, at least intermittently. In addition, Doctor Zumaya had recommended that he give her a change of surroundings, and he took her to Tegucigalpa for a day, where they stayed in the Holiday Inn. At any sign of retreat into depression, he goosed her with delight, and she responded by appearing to forget her troubles.

After the isolation of Golondrinas, Pansy was glad to be back among other people. It struck her that Tela and Tegucigalpa seemed more real, somehow, than when she’d been there before. And in a way, so was she: the people she met treated her as if she were a native, not a foreigner–just another Honduran woman, with nothing to distinguish her. She promised herself that she’d recover what she had lost, though. Seá±or Herrera had told her she might be permitted to learn to read again, if she behaved. Well, in eight more months she’d no longer be subject to their “experiments”. Don Pablo had promised her that, and for all her hatred of the man, she trusted his word more than José’s. Then she’d begin the long climb back to a middle-class status. There was no point in doing anything now; they wanted her to be nothing more than a campesina, and if she tried to rise above that, they’d just push her back down. No, she needed to wait.
 
 
May 4
-- The brief use of the chips jolted Pansy out of her depression. Her recovery was aided by the fact that there was virtually nothing to read on the island in any case, and she hadn’t looked at a book for a long time. José had discontinued the use of the chips, and to his satisfaction Pansy’s libido continued to rule her, as she resumed her duties as a maid during the day and as a whore at night. His promise that they’d allow her to learn to read again was sincere. Whether it was permitted wouldn’t matter; Ibarra and Ibá¡á±ez agreed that the collateral damage to her brain during the erasure of her literacy was probably sufficient to keep her from regaining more than a rudimentary ability to read. No more changes to her mind were needed now. For all practical purposes, what was left of George Deon now resided within a Honduran campesina. Her face was pretty, her body, lush, and her will, compliant. Her conditioning on Golondrinas had greatly reduced the egoism so characteristic of George, and her master’s pleasure had become her chief concern. To that end she worked to make herself attractive, and to anticipate his desires. Now her own body kept her submissive, as her high hormone level and her sexual conditioning left her with a powerful libido. She believed her need for sex to be externally imposed, and for the moment José wasn’t about to disillusion her. George Deon would’ve found her an ideal maid, he thought; they had succeeded beyond all reasonable expectation. He had only a little more work to do, and then he could release her to Susana.

Pansy was washing the windows as he called to her, “Hey, girl, come here.”

Laying down her cloth, she obediently approached José, lying in a palm-shaded hammock. “ ¿Yes, Seá±or?  ¿What can I do for you?”

“Get me a cold beer. No, get two–one for yourself.”

She fetched two glasses of chilled Budweiser, and he ordered her to sit next to him. “You know, Pansy, you’ve become an excellent maid. You’re a pretty good whore, too. My visitors think you’re among the sexiest girls they’ve seen.”

She reddened. Although she enjoyed the physical pleasure of sex, she knew that the pleasure was artificial, and she retained an intellectual revulsion for it–or so she persuaded herself. “Yes, Seá±or, they told me that.”

“In fact, you’ve had all the sex training you need–at least for now.” Her heart leaped. Maybe he’d take her back to Las Rosas. Evelina was a terrible taskmaster, but she was preferable to the snake who lay in front of her. Her spirits rose a little more as he continued: “I know you don’t like it here, although your life’s been easy. I’m going to take you back to La Ceiba, where you can spend a week or so while Don Pablo and I decide what to do next. It’ll be a vacation before the next stage of your training.”

Pansy was overjoyed at first, but then she wondered: what was she expected to do there? “Yes, Seá±or, if you wish. I will get ready.  ¿What should I pack for you?”

“No, you misunderstand. You’ll be left there alone. For a week you can do whatever you want.” He smiled maliciously. “You can even try to escape, if you want. Yes, it’s forbidden, and you’ll be sorry if you try, but there won’t be anyone there to stop you. There isn’t any danger that you’ll succeed, of course. We’ll leave in an hour, after lunch. I already took the liberty of packing a bag for you, and your clothes for this afternoon are laid out on your bed. Go take off your uniform now, and put the other clothes on. And make yourself pretty.”

“Yes, Seá±or.” She left to change.

Soon she reappeared in a low-cut yellow silk blouse that clung to her breasts, and a short red leather skirt. Her face was expertly made up, and her hair, now jet-black, hung over her shoulders. “ ¿Is this satisfactory, Seá±or?”

He ogled her openly. “I think so. You look most attractive.” She served his lunch, had her own, then cleaned up. He took her to the plane, and they left.

After a short flight, José turned towards the shore. Pansy wondered what the “vacation” was for, but she didn’t ask. At least she’d be away from him for the duration. And what would she do in La Ceiba? No matter: she could use the rest. A week to herself? It was a wonderful idea!

They landed at the small airport, and José called a taxi. As they headed towards the center of town, José told his charge, “I understand you worked here in La Ceiba a couple of years ago.” He paused and corrected himself: “No, only eighteen months ago,  ¿wasn’t it? ‘How time flies when you’re having fun!’  ¿Don’t you agree, my dear?”

She didn’t rise to his baiting. “Maybe, Seá±or. I do not know.”

“You had friends here,  ¿true?”

She recalled teaching algebra here. She knew the name of the subject, but math beyond arithmetic was lost to her. She would recover her losses–she’d have to, unless she wanted to spend her life doing Suzi’s laundry–but it would have to wait for her release. “No, Seá±or, not really. I got to know a few people, but they weren’t really friends.”

“Acquaintances, then.  ¿Do you recall their names.”

“ ¿Aside from my students?” He nodded; she thought, then told him, “Let’s see… Seá±or Linares–Juan Linares–was my supervisor. Seá±ora Balsas taught biology. Pedro Velasco–he managed the plantation, and I used to drink with him. Juan Barrameda was a neighbor, but I didn’t see him often. Maybe a few others, but I don’t… I don’t recall my past life very well.” She looked away. “Your doctors had something to do with that.”

“I’m sure you remember a few others, my dear. Irma Corrales, Pepita Zapatero, Dolores Santiago–you knew them well.”

“I don’t…” But then she did remember them–at the brothel. “Yes, I know them.” She said no more.

Soon José reached the main plaza. “Here we are, my dear. Get out, and I’ll pick you up here in one week, at noontime.” Dismayed, she protested, “But I…  ¡You can’t just leave me here!  ¿What will I do?  ¡I need money!” José laughed. “Yes, I imagine you do. That’s your problem, Seá±orita. I suggest you set your mind to it. I’m sure you’ll find a solution. Maybe you’ll even find a way to run away.” The taxi door closed and José sped off. She was on her own.

She wouldn’t enjoy going hungry or sleeping in a doorway, so she sat on a plaza bench and tried to think of a way to earn enough cash to live for the week. Without it she couldn’t take a bus out of La Ceiba, so she was stuck. It had been plain for some time that she no longer possessed Seá±or Cualquiera’s knowledge and skills, and he would’ve had a problem in her circumstances anyway. She had no resources and no friends. Slowly she realized that José had known exactly what he was doing in stranding her.

By evening she began to feel hungry, and she knew she’d have to find a solution soon. Even worse, she felt the stirring of her libido. She got up from the bench and walked towards the church on the other side of the plaza. Perhaps the priest would give her a meal and a place to sleep. Or maybe he could point her to a place where she could earn a few lempiras–enough to tide her over until José returned.

Before she reached the church, a policeman stopped her and demanded her identification. Rummaging in her purse, she found the ID forced onto her. “Here it is, Seá±or.”

He looked at it, then swelled up with authority and demanded, “ ¿What is your business here, Seá±orita Pansy?”

“I… I was waiting for a friend.”

“For three hours you wait for this ‘friend’. I guess he ain’t going to meet you.” He shook his head. “It’s plain you’re a whore. I know all the regulars, and you’re a stranger. Public prostitution is forbidden in La Ceiba, Seá±orita.” She started to deny his accusation, but he cut her off. “I can give you three choices. First, you can come with me, and the judge’ll decide what to do with you in a day or so. I don’t recommend it, but it’s what the rules say. Second, since you’re new here and I don’t think you meant to commit a crime, I can do you a favor and take you to a whorehouse. If you’ll just keep your business where it belongs, you can make an honest living, and nobody’ll bother you.” And besides, the madam would bribe him for bringing her a nice piece of ass like this. “Or third, I can let you off with a warning if you’ll show your appreciation by giving me a little something. But then you’ll have to get out of here. I’ll be in trouble if I leave you stay here.”

“But Seá±or… I’m not… I mean…” She realized that her protestations were useless. “And I am a whore,” she knew. Certainly she was dressed like a streetwalker. But she had nothing to give him. “Please, I don’t…”

He was disappointed that she didn’t just give him a few lempiras, or at least offer him some diversion in the sack; she looked as if she’d be hot in bed. “Very well. Come with me, Seá±orita.”

“I… Wait, no, Seá±or.” She made her decision quickly. She needed cash, and this might be the only way to get it. If she was a whore–and she had been a whore for several months–she might as well make a profit from it. Mamá¡ Santiago’s place was clean. “Please, take… take me to Mamá¡ Santiago’s.” She knew the neighborhood from when she had lived here, and the old whorehouse was near the plaza.

The officer was satisfied with that. Mamá¡ Santiago was on good terms with the police, and she’d take the little puta in hand, giving him a bit of profit on the side.

In five minutes they were navigating the muddy path to the weathered and splintery green door, and the cop rang the doorbell. In a few seconds Mamá¡ Santiago welcomed them in. She hadn’t changed since Pansy had last seen her under happier circumstances. Her round dark face broke into a gap-toothed smile at the sight of her visitors. After welcoming the policeman and being told the situation, she appraised Pansy speculatively. The clingy top and tight skirt showed her figure well. It was more than adequate, with full hips and firm breasts tipped with large nipples. The waist wasn’t really slender, but it was acceptable. Her face betrayed a mixed-race heritage, but that was the norm here on the coast. The men wouldn’t expect anything more from a puta. “Your girl looks pretty enough, Seá±or. No beauty, of course, but the men’ll find her sexy.  ¿You said she’s willing?  ¿And good in bed?”

“Yes, Seá±ora, she’s willing. She asked to come here herself. I don’t know how good she is in bed, but she looks like she’ll be damn good.” Pansy looked at the ground with self-loathing. The cop was right: she was a good whore, and she knew it only too well. “Give her a try.”

“I’ll do that.  ¿Is she ready to start?”

“I think so. She was ready in Trinidad Plaza when I found her. But I can’t tell you nothing else about her, Seá±ora.  ¿Do you want her or not?”

The madam turned to Pansy and asked, “ ¿Is he telling the truth, chica? I won’t have an unwilling girl.  ¿Do you want to work here?”

Pansy already knew she would. Her lack of cash and her gnawing need for sex left her no real choice, she thought “Yes, Seá±ora,” she replied. “I’m a whore. I think I’m a good… a good whore.” She cringed inside as she made the claim, but it was true. She was a good whore now–temporarily and by necessity, she insisted to herself, but a whore nonetheless. “I will do a good job for you. But I can stay only a week, I think.”

Mamá¡ Santiago left with the policeman, while Pansy waited on a threadbare sofa. Her new boss returned in a few minutes, her smile gone; she was all business now. “Chica, you’re one of my girls now. You’ll go by the professional name of Dulcita. Dulcita Chichones–you got the tits for it. Now tell me about yourself.”

Pansy gave the madam her artificial biography. “I knew you spent some time in the North,” she told her new girl. “You have an accent. No matter: the men’ll find it intriguing.” Then her tone became brisk: “I don’t know what you heard about my place, but it don’t matter. I run a clean business. I take care of my girls, but they got to behave. No fighting, no running around with men outside working hours. When you go out, you got to dress proper, like a lady. Everybody knows what I got here, and I don’t need to advertise. I’m OK with the cops, as long as I run the business discreetly.  ¿Understood?”

“Yes, Seá±ora.”

“One of my experienced girls’ll teach you the best ways to please our clients. Pepita, maybe.  ¿You got any questions?”

Pansy knew Pepita from previous visits. “No. Except…  ¿Please, can I eat? I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

The madam laughed. “Of course. You’ll have to concentrate on work tonight. There’s a little something in the kitchen. Then we’ll see about making you legal. If you’re going to work for me, you got to be registered all proper.”

After Pansy finished a dish of beans and rice, Seá±ora Santiago took her into the center of town and arranged for a medical exam and an HIV vaccination. In town hall a bored clerk checked her ID papers, then took her photograph and gave her a form to fill out. When she admitted her inability to read or write, he wasn’t surprised, and filled it out for her. Mamá¡ Santiago witnessed her “X” mark. The clerk took her fingerprints and a retinal scan; the madam explained to her that the profession was tightly monitored, to make sure that venereal diseases were controlled. The clerk gave the madam one copy of the completed form and handed another to Pansy, with a laminated photo ID. “You’re officially licensed and registered now,” her employer told Pansy. “You’ll begin work tonight, and I’ll see if you’re worth what I paid.”

She found it easy to service the two men who bought an hour apiece that night, although they were only campesinos, dirty and sweaty. They wanted nothing more than a quick fuck, and she gave it to them efficiently; her training had been effective. Despite her disgust at herself, she was overpowered by sexual pleasure, and the men received the release they sought. Mamá¡ Santiago complimented her before she went to bed that night: “Ernesto and Nicho tell me you’re real good, Pansy, and they’ll be back tomorrow. If you keep all your men that satisfied, I think I can use you here for as long as you’d like to stay.” Pansy accepted the praise with a pasted-on smile. Her life’s ambition hadn’t been to be a “real good” prostitute. A job as Susana’s maid looked attractive by comparison.
 
 
May 5
-- Pansy slept late the next morning. After she had awakened and eaten breakfast, Mamá¡ Santiago introduced Pansy to her other “girls”, telling them she was there on probation. “Pansy did a fine job last night, I was told. She’s planning to stay here only a short time, she says, but maybe she’ll stay longer.” Pepita and Mará­a, paid on commission, were pleased that she’d be there only briefly. She’d be competing for their clients. After breakfast they scattered, to while away the day until work began at sundown. Pepita took Pansy to instruct her in the trade.

That afternoon Pepita joined Pansy to watch a rerun of La Madrastra. Pansy wondered how Seá±or Cualquiera had ever thought her attractive, as she watched the little whore mince her way into the room. Her neckline was too low, her skirt too short, and her wares far too obviously on display. But she reconsidered: there was no denying the fact that Pepita was sexy. Then she looked down at herself and it hit her: she looked just like Pepita. She was seeing herself as others saw her. With a sick feeling she suddenly realized that she was seeing herself as she was, now. Pepita looked at her curiously and asked, “ ¿Where’re you from, Pansy? You talk funny. With an accent.”

Pansy dropped her eyes, then gave her companion the false biography. Pepita wanted to know what the United States was like, but she was disappointed when Pansy told her, “I was too young to remember much.” Then Pansy recalled that Pepita had met Seá±or Cualquiera. Maybe she knew his name. She asked, “ ¿Do you recall a norteamericano here a couple of years ago? Or maybe eighteen months ago, I’m not sure.”

At first Pepita didn’t remember. “We get a lot of men here, you know. That’s a while ago.”

“He came in with Pedro Velasco. You know Pedro,  ¿don’t you? He works over at the Guacamayo banana plantation. Or at least he did then.”

She looked at Pansy suspiciously. Pedro was one of her better customers. How did this Baca floozy know him? “Yes, I know Pedro,” she told Pansy. Then it clicked–he had brought a norteamericano with him, several times. “I think maybe I know who you mean. Yes, I remember him.  ¿Why do you want to know?”

For an instant Pansy almost told Pepita that she was that norteamericano, but she immediately rejected the idea. Even if José hadn’t threatened her, there was no way Pepita–or anyone else–would believe her. She’d just make herself look like a madwoman. “He had some dealings with Seá±or Herrera, and I met him. Don Pablo helped him get a reaching job. I heard he was in here once, and I wondered if you knew anything about him.”

“Not really. That was a long time ago, and I’ve had a lot of men since then.”

“ ¿Do you remember his name?  ¿Or anything else about him?”

Pepita thought briefly. “No…” She shook her head. “No, I don’t. He was just another guy, in for a fuck. Not very good in bed, if I have the right guy. But like I say, I don’t remember him clear.”

Well, it was a thought. Pansy shrugged mentally. She was trapped for now anyway. When she was free, she could hunt down the name and regain her identity. And find a way to strike back at José. But the thought of opposing him brought an immediate gut reaction: He was her master! She had to obey! She caught herself and thought, “That’s crazy. He has no right to mistreat me.” Then she realized that Pepita had spoken to her, and she’d missed the woman’s words. “I’m sorry,  ¿what did you say?”

Annoyed, the prostitute told her, “You off in your own world, spacegirl. I said, maybe Mamá¡ Santiago can answer your questions. I think she keeps a customer file.”

Pansy thanked her, then wondered whether to risk asking the madam. She decided against it. José would find out about her inquiry, and she didn’t want to anger him. She’d ask later, when she was free.

Her first john arrived at 7. She recognized him: it was Pedro Velasco, Seá±or Cualquiera’s former buddy. “You’re new here,” he commented. “You look like a sexy little wench.  ¡You got nice chichones, for sure!” She giggled with pleasure, anticipating a good fuck. As he pawed at her brief nightgown, she smelled the beer on his breath. Intellectually she was repelled, but her conditioned hormones overpowered the residue of Seá±or Cualquiera’s distaste, and her body responded eagerly. Afterwards she tried to pump him for knowledge of Seá±or Cualquiera. “ ¿Do you know what happened to that norteamericano you used to come here with?  ¿What was his name?”

Seá±or Velasco roused himself from postcoital lethargy. “ ¿Who?  ¿A norteamericano?  ¿What do you care?” But then he relented: “Yes, I remember. The bastard drowned, I think. Or that’s what I heard.  ¿His name?” He thought. “Pinkton, I think.” He frowned: “Or something like that. Jack Pinkton, maybe. He was a stuck-up son of a bitch. Thought he was God’s gift.” Grinning, he added, “He ain’t so stuck-up now, he’s just fish food. But forget him, sweetie. You got better to think about. See how quick you can get me up again.” He stroked her breasts. Obediently she forgot Seá±or Pinkton, lost again in the familiar surge of lust, and began to fondle his scrotum.
 
 
May 12
-- The past week had brought a heavy flow of clients, and Mamá¡ Santiago’s whores had been kept busy, but with three women available they satisfied the demand more easily than usual. Pansy herself had serviced twelve men in addition to Seá±or Velasco, and three of them had returned to her for another hour of sex. On Friday morning Pansy had breakfast and thought about Seá±or Herrera. He’d be looking for her today. Should she try to escape? After all, he didn’t know where she was. A couple of weeks more with Mamá¡ Santiago would give her a little cash, and then she could run. But then? She was illiterate–she nearly wept anew at the thought–without friends or family. What could she do? Where could she go? And every attempt to rebel had left her worse off. But to return to Seá±or Herrera? She couldn’t make a decision.

She didn’t have to decide. José arrived in a taxi at 10 o’clock. She was surprised, and unhappy, that he had found her at the brothel, but he told her, “I had no problem finding you, my dear. You’re a whore, and you needed cash.  ¿Where else would I look for you but at the local whorehouse? I called Mamá¡ Santiago and she told me you were here. She says you’re an excellent prostitute, by the way.” He showed her a document. “Here’s a copy of your official registration.” Pansy writhed with self-loathing, but José was right: she was a legally registered prostitute. He continued, “Your vacation’s over. It’s time to head home. Collect your things.” She curtsied and obeyed, then returned to take her leave. She found Seá±ora Santiago and told her, “I have to leave today, Seá±ora. I have to go back to my old job.”

The madam nodded. “That’s what you said when you got here. Go on, then. I have your pay here.” She counted out a small sum and gave it to Pansy, telling her, “You’re a good little puta, Pansy. If you come back, I think I can find you work again.” Pansy thanked her and left with José, dressed more modestly than when she had arrived.

They were back on the island by noon. She donned her uniform and served José lunch on the beach. As he lounged in a beach chair with a daiquiri, he told her, “Mamá¡ Santiago told me you fit right in with the other girls. You’re a real licensed professional– ¡just like I promised! You’ll always be sure of a job–your skills are in demand anywhere.”

Pansy didn’t get angry–she had been baited too much, and she was inured to his taunts–but she disagreed. “Seá±or, I do what I must. But I do not need sex. Yes, I admit it gives me pleasure. You succeeded in that. But I can… I can manage without it. When I will be released, I will find a way to return to home. To the United States.” And a way to kill him, she thought. “I will reclaim my life. As a woman, yes, but I will be a norteamericana, not a hondureá±a.”

He chuckled. “You won’t return. Not as a U.S. citizen, anyway. If you didn’t notice, you’ve even forgotten a lot of your English. Maybe Suzi’ll take you along as her maid.” He leered: “But of course, I’ve saved you from the necessity of working for her. You have other marketable skills, as you demonstrated. It’s official, too: you’re a registered and licensed prostitute, by your own choice–a twenty-dollar Honduran whore.” He raised his eyebrows questioningly. “ ¿Aren’t you?”

Ashamed, Pansy admitted, “Yes, Seá±or.” She was a whore, undeniably–and she had enjoyed it. She tried to salvage a shred of self-respect: “For now only. I got no choice. But I am not ‘just a whore’ and I will not stay a whore. I will escape you, and Susana too. I will get back some of what I lost, after my two years is over.” She tried to believe it.

“ ¿Oh?  ¿What do you think you might get back?”

“I not really know, Seá±or. Maybe you are right. But I can hope.”

He smiled. “You’re evading me, Pansy. You think you can return to the U.S. You think you can be more than a whore. Maybe even more than a maid. Tell me more.”

“Please, Seá±or. I… I do not know.”

“You’re an illiterate and ignorant campesina, fit only for life of menial service. Yet you say you’ll escape. I order you to tell me why you think you can ever become more than a maid.”

“I… No, Seá±or, you are right. I not escape.”

With glee José pounced on her statement. “Now you’re lying to me, my dear. You’re correct–you won’t escape–but it’s a lie nevertheless. You should know better. Let’s see…  ¿What should I take from you this time?”

“ ¡No, please!  ¡I tell you anything!” She fell to her knees. “Don’t… don’t take anything else.”

He ignored her. “You can’t read or write. I have to leave you with enough intelligence to be a maid–enough to follow basic directions. But there’s a lot you won’t need.” As she wept, he ordered her, “Stand up, girl, and stop sniveling, or your punishment’ll be worse.” She obeyed as best she could. “You tell me, dear. Suggest something.  ¿What can you spare from your old life?  ¿Your family, maybe? You’ll never see them again anyway.  ¿Or maybe arithmetic?” He chuckled: “No, it’s too late for that. You don’t know enough arithmetic to make it worthwhile.”

“Please, Seá±or.” She continued to beg. “I have so little. Please leave it to me. I tell you whatever you ask.” She searched frantically for some way to satisfy him.

He sat up. “Very well. I see I have to pick it myself. Sit down on the beach while I decide.” Thinking for a moment, he announced, “You don’t need to know brand names. Or American companies. Ford, Microsoft, that sort of thing. I’ll take them.” He gazed out over the lagoon, then glanced at a bougainvillea, back at the house. “And I know what else I can erase. You’ve always loved plants. I’ll leave you with that, but you’ll lose the English names. But of course you don’t know the Spanish for most of them. And an illiterate girl will find it difficult to relearn anything, I’m afraid. My dear, your botany is going to suffer a little. You’ll never need it, though.”

“ ¡No, Seá±or!  ¡Please!” she begged, but he pushed a button on his hidden panel and she collapsed on the sand. Three hours later, the erasures were completed, along with more of her English vocabulary and grammar.

Pansy awoke where she had fallen, unaware that time had passed. “Please,” she begged, “ ¡I tell you anything!”

José was still sitting in the beach chair. He replied, “Of course you will, Pansy. For now, tell me why you think you can escape. Tell me how you’ll become a norteamericana.”

She was relieved. Maybe she could escape further loss. “I… I really don’t know how, Seá±or, but… but I… I think I can learn to read again, and learn the other… other things I lost. And… and there must be a way to show that I’m not what I look like. Fingerprints, or dental records, or… or genetic tests. Yes– ¡a DNA test! And Petunia–she knows. And Don Pablo’s servants.” She never considered evading his question, but only wanted to satisfy him for the moment.

“You’re wrong, of course. Your fingerprints are indeed on file–and a retinal scan too. They’re filed under the name of Pansy-Ann Baca, a registered Honduran prostitute, born in Comayagá¼ela. Honduras shares its database with the US authorities, so that’s what Immigration will turn up when they check you out.” José grinned. “And your Honduran birth certificate shows the same fingerprints. As for DNA:  ¿Do you really think you can persuade La Migra to administer a DNA test? No, your new identity is permanent. But we aren’t finished with you, of course.”

She was shocked. “But… but you said… you said I was done, Seá±or.”

“You are. We don’t need to do anything else to your body–every time you look in the mirror, you see nothing but a peasant girl–and now you have the mind of a campesina as well, ignorant and illiterate. More than that, you’re a slut, promiscuous by nature.” She didn’t argue; it was true. “But we can still condition you a bit more. And I can still punish you if you offend me, by erasing little items here and there.” He sat up and sipped his daiquiri. “Nothing serious, though. Like the brand names and plant names. You won’t even miss them.”

“Please, Seá±or, don’t do that.”

“I already did. Tell me,  ¿what kinds of tree have nuts? Tell me about them.”

Afraid to give him another excuse to punish her, she babbled, “Well, there is walnut–that in the genus Juglans, but it not in Honduras–and coconut, and oak–that is Quercus, and there are lots of them here. And… and…” She knew there were others, but she couldn’t put names to them. Then she realized: the names she had given were Latin or Spanish. She tried to remember the English names, but they were gone as if she had never known them. “Seá±or, you… you took the… the names. In English. I don’t know them now.” How could she have been so stupid, not telling José immediately what he wanted to know! Her first rule was obedience!

He nodded. “You won’t miss them. Like the sports, pretty soon you won’t even notice the loss.” She began to cry–another piece of Seá±or Cualquiera was lost forever–and he told her to stop and listen to him. After she regained control, he told her, “Tomorrow Don Pablo wants me to take you back to Las Rosas. Suzi’ll be there, and I know she wants you to begin work as her maid. She may try to persuade Don Pablo to give you to her on the spot.” “ ¡Wonderful!” Pansy thought.

“But I disagree. Mamá¡ Santiago recognized your talent, but you’ll be even better after more training in sex. Exotic sex. Sucking a cock might not appeal to you now, but don’t worry. When we’re done, you’ll like it. Like regular sex now.” He paused: “No, that’s not right. You’ll still hate it–and yourself–but you’ll need it. You’ll be addicted.” He stroked his mustache. “I have an even better idea: Sex with animals. You called Suzi a bitch. I can arrange it so you smell like a bitch in heat–and then train you to offer yourself to a dog.  ¡You’ll truly become a bitch! There are men who’d pay a lot of money to see a pretty girl being fucked by a German shepherd.” She listened in horror as he outlined her future. He grinned: “I’ll change your name again. Mamá¡ Santiago gave you a good one: ‘Dulcita Chichones’. I’ll add a nickname to it. Sweetie Bigtits, La Perra, a bit of candy for a man. Or a rottweiler.” His voice oozed false solicitude. “It’s a fine name–for a whore. For you. It’ll do wonders for your image. And you’ll think of yourself as ‘Seá±orita Bigtits’, you know. Just as you think of yourself as ‘Pansy’ now.” Perhaps I’ll lower your IQ a little more, too. Ibá¡á±ez tells me that you’ve already lost quite a bit of intelligence. You’re only about 100 now, down from 115. Maybe 90 would be low enough– ¿or perhaps 85? You see, every time you ‘forget’ something–like the plants–you become just a little dumber. Permanent brain damage, the doctor says. No matter. The brains you used to have would be wasted on a maid.” His smile got wider. “Or a whore.”

Pansy turned white with panic. She forgot about her lost botany, and her stomach turned over. He could do just what he said, and she’d be too dull to regain any decent position, even after her release. She’d be a stupid slut forever, servicing an endless queue of dirty campesinos with overactive dicks and a few lempiras. But she didn’t protest. She couldn’t. It would only bring worse calamities. “Yes, Seá±or,” she agreed. “I will do whatever you say.” There was one ray of hope. If she became Suzi’s maid immediately, she would escape José.

While José spoke to Pansy, a thunderstorm rumbled outside Don Pablo’s window in the highlands. The don paid no attention to the downpour, but leaned back in his overstuffed armchair and read a report from San Pedro. As he read it, he nodded with satisfaction. Susana would be pleased. Ibá¡á±ez’s evaluation of Pansy agreed with José’s, and it appeared that Suzi could have her maid soon. Just as well: she needed help. Little Josecito was demanding every moment of her time, and his daughter complained that she had no time for anything but the baby. Don Pablo smiled. After nine months of carrying the child and another ten months of caring for him, she had learned her lesson. Josecito was, in fact, a placid baby, but even a placid baby demands virtually full-time care. Susana was sick of it. “Please, Father,” she had written from her house in San Pedro, “I need help. If Pansy isn’t available yet, please permit me to hire another maid temporarily.” He had refused, but promised that Pansy would be with her soon. He turned back to the report from Ibá¡á±ez.

Don Pablo Herrera E.: I administered several psychometric tests to Pansy on April 12 º. Together with José’s reports and the readings from her sensory chips, they give a consistent picture of her personality. First, she is attentive to her grooming, as she attempts (successfully) to make herself attractive. Outside control is no longer needed; the desire to be attractive seems to be internalized. The hormone treatments have had a useful side effect, by the way: she appears younger than her true age, and it is not difficult to make herself attractive. And her choice of clothing is that of a woman who knows she is attractive and wishes to show herself off. Second, her attraction to men is well developed. This desire was conditioned by the chips, but it is also a result of her new biochemistry and anatomy. Because of Pansy’s unique history, it is impossible to say what factor is more important, but it does not matter; her libido seems to be as strong as that of a normal woman. Moreover, her inhibitions are low. She enjoys sex, even with strange men. José tells me she is driven to sex by the chips, and stands apart from her forced behavior as an objective observer. To some extent this may be true, and at first it was probably true in every way. Pansy still believes it to be so, but I think she deceives herself. The sex chip has not been used for some time. Her body has developed a conditioned sexual response, and her mind is definitely becoming conditioned as well. I predict she will always want sex with a man, for the rest of her life. Third, our conditioning has also left her with a strong liking for such activities as cooking and cleaning. In part this is due to her wish to please her master, but “domestic arts” seem now to be a preferred activity, in which she takes a definite pride. This character trait is beyond her wish to please, as she will engage in these activities even if not coerced, and will do them as well as she can. Fourth, she has lost her assertiveness and rebelliousness, and is docile, timid, and dependent. This attitude was partly induced by complete subjection to her captor, on whom her well-being depends. As I had hoped, she has subconsciously identified with him, a phenomenon well-known in prison-camp inmates and kidnap victims. For Pansy, this attitude was reinforced by the combined use of the pleasure and willpower chips, but it has persisted since the use of the chips was terminated, and it may be an inherent part of the new persona. Pansy’s continuing dependence on whoever supports her (José now, Susana later– ¿and ultimately a husband?), in combination with her biological needs as a woman and as a mother, may maintain her habitual subordination to others, but it is equally possible that she may revert to a more assertive and independent state (especially if she retains the knowledge of her original status). Fifth, her language bias is to Spanish. The pressure of the chips has dissuaded her from using English. For this reason she has not noticed how bad her English has become. Her vocabulary is quite limited. Moreover, she speaks it with a marked Spanish accent as her brain makes use of Spanish phonemes and grammatical patterns. Jaime Lá³pez speak better English than she does now. Her Spanish, on the other hand, approaches a Honduran norm, although still accented, and she could not pass for a native speaker. Sixth, Pansy is illiterate. Doctor Ibarra believes she can to learn to read again, but she will have to start over, as though she were in kindergarten. The relearning process will be difficult at best, and she will probably never advance beyond a fourth-grade level; she has severe dyslexia, due to brain damage incurred during erasure. Her illiteracy caused a serious, if temporary, depression, but according to José she seems to have recovered. In addition, when Ibarra erased her English numerals, she lost much of her arithmetic as a collateral effect. It appears that arithmetic was coded within the brain in English.

In spite of all of the above, the persona of George Deon still seems to be present. On occasion he may emerge as an active participant, but for the most part he is only a detached observer.

After the birth of her child, I intend to manipulate her hormones through the use of the chips to induce a strong maternal response. She should become devoted to the child, and to her other child as well. Your grandchild should receive excellent care and much love.

Pansy seems to be reconciled to life as a woman–after all,  ¿what choice is there?–but not as a maid. I believe she will fulfill her duties, and fulfill them well, but she will continue to strive for a higher-status position, and will pursue her quest for George Deon. I told her I thought you would neither help nor hinder in both searches. Her desire for higher status will certainly be doomed to frustration, as she now lacks any qualifications for a higher position. In spite of her ambition, I recommend that she begin working for your daughter, as her personality has come to match the profile of a good maid, and she should soon accept that it is the best available alternative.