Only A Baby Machine -- Part 17, Who am I?

-- Part 17, Who am I?

At last, Pansy is freed! But she has lost all knowledge of the previous two years. In that hotel room where, two years earlier, George had gone to bed with Petunia, it is George that awakens, to discover some changes. Can (almost) be read as an independent short tale, in the "magic" category.

January 1
-- Susana’s former lover stirred in his bed, in the cheap hotel where he had come with Petunia for a weekend of lust. As he lay quietly, clad in an old pair of blue pajamas, he savored his success with women. But then he sensed that he was alone in the bed. Petunia was gone. He raised his head and his eyes widened. Susana sat in a chair across the room, watching him with a smirk on her face. “Good morning, sweetheart,” she greeted him brightly. “Surprised to see me? I told you, you wouldn’t get away with leaving me. And now I found you.”

He sat up, fighting off drowsiness. “So you found me. ¡Fuck you anyway, bitch! You can’t do nothing. I’ll help some with the baby, like I said, but I ain’t never going to marry you.” “But…” He looked around. “ ¿But where’s Petunia?”

“She went home. As for your offer of help with the baby, it’s generous enough,and I’ll accept it. It’s a full-time job, of course, and it’ll last for a decade or two. I’m grateful for the offer–although I must say, it would’ve been easier to marry me.” She smiled slightly. “And as you’ll discover, it would’ve been much more pleasant. For you, I mean.”

“Suzi, I know you’re stupid, but you don’t got to be a complete idiot. Like I said, caring for a baby’s women’s work. Your work. I’ll help with some money, that’s all. You’re having the baby, you got to take care of it.”

“Anatomy is destiny, ¿is that it?” She tilted her head. “ ¿That’s your final word?”

“Damn right. I told you that before I left. Deny it all you want, but it’s true.”

“If you think babies are just women’s work, you should’ve been a woman. Then you could deal with 3 AM feedings and diapers. And cooking and sewing and laundry. And making yourself pretty for some hairy, sweaty guy. I bet you’d love to do your face and fix your hair every morning.”

“You’re full of shit, but what you think don’t matter. Or what I think neither. I’m a man, you’re a woman, and that’s the way it is. If it ain’t fair–well, tough shit. You’re stuck with it, I’m not. Now get the fuck out of here, bitch. Don’t make me call hotel security.” He lay back and pulled the sheet back over himself.

Susana giggled. His boorish behavior made the game even more delicious. “Sit up, darling,” she ordered.

“ ¿Why should I?” he asked in a petulant tone--but he complied.

She giggled again. “You read a lot of fantasy. ¿‘Imaginative fiction’, you call it?”

“ ¿So what?” He was still groggy from sleep, but his annoyance was apparent.

“So imagine if I were a bruja. Imagine if I could wave my hand and change you to a girl. Then you could do ‘women’s work’. Like caring for a baby.” As he began to retreat beneath the sheet, she added, “Well, I have a surprise for you, dear. I am a bruja, and I’m going to do just that.” Suiting action to word, she waved a hand in an odd motion. “Look at your nails.” He glanced at them, then stared in a double take. His well-manicured nails were coated with glossy scarlet enamel. “The bitch must’ve done it while I slept,” he thought. “ ¿Aren’t they pretty?” she asked. “But that’s only the start. Here’s a real eye-opener.” She gestured and pointed two fingers at him. “You like big tits, and you said mine weren’t big enough. ¡Presto! ¡You have your own now! ¿Are they big enough for you? I hope you appreciate my generosity.”

He sat erect, trying to shake off his drowsiness. “Suzi, ¡you’re crazy! You ain’t no bruja. ¡There ain’t no such thing! ¡Now fuck off!” He ignored her declaration (and his nails).

She stood and walked towards him. “ ¡This is such fun! ¿You don’t believe I’m a bruja? ¿There’s no such thing? ¡But you said I was a witch! ¿Don’t you remember? Now remove your pajama top. Take it off and admire your new titties, my skeptical sweetheart. I aimed for about C-cup; they’ll bounce real nice as you walk. Then tell me if you doubt my power.”

Obediently he pulled off his top. His jaw dropped when he saw a woman’s breasts adorning his chest. He hadn’t felt any change; it seemed as if he had always had breasts. Suddenly he was fully awake, his arrogance fled. “ ¡N…no, Suzi! ¡You… you can’t… you can’t do… do that! ¡It’s c…crazy! ¡I’m going crazy!”

“No, you’re not crazy. I can do that. I did do that.” Disbelief at the absurd claim clashed with the evidence literally in front of him. She went on: “As long as I’ve known you, you’ve told me what a woman should do. Now you’ll be able to show me what a woman should do. You’ll show me for the rest of your life.” The object of her sorcery was still protesting as he gawked at his chest, when Susana snapped, “ ¡Listen to me, pendejo! ¡Shut up and pay attention!” He jerked his head up and gaped at her. His mouth opened and shut, but he was mute. Susana’s voice resumed its honeyed tone as she went on: “That’s better, tootsie. See, ¡I can change you! ¿Aren’t your new tits just lovely?” Smiling brightly, she stood in front of him. “Now you believe in brujeráa, ¿yes? Let’s do a little more. Like your voice: I’d like it high and sweet and… well, sort of… ¡girlish!” Befuddled, he raised a hand to his neck. “Rub your throat,” she ordered. “I’m bewitching you so the more you rub, the higher your voice gets. Keep rubbing it…” Unwillingly he obeyed. “It’s higher now… a little higher… OK, enough.” She raised an eyebrow: “Your voice works again, dear. But it’s soprano.”

Lowering his hand, he began, “Please, Suzi. Don’t…” His voice was thin and breathy, high-pitched even for a girl. It squeaked as he tried to lower it. “I… But…” He stopped, bewildered.

Susana inspected him. “I’ll work from the head down,” she declared. “You’d look really cute with braids and pretty hair ribbons. ¡Voilá !” She gestured; he reached up, incredulously fingering a glossy jet-black braid held by a scarlet bow. “Now turn your face to me, dear.” She extended her hand. He tried to pull away, but his will failed and he turned towards her. She stroked his cheek almost affectionately. “No more mustache for you, Seá±or. Or beard either. You’ll never have to shave your face again. It’ll always be soft and smooth–like a girl’s. And you’ll have dark skin. Indian blood, you know. ¿And maybe black? A little, I think.” She withdrew her hand; he felt his baby-smooth cheeks and chin, then stared at the backs of his hands. They were coffee-colored, easy on the cream. He wasn’t white any more. “Let’s see… You already have tits. Now I’ll do hips and butt and waist.” She waved: “ ¡There! Your figure’s done, and a very nice one it is. ¡The guys’ll love it!” Then she frowned: “But your muscles…” Gesturing again, she remarked, “That’s better. You’re weak now. Just like a girl should be.”

He stared at his puny biceps, and then at his slim midriff, swerving out to generously padded hips. As before, he had felt nothing, but his body was remade. He leaped from bed, clad only in pajama bottoms. A corner of his mind noted the sensation of his bare breasts bouncing, exactly as Suzi had promised. “Suzi, ¡stop this shit!” he protested shrilly as he hunted for his trousers. “ ¡It ain’t possible! ¡It’s a fucking trick!” It had to be!

“ ¡Stand there!” she ordered. He stopped short. “Now, tell me: ¿what are you looking for, sweetheart?”

“ ¡My clothes! ¿Where are they? I left them right here. ¡I got to get out of here…!”

Susana laughed gleefully, her dark eyes sparkling. “Not quite yet, dear.” She pointed to the mirror. “First look at yourself. You look like a peasant girl, ¿no? ¡Just like you deserve! Tell me true, isn’t that the cutest face? And that figure…” She gave a little wolf-whistle. “You are a sexy-looking little piece of ass, ¿true?”

He looked. The mirror showed a bare-breasted girl with a slender waist and broad hips. Thick braids framed a dark-skinned face: the face of a young morena. Not his. Or not the face he’d gone to bed with. “ ¡That ain’t me!” he cried in disbelief. He couldn’t think; his mind was paralyzed by panic (and by hypnotic drugs, of course).

“Answer me true,” she insisted remorselessly. “I’m ordering you. ¿Don’t you have a pretty face?”

He stared at the image and felt a compulsion to answer truthfully. “I… I… Yes, I am… I got a… got a pretty face… ¡No! ¡I’m a man!” He turned to her, fell to his knees, and began to sob. “ ¡P…please, Suzi, stop… stop this!”

Merciless, Susana went on: “ ¿A man? Once you were a man, yes. But look at your tits. Feel them up.” Helplessly he obeyed, staring down at his shapely torso, then stroking his breasts (his breasts? not possible!) with scarlet-tipped fingers. The nipples stiffened and a sexual thrill coursed through him. “ ¿Is that a man’s chest? ¿Or a girl’s?”

“No… no, it’s a girl’s… B…but that ain’t… ¡it ain’t possible! ¡I…I’m just dreaming! ¡I ain’t no girl!”

She put a finger to her lip and frowned thoughtfully. “I suppose you’re right. You’re not really a girl. Not yet. You still have balls.” He was relieved; he was a man. She went on: “But I can fix that.” She gestured briefly, then pantomimed a twist and yank with her right hand as she surreptitiously pushed a button on a hidden remote with her left hand.

As Susana gestured, her victim felt a sudden, but fleeting, pain in his groin. He grabbed at his crotch beneath his pajamas. There wasn’t anything between his legs. She had taken his manhood. Helpless, he began to weep uncontrollably again. Between sobs he begged, “No, please. ¡Suzi, please, no!”

Delighted by his weakness, she commented, “Listen to you, crying like a girl. Well, I suppose that’s appropriate. You are a girl now, ¿aren’t you?”

“ ¡Su… Suzi!” he pleaded. “ ¡N…no! ¡Have… have mercy! Please, for the… the love of God, ¡put me back! ¡Put me back! I’ll do anything… ¡Anything at all!”

“It’s too late. It’s done. Your body’s changed forever. Stand up and strip, sweetheart. Then look at your new body in the mirror: I want you to see you naked.” He obeyed, staring at the reflection of a nude woman–his reflection. As Susana took his pajamas, she told him, “‘Anatomy is destiny’, ¿true? Then you’re looking at your destiny in the mirror– ¡Seá±orita! Tell me: ¿what sex are you? ¿What’s your anatomy, my lovely? Answer me.”

A triangle of curly black hair was visible in his crotch. Nothing more. Gaping at the mirror, he couldn’t sustain his denial, and he whimpered, “It… I’m… It’s fe…female. I’m… ¡I’m a g… g… girl!” He appeared to be in shock.

Suzi giggled. “ ¡Do tell! A real hottie, too. But don’t stand there naked. ¿See the nightie on the bed? It’s sheer and pink and frilly and ¡oh! so feminine. Put it on.” He obeyed; his lush new body wasn’t hidden, only slightly blurred. “That’s the same nightie you gave me,” she told him. “ You look even sexier in it, ¿no? The men’ll admire you in that outfit, I bet.” To his horror he realized that she was right. “And you’ll appreciate their attention; you have a body that’ll need a man. You’ll be very talented in bed. But not with Petunia, I’m afraid. ¿Maybe with her brother? Now sit, girl.” He sat on the bed. “You’re a campesina. For girls like you, jobs are hard to find. But I’ll help you: I’ll let you be my maid. It’s a good job for a girl like you, but you’ll have to work hard: washing dishes, cleaning clothes, sewing… All the things you called ‘women’s work’. It’s your work now.”

A campesina? Yes, he had seen the image in the mirror. It was burned into his brain: high cheekbones and black braids; almond eyes, flattish nose, thick pouty lips, and dark skin. He was a mixed-race peasant girl. Braids swinging, he shook his head and wailed, “ ¡Suzi, I’m sorry! ¡For… for the love of God, don’t leave me like this! Please, make me… make me a man again! I’ll marry you, I’ll be your husband. I won’t leave you, I’ll help with your baby.”

Susana shook her head. “You can’t be my husband, carita máa. Or any girl’s husband. You don’t qualify: you’re female. You will marry, eventually–but you’ll marry a man. You’ll be a sweet bride for some lucky peasant. But you’re part right. You won’t leave me, and you will help with my baby–our baby. In fact, ¡I have an idea!” Her face lit up. “You told me women are meant to care for children. That’s what breasts are for, ¿true?” She waved a hand again as the girl in front of her begged her in vain to stop. “It’s done. Your breasts have milk. Just like any other cow, you’ll need to be milked regularly, or they’ll ache. You can use a breast pump for now–it’s in your purse, and you know how to use it–but later you’ll nurse a baby.” She clapped her hands with delight. “ ¡Won’t you look precious, with an infant suckling at your tit!”

“ ¡No!” he cried, suddenly furious. “ ¡I won’t! ¡I refuse! ¡You can’t make me do that!”

“Like I couldn’t give you tits, I suppose. I can make you do anything I like, my little heifer. You’ll see.” Fishing in her purse, she held out a lipstick and a mirror. “I’ll prove it. You’re a lovely girl, princess, but you have to work to stay pretty. Like you told me, it’s a girl’s duty. First, freshen your makeup. Use the mirror, and blot it when you’re done.” He tried to resist–but like a zombie he took the cosmetic, applied it carefully, then blotted it. It was scarlet, like his nails. “You’re soooo cute!” Susana told him. “Now put these on.” “These” were pendant earrings, silver bells that tinkled as he took them. Still unable to refuse, he gently thrust a post through one pierced lobe, then the other. They went in quickly and easily, as if he had done it many times. “ ¡Excellent!” she exclaimed. “Now, you wanted clothes. Your old clothes won’t fit any more, so I did you the favor of bringing you pretty new clothes. They’re in the top drawer. Put them on.”

He opened the drawer and found clothing: lingerie, a red dress, scarlet pumps, a matching scarlet shoulder bag (adorned with pansies and a PAB monogram), and jewelry. Obediently he removed his nightie and began to dress. He stepped into panties, carefully pulled sheer pantyhose up his legs, and donned a half slip. The dress had short puffed sleeves, a deeply scooped neckline, and a skirt well above his knees. He struggled with the back zipper, but managed to fasten it. Next came a double-stranded faux-pearl necklace. When at last he stepped into the pumps, Susana exclaimed, “Look in the mirror, my dear. ¡Aren’t you lovely! Maybe a bit cheap-looking, but quite attractive, ¿true? You’ll love the way that dress shows off your figure. And you always liked high heels; they give a girl such a sexy walk.” He looked again in the mirror. The clothes fit well. Too well: the dress clung to his figure, and every delectable (but detestable!) feminine curve was displayed. The neckline was low enough to show more than the beginning of cleavage; his nipples showed faintly through the fabric of the bodice, which was designed to support his breasts. The dress wasn’t quite indecent, but it succeeded in its intended purpose of exhibiting a female body effectively.

As he gaped at the slut in the mirror, Suzi told him, “I’m done but for a last touch.” She gestured again. “Your mind should match your body. You’re as ignorant as you look, only good for cooking, cleaning house, and such… women’s work. Your work. You see, you’re going to be my maid. You can start your new career in Tela. You know where to go; it’s where you seduced me. ¿Remember? My laundry will be waiting for you. From now on, your life will be dirty dishes, laundry, sewing, changing diapers, nursing a baby… And maybe making babies: ¡you are a baby machine now! Good luck, Seá±orita. You’ll get used to that title. ‘Seá±or’ just doesn’t suit you any more, ¿does it?” With that remark she left.

He sat, dazed, for five minutes. She must have hypnotized him, he thought. The idea of waving a hand and changing him to a girl was crazy. He’d wake up soon and laugh at the thought. But then he looked at the mirror. His image seemed real… was horribly real. He had breasts. Breasts with milk, if Suzi spoke truly–and he believed her. The dress displayed a very sexy body. He should’ve been aroused, but horror was all he felt; he no longer possessed the anatomy needed for arousal. Well, he’d run where Suzi’d never find him. Once he got away, surely he could reverse this madness. He looked at his wrist; a dainty pink watch (where had that come from?) told him it was almost checkout time. He’d go to Tegus; he’d find help there. But he couldn’t go like this, looking like a cheap whore. Where were his own clothes? They were gone, both the suitcase of clean clothes, and his dirty clothing. He was trapped in a slutty dress, at least for the moment. As he tried to plan, there was a knock at the door. “ ¿Who is it?” he cried, his girlish soprano cracking in despair. A key turned, and a maid peered in. Her eyes widened in surprise. “Seá±orita, it’s checkout time. I got to clean the room. ¿Unless you’re staying tonight?”

He quickly replied, “No, I’m leaving.” He couldn’t stay where Susana might find him again. He had to run, suitable clothing or not. “I’ll be out in a moment.”

“OK, but hurry up, or you’ll be charged another day.” She withdrew. Cursing Suzi, he picked up his purse and left.

He minced to a nearby bus stop, heels clicking on the pavement and the purse slung over his shoulder. Oddly, he had no problem walking, as if he had worn high heels often. When he reached the stop, he sat on a bench and considered his predicament. He was inexplicably trapped in a girl’s body, in a streetwalker’s dress. He saw men casting interested glances in his direction, and cringed inside. He checked the purse and sighed with relief. At least she had left him his money (a few thousand lempiras in cash, and two thousand dollars in traveler’s checks), his VISA card, and his passport. It was all the money she had had–no, that he had had–before his transmutation. He considered his options. First, finances: in addition to traveler’s checks and cash, he had a credit card. Money wasn’t an immediate problem, then. He had enough to keep running. He’d find his way out of the nightmare after he had escaped Susana’s vengeance. The cash would last only a couple of days, but the traveler’s checks and credit card… A frightening thought struck him. The checks, the VISA card–he’d need a photo ID! He couldn’t pass as the norteamericano he had been only an hour earlier. He fished out his passport and looked at the photo. It was familiar. Yes! That was her… no, his–HIS–face. If he–he forced himself to think he, he only looked like a girl–if he could cut her… his hair, disguise the figure, buy men’s clothes, maybe sh… he could use the passport, the VISA, the checks. He had to. He recalled his image in the mirror. His face didn’t resemble the photo. He found another document in the purse: an ID card with the face of a campesina. The dark face had full red lips set in a permanent pout, high cheekbones, a receding chin, and a small, slightly flattened nose. He recognized her–she was the girl he had seen in the mirror. Somehow Suzi had changed his face. There was no taking him for his old norteamericano self. The girl staring from the card was a campesina without a doubt. Then there was her… his voice. It was soprano. No, the passport was useless. So was the credit card. And the checks. Sh… he had forty-eight hundred and eighty lemps. He couldn’t go far on that. A few days, and it’d run out. Well, he’d call his parents. He’d disguise his voice, and ask them to wire some money. Then he’d see about getting changed back to a man. It wasn’t possible, of course. But it wasn’t possible for Susana to change him to a woman, either. If she could do that, then there had to be a way back.

When a bus arrived, he couldn’t read its sign, but a bystander told him it was going to Tegus. Sighing with relief, he got on. Suzi would never catch him again! He sat in the rear, then self-consciously tugged his dress lower–it was far too short–but then his breasts were left more exposed, and he had to adjust it back up. It was definitely too skimpy. The first thing he’d do would be buy new clothing. A shirt–a loose shirt–and trousers.

As the bus rolled southward up the Sula Valley, Ibá¡á±ez checked the fugitive’s location. The tracer indicated that she was fleeing her fate. Probably to Tegus, he thought. No problem: she’d have to return when she found how limited her options were. He called Susana and told her, “Our subject won’t reach Tela tonight, Seá±ora. She’s headed south, probably to Tegucigalpa.” Clearly, the full implications of the transformation hadn’t yet penetrated.

Her voice, tinny over the mobile phone, replied, “You can keep track of her, ¿can’t you?”

“No problem. I think she took a bus. The metal body attenuates the signal, but it’s still strong enough so our portable tracker can follow her. We can pick her up in a day or so, but I think she’ll be back on her own. She doesn’t fully understand her difficulties yet. Her money’ll run out soon.”

She giggled. “You were right when you said George’d be back. You should’ve seen ‘his’ face when ‘he’ realized he was changed to a girl. She was very unhappy. By now she has to realize that what she’s wearing isn’t practical for travel. It’s a cocktail-waitress dress my brother got her. I think she’ll buy other clothes. ¿Do you suppose she’ll try to pass for a man?”

“I doubt it. She’ll realize it’s not possible, not with that little-girl voice and that big-girl figure. No, she’ll stay in women’s clothes, unwelcome though they may be. If she changes, it’ll just be into something less provocative. I wonder, though: ¿how long before she realizes that flight is useless? Don Pablo told me he considered letting George run when he tried to escape from the finca. Now we’ll see just how long he can dispute reality.”

Their subject became even less happy before he reached Tegucigalpa. He was propositioned twice, and in the crush on the bus he received six surreptitious fondles and three pinches. Other women looked at him disapprovingly. One scolded him, saying she should be ashamed to appear in public like that. He determined to buy a less revealing outfit at the first opportunity.

When the bus halted, he rushed to a clothing store across the street. His first thought was to buy men’s clothing: shirt, trousers, and shoes. He discarded that idea. He couldn’t pass for a man, whatever he wore, and so he’d best wear women’s clothes for now. No dresses or skirts, though. As he dithered, a salesgirl approached and inquired, “ ¿May I help you, Seá±ora?”

“Yes, please. I’m looking for inexpensive slacks and a shirt. I don’t know my size.”

“Very well, come with me.” The girl led her customer to a rack of women’s slacks, and with a glance at his figure, picked a section of the rack. “Try these, Seá±ora. They should fit.”

In the dressing room, he found that the clothing did fit. His waist and hips were still on display, but the slacks weren’t indecently tight. He didn’t intend to waste much time or money shopping, and he accepted them. He did the same for two floral-print shirts, paid for them, and gratefully changed into shirt and slacks. He wanted to buy more comfortable shoes too, but decided to keep the pumps until he had more cash.

He began to leave, but suddenly realized that his breasts, now deprived of support, jiggled uncomfortably. Worse, the bounce was sure to bring more unwanted masculine interest. Turning, he asked the salesgirl, “Please, ¿can you…? I…” He swallowed. “I need… I need a bra.” The girl was a little puzzled by his request for assistance, but she helped him select a 34C (C-cup!!) Lilyette, and he put it on quickly and easily. As with the high heels, he found that donning a bra seemed normal, as if he had always worn one.

He left carrying his extra clothes in a shopping bag. Next on the agenda was a room. The Hotel Los Robles was down the block, the sales clerk had said, and he headed that way. The hotel was tiny and dirty, but it was cheap. When the desk clerk looked at him dubiously and demanded identification, he reluctantly displayed the campesina identification card. The clerk accepted it and asked him to sign the registration. He hated signing under a woman’s name, but he was clearly female, so he’d have to use the name on the ID. He tried to read it.

But he couldn’t. He suddenly realized: he was illiterate. With renewed horror he recalled Suzi’s words: “Your mind fits your body. You’re as ignorant as you look.” Breaking into tears, he told the clerk he couldn’t fill it out, and the man scornfully copied the name from the card. He fled to his room, where he pulled out the passport. It was unintelligible except for the numerals, which he still recognized. That was why he had been unable to make out the bus destination. He sobbed hysterically for ten minutes. This was a nightmare. It had to be; he’d wake up any minute now. But he didn’t.

After he had wept himself out, he stood and looked at himself in the mirror, then undid his braids and brushed his long hair out. At least he didn’t have to look like a peasant. Afterwards he tried to think. He was in a woman’s body, with a soprano voice, the face of a morena, and a lush figure. In fact, his breasts felt “tight” and achy. He recalled what Susana had said: “Your breasts’ll ache if you don’t remove the milk. Use the breast pump in your purse.” It was unthinkable that he’d need it; but then, the existence of his breasts was inconceivable. Reluctantly he checked his handbag, and indeed there was a device that he somehow knew was a breast pump. He stripped off his shirt, unhooked the bra, and looked at his breasts with disgust. Sure enough, both were leaking a drop or two of milk. He fought off a wave of revulsion. Deal with reality, he told himself. If you need to do it, then do it. He fit a cup over his nipple and worked the pump. A stream of milk squirted into a bottle and slowly accumulated as he pumped. When his right breast was emptied, he did the same for his left. Once done, he was more comfortable. He donned his bra and shirt with relief and returned to his problems: first and immediately, how to get cash; second, how to recover his identity; third, what to do about his inability to read. Call home? Assuming he could disguise his voice, then who could he call? His parents? Let’s see, they lived in San Pedro… No! That was false! How could he ever think that? They lived in Ames… But he couldn’t recall the state! And the phone number was gone. He ran through his friends and relatives, and found that he couldn’t call anyone. He was on his own. Maybe the Embassy? They’d help him. But then he realized that, in this body, with this face, he didn’t look like a norteamericano. He was a hondureá±a. The Embassy wouldn’t help him. But he could claim help as an American woman. After all, he spoke good English, not Spanish. He’d say his passport and other papers and money were stolen. “Soy norteamericana,” he said aloud, then realized that he had spoken Spanish! “Nacá en los estados unidos, en el estado…” he started again, then stopped; he was still speaking Spanish. Concentrating, he managed to force out, “Yo… yo borned in los estados unidos, in… in Oklamo?” That didn’t seem right; for some reason it seemed almost as if he had been born in Honduras–the barrios of Comayagá¼ela flashed into his mind–but he rejected that idea as nonsense. Suddenly he realized that he could no longer spoke English like a norteamericano. In fact, he didn’t know more than a few words. He spoke Spanish instead–with impossible fluency. Not only did he look like a hondureá±a, he sounded like one. And he was illiterate! What had that witch done to him? This wasn’t possible! He began to weep again with frustration and anger.

Hunger finally drove him from his room. He found a cheap cafe and ordered supper. After he paid, he checked his dwindling cash. The clothes and the hotel had dented his nest egg badly. What would he do when it was gone? Now he knew why Susana had let him go free: there was nowhere to go, no way to escape. He wasn’t free at all–his new body was his prison, and there was no option but to return to Susana. As soon as possible: his resources wouldn’t last a week. He returned to the hotel, stripped off his clothes, and went to bed, trying not to look at his alien and misshapen body. He cried himself to sleep.

January 2
-- Early next morning, she stirred in bed. She felt odd; what was wrong? Rolling onto her belly, she felt uncomfortable, as if… Suddenly alert, she turned onto her back again. Her gaze fell onto her swollen breasts, and her personal hell returned. She… HE was now a girl. A peasant girl. “ ¡No!” he insisted to himself; “ ¡I’m a man! ¡A norteamericano…! I’m…” But he couldn’t recall his name. Or read his passport. And the sight of his body proved that it wasn’t a passing nightmare. Not only did he wear female flesh, but he was dark-skinned, with a pretty face and long, thick, lustrous black hair. A glance at a posted notice told him he was still illiterate. Nevertheless, he had to deal with his body. A visit to the toilet and a quick shower confirmed his anatomy. The pressure in his breasts forced him to use the pump. Then he tied his hair back into a ponytail with a scrunchy he found in his purse–loose, it had been falling in front of his face–and put on a fresh coat of lipstick without thinking. Reluctantly he donned his girl’s clothing, to leave for breakfast. At least the shirt and slacks were more decent than the dress he had worn earlier, but they still showed his figure plainly. He knew he’d be a focus of male attention again. He had a quick meal of fried eggs, then returned to the bus station, where he bought a ticket for Tela. Susana had him dead to rights. Suzi had put him into this body; only Suzi could restore him, if he could persuade her.

The ride to San Pedro took forever. He received less overt harassment in his more conservative outfit, but he was acutely aware of his own figure, and men still ogled him. At least some of them were good-looking: well-muscled and handsome, with neat mustaches… To his dismay, he realized he was attracted to the men, not the women. He wondered how Suzi had bewitched him. It wasn’t just a sex change, either. (“ ¿Just a sex change?” he thought bitterly.) He didn’t look at all like who he really was. His skin and hair color, his face–he looked like a typical campesina. The sorcery wasn’t even limited to his body. His English was almost nonexistent now, and his Spanish, excellent. Two days ago communication had been a struggle, but now he spoke and understood Spanish perfectly. He hadn’t even known his English was gone until he tried to speak the language.
After a quick lunch in San Pedro, he found a Tela bus by asking waiting riders. His bewilderment continued, as he tried to think of any sane explanation for events. There was none. This couldn’t be real. By now he knew it wasn’t a nightmare he’d escape on awakening. His breasts were only too real, and his new crotch. Maybe it was hypnosis; but somewhere he had read that hypnosis could only persuade a subject to believe what he wanted to believe, and he definitely didn’t want to believe this.

He got off in Tela. The villa was a long walk in heels, and his feet quickly became sore. In twenty minutes he reached his destination. The bougainvillea was still blooming, and he could almost imagine that he was there for another romantic interlude. Reluctantly he approached the door and knocked. There was no response; he knocked again. Susana finally opened the door and observed him smugly. “It took you long enough to get here, princess,” she remarked. “ ¿Did you enjoy the Hotel Los Robles?”

How did she know where he had been? He dismissed the question; it didn’t matter. “ ¡Suzi, please, you got to help me!” he begged. “You told me to come to Tela. Here I am. ¡Please, for the love of God, help me!”

“I am helping you. I made you very pretty. Or more accurately, very sexy–you’ll never be considered a great beauty. Your face is nice enough, in a peasant sort of way, but it’s really your body that’s going to fascinate every male over twelve.”

Distraught, he begged, “Please, Suzi, put me back the way I was. ¡I can’t live like this!”

Susana smiled like Torquemada with a new soul to save. “Of course you can. And you will. You don’t have a choice. You’ll get used to being female–trust me, it’s not so terrible. But if you want to talk with me, you’ll need to dress properly. You have a nice body, and I want you to show it off. Otherwise, you can leave.”

Her visitor’s heart sank as he stared at Susana, standing in the door. “ ¿What do you mean, ‘dress properly’?”

Patiently, as if explaining a simple fact to an idiot, Susana asked, “ ¿Which sex are you?”

“God damn it, Suzi, you put me in this wretched body. ¿Which sex do I look like?”

She frowned. “If you want me to help you, then answer me respectfully. ¿Which sex are you? ¿Male or female?”

“I’m… I’m f…female now. ¡You turned me into a wo…woman!” He almost cried with frustration and anger.

The frown melted into a smug smile. “Very good, darling. Very observant of you. Now, ¿don’t you remember what you told me a few weeks ago? ¿About what women should wear, and men? Tell me again.”

As if it had been wrung out of him, he replied in a halting voice, “You mean, that women… women should wear dresses… and… and skirts. Only… only men wear… men should wear pants.”

“ ¡Exactly right! Therefore, Seá±orita, ¿what do you want to wear now?”

His face distorted, he cried without hesitation, “ ¡I want to wear pants! ¡I want to be a man again!”

Susana laughed. “Yes, I suppose you’re literally correct–about what you want. ¿But what should you wear now?”

“ ¿A skirt? ¿Are you saying I got to wear a skirt?”

She nodded in agreement: “ ¡Right! No pants for you, my girly little girl; skirts from now on. For the rest of your life. It’s your own idea, ¿remember? And you’ll have to wear something a little more appropriate–more feminine, more… more revealing–than that shirt. We can talk when you’re dressed right.”

He spluttered, “But… but Suzi… ¡But you’re wearing slacks!” As indeed she was.

She shook her head, pointing out that she had never said women should be restricted to skirts. “You told me that. You were very firm about it. Now that you’re a woman, you’ll follow your own rules. Or you’ll leave. Now.”

He surrendered in despair. “But I ain’t got no clothes like that with me.” He ignored the red dress Susana had given him, still in his bag. “Please, Suzi, at least let me talk with you.”

Sighing, Susana opened the door wide and invited her visitor in. “Maybe I’m too soft-hearted, but I’ll help out. I’ll give you proper clothing. After all, you’re going to be my maid.” She led him to the bedroom where they had slept together so recently. Susana selected from her own wardrobe a sheer pink blouse with buttons in the back, a bright red flowery skirt, pantyhose, and a half-slip. “You can wear these for now. Put them on if you want me to talk with you.”

He stripped and donned the new clothes without further protest. The tailored blouse clung to his breasts. The skirt showed off his waist and hips. Oddly, he was comfortable in a skirt–as if slacks had been wrong for him. Susana nodded in approval. “There, that’s better, ¿isn’t it?” she remarked. “ ¡Very feminine! You said a girl should dress to please men. That’s the kind of clothes you meant, ¿yes? I know that’s true, because you gave me the blouse and skirt just last September. And you were right: they do show off a girl’s figure.” She giggled and reminded him, “You called yourself a connoisseur of breasts. Look at yourself, sweetie; ¡you have such a nice pair, all your own! ¿Aren’t you grateful?”

Staring at a wall mirror, he saw a young woman with an excellent figure, well displayed. Of his gender there was no doubt whatsoever. “OK, I got a skirt on. ¿Now will you help me, Suzi?”

“Of course, my pretty little dove. I promised I’d help, ¿didn’t I? I’m offering you a job as my maid. There’s not much else you can do now, you know. You do want the job, ¿don’t you?”

“ ¡No, Suzi! ¡I ain’t no maid, I’m a… a… a scientist! I want you to put me back. ¡I insist! ¡Give me back my body! ¡My man…manhood!” His frustration mounted, and tears flowed down his cheeks.

She sighed. “ ¿You think you’re still a scientist? Girl, you’re a slow learner, ¿aren’t you? You were a chemist, I know, but tell me, ¿what’s a nitrate? ¿Or the formula for iron oxide?” He had taught Suzi those very facts, but now, to his horror, he couldn’t begin to answer her questions. As she raised an eyebrow, he realized that his technical education was gone with his literacy. Susana went on: “Once upon a time, you were an educated norteamericano–a privileged man–but you abused your position. Now you’re just a ignorant campesina.” She switched languages: “And you’re having a little problem now, aren’t you? You don’t speak very much English, do you? But your Spanish is much better.” As he struggled with her words, she giggled, then switched back to Spanish: “ ¿Isn’t that true, dear?”

“I… Please, ¿what… what did you say? I couldn’t understand you.”

“I’m sorry, dear.” A grin belied her words. “I spoke English, and of course you don’t know that language. ¿True?”

“ ¡No! ¡I’m a norteamericana! ¡It’s m… my lan…language!” He looked down, weeping again in frustration.

“Say that in English, and I might believe you.” His mouth worked, but he couldn’t find any words. “Otherwise, you won’t fool anyone. Especially US Immigration.” She sat and waited for his sobbing to subside, then told him, “Girls like you can’t be accountants, or lawyers, or chemists. They take menial jobs–doing laundry, or cleaning toilets, or working as maids. That’s what you’ll have to do. You can be my maid. It’s a good job–for a peasant girl. For you.”

“ ¡I won’t… I won’t be… be a maid! I can’t be–I ain’t trained for it. ¡Give… give me back what you took, please! I ain’t really no campesina, I am a norteamericana–I mean, a norteamericano. ¡I am! I was born in the U.S. ¡You know it!”

Pausing as if thinking, Susana agreed. “You do have a point, sweetie-girl. You definitely have the wrong background for a maid. But your old life is gone. ¿What’s a girl to do?” Then she smiled and declared, “I can help you there too. I’ll give you exactly the background you should have. After all, with your ideas, you shouldn’t’ve been a man at all. Ever. You should’ve been born a girl–a peasant girl–so you could practice what you preach.” Her guest denied it vigorously, objecting and pleading, but to no avail as Susana nodded thoughtfully. “That’s a good idea; I’ll make it so. I’ll change your past so you weren’t raised in trousers, but in skirts. You’ll’ve been born and raised a girl, here in Honduras.”
Incredulous, he protested, “ ¡That’s nonsense, Suzi! The past is… is past. You can’t change it. Whatever I am now, however you did it…”–and he knew she had truly made him into a campesina–”I was a norteamericano. ¡I was! I grew up as a boy in… in…” San Pedro? No! But she–no, he–couldn’t remember! Already Susana’s words seemed to twist his past, and his… her… girlhood began to seem plausible. Suddenly he wanted to run. Suzi wasn’t helping, she was making his nightmare worse. But… but there was nowhere to run. Suzi was right, somehow. She was a bruja, with the power to reshape reality. His own hateful body was proof of that power.

Cocking her head, Susana seemed to consider the matter. “Someone said that everyone is the sum total of his–or her–experiences. I want your past experiences to fit you for your new life as a maid–and as the sweet and docile girl you held up to me as an ideal. You know: girls cook and sew, and care for children, and follow orders. You will do all that, yes–you don’t have a choice–but more than that, it’ll come naturally. It’ll be second nature–the way you were raised.”

“ ¡Suzi, you’re crazy! I… I’m trapped in this body, but I’m still me.”

She chuckled. “ ¿Crazy? That’s what you said when I put tits on you. My poor little rational skeptic, you’re learning the hard way that the world’s not just your scientific laws and theorems. It’s a lot more than that, a lot more than you bargained for. My power over you isn’t limited to your body. I’m going to change your past, and your soul, the same way I changed your body. You won’t be you any more, when I’m done. And it’ll be as though you never were.” He turned to run–Susana was threatening to make his plight even worse!–but she ordered, “Stop,” and it was as if he had been pinned in place. She thought for a moment, her slender finger at her lip. Then she grinned. “ ¡I have it! Let’s see now… You should be from a peasant family–the daughter of campesinos. Just like your girlfriend.” She thought a bit longer. “ ¡I have it! ¡Yes, it’s perfect! Your girlfriend told you about her own family, ¿didn’t she? Describe them.”

Reluctantly her terrified victim obeyed. He couldn’t seem to help himself. “She… she said her mother… her mother was a maid, and her f… father died a year ago. She had two… two younger sisters and a kid brother.”

“Tell me about her sisters.”

“The youngest is married, a wait… waitress in Choluteca. The… the middle sister went to work as a maid, but she died from a fever, Petunia told me.” He tried to rebel: “But Suzi, this is nonsense. Please, I…”

“ ¡That’s it! I’ll fix it so she didn’t die after all. When you see your girlfriend again, ¡you’ll be that sister!” She pointed with two fingers. “You were born in Comayagá¼ela, and you grew up in San Pedro. You remember, ¿don’t you? You’ve always been Petunia’s little sister. Now, ¿what’s her name? ¿What’s your name? ¿And how old are you? ¡Tell me!”

“I don’t… I don’t know.” Suddenly his jaw dropped in shock: he did know it. But it was impossible!

“ ¡Of course you do! Tell it to me. Your full name now, and your age.”

“My name… my name is…” He tried to reject it, but couldn’t. “My name is Pansy.” He shook his head, denying his own words, but against his will he repeated, “I’m Pansy… Pansy-Ann Baca Gá³mez. I’m seven… seventeen years old.” “ ¡No!” his mind screamed, he was… Blank. Frantically he tried to call back his real name from the void.

“That’s right. And you’ve always been Pansy. Just look at monogram on your purse.” He stared at his suddenly-familiar shoulder bag with a purple PAB: a gift from Mamá¡ Rosa on the occasion of his… of his quinceaá±os! Suzi’s tone became saccharine: “You were a sweet little girl, a real girly-girl. You loved to play with dolls, ¿yes? Tell me, chica: ¿What’s your favorite dolly’s name? ¿When you were eight? She was a gift from… ¿from whom?”

The words hit home. Pansy-Ann was his real name. It felt absolutely right. And his girlhood crystallized. It was impossibly clear, as if a window had opened onto a well-remembered landscape. Unbidden, a mental image of himself–herself–appeared. She did remember! In her mind’s eye she was eight. She wore a lemon-yellow dress and she clutched a doll in her hand. Involuntarily, “Pansy” stammered, “M…my d…dolly… I called her Pepita. From… from Papi, on my eighth birthday.” But his old self rallied: “ ¡No! ¡That’s wrong! ¡I was a boy! ¡A BOY!” The shrillness of her protest revealed his shock at this latest outrage. She shook her head in denial, but his eyes held a haunted look that told Susana she had awakened the past Ibarra had implanted. He felt his old self slipping away like smoke through his fingers even as she tried to clutch it. Her identity as a campesina began to take firm root.

Nodding, Susana ignored the outburst and insisted, “You do recall your girlhood. You’ll find that everyone knows you as a native-born hondureá±a. Including Petunia. I know she loved you. She still loves you…” She giggled. “ ¡…as her little sister! ¿Remember? ¿You and Petunia used to wear identical dresses when you were a little girl? And matching pink hair ribbons, too.” The wretched girl in front of her shook her head again, but contrary to all reason she knew it was true; Mami used to take them to church in matching outfits. Despite all sense, her memory insisted that she was Petunia’s sister. Susana grinned. “ ¿See? Not only are you a campesina, but you were never anyone else. Now you know that, ¿don’t you?” “Pansy” recalled her new face; it was true. “Now you can be my maid. I changed your past so you’ve always been a girl; but I did more. You’re a girl with just the right background for a maid. You cook, you sew–in fact, you sew for fun.” She denied it, and Susana laughed. “I know, your old self didn’t sew. But you’re not him, and Pansy loves to sew. She’s always loved it.” Susana sat, leaving her wretched victim standing. “Now consider your options. What can you do for a living? You can’t do anything you used to do as a man–if you had ever been a man. You’ve lost everything he might’ve had. Even his name. You’ve forgotten it, ¿no? It doesn’t matter; just call him Seá±or Whoever. You aren’t him any more, and now you never were; you’re just pretty little Pansita, Petunia’s kid sister. ¿Don’t you agree?”

“Pansy” still tried to deny it. “ ¡No! I am… I’m…” Her voice trailed off. “I’m… whoever. Whoever he was. ¡I just can’t prove it!” But her desperate attempt to recover her old name was futile. Her memory agreed with Suzi; she was Pansy-Ann Baca, and she had never answered to any other name. “I’m begging you, please, ¡put me back!”

“You don’t look like Seá±or Cualquiera. You don’t sound like him. You’re the wrong sex. He was a scientist; you can’t even read or write, ¿true?” As Pansy flushed and looked down, Susana added, “You do call yourself Pansy, ¿yes?”

“ ¡No! My name is… It’s…” But it was gone as if it had never been. She begged, “Suzi, please tell me. ¿What’s my name? ¿My real name?” Pansy’s masculine self-image, doggedly sustained for two days in obstinate denial of her body, was being destroyed. In spite of her efforts, she knew she was female. Just a teenage peasant girl.

“You already told me. Your name–your real name–is Pansy-Ann Baca. You’re Petunia’s sister. It doesn’t matter what your name was–or might have been–before I changed you. Now, ¿do you want to work for me? ¿To wash my dirty clothes, make my bed, and care for my baby? ‘Women’s work’, like you told me. But of course, you’re a woman–or better, a girl.”

“No, I don’t want to work for you. I’m not a peasant. ¡I won’t be a maid! I’m not Pansy, I’m… I’m… ¡I can’t remember!” But she was only a peasant, she knew. Involuntarily she glanced at her breasts again. Of course she was Pansy-Ann. And yes, she was just seventeen years old. How old was… whoever? He was older than seventeen, she knew.

“ ¿You still don’t accept it?” Susana smiled. “ ¡Stubborn little girl, aren’t you! But you do remember your cousin Maráa’s wedding, ¿don’t you? Tell me, ¿what color was the dress you wore at the wedding? ¿Did you like it?”

Another door opened, another memory flooded back. She saw herself clearly: she had been eleven then, the youngest of her cousin’s bridesmaids. She had worn a pink dress trimmed with white lace. “My dress was…” She swallowed. “It was pink. And yes, I liked it. I was… It was pretty.” But I couldn’t have worn that dress, she told herself. Or any dress. I was a boy in… in Dallas then. No, not Dallas, it was… But it was gone.

“And your quinceaá±os, less than three years ago You were even prettier then, the prettiest fifteen-year-old girl in your barrio. Tell me about it, Pansita.”

Again Pansy saw herself as a girl. It had been the best day of her life. Gratefully she lost herself in that memory of past delight. She told Suzi about rising on Sunday morning and attending church with her family. “Then I helped fix lunch. Afterwards I dressed for the party. My dress was the nicest I’d ever had. ¡I was so proud! And I danced with my boyfriend Rico…” She trailed off. Boyfriend? It was a lie! Or was it? It made more sense than her memories from yesterday. “Suzi, please. I… I’m…” She broke down, unable to go on. Petunia had told her lover about the quinceaá±os, both hers and her sisters’, and she had talked about Mamá¡ Rosa; but now Pansy saw them in her own memories. And Pansy, Petunia’s sister… Now she knew she was Pansy-Ann, irrevocably and forever.

Susana smiled. “You’re a little confused, Pansy. ¿Weren’t you a man yesterday? ¿Didn’t you just tell me that?”

“ ¡Yes! ¡Yes, I was! But I couldn’t… You couldn’t… But I was a little girl in San Pedro… ¡No, I wasn’t no girl, I was a man! I don’t… I don’t know. ¡I don’t knoooww!” She wailed the last as if she’d lost her last and dearest friend.

“You couldn’t’ve been a man yesterday. Or ever. You might’ve grown up a boy in a different reality, but you were a little girl. I said I’d change your past, and I did just that. That man is gone, except in your memory and mine. He once lived in this reality too, but he drowned. You, on the other hand, were born in Honduras. In a while you’ll accept that you’ve always been a hondureá±a. You might even forget Seá±or Cualquiera entirely. Oh, I’ll know better; I’ll remember him, and I’ll see him in the campesina you’ve become. But you won’t.” Then she frowned. “But I don’t want that. I want you to remember, to know that you could’ve had a different life. You might’ve been an educated and privileged norteamericano instead of a poor and ignorant peasant girl. You might’ve been sharing my bed instead of making it up.” Her face lit up. “ ¡I know! Seá±or Cualquiera had a birthmark on his butt. He had a scar on his belly from an appendectomy, and another scar on his arm.” Involuntarily Pansy glanced at her left forearm. The scar was still there, the one from her–no, his–childhood bicycle accident. “He had a crooked finger, too, and green eyes–campesinas don’t have eyes like that. I’ll leave you all those, to remind you how you could’ve had a better life. Whenever you see the birthmark, or the scars, or the finger, or your eyes, it’ll remind you of what you threw away when you abandoned me.” Susana tilted her head. “Now, if you won’t work for me, you’ll have to leave. You’ll have to manage by yourself. Good luck, sweetheart– ¡you’ll need it!”

Leave? But if Suzi wouldn’t help her, there was nothing she could do. There wasn’t any way to make a decent living in her new body. “ ¿But… but where can I go? ¡I… I can’t go home! ¡Not like this! ¿And what can I do? Suzi, you took everything from me. I can’t even… ¡can’t even read!”

“I’m glad you asked. That is a problem, ¿isn’t it? As for home, you don’t need to go anywhere. You’re a hondureá±a; you are home. ¿And what can you do? Well, that’s easy. You can find a big strong man to marry you. You’ll cook his meals, wash his clothes, and give him a good fuck at night. ¿Remember? That’s what women do. Or so you told me. Until then, there are jobs for an illiterate girl. I admit, the choices aren’t attractive. You can be a maid–like your own maid Maráa. You’re a lot like her. Or you could become a bathroom attendant, cleaning toilets.” Pansy denied it, and Susana’s smile broadened. “If you don’t like those jobs, then maybe you can live off your sex appeal. You’d make a good whore. Whores don’t need to read.” She tilted her head and looked at Pansy speculatively. “In fact, maybe you should be a whore instead of a maid. You always liked sex when you used to be–might’ve been–a man. ¡Now you can make a living from it!”

“ ¡No! ¡I ain’t never going to be no whore! ¡Never!”

Susana grinned. “ ¿Never? But you’d be very good at it.” She nodded to herself. “In fact, you were very good at it. Just so you’ll know what it’s like–a preview, so to speak–I’ll put that in your past too.” She gestured quickly and pointed at Pansy. “After your father died, you went to work–as a common prostitute. That’s only fair; before, you couldn’t keep your trousers up; now, you won’t keep a skirt down. Your professional name was…” She paused. “You tell me what it was, girl.”

Suddenly Pansy’s eyes went wide. She remembered the whorehouse which she–he–had visited with his drinking buddy, Pedro Velasco–except that now she hadn’t been a client, but one of the girls spreading her legs for Seá±or Pedro, just another sweaty john with beer breath. Yes, she had been a whore. She tried to deny Suzi’s words, but she was forced to reply, “I was… My name was… Sweetie. I was… was called Sweetie. ¡No!”

“ ¿Was that your whole name? ¿And who was your madam?”

“I… I was Sweetie B…Bigtits. I worked… I worked for… for Mamá¡ Santiago.” Again she begged, “ ¡Please, Suzi! Don’t… don’t make me… I wasn’t… I couldn’t… ¡Change it! ¡Please, Suzi!”

Susana shook her head. “Sorry, Seá±orita Bigtits. ¿What did you say? ‘The past is past. You can’t change it’.” She giggled. “Besides, it fits you. Look at yourself.” Pansy looked again at her breasts, emphasized by the snug top. “You’re a sexy girl–and horny too. You like men. You’ll make a fine whore–just like before.” She turned a hidden dial.

Suddenly Pansy felt a surge of desire. More than desire: lust. Her nipples stood out, and her pussy became damp. She wanted a man, needed a man. No question, Suzi was a bruja, and she could make her a whore–again! “Suzi, noooo,” she moaned. “No, please, ¡not that! ¡Don’t… don’t make me a whore!” Abruptly she forgot her demand to return to her former self; a job as a maid looked like her salvation. “ ¡I… I agree! ¡I’ll b…be your… your m…maid!”

“I don’t know. I don’t want an unwilling maid. I need a girl who’ll serve willingly and cheerfully. You’re a free woman. Do what you want, and go where you like. Go wherever you planned to go yesterday, before I found you. I don’t care.” She smiled. “But if you go, I promise you’ll be in bed with a man before the week’s up. You’ll be ‘Sweetie Bigtits’ again.”

Her lust ebbed. In terror Pansy begged, “Suzi, please, please, let me be your maid.” Her resistance was broken.

Susana let her smile fade. “Pansita, you’re not my lover any more, or even my friend. You’re not my equal, just an ignorant peasant girl who needs a job. Address me respectfully as ‘Seá±ora Arias’, or simply as ‘Seá±ora’.”

“Yes, Seá±ora. ¿Can I be your maid? ¿Please? ¡I beg you!” The form of address felt right. No matter how she tried to deny it, Pansy knew she was only a peasant–had always been a peasant–and Suzi was her natural superior. More than that, Suzi had ultimate power over her existence, and absolute obedience was imperative.

“ ¿Why should I hire you? You refused my offer a minute ago. You think you’re too proud, too good, to be a maid.”

“ ¡Seá±ora, please let me work for you! I… I’m Pansy-Ann, just a peasant girl like you say–like you made me.” A picture of Mamá¡ Rosa and Papá¡ Jorge flashed into her memory. Her words were no more than the truth. “I want to be a maid–I’ll try to be a good maid–I can’t do nothing else. I’ll do laundry, wash dishes, mend clothes, serve at the table. ¡Anything! I… I will be a good maid for you. Please, Seá±ora.” The thought of returning to a whorehouse made her ill.

“Very well, Pansy. I accept.” Satisfaction settled on Susana’s face. “From this moment, ‘Seá±or Cualquiera’, you are my maid. You will cook for me, you will sew, you will wash my clothes. You’ll do my dishes and clean my house. You’ll care for Josecito–and I’m pregnant again, so you’ll have another baby to take care of soon. I’ll pay you the usual: room and board and a hundred and thirty lempiras a day. You’ll have Thursdays off.”

The pay was poor, but she couldn’t haggle, or even complain. “Yes, Seá±ora, I agree. ¡Thank you!”

Tilting her head, Susana raised a brow. “‘Seá±or’, ¿do you recall, you refused to marry me? I said you’d regret it.”

“Yes, Seá±ora.” Had that been her? The question pulled her back to her male persona.

“And then you said that a woman is built to please a man.”

Pansy bit her lip. “Yes, Seá±ora, but I was foolish. I was wrong.”

“No, Seá±or, you were right. After all, Anatomy Is Destiny. For some women. For example, a girl like you. I think… no, I know you’ll see how right you were. Like I said, you’re sexy as hell. That means men’ll want you; but more than that, it means you’ll want a man, too. Think about it.” Without looking, she set the libido stimulus to a low, but not lowest, setting. She eyed Pansy speculatively and asked, “You do want a man, ¿don’t you? You need a man to hold you and kiss you and… and all that. You can’t help it: it’s your nature ¿Isn’t that true?”

Horrified, Pansy denied it. “ ¡No! I… ¡I’m not…! I never… I don’t…” But even as she spoke, she suddenly knew she did want a man. It wasn’t urgent, but she wanted a man’s arms around her. More than that, Pansy knew she wanted… wanted to… “ ¡Nooo!” She rejected the thought, shaking her head violently, but it wouldn’t go away.

Satisfied, Susana nodded. Softly she repeated, “ ¿You see? Your body determines your destiny, like you said. Your body’s made to satisfy a man, and you’ll need a man. I made certain of that. Eventually you’ll accept the inevitable and offer yourself to some smelly peasant. And you’ll even enjoy it.” Pansy shook her head in denial. Then, more briskly, Susana added, “If you want to work for me, you’ll obey my rules. You’re forbidden to wear trousers. You’re a woman now–your ideal woman–and like I said, you’ll comply with your old prejudices. You need to keep yourself attractive; after all, you need to find a husband. Every day you’ll make your face up, and you’ll do your hair.” She paused, then ordered, “I’ll have you wear it in braids, like you had yesterday. Or you can put it into a single braid, if you prefer–that’d look right too, for the campesina you’ve become. Don’t worry about not knowing how to braid it right; you’ve been a campesina all your life, and you know exactly how to do it.” Pansy began to deny it, but suddenly she realized that Seá±ora Arias was right. Of course she knew how! She had been braiding her hair since she was six. “And you’ll wear pretty dresses and skirts when you’re off duty. You have to let men see how desirable you are. How sweet and feminine. ¿Don’t you agree?”

Appalled at her fate but helpless, Pansy agreed. “Yes, Seá±ora. ¿And when I’m on duty?”

“You’ll wear a cute little uniform, so everyone can see you’re just a maid. It’s on the bed in that room. Go put it on.”

The uniform was pink with white lace trim. White hose, a white cap, an immaculate white apron, and pink pumps completed it. Pansy donned it quickly–the dress fit her perfectly, and it seemed familiar–and returned.

“ ¡Yes!” Susana exclaimed. “ ¡That’s exquisite! ¡My norteamericano lover trapped in a maid’s dress! Now, a detail: I don’t want to have to train an inexperienced girl. I’ll take care of that now.” Pansy shook her head, but Susana pointed at her and gestured again: “Your mother trained you as a maid, and you’re good at it. You recall the Peá±as, ¿no?” Suddenly Pansy did remember. “And I want you to be familiar with my own household routine, so I fixed your past so you’ve been my maid for several months–since last May, ¿true? You came here with me to Tela for a New Year’s Day vacation, ¿yes?”

Pansy began to deny it; last May she–no, he–had been back in Atlanta with Celia. She had arrived in Tela only today. “ ¡No! No, I…” But then she recalled El Progreso and Los Ocotes. And cooking for Seá±ora Arias here in Tela for the last few days. It was impossible, but true. Like her new body and her new past. She hadn’t been a norteamericano last year, but only a campesina. A whore and a maid. That was why the uniform seemed familiar. She noticed a pansy on the bodice of her dress, and recalled that she herself had embroidered it, only two months ago. “Yes. Yes, Seá±ora, I remember.”

“You’re a good maid,” Susana confirmed. “And that’s what you’ll be from now on.” As she spoke a baby began to cry in a nearby room. Susana smiled. “There’s one more surprise. I put milk into your breasts, ¿didn’t I? You’ve needed to relieve their discomfort, ¿true?” The baby cried louder.

Pansy’s breasts ached with the pressure of her milk. She replied resentfully, “Yes, you did.”

“‘Yes, you did, Seá±ora’.” Susana waited, an eyebrow raised.

“Yes, you did, Seá±ora,” Pansy corrected herself miserably. She had to please Seá±ora Arias in every way possible.

“That’s better. It’ll take time, I know–after all, you used to be… no, might have been an arrogant norteamericano–but soon you’ll show the proper respect for your betters without ever thinking about it. Now come with me.”

Pansy followed her to the next room, where a red-faced infant lay squalling in a crib. Her mistress noted, “She has your eyes, darling, ¿doesn’t she? And your old face too. She’s the very image of your old self. Except that you’ll raise her as a peasant girl, of course. In your new image.”

Pansy’s mouth dropped again. Susana was right. The baby was Lilia, her daughter. How could she have forgotten? But she had just yesterday become a woman! How…? She dissolved in confusion. “Yes… yes, I know her. She’s Lilia–Lilita”–who had been fathered by one of her clients, when her contraceptive failed. Pansy recalled her pregnancy and the long labor. It wasn’t possible, she told herself. Yesterday she had been a man! She had! This baby couldn’t be hers. But it wasn’t possible that she had tits, either, or that she wore a campesina’s face. It was true nonetheless. She looked down at her body. Her denial was silly in the face of the obvious.

“She does look an awful lot like Seá±or Cualquiera, ¿doesn’t she? ¿Do you know who the father was?” Pansy shook her head; she had… she had serviced too many men at the brothel. “Seá±or Cualquiera gave me Josecito, so I thought it’d be appropriate if he fathered your own child too. Now you have something to remember him by.” Shocked, Pansy “remembered”: as Seá±or Cualquiera, he had been serviced by a whore named Pansy. And as Pansy, she vaguely recalled a norteamericano client. “But I’m afraid a child is a bit of a handicap for a single mother. You’ll need to care for her while you work, ¿won’t you? But the poor baby is hungry. You’d better nurse her. After that, wash the dishes, and then make my bed. You know where it is, of course: you once shared with me. If you hadn’t been such a pendejo, you’d be sharing it now. As my husband. Think of that as you tuck in the sheets. When that’s done, the stove needs to be cleaned.”
Without thinking Pansy unbuttoned her dress, pulled up her bra, cradled the child in one arm, and gave her a breast. The baby sucked at the nipple greedily. It felt familiar to Pansy, as if she had done it often. That was silly. But she knew she couldn’t leave Lilia. She’d need to take her. When the baby–her daughter!–was sated, she threw a cloth over her shoulder and held the baby there until she burped, then put her back in the crib and rebuttoned her dress. She thought, where could they go? Could her family help? Her papá¡ had lived in San Pedro, but he was dead. Mamá was a maid in faroff Choluteca, and she didn’t know where her sisters and brother were. No! These people didn’t exist! She was… HE was… who? Jack something? “Jack” seemed wrong. Maybe “John”? It sounded more familiar. She didn’t know her last name. Her real last name. The only name that fit was Pansy Baca. Obsessively she opened her purse and looked at the passport again. It was printed there, but of course she couldn’t read it. She couldn’t be illiterate! She was a scientist, for God’s sake! Her insistence faded in the face of the gibberish on the passport. Never mind, she told herself. She’d go to the embassy… She returned to reality. All that was impossible. She was only a campesina, without resources and with a baby to care for–exactly like Maráa Banderas. She knew she was fortunate to have any job at all. There was nowhere else to go, nothing else she could do. She was Susana’s maid, and that was that. In despair she headed back towards the kitchen. The dishes needed washing, then a bed had to be made up, and the stove waited for her.

January 3
-- Pansy awoke in the wee hours from an erotic dream. She had been wearing a scarlet nightie, and she had teased and fondled a strange man until he… Resolutely she thrust the dream from her. Lilia was crying in the crib next to her. “She’s hungry again,” she realized; her baby needed to nurse every three hours or so. Arising, she picked up the baby and put her to a breast. A wave of affection swept over Pansy as Lilia nuzzled, then sucked. She loved her daughter dearly and held her tenderly. Only then did she recall that she was newly a woman–or was she? Confusion overcame her. Unable to resolve her dilemma, she ignored it. When Lilia finished, she burped her, put her back in the crib, and returned to bed.

She got up at dawn, showered, braided her hair, and dressed in her uniform. Somehow she knew what had to be done–hadn’t she done this many times before?–and she went to the kitchen to prepare breakfast, taking Lilia in the crib. When Susana appeared, simply but elegantly dressed in a blue and white sleeveless dress of light cotton, the coffee was ready and the bacon and eggs were nearly done. Pansy curtsied automatically when she entered, greeting her with a respectful “Good morning, Seá±ora.”

Susana nodded and replied, “Good morning, Pansita. You’re very pretty this morning–your braids are really cute–and my breakfast looks fine. You’re doing well.” She turned a hidden dial. Pansy felt a glow of pleasure, then confusion: she knew she should resent the remark. Susana noticed the puzzled look, guessed its reason, and told Pansy, “Don’t worry about a thing. I gave you the instincts of a normal girl, and the training of a good maid. Just let them guide you.”

Pansy did feel resentment now. “Suzi, I don’t want to be a girl. And my mother didn’t really train me to be a maid. I trained to be a scientist. Please, put me back to what I was. Please, I beg you.” She denied her memory of Mamá¡ Rosa.

Susana gave the silvery tinkling laugh that had so pleased Seá±or Cualquiera. “I don’t think so, Pansita. I like you better this way. Much better. You’re ever so much nicer as a campesina than you were as a norteamericano. And so much more useful, too. What you want doesn’t matter at all. You belong to me.” Then she frowned and told Pansy sternly, “And another thing, girl: you can’t call me Suzi any more. Only my friends call me that, or my family. You’re just a maid.” She cocked her head, and asked, “ ¿Aren’t you?”

“Yes, but…”

“Yes, Seá±ora. Truly, you’re stupid.” She lowered the pleasure relay and added a touch of fear. “Maybe you’re right. You’re a girl forever, but you don’t have to be a maid. Maybe you really shouldn’t be my maid, and I should let you go. You were a fine puta. Mamá¡ Santiago’d be delighted to have you again.”

Quickly Pansy begged, “Please, Seá±ora, no. I’m sorry. Yes, Seá±ora, I want to be your maid.” She knew she needed the job, for her own sake and for the baby’s.

“Very well. Get me more orange juice.”

Pansy quickly poured another glass. Susana sipped it and eyed her maid. Ibarra was right. George had come back, but with Pansy’s conditioning. The curtsies were automatic; the breakfast had been precisely as it should have been. As she relished her old lover’s humiliation, Lilia began to wail. Delighted, Susana ordered, “Better go pick her up, Pansita. She needs to be changed. You know what to do. The diapers are in your room, in the second drawer.”

Pansy took Lilia upstairs and changed her. Susana followed and nodded approvingly. “You make a good maid, ‘Jack’, and a good mother.” The quotation marks were audible. “Now she’s hungry again. I said you’d feed an infant at your breast. Show me again.”

Jack? Had that been her name only two days ago? Reminded of her former status, Pansy was loath to comply, but her tormentor told her, “I said, show me. You told me all about women’s duties; they’re your duties now.” Pansy couldn’t deny it–and physically, she needed to nurse. She sat on the edge of the bed, unbuttoned her dress, pulled up her bra, and bared her left breast, swollen with milk. Her baby seized on it and sucked vigorously until she was sated. Pansy burped her, kissed her without thinking, and returned her to the crib.

Back in the kitchen, Susana told her, “You’re adapting to womanhood sooner than I expected. Now sit down.” Pansy obeyed. “Jack, I made you into a peasant girl just like your own maid Maráa. You have all her abilities, all her attributes. But no more. You’re uneducated; in fact, you’re illiterate. It’s plain just from the way you talk. ¿Do you understand?”

“No, Seá±ora.” A frown furrowed Susana’s forehead; Pansy felt a flash of terror and quickly explained, “Seá±ora, you may be telling the truth…” She hurriedly amended that to “Yes, it is true.” She couldn’t deny it. Her body and her memory testified to the truth of Suzi’s words. The power of her mistress’s brujeráa was irresistible. “You did change me into a girl, and I am ill… illiterate. But no, I don’t understand it. It ain’t possible to make me a girl. It ain’t possible to take away my reading, my English. There ain’t no way to change my past. ¡No way! But yes, you did it.”

Mollified, Susana continued. “You only need to understand that I did it. How I did it, isn’t important. But tell me: Now that you’ve been a girl for two entire days, ¿how do you like it?”

Casting her eyes down, Pansy replied bitterly, “I don’t like it, Seá±ora. ¿Did you want me to like it?” She bit back further protest; it would do no good. Rebellion brought only grief, she knew.

“No, I didn’t. Not yet, anyway. But Pansy enjoyed her body–she used it well–and eventually you will like it. I know you don’t like the idea now, but your new body’ll change your outlook. It comes from your hormones, you know, and you have a full supply of girl juices.” Hormones? Pansy wondered what they were, then thought, they must be the “girl juices” Seá±ora Arias had mentioned. “Very soon you’ll want to be sexy, to get yourself a man. You won’t be able to help it, and your cute face and sexy body’ll help you get one. You’ll marry an ignorant peasant, I think–and you’ll be an obedient and dutiful wife.” She giggled. “Too bad, Jack. I agree, it’s a real bummer. You finally run across just the kind of girl you always wanted: cute, sexy, and obedient. And then you’re in no position to enjoy her. No matter: some other man will.”

Pansy shook her head. “Seá±ora, I ain’t that changed. Somehow you gave me a new body and new memories, but I’m still me.” Inside she was still… Jack? She had to be!

Susana wore the shadow of a smile. “Maybe some of Jack’s left. I hope so, in fact. But you won’t keep much of him, not for long. That body alone would be enough to make you another person. But I changed more than the body. You’re Pansita now. You were born a campesina, and you’re a campesina in your innermost soul. Your attitudes, your responses… You’re Jack’s perfect woman, exactly as I intended. Or you will be, when Pansy takes over completely from Jack. She’s a bit of a slut, but then, Jack always said a girl should try to please men. And you’re an excellent maid, too: well trained. You make a pretty curtsy, you know. But I’m thirsty, Pansita. Get me a glass of ice water.”

Automatically Pansy stood and curtsied. “Yes, Seá±ora. Right away.” She flushed as she realized what she had done, then fetched the water as ordered. She had to keep this job!

As Susana accepted the water, she told Pansy, “ ¿You see? As I said, you grew up as a campesina, and your childhood training fits you well for your new job. After all, Pansita, ¿who taught you to cook? ¿And sew? ¿Have you forgotten your poor mother, who raised you?”

Pansy recalled Mamá¡ Rosa and admitted, “Yes. Yes, it… it was mami… my… my mother… ¡But it couldn’t have been! Seá±ora, ¡you know it couldn’t! I was a boy in… in… ¡I don’t know!”

“Oh, don’t be silly. You remember your childhood clearly, and you weren’t a boy at all. In this reality you were a little girl. Like I told you yesterday, you wore skirts and liked to play with dolls. You remember Maráa’s wedding, ¿don’t you?”

Pansy shook her head wordlessly. Who was she? As Susana spoke, all her memories flooded back again. She was Pansy-Ann. She had always been Pansy, or so her traitor mind told her. It was a lie! But suddenly she believed Susana. In some incomprehensible way, she had been given the soul of a campesina, as well as the body. As Susana looked at her expectantly, she replied tonelessly, “Yes, Seá±ora. I remember.”

“ ¿And don’t you remember the rest your family? When I found you in San Pedro, ¿who had you been staying with?”

Pansy thought back. She had been… no, he had been with… with Petunia. With Petunia Baca, his girlfriend. “I was with Petunia.”

“But she’s your sister. ¿Don’t you remember growing up with her?”

“ ¡No! ¡She’s my girlfriend! She’s…” But suddenly she remembered: Petunia helping her button her quinceaá±era dress, Petunia congratulating her at her first communion, Petunia… Susana was right: she and Petunia were sisters. Had always been sisters.

“ ¿Well?” Susana waited for an answer.

“ She’s… Yes… yes, I… She’s my… my sister. But…” Pansy shook her head as tears flowed unnoticed down her cheek. Her bell earrings tinkled. “It ain’t possible, Seá±ora. ¡It ain’t! ¡You know I was her lover! ¡And your lover!” Whatever she was now, and whatever lies her memory told, she had been a norteamericano!

“Yes, that’s true, you were. That’s past tense, Pansita. Or better, past subjunctive. You might have been a man, and my lover, in another world. But you threw it away. Now you are a woman, and my maid. That’s true too, and it’s present tense. And future. And even simple past tense. You know it: you grew up as a girl. Yes, I knew Petunia loved you, so I made you into her sister. I told you, she still loves you–but as a sister. And you’ll love her–in the same way.” Susana smiled archly. “ ¿Oh? Before, ¿you–or Jack–wanted sex with her? Yes, I know how hard Jack worked to get me into bed. Don’t worry, as Pansy-Ann you’ll still have sex. I keep telling you, some man’ll be delighted to get you into bed. And you’ll want a man as much as Jack ever wanted a woman. You’ll find one. I’ll attend your wedding, when you become a blushing bride, ready to give herself to her husband. And Petunia can be there too–as your maid of honor.” She turned up the sex relay slightly.

Pansy felt another surge of desire, and she knew without a doubt that Susana was right. In spite of her horror, her body wanted a man. Nevertheless, she still refused to accept her need. But she didn’t contradict her mistress. “Yes, Seá±ora. ¿Can I go now? I got to… got to wash the d…dishes.” Tears of despair flowed down her cheek.

“Of course, sweetheart. But don’t take too long. You’ll need to wash and iron the laundry too, and I have some cleaning for you to do. And the baby’ll be needing attention soon, I’m sure. That’s a never-ending task. I’m going out in the back yard now to rest. I’ll be reading one of Seá±or Cualquiera’s mysteries.” She held up a paperback; Pansy recognized it as a Hillerman novel. “It’ll help me practice my English–and after all, you can’t read it now. Come see me for further instructions as soon as the dishes are done.”

“Yes, Seá±ora.” She curtsied and left.

Pansy spent the rest of the morning doing laundry, cleaning the villa, and caring for her daughter. The work was surprisingly familiar to her. Seá±ora Arias had told the truth: she was a well-trained maid. She found that if she accepted her “Pansy” identity and lost herself in her chores, her mental anguish abated. In fact, her love for Lilia made caring for her a pleasure. She suffered only when she recalled Seá±or Cualquiera, and when she tried to think of a way to escape her situation. But she couldn’t accept a life as a maid–or a peasant wife. There had to be an escape, if only she could find it.

That afternoon Susana told her maid, “I’d like to have spaghetti tonight. It’s not easy to see Seá±or Cualquiera in you–as you agree, I suspect–but as I recall, he could make a good dish of spaghetti Calabrese. I might as well have you keep that detail of your old life. Tela has a good supermarket, and you can buy everything you need there. Go on now and get what you need.” She gave Pansy enough money to purchase the needed supplies and sent her on her way.

Pansy’s Honduran self hadn’t ever prepared spaghetti Calabrese, but she had no problem in calling on Seá±or Cualquiera’s culinary abilities. The dinner was a success, and Seá±ora Arias told her she’d be making it regularly. “It’ll remind both of us of who you could’ve been.”

January 4
-- Seá±or Cualquiera’s fourth day as a woman began at 3:30 AM when Lilia awoke for her feeding. Pansy nursed her daughter and changed her diaper, then went back to sleep. At dawn she arose to prepare breakfast, beginning her now-familiar routine. The routine was familiar: her “Pansy” memories ensured it. Her recollection of life as Seá±or Cualquiera seemed like an exotic dream. She looked at the scar on her arm, and recalled the bicycle accident. Yes, she was really a norteamericano, she insisted to herself. And yes, she’d return to… to the United States. To Atlanta. But now she had to make Seá±ora Arias’s coffee. And Lilia’s diaper needed changing again. Sighing, she attended to the coffee.

Susana was pleased that her maid hadn’t lost her skills. Her erstwhile lover might not enjoy his new career as a maid, but he was good at it. Pansy served breakfast, then sat down to her own meal. Susana reminded her to hurry. “We leave for Mass in an hour. After you clean up, you’ll need to put on a nice dress and make yourself pretty.”

Pansy finished the dishes quickly and went to her room to dress for church. In the last couple of days she had found that if she didn’t think, but just let her subconscious guide her, she could primp and dress more efficiently. Her fingers seemed to have minds of their own. She chose her favorite dress, buttercup-yellow and sleeveless with white ruffles around the (not-too-modest) neckline and her trademark purple pansy embroidered on the bodice. It fit perfectly, and complemented her dark complexion. She applied makeup deftly and expertly, taking pride in her appearance before remembering how she had acquired it. She could see that Seá±or Cualquiera was dissolving into Pansy Baca, but there didn’t seem to be any way to prevent it. And there was no point in any attempt to save him, not as long as she was trapped in this body. Within twenty minutes she was ready.

They drove to the church in the blue Nissan. Men ogled Pansy as she walked up the steps with Lilia in her arms. She was attracted to them, just as she had been on the bus, and just as Seá±ora Arias had predicted. In spite of herself, she wanted to… she wanted… She refused to think about it. At the church she lost herself in the familiar service, singing the hymns with the other women. She was no longer surprised when she knew the words and music. After all, as Pansy Baca, she had been singing these songs for years.

Back at the villa Susana complimented her on her appearance, telling her that she had a natural instinct for making herself attractive. “ ¿Did you notice how expertly you made your face up? I know you’re just obeying my instructions now, but that attitude’ll fade away pretty soon. Just wait a bit: you’ll find that you enjoy making yourself pretty, just as you–Pansy-Ann–always have. Just like any other girl out to catch a man. It’s only natural, as Jack was fond of telling me. I bet you find yourself a boyfriend within a month or two.” She grinned knowingly. “I’d be careful, if I were you. You’re a sweet young thing, and a man’ll take advantage of you if you let him. After all, remember what Jack was like. I think you still do remember him, ¿don’t you?” Pansy resentfully retorted that she’d never forget who she had been, and Susana giggled. “That’s right–in fact, I don’t want you to–but you’ll forget what it felt like, to be a man. Pretty soon it’ll seem to you that you’ve always been a girl. Your hormones and your body will control your life–and you will truly have become a campesina.”

Pansy changed into her uniform and prepared lunch while Susana went out for a quick swim. Later, as she packed for their return home, she tried to sort out her old memories, both as Pansy and as… as Seá±or Cualquiera–she couldn’t recall her old name, even though Susana had taunted her with it that morning. She had no logical explanation for the coexistence of the contradictory sets of memories, and she finally gave up. Whatever her real past–if there was such a thing–now she was trapped in the body of a young Honduran mother. The magical transformation of Seá±or Cualquiera to Seá±orita Baca remained a vivid nightmare. Pansy’s sense of identity as Seá±or Cualquiera was strong, in spite of his new circumstances. But she also recalled herself as a young girl. She tried to tell herself that those memories were false–surely they had to be false–but somehow they seemed authentic. Her memories of her girlhood in San Pedro were happier than the competing versions of her past, and they were clearer than any memories from her real childhood, wherever it had been. Moreover, she needed those memories as Pansy. They were the only sane link from a comprehensible past to her present existence.

It maddened Pansy that she couldn’t read. Only four days ago she had been (might have been?) an educated norteamericano with a passion for reading. She still had the passion, but not the ability. She puzzled over newsprint, but it was alien. Susana laughed when she begged her to restore her literacy. “Don’t worry about it. You’re just a campesina. Only a maid. You’ll never be more, and you don’t need to read. If you want to read, you’ll have to take a literacy course, and you don’t have the time for that. You have too much work. Besides, as you’ll find out, you’re not a very smart girl.”

Late that day they returned to Los Ocotes, where Pansy resumed what seemed to be her usual life. She knew the finca–its familiar sounds, and the mixed odors of wood smoke and pine. Marta and ’Lina greeted her as a friend. Susana introduced her to Josecito, telling her, “Jack left me pregnant, if you recall. This is Josecito, the baby you offered to help care for. In a way, he’s your son. Not the son of your present body, of course, but your son through Jack. As I told you, he’s your responsibility now. But of course you know him.” The introduction wasn’t really needed, of course. Pansy recognized Josecito immediately, and knew she loved him.

Before supper Pansy went to her room to mend a ripped skirt for Seá±ora Arias. There she found old family photographs on a shelf: her mother and father; her boyfriend Rico; herself and Petunia as children in party dresses (her ninth birthday, she knew); a photo taken at her quinceaá±os (again with Petunia). The face of the girl in the photo matched her own. On a shelf sat her Last Doll, the elaborate porcelain doll from her quinceaá±os, and her old rag doll Pepita. She stared at the doll, feeling a surge of affection for her beloved childhood companion. Had she had ever been anyone but Pansy Baca? Her conviction that, inside her head, she was really Jack Cualquiera was shaken by everyone’s recognition that she was just Pansy, the maid of Seá±ora Arias and the mother of Lilia. And worse, Pansy “knew” it too. She knew everyone there. She had met them all back in October, when she arrived there after giving birth to Lilia. And she remembered her service to Susana, back in El Progreso, as well as her earlier service as a maid (and bed partner) for Miguel Ovando on his island. Her early life, from childhood through her high school days to her first job as a maid for the Peá±as, was equally clear. Plainly she was, and always had been, Pansy Baca. Was she crazy to believe otherwise? But then she saw a stack of her–his–old CD’s, a book on Guatemalan orchids, and the old stained Howell and Webb field guide to Mexican birds. Picking it up, she paged through it. The text was unintelligible, but the illustrations were familiar, and she recalled adding the notations she saw in the margins. There was another photo of Petunia, too–but in this one she had her arms around… around Seá±or Cualquiera. She opened her closet door. Inside, alongside her maid uniforms, hung her beloved quinceaá±os dress, exactly as in the photograph. How could all this be possible?

After supper Pansy washed the dishes, then fed Lilia and Josecito. She cared for the children as if she had been doing it routinely. As the thought occurred to her, she realized that she–Pansy–had been doing precisely that for Lilia since late October, when she had given birth, and for Josecito since May, when she had begun working for Susana. She loved both children, and always had. But she had been Petunia’s boyfriend in October! And Susana hadn’t had her child yet! Completely confused, Pansy stopped trying to make sense of the calendar. If Seá±ora Arias could transform her to Petunia’s sister–and Pansy now believed that she had, in some sense at least–then tinkering with the calendar didn’t seem any more fantastic.

At bedtime, Pansy asked Seá±ora Arias about Petunia. Her mistress laughed. “ ¿Why do you care now? I know you remember she was in bed with you four days ago, but now everything’s changed. She’s not your sweetheart any more.”

Pansy looked down. “Seá±ora, sweetheart or sister or whatever, we love each other. Like you told me. Please, ¿what happened to her? ¿Where is she?”

Relenting, Susana told Pansy that Petunia had married and lived nearby at Jácaro Grande. “She has a baby too. Your baby–or Jack’s, at least. Too bad you can’t be a father to the baby.” She smiled sweetly. “At least you’re still kin. But now you’re just her aunt, not her father.” On hearing this, Pansy realized that she had already known. Someone had told her where Petunia lived, although she hadn’t had a chance to visit. Then Susana praised Pansy: “You’ve been a good housemaid and nursemaid, Pansy. Maybe it’s all for the best in this best of all possible worlds. I think Jack makes a much better maid than a husband. And he’ll make a much better wife, too, when his new body pushes him into bed with one of my campesinos. After all, Jack always had the proper opinions to be a wife. He knew precisely how a good woman should behave. He should be grateful that he has the opportunity to demonstrate his beliefs.” She gave Pansy a wicked smile. “There’s a saying that fits your situation. I know you don’t speak English very well, but maybe you can understand it. ‘Today is the first day of the rest of your life.’ Just think: ¡for the rest of your life, you’ll be a campesina!”

Pansy knew Susana was telling the truth. Over the last four days she had begun to realize that there was no way back. “I know that, Seá±ora. But I also know it ain’t possible. My body, my memories… ¡You can’t just change a person into someone else! ¡No one can! Please, at least tell me, ¿how did this happen? ¿How did you do this to me?”

Susana raised an eyebrow. “ ¿How? I’m not going to tell you You wouldn’t understand–and it doesn’t matter anyway, ¿does it? I did it. That’s all that matters. I did it, and therefore it is possible.”

“But… Please, Seá±ora.” She shook her head in renewed bewilderment. Seá±ora Arias was right. Plainly it could be done, since it had been done. But how? She tried again: “I know you did it. I’m a campesina, just like you want. I grew up a campesina, like you say. But I know, and you know, I was your lover Jack, just a few days ago. That ain’t possible. And Josecito–he shouldn’t be born yet. I… You… Please, ¿what did you do to me?”

A satisfied look settled on Susana’s face. Pansy would puzzle over that for a long time. “ ¿What did I do to you? That should be clear, especially to you: I made you a campesina. ¿How? I’m a bruja. More than that, I won’t say. All that matters is that Jack was tried for his crime, convicted, and imprisoned in a girl’s body . By now, I imagine Jack knows the prison well. The cell’s nicely furnished, and I think he’s already getting used to it. He might as well enjoy it; it’s a prison he can’t even conceive of escaping from. And he shares it with a nice girl. I hope you like Pansy, Jack. She’s your future.”

“No, Seá±ora, I ain’t comfortable in my cell, like you put it. I prefer my previous house.”

Her mistress chuckled smugly. “I imagine so–but you’ll forget it eventually. Perhaps then you’ll get to like your new home. Anyway, as I told you, Jack’s dead. He drowned. Your old house is destroyed.”

“I won’t forget, Seá±ora.”

“Maybe not. Or not immediately. I left you proof, after all–your scar, your crooked finger. I suppose it doesn’t matter whether you forget or not. The sexual urges you felt earlier won’t go away, and eventually you’ll yield to them. You’ll choose to yield. Girls like you always find a man who’ll give them babies. You won’t be any different. Then you’ll forget.”

Pansy shook her head. “I may get married if you force me, Seá±ora…” (“ ¡God forbid!” she thought) “but I ain’t never going to choose it. I know you can make me do things I don’t want, but it ain’t by choice. And I still ain’t going to forget.”

Susana promised her, “I won’t force you into anything, Pansita. I don’t need to, not now. My work was completed when I imprisoned Jack in Pansy. The rest of it’ll follow naturally. You’ll start going out with men. And then you’ll marry and get pregnant, sure as the sun rises in the east. I won’t force you; your body will. Husband, babies, dirty laundry, mending shirts–that’s what a woman’s for. Just ask Jack. But you’d better ask him soon, while there’s still a little of him left.”

Pansy denied it, but without conviction. She knew how Pansy Baca had always wanted children, and how she had looked forward to marriage. Her boyfriend Rico was still fresh in her mind. She had been in love with him since she was fourteen, but then he had died in that horrible accident… And the time spent as a maid and a concubine for Seá±or Ovando… She had hated it–hated him–but the physical pleasure of sex had been a compelling force. Was Seá±ora Arias right? No, there was no way back to her old body–but would she have to marry some campesino? No! “I’m a woman, yes, and I’m even a campesina. I admit it. But I’m still Jack Cualquiera too. I got his brains, his ambition, his personality. I even got some of his knowledge. I’ll find a way back.”

Susana nodded. Ibarra’s magic was impressive. George had returned, without any doubt. “I know you’re still partly Jack. I wanted it that way. That’s why I left some of his memories. Your search for a way back will be a little frustrating, though. Lots of campesinas have brains and ambition, you know–or maybe you didn’t know. Maybe you thought it was their nature, their lack of brains and ambition, that kept them stuck at the bottom of society. Well, you’ll get an education now. What they lack isn’t ability; it’s opportunity. If it’s any consolation, you’ll have every opportunity that any girl in your position could hope for.” She giggled and added, “That isn’t much, I grant. Your position is something of a handicap. You’re an illiterate dark-skinned campesina with no family support, no money, no husband, and a baby to take care of. You’re a woman in a society that discriminates against women, and dark-skinned in a society that discriminates against dark skin–just like Jack did. Besides that, you’re attractive with a high sex drive. The best you can hope for now is a good husband. Just like any other campesina.” She smiled, nodded thoughtfully, and told Pansy, “You’ll have a good selection of eligible men here on the finca–unmarried campesinos, that is. None of them would be quite the mate you had in mind a short time ago–but then, you’re not quite the man you used to be, either.”

Shaking her head, Pansy stubbornly insisted, “I’ll escape your trap, Seá±ora. I’ll learn how to read and write again. I’ll use my brains and climb out of the hole you put me in.”

“Maybe you will. Like I said, I won’t try to stop you. I don’t need to. A campesina’s life is pretty well predestined. There isn’t much room for choices. You’ll marry some peasant…” She forestalled Pansy’s protest, raising her hand. “No, I told you, I won’t make you marry. You’ll find that as you become more accustomed to your body, you’ll want a husband. It’s only natural, after all. It’s what a girl’s body’s made for, ¿true? But you’ve been put into the body of a lower-class girl, and you’ll have to accept a man from your own social class. Like I said, there are quite a few here at Los Ocotes. Of course, they’re all poor, ignorant, lower-class men. Very macho, too. Your husband, whoever you end up with– ¿Gordo, maybe? ¿Or one of the Ruáz brothers? Maybe Hector Trujillo, he’s decent enough, if a bit crude. And he’s had an eye on you ever since you moved here with me. Anyway, whoever it is, he’ll be your master. None of that ‘women’s rights’ nonsense here, not for campesinas. But that’s OK. Pansy was brought up to accept that sort of thing. And as Jack you approved of it. After you’re married you’ll spend the rest of your life having his brats. ‘Baby machine’–that’ll be you, until you’re too old and worn out to have any more. I expect you’ll have half a dozen or so before that happens, though. Big families are the rule here.”

“I ain’t going to accept that, whatever Pansy wanted. Yes, I’m Pansy, like you made me…” She hated to admit it, but glancing down at her bosom, she knew she couldn’t deny it. “But I’m Jack too, and I ain’t going to marry no peasant.”

Susana shrugged. “We’ll see. Maybe you’ll just get pregnant by some sweet-talking bastard–like I did–and then you’ll be marked as a slut. I warn you, life’s pretty grim for an unwed mother with no family to help her or protect her.” Pansy knew that; Ibarra had seen to it that she became acquainted with Honduran social standards. Josecito started crying then, and her mistress lifted an eyebrow. “Duty calls, Pansita. Better go see what he wants. Jack promised to help with the baby, ¿remember? ¡His baby!” Choking back a retort, Pansy left to tend Jack Cualquiera’s child.

Later that night, as Pansy lay in bed with two infants–both of them her children–sleeping next to her, she tried again to make sense of the last three days. After puzzling over the various impossibilities, she decided there were three alternative resolutions for her identity crisis. The first, that she was still Seá±or Cualquiera and was only hypnotized or dreaming, was attractive but unlikely; she rejected it as wishful thinking. As much as she’d like to believe her new identity to be a nightmare, she knew it was horribly real. The second possibility: She was now, and had always been, Pansy, Petunia’s kid sister. Her memories of Seá±or Cualquiera were false and her Baca memories were valid. That meant she was crazy. This scenario was supported by the ease with which she assumed her “new” life; by the recognition of her friends and acquaintances at Los Ocotes; and by the existence of Lilia, whom she couldn’t possibly reject. It had the advantage that no sorcery was needed; but against it was the point that both she and Seá±ora Arias knew otherwise. That she was now Pansy Baca seemed to be–was–true, however inexplicable it might be. But at the least, she knew she had been Seá±or Cualquiera, before Seá±ora Arias had changed her, just three days ago. She had grown up as a boy in the United States, and had been a scientist. She had! She hadn’t been, couldn’t have been, a girl, in spite of her newly-acquired (imposed?) memories. She thought she could disprove it, but she had to find Petunia. Petunia could confirm what she recalled of Seá±or Cualquiera, and refute her Baca memories. Surely she would! The third possibility, no more likely, was that reality was exactly as she recalled: she had been Seá±or Cualquiera, and Susana had changed her into Pansy Baca, Petunia’s sister, by an act of brujeráa. But that was arrant nonsense. Wasn’t it? There had to be a way to find out which of these nonsensical choices was true. A phrase from the memory of Seá±or Cualquiera came to her–it was from Sherlock Holmes, she knew: “When the impossible has been eliminated, whatever remains, however unlikely, must be the truth.” But what could be true when all the alternatives were equally impossible?

January 5
-- The next morning Susana discussed Pansy with Ibarra over the phone. “Yes, Doctor,” she told him, “it went well. I was grateful for the chance to put that hijo de puta in his place– ¡personally! George was back all right. I could tell. He was his usual arrogant sexist self, or he was until he found himself changed to herself. At first he didn’t notice a thing. ¡But he reacted beautifully when I ‘gave’ him breasts! And he absolutely hated wearing a skirt.”

“ ¿How long did he stay, Seá±ora? ¿Does Pansy have any idea what happened?”

“I don’t think he’s gone yet. Not quite. And no, she doesn’t know. She takes our little play at face value: as far as she knows, I changed him to his lover’s sister. You were right about his conditioning. Even at first, George couldn’t help himself. He acted like a well-trained maid. He never even realized he was curtsying until I pointed it out, and then he was bewildered.”

At the Institute Ibarra nodded knowingly. “ ¡Good! That’s as I expected. The conditioning is a totally different kind of memory, Seá±ora. Whatever Pansy remembers or doesn’t remember about her life for the last two years, the conditioning she received during those two years will remain. It’s embedded at a deep level.” He asked another question: “ ¿How does Pansy explain what happened to her? You say she accepts events at face value, but she must realize that ‘our little charade’, as you put it, is physically impossible. And she must know she can’t trust her memories; they’re mutually contradictory.”

“She knows it, Doctor, but she can’t explain it; right now she doesn’t know which way is up.”

He laughed. “I understand. I think she should be back to normal soon. She’ll remain confused, though. Bring her in to the Institute in a week or so. Doctor Ibá¡á±ez and I both want to examine her.”

Susana agreed, but asked, “ ¿What about her baby? Doctor Ibá¡á±ez suggested that she keep the baby with her at all times, to promote bonding.”

“No problem. Have her bring the child along.” They made an appointment for the following Monday. “Thank you, Seá±ora,” he told her; she finished her coffee and left for La Libertad.

When she returned home after work, Marta told her that Pansy seemed disturbed. “Ever since you came back from Tela, she’s seemed… well, preoccupied, Seá±ora.”

“ ¿Is she doing her work, Marta?”

“Yes, she’s working as well as ever. There’s no problem there. But she seems upset. She won’t discuss it with me, but I know she’s unhappy.”

Susana could believe that. “You’re right, Marta. She just received bad news. She learned that someone she knew very well, someone very close to her, died recently; but she doesn’t want to talk about it. Please don’t tell her I told you.”

Marta looked sympathetic. “I understand. Thank you, Seá±ora.”

That evening, after Pansy had washed the dishes and fed the children, Susana commented, “I know being a campesina’s difficult for you now, but if you don’t think about it and just let your ‘Baca’ self guide you, life’ll become easier. It’s plain that I succeeded, and you have her personality now as well as her body. As you told me, Jack had no training, or talent, for being a maid–and yet you’ve been doing very well.”

Pansy was still confused, but by now she had recovered everything that hadn’t been erased, only temporarily suppressed. She knew she was Pansy, even as she held on to the alternate identity of Jack Cualquiera, and to his ambitions. “Yes, Seá±ora,” she replied.

“I know Jack isn’t all gone. In fact, I’m glad he’s still here. He has good points, and I missed him occasionally.” Her maid’s face showed her distress, and she changed the subject. “Pansita, the babies are asleep, and we have some free time. I know you used to enjoy playing cards. You–no, Seá±or Cualquiera–taught me a game when we were dating. ‘Gin rummy’, he called it. I left you with the game, because I enjoyed it too. I want you to play it with me now.”

“As you wish, –Seá±ora.”

As they played Susana probed Pansy’s understanding of what had happened. Not surprisingly, she had no explanation for her metamorphosis. It was clear that her “Pansy” memories had coalesced into a plausible and coherent biography that she could almost accept as real. “But I know better, Seá±ora,” she told Susana. “Even if you changed me into a woman, even if you made me a campesina, there ain’t no way to change the past.”

Susana discarded a six of hearts, and while Pansy thought about picking it up she asked, “ ¿Then how do you account for your baby? You do accept her as yours, I think.”

Pansy picked a card from the deck and threw a ten of spades. “Yes, she’s mine.” There was no way she could consider abandoning her beloved child, whoever she was–or had been–or might have been. “I don’t account for her. And I don’t know how you did what you did. I don’t know what you did.”

“ ¿Does it matter?”

“I think so, yes.”

“ ¿Why? Whether you’ve always been a campesina, or whether you were a norteamericano–or might have been a norteamericano–you’re just a campesina now.” She picked up Pansy’s ten and threw away the five of diamonds. “Your present status is clear enough, however you got to it. You are a campesina, ¿don’t you agree?”

Pansy squirmed. “Yes, I… I am a campesina.” She desperately wanted to deny it, but five days into her new life, she could no longer fight reality. “I ain’t sure why it matters, Seá±ora, but it does. To me, it does.”

“It makes no practical difference. Your choices are the same, however you got here. But then, I’m not in your position.”

“ ¿Who else is?” She drew a card and almost discarded a ten of diamonds before she recalled that Seá±ora Arias had picked up her last ten, and she switched to the jack of clubs. “I doubt my problem is common. I might be unique.”

“You may be right, Pansita.” Susana sipped a rum coke and picked a card from the deck. “I certainly don’t know of anyone else.” As Pansy drew again, Susana asked her, “ ¿Isn’t there a principle in science that says the only meaningful questions are those that can be answered by some kind of experiment? You were a scientist once.” She smiled: “It was only four days ago, by Seá±or Pinkerton’s reckoning.”

Pansy heard the name and thought, “ ¡Yes! ¡That was it! I’m Jack… ¡I’m Jack Pinkerton!” She threw a two of clubs. “Yes, but… Seá±ora, your words prove that I ain’t ‘just a campesina’. I’m your Seá±or Pinkton… Pinkerton–your lover–in the body of a campesina.” Seá±ora Arias was a bruja–that was the only possible explanation.

“Of course. Or better, you were Jack Pinkerton. And this game is evidence too. ‘Gin rummy’ isn’t a Honduran game, and a campesina wouldn’t know it. Or spaghetti Calabrese, either. I left a couple of details unchanged from Seá±or Pinkerton’s body, too, such as the birthmark on your butt, and your green eyes. And that scar on your arm…”–Pansy involuntarily glanced at it–“That’s Seá±or Pinkerton’s too. I told you, I wanted you to know who you were–or more accurately, who you might have been.” She drew from the deck and dropped a nine of spades.

Picking it up, Pansy asked, “ ¿Which? ¿Which is it? ¿Who I was, or who I might’ve been?”

“I told you the answer to that question when I changed your past and made you into Pansy Baca. You’ve always been a girl. ¿Don’t you remember? Your first date was with a boy, not a girl. ¿True?”

“Yes…” She hated to admit it. “Yes, I remember.” ’Renzo had taken her to that nice restaurant in Comayagua, and then to a movie. The kiss he had given her was a special memory! “But… but that ain’t possible, Seá±ora, so I don’t trust my memory. If you could change my body into someone else’s, then you could change my memory.” But that memory? It had to be real! “ It’s more possible than changing the past.” She discarded the jack of spades.

Susana picked it up. It completed a run, and she called “ ¡Gin!” and laid down her cards. Then she continued, “You’re right–but ‘possible’ isn’t the same as ‘correct’. No, it’s up to you to decide just who you think you are, and how you became who you are. I don’t care what conclusion you come to. The bottom line is, you’re certainly a campesina now, and my maid, and that’s all there is to it.” She giggled as she dealt a new hand and pointed out, “You know, the name of your other self–Seá±or Pinkerton–was appropriate, in a way. ¿Do you know Puccini’s opera, ‘Madame Butterfly’?”

“No, Seá±ora. I’m just an ignorant campesina, ¿true? ¿What would I know about opera?”

Picking up her hand, Susana laughed. “Oh, you might’ve known. You are an ignorant campesina–mostly–but not just an ignorant campesina. I left you some of your old knowledge. Enough to remind you of your old life. I didn’t take any of your knowledge of music, for example. Anyway, in the opera a norteamericano naval officer seduces and abandons a teenage girl. The officer’s name was Pinkerton, Lieutenant Pinkerton, and that’s why I called you by that name. You were a lot like him, before I changed you. Not really a bad man, just weak and thoughtless. But now you’re more like the girl: a potential victim.” She arranged her hand and drew a card.

Pansy flushed. “Well, I ain’t going to follow that script, Seá±ora. Ain’t nobody going to seduce me.” Was her true name Pinkerton, then? Or was the name just Suzi’s whim? She picked up the card and threw a seven in turn.

“You had better hope not. If you get pregnant without a husband–again–you’ll be in deep trouble. But I don’t need to tell you that. After all, you’re Pansy Baca and your parents were old-fashioned Honduran peasants. They taught you to be careful. ¿Didn’t they?”

“Yes, Seá±ora.”

Susana picked up Pansy’s seven. “Yes, indeed. But I wonder if you really learned their lesson. You worked for Mamá¡ Santiago in La Ceiba, ¿true?”

Pansy wanted to throw down her cards and flee, but her job was her only support for herself and her daughter. She had to endure the taunts of Seá±ora Arias until she could find a way to regain what she had lost, so she responded, “Yes, Seá±ora. But I think you had some part in that. You gave me my past. Or so you said, the day before yesterday. ¿Was that the truth?” She picked a card without looking at her hand.

Susana had to admit the justice of Pansy’s protest. If it hadn’t really been Susana’s doing, as Pansy believed, then it had been Don Pablo’s, and the doctors’. Pansy wasn’t to blame. “Yes, you’re right, and in fairness I can’t hold that against you. My other point still stands, though. Soon you’ll need a man, and you’d better be careful he doesn’t take advantage of you. Get his wedding ring before you get his child.”

“You told me that yesterday, Seá±ora. You want me to marry a peasant. I won’t do that. I’ll get back to my old life. I’ll teach, or… or… ¡or something!” It was hard to imagine how, but she was determined.

“You’re free to try. I think you’ll marry, though. You said it was a woman’s duty to stay home and raise children.” She picked up Pansy’s last discard. It completed a run, and she called gin again. Then she added, “I took the trouble to look up a couple of Bible references, and it seems your old opinions have some authority behind them. The apostle Paul told women to be subject to their husbands. And in the Old Testament, read Genesis 3:16.” Pansy flushed and looked down. Susana giggled and told her, “I forgot: you’re ‘just an ignorant campesina’ and you can’t read. Anyway, God said to Eve–and to all women–‘Thy desire shall be to thy husband, and he shall rule over thee.’ That’s the way it is here, girl.”

“I didn’t never claim to follow the Bible literally, Seá±ora, and I ain’t going to accept them passages. Genesis says a lot of things that ain’t accepted today, even by the priests.”

“ ¿No? I suppose that’s true, although the church still teaches that particular point. Ask the priest in La Libertad. And I think your parents taught you that too–to be obedient to your husband. Still, I grant that as Seá±or Pinkerton you were a dedicated rationalist. Instead of quoting Biblical authority, you insisted that evolution and genetics fitted women for bearing and rearing children. No matter. Now you’ll follow both the Bible and your ‘scientific’ opinion. You won’t be a professional. Never again. I won’t stop you; your new body will. ‘Thy desire’ will trap you, and ‘thy husband shall rule over thee’.”

Pansy cast her eyes down. She wouldn’t admit the truth of Seá±ora Arias’s assertion, even though both the reasoned opinion of Seá±or Pinkton and the upbringing she had received as Pansy agreed on that point: girls were meant to marry and raise a family. Instead she asked to be excused. “Please, I got laundry to iron, Seá±ora.”

Susana accepted Pansy’s retreat as an admission of defeat. “Very well. But you’ll be happier if you take your mother’s advice: find some macho young campesino to give you babies. It’s the only acceptable life for a poor campesina; and even if you reject your old notions now, you’ll still have to live by them. You’ll see: eventually I’ll attend your wedding.”

Pansy fled without further argument. Later, while Lilia nursed, she tried to find a flaw in Seá±ora Arias’s reasoning. There was nothing obvious. And as Seá±ora Arias had noted, both as Seá±or Pinkton and as Pansy Baca, her own opinions had always been the same. Nevertheless, she was determined to fight her way back. Somehow, some day she’d climb back.

Kudos

Comments

Logic

I see she is coming back, but the journey is incremental. I have a feeling that too much memory at once will be a problem: a little memory return, a little adjustment, a little acceptance: finally reality.

Portia

Memory return

Yes, it's a gradual process, over the next few days. But what then, after her Pansy memories are all recovered? The problem of identity will remain.

Susana

Self-improvement

Evidently Susanna, Don Padro and the doctors hope and expect that Pansy will adapt to her new position in life, and will eventually give up all ambition other than to be a perfect little ignorant campesina, maid and mother of a dozen or so children.

Unfortunately, unless either some of the academic / literacy memory erasures turn out to not be permanent, Susanna at some point allows Pansy some extra time off, or Pansy somehow manages to find a lover that has sufficient finances to allow Pansy to reduce her working hours, it's hard to see how she can improve her station in life - after all, she's caught in a catch-22 situation: she's currently stuck as Susanna's maid, as she can't seek better alternative employment without improved literacy; however at the moment she cannot improve her literacy while she's stuck as Susanna's maid.

Given you said in a few comments on earlier episodes that some people involved in the project would regret their decision to take on Pansy, I imagine that at some point in the story you're going to give Pansy the opportunity to break out of her new pre-ordained life... but it's going to be very interesting to see the mechanism you use.

Bike Resources

There are 10 kinds of people in the world - those who understand binary and those who don't...

As the right side of the brain controls the left side of the body, then only left-handers are in their right mind!

"Pansy is freed?"

I think you might need a refresher visit to the dictionary for the definition of "free." The primary definition is "not under the control or in the power of another; able to act or be done as one wishes."

This is just to give Susana another way to torture George ... and to give the Mengele brothers one last shot at crushing him completely. One thing is for sure ... there is no freedom here, and hasn't been for quite some time.

*sigh*

Randa

Absolutely baffled...

...where is any redemption here? No free will; someone else has determined how this man, now woman's life should be led. No choice whatsoever, and the choices made for her are stereotypically anti-woman and even anti-gay in a way.

girls were meant to marry and raise a family. I know this is a character's idea, but I see nothing in the narrative that shows any regret or disappointment; very deistic - George is created and then exists solely at the whim of others, unaided by any greater power or deity.

And in the midst of this, how in anybody's world, as Randa states,is this free? George's psyche has been transformed. Where is the character development - Pansy's development as human being has been determined by someone else; all the choices that would actually make her a good mother as a person have been removed. She may be capable of bearing children, but her life only started recently; how can she even function as an adult? Development is more than just information. She still remains vilified by people who have committed much more evil than George ever could, and we'll never know if George learned anything, since he no longer exists.

Using gender as a punishment never has appealed to me, but at least in some stories, the person transformed still exists in some fashion. Here, it's Pansy, an artificially created personality who exists at the whim of others and who remains unable to learn anything by the process other than that she is almost a non-person to be used and abused by others, simply because they want to. Her freedom and existence are like the treatment of native Americans; they may not have all the land they had stolen, but at least they get casinos, tax-free cigarettes and fetal alcohol syndrome. Golly!

Dio vi benedica tutti
Con grande amore e di affetto
Andrea Lena

To be alive is to be vulnerable. Madeleine L'Engle
Love, Andrea Lena

Amen

'Drea,

I guess we can only hope that there is a house of cards in all this mental finnegling, that Pansy's brain washing will somehow be allowed to ease up a bit. George is dead, without question, but Pansy is still a person. The artificial constructs will hopefully erode. The biggest problem I see is the mental abuse she has gone through, not to say the physical abuse isn't terrible. I just hope that Pansy reaches some level of acceptance of her situation and is able to handle her new life. I hope her intellect returns. She has been raped in the worst ways. I know the author doesn't want us to be comfortable with the situation. I just hope Pansy is allowed to have a life under her volition.

Portia

About Lilia

While I've come to appreciate the deeper currents in your novel, I've got to say that Part 17 is a great little TG vignette. Neatly done, SQ. I'm reasonably certain that Pansy will find a way forward, but I think Susana is beyond redemption. The open question is what will be left of George.

By the way, am I correct that Lilia will be a fair skinned, green eyed girl who will look nothing like Pansy? Wont Lilia's appearance confound efforts to subsume George in Pansy's personality?

Thank you, SQ.

Vignette?

You're right, it is. Our beloved author (actually, torturer is a better word) has more strings to her bow and I checked up on an old story a few episodes ago but kept quiet until now. Go to FM and search for T D Coskren as an author and I think you may be interested. There's a story there that I read several years ago.

I know a lot of people here will be appalled by what's happened to George but please remember that it's a story. I read crime fiction and even worse things happen there - it doesn't mean either I or the writer advocates cold blooded murder except as a plot device. Like Cathy's 'blue light' this technology doesn't actually exist and in all probability never will.

It's a gripping yarn though that certainly makes you think about exactly what identity is.

Robi

The thing about crime fiction ...

... is that you don't usually follow the victim through several years of slow torture as they're whittled away to nothing and twisted into a caricature by a group of cheerfully inhuman monsters. Instead, the reader comes in after the murder or rape or torture and follows the people dedicated to bringing the monster who committed the atrocity to justice. In addition, the crime often happens "off-camera" so you don't even have to live through the event WITH the victim. You can imagine the horror, but you don't have to experience it in a "blow by blow" manner.

People are reacting the way they are precisely because of how Suzy chose to tell the story, following George's odyssey as he is slowly and inexorably destroyed. Since we readers often put ourselves into the role of the central character, it's no wonder that folks react to the central injustice of it. After all, would you want it to happen to you? Also, so many TG people have had their own sense of identity challenged, and many have been forced to live as something they were not for years before they were able to break free of what others wanted and chart their own course.

Since identity and self-determination are at the core of the TG experience for many, is it any wonder what's happening to George seems to bring out this reaction?

Randa

re: story

enough , lets put george out of his misery or turn him loose.
robert

re: story

enough , lets put george out of his misery or turn him loose.
robert

Does this mean you want to do it Twice!

I'm all for it!

LoL
Rita

Age is an issue of mind over matter.
If you don't mind, it doesn't matter!
(Mark Twain)

LoL
Rita

I don't believe I have seen real complaints here.

I believe I have observed, however, that folks seem to accept that accolades and praise and acceptance are almost inevitable on face value. But when someone expresses even the slightest of misgivings about a story, even if it is said merely as an opinion, someone invariably drags out the phrase, "It's only a story!" It's frightfully hard to disengage our feelings and beliefs from a story in which we have invested. After all, isn't that what the author wants us to do? Anne

Lots of comments to answer!

Yes, George is hanging on by a fingernail, and his chances of survival don't look good; but there will be no more messing about with George/Pansy's brain--neither with memory, nor with any other aspect of his mental life. (As the author, I have some special foreknowledge of the future!) Pansy will have the opportunity to regain literacy, and she will take it. There will be other opportunities to achieve a satisfying life--but I don't want to say too much here, lest I give away the ending. A horror story? Yes, I admit it--but no worse than some others, many in real life. "Only a story" is true, of course, and the technology for much of the story doesn't exist yet--but it's on the horizon. Some may already have been developed, in secret. I'd hope that some of the other issues raised (like the nature of one's identity, or the proper role of women in society, or the nature of class structure) might attract some attention.

Susana

social issues

Part 17 is not the best context for a discussion of the social issues developed in your novel, but my assessment is that Pansy's experience suggests that social class (or caste) and education are more determinative than gender in establishing boundaries for personal growth. But "personal growth" is not the ultimate in human experience and is easily trumped by a loving relationship. There the gender chacnge may be pivotal for Pansy/George.

But, Part 17 is clearly one of the most salacious segments of the story. We can return to "deep thoughts" as Pansy moves forward.

Thanks.

Deep thoughts...

of which many more lie ahead, as Pansy adjusts to a normal life without further interference. But the road ahead is rocky, as you might imagine.

Susana

Yes.

This story is horrifying. Does it push buttons I really don't want pushed? Yes.

A testament to the story telling abilities Suzy has and uses.

Myself, I didn't like this chapter. I thought it was unnecessarily cruel on top of the other cruelties Pansy has endured. But that's just me. I don't do characters who simply accept or are unable to rise above the 'set' limitations.

I'm not condemning the story, by the way, or even this rather uncomfortable chapter in Pansy's unwilling journey. Just saying...

Except for the transplants and chips, a lot of the things in this story are already possible. Having worked in the medical profession for years and having seen 'therapy' done on people, and having heard about other things done, the possibility is not only very real, but very frightening.

So I take this story as not only a story, but a warning.

"It can't happen here" is an ages old way to ignore things that really are 'here'.

Having said this much, well done Suzy. You've made us think, and worry a little bit while we do.

Maggie

Technologies in the story

Technologies in the story are largely possible today. The massive transplants involved are probably beyond what's possible now--but it seems to me that every year, more complicated and sophisticated transplants are attempted, with success, and I don't think they are beyond possibility. The radio-controlled brain chips (to me, the most frightening technology) have been possible for half a century (Google "Jose Delgado"), but are not in use for ethical reasons--and I suspect they may be under surreptitious investigation now. They are simply too useful to be neglected by those who lack scuples--and God knows there are many of those people!)

Pansy's role in the "research" in the novel is now only to remain under unobtrusive observation. Don Pablo and his doctors will no longer interfere. Even Suzi will let up on her, as Pansy adapts to her circumstances. (That is not to say that Pansy's troubles are over--but they will be normal troubles, not connected with the project.

But yes, the whole project is horrific! That has never stopped those who see others as object to be used, and not people who have value as independent entities.

Susana

Perhaps...

...at some point Susanna realises the game has gone far enough, and that no amount of teasing / torturing will persuade Pansy to accept that she's merely a lower class maid. After he re-evaluation, she'll presumably start giving Pansy a little more time / space. After all, with the doctors presumably under strict orders not to intervene but merely to observe, Susanna will presumably realise that with the option of removing Pansy's ambition / intellect no longer available, the only choice available to preserve Pansy's sanity and life will be to give her the time and space to study. Basic literacy will obviously come first, and hopefully she'll get to grips with that fairly quickly, and then go on to other courses of study, so that several years down the line Pansy can have the option of a better / more rewarding career than the one she's been pushed into for the past couple of years. No doubt during that time we'll see if the memory wiping (both events and knowledge) is completely permanent. Hopefully by the time the chips and tracker have biodegraded (end of year 4, if I recall correctly) and cannot be used, even in extremis, Pansy will be in her own household. After all, the maiding skills will also be incredibly useful for ordinary childcare and household maintenance. Maybe she'll find a husband who's relatively undemanding, other than requiring a clean house and a meal on the table. Maybe even (probably a remote possibility) teach him to cook a simple meal for himself and do his own ironing :)

However, having said that, I imagine it will take a few more episodes before Susanna comes to that decision, and in the early stages of study at least will probably still be incredibly scornful that Pansy should have the audacity to plough her own furrow.

Bike Resources

There are 10 kinds of people in the world - those who understand binary and those who don't...

As the right side of the brain controls the left side of the body, then only left-handers are in their right mind!

Somewhere the Authors needle got stuck!

For three chapters we have read about Pansy's limited options, over and over and over again until I want to scream.

It appears Don Pablo is not the moralist he claims to be, my word is my bond - his word cannot be trusted!
He, his daughter Susanna, and the doctors from hell are still manipulating and modifying Georgeâ€™s memory and responses.

So that pretty well narrows down his motives, (a)greed -to prove and on sell to his client base (Cuba etc.) and (B) revenge for his daughter, who by the way if she is as half as smart as she thinks she is, would never have been caught in a relationship and become pregnant with George whom she deeply despises. She was obviously a willing participant!

Initially I felt the story had some merit until it became a vehicle to justify the excessive and immoral and unethical actions against a bigoted and male chauvinistic pig!

Sorry Suzy I'm outta here!

LoL
Rita

Age is an issue of mind over matter.
If you don't mind, it doesn't matter!
(Mark Twain)

LoL
Rita

Kicking a dead horse

This story is a remarkable accomplishment. I donâ€™t think weâ€™ve ever seen such a long and detailed account of the total feminization of a man and then the destruction of his identity. At first, it hit almost every forced fem button in my genome. It even got some I didnâ€™t know I had. Itâ€™s a long, expansive exploration of what it means to be a person, and Iâ€™ve been totally sucked into it from the day I discovered it. I canâ€™t not read it.

At the same time, I hate it. Itâ€™s driving me crazy.

I could have melted with pleasure after Pansyâ€™s first encounter with lipstick. For most of the first half of the story, Pansyâ€™s allowed to enjoy some of the things that were happening to her, and so we could enjoy it too. We all got sucked into identifying with Pansy.

Then, everything turned really dark. It was actually dark from the beginning, but I was enjoying it so much, I could ignore what I knew was to come. In the second half of the story, weâ€™ve watched the advanced, heartless, arbitrary dismemberment and utter humiliation of a human being. That he was the worthless Tom cat, George Deon, made it easier to accept. But once he had substantially become Pansy, who we not only didnâ€™t hate, but liked, the constant cruelty and the indifferent attitudes towards her by those inflicting the cruelty just became too much.

Frankly the level of cruelty in this story has made me nauseous. Whether you waterboard repeatedly, physically lop off limb after limb, or brain part after brain part; itâ€™s torture. But itâ€™s not just torture while itâ€™s happening, this torture lasts a lifetime.

The ruthless brutality of this story is beyond my capacity to understand. It is populated with the most amoral, sadistic and despicable characters to appear in such a long and complex TG story. I think the main characters involved in Pansyâ€™s humiliation and destruction must be the offspring of Joseph Mengele (for those who donâ€™t know the name, he was the sadistic German SS concentration camp â€œdoctorâ€ who earned the nick name Angel of Death because he performed â€œexperimentsâ€ on humans that were not all that different than the ones Don Pablo and his friends and family have visited upon Pansy, among others).

Because I have written two stories with similar narratives, Boy Nanny and Jacqui, you might think Iâ€™d be far more comfortable as the sleazy George Deon, who seduced and left several women pregnant, turned into exactly what he thought his lovers should be.

After all, the irony is perfect

Too, the details of the transformation are riveting. Each step is explored in considerable detail, and unless you harden your heart towards her, which you have to do if youâ€™re going to read the second half, you feel all the pain, guilt, confusion and remorse that Pansy/George does.

We also get small hints of the joy she feels too, like when she gets a new dress or suckles an infant. Sadly, aside from details of the transformation, we donâ€™t get to share enough of Pansyâ€™s thoughts, except when sheâ€™s dueling verbally with Susana or one of the other heartless characters SuzyQ has shared with us. Sheâ€™s apparently content when performing her duties as a maid, but we never really get to hear her say it.

Because I have been down this road in my own writing and reading, I struggled to understand why Iâ€™ve become so agitated, so disturbed by this story. Many others who commented feel like I do. And I think the driving force behind our disapproval is revealed in a simple counting of words. We get way more words of horror than everything else together. My guess is that 70-90% of the text is spent describing details of Pansyâ€™s dismemberment,the dissolution of her memories, and the fun the others have watching her suffer through more pain as she realizes sheâ€™s just been diminished further.

Actually, the desctruction of George is handled quite well, on many levels.

In the end though, we are repulsed by all the time we have to spend with Don Pablo, Susana, and their crew. Susana spends the entire 17th chapter beating up on Pansy. Some of the conversations are repeated over and over. It was like watching a cruel cat play with an injured mouse.

And for those with even a rudimentary grasp of justice this story goes way too far. The punishment way exceeds the crime. We have a lot of trouble balancing crime and punishment the American (OK, Norteamericano) justice system. We punish hard and long. Even so, whatâ€™s being done to Pansy (aside even from turning her into a woman) flies way past justice, or even revenge, and on into the realm of â€“ what else can we call it â€“ casual sadism.

Dan Pabloâ€™s whole crew delights in Pansyâ€™s destruction. They probably also pull the wings off flies when they catch them â€“ and weâ€™d be glad to let them do that if they just left people alone. So we are left to spend way too much time with a highly empowered group of sadists ordering the destruction of a person first for punishment, then revenge, and finally, whether they planned it or not, just the ultimate prurient interest of their cruel, psychopathic personalities. Jose was bad to Pansy, but this chapter reveals Susana to be even worse.

The structure of this commentary is like the structure of the story. By now, you probably think I totally hate it. After all, I just spent 10 paragraphs trashing it.

But do you remember that I started off with a paragraph of compliments? They actually set the context for the rest of this, but after so many following paragraphs of bitching, itâ€™s not surprising if you have forgotten that. This story is like that. It touches on important themes, usually in a paragraph or two (Aunt Marianaâ€™s talk with Pansy at the part comes to mind), and then turns and spends the next 10 pages brutalizing Pansy. The balance is way lopsided, and as a result, we are left with the sad and self-hating feelings that arise from watching someone being tortured. I may not be able to turn my eyes away, but I feel like lesser of a person because of that.

BTW, as a scientist, I feel compelled to warn you tha the use of the word 'experiment' in this story has nothing to do with actual experimentation. Just like Mengele, what these people are doing aren't experiments. They're simply playing with dangerous equipment and trying this and that at their whim. Aside from the utter lack of ethics and disregard for their unwilling human subject, no decent scientist would ever get near any behavior like this.

Only A Baby Machine -- Part 17, Who am I?

Comments

Logic

Memory return

Self-improvement

"Pansy is freed?"

Absolutely baffled...

Amen

About Lilia

Vignette?

The thing about crime fiction ...

re: story

re: story

Does this mean you want to do it Twice!

I don't believe I have seen real complaints here.

Lots of comments to answer!

social issues

Deep thoughts...

Yes.

Technologies in the story

Perhaps...

Somewhere the Authors needle got stuck!

Kicking a dead horse

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