Only A Baby Machine -- Part 19, The Dating Game (From The Other Side!)

Part 19 -- The Dating Game (From The Other Side!)

Pansy takes the first few steps towards resolving her identity crisis--and discovers what it's like to be a girlfriend, as she goes out on her first date.

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February 8
-- Thursday morning Pansy wanted to sleep a little late, but Lilia had other ideas. After feeding her daughter, Pansy nearly went back to sleep, telling herself that she really needed extra rest. In truth, the baby hadn’t allowed her a full night’s sleep since she had arrived, but by this time Pansy had learned to feed and/or clean Lilia with a minimum of fuss and trouble, almost without waking up. The sounds of breakfast being prepared, and the smell of fresh coffee, changed her mind, and she got up, showered, and dressed. Marta was still preparing the food when Pansy arrived, and she began to help Marta as usual.

“ ¿What are you doing?” the older woman asked. “ ¿Did you forget today’s your day off?”

“Not at all, Marta. I just couldn’t lie there any longer with that smell of coffee in the air, and as long as I’m here, I guess I might as well help a bit. After all, you’ll be minding Lilita for me this afternoon.” She set the table; the Ariases were due in a few minutes. “Marta, you told me you knew Seá±or Sáºlivan–Alberto Sáºlivan, that is. Susana says he has a reputation as a Don Juan. Those were her words. ¿What can you tell me?”

“It’s mixed. Beto’s like a lot of men: sometimes he’s a gentleman, and sometimes he’s… well, let’s say he can be a bit pushy. I guess the best way to put it is that he’ll take whatever he can get, and he’ll try to make an opportunity, but he won’t force you. Now remember, this is all gossip, and not too reliable.” She paused and looked down. “However, there’s more than one bastard in La Libertad and Comayagua with a strong resemblance to Beto. Please, Pansy, take Seá±ora Arias’s warning at face value. Be careful.”

Pansy shuddered at the idea of another pregnancy. She knew the warning was serious. Susana had suffered when Seá±or Cualquiera left her pregnant, and if Pansy got pregnant she’d see that Pansy’s life would become a living hell. “I will. And thanks for the warning,” she said gratefully. She wondered if she should get contraceptive pills. Some insurance would help if she succumbed to Beto’s blandishments–and from her store of “Pansy” memories she recalled how insistent her body could be. But she had no idea how to get a prescription.

She spent the morning sewing, with a Motley Crá¼e CD playing softly in the background. She thought about doing a bit of botanizing, but Lilia would be too much of a burden, and she told herself she needed a rest. Somehow the orchids, and the other plants and birds which had been such a passion for Seá±or Cualquiera, no longer drew her as strongly. When she became tired of needlepoint, she played with her daughter or son, or turned to another sewing project. The other women on the finca envied her artistic ability with a needle, and she herself sometimes wondered at the dismal lack of skill and utter lack of interest that her earlier self had possessed.

After lunch she helped with the dishes, day off or no. The early afternoon was a repeat of the morning, but around half past two she began preparing for her date. She was done by half past three, and stood before Marta in a dress that Seá±ora Arias had given her: form-fitting, bright red, with a deeply scooped neckline and a skirt flaring around her hips. She had embellished it with a single white pansy embroidered on the bodice. Her long glossy black hair was held back with a red ribbon. Red pumps and purse matched the skirt and hair ribbon. Marta gave her approval: “You look absolutely gorgeous, Pansy,” she exclaimed. “ ¡A man would need to be blind not to fall in love with you in a moment!”

At about 4:15, Beto’s red Celica came toiling up the road. Pansy’s spirits lifted as it parked by the house in the shade of a flame tree. Alberto Sáºlivan got out, walked to the door, and knocked. Marta greeted him, “Good afternoon, Seá±or Sáºlivan. You’re here for Pansy, ¿no? Just a minute, I’ll get her.”

Pansy entered the room shyly. This was her first date since the transmogrification of Seá±or Cualquiera in January, and she was as nervous as when she had first gone dancing with Rico. Seá±or Sáºlivan, in an open-collared white shirt and light brown slacks, smiled with pleasure as she came in. She responded, “Seá±or, it’s good to see you again. I’m ready.”

He took her hand, lifted it, and kissed it. A thrill ran through her. “You’re a vision of loveliness today, Pansita. Please, though, just call me Beto. I’ve been looking forward to this evening ever since you agreed to come, and I’ll try to make it a pleasant one for you.” He turned to Marta: “Give my regards to Seá±or and Seá±ora Arias. I hope to see them soon.” He held his arm out; Pansy took it, and he led her out to the Celica.

During the drive to La Libertad, Beto asked how Pansy had come by her interest in nature in general, and flowers in particular. “Last week you told me you became interested in orchids as a child. Petunia says that you’re an expert amateur botanist. ¿Is that true?”

Pansy laughed uncertainly. She trusted that Petunia hadn’t told Beto too much about her. “Yes and no. Yes, like I told you, I’ve loved flowers, or better, plants, for many years, and I love orchids in particular. But Petunia’s too kind in her description of my ability. I like plants, but I ain’t no expert. Especially here–I tried to learn a little about local plants, but I’m basically ignorant. ¿Don’t you recall? I didn’t even know the jácaro tree in their back yard. I ain’t… isn’t no real botanist. I’m strictly self-taught. But I don’t think women should be confined to domestic affairs.” At least now I don’t think so, she told herself silently. “I encourage Catalina Morales, the young daughter of the foreman at Los Ocotes, to pursue her own interest in those things, and I hope my own little girl will be interested in more than clothes and boys when she grows up.”

“ ¿But why? ¿What purpose is there for a woman to learn these things?”

“ ¿What purpose for a man, for that matter? I learned botany just for my own enjoyment.”

Beto grinned. “There are better ways to enjoy yourself.”

Pansy squirmed slightly. She hadn’t had sex since she had been forced into prostitution by Seá±or Ovando a year ago. Unfortunately, Beto’s attitude towards women reminded her more than a little of Seá±or Cualquiera, as Susana had noted. But every man here had a resemblance to Seá±or Cualquiera. And she missed sex badly. She recalled Susana’s words: “You’ll want a man as much as you ever wanted a woman.” Well, she did: but she wouldn’t settle for the campesino Susana intended for her. She’d find a good middle-class man–like Beto–and escape. She responded to Beto with the remark that there was no accounting for personal tastes, but she couldn’t resist adding, “There’s no reason why we women should restrict ourselves to ‘proper’ pastimes. I enjoy needlepoint, and I suppose that’s ‘proper’ for a woman. But I like botany too, and science, whether it’s ‘proper’ or not.”

He nodded. “I can’t dispute that. It’s just a little odd, that’s all. Maybe it comes from your early upbringing in the United States. I suppose girls are raised differently there.”

Not to mention a boy, she thought. Pansy decided to change the subject; the safest topic, and one that probably would appeal to him, might be himself. “ ¿And you? ¿What do you do for fun when you… you aren’t buying or selling coffee? Besides chasing young women, that is.”

Chuckling, he commented, “There’s a touch of vinegar in you, I think. Well, I’m fond of sweet-and-sour, and I’m beginning to think that describes you well, my dear. To answer your question: I spend most of my time on business. You know I’m a coffee merchant. I raise cattle, too, and I have a few hectares of land for my own coffee.” Pansy began to protest that she wanted his pastimes, but he forestalled her. “Yes, I know that’s not what you meant. What I’m saying is that my businesses are my pastimes. I enjoy them. Oh, yes, I enjoy sports. I follow soccer, and I swim occasionally, but mostly it’s business. And chasing pretty young women, of course.”

“ ¿How did you get into the coffee business in the first place? ¿Family?”

He cursed a mule walking across the road, and swerved to miss it. “Yes, my father was in the business. He started it about forty years ago, and brought me into it ten years ago when I was only eighteen, just out of high school. He taught me what he knew, and then he retired two… no, three years ago. He still retains ownership, but now I run it completely.”

“ ¿Do you have a staff–accountants and the like–or is it pretty much a one-man show?”

“In between. It’s a small business, but I don’t run it by myself.” He glanced at her. “Pansita, you’re working as a maid, ¿aren’t you? ¿For Seá±ora Arias?” He looked back at the road. They were near the first houses of Ojos de Agua.

She swore silently. Whatever she said seemed to be out of character. Reluctantly she replied, “Yes, of course. You know that.”

“If I’m not being too inquisitive, I’d like to find out a little more about you. Your background doesn’t seem to fit your position. ¿How much schooling have you had?”

She swore to herself again. She thought about dodging the question, or lying outright, but she couldn’t invent a plausible story. But then, she didn’t really have to lie. Seá±or Cualquiera may have had a college education, but Pansy Baca didn’t. And Pansy Baca had a perfectly acceptable biography. Her girlhood in San Pedro was more real to her than Seá±or Cualquiera’s boyhood. “Not very much, Beto”

He laughed. “You seem a lot better educated.” Except for her peasant tongue, of course. “ ¿Why, in the name of God, are you working as a maid? ¿Why are you here in Honduras at all?”

Frustrated and angry, she told him, “I didn’t choose to be working as a maid, Seá±or.” Her voice began to rise. “ ¡I ain’t got no choice! I can’t return to the United States. I wasn’t born there, I was took there as a baby, and my parents took me back here. Being a maid is all I can do right now. I got to support myself and my baby.” She felt tears beginning to flow down her cheek, and her voice broke. “Please… please, Seá±or, don’t ask me any more. The subject is painful.”

Belatedly he realized how sensitive the subject was. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you. Please forgive me. Yes, I understand how you must feel.” He was silent while he maneuvered the Celica across the tiny suspension bridge over the Ráo Humuya, then avoided a large mudhole. Then he continued, “For a minute I was going to ask if you like your job, but that’s a stupid question.”

Pansy pulled herself together and managed a smile. “Someone told me there ain’t… aren’t no stupid questions, but I know that ai… isn’t true–I manage quite a few myself. No, yours wasn’t stupid, you just stumbled into a mine field unaware.”

Beto sighed. “I might’ve known. Or at least suspected.” He glanced over at her. “You aren’t the standard model, of course. I knew that. But it should’ve been clear that, whatever forced you into your present position, it wasn’t a good conversation topic. Not now, anyway.”

Pansy’s heart sank. Beto’s curiosity was understandable, and she saw that he, or any other acceptable man, would need some explanation for her curious situation. “I’ll maybe tell you some of the story, I think,” she informed him reluctantly. “But not now. You’re right; this isn’t the time or place.”

He agreed. “It’s not really important. You’re a lovely girl here for a wonderful evening with me, and your past is completely irrelevant.”

They entered the outskirts of La Libertad. Flimsy shanties gave way to neat pastel-washed houses with wrought-iron fences and brilliantly flowering shrubs, and the dirt road changed to cobblestone. The car jounced slowly to the central plaza, where the old colonial-style adobe church fronted on a shady plaza. Pansy asked, “Beto, tell me, ¿how old is the church here? I’ve been attending it with the Arias family since I moved here with Seá±ora Arias, but I never thought to ask her. And she probably wouldn’t know anyway; she’s as new here as I am.”

Beto frowned and thought. “They taught us that in school, but I don’t remember. A couple of hundred years ago, I think, but it’s been repaired so much that I don’t know how much is original. It’s adobe, after all, and it needs repair regularly.” Then he brightened and pointed out his office. “There, in that building. ¿Do you see the sign?”

She peered where he pointed. A small white sign was set into a pastel yellow wall next to a barred door. “Alberto Sáºlivan Cáa. Aquá se compra y se vende café fino.” Nothing distinguished it from other storefronts. “Yes, I see it. But it don’t stand out so good. ¿Wouldn’t it be better for business if it was more obvious?”

“Not really, or at least I don’t think so. You see, there are only so many coffee growers here, and they all know me. The same’s true for coffee buyers.”

They turned up an unpaved side street. Chickens wandered in front of them, and for a moment an officious rooster challenged them before retreating prudently. The houses here were modest, but well-kept. “We’re almost home, Pansita. That’s it ahead, pink with blue shutters.”

The house was bigger than its neighbors, but not much. It was plain that Alberto Sáºlivan wasn’t wealthy, but neither was he poverty-stricken. Pansy commented, “It’s a pretty house, Beto. ¿How long have you lived here?”

“About five years. It’s not much, but I’m hoping to move to a bigger house eventually. Right now I’m putting the profits from the business back into it. I want it to grow.”

They turned into the driveway and pulled under a sheltering canopy. Beto got out, moved quickly to Pansy’s door, and opened it. He held out his hand, assisting her as she left the car, and offered her his arm. She took it, and they walked to the door.

Inside the house the air was redolent with cooking chicken. They were greeted by a short stout woman, about fifty years old, who announced, “Seá±or Beto, your dinner will be ready in fifteen minutes. Or maybe twenty. And this must be Pansy. Welcome, Seá±orita. I’m Filomena, the housekeeper, cook, and babysitter for this overgrown boy.” He blushed as she looked at him fondly. “He’s a good man, as long as he’s kept firmly in hand.”

“Don’t pay any attention to her, Pansita,” he told her firmly. “She still thinks I’m ten years old. But she’s the best cook in La Libertad, so I tolerate her insubordination.”

Laughing, Filomena scolded him. “You’re still ten tears old inside, Beto-- ¡if that old! Twenty-seven, going on eight, maybe. ¿Do you deny it?”

“Wouldn’t matter if I did, ’Mena. You don’t pay attention to anything you don’t want to hear. You know what’s what.”

“If I don’t always listen to you, that’s only because half of what you say is utter nonsense. And the other half isn’t all that sensible either. Now leave me alone, and maybe I’ll get this meal fixed for you.”

Beto chuckled affectionately and told Pansy, “Filomena’s a wonderful cook, and a good housekeeper, but she’s convinced that no one wearing pants has a brain in his head.” To his servant he said, “Very well, ’Mena. We’ll leave you to your artistry. Call us when you’re ready.” Then Beto took her hand gently and led her to the living room. While Pansy sat next to him on the couch, Beto asked, “ ¿What music would you like to hear? I have a fair selection.” There was a rack of CD’s next to the player. He had several Beatles albums, a Pink Floyd, two classical guitar CD’s, and three mariachi albums. Pansy asked for a Beatles album, and Beto grinned. “Petunia wins her bet. She told me you had strange musical tastes. She said you’d pick the Beatles. I thought you’d take the Pink Floyd. OK, Beatles it is.” He fussed with the player and in a short time Abbey Lane floated softly from the speakers.

When he sat back down, she snuggled up to him. He put his arm around her, and she laid her head on his shoulder. They sat there, lost the music, until Filomena summoned them impatiently: “Seá±or Sáºlivan, Pansy, the chicken’s getting cold. ¡Come!”

The meal was marvelous. Beto’s opinion of his cook was justified. The chicken was perfectly spiced, and the rice was fluffy. Of course, the soft light and romantic music didn’t hurt. Somewhere deep inside, Seá±or Cualquiera commented, “He knows what he’s about. Be careful, Pansy.” But she replied, “I need affection. I want to cuddle, to kiss. And yes, I want sex too, but I know I can’t have it. Not yet, anyhow.”

After dinner, while Filomena cleared the table, Pansy and Beto returned to the living room. John Williams was playing Albéniz softly in the background, and the lights were dim. Beto sat down on the couch. Pansy sat next to him. She leaned forward, her ebony hair tumbling over her shoulders. “Beto, tell me more about you and your family. You said your father got into the coffee business thirty–no, forty years ago. ¿How did he manage that? ¿Was he originally from around here?”

Her host rolled his eyes back. “I prepare a wonderful meal, I play romantic music, the lights are low… ¿and you want to discuss my family? Ay de má, ¿what am I doing wrong?”

Pansy giggled. “I’m sorry, Beto. You ain’t… you’re not the only one who thinks I’m a bit odd. Tell me about my eyes… my hair… something romantic. ¿Is that better, Seá±or?”

He chuckled softly. “If I’d wanted someone ordinary, I wouldn’t have asked you here for dinner, Pansita máa. Petunia warned me about you. No, I won’t tell you what she said. She told me in confidence. It was nice, though–and it’s true. But yes, you have beautiful and mysterious eyes, like dark and bottomless pools of emerald, that a man could lose himself in. And your hair–your hair’s like the night, had it been spun into the finest silk. You inspire me to poetry to describe your charms. Prose could never do you justice.”

She giggled again. “Yes, I agree, ¡that’s so much better than a biography! Thank you, Beto.” She slid to his side, snuggled up to him, and added, “Flattery may not get you everywhere, but it’s a start.” His arm encircled her, and she laid her head on his shoulder. His hand rested gently on her breast, and she felt herself beginning to burn. She knew she could slip and fall, but she let him stay. “Thus far and no farther,” she told herself. She raised her head and gave him a slight frown, but no more, hoping he’d interpret it as a warning that she’d allow nothing more intimate.

Alberto Sáºlivan was curious about this odd woman. Her reaction to his advances betrayed her uncertainty. He could tell she was attracted to him, but she didn’t want to go to bed with him. Not now, anyway. He thought he could seduce her with little difficulty, but then he’d upset his brother’s wife, who would probably raise a fuss. No, not yet, he decided. His sister-in-law had told him little about Pansy, except that the father of her child was dead, and their initial meeting had puzzled him. Her wry humor and curiosity weren’t common among Honduran women–or men either, for that matter. She was attractive, with a lush figure and beautiful hair, but her face was ordinary. Her features bespoke mixed-race ancestry, common in Honduras. That, together with her status as a maid and her apparent lack of sophistication, told him she was a simple campesina; her speech, her exotic interests, and her childhood in the United States contradicted it. She seemed to have no concept of what was appropriate for a woman’s interest. A man wanted a woman for romance and to care for his household. Most emphatically, he didn’t want a woman meddling in his business. That was man’s work. Besides, she was far too assertive. And she was just a campesina, with a lot of Indian blood and more than a little African. She’d never make a suitable wife for an up-and-coming businessman. Still, she showed promise as a partner in a brief fling. Or maybe even a temporary mistress: she was sexy as hell.

“ ¿Would you like to dance?” he asked her. “I’ve got a lot of CD’s, if you’d care to try it.”

“Beto, I’d love to dance with you.”

He put on an hour’s worth of waltzes, and demonstrated that he was an excellent dancer. Finally she told him she had to leave, pleading necessity. “I have to get up early, Beto. I enjoyed the evening, and I hope we can repeat it, but I do have to return.”

“Yes, I know, carita. I’ll get you one last drink, and then home you go.”

He fetched her a strawberry daiquiri and made himself a martini. As they sipped their drinks, Beto asked, “ ¿Do you really want a repeat? If so, I can arrange it. There’s an English group touring Honduras–they’re called Hairy Banana–and they’re giving a concert in Comayagua in a couple of weeks. ¿Would you attend with me? There’s a possible problem; it’s on a Saturday afternoon, the 24st.”

Pansy was very pleased that she had kept his interest. Maybe she had a chance! “Yes, I’d be delighted. Again, that’s if I can arrange matters with Seá±ora Arias. Maybe I can switch my day off. I can’t say for sure now.”

“Tentatively, then. I’ll check with you later.” Finished his martini, he rose and offered her his arm. She took it and rose from the chair. Before they reached the door, Beto opened his arms in invitation. Throwing caution to the winds, Pansy rushed to him and they embraced. Beto gave her a very satisfactory kiss, just shy of indecent, and she was breathless when he released her. She had been without a man too long, she told herself. She needed more of this, and she ached to go to bed with Beto. He grinned knowingly and told her that she was a delightful wench. Too confused to find a suitable comeback, she could only thank him again for a wonderful evening.

Beto dropped her off at Los Ocotes just after 11, giving her another kiss before she walked towards the casa. She still had stars in her eyes as she went through the door.

Susana looked up as she passed through the living room towards the babies in the bedroom. “You look like you enjoyed your date, Pansita. Maybe there are some advantages in being a woman, ¿no? Seá±or Sáºlivan is a charmer, I know. I’ve heard it from lots of girls.”

Annoyed slightly, but unwilling to give her any satisfaction, Pansy replied, “Yes, Seá±ora, I enjoyed it a lot. And you’re right, he is charming. I hope I’ll go out with him again. He invited me to a concert in Tegucigalpa in a couple of weeks, but it’s on a Saturday. I told him I’d ask you. But with your permission, I’ll check the children and go to bed now, Seá±ora.” Susana nodded her assent, and Pansy continued to her room.

Pansy checked Josecito, asleep in his crib, and fed Lilia. She thought about Beto’s questions about her past, which she had answered using Pansy’s biography. She wondered just which of her biographies was real. Why did she think of herself as Seá±or Cualquiera with Pansy’s memories? Wasn’t it at least as accurate to say that she was really Pansy Baca with some of his memories? After all, she had clearer memories of Pansy’s childhood. And there was no doubt whose body she inhabited. Why not just let Seá±or Cualquiera slip quietly away? It’d be easy. But somehow, maybe irrationally, she knew she was Seá±or Cualquiera. She tried to recall his childhood. His boyhood in Dallas… Was it Dallas? Yes, she was sure, although it was hard to picture it. Her brother Tom… She seemed to have a sort of double vision. She remembered him stealing her doll to tease her; but they played some kind of ball game in… in Dallas? And her sisters? Rose and Laurie, of course… They were clear, anyway… No, it was Laura and Petunia. Wasn’t it? Or were they imaginary? She thought they were real, but there was no way to be sure. At least names were attached to the faces; but she knew she couldn’t trust the names to be accurate. She remembered the schools she had attended, and the classes she had taken. The summer vacations on the shore of Lake… Lake… No, it was gone. She could picture the little cabin on the lake shore, and every root and stone on the path to the front door, but its name was lost. What state was it in? She couldn’t remember. Then she realized she couldn’t even run through a list of states. “Let’s see, Texas… Florida and Georgia. And California, of course. And… and New York. ¿And Oklamo?” That seemed amiss, but she couldn’t think of what was wrong with it. “After all, that’s where I was born. London, Oklamo. No, it wasn’t London; that wasn’t a real memory. It was Ovid. ¿Ovid, Oklamo? ¿Or was Ames the false memory?” She couldn’t remember the state. But then, she didn’t remember most of the states. Or cities either. The geography of the United States was mostly erased. She cursed Seá±ora Arias. “I can get that back, though,” she told herself. “I just need to pick up a cheap atlas when I return to the city. After I learn to read again, of course.” She thought of her childhood in San Pedro. She could picture her brother and sisters, and her parents and grandparents. She knew their names: there was Daisy, and Petunia, and Tomá¡s, and… Or were they illusions? Damn her! But it was all so clear; and more important, Petunia had verified that her girlhood memories were accurate, that they really were her sisters. No, her family was real–they had to be. Maybe Seá±ora Arias had transplanted Seá±or Cualquiera’s memory into Pansy Baca’s head. But what about her memories of five weeks ago? She–he–had gone to bed as… as whoever, with Petunia, and then Seá±ora Arias had changed him after he woke up in the morning. It was too painful to recall. Besides, she had that scar on her arm. She knew where it came from. As Seá±ora Arias intended, it was proof that she had grown up as a boy–that she had been a man, until… She thought: was it only five weeks ago? But it seemed she had been female forever. Again, as Seá±ora Arias promised. And her sister–or her former lover?–said she had gotten that scar as a young girl.

She cried herself to sleep that night.

February 9
-- Pansy got up early on Friday, showered, and put on a skirt and sleeveless blouse instead of her uniform. Today she’d return to San Pedro for a checkup, and Susana had told her what to wear. She fed Lilia and headed for the kitchen to help Marta. The older woman was already working in the kitchen, even though it was still dark out. Catalina was there as well, helping her mother prepare tortillas. “Good morning, Marta, ’Lina,” she greeted them. “Marta, ¿can I help you?”

“We’re almost done, sleepyhead. You could set the table, though. Just for two people; Seá±or Arias will eat later, with most of the finca staff.”

Gathering plates and silverware for the table, Pansy complained, “ ¿Sleepyhead? Marta, I’m here a half hour early. I’m hurt that you’d slander me that way.”

Laughing, Marta told her that she and ’Lina had gotten up early. “Seá±ora Arias told me she’s taking you and Lilita into San Pedro today, and she asked me to fix breakfast early. She told me not to get you up early, so don’t take my words too seriously. You’ll eat with Seá±ora Arias.”

Dryly Pansy replied, “I’m honored.” She continued setting the table.

Susana arrived in a few minutes and greeted her, “Good morning, Pansita. ¿Ready to go to town after breakfast?”

“Yes, Seá±ora. Lilita’s cleaned and fed, and we can go as soon as we’ve had breakfast.”

“Good.” She sat down, and Pansy joined her at the table.

They ate in silence for a while. Before they finished, Pansy asked, “Seá±ora, ¿will there be time for shopping? If I could, I’d like to buy a new blouse. And a book.”

Nodding, Susana replied, “I suppose so. I might buy some new clothes myself. But I don’t know what good a book’ll do you, Pansita. You can’t read. And you told me a couple of years ago that women shouldn’t learn to read or write.”

Pansy colored and looked away. “I didn’t say that, Seá±ora. Seá±or Cualquiera said it. If you’ll excuse me, I don’t agree with every idea he had. I want to learn to read again. I want to buy a primary reader.”

Her mistress laughed. “Relearning won’t be easy, Pansita. But yes, you can try.” She turned to her cook. “Marta, ¿is there anything I can get you or Catalina from the city?”

“No, thank you, Seá±ora.”

She looked at Pansy, who appeared to be done eating. “ ¿Ready, Pansita?”

“I think so, Seá±ora. I’ll get Lilita.”

In ten minutes they were on their way, bouncing down the beginning of the road towards Ojos de Agua. Pansy occupied herself with Lilia, who at three months of age was beginning to sleep a little less and to show more interest in the world around her. Susana drove with skill, negotiating the narrow muddy road through Ojos de Agua and then the Humuya bridge with practiced ease. A brief but intense shower slowed her as they drove through La Libertad.

As they left La Libertad and accelerated on the gravel road southward towards Comayagua, Susana asked, “ ¿How was your date with Seá±or Sáºlivan? ¿Did he behave well?”

“Yes, Seá±ora. Like you warned me, he was a bit fresh at times, but he didn’t push things too far. He seems to be a gentleman, if not a perfect gentleman.”

Susana gave an unladylike snort. “So did Seá±or Cualquiera, at first. ¿Have you forgotten? ¿Or is it just your inexperience at playing this side of the game?” Pansy’s lips tightened, but she didn’t respond, and Susana continued, “It doesn’t matter. You’ll learn, just as I did.”

“I’ve learned too much already, Seá±ora,” her maid retorted.

“There’s still too much Seá±or Cualquiera in you, Pansy. I don’t think he’s learned yet how to be a woman–that is, the way to play the boy-girl game. You can’t have learned everything you need to know; you need to be taught by another woman. Or experience. And the experience can be painful. Of course, you have your memories of Pansy, before I put you into her. That’s been a help, I’m sure. That’s one of the things helping to turn you into a very feminine girl and an excellent maid. I wouldn’t have believed it possible, but your personality’s changed as much as your body. And very much for the better; as Pansy, I think I could actually get to like you. You’re well suited for your job now, and I think you’ll make some man a good wife. I intended to make you into Seá±or Cualquiera’s ideal girl, but I didn’t believe I’d succeed quite this well. Not to this extent. But your education isn’t over yet. As I said, you have no experience playing this side of the game.” A herd of cattle wandered across the road, and she slowed to a crawl as she pushed through them. “ ¿How much of Seá±or Cualquiera’s old life do you recall, Pansita?”

“I really don’t know, Seá±ora. I can’t trust none of… any of my memories.”

“Yes, that’s a problem, ¿isn’t it? Still, I think you recall how you–no, how Seá±or Cualquiera–behaved with women. You need to know how to prevent that sort of thing from happening to you. I’m afraid that, as Pansy, you’re naive, and in this case your alternate memories might help keep you out of trouble. You’re a weak and helpless hondureá±a maid now, just like Maráa Banderas, and not a norteamericano playboy. You’re prey, not predator–the deer, not the wolf.”

Pansy laughed bitterly. “If I need those memories, then help me recover them. ¿Who am I?”

Annoyed, Susana retorted, “That’s not the point. You remember how Seá±or Cualquiera behaved towards me, and towards other women. That’s all you need to remember about his life. Take that lesson from it–a lesson about the nature of some men–and be warned. As I’ve told you many times, his name’s irrelevant. You’re Pansy Baca, my maid. Period. In time, maybe I’ll tell you who he was.” She paused, and then added nastily, “Or if you keep asking, maybe I’ll tell Beto Sáºlivan, or whatever boyfriend you find, who you used to be, and he can decide whether to pass the information to you.”

Pansy’s eyes widened in shock. “ ¡No! ¡You couldn’t!”

“ ¿Why not? ¿Would you want to keep your husband ignorant?”

But Pansy wasn’t listening. She hadn’t considered that Seá±ora Arias might sabotage her quest for a man by revealing her story. To herself she muttered, “ ¿What can I do?” She hugged Lilia tightly until she began to cry, then cuddled her close, crooning to her. As she held her baby, she realized that she was following the path that Seá±ora Arias had laid out for her in that hotel room a month ago. She had been absorbed into Pansy so fully that she accepted–no, she needed–marriage. She wanted to be a wife, even if she’d only be a campesina. Well, there was nothing to be done about it. She was a woman, and she needed a man. It was up to her to find a man who would rescue her. Like Beto. If Seá±ora Arias would allow it.

Susana herself was ashamed of her baiting. She doubted her father would approve of her, or anyone else, blackmailing Pansy by threatening to disclose her history. He had always been insistent that Pansy would be free after her two years, subject only to those same pressures that affected women in general. She said as much to Pansy: “Listen, Pansita, I was just speaking of possibilities. I don’t intend to tell anyone what happened to you. Your boyfriend, your husband– ¡no one! I want you to stay with me as my maid, but not that way. ¡Please, believe me!”

Pansy looked up with a teary face. “Seá±ora, I can’t keep living alone. I need someone.”

“Yes, you do. And you’ll find a man.”

Doubtfully, Pansy told her mistress, “I believe you. Or at least I think you ain’t going to stop me. But that ain’t… isn’t the problem. I want to marry–I have to marry–but I don’t want to be just a campesina. I want to be professional, like I used to be. But I need a man, like you said.” Her face was despairing. “You’re winning, Seá±ora. I ain’t… I don’t think I can beat you.”

Susana didn’t answer her. At first she felt sorry for Pansy, who had served her well ever since she had arrived nine months earlier. In contrast to George, her maid was actually a good person. But then she reconsidered. Pansy’s life was no worse than that of the majority of women in the world. She had a secure position, a healthy body, and a beautiful child. If she still wanted a high professional status… Well, that was too bad. George had forfeited that, by his sexist behavior and his abandonment of his sex toy when she became inconvenient. It wasn’t really Pansy who mourned the loss of privileges; it was the remnant of George, hidden behind that cute face.

For a while they drove southward towards Comayagua without speaking. As they passed the cutoff to Jácaro Grande, Susana asked, “ ¿Isn’t that where your sister lives? ¿Petunia?”

“Yes, it is.”

“You have a child there too, true.”

“Yes, Seá±ora, I do.”

“Seá±or Cualquiera was quite a busy fellow, ¿true?”

Pansy winced, but didn’t reply. Soon they drove through Comayagua and reached the paved road, where they turned northwest. The road wound upward, out of the semiarid valley to the pine-covered plateau. As they passed Lake Yojoa, the baby began to cry, and Pansy unbuttoned her blouse, cradled the infant in her arm, and began to nurse her. Lilia sucked contentedly.

Susana smiled. “You’re very unselfconscious about nursing, Pansita. Given your upbringing–your norteamericano upbringing–I’m surprised.”

Looking up from Lilia, Pansy noted, “Seá±ora, I’m a woman and a mother. You made sure I understand my duties. I accept them, since there’s nothing I can do about it. Tell me, ¿would you let me give up breastfeeding for bottle-feeding?”

Nodding, Susana agreed. “You’re right, of course. You do what you must. But yes, you can give up breastfeeding, if you want. It’s supposed to be good for the baby, though, and I don’t think you should.” Pansy didn’t reply.

As they neared San Pedro, Susana commented again, “You’ve certainly adapted well to your new circumstances. I knew Seá±or Cualquiera well, I think, and he was self-centered. Quite an attractive man, in his own way, but he didn’t think very much about the needs of other people.”

Pansy’s knuckles whitened as her fists tightened. Then she relaxed and responded, “I know just how well you were acquainted with him. I had an intimate knowledge of him myself. And only a slightly less intimate knowledge of you.”

Laughing, Susana conceded, “Touché. Yes, I’m quite aware of that. What I’m saying is, I wouldn’t have thought he could adapt this well. I know what you said: that you accept your fate only because there’s little else you can do. And I suppose you’re right. We arranged matters so you’d be forced into your present position. I’m just surprised that we succeeded so well. I was told that you’d be a very good maid, with all the womanly virtues. The prediction was accurate. If and when you leave my service, Pansita, I think you’ll make some man a good wife. You’re as attractive as a woman as you were as a man, I think, and considerably better behaved. I guess your campesina upbringing’s already beginning to control your personality.”

Pansy grimaced, then shifted Lilia to her other breast. “We” again. Someone else did this to her, not just Susana. “I know better, Seá±ora. In spite of your mucking about with my brain, I still remember growing up as a boy.” To herself she admitted that the memory was blurred, and it seemed to be a memory of someone else’s life. It was as though she had read a biography of Seá±or Cualquiera; she knew more or less what had happened, but it hadn’t happened to her. More and more, her memories of girlhood in San Pedro Sula seemed real.

“You don’t understand my intention,” Susana told her seriously. “I didn’t want to make you forget your old life entirely. If I redid you correctly, you’ll never forget that you were once Seá±or Cualquiera. That scar on your arm–it’s a reminder. I purposely left it. The details’ll fade, I think, but they’ll remain there in the background. I know a lot’s gone; but you still know what’s been taken. Like your old name: it’s gone, but you know there was another name.”

And like science and mathematics, Pansy noted silently. Lilia turned her head away from Pansy’s bosom. Pansy tucked herself back into her bra and fastened her blouse. They were well into the city now, and she wouldn’t nurse her baby in public. “I understand. It won’t be a good punishment if I don’t know that my womanhood is a punishment. Clever, I guess. Forgive me if I don’t appreciate your cleverness.”

Susana turned off the main road to the street that led to the clinic. “ ¿Would you prefer it if all traces of your former identity were removed, Pansita? I could manage it, I guess. Maybe life would be easier if you didn’t remember Seá±or Cualquiera at all.”

“No. I’d rather suffer that particular punishment. There’s still enough left that I can hope to regain some of what I lost. I know you don’t want that, Seá±ora, but I do.”

In a few minutes they reached the clinic gate. Susana drove through and parked in back. Pansy took Lilia, now sleeping, in her arms and they walked up the steps. Inside, the receptionist told them they were expected. “Seá±ora Arias, Doctor Ibá¡á±ez asked that you meet with him in Room 219 upstairs. Seá±orita Baca, if you’d be kind enough to take your daughter to Room 105. It’s just down the hall.” She pointed the way.

Susana left Pansy and the baby and headed upstairs. Room 219 was a conference room with a large oval table and eight leather-upholstered chairs. José Herrera was there with her father, Doctor Ibá¡á±ez, Doctor Ibarra, Doctor Weiss, Doctor Ortáz, and Jaime Lá³pez. A tape recorder sat on the table. The men rose as Susana entered, and Ibá¡á±ez welcomed her. “Good morning, Seá±ora. Thank you for coming. Have a seat, please.” The don started the recorder and called the meeting to order. “Gentlemen, and Susana, I asked you to meet to evaluate our attempt to remodel George Deon into a campesina, both psychologically and physically.” He paused, checked his notes, and went on. “At the project’s beginning, Jesáºs Ibarra and Roberto Ibá¡á±ez had reservations about a few details of this experiment. Some proved groundless, others are valid. Their main objection, that a sex change would introduce unwanted complications into the psychological study, was and is still sound, but I believed that the physical transformation could prove useful. The combined effects of physiological and sociological pressures seem to have assisted the development of Pansy’s persona, as I had hoped. The relative importance of physical changes versus other factors still needs to be clarified by other, simpler experiments. However, the first step must be to determine just what changes have been brought about by our combined efforts. Only then can we begin to unravel the chain of cause and effect.” He paused to sip a glass of water, then continued: “I will leave the rest of this discussion to those who have been directly involved. Let me finish by congratulating you all for completing an unprecedented piece of research.”

Doctor Weiss reported on the physical transformation. He showed the series of photographs documenting George’s physical alteration. “My part in this, assisted by Doctor Herná¡ndez, has been completely successful, so far as can be determined now. The subject is virtually indistinguishable from a normal female, in anatomy, physiology, and chemistry. Only a very careful and detailed genetic test would show that the original sex was male. She has borne a child, and is now nursing it.”

Susana asked, “Is she fertile? I know she had a child, but it was a test-tube baby. Can she conceive in the normal way?”

The doctor told her she could. “Of course, you’re right: the baby was artificially implanted. But her hormones and anatomy all seem functional, and my animal subjects have proven to be fertile. There is no reason to suspect that Pansy would be different.”

He went on to assess the other physical changes imposed on Pansy. “The surgery on her larynx was also successful, of course. Her voice is perhaps higher than we intended, but that’s quite acceptable. Her face is perfect; Doctor Marcus created a work of art when he gave Pansy precisely the features that Don Pablo’s artist had suggested. Her biceps healed quickly, and the scars are virtually invisible. Finally, the genetically-engineered complexion has stabilized where we hoped and expected, so that her color matches the racial heritage suggested by her face and she appears to be a dark mixed-race woman, typical of the Caribbean coast.” He described technical details of the work, then left to examine Pansy again.

Don Pablo asked Doctor Ortiz to speak next, and introduced him as the man most responsible for Pansy’s facility in Spanish. Ortiz began his report by giving credit to Ibarra and Ibá¡á±ez. “Without their radical new techniques, none of my expertise would have mattered.” Then he went on to evaluate Pansy’s speech. “She speaks Spanish fluently now, as you must all be aware. There is still a slight English accent, but it’s not obtrusive, and I expect it to fade over the years. Her speech pattern is typical of a Honduran peasant. In particular, her phonemes–the sounds she uses to construct her words–are normal for a native speaker of this part of the world.” He had only one regret: “The technique we used is probably useless for general application in teaching a foreign language, as it involves impairment of any previous language. The subject’s ability to speak her original native language has been degraded, almost in step with the enhancement of her new language.”

The don asked, “ ¿What is the prognosis for our subject? ¿How do you expect her language to change with time?”

“Almost certainly the changes will be minimal, and in the direction of closer adherence to the local standard. That is, if she remains in her present surroundings. The speech of those around her should reinforce her use of the local dialect.”

Susana interrupted and told the group about Pansy’s recent attempts to improve her speech. “She’s succeeding to some degree. Her grammar is definitely a little better. And even the accent is slightly better lately. Her speech is clearer and less slurred. I think she’s working hard at sounding like something more than a peasant.”

Ortiz smiled and pointed out that she couldn’t do much without professional help. “She may improve, but her peasant origin should be clear. And with all due respect, Seá±ora, your Spanish is educated, but it betrays your Honduran origin. As long as Pansy has only local natives as speech models, her speech can at best approach the local standard.”

Susana asked him, “ ¿What about her English? ¿Will she regain any of it?”

“No. Again, that’s if she remains in her present circumstances. In fact, with time the little English she retains should deteriorate further, due to lack of practice. She may keep some capacity to understand spoken English, at least for a couple of years, but even that should fade slowly with disuse. It’s a foreign language to her now.”

Don Pablo next looked at Susana. “Next I would like to begin our psychological evaluation. Suzi, if you would, please start us off. You knew George Deon quite well, before any changes had been made, and you are by far the most well acquainted with Pansy Baca at present. First, ¿could you give us a thumbnail description of his original personality?”

Susana looked at her hands, then at the wall. “This isn’t easy for me, and my description is biased, but I’ll do my best. George was intelligent, charming, and amoral. He cared very little for other people’s feelings or needs. His own desires were paramount, and to hell with what it did to others. He wasn’t malicious, you understand, just uncaring.”

Ibá¡á±ez nodded and commented, “My own reading of Seá±or Deon, from what I’ve been told, is similar. But I’d like some details, if you can provide them, on other character traits. ¿Was he personally fastidious, or somewhat sloppy? ¿Punctual or habitually late? ¿What were his interests? ¿His tastes in food, in clothes, in music? ¿Could he control his impulses in his own interests, or did he act impulsively? ¿Was he usually cheerful, or did he have periods of depression? ¿Bold or timid? ¿Introvert or extrovert?”

Susana interrupted. “ ¡Please, enough! I get the point. I can’t answer everything, but I’ll try. I’d call him moderately extroverted. He was usually cheerful, or at least he appeared to be. I think he was good at keeping his real feelings hidden, though, and I wouldn’t depend on that impression. ¿His tastes? Well, in clothes, he wore subdued colors, nothing flashy. He wanted good quality, though. And I’d say he was neat, but not fastidious. Definitely not sloppy. I don’t think he was impulsive; he planned things well. ¿What else was there?”

“ ¿Was he cautious or bold? ¿Did he take chances? ¿Was he a conformist or a rebel?”

“I think he was something of a rebel. He wanted to go his own way. Other people’s standards didn’t apply to him, he thought. ¿But bold? I don’t think so. I’d call him careless.”

Ibarra asked, “ ¿What about his family? ¿Was he close to them? ¿Did he speak of them?”

She thought a moment. “No, he didn’t say much about them. He talked a little about what he used to do in the United States, but not much about his family. I can’t help you with that.”

“Well then, ¿what did he say about what he used to do before he came here?”

“He talked about plants. He loved flowers, especially orchids. He told me how he used to search them out, in Ohio, I think. Oh, and now I remember a little about his family. Once or twice he talked about his father, and how he managed a shop of some kind. But I’d say he wasn’t strongly family-oriented.”

Ibá¡á±ez questioned her again. “ ¿Was he interested in sports, or politics, or anything else?”

“Reading, I’d say. He read a lot of mysteries. And music. He liked rock and jazz. Some classical. I think he followed professional sports team in the U.S.” She looked down, and added in a softer tone, “And sex, of course.”

José chimed in: “Suzi, I know–we all know–Seá±or Deon’s opinions, but for the record we’d better mention them here. ¿What did he say about a woman’s proper place in society?”

Her eyes flashed. “The bastard was a sexist pig. He said women should stay home and care for their men and their children. He was as bad as Honduran men, and…”

José interrupted her for a moment. “I’m sorry, Suzi, but again for the record, it should be clear that your own views are somewhat radical. The common view here is that…”

Susana’s lips were compressed, and she was becoming angry. Hurriedly Doctor Ibá¡á±ez interceded. “Excuse me, Doctor, but please, let Seá±ora Arias report her impressions in her own way. We already know her prejudices–excuse me, Seá±ora–and we know yours, Doctor. Please continue in your own words, Seá±ora.”

José wanted to press his point, but he yielded to Ibá¡á±ez, and Susana continued. “I repeat, George Deon was a sexist pig. Or a male chauvinist, if you prefer. Women are meant to please men and raise children, he told me.”

Suppressing a smile, Ibá¡á±ez interjected, “Seá±ora, in the interest of objectivity, ¿would it be accurate to describe Seá±or Deon as having a strongly traditional view of gender rá´les?”

A frown of annoyance crossed Susana’s face briefly, but she nodded, then grinned. “I suppose I am biased, Doctor. Yes, your statement’s accurate enough.”

The psychologist nodded in acknowledgment and went on, “Then George Deon probably didn’t cultivate his own abilities in those fields traditionally reserved to women, ¿true?”

She frowned again, this time in puzzlement. “I think you said, he wouldn’t do ‘women’s work’.” Ibá¡á±ez nodded. She continued: “That’s more or less true. He fancied himself as a cook, but he wasn’t skilled. He wouldn’t sew or do laundry, and his housekeeping was poor. At first I thought he was neat and tidy, but later I found that he’d hired a woman to keep house for him. No, he was lousy at ‘women’s work’, when he’d attempt it at all. I said earlier that he was neat, but that was because he’d get someone else to clean up after him. ¿What else?”

The next question came from José. “ ¿What about his general deportment? ¿Was he considerate of other people? ¿Polite?”

His sister scowled. “Again, I’m biased. For what it’s worth, my opinion is that Seá±or Deon was utterly inconsiderate and selfish. Charming and polite, yes, but it was all on the surface. He’d be considerate, sure–as long as the cost to himself was small.”

Ibá¡á±ez told her there was objective evidence to support her opinion. “Seá±or Deon treated others the same way. As you know, he abandoned a woman in the United States just as he abandoned you. He used his own maid shamefully as well. Don Pablo’s investigations suggest that he had a good reputation among co-workers and superiors, though, and the evidence suggests that his selfishness was manifest mostly in his dealings with women. I submit that he didn’t see women as equals, or perhaps not even as real people. This would be consistent with his expressed opinion, that women were designed to please men. He just didn’t believe the corollary, that men are also designed to please women, and to support them and their children faithfully. Or at least he didn’t act according to that belief. ¿Do you have any further observations, Seá±ora? ¿No? Then let us consider Pansy. Again, you know her best.”

Susana told them that Pansy seemed less self-centered than George. “I’m not sure there’s really a basic change in character, though. Remember, she’s dependent on me for her existence. Her livelihood, and the well-being of her baby, depend on my goodwill.”

Ibarra commented, “That’s a good point, and I think you’re correct. Still, allowing for that, ¿can you make any judgment as to her egoism? ¿What about her relations with those to whom she’s not bound by dependency?”

“I can’t say with confidence. Her relations seem to be good, although I don’t know if that’s based on any assistance she’s offered. No, I take that back. She helped Marta on her day off, when she could have avoided it. That’s partly because Marta’s helped her several times, but at least she’s willing to help on an implicit reciprocal basis.”

Ibá¡á±ez brought up her interests. “ ¿Does Pansy retain George’s interest in botany? ¿Or in natural history in general? ¿What’s her present taste in music?”

Pointing out that Pansy’s situation was now very different from George’s, Susana replied that she believed those tastes had changed somewhat. “She still seems to like natural history, but not nearly to the extent that George did. Her love for mystery novels may or may not persist; it’s hard to say, because she’s illiterate. In music, her taste seems to be about the same. Of course, she’s forced back on the same old albums; again, with her present income, she isn’t able to buy many new CD’s. There’s one big change, and I think we know its cause. Pansy loves to sew, and she constantly works at needlepoint in any spare time.” She gave a soft laugh, and told them, “Then again, I have to say that spare time isn’t something she has a lot of.”

“ ¿Would you say Pansy is introverted or extroverted?”

“She’s definitely more introverted than George. She’s subdued and quiet, almost moody. She lacks social confidence. I’m not at all surprised, of course. She’s been placed in a social situation for which she was totally unprepared, and she’s still trying to adjust to it.”

“You say she lacks social confidence. ¿What about her conformity to local customs? ¿Is she still something of a rebel?”

Susana answered immediately, “Not at all. A rebel, that is. If anything, I’d call her timid. I don’t know how you trained her, but she’s afraid to stand against me, or against others. Generally she’s passive and docile, completely unlike George–although occasionally she’ll show some resentment.”

Ibarra wanted to know whether the missing and confused memories had mattered. “ ¿Does she ever speak of her childhood, or her past?”

“No, she doesn’t, or not much. If she’s asked about her past, she tells about her birth in Honduras, an early childhood in Texas that she barely remembers, and immigration to San Pedro as a young girl–the story you gave her, Doctor–but I don’t think she confuses it with reality. Even with her memories of growing up as a hondureá±a, and living in a body to go with those memories, she retains a sense of identity with Seá±or Cualquiera, as she calls him. She misses her real past, though, and her original name. She doesn’t trust even what she does know, or thinks she knows. Also, she’s unhappy about the loss of her literacy. She badly wants the chance to learn to read again.”

“ ¿Is there any indication of sexual activity?” José wanted to know. “ ¿Or does she show any signs of interest in the opposite sex?”

“No, pretty definitely, to the first, but she is showing interest in a neighbor. She admitted to me that she wants to marry. I think part of it’s just to escape, but I’m pretty sure she wants sex, too. She seems to be caught between her female urges–I think you and Ibá¡á±ez succeeded admirably there, José–and her knowledge that her life married to a Honduran man is likely to be restrictive, compared to what George might have had. Of course, that dilemma’s exactly what was planned for her. She knows that, but there isn’t anything she can do about it.”

“ ¿How about her views on women’s proper position in society?” José asked. “ ¿Has her new perspective modified her opinions? ¿And what’s her attitude to Josecito and Lilia?”

Susana smiled with satisfaction. “Well, she’s a lot less obnoxious than George on that topic, and yes, I think she’s modified her opinions a little. Nevertheless, I think she still believes some of that hogwash. She’s just unhappy to be stuck with the female rá´le. Especially as a campesina, but she hopes to rise above that. Of course, even if she escapes from being a maid, she’ll have very little more freedom than she has now. Whether she modifies her opinions or not, she’ll live by them now. I don’t think she fully realizes that yet. She thinks that when she escapes from me, she’ll escape from the kitchen and the nursery. As to the children: she loves both of them and takes excellent care of them. I think that’s about all I can tell you, unless you have some other specific questions.”

Ibá¡á±ez did. “Seá±ora, I do have one last question. She’s been your maid for nine months. In that time, we’ve imposed no further conditioning. ¿Has there been any change in her personality since she first started to work for you? ¿Any suggestion of a return to the persona of George Deon? Or conversely, ¿any further change to a more feminine nature?”

“Well, perhaps. The second alternative, that is. She’s come out of her withdrawal to some degree, and with time she’s become easier in her manner. As if she were getting used to her new place in life. And as I told you, recently she’s been showing an active interest in men. I think her attraction to men isn’t new, but now she’s able to deal with it more effectively than by suppressing it entirely. But the process of adaptation isn’t completed–not while she still hopes to escape a woman’s traditional place in Honduran society. Maybe her present attitude would be suitable for a norteamericana, but unfortunately for what remains of George, she’s got to live as a hondureá±a.”

The don had another question for her. “That brings up one more point. As you know, one of the chief purposes of this project was to change Seá±or Deon’s personality to that of a typical campesina. In your opinion, ¿how well have we succeeded?”

She looked puzzled, then frowned. “You haven’t succeeded yet. Not all the way, anyhow. Pansy’s still got a lot of George left in her. She seems to identifies more with him than with Pansy Baca. Her refusal to go out with any of the local campesinos is a case in point.” Then, nodding, she told him, “But I don’t know how long that’ll last. I think she’s slowly becoming closer and closer to the ideal you wanted. She’s being forced into it by her circumstances.”

Her father thanked her, then turned to Jaime. “Seá±or Lá³pez, you observed the subject during the physical transformation. The regular physical examinations, and the series of photographs taken then, document that transformation. ¿Can you tell us what changes you noticed in the subject’s personality during that time?”

Jaime scratched his head. “Well, yes, but not like an expert. And remember, Seá±or Deon was drugged during the early days. Anyway, he was quiet and withdrawn even at first, and a lot less trouble than I thought he’d be. He had no interest in his appearance. Don Pablo told me he’d begin taking an interest in his appearance, but like a girl. He said Doctor Ibá¡á±ez would make him want to look pretty. I said he was crazy, but that’s what happened. Even after we stopped forcing him to do it, he kept right on. The same thing happened with sewing, a little later. By then he was a woman. Conchita told me she suddenly began to like it, and she began to sew on her own, just for fun. Also, after he finally lost his balls, he sort of gave up for a while and didn’t want to do anything, even eat. I guess Pansita decided to live with it, because she gradually began to take an interest in life again. I couldn’t really see much change between when he first came and when he left, though–except for his body, of course.”

“Thank you, Seá±or.” The don checked his notes and called on José next. “I think you may have brought about the most radical changes in Pansy’s psyche,” he told his son. “ ¿What changes did you notice during her stay on Golondrinas?”

“Pansy was still rebellious when she arrived. She wasn’t yet reconciled to her new body. Her behavior, and her attitudes, were still mostly those of Seá±or Deon, as Jaime told us. With your help, Doctor, I applied the technique of operant conditioning to her, with success. She became less rebellious and more compliant. Her obedience became automatic. The feminine desire to be pretty, which was already trained into her at Las Rosas, was reinforced. Moreover, her sexuality was strengthened. At first her need for sex was strictly forced, but after a few months the compulsion was decreased, and then eliminated; her libido lessened somewhat from its artificially high level, but it remained much higher than normal. By the time I relinquished control to Susana, Pansy was a docile and sexy woman, ideally suited to become a maidservant. Or some man’s wife. In fact, I’d say our goal of molding Seá±or Deon to his own feminine blueprint was achieved. She’s pretty enough, if not really beautiful; more importantly, she’s been conditioned to attract men, unconsciously. Her choice of clothing, her behavior–with apologies to my sister, one of my guests said Pansita’d give an erection to a brass monkey. Her sexy appearance and conditioning make her seductive; she may hate it, but it’s her nature now. She can’t help it. And she’d want to give that monkey satisfaction, too. Willy-nilly, she enjoys sex.”

Ibá¡á±ez added more: “George Deon’s self-image was shaped by several factors. He took pride in his education, in his technical knowledge, and in his knowledge of botany. Like many men, he was a sports enthusiast. Although he was physically small, he compensated by building up his muscles, and in a small way by increasing his apparent height. He was also a dominant personality, who wanted to be independent, firmly in charge of his own destiny. That self-image is irrevocably destroyed. Pansy has no education to speak of, is functionally illiterate, and knows little about the USA or the rest of the world. She is physically even smaller, with no compensating strength and a childlike voice. Her skills are restricted to such womanly activities as sewing, cooking, and child care. With George’s sources of personal pride obliterated, she now depends on these skills–and on her physical attractiveness–for her sense of self-worth. Naturally, then, her personality has much of what we intended: she is feminine and submissive, and strongly dependent on others. Although Pansy’s psychological state will need to be monitored in the years to come, to see if the changes in her psyche are stable, I see no prospect of any changes, as her present situation will reinforce her new personality.”

Don Pablo stood up. “I think we’ve done about as much as we can here. I thank you all for your efforts, and I congratulate you for succeeding in the most ambitious project ever attempted in applied psychology.”

Outside the room after the conference, José asked his sister about the regression that Ibarra had imposed on Pansy back in January. “Suzi, I understand you had the chance to talk to the old George Deon. After all the conditioning, I’d’ve thought he’d be very different from the old George, but Ibarra seems to think he was pretty much the same. ¿What do you think?”

She smiled as she remembered the horrified expression on George’s face when he realized he had become a woman. “Well, yes, I’d say he was the old George. Only briefly, you understand. He got a bad shock within a couple of minutes of waking up, and after that he was too badly upset for any accurate reading of his personality. I think he stayed mostly George for a couple of days. He was very unhappy.”

“ ¡I’ll bet he was! I’m sorry I didn’t have the chance to see him then. By the time I got to meet him, he had already begun his psychological conversion into Pansy–although a lot of him was left. ¿How did he explain his transformation? It must’ve seemed like the witchcraft you made it out to be, and Seá±or Deon seems to have been a dedicated rationalist.”

“He came close, but he didn’t figure it out. At one point he accused me of using drugs and hypnosis. He was right, of course. The problem was, he thought his metamorphosis was an illusion, and it wasn’t. He never explained it, but he accepted it quickly enough. He had little choice, of course. It took him a while to figure out the implications, though. He still tried to run. We let him ‘escape’, and he fled to Tegus. On the next day he came back, begging to become my maid. He had gotten rid of the dress I left him–he was wearing slacks and a shirt when he came crawling to my door–but at least he had the sense to realize he couldn’t pose as a man.”

“I’d like to repeat that experiment. From Ibarra’s perspective, the question is: ¿How long will the original persona of Seá±or Deon persist? Maybe the opportunity to answer that question will arise again. If it does, I’ll see if I can be involved.”

“I don’t think so, José. Father told Pansy that she’d be free of that sort of thing now, and he won’t approve. And I think Ibarra and Ibá¡á±ez want to let her develop on her own, without more tampering.”

José spread his hands and shrugged. “Seá±or Deon paid his debt, yes. I don’t argue that. Still, other circumstances might arise. ¿Who knows?” He grinned and pointed out, “All of George Deon’s sins are paid for now, but Pansy may do something to deserve new punishment, independent of any previous offenses. If she does, I think something like what you did may be appropriate. I’ll mention it to Father. I’m sure Doctor Ibarra’d jump at the chance to obtain new data. Yes, I think there’s a chance I might have Seá±or Deon as my guest again.”

While Susana was meeting with one set of doctors, concerned with Pansy’s psyche, Pansy herself was being poked and prodded by a different set, concerned with her body. Herná¡ndez had first crack at her after she left Lilia with a pediatrician. Interested in her hormonal balance, he took blood samples. Weiss arrived before Herná¡ndez was finished. He was concerned mainly about her immune system, and how it had adjusted to dealing with the implants. Both doctors appeared to be pleased with the results. Pansy suspected that these men were among the amoral criminals who had changed her, but she didn’t pick a fight with them. Doctor Cantáº, her gynecologist, was the third specialist to examine her. She knew of Pansy’s loss of any memory of her real transformation over the two missing years. The other doctors had ordered her not to reveal the true story. She had been reluctant, and had finally agreed only to volunteer nothing, and to reveal nothing of the earlier tests. “I’ll be naíve,” she told them, “but I won’t actively hide anything. I’ll behave exactly as I would if she were a new patient with an unknown previous medical history.” They had to be satisfied with that.

“Pansy, ¿how are you feeling?” Isabel Cantáº asked when Pansy entered her office. “ ¿Have you or the baby had any problems?”

Pansy recognized the obstetrician who had delivered Lilia. Did she know anything about Seá±or Cualquiera’s presence in her head? “I’m feeling good enough, Doctor, and Lilia seems to be doing fine. I was depressed for a while after I left here and went to Los Ocotes, but I’m OK now.”

“Good, good. Let’s have a look at you. Remove your clothing below the waist, please, and get up here on the table. I know you’ve had pelvic exams before.”

Pansy complied, agreeing that it wasn’t new to her. She spread her legs, and Doctor Cantáº checked her private parts. Satisfied, she told Pansy, “You look healthy enough. OK, get dressed below, and then I’ll check topside.”

While Pansy covered her nether regions and stripped above, she tried to fish for information. “ ¿Is everything normal, Doctor? As you may know, I ain’t exactly your average woman.”

Cantáº shrugged. How should she answer? “According to the results of my examination, you’re average enough. In any case, your recovery from childbirth is satisfactory.” By this time Pansy was bare-breasted. She endured Cantáº’s poking and prodding. The doctor commented, “Obviously you’ve been breastfeeding your infant. I approve; that’s what these are for. ¿Has your milk flow been satisfactory? ¿Are there any problems with lactation, or have you noticed or felt anything unusual about your breasts?”

Dryly Pansy noted: “Yes: that I have them. Doctor, ¿how would I know what’s unusual?”

The doctor giggled, recalling Pansy’s odd history, but dodged the issue: “You’re a woman, and by my examination a perfectly normal woman. As such, you shouldn’t be at all surprised that you have breasts–you’ve had them for many years, I’m sure. Let me put it differently. ¿Has there been any pain or discomfort associated with nursing?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“ ¿What about your periods? ¿Any problems there?”

“Same answer, Doctor. Yes, they’ve resumed. Ordinarily I’d presume I should be fertile.”

“Yes, you’d better presume it. Breastfeeding lowers your fertility, but it’s not a dependable contraceptive, especially since your periods have begun. That’s unusual, by the way; they shouldn’t have begun again so soon. But every woman’s different.” Doctor Cantáº suggested that Pansy might consider taking birth-control pills.

At first Pansy told her it wouldn’t be necessary. “I may not be fertile. Besides, I ain’t… I don’t got no husband. I’m not having sex, and I don’t intend to.”

Cantáº laughed. “ ¿Not fertile? ¿With a baby already? ¡Don’t be silly! As for not having sex, I’ve heard that too often. ‘It can’t happen to me,’ they say. Pansy, nothing about you suggests that you’re any different from other women, or at least not in any way that matters here. ¿Aren’t you attracted to men?”

Pansy blushed. “Well, yes, but I can control myself.”

“I’ve heard that too many times too. I don’t know all your history, Pansy, but believe me, those good intentions count for very little in the passion of the moment.” She knew that Don Pablo’s doctors expected her to get pregnant again. “Unless you want to get pregnant, I recommend birth-control measures.” Pansy recalled how easily Seá±or Cualquiera had seduced women, and how much she herself wanted a man. She decided to take the doctor’s advice. The doctor nodded and told her, “That’s smart. I’m giving you a six-month supply. They’re also available in any pharmacy.”

“ ¿Will you give me a prescription?”

“No, it’s not needed.” Doctor Cantáº took seven small boxes out of a cabinet. “Here you go, Pansy. Make sure you take them as scheduled; the directions are clear. And unofficially, some advice: don’t let word of this get around. It’s your own private affair.”

“Thank you.” She paused. “Doctor, you were my obstetrician when Lilita was born.”

“Yes, of course I was.”

“I’m… I was…” Pansy hesitated, unsure of how to continue. “ ¿What do you know about…? ¿Do you know anything about what happened to me?”

In turn, Doctor Cantáº was uncertain. “ ¿What do you mean, Pansy? I know you had a baby over three months ago, and I saw you while you were pregnant, but I didn’t know you before then.” Pansy appeared to have forgotten their discussion of her transformation from a norteamericano to a campesina–as she had been assured by the other doctors–but Doctor Cantáº wanted to be sure of exactly what Pansy still knew. “Tell me what’s bothering you.”

Pansy took a deep breath and described, as she best she could, the transformation that had taken place on New Year’s Day. Then she recounted the conversation she had had with Petunia, when they had discussed the possible explanations for her experience. She concluded by saying, “I ain’t going to accept that it’s witchcraft, Doctor. Petunia confirms both sets of memories, and that tells me I ain’t just crazy. She thinks the simplest solution is that I’m Pansita, her sister, with the memories of Seá±or Cualquiera put into my head. She’s right. It is the simplest. But it… it ain’t necessarily the right one, and it definitely ain’t the one I remember.”

Isabel Cantáº wasn’t sure how to respond. She temporized by telling Pansy, “Seá±orita, you and your sister may know you’re not crazy, but I don’t. ¿And Seá±or Cualquiera? ¿Who is he?”

“Exactly. That’s the first question I want answered. However I got here, I want to know who I am. Or who I was. Then I want to know whose body this is. And third, I want to know what happened during that two-year gap.”

A hot potato. “I’m not sure I can answer your questions. In fact, I’m sure I can’t, not the way you want.” A half truth, at best. “Assuming you’re not crazy…”–and you’re not–”I don’t know how to find out who you are, or were. Besides Pansy Baca, that is–that’s certainly who you are now. ¿Whose body is it? Well, from what your sister said, I’d say it’s probably Pansy’s. You tell me she recognizes you. For that matter, last year I delivered your first child, and you’re certainly the same Pansy Baca as then. And I can’t tell you what happened in that two years–if anything at all happened, and the story isn’t just a crazy fantasy.” She congratulated herself on evading the questions without lying outright.

Pansy persisted. “I’m sure there’s someone who knows who Seá±or Cualquiera is, Doctor. Besides Seá±ora Arias, that is. There has to be a record at Morazá¡n Palm Oil in La Ceiba, where he taught. And at the high school in Siguatepeque, too.” Doctor Cantáº had checked them; the shadowy name of Jack Pinkerton had surfaced, but she didn’t trust it. In any case, she wasn’t a detective, and she told Pansy so. Her patient agreed, but she asked, “ ¿Is there some way for a doctor to check whether someone done surgery on me? I know it ain’t possible to change me like that–I know it–but I know I was changed somehow, so something that’s impossible got done anyhow.”

Inwardly the doctor groaned. Yes, there were ways, of course–chromosomal analyses, for example–but giving Pansy the answers to her questions wouldn’t help her. And it would most definitely create trouble for Doctor Cantáº. “Yes and no. Yes, I think it maybe could be done, but no, I can’t do it. Besides, it’d be very expensive–more than you could pay. And whatever the answer might be, you’d be left no better off. My advice is to accept who you are, however it came to be, and go on from there.”

Pansy shrugged. “Maybe it’s not completely rational, but I got to know who I am. Or who I was. Or whatever. It’s a natural question to ask. But thank you anyway, Doctor.”

After leaving Cantáº’s office, Pansy checked at the pediatrician’s office. The receptionist told her Lilia was fine. “The psychologists are waiting upstairs for you in Room 219. We’ll keep Lilia until they’re done.” She continued upstairs and found the room easily. Ibá¡á±ez and Ibarra were waiting; José, Susana, and Jaime had left. She recognized the two doctors from her interviews during the previous month.

“Good morning, Pansy,” Ibarra greeted her. “I’m sure you remember us. This shouldn’t take long. Susana said she’d pick you up for lunch when we’re done with you.”

Pansy didn’t trust them. They probably knew a lot more about her metamorphosis than they admitted, and certainly more than she did. She suspected they had had something to do with the tinkering with her head, and she hated them. To them, she was only a guinea pig. “Finish it, please” she told him coldly. “I’d rather not be here. The only reason I am here is because Seá±ora Arias insists, and I got to obey.”

“That’s straightforward enough,” Ibarra replied with a smile. It was clear to him that she held him responsible, at least in part, for her problems. Fair enough: she was correct. “I won’t take long, and neither will Doctor Ibá¡á±ez. I want you to know that you do have reason to cooperate. I have an incentive for you. You can’t read or write, ¿can you?”

Pansy glared at him. “I’m aware of that. My literacy was stole from me when Seá±ora Arias” or her doctors… “put me in this body.” Petunia had told her that her sister Pansy could read perfectly well.

“There’s a literacy class twice a week in La Libertad, from 7 to 8 Tuesday and Thursday. You can take it if you continue to help us. Seá±ora Arias told us she’d allow it.”

“em>Seá±or, I don’t trust you. ¿Why do you want me to learn to read now, after erasing it?”

Ibarra took off his thick horn-rimmed glasses and cleaned them. “You’re right. We have our own reasons.” He put the glasses on and peered at her. “We want to know how well you can learn to read. There’s no reason to hide our purpose in making the offer, and our interest coincides with your own.”

“ ¿What about my science? ¿My English? ¿My mathematics?”

He shrugged. “We don’t care what you learn. You’re free to study the others–in fact, we’d like to know how successful you might be–but those courses aren’t practical for someone who is illiterate. In return for the literacy class, you’ll let us test you. Nothing more is necessary. Now, ¿do you agree? ¿Do you want the course?”

“Yes.” He hadn’t bothered to deny that her literacy had been erased, and he accepted that she had once been educated. That settled it: he knew exactly what had happened to Seá±or Cualquiera

“ ¡Good, good! Now, both Doctor Ibá¡á±ez and I have some tests for you. You’re illiterate, so we’ll give them orally. If you’re not done by noon, we’ll break for lunch. Sit down, and I’ll give you the first test.”

She sat. The first questions tested math and chemistry. Then she had to give her biography: first as Seá±or Cualquiera, then again as a girl in San Pedro. The second was easier. She asked if her memories of that life were real, and he assured her they were. Then he asked questions on Honduran natural history in English, to be answered in the same language. She understood only a few of the questions, and could answer none. Too much English was gone. When she finished, the doctor told her, “It’s close to lunch now, Pansy. You can go now. If you’re back by 1 o’clock, you can finish with Doctor Ibá¡á±ez in time to do some shopping before you return home.”

Susana met her outside the room. They had lunch in a small restaurant. Over a demitasse of strong black coffee, Susana told Pansy that the doctors were pleased. “They seem to think that your body and your circumstances are efficiently dissolving Seá±or Cualquiera back into a normal campesina. Pansy’s certainly quite different from him.”

Pansy wasn’t enthusiastic. “Seá±ora, your doctors are evil men who value nothing but themselves. I’d like to see them dead. Or better, used as subjects in their own experiments. I was happy with my old personality.” She was certain that the doctors, not Susana, were somehow responsible for Seá±or Cualquiera’s transformation. Or maybe it was his imprisonment into Pansy Baca? Certainly Pansy seemed to be a real woman with a real history.

“Oh, you’re not that badly hurt, Pansita. You’re better off than many women. And I, for one, was not happy with the personality of Seá±or Cualquiera.”

“ ¿I ain’t badly hurt? I lost everything, including my very identity. What I lost, I ain’t going to get back. Don’t tell me I’m ‘not badly hurt’.” She sipped her own coffee, black with sugar.

“You have a perfectly good identity. You’re the same campesina you’ve always been. And Seá±or Cualquiera earned his punishment. ¿Or do you deny that?” Susana cut into her beefsteak and took a bite. It was tough.

Pansy sighed. “Maybe he did. I don’t know any more. I don’t much care. Anyway, I ain’t ‘the same campesina I’ve always been.’ I think I might have preferred a quick bullet in the brain.” She pushed her rice around the plate, appetite gone.

Susana sensed that Pansy–or George in Pansy?–wasn’t about to let herself be cheered up, and set to eating. In twenty minutes they were done. Most of Pansy’s meal was left on the plate. Susana asked, “ ¿Would you like to visit the bookstore now? We have about half an hour before you return.”

“Yes, thank you, Seá±ora. I might as well. I’m going to learn to read again, so I got to get some beginning readers.”

They walked to the store, and Pansy browsed for a few minutes. Her frustration at not being able to read even the children’s books was painful, and after she had selected a kindergarten reader and a speller, she asked to leave before her appointment with Ibá¡á±ez pulled her away. The women returned to the clinic.

Ibá¡á±ez was ready. He told Susana she’d be done in two hours. “I need to give Pansy a couple of tests, to compare with the earlier ones. Then you can have her back.” Susana left for her shopping, and Ibá¡á±ez turned to Pansy. “I have no surprises for you, Pansy. It’s just a normal set of psychological tests, like the ones Seá±or Cualquiera must’ve taken, but oral. ¿Any questions?”

Pansy detested the man, but she complied. There wasn’t much future in picking a fight. She might be free to do whatever she wanted, but it was only a technical sort of freedom: she needed her job as a maid. She responded reluctantly, “No, Seá±or, no questions. Please, let’s get it over with.”

He took her a cubicle, where she took a word-association test, followed by a Rorschach test and an IQ test. “Very good, Pansy,” he told her when they had finished. “I think that’s all the tests we need. Tell me, ¿how are you managing your two personalities? ¿Have you decided who you are?”

“Doctor, I’m surprised you’d ask that,” Pansy complained bitterly. “I’m Pansy Baca. ¿Isn’t it obvious?”

He shrugged. “I don’t suppose I can blame you for your attitude. I’m sure it was a shock to the Seá±or Cualquiera personality to find himself in such an inappropriate body. But your other memories should be cushioning the shock. As you say, you are Pansy. It’s obvious even to yourself–especially to yourself.” He grinned at her. “At least some of your Pansy memories are pleasant enough. You did enjoy your quinceaá±os, ¿true?” She winced. The memory was vivid and precise. “Well, with time Pansy’s memories, and her ego, should take over from those of Seá±or Cualquiera. If so, then in the end he’ll fade away. But yes, you may go. Seá±ora Arias is waiting for you.”

She and Susana visited a department store next door, and Pansy bought a bright-yellow sleeveless blouse and two tops. They picked up Lilia at the clinic and left for home.

During the return to Los Ocotes Pansy asked about switching her day off to Saturday, to accommodate Beto Sáºlivan’s request for a date. “I asked you earlier. He wants to take me to a concert in Comayagua, on February 24. Marta can cover for me; I already checked with her.”

Susana was skeptical at first, but at last she agreed. “I’ll warn you again, Pansita. Beto Sáºlivan’s not to be trusted. He’s another Seá±or Cualquiera.”

“I know he’s not trustworthy, Seá±ora.” Mamá¡ Rosa had drilled into her the perfidy of most men, and her early experience with boys had solidified her mistrust. “If you’ll tell me where I can find a man who can be trusted, I’ll search there. ¿Maybe on the finca?”

“Unlikely, I think. I understand your problem. But at least on the finca you can probably find someone who’ll actually marry you. Hector’s waiting to take you as his wife.”

“And then I’m your maid forever. No, Seá±ora, I insist on more than that.”

Her mistress chuckled. “I know. But you can’t have it. You can stay single, and you’ll remain my maid, or you can marry a campesino, and you’ll remain my maid. Pansita, as I told you before Jack took up residence, you’re not going to find a Prince Charming. You’re just a campesina, and you’ll marry a campesino. That’s your destiny.”

“I will escape, Seá±ora. I’ll regain my literacy, and I think I can recover enough of my education left to become a teacher. I know, and you know, I’m not really a campesina, just a good imitation.”

“I know that some part of you wasn’t a campesina, once upon a time. But the original Pansy Baca was indeed born a campesina–just ask your old girlfriend Petunia.” She giggled. “I bet you did ask her. ¿Did you?” Pansy looked away. Susana continued, “You will always be a campesina. Pansita, look in the mirror. Your face, your skin. If you were educated or rich, or if you came from a good family, you might be able overcome those handicaps. Maybe. But you don’t. Perhaps you’ll teach some day. It’s a long shot, but you might. What you can’t ever do is find a middle-class husband.”

Pansy dropped the subject, keeping her mental reservations, and brought up the offer that the doctor had made to her. “He said I could take an literacy course in La Libertad, and that you agreed.”

“Yes, I did agree. A warning, though: the doctor says it may be harder to learn now than the first time. He says it’s easier to learn things like that when you’re young. Still, I approve, and if you want to advance yourself, it’s a necessary first step. But don’t get your hopes too high.”

Lilia chose that moment to wake up and insist on being fed. Pansy undid her blouse to feed her, as she had done that morning. “ ¿When is this course offered?”

“Tuesday and Thursday evenings, from 7 to 8.”

“ ¿What’s the cost?”

“Nothing for you. Doctor Ibarra’s picking it up. It’s part of his research.”

“ ¿How will I get there?”

“One of the finca men’ll take you.”

Pansy nodded. With her books and this course, she’d begin the climb back to the status of an educated woman. She knew it wouldn’t be possible to make it back to Seá±or Cualquiera’s position as a scientist, but being a teacher was better than being a maid. “You know, I could drive myself, Seá±ora,” she suggested.

Shaking her head, Susana rejected the idea: “You don’t have a driver’s license. Besides, it’s over two years since you–or rather, Seá±or Cualquiera–drove a car, and the road’s pretty bad. I’d rather let an experienced driver take you.”

Lilia stopped suckling and began to whimper. As Pansy picked her up and patted her back, the baby burped, and spit up a little milk over her mother’s blouse. Pansy dug a napkin out of her purse and cleaned it up as best she could, then put her daughter back at her breast. “I don’t really care how I get there,” she told Susana. “If you’d rather have someone take me there, that’s fine.” A few minutes later she asked, “Seá±ora, ¿when does the class start?”

“Early March, I think.” She thought, then told Pansy, “Yes, that’s it. March 6.”

February 24
-- As usual, a rooster’s predawn crow awakened Pansy from a dreams, this time of college days in Cambridge. The mixed odor of wood smoke and horses reminded her that she was in backwoods Honduras, trapped in the body of a maid, not a student. Groggy, she arose and checked Josecito and Lilia. Both slept soundly. With love she kissed them both on the cheek. To the east the sky was rosy, but westward a few stars still could be seen in the deep blue sky. She showered and dressed quickly. Marta would appreciate her help with breakfast, and she’d need to feed Lilia before Beto came to pick her up at 9.

By the time Alberto Sáºlivan arrived, the finca was well into the day’s activities. Pansy was dressed for him well in advance. Susana had offered to lend her an outfit. Pansy had accepted, and she wore a white linen blouse with a lacy V neckline, moderately low-cut, and a powder-blue jacket and skirt. Faux-sapphire earrings and necklace matched the jacket and skirt, and a dark-blue handbag and pumps completed her ensemble. Examining her image in the mirror, Pansy knew she’d’ve had Seá±or Cualquiera drooling. Her figure wasn’t exactly flaunted, but it was tastefully displayed, she thought, and her face was pretty enough, for a mestiza. Certainly as pretty as the face of a certain Maráa Banderas, who had attracted Seá±or Cualquiera six months ago. She banished the thoughts of her past; they could do nothing but make her unhappy now.

Beto grinned and gave a low whistle when she went out to meet him. “You look stunning, my dear,” he complimented her. “I’ll be the envy of every man at the concert.” Privately he thought she looked a little cheap, but then, she was only a peasant girl.

She blushed. “You’re a handsome devil yourself, Beto. I’ll have to be careful that some hungry girl doesn’t steal you out from under me.” He did look handsome, in a cream-colored tropical suit with a pale yellow shirt and a thin black tie. His swarthy complexion and thin black mustache reminded her of a villain in old cowboy movies.

His Celica bounced them down the track to Ojos de Agua, then took them across the Humuya bridge to La Libertad and the Comayagua road. For the first few kilometers Beto filled the time with inconsequential chatter, and Pansy was relieved that she didn’t have to find any more explanations for her past. Once they climbed into the mountains, he commented, “Petunia says you know a little about the rocks here. I didn’t realize there was much to know about them. Rocks are just rocks, ¿aren’t they?”

She pointed at a tilted layer of rock in the road cut to their left. “I only know a little, Beto. That gray rock there: it’s volcanic ash from millions of years ago. In La Libertad, the hills in back of town are limestone, even older, from a time when the ocean covered the country. You can see little corals in the rock. I know a little about rocks because they affect what plants I can find. You remember my interest in plants, ¿don’t you?” He nodded. “Well, I found it was easier to find what I was looking for, if I learned a little about the rocks that made the soil they grow in. I imagine it affects the quality of coffee, too.”

Beto glanced at her with a bemused expression. “I bet your family was puzzled to have a daughter like you. You did say you’d always been interested in science, if I remember rightly. ¿What did your mother think of your childhood interests?”

Unsure how to answer, Pansy looked out the window. Which childhood? The real one, now vaguely recalled, in some city or other whose name was lost? Or the childhood that Seá±ora Arias had given her, clear and vivid in San Pedro with Mamá¡ Rosa and Papá¡ Jorge? The latter, of course. It had to be real too, she had decided. Petunia had confirmed it. “Yes, Mamá¡ Rosa was puzzled. I guess not many little girls had my interests. She was tolerant, though. She thought I’d grow out of it. I did, a little. I played house and jumped rope, and I liked pretty clothes. And of course I played with my dolls. I remember Pepita especially. I still have her on a shelf at home. Papá¡ bought her for me when I was nine. And when I was older, in my teens, I discovered boys. I remember my quinceaá±era.” She smiled dreamily. “It was wonderful. I was all excited over my new grown-up dress like every young girl, and over dancing with my sweetheart.” She was quiet for a while, thinking about those memories. How could they not be hers? Maybe they were the real memories, and the others were imposed. It made more sense, as Petunia had said. But no, that was madness; she had to keep a hold on reality. A subversive voice whispered “ ¿Why?”, but she refused to listen. To get away from it, she asked, “ ¿What about you, Beto? ¿What were you like as a boy?”

Beto talked for some time about his own boyhood, and his two brothers, one of whom had died at eleven. Then the conversation turned back to Pansy’s family, and she explained again that they were of Honduran origin. “They went to Texas just after I was born, looking for work, but they had a hard time. I only lived in Texas when I was very young; I don’t remember much about it. Some others in the family–my mother’s people–came here instead, to the Sula Valley. When my parents had problems in Texas, they came here. I grew up in San Pedro.”

She talked at some length about her family and her childhood, and Beto told her about his own. As they approached Comayagua, the conversation turned to musical tastes. “I like rock music, as you know,” Pansy remarked. “Everything from Elvis Presley–or earlier–to Nine Inch Nails or Twisted Sister. Oh, I shouldn’t say ‘everything’, I suppose. I don’t like some of the stuff, but most of it, anyway.” Beto was reluctant to express an opinion. In truth, he had never paid much attention to music, and he didn’t want to display his ignorance. He liked jazz and rock, and he had a weakness for guitar music. He enjoyed some classical music–Bach was tolerable, and he loved Albéniz and Rodrigo–but he definitely wasn’t a lover of highbrow music.

Beto took her to a Chinese restaurant in for lunch. The restaurant was small, with only six tables, and the flyspecked tablecloths were none too clean. Faded posters of Chinese tourist attractions decorated the walls. The air was redolent with the promise of good food, though, and Pansy’s appetite overrode sanitary considerations. She couldn’t read the menu, of course–she cursed whoever was responsible for her illiteracy–and thought about ordering moo goo gai pan or sweet-and-sour pork. She finally resolved her problem by asking Beto’s advice, and they decided to share a bowl of egg-drop soup and a plate of shrimp lo mein. When Beto asked her how she liked Chinese food, she responded that she enjoyed this sample, at least.

Beto parked in a fenced and guarded lot, and they had to walk about three hundred meters. Pansy’s feet hurt by the time they reached the hall; her high heels might look great, but they weren’t practical for long walks. The theater was in a large stone building, recently refurbished, dating back to Spanish colonial days. The interior was elegant, with marble benches and floors, a crystal chandelier, and oil paintings and tapestries hung on the walls. A bored-looking attendant with bad acne took their tickets and handed them programs. Pansy and Beto passed into the concert hall, her hand on his elbow.

When the lights went down, Beto’s arm came around her. She snuggled close to him, or as close as the seats would allow. Hairy Banana turned out to be a light rock group, something like a cross between the Beatles and Led Zeppelin, with a touch of Tiny Tim thrown in. She let herself float on the music, especially when they did a love ballad. Cuddling up to Beto, she thought he was a wonderful man, and he’d be a wonderful husband. Another ballad was a rehash of Shakespeare’s tragic story of love, and Pansy imagined herself as Juliet in the arms of Beto, her Romeo. Through her mind there flashed the thought of herself in bed with Beto, and a wave of desire passed over her. She wanted him.

Beto was pleased that Pansy had enjoyed the concert. He didn’t know or care much about music, but he did know women, and he didn’t think Pansy would resist his advances much longer.

The concert moved to its end, and Beto guided Pansy back to the lobby. He looked down with amusement at her high heels. “Those shoes weren’t designed for walking, ¿true? ¿Would you like to wait here, while I fetch the car? I’ll only be a few minutes.”

She accepted his offer gratefully. “ ¡Thank you! I got to visit the bathroom anyway. I’ll wait for you over there when I’m done,” and she pointed to an upholstered bench.

Pansy entered the ladies’ room with a pang of irrational reluctance. Even now, she had to resist her instinct to head for the men’s room. The bathroom was a mob scene, and she worried that she wouldn’t be there to meet him when he returned. She had never known how packed a restroom could be! Why didn’t the management allow for the extra time needed by women? While she was there, she took the opportunity to relieve the pressure in her breasts, as well as her bladder.

Her escort hadn’t returned when she emerged, but he was there in five minutes, and she accepted his arm for the short stroll to the car. A passing shower had left a few puddles, but the rain had just ended. He asked, “ ¿What about dinner now? I know a nice place near the central plaza, behind the cathedral. It’s called the Villa Real.”

The name sounded familiar, but she couldn’t place it. “That sounds fine, Beto, but I don’t want to return too late.”

He laughed. “Pansita, you’ll be back late whatever. Whether we eat here, or somewhere else, makes no difference. Seá±ora Arias knows you’re here, and she isn’t expecting me to starve you to death.” She agreed to the Villa Real.

On the way to the restaurant, Beto asked what Pansy knew about the Beatles and their music, and she told him more than he had ever wanted to know. He was more puzzled than ever. They arrived within ten minutes and parked across the street. As she picked her way gingerly in high heels across the slick wet cobblestones towards the door of the restaurant, she was struck with an overpowering sense of déjá vu. Within the dining room, a garden of tropical plants was open to the to the now-clearing sky. A fountain played in the middle. They sat at a at a table covered with a dark-red tablecloth. Music from a karaoke bar came from down the hall–and suddenly she remembered: She had come here on a date, a couple of years ago. Lorenzo something-or-other had taken her to a movie–Ya-ya Sisterhood–and they had come here afterwards. It was just before she had accepted the offer of Seá±or Ovando, and shortly after Rico had died; she had been working for… for the Peá±as! Another maid–’Malia–had set her up with ’Renzo. She recall the kiss they had shared–and how good it had felt. All this was another confirmation that Seá±ora Arias had truly changed the past: This had all happened to her–to Pansy Baca–before Seá±or Cualquiera had ever met Seá±ora Arias. These were her memories, her past. It wasn’t credible that Pansy Baca could be just a construct, created from Seá±or Cualquiera by the doctors she had met a couple of weeks earlier–even without considering the evidence of her body. But then…

Beto’s voice broke into the turmoil inside her head. “ ¿Dear? Excuse me, but I don’t think you heard me. ¿What would you like for supper?” When he saw that her attention had returned, he told her, “They have meat, seafood, pasta… But let me read you the menu…”

“Never mind,” she told him, pushing her confusion aside. “I think… Yes, I want the estofado comayagá¼ense.” She remembered how good it had been during her previous visit. “ ¿If they still have it here?”

“ ¡Of course they do! It’s the specialty of the house. ¿You’ve been here before, then?” He was surprised; the Villa Real was more than a little upscale for a campesina like Pansy.

“Y… yes, a b…boyfriend took me here a couple of years ago.”

“He had good taste… in both restaurants and girlfriends.”

She blushed. “Thank you, Seá±or.” The waiter arrived, and Beto ordered for both of them. Then Pansy asked, “Beto, ¿do you know anything about the history of Comayagua? I think it’s a very old city, ¿true?”

He was pleased by the question, as it gave him a chance to show off his knowledge. He told her about the cathedral with its ancient Moorish clock, supposedly from the Alhambra, and he mentioned that the city had been the capital of Honduras for three hundred years, before political chicanery moved the capital to Johnny-come-lately Tegucigalpa. The arrival of the meal interrupted his lecture, and they set to eating.

After the meal, Pansy started to ask about his coffee business again, but Beto interrupted. Shaking his head, he insisted, “Pansita, that’s men’s business, like I told you before. Don’t worry your pretty head over it. God gave men the job of making a living and supporting the family. Women just have to run the house and raise the kids. It’s God’s own plan.”

Pansy recognized the argument. Seá±or Cualquiera had been insistent on that very point only a few months earlier, and Seá±ora Arias had taunted her with it. Suddenly it struck her that Seá±ora Arias had done no more than tell the truth: living as a hondureá±a, she would live by that code, if she hoped ever to marry. She would be forced into becoming Seá±or Cualquiera’s ideal woman, willy-nilly. Not by Seá±ora Arias, but by society and by her own body. And she already knew she couldn’t remain single indefinitely. She realized she couldn’t fight it–certainly not with Beto, not if she hoped to continue seeing him, and probably not with any other man she’d meet in this country. She hid her dismay and put on a shaky smile, agreeing with him. They finished the meal talking about safer topics, and then continued northwestward towards home.

It was 7:15 by the time they arrived in La Libertad. Beto invited Pansy to have a nightcap before he returned her to Los Ocotes. “We have a little time yet, Pansita. As I told you, you won’t be expected back early.” She accepted his offer. The house was dark when they pulled into the driveway. Filomena had been given the day off, he told her as he unlocked the door. and turned on the light. “There was no point in keeping her all day when I was going to be away. Now I’ll put on a little music– ¿unless you’ve heard enough for the day?”

She shook her head. “No, I’d like that. But it don’t have to be no serious music. ¿Do you have some light rock? ¿The Grateful Dead, maybe? ¡I adore Jerry Garcáa!”

He apologized: “Sorry, I don’t, but I have Guns ’N Roses. You like rum coke, ¿no?”

“Fine on both counts.” She sat down. He selected a CD and put it on, then retreated to the kitchen to prepare drinks. Pansy relaxed and thought about how much she had enjoyed the day. Beto’s company, the concert… She was reluctant to let it end.

Beto returned with drinks and offered a tall glass of iced rum and coke. When she tried it, the drink was a little stronger than what she was used to. Hot and thirsty after the long drive, she sipped it. He sat next to her and sipped his own. “If you’d like a bite to go with it, I have some snacks in the kitchen.”

“No thanks, Beto. I’m thirsty, not hungry.” She cuddled up to him. His arm slid around her.

For a while they sat together quietly. The music was turned low, and the lighting was dim. The rum coke warmed Pansy’s innards, and Beto’s arm around her warmed her too. His hand stroked her arm softly, then moved and cupped her right breast. She knew she should take it off, but she felt so good. A slow burn ignited in her. “I’ll just leave it there a minute,” she told herself. “It’s not doing any harm, and I want him to like me.”

In ten minutes Beto got up and fetched another drink. As she sipped it, more than a little tipsy, he smiled at her. “Pansita, you’re tired,” he declared. “Come into the bedroom. Lie down and rest.” She tried to think, but her brain was fuzzy and he was persuasive. He led her to bed, where she lay down. He lay next to her, turned to her, and kissed her deeply. Her slow burn turned to a raging fire. She wanted him. She wanted to feel him in her. Her arms seized him, and she responded ardently to his kisses. Somewhere in the back of her mind, an observer warned her, but she ignored him. Her libido was too strong. “I’m on the pill anyway,” she told the observer. “I’m safe, and I need this.” With this rationalization, she was lost.

Afterwards they lay together. Sated, Pansy knew what she had done, even through a haze of alcohol, and she wept quietly. Pill or no, she knew she had made a mistake. Beto tried to console her, insisting he loved her, but she cried softly. “It’s wrong, Beto. I shouldn’t do this.”

“It’s all right, Pansita, it’s all right. You’ll see,” he reassured her. “ ¿Didn’t it feel good?”

She sat and looked at him, her makeup streaked with tears. “Oh, yes, it felt wonderful, but I can’t… I don’t…” She began to cry again, and he took her in his arms and held her close. She wanted to believe his assurances of love, his promises that everything would be all right, but she remembered what Marta and Seá±ora Arias had told her. Worse, she knew how Seá±or Cualquiera had used similar tactics for his conquests. Beto was just like her former self. Regardless of this, she knew she wanted him. She couldn’t help it.

Pansy quickly recovered her composure. She apologized to Beto for her weeping, telling him that she hadn’t come to his house to go to bed with him. With a tremulous smile she told him, “You’re just too much of a temptation for a poor defenseless girl, I think.” He kissed her again, and took her back to the car. By 10 she was back at Los Ocotes. Marta met her and gave Lilia and Josecito over to her care. The cook looked at Pansy with curiosity, but she didn’t make any comments. Pansy fed Lilia and went to bed.

February 25
-- Shortly before dawn Pansy awoke as usual. Lilia hadn’t awakened her that night, and she hoped this was a sign that her daughter wouldn’t continue to demand feedings at 3 AM. She took care of Lilia, then checked on Josecito, asleep in his crib. While she showered and dressed, she considered the events of the previous evening. Much as she loved Lilia (and Josecito as well, she admitted), she most assuredly didn’t want another baby now. A second pregnancy would be disastrous. She was grateful for Doctor Cantáº’s advice on contraception. She took her little pill, as she had done every morning for the last couple of weeks.

Marta was waiting for her in the kitchen. The cook was busy frying sausage, but she gave Pansy a broad smile when she entered. “Good morning, Pansita,” she greeted her cheerily. “ ¿How was the date with Beto? You came in late, ¿no? No matter, I know it’s a long way to Tegus.”

Pansy was slow to answer. “It was… it was very enjoyable, Marta. The music was wonderful. I hadn’t been to a concert in ages. And Beto… Well, Beto was very good to me. You were right, though.” She smiled ruefully. “He’s sort of pushy. He’s a very good man, and I enjoyed being with him, but he’ll definitely get away with anything he can.” And that’s a lot, she added silently.

Marta shrugged. “I think most men are like that. Or lots of them, anyway. Beto’s a little worse than some, but not so bad as many.” She smiled wistfully. “And there’s no denying he’s a good-looking fellow, well put together. I wouldn’t have minded tussling a bit with him when I was younger.” She glanced sharply at Pansy. “He didn’t win his tussle, ¿did he? I know it happens, but it can be a disaster for the poor girl, as I told you.” Pansy blushed, and Marta laughed. “Oh, it’s none of my business, carita. I’m an old gossip, but you don’t need to tell me a thing. Just be careful with that man. All men, of course, but him in particular.”

After breakfast Susana asked how Pansy’s date had gone. Pansy gave her the same response. Susana didn’t pry, but cocked her head and gave Pansy a slight smile as if she knew what had happened. Pansy silently thanked Isabel Cantáº again, recalling Suzi’s comment to her–she couldn’t remember when–”You’ll find yourself in bed with some handsome fellow like Seá±or Cualquiera. He’ll get you pregnant, and I’ll laugh like hell when your belly swells and you begin to waddle like a duck.” Pansy had dismissed that possibility as fantasy. Now that fantasy had a frightening potential for becoming reality. Her first pregnancy had been a problem; but she knew an second illegitimate child would be a disaster.

As Pansy dressed for church, she recalled that horrible day when Seá±or Cualquiera had disappeared. As that awful Doctor Ibá¡á±ez had observed, and as Seá±ora Arias had predicted, two months of life as a woman had changed her personality–or his personality? She realized that she was consciously trying to make herself attractive in every way she could, and that she accepted being female–and a maid–without thinking about it, as if it were nothing new. “I suppose it isn’t,” she told herself. “After all, I’m at least as much Pansita Baca as I am Seá±or Cualquiera–maybe more. Petunia confirmed it. So did the date I remember at the Villa Real restaurant. And I might as well accept it.”

Kudos

Comments

Where we are now

Wow!

That was a lot of exposition!

Pansy has stepped both forward towards her freedom and backwards into to the Don's (or, at this point, Susana's) plot. She's trying to better herself, but she's becoming more reconciled to who she is. The one requires force of will, while the other simply requires that she surrender. I hope that'll never happen.

Pansy is now (and has been for a while) Pansy. Deon is gone, except as a poorly remembered past. We are all now identifying with Pansy as she is now.

I know the story is already written, but why should anyone from the original plot be allowed to hurt her for any reason?

Pansy is dominant, but

Pansy is dominant, but there's still a lot of George, and Susana (especially) sees him in her. (Of course, Susana would tend to see George even if he were not there.) Even Susana, though, is coming to see Pansy as mostly a different person, and a better one. The other main players (Jose, the doctors) will be allowed to monitor Pansy, but not to interfere--and especially not to hurt her. And yes, Pansy has not surrendered.

Susana

What's left to hurt?

...that almost sounds self-congratulatory; the doctors have destroyed George, so what more can they do to hurt Pansy...after you've been raped, things can't get much worse. Believe me, I know. Whatever is left of George certainly isn't apparent other than what the author ascribes. True; the spirit and the will to survive are strictly George's, since this person really didn't exist before the doctors did their evil. I guess it's a good thing, but "oh well, at least she's not dead doesn't seem to be appealing to me. Maybe because they had to kill George to make Pansy.

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

Hurting George/Pansy

No one is interested in hurting Pansy, and the doctors aren't even interested in hurting George--they simply don't care. Suzi and Jose are interested in hurting George, for different reasons: Suzi for revenge (altho that motivation is getting weaker as Suzi comes to realize that there's less and less of George left, and Jose because he's a psychopath. Pansy will still be hurt, but not from the malice of the project--and George himself will have a part in it.

Susana

Only A Baby Machine -- Part 19, The Dating Game (From The Other Side!)

Comments

Where we are now

Pansy is dominant, but

What's left to hurt?

Hurting George/Pansy

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