Part 8, Nursemaid
 
 
August 6
-- Pansy was folding clothes in the laundry room when Jaime came to fetch her. “Go to the infirmary, Pansy,” he told her without explanation. “You can finish your work later.”

Weiss and Herná¡ndez awaited her there. Doctor Herná¡ndez greeted her cheerfully: “Buenos dá­as, Seá±orita.” Switching to English, he commented, “You seem to have recovered well, Pansy. But then, my colleagues here have excellent records. You are fortunate to have had such artists to work on you.”

She told him to go to hell.

He smiled and replied, “I understand your difficulty with our project, but at least you might appreciate the fact that it’s not being botched. No matter: your appreciation isn’t required.”

Weiss ordered Pansy to strip below the waist. “Take off your panties, pull up your skirt, and lie on the table, face up. I need to give you a pelvic exam. You had massive surgery, you know,” he explained.

As though she might be ignorant of that fact. Reluctantly Pansy did as required.

“Now spread your legs wide.” Weiss poked and prodded inside her, producing strange sensations. It felt as though there was more in there than she had realized. After plumbing the depths of her newly-acquired vagina, he examined her urethra. “Very good,” he remarked. “Your new equipment is in fine shape. Come over here.” She was positioned in front of an X-ray, and several shots were taken. Weiss retrieved the film and sent her to Doctor Herná¡ndez, remarking, “You seem to be completely healed. I expected no complications, but one never knows. Now stand up. We need your measurements.”

Herná¡ndez measured her hips, then her waist. When that was done, he ordered her to strip off her blouse and bra, and measured her bust line. He took a blood sample, and then reached into a drawer for a hypodermic and gave her two shots into her butt. Pansy wondered what he was inflicting on her this time, then decided it was just more estrogen. By now, that made very little difference. Then she was sent back to Weiss’s office.

“Your physical transformation is a complete success,” he told her. “Even to a gynecologist, your genitalia would be nearly indistinguishable from those of a natural female. I worried about the reconstruction of your pelvis…”–given her other changes, it hardly mattered–“but the bone is almost completely healed, and an X-ray will show a typical female pelvic structure. Scars from the operation are still visible, but they will fade. You are a masterpiece, truly a medical miracle.”

Jaime returned her to Evelina, who set her to work again laundering diapers.
 
 
August 8
-- At dawn Pansy went back to the Institute under drugs. Don Pablo had complained that Pansy still had a man’s libido, even lacking both hormones and anatomy. Ibá¡á±ez had laughed. “It’s no surprise. I understand her frustration. Castration has long been known to leave the desire, but not the ability. A large part of sexual desire is in the mind–that’s what accounts for fetishes and such–and Pansy’s mind was shaped under the influence of George’s old body.”

The don had been annoyed. “You know that is not my plan. I want her to become a woman in her instincts, her desires. A normal woman. You told me you could arrange it.”

“Not quite. I said I might be able to arrange it. I promised nothing. This project is far beyond the old state of the art. But yes, it may be possible, at least in part. We have molded her attitudes directly, of course. Cosmetics, clothes, and such. And since her arrival here, almost all her social contacts have been with women–her students, her co-workers, her supervisors, and her companion Petunia. That process of socialization has affected her behavior, even her speech, as she imitates them unconsciously. Even her leisure time is assuming a more feminine cast, as she has begun to enjoy romance novels and telenovelas–which are of course written entirely from the feminine viewpoint we are trying to induce. She seems especially fond of La Madrastra and Bajo La Misma Piel. But of course you want her sexual orientation to change as well. I have to tell you, I think it unlikely. However, I can try.  ¿You wish me to do it, I assume?”

“Yes, I do.  ¿How soon can you start?”

“In a week.”

Now Ibá¡á±ez was ready. His first goal was the eradication of George’s association of feminine beauty with sexual attractiveness and pleasure. Pansy had been dosed with metrazine, and with a memory drug that shut down the hippocampus, preventing the retention of new long-term memories. When she awoke, she would have no conscious recollection of that day. However, the unconscious conditioning would persist.

Pansy was seated and shown photos of scantily clad women, some of whom would arouse the lust of a normal man, and others who would not. Her reaction on seeing a pretty girl was gauged by the dilation of her pupils. Once a baseline was established, she received a low, but constant, stimulation of her pleasure chip. The same series of photos was shown again, but this time the chip was turned off whenever an attractive girl appeared, and a slight nausea was induced as well. After three hours of training, the photos were shown again without the chips. Her reaction was negative. Then Ibá¡á±ez broke for lunch, leaving Pansy in her suggestible condition, listening to a tape repeating, “I do not like naked women. A girl who is prettier than me makes me jealous; I want to be the prettiest girl, so that men will like me. I am not attracted to women; that would be disgusting.”

After noon, real women replaced photos. Pansy showed no positive reaction; instead, her pupils contracted, showing dislike. Later, when asked if she had seen any women, she denied it, having no conscious memory as Ibarra had guaranteed. But the conditioning remained. Ibá¡á±ez, delighted, told his assistant, “We’ll repeat this procedure during the next few days, and then intermittently for the next month. She won’t realize anything’s been done to affect her sexual orientation, but she’ll find she’s no longer attracted to women. Or not as strongly–and I’ll test her regularly, and repeat the desensitization until she’s lost all interest in members of her own gender. Then I’ll show her the same pictures of women, attractively dressed–but I’ll reinforce a feeling of envy, that she isn’t as pretty, and that her clothing isn’t as attractive. Later I’ll use the same procedure in reverse, to induce an attraction to men. I think this procedure shows great promise in treating sexual aberrations. Don Pablo may be interested in further trials on other subjects; maybe we can commercialize this as a treatment for homosexuality.”
 
 
August 12
-- Life went on. Pansy would get up, dress, and spend ten minutes or so making herself pretty. Petunia remained in bed while Pansy primped. When she was done, Pansy headed for the kitchen to help Conchita prepare breakfast. Petunia joined Pansy for breakfast, after which Pansy left to learn cookery. After a break for lunch, she would practice needlework with Conchita. She was convinced she’d never enjoy sewing. Although she had been condemned to live as a woman, she had no intention of conforming to George’s standard of feminine behavior. In spite of her new sex, she told herself that her own deepest identity was unalterable. And something in her personality hated sewing. Still, she dutifully tried to improve. As they said in the army, you didn’t need to like it, you just had to do it. Her Spanish improved, and so did her acceptance of her womanhood. She still wept occasionally when she tried to remember who she really was, but she was coming to accept her artificially imposed identity of Pansy. Even Petunia called her Pansy now, without hesitation or reservation. Moreover, her references to Pansy were grammatically in the feminine gender.

That night the Perseid meteor shower would peak. The afternoon rain stopped by 5 PM, and there was a glorious sunset. The night promised to be clear; the moon was half full, and would be setting around midnight. Pansy asked permission to stay overnight at the coast, and it was granted. She and Petunia took a bus to Puerto Cortés and registered at the Hotel Mr. Ggeer, attracted by the weird name. By 11 PM they were walking along the Caribbean shoreline west of town. Pansy, still forbidden to wear pants, was wearing a light floral print dress.

Along the beach the night air was sultry. As they walked a susurrus of insects chirred and buzzed. The odor of salt air reminded Pansy of college days in Oklahoma, where Seá±or Pinkerton had walked the beach at Herring Cove in Provincetown. In a couple of years she could return! She used the flashlight as little as possible to keep their eyes adapted to the dark. A faint glow to the west, barely detectable, marked the position of Puerto Barrios, 75 kilometers away in Guatemala. Soon they were far from any lights, and spread a blanket and pillows where they’d have a clear view of the constellation Perseus as it began to rise in the northeastern sky. The Milky Way spread across the Eagle and the Swan overhead, and the myriads of stars were brighter than Pansy had ever seen them.

“Petunia, this is a beautiful place,” she declared wistfully. “If my position is different, I can love it.” A faint meteor flew upward from near the northeastern horizon and disappeared into the Great Square of Pegasus. “ ¡Look!  ¡Make a wish!” she cried out, and then almost bit her tongue. Their wish was obvious, and hopeless.

Petunia smiled wryly in the starlight, but didn’t say anything.

Pansy commented, “Yes, you’re right; you can’t tell me, or it isn’t come true.”

She sighed regretfully. “I wish…” and then, cheerfully, “ ¡…your Spanish were better!”

Her twist lifted some of Pansy’s burden of regret, and she laughed. “Oh,  ¡be serious!” she scolded, grateful that Petunia hadn’t been. As another meteor flashed by, she exclaimed, “Mire,  ¡qué bonita!” Petunia agreed, “Yes, it’s beautiful. And the beach here, and the forest, and the mountains… You’re right, this is a beautiful place. I never appreciated it until I left home. I think I’d die if I had to leave it forever.” Pansy thought of Ovid, and how as a boy he used to lie on the lawn to watch the same meteors. Two more meteors flew almost simultaneously. Together they cried, “ ¡Mire!” and broke into giggles.

They remained at the beach until their drooping eyelids drove them back to town. When they reached their hotel, Petunia asked, “ ¿What do you think you’ll do after Don Pablo releases you?”

Pansy had been considering that question. Murder, of course–but beyond that, she was still a good chemist. “I will re-establish my true identity and return to the United States. I may be female, but I can still be a professional.”

“ ¡Of course you can! There’s nothing to prevent you.” She was pleased to find that Pansy had regained an interest in life–and in truth, Pansy could do exactly as she proposed. There’d be some difficulty in finding that identity, but surely it would be possible. Don Pablo’s dream of keeping her trapped as a maid was just that: a silly dream. Later, Petunia began to undress for bed. “Pansy,  ¡muchas gracias para esta noche!” she told her girlfriend.

Pansy laughed at her. “Oh, I can’t take the credit for the night, Petunia. God did it,  ¡not me!”

Petunia smiled: “I never saw meteors before. They’re beautiful. Maybe God put them there, but he didn’t tell me about them. Pansy, you may not be my lover now,  ¡but I still love you! Thank you again.”

Pansy too stripped off her skirt and blouse, changed into her nightgown, and slipped into bed. “Buenas noches, Petunia,” she whispered, and Petunia replied, “Buenas noches, mi corazá³n.”
 
 
August 14
-- Two days later Petunia was called to the don’s study, where he told her she would have to leave Las Rosas. “You are almost eight months pregnant, Seá±orita. Your condition has become an embarrassment, and I do not wish you to serve as a model for the girls here.  ¿But do you have anywhere to go?” He sipped his hot black coffee.

Petunia had known for some time that she would have to leave, so Don Pablo’s announcement came as no surprise. She nodded. “Yes. My uncle in San Lorenzo has offered to help me until I can make my own way again. I expected I’d be married to Jack by now, you know,” she added bitterly. “He’s gone now. There’s no hope. You’ve won.” She looked out the window; a steady downpour veiled the forest beyond, and matched her bleak mood.

He put down his cup. “You must understand, my daughter also believed that– ¿what do you call him?–Jack Pinkerton would marry her. And a woman in the United States thought the same. No matter. You might have been right, but we will never know.” He took another sip. “Of course, you are correct that Jack Pinkerton is gone–as he should be. He was a disgrace. But Pansy remains, and I know that you care for her as well. I will see that she has a chance for a decent life. A life as a woman, true, but surely you admit that such a life can be rewarding.” He offered her coffee. She accepted; the don rang for Jaime and ordered, “Bring our guest coffee, please.” He turned back to Petunia. “I am grateful to you for helping Pansy. She has not recovered completely from her depression, but she seems to have decided to live. I think she will survive to see her release, and will adapt to her new life.

“However, as I said, you must leave. Jaime will take you to your uncle, and you can get on with your life. Pansy will adapt well, I think, but ultimately she will do better without you nearby. I promise you will be able to see her after she is freed at the end of next year; after all, she is the father of your child, and I cannot insist that you part forever. But you must leave for now.”

Tears began to roll down Petunia’s cheeks as she recognized that her relationship with her lover was ending forever. Don Pablo had promised they could meet again, but it wouldn’t be the same. He knew that, and so did she. He was right, though. She needed to pull her life together. “ ¿When… When must I leave?”

“Tonight. Hector will take you to Comayagua, and tomorrow he will drive you to San Lorenzo.”

Petunia gasped. “ ¿Tonight?  ¡But I love her!  ¡She… she’s like a sister! And she still needs me.  ¡I can’t go yet!”

His hands clasped on his desk, the don told Petunia, “Yes, you can. Conchita and Evelina trained her well–and your own help, especially during these last few weeks, has been invaluable–but Pansy needs to stand on her own. Her physical imprisonment at Las Rosas is finished now, and very soon I will send her away from the finca for on-the-job training. You will leave tonight. I will give you the opportunity to say goodbye to your girlfriend–and I promise, I will see that after her release, she will return to see you. But never again as a lover, of course. Be ready to go at 8 PM.”

When Pansy returned, Petunia was weeping on her bed. She rushed to her, crying “Petunia, what’s wrong?”

Her friend was too upset to speak in English. “Oh, Pansy, I’m… I have to…  ¡I’m leaving!  ¡Tonight! I have to go away now to have my baby… Our baby.” She wailed, “ ¡I don’t want to leave you!”

Pansy held out her arms, and they embraced, crying on each other’s shoulders. “Is all right, Petunia,” she comforted her friend. “You will be back. We will be together again. And I will be free eventually. I will… I will get… get through this, I p…p…promise. I w…will.” But she too wept, as they tried to comfort each other.

Petunia left a half an hour later, promising to keep in touch as soon as she could. “I’ll see you again, Pansy. I promise.  ¡You’re my best friend!  ¡You’re family, as close to me as my family!” Pansy dried her tears afterwards, promising herself that whatever happened after her release, she’d find Petunia, her only true friend in Honduras–or anywhere else. Even after escaping from the life the don had planned for her, she’d remain her truest friend.

Before Petunia left, however, Don Pablo arranged a visit to Ibarra, who deleted her memories of the months at Las Rosas with her lover. Afterwards, she “knew” that Jack Pinkerton had drowned, and she had taken time off to recover from the shock. A few other memories were also reshaped, to conform to their plans for Pansy.
 
 
August 15
-- Pansy’s first “memory transplant” in May had been a complete success. Now it was time for another. Ibarra told his assistant, “I’m comparing two methods. I’ll observe the effectiveness and permanence of new memories resulting from a staged episode in the life of the subject, compared to memories implanted via simple instruction under a hypnotic drug. The last experiment took place with Pansy’s knowledge; this time she won’t know what I’m doing.”

Morales nodded. “Yes, Seá±or.  ¿And what’s she going to get this time?”

“For the staged episode, she’ll have a real treat. I think every girl deserves a nice quinceaá±os. This episode’ll be a bit easier than before. Pansy speaks Spanish fairly well now. She’s fully female in anatomy, with a body that looks like that of a fifteen-year-old girl.” He grinned and added, “In fact, we’d better do this soon; her figure’s ripening quickly, and she won’t look girlish for long. Size’ll be easier to handle; maybe a ten percent decrease in apparent height will be enough. Or even less. Anyway, arrange a party for her, with family and friends. I’ve found actors to play the parts. The girl who’ll play the part of her older sister resembles Petunia Baca, George Deon’s former lover. Pansy will accept a familiar face more easily. For an experimental control, Pansy’ll get a memory of her primary-school graduation party by the usual method. She’d’ve been fourteen then.” He considered: “There ought to be other memories; I think I’ll spend a day giving her memories of her early life. I’ll give her a few words in Gará­funa, and that’ll give her a connection to the coastal people.”

“ ¿Seá±or Deon will really believe he was born a campesina?” His assistant’s skepticism was clear.

“Yes, if we succeed. We want to integrate our subject into Honduran society, and that would be a big step. I know, it sounds ridiculous, and maybe it is. Maybe it won’t work. Still, other subjects have accepted new life histories, and there’s no reason why Pansy should be different. We’ll try our best.”
 
 
August 17
-- At 1 AM Pansy was taken unconscious to the clinic, where Ibarra gave her a drug mixture, including the memory-enhancer mnemosine. She didn’t become fully conscious, but awoke to a hypnotic trance in which she accepted everything uncritically and remembered whatever Doctor Ibarra wanted to feed her.

When she awoke, she was in bed. Ibarra told her, “You are a girl, Pansy. You’ve always been a girl, you like being a girl. Your first name is Pansy-Ann, but everyone just calls you Pansy, or Pansita.” His instructions were in Spanish. As he had told Morales earlier, “She’s fairly fluent now, and we want to make these episodes as realistic as possible.”

“Pansy” said nothing, and Ibarra ordered her, “Tell me who you are.”

“I am… I am a girl named Pansy-Ann. They call me Pansy, or Pansita.”

He told her to get dressed and provided a plain blue cotton dress. When she was decent he took her to a small room and sat her in a comfortable chair.

“Pansy, when you wake up it will be April 1, your fifteenth birthday. You will be a quinceaá±era. There will be a party marking your passage from girlhood to womanhood. Your friends and family will be here at the party after Mass, to help you celebrate. Do you understand?”

“Yes. Tomorrow I will be a quinceaá±era, and I’ll be a woman then.”

“You want to wear a pretty dress and to look as attractive as possible.”

“Yes, I want to be pretty,” she agreed dreamily. A faint smile appeared on her face.

“Mamá¡ Rosa never let you use makeup when you were little, but you used it secretly. Now she will allow it. You will be delighted to use it. You had to wear your hair in braids when you were younger, but you don’t like braids, and now you wear it loose. For your quinceaá±os your mother let you get a permanent.”

He repeated material he had told her in May, and asked her about everything “Pansy” had been told then. She recalled it all–the dress she wore as a bridesmaid, her doll Pepita, her father, mother, sisters, and brother. He added friends and schoolmates–Mará­a Carrillo was her best friend–and gave her a boyfriend, Ricardo Sá¡nchez. He showed her pictures of all these people until she knew them at sight.

When her family and friends were fixed, he reworked her biography. She was born in Comayagá¼ela, next to Tegucigalpa; she moved to Dallas with her family, but returned to to San Pedro Sula after only two years, at age six. He described the barrio she grew up in, her father’s life as a shop clerk, and her mother’s job as a maid. Pansy learned a smattering of Honduran history and geography. She “remembered” her first date, just last year. After tutoring she told Doctor Ibarra about her first kiss, and how her mother had scolded her severely over it.
Ibarra described her eighth-grade graduation party: the blue dress she had worn, her first heels, the chocolate cake, the guests. He added Petunia’s quinceaá±os, four years earlier. She watched videos supposedly taken during those celebrations. Then he asked, “ ¿Do you recall your childhood? Tell me about it, in as much detail as you can. If you can’t recall exactly, fill in the best you can. If I don’t contradict you, it’ll be right.” She obeyed, and by day’s end she had mastered her biography. Ibarra had her repeat it several times until he was sure she both knew and believed it. He also gave her an additional instruction: “Because you are a hondureá±a, you will think and speak only in Spanish, even if it’s not easy, and even if you prefer English.” She agreed; after all, it was only proper.
 
 
August 18
-- Pansy woke early the next day. At first she lay quietly, snug in her nightie. She thought, “ ¡I’m fifteen years old today!  ¡I’m a quinceaá±era!” Suddenly excited, she jumped out of bed and washed. She looked down at her breasts, delighted by them. “I’m a woman today,” she thought; “ ¡I’m so glad I was born a girl!” For a moment she seemed to hear a scream of protest: “No! I wasn’t born a girl! I’m not a woman!” But she suppressed it as nonsense. Of course she was a woman; it was obvious to anyone. Choosing a plain green dress (she’d change later for Mass), she dressed quickly, her heart pounding. Mami had said she could wear heels today, and use lipstick and eye makeup. “ ¡I’m grown up now!”, she told herself again. When she finished with her hair, she ran to the kitchen, where her mother Rosa was fixing breakfast. “Ayyyy, chiquita, you are excited,  ¿yes?  ¡You are a pretty girl, my daughter! You’ll remember this day for the rest of your life. Now sit down. Papá¡’ll be here soon.”

Her younger sister, Daisy, told her, “ ¡Today’s your quinceaá±os, Pansy!” Mamá¡ Rosa shushed her, telling her that everyone knew that already. “Now sit down, Daisita, and be quiet. Have some horchata.” Pansy herself sat and lifted her own glass of horchata to her lips, swishing a mouthful around and savoring the sweet cinnamon-rice flavor. Then her older sister, visiting from the university, and her brother Tomá¡s joined them. Finally her father entered.

“ ¡You’re so pretty today!” he told her, and ceremonially presented her with an elaborately dressed porcelain doll. “Your Last Doll,” he announced. “After today, you’ll be a woman, not a girl. Now eat quickly so we can leave for church.  ¡Today’s a big day for you!” He sat, and the family set to eating. Afterwards Pansy helped to clean off the table.

“Get dressed, wá¼ri irahá¼,” her father told her with affection, and she recognized the words as “little girl” in Gará­funa, a legacy of her paternal grandmother. “We’ll leave for church in an hour.”

She selected her outfit with great care, finally choosing a pink dress that showed her budding figure nicely. Her mother gave her a scarlet plastic shoulder bag monogrammed with her initials in purple, PAB, and decorated with purple pansies. She had new high-heeled shoes, too–her first! Happily she applied pink lipstick, and just a touch of lime-green eye shadow. Once finished, she peered critically into the mirror; yes, she was pretty. Daisy looked at her enviously; two years younger, she wasn’t permitted to wear heels or makeup.

They walked to church in stifling heat and humidity, typical of August in San Pedro Sula. Pansy’s heels were awkward, but she proudly embraced the difficulty as a small price to pay for her new maturity. She imagined that all eyes–or at least all the boys’ eyes–were on her as she walked into the familiar old church. During Mass, she couldn’t keep her mind on the service. Her anticipation of the quinceaá±os kept intruding into her thoughts.

After Mass her father asked, “ ¿Is that fellow Rico still hanging around you, Pansy? You got to be careful around the boys, you know. You don’t want to get a bad reputation.”

Blushing, she told him Rico Sá¡nchez still liked her. She felt an embarrassing thrill as she thought of how he had stolen a kiss two weeks ago. “I like him too, Papi. And I’m old enough to have a boyfriend.” Her invisible observer, impotent, raged that there was no boyfriend and never would be, but Pansy knew better–especially with her new conditioning. She loved Rico, with his handsome face, his strong arms, his… She tripped over a stone while daydreaming, and her mother warned her, “Watch your step, Pansita. Those heels need attention.”

Her father admonished her sternly: “You may be old enough for a boyfriend, but you’re not old enough to be able to stay with a boy alone. You’ll have a chaperone when you’re with him, or with any other boy. I insist.  ¿Understood?”

Casting her eyes down modestly, she agreed. “Yes, Papi. I understand.”

Once home, Pansy changed back into her green dress and began to help her younger sister fix lunch while her parents and her older sister started preparing for her party. After lunch her mother sent her off to change. “You shouldn’t have to do any work for your own party, carita. Besides, you need to get yourself ready.”

Pansy began with a hot bath scented with bath oil, then dried herself and put on her lingerie. Blessing her new permanent, she brushed out her curls and held them with barrettes. Turning to her nails, she filed them carefully and applied pink nail polish. The eye shadow received a touchup, and a few stray hairs were plucked from her eyebrows. Mami had advised her to use a minimum of makeup, so only a trace of rouge went on her cheek. She felt a frisson of delight as she saw herself in the mirror, now with the face of a grown-up woman. Then the dress–that fabulous white creation her papá¡ had bought a month ago, embroidered with pink flowers, full-skirted, covered with frills and lace like a little-girl dress, but cut low enough to show the cleft between her full breasts. Pansy had fallen in love with it at first sight. She remembered that Papá¡ had balked at first, but Mamá¡ had won him over. “After all,” she had argued, “the point of the quinceaá±os is that our little girl is a woman now. This dress is proper for her.” He grumbled, but gave in. ’Tunia helped her with the buttons; they were awkwardly placed for her own fingers. A touch of pink lipstick was next, matching the nail polish, and then a dab of cologne. She stepped into open-toed white heels. ’Tunia had given her earrings, ceramic roses with a cut-glass pendant, and she put them on. A single strand of pearls, a gold bracelet, and she was nearly done. Finally, she put a fresh rosebud in her hair over her right ear. In the mirror she saw herself just as she had always imagined, a radiant young woman, no longer a little girl. She gave a little pirouette, dancing with Rico in her imagination.

Pansy was walking on air when her parents exclaimed how pretty she was. Her younger sister looked at her enviously. Recalling how envious she had been at her older sister’s quinceaá±os four years earlier, Pansy advised, “Be patient, chiquita. Your turn’ll come soon enough.”

Her friend Mará­a was the first arrival, and she oohed and aahed satisfactorily over Pansy’s dress. “ ¡I hope my dress is as wonderful as yours, Pansy!  ¡It’s like something out of a fairytale!” One by one the others came, including Ricardo Sá¡nchez. Pansy blushed when she saw how he looked at her, but she felt warm inside. The arrivals gave her presents; Rico gave her an orchid corsage. Mamá¡ Rosa put on a tape, and they all began dancing.

Time went quickly. Pansy was Cinderella at the ball, and Rico was her prince. At last it was over, and the guests began to depart. Rico was among the last to go, and he kissed her in the hall before he left.

That night Pansy told her mother, “This was the best day in my life. Thank you, Mamá­. I will remember it forever.”

Her mother laughed quietly. “I know you will, chiquita. We wanted it that way. But remember what it means: now your’re a woman, ready to look for a husband. Like I’ve told you, make sure he’s a good man, and one of your own class. You’ll be tempted to dally with some handsome high-class fellow. Don’t do it. He’ll take advantage of a pretty girl like you, and destroy your life. You want a fellow who’ll marry you and take care of you and your children.  ¡Remember my words!”
 
 
August 19
-- The next morning, Ibarra was at his desk when Roberto Ibá¡á±ez knocked. He invited the Chilean in and asked him to sit. Ibá¡á±ez chose a well-padded armchair and sat back. He asked Ibarra, “ ¿Are you satisfied with yesterday’s trial? Morales tells me that Pansy enjoyed herself.”

Ibarra lit a cigarette and offered another to Ibá¡á±ez, who accepted. “Yes,” Ibarra replied proudly, “There’s no doubt. The exercise came off better than I had hoped. Pansy should retain pleasant memories of her quinceaá±os for the rest of her life. The shot of mnemosine will assure it. There was no indication that she suspected she had not always been a girl. Somewhere in that pretty head Seá±or Deon was aware of matters, but he was completely suppressed. Completely powerless. His situation was like that of a subordinate personality in some forms of multiple-personality disorder. He could watch, but he couldn’t act. It’s not quite accurate to say we created a new personality, but it’s not too far wrong.”

“ ¿Was there any difficulty in the church?” Ibá¡á±ez asked. “You couldn’t manage her environment there, at least not effectively, and at the least she might’ve noticed that she was taller there.”

“No, no problem. None at all. After all, she does look like a girl.” He chuckled. “Actually, thanks to Weiss, she is a girl. There was little danger, and the benefit of providing an authentic experience outweighed other considerations. It was successful, and I plan to give her more memories the same way. After all, these memories are of real events, with rich detail that can’t be provided by other methods. The height was no problem either. She’s shorter than many girls that age.”

“ ¿And now? She’s missing two days from her life.  ¿How will those days be accounted for?”

“No need to account for them. One day’s much like another, and we’ve given her a false memory that she spent those days just like every other day: training to be a maid.” Ibarra leaned back and looked out the window; it was raining hard again. “The memories we added should remain dormant until Pansy reappears, and then we’ll see what happens. I’m very curious to discover how effective this procedure is, and how it compares to simple indoctrination. We’re still using that too, of course. I already know that both work, from earlier subjects, but Pansy is a much more severe test. The attempted change is so drastic. Virtually every event in her life has to be scripted.  ¿But your own research, Doctor?  ¿Is it going well?”

“Yes, I think so. My prediction that the chips would be a highly efficient conditioning device is vindicated, I think. Of course, there’s a lot more work left to be done. And our attempt to make her attracted to men isn’t going well. In the lab, while she’s sedated, it seems to work; but when she’s awake, her conscious distaste for any sexual attraction to women overrides the unconscious conditioning. And her… hmmmm… call it Seá±or Deon’s habituation to female charm perpetuates the old orientation. I’m afraid she’ll be a lesbian. But I’m still working on it.”

When Pansy awakened, she was disoriented. Briefly it seemed that she had been at a party; but she realized it had just been a dream, and it faded as she became fully alert. She was alone in her room. When Jaime arrived after breakfast he declared that Pansy would be more feminine shortly.

Pansy retorted angrily, “ ¡My appearance is all feminine already!  ¡Look at me!”

He giggled and grinned; “I would indeed have enjoyed looking at you when I was whole.  ¡Sos cuero!” When she looked puzzled, he added, “It’s what we call a pretty girl with a great body. In English, I’m not sure. ‘Fux’, maybe.”

She was even more puzzled until she realized he meant “fox”, and then she went on: “I’m wearing a skirt and a blouse. I’m wearing lipstick, heels.” She pointed to pendant earrings and permed hair. “ ¡My jewelry, my hair! I got hips, breasts. Hell,  ¡my balls are gone! I can no even think of myself, but as girl. They finish the job,  ¿true? I no care what else you do;  ¡there is no enough left of me to matter! Only Petunia care about me now.”

“Oh, Don Pablo tells me there’s still more to do.  ¡Maybe they can make you like boys!” He saw the disgust on her face and shrugged. “Or maybe not. Anyhow, your girlfriend Petunia’s gone. She’s a normal woman, and she wants a boyfriend. She still saw you as a man masquerading as a woman. Now she accepts fully that you’re a woman, just like her, and you can’t satisfy her needs. You’re just another girlfriend, even if she knows that you were once a man, and her lover.”

“Jaime, there is no changes left. I am as female as they can make me. And as for Petunia, I has already accept it. I am her girlfriend now. I know it, just like she does.” Nevertheless, Pansy worried. What was left to change, she didn’t know; but Jaime was probably right.
 
 
August 20
-- Ibarra had Pansy abducted again, and planted another memory, that of her sixteenth birthday. He took three days. The first day set the stage: he gave her a year’s memories since her quinceaá±os. On the second day, the family celebrated her birthday with a small party. Then her mother took her shopping for a new dress in San Pedro. The family drove to Tela for the night, staying in the same hotel frequented once upon a time by George Deon. In the morning they went to the beach, where Pansy changed into a skimpy red bikini. She was pleased by the admiring looks she drew from the men. When they returned to San Pedro in the evening, Mamá¡ Rosa repeated her advice to Pansy, to find a good man of her own class. The next day Pansy woke up with no memory of the trip; as before, the memory was buried, to be activated upon her next name change.
 
 
August 21
-- On Sunday morning Yolanda came to Pansy as she scrambled eggs with onions and peppers for breakfast. Pansy looked up with trepidation. What deviltry did the don plan for her? Her visitor held an armful of clothes, which she piled on a chair. “Good morning, Pansy. El Patrá³n asked me to return these. He says you can wear whatever you like until further notice. He even wants you to wear some of these to church today. I don’t approve, but…” She shrugged: “He sets the rules.” Then Yolanda peered at Pansy’s face and smiled. “You look pretty this morning. You’re using makeup well.” She reminded Pansy, “We’re leaving for Mass in Comayagua in an hour. The don says you can do some shopping afterwards. You can buy some of those books you seem to love so much.”

Pansy’s breasts had grown even larger, bulging slightly over her two-month-old bras, and they ached. They felt “tight”, and her protuberant nipples embarrassed her. She had begun to worry: something was wrong. Maybe Yolanda would know, or at least she could tell Don Pablo about it. Overcoming her embarrassment, she told her visitor diffidently, “I… Yolanda, my… my breasts feel funny. They’re bigger, and they hurt, sort of.” She described her problem. “I worry that they are bad, that the doctor makes a mistake with me.  ¿Can you find out for me, please?”

Yolanda giggled and replied, “You don’t really have a problem–or not a serious problem. Don Pablo already told me what’s happening to you. I’ll tell him you asked–but don’t worry, it’ll be fixed soon.”

After Yolanda left Pansy took the eggs off the stove and looked at the pile on the chair. It was the masculine clothing that she had lost when she had been forced into female garb. She was pleased by the unexpected gift. She was sick of skirts, and it wasn’t fair that pants had been forbidden. Other women weren’t restricted that way. Returning to the bedroom, she stripped off her skirt and blouse and slipped a short-sleeved blue shirt and a pair of jeans over her body. She didn’t consider wearing men’s underwear. What would be the point? Besides, with her heavy breasts, she needed the support of a bra. When she was finished she looked at her image in the mirror.

She was disappointed. The shirt was tight over her bust; it hadn’t been designed for a female figure. The jeans were loose at the waist, but too tight around the hips and butt. The outfit didn’t fit at all. She tried another combination, a slightly larger pink shirt and a pair of gray slacks. The shirt didn’t bind as badly over her breasts. She recalled that she had wanted a loose-fitting shirt for comfort in the hot climate; but it had been too big. The slacks fit better too; the material stretched more easily than denim, and it molded itself to her hips. She picked a necklace and earrings to match the shirt, and made up her face. Her old shoes were rejected in favor of heels.

Before she left, she had second thoughts. The other women wore dresses, and she stood out. She asked Jaime if she could change into a dress, but he told her to go as she was. “The don told me you never really wanted to wear a dress, that you wanted trousers. ‘So be it’ he said. ‘She will learn to be careful of what she asks for, lest her request be granted.’” Jaime stepped back and observed her critically. “Don’t worry,” he remarked, “It’s still apparent that you’re a real cuero. A shirt and trousers don’t begin to hide the fact. The men’ll still enjoy your figure, even in that costume. I agree, though. It’s not at all suitable for you. It’s only for the day, though. You can manage.”

Pansy, uncomfortable and depressed, didn’t enjoy her outing. The other women disapproved of her male garb, and she felt their silent frowns. She was driven to explain that Don Pablo had chosen her attire, that she had wanted a dress. Their hostility lessened–after all, they knew she had little choice–but their unconscious reaction remained negative. After she reached the church, town women joined in the tacit scorn. Men’s eyes were drawn to her even more than they had been earlier; the slacks were at least as revealing as the dress would have been, and the light shirt did nothing to hide the outline of her breasts. But that seemed to be a minor factor. Rather, her unconventional clothes suggested to the men that she might be less than conventional in other ways, and she might be receptive to their advances. Pansy was eager to change back into her normal attire, forgetting how unhappy Seá±or Pinkerton had been four months earlier, when he had first been forced into skirts.

After Mass Jaime took her to the market, where she bought a few paperbacks, as promised. On the way back to the van she looked longingly at the dresses for sale. Jaime took note and asked, “ ¿Aren’t you pleased with your slacks, Pansy? The don granted you a favor when he returned your trousers. Now you seem to want to wear a dress. I agree, it’s more suitable, but you were unhappy when Don Pablo took away your pants.  ¿What is it that you want?”

Pansy looked at the ground. She was reluctant to admit it, but she wanted women’s clothing. Men’s clothing was a mockery. “I… Yes, Seá±or, I… I prefer to wear a dress. I now am a woman. I no want it, I no choose it, but it is true. Because I am a woman, I shall… should wear a dress.” She looked at him hopefully. “ ¿Can… can I buy a dress here?”

Jaime nodded. “Yes, you can buy whatever you want, within reason.”

Her depression lifted. “ ¡Yes!  ¡Yes, please!  ¡I want to buy a new dress!” She paused. “And, please, I need to buy bigger bras. Mine are too small now.”

Pansy returned to Las Rosas with her new bras–now C-cup–wearing a dress with a flaming-pink skirt and a lacy white bodice that clung to her figure. New earrings and a new purse matched the skirt. Her spirits rose remarkably. She rationalized her delight in her purchase by telling herself that she’d have to live as a woman, and that it would be better and easier to be a pretty woman.

The don was pleased. Ibá¡á±ez had promised a demonstration of her conditioning. He claimed that she would want to wear pretty clothing, and to be attractive. “The conditioning isn’t yet firmly established, but Pansy has begun to look at women again. However, now she looks with jealousy, not lust. She compares herself to them, and wishes to look as attractive as they do. I’m still working to ensure that the conditioning is permanent, but I believe it’ll take only a little longer Results with other subjects have shown that the preference soon becomes independent of outside stimulus.” He paused, then added, “This has nothing to do with an attraction to men–but I’m working on that facet of her character as well, and if I succeed– ¡not guaranteed!–then her heterosexual interest will act to reinforce her newly feminine tastes.”

“Good, Roberto– ¡very good! Already she is becoming shaped to the pattern I have chosen for her. You and Doctor Ibarra are fulfilling the hopes I have had for this work.  ¡Congratulations!”
 
 
August 24
-- Pansy’s breasts hurt. In spite of Conchita’s assurances, she still worried that something was wrong. She complained again, this time to Jaime, who said a doctor would see her that afternoon. “He’ll fix you up,” he told her. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head.”

When Herná¡ndez arrived, he confirmed it. “Yes, I’ll help. Strip to the waist.” She obeyed and received a shot. Soon a thin discharge oozed from her swollen nipples. Alarmed, she asked, “ ¿Something… something is bad?”

Herná¡ndez reassured her, “Not at all. That shot started your milk flowing. The fluid you see is colostrum, the first product of a lactating breast.” He took out a small bottle with a suction cup and a hand-operated plunger. “A breast pump keeps the pressure of your milk from becoming painfully high.” He put the cup to her right breast, where it fit snugly over the nipple. “Now hold it,” he ordered. Pansy did, and he began to work the pump. Soon the bottle began to fill with white fluid. “We’ll save it for the nursery,” he remarked. “Breast milk is a rich food, not to be wasted.” He added, “Congratulations, Seá±orita. You have reached Tanner Stage 5, and your breasts are fully mature.”

Pansy had no reply. She was furious at her own body for responding to the manipulation. The sensation in her breast was pleasurable, but that very pleasure was yet another betrayal. When the flow from her right breast diminished, Herná¡ndez detached the cap. Handing the apparatus to Pansy, he told her, “You’ll need milking several times a day. You need to learn to do it yourself.” Fumbling awkwardly, Pansy positioned it over her left breast and held it with her right hand while she pumped with the left. The tightness, now recognized as internal pressure, was soon relieved. She donned her bra, then buttoned her dress, which was uncomfortably taut over her bosom. She conceded that the milking left her more comfortable, but she resented the forced acknowledgment of her functional womanhood. And she didn’t look forward to serving as the nursemaid for Suzi’s baby.

Before supper a stranger found her in the kitchen and introduced himself: “Seá±or Pinkerton, I’m José, Suzi’s brother. It’s such a pleasure to see you at last–wearing a dress! I came to find the macho bastard that fucked my sister, but it’s hard to believe that you’re him. You don’t look very macho, do you? What do you call yourself? Pansy?” When she admitted to it, he laughed. “Yes, you are so much a pansy! A little lipstick, nail polish–thoroughly feminine, I see. And cute tits! Father told me that you had really nice boobs, and I thought it’d be a good idea to have you experience their intended function, so I suggested this little experiment to him. I’m a psychologist, you see, and I pointed out to him that having you nurse a baby would drive home the essential fact of your womanhood. He agreed with me. You’ll be giving milk for some time, my girl, and we can put it to good use. One of the women–one of the other women–here at Las Rosas has a problem with her lactation, and her baby needs a wet nurse. You’ll do just fine. Report to the nursery at 9 PM tonight.”

José was there at the appointed time. “Juana, get Ana,” he ordered. She fetched a squalling infant, and he told Pansy, “It’s feeding time, Miss Pinkie. Give Ana your breast, girl.” Pansy unbuttoned her blouse and unhooked her bra. If she had learned anything, it was that disobedience led to pain and suffering, and that in the end it was futile anyway. Juana handed the baby to Pansy, who held her to a swollen nipple. As the tiny mouth touched it, Ana stopped crying and began to suck noisily and greedily. José watched, grinning, as Pansy suckled the child.

Her left breast felt better, though, as the internal pressure was relieved. She switched Ana to her right breast, and she fed a couple of minutes longer. Then she turned her head away and started crying again. Juana took her, explaining, “She needs to be burped. Pansy, you got to learn how to do this. Pay attention.” She showed Pansy how to drape a towel over her shoulder and pat the baby until she burped up a little milk. When the baby was done, Juana returned her to the other room, telling Pansy that Ana would sleep. Her duty completed, Pansy readjusted her bra and buttoned her blouse. She was emotionally numb and detached, as if Seá±or Pinkerton had been watching some strange woman in a television special, in whom he had no special interest. José told her, “You’re assigned to the nursery now, to learn how to care for a baby. You’ll nurse three times a day: at 7 AM, 2 PM, and 9 PM.” He added, “If your girlfriend Petunia meets you again, she’ll see that her raging young bull has become a docile milk cow.” Pansy didn’t reply–her detachment shielded her from his malice–but she recalled Seá±or Pinkerton’s words, that a woman’s body was designed to bear and nurture children. Seá±or Pinkerton now inhabited a woman’s body himself; that was quite clear. She’d be forced to accept every consequence that the Herreras could foist on her, probably including sex. Her only consolations were that they still couldn’t get her pregnant–that wasn’t biologically possible–and that they couldn’t control her mind. Inside her head, she remained inviolate.
 
 
August 26
-- Two days later, Pansy was changing Ana’s diaper when a well-dressed young woman walked into the nursery with a camera. She greeted Pansy, “Good morning, Seá±orita.”

“Good morning, Seá±ora.” Pansy recognized Susana, but suppressed any reaction.

“My brother told me Pansy Pinkerton would be here.  ¿Do you know her?  ¿Can you tell me where she is?”

“Yes, I know her, Seá±ora. I am… I am Pansy.”

“ ¿ ¡You are Pansy?!  ¡Impossible!” Susana stepped back and stared at the teenage peasant girl wiping the baby’s bottom. “She’s lighter skinned, and her face is a lot different, and her hair is lighter, and… and you’re even shorter than her. Quite a bit shorter,” she noted as she looked down on the petite campesina. “Please,  ¿where is she?”

“I am Pansy, Seá±ora. I know, I look different. Your father was busy.” More than a little bitterness tinged her voice.

Susana looked closely at the girl’s face. George Deon’s green eyes looked back. She glanced at the girl’s left arm: it was slender and almost hairless, but yes, there was a faint scar. And her accent had more than a trace of English. “ ¡Oh my God, it is you! You’re right, he’s been very busy.  ¡Amazing! I bet you’re not real happy with the results.”

“No, I am not happy.” Pansy tossed the dirty diaper into a hamper, wrinkling her nose at the odor. She’d have to launder the diapers later.

“ ¡But they did such a great job! You’re a cute little girl, my dear.  ¡Very little!” Susana ogled her former lover. “And you fill out that dress nicely.  ¡You have a great figure! You called yourself a ‘breast man’ a year ago, when you complained that mine weren’t big enough.  ¡Now you have your very own knockers!  ¿Are they satisfactory? C cup, I’d guess.”

Involuntarily Pansy glanced down at her bosom, but she ignored the jab. “They are enough, Seá±ora, and more than enough.  ¿Can I help you?” She put the baby onto a clean diaper and pinned it.

“Your courtesy is commendable. They’re training you well.”

Pansy shrugged. “Seá±or Herrera says I have to stay during fourteen more months and a few days. I do not want to make trouble.” She gave the baby a pacifier and returned him to a crib.

“That’s wise of you. You’re learning to care for infants, I see.  ¡Good! I’ll need you to help me with Josecito.” She giggled. “But Father sent me here to ask the wet nurse where Pansy was, and you’re the only girl here.  ¿Is it really you?  ¿You’re really giving milk?” Flushing, Pansy admitted to it. “ ¡Amazing! None of my other boyfriends had that talent. But of course you’re hardly a ‘boyfriend’ now,  ¿are you? You don’t look much like a boyfriend.” She giggled again. “ ¡And you don’t sound like one either, that’s for sure!  ¿Maybe a thirteen-year-old girl?  ¿Or is it eleven?  ¿What do you think?”

By this time Pansy had become accustomed to her new voice–it seemed impossible that she had ever sounded like a man–but Susana’s taunt still stung. Nevertheless, she merely nodded. “I’m nineteen years old, like you very well know, Seá±ora. My voice is just another gift from your father. But you have to excuse me; I have more work to do.”

“I know–Father said I could watch you working. I want to see for myself that Josecito will be in good hands.”

“I think that is not the true reason, Seá±ora. You want to make me to show you that I am a physical woman.” Her lips tightened. “Yes, I am a woman, as much as the doctors of your father can make me.”

“ ¿But not completely? I think that’s what you’re implying.  ¿What do you lack?”

In the other crib Ana Luz’s whimpers turned to wails. Pansy unbuttoned her dress, shifted her bra, and picked the baby up. “This is what you wanted to see,  ¿true?” She cradled the infant in her left arm and put the baby’s mouth to her right breast. Ana Luz started to suck briskly. Lifting her camera, Susana began to take snapshots.

“Of course.” Susana sat; so did Pansy. “But you didn’t answer me.  ¿You’re not completely female?”

“No, of course not. You studied biology, Seá±ora. My…” She hunted for a word, couldn’t find it, and switched to English. “My genetic material, my chromosomes… They’re still male, no matter how I look–or sound.”

Susana accepted the switch. “Yes, I understand that. But your… hmmm…” She grinned. “Your plumbing?”

“Didn’t your father tell you all this?”

“He hinted, but he didn’t give the details.” Her grin grew wider. “Besides, I’d rather you tell me yourself.”

“Don Pablo took my dick and gave me a fake pussy, may he rot forever in Hell. Are you satisfied? …Seá±ora.”

“Not quite. Let’s discuss your vanished dick. Today is August 26.”

The non sequitur confused Pansy. “Yes… yes, Seá±ora, if you say so. I didn’t keep track. What about it?”

“Do you remember where you were, a year ago today?”

“One year?” Knitting her brow, she tried to remember. A year ago… She had still been a man then. It was hard to credit, as she sat here nursing a baby. It was even harder to recall what it had been like. “I don’t…” She shook her head. Seá±or Pinkerton had been teaching, she remembered. “I suppose I was teaching in La Ceiba.”

“No, a year ago today you were in Tela.” Suzi’s smile disappeared. “We were in Tela. You were screwing me, to put it crudely. And screwing me over as well. Do you recall now?”

“I…” She looked down at the ground, then at a chair. “Yes, I remember.”

“Your dick–and your damned male ego–nearly destroyed me.” Her smile returned: “I still have the dick, you know. José was there, and he saved it for me. He had a taxidermist mount it and embed it in clear plastic. It’s on a shelf in my room. It’s a bit shriveled, but it looks so lifelike. You’ll see it again when you’re my maid. It’ll remind you why you’re there.” She paused, then added, “My brother kept your cojones. He has them in a jar, pickled.”

Pansy looked down at her left breast, where baby Ana was sucking. “I need no reminder. Do you, Seá±ora?”

“I suppose not. After all, I have Josecito. But anyway, your dick is lost to you forever. And to look at you, I have to believe your masculine ego’s going the same way. Wouldn’t you agree, dear?” She took more photos.

“My ego is surviving.”

“Good! Father says over the next year or two, or maybe five, it’ll probably shrivel up and disappear, just like your dick, and you’ll become the docile little campesina you already look like. He simply has to be right! There’s no way a male ego could survive in a body like yours! Don’t you agree, chica? I’ll simply adore watching you change.” She cocked her head thoughtfully. “Your macho side is shriveling, but your feminine side’ll grow. Your life’ll be so different. No more office drudgery, commuting, memos, expense accounts… all that’s in your past. Instead, you’ll do my laundry, serve my meals–and breastfeed our baby. And I bet you’ll discover a whole new set of interests–hair ribbons and pretty dresses, lipstick and mascara.” She shut here eyes and smiled dreamily. “And boys. You have a brand new pussy, after all. No need to give up sex–you’ll just find out how the other half does it. Your half, now. It’s a lot easier–all you do is spread your legs, and the guy does all the work. You’ll love it!”

Pansy looked horrified. “Don Pablo would have one of his men force me? Rape me?”

Susana shrugged. “I don’t know–he doesn’t tell me all that much about his plans for you–but I doubt it. I rather think it won’t be necessary. Your boyfriend’ll take you out dancing, or out to supper, and afterwards he’ll sweet-talk you into bed with him. Too bad you can’t get pregnant–but I suppose that’s a little much to ask for.”

Shaking her head, Pansy objected. “Not possible! I mean, me going out with a man, never mind going to bed with one! I don’t want a man, I still want a woman, even if it’s impossible–damn you and your father to hell!”

“Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’ll have to be satisfied with your frustration.” She grinned: “If it’s true–if you are right–you’ll be frustrated indeed. You say you’re still attracted to girls? They turned you into such a cute little thing, I bet your own image in the mirror turns you on–in your mind only, of course.” Pansy’s clenched jaw showed that she had hit her mark. “But don’t be so sure you’ll never want a boyfriend. You’re still changing, and all that estrogen running through you may just change your attitude. Maybe you’ll find yourself looking for a husband, even!” She giggled. “Remember Hector Trujillo? The campesino who caught you? He’s still looking for a wife. You’d make a suitable Seá±ora Trujillo; I’ll suggest he check you out. But even if your own attitude doesn’t change, all the guys’ll be checking you out. I bet they’re doing it already! Either way, I’ll enjoy watching you deal with it.” Then, more businesslike, she asked, “Speaking of which, are you ready to come work for me?”

“For fourteen months, I have to do whatever your father says. He says I have to be…” She gritted her teeth. “I have to work for you. Like you say.”

“And after that? When he frees you?”

“He said… he promised I can do what I want. Being your maid isn’t on my list. I’ll get the fuck out of this shitty rathole!” And she’d revenge herself on Don Pablo. And José. But she wasn’t about to tell Susana that.

Susana couldn’t help but smile at the crude invective coming in a childish soprano from the mouth of this cute teenage girl, betraying the norteamericano hidden within. “You’ll return home and resume your old life?”

“As much of my old life as I can. Certainly a woman can have a professional career.”

“Father says you might stay as my maid. Was that your secret ambition? Were you always a Pansy at heart?”

Pansy’s face reddened and she started to stand, but the baby lost her hold on Pansy’s teat and began to cry. Replacing the baby at her breast, she angrily replied, “Suzi, your fucking father is crazy! When I’m free…”

Susana interrupted. “You’re just a maid, girl. Speak with respect to your betters!”

“You’re not any better than me! You’re just a spoiled child!”

Delighted to have cracked George’s shell, Susana smiled. “It sounds to me as if you’ve got a good case of PMS. You know–irrational, emotional, irritable. Your time of month, maybe?”

Pansy mastered her anger. “No such luck. They couldn’t manage that. But you’re still a spoiled child!”

“A spoiled child who’s your future boss, my dear girl. And you? You’re just pretty little Pansy-Ann–are you used to that name yet? You’re just a peasant girl, at the bottom of the social ladder. Father says you’ll be as humble, as respectful, as any other campesina. Look at yourself, girl! Listen to yourself! Could you convince anyone that you haven’t always been a peasant girl? Even yourself! I bet it seems normal now, to fasten your bra and zip up your dress, to do your hair and touch up your lipstick… to do someone’s dirty laundry, to wash dishes… To nurse a baby, even!” She pointed to a wall mirror–there always seemed to be a mirror around, wherever Pansy was–and ordered, “Look at that girl in the mirror! Look!”

Pansy obeyed, carefully cradling Ana Luz, who still sucked contentedly at her breast. “I’m… I’m not a peasant! I’m not!” But that was what she saw. It was inconceivable that the young girl in the cheap pink-and-white cotton shirtdress, suckling an infant at her breast, could be anything but a peasant. Worse, Pansy knew that Susana was right: she had come to accept her low status and her daily routine of menial tasks as unremarkable.

Susana continued: “You won’t ever go back to the US. Immigration’d never let you in–and even if they did, what would a girl like Pansy Gá³mez do there? Clean motel bathrooms, maybe?”

“No, I’m not… My name isn’t Gá³mez, it’s Pinkerton! I have an American name!”

“Today. Tomorrow, or next week, or next month, you’ll lose Pinkerton, just like you lost… your old first name. Whatever it was. Father told me about it–that he made you forget what you used to be called, and you’re really ‘Pansy’ now. You’ll still know you were a norteamericano once upon a time, but you’ll think of yourself as Pansy Gá³mez, or maybe Lá³pez. I like ‘Gá³mez’. It’d be good for a campesina, don’t you agree? Do you like it?”

It was the logical next step, Pansy realized. And from sad experience she knew that, however they did it, the memory erasure was effective. “But that’s a lie! I have a passport! It proves I’m a US citizen!”

Susana giggled. “You don’t much look like the passport photo, do you? I bet it shows a picture of a man. Oh, don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll have a perfectly good photo ID. It’ll show a picture of you as you really are: a peasant girl. Pansy-Ann Gá³mez. And it’ll give your birthplace as… maybe San Pedro Sula?”

“No! I was born in Comayagá¼ela!” Pansy clapped a hand to her mouth, nearly dropping the baby, who began to wail. She caught the child and collapsed back onto her chair. “How did that…? I mean, it’s… it’s Ovid! Ovid, Oklahoma!” Ovid would of course be erased, she suddenly knew. Along with “Pinkerton”.

“Comayagá¼ela?” Susana raised an eyebrow. “So Father’s changing other things in your head, like your bio? He didn’t tell me that, but it’s an obvious step. And are you sure of Ovid? Maybe they changed it already. Maybe you were really born in… say, Dallas, but they erased it. It doesn’t much matter. Soon you’ll know your birthplace is Comayagá¼ela.” Her smile was triumphant. “Just like you’ll know being my maid is a good job for you.”

Ana Luz, sated, rejected Pansy’s nipple. “Pardon me, Seá±ora, I have to attend to the baby,” Pansy told Susana, glad for the excuse to break off the conversation. She put the baby back into her crib, then tucked her breast back into her bra and buttoned her dress. With the return to physical activity, she recovered her equanimity. Susana was just trying to yank her chain; Ovid was her birthplace, surely. Mistrusting what she knew, was a sure road to madness. And she’d find a way to recover her true name, and anything else they had stolen from her mind.

Susana noted the withdrawal of the “George” persona and the return of “Pansy”. Satisfied with her visit, she told Pansy, “I’m done here, girl. You’re not quite transformed yet–not in your head, that is; the body’s pretty well finished–but I agree with Father, it’s only a matter of time. You’re so much further along than when I last saw you, and that was just three months ago! I can’t believe it! Next year, then?”

“Yes, Seá±ora.” Pansy picked up little Ana again, put her onto a cloth over her shoulder, and began to burp her gently as Susana took more pictures. “Don Pablo says I’ll begin working for you then.”

“I look forward to it. I wonder… What will your name be? I think ‘Gá³mez’ would be nice, don’t you? ‘Pansy-Ann Gá³mez’–it’s right for you. I’ll suggest it to Father. And I have a book you should re-read.” She handed Pansy a slim volume. It was E.O. Wilson’s “On Human Nature”. “You told me about it, and you were right: it has a lot about the nature of gender differences. Your future’s there, starting at page 121.  ¡Adios, chica!”

Meeting Susana shocked Pansy. Her old life had begun to seem a dream, and speaking with Suzi brought it back. That, at least, was all to the good. She had begun to accept the persona thrust upon her. Yes, she had to obey, there was no way to avoid it; but she didn’t have to internalize her position. Also, it was good to be reminded that the don had more nasty plans for her; Suzi had confirmed that Pansy’s mind was to be reshaped as fully as her body had been. Pansy might have been more skeptical, except that she’d never have believed that the physical transformation could be so thorough. She knew they used drugs, and they could erase her memories, and she suspected they used other methods too. Nevertheless, she didn’t think they could remake her psyche entirely, as the don–and Suzi–predicted. She’d fight them. Maybe they were overconfident. In fact, as she thought about Suzi’s taunts, she realized that she might be able to use them to counter the don’s plans–at least in part. The loss of her surname, and the substitution of an “appropriate” replacement, was an obvious step, even if Suzi hadn’t warned her. And other information tying her to the old identity–birthplace, birthday, family, education–would also be targeted. She would write down as much information as possible, and hide it for future reference.

Susana, in turn, was astonished at the transformation. “Father, I wouldn’t’ve thought it possible.  ¡She doesn’t look like him at all! She speaks fair Spanish, too. But when we talked, I could hear George. Most of his arrogance is gone, but the old personality comes through. I know that’s supposed to change too, but it seems like fantasy. Like a fairy tale.”

Don Pablo sat back. “I know, but the doctors say she can be conditioned–trained–to be both feminine and, more important, fully tractable and obedient. Now, she would be unskilled and rebellious. Later, she should be well trained and compliant, and quite happy to be your maid–or so we hope.” He smiled and nodded. “You should have a good maid.”
 
 
September 5
-- Don Pablo had asked that Pansy’s sexual orientation be altered to match her new body. Ibá¡á±ez had induced Pansy to enjoy makeup and to prefer skirts to slacks. Now it was time to fulfill the don’s request.

We succeeded in conditioning Pansy to accept–no, enjoy–feminine clothing and makeup. I do not believe she realizes how much she has come to take pleasure in looking pretty; under the influence of my chip, she naturally selects clothing that enhances her attractiveness. Still, there is a great deal yet to be done. For example, she hates sewing. Our device should be able to change her attitude. I will attempt to make Pansy enjoy needlework. Sewing is simple, and the experiment will be easily interpreted. If needlework can be made to please her, then we will attempt the more complex conditioning next year.

To induce an attraction to men is much more difficult, as it contravenes a lifetime of conditioning. It is also complex, involving as it does so many factors. As a start, we are trying to condition her to respond to a good-looking man with such behavior as thrusting out her chest and giggling. Her pelvic reconstruction has already forced upon her a distinctly feminine sway as she walks. The process will be slow, but In two or three months, we hope to condition her so that she will behave like a flirt and a tease, automatically and unconsciously. Nevertheless, I have to admit, she would have to be classified as a lesbian now, and there is no guarantee we can alter that.

Pansy came to her sewing lesson that day with her usual negative attitude, but when she arrived, Ibá¡á±ez turned up her pleasure chip. The reaction, seen through one of the hidden cameras, pleased him. Her eyebrows lifted and her mouth fell open. She smiled as if she had received good news. She was cheerful during the lesson, and it went well. Conchita was pleased, and decided to add needlepoint to the more usual sewing skills. Pansy accepted the new task with enthusiasm. Later, Conchita confirmed Pansy’s remarkable progress. Ibá¡á±ez was pleased; the experiment was just begun, but already this first trial had been encouraging.
 
 
September 7
-- Pansy’s hair had grown rapidly, and it was back below the nape of her neck. She complained to Conchita that fixing it each morning, and giving herself a perm every two weeks, was a nuisance. Her tutor laughed. “That’s why lots of women braid it. It’s easier, and it stays out of the way. You got to learn how. It’s not difficult. I’ll teach you after it grows back long enough. Until then, you’ll just have to live with your perms. After all, you cut your hair short by choice.” After lunch Pansy looked at herself critically in a mirror. She saw little of Jack, but only a campesina, if lighter-skinned than most. “No matter,” she thought. “I look like a campesina, but when I’m free I’ll show that this crazy project is only half successful. Inside, I’m still a norteamericana, and I’ll stay that way!”
 
 
September 9
-- Pansy didn’t understand. Sewing had been the dullest subject she had ever had to study. Now she liked it! Her spirits lifted as she neared Conchita’s room, almost as if she were going to a party. “Maybe it’s because I’m better at it,” she told herself. The needlepoint itself was attractive, and Conchita said she was doing better. The same was true of embroidery. She took pleasure in creating these delicate and colorful works of art.

While Pansy explored the joy of needlework, Petunia was mired in depression on her uncle’s sisal plantation on the south coast. She didn’t resent her exile itself; she was happy to be out of the public eye. But she hated the place. Hacienda de los Reyes was an awful place, a hot and humid backwater. Of course, she doubted if anywhere would be good for the eighth month of pregnancy. She looked, and felt, like a blimp. She was irritable, her ankles were swollen, and her breasts hurt. She worried about the baby. Would it be normal? A boy or a girl? Would it look like its father? She worried about her future: how could she care for the baby, and support herself? And she grieved for Jack. The loss of her lover had hit her hard. For the baby’s sake, though, she did her best to pull herself together. It would be difficult raising the child alone, but she would manage.
 
 
September 16
-- This morning Jaime told Pansy that the don had hired her out as a maid to a distant cousin. She would begin work immediately. Jaime took Pansy to her new employers, cautioning her to dress properly: “While on duty, you’ll wear one of the maid’s uniforms that Don Pablo provided. Keep yourself well groomed, but don’t wear makeup. Don’t speak unless spoken to, and then speak respectfully. Don’t worry about your ability to do the work; you’ve been trained well. You’ll do laundry every third day. You’ll wash the dishes and do any sewing required. Also you’ll make the beds and keep the house clean. ’Chita will cook and do the shopping. You’ll go with her for the shopping; you have a lot to learn there. Obey the Peá±as, and you’ll have no problems. They won’t be too demanding. Mornings and evenings you’ll return to the clinic as a wet nurse Twice a day will be enough, but you can use the breast pump if needed.” He started to leave, but turned and added, “From now on you’ll be paid the standard rate for a maid, a hundred lempiras a day.”

Jaime introduced her and Conchita to the Peá±as at their home, five kilometers from the clinic,. “Seá±ores, as Don Pablo promised, he’s providing two servants. Conchita is experienced; Pansy is young and inexperienced, but she’ll try hard. Her parents worked in the United States, and she grew up there, so her Spanish ain’t perfect. Please bear with her.”

The Peá±as spent little attention on either of their two new servants, and called Pansy “girl”. Pansy was relieved; her duties were easy to fulfill. Fearful, not of the Peá±as but of Don Pablo, she did her best to please them, and worked diligently. Without her library and her CD’s, there wasn’t much to distract her anyway. She did buy a cheap paperback from time to time, to read in the evenings, and she began to appreciate soap operas.
 
 
September 18
-- Pansy’s training had been thorough, and her work was acceptable. Conchita was unhappy with her skill in the kitchen, but her needlework was much better. Her work for the Peá±as consisted of cleaning, washing dishes, doing laundry, and running errands. The work was mind-deadening. She coped by turning off her brain and performing her duties mechanically. She looked much like other campesinas: white blouse, long colorful skirt, sandals. Allowed only a minimum of makeup on duty, she found she missed it. She arose with the sun, helped with breakfast, washed dishes, and did laundry. She waited on table, serving all the meals before eating later with Conchita. Most of the afternoon was spent cleaning, except for time spent with Conchita. Her employers knew nothing of her odd history. They accepted her as just a maid, odd only in her imperfect Spanish with its heavy English accent. Her cover story wasn’t questioned. Basically, the Peá±as just weren’t interested in a lowly maid.

During Pansy’s shopping trips, she came to understand the problems of a girl in a macho society–especially a young and attractive lower-class girl. She learned to ignore leers, whistles, and occasional lewd remarks. The surreptitious pats on the butt were more annoying, and the pinches (fortunately rare) were maddening. Conchita told her there was little she could do. “That’s how it is, Pansy. It’s worse for you because you’re not accustomed to being valued for your body. You’re an attractive girl, you know–I hear the men telling each other you’re a real cuero–but plainly you’re from the lower class, and you don’t have a man to protect you. You’re fair game. And I got to tell you, they think their attentions are welcome. You’ll get used to it soon enough.” She paused. “I should tell you, every girl goes through this when she first become a young woman–if to a lesser degree. She feels almost as if she’s been put into a strange new body.” Of course, Pansy’s reflexive schoolgirlish giggling and provocative walk did nothing to discourage the men.

To her shame Pansy recalled acting in a similar way (if not quite as blatantly) in years past. Seá±or Pinkerton had used that very excuse: “They don’t mind it. They’re flattered by attention, they just squawk for appearance’s sake!” She tried to tell herself that her distaste was only because she wasn’t a real girl, but the attempt fell flat.
 
 
September 30
-- Pansy left her job at the Peá±as after only two weeks, to work with infants and toddlers at the clinic. “It’s an important part of a woman’s life,” Conchita explained. “A woman’s body is made for babies, to bear them and to care for them.” Pansy winced; her own bromide had returned to haunt her. She was learning to burp infants, to interpret their wails, to change diapers. And to nurse them, of course.

Breasts had once been a focus of erotic interest, but now her own were a nuisance. Milk-swollen, they were tight and almost painful much of the time, and she was forced to sleep on her back, not on her stomach as she had preferred. The nipples, exquisitely sensitive, showed through her clothing. After breakfast she fed babies until her milk was drained. When she complained about the duty, Conchita took her off it, but told her she was stupid. “You need to nurse, Pansy. You’ll see.” She was put to washing dishes and doing laundry, but the pressure became painful and she wasn’t allowed to use the pump. By late afternoon, when milk began to leak and stain her blouse, she gave in and begged to be allowed back. Since then she had accepted her need to breastfeed. After nursing the infants, she watched over them. She was allowed to keep up her sewing lessons, and in free moments she kept her sanity by doing her needlepoint. Surprisingly, she enjoyed it. “I’d enjoy anything that’s not squalling infants,” she told herself. By evening she needed to nurse again. She was a damned cow! Unfortunately, she was also a sexy-looking cow. The few men she saw let her know it. She began to understand the concept of sexual harassment.

Conchita was surprised by the progress she made in her needlework. She reported to the don that Pansy’s improvement had begun about three weeks ago. “As I said then, she was a dutiful student, but it was clear that she hated it. Then her attitude improved–I don’t know why. When she comes to her lessons now, it’s with a smile on her face, as if she was about to receive a treat. She works at her pattern cheerfully and diligently, and then, when she has to leave it for other work, she’s depressed. The attitude change makes her a wonderful student. If her progress continues, she’ll soon be a competent seamstress, and shortly after she’ll be giving me the lessons.

“I wish I could say the same for her cooking.”

Pansy had visited Ibarra’s laboratory several times during the month. At each visit she played the starring rá´le in a short play with herself as the protagonist. Her older sister left home for college. She went to dances, she studied Home Ec, she graduated from high school. Her Best Friend Mará­a Carrillo married, and she was the Maid of Honor. She necked with Rico Sá¡nchez (with great pleasure!), and then broke up with him. A few months later her father died, and she wept bitterly at his funeral. After his death the family needed money, and by force of economic necessity she took a job as a maid.

Ibarra reported to Don Pablo,

Our subject has the beginnings of a biography consistent with the new life you intend for her. The memories of her teen years in San Pedro will be vivid and detailed, probably more so than those of George Deon’s youth in the United States. From interrogation under drugs, it is clear that these latter memories have suffered wear and tear from collateral losses incurred during the erasures. I am curious to see whether in later years these new memories persuade the subject that she is truly, and has always been, a campesina. After all, her acceptance of the reality of these memories is complicated by your insistence that she retain knowledge of her earlier life as a norteamericano. Obviously, there is a conflict between these alternative biographies.
 
 
October 1
-- As Pansy began her morning duties in the nursery, Doctor Weiss appeared with a camcorder. “Good morning, Miss Pinkerton,” he announced in his excellent, but German-flavored, English. “You will excuse me, but we must again document the extent to which your body has been feminized. As you know, Don Pablo’s clients–you have met some of them, I believe–are following your progress with interest, and they have requested an update. They find it hard to believe that after only nine months, you have come so far. I will start by filming you as you suckle the infants. Go ahead, I will not interfere.”

Pansy choked back the urge to attack the monster who had robbed Jack Pinkerton of his manhood–her lessons in obedience and courtesy had been too painful–and replied, “As you wish, Doctor. I can’t stop you.” She unbuttoned her blouse, unhooked her nursing bra, and exposed a milk-swollen breast. Picking whimpering baby Ana from her crib, she cradled her in her left arm and put her mouth to her right nipple. The baby immediately began to suck, and Pansy felt the now-familiar physical pleasure that accompanied the release of her milk. She ignored the hum of the camcorder as Weiss filmed After a few minutes she switched the baby to her left breast and wiped away a trickle of leaking milk. Then she asked, “Doctor, why are you participating in this… this evil scheme? Are you so stupid that you don’t even realize how cruel it is, or are you so callous that you just don’t care? Don’t you have a conscience? Or maybe you tell yourself that you’re ‘just following orders’?”

As Weiss continued filming, he replied, “I understand your resentment, Miss Pinkerton, but Don Pablo told me something of your history, and I see you as a condemned criminal. I only assist in the task of reforming you.” He ogled her ostentatiously: “I look at your new shape, and I see you are indeed being re-formed. You understand? A much more attractive form, ja?” He chuckled at his own crude pun. “As for the question about a conscience: a year ago, I might have asked you the same question. Were you so stupid that you didn’t realize that you were ruining the lives of your women, or were you so callous that you didn’t care? And no, I am not just following orders. You present a wonderful opportunity to advance science, and I am delighted to participate–aside from the fact that I’m being well paid. Is this project cruel? All of us are trying to minimize your physical suffering. As for the psychological pain… well, I must agree with Don Pablo: it is well deserved. And in fifteen months, you will be free. Be grateful that you are not dead, as I understand that is commonly the fate of men in your position. As it is, we are attempting to give you a full and rewarding life–one much more useful to society–even if it is quite different from the one you might have chosen, left to yourself. A most worthwhile project!”

“Grateful!” she spat at him. “You shithead! Scheistkopf! Would you be grateful if some motherfucker cut off your prick and turned you into… into a damn milk cow?”

The doctor chuckled again. “Temper, temper, girl! Mind your manners! At least we made you into a cute little girl, yes? I understand that Don Pablo hopes you will become as interested in boys as they are in you. If that is so, then you may again enjoy–very much enjoy–the use of a penis, at least on temporary loan.”

“Never!” The idea of intimacy with a man disgusted her as much as it would have when she was still male.

He shrugged. “Not my concern. In fact, I will return soon to Vienna. I have already begun the paper that will cement my reputation, and make you famous within a limited circle–although I fear you will be anonymous.”

“I will not miss you.”

“Do not worry, Miss Pinkerton, I will be back occasionally to observe you. Also, Seá±or Herrera will have other candidates for my attention. I only hope they turn out as well.” Her recorded protestations would be useful to demonstrate that she was indeed a former male, still with a masculine mindset even in a totally feminized body.

Pansy finished nursing, covered herself, and left the baby in a crib. Weiss led her to a vacant room, where he took blood and urine samples, then ordered her to disrobe. He took bust, waist, and hip measurements, and photographed her from side, front, and rear. “We took X-rays, of course,” he told her. “You will be happy to know, your pelvis is healed. It is indistinguishable from that of a natural-born female. Now climb onto the table.” When she lay on the padded examination table, he ordered, “Now, bitte, put your feet into the stirrups. I must check inside your vagina.” As Pansy reluctantly obeyed, he explained, “This is a standard gynecological examination, Miss Pinkerton. Now hold still.” Her body was invaded by a cold instrument that slid in smoothly. Peculiar sensations swept over her; suddenly she realized that she was becoming aroused! She tried to suppress the feeling, but her breathing quickened and her muscles tensed. Weiss took notice, but made no comment, engrossed as he was with her internal anatomy, and very soon he was finished. “I am happy to report that all is well, my dear girl. I can assure you that any doctor will report the same: you are a healthy female, and there is no sign of your extraordinary history. The lab work will certainly show that your estrogen level continues to be high, but it will be a couple of days before that is confirmed.” He smiled and added, “Your clitoris seems to be sensitive, ja? I think you will be–how do you say?–a hot little number.” He photographed her genitalia, then told her, “All done. You can get up and dress now.” As she buttoned her blouse, he asked, “Do you have any questions?”

She started to ask how he could live with himself, but realized she was repeating herself and simply replied, “No. I know too much already.”

“Sehr gut. Now Doctor Ibá¡á±ez has tests of his own, so I will take you to him.”

Ibá¡á±ez administered a psychological test, then sent her back to the nursery to resume her usual duties.

Two hours later Ibá¡á±ez and Ibarra discussed the results of the test. “There are definite changes in her personality,” Ibarra pointed out. “Very significant, I’d say. Her responses are approaching a feminine norm. Even her sexual orientation is beginning to shift, although her conscious thoughts are still controlled by the old George Deon personality. And her tendency towards passivity has increased even more. It’s very clear here, and here, and here.”

“I agree,” Ibá¡á±ez said. “That’s only to be expected. Every attempt to change her intolerable–to her–situation has rebounded to her misfortune. But some things remain the same. She has a hostile attitude–almost antisocial. If she weren’t in a tightly controlled environment, her social relations would be a disaster. That’ll have to be changed. And she’s still depressed. It’s not as bad as it was two months ago, and it’s entirely natural, but it’s still not good.”

“Her attitude is understandable. In her situation, inevitable.  ¿But what about her opinions concerning gender rá´les?  ¿Have they changed?” asked Ibarra. “It’s not really clear what she thinks. Or at least I can’t be sure. Not at all sure.”

Ibá¡á±ez looked at his copy of the test. “No, it’s not clear. My own interpretation is that there’s an internal conflict. I think her bedrock opinion remains the same; but it’s complicated by the fact that she doesn’t–really doesn’t–want to be bound by those opinions. She still hopes–expects, I think–to resume some semblance of George Deon’s original life. There’s some justification for that, of course; certainly many women pursue careers outside the family. And if Pansy could escape–if she could escape right now–I believe her hopes might even be realized. But there’s an additional factor: she enjoys feminine behavior now. She likes to sew, she enjoys making herself attractive, she gets a great deal of physical pleasure from breast-feeding–although she tells herself she hates it.” He grinned: “Of course, my chips have had a good deal to do with that. But my previous work, and the work of others, suggests that such conditioned responses can be very persistent–especially if they are reinforced occasionally, either by my mechanical stimulus, or, more significantly, by the approval of others. In Honduras, that latter reinforcement will always be present. Oh, and her IQ has dropped another five points–but that’s not statistically significant.” He looked at Ibarra. “ ¿And your own work?  ¿What do you think?”

“There’s no doubt about it: Seá±orita Pinkerton hasn’t regained any of the memories I erased. She accepts Pinkerton as her surname without reservation. She ‘knows’ she was born in the town of Ovid on April 1, she thinks she’s nineteen years old–all that nonsense I stuffed into her head. And the English system of measurements is gone. She doesn’t even recognize the loss–any reference to inches or gallons slides right past her without her notice. Her new biography–her ‘Pansy’ memories–are still in her subconscious, ready to be triggered.” He put the papers into a folder. “Still, I cannot predict the final outcome. I fear there may be too many loose ends. But we will see.”
 
 
November 9
-- Ibarra leaned over his desk scribbling notes to himself. “Don Pablo certainly has grand ideas about the total reconstruction of George Deon. Too grand,” he thought as he added another item to a list. “I’m not certain we can satisfy his demands. Well, we’ll see.” He picked up the notes, reread them, and nodded. “Yes, that should do it.”

A knock interrupted him. “Yes, come in,” he ordered.

An intern entered and informed him, “José Herrera has arrived with the subject.”

“Good. I’ll be right down.” The intern followed him to the laboratory.
When they arrived, José had already ordered Pansy strapped into the chair. He greeted Ibarra cheerfully. “Good morning, Doctor. I was about to explain the procedure to Seá±orita Pinkerton.”

“Not necessary, Seá±or. I would prefer that I control her session, so that I know exactly what she’s been told.” Ibarra turned to Pansy. “Seá±orita,  ¿do you have any questions before I begin?”

She cursed him angrily in English, consigning him to the depths of Hell, then told him to do his worst.

Doctor Ibarra switched to English. “I understand your feelings, Pansy, but this is necessary. Out work has brought you part way to a new identity. Your own mother wouldn’t know you–if you could find her. But your mind needs more work. The first step was giving you a proper first name. And you accepted it, of course; you have been thinking of yourself as a Pansy for some time. But now we’ll go a bit further. ‘Pinkerton’ isn’t right for the new you.” So Suzi’s threat had been real, Pansy thought. “Soon you’ll have a more appropriate surname.”

She cursed him again: “You asshole! You motherfucking shithead! Your family is a bunch of shitheads!” She looked at José: “And the Herreras are fucking ass-licking idiots, nothing but faggots and putas!”

José smiled slightly. “And I suppose my mother wears army boots. My, you do have a filthy mouth, girl. Not at all proper for a sweet little thing like you. I think I am offended!” His smile broadened: “Fortunately, we have a more dependable cure than washing your mouth out with soap.” Turning to Ibarra, he asked, “Is there any reason why we can’t delete her nasty vocabulary? She’d be a much nicer girl without her fund of invective.”

The doctor agreed. “You’re right. The sweet girl we’re creating should not use such language. Not at all! I will see that she stops immediately. Turning to his assistant, he ordered, “Juan, bring the hypnotic. We can begin now.” Juan brought a hypodermic, and Ibarra injected Pansy in her arm. Within five minutes she was detached from the proceedings. She understood what was happening, but it didn’t seem to matter to her.

A voice penetrated her indifference: “Pansy, tell me, do you know your former masculine name?”

Uncaringly she responded, “No.”

“Have you tried to find out?”

She wrinkled her brow. Had she? “Yes… yes, I did try.”

“How did you try?”

“I sent letters to my parents and brothers and other relatives, to friends, to schools, to old employers. I think Petunia mailed them, but but I heard nothing. She asked around La Ceiba, where I worked, but no one knew.”

“Do you think you can find your old name, or other missing information? Tell us how.”

“Yes, I think I can. I know I was reported dead. I saw my obituary in the newspaper–in the Atlanta Constitution. I’ll look up that paper as soon as I can.” She paused. “And I wrote down my present name.” Somewhere in her head, a monitor screamed “NO!”, but she ignored it. It wasn’t important, and she had to obey.

Ibarra asked where she had written it. She told him, and he asked, “Is anything else gone? Tell us.”

“Yes. You erased my mother’s name.”

José asked, “Do you still think you’ll be able to return to your old life?”

“No. It’s not possible now.”

“What is your dearest hope now?”

“I want to return to the United States.”

“What is your greatest fear?”

“I’m afraid Don Pablo won’t let me go, and I’ll remain trapped here in Honduras.”

“What about pregnancy? Aren’t you afraid we’ll get you pregnant?”

“No, you can’t do that. It’s not possible. I only look like a woman.”

José grinned and told her, “Your fear that you’ll spend your life here is justified. Don Pablo will free you–but you’ll never be able to leave Honduras.” He turned to Ibarra and told him to continue.

The doctor motioned to Juan: “The nepentine, please.” He gave Pansy the second shot and changed her last name. Then he went on to edit Pansy’s mind to fit her new position in life.

Her knowledge of U.S. and Canadian geography was erased; she would know the names of Georgia, Florida, Texas, California, and New York, and a few cities (although their locations would be unknown). Presidents were erased, and all other politicians. U.S. and world history vanished, followed by television, classic movies, and pop culture. She’d find it hard to persuade anyone that she had ever lived in the U.S. Ibarra also reviewed her memories of relatives, friends, and associates. He left them mostly intact, but altered details so that she’d never be able to find them. Celia Tolliver was untouched. “Pansy should remember her,” Ibarra told José. “We won’t take anything connected with her.” At José’s suggestion, Ibarra removed the names of the chemical elements, most compounds, and the subatomic particles, and she lost most concepts of chemistry. He did the same for physics and math, leaving her with no more than simple arithmetic. Then they gave her more memories of her girlhood, and a short course in Honduran history and geography. She received more details about her Honduran family. Her memory of José’s face was taken, as it would interfere with later plans. Last, they deleted all curse words and obscenities

When Ibarra was done, he sent her to Ibá¡á±ez, who continued to impose a positive response to the opposite sex. Her appreciation for a masculine physiognomy, recently acquired, was indelibly imprinted; and that appreciation would henceforth be accompanied by unconscious coquettish behavior and involuntary fits of giggling. Such a schoolgirlish demeanor would reinforce the impression of immaturity given by her appearance and voice.

José was delighted to learn of Pansy’s note. “It’s an opportunity to leave a red herring or two,” he exclaimed cheerfully to Ibarra. “There’s no good reason she shouldn’t recover the name ‘Pinkerton’,  ¿true?” Ibarra agreed.

Later, while Pansy was still undergoing indoctrination, her note was retrieved. A few alterations were made, to mislead Pansy in her search for her past.

Most of those who had known George, at Las Rosas or Siguatepeque or La Ceiba, would be treated by Ibarra. The majority would forget him entirely, but a few would be allowed to remember him as “Jack Pinkerton”. They would be warned, or bribed, not to divulge the name–but not very strongly. If and when Pansy was free to investigate, she’d find a few shadowy traces of Seá±or Pinkerton (and those traces would be hard to unearth); but nothing at all would be left of George Deon in Honduras. From now on, he had never existed.
 
 
November 10
-- Early next morning, Ibarra’s subject awoke in bed. At first she was groggy with sleep (and the aftereffects of the erasures), but soon she recalled what Suzi and José had told her: she’d be given a new last name. “My name?” she asked herself. “It’s Pansy Baca.” She almost added, “Of course!” It seemed familiar to her. Hadn’t it always been her name? But she knew better. It had to be a lie: she had had another name. But she couldn’t remember it, and she knew better than to waste time trying. What other changes might’ve been made? “Maybe it was just the name,” she told herself. “And I can find out what it was; I wrote it down.” She arose, dressed and checked the pocket where she had hidden the paper. It was still there. She read it.

Nov. 8. I who am now called Pansy-Ann Pinkerton, write this note to preserve at least some memories. I was born male in Ovid, Oklahoma, on April 1. I am now 19. My father is Jack Pinkerton. My mother’s maiden name was Lee, but her first name is lost. My own first name is also lost. My social security number is 002-45-2251. I have two older sisters, Ann and Amy, and a younger brother Carl. I spent summers as a child at Round Lake in Ontario, before my family moved to Rome, New York. I attended Clinton High School in Rome. I attended Oklahoma State and graduated with a BS degree in chemistry. I worked in Atlanta for Dow Chemical; my boss was Bill Brown, and my co-workers were Paul Smith and Andy Drew. Celia Tolliver tried to trap me by getting pregnant, and I came here to Honduras. Susana Herrera did the same thing, and I dropped her. Then I fell in love with Petunia. Last New Year’s Day I was kidnapped by Pablo Herrera, who changed me to a woman and is trying to make me into a Honduran peasant girl.

She read the paper again. She had lost other memories. She thought she had been born in… in Comayagá¼ela. That was it: Comayagá¼ela, on April 1. Well, scratch that. Of course she hadn’t been born anywhere in Honduras, whatever her memory insisted. The birthday was correct, anyway. Her father’s name was–or seemed to be, in her traitorous memory–Bill Baca. Her mother’s maiden name seemed to be Rosa Gá³mez. And Celia–that damned Celia. She was still there in her memory; she lived in Atlanta, or at least near it–in Stone Mountain, she was sure; she recalled the address clearly. Social-security number? She didn’t remember it. In fact, when she thought about it, she didn’t know what a “social-security number” was. Presumably it was some sort of ID number. A good thing she had been prepared, and had written everything down before they erased it.

She knew she shouldn’t mention anything erased or changed, lest they discover she had foxed them. “Pansy-Ann Pinkerton”–no, “Seá±or Pinkerton”–would have to remain dead. No problem there; the name seemed foreign to her. It was hard to believe she had ever carried it. “Pansy-Ann Baca” seemed to be her life-long name.

Her return to Las Rosas that afternoon was almost like coming home. Conchita met Pansy at the door, greeted her, “Pansy,  ¡welcome back!” and hugged her. In the back of her mind Pansy knew she had reason to hate Don Pablo’s servants as his accomplices, but over the months they had treated her well, or as well as they could within the limits of what was possible. She had few enough friends, and they were decent people.

After supper she was free, and she returned to her room. She wondered what memories had been altered, besides those she had been able to check with her note. She knew the memory erasure was efficient, but she couldn’t help trying to recover her past. Some was saved, thanks to the note. She knew intellectually that she had been Pinkerton, but that name seemed alien now. In her heart she “knew” she was Pansy-Ann Baca Gá³mez. She could even recall her mami calling her Pansita. Her birthplace, her father’s name–but then she realized she couldn’t even truly depend on those. They might have been altered earlier. Even “Pinkerton” might be planted–but to doubt everything would lead to madness. After all, they had erased it.

As she sifted through her past, she received a shock. When she tried to recall her high school days–her early teens–her memories were of San Pedro. She had studied Home Ec, she knew, and she had liked dancing. And her fifteenth birthday party–her quinceaá±os. It was as clear as last week. The smooth cinnamon-and-rice taste of the horchata at breakfast that morning, the rich odor of the incense at church, the silky feel of that fabulous dress, the kiss from Rico at the end of the day… All the memories of that wonderful day were so clear that she could almost wish it had happened. How could it not be real? Her childhood was utterly confused. Somehow she recalled playing with a doll–Pepita, she had called her–as a little girl. Her father had given it to her. With horror she considered: If they could do this to her mind, could they change her to a campesina in more than a physical sense? The new body she accepted; there was nothing to be done about it. But her mind? Her girlhood passed before her eyes. Her rational mind knew it was a fiction: she–no, HE–had grown up in… She couldn’t remember! It was gone! It couldn’t have been San Pedro. She checked the note she had written to herself: it was in Rome, New York. Rome? Where was that? She dismissed the problem. But her girlhood… It was so clear! She recalled what Susana had told her: “Don’t be so sure you’ll never want a boyfriend. All that estrogen running through your veins may just change your attitude. Maybe you’ll find yourself looking for a husband, even!” She recalled Rico Sá¡nchez, and how wonderful she had felt when he kissed her. Her knowledge that she had never really been a girl, never really kissed a boy, was immaterial; it was a real memory now–and such a delightful memory, even if the idea of kissing another male was intellectually repellent. Seá±or Pinkerton’s boyhood, by comparison, was murky and unclear. It seemed to belong to someone else; and besides, she suspected that parts of it might be as fictitious as that of Pansy Baca. Did her brother Carl exist? And her sisters? She hunted for her note, and found to her despair that Seá±or Pinkerton supposedly had no sister, and his two brothers were Carl and Al. Were her sisters, so clear in her mind, only imaginary? And the Carl of her memory? Was he real, or at least partly real? Her memory of him couldn’t be accurate, not completely. He couldn’t have given him a skirt at his eighth-grade graduation party… No, that was at Pansy’s party! The more she tried to recall, the more confused she became, until she began to weep in frustration. Finally she gave up, and fell asleep. She dreamed of Mamá¡ Rosa, who comforted her little Pansy-Ann.