Part 1, The Capture

Napoleon said that women are only baby machines. George disagrees: they are also excellent machines for cooking and cleaning. He has abandoned his pregnant girlfriend in Georgia, and has run off to Honduras to escape child support. Once there, he repeats his actions with Susana, a young Honduran woman. Unfortunately for him, her father Don Pablo is looking for a demonstration subject for a grand project: to reform a man by re-forming him into someone else entirely. George would serve as the perfect subject, since he has already done his best to disappear. Over the course of two years, he will be reshaped, body and soul, into the very model of George's own ideal woman: a Honduran peasant girl who lives to serve others. If the project succeeds, George (to be known henceforth as Pansy-Ann) will ask to serve Susana as a simple maidservant, to assist in raising the child he gave her.

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January 1 -- At 1 AM George and Petunia were rudely aroused by a man bursting into their room. George sat up, caught in flagrante delicto. “ ¡Seá±orita Baca!  ¡Qué desgracia!” the intruder cried to Petunia. More men entered. “ ¡Agá¡rrenles!” the first ordered: “ ¡Seize them!”

“ ¡No!  ¡You have no right!” Petunia protested. George shouted, “Get out of here!”

The leader ignored him and replied coldly to Petunia, “Seá±orita, Don Pablo sent us to fetch you two. Your behavior is a scandal.” Seizing George’s arms, they hauled him out of bed wearing only his blue pajama top. His wrists were quickly tied behind his back.

“You can’t… I can’t go like this!” George cried.

“ ¿Cá³mo no?” his captor asked, grinning maliciously: “We take you like you found.” He allowed Petunia to dress in private, though, and she quickly donned her clothes without protest. She seemed cowed by the men, and George assumed she knew Don Pablo. Her passive acceptance of the intruders’ authority suggested that they were in serious trouble. In any case, they couldn’t resist.

The men tied his ankles, carried him to an ancient red Ford Fairlane, and stowed him in the back seat like a sack of meal. Petunia was pushed in after him. One man sat between them in the back; the others climbed into the front. The car started with a cough and a series of backfires, and they left. The lovers weren’t allowed to talk. One captor declared in Spanish that both should just have been killed. The driver said that Don Pablo had a better idea. George didn’t know what he had in mind, but he suspected it wasn’t pleasant. However, the men promised they wouldn’t be hurt if they didn’t struggle, and they kept their word.

Although the window was filthy and the night was pitch-black, George tried to observe where he was being taken. They left the hotel and sped through deserted commercial streets in the wee hours. Once out of the city center the car pulled over. Petunia and George began to protest again, but their captors paid no attention. “Aquá­ está¡ oscuro,” announced the driver. “Hector, Miguel, Paco, es el tiempo para adormecerles.” “Time for beddy-bye,” one of the men said as he held a cloth over George’s nose and mouth. A cloying odor assaulted him. He struggled as he heard Petunia cry out, but he was helpless and quickly fell into black oblivion.

The car drove back onto the street and threaded its way through a maze of residential back streets. Soon it reached a gated estate; the ornate gate swung wide and the car entered. At the rear of the building two green-coated attendants met the car with a gurney. “Here’s the norteamericano and his girlfriend,” the driver told the attendants. “Doctor Ibá¡á±ez is waiting for him. The girlfriend’s going to Las Rosas, to see Don Pablo.”

George went onto the gurney and into the building, where an attendant gave him an injection, noting “That’ll keep the bastard quiet a while” The gurney took George through an ornate hall, brightly lit by chandeliers held over from its days as the home of a wealthy planter. An elevator, seemingly out of place in the elegant ambiance, took him to another corridor, bare and antiseptic in contrast to the lower floor. His destination was a whitewashed room filled with shelves of equipment and bottles. Large machines adorned with dials, buttons, and switches stood along the walls. Doctor Ibá¡á±ez waited at an operating table, surrounded by assistants. He remarked, “ ¡At last, my prize subject!” and motioned to the attendant to shift George onto an operating table. “ ¿He had the temporary anesthetic?”

“Of course, Doctor.”

Ibá¡á±ez turned to an assistant. “Prepare him. This’ll take a long time.” While George was being hooked to the anesthetic and to monitors, Ibá¡á±ez walked to a sink, washed, and donned gloves and mask. A second doctor watched. Ibá¡á±ez told him, “Jesáºs, I’m glad you’re observing. Seá±or Deon will be a joint masterpiece–an irrefutable demonstration of the effectiveness of direct mental control. I’m aware of your misgivings, but remember, this man’s life is forfeit. If it weren’t for our work, he’d be dead. Or worse.”

Ibarra shrugged. “I know. I don’t really feel much sympathy for him. Very little. As you know, my objection is that we’re moving very fast. Too fast. Too much will be done; it’ll be difficult to isolate the mental and psychological effects of each procedure. Very difficult. Still, the opportunity is too good to pass up.  ¿Just what are you going to do?”

“He’s getting everything. It’s all tested on other subjects, but no one has ever received the full battery. I’d rather not have him under the knife more than needed, so I’m implanting all the hardware now. The chips will control many of his brain functions–sensations, emotions, and such–without his knowledge, and I’ll also be able to monitor brain activity. One last item: I’m implanting a miniaturized radio transponder in the bone of his skull. We’ll be able to monitor his position at any time.” He smiled: “A lot of the electronics is composed of biodegradable organics. In a couple years they’ll begin to disappear, resorbed by the body. In four years, they’ll be completely gone, with no trace left of our tampering.”

Ibarra nodded. “Yes, I see. And my methods complement yours. But I think the project is attempting to do too much. Far too much. The psychological effects of our own work will be hard enough to understand. With the added complication of drastic physical alterations to his body, separating causes and effects will be impossible. Also, the possibility of sickness or injury is a lot higher. Any physical trauma could ruin our study. Ruin it completely. If Seá±or Deon were to die, all our work would be wasted. Completely and unnecessarily wasted.”

The assistants completed the preparation. Ibá¡á±ez sighed and returned to the operating table. “I agree, Jesáºs, but the don insists–and as I told him, the successful metamorphosis of Seá±or Deon would certainly make our own task easier. I think it worth the risk. In any case, the plan is set.” Turning to George, he remarked, “Let’s begin.” He made his first incisions and began to peel skin from the surface of the skull.

Hours later, George had been sewn back up. Ibá¡á±ez sagged into a chair and poured himself a cup of coffee. “Take him to Room 317,” he told an aide. “Keep him under anesthesia until Wednesday.” Ibarra asked whether more would be done. “Yes, but only a little. Mostly he needs to heal.” Ibarra had more questions, but Ibá¡á±ez begged off: “I’m sorry, Jesáºs, but I’m exhausted. I think I need to sleep for a day or two.” Ibarra apologized, and they left the patient to the care of attendants.

While George was undergoing surgery, Petunia woke up in a bed in a small bare room, no longer bound. Her head hurt, and her mouth tasted bad. A woman watched her from a chair in the corner. When she saw Petunia awaken, she told her, “Don’t worry, Seá±orita, you won’t be hurt, but you got to stay here. Now, it’s late. You can sleep here tonight. In the morning the don will explain what’s going on, and why you’re here.” She folded her arms and leaned back in the chair. Obviously she had been assigned to guard Petunia.

“ ¡But George!  ¿Where is he?” she cried, frantic to find out what had happened to her lover.

The woman shrugged and told her she knew nothing about him. “Don Pablo will answer you in the morning. In the meantime, there’s nothing to do but wait. You might as well get some sleep.”

“ ¿Don Pablo?  ¿Don Pablo Herrera?” The woman nodded. Petunia knew him. He ran this area as his personal fief. He had more power than most feudal lords ever dreamed of. She thought he might be a distant cousin, but the relationship, if real, was too distant to make a difference. But she and George had done nothing wrong. It had to be a mistake. There was nothing to do now, though. If Don Pablo wanted her here, she’d have to stay. And she didn’t want to escape–not without George. She had to find out what they had done with him. For now she’d follow the advice and wait until morning. Then she’d clear this up.

Shortly after dawn a maid looked in on Petunia. She was awake; fear for George and for herself had kept her sleepless. Gathering her courage, she insisted, “Please, Seá±orita,  ¡I must see Don Pablo!”

“The don will see you this morning, Seá±orita. In the meantime, you’re his guest, free to wander or to leave. I’ll bring you breakfast if you wish.  ¿Will 9 AM be OK for your meeting?”

“Yes.  ¿And may I have breakfast? Ham, eggs, and coffee with orange juice would be fine.”

“Very good, Seá±or. I’ll return soon.”

Petunia’s fear abated somewhat. Don Pablo didn’t appear to be a monster, although he had a reputation for administering a harsh sort of justice. Maybe he’d be reasonable. She waited impatiently for breakfast, but when it arrived she ate without really tasting it. At 8:50 the maid reappeared to take her to Don Pablo.

As she entered the library, a wiry man, of uncertain age but in his middle years, arose to greet her. He was dressed elegantly, if in a somewhat old-fashioned manner. The maid announced Petunia’s arrival and left them.

“Good morning, Seá±orita. I am Pablo Herrera. Welcome to Las Rosas. I apologize for the method of your arrival, and I regret the circumstances that brought you here.”

“As do I, Seá±or. I have a simple question.  ¿What have you done with George?”

“Ah, you do not waste time on formalities, I see. Very well, Seá±orita. I will give you an answer and an explanation. Neither is complete, but soon you will learn everything. First the explanation; I doubt that Seá±or Deon told you everything about his past, but I will fill in a little. The most important point, for now, is that he seduced and abandoned my daughter, leaving her to raise his child alone.”

She recoiled. She hadn’t known, but it wasn’t a shock. Men did that sort of thing, unfortunately. He wouldn’t have done it to her, of course, but still she disapproved. But George was now in the hands of the father of the girl he had wronged–a man who believed in punishment, not forgiveness. “I understand. If you’re correct, then George was wrong, and I won’t defend him. I will beg for your forgiveness. I hope and I trust you are civilized, Seá±or, and won’t treat him barbarously.” She knew the traditional penalty for such transgressions and she shuddered at the thought that George might suffer such a punishment. Even if he survived, which wasn’t certain, he’d be maimed.

“There is more, Seá±orita. My daughter was not the first. He did the same, or worse, with a campesina maid in his employ, and he also abandoned a woman with his child in the United States. It is probable that he would have treated you no better. The man is a scoundrel, unworthy of his manhood.”

Her heart sank at the implied threat. “Seá±or, please, I beg you. Punish him if you must, but I love him, even if he’s imperfect. Please, for my sake, don’t… don’t…” She couldn’t finish.

The don understood her fear. He smiled, but it wasn’t a kindly expression. She was reminded of a shark, preparing to devour its prey. “Seá±orita, I will not kill him, nor leave him forever sexless. I have a novel punishment in mind for him. He will suffer for two years. Then he will be released, still healthy.”

She shuddered. Two years of punishment! But at least he’d be physically sound. “ ¿May I see him, Seá±or? I accept your word, but please, I love him. I need to see him, to be sure that he’s unharmed.”

He smiled again. “Your own position is not blameless, Seá±orita. You were found in bed with this man.” She looked away from him, embarrassed. “Now, my interest is not with you, but as the patrá³n, I have a responsibility for maintaining public morality.” Petunia stiffened. The threat of punishment was clear. But the don went on: “Still, I am minded to grant your request. I will allow you to see him. Not yet, but in ten weeks. And there are conditions. You may not discuss or reveal the location or fate of Seá±or Deon. My promises concerning his well-being are predicated on my being able to impose an alternative punishment. If you should make that punishment difficult or impossible, I will not consider myself bound by them. His safety and continued health–and your own–are in your hands.  ¿Agreed?”

She looked down at her hands. There was no choice: Don Pablo was all-powerful here. “Very well, I agree.”

“In mid-March I will allow a visit. In fact, I will do more. You teach in Siguatepeque,  ¿true?” She nodded. “If you wish, I will offer you that job here at Las Rosas, at the same salary, for several months–say, until August. You will have no restriction besides those already mentioned. You will be allowed to stay with him during that time to see that I keep my word. After that, Seá±or Deon will work for a year as a servant for my daughter, and you will not be able to see him until his release.”

What hadn’t he told her? What he had said was bad enough: that George would be a captive for two years, and would become a servant. But there had to be more. She was confused, but afraid to inquire further. Whatever the don planned, there was little she could do. “I… I agree.  ¿I can return in March, then?”

“Mid-March, yes. Let us say, the 15th. I will expect you, and George will be waiting for you.” He stood to indicate the end of the interview. “My manager, Jaime, can drive you back to Siguatepeque if you wish, Seá±orita.”

She arose as well. There was little more she could do, except pray. He rang, and the same maid came to escort her back. She was home in Siguatepeque that evening.

Back at home, she tried to tell herself that George would survive, that the don could have done worse. There would be no permanent injury, he had implied, and in two years he’d release her lover. But he had hinted–no, he had stated baldly–that George would suffer. But there was nothing she could do. She knew Don Pablo well, if only by reputation, and he was untouchable. Any attempt to contact the American embassy, or George’s family, was doomed to failure; George would only be the worse for it. She could only hope that the don’s reputation as a man of his word was accurate, and that George would survive.

January 2 -- Doctor Ibá¡á±ez’s suite at the Institute for the Mind was large and well appointed, as befit his title of director. Degrees from Stanford and Yale were displayed behind his broad cedar desk. One wall was filled with journals and books; a second was nearly filled by a bay window looking out towards a formal garden, a relic of the days when the building had been the manor house of an estate. Just now the view was dreary, as the steady rain of a norte fell from a gray and sodden sky. The doctor was unaffected by the dismal weather. Although physically and mentally exhausted by his hours of delicate work on the previous day, he was exhilarated. He knew he had completed a technical masterwork: instrumentation of a human brain sufficient to control the subject to a degree undreamed of. “Except by Delgado,” he reminded himself. “He’d have given his left arm, and maybe a leg also, for this opportunity. Writing it up properly will be difficult, but I can worry about that problem later.” There was still a little more to be done. For example, he needed to link the sensors to the chips by computer, to automate some of the planned conditioning. It would require delicate calibration and testing. “That testing should begin soon,” he thought. “I’d better make some arrangements.” He sat at his keyboard and began to type. When he was finished, he chuckled with anticipation. He had complained to Don Pablo about the unnecessary complexity of the proposed experiment, but now that the project was actually beginning, he saw so many potentialities that he began to think that George Deon might turn out to be a godsend for his work. It was fortunate that Doctor Ibarra had developed such wonderful methods for controlling a subject’s memories, he thought. Ibarra’s abilities complemented his own so well, and between them, they could control a subject’s inner reality completely. Then he corrected himself: that degree of control had yet to be demonstrated. Still, it was a reasonable prediction, based on the success that had attended both his own and Ibarra’s work, with both animal and human subjects.

January 6 -- Five days after his capture George awoke, fully clothed, in an unfamiliar room. He was groggy, but he seemed to be intact, although his head was bandaged. He was lying on a queen-size brass bed. Along the wall was a wooden dresser with a large mirror. An open closet contained his own clothes. He was shackled to the bed with a light chain attached to his ankle, but it proved to be long enough to allow him to move about the room and into three adjacent rooms. The first contained an ancient and dirty couch standing against a wall, and a beat-up heavy wooden table; three folding metal chairs sat next to the table The room was tiny, but an enormous mirror along one wall made it appear more spacious. . A kitchenette held a mini-refrigerator, an ancient electric range, a sink, and a tiny cupboard. The bathroom had a toilet, sink, and shower. George was surprised to see that he had his radio, his CD player, and his books. It appeared that he was expected to stay here for some time.

Soon a plump mestizo entered. “Buenos dá­as, amigo. I is Jaime Lá³pez. You is nuestro huésped–our guest–for a while.” Seá±or Lá³pez was about George’s height, with a smooth round face and a high voice. He continued in his accented English, “Amigo, you in a bad trouble. You know how bad?”

George replied angrily, “If I’m such a friend, then release me! You have no right to treat me like this!”

Lá³pez laughed. “You no can go. No one but los obreros know you here, and no one find out. You do what the don order, two years. Then you free.” George’s throat wouldn’t be slit on the spot, it seemed.

The don? Who in hell was that? “I’ll be missed. I insist you let me go!”

“Amigo, you no can insist. Don Pablo say, you bad. You betray Susana. You deserve punish, and you have it now.” George was shaken; Suzi was behind his abduction, and he knew he was in deep trouble. His captor continued: “You live now because Don Pablo say so.” He shrugged. “If he tell to me, kill you, then you dead.”

George knew he was lucky to be alive. This Don Pablo must be Suzi’s father, or maybe her brother. He remembered now that Suzi had told him about some place called Las Rosas, where she had grown up. But maybe he wasn’t so lucky at all. There were other nasty punishments he could suffer, and he doubted he had been seized only to be scolded. He pleaded for a measure of mercy: “I understand, and I’m grateful to… to Don Pablo for my life. But I was carried away by passion. I’m sorry; I know that’s no excuse, but I’ve been lonely here, and a man isn’t supposed to live alone; I needed a woman. And Petunia–what about her? At least let her go. She’s done nothing to harm you. Please, let me talk to Don Pablo.” He realized he was babbling, and shut his mouth.

“There no reason in beg; Don Pablo already decide your punish,” Jaime declared. “I no make decision. I here to tell to you your punish.” He paused, then continued: “You no see Petunia now, but she no is hurted. Esta muchacha tonta say she love you and want stay with you. She return in a few months.” George didn’t trust him, but there was no option but to hope he was telling the truth. Petunia’s presence meant there’d be a witness. If Jaime told the truth, Don Pablo couldn’t afford to do too much to him.

Jaime went on: “Other men like you is beated, or killed, or lose cojones. You deserve the most punish, but Don Pablo have mercy on you. First he think to cut your cojones, and eyes and tongue. Sin anestesia. You recover OK, you free of pain al fin, but you no leave Honduras. Never. You go to Susana then. Rest of life, you is her blind slave, work hard, give no trouble.” He grinned: “You no tell nobody nothing, never.”

George begged, “There must be another… another choice! That’s inhuman! The American government, the American newspapers would raise a stink. Please, it’s… it’s unreasonable!”

Jaime giggled at the incongruous choice of words. “No reason Don Pablo is reasonable. And life sin cojones is more quiet. Castraciá³n is right for you, amigo. Maybe blind is… un poco crudel, but the punish is good lesson for Petunia too. Los norteamericanos no hear about you never. What they think is no important.” A sinking feeling hit George. The man was right. He had tried to disappear, and no one would know what happened to him. Jaime continued: “En toda casa, Don Pablo wants try a different punish. Like I say, you stay aquá­ en la finca. You wear little radio on ankle–you see?” So that’s what the anklet was. “It tell where you are. You take off, or you break, or you leave, we know and punish. You was sin vergá¼enza–without no shame–abusando a Susana and then abandoná¡ndola.” George flushed; Jaime was right. “Tus acciones suggest a punish muy bueno. El patrá³n say he tell you su juicio when he see you. He give to you a good punish, even better than first idea.”

Horrified, George shrank from him. What was the don planning for him? It didn’t sound as if he intended to deliver a strong reprimand and then release him. “He can’t punish me! He has no right! I’m an American! Even if I did wrong, I have a right to a trial, to a lawyer!”

Jaime shrugged. “You see Don Pablo maá±ana. Tell to him. Maybe he listen to you. Buenos dá­as, amigo.” He turned and left.

George couldn’t think clearly. He had to escape! He checked his cell, but he was efficiently caged. There was nothing to do but wait for his meeting with Don Pablo, to plead his case. He lay on the couch for an hour, and then got up. He had his books and CD’s; he put on a Judy Collins ballad and chose a Ngaio mystery. For some reason he had trouble concentrating. Later, a young woman–a maid?–brought a light meal of (what else?) rice and beans. She wouldn’t talk to him. Jaime returned before dusk and entered without knocking.

“Buenas tardes.  ¿Qué tal, amigo?”

“Nothing good’s happening. I repeat, I demand to be released. Let me go.”

“Like I tell you, amigo, maá±ana you talk to Don Pablo. He tell me release you, then you go. But yo creo que no. Now, is anything you need?”

George asked that his fetters be taken off. “Chains aren’t needed. I can’t escape anyway. Please, give me that much freedom.” Jaime agreed and took out a key. “Veo que tus cadenas son problemas. I remove them; Don Pablo agree, not needed. The room is locked; if you go out, you lose cojones. It is painful; I no advise.” He freed George’s wrist and ankles. As George sat on the bed, Jaime told him, “Bueno. Hasta maá±ana,” and left.

After Jaime left, George explored his prison. It was comfortable, for a cell. He had three rooms: bedroom (with bath), living room, and kitchen. A window in the living room, decorated with frilled light-blue lacy curtains (and newly fitted with bars), opened onto a garden, where a fountain played continuously. He could smell the heady aroma of the flowering shrubs. A grape arbor ran up one wall, although the vines had no leaves now. The bedroom held a television in addition to the dresser and the bed, and a small window with curtains matching those in the living room gave a view of the pine woods. The kitchen contained a small table with three chairs, a stove and refrigerator, and shelves for food and utensils. His surroundings were actually more pleasant (and much more tastefully decorated) than his La Ceiba apartment. He fixed himself a snack, read for a while, then went to bed. The night passed slowly for George. The room was comfortable enough–the highland night air was cool–but his situation didn’t allow him to sleep well. He finally dozed fitfully.

January 7 -- When George awoke in the morning, he was disoriented, until he remembered the events of the previous day. He felt terrible! His head ached (from his head injury, of course). Most of his own clothes had been delivered to his closet, so he dressed quickly in a sport shirt and blue jeans, then shaved. Seating himself on the couch, he tried to lose himself in an old Hillerman mystery.

At midday Jaime knocked and entered without waiting for a reply. “Amigo,  ¡buenos dá­as!”

George responded sullenly, “Buenos dá­as.”

“You like your room, amigo?”

“Under the circumstances, I can’t complain. Not effectively, anyway. Tell Don Pablo my prison’s better than some of the hotels I’ve stayed in. I presume I don’t have the run of the grounds?”

He chuckled: “Creo que no. The room is locked and watched. You no leave without guard. I telled you, it painful if you is outside. You stay here, follow instrucciones, you find life no too bad. Don Pablo is generous. He want you healthy. Your punish no is pain, but you is changed to servant for Susana.” George sighed audibly in relief. To have to to work for Suzi wouldn’t be fun, but it was better than blindness, not to mention castration. And sooner or later he’d find a chance to escape. “But I no come to tell noticias malas. You comed to Honduras to teach, and Don Pablo want you teach here. In two weeks you have class. They is all girls, but you no complete man now. The doctor tell us tus cojones no do nothing, ahora o nunca.” George was shocked; surely he was mistaken! Then he realized that he hadn’t felt any sexual urge since his arrival. But maybe it was only the stress of captivity. It must be! Jaime added, “Now, tell me cuales cosas se necesitan to teach.”

“Why should I teach? I’m a prisoner, and you don’t offer me much incentive.”

“Ah, you need– ¿cá³mo se dice?–incentive. Maybe you keep tus cojones. They no work, but you still have.”

“How many students?”

For the next hour they discussed details–exactly what he’d teach (elementary algebra), the students’ background (they spoke little English), and what he’d need (a blackboard, pencils and paper, textbooks). Then George asked, “And what about Petunia? Where is she? How is she?”

Jaime frowned: “A bad question, amigo. Pero puedo decirte que she no is hurted and she go home now. You see her pronto. No ask again.”

“What happened to my head? It hurts like hell, and it’s bandaged.”

Jaime grinned and told him, “You no remember? You fighted, and you hitted hard on the head. You sleep long time. Today is enero 7.”

“Damn you and your Don Pablo too! I demand to see him! I have a right to face my accuser!”

His jailer nodded. “He want to talk with you. I take you now.”

The outside air was much cooler than the sweatbox of La Ceiba. The aroma of pine reminded George of the scrubby woods on Cape Cod, or the piney woods of north Georgia. Roses bloomed luxuriantly around the doorway of the main house. Jaime ushered him inside. The building was well appointed, with comfortable modern furniture. It could have been any home in the States–probably somewhere in the southwest, as the decor was vaguely Spanish. George knew little about furniture, but the look of the house suggested understated wealth. The impression was bolstered when they entered a study. Not at all modern, it looked as if it had been preserved unchanged from the nineteenth century. Ornately carved heavy chairs and a sofa, upholstered in rich brocade, lined the walls. A heavy table–mahogany?–stood in the center. A silver coffee urn and porcelain cups sat on the table. Books by the thousand, mostly leather-bound, filled two walls. In a corner was an old roll-top desk. Tapestries on the other walls and a thick rug muffled sounds. From the ceiling hung a lead-glass chandelier. Small windows showed the pine forest outside, the brilliant morning sunlight contrasting with the darkness inside. Only the fluorescent lights on the desk and table were out of place. A slender man of medium height, with receding gray hair and a dark mustache, sat in one of the chairs. He motioned George to another. George let himself into the chair and sat stiffly. Could he reason with this man after seducing his daughter?

His host gestured to Jaime. “Puedes salir. Quisiera hablar con el Seá±or Deon solo.” Jaime left as ordered, and the man poured himself coffee. “Now, Seá±or, I believe you asked to speak with me. That is good. I too wish to speak with you.” Don Pablo’s English was excellent, although his speech was stilted and his accent was strong. George began to speak, but the don held up his hand. “In time, Seá±or, in time. First, I have a few questions. Suzi told me something about you, but I wished to meet you myself. I was told you are a scientist?”

“Yes. But why should I answer your questions?” George’s tone was truculent. “Just let me go! You have no right to keep me prisoner!”

“Please, Seá±or, honor the amenities. Address me with courtesy. ‘Don Pablo’ is proper, or simply ‘Seá±or’. As to why you should answer: First, I can make your life uncomfortable. Jaime has told you a little about my plans for you. You can fulfill those plans with a minimum of discomfort, or you can fulfill them in pain and in sickness. The choice is yours. Second, I can drug you, and then you will not refuse me. I prefer to treat you with at least a minimum of courtesy, though. Does that answer your question?”

George hesitated. “I suppose it does–Seá±or.”

“Thank you. Now, let me introduce myself. As you know by now, I am Pablo Herrera Enrá­quez, Susana’s father. My family has owned this finca, Las Rosas, since colonial days, and I have some power locally, both official and unofficial. I hold a position with the Honduran government. More precisely, I support research under government sanction but with my own resources. It explores the nature of the human mind, and its possible control. I will tell you more about that research soon.” George wondered why the man was telling him all this, but kept silent. The don continued: “You do not need to introduce yourself, Seá±or. I have made it my business to become familiar with your background. You are George Deon, twenty-five years old, born in Akron, Ohio. Your parents are Tom and Gwen Deon; you have two brothers, Jack and Larry, and a sister, Amy. Your grandparents, who are still alive, are Marcus and Miriam Deon, and Henry and Janet Wilson. You like sports, although you only play an occasional game of tennis; you especially enjoy watching the Cleveland Indians. Your hobby is botany, and you fancy yourself an expert on orchids. You attended the Massachusetts Institute of Technology in Boston, where you majored in chemistry. After graduating you accepted a job with Bishop Chemical in Atlanta, which you left suddenly and without notice after seducing a woman in your office. Your superiors at Bishop were quite unhappy with you, by the way, and Celia Tolliver is still searching for you. You came to Honduras to hide, and you taught algebra and chemistry at La Ceiba until you seduced Suzi and ran away again. Most recently you have been teaching at Siguatepeque while you seduce another woman, Petunia Baca. I know her family; they are peasants, but honorable people, if less well off than my own. I arranged replacements for you in both La Ceiba and Siguatepeque, by the way, since you did not.” George flushed; the don knew far too much about him. His host noted the reaction and went on. “I also investigated your beliefs and opinions. You are a conservative Republican and a Catholic, although you seldom attended Holy Family Church in Atlanta, and your girlfriend was a Baptist. Her mother disapproved of her association with you, partly because of your religion. However, I was especially curious to find out your views concerning women. Seá±or, what is your opinion of women? Their abilities, their proper position in society?” The don sipped his coffee as he awaited George’s reply.

Taken by surprise–he wasn’t prepared for a philosophical discussion–George stuttered, “I… I… Th..they… Well, I suppose…” He stopped. “Seá±or, under the circumstances, I don’t think I can give you an adequate answer. First, the answer is complicated, and second, my position is, let’s say, awkward.”

Don Pablo nodded. “‘Awkward’? Fair enough, if understated. Let me summarize: Women are the weaker sex, mentally as well as physically, no?” George hesitated, then nodded. His captor continued: “They exist for the procreation of the human species, and for the pleasure and convenience of men. To these ends, they should keep their men happy, raise children, and keep house. ‘Women’s work’, I think you call it. They should be content with this; gender rá´les should be well defined and well separated. Women should be subservient to men, and not compete with men. Their physical and mental natures are adapted to this purpose, and other attributes–their clothing, their demeanor–should also reflect this. Is that not so?” He handed George a letter. It was the note George had sent to Susana on October 5. “This describes your opinions, true?”

In the face of the letter, it was difficult to dispute the don’s assertion, but George tried to soften it. “I was angry when I wrote that, Seá±or, and I went too far. I’m sorry, I don’t really…” He paused, then changed his tack. Complete denial wasn’t plausible in the face of the evidence in his hand. “I put it too strongly, Seá±or, but in general, I agree with some of that. From what I’ve seen of Honduras, a lot of men here would agree with me.”

“Yes, you are right. I share it to some degree, although as you say, you overstate it. Now, what are the duties of a man?–the stronger and smarter sex, as you seem to believe.” George began to stutter again. The don leaned forward and interrupted: “I will give you the Honduran version, since, as you note, it seems to agree with yours. Men must defend women and guard their honor. They protect, support, and cherish their women, and any children they bring into the world.” He paused briefly, but George didn’t respond. Then the don sat back and folded his hands in his lap. “Now let us return to the matter at hand. I am the father of an unmarried daughter, and by these principles I must guard her honor. Or, since it is now beyond guarding, I must avenge it. As for your responsibilities as a man: do you defend your actions? Do you believe that you fulfilled the implied masculine duties that accompany your masculine rights?” He tilted his head and raised his eyebrows as he awaited a reply, and for a moment George was struck by his resemblance to his daughter.

The don’s captive looked at the wall, then at the chandelier. He knew it was impossible to defend his behavior. He finally muttered, “Well, perhaps I acted without thinking…”

“Perhaps you did, Seá±or. Perhaps you did. Let me change the subject to a related topic. I spoke to your former maid, Mará­a. You treated her disgracefully.”

George protested, “But she was just a campesina! And I paid her well. She chose to stay with me!”

Don Pablo smiled, but it wasn’t a pleasant expression. “I see. ‘Just a campesina.’ I know her choices, Seá±or. Now, let me return to the subject of the your punishment. Traditionally, of course, I should simply remove the source of the problem.” George swallowed nervously, then licked his lips. The statement could mean his death, or, more likely, simple castration. Neither was thinkable. The only reason for not attempting an immediate (and undoubtedly futile) escape was the word “should”, implying an alternative. The don continued: “As it happens, I am minded to try a different approach, one that may prove equally effective. You are going to receive an education concerning ‘women’s work’. For the next few months, you will be trained–thoroughly trained–to do housework, to sew, to wash dishes and launder clothing, and to care for infants. Some time next year, you will be given to Suzi, to work for her. By then, of course, Suzi will have borne your child, so you are being given the opportunity to provide the assistance you promised her. At the end of next year, your punishment will be completed, and you will be free to leave.” He offered to warm George’s coffee, and repeated his offer of a pastry.

His “guest” accepted both the refill–it was excellent coffee–and the pastry, but he told the don, “That’s stupid, Seá±or. I worked for many years to become a chemist. When I offered to help Suzi, I meant… I meant to give support for the child. Money, I mean. That would be much more useful to her.” He looked down, then straight at his captor. The don had agreed that such work was suitable only for women. “Besides, I’m a man. If I have to work for you–or for Suzi–at least have me do something more appropriate.” He wouldn’t stay captive for long, of course, but he’d rather have some other work, even for a brief time. “Maybe you can’t use a chemist, but I can teach, I can do bookkeeping, marketing… Or even physical labor.” Maybe his bodybuilding might serve him in his plight. “You’re saying I should do women’s work? That’s a job for a maid–for a peasant girl!”

His host nodded. “A good point, Seá±or. I agree that, in general, such duties are not for men. And indeed, I wish you to teach.” For a moment George was relieved, but the don continued: “However, you have proven yourself unfit as a man, and unwilling to perform a man’s duties.” If possible, his smile grew bleaker. “Therefore, your punishment is to perform a woman’s duties for two years. You will become Suzi’s ‘peasant girl’.”

George’s eyes widened in disbelief. He protested, “But… But Seá±or… That’s crazy! Even if…” He swallowed; his mouth was dry and his stomach had a sick feeling. Being forced to work off his debt to Suzi was bad enough, but this insanity? Would the don really try to make him work as a maid? “The… the idea’s foolish! I… I wouldn’t be any good at that. If… if you make me do woman’s work, it’d just be a pointless humiliation!”

“Humiliation, yes, but pointless? I think not. Humility is a virtue you lack. Perhaps you will learn it as you serve Susana. But I know that your assumption of a woman’s duties will not be easy, so I will allow you to take them on gradually. By the end of your captivity, you should become highly skilled in your new profession.”

“Never! I’ll get away from here as quickly as I can. Or at least that’s what I’ll do if you keep your word, Seá±or. You did say I’d be released in two years, didn’t you? That I’ll be free to just walk away?”

The don agreed. “Yes, you will be ‘free to just walk away’. I will free you where we found you, sound in body and in mind, with your passport and money, and with no restrictions. You have my word on it. You may choose another option: you can kill yourself before two years is over. I have sworn not to execute enemies–but I do not object to suicide. Coincidentally, several men to whom I had taken a dislike chose to end their own lives.”

“I won’t give you that satisfaction! If I… If I die, you’ll have to arrange it yourself!”

The don waved his hand, dismissing George’s statement. “I will not kill you, Seá±or. But enough of that. Are there any other matters about which I can enlighten you?”

George remembered what Jaime had said about his sex life. “Yes, there is. What… what about my manhood? Jaime said… he said I’m… I’m impotent.”

“Yes, for the moment that is correct. I have taken steps to remove–temporarily–your ability to perform in bed. However, my doctors tell me you should be fully capable of intimate relations with the opposite sex after your release. If they are correct, you should be able to enjoy a normal marriage–although so far you have shown no inclination to accept marital responsibilities. Is there anything more?”

“Yes: Turn me loose, or I’ll sue you for every dime you have!”

Don Pablo chuckled. “You are not thinking clearly, Seá±or. You have just articulated a reason why I cannot turn you loose. Having kidnapped you and left you impotent, I would indeed be foolish to allow you your freedom now, to report what I have done. In a few months I may take the chance, when I am certain you will keep silent.”

Keep silent about this outrage? The man was crazy! But it wouldn’t be a good idea to point that out, just at present. “Who appointed you God? You have no right to take the law into your own hands!”

“Seá±or, I may not be God, but here I am the law. For two centuries my family has had the responsibility for enforcing justice in this region, and we have done it as best we can–well enough to earn the respect and trust of the local people, and well enough to hold the responsibility through war and revolution. If I overstep my bounds, my family will forfeit that trust, and we will lose the responsibility.” He smiled: “I am in no danger in your case.” The smile disappeared. “Beyond that, I am Suzi’s father. I have the right–no, the duty–to punish you.”

Pursuing that line was foolish, George realized, and he dropped it quickly. “What do I do with myself during my enforced stay as your guest? I’ll go mad stuck in a room with nothing to do. Am I allowed outside?”

He nodded. “Keeping yourself occupied will be no problem. I have arranged for you to have your books and music. Also, you will have tasks to fulfill. As I said, I want you to teach while you are here. More important: you will receive training in your new duties. You must learn, you will learn to be an excellent maidservant. Also, I will insist that your behavior and appearance must be appropriate–that is to say, you must learn to behave like a proper maid. I know that adopting feminine traits will be a ‘pointless humiliation’, but that is part of the punishment. Honduran society is highly stratified, and you will find yourself at the bottom. As a peasant, you will find that you are considered socially inferior, fit only for menial tasks. As a servant girl…” He smiled. “Your own prejudices concerning a woman’s proper place in the world are widely shared here. I need say no more.

“As for going outside: yes, but not yet. Soon you will be allowed free run of the finca in your free time. I have ordered that you be treated well, although you will find that many of my people are not well disposed towards you, after your behavior.” He told George that everyone on the finca knew his crimes and his penalty. “As I said, a major purpose of the punishment is that I be seen as a stern, but just, ruler of my small domain; that is one of the tasks of a patrá³n. You may be interested in the reactions to your fate. The first, of course, is skepticism. It cannot be done, they say. However, everyone is curious to see how complete your transformation will be. The men here believe the penalty is just, if repulsive. They do not really wish to think about it, and hope that it does not fully succeed. Lose your cojones, yes; that they understand. It is traditional.” George shuddered. “But to be forced to become a maid? It is unthinkable. The women like the idea–especially after I shared with them the letter you sent to Susana–and they hope for complete success. Their opinion is that ‘It’s about time a man learned what women have to put up with.’ They look forward to training you. Susana, of course, is fully of that opinion.”

Emboldened by the answers to his questions, George declared, “You’re crazy! I may accept doing women’s work as a stupid punishment…”–after all, it beat the traditional penalty–“…but I’ll never really become a maid! And if I get a chance to escape, of course I will. But I’m not saying anything you don’t know already.”

The don nodded and warned him against trying to escape. “My security will prevent you from leaving the finca. I suggest that you not test it. If you do–or when you do, as I expect you to attempt to escape–I assure you that you will regret it. You will also be punished for any attempted removal or disturbance of your ankle monitor. You should not try. In addition, you have been given a drug–a mild euphoriant. It is in your morning pill, and you are already addicted to it. The positive effect of the drug is minor, but the effect of withdrawal is truly terrible. If you flee, you will endure torment, and you will find that you must return to obtain your ‘fix’. Until you do, you will suffer greatly. And one last matter: for my own purposes, I wish to have you take psychological tests at regular intervals. You will take the first after you leave me today. Do you have any further questions?”

George had none–or none worth asking. Don Pablo summoned Jaime, who escorted him to a room where he took the promised test, a standard psychological test designed to evaluate his personality. He did his best to answer the questions truthfully after Jaime warned him that frivolous or wrong answers would be noted and punished; it was too trivial a matter to risk any trouble. The rest of the afternoon was spent studying Spanish in his room. He’d need a much improved command of the language to assist him in the escape he had yet to plan.

Part 2, The Transformation Commences

George is coerced into cooperating in his own metamorphosis. But it's all reversible. Isn't it?

 
 
January 8
-- George lay in bed until 10 AM. There wasn’t much point in getting up early. After showering, dressing, and shaving, he fixed scrambled eggs and coffee. He ignored a large blue pill on the table. It was clearly the euphoriant to which he was intended to become addicted. From a window he saw a concrete pad with stripped yellow berries spread to dry; he guessed he wouldn’t lack fresh coffee. Afterwards he watched television. It was all in Spanish, of course, but he got the gist of the dialog. In fact, TV Spanish was easier than the backwoods campesino Spanish he had struggled with in La Ceiba. He was like a foreigner who had learned English (British variety) in Europe, and who now had to listen to a rural Alabama farmer.

Jaime returned after lunch, accompanied by a woman in her mid-thirties. He spoke briefly with her, then turned to George. “Ella se llama Yolanda. She remove hair. Cada tarde, she remove barba. Sabés, una criada no debe ser barbata.” Yolanda was a sensuous and slender woman with slightly Indian features and light-olive skin. She wore a red nylon blouse and white slacks. Jaime told her, “Comenzé con el bigote,” and left. Yolanda ordered firmly, “Acostate aquá­, hombre,” gesturing as she did so. George was dumbfounded by the prospective loss of his beard. He’d have to look like a maid, the don had warned–but this was crazy! He considered refusing, but decided against it. Don Pablo could easily enforce his will. He lay down on the bed, and Yolanda took a needle, attached to an electric cord, from a bag. She plugged it in and drew up a stool. George’s head was at a convenient level for her. She motioned to him not to move, and began to probe his upper lip with her needle. A slight tingle accompanied each prick as a tiny shock hit the follicle, killing it.

After about 90 minutes, she finished the electrolysis session and rubbed a cream into his facial skin. Then Jaime returned to ask if George needed anything. “A plane ticket to Miami!” George replied.

Jaime laughed. “ ¡Por supuesto, es posible! But only after two years. Can I to get for you anything now?”

Knowing that Jaime had himself suffered from the don’s justice, George hoped he might show sympathy. “Please, Seá±or, help me escape. You know how unreasonable Don Pablo can be. I’ll… I’ll be very grateful. Grateful with cash. He’ll never know you helped me. How much would you want? I’ll pay anything I can!”

His jailer grinned. “The don expect you try pay for escape. You try once, is reasonable. I tell Don Pablo. You try second, me or cualquiera tell, you lose cojones pronto.  ¡Asá­ lo creé!”

So much for sympathy. George shut up and waited until Jaime closed and locked the door.

Left to himself the rest of the day, George investigated his prison. The barred windows were secure, and the door was locked. He saw guards set to watch. Except for his position, though, he was comfortable. He thought, “If I weren’t trapped, with a terrible sentence, and if I had more to do, this’d be a nice place for a vacation.” He saw pine-covered mountains from the rear of the cottage. The countryside looked more like Wyoming than his notion of Central America. La Ceiba hadn’t been quite what he had expected either, but it was closer to the tropical stereotype than this! He was surprised at the modernity of the finca, too, although Susana had described it. She’d said it was almost a town in itself, with a village for the staff, areas of cornfield and coffee groves and gardens, and pine forest and cloud forest. There was a gasoline-powered electric generator. The new Cajá³n dam had promised to provide electricity for this part of the country, but much of the backwoods wasn’t hooked in, and poor planning had negated much of the generating capacity in any case. Knowing now that he was at Finca Las Rosas, he could place himself geographically in the mountains somewhere north of Comayagua.

George didn’t intend to await the don’s pleasure. Security was tight, but it would slacken, and then he’d escape. “It must be possible!” he told himself. “I have to get out of here. My procrastination has to end!” But how? He checked the tiny radio wired to his ankle. There was no way to remove it without breaking the connection around the ankle. That would alert his captors and bring punishment. He could probably destroy it quickly and easily, but that was foolish too, unless he could get away quickly.

By 4 PM George’s head ached, he felt nauseous, and his muscles twitched. He attributed his problems to nerves, but he felt worse by evening. Jaime visited him before bedtime, and when George complained, Jaime laughed. “Oh, you no take pill, hmmm? Before we give you drug in food, but now you need pill. It get worse. You better take now.” By 11 that night George broke down and took the pill. His symptoms quickly vanished, and a wonderful feeling of euphoria replaced his sickness. He recognized his feeling as a drug high, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered any more; he could overcome anything! He drifted off to sleep in a dreamy haze.
 
 
January 11
-- On January 9 George had refused his pill again. He resisted until the morning of the 11th, through a day and two sleepless nights of muscle cramps, a vicious headache, a cold sweat, and nausea (all chip-induced). When he could endure no longer, he swallowed his pill. His health improved as soon as the pill took effect (or so he thought). “They’ll just give it to me in the food anyway,” he rationalized. “It doesn’t matter.” Jaime reported the success to Don Pablo, who in turn congratulated Ibá¡á±ez. The doctor nodded with satisfaction when the don told him what had happened. He explained that the surgery had weakened the subject’s will, but not destroyed it. “Episodes of rebellion are needed for conditioning. Every time he disobeys, he’ll be miserable. The constant negative reinforcement’ll gradually make him less inclined to rebel, and he’ll slowly become more docile. I don’t want him too submissive, without enough spirit to fight against your orders–although I can put him into that state, when its desirable. It’s a delicate balance, you see: he has to be able to fight us in order to receive the negative conditioning, but I want to keep his will power low enough so that he won’t be able to resist with any strength.”

After the don left, the doctor reminded himself that the technique had drawbacks. One of his earliest subjects, Juan Espinoza, had discovered that he was being manipulated by a method that seemed like sorcery, and he had attempted suicide. He was prevented from succeeding, but he had since become insane. George Deon, with his numerous chips, would require delicate handling and careful monitoring.
 
 
January 14
-- After almost a week, George was still unharmed. Initial terror had been replaced successively by relief that he hadn’t been killed, indignation at imprisonment, renewed terror at the prospect of some other punishment, resignation to his fate (terror is an emotion that is hard to sustain), and finally a growing boredom. He had books, but he couldn’t read forever. He watched TV, but he didn’t follow it well. What little he did follow, told him that the programs (mostly telenovelas, or soap operas) were worse than those at home. Jaime did provide him with a radio, although George could see that Jaime disapproved of coddling him. He was also given new paperbacks–the Spanish-language equivalent of Harlequin romances. George couldn’t yet read them easily (the process was more like translation), but the lack of other new reading material made the effort worthwhile.

George also acquired a doctor. He had checked George’s head (about time!) and concluded that it had healed well. Doctor Garcá­a seemed sympathetic, but he worked for Don Pablo, and George couldn’t trust him.

His mustache had lost its luxuriance, and looking alarmingly thin. Sexual activity wasn’t possible, as Don Pablo had noted, and in fact he didn’t seem to miss it. It was almost as if he had forgotten what sex was like. Their treatment, even in its early stages, appeared to be effective.

Worried, George determined to plan his escape; but no opportunities presented themselves. He watched and waited, but the building remained secure and well guarded.
 
 
January 19
-- After breakfast Jaime told George that his math course would begin that afternoon. Don Pablo had given him four teenage girls, all from nearby towns. Ana Mará­a, Mará­a Pilar, Elena, and Consuela had proven to be good students in earlier courses, Jaime said, but they had only a little English; George would have to teach in Spanish. Jaime would observe as he taught the course. “Maybe I learn a little too,” he commented.

They arrived soon after lunch. As Jaime had said, all spoke only mediocre English. They were a little young for George’s taste, even had he been whole–although he could make an exception for Mará­a Pilar. He wondered how much they knew, and somehow, without intending it, he let slip his curiosity. They were quick to tell him.

Ana Mará­a Villas, a girl from Las Rosas, was dark and a bit chubby, with black hair in a single long braid; she was the shortest of the four (about George’s height) and the most Indian in appearance. She giggled at his question and told him, “Yes, we know. Don Pablo told us about your punishment–he’s going to make you over, into a maid for his daughter–so we wouldn’t be shocked at your appearance.” She giggled again, nervously. “Don’t worry, when you wear strange things, we’ll understand.” She was plainly disturbed by what she had been told–whether by George’s crime or his punishment, he couldn’t say.

Mará­a Pilar Hinojosa (“Mapy”), taller and fairer with long dark-brown hair framing a classic oval face, was the prettiest and most serious, and also the oldest at nineteen. Her home was near La Libertad, twenty miles to the north, but she attended school in Comayagua, where she was studying to become a teacher. She was sympathetic to George’s plight: “I think it’s awful, Seá±or George.  ¡Don Pablo’s got no right to do such a horrible thing!  ¡I don’t care what you did! I feel sorry for you.”

Consuela Eloy, a seventeen-year-old girl from the nearby village of San Jerá³nimo, was skinny, angular, and pimply. “They told us what you did to Seá±orita Herrera. I think it’s only fair.” She giggled. “It’ll be fun to watch while you’re changed into her maid.” A budding feminist and man-hater, obviously. George ignored her comments.

Elena Carvajal, the youngest at fourteen and also from San Jerá³nimo, was hardly more than a little girl. She was plain, and dressed plainly, but George thought she’d be beautiful in a couple of years. The brightest of the quartet, she said little, but that little was generally well informed and to the point. She didn’t comment on his problem, and she was visibly relieved when the conversation turned to algebra.

The class went smoothly. The four students had a good background, as Jaime had said. George tried hinting that he’d like one of them to smuggle a message for him, but they giggled and refused. Mapy, the most congenial of his students, explained that it would be unwise to try to help him. “I’m sorry, Seá±or, but Don Pablo is our patrá³n, and he’s good to us. Besides, if we disobey him, he’ll punish us.”

After class George tried to think of a way to use the students to his advantage, but nothing came to mind. The damned radio on his ankle wasn’t really much of an impediment; more important, he was still guarded efficiently. He knew he’d been addicted to something nasty, but that wouldn’t keep him from running if an opportunity arose. He’d take his chances; it couldn’t be worse than what Don Pablo planned for him, if he’d been serious. His identity, and his very manhood, depended on an escape.
 
 
January 20
-- A chill rain blotted the view of the Comayagua valley from Don Pablo’s library. Leaning back in his chair, he held a letter from Suzi. She was learning from experience the consequences of her foolishness, but Don Pablo promised himself that he wouldn’t punish her beyond those natural consequences. She was a woman, and weak; God willing, she’d realize that now. When she returned, he had a possible husband in mind for her. A good match. She’d take his advice now, he thought. He slit open the envelope.

Padre caro: My accursed pregnancy proceeds normally, and I will give you a grandson next July. I fear I will not love him; I will see the father in the child. I very much look forward to having George work for me. I’ll need help, and that arrogant scoundrel deserves to learn what it is like to be a lowly servant. But can you really make him into a good household servant? The bastard had no such talent when I knew him. And I will not put my baby into the hands of a slipshod servant. In any case, whether he cares for the baby or not, I will see that he works hard for his living, even if he never becomes the ideal worker. --Your repentant daughter

Don Pablo smiled ruefully. A woman’s vengeance could be a terrible thing. He’d have to warn her not to mistreat her new maidservant. He would be too valuable to science. Seá±orita Deon’s new status would be sufficient punishment. He picked up his pen and began to write.

Mi cara hija: I cannot promise that Seá±or Deon will be perfect. However, my doctors have proven they can reshape a personality, and I guarantee that Seá±or Deon will be much improved. You will not know him. When I give him to you, he will be eager to serve you faithfully, and his training will enable him to do just that. In particular, he will be able to care for your infant. Although I promised him freedom to leave after two years, I believe he will continue to serve you after that time. Do not worry about his arrogance or pride. They will be erased; he will be compliant and docile, like any lowly peasant. Believe me, you will fully approve of him. --Your loving father

The don leaned back and thought about his daughter, exiled in disgrace to California. Her fear that she might not love her infant was baseless, as she unwittingly revealed in her reluctance to give the child over to an untrustworthy caretaker. No, she’d be a good mother. He understood her need for retribution, though. It was only natural. She’d have her revenge when Seá±or Deon was delivered to her, but in the meantime perhaps she should be given the chance to confront her betrayer. He added a postscript:

Carita, I know that you are not innocent, but equally I know that you were deceived. You deserve to see Seá±or Deon soon. I will arrange a visit in a few weeks, if you like.

He nodded. When she discovered the nature of her betrayer’s punishment, her pleasure would be even greater.
 
 
January 22
-- Slowly George succumbed to cabin fever. After his students left, he complained to Jaime, “I need to go out. I need exercise. Tell Don Pablo that even a condemned criminal is allowed to have fresh air and exercise. Please, Jaime, I beg him.” Jaime dutifully passed the request on to Don Pablo.

“Not quite yet, Jaime. Soon, but not yet. Tell him that.”

After Jaime left, Don Pablo considered his captive and the punishment he was receiving. In truth, Seá±or Deon was guilty, but in justice Suzi had to bear part of the blame. If Seá±or Deon hadn’t abandoned a pregnant woman in the U.S., and criminally mistreated a poor campesina, he might have been let off with a lesser penalty. Don Pablo had seen this sort of man before, unfortunately. Left alone, he’d leave a trail of dishonored women behind him. And any woman who did marry him, would find that he made a terrible husband. No, he couldn’t be turned loose. Killing him was beyond the limits of justice–although suicide would be tolerable. And a simple physical mutilation, such as he had decreed for Jaime, was impractical, as the public-relations consequences would be undesirable upon Seá±or Deon’s return to the U.S. His doctors’ request was a godsend. Seá±or Deon would serve their needs, and his shameful behavior would come to an end. Even if the project was less successful than hoped, he’d be unable to repeat his misdeeds.
 
 
January 23
-- After two weeks, George’s mustache was gone and his beard was thinning, although he hadn’t been allowed to shave. Jaime told him, “You never need shave, amigo. Yolanda take off whiskers. Para siempre. She help make you look like muchacha muy bonita, she think. When you go to Suzi, you is real pretty maid.”

At least the math class was a pleasure. It was an oasis of enjoyment in a desert of gloom. The girls were quick studies and grasped the fundamental nature of algebra with ease. In speaking to them, he found that the four had been among a group of local children selected by Don Pablo several years ago for their intelligence. He had seen that they received special tutoring, starting with a year in the United States to learn English. George had thought of Don Pablo as a self-serving tyrant, and he was surprised to find that Don Pablo took seriously his duty as protector and benefactor of his people. Still, in his mind there was no justification for this punishment. Men were men, and should be expected to act as he had. Don Pablo might have some right to punish him, since he had been stupid enough to get caught; but not like that!

After class George asked Jaime for the response to his request. “Pronto, dice Don Pablo. Pronto, pero ya no. You need wait a little, amigo. He let you out of room soon.”
 
 
January 25
-- When George had breakfast, there was no pill on the table, and at class Mapy told him, “Jaime said we needed to give him a little extra time with you today. He didn’t know whether you’d be able to teach us tomorrow. I don’t know why.” The girls left a little early.

A sinking feeling enveloped George. He expected a visit from Jaime, which wouldn’t improve his situation. He didn’t have long to wait. Jaime entered and gave his usual cheerful greeting in his ridiculous voice. George did not return it. “What do you want, Jaime,” he asked bluntly.

Jaime grinned. “You talk good to me, amigo, con cortesá­a. En toda casa, Don Pablo want your hair different. He say, cortale. Cut it in…” He frowned. “In ‘bangs’, he say. Como muchacha. Like girl. Then you get pill.”

More of the don’s “feminine traits”! “No! I won’t let you turn me into some kind of… of pansy!” George spoke without thinking, but after blurting it out he felt he’d done right. He’d had enough. The don was crazy!

Jaime frowned at the unfamiliar slang, but the context brought the meaning clear. He grinned even more widely. “Está¡ bién, amigo. Yo no le cortaré. I no cut it, if you no like.”

George waited a moment, then told Jaime, “OK, that’s settled. Get out of here, then.”

Jaime laughed. “I leave scissors. You have un espejo–mirror. I return en la maá±ana, it cut. Yo no le cortaré; vos le cortará¡s. You cut it. Real pretty. If you do good, you feel mejor. Si no, no. If you cut hair short, Don Pablo cut tus cojones–balls–short. Hasta maá±ana, amigo.” He gave George a pair of barrettes, telling him he’d have to wear them too. “And brush hair good. You be real pretty–how you say?–pansy.” Then he left, giggling.

As the door shut, George began to worry. What had he done? He tried to tell himself that he’d had no choice; he couldn’t allow such things. Don Pablo wouldn’t dare carry out his threat. Still, his worry grew to a fear that left him shaking. After all, he was at the don’s mercy. That night he fell ill. His stomach grew queasy and he lost his supper. A headache grew to pounding agony, and nausea was joined by stomach cramps. “Drug withdrawal!” he thought. “I didn’t get my dose! Damn, I don’t like this. I don’t know how long I can take it. And Mapy said she didn’t know if I’d teach tomorrow. Don Pablo must’ve planned this whole thing!” But he determined to hold out.
 
 
January 26
-- After a sleepless night, George got out of bed as dawn began to break. “It’s not that important,” he thought. “My hair doesn’t matter. I’ll cut it. I’ll save my rebellions for more important matters. God, but this sucks!” He stumbled to the bathroom, stood before the mirror, and carefully trimmed his hair in front to a girlish bob. He brushed it out, then added the pink barrettes along the side, holding his long hair back a bit. “There, that’s done, damn them!” He had complied, if reluctantly; surely they’d release him from his pain now. As he anticipated the end of his torment, his fear receded. The pain and nausea remained, for the moment.

Jaime appeared at 7 AM. “Ah, amigo. You no look good; you maybe sick?  ¿El está³mago, la cabeza? No matter; your hair look good, like for a maid. Or a pansy. You no glad tu bigote se fué? You look real funny with it now, la muchacha bigotuda. Bueno, aquá­ está¡ tu socorro.” He held out a large blue tablet.

George seized it and swallowed it. Jaime nodded and left; within ten minutes his symptoms had abated. By class time he was well, and he was able to keep his appointment with his class. The girls giggled at his appearance, but he gave no explanation and they didn’t ask. After all, they knew what was being done to him.

In the big house, Jaime reported to Don Pablo. “ ¿And is he healthy?” the don asked.

“I can’t say. I’m no doctor. He seems healthy enough, after he finally obeyed you. He was stubborn at first.”

“Good: Without disobedience he will not learn to fear punishment. But another matter: In six days he takes his next step.”

“Five days, I think…” Jaime paused to calculate. “No, you’re right, Seá±or. Six days.”

“Right. On February 1 we will also grant his request to leave his room. He will learn to be careful with his requests, for fear they might be granted. Bring him to the casa a little past 1:30 and introduce him to Evelina. She will begin to teach him the finer points of housecleaning.”
 
 
February 1
-- Still in a bathrobe, George was finishing a papaya when Jaime appeared at his door. Hopefully he asked, “Jaime, I asked Don Pablo about leaving my room for exercise? He said soon. How soon?”

“Sá­, hombre. á‰l dice que sá­, hoy. But you no like, I think. First, otra cosa. You have new duty. You shave legs and under arms like woman,” he ordered sternly. “You keep smooth at all times. No let them is hairy. Every few days you shave them. Shave good. You punished, por supuesto, if you no obey good–and then you shave anyway.” He gave George half a dozen bright-pink Gillette “Venus” razors. “You start now.” George shaved then and there under Jaime’s vigilant eye. Then Jaime announced, “Today is primero de febrero. En el primero dá­a de cada mes, you get one more thing. Enero, tu barba. Febrero, you begin shave like woman. Marzo…” He shrugged. “Yo no sé. Pero entonces hará¡ alguno má¡s. El aá±o prá³ximo, aparecés como criada propia. Like you say, you look like a… a proper maid?” He cocked his head, then looked George up and down. “Don Pablo even say, you is muchacha lindá­sima soon. Dudo que es posible, but he usual tiene verdad.”

George had already been told that–but of course he didn’t intend to be there in a year. He ignored Jaime’s baiting and asked, “And my request? The don said I could go out today?”

“Sá­, sá­. You be ready a las uno y media en punto. You begin learn work en la casa grande. Don Pablo say, time to learn maid work. Lots of exercise.”

“I’m a scientist–a chemist–I can’t be a maid!” Unreasonably, as he protested, he felt a pang of terror race through him. Surely the don wouldn’t punish him just for complaining! Would he? George knew he did not want to be punished. He told himself he’d accept what he must until he could escape. “I’m sorry,” he quickly amended. “I’ll do it. I’ll be ready.” Immediately he felt better.

In the casa, Ibá¡á±ez watched the spycam and beamed at Don Pablo. “Obviously the fear chip is effective. Now having given in out of fear, he’ll probably rationalize his surrender with the punishment for refusal. Of course, that would be a valid reason for his behavior. But he might’ve resisted anyway. And if this touch of panic is insufficient, then we can supply more. I believe Evelina will find him a good student, if a trifle reluctant.”

At 1:25 that afternoon Jaime arrived to escort George to the main house. George’s relief at his release from the cottage where he had spent the last month was tempered by his distaste for the task at hand. Nevertheless, he appreciated the tiny freedom of being allowed to walk outdoors, and to feel the pine-scented breeze on his face. Jaime brought him through a back entrance to the casa. Somewhere he heard an infant squalling. He was told this was part of the servants’ quarters. After a turn down a short hall George was led into a drab whitewashed room without any furniture. Evelina awaited him there.

Evelina, a sour and severe woman somewhere between thirty and sixty, was thin and stringy. Her angular face was lightly lined with a few wrinkles. Thin spectacles perched atop a beaklike nose. Her dark hair, streaked with iron-gray, was held in a tight bun. She reminded George of his fourth-grade teacher, whom he had detested. She looked at George as if he were an errant child. “Don Pablo me dice que vos tenés que aprender a conducirte como mujer. Como moza de servicio. Bueno. Yo aprobo. Yo sé que vos hiciste, y merecés tu destino. Ahora, tenés que empezar a aprender tu nueva profesiá³n. Tenés que aprenderla muy bién.” Turning to Jaime, she asked, “ ¿Entiende ella suficiente espaá±ol?” Apparently she intended to treat George as if he were really a girl.

Jaime replied, “Creo que sá­. No habla bién, pero me aparece que puede entender. En toda casa, tiene que aprender espaá±ol mucho mejor. Trabajar bajo su mano asistirá¡ a ella en su lenguaje.”

True to Jaime’s words, George understood. He understood far too much for his equanimity. The harridan fully approved of his transformation to Susana’s maid. She’d see that he’d begin to learn his new profession now. Learn it well. “I protest…” he began.

Evelina stopped him with a glare. “Aquá­ hablará¡s solamente espaá±ol, muchacha. Sos criada. Nada má¡s. Una criada estáºpida, quien no habla bién el idioma. Pero le aprenderá¡s pronto.  ¿Comprendés?”

He understood. Clearly, the woman had trained as a drill instructor at Parris Island. “Sá­, comprendo.  ¿Qué puedo hacer para Usted?” Do what you must, he reminded himself.

What he could do for her was scrub floors. Evelina told him, “La primera obligaciá³n de criada es limpiar, muchacha. Limpiar las ropas, limpiar los platos y las ollas, limpiar las salas. Lavar las paredones, lavar los pisos. Empezá¡ aquá­ y ahora con esto piso. Hay agua y jabá³n y cepillo.” She indicated a bucket of hot water, a cake of hard yellow soap, and a stiff brush.

Under her critical eye George learned the art of washing floors on hands and knees. This particular floor was old linoleum, badly stained. She allowed nothing to be skimped, and he had to repeat his scrubbing of several stains with more vigor. When the floor was done to her standards, she led him to the next room, where the furniture had been moved, and directed him to return the furniture to its original place. By the time he had moved a large wood table, six chairs, and two shelves full of knick-knacks, he was bone-tired, with sore muscles, aching back, and raw hands. Nevertheless, Evelina set him to work washing another floor. When Jaime finally returned at five, rescuing him from his labors, she reluctantly let him go.

“Hasta maá±ana, muchacha, a las uno y media. Creo que podrá­as hacerte criada pasable.”

George was almost too tired to eat, but he managed to fix his usual rice and beans. He read a little bit of his latest Harlequin novel, and fell asleep in his chair. Jaime had to awaken him, to send him to bed.
 
 
February 7
-- Evelina continued to take a toll of George’s body and his will. She would have him clean every room in the big house, it seemed. He endured it, learning to scrub with vigor and with care. If he missed a spot or seemed to rest a little, she would be on his neck, accusing him of being a lazy girl, unworthy of her attention. Today she had baited him unmercifully. “Pero Don Pablo dice que vos será¡s criada para Suzi, y será¡s. Criada bonita, también.” She grinned at him evilly: “ ¿Qué creés, muchacha?  ¿Anticipá¡s con placer tu cambio?  ¿Llevar una faldita blanca, una blusa?  ¿Qué decá­s?” When he didn’t answer, feigning incomprehension, she laughed. “Lo creo. Creo que propiamente debés ser moza. No merecés cojones, muchacha má­a. Anticipo con placer verte en el uniforme de criada, con tu gorro y tu delantal. Muy cuca.”

That evening Doctor Garcá­a examined his head injury and pronounced it healed. George reported the symptoms he’d suffered when he refused his drug, and he inquired about the nature of the drug, but could get no answer. Still, Doctor Garcá­a appeared sympathetic, clucking his tongue at the treatment accorded George.

George resolved to escape soon, but he was well guarded constantly. The locks on his door at night seemed impregnable. When he did leave his apartment under escort, he had a feeling of impending danger, as though he were being watched. He was afraid they would allow him just a little rope, the better to hang himself with. He needed inside help. Possibly Doctor Garcá­a? He seemed to be the most sympathetic person here.
 
 
February 9
-- When Yolanda appeared in the evening, she peered at George’s face, rubbed her hand over his cheek, and smiled. By signs she indicated that his beard and mustache were gone. “Pero ahora tengo que arrancar las cejas.” George’s Spanish had improved, but he didn’t understand until she began on his eyebrows. “No!” he exclaimed, but Yolanda told him he had no choice, it was the don’s orders. Still he resisted; at last she gave up, warning him that his refusal was unwise. “Jaime me dijo que vos tenés que obedecer. Sá­ no… pues, no sé que pasará¡, pero no será¡ bueno. No te gustará¡.” With that vague warning, she left.

His Spanish had reached the point where he understood her quite well. “I don’t know what will happen, but it won’t be good. You won’t like it.” Well, it was too late to change his mind now, and he wasn’t inclined to anyway. Out of habit he considered escaping. He was sure the guards would eventually be withdrawn, but they hadn’t been yet. And the locks remained secure. He resigned himself to whatever punishment might await him.

Jaime came to him at suppertime. His face was serious. “Hombre, Yolanda me dice que vos desobedeciste.  ¡Qué lá¡stima!” He switched to his fractured English. “She right, you know. Bad mistake. When you change mind, digame. O digá¡ a Paco, next your door. He get me then.” Then he left.

That evening,shortly after sunset, George began to feel vaguely ill. Depression settled over him as he contemplated his situation. It was hopeless. He’d never escape, and his prospects were intolerable. He even thought of suicide, but he couldn’t think of a good way to accomplish it. Besides, he was too afraid.

By eleven his vague illness had settled into a faint nausea and the hint of stomach cramps. He recognized the symptoms of withdrawal. He couldn’t understand how he could be feeling sick. It was far too early, but there was no mistaking the pangs. He lay on his bed, unable to sleep. He had never felt so bad in his life. “Jaime was right,” he told himself. “I can’t take this. My eyebrows aren’t worth it” He arose and staggered to the door. It was locked of course, but he banged on it. Paco came immediately. “Paco, por favor, get Jaime. Jaime!”

Paco laughed. “Hay problemas,  ¿no? Maá±ana, hombre, maá±ana. Tenés que esperar.”

Wait till morning? He couldn’t! But he had to. And he did, suffering through the wee small hours.
 
 
February 10
-- Shortly after dawn Jaime found George on his bed holding his head. A faint odor of vomit hung in the air. He looked up hopefully. “Jaime, for the love of God, help me! I’m sorry I refused Yolanda!”

Jaime looked sympathetic, but offered no help. “ ¡Qué lá¡stima! You look bad, mi amigo. I sorry about you.”

“Don’t just feel sorry for me!” George fought back a retch. “I need help. Please!”

“I no can help yet, hombre. Yolanda trabaja–she work–until noon. Then you go to her, beg her to finish work on you. tenés que persuadir a ella. You must persuade her.”

“Then I’ll get better?”

“Yes and no. You will get un poco mejor. When you think of something extra you offer, una cosa má¡s para ceder, then you get better all the way.”

“Something to surrender? But I don’t have anything! I mean, I have my books, my CD’s, but… I don’t know what you mean!”

“You think of something. Claro que sá­. Hasta luego, amigo. I see you at noon.”

Nausea, headache, and cramps continued through the morning with no improvement. His class was canceled; he was too ill to think of teaching. George’s stomach had been emptied early on, but dry heaves continued. Shortly before noon Jaime returned as promised. George could barely walk, but desperation drove him out. There was no thought of escape, only of relief.

“We almost there, hombre.” They approached a small wooden cabin surrounded by flowers. Roses again, a part of George’s mind noted clinically. Jaime knocked on the brightly painted door. George heard footsteps and the door opened. Yolanda looked at Jaime, then at George.

“Hola, Jaime.  ¿Qué pasa con él?”

“Es su castigo. á‰l quiere suplicar a tá­, Yolanda.” Turning to George, he said, “Ask her.”

George tried to pick his words to persuade her. He no longer cared about his ongoing feminization; his only concern was his return to health. “Please forgive me–favor de perdoner… de perdonarme.  ¡Ayáºdame, por favor! Mis cejas…” He pantomimed, pulling his eyebrows. “Como una mujer.  ¡Por favor!”

She looked surprised, then smiled. “ ¡Pobrecito! Por supuesto te ayudo en tu deseo para la belleza.  ¡Momentito!” She disappeared to a back room, reappearing with her equipment. “Regresamos a tu casa.”

Back at the cottage, she quickly finished her work. George was left with thin and gracefully arched brows. His face in the mirror was distinctly androgynous. “Mucho mejor,” she observed. “Don Pablo me dice que podré ayudarte en tu cambio a mujer bonita, y también por qué. Tendrá¡s mucho para aprender. Creo que me gustará¡ mucho enseá±arte.” George’s Spanish had improved greatly in six weeks, and by now he comprehended the gist of her words. They didn’t reassure him, but he was too sick to care.

But he had obeyed his orders. “Now can I get well?” he begged. “Please, I have to get better.”

“Aquá­ está¡ tu remedio,” Jaime answered, proffering a blue tablet. “As I tell you, it no fix all, but it help.”

George swallowed the pill. “But how can I get back to well? Please, Jaime, please tell me.”

“I tell you already. Ceda alguno. You offer something. You think. I see you maá±ana.”

George could get no more from him. Still, the pill seemed to help, as promised. By 2 o’clock that afternoon the nausea had receded to a slight queasiness and the cramps had lessened to an occasional twinge. He still felt miserable, but he had some interest in living. With his improvement came a heartfelt longing for complete health. He no longer doubted that he was addicted to something nasty. How it had been administered was of no interest now; the overriding fact was that it had been given and it could be taken away. Nor did he harbor the slightest inclination to test his ability to endure further withdrawal symptoms. But what did they want from him?

That evening he still felt terrible and couldn’t finish supper, throwing up what little he had managed to swallow. A headache prevented him from enjoying the novel he tried to read. He went to bed early for lack of anything better to do, but he had trouble sleeping. The possible answer to his question of what to offer came to him that night as he tossed and turned.

The more he thought about it, the more certain he became. What the don insisted on was an offer, a free offer on his part, to give up some further part of his male identity. The only remaining question was: how much (or how little!) would it take to satisfy him. If he lowballed, he’d only have to offer more in the end, he was sure. He decided on his offer, and finally dozed off to a fitful slumber.
 
 
February 11
-- Morning found him no better; he gave up hope that he could wait out his semi-withdrawal. Life like this was intolerable. He’d offer whatever was necessary. Eagerly he awaited Jaime and salvation.

He waited and he waited. Jaime was certainly in no hurry. At noon he managed to fix himself a small meal of beans and rice, and his stomach managed to tolerate it. Jaime didn’t appear until 3 PM. As was his custom, Jaime greeted him with a cheery “Buenos dá­as, amigo.  ¿Cá³mo está¡s? You feel better?”

“Better, but not good. Jaime, I thought about what I… what I could offer…” He had trouble finishing.

Jaime prompted him: “ ¿Sá­, amigo?  ¿Qué ofrecés? What you have? You still look bad. You feel better after.”

“Jaime, would Don Pablo accept it if I offered to use makeup? Eye shadow, maybe?” Jaime looked puzzled, and George mimed applying eye shadow. Jaime’s face showed that he understood. “Would he accept that?” Jaime shook his head, and George’s heart sank. What else could he do? “Lipstick! I’ll use lipstick!”

His keeper seemed puzzled briefly, then replied, “Ah,  ¡lá¡piz de labio! Amigo, you need to ask to use, and give to me good reason. You do, then es posible que you allowed to use. And es posible que you get much better.”

George was worn down; he had no pride left. Formally he requested, “Seá±or, por favor, may I be permitted to use makeup? I am becoming a girl, and I wish to wear lipstick and eye shadow, as is proper for me. Please.”

Jaime’s face broke into a smile. “ ¿Cá³mo no? Como me dijiste, es apropiado para Seá±orita Deon.” George’s heart sank at the title. “I bring you maquillaje–makeup–maá±ana.” He handed George another tablet. George snatched it and swallowed. “Claro que Susana enjoy to know cada dá­a you become more close una muchacha.”

By suppertime George was a bit better. Physically he felt decent, if not good: no cramps and only a slight headache. The nausea remained–he couldn’t eat supper–and he was still depressed. Part of the problem, he was certain, was imposed, but at least part of the depression arose from the knowledge that he had been tested and had broken. He tried to tell himself that the pressures were irresistible, that anyone would have given in; but it didn’t help. Jaime was justified in addressing him as “Seá±orita”. Or at most, just a trifle premature. He had taken one more step, a big step, towards womanhood. As a twinge of nausea struck him again, he realized that he actually did want to use lipstick. He wanted it badly.

What could he do? Suicide was impractical–and it would only give Don Pablo the satisfaction of driving another enemy to self-destruction. If he could only escape! That withdrawal, though… The alternatives left to him weren’t attractive. But if he didn’t act, he certainly would be! “I will master my fears–and the addiction–and flee before it’s too late,” he told himself. Somehow he’d find a way.

---

 
 
February 23

-- For two days Jaime had noted that George hadn’t shaved his legs or underarms. The fear chip had been used to impart a vague anxiety, increasing to unfocused fear, but he still didn’t obey. Apparently Seá±or Deon was a slow learner. Today Jaime appeared with four thugs. “Seá±or Deon, buenos dá­as. I sorry to see that your body no is shaved. Don Pablo tell me I must to give you a reminder. Desde ahora tenés que llevar los zarcillos–you wear earrings. Hold still while I hole your ears, por favor.”

George tried to run, but they pinned onto the bed. Jaime ordered, “Efraá­n, Paco, hold him tight. Flaco, grab his head. Juan, help Flaco. Hold his hair. Now turn his head that way. Keep it still.  ¡Still, I said!” George felt a stab in his left ear, and cried out, “Aaaaaiiiihhh!” Laughing, Jaime asked, “ ¿No podés tolerar la dolor?  ¡Las niá±as de seis aá±os son má¡s valientes que vos!  ¡Qué vergá¼enza!” Then to his men, “Keep it there while I put this little tube in, to hold the hole open.  ¡OK! Turn it the other way now.  ¡Yes, good!  ¡That’s it!”, and his other ear was pierced. “Muy bién, Seá±orita. Now I put on you.” His strong fingers seized George’s lobes and two pendant earrings were inserted. His head was released. He shook it. The earrings gave off a light tinkle. “Llevas campanillas–You wear little silver bells en tus orejas, chica,” Jaime told him. “Ahora es muy popular con otras muchachas aquá­. I use un poco de cola–a little of… paste? glue?–to sure they stay firm placed. Cada vez tu cabeza se mueve, las oyés y te acuerdá¡s de tu desobediencia y su consecuencia. Next week you wear different pair. If you disobey otra vez, Don Pablo conclude you need a more big lesson. Now, por favor, shave for me?” George did so immediately. Jaime nodded with satisfaction. “Maybe you get acostumbrada. Como lipstick. You is just like otras muchachas, want to look pretty for your boyfriend.”

George kept his head as still as possible after that, but he was accompanied by a light tinkling wherever he went for the rest of the day. The girls in his class giggled, but as before, they didn’t comment and he didn’t explain. Evelina was delighted, though. The only good thing about the day was his chicken dinner: he finally succeeded in transforming a live chicken into a decent meal.
 
 
February 26

-- Doctor Garcá­a checked Seá±or Deon’s pierced ears, which were healing well. “It was nothing to worry about,” he told him. “Most girls have it done, and there are seldom any difficulties. But I think Don Pablo is carrying this too far.” Encouraged by the doctors sympathy, George begged for help. “Don Pablo promised I’d be able to have sex after he’s finished, but I don’t trust him. I can’t just sit here and wait for him to cut my balls off, but I haven’t been able to find a way out. Can you help me? Do you have any suggestions? I don’t even know where I am, except I’m somewhere north of Comayagua, but I’ve got to try anyway.”

“This place is called Finca Las Rosas. It’s south of the Montaá±as de Xicaque, on the west side of the Comayagua valley, northwest of Comayagua. It’s a long walk out, and I don’t think we can get a vehicle to this building without arousing suspicion. If you can get a few hundred yards away, I think I can get a jeep here to pick you up. It’s quite dangerous, though; there is only one gate out of the finca, and it is well guarded. If you’re caught, you’ll be punished. Very severely, I’m told.” George agreed to try anyway, and they set the attempt for the following week, on March 3.
 
 
February 29

-- Before George left to teach, Jaime inspected his ears. They were completely healed. The bell earrings came out, and the liners. “Ya no necesitan estos,” Jaime told him; “Tus orejas está¡n sanadas. Tenés que continuar a llevar zarcillos. Tengo para vos una selecciá³n que la gusta a muchacha cualquiera para llevar. Cada maá±ana, escojá¡ una pareja y pongalas. Pues,  ¿cuá¡les preferés hoy?”

Jaime was speaking English less often, but with time George was finding him easier to understand, even with his Honduran dialect; he was being given a selection of earrings that would please any girl, and he was to choose a pair to wear each day. He looked at Jaime with dislike, and at the earrings with disgust. All of them were feminine pendants. He chose a pair of silver hoops and, with some fumbling, managed to insert the posts into his lobes.

“Con tu pelo largo, tu cara lisa, tus labios rosados, y tus zarcillos, ya me parecés como la Seá±orita Deon. Maá±ana es el primero del mes otra vez, y tu semblante a una seá±orita crecerá¡ un poco má¡s. Si aparecés sin zarcillos o si desobedecés en otra manera, tu semblante crecerá¡ mucho má¡s rá¡pido.” George wasn’t happy. Jaime had said that his resemblance to a young woman would increase a little more tomorrow, but that he could rush matters if he disobeyed again.
 
 
March 1

-- Early on the next morning Jaime reappeared. “Buenos dá­as, amiga.  ¿Com’ está¡s? Favor de remove shoes and socks.” George obeyed, and his keeper proffered a vial of rose-pink nail polish. “You must use this desde ahora, please,” Jaime ordered politely. “Tus uá±as necesitan ser pintadas.” Taking the bottle, George looked at Jaime, who folded his arms and looked back, waiting. George recalled his experiences with shaving his legs and plucking his eyebrows, and his impulse to rebel died. He uncapped the bottle, put a foot onto a chair, and slowly, carefully, painted each toenail a vivid pink. He repeated the process with the other foot. His feet, tipped with brightly-tinted nails, acquired a womanly appearance.

“Is that all?”

“No,” Jaime replied. “Your fingers también. You got to let tus uá±as–your… your nails–grow long, too, and to shape them como mujer. Es tiempo que otros ven que te cambiá¡s a mujer. Your ears show it…” George’s hand went involuntarily to his right earlobe, where a red ceramic rose swung. “Your lips, and tus dedos.” George complied; his hands too became feminine. He put on his shoes and socks again, and he looked as before, except for his nails. Before Jaime left he admonished George, “You remember, keep nails pretty. Like your lipstick. Tenés una lima para las uá±as–a fila… a file for the nails–en tu bolsa.  ¿Vos comprendés?” When George agreed reluctantly, Jaime smiled, bowed, and left. George filed his nails as required, then applied his lipstick carefully. As he looked in the mirror, he saw no trace of masculinity. Running his hand over his cheek, he could feel no trace of his beard. His face was as smooth as any girl’s.

The students giggled when George appeared. He wanted to flee, but he knew better than to try. “Girls, you know that I am punished by Don Pablo. This is part of my punishment, and I must accept. You still must learn algebra.”

The girls said they understood–Mapy with sympathy, Consuela with visible satisfaction, Ana Mará­a and Elena with embarrassment. Raising his hand, he told them, “Do not worry about it; not your problem. Thank you all for your concern, though. I will survive. Let’s make sure you survive your test.” They returned to the study of simple linear equations.

After class the girls discussed George’s plight. Jaime had warned them of his punishment, but the details hadn’t been clear. Ana Mará­a thought Seá±or George would be forced to look like a woman–makeup, clothes, etc. Certainly Seá±or George already appeared feminine. His hair was like a woman’s. He wore makeup. A week ago he’d started wearing earrings. Today Seá±or George had pink nails, matching his lipstick nicely. Consuela thought he meant that Seá±or George would become a woman. What else would happen to poor Seá±or George? Would he end just looking like a woman? Or was Consuela right? Would he really become female? Completely? No, that couldn’t be possible. Their class would run until June, so perhaps they would find out before they left.
 
 
March 3

-- At 10 o’clock Doctor Garcá­a arrived. “Everything is prepared.  ¡Vá¡manos, Seá±or!” At the same time George’s fear chip was turned up, and his cheek began to twitch. As they left, the chip was turned higher.

George said timidly, “Doctor, I’m… I’m not sure we should do this. They may k…kill me!”

Garcá­a told him he’d be protected. “Don Pablo won’t harm me, and he wouldn’t dare kill you. He knows I wouldn’t permit it. Besides, that would interfere with his plans for you. Come on, Seá±or!” They went farther from the room, and the chip was turned to a moderately high setting.

George felt terror, but still persisted. “I don’t know if I… I can do this,” he told Garcá­a. “I don’t think we can succeed! But I have to… to try.” Doctor Garcá­a agreed. They reached the truck.

“Get in,” Garcá­a whispered. They climbed into the cab. Garcá­a set the chip higher, and George crumbled.

“No! I c…can’t! Let me go… go back!” he cried out, and tried to leave the cab. Garcá­a kept him there, and began to start the engine. At the sound of the engine Garcá­a turned the chip to its highest setting, and George became hysterical, fighting to escape. At that point men emerged to take both conspirators into custody, and George was knocked unconscious by one of his chips.
 
 
March 5

-- The escape attempt brought on a nightmare. George had known, somehow, that something was wrong, and if Doctor Garcá­a had just let him return as he had wanted, perhaps they could’ve made the attempt on a more auspicious night. George didn’t know how he had known, but he had been sure; something had been wrong. After he had been caught and locked back in his room, he felt better for some strange reason. Perhaps it was only that the terror of uncertainty was gone. All he had to do, all he could do, was wait.

At dawn two days later two large men entered George’s room. They seized him, bound him hand and foot, and took him to a waiting car. George soon stopped his futile struggling, but watched to see where he was taken. They left Las Rosas, passing through a massive gate guarded by armed men. The chain-link fence around Las Rosas was double and topped with razor wire. If this section of fence was typical, it was secure. They passed through high pinelands and dropped into a semiarid valley–the Comayagua valley, he knew. They turned south on a newly-paved road and passed through the old town of Comayagua. At least now he knew the approximate location of Las Rosas; Garcá­a’s description had been accurate. They turned northwest onto Route 1, the main road from Tegucigalpa, and soon climbed back up into the pines. They passed Siguatepeque where he had lived for a short time, with its wood buildings surrounded by broad grassy meadows and open pine forests, so unlike his conception of a tropical town. Lake Yojoa passed; the densely forested sides of Cerro Santa Bá¡rbara were wreathed in clouds, as usual. The road dropped again into the flatlands of the Sula Valley, where they were met by the familiar heat and humidity of the Caribbean coastal plain. The land here was more settled, and they passed into the outskirts of San Pedro, industrial and agricultural center of the country. The road was lined with small industrial facilities, farm-supply dealerships, and the tiny food stands found in all Central American towns. If not for the food stands (and the bananas!), he could have been in a small city in California.

They entered the city and turned west onto a narrow cobbled street. Small adobe or concrete buildings lined the sidewalks, each washed with pastel colors. Soon the car pulled up to an ornate iron gate. The driver got out, talked to a guard, then opened the gate. They passed onto the grounds of what seemed to be a large estate, but a large sign proclaimed it to be “Centro Médico de San Pedro”. The car pulled to the back of the building; his ankle ropes were slashed by his escort, and he was taken inside.

The building had been remodeled, but ornate carvings remained from an earlier time. A fluorescent glare and a medicinal odor told of present its use. George was taken to an antiseptic room furnished in chrome and tile, where his guards seized him, lifted him to a padded table, and held him there, face up. In spite of his struggles, they strapped his wrists and elbows, ankles, and knees to the table until he was completely immobilized. When they were done, he heard a voice behind him.

“Ah, Seá±or Deon, you are back. I am Doctor Heinrich Weiss.” Weiss was short and slightly overweight, with a moon face. His fair skin and thin blond hair were out of place in Honduras. He went on in a soft and precise voice with a strong German accent: “Seá±or Herrera has charged me with disciplining you, after you disobeyed an order. I do not know what you did, or did not do. It is not my concern. I apologize for any distress, but I must carry out my orders. I will remove one testis now. The other will remain until you commit some new infraction.”

George gasped: “No! Please! Don’t! Don Pablo promised…”

The doctor held up a hand. “I must and will. There is no point in struggling. It will not help.”

George tried to fight anyway, rolling his head back and forth. He begged again: “No! Please…”

Weiss motioned to his aides, who held George’s head firmly and covered his mouth and nose with a small mask. The sickly sweet odor of chloroform assailed him, and he quickly passed out.

Five hours later George awoke in a hospital bed. When he returned to full awareness, he frantically felt for his genitals. As he feared, only one testis met his exploring fingers. A slight soreness remained, but it was minimal; Doctor Weiss had done a professional piece of work.

George’s convalescence was uneventful. Escape was even less feasible than at Las Rosas; he was chained to the bed. Drugs kept his despair from overwhelming him, and he slept much of the time. Weiss was satisfied with his work, the first of his part of the grand project, and the simplest.
 
 
March 8

-- Three days later George returned to Las Rosas. “Amiga,  ¿aprendiste tu lecciá³n?” Jaime inquired. “Tenés que ser má¡s obediente.” More and more, Jaime spoke in Spanish, but George continued to reply mostly in English; Jaime understood it well, even if he mangled the spoken language.

George replied quickly, “Yes!” Satisfied, Jaime left. Although George was sure that capture would result in total emasculation, he’d have to attempt another escape anyway. Nevertheless, he broke into a cold sweat at the thought of it. He’d have to wait for exactly the right moment, or the only result would be to speed up Weiss’s timetable. “I’d be nuts to try now,” he told himself. “They’ll expect me to be desperate, and to run again immediately. They’d love an excuse to finish the job!” He was almost grateful that he couldn’t try that night.
 
 
March 12

-- A week after his partial orchiectomy, George had recovered, at least partly, from his psychological shock. Security seemed looser; maybe escape would be possible soon. Even Evelina was less abusive as he learned to satisfy her demands. He had become accustomed to the lack of a sex life, even if he still retained a desire for sex. “Doctor Herná¡ndez should be satisfied,” he thought; “I’ve been dead down there since arrival. I was neutered properly even before they took my ball, and the women were in no more danger from me than from Jaime.” He was allowed out, if only to work, and he was certainly getting exercise. Unfortunately, life would become worse if he didn’t escape soon. His masculinity would be attacked further, he knew.

That evening he noticed that his chest was sore. Perhaps he had strained his pectoral muscles? He had been scrubbing floors for Evelina without a break all afternoon. But complaining was useless. If he protested, she only made him work harder, saying he needed to toughen himself for the women’s work that was now his work.

Jaime noted that Seá±or Deon was more obedient after losing a cojá³n. His grooming and behavior had been exemplary. He accepted Evelina’s badgering without backtalk, and was beginning to show some competence as a servant. However, he still complained about his restriction to his cottage and the casa, and he asked Jaime to request more freedom for him. The reply had been, not yet. El Patrá³n told Jaime: “Tell him this: Seá±orita Deon, not Seá±or Deon, will be allowed the freedom of the finca, as I promised back in January. If he persists in his demands, I will accommodate him, and Seá±orita Deon will arrive more rapidly.” George appeared shaken by the response, and Jaime doubted he’d press for more liberty soon. The price promised to be higher than he’d choose to pay.
 
 
March 15

-- When Jaime entered, he inquired after George’s health and asked if he needed anything. George mentioned his strained muscles, and said his chest was sore to the touch. Jaime promised to inform the don. He added, “Ahora, good news. Petunia ask for you. She return today and live with you. She teach to you Spanish.”

George knew the purpose of the lessons. It wasn’t to teach him Spanish, but to allow Petunia to observe his humiliation. “I’d rather not see her. Can’t I learn from someone else?”

Jaime frowned. “Amigo, Petunia quiere vivir con vos. Y Don Pablo no ask you. Las lecciones comienzan esta noche. If you no learn el espaá±ol, you suffer.”

“Very well,” George reluctantly agreed. “And what, if anything, can I tell her?”

“Lo que querés, amigo, lo que querés,” he replied. “She learn tu condiciá³n en toda casa.” He left.

At 7 PM there was a knock at the door. “Come in!” George said, hiding his hands.

Petunia entered and cried, “George, I missed you! I’ve been so worried about you!” She noted George’s appearance with dismay–he looked like a girl in man’s clothes, with a smooth face touched with makeup, faux-pearl earrings, and shoulder-length hair done in a feminine style–but she didn’t say anything as they embraced.

“Petunia, darling, I missed you, and I love you too.” She felt good in his arms. “But I don’t trust Don Pablo. He brought you here for his own reasons. I don’t think they’re good ones.”

She nodded and looked unhappy. “Yes, you’re probably right.”

George went on: “The don told me I have to learn Spanish from you, or I’ll be punished.”

Petunia nodded. “Yes, Jaime told me that this afternoon.”

“Petunia, what did they do to you?”

“Nothing. The don didn’t punish me. I could go free, as long as I promised not to talk about you. If I did, you’d suffer. He promised I could return to stay with you, to see that you remained in good shape. In fact, he offered me a position teaching here if I wanted, and I accepted. But I couldn’t return until now. He told me what you’d done with his daughter, and I don’t really care. Oh, I agree you were bad. But he told me that Susana was equally to blame. Don Pablo doesn’t really hate you, George, but he told me he had to punish you. I’ve been at home in Siguatepeque, arranging my affairs. I’m fine, really I am.”

“And what did he say about my punishment? What they’ve done already? What they plan to do?”

She gasped: “You… you’re intact, aren’t you? He said you’re impotent, and you’d have to work as a servant for his daughter, but not… I mean… Are you…? He promised me you wouldn’t be a eunuch!”

He wasn’t sure what to say. Finally he said: “Yes and no. I’ve lost one of my balls.” Petunia shut her eyes and cried out, but he rushed on. “He says he’ll let me go in a couple of years, but before then I’ll have to work as a maid. And I’ll have to behave like a woman.” He took a deep breath. “Yes, I’m… I’m impotent now–I guess that’s why Don Pablo allows you to be here, I’m unable to function like a man should–but he promised it won’t be permanent. I still love you, though. I still want to take you to bed. But I don’t… I can’t…”

She opened her eyes and began to sob. “George, George, you weren’t supposed to become a… a eunuch. The don promised you wouldn’t!” She collapsed into a chair and wept.

He waited until she had finished, then repeated, “He promised it wasn’t permanent. He said–he promised–I could make love to a woman again, after he freed me. But until then, he wants me to act like a woman. Including how I think. Especially how I think. When he’s done, he expects me to want to be a pretty little maid. You’re supposed to watch me change. You see my earrings and my lipstick. Here, look.” He pulled out his hands with their pink-tipped fingers. “I have to use makeup every day–and I have to use it well–or he punishes me.”

She looked at him in consternation. “He won’t do that, will he? I don’t believe it! Tell me he can’t!”

George sighed. “Petunia, I don’t believe it either. But I have to go along with his crazy punishment, or he’ll leave me with nothing between my legs.” She began to sob again. He let her weep a while–it was a girl’s prerogative–then insisted, “Petunia, please stop! Be brave. We can’t just… just give up. I’ll escape before the worst happens. But for the moment, I have to learn Spanish, or bad’ll turn to worse. Please, Petunia.”

After a few minutes, her tears stopped. She looked up at him with red-rimmed eyes. “Yes, George, you’re right. You have to do what he says for now, crazy or not. But I’ll help you get away.”

Later Petunia told him about the child that she carried, and he was pleased. After all, he still hoped to marry her after they escaped. “But your family?” he asked. “Will they let you keep it?”

She shook her head. “I can’t not keep it! Abortion’s not right, and the family wouldn’t permit a child of our blood to be raised by a stranger. But I wouldn’t want to lose it anyway. It’s ours, a reminder of our love. And my family–or my Uncle Juan, he’s the only family nearby–will treat the child well. He’ll dote on the child, even if he considers me disgraced for having it.”

That night the two lovers shared a bed. Again Petunia urged him to escape, but he told her about his earlier attempt and its disastrous conclusion. She promised to help. “I can arrange for help outside the finca,” she told him. “Even if you get sick, it beats staying here!” They embraced tightly; George desperately wanted to make love to Petunia, a desire that was reciprocated; but there was no stirring of physical passion. He had been well and truly unmanned. Petunia wept in frustration; George tried to comfort her, telling her that after he escaped, his affliction could be reversed. Inwardly he wasn’t so sure. Don Pablo seemed so confident–and if he lost his manhood entirely in another unsuccessful attempt to run, there definitely was no way he could be repaired.
 
 
April 1

-- A day later Evelina released George from his duties early. Jaime fetched him on the don’s orders, telling him that one of the doctors wanted to examine him.

Back in his room, a short bald man in a light tropical jacket met him. “I am Doctor Rafael Herná¡ndez, and I need to examine you. I…”

George interrupted: “Doctor, you–or someone working for Don Pablo–is making me impotent! That’s unethical! You swore an oath to do no harm! I won’t submit to…”

In turn he was interrupted. “Seá±or Deon, shut up. You will submit to whatever Don Pablo chooses, and he chooses to disable your machismo. Now I must examine you. You can be unrestrained or restrained, I don’t care; but you have been punished before for disobedience, and you know the cost. Strip to the waist.” George did so without further protest. Herná¡ndez stretched a cloth tape around his chest, then his waist–“Take off your pants”–and his hips. Nodding, he jotted measurements in a notebook. “Put your pants back on. I must palpate your chest.” George winced a little as Herná¡ndez probed, and complained, “Doctor, be more gentle! My… my chest is sore. I think… maybe I strained my pecs? My pectoral muscles?” The doctor ignored him, took more notes, and snapped photos from several angles, then told George to put his shirt back on. He took a blood sample and turned to leave.

George had to ask, “Doctor? Please, tell… tell me what’s going on. What’s Don Pablo doing to me? I deserve to know. As your patient, sort of, I have rights, don’t I? And what about my sore muscles?”

“Your rights are those the don allows you, and no more. But he hasn’t forbidden me to tell you what is happening to your body. In fact, he wants you to understand the process. To begin with, your muscles are not sore.” He took George’s right hand and pressed it to the left side of George’s chest, guiding it to the slightly swollen nipple. “Feel there, under the skin,” he ordered. “Do you find a firm mass?” He released the hand, and George continued to explore with his fingers.

“Y… yes, I feel something. Sort of a lump. It’s not… not very big, though. It… it’s not a tumor, is it?”

“Now feel the other side.” George obeyed and found a similar lump. “No, they are not tumors. Those masses are not muscle, nor fat, but glandular tissue. Mammary tissue. At this stage the masses are called ‘buds,’ and they may be tender and sore. As you are now discovering.”

“Mam… mammary tissue?” He felt dizzy, and sat heavily.

“Exactly so. Or to state it more bluntly: you are growing breasts. Your girlfriend went through this; ask her when she returns and she will confirm it. For some time, the estrogen level in your blood has been higher than that of most girls. That high level forces your breasts to develop more rapidly than normal, and that in turn makes them very tender. In part you receive the estrogen in the pills you take so faithfully.” He smiled proudly. “But even your single remaining testis has become a traitor to your vanishing masculinity. You used to be a chemist, no?”

Almost gratefully, George took refuge in anger: “I didn’t ‘used to be a chemist’–I am a chemist, damn you!”

The doctor waved a hand dismissively. “You are about to switch careers. But you might appreciate the amazing breakthrough you represent.” George didn’t ask for details–his mind was in turmoil–but Herná¡ndez continued anyway: “Your remaining testis still produces testosterone. In fact, it works harder than ever, trying to bring your hormone levels back to a male norm. But it works in vain. The sex hormones are similar in chemical structure–they differ in only one functional group–and testosterone converts to estrogen by a simple enzyme. I created a bacterium that produces that enzyme, and infected your testis. When it works harder, there is more testosterone to be converted to estrogen; therefore your blood now contains a very high level of female hormone. One effect was immediate: loss of erectile response. You may have noticed. Soon after, your body started to become feminized. You have already noticed the initiation of breast development. In addition, your waist will become more slender, and your hips and buttocks, broader. That is due to a redistribution of fat into a female pattern; because you are an adult, your bone structure–the pelvis in particular–is already fully formed and will not be affected.” Thank God for minor favors, thought George. “Other effects should be more subtle: perhaps a change in the timbre of the voice–but only a slight change–and a softer skin. Before the end of the year, you should appear to be female. Thoroughly and permanently female, and perhaps quite attractive. Your life will necessarily be different. Maybe better–how do they say? ‘Better living through chemistry!’” He smiled. “Amazing, how a minor alteration in an obscure molecule can bring about such spectacular effects! I tell you this because Don Pablo wants you to have the pleasure of anticipating your changes as they slowly take effect. Now, is there anything else?”

George was appalled. He had been told he’d have to look like a woman–but he had thought the don meant only that he would have to dress like one. That was bad enough–but this? It was intolerable! “No. But… but please, doctor! I… Please! I beg you! I can’t grow breasts! Stop this! Help me!”

The doctor raised an eyebrow. “You can’t grow breasts? I must disagree. They are growing–quite rapidly, too. Accept them.” He shrugged. “Or not. It makes no difference, I suppose. They will continue to grow.”

“But… I’m a man! That’s… that’s wrong!”

“Seá±or, you are wasting your breath. Professionally I am fascinated. You are a wonderful research project. Personally I approve. You deserve it. And practically I have no choice. Don Pablo orders it. You had better learn to enjoy having an attractive figure, Seá±orita-to-be, because it is already beginning to develop. But your acceptance and enjoyment of womanhood is the province of Doctor Ibá¡á±ez. Goodbye, Seá±or–although I expect that soon a different form of address will be more appropriate.” He turned and left.

George looked down at his chest. His shirt fit loosely, and the swellings on his chest were small. At least they were small today, and not at all obvious, even to himself–but for how long would that be true?

That evening Herná¡ndez made out his report to the don.

Seá±or Herrera: As per your request, I examined the subject. His partial orchiectomy is completely healed, and he is in good health. His remaining testis is functional, but his testosterone level is minimal (below normal female levels) due to the feminizing enzyme. Arousal and erection are impossible; he is, to all intents and purposes, castrated. Bilateral gynecomastia is incipient: his mammary glands are slightly swollen (visibly so), as glandular tissue has begun to develop. The mammae are somewhat tender. The subject complained of the soreness, and his involuntary reaction to palpation confirmed it. I believe he has been aware of his body’s changes but would not admit it, perhaps even to himself. I cannot yet detect other changes, but they will come. Were no further treatment given, it is my opinion that in sixteen to twenty-four months his body shape would be clearly feminine, and would remain so, because his remaining testis now produces estrogen. However, he also receives supplemental estrogen. Under the present regime, full development may be expected in three to five months. The time could be cut even further by higher doses, but this would run an unacceptably high risk of inducing a stroke or heart attack. As it is, such risk is already increased, although it is mitigated by the administration of neoheparoid in conjunction with the hormone. --With respect,Rafael Herná¡ndez
 
 
April 2

-- At 7:45 AM Jaime came to George’s room. Petunia had left to teach her class; George, not yet risen, peered at Jaime over the covers. Jaime addressed him, “Buenos dá­as, Seá±orita.  ¡Levá¡ntete!”

George objected, “Me llamo Seá±or Deon, no Seá±orita Deon. You know I’m a man.” Without replying, Jaime went to the closet and took out all George’s shirts, then to the drawer and removed the T-shirts.

“Don Pablo dice que hoy empezará¡s a llevar ropa de mujer sobre tus chichitas nuevas.”

George didn’t understand at first. “ ¿‘Chichitas’? What are you…?  ¿Qué me dices?”

Jaime giggled in his high voice. “Sá­, por supuesto. Tenés chiches.” He thought briefly, then grinned. “Titties. You grow titties. It what make you hurt in chest. Remember, you tell me?” He approached the bed and pulled the sheet. George’s bare chest was slightly puffy, and his nipples were rather more prominent than they should have been. “Tu cuerpo responde bién al tratamiento.  ¡Miré! Son nuevos y pequeá±os, pero claro que les tenés. You no need sostén yet, but the shirt of muchacha is right.” He paused, then went on: “This happen for todas las muchachas. You see. You get used to new shape when tus chiches–you… your titties–crecen. Hips, too, and your waist is smaller. Espero que te gustará¡ tu figura femenina. Es claro que the men will enjoy!”

“But I’m a man!” George exploded. “You’re crazy! I don’t have titties… breasts!” But of course he did.

Jaime ignored him and continued: “Por un ratito podrá­as esconderlas, pero pronto, no.”

He denied it again, more to himself than to Jaime. “No! It’s not possible! I do not believe it.”

Jaime’s response was a shrug. “Creés que querés. Tu cuerpo lo cree, y es la punta importante. O dos puntas,” he added, pointing to George’s chest. “Ahora, nuevas ropas para vos. New clothes. Son má¡s apropiadas para tu cuerpo cambiando.” He gave George a sleeveless peach blouse, lace-trimmed and embroidered with yellow pansies. At first George refused to put it on. Jaime agreed: he didn’t have to wear it. “You go without if you want. Todo el mundo admirará¡n tus chichitas nuevas, si preferés.” George realized that Jaime was right. He was already beginning to look like a girl; if he refused, he’d just look like a topless girl. He had no choice; he couldn’t appear in public with naked tits. He got up, put on underpants, then reluctantly donned the blouse, swearing under his breath as he fumbled with buttons. They were all on the wrong side. “Miré,” Jaime ordered, nodding at one of the mirrors. George looked, and saw an adolescent young woman; the face was smooth and hairless, the lips were rose-red, his long curled hair was held by lilac barrettes. His nascent bosom pressed lightly against the form-fitting sheer fabric of the blouse. “We see you change to muchacha more easy now,” Jaime noted. “Esas ropas muestran tu cambio bién. Clothes let us to see change good.  ¿Entendés?”

“Sá­. Entiendo.” This was bizarre! But what could he do? “I have to see Don Pablo! I…“

“Ya no, Seá±or. He see you pronto, but no yet” George could get nothing more from him.

After Jaime’s departure, George examined his new clothes. He’d been left ten tops: pastel pullovers and blouses, all thin and snugly fitting so that the outline of his new breasts would show through the cloth.

When he entered the classroom after lunch, he blushed bright red as the girls all giggled except Mapy, who was shocked. They knew why he was wearing a girl’s blouse, but he told them again anyway: “Don Pablo tells me I have to wear this. He wants me to act like I am a girl, as a punishment.” He said nothing about his changing shape.

Consuela believed it was even worse: el Patrá³n was trying to change him into a girl! She almost felt sorry for him, and thought, “ ¡This isn’t right! It’s wrong to try to change God’s will like this.” But then she recalled his sin. Seá±or George had broken God’s law. “He thought a woman was just to have fun with. Now he’ll be a woman.  ¡Men can have fun with him!” Ana Mará­a had told her that when Don Pablo’s doctor’s were finished with him, he’d have to work as a maid for Don Pablo’s daughter. He’d be put into a cute little maid’s dress, and do laundry and wash dishes. Good! Consuela hoped she could see Seá±or George after he became a maid.

George saw that the girls might have a problem, and he explained, “Look, this is between the don and me. I have to accept it, and you have to accept it too. Just pretend. It’s like dress-up and make-believe.  ¿All right?” They agreed. After Seá±or George let them out early, the girls chattered excitedly.

Mapy was unhappy. “ ¡Seá±or George is not a woman! Let’s see the don and try to change his mind.”

Ana Mará­a was more practical: “You know better, Mapy. El Patrá³n has made his decision. He’s done terrible things to other men, even worse than this. We mustn’t interfere.” They finally agreed that her opinion was wise, and they would ignore the clothing that was being imposed on Seá±or George. However, they had all seen the two slight mounds beneath his blouse. Elena pointed out, “I think Seá±or George is growing boobs. He just has little ones, like a young girl, but he really has them. I think he really is changing into a girl.”

Mapy disagreed: “ ¡No one can do that! It’s just your imagination.”

Consuela agreed partially with both her classmates: “’Lena, I think Mapy is right. A woman is a woman and a man is a man. Don Pablo may take his manhood…” Mapy giggled; they had heard that the don had done that to some men who had abused women. “But only God can make a real woman. Still, I saw the bulges too. I think Don Pablo is making Seá±or George wear padding, to look like a girl.”

They agreed that this was more likely, except for Elena. “Yes, it is so possible to make a man grow boobs, if you give him female hormones. I read about it in biology.”

They were shocked, and couldn’t decide who was right. They felt sorry for poor George, but Elena was fascinated by the idea that she’d get to watch him change into a real woman. They broke up without coming to any agreement and returned to their rooms.

Later Petunia arrived. She wept again when she saw him. “Petunia, please stop,” he begged.

“Oh, George, I can’t bear to see you like this!”

“Petunia, please, accept it. As my mother used to say: What can’t be cured must be endured . It’s only a different sort of shirt. I’m still your friend.”

She cried, “No! I don’t want you as my girlfriend. You’re George, my lover! And they’re changing you! I can see it. You have little breasts!”

He glanced around, worried. “Petunia! Please, you’ll get us both in trouble. Don’t defy Don Pablo. Not until I can escape. All this can be reversed later. It’s ridiculous, but humor him for the moment.”

She ran to him; he held her as she sobbed. She gradually stopped crying and pulled away from him. “George, I can accept that you’re forced to wear women’s clothes. But not that you’re growing breasts! Don’t you see? They’re succeeding! Eventually you’ll be changed all the way, and you will be my girlfriend! We have to do something! You have to get away from here before it’s too late!” They didn’t refer to their plans for June.
 
 
April 3

-- Celia changed her son’s diaper yet again. She blessed her mother for allowing her to move back in with her baby, and for caring for him during the day, even if she made life difficult. It had been almost a year since George had abandoned her, and for a while it seemed that she’d be completely without resources. Now she was back at work, and she’d even started going out again with a nice accountant.

She thought about George. She had read his obituary in the Atlanta Constitution–they said he had drowned in Honduras–but she didn’t believe it for a moment. He was probably groping some fool girl’s breasts right now, promising her his undying love. Well, as soon as possible, she’d resume her search. He’d pay: she’d have his balls!
 
 
April 8

-- When Petunia arose, George still lay asleep. He looked like a girl already, she thought. She determined to plead his case again. “He isn’t irretrievable yet,” she told herself, “ ¡He can’t be! I have to persuade Don Pablo that he’s doing wrong.” The guards, Paco and Hector, allowed her out; she knew George couldn’t move so freely. At the big house Evelina answered the door.

The bony little woman greeted Petunia with a reserved, “Good morning, Petunia.  ¿What do you want?”

“Good morning, Seá±ora.  ¿Would you ask Don Pablo if he’ll see me, now or later?”

Evelina disappeared into the house and returned a few moments later. “Don Pablo will see you at ten this morning, if that is suitable. Until then, Seá±orita.”

At the appointed time, Petunia was ushered into the don’s study. After the usual greetings, she begged him to reconsider his sentence on George. “I love him, and I cannot stand to see him suffer,” she told him.

“He does not suffer,” the don responded, pretending to misunderstand. “I gave strict instructions that Seá±or Deon is not to be mistreated. To my knowledge, he has been treated with courtesy.”

“ ¡That’s nonsense! You know he’s suffering. You didn’t decide to make him look like a girl because he would want it. It’s cruel, and the purpose is to humiliate him. To make him suffer. And me as well.”

Dropping his pretension, he told her, “Yes, of course you are right. It is punishment, and he does suffer, although that is not my only purpose. He must suffer for his sins. By custom I should have had him killed.  ¿Would your rather I did that? In two years I will free him. He will still be able to live a full life.”

She raised her chin: “But… but, Seá±or, he’s my fiancé. And you promised he’d be able to have normal sex.  ¡You promised! But George says you’re destroying his manhood, and trying to change him into an imitation woman.  ¡You lied!”

“Petunia, I never break my word. I promised that your lover would be able to enjoy normal relations with the opposite sex after release, and that marriage would be possible. My doctors assure me that, barring unforeseen complications, it will still be possible–although I cannot promise that she will be fertile. I repeat my earlier promise. More than that, I will not tell you yet. Now leave me.” She left in misery. He pitied her, but he wouldn’t soften his judgment.

After she left the don read the latest report from Ibá¡á±ez. A combination of drugs and surgery had been necessary, the doctor insisted, explaining that George’s comparative docility would be unlikely otherwise. “Yes, escape is impractical,” he wrote, “but without the blunting of the will induced by the drugs, the mild euphoria caused by the implants most of the time, and the fear induced by undesirable activity, including escape attempts, our guest would surely have not accepted his punishment so calmly.” Don Pablo agreed; it was inconceivable that any man could remain calm under his circumstances.
 
 
April 9

-- The appearance of George’s breasts (small, but plainly visible under his tops) marked a threshold. He felt almost as if he had entered a new life, distinct from that of three days ago. Alternately he was painfully embarrassed and numb (he recognized it as denial). Denial was understandable: his situation was both intolerable and inconceivable. His subconscious rejected the image in the mirror. It couldn’t really be his. He was a man, not the adolescent girl who stared back at him as she retouched her lipstick. It had to be a nightmare from which he would awaken soon.

At least he thought of a possible silver lining on the dark cloud of his existence. When Jaime arrived, George asked for more freedom. He pointed out that he hadn’t been allowed to leave the central compound in three months. “I only wish to look for orchids on the finca.” Then he repeated the promise of el Patrá³n: “Don Pablo said that Seá±orita Deon would be allowed the freedom of the finca. Seá±or Deon seems to be leaving us. Look at me! I have… I have a girl’s b…breasts,  ¿verdad? So ask him to keep his word.” He promised to remain on the finca, and not to attempt to escape during his walks–and he spoke honestly, understanding the futility of any such attempt.

Jaime passed the request to Don Pablo, who shook his head, chuckled, and commented, “ ¡Seá±or Deon is crazy!” Then he reconsidered and smiled. “It is a silly unmanly passion, but it is appropriate for a silly girl. I agree, on one condition. When Seá±orita Deon searches for her flowers, she must dress properly. Tell Seá±orita Deon exactly these words: ‘You will be permitted free run of the finca when you wear proper women’s clothing.’ That means underclothing, a skirt–everything.” He paused. “And she is to return wearing an orchid in her hair.” Jaime passed the decision on to George, but he refused the conditions.
 
 
April 15

-- Late at night George tried again to escape. He was only half a man now. Soon he’d look like a woman whatever he wore. June might be too late. He determined to hot-wire a truck and steal it.

He waited for dark. Petunia was asleep. He hadn’t told her, not wanting to involve her. He crept from the room at midnight; he had managed to leave the door unlocked, as his guards had grown slack. When he got a few yards from the house, his throat constricted. He felt someone watching. He recalled his last try, and his fear redoubled. Still, he scampered towards the garage, a quarter of a mile away. When he was out of sight of his room, he became terrified, and he felt a slight nausea. He knew he’d been seen; they were just waiting to grab him, so they could punish him again. He turned back to see who was watching, but he couldn’t tell. He couldn’t continue, so he ran back to his room and slipped in. As he did so, he felt much better. Perhaps his unseen watcher had been harmless, but it would have been foolish to risk it.

His attempt had set off alarms, and Jaime reported Seá±or Deon’s attempted flight. “He left around midnight and moved towards the garage. However, he didn’t reach it, but ran back inside.”

Don Pablo chuckled. “I would wager he recalled his last attempt. That, plus the his fear, kept him home. It seems that Ibá¡á±ez’s device is effective. Ibá¡á±ez tells me that attempts like this will only intensify our guest’s willingness to obey.”
 
 
End of Part 3
 
 
To Be Continued...

---

 
 
April 16

-- Doctor Ibarra entered his office and closed the door. He had just finished treating a man who had attempted to steal the car of a prominent Honduran politician. Don Pablo had offered Ibarra’s services in designing a punishment. Seá±or Montes had been skeptical at first, but on learning the details, he had been delighted. “If your Doctor Ibarra can deliver, I’ll be in your debt,” he had told Don Pablo.

The subject, Juan Garza, had been a truck driver. Ibarra changed his name, as was routine. Then he erased the knowledge and training needed for driving. Using drugs and shocks, he virtually destroyed the neurons associated with mechanical reasoning ability. Finally, using hypnotic drugs and conditioning techniques, he gave the subject (now Benito Flores) a dislike for things mechanical, and an irrational desire to serve Seá±or Montes as a stable hand. Doctor Ibarra left him the memory of his career as a truck driver (if not the ability to resume that career), and the memory of the attempted theft. The treatment had taken three months. Now he reported:

Don Pablo: My treatment of Seá±or Flores proceeds well. He has forgotten who he was. He can not drive a vehicle, nor can he even tolerate sitting in one without distress. I am now in the process of fixating him on his new position as a stable hand. I expect no problems. As to your pet project, the unfortunate Seá±or Deon: all preparations are done, and I await only the opportunity.
 
 
April 20

-- George’s breasts, although still small, continued to swell,. He could’ve hidden them if he had been allowed loose clothes, but they showed plainly through his form-fitting tops. His chest looked like that of a thirteen-year-old girl. When he walked, his breasts jiggled visibly, just a little. His students accepted his condition without comment, as did everyone else on the finca. George thought, “If Don Pablo tells them to treat me like a girl, that’s what they’ll do. If he told them I was a cow, they’d probably try to milk me.” The most frightening part of his ordeal was that his feminine appearance was coming to seem normal, even to him; and unless he forced himself to think about it, he wasn’t even resentful of his morning primping, performing it carefully and automatically.

That afternoon, Jaime brought him a copy of the Atlanta Constitution, dated February 15. It was folded to an inner page, and he pointed out a short paragraph, datelined Tegucigalpa. A picture was included.

The death of George Deon, an expatriate American chemist and former Atlanta resident, was confirmed today in the Honduran town of Tela. Mr. Deon was reported missing from his teaching post in La Ceiba in early January, when he did not return from a trip to Tela. Local residents said he had gone swimming at an isolated beach, and he was feared to have drowned. Yesterday his body was found. It was badly decomposed, and identification was possible only by dental records and DNA analysis. He is survived by his parents, two brothers, and a sister. A memorial service will be held in his home town, Akron, Ohio.

“You dead má¡s que three months, muchacha. O el Seá±or Deon is dead three months, al todo el mundo. El Seá±or Deon is dead here too, but only one month. Claro que no sos el hombre aquá­ en esto foto; no sos hombre de ninguna manera!  ¡Te miré a vos mismo! Vos sos la Seá±orita Deon,  ¿no?”

George glanced at his chest, where small mounds pushed out a thin lilac top. “No, it’s not true,” he insisted. “You know better in spite of my appearance. You know I’m a man. George isn’t dead yet!”

Jaime assured him, “He soon is, chica, he soon is.”

A scolding from Evelina reminded him of his work. “Enough chitchat, girl. And no more talk of this ‘Jorge’. You’re just a lazy girl, and a maid in training. If you forget, I’ll remind you. After the laundry’s hung up, more clothes need ironing.”

Jaime gave his high giggle and added, “You think still you is George? Look at your nice little titties! Ahora y siempre, you is Seá±orita Deon, chica, y está¡s llegando a ser muchacha cuquá­sima.”
 
 
April 22

-- On the fourth Friday of the month Jaime stopped by to take photographs of George, clothed and naked. “Estos fotos is record of tu progreso,” he announced. “Doctor Weiss and Doctor Herná¡ndez use them for report.” George retorted that he didn’t give a damn about their report, but Jaime told him his feelings were irrelevant. “Your body do what the doctors want, you like or no.”

Except for the loss of his libido, George didn’t think there had been crucial changes in his body, at least not yet. Herná¡ndez might be right, but the effect so far was minor and probably not permanent. Even the bacterial infection could be cured, he thought. But he worried about the future. May 1 was just over a week away; what new torment would he suffer? On the spur of the moment, George decided to run. Today.

After lunch he had a half hour before he’d go to work. Recently his captors had seemed less watchful during the day, although he was still locked in and guarded at night. Yes, three weeks earlier his escape attempt had cost him; but he couldn’t wait passively as they destroyed him. He removed his earrings and washed off his makeup, then left his room and headed towards the casa, where Evelina waited for him. His guards expected him to leave now, and they simply watched as he approached the casa. Instead of going in the rear door, he circled the house and passed the stables. Once in the nearby cafetal where he couldn’t be seen, he severed his ankle monitor with a small kitchen knife and then began to trot. He felt a growing panic, as during the earlier attempt, and he had to fight a growing urge to return to the safety of his room. “I have to run,” he told himself. “I can’t let them carry out their plan.” He knew he’d eventually become sick; but he’d be far from Las Rosas by then. Maybe Don Pablo’s threat was genuine. Maybe withdrawal would kill him. He didn’t care any more. He’d have to risk it.

George had seen that people moved in and out of the finca constantly. He was gambling that vigilance had slackened and that, with makeup removed, he could slip through the gate unnoticed. It appeared he had been right, as he left in the company of several campesinos headed for Comayagua. This was the break he needed!

As George fled, an alarm sounded in Ibá¡á±ez’s office, and another in the casa. Jaime informed the don, who told him, “I am not surprised. Come with me.” In the room where the alarm had sounded, the don flicked a switch and a monitor lit. He fiddled with switches, and a map of the department of Comayagua appeared. The location of Las Rosas was marked by a green square. A red dot was superimposed on the square. “That marks the present position of our guest,” Don Pablo pointed out. “At this scale it is not helpful.” He pushed a button and the red dot reappeared, superimposed on a map of Las Rosas and its immediately surrounding area. The dot was just outside the limits of the finca. “That is better,” he remarked. “He is barely off the finca. I would guess he is terrified now, if Ibá¡á±ez’s device works properly. I will let him go a bit further; he should become ill soon, and that may send him back. I doubt it, though. Herná¡ndez tells me Seá±or Deon understands what is happening to his body, and I imagine he is desperate.” He turned to look at Jaime. “I doubt he can get to the main road. He should be forced to stop this side of El Palmar. Beyond that, I am told, he will be too sick to go on. Tonight, after he has had time to regret his action, take Paco and pick him up.” He opened a drawer and pulled out a small portable radio. “Take this with you. I will keep track of his position, and I will tell you where he is. There is no rush. Leave after dinner. You ought to reach him half an hour or so after you leave.”

Ten minutes later George was desperate. His terror left him almost unable to think, but his subconscious transferred the emotion to the danger behind him, and he forced his body to move. He had already emptied his stomach, but the retching continued to get worse, and his legs were cramping; he couldn’t go much further. “I have to keep going,” he told himself. “I have to!” He was struck by a bad spasm, and he doubled over, collapsing onto the ground. His left leg cramped too badly to allow him to get back up, even if his stomach allowed. Unable to rise, he crawled into a cornfield, recalling Don Pablo’s warning that withdrawal might be so bad that he could be killed. His lucidity fading, he thought, “This can’t be happening! I can’t be having withdrawal so soon!” He spent the rest of the day semiconscious, curled around his cramping belly.

It was dark when they found him. George heard the van approach, but he was too miserable to care. It drove past, then backed up. Jaime and Paco got out and walked straight to him. He offered no resistance, and it wasn’t necessary to knock him out. He wanted to fight, but physically he was a wreck. The two men half-dragged, half-carried him to the van, put him in the back, and locked the door. As the van bounced back up the mountain, George wondered briefly how they had found him without the device on his ankle, until another spasm diverted his attention.

He was taken to the casa. Jaime put him in a room, bare except for a cot. Once in the room, Jaime allowed him to slump to the floor and shook his head. “Amiga, you a fool. Vos sos muy tonta,” he told George; “You no can escape. You try, then you suffer. Tomorrow we give you cure, but ahora tenés que sufrir.” George crawled to the cot, climbed onto it, and lay on his back. He was given a pitcher of water and a small loaf of hard bread. He drank the water gratefully, and managed to eat some of the bread, but he vomited it up again. Giving up on eating, he settled for more water. Shortly afterwards, he fell into a drugged slumber.

Late that night Jaime led a plastic surgeon to George’s cell. Doctor Balsas sedated George and carefully injected collagen into his lips, until they attained a fullness more appropriate for a woman. The effect wasn’t obtrusive–acquaintances of the old George Deon would recognize him–but the newly plump lips, together with the hairdo and the loss of facial hair, left his face even more girlish. Then the doctor selected another hypodermic, very tiny, and painstakingly tattooed the lips with a permanent red dye. The dye wasn’t vivid. It left the lips only slightly redder, well within the range of natural colors, if towards the ruby end of the spectrum. The result was to impart a yet more feminine cast to his face.

When Doctor Balsas had finished, the don sent Jaime and Yolanda to tend the prisoner. Jaime helped her strip him and put him into a nightie. (Several more had been hung in his closet.) Yolanda gave his face a thorough makeover, including a perm for his hair. His new lipstick was bright rose-red, hiding the new “natural” color of his lips, if not their new fullness. His earrings were replaced with pendant ceramic roses, and his nails received a professional manicure and a coat of rose-colored enamel. He was left to sleep off the anesthetics.
 
 
April 23

-- Jaime watched as George awoke in his cell on Saturday morning. “Buenos dá­as, chica. How you feel?” he inquired. “You need cure?”

George sat up, but then fell back. He felt terrible, with a pounding headache and persistent nausea. “Yes! Please!” he begged. “I need something; I feel lousy!” He paid no attention to his nightclothes.

“Por supuesto, amiga. First you listen to me. You make mistake ayer. Pero ahora no importa. You need pay for mistake, but already done.  ¡Miré!” He handed George a mirror.

George looked. He saw a girl’s face staring back. It looked a little like his own–no, a lot like it–but it was undeniably female. No wonder Jaime addressed him as “amiga”! Still, he was relieved: compared to the loss of his remaining testis, the penalty seemed mild. “Yes, I see,” he replied. At the moment, though, he cared less about his appearance than his sickness. “But help me. I can’t even stand up, I’m so bad.”

“Muy bién. I help un poco.” He handed George a blue pill and a bottle of water. George took the pill, and he quickly felt better. He sat up, then stood. Jaime insisted that he dress, and for lack of a better choice he selected a pale-lilac blouse with short puffed sleeves. The wall mirror confirmed that he looked like a pretty young girl.

Jaime gazed at him approvingly. His prisoner had become quite attractive; he was beginning to believe that the don’s project might succeed, at least as far as George’s appearance was concerned. “Veo que vos te cambiará¡s a muchacha superguapa, chica,” he complimented George. “Pronto les gustará¡s mucho a los hombres. Soon you… you will please much the men.” He left, and George began to look for materials to teach his class.

Amazingly, George felt good, even euphoric. Even when Evelina put him to doing laundry, he felt good. Petunia was relieved, but shocked, when he returned. He explained why he had been punished. Her shock became horror as she realized that he might have lost the remnant of his manhood. She begged him to flee. “Yes, I know you risk punishment. But you have to escape! You can’t do it alone, like you tried. That was stupid!” Then, mindful of possible bugging, she held a finger to her lips and wrote a note on scrap paper. The note told him that she had contacted friends. “They’ll assist us if we can just get away from the finca. A car’ll be waiting for us.” George looked down at his blouse–two slight bulges pushed the lilac fabric outward–and nodded in agreement.
 
 
April 27

-- Doctor Herná¡ndez arrived soon after George finished his algebra class. “It’s time to check your progress, Seá±orita,” he announced. “I’m sure you’ve noticed the… ummm… let’s say, your entry into puberty. It’s clear to everyone. However, I need quantitative results. Strip to the waist, please.” George obeyed sullenly, pulling a mint-green top over his head. He loathed this man, who was slowly subverting his body. He was growing breasts; he couldn’t deny it. They were quite sore, too. “ ¡Sá­!  ¡Sá­!  ¡Se va adelante bién!” Herná¡ndez muttered happily as he palpated George’s chest. George winced and protested, but the doctor told him, “There’s nothing wrong, the tenderness is quite normal. Maybe a bit more sensitive than usual, because you’re developing more rapidly than most girls–already well into Tanner Stage 3 of puberty, with expanded and pigmented areolae. Nothing to worry about, though. Or at least it wouldn’t be anything to worry about for most girls; I understand your own reluctance to enter into womanhood.” He chuckled. “You never thought to worry about your girlish figure, no? Don’t worry, it won’t remain girlish. By the time you reach Stage 5, you’ll fill out a sweater in a most attractive way. Lift your arms, Seá±orita.” George obeyed, and Herná¡ndez took his bust measurement. “Now undo your belt and lower your pants.” Again George followed orders, and his waist and hips were measured. The doctor hummed tunelessly as he jotted the numbers down; George pulled his trousers up and began to fasten his belt. The doctor held up a hand; “Not quite yet. Drop them all the way.” They went to his ankles, as did his shorts. Herná¡ndez palpated the remaining testis. “Extraordinario, totalmente extraordinario,” the doctor commented.

“Can I get dressed now?” George asked with barely controlled fury.

“No, not just yet. Wait a moment.” He took a camera out of his bag and photographed George again, then told him, “I’m pleased by your body’s response to treatment. Of course, you have a rather higher than normal estrogen level, for those reasons I gave four weeks ago.” He chuckled. “You’re a wonderful subject. Not just for me, but also for Doctor Ibá¡á±ez. And Doctor Ibarra’s looking forward to working with you as well.” He finished the photos and told George he could pull up his pants. “I predicted your figure would approximate that of an adult female by the end of the year,” he told George, “but mammary development is proceeding more rapidly than I expected. Your nipples especially–they are exceptionally prominent, true?” He took a blood sample. “Your mother and sister have rather full figures–we checked on them–and your shared genes should give you the same. Soon you might consider wearing a sostén…” He thought briefly. “A bra. The bra of an adolescent girl is appropriate for your present stage of development, although soon it will need to be replaced with a larger size. I am sure if you ask politely, Don Pablo will grant your request. If not…” He grinned. “The men here will all enjoy the view.”

George was not delighted by the news. He didn’t know what Ibá¡á±ez had done, or was doing, but he was sure he and Doctor Ibarra meant him no good. He told this to Herná¡ndez. The doctor laughed. “Didn’t Don Pablo tell you all his plans? No matter: you will find out eventually.”

The don had said that he’d have to become a maid for Suzi. It was already crystal clear that he had more in mind than simply dressing the part. “I don’t care what his plans are. They won’t succeed,” George insisted.

“Ah, but I think they will. But it’s not my affair. Buenos dá­as, chica. I’ll follow your progress with interest.” He left the room, still humming his tune. After he left, George recognized the melody: “I Enjoy Being a Girl”.

That evening George told Petunia what Herná¡ndez had said. “I don’t know what to do, Petunia. I can’t just sit here and let them take away my manhood. But I’m afraid if I run again, I’ll fail again, and they’ll just do it anyway, only quicker. And you don’t know–you can’t know–how sick I get when I try to escape. I’d just as soon die as go through it again. Besides, if I fail… I don’t want to think about it.”

“You have to try, George. And you have to succeed, too. You know that!” she exclaimed.

“Yes, I know, but I’m afraid. And tomorrow’s May first. There’ll be something new. What can I do?”

“I don’t know, George, but you have to try.”
 
 
May 1

-- Jaime arrived at 7 AM. “Buenos dá­as, Seá±orita,” he greeted George. “Vená­ conmigo al Don Pablo.” In the library, the don looked him up and down. George flushed as he stood on display, his nascent breasts pushing out a puff-sleeved sheer white blouse. His dark nipples and areolae were clearly visible. “Doctor Herná¡ndez tells me that your development proceeds in a satisfactory manner. I am spending much money on your transformation–and will spend a great deal more–so I wished to see for myself. He was right. You are becoming rather pretty.”

“It’s not satisfactory–it’s an outrage! Please…”

“Save your breath, Seá±or. My plans for you are fixed. Your opinions, your desires do not matter more than those of the white rats in my doctors’ laboratories.” He took a sip from his ever-present coffee cup. George tried to protest again, but the don said sharply, “ ¡Bastante!” and pushed two buttons on a hidden control. Terror seized George and he was struck dumb, his mouth opening and closing silently. The don smiled in satisfaction; Ibá¡á±ez had done his work well. “Jaime told me you resent being recast into a feminine mold. You do not wish to become a ‘pansy’, you told him. I was unfamiliar with the term, but I have looked it up. Certainly it would seem appropriate; you no longer seem at all masculine. Perhaps ‘pansy’ might indeed apply. Do you agree?”

Recovering his voice, George denied it: “N…no! I did… did… didn’t choose this, I’m forced to look this way!”

“Perhaps you are right. You insist–and I agree–that your inward nature is as yet unchanged. Still, we hope to train you to act as feminine–as girlish–as any maid, so that it will become an intrinsic part of your new personality. You will behave like any other peasant girl, reflexively.” He held out a limp-wristed hand to demonstrate. “In any case, I have been considering a new name for you, one proper to your new circumstances, and you have aided me in my choice. We are indeed changing you to a ‘pansy’, as you put it. Therefore ‘Pansy’ shall be your name. You will answer to it. My doctors tell me that, after a sufficiently long period, you will come to think of yourself, in your own mind, as ‘Pansy’.” He steepled his palms. “I thank you for that excellent suggestion.”

“Pansy? Pansy!?” George’s voice rose in disbelief and outrage. “You want to call me Pansy? That’s crazy!”

Don Pablo shrugged. “It seems apposite for a man wearing lipstick and a girl’s blouse. Moreover, it is a name that confers little status. It will make it difficult for others to take you seriously. It is a good name for a maid.”

“I… no, I…” George swallowed hard. “If I have to use a girl’s name, couldn’t you pick something else?”

“No.” Don Pablo smiled. “I must tell you: your instinct to reject the name is well founded. One’s name helps to shape one’s character. It affects how others see you; but even more, it affects how you see yourself. This particular name carries with it a great deal of baggage. After you have accepted it as your own, subconsciously you will come to see yourself not only as Pansy Deon, but also as a ‘Pansy’ in the figurative sense, and that should subvert your personality to better match the name. Also, the name makes you equivalent, in a symbolic way, to your girlfriend: two pretty flowers, Petunia and Pansy. However, I suppose I can give you a choice: ‘Pansy’ and what little remains of your manhood–if only for a while–or ‘George’ and another visit to Doctor Weiss, immediately.”

That was a choice? “I… I’ll take the new name.” But I’ll never really accept it as my own, he thought. No way!

“A wise decision. Who are you, then? What do you call yourself?”

With a scowl George replied in a low voice, “I’m P… Pansy. Pansy Deon.”

“Good. I leave it to you to inform others of your choice. Tell them you are a Pansy. If you or others continue to use your former name, I will take further measures. You may go now–Pansy.”

Later George told Petunia, “The don won’t be satisfied until you call me ‘Pansy’. Otherwise…” He shuddered. “He’ll punish me. But he’ll punish you too. Humor him. I’m George, yes, but just call me ‘Pansy’. Temporarily.”

She set her jaw. “No! You’re George, and I’ll continue to call you that.” He dropped the matter, although he feared the consequences, and they went on to his Spanish lesson.

His students were more agreeable to his request. They had watched with mixed fascination and horror as he slowly became more feminine. His bust was apparent now, and his hips and waist were beginning to look a little more girlish. Mapy still believed that George’s figure was due to padding, but she was less sure than before. She had to admit, the breasts certainly looked real. Ana Mará­a and Consuela weren’t sure, but Elena was convinced that Don Pablo was dosing George with female hormones, and that the swelling breasts were authentic. When he asked them to call him “Pansy”, they readily agreed. Echoing Don Pablo, they told him he didn’t look like a “George” anyway. They remained curious, though: was the don changing him into a real woman? The other girls dared Elena to ask Seá±or Pansy. “Ask him,” Mapy said. “You’re the one who thinks he’s growing boobies.” She was afraid to ask. “No, you ask,” she told Mapy; “You’re the one who’s sure he’s not.” But the others agreed that she should do it, and she finally gave in. At the end of the class she approached her teacher. “Seá±or, please,  ¿will you answer a question for us?” Elena wanted to make sure that Seá±or Pansy knew they all wanted to ask, not just her.

George gave her an odd look, as though he knew what Elena going to say. “I don’t know for sure, chica, until you’ve asked it. But I think… Yes, probably I will.  ¿What is it?”

Elena was embarrassed, but continued. “We know Don Pablo is punishing you by forcing you wear girl’s clothes and making everyone call you Pansy. But, Seá±or, please don’t be angry with us. We wanted to know,  ¿is he really changing you into a real girl?  ¿And are you really growing breasts?” She had done it! Her face grew red, and she looked at the floor. When she looked up, Seá±or Pansy had a funny smile.

“Yes, he is trying to turn me into a girl, as much as he can. And yes, I am growing real breasts.  ¿Is there anything else?”

Elena felt herself blush all over again. “No, thank you. And…  ¡and we are sorry!”

A real smile lit George’s face, and he told her, “It is all right, Elenita, it is all right.  ¡And thank you, chica!” As Elena ran back to tell the others, he shook his head. Petunia was right. His escape would have to be soon, or it wouldn’t matter. Petunia had told him that her friend would be able to assist them in June. He prayed that he’d still be intact then–or as intact as he was at the moment.
 
 
May 7

-- Dawn on Saturday was cool, and the mingled scents of pine and roses wafted through the window of George’s cottage. He felt the fresh breeze through the sheet that lay over his nude body–he had stopped wearing a nightie–and looked at Petunia in the other bed, still asleep. “I’m going to get out of here,” he told himself. “I’ll reverse any changes those devils caused, I’ll get Petunia out of this lousy country, and we’ll get married.” He got up, showered, slipped on his clothing and fixed breakfast. Petunia got up soon after, and she was ready to share his meal. George felt fine. He hadn’t felt the withdrawal pangs he had feared.

“Maybe they’ve stopped using the drug, and you’re not addicted any more,” Petunia suggested.

George shook his head. “Maybe. But I doubt it. Or even if it’s true, I’m afraid they have other ways to punish me. And they could just put me on the drug again. Maybe I should just get this damn radio off my ankle somehow or other, and make another run for it.” Petunia agreed, and they finished breakfast.

Jaime appeared after breakfast to escort George from his room, but he didn’t take him to Evelina. Instead, they went to a car. “Hoy vamos a San Pedro, muchacha,” Jaime told him. “The don have a new thing for you. You come quiet?” Terrified of losing his remaining manhood, George jumped from the car and tried to run, but he passed out suddenly before he’d gone five feet, for no apparent reason.

When he awoke, he was strapped in a chair, in a laboratory of some kind. Large pieces of equipment lined the wall. It looked as if it had been converted from earlier use as a living room or salon; some of the furniture was fine mahogany, and a painting of some old aristocrat hung on the wall.

Soon after, a tall man with thinning blond hair entered. He wore a soiled white lab coat and carried a clipboard. Another white-coated man, shorter and black-haired, joined him. Peering at George through horn-rimmed glasses, the blond man greeted him: “Buenos dá­as, Seá±or. I am Doctor Jesáºs Ibarra. You are about to participate in an interesting experiment. Truly fascinating, I think. I almost envy you. Almost, but not quite.”

“Let me go!” George demanded. “You have no right to keep me here!”

“I’m afraid not, Seá±or. I need an experimental subject like you. Don’t worry, my methods are painless.”

George wasn’t reassured. “What… what are you planning to do?”

“Oh, not much. Nothing to your body. I work with the mind. Don Pablo told you what he plans for you?”

“Yes.” George didn’t elaborate.

“Well, your body is developing as intended. My job is to help shape your mind to match it.”

At least he wouldn’t be mutilated. He was almost relieved. “You’re wasting your time,” he told Ibarra.

“I don’t think so. I have much experience in this, Seá±or, and I doubt that your brain is different from those of my other subjects.” He motioned to his assistant. “Juan, dele al Seá±or Deon su inyecciá³n de la metrazina.”

Juan produced a hypodermic and approached George, who sat helpless. He protested, “Seá±or, por favor,  ¡no hace esto!” Ignoring him, the assistant thrust the needle into his arm and injected the contents of the hypodermic.

Doctor Ibarra explained, “This exercise is comparatively minor, Seá±or. You have just been given a dose of a hypnotic drug. In a few moments you will become very suggestible. I’m going to begin giving you your new identity. You’ve been told what that identity is, I know. Tell me.”

George didn’t want to talk about it but it didn’t seem important to oppose him in this. Not yet, anyway. “Don Pablo’s trying to make me into a woman. He wants me to become… to be a… a maid.” It was hard to concentrate.

“Yes, that’s right. You’re exactly correct. We–Doctor Ibá¡á±ez and myself–are trying to impress you with a new personality. One tool in shaping that personality will be an appropriate past. When the time comes to take up your new duties, you’ll recall growing up as a peasant girl. Now, here’s a dolly for you.” He held out a rag-doll baby. “She needs a name. You love your dolly, so you’ll pick a pretty name for her, won’t you?”

George began to protest again, but it was pointless. He was helpless, but he didn’t have to cooperate. He’d simply ignore the bastard. As these thoughts ran through his head, he accepted the doll and cradled it in his left arm. He heard himself say, “My… my dolly… I’ll call… I’ll call her Pepita. That’s a… a pretty name.” The small corner of his mind that remained under his control wondered at his response. He hadn’t intended to reply.

The doctor nodded. “I think he’s ready, Juan. He’ll give us no trouble. The ophthalmoscope, please.” He flashed a light in George’s right eye, then his left. “Yes, he’s quite ready. Let’s begin.” He turned out the room light, and George could see no more than the vague outlines of the other men. Pulling up a chair, Ibarra sat next to him.

“Seá±or, you are tired. You want to rest. Soon you will sleep, but not yet.” George was tired. He knew he needed a rest. “First I’ll release you. You will sit quietly after that.” He stood and loosened the straps that held George still. The tiny portion of George’s will that remained tried to make him rise and run, but he continued to sit. “Now, you are so tired that you cannot think of anything. Your mind is blank. Your name, your age, your profession… they are all gone. You have forgotten everything about your own life. Do you understand?”

The last fragment of George’s autonomy fled with his banished identity. “Yes, I understand.”

“Tell me then: What is your name?”

“My name is… It’s…” Somehow he couldn’t seem to recall. “I don’t know. I… I forget.”

“How old are you?”

“I… I don’t know.” The tone of George’s voice was dull and uncaring.

“Where were you born?”

“I don’t know.”

“What is your nationality?”

“I don’t know.”

“Repeat: I am a young girl. I am Pansy Baca. I am twelve years old. I was born in Comayagá¼ela, Honduras.”

George’s voice was unsure, but he obeyed: “I am… I am a young girl. I am… Pansy Baca? I am t…twelve years old. I was born in…” He paused and looked puzzled. “I was born in… in Comayagá¼ela, Honduras?”

“That’s correct. Pero ahora, dá­gamelo en espaá±ol.” George obeyed, this time more confidently, and Ibarra added, “Everyone calls you ‘Pansy’. You think of yourself as ‘Pansy’. Now repeat ‘I am a girl. My name is Pansy, and I am twelve years old,’ until I tell you to stop.” While George repeated the statement, Ibarra took Morales aside and told him, “He can begin to learn his biography now. Set up the video and give him his headphones. I’ll prepare a time-release dose of metrazine for him so he’ll remain suggestible for the next couple of days.”

Morales fetched the equipment. While he was setting it up he asked “ ¿Aren’t you using nepentine on your patient, Doctor?  ¿Or mnemosine?”

“No, no nepentine, and only a little mnemosine. Just a touch. I think he’ll retain the information well enough with only a light dose of mnemosine; but in any case this trial will serve as a control.” He paused, then explained further: “These memories are intended to be several years old, and they shouldn’t be quite as clear as some others.” Then to George (or for the moment “Pansy”) he said, “Pansy, stop now. That’s enough.” “Pansy” obeyed and fell silent. Ibarra ordered, “Now watch the screen and listen. Remember what you see and hear; this is your own past.”

A face projected onto the screen. Through headphones Pansy heard, “Mamá¡ Rosa, your mother. You love her.” Another face appeared. “Papá¡ Jorge, your father. You love him.” The rest of her family was introduced: an older sister and two younger siblings. Then the family members were shown in various activities. Pansy was told to identify each. She did so without error, but at first with some hesitation. When the hesitation was gone, she watched a wedding. The video focused on a young girl, a bridesmaid, dressed in pale pink. Through the earphones Pansy heard, “This is you–Pansy Baca–at your cousin’s wedding in Tegucigalpa. You were proud to be chosen as a bridesmaid, and you loved your pink dress. You will not forget it.” Under the drug she accepted it as true. She acquired other memories in the same way: birthday parties, grade school, family affairs, and other events. The tape then quizzed her until she knew the stories well. She was introduced to her possessions: her rag doll “Pepita”, a beat-up secondhand Barbie doll, a small dollhouse, a set of jacks, cheap costume jewelry suitable for a young girl. She learned that her family was poor and that she expected to work as a housemaid when she grew up. “Sometimes you work for your uncle as a maid. You clean for him, you iron his clothes–whatever he wants. You have to do it to earn money for the family, and to learn to be a good maid.” She agreed.

Ibarra showed her videos of herself washing laundry, ironing clothes, cooking. He told her she was good at these chores, for a little girl. “But you won’t be a little girl much longer. You’re growing up. You want to grow up and become a pretty seá±orita. Your body is starting to change already. You’re proud of your little breasts. Aren’t you?” She agreed again, so pleased that she was becoming a woman.

“You want a boyfriend now and eventually you want to get married. Of course you’ll cook and clean for your husband, and have lots of children. They will be the center of your life.” She assimilated the statement. Within a hidden corner of her brain, somewhere a remnant of George tried to rebel, and she hesitated. Ibarra noted the pause and told Morales, “Another dose of metrazine, Juan. Even as Pansy, our subject seems reluctant to enter into the life of a campesina. I can’t say I much blame her, not at all.” George received the shot and Ibarra repeated the statement. Pansy accepted it without hesitation this time.

Once Pansy had absorbed her biography, Ibarra had her recite back to him what she had just learned. He elaborated on some parts of it, and she integrated his additions into her life. He asked her to tell even more; she obeyed, giving plausible details that hadn’t been part of the original lesson. The biographical recapitulation continued until Ibarra was satisfied that Pansy knew her past thoroughly.

A last step ensured that inconsistencies were disregarded. Ibarra told her, “Pansy, you will not question your body. You are a young girl; you will ignore anything that might conflict with that fact. You are modest, and you will always keep your private parts covered.” She agreed, and he went on: “Your voice is normal. You will accept it as normal. And you won’t take notice of the language you speak, you will simply speak without thinking about it.”

That task finished, Ibarra gave George another shot, which implanted a calibrated time-release drug dose that would leave him unable to reject the story he’d been given. For the next twenty-four hours, George would be “Pansy Baca”, a poor peasant girl. After George’s physical and mental transformations were finished, the new biography would provide a suitable background for a maid. Morales doubted that the bare sketch of a biography would be effective, but Ibarra reminded him that this was only the first treatment. “Don’t worry, Juan. By the time we finish, our Pansy’ll recall her childhood more clearly than most people ever do.”

Morales was skeptical. “But no one else will remember that nonexistent little girl.  ¿Won’t that weaken her illusion?”

“A good point–but we’ve already taken that into account. Pansy’s identity won’t be imaginary. She’s going to replace an actual woman, with a real history. She’ll have a family waiting, and they’ll corroborate everything we’re telling her now.” He smiled. “It’s a new technique, and we think it’ll help Pansy accept the new life we’re laying out for her.”
 
 
May 11

-- George awoke in an unfamiliar room. His mind was fogged, and he had trouble thinking, but he found himself lying in a large bed. In fact, everything in the room seemed oversize: bed, chairs, doors. The room looked like a young girl’s room, decorated in a pink floral motif. He seemed to have shrunk several inches. He wasn’t bound or constrained in any way, but he couldn’t seem to move. And he wore a frilly pink cotton nightie that looked as if it belonged on a little girl. Why was he here, dressed like this? He should be back at… at…. He tried to recall. He was… What was his name? “My name is… is Pansy,” he thought. It came into his mind unbidden, But that couldn’t be right! That wasn’t right. His name was… All he could remember was “Pansy”.

The door opened, and a tall man entered–or at least he seemed tall until the scale of the room shrank him to normal. “Ah, Pansy, I see you’re awake. It’s time for my little girl to get up,” he ordered. “Pansy’s” seeming paralysis vanished, and she sat, then stood up. “What’s your name, muchacha? Your full name,” the man said.

“I’m… I’m Pansy… Pansy Baca,” she told him. She knew something wasn’t right about that. She knew she was really… was really… But no other name came. She was Pansy.

“Of course you are,” the man agreed. “I’m your Uncle Juan Gá³mez, and you work for me,” the tall man–no, he wasn’t tall, she was small–told her. “Call me ‘Seá±or’, and do as I say. You’re my little maid today. You understand?” No, her inner voice shouted, but she couldn’t deny it. “Yes, Seá±or, I’m your maid. I’ll do what you say.” To her ear her own voice was girlish, and proper to her new identity. New identity? No, it wasn’t new. She had always been Pansy. Seá±or Gá³mez smiled. “Look in the mirror,” he told her. “You’re pretty, yes?” Obeying, she stared at the floor-length mirror that hung on a wall by the closet. The image startled the observer hidden deep inside her: a young girl, eleven years old–“No, I’m twelve!” she told herself–stood there in a frilly pink little-girl nightie. She had a sweet face and brown hair held in twin ponytails by pink hair ribbons on either side of her head.

“Pansy, you love to play with dolls, yes? You want your dolly, yes?” Suddenly she wanted her doll. She loved Pepita. “You can play with her after you’re dressed, and after you do your chores. After all, today you’re just a servant girl for me.” And she knew it was true. “Your undies are in the drawer; your other clothes are in the closet. Put them on. I’ll watch.” That sounded wrong, but she had to obey. She chose underwear from a drawer, modestly put on cotton panties under the nightie, then took off the nightie and pulled on a white slip. In the closet was a pink party dress, with a triangular white yoke trimmed in lace and a skirt embroidered with flowers. It buttoned up the back. She stepped into it awkwardly, and thrust her arms into the puff sleeves. The buttons were difficult, and after trying to button herself, she told Uncle Juan, “I can’t button my dress, Seá±or. Please, help me?”

“Of course, chica. Come here.” He buttoned her up the back. “You love pretty dresses, don’t you?” And she knew she did. Of course she did! Her uncle added, “You’re growing up, Pansy. Your figure is developing, yes? Look at yourself!” Obeying, she saw slight bulges where her breasts swelled, and she was so proud of them. Her inner observer despaired. Then she pulled on a pair of pink lace-trimmed socks, chose black patent-leather maryjanes from the closet, and slipped her feet into them. Little bell pendants went on her pierced ears.

After dressing, she walked to a table where her dolls lay. Two framed photographs sat there. The first showed her in a pink dress trimmed with snowy lace. Her long hair hung in ringlets over her shoulders, and she held a bouquet of baby’s-breath in her white-gloved hands. She knew it had been taken when she had been a bridesmaid at her cousin Maria’s wedding earlier that year. It had been her first visit to the capital since her family had left when she was only a baby. Behind her, Seá±or Gá³mez–Uncle Juan–asked, “You remember that wedding, don’t you? Tell me what you did then, and how you felt.” Obediently she told how she had walked down the aisle with the other girls, how she had watched her cousin Mará­a wed Miguel Fuentes, how happy she had been to be there, how much she loved the dress. It was so clear in her mind, as if it had happened yesterday. “And the other picture?” he asked. She had been about eight years old then, and wore a simple blue jumper and white blouse. Her hair was in braids. The jumper had a little gold cross embroidered on it. “I remember,” she replied. “That’s my picture when I was in the third grade in San Pedro, after Papá¡ brought us back from the United States.” She recalled how all the girls had lined up to have their class picture taken, and how her father had taken this picture. Then her parents took her to a movie, and her father bought her a new doll. She had named her “Pepita”, and she sat there on the table now. “May I take Pepita with me, Seá±or?” she requested. “Of course, chiquita. But you can’t play until later; you have to do your chores first. Come with me.”

Uncle Juan led her to a room where two piles of clothing lay. “Iron these,” he told her, pointing to one pile, “and the others need to be mended.” The iron and ironing board were there, and needle and thread lay on a table. “I know you want to play with your dolly. You will play after you finish the chores.” Pansy did want to play with Pepita, to dress her in her other clothes, but she knew she had to work first. She remembered: her mother was a maid, and she was expected to help with the work too. When she grew up, she’d be a maid too–for a while, at least–but she hoped to find some handsome man who’d let her stay home with the children she wanted to have.

Pansy had lunch after work: two pupusas de frijoles (a sort of bean quesadilla) and a cool glass of a locally popular rice-based drink, horchata. Then she sat contentedly with Pepita, dressing her in assorted costumes. The observer in her head tried to tell her she wasn’t Pansy, that she didn’t like dolls, that her memories were false–but to no avail. She did enjoy playing with the doll, just as Uncle Juan had said–especially when her pleasure was augmented by the chip. She spent the day alternately in work and play. After supper she read, then went to bed.
 
 
May 12

-- Next morning Pansy’s clothes were laid out for her: a bright yellow jumper with her name appliquéd on the yoke, along with a white blouse. The ensemble wasn’t as fancy as Sunday’s party dress, but it was more suited to weekday wear. She put on the same maryjanes and the same bell earrings.

Her uncle told her, “You’ll stay with Don Pablo for a while. He wants you to do some chores for him, like those you did yesterday. Evelina will be delighted to see you in your pretty clothes. You make a very pretty girl, you know.” Pansy was pleased, but her helpless mental observer cringed. They quickly left for Las Rosas.

As he drove, her uncle told her, “When we arrive, you’ll be able to act on your own; but your new memories are permanent. You’ll recall working for me, and being a bridesmaid in a pink dress. You’ll know you played with dolls as a girl in San Pedro. And you’ll remember wearing that party dress. I don’t know what the doctors will do ultimately, but now you know what they can do. Those girl memories may be the only ones you’re left with. For now, Ibarra only suppressed your old name; eventually he’ll erase it. What is your name, muchacha?”

She seemed to recall–or her invisible tenant knew–that there had been another name, but she couldn’t remember it. “I… I don’t understand, Seá±or. I’m Pansy B…Baca. I… I think I had another name, but it’s gone. I’m just Pansy.” She paused, confused. “Seá±or, I don’t… I don’t know who I really am. I seem to be… It’s almost like I was two people. And what you just said–it’s like you’re talking to the other one.”

He laughed. “I suppose you are two people, chica. Don’t worry; it’ll clear up when we get to Las Rosas.”

By the time they arrived, George had returned. But in a sort of mental double vision, Pansy still recalled her girlhood as well. Seá±or Gá³mez recognized that George was back, and noted that Petunia would be surprised at her boyfriend’s attire. “But you do make a cute little girl. Make sure you keep the doll with you, by the way. It’s a reminder of what might happen if you disobey again.” He grinned. “You might get to ‘remember’ being a hot little teenage slut, necking and petting. I’ll get to play your escort.” George shrank from that horrible thought.

The car stopped under the poinciana by the front door of the casa. Jaime opened the door and stood with his hands on his hips, grinning. “Pansy, bienvenida. Ayyy,  ¡qué bonita! Vos sos muchacha guapa, en tu vestido nuevo. Vá¡manos; Evelina te espera.”

On the way to Evelina, Jaime told George he’d continue to wear his jumper and blouse. And he was to carry his doll with him. “Ahora you is chica.  ¿Comprendés?”

George understood that the humiliation was part of the don’s campaign to grind down his resistance, to make him docile and obedient. But there was little he could do, other than to grit his teeth and accept it for now.

Evelina was waiting for him in the laundry. “ ¡Qué bonita la muchacha en su vestido!” she exclaimed. “ ¡Y ella trae su muá±eca!  ¡Qué cuuuuca está¡! Pansy,  ¿cá³mo se llama tu muá±equita?”

Looking at the wall, George answered morosely, “Ella se llama Pepita, Seá±ora.”

“Bueno.” She pointed to a pile of laundry. “Pero ahora, hay trabajo. Aquá­ está¡ tu lavanderá­a, chiquita.”

George worked hard. A few women stopped by and tittered when they saw the overgrown girl in her cute jumper, scrubbing at the washboard. Evelina sternly shooed them away, warning that Pansy’s work was none of their business. When the laundry was finished and hung to dry and he had finished the ironing, Evelina set him to other household chores. He did the work stoically–and well; he refused to risk further punishment.

When he returned at the end of the day, George expected Petunia to be appalled at his clothing. She was. But she was amused too. “You look like a little girl. A big little girl.” Then she asked seriously, “Where did they take you Saturday? What did they do? I was so worried about you!”

George told her about his experience. “The worst part is, I was a little girl. They must’ve used some drug or other–something to keep me from questioning what they told me–but I had no doubts. As far as I knew, I was Pansy, a twelve-year-old girl. I remembered growing up in San Pedro, and being my cousin’s bridesmaid. And I wanted my doll. Petunia, it was scary. Or it’s scary now. At the time I was quite content to be a peasant girl.”

She was skeptical. “That’s impossible! For one thing, you’re too big. For another, your anatomy’s wrong. Even if you were drugged, there are too many inconsistencies.”

“Impossible? That’s easy to say now, but believe me, it seemed real enough at the time. Somehow I seemed a lot smaller. And I didn’t notice the inconsistencies. I don’t know how, but… Damn it, Petunia, my mind wasn’t my own! They could make me think whatever they chose!”

“And now? You’re back to normal?”

George looked at her with haunted eyes. “No. I still remember the nonsense they stuffed into me. Pansy’s still in my head. I know the memories are planted, but they’re as real as… as real ones. Maybe more so. I think being a twelve-year-old girl in San Pedro is more real to me than being a twelve-year-old boy in Akron. Petunia, if I want to stay me, male or female, I’ve got to escape. But if I’m caught, the penalty’ll be awful.” Feeling safe in his room, George stripped off the schoolgirl clothing and put on trousers. Then he took out the two ponytails and let his hair hang loose. “Petunia, I’m afraid, more than ever. But what can I do? I know what happens when I disobey.” Petunia wrote on a scrap of paper, “I don’t think we should talk about it. We may be bugged.” George scribbled back, “Is your friend still planning to help us next month? Can he help any sooner?”

She and looked down. “There’s not much we can do, George.” On the paper she wrote, “Yes, he’ll help, but he can’t do it right now. I’ll say when.” George nodded in agreement, and they retired to bed.

Back at the Institute, Ibarra watched a video of “Pansy” for the third time. The drug combination seemed to suppress George’s personality. The result was similar to the phenomenon of “multiple personalities”. Their “Pansy” construct had behaved as intended. Of course, the presence of Seá±or Gá³mez, a bit over two meters tall, and the fact that the room was scaled to make Pansy seem less than a meter and a half tall, just right for a twelve-year-old, helped considerably. However, the most important factor seemed to be that the drugs forced the subject to ignore evidence contrary to what he was told to believe: for example, voice and anatomy. He was incapable of noticing inconsistencies. Moreover, the drug cocktail had included a new drug, mnemosine, which stimulated the hippocampus and implanted any experience into long-term memory. “Pansy’s” experience wouldn’t be forgotten. He told his assistant, “Eventually he won’t recall most of his time here, but he’ll remember clearly his day as Pansy. He’ll think that it really happened, that it’s absolutely real. To him,  ¡it will be! And he’ll remember all the other details we fed him.”

George’s comment that he seemed to be two people in one, supported the analogy with the multiple-personality syndrome. If the analogy held, the ultimate resolution would be the integration of the personalities into a final persona. Ibarra’s control of the memories, and Ibá¡á±ez’s conditioning, should ensure that the final persona contained more of Pansy than George. Ibarra thought that more such experiments should be tried.

While George was returning to Las Rosas, Ibá¡á±ez was discussing further work with his patron. He sat back in an armchair in the don’s library and sipped a cognac. His host asked, “ ¿You say Seá±or Deon should be taken from Evelina? I thought he made excellent progress. She has whipped him into shape.”

The doctor explained, “He should be given a chance to learn some other skills. His work has been unpleasant drudgery: scrubbing floors, scullery work, laundry. He needs to learn more refined duties. Sewing. Cooking. Waiting on table. Making beds. You say that Conchita’s an excellent housemaid, and she can teach all of those. And I think he may be a willing, even eager, pupil, if it lets him escape the scullery. I’ll strengthen his desire to learn with a light application of pleasure, and in the end he’ll regard the lighter work as enjoyable. It’ll make him a better maid in the end.”

The don nodded and took a drink of coffee. “You may be right. I will see to it.”
 
 
May 13

-- George’s usual clothes were returned, but he was not happy. The feminization of his body was far too advanced. Tight slacks revealed the slow expansion of his hips and butt as fat was redistributed. The clingy tops allowed his small breasts to bounce freely, and displayed his ever-larger nipples. Men made lewd comments as they ogled him. It was bad enough that he appeared to be an adolescent female; but worse, he looked like a slut.

Petunia agreed. After supper she told him, “You can’t go around looking like that. You’re not decent!”

“But this is all I have. You know that! The don took my own clothes!”

Petunia turned away. “That isn’t… it’s not what I mean. You need… you need a bra! Ask Don Pablo for one.”

It was his turn to look away. “But… but Petunia, I’m not a woman! I’m not!”

“I know, but it… it doesn’t matter. You… you have breasts, and they’re getting too big to show off like that.”

“‘Show off’? But I can’t… I can’t help it! I want to hide them, not show them off!”

Petunia softened. “I’m sorry, George, I know that. But they… they’re there. And you need a bra! You do!”

But to ask for a bra would be to participate in the unraveling of his manhood. He continued in his denial: “I don’t care! I’m a man! I won’t cooperate with that madman’s scheme!” Or admit that he was succeeding, a niggling voice within his head told him.

She let the matter drop.

May 16 -- George was learning to make tortillas under Conchita’s critical eye–he almost enjoyed the tedious chore, as a break from the drudgery inflicted by Evelina–when he was summoned to the don’s study. His host cast an approving eye over the man standing in front of him. “Only two weeks have passed since we last met, Seá±or. I was told that in that short time your development has accelerated. The reports were hard to credit, but I see they were true. Your body has changed even in that short time, yes? You are becoming an attractive girl.”

George had promised himself that he wouldn’t beg–he knew it would be a useless exercise in self-abasement–but he couldn’t resist. “Seá±or, please, have mercy! You’re destroying me!”

“Exactly! George Deon, the arrogant norteamericano, is being destroyed. He is being replaced by Pansy, a humble maid. Conchita and Evelina tell me your skill in your new profession is increasing.”

“Yes, I’ll be Susana’s maid, I’ll work hard, but for the love of God, have mercy! Leave my body alone!”

Don Pablo raised an eyebrow. “You told me yourself: a maid’s job is women’s work, suitable for a peasant girl. I agree. No man should be forced to perform it. However, as I noted at our first meeting, you have proven yourself unfit for a man’s duties.” He paused and sipped his coffee. “My doctors tell me that, in a few months, ‘women’s work’ will be entirely appropriate for you.” His gaze fixed on George’s torso, covered (but not concealed) by a thin lilac top with lace trim. “Your bosom grows nicely, yes? From one day to the next, you may not notice a change; but each morning when you awaken, your breasts are slightly larger than on the day before. And then, larger again.” He smiled slightly. “Imagine how much they will grow in a few more weeks… And months… Already they begin to bounce delightfully, I see. And your nipples show clearly, yes? Your body is becoming soft and rounded, sweet and girlish. Soon your form will be unmistakably feminine, whatever you wear. Already men treat you differently, yes? It is an instinctive response to your appearance.” The smile grew. “Truly, ‘Pansy’ suits you better than ‘George’. A sweet and feminine name, yes? A good name for a maid. A good name for you.”

George squirmed. The don’s observations were all too accurate. “It isn’t my name! I’m George!”

“Humor me, Seá±or Pansy. It would be painful to use such an ugly name for the girl you are becoming. Your acceptance of ‘Pansy’–and Petunia’s acceptance–will make the transition to your new life easier. A girl called ‘George’ would be an abomination.” The don motioned towards a stool. “Please sit down.”

George sat. “I agree. So let me work as a man named George. I promise I’ll work–I’ll work willingly!–if you’ll just stop the doctors from… from mutilating me! Please don’t destroy my manhood!”

“You will work willingly–and you will work as a girl called Pansy. Your old name will be lost to you.”

George scowled: “In spite of your doctors’ best efforts, I’ll never be ‘Pansy’. Not really! I’m George Deon!”

“‘My doctors’ best efforts’?” Affronted, the don set down his cup. “You have been my guest for less than five months. Your changes have only just begun. I do not yet know what ‘my doctors’ best efforts’ can achieve in nineteen more months, but those changes will be more thoroughgoing than you seem to imagine.”

“I can imagine too much already!”

“You imagine I will make you female, or at least as female as is medically possible. You are correct, of course. The Herrera family honor demands that you lose the instrument by which you dishonored my daughter.” George clenched his teeth. The don was telling him nothing he hadn’t guessed, but it was painful to hear it stated baldly. “But that is not all. Can you see yourself begging Suzi to keep you as her maid, after I free you? Can you imagine asking permission to go shopping for a pretty dress, so you can show off your figure… to your boyfriend?”

George leaped up, and his stool fell backwards. “You’re crazy!”

“I thought not. And you may be right. That goal may be impossible. Now sit.” George righted the stool and sat. “I have three goals. The first, your punishment, is assured. You are chemically castrated. It is not irreversible–not yet–but nearly so. You will never satisfy a woman again. If you left now, your best option would be a total sex change.” He ignored George’s shock. “My second is to help Suzi. She wants a career, but she needs help–someone to do laundry, feed the baby, and so on. In short, she needs a maid. You will fill that need.” George shook his head, but he went on: “My third goal is the most ambitious. I am trying to alter a subject’s personality. If I can do that–if I can reconstruct a man’s identity, in effect make him into a different person–then I can sell those techniques. Imagine how valuable they would be, for example, in criminology or psychotherapy. I need subjects who will not be missed, and you have presented yourself: clearly an act of Providence.” George didn’t react; he was still absorbing the earlier statement. Don Pablo went on: “You are not the first subject, and most of our earlier efforts were fairly successful. However, yours will be the most extensive reconstruction. You will be our masterpiece. We will show you to prospective clients, to demonstrate how thorough a change we can impose. When they see you, a pretty girl who had once been a proud norteamericano, choosing to work as a maid–and I emphasize, choosing–our case will be made. I will need proof, of course–without it, no one could believe that you had once been a man–so your progress into full womanhood is being fully documented. Your reconstruction is expensive, I might add–even exorbitant–but we expect to turn a profit once the process is commercialized.”

Disbelief warred with horror on George’s face. “You’re crazy!” he repeated. “There no way you can do that! But… but just let… let me go work for Suzi now. She can call me Pansy, or any damn… any damn thing she wants. I’ll be a… a good… a good…” He swallowed. “I’ll be a good m…maid. Just… just let me go now! Please!” To his further dismay, tears began to flow down his cheeks. “D…don’t… Please…” He started to sob.

“No, I cannot send you to Suzi yet. You are not trained. You would not work well. Even if you were trained, and even if you kept your word, you would leave as soon as you are free. You are becoming a girl, as we intend–but more important, we want you to become a Honduran peasant girl. As such, you will value your position as a maid. Think of your own maid, Mará­a, whom you abused. If we succeed, you will be very much like her.”

George struggled to control his emotions. “I d…don’t be…believe you! You p…promised I could have normal sex again after you released me, too–you said I could m…marry!–but… but now you say my cas…cas… my castration is… is irreversible! You lied… you lied to me! I… I…” Sobbing overcame him again.

Don Pablo scowled. “I keep my word to the letter: Normal sex will be possible–but you will have to bed a man, not a woman. I do not know if you recall, but on our first meeting, I said you would become Suzi’s peasant girl. I choose words carefully, Seá±orita-to-be.” Then his smile returned. “We are curious to see if your mind can be adapted to match your body. If it does–an unlikely outcome, perhaps–then lying with a man will not be so awful a prospect. As a girl, you should enjoy sex with a boyfriend, and perhaps you will make some lucky peasant a fine wife. I suspect, though, that your sexual orientation may be too well established. If so, then your choice of partners will be limited to other lesbians. Of course, Petunia is a normal woman, and she will regard you as a girlfriend, not a bedmate.” With a touch of sympathy in his voice, he added: “Your display of tears is not unexpected, by the way. Your new hormonal mix is affecting your emotional balance. You will find that you weep easily–like a girl, yes?”

George controlled himself with effort. “You are an… an evil man, Seá±or.” He looked away. “And…” He gritted his teeth. Insults wouldn’t help him–even true ones. “Maybe you’re right. My body is… is changing, like you say, and my… my breasts are getting bigger. I want… I think I need… I need a b…bra. Can I get one?”

Don Pablo nodded. “I will see to it. …By the way, Susana had your child yesterday. You are the proud father of a baby boy–preposterous though that may seem, to look at you. You may go back to Conchita now.”
 
 
End of Part 4
 
 
To Be Continued...

Part 5, The shopping trip.

George's body is changing, slowly but inexorably. Now his original clothes no longer seem appropriate. Not to worry: his former girlfriend will help him select clothing that will be much more appropriate!
 
 
May 23
-- George had made 25 tortillas–he enjoyed the task (due to a chip in his brain, of course), and he was good at it. He was reading a Harlequin romance when a woman entered and inquired, “I’m looking for George Deon.  ¿Is he here?” He was surprised that anyone but Petunia would use the name, but he replied, “Yes, he is here. You see… You are looking at him.” Suddenly he realized the woman was Suzi, and he stood abruptly, upsetting his chair.

“ ¿You? But…” She peered at George. “ ¿You’re George? But… Yes… Yes, I see now.  ¡Amazing! Father said you looked different, but this…  ¡This is fantastic!  ¡You’re so cute!” She circled around her unhappy ex-lover. “I didn’t know you.  ¡No one would know you! But yes, it’s you.” She giggled. “Your face is the same, sort of. The lips and the eyebrows and the hairdo threw me off. And the makeup, of course.  ¡And cute little tits! They look real on you, even if they’re just falsies. But the voice gives you away. Your accent. It’s better, but no one would take you for a catracha.”

George had no answer. He began to collapse into a chair, but Suzi ordered “ ¡On your feet, girl!” and appropriated the seat. “ ¡So Father’s making you dress up like a girl now! Pretty, too. I’ll bet the boys are chasing you already.”

“Suzi, please, I…”

“I’m not ‘Suzi’ to you. Not any more.” Her tone was cold. “Address me as ‘Seá±ora’. And speak Spanish.”

“But I…” He took a deep breath. “Yes, Seá±ora.” He was in no position to disobey–and it seemed natural enough by now. “But Seá±ora, you know I am not woman. Still I am man, but I know I not appear such.”

She disregarded his protest. “Your Spanish still needs some work, although it’s a lot better than when we last met.”

“Thank you, Seá±ora.” What did she want from him?

“ ¿Aren’t you going to ask after my health, girl?” So she was going to ignore his true sex. No matter: everyone did, except Petunia–and he could do nothing about it. “It’s been a while since I last saw you.  ¿Do you remember?”

He fidgeted, shifting his feet uneasily. “Uh…  ¿How are you, Seá±ora?” he asked awkwardly.

“ ¿And the baby?  ¿Did you forget that? I had my baby a week ago. Or more to the point, I had your baby a week ago.”

Oh, God, what could he say? “I… I am sorry.” He added hopefully, “ ¿But the baby is good?”

“Josecito is well, thank you. You’ll get to know him very well. You offered to help with him, if I recall. Help a little, I think you said.” She giggled. “You’ll help a lot.  ¿What did Father tell you about the future he plans for you?”

“He said I will have to work as your personal servant, Seá±ora.”

“That’s what he told me, yes–that you’re in training to serve me. I guess he meant a maidservant. You’ll be my maid. I suppose that’s why he’s making you dress up like that–so you’ll look like a real maid.”

If only that were the worst of it! “Yes, that is what he said.”

“I’m glad you understand.” She giggled again. “ ¡And I thought you might make me a husband!  ¡Look at yourself! Turn around, look in the mirror over there.” He obeyed; somehow, there seemed to be mirrors wherever he went. “ ¿You say you’re not a woman? Maybe not… But tell me what your reflection looks like.”

He looked at his image. “I… It looks like… like a woman.” That was obviously what she wanted him to say.

“That’s right, sort of. Not quite a woman, not yet, just an adolescent girl–but developing nicely. Describe her. In detail.”

“She has about five…” He stopped, having insufficient Spanish. “Seá±ora,  ¿can I speak in English? It is hard…”

“Very well, for now. You’ll speak better Spanish by the time you come work for me. Now go on.”

“She’s about five feet three inches tall, with a light complexion, green eyes and light brown hair.”

“Go on. What’s she wearing, how’s her hair fixed? And her figure? You always noticed that first.”

“She’s wearing blue jeans and a pink shir…” He swallowed. “A pink blouse. Her hair’s long, over her shoulders, and it’s held back by barrettes. But her figure’s not much to see. My… her b…breasts are very small.” Again, he wished he had a bra; his nipples and areoles were far too visible through the sheer fabric of his blouse.

“True, true… Like I said, not yet a woman, still just a girl. She looks like she’s… oh, perhaps fourteen. Or maybe even younger? But clearly female, and I bet the men are admiring her already. Tell me more: Is she pretty?”

“I… I don’t know.”

“Of course you do! Tell me. And be honest.”

Honest or not, he knew what she wanted. “She… Yes, Seá±ora, she’s p…p…pretty.” He almost choked on it.

“Now say that in the first person. In Spanish.”

“Soy…” He licked his lips, inadvertently tasting his cherry-flavored lipstick. Staring at his image, he admitted to her (and to himself), “Yo soy bonita.” Automatically he used the feminine adjective to which he had become accustomed. The flawless skin, rose-red lips, and pert little bosom; the pink barrettes and matching earrings–objectively, the girl in the mirror was quite pretty. Subjectively, she was a grotesque caricature.

Susana nodded, then looked closer. “What’s that you have embroidered on your blouse? ‘Pansy’?”

George looked at the wall. His eyes met the mirror again and he looked at his feet. “It’s my… Your father… he says that’s what he’s going to call me.”

“Pansy? Your name will be Pansy?” Her eyes widened, then she started laughing. When she could control herself, she said, “Oh, that’s so cute! It’s precious! Look at me: you tell me your name, girl. Say it loud and clear!”

He looked back up, into her face. “My… my name is Pansy, Seá±ora.”

“Yes. Yes! My sweet little maid Pansy!” She broke into giggles again. “You’ll wear a pink uniform with your name embroidered on it. And pansies too. You’ll do the embroidery–I’ll ask Father to arrange your lessons. After all, a good maid ought to be skilled with a needle.” Looking him up and down, she commented, “When Father sent me to find you, he didn’t tell me he was giving you a complete makeover. I guess he wanted to surprise me. Well, he succeeded! Tell, me, George–oh, pardon me, Pansy–what do you think of your punishment?”

“Suzi, I…”

“‘Seá±ora’ to you, girl.” She raised an eyebrow and waited, savoring her power over him.

“Seá±ora, it’s cruel! Inhuman! There’s no excuse for this! He’s destroying me! Please…”

“I suppose leaving me pregnant–and also your girlfriend back home, Father told me about her–I suppose that was acceptable? After you left me, I thought you should’ve just had your prick and balls sliced off and served to you for lunch–maybe fried, with salsa–but this an acceptable substitute. You’ll get very little sympathy from me, my little Pansy.” She checked her watch. “No more time for chit-chat, girl. Father’s waiting.”

Don Pablo was in his library. Susana sat; George was left standing. “ ¿What do you think of our pretty little flower, my dear?” he asked. “Blossoming nicely,  ¿yes?”

“ ¡He’s marvelous!  ¿Is he really growing breasts?  ¡They look real! At first I thought they were fakes, but then I noticed they jiggle too much for falsies, even though they’re small. I could see his areoles–that cute little blouse doesn’t hide much–and his nipples are pretty obvious too.  ¡They look as big as mine!  ¿How?”

“They are quite real. He is no longer producing testosterone, but he is receiving massive amounts of estrogen. Your boyfriend is going through a second puberty. He is experiencing the exquisite torture of watching himself slowly change into a girlfriend, little by little, day by day.” He leaned forward: “ ¿Would you believe that he requested a bra?”

“ ¿He asked for a bra?  ¿George asked for a bra?”

“No, Pansy asked for a bra. Use his new name, carita; we are training him to think of himself as a Pansy. And his request was reasonable. Look at him: More and more, he is the object of attention from men. As you observed, he is growing lovely little breasts–with, as you noticed, rather large teats. He cannot avoid looking like a young woman, but he need not look like a streetwalker. His request was rational–but, I am sure, reluctant.” He turned to George. “ ¿Am I right, Pansy?”

George had followed their conversation easily. Five months of an involuntary “total immersion” course had done wonders for his Spanish. “Yes, Seá±or, you are right.  ¡Damn you!”

Don Pablo ignored the outburst. “Go help Conchita, girl–she is in the main bedroom. And shut the door behind you.” After George left, Susana received a sketchy account of George’s experiences, and of the chips that controlled him. “They must be used sparingly, if at all. I will allow Pansy to leave Las Rosas for the first time, in your company. Jaime will accompany you. He will have the controls, so there is no chance that Pansy might escape–but he should not have to use them. And he–or she–must obey you. She is learning that to obey is the best policy. Otherwise, bad things happen to her.”

“ ¿‘She’? You speak as if he were really a woman.”

“It is becoming natural to speak that way, as his body assumes a woman’s shape. And it is helpful to our program. We want to encourage all who deal with Pansy to treat him–or her–as a girl. The new name, the appearance–everything is designed towards that end. Willy-nilly, Pansy will be shaped by the perceptions and expectations of others. I expect you to work towards the same goal. Treat her as a peasant girl, and she will come to behave like one. At least, that is what my psychologists tell me. We will see. Now, you are going to take Pansy shopping in Comayagua. Hector will accompany you.”

“ ¿Shopping?”

“She needs clothes. As I said, she requested a bra. You can help her buy several, although they will need to be replaced soon, as her breasts are swelling rapidly. They should last little more than a month–maybe three weeks, the doctors say–before she needs a slightly larger cup size. As for other clothes, I leave it to your judgment. I have her measurements.” Susana’s eyes narrowed and the corners of her mouth turned up. Don Pablo held up a hand. “My dear, you must treat Pansy with courtesy. Or I should say, as long as she behaves properly–that is, behaves like a proper peasant girl–you must treat her with courtesy. Do not think of her as George, the deceitful norteamericano now in your power; rather, she is just a girl who will be your maid. Believe me, that is punishment enough. I am hoping that Pansy will become a faithful and industrious maidservant–a virtual member of the family, entrusted with the care of your children in the years ahead .”

“ ¿You really think that’s possible?  ¿Faithful and industrious?  ¿Years?  ¿He–I’m sorry, she–might change that much?  ¿Especially after what you’re doing to him?  ¿You think pigs might fly?”

Her father shrugged. “Possible, yes. Probable, no. But that is our aim. Punishment is the first goal of my project, and it is assured.” He held up a finger, then added another. “Secondly, we are developing ways to reshape a personality. That is the chief purpose of my project–and certainly the personality of your Seá±or Deon can use some remolding. Perhaps we will create your flying pig.” A third finger went up. “Last, we are trying to supply you with needed help–a ‘faithful and industrious’ maid.” His hand dropped. “It is imperative that Pansy be treated well.” He smiled: “If, of course, you see George instead of Pansy, then you may do as you wish. His reappearance should bring humiliation and discomfort. That should persuade his subconscious to suppress George in favor of Pansy. Remember, he must, and will, obey you.”

“ ¿How far can you take this ‘reshaping’?  ¿And how long do you think it might take?”

“We do not know how far we can take it, either mentally or physically. As to the time: We have clients who will pay a great deal if I can give them a means of changing a person into someone else with a completely different personality. Pansy is our demonstration. I have set a deadline of two years, after which our Pansy will receive no more treatment. She will be allowed to quit her job as your maid and find another occupation–or even to return to the United States–with no further interference. I believe that Pansy’s new personality, as designed by my psychologists, will bring her to freely choose–to ask–to work as your maid. Her freedom of choice will give our prospective clients the opportunity to evaluate the effectiveness of our treatment.”

“ ¿Isn’t that risky? You might have some problems if what you’re doing to George becomes known.”

“Yes it is, but it is a calculated risk. We will take measures to see that she does not tell her story.”

“ ¿What happens next?  ¿How will you try to make George Deon into– ¿how did you put it?–‘a faithful and industrious maidservant’?  ¡I can’t think of many outcomes less likely!”

“That, carita, I will not tell you yet. Now It is time to go shopping. Pansy should be with Conchita in the main bedroom. Hector will go with you; I do not think more security will be needed. Remember: Treat her gently. And tell her I told you that.”

They found George making a bed for the third time under Conchita’s critical eye. “No, girl,” she was scolding as they walked in. “ ¿Are you really that stupid? I don’t see how you ever held any job at all.” She turned to complain to her visitors, “Pansy’s doing worse than ever. I was about to send her back to Evelina.  ¿But what can I do for you?”

“We’ll take her off your hands, ’Chita. Father has something else in mind for her.”

“ ¡Good! I don’t think I could tolerate her idiocy any longer. It’s like her mind’s off in a cloud.  ¡Take her, and welcome!”

“Come with us, Pansy,” Susana ordered.George obeyed, pleased to be away from Conchita but uneasy about what was intended for him. “I…  ¿What…? Seá±ora,  ¿can you tell me where we go to now?” He eyed Hector uneasily.

“Yes, I’ll be happy to tell you. My father tells me you asked him for a bra, a little while ago.  ¿Is that true?”

Involuntarily he glanced at his chest. “Yes. I… I think I need one. I… My…” He turned red and fell silent.

“Excuse me, I didn’t catch all of that.  ¿What were you going to say?”

“No… nothing, I… It’s just…” He gritted his teeth. “Well, yes, I need one.”

Susana recalled her father’s orders and didn’t press him. “Yes, I understand. Well, we’re going shopping. Father says you’ve been studying so hard to become a maid, you haven’t left the finca in months. It’s time you got away. We’ll go to Comayagua, and I’ll be soooo happy– ¡absolutely delighted!–to help you get fitted for some bras. I’m afraid they won’t be good for much more than a month–maybe less. Father says your boobs are growing rapidly, and you’ll need bigger cups soon. Believe me, a bra that doesn’t fit right is a minor form of slow torture. That’s why a girl should get an individual fitting. Now take this–no girl should leave home without one.” She handed him a scarlet shoulder bag, monogrammed PAB and decorated with purple pansies. “This lovely purse is yours. It has lipstick, a compact, eye shadow, tissues–all that girly stuff you need. And your new Miss Pansy Deon ID papers, in case you need to show them.” She giggled and added, “This is your first time into town as a young lady,  ¿yes? You could call this your ‘maiden voyage’.” George didn’t reply.

He remained silent until they came to Susana’s old blue Nissan, spattered with mud from the road up to Las Rosas. “ ¿You still are driving this car? I think that you need a new one.”

Susana got into the driver’s seat. Hector opened the front passenger door for George, and then sat in the back. As she started the car, Susana replied to George’s comment, “You sound like Father. He’s offered to get me a new one, but I prefer to be independent. It’s an old battle. He’s very conservative, and he thinks a woman’s place is in the home–cooking, cleaning, and taking care of the kids. A lot like a boyfriend I had once. I can’t help but wonder– ¿does he still think so?” George didn’t answer. He wondered, though: only Susana and Hector had come with him, and maybe this could be a chance to escape. Yes, he’d be embarrassed when he showed up at the embassy looking like a fag–or a flaming pansy, he thought–but that problem would be minor, compared to what awaited him at Las Rosas.

The descent from the finca was steep and rocky, but passable for a high-clearance passenger car. The open pine forest soon petered out into dry brushland dotted with small corn and bean fields. The road leveled out and became better surfaced. The air was hotter and more humid. After two miles of good gravel road, they reached a crossroads and turned south on asphalt pavement. Only then did Susana speak again: “Pansy, I have to tell you: Father ordered me to treat you courteously as long as you behave like a normal girl. I’m supposed to act as if you really were a campesina, and a respected member of the Las Rosas household. In all honesty, I’d rather make your life hell.”

“In all honesty, Seá±ora, already my life is hell,” George replied. “I will not want to be… to be made to wear a bra. That is bad. But I… I ask for a bra, because my body needs it–because I become like a girl. That is worse. And when you treat me like a girl, and I look at me and I see a girl, that is… that is…” He shook his head. “I not have the words in Spanish.” He turned to her. “Please, Seá±ora, have pity on me. Your father tells me that I am ruined as a man. Your revenge is… It is enough. Already too much.” Desperation tinged his voice. “Ask him to release me.  ¡I beg you!”

Susana smiled. “I’m delighted to hear you speaking as George. Father said that if I see or hear George Deon instead of sweet and feminine little Pansy, I don’t have to treat you as gently. Therefore, Seá±or Deon, I just decided to buy you a dress today, to wear home. And some pretty skirts and blouses.  ¿Was there anything else you wanted to ask me, George?”

“No, please, Seá±ora, do not…” he began to protest, but he caught himself. “No, Seá±ora, there is nothing more.” Hesitating for a moment, he added, “And… and please, I am… call me Pansy.” George had best make himself scarce.

“I must tell you–as Pansy, of course–that you are quite pretty. That’s good for you. Father says you’ll be free to leave after next year. He also says that maybe you’ll choose to stay as my maid, but I don’t believe it. No matter: for the next year and a half, you’ll have to live as a woman. And truly, you’ll have to wear women’s clothes. Believe me, if you wear men’s clothes, you’ll still look like a girl–in men’s clothes. You’d just draw attention to yourself, and you really don’t need that.”

“Yes, I know it, but I will prefer to wear slacks and shirts, even if they must be of women. I know that is acceptable here.”

“Of course, you’re right. I usually do, as you know. But I think…” She smiled. “I’d much rather see you in a dress.”

As usual, he was in no position to refuse. “Yes, if you wish. I will wear whatever you choose.” Until he escaped.

Comayagua, founded in 1537, was a medium-sized city with a population over 140,000. Among tourists it was known for well-preserved colonial buildings, especially an old cathedral; it contained a truly ancient clock, built around 1100 by the Moorish conquerors of Spain and donated in the 1500’s to the new colonial church by Philip II. Among locals, the city was a window to the 21st century, where supermarkets sold arugula and Froot Loops and where Pizza Hut and Microsoft had planted roots. Susana took George to the town center, where she parked the Nissan in front of a store: Vá¡squez Hnos–Ropa para Damas y Niá±os. Before opening the car door, Susana told George, “This might seem like a wonderful opportunity to take leave of my father’s hospitality. It isn’t. I won’t go into detail–I don’t know all the details–but he took precautions against losing you. Besides getting very sick if you don’t return to Las Rosas on time, that is; Father told me about the time you tried to run away.” Then she giggled: “On the other hand, it might be fun to watch you try. You have no money, you look like a teenage girl, and your only identification says you’re Pansy Deon.”

George had to agree with her assessment. “No, Seá±ora, I will stay with you.”

“Good. Now, I buy a lot of my own clothes at Vá¡squez–I have an account here–so this is where we’ll get you dressed up pretty. And when you talk, try to pitch your voice higher and speak softly. Remember, you’re pretending to be a girl.” She paused. “No, forget that. Pretending you’re a girl is unnecessary; if you try to pretend you’re a man–now,  ¡that’d be difficult!” She looked closely at George’s face. “Better freshen your makeup, Pansy. It’s in your purse.” Reluctantly, George touched up his lipstick. In the mirror of his compact, he saw plump rose-pink lips–girlish lips–his lips.

Susana told Hector to wait for them. “Keep us in sight when we’re not in the store, but don’t come with us. I want to talk with Pansy alone.” They left the car and entered the clothing store. The air conditioning was turned high, and George felt a chill, enough that his nipples stiffened. Susana noticed and smiled slightly: yes, George did indeed need a bra. A saleswoman approached and asked if she could help them.

“Good afternoon, ’Femia. Yes, I think so. I… my… my girlfriend Pansy is visiting from the US, and she needs some new clothes. To start with, she has to buy some bras, and of course she wants them to be as comfortable as possible. I know you’re very good at fitting, so I brought her here. Everything will go on my own account.” The saleswoman agreed, and Susana continued: “Pansy has some Spanish, but it isn’t very good, so I’ll stay with her and translate if necessary.”

“Very well, Seá±ora.” Eufemia peered at George’s chest with a practiced gaze. “Your friend looks a little bigger than a 36A. You’re right, she certainly should be wearing a bra. If you take her to the fitting room…  ¿You remember where it is?” Susana nodded, and the saleswoman went on: “I’ll pick out a selection in several styles and bring them over.”

“Thank you.” Susana turned to George as she led him towards the back of the shop: “’Femia doesn’t speak English, but she’s excellent at her work. The next time you come in, you shouldn’t need my help.”

“I don’t… don’t want a next time, Seá±ora.”

She giggled. “Of course you don’t! But it will come. You’re growing up, little girl! Father says your boobs should get quite a bit bigger. You will need a bigger cup size–and soon! But I suppose Conchita can take your measurements and pick you out some.” She paused. “And as a visiting girlfriend, you can call me Suzi for now.”

George knew that the prediction was well founded. He bit his tongue and followed her.

They entered an unmarked door into a bare cubicle, like every department-store dressing room George had ever seen. Susana shut the door and ordered George to take off his top. “There’s no call to be modest. I’ve been in women’s dressing rooms before–and it’s just us girls in here.” George stripped off the top, displaying his small but well-formed breasts. His nipples were still erect with the chill.

Eufemia showed up in a few minutes, with half a dozed bras. “Here you are, Seá±orita. I think these should fit well. Try this one on first,” she suggested to George, holding out a plain white bra. George took it, put his arms through the shoulder straps, and awkwardly tried to fasten the hook in back. Eufemia stifled a giggle. “Seá±orita, you are doing it the hard way.  ¿Didn’t your mother teach you?” She showed George how to put it on backward, fasten it, turn it around on his body, and put his arms through the straps. “ ¡There! Much easier,  ¿true? But let me adjust it.” She fussed with the straps until she was satisfied. “Now,  ¿how does that feel? I think it’s a good fit, but you have to be the final judge. After all, you’re the girl who has to wear it.”

George moved his shoulders then swung his arms to the side and in front. The feel of straps on his shoulders was unfamiliar, but not uncomfortable. It clasped his torso firmly, but not too tightly. “I think…” He swallowed. “I think it is good. It fits me…” He nearly choked. “…fits me good.” His high tenor easily passed for contralto.

Susana asked, “ ¿What’s the size, ’Femia?  ¿And the brand?”

“It’s 34A+. Like I guessed, your friend’s a little too big for a standard A cup, but not quite up to B. And it’s a Maidenform.”

Susana smiled at George. “You’re wearing a Maidenform bra, Pansy. That’s appropriate enough, I suppose–you’re assuming a maiden’s form, after all. You’re sure it’s comfortable? Like ’Femia said, you’ll be the girl wearing it–but only a short while, until your boobies grow larger.” She cocked her head, waiting for his answer.

George looked at the blue tile floor. “Yes, I think it’s… it’s comfortable enough.” Mentally, he was in agony.

“She’ll take three of them.  ¿But do you have it in other colors?”

“Of course. It also comes in dusty rose and in lime green.”

“Pansy, which color would you prefer: white, rose, or green…? Never mind–you can have one of each. OK?”

He looked at the floor. “Yes, that… that would be g…good. Th…thank you.” The words stuck in his throat.

Turning back to Eufemia, Susana declared, “She ought to have some fancier styles too–for when she’s out with her boyfriend. More lace–and maybe a pushup model. Her figure can use a bit of help until she fills out some more.”

George was the unhappy recipient of six bras before Susana passed to the next item on her agenda. “You need a dress, girl,” she told him. “You’ll wear it home–along with new shoes. You need practice with heels.”

“Please, Suzi–please, no, I… I have enough. You did more than enough to… for me.” He wiped a tear away.

Susana giggled. “Yes, Pansy, I insist. I want you to be the cutest girl at Las Rosas. Like my boyfriend George told me last year, dresses and such are part of being a girl. It’ll help you attract your own boyfriend.” She led George to a rack in the “Misses” section and picked our a lemon-yellow cotton sundress with scalloped white hems and large pink buttons up the back. “Try this one. No, wait.” She picked two more, one a size larger and one smaller. “See which fits best, then come out and show me how it looks on you.” When he reappeared after a struggle with the back buttons, Susana told him, “That’s absolutely darling! You look as pretty as a flower! But come here, you need to adjust it.” She showed him small loops on the underside of the shoulder straps. “I see your bra straps. You’re supposed to clip these loops around the straps, so they won’t be quite as obvious. Now look at yourself in the mirror. Aren’t you the prettiest little thing?”

And he was. The bra supported and shaped his immature bosom. His light-brown hair, cut into neat bangs over his forehead and held by flowery pink barrettes on the side, cascaded over his bare shoulders. He raised his hand to his mouth in consternation, showing the nail polish that matched his rose-pink lips. Suzi had said he looked fourteen, but he thought the girl in the mirror appeared younger than that. He shut his eyes and looked away.

When he opened them again–carefully not looking into the mirror–he saw Susana looking at him critically. “You’re going to be a good-looking woman, I think. Your bust is adequate–and Father says it’ll grow more anyway. Your hips are a bit narrow–the skirt doesn’t hang quite right–but maybe they’ll pad out a bit with time.” She nodded. “Yes, I think a dress rather suits you now. I don’t think you’ll be wearing pants again, so I’d better get you some skirts. First, though, I’ll take a picture of my oh-so-cute girlfriend.” George began to object, but quickly shut his mouth as he recalled the result of the last protest. She pulled a camera out of her purse. “Smile, chica!”

Soon George had acquired two more dresses, five skirts, half a dozen blouses, a dozen pantyhose, two slips, and four pairs of shoes, to be delivered to Las Rosas. He also smelled slightly of Arpege. “I think that’ll do for now,” Susana told him. “Now, care for a coffee and doughnut? There’s a new Dunkin’ Donuts half a block from here.”

“Yes, please. It’s been way too long since I was in Dunkin’ Donuts.”

Hector joined them when they left the store, and the three walked towards the shop, George’s new open-toed pink pumps clicking on the sidewalk. He was acutely aware of his light skirt swishing against his hairless legs, and the ventilation afforded by the skirt left him feeling undressed. Susana noted that he was slouching and commented, “I imagine you feel a bit self-conscious, as if all eyes were on you. Am I right?”

“Why would I be self-conscious? I’m just a man in a bright yellow dress.” He added bitterly, “I’m a freak!”

“If it’s any help, no one’s paying attention to you. You probably attracted a lot more attention running around in a tight top without a bra. You looked like a tramp. In that dress, you’re just another pretty teenager–and in truth, you’re not all that pretty, especially slouching like that. Now stand up tall. Throw your shoulders back. You have a decent figure; act as if your proud of it. Flaunt it, girl!”

He obeyed, and Hector remarked, “You know, Seá±orita, I got to find me a new girlfriend.” He grinned. “You look a lot nicer than when I seen you last. Maybe I’ll ask Don Pablo if I can take you out on a date.” George flushed and ignored him.

Soon they reached the shop. Hector waited outside, and Susana and George entered. No other customers were at the counter. “Let me guess,” she said. “You want a medium coffee, cream and sugar, and a jelly doughnut.”

He smiled–the first time during that day. “Yes, please. You have a good memory.”

She turned to the attendant: “Two medium coffees, one black, one cream and sugar. Also, a plain doughnut and a jelly doughnut.” To George, she acknowledged, “Yes, a very good memory. But I won’t bring up our past now. In return, don’t ask me for help.” She held up a finger. “First, I won’t help you. I rather like what Father’s doing to you.” Another finger: “Second, and more important, if I did ask him to free you, he wouldn’t. He has his own reasons for putting you into a dress. If you can accept that, we can talk.”

“I suppose I have to accept it. At this moment, anyway. But what do we have to talk about?”

“Don’t you have any interest in your child? ‘Flesh of your flesh’ and all that?”

He felt the prick of guilt. “I… Is it a girl or a boy?”

“I told you this morning. You’re not very attentive.”

George flushed. “I’m sorry, Suzi. I have… Other things’ve been on my mind. I’ve been… distracted.”

She looked at him, sitting there in a yellow sundress and pink pumps, and giggled. “I can understand that. But…” The attendant signaled, and she told George, “Go get it, Pansy. Here’s the money.” She handed him 100 lempiras.

He returned, handed her the black coffee, and sat, crumpling the skirt underneath him. Susana remarked, “You’ll have to learn how to sit in a dress, sweetheart. You’re supposed to spread the skirt under you with both hands as you sit. Otherwise it bunches up and gets all wrinkled. As it just did. And you need to keep your knees together.”

He stood and arranged his skirt properly as he sat again, his knees together. “I… You know I don’t have any experience with these damned female clothes.”

“Of course I know. But you have to learn. Not to worry, though–you’ll have lots of practice. Father says you’ll be positively sooo girly for the next year and a half, you may forget what it’s like to wear pants!” George winced, and she looked down. “I apologize, Pansy. I don’t mean to harass you, but you hurt me badly, and it’s hard not to hit out at you.” She took a sip of coffee. “Do you really understand what a pendejo you were? I doubt it.”

“Suzi, really, I’m sorry about what I did. Yes, I do understand. But I can make it up to you. Please…”

She shook her head. “No, I don’t think you understand at all. You’re just desperate to escape.” But then she added, more sympathetically, “And I can’t blame you for that. Now drink your coffee before it gets cold.”

He picked up the cup, then put it down. “Look, Suzi, I was a bastard, yes–but there are limits to… I mean, isn’t your father… Doesn’t he…”

“No. But that’s not what I wanted to talk about. I didn’t find out what Father had in mind for you until I saw you this morning. Oh, he told me you’d be working for me–but not that you’d be a maid. A real female-type girl-shaped maid. I want to know, just how far does he plan to go? Do you have any idea?”

George took a sip while he chose his words. “He wants me to become a Honduran peasant girl. He’s crazy, of course, or maybe just exaggerating. It’s not possible, not literally. But he can make me look an awful lot like one.” Now that’s an easy prediction, he thought: It’s already true! He bit into his doughnut and closed his eyes. He could almost forget his position as he savored the sweet fruity flavor. But he couldn’t stay in doughnut nirvana forever. “Suzi, ask your father if I can work for you now. With the new baby and all, you must need help. I’ll work hard for you.” He bit into the doughnut again. A little jelly dribbled down the side of his chin, and he wiped it off.

“I can’t take you yet. I told you, Father has his own agenda. And I see his point. You told me this morning, you’re not really a woman, and you’re right. You meant physically, of course, but it’s even more true mentally. You don’t walk like a woman, sit like a woman, talk like a woman–you’re a man in a dress. With really cute little boobs, granted.” Her eyebrows lifted. “Wait a minute–he didn’t just say a woman, he said a Honduran peasant girl? If that’s what Father said, then he won’t give you to me until you’re a lot more like a Honduran peasant girl. He uses words precisely.” She took another sip of coffee. “Maybe if you try acting more like that peasant girl he’s looking for–giggle a lot, show some interest in pretty clothes and boys–he’ll let you work for me sooner. I don’t know.” She smiled. “I’ll be very curious to see just how feminine you become. I said you’re a man in a dress, but that’s not really true. You may not behave like a normal woman, but you certainly look female. Not very much like a peasant girl, though. Not yet. Did Father mean you should look like one? Or act like one?”

George finished a mouthful of doughnut before he replied, “I don’t know. Ask him. Like I said, he’s crazy.”

“I agree, it seems unlikely.” She sipped her coffee, than giggled. “I admit, I’d love to see you in a maid’s dress, with long braids and dark skin–and maybe six months pregnant? ‘Pansy, get my drink!’ I’ll order, and you’ll curtsy and obey. A great fantasy! Well, at least part of it’ll come true. When you work for me, you’ll wear a pretty pink uniform–and I will have you braid your hair. And wear ribbons in it. You’ll look so cute! Can you picture it?”

Sourly George replied, “I can hardly wait.” The attire she planned for him was the least of his worries–and the uniform was hardly worse than what he was wearing at the moment.

“Don’t worry too much. Father says I’ll have to treat you with all the consideration I’d give any other family servant. He wants you to be… I think he said, ‘industrious and faithful’.” She bit into her own doughnut, then washed it down with more coffee. I don’t know if Father will succeed or fail. Either way, I like it. If he succeeds and you become a sweet little peasant girl–in your head, anyhow–then I’ll consider George to be dead, and I’ll be grateful for that ‘industrious and faithful’ maid. If he fails–if George Deon lives on–then I’ll be delighted to keep George in a skirt for the rest of his life, changing diapers and doing my laundry.”

“If George Deon lives on–and he will–George Deon will be out of here.”

“Yes, that’s possible. In all honesty, I can’t see how Father expects you to stay with me. You might as well keep the name ‘Pansy’, though. You won’t be a man any more. From what Father tells me, you’re not really a man now. You’re a real pansy, now and forever. Just look at yourself! The clothes you’re wearing–they fit you, in every way. Like I said, you don’t have to worry about anyone seeing you as a man in a dress. From now on, everyone will see a woman, whatever you’re wearing. You’ll look good in a skirt for the rest of your life.” She pointed out to the street, where Hector waited. “You know, Hector’s been looking for a girl. By the time Father finishes with you, I bet you might just be ready to go out with him! How would you like that? You won’t have a girlfriend, you’ll be a girlfriend!” She giggled. “I hear he’s a good kisser. You can find out if that’s really true, and report back to me.”

George shuddered and looked down at his bosom. “Each morning, slightly larger,” the don had said. He had no answer: she was right, and he had been foolish not to see it. Without a word, he got up from the table and walked out the door. Susana watched, not certain what to do, then followed him to the door. He was walking blindly into the street, and she called without thinking, “George! Come back here! Right now!” A Pan Bimbo delivery van narrowly missed him, its horn blaring. He ignored it (and Susana), reached the other side of the street, and kept walking.

Hector had watched George’s flight. He hadn’t acted as quickly as he should have, but when he saw that George was safe from becoming a traffic statistic, he pushed a button, and his victim collapsed.

George awakened to see a chandelier hanging from a whitewashed ceiling straight above him. He was lying on his back, on a couch in the main room of the casa at Las Rosas. Sitting up and shaking his head to dispel the grogginess he still felt, he saw Don Pablo and Jaime sitting around a table. Don Pablo told him, “You have caused us some trouble, girl.” He waved a hand and Jaime left them alone.

How had he gotten here? He sat up. “I… What…?” He looked down at himself. He was wearing a yellow dress–and filling it out nicely. He remembered the shopping trip. “How did I get here?”

“You fainted,” the don told him. “Susana and Jaime brought you back here. But you left Susana without permission. I do not know what you were thinking. Were you trying to run off?”

“No! I was…” What had he been doing? “I… I don’t know. I just… I had to get away.” Then he panicked: “Please! I wasn’t… I was…”

Don Pablo sighed. “I know. Susana told me about your conversation, and she pushed you too hard. I have scolded her; she had been warned to treat you gently. But I am more to blame. I should have known better than to send her with you. It was too great a temptation, to gloat over the agent of her downfall.” He leaned forward. “But what is most interesting is this: the comment that made you despair was her taunt that you are no longer a man. I told you much the same thing a week ago. It would seem that you did not believe me then; and further, you did believe my daughter, else her observation would not have shocked you as it did. Tell me, then: Are you a man?”

“Yes!” George insisted.

“I told you I intend to remove the last vestiges of your male organs, which are nonfunctional–permanently nonfunctional–in any case. Will you still consider yourself to be a man?”

“Yes! I couldn’t get a girl pregnant, but my personality–the ‘me’ in me–would still be male. And my DNA would still be male. And certainly I wouldn’t be a woman–a real woman! I’ll never be able to bear a child!”

“I agree, you retain physical traces of masculinity. And your mind, your personality, is only slightly changed. After we remove as much of your male anatomy and physiology as possible–a minor task now–and replace them with female equivalents, we will then attempt to change the ‘you’ in you, as you put it. It should be easier then.”

A knock announced Jaime’s return; he delivered two cups of coffee, then left. George took the one with cream in it, sipped it–it was still too hot–and put it down. The don remarked, “Pansy, you have been in denial; but now, in spite of your protestation, your subconscious accepts Susana’s taunt as truth. That explains your shock.”

“No, Seá±or.” Desperation lent urgency to his tone. “I am a man!”

“A man who calls himself ‘Pansy’. I will be very curious to find out how long it will take before you sit before me and state freely, ‘Yes, Seá±or, I am a woman.’ I would wager, before the end of this year.”

“I don’t call myself ‘Pansy’, Seá±or. I accept the name from others, as you insist. But I don’t…” He hesitated. Disobedience was foolish. “I can’t call myself by that name. My real name ‘George’ is too… too deeply rooted.”

“I understand. I will help you with that, soon enough. ‘George’ will be uprooted, and you will find that you can call yourself ‘Pansy’, with no difficulty at all. Now, another matter: Do you have enough brassieres?”

“Yes.” The answer was clipped.

“Probably more than enough, for someone who claims to be a man. But they seem to fit well, yes?” George didn’t reply, and Don Pablo lifted his cup. “We grow excellent coffee, I think you would have to agree.”

“Yes, but I’d rather be back in a Starbucks–or a Dunkin’ Donuts.”

“Of course, of course.” He tasted the coffee and sighed with pleasure. “I cannot require, or expect, that you be grateful for all the attention–and money–we are lavishing on you.” He sipped again, then set the cup down. “Now, I believe you told Susana last year that men wear pants, and women should only wear dresses and skirts. So be it, Seá±orita. As you spoke, so shall you live. I freely admit, I am applying additional pressure to your subconscious. It will reason: I have breasts, therefore I am a woman; I wear a skirt, therefore I am a woman.”

“No!”

“No, you will not wear a skirt? Or no, your subconscious will not accept that you are female?”

“I… I’ll wear whatever you give me. What I must. I have to obey you. But I’ll never believe I’m a woman!”

“But you will be a woman.” He took another sip of coffee. “Given your hormonal balance and the shape of your body, already you are closer to a woman with a penis, than to a man. Your present clothing is proper for you. You should not wear trousers again.” When George didn’t respond, the don dismissed him: “Report to Conchita tomorrow after breakfast–wearing one of the skirts Suzi so generously bought you, as is now proper for you, Seá±orita. You have forfeited the right to wear pants; until you are freed, you will wear skirts and dresses. You will also wear your new shoes. ’Chita will have your schedule of chores.”

Part 6, A Pansy Now and Forever

Everyone except his girlfriend call George "Pansy" now--but he still knows he's really George. They can't take that away from him. Or can they?
 
 
May 28

-- Ibarra peered through his thick glasses at his notes. The use of hypnotics to give Seá±or Deon a temporary identity had been edifying and instructive, but it was only the beginning. He leaned forward over his desk and drafted his proposal for Don Pablo.

Don Pablo Herrera E., Memo: I wish to use the memory-erasure technique now, to begin to create Pansy Pinkerton. Both Seá±or Deon and Petunia, as well as Jaime and the others, will need to be treated. I propose to test four distinct, but related, treatments. The four are as follows:

1.)Unsubstituted loss of a memory without awareness of loss;
2.) Unsubstituted loss with awareness;
3.) Substitution of a memory without awareness; and
4.) Substitution with awareness.

For all four, I choose long-established memories, basic to his identity: knowledge of his family for 1 and 2, and knowledge of his name for 3 and 4. If I succeed with these, other memories should be much easier. I cannot guarantee the success of the procedure in every case, as this will be the most extensive trial, but past experience indicates a high probability of success.

Case 1: A memory that will not leave a noticeable hole must be chosen for this test. I have chosen the memory of his sister. He has two brothers and one sister, the baby of the family. If I succeed, he will believe that he has two brothers only; for him, the sister will disappear as if she had never been conceived.

Case 2: I need a memory that will leave a gaping hole, one that will itch, that will cry out to be filled. The given name of his mother will do. He will recall her face, her voice, her actions; but her name will be lost.

Case 3: His family name will do, if certain conditions can be met. The new name must not be contradicted. I suggest that those who know the former name and who see him regularly should submit to memory erasure to prevent inadvertent disclosure. You, I, Weiss, Herná¡ndez, Ibarra, and a few others can retain the information. However, we must be careful not to use his original name. If I succeed, however, the new name will replace the old smoothly. Seá±or Deon will become Seá±orita Pinkerton (the change will have to be included in the memory treatment of the finca personnel), and he will believe that his family name has always been Pinkerton. This has the added benefit that any search for his past will be made in this name.

Case 4: The most challenging test is this, for it involves the loss of a basic part of his identity. His given name is an obvious choice. He will be aware of his loss, and he will be desperate to recover his true name. If I succeed, his efforts will be futile, and the new name, however patently false, will completely replace the old to his own mind. I theorize that, after a short time, the initial sense of bitter loss will be dulled, because of the lack of a hole; but new ground is broken here, and I cannot know. We will see.

If I may trespass on the domain of Doctor Ibá¡á±ez: We believe that the physical changes have reached a point where a phenomenon known as “cognitive dissonance” is becoming important. The nascent Seá±orita Pinkerton still considers himself to be male, but more and more this clashes with what he sees in the mirror every morning. Moreover, some of his memories are of girlhood. The forced acknowledgment, to himself, of a feminine name will intensify the dissonance. We predict that his mind will ultimately resolve the dissonance by changing his self-image. She will come to consider herself a woman, and will act as one.

The alternative, I think, is a complete mental breakdown, most likely terminating in suicide.
 
 
May 30

-- Late in the afternoon, Don Pablo rang for Jaime and told him, “Jaime, tomorrow we will have three visitors. They will interview Seá±or Deon, so that later they will be able to evaluate the extent of our success in reshaping him. See that arrangements are made for them.”

“Very well, Seá±or.”

“One more thing, Jaime. Seá±or Deon and Seá±orita Baca are still using Seá±or Deon’s old name. That will stop. On Wednesday morning, have ‘Pansy’ and Petunia taken to Ibarra at the Institute.  ¿And Jaime?”

“ ¿Seá±or?”

“I ask you and others who know his old name to submit to memory erasure as well. It is harmless and it eliminates the chance that someone will slip and reveal the old name. I understand the natural reluctance to have a doctor play with one’s mind, so as an incentive I will award 10,000 lempiras to those whose memories are altered.  ¿Do you understand?”

“Yes, Seá±or. I think there will be no problem.”

 
 
May 31

-- Taqi Ergec had spent a comfortable night at Las Rosas. He had been sent by the Iraqi government to investigate the efficacy of the procedures that Pablo Herrera was developing. Seá±or Herrera had explained that other representatives had come for the same reason, but that was not a problem. It was generally known (within select circles) that personality-modification research programs were being pursued in several places, but Iraq had had little success. A comparatively small sum of money (for an oil-rich country) might allow his country to catch up, at least a little. The details of this project titillated some within the Islamic regime; the idea that opponents could be condemned to live as a servant girl, with no hope of escape, appealed to them. He had discussed the idea with Ivá¡n Machado, a Cuban who had shared his room, and found that the notion attracted the patriarchal Cubans as well.

Jaime ushered the visitors to the library, where Don Pablo welcomed them and offered drinks. Ergec chose a Drambuie, and the others, rum drinks. Their host rang a bell and ordered the refreshments. “Sá­, Seá±or,” the maid replied, returning in five minutes to hand each man his drink. Ergec accepted it with a murmured “Gracias”–his Spanish went little further–and ogled the adolescent girl. Her breasts were less than ripe, but the bodice of her thin cotton dress revealed their outline clearly. Don Pablo nodded in approval and, indicating a stool by the wall, ordered, “Siéntese aquá­ y espere un ratito. Es posible te necesitamos otra vez.” He turned his attention back to his guests and, after exchanging pleasantries, said, “Now, the business at hand. You may be interested in supporting the Ovid Project, but you are not certain whether the benefits to you would justify the cost. Am I right?”

Machado replied: “That is fair. We must know–see for ourselves–that our money will be well spent. We need–not proof–but evidence that your far-reaching claims have some basis in reality.” The others agreed.

“I believe I can do that.” He paused. “Would you like some fruit? I have local strawberries, or fresh mangoes, or others–and you must have some of my home-grown coffee.” Taqi wondered when they’d “deal with the business at hand”, but didn’t press the issue; each visitor chose, and Don Pablo ordered, “Pansy, fetch the fruit and serve our visitors. And make fresh coffee as well.” With a “Sá­, Seá±or,” the maid left for the kitchen. The don went on: “I have corresponded with you gentlemen, and with others, offering to document the changes we have imposed on our subjects; but you objected that documents and photographs could be faked. I suggested another course: that I should provide the documentation, and also allow you to observe and interview our main subject during his treatment. He is receiving a radical course, involving the complete transformation of every aspect of his being.”

Ergec said, “You imply that we will have several interviews?”

“Yes, of course. We can discuss conditions later. The subject is five months into his two years of treatment, so you cannot interview him before changes are begun; but we have transcripts, videos, and medical data, and the main part of the treatment–the psychological and mental transformation–is mostly ahead. Even the physical changes are only begun–although well begun, I think. Whatever you decide, the first interview is free. It is just a teaser, of course, and you will only be able to follow the success–or failure–of our attempt if you help to support the experiment. Of course, even partial failures give us, and you, valuable data–and my doctors assure me that at least a partial success is highly likely. I suspect your own experts have told you the same.” They all confirmed his guess.

“When can we see this subject?” the third visitor, Albert Bianchi, asked.

Don Pablo chuckled. “In a very few moments, Seá±ores. But tell me, if you will, how you would use the technology I am offering you. Seá±or Machado?”

“Does it matter? We are offering a fair price–more than fair. What we would do is our own business.”

“Yes, of course. Your financial proposal was quite generous, and I do not–cannot–insist on anything more. However, if I understand your purpose, I might be better able to help you achieve it.”

Machado unbent slightly. “I see. Our purpose is to reform lawbreakers by making it impossible–literally unthinkable–for them to return to their old ways.”

“I understand. That has been one of the main thrusts of our program, as you know.” Don Pablo didn’t comment on the ideological nature of many of the “crimes” in the Cuban legal code.

Ergec claimed the same goal: the rehabilitation of criminals, not dwelling on the often-religious nature of the “crimes” in the theocratic state of Iraq. Privately, he knew of several dissidents–and rivals–who might usefully be degraded to the status of docile serving girls, bound by the constraints of a strict Muslim society.

“And you, Seá±or Bianchi?”

“The same. Rehabilitation has, by and large, been a failure. Your process might afford a practical alternative to imprisonment. It may be expensive, but if it works–if you can change a man’s basic nature–it’d be cheaper than keeping him locked up for decades.” He paused: “It might also be a stronger disincentive than prison.”

When the maid returned with the fruit and coffee and began to pass it out, Don Pablo turned to his visitors. “I will allow you to speak with the subject in private, if you wish.” He rose to leave.

Puzzled, Bianchi spoke for all three when he replied, “Yes–but where is he?”

“In front of you. Let me introduce Pansy Deon, born George Deon, who is training as a maid. He still thinks of himself as a norteamericano, but we are transforming him into a peasant girl. Already after just a few months, he has been changed more than a little. Of course, the physical transformation is only a means to our end–merely the first step in a process of psychological engineering. If we succeed, then nineteen months from today, he–she–will be content–no, pleased–to spend the rest of her life washing dishes and changing diapers, as my daughter’s maid. Ask him–still ‘him’, at this moment, in spite of his appearance–what you will.” He bowed slightly and left.

George stood there stunned until Ergec asked, “Is this true? Are you an American man?” “Y…yes, I… I am,” he stuttered, his tenor voice demonstrating the truth of his statement.

Ergec recoiled. “How…? But…” Collecting himself, he demanded: “Tell me, why do you allow this?”

“Allow it?” George’s voice rose. “You think I’m allowing it? I don’t have a choice! I’m a prisoner, and they punish me if I don’t obey them.” He didn’t ask for help, knowing that such a plea would be useless.

Machado asked, “Seá±or, what is your usual–I mean, your former–occupation? You have not always worked as a serving maid, I can guess?” He added quickly, “You seem to make a very good maid, though.”

“I’m a scientist. A research chemist,” was George’s abrupt reply.

An educated professional man. He’d agree to remain a maid? “You know what Seá±or Herrera plan for you?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think he will succeed?”

“No.”

“Do you approve them?”

“Hell, no! He’s crazy!”

Bianchi signaled to Machado that he wanted to break in, and said to George, “Tell us about yourself–your background in the States, why you came to Honduras, how you came to be here. That sort of thing.”

Reluctantly George complied, with a sanitized version of his recent history.

Machado asked a few more questions in Spanish, and George’s responses in that language made it even more plain that he was indeed a norteamericano.

Don Pablo returned in a few minutes and sent George back to his other duties. “Well, gentlemen?” he asked. “Do you think this test would be sufficient for your purposes?”

“Let me get this clear,” Bianchi said. “You intend to change this George Deon into a woman–a Honduran peasant girl, you said?–and force him–her–to work for your daughter.”

“Yes, and no. Change him to a woman, yes, as thoroughly as possible–but after he is released, I will not force him to do anything. If he truly becomes a peasant girl–psychologically as well as physically–then he will want to be a maid; it will be an attractive career. That, of course, is the true test of success for the Ovid Project.”

Ergec broke in. “He will become a functional female, then?”

“As much as possible, but we do not know how how far we can go. If you support us, you will find out.”

Ergec seemed unsatisfied, but said no more. Bianchi took over again. “The physical change is less significant to my people. You are claiming you’ll change his mind–his personality–to that of a peasant girl?”

“We do not know how successful we will be, but yes, that is our aim: Pansy should be meek and feminine, and content to live the life of a traditional peasant girl. As such, he–or she–would ask to keep her position after we free her. If she is a capable and willing maid–I emphasize ‘willing’–we will be satisfied. Otherwise, no.”

After more discussion, all three men agreed: their organizations should support the project.

 
 
June 1

-- On the morning of June 1 George and Petunia were drugged and taken away. The two awoke in what looked like a laboratory. Although the walls had ornate tapestries and old paintings, the bright fluorescent lights and the large machines studded with switches and dials bespoke the purpose of the room. They were strapped into facing chairs with wires attached to their bodies. George thought he recognized the apparatus in part; they were wired to polygraphs. Additional electrodes clung to their skulls. George struggled, but to no avail. He was completely immobilized. A tall man with dirty-blond hair walked in front of him.

“I am Doctor Jesáºs Ibarra. You are Pansy Deon, no?”

George protested: “No! I’m called ‘Pansy’ in this madhouse, but you know better. I’m George Deon! You have no right to keep me here! Let me go!”

Ibarra smiled and shook his head. “I’m afraid not, Seá±or Deon. I know you think of yourself as ‘George Deon’, but don’t you remember what Don Pablo told you? You’ll accept a girl’s name, and forget ‘George’. But is ‘Pansy’ really such a terrible name? Especially for someone who is beginning to look so attractive in a dress.”

Involuntarily George glance down at the bodice of his sleeveless peach dress, where his bosom was only too obvious. “It’s a silly, stupid name, even for a woman. It’s a horrible name for me! I’m a man! I’ll never accept it!”

“I have good news. After today we will not force you to use that name.” George started to feel some relief, but Ibarra went on: “We won’t need to use force; you will name yourself–you will think of yourself–as ‘Pansy’. Don Pablo said you would forget George. As would Petunia. Now I make it come true.”

George didn’t believe him: “Bullshit! You can’t do that!”

A pained look crossed Ibarra’s face. “Last month you had a hint of what I can do. Don’t you recall, your Papá¡ gave you a doll? And a part of you still likes to wear a fancy party dress. I did that mostly with drugs, and it was temporary. Or at least your acceptance of those memories was temporary. Eventually we’ll integrate those memories with others, and you’ll have a new past: a Honduran girlhood. It will help you adapt to your new life.”

So this was the bastard who had tampered with his memories. “When the drugs wear off, I’ll know the truth!”

“You will know it’s not your birth name–but it will be the only name you have. And after you become woman–completely woman–the new memories and the new name will be more concordant with your new identity. Subconsciously you may find them more acceptable, repressing the discordant memories of your lost masculine past. But we won’t depend on that. You see, we have another tool, more powerful than the hypnotic drugs.”

George knew how effective the last treatment had been. What could be stronger? “No,” he protested, “I don’t believe you. Maybe you can repress my memories temporarily, but they’ll come back.”

“You may be right. After all, this is an experiment. You’re a scientist yourself, I believe–although that will change.” When Hell freezes, thought George. “My method may interest you. It’s a refinement of electroconvulsive shock therapy, once used to treat depression. Sometimes it had the unfortunate side effect of erasing memories. I’ve adopted the technique, but by using drugs, I can intensify the effect and control what memories are lost.”

“I don’t give a fuck what your technique is! What do you think you’re doing, conducting some insane seminar? I’m not interested!”

Ibarra shrugged. “You have a point, Seá±or. Enough idle chatter. Now I must edit ‘George’ from your mind.” Then he asked George to state his name.

George was horrified. Ibarra was preparing to take away his identity! “Doctor, please! This whole… this whole project is inhuman! I… you… you can’t do this to another human being!”

Petunia shouted at Ibarra in Spanish, “ ¡You cannot do this!”

Ibarra apologized to Petunia: “I’m sorry. You won’t be hurt, but I must follow Don Pablo’s orders. Again, I’m sorry.” Turning to George, he remarked, “Another human being? Maybe it would bother me if I saw you that way, but I can’t afford to–no experimental psychologist can. You’re not human, not to me: you’re a guinea pig. A lab rat. Nothing more. He motioned to an aide at a console. “Now, Seá±or guinea pig, tell me your first name.”

George paused, then shouted, “Go to hell, fuckhead!”

“We don’t need cooperation. Answer or not, as you like–but your lack of courtesy just cost you the memory of your mother’s name.” He motioned to another assistant, who thrust a hypodermic into George’s arm, then another into Petunia’s. Ibarra told them, “One drug removes resistance and compels obedience, and the other binds to memory sites in the cortex, to destroy them. You received the first in your previous experience.” By the time Ibarra finished his statement, George was beginning to drift. He tried to resist, but it didn’t really seem important. In fact, nothing was important. He sat there quietly, passively. Ibarra ordered them, “Do not think, do not remember anything, except what I ask for. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” George replied, and he heard Petunia answer, “Sá­.”

“What is your first name, your original first name?”

“George.”

George felt a shock. He was disoriented for an instant. “Tell me again,” the doctor ordered, but George couldn’t remember. Ibarra smiled and told his assistant, “That’s enough power. The real test comes now.” Turning back to George again, he asked, “You are called George, I believe. Now, what is your real first name again?”

Of course it was George! “I’m George…” and the slight shock hit again.

Ibarra repeated, “What did your name used to be?”

His victim tried to reply, but he was slightly dazed, and unsure. “I was… I was… Wait… I was George. I…I am George.” He felt a shock again, a little stronger, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except obeying Ibarra.

The doctor turned to Petunia and asked, “Who is that man?”

Petunia answered in English “He’s George. George Deon.” Her technician pressed the button, and her head jerked spasmodically. George knew he should worry, but it wasn’t important.

Nevertheless, Ibarra must have noted a needle move on the polygraph, because he reassured George: “She’s all right. The shock’s harmless. There’s no pain, as you have seen. Now, what did you call yourself?”

Involuntarily George tried to remember: “I am… I am…” He recalled Petunia’s reply. It seemed unfamiliar to him, but it had to be correct. Didn’t it? “Yes. I’m Geor…” And the shock hit him again, stronger yet.

Ibarra turned to Petunia again and asked: “She is Pansy,  ¿yes?”

“No. She is… I mean, he is… is… George.” Shocks hit both of them.

The helpless man was asked again, who were you? He tried to remember. He knew he had been drugged to cooperate, but he couldn’t resist, and it didn’t matter anyway. He scoured his memory, but it didn’t come. It was on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn’t recall it.

“Good!” Ibarra said. “Were you, perhaps, Ralph?” No, he didn’t recognize it. “ Thomas?” No. “Joe?” No again. “George?” He felt a small jolt of recognition, but a stronger shock hit, and he lost it. “Petunia,  ¿was your lover John?” No. Peter? No. George? They were both hit again. “Petunia,  ¿what was your lover’s name?”

“It was… I think it was…  ¡I don’t know!”

The doctor asked again, “ ¿Was it Peter?  ¿or John?  ¿or James?  ¿or Albert?  ¿or Bill?  ¿or George?” She twitched, but her companion received no shock. “ ¿Maybe Silvio?  ¿Jack?  ¿Dick?  ¿Alfred?  ¿Roger?  ¿Paul?  ¿John?  ¿Bill?  ¿Robert?  ¿Andrew?  ¿Carlos?  ¿George?  ¿Patrick?  ¿Bill?  ¿Theodore?”

There was a flicker of recognition: his middle name was Theo… The shock hit again. “That’s right! You had two names,” Ibarra noted in English. “You told Don Pablo your middle name was Theodore!” As he stated the name, a shock wiped it away immediately. The man tried to bring it back. Ibarra smiled and helped him: “Your middle name is Theodore…” His mind was hit with another inaudible explosion. Ibarra asked for the name again.

The helpless man tried to recall it, but his memory was blank. He had no identity. “No, I don’t remember.” he told Ibarra uncertainly; “I am… My name is…” He couldn’t remember.

Ibarra turned to Petunia. “Petunia, help him.  ¿Who is he?  ¿What is his name?  ¿Do you know, Petunia?”

She looked puzzled, and told him, “I don’t know. I can’t remember.”

He fitted earphones over their ears and turned back to his first subject.

Through the earphones a voice asked, “Who are you now? Who have you always been?” and he tried to reply: “I am… I used to be…” He heard “George”; it wasn’t familiar–in fact, it seemed foreign–but it was erased anyway. The process continued forever, it seemed; the drugs interfered with his time sense. But it didn’t matter.

At last Ibarra removed the earphones. “Your names are thoroughly eradicated. In effect, you have never heard those words in your life,” he told his subject, who was mildly interested, but no more. Ibarra went on, “Now we’ll assign a new name.” He injected a new drug into the subjects; the memory enhancer entered their bloodstreams. “Listen and obey. You want to know your name. You must tell me! You need a name!”

Suddenly he had to find his name! He was desperate to obey. “My name… My name is… I don’t know!”

Ibarra smiled: “You are Pansy; your full surname is Pansy-Ann. Now tell me: what do they call you?”

The man shook his head, but repeated, “I’m Pansy… Pansy-Ann?” He was unsure. “They call me… Pansy?”

“Tell me your name again.”

Again the man repeated, “My name is Pa… Pansy.” He still hesitated, although the name was familiar.

Ibarra told him, “That’s right. You are Pansy. You have always been Pansy. Tell me again.”

“I’m Pansy,” he said, and believed it. It sounded right for him. Everyone called him Pansy, didn’t they?

“Who were you before you came here?”

He tried to think. Of course he had had another name. “I was… My name was… I don’t know. I’m Pansy.”

Ibarra smiled, and pressed: “But who were you? Last year?”

“I was…” There was no other name. “I was… I don’t remember.”

“Your parents named you Pansy. You have always been Pansy. Now who were you last year?”

“I was… Pansy. No! I was… I don’t know. I’m Pansy. I…” His resistance died. “I was always Pansy.”

“Yes, you are Pansy, or Pansy-Ann; you have always been Pansy-Ann. You think of yourself as Pansy Deon.”

Pansy nodded. “Yes, I’m Pansy-Ann. I’m Pansy-Ann Deon!” Of course he was! It had never been otherwise.

Ibarra turned back to Petunia. “Look at that pretty girl.  ¿What is she called?”

Petunia’s head twitched. She responded, “Pansy…  ¡No! She… he was called… It was…” She twitched again.

“She is your girlfriend, named Pansy-Ann, or Pansy. As her close friend, you call her Pansita. Now,  ¿her name is…?”

Petunia replied, “He… his name is…” A battle was fought and lost. “She is Pansy-Ann Deon. She’s Pansita.”

“Yes, she is your dearest girlfriend Pansita.  ¿Who did she used to be?”

“I don’t know. I don’t remember. She… No, he… he was…”

“She has always been Pansy. Now,  ¿who is she?  ¿What was your girlfriend’s name when you first met her? Tell me.”

“Pansy… My girlfriend… Her name… It was Pansy. He… she was always Pansy.” Her face wore a confused look.

Ibarra was satisfied. He replaced the earphones and left. The names “Pansy-Ann” and “Pansy” repeated over and over, in every possible context, in both English and Spanish. They absorbed the words without thinking. In three hours Ibarra returned and told his assistant, “A few more details and we’ll be done.” He injected both with more drugs, then changed Pansy’s last name. His mother’s first name was erased. His father became Leo, who lived in Tulsa; his brothers became Willy and Peter; and the existence of his sister was obliterated.

“How old are you?”

“I… I’m twenty-two.” Shock.

“No, you look much younger than that.” Shock. “Surely you are just a teenager.” He grinned: “In fact, you are nineteen. Your birthday was the first of April.” It became so. “Tell me again. Your birthday is?” After twenty minutes, Pansy “knew” he was just nineteen years old.

To prevent the recovery of George’s original identity, Ibarra altered a few additional details: such as his birthplace, social-security number, and schools. George lost all knowledge of English measures; henceforth he’d think in metric. Details of his fictional girlhood were added. He finished by taking away the memory of the treatment session itself. It only remained to see if the changes were permanent. The new memories might cause some inconsistencies, but as long as they were minor, George’s mind should work around them, inventing explanations as needed, and even manufacturing vague memories to fit together a coherent story.

Ibarra repeated the Deon/Pinkerton substitution with Petunia. He then made sure that Petunia had none of the knowledge erased from George. Both subjects, still unconscious, were then returned to Las Rosas.

Ibarra considered George to be an invaluable research subject. He wrote that evening:

He must remain here. I have nineteen months to work actively with him, but after the changes are done, a long-term study of their permanence, and of any side effects, must be made. Don Pablo will release him then, under the presumption that he will be forced to remain with Susana Herrera as her maid. I believe that presumption to be correct, and I will do all in my power to see that no other option remains. I firmly believe that Pansy Pinkerton, born today, will prove a fascinating and productive subject.

 
 
June 2

-- The former lovers awakened in the morning with no memory of the previous day. They were a bit groggy, but thought nothing of it. Petunia asked, “Pansita, can I please have the sugar?” during breakfast, but neither took any notice. (Of course, by now the name seemed apt enough, given his appearance, and he had long since become accustomed to it.) At last, though, it occurred to Petunia that “Pansy” was not, could not be, what she called her girlfr… no, her boyfriend!–whatever others did. She shook her head, wondering how she could have made such a stupid error. But it seemed so right–and she couldn’t recall her–his, his, HIS–real name! At last she asked, “Darling, forgive me, but…” She stopped, then took a deep breath and went on: “What’s your name?”

He was puzzled at first. What was her problem? “My name? How could you forget it? I’m Pansy…” But then it hit him too: his real name wasn’t Pansy, even if he was forced to answer to it temporarily. “No, of course my name isn’t really Pansy. It’s… My name is… It’s…” “Pansy” shouldered its way into his mind. His name–there had to have been another name–was gone. He was… Pansy. It seemed he had always been Pansy. He tried to think back. His brothers… they had called him… Pansy? “My real name… I… I can’t remember it!”

“Your middle name!” Petunia cried. “What’s your middle name?”

“It’s… It’s Ann! My middle…” He stopped abruptly, horrified. “No! My parents called me…” He recalled his mother scolding him–as Pansy-Ann Pinkerton. But that was ridiculous! He was… He had been…

Ridiculous or not, “Pansy” was his name. There was–could be–no other, however he and Petunia cudgeled their brains. Pansy wept as he realized that his old name was lost. There wasn’t even a hole in his memory–no “tip of the tongue” sensation. In spite of the fact that he was a man (now less than obvious, to be sure), his memory insisted that he was, and had always been, Pansy-Ann Pinkerton. He recalled what Don Pablo had told him: “You will abandon your old name. It will be lost to you.” He had made good on his promise. But how?

That afternoon the lovers tried to return to normalcy. Petunia’s eyes were red from weeping and Pansy was abstracted from the world around him but they covered some Spanish. They even managed to converse in Spanish. Petunia didn’t call her lover by name, but he let the matter pass. He knew intellectually that he hadn’t always been Pansy, but his memory told him otherwise. “But I’m still a man, even if I don’t look like it now,” he insisted to himself. “I do have a man’s name. It’s recorded in lots of places that I can’t reach now; it’s on my driver’s license, my transcripts, my passport.” Nevertheless, he had no idea what that name might have been. He could think of himself only as Pansy. He saw the name on his blouses and shells, and recognized it with an instinctive “That’s me!” He tried to convince himself that he could recover his identity after his release, but he wasn’t successful. “I may never get it back!” he realized with terror. “I may be Pansy-Ann Pinkerton forever!”

But he still knew details of his past; he knew he had been born in Ovid, Oklahoma; he had graduated from Oklahoma State; he recalled his family, his home. He recalled the events that had brought him there, starting with Celia. There were too many loose ends for his identity to remain hidden indefinitely, he thought desperately. Even if they erased more of his past (but how?), he was sure he’d find one of those loose ends and pull on it until the mystery unraveled! He’d write to his family! His friends!

Petunia couldn’t help. “I don’t know!” she told him. “All I can think of is ‘Pansy’! And if I don’t make an effort, I think of you as a girlfriend!” But she refused to use the name. “I’ll call you ‘Jack’,” she decided. “If it’s a wrong name, it’s still better than that damned ‘Pansy’!” It was difficult to overcome the synthetic “knowledge” that his name was Pansy, especially since that name was in general use and (worse!) suited his appearance perfectly.

The results pleased Ibarra. The procedure had been well tested, and he was certain that the lost information would not reappear. He suspected that some ancillary memories had been lost, but that was unimportant, or even beneficial. After all, Seá±or Deon’s life history was irrelevant. Pansy wouldn’t need to know the details.

He sat at his desk, looking out his window but not seeing the garden. Did any loose threads remain? People and places in Pansy’s past had been erased, and new names substituted. The basic biography remained, but the labels were different. He had left unchanged items which would remind Pansy of why he had been punished. Celia was still there, for example, along with the details of their affair. And Mará­a Banderas and Susana, of course. But birthplace, home town, family, friends, past jobs–all their true names were gone. Experience with earlier subjects had shown that ancillary losses might include details connected with the erased name. Erasure of an address, for example, might entail the loss of unimportant fragments–the names of nearby streets, or the color of the building. Or it could completely obliterate everything connected with the name. It was hard to predict. Previous trials, with other subjects had given inconsistent results. He rubbed his hands together. There was so much to do! To reconstruct an entire life, utterly foreign to the original version… It was a wonderful challenge!
 
 
June 4

-- “Pansy” continued to search for his original identity, but his efforts diminished as he discovered that all traces of it seemed to have vanished. Moreover, he found that in Spanish (but not English!) he was now referring to himself in the feminine gender. Not Petunia, though; her references were still grammatically in the masculine gender. In spite of his appearance, she would not accept him as a woman, nor would she use the false name foisted on him. He was “Jack” to her, if “Pansy” to himself.

Shortly afterwards he found that his mother’s name was lost! He didn’t know it! He could recall her voice, her face. Her maiden name was Jamison, her married name was Pinkerton, but her given name was gone!

It occurred to him that his name had been written in his books and some of his effects. When he checked, he found “Pansy Pinkerton” inscribed in them.

Petunia smuggled a package of letters to the post office. Mail was slow, but it usually arrived. She sent requests to Leo Pinkerton in Ovid, Oklahoma; to the birth registry in Ovid; to Oklahoma State University for any records of an undergraduate named Pinkerton; to the United States Social Security Administration. Answers would come to the friend who was smuggling them. She would discover who her lover had been!

Pansy’s breasts continued to swell. As he dressed in the morning he was forced to admit that he appeared to be a young woman. A year ago, he realized, he’d’ve been quite stimulated by the sight of tits like these. Now, of course, breasts no longer stimulated him sexually (nor did anything else!). They only reminded him of his inexorable progress towards womanhood and his ever-more-probable future as Susana’s maid. The slow but inexorable swelling was obvious through his form-fitting tops. Some of his bras, fitted only two weeks before, were already a just little too tight. His own feminine charms were repugnant to him, but other men were finding his blossoming figure to be delightful. At the beginning of May he had been treated as a girl at Don Pablo’s command. Now only a month later, he was being treated as a girl as a natural response to his apparent femininity, just as Don Pablo had predicted. Worse, he feared that response might soon be appropriate.

In the middle of the morning Herná¡ndez visited Pansy, to give him another physical.

“It’s been over two months since my last examination,” Herná¡ndez explained. “By now I’m certain you’ve noticed the effects of my treatment. Everyone else has. Some are saying, you are quite a becoming female.” He grinned broadly. “I say, you are becoming quite female.”

Pansy flinched and told the doctor curtly, “Do what you have to. Get it over with, you bastard.”

“Muy bién. You know the procedure. Strip to the waist.” Herná¡ndez stretched a tape around Pansy’s bust line, then around his waist. He palpated the breasts, and Pansy winced. The doctor nodded. “Yes, of course your breasts are tender. As I told you earlier, that is to be expected. I was afraid the accelerated growth might cause problems, but they are normal–for an adolescent female, of course. Note the size of your nipples, the diameter and pigmentation of your areolae. And secondary mounds are beginning to develop beneath the nipples: clearly an early entry into Tanner Stage 4 of puberty. Yes, they are more than satisfactory. Lift your skirt, por favor.” Pansy obeyed again. Herná¡ndez hummed softly as he passed the tape around Pansy’s hips. “Yes… yes indeed! Your hips and waist are showing some effect. Not quite womanly as yet, but girlish–definitely girlish.” He put the tape down. “Está¡ bién, Seá±orita. We are almost done.” He took a blood sample, and the examination was over. “You can dress now. You are doing nicely,” he remarked. “After only five months, your body responds quite favorably.”

“Favorably for who?” retorted Pansy bitterly as he fastened his bra. “Not for me, and it’s my body!”

“Seá±orita, it is favorable for you, although I understand why you might not realize it. Your life as a man is over; when we finish, no one will ever mistake you for a male. In fact, already you would find it difficult to pass as a man. But you will have a new life as a woman, and as a woman you will find that an attractive figure makes life so much more pleasant.” He sat down and lit a cigarette. “Your shape is the most obvious effect. Your skin and hair texture will also change, and your voice; but those changes are minimal so far. With a five-month baseline, I can see your development progressing more rapidly than I expected. You must realize, I have little past experience to draw on. You are unique in my professional career and there is little in the literature. I find you fascinating.” A smirk crossed his face: “Other men find you fascinating for different reasons. I suspect you have noticed.”

“A one-sided interest, Seá±or.” He had indeed noticed, shrinking from the appraising gazes he was starting to draw. “I’m still attracted to women, even if I can’t do anything about it. I’m still a man inside.”

That drew a shrug. “It is not my concern. I am charged only with reshaping your body.”

Pansy looked down at his chest. Herná¡ndez was succeeding far too well in his cursed assignment. “Doctor…” He hesitated, then rushed on. “Doctor, I need a… I need bigger bras. Can you ask Don Pablo if he’ll arrange it?”

Herná¡ndez puffed on a cigarette, then replied, “Yes, I agree. Women in your family have large busts, and now those same genes have been activated in you. I will pass on your request.” He tilted his head and added, “Look at the bright side, Seá±orita . At least you will never have to worry about male-pattern baldness.”

After the doctor left, Pansy looked at his own body with loathing. His feminization seemed to be accelerating. He recalled the don’s words, less than two weeks ago: “Every morning, your breasts are slightly larger than on the day before. Your body is becoming soft and rounded. Your shape will be unmistakably womanly.” It was true; he saw it in the damned mirrors every day. Objectively he knew how attractive he himself would once have found jugs like these, on some sweet young thing. Now, though, they were repulsive excrescences, and portents of his imminent doom. No question about it: he’d need a mastectomy after his escape. And that escape had to be soon!

Herná¡ndez’s report pleased Don Pablo. The doctor’s potions were powerful, and Pansy’s advance through puberty had been rapid. Already, his breasts were those of a girl well along towards womanhood. Jaime reported that Seá±orita Baca still refused to accept the transformation as, not only an inevitable destiny, but in large part a fait accompli. In spite of the visible evidence, she persisted in referring to Pansy as a man. The don smiled to himself. Petunia’s task of denial would become ever more difficult. Eventually, she would have to concede that Pansy no longer qualified as a boyfriend. Don Pablo was curious as to what would finally persuade her.

 
 
June 5

-- After breakfast Pansy primped, as he did each morning. He was late. He gave his hair a perfunctory brush (it was far too long–how had it grown so fast?), added barrettes, inserted a pair of silver earrings, and did his nails. “That’s good enough,” he thought, looking at his reflection in the mirror. “More than enough! After all, I’m not looking to win a beauty contest.” In spite of his attitude, he still felt depressed at not looking his best.

The morning session was cut short. When he arrived, Conchita agreed with his own evaluation of his appearance. She looked at him disapprovingly. “Pansy, you are lazy in your personal grooming. Your face is unacceptable. I told you, you got to make yourself pretty, so that others will enjoy your presence. Your appearance is suitable for the laundry–barely–and that’s where you’ll spend the day.”

Evelina was happy to have her old pupil back. “I see you’re too stupid to be a high-class maid. Well, laundry is simple, even for a stupid girl like you. There’s a lot today, and I’ll see you do it right.” He was given a large pile of filthy workmen’s clothes reeking of horses and sweat, and an old-fashioned corrugated washboard and tub. “Clean them like new, or you’ll regret it. When they’re done, there’s a pile of diapers over there.” Pansy had already smelled them.

By suppertime the old aches in arms, legs, and back had returned in full force. He was sweaty and dirty, and his knuckles were skinned. “I will not return here,” he promised himself. “At least, not for some stupid thing like too little lipstick. They want a fashion model, I’ll make them happy.” After supper he re-did his face with meticulous attention, until he saw a very attractive girl in the mirror. On completion, he felt only a sense of satisfaction at a task well done, and none of the repugnance that would once have disturbed him. Petunia noted the touch-up job he had done, but didn’t comment, assuming that he was only complying with an order.
 
 
June 6

-- Pansy woke as dawn lightened the eastern sky. Mist filled the Comayagua valley, but the mountains on the far side floated as a blue mass above the clouds and stood silhouetted against the rosy sky. Songs of early-rising birds in the pine woods vied with the roosters. A donkey protested below the finca. “Damn it, I need to get away from here,” he thought. “Just to roam the woods freely again. It seems forever since I was able to do that. If Don Pablo would just let me…” Then he realized that Don Pablo had laid down specific conditions–and that those conditions were now fulfilled. Not by choice, perhaps, but fulfilled nonetheless. When Jaime arrived that morning to escort him to his training session with Conchita, Pansy reminded him of Don Pablo’s promise.

“He said, when I wear the clothing of a woman, I can to go out.” Pansy concentrated, to recall the don’s exact words. “He telled me I will go free on finca when I wear a woman’s clothing. Look at me, Jaime. I wearing a woman’s clothing now, blouse and skirt and sandals.  ¡I even ask for a bra! Ask the don if I can go out now.  ¡Please!”

Jaime raised his eyebrow. “Perhaps, chica. Like before, I got to ask Don Pablo.” Later that morning he relayed the request: “She said you told her she’d be given free run of the finca when she wore women’s clothing.”

The don chuckled. Pansy had indeed satisfied his conditions, if involuntarily. “Convey my respects to our guest. Tell her: ‘You and Petunia can move freely within Las Rosas. I rely on you, as an honorable woman, not to abuse your privilege.’ And remind her to wear an orchid in her hair when she returns, as agreed.” He pointed out to Jaime that the security measures would prevent an escape in any case, whether Pansy behaved honorably or not. “And her futile attempts to escape only help to fix in her mind the certain conviction that she is helpless, and must not resist authority.”
 
 
June 8

-- Having granted Petunia and Pansy the run of Las Rosas, the don also gave Pansy the day off. At dawn they were strolling through the cafetal. Petunia’s pregnancy had become obvious, but she could still walk easily. She was disturbed that, even for this outing, Pansy not only had applied makeup, but had tried to do it well. Pansy made an excuse that he couldn’t afford to risk disobedience, but Petunia could see that he had come to enjoy it. He was getting a needed morale boost; perhaps, he rationalized, it was a matter of having a lemon and making lemonade. If he had to look like a girl, at least he’d be a pretty girl. But Petunia saw the point of the compulsory exercise: after a few months, Pansy had begun to enjoy using makeup. Don Pablo was winning.

At sunrise they saw a magical world. Las Rosas had never switched from “shade” coffee, so that the coffee-growing portion of the finca still had its forest cover. A cool mist drifted among epiphyte-loaded oaks. Pansy pointed out orchids and bromeliads to Petunia, but she knew many of them already. He picked one of the orchids, a pale-pink Laelia, identified it for her, and pinned it into his hair, explaining that it was a condition of their stroll.

“Yes, I’ve seen lots of them,” she said. “Remember, Jack, I grew up here. The local people call it Flor de Jesáºs.” In turn, she pointed out the gurgling flute-like song of a jilguero, or solitaire, hidden in a barranca.

“Yes, I’ve heard it in Mexico,” Pansy told her, “but I’ve never seen one.”

Petunia laughed, and said, “I doubt you’ll see one now, either. They’re pretty shy. Pretty dull-looking, too–gray and brown–but what a beautiful song they have!”

By 10 AM they were strolling through a piney woods. “This almost makes me homesick,” Pansy said. “Listen, that trill: it’s a chipping sparrow. I grew up hearing that in the pine forests at home. And that over there–look, quick!” A bright blue flash disappeared among the ocote pine trunks.

“No, I’m sorry, Jack, I missed it. What was it?”

“A bluebird! Just like in… in Oklahoma.” Pansy took a deep breath. The warm air smelled of pine resin. Suddenly his delight was replaced by homesickness. He looked down at a brightly embroidered blouse molded to his bosom, and almost retched. The outline of his breasts, filling his bra and clearly visible to him and to all who cared to look, disgusted him. “Petunia, I wish, oh God I wish I were home! Will I ever see it again?”

“I don’t know, Jack. The don says you can go in two years, so I guess the answer’s yes. But will you really go? Will it be Jack who leaves? Or whatever your name really is? I know you think of yourself as Pansy; I know it because in spite of myself, I can’t help thinking of you as Pansy, whatever I call you–and if I don’t make a special effort, I think of you as my girlfriend Pansy, just l… like you… you look!” She started to cry, then gained control of herself. “You… you will be my girl… girlfriend, if you don’t get away soon. They’ll persuade you that you’re Pansy Lá³pez, a girl from Tela, or… or some such nonsense. You’ll forget your home and your real identity, and accept that you grew up in Honduras. You’ll believe it. I’ll believe it, I’m afraid–I half believe it now! What would the pine forests of home mean to you then? Jack, you’ve got to escape.” She turned to him. “I think we can talk safely here. My friend’ll help us. He told me that Don Pablo depends a lot on electronic surveillance. The details are secret, and he couldn’t find out much, but the don can track you anywhere on the finca.” Pansy replied that he knew about that; he’d remove the ankle monitor. Petunia shook her head. “That’s only a small part of it. Even without it, he can follow you somehow. Now, in a few days there’ll be a power failure, late at night. The backup power won’t work for a while either. All his electronics’ll be useless. That’s when we’ll have to run.”

“But it’s a long walk to town,” he protested. “I’m sure the don’s men’ll be waiting for us when we get there.”

“That’s exactly right, so that’s not where we’ll go. I have a map of the back trails, and I found a place where we can get through the fence and head west across country, instead of southeast where the don’ll be looking for us. Siguatepeque is west of here, south of the Montaá±as de Xicaque. We can walk west as far as the town of La Laguna in a few hours. My friend’ll meet us this side of La Laguna and drive us along back roads the rest of the way to Siguatepeque. . By the time the don figures out what happened, it’ll be too late.”

Pansy grimaced. “I don’t know. What if something goes wrong?” He recalled his earlier attempts and shivered. The sunlight faded as clouds rolled across the hillside, and the air suddenly became cooler and damper. He pulled a shawl tightly around his body. “We’d better get back. It’ll be raining shortly.”

Petunia insisted. “Jack, we have to try, risky or not. You don’t want to… to lose your manhood, do you? That’s the alternative. You’re already…” She swallowed. “You… you’re already p…prettier than I am!”

“No, of course not. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean I won’t do it. I just think…” He shivered, only partly from the cool air. “I mean, it’s dangerous, but I’ll try. You’re right, I have to try! It’s just that… well, my chances are poor. They probably expect me to try.” He looked again at his bosom. “But every time I look in a mirror, I see less of… Jack, and more of Pansy. They’re succeeding; if I stay, he’ll finish the job, and I’ll become, if not a real girl, then a damn good imitation. I feel like one of those caterpillars that has a tiny wasp larva inside, slowly eating away. Little by little, I’m disappearing. It’s horrible. I can’t go on this way. What’s the timetable?”

“Next week. Nothing’s supposed to happen to you until then. Don’t worry about that thing on your ankle. We’ll just cut it off, like you said. With the power out, it won’t tell them anything.”

“Good. But I’m still worried about the drug I take in my morning pill. I’ve been hoarding a little of the pill each morning, to take with me. With luck, I’ll be able to get away without getting sick. At least not immediately; and when I do, I’ll just have to hope I survive it.” He tried not to think about the sickness he had endured before. And of course he wouldn’t have any identification, but he’d worry about that when the time came. He could just claim it had all been stolen; he wouldn’t be the first. “Anyway, I noticed the security seems to be looser. Don Pablo seems to think I’m pretty well trapped. We’ll show him that he’s wrong.”
 
 
June 11

-- “ ¡Pansy!  ¡Pansy-Ann!” Jaime’s high voice greeted Pansy as he tucked the corners of a sheet. This was the third time he had tried to make the bed under Conchita’s critical eye. She insisted that he get the sheets and blankets exactly squared, and unwrinkled. He had always made his own bed, and he thought he had done it competently, but she told him otherwise. Now he was grateful for Jaime’s interruption, if apprehensive.

“ ¿Yes, Jaime?  ¿What you want?” Probably nothing good, Pansy thought.

“ ¿Would you like to go to Tegucigalpa?  ¿Go to church, maybe get new books? We’re taking a group of women into town tomorrow. You can go to the noon Mass at the cathedral, then go shopping. You and Petunia are invited.”

Pansy didn’t know what to do. He wanted very much to leave the finca, even if only for an afternoon, and Tegus would be better than La Libertad, which was barely more than a village. But he still hated to appear in public, even after attending Mass in La Libertad. Still, in the morning he was going to go church dressed as a woman anyway. He might as well go to the city. “Ask Petunia,” he told Jaime. “I go if she agrees.”

Jaime returned in half an hour. “Petunia says yes. Be ready after breakfast, at 7:30.”
 
 
June 12

-- The two friends arose a little earlier on Sunday morning, and had a quick breakfast. As she dressed, Petunia asked Pansy, “Do you know Tegus at all?”

“No, not really,” her companion replied as he pulled a lace-trimmed white slip down over his body. “I’ve driven through it several times, and went to a movie there once or twice, but I’m not familiar with it.”

“Well, you’ve seen lots of big cities, so maybe you won’t be impressed, but for me it’s exciting.”

Pansy chose a sleeveless light-blue dress embroidered with flowers. It revealed his figure–there was no way to avoid it–but it was modest and he wouldn’t draw attention. His blue pumps had medium heels, practical for walking. He made up his face, selected earrings and necklace, put up his hair with barrettes, and tucked his Laelia blossom over his left ear. Petunia too wore a new outfit. When Jaime saw them, he judged Pansy to be the prettier.

At 7:45 Jaime and Hector Trujillo left with them, together with two young Las Rosas women. One was Mapy Hinojosa, the most sympathetic of his former students. She didn’t recognize him at first, then gasped when she realized who the pretty young stranger was, but she recovered and greeted him in Spanish as though he were just another girlfriend. The second was a stranger, Dionisia Utrillo, or Nicha. A homely girl with dark curly hair and a moon face, she was a friend of Mapy. She had no idea that “Pansy” was anything other than she seemed.

Pansy enjoyed his day in town, in spite of his attire. He was determined to make the most of the excursion, and to that end he behaved as if he accepted his feminine persona without reservation. The four companions chattered amicably in Spanish. Mapy covered for him with Nicha, explaining to her that Pansy was from the north, and was visiting relatives. In truth, Pansy’s constant practice had greatly improved her Spanish. There was no chance to escape, of course; Jaime and that black bastard Hector kept close to him, and he knew that flight was hopeless.

They arrived at the cathedral in time for the noon Mass. The ornate interior held a scent of incense. As Mass began, the three young women joined in the hymns. As before, Pansy abstained. It all seemed oddly familiar, but he couldn’t understand why. It seemed he’d been here before, but he knew he hadn’t; Seá±or Pinkerton had been remiss in attendance. Then it struck her; she had been a bridesmaid here. Of course she recognized it! A wave of nostalgia swept over Pansy, until she–no, he, HE–recalled that it was a lie. Even after he knew it was untrue, he had an eerie sense of déjá  vu. For a moment he had thought of himself–remembered himself!–as a young girl in a pink satin dress. And he still did–vividly! How had they done that? What else could they do?

Then the group, escorted by Jaime and Hector, went shopping. With cash provided by the don, Pansy bought a Harlequin romance novel in Spanish, a Pink Floyd CD, and (reluctantly) a flowery red dress, a lilac blouse, and pink barrettes, in addition to lingerie: the larger bras he needed (a full B cup), and matching panties. Petunia was unhappy that he behaved in such a feminine manner, but as he explained to her, he needed the excursion, and he saw no advantage in letting anyone know he was a man in a pale-blue dress.

While Pansy and Petunia were out, Ibarra and Ibá¡á±ez oversaw installation of equipment in a shed on the edge of the central finca compound. A memory scrubber had been added to the computerized monitor and control panel for Pansy’s chips, so that it wouldn’t be necessary to take their subject to San Pedro.

Ibá¡á±ez smiled. “I want Seá±or Deon to remain unaware that we’re working on his mind. When he goes to the clinic, he knows something’s up. Now there won’t be anything to give it away.”

“ ¿What do you have in mind for the immediate future, Doctor?”

“Just more of the same. Seá±or Deon already appears to be completely female, but I want his personality to match his appearance. If I succeed, he’ll enjoy pretty clothes and girlish trinkets. He’ll want to look cute and attract men.”

“His conditioning seems to be effective. I saw him mending shirts yesterday, and he seemed quite girlish. It wasn’t just the clothes–the skirt and the peasant blouse–or even his figure. It was the little things. He looked as if he really wanted to be pretty. The nails were carefully painted, his makeup was skillfully applied, his hair was brushed out.  ¿Your work?”

“Yes, but now he works on his appearance just to avoid punishment. I want him to enjoy wearing a pretty face.”

“ ¿And you’ve erased any possibility of escape?  ¿Has he accepted his new life?”

“No, not at all, for the second question–and he may never accept it. As for the first question: the computer tracks his location, and communicates with the chips in his head. It makes sure he isn’t where he’s not supposed to be.” He smiled slightly. “That may be the single most successful innovation I’ve developed. The only complication is that the computer needs to know when the subject’s allowed to leave. Like today, for example, when George went to Tegus–I made sure the programming didn’t kick in when he left. But it’s operative now. George is restricted to the finca again.”

Ibarra shook his head. “Don’t be so confident, Roberto. It’s a wonderful technology, quite elegant, but there’s always something that can go wrong. Something unforeseen.”

His colleague laughed. “No, I don’t think so. Not in this case. He doesn’t have a clue as to what’s controlling him, and that makes it hard to figure a way around it. And if he ever does find out, well then, you can erase it.  ¡It’s foolproof!”

Ibarra shook his head again. “I’ll have to remind you of that statement later, Roberto. Nothing is foolproof. We just don’t know the weak points yet. But there are weaknesses, you can be sure. There are always weaknesses.”

Upon Pansy’s return from Tegucigalpa, Doctor Ibá¡á±ez required him to take another psychological test. That evening, he analyzed the results. His personality still seemed close to a masculine norm, but the test suggested that Pansy had become more dependent, less aggressive, and more passive. His IQ scored five points lower.

Part 7: Doom!

 
 
June 17
-- That morning, at 2 AM, two figures crept out of the cottage. Petunia had told her friend (no longer lover) that the power was going off at exactly that hour, and sure enough, the light they’d left on, flickered off. Pansy had asked Petunia to stay behind. She could just give him the directions he’d need. “Petunia, you’re six months pregnant!” he protested. “You’re carrying my child! You can’t go off tramping across the mountains as if you were walking to the grocery! I’m a capable person. I can find my way if I know where I’m going, and your friend can pick me up by myself. Stay here!”

She wouldn’t stay, of course. “No way. You’d never make it. It’s not hard–I can do it easily. It’s just that you’d get lost. Or stumble into a village and be caught. You need me.” He finally agreed.

Pansy had borrowed a pair of Petunia’s pink slacks–all he had were dresses and skirts–so he could move more easily through the brush. He had put on earrings and touched up his lipstick. They had discussed what to wear; he had pointed out that he looked like a girl whatever he wore, and that he’d attract less attention if he didn’t try to pass as a man. She agreed reluctantly; Don Pablo’s crazy scheme had already taken a heavy toll. Still, he had one testicle left, she told herself. His changes could be reversed after they escaped. But this would probably be his last chance. The last vestiges of his masculinity would soon vanish. His last bridge would be burned.

If they could make it over the mountains, Petunia thought they might succeed. The ankle monitor was gone. Pansy had cut it off as soon as the power went, and it couldn’t betray their location now. If they fled rapidly enough, they could lose themselves in Tegucigalpa until Pansy could arrange to leave Honduras.

The weather favored the fugitives. There was no moon. The night was cool and humid, but rainless and fogless. Dew from the coffee bushes soon soaked them. As they walked silently through the cafetal, Petunia heard a lone rooster give a desultory crow. They reached the edge of Finca Las Rosas and slipped through a gap in a double fence, carefully creeping under a motion sensor on their bellies (Petunia worried that the power might have been restored by now). A path over the mountain led through remnants of cloud forest to neighboring fincas, and to the villages beyond. Petunia estimated that by 7 AM they could reach Siguatepeque.

Back at Las Rosas, the sabotage was discovered at 4:45 AM, when Jaime arose and found that the light in his room wouldn’t work. Five minutes later Don Pablo was awake. He immediately dispatched men to check the power supply and the emergency power; both seemed to be disabled. While electricity was being restored, Jaime checked on their “guests”. Their absence didn’t surprise him, but it imparted an urgency to the efforts to restore power. In the meantime, Hector took a truck to check the road out of the finca, as far as Comayagua.

By 5:30 the source of the problem was found. It was repaired within ten minutes. The don was sure the outage was sabotage, although it could plausibly have been accidental. He silently congratulated the escapees and their unknown accomplice; they had planned the break well. Ibá¡á±ez had assured him that the system was unbeatable, but clearly it had weaknesses. He wondered how Pansy or Petunia had gotten around it. Well, he’d worry about that later. His first priority was their recapture. He tuned in on Pansy’s tracer. The red dot marking her position faded onto the screen. The fugitives were well off the finca, some distance east of Siguatepeque. They must have headed west on foot through the mountains, avoiding the roads. A good strategy, he told himself. If not for the radio, they’d have had a good chance to escape. As it was, they had a good head start, but Ibá¡á±ez had told him the radio would enable him to find Pansy anywhere in the country. Then he reminded himself: Ibá¡á±ez had also told him that escape was impossible in the first place. He sent for Jaime, and ordered him to lead a team to seize the pair. Then he radioed Ibá¡á±ez in San Pedro, ordering him to Las Rosas at once. He considered activating the chip that would send Pansy deep into unconsciousness, but decided to wait until the fugitives could be apprehended without the need to carry Pansy for a long distance. When they reached the Siguatepeque road, where Jaime could pick them up more easily, he’d put her out. Jaime left the finca ten minutes later, in a van equipped with a portable receiver tuned to Pansy’s transmitter. He brought enough men with him to ensure that they could recapture the pair with little trouble, and he also carried a small control panel to activate Pansy’s chips.

By the first light of dawn Pansy and Petunia were walking through open grassy pine forest. A small owl serenaded them with mechanical, but musical, toots. As the light slowly waxed, ranks of pine trunks appeared ghostly in the cool morning mist. The liquid flutelike gurglings of the jilgueros, small shy thrushes, began shortly before sunrise. A piney aroma filled the air. With delight, Jack pointed out bromeliads perched on the branches. Petunia in turn was delighted to see him in such high spirits.

They reached a dirt road east of La Laguna just after sunrise. People were about, but they were just two more women headed for town. Suddenly Pansy grunted and collapsed at the side of the road. Petunia pulled him off the road and tried to arouse him without success. He was breathing normally, his pulse was strong, and when she checked his pupils, there was no sign of injury, but she couldn’t waken him. As she tried to think of what to do next, a blue Isuzu van pulled up. The driver opened the window and asked, “Seá±ora,  ¿are you Petunia Baca?” Petunia gasped with relief. “ ¡Yes, I am!  ¡Thank God you’re here! My friend fainted. Please, help me get him–her–in the van. I’ve got to get her to Tegus. She can see a doctor there.” Their savior carried Pansy easily and put him on a mat in the back of the van. He told Petunia, “No problem, Seá±ora. We’ll be in Tegus in no time.” Petunia climbed in and sat next to Pansy. The driver shut the door and they were left in darkness, as the van had neither windows nor a light in back. They began moving, as the van started along the dirt road towards their salvation.

Pansy stirred and awakened within three minutes. He was alarmed to find himself in total darkness, but Petunia reassured him, hugging him in relief. “My friend kept his word,” she told him. “We’re headed for Tegucigalpa. But what happened? You passed out on the road, and I couldn’t wake you up.”

He frowned in the darkness. “I don’t know. I got dizzy. Next thing I knew, I woke up here. But I’m OK now, I think. I feel OK, anyway.” Petunia helped him find the couch in the back–the van hadn’t been designed for passengers–and they carefully eased themselves onto it.

As they bounced along the dirt road in total blackness, Petunia explained that their benefactor was the brother of a man punished by Don Pablo. “I contacted him during one of my trips to town, and told him that Don Pablo was holding my girlfriend prisoner. He didn’t ask for any details. He doesn’t much care who you are or what you did, he just wants to stick a thumb in the don’s eye. In turn, I didn’t ask for any of the details of what he’d do, except for what we needed to know, to be able to meet the van. His driver’s taking us to Tegucigalpa. We’ll get a room there, and then we can figure out what to do next.”

Pansy didn’t care what the man’s reasons were. He was free! “I have to leave the country,” he told Petunia. “As long as I’m here, I’m in danger. The don can’t afford to have me escape–I know too much–and he’ll be looking for me high and low. He’ll find me if I stay.” Petunia nodded, but her face was unhappy, and Pansy added, “I need medical help, too, and I can get it in the U.S. Petunia, I still love you, but…” He glanced at his chest, invisible in the blackness. “Well, I’m not much of a man right now. After my body’s fixed up, I’ll come back. Or you can come to the U.S.” Problems waited for him there too, he knew. Celia certainly hadn’t forgotten him, not with his baby to remind her. Still, those problems paled in comparison with what awaited him here in Honduras. He dismissed his difficulties: “We’ll worry about it later. Right now, I have to get away.”

“But won’t you have a problem? I mean, you have no papers. No passport, no other identification. And… Well, you know… You don’t look much like the Seá±or Pinkerton who arrived here a year ago.”

“That shouldn’t matter. I’ll explain that I was kidnapped and my papers were stolen. I can’t be the first tourist to lose his papers. And I’m sure I can establish who I really am.”

“But you don’t know who you are. Don Pablo stole your first name.”

He acknowledged her point. “Yes, it’s a problem. I’ll claim amnesia. It’s true enough. Anyway, now that I’m free, I’ll find my name. I’ll just call people back in the States–family, friends, people like that. And they’ll send money, too, so I can get out of here. I’ve got to do it quick, before Don Pablo finds me and finishes his project.”

“You don’t need to do that. It’ll take too long. I’ll lend you the money, and you can send it back to me when you reach home.” She hated the thought of his leaving, but he was right. He had to get away as quickly as possible, if he was to recover his manhood.

Back at Las Rosas, the signal from the implanted transmitter cut off. The don called Ibá¡á±ez, who was already on his way to the finca. “Doctor, you told me the chips were as secure as prison bars. ‘There is no way to beat it,’ you assured me. Clearly you were wrong.  ¿What happened?”

Over the radio the doctor’s voice betrayed his frustration. “I don’t know, Seá±or. Of course, when the power was shut off, we couldn’t use the chips. The prison doors were opened, so to speak. It also kept us from detecting the subject’s transmitter signal.  ¿But now? I don’t know yet. The only thing I can think of is that something’s blocking the transmission. He’s got to be in a metal enclosure of some kind.”

“I do not think you mentioned that possibility before, Doctor.” Then the don took a deep breath. Recriminations would have to wait. He asked, “ ¿What do you suggest now? We cannot afford to allow our subject to escape.”

In his black Toyota south of Lake Yojoa, the doctor puzzled over the problem and replied, “Well, Seá±or, the transmitter will tell us where they are when the shielding is removed. They may be headed for Tegucigalpa, or possibly San Pedro. The transmitter range isn’t sufficient for either. If he goes to San Pedro, he’ll be picked up on the Institute equipment, and one of my men’ll tell us where he is. I have another receiver with me. I suggest I take it to Tegucigalpa.”

“Jaime can help you. He has already left, but I will send him there. Meet him at the Hilton.”

The fugitives arrived in the capital by mid-morning and found a cheap room. After they were settled, Pansy looked at himself critically in the mirror. His shape was womanly, but he thought he could still pass for a man. If he bound his breasts and cut his hair… Yes, it should be possible. Petunia agreed, but pointed out that his face was girlish. “It’s the lips,” she told him. “And the eyebrows. There’s nothing we can do about the eyebrows, or your lack of whiskers either, but I’ll get some makeup to help the lips.” She looked at him critically and shook her head. “You’ve got to get medical attention, Jack. You need a lot of help, after what those sadists did to you.”

“I know,” he replied. “But I can’t do it here. Not now. My first priority is, get out of Honduras as quick as I can. Then I’ll get help.” Petunia cut his hair, leaving it moderately long but definitely masculine. She left then to shop for men’s clothes and a natural lip coloring, while Pansy waited. He worried about becoming sick, as he had on his previous escape attempt, and he wanted to be safely away from the don before the sickness struck. Still, there was no sign of it so far. He wondered about that, but he was grateful for its absence.

When Petunia returned, Pansy stripped, taped his bosom, pulled on male clothing, and covered his lips with a neutral shade. There was nothing they could do about the baby-smooth face with no trace of whiskers, nor the thin arched eyebrows. In the mirror he saw an effeminate-looking man, but it was a man–or at least he tried to believe that. Petunia shook her head again in dismay, but told him, “That’ll have to do, Jack. You look… passable.”

“Good.” He thought for a minute. “I’ll go to the embassy first. I have to escape as soon as I can, and I’ll need identification. Maybe the don can’t find me right away, now that the damned tracer’s off, but I’m sure he’s begun a search, and I’m sure he has the resources to make it a thorough one.” Petunia agreed.

He took a bus to the embassy, in a wealthy residential district. A guard admitted him, and he was soon seated by the desk of an embassy visa official–Andrew Pierce, by his desk plate–to whom he explained that he’d been robbed. The impatient clerk wanted to dispose of this nuisance quickly. “All your identification was stolen, and your money too? The embassy can’t really do much for you, sir. I suggest you get in touch with your family. Have them mail you cash and a new ID. A copy of your birth certificate, perhaps, and something with a photo.”

Pansy looked at the floor, then at Mr. Pierce. “I can’t wait that long. I’m in danger here in Honduras, and I have to leave as soon as I can. I’ve already been attacked, and the men who did it are still after me. It’s not the money I’m worried about–I know you can’t help me there–it’s the passport I need replaced.”

“Sir, unless and until you can prove that you’re Pinkerton and that you’re American, I can’t help you.”

Clenching his fist in frustration, Pansy admitted to the man, “My problem is really even worse than I said. When I was attacked, I… well, I lost part of my memory. I’m not even sure of my first name. Please, help me. I must be in your files somewhere. I got my passport just this year. Don’t you have a record of it? Not here, I mean, but maybe back in the U.S.? Can’t you check? Just look up ‘Pinkerton’.”

“We’re not detectives. As I said, you’ll have to find some way to establish your identity before I can issue a replacement passport.” Pierce began to rise in dismissal.

Pansy remained seated. “Please! I am American! Just listen to me! At least help me find my name so I can get my proof!” He leaned over the desk and begged, “Look me up! Please! You have my last name, and I’ll give you my birthplace, my social security number… Whatever you need!”

“I repeat, we’re not detectives.” But then he sagged into his chair and sighed. “Very well, I’ll do that much. Yes, I can look up a record of recent passports–that is, within the past few years. And I can check your social security number in an emergency. Give me the number, and your other vital statistics–birthplace, date of birth, whatever. And your mother’s maiden name. I’ll do what I can. But I still won’t be able to issue a new passport until you provide proof.” Pansy wrote down the information and handed it to him. “Wait here,” Pierce told him, and left through a rear door. Pansy sat back to wait. He picked up a Time magazine and idly leafed through it, but his eyes passed over the pages without comprehension.

Mr. Pierce returned in ten minutes, visibly annoyed. “Sir, there’s no record of any passport issued within the last four years to anyone by the name of ‘Pinkerton’. And the social security number you gave me is registered to a woman in Boise, Idaho. I don’t know what you’re trying to do, but I can’t help you. Good day.”

Pansy protested, but there was nothing to do. Bewildered, he walked blindly out of the building as he tried to think of what to do next. What had gone wrong? Why wasn’t there any record of his passport?

As he walked towards the bus stop, he became dizzy, and quickly passed out. A van parked across the street from the embassy opened its doors and two men emerged. They quickly reached the unconscious man on the sidewalk, picked him up, and carried him back to the van. Jaime supervised the men as they loaded him into the back, then drove to Pansy’s hotel, where he left one of the men to inform Petunia of her lover’s capture.
 
 
Indeterminate
-- Pansy awoke in a stupor, barely conscious. Soon walls swam into focus–familiar walls. He was slumped on a couch in Don Pablo’s library. The don was opposite him, and Doctors Weiss and Ibá¡á±ez sat nearby. “At last you have returned to us,” the don remarked. “You have been asleep for some time.”

His mind was fogged. Why was he here? “Asleep? But I… What…?” His confusion began to dissipate. He recalled his escape, and the fiasco at the embassy, but nothing after that. Clearly the don’s men had captured him and taken him back to Las Rosas. Sitting erect, he looked down at himself. He was wearing a thin rose-pink top, trimmed with white lace and adorned with hot-pink hearts and a scattering of lavender sequins. On the front, across his bosom, was printed an exhortation: “♥ Béseme–Soy Princesa de Amor ♥.” A scooped neckline and a pink push-up bra displayed his cleavage. A heart-shaped locket hung from a silver chain around his neck, nestling in the hollow between his breasts–were they even larger? A snug denim skirt stopped just above his knees. Open-toed strappy lavender pumps with six-centimeter heels showed his toenails, adorned with hot-pink glitter polish. He looked at his hands: he was wearing a charm bracelet, and his manicured fingernails glowed with the same pink glitter polish. He shook his head, trying to clear it, and heavy earrings brushed the sides of his neck. His hand came up and felt five-centimeter hoops.

Don Pablo commented, “I believe Seá±or Pierce at the consulate would be even more skeptical of your claim to be a norteamericano. You will never again be mistaken for a man, true?”

“No!” Pansy insisted. “I…” He cleared his throat–something was wrong with his voice. “I will get myyyiii…” His words rose to a squeal, and he tried to clear his throat again. “What’s the matter with my…” The statement was intelligible this time, but the pitch remained stubbornly high. His voice was weak and slightly whispery, and it wouldn’t come down. Weiss smiled as Pansy put a hand to his throat. “What happened to…” He tried again to lower his tone, but succeeded only in sounding like a twelve-year-old girl unsuccessfully trying to imitate a man. “What did you do to me–to my voice?” he demanded.

Ibá¡á±ez raised an eyebrow. “You can’t tell? You sing soprano now. Quite a high soprano, I should say.”

Weiss confirmed it. “Look at your throat, Frá¤ulein. Note that you no longer have an Adam’s apple. We operated on your larynx, making it quite a bit smaller. As a result, your throat is feminine and, more important, you have a woman’s voice.” He paused and smiled. “I suppose you might say, you possess an Eve’s apple.”

Ibá¡á±ez contradicted him. “It’s not a woman’s voice, not quite. It’s too high, really a girl’s voice. The surgeon who gave it to you told us it’ll become slightly lower over the years, but not much–it’ll always remain girlish. But don’t worry: for a pretty girl like you, it’s proper, and soon you’ll think of it as just your normal voice. Or better, you won’t think of it at all. Of course, very few people will accept your claim to be a norteamericano, not with that voice. And that figure.” More seriously he added, “There’s a psychological purpose to giving you that voice. As Seá±or Herrera told you, we want you to accept that you are a peasant girl. This is one more tool to persuade you. Not only how others see you, but also your own self-image will be affected. You look like a girl–a young girl–you sound like a young girl: therefore, you are a young girl. Your subconscious will accept it, whether you wish it or not. Look at yourself, Seá±orita. Surely you could not be a man–could not ever have been a man.”

“But I am,” Pansy insisted, forcing himself to ignore the detestable timbre of his voice. “You know I am!”

Don Pablo contradicted him: “No, you are not. In all truth, you are the girl you appear to be.”

The implication hit Pansy. Of course! The penalty for the first escape attempt had been… “I… You…” She shut her eyes. “You took… No!” It was finished, she thought. Tears began to course down her cheeks.

Weiss nodded. “Yes, of course I castrated you.” He shrugged: “The loss had no practical effect: what remained of your original equipment was no longer functional, and your hormonal balance was already female. However, we also did a great deal of constructive surgery, and when you make your first visit to a gynecologist, his examination–his vaginal examination–will confirm that you are female.”

Ibá¡á±ez continued, “Although sexual reassignment surgery is a well-established field, our team has advanced the frontiers of what is possible.” He pointed to a full-length mirror next to his chair. “Come, Miss Pinkerton,” he ordered. “Look at the new you.” Unwillingly Pansy walked to the mirror. Her eyes widened. She didn’t recognize the girl reflected there. The surgeons had given her eyes a slight epicanthic fold. Her lips, already full and rosy, protruded in a slight pout, and it took an effort to keep them from parting. Her nose was a little smaller and flatter, her chin was more delicate and receded slightly, and her cheekbones were higher. The skin was slightly darker, but her complexion was flawless. Her hips–broader now?–were set off by a slim waist. Even her arms and legs were girlishly slender. Taken altogether, her figure was not quite womanly, but rather that of a teenage girl. Her attire and hairdo supported that impression: the sleeveless pink top and tight denim skirt, gold hoop earrings, glitter nail polish, lavender pumps, and an ankle bracelet; and dark hair permed into a tumble of curls. An irregular pink streak had been dyed from front to back. “Oh my God!” she squealed in shock. “I’m… I’m pretty!”

As Pansy stared in despair at the mixed-race high-school girl in the mirror, the don told her, “My doctors say that you have been in denial, Seá±orita. You reject the identity we build for you. I do not know if you will accept it now, but at the least, rejection will be more difficult.” He paused, then added, “Doctor Weiss tells me that there is no way back. Any attempt to restore a masculine appearance–not to speak of your manhood–would be prohibitively expensive and entirely futile. No, Seá±orita: whatever happens now, your future is as a woman. Not truly a beauty, but pretty enough to attract a man, as you noted. Accept it, and perhaps you may build a new and satisfying life–after you finish your maid service.” He leaned back in his chair. “As I told you, I would hope that you will work as a maid here in Honduras for the rest of your life–but I will not force you. Perhaps you can escape and return to the United States.” A slight smile appeared. “After all, you wanted to hide from Celia Tolliver. You should thank me for assisting you. I have given you a new identity and she will never find you. That identity is Honduran, of course, and you may have some difficulty persuading the immigration authorities to allow you into the United States.”

Pansy shook her head. “That’s not… It’s not… not me. I… I don’t…” She fell silent.

“Look in front of you, muchacha,” the don ordered as she continued to stare at her image. “That is a mirror. That is your reflection in the mirror. That is you. You are female, now and forever. Your identification is in your purse.” He pointed to a cheap plastic shoulder bag on a chair. It was scarlet, with purple pansies on the sides. “Seá±or Pinkerton is no more. According to your papers, you are Pansy-Ann Pinkerton, a fifteen-year-old girl born in Comayagá¼ela.” He paused, then noted, “Of course, your Spanish is not at a level appropriate for a hondureá±a, but do not worry about it: the next year will see it improve, and by the time you are freed, you will speak Spanish as well as any other catracha. Now we must take photographs to document the final loss of your masculinity. Then you will take your purse and return to your room. Tomorrow you will resume your training.”

When Pansy entered the cottage, Petunia was watching a telenovela. She looked up expectantly, but her face face lost its hopeful expression when she saw the sweet-faced girl who had entered. “ ¿What are you doing here, chica?” she asked. “ ¿Please, where is Seá±or Pinkerton? Don Pablo called me back here today and promised that Seá±or Pinkerton would return.  ¿Are you going to take me to him?  ¿Or can you tell me something about him?”

Pansy felt her eyes fill with tears as she tried to answer, “I… Yes, he… he returned. I’m…” She choked as she heard her own childish voice again.

Surprised at the response in English, Petunia switched to that language. “Speak up, girl. If he’s here, then take me to him! Please!”

“I’m… I’m him. I’m Pansy… I’m Ja… Jack.”

Petunia stared at the girl in front of her. “That’s impossible! Don’t joke. Where is he?”

“Pe… Petunia, I am him! It’s me! Don… Don Pablo changed me! He took… he took my balls and made me into… into this!” Pansy gestured towards herself. “Into a… a fu… fu… fucking s… s… schoolgirl!”

“But…” Her jaw dropped. “ ¡Dios má­o!  ¡No es posible!”

Pansy tried to answer, but despair and frustration overcame her, and she collapsed into a chair, sobbing. Petunia ran to her and hugged her. “My poor darling!” she exclaimed, then began to cry herself. The two lovers wept in each other’s arms until Petunia disengaged. “Don Pablo sent me away after… after he caught us,” she told Pansy. “He wouldn’t tell me what he’d… what he’d do to you, but I guessed, of course. I b…begged to come back–I still love you, and I knew you’d need me. He finally told me I could come back to… today, but not to tell anyone about you.” She sniffled, pulled a handkerchief from her purse, and blew her nose. “I tried to find out about you–about Seá±or Pinkerton–and to tell the Embassy people that you were being held here, but… but no one would listen. I kept trying, but I cou… couldn’t do anything! I guess that’s why he let me go. He knew.” She got up from her chair. “But can I… can I make you something to eat? Or d…did you have supper already?”

“Is it… su… suppertime?” Pansy looked down, saw the slogan adorning her bosom, and looked away. “No… no thanks, Petunia, for some reason I’m not… not hungry.” A thought struck her. “But… What’s today’s date?”

“Today? I… Wait a minute…” She thought. “It’s July 23.”

“July 23? But… A month? A whole month?”

“Over five weeks, actually. I was frantic about you!”

“He should’ve killed me. The day he kidnapped me, he should’ve just killed me. All that shit he gave me about never killing an enemy–that was just crap. He’s a sadist.” Pansy spoke the words in a dull monotone.

Petunia was shocked. “No! You still… still have a life!”

“No I d…don’t. J…Jack Pinkerton is gone. That damned shithead Don Pablo has planned Pansy Pinkerton’s life–as a fucking m…maid. I don’t want it.”

“You can escape! And even if you don’t, even if you have to work as a maid for Suzi–even if his plan succeeds completely–he promised to free you,” Petunia pointed out. “If he promised, he’ll keep his word. And Jack Pinkerton isn’t gone–he’s just… well, he’s just disguised.”

“So well disguised, even I can’t see him. I see a fucking schoolgirl. And I don’t even know his name. Never mind,” she told Petunia as her friend tried to continue her protests. “I need to go to bed. Don Pablo wants me up bright and early to continue training for my new fucking career.” She headed for the bathroom to prepare for bed.

Pansy unzipped her skirt and pulled her panties down. Without thinking, she reached down and found a void. A moment later, Petunia heard renewed sobbing. She rushed to the bathroom to comfort her friend, and found her standing by the toilet, weeping bitterly. “It’s g…gone!” Pansy cried. “I… I knew it was gone–he told me–but… but this… but I…” She looked down again. In place of the missing penis there was a slit with fleshy folds on either side: the external genitalia of a woman. The surgery had been exquisitely performed.

Petunia concealed her own shock. She hugged Pansy and guided her to the toilet, where she urinated. “It’s OK, darling–well, not OK, never OK, but you can survive this. Be strong. They wants to break you down. Don’t break! You–the real you!–Jack Pinkerton–isn’t gone. You’re still in there, in that head, whatever you look like. Don’t let him change that!” She hugged Pansy again, but without response. After explaining to Pansy that as a woman, she had to wipe after peeing, and after demonstrating the proper technique, Petunia led her unresisting friend to the bedroom, dressed her in a nightgown, and put her to bed. Then she allowed herself to weep.

That evening, Herná¡ndez discussed Pansy’s transformation to a mestiza with Weiss, “Yes, Doctor Marcus did a remarkable job. When her bandages came off a week ago I was amazed by how well he succeeded in giving her the facial features of an india. The man’s an artist!”

“The only defect is her light skin. She’s still too pale. But I understand that you’re working on that.”

Herná¡ndez beamed: “Yes, I’m proud of that touch: it has commercial applications. I used a different technique from the one I used for the sex-hormone enzyme. Instead of a bacterium, a ‘designer’ virus infects her skin and hair cells. It’s harmless, and it dies off within months, but it readjusts the dermal DNA genes that control the production of melanin in skin and hair. She won’t pass as a blanca much longer. Her skin is already a little darker, and her hair is dark brown, but soon it’ll be jet black. They’ll fit well with the face Doctor Marcus gave her. Her ancestry will seem to be mestiza with a little negra, and it’ll be clear to everyone that she’s a morena.”

Weiss nodded, then wrinkled his brow. “How does it work?”

“Do you remember when Anderssen found a cure for Alzheimer’s three years ago?”

“Yes, I think so. Wasn’t it a spin-off of the human genome project?” Herná¡ndez nodded, and Weiss went on: “If I remember correctly, they cut a healthy man’s chromosome into fragments and spliced the correct gene sequence into a virus, I think. I don’t know all the details. The tailored virus then replaces the faulty gene in the patient. Anderssen and his coworkers got the Nobel prize, I remember.”

“I used their method, but I chose another gene sequence–or several sequences, actually; several loci control melanin. The alleles I used–the ones that’ll replace Pansy’s original genes–were from a Gará­funa girl.” His enthusiasm for his work was plain. “The process has been commercialized, although most people use it in reverse, to produce a lighter skin. It can give a smooth, soft, almost hairless skin, too–like a young girl’s skin, only permanent. Women pay a fortune for the treatment; Pansy got it free.” He sipped his coffee, then added, “It’ll be a while before her color stabilizes. Months, I suspect. She’ll think it’s only a good tan at first. And she won’t have to shave her legs ever again. And I made another virally-mediated change in her genome as well.”

Weiss was the first to take the bait. “And what was that change?”

“George’s Y chromosome is on its way out. As his cells go through the normal cycle of death and replacement, the regenerating cells will eliminate his Y chromosomes and replace them with an X taken from his girlfriend Petunia. Soon a genetic sex test will ‘prove’ that Pansy is a natural-born female. It is very convenient that such tests normally use the most rapidly replaced cells, such as those from cheek scrapings.”
 
 
June 24
-- It was still cool when Pansy awoke in the morning. Wisps of fog curled through the pine forest outside her window, but already at 6:30 the sun was burning the mists away. At first, before she awakened completely, she was pleased by the beauty of the day, but then she went to the bathroom and the horror of her mutilation returned when she had to sit to pee. Donning a bra was routine now, but the panties she had been forced to purchase on her trip to town now fit only too well. She chose a thin pink top and a knee-length flowered red skirt; she had nothing less girly. Looking into the mirror, she noted with dismay that the skirt hung much better from her broader hips.

When Petunia joined her, she had sunk back into depression. Petunia hugged her friend, who returned her embrace. But then Pansy pulled back: Petunia had grown! She seemed to be at least six centimeters taller than Pansy, maybe more. “You… you’re taller!” she exclaimed.

“No, I’m the same…” She paused. “No, you’re shorter. I’m a hundred fifty-seven… Yes… I’d say you’re under a hundred and fifty centimeters tall. Less than…” She thought briefly. “A bit less than five feet.”

“Less than a meter and a half?” thought Pansy, and began to weep again. Petunia comforted her as best she could, and began breakfast. Pansy ate little, answering Petunia’s attempts at conversation without interest.

Jaime escorted Pansy to her morning training. Conchita was puzzled when they appeared in the kitchen. “Don Pablo told me you’d bring Pansy here,” she told Jaime. “ ¿Why did you bring this girl?  ¿Who is she? I don’t recognize her.”

“I know,” Jaime replied. “He didn’t warn me either. This cute little girl is Pansy Pinkerton.”

“Don’t be silly,” she told him. “This ain’t Pansy.  ¡She don’t look the least bit like her!  ¡And she’s way too short!”

“I know, but this is Pansy anyway. The doctors changed her face. It took over a month for her to recover, and that’s why she hasn’t been here. She was even more surprised than you are, when she saw that pretty girl in the mirror.”

Conchita turned to Pansy. “ ¿Is he telling the truth, girl?  ¿Are you really Pansy?”

“Yes, Seá±ora,” Pansy answered listlessly. “I am Pansy.”

“ ¡Amazing!  ¡You’re so much prettier!  ¡And you even sound like a girl!”

“She is a girl,” Jaime told Conchita. “The doctors took away Seá±or Pinkerton’s prick–but they left Seá±orita Pinkerton with a nice place for some lucky fellow to put one.”

“Susana will be delighted to hear all this. I know she looks forward to having a new maid.  ¡But enough talk!” Turning to Pansy, she ordered her to cook a sausage omelet. “Susana likes her eggs that way, and you got to please her.”

Pansy was given several dishes to prepare. She followed directions obediently, but showed no expression in her face or in her voice. Conchita scolded her severely when she added sugar to the tortilla soup instead of salt, and threatened to send her back to Evelina. Pansy accepted the criticism without protest and promised to try to do better. Mollified, Conchita set her to plucking chickens. At the end of the day Pansy returned to her room. As on the previous evening, Petunia’s attempts to draw her friend into conversation failed completely.
 
 
July 25
-- Two day after Pansy’s awakening, Ibá¡á±ez told Don Pablo she needed time off. “Weiss says that her body has healed, but psychologically she’s not healthy. During the last few months she was in denial, not having accepted that she’d really have to spend the rest of her life as a woman. Now she knows that her new body is a fait accompli, but it’s put her deep into depression. Perhaps a respite from her duties will help her become reconciled to her new gender.” The don agreed, and so shortly after noon Jaime accompanied Pansy to Sanborn’s, a small restaurant in downtown San Pedro that served American-style meals. She hadn’t recovered from the psychological blow of castration (could she ever?), but the mundane reality of walking to a restaurant, sitting down, and ordering a meal, forced her to stop dwelling on her personal tragedy quite so single-mindedly. She was still self-conscious in a dress, as she had been in earlier visits to the city, but Jaime pointed out that she was no longer impersonating a woman. “You’re truly a girl now, Pansy. The men are looking at you, yes, but it’s only to be expected: they’re admiring a pretty young woman. Relax, enjoy yourself.” The thought did not cheer her up. Unable to tolerate the thought of a full meal, she ordered a fudge sundae and a cup of coffee. When she was done, she needed to visit the rest room. Out of habit she entered the door marked “Caballeros”, but she retreated quickly when a man protested, “ ¡Get out of here, Seá±orita!  ¡Pay attention!” Jaime watched, amused, as she escaped in confusion into “Damas”. Afterwards he reminded her that she was banned from the men’s room. “You’re a girl– ¡for real! Act appropriately. I was told you know what’s proper; you certainly told Suzi how to behave.” She was relieved when they returned to the finca.

Petunia continued to try to bring her out of her depression. “Jack, I think they’re done with you now,” she told her. “Physically, at least. There’s not much else left. But you aren’t a real woman, in spite of all they did.”

“Does it matter?” Pansy spoke listlessly, without anger. “No, I’m not a real woman, but so what? I’m a damn good imitation, top to bottom. And if we’d escaped, what then? I doubt it would’ve helped. OK, I’d’ve been free. OK, maybe I could’ve beat the withdrawal–it would’ve hit eventually–after going through hell. But then? Where would I go? Petunia, I’m not Jack anymore, I’m Pansy Pinkerton now. Without papers, without credentials, without anything, I’d’ve been trapped as securely as I ever was.”

Angry, Petunia snapped, “You are not ‘Pansy Pinkerton’! There’s no such person! And you aren’t a woman either. A damn good imitation, like you say: give the devil his due, the doctors are good at their work. You’re stuck with it, I think. But it’s all appearance. Inside, you’re still my Jack!”

Pansy smiled wanly. “Appearances count for a lot, Petunia. At lunch today, the men certainly treated me like a girl. And it’s not just appearances. Weiss is just cosmetic, true. What he took didn’t work, and what he gave me doesn’t function either. And I’m certainly not a genetic female. But they tell me my chemistry’s female now. Petunia, I’m beginning to feel like a woman, react like a woman, just like they said. And I’m definitely not a man any more. Why should I fight it? I hate it, I want to fight it, but I’m tired, Petunia. I’m so tired.”

“I’ll help you, Jack. I still love you, even under that masquerade costume.”

Pansy hugged her friend. “I still love you too, Petunia. I’ll try.”
 
 
July 29
-- Six days after awakening, Pansy visited Weiss at the San Pedro clinic for a physical. She submitted to it stoically, but asked for details of what had been done. At first he was evasive, telling her, “I made you a woman. Didn’t you notice?” Pushed further, he told her that he had rebuilt her pelvis, in addition to redirecting the associated plumbing. “That’s why you needed a long recovery. I had to be certain that the bone could withstand stress. And it’s why you walk a little differently, with a slight sway in your hips. Have you noticed? Others have. It’s very feminine, quite attractive–and totally involuntary. I’m proud of that work. Your hips are still too angular, but don’t worry: from the rear, no one would ever mistake you for a man. Your estrogen level is high, so that over the next few months, the continuation of normal female-pattern fat deposition should pad them nicely.” She almost spat in his eye, but decided he wasn’t worth it. However, she did compare him unfavorably to Josef Mengele.

Later, Petunia told Pansy that the doctors had given her a green light. “They think you’re on the way to a speedy recovery, but you need exercise. Especially, you need to walk. The don says you can have a break in your training for a few days, and then you’ll resume your normal schedule.” After breakfast she asked Pansy to walk with her. “We might as well take advantage of your vacation, Jack. You’ll be working again soon enough.” Petunia was afraid that her friend’s spirit would be crushed by the loss of any hope for a return to his old identity. She hadn’t had much interest in anything since the operation. That Pansy should lose the will to live was understandable, but Petunia had no intention of watching her friend waste away. Man or woman or neither, Jack or Pansy, Petunia loved the person in that body, and she would fight to save her.

At first Pansy refused, but finally Petunia’s efforts succeeded. “I don’t know, Petunia. I don’t really care, but if you want, I’ll join you.”

They walked a quarter mile or so, Petunia in red slacks and pink sleeveless top and Pansy in a white peasant blouse and knee-length red skirt. Pansy tired easily after her extended bed rest, but Petunia’s real worry was her friend’s lack of interest in the natural world around her. Blooming orchids were passed unremarked upon, and several colorful birds brought no notice. Petunia protested to Pansy that she needed to snap out of it, but she responded, “Why? It’s all over, Petunia. There’s nothing left. Even if I could escape, why bother? No, I’m not really a woman. I know that. I’m still really a man inside, I still want to… to love you. But so what? I’m a man trapped in this… this mutilated travesty of a body. In my mind, I still want a woman–I still want you–but I’ll never be able to satisfy that need now. I’d be better off dead.” Her voice had no expression in it.

Petunia didn’t argue with Pansy, but later she asked to speak with Don Pablo. “Jaime, he needs help. I don’t know if anyone else has noticed–or cares–but that’s a human being there, not a lab animal to be discarded. And even as a lab animal, which seems to be the doctors’ only interest, he’ll be no good to them soon. I need to talk to Don Pablo. Soon.”

That afternoon Don Pablo received her in the library. “Petunia,  ¿what can I do for you?” he asked.

“Thank you for seeing me, Seá±or. You can’t do much for me, but you must do something for… for Pansy.” The use of the name galled her, but under the circumstances she made herself use it.

“ ¿Pansy? The doctors tell me she is recovering well.”

“His body, yes. Physically, yes. But I’m afraid for him. I think if you don’t find some way to help him, he may die. You, Susana, those damned doctors of yours–you’ll all be so disappointed when your experiment ends in an unmarked grave.”

Don Pablo seemed skeptical, but he inquired, “ ¿And what do you see that the doctors missed? I know you disapprove of them, but really, they are good at their profession.”

“I have no doubt. But I think he doesn’t wants to live any more. You’ve finally broken him, Seá±or. He has no interest in food, his books, walking, his plants. He’s going through the motions. I think he’ll probably do whatever you’d like right now. For a while. Until he just goes. I think he may subconsciously be taking the only escape route left to him.”

He thought for a moment, then nodded: “You could be right, Petunia. I admit, I am not surprised.” The doctors had warned him that suicidal depression was likely. “Thank you. I will see what I can do. I do not wish to lose her.”

Petunia was relieved, but she pressed him. “Seá±or,  ¿haven’t you done enough? He’s still a man in his head, with a man’s desires, even if he has a woman’s shape.  ¿Can’t you just let him go? You’ve taken enough vengeance to satisfy any man, and your doctors have had their time with him. Their cursed scientific data should satisfy them. Please,  ¡let him go!”

He shook his head. “No. I promised Susana that her seducer would become her maid. I will try to keep my word. But I must deliver her in good health. I will try to cure Pansy’s depression and help her to adjust to her new situation.” He looked down. “There is also this, Petunia: I suspect that if I were to free Pansy now, if I just turned her loose, she might be even worse off. Think, Petunia.  ¿What would she do? The root cause of her depression would not go away. She is a woman now, for better or worse, and she has to live with it–or die with it, as you say. She has to become a woman inside her head, as you put it. I will see that she has help. And you can help. But part of your help, I suspect, could be your acceptance of her new status. Petunia, she knows she is not ‘Jack’. Take her as she is. As she is now. I am not a psychologist, but I think it would help. I will obtain professional advice–unbiased professional advice–but I think that advice will be the same.”

Petunia stood up, ready to leave. “Thank you, Seá±or. I didn’t expect you to free him, but I hoped. But…”

He waved her down again. “Sit for just a minute, Petunia, if you will. First, satisfy the curiosity of an old man.  ¿Exactly where would you and Pansy have gone, had you escaped? I considered letting you go free longer, just to find out.”

She sat. “ ¿Where? I’m not sure. Somewhere–anywhere–safe from you and your damned doctors.”

“Think, Petunia. First, it is not possible.  ¿Do you think I am so careless as to allow you to roam the finca without ensuring that you can not escape by simply walking away? You must have a low opinion of my intelligence. We know where Pansy is at all times. Yes, I reduced the security, and she could walk away from the finca if she chose. As she did choose. However, as she discovered, she cannot escape her punishment that way. She not only has no identity papers, she really has no identity other than the new one I am creating for her. That was true even before the completion of her metamorphosis.  ¿Why did you think she could escape for more than a few hours?  ¿What could you tell people?”

Flustered, Petunia replied, “I don’t know.  ¡I don’t know! We’d’ve thought of something. Maybe the truth, that he’s been kept a prisoner, that you’re using him for terrible experiments.”

“No one would believe whatever cock-and-bull story you came up with. Including the truth. Especially the truth. Petunia, you and your girlfriend were on a fool’s errand.”

She began to weep. “We had to do something. We couldn’t just let you continue to torture him.”

“Pansy suffers no physical pain; her mental anguish–or maybe Jack’s–is deserved. Next year she will serve Susana as a maid. At the end of that year she will be free, and will be permitted to do whatever she wishes. You may as well accept it.”

Petunia’s weeping subsided to sniffles. She took a handkerchief from her purse, wiped her eyes, and blew her nose. “ ¿And then?  ¿When you release him? He is destroyed. His life is ruined.”

“That is exactly my point, and the point of my project. Not that her life is ruined–it is not–but that Seá±or Pinkerton is destroyed, as you have said. She–and it is she, by the way; my doctors have completed her transformation to a woman–can no longer live as ‘Seá±or Pinkerton’. Even if she were free, she could not. She is a woman with no training or aptitude for the life a woman leads. For the next year and a half, Pansy will be trained to do ‘women’s work’, but more importantly, she will learn to live as a woman. At the end, when I free her, she should be able to cope. I think she will continue to work as a maid–I fully intend it–but I will not force her, and perhaps she can find another direction to her life. In any case she will have to make a new life. As. A. Woman.” He raised an eyebrow. “Surely you admit, the condition of being female is not intolerable.”

“No,” she admitted, “But… He… Jack…” She pulled her thoughts together. No, womanhood wasn’t in itself a terrible state. Not at all. And Jack–no, Pansy–would be freed. But her dream of marriage was dead.

The don went on as if he had read her thoughts. “True, Pansy cannot be your lover. But your dream was in vain from the beginning. Seá±or Pinkerton had already abandoned two pregnant women. You would have been the third. Perhaps now Pansy can become a true friend instead of a false paramour. We will see. Anyway, you may stay as a teacher, if you wish, so that you may help Pansy. She needs a friend. You are not a prisoner. You are a guest, free to come or go in spite of being a considerable nuisance.” He smiled. “I will see to Pansy, and I thank you for coming to me. I will try to help her adjust, so that she can become useful, not only to my daughter, but also to herself, and to society in general. As Seá±or Pinkerton was not.” He rose and wished her a good day.

Petunia considered his words. She didn’t accept everything he said, but she decided he was right about two things: “Jack” was gone for good and she, Petunia, had better accept it; and neither she nor Pansy (especially Pansy) should be alone at the moment. She’d stay with her friend.

After Petunia left, Don Pablo called Ibá¡á±ez. “Doctor, I need to consult with you and with a clinical psychologist, immediately. We have a problem, and I want it straightened out quickly.” He repeated his conversation with Petunia.

At the other of the line, Ibá¡á±ez considered. He was an expert in experimental behavioral psychology, not a therapist, and the girl could be right. Was probably right. But there were other considerations. “I may be able to find your clinical psychologist,  ¿but what will you tell him? The truth may not be wise, and Pansy would certainly tell him all she knows. Let me try to handle the problem myself for the time being.”

“Very well. Keep me informed.”

Ibá¡á±ez looked through references and consulted colleagues, finally concluding that Pansy was in no immediate danger. A change of routine might help her. If more than that proved to be necessary, then it could be arranged later. He called up Don Pablo and explained what he proposed to do. Don Pablo agreed.
 
 
July 30
-- At 9 AM Jaime visited Pansy at the clinic to tell her that Don Pablo would speak with her tomorrow. “He’ll visit you here. He keeps his word to the letter,” he told her. “His penalties are severe, but he’s honorable and he keeps his promises. Hasn’t he kept his word to you so far?”

She retorted that most of his promises concerned her punishment. “I prefer that he not keep them. My life is better then.” Jaime reminded her of the promise that she wouldn’t be tortured, and that she’d be free in another eighteen months. She admitted without enthusiasm that she wanted those promises kept.

There seemed to be little to look forward to, though. A life as Suzi’s maid, as the don had promised? Or even a normal life as a woman… Why bother? Until now there had been at least a spark of hope, but now, there was none. When Petunia finally realized that her Seá±or Pinkerton was gone at last, even she would abandon her. She’d be alone among enemies. Even if she escaped after she was released–or tomorrow!–she couldn’t get back what she lost. And she still desired all the pretty young women she saw, even without the equipment to take advantage of them. Did that make her a lesbian? No, she wanted to love them as a man would, not like some dyke. Maybe she should just kill herself. It was the only escape possible now.
 
 
July 31
-- When Pansy showered in the morning, she examined herself. Belly scars were visible, but barely. Pubic hair was growing back. The groin seemed natural–for a girl. “Maybe by now my loss wasn’t all that important,” she tried to persuade herself. “Nothing down there worked anyway.” She cheered up briefly: “My body may be ruined, but my mind’s still OK. I’m still ‘me’ inside.” But then: “I’m destroyed anyway. What good is a mind in this body?” Nevertheless, she told herself “I have to look my best,” and she chose her clothes carefully, selecting a pale-pink linen dress with puffed sleeves. Pink barrettes held her dark brown hair, still short and curly with a pink streak. Ceramic roses hung from her ears and a string of pearls encircled her neck. Makeup was applied sparingly and with care. She was dissatisfied, though: she still looked like a teenager. A very pretty teenager.

Don Pablo had originally planned to talk with Pansy in his library, but on the doctors’ advice he changed his plan. As he walked to the front door of the clinic, Don Pablo considered the results so far. The sex change was completed. In fact, all the experiments had succeeded. Seá±or Deon had lost his manhood, his status, and his very identity. They had hoped that Seá±orita Pinkerton would adapt to her new situation, but her present state of mind threatened to preclude total success. Ibá¡á±ez told him she needed to be made angry, to break her out of her depression. Then she should be given some hope for the future, that it still held something worth living for.

“She’ll be given a light dose of hypnotic just before she’s brought to you,” Ibá¡á±ez had told him finally. “Not enough to control her, but just enough to make her suggestible. She should accept whatever you tell her–if it’s reasonable–and if you tell her there’s hope at the end for a decent life, even as a woman, she should believe it. Her anger should drive her, once she believes it’s possible. With luck, that anger should drive her out of her depression enough to endure the trials ahead.”

Jaime arrived at Pansy’s room at precisely 10:30. He escorted Pansy to the don’s office and then left them alone. The don was pleased at Pansy’s appearance; she had clearly taken pains to look attractive. The hormones administered by Doctor Herná¡ndez had done their work, and her figure swelled the bodice of her dress. He found it necessary to remind himself that this apparent schoolgirl had once been a man–the man who had dishonored his daughter. She was nervous but determined; her jaw was set. The don greeted her courteously, rising to offer her a chair. She thanked him in Spanish and sat facing him, arranging her skirts neatly beneath her. Don Pablo took notice of the feminine gesture as he sat again and poured them both coffee. He addressed her in English: “Seá±orita Pansy, my English is fair, I am told, but I am not comfortable in that language. Jaime tells me that you make progress in Spanish. If you are able, and with your permission, may we speak in Spanish?”

She agreed: “I am able to understand the language good enough now. You know I speak with your people here in Spanish. One reason for I accept the position here was for improve my Spanish. I no speak Spanish good, but I will try.”

“I understand you asked for this interview, but I am not certain why. I had planned to speak with you in any case–I wish to follow your transformation as it progresses–but I do not understand your own motive for wanting to see me.” He offered her coffee, but she refused. “You seduced Susana, and you must understand that your present difficulties are only proper retribution. She had your baby a short time ago, as you know: the baby for whom you refused to be a proper father.” Pansy flushed and started to reply, but Don Pablo held up a hand. “You abandoned your pregnant girlfriend Celia, and now Petunia too carries a child. Your child. She will be an unwed mother, and that is a disgrace. Traditionally I should have killed you, or at the minimum had you castrated without anesthetic.  ¿Would you have preferred that I defer to that tradition?”

She didn’t speak for a moment. He began to repeat his statement more slowly, with simpler words, but she stopped him: “I understand most of it,” she told him; “Your Spanish is more easy than the campesino Spanish. I am able to understand most of words, but I need time to… to make my words. Seá±or, I no try to… to force Suzi. Yes, I am father of her baby.” She looked down at her bosom, and laughed bitterly. “ ¡Father, I say! But I no force her. You know her;  ¿you think I force her?  ¿That I can trick her? Her child is made out of love. Seá±or,  ¿you no believe that?”

“You are correct, except that I would use the word ‘lust’, not ‘love’. Yes, Susana shares the blame. Her disgrace is her punishment; she has borne your bastard child. But women are weak creatures, easily led astray. In this country, the man who takes advantage of the weakness of a woman, as you took advantage of Suzi, must bear a severe punishment.”

In disbelief Pansy asked, “ ¿You believe that your daughter is weak, that she has weak will? Suzi has strong will. I believe that her will gave… has given many problems to you.  ¡She no is ‘easily led astray’!”

Don Pablo sighed. Pansy was right–Suzi had always been headstrong, and not easily led--but she missed his point. “You are correct, of course, but you mistake my meaning. I do not mean she is easily persuaded by others. She is easily led astray by her own nature as a woman. It was your duty as a man not to take advantage of that nature–or, having done so, to accept the responsibility of caring for her and the child. You shirked a man’s responsibility; therefore, you are no longer a man. You will live the rest of your life as a woman, performing a woman’s duties. We are training you for those duties. Your new body, flowing with female hormones, should push you in the proper direction. Also, society’s expectations should shape your new nature. Within the next year, you should become fully assimilated to your new status. Your mind–your thoughts, your emotions and instincts–should become feminine. More, your personality should approach that of a peasant woman–a woman like Mará­a Banderas, satisfied to accept a menial occupation. At the end of next year I will release you. You have my promise.” He sipped his coffee. “But your release will not matter. My doctors expect you to ask to remain as Suzi’s maid–as befits the peasant girl you will have become–even as you know you could have been her husband.”

She set her jaw again. “‘ ¡Should, should, should!’  ¡It will not happen! I fight it. I fight you.”

He agreed: “Yes, of course. I expect it, although I must punish disobedience–such as attempts at escape. And you may be right, in that we may not succeed–except, of course, that your physical changes are irreversible: you are a woman.”

“ ¿Punish my disobedience? You intended to do this… this thing to me from the beginning.”

“I intended to make you a woman, yes; but your childish voice is extra, a penalty for your flight. Every time you speak, you will hear a young girl. It will remind you that you must obey your superiors, lest you receive additional alterations.” He stroked his mustache idly. “Perhaps giving you an incurable lisp would be in order. One of my doctors suggested it.”

Pansy let his threat pass. “You can not force me to remain a maid. I will never accept that for my life.”

“I will not force you.  ¿Are you stupid?  ¿Did you not hear me? Upon release, you will not be a slave, nor a captive. Your addiction will not hold you; you are already weaned from it.” Her eyes widened. That was an unexpected bit of good news. “When you are free, you will simply find few choices open.  ¿Do you really believe you can return to the United States? Think: your only papers identify you as a hondureá±a. Indeed, you cannot even say who you claim to be–no, who you once were–other than ‘Pansy-Ann Pinkerton’–and of course we will soon replace ‘Pinkerton’ with a more suitable name.” He sipped more coffee. “Maybe you can escape. I promise that, after the end of your captivity, we will not compel you. We are hoping that your new feminine nature–your body, your personality, your very speech–will induce you to act as we intend: Your freedom of choice will be the test of how well we succeed. If we fail, we will not stand in your way. Of course, even if you do not become a campesina and you avoid a career as Susana’s maid, you can never escape the new you. I know that you have never truly accepted that you would spend your life in skirts. That reality still has not penetrated fully to your subconscious, but it is now irrevocable. You will remain a woman named ‘Pansy-Ann’ until you die.”

She tried to control herself, but she couldn’t, weeping with suppressed anger as she protested, “I… I will escape. I w…will recover my… my old identity.” She knew she was trapped in the body of a woman–Don Pablo was correct in that–but she’d get back her professional life and her status. She would! And she’d change that hateful name.

He smiled to himself; the rage was there. Hope was needed. “Pansy, you resent that I am transforming you into a campesina. You never had to work for your high status, and I believe that you have no real drive to succeed. If you had the courage and drive of some women–Suzi, for example, or Petunia–maybe you might escape. Not your womanhood, of course, but your low status. Maybe you could even recover your old identity, as you say you will. But I am persuaded that you lack these attributes–not because I took them from you, but because you never had them. If I am right, then you will remain a maid.” He leaned back in his chair and folded his hands in his lap. “However, even if I am mistaken in that, I am sure you will not dishonor more women. I would guess you have recently been somewhat frustrated in your relations with what once was the opposite sex,  ¿true? For example,  ¿with your girlfriend Petunia?” He ignored the look of hatred that Pansy shot him, and continued: “But no matter. I hear that you are beginning to attract men. You will find it easy to get a boyfriend.”

“I do not want a boyfriend.  ¡I will never want a boyfriend!” she spat out.

“It will be as you yourself choose. Perhaps you will become– ¿how do you say in English?–an ‘old maid’. That would be unfortunate. Women–especially peasant women like you–are valued for their bodies, not their minds. That is to say, for their ability to please men, and to bear children. You have been given an attractive body, and I expect you will find it to be an asset. We will see.” He rang for Jaime, who took Pansy back to her quarters. Her coffee remained untouched.

Pansy respected her enemy, but she hated his guts. His boast that he didn’t kill his enemies was empty: he had killed Seá±or Pinkerton as surely as if he had shot him. Now Pansy Pinkerton would have to work hard at retaining her sanity. Don Pablo had promised to warp her mind as well, and she’d have to remain on guard to keep her essential self intact. And when she was freed, she’d kill the bastard. That would be her purpose in life.
 
 
August 3
-- Pansy recovered enough to accept an offer of limited freedom. The day after her meeting, Petunia took her to El Cusuco in the Sierra Merendá³n near San Pedro. Pansy thought it almost insulting that they were given such freedom, although now she knew that escape was impossible–had always been impossible. Petunia also recognized it, calling her former lover by her new name. She no longer talked about Pansy’s return to her old life.

They took a trail through a coffee grove, then entered a remnant patch of cloud forest. Petunia knew that Pansy was feeling better when she began to explain the plants and animals. “Petunia, did you wonder why some of the forest here is cloud forest, while nearby at the same altitude we see ocotal, or ocote pine forest?”

Petunia smiled; Pansy was smothering her problems in combined nature and pedagogy. She commented, “I’m aware that ocotal is ocote pine forest. I grew up here–give me credit for some knowledge!” Pansy flushed and Petunia went on, “But no, I didn’t wonder. I always assumed it’s just a matter of rainfall, or humidity.”

Pansy brightened: “That’s part of it. That’s the biggest part, but it’s not everything. In some areas, like here, other factors are important too. Look at that.” She pointed to a protruding rock. “It’s limestone. The soils are calcium-rich. Good soil for cloud forest. Good for cafetal, too. That hillside over there’s ocotal, at about the same elevation, and I’d bet at about the same humidity and rainfall. The bedrock there’s volcanic ash. Rhyolite tuff, I think. That rock’s poor in calcium and magnesium, rich in silica. Poor soil forms on it, and it’s not so good for cloud forest. Pines do well on it, though.” She paused and listened. “I think I hear a robin. I’ve got to find it.” In a moment Pansy was headed off the trail.

“Pansy, come back here! You can’t go over there, you’re wearing a skirt! Stay on the trail!” Too late. Pansy had cut through a patch of guamil, or second-growth brush.

A cry came from the brush patch: “Aaaaiiiyyy!! Dammit, dammit, dammit!” Soon a disheveled Pansy reappeared, rubbing her bare left arm. “I found a remarkable plant in there. Petunia, do you know mala mujer?”

Petunia giggled. “I’m sorry, I can’t help it! Yes, I learned it the hard way, like you!”

She looked hurt; “I’m not just learning it. I knew what it looked like, and I know what it does. It’s like a giant nettle. I just wasn’t paying attention.”

Petunia laughed again, then explained, “Pansy, Jack, whoever, I don’t think I should worry about you any more.” She looked even more hurt, and Petunia went on, “You haven’t changed. I mean, look at you! You have breasts, your hair’s permed, and you’re wearing a skirt. You’re a girl now. I’m sorry, but it’s true. I’m laughing because I see that you haven’t changed! Whatever you’re called, whatever you look like, you haven’t changed! Not inside! And I’m glad!” Petunia ran to her and hugged her. Then she looked at Pansy’s arm, breaking out in serum-filled blisters. “Ouch!! I bet that smarts! We’d better get back and treat it.”

Pansy didn’t want to leave–”That might’ve been a black robin. It’s a new bird! And I found a wonderful orchid too. I think it was an Oncidium.”–but Petunia persuaded her that it was getting late, and they returned to the village, where they caught a bus for town.

Back at the hotel, they discussed Pansy’s future. “I can’t run, Petunia,” Pansy told her friend. “I believe Don Pablo. If I just accept his plans for eighteen more months, I shouldn’t lose much more than I’ve already lost. If I cross him, if I try to run, I’m afraid he’s right: I’ll fail, and I’ll suffer for it. He’s convinced me that I can’t escape–not until he releases me–and also that he can do even more than he has, if I give him cause.”

Reluctantly Petunia agreed. “I think you’re right. If you can survive that long, then you can begin to put your life back together. Yes, you’re a woman. I hate to admit it, but there’s no way to deny it. Believe me, though, it’s not the end of the world. Really, it’s tolerable.” She looked at her friend. “I still love you, Pansy. Not like a woman loves a man–that’s over, I know–but like my own sister. Please, don’t give up. Hang on. You can come out of this. OK, so you’ll work for Susana for a while. Afterwards you can make a new life.”

“I hope so. I’ll try. But Don Pablo’s not finished. He told me he wants–no, he intends–to turn me into a damned peasant. Not just a woman, but a real, honest-to-God, Honduran peasant. I don’t see how he can do it, but after what he’s already done, I can’t be sure. I don’t mean just what he did to my body; I’m thinking of my mind–my memories. Those damned doctors might be able to make me forget everything that makes me me!”

“That’s foolish. No one could take you for a hondureá±a, never mind a campesina. You just don’t look right; you’re too pale.” She smiled ruefully and added, “And I hate to say it, but your Spanish is still poor. You just don’t seem to have any aptitude for it.” More seriously she told her friend, “Look, Pansy: You speak bad Spanish, you look like a norteamericana, and you’re too well educated. No one could ever confuse you with a campesina. Even if the doctor persuaded you, it’d be wasted effort. No one else’d be convinced.” Pansy thought about it and agreed, and then Petunia asked, “What do you think you’ll do after you’re released?”

Shrugging, Pansy answered that she didn’t know. She wouldn’t tell anyone of her plan to kill the don. “I have a problem, you know. That bastard Don Pablo made it very hard to prove who I really am, even if I find out. But assuming I can solve that problem–both problems: finding out, and proving it–then I want to return to my professional life. I still have my technical education, and I can still use it. I’ll have to do it under my new identity, I think.” She smiled self-consciously. “Maybe I can finally take advantage of some of those affirmative-action programs that the feminists shoved through. But it’s too early to make plans.”

Petunia agreed. A woman was more than just nature’s way of producing babies–although that was a part of her nature, to be sure. Any woman ought to be able to pursue a career of her own, in spite of the macho nonsense spouted by so many Honduran men, and she was certain Pansy could overcome the obstacles Don Pablo had put in her way. It wouldn’t be as easy as Pansy seemed to think, but that didn’t matter now. What mattered was her will to live. She needed to accept her new body and her new existence. Her life would be different now, Petunia thought, and she’d need to do a lot of adjusting. Nevertheless, she was cheered by Pansy’s optimism, and thought that there was hope for her. “I’m afraid you’ll be in for a hard time for a year and a half, but you know that already. Just remember, it’ll end; and then, like you say, you can escape. But Pansy, I think you’ll have to learn to be a maid. A real, honest-to-goodness, hardworking maid, just like the don intends. At least temporarily.”

Pansy leaned back in her chair and stared at the bare whitewashed wall. She knew that, and dreaded it. Suzi wouldn’t make life easy for her. “Yes, I will, and I won’t enjoy it. But the don promises I won’t be mistreated–or no more than any maid would be. I’ll survive it. Thousands of women manage to survive it, and I can do as well as they can. Believe me, I’m being trained thoroughly.” With a touch of gallows humor she told Petunia that she had always needed a Home Ec course. “My housekeeping and cooking have always been poor, but Conchita and Evelina are excellent tutors. At least I’ll get something positive out of this couple of years. And when my two years is over, I won’t be a campesina, in spite of the don.”
 
 
August 5
-- Although Pansy had some respite from her duties as a maid-in-training, she wasn’t spared all attention. After lunch on this day, Yolanda reappeared in her room.

“Don Pablo says you got to learn to make yourself pretty. I’ll give you a really pretty face today,” she announced. “I know you use makeup, but your inexperience is clear. I’ll teach you to do better.” She led Pansy to a chair and ordered, “Sit here, girl.” Pansy sat and Yolanda tilted the chair back. She gave the hair a quick shampoo, followed by a wash with an acrid chemical. After a few minutes she dried it, then soaked it with another smelly potion. Pansy lay there for more minutes; then her hair was tugged and held in curlers. “ ¡You have such pretty hair!” Yolanda commented; “But that pink is childish. I’m getting rid of it and giving you a nice perm. But it’s got to be re-done regularly.” Next, a plastic cap was fitted over the hair, and hot dry air was blown through it. “Hold still for a while, dear, while your curls set,” Yolanda ordered. “In the meantime, there’s more to do.” She wheeled over a cart of cosmetics. It had a small attached mirror. She handed Pansy a small cape. “Put this over your shoulders. It’ll keep you from fouling your blouse. Then you’ll put this on your face.” Pansy obeyed and took a makeup kit. “Start with this foundation. It hides skin blemishes. Spread it on with a finger. That’s it, rub it in. Now the face powder. Use the pad.” She guided Pansy’s hand to pat powder over forehead, cheeks, nose, and chin, then looked at Pansy critically and handed her the rouge: “You look a little pale. Here’s a bit of color for your cheeks.” She told Pansy to blend it in so that it would look natural. “Now your eyes. Eye shadow makes your eyes appear larger and brighter. Women have used it for thousands of years.” She thought briefly. “With your green eyes, you should use green shadow. Now use this dabber here, and use only a little. Don’t be heavy with it. That’s right, spread it thinly and evenly, so it fades at the edges. You got to have a light touch. You’re a woman, not a clown.” Again she peered critically at the results. “ ¡Excellent! Now, eyeliner and mascara. You won’t use all this makeup every time, but you got to learn, and I’ll see you do it right.” Pansy applied the eyeliner with difficulty, but the mascara went on more easily. “That’ll do for now. It’ll be easier as you gain experience. Now apply your lipstick, and then I’ll show you how to use lip gloss.” Pansy took the tube, twisted the base, and looked at the rosy pink cylinder; it matched exactly the polish that still gleamed on her nails. She stared into the mirror and carefully applied the lipstick under the eye of her tutor. For a moment her resentment, hatred, and despair resurfaced. She was a professional, not a tart! “ ¿Am I not– ¿how is it said?–too dressed? All this no is necessary,” she complained. It was a stupid waste too, she thought. She had no desire to catch a man’s eye, even if pretty was better than ugly.

“Don Pablo says you got to look pretty,” Yolanda replied. “Women should look attractive for their men. Yes, you’re right, usually you won’t be fancied up like this. Most of the time you’ll just braid your hair–after it grows long enough again–and maybe use a touch of lipstick, but you got to know how to make yourself attractive. It’s important for a woman.”

Pansy nearly choked; she had said as much to Susana–was it just a year ago? With a sinking feeling she recalled what Don Pablo had told her in turn: she wasn’t just going to be a woman, she was intended to become Seá±or Pinkerton’s ideal of a woman. Skirts and makeup; cooking and laundry; husband and babies… Now that Seá±or Pinkerton had himself become female, the job description seemed unfair. Well, she could live by those rules until her release, she thought. She had to. Then she’d go back to a real life. For now, though, she’d play along.

“I know, you’re still thinking like a man,” Yolanda went on. “But you’re a girl now. Soon you’ll get to like men and you’ll want them to like you; it’s only natural.  ¡You’ll see! Yes, this makeup and jewelry are a little overdone, but Don Pablo says you got to learn these skills, and he’s right. I’ll see that you do. Now, your hair’s done.” Pansy took off the cap and brushed out her curls under Yolanda’s critical eye. “ ¡Perfect!” Yolanda exclaimed; “ ¡You do have a pretty face, now that you’re properly made up!” She took a small vial of perfume from a drawer and anointed Pansy’s wrists and throat. A faint but unmistakable odor of jasmine filled the air. “We’re almost done now,” she reassured Pansy, and swiveled the chair upright. Her right ear was held firmly, then her left, as pendant earrings of pink pearl were attached. A matching double-stranded pearl necklace was fastened around Pansy’s neck, reaching almost to her too-apparent bosom. “ ¡You’re lovely!” Yolanda told her pupil. “ ¡You’ll be the focus of every man’s eye!” The praise pleased Pansy. In contrast to the disgust George had felt when he had first been forced to use makeup, Pansy now wanted to be pretty and enjoyed working at it–although the attention of men was still unwelcome.

Removing the cape, Yolanda led Pansy to a mirror, saying, “See how nice you look. You’re a very attractive girl. You were wasted as a man–you really should’ve been born a girl. Don Pablo just corrected nature’s mistake.” Pansy caught her breath: she saw a pretty young woman–no longer a schoolgirl–with brown curls and small but nicely rounded breasts, in a mint-green blouse tailored to her figure, and a calf-length forest-green skirt. “I’m really a girl,” she admitted to herself. “I’m Pansy.” Then, reflexively, “But I’m not! I’m really…” Her memory mocked her: “Pansy,” it insisted. The mirror agreed. There was no hint of masculinity. But the image didn’t bother her any more. She was accustomed to it. The don was right, and so was Petunia: she was forever a woman. But she was not forever a maid! The mirror showed a woman who could make something of herself, if only she could hold out for seventeen months. She’d have some bad times, she knew. But she’d endure and triumph–and get her revenge.

Yolanda loaned Pansy an umbrella for her return to the cottage, as the afternoon rain threatened to ruin her new hairdo. She stepped carefully around the muddier areas and managed to get back to the room intact. Petunia, encouraged by Pansy’s emergence from depression and despair, told her friend, “You look very pretty, Pansy.” She agreed with Don Pablo on one point: Pansy would need to learn all the arts of womanhood to succeed with her new life. Petunia had been afraid that, even if Pansy accepted her lot intellectually, she’d never adapt emotionally. Now it seemed that Pansy might be more flexible than she had guessed.

Pansy shrugged. “I have a choice: I can be a pretty girl or an ugly girl. I doubt the second is better. I’ll just have to develop a taste for lemonade.” It was a good enough rationalization for her conditioning.

While Pansy was being educated, an old acquaintance reminisced about times past. Celia was caring for her six-month-old son Jimmy, who was then squalling in his crib. Celia hadn’t forgotten George. During the darkest period, when she had lost her job and had gone on welfare, her quest had been interrupted. Then she had gotten an anonymous note telling that George was in Honduras. She sent the note to her detective agency and they followed it up. The report was accurate, but not much help, as the trail ended with another dead end. Literally–George had drowned. “Too easy a death for the bastard,” she thought. “I’m left with the baby. I’m managing better now, but the life of a single mother is hell. Awfully convenient death report, too.” The body had been unrecognizable, and she didn’t believe the identification. “He’s just trying to hide his trail. He’s still alive, and I’ll see him in hell yet.”

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“ ¡Good!  ¿She’s in her room?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Part 10, Adaptation to a New Reality. --Pansy is all-female now, but Geoerge still lives within her head. Will he survive the arousal of new emotions?
 
 
November 30
-- On the afternoon of Pansy’s big evening, she had been laundering diapers. They were all clean, and she was folding the warm, sweet-smelling cloths when Conchita entered the laundry room. “You’re all done, Pansy. You’d best get cleaned up now.”

“But the laundry… It’s not all folded yet.”

“There’s only a few left, and one of the other girls’ll finish up. You got to have some time to make yourself presentable.”

Pansy didn’t need to ask what for. She had thought of little else since Conchita had dropped her bombshell a week earlier. She still wasn’t sure if she dreaded the thought of a date with a man, or if she looked forward to it, to see how she could enjoy herself–after all, she was a woman now. Probably both! “Thank you, ’Chita… But I really don’t know what I should wear.  ¿Can you help me?” If she had to go out with a man, she certainly wanted to look her best, even more than at other times.

“Of course, chica. This is new to you, but you got to learn. It’s a matter of pride for a girl to look her best, but especially for a date. ’Renzo won’t take you to a real dress-up place, but it’s more than casual. Let’s see what we can do for you.”

It took two hours to prepare. Conchita helped to choose clothes and accessories for maximum effect on the male psyche. At 4:45 Pansy looked at herself in the mirror. Her red dress had a tight skirt reaching just below the knees, emphasizing her slender waist and broad hips. Her monogrammed scarlet purse and red pumps with six-centimeter heels matched the dress. Conchita lent her a double-stranded pearl necklace and pendant pearl earrings. Her dark-brown hair curled in ringlets to her shoulders. Ruby-red lipstick and lip gloss emphasized her full lips, and a touch of lilac-scented perfume had been dabbed on her wrists and behind her ears. She spun on one foot, admiring herself. “’Chita,  ¡you did such a good job!  ¡I couldn’t have done nearly as well by myself!”

“It was an easy task, chica. You’re a pretty young woman. ’Renzo’ll be delighted to have such an attractive partner by his side.” She paused. “But you got to be careful. Some men’ll take advantage of an inexperienced girl, and you’re about as inexperienced as you could possibly be. ’Renzo’s a good fellow, but you still got to remind him not to push too far.”

Pansy started to remind Conchita that she was familiar with the tactics that men tried to use on naíve women, but thought better of it–it probably wouldn’t be a good idea to remind her of Seá±or Pinkerton’s past activities. “I’ll try to remember that, and  ¡thank you again!” And anyway, she wasn’t a real girl and she wouldn’t be tempted.

Conchita nodded, and turned away; but then she turned back. “Pansy, I know this has all been very hard for you–all this ‘girl’ stuff, I mean. Don Pablo put you into that body as a punishment, and you miss your old life. Let me hold out some hope: a woman’s life can be just as rewarding as that of a man. It’s different, yes–God planned it that way– ¡but it’s just as good! You just got to accept it on its own terms. Now, ’Renzo’s going to try to give you a good time. I told you not to let him take advantage of you, and you can’t–but you can enjoy his company, and accept the pleasures he’s offering you. You’ve been on dates before, so just remember how your girlfriend behaved, and how she enjoyed being with you. You can have that same enjoyment, if you just let yourself accept that you’re the girlfriend now. And at the end of the evening, show ’Renzo some appreciation, for the time and money he’s spending on you.  ¡But not too much appreciation!”

Thoughts and emotions warred within Pansy. She knew her life would have to be lived as a female, and life as a pretty girl would be better than life as an unattractive one–but she wanted her old life back, a man’s life. Being someone’s girlfriend was… was a disgusting thought! She wanted to look pretty, and to enjoy the evening–but she resented the fact that it was an integral part of the punishment Don Pablo had inflicted on her. In the end, though, she had no choice. “Yes, I know. I’ll behave myself–and I’ll see that Lorenzo does the same–but I’ll try to make him glad he asked me out.” There was no way she’d misbehave–the most Lorenzo would get would be a hug, and maybe a peck on the cheek!

Lorenzo arrived five minutes late–punctual by Honduran standards. He was a sharp-featured mestizo in his mid-20’s, with dark slicked-back hair and a thick black mustache. He wore a light-colored jacket, a sports shirt, and well-pressed tan slacks. When he caught sight of Pansy, he smiled with delight. “ ¡Qué bonita!” he complimented her: “ ¡How pretty! ’Malia told me she got me a pretty girl, Seá±orita,  ¡but she understated your beauty!”

Blushing, Pansy giggled reflexively. “Thank you, Seá±or. And you–you are very handsome. I am grateful to ’Malia for bringing us together.” She thought to herself, “He really is sexy looking!”–but immediately realized what she had thought, and was shocked at herself. “I can’t be attracted to a man!” she told herself. “I’m a…” She looked down at her cleavage, just barely visible. “I’m a girl now,” she conceded. “I suppose I can’t be too surprised that I’m getting to appreciate guys.” Looking back up at Lorenzo, she forced a smile. “’Chita told me,  ¿we go to Comayagua?” As the spoke, the thought “I don’t want to like men! I won’t!” fought a rear-guard action in her mind.

“Yes, if it’s all right with you. There’s a good restaurant a block from the central plaza–the Villa Real. I thought we’d have dinner there, and then see a movie.  ¿OK?”

“That seems good to me, Seá±or Lorenzo.” Unconsciously she arched her chest forward.

He laughed–a magical sound, it seemed to Pansy. “Just call me ’Renzo, sweetheart. I won’t know who you’re talking to, if you talk so formal. Now get your things together and we’ll head off.”

Pansy began to don her thin white sweater, but Lorenzo quickly took it from her and held it as she slipped her arms into it. She fastened the single button and picked up her red shoulder bag. Lorenzo offered her his arm, and after a brief hesitation, she took it and they walked out the door into the warm late-afternoon sunshine.

Lorenzo said little as he drove his old blue Kia down the rocky Las Rosas road; negotiating the road required his full attention. Once down to flatter ground and better road, he asked her, “Pansy,  ¿why do you have such a strong English accent?  ¿Are you a norteamericana?”

His question confirmed that he was ignorant of her bizarre history, and wasn’t a knowing accomplice to her degradation; but she wasn’t sure how to answer. The truth was out of the question. First, he’d never believe her–she herself could hardly believe she had ever been a man–and proof was not possible just now. Second, if he did, he wouldn’t help her. And third–and most important (it made her legs turn to jelly to consider it!)–she’d surely receive some new and horrible punishment when Don Pablo learned of her attempt to enlist aid. “I… Well, no, I…” The new biography Don Pablo had imposed on her–that would suffice. It almost seemed real to her. “I was born in Comayagá¼ela, but my parents took me to the USA when I was just a baby–they went there to find work–and I learned English there. It is really my first language. When they returned here, my Spanish had an English accent.” Best to change the subject. “ ¿And you?  ¿Are you from around here?”

“Not too far. I’m from San Pedro originally but I live in Zambrano. I drive a truck for Bimbo Bread. It’s a good living.”

“’Malia told me you are her cousin. I just met her a couple of weeks ago.  ¿Do you know her well?”

“Fairly well. Her mother is my father’s sister, and we lived fairly close when we were children, so we saw each other a lot. She’s a lot younger, though, and of course she’s a girl, so we never had much in common.”

They passed the time driving to town in small talk until they reached the town plaza. Lorenzo pointed out the old cathedral with the thousand-year-old clock. “It still runs,” he told her. “It rings the time every fifteen minutes.” He parked just off the plaza, a block from the restaurant, and got out to open Pansy’s door. She found it surprisingly awkward to exit the car, with the tight skirt restricting her movement, and she gratefully accepted the assistance of her escort’s arm. The walk to Villa Real required attention on her part; the narrow skirt kept her steps short and mincing, and navigating the slick surfaces of the sixteenth-century cobblestones without twisting an ankle was very difficult for a novice in heels. By the time they entered the door, she was grateful that Lorenzo hadn’t parked farther away, and she wondered how other women ever managed to walk easily under such a handicap.

Once inside, it took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim light. Music from a karaoke bar drifted into the dining room, which surrounded an open-air garden of tropical plants around a fountain. The tables, covered with burgundy tablecloths, were set back from the garden. Lorenzo pulled out a chair for her, and she sat, carefully arranging her skirt without thinking. A white-suited waiter brought glasses of water and two menus.

Lorenzo opened the menu, glanced inside, and told Pansy, “I’d like a drink before dinner, querida. Scotch for me;  ¿and for you? I recommend their Margarita.” She hadn’t had liquor since her captivity had begun, and she agreed readily. “As for the meal: the estofado comayagá¼ense is excellent.  ¿Can I order it for both of us?” The regional stew sounded like a good idea, and again she agreed–although she thought that he might have allowed her to make her own selection. “And a little wine might be nice with dinner. There aren’t many restaurants that serve good wine here in town, but Villa Real has some excellent South American reds. I’ll order a bottle of a good Argentine Malbec, if that’s OK with you.” George had never been knowledgeable about wines, so she had no objection to Lorenzo’s choice.

The Margarita on an empty stomach left her with a slight buzz, but the meal arrived very soon afterwards, and Pansy found the beef stew to be delicious. Unfamiliar as she was with wine, she had to take Lorenzo’s high opinion of the Malbec on faith. After the meal she fished her compact from her purse and repaired her lipstick. Looking at her own pretty face, she felt more cheerful than she had at any time since arriving at Las Rosas.

After paying the bill, Lorenzo fetched the car so that Pansy didn’t have to negotiate the cobblestones again. The theater was almost a kilometer away; its parking lot was next door, so the walk was short and easy, even with her heels. The movie was a classic chick flick, “Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood”, obviously chosen to please her. She didn’t mind: Lorenzo was a very attractive man, and she appreciated his efforts to give her a good time. In fact, as that thought occurred to her, she was amazed to realize that she was having a wonderful time! After the meal–and several glasses of wine–she was a little sleepy, and she snuggled close to Lorenzo. He put his arm around her waist, and she laid her head against his shoulder. His other hand came around to her bosom, where it rested lightly. She thought, “He shouldn’t do that!”, but it felt so good that she let it pass.

As the movie ended, Lorenzo kissed Pansy firmly. Although the kiss surprised her, an even greater surprise was her body’s reaction to it. She felt suddenly hot, her nipples stiffened, and her groin felt damp. Worse, she enjoyed it! Without thinking, she held his head in her hands and returned the kiss with enthusiasm. He smiled, and in the darkness he cupped her right breast. Her mouth opened and she quivered. It felt as if an electric shock had charged her pleasure center! He kissed her again, but she regained control and pushed him away gently. “No… no more now, ’Renzo,” she told him in a shaky voice. “That’s… that’s e… enough.” And more than enough! The now-anonymous persona of George was shocked at the response Lorenzo’s advances had elicited. The previous rationalization that he was now a girl, and that it was proper to enjoy a girl’s pleasures, was drowned in a flood of confusion and (at first) unfamiliar emotion. Then it struck her: the emotion was… It was lust. She rejected it, horrified.

Lorenzo didn’t press: “OK, my sweet, I understand. It’s just that you’re so… so pretty, a man forgets the proprieties.”

“I…” She took a deep breath. The credits were beginning to roll on the screen. “Thank… thank you, but… but we can’t go… go too far.” She smiled weakly. “You’re a… a wonderful man, and I like you…” way too much! “but… but…”

He put a finger to her lips. “No more need be said, querida. I won’t push you.”

The ride back to Las Rosas was trouble-free. She sat close to him, and he put his arm around her shoulder, but his hand remained out of forbidden territory. On the last rough stretch of road, she pulled away so he could give his full attention to the driving.

When he left her off at the casa, he asked, “ ¿One more kiss, querida?  ¡You’re really a sweet girl! But if you’ve had enough, I can still tell you honestly, I’ve had a great time.”

Impulsively she held his head to hers and kissed him on the lips again, hard, then pulled away before she could weaken further–but not so soon that she didn’t feel a touch of the same arousal she had experienced in the theater. “Oh my God! What am I doing?” she asked herself. She pushed away her unwelcome emotions and took a deep breath. “I have… I have a wonderful time, ’Renzo,” she told him. “If… if you see ’Malia before I do, tell to her I owe her a favor for introducing us.” Susana’s prediction that she’d want a boyfriend–and maybe even a husband–echoed in her head. Suddenly it seemed quite possible. “No!!” she insisted to herself. “It will not happen!”

He grinned. “Then we both do. Maybe we can do this again some time.”

Inside, Conchita was still up. “ ¿Well?” she asked. “ ¿Did you enjoy yourself?”

“I… He…” Pansy took a breath. “Yes, I had a good time. ’Renzo’s a good man, and he… he behaved.” Sort of.

Conchita looked closely at Pansy’s slightly smeared makeup. “But he didn’t behave so well that you didn’t enjoy the evening more than you expected.  ¡Good! I told you, being female has its good side, and I expect you’ll learn to enjoy being a girl, eventually. You might as well, you know–you are a girl, and there’s no going back.” She smiled at her ward. “But it’s late, and you’ve had a big day. I’ll let you go to bed now–you’ll have to return to work in the morning. Good night.”
 
 
December 2
-- Two days later, Doctor Ibarra entered Ibá¡á±ez’s office to inquire how Pansy’s outing with Lorenzo had gone. “ ¿Did Pansy enjoy the company of her escort? By now I imagine you’ve analyzed the data.”

“Yes I have, and yes she did. She had her first serious encounter with her new libido. He kissed her, and she reacted just as any woman would, when competently kissed by a virile partner.” Ibá¡á±ez smiled. “Her arousal was quite marked.”

“The result of your brain relays, I assume. You gave her a jolt to push her–a good jolt, I imagine. It must have been a shock to George–I understand she still thinks of herself as that norteamericano, even after I erased the name.”

“Actually, no–I didn’t use the relays at all. I wanted to see how Pansy would react on her own, with no outside pressure. After all, she’s received intensive conditioning during the last month, and I had no idea just how effective it has been.” He nodded. “It was very effective. I doubt that Seá±or Pinkerton really understands it yet, but emotionally he has just become Seá±orita Pinkerton. She’s still a norteamericana, though, and there’s no assurance that we can change that.”
 
 
December 3
-- December brought no more changes. Her routine as a maid was just that–routine. She tried not to think, but to slide through each day mechanically. The thought of revenge kept her going when some incident jarred her back to a realization of her losses. In a year, the don promised to release her. She believed him. A year’s service was a small matter. Then what? She didn’t know how, but Don Pablo would pay for what he had done. If she died in the task, that wasn’t important. Seá±or Pinkerton was effectively dead anyway.

The memory of her date with ’Renzo was a source of internal conflict. She had tried to persuade herself that the essence of Seá±or Pinkerton was unchanged, but only packaged differently. Her experience with ’Renzo was difficult to reconcile with this belief, so she repressed the memory as best she could, telling herself that it was only a temporary aberration. (But she still caught herself ogling good-looking men! She couldn’t help it.)

After lunch Conchita told her, “The don’s going to loan you to one of his cousins, Pansy. Your new boss’ll be Miguel Ovando. His maid quit when she got married and moved, and Don Pablo offered to send him help until the end of the year. He told Seá±or Ovando that you’re a diligent and efficient worker. I trust you’ll live up to that recommendation.”

“I’ll try, ’Chita. But I can not cook, you know. This Seá±or Ovando,  ¿he needs no cook?”

“That’s not a problem. You’ll be cleaning and such, things you do well. You’re a good maid, Pansy.”

The praise stoked Pansy’s pride until she recalled that being a good maid hadn’t been her greatest ambition. “ ¿When do I go?”

“In a few minutes. Miguel Ovando’s a good man, I hear. And a handsome one. You might even find him attractive. But you’re just a maid, so don’t get any fancy ideas. You are pretty, though.” She smiled at Pansy. Over the past year she had become friendly with the new person that was replacing George, and now she only wished Pansy well. “When you go to work for your new boss, you’ll receive some different lessons. Don Pablo says that Seá±or Ovando will teach you to dance. I approve; I think it’s one of the small pleasures that make life worth while. I got you some pretty clothes for your lessons.” She held out a strapless fuchsia satin dress trimmed with white lace.

Pansy stared at Conchita with a puzzled look, then laughed. “Don Pablo’s taking his payment for that day I went to San Pedro. I promised him then that I’d take dancing lessons.” She accepted the dress, stripped off her blouse and skirt, then stepped into the dress. Slipping on the same red strappy high-heeled pumps she had worn on her date with Lorenzo, she turned to the mirror. Her breasts were easily large enough to support a strapless gown, and it showed them off well, although it couldn’t be called indecent. It was just a little too tight around the bosom, though. Pansy spun on one foot and the skirt swirled out. “ ¡It’s beautiful, ’Chita! It doesn’t quite fit right, though.”

“It’s yours. You can alter it, now that you’re good with a needle. I’ll help, but now it fits well enough.” Pansy hugged her and spun again for Conchita’s benefit. Her mentor told her, “ ¡Pansy, you’re beautiful!  ¡Men will love to see you in that!” The idea pleased her. Reluctantly she put her usual blouse and skirt back on, then added her clingy white sweater.

Soon Jaime called, “Come on, Pansy, you mustn’t be late.” He had come to take her to her new job. She gathered her skirt and sat next to him, wondering what kind of man this Seá±or Ovando would prove to be.

As they neared the Comayagua Valley, Jaime explained that Miguel Ovando was a rich coffeegrower. “You’re well trained, and you ought to be able to serve him. You still can’t cook well, but otherwise Don Pablo expects you to do well.” When they reached Comayagua, they turned towards the north as usual, but Jaime drove only a short distance before he turned the car back to the east, onto a smaller gravel road. A few minutes more, and they arrived at a small but modern home. Obviously the owner was well-to-do. “This is your new employer’s finca, Pansy,” Jaime told her. “He’ll treat you well enough, I expect. Don’t disgrace yourself.” She intended to do well. Don Pablo had shown her that anything less than complete obedience would be met with devastating punishment.

Parking the car, Jaime got out and opened Pansy’s door. He led her up the walk and rang the bell. A handsome Spanish-featured man with a dapper mustache answered. He was slender, about 1.7 meters tall, and had black hair receding slightly at the temple. Except for Lorenzo, Pansy had hardly met a single man outside the finca staff, the family, or the clinic for almost a year, and with a shock she suddenly realized that Conchita had been right: Miguel Ovando was a good-looking man. Sexually attractive. But she told herself, “I am a woman now. There’s nothing wrong with feeling attracted to a man. I managed to control my feelings with ’Renzo, and I can do the same with Seá±or Ovando.” Nevertheless, she was disturbed by the feeling.

The handsome stranger ushered her into the casa. “You are Seá±orita Pansy, of course. Welcome to Finca Los Robles. My own housekeeper’s on vacation, and Don Pablo offered to lend you for a couple of weeks. Let me show you around.” He gave her a brief tour, showing where everything was stored and explaining her duties. Then he looked her up and down appraisingly and added, “Don Pablo also asked me to teach you to dance, as a favor to him. I won’t count it as a favor; it’s a pleasure. He didn’t tell me you were so pretty.  ¡You fill that sweater quite well!” Unconsciously Pansy threw her shoulders back, displaying her figure to better advantage. She giggled as she felt herself blush, and a wave of euphoria swept over her–and then she recalled Herná¡ndez’s prediction: “When you reach Stage 5, you’ll fill out a sweater nicely.” A glance downward confirmed it. Seá±or Ovando switched to English: “I understand you grew up in the U.S., and you speak English. I attended UCLA, but I need practice. If you permit, I’ll use your tongue. Please call me Mike.” She agreed, happy to be working for this gentleman. Her time here promised to be pleasure, not work. He offered her coffee–“From my best stock”–and set about putting her at ease. She still felt wonderful, and she already looked forward to her dance classes as she had learned to anticipate her sewing lessons.

Pansy spent the afternoon doing laundry and cleaning the house–Seá±or Ovando was a little messy–and she served supper at around 6 o’clock that evening. Mike was a good cook, she learned, and she only had to assist him, peeling vegetables and fetching ingredients. After she washed the dishes, he insisted on starting her lessons, beginning with the waltz. She learned to follow his lead, and he complimented her on her “natural grace”. To be held in a man’s arms was strange to her, but it was pure enjoyment. Although she wondered how much he knew of her, and her bizarre history, she refused to allow anything to interfere with her pleasure in Mike’s company. She was sorry when the lesson ended and she had to return to her chores. That night she felt almost content, in spite of her déclassée status as a maid. It was only temporary, after all, and her master was most agreeable.
 
 
December 5
-- Miguel scheduled the lessons on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, and in spite of herself, Pansy enjoyed them. She was finding that being an attractive woman had compensations. When she worked, Miguel was an undemanding taskmaster, and while she was his pupil, he treated her as a guest. He was attentive to her, and she liked being pampered. She felt herself becoming euphoric as dance time approached. Colors seemed brighter, odors stronger. She thought, “If I’d been born a woman, I could fall for Miguel, I think.”

Ibá¡á±ez could explain her euphoria. He monitored her–and influenced her–as she danced. A hidden camera cued him to deliver pleasure. The chip was used only lightly to steer Pansy, not control her. He had boasted that she would fall of her own weakness, and that she wouldn’t be forced. “She’ll enjoy dancing as she now enjoys sewing,” he told himself, watching her whirl in Miguel’s arms. “She’s attracted to him sexually and I haven’t even used the sex chip. Her own body drives her just as it did with Seá±or Martá­nez. She doesn’t recognize it yet; I would say she refuses to recognize it.  ¡A textbook example of denial!” He was satisfied, and looked forward to training her further.
 
 
December 8
-- Miguel had taken Pansy to a theater and restaurant in Comayagua, for a day on the town. She wore a bright red dress to complement her dark hair (by now almost back down to her shoulders), and red pumps. Her face was made up carefully, as Conchita had taught her; she wanted it perfect. Mike acted the gentleman before the movie, and he wasn’t too bad during the movie, although she had to slap his hand from her breast–her nipples were stiff and sensitive. (But it felt so good when he brushed them. Although she’d never admit that to him, their almost two-centimeter erection was obvious, and she was sure he knew exactly what he was doing!) He wanted a kiss before he took her home, and she obliged. She was surprised to find that she enjoyed it as much as he did, but she stopped him after five seconds or so (or longer?–it seemed longer). She felt hot and cold all over when he kissed her, and her knees went weak. She just felt wonderful!

Before she went to bed, Mike invited her to a dance in Tegus. “The don asked me to help you become a good dancer, and I can do it best by taking you out.” He smiled slightly as he added, “Besides, you’re a most attractive woman, and I’d want to take you out anyway. Seá±orita bonita, will you do me the honor of attending with me?”

Trying to remain calm and dignified, she replied, “Miguel, I’m pleased to accept. Thank you.” She looked forward to it with a mixture of trepidation and delight.

That night in bed she considered the day’s events. Was she just following the doctors’ script? She thought, “They said my new body would change my attitude. Don’t act stupid! Be careful; you’re being tempted so you can fall.” Then she argued with herself: “It’s not the same thing! It’s… it’s…  ¡well, it’s different!” Even as she said it, she realized how silly she was. It was the same thing; her attraction to Mike was what she had felt for Petunia long ago. Finally she decided, “If I’m a woman–and I am, whether I like it or not–I might as well get some enjoyment out of this body. I don’t need to do more than just kissing and hugging. I can control myself!”

Ibá¡á±ez had monitored her through his implants. He had used the libido chip (but only slightly!) for the first time, other than the automated response generated by the computer. A tiny stimulation, the merest trace, was applied. Pansy had retained a semblance of control as her desire was prodded, but her body betrayed her. She had trembled, and held Mike tightly. Her hips had moved as if she wanted him to take her then and there. The effect was amplified by the pleasure chip. Ibá¡á±ez was sure Pansy would recall the pleasure she had felt in Miguel’s arms, and she’d want to repeat it. He turned off her pleasure chip after they parted; the post-activation depression would heighten the memory of her happiness by contrast.
 
 
December 11
-- Pansy was ironing sheets at Los Robles when Jaime summoned her back to Las Rosas. “Pansy, Don Pablo wants to see you,” he told her. Abandoning her chore, she threw on a pink sweater and left immediately.

In the familiar library, Don Pablo invited Pansy to be seated and inquired after her health and well-being. She replied that she was well enough. As she sipped a cup of strong coffee, he said, “I have not seen you in person since the end of July, although I have followed your progress closely.  ¿Are you at last reconciled to your new life as a woman?”

“Yes,” she admitted, but made no further comment.

“Reconciled, but unhappy, if I read you correctly. Of course I can understand your distress. Now,  ¿you understand that you are to become Susana’s campesina maid?”

“Yes, Seá±or, you are succeeded. I look like a real hondureá±a–a campesina.” It was pointless to deny the obvious. “And yes, I agree, I will work like a maid–I know I cannot escape. I will go to Susana, like you want. For a year.”

“ ¿Do you wish to work as a maid? And Susana’s child:  ¿Do you intend to raise him until he can make his own way in life?”

“No, Seá±or, of course not. I will work for Suzi, yes, as I must, but I will be free after next year. Then I will leave.” Suddenly alarmed, she insisted, “You will free me,  ¿yes?  ¡You made to me a promise!”

“Yes, I will, whatever your status then. I repeat: You will be free to go, with no conditions imposed. Your punishment will be over.” He ran his hands through his hair. “But I am not satisfied. My doctors have not succeeded.”

Her eyes widened. “But…  ¡but look at me! My body, my face, my voice…” She stood and looked down at her hated body. Spreading her hands in front of her in a gesture of surrender, she admitted, “I… I am the woman you wanted me to be. I can not escape it, like you say. Never.  ¿What more can you want?”

Don Pablo scowled slightly. “You are not the woman I want. Not yet. Yes, you look like a woman. Your body lends to that sweater a most attractive set of curves–and you are coming to enjoy the display of those curves, a sign that your soul is becoming feminized to match your body.”

After her adventures with Mike and ’Renzo, she couldn’t disagree. Yes, she was a woman. Denying her own nature, imposed or not, seemed foolish. But the don went on: “However,you do not have the proper personality for a campesina. You have not internalized your inferior status. And yet I do not wish to eradicate completely the existing memories: I wish you to remember the person you once were, and why you are no longer he. It is a problem, and I have spent some time trying to find the ideal solution.”

“But… I do not understand. I call myself Pansy Baca, yes, but of course I know I am really a norteamericano–or a norteamericana.” Her reluctance to admit to the latter was plain. “ ¿Is that not what you want?”

“That is partly right. I want you to know you used to be a man–but you should say to yourself, ‘I am only a campesina now, and I want to be a maid. A good maid. Yes, I was once a norteamericano, and I could have been Suzi’s husband, but now I am satisfied to be her maid. I must work hard for her.’  ¿Do you understand?”

Pansy shook her head. “Seá±or, you want too much. You want…” She paused, then switched to English. “You want to have your cake and eat it too.”

He accepted the switch, realizing her need to express the idea. “Exactly. It seems impossible, and I may fail–my doctors are not optimistic–but that is my wish.” He switched back: “Tell me:  ¿Do you recall growing up as a girl?”

“Yes.”

Again he ignored the bluntness of the response. “Tell me about yourself. About your Pansy-Ann Baca self, that is.”

Reluctantly she obeyed, describing her peasant family, and how she had been trained to cook and to clean. She went through her birthday parties, her First Communion, her quinceaá±os. “But I know it is all a lie. It is not real.”

“ ¿Real?  ¿What is real?” He paused. “During the next few months, we will try to reforge your soul to match those memories, so that you will choose to accept their reality. I do not know whether we can succeed, but in any case I fear that the process will be painful. I apologize in advance, and can only tell you that it is necessary for your final transformation. As an iron ingot must enter fire of the blacksmith to be shaped into a useful object, so also your soul must endure the flames of despair and degradation, to emerge permanently reforged to a new essence: that of a campesina, humble and obedient, whose life centers around service to others. You should remember your former existence, but it will seem–will be–unreal to you, and totally irrelevant. You will remember it, but you will reject it. Your reality will be, ‘I am only a campesina’–and its corollary, ‘I want to be a maid. For me, it is a good job, and I can hope for no better.’ Then you will stay with Susana, happy to work as her maid for as long as she will have you.”

His empurpled metaphor boded ill for her. He was promising to make her next year even more hellish than the year just passing. “ ¿Unreal?  ¡No! Reality is…  ¡is solid!  ¡Permanent!  ¡Not changeable!” Mamá¡ Rosa was fictional!

“ ¿No? Many decades ago a director called Akiro Kurosawa made a movie which is now a classic. Four contradictory versions of a story were shown, all on an equal footing. At the end there was no resolution as to which was the ‘real’ version. His point, in part, was that ‘reality’ is personal. I am hoping that eventually your reality will be, not only that you are a campesina–that will be plain, even to you–but that your life choices are those of a campesina. Every other alternative will appear preposterous. If you accept that, I will be completely satisfied.”

“You said you want me to know that I am Seá±or… Seá±or…” She caught herself. He must not know she had kept the knowledge of her true name! “ ¡Seá±or Cualquiera!” The man was mad!

“Not quite. I told you, I want you to know that you were Seá±or Cualquiera.” He smiled inwardly. “Seá±or Whoever” was an interesting locution! “In spite of that knowledge, you should say to yourself, ‘But now I am Pansy Baca. I am only a campesina. I have to work for Susana. It is the best job I could possibly find.’ And you should be correct.”

“ ¡But I am not a campesina!”

“At the moment, that is true. You are a woman. You have accepted it, and your psyche is adjusting–if unwillingly–to your gender; but in spite of your appearance, you are the norteamericana you name yourself. That is what I wish to change. My psychologists tell me that your personality should be shaped by your appearance, and by how that appearance causes others to treat you” Pansy looked away. She knew it was true. “However, such a radical alteration in your self-image can hardly be expected to take place in the short span of a year. Another entire year of enforced servitude should push you farther in that direction–or so I hope. And of course Seá±or Cualquieras own opinions also support that self-image. He told Suzi that women are meant to cook and clean and raise children–and you have accepted that you are a woman. Logically, then, you should cook and clean and raise children.” A flush rose to her cheek. “In the end, that belief should help shape your nature. If that is so, then your job as a maid will not be seen as a punishment, but rather as a welcome source of income, and your natural vocation.” The don added, “Seá±or Cualquiera might approve of you then; in fact, as I pointed out, his approval will only be another pressure shaping you into a traditional woman. However, any remnant of his psyche will probably not enjoy living within his own feminine fantasy, in spite of that abstract approval.” He shrugged. “Of course, this is an experiment, and you are a guinea pig. My doctors cannot promise that all of this will come to pass; your own opinion may prevail. In fact, I doubt the possibility of complete success. In any case, we have only one year to shape you further. Even if I had not given my word to release you, your liberty–your complete freedom to live your life as you see fit–is the only way we can test the completeness of your makeover. Believe me, after next year, I will not interfere further in your life.” His manner became brisk. “One more matter. I said your transformation is an experiment. It is only one of several such experiments in an ongoing project. If the research succeeds, I hope to profit from it. I may have told you about some possible commercial applications, in criminology for example. As you know, several interested parties have given us support, and are evaluating our success. You have seen them before.” He stood and paced in back of his desk, his hands clasped behind him. “I have been asked to demonstrate the progress we have made, and I am going to allow another interview.” Pansy’s eyes widened. Could she use this to her advantage? “I will not try to influence what you tell them. Lie, or tell the truth, as you wish.” He sat again. “Of course, this will not be their final evaluation; they will see you several more times, as your progress continues. A true test of the thoroughness and permanence of your transformation will only come after much more time has passed–perhaps five years, or maybe ten.  ¿Do you have questions or comments?”

“Yes, Seá±or: If I do not go to Susana at the beginning of the year,  ¿then when do you think to send me to her?”

He shrugged. “I cannot say. When I judge you to be ready. But ready or not, I will release you at the end of next year.”

She had no more questions. There was no point in arguing: he had the power. She’d prove the transformation to be incomplete only after her release, when he had relinquished his control. It was only one more year, and then she’d regain her lost status. She would remain female–that was irreversible–but she’d be the norteamericana the don had named her, with a professional career and the lifestyle that came with it. And she’d see that the don and his minions–especially the doctors!–were made to pay for the suffering imposed on her!

After ordering her to have Conchita braid her hair–“It fits the campesina image we intend for you”–the don let her go. Ibá¡á±ez was right, he thought. She was a norteamericana, proud and ambitious, and much work remained before she would make a good maid. Pansy’s next few months would be interesting.

Jaime drove her back to Los Robles, and she still had time to finish the ironing before helping Mike prepare supper. Later that night as she lay in bed, his words haunted her, and she renewed her pledge to resist her forced conversion to a docile peasant woman. But how? Already they had torn so much from… from Jack. From whoever she really was. Or had once been. She put her hands on her own full breasts, whose sensitivity had so shocked her when ’Renzo had touched them. This wasn’t Jack! His body was gone, and she didn’t even know his true name. The dinner date with ’Renzo and the dancing lessons with Mike proved that Jack’s personality was fading, just as the Don Pablo had said. She was powerless. But maybe Mike could help?
 
 
December 13
-- On returning from Tegus, Pansy felt like Liza Doolittle after the Ascot ball: “I could have danced all night!” A glorious evening! All her distaste for her new gender was forgotten. In Mike’s company she was ecstatic. It was almost like a drug. He was handsome and charming, and she felt his sexual magnetism. When they kissed, she’d go all hot and weak and trembly. He had behaved well, she knew, given that she had encouraged his attentions. Before the dance she had returned briefly to Las Rosas and worked on her dress, lowering the neckline and letting out the bodice to accommodate her larger bosom. She took out the braids forced on her by the don and left her long hair held by mother-of-pearl barrettes. Conchita helped with makeup, and also lent her opal earrings and necklace, and a pearl bracelet. If Pansy was any judge, she looked marvelous.

Mike arrived at 3. They drove to Tegus, had dinner at a good restaurant, and left for the Church of Santos Pedro y Pablo, where the ball was held. He took most of the dances, but other men cut in several times. Pansy enjoyed the attention, and was flattered by their passes. Also, she felt attracted to them. But Mike was her focus. When he held her close she melted! At 10 PM they had to leave, and Mike drove her back to Los Robles. Before they reached the finca in the wee small hours, Pansy asked Mike to kiss her. He pulled over, and he held her tight and kissed her deeply. He cupped her breasts in his hands and kissed them, and ran his fingers lightly over her bare shoulders. She loosened the bodice of her dress (low to begin with) and he caressed her bare breast. She had never realized skin could be so sensitive. She burned like a furnace! A remnant of Seá±or Pinkerton observed her arousal and fought to regain control. The most frightening thing was that she didn’t care; or more accurately, she wanted him to take her. Still, she succeeded in mastering her lust and told him, “No more, Mike! I’ll melt into a puddle in front of your eyes like the Wicked Witch of the West, and you’ll have a terrible mess to clean up!” He laughed, and released her, asking, “Don’t you enjoy it? I know you do: I can see it. But all right. Better get to bed, my dear. It’s back to work tomorrow.” When they arrived at the finca, she headed back to her room, delighted by his attentions. Her resolutions to avoid any hint of sexual relations with a man were forgotten in her overpowering passion for this magnetic man. Don Pablo’s warning also faded from her mind. All she knew was that she wanted to be with Mike.
 
 
December 15
-- For the next two days, fantasies of sex with Mike filled Pansy’s head. The visions were a confused mixture of masculine and feminine sexuality, and she tried to banish them, but with no success. She considered asking Mike to return her to Las Rosas, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Surely she could keep her passion under rein. Other women did; so could she.

On the previous evening Mike had offered to take Pansy to a movie in Comayagua after lunch, and she had accepted. Pansy did her hair before they left, leaving it loose over her shoulders. She spent an hour putting on a face, then took ten minutes to pick a dress, finally choosing a white dress with green trim, a pleated skirt, and a low neckline. She wanted to look as pretty, and as sexy, as possible.

She and Mike left for town at 2 o’clock. She blushed as he turned and ogled her when she sat next to him, remarking with a smile, “Pansy, you look so sexy. You’re the loveliest girl in Comayagua.”

She was pleased and flattered. “Oh, you say that to every girl, I bet,” she replied, giggling slightly, “but thanks anyway.” The ride to town was short, and they arrived in time to share a glass of wine at an outdoor cafe before the movie. As he held her hand, she recalled the Don’s opinion that she had become a norteamericana, as her mind adapted to her new body. “Well, he’s right,” she thought. “I’m a girl. I might as well enjoy it–I’m stuck with it.”

The movie was romantic fluff. They paid little attention to it, but a great deal to each other. Afterwards Mike helped her into her coat, she picked up her purse, and they returned to Los Robles. Mike made a stew for supper, insisting that he prepare it alone. “You’re so pretty in that dress, I want to look at you a bit longer,” he told her. After the meal he showed pictures of his villa in the Caribbean off the north coast of Honduras. They sat on his couch as he ran the projector. His arm encircled her, and she snuggled close and laid her head on his shoulder. It felt warm and comfortable there, and so natural, as if she belonged. Gradually his hand moved to her breast and fondled it. An incredible wave of pleasure washed over her. She felt herself grow hot, and cold, and hot again; her nipples stiffened, and there was suddenly a damp warmth in her crotch.

“Mike! No!” she forced herself to whisper. She wanted more!

He pulled his hand away. “OK, Pansy.” But his arm stayed around her, and he lightly traced the line of her jaw from ear to chin. Again she shuddered. He didn’t go further, but she felt… she didn’t know what! She wanted him to do more, she wanted him to leave her alone, she wanted to kiss him, she wanted to slap him. What was happening? A few minutes later his hand crept back to her breast; her nipples hardened again. His hand moved gently, up and down across her thrusting nipple. She gasped, but she left his hand there. What was her body doing? But it felt so good!

Later Mike made her a Daiquiri. A phrase from long ago flickered in her memory: “Candy’s dandy, but liquor’s quicker.” The drink, quite strong, left her slightly tipsy. Afterwards he embraced her and kissed her deeply. She felt her body respond, and her muscles weakened. Her arm went around his neck and without volition she returned his kiss. Subconsciously she noted his hand unzipping the back of her dress, and then unhooking her bra, but she couldn’t make herself care. He pulled down the top of her dress and stripped away her brassiere. His hands slowly and softly caressed her naked breasts. She felt bathed in a hot wash of ardor.

“Pansy, Pansy,” he murmured. “You are my princess, and I, your prince. Your loveliness has overcome me. Let us celebrate our love.”

“Mike… No, Mike, I can’t… Mike, please, stop, what’s happening to me, it feels so good, what…” Mike kissed her again, and her protests ceased. In a corner of her mind an observer commented, “They did a right proper job on you, didn’t they?” The part of her that was Pansy responded, “I don’t care! It feels wonderful! I want… I want… I don’t know!” She heard Mike, as from a distance, whisper into her ear “Pansy, you’re so sexy,” and he tickled her ear with his tongue. She thought to push him away, but she couldn’t muster the will. He stripped away her dress, and it fell to the floor. When he picked her up, she clung with both arms around his neck. He laid her on his bed and lay next to her, one hand fumbling with his belt as the other ran an arpeggio across her belly, down her thigh, and up to her vagina. Her body quivered with desire, and a fire burned through her. As he kicked his clothes away, then pulled off her panties, she protested weakly: “No, Mike, don’t… Don’t!” He softly drew a finger across her belly, and her muscles spasmed as she gasped. For a brief moment she still whispered “No! No! Stop! Don’t…,” but her body arched towards him, and without a conscious choice her pleas changed to, “Don’t… stop. Omigod! Please, don’t stop!” He rolled onto her. Her legs parted, and as he entered her, she cried, “Oh, yes! Yes!” Then she was submerged in lust, no longer truly sentient.

Afterwards Mike whispered, “God, you’re a good lay!” as he rested there quietly, face up, breathing deeply. Her emotions were in a turmoil as she lay naked beside him. She finally got up, found a robe, and went to the bathroom, where she cleaned herself up and donned her nightgown. When she returned, Mike smiled up at her. “Whooo, that was good!” he said to her; “You’re my drug of choice!” She climbed back into bed next to him. Her sexual fires were banked for the moment, but she was still euphoric.

Later, though, she couldn’t fall asleep. Her rational mind reminded her that Don Pablo had planned this for her. How had they done it? How had they twisted her mind? Herná¡ndez and Weiss had taken Seá±or Pinkerton’s body, his manhood; Ibarra had stolen his name, his identity; Ibá¡á±ez had warped what was left. She had believed that his innermost self would endure. She had been wrong, and Don Pablo had known it. As she reflected on her seduction, she knew she hadn’t been raped, in spite of her protests. She had encouraged Mike, and she had enjoyed it. She was ashamed of her body, of her behavior. She told herself she wasn’t to blame, that her body was designed to respond in precisely this way. But she had trouble explaining away the fact that she, or some important part of her, wanted more. She wanted Mike again, and all the sex he could give her. She hated Mike. She hated the doctors who had transformed her into a woman, weak and pliable and hungry for a man. She hated herself! She’d never allow this to happen again! But Mike still lay there next to her. And although her intellect told her all these things, another, more primitive part of her mind still felt a strange satisfaction that men found her sexually desirable: her sexual itch (as strong as any that Seá±or Pinkerton had ever experienced) could find an outlet. Her libido whispered to her that, since Don Pablo had thrust this body upon her, she might as well enjoy it. She tried to tell herself that if she succumbed to her desire, she risked following the don’s prescription for the remainder of her life; but her fear of a life as a campesina maid was overcome by the immediate pleasure that Mike gave her. Her last thought before sleep was that she wanted Mike to do it all over again.
 
 
December 16
-- At 5 AM she awoke with a hand playing across her chest. Her sheer nightie displayed her breasts well, and Mike had stimulated the nipples to erection. She protested weakly, “Mike! No! You can’t…”

Mike answered, “Of course I can! Doesn’t it feel good? You know it!” He shut off her words by kissing her passionately, his tongue pressed between her lips. “No! No!” she thought: “Don’t allow this!” But her body didn’t obey. It responded to Mike’s knowledgeable touch; it was his, to do with as he liked. Pansy was just his plaything, and as on the previous night, she quickly lost even the wish to stop him, but begged him to continue.

After he was done, Mike arose, and looked down on her. She couldn’t look back, and turned her head. He said softly, “Come on, now, we both enjoyed it. I could tell. Didn’t you, now? Answer me honestly!”

She answered reluctantly, “Yes, I did.” Her memory flashed to Seá±or Pinkerton’s last sexual adventure. He was on top then, thrusting into a girl–into Petunia. Now she had become “Petunia”. She was on the bottom, giving pleasure to a man and receiving his seed. The true meaning of her skirts, her breasts was brutally clear: she was a woman, a female–and that meant she was just a toy to satisfy a man. But oh! the delight! the ecstasy! In spite of her shame, she didn’t know how to resist it. But she MUST!!

By 7 AM Mike arose, still naked. The sight of him aroused her again, but she didn’t show it. When he returned, her desire was muted. He came to the bed, leaned over, and gently kissed her. She felt supremely happy then. All the shame and horror at her wantonness were washed away in a flood of delight. She wanted to stay with Mike forever. She didn’t want this moment to end. Mike softly told her, “Pansy, you’re wonderful! I’d like to see more of you. I’m glad Don Pablo suggested that you work for me. You’re so much more than I expected. What about you? Would you like this to continue?”

An offer to become his mistress. To accept that she was a sex toy. “No!” a small voice within her warned. “I’m more than that!” But she ignored it. “Yes! I don’t want this to ever end!”

“But you’d better get dressed. You’re still my maid, you know, and I’d like breakfast soon. Then you’ve got some cleaning to do. By the way, you’re returning to Las Rosas this morning. Don Pablo asked to have you back for Christmas. He’s having guests over, and he needs all the help he can get.”

Jaime picked Pansy up at 10:00 AM. He told her she was only one of several girls who’d be helping to prepare for the holiday celebrations. “You can go back to Miguel after the holiday is over–at least for a short time. I understand that Don Pablo has other plans for you next year.” She shuddered slightly; the plans undoubtedly involved forcing her ever more securely into a campesina mold. He had warned her!

She put her hair back into braids immediately upon arrival and then was put to washing floors and cleaning windows. After supper she was set to putting up decorations. Amalia Urraba, her friend of brief acquaintance, was assigned to the same task. When Pansy spoke to her, Amalia squinted at her for a moment, then smiled at her. “ ¿Where have you been, Pansy?  ¿Do you have a boyfriend yet? I know ’Renzo would like to see you again.” Pansy blushed and admitted, “Well, there is someone I like…” ’Malia smiled knowingly, but made no further comment.
 
 
December 19
-- Pansy was polishing silverware when Jaime pulled her aside. “Some men want to speak with you, Pansy. Come with me.” She knew it must be the “interested parties” that Don Pablo had mentioned, who wanted to evaluate her “progress”. Jaime took her into the study she knew so well, where three men sat around the table in the center. She recognized them as the men who had interviewed her several months earlier. “Be seated, Seá±orita,” the first visitor, a slender olive-skinned man with a neat mustache, said in good Spanish, but with a strong English accent. He set a small video recorder onto a table and started it running. The second, a swarthy man with a heavy accent she couldn’t identify, commented in English, “She a good maid, well trained. I see her work.” The first addressed her again: “ ¿Do you remember me?”

“Yes, Seá±or. I met you earlier this year.”

“We have a few more questions. First, I will attach a few sensors.  ¿You have seen a polygraph?” He fastened several wired discs to her wrists and temples, then sat down. “ ¿Now, can you give us your name, age, and birthplace?”

“If you know about Don Pablo’s project, then you know that I can not do that very good.”

“Tell what you can,” the blond ordered.

“I call myself Pansy Baca. I have nineteen years, and I… I am not sure of my place where I was born.” She took a deep breath. “But of course you know, ‘Pansy’ is not my real name. My original name. And I think my age is not right.”

“Of course we know.  ¿But what do you know of your original self?” the first man–an American, she guessed from his accent–asked impatiently.

“Seá±or, Don Pablo took most of that from my memory.” It was unlikely that any of these men would help her; the notion she had had of getting assistance from them was foolish. But she had to ask. Surely it was expected of her. “Please, I beg your help in recovering what I can.”

“We know that you remember more than you are willing to admit,” Bianchi told her, ignoring her plea. “But of course you speak English: in spite of your appearance, you were once a norteamericano. I’m comfortable in that language, so I’ll use it. Now, where were you really born? And where did you go to college?” He pushed an unseen button.

Pansy felt a surge of panic. They knew! If she didn’t cooperate, if she lied, she’d be punished! “I… I… I do know a… a little. I think I… I was born… in Ovid. Ovid, Ok… Oklahoma?” Was that right? She wasn’t sure.

Her interrogator wrote something in a small notebook. “And your name? Your real name?”

“I… My name is…” Did they really know? She had to tell the truth. The prospect of punishment for disobedience was too terrible. “My name… my real name was… is Pink… Pinkerton.” The panic subsided, and she felt unaccountably cheerful. She was safe for now–as long as she obeyed. Don Pablo had promised!

“Your first name? And tell me about your family?”

Bianchi interrogated her for half an hour while the others took notes. She answered as best she could. Some gaps in her knowledge shocked her; she couldn’t name the capitol of the United States, she couldn’t pick out Oklahoma or Georgia on a map, and she had no idea who was president of the USA.

The second man, a darker-skinned Latino, changed the line of questioning. “What are your plans after your release?” He smiled, revealing a gold tooth. “I watched you work today, and you are a good maid. They have trained you well.  ¿You will remain here in Honduras, to work for the daughter of Seá±or Herrera?”

“No!” Pansy didn’t hesitate over her answer. “I’m an American! I’ll be out of here!”

Machado switched to English. “Seá±or Herrera say, you will be maid for his daughter after that.”

She shook her head violently, her braids swinging wildly. “No! He promised to free me after two years!”

“And he will,” Bianchi verified. “We need to test the effectiveness of his methods. We agreed to support his research only after he set a firm time limit on the length of treatment, and that limit’s two years.”

She was relieved by his confirmation of Don Pablo’s promise. “Then after next year I will leave.”

“Maybe. We know that you–or Mister Pinkerton, or even Miss Pinkerton, as you surely are now–would take off, trapped in a woman’s body or not; but Seá±or Herrera believes you won’t be you any more. You won’t be Mister Pinkerton, trapped in a girl’s body–or even the Miss Pinkerton we see now, an American girl forced against her will to work as a maid. He says you’ll be Pansy-Ann Baca, a Honduran girl, grateful for a good job.” He smiled. “You are a pilot project in psychological engineering–an attempt to change a person into someone else, someone with a custom-designed personality. Your physical transformation, as remarkable as it has been, is only a means to an end: as Seá±or Herrera told you, your own new personality is to be that of a normal peasant girl. Clearly you haven’t reached that point–not at all!–but Seá±or Herrera tells us that another year should finish the task. You’re a wonderful test case, Miss Pinkerton: you represent about the most ambitious transformation possible. We have made an agreement with Seá±or Herrera: At the end of the two years, your free acceptance of your new life as a peasant girl–or your rejection of that life–will be the measure of success, or failure, for the project.”

“But it’s inhuman! You’re American…”–she wasn’t sure, but his accent sounded American–“and you know what the reaction would be if something like this was done at home!”

“Exactly correct–and exactly why we’re interested in you. Seá±or Herrera’s methods are useful. If we can’t develop them at home–at least not openly–then we’ll use his results. You and others like you are the best chance we have. The only chance we have.” He shrugged. “It’s tough on you, I agree–but at least you’ll have a life after it’s all finished. Seá±or Herrera says that the traditional penalty for your sins would be worse.”

There were others like her? Of course, there had to be! But that didn’t help her. “Worse? That’s doubtful. And tell me: what happens if the story of U.S. government support gets out? If the newspapers find out?”

“Who believe you?” Machado pointed out. “You have no evidence. And we think you no are saying nothing.” He grinned. “Seá±or Herrera say, you too busy with diapers, laundry, working for tu enamorada.”

“Never! He said I’ll still remember who I really am, and I’ll get back to the U.S. as soon as I’m free.”

“Maybe,” the American said. He shook his head, puzzled. “I admit, it seems to me if you recall your old life–and you’re right, he says you will–then you ought to be able to find a way back. And he told us–he promised us–you’ll know you used to be an American. Then his project will have failed, at least partly, and we’ll recover some of the money we’re sinking into his project.” He shrugged. “It’s not our concern. As a matter of fact, we have a financial interest in your escape.” He spread his hands. “I think he’s being foolish. If I were running the project, I’d erase all the memories that conflict with your new life. But he says it won’t matter.”
The Latino laughed. “You are bien cojoneada, Seá±orita. Well screwed, I think you say in English. Even if you know you are–you say, Pinkerton?–you have not papers to prove it. Even to yourself, you call yourself Pansy! And you are only half into the project? I watch you for next year, I think Don Pablo right and I see you change inside. You become campesina, just as you look. Want husband and babies here in Honduras, not more.”

Pansy was in no position to argue. “I… You… I don’t know.”

The American said, “I might be able to help. Seá±or Herrera is so sure of your ultimate transformation–your acceptance of a peasant-girl identity–that he’s letting me make this offer: if you contact the American Embassy in Tegucigalpa after your release and ask for Albert Bianchi, then I’ll help you get back home.” He spread his hands. “We have an ulterior motive, of course. We’d love the opportunity to study you at length, first hand. Maybe you’ll be a peasant girl, like Seá±or Herrera expects, or maybe not–but in any case, you’ll have to make some accommodation to your… ummm… shall we say, your altered circumstances? It’ll be a fascinating study!”

Life as a lab rat–but better than the life of virtual slavery planned for her. “I’ll accept the offer,” she replied.

The Iraqi, Ergec, asked, “Still you want a woman in your bed, or now a man? Seá±or Herrera says you conditioned to like men, to please men.”

“I… I don’t… No, I don’t want a man.” She thrust her attraction to Miguel out of her mind. Her adventures in his bed were–had to be–only a temporary aberration, no more.

His face fell. “Then you are… How do you say? You are a lesbite?”

Reflexively she insisted, “No! I don’t… don’t want any sex with… with anyone! Not like a woman!” She almost added, “I’m a man! A man!” but even in her agitated state, her denial couldn’t be stretched that far.

Machado intervened. “Seá±or, let it pass. It is not important. Seá±or Herrera said most of her conditioning comes next year.” He turned back to Pansy. “Maybe his plans will fail; but in that case equally interesting will be to watch you–to watch the Seá±or Pinkerton who once was–deal with life in Pansy Baca’s body. To accommodate, as my colleague says. Now, what are your enjoyments–tus aficiones–your hobbies? Before you came here, I mean.”

The men continued to question her, and she answered as best she could, cheered by the hope that she could obtain help after the end of her captivity. After another two hours, and some psychological tests, they sent her back to the Christmas party, with the promise that they would check on her again in a few months.

Later, Ergec spoke privately with Don Pablo in his study. “I am persuaded, Seá±or. I prepared to offer support for your project. More than that, I wish to give you another subject.”

“Hmm…” The don sipped a glass of Dom Pérignon. “I need no more subjects, Seá±or. Not yet, anyhow.”

“I know that. Subjects are not difficult to find.” He put down his own champagne. “I will pay for the privilege. If you will accept my subject, I will pay all expenses–plus fifty thousand dollars in advance.”

Don Pablo considered the offer. “We may be able to do business, Seá±or, although you will need to go higher. Tell me more about what changes you wish for your ‘subject’.”

They continued to discuss the matter for another hour. When Ergec left, he had an agreement that the doctors would replicate Pansy’s treatment on a second subject, to be provided.
 
 
December 25
-- Christmas dawned clear and warm. The workers got up before dawn, ate a quick breakfast, and were driven to town to attend Mass. When Pansy returned, she was set to work in the kitchen. A crowd of guests was expected and there was much to be done, even after Pansy and the other maids had spent the previous day in furious labor, dusting, washing, and polishing everything that would stand still. The finca was spotless. Now she was caught up in the final preparation of the feast that the don was preparing for his guests. Late in the morning the maids had a light lunch. “Eat now, while you can,” Conchita warned them. “You won’t have time later.”

Early in the afternoon the main meal was served. The house swarmed with cousins, aunts, neighbors, and friends. The guests kept Pansy running. “Pansy, please fetch more ham.” “Girl,  ¡more punch!” “ ¡Hey, you!  ¡Maid! Get me some coffee.” “Seá±orita, I’d like some papaya.” One of the children spilled a pitcher of milk, and Pansy cleaned up after him; another threw up, and she cleaned that too. “Girl,  ¡more coffee!” “Seá±orita, a little more tea.” She was too busy to dodge the pats and pinches of some of the men–not all of them young. After the guests left the table, Pansy and the other maids had to clean up the mess. By mid-afternoon she was back to serving drinks. Two of George’s former students, Elena Carvajal and Consuela Eloy, were among them, but they had no way to recognize her, and took no notice of her. From her new perspective as a maid, Pansy found that most people (but not all) treated servants differently from those perceived as social equals; her old students ordered her about, with little courtesy and no regard for her as a fellow human being. She responded with meekness and obedience, just like the other maids. She told herself there was no percentage in acting otherwise, that she had no choice but to act the humble maid. Although she was quite correct, she didn’t understand the inevitable corollary: as Ibá¡á±ez had predicted, her own self-image was beginning to shift, reflecting the assumption of others that she was just an insignificant and ignorant girl. Of course, other pressures were also shaping her self-image. Ever since the imposition of her little-girl voice, everyone had patronized her. The condescension was especially obvious from the men, but it came from women too. It seemed to be unconscious and automatic, an innate reaction to her apparent immaturity. Her mestiza face and short stature had only buttressed that reaction. After all, she was just a campesina, wasn’t she? Her mirror certainly told her so, as she made her face up every morning.

Early in the evening Susana stopped by to visit. Pansy first saw her when she entered the bustling room where Pansy was serving mixed drinks. Susana paid no special attention, but accepted a daiquiri from her and began conversing with an aunt. Ten minutes later, she requested a refill of the drink. Pansy replied, “Of course, Seá±ora,” and turned to obey. Susana smiled. “ ¿You have nothing more than that to say to me, Pansy?”

Pansy turned back reluctantly. “No, Seá±ora.  ¿What is there to say?”

“ ¿You don’t want anything from me, then?”

“Nothing that you will give to me, Seá±ora. I have learned some things from experience.” She began to leave again.

“Wait just a minute, sweetheart.” Pansy paused obediently and Susana turned to her aunt. “Tá­a,  ¿has Father told you anything about his big project?  ¿The one where he changes people into someone else and gives them new lives?”

“Yes, dear, a little, but I don’t know much about it. Technical matters bore me, I’m afraid.”

“Look at this girl. She calls herself Pansy-Ann Baca. Tell me,  ¿do you see anything odd about her?”

Her aunt looked carefully at Pansy, who flushed and distractedly tucked a stray wisp of hair behind her ear. “No, I’m afraid not. She’s a pretty little thing…” Pansy winced. “and she seems to be an efficient maid. But I think you’re implying that this girl is one of my brother’s subjects. From the little bit Pablo told me, that means she committed some offense. Probably she’s working as a maid now as her punishment.  ¿Am I correct?”

“ ¡Exactly correct!” She smiled. “And yes, you’re right, she is a pretty little thing. I’ve heard the men telling each other she’s a real cuero. But Pansy isn’t just another subject. She represents Father’s most ambitious attempt to remake a person completely. He calls it the Ovid Project.” The older woman looked interested, and Susana turned back to her former lover. “Tell Seá±ora Pérez who you were, Pansy.”

“I…” Pansy looked away, then down. “I do not know my old name, Seá±ora. They took it from me.”

Susana giggled slightly. “Yes, Father erased her old name. Now she calls herself ‘Cow’. She served as a wetnurse for a time, and she was a good milk producer. But Seá±orita Vaca, tell her what you do know. Tá­a, you won’t believe her, but I’ll vouch for it.  ¡Go on, Pansy!”

Maybe this could be an opportunity to find help, Pansy thought. “Seá±ora, she tells the truth. I am a victim of Don Pablo’s horrible experiments. Everything I had, everything I was, he stole from me."

Seá±ora Pérez interrupted. “She has a very strong English accent. She’s no catracha. She’s a norteamericana,  ¿true? And an educated woman, I would guess.  ¡But she looks so much like a campesina! Of course, there are many latinas in the north, but I suspect it’s the work of Pablo’s doctors. You’re right, Suzi, it’s really amazing. For a girl like her to have to work as a maid–that’s a severe punishment. And after she’s freed–I know Pablo turns his subjects loose after a while–I imagine she can go back to wherever she came from, but she’ll be stuck with her new face. She’s pretty enough, as I said, but she’ll always look like a peasant girl. It’ll be a real handicap after she’s released. I didn’t know Pablo could arrange such a thorough change of appearance.”

“You’re almost right. Pansy came from the north, yes–from the United States–but she’s not a norteamericana.”

“You speak in riddles, my dear.  ¿An immigrant from somewhere else, then?  ¿Is she maybe English?”

“Ask Pansy. She’ll explain.  ¿Won’t you, Pansy?”

Seá±ora Pérez turned back to Pansy. “Help me with this conundrum, Seá±orita, since my niece is being stubborn.  ¿Exactly where were you born?”

“Ovid, Oklahoma, Seá±ora. It is a small town in the northern United States.”

“That explains your accent. And yet Suzi claims you are not a norteamericana.  ¿Why is that?”

Pansy pulled herself together. “I am–or I was–a norteamericano. I was a man.”

Her interrogator laughed. “No, seriously, Seá±orita.”

“It is true. Don Pablo did this to me.  ¡Please, help me!” Pansy turned her hands up, pleading. “I am not really a maid.  ¡I am not really a woman! I am an educated man,  ¡a professional!” Even as she spoke, Pansy knew how foolish the claim sounded, delivered in her girlish soprano. “I know it sounds stupid– ¡it sounds crazy!–but it is true. Everything I had, he takes away. Even my identity.  ¡Especially my identity! Suzi knows.  ¡She can tell to you!”

Seá±ora Pérez raised an eyebrow at Susana, who replied, “She’s telling the truth, Tá­a. Or at least mostly the truth. She is really a woman–now–and she is really a maid, but a year ago she was the norteamericano she describes–a professional man, just as she says. A chemist. I knew that man well, a year ago. I watched as he was slowly changed to the girl you see now, and as she was trained as a maid. Father’ll try to complete the transformation next year. If he can do it, then she’ll be a campesina for real, and my own personal maid.” Susana smiled sweetly and added, “He was a complete failure as a man, so now he’s not a man at all. Maybe he’ll be a success as a woman–but he’ll stay a woman in any case.”

For a moment the older woman’s mouth hung slack. “ ¿Can this be true?” Her jaws set. “ ¡You must be joking! Look at her, listen to her– ¡she’s a natural girl if there ever was one!  ¿How could such a thing possibly be?”

“I don’t know the details. Ask your brother; his doctors worked on her, some on her body, some on her mind.”

“I certainly will ask him.  ¡That story is incredible!  ¿Is there proof?”

“Yes, Father has full documentation. Photos, videos, recordings. But Pansy has none. She’ll be trapped in her new identity as a peasant girl. Father’s doctors can twist her mind, too. That’s why she doesn’t know her old name. And that’s why she’ll be such a good maid, too. After they finish working on her mind next year, Father promised to free her–but by then she’ll want to be my maid. Or so Father hopes. She’ll ask to stay with me and help care for my children until they’re grown.”

Turning to Pansy, Seá±ora Pérez asked, “ ¿Is that agreeable to you, my most unlikely norteamericano?  ¿You are willing to remain a maid, even after Pablo frees you?  ¿To serve Suzi’s meals and wash her dirty underwear?”

“ ¡No!  ¡Never!” The words tumbled out quickly. “I have to obey Don Pablo now. I have no choice; I cannot escape. But next year, when he promised to free me, I will return to the United States. But please, Seá±ora,  ¡help me!”

“ ¿Why? I mean,  ¿why were you chosen? I know my brother well. He did this to you for a reason.  ¿What was it?”

“I…” Pansy looked away. “I was Suzi’s boyfriend until I got her pregnant. But Seá±ora,  ¡I do not deserve to be destroyed! What I did was wrong. I know it. I am too much punished already. Please, ask your brother to release me.”

“I see,” Seá±ora Pérez noted. “So you’re the one who was responsible for that. And then you left her. Pablo told me all about it. At least you’re honest about it. Not that you can hide it, of course. Anyway, I agree, your punishment is harsh–much too harsh–but not more so than the traditional penalty. But it seems to me, the worst is past. As I look at you, I think you will not–cannot–regain your manhood. You say Pablo will free you after a year’s service. If he promised, then he’ll keep his word; he’s scrupulous about that.” Turning back to her niece, she asked, “ ¿Is your boyfriend a good maid?”

“I’m not sure–she hasn’t worked for me yet. Father says she’s coming along well. She sews and cleans well, he tells me, and she’s been trained to care for infants. But he thinks she needs a bit more training.” She glanced over at Pansy. “Conditioning, really. He wants her to think like a peasant girl, to be happy–no, not happy, but resigned–to her new position in life. To accept that she’ll never be anything more than a maid. That way, she’ll be content to work for me permanently.”

“ ¡Never!” interrupted Pansy. “I…”

“ ¡Quiet, girl!” Seá±ora Pérez ordered. “You have no say in this. Now turn around slowly.” Pansy’s eyes widened in shock and her mouth hung open briefly, then she obeyed. “Yes, the physical changes are well done. Or at least the outward appearance. She’s the image of a peasant girl. Her body, her face, the quality of her voice… Her complexion isn’t as dark as it might be, but otherwise, no one could doubt that she was born into such a position.  ¿But her accent…?”

“Yes, it needs work,” Susana agreed. “I don’t know how Father’ll fix it, but I’m sure he’ll find a way. By next year Pansy’ll probably sound like a native.” She giggled. “I bet she won’t even be able to speak English without an accent.”

“ ¿How long has your boyfriend been wearing a dress…? Let me see…” She did a silent calculation. “Probably about a year,  ¿true?” Susana nodded. “ ¡Amazing!  ¡Already he’s so feminine!”

It wasn’t true! It couldn’t be true! Pansy tried again to protest: “ ¡No, Seá±ora…!”

“ ¡Be silent until you’re spoken to, girl! And ‘girl’ it is. I see your hair, your makeup: you worked diligently to make yourself pretty. I don’t know if it’s just your new body affecting you, or if my brother’s been working on your head, but it seems to me you’re becoming a woman inside as well as out. I suppose it’s just as well; if you were to stay a man in your head, you’d always be miserable in that body.  ¡Such a waste!” She frowned. “ ¿But a campesina? I think not.”

Susana agreed again. “No, not yet. But Father thinks he can change her mind as much as her body. If he’s right, then she won’t want to leave me. After all, being a maid is a good job, for a campesina. She’ll want to work hard for me, to keep me happy and make sure she can keep the job.  ¡I’m counting on it!”

“I doubt it, Suzi. You heard the girl. She’ll leave when she can– ¿at the end of next year, she said? She’s no campesina, in spite of her looks, and I can’t imagine her agreeing to stay with you.”

“That’s true now,  ¿but in a year? Besides, she’ll never be able to prove she’s the norteamericano who disappeared here a year ago–even if she knew his name. He’s officially drowned–the body was recovered and identified. And just look at her:  ¿who could ever believe believe such a ridiculous tale?”

Pansy remembered her experience with Seá±or Pierce during her abortive escape attempt. Susana was right: it’d be much worse now. But she could escape. She had to! “ ¡I am a norteamericano!” she insisted. “ ¡You know it! With work,  ¡I am able to prove it! Fingerprints, or… or…” She paused. Susana started to speak, but Pansy didn’t notice and continued: “ ¡DNA!  ¡That can prove I am really a norteamericano!”

Susana laughed at her. “DNA hardly proves nationality. Besides,  ¿do you really think the embassy can run a DNA test?  ¿Or that they’d be willing to test you, even if they could? I mean, you’re pretty well stacked for a norteamericano,  ¿true? No, you’re obviously a peasant girl. If you claim you’re not, you won’t get very far with la migra.  ¡You don’t even know your old name! Not that it’d matter. It’s crazy on the face of it. They’ll laugh you out of the office.” She paused. “And the airlines’d never let you onto a plane in the first place. They’re awfully strict about ID’s and visas and that sort of thing.”

Seá±ora Pérez agreed. “I see your point. No money, no papers…”

“She will have papers,” Susana disagreed. “She already has them. They say that… No, they prove that she’s a native hondureá±a, Pansy-Ann Baca, born in Comayagá¼ela. She’d be just another poor campesina trying to sneak into the U.S.”

“But the fact that she’ll be stuck here, even working as a maid, doesn’t mean she’ll be a campesina. To fit the definition, she’d have to accept a campesina’s goals–to marry another peasant, then stay at home and raise a family. No, I don’t think Pablo will have his way completely.” She panned her gaze over Pansy’s body. “I must admit, though, that physically Pablo got his money’s worth from his doctors. Your boyfriend has a cute face–and he certainly fills our his dress very nicely.”

“ ¡Yes indeed!  ¡I’m almost jealous! Father tells me she’s getting a lot of favorable attention from his men.” She turned back to Pansy. “ ¿Isn’t that true, Pansy? ”

Pansy blushed. ’Renzo and Mike immediately came to mind. “I… I… Y…yes, I mean n…no, th…they… but… but I don’t…” she stuttered, shifting from foot to foot in embarrassment and lowering her eyes. “But I did,” she thought.

Mariana smiled and waved her to be silent. “Yes, I see. I can understand that the norteamericano hiding behind that pretty face would be uncomfortable, at best, with that attention. In that, at least, she’s no campesina.  ¿Does Pablo propose to change that?”

“I don’t know. He hasn’t enlightened me.  ¡I hope so! I dream that my faithless lover will be pushed by the demands of his new body to accept–no, to encourage–the advances of some lusty young stablehand. And I’d further hope that there’d still be enough of his old self left to be horrified when it happens, but unable to stop himself.” Susana giggled. “In a small way, that’s already the case. He positively loathes the name Father chose for him–but he still calls himself Pansy, even in his head. He can’t help it.  ¿Do you know what it means? In English, I mean.”

“It’s a flower,  ¿true?”

“Yes, of course–but it has a secondary slang meaning. It’s an effeminate man, or a homosexual. Now tell me,  ¿isn’t that just so appropriate?”

Mariana stifled a giggle. “ I see.  ¡Effeminate indeed! But that’s a long way from persuading him to accept a man, not to mention encouraging one. And far from getting him to want to be a maid. More likely, you’ll have a lesbian, who will leave as soon as possible.”

“Tá­a, I have a wager for you.”

“ ¿Yes?”

“I have confidence in Father. If he says he can change my norteamericano into a campesina, he’ll do it. Completely. Here’s the bet: Within five years you’ll be invited to Pansy’s wedding. You’ll see him–no, her–agree, of her own free will, to marry a peasant. She’ll promise to love, honor, and obey him. Afterwards, I’ll send her to your place for a day, to help with your own household work. You can judge for yourself. If you don’t agree she’s a campesina in every way, you win.”

“ ¿And the stakes?”

“Oh, let’s say…  ¿How about fifty thousand lempiras?”

“ ¡Done!” Seá±ora Pérez turned to Pansy. “Girl, I’m betting that you’re right, that you won’t become the campesina my brother intends. Not within five years, anyway. But I’m not at all sure I won’t lose.”

Pansy shook her head. “Seá±ora, your money is safe. If I can not escape earlier, I will leave in a year.  ¡And I can never marry a peasant! I am… I will not never marry–I cannot have a woman–but if I marry, it never would be a peasant.” But Don Pablo thought she would. And all his efforts had succeeded, so far.

“We’ll see,” Susana remarked. “Forget your female body–if you can; I bet you still wake up surprised to find you’re a girl. Anyway, just think of what he did to your mind this last year. Your sewing, your makeup… In another whole year,  ¡he’ll reshape your personality even more! But whether you marry or not, you’ll be my maid. You’ll never escape that, lover.”

Seá±ora Pérez added, “And you’re definitely a maid right now, girl. Get me a glass of wine.”

Swallowing her protest, Pansy obeyed quickly, grateful to escape. Discussion was useless. But she’d escape. She had to! She would!

When Pansy returned with the wine, Seá±ora Pérez accepted it, and told Pansy go see Susana in the next room. “I think she wants to find out more about how well your father’s project is going. Maybe she is worried about her wager.”

In the other room, Susana told her to sit. She obeyed nervously, fidgeting in her chair. Susana laughed at her. “Don’t be so jumpy, girl. I just wanted to talk a bit.”

Pansy had no reciprocal desire to chat, but under the circumstances, she had little choice. “Yes, Seá±ora.  ¿What can I tell you?” Whatever it was, it would be malicious. She was a mouse, under the calculating gaze of a cat.

“ ¿Are you still romantically inclined towards women? As you heard, Tá­a Mariana thinks you’ll be gay.”

“Please, Seá±ora, I… I not can tell.” An ambiguous answer–maybe it would suffice. But probably not. “It is too early.” And then, bitterly, “I can not do nothing, anyway.”

“ ¿Oh? My understanding is that lesbians manage somehow, with the same equipment you have. But I take your meaning: your former modus operandi no longer is in operating mode.” Pansy didn’t reply. “But Father told me you had a date a month ago. With a man.  ¿Did you enjoy it?”

“It was… it was set for me. I not try to do it.”

“That doesn’t answer me.  ¿Did you enjoy it?”

“I… Yes, he taked me to a good restaurant. I like to get away from Las Rosas.”

Avoiding the issue once more. “ ¿Did you enjoy him?  ¿Did you kiss him?”

Pansy looked away. She remembered ’Renzo’s hand on her breast, the deep kiss they had shared. Her face became red, and she became aware of her nipples as they stiffened visibly beneath her dress. “Y… yes… no… yes, he kissed me.” Her hidden observer realized how transparent she was, and her flush deepened.

Susana nodded knowingly. “My money is safe. Other girls learn to restrain themselves–but your previous life left you accustomed to satisfying your urges. I think you’ll be a slut, my dear.” She stood. “You wouldn’t much like that, I fear.  ¡But I would! Maybe you’ll even end up a prostitute. Think about it as you clean up tonight.” She stood and left.

Pansy watched her go. She wouldn’t, couldn’t be right. “I do have control,” she told herself. “I can keep from falling!” She resolved to start by staying out of Mike’s bed. Yes, she was tempted–but she’d be strong!

After all the guests left, Pansy grabbed a quick snack of leftovers. Conchita and Pansy exchanged presents before going to bed. ’Chita gave Pansy a vial of perfume, and in return received a copper bracelet. ’Chita’s gift wasn’t a surprise to Pansy, but the others were. A package from Susana held a cookbook. Jaime gave her silver earrings shaped like orchids. A parcel from Miguel Ovando contained a sheer red nightie. Another package, mailed from Petunia, contained a copy of Ames and Donovan’s long out-of-print classic, “Orchids of Guatemala and Belize”. Pansy was delighted by her gifts (except for the cookbook). Jaime noted her pleasure, and nodded to himself. Don Pablo was right: Pansy was becoming a woman in her mind.
 
 
December 26
-- Pansy stayed at Las Rosas the day after Christmas, to help with the clean-up, but the work wasn’t enough to keep her mind off her conversation with Susana and Seá±ora Pérez. She had thought the worst was past, that all she had to do was wait out another year; but Suzi was confident that the don would do more, so she’d remain as Suzi’s maid even after she was free. After what Pansy had experienced, she couldn’t be certain that Suzi was wrong. Escape was imperative! But how? She needed help; who would provide it?

She also thought about her experience with Mike. A week after her seduction, her body’s reaction still shocked her. Since going out with Mike her nipples hardened every time she thought of him, and she felt a warmth in her loins. The pleasure he had given her was greater than any she had had as a man. In spite of Seá±or Pinkerton’s experience at seducing the opposite sex, she had never imagined that a woman could feel this way. She could almost forgive Don Pablo for making it possible. Almost. Thank God she couldn’t get pregnant!

At her work she wore a silly smile on her face, daydreaming about Mike. The other maids smiled knowingly, and Conchita warned her, “Pansy, be careful. Men all want the same thing, and if you give it to them, it may be a lot of fun at that moment, but it’s you that’ll pay. You must know that already–especially you– ¡but remember it!”
 
 
December 27
-- Conchita continued to worry about Pansy’s growing infatuation with Miguel. They had talked often since Pansy’s temporary return to Las Rosas, and Pansy had told her of her awakening sexual urges. Conchita told her former student that it had been obvious, and warned her, “At one time I would’ve just laughed, and told you it served you right. But you’ve suffered enough, I think. When you return to Los Robles today,  ¡be careful!”

Pansy giggled. “I’ll be OK, ’Chita. Yes, you’re right. I know the danger.” She ought to, she told herself; she had played the other side of the game. “But I’m not a statue, and I do need a man’s company.  ¡But no more than that!”

Ibá¡á±ez didn’t need to be told about Pansy’s desire. The chip signals from Pansy were useful guides to her emotional state. He had been able to estimate her state of arousal, and just how she was being stimulated, at the time it was being done. The feedback seemed efficient, and he believed it would condition her behavior effectively. Now he’d reinforce her newly awakened sexuality. He chuckled to himself. Weiss and Herná¡ndez had finished her body with amazing success. He himself (and Ibarra as well) had already done some work on Pansy’s psyche, but she was still a norteamericana at heart. Much more remained to be done to transform her soul to that of a campesina, and he looked forward to the challenge. The next phase of their project would be unpleasant for Pansy–even brutal–but he considered the unpleasantness necessary. Much of George’s psyche survived, and it needed to be demolished. The Chinese Communists had developed techniques for such “re-education”, and he intended to adapt their methods to his purpose.

After lunch Jaime took Pansy back to Los Robles, where she resumed her duties for Miguel.
 
 
December 29
-- A shackled Toqi Ergec stood in a shabby room before three seated men. The eldest, behind a desk strewn with papers, told him, “You heard the charges. Do you dispute them?”

“You won,” Ergec replied, his eyes straight ahead. “You will do what you want, no matter what I say. You know it. I know it. Finish your play-acting and kill me now.” He spat.

“Put down that the defendant does not dispute the charges,” the senior judge instructed. “Very well, then: you are found guilty of complicity in the murder of three Nationalists. Further, you planned to deprive a fourth man–my cousin, as it happens–of his manhood, and to condemn him to a life of degradation as your personal servant. We have documentation supporting all these charges.” Ergec started to argue, but thought better of it and kept silent. “Your plans for my cousin were completed, and all arrangements were made. Two weeks ago you sent the payment for this… this abomination, from the government treasury. It seems we cannot recover those expenses. A just penalty suggests itself. Toqi Ergec, we will be merciful. We do not condemn you to death. Instead, we will send you back to Honduras, where you will take the place of Yusuf bin Hossain.” Ergec’s eyes opened wide and he twitched, but said nothing. “When you return, suitably altered in accordance with your own instructions, you will serve my cousin as you would have had him serve you. Five years from today, your sentence will end, and you will be free.” He raised his eyes to Ergec. “As you know, your family would ordinarily suffer for your crimes–as you have decreed for the families of others. However, we are inclined to be extend our mercy even further. As long as you accept your punishment–for the next five years–we shall be satisfied, and they shall be safe. Otherwise…” He shrugged. “But I expect you will comply with our instructions. May Allah have mercy on you.” He turned to the other two men. “Take him away.”
 
 
December 31
-- Pansy’s return to Los Robles led to much more than her continued training as a maid. Yes, Mike was her master, and she worked hard cleaning and cooking. (The latter was especially difficult for her–she seemed to have little aptitude–but she was learning to cook tolerably well.) Mike continued to tempt her. He didn’t coerce her at all, and sometimes she had to seduce him. But the result was the same: on most nights, she ended in bed with him. She tried to resist, but she was becoming enslaved by the body they had forced onto her. She couldn’t say no. The physical pleasure of sex was so overpowering that, truly, she no longer even wanted to say no, in spite of what she told herself. Her breasts were especially sensitive; he had only to touch them, and she became inflamed with lust.

On the afternoon of New Year’s Eve, Miguel asked why Don Pablo was punishing her. “I know the man well,” he told her. “He’s given to inflicting bizarre penalties, and he gets away with it because of his power. You’re not just a maid, Pansita má­a. You’re not a campesina at all. It’s obvious every time you open your mouth. Leaving aside the fact that English is your native language, I can see that your speech is too refined. Clearly you have a good education, you’re from a good family, and you shouldn’t need to work as a maid. Or you wouldn’t if the don hadn’t forced you to do it as a punishment, to humiliate you. It’s ‘to teach you a lesson’. Am I right?”

Her jaw dropped. What could she say? Could he help her? Would he help her? Stammering in confusion, she tried to think what she could tell him, but he forestalled her. “Never mind why he wants to make you work as a maid,” he continued. “I don’t care what you did. Just tell me I’m right.”

Her eyes dropped. “I… Well, I…” What was there to lose? A week ago Don Pablo had apologized for the despair, degradation, and suffering that awaited her. And Susana had confirmed that during the next year, the don planned to corrupt her mind further. Lifting her eyes to Miguel’s face, she admitted, “Yes, I’m being punished. I can’t… I can’t stop him. I can’t get away from him, not for another… another year!” she wailed. “Please…” She looked away again, trying not to cry–”like a girl,” a sardonic inner voice added. “Please don’t… don’t ask me about the details.”

Miguel nodded. “I knew it! The don slipped when he first mentioned you to me, and let a couple of hints drop. Do you want to escape? I can help you. The don has no hold over me, and I can save you.”

Her tear-glistening eyes lit up: “Yes! Please!” But then she hesitated. “He’s… he’s too strong. He’d find me and he’d… and he’d punish me even more. I have to obey him. I have to!”

“No! You don’t! I can get you away from him for as long as you need. Until you can escape permanently.” He explained that he had a little place on a private island in the Caribbean, off the coast of Gracias a Dá­os in eastern Honduras. “I spend a lot of time there. The villa has good communications, and I conduct a lot of my business from there. Come with me. I’ll tell Don Pablo you ran off, and he’ll never find you. You can swim and snorkel, and there’s a good library.” He sat next to her and put his arm around her. “Just move in with me. I’ll keep you happy. You can be my housekeeper–mi casera. You don’t owe that old bastard at Las Rosas anything. Come with me, and you won’t regret it.”

In spite of the temptation, she still held back. Every time she had tried to seize an opportunity, it had backfired, and she had ended up worse off. “But… I…” She shook her head. “You’re right, Mike. I’m not a campesina. I had a professional life before the don trapped me as a…” She stopped herself just in time. Mike would be repulsed if he knew she had once been a man, and he’d never help her. “…as a maid. But I think it’s lost now.”

“Not if you let me help you.” He smiled. “Come with me, and you’ll be a professional woman again. You can be so much more than a maid. I promise!”

Pansy thought of what the don had promised her for the next year: the coming months would be filled with suffering that would complete her transformation to a simple peasant girl. She remembered Susana’s wager, that she’d be eager to work as her maid and happy to marry a peasant. Although she desperately wanted to believe that Don Pablo’s ultimate goal was an impossibility, she knew he had been successful so far. She had to escape; this was perhaps her only chance to avoid a slide into peasant status. Throwing her arms around her savior, Pansy happily agreed to accompany him. If Mike offered an escape, she’d gladly work for him during the day–and bed him at night. It was a fair bargain, and it’d serve that old goat at Las Rosas right when she used the female body he had forced on her, to escape the fate he had planned for her and to regain her professional status. That bitch Susana would just have to find another maid. And maybe she could carry out her revenge earlier than she had thought possible.

 
 
This concludes the year of physical transformation: George has become a more-or-less normal American woman. The second (and final) year of captivity will be devoted to a mental and spiritual metamorphosis, to a more-or-less normal Honduran peasant girl. With the TG element finished, should I continue to post further chapters? Let me know!

Part 11, Island Paradise(?)

Year 3 of the novel begins with Pansy's escape to a tropical island paradise. Or is it paradise after all? (Note--Rating more restrictive!)
 
 
January 1
-- Pansy and Miguel left Villeda Morales airport at San Pedro after breakfast and arrived in mid-morning at Cayo Golondrinas. As Mike’s amphibian approached the villa, Pansy was enchanted, and with reason. The villa was on a coral islet off the coast of Gracias a Dios, surrounded by the turquoise waters of the Caribbean. Mangrove lined much of the shore, but the windward side, on the northeast, was lined by a snow-white beach, fringed with coconut palms and low spreading fig trees. A calm lagoon protected by surf-washed reefs lay just offshore. A hundred meters inland she could see low whitewashed buildings surrounded by bougainvillea and jacaranda. After landing, she was even more delighted. The casa was newly built, with all modern conveniences and its own generator. Its greatest charm (and biggest drawback) was its isolation. There was little of what might be called modern civilization anywhere in the department of Gracias a Dios, and none at all near the island. The reefs kept away most boats, and there was no airstrip. Only small boats and seagoing planes could reach it. The villa was used for entertainment, Mike told her. Two caretakers usually stayed there.

Miguel showed Pansy around the island in just a few minutes. There was little to see; it wasn’t much bigger than two football fields. Most maps didn’t even show it. He explained that the island was south of the main hurricane track. “I suppose eventually one’ll swing south–like Hurricane Mitch, back in 90-something–and I’ll lose it, but for now it’s my piece of Eden.” The villa had three interconnected bedrooms: a main bedroom, a servant’s room, and a guest room. The latter had red plush furnishings and a mirror on the ceiling. Pansy thought it looked like a room at Mamá¡ Santiago’s brothel, but she didn’t share her opinion. The spartan servant’s bedroom was usually occupied by caretakers, a man and wife, but for the moment they had been given a vacation, and it was empty. The kitchen was well furnished and modern. The living room was comfortable but unremarkable, and there was a small den. Another room held the diesel generator and radio equipment.

The day confirmed Pansy’s first impression. It was a beautiful place! It was named was for the “sea swallows”, or terns, that nested on an outlying islet. Tropicbirds soared over the surf-washed reef under an azure sky. She was amazed that such a comfortable retreat could exist in this backward corner of the world. After a lunch of tuna salad, fruit, and iced tea, Mike offered to show her the reef; she quickly changed into a pink bikini she had bought in San Pedro. They swam to the reef with a snorkel and fins. It was a new world. She recognized brain corals and the broad branching fronds of Acropora, but the brightly colored fish were novelties. When the two swimmers were waterlogged, they returned to the beach where he fondled her breasts until she was nearly blind with lust. When he didn’t make love to her, she almost wept with frustration. She scolded herself: “I must learn to control my body! This is what they planned for me. I can’t let myself become a… a damned slut!”

Later she looked for land birds, but few were present. She found the local brown-headed race of yellow warbler, and a few northern migrants, the best a stray Cape May warbler in drab winter garb. There were many sea birds, though, and the sight of scores of frigatebirds soaring against a flaming red sunset left her breathless. Mike made passionate love to her that night. Before she fell asleep, she considered her future. In fleeing Las Rosas, she had escaped her fate as a maid. Yes, she was trapped in a woman’s body; but she’d make a success of herself as a woman–a professional woman. She’d be Mike’s mistress for now (and enjoy it!), but she’d use him to escape Don Pablo’s scheme, and to regain a professional status. Then she’d drop him and return home.
 
 
January 2
-- Pansy’s second day on Golondrinas began with scrambled eggs, rice, and beans. She cooked them well, Mike said. They swam in the morning. After lunch her desire slowly rose. She tried to suppress her lust–it was the only proper word–but she failed. As they danced after supper, her passion waxed and her inhibitions waned. She felt so good! It was like a drug. She eagerly awaited nightfall, when Mike would lead her to bed. At last he did, in the “brothel bedroom”. Eager to have him, she stripped shamelessly. Mike carried her to his bed and stroked her as she lay there until she couldn’t see straight. He made her beg him to finish, to satisfy her, and she had to seduce him. Afterwards he whispered in her ear, “You’re a wonderful puta. You know just how to please a man. I might guess you still remember how women used to please you, and you put that knowledge to practical use. It’s a unique advantage for a whore–like you.”

She froze. Mike pulled back the sheet; her body was visible through the nightie. She tried to pull the sheet back, but he held them. Shamed, she tried to cover herself with her hands. “No! Let me go! I want to die!”

He ignored her protest. “Surprise!” he whispered. “My name isn’t Miguel. I’m José–José Herrera, Suzi’s brother. Father asked me to initiate you into the sexual delights of womanhood. I wondered if you’d fuck a stranger. He said yes. ‘Seá±or Cualquiera lived for sex,’ he told me. ‘He was addicted to it, and that is unchanged. Pansy has the soul of a whore.’ He was right. You’re a puta, as you just proved. I’ll see you get all the sex you want, and more, as my bedtime play-pretty. That’s what a girl’s for, true?” She lay there shaking her head, struck dumb. He chuckled: “Oh, don’t worry: you’ll enjoy it. The doctors did a good job on you. You have a sexy body, and you turn on easier than a faucet.” He ran a finger across her belly; her muscles spasmed. He ran it up her thigh, and she gasped and trembled. “See? Your body’s ready. You want sex. You can’t help it.” He grinned. “Do you recall a year ago?” Pansy shook her head, too horrified to speak. “You were still a guy then. Hard to believe, isn’t it? You were fucking Petunia, like you used to fuck Susana. Now you’re still fucking–but you’re the one spreading your legs. And loving it–every moment of it.” Pansy tried to turn away, but he held her tight and her physical weakness left her helpless. “Your training–your conditioning–has just begun. When I finish, you’ll need sex. You’ll be a total fuck bunny, for anyone in pants. Maybe some day, as you lie face up with your legs apart and some guy pumping his seed into you, you can try to remember what it was like to be on top.” But he quickly contradicted himself: “No, that’s wrong. While you’re being fucked, you won’t be able to think of anything else. Your mind won’t have room for anything except your need for some guy’s prick sliding into your wet little pussy. Afterwards you might try to remember–but I don’t think you’ll be able to even imagine what it was like to have a prick.” She tried again to turn away, sobbing, but he held her, fondled her left breast through the nightie, and stroked the nipple. It hardened immediately, and she gasped as her body quivered. “See?” he gloated. “You feel all sexy now, yes? Already it’s who you are. You may hate your body, and yourself–and me–but it doesn’t matter, you want a good fuck anyway. I’ll give you exactly what you want. And deserve.”

She lay paralyzed. No, she couldn’t accept this! But how to escape the island? More important, how to escape the needs of her body? Mike–no, José–was right: she did want sex. He read the emotions chasing each other across her face and grinned. “I won’t mistreat you,” he reassured her. “You’ll be well taken care of, as long as you fulfill your duties–and they’re no more than what you agreed to. For now, though, get up and clean yourself off, like a good little puta. Your bedroom’s over there.” He pointed at a door across the room.

She rolled out of bed and dragged herself to the shower, but she felt dirty no matter how she scrubbed. At last she pulled on her nightie and returned through José’s room to her own, still yearning for another fuck in spite of everything. Only after an hour of weeping–like a girl, she thought bitterly–did she drop off to a fitful doze.
 
 
January 3
-- Upon awakening, Pansy remembered where, and what, she was. She felt debased and dirty, and she had no interest in living. Finding her way to the kitchen, she tried to eat; but her appetite was dead. The only desire she felt (and that strongly!) was sexual. It was maddening! Was this normal for a woman? She doubted it; she was being manipulated. Drugs, maybe?

José arose a bit later. She was terrified when he arrived, but he didn’t harass her. Sitting across from her, he said, “Pansy, I know exactly how you feel. You’re miserable now, and afraid. I know I’ve been… well… unkind to you, but if you behave, I’ll treat you well. You’ll have exquisite pleasure, maybe even a kind of happiness, if you cooperate. And you don’t really have a choice: you will cooperate. Remember, eventually you’ll be free. But it’ll require a year of patience.” A smirk crossed his face. “You’re helpless, you know. You have to obey me.

“I told you what’s in store for you. First, you’re my maid. You have to obey me implicitly, or I’ll punish you–and then you’ll obey me anyway, so you might as well obey to start with. You’ll cook, you’ll keep the house clean, you’ll do my sewing and my laundry. You’ll have to serve with skill and cheerfulness. Second, you’re my sex toy, my own little fuck bunny. And you’ll have to do that with skill and cheerfulness too. But that’s a duty that’ll be easy to fulfill, because you’re a slut. You’ve demonstrated that. Do you understand?”

She sat in front of him, miserable, and didn’t answer right away. Could she resist him? She had to! She wanted sex, yes–she couldn’t help it–but not with this animal. She wasn’t addicted to it–was she?

He repeated more firmly, “Do you understand?” as he stimulated her fear and sapped her will. “Answer me!”

“I… Y…yes.”

“Girl, you’re a servant. You’re a maid–and a fuck doll, of course. That’s what you agreed to when you came here. Now address me respectfully. To you I’m Seá±or Herrera, or Seá±or. Try again: Tell me what you are.”

Pansy swallowed, her mouth dry, and got out, “Yes, Seá±or, I understand. I’m a maid and a… a f…fuck doll.”

His frown dissolved into a triumphant grin and he told her, “You’re learning quickly, my pretty one. You’re good in the sack, you know, but you’ll get even better. You see, being a whore comes natural to you. You proved it when you agreed to come with me. You knew it was for sex. As payment for your services, I promised to help you escape from Las Rosas and to become a professional again. Sex for payment–a brief definition of prostitution.” She began to object, but stopped in confusion. He was right. Or at least partly right. She had agreed to sex with him, in return for his help. But “I didn’t want this! I was tricked!” she argued. “Of course you were tricked!” he retorted. “It was easy–you’re a stupid slut. But now that you’ve chosen prostitution, I will keep my part of the bargain. Evelina won’t train you. I’ll train you. As a whore, to please men in bed. Me at first, then other men. By the time you leave, you’ll be a docile and horny little girl, good for the kitchen, the nursery, and the bedroom–especially the bedroom!–but not much else. Just the sort of girl you approve of.” He rose from the table and ordered, “Come with me.” She followed him, trying to remind herself that she hated this man, that he had degraded and enslaved her; but she couldn’t make herself care. Her emotions were numbed.

José took Pansy to the “brothel bedroom”. “You’ll see a lot of this room,” he smirked. “It’s the workstation for your night job. Now take off your dress, my pretty little whore.” She hesitated. He stated quietly but with clear menace, “I am not accustomed to repeating my orders,” and she felt another twinge of terror. She quickly stripped to her undies. He looked her up and down, nodded in approval, then ordered, “Come over here.” She came to a mirror. “Take it off–all of it–then look at yourself.” She begged, “Please, no, Seá±or,” but he insisted and she couldn’t find the will to refuse. Slowly she unhooked her brassiere, then slid down her half-slip and panties, to stand nude in front of the mirror. A remote corner of her brain judged the image objectively and concluded that she was trapped in an attractive body: full breasts, slender waist, and nicely rounded hips and butt. José remarked, “A good body for a puta, no? And you enjoy your work. I’ve seen how much you like sex.” He stepped behind her and cupped her breasts. Her arousal became a raging flame. She flushed deeply as she hungered for the body of a man–even this man she hated–but she still resisted. José lifted an eyebrow. “You are a horny little girl, my dear, aren’t you?” Her will was weakened, as it would be whenever he conditioned her.

Tremulously she begged, “No! Please, don’t! Don’t! Leave me alone! Have mercy!” Her tears flowed again.

José smiled. “You need relief, yes? I’ll have mercy, indeed I will. I told you, you’re my whore. You know what a whore does, don’t you?” Instinctively she tried to cover herself, to protect herself, but he laughed. “Oh, I won’t rape you, my dear. One doesn’t rape a prostitute. No, you’ll seduce me, like the slut you are. Arouse me, tell me you’re a horny little girl, then persuade me. Beg for my prick in your pussy, and I’ll give it to you.”

Through her sobs Pansy begged again, “Seá±or, n…no! I’m not a… P…please. Don’t… don’t make me!” But her own body (and the chips in her brain) betrayed her. Even as she begged, she couldn’t control herself. Against her conscious will, she began to unbutton his shirt. As she pulled it away, he ran his hand across a breast. She stiffened as if paralyzed. “Hurry up, girl, you’ll never finish at this rate,” he ordered. Continuing to weep but unable to resist, she removed his shirt, undid his belt, and pulled his pants down, then his briefs. He stepped out, naked. Horrified by her need, she stood trembling with unwelcome lust. José ordered her to stroke his penis: she obeyed, driven by that lust even more than by his demand. He gasped. “You… you’re learning, my dear. Go on!” His erect member held her fascinated gaze; she needed to feel it deep within her body, pumping his seed into her. He dropped onto the bed, pulling her after him. He ran a hand over her body, which quivered in anticipation. She shook her head in denial but offered no resistance, spreading her legs. He wasn’t satisfied with passive acceptance, but held off until she begged, “I’m a… I am a horny… horny little girl. P…please, put your prick into my… my pu…pu…pussy. Fuck… fuck me! Please!” The worst part of her agony was knowing she meant every word of her plea. She was a horny little girl, and she did want–need–him to fuck her.

“An excellent performance, my little whore,” José complimented her afterwards. “You really are horny, aren’t you? Well, you’ll certainly earn your keep!” She felt powerless and degraded, having let herself sink to the level he had assigned to her. Worse, she knew he was right: she was here by choice. She had offered to sell her body in return for escape, exactly as he had claimed. She was a whore. She wept on the bed as José showered. When he came back, he ordered, “Clean yourself up, chica. You have other work to do.” She obeyed, suppressing her feelings. While she showered, José laid out her clothes. Emotionally numb from her initiation to her duties, she put on lingerie, then a simple black dress with lacy white cuffs, jabot, and ruffled apron. “Here, just a bit more,” he told her, and handed her white pantyhose, black maryjanes, and a white cap. Donning them, she looked in the mirror. She wore a classic French maid’s dress. A memory stirred; she had seen that dress before.

José watched the confused and unhappy girl stare at her image. “You used to be a professional, a long time ago,” he commented. “A chemist, I think?”

“Yes, Seá±or.” Had that really been her? It wasn’t credible. She was just a whore, wasn’t she?

“And I promised to make you a professional again. I’m doing just that–it’s the oldest profession, you know.” He leered: “You always liked sex. Now you’ll do it for a living. I’ll train you well–but you don’t need much training. You have an aptitude for it–left over from your old life, I think. And you’ll have a second profession: maid. That’s your daytime uniform. I know you approve of it because you chose it yourself.”

At first she was puzzled, but then she recognized the dress. It had been Mará­a’s. Seá±or Pinkerton’s maid. Now she had the uniform, and the job (both jobs!)… At least she didn’t have to wear high heels, she thought inconsequentially, and she was grateful for that small mercy of Seá±or Pinkerton.

When she was properly dressed, he told her, “Come, we’ll review your other duties.” He led her to the kitchen, where he showed her the pantry. “You’ll cook for me. After I’m served, you’ll eat, and then you’ll clean up.” She denied any culinary talent, but he told her she’d improve rapidly.

José explained that she’d have to practice one further token of subservience. “When you’re dismissed, you must curtsy to your betters–to me now, to Susana later. It’s a simple acknowledgment of your inferior status. It has to become a habit, performed without thinking.”

“‘Curtsy’? I… I’m sorry, Seá±or, I don’t understand.”

“You must not be very bright, my dear” He showed her how to lift her skirt slightly with both hands, give a small bow, and bend one knee. “You’ll have to learn to do it quickly and gracefully. Now show me.”

She told herself it was no worse than other indignities she had had to endure, and she practiced until he was satisfied. Then he showed her a hamper of dirty clothes: “See that you wash them well.”

“Yes, Seá±or, but how should I do it?” she asked. “Do you have a washing machine?”

“Yes,” he told her, and led her to a small laundry room. “No dryer, though. You’ll hang them on the clothesline, or iron them.” A sewing machine was also there, and he told her she’d be responsible for mending his clothes. “In general, keep the house neat and clean. Make the beds. Lay out my clothes each morning, neatly folded. Keep me well fed and happy. I’ll see that you’re content.” Indeed, although she knew she should be miserable, she felt a sense of well-being totally unsuited to her plight. Maybe it was because she was performing as a maid, not a whore? For whatever reason, the duties he was laying out seemed quite acceptable.

“Another point, my dear: I prefer to speak Spanish. From now on, that’s what you’ll speak too. Your Spanish isn’t very good, but it’ll improve. By the time you leave, you’ll speak it well. Also, you’re forbidden to communicate–to try to communicate–with anyone off the island. Any attempt will be severely punished.  ¿Do you understand?”

She nodded.

“Answer me respectfully: I’m Seá±or Herrera to you. I don’t wish to remind you again.”

She obeyed immediately, responding, “Yes, Seá±or Herrera.” He smiled and left her with the pile of dirty laundry. Pansy spent the rest of the morning on her tasks, but inexplicably her spirits rose (of course, the brain chips enforced it). She rationalized the feeling, telling herself that she shouldn’t blame herself for her position. “I don’t have a choice. I’ll endure whatever the bastard throws at me, and I’ll give him the minimum of service–whatever I can’t avoid–until I can escape. Inside, I’m still the same. I’m still really Jack. They can’t take that away.”

Later José invited her to swim. At first she refused, but he explained, “You really are a stupid girl, aren’t you?” She trembled in fear as he went on: “Even now, you don’t seem to quite understand your position. You’re my servant. I control you now. I own you. Your only permissible reply is ‘Sá­, Seá±or’. With enthusiasm. Now,  ¿would you like to go swimming with me?” She acquiesced, changing from her dress to the scanty yellow bikini he had given her, and they snorkeled past a coral forest. Afterwards he took her on the sand again, with her active cooperation–as José had said, she couldn’t resist her need for him, even though she hated him–and she returned to the villa buoyed by (synthetic) pleasure.

José was pleased with the day’s results. Pansy was reacting as Ibá¡á±ez had predicted. The chips and drugs seemed to work well. He was almost sure he could condition her to need sex on a physical level, even if she hated it intellectually. Eventually her body should prevail over her mind, which would slowly, inexorably, shift to match her new position. She would come to despise herself as a whore, but that self-image would supplant her present idealized notion of herself as an educated and self-reliant norteamericana. Eventually she’d be grateful for a job as Suzi’s maid. It would be her only alternative, and a step up.

Ibá¡á±ez followed Pansy through the implanted monitors. His toys worked well, especially for sexual activity, but he wasn’t satisfied. “It’s too elementary,” he radioed José. “I’ll try to affect her language. The computer can tell which language she speaks. I’ll take advantage of that. The computer will give positive feedback for Spanish, negative for English. Use both languages. Keep a record of when she uses each. Soon she should prefer Spanish, and I’d like to find out how strong the preference will become. Eventually we want her to speak fluent Spanish. If possible, we’ll arrange that she speaks it as well as any native hondureá±a–or as poorly.”
 
 
January 4
-- José left Pansy undisturbed in her bed for her third night, but her libido was turned up, and her unsatisfied sexual craving, and emotional torment kept her awake. She desperately wanted to escape, but there was no place to go. Even knowing that the mainland was no refuge, she still would have fled the island–anything to escape José. Briefly she considered suicide, but there was no easy way… and besides, she reminded herself, she was determined to hold on until the end of the year, after which she could take her revenge.

At dawn she was still awake when José appeared at her door. “Time to get up, my little flower,” he announced. “You’re a maid, not a princess.” A touch of fear accompanied his words, and she threw off the sheet. “Take your shower, and be quick,” he ordered, “then cook breakfast. I’ll have fried eggs over easy, with bacon and toast. And coffee, of course. Then we’ll go over your chores for the day.” Influenced by the chips, she forgot her resolution to obey grudgingly and slowly, intent only on pleasing and appeasing this man whom she feared. She rushed to shower and dress, hurriedly applying her makeup as had become her habit. Even here the exercise gave her pleasure.

José monitored her primping, reinforcing it with a touch of her chip. She wasn’t beautiful by any means, not with her mestiza face, but she was attractive enough, and the training at Las Rosas had given her both the skill and the desire to make herself pretty. That desire would be reinforced here on Golondrinas.

When Pansy reappeared, he ordered her to clean off her face. “No makeup. You’re not here to catch a husband–or even to lure me to bed. Not just yet. Put your hair into a braid, too. It suits you better. And be quick about it, girl. I’m hungry.” She began to protest, but he frowned and she scuttled back in terror. José smiled when she returned unadorned, and also depressed. Makeup, cheap jewelry, and sexy clothes would be rewards, to be earned by service. Their use, when he allowed, would be reinforced by a twitch of her chip, and soon she’d covet them for the pleasure associated with them. Her taste would be conditioned to that of a cheap slut.

After serving José, Pansy was allowed to eat. Then he called her to the living room. She stood while he slouched comfortably in a chair and explained her duties. “You’ll get up every morning at 5:30 and lay out my clothes, neatly folded at the foot of my bed. Then you’ll enter my bed and seduce me. If you don’t succeed in arousing me–even if it’s not your fault–I’ll punish you. After that, you’ll make breakfast. I’ll let you know what I want the night before. Like today, you’ll eat after I’m done. Then you’ll clean up–wash the dishes, put them away, all that.  ¿Understand?” She nodded, and he frowned; she felt afraid again. He repeated more clearly, “ ¿Do you understand?” and she quickly replied, “Yes, Seá±or.” He went on: “You’ll keep the house spotless. Wash the floor, dust the bric-a-brac, wash the windows, whatever. Around 11 each morning, you’ll prepare lunch, and you’ll serve it to me around noon. In the afternoon you’ll do whatever I want. Maybe you’ll clean some more, maybe you’ll do laundry or sew. I might even let you relax, and you can slip into something more comfortable.” She’d look forward to wearing something sweet and sexy, and painting up her face. He’d see to it. “Then you’ll make supper. Something more elaborate–I know you’re not a great cook, as you yourself admitted, but I insist that you learn to cook fairly well.  ¿Do you understand?” This time her response was immediate: “Yes, Seá±or.” José nodded. “After you clean up, your evenings will be free.” He grinned and added, “Of course, you’ll have other duties I may call on at any time. Now you may go.” She turned and he stopped her, hitting her with fear. With a frown he scolded her, “Pansy, you’re a stupid girl. You’re already more fit for a prostitute than a maid. When you’re dismissed, you have to acknowledge my words and curtsy before you go.” He thought, then smiled, delighted that she had given him an excuse to punish her. “To show you the error of your ways, you can change out of your uniform.” She waited for the rest of it, and he obliged: “You’ll work in your red nightie for now. That’ll remind you of what you are. If you show you’re able to behave properly–as a proper maid–then perhaps I’ll let you have the uniform. In the meantime, you’ll be most decorative. Maybe I’ll use you in both professional capacities.” She began to protest, but he turned up the fear, and she helplessly acknowledged the order, “Yes, Seá±or,” curtsying awkwardly. Then he allowed her to leave.

She reappeared in a few minutes in her brief nightie and began to put dishes into the sink. He ogled her and told her where she had seen the nightie before: “You gave it to Suzi. Seductive little outfit,  ¿isn’t it?” Unwillingly she agreed. “ ¿Do you remember how you reacted when Suzi wore it? I know your anatomy’s a bit different now, and you can’t really appreciate such things any more– ¡but I can!” His malicious reminder brought her thoughts back fifteen months, to the time when Seá±or Pinkerton had seduced Suzi. It was hard to recall how he had felt when he was attracted to her pretty face and slim figure. Intellectually Pansy knew how Susana’s slender young body, displayed in this sexy nightie, had excited him, and she realized that she herself was fully as attractive. And much more helpless.

José let her clean up, then watched her go about her duties. Slowly he turned up her libido. By midmorning, aroused by her body and tired of the game, he carried her to the bedroom, where he took her. She protested weakly and tried at first to fight him, weeping, but she couldn’t overcome her own lust, and very soon her traitor body welcomed him eagerly. Afterwards, he ordered her to wash him as he stood naked in the shower stall, then told her to fetch clean clothes for him. She obeyed quickly, curtsying in her nightie. He allowed her to reclaim her dress, and she zipped it up gratefully. For the rest of the day, she worked diligently, eager to avoid giving her master any excuse to reprimand her. Her determination to give a minimum of grudging service was forgotten.

After supper, true to his word, José allowed Pansy to don a light sundress, which clung fetchingly to her figure. Even after the day’s disasters, her spirits rose as she carefully applied a touch of eyeshadow and lipstick. She wanted to redo her hair, but José had drawn the line at that. “No. You’re becoming a campesina, and I want you to see a campesina whenever you look in the mirror. The braid is part of that image.” She obeyed, telling herself, “That’s foolishness anyway. I’ll never think of myself as just a peasant!”
 
 
January 8
-- In the evening, as Pansy tidied up after a supper of steak and rice, Doctor Ibá¡á±ez called José. The doctor asked how smoothly Pansy’s conditioning was proceeding. “She’s sexually active, I see. That’s as planned, of course.  ¿Does she solicit you?”

“No, not yet–except as required, in the morning. She’s beginning to weaken, though. At least she seems resigned to it. She doesn’t protest any more.” It was hard to make herself protest when it was not only ineffective, but also left her worse off. (And, although she wouldn’t admit to herself, when the sex itself was so fantastic!)

The tinny voice of Ibá¡á±ez reassured him. “As I expected. She’s only had a week to get used to her new status, after all.  ¿Are there any other changes?  ¿Are my predictions accurate?”

“Yes, more than I expected. I haven’t pressed her to use makeup–in fact, I’ve discouraged it–but she still uses it. Skillfully, too. And given a choice, she picks sexy clothes. I don’t know if she realizes it, but she wants to be attractive.” He smiled. “That’s an easy goal to reach. She’s a damned good-looking piece of eye candy.”

“Good, good. Of course, that process was well begun at Las Rosas. Her treatment at Golondrinas should cement that character trait.  ¿And her other traits?  ¿Is she obedient?”

“Yes, more or less. Outwardly she’s docile, and she curtsies nicely enough. She hasn’t internalized it, though. At least so far, she obeys only because she knows she has no choice. She hates it. And me. I see it in her eyes.”

“Of course she does. That’s as expected. It’ll be a while before she’s shaped to our specifications.” Unseen by José, Ibá¡á±ez smiled and amended his words. “It’s not really our specifications, I suppose, but Seá±or Deon’s specifications. Well, keep up the pressure. So far she’s following my predictions nicely. I think Don Pablo will be pleased. I certainly am.”
 
 
January 11
-- When Pansy got up she felt miserable and feverish. Her head ached and her stomach cramped. She wondered what deviltry José had perpetrated, but she was afraid to ask. However, she succeeded in hiding it, and managed to seduce him. She made his breakfast, then had her own, as usual.

After breakfast José gave her a pile of clothes to mend. She still enjoyed sewing, so she wasn’t unhappy with the chore. Usually sewing made her feel good, and it helped this time too, but not much. She worked at it until late morning, when José told her to cook some red snapper for lunch. She did a passable job, and she felt her spirits lift as he ate. When he’d finished and she took her turn to eat, she found that the meal was indeed excellent. Her cooking skills were improving. She still felt feverish, though, and her stomach pains continued. After lunch she and José swam to the reef. She wore the yellow bikini again, and saw that José was turned on by her body. He came to her after the swim and stroked her breasts. As usual, her nipples sprang out, her legs quivered, and she flushed. He didn’t touch her after that. In frustration, her self-control crippled by the prefrontal chip, she tried to seduce him again. After all, she rationalized, it was in her interest to please him.

He wouldn’t let her. He laughed and told her in English, “No, not now. This morning was enough. You’ll just have to wait. Come on, let’s go back into the house and have a cool drink.”

She almost cried, and begged, “Seá±or Herrera, you can’t leave me like this!”

With feigned innocence he asked, “Like how?”

“Ooooh, I… I wanted…” She couldn’t bear to answer straight out. With teeth clenched she finished, “Oooh, never mind! Just go in for your drink.”

He laughed and told her, “No, that’s your job, girl. I’ll lie over there in that hammock, in the shade. Go make me a rum coke. Lots of ice. First, put your uniform back on; I’ll be served by a proper maid.” He paused: “And speak Spanish.” He left her standing there, and she could do nothing but obey.

She returned in ten minutes in her uniform and gave him the drink. “Con permiso, aquá­ está¡ su ron y coca, Seá±or,” she told him politely with a curtsy, resolved not to betray her frustration.

“Gracias, chica,” he responded, and lay back in the shade to sip the icy drink.

Oddly, the Spanish felt better. “ ¿May I go now, Seá±or?” she asked; “I have work that I must to do.”

He sighed contentedly, then told her, “No, not just yet. Tell me,  ¿do you like it here?”

Surprised, she replied honestly, “The island is beautiful, and with different con… conditions I can love it. With my… my present conditions, no, of course not. I hate it. I hate I am your servant, I hate I am your… your mistress…”

Laughing, he interrupted, “Oh, you’re not my mistress.  ¡Your social position isn’t nearly that high! You’re my whore. My sex toy. Use the right words. In fact, the most accurate description might be ‘slave girl’. Now go on.”

She flushed deeply and continued: “Very well. I hate I am your slave girl. I hate my body. I hate my name–my false name. I hate Don Pablo. I hate you.  ¿Is that all, Seá±or?” The venom in her tone demonstrated the truth of her words.

He looked pleased. “As it should be, Pansy; you’re being punished, after all. But cheer up. I’ll treat you well, if you obey. And you’ll obey, I’m sure. Now, because you’ll suffer if you don’t, but soon, because you’ll want to. As I told you, your personality’s being molded so you’ll be naturally docile and dependent, just as a maid should be. You might say that your personality will be ‘maid to order’.” He chuckled at his own English pun. “You’ll be well fed, well clothed, well taken care of. The work is easy. I’ll give you better sex than you ever had as a man. Soon you’ll accept–no, enjoy–being a whore. In a year you’ll be free. By then you’ll like sex. You’ll delight in your sexy body for the rest of your life–or for as long as you’re young and pretty, anyway. For the rest of your life, you’ll enjoy being a woman. You’ll want to please men–not as an equal–never again as an equal–but as a servant and plaything. As a fuck toy. Seá±or Cualquiera would approve of you.”

She replied angrily, “Seá±or Herrera, I take my condition only because I must. I have to obey, but you can not make me to like it. As soon as I can to change it, I will.”

“I think I can make you like it. We’ll see, my pretty one. Sit down and I’ll explain why you’re wrong. Or maybe you can show me the error of my ways.” Sweeping her skirt beneath her, she sat on a palm log next to the hammock. “Men and women are different,  ¿true?” He smiled unctuously. “You’re in a better position to know that than most people.”

Suspiciously she responded, “Yes, Seá±or, that is true.”

“ ¿Don’t you remember the arguments that you had with Suzi?  ¿About a woman’s place?”

“No, Seá±or, but… I… Yes, I…” Her speech stumbled. She shook her head in protest.

He threw George Deon’s old arguments at her. “Women are constructed differently. To bear and raise children. To please men.  ¿Didn’t you say that?  ¿And isn’t it true?”

“Yes, Seá±or, I said that. But… but that is not the entire truth.”

“ ¿But it is true? You do believe that,  ¿don’t you?”

She squirmed. “Yes, it is true. But I…”

“But now you don’t want to face reality. Now you are a woman. It’s your duty to please a man. It’s you who’s constructed to bear and raise children,  ¿true?” He took a sip of his rum coke.

“But I am not born to it. This was did to me.  ¡I not deserve it!”

“That’s true, Pansy–except for that bit about deserving it–but  ¿so what? You have to deal with reality, and your womanhood’s a reality now, whether God or a doctor gave it to you.  ¿True?”

“Yes, but… Yes, Seá±or.” Losing this debate with José was bad, but winning would probably be much worse.

“Then you have to accept the rest, born to it or not. You came to Honduras, so you’ll live according to Honduran custom. Luckily, that agrees with your own view of a woman’s duties. For the next few months, I’ll be your man. That means your place in life is to please me, however I might wish.  ¿Do you accept that?”

She couldn’t make herself agree. “No, Seá±or, I can not. Even here, a woman has right to choose. I not choose you.”

“Ah, but circumstances affect that right.  ¿Don’t you recall your own maid, Mará­a Banderas? Her circumstances forced her to accept you, just as yours force you to accept me.”

“ ¡It not the same!”

He grinned: “I suppose you’re right, in a way. Mará­a really didn’t want sex, not with you; but you did want sex with me. You’re a whore, and you offered me sex, in exchange for my help. And you want it still. Or at least your body does. You enjoy sex–and I’m going to condition you to enjoy it even more. You’ll crave it like a drug. Soon you’ll beg me to fuck you. Eventually you’ll get pregnant, and nine months later you’ll have to care for a baby. Tell me, after you are freed,  ¿how will you earn a living, when you have to care for an infant? That was your Mará­a’s problem, and it’ll be my Pansy’s problem as well.”

“ ¡No! I accept what I have to. As I said, I will obey you; I not have no choice. I go to bed with you if I must; I not have no choice. I not ask for it. If I get preg… pregnant, the baby will be your responsibility, not me… mine.” She thought, “Pregnant? Baby? Not possible! The bastard’s just trying to scare me.”

He shook his head. “No. You’re a woman. A woman’s body– ¡your body!–is made to bear children.  ¿Don’t you remember? You told Susana you agreed with Napoleon; ‘A woman is a baby machine’, you said. You were right, and your need for sex is part of it.” He decided to tell her more. “ ¿Why are you here? Tell me what Don Pablo said to you.”

Pansy was confused. “Seá±or, he didn’t say anything like that. I never expected to be here.”

“Well, I suppose that’s true in a way. Don Pablo didn’t say he’d send you here, or that I’d be your teacher. But think back.  ¿Didn’t he tell you we’d transform you into your own ideal woman?  ¿So that you’d be a good maid for Susana?”

Her face became resentful, and her reply was a clipped and bitter “Yes.”

José noted the lack of courtesy, but let it pass. “The first part of the project was your body. Don Pablo wanted to make you into a woman–and not just a woman, but a pretty young campesina.  ¿Do you admit that he succeeded?”

Her lips tightened. “ ¿It matter what I admit? Yes, he succeeded.”

“But he told you he’d do more than that. Much more.  ¿Didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

It was like pulling teeth to get her to answer. “ ¿Well?  ¿What else did he tell you?”

She gritted her teeth and looked down at the ground. Unwillingly she replied, “He said he makes me a woman in my mind too, so I will like woman’s work like cooking and sewing.”

“Yes, that’s part of it. And caring for children, and sex with men. But there was a little more to it. Your idea of a woman’s true purpose in life is that she should please men and raise children.  ¿True?”

“Yes… I mean it was my idea, but…”

“No ‘but’. You are here to be molded into an ideal woman. By your own definition. Some of that molding’s already been done. I’ve watched you work on your needlepoint, a typically feminine pastime.” He grinned wickedly. “And I know you’re good in bed.  ¿True again?” He sipped his mix of ice, Coca-Cola, and Flor de Caá±a rum, and sighed with pleasure.

Internally she writhed. Her body betrayed her in bed, and she forgot everything but her need. “Yes.”

“You tell yourself that it’s just for the moment, that we’re doing it with drugs and such, that it’s not natural. That’s all true, of course. You’re being conditioned. That’s how we do it–and when you leave here, that conditioning will be a permanent part of your nature. You’ll be a sexy peasant girl, ready–no, eager–to find a man and serve him for the rest of your life.”

Unconsciously she put her hands on her hips in a typically feminine posture and scowled in defiance. “ ¡No!  ¡I not a… a puppet, or a lab animal! I do what you want now because I have to, but when I will be free–and Don Pablo promised I will be free next year from now–I will do just what I want.”

“Yes, I agree, of course you will. But when we’re done, ‘what you want’ will be to attract a big strong man for a husband, to please him in every way you can–especially in bed–and to care for the children he gives you. Nothing more.”

“ ¡No!”

“Yes. Think a bit. You thought we couldn’t turn you into a woman–a complete woman.  ¿Did we succeed?”

“Yes,” she admitted reluctantly. “But I don’t have no control over what my body does. Your surgeries and hormones and… and drugs–it is just brute force. My mind is different.”

“ ¿You think so? I’m told you insisted that you’d never enjoy sex with a man.  ¿True?”

Sullenly she muttered, “Yes.”

“Then you’re an excellent actress. Last month, you gave a damned good imitation of liking sex You fooled me yesterday, too. And I believe you wanted me to take you to bed this afternoon. By the way:  ¿Did Seá±or Cualquiera enjoy sewing?  ¿Would he have spent an afternoon on needlepoint?”

“No. He hated to sew.”

“ ¿And you?  ¿Does Pansy-Ann Baca hate to sew?  ¿Or did we reshape your mind?”

She realized that he was right. Her voice had a catch in it as she replied, “Yes, I like to sew. But I… But there isn’t… I don’t…” Her voice trailed off. They could twist her mind. “ ¿How…?”

“Then you should understand how effective our methods are.” He glanced at her face. “I see you do. Then you should understand that our other plans for you will succeed. You will become Suzi’s campesina maid. And if and when you leave her service, your new nature will remain as I described. You’ll be a sweet and humble little campesina, whose life’s ambition will be to catch a husband and raise a bunch of kids. Maybe you’ll find an outside job–you can clean, maybe, or become a waitress–but you’ll find that your real fulfillment will be as a docile and obedient wife, cooking and sewing and cleaning for your man. And keeping him satisfied in bed. You won’t want anything else.” He downed the last of his rum-and-coke, and added, “We are slowly reshaping your personality to match your looks. We call it ‘psychological engineering’.”

In despair she cried, “ ¡Noooo!  ¡You… you can’t do that to me!” Her cry was no longer a denial of their ability to change her, but an outraged protest at their injustice.

José interpreted the cry correctly. “Yes, we can. And will. And should. After what you did to Suzi–and to your own maid–it’s only justice.” Then he held out his glass: “Now go get me a refill, girl.”

She rose from her log, curtsied, and replied, “Yes, Seá±or.” Realizing how thoroughly that habit had already been implanted, and how quickly, she flushed, then hurried to get the drink. Habit or not, it was necessary to obey.

When she returned and handed him the icy drink, he asked, “ ¿Are you at all curious about how we’ll make you into a campesina? You claim not to be very much like that yet–and you’re absolutely correct, for the moment.”

With a horrified fascination she replied, “Yes… yes I am.  ¿Why do you think you can do this to me?” Knowledge was power. Maybe a little knowledge would give her enough power to fight back and preserve her integrity.

José grinned. “The scientist in you isn’t dead, I see. Not yet, anyway. Well, first, there’s your new body. That’s a big part of it. Your sex is plainly female. And Seá±or Cualquiera was partly right. You resist it, but your own body pushes you in that direction now.”

It was true, she knew; George’s opinions hadn’t been changed by his new anatomy. She resented her new status, but subconsciously she accepted it as proper for the body she was wearing now. Besides, she felt the force of her new body’s urges, and she acknowledged the validity of his claim. “But that is not enough to do the work, and you know it. Lots of women not agree to your description.”

“True, but here it’s more like that than in the U.S. That’s a second force on your personality. You’re not just a woman, you’re a hondureá±a–and in appearance, a campesina. Even after you’re freed, social pressures will bend you towards our model. But there’s more. I admit that Seá±or Cualquiera’s upbringing was hostile to our purpose.”

Pansy cheered up. “ ¡Yes! Whatever you do,  ¡my basic personality is already made!”

“Pansy, you recall being a young girl,  ¿true?  ¿Did you enjoy the party your parents gave for your fifteenth birthday?”

Dismayed, Pansy remembered. The memory of her quinceaá±os was filled with detail–donning the fancy dress, her older sister helping her with lipstick, dancing with her boyfriend Rico, her delight when he kissed her afterwards… She pushed it away. Another memory, of herself at twelve came back; she wore a pink dress, and her uncle–Seá±or Gá³mez, for whom she had worked occasionally–allowed her to play with her favorite doll, Pepita. “Yes, I remember, but…  ¡That is not real!  ¡I know that!” But the memory was so vivid! It seemed so real!

“It will be real to you, eventually.” He smiled: “Like your name. We control your past. Soon your only clear memories of your childhood and youth, will be those of your girlhood. We’ll see that you were brought up as a traditional campesina, a real girly-girl. And that upbringing will be what shapes you–along with our conditioning, of course.” He sipped his drink, then went on. “But I haven’t even mentioned our strongest tool. We can control your emotions.”

She had suspected that. Drugs, she thought. “ ¿How?”

“It doesn’t matter. Drugs, partly. What matters is that we can use standard conditioning techniques, augmented by our new technology. Reward and punishment. It’s very simple; if you please me, you’ll be happy. Very happy. And if you don’t, you’ll be unhappy. Sick. Depressed. I’ll be pleased when you’re feminine and docile. Therefore you’ll be happy when you’re feminine and docile. That, plus all the other forces, will transform you: you’ll wake up one morning, and the real Pansy-Ann Baca will be feminine and docile.  ¡Believe me!” He shrugged. “Or not, as you wish; just like your breasts grew when Herná¡ndez dosed you with estrogen, your personality will change whether you accept it or not.”

She had no response, but began to cry softly. He let her weep for a few moments, then sent her back to complete her chores. Later she began preparing their supper.

When she went to bed that night she found blood on her panties, a reminder that now she had a woman’s reproductive system. Her second period had begun. At least she wasn’t pregnant. Not yet, anyway.

José hadn’t told her every detail of her conditioning. The fear chip was in use as well, and it was proving effective. Each order was accompanied by a twinge of fear and a touch of depression. Obedience diminished the fear and brought a bit of euphoria. Her will power was also sapped, and she found it difficult to resist her emotions. Already she was obeying him immediately, with no resistance. A most encouraging development was that, as José had reported to Ibá¡á±ez, she had internalized her conditioning for makeup and pretty clothes, so that he was able to use them as rewards. By design, her taste was unrefined. She liked her neckline low, her skirts high, and her clothes just a little tighter than proper. Later she’d discover that her preference in clothes would bring her problems; but he and Ibá¡á±ez believed that by then her tastes would be permanently formed.
 
 
January 18
-- After two weeks José slacked off on the relays, and Pansy seemed to regain some of her spirit. She didn’t refuse José’s orders–she knew she was at his mercy–but her obedience was slow, and it was plain that she did the minimum necessary to avoid punishment. In José’s bed she served as required, and her body’s response continued to betray her, but she fought to control them, and she made it clear that she accepted José’s advances only as a repellent obligation. This morning she told José as much when she served his breakfast on the veranda. “You should not feel proud, Seá±or. I not know how you make me want sex, but I know it not your own self.”

José had noted her incipient rebellion, and in fact had encouraged it. Some disobedience and defiance was needed, to demonstrate its futility. He had planned for this. “You aren’t behaving with proper humility, Pansy má­a. Remember, you’re only a maid and a puta. Your duty is to serve me cheerfully and enthusiastically.  ¿True?”

“ ¡No!” She glared at him. “Yes, I am a maid. I must be. And a puta. I am forced. But I not only that. Inside I still Seá±or…” She hesitated; her knowledge of her real name was not to be revealed. “Seá±or Cualquiera.”

He noticed the pause and guessed the reason, but let it pass. The name would disappear again soon. “ ¿That pendejo? Yes, there’s some of him left. But he’s being swallowed by the campesina, kicking and screaming all the way”

She looked at him with hatred. He was right, and she knew it. “He never go entire.”

“Of course not. We don’t want him to go entirely. But he’s gradually losing everything that defined him. His face, his sex, his citizenship… All gone now. Even his name.”

“I know enough. I now am still that norteamericano, even if I not know my real name.”

“He was a chemist. He created new pesticides for a company in Georgia. You still recall that much, I think. Tell me,  ¿how would you synthesize DDT?”

She recognized the name of the insecticide, but she didn’t know anything more about it. It was hard to believe she had ever known anything about chemistry. “I… I not remember. You stealed it from me.” But then she flared, “It not important. I remember enough to know I am more than a maid.”

“No, you remember enough to know you were more than a maid. Once upon a time, long ago. But now you’re just an insolent and rebellious servant girl. You need to understand that such an attitude is unwise.”

She realized that she had gone too far. “I… Please, Seá±or, I sorry. I am a maid, yes. I know it. A puta too, just like you say. Please, forgive me.” She knew she should never oppose or contradict him.

“I’ll forgive you, yes, but you need a lesson anyway.” He considered. “ ¡I know! I’ll erase a little more of your past. Your norteamericano was a sports fan,  ¿wasn’t he? Baseball, football, that sort of thing. As a campesina you needn’t know about that. You shouldn’t know about it. And you won’t.”

“ ¡No!  ¡Please, Seá±or!” Pansy hadn’t thought about sports for some time, but she recalled Seá±or Pinkerton’s passion for the Indians and the Cavaliers, and she realized that it had been a major part of his life, maybe as important as the chemistry, lost without trace.

“Don’t fret your pretty head about it–it’s really a minor loss. Of course, a little more of Seá±or Pinkerton goes away with it. Sports are foreign to the life of a simple campesina, and that’s all you’ll be, very soon. Truly, you won’t miss it.” He laughed and added, “I imagine you’ll even wonder why men get so excited about such unimportant matters.”

She rushed to him, and fell to her knees. “ ¡No, Seá±or!  ¡I will do better! I…  ¡I beg you!”

He pushed a button on the handset, hidden in his pocket, and she fainted away. He picked her up with some effort, slung her over his back, and carried her back into the villa.

Ibarra had arrived while Pansy slept. Now he helped José carry Pansy to his equipment, set up in the caretakers’ quarters. When she recovered from the chip-induced faint, she was already drugged. She’d never remember the treatment she received today. Its effect would be clear to her, though.

Ibarra erased the names of the major-league baseball, basketball, hockey, and football teams. He deleted the rules of the games: she forgot about stolen bases, double plays, strikes… about fullbacks, touchdowns, punts… In an hour she was ignorant of the four sports, although he left her the names of the celebrity players. The very existence of football was lost. At José’s suggestion, he took most of her knowledge of world geography. The countries of Europe, Asia, Africa, South America–all vanished. The great cities of the world were obliterated. Mountains, rivers, islands, lakes… They were no more. She had already lost North American geography, so that her knowledge of the world became limited mostly to Central American countries. “After all, that’s the only area that’ll concern her from now on,” José told Ibarra. The procedure took the rest of the morning.

At the end José asked, “ ¿Will there be serious collateral losses, Doctor?  ¿What’s she likely to lose?”

“It’s hard to say. The neural connections of a brain are highly individualized. Unique, one might say. In hindsight it may be possible to guess why something unexpected was lost, but prediction is chancy. In fact, I’d appreciate it if you’d note any unexpected losses. You’re in a much better position to observe them.” He paused, then added, “There is one matter, yes. One that has proven to be serious with other subjects. From previous experience, I can say that her language ability will suffer. Erasing individual words doesn’t cause too much loss, but when we delete entire portions of a person’s life, quite a bit of language goes with it. Fortunately, Pansy’s deletions can be accomplished using English. I’m afraid her fluency in English will be impaired, but she won’t need it in the future anyway. And Spanish is a second language for her. It’s stored in a different part of the brain, and it shouldn’t be affected.”

Pansy was allowed to recover for two hours, although she was kept unconscious. Then, still in a trance, she received a crash course in Honduran history and geography. Ibarra also implanted more of her life as a young girl, assisted by his memory-enhancing drug. All the additions were done in Spanish, of course. In addition, they added a few words and phrases in Gará­funa, in memory of an imaginary Gará­funa ancestor. When they finished, she was put into a deep sleep, and Ibarra left the island.
 
 
January 19
-- The next day José carried Pansy back to the beach. She regained consciousness, but when she awoke there was no way for her to know that an entire day had passed. She was groggy and confused for a few minutes, but she quickly remembered the threat that José had made, and she repeated her plea for mercy. José silenced her, telling her that her fund of knowledge was partly in her hands. “Your body’s done, as you know. You’re clearly a campesina, as you see every morning in the mirror. And like I keep telling you, we’re transforming your mind as well, to your own specifications–the ones you so conveniently provided to Suzi. But we haven’t decided how much of Seá±or Cualquiera’s education you’ll be allowed to keep. I can choose what you keep and what you lose.”

“Yes, Seá±or, I understand. But please, let me… let me to keep the sports. I’ll be… I’ll do what you say.”

“Of course you will. And yes, I don’t care about sports. Things like that, and chess–we could let you keep them, if you please me. I’ll only be pleased if you serve me wholeheartedly. ‘Skillfully and cheerfully,’  ¿remember? You’ve been rebellious and sullen, as if you think you’re more than a maid and a whore.”

“Seá±or, I work better. I will try to please you.”

“Good. Then maybe you won’t lose too much more.”

“ ¿More? But…  ¿What about my sports?  ¿My baseball, my chess?  ¿I keep them?”

“Don’t talk nonsense. Campesinas don’t know anything about baseball or football. Or chess.”

She took inventory of… of béisbol, drawing a blank. She knew it was a norteamericano game, but she couldn’t name the teams, and she couldn’t recall how to play the game. Juan Paz, a local boy from San Pedro, played for… some northern team. She remembered fáºtbol, with six men–or a dozen?–running and kicking a ball, but the rules were unknown. Tennis remained. She was sure there were others, but they had disappeared from her brain. Chess was gone. Some of checkers remained, but it was shaky. Poker and gin rummy seemed to be untouched. She shut her eyes and wept as she explored her losses. How had he done this to her?

José smiled smugly. “Pansy, you’re going to act like a model campesina, humble and obedient. There’s no way you can avoid it. You can behave properly, and keep some of Seá±or Cualquiera’s knowledge, or you can become totally ignorant–and in the end you’ll still behave properly. If you really want to avoid losing more than necessary, then treat me well. Serve me willingly and without reserve, in bed and out. Obey me implicitly. Anticipate my wishes.  ¿Do you hear me?”

Miserable, she replied, “Yes.” She wouldn’t–couldn’t–fight, even passively, if he could amputate her mind piecemeal. He raised an eyebrow and she hurriedly corrected herself: “Yes, Seá±or, I understand. Please,  ¿what can I do for you now?” He told her to seduce him, and she complied. There was no reluctance, no holding back. José rewarded her with a strong dose of pleasure. Her training was progressing well, he thought.

Pansy was shaken by the day’s events. She had fainted, and then awakened just a few moments later. In that brief time, José had stolen part of her mind. How? It didn’t really matter. She couldn’t afford more losses. In spite of her hatred for the bastard, she determined to do exactly as he said. She’d do whatever he told her, become whatever he wanted. The alternative was worse.

-- Part 12, only a Whore and a Maid
 
 
January 23
-- This morning the rain poured down. A norte had moved in overnight, and the wind was cool. When Pansy got up she heard the surf offshore, but the outer edge of the reef was lost in gray. She satisfied José’s needs in bed, made breakfast, and cleaned up afterwards. As she had learned, she turned off her mind and washed the dishes mechanically while she daydreamed. Her morning would be full. José had warned her that a visitor would be arriving shortly, and she had to clean the villa.

José watched her as she worked. He believed that Pansy had adjusted to his requirements and the needs of her own body, but by splitting herself into an observer (the old Seá±or Deon) separated from the body (Pansy). He had reported his diagnosis to Ibá¡á±ez, and the two men decided to effect the next stage of her training. It should circumvent her defense and force her to acknowledge to herself that she was female, within as well as without.

Later, José entered the radio room and contacted Doctor Herná¡ndez.

“Good morning, Doctor.”

“And good morning to you, Doctor Herrera.” There was a bit of crackle in the radio connection, but the conversation promised to be easily intelligible.

“I think we’re ready to institute the next phase of Project Ovid.”

“ ¿Our subject is prepared?”

“Yes, I think so. She ought to be receptive. If I were fertile, I think she’d already be pregnant. In any case, her female chemistry and plumbing seems to be in fine working order.  ¿When can you have the embryo ready for implantation?”

“Soon. Susana donated the ovum, and we got a cell with an altered nucleus from George Deon. They produced several viable zygotes.  ¿Can you have Pansy ready next week?  ¿Say at 11 PM on the 29th?”

“She’ll be ready. I’ll see you then, Doctor.”

“Adiá³s, José.”
 
 
January 29
-- After Pansy finished the dishes, José slowly turned up her libido. Since talking with Herná¡ndez six days earlier, he had imposed on her a gnawing ache for sex, but hadn’t allowed her to seduce him (the punishments for failure had been minor). Today had been bad. She had barely been able to function.

Now she was in heat. She needed release, and didn’t much care what she had to do to obtain it. When she was done with her chores, Seá±or Herrera had her sit on his lap, where he fondled her breasts through the fabric of her dress. She protested, but without conviction.

“Your body loves it, my little puta.  ¿Don’t you feel wonderfully sexy now?”

No doubt of it; her body was a furnace of lust. “Please, Seá±or, mercy,” she begged; “ ¡I burning!  ¡I do anything! Just stop to… to torment me. Make me your little puta, like you said. Put your big prick into my… my hot little pussy.  ¡Fuck me!”

He laughed, pleased by her inventive turn of phrase, and told her, “Oh, I don’t know, Pansy. You don’t really want sex,  ¿do you? You told me you only accept it as a duty. Well, I don’t want sex now either, so I’ll let you off.”

She hung her head. He was partly right, but that part was in her mind. She was composed of mind and body, and that body demanded surcease from an intolerable longing. She needed him to take her in bed. “No, Seá±or, please,” she begged; “I do want sex with you.  ¡Stick it into my pussy!  ¡Please!” She hated herself, but need drove her.

He paused, then smiled. “OK, Pansy, but you’ll need to persuade me. You’re acting like a slut, though, and I want you to understand that. Here’s what you’ll have to do. There’s a red nightie in your drawer. It’s new, you haven’t worn it before. Put it on and come back here.”

She quickly obeyed, driven by lust. The nightie, a bright scarlet, was indecent; it just reached her thighs, and the fabric was thin and filmy. It hid nothing. She didn’t care, as long as it could assist her in winning sexual relief. She returned to the living room wearing only the whore’s costume.

José’s eyebrows lifted when she returned. “Good: you’re dressed like the slut you are. Tell me, Pansy,  ¿do you agree that your appearance is a true reflection of your nature? If you really want me to fuck you, answer me truthfully.”

Pansy couldn’t help herself. “I know how I look like, Seá±or. I look like a whore. It is true. Like you said, I am your whore. I try to get you to fuck me every morning. But even if I need now, it is not my real nature; you make me this way.”

It was the truth, he admitted to himself–at least partly. But he shook his head. “For years you tried to get sex, any way you could. We didn’t make you sex-mad, we just changed how that madness is expressed.”

She wanted to deny it, but she couldn’t. Frustrated, she finally admitted, “Yes, I not tell you different, I wanted sex. I want sex now, the same. Please, Seá±or, fuck me.” Tears began to flow down her cheek.

“Not yet. I want to make sure you understand yourself. You explain my argument, so I know you understand it–and believe it. Explain why you deserve to be my whore.”

Pansy shuddered with frustration. “No, please, Seá±or. I believe you. I am… I am a whore. Take me.” José shook his head again, and she admitted defeat. “I used… used women for my pleasure… They were just for my pleasure, just… just sex machines. I am a woman now, but I still want… I want sex pleasure. I am a sex… a sex machine for you. I designed for your pleasure. I need to have sex with you. I deserve to be this way, because of what I did when I was a man. I promise, I be a… a good… a good whore. And a good maid. I do… I will…” She broke down and wept. Through her sobs she whimpered, “I deserve to be a whore, and I am… I am a whore. Please, please, I need…  ¡I need you to fuck me!”

José was satisfied that her detachment was cracked, if not entirely shattered. “Lead me to the guest bedroom. Then undress me and stimulate my interest. Show me you’re a good whore.”

She took him by the hand and led him as he ordered. With shaking hands she undressed him, until he stood naked, then aroused him quickly and efficiently.

“Very… very good… You are a good little whore. You’ll do well… here. You belong… you belong here. That’s enough.” Pansy looked around her and saw that she matched the décor, in her scarlet nightie. She was just one of the amenities. For one last moment she summoned enough will to plead, “No, please, Seá±or. Please, no.” Her appeal was as much to herself as to her master. But neither José–nor more significantly, her body–paid any attention. She still craved release.

“ ¿No?  ¿Are you sure? Then maybe I’ll just let you lie there.” He turned up her libido a little more. “Think about it.”

“No…” She broke. “ ¡Yes!  ¡Fuck me now! I am… I want to be your whore, Seá±or. Please…  ¡Please fuck me!”

José climbed onto the bed and ordered, “Invite me again to fuck you.” Helplessly she obeyed, spreading her legs, and he took her slowly. She forgot all shame and humiliation as she was flooded with sexual pleasure. She heard herself moan with arousal and bucked her hips against José until he finished pumping his seed into her and lay back, sated. Then he arose and gazed at her as she lay there, lost in horror and hopelessness as her lust quickly faded.

He declared, “ ¡I congratulate the doctors who gave you that body!” He left briefly, then returned with two rum cokes. “ ¡We’ll drink to your new life!” She gulped it down despairingly. Within a minute she became dizzy and lay down on the red velvet coverlet. She was unconscious within two more minutes.

The plane carrying Herná¡ndez with the cloned zygote landed ten minutes later, and fifty minutes after that the zygote had been delicately inserted into Pansy’s uterus. When it was done, the men shook hands. Herná¡ndez told José, “This new experiment will revolutionize the study of personality development.”

“ ¿Are the other zygotes viable?”

“Every indication is favorable. We have seven more: four male, three female. Genetically they’ll all be twins–clones–of George Deon. Except for the sex of the females, of course, and the skin color–they’ll all be dark-skinned and dark-haired.”

“ ¿Was my sister reluctant to have her X chromosome used to replace the original Y chromosome in those clones?”

“Not at all. She bore George’s child, and now, in a tiny way, he’ll bear hers. About one percent hers.”

The men returned to the house and sat back in the overstuffed chairs with rum collinses. Herná¡ndez remarked, “Four of the clones will go a fertility clinic in the US. The children will be raised in that culture. The remaining four–including Pansy’s child–will be implanted here and raised as Hondurans. It’ll be the best controlled identical-twin study ever performed, with eight subjects, four male, four female.”

“ ¿Identical twins?”

Herná¡ndez shrugged. “As identical as different-sex twins can be. Over 99% identical.” He enthused, “ ¿What better way to investigate the innate effect of gender, and of societal gender-based assumptions, on personality? We’ll have two each of Honduran and American males and females, with almost identical genotypes. Plus, of course, the original George Deon.”

José added, “And plus Pansy Baca, as distinct from George–although she’s not quite comparable to the others, for several reasons. Anyway, she’ll raise a female version of George Deon as a native-born campesina. It’ll be interesting to compare Pansy with her daughter, to see how well we succeed in transforming George himself to a true campesina.”

“Weiss wanted to arrange for her pregnancy in the usual way. There’s a lot to be said for that idea, but the don agreed that this method’s better for our purposes, now that cloning has become practical. We were certain of the outcome–and the genetic near-identity of the child and Pansy will make the mother-child bond easier to establish, and stronger.”

“Good. We want to make sure she has a reason to live. Suicide has always been a major hazard for the experiment.”
 
 
January 30
-- When Pansy awoke in the morning, Herná¡ndez had left. She recalled all too well the awful night before. Inexplicably, she wasn’t depressed. She knew she had been humiliated and degraded again, but she didn’t feel the appropriate emotions. “I suppose I’m getting used to it,” she told herself. “And it’s not by choice.” Stripping off the nightie, she showered and dressed. In her maid’s dress, she began to prepare for another day.

At breakfast Seá±or Herrera asked, “ ¿How do you feel this morning, Pansy?”

She reluctantly replied, “I am good, Seá±or.” She tried to smile, but didn’t do a good job of it.

“ ¡Indeed you are! You’re very good indeed!” he remarked. “Soon you can earn a little money for me. You’re almost ready to service other men. You have a remarkable talent for your new profession. But I’ll continue to enjoy an evening’s pleasure now and then. You’re my whore.” He added, “That’s not an imposition, of course. You’re getting used to the feel of a man inside you,  ¿no? More than that, you’re growing to like it.”

She ignored the twist of the verbal stiletto, curtsied automatically, and cleaned off the table.

Later José ordered her into her bikini and took her to relax on the beach, where, in that informal setting, she would speak more freely. He led the conversation around to the previous night. She asked, “ ¿Why did you rape me last night, Seá±or?  ¿Was there a reason besides sadism?”

He looked smug. “ ¿Rape you? I didn’t rape you, you asked for sex with me.  ¡You begged me!  ¿Don’t you remember? Like I said earlier, your personality is changing. Your new self–your inner slut–is going to need sex.”

She couldn’t deny his literal point, but argued, “You told me you will make me want sex. I believe you. You make… made me want sex last night. I not know how, but you do… did it last night.”

He admitted some responsibility. “But as I said, you’re getting to like it. It pleasures you, after all. And afterwards, you don’t regret it as much. Not like you did at first. It’s just a normal part of your life. You’re becoming—-not promiscuous, perhaps, but accepting. That’s your new nature.” His tone had no gloating in it. It was a simple statement of fact.

She took it as such. “ ¿Then why you have to continue to control me?  ¿Can’t you be satisfied like I am?”

“No, we’re not done with you. My father told you what he wants to do.  ¿Didn’t he say that we’re shaping your new personality?  ¿That you’re being remade from a norteamericana into a campesina? I explained all that, in some detail.”

“Yes, but…” The don had told her she’d suffer degradation and despair. Plainly this was a part of her ordeal. “Please, Seá±or, I beg you–and Don Pablo–to treat me with decency.”

José shook his head. “No. This is part of the process. Your self-esteem must be destroyed completely. You must know yourself to be worthless, by your nature a piece of human trash whose convenience and comfort don’t matter, whose only value lies in the pleasure and service you provide to men. You have to believe it. Not just understand it intellectually, but feel it deeply, almost instinctively. In addition, you must understand that nothing you do can alter this. You have no rights, no recourse. And above all, no power.” He raised an eyebrow. “Again, I think I explained all this in some detail a month ago.”

He had, but she refused to accept it–then or now. “Seá±or, to treat anyone this way is shameful…”

José interrupted, “ ¡That’s exactly the point! You’re not ‘anyone’ any more. You never will be. Now you’re just a sex toy–a plaything for men, a fucking machine–and a maid. Nothing more, now or ever. When you believe this, when you accept it as an inescapable fact, then our task will be completed.”

“ ¡That’s not all a woman is!  ¡Even a campesina!  ¡I know that! Conchita and Evelina at Las Rosas, or Susana, your own sister– ¡they are not like that!  ¡Hardly any women are like that!”

He shrugged. “Of course not. It’s a caricature. But it’s your caricature. It’s what you thought of your own maid, Mará­a Banderas–I know how you treated her–and we’re shaping you to fit it. Hardly any women may be like that–but you will be.”

“No!  ¡I won’t be like that!  ¡No woman could accept all that nonsense about herself!”

“No, not completely. Not if you are to remain sane, and a useful member of society. But your inner self will approach much closer to that ideal than it does now. The personality of the ‘typical’ campesina has some of the characteristics I described. You’ll have more than most. And after all, you approved of such women. Or so you told my sister.”

She silently cursed Seá±or Pinkerton and his misbegotten arguments. “Yes, Seá±or. But…  ¿why you tell me all this?”

“For psychological reasons. It’s the same reason we allowed you to know what was happening to your body, and your soul, last year. Your sense of impotence is greater if you know what is happening to you–if you watch it happening–and you can’t stop it. You will know you are powerless. As we intend you should know. By December your self-image as a weak and helpless woman–and a slut–should be permanent.” He smiled. “You know, I was present at your castration. I personally sliced away the last remnant of your physical manhood. Now I keep your cojones on a shelf, pickled in a jar, but I’ll give them to Suzi when she takes custody of you. Certainly there’s nothing at all masculine about you now,  ¿true?” She was struck with a renewed awareness of her soft and rounded body, nicely displayed in her skimpy bikini. And of her girlish soprano voice, now accepted as unremarkable and normal. José went on: “Now I have the privilege of reshaping your psyche, of cutting away what remains of Seá±or Cualquiera’s personality. That part of the project’s going just as efficiently. As a psychologist, I can say that I’m impressed with your progress towards your own ideal. Our plan is succeeding.”

Pansy stopped questioning him. He wouldn’t help. Even his answers were designed to leave her deep in despair. She could only hold fast to her resolve to regain her status after her release. He was right: now she was powerless. But the don had promised freedom at the year’s end. Then she could climb back.
 
 
February 18
-- Against her drug-weakened will, Pansy found that José’s prediction was correct. She enjoyed the sex that he gave her. Worse, she was coming to look forward to it. Her desire waxed and waned, but never went away. If she resisted, it only grew stronger. Gradually she fought less, as José left her frustrated if she didn’t initiate sex, and her attempts at masturbation were unsuccessful, leaving her even worse off. In spite of her resolve to accept sex only when it was forced on her, she found herself trying to entice José into bed on her own initiative. She was learning the arts of seduction by trial and error, finding what might tempt José to take her. More than that, after only four weeks, pleasing him in every way had become her goal in life. If she didn’t, then (as he had warned) she was miserable. He was pleased when she was pretty, sexy, and feminine, so she worked at her appearance and behavior. He liked humility and obedience; she acted humble and obedient. Although she despised trying to mold herself to his specifications, her deeper fear was that she was beginning to conform to them without trying: she was finding ways to serve him even if she had no specific chore to carry out, and even when he was away on the mainland. More and more, all her actions were contrived to please José. Any laxity left her depressed and slightly ill, and the remedy was to find another way to serve him. As he had promised, she was becoming the paragon of feminine virtue that Seá±or Cualquiera had described: a model maid and whore, who existed to please her man. She knew she was being conditioned exactly as José had promised, but the knowledge didn’t help. As Pansy grew accustomed to her duties, she found that life became almost pleasant, physically, and she felt almost content. Her cheerfulness, insisted on, was no longer forced. She knew she should be miserable, but the knowledge didn’t matter; she couldn’t make herself want to feel miserable, even if feeling good showed that their plans for her changing her nature were succeeding. José treated her with overt courtesy–even apparent affection–as long as she kept her place. Her surroundings were pleasant, and the work was light. Her cooking was improving under José’s tutelage, and her Spanish was becoming quite good. José spoke to her mostly in that language; she had spoken almost no English since her imprisonment on the island. Fortunately, she now functioned well in Spanish. She thought in Spanish, and even her dreams were all in Spanish.

Her life quickly became routine. Every morning she got up before sunrise and offered sex to José. Then she prepared breakfast. The day was spent cleaning the house, washing clothes, and doing any other chores that José required. If she didn’t obey quickly, or if she slacked off, she would be afflicted with depression and nausea. Worse, she knew that José could take away some part of her past, or a fragment of her identity, whenever he wished. Finding ways to please him allowed her to retain what she still had, and brought pleasure as well, so she did as he wished. When he passed near her he often stroked her breast, and she found herself almost paralyzed with lust. She had learned to control herself, but only with difficulty, and only for a short time. At night José would sometimes arouse her with a touch to her nipples, which then sprang erect and ignited a blazing desire. Sometimes he would ignore her, and in spite of her hatred for him she’d suffer from her unsatisfied need.

This morning, though, the even keel of her existence was badly rocked. She became sick when she arose, and spent five minutes retching into a toilet bowl. Although it passed quickly, she still felt queasy at breakfast, and couldn’t eat anything but a piece of toast.

José grinned at her distress. “ ¿What do you suppose your problem is, my dear? Make a guess.” Pansy speculated that she had picked up some sort of intestinal disorder, but José told her, “No, I’m afraid not.  ¿Haven’t you heard of ‘morning sickness’?”

Her eyes widened in horror. “ ¡That can’t be true!  ¡It’s not… it’s not possible! I only had a sex change operation. That doesn’t make me a real woman.  ¡I can’t get p…preg… pregnant!  ¡I can’t!”

“You can’t have periods either,  ¿no?” he told her. “Speaking of which, you’re a week overdue,  ¿yes? Get used to the idea: you’re becoming a mommy–just like Mará­a Banderas. And Suzi. She’ll be delighted to hear the news. As will Weiss.” He leaned back and sipped his hot black coffee. “A woman’s life changes when she becomes a mother. It changes radically, as you’re about to discover. As a start, it’s hard to hold a job when you have to care for a baby. But don’t worry. Being a maid’s one of the few jobs you can hold–if you can find an employer who’ll accept a baby in the house. But Suzi’ll be happy to hire you. She looks forward to watching you cope with babies. Hers and yours.” Later that day he gave her a pregnancy test. It confirmed his diagnosis.

That night José told Herná¡ndez, “The zygote you implanted in Seá±or Deon was accepted by his body, and he’s experiencing the usual physiological changes of early pregnancy.”

“As expected: the procedure’s well tested. The only new twist was altering the sex of the clone.” Back in the clinic, the endocrinologist sipped his coffee. “Having him bear his own clone was an excellent suggestion. Ibá¡á±ez will study the child as she matures. She will give us a baseline, allowing us to see what George Deon might have been like had he been born a Honduran peasant girl. And the other clones will let us study the effect of environment versus genetic endowment in a way never before possible. This experiment will revolutionize the study of personality development, perhaps as much as Pansy herself. ”

“If it succeeds. That’s not yet established.”

“I think it will. But we’ll see. We’ll see.”
 
 
February 20
-- Since early January, computerized feedback had conditioned Pansy to use Spanish instead of English, but José noticed that she still really preferred her native language, even if she didn’t have the opportunity to use it. He wondered if it might be possible to develop a positive aversion. He called Ibá¡á±ez on the radio: “Doctor Ibá¡á±ez, you recall our efforts to wean Pansy from English.”

“Of course, José.  ¿Have you noticed any effect?”

“Maybe, but the effect is weak at best.  ¿Can we speed the process up?”

“Yes, I think so. I’ll use new settings to increase the Spanish bias. Using English will depress her, and she’ll get a headache after ten minutes or so. The bias won’t be intolerable, so she’ll still be able to use English. The bias’ll condition her language, including her thought processes, but we don’t want her to know that we’re influencing her.” He paused. “We’ll change her phonemes too. We can suppress sounds used in English in favor of those used in Spanish. She may acquire a good, almost accent-free Spanish, or more precisely, a local accent. In a couple of months the effect should be plain.” He smiled and added, “Of course, it’ll affect her English pronunciation too.”

“I have some further suggestion, Doctor. Ibarra’s technique could be used to erase some of her English,  ¿true?”

There was silence at the other end for a moment. “Yes, I think so. We can erase a little. Every few days we’ll erase a little more. She’ll still speak English, just not quite as well–and of course, with a heavy accent.  ¿Anything else?”

“Yes. Pansy does far too much reading for a simple campesina.  ¿Can you discourage her?”

“No problem. I’ll simply link the monitor for that part of the brain to one of the pain chips. She’ll get a bad headache whenever she reads, followed by nausea if she persists.  ¿Is her behavioral conditioning progressing well?”

“I think so. I think she’s well on her way to internalizing her status as a maid–if not as a whore. Her manner is humble, and she’s beginning to take pride in her work. George’s old persona seems to cope by withdrawing and allowing his new body to do what it must, to deal with the pressures it faces. I think that strategy will allow us to condition her thoroughly.”

“You’re probably right. Mental compartmentalization is a common mechanism for dealing with an intolerable situation. I agree, it should assist us.” He signed off.

That evening as Pansy was serving José a papaya salad, he asked, “Pansy-my-girl, tell me,  ¿would you like to go to San Pedro? We need to check you out thoroughly.” He grinned. “After all, you’re a mother-to-be, and we want to see that you get the best prenatal care. Also, you had major surgery.”

She muttered sotto voce in English, “Tell me about it!”, and winced as she used English.

“You need a checkup. Besides, you need to get away from the island. I’ll take you out to supper and a movie after they’re finished with you. And you can do some shopping.”

Sure that he didn’t have her best interests at heart, she hesitated. “ ¿Does it make any difference what I want, Seá±or? Of course I will go, if that what you want. I am just a lowly maid,  ¿remember?”

He smiled: “Not just a lowly maid; don’t forget, you’re a sexy little puta too. Anyway, like I said, you can go shopping. I’ll give you your wages, and you can get some clothes, some music… Whatever would please your pretty little head.”

Her heart leaped, but she tried to conceal it. She badly wanted to leave the island, even if only for a day or so. “Sá­, Seá±or. Y gracias.” Smiling at him and curtsying, she left to wash the dishes.
 
 
February 22
-- Two days later they left Golondrinas after breakfast. The turquoise waters of the Caribbean passed below, and the low mangrove coast of the mainland soon appeared to their left. Beyond the coast, cloud-capped mountains were barely visible through the hazy air. José explained that he’d stay over coastal waters for most of the trip. “The plane’s amphibious, and it’s safer that way. We can land anywhere.” As they passed La Ceiba and then Tela, he pointed them out. They swung inland beyond Tela and landed at San Pedro. A car from the clinic met them, and they drove towards town.

Karl Weiss was delighted with her appearance, exclaiming to her, “Fraá¼lein, you look wonderful! I have a professional interest, of course, but simply as a man, let me express my admiration. You’ve made the best of your situation, and I admire you. What do Americans say? When you have the lemon, make the lemonade! But how do you feel? Physically, I mean? I understand that you are not happy there.”

Pansy replied that she felt fine. “I’ve been trapped on a wilderness island, and I don’t think there were any diseases around. My biggest worries are sunburn and coral cuts. And the pendejo there with me, of course.”

Weiss’s Spanish was poor, but in context he could translate the pejorative. “At least you don’t have to worry about sunburn. Your skin is dark enough to protect you. And you look healthy. I almost envy you the vacation.”

She scowled, and her mood sank as she spoke English. “No,” she disagreed, “It is not a vacation. I work hard. It’s a beautiful place, yes, but my circumstances don’t allow me to enjoy it.” She lapsed back into Spanish: “At least on the island I do not have to suffer with this noise and traffic.”

Surprised, Weiss told her, “Your Spanish is sehr gut, I think. But please, speak English, for my sake. I still fight with the Spanish language.”

She obeyed: “I get lots of practice in Spanish, and not much late in English.” José noted that, given the chance, Pansy had rejected English in favor of Spanish.

Herná¡ndez joined them, and he and Weiss gave Pansy a complete examination. They took blood samples and inquired concerning her general health.

Pansy thought briefly. “Yes, I guess I am OK. Mornings I feel nauseated, but it passes.”

Weiss beamed at her and told her, “That’s normal in early pregnancy. It’s called ‘morning sickness’. Your body’s reacting exactly as we hoped.”

She frowned; “I hope you did a proper job, Doctor. For you, there may be another try. For me, this is the only body I have.” Then she brightened up, and asked, “Your success rate is high, I hope? You did tell me you were good at this sort of thing, I remember.”

Weiss positively glowed, and reassured her, “My success rate is very good. With no false modesty, I believe I am the best in the world for transplant operations. Don’t worry about it.”

Afterwards Weiss told José privately, “The ultrasound examination was favorable. Pansy’s in fine shape, and her pregnancy’s normal. She should deliver normally.” He added, “She has little liking for you. No surprise .”

After they finished, José kept his promise and took her to supper and a movie. They stayed in a good hotel and made love passionately. She called him “Jos锝 instead of the formal “Seá±or”, and with apparent affection. Afterwards they shared a nightcap. “If I treat him like a real boyfriend, he’s good to me,” she told herself. “I have to give him what he wants–and I like it anyway, even if I hate him, so I might as well enjoy it.  ¡It feels soooooo good!”

Later, while Pansy slept, José phoned the lobby. Soon two men arrived with a stretcher. Pansy was sedated, taken to Ibarra’s lab, and strapped into a chair. When Ibarra was done, she had lost many of the subtleties of English. Ibarra concentrated on verbs, always a linguistic difficulty. In particular, her use of contractions was limited, irregular verbs became regular, and the subjunctive mood was lost. Irregular forms of adjectives were taken, and adjectives replaced some adverbs. In general, her grammar would be simpler. Some English vocabulary was lost, including colors. Later she would lose more vocabulary; she’d have to use the Spanish equivalents. The process would continue over the next few months. She had only limited opportunities to use English, and the two men thought she might not discover her losses immediately. Then they worked on her self-image. She was made to repeat, over and over, “I am a whore. I am just a fuck doll. I have to give men sex–I have no choice, so there is no blame–but I’m very good at it and I enjoy it, so I don’t mind doing it. I like being a fuck doll. I want to feel a man inside me.” Every time she repeated, she received a jolt of pleasure. As one last fillip Ibarra erased the name “Pinkerton”. She might recover it again, but it would be difficult. Then he added a bit more to her biography. When he was done, he interrogated her. She retained everything he had given her.
 
 
February 23
-- Next morning José took Pansy shopping in San Pedro, where she bought a few dresses, skirts, and blouses. José bought her some sexy lingerie as well, including a red teddy and black baby-doll nighties. Her undisguised pleasure from the feminine finery was gratifying to José, as it was a measure of how much she had accepted her new rá´le. One purchase she didn’t see: a red cocktail-waitress dress, low-cut with puff sleeves and a brief skirt. José also took her to a jewelry store and had her pick out a matching set of a gold necklace and earrings. She also bought more CD’s. While she was in the store she considered attempting an escape. Her situation on the island was intolerable, and there was no way to run while she was confined there. This was the first real opportunity she had had. But the thought of trying to escape made her sick to her stomach. Her previous attempts had led to disasters, and José was utterly ruthless. Besides, on reflection she realized that she still had no money and no identity. Where could she go, how could she live? And in a few months she’d be free anyway. No, there was too much to lose and too little to gain from attempting to escape now. After lunch they returned to the airport and left San Pedro. They arrived back at Cayo Golondrinas by evening.

Pansy was unhappy when she was ordered back into her maid’s dress. “José, please, pretty-please,  ¿can I stay in my new dress for a while? It’s really more comfortable, and it’s a lot prettier.  ¿Don’t you like it on me?”

He refused: “You’re at work now. You’re not my guest here, you’re my maid, and your comfort doesn’t matter. Also, I’m not ‘José’ here, I’m ‘Seá±or Herrera’.” The pleasure chip was turned off, and her face crumpled into depression. She had become addicted to a low-level stimulation of her pleasure center; its loss was a blow. Also, José gave her a touch of the sex chip to leave her with a low-level unsatisfied sexual itch.

She didn’t argue again. “Yes, Seá±or, of course,” she quickly replied, and left to change.

When she returned, properly uniformed, José sent her back again: “That’s better–but if you want, I’ll let you make yourself prettier. You can use some lipstick–and put on those high heels.”

“Yes, Seá±or.  ¡Thank you!” she agreed, curtsying as she left. When she returned, he turned her pleasure chip back to maintenance level. He left her with the sexual itch, though.
 
 
February 26
-- Another norte struck overnight. When Pansy awakened, a light rain was falling outside, and her room felt damp and chilly. “ ¡Nonsense!” she told herself. “ ¡This room can’t be much below 20 °!” She still shivered, though, when she got up. It was still dark, but she had to prepare breakfast for Seá±or Herrera. She showered and dressed quickly, but even after she zipped up her hated uniform, she wasn’t warm. “Damn this dress,” she thought. “A skirt just isn’t comfortable in this cold weather.” She hurried to the kitchen. Cooking José’s ham and eggs would warm the room to a more comfortable temperature.

When José appeared an hour later, she complained about the cold and asked to change into slacks. He laughed at her. “You told Susana women should wear skirts, my pretty one, and skirts are what you’ll wear–now and forever,” he insisted. “Besides, you have no slacks here. And by the time you’re free, you won’t even want to wear them. But I’m happy to see that you think it’s cold. Back when you were Seá±or Cualquiera, you’d’ve considered it warm enough, especially for February. It’s just another sign that you’re becoming a real campesina.” She held her tongue and served breakfast.

José flew out for the day and she was left alone. After she cleaned the villa, she had no more to do, and she sat to read a mystery novel. After ten minutes she had a headache, so she laid it down, put on a turquoise sweater, and went outside. On impulse she walked to the island’s west tip, where the breeze carried the mixed odor of salt and mud flat. Sitting on a bench, she gazed northward across the Caribbean towards her lost home and mourned her lost identity. A year ago she had still been male, if nonfunctional, and only fourteen months ago Petunia had been his lover. Intellectually she knew what it had been like to make love to a woman, but now it seemed unreal. And he’d been a chemist in Atlanta two years ago. He had been… She tried to think. He was Seá±or… Seá±or… For some reason, she thought it was a color. Rosado? Verde? Nothing sounded right. All she could recall was “Pansy-Ann Baca Gá³mez”; the last name had gone like the first. She’d been calling him Seá±or Cualquiera forever, it seemed, and she hadn’t even realized her real name was gone. The doctor at San Pedro must have erased it. Shaking her head, she tried to think of how she could recover her real name. But the addresses and names of her friends and family were too confused. Then she had an idea. Celia! Celia Tolliver! The doctors had left her address in her mind. Maybe she could trick Celia into revealing Seá±or Cualquiera’s true identity. She thought a bit, and smiled to herself. Celia wasn’t one to give up, and she’d still be searching for some trace of her former lover. Maybe her persistence could be put to use. Pansy returned to the villa and composed a letter.

Celia: Your lover still think of you. He talk about how he fool you, and how you never find him. The body at Tela is not his. He live near Siguatepeque, north from Comayagua, and tell about you in your little house. Remember sea oats in vase on shelf? It is real pretty, like Stone Mountain print on wall. Now he see new girl, though. Petunia Baca here is real pretty woman.

She signed it “Your lover”. Reading over her words, they seemed unsatisfactory somehow, but she couldn’t pick out the problem. Shrugging, she sealed the letter in an envelope, addressed it to Celia Tolliver in Stone Mountain, and added a return address in Comayagua. It was an address Petunia had left her, where she could always be reached: the home of her mother’s brother, Juan Gá³mez. “Petunia’ll get this,” she thought. “When Celia tries to find me, she’ll have to ask for me by name, and I’m sure Petunia will get me the information.” There was a problem in mailing the letter, of course–no postage, no mail service–but sooner or later she’d be able to send it off. When the letter was finished she wrote another to Petunia. In it she told what she’d done and why, and also gave her an expurgated version of her life at Golondrinas. There was no point in worrying her more than necessary.

Most of the rest of the day was spent in her needlepoint. She still didn’t know how they’d made her enjoy sewing–José had boasted that the doctors were responsible for her sudden infatuation with needlework–but under the circumstances she might as well take advantage of it. Inexplicably, she didn’t want to read. For one thing, it gave her a headache. At 5 she began to prepare for José’s return. As she thought of him, her body felt a now-familiar desire for his body, and she looked forward to his arms around her, and his… She turned away from the thought and returned to preparing his supper.
 
 
March 4
-- The rainy season had begun, less than a week after the last (she hoped) norte. So far, the wet season here was more comfortable than at Las Rosas. The temperature was higher, but the breeze was constant, and it relieved the heat. The thunderheads that piled up over the Caribbean in the afternoon were spectacular. Rain from the summer storms was heavy but brief, not like the all-day miserable gray rains of the nortes.

Migrating birds were beginning to pass through, providing some diversion from her work. She found some chipes, and a few mosqueros (“flycatchers”) were appearing. One of the chipes–she racked her brain to recall the English name, finally calling it by its Latin name, Dendroica virens–reminded her of the home from which she was exiled. The tiny feathered mite was out of place here and now, foraging among palm fronds, but it was headed north to its true abode, the pine forests of her boyhood home in… in Oklahoma. It brought back to her the heady scent of white pine in the fresh spring air of late April, when the birds first appeared. Arbutus would be blooming now, and spring beauty. When would she be able to follow that little bird home?

After breakfast Seá±or Herrera left, telling Pansy he was picking up a visitor, and to have the villa clean and lunch ready by noon. He returned at 11:30 with Seá±or Alfredo Reyes, a swarthy man in a lightweight white suit. He was in his 30’s, well-built and muscular. Pansy greeted them in her uniform, and she noted Seá±or Reyes eyeing her speculatively. She was drawn to him immediately, and she flushed, but she greeted them politely with a smile: “Bienvenidos, Seá±ores. Your lunch will be waiting for you after you clean up.”

Seá±or Herrera smiled back at her and she felt cheered. He told Seá±or Reyes, “This is Pansy, a girl of charm and unexpected talents. If there’s anything you want, just tell her and she’ll be glad to serve you.”

His guest leered at Pansy and replied, “You have good taste in servants, José. Pansy is most decorative.”

She was pleased by the compliment, but, suppressing a giggle, only replied, “Gracias, Seá±or. I’m at your service. Tell me what you want–anything–and I’ll do my best to make you happy.” She noticed that he spoke Spanish well, but with an accent. After a moment she realized it was an English accent.

After lunch she cleaned up, and the men retired to talk. Later Seá±or Reyes told her, “We’re snorkeling on the reef, and I’d like you to join us. Get your suit on and come along.”

She was happy to accept–she had learned to love snorkeling around the coral–and she responded with a smile, “Seá±or, I’ll be there with pleasure.”

He grinned back: “ ¡Forget the ‘Seá±or’ crap! I’m Alfredo, or better, Fred.” He gave the name a good American pronunciation. She looked dubious, but he continued, “Forget José. He’s formal, but I’m not. He won’t scold you.”

Reassured, Pansy smiled and replied happily, “OK, ‘Fred’. I’ll be with you soon.”

She returned in her bikini, with her dark-brown hair in a ponytail. Fred eyed her appreciatively and gave a low whistle. She turned red as she realized that not much of her body was hidden. She wasn’t accustomed to having strange men ogle her. She told herself, “You’d better get used to it, girl,” and then she realized she was sexually attracted to him too. She just didn’t feel as free to express her appreciation. “I’m ready,” she declared; “ ¡Let’s go!”

Fred paid her a lot of attention as they swam. She glanced over at Seá±or Herrera, saw his approval, and realized that he had planned it all. She enjoyed it, but she still had to prepare supper. She told Fred, and he grinned and swam over. He took her arm, pulled her over to him, and kissed her, while one hand cupped her breast. She felt the familiar stirring in her groin as her nipple hardened. She tried to pull away, but he held her there, and she felt her confusion being overcome by euphoria–and lust. She embraced and kissed him with enthusiasm before she realized that her behavior was improper, to say the least. Then, in spite of her feelings (Don’t stop, DON’T STOP) she pulled away. She swam away, and he didn’t follow. She looked back, raising her head above the water, and saw him standing in the shallow water. He blew her a kiss, smiling, and she ducked back and swam to shore.

She donned her uniform, dried and braided her hair, and prepared a light supper for Fred and Seá±or Herrera when they returned. Fred winked at her as he sat down, but she didn’t respond.

After supper, Seá±or Herrera excused himself and took her aside. “We’ll have drinks after supper while we talk business. I have important business dealings with Seá±or Reyes, and you have to please him. See he has a good time. Now, for the after-dinner drinks, I have a different uniform for you. You’ll be my cocktail waitress, so I have an appropriate, and very sexy, dress.” He took her to his bedroom and handed her a bright-red strapless satin dress. She held it up. The neckline was low-cut, and the skirt was short. “There’s a little more,” he told her, and gave her a pair of black fishnet stockings, garters, and red high-heeled pumps. “ ¡There! Now put them on,” he ordered.

She protested, “ ¡But these aren’t decent!  ¡You’ll make me look like a puta!”

He raised an eyebrow and commented, “ ¿So? You are a whore.  ¿Remember? You told me yourself. So you’re going to practice your profession now. Put on your working clothes, ‘puta’.”

Her hatred flared; but fear overcame hate and she began to obey. “ ¡Damn you to hell!” her internal observer commented. “It’s not a problem,” her body replied; “I want a man.  ¡Any man! After all, I am a whore.” She still felt shame and degradation, but as Seá±or Herrera stood there with his arms folded, she stripped to panties and bra.

He grinned: “No bra needed with this outfit, puta. Not this time. Take it off.” She obeyed, standing bare-breasted before stepping into her new dress. It was snug, but not uncomfortable, after she zipped up the back. She pulled on the stockings and attached the garters, then stepped into the heels.

Seá±or Herrera smiled, remarking, “You’re sexy as hell, my little cunt. Look at yourself in the mirror.”

She saw the whore he had named her. Her breasts were supported and displayed, not hidden, and the skirt showed her panties if she bent over. The heels lent her a seductive sway. And why should she be shocked? José had trained her well. She was a whore, and she had even come to realize the justice in her forced prostitution. As a real whore she was at least honest about it. Seá±or Cualquiera hadn’t been honest about his promiscuity.

“Perfect,  ¿yes?” He pointed to her dressing table. “Now freshen up. Use some nice bright lipstick to go with the dress, and green eye shadow. A bit of perfume, too. Put on gold hoop earrings and let your hair down over your shoulders. Let’s do this right.” She obeyed again; when she was done he told her to wait at the bar, then returned Seá±or Reyes. A short time later he called, “ ¡Pansy! Come here, girl.”

When she entered, she saw Seá±or Reyes grin with pleasure. She read lust in his eyes. Even worse, the lust was reciprocated; she wanted to bed him, too. “But then, I am just a fuck doll,” a small voice within her whispered. Ignoring her libido, she answered dutifully, “Yes, Seá±or.  ¿Can I serve you or Seá±or Reyes?  ¿What can I get you?”

“Rum cokes for both of us. Lots of ice. And one for yourself,” Seá±or Reyes ordered. She left and poured the drinks, but just a small one for herself. She served the drinks on a tray, but Seá±or Herrera took the small one. “ ¡Drink up, amigo!” he told Seá±or Reyes; “ ¡You aren’t driving home tonight! You too, Pansy. Bottoms up!” and he drained the glass. She was thirsty and gratefully obeyed. A warm alcoholic glow spread through her body.

There were several more calls for liquor. Each time she quenched her insatiable thirst. At the last call Seá±or Herrera noted that she was becoming unsteady. “Pansy, you’ve had enough for the night. Here, I’ll help you to bed.” He came over and helped her up. She was led to the guest bedroom. She lay down; Seá±or Herrera brought her new baby-doll nightie. Sitting up, she stripped off her uniform and slipped into the nightgown. She wasn’t sleepy, just too tipsy to function properly. And she still felt the lust for Seá±or Reyes that she had felt earlier. In fact, the urge for sex became stronger as she lay there.

In ten minutes the door opened, and Seá±or Reyes entered. Pansy sat up as he approached the bed. Her body, longing for his, felt a sexual thrill, and when he touched her breast through the nightie, her body twitched in anticipation. “ ¡Seá±or Reyes!” she exclaimed.

Frowning, he told her, “I’m ‘Fred’. Just call me Fred.” Then the sight of Pansy’s lush body took him. “You’re a man’s wet dream in that nightie, girl. Touch me, so I’ll know you’re real.”

She reached out and took his hand, then kissed him passionately as they embraced. She put his hand on her breast again, and, as if a button had been pushed, her body spasmed. She forgot who she was, who he was. She only wanted, needed sex. As he fondled her nipple, she pulled him onto the bed and fumbled with shirt buttons, then with his pants. He slipped them off, then his shorts, and lay down beside her. For an instant his aroused state reminded her of her former existence and returned her to a painful sobriety. She–he–had possessed a penis and had taken his pleasure from women. The absence of Seá±or Cualquiera’s male equipment pierced her with a brief but intense sense of irremediable loss as she remembered what being a man had felt like. Her own arousal suddenly transmuted into a craving for a woman–for Petunia. But she realized: Never again! Then Fred began to stroke her breasts again, and her engineered lust drove out any thought save her burning need for a man.

Later, as Fred lay sated beside her, Pansy stared up at the ceiling, where the mirror reflected their passion. She saw herself, a whore, in bed with her john, but she wasn’t ashamed. She hadn’t chosen this, she told herself; she’d been forced into it. “But anyway, I like being a whore,” she thought. “It feels so good.” Fred rolled off and lay next to her, and she pulled him close, with his head resting on her shoulder. He lifted his head after a few minutes of recovery. Returning to Spanish, he asked, “Pansy,  ¿how can you be like this? I’ve never known a woman as sexy, as… as seductive, but so innocent. When José told me you were available, I had no idea what an experience I’d have.”

Pansy told him, “Fred, you wouldn’t believe me, so I won’t tell you.” She switched to English and continued, “A girl is entitled to a few secrets.”

Fred showed some surprise, asking in English, “And you speak English too? Your English is very good. There’s hardly any accent.”

“ ¿Hardly any accent?” she wondered, and switched back to Spanish. “I was well taught. Your Spanish is excellent too. Go to sleep, Freddy. It’s late, and I’ll see you in the morning.” Exhausted and satiated, he quickly dozed off. For a while she lay awake next to him. The loss of Seá±or Cualquiera’s manhood tormented her again, more than it had at any time since that day in July when she had awakened to find her body mutilated. It seemed forever before she drifted off to sleep.
 
 
March 5
-- In the morning she awoke alone in bed. It was late, and she had a hangover. She got up, showered, and put on a clean uniform. Then she braided her hair and did her face. In the mirror the whore was gone, replaced by the maidservant. Fred and Seá±or Herrera were already eating breakfast.

Pansy apologized: “Seá±or Herrera, I’m sorry I’m late.  ¿Can I help you or Seá±or Reyes?”

José smiled and remarked, “No, you did enough. I understand you had a busy time last night.”

Her face turned red and she didn’t answer right away. Illogically, she still felt a glow of pleasure. But then she realized that she wasn’t responsible for her actions. She couldn’t control her body, but she wasn’t to blame. She was well fed, warm, healthy; she’d be free in a few months; her conscience was clear. She’d live with her situation until then, and even enjoy the pleasures it offered. She ignored Seá±or Herrera’s remark and told him, “If there’s nothing here, I’ll return to my work. I need to finish my ironing.” She left when he nodded agreement.

Pansy served them all day, fetching drinks, cooking, cleaning up after them. She felt the euphoria that she’d come to expect after sex. She also felt a continuing sexual urge, but she didn’t let it affect her manner. That evening, after she’d served supper, José ordered her to change back into her cocktail-waitress dress.

“ ¿Why bother? Of course I’ll wear it, if that’s what you want. I’m just a whore; I know it.  ¿Why not skip the preliminaries and just have me serve the drinks in my nightie? I know what you are doing, Seá±or. I can’t control my body, you do. It’s your shame, not mine.”

José turned red, then white, and suddenly she feared his reaction to her impertinence. She should have learned by now! Then he grinned, and told her, “Pansy, my lovely little puta, I shouldn’t be upset. I’m glad you realize how little power you have. Still, you should show more respect. And you do have a point. Very well: go put on your nightie. I’ll take you up on your suggestion. Leave your hair in a peasant-girl braid, and use just a touch of makeup.”

She gasped; she had meant to shame him, but he was shameless. “ ¡Seá±or Herrera! I didn’t…” She stopped; he just looked at her implacably and she knew she had to obey.

“Remember, Pansy, I do not accept disobedience or disrespect. This time, I’ll merely accept your suggestion. Now go change, then come back.”

Her libido waxed as she put on her nightie. She knew she should feel shame and disgust at being forced into prostitution, but anticipation of the ecstasy of sex overrode her qualms. She did want a man in her–after all, she was a fuck doll, wasn’t she? And she had no choice. She put on pale-pink lipstick, then returned.

The men were discussing business when she entered. “Seá±ores,  ¿may I help you?” she asked. She saw Fred’s eyes widen as he took in her lush body, with everything visible, if blurred, behind the gauzy fabric. As he realized she was available again, she saw–literally–his lust rise, and she felt her own desire waxing.

Seá±or Herrera ordered, “Go get us each a rum and coke. I think Seá±or Reyes could use a stiff drink around now.”

“Sá­, Seá±or,” and Pansy left to fetch the drinks. Upon returning she served the drinks, and then she was told to stay to talk with them for a while.

“Seá±or Reyes enjoys your company, I believe, and you are to keep him entertained this evening.” Pansy felt her nipples harden, projecting against the gauzy fabric of the nightie, and she fought to keep her body from writhing in passion. Seá±or Herrera watched with amusement, aware of her reaction. “I not certain I have much to tell Seá±or Reyes,” she managed to say, “but I like to know more about him.  ¿From where in the United States are you, Seá±or?”

He tried unsuccessfully to pull his eyes from Pansy’s full breasts and erect nipples. “I… I’m from Miami.  ¿How did you know I was American? My family’s from El Salvador, and I grew up speaking Spanish.”

With a topic of conversation, Pansy could concentrate on talk instead of her burning need for sex, and she told him, “You have a little English accent, Seá±or, although I can hardly detect it. You must be completely bilingual.”

He stuttered a bit: “Y…y…yes.  ¿And… and you?”

Seá±or Herrera interrupted, telling them, “I’m tired, and I’ve got to get up early. I’ll leave you two to amuse yourselves. Con permiso, Seá±or y Seá±orita.” He left, and Fred and Pansy were left alone.

Leering at her, Fred suggested, “Pansy, let’s talk in a more comfortable place. Come join me in my bedroom.” She followed him, and he began to undress in front of her. He stopped as if he’d had an idea, then told her, “Help me with these clothes. Take them off me,  ¿will you?”

She stripped him and ran her fingers down his back. Watching him squirm, she thought, “By God, if I am a whore,  ¡I’ll be a good one!” Fred collapsed onto the bed and she began to undo his belt. He couldn’t wait, and quickly loosened it and dropped his pants. Pansy stroked him through his shorts. He gasped.

“I’m out of shape,” he panted in English. “Don’t give me a heart attack, now!”

She smiled as he writhed, and she pulled down his shorts, passing her finger lightly across his naked belly. “Oh, you do not look all that old. You survived last night, yes?” He sat on the bed, and she joined him, rubbing her breasts against his hairy chest. Her own lust rose a notch. “Passionate wench, aren’t you, dear?” he gasped, and then pulled her down to him on the bed. She lay on her back, and as on the previous night, she saw herself in the ceiling mirror, with her legs spread in invitation. She had little time to contemplate her status, as Fred entered her quickly, and they both reached climax together. For a few seconds they lost themselves in lust, and then the tension left him.

“Pansy, how do you do that? I’m not sure I’ll ever be satisfied with other women.”

“Freddie, I am sure you manage. I can tell I is not your first, and I sure I is not your last; but not worry about other times and places. There is just here and now. Come here and lie with me.” She pulled a sheet over them. He began to talk, but he soon fell asleep.
 
 
March 6
-- In the morning she awoke to a man tickling her nipples. Lust seized her, and Fred spent himself in her loins as her hips bucked. After he finished, she told him to get cleaned up. “I need to make breakfast, Fred. Go on, I’ll join you shortly.” After he finished, she cleaned herself up and put on her uniform. When she appeared in the kitchen to prepare breakfast, both Fred and Seá±or Herrera were there. She served them, and Seá±or Herrera asked Fred whether she’d been a satisfactory companion. He rolled his eyes and said, “Oh, yes indeed. Yes indeed!” Seá±or Herrera smiled and commented in English, “Good! I’m not surprised. I’ve found Pansy ever eager to please, whatever the task.”

Fred left at 10:45 with Seá±or Herrera. Pansy, left alone, was depressed. Was this to be her “profession” for her remaining months? And after that? What was she fit for now? How could she return to her previous life? And another problem: she was six weeks pregnant. She thought, “It was early February. So, nine months…” She counted on her fingers. “That’s October… no, November. So,  ¿what do I do at the end of the year, when I’m supposed to be freed? A mother, I’ll be.” In misery she threw herself on her bed and wept. That afternoon she wrote another letter to Petunia. “I’ll try to write regularly,” she told herself. She also attempted four more letters to friends, in the hope that Don Pablo and his doctors had left a few names from her past unscrambled. She asked them to write back to Pansy Baca, in care of Petunia at the address Petunia had given her. For some incomprehensible reason she had trouble composing the letters. The correct words just wouldn’t come to mind, and when the letters were completed, they seemed wrong, somehow. She tried to edit them, but the final results didn’t satisfy her any better. At last she gave up, sealed them and addressed the envelopes. Maybe one would reach its destination.

Back on the mainland, Petunia had recovered from the drowning death of her lover, who had at least given her a beautiful baby girl. She had met another attractive man, Juan Antonio Sáºlivan. He owned a small ranch a few kilometers north of Comayagua. He’d asked her to a dance, and she was happy to accept. Seá±or Pinkerton was gone, and she couldn’t spend the rest of her life in mourning for him. Pansy would understand.
 
 
March 9
-- Two days ago José had left Pansy alone at the villa while he flew to San Pedro for supplies. She took the opportunity to swim again around the reef, and to look again at the few birds on the island. The birdlife had changed: the warblers were migrating. She found two candelitas and a reinita cariamarilla. They were new arrivals on the island, headed north. It never occurred to her that she was using Spanish names for them.

At the end of the year she could head north too. She’d find out who she really was. She’d return to… to Oklahoma?–the name seemed unfamiliar–and see her family. She could see Petunia again! She had known her for such a short time, but she loved her. But how to reconcile her love for Petunia with her desire to return home?

José returned at noon with gifts that pleased Pansy. The nine weeks on the island had approached sensory deprivation, to her thinking. He brought a mystery novel (in Spanish) and a few new dresses and skirts. She had had bathing suits, several changes of her uniform, and two skirt and three dresses from her last trip to town, but she was delighted to have new clothes. The pleasure chip helped too, but she was unaware of that, of course.

In the late afternoon José turned up her sex drive, and after supper he told her to seduce him. She stripped naked in front of him, slowly, and then, flushed with passion, she took off his clothes. He wouldn’t take her right away; he spread honey on her breasts and licked it off first. She went ballistic! After that she made love to José eagerly, and she spent the night in his bed.
 
 
March 11
-- In the morning José took her again. He left her with a high pleasure level, and after they cleaned up José got back into bed. She put on her maid’s uniform, with new high heels this time, and served him breakfast in bed. Then he showed her two more gifts, some CD’s he’d bought for her. “You like the Beatles and Jimi Hendrix, I know; here’s Strawberry Lane, and two Hendrix albums.  ¿You like?”

Ecstatic, she squealed with delight and kissed him! They listened to the CD’s together, and he told her that he was a fan of rock music as well. Then she showed him her needlepoint project. He had trouble believing this was the woman who had been given up as hopeless with a needle. She broke off in midafternoon to prepare supper, but they listened to “Eleanor Rigby” as they ate. He asked her later if she’d like to “play in the hay.” She agreed readily, and he chuckled. She had had only nine weeks of conditioning, and already her libido made her forget he had not only cut off George’s balls, but made him into a sex toy. The promise he had given Pansy in January had been fulfilled: between the drugs and the chips, Pansy was now a willing, even eager, mistress. Sex had become a reward, not a penalty. He pointed out to Pansy how far she had come towards his goal for her: “I told you, you’d enjoy sex. You’re just the little sexpot I said we’d make you.  ¿Aren’t you?  ¿Or did you forget what I said?”

She had forgotten, repressing what she couldn’t control. “ ¡No! I I only do what I must.” But she knew better, and cringed inside. “ ¡But I do want a man!  ¡I’m a fuck bunny and I like it!  ¡It feels so good!” an inner voice insisted. They were changing her. She had to fight it!

José laughed. “You like music, Pansy, so I brought you the CD’s. And I want you to learn two songs.” He gave her two scores. “You’ll sing them for my next guest.” She looked at the titles. They were “I Enjoy Being a Girl”, and “I’m Just a Girl who Can’t Say No”. She began to object, but he turned up the fear chip and at the same time cut her will power. She surrendered. “Sá­, Seá±or. As soon as I can.” Her words brought a surge of pleasure that reinforced her agreement, and she giggled. “I really can’t say no,  ¿can I?”

He reminded her again that night as she seduced him, urged on by the sex chip.
 
 
March 12
-- Next day José gave her the scores, and she began to memorize them. He made sure she enjoyed it, turning up her pleasure as she practiced in her girlish soprano, which was sweet and high, if weak. He suggested that she act a bit–”You know, waggle that cute little butt a little. Maybe pout a bit.”–and she complied happily, giggling like a schoolgirl. By suppertime she was doing a creditable job, and he let her rest. Grinning, he told her, “The songs are true, you know. I can tell, you do enjoy being a girl, in spite of yourself. And like you said, you really can’t say no. We’re succeeding.” She denied it, but only halfheartedly, as she realized that she was slowly becoming the sexy and docile slut he intended. She could reverse it after she was freed. Surely she could!

She really couldn’t say no, to her dismay. Succumbing to her libido, she seduced José again that evening. Afterwards, José drugged her and injected her with mnemosine, one of Ibarra’s fancy drugs. It stimulated the hippocampus, which fed short-term into long-term memory. She truly learned the songs by heart, as though she had been singing them for years. He also gave her a shot of metrazine, and a hypnotic suggestion that the songs really expressed her true feelings.

Before going to bed himself, José wrote to Ibá¡á±ez:

She is an efficient maid, and a passionate and skilled performer in bed. I don’t know if the change in character is permanent, but I suspect so. She appears to be addicted to the pleasure chip. Whether permanently or not, time will tell. Her conscious attitude to sex seems to be that it’s a duty her body forces her to perform. She draws a distinction between her inner identity–her ego–and her body. I have the feeling that the inner Pansy, or maybe the inner George, stands back and watches as a bystander, even when her body is in the grip of a sexual frenzy, a chip-induced euphoria, or a black depression. I believe Seá±or Deon had a detached personality, and Pansy’s experience has only strengthened this character trait. Nevertheless, and in spite of her detachment, her sexuality seems more and more to be ingrained, and I believe permanent. Given a choice of clothing, she now chooses the most revealing. Her body is attractive, of course, and now she seems to have lost her early self-consciousness concerning it. If her taste in clothing remains as it is, she will give the impression we desired: that of a rather low-class peasant girl.

As a maid she is more than satisfactory. She obeys without thought, as if born to her station. I judge that docility is becoming an integral part of her personality. Not only is she obedient, but sometimes ( ¡not always!) she no longer even seems to resent her menial position, and is grateful for small favors. Of course, I have ordered her to appear cheerful; but as you know, a feigned emotion soon begins to induce the real thing, and I judge her cheerfulness to be smothering her resentment. Also: as with many kidnap victims, her fear of punishment, and her total dependence, has caused her to begin to identify with her captor–me–and abandon her autonomy. This identification, a long-known phenomenon in inmates of prisons and concentration camps, is helping to crush the proud and stubborn norteamericana out of existence, and reshape her into a campesina. However, the process is slow, and occasionally she regresses into unhappy resentment. Even then, she shows no open hostility; she has learned that any display of such feelings (never mind disobedience) has unpleasant consequences.

I cannot judge her reaction to the language conditioning. I will bring an English-speaking guest to the island to better gauge her language preference. Certainly her Spanish is better. Oddly, though, the songs I forced her to learn were sung in flawless English.

Please tell Doctor Herná¡ndez that Pansy’s complexion is becoming noticeably darker. Already the tone is much like that of the average campesina, but I suspect that she may end up somewhat on the dark side.

Now she seems both compliant and competent, although that compliancy may depend on continuing reinforcement by our chips. I am testing that by slowly reducing use of the chips. I recommend that she be transferred to Susana sometime around mid-June.
 
 
March 17
-- Seá±or Herrera soon brought a second guest. She was glad to see him arrive; she hated to admit it, but when Seá±or Herrera was absent, the lack of sex bothered her. She enjoyed sex. She felt a thrill when she heard the plane approach, and she knew she’d be bedded that night. As Weiss had said, “When you have a lemon, make lemonade.” If she had to please men, she might as well enjoy it herself. And she had to admit, her new body gave her more sexual delight than her old one ever did.

By the time Seá±or Herrera arrived at the villa, cold drinks waited on a tray. He praised her diligence, and introduced his guest: “Andy, this is Pansy, my maid. You’ll see a lot of her while you’re here. Her job is to serve you, and she’s good at it.” He turned to Pansy and explained that Seá±or Giannetti didn’t speak Spanish well. “He wants to practice his Spanish, but don’t frustrate him, and accommodate all his needs.” She caught his double meaning, but no longer cared. Addressing his guest again, he explained that “Pansy speaks fair English, and she needs some practice too, so give her a chance to use it.” Pansy curtsyed and announced, “Your lunches is ready when you want them. I maked a nice shrimp salad, and we has fruit salad too. Can I do anything else for you, Seá±ores?” José dismissed her with a smile.

That afternoon they all went swimming. Pansy wore a red bikini, and she was pleased to see that so far there was no visible change in her waist. Only the damned morning sickness betrayed her condition.

Seá±or Giannetti paid a great deal of attention to her. “Call me Andy,” he told her. “Your boss is too stiff. I don’t hold with this formality.”

She saw his attraction to her–literally; his bathing suit had a bulge–and she felt a matching desire for him, but she didn’t respond overtly. Time for that later. She giggled reflexively and replied “Yes, Andy,” as they splashed through the shallows. “I is happy to call you what you prefer. I is rather informal myself. And what you do in Chicago?” Her English was unsure, she noticed. Thinking back, she realized she had been speaking Spanish almost exclusively for four months, with only a few sentences in English here and there–mostly there, at the San Pedro clinic. She was uncomfortable in her native tongue! Depression settled on her and a headache began to develop. She made an excuse to leave, telling Andy, “I have work to do in the villa. I is sorry, I have so much enjoyed your company, but I see you later anyway.  ¡Hasta luego, Seá±or!”

Returning to Seá±or Herrera, she requested permission to return to the villa. “Seá±or Herrera, I have to prepare supper. With your permission, Seá±or, I will begin now.”

“OK, Pansy. Get along. Just see that Seá±or Giannetti’s kept happy.”

“Of course, Seá±or, he will be happy,” she replied, and returned to her room. Changing into a dress, she began to cook a red snapper. After supper she cleaned up, then downed a quick meal. As expected, Seá±or Herrera insisted that she switch to her bargirl outfit, with appropriate accessories and makeup. She obeyed and was rewarded by Andy’s attention when she returned. Her libido responded as she saw his male interest arise again. She served them both Tom Collinses, and had one herself. They talked for a while, alternating between English and Spanish. The Spanish was easier for her. By the time Seá±or Herrera left, she was happy to be alone with Andy. He didn’t rush to bed, but asked to talk a bit more. “Pansy, your English is pretty good. If you lived for a while in the U.S., I bet you’d even lose the accent! How did you learn to speak it so well?” She wasn’t quite sure how to answer–truth definitely wasn’t an option, not while she was trapped on the island–and she finally told him, “I study it in school, y yo viajaba… I travel… traveled a little in Mexico. I has a good head for it, I guess. But your Spanish is quite good. If you live in Honduras for a while, I bet you even lose the accent!”

“Pansy, you’re both pretty and witty. Come over here and sit with me.”

Obediently she sat on his lap. She was really too large to fit there, but she managed, and he embraced her. His right hand crept to her breast and fondled it through the thin satin, arousing her quickly. She stiffened; her nipple pushed against her bodice. Andy pulled her onto the couch, slipped his hand inside the dress, and cupped the breast while he kissed her deeply. She responded by stroking his crotch through his pants. Soon he unzipped her dress and slid it down. In turn she undid his belt and pulled down his pants. Without a word she pointed to the guest bedroom. He picked her up bodily and carried her to the bed. As she was laid on the sumptuous bed she saw her reflection in the ceiling mirror. No question, she observed in a detached way, her body was attractive. Seá±or Herrera was correct; she was a good puta. Her detachment was quickly lost in the familiar and now-welcome flood of lust as he stroked her belly, then her crotch. Soon her legs were spread wide in an invitation which was accepted immediately. They made love later that night too. This time Pansy seduced Andy. She didn’t care any more, she told herself. She was a whore, yes, but an inner voice told her, “ ¡I like being a puta!”
 
 
March 18
-- In the morning, Andy was still in bed when she arose. She kissed him gently, and whispered to him, “ ¡Time for work, lover!  ¡See you at the table!”

In her maid’s dress again, she fixed the usual eggs, rice, and beans, and it was there for the men when they arrived. Seá±or Herrera told her, “I’m taking Andy out fishing today. We’ll be gone until midafternoon, but with luck we’ll bring back supper. You’ll clean the fish when we return. In the meantime, I’ve left some laundry for you, and there’s a pile of clothes to be mended, too. Iron my shirts well; I have an important meeting in Tegus tomorrow.”

Depressed at being left for the day, she curtsied and said with a resigned sigh, “Sá­, Seá±or.”

They left shortly after, and she turned to her chores for the day.

The night promised to be a repeat of the previous night. She’d serve them supper, then service Andy. He had a good body, though, and she looked forward to it. Why not?

She considered having Andy mail the letters she’d written. Her fear that he’d tell Seá±or Herrera was balanced against her need to send that information. In the end she decided to try to send them, and to ask Andy not to tell Seá±or Herrera. She also wrote a few more letters, in the hope that some one of them would reach their intended recipient and help her escape the trap she was in.

When they returned, José told Andy, “Pansy’s got a nice voice. Would you like to hear her sing?” He agreed cheerfully, and José told Pansy, “Go put on something frilly. Then show us how well sing those songs.” He jolted her with pleasure as he told her, and Pansy giggled foolishly, reacting with artificial delight. She picked out a frothy pink confection of a dress, made her face up, and reappeared. Some internal self-loathing lingered as she tripped through Hammerstein’s lyrics, but her forced delight overrode it. As she rendered a salacious version of “Can’t Say No”, Andy and José both ogled her appreciatively, and she realized that both songs were nothing but the truth. She was a whore, and she could no longer deny that José had made her like it. At least her body did. She tried to tell herself that, left to herself, she’d show it was only temporary; but she couldn’t even be sure of that.

That night as she lay next to Andy, she took stock of her position. That she was a woman, and a sexy woman, was undeniable, and she had accepted since August that she’d have to live with that. That she was a whore, a sex toy for José and whomever else he chose, was also true, and she couldn’t change that either, at least not yet. But now… Now she realized that she no longer even wanted to change it. She had become a fuck doll just as he had predicted. She had thought that she could accept sex and enjoy it without involving her innermost self. Now she realized that for the rest of her life, she’d want to give herself to a man, to feel that wonderful and hateful and glorious sensation that was a man pleasuring himself with her. It had become an inseparable part of her nature, just as José had predicted. “I want to be a fuck doll,” she admitted to herself in despair. “I like having a man inside me.  ¡I can’t help it! José is succeeding, just like he said.” She wept, and Andy awakened. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“I… My… There is nothing wrong!” she told him, sniffling.

“There is. Tell me.”

“I… I want… I no want…  ¡No puedo decirle!”

“Dá­game.”

She tried to hold back, but broke down. “ ¡I am a slut!  ¡I will never escape!  ¡I hate me!”

“You’re a pretty and sexy girl. And you enjoy it, just like that song said. I don’t understand.”

“Yes… Yes, I en… enjoyed it.  ¡I do not… do not want to enjoy it!  ¡I do not like to be pretty!” She paused. “No, I mean… I mean I do not want to like to be pretty!”

“But…” He was completely confused. “Never mind. It will seem better in the morning.” He reached over and embraced her, cupping her breasts. Her reflexive lust sprang up, and she kissed him passionately. Quickly he took her, as she curled her legs around him. Afterwards she heard him mutter to himself, “Women are from another planet. Who could ever understand them?”
 
 
March 19
-- Andy left the next day. As they flew past the swamps along the coast of Gracias a Dios, José pointed out a flock of spoonbills in a lagoon. They rose as the plane passed, a vision of rose-pink against the green mangroves. José asked Andy how he enjoyed the vacation. Andy praised the island extravagantly. “A wonderful place, José. A piece of heaven! Maybe I can return some time. Please, don’t take too many people there. I’d hate to see it ruined by crowds.”

Laughing, José commented that it wasn’t likely. “There’s no room for a big resort, Andy, so there’s no chance to have economy of scale. Everything has to be brought in, including water, and it’s in the middle of nowhere. No, I don’t think you need to worry.”

“Doesn’t the staff go crazy with the isolation? I’d think your little slut’d be bored.”

“Yes, I think you’re right. All the better. She’s eager to please when I bring a guest.”

“She’s an odd girl, José. Sexy as hell and, as you say, eager to please. I think Pansy’d give an erection to a brass monkey. She made the visit special. She says she learned English in the United States, and she doesn’t talk like a Honduran girl. Where’d you find her?”

Chuckling, José replied, “She was near Comayagua–that’s south of San Pedro–when I found her. She used to be a teacher. Taught you a thing or two, didn’t she?”

Andy gave him a leer. “No question. I’ll take her course any time.” He added, “But I know she wants more outside contact. She has to be lonely on the island. She gave me some letters to mail–to her family, she said.”

Immediately José came to attention. “She did, did she? To whom? May I see them?”

His guest demurred, telling him it wouldn’t be proper. “She really didn’t want me to tell you at all, but I thought you ought to know. Still, I’d rather see they get mailed.”

José nodded. “Not important.” Inwardly he was angry at first: he had explicitly forbidden her to try to contact anyone off the island. Then he recalled that such rebellions were not only expected but desirable, as pretexts for punishment. “She’s trying to reach an old boyfriend,” he told Andy. “I’d rather she didn’t. They broke up, and it’s best if they stay apart. She’s got no sense in some things.” The La Ceiba post office was small, and he thought he might be able to recover the letters. Not that they mattered; Ibarra had promised that Pansy’s memory had been edited enough to make such attempts futile. Well, he had warned Pansy not to do this. He’d punish her, and at the same time lock her more firmly into peasant status. It would be another lesson to her, another step in conditioning her to unthinking obedience. He switched the conversation to other topics, and they flew on.
 
 
March 26
-- Around 10 AM an amphibious plane circled the island, then landed in the lagoon. As José went to greet the plane, he told Pansy, “I’ve been expecting another visitor. See that the usual refreshments are ready for him.” Leering, he added, “There isn’t much to do here on the island, so you’ll be providing the entertainment as well.” Then he ordered more seriously, “I expect you to have him in bed before the day is out.”

“Yes, Seá±or,” she acknowledged, as she left her task of the moment–sewing a new skirt for herself–and went to the kitchen. One man disembarked from the plane, and José left to fetch him. When they returned, she recognized the guest. She suppressed her conditioned lust and greeted him, “Welcome, Seá±or Bianchi. The morning is hot, and it will get hotter. I can serve to you cold beer, a rum drink, fruit nectar, or ice water.  ¿What do you like?”

Bianchi chose a beer and José ordered a rum punch. Pansy curtsied and left to fetch them. The men sat on a shady patio overlooking the lagoon. “A terrific spot you have here,” Bianchi remarked. “A vest pocket Eden!”

“I agree,” replied José. “Perhaps Seá±or Deon has come to dislike it, but he has his own reasons.”

“You speak of ‘Seá±or Deon’. Has he recovered the knowledge of his name, then?”

“No, not at all. I speak of Seá±or Deon only to remind myself that the body of the attractive girl who served us imprisons the man who dishonored my sister. But I understand you’re here to make your own judgment.”

“Of course. It’s only been a few months, but your reports, videos, and so forth indicate significant changes. More than significant: incredible. The documentation is admirable; however, we need to see for ourselves.”

“I understand, and you won’t be disappointed. I doubt Seá±or Deon will ever be fully assimilated–I don’t tell him that, of course–but his progress in that direction is remarkable. If my father hadn’t forbidden the complete erasure of Seá±or Deon’s personality and memories, I think the creation of a campesina might indeed be possible.”

“Don Pablo seems to think it’s possible anyway, even if Seá±orita Baca keeps some of Seá±or Deon.”

José shrugged. “Maybe it’s a distinction without a difference. You’ll make up your own mind, of course.” He rose. “You didn’t come here to chat with me. Pansy’ll be back in a moment; if you wish, I’ll take the suitcase to your room, and you can interview her in private.” Bianchi agreed, and José disappeared into the house.

When Pansy reappeared with the drinks, she was surprised to find Bianchi alone, waiting for her, but he gestured for her to sit next to him. “Seá±or Herrera says the punch is for you, Seá±orita,” he told her. “As you might guess, I’m here to check on how Don Pablo’s project is doing. Tell, me, what do you think? In English.”

She handed him a glass of cold Port Royal beer and sat, smoothing her skirt beneath her. “I… I not know, Seá±or. They succeed… succeed to make me to mujer, to… to wo… woman.” She sipped the strong rum punch and tried to collect her thoughts. As she had noticed with Andy, it was surprisingly difficult to express herself in English. She put it down to lack of practice.

“Of course you don’t know, girl. That wasn’t the question. I’ll make my own assessment on the progress of your psychological engineering–the reshaping of your personality. What’s your opinion about how well they are succeeding? Of course you’re female now, and you look like a peasant girl; but do you think they might actually get you to become a peasant girl in your head? Tell me what you believe–for what little it’s worth.”

“I… No, Seá±or. I is not become a campesina. I is a woman, and I must… must to live as a woman during the rest of my life, and I must to work as a maid hasta the end of the year, but they not succeed. They must not to succeed! When Don Pablo free me, I escape to… to Los Estados Unidos.”

Bianchi wasn’t surprised by the decline of Pansy’s English, as he had read the reports on her regression towards peasant status. He noted to himself that her accent remained fairly good, even if her grammar had gone to hell. “Have you thought about how you’ll prove to Immigration that you’re an American woman? And where will you go, what will you do, after you return to the United States?”

Pansy took another drink from her rum punch. It was sweet and strong, as José had taught her to make it. “I… I not know. I can not to make plans until I is free. Then maybe I know what I can to do.”

Bianchi switched to his slightly-accented Spanish. “Pablo Herrera tells me that you have a completely functional female body. In fact, he tells me that you’re pregnant now.”

She looked away. “Yes, I… They tell me I will have a baby, and I think they are right.”

“ ¿So you are sexually active, then?  ¿You enjoy sex?”

She remembered José’s order to service their visitor before the day was out. “Yes, Seá±or, I enjoy it. I… They… I do not know how they… how they did it, but they made me like men.” For a moment she considered simply inviting Seá±or Bianchi into her bed on the spot, but rejected the idea. He might turn down a direct solicitation, and José would punish her. No, she’d have to seduce him. It shouldn’t be difficult. She was a good whore.

“Tell me:  ¿How does it compare? Sex as a woman, I mean.  ¿How does it compare to what you had before, as a man?”

She shrugged. “It is very good, Seá±or, maybe better. But I can not say how it is for a real woman. Remember, I am a…” She searched for a word in Spanish, failed, and switched back to English: “I is a construct. My reactions is not normal. My experience is not typical.”

“A better-constructed woman than many born.” He thought for a moment and smiled. “By the way, do you know what Pablo Herrera calls his project?”

“I… I is not sure, but I hear… heared them to talk about Ovid.”

“Yes, that’s it: the Ovid Project. A couple of thousand years ago Roman poet by the name of Ovid wrote ‘Metamorphoses’, a work in which a character Tiresias is changed to a woman–completely changed, body and mind–as punishment. Later in the story, he–or she–was asked whether sex was better for a man or a woman. She claimed it was better for a woman. I think Ovid would’ve been delighted to hear you confirm his conjecture.”

Pansy lifted a shoulder again and sipped at her punch. “I not know, but you can be right.” Putting her drink down, she changed the subject. “We have a good beach here. The water is warm. You like to swim?”

“I might just do that–yes, I will–but I need to change first. Take me to my room, will you?”

While Bianchi changed, Pansy donned a flaming-pink bikini and freshened her makeup. When she was satisfied that she was as pretty as Conchita’s training would allow, she loaded a backpack with a beach blanket, snorkel gear, sunscreen, and rum cokes in an insulated cooler, then left to rejoin Bianchi. He ogled her openly and nodded in approval. “Amazing! The doctors outdid themselves! You’re really a very pretty girl, Pansy.” He noted to himself that the erstwhile Seá±or Deon had adopted a feminine attitude towards his appearance in a remarkably short time. Score one for Pablo Herrera’s conditioning techniques.

Pansy giggled, pleased by the compliment. “I is a girl now,” Pansy replied. “I not choosed it, I not wanted it, but is true and I can not to change it. Since I is girl, I prefer to be pretty, not ugly.”

“A reasonable attitude, under the circumstances. It’s just that I have some trouble looking at you now and trying to recall that you were a man, only fifteen months ago.” They began walking towards the beach. “I’d guess you might have the same difficulty when you look in the mirror.”

“Sometimes when I wake up, I is still surprised to see who I is. But I is getting used to it.”

“Speaking of your identity, do you think of yourself as Pansy Baca now, or still as your former self?”

“My… my identity is me. I is the same person, but only in a different package.” She shook her head as if to clear it. “But my name… I call that person Pansy Baca now.”

Bianchi marveled at her lack of insight into her own nature. “Do you know your old name?”

“No, Seá±or, they taked it. It is… it is goed. But I think it is a color.” She couldn’t recall the English words, and used Spanish: “Verde, or rosado… maybe rojo? I not know.” She stopped walking, looked at the ground, then at Bianchi. “But Don Pablo, he free me at end of year. You telled that to me yourself. I get it back then.”

“How?” The poor dope wouldn’t find it easy–and by the end of the year, his old name would be irrelevant.

“I… I not know. But I find a way.”

“And if you do, then what? What will you do when you’re free?”

Kill the Herreras, father and son, she thought. But she only said, “I go back to the USA, get professional life back. I must… must to live as woman–I is woman–but I is professional woman.” She began walking again. “Seá±or Bianchi, when you see me last year, you say you can to help me if I come to you. Please, help me!”

He shook his head. “I can’t do anything now. My boss wants me to observe you as you change into a peasant girl. After all, his office is paying a lot to be able to follow your transformation into a campesina, and he says you have more changes waiting for you–although to me you seem pretty well transformed already. Really, I sympathize with you–it’s a terrible position you’re in–but I can’t get you off the island now, and I’d lose my job if I tried. And we’re learning a lot for our money, learning things that we can’t find out any other way.”

They arrived at the beach, and the turquoise lagoon, rippled by the breeze, stretched before them. Pansy set her burden down in the shade of a fig tree that arched over the beach. As she spread the blanket over the coral sand, Bianchi told her, “Really, my office hopes you stay here for ten years or so. They want to study you, to see if you really become a campesina, as Don Pablo predicts. But I think I can persuade them that they can study you more efficiently if you return to the US. Of course, you wouldn’t become a peasant girl then–but they could watch you adapt to your womanhood, however you do it. Maybe you’ll even become a professional woman, as you hope.” And Hell would open for skating lessons, he thought. He smiled: “As a Hispanic girl–even a synthetic one–you could even take advantage of affirmative-action educational programs, and maybe recover some of your losses.”

Pansy hadn’t expected immediate help–after all, she knew he couldn’t smuggle her off the island, even if he wished, and she knew his office was complicit in her ordeal–but at least he had been honest with her, and his offer was something to consider. “Like you know, Seá±or, I lose real name, and like you telled to me, La Migra is a problem. But I really is norteamericana, US citizen. You know who I is. You can to tell me? You help prove I is citizen so I can to stay in US?”

“Possibly after December, but like I told you, definitely not now. Even then, I’d have to check higher up.”

Pansy didn’t hope for much from him–she had been burned too many times–but she was grateful for the sympathy, and for the possibility, at least, of future help. “Thank you, Seá±or. I remember that on next January. Now, the sun here is strong.” She took a tube of ointment out of the basket. “I have sunscreen, so lie down and I put it on you.” He lay on his stomach, and she rubbed sunscreen into his neck, shoulders, back, arms, and legs. Ordering him to turn over, she repeated the process on his chest and face, delicately dabbing ointment around his nose and ears. She finished his arms and legs, “accidentally” brushing his groin in the process and noting his incipient arousal. “Seá±or, please, you put on me the sunscreen now?” she asked when she was done. He agreed, covering her thoroughly; her own lust began to burn. “We have wonderful fish and such in the lagoon,” she told him, “and the coral is very pretty. I have snorkels and fins in the pack. Will you like to see it?”

“Yes, why not? With such an attractive guide, how could I refuse?”

They swam for fifteen minutes before Bianchi asked to return to the shore. He admired her smooth brown complexion as she walked to the beach blanket and fished her purse from the backpack, and he wondered if she knew it wasn’t just a suntan. Pablo Herrera had sent a recent photograph, of course, but it didn’t do this sexy creature justice. She wasn’t just a woman, she was a hot babe! Whether she ever became a campesina was, in his opinion, unimportant. There was very little of George Deon in the attractive girl in front of him, who at that moment was peering into a compact mirror and repairing her makeup.

After Pansy had skillfully blotted her fresh hot-pink lipstick, she sat on the blanket next to her guest and smiled. “Your Spanish is excellent, Seá±or. My own is much more good than it used to be–much more good than I ever expected it to be–but not as good as yours.  ¿Do you mind if we speak Spanish?  ¿And where you learned it?”

“No, I don’t mind a bit. I’ve had many assignments in Latin America, and my Spanish has had a lot of practice.” He picked up his glass and finished the remaining beer. “But tell me: you agree that you’re a woman, and that you’ll always be a woman. Also, you say that sex as a woman is enjoyable.  ¿Do you think you’ll ever marry, after you’re free?”

“ ¡No!” Pansy was emphatic. “ ¡I will not marry! I will become a professional again, and a husband will want… will want me to stay at home and be… be ‘housewife’.” She used the English word.

“ ¿And your baby? You’ll be a mother then, of course.”

“I… I do not know. I do not know what to do about it. I will think about something after I am free.” Such as, putting the bastard up for adoption. She picked up the remaining punch and downed it. “I never planned to deal with a baby.”

“Pablo Herrera says it will help tie you down–prevent you from running off as soon as your formal captivity is over. But he wasn’t sure that you’d be fertile. Your total sex-change operation is relatively new, and in general it has only a 45% chance of success. Doctor Weiss is very good at his profession–maybe the best–but even he only runs about 70%.”

Seá±or Bianchi clearly knew a lot about her, and about Don Pablo’s plans for her. But then, he was helping to pay for her degradation. No, that was wrong; he was just a low-level employee, “just following orders”. “ ¿And what other surprises will I have?  ¿Will they leave me anything of the man who came down here fifteen months ago?”

Bianchi shrugged. “I don’t know. They don’t tell us–or at least me–the details of your treatment in advance. We only know the final objective–and you already know what that is.”

Only too well. “ ¿Can you guess? I think there is not much to be done now.  ¡Look at me! ” He obeyed, grinning, and openly ran his eyes up and down her body. She flushed, but went on: “I am the picture of a campesina. I think–no, I know–they can erase more of my memories and put new ones in my head, for me to think I was really born here. But Don Pablo said I would always know I am a norteamericano put into a campesina body for punishment. If I will remember that,  ¿how I can be a real campesina in my head?”

Bianchi switched back to English. “Damned if I know. If it’s any help, José Herrera doesn’t know either. And I doubt Pablo Herrera and his doctors know. My own feeling is, you won’t–or not quite completely. But whether you become a ‘real campesina’–whatever that is, and we could debate the definition for a long time–won’t matter. For the Ovid Project, the measure of success will be whether you go running back to Susana Herrera after you’re freed, asking to work as her maid. If you don’t, if instead you come running to me at the San Pedro consulate, or if you find some other job, then the project will be judged less than a complete success, and we get some of our money back.” He finished his beer, now only cool. “I have to say, I think the project is largely successful already. The physical changes are almost beyond belief. Every individual change you’ve undergone–the sexual reassignment surgery followed by pregnancy, the genetic engineering, the extreme plastic-surgery makeover and the vocal change–all of those’ve been done before. They’re not routine, not at all, but individually they’re not unprecedented. You may be the first to have all of them done to you, and you’re almost certainly the first to have them forced on you. And that’s even before we consider the changes to your mind!”

Pansy had trouble following him, but got the gist of his speech. She continued in Spanish (it seemed a lot more comfortable): “But those changes–to my mind–are the ones Don Pablo wants most. That is what he told me.”

He switched back: “Yes, of course. The physical changes are but a means to that end. And those changes–what Don Pablo calls ‘psychological engineering’–are the ones our office is most interested in as well.”

“You talk about your office:  ¿What office is that?”

Bianchi chuckled. “Sorry, my dear, I can’t tell you that. Classified, and all that.”

She wasn’t surprised. “ ¿Where are you from, then?”

“Las Vegas.”

The meadows? She shook her head; it made no sense. No matter. “I understand this… this Ovid Project is supposed to make people behave better by changing them.  ¿Isn’t that like using a hammer to kill ants? It can work, but it’s so much trouble and expense.  ¿And what about the Constitution?  ¿Doesn’t it stop very bad punishments?”

“ ¿You mean the ‘cruel and unusual’ bit? Well, first of all, that’s awfully flexible.” He ticked off the remaining points on his fingers. “Second, not everything gets into the newspapers  ¿Are you so naíve, you think the government never bends the rules a little bit?  ¿Or a lot? And third, I never said this was an official government project, or that we’d put the knowledge to use in the way Pablo Herrera expects. As for your first objection:  ¿Do you know how fucking much it costs to keep a federal inmate–or a state inmate–in prison?  ¡A million dollars to be rid of him forever would be a bargain!” He paused, looked straight at Pansy, and continued: “You, of course, are a special case. As a one-of-a-kind experimental subject, and the showpiece of a demonstration project, you’ve been very expensive. That’s why Pablo Herrera has been selling front-row seats–so to speak–to your transformation. Everyone wins: he gets some of his expenses recovered, and we get the techniques–the technology–without having to pursue all the dead ends. Or bury the dead subjects.”

“Everyone wins but me. And the dead subjects.”

“I don’t know about them–well, I do, they’re losers, most of them–but you do get something out of it. You get to live, with a chance to lead a full life after your release. From what Seá±or Herrera told me, after you got his daughter pregnant and abandoned her, your chances of getting out of Honduras with a whole skin were small to none. You’re lucky to be alive.”

“ ¿Lucky?  ¿A full life as a… as a campesina? No, that doesn’t…”

“ ¿Are you conceding the success of the project, then?  ¿You agree you will be a campesina?  ¿And do you believe that a campesina cannot have a full life?”

“I… No, I…” She shook her head, confused and just a bit tipsy. “I don’t… don’t think…”

“They made you into a very pretty girl, you know. I think you could make a good life for yourself as a woman. A full life. Maybe even as a wife to some lucky fellow. You told me that sex as a woman is very good. That would imply that you find men attractive now,  ¿true? Then marriage might be a good option for you.”

“I… I do, but…” She was confused.

“Look at me, Pansy.  ¿Don’t you find me attractive?”

She obeyed, studying the slender man with olive skin, dark-brown hair, a prominent nose, and a short brush mustache. He was an attractive man. Very attractive. She giggled without noticing. “Yes… yes, Seá±or, I… I think you are handsome.” Unconsciously she turned towards him and pushed her breasts against his torso. He put one arm around her and cupped a breast with his other hand, stroking it gently. “ ¿Wouldn’t you like to give me a kiss, my pretty one?” he asked softly. All rational calculation fled, and she embraced him, pressing her lips against his. Bianchi’s tongue forced itself between her lips, and she responded in kind.

Afterwards they returned to the water, where Pansy pointed out some brightly-colored sea slugs. Bianchi noted that she showed no embarrassment or remorse after their romp on the beach.

That evening, just before sunset, José had Pansy prepare spaghetti Calabrese for their guest. She serve them on the patio, where scarlet and gold thunderheads towered over the barely-visible mainland to the south. A steady trade-wind breeze tempered the heat and humidity. As Pansy poured a glass of Chianti for Bianchi, José explained that the meal was a legacy of her earlier life. “Seá±or Cualquiera was a fairly good cook, although he had a limited repertoire. We decided to keep that aspect of his personality.”

“I approve of the decision. She cooked an excellent meal! I’d say there’s not too much of the original personality left, though. Your little Pansy seems thoroughly–amazingly!–feminine, and quite well assimilated into her new status.” Then he frowned: “But how dependable is the process of transformation? You may have succeeded in creating a good maid from a self-centered and thoughtless idiot, but can you do it reliably?”

“In all honesty, I doubt it. I think Seá±or Cualquiera may have had a particularly weak personality. But it’s a good start–and it certainly demonstrates that it’s possible.” He paused, then called, “ ¡Pansy!  ¡Bring us a pitcher of ice water!” She responded, “Yes, Seá±or, right away,” and headed for the kitchen. José continued in a lower tone: “Don’t be fooled into believing that George Deon is gone yet. Pansy has learned to–well, not quite dissemble–but to behave as she knows we want–as if she were a campesina born. It’s been a painful lesson, and she learned it well, but it’s not yet truly an integral part of her personality. Given a chance, she’d be out of here in a flash.”

“But what chance would she have if she left? What chance will she have when you’re finished?”

“Next to none at all, to improve her status. At least if we finish the job successfully, which isn’t a sure thing. And even then, we think she’ll try to escape the new life we’ve planned for her. It’ll take some time after she’s freed before she realizes that, even without any coercion, she’s trapped.”

Pansy reappeared with the pitcher. Curtsying, she asked, “ ¿Can I pour you or Seá±or Bianchi a glass?”

“Yes, please, for both of us,” José replied. “Then you can bring dessert, and begin clearing the table.” Turning back to Bianchi, he went on: “Our psychologists tell us that Pansy’s new personality isn’t yet stabilized. We’ll have to monitor her for the next few years to see how she develops. Will she marry? Will she be a good mother? We don’t know.” He steepled his hands in front of his chin–a gesture reminiscent of his father. “And of course, your support will bring you the same information.”

“Of course.” Unless Pansy Baca succeeds in getting back to the USA, Bianchi thought. His agency could study her much more effectively if she were near at hand. “I have another question, though. Doesn’t Pansy’s knowledge of what’s being done to her hinder her full transformation? Wouldn’t it be easier to change her, if she didn’t know what was being done to her?”

José leaned back and admired the view, as the sun sank below the level of the distant clouds and gilded the Caribbean. “Yes, it might be. It would be. But there is another consideration. Yes, armed with that knowledge, she can fight against the changes she sees taking place in her body, and in her mind. She has fought them. But every battle is lost–and the very fight brings worse changes. We try to hold back radical transformations–the castration of Seá±or Cualquiera, for example, or the loss of his technical knowledge–until there’s some rebellion. That way, the rebellion itself–even if it’s just a lack of diligence–becomes subconsciously associated both with futility and with nasty consequences. As time has passed, our girl has become much more docile and obedient. She doesn’t fight any more. Life’s much more pleasant if she just goes along–and slowly she is coming to believe that implicitly, in her innermost being. Consciously, Pansy intends to be an exemplary maid only until her release in January–but by then, our psychologists believe, her personality will be permanently shaped to that mold.”

“Excuse me, Seá±or Herrera,” Pansy interrupted him. “The mango ice cream is ready.” She held out a tray with two dishes of the confection.

“Thank you, my dear,” he replied, taking one dish and letting her pass the other to Bianchi. “But wait just a moment.  ¿Did you hear any of the explanation I was giving Seá±or Bianchi?”

Reluctantly she admitted, “Yes, Seá±or. I… I did not try, but I heard.”

“That’s all right, Pansy. It’s nothing I haven’t told you already. Tell me:  ¿Is my analysis correct?  ¿Do you intend to be a faithful, efficient, and obedient maidservant until January–for the reasons I gave–and then do you intend to leave?”

“Yes, Seá±or. I must do as I am told until I am free. Then Don Pablo promised I can do whatever I want.”

“If we succeed–and we are succeeding–then the Pansy Baca who is freed will be a girly airhead who wants several things. First, you’ll want to be the prettiest girl in Comayagua; second, you’ll want to be a maid for Suzi; and third, you’ll want some good-looking peasant to be your boyfriend–and then, your husband.” He turned back to Bianchi. “But despite the personality we’re engineering into her–into Seá±orita Baca–we think that at some level Seá±or Cualquiera will still persist. At least for a while, he’ll recall what it was like to have a respected professional career, to have a six-figure income… to hold a girl in his arms. He’ll know he could’ve been Pablo Herrera’s son-in-law and inherited a fortune.” His smile was a shark’s grimace. “For a while. Then, the doctors say, he’ll fade away, and only Pansy-Ann will remain. Just a maid. A docile and obedient maid.” Turning to Pansy, he asked, “ ¿Is that right, Pansy?”

She had been through this too many times. “Yes, Seá±or, that is your intention, and Don Pablo’s intention. Maybe you are right. I do not know.  ¿Do you want me to clear the table now, Seá±or?”

A little annoyed, José answered, “Not just yet, Pansy. Seá±or Bianchi and I will finish dessert first. When we’re finished, then you clear the table. After that you may have supper while we discuss matters.”

“Very well, Seá±or.” She curtsied and stood to one side while the men finished the ice cream in the glow of a spectacular crimson sunset.

Back in the house, Bianchi commented, “You’re a little hard on her, aren’t you?”

José nodded. “More than a little. It’s part of the regimen. She’s learning that her comfort and convenience are of no importance, and that she’s powerless to change that fact. We’re trying to internalize that attitude, so that her sense of self-worth is minimal, and she thinks of herself as nothing more than a fuck-toy. When she enters into my sister’s service, she’ll be treated better–but still with a firm hand–and we’re hoping that’ll maximize the chance that she’ll… well, ‘bond’ might be too strong a word; perhaps ‘identify’ with my sister’s household. At the least, she’ll think becoming a maid is a great step upward.” He shrugged. “We don’t really know what’s most likely to succeed–and for different subjects, other approaches may prove more effective. Or perhaps even for Pansy, another approach might be better. We’re exploring unknown territory here. In any case, you’ll have access to all the data.” He lifted a brandy to his lips. “But tell me: You’ve had a chance to interview our prime subject. What do you think of her? Impressive, yes?”

“Very much so. I was surprised that she’s retained as much… well, as much personality as she has.” He looked out the window, towards the patio where Pansy was eating spaghetti in the gathering dusk by the light of an overhead lamp. “After all that George Deon has gone through, I had feared that he’d be a broken man.”

José laughed out loud. “Well, as a man, he’s very definitely broken. Completely beyond repair! More seriously, though, we’re trying to construct a healthy and functional feminine personality. We have to walk a fine line; as you know, some earlier subjects broke under the stress. We don’t want a vegetable, or a suicide; there’d be little point in all the trouble and expense, if we end with a corpse. Much easier to use a bullet in the first place!”

“You say you’re trying to minimize her self-esteem. Your words to her tonight seemed designed to do more than that. I’d say it was an attempt to crush her spirit entirely.”

“It’s a fine line. ‘Minimize’ may be too strong, but certainly we need to lower her self-esteem. The old, self-centered and arrogant George Deon is still hanging on. He dreams of escaping and resuming his professional career after January, albeit with a new body. We need to prevent that. We think we are preventing it–but only time will tell. And we have nine more months. We have a few more measures that should ensure that Pansy doesn’t rise above the station we intend for her. When I say we want her to have a lower self-esteem, I mean we’re looking for a personality appropriate to a campesina, who’s fit only for ‘woman’s work’: housework, child-rearing. and sex–and who knows it. Fortunately, George himself made our task simpler. His own notion of a woman’s proper place in society corresponds well with what we intend for him.” He downed the last of the brandy. “We’re locking George’s psyche into the prison of a peasant girl’s mindset, and disposing of the key.”

“Perhaps.” Bianchi nodded. “I agree, the physical change is impressive and the changes in George’s psyche are also remarkable; but it seems to me, your goal’s far from assured. As a woman, she still has feminist notions, and has no intention of settling for a life of babies and laundry.”

José retreated a little: “Of course you’re right–I should say, we’ll try to lock her in, then dispose of the key. Pansy may yet escape–I mean, escape permanent peasant status–in spite of all we do. I’m sure we could guarantee success if we wiped her mind of all the Deon memories; but my father wants to let Pansy keep the knowledge of who she was.” He shrugged. “I admit, it makes a more interesting experiment–a lot harder to predict. There’ll be two sets of memories, two different and conflicting life experiences, within the single head. The ‘Pansy Baca’ set will be appropriate to the body and to the conditioning we’re imposing on her; but George’s will have the dubious advantage of being somewhat more accurate. Next year we’ll see which set prevails.” He looked out the window towards the west, where a red glow lingered on the western horizon. “But I have my own prejudices concerning Pansy. I know you’re here for an independent evaluation. Do you want to talk to her again this evening, or maybe tomorrow morning before you leave?” Cocking his head, he added, “And would you like a bed partner tonight? I’m sure Pansy would be delighted to entertain you.”

Bianchi laughed. “I’m sure you’re right. I’ll speak with her tomorrow; I have to get my notes up to date tonight. And no, it’s not necessary to provide entertainment.”

“OK then. I have my own chores to attend, so I’ll leave you to your notes. Good night.”
 
 
March 27
-- Bianchi arose just before dawn, as the sky brightened to a pale blue. Pansy was already preparing breakfast, having laid out José’s clothing and given him his morning fuck. “And a good morning to you, Seá±orita, ” he greeted her. “Up early, I see.”

“As I am sure you know, I am up early every day, Seá±or,” she replied. “You–or your department–pay a good deal of money to keep track of what I do. And to support what is being done to me.”

“Yes, of course you’re right. But we have to check in person to make our own judgment. And we have no particular stake in seeing that the project is successful. If you return to your old life–or some approximation of it, as much as your changed circumstances allow–then we’d still have data concerning just how you overcame the obstacles. And our offer of assistance still stands: Come to the consulate and see me, and we’ll get you back to the USA.”

“As you yourself told me, Seá±or, after New Year’s Day.” She laid a clean cloth over the table and began to lay out silverware. “I can not risk to try to disobey the Herreras until then.”

“But you know they’ll do more to your head. Your memories, skills, knowledge…”

“Yes, Seá±or. But like Seá±or Herrera told you, if I fight them, if I try to escape, if I do not work hard–if I do anything to make them angry, I will lose more. If I obey, if I act like they want, I will lose less.”

“ ¿So you won’t come to me before January?”

“I cannot.” She looked away. “Besides, I cannot trust you. You–your office–wants a…a ‘guinea pig’ just like Don Pablo. If you are paying him to get the information, then I think you might keep me prisoner, to get more information.”

“No, we’d need to see how you manage your new circumstances on your own–just like Pablo Herrera will.”

“Maybe, but I cannot trust you. Don Pablo is evil, but I trust him to keep his word.”

“ ¿And José Herrera?”

She spat on the ground. “He is a… a…” Her Spanish failed her. “He is psychopath!”

Bianchi tended to agree. “I understand, you’re in a bad situation. ‘A rock and a hard place’. They’re grinding you away, bit by bit. I think of Pablo Herrera’s team as…well, maybe as sculptors, carving a peasant girl out of the marble of a norteamericano. Maybe it’s a bad analogy.” He sat at the table. “But please,  ¿could you make me a cup of coffee?”

Pansy replied, “Yes, of course, Seá±or,” curtsied, then flushed and went to the cupboard to fetch the coffee. As she busied herself, Bianchi asked, “ ¿How much memory do you have of growing up as a girl? I understand that they’ve given you a new biography. I know it’s false, and so do you, but tell me about it.  ¿Where was Pansy-Ann Baca born?”

Pansy described her imposed memories in detail as she worked, and recounted what she could recall of George’s life. She finished by explaining, “Of course, even for what I think I remember about George, I don’t know if it’s true. I must wait until I am free before I can recover anything. Even if I find something now, I am sure the doctors will erase it again.”

“Pansy, I have to say, I doubt it will matter. You will live your life as Pansy-Ann, a Honduran woman. The details of your old life as a man would be just a distraction, and irrelevant.”

“ ¡No! I mean, yes, Seá±or, I will have to live as a woman, but I will be a norteamericana. I am a norteamericana. I was born in Oklamo, and I am a US citizen. I will need some of those details.” She finished setting the table.

José appeared in the doorway. “Buenos dá­as,” he greeted them. “Seá±or Bianchi,  ¿have you had a good discussion with Pansy?  ¿Has she been cooperative?” He sat at the table and added, “Please, sit down. Join me in a cup of coffee.” Turning to Pansy, he ordered, “Pour us two cups, girl.”

“Thank you, Seá±or. Yes, it’s been productive,” Bianchi replied. “And yes, she’s cooperated well, although I think she’d rather not. Certainly she doesn’t trust me–she told me so, straight out–but that’s quite rational. After all, as she pointed out, my office is supporting your project.”

“ ¿And what do you think?”

“My detailed report is confidential, of course. But I think I can say that the Ovid Project shows promise. Pansy-Ann is not a campesina, and much of the original personality remains–but there is definite movement towards your goal.” He raised the freshly-poured coffee to his lips and admired the sparkle of the morning sun reflecting off the breeze-rippled lagoon in the near distance. “By the way, I looked up the Roman poet Ovid, and his magnum opus.”

“Of course. It seemed appropriate to name the project after him.”

“I agree. But in the poem, Tiresias succeeded in regaining his male identity after seven years.  ¿What about Pansy?”

“Hopeless. Maybe she can escape her intended campesina status, but that’s the most she can hope for. We’ll see.”

“Indeed. I’m done here, so I’ll be heading back to San Pedro after breakfast. I must say, you’ve been a good host.” He grinned: “I especially compliment your efficient one-woman staff. She’s made my stay here very pleasant.”

“I knew she would. Not exactly willingly, as you note–but in a few years, after her metamorphosis is completed, she should really be this way by nature. Again, we’ll have to wait and see.”
 
 
April 1
-- Before dawn, and long before Seá±or Herrera would awaken, Pansy got out of bed, slipped on a skirt and blouse, and crept from the house to walk along the shore. The sky was pink in the east, shading to midnight blue overhead. Frigatebirds, silhouetted against the rosy horizon, were already rising from their roosts in the mangroves. Raucous calls from the tern colony announced the new day. A steady northeast breeze carried the odor of salt and mud from the mangrove flats. Pansy’s nausea had subsided, but her breasts were swelling again, and she thought her waist was a bit thicker. Or was it just her imagination? Pregnancy was an affliction of women, and the former Seá±or Cualquiera knew little about what to expect. It scared the hell out of him!

Today was her twentieth birthday: a horrible way to celebrate it! But where would she be, what would she be doing, on her twenty-first? She tried to think about her future–if any. In nine months, Don Pablo promised, she’d be free. She had fantasized about it for a long time, but really, what could she do with freedom? Don Pablo had held out some hope that she’d be able to escape from a menial status; but he had also implied that it would be difficult. She needed to consider the hand she was dealt, and how best to play it. Two years ago she had been playing poker in Atlanta with… whoever–their names were lost. Celia remained clear in her memory, and for a moment Pansy idly wondered what she was doing. Seá±or Cualquiera could have been happily married now, she mused. Shaking off her memories, she returned to the problem at hand. She had Celia’s problem, and then some. Upon her release, she’d be Pansy Baca, by all appearances a Honduran woman with a baby but no husband. And no family. And no credentials of any kind. There was one more liability. She hated to admit it, but they had definitely attained one of their goals: she enjoyed sex as a woman. A lot. And sex meant that she’d need a man.

Against those liabilities, what assets did she have? Well, there were a few, the ones Don Pablo had intended to give her. She was pretty, with a nice body. She was a good seamstress and a trained maid. And a damn good whore, she admitted; José had done what he’d promised. Well, if she was attractive and sexy, maybe she could use those attributes to help her achieve her goal. Some assets were also left to her from her previous existence. She had a technical education, good in math and chemistry. Or at least she thought she did; she’d have to check that none had been erased. She spoke English well–she was tempted to say, like a native, but now she was uncertain. Could these assets be used, given her present identity? Possibly, but it wouldn’t be easy, given her liabilities. Especially the new baby. Somehow she couldn’t see Suzi providing child care while she worked. She’d laugh herself sick! An abortion? She dismissed the possibility. It wouldn’t be allowed while she was still within her two-year captivity, and the baby would arrive before her release. No coincidence, that. Give it up for adoption? Conceivable but unlikely; she rather thought Don Pablo would block that exit. OK, she’d probably be saddled with the brat–at least until her release. As a maid, Susana’s maid, there’d be no problem, of course; she could easily handle that job with an infant. Despite herself, she admired the don’s ingenuity in trapping her.

One more asset, if it was that: she was valuable to the doctors who had worked on her and put her in this fix. She had been told that. It was a mixed blessing, because it was also in their interests to see that she didn’t escape. But at least they’d see she didn’t starve or die of some treatable disease.

There were also assets locked away. She did have a family and friends. And credentials: a degree from Oklamo State, a U.S. passport. All useless unless she could prove her true identity–an identity she didn’t even know. Her baby would still be a liability, even if these assets could be tapped, but it wouldn’t be an insuperable problem. Of course, there was another liability: she was a freak, a man who’d gotten pregnant. Probably there’d be little chance of a normal life. She sighed. Her difficulties were multiplied by her pregnancy. She supposed that, from Susana’s point of view, it was only fair that Seá±or Cualquiera should discover that in a personal way. Celia’d probably appreciate it too. And Mará­a Banderas.

The problem was laid out: how to save herself from her intended life, trapped as Susana’s maid, and make a new start. An optimum solution would allow her to regain her old identity, with its American citizenship; the first step would be to find what that identity had been. From there, the path was still full of pitfalls, and not simple at all: finding the identity it was one thing, but proving it was another. A minimal solution would be to make a new life–a decent life–with her remaining assets, as Pansy Baca. And that too would be difficult.

She finally concluded, reluctantly, that Don Pablo was correct. However she looked at her problem, the only solution she could find was to get married after her release from servitude. She needed to find a good man, one who’d allow her some independence and give her support, to recover her career. Not a campesino! Never!

She gazed over the ocean. The sun had risen, and already it was getting hot. “ ¡Jesáºs y Mará­a!” she thought; “ ¡It must be 6:15 already!  ¡I need to offer a fuck to Seá±or Herrera!  ¡And breakfast is not ready yet!” Hitching up her skirt, she ran across the sand and coral rock. There might still be time to avoid a disaster.
 
 
April 11
-- Pansy got up at dawn again to please Seá±or Herrera and to prepare breakfast. As was her habit, she lost herself in the work, thinking as little as possible. When he appeared at the table, she served him dispassionately and efficiently. He flew to La Ceiba after breakfast, leaving Pansy alone on the island again, and she busied herself cleaning up. The flight to and from town wouldn’t take long, and he’d be back for lunch.

Pansy served lunch on his return. As she cleared the table and prepared to do the dishes, José leaned back in his chair and looked at his maid almost fondly. It was hard to believe, but George Deon–he allowed himself to use the name–was concealed in that luscious and compliant body. Well hidden: the body held no trace of him, and the mind had been conditioned very differently. Seá±or Deon had walled his ego off from the stress of Pansy’s life, to preserve it intact. “Dissociative Disorder” was the technical term. The drawback, from George’s point of view, was that the “Pansy” persona could be shaped with little resistance, and would become dominant. José hoped that George Deon would have a long and unhappy life in that pretty little cage of a body. The cage was securely barred, and there was no reason to kill its occupant.

The chips had been used only sparingly for a month, and not at all for two weeks, but the conditioning was holding. Two more men had come to the island to enjoy Pansy’s company, and he himself had slept with her frequently. There was no lessening of sexuality on Pansy’s part. Her body now provided adequate sex drive and orgasmic reward by itself. Her womanly skills were quite adequate; her deportment was exemplary; and her docility was undeniable. As she had been conditioned, she curtsied automatically, without thinking. Susana’d be pleased at the results. And soon. It was about time for delivery.

He gestured to Pansy.

She hurried over. “ ¿Seá±or?  ¿What can I do for you?”

“Get me a rum coke.”

“Sá­, Seá±or.  ¿With ice or without?”

“With, but only a little.”

She gave another curtsy and hurried off to fetch it. José sighed; he’d miss her. However, he had other things to do; his life had been on hold since he had accepted this project. The vacation had been pleasant, but it had kept him from doing many other things.

Pansy returned with the drink. He caught her eye. “We’re going to take a trip to San Pedro today, Pansy. You need another checkup, and you’ll have it at the clinic in the morning. You’ll be three months pregnant next week, you know.”

She flushed and looked away. “I know, Seá±or.”

“If you like, you can go shopping afterwards. And we could spend a day at Tela. I know you used to like to visit there.”

She glanced at him suspiciously. Tela was where Seá±or Cualquiera had trysted with Susana, and where he had abandoned her shamefully. Nevertheless, she remembered it fondly. “Certainly, Seá±or.  ¿Do you want me to pack your clothes?”

“Please.”

She gave him another curtsy and left to prepare. The new letters she had written would finally get mailed!
 
 
April 12
-- The next morning they left their hotel, near the clinic. José took her in early for her checkup, so that Weiss, Herná¡ndez, and Ibá¡á±ez could see that nothing had gone wrong with their masterpiece. They concluded that Pansy was eminently healthy, and that she carried a normal healthy fetus. However, their specialties did not at all qualify them for prenatal medical practice, and with Don Pablo’s approval, they took Pansy to a gynecologist in Comayagua, Doctor Isabel Cantáº. She was left ignorant of Pansy’s peculiar history.

After poking, prodding, taking a blood sample, and examining a sonogram, Doctor CantẠconfirmed their collective opinion: “Doctor Ibá¡á±ez, this woman appears to have a normal pregnancy, barring any surprises in the blood tests. The fetus seems healthy. Her pelvic structure is adequate, and in the natural course of things she can expect a normal delivery.  ¿Was there any particular problem I should be aware of?”

“No, Doctor, I expect no problems, but gynecology isn’t my specialty, and we felt that we ought to have you look at her. She had extensive abdominal surgery, as you undoubtedly noticed, but it healed well with no complications. She’ll be back for routine examinations and the final delivery as your patient, if you accept her. Don Pablo will be responsible for the bill.”

She sniffed: “ ¿Another charity patient? Yes, I suppose I’ll take her. Her husband should pay, though. If she has one. Yes, I noticed the abdominal scar. It’s quite recent, but as you say, she seems to have healed well, and the surgeon did an excellent job of keeping the scarring to a minimum. The surgery doesn’t seem to have affected her ability to carry a child.”

After she left the doctors shook hands. Herná¡ndez remarked to Weiss, straight-faced, “With all due respect to Doctor Cantáº, I must disagree with her conclusion. I think your surgery indeed affected her ability to carry a child. Quite strongly affected it, in fact.” They burst out laughing, but Pansy didn’t join in.

Ibá¡á±ez commented to Weiss, “It seems even a medical examination–at least, a routine exam–doesn’t show abnormalities. Doctor, I congratulate you on a job well done.”

“Thank you. I’m delighted with the results so far, of course, but there’s one more test remaining. We must see yet whether Pansy is fertile in the normal course of events.”

José chimed in. “Don’t worry, Doctor. I believe the result of your work–all three of you–will ensure that the needed experiments are done. I see evidence for that anyway.”

Pansy, sitting on a bench after her examination, flushed but kept silent.

The doctors advised José to keep her close, at least until the child was born. Weiss was insistent. “José, she’s a medical wonder. She’s done well, considering the massive changes in her body. Nevertheless, you must know that complications are still possible. She’s unique. During her pregnancy she should be near medical assistance. You have some medical training, but you’re a psychologist. She could need a surgeon quickly.”

He agreed. “Soon I’ll finish Pansy’s training on the island, and then, until she has her baby, she can remain closer to the clinic. Susana’s place is near enough, I think.”

Ibá¡á±ez asked to speak privately with Pansy. “José, all signs indicate that her conditioning’s taken, but I’d still like to interview her. It’s really necessary for my study.  ¿Could you bring her in after lunch?”

“Of course, Doctor.  ¿How long do you expect you’ll need?”

“Not long. Say, two hours. I’ll talk to her and run a few tests. I wish we had tests from her earlier self as a control, but testing him was impractical, I’m afraid.”

“I’ll have her back at 1 o’clock.”

José and Pansy left before noon, He took her to lunch at a good restaurant and told her that their psychologist would test her again. “But Ibá¡á±ez thinks our work with you is nearly done, and we can send you back to Suzi. Your new life there should stabilize your transformation. The routine of your job as a maid, and the pressures of society, will see to that.”

Pansy knew that José was certainly correct over the short run, but she retained higher ambitions than a career as a maid, for Susana or anyone else. She was capable of more. She knew better than to contradict him, though. “With respect, Seá±or Herrera, I do not think I object to working for Susana, even though I know that she will make me work hard. I do not want to stay with you, and I will be happy to see you no more. I do not think I have a choice anyway,  ¿true?”

“True. You’ve been given more freedom of movement, but that’s only because your options are limited. At the end of the year–eight months and a bit–all your formal restrictions will be removed, but now you’re still subject to our wishes.”

“And then I can just return to my old life. I can go back to the U.S., return to my profession as a chemist, as if this couple of years was a bad dream.” Her tone was bitter.

He chuckled. “At least you can try. I bet you think about it a lot. We’ll watch with interest. You’re intelligent enough–if not nearly so intelligent as you used to be. Maybe you’ll find some ingenious way to escape the life we’ve planned for you. I rather think most aspects of your old life are beyond recovery, though. Probably all of them. We’ll see,  ¿won’t we?”

After lunch Pansy managed to drop off her letters surreptitiously. Upon their return to the clinic, José handed her over to Ibá¡á±ez. “Seá±orita Baca,” he greeted her cheerfully, “Good afternoon. I’ve looked forward to this meeting. You’ve changed a lot since I last saw you.”

She looked at the short stout man in a white lab coat with hatred. “Doctor Ibá¡á±ez, I am not happy to see you–unless I get to see you in Hell. I think you have been responsible for my treatment in many ways.”

“Yes, that’s right. You’re still my responsibility until the end of the year, but I think most of my work’s finished. I asked for this meeting to evaluate the results.”

Pansy looked away. She hated to cooperate, but she knew she was still helpless. Rebellion had always left her worse off. “Very well, Seá±or. Do what you want.”

He led her to a small cubicle with a wooden chair and desk. A blank form lay on the desk. “I have a couple of tests for you. The first is a psychological evaluation. Here, take a look.”

Pansy glanced at the form. “It looks like a short version of the Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Analysis. I have seen it, but not in Spanish before now.”

Slightly annoyed, Ibá¡á±ez remarked, “So you’re familiar with it. I thought you were a chemist.  ¿Where did you see it before?”

“In a psychology course, and then again when I applied for a job.  ¿What else is there?”

“When you finish the MMPA, I’ll give you an IQ test. You can start this now. This button will call me when you’re done,” he added, pointing to a button on the desk.

He left her, and she settled down to fill in the test. It was familiar, and she finished fairly soon. It gave her a headache, though. She rang for Ibá¡á±ez, and he was there within a minute.

“Good, good. Here’s the next test.” He handed it to her. “It has a time limit. I’ll be back in twenty minutes.”

She had it completed when he returned, but her headache was worse, and she’d begun to feel sick. “Here it is, Seá±or.  ¿What now?”

A Rorschach test took a few minutes, then another IQ test, this one designed for both literates and illiterates. The doctor administered the test orally. Then he told her to write two essays, one in English on her childhood days and a second in Spanish on Las Rosas. “I’ll give you ten minutes for each.”

The English essay was a nightmare. She hunted for words and couldn’t find them. In some cases she substituted Spanish without even noticing. When the essays were done, her headache was terrible. She complained to Ibá¡á±ez; he gave her an aspirin, then took her to another room for an interview. He told Pansy that it was being recorded. “It serves two purposes, Seá±orita. The first is analysis of your personality, and the second is simply to discover, if you’ll tell us, what your plans are when you’re released. In return, I may be able to answer any questions you might have. I emphasize, may be able; I’m not free to answer all questions.”

Pansy leaned forward. “Fair enough, Doctor. First:  ¿Who am I? Or better,  ¿who was I?”

“Well put, my dear. The two aren’t the same. The answer to the first question is Pansy-Ann Baca, of course. The answer to the second I cannot reveal to you. Seá±or Cualquiera, as I think you call him, must remain anonymous. He is dying, anyhow. And to forestall further questions along that line, I may not replace any of your lost memories.  ¿What else?”

She slumped back. “I did not expect an answer to that question, Doctor. I ask this one:  ¿Will you let me find the answer myself?  ¿Or will I always be stopped from knowing who I was?”

“I’m not certain. That’s up to the don. I think you’ll be free to search. If that’s so, then you won’t get any help, but there won’t be any hindrance. I’d ask Don Pablo; I think he’ll tell you the truth.”

She sat up again. “For a few months I will be Susana’s maid. I am resigned to that. And I believe Don Pablo when he tells me I will be free to leave after that. But he is very powerful. His help could make a big difference in my search for an alternative.  ¿What can I expect?”

“Again, I’m not certain, but I think he’ll be neutral. Ask him.”

“I am pregnant. After the baby is born, I will need to care for it. That will make it very difficult for me to go to work.  ¿Will I receive any assistance in caring for the baby?  ¿Will I be allowed to take him with me when I leave?”

“My guess is, you’ll be free to take the child anywhere, but you’ll not be allowed to mistreat or neglect it. While you stay with the Herreras, you and the child will be provided for, but there’ll be no assistance if you leave. You’ll be on your own.”

She nodded. “I see. Tying me to Susana. I understood that already, but I wanted it confirmed.”

Ibá¡á±ez pointed out that she was no more tied down than any other unmarried mother. “Including Susana. You should be aware that her child has greatly limited her choices. And the arrangement tying you to Seá±orita Herrera is no stronger than it is for any other campesina. If you find another way to support yourself and the baby, you are free to use it.”

Flushing, she admitted the parallel. “I can argue that she has more resources than me. But yes, I understand. Don Pablo made certain that I will understand the problems of a single mother. Now, Doctor,  ¿what about you?  ¿What about your research? I know that I am your prime… prime ‘guinea pig’.  ¿Are you finished with me?”

“Basically, yes. There’ll be a little more in the next few months, maybe. And there’ll be no more experiments after your release. That’s if you behave properly for Seá±orita Herrera. If your behavior is unsatisfactory in any way, we retain the privilege of further action. You see, we won’t want any more changes in you. We’ll just want to know if the changes in your personality will be permanent.”

“Doctor, this is not my field, but I am a scientist, and I think as an experiment I am badly designed, if you forgive my criticism. Too complicated.  ¿Do I behave like I do because of your conditioning?  ¿Or is it this pretty new body you have put me into, with its new chemistry and all?”

Ibá¡á±ez frowned at first, but then he laughed. “Pansy, my congratulations. I and my colleagues put forward exactly that objection at the beginning of this project. For obvious reasons, Don Pablo insisted that the experiment be done his way. Yes, we’ll need other experiments to obtain definitive answers to that question. Simpler ones, as you say.  ¿Have you thought of going into psychology, Seá±orita? You might have a bright future there.”

She glared at him. “Doctor, you made sure that my choice of careers is limited. I am intended for maid service and nothing more,  ¿remember? Now, I am about out of questions. Those you are willing to answer, at any rate. Ask me yours.”

He shook his head. “I don’t need to. You’ve answered me already. I wanted to know your intentions and desires for the future. I wanted to know if your ‘Seá±or Cualquiera’ was still there. I wanted a feel for your present personality. I have all that. You’re free to go. José’s waiting in the outer office.”

She straightened her skirt, picked up her purse, and returned to the entrance, where Seá±or Herrera waited.

They spent the rest of the afternoon shopping, as promised. José told her he’d treat her to any clothes she’d like. “Or at least anything within reason and within your restrictions. Susana tells me, no slacks.” Pansy cursed the day Seá±or Cualquiera had expressed his opinions concerning women in skirts to Suzi, but at least she had spent a good deal of José’s money on fashionable dresses. José reminded her, “You’d better pick out some maternity clothes too. Your belly’s going to be bulging soon.” She swore at him silently, but followed his advice. When they finished shopping, he asked if there was anything else she’d like.

“ ¡My freedom and my manhood!” she retorted.

He laughed. “I think you know that your manhood is beyond recall, sweetling. You’d better learn to enjoy your womanhood; it’s all you’ll ever have now.”

She followed him reluctantly. “I know it, damn you. It may be all I have, but I do not enjoy it. I never will.”

“ ¿Oh?” He raised his eyebrows incredulously. “In bed you certainly seem to enjoy a woman’s pleasures.  ¿Don’t you like sex?  ¿Or am I wrong?”

“You know you are right. You control my physical reactions.”

“Sweet cheeks, you react like any normal girl. If you think back to the women you seduced–and I know you still remember the sexual adventures you had when you used to be a man–you’ll realize you’re just like them. Your body makes you enjoy sex. Nature designed you to make babies, and that pleasure’s a bribe, in a way, to persuade you to bear children.”

She had no immediate rebuttal. What he said was true, she knew. But after brief thought she argued, “I do not enjoy it. My body enjoys it.”

He chuckled again. “That’s sophistry, my dear, as I think you know. You’ll come to recognize that you want sex after you’ve been without it for a while. Not your body:  ¡you! Just as much as you ever did when you were a man. Now,  ¿is there anything else?  ¿Freedom, I think you said? You’ll have it in January.  ¿What will you do with it?”

“I will go back home. If I must be woman, I will rather be woman in the United States. And since I am still a citizen of there, I will go back in a minute if I am free.” Then she’d devote the rest of her life to revenge, especially on José.

“ ¿Will you really? I doubt it. Even if you could, you’re better off in Honduras. Here you have a job. There, nothing. You’re better off here.”

She shook her head violently. “ ¡I will go… I would go back in a minute!  ¡Just give me the chance!”

They reached his car and got in. As he pulled away from the curb he told her, “There’s a consulate here in San Pedro. I’ll take you there tomorrow if you wish, and you can try to get a new passport.  ¿In what name would you like it?”

“ ¡Yes!  ¡Oh, yes!” Then she recalled her experience at the embassy in Tegus. Her face fell and she said dejectedly, “I know it is not possible now, like you do. I can not prove I am American. They will not help me.” But it had to be possible. There was evidence: genetic testing, scars from her surgery, dental records. Once she was released–it was less than nine months now–she could assemble the proof that she was really a norteamericano. Then she corrected herself sadly in her mind: she had been a norteamericano, in a different universe, such a long time ago. But she was still a norteamericana, and she was entitled to recognition as such. She would go back. And if the Herreras were correct, and she was indeed trapped, at least she could take her revenge.

After dinner and a poor movie, they returned to the hotel. That night José had her seduce him again, and she did so with enthusiasm. Although she was three months pregnant, her body responded as well as ever, even without any prodding from a relay. “Ibá¡á±ez did as good a job as Weiss,” José told himself as Pansy reached climax. “She’s no counterfeit woman in her mind either.”
 
 
April 13
-- After lunch, José gave Pansy the afternoon off. “Enjoy yourself at the beach,” he told her. “I’ll meet you here at 3:30, and then we’ll return to Golondrinas.” She donned her yellow bikini under his appreciative eye, and he left. She marveled at the deeply bronzed color of her skin–it was set off well by the bikini–and thought, “I never got a tan like this before. My skin always ended up burned instead. But then, I never spent a month on a Caribbean island before.” After applying sunscreen out of habit, she lay on a blanket, where she was ogled by the local men. She ignored them. By now she was accustomed to their admiring stares. A remaining fragment of Seá±or Cualquiera resented the attention, but Pansy had concluded that her only escape was to find a middle-class husband, and now she welcomed the evidence, given by the male leers, that she was attractive. José met her in midafternoon, and they were back at Golondrinas in time for Pansy to prepare a supper of red snapper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The same.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, I am awake. I hear you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I can not read.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, Seá±or.” She left to change.

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

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

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

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

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

“You had friends here,  ¿true?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I… I was waiting for a friend.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, Seá±ora.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Please, Seá±or. I… I do not know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Please, Seá±or, don’t do that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Part 14 -- Escape from Hell

At last, Pansy is released from Jose's control, to become the maidservant of George's old girlfriend, Suzi. She continues to be molded ever more closely to the image of a peasant girl.
 
 
May 12
-- José told Pansy she could wear whatever she chose for her meeting with Don Pablo and Susana. “But pick something nice-looking. I want you to look pretty.” She wanted to look pretty for her own reason: to persuade Don Pablo that she was now the ultra-feminine peasant girl he had intended, and that no further training was needed. She chose a puff-sleeved white peasant blouse that she had embroidered with two green parrots, and a knee-length dark-green pleated skirt. Her hair was in a single thick braid that hung down to the middle of her back. Green pendant earrings and a thin gold necklace were added, and she finished with barely detectable green eyeshadow, scarlet lipstick and nail polish, and a breath of perfume. José nodded his approval when she reappeared.

After breakfast, Pansy packed and they took off for a direct flight to Comayagua. Paco Pérez from Las Rosas met them at a local dirt airstrip and took them northward towards the finca. The morning was hot, without the cooling trade wind she had become accustomed to. Pansy was silent as they drove across the flat valley floor, then turned westward back into the mountains on the west side of the valley. By lunchtime the car was inching up the last rutted track to Las Rosas.

Jaime was waiting with two companions to take their bags when they arrived. “Welcome back, José. Lunch waits for you, and cold drinks. Pansy, you’re looking pretty.”

“Thank you, Jaime.” The servant was no friend, but he was only the don’s tool, not the sadistic enemy that José had turned out to be. “ ¿Can you tell me anything about Petunia?”

“No, I’m sorry. But you can ask Don Pablo. He’s waiting in the dining room.”

They adjourned to lunch. The don arose when they entered. He looked his usual dapper, if out-of-date, self. “Buenos dá­as, José, Pansy. I trust you had a good trip.”

“Thank you, we did,” José replied. “ ¿Is Suzi here?”

“Not yet. She should arrive shortly after lunch. Sit down and eat, and we can talk later.” He turned to Pansy and looked at her appraisingly. “Pansy, you appear to have accommodated yourself well to difficult circumstances.”

She forced herself to answer politely, “Thank you, Seá±or. One of your doctors told me, ‘If life hand you a… a limá³n, make the limonada’. I do not know if it is said the same in Spanish, but I think you understand.”

He gave a dry laugh. “My dear, you have had several liters to drink, and more is to follow. Maybe you will come to like it. José tells me that you are skilled as a maid–a credit to the training of Evelina and Conchita–and Ibá¡á±ez reports that you are assimilating well to the campesina status I intend for you. I hope that is true. Susana wants you to begin work for her soon.”

The sooner the better. Working as Suzi’s maid was certainly more appealing than the alternative. And it was only for a few months now. “Seá±or, I have ‘Hobson’s choice’.” He looked puzzled, and she explained the English idiom: “I will help her because I have no better alternative.  ¡I want to serve her now!  ¡I will work hard for her! I…” She reined her emotions in. Begging wouldn’t help. “But I still hope to escape.” Telling him nothing he didn’t know.

“Of course. I expect nothing else. However, José wishes to keep you longer. He thinks more training may be useful.” Pansy looked down with dismay; she needed to escape that fiend. The don continued: “But I am talking too much. Please, eat lunch. There will be time to discuss matters afterwards.”

Afterwards arrived soon, and the don dismissed the others to talk privately with Pansy in his library. A rumble of thunder heralded the approach of another storm, and the gleaming white of thunderheads could be seen through the window, approaching from the mountains on the other side of the Comayagua valley to the east.

Pansy sat facing Don Pablo. “Seá±or, please tell me,  ¿how is Petunia?  ¿Did she bear my child?”

“ ¿Petunia? She is well. She moved to Comayagua shortly after you went to Golondrinas. She found a decent man, and they will marry soon. Yes, you have another child, a daughter. I believe she is called Margarita. They are not far from here, and I expect you will see them eventually. After all, as the child’s father, you have a right,  ¿no?”

Father! She looked at her body with renewed disgust. But she had a daughter! Suddenly she was filled with intense longing. Seá±or Cualquiera should be there, as Petunia’s husband and Margarita’s loving father. She put her regrets aside and continued, “You say you had a report from Doctor Ibá¡á±ez . I asked him some questions. He told me what he could, but he referred me to you for final answers.”

“As was proper. He probably answered correctly; he knows my plans for you. But ask me.”

“After my release,  ¿will you allow me to find the identity of Seá±or Cualquiera?”

“I will not impede your search, but neither will I assist. Susana will do as she wishes. I warn you, uncovering his identity will be difficult. We went to some pains to erase him.”

She nodded. “I know. Again,  ¿when I am free can I look for another job? I know you said I will stay a maid. Maybe you are right; but I have other abilities too. A hint from you can keep me trapped or can give me a chance. I ask for the chance.”

“Perhaps, but I wonder what other work you might do. You speak of ‘other abilities’: I am told you are illiterate. It seems to me that you are already little more than a campesina, and a job other than as a maid may be difficult to find.” Her heart skipped a beat. If he saw her already as the campesina he had tried to create–trapped as a maid, as he wished–she might escape José! “Especially difficult for a pregnant campesina.  ¿If I might give you some advice?”

“ ¿Yes, Seá±or?”

“When you work for Suzi, be diligent. She needs someone to make her life easier. And care for Josecito as if he were your own. After all, he is. You should have been a loving husband and father. Obviously that opportunity is gone forever, but you have a second chance to be a decent person, if only as a maid. If you serve well, Suzi’s heart may soften. It will be difficult. I expect she will make it difficult. But work hard at it nevertheless. Another matter: you are expecting a daughter in October.”

Pansy looked down at her waist. The skirt, which had fit perfectly back in March, had become just a little too tight. “I know that, Seá±or. I do not thank you for it.” She dreaded the arrival of the baby, for multiple reasons.

“I did not expect gratitude, although you may learn to love the child nonetheless. It should be easy; she is flesh of your flesh. Treat her well. Love her and cherish her.”

“She didn’t ask to be born, Seá±or,” she responded indignantly. “I wouldn’t make a baby suffer.” But then she looked down and added, “I will do my best to see that she has a decent life.” She left unspoken her half-formed decision to have the child adopted as soon as possible. She didn’t see herself spending the next fifteen or twenty years raising José’s bastard. But her statement was honest. She’d try to see that the kid got a good home.

The don went on: “You will raise her as a peasant girl, perhaps to follow you into domestic service, and we will watch her personality develop. It will be the benchmark against which we will measure our success in reshaping your own personality.”

“Seá±or, I will not raise her as a peasant.” Or at all. “She will escape that life.” She added to herself, “As will I.”

The don pointed out that every mother has that hope for her children. “You will be free to work towards that end, but as with yourself, the obstacles are great. No, I think in the end you will raise a peasant girl. Like other girls, she will undoubtedly marry in her teens–with your approval–and give you several grandchildren, who will be a joy to you.”

It was pointless to argue with him–especially since she didn’t intend to raise José’s bastard at all–and she didn’t try. “Yes, Seá±or, you can be right,” she replied.

He went on: “Another matter: I am aware of your sexual activity.” Flushing, she began to protest. “I do not hold it against you, chica. I know your circumstances. I arranged those circumstances. However, when you become Suzi’s maid, you will no longer be forced into sex. Moreover, as a single woman and Susana’s maid, you will not be permitted to indulge in sex until you marry–as I expect you will. José tells me your conditioning has been effective, and he hopes to arrange more, so that you will desire sex as much as any drug. Once you are released from his custody, you will have to resist your carnal desires. Like every other woman. If you fall into sin, you will suffer. Again, like other women.  ¿Do you understand?”

“But Seá±or, to impose this… this need on me, then make me suffer for it, is unfair.”

The don shrugged. “The desire is quite normal, and it is the complement of what you felt as a man. You share it with other women. It is nature’s way of seeing that the species is propagated, and it is powerful–as you have found. The proper way to deal with it–the only acceptable response–is marriage. That will be possible for you, and we hope that you will find a husband within a year or so. You will be a pretty bride–or eventually, a frustrated and bitter old maid. Now,  ¿what else?”

Marriage? As the bride? When hell froze over! She probed another concern. “I have another question.  ¿Are your doctors making me more stupid? José told me I get dumber every time you take something from my memory.”

He confirmed her fear. “Yes, it is true. Doctor Ibarra tries to minimize that effect, but it cannot be avoided entirely. Doctor Ibá¡á±ez says that you have already lost perhaps 10 to 15 IQ points, after allowing for your direct loss of knowledge. But you were an exceptionally intelligent man, and you are still quite intelligent enough to serve as a maid.” She shut her eyes; how could she endure life, not only as a woman, but as a “dumb broad”? Ignoring her distress, he went on: “Another point. Susana hates you, but as long as you serve her well, she will not abuse you. She will be pleased to have you as her menial servant. But I know Suzi, and I believe she will, as I think you put it, ‘rub your nose in it’. Endure it. I believe her feelings are mixed. She loved Seá±or Cualquiera, Pansy, and I think she retains some of that love. It may make your life easier, if you can learn to deflect the hate.”

She knew Seá±or Cualquiera hadn’t behaved well towards Susana. “Thank you, Seá±or. I will remember that.”

“Now tell me, aside from your lowly status as a maid,  ¿do you enjoy life as a woman?”

“ ¿Does it matter?” Her bitterness was clear. “Seá±or, I am female, willy-nilly. That part of my punishment is forever.”

“I know that.  ¿But is it really so terrible? You need not answer me now. I know your experience as a woman has been disagreeable so far. But there are compensations, or so my wife claimed. You may come to enjoy it. In a few years, I may ask you again. You have been completely female for less than a year, and you still identify with your old gender and your old identity. Ibarra predicts that, with no further work on our part, you will come to embrace your new life. You will forget what it felt like to be male; you will be unable to imagine yourself as anything but a woman, and you will identify completely with your new status, both as a woman and as a peasant. Perhaps you will be happier then.  ¿Do you have more questions?”

“None you will answer, Seá±or. But your expert is wrong. Not that it matters. I am trapped. I know it. But I know what I was, and I want it back. I know I can not have it, but I remember, and I do want it.”

Don Pablo shrugged. “We will see. He did not say you would forget you were a man–and indeed I would prefer that you remember that your present status is a punishment. He said only that you would forget what it felt like. Male anatomy, male desires would seem alien to you–if both fascinating and welcome in a bed partner. You will feel as if you had always been female. Now,  ¿what did you want to ask me?”

She didn’t disagree: she knew she was far advanced along that path already. “Seá±or,  ¿can I…?” She swallowed; her mouth was dry. “ ¿Can I start to work for Susana now? I want to be her maid, and I am trained well. Please.”

The don nodded, not surprised by her request. “Perhaps, Seá±orita, although José seems to think you are not ready yet. Soon, certainly.  ¿Is there anything else?”

He had to agree–but she was afraid to press. “You said Petunia and Margarita are well.  ¿Can you tell me where they are? And please, ask Susana to let me see them soon.” He smiled and rose. “I will do that, Seá±orita. I suspect Susana will not object to a visit, although maybe not right away. Now, I expect Suzi soon. You may want to speak with some of the other staff. Conchita wishes to see you, I know.”

Conchita hugged Pansy, who wept in her friend’s arms. “I am so glad to get away from that horrible island, ’Chita. I am afraid of Suzi, but anything must be better than where I was, what I had to do.”

Her old tutor comforted Pansy. “It’s not your fault, girl. When the man you were first came here, he deserved what he got. He was a bad man. But you’re not him. He’s dead…”–Pansy disagreed silently, but it was best if others believed it–“and you’re a much better person. Remember, Suzi knows only him. When she gets to know you–the new you, as you are now–I think she’ll forgive you and treat you well. She is a good girl, really. Be patient, dear, be patient.”

Pansy dried her eyes. “Thank you, ’Chita. I’ll try.”

She talked with Conchita and Jaime until 1:45, when the don summoned her to the library again. She entered hesitantly. Susana was there with her father, as Pansy had expected.

“ ¿Pansy?  ¿Is that really Pansy?” she asked. “But Father, she doesn’t look like Pansy. Not even like she looked last fall. I mean–the face looks the same, but her skin–it’s dark, like she’s almost a morena. And her hair–it was brown, and now it’s almost black.  ¡The doctors did turn him into a campesina! There’s no trace of the man I knew.”

He smiled. “Yes, you are right; she is much darker. Her psyche is changing, too. But ask her.”

Susana turned to Pansy: “Seá±orita,  ¿are you really Pansy?  ¿And were you really my lover?  ¡I can’t believe it!”

Pansy looked her straight in the face, then dropped her eyes. “Yes, I am Pansy. And I was… I was your lover.” It was almost inconceivable. Just two years ago, she had been a man!

Susana turned back to Don Pablo. “Father,  ¡this is wonderful!  ¡The doctors did a terrific job! She’s a campesina for sure.  ¡And really pretty! Not beautiful, but… Well, I think a man–especially a campesino–might find her really sexy.” Again turning to Pansy, she asked, “Tell me,  ¿are you ready to work for me? I understand you learned a lot from José.”

“Yes, I am ready. I have no choice,  ¿true?” She looked at the floor, then added, “But… Please, Suzi, I want to work for you. I will be a good maid.”

“ ¿Are you? I’ll accept nothing less.” She frowned. “But I’m not Suzi to you. I’m Seá±ora Herrera.  ¿Is that clear?”

“I understand, Seá±ora.” Whatever it took, she would do it.

“Father, I’d like to speak with Pansy alone. With your permission I’ll take her back to my room.”

“Very well, Suzi. Go on now; you must have a great deal to discuss.”

In Susana’s room, Pansy was left standing while Susana sat in a comfortable chair. Pansy spoke first. “Seá±ora Herrera,  ¿can you tell me when I can begin working for you?”

“In another six weeks, or maybe a month. Father thinks you need a little more training, and José agreed to provide it.”

Pansy was only too aware of the training José had in mind. “Please, Seá±ora,  ¿can I begin working for you right away? Truly, I want to be your maid now, if I can. I don’t need more training. Please, I am a good maid.”

Susana was pleased by Pansy’s offer, although it was not unexpected. “Perhaps, if Father allows it–but as I said, he wants you to stay with José a little longer.” She giggled and told her prospective maid, “You do look just like a peasant girl, you know. And Father tells me you’re pregnant.  ¿Is that true?”

“Yes, I am pregnant, like you wanted. The doctors have did a good job on me. I am a campesina now, like you said last October, like you want.” And on the inside as well, in too many ways, Pansy thought. “Please, Suzi–I mean, I mean Seá±ora–ask Don Pablo to let me work for you. I can take care of your baby. I can clean good. I can work hard.”

“Pansy, I might be able to persuade Father to give you to me now. I do need a maid. And I’ll be fair with you. When you work for me, Father says I’m not to abuse you. I won’t. But our relation will be quite different from what it was. And from what it might have been. You’ll be my maid, not my friend– ¡and certainly not my boyfriend!” She giggled again: “ ¡As if you could even think of being any girl’s boyfriend now!” More seriously, she continued: “Your job is to do whatever I tell you. You’ll wash dishes, you’ll make beds, you’ll sew, you’ll do laundry, you’ll change diapers. If I want a glass of water, you fetch it. And you do all of this cheerfully and immediately, without question or complaint.  ¿Do you understand?”

“Yes, Seá±ora. I understand good and I will do what you tell.” But it was far preferable to José’s plans for her.

“You’ll be paid, of course. One hundred and twenty lempiras a day, plus room and board.”

Pansy was shocked at the low pay. She’d never be able to buy anything beyond bare necessities–and saving anything would be impossible. She’d be completely dependent on Susana’s good will. In spite of her need to work for Suzi, she blurted, “But… Seá±ora,  ¿is that all? I….  ¿Can’t you pay more than that?”

“Of course I can. But I won’t. That’s the going rate, with room and board.  ¿Or would you rather reconsider your request to become my maid?” One eyebrow raised. “Besides, I know you think it’s fair pay for a day’s work–for a maid, anyhow. It’s more than you paid your own maid.  ¿Don’t you remember? And I understand she had… shall we say, other duties too.”

Pansy flushed, remembering how Seá±or Cualquiera had forced Maria into his bed. “Yes, Seá±ora. I mean… I mean, yes, I still want to be your maid.  ¡Please!” She had to become Suzi’s maid, and right now. José and Mamá¡ Santiago waited for her, otherwise.

“You’ll be subject to my rules, even if they’re arbitrary. On duty, you’ll wear that pink uniform I told you about, back in May. Off duty, you’ll wear skirts, and any other clothes I might select.” She smiled sweetly. “You’ll be a nice old-fashioned girl.  ¿Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Seá±ora.” She wished Seá±or Cualquiera had kept his mouth shut.

“Then you explain the rules to me. You’re not as bright as you used to be, and I want to make sure you understand me.”

“Very well, Seá±ora. First, like you say, I have to wear the maid’s uniform you gave me. Second, I have to wear a skirt all the time, like I said a girl does. No pants, never. And I have to make myself pretty for men, and I have to try to please men.”

“Yes–but that last bit seems to be coming naturally enough to you now.  ¿What else?”

“Also, I have to care for children. I will be take care of your baby.”

“That’s right. Josecito’s your child too, if you remember. You’ll feed him, bathe him, clean him. You’ll keep him with you every minute of every day.”

“Of course, Seá±ora.” For the next few months. Then she’d be free. Then she’d take her revenge. The thought of it was the only thing that had kept her going after Seá±or Cualquiera lost his manhood.

Susana looked at Pansy curiously. “Pansy, I admit I’m surprised you take all this so calmly. If I may ask a personal question–and I don’t insist that you answer, this is outside your duties– ¿how have you managed to accept all this? I can’t imagine you like being a woman, never mind a maid.  ¡And pregnant!”

“I do not like it. I hate it.” But it was so much better than the alternative José offered! “I have not much choice.”

“ ¿Do any of us? You take what life offers. There’s no…”

At that moment a wail emerged from the adjoining room.

“Ah. Time to become acquainted with Josecito. He’s hungry. Come with me, Pansy.”

She led Pansy into the room. A red-faced baby with eyes screwed shut wailed his hunger. Susana smiled and handed her maid a baby’s bottle. “My son. And yours. You promised to help me with him. Feed him.”

Silently Pansy sat Josecito on her lap and gave him the bottle. He reached for it and sucked. After a short time he turned away sated. Pansy put his blanket over her shoulder and burped him; he dribbled milk onto the blanket. She put down the bottle and cradled the infant in her arms. He gave her a beatific, if toothless, smile.

“It seems Father is right. You’ll make a good nursemaid.” She giggled: “In fact, you’ll have your own baby soon,  ¿no? And you’ll breastfeed him. Your new name’s come true,  ¿hasn’t it? I see why Father chose it for you.” Pansy looked puzzled, and Susana asked, “ ¿What do you call yourself, girl?  ¿Your last name?”

“My name is… my last name is Baca, Seá±ora.”

“Exactly. You’ll be my cow. You’ll need to be milked,  ¿no?” Pansy shut her eyes in humiliation, but Susana went on: “Sit down, my little heifer. Josecito’ll fall asleep in a bit.” Pansy sat on the couch, still holding the baby. “Pansy, when you were a man, you abused me.  ¿Do you understand?”

“Yes, Seá±ora. Believe me, it is very clear to me.”

“You’re going to make up for that abuse now. You say you’ll serve me well as my maid, and I’ll insist on it.”

“Yes, Seá±ora. As I said,  ¿do I have a choice? I accept what I can not change.”

“Yes,  ¿but will you work well and faithfully?  ¿Or will you work only grudgingly?”

Pansy sighed. “Seá±ora, I will work well. Or I try. I am only human– ¡at least I still have that! I promise to be your maid until the end of this year. After that, I will try to find a way to escape. No, I not want to spend the rest of my life like a maid. I not intend to. In spite of how I look, the old me is still in here. The norteamericano chemist.” Or some of him, at least.

Josecito spit up a little more; Pansy took a napkin from her purse and wiped his face. He babbled contentedly.

“An honest answer, and a fair one. I appreciate that–in fact, I require it. But Father thinks the odds are against you.”

“I know they are. But I have to try. Another thing, Seá±ora. I answered your personal questions. Please, answer one for me.  ¿Do you hate me?”

Susana pursed her lips and looked at Pansy. “I don’t know. Honestly, I do not. I hated the man you were–by the way,  ¿what do you call him? I know you lost his real name.”

Pansy gave her a twisted smile. “ ¿José did not tell you? He is Seá±or Cualquiera.”

“Good enough. Yes, I think I still hate ‘Seá±or Cualquiera’. His selfishness ruined my life. You say he’s still hiding in that pretty head, but he’ll be gone after a while. Even now, you’re more Pansy than… well, than Seá±or Cualquiera.”

“No, Seá±ora, like I said, I’m still me, still Seá±or Cualquiera. I act like a campesina to avoid punishment.”

She nodded. “ ¡Good! I believe you and I’m glad to hear it. I want the pleasure of seeing a pregnant Seá±or Cualquiera curtsying to me, doing my laundry–and then nursing a baby at his very own breasts. For a while, anyway–Father says your own behavior will cause you to fade into a real Pansy Baca, and then you won’t care about him. He’ll be a norteamericano, an alien stranger, and you’ll be a real campesina, not just an actor. When that happens, then no, I won’t hate you at all.”

It would be unwise to start their new relationship with a quarrel. In January, when Pansy would be free to fight her way back to a middle-class life, she could disagree, but not now. “Perhaps, Seá±ora. I do not know.”

“No ‘perhaps’ about it. Father tells me I’m helping to change you. He says as long as you act as if you’re a campesina–like you said you do–you help to condition yourself. That’s a nice thought,  ¿yes? As long as you act like that, I have to treat you just like an ordinary maid. I can punish you, but only like I’d punish any maid. But I’ll watch for backsliding–I mean, any time you speak or act like Seá±or Cualquiera. If you do, then I have permission until the year’s end to give punishments designed to humiliate, and ultimately to destroy, that cabrá³n who betrayed me. Like,  ¿remember when we went shopping and I put you into your first dress?  ¡That was so much fun!” Her smile was feral. “Either way,  ¡his ass is grass!”

Pansy was about to ask, “ ¿And after the end of the year?”, but decided not to; it might give Suzi reason to punish her. Besides, it wouldn’t matter: she’d be gone as soon as she was free. Seá±or Cualquiera had survived José, and Suzi wouldn’t destroy him. “I understand, Seá±ora. But now Josecito seems to be sleeping.  ¿Shall I put him into his crib?”

“Yes. Now let’s go see Father. If you want to come with me now, you need to ask his permission.”

The don nodded when she begged for the job. “I told you, you would ask to become Suzi’s maid. José will be disappointed, but Suzi needs you more–and playing the rá´le of a campesina maid will socialize you into that identity, as José trained you for another.” He smiled: “Enjoy your new profession, ‘Seá±or Cualquiera’. It is the only one you have now.”

Susana ordered Pansy to take the crib with the sleeping baby. “Then I’ll say goodbye for now, and we’ll leave for my house. Jaime will see to moving your things to your new home.”

“If I may ask, Seá±ora,  ¿where is my new home?”

“It’s in El Progreso, east of San Pedro.”

Late that afternoon Pansy carried Josecito’s crib into a low white ranch house at the outskirts of the town, on the east side of the Sula valley. An afternoon thundershower had just ended, and a slight odor of pesticide hung in the air from nearby cane fields. On the way north from Las Rosas, Susana had told her that the don had a controlling interest in extensive cane fields around the north end of the Sula Valley. “I’m learning to manage this part of his business now, Pansy. Of course, I’ve been handicapped recently by my pregnancy–you’ll get to see what it’s like–and then by the need to care for Josecito. That’s a woman’s job, like you told me, but you’re qualified now, so it’ll be your job. I’ll be able to work more efficiently without having to care for the baby every waking moment.” The house was on the east edge of the agribusiness and commercial town of El Progreso. No quaint little colonial town, it was a busy and dirty little city, too far inland to get much benefit from the Caribbean trade winds.

Susana showed Pansy her room. She’d sleep next to Josecito’s crib. At least the room was cheery, with walls painted a bright blue. A single brass bed, two chairs, a table, and a dresser, all blue or yellow, constituted the furniture. A closet held Pansy’s blouses, skirts, and dresses, including her hated uniforms–mostly rose-pink, but some black. One side of the dresser held lingerie and makeup; the other, baby things (mostly diapers). Pansy’s CDs were there, although she hadn’t listened to them much lately. A vase of pansies sat on the table.

After Josecito was asleep, Susana told Pansy to change into her uniform–“One of the pink ones;  ¡they’re sooo cute!”–to make the beds, and then to begin supper. “I’m going out now, but I’ll be back around 6:30. There’s vegetables and fish in the refrigerator, and I’d like a dish of sliced papaya. Have them ready when I return.”

When Pansy was halfway through preparing supper, Josecito woke and began to howl. She went to him, discovered his diaper was wet, and changed it. Then she held him until he quieted, put him down, and returned to supper. She had it almost completed when he began to cry again. This time he just wanted attention, and she held him awkwardly while she finished.

Susana returned at 6:10. Supper was ready, as she had ordered; Pansy was carrying their child in one arm. “Join me, Pansy,” she told her maid. “I know you were trained to eat later, but I won’t require that now. I’d rather have your company. And you can’t carry Josecito all the time, or you’ll spoil him. He’s used to being by himself part of the time.”

Pansy laid him down. He whimpered a bit, but fell asleep again. She ate her fried snapper while Susana told about her exile in California. “I didn’t enjoy it. I guess my pregnancy was no worse than most, but I found it uncomfortable.  ¿Have you had any difficulties so far?”

“Not really, I suppose. I was nauseous at first, but it passed. You have to understand, I was never prepared for this. I do not know what is normal. I guess my belly will begin to get bigger soon. I think it begins already. My skirts are a little tight.”

“Probably you’re imagining it. It’s really a little too early yet. But yes, it’ll get a little bigger. Then a lot bigger. Then it’ll be huge, and you’ll be uncomfortable sitting, standing, walking, or lying down. I look forward to watching you try to cope.”

Pansy ignored the gibe. “ ¿Then just what do I do?”

“Endure it, like all women. It’s just discomfort, and you’re designed to handle it. It ends when you give birth.”

“I suppose I will have the baby by Caesarian. After all, I was not constructed to give birth.”

“Maybe, but I doubt it. The doctors did construct you to give birth. Father told me about your remodeling, and one of the things they did was to widen your pelvis. They didn’t do it just to give you a sexy butt– ¡although it definitely had that effect!” She grinned. “You said women are nothing more than baby machines. You, my sweet girl, have become exactly that.”

Pansy shrugged. “That is their business. I just hope they did a competent job.”

“Oh, they did. You’re their pride and joy.”

“I am so happy for them. On the whole, I prefer to be in Philadelphia.”

Susana gave the silvery laugh that had so attracted her former self. “Yes, I believe it. I’m glad that– ¿what did you call him?– ¿Seá±or Cualquiera? I’m glad he’s still there. It’s strange, though, to find him housed in such a cute body, and to hear that familiar tone of voice–no, that’s not right…  ¿that turn of phrase, maybe?–in soprano. In fair Spanish too. You don’t need any tutoring now.  ¿Are you still fascinated by orchids?  ¡Now you can even wear them in your hair!  ¿And birds?”

Pansy squirmed and pleaded, “Please, Su… I… I mean, Seá±ora, do not… do not mock me. I am trapped in this body I hate, and I am your maid, like you wanted. I try to be a good maid. Please, be satisfied with that.”

“Very well, Pansy,” she agreed. “You be a good maid, and I’ll try not to bait you.” Her father had told her much the same, to treat Pansy fairly, like any other campesina. “When you’re done eating, clean the kitchen up. I’m going to my room to read. When the dishes are done, there’s laundry. After that, check on Josecito. Then come see me–if nothing else needs doing, you’ll begin to embroider pansies onto your uniforms.” Pansy accepted the orders and began clearing the table. Briefly she wondered what her life would have been like as the husband of Seá±ora Herrera, but it was a little late to think of that now. In fact, she couldn’t even imagine clearly what it would be like to be a man again!
 
 
June 2
-- After almost three weeks as Susana’s maid, Pansy was depressed. Her work as a maid was easy but boring; her duties with Josecito were undemanding. She spent her small amount of free time on needlepoint and telenovelas; Seá±or Cualquiera’s beloved mystery novels were inaccessible. Susana treated her like a servant, of course, but that was natural: she was a servant. Pansy no longer thought of Susana as anything but her employer, Seá±ora Herrera. Halfway into her pregnancy, her waist was definitely thicker, and she had to let out her skirts and dresses (including her uniforms). Her breasts were swelling again, and the areoles were becoming darker. It seemed that she had to pee every ten minutes, and her ankles were swollen. She visited Doctor CantẠregularly, where she was told that everything was normal. “You see, Pansy, your baby is growing rapidly now, and he’s pressing on your bladder. And your hormone balance is changing.” Doctor CantẠhad quickly learned that her new patient had some education, but was woefully ignorant in some areas. (She had also wondered why Doctor Weiss showed such great interest in her patient, until he let slip that he’d performed an experimental transplant on Pansy, nature unspecified and not to be discussed.) Pansy had debated telling her the reasons for her ignorance, and for Weiss’s interest, but decided against it. If she believed it, almost certainly she’d be co-opted into the doctors’ conspiracy. As one of Don Pablo’s stable of doctors, she couldn’t afford to do otherwise.

Pansy had been with Josecito continually since arrival. Susana had refused to give her time off from that duty, although other chores could be skipped on days off. “No, Pansy. The first thing I learned when I had the baby was that he’s an anchor. He’s not like a pile of dirty dishes that can wait until you feel like doing them. A baby’s a full-time job. And now he’s your job.” Pansy didn’t point out that Josecito was Susana’s child: the reply was too obvious. She finally rigged a sling so she could carry the infant, and was no longer tied quite so relentlessly to the house.

To her dismay, Pansy found that she missed José in one way. Her sex drive was muted compared to her earlier need, but it was at least as strong as when she’d been a man. And she wanted a man in her bed. She found herself fantasizing about the men at the market. They noticed her, too. Her large breasts and full hips drew more than a little male attention; her waist might be slightly thicker, but it was still quite slender. She put off a decision on sex until she was free, but her choices weren’t good. No sex at all would be terrible; to endure that aching need for a man, unfulfilled forever, would be purgatory, especially when she knew from her time with José how wonderful it could be–it was even better than any she had experienced as a man. She cursed José, and the doctors, up and down for giving her this need. Sex outside marriage was tempting, but the social penalties were prohibitive. She knew she’d be shunned as a slut, with no hope of a decent life. That left marriage, and she feared the consequences almost as much. Unfortunately, as the don had taken pleasure in telling her, the traditional wife’s position in Honduras fit the ideal of Seá±or Cualquiera, and spending her life deferring to some ignorant campesino, trapped with housework and children, didn’t appeal to her at all. She was objective enough to appreciate the poetic justice of it all, but not so foolish as to confide her problems to Suzi. She’d just laugh herself silly.

Petunia, in the meantime, had mourned her lost lover, but comforted herself that she had his child. She had returned to teaching in Siguatepeque in May. Her new sweetheart Juan Antonio had asked her out again last week, and she thought he’d propose soon. She wasn’t sure she loved him, but she told herself, “He’s a good man, and I’ll agree. I can’t be too choosy, not with a child to care for.” She still mourned Seá±or Cualquiera, but she had to be practical. “I have my own life, and I’ll just have to get on with it.”
 
 
June 12
-- Susana treated her maid as if she were a peasant girl, but most of the time she was fair and without malice, as promised. Occasionally her animosity surfaced, and then Pansy had to endure verbal barbs aimed at Seá±or Cualquiera. Pansy resented her status, but she forced herself to accept the taunts humbly and without complaint, knowing that Seá±ora Herrera could send her back to José at any time. The thought of further “training”, of herself as a prostitute conditioned to crave a life of degradation, was intolerable. Even without that threat, Pansy knew that her job as a maid was the best she could hope for, at least for the moment. She didn’t want to have to repeat her stint as a whore. After her official release at the end of the year, she was sure she could find a better position. Besides, after a month, and to her surprise, she was beginning to become attached to Josecito. He was a happy baby, and he had quickly become emotionally dependent on her. Her knowledge that he was actually the son of her own flesh (even if it was flesh she no longer possessed) helped to cement the love she began to feel. She thought as little as possible about the child she carried within herself–although her body was showing changes.

By this time Pansy had settled into a routine much like the one on Golondrinas. She arose at dawn and checked Josecito in his crib next to her. He generally needed his diaper changed. Then she showered, put on her uniform, laid out her mistress’s clothing for the day, and began to prepare breakfast for Seá±ora Herrera. Susana would rise and shower as Pansy finished making breakfast and set the table. They ate together, and Seá±ora Herrera gave her any instructions that might be needed for the day before she left for the office to manage her father’s affairs. Pansy would then feed Josecito, do the dishes, and clean up the kitchen. Her next chore was the laundry. Seá±ora Herrera insisted that she iron the clothes before putting them away. By then it was time to prepare lunch. Seá±ora Herrera arrived home every day shortly after noontime, and they would share a sandwich and a dish of fruit salad. After lunch Josecito needed to be fed again, and his diaper changed. Then she cleaned up the kitchen and turned her attention to cleaning the rest of the house, which generally took only a short time. Afterwards she put an hour or two into embroidery, unless she had to go to the market (carrying Josecito with her, of course). Then the baby usually needed more care, and supper had to be ready when Seá±ora Herrera returned from work at 5:30. Her cooking still wasn’t very good, but under Susana’s tutelage it was improving. After she cleaned up, she could rest, and she and Seá±ora Herrera would watch television for an hour or so; they shared a weakness for telenovelas, and commented freely on the characters, taking sides on whether Sara in Bajo la Misma Piel should leave Bruno, her domineering husband of twenty-five years, for the true love of her youth, Eugenio. Occasionally Seá±ora Herrera would insist on a game of gin rummy. “I don’t want you to forget everything from your past–I mean your masculine past,” she told her maid when she first asked her to play. “As Seá±or Cualquiera you had a few good features and I enjoyed this game after he taught it to me. I might as well continue to enjoy it. Besides, I need something to remind me that Seá±or Cualquiera’s hiding behind that pretty face. It’s becoming more difficult to find him.” Unfortunately, Pansy didn’t seem to play the game nearly as well as Seá±or Cualquiera had, and Seá±ora Herrera usually won. Bedtime was around 9:00.

Today Susana didn’t go to the office, but drove to Las Rosas. Don Pablo had asked her to drop by to discuss Pansy’s adaptation to her new life as a maid. She entered the library, sat in one of the enormous leather armchairs, and accepted the usual cup of Las Rosas coffee.

“It has been a month since Pansy came to you,” her father pointed out after they exchanged pleasantries. “ ¿Are you pleased with her?”

Susana nodded. “Yes, although I’m amazed that the doctors changed him so completely.”

“Never mind that,” he told her impatiently. “ ¿Does she work well?  ¿Does she take good care of Josecito?”

“Yes, and she’s a good maid in other ways too. When I said I was amazed, that’s what I meant. The physical changes are remarkable enough, but I was skeptical that George could ever become a maid. A good maid. I was willing to put up with a little incompetence for the pleasure of having that… that cabrá³n as my servant, but Pansy’s both competent and diligent.”

The don nodded. He wasn’t surprised. José had reported the same, and he knew how successful Ibarra and Ibá¡á±ez had been with others. “ ¿What about her attitude towards her work?  ¿Is she energetic and cheerful, or does she approach her tasks as if they were drudgery?”

Susana lifted her cup to her lips and sipped as she considered the question. “I’m not quite sure.  ¿Cheerful? No, not really. I’d say she thinks it’s a necessary evil, but she knows she has to do it, and she doesn’t complain.” Then she amended her statement: “Maybe that’s less true now than when she first came. She’s used to it now–and besides, she’s getting attached to Josecito.  ¡She actually likes to take care of him!” She paused and added, “And I admit, she enjoys sewing. That’s a chore she looks forward to. She even sews for her own enjoyment. Her needlepoint’s marvelous.”

“Good, good. That has been my greatest concern: that Pansy grow to love her son. Ibá¡á±ez told me that she should develop a maternal bond, but he was not certain.” He sipped his own coffee and sat back in his chair. “ ¿And how has her personality changed from that of George Deon? I assume she is not yet a campesina, not inside her head.”

His daughter frowned. “Not all hondureá±as are campesinas in their heads, you know. Even poor women. In fact, campesinas differ from one another. There’s no such thing as a ‘campesina’ personality. Lots of them want more out of life than a husband, a dozen kids, and endless laundry.”

The don smiled with affection and exasperation. He and Suzi had battled over a woman’s proper position in society for many years, but this wasn’t the time to renew their struggle. “I know, I know. George’s girlfriend Petunia could be your example–although she’s chosen a more traditional life now. As I hope you will, in the end.” He went on before she could do more than open her mouth to protest, and she subsided. “Let me rephrase the question:  ¿Does Pansy have the mindset of a traditional old-fashioned campesina?  ¿Is her demeanor more feminine?  ¿Does she accept that she has found her proper career in laundry, cooking, cleaning, and babies?”

Susana gave her silver laugh. “No, of course not. That’s asking a bit much, Father. She’s feminine enough, but she remembers what she was and what she had, and she resents her womanhood, never mind being forced to work as a maid. She’s a norteamericano in a campesina shell, and she’ll never be anything else.”

Don Pablo raised an eyebrow. “ ¿Is that so? She would agree with you, naturally; I discussed the matter with her several times, at some length. But I thought you told me that she enjoys sewing, and that she likes to care for Josecito. I was unaware that needlepoint is a norteamericano hobby, or that a norteamericano would enjoy nursing a baby.”

“She doesn’t breastfeed. She’s pregnant, and it prevents lactation.” She paused. “But you have a point. She did enjoy nursing. And she does like to sew.” Then she dismissed his argument: “But that’s minor. He despises his new life.”

Don Pablo caught the change in gender. “ ¿‘He’? You still think of Pansy as your old lover.”

In confusion she muttered, “He–I mean, she–is George. Inside her head, anyway.”

“Only partly, carita. And less so with each passing day. My doctors say she is more feminine. And more passive. They predict that by the end of the year, after she has had her own baby, Pansy will be as much campesina as norteamericano. In her head, that is. And a year or two after that, she will be thinking like what I called a traditional campesina. She may never lose Seá±or Deon completely, but he will no longer have any significance for her.”

Susana snorted in disbelief. “I know you said that–that Pansy’d think she’s really a campesina, and that she’ll be looking for some sweaty and hairy campesino, to give her half a dozen brats. I tease her sometimes and tell her that myself. I admit, she is feminine and docile. And sometimes when I see her sitting at her needlepoint or changing a diaper, I forget that she’s anything but Pansy. In fact, with that body and that face, it takes a real effort to see George. But it’s not real. She’ll always be George, just like she says.” Then she grinned and insisted, “I don’t care. George makes a good maid, even if he’s not really a campesina.” She recalled her bet with her aunt. “Actually, I have a wager with Aunt Mariana. I said that you’d succeed, that George would become a campesina, and Auntie bet that he wouldn’t. Now I think I’ll lose that bet.”

“You may be right,” the don admitted. “But I have faith in my doctors. We will see, my dear. We will see.”
 
 
June 20
-- At five months Pansy’s pregnancy was becoming obvious. She bulged, if only slightly. Isabel CantẠsaid she’d bulge a lot more before the baby arrived. She told Pansy a great deal about having a baby, but she assumed Pansy knew much more than she did, and Pansy was afraid to reveal the depths of her ignorance. If she had been born female, she imagined she’d know a lot more, but she was inexperienced at being a woman. Doctor CantẒs curiosity about her odd patient was increasing, but Pansy still resisted the temptation to tell her all.

She had a new set of outfits now. No maid’s uniform any more, and her regular dresses hung unused in her closet. Her maternity clothes draped over her slightly swollen belly and tender breasts. Today she was wearing a pink top Susana had bought her: it announced “Baby Factory”, with a large arrow pointing down to her abdomen. Women were uniformly sympathetic. She saw less lust and more solicitude from most men, although some still made crude remarks. She found herself wishing that some of the men could endure what she had to suffer, and then she couldn’t help laughing: that was precisely what had happened to Seá±or Cualquiera! Her feelings towards men were ambivalent: she resented their attention and wanted it at the same time. She still craved sex.

With one exception, no more experiments were done on Pansy. The chips were left idle, and Doctor Ibá¡á±ez began to write up his data. In his mind, the main question remained: How stable were the changes in Pansy’s psyche? She remained obedient, thus far; some of that was due to the lack of alternatives, but at the beginning George would have struggled more, even if it was hopeless. Her femininity seemed fixed into her nature, but which of the many factors was the most important, could not be determined. Probably all factors were significant. Her abiding pleasure in needlework was perhaps the most obvious evidence that conditioning through use of the chips was effective and permanent. Her libido could not be evaluated for the moment; José was persuaded that her desire for men was also permanent, but hard evidence was lacking.

Her English was the sole exception to further changes. At each visit to the clinic it was degraded further. Her vocabulary was diminished constantly. Without the opportunity to speak English, and without the ability to read, her losses passed unnoticed.

Susana, released from the need to care for Josecito, had begun to see a local man. Seá±or Felipe Arias, wealthy and handsome, owned a small finca near La Libertad, north of Comayagua and not far from Las Rosas. Don Pablo approved of the match. His only objection was the location; he pointed out that she’d be very isolated there. Felipe said he loved her and wanted to marry her, even if she had had a baby out of wedlock. Susana didn’t know whether she’d accept his proposal, but she thought she might. Not yet, though.

She almost felt sorry for poor George. Almost, but not quite. He had some admirable qualities, and she had loved him once, but he had proven to be utterly self-centered . Now a pregnant and illiterate young woman without family or husband, “George 2.0” would find few alternatives to a new life focused on service to others.
 
 
June 29
-- In a room in the Institute, the former Toqi Ergec began to awaken in earnest. For several months he had been semi-awake–that is, he had not been asleep–but his will had been nullified, with just enough volition left to enable small rebellions, and to learn their futility. In this way he had been strongly conditioned to obedience and passivity. In addition, his body had discovered the exquisite pleasures to be found in bed with a man. Of course, “he” was no longer an appropriate pronoun; but all explicit memories of the intervening six months had just recently been erased, and the new subject of the Ovid Project was unaware both of the passage of time since his sentence had been pronounced, and of the passage of all masculine attributes.

“You are awake.” The statement came from a swarthy man standing next to the cot where the subject was lying. Two other men watched, but said nothing. “Sit up. It is time, and past time, for you to learn what awaits you.” The tone was dispassionate, but there was no mistaking the statement for anything but a peremptory order.

The subject sat up, one hand brushing back dark tresses in order to see more clearly. “Who… who are you?”

“You know me. Look again.”

“You are… you are Yusuf… bin Hossein.”

“Yes, I am Yusuf bin Hossein–your master. Now stand up.”

Dazed, Ergec stood without thinking. Thinking was too difficult.

“Look in the mirror.” The full-length mirror stood against the wall. “Tell me what you see.”

“I see a wo… woman.”

“Give me a description–her physical features, her clothing.”

Gradually Ergec was becoming more alert, and he began to turn towards bin Hossein. “Who…? What…?”

“Look at the woman! Describe her!”

Fear seized Ergec. He looked back at the mirror. “She is pretty, maybe 25 years old. She has… small breasts, nicely rounded hips and rear, a pretty face, dark hair. She wears a red dress with white edging, red shoes. She wears pendant crystal earrings, copper bracelets, a collar.” He looked more closely; there was Arabic script on the collar.

“Read the collar.”

In the mirror it was backwards, but he could read it. “It says… It says ‘Lilit bint Shaitan, property of… property of Yusuf bin Hossein’” Ergec felt around his neck, where a collar circled snugly. The girl in the mirror did likewise.

“Now: who are you? Tell me your name.”

“I… I am Taqi…” A searing pain shot through his head, and he cried out put his hands to his temples.

“No,” bin Hossein stated. “You know that name so you will know what you have lost, but if you speak it or hear it, or even think it, you will suffer–as you see. Use the name on the collar. Your slave collar. Again: tell me your name–girl.”

“I am Ta…” The pain intensified, and tears began streaming down her face. She gave in: “I am called Lilit bint…” “Bint” could not be right! “…bint Shaitan.” Blessed relief! But… Lilit looked again into the mirror. Rosy lips, dark hair in a tumble of curls, a gently rounded shape displayed by a snugly fitting dress… And her voice–it was soft and high. She was female. She lifted her hands to her breasts; as she felt their yielding contours, her nipples stiffened immediately. By the daughter of the prophet, she thought, how had this happened?

“Yes, that’s right, you are a woman called Lilith, daughter of Satan. And your status?”

“I am the… the… the slave girl of… of Yusuf bin Hossein.” She had to answer, she knew. But she was Taq… The pain hit. No, she was Lilit, she thought desperately. “I am Lilit… Lilit bint Shaitan! I am!” she cried aloud. The physical agony subsided, but the mental torture was worse. She fought to control her sobs.

Doctor Ibá¡á±ez explained to his client, “She is learning fast. She tried to recall that her name was once Taqi Ergec–and had the misfortune to succeed.” A grimace crossed Lilit’s face. “I am Lilit bint Shaitan!” she insisted again. Ibá¡á±ez continued, “To find relief, she must reject that name, and assert–aloud–that she is Lilit. That remedy is wired into her head.” Ibarra joined the conversation: “For a time, she will know who she was, but to avoid pain, she must actively deny her former identity. Eventually–if she lives long enough–her own denial will force Taqi from her head, and she will think of herself only as Lilit bint Shaitan, a lowly slave girl who was once a rich and powerful man.”

Bin Hossein asked, “Does he–does she understand what has been done to her?”

“Yes,” Ibá¡á±ez answered. “Or she will soon, when she remembers the sentence that was passed on Taqi Ergec; I don’t think she’s quite alert yet. That knowledge is the biggest difference between Lilit and our only comparable subject, Pansy Baca–I think you know about her?” Bin Hossein nodded, and Ibá¡á±ez went on, “Pansy knows we’re shaping her mind, but the details are a mystery, and that gives us an advantage. Seá±or Ergec has been privy to our methods. We could erase all that, of course, but our instructions are to let him–her–know exactly what is happening.” In an aside, he cursed the clumsiness of the language in referring to subjects of mutable gender. “In light of our results with other subjects, that is a bad idea, and the long-term prognosis is poor.”

“Yes, we understand,” bin Hossein replied. “But we place little value on the well-being of Seá±or Ergec.”

“Our concern was not for his well-being, but for his continued existence,” Ibarra responded. “From your own point of view, I should think you would be reluctant to see your enemy escape.”

“Escape? From his own body?”

“It is done all the time. Suicide or madness. If you make existence painful enough, there is always a way out. In the case of our imposed personalities, we find that the remnant of the old persona seems to have a smaller investment in the survival of the new. The greater the change, the weaker the instinct for self-preservation. Your new Lilit faces an existence that Seá±or Ergec would consider intolerable, even if you worked hard to make it as pleasant as possible–and if I read the signs right, you do not intend to make it easy for her.”

“Our plans are no more than his own; and I was the intended recipient. No, I do not intend to make life easy.”

“It would be a shame if all this expense and effort were wasted on dead meat in a hole in the ground.” He saw that his point was wasted on the Iraqi, and he shifted the argument: “Seá±or, you are no friend of Seá±or Ergec. I understand. I would have similar feelings, in your position. But that is precisely why you should seek to prolong the life of Lilit bint Shaitan. In the grave, Toqi Ergec will feel no pain, no humiliation. In the body of Lilit, every waking moment will be a torment, even if she is freed.” He paused and thought a moment. “Our instructions specify that she is to have a strong sex drive–and we have succeeded in that respect. To what end?”

“She is to serve men in bed.”

“As a corpse, if you push too hard.”

“The family of Toqi Ergec stands hostage against that.”

“If this woman truly becomes Lilit bint Shaitan, then very soon the fate of the Ergec family will not be enough to deter her.” He shook his head in exasperation. “Seá±or, let us discuss this in the next room.” He turned to Ibarra: “Jesáºs, you may have the subject. She may have a few questions. Please, answer what you can.”

In his office, Ibá¡á±ez told bin Hossein, “Your Lilit is fragile now. If she is to live for the next year or two, you must treat her carefully. I know, she is yours now; and if you insist, you can take her and treat her as poorly as you wish. My own advice is: treat her well. I might even suggest releasing her to her family in a month or two.”

“Release her? How can you justify that?”

“We do some investigation of our subjects before we begin working on them. Toqi Ergec is devoted to his wife and children, and I understand that you are using them as a threat to persuade Seá±or Ergec to accept his fate. What do you suppose the reaction of his family will be, when their patriarch returns in a skirt, insisting that he be called Lilit bint Shaitan? When he casts a wanton eye on a good-looking man–perhaps his own son?–and invites indecent advances? His death at your hands can make him a martyr in his own eyes, and in the eyes of his supporters; and even his suicide would be laid at your door, under the conditions you have imposed on him. However, if his own family rejects him after you have shown mercy, he will suffer humiliation, and likely die in disgrace, an example to all who might oppose you. And if he lives on–if she lives on–as a sluttish maidservant, loathing her own nature but unable to change it, even when free, she will serve as an even better object lesson.”

“Why do you argue his case? You have your money, whatever happens.”

“Pure self-interest. Because we want to watch our creation cope with her new circumstances. The Ovid Project is ongoing research, and we are trying to find what makes one subject succeed in creating a viable life, while another fails miserably. I’m afraid that the specifications for Lilit were too restrictive, and I doubt she will succeed; but we want to see exactly how she fails.” He paused. “I am not attempting to assist Seá±or Ergec, as you imply. My motives are selfish, and I do not believe that he would thank me. Put yourself in his place–as I understand you might have been.” Bin Hossein reddened. “Or more to the point, if he were in your place now, he would see that you faced a long and unhappy life–and your mere existence in that body would ensure the unhappiness. I think you would agree with that?” Ibá¡á±ez looked over towards to the door to the next room. “You paid us a great deal of money to create Seá±orita bint Shaitan. If all that you desired was a dead body, it would have been much quicker and easier and cheaper to simply use a bullet.”

Bin Hossein started to object again, but he cocked his head and thought a moment. “Yes, you may be right,” he agreed. “I will see that Lilit is treated–not well, perhaps–but decently. And yes, she will be returned to her family, after she has proven herself to be the slut you have described.”

“She has only just awakened, as you know. Didn’t your people tell you what has been done to her mind? And what is planned for her?”

“Only a little. Taqi Ergec is now woman, and must to be my servant.”

Ibá¡á±ez sighed. All these explanations should have been made beforehand. “Seá±or, we discussed this with Sheikh al-Najafi. It was decided that Seá±or Ergec would become an example–a living example–to any who might oppose your new leaders. Lilit has been conditioned to accept her womanhood. Once the initial shock has passed–within a week or so–she will find that being female seems quite natural. Her natural inclination now is to obey. She may not–will not–like her new status, but if the conditioning holds, she should not rebel against it. She will find womanly tasks to be agreeable–and the appropriate feminine skills have been impressed onto her. Other skills formerly possessed by Seá±or Ergec have been erased from her brain. Further: her libido–her sex drive–is strong. If you force her to your bed, she will be able to justify herself. If you simply allow her new nature to guide her, she will still end in your bed, but she will hate herself, knowing that she is a natural slut. That is the lifelong punishment that Sheikh al-Najafi is seeking, and the punishment I think you would wish to visit upon your enemy.” Bin Hossein nodded, and Ibá¡á±ez added, “When she is released and returns to her family, she should be sent back with a big belly. I think she may be killed by her own son–if she survives that long!”

While Ibá¡á±ez was discussing Lilit’s future with bin Hossein, Ibarra was explaining Lilit’s present state to the woman herself. “You were following the transformation of Pansy Baca,” he pointed out. “So I think you understand much of what has happened to you. I am free to answer some of your questions, if you care to ask.”

Lilit, still in shock, was still staring at the mirror. With a supreme effort she controlled her weeping and responded, “I… How…” She swallowed as she heard her newly musical voice again, and went on: “It needed… needed six months to change Jack Pinkerton to like this. How is it I already look like… like this?”

“A good question, Seá±orita. You may be interested to know that the date is June 29. You have been asleep for…”–he smiled–“…six months.”

“I… I am… woman.” It was not a question, and Ibarra didn’t respond. “What did you to… to my mind?”

“Several modifications have been made; but they are no more than those you yourself specified for our new subject. You have the emotional reactions of a girl–as you have already experienced, weeping when you are unhappy. Similarly, you will find yourself giggling when you are pleased. However, in contrast to Pansy Baca, you are to remember exactly who you were. Seá±or bin Hossein doesn’t want you to be at all happy to be his servant. He doesn’t want to kill you, but he will be quite pleased if you take your own life, and he can revenge himself on your wife and son and daughter. We have asked for more time before we release you to him, and we think we will have another month–which is not really sufficient. Our own opinion is that you will not be able to adjust. You probably will be dead soon, and your family will replace you.” He shrugged. You must understand, this is not the outcome we seek; but it seems likely, and we can accept it. Of course, nothing is certain. As you of all people know, the ultimate success of transformations such as yours are highly uncertain.” He paused. “But your sleep has left you looking less than your best, Seá±orita. Your purse is next to the cot. Perhaps you should fix your face, to look more presentable. A powder room is through that door.” He pointed to her left.

Without thinking, she picked up the purse and retreated to the privacy of the bathroom. When she returned, her lips were crimson and a slight blush had been added to her cheeks. Seeing a second chair at the table where Ibarra sat, she asked, “Seá±or, please, may I sit?” He gave permission and she sat facing him, smoothing her skirt carefully beneath her and crossing her legs at her ankles.

Ibarra pointed out, “You took some pains with your makeup, I see. That of course is another gift from your conditioning: you will want to make yourself pretty, like any girl, and of course you will be attracted to men. Your love for your wife Maryam may persist–we are curious about that–but there will be no sexual attraction.”

“Please, sir–Seá±or–what… what I can offer… what my family can offer to leave me escape?”

“You are not thinking, Lilit–but of course your mind is still clouded. There is no way to escape, nothing your family can do. Your only options are to accept the training we offer, and to obey your master for two years–or to kill yourself. I do not pretend that the latter is not possible. Of course, that choice would leave Maryam and your children at risk. But you know your enemies better than I do, so it is up to you to make that judgment.”

Lilit digested this. She knew her enemies only too well. “I…” She swallowed. “What… what training?”

“You are not an experienced maid, and we will remedy that lack. Then will begin two years of service for Seá±or bin Hossein. After that, by agreement, you will be free–free to return to your family, or to do whatever you wish. I am assured by the authorities in Iraq that they will honor that agreement.”

“My family–do you know? Are they good?”

“Of course, we have no personal knowledge of that, but I am assured that they are all in good health; and it is in the interest of Seá±or bin Hossein to see that they remain so.” Ibarra paused. “If you serve well, Seá±or Herrera has been promised that you and your family will be spared any further punishment. However, I must tell you that Seá±or bin Hossein does not believe you are capable of enduring your two years. He anticipates that your family will curse your memory for the suffering you will bring them when you fail. Because there will be a great temptation to dispose of you and then claim that you did not have the fortitude to continue, Seá±or Herrera has insisted that you be returned here at the end of your term of service. A large sum of money will be returned to Seá±or bin Hossein when you are released healthy.” He smiled. “If you recall, that was your own agreement with us, that there would be a refund when Seá±or bin Hossein was freed.”

Lilit looked down at herself. Her dress was low-cut; her breasts were small, but the cleavage showed clearly. She tried to remember exactly what she had specified for Ahmed bin Hossein, but she had trouble thinking. The claim that she would kill herself was a slander; she needed to survive, at least long enough to plunge a knife into the black heart of bin Hossein. As his heart’s blood flowed onto the floor, he would know that Taqi… The agony hit. I am Lilit, she thought, Lilit bint… bint Shaitan. It wasn’t enough. “I am Lilit bint Shaitan!”

Ibarra nodded. “Yes, that will take away the pain. Or you can say it in English–but a spoken declaration of your new identity is the only successful painkiller. Every time you say or think your former name, the pain will reinforce your conditioning. Soon your own mind will reject Taqi…”– “I am Lilit bint Shaitan!” she insisted again–“…and you will think of yourself only as Lilit. I cannot say whether your transformation will ultimately prove to be effective–I refer to mental transformation, of course, as it will soon be plain to you that Doctor Weiss and his staff have accomplished a remarkable physical transformation. You are thoroughly female. As to the mental: first, our earlier project, Pansy, is not yet the woman we wish, and we do not know if our methods will be sufficient to force her into that mold. Second, you are a different person, and the specifications were also not the same, so any success with Pansy may not hold for you. And third, we do not expect you to survive for the complete two-year term.” He shrugged. “For us, it is not of great importance, as we will obtain data anyway.”

“My… my services for bin Hossein. What services I do for him?”

“Seá±orita, think a little, and you can probably answer that yourself. What services would bin Hossein have performed for you? Your own plans are in effect, but you have taken his place. He may choose to do things a little differently, but my understanding is that you will do what you would have had him do, no more and no less.”

She tried again to recall: What had been intended for him? Then it came back to her: sex. Kitchen duty, and laundry, and other menial work–but sex would definitely be a part of it. Lilit understood why the Hondurans considered her suicide inevitable; but it was not an escape she could consider. Better she should suffer, than beloved Maryam, and pretty Aisha, and manly Ali–so handsome, so virile! There was no way out; she had planned bin Hossain’s trap–now her own trap–too well. Tears began to flow down her face again–weak and womanly tears, she realized, exactly as the accursed doctor had said, but only too appropriate now. Two years, then. Two years of hell, and then revenge. “I know… I know what he want. Take me back. I not want no more answers.”
 
 
July 12
-- Susana needed a vacation. She needed to get away from El Progreso, from the deadening cane fields and bananas, from the bills of lading and receipts that had become her life. She needed to get away from Felipe, too. He was pressing her to accept his proposal. Don Pablo’s villa at Tela was available, and he offered it to her. “I will not worry about you and Seá±or Deon as I did two years ago. I doubt he will entertain any lustful thoughts concerning you this time. By the way,  ¿how is your maid doing? It has been a while since we discussed little Pansy.”

She giggled. “ ¿Only two years? He’s changed an awful lot,  ¿hasn’t he? But she’s not so little, Father. Her belly is quite big. It’s fun watching George deal with pregnancy. Anyway, she’s doing well. Like I said before, I’m amazed at how different she is. Her personality, I mean. For a while she’ll be unobtrusive and quiet, and I’ll almost forget who she is. Then she’ll make a remark that tells me George is still there. It’s strange. I think he’s adapted well, almost like he was born a girl instead of a boy. She hates being a maid, but she does a good job. She takes good care of Josecito and works hard at her chores. I don’t know how you did it, but she seems highly motivated to keep me pleased with her.”

“No, she does not want to be a maid. When I last spoke with her, she asked if I’d help her to find another line of work, such as teaching. Also, she wants to return to the USA. To that end, she is still trying to recover her old identity, and she asked if I would try to stop her. I told her it would be your decision.  ¿But how do you feel towards her?  ¿Do you hate her?”

She considered her reply. “She asked me the same question. Really, I don’t know. I loved George, and he did give me Josecito. But the bastard left me. Yes, I think I hate him. But it’s hard to associate George with the girl I see every day, even if I know that George is still hiding behind that pretty face. Maybe after Pansy’s given enough service, I’ll accept that George has paid for his crime; but so far, no.” Then she added, “I’d guess his new body may trap him more thoroughly than you trapped him as a maid. If José is right, Pansy’ll want a man. And she can’t afford another unmarried pregnancy. I think her next job may be ‘wife’.  ¡It’d serve George right! Dutiful and submissive is what he’d have to remain, then.”

“Of course,” Don Pablo agreed. “That was my intention, as I told you when I gave Pansy to you. I told the same thing to George when I first spoke with him, and I have told it to Pansy, most recently in May. She has not yet accepted that fact of a campesina’s life, but I am hoping she will agree in the end. Of course, it is only a hope. My doctors are dubious.”

That afternoon Susana and Pansy were back in Tela. Pansy begged to return to the botanical gardens at Lancetilla. “Please, Seá±ora, I have served you and Josecito well,  ¿yes? I would take him, but the heat is too much for him.” Susana relented, telling her only to be back in time to make supper.

Overjoyed, Pansy left for Lancetilla. A bus dropped her at the gate. She received odd looks as she wandered the forest. Two men accosted her, one contenting himself with crude remarks, and the second attempting to pick her up. One woman told her disapprovingly, “Seá±ora,  ¿what are you doing? You have no business wandering around alone in your condition.  ¡Your husband must be crazy to allow you to do this!” She hadn’t received such unwelcome attention when she had been there before, and she soon realized that, as a norteamericano, Seá±or Cualquiera had been immune from such criticism. Americans were incomprehensible anyway; there was no point in worrying about them. The few who came, brought money, and they were welcome, crazy or not. Now, as a pregnant campesina, Pansy no longer had the luxury of that immunity. She persevered anyway, going deeper into the forest where she found fewer busybodies and a pretty epiphytic Oncidium. She didn’t stay as long as she had intended; neither her clothes (a maternity dress and sandals) nor her thickening body were suited to botanizing on foot in the rain forest. She returned by 3 PM to the bus stop, but not before getting dampened by a midafternoon shower.

As she rode the bus back to town, she felt depressed again. She tried to cheer up by reminding herself that she had only five months or so of bondage left. “ ¿And then?  ¿What then, estáºpida?” One possible resolution of that question presented itself when she observed several other campesinas on the bus, dressed in blouses and bright skirts; there was nothing except her pregnancy to distinguish her. Soon she would be free like them, able to choose her own path. She caught herself: her thought had been, other campesinas. Already she was beginning to think of herself as just a campesina, following the course laid out so smoothly before her. Marriage to a peasant, more kids–that was their path, and hers if she allowed it. She promised herself she wouldn’t. “I am Seá±or Cualquiera–or Seá±orita Cualquiera, at the least. Whoever that is. I’m a professional chemist.” She ignored the loss of her technical background; after she was freed, she could replace what had been stolen. “I won’t allow myself to be trapped that way.”

On returning, she began preparing supper after checking that Josecito didn’t need attention. With hard work, she could finish her chores and watch a rerun of “Mar de Amor”, her favorite telenovela, before bedtime. The male lead, Mario Cimarro, was a real hunk!
 
 
July 25
-- Mariana Herrera de Pérez was holding a party, and Susana had agreed to lend Pansy for the day. Don Pablo had offered more help in the form of his latest subject. “Lilit has no Spanish,” he had said, “but Pansy can supervise and translate as needed.” Mariana hadn’t asked what Lilit had done to merit her fate, but simply accepted the offer. When Pansy arrived, Mariana told her of the other maid she’d be working with, and asked if she knew anything about her. Pansy denied any knowledge, but looked forward to meeting her.

Pansy, clad in a simple black maid’s dress, was chopping vegetables for the meal when Lilit arrived in mid-morning, dressed similarly. Pansy handed her a knife and told her, “Seá±orita, those onions need to be sliced thin.”

“I no have Spanish,” Lilit replied. “Please, tell in English.”

Her strong accent struck Pansy as familiar. She looked closely at the girl, but didn’t recognize her. “Very good. Onions is on the shelf over there. You must to slice them–and to make them thin. No more than five millimeters.” This Lilit had to be another victim of the Ovid Project, she thought.

Lilit set to work, and soon had the chore done. Pansy found another task for her, and then began questioning the woman. “I know that Don Pablo sent you here. Your name is always Lilit, or it is forced onto you?”

“I… It forced to me.” I am Lilit bint Shaitan, she reminded herself. Only Lilit bint Shaitan.

A scar marred the woman’s cheek. It seemed to stir Pansy’s memory. “What is your name before that?”

Without thinking Lilit began to reply, “Ta…” but winced and insisted, “I am Lilit… Lilit bint Shaitan. Lilit bint Shaitan, nothing else! Please… please, I no can use other!”

Pansy recognized the name as Arabic. That must be the origin of the accent. Then it struck her: the scar, the accent… “I know you! You is one of the mans who want to use the Ovid Project for your own enemies. I seed you a few months past. Tell me, I is right?”

The unfortunate woman looked away, but admitted, “Yes… yes, I see you before.” She put down the potato she was peeling and began to explain, “But I…”

“Keep working,” Pansy ordered. “You must to do a job, and you talk while you work.”

Obediently Lilit picked up the potato and resumed peeling. “I am betrayed at home, and now am punished.”

“I have little sympathy for you. You try to do this to other mans, and now you have it doed to you. It is good! I only wish all the…”–she couldn’t find the obscenity, thanks to Ibarra’s erasures–“all the mans who is involved in this… this nasty project is put through it themselfs.”

Lilit was surprised at Pansy’s poor English; she had spoken English like the native she was, when they had last met. Lilit’s own command of English was less than perfect, but it was enough to let her know that Don Pablo had done more work on Pansy’s mind. She looked at Pansy’s waist, and saw the bulge. “You… you have the baby?”

Pansy looked down at her belly with disgust. “Yes.” Then with some relish she added, “And you is pregnant yourself in not a long time, I bet. What you think?”

“I not… I not know.” The idea of pregnancy–her own pregnancy–repelled her.

“You want a man now?”

“No!”

“Soon you want him.” She shook her head, thinking of her own experience. “They make you want, I not know how. But you like it. You like it a lot! When they finish, you want it even when they not force you.” Even now, the unwelcome desire to experience the ecstasy of a man thrusting into her was a constant low-level torment. She could suppress her longing, but not exorcise it. “But they tell you how they do it, yes? In past, when you still is man?”

The unhappy Iraqi recalled the legend of Lilit–the female demon, the seducer, hungry for men’s seed. Could they do that? Could they make her a slut? She tried to remember how they had twisted Pansy’s mind–she had been privy to the methods they used–but she couldn’t concentrate. In any case, there was little point in discussing it with Pansy. “I… I not know. Please, let me work without questions I cannot answer.”

Pansy nodded. From her standpoint also, there was little profit to be had in baiting her fellow victim. “Yes, we must finish our work, or they will punish. They have many ways, and I not wish to suffer.” Further speech was devoted entirely to the tasks at hand. Pansy noted that Lilit was an inefficient worker, but ascribed her deficiencies to inexperience, as she seemed to work hard. Not surprising, Pansy thought; Don Pablo’s training methods provided a strong incentive to please. They had no more conversations.
 
 
August 12
-- Felipe Arias, impatient, invited Susana to his finca, and she accepted, leaving Pansy to watch over Josecito. “You shouldn’t travel in your condition. Just take care of Josecito and keep the place clean. Otherwise, do as you like.” Josecito was fourteen months old, and he was into everything.

“Sá­, Seá±ora. I’ll expect you back within the week.  ¿And if there’s a problem?”

“Here’s the phone number for Finca Los Ocotes, but if it’s something urgent, call Las Rosas first, then call me. Enjoy yourself, Pansy.” She left in her beat-up old Nissan.

As if she could enjoy herself, Pansy thought. “I’m stuck with the baby. I’m seven months pregnant. My back hurts. I can’t leave the house, and I can’t even read.  ¡What a vacation!”

Susana enjoyed herself, however. After a short drive, southeast to Comayagua and then back north up the valley to La Libertad, she found herself driving up a rutted dirt road to the finca. The road was bad, but better than the Las Rosas track. Finca Los Ocotes was a beautiful place. It wasn’t as large as Las Rosas, but it reminded her of her old home. At a lower elevation, it was a little warmer and drier.

“Querida,  ¿how are you?” Felipe greeted her. “ ¿Did you have a good trip? I’m sorry about that road.”

“Corazá³n, I’m fine, and that road’s no problem. I’m accustomed to worse.”

He helped her from the car, kissed her hand, and offered her a cold drink. “It’s a lot like Las Rosas here. We’re isolated, but the finca is nearly self-sufficient. If we could only make our own gasoline and diesel fuel, we’d be all set.  ¿Would you like a tour of the place?”

She laughed. “Felipe, it’s almost 5. I’ve been driving all day. Let’s go in, and I’ll have that cold drink. Tomorrow you can show off your pride and joy.”

“You’re right as usual, Suzi carita. Very well, let’s get that drink.”

Later they sat on a shaded patio, sipping daiquiris and waiting for dinner to be prepared. Her suitor asked, “Your infant son, Josecito– ¿how’s he doing? By now you must be having a fit keeping track of him. I’d guess he’s crawling everywhere.  ¿Is one of the women at Las Rosas keeping him for you?”

“He’s doing very well. And yes, he’s crawling. But he’s no trouble–or not to me, anyhow. Father sent me a maid to watch over him. She keeps track of him, and she also works around the house. Cooks, cleans, sews. She’s a big help.”

“ ¿But is she dependable? It’s so hard to find good help.”

“I think so. She owes me a big debt. She’ll stay until January anyway, and probably after that.”

“Suzi,  ¿can I hope that she’ll be staying with you here?  ¿Will you marry me? Please say yes.”

She smiled slightly, then broke down and laughed joyously. “Yes, Felipe dearest. I’ll marry you.”

He leaped from his seat and rushed to her. “ ¡Oh, my sweet Suzi!  ¡Thank you!  ¡I’ll make you so happy!” He kissed her passionately, then asked, “ ¿When? I want it as soon as possible, querida.”

Such a welcome change from George! “I agree. I don’t want to wait.  ¿Would October be all right?”

“ ¡Excellent! October it is.” He checked a calendar. “ ¿The first of October? That’s a Sunday.” She nodded. “ ¿And where?  ¿The church in Comayagua?”

“I think Father wants to have it in the cathedral in San Pedro.  ¿Is that all right?”

“Cará­sima, I’d marry in a stable if that’s what you wanted. It’s settled, then. October 4 in San Pedro.”

Susana stayed for three days. She was so happy–engagement to a handsome man whom she loved was truly Paradise. They held hands, embraced, kissed–but no more. Susana wouldn’t think of risking another unmarried pregnancy, or even a “premature” baby. They discussed arrangements: a nursery for Josecito, for Pansy’s coming child, and ultimately for their own family. Felipe was please that Susana had her own maid. “Josecito’s been a heavy burden for you, I know. You need the help. Los Ocotes has a staff, of course, but it’s right that you should have your own maid.  ¿She’s pretty, I hope?” he added with a grin. “Naturally,” she responded, “But more important, she’s well trained. She’s a wonderful girl.” She had no intention of telling him just how wonderful. “But I expect you to keep your hands off. I’ll be quite enough woman for you. As far as you’re concerned, she’ll be purely decorative.” More seriously, she reminded him that Pansy was pregnant. “She’ll have her own baby a month or so after the wedding, but I expect she’ll be able to care for both babies, and still handle her share of the household chores.”
 
 
September 17
-- Pansy’s belly had grown enormous. At her regular checkups Doctor CantẠtold her it would get bigger yet, but she didn’t see how it was possible. Her abdomen protruded as though she’d swallowed a watermelon. Eight weeks earlier, while she was looking for orchids and birds in the Lancetilla Valley, she had thought she was handicapped, but she had still been able to move about easily. Now she waddled. Her ankles were swollen, her back hurt, her breasts were sore again, and she had to pee all the time. She had trouble finding a comfortable position when she lay down (correction: there was no comfortable position). The baby kicked at her innards. Besides Doctor Cantáº, Herná¡ndez and Weiss examined her, and they found her progress fascinating. “Pansy, you must remember, you’re unique,” Herná¡ndez reminded her; “There’s no precedent for such a case. You’re making history.” She wasn’t nearly as fascinated as he was.

She continued to work for Seá±ora Herrera in spite of her handicap. As the Seá±ora told her, a campesina couldn’t afford to take time off, as long as she could possibly earn a little cash. “I’m afraid sick leave and pregnancy leave aren’t customary here, my dear. You’ll just have to keep working.” Her duties were lighter, of course, as her advancing pregnancy limited her physical ability. Mostly, she cared for Josecito. In spite of herself, she had become captivated by the child. After all, he was her son, and she found that a bond was developing between them. As when she had been held captive by José, she coped by thinking as little as possible, and performing her duties mechanically, if faithfully. The drawback to her survival mechanism was that, as Seá±ora Herrera had predicted, she was becoming habituated to life as a campesina maid. Her passive acceptance of her rá´le meant that her personality owed more and more to Pansy Baca, docile maid and young mother-to-be, and less and less to George Deon, rebellious chemist and egocentric man-about-town.
 
 
October 4
-- On the morning of Susana’s wedding, Pansy stayed home with Josecito. She helped with preparations, but only in a minor way; the Las Rosas staff did most of the work. After the nuptials, the happy pair were leaving for a two-week honeymoon in Florida. Pansy was relieved of her task of caring for Josecito; Conchita took him to Las Rosas. The doctors had decided that she should move into the clinic for her last month, so Pansy left immediately as well. Weiss met her and told her, “There’s no cause for alarm, Pansy. All indications are that your body is handling the pregnancy well. If it weren’t for your odd history, we’d leave you alone.” Later, Doctor CantẠexamined her. “Your daughter appears to be healthy, Pansy. There should be no difficulty in your last month. I can’t understand why Weiss and Herná¡ndez are involved.” Pansy laughed bitterly. “They never told you a thing,  ¿did they? Yes, they’ll take good care of me.” Doctor CantẠpointed out, “Neither did you, Pansy. I have the feeling that there’s a lot I don’t know. And you do. Pansy, you’re no more a campesina than I am In fact, I think you’re a norteamericana.  ¿What’s going on? Please, tell me.  ¿Is it the identity of the father that’s such a secret?”

That struck Pansy as hilarious. “I suppose you’re right.  ¿Would you believe me if I told you the baby is the daughter of a norteamericano who angered Don Pablo? He’s gone now, unfortunately.”

Isabel CantẠflushed and put down the sonogram she was examining. “Pansy, that doesn’t explain anything, whether it’s true or not. That’s nothing to do with you.  ¿Are you in some sort of trouble?  ¿With Don Pablo?”

“Doctor, the answer to both is yes. But you work for Don Pablo,  ¿true? You’re in no position to help.” After telling her that, Pansy thought, “ ¿Why not? I’m not forbidden to tell anyone.” She interrupted the angry doctor, who was retorting that she certainly couldn’t help if she didn’t know the problem: “You won’t believe me, Doctor, but if you’re interested, maybe you could confirm my story.  ¿Can you do any genetic testing here?  ¿Something simple, like checking chromosomes or running a genetic match?”

Doctor CantẠcompressed her lips. “Of course you’re just a simple maid. You picked that up from a telenovela, I suppose. Look, Pansy, I became curious long ago. You’ll have some difficulty in finding a story I won’t believe. And yes, I can arrange basic genetic tests. Doctor Weiss is well equipped. He’d be glad to run a test for me.”

“No he wouldn’t. Or he might not give you the true result. I asked,  ¿Can you run a test?”

More thoughtfully, the doctor asked, “ ¿Are you implying that Doctor Weiss might not give me the whole truth?”

“In a word, yes. Now, if you can test me, take a cell sample and check it. I suggest you take it from the inside of my cheek. You just did an amniocentesis, I believe. Either that, or you’re a sadist, sticking people with long needles for the hell of it. Check the cells carefully. See if there’s anything odd. You do that, and then I’ll tell you more. Don’t tell anyone. Maybe you can help me, if you’re willing.”

The doctor paused only briefly. “Very well, my dear. I have to wonder what I’m getting myself into, but I’ll risk it.” She took a cheek swab. “I have to send it out, so it’ll take a couple of days to get the results. I’ll let you know what I find.  ¿I don’t suppose you’ll tell me what I’m looking for?”

“Not yet, Doctor. Just check the genetic match.”

CantẒs face brightened. “ ¡Oh, I see!”

Pansy laughed. “I doubt it. Don’t prejudge, Doctor.”
 
 
October 6
-- Pansy’s clinic “vacation” was boring. She couldn’t read, as she wanted so badly to do, so she watched telenovelas and worked on needlepoint. She missed Josecito–against her will she had come to love her son–and she even missed Susana. Her mistress had obeyed Don Pablo’s order to treat Pansy well. Being treated as a lowly maid (no, being a lowly maid) was galling, but Pansy knew that Susana could’ve been nasty–and Susana was infinitely better than José had been. The worst indignity Pansy suffered was an occasional catty remark about Pansy’s fall from her former exalted status as Seá±or Cualquiera.

On Friday morning, two days after Pansy’s conversation with Isabel Cantáº, the doctor returned. She seemed exasperated. “I have to apologize, Pansy. Something went wrong with the cell sample, and I need another one. Just open your mouth. It’ll only take a moment.”

Pansy held up her hand. “Please, Doctor, wait a bit. First,  ¿what went wrong?”

“I’m not sure how, but somehow the sample got switched in the lab. The one I checked wasn’t yours.  ¡Now open up!”

Pansy shook her head. “Yes, I’ll give you another sample, but first tell me:  ¿how do you know it was switched? Maybe you did look at the right one.”

“Pansy, you’re intelligent and educated beyond your station–I don’t know how or where, but it’s clear. Still, give me some credit. Don’t try to tell me how to do my job.”

“You found a Y chromosome in the cheek sample. It came from a man. Therefore it’s not mine.  ¿Am I right?”

The doctor looked puzzled. “No, it was a normal XX–it came from you, and you’re a woman–but it didn’t match…” Her eyes widened. “ ¡That’s not possible!”

Pansy’s own shock was obvious. “ ¿It… it’s not?  ¡It has to be!”

CantẒs eyes narrowed again with suspicion. What was this girl trying to put over on her? “ ¿What are you telling me?  ¿What do you mean?”

“Don Pablo…  ¿How did he…?” She shook her head. “Doctor, two years ago I was… I was a man. I was…” She broke down sobbing.

Doctor CantẠwaited for her patient to gain control over herself. Pansy wasn’t trying to mislead her, she was sure, but something very strange was going on. “OK, Pansy, let’s start over. First, I checked the samples. Your uterine cells don’t match your cheek cells, genetically. I thought that meant that a sample had been switched, but now I’m guessing that they weren’t, and that you know something about what’s going on. You say you were a man. Please, enlighten me.”

Pansy shut her eyes. She had counted on the XY chromosome to support her story. Now the chromosomes named her a liar. What could she do? “Doctor, two… two years ago I was a… was a man.” She stopped to collect herself. “I thought… I was sure a genetic test would prove it. But now… Somehow they changed it, I don’t know how.”

“You mean, they changed you from XY to XX. Presumably, that was part of the process of changing you from a man to a woman.” She sighed; the story sounded insane so far–but there was the mismatch between the cheek and uterine cells. “ ¿Who is ‘they’, and why did they do it?”

“Don Pablo. And his doctors.  ¿Why?” Because they are crazy, she wanted to shout. Because they are evil! But she needed to persuade the doctor, and telling the bald truth seemed her only recourse. “As a punishment, and as an experiment. But now I can’t prove it. I though it was impossible to hide my original chromosomes–but somehow it was possible, and I lost my evidence.”

“Pansy, I’ve done a little reading outside my own narrow specialty, and I know that genetic engineering is possible. Very difficult and very expensive, but possible. And I already have evidence–genetic evidence–that something odd is going on here. Let me take another sample, and then we’ll discuss this further.”

“I understand, Doctor. I’d rather you didn’t do another amniocentesis, though. It’s not very comfortable.”

“No, I’ll take a skin sample. I’m sorry, Pansy; I know it’ll hurt a bit more, but I want an ideal sample.” Pansy winced as the doctor took the sample. CantẠthen continued: “You said you’re really a man.”

“Define your term.”

The doctor’s face flushed, but then she exhaled and nodded her head. “I grant your point. You claim you were a man. Genetically you seem to be female, and certainly you are a physiological female.”

Pansy glanced down at her swollen breasts and bulging abdomen. “Do tell.”

“Your uterine fluid contains two populations of cells: your own cells, from your uterus, plus your baby’s. That’s entirely normal. What’s peculiar is that your uterine cells are genetically quite different from those in the cheek sample I took. Both are female cells–but otherwise they don’t match. Seá±ora, your uterus isn’t yours.”

“Correct.”

“You were born male. You had a transsexual operation.” (And now you regret it, she thought. Too late!) “Weiss transplanted a uterus.”

“I guess so. And more: at least I had periods before I got pregnant. You are right, Doctor. Physiologically I’m female, or as female as they could make me.”

“ ¿Why?  ¿Why did you do this thing?”

“ ¿Why did I do this? I didn’t. I told you, this was done to me. As a punishment, I mean.”

“ ¿Who are you?”

“I’m Pansy-Ann Baca Gá³mez, Suzi Herrera’s maid. Wrong question, Doctor.” Pansy’s bitterness came through.

CantẠwore an exasperated expression. “Very well, Seá±ora.  ¿Who were you?”

“I don’t know–or at least I don’t know my former name. The memory was took from me, along with my balls. I was a norteamericano. This face isn’t my original either. And the soprano voice is new too. They stole some memories and mixed up others, so I can’t recover my old life. Doctor, they made me over, body and mind, so I’m trapped in the body of a campesina, with no way to return to my old life, or even prove it existed.  ¿Do you believe me? I told you that you wouldn’t.”

“For the moment I’ll assume you’re telling the truth, as a working hypothesis.  ¿What do you remember?”

“I’m not sure. You see, they can give me false memories. I don’t know which ones are real any more. If you still want to help me, that’s where I need it. I have to keep the body. Male or female, it’s the only one I have, and I can live with it. I have to live with it. But I want my identity back. Or at least I want to know my former identity; I told the truth when I said I’m Pansy Baca now.  ¿Remember I said the baby is the daughter of a norteamericano? That norteamericano is the mother. Me.”

Doctor CantẠwas stunned. The story was incredible. “ ¿Can anyone else verify what you’re telling me?”

“Yes, starting with you.  ¿Don’t you remember?  ¿The genetic tests? But yes, there are others. Herná¡ndez and Weiss, for example. But they’re part of the conspiracy. And some of Don Pablo Herrera’s staff. And Susana Herrera. All of them part of the conspiracy.” Pansy grinned, but her expression wasn’t at all cheerful. “Maybe I’m paranoid, Doctor. There’s this big conspiracy,  ¿see? They’re out to get me. They changed me to a woman,  ¿see? I’m really a man.” She sobered. “Tell me:  ¿is it credible?  ¿Would you believe me? Don Pablo told me I’d be laughed at if I tried to tell anyone.” She looked down, then went on. “There’s a woman who can confirm my story, if you can find her. She was a teacher in Siguatepeque. I was going to marry her. Her name is Petunia Baca, or it was; probably she married someone else by now. Don Pablo let her watch as I was changed. No, she doesn’t know who I am either; they took it from her too. But if you find her, she should be able to confirm what I said.” Unless they erased it from her.

The doctor cocked her head. “ ¿Why you?  ¿Why…? Oh, you told me–it’s a punishment.  ¿Would you mind telling me what you did?”

Pansy half laughed, half groaned. “Oh, I was a bastard, all right. It’s clear to me now, from my new point of view. I seduced Suzi Herrera. The child she has is mine. I’m the father– ¡if you can believe that!”

Leaning back in her chair, the doctor commented, “Pansy, I admit, they seem to have fit the imaginary punishment to the hypothetical crime.  ¿And your own baby?  ¿Who do you think is the father?”

Pansy laughed again. “Don Pablo is not one to take half measures. His son is the father. Don Pablo thought it would be poetic justice. His daughter carried my child, so now I carry his son’s child. I’m bearing his grandchild. Just like Susana, you see.  ¿What could be fairer?”

Doctor CantẠcouldn’t help laughing. Then she apologized: “I’m sorry, Seá±ora. You spoke of poetic justice, and I admit there is some justice in your predicament. Not much, though– ¡to do that to another person is evil, whatever the provocation!” Then she added, “But you’re wrong about the father. There’s an extremely close match between you–your cheek cells, not your uterine cells–and the baby. I think that, somehow, they arranged for you to father your own child.”

Pansy’s shoulders sagged in defeat. “So I can’t expect any help. Well, it was worth trying. Doctor, I can’t spend the rest of my life as a maid. Or I won’t. My punishment was supposed to last for two years, but Don Pablo told me I’ll stay a maid even after I’m free. He says I won’t have any other choice. Maybe he’s right, but I’ll fight against it. I have to fight it.”

“ ¿Two years?  ¿What’s this about two years?”

“I’m a prisoner for two years. He told me he’d turn me into a woman and train me as a maid, and he did it. After the two years is over, he says I’ll be free to go, to do whatever I want–except I won’t be able to do anything except work as a maid. The two years ends in three months. Tell me, Doctor:  ¿what do I do then?  ¿Can I return to my old life? I’m a woman now; I accept that. I have to, or kill myself. I’ll have a baby. OK, I can deal with that. Some would call it poetic justice, although I call it barbaric cruelty. But I have no credentials. I can’t prove anything. Without them–and without my literacy–I’m trapped as a maid, like the don wants. Or I can be a prostitute: that’s been suggested too. But I won’t accept it. I can’t accept it.”

Doctor CantẠremarked, “Hypothetically, you seem to be boxed in. Don Pablo thought this out well. Pansy, I’ll double-check your cells. Then I’ll decide what to do about you, if anything.” The punishment was monstrous, and irreversible, she thought.

“I don’t even know what you could do. And at best, I’ll still just be an unmarried woman with an infant daughter to care for. Doctor, I’m sorry I told you all this. It was pointless.”

“Cheer up. At worst, you have a guaranteed job and an excellent health plan. You have an excellent medical team–I’ve never seen doctors more solicitous of a patient’s health. If you’re telling the truth, they can’t afford to let anything happen to you. I’ll talk with you again next week. By that time I’ll have had a chance to check up on you.”

The doctors were indeed solicitous of her health. That afternoon they discussed her pregnancy. Herná¡ndez thought she should deliver by Caesarian section. “The project is a success so far, but it’d be foolish to risk everything on the assumption that her body will work perfectly. Too many things can go wrong. She’ll undoubtedly have another pregnancy. Then we can try for a natural delivery.”

Weiss had faith in his work, and argued for a natural delivery. “Her body seems fully adapted to its new anatomy and physiology. However, we’ll never know if the adaptation is complete unless we give her body a chance. Yes, there’s risk. There’s risk in every natural delivery. I think there’s less in this one than in most. I designed her pelvis for easy childbirth, and the fetus is in optimal position. There are no signs of problems. I grant we should monitor her condition. If problems arise, we can deal with them then. I say, be prepared to perform a Caesarian if it should become necessary, or even advisable on objective medical grounds; but if she continues to have no difficulties, then allow her own body to handle matters.”

Herná¡ndez suggested that Doctor CantẠbe consulted. Weiss agreed, in a way: “CantẠis being consulted. Officially she’s the obstetrician in charge of Pansy’s pregnancy. If she suggests that a C-section is advisable, then I’ll agree wholeheartedly. She’s our insurance; neither of us has any experience in this specialty. She’s competent: let her decide.”

“But she doesn’t have full knowledge of her patient. I think you’d agree, the fact that Pansy’s body is an artificial construct is medically relevant,  ¿no? I believe she should be told.”

“No. This particular construct shows every sign of behaving exactly like its natural counterpart. Doctor CantẒs ignorance is insurance that the decision isn’t prejudiced.”

The two finally agreed to allow a natural delivery, subject to Doctor CantẒs final (uninformed) decision.

A few blocks away, in a lounge at the Institute for the Mind, Doctors Ibarra and Ibá¡á±ez discussed one of the more interesting aspects of their joint. Ibarra commented that Pansy still had a noticeable accent. “It’s better than it was. Much better. But she’d never be mistaken for a campesina, even if she looks the part.”

“I’m afraid you’re right, Jesáºs. Our attempt didn’t fail, but it didn’t fully succeed either.” He puffed on his cigarette. “ ¿Do you have any suggestions? Maybe if we pool our knowledge, we can do better.” He smiled and told his colleague, “It’s of interest for a better reason than merely improving Pansy’s command of her ‘native’ language. If we could give a subject a really good command of a language, that ability would have a significant commercial value.”

“I know. And yes, I have some ideas.” He paused, then cocked his head. “Your previous work impaired Pansy’s English pronunciation, I think.  ¿Is that true?  ¿And is that a problem?”

“Yes, it’s true, but no, it’s no problem. Not now, anyway. For this project, it’s an advantage. It’d be a problem for a commercial application, but that’s a long way down the line. If we can establish an effective procedure, then maybe we can refine it later to cut down on side effects.”

“Good enough. Here’s my proposal…” He outlined a possible method for treating Pansy. Ibá¡á±ez listened, and when Ibarra was finished, he suggested modifications. Within an hour they had designed their experiment, and Doctor Ibá¡á±ez started making phone calls to set it up.
 
 
October 10
-- When Pansy awoke on Tuesday, she found herself in a hospital bed in what was clearly a laboratory. Banks of equipment lined the walls, and two technicians monitored the dials. Her head and limbs were firmly held; she couldn’t move. Clear plastic tubes ran into her left arm, and wires were attached to her head and parts of her body. A short gray-haired man in a lab coat sat by her bed. She started to protest, but he held up his hand. “I’m glad to see you’re awake, Pansy. You may not remember me. I’m Doctor Ibá¡á±ez, and you met me last April.”

She remembered him. She hated and feared him, as one of the doctors responsible for her present wretched condition. “Yes, I know you,” she told him shortly. “Let me out of here.”

“I’m sorry, my dear, but you’ll have to stay where you are. You may know that my goal is to make your thoughts and behavior match your appearance in every way possible–to see that you think and act like any normal campesina. I’ve been delighted with the way you’ve responded to our conditioning so far. We’re going to try something new on you today.”

“ ¡No!  ¡Please!  ¡José promised!  ¡He said you were finished, and I wouldn’t lose any more!”

A paternal smile settled on the doctor’s face. “You won’t lose anything. Or nothing important. In fact, we’re going to give you something. When you arrived here, you said you wanted to learn Spanish.”

“I already speak Spanish, better than I ever wanted. I don’t need any more.”

He ignored her protest. “Yes you do. You sound much better, but if we don’t help, you’ll always have an accent. We’ll fix that. You won’t speak high-class Spanish, of course. That wouldn’t be appropriate. You’ll sound just like the campesina you appear to be.” His enthusiasm was clear. “It’s a brand new procedure–strictly experimental now–but eventually we hope to be able to sell it commercially. You’re lucky. As a test subject, you’re getting it for free.” His cheerfulness faded and a note of regret entered his voice as he told her, “Unfortunately, the procedure is uncomfortable, and it’d make it hard to market. To deal with that, we’re borrowing Doctor Ibarra’s methods. When we finish, your memory of this episode’ll be gone. Including all the unpleasant parts. Only the results will remain. And you probably won’t even notice the difference. Unless you try to speak English–and maybe not even then. After all, your English is pretty bad now.”

“ ¡No!  ¡Nooo!” She tried to struggle, but she couldn’t move. In fact, her arm and leg muscles didn’t respond at all. She was paralyzed.

“You used to be a scientist, so I’ll explain what we’re doing. The procedure’s fairly time-consuming, and for a couple of days you’ll need to concentrate on your studies, with no distractions. To assist with that concentration, we’ll feed you intravenously. We’ll also administer drugs as needed. Some will help you remember, some will make you forget.”

She tried to shake her head, but it was pinned firmly. “ ¡No!  ¡Please!” she begged.

“Your conversation is repetitious, Seá±orita. I can reduce your anxiety.” He went to a console, turned a knob, then another, and pushed a button. “You’re getting the drugs now–including one to calm you down a bit and make you more cooperative. You’ll want to do whatever we tell you.” She had had it, or a similar drug, before, and she remembered the effects. Already she felt herself sliding into a passive and docile state. She repeated “No,” but her protest had no force behind it. Smiling, Ibá¡á±ez insisted, “ ¿You see? You don’t object to this after all. You came here hoping to improve your Spanish. You want to learn to speak Spanish like a native. Like a normal campesina.  ¿Don’t you? Tell me.”

It was one of the reasons she had come to Honduras. She did want to learn. “Yes, I want to learn to… to speak Spanish like… like a native. Like a campesina.” Something was wrong with that–but she couldn’t pin it down.

“ ¡Good! Now Don Pablo went to some trouble to find a tutor for you. Seá±or Ortiz teaches at the university in Tegucigalpa, and he’s an expert in phonetics.” A small man, slender and olive-skinned, appeared beside the doctor. “I’ll let him explain what you’ll have to learn.”

The newcomer told her, “I know how recently you learned your Spanish, Seá±orita. You’ve done quite well, but your speech retains more than a trace of your native English. What we want to do first–what you want to do–is replace English sounds with the Spanish equivalents. Right now your vowels are mostly diphthongized. For example, your O’s tend to glide into an ‘oo’ sound. We’ll try to change that so your simple vowels are pure. And your consonants–your B’s especially. They’re a dead giveaway. Say ‘Alberto Véliz’.” She obeyed, and he nodded. “Now listen to me.” He repeated the name, then pointed out, “My E and O are pure sounds, without the glide. The B and the V sound alike. It’s what’s called a labial fricative. You shouldn’t close the lips completely. It should sound a little like an English V. And the T should be made by putting the tip of the tongue at the base of the upper teeth, without aspirating it. That is, don’t give that little puff of air.” She didn’t understand his jargon, but she worked hard to copy him, and he coached her until she could repeat the word perfectly. Then he pronounced the phrase, “Los puertos está¡n abiertos.” He pointed out the right way to pronounce the P, and reviewed the B, T, E and O. Finally he discussed the S. “Your S is far too strong. You need to slur over it. Barely say it at all, so you’re almost saying ‘Lo puerto etá¡n abierto’. I’m exaggerating, but not much. Try it.”

He went on to other sounds and other words. She learned her lessons well. The mnemosine Ibarra had given her via the intravenous tube assisted her. Finally Seá±or Ortiz called Doctor Ibá¡á±ez back. “She’s doing well, Doctor. She just needs to practice, and to imitate native speakers.  ¿Have you arranged it?”

“Yes, she’ll get plenty of practice. Thank you for the helping us in this matter, Seá±or. You’ve been helpful.  ¿Can you come back in a couple of days, after she’s had a chance to assimilate the lessons?”

“Yes, Don Pablo told me your plans. I’ll be curious to see if your experiment works. It could revolutionize the teaching of languages.” They shook hands and the instructor left.

Ibá¡á±ez turned back to Pansy. “Now comes the hard part, Pansy. I’ll explain to you how the training works. It’s computerized. You’ll wear a set of headphones, and at first you’ll hear words and sentences spoken in peasant Spanish. You’ll imitate the speaker exactly. You know what to listen for, and how to imitate: use the sounds that Seá±or Ortiz taught you. Every time you make a mistake and use an English sound instead of Spanish, you’ll feel pain. The intensity of the pain will depend on how far you deviate from the standard. Each different kind of mistake will cause pain in a different part of your body. If you don’t respond, the pain will be worse, and throughout your whole body. The only way to avoid pain will be to respond correctly.  ¿Do you understand?”

“Yes. I understand.” At some deep level of her mind she was terrified.

“Good. I’ll leave you alone with the computer.” He put a set of headphones on her, and placed a microphone twenty centimeters from her mouth. Then he left the room, turning the light out as he closed the door.

She was in utter darkness. Suddenly she heard a woman’s voice. It said simply “Bueno”.

She parroted the word, but her B and O weren’t quite correct. Pain stabbed her temple for about a second. She cried out and tried to pull away, but her paralysis and her bonds kept her immobile, and the pain vanished quickly. The voice repeated. She did a little better, and the pains were less intense.

It took eleven repetitions of the word before the computer was satisfied. Then she heard “Buenos dá­as”. The D and S were difficult, and mistakes in the latter brought intense abdominal cramps. When she concentrated on the S, her O deteriorated, and the headache returned. It took twenty trials before the simple phrase was correct, and the computer moved on to the next lesson. Her universe narrowed to the voice in the darkness. She forgot about everything except satisfying her demanding critic. Nothing else mattered. Gradually the phrases became longer, and were spoken more rapidly. Her tutor’s speech became more slurred. Idiomatic expressions peculiar to Honduras were introduced. She lost track of time; it no longer existed. Only the voice, and the pains…

After six hours Ibarra and Ibá¡á±ez rejoined the technician who had remained to monitor Pansy’s ordeal. Ibá¡á±ez asked the technician, “ ¿Any problems, Paco?” He told them that she had done well, with no unforeseen difficulties. Ibá¡á±ez nodded, and the two doctors watched for a while. Ibarra pointed out that her pronunciation was much improved. “I can’t detect any trace of an accent now. After this short time, she sounds almost as if she’d been born here.”

“Yes indeed,” his colleague responded. “ ¿But will she retain her lesson?”

“I expect so. Her improvement’s been constant over the entire length of time. And for the last five hours, none of her lessons have gone into her long-term memory. Not her conscious memory, anyway. My drug completely blocked her hippocampus, and she’s in a never-ending present. She has no way of judging the passage of time.”

“I defer to your judgment, Jesáºs. It still seems odd that she keeps no long-term memory of her lessons, yet she still improves. I don’t deny it,” he admitted as Ibarra opened his mouth. “It’s plain that she’s learning. It just seems strange.”

Ibarra laughed and commented, “You of all people should know what’s going on. She may not remember–not consciously–but her subconscious is learning her lesson quickly and efficiently. It’s your own field. She’s undergoing classic Pavlovian conditioning, as she subconsciously learns to associate English phonemes with pain.”

“She must be getting tired.”

“Indeed. Indeed. But I repeat: she has no sense of time. And as she becomes exhausted, we’ll give her stimulants to keep her going.” Ibarra glanced at Pansy in the other room. “In fact, her exhaustion helps us. Her use of Spanish phonemes shouldn’t depend on her alertness. It has to be ingrained. Automatic.” He turned to his colleague and pointed out, “There are many ways that the mind stores information, Roberto. Conscious memory is the most obvious, but your ‘conditioning’ is equally a form of memory. I’ll make certain she won’t have any recollection of this procedure when she wakes up–but she’ll have learned her lessons thoroughly.”

By evening Pansy was repeating the phrases automatically. Only rarely was she punished, and then mildly, as her departures from her model were slight. At 7 o’clock the training took a different tack. A technician began to ask her questions, and she had to answer in her own words. The computer continued to monitor her responses, and departures from a Honduran peasant standard were treated as before. At first her pronunciation tended to revert slightly, but it took only a short time before her answers were indistinguishable from those of a native speaker–in particular, a campesina native to the Caribbean slope of Honduras. Shortly before midnight the chip in her brain was used to knock her out, and she was sedated.

Ibá¡á±ez liked the results. “I think our collaboration will prove profitable. The don will be pleased.”

Ibarra shook his head. “Don’t celebrate yet. We don’t know how well she’ll retain all this.” Then he smiled. “But I admit, the prognosis is favorable. During the next couple of days we’ll repeat the process. We’ll work on her pronunciation, but she’ll also pick up more local idioms and some lower-class usages. In particular, well suppress tuteo Spanish in favor of the voseo version. Doctor Ortiz will monitor her.”

“Pansy’s Spanish is already remarkably good. I didn’t think it was possible to acquire such a command of a foreign language after such a short time.”

“OrdinariIy not. The difficulty for an adult is that actions and objects and such–referents, the linguists call them–already have a tag attached, in the first language, and at best the new words and grammar of a new language have a second-order status. They don’t compete effectively against the originals. That’s why young children learn a language so easily–humans are wired for language, for attaching those linguistic tags, and there’s nothing blocking the new tag. With Pansy, we’ve been erasing the English, and the Spanish word or phrase becomes the primary tag, the one the linguistic area of the brain imprints automatically.” Ibarra covered his mouth as he yawned. “I’m afraid our process will never become popular as a way to learn a second language, though–the new language isn’t a ‘second language’ at all, but a replacement for the first, which is lost. Lost completely, if the process is to be maximally effective.”

Pulling on his cigarette, Ibá¡á±ez commented, “That hasn’t happened yet. Not with Pansy.”

Ibarra shook his head. “No, it hasn’t. Not yet. But when we’re done with this session, we’ll erase a lot more of it. Next month, after she has her baby, we’ll repeat the treatment two or three more times, to make sure it’s completely effective. We can’t get it all–not every word–but by the end of the year, when we’re finished, she’ll be a speaker of Spanish. Peasant Spanish. And only peasant Spanish.”
 
 
October 13
-- Pansy awakened unusually late on Friday morning. She was exhausted. Something had happened to her, she was sure, but she couldn’t tell what it might have been. She arose and lumbered to the door, still in her nightgown. An attendant asked if she was all right, and if she wanted breakfast.

“Yes, I’m OK. And yes, I’m hungry.  ¿But what happened? Someone… Someone done something to me, I think.” The attendant told her to wait, and he’d fetch someone who could answer her questions.

Her doctors showed up in five minutes. She recognized them and asked again, “ ¿Wha…what happened?  ¿What you done to me? You done something,  ¿didn’t you?”

Ibá¡á±ez answered her. “You’re right, Seá±orita, we did. We carried out an experiment while you slept. But don’t worry your pretty little head. It’s over, and we didn’t hurt you.”

She repeated, “ ¿What you done to me now?  ¿What did you steal from me?”

“Not much. We gave you something. You speak Spanish like a native now, Seá±orita.”

Ibarra joined in. “You’ve just had the most efficient language course ever devised.”

Pansy was confused. “But… but I spoke Spanish. I got it the last couple of years. You didn’t have to teach me nothing.”

Ibarra turned to his colleague. “She doesn’t even notice.  ¡But just listen to her!”

Ibá¡á±ez nodded and extended his hand for a ceremonial handshake. “ ¡Yes, we succeeded completely! At least for the moment. We still need to see if the effect is permanent.” He turned back to Pansy and explained, “Yes, you spoke Spanish, Seá±orita, but you still kept a heavy accent. We gave you a biography that accounted for that accent, but it was clear that you weren’t really a hondureá±a. Now your voice fits your appearance much better. It’s not a big change–we worked on your accent before this, and it was pretty good–but now it’s even better, with only a trace of English. You sound almost like a real Honduran girl, born and bred; and with time, even the trace of an accent should fade.”

She shook her head. “No. No, I sound the same like I did before. I don’t talk no different.”

Ibarra shrugged. “Whatever you say, Seá±orita.” He smiled, clearly delighted, and told her, “I think we’ve nearly completed Don Pablo’s charge to us, Pansy. In many ways you’re a better example of a traditional campesina than most of the women on the street here.”

She refused to give him the satisfaction of arguing with him, but excused herself and went to the clinic lunchroom for her breakfast. She thought about what he’d said, but finally decided it didn’t matter. If she spoke better Spanish, then it would only assist her in escaping later.
 
 
October 16
-- Isabel CantẠhad checked and double-checked. Pansy’s tale seemed true, or at least those parts susceptible of proof. Cheek and skin cells were female, but a nerve cell checked as male, with a Y chromosome. Uterine cells gave a negative maternity test. Surgical scars on her abdomen further corroborated her claim, as did barely-visible scars on her throat and face. Discreet inquiries had revealed that “Pansy Baca” had no past. She had heard rumors of research at the Institute for the Mind that were consistent with Pansy’s memory problems. What to do? From one point of view–Don Pablo’s of course–Susana Herrera’s unnamed seducer had suffered a well-earned punishment. “Sauce for the goose” and all that; or put another way, the gander had been goosed. On the other hand, Susana had recovered, and by all accounts she was a willful girl who probably hadn’t required much seduction. The penalty was horrible and permanent: not just a forced change of sex (she considered that almost appropriate, if harsh), but the loss of identity. Not simply her name and nationality, the doctor thought; that was a necessary result of the physical changes. It was the loss of her personality, of her past, of her education and skills.

She decided to talk with Pansy that afternoon. A routine checkup was scheduled, and Weiss and Herná¡ndez wouldn’t be there.

Pansy wasn’t in her room when CantẠarrived, but she waddled in after a few minutes. Catching sight of the doctor, she complained, “Doctor, I feel miserable. My back aches; I ain’t sleeping good; my bladder leaks; and I can’t hardly walk. And the baby keeps kicking me.”

The obstetrician laughed heartlessly. “Problems you never expected to face. I’m sure Susana Herrera had the same difficulties. Yes, I checked your story as much as I could, and I believe you. Welcome to the world of women, Seá±or. Now, let me check you out. Come with me; you know the routine.”

Pansy received the usual tests. The pregnancy was still normal, she was told. The baby, and belly, were a little large, even for the ninth month, but not outside the norm. The baby was well positioned for delivery, and had descended on schedule. The pelvic opening seemed to be adequate, thanks to Weiss.

“OK, Pansy, you can dress now. Everything’s in order. Let’s go back to your room and talk. We have a fair bit to discuss.” Pansy obediently climbed into her undies, pulled on her pink maternity gown, and followed the doctor.

In the room, Pansy lumbered to her bed and climbed in, sighing gratefully as she got off her feet. “Doctor, I’ll be so glad when this is over. I ain’t never going to go through it again.”

CantẠraised her eyebrows. “You may change your mind. Many women have more than one child.”

“Not me. I didn’t choose to have this one.  ¡Never again!”

“We’ll see, won’t we. But anyhow, I’ll tell you that, at least so far, there are no problems. Now I’ll tell you about the delivery. You may be less familiar with these matters than most women.”

“If you trying to hint that I’m ignorant, Doctor, you are right. Go on, tell me.”

“I think we’ll try for a natural delivery. You’re strong, you’re healthy, and everything’s normal. I’ll treat you exactly as I would any other pregnant woman.”

“If I’m normal, I don’t know what would be considered odd.”

Doctor CantẠsmiled slightly. “You have a point. Still, your unusual history aside, your pregnancy is normal. My congratulations to Doctor Weiss and his staff. They may be completely without medical ethics, but they did an incredible job on your body. Your pelvis must’ve been entirely rebuilt. Your pelvic bones are actually wider than those of most women, and I think you’ll probably give birth more easily than most. However, your education as a girl was sadly lacking, and it’s plain I need to let you know what’s going to happen to you. Having a baby isn’t much fun, I’m afraid.”

Pansy sighed. “I heard something like that. Go on.”

“In a week or two, labor should begin. You’ll feel cramping pains in your belly. They’ll be far apart at first, and not too bad. That’ll be your uterine muscles pushing your baby out. With any luck we’ll have plenty of time to prepare for her arrival.”

“ ¿Then what?”

“Then we give you a light anesthetic to blunt the pain. Labor hurts. It hurts a lot, I’m afraid. We’ll spare you the worst, but we want you awake.”

“ ¿Why?”

“You have to help. You bear down with your belly muscles, to push the baby out. Don’t worry, we’ll be here to help you. And women have been doing this for millions of years with no help at all.”

“If I remember right, it was one of the biggest causes of death, too.  ¿And what are the statistics for natural-born men giving birth safely?”

“We won’t let anything happen to you. Today it’s comparatively safe.”

“ ¿Compared to what?  ¿Russian roulette?”

Annoyed, Doctor CantẠcommented, “I’ve never lost a mother. Maybe I should leave you without anesthetic so you can keep track better. You can watch, to see that I do everything right.”

Hastily Pansy assured her, “I trust you, Doctor. I ain’t going to give no trouble. I’ll take whatever anesthetic you got.”

“You’d better. Now, let’s discuss your identity problem. I’ve made some inquiries, and you seem to have told me the truth. I agree, your punishment was barbaric, and I’m willing to help, to some extent. That is, I’ll try to find out who you were.” She took out a notebook. “Tell me what you recall. Or think you recall.”

Pansy told her about Seá±or Cualquiera’s childhood in Oklamo, his love of orchids, his courses at Oklamo State. They discussed science, and Pansy discovered her losses in chemistry and math. Little was left, but it was enough to persuade the doctor that Pansy had received a technical education. Pansy cursed José and Doctor Ibarra thoroughly, explained that she had been robbed of more than she had known, and then told the doctor about her family. Briefly they spoke in English, of which Doctor CantẠhad a fair command.

“No espeak… espeak inglés a beeg time, Doctor,” Pansy said. Her accent was strong, and her speech hesitant. “For a… a beeg time now no m…meeted hombres what espeak inglés. Theenk es posible they played weeth mi head and taked some inglés. Es bad… badder now.” She frowned; the words came with difficulty. “Mis libros son todos espaá±oles ahora, even before taked away mis… mis…– ¿cá³mo se dice?–mis read and write. No can do estas cosas ahora, like telled you.” She shook her head; she couldn’t find the English words.

Doctor CantẠnodded. “Yes, I am afraid that they played with your head, Pansy. Your English is badder… worse as mine now. Your Spanish is very better.” She paused in surprise. “In fact, your Spanish is surprisingly good.” If low-class, she thought. How had the doctors done this to Pansy, in just ten days? “But go on. Tell me more.”

Back in Spanish, Pansy told about summer vacations, friends and relatives, the job in Atlanta, and even the affair with Celia. “The don knows about Celia. I think he’s avenging her too.” She went on to Seá±or Cualquiera’s arrival in Honduras, the job in La Ceiba, his affair with Susana, their quarrel, his flight to Siguatepeque, the new affair with Petunia, and his capture and slow transformation to a woman.

At last Doctor CantẠstood up. “I understand why Don Pablo did this to you. I don’t approve–it’s horrible, and far beyond any reasonable punishment–but I understand. I’ll still help, but only because I think there’s hope for you in your new life, and because there’s no chance that you’ll return to your old ways. As a man you were a disaster.”

“Thank you, Doctor. I told about Seá±or Cualquiera because you was going to find out anyway if you do any investigation; and if you don’t, there ain’t no hope for me. But I ain’t very hopeful that you’ll succeed; Don Pablo done too thorough a job.”

The doctor looked Pansy up and down. A thorough job in all truth! Including the contents of Pansy’s head, it appeared. “Indeed. I’ll see you again soon, Pansy.”

Part 15, The Mother of a Beautiful Baby Girl

George refused to accept the responsibilities of fatherhood, so now he'll have to learn to deal with becoming a mother.
 
 
October 30
-- Doctor CantẠwas correct concerning the arrival of Pansy’s baby. Pansy felt slight cramps in her belly early on the 30th. The pain was unfamiliar, as though it was in a new set of muscles. She called the doctor, who was still in the clinic. “I think my baby’s coming,” Pansy told her. “Either that or someone kicked me hard in the belly.  ¡It hurt, Doctor!”

“It’ll hurt more, I’m afraid. It’ll be a while yet before you go into serious labor. At least the baby’s had the decency to arrive at a reasonable hour.” She chuckled and told Pansy, “I’ve heard some women say that if men had to have the babies, they’d be a lot more careful. Well, your Seá±or Cualquiera’s about to get a belated education.”

The next contraction came half an hour later, then twenty-two minutes, then twenty-seven. Gradually the intervals shortened and the pain became more severe. Pansy received the light anesthetic she had been promised. Soon she was sweating profusely.

Ten hours later she was still on the delivery table, and suffering more than she had imagined possible. “ ¡Aaaaahhhyyy!  ¡Aaagh!  ¡Aaa! Ooooh! Doctor,  ¿are you cer… certain that was an… an anes… anesthetic?  ¡I’m getting some…  ¡s… oooOOooh! some real pain!” She was getting hoarse from crying out.

A nurse put a cool cloth on her brow. She felt a sudden wetness around her crotch. The nurse announced, “Her waters have broken, Doctor.”

“ ¡Good! It won’t be long now, Pansy. Here, chew on this.” She gave Pansy a leather-covered rubber rod. “When the pain becomes too bad, bear down on your stomach muscles.  ¡Push!  ¡Push your child out!”

When the pain gets too bad? “Doctor, it… already feels…” Her face contorted. Conscious thought fled as the pain swept over her. “ ¡Aaaiiiiyyyy!  ¡Aahh!  ¡Aaaaaiih!  ¡Aaahh!”

“ ¡Chew!  ¡Chew on the rod, Pansy!  ¡And bear down!  ¡Push!  ¡Push as hard as you can!”

She pushed. It felt as though her guts were being torn out. Even after being warned, she had had no idea of the agony involved in having a baby.

CantẠrepeated, “ ¡Bear down!  ¡Bear down!” Pansy was near exhaustion with pain and effort, but she obeyed, pushing with all her strength. Suddenly it felt as though she were passing a watermelon. The doctor cried, “ ¡Here we go!” Pansy gave a last effort and felt the baby slide out to meet the world. The pressure and pain were suddenly only memories. As she lay there reveling in the lack of pain, she heard a slap and a thin squall. CantẠcame around to her head and showed her a tiny infant, wrinkled and red. “Your daughter, Pansy. You’re a mother now.” Pansy sat up, and the nurse quickly rearranged her pillows. She reached out and took the baby–her baby.

The nurse beamed at her. “She’s a beautiful baby, Seá±ora.” Pansy thought cynically, “ ¿What baby ain’t?” but she found herself agreeing despite her cynicism. Her daughter’s eyes were screwed shut, and her face looked like a red prune. Still, as Pansy held her, she had to agree: it was a beautiful little prune. Cantáº, who had left for a moment, returned with Herná¡ndez and Weiss. As Pansy held the infant, she began to wave her miniature arms. The obstetrician told Pansy, “You can rest now. It’ll be a while before she needs to be fed, and you had a hard time. You won’t need to breastfeed her for a day or so.” Herná¡ndez and Weiss both had a proprietary look as she lay there exhausted, and Pansy realized they were proud of the success of their project. Their masterpiece–her body–had passed its final test. She cursed them both silently.

Later, when she regained her strength, she told them bitterly, “ ¿Les gusta a ustedes, Seá±ores? Tus papers can writed now. Es posible yo debo ser agradecida que usted maked tu job bien–o brillantamente–but weeth a choice, prefiero leer about eet. Si me permiten leer.”

Weiss had trouble understanding her, but Herná¡ndez replied, “I know you’re not happy about this, Pansy, but it could’ve been worse. Look at the good side. You have a good healthy body, and several excellent doctors have a vested interest in keeping you healthy. Now,  ¿what are you going to name your baby?”

Pansy gave him a blank look; she hadn’t thought about it. “Ask me later. I’ll pick a name later today,” she finally told him. After a while she decided to call the baby Lilia.

Elsewhere, Doctor Ibá¡á±ez was checking his console. Pansy had borne her child, and now it was up to him to keep his promise to Don Pablo: that she’d be devoted to the infant. Ever since she had been working for Susana Herrera, he had been strengthening her emotional ties to Josecito, and that effort had succeeded. Now, thanks to Weiss, her new reproductive system was causing her brain to flood her body with oxytocin and endorphins. Even without the doctors’ meddling, she would probably find herself experiencing normal maternal love. But they weren’t leaving anything to chance. Pansy would become a devoted mother–undoubtedly against all her expectations and wishes.

After listening to Pansy on her latest visit, Doctor CantẠwas sure that Don Pablo’s project was indefensible. The destruction of the original persona, whatever the offense, amounted to psychic murder. But what to do?
 
 
November 3
-- Four days later Pansy left the clinic. She had already learned her first lesson about newborns: they need to be fed every three or four hours, and they need to be changed equally often. A complete night’s sleep was impossible, and would remain so for several months. Lilia demanded at least two feedings during the wee hours. But the task wasn’t a burden. In fact, Pansy delighted in nursing her daughter. When the baby first nuzzled her nipple, Pansy felt a stir of arousal, but it quickly faded as the infant suckled, to be replaced by intense pleasure. Objectively she marveled at how much she adored the infant, in spite of her disrupted sleep.

Doctor CantẠspoke to her shortly before she was discharged. The doctor smiled as she told Pansy, “I’ve got good news. I found your friend Petunia. She lives on a ranch not far from you. You’re going to be near La Libertad,  ¿true?” Pansy nodded. “Well, she’s married now, as you guessed. Her name’s Petunia Baca de Sáºlivan. The ranch is off the east side of the Comayagua - La Libertad road, about fifteen kilometers north of Comayagua, and a few kilometers south of San Jerá³nimo. The ranch is called Já­caro Grande, and there’s an old wooden sign along the road, pointing to it. I’ll see what else I can find out, Pansy, but you were right: your old name’s pretty well erased. I’ll still do what I can, but don’t expect too much.”

Elated, Pansy hugged the startled doctor. “ ¡Thank you!  ¡You already done a big favor for me! Petunia’s the only real friend I got, and I was afraid I lost her for good. I’m in your debt, Doctor.”

A little later Pansy waited in the vestibule of the clinic, dressed again in a green floral-print dress of normal proportions. Her waist was back to an approximation of its dimensions of a year ago. Lilia slept in her arms. Doctor CantẠhad told her that she’d be picked up, and she wasn’t surprised when Susana appeared. “ ¡Ah, Pansy!  ¡There you are! And your new baby.” She came up to Pansy with a smile on her face and asked, “ ¿May I see her?” Pansy nodded, and Susana turned back the blanket sheltering the infant’s face from the sun, fierce even in mid-autumn. “ ¡Qué bonita la niá±ita!  ¿What’s her name?”

“Lilia. Lilia Mará­a Baca. I considered naming her after my mother, but I decided not to.”

“ ¿Why not? Certainly you could name her whatever you liked.”

Pansy looked carefully at her mistress, but the question seemed innocent. Sighing, Pansy reminded her that the doctors had messed with her memories, and she was no longer certain that she knew her parents’ correct names. “You got to know something about that, Seá±ora. A lot of my past is gone, just like you told me. That’s just one of a long list of losses.”

Susana nodded. “Yes, I knew that. The losses don’t matter, though. You have what you need for your new life.” She paused, then added, “You know, little Lilia could be a problem. You have a baby, but no husband.” Pansy began to protest, but Susana forestalled her. “I know, it wasn’t your fault. Still, you can hardly give people the real explanation,  ¿can you?  ¿You were working as a whore, and Lilia was a byproduct?” Again Pansy didn’t have a chance to get a word in. “That’s still not what you want to tell people.” Pansy shook her head resentfully. “Well, here’s the solution. You can claim you’re a widow, and Lilia’ll be legitimate. I won’t say different–I want a respectable woman raising my child. Now let’s head back home. It’s a long drive, so we’d better get started.” She noted the change in Pansy’s Spanish but she didn’t comment. Her maid’s speech was an odd mixture. In some ways Pansy sounded like a native-born San Pedro campesina, with a lower-class slur to her speech and only a trace of an English accent, but her vocabulary and some of her phrasing reminded Susana of the educated norteamericano she had once loved, but now despised.

They followed the familiar route out of the Sula Valley flatlands, across the mountains, and down into the Comayagua Valley. Turning north on the gravel road from Comayagua, they drove through dry acacia and cactus scrub. At the Las Rosas turnoff they continued straight north along the main road. Pansy recalled that Petunia lived nearby, about fifteen kilometers from Comayagua. When she saw a weathered sign pointing up a side road at about the right distance, she guessed it might be Já­caro Grande, even though she couldn’t read it. “That’s where Petunia is,” she told herself. “I’ll find her as soon as I can.”

The valley grew more verdant as they drove. About fifty kilometers from Comayagua they came to La Libertad, a small coffee-market town. It might have been a tourist draw as a well-preserved colonial town, with cobblestone streets, old church, wrought-iron bars on windows and doors, and flowers everywhere, set in a bowl of green hills. There was little sign of the twentieth century except for the ubiquitous Coca-Cola signs. Of course, the remoteness that had preserved it had also prevented its development for tourists. Limited access via a dead-end gravel road, a lack of amenities, and rutted dirt back streets, dusty now and muddy in the rainy season, were definite drawbacks.

“There’s no electricity here yet,” Susana told Pansy. “When the Cajá³n project was done, we were supposed to get electricity, but the project turned out to be a fiasco. The town has a generator of its own, turned on from 6 to 10 every night. And lots of local fincas have their own generators. Los Ocotes certainly does.”

They left town on a dirt road and crossed the Rá­o Humuya on a wooden suspension bridge. “The local people built this themselves,” Susana noted. “If they left it to the central government in Tegucigalpa, nothing would ever be done here.” After passing through a small village, Ojos de Agua, the road deteriorated as it climbed away from the river. Soon they were in pines again, and they reached their destination only a mile from the village.

Finca Los Ocotes was less grand than Las Rosas, but it seemed comfortable enough. The main house was a rambling affair that had grown haphazardly; part was adobe, part wood, and some was brick. Bananas and papayas grew in front, but the eye was caught by a shrubby grove of early-flowering poinsettias, caught in the slanting rays of the late afternoon sun. The aromas of pine and flowers mixed with the odor of horses and donkeys. Somewhere a rooster crowed halfheartedly, and chickens scratched in the yard.

Pansy and her baby followed Susana into the house. Susana called, “ ¡Marta!  ¡I’m back!  ¡Come meet my maid!” To Pansy she said, “This can be a fresh start for you. No one here knows you as anything other than my maid–and I won’t tell them.” A short stout woman in a black uniform appeared, her jet-black braids swinging behind her. She appeared to be in her forties, and had a broad Indian face. “ ¡Susana!” she exclaimed: “I’m glad you’re back. Josecito’s been a nuisance, into everything. He’s a happy child, not a whiner, but he’s stubborn. Oh, Seá±ora,” she said as she caught sight of Pansy. “You’re the new maid. I’ll gladly turn Josecito over to you. I’m Marta Ruá­z, the cook and, until now, the maid. You’ll be a big help, I’m sure. I cook and do some cleaning, but it’s been difficult with a child to watch–I really need some assistance. I see you have a little one too. Seá±ora Arias told me about her. It’s good that you have something left of your poor dead husband.” She came to Pansy for a closer look. “Aaaayyyy, such a little beauty she is.  ¿May I hold her?”

Pansy smiled–she couldn’t help it–and gave Lilia to the woman, who held her expertly and chucked her under the chin. At least the finca seemed like a decent place, Pansy thought. She thought she could tolerate a few months here, until she succeeded in recovering from her present low status and escaping to a better life. Other women had, and so could she.

Susana smiled too, and called, “Pansy, leave Lilia with Marta, and I’ll show you around. My husband Felipe’s out with his mayordomo ’Fredo, herding cattle. They’ll be back for dinner soon. You’ll meet them then.” Pansy felt oddly reluctant to leave her infant with the older woman, but she looked competent, so she obeyed and followed Susana to a small back room. “This is your room.” A cradle and a crib were there, along with a brass bed, a dressing table, a set of drawers, a chair, and a table. Her clothes were already hanging in the closet. Her books were gone, but she didn’t miss them; she hadn’t been able to read for months. A radio/CD player sat on the table. From the window she saw the stables, with open pine forest in the background. “This is all ready for Josecito, and of course for your baby– ¿I think you told me she’s Lilia?” Pansy confirmed it, and Susana went on: “You’ll be responsible for them here. Otherwise you’ll serve at the table while Marta cooks, and then you’ll wash the dishes. In truth, Pansy, you’ll never be the cook she is. Also, you’ll do sewing for the household–you’re very good at that–and you’ll help with cleaning. Marta’s senior to you, and you’ll help with whatever she needs, as long as it doesn’t interfere with caring for the babies. That’s your main task–what I’m hiring you for. As before, you’ll have Thursdays off, except for the babies.” She looked directly at her maid and told her, “I hope you like Los Ocotes, Pansy; but like it or not, I expect this’ll be your home for the rest of your life. Maybe you’ll find a husband here, and then you’ll move in with him, but you’ll still be part of my household. You’ll find it’s a good place to raise your children.” Pansy didn’t reply and looked away; she didn’t intend to remain, but she didn’t want to fight with her mistress. Susana raised an eyebrow at her maid’s reticence and asked with a half smile, “ ¿Well?  ¿What do you think of your new home? It’s not quite what you were used to in Atlanta, I know, but then, you aren’t quite what you were used to in Atlanta either,  ¿are you?” Flushing, Pansy pointed out that she had never agreed to stay forever. Susana nodded. “I know, I know. It’ll be a while before you realize how difficult it’ll be to leave–although I won’t try to trap you here. Father promised you’d be free to go, and I’ll honor that commitment. Now come meet Catalina.”

Catalina, or ’Lina, was Marta’s eleven-year-old daughter. She was babysitting Josecito in a nearby cottage where Marta lived with her husband Alfredo, the finca manager. “’Lina, this is Pansy Baca, my maid. She’ll be taking care of Josecito from now on. She just had her own baby, a beautiful little girl.”

The girl was slender and pretty, with large dark eyes, dark brown curls, and her mother’s high cheekbones. Seá±or Cualquiera might once have thought her dark-skinned, but now she was much lighter than Pansy herself. ’Lina greeted Pansy politely, telling her, “I’m pleased to meet you, Seá±ora Baca. You have such pretty eyes.  ¿Does your baby have eyes like yours?  ¿Can I go see her now?”

Susana looked at Pansy and shrugged, and Pansy answered, “ ¿Why not? Come on, ’Lina. And please, call me Pansy.” She gathered up Josecito and they headed back to Pansy’s room.

’Lina oohed and aahed over the infant, now three days old, and asked to pick her up. Pansy was pleased by her interest; little girls were the same the world over. She reminded her of her older brother’s daughter Jenny back in Dallas–or Ames? No matter. “Not now, ’Lina, she’s sleeping. Later, maybe.” Then a bell rang and Susana told her, “The men are here. Supper’s ready. For now you and Josecito’ll eat with us. Tomorrow’s time enough to begin your duties.”

Pansy was introduced to Felipe Arias and Alfredo Ruá­z at the dinner table. Both were burly men in their mid-twenties. Felipe was clean-shaven, and ’Fredo wore a thick black mustache. Pansy blushed and giggled as she realized both were eyeing her appreciatively.

Dinner was beef with rice, beans, and chayote, a vegetable with which Pansy wasn’t familiar. It was something like squash, and she decided she liked it. Josecito, in a high chair next to Pansy, ate a small dish of Gerber’s strained baby food. Pansy spooned it into him; when he was full, he spat it back out. After supper Pansy excused herself and took Josecito–her son, she reminded herself–back to her room. She put Josecito on the floor with large brightly-colored wooden toys. He promptly picked one up and began to chew on it. Lilia had awakened, and was fretting with hunger. Pansy had nursed her that morning, and twice on the way to Los Ocotes. Now she fed her again, burped her, and laid her in the cradle. Lilia gurgled for a while, then fell asleep. Lying in bed, Pansy contemplated her new home. It seemed to be a cheerful place, one where a campesina could be happy; but she promised herself it was only a temporary stop. In fifty-one days she’d be free, and then she’d find a way out. She didn’t know how she’d do it–maybe an advantageous marriage?–but she would escape.
 
 
November 20
-- Pansy quickly fell into a routine. Rise before dawn, shower in cold water, don her uniform, nurse Lilia, and help Marta with breakfast. It was the same each morning: ham and fried eggs (a sausage omelet for Susana), fried plantain, buttered toast, orange juice, and strong coffee. She fetched Susana’s clothes, helped her dress, and brushed her hair. Seá±ora Arias ate with the men, then Pansy ate with Marta, ’Lina, and Josecito. The finca workers, from Ojos de Agua, arrived after breakfast in an old truck that served as a local bus. ’Fredo and Felipe assigned tasks, then began their own work. Pansy cleaned up, then tended Lilia and Josecito while doing chores. In particular, she was responsible for the laundry and sewing for the finca. She also helped with preparing supper, served it, then ate with Marta and ’Lina again. Susana often took a hot bath before bed; Pansy washed and dried her, and sometimes gave her a back rub. She was usually in bed by 9 PM, but she had to get up at least twice during the night to nurse Lilia. By now she hardly awakened, nursing the baby and changing her almost in her sleep.

The finca was quite large. It included coffee groves, a commercial cattle operation, and other livestock for consumption on the finca. Vegetable gardens supplied most of their needs. Felipe also owned a feed-and-grain business in Comayagua, and a general store in La Libertad. Susana had been put in charge of the general store, Felipe spent most of his time with the Comayagua business, and the day-to-day operation of the finca was left in the hands of ’Fredo. Marta ran the household, and under her Pansy was responsible for the children. Catalina left every weekday for school in La Libertad. Today as on every Sunday, everyone on the finca, including Pansy with the babies, left in the morning for Mass at the church in La Libertad. The old familiar rituals of the Catholic service came back easily to Pansy, even in this different setting and different language. The hymns were unfamiliar, but she sang along anyway in her high and sweet, if weak, soprano. It felt strange to be hitting all those high notes so easily.

As a supposed widow, Pansy associated almost entirely with women. She saw a great deal of Susana and Marta, of course, but casual social contact was also limited to the women of the finca. At first the constant talk of husbands and children, varied with details concerning pregnancies and housework, repelled her, but she quickly became accustomed to it. Starved for companionship, she found herself participating in the conversations. She told herself that she could tolerate it until she found a way to escape, and that the end of her captivity was quickly approaching (ignoring the fact that she had found no practical alternative to continued service for Seá±ora Arias).

Pansy asked Susana about Petunia, but her mistress didn’t know anything about her. “You’ll be meeting with my father again soon, Pansy,” she promised: “He’ll want to talk with you before you’re officially freed. In fact, I think he wants to see you before the end of next month. You can ask him then.”
 
 
December 7
-- Pansy and her baby needed to return to the clinic for a physical. Susana offered to bring them, and they left shortly after breakfast. The women needed to dash to the car, running through a sudden shower that had come up. Lilia woke up and started to cry, but when Pansy reached the car and cuddled her, she subsided. As Susana started down the rutted track to the Comayagua valley, she remarked, “Lilita’s a good baby. Believe me, I’ve seen some that never seem to stop crying. Josecito’s not bad either.” Pansy agreed, and added that she’d never expected to have to worry about caring for a baby. Susana chuckled: “That was your big problem, Pansy. I recall your attitude then. ‘It’s a woman’s job,’ you said. I suppose you were right, if it’s any comfort.” Stung by the remark, Pansy didn’t answer. Susana noted her silence and went on: “Oh, I didn’t mean to attack you, Pansy–although I admit, I do harass you more than I should. I’ve even come to agree, a little anyway. Like my father said, your crime wasn’t your opinions, but your irresponsibility. And I think you’re cured. Sometimes I have trouble seeing you as ‘Seá±or Cualquiera’ at all, even if I know he’s still there, at least partly. It’s not just the new body, face, and voice–although all those are certainly very different. It’s the new personality. I don’t know how they did it, but Pansy is much nicer than Seá±or Cualquiera.”

Pansy gave a humorless laugh. “That’s a mixed compliment if I ever heard one, Seá±ora. On the whole I preferred the original version. The book was much better than the movie.”

“Now that was a bit of vintage Seá±or Cualquiera right there. Seriously, Pansy, you still have a lot of him left. The wit, the intelligence, the fund of knowledge–or at least a little of it.”

“A lot of good it does me as a maid. Seá±ora, I learned to turn my mind off. It’s how I stay sane.” She looked down at Lilia, contentedly dozing in her lap. “Anyway, I ain’t returning to my old identity, that’s obvious. I will escape from being a maid. I want to teach. To do that I need papers. I got to prove that I’m really Seá±or Cualquiera. To do that I got to know who he was. Also, I want to be able to contact my family, of course.”

Susana carefully guided her car around a large puddle, then pointed it down a steep rocky pitch. When her attention was free she noted, “You’re wrong, Pansy. If you want to teach–here or in the U.S.–the last thing you should do is claim Seá±or Cualquiera’s credentials. If people knew your history, you’d be a carnival freak. They’d come to stare at you, not to hire you.  ¡Think!  ¿Would you hire a woman who’d once been a man?  ¿A man who had seduced and abandoned two pregnant girlfriends, and then become pregnant himself? No, Pansy, that’s foolish. If you must have papers–credentials–then you need to re-establish them in your own name. If you still have enough education, that is, and that’s doubtful.” She gave her maid a sidelong glance. “For example, there’s the minor problem of your illiteracy–and I think your math is about as bad. Father did his best to see that you’d have to live by Seá±or Cualquiera’s opinion that a woman should stay home and tend to her man and her children, and I think his best was pretty effective. Anyway, if you could recover some education, you wouldn’t need the credentials. With them, but without my father’s approval, you won’t be able to do a thing; without credentials, and with his approval, you could teach. There’d be no problem.”

Pansy thought about it. Seá±ora Arias’ words seemed realistic. She still wanted Seá±or Cualquiera’s name and history, and she told that to her mistress. “I ain’t going be happy with my past, my family, taken from me. You may be right about the teaching. And even if I know my name, I still ain’t going to be able to escape.” Her voice was resigned. “There ain’t no way I can ever escape. You tell me that often enough, and it’s true. So please, Seá±ora, tell me who I was.”

“Maybe I’ll tell you some day, Pansy, but not now. I want Seá±or Cualquiera dead. Dead, buried, and forgotten, just as he is now.” She maneuvered the Nissan around a corner, avoiding a stray cow, and the road leveled out as they headed for the junction with the La Libertad road.

“You know I’ll keep trying.”

“Of course. I won’t stop you and neither will Father.”

“Very well, Seá±ora.  ¿What about teaching? Will you help me regain my literacy? And if I succeed,  ¿will you help me get new credentials in my own name?  ¿Or will you put in a word with your father, so I can teach without the credentials?”

“No. Not now. I prefer you as a maid. I still see Seá±or Cualquiera in you. I like to see Seá±or Cualquiera changing a diaper or breastfeeding an infant. I enjoy the sight of Seá±or Cualquiera trapped in a dress that shows off his sexy figure. I want to see him mooning over some husky young campesino with lots of testosterone and no brains. I want to watch him as he gradually comes to realize that he’s unable to resist the demands of his pretty new body, even knowing that he was once a man, that he once held a pretty girl in his arms. I’ll see you pregnant again, Pansy. Then maybe I’ll tell you who you used to be, once upon a time.” Suddenly she realized that she’d gradually gotten louder, and that the last sentence had been screamed at Pansy, who sat with her now-awakened daughter.

Pansy sat quietly, her face blank. Lilia began to cry, and Pansy unbuttoned her dress to nurse her. Glancing at her mistress, she remarked with no apparent emotion, “Get a good look, Seá±ora. This was first on your list,  ¿true?”

Ashamed, Susana lowered her voice. “I’m sorry, Pansy, really I am. I apologize. You aren’t Seá±or Cualquiera, you really aren’t, not any more. You’re really a campesina. Or mostly a campesina, even if some remnant of him survives. I will help you, eventually–but not now, not yet. I do need help with Josecito, and you’re it. And anyway, your dream isn’t realistic. Like I said, my father did a good job on you. You’ll never succeed.” She turned south in La Libertad and accelerated on the gravel, sending muddy water flying to the sides. “Please, don’t push me. When you do, I see him. And I want to gloat as I see him trapped as I was trapped. As I am trapped.” She forced herself to remain calm. “If I see Seá±or Cualquiera returning, I’ll make his life less than pleasant; but I’ll treat Pansy Baca well, and I’ll see that others do too. Your life hasn’t been too hard,  ¿has it? For a campesina, of course.”

Susana was trapped? She had a good husband and a wonderful life! But arguing with her was a bad idea. “No, Seá±ora. Believe me, my life at Los Ocotes is better than my life at Golondrinas. If… But never mind. I’ll do like you want. I’ll keep trying, though.”

The weather improved as they passed through Comayagua, but it deteriorated again as they turned north across the highlands. Clouds and drizzle hid Cerro Santa Bá¡rbara as they passed Lake Yojoa, and the steady rain of a norther drummed against the windshield as they descended into the Sula Valley. Pansy was sunk deep into depression by the time they turned into the old estate grounds where the clinic was located. Her libido had become more insistent recently, as José had predicted, and Pansy was finding it difficult to reject the tentative overtures of several men who worked for the finca. They were simple campesinos, and such a liaison would condemn her to a menial position for the rest of her life. Suppression of her sex drive was difficult, and her old life as Seá±or Cualquiera hadn’t given her practice in self-denial. Lilia was cranky too. She’d been fed, and she was dry, but Pansy’s mood seemed to have infected her, and she had been whimpering irritably since Lake Yojoa.

Susana parked near the rear door. Pansy held Lilia with one arm and an umbrella with her other. Susana opened the clinic door for her, and they entered. A bored clerk registered her arrival and made a telephone call. Doctor Ibá¡á±ez soon appeared.

“ ¡Pansy, our prize patient!” Ibá¡á±ez exclaimed. “ ¡I’m delighted to see you! Doctor CantẠwill arrive in a minute or two. In the meantime,  ¿how do you feel?  ¿Do you have any physical complaints?”

She scowled; she hated him, and all the others who had put her here. Including Seá±or Cualquiera. Especially Seá±or Cualquiera. “No, Doctor, I don’t think so. Please, do what you got to, as quick as you can, and let me go home.”

He nodded. “I’ll test you first. Then Doctor CantẒll be able to check you, and you can return. Believe me, Pansy, we have only your best interests at heart now. You’re invaluable to us.” He motioned to her. “Come upstairs. I won’t take long.” She followed him to an examining room. “I have some tests for you here. I want you to take the Rorschach test again–I know you’re familiar with it, it’s just another version of the one you took before. And I want you to do some word association. I have an IQ test for you too.”

She complied reluctantly. Lilia had dozed off, and she held the baby cradled in one arm as she answered the doctor’s questions. The Rorschach blots were different from the ones she’d seen back in… was it April?–but there were no basic differences. The word association test went quickly. After she finished the IQ test (designed especially for illiterates), he engaged her in apparently idle conversation for a few minutes. Then he knocked her out with the relay, reinforced her peasant Spanish, added some Honduran idioms, and took much of what remained of her English. When she awoke, she left with Lilia. The doctor scanned the results quickly after she was gone. In some ways she seemed to retain some aspects of George’s personality. Most notably, she didn’t accept that her low status was inevitable, retaining the ambition that had driven Seá±or Deon.

Isabel CantẠwas ready when she returned downstairs. “Pansy, come with me, please,” she told her patient. In the examining room she asked Pansy to strip. “ ¿Are there any lactation problems?  ¿Have your periods begun again?  ¿Do you have any physical complaints?”

Pansy answered as best she could while dressing. No, there were no problems with lactation; no, her periods hadn’t resumed; and no, she had no other physical problems. “I been depressed pretty bad over the last few days, but that probably ain’t your concern, Doctor. It seems to me I’d have to be crazy not to be depressed, given my problems.

The doctor laughed and said the depression might truly be her concern. “Not to make light of your real problems, Pansy, but the depression could be physiological in nature. It’s normal to experience depression after childbirth. I’ll give you an antidepressant. Now, speaking of your other problems, I’ve done a little investigating. There are some people around La Ceiba who remember a norteamericano teacher who quit suddenly. One mentioned ‘Jack Pinkerton’, but he wasn’t sure. I’m even less certain.”

Pansy became attentive. This was her first lead. Maybe she could still discover her true identity.

But the doctor went on. “I don’t think it’s correct. I have contacts, and I checked: there’s no record of anyone named ‘Pinkerton’ entering Honduras at the right time.  ¿Do you know precisely when you entered the country?”

Pansy began to think, but Lilia woke and demanded to be fed. Pansy unbuttoned her blouse and gave Lilia her breast, excusing herself: “She’s awfully insistent, Doctor. She ain’t at all reasonable. Anyway, I think it was June, two years ago. Yes, early June–maybe the eighth or ninth.”

“ ¿And where did you enter?  ¿Tegus or San Pedro?”

“It was San Pedro. I’m sure of that.”

Doctor CantẠmade a note. “And you entered to take a teaching job, so that would be recorded on your visa. I’ll try to check the entries for that time. Maybe we can identify you that way.  ¿I assume you wrote to friends and family in the U.S.?”

“Those I could remember. I didn’t get no response. I’d try more, if I could remember their addresses–and if I could write. I think most of those memories were erased or changed.”

“You told me Don Pablo showed you your obituary.  ¿When was that, and which newspaper?”

Pansy frowned. “I think it was April or May last year.  ¿Or March? No, April. The paper was the Atlanta Constitution. It said I drowned at Tela. That is, if my memory’s dependable.”

Smiling, Doctor CantẠassured her, “I think eventually we’ll find your old name.”

The checkup done, Susana left with Pansy and Lilia, and they returned to the car to drive home. It rained all the way back to Los Ocotes. They arrived shortly after dinnertime, and Marta grumbled, but she reheated the meal. Susana invited Pansy to eat with her. “Pansy, please forgive my outburst in the car. Yes, you have a lot of Seá±or Cualquiera left in you, and yes, I hate him. But he’s disappearing. My mind knows that, but my heart hasn’t caught on yet.” She lifted a forkful of reheated beans to her mouth and washed it down with sweet black coffee. “I think I might get to respect the new you, but it’ll take a while. And only after you give up that silly idea that you’re anyone other than Pansy Baca. As long as you think you’re ‘really’ Seá±or Cualquiera, I’ll see him there too, and I’ll want to punish him.”

Pansy replied, “I understand, Seá±ora. Or I try to. If I seem obsessed with my past, then you try losing your identity–your name, your face, your voice, your memories, your very body–everything that makes you who you are–and tell me if you ain’t going to be obsessed.”

“But that’s exactly my point. It’s not your name, your face, all those things. It’s his name, and you’re not him. You’re Pansy-Ann Baca. Accept that you’re just Pansy, a Honduran woman now and forever, and his losses won’t matter to you. I don’t care if Seá±or Cualquiera is obsessed with his loss. He was a cabrá³n, and he deserved to suffer.” She shrugged. “Besides, his losses are permanent. His name, his face, his memories–all those things are gone forever. Finding who he was won’t help you. You’re going to have to make a life with what you–Pansy-Ann Baca–have.”

Although that logic was irrefutable, Pansy refused to accept it–but she didn’t argue further.

After dinner Pansy cleaned the table and helped Marta with the dishes, then went to her room to tend Josecito and Lilia. She hugged both fiercely and kissed them. If nothing else, she had two beautiful children, whom she had come to love. Lilia had been foisted on her as an anchor to keep her from attaining a higher station in life, but she was more than that: she was a wonderful little person in her own right.
 
 
December 12
-- Don Pablo sat at his desk in the library and set aside a report on his cane. The price of sugar had dropped and he was considering switching some of the fields to vegetables, to see if he could increase profits; but the details in his manager’s proposal were too sketchy to allow a firm decision. He wrote a short note asking for clarification of some of the details, then set it aside. The next item for his attention was an envelope from Ibarra. He smiled and leaned back. He hadn’t seen Suzi’s betrayer since May, when Susana had accepted him as her maid, but he had received regular reports from the doctors and from Susana, and his progress was more than acceptable. Two other subjects were in middle stages of transformation, both destined to follow Seá±or Deon into careers as maids; it seemed that Pansy-Ann had greatly impressed prospective clients. Three additional subjects had unfortunately proven to be failures. One had slit his wrists, a second had walked in front of a speeding truck, and the third had become insane. Still, the Ovid project had been more successful than he had expected; and at last, it was beginning to show some financial return, if not yet a profit. He slit open the fat envelope and read:

Don Pablo Herrera E.: Three more subjects are proposed for our San Pedro facility, from the USA, Cuba, and Belarus. The first, convicted of assault, will receive a new face, and his personality is to be altered. Aggressive tendencies will be eliminated, and his libido will be lowered. His personal history will be partly rewritten, and he is to be made suitable for a career as a low-level technician. There should be no problems in meeting the specifications. The second, a Cuban dissident, is more challenging. He has opposed the Cuban government for several years, and jail terms have not dissuaded him. We are to change him into a woman. She is required to have a high libido and a docile personality, –but to retain the memory of who she was. I do not know if we can fulfill these requirements successfully. There is a high risk of suicide, as with the late Seá±ores Ergec and Valadares, or madness, as with Seá±or Petrov. I recommend that we discuss the matter further. Full details on each of the men is enclosed.

As for our first subject: This week we finished the language retraining. As you know, George Deon’s school Spanish is gone, and Pansy has been conditioned to speak the local voseo dialect of Spanish. The conditioning has held quite well, as it has been reinforced by her interaction with local peasants. Her early tendency to regress to English phonemes has been reduced to a very small degree. We have worked diligently to erase any remaining traces of accent, and her Spanish is now barely distinguishable from that spoken by local peasant girls. Also, English vocabulary and grammar have been erased to the extent practicable. Her vocabulary in that language is not entirely gone, as the words are stored in too many places in her brain to permit total eradication; however, what remains is mostly the less common words, as we have taken special pains to root out those words which are most used. The result is that her comprehension of spoken English is virtually nil; only those common words which are direct cognates elicit a positive response, and even then, the different pronunciation renders most of them unintelligible. She knows that her English has been degraded, but because of the lack of opportunity to use it, she does not yet realize how thorough the loss has been.

Pansy’s devotion to her infant has been admirable. We have helped, of course, by linking everything connected with the baby to her pleasure center and creating a positive reinforcement; but it is not certain that this artificial link was necessary. Our earlier efforts at total feminization might have proved sufficient in themselves to induce the strong maternal bond that we now see–after all, most mothers develop this bond with no outside interference. In any case, we predict that this infatuation with her baby will continue, and will limit her life choices in the future to those we have planned for her. Her induced preoccupation with looking attractive, her strong heterosexual orientation (that is, an attraction to men), and her passivity and docility also point in the same direction.

We await your decision concerning final alterations before the subject is released. I suggest that the transformation to a campesina be finished, and all memory of George Deon be erased. This would be the safest course, and the simplest, as “Pansy-Ann” has been given an appropriate past. In any case, we recommend that, after January 1, no more modifications be made, and further, that (as planned) we allow her life to proceed with no interference, so that the stability of the transformation may be evaluated. --Respectfully, Jesáºs Ibarra.

Don Pablo nodded. He hadn’t yet decided what final steps would be taken, but they would be minor. George Deon was submerged in Pansy, his return to dominance was highly improbable, and his punishment was already more than adequate; but he wanted to leave what was left of Seá±or Deon alive but trapped in a campesina body. As for the proposed new subjects, he was inclined to accept them, after pointing out the risks to the respective clients. They would provide practice for his staff of doctors, to improve their expertise. The added data would be useful. And even better, the fees would be substantial, bringing the Ovid Project well into the black.

Part 16, Countdown to Freedom

Pansy settles in with her newborn daughter at Los Ocotes, the finca of Susana and her husband, and adapts well, if unwillingly, to working as Suzi's maid. But will she find a way to escape when the month is over, and she is allowed to go her own way?
 
 
December 18
-- Lilia awakened Pansy earlier than usual, at 5 AM. She was teething–far earlier than she should–and irritable. Pansy changed her daughter’s diaper expertly and nursed her until she was satisfied. Then she showered and dressed in her hated uniform. At least it was Sunday: after breakfast she could change into a pretty dress for the trip into town for Mass. She enjoyed the Sunday trips, and the admiration she received from men. One of them was Hector Trujillo, who had come from Las Rosas when Susana married. Pansy knew he was one of the bastards who had kidnapped Seá±or Pinkerton, almost two years ago–although he clearly didn’t know who she was. Or had been. Against her will, she found him sexually attractive; however, she rejected his advances–partly because of his race and low status, but even more because she remembered his rough, even brutal, treatment of Seá±or Pinkerton during the abduction. She had to admit, though, he acted decently towards her, taking her rejections in stride only to ask her out again at a later time. For that reason she was equally courteous to him.

She didn’t accept any of the other dating requests either. Her attitude towards men was ambivalent. She knew Susana looked forward to seeing her trapped in a marriage to a poor and ignorant campesino, preferably a local man like Hector, so that she’d have to continue working as Susana’s maid. Pansy didn’t intend to follow that script, but her conditioning and her body conspired to give her a strong sex drive. Briefly, Pansy had come to hate celibacy as much as Jack had. Although she was tempted to accept a date with one of the other men, she decided to postpone any association with a man until after her release. After that, she knew that resisting her libido was an undesirable option. She didn’t want to spend the rest of her life as a frustrated spinster. But how could she meet a man who might help her escape from her cage? There hadn’t been much point in thinking about it; until now; she had been subject to Don Pablo’s (and Susana’s) whims, and any plans might be futile.

And what about her options once she was free? She’d have to continue work at Los Ocotes, for some indefinite time after that–in spite of all her efforts, she couldn’t see any alternative–but at least those damned doctors would stop using her as a guinea pig. That’s what Don Pablo had promised, and she believed him. Then she’d find a way out, a way to return to the middle-class life that had been torn from her.

Susana and Felipe arrived for breakfast at 7:30, a little later than on a weekday. Pansy served them, then fetched Josecito and fed him. She ate after he finished, but then had to hurry to wash the dishes before leaving for Mass in La Libertad. She always took special care with her looks on Sundays, trying to appear as much as possible like a middle-class educated woman, and not like the campesina Don Pablo had tried to make of her. (Unfortunately, her taste in clothing owed too much to the conditioning she had undergone–as Marta had observed.)

After Pansy finished the dishes, she returned to her room to change into her church clothes. When she reappeared, Marta complimented her. “You look very pretty, Pansy. I’ll be surprised if some handsome fellow doesn’t snap you up soon. Hector’s interested, I hear. Or maybe Gordo.”

Pansy winced. She accepted–reluctantly–her need for a man, but Marta had in mind some unwashed campesino, just as Susana did. Marta’s vision lacked Susana’s malice, but the result would be the same: Pansy would be trapped as a peasant, to become the baby machine that Susana had named her. But she acknowledged Marta’s compliment with thanks and a smile. “I hope so, Marta. I know I need a husband. But I’m picky.”

“Too picky, I’m afraid.” Marta guessed Pansy’s ambition, but thought she was foolish. She was just a maid. “But you’ll get one eventually.” When you lower your sights, she told herself. “I have a bit of advice, though. Choose your clothes more carefully. When I first met you, I thought you might be… well, a little easy.” Pansy’s eyes widened, and she began to object, but Marta waved her to silence. “I know, I know. Now that I know you better, I can see you’re not like that at all; but your taste in clothes suggests that you might be. That could lead to trouble with some of the men: if they think you’re a loose woman, or you’re teasing them, they might force themselves on you.” Pansy’s jaw dropped. She hadn’t considered that possibility. Then she recalled how Seá±or Cualquiera had treated his maid, and she began to speak again, but Marta still went on: “ ¡Don’t take my advice in the wrong way, please! If I didn’t think you were a decent woman, I wouldn’t bother telling you anything.” Pansy remembered her official registration as a prostitute, and guilt washed over her. She tries to tell herself that she hadn’t had any choice, but she couldn’t persuade herself: she hadn’t tried to leave after being left at the brothel. She needed the money, yes–but she was honest enough to realize that the other girls there for exactly the same reason. She was no better than they were. “ ¡Enough said on that subject! Back to that husband you want: if you’re looking for a good man, we got some eligible bachelors here. You say you’re picky, and that’s good, but you’ll have to be reasonable, and the men here are about as good as you’ll find in other place. Here you have the advantage of seeing what they’re really like, and you can check with the other women, too. It’s awfully hard to keep secrets here.” She smiled: “In the end, I think you’ll be picking one of them, so you might as well do it sooner rather than later.”

That’s what Pansy was afraid of: she’d have to settle for less than she needed. Well, next month she’d be officially free, and then she could plan more effectively. She’d escape her maid status via the altar, but it’d be a step up, not just a different and more irrevocable set of shackles, as Don Pablo had planned. “You might be right, Marta,” she told her friend. “But I’ll look around a bit more first. And thanks for the advice on my clothes. I’ll see what I can do.” She’d have to observe the local young women more carefully, to see what was considered acceptable. After all, in spite of the doctors’ efforts, she didn’t really have the benefit of a proper Honduran girl’s upbringing.

Susana suspected what was running through her maid’s mind, and she chuckled to herself. She was pleased with her father’s project. Her only complaint was that it was too successful. George was trapped within Pansy, but he was so well disguised that it was difficult to appreciate his predicament. It was plain that Pansy accepted that she was forever female, and that whatever her previous life might have been, it was hopelessly lost. Her attempts to make herself attractive might only be the result of her conditioning, but Susana didn’t think so. No, she was trying to snare a husband–a well-off husband. Pansy didn’t yet realize how severely handicapped she was in the marital sweepstakes. And she didn’t have the advantage of having grown up female. She was playing the game without sufficient experience, and it was only a matter of time before she blundered badly.

On returning from town, Susana changed into a light sleeveless white blouse, khaki slacks, and comfortable flats. She relaxed in the shade of a large fig tree, reading a light romance novel. Pansy changed back into her pink uniform and rebraided her hair, then helped Marta prepare lunch. On a whim Susana called, “ ¿Pansy?  ¡Pansy!  ¡Come here!” Pansy called back, “Just a minute, Seá±ora. I’ll be right there.” Susana sighed contentedly, and in three minutes Pansy appeared. Her mistress told her, “I’m a little thirsty, Pansy. Go get me some iced tea.”

“Yes, Seá±ora.  ¿With lemon?”

“I think so, yes. And fix one for yourself. Then I want to talk to you.” Pansy’s eyes widened slightly, and Susana reassured her, “There’s no problem. I just want to discuss your future. After all, you’ll be free to leave soon.”

“Very well, Seá±ora. It’ll take a minute; there ain’t no tea ready, and I got to make it fresh.”

When she returned with the tea, and with Lilia in a tiny crib, Susana waved for her to sit. “Pansy, you’ve been my maid since May, and you’ve been a big help. Father was right when he said you’d make a fine maid.” Pansy held back the retort she wanted to make; she couldn’t afford to anger her mistress. Susana went on: “Next month you’ll be free to go.” Pansy started to respond, but Susana stopped her. “I think you know your ‘freedom’ won’t be worth much. I don’t think you have any choice but to stay. Still, I want to know what you plan to do. Last week you said you’d leave my service as soon as you could, although you admitted it’d be difficult. Tell me,  ¿do you still plan to leave?”

Pansy looked down. Her hands were clenched tightly in her lap, but she replied quietly, “Yes, Seá±ora, but I can’t do it yet. Like I said, it’s hard. I ain’t going to leave on New Year’s Day. Or any time soon. But eventually I want to be a teacher, like I said.” Teaching had never been part of Seá±or Cualquiera’s plans, but it was the best Pansy could possibly hope for now, if she could recover a little of her education. “I won’t never be satisfied with being a maid.”

“ ¿Then you don’t plan to leave me as soon as you’re free?”

“No, Seá±ora. I can’t. Not now, anyway. Don Pablo–and your brother–made sure I got to stay with you for now.”

Susana nodded. “I know, and of course I like that. If anyone should be trapped with ‘women’s work’, it’s Seá±or Cualquiera. But right now I’m not trying to gloat, Pansy. I know you’re ambitious–if ignorant–and I know you’ll leave if you find a practical way to do it. Father made me promise not to try to stop you, and I won’t. But in return I want a promise: if you do find a way out, you’ll tell me before you leave–say, a month before. I need you, you know. I’d be trapped taking care of Josecito full-time if you weren’t here. And I intend to have another child or two. More than ever I’ll need someone to help me. I’m hoping it’ll be you–you’re a conscientious and caring nanny and mother, and I really think it’s what God intended that you should be. You were wasted as a man.” She took a sip of the iced tea, then added, “ The only way a woman with children can live independently is if she has reliable care for them.”

“I know that, Seá±ora–but there’s other women who’d be delighted to work for you. Real campesinas.”

“True, but I prefer to have you. I know you’re good at it–and besides, you’ll be a real campesina soon enough. Anyway, I want your promise.”

“OK, I promise.” Pansy looked straight at her mistress. “I’ll tell you as soon as I got a way to escape, and I’ll give a month’s notice.” She added, “I want to return to the U.S. I’m still really a U.S. citizen, you know. I’m entitled to return.”

Susana giggled. “You’ll have a problem persuading la migra. Practically speaking, you’re a native-born citizen of Honduras. And you’d be worse off if you succeeded. An illiterate black woman with no technical skills–except sewing, of course: you’re truly an artist with a needle. You don’t even speak decent English. If you did get back in, you’d spend your life in a ghetto somewhere, trying to support your daughter and yourself. You’d be even more frustrated than you are here.”

“ ¿Black?  ¡I ain’t black!” Pansy’s voice betrayed a sudden panic. “I know I look like I’m part Indian–and even that ain’t really true.  ¡But I ain’t black!  ¡I ain’t!”

Amused, her mistress giggled again. “Not completely, no. You look a little Indian too, like you said, and part Spanish, but your face and your skin color say you have African blood in you too. In the U.S., you’d be considered black. In local terms, you’re a morena.” She grinned at Pansy’s distress. “You remember the gará­funa,  ¿don’t you? I told you about them when we were on the beach at Tornabé, two years ago. Now you should definitely know about them–because you’re part gará­funa yourself. On your maternal grandmother’s side.”

That wasn’t really true, of course–but Pansy stared at the back of her hand. The skin had darkened slowly, and she hadn’t noticed the change. By now it was a light brown, darker than any tan. She jumped up, ran back into the house, and looked at a mirror. Her thick lips and dark skin betrayed her apparent ancestry. Seá±ora Arias was right.

When she returned she was weeping softly. Susana asked, “ ¿You really hadn’t guessed?  ¿You thought it was just a good tan?” Then she noted, “It’s no disgrace to be a morena. It’s not as bad here as in the U.S. Lots of Hondurans have some black in them–especially on the coast. Yes, it’s a handicap–but after all, you’ll never be more than a maid anyway. Like you said, my father trapped you well. Your skin color’s just another padlock on a door already securely barred.”

“But… but I’m…  ¡I’m white!  ¡I’m a white norteamericana!  ¡Really!” But the mirror had agreed with Seá±ora Arias.

“You were white. Now you’re not, and you never will be. Father tells me your future children’ll be dark too.” She smiled: “Remember when we first met? You were so fair, you managed to get yourself badly sunburned.  ¡You were peeling like a tourist tree! You’ll never have that problem again.” She went on: “If you didn’t realize you’re a morena, then maybe you didn’t understand how limited your choice of husbands’ll be. I’ll give you some unsolicited advice. Be very careful on your fishing expeditions, and beware of sharks.”

“ ¿My… my fishing expeditions?” Pansy’s weeping stopped. “ ¿Sharks? I don’t understand.” She sniffled.

“You’re fishing for a husband. Someone who’ll take you away from all this. Someone other than a local campesino, I do believe.” Startled out of her mourning, Pansy stared at Susana, who sipped her tea and smiled. “I’ve seen you baiting the hook on Sunday. You advertise your abundant girlish charms well, for someone whose background was so… well, so inappropriate.” She grinned and added, “But of course, I know that one of Father’s doctors– ¿Ibá¡á±ez? No, Ibarra. Anyway, he gave you a more useful background, I’m told.  ¿I understand you were a bridesmaid at your friend’s wedding?” Pansy flushed and didn’t reply. “I think you’re still naíve, though, and you don’t yet understand what you’re up against.”

“I still don’t understand you, Seá±ora. Yes, you’re right: I want…” Pansy looked at the floor. “I want a husband.” It galled her to admit it–to acknowledge that she’d accept a woman’s place in life. But what point was there in denying the obvious? She looked back up. “I didn’t think you’d object. You told me I got to marry eventually.”

“I don’t object. In fact, I look forward to attending your wedding. Let me explain. Pansy, you’re a girl with a pretty face and a nice figure. You’re well trained in all the womanly arts, and Father says you’ll be a properly obedient wife. You’re being trained that way. If Seá±or Cualquiera could see you–if he still possessed all his original equipment, that is–he’d find you sexy as hell. You were designed that way, to his specifications–and believe me, men here aren’t much different from him.”

Pansy had no intention of remaining obedient–it was a necessity for the moment only–but arguing with her mistress was a poor idea. “ ¿Then why do you say I got a problem? You are saying that,  ¿true?”

“Yes, I am. You’re a campesina. You’re dark-skinned, with the face of a morena. You don’t come from a good family. You’re poor and illiterate–your speech makes it clear.  ¿Now do you see your problem?”

Pansy discounted that last comment: she spoke good Spanish now. “ ¿Are you saying I ain’t going to find a man?”

“Not at all. But you’ll find it very difficult to attract the kind of man you’re hunting. You’re looking for a Prince Charming. So’s every other campesina in La Libertad. There’s a lot of competition, and just about all of it has more experience than you. And Prince Charming himself is looking for a princess, not a housemaid. Not a dark-skinned mestiza housemaid. Most especially not a dark-skinned mestiza housemaid, illiterate and ignorant, with a baby on her hip.” She put her hands on her hips and looked Pansy up and down. “But as I said, you’re a very attractive woman, physically. Father’s doctors conditioned you so you’d want a man, just like any other woman. I imagine that’s hell for what’s left of your original self–but it’s a hell Seá±or Cualquiera deserves. If you’re not careful, some nasty man like him–and there are many here like him–will tell you he loves you and wants to marry you. Then he’ll take you to bed, use you, and throw you away.” Susana’s bitterness was was apparent. “If your search isn’t sensible, you may end up destroying yourself.”

Lilia woke up then and began to cry. Pansy interrupted their conversation, telling Susana, “She’s wet. Excuse me, Seá±ora, but I got to change her.”

“Of course. Go to her.” The knowledge that she shared one chromosome with Lilia had given Susana some maternal feeling towards the infant. “Come back when you’re done.” Pansy took Lilia back to the casa and changed her. She avoided looking in the mirror. When she brought Lilia back in her crib, her distress was clear.

Susana nodded approvingly as she sat down again. “Like I told you, you’re very good with children. You seem to have some aptitude for motherhood. Raising children is definitely what you should be doing with your life. ”

Her maid scowled. “It ain’t high on my list of career choices.”

“Nor mine. But it is your career now. I think you’ll have more.”

“I don’t want no more children. Lilita’s more than enough.”

“And Josecito as well. Don’t forget, he’s your child too.” She smiled slightly. “After all, you’re his father.” Susana laughed at Pansy’s scowl, and commented, “Yes, I know it’s unlikely, to look at you, but strictly speaking you are his father. Anyway, you have two children to raise already, and as I said, you’ll have more. ‘Baby machine’,  ¿remember?”

“ ¡It don’t got to be that way! Not all women got lots of babies. You don’t.”

“That’s true. But you admit you want a husband.” She smiled. “Most men here want their wives to bear several children, and then to stay home to raise them. That’s almost universal. If you catch your man, I expect he’ll be like that too.”

Pansy wouldn’t accept that. “I’ll find a man who won’t insist. Or I’ll stay on the pill.”

Laughing again, Susana explained that her husband wasn’t likely to allow her a choice. “When Father gave you that body, he told you what to expect. Your only way out of my service is through marriage, he said–and I see that you finally agree. But this is Honduras. Most women here–especially campesinas–fit your old prejudices: ‘Anatomy is Destiny’. You’re right when you say that not all women are trapped that way, even here. But you are. Father made certain of that. His object wasn’t just to make you female–although he succeeded in that beyond my fondest dreams–or my brother’s.” She smiled and gave Pansy’s body a slow scan from top to bottom, and Pansy flushed deeply. “No, his doctors worked very hard to make you an old-fashioned traditional woman–as you yourself told me, a ‘baby machine’. And to put you into a position where you couldn’t ever escape filling that old-fashioned traditional woman’s rá´le. I think he succeeded.”

“ ¡No! I want… I want to marry, but not a campesino. I’ll find an educated man, who’ll be different.”

“I told you, you’re an ignorant campesina. A poor morena. It’s obvious. You can try, Pansy má­a, and I won’t stop you, but you’re playing a game you can’t win. And it’s dangerous.”

“ ¿Dangerous?”

“I know better than most. I got burned.” She smiled ruefully. “ ¿Don’t you remember? I tried to marry one of your ‘educated men’ and he gave me Josecito. If you play that game, you have almost no chance of winning. Some bastard like Seá±or Cualquiera’ll leave you with a big belly and no husband.”

“I’m too careful for that.”

“ ¿Oh? So was I. No, your only chance is to lower your sights. Find some campesino. Marry him, and accept that you’ll spend the rest of your life cooking, doing his laundry, and raising his kids. It’s what you’ve been designed for: you’re the ideal peasant wife. Maybe for my stablehand Hector.” She gave Pansy a sly smile. “As I told you, you’re a cow. He’s a real bull, the perfect man for you. And he deserves to have you: he played a small part in making you what you are.” Of course, Pansy despised the man, in spite of his sexual magnetism. Aside from his race and his social status, he had been among the bastards who had captured her–although he no longer knew her. She’d never accept him. “If you’re lucky, you’ll find a man who’ll take his conjugal responsibilities seriously. It’s the best you can do now.” Susana was almost sympathetic. “I know you’re feeling trapped. You are trapped, and it’ll be even worse after you marry. Once upon a time you were rich and privileged. You had a nice house, a good job. You could go wherever you wanted–skiing in the Rockies today, to the beach in Florida next month. You could choose your own fate. Most of the people in the world–women or men–aren’t that lucky, you know. They’re poor. They live in shacks, and have to scramble for their next meal. They live at the mercy of other people’s whims. That’s not ‘they’ any more. That’s you. Over the last couple of years your horizons have diminished. Tela, Tegus, Gracias a Dios, San Pedro, Comayagua–that’s been your whole world. I don’t think you’ll ever leave Honduras again. Most Hondurans don’t, you know. Certainly most campesinas don’t. And now you have a baby. Your horizons’ll shrink a bit more. You may never even see the ocean again. Ask other campesinas here at Los Ocotes. Most of them don’t ever get more than a few tens of kilometers from home. Soon you won’t be dreaming of Boston or Atlanta.  ¡You’ll be pining for Comayagua! Even La Libertad’ll seem like the big city.”

“ ¡No!” Pansy was almost weeping again.

Susana laughed. “I don’t expect you to take my advice, Pansy, and I certainly won’t push you into marriage. There’s no need. I know you well–or I know Seá±or Cualquiera, and I think your desire for sex is nearly the same. I look forward to watching you try to escape your fate. It’ll be amusing. I’ll say, ‘I told you so’ when you’re pregnant again.” Pansy tried to protest, but Susana overrode her and continued. “That’s not your only problem. You’re a sexy girl. It’s plain to every man over twelve. You’re attractive, and you’re weak. And you don’t have a man to protect you. By the time most girls reach puberty, they’ve learned to be wary of men. I’m afraid your lack of a proper girl’s upbringing–in spite of Ibarra’s efforts–leaves you with too little appreciation of the risks that beset a woman who’s alone. There are lots of men out there–those sharks I mentioned–who’ll see you as their natural prey. If you’re not careful, you’ll be eaten.”

Pansy thought her mistress was exaggerating her problems. “I can take care of myself, Seá±ora. I don’t think anyone’s going to attack me. As for my other problem–finding a good husband–there must be a man who’d want me, and who’d allow me more freedom than you say. Even Seá±or Cualquiera didn’t try to control women like that.”

“No, he didn’t,” Susana agreed. “He might’ve approved of it–his opinions certainly leaned in that direction–but you’re right, he didn’t. That doesn’t matter, not now. You’re not dealing with Seá±or Cualquiera, but with Honduran society, and that’s how it is here, for a campesina like you.  ¿Unfair? Of course– ¡but that’s life!”

Ignoring her, Pansy went on: “He’ll let me work. I know I’m illiterate–damn José–but I ain’t no campesina. Not really. I’ll learn to read again. I got enough education left to let me get back.  ¡I’ll be a professional again! Maybe a teacher.”

Susana giggled. “ ¿A teacher, you say? I’ll enjoy watching you try, but I doubt you’ll succeed.  ¿What could you teach? Take a sober look at yourself, girl. It hasn’t really sunk in yet, but you don’t have an education. You don’t know math or science–or history or geography, for that matter. You have almost no English. You can’t read or write. And listen to yourself speak some time. You may not realize it, but even your Spanish marks you as an ignorant peasant. You don’t have the resources to get your education back. Worse than that, you’re not very smart: Father says you lost a lot of your intelligence when they made you ‘forget’ things. But not to worry, as a campesina, you have all the brains you’ll ever need.” A satisfied smile drifted across her face. “You are weak, dumb, and pretty. Father designed you that way–exactly as you described in the letter you sent me. No, Pansy, you’re a campesina, and your only profession is ‘maid’. It’s honorable work, though, and you’re good at it. You’ll make a good wife and mother, too, once you accept that you’ll never be anything more. In the end you’ll give in. You’ll teach Lilia how to cook and sew, so she can follow in your footsteps, and that’s about all you’ll teach.”

“I’ll break out of that trap, Seá±ora. Just like you did.” But how? No matter, she would!

“Pansita má­a, Seá±or Cualquiera’d say you’re just fulfilling your natural destiny as a woman. You’re a hondureá±a, my dear, and in this society, with the assets that Father left you, he’d be right. I predict that in a couple of years you’ll be married to a campesino, you’ll have another baby, and you’ll spend every waking moment cooking, cleaning, and taking care of your brood–and mine. Five years after that you’ll probably think you were born a campesina. Ibarra gave you the appropriate memories for that,  ¿true? He made you into a proper hondureá±a in your own head, and you’ll believe it in the end. You say you’re not ‘really’ a campesina, but you’re wrong. You are a campesina, admit it or not. You fit almost every criterion, mental as well as physical–you were designed to fit them. Look at yourself objectively– ¿can you can still do that? You like pretty clothes and jewelry. You like babies. Your amusements are embroidery and telenovelas. Your subconscious accepts that your status and worth are low, so you’re naturally obedient and passive. Month by month, year by year, as you become more habituated to your body and to your social and intellectual limitations, you’ll fit the criteria even better. In just seven months, I’ve had the pleasure of watching Seá±or Cualquiera as he slowly changes into a peasant girl within his own head. You fight it, but it’s happening. I see it. Like Father told me–and he told you too, I know–your body and your social status are forcing it. In the end you’ll forget you were ever a norteamericano. I don’t know what’ll finally push you over the edge or how long it’ll take, but eventually you’ll quit fighting it.  ¿Another year of seeing a peasant girl in the mirror every morning, of nursing your baby and changing diapers half a dozen times a day?  ¿Five years of washing clothes and raising children?  ¿Ten years of obeying your macho husband? One day you’ll wake up and accept that you’re ‘only a campesina’. As you are.”

“ ¡Never! Yes, I got those false memories–but I know they’re false.” She hung onto that knowledge desperately.

“We’ll see. Right now you do, but Father says you might not keep that knowledge. And it’s not important anyhow. What’s important is your appearance, your lack of education, your speech–the details that define your status.” Susana giggled briefly. “At least you did get one benefit out of all this. A couple of years ago you wanted to learn Spanish, and now you do–just like a native. Too bad you lost your English in the process. And your education too. Even your Spanish says you’re ‘only a campesina’. Pansy, everything about you says ‘only a campesina’. You are ‘only a campesina’, body and soul. You’re just fighting reality. But that’s OK. Like I said, I enjoy watching the fading remnant of Seá±or Cualquiera as he struggles like a fly in flypaper, losing the battle against his own body. And like I said, I’ll attend your wedding– ¡I can’t wait to see you agreeing to become a peasant wife! ‘Barefoot and pregnant’, until you’re an old woman.” Pansy looked confused at that last comment, and Susana giggled again. “Sorry about the English, I forgot–for just a moment I thought of you as Seá±or Cualquiera, as you claim.  ¡How foolish of me!” She translated the phrase, then looked at her empty glass and added, “Right now, though, and for the immediate future, Seá±or Cualquiera is my maid. I’m thirsty again. Get me more tea. Then there’s laundry that needs attention. Hop to it, girl.” Pansy was seething with resentment, but she curtsied and obeyed.

Late that night, she stood before a mirror as she considered Susana’s evaluation of her. Was she really a peasant woman? Certainly she was cursed with a woman’s body: the point was driven home every morning as she nursed Lilia. Worse, she was afflicted with a woman’s desires. Ever since her sojourn on Golondrinas, her libido had clamored for a man. It was difficult to resist the attentions of the men on the finca, even knowing her inevitable fate if she succumbed to their blandishments. Beyond the fact of her sex, she certainly looked like a campesina. Her face, so familiar to her now that she could scarcely believe it had been imposed on her, fairly shouted the fact. And her skin–how had she failed to notice that it was so dark now? How had they done that to her? Her long hair was almost jet black instead of light brown–another mystery. She had to admit, any honest observer would accept her as a peasant. Yes, Susana was right, as far as her body was concerned: she was a campesina, now and forever. But her mind? She tried to be brutally honest with herself: “I can’t read or write. I don’t speak English good. I lost a lot of my education.” Then she amended the last statement to, “I ain’t got hardly no education. I’m ignorant. And I even remember growing up here as a peasant girl.” She realized that, after–what had Seá±ora Arias said? Seven months at Los Ocotes?–she identified completely with the other women. She was assimilating into a campesina, just as her mistress claimed. She nearly despaired. What was left? How could she ever escape a life of peasant drudgery? But she still had ambition, she told herself. She knew her true identity, even if his name was lost, and she’d never settle for the life Don Pablo had planned for her. To herself she insisted, “I will climb back. I will be a professional again.” For the moment Seá±ora Arias held the reins. “But I’ll find a way out.  ¡There has to be one!” She’d find it; she’d never accept the life of a mere campesina. It wouldn’t be easy. Don Pablo and his diabolical doctors had left her exactly where they had said they would, and as Seá±ora Arias had insisted, she was just a peasant maid now. Well, in a month, she’d see about using what the doctors had given her, to escape the trap keeping her in a menial position. Don Pablo had inflicted a sexy body on her, and José had trained her well to please men. In addition, she still had a little of Seá±or Cualquiera’s background, and she still had his drive to succeed. It would be fitting if she could escape her menial status by using the very qualities the doctors had forced on her. If she needed a man, and if she was good at attracting and pleasing men, then she’d use a man to escape her trap. A man who’d allow her to do more than just cook and clean and have babies. She would! She’d have a life again! Just thinking about the prospect cheered her up.
 
 
December 20
-- Las Rosas was festive for the holidays. The air was warm, but without the sticky humidity that made the rainy season uncomfortable. The bright flowers around the finca were matched indoors by decorations for La Fiesta de La Navidad, and Christmas carols (many of them incongruously northern) floated softly through the air from battery-powered radios.

In the casa, Don Pablo met with Ibá¡á±ez. Pansy would be freed in a few days, and the don wanted to know how well his intentions had been realized. “ ¿What is the status of Seá±or Deon?” he asked. “Susana is pleased with Pansy’s service, and her reports suggest that your project has succeeded.” He took a sip of brandy, an indulgence he seldom allowed himself. “I know this is a long-term project and no final results can be expected yet, but this is a good time to take stock.  ¿What do you think?  ¿Is Pansy a campesina?  ¿Does her outlook, her attitude, agree with her appearance?”

Ibá¡á±ez replied, “As usual, the answer’s not simple. Yes, she has a woman’s instincts and desires. I spoke with your daughter too, and she says Pansy tries to make herself attractive. She still likes to sew–in fact, now that she can’t read, it’s her chief pastime in her spare time. She’s conscientious in her work, and she takes good care of her children. More, she accepts her sexuality, if only with resentment. She knows she needs a man, and hopes to marry eventually.  ¿But is she truly a campesina? Not completely. She still thinks of herself as Seá±or Deon, even if the name is lost. She doesn’t believe she should have to accept a subordinate position. Women in general, maybe–but not her. It’s not what she was born to, she says–as though it made a difference. Still, Seá±ora Arias tells me that she’s a good maid and an excellent mother. I’d say we have a partial success.”

Nodding, the don agreed with most of the analysis. “Nevertheless, Susana says that Pansy does not accept that her God-given duty is to stay home and raise her children. As you put it, it is not what she was born to do. She seems to love them–both of them–and she cares for them well, but she resents her new life, and entertains hopes of escape.”

“ ¿God-given?” The doctor raised an eyebrow. “With due respect, Seá±or, I’d have to say she’s right. God didn’t give her this duty. We did.”

Waving his hand, the don dismissed the quibble. “Yes, we made her a woman. But now she is a woman, now she has a child, and it is God’s will that she accept her responsibility. No, not accept it: embrace it as a privilege.”

Exasperated, Ibá¡á±ez told his patrá³n, “If I may point out, Seá±or, your instructions specified that George Deon’s soul be trapped in a woman’s body. George Deon never wanted to stay home to cook, clean, and care for children, and whatever the body housing that essence, he still doesn’t. Under those circumstances, it’s too much to ask that Pansy should ‘embrace’ her new responsibilities. She’s correct: laundry and cooking and cleaning–and babies–weren’t given to her as a duty by God, nor as a privilege. It’s a punishment we imposed on her. If you wish, Ibarra can take away her memory of ever being a man. Or at least I think he can. Short of that, I don’t know how to satisfy your instructions. They’re incompatible.”

For a moment the don started to become angry, but he saw the justice of his doctor’s position. “You are right, and I congratulate you on how well you have succeeded in accomplishing my purpose. You and the others have done a remarkable job.” He took another sip of brandy. “Still, Pansy is charged with raising Susana’s son. My own grandson. I can only wish that she would see that task, not as a punishment, but as a joy and a delight. And Pansy’s own infant– ¿Lilita, I think she calls her?” Ibá¡á±ez nodded. “That child too carries my blood–although you tell me her genetic relation to me is almost nonexistent. I wish she had a mother who took delight in raising her.” He sighed. “I understand the difficulty, but I could wish it did not exist. In less than two weeks, Pansy will have completed the two years of punishment–or at least, of formal captivity–that I imposed. I do not wish to allow further experimentation after that time–I cannot, by agreement with our clients–and she will be free to do as she likes without coercion, subject only to the constraints of any woman in her position. If you or Ibarra can think of any way to address the concerns I have discussed, I wish to hear about it.”

On the way back to San Pedro, Ibá¡á±ez considered the problem. As he had protested, the don’s desires were contradictory. Either Pansy would know that she had once been a man and that her womanhood was a punishment, which would unavoidably cause (at the least) resentment and (probably) neurosis; or she’d forget her true past, which would negate a goal of the psychological experiment and contravene one of Don Pablo’s instructions. He sighed. Don Pablo would have to decide which he wanted.
 
 
December 22
-- Around 1 PM, while Pansy was cleaning after lunch, she heard” the doctor ordered, but George couldn’t remember. Ibarra smiled and told his assistant, “ Susana say, “Yes, of course, Seá±or, she’s in the kitchen. Go right in, you can speak with her now.” As she was the only person in the kitchen, she dried her hands in expectation of a visitor. In a moment a dark-skinned Latino entered. When he caught sight of her, he smiled, displaying a gold tooth. She recognized him, but at first couldn’t recall where she had seen him.

“Good afternoon, Seá±orita,” he greeted her. “Seá±ora Arias told to me I could talk with you for a little.” When she looked confused, he chuckled. “So it’s true then: you’ve lost your English.” Her lips compressed, but she confirmed his statement without comment. He went on: “Seá±ora Arias told me I could speak with you for a while.” Sitting down at the table, he invited her, “Please, sit here with me.” After taking a moment to dry her hands, Pansy began to sit, until he continued, “But first,  ¿would you please make me a cup of coffee?”

“Of course, Seá±or,” she responded automatically, and got up to prepare his drink.

As she fetched the coffee, he asked, “ ¿Do you remember me, Seá±orita? I last spoke with you a year ago.”

Now she remembered: he was one of the pendejos who was helping to support Don Pablo’s project. “Yes, Seá±or, although I don’t got your name.” She measured a small amount of ground coffee into the percolator, added water, and returned to sit at the table.

“Not important. As you might have guessed, I’m here to evaluate your progress towards the goal Seá±or Herrera set for you. I understand that you’ll be freed in a little over a week.”

“Yes, Seá±or, that was what Don Pablo promised.”

“ ¿Will you leave then?  ¿Or will you remain, to serve as a maid for Seá±ora Arias?”

“I will stay, but only until I got another way to live. Then I will go.”

“That was your intent last year, and I was skeptical then. I’ve been following you closely for the last year, and I have to say, in my judgment Seá±or Herrera has succeeded. You have become the campesina they intended, and you will remain a maid–unless you find a husband, of course. I see no other practical course of action for you.”

She was tempted to tell him the truth, that she only behaved like a campesina to avoid incurring further “treatment”, but she was so close to attaining her freedom. She didn’t trust him, and there was no reason to jeopardize what remained of Seá±or Cualquiera. “I know what they intend, Seá±or. Maybe they succeeded, like you say. I don’t know.” “I’m just a stupid campesina,” she thought bitterly. “ ¿How would I know anything?” “But please, Seá±or, can you tell me:  ¿Why are you helping to do this to me? This got to cost a lot of money, and I ain’t done nothing to you.”

“That’s not your concern, girl.”

She cast her eyes down. “I’m sorry, Seá±or. It’s just… It seems stupid. There’s lots of girls to hire as maids, and I ain’t nothing special. And there’s lots of easier ways to punish, quick and cheap.”

Machado chuckled, then took the bait. “Of course there are easier ways to find a maid; and other punishments are a dime a dozen. But sometimes we need something special. Torture, or a bullet in the back of the head, and we can end up creating a martyr who’s more trouble dead than he was alive. Some of our enemies take advantage of that, and for some it’s no longer even a deterrent. The same with prison–and that’s an expensive nuisance as well. What we’re looking for is a punishment that’s a real deterrent–that no man would risk. And seeing a man–a former man–ask for a job as a maid for his old enemy is going to be very effective, we think.” He smiled. “If that former man becomes a sex partner–a willing sex partner–and is seen to become so,  ¡then all the better!”

Pansy wanted to tell him he was sick, but she merely remarked, “I got to disagree with you, Seá±or. It ain’t right.”

“ ¿‘Right’? Not important.  ¿Is it ‘right’ to bomb a city in a war, and to kill thousands or hundreds of thousands of civilians? Your country–or your former country–has done that. What matters is,  ¿is it effective?”

“ ¿And is it effective?”

“If a norteamericano scientist can be changed–really changed–into a campesina, then it’s technically effective.  ¿Would it be an effective deterrent? Time will tell.” He pulled a cigar from his pocket and lit it. “Your transformation–of your soul, that is–is of great interest to us.” He closed his eyes, inhaled, and puffed out a cloud of smoke. “We consider that the physical transformation has been fully demonstrated–Seá±orita. I’m sure you have to agree,  ¿yes?”

Before Pansy could answer, Susana entered the kitchen and asked Machado, “ ¿Is there anything we can get you, Seá±or?  ¿Have you eaten?”

Machado turned to her and replied, “Thank you, Seá±ora, but I ate before I arrived.  ¿But perhaps I might have a beer, if you have one?”

Pansy began to get up, but Susana waved her back. “I’ll get it,” she told her maid. “Right now it’s more important that you speak with our guest.”

He asked Pansy again: Did she consider the physical transformation to be effective?

“Yes, Seá±or, they were successful.” It was hard to deny, with her nursing infant in the next room.

“ ¿And your soul?”

“No. They played with my head, and I ain’t got much of what I knew before. But I ain’t no campesina like they want.”

“But you like pretty clothes, and makeup,  ¿yes? And Seá±or Herrera tells me you watch the telenovelas, and you enjoy sewing.  ¿Is that true?”

“Yes,” she replied shortly. He frowned, and she realized she had been disrespectful. A touch of panic hit her. She couldn’t misbehave, not now, when she was so close to freedom–they could still punish her. She answered again, admitting, “Seá±or, they made me a woman, and I got to find my pleasures in the things a woman can enjoy.”

“ ¿So you think now you have the soul of a woman?”

She thought for a moment, then shrugged. “I ain’t got no idea. I got the same soul as before, I think, but I got to change some things.”

“ ¿You like men now, instead of women?”

Her face flushed, but she replied, “Yes, Seá±or.” Even now, the thought of lying with a man excited her. Her nipples hardened, and she felt her groin become moist. She repressed her lust; since leaving Golondrinas she had managed to control the longing that had been conditioned into her, if not to banish it.

“ ¿Do you plan to get married?”

She looked down. It was a hard question to answer, and one she hadn’t been able to decide. “I… I don’t know. I may marry some day, if I can find the right man.” Seá±ora Herrera had warned her that it would be difficult to find such a man, who would permit her to escape the female drudgery Don Pablo had planned for her, for the rest of her life; but she wanted sex without the stigma of becoming a slut–and a well-to-do husband could be her ticket out of menial service. “ ¡I just don’t know!”

Machado saw her reaction to the question and interpreted it to mean that she was beginning to accept her new gender, if not her social status. He went on: “ ¿What about your baby?  ¿How do you feel about her?”

Without hesitation she responded, “I love her, Seá±or, and I’ll try to see that she has a good home and a good life.” Another argument for marriage, she knew.

Machado asked a few more questions, about her work and her leisure time, then returned to Susana, to speak with her privately. “I think your father has succeeded,” he told her. “George Deon will be dead soon, although he doesn’t know it. Pansy will remain, as nothing more than a campesina. For a while I thought she might go the way of several other subjects, lost to suicide–but now I think her baby will keep her alive. She gives Pansy a reason to live.”

“George Deon is alive. He’s well hidden, but he’s still there.”

“ ¿In what sense is he alive, Seá±ora? Define ‘George Deon’.”

Flustered, she responded, “I… I can’t define him–but he’s still there.”

Machado shook his head. “I think you want him to be there, Seá±ora, so you can watch him suffer. And Pansy would agree with your belief, as she clings to the hope of returning to something like his former life. I understand. But I’m a professional psychologist, and I would define a person–or ‘ego’ in the jargon–as the sum total of the contents of the brain. The memories, beliefs, attitudes, reflexes–everything stored between the ears. In my professional opinion, Pansy is not Seá±or Deon. I must ignore the different body; I concede that he could still be trapped in that body. Seá±or Deon’s attitudes, his personality, most of his memories–his language even–are all gone. Some trace of him exists, but it’s fading. You’re prolonging his life when you think of him as George Deon. It supports Pansy’s delusion that she is still him, in her head.”

Exactly what Father had told her, she knew. “ ¿Why do you care about the existence of George Deon?”

“I don’t, not personally. I’m an observer, nothing else. But as a psychologist, I have to say that the experiment is fascinating. Also, I’m compelled to say that it’s unethical, and troubling–but I can’t affect its progress. The data are useful, and we may as well use them.” He shrugged. “My government may or may not use the information–I have no say in the matter–but certainly they want to know about the process of personality engineering. Even if they never use it, perhaps someone might find a way to use it against them.”

He left soon after, and Susana thought about his words. Finally she decided that she knew better than the Cuban, having seen a lot more of both Pansy and George. Maybe George would die, and it might even be soon, but for the moment, he was still present.
 
 
December 25
-- Pansy attended the customary early service on Christmas morning, after which Susana took her with Lilia back to Las Rosas to assist in preparing for the family Christmas party. She spent most of the morning in the kitchen peeling potatoes, washing vegetables, and otherwise assisting the more experienced cooks, leaving Lilia in a crib in the nursery. The work was easy enough, and she enjoyed seeing the Las Rosas staff again–Lilia and her duties at Los Ocotes had left her in need more of social contact. She chatted amiably with them about their boyfriends and the telenovelas they all watched, knowing that they were ignorant of her bizarre history. With her new face, darker complexion, and short stature, she fit in well. “But I’m not like them,” she tried to tell herself. “They’re just campesinos, and I’m better than that.” Nevertheless, her similarity to the others was unsettling.

The guests began arriving shortly after noon, and after she had nursed Lilia and stolen a few minutes to eat a sandwich, Don Pablo put her to serving drinks.

In midafternoon Susana told her to deliver a glass of Hennessey cognac to a guest in the library. She fetched the drink and took it to the library, where an elderly woman sat in one of the overstuffed chairs. “Here is your drink, Seá±ora,” she told her, handing her the glass with a curtsy. “ ¿Can I get you anything else?”

“Not just now, thank you. But you can sit over there.” She indicated another chair “I’d like to talk with you for a bit.”

Pansy shook her head. “I’m sorry, Seá±ora, but I can’t sit now. I got to keep working. Don Pablo…”

“Pablo has given me these few minutes. Now sit down.” Puzzled, Pansy arranged her skirt and sat. “You may not remember me, girl, but I’m Pablo’s sister–Suzi’s Aunt Mariana.”

Pansy still shook her head. “I don’t understand, Seá±ora. But if Don Pablo wants me to talk to you, then of course I will.  ¿What do you want to know?”

Mariana leaned forward. “Just a year ago, Suzi introduced you to me at this party.”

Now Pansy remembered: Suzi and her aunt had made a bet. “Yes, Seá±ora.” She folded her hands in her lap and looked at the floor. “One more week,” she reminded herself. “Then I’ll find a way to leave.”

“ ¿Do you remember the wager we made?”

“Yes, Seá±ora, but I don’t know… I ain’t going to be able to settle the bet for you.”

“ ¡Of course not, girl! That’s for us to decide.” She looked down at her cognac, swirled it, and sniffed. “Pablito always did have good taste in liquor.  ¿Would you like a little, my dear?”

“Thank you, no, Seá±ora.” What did this woman want from her? But then she realized it was probably simple curiosity: Was Pansy closer to becoming a true campesina, as Suzi had predicted? Would she lose her bet?

“I understand that Pablo will set you free next week.  ¿Is that right?”

Pansy nodded. “Yes, I think so. He promised, and I believe him.”

“If he promised, then he will do it. Depend on it.” She sipped her drink and smiled. “They did a wonderful job on you, girl–or a horrible, disgusting job on your Seá±or Cualquiera. I’ve discussed your situation with Pablo, and he told me a little about you.” Jaime knocked and stepped into the room, but Mariana ordered him back out: “Leave us, Jaime. Pablo can do without one maid for a few minutes, I’ll send her back shortly.” Turning back to Pansy, she commented, “Jaime is all too willing to act as Pablo’s lieutenant. He has no power of his own, but he’s only too happy to use that of others. It’s a way to compensate for his own loss, I suspect.”

Pansy fidgeted. She had to help at the party! Would the woman ever get to the point? “Perhaps, Seá±ora.”

Noting Pansy’s discomfort, Mariana realized that the girl actually wanted to return to her work! Maybe Pablo had come closer to reshaping that norteamericano than she had thought possible. “No matter. In any case, I wondered what your own plans were, come the New Year.” She saw Pansy stiffen, and quickly added, “I don’t expect you to tell me your plans, girl. In your place, I’d keep my intentions to myself. And I’m no fool: I wouldn’t necessarily believe whatever you told me here anyway. But I can offer some advice. I doubt you’ll accept it–at least not right away–but maybe after some time, you’ll consider it.” Then she added, “And stop worrying about getting into trouble. I’ll tell Pablo that I was keeping you here, and you had no choice.”

“Thank you, Seá±ora. But…” Pansy shook her head, still puzzled. “I don’t… I mean…  ¿Why would you give me advice? I was… I done bad to Suzi, I know now. Don Pablo still ain’t got no right to do what he done, but I deserved some punishment. And you’re Suzi’s aunt.  ¿Why do you want to help me?”

“Because I agree with you. Suzi was at fault too–she should’ve known better. You needed punishment, as you admit–you acted abominably–but this is too much. Pablo had no right to do this to you. Sometimes he thinks he’s God.” She took another sip of cognac. “Of course, he felt he had to punish you severely–too severely, in my own opinion–to maintain his position. But what’s done, is done. And Pablo told the truth when he said your punishment will be over next week. He still has his other goals, though. He wants you to become a campesina, to demonstrate his doctors’ skills and abilities–he says you’re his prize exhibit for potential clients, and your existence will draw in enough support to pay for all the expense of creating you–and he wants you to work as Suzi’s maid.”

“I know that. But… But still,  ¿why would you help?”

“I feel sorry for you, and I think your life could be a living hell. Or, just maybe, you might salvage something from it.”

“I ain’t never going to get my life back, Seá±ora.” Revenge was the most she could hope for.

“Of course not. Not your original life, anyway. That’s over. I suggest that you accept that you’re fully a woman–you can hardly disagree–and redefine your goals accordingly. Find a good man, marry him, raise a family of your own.”

“That’s what Don Pablo wants me to do. And I ain’t going to accept it. Not the way he wants.”

“Pablo’s revenge is over. That part of his plan for you is done. If your ambition is no more than to frustrate his wishes, then you’re doomed to that living hell. Or the hell for the dead–I suspect you won’t live long, and I wouldn’t want to stand in your place before the judgment seat. Besides, you can’t frustrate his wishes. The punishment is already accomplished. Besides that, as a guinea pig for his project you’ll provide useful data whatever you do–your death or your lifelong unhappiness will serve him as well as a successful adjustment to your new circumstances. And Suzi can always find another maid. Lots of girls would want that job.”

Alarm twisted Pansy’s face. “ ¡Don Pablo ain’t going to kill me!”

“ ¡Of course not, girl!  ¡Don’t be silly! The danger is, you’ll kill yourself. Directly as a suicide, or indirectly. Pablo boasts that he’s never killed a man, but several of his victims have died by their own hands. He’s not unhappy with that.” Mariana stood up and walked to a window, where she looked out across the yard to the pine forest beyond, bathed in the late-afternoon sunshine of the dry season. “By the way,” she added in a dry tone, “my brother and my niece aren’t the only Herreras following your career. My nephew José is also very interested in you.”

“He… I…” Pansy stood up, clearly agitated.

“Oh, don’t worry, girl. He won’t harm you. Yes, I know you wouldn’t consider him to be a friend. And you’d be right: he’s a scoundrel and a sadist, a poor excuse for a man. Pablo will keep him tightly reined, though, and if he didn’t, I would.” She turned from the window and sat again. “José won’t be allowed near you after next week; Pablo doesn’t trust him to leave you to find your own way. And that’s necessary, Pablo says, to complete his project.”

“ ¿How do you know so much about me?” Pansy sat again and leaned forward. “ ¿Do you know who I am, really?” Finding her true identity was the first step on the road back.

“To answer the first question: as I said earlier, I spoke with Pablo. As for the second: Yes, you’re Pansy-Ann Baca Gá³mez. Really.”

“I mean…”

“I know what you mean. I can’t tell you that. First, Pablo wouldn’t allow it. Second, he didn’t give me your former name, and I had no reason to ask. Third, and most important, you are Pansy-Ann, a Honduran peasant girl. Seá±or Cualquiera is dead. You have to let him go–he can only drag you down with him.”

“ ¡I ain’t no peasant girl!  ¡And I ain’t gonna be no peasant girl!  ¡I won’t!”

“I’m afraid you are, my dear.  ¿But who said you had to remain a peasant? Yes, that’s Pablo’s plan, and right now you are hardly distinguishable from a natural-born campesina. Looking at you, listening to you–any unbiased observer would say you are a peasant girl. But you don’t have to stay there. With ambition and luck and work, you might pull yourself up. He won’t stop you.”

“He didn’t leave me nothing to work with. He took everything that could help me escape.”

“Almost everything, true. But he left you with ambition, and the ability to work hard, and maybe luck.”

“ ¡That ain’t enough to get me back to what I had!”

“Girl,  ¿didn’t you hear me?” Scorn dripped from Mariana’s voice. “‘What you had’ is gone. Forever. You need to make a new life, as a woman, starting from where you are right now–and that means your choices are limited. I think your best opportunities would be as a Honduran woman, but that’s strictly my opinion. Pablo told me what you thought a woman’s life should be– ¡but that need not be a curse!  ¿Don’t you think a woman can be happy, doing what she was designed to do? It’s actually a better life than the one you had before, or it can be–although I can understand if you don’t yet see it.”

Pansy shook her head again. “It ain’t no better, Seá±ora. I worked hard for an education, for a good life with a nice car, a good house, a career. Now I ain’t got nothing.” Tears began to flow unnoticed down her cheeks.

“My dear, a good life isn’t a car and a house, or even a good education. They’re nice, but not the essentials. It’s love, respect, dear friends, a family–your connections to other people–that are life’s true riches. Seá±or Cualquiera had none of those. He was close to no one, and had little chance for true happiness or satisfaction in his life. It was empty, and he didn’t even realize it. Now you have another chance: you can have the wealth that Seá±or Cualquiera lacked.”

“As a maid.”

“ ¡Yes, as a maid! To start with, anyway. With a lovely baby daughter, a secure position–and later, if you are lucky, with a loving and attentive husband. You’re a pretty girl, and finding a good man should be easy enough. Believe me, a woman’s life can be very rewarding. And Pablo will not object at all–in fact, your long and happy life as a woman would cap all his efforts with success. Pablo wins, yes, and Suzi also, with a good maid, at least for a while–but you win most of all.”

“ ¿So Don Pablo done me a favor, making me a girl?  ¿Maybe I should thank him?”

She sighed and shook her head. “ ¡Men!” She tried again: “Pansy, you seem to think that women are a lesser form of humanity, unworthy of respect. I fear that many men–including my nephew, but not including Pablo–share that opinion, especially here in Honduras. And many norteamericanos equally believe that latinos are inferior; I suspect you hold to that as well. Further, those who are blessed with material wealth tend to view those less well off as below them in every way.  ¡All of these opinions are wrong, wrong, wrong! Women are meant to play a different rá´le, yes–but it is just as important, fulfilling, and challenging as that of a man. As for the others: latinos are fully as capable as norteamericanos, and rich and poor exchange positions frequently. If you accept that you are presently Pansy Baca, a Honduran campesina–and accept that you need not let that fact crush your hopes–then you can have a good life. Let go of your Seá±or Cualquiera. Let him die unmourned, and seek success as Pansy Baca, wife and mother. The alternative–your only alternative–is to refuse to accept it, but then you waste your life and die a miserable death–nevertheless, as Pansy Baca.”

Pansy recognized that Mariana wished her well and wouldn’t betray her to Don Pablo, so she replied, “Inside, I ain’t really no campesina. I got to act like one, but it’s just an act. When I’m free, I’ll escape. I know I ain’t going to get back all of my old life, like I said, but I got to get back some of it.  ¡Somehow I’ll escape!”

Mariana shook her head again. The girl really thought she was “just acting”! She couldn’t see what she had become, believing that all she needed was her freedom. Such a blind denial of reality! “ ¿You will escape yourself? That is your true prison. Girl, with that attitude you will fail. Your life will be short and full of misery and frustration.  ¡Such an unnecessary waste! No, Pablo didn’t intend to help you, but you could turn his efforts to your advantage.” Mariana arose and looked down at Pansy. “I can only hope that you change your mind. Pablo thinks you might, after you are freed. José believes–hopes–you won’t. Suzi… well, I don’t know, but I think if you do change your mind–if you accept life as a Honduran woman and forget you were ever Seá±or Cualquiera–she might forget it too, and help you become more than just a campesina.” She took another sip of cognac. “The worst turn anyone could inflict upon you would be to give you the information you seek. It would hinder you from going forward, instead of looking backwards. It would poison you.” She shook her head. “I hope to lose my bet, girl. I hope to attend your wedding, and see you enter a new life of fulfillment, full of love, with a good husband and wonderful children. A life so much better than the sterile and lonely life you were fated to endure. But it’s all up to you. Now, you’d best get back to work.”

The rest of the afternoon and evening were spent serving and cleaning up afterwards. The work kept Pansy from brooding over her situation, and within an hour she was cheerfully filling glasses and fetching hors-d’oeuvres. Once back to Los Ocotes, she had to tend to Lilia, and by the time she fell into an exhausted sleep, the conversation with Doá±a Mariana had ceased to trouble her.
 
 
December 27
-- At the request of Don Pablo, Susana returned Pansy to Las Rosas, leaving Lilia with Marta. Susana parked her Nissan and the women walked up to the casa. Pansy paused as Susana knocked, retrieving her compact from her purse and peering into the mirror to refresh her lipstick. Evelina answered the door. “Come in, Seá±oritas,” she told them; “Don Pablo is in the library.” She ushered them to the door of the study and knocked.

Don Pablo invited them in and greeted them: “It is always a pleasure to have two pretty young women visit this old man. Welcome back, Suzi, Pansy, and please sit down.”

Susana grinned and replied, “Flattery will get you nowhere, Father–but it’s always appreciated anyway.”

The don smiled at his daughter. “It is only the truth, after all; and I have noticed that you are always in a better frame of mind after receiving a compliment.” To his maid he said, “Evelina, please bring us coffee: the usual black for Suzi and me, and cream and sugar for Pansy-Ann.” Turning back to Susana, he asked, “ ¿Has Pansy satisfied your expectations, my dear? She has been your maid for over seven months now, and your reports have been quite favorable.”

“Not really,” she replied. When her father raised an eyebrow, she clarified her denial: “My expectations were far too low. Pansy’s been an excellent maid, much better than I could ever have expected, or even hoped for.”

He nodded. “Yes, I have to consider the project a qualified success, so far.”

In unconscious imitation of her father, Susana raised an eyebrow. “ ¿‘Qualified’?  ¿How does she fall short?”

“Although an impartial observer might call her a campesina, and she fits many of the criteria, she does not consider herself to be such but retains her dream of returning to the United States and reclaiming Seá±or Cualquiera’s citizenship.”

“Yes, she’s told me that–I think it was only a week or two ago.” She shrugged. “But I explained to her, it’s an unrealistic ambition. It’ll never happen.”

“No, of course not. But she still intends to attempt it.” He turned to Pansy. “ ¿Am I right?”

“Yes, Seá±or,” she responded. “I don’t know how I’ll do it–you made it difficult–but I will return. I ain’t no campesina. I am a norteamericana.”

“ ¿No? Tell me, girl: aside from your unorthodox origin,  ¿in what ways are you different from any other campesina?  ¿And how will you persuade the authorities that you are not what you seem? It is safe to speak.”

“I… I ain’t born to it. You made me this way.”

He nodded. “I grant you that. But I am saying that you were made into a campesina, and I asked for evidence to the contrary. Still, you have a point: in itself, that knowledge of your past creates a distinction.” He turned to his daughter. “Pansy’s refusal to accept her new status is the only flaw, and I hope that flaw will mend itself with time.”

“No,” Pansy insisted. “I know what I was, and I ain’t never going to accept staying like this.”

“We will see.” Evelina returned with the coffee and poured three cups, one with cream and sugar. Don Pablo lifted his cup to his lips and closed his eyes for a moment, savoring the bouquet of his drink. Susana and Pansy also sipped at their cups. He continued: “Suzi, your maid presents me with a problem. I am coming to believe that Pansy may be correct. As long as Seá±or Cualquiera lives in that pretty head, we may never fully realize our goal of creating a campesina. Or, at the least, it may take several years.”

“It doesn’t matter to me, Father. Whether he’s there or not, Pansy’s a good maid, and I think she’s a good mother. Besides, I rather like to see the occasional reappearance of that pendejo who abandoned me. It amuses me to see him trapped in a maid’s dress, forced to do the ‘women’s work’ he wished on me.”

“I understand,” he replied with a sigh. “That is part of the problem. As long as he keeps reappearing, you treat Pansy as if she were still Seá±or Cualquiera, and that recognition hinders his complete assimilation into the new persona we are creating–or so my doctors tell me. In truth, they are only guessing–they are exploring new territory.”

“I’m sorry, Father, but it’s very difficult not to see him. Sometimes he really is there.”

“I know, I know. But his punishment is finished. Now I simply want to complete the psychological transformation as soon as possible, and we have very little more time. I promised to terminate further treatment after New Year’s Day.” He turned to Pansy. “Seá±orita, your change–your metamorphosis–is almost complete. There is very little left of the man whom I brought here two years ago.  ¿Do you agree?”

Pansy had heard their conversation with dread. Complete the transformation, Don Pablo had said. What else was left? Whatever it was, she didn’t want it. She set down her coffee. “Seá±or, I… I don’t know. Like I said, I ain’t no campesina, but my…  ¿what did you say? My meta… metamofis is too good. Way too good. I don’t want no more.”

“Of course not. And yet… You suffer from your knowledge of your previous existence, and it also hinders the final success of our project–as you yourself have pointed out.”

“I…I ain’t…” She didn’t like the direction of the don’s thoughts at all. “Let me suffer.  ¡Please! I want to remember who I was…  ¡who I am! Even if it means Seá±ora Arias can continue to watch… watch Seá±or Cualquiera in a maid’s dress, doing her laundry. As long as I can know who I really am, it pushes me to escape.”

“But aside from that memory, there is so little left. You are irreversibly female–and totally feminine as well, in your interests, your mannerisms, your tastes. Worse, you are illiterate, with almost no English, no education, no family, and no outside resources. Yet you still hope to return to the United States and regain your old life.”

“I ain’t going to get my old life back. But I want to go home.”

“Even though it is no longer your home. There is nothing there for you, and the obstacles are almost impossible.”

“Even so, yes.”

Don Pablo turned to Susana. “We have blocked all plausible exits from the life we have planned for her–but I must admit, no plan can be foolproof. Pansy might just succeed, if we allow her to try.”

Susana disagreed: “I don’t think so. And even if she does, she’ll be no better off. She’d just end up working as a maid there–if she’s lucky–or more likely, cleaning toilets. Or worse.”

“Absolutely correct–as to her prospects there–but irrelevant to us. What is relevant is that it would prevent us from monitoring her. And Pansy-Ann Baca is by far the greatest success of the Ovid Project. We must remain able to observe her as her personality stabilizes. My doctors believe she will probably adapt to her circumstances as do other women in those circumstances–that is, she will truly become a campesina, content to stay home and raise a brood of children–but that is a supposition. Pansy certainly does not fit that mold now, and we should continue to watch her as she moves in that direction. We need evidence, so that she can continue to demonstrate the efficacy of our process to interested parties.” Don Pablo took another sip of coffee. “Doctor Ibarra assures me that it would be very simple to remove what is left of Pansy’s memories of Seá±or Cualquiera; and Doctor Ibá¡á±ez tells me that, without those memories, she would almost certainly conform to our design within a very short time. There would be no attempt to escape–or better, ‘escape’ would be a meaningless concept–and her ambition would be limited to finding a suitable husband–suitable for the campesina she would indeed have become.”

Pansy blanched. The imposed memories of her girlhood were clear and detailed, and they pointed directly towards the life the don had laid out. “Please, Seá±or,  ¡don’t do that!  ¡Don’t… don’t kill me!  ¡Leave me some hope!”

“ ¿‘Kill’ you?” Don Pablo cocked his head. “You–Pansy-Ann Baca–would be very much alive and, I am certain, much less unhappy. It would seem to solve my problem, and bring the Ovid Project to a successful end.  ¿Can you tell me why I should not simply erase the remnants of Seá±or Cualquiera? After all, what little remains of him, is itself partly artificial. His birthplace, for example: Ovid, Oklamo, does not exist.”

Pansy’s heart sank. Was he right? Should she just give up? “ ¡No, Seá±or! I… I ain’t really Pansy, you know it. If I don’t know my real name, it don’t matter–I’m still… still really Seá±or Cualquiera.”

Irritated, the don retorted, “I know no such thing. Seá±or Cualquiera is–or was–a pattern of memories, habits, and reflexes that marked you as an educated norteamericano. It was programmed into a kilo-and-a-half computer of meat, in a male body full of testosterone. All that is gone forever. We reprogrammed that computer with a different set of memories, habits, and reflexes that define a campesina, and put it into a female body well supplied with estrogen. You may think of yourself as Seá±or Cualquiera–but he is dead. I have cut pieces from him–his body, yes, but more especially, his mind–for two years, until now there is too little left to matter. You look like a campesina, speak like a campesina, think like a campesina, react like a campesina. You are a campesina–created, not born to it, but none the less a campesina.”

Susana pushed back into the conversation: “Father, I don’t know about that computer talk, but I have to agree with Pansy. Somehow or other, my old boyfriend is still there, memories or no. His… well, I don’t know, maybe his soul… Whatever you call it, it’s still there. And Pansy Baca isn’t real. She never existed, never was a quinceaá±era, never cuddled a doll named Panchita.”

“Pepita,” Pansy automatically corrected under her breath.

“No, you are wrong,” Don Pablo told his daughter. “Pansy Baca did exist. She was born in Comayagá¼ela, she had her first communion, her quinceaá±os, her first kiss. Her mother Rosa scolded her, she worked for her Uncle Juan. And she cherished her doll Pepita. Unfortunately, she died. We modeled our Pansy after her, and her memories as Pansy-Ann are those the original would have had. To the best of our ability, she is a re-creation of that girl. In effect, Pansy Baca lives again. She was–is–well suited for a position as a maid.” He turned back to Pansy and stated firmly: “You are not Seá±or Cualquiera, but Pansy Baca. You cannot live the life of Seá±or Cualquiera–we have destroyed all possibility of that–but you can take up the life of Pansy Baca. As Suzi notes, there are vestiges of your old personality, but they are fading. I might even say that you have been given a personality transplant.” He softened. “Seá±or Cualquiera did not actually have a good life, Seá±orita. He was financially well off, but he lacked human connections, even to his own family, and those connections are what make human existence truly satisfying. His life was centered completely on himself, and he had no purpose to his existence. That is an unfortunate, but common, tendency among norteamericanos, who pride themselves on being self-sufficient individuals; but in the extreme it is not healthy, and you carried it to that extreme. As a campesina, you will find that you are a member of a community. You will have a duty to Susana, to work hard for her; but Susana will also have a responsibility to you, to see that you and your child are taken care of.” He finished the last of his coffee. “I know you do not believe me, but the life of a campesina is not so terrible. Your material needs will be met: food, clothing, a warm place to stay. You will have friends, family. You already have a beautiful baby. You have been designed for that life, and if you accept it, I think that you can actually be happier than was Seá±or Cualquiera. I repeat:  ¿can you give me a reason why I should not release you from the presence of his ghost? Not as a punishment, but as a mercy.”

Pansy pulled herself together and took a deep breath. She believed the don: if he carried out his plan, next year would find a compliant and passive Pansy-Ann Baca cheerfully washing the clothes of Seá±ora Arias and changing the diapers of Josecito and Lilita. And she knew the mind of the original Pansy, as designed by those damned doctors, only too well; in a short time, she’d be the wife of some smelly peasant, the only sort of man the prototypical Pansy could conceive of marrying, and the mother of half a dozen of his brats–exactly the baby machine Seá±or Cualquiera had described. But then she thought: New Year’s Day… Don Pablo’s promise… “Yes, Seá±or, there is a reason. You promised I would be free on New Year’s Day…”

“But you–Pansy-Ann Baca–will be free…”

In turn she interrupted and rushed on. “ ¡No! You promised to free Seá±or Cualquiera, not Pansy Baca, in the hotel room where he was found, with his passport and his money. Also, you said you never kill your enemies. You are planning to kill… to kill what is left of Seá±or Cualquiera. If he is dying, let him die naturally–but please… please don’t kill him. And then your… your doctors–they can study me, see how I… how I…” She broke down and wept.

Looking down, Don Pablo shook his head, then stared out the window, where bright sunshine filtered through the pines. Ten seconds passed in silence. Then he looked up. “You make a good point, Seá±orita. But there are other considerations. I do not wish to free you with your knowledge of the project. I know that there are those who would be delighted to pick your brain, and would assist you to leave–Seá±or Bianchi comes to mind. I think you would be the worse off in their hands, but I can understand how you might see it differently.” He thought a moment more. “I will keep my promise, and bow to your desire. The ghost of Seá±or Cualquiera–if he exists–will be allowed to continue, trapped in the body of Pansy Baca, but without information concerning the project. You will be taken back to the hotel as I promised, free to go or to return to Suzi, and I will consider your punishment–or the active phase of your punishment–to be completed.”

Pansy smiled through her tears. “ ¡Thank… thank you, Seá±or!”

Don Pablo returned a scowl. “There is no need to thank me. I believe you would be better off had I held to my original plan; but I will keep my word.” He finished the last of his coffee, now cooled, then added, “I must, however, make sure that you do not pass along any information concerning your transformation–but I must think on exactly how I will proceed.” He turned back to Susana. “Take her back, Suzi. I must confer with my doctors.”

“Very well, Father.” She rose. “Come along, Pansy. You’ll have to wait a bit longer to find out exactly what Father decides.” On the way home, Pansy asked Susana to speculate on what her father might decide to do, but Susana just shrugged. “I have no idea, Pansy. I suppose we’ll both have to wait and see. But he did tell me that your punishment–or Seá±or Cualquiera’s punishment–is done. Whatever happens, you–Pansy-Ann Baca–will be free to follow your own path, and Father thinks you can actually have a decent life.” She thought for a moment. “I guess I’m content with that. Seá±or Cualquiera paid full price for his sins, and I agree with Father: he’s dying now. And I agree with you too; he’s not totally dead yet. I have mixed feelings about Father’s decision not to erase what’s left of him–I still enjoy watching him fight a losing battle with Pansy–but it seems you’ll get your wish to keep him in your head for as long as you want. Father will keep his word. But I have to tell you, I’m surprised at myself.”

Pansy couldn’t keep silent. “ ¿Surprised in what way, Seá±ora?”

Susana glanced over at her maid. “I like you and respect you–as Pansy Baca. And other people at the finca feel the same way. When Seá±or Cualquiera isn’t present, you’re actually a decent woman–a hard worker and a good mother. I think Tá­a Mariana was right: you might even make a success of your life, if you let Seá±or Cualquiera fade away. The quickest way to do that would be to let Father erase what’s left of that pendejo–although on those rare occasions when he reappears, I very much enjoy watching him struggle in vain against what he’s become. I’d miss him if he left.”

“ ¿A success if he fades away and I lose all my ambition? If you were trapped as a maid, Seá±ora,  ¿would you call your life a success?”

“ ¡Of course not! But I’m not a campesina, and you are. ‘Success’ is making the most of your potential. You can be a success as a wife and mother, and a respected member of the Los Ocotes community–but that’s pretty much it.  ¡And that would be a successful life! Pansy Baca, left to herself, would realize that. Seá±or Cualquiera never will–and he’ll be forever frustrated, because he can’t define success that way, and yet he’s bound by the same campesina limits. Success and happiness for Pansy equals failure and misery for Seá±or Cualquiera. Failure and misery he richly deserves.” She stopped speaking for a minute, then resumed. “And being a wife and mother is acceptable for most of the female half of the human race.” She paused again. “Not ‘acceptable’– ¡wonderful! It has joys and rewards that men will never know.”

Pansy looked closely at her mistress. She was smiling slightly–a real smile, not aimed at Pansy. She seemed to be offering serious advice. And Pansy admitted to herself that Lilita was a beacon of joy in her own life. “I… I suppose you could be right, Seá±ora.”

Susana smile grew wider. “Yes, of course I am. Like I told you, I’m pregnant myself. I owe a child to Felipe, but more important, I want another child.”

Pansy looked away. Her first thought was, “ ¿And who’ll get to do all the dirty work of taking care of the brat? You told me I’ll be the one stuck caring for him!” She kept that to herself, though–she’d be free to leave by then–and simply said, “Yes, I remember. I hope you and Seá±or Arias have a wonderful child.”

Soon they turned off the main highway to the Los Ocotes road. Pansy reflected on what Susana had said about her future. It was hard to gainsay her words, but there was no way Pansy could accept them. There was more remaining of Seá±or Cualquiera than Don Pablo and Seá±ora Arias realized, and he couldn’t settle for the life he was offered. He had been behaving like a model campesina in the hope that he might be treated better, and clearly the ruse had succeeded. He’d find some way to do better. There had to be a way!
 
 
December 28
-- The garden outside Ibarra’s office was dreary. Poinsettias still bloomed, but a steady rain spoiled the festive effect. Ibarra closed the curtains to shut out the depressing sight. The office itself was brightly lit, and Ibarra was cheerful; the gloomy skies couldn’t spoil his mood. One of his subjects, Patricio Dá­az, had been treated two months earlier. He had been Juan Benavides then, but he had been given a new identity to prevent him from carrying out a revenge murder. Much of his past had been expunged, and since then he had worked as a mechanic in San Pedro for a company controlled by Don Pablo. Now he had been returned to the Institute, and Ibarra had completed a new experiment. He suppressed, but didn’t erase, all the memories that Seá±or Dá­az had accumulated since his rebirth, effectively returning him to that day. The erased memories hadn’t returned; but all the memories of the earlier life that hadn’t been erased, but only submerged in the subconscious as incompatible with the new identity, had reappeared. In effect, the original persona had been resurrected from limbo. The two-year interval, with a new environment, had been sufficient to create a new personality, and the return of the old persona was easily observed by anyone who had known the original Seá±or Benavides.

Now Ibarra wondered about his most challenging subject. George Deon had suffered a more radical change than Seá±or Benavides. Both body and persona had been thoroughly altered, but the change had been so gradual, taking almost two years, that there had never been any discontinuity. The subject had been physically emasculated only after he had been completely feminized in other respects; yet his ego seemed to persist, even through the changed body and imposed persona of Pansy Baca were totally alien to that ego. And now Don Pablo had reversed himself and vetoed the most likely method of completing the psychological transformation. “Pansy must retain the knowledge that she was once a norteamericano,” he had ordered Ibarra. “But I want her to lose her knowledge of how she was changed, and who was responsible. And I need to have this done quickly.”

Ibá¡á±ez and José Herrera, who had been called to consult, stopped by while he was reviewing the Benavides/Dá­az case, and the three psychologists discussed the result of his experiment. The resurgence of the Benavides persona, if only briefly, had intrigued all three, and possible parallels with the Deon case occurred to them. José asked, “ ¿Is George Deon is really still there in Pansy’s head? My sister claims she still sees her old lover occasionally, but that most of the time Pansy seems to be a different person altogether.”

Ibá¡á±ez laughed. “Whether he’s there or not, there’s no doubt that Pansy’s a very different person. We went to some effort to secure that result.” He recalled the conversation with Don Pablo and added, “In any case, I discussed her with your father just last night. Right now, my own opinion–shared by Don Pablo–is that Seá±or Deon is still trapped in that pretty little head. He lies low most of the time, because life is easier for ‘Pansy Baca’. He’s very frustrated, as you might expect. Pansy coexists with him, I think, and runs their everyday life. She isn’t quite real, though, in spite of the work Jesáºs put into inventing her own past. Don Pablo would prefer that she become dominant. It seems to me that we should simply delete the remaining Deon memories, as originally planned. But now Don Pablo wants us to come up with something else.”

Ibarra reminded his colleagues of the first appearance of Pansy as a young girl, when he had begun creating a life for her while the personality and memories of George Deon were suppressed. “His comments while he was recovering from the drug’s effect suggested that he was predisposed to the multiple-personality syndrome. Seá±ora Arias’s experience with Pansy supports that diagnosis.”

Ibá¡á±ez agreed in part. “However, Im skeptical about ‘predisposed’. I think it more likely that the intolerable pressure we applied, induced the syndrome–if indeed that’s an accurate diagnosis. But George Deon still seems to be the dominant personality, even though the conditioning we imposed is firmly, and I think permanently, imbedded. I think that eventually Pansy Baca might overcome Seá±or Deon, but right now he knows who he really is, deep down. He’s George Deon–even if he knows himself only as Seá±or Cualquiera. In a way, that state of affairs is fine and suitable as a punishment, given his crimes. It maximizes his frustration with the limitations imposed on him by his present status. But it’s not the complete psychological makeover that we had hoped for.”

“ ¿Then why does Don Pablo want him submerged in Pansy?” asked Ibarra. “That is his desire, you know. I don’t understand. Not really. After all, as you say, the punishment seems to be effective. Effective and appropriate, I think.”

“Two reasons, Jesáºs. First, the don’s satisfied that Seá±or Deon’s been punished enough. More important, Pansy is responsible for rearing his grandson Josecito.” He drew on his cigarette and exhaled a cloud of smoke. “And for Lilia Baca as well. Genetically, Pansy’s child is the don’s grandchild as well. Or at least she has a fragment of Susana’s genetic heritage. And that means she’s your niece too, José.  ¿Don’t you recall?” José nodded, although he was annoyed that Ibá¡á±ez would mention it. Pansy’s brat was nothing to him, even if there was a theoretical blood relationship. Ibá¡á±ez continued, “The don wants Pansy to accept that her biography–her imaginary biography–is as real as that of George Deon. He believes she’ll do a better job of raising the two children if Seá±or Deon is subordinated to Seá±orita Baca. But as long as she knows what happened to her, I doubt that’s possible–and besides, according to Don Pablo, Pansy isn’t supposed to know how any of this happened, or who is responsible.” He shook his head, puzzled.

Jesáºs Ibarra recalled the Benavides experiment. He pointed out, “The problem that the don discussed with me is caused by one fact: Pansy knows that the biography we gave her is fiction. She knows we put Seá±or Deon into that body.  ¿What would happen if she didn’t know?  ¿If I erased all those memories?” He looked at Ibá¡á±ez. “I think the idea is worth considering. I only worry that the project might not be practical.” He shook his head. “Just how would ‘he’ explain ‘his’ new self. I mean, it’s a different situation from Seá±or Garza. Very different. It’ll be clear to Seá±or Deon that he’s not quite the man he used to be.”

José was delighted by the notion. “I’d be interested in the reaction of Seá±or Deon to the experience of finding himself suddenly reincarnated as a peasant girl.” He smiled with anticipation. “Perhaps we have the time for this one last experiment.”

Disgusted with José, Ibarra scolded him, telling his colleague, “We’re supposed to be scientists, not little boys pulling wings off flies. Our purpose isn’t to torment Pansy. It’s true that one of the original reasons for this project was the punishment of Seá±or Deon, but that was never the chief purpose. Anyways, that’s over now, as the don has said. Over and done with.”

Sitting back in his chair, Ibá¡á±ez agreed: “You’re right, Jesáºs: our purpose now isn’t punishment. Still, we can consider the proposal on its own merits, and I think it’s a good idea. But I don’t think we need to provide a reasonable explanation. Let Seá±or Deon explain it as best he can. More to the point, Pansy will have a plausible background. She will be the persona with a convincing past. Or she will if you can provide an uninterrupted biography, Jesáºs.”

Ibarra assured him that it could be done. “I have some experience in the matter, after all. I’ve given other men new lives, and they’ve never detected discrepancies. Or not in the end, anyway.” He pointed out that the truth of what had happened was more improbable than almost any other story that could be concocted. “Willy-nilly, her ‘Baca’ biography should prevail in the end.”

Ibá¡á±ez joked that witchcraft was the only reasonable explanation for the transformation: “No rational person would accept that Pansy could ever have been a norteamericana–never mind a norteamericano. Our methods are all known to science–if on the cutting edge of technology, and known only to a few workers in a small field–but no one ever had the genius to put them all together like this.”

José seized on the idea. “ ¡That’s an excellent idea, Roberto! She’ll need an explanation, and sorcery’s as good an explanation as any. She can be told that George Deon was changed into Pansy Baca by witchcraft.”

“She’ll never accept that, José,” Ibarra insisted. “She still has too much of George Deon in her, and Don Pablo doesn’t want us to erase him. Seá±or Deon was a scientist, after all. Pansy won’t accept witchcraft.”

“ ¿So? Then let her wonder about what happened. Maybe she won’t accept witchcraft–or not right away–but she won’t have any other reasonable possibilities. The George Deon of two years ago wouldn’t have believed he could be changed to a campesina by any technology, and he still won’t, after we erase his knowledge of what happened to him.  ¡Just look at her! I have trouble believing it myself.” Ibarra nodded his head. “Yes, I think that Pansy may indeed come to believe in witchcraft. After all, her own personal experiences’ll support the notion.” He nodded again, thoughtfully. “I’ll give her some memories that’ll push her in that direction. After all, belief in the supernatural is common among campesinas–and Pansy’s lost all her scientific background.”

They discussed the possible results of such a procedure. Ibá¡á±ez suggested that the trauma of suddenly finding himself in a woman’s body would weaken the Deon persona, but that the Baca persona would receive no great shock. “And without any knowledge that the Baca body and memories are constructs, there’s a fair possibility that Pansy might come to accept her existence as the norm. Jack Pinkerton would become the anomaly, the interloper.” José agreed, but both Ibarra and Ibá¡á±ez silently discounted his opinion as biased. However, Ibá¡á±ez also agreed on objective grounds.

“ ¿What about the physical evidence of our work?” José asked. “There are some traces of the surgery. The plastic surgeon did an excellent piece of work–that’s his specialty–and I can’t see any scars to betray what happened to her old face, but Weiss’s transplant left abdominal scars. He did an excellent job in minimizing them, but the work couldn’t be hidden completely.”

Ibarra told José he could take care of that detail. “I’ll see that she ‘remembers’ that Seá±or Deon had those scars before he came to Honduras.” But he shook his head. “I still don’t think it’ll work, but we can try..”

The discussion turned to their Iraqi subject. Ibarra pointed out that Seá±or Ergec had never accepted his new identity. “The conditioning to obedience and to a feminine personality was insufficient. ‘Lilit bint Shaitan’ knew who she had been, and never reconciled to it. When the ties to Ergec’s old identity–and to his family–began to weaken, then Ergec’s family mattered less. Those family ties were the only incentive that kept Ergec from suicide. If we want Pansy Baca to remain alive, we should remove any knowledge of a previous identity.”

“I don’t think that’s necessary,” Ibá¡á±ez objected. “The cases are not parallel. First, Pansy Baca has a perfectly good independent existence, with a coherent past. Lilit had no such existence. Second, and more important, Pansy has a strong incentive to continue to live: her infant daughter. That same incentive should keep the Pansy persona dominant, even if George returns.”

The three decided that George Deon would be resurrected and returned to the time just before his capture. Ibarra reminded them that the reborn Seá±or Deon wouldn’t be quite the same as the original–even aside from the physical changes. “Too much was erased, and that material is irretrievable. It’s gone forever. His English, for example, will be poor…” José snickered and interjected, “ ¿Poor?  ¡It’s almost nonexistent!” Ibarra shot him an annoyed glance and went on: “…and the other erased memories will not return. Also, Pansy’s conditioning will remain. But I think enough remains to allow us to retrieve the original persona.” He looked at José with disapproval and noted, “Doctor Herrera, I want to make it clear that I don’t share your motivation, as I perceive it. Not at all. But I do have some scientific curiosity concerning the outcome. Our express orders from Don Pablo were that George Deon would remain more or less intact within the body of Pansy Baca. I believe we succeeded, but this experiment should test the proposition. And it may–may–assist in furthering Don Pablo’s present aims.” He puffed a bit on his cigarette and then pointed out that the resurrected persona would need a name. “I think we should let her use the name ‘Jack Pinkerton’ now, if only temporarily. I’m curious to see whether it persists, given that Pansy’s now well integrated into a campesina persona.”

“That’s reasonable, Doctor,” José told him. “She can be ‘Jack Pinkerton’ again, for a while. But suppress it after she’s reverted to Pansy-Ann. We need to make sure she stays integrated.”

José suggested further that they should involve Susana in the experiment. He argued, “She’d like to discuss several points with her former lover, I’m sure, and I think she deserves the opportunity.” Ibarra agreed, and they called Don Pablo. His approval cemented their plans.

Late that afternoon Ibarra called Susana on the radio and told her of George’s impending resurrection. “We believe his persona still exists. We think we can bring him back almost completely with hypnotic drugs. We’ll make Pansy forget everything that we did to make her what she is today. It’ll be almost as if the last two years never happened–except for the physical results of those two years, of course. Your brother suggests that you might like to see him when he realizes who and what he is now.  ¿Would you like to be there when he discovers his balls suddenly are gone? We can arrange it so that he’ll think you took them.”

She accepted the invitation, telling him that she had dreamed of having George back again, and at her mercy. “ ¡That’d be marvelous! I used to fantasize about changing him into a girl so he’d see what it was like, and Father’s project seemed like a miracle. I thought having him as my maid would satisfy me–and it has helped. But by the time Pansy came, there was too little of George left. I get a little satisfaction from teasing her, but she’s actually too different from him. I feel guilty. I think what you’re offering me is my fantasy,  ¿true?  ¿I’d really take George’s balls?  ¿And give him tits instead?”

“I’m not sure, Seá±ora, but I think so, yes. I believe we can return him–in his own mind, at least–to a time before any physical changes were imposed. Of course, Pansy’s body will not be restored to its original condition. That’s impossible. What we can do, I think, is use drugs to prevent the old ‘George’ persona from noticing those changes. You see, the drugs work best when they reinforce what the subject desires. I think I can say that our subject would dearly like to return to a time before his body was changed. We’ll tell him that he does have his old body again. As long as he’s under the influence of the hypnotic, he shouldn’t notice anything that contradicts that belief. Until he’s told to, that is. When you order him to take notice, he will. And he’ll think you did it to him, if you tell him that.”

Susana was delighted by the idea, but then, glancing at Pansy washing dishes in the kitchen, she had second thoughts. “Doctor, I see a possible hitch. Pansy’s useful to me now, as she is. She’s a good maid, and I don’t want to lose her.  ¿How long would George be present, and would his return have any permanent effects?”

“I don’t think you need to worry. Of course, we can’t be absolutely certain, but we think Pansy’s training will remain. The loss of memory should apply only to her recollections of events and people. Habits, skills, training–they shouldn’t be affected. George should find that he has all the training, the conditioning, that Pansy has now.  ¿How long would George remain? I don’t know, but I think, as long as the drug remains in effect. If you like, we could implant a time-release dose, so that he could remain for two or three days.  ¿Would that be all right?”

“ ¡Yes indeed!  ¿But will George get back all his old knowledge?  ¿The information that was erased? I wouldn’t want that to happen.”

“Not possible, Seá±ora. The drug is not magic. Time will not turn back. That information is destroyed–it’s gone from his brain forever–and this won’t bring it back. Nothing can. I promise that.”

She was puzzled. “But you said…  ¿How can that be?  ¿How can he forget everything that happened, but keep everything he learned about sewing, and cooking, and all that?”

The doctors began to speak at the same time; Ibarra conceded and Ibá¡á±ez explained, “Seá±ora, the brain has several different sorts of memory. Events, facts, faces, and names and such are stored one way, and abilities, habits, likes and dislikes… They go elsewhere. When we finish–or at least if we succeed–Pansy will keep the abilities and habits we trained into her. The circumstances under which she acquired them will be erased, but that won’t affect the training. And besides, we won’t erase all her memories of the last two years. Some we’ll just suppress, and she’ll recover them when the drug wears off.”

Susana shook her head, confused. “Seá±ores, I suppose it doesn’t matter if I don’t understand how you do it. I just want to know what Pansy will keep and what she’ll lose. OK, she’ll keep her conditioning, you say. But you’ll erase memories.  ¿Which will she keep, and which lose?”

This time Ibarra answered. “First, we won’t take any memories from before George’s capture. Everything, or almost everything–auxiliary losses may occur–over two years old should be untouched. At least at first, the last two years will seem to disappear completely. However, a lot of that won’t be erased, just suppressed. Everything after Pansy began working as a maid for you should return. She’ll remember she’s really a maid. For the time in between, the period of George’s transformation to Pansy, she’ll lose a lot. She’ll forget George’s capture, his time at Las Rosas, his surgery and training. We’ll leave a little of Pansy’s time in San Pedro, and fragments of Golondrinas, but we’ll change the context. The fragments we leave will be associated with Pansy’s work for other employers before she started work for you. She’ll think your brother was an employer who did to her what George did to his own maid. We’ll add enough false memories to fill in the story and tie it in to the biography we’ve given Pansy over the last eighteen months or so.”

Susana nodded doubtfully, but brought up another point. “Pansy’s last name is Baca, the same as George’s old girlfriend.  ¿Why was that name chosen?  ¿Are they supposed to be related?”

Ibarra laughed. “Yes, although Pansy doesn’t know it yet. It was planned from the beginning. We laid the groundwork, and Pansy’s final treatment will seal their relationship. Having a local family should help her campesina personality overcome her old norteamericano identity. I’ll give you details later.”

Ibá¡á±ez told her, “When George awakens, you’ll control him. I’ll lend you a gadget that manipulates his emotions. As far as George’s concerned, you’ll have total power over him, body and mind.”

“ ¿I’ll have total control?  ¿What does that mean?”

Ibá¡á±ez told her about the chips in Pansy’s brain and showed her the hand-held control. “The buttons control the chips. This one is fear; that’s pleasure; the third is sexual arousal. The last two are physical and induce nausea and cramps. The knobs control the intensity. It’s how I conditioned her.” He cautioned her to use the chips sparingly, if at all. “We’re trying to determine how permanent the conditioning is, and we want as little messing about with the chips as possible. Please, keep the use to a minimum. We’ll want it back after the first couple of days.”

She nodded. “I can understand that. No, I won’t overdo it, and you’ll get it back. But between that gadget and the little play you’ve scripted, I think ‘Jack Pinkerton’ is going to have a very interesting time. And I’ll enjoy every minute of it.”
 
 
December 30
-- On the morning of the 30th, Pansy was knocked out, and taken to Ibarra’s lab under sedation. José strapped her into the chair and prepared her for George’s return. Ibarra entered the lab as he finished. The familiar effluvium of animals and chemicals met him there. His assistant Horacio Morales cheerfully informed him that Pansy had received her shot of hypnotics. “She’ll be conscious soon, Doctor. She’ll believe anything you say when she awakens, and she’s really a foxy woman.  ¡Convince her that she loves me madly!”

Ibarra retorted, “Horacio, you know better. This formulation of metrazine isn’t magic. It can only reinforce suggestions that don’t conflict too strongly with the subject’s basic beliefs. It’ll work now only because Pansy would rather go back two years.  ¿Do you really think I could convince her that she loves a monkey like you?”

The assistant laughed and shrugged. “It’s worth a try, Doctor. Anyway, she’ll wake up in a couple of minutes, I think.  ¿What fables are we pouring into her brain today?”

“We’re going to erase pieces of her past, and then we’ll persuade her that Petunia Baca is her sister. You remember Seá±orita Baca,  ¿don’t you? We treated her quite a while ago.”

Morales looked puzzled, then smiled. “Yes, I remember. So Pansy’ll have a new sister,  ¿will she?”

“Not really a new sister. Don Pablo had both George Deon and Petunia Baca investigated thoroughly before this project ever began. Pansy’s girlhood memories–the ones you helped me give her for the last couple of years–were tailored to match the real biography of one of Seá±orita Baca’s actual sisters. The real–or I should say, the original–Pansy Baca died in her teens.” He paused: “Actually, her name was Violeta, but after we did a little work with Petunia–and the other family members–everyone remembers her as Pansy. Our Pansy’s new biography matches Violeta’s, as well as possible. Where there was an unavoidable mismatch, Petunia’s memory was altered to match Pansy’s. For example, Petunia has ‘forgotten’ that her sister died. And she thinks her sister had striking green eyes in a dark Indian face. We are doing the same with Pansy’s other family members.”

“ ¿India?  ¡She’s a morena!”

Ibarra smiled. “Yes, she is, in skin color; but her features are more india. My colleagues did a remarkable job on her. Anyway, I took a recent photo of Pansy and imprinted it into Petunia’s memory. When she sees Pansy, she’ll immediately recognize her as her sister. And considering the wonderful job that Marcus did on her face, anyone else would agree that the two women are sisters, although Pansy is dark and Petunia, light. I’m having Pansy’s remaining close relatives treated as well–it was easy enough to arrange–and they’ll confirm her new identity too, if and when she meets them.”

“ ¿Did they agree to be treated?”

“So far, yes. We told them it was a harmless experimental procedure, offered them a sufficient sum of money, and promised to to take liability for any damage.” He smiled: “Of course, they forgot everything we agreed to–but Don Pablo will honor the agreement anyway.”

Morales wrinkled his brow, still puzzled. “But Pansy knows her girlhood memories are false. She knows that she used to be a man, and I think you told me that won’t change.  ¿How do you intend to reconcile her two sets of memories?”

“We won’t. She’ll have to do that for herself.”

Shaking his head, Morales told Ibarra, “I’m confused.”

Ibarra grinned. “Not as confused as Pansy will be, I’m afraid.”

The assistant’s assessment was accurate, and within five minutes Pansy opened her eyes. Ibarra asked her, “ ¿Do you hear me, Pansy?”

“Yes, I… hear you.”

“Pansy, two years ago you were someone else, a norteamericano.  ¿Do you remember?”

“I remember.” She knew she should care, but under the drug she had no emotion.

“ ¿What was his name?  ¿Do you know?  ¿Do you have any idea? Tell me.”

Her brow wrinkled as she tried to comply. “I… I don’t… know. I thought maybe… maybe it was ‘Jack Pinkerton’.” She mispronounced the name badly.

“ ¿Why did you think that?”

“Doctor CantẠtold me.”

Ibarra lifted an eyebrow. It was fortunate that a false trail had been laid. The news that Isabel CantẠhad helped Pansy was a surprise. It was unimportant, though. More significantly, the deletion of George Deon had held. He checked Seá±or Deon’s biography and concluded that no erased material had returned. Then he erased “Jack Pinkerton” again–although its recovery wouldn’t really matter–and turned to the task of resurrecting his persona.

“I’m taking you back in time two years, to when you were sleeping with Petunia Baca. When you awaken, you won’t remember anything that’s happened since then, because it hasn’t happened. You’re still a man, a norteamericano, and you won’t take notice of anything to the contrary until and unless you are so ordered. When you awaken, it will be New Year’s Day, and you’ll be back in the same hotel room in San Pedro where you met with your girlfriend Petunia. You left Susana Herrera just three months ago, and you are still hiding from her now.  ¿Do you remember the fight you had with her, just before you left her? It was only three months ago. Tell me about it.  ¿What did you say to her in that fight?  ¿What did she tell you?”

Pansy responded in a monotone: “She… she told me she’s pregnant. I told … I told her I won’t marry her, that it was… the baby was her problem, not mine. I told her women were made to please men and bear children, and… and that I didn’t trap her, her own body did. She… told me I’d have the responsibility for the child.”

Ibarra smiled. The poor bastard would have a rude awakening. “When you wake up in the hotel, Seá±or, you’ll know that it is January 1, three months after you left Susana. You have been hiding from her, but she will be sitting next to you. You won’t notice that you are not speaking English. In fact, you won’t notice anything unusual about yourself until Susana points it out. Whatever she tells you is true, and you will believe it. And you must obey her orders.  ¿Do you understand? Answer me.”

“Yes, I understand. I am a norteamericano. Nothing about me is unusual. I have been hiding from Susana. I will wake up in the hotel with her. What she tells me is true. I will obey her.”

“Even as a norteamericano, you will have the skills and training of Pansy Baca. You can cook, you can sew, you love babies.” He agreed. “And after you speak with Susana, you will know that you have become a Honduran girl, Pansy-Ann Baca, and you will know that you have to work as Susana’s maid. You will remember everything about the man you once were, and you will especially remember that you are deserving of punishment, for your sins against women. But you will also accept that you have been transformed to a campesina.”

Ibarra took Pansy into a deeper trance and spent the rest of the day erasing much of her previous two years. Most of her year at Las Rosas vanished, although she kept her date with Lorenzo and her service with the Peá±as. Nothing remained of George’s capture, of the training in sewing and makeup, of the punishments and attempted flights. The finca, Don Pablo, Conchita, Jaime–all disappeared as if they had never existed. Ibarra told José that collateral losses would help them in this case. “I’m not trying to remove selected memories from her stay at Las Rosas. I want to obliterate it entirely–the memory of her capture, her physical alteration and her training, her association with Seá±orita Baca– ¡everything!” George’s, and later Pansy’s, association with Petunia at the finca was taken, so that his last memory of Petunia would be of that night in the hotel, just before their capture. Then Ibarra edited Pansy’s time at Golondrinas, excising anything that hinted at how she had come there. Her service there–including her sexual servitude–was left, but José’s true identity was erased, and he reverted to his pseudonym of Miguel Ovando. Her week as a whore for Mamá¡ Santiago was stretched to two months, and she “knew” she had used “Dulcita Chichones” as a professional name. Lilia became the result of a contraceptive failure at the brothel. Pansy’s service as Susana’s maid was left intact, minus hints of how she had come there. Ibarra repeatedly asked her to recall details that betrayed her true history, then carefully erased them with minimum disturbance to other memories. Pansy would know only that she had found a welcome, and needed, job with Seá±ora Herrera.

José shook his head in wonder. “ ¿How do you suppose she’ll account for the missing time?”

Ibarra shrugged. “That’s a minor problem. Pansy will have enough biography so that her life will seem continuous, with no breaks from her childhood through her present status as Seá±ora Arias’s maid and as a young mother. More to the point,  ¿how will George explain the fact that he has become a woman–and has a woman’s memories? I doubt the sorcery explanation will suffice. Or alternatively,  ¿how will Pansy explain that she has a man’s memories in her head? Seá±or, I don’t know. I don’t know at all.  ¿And which identity will dominate in the end?  ¿Will we have George Deon trapped in a woman’s body, or will he assimilate completely to a campesina?  ¡The questions are endless, Seá±or! Only Pansy can answer them–and at first, I think she’ll be confused.  ¡Most confused!  ¡It’s a fascinating project!” But then his face fell and the enthusiasm drained from his voice. “I can’t rule out failure, of course. I told you about Patricio Dá­az: he’s doing well. But one of my other projects–I renamed him Juan Vicenzio–never adapted to the new life we made for him, and he ended up drinking himself to death. And one of Doctor Ibá¡á±ez’s earliest subjects–I think his name was Seá±or Arruba–went insane last month. Ibá¡á±ez is still trying to find out what went wrong. And of course that Iraqi–but then, we expected him to fail; our clients didn’t follow our advice. But those are the risks, Seá±or. Not all experiments turn out as we’d like.” He shrugged, then brightened. “At least we keep learning. Even the ‘failures’ aren’t really failures. We get data from them, and it helps us plan our next project.” He turned back to Pansy. “This project’s gone well enough so far. Surprisingly well. But Seá±or Arruba proved that the subjects have to be monitored over the long term. There’s no way to predict accurately what’ll happen for Pansy over the next few years. Assuming she lives, of course; but of course we’ll do our best to see that she survives. She’s by far our most valuable subject now, with so much effort invested in her by so many people. Now, back to work.”

By the time all discordant details at Los Ocotes were obliterated, it was early morning of the 31st. The doctors allowed her to rest, and they themselves caught a little sleep. Then they resumed their work, filling out her biography with new details. In preparation for this final (he hoped!) treatment, he had obtained information from Petunia Baca, Tomá¡s Baca, Seá±ora Rosa Baca, and as many of (the real) Pansy Baca’s friends and acquaintances as could be found. Under the influence of mnemosine, Pansy absorbed every detail. Finally, he subtracted another year from her age. She’d be seventeen again, five years younger than Petunia, to match Petunia’s dead sister. Pansy accepted the biography without question. In the end Ibarra was half persuaded that Pansy knew more about the life of the original Pansy Baca than the original had. And she accepted it all as her own. When he was sure it was all firmly implanted so that it would never be truly forgotten, he ordered her to suppress the entire biography for the next couple of days. “You won’t recall anything of your past history as Pansy Baca when you wake up,” he ordered her under the hypnotic. “You will be only that norteamericano who betrayed Suzi. Then you will recall only those parts of your history that Susana–Seá±ora Arias–tells you to remember. After two days your entire past as Pansy Baca will return. Even then, you will know and remember that you were once a norteamericano before Seá±ora Arias caught you and transformed you to her maid. When you think of your old self, you can call him ‘Seá±or Cualquiera’, but you will think of yourself only as ‘Pansy Baca’.”

He asked her what she knew about the methods that had been used to effect her transformation, and she told him it was by hormones and surgery. “ ¿Why do you think so?” he asked. She told him about CantẒs genetic test and her abdominal scars, and about her knowledge of hormone therapy and transplants. The scar on her arm also indicated her original identity.

Surprised by Pansy’s remaining knowledge, and also by the assistance she had received from Doctor Cantáº, Ibarra removed all knowledge of biology: cell biology, physiology, anatomy, taxonomy, and evolutionary theory. He paid special attention to transsexual operations and hormones, leaving her totally ignorant of their existence. He implanted in Pansy the firm belief that such physical changes were technically impossible. He looked into her chemistry and physics; there was too little to bother erasing, but he took away even her knowledge of what the words meant. He checked her English, and erased what he could of the little that remained; experience had shown that it was not possible to remove the last vestige of a language, but certainly what was left would not be usable.

She was bent towards peasant religious beliefs, with a belief in the literal truth of Genesis; she acquired an unthinking devotion to the Virgin. When Ibarra had finished refurbishing her faith, it was unshakable; she “knew” that her prayers to patron saints had been answered several times. Then he added common superstitions. Witchcraft (“brujerá­a”) and the evil eye became realities. Turning to her body, they planted a firm conviction that her belly scars were due to a girlhood operation, and she gained a vivid (and embarrassing) memory of her first period in the summer of her twelfth year.

At Don Pablo’s request, Ibarra reinforced the remaining Deon memories, and tried to fortify the Deon persona. To assist in that effort, the evidence of the birthmark on his behind was left, as well as the scar on his arm from his boyhood bicycle accident. The discrepancies between the calendars of Jack and Pansy were reconciled and Pansy was ordered to ignore any remaining difficulties. Pansy was reminded that she had always looked forward to getting married, and that she should, and would, love and obey her husband. Especially the latter. Finally, he implanted in her mind the conviction that she’d always be a maid until she found a husband. It was the best life she could hope for, she would tell herself, and she was fortunate to have a mistress like Seá±ora Arias. George’s old opinions on the proper place for a woman were helpful, and would be strengthened by the hypnotic suggestion he was giving her.

They finished in the wee small hours of New Year’s Day. Ibarra asked José, “You arranged everything at the hotel,  ¿true?”

His collaborator stood up and nodded. “Yes,” he replied with a wide smile. “Yes, I did. Everything’s prepared. Susana will be there when Seá±or Cualquiera wakes up. She told me that Pansy disappoints her in only one way: there’s not enough left of George Deon. If you’re right, Doctor, then he’ll be back, and it’ll be just as though she did catch him then, and changed him to her maid on the spot.  ¿Isn’t that what you’re telling me?”

“Yes, I think so, but I’m not sure. That’s what I’m hoping, anyway. We’ll see.”

Two aides entered with a stretcher. Pansy was transferred to it, and José ordered them, “Take her to Room 117 at the Palmas Hotel. A woman there will give further instructions.”

“Yes, Seá±or,” the older aide responded, and they took her out. José followed them. Morales asked Ibarra, “ ¿How long should the Deon persona remain dominant, Doctor?”

Ibarra glanced at José, recall their earlier conversation, and raised a shoulder. “I really don’t know, Horacio. My earlier trials weren’t comparable. Not at all. I can only guess.” Then he told his colleagues, “I’ll hazard a prediction, for what it’s worth. The Deon persona probably won’t go suddenly, not if my posthypnotic suggestions hold. I imagine that in a couple of days Seá±or Deon will begin to fade as Pansy’s own memories return–the memories we gave her last May. But I don’t think Seá±or Deon will ever disappear entirely. He’ll continue to appreciate the attractive new body he’s acquired.”

“He certainly will,” José agreed. “But tell me, Jesáºs:  ¿do you really think this procedure’s needed? After all, Pansy’s body, and her conditioning, leave her very little leeway. There’s no way she can escape, and she knows it. Yes, she resents it– ¿but so what? She’s helpless.”

“True, but as she said–and I think she’s right–she’ll never accept that biography I invented for her, as long as she knows it’s fiction.” Ibarra paused, then continued: “My other subjects fully accepted their new histories, but they had no reason to doubt their truth. I think our present subject can be persuaded that her girlhood was real, in spite of her memory of her old identity. Both the Deon and the Baca pasts will have claims to reality if I succeed. Equal claims, in Pansy’s mind.” He smiled. “Of course, the subjective evidence will support her hondureá±a identity. There’s no way–none at all–that we could’ve changed George’s body so completely. Or so she’ll believe, I am hoping.”

José nodded and changed the subject. “ ¿Have you ever read Kafka?”

His colleague’s face took on a puzzled look. “ ¿Kafka? No.  ¿Why?”

With a grin José told him, “I had to read him in college. One of his most famous stories is titled ‘Metamorphosis’, and it tells a story about a man who wakes up to find himself changed to a giant cockroach. No reason is given, no explanation at all–neither to Gregor Samsa nor to the reader. It isn’t possible, of course, but it happens anyway. He just has to deal with his problem as best he can. We’ve gone a bit further in one way: Seá±or Samsa never had to accept the idea that he’d always been a cockroach.” He chuckled. “Another parallel with our Pansy: With the passage of time, poor Seá±or Samsa begins to acquire the habits of a normal cockroach. I’m afraid Seá±or Deon may have a similar experience, as his planted memories join with social pressures and biological urges to push him deeper into his new life.”

Ibarra pointed out a difference: this transformation would have a reason. “He’ll know why he’s been changed to a peasant girl, if not how. But in some ways it’s comparable, I suppose. There’s no conceivable way such a thing could happen, to him or anyone. Not a rational way. I’ll be curious to see how ‘Seá±or Pinkerton’ rationalizes his metamorphosis.”

“ ¿But didn’t you give him a rationalization?  ¿That he’s always been a woman, that he grew up here? You said…”

“ ¿That his new biography would have equal standing? Yes, but that won’t erase his old one. And it’ll seem to him that Seá±ora Arias is responsible for both his new body and his new mind–including the memories. He’ll realize intellectually that both the physical transformation and the apparent change in his past are impossible–utterly impossible–but equally he’ll see that the former is an indisputable fact, and that should help him accept the latter. Or so we hope. This is an experiment, after all, and we can’t be sure of its outcome.”

José shook his head. “I’m confused. In the end,  ¿will he know he’s really George Deon–or ‘Seá±or Cualquiera’–or will he think he’s really our mythical ‘Pansy Baca’?”

Ibarra chuckled. “Your confusion is nothing compared to what I expect Seá±or Whoever will experience. But to answer you, I have to repeat: I don’t know. Ask me again after a few months.” Then he sobered and added, “In the end, though, I expect Pansy to adapt to the necessities of her new life, just as Seá±or Samsa did, willy-nilly. Who she ‘really’ is, or thinks she is, won’t matter. ‘Pansy Baca’ will not be mythical: she will be a true campesina.” He paused: clearly José hadn’t been privy to all the information concerning Pansy’s transformation. There was no reason to keep him ignorant, so he added, “Besides, Pansy Baca isn’t mythical at all. She actually was a real campesina. Our own Pansy, new memories and all, is a mostly accurate re-creation–although we altered a few details. You could call it ‘artistic license’. We think it’ll assist in her ultimate acceptance of her new status.”

José’s eyebrows lifted, and after a moment he replied, “In terms of the Kafka story, then, it’s as if Seá±or Samsa not only awakened as a cockroach, but also found that everyone around him believed he had always been such.”

“Yes–and even worse: as if your Seá±or Samsa could recall an earlier cockroachical existence. He might always have been a cockroach, and his memories of being a man,  ¡only a dream!”

“Doctor Ibarra,  ¡you are diabolical!”

The doctor smiled and responded, “Not at all.  ¡Not in the least! It’s for Pansy’s own good. Whatever she believes, she’ll spend the rest of her life as a metaphorical cockroach, and we think this will help her accept it. We’re trying to avoid the outcome that befell several earlier subjects.”

“Suicide. As I remember, Kafka’s tale also ended with Gregor Samsa’s premature demise.”

“Exactly. We’ll see if this ameliorates Seá±or Deon’s despair at the prospect of living the rest of his life as a cockroach.”

-- Part 17, Who am I?

At last, Pansy is freed! But she has lost all knowledge of the previous two years. In that hotel room where, two years earlier, George had gone to bed with Petunia, it is George that awakens, to discover some changes. Can (almost) be read as an independent short tale, in the "magic" category.
 
 
January 1
-- Susana’s former lover stirred in his bed, in the cheap hotel where he had come with Petunia for a weekend of lust. As he lay quietly, clad in an old pair of blue pajamas, he savored his success with women. But then he sensed that he was alone in the bed. Petunia was gone. He raised his head and his eyes widened. Susana sat in a chair across the room, watching him with a smirk on her face. “Good morning, sweetheart,” she greeted him brightly. “Surprised to see me? I told you, you wouldn’t get away with leaving me. And now I found you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hunger finally drove him from his room. He found a cheap cafe and ordered supper. After he paid, he checked his dwindling cash. The clothes and the hotel had dented his nest egg badly. What would he do when it was gone? Now he knew why Susana had let him go free: there was nowhere to go, no way to escape. He wasn’t free at all–his new body was his prison, and there was no option but to return to Susana. As soon as possible: his resources wouldn’t last a week. He returned to the hotel, stripped off his clothes, and went to bed, trying not to look at his alien and misshapen body. He cried himself to sleep.
 
 
January 2
-- Early next morning, she stirred in bed. She felt odd; what was wrong? Rolling onto her belly, she felt uncomfortable, as if… Suddenly alert, she turned onto her back again. Her gaze fell onto her swollen breasts, and her personal hell returned. She… HE was now a girl. A peasant girl. “ ¡No!” he insisted to himself; “ ¡I’m a man!  ¡A norteamericano…! I’m…” But he couldn’t recall his name. Or read his passport. And the sight of his body proved that it wasn’t a passing nightmare. Not only did he wear female flesh, but he was dark-skinned, with a pretty face and long, thick, lustrous black hair. A glance at a posted notice told him he was still illiterate. Nevertheless, he had to deal with his body. A visit to the toilet and a quick shower confirmed his anatomy. The pressure in his breasts forced him to use the pump. Then he tied his hair back into a ponytail with a scrunchy he found in his purse–loose, it had been falling in front of his face–and put on a fresh coat of lipstick without thinking. Reluctantly he donned his girl’s clothing, to leave for breakfast. At least the shirt and slacks were more decent than the dress he had worn earlier, but they still showed his figure plainly. He knew he’d be a focus of male attention again. He had a quick meal of fried eggs, then returned to the bus station, where he bought a ticket for Tela. Susana had him dead to rights. Suzi had put him into this body; only Suzi could restore him, if he could persuade her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tell me about her sisters.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She does look an awful lot like Seá±or Cualquiera,  ¿doesn’t she?  ¿Do you know who the father was?” Pansy shook her head; she had… she had serviced too many men at the brothel. “Seá±or Cualquiera gave me Josecito, so I thought it’d be appropriate if he fathered your own child too. Now you have something to remember him by.” Shocked, Pansy “remembered”: as Seá±or Cualquiera, he had been serviced by a whore named Pansy. And as Pansy, she vaguely recalled a norteamericano client. “But I’m afraid a child is a bit of a handicap for a single mother. You’ll need to care for her while you work,  ¿won’t you? But the poor baby is hungry. You’d better nurse her. After that, wash the dishes, and then make my bed. You know where it is, of course: you once shared with me. If you hadn’t been such a pendejo, you’d be sharing it now. As my husband. Think of that as you tuck in the sheets. When that’s done, the stove needs to be cleaned.”
Without thinking Pansy unbuttoned her dress, pulled up her bra, cradled the child in one arm, and gave her a breast. The baby sucked at the nipple greedily. It felt familiar to Pansy, as if she had done it often. That was silly. But she knew she couldn’t leave Lilia. She’d need to take her. When the baby–her daughter!–was sated, she threw a cloth over her shoulder and held the baby there until she burped, then put her back in the crib and rebuttoned her dress. She thought, where could they go? Could her family help? Her papá¡ had lived in San Pedro, but he was dead. Mamá­ was a maid in faroff Choluteca, and she didn’t know where her sisters and brother were. No! These people didn’t exist! She was… HE was… who? Jack something? “Jack” seemed wrong. Maybe “John”? It sounded more familiar. She didn’t know her last name. Her real last name. The only name that fit was Pansy Baca. Obsessively she opened her purse and looked at the passport again. It was printed there, but of course she couldn’t read it. She couldn’t be illiterate! She was a scientist, for God’s sake! Her insistence faded in the face of the gibberish on the passport. Never mind, she told herself. She’d go to the embassy… She returned to reality. All that was impossible. She was only a campesina, without resources and with a baby to care for–exactly like Mará­a Banderas. She knew she was fortunate to have any job at all. There was nowhere else to go, nothing else she could do. She was Susana’s maid, and that was that. In despair she headed back towards the kitchen. The dishes needed washing, then a bed had to be made up, and the stove waited for her.
 
 
January 3
-- Pansy awoke in the wee hours from an erotic dream. She had been wearing a scarlet nightie, and she had teased and fondled a strange man until he… Resolutely she thrust the dream from her. Lilia was crying in the crib next to her. “She’s hungry again,” she realized; her baby needed to nurse every three hours or so. Arising, she picked up the baby and put her to a breast. A wave of affection swept over Pansy as Lilia nuzzled, then sucked. She loved her daughter dearly and held her tenderly. Only then did she recall that she was newly a woman–or was she? Confusion overcame her. Unable to resolve her dilemma, she ignored it. When Lilia finished, she burped her, put her back in the crib, and returned to bed.

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

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

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

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

“Yes, but…”

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

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

“Very well. Get me more orange juice.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“ ¿Well?” Susana waited for an answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pansy’s Honduran self hadn’t ever prepared spaghetti Calabrese, but she had no problem in calling on Seá±or Cualquiera’s culinary abilities. The dinner was a success, and Seá±ora Arias told her she’d be making it regularly. “It’ll remind both of us of who you could’ve been.”
 
 
January 4
-- Seá±or Cualquiera’s fourth day as a woman began at 3:30 AM when Lilia awoke for her feeding. Pansy nursed her daughter and changed her diaper, then went back to sleep. At dawn she arose to prepare breakfast, beginning her now-familiar routine. The routine was familiar: her “Pansy” memories ensured it. Her recollection of life as Seá±or Cualquiera seemed like an exotic dream. She looked at the scar on her arm, and recalled the bicycle accident. Yes, she was really a norteamericano, she insisted to herself. And yes, she’d return to… to the United States. To Atlanta. But now she had to make Seá±ora Arias’s coffee. And Lilia’s diaper needed changing again. Sighing, she attended to the coffee.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I won’t forget, Seá±ora.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Later that night, as Pansy lay in bed with two infants–both of them her children–sleeping next to her, she tried again to make sense of the last three days. After puzzling over the various impossibilities, she decided there were three alternative resolutions for her identity crisis. The first, that she was still Seá±or Cualquiera and was only hypnotized or dreaming, was attractive but unlikely; she rejected it as wishful thinking. As much as she’d like to believe her new identity to be a nightmare, she knew it was horribly real. The second possibility: She was now, and had always been, Pansy, Petunia’s kid sister. Her memories of Seá±or Cualquiera were false and her Baca memories were valid. That meant she was crazy. This scenario was supported by the ease with which she assumed her “new” life; by the recognition of her friends and acquaintances at Los Ocotes; and by the existence of Lilia, whom she couldn’t possibly reject. It had the advantage that no sorcery was needed; but against it was the point that both she and Seá±ora Arias knew otherwise. That she was now Pansy Baca seemed to be–was–true, however inexplicable it might be. But at the least, she knew she had been Seá±or Cualquiera, before Seá±ora Arias had changed her, just three days ago. She had grown up as a boy in the United States, and had been a scientist. She had! She hadn’t been, couldn’t have been, a girl, in spite of her newly-acquired (imposed?) memories. She thought she could disprove it, but she had to find Petunia. Petunia could confirm what she recalled of Seá±or Cualquiera, and refute her Baca memories. Surely she would! The third possibility, no more likely, was that reality was exactly as she recalled: she had been Seá±or Cualquiera, and Susana had changed her into Pansy Baca, Petunia’s sister, by an act of brujerá­a. But that was arrant nonsense. Wasn’t it? There had to be a way to find out which of these nonsensical choices was true. A phrase from the memory of Seá±or Cualquiera came to her–it was from Sherlock Holmes, she knew: “When the impossible has been eliminated, whatever remains, however unlikely, must be the truth.” But what could be true when all the alternatives were equally impossible?
 
 
January 5
-- The next morning Susana discussed Pansy with Ibarra over the phone. “Yes, Doctor,” she told him, “it went well. I was grateful for the chance to put that hijo de puta in his place– ¡personally! George was back all right. I could tell. He was his usual arrogant sexist self, or he was until he found himself changed to herself. At first he didn’t notice a thing.  ¡But he reacted beautifully when I ‘gave’ him breasts! And he absolutely hated wearing a skirt.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“ ¿Is she doing her work, Marta?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“As you wish, –Seá±ora.”

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

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

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

“ ¿Does it matter?”

“I think so, yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, Seá±ora.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-- Part 18, Beginning a New Life

Pansy begins to come to terms with her new life after her "sudden" transformation to a Honduran peasant girl. She reconnects with George's old girlfriend Petunia, to find that their relationship, while still close, is necessarily very different now.
 
 
January 8
-- Pansy discovered that Seá±ora Arias had been right when she had told her maid that life would be easier if Pansy gave her “Pansy” self free rein to run her day. As time passed, she realized that her work was automatic, as if she had been a maid for a long time. (But she had! She remembered it!) She “knew” she had been working at Los Ocotes for over two months, and the others at the finca agreed. Her duties and her schedule were familiar, and the existence of Lilia proved she had been female long before Seá±ora Arias had meddled–as well as her favorite red handbag and her doll Pepita. Of course, her “Jack” memories told her otherwise, and it was obvious that Seá±ora Arias knew otherwise, as she openly relished the sight of her faithless lover in a maid’s dress. It would be so easy to let Seá±or… Seá±or Cualquiera fade into Pansy. She couldn’t remember her real name for long, even though Seá±ora Arias mentioned it occasionally. And of course she couldn’t write it down.

Everyone at the finca was familiar too. In the time that Pansy had worked at Los Ocotes, she had come to know them all as individuals. Seá±or Arias, the master of the finca, was seldom concerned with Pansy. Occasionally he’d order her to fetch something or other, but he considered her to be Seá±ora Arias’s servant, and not one of his own. He was courteous enough, and behaved like a gentleman. Gregorio and Porfirio Ruá­z, brothers in their early twenties from La Libertad, were hard workers and conscientious, but lacking in sense. They helped run cattle and did a good job if they had proper supervision. They had shown some interest in Pansy, but they had accepted her rejection and were dating other girls. Juanito Morales was a bantam rooster of a man–small and skinny, but wiry and tough, and always fighting. He had made several passes at Pansy when he had found out she wasn’t married, but he wasn’t obnoxious. That wasn’t true of Gordo Echeverrá­a, a twenty-year-old from Ojos de Agua. Also a small man, with a fox-sharp but handsome face adorned with a thin mustache and long dark hair, he was totally caught up with his own needs. He was unmarried, but had run through a succession of girlfriends. He considered himself to be God’s gift to women, and he couldn’t understand Pansy’s lack of appreciation for his attentions. His crude remarks may have been intended as compliments, but Pansy failed to see them as such, and he considered her a challenge. She had been told he had bet ten lempiras that he’d bed Pansy before the end of March. “That frigid bitch’ll lust for my body before I’m done,” was the remark reported to her. She almost choked when she heard herself described as frigid; to her dismay, she had found herself judging men by how they might perform in bed, and it was difficult to keep herself from responding enthusiastically to some of the overtures she received. She knew, though, that the men were traditional campesinos who’d insist on an equally traditional wife, and she refused to accept that rá´le. How long her refusal could last was an open question, though; her libido pushed her towards a man, some man, any man, exactly as Seá±ora Arias had said.

The most persistent suitor was Hector Trujillo, a vaquero on the finca, a good-looking widower in his mid-twenties. He was just taller than her. Like Gordo he was slender but well muscled. His face was sharp-featured, with a square chin, an aquiline nose, and a luxuriant mustache. Chocolate-dark skin betrayed his part-African heritage. A scar cut across his right cheekbone, and his smile was marred by the absence of two teeth. Off duty, his shirt and slacks were always immaculately clean. Pansy had turned down his earlier advances–that is, before the inexplicable conflation of the lives of Pansy Baca and Seá±or Cualquiera–but he didn’t resent the those rejections. He had told Pansy to her face, “I know you want someone more high-class, but you ain’t going to find one. I’ll be patient. Eventually your foolishness will come back to hurt you. Then you’ll come around. Within a year, you’ll be my wife–and I’ll make you happy you chose me.” She almost slapped him then, for his arrogance, but in truth she was strongly attracted to him. She could never marry him, though: he was only a poor campesino like the others, barely higher in status than Pansy herself, and far below the level she wanted to regain. If she married him, she’d lose all hope of ever escaping a peasant status. Seá±ora Arias knew of his advances, and somehow she knew that Pansy found him attractive. She was amused by Pansy’s difficult position, and Pansy knew she’d be pleased if Hector’s suit succeeded.

Alfredo Garza, the steward, was a nuisance, but not a real problem. His eye was appreciative, and he let Pansy know of his appreciation, but he didn’t seriously try to seduce her. Pansy suspected that he wouldn’t let an invitation pass, but he didn’t push. His wife Marta kept a sharp eye on him, and Pansy doubted much would pass unnoticed before that eye.

Marta and her young daughter Catalina had become close friends during the two months she had been at Los Ocotes. Marta, intelligent and talkative, was a treasurehouse of information on local history and families. She had noticed that Pansy was well educated for a maid, and had tried to find out more about Pansy’s past. Pansy told her she had been born in the United States, but had returned to Honduras when she was six. After all, that was as she recalled. “My parents had to come back here, so I had no choice,” she stated. ’Lina was a bright and pretty child who was fascinated by Pansy’s knowledge of local plants and birds. Pansy found herself teaching ’Lina an informal course in natural history, in bits and pieces.

Today was Pansy’s first free day since Jack had been imprisoned in his/her new body (or maybe since Pansy had had the personality of Jack superimposed on her own mind? Was there a difference? Did it matter?). She hoped to find her sister–his old lover–at Já­caro Grande. She appeared at breakfast in a peasant blouse and a long green skirt instead of her uniform, and after the meal she asked permission to leave the finca. “Seá±ora, today’s my day off, and I’d like to spend the day away from here.  ¿Please, may I?”

“Why, of course. You’ll have to make some arrangement for the children, though. ’Lina’s in school, and Marta has too much work, especially with you gone, to take care of both. Maybe she’d be willing to take Josecito, but I’m afraid you’re stuck with Lilia.”

Pansy was a little disappointed, having hoped to shed all her duties for the day. Still, she could manage. “Thank you, Seá±ora.” She left to find Marta.

Marta was making tortillas when Pansy found her. “Marta, I’d like to go to town–into La Libertad–today.  ¿Could you watch Josecito for me? I’d take Lilita with me.” Marta agreed, but warned that Pansy owed her a favor now. Pansy laughed, thanked her, and promised to remember. Marta had been a good friend to her, ever since they had met in October.

Pansy set off for Ojos de Agua with Lilia in a sling over her shoulder, like other campesinas. The day promised to be hot, and she was already tired when she reached the village. Thirty minutes later she caught a ride on a rickety truck, and she soon reached La Libertad. There was regular bus service to Comayagua, and she inquired at the ticket booth about a ranch by the name of Já­caro Grande, off the Comayagua road. “Yes, Seá±ora, the bus goes by the road to the ranch. It’s about three kilometers off the main highway, I think.” Pansy calculated the time she’d need. She decided to try, and bought a ticket to Comayagua.

The bus was hot. The week had been dry, and dust came through the windows. By the time the driver dropped Pansy off at the Já­caro Grande stop, she was already thirsty. Lilia whimpered; she was hot, and hungry besides. Pansy had taken a bottle in case she needed it, but she was able to find a secluded spot in the shade of an enormous spreading guanacaste where she nursed Lilia. She also took a swig of water from a plastic bottle she’d carried in a small pack. It was only 11 AM, and she kept her lunch for later.

When she was a kilometer up the road, a truck with two campesinos stopped by her. “Seá±ora,  ¿where are you going?  ¿Can we give you a ride?”

She was hot and tired. The small pack and Lilia had grown heavier as she plodded through the dust. “Yes, thank you, if you’re going to the ranch. I’m going to visit Seá±ora Petunia.”

“Yes, of course, Seá±ora.  ¿Where else would we be going?” They made room for her and the baby, and she bounced along in comparative comfort the rest of the way.

They let her off at an adobe ranch house. Wires showed that electricity had reached this far. Lilies bloomed in the yard, and clothes were drying on a line strung between two small palms. A creek flowed in back of the house, and fig trees provided welcome shade. At the edge of the yard, a pair of small trees, leafless in this dry season, were densely covered with clumps of glorious deep-yellow flowers. She knew them as cortés trees, and the scientific name Tabebuia chrysantha popped into her mind–a legacy of Seá±or Cualquiera’s botanical interests.

Pansy walked to the door and knocked. A familiar voice replied, “ ¡Just a moment!” Soon a young woman appeared. Pansy froze briefly as memory returned to just over a week ago, when he had last seen Petunia. This was his beloved, and his intended wife. He was suddenly stricken by an intense desire that denied his new body. But Susana’s taunt struck her anew: “You can’t be any girl’s husband. You don’t qualify: you’re female.”–and indeed, she knew she needed a man in bed with her. Her desire for Petunia was only an old memory, and the sight of this pretty young woman stirred nothing within her. She thrust the painful thought from her mind.

The woman looked at her visitor. “ ¿Yes, Seá±ora?  ¿What can I…?” She wrinkled her brow briefly. “You can’t be… You aren’t…  ¡You are Pansy!” Pansy nodded, unable to answer at first. Petunia threw herself at her sister and hugged her fiercely. “ ¡Pansy, Pansita!  ¡Hermanita má­a!  ¡I haven’t seen you for such a long time!  ¡It’s been years!”

Pansy’s heart sank. Petunia’s words confirmed her fear: Seá±ora Arias had made her into Petunia’s sister. But it was still impossible. Maybe she could find something useful in Petunia’s recollections of her sister. Or of her old lover. There must be a clue somewhere! She pulled herself together and replied, “I heard you married, Petunia, and I was afraid I’d lost you. But now I’m living just up the road from you.”

“ ¡Come in, come in! It’s hot out here. I have so much to tell you. And you’ll have even more to tell me,” she said with a glance at Lilia. She showed Pansy to a soft chair. The house wasn’t air conditioned, but thick walls, small windows, and shade trees next to the house kept the temperature tolerable. Pansy took off her pack and Lilia’s sling, and sat down with her daughter. Her emotions were churning. Petunia was her own dear sister–but she was also the sweetheart Jack had loved, only nine days ago. Petunia went on: “ ¿Where have you been, Pansita? I haven’t seen you for… let’s see… I think it’s over two years now.  ¿Almost three? Mamá¡ told me you went to work, but she didn’t know where.”

“Yes, I did. Now I’m working as a maid just down the road, a few kilometers out of La Libertad.”

“ ¡That’s wonderful!  ¡So we’re neighbors!” Then Petunia looked at the infant cuddled in Pansy’s arms. “ ¿How old is the baby?  ¿Is it a boy or a girl, and what’s its name?”

“She’s a girl, two months old. I called her Lilia, in the family flower tradition: Lilia Mará­a Baca.”

Delight shone in her sister’s eyes. “That’s great, Pansita.” Then she jumped up. “But you must be hot and thirsty. And hungry too. My husband ’Tonio’s working with his men now, and I was just making lunch. He’ll be back in half an hour or so. We’ll eat then, but I can get you a snack now. And a drink, of course. You used to like apple juice, I think.” She paused. “And there’s Margarita. I got a baby too; you need to see Margarita.”

“Yes, I’ll stay for lunch. I don’t want to eat nothing yet, but I’d appreciate a cold drink–beer, if you have it.  ¡And yes, I’m dying to see the baby!”

Petunia was slightly puzzled–Pansy hadn’t ever liked beer–but she fetched a tall glass of beer, frosted with condensation. “Here you are. Come with me; ’Rita’s sleeping in back. In the meantime, tell me what’s happened to you.  ¿Have you married?” She led Pansy to a back room.

“No, I didn’t marry. It’s a complicated story, Petunia, and I ain’t sure how to begin to tell it. I’ll tell you, yes, but I’m afraid you won’t believe me. But first, let me see Margarita.” They entered a nursery decorated with bright decals and pink furniture. In a crib slept a baby girl: Pansy’s daughter, through her alter ego. “Oh,  ¡she’s so sweet, Petunia!”

“Yes, when she’s asleep. She’s just beginning to walk. ’Tonio adores her.”

“ ¿But who’s the father?” When Petunia hesitated, Pansy added, “No, let me tell you. He’s dead, but he was a norteamericano, a scientist. He liked flowers, especially orchids.”

Petunia looked up, surprised. “ ¿How did you know? Hardly anyone but ’Tonio…” She smiled. “It doesn’t matter. Yes, I had a lover, the norteamericano you speak of. He drowned two years ago, and I married ’Tonio last year. ’Rita’s all I have left of him. When he died, I was pregnant and single. I lost my job, but Don Pablo Herrera helped me find another one.”

“ ¿What was his name? Your norteamericano, I mean.”

Petunia looked embarrassed. “I’m not sure. I can’t explain why, but I can’t remember his full name. I think it was Jack something-or-other.  ¿But what about you?”

It was Pansy’s turn to hesitate. How to explain what she didn’t understand herself? For a moment she considered just giving her sister the story that Susana had imposed on her, but that was foolish. She was here to try to discover what had happened to her, and her only chance was to tell the truth. Or at least the subjective truth, as she remembered it. The real truth was beyond her. “Well, like I said, it’s hard to believe.” She paused again; there was no easy way to tell the tale. Then she went on: “Petunia, you remember Susana Herrera,  ¿true?”

Embarrassed, Petunia looked away. “Yes, I do. Before Jack met me, he… Well, I loved him, but I know in some ways he wasn’t a very good man. Anyway, he seduced Susana and left her pregnant.  ¿But what does that have to do with you?”

“Be patient, I’ll get to that. You see, your lover didn’t drown. Not really. Susana Herrera caught him and punished him.” She looked down. “Somehow, by some witchcraft, she changed him into a girl, and made him work as her maid.”

Petunia was shocked at first. Was her sister crazy? But then she laughed. “Pansy, you’re joking. That’s not possible. Not really. Now tell me,  ¿what really happened?”

“I’m serious. I know it ain’t possible, but she done it anyway. And that ain’t even the hardest part to believe. Petunia, somehow she put me into your sister’s body. She done it a week ago.”

Petunia looked dazed. Pansy must have gone crazy after all, she thought. This wasn’t even good fantasy. “You are serious.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry, you were right. I can’t believe that tale. It’s literally incredible. Not believable.  ¿Are you out of your mind?”

Pansy shut her eyes in despair. Was she crazy? Then she pulled herself together. “Maybe I am. It’s a possible explanation, and I ain’t sure it’s wrong. You got to help me decide.”

“ ¿How?”

“By telling if my memories of our time together are right. I remember things that I think only you and Jack know. Of course, Jack might’ve told me–or someone else–but it ain’t very likely. Like the Epidendrum you found on Cerro Santa Bá¡rbara.  ¿Remember? You told him–you told me–it only grew there. It wasn’t spectacular, even in full bloom. Just a little spike of greenish flowers.” She thought back: “If I remember right, it was on a roble, but you told me you didn’t know which species. And another orchid–a Pleurothallis with little red flowers.” She thought for a moment. “Pleurothallis co…comayaguensis. And a campesino took our picture for us. We were hugging each other.”

Petunia still didn’t believe it. “Pansy, that’s over two years ago. I don’t remember… But it can’t possibly…” She did recall that trip, and they had looked for orchids, even if those details were forgotten. If it took place at all. But it was plausible. And her sister had had no knowledge of, or interest in, botany: she shouldn't know an Epidendrum from a dandelion. “I don’t remember the incident, but I admit it could’ve happened.  ¡But wait a minute!” Recalling the photo, she went to a dresser, where she retrieved an album. Opening it, she pointed to a picture of a man and a woman, embracing. “ ¿Could this be it?”

“ ¡Yes!  ¡That’s me! As I was then. I got a copy of the same picture at home.  ¡This proves my story! I remember the problem we had with our binoculars. They kept fogging up, and we had trouble seeing.”

Petunia remembered that. “Yes, but…” She stopped and shook her head again, bewildered.

“ ¿What about our hike up the Lancetilla valley?  ¿Do you recall it? We got soaked in a shower, and we ducked into an abandoned cabin, but it was too late, we was both drenched.  ¿Or our day at the beach near Puerto Cortés? You told me about the Gará­funa villages on the coast east of there. We stayed at the Hotel Mr. Ggeer, and laughed at the odd name.”

Perplexed, Petunia shook her head. Pansy shouldn’t’ve known about that. She held up a hand. “If you’re Jack–if you were Jack–tell me about the day we spent in the woods by Siguatepeque.”

Pansy thought for a minute. “Yes, I remember. It was just after I arrived, and I hated the place. You said you didn’t like it either. I told you I knew a little about orchids, and you offered to show me a… a little white orchid. I can’t remember the name in English or Spanish, but I think it was a Spiranthes, just like some I’d seen in the U.S.”

Petunia recalled the incident. She had been surprised at his enthusiasm for the inconspicuous little plant. “Yes, that’s the time.  ¿What color dress did I wear that morning?”

Pansy thought, then shook her head. “I don’t remember. But we didn’t go out that morning, it was in the evening, just before sunset.”

Correct. “You invited me for supper when we returned.  ¿What did we eat?”

“No, I didn’t invite you. You invited me. We had rice and beans. And fried plantains. And I offered to teach you chess.” Petunia nodded, and Pansy paused. “Petunia, you’re confirming my memories. They’re real, and I ain’t crazy; I was your lover. Maybe I ain’t convinced you yet, but I convinced me. Before we go any further, I should tell you that when Susana put me into this body, she took away a lot of what I knew. I can’t read or write no more. My science is gone, and my numbers. I don’t remember much about geography, and she mixed up some of my other memories. Like my mother’s name. I remember more as Pansy Baca than I do as Jack Whoever. She made me forget my old name, for example.”

They were interrupted by a call from the door. “ ¿Carita?  ¿We have a visitor?”

“That’s ’Tonio.” Then, more loudly, “Yes, dear. My sister Pansy. It’s the first time I’ve seen her in almost three years.” The two women returned to the living room.

“Pansita, my husband, Juan Antonio. ’Tonio, this is Pansy, my sister. She just moved close to here, near La Libertad, and she brought her baby to visit.”

In spite of his name, Juan Antonio Sáºlivan was a mestizo (like me, Pansy thought), with high cheekbones and straight black hair. He gave a slight bow, murmuring “I’m delighted to meet such a pretty girl. You’re almost as pretty as Petunia. You look a lot like her; I’d’ve known you was her sister.”

Pansy giggled automatically, then nodded in acknowledgment of the compliment. “Seá±or Sáºlivan, thank you, and I’m pleased to meet my brother-in-law.”

He turned to his wife. “Petunia,  ¿has Pansy eaten yet?”

“No, corazá³n, she arrived just a short time ago, and we were waiting for you.”

“We’ll be honored to have her as our guest.” Turning to Pansy, he apologized, “I’m sorry I got to leave soon, but I have a lot of field work to do.”

The lunch passed swiftly, as the trio made small talk. Petunia’s husband left to supervise his workers, and the women attempted to return to their chat. Lilia chose that moment to awaken, and she demanded to be fed.

“Sorry, Petunia,” Pansy apologized. “Lilita’s pretty insistent about regular meals.”

Laughing, her sister waved her back to her baby. “If you were really Jack,  ¡I’ll bet you’d never have thought about 2 AM feedings! Not much sleep for you, I’ll guess. I admit, Pansy, my feelings for Jack diminished when I was stuck with caring for Margarita with no help. It wasn’t reasonable–after all, he didn’t try to drown–but that didn’t matter.”

Pansy flushed and told her. “I’m afraid you’re right. I found out quickly that the best way to handle it was to have Lilita next to me at night. I feel wrung out, though, between Lilita and my other duties.” They walked back to the baby, swaddled and lying on a couch.

“Your other duties. You said you’re working as a maid.  ¿Who are you working for?”

Pansy shrugged. “I work for Seá±ora Arias–the former Susana Herrera–at Los Ocotes. She told me if I wouldn’t be her husband, I’d be her maid. And she made it come true. Like I said, she changed me to a woman. She’s decent to me–as decent as she’d be to any maid. She married, you know; she latched on to a big shot. You may know him: Felipe Arias.” She picked up Lilia, unbuttoned her bodice, sat down, and gave Lilia her breast. The infant stopped her wailing and seized on Pansy’s nipple greedily.

Petunia sat next to her. “ ¡Seá±or Arias!  ¡Of course! ’Tonio buys a lot from his business in Comayagua. She married well. You said you’re at Los Ocotes. I think I know where it is: just above Ojos de Agua, downriver from La Libertad.”

“ ¿You know it?” Petunia shook her head. “It’s a nice place. Now, tell me about the family.  ¿How is mamá­?  ¿Is she still working in Choluteca?  ¿And how are Daisy and Tomá¡s doing? I been out of touch for too long, since Rico died.”

“Well, mamá¡ remarried last year. She’s Seá±ora Molinas now, but she still works for the same family. I haven’t seen her in three years myself, but we exchange letters.” Then her face fell, and she looked down. “You never heard–we couldn’t find you to tell you–but Daisita died last year in childbirth.” Her face brightened again, and she told Pansy that Tomá¡s had become a mechanic. “You remember, he always loved fiddling with machines. Now he’s taking truck engines apart. He got married just last year, as soon as he got a steady job.”

Pansy felt a pang of sorrow at the news of Daisy’s death. Her sister had been so cheerful and full of life! She held her tears in; this wasn’t the time for it. Then she giggled. “I remember when Tomasito was ten, he took Papá¡’s radio apart, and it never worked again.  ¡I hope he does better with trucks!”

“Yes, he does. He’s very good.” She stopped and frowned. “Pansita, you’re my sister, not that norteamericano you claim to be. You look like her, you talk like her, you know all the things she should know. You’ve always been my sister. I don’t know how you found out those things you told me. Somehow, somewhere, he or someone else managed to tell you. Yes, I know it’s impossible, but it’s less impossible than changing Jack into Pansy.”

Pansy shook her head. “It’s more than the few memories I told you, Petunia. I remember being him, playing poker in Atlanta. I remember my family in the United States, and growing up in Dallas. I remember fighting with Susana Herrera in Tela. I might be crazy, yes… But Seá±ora Arias–the former Susana Herrera– ¡she confirms it! She throws it in my face, gloating about putting her faithless norteamericano lover into a maid’s dress.” Pansy’s face twisted in frustration and anger. “Petunia, she did exactly that. You’re right, I really am Pansy-Ann Baca. I know that, and I know everything about myself–my confirmation, my quinceaá±era, my marriage. I remember my family–you, Daisy, Tomá¡s, our parents. But at the same time, I know I was him. It’s like… well, maybe like double vision.”

Petunia shook her head again. “The timing’s all wrong. Jack drowned a couple of years ago. I saw his body.” She pointed to the bedroom where Margarita slept. “’Rita’s over a year old, and she was conceived just before his death.  ¡You can’t be him!”

Shrugging, Pansy replied, “I know all that. I can’t explain it. In my memory as ‘Jack’, I was put into this body only a week ago. People tell me I lost two years somewhere. But that’s a minor problem, compared to the big one:  ¿how did I get into this body at all? Or to look at it the other way,  ¿how did I, as Pansy, get the memories of Jack stuffed into my head? Seá±ora Arias told me she did it by brujerá­a. I can’t find no other explanation.”

Petunia sighed and rocked back in her chair. “Pansy, I don’t believe you–I can’t believe you–but tell me everything you remember, or think you remember, about what happened. I’ll try to figure out what’s going on. I admit, I can’t explain what you already told me about my time with Jack.” She added, “ ¿Are you thirsty?  ¿Would you like another glass of beer?”

Her sister shook her head, but asked for coffee. Petunia left briefly and returned with two cups. Pansy put hers down to cool, then started her story by telling Petunia about waking up in the hotel room. “We were spending a week at the Palmas Hotel in San Pedro, starting on Christmas Eve. On New Year’s Eve two years ago–or maybe a week ago–I went to bed with you there. I woke up on what seemed the next morning to find Seá±ora Arias sitting in the room with me. You were gone.” She told Petunia about Jack’s metamorphosis into Pansy Baca. “She told me she’d change me from your lover to your sister–and even more fantastic, she’d change my past so I’d know I grew up as a girl, and had always been your sister–and that I got to work as her maid. She let me go and I ran, but of course there wasn’t nowhere to go. When I came back to her I found out that I wasn’t just a woman, I was a mother, and that two years had passed since I went to bed with you. Also, I ain’t the same person in less obvious ways. I like sewing and telenovelas, I can’t read, and I am a good maid. And everyone at Los Ocotes says I been there since I arrived in October, right after having my baby. And my ‘Pansy’ memories tell me I been a maid for Seá±ora Arias since May. And I am your sister, just like she said. Just like she made me.”

Petunia frowned. “You must know your story’s crazy. You’ve always been my sister. Nobody had to make you be her. But tell me more.  ¿What about Jack’s life before he went to that hotel room with me?”

Pansy told her about his love for orchids and the tropics, and about his job as a chemist in Atlanta. “I had personal problems in Atlanta, so I quit and came to Honduras to teach at La Ceiba. I left there when I broke up with Susana.” She looked down and admitted that Jack had treated Susana badly. “As Pansy, I got to say that Jack wasn’t a good man. Even as Jack, I got to admit I was ignorant and thoughtless at best.” Looking at her sister again, Pansy told her, “Then I came to Siguatepeque to teach, and met you. You know the rest.”

“Tell me about us.”

Pansy blushed. It seemed indecent to talk about relations between her and another woman–her own sister!–but she described Jack’s time with Petunia in as much detail as she could remember: where they had gone, the weather, the plants and birds they had found, the meals they had eaten. “…And so I asked you if you’d marry me. You agreed, and we started going to bed. Then Susana found me in the hotel, like I told you, and changed me into your sister. That was just a week ago.”

Petunia shook her head in disbelief. “OK, but…  ¿What about your other memories? You said you remember growing up as my sister.”

Before answering, Pansy shifted Lilia to her other breast. As her daughter continued suckling, she told her sister, “Yes. Actually, those memories are a lot clearer than my memories of growing up as Jack.” Pansy related her biography as Pansy Baca: her birth in Comayagá¼ela, early childhood in Dallas, and return to San Pedro Sula; her family, her First Communion, high school friends, both Petunia’s and her own quinceaá±os, her father’s death, and her service with Miguel Ovando. She briefly considered omitting her seduction by Seá±or Ovando, but she finally told the entire story. She didn’t want to lie to her own sister–and besides, she was here to find the truth. She didn’t think she could possibly succeed if she didn’t give Petunia all the information she had. At last she summed up her quandary by telling Petunia that she didn’t believe that everything she recalled was true. “I told you what happened, as I remember it. Like you said, there’s something wrong with my story–or my stories. To start with, it’s impossible, and it’s inconsistent too. I know that, but I can’t help it. It’s what I remember. I’m sure Seá±ora Arias knows how this happened, but she won’t tell me. Unless she told me the truth, and she’s really a bruja.”

In spite of her skepticism, Petunia realized that, somehow, Pansy had to be right: some part of her old lover seemed to live in her sister’s body. She knew too much of what only Jack should know, and her personality had something of Jack. But the old Pansy was there too! It wasn’t possible, but the evidence was there. She shook her head. “Pansy, you say you know your story’s impossible, and it is. But as far as I can tell, both sets of memories are correct. You know things that nobody but Jack knew, but your memories as Pansy are accurate too–or at least the ones I can confirm. I’m a rational woman, not a superstitious peasant, and I don’t believe in brujerá­a, so let’s see if we can make some sense out of this. First, let’s assume that both sets of memories are accurate. You are Jack, in some way or other–in your head, at least. But that body, that face–I recognize you. You’re my sister, and I’ve known you all my life. Besides, you have Pansy’s memories too. That means that two years ago, two separate people accumulated the memories.” Pansy nodded. “Second, you’re now one person, in one body, with both sets of memories.” Pansy agreed again. “Therefore, at least one set of memories had to be transferred from one of those bodies to the other, and that means it’s possible to transfer memories. It’s possible to transfer memories so efficiently that a sense of identity is transferred as well. I wouldn’t’ve believed that before now, but that seems to be the only explanation for what you say. Either that or we’re both crazy.”

Pansy nodded eagerly, her black braids swinging. “ ¡Yes!  ¡You believe me! I was afraid I was going crazy. But then,  ¿who am I?”

Petunia gave a little shrug. “The simplest explanation is that you’re really Pansy Baca, my sister, but that Jack’s identity, his ego– ¿maybe his soul?–was somehow trapped in your head. The reasoning is that your body is Pansy’s, not Jack’s. I know you, Pansita. You haven’t changed since I saw you. And anyone else’d have to agree that you’re my sister. We look too much alike for any other explanation.”

Petunia’s analysis sounded reasonable. “But… but I remember Susana changing me. In the hotel room, a week ago. And this scar…” Pansy pointed to her left arm. “I got this when I was growing up. As a boy. I fell off my bicycle. I remember it clear. Susana told me she’d leave me with it, so I’d know I was once a man.  ¡I was a man!”

“Yes, but your memory may be wrong. It must be; it isn’t possible. That scar, for instance: you had it since you were a child, all right, but I remember when you got it. You slipped on a wet rock and fell onto a piece of broken glass.” She reconsidered; the entire fantasy was impossible. “Or maybe she did exactly as you remember; I said my explanation’s the simplest, not that it’s right. Another possibility is that it’s Jack’s body, but changed to resemble Pansy. No, not just to resemble: to duplicate Pansy’s body. But that means they’d have to change your sex–really change your sex–change your voice, your face, your skin color, your hair… That’s an awful lot of remodeling. As a biologist, I know how hard it’d be, technically. As far as I know, some of those changes aren’t even possible. And certainly they can’t be done as you describe, in an instant by a wave of a hand. Besides, you speak Spanish. I mean, it’s your native tongue–you have a good Honduran accent. I can tell. Jack’s Spanish was pretty bad. And they’d have to give you all Pansy’s memories–I have no idea how.”

Pansy nodded slowly. “So you think I’m really Pansy with Jack’s memories. Or I’m crazy.” She thought for a while as she sipped her coffee carefully; it was still too hot, and Lilia was still nursing. A thought occurred to her. “There’s a two-year gap in my life–my life as Jack, anyway. That’s still not explained. If Jack–or Jack’s body–died two years ago, why did his memories turn up in Pansy now? Maybe it’s significant.”

It was Petunia’s turn to nod. “You could be right. I said it’s impossible to change somebody from a man to a woman in a moment, by waving a hand. But over a couple of years, with more advanced medical techniques than I know about, maybe it’s not so impossible. Or no more impossible than transferring a complete identity. But there’d still be the problem of transferring an identity: Pansy’s. You have her in your head, as well as Jack.  ¿And whatever happened to the original Pansy, if you’re not her? That suggestion just makes the problem worse, not better.” She sighed and tasted her own coffee. It was a bit too hot. “Pansita, this conversation can’t be happening. Tell me this is all a joke. Or that I’m dreaming.”

Pansy laughed bitterly. “I wish I could, Petunia. I ain’t so happy about it neither. If I’m Pansy, I don’t want this Jack person in my head, with Seá±ora Arias blaming me for his sins. And if I’m Jack, I certainly don’t want to be Susana’s maid. Right now I have the worst of both worlds.”

“From what you’ve said, you don’t have much choice.  ¿You say you can’t read?”

“And science and math are gone too. And most of my English. I still got my botany, though. She left me my orchids. And I can still play ‘gin rummy’. A lot of good that does me.”

“ ¿But you’re illiterate? The sister I remember wasn’t. She didn’t have my education, but she could read and write. She was pretty smart, even if she had to quit school at fifteen.” Petunia thought to herself that Pansy didn’t play cards either. And her speech was better.

“Petunia, I’m what Susana wanted me to be: an ignorant and illiterate campesina. She said I didn’t need to be able to read to be a maid, and she wanted to trap me so I’d have no other choice.” It occurred to Pansy that she remembered going to school. She must have learned to read, both as Pansy and as Jack. But she couldn’t recall ever reading anything as Pansy. What was real, and what was imposed? How could she tell? Did it make a difference?

Petunia commented, “I’d say she succeeded. Whatever she did, whoever you were, right now you are a campesina, by any objective criterion. With a baby daughter, and no other way to support yourself.”

“That had occurred to me.”

“ ¿Do you have any plans?”

“Not really. I’m still in shock. Remember, I’ve only been a woman, an ‘illiterate campesina maid’ for a week. In Jack’s part of my mind, anyway–Pansy’s used to it.” She looked down at her body, which by now felt utterly familiar to her. Of course it did: hadn’t she grown up with it? “As Pansy I’m comfortable with it.”

“You think of yourself as Jack, not Pansy.”

“Yes and no. My name, the name I use for myself, is Pansy Baca. I can’t help it. I have trouble even recalling ‘Jack’. But my identity, my…  ¿my soul? That’s Jack, or more Jack than Pansy. But over the last few days, there’s been less Jack and more Pansy. If I don’t think–if I just react, and do my work without thinking–life’s easier. But then I’m not Jack at all.” There was a note of desperation in her voice.

Petunia could understand that. She didn’t say it, but if the unthinkable were true–if Jack’s spirit were really trapped in that body–then she thought it’d be bent, more and more, to an appropriate nature. If she were lucky and worked hard, maybe she could become a well-adjusted, well-rounded woman. If not, she could end as a tramp. “I assume you’d rather not remain an illiterate maid.”

“ ¡No! I want…  ¡I want to be Jack again!”

Petunia laughed in spite of herself, then apologized. “Unless you can figure out how Susana–or someone–did this to you, that’s not practical. And even if you do discover how she did it, I doubt it’ll help. No, you have to start from where you are now–and right now you are an illiterate maid.” She knew she sounded brutal, but it was true. If Pansy accepted it, then maybe she could advance herself. She went on: “Illiteracy can be corrected, though. You can learn to read again.” She wasn’t sure of that; if certain areas of the brain were damaged, the ability could be lost permanently. But there was no point in telling that to Pansy. “And if you can do that, you should be able to be more than a maid.” She didn’t want to discourage Pansy, but it would be difficult. Pansy was a dark campesina, obviously with African blood as well as Indian–she had always been darker than her sister–and she had the double handicap of her sex and her dark skin. Without a family to help her, and without money, she couldn’t expect to rise far. Not in a society as tradition-bound as that of Honduras. “But you’re going to remain female. Whoever’s inside your head–and I admit, both Jack and Pansy seem to be there–you’d better get used to being a woman.”

Half persuaded that her sister was right, Pansy nodded. “I already know that. It’s clear I ain’t never going to be a man again–if I was. And I think I’m stuck as a hondureá±a. But I don’t want to remain illiterate, or a maid.” Lilia turned her head away then, full for the moment. Pansy excused herself, buttoned her blouse, and burped her daughter. Then she swaddled her in a blanket, to let her fall asleep. Petunia noted the efficiency with which Pansy handled the infant, and commented on it. Pansy nodded and told her, “Oh, my Pansy self’s pretty good at this. As you said–and you’re right–I’m your sister too, not just Jack.”

“So you have a woman’s skills. Or some of them.” She paused, wondering how to put her next question. “ ¿Have you…?  ¿What about sex?”

“Like you say, I have a woman’s skills. And desires. Yes, I’m attracted to men physically, as strongly as I–or Jack–was attracted to women. Besides, my ‘Pansy’ self was familiar with sex. After all, as Pansy, I went to bed with Seá±or Ovando. But as Jack… No, I ain’t had no sex since my reincarnation. And in my mind–my ‘Jack’ mind–I don’t want sex with no man.” Her face had a haunted look. “I don’t want it, but I think maybe I need it–or Pansy needs it. Susana says that eventually I’ll have to marry some campesino, and spend the rest of my life as a peasant wife, doing some man’s dirty laundry and cooking for him. Raising his kids. That ain’t what I want, but… but I don’t see a way out. Yes, I think I need a husband.”

Her sister’s dilemma was plain to Petunia. She didn’t point it out, but simply told her, “Yes, if you marry, your husband’ll want children. In fact, he’ll want sons. There’s no doubt of it. And a campesina’s traditional rá´le is definitely in the home, as a wife and mother.”

“I know. Seá±ora Arias made sure I realized that, and I thought about it. I thought about it a lot. Petunia, I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t, just like Seá±ora Arias wants. This body of mine wants sex. It ain’t too bad now, but I think it’ll get worse. It’ll be hell if I have to live my life without any sex. With a man, of course,” she added bitterly. “And if I allow myself to be trapped into sex, Susana may just be pleased to see me end up as a prostitute, and get lots and lots of it. All the sex I want, and more. She told me that. That leaves marriage as my only good choice. But… well, Petunia, no offense, but I want more of a life than a campesina’s allowed. Like you say, Honduran men want their wives to stay at home and take care of the house and the children. That was OK for the old Pansy, I guess,  ¿but now…? I ain’t just the old Pansy. I want more than that.” Lilia burped up a little more milk. Pansy picked her up and blotted it away.

“Pansita, I don’t have the solution. But the first step is recognizing the problem.”

At that moment there was a wail from the nursery. “I think ’Rita wants lunch too. Come on in and get acquainted.” Petunia retrieved a bottle of formula from the pantry, then led Pansy to the nursery. She picked Margarita from the crib and gave her the bottle. “Our daughter’s the light of my life. A damn nuisance, but still a joy. And I’m pregnant again, two months along. ’Tonio loves ’Rita, but he wants a child of his own.” She smiled: “And I want another one too.”

Pansy sat down. “Petunia,  ¿what do you think I should do? I’ve thought and thought, and I don’t know. I think the best I can hope for is to teach, after I get some school. If I can. And to find a husband. With Lilita to care for, that’s hard. Caring for her’s a full-time job. Even if Susana relents, I seem to be stuck.”

“If you’re looking for a husband, be careful. Most men here want their wives to stay home, like you say, and it’ll be hard to do anything else. Anyway, taking care of a baby’s a full-time job. I hate to say it, but I think your best bet is to keep your job as Susana’s maid. I don’t think you have any other choice for now, at least until Lilita’s a little older. Don’t rush into anything, especially marriage. Believe me, it’s possible to be a lot worse off.”

Pansy remembered her service for Seá±or Ovando, and for Mamá¡ Santiago. She had almost been forced into a life of prostitution, until Seá±ora Arias had rescued her. She shuddered. “I know that only too well. I’ve already been a lot worse off, Petunia. My ‘Pansy’ memories ain’t all pleasant, not at all.”

“If you can get Susana’s help, or her father’s, then teaching’s possible.”

“Maybe, but right now, I ain’t going to get no help from Seá±ora Arias. She wants me to be her maid, and she’ll do what she can to keep me a maid. Like you say, for now I have to accept being a maid.” She looked down at her bosom, swollen with milk under her blouse. “As if I had a choice. She don’t have to do nothing; I’m trapped good.” Then she looked back at her sister: “But Petunia, we’ve been talking all about my problems. Tell me about yourself.  ¿How did you meet ’Tonio?  ¿And what’s he like?”

They talked for two more hours. Finally Pansy regretfully told Petunia she’d have to leave. “It’s a long way to Los Ocotes, and I’d better not put it off any longer.”

“Not yet. The quickest way back is to wait another half hour. ’Tonio’ll be back then, and he’ll take you. One of his men would, but I know ’Tonio, and he’ll insist on doing it himself.”

Pansy gratefully accepted Petunia’s offer. They talked for another twenty minutes before ’Tonio returned, and as Petunia predicted, he insisted on taking her back himself.

“Of course you’ll ride back with me.  ¿Would I turn down a chance to get to know such a beautiful woman a little better?  ¿You think I’m crazy, maybe?”

Pansy giggled. “Seá±or, your ‘blarney’ tells me you are Irish in more than your name.” She used the English word.

“ ¿‘Blarney’? I think I’m complimented, but I’m not quite sure.” He smiled. “Explain yourself, Seá±orita.”

She defined the word. “ ¿And you, Seá±or? Your Irish ancestor must have come long ago.”

“I’ll tell you on the way to Los Ocotes.  ¿Are you ready? If you’re going to make it back by dinner, we go to start soon.” He turned to his wife. “It’ll be a couple of hours until I’m back, querida.  ¿Want to come along?” She declined, saying that ’Rita couldn’t be left, and the trip was too rough to take her.

On the way back, ’Tonio was curious about Pansy’s background. “Your Spanish has a slight English accent, Pansy, but Petunia’s doesn’t.  ¿Why is that?”

An honest answer wasn’t an option; but Seá±ora Arias had provided her with a cover story. “Well, we both spent part of our childhood in the United States, Seá±or, but I was three years younger, so I absorbed more English.”

“ ¿How is it that you work for the Arias family?  ¿And what work do you do?”

“I need work, Seá±or, to support me and my baby. Her father died. Susana hired me as her maid before she married Seá±or Arias, and I stayed with her afterwards. I take care of Josecito, mostly, and help Marta, Seá±or Arias’ housekeeper.” She needed to change the subject. So far she hadn’t lied–except for the cover story–but the questions were becoming too awkward. “ ¿And you, Seá±or?  ¿How is it that you have an Irish name? There are many Sáºlivans in the United States, I think, but the name’s rare here,  ¿ain’t it? And you don’t look very Irish.”

“Yes, you’re right. My father told me an ancestor came to Honduras after the American war in the 19th century. He came from Ireland just in time to fight on the losing side, and he fled here afterwards. He and his descendants managed to scrape out a living, and now I own a couple of hundred hectares here. Nothing like Felipe Arias, but enough to keep me comfortable.” He looked at her sharply. “Pansy, I suspect there’s more to you than you’re telling. But I’ll leave your secrets to you. I’m glad Petunia has a friend nearby.”

The conversation turned to innocuous matters, and soon ’Tonio’s car bumped up the road to Los Ocotes. “Here you are, Pansy. Please consider yourself welcome at Já­caro Grande at any time. We’ll both be glad to see you.”

“Thank you, Seá±or, both for the invitation and for your kind offer of the ride back. I hope I’ll see you again soon, but my duties here ain’t going to let me visit often. Until our next meeting.”

“Until then, Pansy.” He turned around and bounced back towards Ojos de Agua.

She was back earlier than expected. She returned to the casa to tend to Lilia, who needed changing, and then to help Marta prepare supper. It might be her day off, but she owed Marta.

Susana asked, “ ¿And did you enjoy your holiday?”

“Yes, Seá±ora, I did, thank you.”

“You’re back a little earlier than I expected.  ¿Was Lilita much trouble?”

“No, she was very good. Better than I had any reason to expect, in that heat.”

“Good. Tomorrow Marta and I are going to Tegus, so you’ll have the house to yourself. I imagine you can handle the chores yourself.”

“Very well, Seá±ora. Yes, I think I can.”

While she fed the babies that night, Pansy pondered her conversation with Petunia. She was even more confused. Petunia had recognized her as her sister, and confirmed her childhood memories as Pansy. But she also confirmed her memories of their time together as lovers. Both identities seemed to be valid. Who was she? What had happened to Jack Cualquiera? Or to Pansy?
 
 
January 12
-- After breakfast Susana told Pansy, “I want you to change into a regular dress, Pansita. I mentioned to a friend of my father’s that my maid has sort of a split personality, and word reached a couple of psychologists. They want to speak with you, and I agreed. We’re going to San Pedro this morning. Marta agreed to take care of Josecito, and you can take Lilita along with you. I’ll carry her crib. If you like, I’ll buy you a new dress when we finish.”

At first Pansy didn’t want to go. She didn’t trust Seá±ora Arias. There was no way she could refuse, though, and she replied, “Yes, Seá±ora.” Still, in spite of her determination to hold on to Seá±or Cualquiera, she looked forward to shopping. And after she changed into her favorite outfit, the yellow sleeveless dress with ruffles, she realized that the psychologist might be able to help her find out what had happened. She certainly hadn’t been able to make any progress on her own; her conversation with Petunia had left her even more confused.

Pansy nursed Lilia on the way to their appointment, so that with luck she’d sleep for the rest of the morning. Shortly afterwards, as they drove into San Pedro on a bright sunny morning, Pansy had a dose of double vision. They passed the Palmas Hotel, where she had enjoyed a lover’s tryst with Petunia only a couple of weeks ago. But then she remembered visiting Petunia–her sister–just four days ago. And the church over there… Wasn’t that where she had had her First Communion? The city was at once exotic and her home town. She recalled working as a maid for–who was it? The Peá±as, she remembered. The memory was crystal clear; it was just after her boyfriend had died.

They pulled into a gated driveway in a part of the city she didn’t know. The building at the end of the drive had clearly been a manor house at one time, but now a sign proclaimed it to be the Institute for the Mind. Seá±ora Arias escorted her into the building. A receptionist directed her to the second floor: “Doctor Ibarra is expecting you, Seá±ora. He’s in Room 223.”

Pansy followed her mistress upstairs with some trepidation, carrying her sleeping infant in the sling she had rigged. Could Doctor Ibarra help her? Even if he was in league with Seá±ora Arias, maybe he’d let something slip. Entering Room 223 without knocking, they found a comfortably appointed windowless room with four well-upholstered chairs around a heavy wooden table. A matching couch sat against one wall, and a bookcase sat against another. On the table was a full coffeepot.

They waited for no more than three minutes before the door opened and a tall skinny man entered. At first Pansy thought he must be a norteamericano, or maybe European, as his height and blond hair were rare in Honduras. When he introduced himself as Jesáºs Ibarra, though, his accent was home-grown Honduran. He didn’t wear a white lab coat, but rather, an expensive-looking light linen suit. He peered at the women through horn-rimmed glasses and thanked them for coming. “Seá±oras, this case has some interest for me. Some interest indeed. It might have some connection with the syndrome of multiple personalities.  ¡A fascinating phenomenon, truly fascinating! But I digress. Seá±ora Arias, it would be better if I speak with Seá±orita Baca alone. I’m sure you understand.”

She stood and smiled at the doctor. “Of course I do, Doctor. I have chores to do in the city. If I return at noon,  ¿will that be convenient?”

“Yes, I think so. Doctor Ibá¡á±ez can see her after lunch.”

“Good. I’ll meet you here at noon, then.”

Pansy looked at the floor, then at Seá±ora Arias. “Very well, Seá±ora.”

Susana put Lilia’s crib on the floor next to Pansy, who tenderly laid the sleeping infant in it. She left, and Ibarra asked Pansy to have a seat. “I understand that you have two people in your head, Seá±orita. Or so it seems to you. That’s an unusual situation, as you can imagine, but it’s not unheard of. Still, I’d like to try to understand what happened to cause this. Tell me about yourself.”

Settling Lilia in her crib, Pansy asked, “ ¿Which self? Doctor, I don’t know who I am.”

He smiled; that problem was exactly what he had expected. “Tell me about the self that you most identify with.  ¿Who do you think you really are? “

She took a deep breath. “Doctor, in my head I’m really a norteamericano, born in the United States. I got trapped in the body of a campesina.”

Ibarra raised an eyebrow. “That’s an extraordinary claim, Seá±orita. You must be aware that it seems foolish, even crazy.  ¿How long have you been ‘trapped’ like this?”

“Almost two weeks.”

“ ¿Does anyone else know about this? Besides Seá±ora Arias, that is; she mentioned your odd belief.”

“Yes, Doctor. I told my sister Petunia about it.”

“ ¿And does she believe you?”

“Yes, she does. She confirmed I know things that no one but that norteamericano should know.”

“ ¿What’s the name of this norteamericano?”

Pansy looked down at her hands in her lap. Her nails bore the same red enamel that she had first seen on New Year’s Day, and a thin gold bracelet encircled one wrist. Suddenly she hated her clothes, her body… her false identity. “I… I don’t know, Seá±or. Seá±ora Arias told me, but I can’t seem to remember it.”

The doctor raised his eyebrows. “ ¿Seá±ora Arias told you?  ¿Then she’s involved in this?”

“Yes. She punished me–my norteamericano self–by trapping me in a campesina body so I got to be her maid.”

“Your story is… mmmm… interesting, Seá±orita. Start at the beginning and tell me what happened.”

Pansy told him how Seá±or Cualquiera had come to Honduras–omitting the reason–and how he had met Susana Herrera. “We finally went to bed together. She got pregnant and wanted me to marry her. I didn’t want to do it–not just then–and she got mad and kicked me out. Then I met this other girl–Petunia Baca–and I was going out with her. On New Year’s Eve we was in a hotel together. In the morning, when I woke up, she was gone. Seá±ora Arias was there instead. She changed me to Pansy–the woman you see now–and told me I got to be her maid. And I got to raise her child–the one I left her pregnant with. I begged her to put me back to what I was, but then she told me she’d change the past so I was always a girl, and I was my girlfriend’s sister. And that’s just what she did.” She started to weep. “I… I’m still that… that norteamericano inside, but… but I… I’m Pansy Baca too. Inside my head, I mean. I don’t just look like her, I am her. I don’t want… don’t want to be her. And Seá±ora Arias–she told me…” Pansy broke down completely and couldn’t go on.

Ibarra tried to calm her down. “Seá±orita, don’t worry, I’ll see that you’re taken care of. I’ll find out what happened.” He went to her and embraced her as though he were her father.

She sobbed on his shoulder for a moment, then recovered some of her composure. “I’m sorry, Doctor. I don’t… don’t know why…” She took a breath and started over. “I don’t know why I broke down like that. I told my girlfriend…” She stopped. “My… my sister what happened, and I didn’t cry like this.”

Ibarra told her it didn’t matter if she cried. “I’m a psychologist. I see people with problems all the time, and I’m used to it.” It was a half-truth, as his field was research, not clinical psychology, but his research had dealt with many unhappy people. “It’s a healthy reaction. Here, have some coffee.” He poured them both a cup. “ ¿Cream or sugar?”

“Please, I… I’d like both. Thank you, Doctor.” They sipped their drinks while she regained her composure.

After a couple of minutes he asked her, “ ¿What do you know about this man, this norteamericano?  ¿Do you know anything about his earlier life in the United States?  ¿His family, his childhood, his school days?” She told him what she recalled. There were holes in his biography–she hadn’t realized how much of it she had forgotten–but enough was left to reconstruct the general outline of his life. His life was smooth enough and nearly complete until that awful morning in San Pedro. However, the missing details included those that could establish his identity.

“ ¿But his name is gone, you say?”

“Seá±ora Arias took it. She told me I’d never know it again. She told me that I’d forget I had been a man.” As she spoke she realized that over the last few days she had started to do just that. Her routine of life as a dutiful maid and a loving mother at Los Ocotes, and her “Pansy” memories, had begun to lull her into acceptance of her new identity. They made her woman’s body and her low status seem normal. “ ¡I won’t forget it!  ¡I won’t!”

Ibarra sipped his coffee. She was almost surely wrong, he thought. She might remember her former life in a disinterested sort of way, but she’d lose her emotional attachment to it as the realities of her new existence forced themselves on her. “No one’s going to make you forget anything,” he told her. He wasn’t lying. He intended to leave her all her remaining memories, to discover how they affected her rebuilt personality and to see how they survived or decayed in their incongruous new body. “ ¿But what about your other self?  ¿The obvious one?  ¿Is she real? Inside your head, I mean; clearly she’s real on the outside.”

Pansy stiffened. What about Pansy Baca, indeed? She was real too. She had Petunia’s word–and Lilia–as evidence that her “Pansy” memories were authentic. Confused, she replied, “I… I don’t know, Seá±or.” Hadn’t Seá±ora Arias told her that Pansy had died from a fever? “She… I think she died.” But then Seá±ora Arias had changed the past, she said. Seá±or Cualquiera was dead now, not Pansy.

“But you seem to be her, and you seem to be alive and healthy. Tell me what you know about her.” Pansy repeated the biography. Her imposed memories, both those hypnotically learned and those from the staged episodes, blended smoothly with her edited version of the previous year’s events. She left school early and worked for a short time for the Peá±as, then became Seá±or Ovando’s maid and mistress. After being forced briefly into prostitution, she had been hired by Seá±ora Arias, had borne Lilia, and moved to Los Ocotes. At the end of December her mistress had taken her to San Pedro on a shopping trip. The result was a plausible life history, to Ibarra’s delight. It was more coherent than what was left of George Deon’s history. He pointed this out: “You know a lot more about Pansy’s life than about the life of your anonymous norteamericano. And it makes a lot more sense. It’s obvious that you have Pansy Baca’s body–or at least not a man’s.” He paused, and asked, “ ¿You do agree that you have her body?  ¿A female body? I don’t have a medical examination to rely on, but you appear to be a normal Honduran woman.”

Pansy nodded miserably. “Yes, I’m a woman. I’m Pansy Baca. Now I am, anyway. A campesina. I know it.”

“There are holes in your story, you know. It can’t be correct as you tell it. For example, you say that Seá±ora Arias changed you to Pansy Baca couple of months after you left her.  ¿True?”

“Yes, Seá±or.”

“But when you returned to Los Ocotes with her, you found that she had–that you have–an infant boy over a year old. The child of your norteamericano, I think you told me.  ¿True?”

“Y…yes.”

“A trifle premature,  ¿wasn’t he?”

“I… Yes, Seá±or. I know all this. I can’t explain it. But I know what I know.”

“And your girlfriend–or sister, whoever she is. Seá±ora Arias told me you visited her last week. She’s recently married, but her marriage was several months ago, I’m told. She didn’t spend last New Year’s Eve with your norteamericano,  ¿did she?”

“No, Seá±or.”

“ ¿But why do you think those memories are factual, but not those of your childhood? Your girlhood, I mean. After all, you speak of your sister Petunia, and that implies that you accept your hondureá±a identity.  ¿Why do you believe you’re actually this norteamericano, and not the campesina you appear to be?”

Pansy marshalled her evidence. How she had Seá±or Cualquiera’s memories in her head, and how Petunia had confirmed her memories of their time together as lovers. How Seá±ora Arias delighted in reminding her of what she had lost. The physical evidence: the scar on her arm. The mental evidence: her knowledge of botany and gin rummy. “But most of all, Seá±or, I just know.”

Ibarra spent an hour quizzing Pansy on details of her two lives, and recording her conversation. He wasn’t surprised to find that what he had erased hadn’t miraculously returned. The continuing suppression of the name “Pinkerton” was gratifying but expected. Also expected was the degree to which Pansy had filled in details of her past life as a woman. Some were actually from Seá±or Deon’s childhood, adapted to fit different circumstances. Ibarra had seen the same phenomenon in other subjects.

At the end of the session he told Pansy, “Seá±orita, in my opinion, you’re a wonderful example of multiple personality syndrome.  ¡An amazing example! I can’t explain how you acquired such a vivid secondary personality, but the breadth of your knowledge of certain aspects of norteá±o life is astonishing. The gaps in your knowledge are only to be expected. There’s no way a campesina could pick up all the information you’d know if your story were really true.”

Pansy protested: “ ¡But it is true!  ¡I am that norteamericano!”

The doctor quickly apologized and explained, “I’m not accusing you of lying, my dear. It is the truth–as you see it. But your norteamericano is–must be–an imaginary construct. Think about it. Aside from the clear impossibility of changing you from a norteamericano to a hondureá±a by a wave of the hand–or in any other way–and the absurdity of changing the past, there’s the fact that you’re ignorant of many things that anyone from the United States would know. I studied there, Seá±orita, and I can tell: you never lived there. Not as an adult.”

“But… but Seá±ora Arias…  ¡She did that to me!  ¡She stole my knowledge, when she made me a campesina!”

Ibarra shrugged. “An explanation that accounts for anything at all, accounts for nothing. No, Seá±orita, the simplest logical explanation is that somehow you learned about your sister’s former lover, and for some reason your subconscious adopted his identity.”

Pansy shook her head in despair. Could the doctor be right? Was she really Pansy Baca? Or only Pansy Baca? No! She replied, “I admit that, from what you see, from what you know, it’s a reasonable idea. The simplest logical explanation, like you say. But the simplest explanation ain’t always the right one. Occam’s Razor sometimes cuts off the correct explanation.”

He laughed. “A good point.  ¡An excellent point! And one that’s amazing, coming from a simple campesina. I’m curious:  ¿how did an illiterate girl ever learn of Occam’s Razor? I’d hazard a guess that details like that are what allowed your subconscious mind to persuade itself that you are–or once were–a norteamericano. And then,  ¿why did you adopt such a patently nonsensical notion? You’re a marvelous case, Seá±orita.” Then he sobered. “But there’s still a problem with your perception that you’re really someone else. I think we can agree that you’re a campesina now. However you gained your additional personality–whether by witchcraft, as you claim, or by delusion–you’ll have to make your way as a campesina. You have your infant daughter there, for example. You love her,  ¿don’t you?”

Pansy looked at her beloved baby, still sleeping peacefully in her crib. “ ¡Yes!” she agreed emphatically. “ ¡Of course I do!”

“ ¿And you were married not too long ago?  ¿I presume you have a boyfriend now?”

“No, I don’t.”

He retreated. “Yes, I understand you moved to Los Ocotes just a couple of months ago. But in the recent past, you were involved with men,  ¿true?  ¿Possibly with bad results?”

She had omitted from her story the details of her service on Golondrinas, and her stay with Mamá¡ Santiago. “Yes, Seá±or, but… Yes, Seá±or.”

“I won’t ask about what happened, although it could help account for your fantasy. I’ll only tell you that you’ll almost certainly get over it, and you’ll probably want a man of your own. It’s normal.” She admitted it to herself. She had said as much to Petunia. Ibarra went on: “Only as Pansy Baca will you be able to go back to a normal life. The norteamericano personality will only be a handicap as time goes on. Once you realize that–once your subconscious realizes it–I think your problem will end, and the secondary personality will fade away.”

That was exactly what she was afraid of. But there wasn’t much to be done about it. “Maybe you’re right, Seá±or, but… Never mind.” He couldn’t help her, except by his own interpretation of the facts. And that would trap her forever as a campesina, exactly as Seá±ora Arias had planned. She sagged in her chair. “Thank you for your help. Maybe it’ll all come out like you say.”

“ ¡Of course it will! You’ll get better and lead a healthy and productive life. A pretty girl like you, you’ll have no trouble in finding yourself a good husband, and then you’ll raise a wonderful family.” He sighed and admitted, “I recognize that telling you this isn’t much help now. Whatever the trauma that pushed you into this delusion–and I’m certain it was sexual–it won’t go away that easily. But with time it’ll fade, and you’ll get back to a normal life.”

A normal life? The life of a campesina? That was her fear, not her hope. She was a norteamericano! But she looked down at herself, at her dark-skinned girl’s body, and then at Lilia, sleeping in her crib. She was illiterate and uneducated. She had an baby. It was foolish to think she could persuade anyone that she was really a man, a norteamericano. It wasn’t possible. Even Petunia thought she was her sister. “Seá±or, I don’t want…”

A knock interrupted them. Ibarra looked at his watch and exclaimed, “ ¡Already noon! That must be Seá±ora Arias.” He arose and let Susana back into the room. “We’re finished, Seá±orita. I think we had a productive session. Your maid is the most interesting subject I’ve seen in years.  ¡A fascinating case!”

“ ¡Excellent!” she told him. “Pansy’s been a wonderful maid, and I want to do everything I can to make sure she’s able to continue to serve me.” Turning to her changeling, she smiled and told her, “It’s time for lunch. You have one more appointment here this afternoon, and then we’ll do our shopping.”

Pansy lowered her eyes and told her mistress, “Yes, Seá±ora.” From her point of view, the visit had been a waste of time, although the doctor had been sympathetic. She knew no more than before. Before they left she took Lilia to a rest room, where she nursed her, changed her diaper, and refreshed her own lipstick.

They had lunch at Sanborn’s. Pansy was delighted to have an American-style meal again, and she finished it off with a hot fudge sundae. She had a feeling of déjá  vu as she ate; perhaps, she thought, she had eaten here as a child.

After lunch they returned to the Institute. Pansy was taken to a waiting room on the second floor, where Seá±ora Arias left her. The magazines on the coffee table reminded her that she could no longer read, and her frustration nearly brought her to tears. To occupy herself she picked up Lilia from her crib and rocked the sleeping infant in her arms, nuzzling the delicate skin of her cheek. Her daughter smelled of milk and baby powder, and she loved her deeply.

In a few minutes a plump middle-aged man with thinning iron-gray hair entered the room. He announced, “I’m Doctor Ibá¡á±ez, and you must be Pansy. Come with me, Seá±orita.” She put Lilia back into her crib and followed the doctor into an inner office. Ibá¡á±ez sat behind a large desk and invited her to be seated. She did so, putting the crib on the floor next to her chair and arranging her skirts. “Seá±ora Arias told me a little about you, and Doctor Ibarra and I discussed you during lunch,” he told her. “You have this odd notion that you’re really a man.  ¿Is that true?” He looked at her sharply, taking in the shapely body under the yellow dress.

She flushed under his gaze. “Yes. No… In a way, Seá±or. I ain’t no man, like you see. Not now. But I was a man. A norteamericano. Seá±ora Arias changed me to a campesina to punish me.”

Ibá¡á±ez nodded. “That’s what she said you believed.  ¿You know it’s physically impossible?”

“It ain’t impossible, since it happened. But yes, I know it ain’t supposed to be possible.”

“ ¿When did this magical event happen?”

“Eleven days ago, on New Year’s Day.”

“ ¿Were you awake when she did it?  ¿How did she change you?  ¿Did it happen all at once?”

“Yes, Seá±or, I was awake, but I… I don’t know how she changed me. She told me she was a bruja and she just… she just waved her hand and it happened. Not all at once–she changed me a piece at a time.” She looked away. Even to herself, she sounded foolish. “I know that ain’t possible– ¡it’s crazy!–but that’s what happened.”

Ibá¡á±ez looked at Lilia, sleeping in the crib. “She’s your daughter,  ¿true?”

“Yes.”

“ ¿Where was she two weeks ago, when you claim to have been a man?”

She disliked this man intensely; his condescension was insufferable. He wasn’t at all interested in helping her. “She was with Pansy Baca, the woman I am now. But I wasn’t her then, I was… I was someone else.” As Ibá¡á±ez started to speak, she cut him off, saying, “It’s foolish, it’s crazy, it’s impossible, just like I said. I can’t explain it.  ¡But it’s true!”

He nodded. “Or so you believe. Yet you don’t speak English, your Spanish has a Honduran accent, you can’t read or write, and you remember growing up as a girl. Doctor Ibarra was right: you’re a fascinating example of a multiple personality. But that’s not my specialty, and treating you isn’t my concern. No, I’m here to administer a few psychological tests.”

For a moment she was upset that he was wasting her time like this. To him, she was just an interesting case; he never considered that she might be telling the truth. Then she thought, “I can’t blame him for that. I ain’t got no evidence, so he’d be foolish to believe me. Well, I’d just be washing clothes or mending a torn shirt if I weren’t here.” And she knew she had to obey Seá±ora Arias anyway. Her own wishes were irrelevant. “Very well, Doctor,” she replied.

He told her the tests were simple and wouldn’t take long. “The first is an IQ test. A test of intelligence. The fact that you’re illiterate doesn’t mean you’re stupid.” He gave her directions. The test involved analogies and reasoning. Some questions were simple, others were subtle or complex, and she had trouble answering them. He gave her a Rorschach test next, and then she completed a set of word associations. At the end he told her, “You seem to be a normal woman, Seá±orita–except for your delusion, of course. Doctor Ibarra seems to think you’ll get over that in time, even without treatment. Reality has a habit of overcoming delusions. We’ll see you again from time to time, to check on the progress of your recovery. That’s all. Seá±ora Arias is waiting for you downstairs.” He stood in dismissal.

She found her own way back, carrying Lilia in the crib. Seá±ora Arias was sitting in a chair in the foyer reading a magazine when she descended, and she arose with a smile when Pansy appeared. “ ¡Good!” she announced. “We still have time to do our shopping.”

“Yes, Seá±ora.” Pansy’s voice held no enthusiasm.

As they walked back to the car, Susana asked, “ ¿Did you explain your problem to the psychologists?”

“Yes, I did. You already told them, of course. They think I’m crazy.”

“Naturally. You didn’t expect anyone to believe you,  ¿did you?” Pansy didn’t answer, and Susana opened the car door for her. She put the crib on the back seat, then took Lilia out and held her in her arms. They left the Institute and headed towards the center of the city. When they reached the center, Susana turned the car into a department store parking lot. Pansy put Lilia into the sling, and they walked into the store. “Buy a nice dress here, Pansita,” Susana told her. “You have a nice figure, and you’re going to show it off. I insist.”

Pansy was depressed. She shook her head and tried to refuse. “Seá±ora, thank you, but I don’t want no new clothes. I have enough dresses.” She knew better than to ask for slacks. Susana had made it clear that she’d conform to Seá±or Cualquiera’s prejudices. Besides, she was comfortable in a skirt now. There was no sense in wearing slacks as a pathetic and futile attempt to recover her old self.

“ ¡Nonsense! Come with me.” She led Pansy to a rack of dresses. “These look about right.  ¿What’s your dress size?”

“I… I ain’t sure. I ain’t never bought one.” But she had, as Pansy, she suddenly realized.

Susana laughed. “ ¡Oh yes you did! You bought me a dress shortly after we met.  ¿Don’t you remember?” She stepped back and looked at her maid critically. “You’re shorter than me, and your waist is nice and slender. An eight, maybe.” She smiled sweetly and pointed out, “You’re more than a little bit fuller in the bust, too. I’m not as well endowed. And maybe in the hips too. You’ll definitely take a woman’s size, not a miss’s. Here, try this on.” She selected a short-sleeved red dress with a flared skirt and white scalloped lace trim on the hem and neckline. The fabric had a delicate satiny shine.

Pansy took it into the dressing room while Susana held Lilia. She stripped off her yellow dress and stepped into the new one, zipping it up the back and fastening the white belt. It fit well, showing just a little cleavage at the bottom of the scooped neckline and emphasizing her slender waist. In the mirror she saw that it flattered her dark skin and black hair. Susana had chosen well. She stepped back out.

Susana inspected her critically. “You look very pretty in that dress,” she told her hapless former lover. “ ¿Do you want me to buy it for you, or would you like to try on a few more?” A salesgirl came up to her and agreed: “She’s right, Seá±orita.  ¡You look so pretty!”

Pansy knew they were correct. And she knew she needed to attract a man. Not a campesino, but a man who’d help her escape the trap she found herself in. Maybe this outfit would help. “Yes… Yes, I think I’ll take it.” She thanked Seá±ora Arias. “You’re right. It is pretty.”

As if she had read Pansy’s mind, Susana assured her, “You’ll catch a husband in no time.” Then she added with a satisfied smile. “You do want to catch a husband, of course. Every girl does. And you are a girl,  ¿true?”

“Yes, Seá±ora.” Pansy was in no position to debate the issue. She changed back into her old dress, and the red dress went into a box. Susana bought a necklace, and they paid for the purchases and left.

They returned to Los Ocotes after dark. Marta had kept their meals warm in the oven, and Pansy ate with Susana. “You’re adapting very well,” Susana told her. “I spoke with Doctor Ibarra. He thinks you have multiple-personality syndrome, but he predicts that Jack’ll fade away as you become accustomed to your new body.”

Pansy disagreed. “I don’t think so, Seá±ora. His di… dignosis is based on a mistake. He thinks I’m delusional, and that I always been Pansy. You and me, we know better.”

Susana pointed out that Pansy’s dual memories left her in very much the same state as a victim of multiple-personality syndrome. “He may not understand the origin of your ‘disorder’, but the diagnosis is pretty much on the mark. You have two people in your head. Two personalities. I’m not a psychologist, but it seems to me that he’s right. You’ll ‘recover’ when the campesina takes over your soul completely. When you reject Jack willingly and wholeheartedly. Exactly as I intended. And exactly as he deserves.”

Pansy shook her head. “ ¡No, Seá±ora!  ¡I know who I am! I’m Jack…  ¡I’m a norteamericano! I’m trapped in this body, but I know.”

She nodded. “Of course you do. I do too. But I know–we both know–that you’re Pansy Baca too. And after Pansy’s memories and Pansy’s body force you to become the campesina I intend, we’ll still both know who you might have been. It just won’t matter any more. You’ll reject him.” Smiling, she told Pansy that the start of the mental transformation was already apparent. “I’m enjoying watching the change. Watching you trying to fight against it, but slowly losing, slowly sliding into the rut you’ll stay in for the rest of your life. Your daughter’s helping me, too. You realize that,  ¿don’t you? Every time you nurse her, every time you change a diaper–or just cuddle her–the campesina becomes a little stronger and the norteamericano slips away a little more.” Pansy did know it. Jack Cualquiera seemed to fade whenever she picked Lilia up. She couldn’t want him back then, and deny her baby. “If it’s any consolation, you can look forward to a much happier life then. You’ll actually enjoy being a girl–even a campesina–doing all the girly things I designed you to do. All the things Jack told me I should do.” Susana finished her coffee and told Pansy to pour her another cup. “Then you can clean up the table and wash the dishes. I’ll watch television for a while, then go to bed.”

Pansy fetched the coffee as ordered, and set about cleaning up. She would escape, she told herself. Yes, she was a woman. She accepted that she’d never be a man again, however Seá±ora Arias had put her here. But Ibarra be damned, she wouldn’t “recover” her campesina identity. She could be a mother–a good mother–and still climb back.
 
 
January 29
-- Pansy’s day off dawned clear. She got up and tended to the babies. Today after breakfast a man from Já­caro Grande would meet Pansy and take her to her sister. Seá±ora Arias had approved the visit, saying only that she’d have to take Lilia. By now Pansy was used to carrying Lilia everywhere, and could hardly imagine being without her. Pansy helped with breakfast, even on her day off; Marta would have the added burden of Josecito for the day.

Juan Orellana, one of the cowboys from Já­caro Grande, drove a pickup to the house just after 9 AM. Pansy stood with Lilia, and Juan grinned with pleasure as he ogled her, waiting by the door. When Petunia had sent him to fetch her friend, she hadn’t told him how pretty she was. His friend Pedro Arriaga had picked her up on the road three weeks ago, and had hinted that she was a real sexy-looking babe. He called, “Ayyyy, Pansita.  ¡Here I am!”

Pansy smiled when she saw the truck, and she hurried over with Lilia. Juan was lean and dark with a black mustache. He hadn’t shaved that morning, and his torn shirt was open, exposing his hairy chest. She slid in next to him in the front seat, and put Lilia on her lap. “OK, Seá±or, let’s go,” she told him. He turned the truck and headed back down the dirt road.

Juan paid strict attention to the driving as long as they were on the steep and narrow dirt road to Ojos de Agua, and then over the flimsy suspension bridge across the Humuya River. His arm slid around Pansy as they approached La Libertad and the road improved. She was a little nervous, but she allowed his arm to remain there. They bounced along the cobblestones through La Libertad, and sped up after they reached the gravel road south towards Comayagua. His hand slowly crept around to her breast, and she felt a surge of lust, familiar from her memory of her life before she’d come to work for Seá±ora Arias. She fought it and ordered him to pay attention to the road, as she removed his hand and arm from her person. “I’m sure you know better than that, Seá±or. Please, don’t make me remind you. I don’t want to have to complain to Seá±or Sáºlivan.” Mildly chastened, but not embarrassed, he asked if her husband worked at Los Ocotes. She replied that he didn’t, but volunteered no further information. Silently she pondered her recent experiences with strange men: the unwelcome attentions of Gordo at Los Ocotes, the harassment she recalled as Pansy, and now this. Strange men, she concluded, were a potential hazard, best avoided.

They turned at the Já­caro Grande road. Soon she embraced Petunia again, after which she had to attend to both ends of Lilia. Margarita toddled in, and Pansy picked her up and cuddled her for a moment until she wailed to be put down. She tottered, fell over, and got up again, gurgling happily.

“She’s an independent sort,” Petunia told her. “I think she gets it from her father.” Then she told Pansy that her husband would bring a guest for lunch. “His bachelor brother Alberto lives in La Libertad. He’s a coffee broker. Not a big one, but reasonably prosperous.”

Pansy told Petunia of her problems with lecherous men. “I’m beginning to think it ain’t safe to go out by myself. Some men seem to think I’m fair game for whatever they can get away with. I feel uncomfortable.”

Petunia giggled, then laughed, but she was surprised. Her sister was different–as though Jack were really a part of her. That wouldn’t have come as any surprise to the old Pansy. “You do seem to be new at this, or at least I guess the ‘Jack’ part of you is,” she told Pansy. “Every girl, if she’s at all pretty–or even if she’s just female, I think–learns that as soon as she reaches puberty. Lots of men are that way, and some are worse. The woman who scolded you was right. Especially with that figure of yours; I’m sure it draws men like bees to honey. It’s not safe. You’ll have to change your habits, Pansita–or Jack. I’m sorry to laugh. I know it’s a real problem. It’s just that I’ve thought so often that men should learn what we have to put up with. Well, maybe one has. It’s no consolation to you, I realize, and I apologize. Now, let me get you some coffee.  ¿Do you want cream and sugar?” Jack had liked it that way, Pansy hadn’t, and her agreement now was another confirmation of Jack’s presence in her. “I just baked some rolls, too.”

While Petunia was in the kitchen, Margarita toddled unsteadily over to Pansy. She was a chubby child, with fine brown hair and fair skin. Pansy moved Lilia to one side and perched ’Rita on her lap. The child reached for Pansy’s purse, and Pansy opened it and let her take it. Cooing with pleasure, ’Rita rummaged through it, dumping the contents on the floor.

Petunia laughed when she returned with the coffee and rolls. “You’ll spoil that child, I can see. She’s into everything, and you’re just encouraging her.”

“No, it’s my pleasure and privilege to play with her.” After all, she was the child’s father, she told herself with hidden anguish. “If she gets spoiled a little,  ¡that’s your problem!”

“I warn you,  ¡I’ll retaliate with Lilita!”

Talk then turned to the local botany. “ ¿Are there any interesting plants in this area, Petunia? It don’t look very promising. I think it’s too dry.”

“You’re right, it’s not so good for orchids or bromeliads. Oh, there’s a few, but nothing of great interest.” Petunia went on to describe the local flora.

Lilia interrupted them with a cry for attention. “Oh, she’s wet,” Pansy noted. “Excuse me while I change her.”

“If you’re Jack, you’ve learned to tell what’s bothering her pretty quickly,” Petunia remarked.

“ ¿Didn’t you learn quickly with Margarita? Petunia, I’ve been with Lilita constantly, day and night, for a couple of months–as Pansy–and during that time she’s given me lots of opportunity to learn. I ain’t stupid.” She changed the diaper swiftly and expertly.

Petunia watched her. Pansy might think that Seá±or Cualquiera was still hidden there, and in some sense she seemed to be right, but Pansy wasn’t at all the same as the man she had known, in a lot more than the physical sense. He had been charming and intelligent, but she had also seen that he was shallow and egoistic, and his world had been intellectual. Her short reacquaintance with her sister told her that Pansy was much more concerned with other people, and her world was more concrete. Charm and intelligence were still there, but her personality was deeper than George’s. Perhaps the apparent change was only superficial, an artifact of radically changed circumstances. In any case, Petunia certainly didn’t love her sister the way she had loved Seá±or Cualquiera–but she liked her a lot better. And she didn’t think Pansy was just her sister, either. Not really. She had the right appearance, and the right memories, but the personality wasn’t quite Pansy’s any more than it was Jack’s. Maybe it was just that she had changed since Petunia had last seen her. After all, she had gone through a lot. But she just didn’t feel right. No, the best explanation was that Seá±or Cualquiera’s memories, or his ego, had been superimposed on her sister–or her exact double, but that seemed unlikely at best–and that her sister also retained her own memories. That explanation seemed to fit the facts, even if it was hard to believe. Almost impossible, really.

“ ¡There we go!” Pansy picked up her daughter, hugged her gently, and kissed her. Setting her down carefully, she turned back to Petunia. “I been thinking about what I should do. I got to stay as a maid for now, like you said–you’re right, I ain’t got no choice–but like I said three weeks ago, eventually I want to get myself some kind of professional career. I got to regain my literacy first, of course, and replace at least some of what I lost in math and science. Then maybe I can build on the biology I still know, and become a teacher. That’d seem to be the best I can hope to do now.”

“OK, assume you can do that, although it won’t be easy.” Petunia didn’t have the heart to tell her that her dream was impossible. Then she wondered: on Pansy’s previous visit her sister had expressed some ambivalence about her sexual orientation. If Jack had really been put into her sister, what would happen to his (and her) sex drive over time? Was she a homosexual now? She put the question to her sister as diplomatically as she could.

Pansy laughed and told Petunia she was unambiguously heterosexual. “I remember liking a pretty face and a curvy body–I remember loving you, as Jack–but it’s only a memory, and I can’t really understand how I could’ve felt that way. I got no romantic feelings to women at all.”

“ ¿And men?  ¿Are you attracted to men? The last time I asked, you had mixed feelings.”

“They’re not so much mixed as unwelcome. My body wants a man. I feel it every time I see a strong handsome male body. I can’t help it.”

“ ¿Do you plan to marry, then?”

Her sister closed her eyes and sighed. “Petunia, I want to, yes. I think I need a husband. I want sex as much as I ever did as a man, maybe more, and I won’t be a slut. Seá±ora Arias wants to see me married to a campesino, I know. I doubt I can bear to live live a celibate life–and actually I don’t want to be an old maid. In two senses of the word. I know I’ll be be swapping one set of problems for another if I marry, but at least it’s a set of problems that others have dealt with. But I want an educated man, not a campesino. I ain’t no ignorant campesina, in spite of my looks and my… my illiteracy, and I don’t want to remain a peasant. There’s another problem.  ¿What do I tell my husband-to-be?  ¿Do I tell him I was a man? I don’t want to lie, and it could lead to disaster, but I doubt I could find a decent man to marry me if he knew the truth.”

Petunia couldn’t bear to tell her sister that her dream husband would remain a dream. Pansy’s status as a maid, her illiteracy, her dark skin and mixed-race features, even her speech–they’d all make it impossible to find the match she wanted. She simply asked, “ ¿Do you want to return to the United States? Jack intended to go back.”

“ ¿For what? If I can, then I’d have to prove that I’m really Jack, and then I’d become a freak. Besides, I have three children here. Lilita’d come with me, but Margarita and Josecito would stay here. And I love them all. I don’t want to leave them. I ain’t lost all hope of returning some day, but I don’t think it’s a good idea now. I think the best solution to my dilemma is to remain in Honduras and teach. If I can learn to read and write again, that is.”

Petunia nodded. “I understand, and I agree. I think you should stay here and teach, if you can. It’d be the best compromise between your past life and your present condition. You’ll never succeed in finding a job without some help, though.” It had been hard enough for Petunia to secure a teaching position. She told Pansy that she’d need to work on her speech, though, before she could consider resuming a professional life: “You sound like an uneducated peasant, I’m afraid.” It sounded callous, but Pansy needed to know it. “You need to improve your speech before you can think of teaching. Listen to your Seá±ora Arias, and try to talk more like her. It’ll give people a better impression of you.”

Pansy agreed to try. Seá±ora had said the same, and she knew she sounded uneducated.

Their talk turned to other matters: Petunia’s pregnancy, Seá±or Sáºlivan’s cattle raising, their babies. It was 11 AM before Petunia recalled: “ ¡Pansita!  ¡I have to make lunch for the men yet!”

“No problem, Petunia, I’ll help. Just tell me what you need me to do.”

Between the two of them they had a substantial lunch prepared by the time Seá±or Sáºlivan arrived with his brother shortly after noon. He greeted Petunia affectionately, then introduced his brother to Pansy: "Seá±orita Baca, this handsome devil’s my brother Alberto. Beto, this exquisite creature is Pansy Baca, Petunia’s sister.”

Alberto Sáºlivan lived up to his brother’s billing. He was quite handsome–as dark as ’Tonio but a little taller and slimmer, with a thin black mustache. He bowed slightly, took Pansy’s hand, and kissed it. “My brother told me Petunia was entertaining one of the prettiest women he’d had the pleasure to meet. Either he understated seriously, or his experience is much broader than I know. Pansy, I’m delighted to meet you. Please, call me Beto.”

Pansy almost managed to stifle a girlish giggle, then replied, “Beto, it’s my pleasure. I told your brother that he had the gift of ‘blarney’ from his Irish forebears, and I see that it’s a family trait, and a very pleasing one.”

Beto raised an eyebrow and looked at his brother, who explained the reference. Then Petunia called them to lunch, and they sat down to fresh papaya, chicken, and rice. Alberto started on his papaya, then asked Pansy, “ ¿Where are you from, Seá±orita? I grew up here, and I would’ve noticed such a pretty girl. You talk a lot like a local girl, but I think I detect a slight accent.  ¿Did you spend some time in the United States?”

“Yes, you’re right. I went there as a baby, but I grew up mostly in San Pedro, and Honduras is my home. I’m Petunia’s sister, like ’Tonio said. I work for Seá±ora Arias at Los Ocotes, and I moved there recently when she married.”

“ ¿And your husband?  ¿Does he work there as well?”

She looked down. “I’m afraid he’s dead.  ¿But you, Seá±or? Petunia tells me you are a coffee merchant.”

“Yes, I have a business in La Libertad. I buy mostly coffee, but I deal in other produce as well. I’ll never get really rich, but I’m comfortable.”

“ ¿Do you sell direct to the United States? There’s a boom in specialty coffee shops there, and I think you could make a big profit. Marketing would be the problem, but if you can get a foot in the door, you got to do well.  ¿Or are there political problems I ain’t heard about?”

He gazed at her with interest. “There are always political problems, but there are ways to solve them.  ¿What do you do at Los Ocotes? It sounds like you might run the place.”

She blushed. “No, Seá±or, I’m just a maid. Mostly I do laundry, keep house, and take care of Seá±ora Arias’s baby.”

He grimaced. “ ¡Pearls before swine!” He attacked his chicken.

Margarita began crying then. The noise disturbed Lilia, who joined in a duet. The women pleaded necessity and left the table for their offspring. In the bedroom Pansy began to nurse Lilia while Petunia changed Margarita’s diaper. Petunia noted, “I think Beto likes you.”

“I’m just a maid, Petunia. He must have lots of girls to pick from. He’s just making small talk.” But her heart leaped. Would he be interested in her? Maybe she could use him to escape!

Petunia nodded. “That’s right, he has lots of women after him. I think he’s gone out with every single woman in La Libertad. And maybe some married. Still, he likes you. I’ll bet he asks to see you again.” She finished with Margarita, hugged her, and put her back in her cradle. She returned to the dining room, leaving Pansy to finish nursing. In a few minutes Pansy returned too.

As she sat, ’Tonio complained to his brother that the price for cattle had fallen, and profits were down. “This is a bad country for cattle, you know, and profits are low at best. We sell our beef for hamburger because it isn’t good enough for other purposes. And the climate and general condition of the range won’t support a good beef animal. Screwfly, hoof-and-mouth–a good beast can’t make it here.”

While the brothers discussed business, Pansy told Petunia that she was becoming very depressed. “I hate being a maid, but Seá±ora Arias was right. It don’t make no difference what I want. She can keep me tied to her as long as she wants. It ain’t… isn’t a terrible life–she’s decent, like I told you before–but I’m just going to wither here.”

“There’s hope yet.  ¿Didn’t you tell me you wanted to teach? I think Susana might relent eventually.”

“ ¡Eventually! I’ll be old and gray, my life wasted. No, I don’t think she has any intention of letting me go, ever.”

Petunia was annoyed. Her sister was wallowing in self-pity and needed to be goaded out of it. “ ¡Snap out of it, Pansy! Maybe you’re right–maybe Susana’ll keep you as long as she can. Other women rose from worse pits, with fewer assets, but it seems you’ll just accept what she intends without a fight. Maybe she’s right. Maybe it’s all you deserve.”

Shocked that her own sister would say such a thing, Pansy was speechless. Beto noticed Pansy’s distress and asked, “ ¿Is there a problem?  ¿Can I help?”

She recovered and gave him a shaky smile. “Thank you, no, Seá±or. Yes, I have a minor personal problem, but I’ll handle it.” A minor personal problem: How to escape from servitude? How to regain what had been lost irrevocably? “A female problem.” A problem being female.

Concerned, ’Tonio said he’d help if possible. She dismissed the problem and apologized. To change the subject, she asked, “Seá±or, since I visited here, I wondered,  ¿what is a ‘já­caro‘’?”

“It’s a small tree, a bit like an acacia. I’ll show you one after lunch. ’Tunia said you like plants.  ¿Are you an herbalist?”

“No, I’m just an amateur botanist. I don’t know none of the plants in this area, though. Orchids and bromeliads–las piá±uelas–are my favorites.”

Beto asked curiously, “That’s an unusual hobby for anyone around here, especially a woman.  ¿How did you become interested in that?”

“Ever since I was a child, I been interested in science and natural history. I don’t know how or why. Just an odd child, I guess.”

“And an extraordinary woman: both beautiful and intelligent.”

She felt her face redden again. “Thank you, Seá±or.” Then, more coquettishly, she noted, “It ain’t usual for such a handsome man to notice anything beyond the exterior.” She blushed even more as she realized she was actually flirting with him. And enjoying it.

’Tonio grinned. “She got you, Beto. You might have a match here.”

Beto also smiled, showing even white teeth in his dark face. “But the exterior is so attractive, you must forgive the men who are distracted.”

Bright red, Pansy laughed out loud. “ ¡I yield me, Seá±or! I’m overmatched, and pleased to concede to such a gallant caballero.  ¡I hope I lose many such contests!”

Joining her in laughter, Beto remarked, “A gracious concession from a worthy foe. I enjoyed the struggle, and I’d like to give you the chance to recoup. I understand youre free on Thursdays. If I may be so forward, I’d like to ask you to have dinner with me a week from now–next Thursday evening.  ¿Will you do me the honor, Seá±orita?”

For a moment Pansy was lost in confusion, but she caught her breath and recovered. “Seá±or Sáºlivan, it’s me that’s honored. Yes, I’d be delighted.” Briefly she wondered what she was letting herself in for, recalling the tactics Seá±or Cualquiera had used to get Susana into his bed, and the string of women his friend Bob… Bob something-or-other had kept in Atlanta. But then she relaxed. “There’s no comparison,” she rationalized. “Not all men are like him. I’m more on guard, anyway, and I can keep control of myself. Besides, I want to go out with a man, and I need to find a decent husband if I’m going to escape from Seá±ora Arias. Maybe he’ll be it.”

Beto was delighted. “Good, it’s settled. I’ll pick you up at four, if that’s OK.”

The remainder of the afternoon passed quickly. ’Tonio and Petunia showed Pansy the já­caro tree for which the ranch had been named, and Petunia identified two cacti for Pansy. They invited her to stay for supper, but she refused with thanks, asking to be returned to Los Ocotes. “I promised Marta I’d be back before supper to take Josecito off her hands, and I can just make it if I leave soon.” Beto offered to drive her back, and she accepted.

Pansy found herself strongly attracted to this handsome man, but she forced herself to keep away, and he didn’t try to approach her. The conversation remained on safe topics–the coffee crop, cattle raising, botany–and he dropped her off at Los Ocotes without incident. Pansy took her sleeping daughter from Beto’s red Celica, thanked him, and returned to the house.

Marta met her just inside the door. “ ¿How was your visit, Pansy?”

“It was very good, thank you. Until this month I hadn’t seen my sister in several years, since before she married ’Tonio Sáºlivan, and I’m glad she lives so close.  ¿How was Josecito?”

“The little angel was no trouble at all.”

Pansy laughed. “I know better, Marta. He’s a beautiful child and I love him dearly, but he ain’t… isn’t no angel.” She had to begin talking better, she told herself.

Chuckling, Marta agreed. “He’s got an excellent pair of lungs, that’s certain, and he’s into everything now that he’s walking. He’s no angel, but he’s a good baby. Believe me, he could be a lot worse.”

Pansy followed Marta back to the kitchen. “Let me get Lilita fed and settled, and I’ll help with supper. And I have a favor to ask.”

Marta raised her eyebrows as she cut up an onion. “ ¿What do you want? I’ll help if I can.”

“Well, I still got to get permission from Seá±ora Arias, but I wanted to check with you first. I been asked to dinner next week by the brother of Seá±ora Sáºlivan.”

“ ¿Beto Sáºlivan? I’ve met him. He seems like a decent man, if a bit too forward at times. ’Fredo often deals with him; he buys some of our coffee. And you want me to take care of Lilita and Josecito while you’re with Beto,  ¿no?”

“ ¿Please, would you, Marta?”

“Yes, I think I could manage, if it’s OK with Seá±ora Arias. She told me you were going to be taking care of Lilita all the time, you know.”

“I know. As I said, I’ll have to clear it with her. We’ll see. Thank you anyway, Marta, whether I get permission or not. Now, please excuse me while I take care of Lilita.” She left to get Lilia settled, and to check on Josecito.

After supper, Pansy asked Susana for permission to leave her daughter in Marta’s care. “Seá±ora, I know she’s my daughter and my responsibility, and if you refuse permission, then of course I’ll take her with me. But I thought you might make an exception this time.”

Susana looked at her maid speculatively. “ ¿Why do you want to leave her?  ¿Is she an inconvenience for you?”

“No, Seá±ora–well, yes, she is an inconvenience, but that’s not the reason. I was asked to dinner, and it wouldn’t be proper to take Lilita with me. I will if I must, but I’d rather leave her with Marta. As I told you, she agrees, if you’d permit it.”

“ ¿So you’re asking to go on a date?”

Pansy blushed and nodded. “I suppose you could say that.” Then she looked Susana in the eye. “Seá±ora, I think you told me I got to be a woman all the way, and that I’d probably end up as some man’s wife. Well, you succeeded part of the way. I’m a woman, I’m attracted to men. If you want me married off, you have to allow me to go out with men.”

“But I don’t want to see you married off yet, Pansita. Not off the finca, anyway, and I know you’re not seeing any of the men here. Felipe keeps close tabs on his men, and he’d tell me. As I said, I like having Jack here, doing my laundry. Besides, I need you to stay for now, to care for Josecito. No, you’ll keep Lilia for now. I won’t keep you here on your day off–it’s your day by right, to spend as you like–but I won’t let you slack off on your duty to your daughter, and Marta has too much to do for me, especially with you gone. I am happy to see you settling in to the normal life of a campesina, though.  ¿Why don’t you marry some young campesino here on Los Ocotes? That way you could satisfy your lust during the night, and do my laundry during the day. I can suggest several of my men who’d love to bed you.”

Tears sprang to Pansy’s eyes. “Seá±ora, I done my work. I done it good. You got no right to do this.”

“ ¿No? I gave you permission to leave the finca, Pansita. You just have to keep Lilia with you. It’s a nuisance, yes; but after all, it’s a woman’s duty to care for her children,  ¿true?  ¿I think Seá±or Cualquiera said something to the effect that biology is destiny?  ¿Didn’t he?”

“Seá±or Cualquiera.  ¿And did he persuade you to adopt his ideas?”

Susana laughed. “Seá±or Cualquiera is not dead. I know better. He’s still alive, imprisoned in that cute little body of yours. Eventually I think he may become absorbed into the old Pansy Baca, but that won’t be for a while yet. Anyway, I haven’t adopted his ideas, but I swore he would.  ¿Do you still believe in his ideas, Pansita?”

Controlling her emotions, Pansy replied, “We had this discussion before, I think. You won the argument. Please, leave it at that.”

Susana laughed again, bitterly this time. “No, I didn’t. My body betrayed me. Now I’m under a man’s control, accepting what he chooses to give me. Don’t mistake me; Felipe’s a good man. I love him, and he loves me. Yet it’s clear my biology won in the end, even after you left me. Seá±or Cualquiera won the argument, he just lost everything else. Now at least I can see to it that Seá±or Cualquiera's arguments apply to himself. It’s my only consolation.”

“Bullshit!” Pansy dredged the English expletive from some hidden recess of her mind. “ ¡‘My only consolation’! You have a good life–a life you chose–and I been here long enough to see that you control your husband as much as he controls you. It’s a partnership. You’re not being honest. Well, never mind. You won: I’m your maid, and I got to obey you. I’ll take Lilia with me, like you say.  ¿May I be excused now, Seá±ora?”

“In a moment, Pansita. As you say, you carry out your duties well. You’re a good maid, obedient and dutiful, an excellent seamstress, and a fine mother. And a pretty girl to boot, who takes care with her appearance and pleases men. A girl who lives to cook, clean, sew, and care for children. And who now wants a man of her own. I told you, your anatomical changes were only the start,  ¿true? I think the psychological changes are almost completed too. The spirit of Pansy has almost absorbed Jack.” She grinned: “He’d be delighted with a girl like you–if he didn’t have to live in you.” Then she spoke more seriously, warning Pansy, “Yes, you have my permission to go out on a date, but I want to warn you: men can be dangerous. Some men see a woman alone–especially a pretty young peasant girl like you–as their natural prey. You’ll have to learn to be wary. And if some man takes you out on a date–he’s not safe either. He’ll take advantage of you and your emotions if he can–and I think he might be able to do that with an inexperienced girl like you–but you’ll pay the price. Just like the girls you took advantage of. Remember Seá±or Cualquiera; you’re playing the other side of the game from him now. I know you think I’m just harassing you again, but I’m not, I’m offering sound advice. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Furious but helpless, Pansy turned on her heel. Later, alone with Lilia, she considered Susana’s words. She had meant them as taunts, and they hurt. But it was truth which lent the sting. She, Pansy, had changed as Susana had described; she was very different from her previous self. But were the changes in her personality so terrible? Was caring for others a fault? Seá±or Cualquiera had acted as though it were. Susana seemed to think so. But Pansy knew that her old self hadn’t really been happy. Pleasure he had had, but not happiness. And Susana seemed to have everything, but she didn’t seem happy either. Pansy’s anger dissipated. She knew Susana thought of her as “Seá±or Cualquiera”, and held his actions against her. Nevertheless, she treated Pansy decently, with only an occasional reference to the sins of Seá±or Cualquiera, or a snide remark about Pansy’s femininity. Pansy wondered, though, whether Susana was pushing her, somehow, into having sex. Her deep longing for a man had to be Susana’s doing. Maybe more brujerá­a? No, a drug implant was more likely. She wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of complaining, though. As long as Susana didn’t do anything more, she could tolerate it.
 
 
February 3
-- Roberto Ibá¡á±ez, dressed in an open-necked white shirt and casual slacks, sat back in the don’s comfortable armchair. Sunlight streamed in through the window, illuminating a large pile of papers on the mahogany table in front of Don Pablo. The doctor asked, “ ¿Are you prepared to support my request for another experimental subject? I think we’ve done well with Pansy. George Deon’s ego still seems to be present in Pansy, along with most of the memories, the wit, the curiosity, the interest in arts and science. True, the memory loss has entailed some loss of intelligence–about a fifteen point decrease in IQ, or maybe twenty. That’s due to neural damage caused by the shocks. It’s an acceptable side effect, given the magnitude of the changes we effected–and the fact that she only has to cope with a maid’s duties. She doesn’t need to be smart. And some of that loss is probably recoverable, as her brain makes new connections.” He paused, then went on. “Not everything remains, of course. We attempted to alter his psyche towards a more feminine persona; specifically, we tried to induce docility, an interest in womanly arts such as sewing, and a female sex drive. We seem to have succeeded, but as I pointed out at the beginning, too much was attempted, and we’re having trouble in assessing the results. Two questions remain to be resolved. The first is:  ¿How much change was due to psychological conditioning, how much to physiological and anatomical changes, and how much to social pressure? The second is:  ¿What’s the prognosis?  ¿How permanent will the changes be, and will the new persona develop some psychological dysfunction?”

Don Pablo leaned back in his chair. “My personal interest–that is, the punishment of Seá±or Deon–is done. I still have an interest, as you do, in practical and scientific aspects, and I am willing to entertain your suggestions.  ¿What do you propose, to answer these questions?”

Ibá¡á±ez steepled his fingers. “The second part’s fairly simple. All we have to do is continue to keep Pansy under observation. If she appears for occasional interviews, and takes a few tests, that should be sufficient. And we should keep in touch with your daughter, too; she should have some insight into Pansy’s state of mind.”

“ ¿And what about her physical health?  ¿Is she likely to develop any problems related to her anatomical changes?  ¿What about the possibility of natural pregnancies?”

The doctor shrugged. “Outside my field of competence, Seá±or. Ask Doctor Weiss, for a definitive answer. I think he’ll want to monitor the continued health of his prize subject, though, just as I do. I suspect the prognosis is good, and I think she’ll prove fertile on her own.” He paused. “ ¿What does your daughter say about her maid?  ¿Has our subject accepted her new status with grace?  ¿Does she perform her duties acceptably?”

Don Pablo leaned forward. “We seem to have fallen somewhat short of our goal. On the positive side, Susana reports that Pansy seems to have developed the feminine persona you predicted. She tries to make herself attractive, she takes good care of both her baby and Susana’s child, and she performs her other duties well. On the negative side, she is most certainly not the campesina I had hoped for, but rather a norteamericana. She does not accept her status as natural or irrevocable, and hopes to rise above it. I cannot fault your own efforts. I recognize that it is due to the fact that she recalls her existence before her transformation–as I myself specified--and identifies with the earlier self.”

“Yes. George Deon survives, as you wished, but he’s clearly been remolded into a female version.” Standing up, Ibá¡á±ez walked a few steps and gazed out the window. Turning back to Don Pablo, he commented, “The new feminine personality is constantly reinforced by her duties as a maid, her need to care for her baby, her physiology, and social pressure.  ¿What about her sexuality?”

“I do not know. Susana said nothing on that subject.”

The doctor sat again. “I’d like to set up an appointment with Pansy next week, if that’s possible. Weiss and I can both check our respective work.”

“Check with Susana. As I said, my personal interest is over. Tell her I approve, if you wish. I will attend too; I retain my interest in Pansy as the subject of your experiments.” The don looked down at notes he had made. “Now,  ¿what about the first question you asked–concerning the relative importance of the various factors in constructing Pansy’s new persona?  ¿What do you propose?”

“I need more subjects. Criminals, as before, or anyone else you may think appropriate for the purpose. I’ll attempt to transform them to obedient servants, using only the pleasure center.  ¿Could you use a devoted servant with a passion for cleaning house?”

They spent the next hour discussing possible practical applications of their new technique for absolute control. At the end Ibá¡á±ez delicately raised the question of hiring out his ability to remold a man. “I don’t know, Seá±or, but I suspect there are those who would pay handsomely to control a troublesome man. Including, perhaps, their own offspring. Or women: my results with Pansy suggest that I could make a nun into an enthusiastic whore. Or vice versa.”

Smiling, Don Pablo commented, “Based on what José reported with Pansy, you did just that, starting from less promising material than a nun. Yes, Doctor, I believe it may be time to put your work to practical use. I will pass the word that my doctors have a miraculous technique for rehabilitation. Rest assured, you will find the work rewarding.”

Later that day, Doctor Ibá¡á±ez telephoned Susana Arias to request another psychological and physical examination for Pansy. She wasn’t at Los Ocotes; the housekeeper referred him to the store in La Libertad. Blessing the existence of cell phones, he called the store. When Susana answered, he asked, “ ¿Would it be convenient to have Pansy visit the clinic again, a week from today, Seá±ora? Weiss and I both need to check her physical and mental health.”

Susana’s reply was a little tinny, but clear enough. “I don’t see why not. She seems healthy, but I agree, she should have regular checkups. I think you ought to arrange an examination for her daughter too. A routine postnatal checkup.”

“OK, I’ll do that.  ¿10 AM?” She agreed, and he added: “One other thing, Seá±ora: We’re trying to evaluate the psychological changes that we’ve induced in the old George Deon.  ¿Could you help us? You knew him fairly well before we remolded him into Pansy Baca, and you’re the only available person with that knowledge, other than the former Petunia Baca. I’d very much appreciate your help.”

There was a pause. “I think so,” she reluctantly agreed. She didn’t like Ibá¡á±ez or his penchant for playing God, even if he had helped her take revenge on Seá±or Deon. “I’ll help you, as long as my involvement is strictly confidential.”

“Thank you, Seá±ora. Until then.” Ibá¡á±ez hung up, well satisfied.

Susana stood up. Now where was that girl? “ ¿Pansita?” She called more loudly, “ ¿Pansita?”

Marta called from the next room, “Seá±ora, she’s hemming Seá±or Arias’s trousers in the laundry room.”

“Fetch her for me, please.”

Marta left, and in a few minutes Pansy entered and curtsied. “ ¿You wanted me, Seá±ora?”

“Yes. I wanted to let you know that next week I’m taking you to the clinic in San Pedro again, for a medical examination and another psychological interview. The doctors you saw last month are interested in your case. Lilia can go too, and she’ll get a checkup too’.”

“Very well, Seá±ora.  ¿Is there anything else you want?”

On impulse Susana asked Pansy to sit. “I treated you rudely last week, and I’m sorry. You were right; you’ve served me well, if unwillingly, and I shouldn’t badger you. I probably will do it again, I know–Seá±or Cualquiera hurt me badly, and as I’ve told you, I know he’s still there, trapped in your head. It’s a great temptation to harass him through you. I’ll try not to.”

“It’s wasted effort anyway, Seá±ora,” Pansy replied. “Yes, he’s still there, but he knows he’s stuck for good. This body seems right for me now. And you put him into a woman with a past–I’m used to it. Like you said, I grew up as Pansy. Right now, I guess I’m both people. Yes, I still want to be more than a maid; so would any other woman. I think I can succeed, and I’d be foolish to be satisfied with a maid’s job. Someone told me that Honduras needs educated women–as teachers, for instance–and that’s what I want to do now. That, and find a decent husband.  ¿Will you help me or will you try to stop me?”

Susana refrained from pointing out that Pansy was hardly an educated woman, and that she never would be. “ ¿What about your search for Seá±or Cualquiera?  ¿Are you abandoning it?”

“No. But tell me, Seá±ora:  ¿just what do you think I’ll be able to do with that information when I get it?  ¿Are you worried that I’ll return to my old life, my old ways?”

Susana laughed. “You know better, Pansita. …And yes, I know better too. That’s your real point, of course. For better or worse, we succeeded in our effort. No, you’re a hondureá±a–a real catracha–now; there’s no return.”

We? Someone had helped to change her. These doctors, probably. It was still impossible, but slightly less so than witchcraft. “ ¿Then why not tell me who he was?  ¿How can it hurt?”

“ ¿Why not? You asked me before,  ¿don’t you remember? I’ve told you several times, but I’ll repeat it again: I want Seá±or Cualquiera’s identity to remain dead and forgotten forever. Maybe it’s not rational, but I don’t care.”

Pansy replied, “I suppose I can understand, in a way. My search for him ain’t rational neither. By now I don’t think he matters, but I got to find who he was anyway.” She looked at Susana. “ ¿Will you give permission for Marta to watch Lilita on Thursday, then?”

“Yes, I suppose I will.  ¿May I ask why you’d rather leave her here?”

Flushing, Pansy replied, “I got an invitation to dinner, and it’d be rude to bring her if I can avoid it.”

“Ah, that must be with Seá±or Sáºlivan. Gordo saw his car up here last week when you came back from Já­caro Grande.” Susana smiled sweetly. “Your hormones are becoming insistent,  ¿are they? I told you that you’d want a man. Be careful, Pansita. I’ve heard that Beto’s something of a Don Juan. He’d be a good catch if you could land him, but he’s a little like the late lamented Seá±or Cualquiera. You’re a novice at affairs of the heart–from the woman’s side, anyway–and he’s experienced. Quite experienced, I hear.”

Hormones? That was over her head, but the context clarified her meaning. “Thank you for the warning, Seá±ora,” she replied resentfully, “but I’m capable of taking care of myself, and I think I can manage. I’m a big girl now.”

Susana stifled a giggle. “Very true, thanks to me. Good luck then. Remember, though: if you slip and get pregnant, you’ll be in the soup.” She looked directly at her maid. “Lilia isn’t held against you; you didn’t have any choice then. Now it’d be different. Be careful.” Then, more cheerfully, she told Pansy to tend to Josecito when she had finished her sewing. “Or even better, take your sewing to the nursery, so you can keep an eye on him. He’s making a nuisance of himself, and he needs some attention.  ¿How’s Lilita doing, by the way?”

With some relief, now that the subject of the conversation was no longer her date with Beto, Pansy answered, “She’s doing very well. I notice that she’s not sleeping quite as much, and she can lift her head. And she’s smiling at me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Beto, I’d love to dance with you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, thank you, Seá±ora.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, you do. And you’ll find a man.”

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

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

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

“Yes, it is.”

“You have a child there too, true.”

“Yes, Seá±ora, I do.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, I don’t think so.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“ ¿Will you give me a prescription?”

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

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

“Yes, of course I was.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“ ¿What’s the cost?”

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

“ ¿How will I get there?”

“One of the finca men’ll take you.”

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

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

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

“Early March, I think.” She thought, then told Pansy, “Yes, that’s it. March 6.”
 
 
February 24
-- As usual, a rooster’s predawn crow awakened Pansy from a dreams, this time of college days in Cambridge. The mixed odor of wood smoke and horses reminded her that she was in backwoods Honduras, trapped in the body of a maid, not a student. Groggy, she arose and checked Josecito and Lilia. Both slept soundly. With love she kissed them both on the cheek. To the east the sky was rosy, but westward a few stars still could be seen in the deep blue sky. She showered and dressed quickly. Marta would appreciate her help with breakfast, and she’d need to feed Lilia before Beto came to pick her up at 9.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pansy quickly recovered her composure. She apologized to Beto for her weeping, telling him that she hadn’t come to his house to go to bed with him. With a tremulous smile she told him, “You’re just too much of a temptation for a poor defenseless girl, I think.” He kissed her again, and took her back to the car. By 10 she was back at Los Ocotes. Marta met her and gave Lilia and Josecito over to her care. The cook looked at Pansy with curiosity, but she didn’t make any comments. Pansy fed Lilia and went to bed.
 
 
February 25
-- Shortly before dawn Pansy awoke as usual. Lilia hadn’t awakened her that night, and she hoped this was a sign that her daughter wouldn’t continue to demand feedings at 3 AM. She took care of Lilia, then checked on Josecito, asleep in his crib. While she showered and dressed, she considered the events of the previous evening. Much as she loved Lilia (and Josecito as well, she admitted), she most assuredly didn’t want another baby now. A second pregnancy would be disastrous. She was grateful for Doctor CantẒs advice on contraception. She took her little pill, as she had done every morning for the last couple of weeks.

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

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

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

After breakfast Susana asked how Pansy’s date had gone. Pansy gave her the same response. Susana didn’t pry, but cocked her head and gave Pansy a slight smile as if she knew what had happened. Pansy silently thanked Isabel CantẠagain, recalling Suzi’s comment to her–she couldn’t remember when–”You’ll find yourself in bed with some handsome fellow like Seá±or Cualquiera. He’ll get you pregnant, and I’ll laugh like hell when your belly swells and you begin to waddle like a duck.” Pansy had dismissed that possibility as fantasy. Now that fantasy had a frightening potential for becoming reality. Her first pregnancy had been a problem; but she knew an second illegitimate child would be a disaster.

As Pansy dressed for church, she recalled that horrible day when Seá±or Cualquiera had disappeared. As that awful Doctor Ibá¡á±ez had observed, and as Seá±ora Arias had predicted, two months of life as a woman had changed her personality–or his personality? She realized that she was consciously trying to make herself attractive in every way she could, and that she accepted being female–and a maid–without thinking about it, as if it were nothing new. “I suppose it isn’t,” she told herself. “After all, I’m at least as much Pansita Baca as I am Seá±or Cualquiera–maybe more. Petunia confirmed it. So did the date I remember at the Villa Real restaurant. And I might as well accept it.”

--Part 20, Helpless

Pansy finds that a poor weak peasant girl is in danger from predatory men, who see her as their helpless prey. (Warning--Contains a rape scene!

***************************************************
 
 
March 6
-- After supper Pansy washed the dishes quickly. Josecito had already been fed, but she still needed to nurse Lilia. She was so excited! Tonight she’d start the long road back to literacy. For almost a month, ever since her last visit to San Pedro, she had studied the alphabet, and she had begun to relearn the letters. It was difficult to believe that she had ever known these unfamiliar symbols. Somehow the old alphabet nursery jingle in English had survived the various erasures, and it helped.

At 6 there was a knock at the door. It was Gordo Echeverrá­a, for once clean-shaven and wearing a clean shirt. Pansy looked at him with dislike, but Susana told him, “OK, Gordo, she’ll be ready in a moment. Pansita, I think it’s time to go. Gordo’ll take you to town. He said he’d find something to do for the hour your class’ll last, and then he’ll pick you up and take you back.” Pansy almost refused to go with him. He was the worst, or at least the crudest, womanizer on the finca, and she knew he had told everybody he’d have her in bed. She shot Susana a reproachful look, but she returned an innocent smile, and Pansy knew she was stuck with Gordo.

He behaved well on the way out, and Pansy wondered if Susana had warned him. Then she rejected that notion; Susana’d be pleased to see her harassed. He ogled her as she left the car for the church in La Libertad, where the class was held, but by now she was accustomed to that, and paid him no attention.

An annex to the church held the class. For a wonder, the teacher was an American peace corps worker. A majority of the students were campesinas like Pansy, but there were a good number of men as well; the class held about thirty students. The first lesson covered the alphabet, and Pansy learned little beyond solidifying her knowledge of her ABC’s, gained over the previous month. At 8 o’clock sharp, class was dismissed.

Gordo was waiting for her as she left. She smelled beer on his breath, but his speech wasn’t slurred, and she judged him sober enough to drive. There wasn’t much choice, anyway; it was a long walk back to Los Ocotes. Her driver paid her more attention on the way back. About half a mile below Los Ocotes, he stopped the car, grabbed her wrist, and pulled her over to himself. His beery breath revolted her, and she tried to push him away, but he was too strong. “Oh, shtop your act,” he told her. “Ever’one knows you ain’t no swee’ li’l virgin. You no better’n any other girl, and if you can give a little ass to that bastard in La Libertad, you can give some to me.”

“ ¡Get away from me, you damn animal!” Pansy shouted at him. “ ¡If I gave anyone anything, it wouldn’t be you!” He shoved his body against hers and pawed at her breast. She gasped as her conditioned sexual reflex was activated. Gordo sensed her response and pressed his lips to hers. She beat on him ineffectually with her one free hand as he kissed her deeply. With one hand he pinned her free right arm behind her, and her left arm was already trapped and useless. Her assailant reached under her blouse, slid her bra up, and fondled her right breast. Grinning, he told her, “Feels good,  ¿don’t it? I can tell you love it. Stop pretending you ain’t just a slut, sweetheart. I know better. I seen you sticking your tits out at all the guys.” It did feel good, that was her problem. “ ¡No!” she protested. “ ¡No!  ¡Stop it!” Her voice faded into a gasp as Gordo pulled up her skirt, and his hand stroked her thigh. “Quit fighting and just enjoy it, sweetheart,” he whispered. “You give me any more problems, and I won’t be so gentle with you.” He pulled her skirt up all the way up to her head, trapping both her arms. When she was helpless, he opened the car door and pulled her out. She managed to free her arms, but he simply pulled her skirt over her head again and threw her on the ground. She freed her hands while he sat on her, but as soon as she tried to use them, he seized them, turned her over roughly, and tied her wrists together with a piece of dirty rope. She was as helpless as a child, with no more strength in her arms than… than a girl. For a moment an image of Seá±or Cualquiera, with powerful biceps developed by endless weight training, crossed her mind, but Susana had taken that with everything else. Now her arms were those of a girl. Gordo leered at her and remarked, “Now, swee’heart,  ¿you gonna be sensible? You can’t do nothin’ to stop me. Like I said,  ¡enjoy yourself!” Powerless, she tried to call for help, but after she got out one good scream he hit her across the face. “ ¡Shut up, you bitch!” he yelled. She was dazed by his blow, and for a moment she couldn’t struggle. Taking advantage of the pause, Gordo pulled off her panties and stuffed them into her mouth, effectively gagging her. Her next attempt to scream produced only a muffled grunt. Satisfied that she couldn’t resist, he sat on her belly. She glared up at him with hate-filled eyes. “You nothing but a fucking maid, swee’heart. You ain’t got nobody to speak for you. Well, after tonight you gonna know what a real man can do.  ¿You need a little loosening up, maybe? I’ll help you, baby.” He hauled her upright, back to the car, where he reached into the back seat and retrieved a bottle of Flor de Caá±a high-proof Nicaraguan rum. He threw her back onto the ground. She tried to kick him in the groin, but he was too quick, and he was back on her before she could try anything else. Her arms ached from their position, tied and pinned under her, and she was afraid he’d hit her harder and injure her. “Baby, I gonna share a li’l liquid joy with you.” He took a swig of rum, then forced her mouth open, removed the gag, and poured a slug of raw rum down her throat. She swallowed some and inhaled some. The rum burned its way down her gullet. Choking and coughing, she stopped fighting while she tried to recover. Gordo waited, then poured more into her mouth. She tried to spit it out, but he pinched her nose roughly, and she was forced to swallow. He waited again while the alcohol took effect. She felt giddy and tipsy very soon, and to ensure success her tormentor poured two more mouthfuls into her, and waited a little longer. “ ¿Got enough?” he asked. “ ¡You gonna enjoy anything I do now, baby!” He got off her, loosened his belt, and let down his pants. Freed, she tried to get up and run, but she was already too tipsy to do more than stagger. Gordo grinned with anticipation. He grabbed her and kissed her again, fondling her breast as he held her. Lust swept over her, and involuntarily her pelvis pressed against him. “Tha’s better, baby,” Gordo noted approvingly. “ ¡Now you behaving right!” He laid his coat over a patch of grass and pulled Pansy down onto it. Almost tenderly he untied her wrists and stroked her cheek. “ ¿See? I ain’t such a bad fellow after all.” He pulled up the skirt again and stroked her thighs. By now roaring drunk and with her passion aroused, Pansy moaned, and her struggle ceased. Her mind faded into a haze of desire, and her body responded enthusiastically.

Afterwards he helped her back to the car. Even in a drunken stupor, Pansy realized that she had been raped, and she wept quietly. Gordo warned her, “Baby, you don’ go running to no one about me. You just a lousy maid, and you already got one bastard. You got liquor on your breath. And I ain’t got a mark on me, so nobody ain’t going to believe you put up no fight. You go making a stink about this, you jus’ make yourself look like shit.  ¿You hear me, baby? Besides, you loved it. I could tell.  ¿Didn’t you?”

Pansy couldn’t answer through her sobs, but she nodded in agreement to his demand for silence. She was just sober enough to think, “Susana wouldn’t do a thing about this. She’d believe me, all right, but she’d just laugh, tell me I was getting what I deserved.” She sat and pulled her panties back on, then managed to stagger back to the car. She began to hiccup as she sat. When Gordo entered the other side, she pulled away from him. Laughing, he boasted, “You got laid by a real stud tonight, swee’heart. It’ll be even better next time.” She shrank farther from him.

When they returned to the finca, she had regained her composure, if not sobriety. Gordo took her to the rear of the house, and she managed to slip unsteadily inside. Carefully she made her way to her room. Josecito was asleep, but shortly after she arrived and slipped into her nightgown, Lilia awoke for her feeding, as she usually did. Pansy managed to feed her, then put her back to bed and crawled between the sheets. She still couldn’t think clearly, but she told herself Gordo was right. There was no point in telling anyone. She cried herself to sleep.
 
 
March 7
-- Pansy felt terrible when she awoke at dawn. The rum had given her a bad hangover. Her head pounded, her tongue felt hairy, and her mouth tasted like a three-day-dead skunk. Nevertheless, her duties drew her out of bed. Remembering the shattering events of the previous night, she felt filthy, and her shower helped not at all. In the mirror, she saw red swollen eyes and a bruised face. She tried to cover the damage with makeup, but the attempt was futile. Sighing, she returned to care for the babies, and then left for breakfast.

Marta’s eyes widened when she appeared, but she said nothing. Pansy helped her fix breakfast, and then served at the table. Susana noticed her appearance too, but let it pass, at least at first.

After breakfast Pansy was about to leave with the children to begin her laundry duties, but Susana stopped her and asked, “Pansita,  ¡you look terrible!  ¿What happened to you?”

Pansy cast her eyes down and tried to escape, replying, “Nothing, Seá±ora. Please, it was nothing. I got to do the laundry.” She began to hurry from the room.

In a stern voice Susana insisted: “Pansita, stop. What you have to do is answer truthfully.  ¿What happened?”

Unwillingly Pansy turned to face her mistress. “Please, Seá±ora, I don’t want to talk about it.”

“It was Gordo,  ¿wasn’t it?”

Pansy burst into tears. “Yes… yes, Seá±ora. He… he attacked me last… last night.”

Susana sighed. “Pansita, I said I’d be glad to watch Seá±or Cualquiera try to deal with the problems of being female, but that doesn’t mean I’ll condone attacks on you. Exactly what did he do?” Pansy begged not to be made to talk about it, but Susana pressed her: “ ¿Did he rape you?”

Pansy nodded. “He forced me, Seá±ora. Then he told… he told me…” She broke down again.

“But of course there were no witnesses. It’s just your word against his.  ¿True?”

Regaining control, she nodded again. “He told me no one… no one would… believe me.”

“But I do believe you. I try to keep track of what’s what at Los Ocotes, and I know Gordo; I shouldn’t’ve sent you with him. I’m sorry, Pansita. I am sorry.” She looked away from her maid. “I did warn you about predatory men, but I really didn’t intend this–and truly, you’re not responsible for it, I am. I’ll see what I can do to help. I will promise it won’t happen again. Not with Gordo. I’ll tell Father about this. I don’t know what he’ll do, but he’ll make sure Gordo’s punished.” She stopped. “As you may know, he has a certain reputation for handing out appropriate penalties. That’s not much consolation right now, but it’ll have to do for the moment. Now go back to your work.” Pansy curtsied and left quickly.

Susana left for the store in La Libertad at 7:45. As she drove, she considered what Pansy had told her. She felt guilty about Pansy’s rape. She should have known that Gordo might attack her; it was common knowledge on the finca that he had bragged he’d have her in bed. Maybe subconsciously she had known, although she was ashamed to admit it. True, George Deon had behaved no better to his own maid. But he had paid his debt in full. There was no need to punish Pansy any further, not if she continued to behave acceptably. And Pansy was responsible for the care of Josecito and Lilia, both of whom were Susana’s children as well; she needed to feel secure, to be able to raise the children properly. Susana hadn’t made any long-term plans concerning Pansy or the children, being content simply to gloat over the sight of her former lover trapped in a woman’s body and forced to serve as her maid. It was past time to let George’s die, and plan for the future. Father had disavowed any more punishment for Pansy; Susana decided that she’d consult with him concerning Pansy’s future.

Pansy passed the day in a trance. She did her work efficiently but mechanically. Only her love for the two children kept her functioning at all. Marta guessed what had happened, but she also guessed that, for the moment at least, Pansy needed to be alone; she told herself that she’d have a word with Susana concerning the poor girl.

When Susana returned, she sent for Pansy. When she arrived, her face was drawn, and her eyes had a blank look. Susana asked her to be seated. “Pansita, I told you this morning that you’d have no more problems from Gordo. Tomorrow you’ll be checked in San Pedro, and then we’ll go to Don Pablo and see that Gordo’s taken care of.”

Pansy responded without emotion, “Thank you, Seá±ora.”

“Second, we need to discuss your future. As far as I’m concerned, Seá±or Cualquiera has paid his debt. I think he paid in full last January, when I put him into a girl’s body.” She smiled, recalling the look of disbelief and horror on his face when he discovered his breasts, and again when he begged to become her maid. “What’s left of him in your head is suffering enough just by knowing he’s got to take his own medicine as an old-fashioned traditional woman. I don’t hold his crimes against you–against Pansy Baca, I mean. What Seá±or Cualquiera did is irrelevant. You’re a different person, an innocent person, even if he’s there in your head. Now,  ¿do you love Lilia?  ¿And Josecito?”

A flicker of anger was visible in Pansy’s eyes, and some animation came back to her voice as she replied, “Yes, Seá±ora. I think you know I love them both.”

Susana nodded. “So do I. Josecito especially, but I love both. The burden of caring for them rests mostly on you, of course. I want them raised in a happy and loving household. That means I want you to be happy with your job. Seá±or Cualquiera can’t get back what he lost. You know that. But Pansy Baca can have a good life, if she can just ignore what’s left of him, and accept what life can offer her as a campesina. Yes, he’s unhappy there in your head, but he’s fading away.” She realized she hadn’t made her point and started over. “What I’m trying to say is, I want you–Pansy–to be happy, so I’ll have a satisfied maid.” She paused again, looked down at her hands, then looked at Pansy and resumed. “I need you. As a person in your own right, distinct from Seá±or Cualquiera, I respect you. I want to call a truce.  ¿Will you agree?”

Pansy laughed bitterly. “Seá±ora, a truce presumes that both parties got the ability to break the peace. I don’t. My agreement ain’t… isn’t necessary. For what it’s worth, you got it.”

“I’m aware of that, Pansy. My words are poorly chosen. OK: I declare a truce. I’m canceling all restrictions on you, other than what’s needed for the job. You can wear what you like, within reason. In particular, I won’t make you wear that uniform.”

“ ¿Does it really matter now, Seá±ora? You told me I’d be trapped in this body, that there wouldn’t be no way to escape being your maid forever.  ¿Does your ‘truce’ change that?”

Annoyed that her offer to Pansy hadn’t received the gratitude it deserved, Susana shot back, “At one time it seemed to matter to you. Yes, you’re trapped in that body.  ¿So? It’s a perfectly good body. If you’re complaining because it’s female, you won’t get much sympathy from me–and if you’re complaining because you’re just my campesina maid, you’ll get even less. It’s exactly what you–no, what what ‘Seá±or Cualquiera’–deserves. As for escaping your low status: yes, a truce might change it. You’re as free as any other campesina to better your life. If you’ve got the determination, you can escape. And if you don’t–well, you’re no worse off than most women. You haven’t earned any special treatment.”

“ ¿And my children?  ¿Who takes care of them while I study? No, Seá±ora, like you told me when you put me into this body, I can’t escape. I’m an unmarried campesina mother, and there… there isn’t much choice for me.”

“If you remember, I complained to Seá±or Cualquiera about exactly that. He told me Josecito was my problem. Well, I solved my problem; I got him a nurse. Now he’s yours. Lilia as well. Yes, they’re a problem. It’s up to you to solve it. You’re subject to all the restrictions imposed by your sex–as I intended. However, when you were a man–if you had been a man–you would’ve thought those restrictions were reasonable enough. So now you can deal with them.”

“I maybe got another problem. I was… I was raped last night, like I told you.  ¿What do I do if he got me pregnant?” She knew that the pill should have kept her safe, but she didn’t trust it. Her body wasn’t necessarily like those of other women. And besides, she didn’t want Susana to know she had been using contraceptives.

Susana got up and paced the room, and when she answered, sympathy had returned to her voice. “Now that’s different. It’s a legitimate problem. I don’t know, but I’ll help you with it, one way or another, since I feel partly responsible. First, you may not be pregnant. In fact, the odds are against it, since you’re still nursing. Tomorrow’s your day off. I can arrange for you to go in to the clinic to be tested. You may also want to speak with Don Pablo about Gordo, so you can stop there if you’d like.  ¿What do you want to do?” She sat in an old armchair and waited for Pansy’s reply.

Pansy’s face lost some of its haunted look. Maybe she wouldn’t have to bear Gordo’s bastard. “Yes, I want to be tested, by Doctor CantẠif possible. I trust her. And yes, I want to talk to Don Pablo. Thank… thank you, Seá±ora.” Another thought occurred. “Seá±ora, one more thing. Like you say, Seá±or Cualquiera’s dead and gone, but I still want to know his name.  ¿Will you tell me now?”

Several emotions chased each other across Susana’s face as she considered the request. Finally she smiled and told Pansy, “Yes, I think so. He was called Jack Pinkerton, before I put him into a woman’s body.” The statement wasn’t quite a lie. He had been called by that name, for a short time.

Pansy’s eyes sparkled, her problems forgotten in her excitement over the rediscovery of her true identity. She seemed to recognize the name. “ ¡Thank you!  ¡I knew it! I thought I found it, but I wasn’t sure.” Then her face fell. “ ¿But how do I know you’re telling me the truth?”

“You don’t, of course. But it doesn’t matter. He’s dead, and you can’t go back.”

“ ¿What else can you tell me about him?–about his past, I mean.”

Susana shrugged. “Very little. I only knew him briefly. He told me a little about his family, but I’m afraid I don’t recall. He was a chemist, I know. And I think he graduated from some school in Boston. I think… yes, that’s right; it was MIT.”

Boston? Emaitá­? They meant nothing to Pansy. Chemist? What was that? She knew nothing about such matters. But she knew who she was! Or might have been? Maybe it really didn’t matter, as Seá±ora Arias insisted. Lilia began to cry, and Pansy excused herself. As she left Susana reminded her that Marta needed some help in the kitchen, too. Later, in her room, Susana marveled that one bit of information–now so utterly useless!–could give Pansy so much pleasure.
 
 
March 8
-- The two women left after breakfast the next morning. Susana stopped at the La Libertad store to tell the clerk she’d be gone for the day, and to give him instructions. Then they were off to San Pedro. Pansy’s short burst of euphoria had evaporated, and she was worried about pregnancy. Her feelings towards Gordo were unadulterated hatred and disgust. “Seá±or Pinkerton may have seduced women, but he didn’t rape them by force,” she told Susana. Susana didn’t remind her of his behavior towards his own maid, which hadn’t been much better. Don Pablo might remind her, but Susana was determined to bury the hatchet, as much as was possible.

The heat and humidity were already unpleasant when they arrived in the city, and the reek of diesel fumes filled the traffic-clogged streets. Pansy’s light yellow sundress made the weather bearable, but no more. She was glad she lived in the highlands. She thought of her former life in Atlanta, when Seá±or Pinkerton had complained about the climate. Here in Honduras it was always like summer in Atlanta, even during the cool season. She yearned for a touch of frost. The leaves wouldn’t even be out yet in Cambridge, she thought. And the flowering trees were preparing to bloom in Atlanta. The thought of Atlanta reminded her of Celia; she wondered what had become of her and their child. If only she had married Celia, she’d be rich now. And an American. And a husband. That existence seemed foreign now. What was it like, to be male? She tried to recall, but she couldn’t. To have balls and a prick? It was unimaginable. To want a woman? Sexual attraction had meaning only in terms of men; being attracted to a woman was alien to her. She watched Seá±ora Arias walking slightly ahead of her, and tried to think back to when she had first met her. Suzi’s slender waist, her breasts, her pretty face framed by long dark hair–those had all been sexually attractive. Now they meant nothing. Pansy saw the same in the mirror every morning. Now Beto… She smiled at the thought. He was attractive. Even if he was a sexist.

Her reverie was interrupted by their arrival at the clinic. For a wonder, there was no wait, and she was ushered to a small examining room. Doctor CantẠadministered the pregnancy test, as requested. The doctor told Pansy she was healthy. “ ¿Are you taking the pill?” she asked. Pansy told her she was. “It may be what saves you. Of course, I can’t be sure. You’re still nursing your child, it appears.  ¿True?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Good. It’s healthier for both you and the infant.” She checked her records. “You told me your periods began again in January,  ¿true?”

“Yes, around the middle of January.” Her male persona had been horrified.

The doctor had been surprised, but given Pansy’s medical history, it wasn’t amazing that she should have her period while she was still nursing. It was possible even for normal women. “That’s unusual, but not unprecedented. You’d better consider yourself fertile, nursing or not. Now I think you planned to attend a literacy class.  ¿Has it begun yet?”

“Yes, a couple of days ago. But it seems completely unfamiliar. It ain’t like I was relearning material I forgot. The letters are foreign, like they was Greek or Hebrew. I studied hard, though, and I think I got the alphabet back again, mostly.”

“ ¡Good! There’s no reason you can’t learn to read again.” She thought for a moment. “I think I still have some of my own daughter’s primers that she used when she was learning to read.  ¿I can lend them to you if you like?”

“I can’t ask for more from you.  ¡Thank you, Doctor!” Pansy left the office with a lighter heart.

Susana was shopping, and Pansy had to wait half an hour. When she returned, they had lunch in Sanborn’s. It seemed vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t recall when she had been there before. She didn’t mention it to Seá±ora Arias, but ordered a hamburger and a chocolate milkshake. Grinning, Susana commented, “I thought you’d like an American meal. It’s not what you’d get in Cambridge, but it’s passable. Now,  ¿what did the doctor say about the test?”

“Nothing definite yet. I got to wait. I was told I’m probably not pregnant, though.”

“Good. I admit, I want to see you pregnant again. I still do, but not that way.  ¿Does your doctor– ¿Doctor Cantáº, I think you said?” Pansy nodded. “ ¿Does he know your history?”

Pansy nodded again. “My doctor’s a woman, Isabel Cantáº. She didn’t at first. Now, yes.”

“I don’t know her. It doesn’t matter.”

They finished lunch quickly and headed to the parking lot. A shower caught them part way to the car, and they had to run awkwardly on high heels to reach it before they were drenched.

A heavy downpour slowed them at first, but as they dropped down into the Comayagua valley the rain slackened, and the gravel road to Las Rosas was dry. Roses were blooming in the courtyard when they arrived. The sight of them touched something in Pansy’s mind. She had seen them before? No, she had never been here before. Still, the sense of déjá  vu was overpowering. Susana knocked on the door, and Conchita let them in. “Good afternoon, Suzi, Pansita,” the stout maid greeted them. “I imagine you’re here to see Don Pablo. Wait a moment and I’ll let him know you’re here.” She returned in a few minutes. “He’s in the library. He’ll see you there.”

Susana told her, “Thank you, ’Chita. There’s no need to take us. I know the way.” As they walked through the house, Pansy felt an even stronger sense of familiarity, although she knew she had never been there. They arrived at the library, where the door was open. Susana rapped to announce their presence.

“ ¡Ah, Suzi!” the don exclaimed. He was dressed in a blue shirt and a string tie. Not a hair was out of place, and his mustache was neatly trimmed. “I am pleased to see you. And Pansita too. You both look well. I trust matters are going well at Los Ocotes; I know my coffee crop has done well. Sit down, please, both of you;  ¿what can I do for you?”

“Nothing directly for me, Father,” Susana told him. “But Pansita had a problem with one of the men at Los Ocotes, and I told her I’d speak to you about it. I think I told you she’s taking a literacy class at La Libertad twice a week now.”

Nodding, Don Pablo told her Ibarra had kept him informed. “He wants to know how difficult it will be for Pansy to recover her literacy. He discussed some technical points, but I did not follow the details. I did understand that it would not be easy, but that it might be possible if she was determined enough.  ¿Does that have something to do with her problem?”

Susana looked over to her maid. “Yes, it does. Pansita, you tell him.”

Pansy reddened. She knew her ordeal was too much like crude justice for Seá±or Cualquiera’s sins. It seemed best to simply state the facts. “Seá±or, I was… I was raped by the driver returning me from class. He told me nobody would listen to me. I was just a maid with no one to protect me, he said, and I should just lie back and… and enjoy it.”

Don Pablo leaned back in his chair and stroked his mustache unconsciously. He almost told her she deserved it, but he knew it wasn’t true. George Deon might have deserved it; but he was gone, or near enough, and his punishment was finished. In justice Pansy shouldn’t be made to suffer any more for his sins. But had she led the man on? Was she telling the truth now? He sat forward again and requested, “Tell me in detail what happened.”

She explained how she had fought, and how he had forced rum into her and got her too drunk to resist. “He tried to get me into bed with him before then, but I wouldn’t have anything to do with him. And when he finished with me he threatened to do it again.”

“ ¿Would you tell the story under drugs? I warn you, you would tell exactly what happened, with no evasions or excuses.”

Pansy replied with distaste, “Yes, but I don’t want to. The story would be the same. You might ask Seá±or Echeverrá­a the same question.”

“I might do that.” He rang the bell and Conchita appeared. “’Chita, I need to talk to Suzi alone. Please take Pansy to the living room.” To Pansy he promised, “I will do what I can. I think you will not need to worry about further attacks, or not from Gordo, in any case.”

Pansy left. Don Pablo apologized to Susana: “I forget my hospitality, Suzi.  ¿Would you like some coffee, dear?”

“Thank you, no. If you have some orange juice, I’d appreciate a glass.”

He rang for Conchita, and ordered the juice. Then he turned back to Susana and asked, “ ¿Is Pansy telling the truth, do you think?”

“I think so. This Seá±or Echeverrá­a has a reputation. Nothing’s ever been proven, but I think she is telling the truth. He boasted that he’d have her in bed with him–I heard this on the grapevine–but she refused him.”

He stroked his mustache absently. “If I knew for certain, I could ensure that he would never attack a woman again. Your George Deon might have deserved such treatment, but Pansy did not. But you say he has a reputation. Tell me more.”

Susana sat back in a comfortable chair. Over the next ten minutes she told the don about the man, his background, his reputation. “He’s quite a lady’s man,” she finished. “He thinks he’s irresistible.”

Shaking his head, Don Pablo noted with regret, “That sounds more than a little like the late unlamented Seá±or Deon–but with less charm and more violence. However, I will get Gordo’s side of the story before I make my decision.  ¿I assume you have no objection if my men pick him up?”

“No, not at all. If he’s guilty and he’s not punished, he’ll continue to misbehave.”

With a course of action decided, Don Pablo turned to other matters. “ ¿Pansy is still performing as you wish?”

Conchita returned with a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice and handed it to Susana, who thanked her and sipped the cold juice. A satisfied smile settled on her face. “ ¿Pansita as a maid? Better than I ever could’ve hoped. She’s a treasure. Between her new body and the conditioning that Ibá¡á±ez forced on her mind, she’s a wonderful maid. I don’t think she realizes just how different she is from Jack Pinkerton.”

“ ¿Jack Pinkerton?”

“Oh, yes.  ¿Do you remember when Ibarra took Pansita back in time two years and arranged for me to change George to a girl on the spot?  ¿On New Year’s Day, just as Pansita’s two years of captivity ended?”

“Ah, yes. I understand the charade succeeded admirably.”

She broke into giggles. “Oh,  ¡it was perfect!  ¡‘He’ accepted the whole thing at face value! For a couple of days she really believed I changed Seá±or Cualquiera to a campesina then and there, and even now she doesn’t know how he was changed. She forgot the whole slow process that made her what she is. Anyway, Ibarra told him he was Jack Pinkerton then, and I went along with it. Ibarra made him forget it again, but last week I told Pansy that was who she’d been. She had that name, of course; it just wasn’t her original name. You know how badly Pansita wanted to know the old name of Seá±or Cualquiera. Now she’s convinced she knows it.”

He frowned. “I am not certain I approve, Suzi.” Then he shrugged, commenting wryly, “I suppose it does no harm. And I would guess she is happier.”

“She is, no question about it.”

“I will see that ‘Jack Pinkerton’ replaces George Deon in the minds of those who knew him. Another matter: I am told Pansy is seeing a man in La Libertad.  ¿Beto Sáºlivan, I believe?”

Susana told him what she knew about their relationship. “I suspect Beto’s leading her on. I know the man, and I’m sure he has no intention of marrying her. I told her that, but she wouldn’t listen. I think sooner or later he’ll seduce her and drop her. Maybe she’s taking precautions, maybe not.” Ruefully she recalled her own experience. “I’m afraid Pansita’s in the same position I was in. I took precautions too. But I could be wrong.”

Don Pablo permitted himself a slight smile. “Poetic justice, if you are right. If Pansy becomes pregnant now, of her own accord, she will lay herself open to more difficulties.”

“Yes, very certainly.  ¿Anything else?”

“No, I think not. Please send Pansy back in, if you will.” When Pansy returned, the don asked her to sit. He offered her a cup of coffee from an urn at his elbow, and she accepted. He told her, “I think you are telling the truth, although I must investigate further. If you are pregnant, you must carry the child, but I will see that you do not suffer in any other way, and the child will be taken care of.” Pansy began to speak, but he wouldn’t let her interrupt. “If you were pregnant through your own fault, I would take other measures, but that need not concern you if you behave properly.” Pansy blessed Isabel CantẠfor her advice; without those little pills she might be discovering the nature of those other measures. “Of course, if you were to lie to me, I would see that you were punished severely. I think you know that, and I believe you. Now then, assuming you are truthful,  ¿what might you propose that I do about Seá±or Echeverrá­a?”

Pansy was tempted to suggest that he might lose his manhood, but she wasn’t certain that it was the best possible penalty. “I don’t know, Seá±or. I want him punished, but I don’t know what would be proper. I do know I’m afraid he’ll try to take me again.”

“You realize, I suppose, that you received only what Seá±or Cualquiera gave his own maid.” He frowned at himself; she was Pansy Baca, not George Deon. “No matter. He is already punished for that, trapped in your head. I do not hold it against you, and it has no bearing on the behavior of Seá±or Echeverrá­a.  ¿Perhaps he should follow Seá±or Cualquiera?”

Pansy set down her cup and shut her eyes in pain. “No. No one deserves that.” Then an implication of his words struck her: he had to be the one responsible for the punishment of Seá±or Cualquiera.

“ ¿Do you forgive him then?” He was oblivious of the effect his words had had on her.

Her knuckles whitened as she clenched her fists in her lap. Scowling, she replied, “No, I don’t forgive him.” Or you, Seá±or, she added silently. “And even if I did, I don’t want to have to worry about the next time.”

“ ¿What about simple castration?  ¿Would that be suitable?”

“With respect, Seá±or, I don’t know. Maybe.”

Don Pablo leaned forward over his desk. “Pansy, I do not know yet what I will do, but I am responsible for maintaining order in this region, and I cannot let let this go. I will see that he is punished, and that you will not be attacked again.”

“Thank you, Seá±or. There’s another thing: I want to regain some of what I lost. When I learn to read and write, and get back some science and math, I want to teach.  ¿Will you help me?”

“‘Regain’? You are Pansy Baca, not Seá±or Cualquiera. He had an education, not you, and I think I am hearing him speak through you. But yes, if you acquire an education, so that you are competent to teach, I will help. But your daughter must come first.” He smiled. “Susana told me about your Seá±or Cualquiera, Pansy. I think his fate has been just. He was not an evil man, but he was a bad man, if I may draw that distinction. He was morally weak and utterly self-centered, and left to himself he would have created more disasters. I personally believe he would have found retribution soon, even if he had not run afoul of Suzi. Pansy Baca is a better person. I suspect some weakness is still there, and you may yet find yourself in trouble. In particular, be careful with men in general and Beto Sáºlivan in particular. You of all women ought to know how men can take advantage of a girl.” She reddened and began to protest, but he cut her off. “I do not accuse you of anything. My reports of you are for the most part favorable, and you seem to be an asset to society. Maybe you will even learn to accept your nature and find happiness. Most women are content with their condition in life, you know. You might as well find satisfaction living as a woman; the alternative is to remain unsatisfied …still living as a woman. But that is your business. The choice is yours, and only yours.”

Pansy had already come to a similar conclusion, but she resented being given advice by this fatuous old tyrant. He had never had to accept the loss of his sex–not to mention the rest of his identity. Could Don Pablo follow his own advice and found happiness, if he were forced to be a maid? But fighting with him was pointless, and perilous, so she simply thanked him for his help. “I’ll try, Seá±or. Thank you for helping with my problem.”

He rang, and Conchita responded. “Pansy and I are finished. I think Susana is waiting for her. Take her back to my daughter, please, and then, if you will, make me some more coffee. This is beginning to get cold.”

Susana was ready, and they left for home. They spoke little until they had almost reached La Libertad, when Pansy asked, “Seá±ora,  ¿what do you think your father will do about Gordo?”

“I don’t know. Trust him, though; you won’t be bothered again. I’d guess you’ll see very little of Gordo. He’ll avoid you. If he did repeat, he’d be lucky if he escaped with anything left of his manhood. Don Pablo will make sure he knows that, and I think I know Gordo. He won’t risk it.”

It was almost 4:30 when they reached the town square. Susana mentioned to Pansy that her literacy class met that evening. “If you like, I’ll drop you off here. You can eat in the little restaurant here, and then I’ll send someone–not Gordo–to pick you up a little past 8 o’clock.” Pansy accepted the offer, and Susana gave her a little cash as an advance on her salary, to get herself a decent meal.

Not very hungry, Pansy decided to wait a while before having supper. She sat down on a bench in the plaza, in the shade of an enormous fig tree. The late afternoon heat was stifling, even in her light dress. For a few minutes she idly watched the grackles and mentally cursed Gordo Echeverrá­a. Then she remembered Beto. She had nearly two hours to kill, so she walked from the plaza towards his office. Fortunately it was nearby, and she reached her destination before the heels destroyed her feet entirely. She recognized the Celica parked outside, and knew Beto was still there. A young man answered her ring. She told him who she was and asked if Beto was free to see her. He disappeared into the next room, and Beto emerged with a broad smile.

He seized her hand, lifted it, and kissed it, exclaiming with delight, “ ¡Pansita!  ¿To what do I owe this pleasant surprise?” He hid his surprise that a woman would be so forward as to come to his office on a social visit. Pansy might have spent a few years in the U.S., but she had been raised mostly in Honduras, and she should have known better. She just wasn’t proper. Well, that wasn’t important. He didn’t intend to marry the girl, just dally with her a bit. And she was well suited for dalliance. He had seldom found such a delightful combination of naíveté and sensuality. Her family seemed not to have given her any sense of caution where men were concerned, and with her smoldering sexuality she needed that caution.

At first Pansy resisted the urge to embrace him, but then gave in and hugged him close. “It’s my day off, and I had business in La Libertad, so I just thought I’d stop by and say hello.”

“I’m ready to close for the afternoon.  ¿Have you eaten? I’d like to have you for supper, although ’Mena’s not making anything special.”

“Thank you, I accept gratefully. And I’d accept a cup of coffee too.” She paused, then added, “As long as you can get me back to the plaza before 7 o’clock.”

“ ¡Excellent! Yes, I’ll see that you’re back in time for whatever. I’ll close up now, and we can head over to the house.” He called to his employee, “ ¡José! I’m calling it a day. Lock it up when you’re done.” José agreed.

Beto unlocked his car and helped Pansy into the front seat, then slid in next to her. “ ¿How late can you stay? We can make an evening of it, if you’re willing.”

Pansy was tempted, but she knew it wasn’t possible. “I’d love to, but like I said, I can’t. I got an appointment at 7 o’clock, and I’ll be met at the plaza at 8 o’clock. Another time, thank you; I enjoy your company.”

Her host drove the short distance to his house, pulled into the driveway, and rushed to the passenger door to help Pansy out. She took his arm and they walked up the drive. Once inside, Beto called to Filomena, telling her to set a second place. “I’ve been graced by the presence of Pansita Baca for dinner. We have enough,  ¿don’t we?”

’Mena’s voice called back, “Yes, if you don’t make a hog of yourself, Seá±or. There’s nothing fancy for supper, though–just chicken and rice.”

“ ¿That’s OK with you, Pansita?”

“Yes, of course.”

He nodded and told Filomena, “Please, bring us two cups of coffee while we wait.” He led Pansy into the living room while Filomena set the table, and they sat. Unconsciously Pansy arranged her hair, tucking stray tendrils of her flowing tresses behind her ear, then leaned forward. “ ¿How is your coffee business doing, Beto?”

Beto could see the tops of her breasts, and he felt his interest quicken. He realized he had missed her question, and he wondered how she expected him to listen to what she said when she distracted him like that. Then he laughed inwardly. She was a complete innocent, and apparently had no idea how seductive she was. She acted as if she had never learned the possible consequences of carelessness. Smiling, he also leaned forward as though to hear better, telling her, “I’m sorry, Pansita, I didn’t hear you. I was thinking of something else.” Not incidentally, his view of her cleavage was improved.

A trifle annoyed that he hadn’t paid attention to her, Pansy repeated, “I said,  ¿how’s your business doing?” ‘Mena brought coffee, and for the next ten minutes Beto humored Pansy, discussing inconsequential matters. When ‘Mena called, “Supper’s on the table.  ¡Eat it before it’s cold!”, they headed to the dining room and sat down. Beto inquired about matters at Los Ocotes, and Pansy answered as best she could. Unfortunately for the conversation, her duties kept her mostly with Lilia and Josecito, and any extra time was taken up with laundry, sewing, and other household chores. She apologized for her ignorance, but Beto told her not to concern herself. “I can’t expect you to keep up with finca business. That’s a man’s concern.” She bit her tongue, reminding herself that Seá±or Cualquiera–Pinkerton?–would’ve said the same thing, and that arguing with Beto wasn’t in her interest. Still, it galled that he’d think her capable only of “women’s work”. She was a full adult, not a child or a halfwit.

After supper Filomena busied herself with cleaning off the table. Beto and Pansy retired to the living room, and Beto shut the door. “’Mena won’t disturb us here, Pansita. Now, sit down.  ¿Can I get you an after-dinner drink?”

She recalled the result the last time he gave her a drink, and declined with a laugh. “Thank you, Beto, not this time.” She wanted badly to go to him. Looking at him, she remembered with longing how much pleasure he’d given her on her last visit, almost three weeks ago, but she forced herself to fight her libido, which pushed her towards sex with him. Underneath her reluctance, though, was her realization that there wasn’t anything else in the world that approached the pleasure that she had had in bed with Beto.

Beto observed her, and although he couldn’t tell what she was thinking, it was apparent to him that she wanted him. A smile flitted across his face; he was sure he could seduce her now, but it might be better to wait for a more convenient moment. If he played her right, maybe he could persuade her to become his maid. And mistress. “Fine, Pansita. Tell me, then,  ¿how is your baby doing?”

For the rest of her visit they chatted about innocuous matters, and at quarter to seven Pansy reminded Beto that she had to be at a meeting at the church at 7 o’clock. “Of course, corazá³n,” he agreed cheerfully. “I’ll take you back now. But first,  ¿when can I see you again?  ¿How about next Thursday? Your day off,  ¿right?” She nodded. “I’ll arrange to take the day off myself. I have a place on the river where we can go swimming, if you’d like. And I’d be happy if you brought Lilita along.  ¿May I pick you up at 9 o’clock?” Pansy agreed readily. He took her out to the car, and drove her back to the plaza, where he gave her a long and passionate kiss that left her weak and quivering with desire. After he left she took a deep breath and regained control of herself, suppressing her yearning for more intimacy. Cursing her weakness, and the bastards who had inflicted it on her, she turned towards the church and headed for her class.

Back at Los Ocotes that night, Marta asked her how the day had gone. “Well enough,” Pansy replied, not letting her mixed feelings show. “I was with Susana this morning, over to her father’s. Then I saw Beto Sáºlivan again this evening. You’re right about him, by the way.” She smiled wryly, and admitted, “As I told you the last time I saw him, I agree with you. He’s not too pushy–but he’s not quite trustworthy. I like him, though.  ¿How were the babies?”

“Well, Josecito was a nuisance, as usual, but he was his usual delightful self otherwise. He’s a charmer, that one. I’ll warn you, Pansita: pretty soon he’s going to learn to say ‘no’, and your life’s going to get a lot more difficult. Lilita, now, she’ll remain a darling a little longer. Anyway, neither of them were a problem today.”

“Thank you, Marta.  ¡Many thanks! With your permission, I’ll check them now.” Leaving Marta in the kitchen, she quietly entered the bedroom. Josecito, sound asleep, looked cherubic, curled up with his thumb in his mouth, and Lilia likewise. She almost forgave Don Pablo and his sadistic doctors, looking at her baby lying there. She left them undisturbed–Lilia’d be insisting on being fed soon–and returned to assist Marta before retiring.

It had been an eventful day. The matter of Gordo had been taken care of, or it would be. Her fear of pregnancy was lessened by Doctor CantẒs assurances. And most important, she knew who she really was. Maybe it made no practical difference–after all, as Seá±ora Arias had pointed out, she was now and would remain Pansy Baca, an illiterate peasant girl, whoever she had been–but somehow she still cared.

“ ¿What should I tell Petunia?” she wondered as she lay in bed that night. After worrying about it for a while, she finally decided not to tell her anything. “I’ll never be who…  ¿who I was?  ¿who I might have been? I still love her, and I can still be her sister. In fact, I am her sister,” she rationalized. “Maybe I wasn’t born her sister– ¿or maybe I was?–but I certainly am now. It’d just make her unhappy if I denied it. And there ain’t no reason for that.”
 
 
March 9
-- Gordo Echeverrá­a straightened. His back ached from moving rocks. Sweat ran down his face, and he wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. He had never known another climate, and the heat and humidity of a normal Honduran morning was accepted unthinkingly. The work was hard, but that was to be expected. He was a man, and he did a man’s work. He took pride in working hard. Yes, he ran around with loose women sometimes, but that’s the way a man is made. All the nonsense about staying faithful to one woman was just that: nonsense. If and when he married, he’d give his wife and children the security and support they deserved, but he couldn’t be expected to ignore every other woman. There were so many slutty women who tempted him to a moment’s pleasure. The bitches’d tease a man, then try to refuse him the pleasure they owed. He, at least, wouldn’t stand for it. “After all, that’s what a woman’s for,” he told himself, thinking of that trollop Pansy he had taken recently. “It’d be unnatural for a man–a real man–to stay away from them.” He knew that women didn’t seem to understand that, of course–for some reason, women couldn’t seem to grasp the real nature of a man–so he had tried to keep his womanizing secret from each temporary girlfriend.

He was about to resume his labor when Hector Trujillo called him. “ ¡Gordo!  ¡Come over here!” He wiped his brow again with a dirty cloth and walked over the recently-cleared field to Hector. His boss told him, “There’s a car here from Las Rosas. Seá±or Arias told me this morning that Don Pablo’d be wanting a word with you. Better get back to the casa. It’s not a good idea to keep Pablo Herrera waiting.”

Ninety minutes later Gordo was ushered into the don’s sanctum. He was extremely nervous, as he had not been told why he had been summoned. The don was sitting in his customary armchair when his guest arrived, and invited him to take a seat. “Seá±or Echeverrá­a, I am sorry that I needed to request a talk with you, but it was necessary. You see, I am told you attacked a young woman a short time ago. Her name is Pansy Baca, and she works as a maid for my daughter.  ¿Is it true that you attacked her?”

Gordo was frightened. This soft-spoken and polite man had a reputation for dealing harshly with any who crossed him, or who needed punishment. Squirming, he thought, “ ¡That fucking bitch ratted on me!” He tried to bluster his way out. “No, Seá±or, the woman is lying.  ¡Lying, I tell you!  ¡On my honor! She got herself drunk and tried to get me to fuck her.” Jittery, he wiped his forehead with his sleeve.

His inquisitor offered him a cup of coffee, and Gordo gratefully accepted. His mouth was uncomfortably dry. Don Pablo sympathized with his difficulties, telling him, “I know how such women can be, Seá±or. Shameless, simply shameless. Of course, I have an infallible way to determine the truth of the matter.” He took a sip of his own coffee. “You say she tried to seduce you.  ¿Did she succeed?”

Gordo’s nervousness grew. Could this man really tell if he lied? Uncertain, he decided to admit some fault. After all, if the bitch got pregnant, they might be able to tell if he was the father. “Yes.” He wiped his forehead again. “I’m sorry now, Seá±or. I admit, I was a little drunk too. I knew I should of told her to fuck off. But I’m just a man. The slut’s a sexy little piece, and I ain’t going to turn down a piece of ass like that. Any real man would of done the same.”

Don Pablo nodded. “I am glad you told the truth, Seá±or. Pansy went to the clinic shortly after, you see, and the doctor tells me she had been with a man. And I believe you when you tell me she had been drinking. One of the other staff saw her stagger in, and she was badly hung over the morning after the incident.” Gordo began to breathe more easily. “Still, she did accuse you. I know women like that can lie with a straight face. Assuming she is lying, I would have to punish her.  ¿Do you think she deserves a severe penalty?”

With a smirk, Gordo told Don Pablo that she deserved anything she got. “Accuzhing an innoshent man can hurt a guy’sh reputation bad. You got to make sure nobody ain’t going to do that.”

“ ¿What do you think would be right, Seá±or?  ¿Should I shame her in public?  ¿Let everyone know what she did?” He paused, considering how to phrase his remarks. “I should tell you, I have not yet decided her guilt. But if she did accuse you falsely…” He let the sentence trail off.

“The woman’sh a… a damn puta. She got one bashtard already, and ever’one knows she getting it off wit’ that coffee guy in town.” He thought about the don’s suggestion. “ ¿Shame her in pu’lic? Ain’t hardly ’nough. Might be a shtart, though. Hey, she got nice titsh… nice tits. Maybe you… you could parade her, like, naked. Or not naked, but… but gushied up like a… a real whore. Put her in shome ou’fit that showsh her off.” He grinned stupidly, pleased with himself. “Then maybe you cut off a… cut off a boob… Hey, wha’sh wrong… wrong with… I feel…  ¿Wha’ you…” He tried to rise, but his legs gave out, and he passed out over the table.

Don Pablo rang the bell for Jaime and told him to give the unconscious man the shot Ibarra had provided. “He promised that the coffee would make our Seá±or Echeverrá­a sleep for ten to fifteen minutes, and that this shot would make him truthful. We will see how well it works.”

Jaime administered the injection. Gordo snored on the table for twenty minutes, and Don Pablo was becoming impatient, when the subject finally stirred. He raised his head and stared blankly. Don Pablo asked him, “ ¿Are you awake, Seá±or?  ¿Do you hear me?”

Gordo replied dazedly, “I’m awake. I h… hear you.”

Smiling with satisfaction, Don Pablo told Gordo to sit back and relax. “I will ask you some questions. You will answer truthfully.  ¿Do you understand?” He turned on a tape recorder.

“I understand.”

“ ¿Did Pansy try to seduce you when you took her back to Los Ocotes?”

Gordo shook his head slightly and stuttered. “N…n… no.”

“ ¿Did you force her?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me in your own words what happened that night.”

“I tried… I tried to get Pansita to fuck wit’… wit’ me, but she wouldn’t. She fought me. I g…g…grabbed her and tied her handsh behind her. Then I… I put her on the ground and sat on her. I poured ru…rum into her mouth and made her swallow it ’til she wash too drunk to fight me. Then I fucked her. She liked it, she told me. Then I took her home.”

“Seá±or,  ¿have you forced other women to have sex with you?”

“Yesh.”

“ ¿How many?  ¿Who were they?”

“I don’ know. Maybe five… No, sheven. There wash Mará­a in… in La Libertad, and Elena Vá¡shquezh in Choluteca, and… and the other Mará­a, in Shan Pedro. Juanita Moronesh in Talanga. Ana Mará­a in… in San Pedro. Doloresh in… in… I don’ ‘member. And… and Pilarshita. Pilarshita Torresh, in… in El Progresho.”

Don Pablo frowned. The man was an animal. He was grateful that Pansy had told him. Something needed to be done. But what? He’d need to consider the punishment carefully. Certainly the man would be punished, but the punishment should forward his research goals. A vague idea suggested itself to him, but he should think about it for a while. No problem; Seá±or Echeverrá­a wouldn’t be going anywhere soon. He turned his attention back to his guest, who waited patiently, and told him, “Seá±or, thank you. You are tired, now, I understand. You need to sleep. I can help you; come with me.” Gordo followed him to a couch, where he was told to lie down. “Lie here, Seá±or. Rest for a while. You will feel good when you wake up, and you will not remember our talk. Already you forget what you told me.” The man obediently lay down on the couch, and soon he slept.

When he woke in half an hour, the effect of the drug had worn off. Don Pablo told him he had passed out. “I was worried about you, Seá±or.  ¿Do you wish to see a doctor?”

Gordo was slightly groggy at first, but other than that he felt very good. “No… no thank you, Seá±or. I don’… don’t need none, I’ll be OK.” He quickly became alert.

“Good. Now, we were discussing Pansy and her accusation of rape.”

“ ¡That damn whore!  ¡She’s a liar!”

“I have had to punish her before, Seá±or, and I know she is not a virgin. I cannot allow this incident to pass without any retribution. Before you passed out, you were giving me your opinion.  ¿What should be a fitting punishment for one who is a sexual wanton, and a liar as well? You seemed to think that a public humiliation might fit the crime.”

A vague image came to Gordo: he saw Pansy forced to parade naked, wearing a sign declaring “I am a whore.” He grinned. “ ¡Yeah!  ¡That’d teach the bitch a lesson!  ¡I’d do more than that, but that’d be great!” In the back of his mind was the hope that after her humiliation she’d accept his advances, rather than risk more punishment.

“I think you may be right, Seá±or.” Don Pablo offered Gordo a cup of coffee. “Since you are directly involved, I will give you the privilege of suggesting what the nature of that humiliation might be. Think carefully–and please remember, the offender will need to live with this afterwards. We must strike a balance between justice and mercy.”

Now completely recovered, Gordo smirked and noted, “The punishment got to be bad enough to stop her or anyone else from doing it again. And besides, she didn’t have no mercy when she lied about me.”

Don Pablo nodded seriously. “Yes, that is correct. Deterrence is important, and justice. Well,  ¿what do you think?”

Gordo scratched his long hair and thought. A slow smile crossed his unshaven face. “ ¿How about you make her walk across the finca naked? That’d show her she couldn’t act like a slut.”

The don shook his head. “No, Seá±or, I cannot approve of that. I am afraid that would reflect more on me than on her. Something like that, perhaps–but I would lose my people’s respect if I did that.”

“Well then,  ¿how about this? You could maybe make her wear a whore’s costume in public–like, maybe a tight dress with a little tiny skirt. And high heels and black net stockings. Or maybe a sexy red nightgown. Something indecent, like she really is. Something that shows her body off.” He licked his thick lips. “Just so everybody gets the idea, make her carry a sign that says ‘I am a whore’.”

This time Don Pablo nodded. “That sounds reasonable.  ¿And what else?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” He gestured vaguely, then brightened. “Maybe cut off her boobs.”

In his armchair, Don Pablo leaned forward and frowned. “But she has a baby.  ¿Don’t you think her child might need those breasts?”

“Yeah, that’s right. Well, maybe take one. The little bastard can still use the other one.” He leaned back and grinned. “If she misbehaves again, then we’ll take the other one.”

Don Pablo smiled wolfishly, his teeth gleaming between thin lips. “I think justice will be done, Seá±or. I will contact you when I am ready to proceed.”

After Gordo left, Don Pablo called Jaime. “Find these women,” he ordered, handing him a list. “At least one or two of them should be in this area. If you succeed, ask if they would be interested in knowing how Gordo Echeverrá­a will be punished. Also, call Doctor Herná¡ndez at the clinic and ask him to contact me; I need to make arrangements.”
 
 
March 12
-- As the eastern sky brightened on Monday morning, Pansy arose to assist with breakfast. The babies were still asleep, and she showered quickly. This morning she felt dizzy and slightly nauseated. Before she finished dressing, she was struck by an attack of diarrhea. Others at the finca had been struck in the same way over the previous weeks, and she realized it was her turn. Coping as best she could, she was out with Marta at her usual time in spite of her problems. Marta noticed her pale face, and remarked, “You look a bit ill, Pansita.”

“I feel terrible,” Pansy replied, and told Marta her symptoms. “I been pretty lucky until now, but I guess the law of averages caught up with me. I hoped I’d escape.”

“Oh, I think you’ll survive. ’Lina had the same thing last week. It’s some sort of bacterial thing. Luckily it’s not serious, but if you let it go, it’ll keep you miserable for a couple of weeks.”

“ ¿If I let it go?  ¿And what if I don’t?”

Marta grinned cheerfully. “That’s the good thing about this particular bug. It’s nasty, but it’s sensitive and delicate. A good dose of antibiotics, and you’ll be back to normal in a couple of days. We got a good supply here on the finca; Seá±ora Arias laid it in after the first few cases. You’ll need to take it for a few days.”

Just then Lilia woke up and began crying for her next meal. Pansy grimaced and told Marta, “I’m being called.”

“I know, I know. I’ll tell you what: you take care of her now, and while you’re busy, I’ll run down some of the miracle cure for you. We’ll knock it out before it’s properly started.”

A thought occurred to Pansy, and she became worried. “Marta,  ¿what about the babies?  ¿Will they catch this?”

“They might–some of the children here have caught it–but don’t worry too much. They’re sick and miserable for a few days, then they recover. And Josecito and Lilita are both basically in good health. If they come down with it, it’ll just be a nuisance–although it’ll be no fun at all.” Lilia’s crying became more insistent, and Pansy apologized and hurried back to take care of the infant.

When she returned ten minutes later, Marta turned from her breakfast preparations and handed her a vial of pink pills, warning her, “Now remember, you got to take one pill at breakfast and one at supper, for two weeks. That’s what Seá±ora Arias says the doctor said. Even if you feel OK, once you start, you got to continue for the entire two weeks.”

Pansy looked at the vial. A label identified the contents, and probably gave directions, but of course it might as well have been in Hindi. She almost cried with frustration, but consoled herself with the thought that she’d be able to read again soon. Surely, having been able to read in the past, she’d pick it up again quickly! She took a pill, then returned to helping Marta.
 
 
March 14
-- In Highland Park, Illinois, Andy Giannetti gazed out his office window at a late winter sleet storm. It’d be hell getting home tonight, he thought. At least a lot of men would be looking for a hot cup of coffee, and that was good for business. He remembered the business trip he’d taken to Honduras a year ago, when Pablo Herrera had wined him and dined him. And then his son, José, had taken him to that island Paradise, complete with an angel. He dug out last year’s appointment book and checked the date. Yes, exactly one year ago he had arrived on Golondrinas. On an impulse he chucked his work in the drawer, picked up his coat, and left. The weather warranted an early departure, he told himself.

In his apartment, he dug out the color prints he had taken on that trip, and the souvenirs he had collected. Among them he noticed a small pile of letters. Puzzled, he checked them. There was no postage on them, and they were addressed to several different states, and one address in Honduras. Then he remembered: he had promised to mail these letters for that girl José Herrera had provided him, and he’d forgotten them completely. He recalled the nights he’d spent with her; she’d been a wonderful little whore! An odd girl, but full of enthusiasm in the sack. Well, he owed her. Better late than never, he thought, as he dug out stamps for the letters. Besides, he thought as he prepared to mail them, it’d be best to dump them. No telling what Marge would make of them.
 
 
March 16
-- At 8 o’clock Pansy put down her washcloth and told Marta, “I think I’d better get ready for Beto. He’s supposed to be here in an hour.”

Smiling, Marta thanked her for her help. “Don’t worry about Josecito. I can handle him easily, especially with Lilita gone. Just take care with Beto, and have a good time.”

Pansy intended to have a good time. She eagerly awaited the moment when she’d be in his strong arms, feeling his lips against hers. The thought of him made her body respond, and she blessed the little white pills that kept her safe. As she thought of pills, she remembered her antibiotics. The symptoms of her malady, whatever it was, were almost entirely gone–they had been knocked down quickly by the antibiotic–but she was under strict orders to take the pills until they were gone. Eleven more days. With resignation she took the antibiotic, then the contraceptive. That done, she returned to the happier chore of making herself attractive for Beto. She still felt some resentment as she carefully added a minimum of makeup. Only ten weeks earlier, Susana had told her she’d be doing this. “I gave you a body that’ll need a man. You’ll get to like it, and you’ll want a man as much as you ever wanted a woman.” And before that, Seá±or Pinkerton had taunted Susana, “You’re built to please a man, to persuade him to give you a child. You’re just a baby machine.” She told herself stubbornly, “ ¿So what? It’s not any different from when I was a man, and wanted a woman. And when I marry, I’ll keep my independence, and my right to a professional career.  ¡I won’t be an obedient little peasant girl!  ¡I’ll do what I want!” An echo came from somewhere–she couldn’t recall who had said it: “Yes, but ‘what you want’ will be to find a husband and to please him in every way. You’ll be some man’s play-pretty.” Some of it had turned out to be true–she couldn’t deny it–but it was a half-truth. She was more than that, and as Beto’s wife she’d be a partner, not just a toy or a servant. She had a head, and it was good for more than holding ears apart. A girl didn’t need to be just a servant and a sex object, in spite of Seá±or Pinkerton’s opinions. How could that man ever have been so wrongheaded?

It was time for final preparations. Lilia had been fed and cleaned. She was sleeping now, and with luck she’d sleep for much of the day. Pansy chose a sleeveless red top with a ruffled neckline. It wasn’t too tight, but it set off her figure nicely. Likewise, the neckline wasn’t indecent, but it wasn’t quite demure either. He’d know she was a woman, and a woman with a figure to be proud of. The mid-length pleated red skirt, which she had embroidered with white roses, was also nicely molded to her hips and waist. She brushed her hair out and left it flowing loosely over her shoulders, held back by a pair of crimson barrettes. A subtle touch of perfume, and she was ready. Beto should be overcome by her sex appeal.

Beto arrived at 9:15. He complimented Pansy extravagantly on her appearance, and she blushed with delight. He insisted on carrying Lilia to the car in her crib, and they left down the rutted lane towards Ojos de Agua.

At the village Beto turned north on a dirt track parallel to the Humuya River. Within half an hour they reached a small whitewashed cottage in a meadow overlooking the river. The spot was idyllic. A grove of enormous guanacaste trees shaded the cottage, from which a path led down to a small sandy beach. Upstream a series of crystalline rapids swirled around sharply etched limestone boulders below a chalk-white cliff. Cactus and agave clung to the dry sunlit crag, and a delicate trailing vine with tiny fuchsia blossoms clambered over the brightly lit rock. Below the rapids was a deep pool of clear water, partly shaded by overarching fig trees; a few dead leaves swirled slowly in a surface eddy. A tiny gem-brilliant green kingfisher darted downstream as they got out of the car, and a flock of small parakeets chattered as they left, upset by their arrival. “Oh, Beto,  ¡this is an exquisite place!” she squealed, delighted. “ ¡I love it!”

Pleased, Beto told her, “My father built this. It’s his, but ’Tonio and I can use it.” They stood to admire the view, then brought their food and drink into the cottage. The three rooms were sparsely furnished, but clean and bright. Pansy carefully set Lilia, still asleep in her crib, in a cool and shady nook under a fig tree, and draped her crib with mosquito netting. Beto noted that biting bugs were few here, “but there’s no reason to give even one mosquito a free meal.” With everything in place, Beto asked, “ ¿Ready to take a dip, corazá³n?”

They spent much of the day swimming and napping. Pansy had brought her latest needlepoint project, and Beto had brought a book. Lilia behaved very well, and Pansy retired into the cottage to feed and change her as required. A little after noon she made lunch for the two of them, making sandwiches and heating soup on an ancient wood stove.

Towards midafternoon Beto crept behind Pansy and hugged her, kissing the nape of her neck and then cupping her full breasts, deliciously conspicuous under the snug top. She began to protest weakly, but her reflex awakened and there was no way she could hide her own desire. Forsaking discretion, she twisted and kissed him passionately, her arms around his firm muscular body and her sensuous red lips against his mouth. “ ¡I want to go to bed with him!” she told herself; “ ¡I will enjoy this body they forced on me!” Repressing a grin, Beto succeeded in stroking her breast even as she pressed against him. Gasping, she closed her eyes, lost in the flood of her need for him. He whispered, “Carita, your loveliness has undone me.  ¡I am yours!” He picked Pansy up, her arms around his neck, and carried her to the bed inside. In a few minutes his trousers were down and her skirt was up as they abandoned themselves to ecstasy.

Beto congratulated himself as they lay together, passion sated for the moment. “She’s the damndest sexiest woman I’ve had,” he thought. “She’s not a beauty, but she’s all woman. I don’t think she even knows how desirable she is. It’s just her nature, as if she’d been designed for the bedroom.”

For several minutes Pansy didn’t think at all, but just lay there in blissful contentment. Their lovemaking had filled a deep longing in her, like a quart of ice water for a man dying of thirst. For the first time as a woman she had accepted her need for sex and enjoyed it fully, with no fears or regrets. Her old “Pansy” memories included sex with–was it Seá±or Ovando?–and his “guests”, and as a whore, but the present reality was overwhelming. Now she realized, she delighted in sex with a man. With Beto, anyway. It was incredible! She rolled over lazily and kissed Beto tenderly; he smiled and stroked her cheek. Pansy fantasized herself as his bride, kissing him at the altar as she remembered her best friend Mariana kissing her beloved Rafael. Mamá¡ Rosa had told her it could be like this, but the reality was past description.

At last the day drew to an end. Beto dropped her off at Los Ocotes. Before she left, he asked if he might see her again in a couple of weeks. “I think you’re a wonderful girl, Pansita, and I’m not sure I can wait that long, but I guess I’ll have to.  ¿What do you say?”

Pansy accepted happily. “I’m not sure I can wait either, Beto.  ¡I liked today so much! But yes, I’ll see you in three weeks.  ¿Same time?”

“Fine. I’ll meet you here at 9 AM. Let’s see…” He consulted a pocket calendar. “That’s April 2nd. So long, and thanks for a wonderful day.” He got into his Celica, waved, and drove off.

Carrying Lilia’s crib, Pansy entered the casa. Marta greeted her cheerily, and asked “ ¡Good! You’re back just in time for supper.  ¿How was your outing?  ¿Did Beto behave?”

“ ¡I had a wonderful time, Marta! Beto was… well,  ¡he was wonderful too!”

Marta gave her friend a slightly worried glance. “Remember, Pansita, be careful. It’s awfully easy to slip, and awfully hard to recover.” Sometime Pansy seemed incredibly naíve, she thought.

“I’m being careful, Marta, but thanks anyway for worrying,” Pansy replied. She had second thoughts later, though. Marta was right. Susana had been careful, too, or so she said. And there were other problem. People would talk. Her reputation needed watching. No, she couldn’t just yield to Beto–or any man–in spite of her own cravings.
 
 
March 21
-- Gordo walked briskly up the walk to the front door of at Las Rosas. Seá±or Arias had been reluctant to give him the morning off until Paco Pérez from Las Rosas had told him that Don Pablo wanted to see him; but then he had been willing enough. It had to be related to the punishment that Seá±or Herrera had promised for that bitch Pansy. His escort knocked, and an elderly woman, stringy and dried up, answered. Paco announced, “Evelina, here’s Seá±or Echeverrá­a, as the don requested.”

She grinned unpleasantly, and Gordo decided he didn’t much like her. “ ¡Good!” she replied. “Don Pablo’s waiting in the library with Pansita. He told me to bring you right in.” They followed her through the house to the library door, where she knocked. From the other side of the door Don Pablo’s voice told her to bring their visitor in.

Gordo wasn’t surprised that Pansy Baca was there with Seá±or Herrera, but at first he didn’t recognize the other two women sitting near her. They were attractive enough, and well dressed. Two large men stood by the door, and Don Pablo presided over the meeting behind a massive mahogany desk. Gordo thought that he looked appropriately judicial, dressed in a formal dark suit with an old-fashioned narrow tie, his sparse gray hair carefully combed back. “ ¡This’ll be a bad day for that damn puta!” he thought. “I wonder what he decided.”

“ ¡Ah, Seá±or!” the don said. “I am glad you are here. I have finished my investigation, and made my decision.” He waved towards the two women sitting by Pansy. “I believe you have met these women, but in case your memory fails you, I will introduce them anyway.” Pointing to the nearer, he told Gordo, “This is Pilarcita Torres, from El Progreso.” Gordo was frozen with shock; now he recognized her. Don Pablo continued: “The other charming young lady is Juanita Morones, from Talanga. Both ladies have told me of their difficulties with you, and I am afraid I believe them.”

Gordo looked around wildly and started to rise as though to flee, but Paco and the others closed on him, and he collapsed back into his chair. He babbled, “ ¡No!  ¡No!  ¡This is a mistake!  ¡Please, no!”

“ ¿Is it? I ask you again, as I asked you before,  ¿did you force Pansy to have sex with you?  ¿And these other women as well?” Gordo rose slightly and started to protest incoherently, his eyes bulging in terror, but Don Pablo cut him off: “Before you answer, let me finish. If you lie to me, I will know. The women have agreed to give their testimony under drugs if you press the issue; but I will have you questioned under drugs as well, and you will tell the truth. The penalty will be severe if you lie; you will lose your manhood entirely. Now you may answer.”

The jaw of the accused was slack; he gripped the sides of his chair. Don Pablo waited for his response. After a moment he broke down and admitted, “Yes. Yes, I… I d…d…did. B…but I… I couldn’t help myself. Those d…damn bitches r…run around showing… showing off their bodies. A m…man can’t stand… can’t stand no temptation like that.”

All three women began to speak at once, angrily denying his charge, but the don motioned them to be silent. “Seá±or, I believe many men do withstand that temptation quite successfully. In Pansy’s case, I know exactly what she was wearing; there were witnesses. She did not seduce you, Seá±or; and I infer that none of the others did. If they had teased you, it would not excuse you. For your offense, I am tempted to have my doctor remove your manhood entirely. Had you not confessed, I would indeed see that you lost everything.” Gordo twitched in his chair. “As it is, I must see that you do not–cannot–repeat your offense. Now, I know there are other women whom you attacked. I could not contact them. Pansy was here, of course, and Seá±oritas Morones and Torres were kind enough to help me. Now, I will give you a choice. First, I might cut off your cojones.” Gordo moaned softly, protesting, but Don Pablo continued inexorably. “My doctors tell me your sexual life might continue, although it would require artificial support, and it might be less– ¿shall I say, vigorous?–than at present. You say you have some difficulty in restraining your natural response to ‘provocative’ women; this action would assist you in attaining some measure of self-control. And your mutilation would be made public knowledge, to deter others from your crime. As I recall, you suggested that Pansy have her breasts amputated. This seems equivalent.”

“ ¡No!  ¡Please, no!” Gordo pleaded.

“Very well: I offer another choice. You can keep your cojones–but your penis will be taken. You will keep your sex drive, as strong as it is now–but there will be no way to satisfy it. Certainly you will not violate any more women.” He smiled cruelly. “Of course, you will be rather frustrated.”

Gordo recoiled in horror. “ ¡No!  ¡I b…beg… I beg you, no!  ¡Tha… that’s horrible!”

“The third choice is to allow me to… well, let me say, I will curse you. The curse will leave you physically whole, but your sex drive will be muted. In all likelihood you will very soon find yourself impotent. Your anatomy will be intact, as I say, but it will no longer function as it does now, if at all. And there will be other effects. However, there are two advantages to this choice. First, you will not be physically frustrated, as your sexual desire will wane along with your ability. Second, no one will know of your inability. Except your wife, of course, if you ever marry; and I fear she will notice, whichever choice you make. Now, Seá±or, it is time to choose.”

Almost in tears, Gordo wailed, “ ¡I can’t ch…choose none of th…them! They all… they all…” He couldn’t finish.

The don nodded to Pansy, and she continued: “We think all the choices are good. If you don’t pick one, that’s OK. Then you lose everything. There won’t be nothing of your manhood left.”

Pilarcita Torres, a dark-skinned sharp-featured woman with an acne-scarred face, chimed in, “Don Pablo told us we could help with cutting off whatever you pick–or if you don’t choose, we can cut off everything.  ¡I dreamed of that!”

With no warning Gordo rose and tried to run, but Paco caught one arm. Gordo swung wildly at him, but the other two men quickly seized his arms. He struggled, but he was a slightly built man and they held him easily. Paco went to a cabinet, took out shackles, and with some difficulty managed to attach them to Gordo’s ankles while he attempted to kick wildly, screaming epithets as he fought. His wrists were bound behind him, and wrists and ankles were secured to the heavy chair in which he’d been sitting.

Don Pablo waited until Gordo stopped his futile attempts to free himself and sat exhausted. “ ¿Do you refuse to choose, then?” he asked with a faint smile. “Very well, then, I…”

The wretched prisoner interrupted. He spoke hoarsely and almost incoherently, weeping and hiccuping, but he made his choice: “ ¡N…no, wait! I…I…  ¡No!  ¡P…please! I ch…choose… I choose the third… the third one. The curse.”

“Very well. Perhaps you will be fortunate, and the curse will fail. If so, be warned: any suspicion of sexual misbehavior on your part will result in the traditional penalty.” Don Pablo nodded to Paco, who took a damp cloth and held it over Gordo’s face. A sickly sweet odor arose from the cloth; Gordo’s renewed struggling subsided, and the three attendants carried him away. Juanita Morones was clearly disappointed that Gordo had escaped so easily, but as she was preparing to leave, Don Pablo motioned her to wait. “ ¿Do you think he escaped with a lenient punishment?”

Seá±orita Morones replied, “Yes. You should’ve cut his balls off. He deserves it.”

Their host leaned back in his armchair and gave her a diabolic smile. “Seá±orita, I told Seá±or Echeverrá­a the truth–but not the whole truth. His manhood will be removed as efficiently as if by a knife.”

Pilarcita Torres complained, “Yes, you told him that. But it ain’t enough.”

“I agree. However, the, umm… the curse has another interesting effect. It will not just remove his masculine ability. It will replace some of his masculine characteristics with more feminine attributes.”

Juanita Morones shook her head. “I don’t understand, Seá±or.  ¿Why not just cut off his balls?”

In exasperation the don spoke more plainly. “Seá±orita, his balls are about become traitors to him. They will now produce female hormone. That is what changed your own body from that of a girl to that of a woman. It will do the same for Gordo; he will develop the figure of a woman.”

Pansy nodded, scowling. Gordo’s punishment confirmed her belief that something like that, but more thoroughgoing, had been done to Jack. Susana hadn’t changed him, Don Pablo had. And they could probably twist his mind, too. It made more sense than anything else. She had mixed feelings about Gordo’s fate. He deserved it, but his punishment aroused bad memories. “I see.  ¿And how long will it take him to grow breasts?”

Leaning forward, Don Pablo told them, “It will not be immediate, the curse is slow. Gordo will lose his male response soon–within a week or two. Breasts will begin to develop within weeks; in six months they will be apparent to Gordo, but as long as he remains clothed, no one else will see them. In a year, he will need to bind his breasts to keep them hidden. And by then, his hips and waist will be a problem.” The don paused and grinned evilly. “If he still succeeds in hiding his problem, he will find it more difficult after that, as an additional penalty will take effect when fifteen months have passed. His breasts will swell further and begin to produce milk.  ¿You are all mothers, I think?” All three women nodded. “Then you may understand the problem he will face. His milk will flow for several months, and during that time concealment of his predicament will not be practical. The only way he can avoid this fate is surgery. If his balls are cut off, the process will be stopped. Seá±orita Juanita,  ¿what do you think now?  ¿Do you still want to cut them off?”

She laughed, delighted by Gordo’s fate. “No, Seá±or. I only want to see Gordita with big tits.” Pilarcita Torres agreed, and added, “Now if you could get him knocked up, that’d finish the job.”

Don Pablo smiled. “I doubt Gordo would make a good mother, Seá±orita. I will arrange that you see Gordita, as you say. Perhaps you can give him his first bra. He will need it.” Then he dismissed them, thanking them for their aid.

On the way back to Los Ocotes, Pansy thought about Gordo’s punishment, and how Susana had turned to her father for assistance. She decided that Don Pablo had probably been the source of her own punishment as well. He was the one who had somehow trapped Seá±or Cualquiera in a woman’s body–her body–or maybe they worked together on it? But she remembered clearly how Seá±ora Arias had transformed her body, with a wave of the hand, and then her mind. It didn’t matter much, it was still brujerá­a, whether by father or daughter, and a terrible crime. But then a memory crept back: Seá±or Cualquiera’s rape of his maid, Mará­a. He had been no better than Gordo. She tried to rationalize his behavior, to excuse it, but from her new perspective she knew his actions were inexcusable. He hadn’t deserved to keep his balls either. She thrust him from her mind.
 
 
March 27
-- Tuesday had come again, and Pansy would attend her next literacy class that evening. Her early optimism had evaporated. She had attended four classes, and she seemed only slightly closer to her goal. The letters of the alphabet still seemed alien to her, although she was slowly learning them. Had those strange shapes really meant something to her as recently as a year ago? After the second class, she’d been given a set of cards with the letters printed in bold black characters, and she’d put them up on the walls around her room. For some reason, even with the letters clearly before her eyes every day, they wouldn’t stick in her memory. The other students were passing beyond her already. Would she ever read again? Could she? Josecito toddled up to her and pulled on her skirt insistently, babbling, “Mamama.” She smiled down at him, picked him up, and kissed him. She was a soft touch for her son, and he knew it; he grinned at her happily, and she put him back down, telling him, “I have to work, niá±ito.” Lilia was sleeping; she had just been fed and changed. She picked up her cards again, shuffled them, and tried to identify them, recalling the English nursery jingle that was a persisting legacy of Seá±or Cualquiera. She ran through it, identifying about two thirds of the letters. Then she tried to print the letters in order. Her effort wasn’t completely successful, as she reversed the shapes of the N and S, and confused the U and V, but it was the best she had done yet. Abandoning the letters, she picked up another card on which she had printed in block letters, “PANSI AN VACA”. It didn’t look right, so she tried again, but this time she replaced the N’s with M’s and reversed the S. Frustrated, she nearly gave up and returned to the mending Susana had given her, but then she thought that at least the capital letters were beginning to look familiar to her. It wasn’t at all as though her old memory were returning. The alphabet was still brand new, but two weeks of memorization was having some effect. Before she could try again, Susana called: “ ¿Pansita?  ¡Pansita!  ¿Where are you?”

Pansy sighed; sometimes Seá±ora Arias didn’t seem to realize that taking care of Josecito, not to mention Lilia, took virtually all her time. Left for a moment, the child could get into more mischief than she had imagined possible. She called back, “I’m here, Seá±ora, in the bedroom with the babies. I’ll be right out.” Holding Josecito in one arm, she picked up Lilia in her crib and took them out to the living room, where Susana had just come in from the La Libertad store. “ ¿What can I do for you, Seá±ora?” she asked, putting the children down.

“I’m sorry to take you away from the babies, Pansita, but it looks like we’re going to get some more rain. Take in the laundry from the line,  ¿will you? I think it’s dry.”

Pansy glanced out the window, where dark clouds had gathered. Yes, her mistress was right: the laundry needed to be taken in. “Yes, Seá±ora. I’ll put the children back.” She returned to her room, where Josecito went into his playpen. Lilia was still sleeping, and she’d be quiet for some time yet; her son fussed a little, but accepted his temporary imprisonment. As Pansy hurried out to take the clothes in, her mind turned to Beto. She had promised to see him again in a couple of days, but she was having second thoughts. Was he just using her? And perhaps more important, what was her own motive for seeing him? She knew she badly wanted sex, but was that all she could hope for? If so, it wasn’t enough. She had to marry, not just act as a man’s sex toy, a convenient release for his libido. Maybe a man could get away with it; she couldn’t, even if she avoided pregnancy. It just wasn’t fair! She heard the ghost of Seá±or Pinkerton, whispering “ ¿Fair?  ¡Life’s not fair! You’re a woman, and you’ll just have to deal with it.” She cursed him roundly, then tried to decide how, indeed, she should deal with it. A few drops of rain fell; she grabbed the last few shirts off the line and hurried back in. She still needed to do the ironing, and then it’d be time to serve supper.

After the main meal, Susana asked Pansy, “ ¿Aren’t you going to La Libertad this evening?”

Pansy fed Josecito another mouthful and replied, “Yes, of course, Seá±ora. I have some time yet, I think.  ¿Why do you ask?  ¿Is there a problem with getting a driver?”

“No, everything’s set. Hector’s taking you tonight. I just wondered how the class is going.”

Unhappy and resentful, Pansy almost blurted out, “ ¿What do you care? You wanted to make me into an illiterate campesina, and you succeeded,” but she held her tongue. Susana could make her life miserable, or she could even fire her, and what would she do then? No, she had no choice but to swallow her anger, and she replied, “I suppose it is, Seá±ora, but it’s very slow. It’s difficult.” She paused, and added, “I will learn, though.”

“Don’t be too discouraged,” Susana told her. “You’ve forgotten how hard it was the first time. It took years for reading to become easy, and Ibarra says it’ll be just like you were learning it for the first time. Maybe harder; children seem to have a talent for that sort of thing.” She saw Pansy’s distress and repeated, “Don’t let it discourage you. It’ll come eventually.” She added to herself, “…Maybe.” Don Pablo had told her that Ibarra’s treatment had probably left her impaired permanently. “Severe dyslexia,” had been Ibaá±ez’s diagnosis. “I don’t think she’ll ever be able to read with any facility.”

“Yes, Seá±ora. I hope so.”

They left for her class at 6:10. Pansy was nervous, alone with a strange man, and she felt herself instinctively trying to draw away from Hector. She tried to tell herself that he wouldn’t harm her, but her experience with Gordo had underlined her vulnerability, and she couldn’t help herself. She felt weak and helpless. Seá±ora Arias told her that she should feel this way–that men weren’t safe–but she didn’t enjoy feeling weak and helpless. Seá±or Cualquiera had never had to worry about being alone; why should she have to? It wasn’t fair! She’d never feel safe again, alone with a strange man.

Hector was surprised to discover that she was taking a literacy course, but he took it in stride. “I thought you was real educated, like. The way you talk, and your English accent, and all that. But there ain’t nothing wrong with you not having no school, you know. Lots of women ain’t got no schooling.  ¿But why you think you need it?  ¿Ain’t you gonna get married, have a bunch of kids? I ain’t trying to be nosy, you know, I’m just curious.”

How could she answer? “Seá±or, I don’t want to be a maid forever. I’m not sure what else I can do– ¿maybe teach? But even if I can’t do nothing else, I can find out lots of things I’d never know otherwise.” She was afraid to ask whether he could read; probably he could, but many campesinos couldn’t. “I’d like to read stories to my children, for example. And read the newspaper, to see what’s happening.”

“OK, Seá±orita. Like I say, it’s fine by me, but I just wondered.” A few kilometers farther, just before they entered La Libertad, he told her, “You know, Seá±orita, you’re a good woman and a fantastic looker. Some of the men say you’re seeing Beto Sáºlivan real serious.  ¿Are you?”

She had to giggle. Subtlety wasn’t Hector’s strong point. He was a good man, though, even if he was blunt. “Well, yes and no. I’m seeing him, yes, but whether it’s serious, I’m not sure.”

Hector looked a little embarrassed, but he persisted. “If you’re real serious, you’re making a mistake. He ain’t never going to marry you. And if you’re not real serious, I’d like to take you out myself some time.” He glanced down for a moment, then looked her in the eye. “I might as well tell you: I do plan to marry you.”

It was her turn to be a little embarrassed. “Hector, I might do that–that is, go out with you.” The idea actually attracted her. Hector was a decent man, if dark-skinned and uneducated. And even with the scarred face and missing teeth he was handsome. He definitely wasn’t what she had had in mind for husband material, but if he wanted to date her, seeing him might be fun. Then she reconsidered; she needed to catch a husband who’d help her escape from mere campesina status, and dating Hector might hurt her chances with Beto. “Not right now, though,” she told him. “First I want to stay with Beto for a little bit. I’ll see what happens with him.” She didn’t comment on his long-range plan.

“Oh, he’s just fooling around, Seá±orita. No offense intended, but you should know about him. He’s not really bad, but he ain’t got no… well, he’s… he’s like I said, he fools around with girls.” He grinned. “I’ll wait. Like I said, he ain’t going to marry you, and after he throws you away, I’ll pick you back up.”

She shook her head. Hector would never do as a husband! “Someone else told me that too–about Beto, I mean. Maybe you’re right, and I should drop him, but I don’t want to do that quite yet. We’ll see. And thanks for the warning.” They had reached the church, and she got out. It was almost time for class. “ ¿I’ll see you at 8 o’clock, then?”

“On the dot, Seá±orita.”

She left him and entered the church. Maybe he was right. “But if he is,  ¿then who can I marry?” she thought. “I need someone who’s got something. Someone who has a little education. And someone who’s good-looking, of course.”

The evening was frustrating. A new teacher, a young woman named Mará­a Pilar Hinojosa de Marcos, had taken the class. Pansy was sure she knew the woman from somewhere, recognizing both the name and her oval face framed by long dark-brown hair, but she couldn’t remember where. At first it bothered her, but she quickly forgot that lesser frustration in the greater one of her difficulty in learning. Most of the other students were already ahead of her, and were sounding out words, if only haltingly. At the end of the class Seá±ora Marcos was sympathetic. “Some people are slower than others, Pansita. It’ll come, don’t worry. I know you’ve been working hard, and I see progress. And when it finally comes, it’ll all be worth it.”

Pansy was downcast, but she was determined to succeed. “I know, Seá±ora. I will read.  ¡But it’s so much harder than I thought it’d be!”

“ ¿Did you really think it’d be easy?”

“No, but… Seá±ora, a year ago I could read. I had a head injury…”–not a lie, she thought–”and I lost my reading. A doctor told me I’d need to use a different part of my brain, and that it might be harder than the first time, but I didn’t believe him. He was right. But it’s frustrating.”

“ ¿You could read?  ¡That’s interesting! I didn’t know it was possible to forget.”

“I didn’t ‘forget’, Seá±ora. It was an injury.”

“I’m sorry, Pansy. I understand the frustration. But I’d think it’d be easier to learn, the second time around.”

“That’s what I thought too. It isn’t. Seá±ora, you write easy, with no problem,  ¿true? It’s automatic, without thinking.”

A little puzzled, the teacher frowned slightly. “Yes, of course. But I didn’t always write that way. I had to learn first. But you knew that;  ¿what’s your point?”

“So if your right hand was injured and you needed to write with your left hand,  ¿would it still be easy and automatic?  ¿Even though you know how to do it? It’s not exactly like my problem, but it’s as close as I can describe it.”

“I see, sort of. Yes, I understand.”

At that moment Hector put his head into the hall. “Pardon me, it’s time to go, Pansita. We can’t get back too late.”

Pansy flushed. She had forgotten Hector was waiting. “OK, Seá±or, I’m sorry. With your permission, Seá±ora, I have to leave now.”

“Very well, Pansita. I’ll see you Thursday.”

Pansy left with Hector, and they were back at Los Ocotes within forty minutes.

Part 21, What Went Around, Comes Around.
Pansy discovers that a who attempts to snare a wealthy husband is likely to come to grief.
 
 
April 3
-- After breakfast, Pansy hurried back to her room. Beto was picking her up at 9:00, and she wanted to make herself as attractive as possible. She brushed her hair out and left it long, held by a scarlet ribbon and a pair of matching barrettes and flowing over her shoulders. She chose a demure high-necked sleeveless dress in a pale shade of pink, a pair of pendant earrings in the same shade, and low comfortable shoes. Only a hint of makeup went on her face, artfully applied. She peered into the mirror, then smiled, satisfied. When she was still a child, she had watched her sister Petunia–or was it Laurie?–two years older, making up her face in secret. She thought then that Laurie was silly, and threatened to tattle on her. Her sister had told her, “If you do, I won’t let you play with my old dolls. You’ll see who’s silly in a couple of years, niá±a; you’ll want lipstick too.” Then she shook her head, confused. Laurie couldn’t have said that, could she? After all, she had been the sister of… Jack Pinkerton? Yes, Petunia and Daisy had been–were–her sisters, and Tom, her brother. It didn’t matter now, she told herself. Forget Jack Pinkerton; he was dead.

Beto arrived at 9:10, dressed casually in slacks and a white open-necked shirt, his hair neatly combed. He greeted Pansy cheerfully, and ushered her to the familiar red Celica. On the way towards Ojos de Agua, he told Pansy, “If you approve, carita, I thought we might drive to a nice spot I know in the mountains, where we can picnic. Then later in the afternoon we’ll return to my house, and you can clean up there. We’ll listen to some records and then have supper. I’ll leave you at the church for your meeting.”

She agreed–she’d’ve agreed to almost anything–and Beto drove back through La Libertad, then southward out of the valley to high pineland. A few kilometers from town he left the gravel road for a dirt track, which ended at a grassy clearing. A waterfall dropped 10 meters from a ledge into a clear pool next to the clearing.

Their rendezvous passed much like the previous one. Pansy’s decision to refuse sex evaporated in the face of Beto’s silver tongue and her own body’s insistence. She managed to refuse his suggestion that she quit her job at Los Ocotes and move in with him as his housekeeper. He didn’t add that she’d be his mistress, but Seá±or Ovando had made the same offer; she wasn’t about to be as foolish a second time. She hinted at marriage, and he didn’t refuse, but he very pointedly didn’t agree either. Somehow he left the impression that it might be possible in the indefinite future. Beto didn’t set a date for another tryst, but it was understood that he’d get in touch with her.

Pansy’s literacy class that evening was slightly more encouraging. She succeeded in mastering a reading drill for simple one-syllable words. Even though Pansy was the slowest student, Seá±ora Marcos was patient, complimenting her on the hard work she’d done.
 
 
April 16
-- Celia Perry ignored most of the mail she had taken from her mailbox. She read a postcard for the third time, her temper held under tight control. The card had an American stamp and was postmarked Highland Park, Illinois. She almost hadn’t gotten it. Fortunately, the new tenants of her old house knew her and had forwarded the card. Highland Park: where in hell was that? She dug out an encyclopedia and turned to Illinois. Highland Park was a Chicago suburb. Was George hiding near Chicago? But the letter put him in Honduras, and the letter itself had a printed letterhead: Palmas Hotel, San Pedro Sula, Honduras. She turned to the Honduras article and found a map. There wasn’t much detail on it, but the city was there, not far from the seaport of Tela, where that bastard (as she habitually thought of him) had faked his drowning. George was behind this note, therefore he was alive. Funny, though, how it was worded, almost like a child’s note. George had always been one to show off his vocabulary, and he’d never use a short word when a long one was available. But the handwriting was clearly his. Why? Why had he written this? She was surprised at his audacity, too. George had always been cautious, and to wave a red flag like this, telling her where to look for him, was uncharacteristic. The directions were specific. Comayagua wasn’t on the map, but then, few towns were shown.

Her husband returned from work at 5:40. Roland Perry, a beefy red-faced man with short dark brown hair and a beer belly, was an accountant for Sears. His salary was enough to pursue the fugitive George, if only a lead could be found. And now she had the lead. She greeted Rollie with glee: “Dear, I have good news! That bastard George Deon sent me a card taunting me! He must think he’s safe after three years. Or maybe he just went crazy. I don’t know and I don’t care. Here, look at this.” She showed him the card.

“I don’t understand,” he responded after reading it. “Why would he send this? What’s he got to gain? And do you know it’s really him that sent it? It’s not signed.”

“Yes, it’s him! The details in it are right. No one else could’ve put them in. Why? I don’t have a clue. My guess is, he wants to gloat. Rollie, you promised to help me find the bastard. I gave up when the trail ended, when he was reported drowned. But now I have proof–he’s still alive! Remember, there’s a child-support judgment against. If we find him, it might pay off.”

Rollie shook his head. “No. I checked when his death was reported. He left damn few assets here, and they were all scattered then. He brought quite a bit with him, but whatever he has in Honduras, it wouldn’t be recoverable. And I doubt child support is grounds for extradition. No, it wouldn’t pay.”

“Damn it, Rollie! You said you’d help! I’ll find that shithead if it’s the last thing I do!”

He laughed. “Calm down, dear. I’ll help, all right. I just said it wouldn’t pay. Once we find him, we’ll take it from there. Now, where’s this Sigua-whatever place? Or Comayagua?”

“Damned if I know. In Honduras, I guess. What do you think we should do now?”

“Find out where it is. Then we can do one of several things. We could go down and look for him ourselves. I think that’s a lousy idea. You only have a bit of high-school Spanish, we don’t know anyone there, and he’d probably find out we were there long before we found him. Or we could hire a private eye. Expensive as hell, but it’s the most likely to succeed. How much are you willing to spend?”

Celia turned away angrily. “And you tell me that after we spend so much to find him, I still won’t be able to do a damn thing! The man’s a criminal, Rollie! There must be a way we could get the government to chase him down. Did he pay his taxes? Or maybe there’s someone else who’d want to find him, and they can hunt for him.”

Her husband sat down and lit a cigarette. “That’s an idea. There might be someone. Family, maybe? Nah–if they found him they wouldn’t tell us. IRS might be possible–I doubt he paid taxes after he skipped. I don’t think so, though. I think they’d look at the bottom line. It wouldn’t be worth their while either. Tell you what: we can do two things. First, maybe we can send a letter to this place. It’ll probably never get there, but who knows? It’s cheap enough. Second, I have a friend in Washington who owes me some favors. I’ll ask him to stop in at the Honduran embassy to see if he can find out anything about Siguatepeque or Comayagua.”

Celia paced the room. A clatter came from the kitchen. “Oh, that’s Jimmy again,” she remarked with exasperation. He’s getting into everything lately. I should’ve known this quiet couldn’t continue. Hold it a minute.” She headed for the kitchen, where a chubby toddler was pulling pots and pans from the storage closets. “Jimmy! No! You have your own toys in your room; play with them. Mommy needs these where they are.”

“No! Want dese!” the child retorted. She lifted him and he began crying, “Want dese! Want dese!”

Celia gave his bottom a whack. Jimmy looked startled, then screamed in outrage. “No! Want!” She took him to his room and told him, “You stay here until you can behave yourself, or I’ll spank you hard!” He protested loudly, but she set him in a playpen amid a pile of toys. “I’ll let you out when you learn to behave,” she told him. He cried loudly, but she left him and shut the door. His wails were muffled to a tolerable level. She returned to the living room, where her husband sat on the couch with a cold beer.

She sat on a chair facing him. “Rollie, I don’t trust him. He’s devious. For some reason he wants me to come looking for him, and it’s not just for spite. I know that man.”

Rollie looked disgusted. “Darling, it’s you that wants to chase him all over creation. Are you changing your mind? It’d save quite a bit of trouble and money.”

“No, I didn’t change my mind. I just think there’s something funny going on. Maybe he’s nowhere near these places. I can’t see him making it easy for me to find him.”

“So? It’d be kind of stupid for him to give us a false clue like that. Even a false clue lets us know he’s alive, after all that effort to be declared dead. And if it’s a false clue, and he isn’t just doing it out of spite, then what’s he get out of it?”

“I don’t know, dammit! That’s the problem. I’ll think about it a while. In the meantime, supper should be ready in ten minutes or so.” She left her husband reading the paper and returned to the kitchen to finish preparing supper. As she stood over the stove she thought about the letter. Why in hell would he send it? It wasn’t anything she’d’ve expected of him. Then she thought about him, lolling by the side of some tropical beach, lazing in a hammock with a cold drink while she struggled to raise his child, and deciding on a whim to stir her pot. Her fury was aroused anew. “He’ll pay,” she told herself. “He’ll pay, one way or another. I’ll see him in hell!”
 
 
April 28
-- Dawn was breaking when Pansy awoke. She silently pushed away her sheet and, careful not to wake the babies, made her way to the bathroom. She felt queasy. For the last couple of days, she had had an attack of nausea in the morning, but it had passed each time, and she had assumed it was a minor illness. This morning she felt worse, and as she reached the washbasin she threw up into it. “ ¿What is wrong with me?” she thought. “I’ve felt pretty good ever since I got rid of that bug, whatever it was, back in March. Those antibiotics worked just fine. I ain’t had no problems since then. Besides, this feels different.” She tried to think what sort of bug might have hit her, and when she had ever felt quite like this. “It’s almost like when I was pregnant,” she thought. Suddenly her mouth dropped and her stomach turned over. “ ¡No!” she protested to herself. “ ¡It can’t be that!  ¡I been on the pill! And anyway, I had my period in… Let’s see, it was in…” She had trouble remembering. It had been a while, and keeping track of time was difficult. The days were pretty much alike. Thinking back, she recalled having cramps back at the beginning of March. Yes, she recall thinking it was just before Gordo had raped her; Doctor CantẠhad asked her, when she had gone for a pregnancy test. But that would mean she should’ve had another period before the end of March. Her heart sinking, she checked her little packet of pills. Yes, she had begun this package twelve days ago. Yes, she had missed her period for sure. She tried to think: surely she had missed it before! But she couldn’t recall missing it. Not since they’d begun again after she had Lilia.

She dressed in a daze. Her nausea passed quickly–“Just like when I was pregnant with Lilita,” she thought–and she left to help Marta prepare breakfast. Marta and Susana noticed her preoccupation, but thought nothing of it.
 
 
May 7
-- Susana rose early on Monday morning. At eighteen weeks, her pregnancy was plain to see for all. She was grateful that this time, Pansy would be available to help with the baby. Felipe was delighted, of course–even more so after learning that she was giving him a son. She wanted to walk alone around the finca in the cool predawn air while she still could, aware that soon her mobility would be curtailed. As she passed Pansy’s room, she heard her maid stirring. There was nothing unusual about that; Pansy always got up early to care for the babies and to help Marta. This morning, though, she seemed to be in trouble. She was vomiting into her toilet. At first Susana worried that she had come down with some stomach disorder, but then she thought, “Pansita’s been going out with that bastard Beto Sáºlivan. I’ll bet he succeeded. I’d better see about getting her tested.” She said nothing to Pansy, but went out for her walk. Pansy had recovered by breakfast, and Susana nodded to herself. Later that day Susana called her father and passed on her suspicions. Don Pablo agreed, and told her he’d arrange everything.
 
 
May 9
-- When Isabel CantẠentered the Clinic on Wednesday morning at 8:00, it was already steamy, and she was grateful for the air conditioning. There was a note taped to her office door when she arrived.

Doctor Cantáº:
Please, when you have a moment, stop by my office. I’d like to discuss Pansy Baca and her problem with you. Thank you.

The note was signed by Doctor Herná¡ndez. Consulting her calendar, she found she had no patients until 9:30, so she telephoned Rafael Herná¡ndez immediately and suggested they meet right away, if convenient. “The rest of my day’s pretty well filled, Rafael, but I’m free for the next hour or so.”

“ ¿In twenty minutes?” he responded.

“Fine. I’ll see you then.”

She was in his office, one floor up, at the appointed time. He invited her to share a cup of coffee with him, and she accepted. Then he asked, “ ¿What do you know about Pansy Baca?”

Annoyed, she replied, “ ¿What do I know? I know she was once a man, of course. A norteamericano, she told me. I know she’s been a guinea pig for you and Doctor Weiss. And for a couple of other doctors over at the Institute for the Mind, who played games with her brain. We discussed all that some time ago.  ¿What else should I know?”

He nodded. “Only a little more. She’s been going out with a local man, and Don Pablo thinks he got her pregnant.”

“If so, it’s no surprise. From what I’ve been able to find out, I think Don Pablo and his doctors–including you, Doctor–are at least partly responsible. I think Weiss in particular wanted to test his work. I don’t approve of your project.”

Her host nodded again, unperturbed by her disapproval. “I understand. And you know why she’s our guinea pig.” She nodded. “Anyway, it looks as if she’s pregnant. The don wants you to test her. He thinks she might’ve been seduced by her boyfriend. But Pansy’s hardly an innocent victim; she’s been having an affair in the hope that he’ll marry her. She slipped up, as happens. Still, you’re right. We pushed her this way. Don Pablo agrees, so he’s arranging to marry her off to a local campesino. He’s a good man, he’d like to marry her, and he’ll make her a good husband. And after all our work on her psyche, we think she’d make him a good wife.”

“ ¿Is that all?”

Herná¡ndez lit a cigarette and puffed. “Not quite.  ¿You know we implanted false memories to help Pansy adapt to her new existence?” Suspiciously Isabel told him she knew. “Good. If she’s persuaded that those memories are real, that Pansy Baca is a real campesina–as real as the norteamericano she recalls, Jack Pinkerton–then the psychologists think it’ll help her adapt better to her new life.”

“ ¿How are they going to do that?”

“They aren’t going to do that. That is, they aren’t doing anything more to her, neither mind nor body. Don Pablo promised the norteamericano that his punishment would end when he was freed, and that there’d be no more changes imposed. He’s holding to that agreement, even though Pansy has no recollection of it.”

Isabel CantẠwas silent for a minute. She sipped her coffee, then asked, “ ¿So?  ¿What do you want from me?”

“One thing only: that you shouldn’t tell Pansy what happened to her. She has no way of knowing what really happened to Seá±or Pinkerton, and lacking that information, we think it likely that, eventually, she’ll take her status as a campesina at face value. For her, now, that would be the healthiest outcome.”

Chuckling cynically, Doctor CantẠremarked, “Yes, I understand, it’s all for her own good. They’d never consider messing around with her mind for any other reason.”

It was Doctor Herná¡ndez’s turn to become annoyed. “I know your opinion, Doctor: you think that this whole project should never have been started in the first place. That Seá±or Pinkerton should never have been punished this way. That wasn’t possible. Pablo Herrera was going to have his head, one way or another. Or other parts of his anatomy.”

She nodded. “I understand that. And as a matter of fact, I can almost approve of what he did in spite of myself. Almost. Your Seá±or Pinkerton was a disaster. But the project’s unethical, Rafael. I know it, you know it. Maybe Doctor Weiss doesn’t know it; from what little I’ve seen of him, he doesn’t seem sensitive to that issue. I haven’t met your psychologists, but I doubt they’re much different from Weiss. Nothing’s been done to Pansy ‘for her own good’. It’s been punishment on the one hand, and an opportunity to experiment on a handy subject on the other. To hell with Hippocrates and his oath.” She raised an eyebrow. “ ¿Do you disagree?”

Herná¡ndez looked uncomfortable. “Well, maybe what you say has some truth. Certainly it’s true for the original project, although I think the alternative penalties that might’ve been inflicted were worse.  ¿But this final action? I think it’s defensible.”

“Not very, Rafael. It’s evil.” She sighed and looked away, shaking her head. “Your project isn’t reformation at all, it’s psychic murder. Your purpose–your explicit purpose–has been to wipe away everything that made up Seá±or Pinkerton. If that isn’t murder, I don’t know what is. Poor Pansy. I’m amazed she’s retained any sanity at all.” Then, looking straight at Herná¡ndez, she demanded, “Tell me again:  ¿why shouldn’t I inform Pansy about this latest game?”

“Because this latest game, as you put it, really is designed to help her fit into her new life. Isabel, the background of Seá±orSeá±or Pinkerton wasn’t at all helpful for a Honduran campesina. If that background was all she had to draw on, the psychologists think she’d never fully adjust. Our tinkering with her head may be her salvation.” He took another drag on his cigarette. “Without our intervention, it’s quite possible that Pansy might end as dead as Seá±or Pinkerton.”

She snorted, a surprisingly unladylike sound from the refined doctor. “I think your psychologists underestimate the resiliency of the human spirit. Pansy’s been dealing with her new situation for some time now, with some success.  ¿And now they’re worried about her adjustment? I’m skeptical.”

“You speak outside of your specialty, and without full knowledge. Pansy hasn’t been as healthy as you think; her resiliency wasn’t quite adequate to the task. She’s been hit at least twice by severe depression–life-threatening depression. I grant you, in her situation there’s a good reason for it. But there’s no guarantee that it won’t recur, and they’re trying to head it off.” He paused, then continued in a persuasive tone. “If she can draw on her girlhood memories, her memories of growing up as a campesina, they think she’ll do better. Isabel, she is a campesina now, whatever Seá±or Pinkerton may have been. And she’s free to rise above it now, subject only to her internal limitations. Pablo Herrera and Susana Arias won’t prevent it.”

“She is not a campesina. The very fact that she hasn’t ‘adjusted’, as you put it–and will not ‘adjust’, as you seem to fear, is evidence of that inconvenient fact. But I admit, there seems to be little chance that she’ll recover anything of her former status.” She sighed again. “Very well, Rafael. Bring her in tomorrow. And tell your shrinks I’ll play the game. But otherwise I’ll help her as much as I can.” He agreed, and the meeting ended.
 
 
May 11
-- Susana drove her new Camry behind the former manor house that held the clinic. Felipe had insisted that she get a new car, and she had finally agreed; the old one was showing its age. She and Pansy got out, and Pansy followed her mistress to the reception desk. When Susana had found Pansy throwing up before breakfast again, she confronted her maid with her suspicion. Pansy had broken down and admitted bedding Beto Sáºlivan, and Susana told her that she had to take a pregnancy test. “Pansita, I warned you,” she told her maid. “The pill isn’t infallible. Josecito is evidence enough of that.” Pansy hadn’t argued. She reacted to this crisis as to others, by a withdrawal into passivity.

At the desk Susana asked, “Seá±ora,  ¿is Doctor CantẠin?”

“ ¿Do you have an appointment, Seá±ora?”

Susana frowned in mild annoyance, then told herself that the woman was just doing her job. “Yes, we do. Please tell the doctor that Susana Arias is here with Pansy Baca.”

“Very well. Just a moment.” After turning to a small switchboard and ringing up the doctor, she said, “She’ll see you now, in Room 225. Go up the stairs, and it’s the third door on the right.”

“Thank you.” Susana headed up the stairs with Pansy in tow. At Room 225, Susana knocked.

Isabel CantẠresponded, “Come in, please.”

Entering, Susana began to speak: “Doctor, I think you know Pansy Baca. She…”

Doctor CantẠinterrupted her. “Seá±ora Arias, excuse me, but I must see Pansy alone. Yes, I know her. I’ve been her gynecologist for… I guess it’s a year now, and as her doctor I must insist that we speak privately.” She smiled and added confidently, “I’m sure you understand; you’d want the same thing.”

Susana began to protest, but changed her mind. “Yes, I suppose you’re right, Doctor. Pansy, I’m going shopping. I’ll be back in… oh,  ¿say an hour?”

The doctor nodded, and Pansy responded with a dull voice, “Yes, Seá±ora.”

After Susana left, Isabel CantẠasked Pansy to sit. She said sympathetically, “OK, Pansy, tell me what’s going on. That was your mistress, I assume. Don Pablo’s daughter.”

“Yes, doctor, but… I have… I have a problem. I think maybe I’m… I’m…” She couldn’t finish, breaking into sobs.

“ ¿Pregnant?” Doctor CantẠfinished for her. Pansy nodded mutely. “Well, if you are, you’re not the first woman in that fix. Nor is it your first.  ¿I assume this is a special problem?”

Pansy nodded again and tried to explain. “Li… Lilita wasn’t a… a problem. I… She… I was m…m… married.” Seá±ora Arias had kept her word on the public explanation for the presence of Lilia, but no such exculpatory agreement existed for the present pregnancy. “Now it’s… it’s different. I was seeing a man. I wanted… I wanted…” She swallowed. “I wanted him to… to marry me. But I tried not to get pregnant.” She hiccuped, then continued. “I took… I took the pill. Every day, like I should.  ¡But they didn’t work!”

“We don’t know that, Pansy, not for sure. I’ll give you a pregnancy test and we’ll take it from there. First, while we check, tell me why you think you’re pregnant.” The doctor ordered Pansy to strip below the waist, and as Pansy complied she tearfully told about her morning sickness, and about missing her period. Then the doctor asked Pansy to describe the circumstances surrounding the failure of the pills. When Pansy told her about her brief illness, a light seemed to go on. “You took antibiotics, you say. Tell me about it.” Pansy did so, and the doctor nodded. “ ¿Didn’t you read the…? Oh, I’m sorry. I remember: you can’t read.” She looked down. “Pansy, if you take other drugs with contraceptives, they can interfere. If you’re pregnant–and I think you’re right, you probably are–that’s the reason.”

Pansy slumped. She had thought she was almost certainly pregnant, but she had still held some slight hope that she might be wrong. Her despair deepened a few minutes later when the test results arrived, and the doctor confirmed her diagnosis.

Sympathetically Isabel CantẠtold her, “Yes, I’m afraid it’s true, Pansy. Still, it’s not the end of the world. You’re not the first girl to slip up.”

“Yes, b…but that… that won’t matter. Seá±ora Arias, or Seá±or Herrera–whoever–they’ll use it as an excuse to do something else to me. I keep thinking there ain’t nothing else they can do, but… but they’ll find something.”

The doctor couldn’t deny it, and didn’t try, but she tried to reassure Pansy: “After all, Seá±ora Arias–or whoever did this–wants to leave you in good physical and mental health.”

“Yes,” Pansy replied. “I… I know. But Jack–or whoever I was–ain’t so important to them. I think I’ll lose a little more of him–and… and a little more–until I’m all Pansy, and no Jack. I’ll be dead, Doctor. Someone else’ll be in this body. She’ll still take care of the babies, and the doctors’ll still have their guinea pig. But I’ll be gone.” She sagged into her chair. “Maybe that’s the best I can hope for, Doctor. Pansy can have this body. There ain’t much of Jack left anyway”

Isabel CantẠwasn’t sure how to respond. It sounded as if two people were sharing a single body. “If that’s an accurate picture,” she thought, “there’s no doubt who’ll take final control. Jack has no chance, whether any other measures are taken or not. That body fits Pansy, not Jack Whoever.” But she didn’t say that, telling Pansy instead, “Don’t be too pessimistic. There’s really no difference between Pansy and Jack. Or rather, Jack today is Pansy. Or Pansy is where Jack lives today. The change is more drastic than most, yes. But the girl I was ten years ago is dead, in that sense. She grew up and became an adult woman, a doctor, a wife and mother. I’m not her, in your sense. But she lives on in me, just changed. In the same way, Jack Pinkerton lives on in Pansy, just changed. More than a little, true. But you’re you, whatever name you bear, whatever body you wear.” She wished she could be as sure as she hoped she sounded. “I’m a gynecologist, not a psychiatrist,” she complained to herself. “ ¡I shouldn’t have to deal with this!”

“Maybe, Doctor.” Pansy looked up, her eyes red. “That ain’t how it feels from inside, but maybe you’re right. I guess… I guess it don’t make no difference. They’ll do what they want, and whatever comes of it, I’ll take it. I don’t got no choice.”

Shortly after, Susana returned and took Pansy away. Doctor CantẠwondered after they left, “ ¿What is a person, anyway? If memories and habits and reflexes are all replaced, and the language; and the body is utterly changed…  ¿What’s left?  ¿Who am I, for that matter?”
 
 
May 14
-- Blank-faced, Pansy followed Susana to the front door of the casa at Las Rosas. The beauty of the blooming roses and the scarlet flame of the flowering poinciana, familiar from her last visit, were ignored. Just a month earlier she’d been here to witness Gordo’s punishment. Now it was her turn. How could she have allowed herself to slip into the abyss? Her parents would’ve been ashamed of her. What would the don do to her now?

The don was waiting for the two women, and ushered them into his library. “Please, sit down,” he told them, and then came straight to the point. “Suzi, you say that Pansy is pregnant.”

She nodded. “I’m afraid so, Father. There’s no doubt; the clinic confirmed it. She was seeing Beto Sáºlivan, and he seems to have had little difficulty in seducing her.”

Don Pablo turned asked, “ ¿What do you have to say for yourself, Pansy? I am told you were warned to avoid this. You were also warned specifically about Seá±orSeá±or Sáºlivan.  ¿Do you claim rape again?”

Pansy tried to pull herself together. She needed to defend herself, or God only knew what new horror they’d inflict. But lying was out of the question. She was sure he’d know if she tried to mislead him. Gordo certainly hadn’t succeeded. “No, S…Seá±or, he… he didn’t. He maybe persuaded me, but… but it wasn’t rape. I… I was willing.”

“ ¿Did you try to trap Seá±orSeá±or Sáºlivan into matrimony by having his baby? You, of all women, should know how risky that game is. If I recall, Seá±or Pinkerton asserted a similar claim for his problem with…  ¿who was it? Ah, yes, Celia… back in the United States. You told me she attempted to trap you into marriage with a baby.” As Pansy shook her head–she didn’t recall any discussion of that matter with Seá±or Herrera–Susana reminded him, “I think Pansita’s forgotten that conversation, Father.” He nodded, annoyed at himself for the lapse.

“But I… Yes, Seá±or. I mean no… I mean, I did know I shouldn’t. But I didn’t try to… to trap him.  ¡No, I didn’t! I tried to take care, Seá±or, to make sure I wouldn’t get… get pregnant. I wanted him to marry… to marry me, yes, but I didn’t try to force him or trick him. I was sure I couldn’t get pregnant.” Even in her present wretchedness it occurred to her that the don was right. Her situation was just like that of Celia and Susana. They had blundered, exactly as she had.

“ ¿Why were you so sure, Pansy?  ¿Are you not like other women?  ¿Were you not pregnant before?”

“I… Yes, I know I am, Seá±or.” She hesitated, and looked at the floor. “But I… I was tak… taking the pill.”

“ ¡Ah!  ¿Then you intended to go to bed with Seá±or Sáºlivan?”

“ ¡No! I…” Pansy glanced up, then down again. “But I… Yes. I tried not to, but I didn’t… I couldn’t control myself. I…” She stopped briefly to compose herself, then went on: “Like I said, Seá±or, I was willing, but I wasn’t trying to trap him.” Raising her eyes, she admitted. “ I… I wanted… I wanted him to love me. To marry me.”

“When you let him bed you, you knew you were doing wrong, I think.  ¿Is that true?”

“Y…yes, Seá±or, but…” She swallowed. “Yes, Seá±or.”

Don Pablo sighed. “Girl,  ¿what could you have been thinking?  ¿Have you no sense? You had no chance to wed Seá±or Sáºlivan. You are a maid, a campesina. He is ambitious. He needs a wife who will be a social asset. He was using you.” Pansy’s eyes widened, and the don explained, “A simple campesina could not help him as his wife, but would do nicely as a temporary bed partner. Of course, you ruin your chances for a good marriage with another man– ¿but what concern is that to him?” She shut her eyes and a tear rolled down her cheek. Seá±ora Arias and Seá±or Trujillo had both warned her; she hadn’t listened. Such stupidity! The don continued, “You must wed a man of your own class, a campesino. I can arrange such a marriage, and it should be very soon.”

A spark of rebellion flared and Pansy’s head came up. “Seá±or, I can’t do nothing about what you decide,  ¡but you got no right to judge me! You put me in this body!” Even in her present disastrous situation, she felt some satisfaction at his admission. “I ain’t no campesina like you say.  ¡Not really!  ¡I just look like one!”

Don Pablo raised an eyebrow. “ ¿You are not a campesina? I disagree, Seá±orSeá±orita. True, you possess some memories of a norteamericano who is trapped in your head; but you are Pansy Baca, a Honduran peasant girl. And whatever your memories, the present reality is that you are that peasant girl whom you see in the mirror every morning.” He smiled. “More to the point, anyone else–especially including Seá±orSeá±or Sáºlivan–would agree: you are a campesina. But that is irrelevant, and not the point under discussion. What matters now is that you are pregnant and unmarried.  ¿What do you plan to do?”

“I… I don’t know.” The affair with Beto had been a chance to escape her assigned station. Now that it had blown up in her face–or more accurately, in her belly–she had no Plan B; but the don’s arrangement for her would only cement her lowly status. “ ¡But I can’t marry no campesino! You got no right to punish me like that!”

“ ¿Punish you?  ¿Who speaks of punishment? The punishment of Seá±or Pinkerton is done–over– ¡finished!–and I am not interested in punishing Pansy Baca. Your behavior brings its own penalty. You behaved irresponsibly as a woman, just as Seá±or Pinkerton did as a man, and now you must bear the consequences. And the child. As did Susana.” He ran his hand through his thinning gray hair in a gesture of frustration. “But I understand why you speak in such a way. My daughter still sees her faithless lover in you, and treats you accordingly. By doing so, she keeps him alive in your head. And I bear some responsibility.” He looked away from Pansy and his voice became lower. “I believe the presence of that norteamericano in your head has affected your actions. Seá±or Pinkerton’s chief vice was the unthinking use of other people for his own ends, and you seem to have continued on his path; you were trying to use Seá±or Sáºlivan as a way to escape from your low status, as perceived by Seá±or Pinkerton.”

“ ¿You ain’t going to punish me?” Pansy looked confused. “But…  ¿Then why am I here?”

“Because you may not understand the seriousness of your problem, and therefore you may not choose your best course. I am here to make your alternatives clear, and to help you.” He turned to Susana. “Carita, you tell me that Pansy serves you faithfully and well.”

“Yes, I have no complaints. She doesn’t like being a maid–or better, that norteamericano in her head doesn’t like it–but she’s good at it.” She resisted the impulse to add that Seá±or Pinkerton had finally found his proper career.

“And as a mother, you tell me she is excellent.”

“Yes again. She takes very good care of both Josecito and Lilia.”

“Very well.” Leaning back in his armchair, he turned back to Pansy. “One alternative is that you should continue as Susana’s maid, to serve her and to take care of her son–the norteamericano’s son–Josecito; but you should be wed, to avoid scandal. Because you are already pregnant, your marriage must be soon.”

Pansy could follow the don’s logic, but she didn’t like where it was leading. “But Seá±orSeá±or,  ¡you can’t just force me into marrying some stranger–some campesino!”

He shook his head. “I will not force you into anything, Pansy. As you seem to have guessed–and I compliment you on your perspicacity–I took part in your punishment–or more properly, in Seá±or Pinkerton’s punishment. However, you are not he, even if he still lives in your head, and I will not penalize you for his misdeeds. Nevertheless, you–as Pansy Baca–have done wrong, and you–as Pansy Baca–merit your own punishment, and the loss of your position would be a reasonable penalty. My offer to find you a suitable husband is not a penalty, but a charity: if you marry quickly, you can continue to serve as Susana’s maid, and she needs you.”

“But I’d be…  ¡I’d be stuck as a maid!”

He raised an eyebrow. “You are an uneducated campesina–and if the truth be told, you are not very intelligent. That is why your sister went to the university, while you became a maid.  ¿What should you expect?  ¿Do you think there are many other jobs for which you are suited?” As Pansy tried to protest, Don Pablo held up his hand. “Let me clarify your alternatives, as I see them, and then you may tell me what other possibilities you see. You can do nothing, and let nature take its course–but you will lose your job as a maid. You can try to find your own husband–but again, there is only a limited pool of available men, and for you, they will all be campesinos. Perhaps you might attempt to emigrate to the United States, the home of Seá±or Pinkerton. You will find it almost impossible–and if you succeeded, you would be no better off. Or you can accept my offer and marry a decent man of my choosing, from your own class.” He leaned forward. “Pansy, it is an act of mercy I offer. You never had any chance to marry above your present station, and you have nearly destroyed your chances of marrying within it.” Despair flooded through her. “Your choices are limited.” He hesitated for a moment, then went on: “Pansy, as you say, we punished Seá±or Pinkerton by trapping him within Pansy Baca, but that is over and done with. I do not hold his actions against you. Now I am acting as I would for any young woman who came before me in your position. And I will do my best to see that you have a satisfactory husband, one who will love you and provide for you. I cannot assure you a happy marriage or a good life, but I can give you a chance for one–a much better chance than you will have without my assistance. You seem to be a good mother, and I believe you can be a good wife–or else I would not make this offer.”

She shook her head, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Please, Seá±or, no.”

He sighed. “Seá±orita, you still do not quite understand your predicament. Seá±or Pinkerton was able to walk away from the consequences of his irresponsibility. Pansy cannot. You are marked as a loose woman by your service as a prostitute.” She shrank a little into herself, ashamed. “But allowances were made for your special difficulties–as such allowances should be made for many women in that position. Now you have sinned through your own weakness, by your own admission, and you must accept the results.  ¿What will you do if I do not find you a match?”

A spark of hope flared. Maybe he wouldn’t force her. “Seá±or, I’ll continue to work for Seá±ora Arias.”

“No, Seá±orita. As I told you, that will not be possible. You have disgraced yourself, and soon it will be plain to everyone that you behaved like a common slut. She could not keep you then.”

Her heart sank. What else could she do? Maybe… maybe Beto would save her. After all, he put her in this plight. “Seá±or Sáºlivan would take me. I… I’m carrying his child.  ¡I could go to him!”

He nodded. “Yes, that might be possible, but you have not thought it through.  ¿Do you recall Seá±or Pinkerton’s maid, Mará­a…?  ¿What was her name?  ¿Mará­a Banderas?” Pansy nodded. She was ashamed of the treatment Seá±or Pinkerton had inflicted on his maid. Don Pablo continued: “If you go to Alberto Sáºlivan, that will be your own fate. You will be his slave during the day, and his plaything at night. He will use you and then throw you away when you become inconvenient. As I told you, he will not marry you, any more than Seá±or Pinkerton would have married his own maid.  ¿Is this your wish?  ¿Will you become another Mará­a Banderas?”

She shook her head, slowly at first, then vigorously. Much to her shame, Don Pablo was right. She hadn’t thought it through. But what else was there? Her family? Mamá¡ Rosa couldn’t help, and she couldn’t bear to face her mother with her disgrace anyway. Uncle Juan wouldn’t help. Petunia? No, she had no right to burden her sister with her troubles–even if Seá±or Sáºlivan would permit it, which was doubtful. “No, Seá±or, I don’t want that. But… but I don’t have… there isn’t…  ¿What can I do?” Her face was a study in horror and bewilderment.

“You begin to understand. What you can do is marry whoever will have you, and be grateful to him for accepting you.” She began to weep silently, tears flowing down her cheeks. “ ¿Do you agree?” She nodded, unable to speak. “Very well then: I have found a suitable man for you, and he has agreed to take you as his wife. You will promise to love, honor, and obey him, and you will keep those promises. Your husband-to-be lives at Los Ocotes, so you can continue to serve as Suzi’s maid, and to care for Josecito.” He paused. “I spoke with Beto Sáºlivan. He says that he assumed you knew–and he is right, you should have known–that you could never be a suitable wife for him, and he is right. He needs a middle-class educated blanca from a good family, not an illiterate morena maid. And he says you do not have proper notions about what is suitable for a woman’s concerns. That is odd, considering the opinions of your old self.” Again he paused. “Or perhaps not so odd, when one considers that Seá±or Pinkerton still lives in your head, and considers his own desires to be of supreme importance.” He took a sip of coffee and changed the subject: “Pansy,  ¿do you love your little girl?”

“ ¡Of… of course I do, Seá±or!  ¿How could I not love her?”

“And Josecito, the child of Seá±or Pinkerton:  ¿do you love him?”

“Yes… yes, I do.”

“ ¿Do they give you joy?  ¿And would you leave them?”

“Yes… yes, of course. They give me great joy.  ¡They are my whole life!  ¡And I could never leave them!”

He nodded. “Yes, I believe you tell the truth. You are a good mother.” Folding his arms, he went on: “Think back, Seá±orita. Look into the memories of that norteamericano you hold in your head. Seá±or Pinkerton loved no one, and in return, he was not loved. Even his family was not close, neither geographically nor emotionally. He was an emotional cripple. I said you will love, honor, and obey your new husband; it is not a punishment, not a condition I impose, but rather the natural course of human nature. In return, he will be a better husband that Seá±or Pinkerton could ever have been: he will love you and cherish you–and as a practical matter, he will support you and your children. You have the chance to create a decent life for yourself, and for your children.” Don Pablo’s tone softened a bit. “You may not have realized it before, but this chance I offer you–a suitable marriage–is the best life you could hope for. You have agreed to accept it, but you must do more than accept it, if that marriage is to be a success: you must embrace it as a welcome gift, and delight in it.  ¿Will you do that?”

Pansy stood silent for a moment, her dreams shattered. Don Pablo was right: Seá±or Pinkerton had betrayed her through his selfishness exactly as he had betrayed the other women. Then she nodded. “Yes, Seá±or, I… yes, I will.” She looked down at her feet, then added softly, “Thank you, Seá±or.”

Don Pablo rang his bell When Jaime Lá³pez entered, he told his servant, “Jaime, Pansy will wait outside while I speak with Suzi.” After Pansy had been escorted out, he told her, “My dear, your maid is Pansy-Ann Baca.”

Susana looked puzzled. “Of course she is.  ¿Why do…?” His message sunk in. “Yes… yes, I understand.”

“Good. You must forget that George is there at all. Or at least, act as if you forget. I know, it is difficult; but if Pansy is to become a normal campesina, then she must be treated as one. That means George must be allowed to die quietly.”

“ ¿George who?”

“ ¡Exactly!”

Later, back at Los Ocotes, Susana told Pansy, “Father tells me that your husband will be Hector Trujillo.”

“ ¿Hector?  ¡But he’s a moreno!  ¡He’s a black man!” Even as she complained, she realized that she was being foolish. Hector had wanted to marry her all along, and he was a decent man.

“Of course he is. And you’re a black girl,  ¿true? An eminently suitable match. He’s had his eye on you ever since you arrived. I think you’ll make a good couple.”

Pansy looked down at her bare arms. Yes, she was a morena. And Seá±ora Arias was right: she had little hope of marrying above her station. Hector was as good a man as she could hope for. Better than she deserved. She could be a lot worse off, even if Rico’s death hadn’t forced her to become a maid. And a whore. She shook her head; she had been Seá±or Cualquiera! She had been Jack, not Pansy! In spite of her traitor memory! But he was slipping away. “Yes. Yes, I agree. I’ll marry him, if he’ll take me.” Don Pablo had been right. Whoever she had been, and whatever had happened, she now was Pansy, not Jack. “But please tell me:  ¿does he know I’m pregnant?  ¿And what about Lilita?  ¿Will he take care of her?”

“Yes, he knows. He says he expected it all along. He thinks you’re naíve, and that Beto tricked you. And yes, he’ll care for both Lilia and your new child.” Then Susana admonished her sternly, “This is permanent, Pansy. There will be no divorce, no separation. You and Hector will wed a week from next Saturday in La Libertad.” Pansy wondered how Seá±or Herrera could arrange the ceremony on such short notice. “You’ll be his woman from that day on, till death do you part. You’ll cook his food, you’ll wash his clothes, you’ll satisfy him in his bed, and you’ll bear his children. Hector’s a good man, but he’s a campesino, with all that implies, good and bad. He’s ignorant. Intelligent and honorable and hard-working, but ignorant. And he’s very traditional: he will be the head of the household. He’ll love you and cherish you; you will promise to love and cherish and obey. He’ll expect you to keep that vow. And he’ll enforce it. You’ll be a traditional campesina wife, the woman Seá±or Cualquiera so admired. You’re pregnant now, of course. I want you to know: for the next ten years or so, you’ll either be pregnant with your next baby, or you’ll be nursing your last one. Seá±or Cualquiera said a woman is a baby machine. You’ll demonstrate that for Hector.  ¿Do you understand?”

“Yes, Seá±ora, I understand.” She remembered the cliches that Jack had told Susana; she understood well. Her life would center on Seá±or Trujillo and on her children. Her universe would be Los Ocotes and La Libertad. Tears trickled down her cheek, but she accepted her fate. For herself, she might have fought, and perhaps fled, to start over. But Lilia and Josecito needed her. And besides, Hector was a good man. He’d be a good husband, and she’d try to be a good wife.

“Good.” Susana’s tone softened. “Pansita, this is your last chance to redeem yourself, and Seá±or Cualquiera as well. Seá±or Cualquiera tried to use Celia Tolliver, Mará­a Banderas, and me as objects, for his own ends. You tried to use Miguel Ovando and Beto Sáºlivan. Each and every time, the attempt backfired. Now, in a way, you’re using Hector. He’ll save you–and Lilia, and the new baby–from a short life of disgrace and misery. He’ll support you.” Pansy began to protest, but Susana cut her off. “I know, that wasn’t your intent. More to the point, it’s not a one-way exploitation, but a partnership. In return for his support, you’ll provide a woman’s services, including bearing his children. If you carry out your part of the bargain, and if you’re lucky, you can salvage some respect, maybe even love, into the bargain. You might even have a happy life. If not…” She shrugged. “That’ll be too bad, but at least you’ll get the support you and the babies need. My father and I will see to that. But that’s all you can really count on.” Pansy nodded her understanding, and Susana went on: “Now, since you’ve been gone, Marta’s taken care of the babies over at her house. Josecito’s been crying for you, and I think Lilia needs attention. Change back into your uniform, and see to them. And fix your face. You look terrible.”

“Yes, Seá±ora.”

Left alone, Pansy tried to collect her thoughts as she retrieved her uniform. Beto had betrayed her, and she hated him. But Seá±or Cualquiera… He had done the same. To Celia, to Susana. And he would’ve betrayed Petunia, her own dear sister, the same way. Her memories weren’t completely clear–at least not those pertaining to Seá±or Cualquiera–but she remembered enough. He had been a bastard. He was just like Beto. “ ¡No!” a corner of her mind shouted. “ ¡They tried to trick me!” She pushed that voice back into its corner. She was both Seá±or Cualquiera and Pansy Baca, but right now she didn’t want to hear from that part of her that held the remnant of that pendejo. He had done enough damage. She was Pansy Baca now! Dismissing her musings, she left for Marta’s house to reclaim the children. Whoever she had been, whatever Seá±ora Arias had done, she needed to make a life for herself and her children. And she’d have to do it as Pansy Baca. Or, it appeared, as Pansy Baca de Trujillo. But at least she could have a decent life, if not a comfortable one. And Hector might not be rich–or even middle-class–but certainly he’d be a better man than Beto. Or Seá±or Cualquiera.

Late that afternoon, Hector himself stopped by as she hung out the washing. Pansy flinched at first when she saw him, but then she steeled herself. If this man was going to be her husband, she wanted to get to know him. She spoke first, declaring firmly, “Seá±or Trujillo, we have to talk.”

“Yes, of course, Pansita; that’s why I’m here.” His handsome, if scarred, face seemed strangely unsure, and she suddenly realized he was feeling uncomfortable in his own awkward position. “I… Well, I wanted to tell you I don’t hold nothing against you. It was Beto. Like I told you the other day, he’s like that. It ain’t right, but lots of men behave like that.” After a pause he added, “Call me Hector.”

His sympathy touched her; she had no right to it, and she tried to keep from crying. “Thank… thank you, Hector. I… I was… was stupid. I should’ve listened to you. I… I…” She stifled a sob. He came to her and held his arms out. She couldn’t hold tears off any longer, ran to his arms, and wept on his shoulder. When she recovered, she looked at him, embarrassed, and apologized: “I… I’m sorry, Hec…Hector.”

He patted her on the back. “Pansita, you need a man, and you was hoping Seá±or Sáºlivan was him. He wasn’t, and you was foolish to think he might be. I told you he wasn’t no good for you. But foolishness ain’t no crime. My wife died, and I need a woman. You’re a good woman. You don’t run around, you work hard, and you take good care of your baby. If you marry me, I’ll take care of you and your kids. I’ll be a good husband.” He looked down at the ground, and added, “I think you might come to love me. I’m hoping you will.”

Sniffling, she replied, “I hope so too, Hector. I don’t know you well, but I think you’re a good man, and that makes it easier.” She pulled away and sat on a log, looking down. “I don’t know if I’ll be a good enough wife for you, but I’ll try. I’ll try to be the best wife you could possibly have.” She looked back up: “But I’m not a very good cook, you know.”

He laughed easily. “I think you’ll do well enough. Anyway, tomorrow’s your day off.  ¿Can I take you to dinner tomorrow night? Then you can go to your class.”

She was confused, but pleased. “ ¿Will you…? But… I wasn’t sure… Yes, I’ll go with you.”

He smiled. “I said I didn’t think you needed it. If you want to, and if it don’t keep you from doing things you’re supposed to do, well, I don’t care none. If you like, I’ll pick you up at 4 o’clock tomorrow afternoon, after I can get off.  ¿OK?” Shyly and with a tremulous smile, she agreed. Maybe her sentence of marriage wouldn’t be the disaster she had feared. Hector kissed her before he left, and told her, “We got to get to know each other quick. After all, in ten days you’ll become Seá±ora Trujillo. And we got to make plans for the wedding.”

After Pansy finished the dishes, she thought about her future. Her impending marriage might not be a disaster at all–it might even be the decent life that Seá±or Herrera had held out–but there was no doubt that it would be the final nail in the coffin of her hopes for higher status. Well, as a little girl Pansy hadn’t hoped for more than a good husband, beautiful children, and freedom from want. Her mother had been a maid, and she hadn’t really expected to do better. With Rico she had had a chance for a middle-class life, but she had to face reality: his death had killed that dream. Her dalliance with Beto had been foolish, exactly as Don Pablo had said, just a desperate try to escape her low status. The part of her mind that held Jack’s persona tried to protest, but she ignored it. So she’d be a maid; it was better than nothing. It was a good job, for an ignorant campesina like her. She had never been smart enough to do anything else–not like her sister. And she had always wanted to marry. It was the only proper life for a woman. God had intended that she find a man and bear his children, and she had been an idiot to think she could find a man outside her class. As far as regaining the lost memories of Seá±or Cualquiera: why bother? She was Pansy in truth, whether his memories had meaning for her or not, and so she’d remain until she died. The identity of Jack Cualquiera wasn’t important.

Somewhere in the back of Pansy’s mind, a remnant of Seá±or Cualquiera shrieked in despair. He had been trapped in an illiterate campesina, and he had watched as his essence dissolved into Pansy’s personality. Now he’d become the pregnant wife of an ignorant nigger cowboy. He’d spend his life bearing and raising a bunch of snot-nosed brats. And there was no way out–ever! But Pansy ignored him. He no longer mattered to her.
 
 
May 15
— In the morning, after Susana had eaten breakfast, Pansy asked her, “Seá±ora, please,  ¿can I leave Lilita here with Marta on Thursday? I want to visit my sister to tell her I’m getting married I couldn’t possibly do it without telling her, so she can be with me. I want her to be my Matron of Honor. I could take Lilia with me, but that trip’s pretty hard on her.”

“Yes, I think that’s reasonable–you can go, and the Lilia’ll be well taken care of here. But the trip’s pretty hard on you, too.” She paused to think a moment. “If you’d like, you can save the trip, and I’ll let you call her on my cell phone. Or you can make the trip and tell her in person. Your choice.”

Pansy’s face brightened, but then fell. “I… But I don’t have her number.”

“Don’t worry, I have it. I got it when you went to visit, so I could reach you if I needed you. I’m sure she’s home with the baby most of the time, so you could call now, if you like.”

“Thank you, Seá±ora. I think I’ll do that.” Seá±ora Arias fetched the phone for her, and five minutes later, Pansy had reached her sister. “Petunia, I… I have to tell you something. Something important. I…I’m getting m…married. To… to one of Seá±ora Arias’s workers.”

At the other end, Petunia sat down suddenly. “ ¿You are what?  ¿Did I hear you right?”

Having blurted out the news, Pansy found it easier to provide the details, and Petunia quickly agreed to join the wedding party. She asked if her family would also be invited, and Pansy replied, “ ¡Of course!  ¡You couldn’t possibly think they’d be left out!” Tactfully, Petunia didn’t ask why the wedding was so sudden.

After hanging up, Pansy thought about the rest of her family. They would want to see her get married also; but she didn’t know where they were, except that none lived nearby. Her mother was working as a maid somewhere in Choluteca province. Tomá¡s was probably down there too, but she had no way to reach them. Perhaps it was just as well. Her hasty nuptials would be sure to bring questions–questions she didn’t want to answer.
 
 
May 17
-- Hector picked Pansy up at 4 o’clock as promised. He borrowed a Los Ocotes pickup and took her to a cheap restaurant, where they planned their future over rice and beans. Hector told her he had saved a little money and hoped to buy a plot of land where he could become an independent cattleman. “It’ll take a while, Pansita, but maybe it’s possible. If you keep your job with Seá±ora Arias and we save as much as we can, then in five years, or maybe seven, we can start our own place.”

She told him about her childhood, how her parents had gone from Comayagá¼ela to the United States, and then to San Pedro. “They always told me to try to get an education. It was the key to a better life. And I tried, Hector. You know I’m taking that class in La Libertad. Well, I could read a couple of years ago, and I was going to be a teacher. But I got a head injury. It made me forget, so now I’m starting over.” Of course, Pansy no longer knew that Ibarra and José had taken her literacy. She thought Susana had done it–perhaps with her father’s help–when she, or they, put Seá±or Cualquiera into this body; but she couldn’t tell Hector that.

Hector told her that Don Pablo had arranged a meeting with Padre Villeras. “He wants to make sure we both know what we’re doing, and that we ain’t going to do nothing wrong when he marries us. Seá±or Arias told me that Padre Villeras didn’t want to marry us so quick, but Don Pablo made him do it.”

They didn’t plan to have many guests at the wedding. Hector would invite his parents and a brother from La Libertad, and two of the cowboys. Pansy would invite Marta and her husband and daughter, and Petunia and Felipe Sáºlivan. “My father’s dead,” she explained, “and my other family members live too far away.” “We’ll invite Seá±or and Seá±ora Arias, of course,” Hector told her. “Seá±ora Arias paid for the church wedding. I’d have trouble finding the cash.” Pansy reluctantly agreed.

They talked about their respective families and their past lives. Hector was curious about her life in the U.S., but she explained that she didn’t remember very much. “I was too young. I remember Dallas was a big city, and I remember my first day of kindergarten there, but it’s all hazy now.” Finally Hector reminded her that she had to be at class soon. “It’s almost 7. I’ll meet you here in an hour.”

Seá±ora Marcos scolded Pansy gently for missing her Tuesday class, but no more. The class went poorly; Pansy had been distracted from study during the previous week, and some of what little she had learned, had slipped away. Still, her teacher encouraged her. “I know it’s hard, Pansy, but trust me. It’ll come. I can see the difference in you. Next year you’ll be reading fine.”

When the class ended, Pansy hurried back to the plaza, where Hector met her and took her home.
 
 
May 18
-- Rollie Perry entered his apartment a little late for supper. Celia, annoyed, asked, “Where have you been? The roast’s getting cold.”

He ignored her question and told her, “I have news, dear. That place in Honduras–you remember that card you got, a month ago? I know where it is.”

She immediately forgot the cooling roast. “Yes? What did you find out? Where is he?”

Her husband laughed. “Slow down, slow down. I don’t know where he is. I do know where the places in the letter are. First, I talked to my friend, and he contacted his friend at the Honduran Embassy in Washington. Comayagua was easy. It’s a small city in the central part of the country. And Siguatepeque’s a town in the mountains, not far from there.”

She gritted her teeth audibly. “Damn it, Rollie, I thought you said…”

He held up a hand. “Hold your horses, darling. According to the card you got, he’s living somewhere near Siguatepeque. So the guy at the Embassy asked someone, back in Honduras. Probably someone in Comayagua, but I don’t know. Who cares, anyway? This other guy, or someone at least, said that Siguatepeque’s a dinky little town in the middle of nowhere. An American living there wouldn’t really blend in very well.”

Her eyes lit up. “Now we can catch the bastard! It ought to be easy to find him there!”

“Who said he was there? Your card didn’t. Judging from the description of the place, I doubt he’s there; it’d be too easy. He wouldn’t be that stupid. He might not be anywhere near there. But I’m hungry, dear. Let’s talk some more about it after supper. Like you said, it’s getting cold.”

They sat down to eat. Jimmy behaved well, eating most of the food that Celia put in front of him. After supper Celia washed the dishes while Rollie supervised Jimmy in the living room. Joining him when she had finished, she returned to the subject of George Deon. “If he’s not there, what should I do now, do you think?”

“I didn’t say he’s not there. I said I don’t think he’s there. The card hinted that someone there knows where he is, though. Maybe he visited there. Or the guy at this address knows him. Or that girl–what’s her name? Petunia, that’s it, Petunia Baca. Maybe she’s there. It’s the best lead you’ve had. The only lead.”

“Rollie, I want him. I want him so bad. What can I do now? There must be a way to track him down.”

Rollie puffed on a cigarette and shrugged. “I knew you’d ask, so I made some inquiries. There are a couple of possibilities. Or three, really. We can go there ourselves and ask. We can hire someone in Honduras to check. Or we can send a letter to this address, and hope we get a helpful answer.”

“What about that other idea, to get someone else to search? Someone here in the US, I mean, like the IRS.”

“No one else is interested. He wasn’t very close to his family, and they’re convinced he’s dead anyway. They won’t help. I checked on the IRS; like I thought, they aren’t interested. I bet they owe him a refund. No, it’s us or no one. Are you sure you…?” He broke off; it was a stupid question.

She ignored it. “The three aren’t mutually exclusive. I’d say, just send a letter to start with. See what the guy says, if he knows anything about George. If he denies knowing anything, then we hire someone. If the people at this address do know something, then we take it from there.”

“Sounds good to me. You write the letter, and we’ll see what happens.”

“I can write it in English, I guess. I hope he can read it, or get it translated. If not–if we don’t get an answer–I’ll see if I can get someone to translate it into Spanish for me. If the letter doesn’t work, we’ll try something else.”