B004L2LMEG EBOK (27 page)

B
ROTHER
F
RANCISCO

ED. NOTE:
As a matter of fact, during the burial, prayer cards with the image of Olga Arellano Rosaura, similar to those that exist for the other crucified members of the Ark, such as the famous boy martyr of Moronacocha and Santa Ignacia, were seen circulating in the public cemetery of Iquitos
.

Editorial in El Oreinte, January 6, 1959

Assault on Loreto Journalist

The publication, as an exclusive extra in our edition yesterday, of the “Epistle to the Good Concerning the Wicked,” which was sent to our editorial offices from his secret hiding place in some spot in the jungle by Brother Francisco, leader and principal spiritual director of the “crosses” or “Brothers of the Ark,” has been a pretext for our editor in chief, the well-known journalist of international reputation, Joaquín Andoa, to become the object of an unspeakable assault by police authorities of the Loreto Department and serves to swell the list of martyrs for freedom of the press. In fact, our editor in chief was summoned yesterday morning by Police Chief Juan Amézaga Riofrío, Region V (Loreto), and by the Chief Inspector, Loreto Branch, of the Police Bureau of Investigation (PBI), Federico Chumpitaz Fernández. Said authorities demanded that he reveal the manner in which the newspaper
El Oriente
had obtained the missive from Brother Francisco, a suspect pursued by the police as the
éminence grise
behind the various cases of crucifixion that have occurred in the Amazon. When our editor in chief responded, respectfully but firmly, that a journalist’s sources of information constitute a professional secret and are for that reason as sacred and inviolable as revelations obtained in confession by a priest, the two police chiefs broke out into improprieties of unprecedented vulgarity against Mr. Joaquín Andoa, even threatening him with physical punishment (“We’ll work you over,” were their exact words) if he did not answer their questions. Since our editor in chief honorably refused to fall short of his professional ethics, he was locked up in a cell in the station house for a period of eight hours, that is, until 7
P.M.
, when he was released by arrangement with the departmental prefect himself. United as one man in the defense of freedom of the press, of professional secrecy and of media ethics, the entire editorial staff of
El Oriente
protests this abuse committed against an outstanding intellectual and journalist of Loreto and makes known that it has sent telegrams denouncing the act to both the National Federation of Journalists of Peru and the National Association of Journalists, our highest union organizations in the country.

Cacique Cocama Bend Murderers
Not to Face Military Tribunal

Iquitos, Jan. 6—A well-informed source very close to the High Command of Region V (Amazon) denied this morning the persistent rumors that have been circulating in Iquitos to the effect that the seven assailants from Nauta would be transferred to military jurisdiction to be tried in a military tribunal by means of summary proceedings. According to this source, the armed forces have not at any moment demanded that they be entrusted with the task of judging and sentencing the criminals, with the result that they will remain under the regular jurisdiction of civil justice.

Apparently the origin of the denied rumor was a request sent up to the high Army courts from Quartermaster Capt. Pantaleón Pantoja—whose functions are only too well known in this city—so that the military court’s jurisdiction would require the legal investigation and punishment of those responsible for the assault at Nauta, on the basis of the argument that the boat
Eve
and its crew members belonged to the nation’s navy and that the convoy of harlots formed part of a militarized organization, which would be the case of the unpopular Special Service directed by that officer. The armed forces may have rejected as “far out”—that is the term employed by our informant—Capt. Pantoja’s request, indicating that when victimized by the assault, the transport boat
Eve
and its crew members were not performing any military service, but rather strictly civilian duties, and that the so-called Special Service is not nor ever can be under any circumstances a militarized institution, being only a civilian, commercial enterprise that has had incidental and merely tolerated, but never supported or officialized, relations with the Army. With this in mind, the same source added, an investigation of the said Special Service that the Army general staff should have ordered will be conducted with the purpose of discovering its origin, composition, functions and benefits in order to determine its legality, and if appropriate, the liabilities and pertinent sanctions.

“Ah, you’re up already, son,” Mother Leonor spends the night frightened—in a dream a cockroach is eaten by a rat who is eaten by a lizard who is eaten by a jaguar who is crucified and whose remains are devoured by cockroaches—gets up at dawn, paces around the room in the dark, wringing her hands, and, hearing the bells chime six, she knocks at Panta’s bedroom door. “What, you’ve put on your uniform again?”

“All Iquitos has seen me in uniform, Mama,” Pantita checks how his jacket has faded and how baggy his trousers are on him, watches himself in the mirror in different poses and is overcome by melancholy. “There’s no sense in going on with that lie about Mr. Pantoja.”

“The Army will have to decide that, not you,” Mother Leonor mixes up the kitchen keys, spills the milk, remembers she has forgotten the bread, cannot stop the tray from shaking in her hands. “Come, at least drink a little coffee. Don’t leave on an empty stomach, don’t be stubborn.”

“O.K., but only half a cup,” Panta very calmly goes to the dining room, lays his kepi and gloves on the table, sits down, drinks with little sips. “C’mon, give me a kiss. Don’t put on that face, Mama, you’ll give me your worries.”

“I had terrible nightmares all night long,” Mother Leonor throws herself on the sofa, raises her hand to her mouth, talks in a hoarse, tortured voice. “And now what’s going to happen to you, Panta? What’s going to become of us?”

“Nothing’s going to happen,” Panta takes some bills out of his wallet, puts them in Mother Leonor’s housecoat pocket, opens a Venetian blind, sees people going to work, the blind beggar already installed at the corner with his saucer and flute. “And besides, if it happens, I don’t care.”

“Heard the radio?” In the back seat of the taxi Iris changes color in amazement, hears the driver exclaim and repeats it isn’t possible, what a shame, pays, gets out, goes into Pantiland slamming the door, howls. “They caught Brother Francisco! He was hiding near the Napo River, close to Mazán. I’m really worried. What’ll they do with him?”

“I don’t regret anything I’ve done,” Panta sees the tombstone-maker and Alicia’s husband leaving their houses, sees cars going by, young children in school uniforms with books, a little old lady selling lottery tickets, feels strange, buttons his tunic. “I’ve acted according to my conscience and that’s a soldier’s duty too. I’ll face up to what’s coming. Trust me, Mama.”

“I always have, dear,” Mother Leonor brushes him, polishes him, straightens him, opens her arms, kisses him, squeezes him, looks at the thick mustache on the old portrait. “Blind faith in you. But with this business I don’t know what to think. You’ve gone crazy, Panta. To dress like an officer to deliver a speech at the burial of a w——-! Would your father or your grandfather have done such a thing?”

“Please, Mama, don’t get going on that again,” Panta sees someone greeting the woman selling lottery tickets and the blind man, sees a man walking while reading the paper, a dog urinating plentifully, gives a half turn and heads toward the door. “I think I’ve told you it’s expressly forbidden to even mention that subject again.”

“Fine, I’ll shut up; I
do
know how to obey superiors,” Mother Leonor gives him her blessing, says goodbye to him on the sidewalk, goes back to her bedroom racked by sobs, throws herself on the bed. “May God not ask you to repent, Panta. I pray it doesn’t happen, but the outrage you’ve committed is going to disgrace us, I’m sure.”

“Well, in a certain sense, yes, at least me,” Lieutenant Bacacorzo barely smiles, passes through the relatives crowded at the jail door waiting for visiting hours, shoos away a boy who is hawking turtles, monkeys. “I’ve lost the promotion I was supposed to get this year, no doubt about that. But in the last analysis, the thing’s done and you can’t march backwards.”

“I ordered you to lead the escort, I ordered you to pay tribute to that poor woman,” Captain Pantoja bends down to tie a shoe, catches sight of the slogan on the door of the Bank of the Amazon: “The jungle’s money for the jungle.” “All the responsibility’s mine and only mine. That’s what I remind General Collazos of in this letter and that’s what I’m going to tell Scavino personally. You’re not to blame at all, Bacacorzo: the regulations are very clear.”

“They found him sleeping,” Penelope sits on Sinforoso Caiguas’s hammock, speaks in the center of a circle of specialists. “He’d made a little cave out of branches and leaves, he spent the day praying, he didn’t eat anything the apostles brought him. Just roots and herbs. He’s a saint, he’s a saint.”

“The truth of the matter is I shouldn’t have paid attention to you,” Lieutenant Bacacorzo plunges his hands into his pockets, enters the Paradise Ice Cream Shoppe, asks for coffee with milk, hears Captain Pantoja asking him isn’t that the professor, the wizard? answers that’s him. “Just between you and me, what you asked me to do was absolute nonsense. A person with all his marbles would have gone and told Scavino what you were trying to do, so he’d hold you back. Maybe now you’d be thanking me for it, Captain.”

“Too late for tears,” Captain Pantoja hears the professor advising a woman if you want your newborn not to be late in talking, you should squash kernels of corn in his mouth. “If you thought so, why the hell didn’t you do it, Bacacorzo? You’d have freed me from the pangs of conscience I’m going to have if they don’t give you that new stripe on my account.”

“Because I haven’t got all my marbles,” Lieutenant Bacacorzo touches his forehead, drinks his coffee with milk, pays, listens to the professor recommending to his client and if a snake bites your little boy, you can cure him by giving him nursing bottles full of llama bile, goes out on the street. “My wife always tells me that. Now, seriously, I saw you were so moved by that specialist’s death that it softened my heart.”

“
El Oriente
’s editor in chief is killing himself saying he didn’t squeal on the Brother, swearing and moaning he didn’t tell a thing to the police,” Coca is the last to arrive at Pantiland, announces I’ve got news, sits in the hammock, talks fast. “It’s great; they already burned his car and almost burned his newspaper. If he doesn’t get out of Iquitos, the ‘brothers’ will kill him. Think Mr. Andoa knew Brother Francisco’s hiding place?”

“Besides, the idea of paying tribute to a whore, exactly because it was so demented, turned out so fascinating,” Lieutenant Bacacorzo lets out a guffaw, walks among the peddlers and licensed stores on Lima Street, notices that the Modern Bazaar has hung up a new sign: “Merchandise Famous for Durability and Unforgettable Appearance.” “I don’t know what came over me; your delirium was contagious.”

“There was no such delirium; it was a decision made calmly and rationally,” Captain Pantoja kicks a tin can, crosses the asphalt, dodges a light truck, steps into the shade of the rose apple trees on the Army Plaza. “But that’s another story. I promise you, I’ll go to any lengths to keep this from hurting you, Bacacorzo.”

“A good joke to tell my grandchildren, though they’ll never believe me,” Lieutenant Bacacorzo smiles, rests against the Heroes Monument, notices that the names are blotted out or stained from the bird droppings. “But then that’s what newspapers are for. You know, I can’t get used to seeing you in uniform? You look like another person to me.”

“Same with me; I feel odd. Three years is a long time,” Captain Pantoja turns at the Credit Bank, spits in front of the House of Iron, sees the owner of the Imperial Hotel chasing a girl. “Have you seen Scavino yet?”

“No, I haven’t seen him,” Lieutenant Bacacorzo looks at the shiny tiled windows at headquarters, enters the Tarapacá Embankment, stops to see a group of foreigners with cameras leaving the Tourist Hotel. “He ordered me to say I’d finished the special assignment, that’s to say, my work with you. I have to report to his office Monday.”

“You have four days to get up strength and prepare yourself for the storm,” Captain Pantoja steps on a banana peel, observes the flaking walls of the old College of St. Augustine, the grass that is devouring it, smashes to bits a family of ants dragging a little leaf. “So this is our last official meeting.”

“I’m going to tell you a story that’ll make you laugh,” Lieutenant Bacacorzo lights a cigarette next to the Rotary Club Monument, discovers a few female students playing volleyball on the embankment. “Do you know what story was making the rounds for a long time among the people who caught sight of us alone and in isolated spots? That we were faggots, imagine. Hell, even that doesn’t make you laugh.”

“They’ve got him in Mazán and they’ve surrounded the town with soldiers,” Pichuza has her ear glued to the radio, repeats in shouts what she hears, runs to the dock, points to the river. “Everybody’s going to Mazán to rescue Brother Francisco. See? Look at all the launches, gliders, rafts. Look, look.”

“In these years of half-secret talks, I’ve come to respect you a lot, Bacacorzo,” Captain Pantoja puts his hand on his shoulder, sees the schoolgirls jump, hit the ball, run, feels a tickling in his ear, scratches. “You’re the only friend I’ve made here up till now, because of this funny situation I’m in. I wanted you to know it. And also that I’m very grateful to you.”

“It’s mutual; I liked you from the very first minute,” Lieutenant Bacacorzo consults his watch, hails a taxi, opens the door, climbs in, leaves. “And I have the impression I’m the only one who knows what you’re really like. Good luck at headquarters—you’re in for a rough time. Give me five, Captain.”

“Come in; I’ve been waiting for you,” General Scavino stands up, goes to meet him, does not shake hands, looks at him without hatred, without rancor, begins an electrified walk around him. “And you can imagine how impatiently. O.K., you can begin to vomit out justifications for your actions. Let’s go, once and for all—get started.”

“Good morning, General, sir,” Captain Pantoja clicks his heels, salutes, thinks he doesn’t look furious, how funny. “I request you to transmit this letter to headquarters, after you read it. In it I alone assume responsibility for what happened at the cemetery. I mean, Lieutenant Bacacorzo did not have the least—”

“Stop, don’t talk to me about that individual—he turns my stomach,” General Scavino stands still for a second, raises a hand, resumes his circular pacing, his voice growing slightly angry. “I forbid you to ever mention him in my presence. I thought he was one of my trustworthy officers. He was supposed to watch over you, curb you, and he ended up being a follower of yours. But I swear to you, he’s going to regret having led that escort to the whore’s burial.”

“He didn’t do anything more than obey my orders,” Captain Pantoja continues to stand at attention, speaks softly, pronounces all the syllables slowly. “I explain it in detail in this letter, General, sir. I compelled Lieutenant Bacacorzo to stage that escort in the cemetery.”

“Don’t start defending anyone; you’re the one who needs defending,” General Scavino sits down again, considers him with slow and triumphant eyes, turns over some newspapers. “I suppose you’ve already seen the results of your charming action. Of course, you must have read these clippings. But you still aren’t familiar with these from Lima, the editorials from
La Prensa
, from
El Comercio
. Everyone is raising the roof about the Special Service.”

“If you don’t send me reinforcements, something very ugly could happen, Colonel, sir,” Lieutenant Santana positions sentinels, orders fix your bayonets, warns the strangers one more step and I’ll shoot, handles the portable radio apparatus, is frightened. “Let me transfer the nut to Iquitos. Every minute, more and more people are putting ashore and here in Mazán we’re out in the open, you know that. At any moment they may try to attack the shack where I’ve got him.”

“Don’t think I’m trying to duck the responsibility for my actions, General, sir,” Captain Pantoja stands at ease, feels his palms sweating, does not look at Scavino’s eyes but instead at the dark blotches on his bald head, mutters. “But let me remind you that radios and newspapers had talked about the Special Service before the episode at Nauta. I haven’t committed any indiscretion. My going to the cemetery didn’t give the Service away. Its existence was common knowledge.”

“So appearing dressed as an Army officer, in a cortege of prostitutes and pimps, is an unimportant incident,” General Scavino becomes theatrical, understanding, benevolent, even pleasant. “So paying tribute to a streetwalker as if it were a matter—”

“Of a soldier fallen in action.” Captain Pantoja raises his voice, gestures, steps forward, “I’m sorry, but that is, neither more nor less, the status of Specialist Olga Arellano Rosaura.”

“How dare you shout at me!” General Scavino bellows, turns red, twitches in his chair, messes up the desk, calms down instantly, “Lower that voice if you don’t want me to have you arrested for insolence. Who the hell do you think you’re talking to?”

“I beg you to forgive me,” Captain Pantoja retreats, stands at attention, clicks his heels, lowers his eyes, whispers. “I’m very sorry, General, sir.”

“Headquarters wanted to hold him there until they received instructions from Lima, but if the thing’s really getting ugly in Mazán, sure, the best thing would be to bring him to Iquitos,” Colonel Máximo Dávila consults with his adjunct, studies the map, signs a voucher for airplane fuel. “I agree, Santana. I’m sending you a hydroplane to take the prophet out of there. Keep a cool head and try to keep the blood from flowing into the river.”

“So the idiocies in your speech—you really believe them,” General Scavino regains his composure, smile, superiority, articulates syllable by syllable. “No, I’m already getting to know you better. Pantoja, you’re a big cynic. You think I don’t know that whore was your girlfriend? You put on that show in a moment of desperation, of sentimentality, because you were in love with her. And now, for that cunt, you come to talk to me about soldiers fallen in action.”

“I swear to you that my personal feelings for that specialist did not have the least bearing on the matter,” Captain Pantoja reddens, feels flames in his cheeks, stammers, digs his fingernails into his palms. “If instead of her the victim had been some other specialist, I would have proceeded in the same way. It was my duty.”