lively folk dance.
A humid nostalgia has saturated the air, clouded the sun, silenced the bugles, the cymbals and the bass drum—a sensation of water trickling between the fingers, of spit swallowing up the sand, of burning lips that turn gangrenous when they brush a cheek—a feeling of a balloon that has burst, of a movie that has ended, of a sadness that is suddenly frightening: hear how the trumpet (for reveille? for mess? for taps?) again tears the warm air (of morning? of afternoon? of night?). But now a growing tingling has sprouted in his right ear and rapidly spreads throughout the entire lobe and then infects his neck, encircles it and scales his left ear: deep within, it too has started to tremble—shaking its invisible fuzz, opening its innumerable thirsty pores in search of, asking for…and now the disobedient nostalgia, the fierce melancholy, have been replaced by a secret fever, a diffuse apprehension, an uneasiness that takes a pyramidal shape like a meringue, a corrosive fear. But Lieutenant Pantoja’s face does not reveal it; one by one he scrutinizes the soldiers who are getting ready to enter the clothing storeroom in an orderly manner. But something provokes discreet laughter from those parade uniforms looking down from way up there, where the roof of the storeroom ought to be but where the reviewing stand of the National Holidays is instead. Is Colonel Montes present? Yes. Tiger Collazos? Yes. General Victoria? Yes. Colonel López López? Yes. They have begun to smile timidly, concealing their mouths with their maroon leather gloves, turning their heads a little to one side, whispering? But Lieutenant Pantoja knows how, what, why. He does not want to look at the soldiers who await the whistle to enter, collect their new clothes and turn in the old, because he suspects, knows or guesses that when he looks, confirms and positively knows, Mother Leonor will know and Pochita will too. But his eyes suddenly switch their look and examine the military formation: ha ha, how funny—oh, what a disgrace. Yes, that’s how it happened. As thick as blood, the anguish flows under his skin. While he watches, a prisoner of icy terror, fighting to hide his feelings, he looks at how they’re done up, they’re filling out the recruits’ uniforms in the chest, in the shoulders, in the hips, in the thighs, their hair is flowing from under their caps, their features have grown smooth, sweet and blushing, the masculine stares grow tender, ironic and mischievous. The panic has been replaced by rebellious and sarcastic ridicule. He makes the abrupt decision to put all his eggs in one basket, and sticking his chest out a little, he orders: “Unbutton your shirts, damn it!” But already they are passing under his eyes, the buttons undone, the buttonholes empty, the backstitched edges of their shirts swaying, the flitting, erect nipples of the recruits, the wobbling and alabaster, the delicate and earthy breasts swinging to the beat of the march. But Lieutenant Pantoja is already leading the company, his sword raised, his profile severe, his forehead noble, his eyes clear, stamping the asphalt decisively: one-two, one-two. No one knows how he curses his luck. His suffering is profound, his humiliation great, his shame infinite because behind him, marking time without any martial rhythm, blandly, like mares in the mud, come the recently inducted recruits, who did not know enough to bind their breasts, to wear deceptive shirts, to trim their hair to the five centimeters prescribed by regulations and to cut their nails. He senses them marching behind him and guesses they are not trying to imitate masculine expressions; they are aggressively exhibiting their feminine qualities: they stick out their busts, grind their hips, wiggle their backsides and shake their long hair. (A shudder: he is about to pee in his pants. Mother Leonor would find out when she irons his uniform, Pochita would laugh when she sews on his new stripe.)
A humid nostalgia has saturated the air, clouded the sun, silenced the bugles, the cymbals and the bass drum—a sensation of water trickling between the fingers, of spit swallowing up the sand, of burning lips that turn gangrenous when they brush a cheek—a feeling of a balloon that has burst, of a movie that has ended, of a sadness that is suddenly frightening: hear how the trumpet (for reveille? for mess? for taps?) again tears the warm air (of morning? of afternoon? of night?). But now a growing tingling has sprouted in his right ear and rapidly spreads throughout the entire lobe and then infects his neck, encircles it and scales his left ear: deep within, it too has started to tremble—shaking its invisible fuzz, opening its innumerable thirsty pores in search of, asking for…and now the disobedient nostalgia, the fierce melancholy, have been replaced by a secret fever, a diffuse apprehension, an uneasiness that takes a pyramidal shape like a meringue, a corrosive fear. But Lieutenant Pantoja’s face does not reveal it; one by one he scrutinizes the soldiers who are getting ready to enter the clothing storeroom in an orderly manner. But something provokes discreet laughter from those parade uniforms looking down from way up there, where the roof of the storeroom ought to be but where the reviewing stand of the National Holidays is instead. Is Colonel Montes present? Yes. Tiger Collazos? Yes. General Victoria? Yes. Colonel López López? Yes. They have begun to smile timidly, concealing their mouths with their maroon leather gloves, turning their heads a little to one side, whispering? But Lieutenant Pantoja knows how, what, why. He does not want to look at the soldiers who await the whistle to enter, collect their new clothes and turn in the old, because he suspects, knows or guesses that when he looks, confirms and positively knows, Mother Leonor will know and Pochita will too. But his eyes suddenly switch their look and examine the military formation: ha ha, how funny—oh, what a disgrace. Yes, that’s how it happened. As thick as blood, the anguish flows under his skin. While he watches, a prisoner of icy terror, fighting to hide his feelings, he looks at how they’re done up, they’re filling out the recruits’ uniforms in the chest, in the shoulders, in the hips, in the thighs, their hair is flowing from under their caps, their features have grown smooth, sweet and blushing, the masculine stares grow tender, ironic and mischievous. The panic has been replaced by rebellious and sarcastic ridicule. He makes the abrupt decision to put all his eggs in one basket, and sticking his chest out a little, he orders: “Unbutton your shirts, damn it!” But already they are passing under his eyes, the buttons undone, the buttonholes empty, the backstitched edges of their shirts swaying, the flitting, erect nipples of the recruits, the wobbling and alabaster, the delicate and earthy breasts swinging to the beat of the march. But Lieutenant Pantoja is already leading the company, his sword raised, his profile severe, his forehead noble, his eyes clear, stamping the asphalt decisively: one-two, one-two. No one knows how he curses his luck. His suffering is profound, his humiliation great, his shame infinite because behind him, marking time without any martial rhythm, blandly, like mares in the mud, come the recently inducted recruits, who did not know enough to bind their breasts, to wear deceptive shirts, to trim their hair to the five centimeters prescribed by regulations and to cut their nails. He senses them marching behind him and guesses they are not trying to imitate masculine expressions; they are aggressively exhibiting their feminine qualities: they stick out their busts, grind their hips, wiggle their backsides and shake their long hair. (A shudder: he is about to pee in his pants. Mother Leonor would find out when she irons his uniform, Pochita would laugh when she sews on his new stripe.)
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