“Take good care of her. She’s my lady.” He handed the man a bill.
We took a short footpath out of the parking lot and suddenly found ourselves on a street flooded with flashing neon lights. Two boys raced past, pointing sticks at each other and making the sounds of men shooting guns. One slammed into Fidel’s legs, his head reaching barely as high as Fidel’s thigh. The little boy stopped and stood back.
“I’m sorry, sir,” he gasped in Spanish.
Fidel placed both his hands on the boy’s shoulders. “No harm done, my man,” he said. “But tell me, what were you and your friend shooting at?”
The other boy came up to us. He placed his arm protectively around the first. “My brother,” he explained. “We’re sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Fidel chuckled gently. “He didn’t hurt me. I just asked him what you guys were shooting at. I think I used to play the same game.”
The brothers glanced at each other. The older one smiled. “He’s the gringo general at the Canal Zone. He tried to rape our mother and I’m sending him packing, back to where he belongs.”
Fidel stole a look at me. “Where does he belong?”
“At home, in the United States.”
“Does your mother work here?”
“Over there.” Both boys pointed proudly at a neon light down the street. “Bartender.”
“Go on then.” Fidel handed them each a coin. “But be careful. Stay in the lights.”
“Oh yes, sir. Thank you.” They raced off.
As we walked on, Fidel explained that Panamanian women were prohibited by law from prostitution. “They can tend bar and dance, but cannot sell their bodies. That’s left to the imports.”
We stepped inside the bar and were blasted with a popular American song. My eyes and ears took a moment to adjust. A couple of burly U.S. soldiers stood near the door; bands around their uniformed arms identified them as MPs.
Fidel led me along a bar, and then I saw the stage. Three young women were dancing there, entirely naked except for their heads. One wore a sailor’s cap, another a green beret, and the third a cowboy hat. They had spectacular figures and were laughing. They seemed to be playing a game with one another, as though dancing in a competition. The music, the way they danced, the stage — it could have been a disco in Boston, except that they were naked.
We pushed our way through a group of young English-speaking men. Although they wore T-shirts and blue jeans, their crew cuts gave them away as soldiers from the Canal Zone’s military base. Fidel tapped a waitress on the shoulder. She turned, let out a scream of delight, and threw her arms around him. The group of young men watched this intently, glancing at one another with disapproval. I wondered if they thought Manifest Destiny included this Panamanian woman. The waitress led us to a corner. From somewhere, she produced a small table and two chairs.
As we settled in, Fidel exchanged greetings in Spanish with two men at a table beside ours. Unlike the soldiers, they wore printed short-sleeved shirts and creased slacks. The waitress returned with a couple of Balboa beers, and Fidel patted her on the rump as she turned to leave. She smiled and threw him a kiss. I glanced around and was relieved to discover that the young men at the bar were no longer watching us; they were focused on the dancers.
The majority of the patrons were English-speaking soldiers, but there were others, like the two beside us, who obviously were Panamanians. They stood out because their hair would not have passed inspection, and because they did not wear T-shirts and jeans. A few of them sat at tables, others leaned against the walls. They seemed to be highly alert, like border collies guarding flocks of sheep.
Women roamed the tables. They moved constantly, sitting on laps, shouting to the waitresses, dancing, swirling, singing, taking turns on the stage. They wore tight skirts, T-shirts, jeans, clinging dresses, high heels. One was dressed in a Victorian gown and veil. Another wore only a bikini. It was obvious that only the most beautiful could survive here. I marveled at the numbers who made their way to Panama and wondered at the desperation that had driven them to this.
“All from other countries?” I shouted to Fidel above the music.
He nodded. “Except…” He pointed at the waitresses. “They’re Panamanian.”
“What countries?”
“Honduras, El Salvador, Nicaragua, and Guatemala.”
“Neighbors.”
“Not entirely. Costa Rica and Colombia are our closest neighbors.”
The waitress who had led us to this table came and sat on Fidel’s knee. He gently rubbed her back.
“Clarissa,” he said, “please tell my North American friend why they left their countries.” He nodded his head in the direction of the stage. Three new girls were accepting the hats from the others, who jumped down and started dressing. The music switched to salsa, and as the newcomers danced, they shed their clothes to the rhythm.
Clarissa held out her right hand. “I’m pleased to meet you,” she said. Then she stood up and reached for our empty bottles. “In answer to Fidel’s question, these girls come here to escape brutality. I’ll bring a couple more Balboas.”
After she left, I turned to Fidel. “Come on,” I said. “They’re here for U.S. dollars.”
“True. But why so many from the countries where fascist dictators rule?”
I glanced back at the stage. The three of them were giggling and throwing the sailor’s cap around like a ball. I looked Fidel in the eye. “You’re not kidding, are you?”
“No,” he said seriously, “I wish I were. Most of these girls have lost their families — fathers, brothers, husbands, boyfriends. They grew up with torture and death. Dancing and prostitution don’t seem all that bad to them. They can make a lot of money here, then start fresh somewhere, buy a little shop, open a café—”
He was interrupted by a commotion near the bar. I saw a waitress swing her fist at one of the soldiers, who caught her hand and began to twist her wrist. She screamed and fell to her knee. He laughed and shouted to his buddies. They all laughed. She tried to hit him with her free hand. He twisted harder. Her face contorted with pain.
The MPs remained by the door, watching calmly. Fidel jumped to his feet and started toward the bar. One of the men at the table next to ours held out a hand to stop him. “Tranquilo, hermano,” he said. “Be calm, brother. Enrique has control.”
A tall, slim Panamanian came out of the shadows near the stage. He moved like a cat and was upon the soldier in an instant. One hand encircled the man’s throat while the other doused him in the face with a glass of water. The waitress slipped away. Several of the Panamanians who had been lounging against the walls formed a protective semicircle around the tall bouncer. He lifted the soldier against the bar and said something I couldn’t hear. Then he raised his voice and spoke slowly in English, loudly enough for everyone in the still room to hear over the music.
“The waitresses are off-limits to you guys, and you don’t touch the others until after you pay them.”
The two MPs finally swung into action. They approached the cluster of Panamanians. “We’ll take it from here, Enrique,” they said.
The bouncer lowered the soldier to the floor and gave his neck a final squeeze, forcing the other’s head back and eliciting a cry of pain.
“Do you understand me?” There was a feeble groan. “Good.” He pushed the soldier at the two MPs. “Get him out of here.”
CHAPTER 13. Conversations with the General
The invitation was completely unexpected. One morning during that same 1972 visit, I was sitting in an office I had been given at the Instituto de Recursos Hidraulicos y Electrificación, Panama’s government-owned electric utility company. I was poring over a sheet of statistics when a man knocked gently on the frame of my open door. I invited him in, pleased with any excuse to take my attention off the numbers. He announced himself as the general’s chauffeur and said he had come to take me to one of the general’s bungalows.