by James Canon
Matilde didn’t want the young girl to follow in her footsteps. Every morning, she sent Emilia out on the street with a basket full of fruit to sell, just to keep her away from the brothel. Up and down the streets of Mariquita walked Emilia in her pink dresses, shouting her fruit, “Guayabas!” her black hair in braids, “Naranjas!” her long arms swinging back and forth, “Mandarinas!” a large basket gracefully balancing on her head.
But the girl was doomed to be a prostitute.
One breezy morning, a gust of wind blew Emilia’s basket out of balance, and the fruit scattered everywhere over the ground. A group of boys who were playing soccer on the street saw it happen. They roared with laughter, pointing their little fingers at her, calling her names. Emilia knelt down and began to weep. The boys ran after the fruit and gobbled it up. The girl went back to Matilde and told her she wanted to work doing what all her mothers had done.
The very first time she performed she didn’t get paid. She was thirteen and a virgin, and the pain was so severe that she pushed the client off her body and hid beneath the bed. The very last time she performed she returned the man’s money. She was sixty-eight, and her upper dentures fell out during an oral session. Her client, an adolescent with a pimply face, had no complaints, but the old lady thought it unprofessional and insisted the young man take his money back. Doña Emilia’s long career was filled with hundreds of anecdotes. On slow nights she used to sit in the red room surrounded by all the girls, light a thin cigar, pour herself a glass of apple wine and share her stories with them. She never mentioned the names of the patrons.
After the day the men disappeared, there were too many slow nights at La Casa. In addition to tale-telling, the old madam held nightly meetings with her twelve girls to encourage them to hold fast to their profession, and to keep up their spirits. “We’ve come a long way together, my dears,” she told them. “It’s true that we haven’t had a customer in days, but I have a feeling that our men will soon be returned by the guerrillas. I just know they will.” But as the nights went by without a single patron, the girls started losing their patience. One night, after three weeks, they decided to confront the old woman:
“Doña Emilia,” said Viviana, the most articulate of the group. “It’s been almost a month since a man walked through that door. Let’s face it, the men of this town are gone for good.” The other eleven girls nodded in silence. “We can’t just sit and wait for a miracle to happen. We all have families to support back home.” She paused briefly, as though thinking through what she was about to say, then added, “We’ve decided to start touring the farms nearby. There’s got to be farmers and coffee pickers in need of our services.”
Silence.
“Maybe you and we can work a deal,” Viviana continued after a while. “Maybe we each just rent a room from you. That way we keep doing what we know, and you become—an innkeeper. You make money, we make money, and everyone’s happy. What do you think?”
All twelve sets of eyes turned to Doña Emilia for an answer.
The old madam appeared to be calm, but her hands had begun to shake, causing the wine in her glass to rock gently. She settled the glass on a table and her hands on her lap, one holding the other tightly. “There’s a thing no woman can afford to lose,” she said condescendingly. “Her dignity. Each of you was hired because you fulfilled the requirements to perform for the rich: business gentlemen and landowners. These farm workers you just mentioned, dear”—she was now addressing Viviana alone—“they’re indeed agreeable people. In fact, I’m acquainted with a few of them myself. But they’re common laborers, a different clientele entirely. They’re unclean and smell of soil.” Then, addressing the entire group, she said, “I’d hate to see you lower yourselves.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” said La Gringa, named for her dyed yellow hair. “You have savings and no one to support.”
“When it comes to what we do, men are men no matter what class they belong to,” said Negrita. There was resistance in her voice.
The other girls soon joined the discussion by getting up, nodding and shouting their discontent. Doña Emilia realized she needed to offer a solution quickly, before the situation got out of control. “Please calm down,” she said. “I understand why you are upset, but you must believe in me. I guarantee you that as long as La Casa de Emilia is open for business, you’ll always have a room to sleep in and plenty of food.” She sounded almost maternal.
“We don’t want any damn food!” snapped Zulia.
“There’s no need to curse, dear,” Doña Emilia tenderly said. “La Casa is indeed going through a difficult time, but I’m convinced that together we can overcome every obstacle. Give me until tomorrow night to come up with an alternative solution.” The old lady had the ability to inspire affection in her girls. They agreed to wait and went to sleep.
The following night they met in the same room. Wearing a confident smile on her face, Doña Emilia began: “From now on, and until business improves, each of you will receive a basic salary.” She had decided to invest her life savings in her girls in return for one thing: “Since you have nothing to do at the moment, I want each of you properly trained. In the pleasure business you’re never too old to learn something new.” Doña Emilia herself would conduct individual sessions with the girls. She’d teach them everything she’d learned throughout her more than fifty years of experience: unique sexual positions and techniques, but also personal hygiene and social skills. During the course of their training, she’d have them role-play and take oral tests.
The second part of Doña Emilia’s plan included a promotional tour through selected towns the guerrillas had not yet stripped of men. Furthermore, she was going to hire a photographer from the town of Honda to take pictures of each girl for a portfolio. The portfolio would be shown to potential customers in other towns so they could appreciate in detail what La Casa had to offer.
When the madam finished her improvised speech, the twelve girls gave her a standing ovation. While they mostly cared about money, the idea of having their pictures taken, some of them for the first time, had touched their softest spot, their vanity. They were uneducated women whose identification cards read, “The aforementioned is unable to sign her name.” Nearly all had been brutally raped at an early age by their own male relatives. Three of them had borne children but left them with their own mothers and fled. All of them had spent their adolescence and adult lives going from town to town, wishing that the next town would be different, but finding out it was just the same.
Doña Emilia had shown them kindness and respect. Deep inside they were fond of her and admired her success. More than one girl saw herself in the small lady.
THE ONE-HOUR INDIVIDUAL training sessions started the following day. Six girls in the morning, six in the afternoon, plus two hours of role-playing at night. “The difference between a prostitute and an Emilia’s girl,” she lectured her pupils, “is that a prostitute spreads her legs and lets the man do the work, while an Emilia’s girl does the work from beginning to end.” Each session was focused on a different technique to satisfy a man. One session was on finding the areas of the male body that were especially sensitive to sexual stimulation. The anus, Doña Emilia said, was number one, even though most men denied themselves that pleasure. Another session was on contracting the muscles inside their vaginas, which most of them didn’t even know they had, to squeeze a man’s penis during intercourse. Doña Emilia claimed that when she was younger, she’d mastered this technique to the point where she could bring men to orgasm without moving her body at all. The madam also talked to the girls about the importance of self-confidence: “Only a self-satisfied woman can fully satisfy a man,” she said. And finally, she taught them ten of the most uncommon sexual positions she knew men liked but were too embarrassed to ask for from the mother of their children. These acrobatic challenges she’d given her own names to, like the Gluttonous Cow, the Colombian Roller Coaster and the Cuckoo Clock. Doña Emilia always
ended each session with the same advice: “Remember to be respectful to your clients’ wives if you ever see them on the street. After all, it’s thanks to them that we’re in business.”
A photographer came from Honda to work on La Casa’s portfolio. Each girl had three portraits made: one in casual clothes, one in underwear, and one in nothing, with her hands covering her private parts. For her own pictures, Doña Emilia took the photographer’s suggestion and wore conservative, dark-colored suits.
With the portfolio under her arm, the madam began her promotional tours. She took a different girl with her every time, visiting neighboring towns like Fresno, which was about sixty miles west of Mariquita through neglected curvy roads, but also others that weren’t very close, like the town of Dorada, a hundred-and-twenty-mile trip to the north. They went from business to business, requesting private interviews with the owners. Once Doña Emilia had the owner’s attention, she was very straightforward: “Do you like women?” After the positive answer, she would whisper, “Then you’ve got to come see my girls,” and promptly unfold La Casa’s portfolio before the astonished man’s eyes. She urged the men to make appointments at once, recorded them in La Casa’s engagement calendar, and handed out her business card with the motto, “When was the last time you were in a house with twelve naked women? Welcome to La Casa de Emilia.”
IN THE TOWNS of Lérida and Líbano, the news of the retrained girls of Doña Emilia’s house was gladly received and rapidly spread among the men. Traveling out of their villages eliminated the risk of being caught by their wives and neighbors.
In Honda and Dorada the response was also great. So great was it that on weekends the men chartered vans and Jeeps to do round trips to La Casa.
In the weeks following Doña Emilia’s tours, La Casa experienced a rapid surge in business. Likewise, Doña Emilia experienced a growing desire for money to pay off her investment. She adopted extreme measures to ensure a good profit. Before taking a man to a room, each girl had to make him buy a bottle of liquor. The period spent with a client was shortened from twenty to fifteen minutes regardless of the man. Business hours were extended during the week, and on weekends the brothel was open twenty-four hours, with only four girls allowed to sleep at a time. Working overtime was strongly recommended, although not required. Smoking breaks were canceled, and breaks between clients shortened to five minutes. Customers could extend a session only if the girl didn’t have a waiting list. Finally, repeat customers, older and handicapped men, had priority at all times. These measures caused mixed reactions among the girls, but the madam wouldn’t accept any argument.
Customer satisfaction reports improved tremendously. According to Doña Emilia’s latest survey, 90 percent of those serviced were satisfied, versus a mediocre 60 percent reported the week before Mariquita’s men disappeared. To get this information, the old madam made it a habit to personally say good-bye to her clients, ask them whether or not they had enjoyed their session, and give them a red rose, “For your wife or your girlfriend,” she would say.
WHAT AN ENTREPRENEUR I was then! Doña Emilia said to herself as she opened her eyes. She was relieved to see the large mango still hanging from the tallest branch of the tree, and wondered who would be the fortunate one to eat it. A flock of birds, she thought. Yes, a flock of pretty white little birds would appreciate its soft pulpy flesh and sweet flavor. An approving smile appeared on her face. Or perhaps a dog…. At the moment she had a number of them sleeping at her feet. No, dogs swallow without tasting what they eat. That wouldn’t do for such a special mango.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a group of women talking in loud voices. Four girls were approaching her. Magnolia Morales was among them; Doña Emilia could recognize the girl’s shrill voice anywhere. She once had seen in a store a talking doll that had the same screeching voice as Magnolia. The girls stopped before the old woman, murmuring something unintelligibly; soon they were but guffaws of laughter that rang in Doña Emilia’s ears long after they were gone. I only hope none of those women gets to eat that mango, she thought. Those despicable old maids don’t deserve such a treat. Her eyes narrowed with hatred, and she bit her lower lip with her dentures.
The former madam had good reason to despise the spinsters of Mariquita. After all, it was because of them that La Casa had gone out of business.
ALMOST TWO MONTHS had gone by since Mariquita’s men had disappeared, and while the widows were mourning their husbands, the young women were getting restless. They couldn’t accept the idea that they lived in a town of widows and spinsters; that they, too, were fated to be single forever.
Magnolia Morales led a small support group for young women, which met in the middle of the plaza every night after the public rosary was said. They talked only about men; not their own male relatives, but their boyfriends, suitors or the ones they had secretly loved. Topics like the worsening drought, its consequences on their crops and the forthcoming shortage of food were positively banned from their meeting. Instead, the young women shared romantic anecdotes and stories of their sexual experiences, and showed one another pictures of their departed men as well as presents they had been given: dried flowers kept pressed between books, pieces of hair, even male underwear. Night after night they fantasized about the glorious day when their beloveds would be returned to them.
One evening, the girls heard the roar of a car approaching the plaza. They jumped up. Not a single car had driven along Mariquita’s dusty roads in a while. Four men in a beat-up green Jeep drove past them without so much as a honk or a courteous wave. The girls looked confounded. A few minutes later, another Jeep with five men drove by the plaza. Magnolia ran toward the road with her hands and kerchief flying in the air, shouting for them to stop. But they drove past without noticing her. Magnolia was upset and frustrated, but not defeated. She waited calmly until she heard yet another car approaching the plaza. Then she ordered the girls to line up across the street, their hands linked together in a human chain. The driver, a balding, middle-aged fellow, pulled over and rolled down the window of his red Jeep. Three other men traveled with him.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” said Magnolia, addressing the driver.
“How can we assist such lovely women?”
“We were just wondering where you all have come from and where you’re headed. Our village is quite far from the main road—”
“We’re from the town of Honda, muñeca, and we’re going to visit the girls of Doña Emilia,” said the driver, producing the business card the madam had given him.
“Doña Emilia said she had twelve pretty girls available,” the harsh voice came from the back of the Jeep, “but I only see nine of you.”
“I’m sorry to disappoint you,” Magnolia replied, her voice sarcastic, “but we’re not ladies of the night. We have nothing to do with that woman.”
“Well, if that’s so, then clear the way, preciosas. We have some urgent business to take care of,” said the driver. The other men laughed.
Magnolia signaled the girls to clear the road, and the men were soon gone.
The girls went back to the plaza and sat on the ground. They tried to go on with their nightly meeting, but the strong, virile smell of the men perfumed the air, and their voices and laughter echoed in the women’s ears.
“This is unfair,” said Sandra Villegas. “I’m sitting here longing for a man, while those whores are getting paid to sleep with several a night. I’m getting tired of living on memories. These pictures will only yellow and the faces on them disappear.”
“It’s only been a couple of months,” replied Marcela López, who had been engaged to Jacinto Jiménez Jr., the former magistrate’s son. “We must remain loyal to our men.”
“I have no man to be faithful to,” said Magnolia, the most experienced of the bunch, “and neither do you,” she added, jerking her chin at Pilar Villegas. “You and I could team up and compete with Doña Emilia’s girls.” The girls laughed hysterically, and their meeting broke up uneven
tfully.
The following night, Magnolia canceled the girls’ meeting and, together with Pilar, went to the outskirts of Mariquita. They wore tight, sleeveless dresses and colorful makeup, and wore their hair down around their shoulders. They smelled the men before they heard the roar of the car or saw the lights. When the driver saw them, he slammed on his brakes and honked. Magnolia stopped, waved at them and continued walking, slower. Pilar kept going without looking back, her legs shaking. The four men craned their necks. They were elegant young men with shaved faces, and they smelled of cologne. “Wait,” one of them yelled through the window, his nostrils flaring. They jumped out of the Jeep and ran toward the girls.
“What pretty flowers have fallen from heaven!” one of them said. “May I ask where you’re going at this time of night?”
“We just needed a breath of fresh air,” said Magnolia, fanning herself with her hands.
“I see,” said the same man. “Are you two from La Casa de Emilia?”
“Not exactly,” replied Magnolia. “A few of us operate independently.” Between sentences, she stroked her tongue flirtatiously around her lips. She said Pilar and herself would be willing to make love to one of them each that night, free of charge, on two conditions.
“Anything you want, muñequita,” said the youngest one, stroking his crotch.
“Firstly, you must promise you’ll treat us as if we were made of crystal. And secondly, all of you must promise never to go back to La Casa de Emilia.”
“I swear to God!” replied the youngest one. He kissed a cross he made with his thumb and index finger. The other three repeated the gesture and sealed the deal by swearing to God in unison.
The men tossed a coin to decide which two would have the honor to be intimate with the girls. The losers, they agreed, would wait in the car, smoking cigarettes and drinking cheap brandy. The youngest one won the right to choose first, and he took Magnolia behind a large rubber tree. They undressed quickly. She kissed him with passion as he slowly immersed himself in her flesh. They lay on top of the thick, waxy leaves fallen from the rubber tree. They moved together, legs and leaves an impenetrable tangle. The other winner, a rather short fellow with a good amount of brilliantine smeared on his hair, took Pilar behind the bushes. She made the man scan the grass for ants and scorpions first, then covered the ground with his and her clothes. They lay on top of the clothes and he began stroking her face, her hair, her breasts. “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve seen,” he said, and gently moved inside her. For a moment she thought they were making love on a cloud, floating in the air. Then they exploded.
