Tales from the Town of Widows

by James Canon

  Santiago held his own hand up, turned it around, made a fist and released it without taking his triumphant eyes off the golden band on his finger. It was official: he was finally engaged to Pablo.

  NINETEEN EIGHTY-EIGHT. FOUR Augusts had gone by, and Santiago still hadn’t heard a word from Pablo. Señorita Lucía and her husband had visited once, but they had no news of him. “I don’t know where he is,” she said. “William and I moved to a new house, and we haven’t heard anything from him since.” But Santiago wouldn’t give up. Before the couple went back to the States, he gave them the stack of letters he’d written to Pablo. “New York is a big city, Santiago. It’ll be impossible to give him your letters without knowing his address.”

  “Please, Señorita Lucía, take them with you. Just in case you ever see him on the street.”

  “I’ll take them. Only I can’t promise you that Pablo will ever read them.”

  Santiago was now in charge of overseeing the Restrepos’ house. He kept an inventory of provisions and cleaning supplies and was given a weekly budget to keep every item up to par. He was responsible for hiring maids and gardeners and for keeping the altar of the house decorated with fresh fruit and flowers. He worked from six in the morning to six at night, making sure he didn’t have time to himself. Himself was a terrible word he’d been forced to learn after Pablo left; a state of solitude and desolation he confronted every night in his bedroom. What if Pablo had lost his memory, like Ernesto in Señorita Lucía’s story? What if he’d met someone else and forgotten about Santiago? From time to time the doubts overpowered his hopefulness, making him weep softly. He rewrote the ending of Señorita Lucía’s story over and over, and when he couldn’t think of one more possible way to finish it, he rewrote the entire story.

  His version of the story went like this:

  Once upon a time there were two young men named Pedro and Samuel, who were deeply in love with each other. Like every good loving couple they wanted to get engaged, but were too poor to afford the high cost of the rings. Pedro, then, decided to leave for Nueva York to work and save money to buy their engagement rings. They were very sad when they said good-bye. They cried and swore undying love. Pedro promised to write every week and to return to be with Samuel forever. A year passed, and Samuel didn’t receive any letter from Pedro. But Samuel didn’t worry. He trusted Pedro and was certain that he had a good reason not to write. Every time he was struck by some doubts, he’d drive those evil thoughts out by saying to himself, “Pedro loves me. He’s coming back.” Samuel waited a long time but never gave up hope.

  One night, he was bathing in the river when he heard someone call his name. He looked around and saw Pedro coming out of the bushes. He wore a perfectly pressed white suit, red tie and white patent leather shoes, and he carried two suitcases. Samuel thought he was just seeing things. But no, it was really Pedro. He rushed out of the water and kissed him. Pedro opened one of the suitcases. The inside was filled with the hundreds of letters he’d written to Samuel, all of which had been sent back to him for one reason or another. Then Pedro opened the other suitcase. Inside there was a neatly folded wedding gown.

  “This is for you, Samuel,” Pedro said. “I want us to get married. Now.”

  “Oh, Pedro! I don’t know what to say. We’re not engaged yet,” Samuel said.

  “I’m sorry. I almost forgot,” Pedro replied, pulling a little box from his pocket. When he opened the box, a light nearly blinded Samuel. It was a gold engagement ring crowned with a big diamond. “Would you marry me?” Pedro asked.

  “Yes,” Samuel answered with a smile. They kissed. Then Pedro gave Samuel the suitcase with the wedding gown and asked him to get dressed. Samuel was aware that the groom shouldn’t see the bride before the ceremony, so he went behind the bushes. The gown was really nice: all white, sleeveless, with a low-cut neckline and a long skirt shaped like a bell. The train was about three yards long. The gown came with a veil and a pair of white shoes. Samuel had no doubt this was the most expensive wedding gown in all New York, but he didn’t feel bad because he knew he was worth it. He put on the gown and veil and arranged wild flowers into a colorful bunch, then came out of the bushes. Dozens of people had gathered, waiting for Samuel to come out. These people were relatives and neighbors that Pedro had invited beforehand. They clapped and cheered as Samuel walked slowly through them with the flowers in his hands. Samuel met Pedro at the end, near the bank. Pedro lifted the veil and was pleasantly surprised to see a full moon reflected in each of Samuel’s eyes. “I love you, my darling,” he said. They kissed and at that moment a brief shower of rice rained down on both of them. Pedro took Samuel in his arms and walked into the river until the warm water covered his waist.

  “We’re the happiest couple on earth,” Pedro said.

  “We are, my love,” Samuel echoed.

  They promised that they would never again be separated and lived happily ever after.

  SANTIAGO READ THE story every night before going to bed, like a prayer. At length he memorized it and was able to recite it to himself throughout the day.

  SANTIAGO WRAPPED PABLO back up in the white towel, picked him up in his arms and started down the street with him. The widows lingering on the block glanced furtively at Santiago’s pained face as he passed them by. They shook their heads, crossed themselves, whispered prayers and rubbed their prying eyes.

  “Bring him in, son,” Santiago’s mother shouted from her door. “We can spare him something to eat.”

  Santiago kept walking in silence.

  “He must be cold.” She sounded overly distressed. “Let me get some clothes for him.” Her shouts got louder as her son moved farther away with Pablo. From behind, they looked like a large black cross vanishing amid the dusty lights of the many candles that faintly burned on both sides of the road.

  “Where are you going with that man, Santiago Marín?” the magistrate called from Cecilia and Francisca’s window. “You’ll be put in quarantine, you hear me? Don’t go saying I didn’t warn you.”

  Santiago didn’t reply, didn’t stop or look back. He gazed fondly at the bundle in his arms and brought it even closer to his own body.

  The full moon lit the narrow footpath. Only once did Santiago stop to rest. He knelt on the side of the path with his buttocks on the back of his heels and Pablo in his lap.

  “Where are we going?” Pablo said in a low voice.

  “To the one place you ought to see.” Their deep voices did not agree with the sounds of the night, the rustling of the branches, the creaking of the trunks, the noises made by frogs, cicadas, owls and other night creatures.

  “I want to see the plaza…and the church.”

  “They’re all the same as when you left.”

  It was hot. Beads of sweat appeared along Santiago’s forehead and ran down his face. He closed his eyes and imagined that the man in his arms was a basket filled with purple orchids; just as delicate, just as beautiful. He rose, half smiling, and went on, slower than before because enormous clouds had blocked out the moonlight and he couldn’t see well. His feet would take them to where they were going.

  “Take me to see my father,” Pablo said.

  “He’s gone, Pablo.”

  “Then…take me to see my brothers.”

  “They’re gone, too.”

  SANTIAGO DIDN’T TELL Pablo how they died. He didn’t tell Pablo that five years before Communist guerrillas had assaulted Mariquita, claiming their men. That the rebels said they were fighting so that no Colombian should go a day without eating a good meal, and then ate their food and drank their water. That they said they were leading the country toward a society in which all property would be publicly owned, and then went from house to house raping their sisters and mothers. That they demanded that every man older than twelve join them, saying they would give each one a rifle, a freedom rifle to fight against the government, to defend their rights. But when Pablo’s father asked for his right to choose not to join the movement, they s
hot him dead with one of the very freedom rifles they handed out. Then they killed his two brothers, too, because “Colombia doesn’t need any more cowards.”

  Santiago didn’t tell Pablo that the guerrillas took all the men away; that he, Santiago, had escaped the forced recruitment because he was still employed in Don Maximiliano’s country house; that he went back into town as soon as he heard about the assault; and that he promised his mother and sisters not to ever leave them again after what he saw: houses burned down to nothing, mad widows weeping among the rubbish, old women praying on their bare knees with their bloodstained hands pressed together and their eyes tightly shut, young girls furiously rubbing their abused bodies with mud, cursing their lives, naked little boys and girls crying and roaming the streets, shouting for their fathers and brothers.

  Santiago didn’t tell Pablo any of that. He just went on, following his own feet that knew the trail better than him.

  “But, Mamá…she’s in the house. I heard the driver…” Pablo’s voice grew weaker every time he spoke.

  “Yes, she’s there; she hardly ever leaves her house. But when she does, a parrot’s on her shoulder and three old dogs follow her closely. She doesn’t talk to anyone.”

  “Is she insane?”

  “She’s happy. Happier than most of the widows in town. She’s not alone. Every relative she lost, she replaced with an animal.”

  Pablo pressed his face hard against Santiago’s chest and wept softly.

  THE MOON BROKE through the clouds, larger and brighter, shining down on the two men. When Santiago sighted their destination at last, he slowed down, but his breathing still came fast, the warm air coming in and out of his lungs in convulsive short waves.

  “We’re here,” he whispered. They were by the river, where he and Pablo had played father and mother so many times. Santiago stood on the bank, watching the water flow steadily, listening to its bold splashing sound. “Look how beautiful it is,” he said. Pablo looked up, and it was extraordinary and moving to see a full bright moon reflected in each of his sunken eyes, lighting up an otherwise lifeless face. “I love you,” Santiago said, tightening his grasp on Pablo and walking purposefully into the river as they used to do when they were children. The cold water gradually covered his naked feet, his ankles and calves, his knees and thighs, his waist. Then he stopped, kissed Pablo lightly on the lips and watched him smile, watched his eyes grow wide and his nostrils swell like they had when he’d wanted to leave for New York.

  Pablo was ready to leave again.

  Santiago looked up at the moon and stretched out his arms, as if he were offering a sacrifice. He fixed his gaze on Pablo’s face, filling himself full of the man he loved, and gently began to release his hold on him, his solid arms slowly separating from the smallness of his lover’s back, giving him to the current like a gift. Pablo’s flimsy figure drifted away from him, down the river, now disappearing into the water, now rising back to the surface, until all that was left of him was a white towel caught up in an eddy, bobbing up and down.

  Or maybe it was the full moon now shining on the water.

  Manuel Reyes, 23

  Guerrilla soldier

  When I came to, I was lying on my stomach in a field of grass. My body hurt, and my nose, mouth and throat burned. I lifted my head. A man was sitting in front of me, his face painted black and green. It took me a few seconds to notice other things about him: a patrol hat, a lit cigarette dangling from his mouth, a camouflage uniform, a Galil rifle held between his hands, aimed at my forehead.

  “You have no idea how happy I am you’re alive,” he said cynically.

  I slowly began to trace, in my mind, the events leading up to that moment. Falling overboard, water rushing in my mouth and nose, my arms struggling desperately against the current, trying to stay afloat. I couldn’t remember anything else.

  The man identified himself as a paramilitary soldier. He told me he’d get two hundred thousand pesos if he brought me back to his camp alive. “You ought to be thankful. You’re the lucky one,” he said, the cigarette smoke dribbling out the side of his mouth. “See that guy next to you?” I turned my head to the side. A half-naked man lay flat on his stomach, hardly a yard away from me. “The poor bastard drowned. He’s still worth a few thousand pesos, though.”

  He got up and ordered me to pick up the corpse and carry it. His camp was about two hours away on foot. When I turned the body over to put it on my shoulder, I realized it was Campo Elías Restrepo Jr., my best friend in the guerrillas. Right then I remembered the rest: Campo Elías and I had developed a perfect plan to escape from the guerrillas, from the war. The night before, while on guard duty, I’d handed my gun to a comrade (deserting with his gun is the worst offense a fighter can do against his former group) and told him, “Look, comrade, I’m gonna be taking a crap behind the shrubs over there.” I couldn’t tell him I was fleeing. The guerrilla rule is to kill anyone who proposes to sneak off, even if he’s your commander. I rushed down to the abandoned shack, where Campo Elías was waiting for me with the makeshift raft he’d built. We’d been crossing the river when our raft got caught up in a whirlpool and overturned.

  He’s just pretending to be dead, I thought—that was part of our plan—but when I picked him up, his head went limp. His face was pale, his lips purplish. His eyes were wide open, but only the whites were visible, like he’d decided there was nothing else worth seeing and turned them backward.

  I began to walk quietly with Campo Elías on my shoulder, wondering what would happen to me, thinking that he—not me—was the lucky one: he’d escaped from it all.

  CHAPTER 7

  The Virgin Sacrifice

  Mariquita, April 22, 1998

  IT WAS THE PRIEST’S own idea to break the Sixth Commandment of God’s law. One day he decided to pay a visit to the magistrate to discuss what he called “a pressing need for procreation.” He went to her office early in the afternoon, wearing his black polyester soutane despite the relentless heat that followed a fierce three-day storm. He brought his altar boy, fourteen-year-old Hochiminh Ospina, who was on probation for eating an entire week’s supply of hosts. The boy, who was fat and soft and flabby, hated the job, especially when, as on this day, he had to carry around el padre’s gigantic Bible. “Can’t we take a smaller Bible?” he asked every time, and every time he heard the same answer: “No.” El padre was convinced that a big Bible made him more important and added weight to his moralizing discourse.

  Inside Rosalba’s office, the priest stood next to the window reading aloud an extensive selection of excerpts and psalms about procreation. The magistrate thought they were rather tedious and wondered why the priest didn’t just get to the point.

  “Praise be to God!” he exclaimed after he finished. He slammed the Bible closed, peered over the tops of his reading spectacles and declared, “It’s our obligation to ensure the survival of our species.”

  “I agree with you, Padre,” the magistrate replied. “Bringing men back to Mariquita has been one of my priorities since I was appointed magistrate. More than once I have requested the government, even the Lord, to send us a truck full of them.”

  “The Lord can only do so much,” the priest said. “But what about the commissioner and the governor? Have they written back to you?” he added insincerely. He knew the answer.

  “Who knows? They might have,” she replied, in a tone that suggested rather a yes than a no. “But now that the storm has swept every access road to our village, I doubt we’ll ever again see a postman around here—or anyone else, for that matter.” She thought about the actual implications of what she had just said: no more merchants, no more occasional visitors, no more passing travelers, no more men ever again. The dismal prospect made her anxious. “We must do something about those roads immediately,” she asserted, fetching her notebook and a stub of a pencil from a drawer.

  “First things first, my child,” the priest suddenly interposed, before the magistrate could add Have access
roads rebuilt to her long, useless list of priorities. “Procreation must be our number-one priority.” He motioned to the altar boy to step outside, then sat across from Rosalba. Together they discussed the issue at length, concluding that Mariquita’s women had to bear boys soon, or else their village would disappear with the present generation. The magistrate suggested that Santiago Marín “do the job.”

  El padre shook his head, looking as if he’d just been cursed. “May God forgive that…man.”

  “Oh, Padre Rafael,” Rosalba groaned. “Are you still bearing Santiago Marín a grudge for what he did?” She rolled her eyes and breathed an impatient sigh, oblivious to her condescending manner. “Wouldn’t you agree that being in quarantine, alone with his grief, was enough punishment for that poor man? Good Lord! It must take a great deal of courage, and love, to do what he did. And that’s exactly why I’d rather think of Santiago as one of us, a widow. The Other Widow.”

  Feeling offended, el padre met Rosalba’s comment with impervious silence. He looked the other way and began playing with his fingers, which lay on top of his prominent stomach.

  “Besides,” Rosalba continued heedlessly, “he’s the best chance we have to get a woman impregnated.”

  El padre abruptly stood up. “Never!” he roared, hitting the magistrate’s desk with his palm. “A man who’s sinned against the Lord by lying with another man will never father the future people of Mariquita!” He reached into his pocket for a handkerchief and patted his forehead with it, his hands trembling.

  The magistrate observed the priest quietly and decided she’d wait for the little man to calm down. She was used to el padre’s bad temper. One time, long ago, he’d torn out the few strands of hair left on his head because he’d run out of wafers for the Eucharist. “Oh, what a disgrace!” he had said. How did they expect him to celebrate mass without the Body of Christ to offer? Was he supposed to just skip Holy Communion, the most significant part of the liturgy? In the end Rosalba, as always, had solved the problem. She made tiny, thin arepas and suggested that el padre bless them. At first he was insulted: “The Body of Christ a piece of corn bread?” But Rosalba made him understand that hosts were nothing but thin pieces of bread, and at length he accepted her offer. With all the confusion, however, the priest forgot to bless the arepas, and as a result the women swallowed in church the same thing they’d eaten for breakfast at home, only smaller. Ever since that day arepas had become Mariquita’s hosts, sometimes sweet, sometimes salty, and, when available, flavored with cheese.