Tales from the Town of Widows

by James Canon

  “Thanks, my child,” said the priest, taking the cup with both hands. He quickly gulped down its contents. “Will your grandmother join us for the Bible reading?”

  “She’s not feeling well.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Is there anything I can do to assist her?”

  “Nothing, unless you can perform miracles. Can you, Padre?” Virgelina said with remarkable harshness.

  El padre chose to receive the girl’s reply silently. He asked Hochiminh to look up Genesis 1:28 in the Bible, and when the boy found it, he moved the Bible onto his own lap, put on his reading spectacles and began to read by the flickering light of the candle:

  “Then God blessed them, and God said unto them, ‘Be fruitful and multiply; and replenish the earth and subdue it; have dominion over the fish of the sea, over the fowl of the air, and over every living thing that moveth upon the earth.’” He crossed himself and, putting away his spectacles in a concealed pocket on the left side of his soutane, added, “Praise be to God!”

  “Is that it? Can I go now?” Hochiminh asked. The priest assented, and both boy and Bible fled without so much as a wave.

  In the few seconds that passed between the moment Hochiminh slammed the door and the moment the priest said, “Shall we, my child?” Virgelina, in her mind, debated whether or not her mother had been wrong to leave her husband. Until that afternoon, she’d only heard good things about her mother. People in the village raved about Nohemí’s innumerable great qualities but seldom mentioned her father. What a wife and mother, Nohemí! What a devoted Catholic, Nohemí! What a kind and generous soul, Nohemí! What a remarkable human being, Nohemí! They spoke so highly and sympathetically of Nohemí that Virgelina, who’d never seen a picture of her mother, imagined her as an angelic figure with long hair, rosy cheeks and a permanent smile. She had set up an altar to her mother in a corner of her bedroom, and she prayed to her every night. The altar had three levels, and it rested on piled-up boxes. On the top level she placed a small image of the Virgin Mary—who represented her mother—a rosary, and a white candle she only lit when she offered a sacrifice. On the middle level she kept a plastic bowl to hold the ladlesful of soup she offered up daily to her mother—she was very fond of soups, Nohemí!—and when she found them, yellow marigold flowers, the flower of the dead. On the bottom level Virgelina arranged a cup full of water and several little charms and trinkets she acquired at the market, in honor of her mother’s spirit.

  But today, after her grandmother’s confession, Nohemí’s image had swiftly deteriorated in Virgelina’s mind. How good could a wife have been who abandoned her husband? Virgelina reflected. And how good a mother, who risked her daughter’s life by having an affair with God knows who?

  “Shall we, my child?” the priest said, rising. He gracefully took the candleholder with two of his fingers and handed it to Virgelina, then motioned to her to go ahead, he’d follow.

  As Virgelina entered her bedroom, closely followed by the priest, her head suddenly cleared. It occurred to her that both her mother and grandmother had had a free choice when they selected their paths. What they could’ve or should’ve done didn’t matter anymore, because back then, at that moment when they had to decide which path to take, in their own minds both women had made the right choices. She, Virgelina, had no right to condemn them.

  Feeling empowered by her realization, Virgelina was able to see that she, too, had the right to make her own decisions. At this very moment several paths presented themselves before her: she could stay in the room with the priest, doing as her grandmother had told her to do, without complaining. She could run away like her mother, without looking back, hoping no one would ever find her. She could tell el padre the truth—that she was terrified—and politely ask him to leave. She could suffer “it” in silence until “it” was finished, then get the biggest knife from their kitchen, thrust it into el padre’s chest, draw his heart out and place it, all bloody, on the top level of her altar, next to the white candle. A sacrifice that big would certainly appease God’s fury against her grandmother; it might even prompt Him to give Lucrecia back her sight and hearing.

  She closed the door with the tips of her fingers and turned around, ever so slowly, to face the eager priest.

  VIRGELINA LAID THE candleholder on the night table. They stared at each other in the flickering light. Only the bed stood between them. From where he stood, the priest could see a small part of the girl’s lips and chin, and the outline of her small right breast. From where she stood, Virgelina made out an inquisitive eye fixed on her right breast, a trembling nostril and half a mouth smiling lustfully at her.

  “Come over here, my dear,” el padre said, patting the bed with the palm of his hand. “Come…”

  The room was so still she heard the throbbing of her own heart. And then, almost in a whisper, the echo of her grandmother’s voice repeating the steps for Virgelina’s defloration began resounding in the girl’s mind.

  Step one: Tell him you’re a virgin so that he’ll be gentle.

  “I’m a virgin, padre,” Virgelina blurted out.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I’m a virgin.”

  He chuckled. “I wouldn’t expect anything different from you, dear.” He walked around the bed, eliminating the space that divided them, and stood confidently before her. One of his hands rested on her hip while the other searched up and down her back for a zipper. It found buttons, undid them, and after a couple of swift motions Virgelina’s dress fell to the floor. She jerked her body a little and wrapped her arms around her chest.

  Step two: Kiss him on the lips, then put your tongue inside his mouth and move it in circles.

  Without releasing her firm grasp from around her bosom, Virgelina pushed her lips together the way her grandmother had instructed her, closed her eyes and thrust her face outward, again and again, like a bird pecking at a piece of fruit, hoping that eventually her mouth would reach his. Recognizing what the girl was trying to accomplish, el padre took her head in his hands, and, standing on his toes, began to kiss her with great tenderness. Virgelina allowed el padre to go about his business, but she wouldn’t put her tongue inside his mouth. How could her grandmother think she’d do such a revolting thing? But el padre wanted to feel her tongue. And so their lips engaged in a violent fight: his twisting around, striving vigorously to push hers open; hers making strenuous efforts to resist. Virgelina had always thought that kisses had flavors, and that when two people liked the flavors of each other’s kisses, they fell in love and kissed and kissed until one of them died or their lips dried out. Her first kiss, however, tasted like spittle and blood because el padre Rafael, frustrated with Virgelina’s reluctance, bit her lips fiercely.

  Step three: Grab his hands and put one on each of your breasts.

  She didn’t need to aim the priest’s shaky hands anywhere. They knew what to look for, where to go, what to do, when to rest and how to stroke. They traveled slowly across her back, stopped at the knot she made with the ends of the pieces of cloth she wore as a brassiere, and untied it with great skill. Next, they yanked down her underwear faster than she could say no. Virgelina tried to blow air toward the candle on the night table, but it was too far away. Instead she shut her eyes as firmly as she could. And then she felt his lips again, this time sucking the angry little ants that had just begun to bite her breasts again, making her nipples itch.

  Step four: Undress him.

  The soutane el padre Rafael wore for his procreation visits was the kind worn exclusively by bishops, archbishops and cardinals. He’d bought it at an auction when he was young and optimistic, thinking one day he’d rise to the highest echelons of the clergy. Later, when he finally understood that he had neither the connections nor the determination to get ahead in the Roman Catholic Church, he started wearing the special soutane whenever it pleased him. It was tailored in black linette and featured purple and gold metallic brocade cuffs, five pleat inserts front and back, gold metallic
piping, a removable tab collar and a full button-front closure, which served a good purpose in el padre’s nocturnal duties.

  Virgelina decided to wait for the priest to rise before disrobing him. At the moment he was on his knees, his slimy tongue between her legs, causing her to make little nervous flutters with her entire body. But when it became obvious that the man wasn’t going to stand up anytime soon, she drew him up by holding her hands in his armpits. Sweating profusely, el padre removed the tab collar—which he liked very much, since it eliminated the need for an underlying clerical shirt. He unfastened the top button of his soutane, but was promptly interrupted by Virgelina’s dexterous knitter’s fingers. That’s our job, Padre, they seemed to say, and moved downward, freeing the first seven buttons from their holes. She knelt down and continued undoing the lower ones, her fingers gracefully descending along the golden piping. When she unfastened the last one, she looked up and watched the naked little man come out of his soutane with a majestic gesture, like an arrogant queen dropping her velvet mantle for her vassals to pick up.

  Step five: Check how excited he is.

  Standing in front of him, Virgelina remembered what her grandmother had told her to look for: “His penis will be erect, and you must touch it to make sure it’s hard.” The old woman had added, “If his penis isn’t stiff, kiss him some more and touch him here and there, like I told you.”

  The priest was excited, very excited, Virgelina concluded after touching his swollen penis and hearing his howling. He gently pushed her onto the bed, and without taking off his white socks and worn sandals, positioned himself on top of her. El padre was smaller than she was and had a paunch, and yet his body fit into hers almost perfectly: a fist into an open hand.

  Step six: Commend yourself to God and let him do the rest.

  Virgelina’s grandmother had been vague about what “the rest” was. The girl had seen dogs mating as well as cats, and thought “the rest” would be the same: a game of power played by two in which the male scored by putting its member inside the female’s sexual organ, while the female scored by getting pregnant. Virgelina’s biggest fear was the pain she might feel during the bout—the cry of the cats she’d seen mating was terrifying—and her grandmother’s advice, “Bite the pillow and hold back,” hadn’t given her any comfort. She decided she’d let el padre score at once and get the game over with as quickly as possible.

  Mounted on top of her, el padre rocked his hips in a way that was everything but sensual, more like scouring, like scrubbing off a stain.

  “Do you like it?” he whispered in her ear. She didn’t reply. He kissed her mouth, her nose and eyes, her chin. “Do you like it?” he insisted, a bit louder this time, for she might not have heard him before. Not a word back, a gesture. Virgelina was striving to make herself believe that the man lying atop her was an entirely different man from the one who had given her first communion not so long ago. He kept scrubbing and kissing, asking the same question and getting the same silent answer.

  But then, without a warning, he thrust down on her with all his might, until a part of him disappeared in her flesh, and blood flowed down Virgelina’s legs. She screamed. She felt her insides being split, as if by a giant nail, and she screamed with pain.

  “It feels good,” the priest said, lying still on her stomach. She dug her nails into his back and shouted to him to please remove that from within her, “Please.” But he didn’t; instead he started moving in and out of her. She tried to push him aside. “For the love of God!” He didn’t hear her supplication; he continued thrusting into her, gathering speed inside her body, and so she fiercely scratched his face and sank her teeth into his chest. “Stop!” He stopped abruptly and shouted, “How dare you?” He slapped her twice across the face, then grabbed her hands, spread her arms and held them down firmly with his own hands, his fingers twined in hers, before resuming the furious motion of his hips: up and down, right to left, back and forth and around again (she wept, thinking of her grandmother’s sacrifice), fuming, biting, breaking, tearing, (she wept, thinking of her mother’s sacrifices), digging into her flesh, faster and faster until his legs tightened and he exploded inside her, chanting, “Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God…” (she wept some more, this time thinking of her own sacrifice).

  Step seven: Close your legs and cross your feet so that the seed won’t escape from within you. Stay in that position for a reasonable length of time.

  Beneath the priest, Virgelina sobbed and shivered. “Is there anything wrong, dear?” el padre asked, suddenly noticing her wailing. She shook her head. He let go of her arms slowly, as though afraid she might attack him again, but the girl didn’t move. Then he got down off her, picked up his soutane and promptly enrobed himself in it, his back to Virgelina. “I enjoyed myself very much,” he said softly as he fastened the tab collar. “I hope that your grandmother considers putting your name down for a second visit.” He introduced each button in its respective loop, bending down slightly to reach the lower ones. “I promise it won’t hurt next time,” he said, addressing the wall, and that’s when he saw it. Before his eyes, hanging on a rusty nail, was the picture of Jesus dying on the cross. With all the distress caused by her grandmother’s confession Virgelina had forgotten to remove it. El padre was stunned to see it.

  “It is finished,” Virgelina suddenly said and sighed with relief. The three Biblical words made the priest shudder. He swiftly turned around, and what he saw filled him with horror: lying face upward with her head slightly tilted to the right, her arms stretched out to the sides, her legs joined together and her feet crossed, Virgelina looked like Jesus crucified, bleeding and moaning, dying half naked upon an imaginary cross.

  The priest hastily crossed himself and ran off, stumbling first over Fidel and Castro, who had the peculiar habit of sleeping by the doorway, and then, when he was out of the house, over stones the size of dogs and dogs that lay like stones in the street. He ran and ran without looking back, shouting, “Lord, oh Lord, have mercy on me. I’ll never do it again!”

  Indifferent to the priest’s reaction, Virgelina collected the little strength she had left and sat up on the bed, wincing. Her body shook, and her hands trembled. She gathered the white, bloodstained bedspread from underneath her and used it to wipe down her inner legs, rubbing the thick cloth so harshly against her skin that it hurt. She slowly rose and began folding the bedspread with great care, until it was but a small, compact square of red-stained fabric. Then she knelt down in front of the altar and placed the cloth on its top level, next to the white candle that tonight burned fitfully.

  And finally, as she confidently waited for her grandmother to walk into her room shouting that God had worked her a miracle, that all her pains were gone and she could see and hear again, Virgelina, hands clasped under her chin, began mouthing prayer after prayer until the white candle died and the night covered their house with absolute darkness.

  Bernardo Rubiano, 26

  Right-wing paramilitary soldier

  “What’s going to happen to me?” I asked the guerrilla. I was on my knees, drinking water from a creek we’d just found. He was taking me to his camp.

  He yawned, stretching his arms one at a time, then said, “They won’t kill you, if that’s what worries you.” Earlier that day I’d walked into a guerrilla ambush, and the rebel had made me his prisoner. He moved a little closer to me and squatted down, his gun firmly held in one hand. “You’ll be interrogated, though,” he added in a sinister tone. “If you spit out everything you know about the paras’ whereabouts, they won’t hurt you much. But if you don’t—” He paused, brought his index finger up to his throat and made a dramatic slicing motion.

  He was now hardly a yard away from me, squatting. He looked thin and gaunt. I thought I could take him. I intentionally gulped more water to make him thirsty. He cupped his free hand, and without taking his eyes off me stretched his arm out to get some water from the creek. But he was a bit too far away, so he stretched his arm a little
farther, just enough to lose his balance and fall on his side. I threw myself upon him, lashing at him with my fists. He fought back hard and somehow ended up on top of me, panting, sweating and shouting that he was going to shoot me, although his gun had disappeared in the struggle. I fumed and roared. I bit and tore and raked until I was on top of him. Then I started hitting him. On the head and back and face and stomach, as hard as I could. He shouted and panted and yelped and sweated and writhed in pain, but I didn’t stop. Not until I saw the gun, lying on the grass. I jumped up, took hold of the Galil, and pointed it at him.

  “Please don’t,” he begged, his hands up. “Please.” I’d heard many men beg for their lives. This one was no different. “Take my watch. Here.” He took it off, laid it on the grass and gently pushed it toward me. “Please don’t kill me. My boots. Take my boots.” He started undoing the laces of his black jungle boots, but then remembered something even more valuable to trade. “Want this?” He ripped his shirt open, exposing a silver chain with an array of little amulets hanging from it. “It’ll protect you from misfortune.” He tore it off his neck. “Here.” And threw it at my feet. “Please don’t kill me. Please don’t. Please—”

  I squeezed the trigger. Gently, but the bullet went through his mouth and shut him up just the same.

  CHAPTER 8

  The Plagues of Mariquita

  Mariquita, June 20, 1999

  THE MAGISTRATE’S ANNOUNCEMENT FOR the Next Generation decree went something like this: “In yet another effort to preserve our dear community, and after consulting with my advisers, I, Rosalba viuda de Patiño, magistrate of the town of Mariquita, resolve that as soon as all four boys in our village—Che López, Hochiminh Ospina, Vietnam Calderón and Trotsky Sánchez—turn fifteen, they’ll be compelled to enter a competition. The women of Mariquita will decide which of the young men shall be granted the right to marry a female of his choice, to constitute a family for the preservation of the moral and social purity of our town. The three unselected young men will be ordered to serve as Mariquita’s full-time begetters for an undetermined period of time, during which they’ll no longer be autonomous individuals but rather government property, workers whose sole duty will be to father boys, and who’ll be provided with food and lodging and nothing else for as long as we need their labor.”