Tales from the Town of Widows

by James Canon

  If she had gone to sleep any sooner, she might never have thought of the verses that her late husband had written to her when he started courting her. Rosalba had kept them along with old letters and telegrams he’d sent her on the few occasions he went away. She was convinced that those yellowish pieces of paper would be the only proof future generations would have that men had once inhabited the village now known as New Mariquita. She pulled a sturdy chest from under her bed, unlocked it and looked through the writings, being careful not to crumple or tear up any of the priceless documents. The letters were dull, but the poems still captivated her. They gave her a yearning desire to love and be loved again. One in particular caught her attention, for she thought it described her feelings toward Eloísa much more beautifully and clearly than anything she could ever write. It was a two-stanza poem entitled “Say You Do,” neatly written in cursive calligraphy and signed, “Yours Faithfully, Napoleón.”

  Rosalba copied the poem word for word onto a lavender-perfumed sheet of paper. When she finished, she rolled up the sheet, tied it with a red ribbon and put it in a drawer. Then she went to sleep, and she slept soundly.

  Ubaldina, First Sun of Transition

  The incessant ringing of the church bell announced the beginning of the four-sun term called Transition. Female time required that on the first sun of Transition, women write their personal goals for the next calendar rung and allow time for self-evaluation.

  On this morning Eloísa was awoken not by the bell but by heavy knocks on her bedroom door. Before she had a chance to respond, her boarder entered the bedroom.

  “The magistrate stopped by earlier and asked me to give this to you,” the old woman said, tossing the rolled-up sheet on the bed. Then she shut the door with a slam and disappeared quickly to avoid the daily scolding about how she seemed to enjoy slamming doors.

  Eloísa hastened to untie the ribbon and read the poem.

  SAY YOU DO

  (A poem dedicated to the very graceful Eloísa)

  Your charms have defeated me,

  my darling, I need to know, do you love me,

  do you love me,

  as much as I do love you?

  Please say you do,

  say you’ll be mine forever,

  say you love me, say you need me,

  and the skies we’ll reach together.

  Yours faithfully,

  Rosalba viuda de Patiño

  (Magistrate of the village of New Mariquita)

  Eloísa read it three times, and each time she wept with joy. Anybody who could express her feelings in such a romantic way had to be a great lover. Like the magistrate, Eloísa, too, kept the letters and poems that Marco Tulio, her late husband, had written to her. She believed that love letters and poems, like flowers, shouldn’t be simply thrown away but replaced with fresh ones, and before this morning she hadn’t been given a fresh love letter or poem, much less a bunch of daisies to replace her withered ones.

  After reading the poem, Eloísa decided that this morning she wouldn’t make a phony Rosalba out of her pillows and blankets. She got out of bed promptly and danced all the way to the patio, holding on to an invisible partner.

  LATER ON, IN the coffee fields, Eloísa told Francisca the news about the poem Rosalba had sent her. They chuckled and made little jokes about it like a couple of schoolgirls. “I always thought the magistrate was an insensitive woman,” Francisca confessed, “but after hearing what she wrote to you, I have no doubt that she’s passionate and romantic.” And then she told Eloísa the two things she needed to do: First, “Reply to her poem with a poem of your own written on a perfumed sheet.” And second, “Give her a bunch of fresh flowers.”

  SITTING AT HER desk in her office the magistrate had begun writing her personal goals for the next calendar rung: One: Have Eloísa be the last thing I see when I go to bed. Two: Have Eloísa be the first thing I see when I wake up.

  Oh, but that couldn’t be. Her two goals implied sleeping with Eloísa and quite possibly having sex, and that, she remembered, would be as bad as weaving a shawl. Unless, of course, Eloísa and she slept together without touching. Or maybe they could touch just a little: an arm might brush against another arm; a leg might gently rub against another leg; their lips, slightly pursed, might touch softly and at once part without making that smacking sound that would turn it into a kiss. No kisses. A kiss was the equivalent of lacing two strings together, and Rosalba had no interest in weaving. Thank you very much.

  As she thought of her goals, the magistrate became more anxious and confused. She hadn’t heard back from Eloísa, and her concern was growing into a fear of rejection that she hadn’t experienced since she was a maiden. Perhaps she had been precipitate in sending the poem. Maybe Cecilia had been right, and Rosalba should have given Eloísa the flowers first. Or maybe all of it had been a big mistake, and Rosalba should never have entertained the idea that Eloísa, a handsome younger woman with splendid breasts, would be interested in sleeping with an older and graceless thing with sparse graying hair and a large behind.

  She arose and stood looking out through the window at the distant fields of maize and rice. None of that had been there two ladders ago. Back then, all she could see from her window was misery and desolation. She remembered that for several Transitions she had the same single goal on her list, To see from my office window a field full of large golden ears of corn, at a time when most villagers’ goals were to find the strength to leave Mariquita and start a new life somewhere else, or to find their old husbands or new ones.

  Back then all Rosalba had needed to achieve her goal was a pair of strong hands and determination. But now it was different. In order to accomplish her present goals, she thought, she would need youth and charms she no longer possessed. How could she compete with the beauty and grace of younger women like Virgelina Saavedra?

  She was weeping by the window when she heard a knock on the door, followed by the creak of rusty hinges, followed by small footsteps, followed by a question asked in a hesitant voice that Rosalba didn’t recognize: “Magistrate, are you in there?”

  Rosalba wiped the tears from her eyes with the heel of her hand. “Who is it?”

  “Francisca, Magistrate. Can I come in?” The last time Francisca had been to Rosalba’s office, she’d been seeking advice after having found a fortune under her bed.

  “What do you need?” the magistrate shouted from inside her office, but Francisca was already opening the door that led to it. “Shouldn’t you be working on your personal goals, Francisca?”

  “I only came to give you this,” she said, handing her a folded piece of paper.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s a note from Eloísa, Magistrate, but I swear I don’t know what it says.”

  Rosalba snatched it from her and tossed it in a drawer. “Well, thank you much,” she said matter-of-factly. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have goals to write.”

  Rosalba waited to hear the door being closed, then took the folded note out of the drawer and read it.

  KISS ME GENTLY

  (This poem is dedicated, with all my heart, to the always beautiful and jovial Rosalba viuda de Patiño, magistrate of the village of New Mariquita)

  Last night I dreamed of your kisses

  Oh! Your kisses were so sweet

  that when I opened my eyes

  I found sugar on my lips

  I can’t wait until night falls

  hence I’m going to take a nap

  if only in my dreams you kiss me,

  kiss me gently, don’t wake me up.

  Very truly yours,

  Eloísa viuda de Cifuentes

  Identity Card # 79.454.248 from Ibagué.

  Rosalba read the poem, then brought the piece of paper close to her bosom in a tender fashion. “She likes me,” she said. “Of course she likes me. I’m a fine woman.” How could a smart woman like Eloísa resist spending a night with Rosalba? How could she not notice that the magistrate was bright an
d brave, loving and neat? And no, Rosalba’s breasts weren’t really that flabby, not for her age anyway. And yes, her behind was large indeed, but so was her heart.

  Ubaldina, Second Sun of Transition

  On the second sun of Transition women were expected to share their goals with a sponsor of their own choosing referred to as a madrina, who was expected to advise her protégé on how to carry out her goals.

  At their home, a two-room house with two front windows covered with thick curtains that were permanently closed, Cecilia and Francisca lay in their pushed-together beds, sharing their goals with each other.

  “My new goal is to make it public that we’re in love,” Francisca said.

  Cecilia sat upright and stilted on her bed, her face turned toward her lover. “Francisca, we have talked about this before, haven’t we? Whatever happens in this house is nobody’s business. If you mention our secret to anyone, I swear to God you’ll regret it. You’ve been warned, and that’s that!”

  But that wasn’t that. Francisca rose and stood in front of Cecilia with her arms crossed over her chest and her right leg slightly forward. “I told Eloísa,” she said.

  Cecilia rose to face Francisca, panting. “How dared you tell Eloísa about us after I told you not to? María Francisca Ticora Rodríguez viuda de Gómez, you’ve betrayed my trust.” She started walking back and forth across the room, holding her head between her hands. Then, from a corner, she said, “I will never forgive you.” And soon afterward, from the opposite corner, she added bitterly, “And I won’t ever again rub your dirty feet.”

  “Good!” Francisca replied, arms akimbo. “You’re lousy at it anyway. And now that’s that!” She stormed out of the room.

  And, at least for that sun, that was really that.

  ELOÍSA AND ROSALBA had gone out, separately, to pick flowers for each other. Eloísa remembered that the daisies her husband tucked between her breasts came from the Jaramillo widow’s front yard, so she went to the same place. As she cut the flowers, she visualized her long, delicate fingers placing each flower between the magistrate’s breasts, in the same tender way Marco Tulio had laid them in her cleavage. When she had enough daisies, she decided to personally deliver the bunch to the magistrate’s house.

  While picking orchids in the woods, it occurred to Rosalba that Eloísa might be of the same thinking as Napoleón, her late husband. He had never picked flowers for Rosalba but instead gave her flowerpots with violets in bloom. “If God had wanted flowers to be used as accessories,” he used to say, “He would have made them grow behind women’s ears.” In her courtyard Rosalba had violets, camellias and begonias. She would take the one with the most flowers to Eloísa.

  VACA STOOD STILL beneath an aloe that was perpetually suspended above the door for good luck. Except for her prominent jawbone—always working—nothing about her moved. She had truly become the embodiment of her nickname. Her real name was of Indian extraction: long and unpronounceable. People knew her as Vaca, but in her presence they called her only Doña.

  “Buenas y santas, Doña,” Eloísa greeted her in a melodious voice.

  Vaca lowered her big eyes and fixed them on the bunch of daisies that Eloísa held against her breasts. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’m here to see the magistrate.”

  Vaca considered this for a moment, then said, “The magistrate’s got an office and a secretary. Rosalba’s got a house and a boarder. Which one are you looking for?”

  “I’m looking for Rosalba.”

  “She’s not here.”

  “Would you give her these daisies for me?”

  Without making an audible reply, Vaca took the bunch of flowers away from Eloísa and swiftly turned around and went into the house.

  “Please keep them in fresh water!” Eloísa shouted from the door, but the voluminous figure had already disappeared from sight.

  THE MAGISTRATE’S DELIVERY of the plant to Eloísa’s house was not a pleasant experience either.

  “Quit banging the door, for God’s sake!” the Pérez widow roared from inside the house before appearing in the doorway. Rosalba stood on the steps, holding with both hands a large flowerpot that contained a small camellia tree blooming with showy yellow-colored flowers. The Pérez widow, fully dressed, looked up and down at the naked magistrate and rolled her eyes. “Yes?”

  “I’m here to see Eloísa, Señora Pérez.”

  Señora Pérez brought her clenched hands to her waist and gave Rosalba a disapproving look. “Is that it? You interrupted my prayers because you want to talk with Eloísa?”

  “Actually, I want to give her this camellia tree. Isn’t it beautiful?”

  The Pérez widow heaved an impatient sigh. “Eloísa’s not here, so you and your bush can go look for her someplace else.”

  “I’d rather leave the tree with you. If you don’t mind, that is.”

  “Well, I do,” the woman snapped. “Bring it in yourself and put it wherever it pleases you.” She went inside, muttering trifling complaints.

  Rosalba laid the flowerpot in the hallway and left.

  Ubaldina, Third Sun of Transition

  In the beginning of female time, the magistrate and the schoolmistress had insisted that on the third sun of Transition, each woman find something about herself that made her unhappy and apply her mind to it. But the women decided against it, claiming that unless a woman’s traits affected her relations with others, she should simply accept herself the way she was. Rosalba and Cleotilde weren’t happy with the decision, but since the majority had agreed on it, they let it go. As a result of that, on the third sun of Transition the villagers had half a sun for themselves.

  Rosalba knew that in her spare time Eloísa liked to go swimming. On her way to the river, Rosalba imagined Eloísa coming out of the water, the sun shining on her wet skin, her long black hair dripping cool water down her back. Once there, Rosalba stood on the bank, next to a large rock, scanning the clear waters for the woman she wanted to see. She made out five heads floating on the surface like large bubbles, the bodies connected to them distorted in the water. Eloísa wasn’t one of them.

  “Get into the water, Magistrate,” Virgelina Saavedra called. “It’s nice and warm.”

  Rosalba waved at her and smiled but didn’t move. She felt unsure of herself in the girl’s presence. Virgelina, the gaunt little girl who’d once put a stop to el padre Rafael’s Procreation Campaign, had grown into the most beautiful woman in Mariquita. Rosalba resolved to go back home, but when she turned around, she saw Eloísa coming down the road.

  “I didn’t know you liked swimming, Magistrate,” Eloísa said.

  “Oh, I love swimming. I just never bring myself to do it.”

  “Well, let’s swim, then.”

  Rosalba soon found herself surrounded by six women younger than herself, which made her very uncomfortable. She kept her body as low as she could and raised nothing but her head from the water; not even her arms, because suddenly she was all too aware of the stubborn wiggles of loose skin that hung from her underarms. Her body, she remembered nostalgically, was the same body that once had driven the three bachelors of Mariquita wild, to the point that they tossed a coin to decide who would have the chance to approach Rosalba first. It was the same body that kept her husband Napoleón home, next to her, while most married men were getting drunk at El Rincón de Gardel, or visiting the prostitutes of La Casa de Emilia. That body was now older, softer, grown a little square and wider at the hips. What a mistake this had been, coming to the river! She wanted to dissolve into the water. But she couldn’t, so she let the current take her down a little farther from the group. Eloísa followed her.

  “Thank you for the beautiful camellia, Magistrate.” The clear water covered her body up to a little underneath her breasts, accentuating their shape and color.

  “Thank you for the poem and for the beautiful daisies, Eloísa. And please, call me Rosalba.”

  “I’d like to call you something else.”<
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  Rosalba blushed. “And what would that be?”

  “I don’t know…maybe Corazoncito?”

  “Ha, ha!” Rosalba wiped the excess water off her face with both hands. “I think I’d prefer it if you made up a word. A word that’s just for me.”

  “But why? Corazoncito must be the sweetest word in the whole world.”

  “In the world you created with Marco Tulio,” Rosalba replied, feeling somewhat jealous of Eloísa’s dead husband.

  Eloísa considered this for a moment. “You’re right,” she said. “I never thought about it that way. How about…Ticú? No, Ticuticú? How about Ticuticú?”

  “Ticuticú? Does it mean anything?”

  “I just made it up. It means my sweetheart, darling Rosalba.”

  “Well, then I love it.”

  Eloísa laid her hands on Rosalba’s shoulders, and at the count of three, they submerged themselves together in the water, like little girls. Eloísa cupped her hands and gently slid them down to Rosalba’s breasts, which floated round and smooth in the water, and it was precious and extraordinary to discover how well hands and breasts fit each other. Eloísa’s fingers pressed, feeling the throbbing of Rosalba’s flesh, then let go, leaving on them ten slight indentations that presently vanished on the paleness of Rosalba’s skin.

  Their heads now rose above the water, and their lips quivered as they smiled at each other nervously. Under the water their hands joined, taking turns to stroke and be stroked, fast, clumsily, acting on a wild impulse they could contain no more: Eloísa and Rosalba were two widows in love.