by James Canon
Ubaldina, Fourth Sun of Transition
On the last sun of Transition nobody worked. Not even the cooks: the villagers were encouraged to eat fresh fruits and raw vegetables. At sundown, everyone was asked to come to the plaza to take part in a celebration that honored femaleness. Feeling restless in her bed, Rosalba decided that she was in no mood for celebrations. She had come to realize that her feelings for Eloísa were much stronger than she’d originally thought, and it filled her with fear and some anger. For ladders her obsession with tying little knots in a string without ever weaving a shawl had worked just fine, but when she’d tried to apply the same notion to her feelings for Eloísa, she discovered that doing the little things that brought her pleasure alone, without wanting to go further, was simply impossible. She now wanted to make beautiful love to her. But it was unnatural. Is it really? And she was the magistrate, a public figure. But I have feelings just like anyone else. She spent the entire sun in bed, trying to come up with a solution to her problem. Eventually she did.
Every rung a different household was in charge of organizing the celebration. Tonight it was the Ospinas, and they had exceeded all expectations. The plaza was brightly lit, its four sides surrounded by tallow candles and festooned with chains of flowers: purple orchids, yellow daisies and white lilies dangled from the lowest branches of the mango trees.
When the women arrived, they split up into four groups that at first glance appeared to have been improvised, but that in reality had long ago been determined by the women themselves in direct ratio to their ages, and, less frequently, according to the type of work they did, their liking of potatoes or their disliking of onions, the number or kinds of maladies that constantly affected them, and many more factors.
The actual celebration was quite predictable, and this rung’s wasn’t an exception. It started, like it always did, with a drink. The women stood in line to get a full cup of chicha from the Villegas widow. The widow prepared the fermented maize drink at least five suns prior to the event to ensure its characteristic sharp, peppery flavor. Next, as always, the schoolmistress made everyone yawn by reading poems by some Alfonsina Storny. When Cleotilde was finished, the attention focused on Francisca, who entertained the audience with her usual jokes and imitations. “Do the teacher,” a woman would say, and Francisca would walk slowly with her back straight and her neck thrust forward, twirling an invisible mustache with two of her fingers. On this occasion, Francisca did the Pérez widow, Vaca, Julia Morales, the magistrate and, though no one requested it, a woman that was long gone: Doña Emilia, the town’s madam. The music was by the four Morales sisters’ “band.” The girls only knew half a dozen tunes, which they played over and over with their curious instruments made of old cooking pots and pans and lids. The women sang along and danced to the band’s lively rhythm. When the music stopped, the four groups of women quickly settled down to listen to the magistrate’s customary discourse. She always started with the same sentence: “A new rung is about to begin, and with it comes a new opportunity to improve ourselves as individuals….” By now most women had memorized it.
Rosalba rose from within the crowd and advanced slowly toward the front row, from where she was to deliver her speech. Before leaving her house, she had coated her entire body with eucalyptus-scented oil to repel the mosquitoes and other insects. As she walked among the women, the flickering light of the tallow candles reflected all over her shiny skin, making her look like a mythical goddess about to go up in flames.
She stood in front of the crowd, a blissful look on her face, and began talking:
“I’d like to express my gratitude toward the Ospina family for the effort they put into organizing this term’s celebration of womanhood.” The variation of her speech aroused the immediate suspicion of the villagers that the magistrate was up to something. “I don’t think our plaza has ever looked as beautiful or felt as cozy as it does tonight.” She looked around, smiling gracefully at the chains of assorted flowers hanging from the trees. “I’d also like to make an announcement,” she continued. The villagers were now certain that Rosalba was about to surprise them with a shocking statement: maybe an outrageous new decree. They held their breath and listened attentively.
“I’m in love with Eloísa,” she said, plainly and simply, holding her head up high. The crowd stared at her in stunned silence, then started bowing their heads, slowly, as though with growing shame.
“And I’m in love with Rosalba,” Eloísa shouted from the back. The women turned their heads, again slowly, toward where the voice had originated. Their prying eyes followed Eloísa as she walked toward Rosalba and planted a kiss on her mouth.
“I’m in love with Cecilia,” Francisca said out loud.
This time the women turned their heads not toward the confessed lover, but toward her woman. The pressure was such that Cecilia had no alternative but to stand up and, with her eyes fixed on the ground, admit to her sin: “I’m…in love with…with Francisca.”
“Virgelina and I are also in love,” Magnolia Morales declared. Both women rose to their feet and each put her arm around the other’s waist, smiling.
“And so are Erlinda and I,” said Nurse Ramírez. She extended her hand to the Calderón widow, and together they rose from the ground.
Other couples timidly disclosed their secrets, and when they ceased, a few single women started declaring their love for one another. The feeling was so contagious that some decided, at that very moment, that they were in love with the women sitting next to them and told them so. Even the ancient women, who hadn’t loved or been loved in ages, felt once again the strength of passion burning in their shrunk bodies.
The new couples as well as the old ones slowly began to disappear behind doors or vanish into the darkness of the night. And the few women who remained single, whether it was their choice or not, soon went back to their houses, to their bedrooms with their empty beds and clean sheets that would never get stained with blood or perspiration other than their own.
Only Santiago Marín and Julia Morales remained in the plaza, surrounded by orchids, daisies and lilies, and by the dying flames of tallow candles. They lay on the ground gazing at the sky, waiting for the twinkling light of a star to shine so that they could make a wish. And when the stars finally came into sight, Santiago wished that somesun, somewhere, he could be reunited with Pablo. Julia wished for the sun when she, too, could shout, like the women had done tonight, that she was in love—only with a man.
The flames of the candles surrounding the plaza died one by one, each with a hissing sound and a rapid succession of blue and yellow sparks.
The melting tallow solidified on the ground, leaving behind a strong smell of burned fat that presently dissolved into the thin air.
And the night, now full of stars, swallowed the fierce moaning of New Mariquita’s passionate women, and the gentle murmuring of its widows in love.
Gerardo García, 21
Right-wing paramilitary soldier
A mass grave had been dug, and most of our enemies’ bodies thrown into it. Only a dismembered corpse still lay on the ground waiting to be accounted for. I was on my knees beside it. A little farther to my right, smoking a cigarette, there was “Matasiete,” a commander who was notorious for his harshness. (He was a war machine who killed guerrillas and then sat to eat his ration next to their dead bodies.) My job was to strip the bodies, check them for dog tags or ID cards, birthmarks, eye and hair colors and other distinctions, and report them to Matasiete, who wrote these findings in a large notebook for our own records.
The corpse I now had in front of me was small, a boy’s. It was missing both legs from the knees down and the left arm, and I couldn’t make out much about the face, which was completely smashed. “Young,” I said to Matasiete. “Seventeen, maybe younger.” The jacket pockets were empty, but a Swiss Army knife hidden on the belt had miraculously survived the soldiers’ search for valuables. I slipped it into my pocket.
“Strip i
t down,” Matasiete said indifferently. I removed the boy’s tattered jacket and what was left of his pants. Most of his torso was smeared with dried blood. A small, laminated image of a baby Jesus was hanging from a cord around his neck. It wasn’t unusual (we soldiers carry all sorts of charms and amulets), except this one looked exactly like mine: the same size and length, the same brown leather cord, and, affixed to its back, the same black-and-white photograph of my mother.
My mother had given my little brother and me identical charms when we were younger to protect us from misfortune. I suddenly felt a lump in my throat. He’d only just turned sixteen. (When had he joined our enemies’ ranks? Why hadn’t I stayed in touch with him?) I couldn’t admit to Matasiete that he was my brother—I’d have been labeled as a guerrilla informer and most likely executed—but I also couldn’t let my brother become just one more “unidentified person” on our ever-increasing list.
“García Vidales,” I mumbled, pretending to be reading a dog tag.
“What? Speak louder,” Matasiete commanded.
I choked back, waited a little, then said, “García Vidales Juan Diego. Born 1982.” My voice shook a little. Matasiete wrote down the information and got up and motioned for me to dump the body into the grave. I suddenly wanted to smell flowers, marigold and carnations, because my little brother was about to be buried, and that was what Christian burials smelled like. I only smelled blood and death.
“Forgive me, Dieguito,” I whispered. I knew he could hear me. I dragged him to the edge by his only arm and gave him a gentle push with the tips of my fingers. I watched his body tumble down the wall and land awkwardly on top of his comrades.
Then I began shoveling dirt over his grave, saying the Lord’s Prayer in my head.
CHAPTER 13
The Curious Gringo
New Mariquita, Francisca 20, Ladder 1996
ALL MORNING LONG JULIA Morales had been lying in a hammock slung between two trees in the middle of the plaza, twirling her hair around one finger, taking deep breaths, looking south. She wore a tight, faded blue dress that exposed her thighs. From time to time she swung, giving a lazy push from the ground with one of her delicate feet. Once, when a beam of sunlight struck her face, she got up and carried one side of the hammock to a different tree, then lay down again, staring longingly south, the direction the smell was coming from.
One by one her three older sisters had come around to tell her to stop fantasizing and go to work. “Smell? What smell?” her oldest sister Orquidea asked harshly. “The only thing I smell is your laziness.” Gardenia took a more aggressive approach: “Get up right now, you sluggard cow. I’ll give you something to smell. Here, smell this,” she said, showing Julia her naked posterior. And Magnolia, who had the faculty of viewing everything in relation to herself, said, “I don’t smell anything. If there were something to smell, I would’ve been the first one to smell it.”
Julia was not in the least troubled by what her sisters said. She knew what she smelled, even if no one else could detect it: a robust, slightly acrid, alluring, pungent mixture of lime peels, mineral salts, perspiration and musk…large amounts of musk. The smell filled the air, getting stronger as the sun wore on. She had no doubt that a man was approaching town, and she was determined to be the first one to welcome him to the village of New Mariquita.
THE AMERICAN REPORTER wore a pale guayabera shirt that was large on him and a pair of loose khaki trousers hacked off below the knees, fraying at the edges. A canteen half filled with water was slung over his left shoulder. His hair was long and yellow and greasy and gathered in a ponytail, and he had two weeks’ growth of flaxen stubble. His sneakers were nearly hidden under coats of fresh and old mud that made it impossible to tell their color or brand name. His feet were blistered, the left one badly, causing him to walk with a limp. There was an air of refinement and intellect about his face, a severely sunburned face with sky-blue eyes and a small nose. He had been traveling the country for the past six months, interviewing guerrilla, paramilitary and national army soldiers, as well as civilians touched by the Colombian conflict. He was thirty-one and answered to the name of Gordon Smith.
Walking ahead of him were a barefoot boy and a scrawny mule loaded with a medium-sized yellow duffel bag. The boy liked to be called Pito, and his mule was Pita. Pito wore a sombrero with a chewed-off brim and ragged shorts. Nothing else.
“Slow down,” Gordon shouted to Pito. “Please.”
“We’re almost there, Don Míster Gordo,” the boy said. He stood with his legs splayed, anchored in glutinous orange mud, wondering why the funny-talking gringo insisted on being called “Gordo” when he wasn’t fat.
Gordon looked at his watch; they had been riding for almost seven hours. “I’ve heard you say that three times before,” he replied, shooting the boy a suspicious glance.
Pito ignored both the comment and the look. “Sure you don’t want to ride Pita again? She’s a little old but still very strong.”
“Gracias.” Gordon shook his head. Riding the beast had made him nervous and dizzy, but he was too proud to admit it. Instead he’d told the boy that the mule didn’t look strong at all and that he felt sorry for it, which was true enough. Pita looked starved, weak-legged and poorly watered, and had a loose shoe on her right rear foot.
They continued their journey up and down the hills, among long stretches of woods and through narrow, rarely used trails that crisscrossed capriciously and often turned to sludge, making the journey even more unpredictable and puzzling. From time to time Gordon pulled out of his shirt pocket a scrap of paper with a poorly drawn map of the region they were passing through. He stared at it, turned it upside down, looked around and put it back in his pocket.
Only two days before, while interviewing a Communist guerrilla defector in the village of Villahermosa, Gordon had been introduced to an older, neurotic, pink-faced man who claimed to know of a tribe of ferocious female warriors living in a small village deep in the cordillera. Intrigued, Gordon agreed to buy him a few drinks in exchange for the telling of the entire story.
“They’re Amazons,” the crazy-looking man said while biting his nails in a compulsive manner. “Listen to this: pigs, cows and horses have disappeared, but also men like you and I. Uh-huh, all vanished from the face of the earth after being seen near where those creatures live. Country people are terrified of them. Entire Indian tribes have moved far south to avoid them. Even guerrillas and paramilitary groups don’t go near them. Believe me when I tell you, gringo. They’re direct descendants of the Amazons.” The story turned even more fantastic with each beer the man drank. By the time their meeting ended, Gordon, somewhat drunk, had made up his mind to go out into the cordillera to look for a tribe of grotesque, man-hating, heretic, cannibalistic women of gigantic proportions.
The next day, after sobering up, Gordon recognized that the story was preposterous. Even so, there was something in it that fascinated him, something that seemed perfectly plausible in a country that had been at war for nearly forty years: the existence of a town inhabited solely by women. He went to the neurotic old man’s house and paid him to draw a map of the area supposedly inhabited by the tribe. Then he hired a boy and a mule to take him there.
At the moment, after a seven-hour ride, Gordon thought the map looked the same from every angle. Fortunately, Pito didn’t need a map. He knew all the paths and shortcuts from having led cattle along them since he was a child, and from spending the last four years delivering secret coded mail between the groups of guerrillas scattered throughout the mountainous region. He’d been the fastest, most reliable courier the guerrillas had had. But recently, the heavy presence of the national army had forced the rebels to abandon the zone, leaving Pito out of work, which is why he had agreed to take Gordon across the mountains in the first place.
They had ridden a good distance when they reached an expanse of level land. The mule hastened its pace and soon Pito saw why: a thin stream ran almost soundlessly along the flat. Th
ey washed their faces and drank some water, which had a metallic taste.
“Well, this is it,” Pito said. “See those woods over there?” He pointed to a tight clump of trees and shrubs at the end of an impressively steep rise.
“What is it?” Gordon asked, squinting to better see what the boy was pointing at.
“The entrance! That man said it was at the end of the first rise after the Tres Cruces flat. This is the Tres Cruces flat, so that must be the entrance over there.”
Gordon contemplated the sight for a moment. “It looks like we’re going to need machetes or something to get through it. It seems almost impenetrable.”
“Don Míster Gordo,” Pito said, adopting a solemn tone. “You hired me to get you up to this spot right here in one piece, not to help you go across.”
The little bastard wants more money, Gordon thought. He produced from within his crotch a small plastic bag where he kept, rolled up and secured with a thick rubber band, a wad of bank notes. He began undoing the bundle.
When the boy realized what the gringo was doing, he shook his head. “I’m not going in there no matter how much money you give me. I’ve been told what’s over there. Those women eat people like you and me for dinner.”
Gordon gave a loud laugh. “Don’t tell me you believe all that.”
“I do. And you better believe it yourself. You don’t know nothing about this country.” With a dignified expression on his small Indian face, he unloaded Pita and handed the duffel bag to Gordon.
After muchas graciases were exchanged and hands grasped and shaken several times, Pito stepped aside. He watched Gordon slowly limp up the steep rise with the bag on his back. “God be with you, Don Míster Gordo,” he whispered to himself. He walked over to Pita and took the reins, but he didn’t mount. He kept staring at Gordon, hoping the gringo would see reason and choose to return to town. If he did, Pito decided, he’d take him back for half the price.
