Tales from the Town of Widows

by James Canon

  “Julio,” Rosalba emphatically said. “His name’s Julio something. I don’t remember his middle name. We’ve been calling him Julia for so long that I—”

  “How long?”

  “Hmmm.” She shrugged. “I lost track of it. All I know is that it all started on the day the men disappeared.”

  “The men, right. How did they disappear?”

  “Guerrillas.”

  “Did the guerrillas kill them all?”

  “They might as well have.”

  “They took them away, didn’t they?”

  “It’s too long a story to tell,” she said, making an effort to look weary and uninterested.

  She was playing hard to get; Gordon was sure of it. Two could play that game. “Don’t worry, then,” he said. “Maybe some other time.” He let his body slide down the wall until his back was flat on the mattress and his body partially covered by the thin blue sheet. Soon afterward, the bell announced the end of the working day; five thunderous and reverberating strokes that, from inside the empty church, sounded more like the beginning of the end of the world.

  While the echo of the last chime was still resounding in their ears, Rosalba shouted, “Do you really want to hear how our men disappeared?”

  “Only if you feel like telling,” he shouted back, a cunning smile on his face.

  She straightened her spine against the chair’s back, shifting her matronly extra weight. She looked up at the white ceiling as though for inspiration, then began the telling of her story:

  “The day the men disappeared started as a typical Sunday morning in Mariquita….”

  ELOÍSA, NURSE RAMÍREZ and her spouse Erlinda Calderón stopped by after dinner. They had on ponchos of sacking that old Lucrecia, the community’s seamstress, had tailored for every villager to wear on chilly evenings. Eloísa kissed her Ticuticú and handed her a plate with her dinner and an extra poncho.

  “How’s the Míster doing?” the nurse asked. She held a small earthen container in her hands.

  “He was quite alert for a good part of the afternoon,” Rosalba said. “I even told him a story, and he loved it. But he’s delirious again.”

  “That’s typical of dengue fever,” the nurse declared. She walked over to Gordon, relieved to see he was now wearing shorts. She felt his forehead and checked his body for rashes, which, she explained, were also typical of the disease. Had he vomited? No? Very good! Had he complained of headaches? Well, that was common. Muscle pain? Sure, that was also common. Nurse Ramírez poured into a cup some of the formula she had prepared—an infusion of chrysanthemum and honeysuckle flowers, marijuana and mint leaves, and burdock and anise seeds—and forced the thick mixture down Gordon’s throat. “I’ll tend to him tomorrow,” she volunteered.

  “Good,” Rosalba said. “I’ll make sure he gets plenty of juices, maybe even a good soup from the Morales’s kitchen. And I’ll stop by after dinner to tell him another story.” She put out the light of the lamp and sang, “Good night, Míster Esmís.” Soon they were gone.

  AFTER HEARING THE first story, Gordon told Rosalba that he’d like to write a book about New Mariquita. And so every evening after that and for eleven consecutive suns, Rosalba made it her duty to tell Gordon a story about her town of widows, and Gordon made it his to listen to it and tape it and, when feeling strong enough, take notes. Rosalba’s privileged memory covered the better part of Mariquita’s history since long before the men disappeared, but her stories were to some extent unreliable; a singular combination of her own experiences coupled with several different versions and—this was the unreliable part—assumptions she had put together in the absence of facts. Fortunately for Gordon, it was easy to tell when Rosalba was speculating by her passionless tone and lack of details, but also because Rosalba—who otherwise was a confident storyteller—would stumble over the words or look the other way as she told them. Every time Gordon was seized by doubt, he would discreetly pencil in a question mark next to the suspicious line, or cue himself on the tape if he was recording it. He’d check her version against that of Julia—his special friend—when he had the opportunity.

  Rosalba’s telling was interrupted many times each night. Councilwoman Ubaldina, for instance, often stopped by to examine and evaluate Gordon’s improvement. Aroused women of different ages also came around every evening after dinner, hoping to catch a glimpse of the semi-naked man, bringing presents of flowers, mangoes, oranges, bananas, hearty soups or blood sausages and puddings—the mere appearance of which nauseated Gordon. He himself interrupted Rosalba often to repeat a word he didn’t know or hadn’t caught, to ask her specific questions about the story, to clarify a confusing anecdote or have her repeat a section of the story that he liked. It was not unusual for Rosalba to jump from one story to another, or to wander from the point and begin endless discussions about herself. On those occasions, the reporter had to resort to his journalist’s subtle ways to lead her back to the subject matter: “That’s most interesting, Señora Rosalba, but you were saying that…”

  And so it was in this way that Gordon learned about how Mariquita’s men disappeared and Julio got to be Julia, but also about the crisis that followed the men’s withdrawal from the village: the prolonged dry spell and the cutting off of electricity, the shortage of food and water, the epidemic of influenza that killed ten people, and the gradual departure of nearly half the adult population and their children. He learned from Rosalba about the passing military commission that had designated her as the town’s new magistrate; and about the brothel madam’s persistent attempts to keep her business afloat in a town of widows and spinsters. He learned about the mysterious schoolmistress who refused to teach history, and about how Santiago Marín became the town’s Other Widow. About the hypocritical priest who first developed a procreation scheme and later killed the town’s only four boys. About the widow who found a fortune under her bed just as the town’s economy was slowly reverting to a bartering system. About the day time stopped, and the sun time became female, and about how a cow named Perestroika saved the magistrate’s plan of economic, political and social restructuring that turned a rotten, meager town into a prosperous and self-sufficient community.

  IN THE SAME way Rosalba made it her duty to tell the reporter a story every evening, Julia Morales made it hers to create, together with Gordon, one more story for him to write about: theirs. Every night after the village had gone to sleep, Julia scurried along the desolate streets toward the church. The first few nights she contented herself with running the tips of her delicate fingers all over Gordon’s body in the absolute darkness of the room, while he slept under the narcotic effect of the nurse’s concoction. But as the man’s health began to improve, the girl demanded more from his hands and fingers, from his hips and tongue and lips. And when they kissed and made love, she sucked him in, breathed in the air he breathed out, and filled herself full of him night after night after night.

  TWELVE SUNS LATER, Nurse Ramírez informed the councilwomen that Gordon had fully recovered from his illness. She made the announcement over breakfast in the Morales’s communal kitchen.

  “Well, then, I’d better go escort him up to the thicket right now,” Ubaldina said. “I want to make sure he leaves once and for all.” She put down the arepa she was eating and stood up.

  “I have a proposal to make,” Rosalba said suddenly. She looked at Ubaldina and pointed to the wooden bench, prompting her to sit down again. The other three women turned inquisitive eyes to Rosalba. “As we all know, Míster Esmís is the first real man we’ve seen in many ladders.” Rosalba thrust her head forward and lowered her voice to avoid being heard by the people in the table next to theirs. “Naturally, some of our finest women have shown interest in him. I propose that we take advantage of his being here to get two or three women pregnant. I’m sure Míster Esmís wouldn’t mind doing us a favor after all we’ve done for him.” Ubaldina looked as though she was ready to object, and so Rosalba went on whispering reasons why the cou
ncil should consider her proposal. “Our population is getting old; with every ladder that goes by, another woman in our community loses her ability to bear children. In about forty ladders, our youngest girls will be menopausal, and all of us will be dead, and there will be no one to continue what we started.” Once again Ubaldina attempted to express her disapproval, but Rosalba wasn’t finished. “Besides, can you imagine how beautiful Míster Esmís’s children would be, with his golden hair and blue eyes? With his tiny nose and white complexion? Especially with his white complexion. They’d be absolutely gorgeous!”

  The nurse and Cecilia looked at the color of their own limbs and stomachs and awkwardly folded their arms, covering a small part of their brown nakedness with more of the same. Cleotilde remained still. She’d been in her skin for too long to suddenly be ashamed of it. But Ubaldina, the darkest, most Indian-looking of all five, seemed to be insulted by Rosalba’s comment. “I feel very fortunate to look the way I do,” she said in a dignified matter, her chin raised just enough to show her impressive cheekbones in all their grandeur. “I think of it as a blessing from the gods, and I strongly believe that our future generations should look like us: black-haired and brown-eyed, with a beak like ours, and their skin should be dark so that it can endure the harshest sun, and thick so that it will last much longer.”

  Now it was Rosalba who felt discriminated against, her pale skin and green eyes excluded from Ubaldina’s prototype of Mariquita’s people of the future. “I only mentioned Míster Esmís because I happen to think he’s a handsome man, but if you don’t agree, that’s fine with me. I still think someone here must bear a male child or two if we want our community to survive.”

  “I say we should try our luck again with our two men,” Ubaldina said. She was referring to the one occasion, two ladders back, when Santiago Marín and Julio Morales had been persuaded to make an effort to impregnate a woman of their choice. Santiago picked Magnolia Morales, while Julio, as though returning the favor, chose Amparo Marín, Santiago’s youngest sister. The two women were instructed by their own mothers to treat the men gently, because Santiago and Julio would only respond to tenderness and love. The encounters took place on the first waxing moon of the ladder, when the women’s probabilities of becoming pregnant were at their best. Magnolia and Amparo did everything they could and knew to excite their respective men, but neither their grace and kindness first, nor their sensuality and lechery later, aroused any response.

  Rosalba gave an affected laugh. “You do that. Try your luck again with those two.” She pushed the plate with her untouched breakfast away from her. At that precise moment, Julia Morales came up to their table with a fresh pot of coffee, offering refills.

  “The Míster has to go today,” old Cleotilde emphatically said. Julia’s hand, the one holding the pot of coffee, began trembling, but the councilwomen were so absorbed in their discussion that they didn’t even notice the girl’s presence. “But we should wait until after breakfast, when the women are at work, or his departure will end in uproar.”

  Nurse Ramírez and Ubaldina indicated with their heads that they were in accord with Cleotilde. Cecilia remained still, neutral. “Let it be on your heads then,” Rosalba said, throwing her hands in the air. As for Julia, she quickly disappeared through the kitchen door.

  GORDON LOOKED UP and noticed enormous dark clouds filling the sky. He was sitting on a bench in the plaza, his duffel bag on his lap and his arms resting on top of it, like a resigned traveler waiting for his bus to arrive. He had bathed and shaved and put on clean clothes that Julia had washed for him. His sneakers, too, had been cleaned by the diligent girl, exposing their Nike logo, fading blue color and heavy wear. The dark bags under his eyes had faded, and a healthy rose color bloomed in his cheeks.

  The smell of freshly brewed coffee was still in the air, though breakfast was long over. His had been delivered to the church from the Morales’s kitchen, and it had arrived with a little surprise: a neatly folded note hidden underneath a fat arepa. The note was from Julia, and it read, “Today is our day.”

  So when Gordon saw Ubaldina appear from around a corner with a derisive smile on her unfriendly face, and Rosalba, Cecilia, Nurse Ramírez and Cleotilde following her, he wasn’t the least bit surprised.

  “Your time’s up, Míster!” Ubaldina shouted from a distance. She shooed him with the backs of her hands quickly and repeatedly. Gordon remained still on the bench, undisturbed, self-controlled, staring at the small Indian woman as she moved closer. He knew his aplomb would make her nervous, and so he decided it’d be his little revenge for her constant and unjustified hostility toward him. But the woman, sensing that Gordon was up to no good, stopped a few meters away from him and pulled the ugliest, most frightening face she could manage: her slanting eyes popping out of their sockets; her mouth stretching wide enough to expose her remaining four or five teeth—so pointed and separated that they appeared to serve more as weapons than for chewing—and her long tongue coming out, making a repulsive twist, drawing back and coming out again, like a lizard’s.

  Gordon thought the sight was amusing. “I’m leaving now, Señora Ubaldina,” Gordon announced. He placed his bag on the bench and rose. “But first I’d like to say good-bye to the señoras behind you.”

  “Well, you’d better be quick,” Ubaldina said in a softer tone. “It looks like rain.” She stepped aside and indicated to Gordon, with a polite gesture, that he could safely walk by her, toward the women.

  There was nothing extraordinary about the reporter’s farewell. He respectfully bowed before each woman—including Ubaldina—and kissed her hand, saying “Gracias” time and again. Cecilia handed him a letter he was supposed to deliver to her son Ángel Alberto Tamacá, and a bundle of food as big as the man’s head. “It should last you a couple of days.” She sounded and looked motherly. Gordon kissed her hand a second time. He walked up to the bench and grabbed his bag and began walking toward the rise. The five women stood at the bottom. Before walking into the thicket, Gordon looked at New Mariquita one more time, as though fixing the town in his memory to make sure he hadn’t imagined it. Against the gray sky the village looked like a multicolored painting. He saw every red roof, every white house and every ash-colored road, the green plaza and the ivory church, the plots of maize, rice and coffee, and the women working them. The branches of the tallest trees swayed in the wind, and for a moment Gordon thought he saw every woman of New Mariquita stop what she was doing to wave a hand at him. He waved back.

  IT WAS POURING rain. Julia Morales pulled her loose skirt up above her knees and waded through the brown water and leaves and branches that the thundershower brought down the small rise. She carried, tied to her waist, a small bundle of clothes and a smaller one of food, both of which she covered with the bottom of her folded skirt. She also carried a sheathed machete. She walked fast, though no one was chasing her. When she reached the top of the rise, Julia looked back. After today none of this would exist; she would never again walk up and down the same narrow streets lined with plain mango trees. Beyond the thicket, on the other side of the world, there would be many large cities with thousands of broad, paved avenues lined with rows of stately trees and bordered by impressive buildings. She would indeed miss her sisters and especially her mother, that loving woman who had devoted half her life to looking after her children. But Julia preferred missing them terribly to ending up like her sisters, embittered spinsters living on hopes of better suns, or rather dying with them.

  The rain was now falling with great rapidity and violence, beating her face fitfully. Julia turned to face the path Gordon had hacked out earlier that morning. If she could speak, she would call Gordon’s name right now. Scream it. Just to hear him say, one more time, “I can clear a path for you, Julia, but I can’t help you go across the thicket. That you must do on your own. Only when you’re strong and courageous enough to make it to the other side of the world will you be prepared to live in it.” He was a good man, Gordon. A good
and honest man who had confessed to feeling something very special for Julia; a kind of love beyond description—even for a writer like himself—that he refused to label. He’d promised Julia that he’d give their relationship a chance, and that he’d help her start a new life over there.

  Before entering the path, Julia looked back one last time: in the middle of the torrential downpour her village had turned dim and blurry, indistinct. And at that moment, before her eyes, New Mariquita began to fade little by little until all Julia could see was the spire of the empty church that soon would disappear.

  She turned around, but instead of following Gordon’s path, she moved away from it, to the right, until she found herself facing the thicket, that dense clump of trees and shrubs that for ladders had blocked her way to a new life. She now unsheathed her machete and felt its sharpness on the back of her hand, then raised the long blade high above her head, over her right shoulder, and resolutely began hacking her way through the coarse vegetation, clearing her own path.

  Germán Augusto Chamorro, 19

  Soldier, Colombian National Army

  I was hiding across from the tree, behind the bushes, when I saw a guerrilla coming my way. He was about a head taller than me, muscular, a tough guy. He walked slowly, looking in both directions, again and again, as though exercising his neck. I thought it was my lucky day because the man stood right in front of me. All I had to do was pull the trigger, and this country would’ve had one less guerrilla. I waited, though. I wanted to make sure this wasn’t a guerrilla’s dirty trick, and that he was indeed alone. Suddenly, the man burst into tears. Just like that. That big, tough guy dropped his Galil on the ground, sat down with his back to the tree and buried his face in his hands, weeping through his fingers like a woman. I watched him, quietly, wondering whether he was separated from his squad or had just been looking for a place safe enough to cry (we men occasionally do that).