Tales from the Town of Widows

by James Canon

  When the three women reached the plaza, however, they heard singing and saw revelry around Ubaldina. The villagers had skipped over their individual schedules and gathered to celebrate, with a rowdy party, the election of the new magistrate. Rosalba tried to speak to a few of them, but they barely acknowledged her. She wasn’t being overthrown: she was fading away. Rosalba quickly abandoned the idea of reasoning with them and went to plan B. She drew her pistol from its holster, aimed it at the sky and fired one of the two bullets she had left. As if there were magic in the resounding detonation, the women stopped celebrating and scurried into the church, the only place where they felt safe—especially since there was no priest. Only Cecilia Guaraya remained motionless in the middle of the plaza. She held a scrap of paper with the results of the voting.

  “What did I do to you that you have betrayed me?” Rosalba asked Cecilia. The hot pistol was shaking in her hand.

  “Please, Rosalba, don’t be angry with me,” Cecilia pleaded, addressing the magistrate’s gun. “The women of this village are dead set on rebellion. I agreed to call an election only if your name was included on the ballot.” She held the piece of paper out to Rosalba. “You came in second,” she said.

  Rosalba snatched the paper out of Cecilia’s hand and glanced over it. “Oh, great!” she said contemptuously. “I came second, with two worthless votes.” She scrunched the piece of paper into a ball and threw it back at Cecilia’s feet. Then she put her gun away and went to the church, escorted by Vaca and Cleotilde.

  Inside the house of God, Rosalba advanced up the aisle with a stately gait. Her authoritarian aspect elicited the women’s fear, not their affection. There was no sound or movement except the blinking of the many eyes that followed Rosalba all the way to the pulpit, where she stood behind the naked, half-rotten desk from which el padre Rafael used to conduct the service. Cleotilde stood by her side.

  “I’m here to take full responsibility for my mistakes and oversights,” she began humbly. “Ever since I was appointed magistrate, I’ve struggled to have full control over our village, to overcome all sorts of obstacles and make a new life for ourselves without our men. I have gone astray in my beliefs and have done some things wrong. There are other things I should’ve done that I didn’t. But now I’m finally able to see that my job in Mariquita, though unpaid, is to organize our community, to make sure that the Moraleses don’t have leftovers while the poor Pérez widow eats what she finds when she finds it. To see to it that Perestroika stays healthy enough to yield sufficient milk for each of us to have at least a full glass every week. To ensure that every family has a house and that every house has a roof and that every roof keeps out the rain. I’ve learned many things that now will make me a much better magistrate for our village. All I ask is to have an opportunity to fix the mistakes that are fixable, and to make amends for the ones that are beyond reparation. If you agree that I deserve an opportunity, please step forward.” She gazed sincerely at the crowd.

  There was a long silence as the villagers considered the magistrate’s words. Some women were skeptical. Rosalba’s tone brought back to them unpleasant memories of courteous politicians, broken promises and denied privileges. But a few others believed in Rosalba’s candidness and full intentions, especially now that the schoolmistress—whose credibility was intact—seemed to be endorsing her.

  “You deserve a second opportunity,” said Vaca from the first row. She walked toward Rosalba and stopped in front of the desk.

  “I’m with you, Magistrate.” The voice came from the very back. “To me, you are and will always be the only magistrate.” It was Cecilia, who had followed Rosalba into the church and now walked up the aisle. She, too, stopped before the desk. Rosalba met her with a sympathetic look.

  After a short wait, Doña Victoria viuda de Morales came into view. “We also think that you deserve a second chance,” she shouted. She pushed her two oldest daughters—Orquidea and Gardenia—forward. “And you have our unconditional support.” She now began struggling with the two youngest—Magnolia and Julia—who were notorious for their stubbornness. Doña Victoria whispered all kinds of threats in the girls’ ears, but they resisted fiercely until at length the widow gave up.

  Nurse Ramírez and Eloísa viuda de Cifuentes came forward next, followed by Lucrecia and Virgelina Saavedra. One by one more women began to join the group, their heads lowered in shame as they stated their support for Rosalba.

  Magnolia and Julia Morales, Ubaldina and the mothers of the four dead boys had gathered on the right side of the church. They stood still and defiant, their heads held high. Rosalba realized that she had to shift her strategy if she wanted to win over the dissenters.

  “How very sad,” she said in a low voice, speaking to herself rather than to those before her. “If the spirits of our beloved Vietnam, Trotsky, Che and Hochiminh were to appear among us, they’d be very disappointed. They wanted us to live in perfect harmony.” She stopped her discourse briefly to feel her throat with her hand, as if she were having trouble swallowing. Then she continued, “Their youth didn’t stop them from teaching me, through their noble actions, that loyalty, respect and cooperation are the answer to success. It’s very sad that they gave their innocent lives for nothing. May they forgive you.”

  The mothers of the boys, united by their tragedy, joined their hands and wept together. Eventually, they too moved to stand with the crowd of women who supported Rosalba’s authority, leaving Ubaldina with no choice but to forget her magisterial aspirations and join the rest. Disappointed in Ubaldina, Magnolia and Julia left the church.

  Rosalba was satisfied with how she’d handled the critical situation. This time, however, she didn’t allow pride to stop her from seeing the truth: the revolt hadn’t been an isolated incident but rather a serious warning of the extent to which the villagers were prepared to fight for food and shelter, the most basic human rights. She approached the women and personally thanked them for ratifying her as the ultimate authority in town. Then, taking advantage of the improvised gathering, she and Cleotilde explained to the villagers what they had been working on. They promised that the female calendar would be ready the next morning, and that it would mark the beginning of a new and splendorous era for Mariquita.

  BACK IN ROSALBA’S house, after having eaten a meal of stewed lentils and white rice, Rosalba and Cleotilde began making the sketch of Mariquita’s female calendar on a yellowed piece of paper.

  First, Rosalba drew a ladder with thirteen rungs and gave each rung a female name, which she wrote in her neat and beautiful cursive handwriting. The top one she called Rosalba, of course—this time she didn’t bother to ask the schoolmistress’s opinion. The next one down she called Cleotilde, and then, in order, Ubaldina, Cecilia, Eloísa, Victoria, Francisca, Elvia, Erlinda, Rubiela, Leonor, Mariacé and Flor.

  Then, on each rung, she drew four vertical rows of circled numbers (six on each), starting with number twenty-four and ending with number one. They represented the many suns of every rung. A fifth row with four empty circles symbolized the length of an average menstruation cycle. This last row, they agreed, would be called Transition, and it would be the most important period of every rung.

  A faint ray of moonlight filtered through the grimy glass, reminding the two women that night had fallen.

  “Can I tell you a secret, Magistrate?” Cleotilde said abruptly, removing her spectacles. Rosalba lifted her eyes from the sketch and nodded. “I remember feeling dirty and ashamed every time I had my period,” Cleotilde said. “There were times when I felt so ashamed that I wished I were a man.”

  Rosalba also confessed to one of her secrets: “My husband slept in a separate room while I had my period, as if I had a contagious disease. To me, menstruation was a curse.”

  “Well, it won’t be a curse anymore,” Cleotilde said cheerfully. “From now on menstruation will be a time to celebrate femaleness.”

  The two women rose and stood across from each other, their bodies upright
, their feet slightly apart and their hands by their sides. Scattered on the large table that separated them were the pieces of paper embodying the fundamental principles upon which female time was to be conducted thenceforth, and the final illustration of the first female time calendar ever, which would be set in backward motion at dawn. Standing there, Rosalba and Cleotilde looked like two statues of national heroines. The air of confidence that blazed from their eyes seemed to confirm that they, too, were women of admirable exploits; female versions of Simón Bolivar—Colombia’s glorious liberator and first president.

  “Is there anything else we need to discuss?” Cleotilde asked out of courtesy.

  The magistrate shook her head. She used her lips to point at the pieces of paper on the table and said, “I think it’s time to put all of that into practice.” She offered to walk Cleotilde halfway. They hurried down the empty street until they reached the church building, which looked immaculate by the light of the moon. There they stood still, facing each other in the same way they always had: with their backs straight, their brows furrowed and a defiant look in their eyes. Only on this particular occasion nothing but a few inches and the invisible air kept them apart.

  “Thank you much, Señorita Cleotilde,” Rosalba said sincerely, even though the rigid expression of her face showed no appreciation. “I simply couldn’t have done it without you.”

  “I am pleased to have been of help to you and to Mariquita,” Cleotilde replied. She, too, was sincere. She, too, didn’t show it.

  The two women said good night and began to walk slowly in opposite directions along the desolate road. Their bodies, although shaped differently, cast two identical silhouettes that grew closer and closer as Rosalba and Cleotilde moved apart; climbed up the white facade of the shabby house of God; reached the tower, where a forgotten clock stood motionless; and finally, as the two women disappeared in the dusk, became one gigantic shadow that spread over the sky of Mariquita, covering equally everyone and everything beneath it.

  Plinio Tibaquirá, 59

  Peasant

  My son moved to the city as soon as he turned fifteen. He said he wanted a job where he didn’t have to carry a machete tied around his waist. There, he met his friends, the revolutionaries. The next time I heard from him, he was in jail. I traveled a whole day on foot and another day on a bus to visit him, but when I got there, they told me guerrillas weren’t allowed any visitors. Thieves could get visitors! Murderers could get visitors! But not guerrillas! I asked to speak to the sergeant in charge. They made me wait outside. They thought I’d get sick from the sun and the heat and go home. I bet none of them had fathered a child.

  The sergeant told me the same thing: guerrillas weren’t allowed visitors. I said to him, “Pardon me, sir, but my boy needs me now more than ever. I can feel it. I’m his father. You see, guerrillas have fathers too.” I was crying when I said this last phrase. He made no reply, but ordered one of his men to take me to see my son. “Only for five minutes,” he said to the man. I followed a young soldier through many gates and long corridors. There were stinky cells on both sides, and behind their rusty bars, there were faces, faces with blank expressions, faces of men that were not my son.

  Finally, the young soldier pointed to a dark cell. “There,” he said. I stood behind the bars, pressing my face against them, but I couldn’t see anything because there was no light inside. So I whispered his name, Felipe. Three times I whispered his name before I heard a sound, a wail. “It’s me, son. Your father. I’m here for you.” He made that terrible noise again, louder this time. He was telling me he was very happy I was there, but that he was in so much pain he couldn’t even speak, only make that noise. I begged the soldier to let me in. He said no. I asked him for a flashlight. He didn’t have one. Besides, he thought it was better that way, because my son wasn’t “presentable” that day. I imagined my boy lying on the ground, chained and beaten up, forced to relieve himself next to where he ate and slept.

  I went back the following morning. No one knew anything about my son. His name wasn’t in their files. Was I sure that was his name? They were very sorry, but no, Felipe Andrés Tibaquirá Gutiérrez had never been there. And no, they’d never seen me before.

  I must have dreamed it.

  CHAPTER 11

  The Cow That Saved a Village

  Mariquita, Rosalba 5, Ladder 2000

  THE MAGISTRATE TURNED OUT to be particularly amiable that morning. She distributed among the crowd palm-frond fans she had made herself, and personally poured cupfuls of cool water to help mitigate the unmerciful heat. She shook hands with every curious woman who approached the large table she’d set up outside the municipal office, and promised all of them that they would never regret signing the two-page document she was so persistently waving under their noses.

  “This is Mariquita’s Communal Agreement,” she said, the words rolling out of her mouth with ease, as if she were introducing her best friend to them. “By signing it, you’ll be committing yourselves to vesting the ownership of all your possessions in the community of Mariquita as a whole.”

  The vagueness of the explanation made the women’s expressions change. Most older widows didn’t read and barely knew how to sign their names; therefore, when it came to signing documents, they mistrusted everyone—especially the magistrate, with her elaborate sentences and preposterous decrees that almost always got someone, if not everyone, in trouble. They eyed Rosalba with suspicion and began whispering to each other, alternating nods with shakes of their heads. Finally, the Solórzano widow, who owned Perestroika, ventured to say, “We’d like to know what vesting means, Magistrate.”

  “Oh, vesting is just a fancy word,” Rosalba said at once, throwing her hand in the air. “It’s kind of like…bartering, only better because you only have to give once, but you’ll keep receiving benefits for the rest of your life.” She smiled an almost maternal smile.

  “Hmmm…,” the Calderón widow murmured. She owned three mules, which she hired out for carrying loads of harvested products in exchange for half of the products the mules carried. “What am I expected to trade?”

  “Whatever you own, Calderón,” Rosalba replied with a shrug. “Anything.” She was making a great effort to look and sound casual about the hidden implications of the agreement.

  “And what do we get in return?” the Sánchez widow inquired. She owned a good number of chickens and brood hens that earned her, her two daughters and her old mother a living.

  “Whatever you don’t have, Sánchez,” Rosalba replied. Then, in a strategically smart move, she put the document aside and grabbed a water jug. “Vesting is a good thing for everybody,” she said, and began refilling the women’s cups with fresh water. “A really good thing for everybody.” She kept repeating this over and over as she walked among dozens of large palm-frond fans that moved rhythmically in the women’s hands, blowing Rosalba’s words into the thick, humid air.

  BEFORE THE SUN reached its highest point in the sky, all the villagers, including Rosalba, had signed the Communal Agreement; or, if they were illiterate, said out loud, “Sí, acepto,” in front of the schoolmistress, who signed their names and served as the official witness.

  Except for the magistrate, all the women went back to their houses to hide from the sun. Rosalba preferred to lie down in the shade of a tree in the plaza, hoping for an unlikely breeze. She was pleased to realize that contrary to Señorita Guarnizo’s predictions, developing a collectivist economic system in Mariquita was going to be an easy task after all. She began to outline, in her mind, the general plan that would help her accomplish this goal. First, she would collect all domestic animals and take them to join Perestroika in the Solórzano widow’s backyard, which would become Mariquita’s first communal farm. Next she would divide the arable land into parcels of different sizes, each of which would be assigned to a group of women with specific instructions on what to cultivate. Then she would hold an early meeting to inform the villagers that everyone wa
s required to work and/or produce something, in her own capacity, for herself and for the benefit of the community. Those who had no special skills, like the half-deranged Jaramillo widow, would be assigned to clean the houses and wash the clothes of those who did, or sweep streets and alleyways. And if a woman were too old or physically disabled, like the Pérez widow, she’d be asked to entertain the villagers every evening by telling them old stories or folktales, so that Mariquita’s traditions would remain alive. She was so lost in her thoughts that she no longer felt the implacable noon heat, or heard the unbearable buzzing of the mosquitoes in her ears, or felt their painful sting that after so many years still left festering wounds on her fair skin. The worst is over for Mariquita, she thought. The storm’s finally abating.

  BUT WHEN ROSALBA, Cecilia and Cleotilde started going from house to house to collect all domestic animals, they encountered heavy resistance among the villagers.

  “You touch one of my chickens, and I’ll wring your neck,” the Sánchez widow said.

  “That piece of paper I signed didn’t mention Perestroika’s name,” the Solórzano widow argued. Even Ubaldina, the police sergeant, refused to part with her pigs.

  Doors were slammed. Threats were made. Insults were shouted.

  The next morning Rosalba called for a meeting in the plaza to clarify, once and for all, what “vesting the ownership of one’s possessions in the community of Mariquita as a whole” meant, and the implications of having signed the agreement. But the meeting soon turned unpleasant. When the women heard in simple, unadorned words what Rosalba’s plan was all about, they divided into two groups: the majority, who owned nothing but their meager wardrobe and therefore supported the plan; and a smaller group of seventeen who claimed they’d been misled into signing a vague, wrongful document to deprive them of what little they had. And while the former group gave three cheers for the magistrate, the latter group rebelled, calling her a liar and a thief.