Tales from the Town of Widows

by James Canon

  Restrepo was angry. His wife had shut herself in the house since his arrival and categorically refused every appeal to come out and meet with him. He was the bearer of sad tidings for her: her youngest stepson, Campo Elías Restrepo Jr., had drowned some years before, after the raft in which he and his friend were escaping from the guerrillas had gotten caught up in a whirlpool and overturned. Ubaldina hadn’t been present earlier when he shared the bad news with the villagers. Restrepo imagined that by now Ubaldina had heard the story from someone else and held him accountable for the tragedy. Perhaps he should slink inside the house and confront her. Or maybe he should just wait, let her grieve some and then demand that she resume her duties as his wife.

  INSIDE HOUSE NUMBER three, Ubaldina lay in her hammock. Indeed she had already heard the upsetting news about her stepson, and now stared at the boy’s picture on the wall, quietly weeping. Why her sweet boy and not her husband?

  Ubaldina’s marriage had been a sham. She had been the Restrepos’ maid when Campo Elías’s wife died. He’d deceived her into marrying him only to secure a nanny, a maid and a cook. Ubaldina realized this early in their marriage, but instead of sobbing her heart out, she devoted herself to his seven boys, all of whom grew up to love her as if she were their natural mother. Campo Elías, for his part, devoted himself to the twelve girls of La Casa de Emilia, where he spent most nights. In fact, it had been there, in the brothel, that the guerrillas had found him that fateful sun when they took the men away.

  And now, after all these ladders, not only did she have to deal with the death of her stepson, but also with her husband’s return.

  THE FOUR MEN spent their first night in New Mariquita’s former church. Rosalba and her partner Eloísa gave them hammocks, blankets, rags, buckets of water and a lamp. They instructed the men to take a hot piece of firewood from the fire still going in the plaza, and place it under their hammocks before going to sleep to keep them warm throughout the night. As soon as the two women left, the men freely discussed their first impressions of New Mariquita.

  “By God, it’s true that I didn’t expect a whole bunch of women to keep the village going, but I also didn’t expect them to wreck Mariquita and turn back the clock,” Restrepo said contemptuously. “They’re living like savages. We’ve a lot of work to do if we want to make this town livable.”

  “I’m not crazy about all the changes,” David Pérez said casually. “But I don’t think it’s that bad either. Sure, they’re living a simple life, but—”

  “Simple life?” Jiménez interrupted. “They run around fucking naked! And did you see them holding hands and slobbering all over each other? Damn lesbians! I agree with Restrepo: we have a great deal to teach these women.”

  “You’re fools to think we can teach them anything,” Ángel Tamacá said. “They’re doing just fine without us. Who are we to come back after sixteen years and demand that they change their way of living anyway?”

  “Who are we?” Jiménez snapped. “We’re the only male survivors of this damned village. That’s who we are! Mariquita belongs to us, and we’ve got to take charge again.”

  “We have nowhere else to go, Jiménez,” Pérez said. “We’re considered criminals everywhere in this country. Maybe we should just try to adapt ourselves to living here.”

  “I already did a lot of adapting in the fucking guerrillas,” Jiménez retorted angrily. “No woman’s going to tell me what to do. I’d rather accept the government’s amnesty. At least that way I can clean my record and live in a place where women respect and obey men.”

  “Go ahead and accept the amnesty,” Tamacá said, an affected smile on his face. “Move to Bogotá and let them cram you into a dirty shelter. Let them clean your record and then throw you out on the street to get killed or die of starvation. Do you really think anyone in the city’s going to rent a room out to you? Or employ you? Or even befriend you? The moment they find out that just a few months ago you were blowing up bridges and oil pipelines, killing Indians and farmers who supported the paras, they’ll think you’re little better than dog shit.”

  “The bottom line is that we’re here,” Campo Elías Restrepo interposed. “Now what are we going to do?”

  Restrepo’s question was followed by a long, contemplative silence that lasted into the following morning.

  MEANWHILE, IN THE back of house number two, the villagers had reunited to give Ubaldina moral support and to share their first impressions about the men’s return.

  “I absolutely refuse to meet with that man,” Ubaldina argued. “He was an abusive husband and father. He doesn’t deserve me or any of his sons.” She began sobbing.

  “But you haven’t talked to him, Ubaldina,” the Morales widow said in a small, deferential voice. “Maybe he’s a different man now that he’s lost one of his sons.” Doña Victoria was talking from her own experience. Her daughter Julia’s unexpected departure had changed her. She missed Julia a great deal and still wept every night as if she had just learned the news, but Julia’s absence, she often said, had made her a better mother to her other three daughters.

  “Well, I’m a different woman now, too,” Ubaldina retorted defiantly.

  “The main issue is how long the men plan to stay here,” the old Señorita Guarnizo reasoned.

  “No,” said Ubaldina. “The main issue is how long we will allow them to stay here.”

  “You may want your husband gone, Ubaldina, but I want my son near me,” Cecilia objected. Then, addressing Marcela López, she said, “Don’t you want your fiancé to stay?”

  “Wait, please!” Rosalba called before Marcela had the chance to answer. “There’s no reason to debate this just yet. We can’t assume that the men are here to stay. First, we need to show them what we are now. We have our own system and regulations. They may not want to stay.”

  Cecilia suggested giving the men a full rung to explore the community. Nurse Ramírez said ten suns. Ubaldina called for five suns only. But it was the usually quiet Santiago Marín, the Other Widow, who brought the meeting to an end by convincing the entire group that three suns—one per household—were enough for the men to get to know the community and vice versa. Should there be a mutual interest, he said, both parts could negotiate a longer stay.

  THE COMMUNITY OF New Mariquita has no chief or council. Major decisions are reached by consensus, in a participatory, inclusive decision-making process that allows all ninety-three residents to have a voice. The smaller, sun-to-sun decisions are made by the caretaker of each particular area. For instance, every house has a meal caretaker and a helper. They cook all three meals and make sure their housemates get all the food they need. Supplies of food for each kitchen are equally distributed by the store caretaker, who also threshes or husks grain, dries any surplus of meat and fish, and stores all sorts of food in large jars made of clay. In a like manner farm products are collected and brought to the store by the farm caretaker. She oversees the communal farm, the planting and harvesting of crops, and, with input from the community, decides what produce and animals need to be raised. Every caretaker position, every task and small chore, is rotated among the villagers on a rungly basis. Wool and cotton are allotted to old women, who are charged with the task of spinning and weaving.

  Everyone acts on her own, but if a woman (or Santiago Marín) has a problem, she is encouraged to bring the issue to the community consensus process.

  The four men, still on the guerrillas’ schedule, got up some time before sunrise. They used the rags and the water in the buckets to wash their faces and clean their bodies, and after dressing in the same malodorous clothes they’d been wearing since they’d escaped their encampment, sat outside on the church steps and silently watched the village gradually take on distinct forms and colors as the sun began to shine on everything.

  The plaza was still a bit shadowy when the door of the house directly across from where the men sat opened, and a figure appeared. She had a long, shapeless white piece of cloth drawn completely
about her, which in the distance made her look like an apparition, and like an apparition she advanced slowly through the plaza toward the church. As she neared the men, she quickly tilted her head down and hurried her pace, entering the church by the back entrance. The four men looked at each other and shrugged, unable to explain her strange behavior. The woman rang the church bell and soon afterward reappeared. This time Restrepo rose and followed her, thinking it was his wife. She moved fast, but Restrepo was faster and presently caught up with her. Gripping her so she couldn’t get away, he tugged hard at the cloth, stripping it forcibly from her body. But it was not his wife who stood naked before him, it was the Morales widow, and she was shouting hysterically for help.

  Women from all three houses hastened to assist the disgraced widow. They wrapped her up quickly in the same white cloth she’d been wearing and just as quickly took her into house number one, the closest to the incident.

  A little while later the church bell started ringing insistently, calling for an emergency meeting. The doors of all three houses opened wide, making way for three armies of naked women who strode purposefully and in absolute quiet toward the men. The unexpected and intimidating sight made the men rise at once and draw together. They stood perfectly straight and quiet, as if they’d been ordered to fall in, and watched in suspense as the women came closer and closer and finally stopped, barely a few yards in front of them.

  “Please, let me explain what happened earlier,” Restrepo rushed to say. He seemed nervous as he scanned the crowd, looking for Ubaldina. She couldn’t have changed much.

  “There’s no need to explain anything, Señor Restrepo,” Rosalba replied confidently. She was standing in the front row. “We know exactly what happened and the reasons that drove you to it. That said, we won’t tolerate any outsider forcibly stripping one of our own, regardless of his reasons. You see, the village in which you used to live no longer exists. You’re now in New Mariquita, an independent all-female community with…special social, cultural and economic characteristics, and close bonds with nature.” This definition she had conceived not so long ago, while trying to explain to herself what, exactly, their village had turned into. But this was the first time she had said it aloud. She thought that it sounded grand and exceptional. She couldn’t have picked a better opportunity to introduce it. “The fact is, we won’t even consider admitting any one of you into our community unless we’re certain that he fits in here and is willing to conform to our ways, our ideals and our rules.” She shifted her eyes from man to man as she spoke, making an effort to regard them as evenly as possible. She was a fair woman. “Why don’t we start with you, Señor Jiménez? Tell us what brought you here, and what you want from us.”

  Jacinto Jiménez Jr. took half a step forward. He was the tallest and most muscular of the four. He looked at his comrades first and then at the villagers and finally decided to address the head of a dandelion that the morning wind had carried from someone’s garden, and that now lay half broken not so far from Rosalba’s bare feet.

  “I don’t want nothing from you,” he began. “I’m here to start a new life for myself, and I don’t need nobody’s permission to do so. I’ll begin rebuilding my father’s former house as soon as possible. Then I’m going to marry Marcela, and we’re going to move into my house on my property.” He took half a step back, joining his comrades.

  Rosalba considered the man’s abrupt statement for a moment, then said, “Mr. Jiménez, is it true that you disapprove of Marcela’s nudity?”

  “I sure do,” he retorted angrily. “Whatever you all do is your business. You all can stand on your tits as far as I’m concerned, but no wife of mine is going to be seen naked by anyone but me.” He crossed his arms defiantly. The villagers looked at Rosalba, waiting for her reply, but at that precise moment Marcela, hands on hips, stepped forward. She took off the shirt Jiménez had given her the sun before.

  “You haven’t changed a bit, Jacinto,” she said scornfully. “You’re still as arrogant and pretentious as ever. Too bad I’m not the same. I’ve come a long way since you were taken away. You just can’t imagine the things I went through so that today I can stand like this, face to face with you, and feel no shame, guilt or fear.” Her face turned bright red as she added, “I’d rather be an old maid for the rest of my life than be your wife for a moment.” She tossed the shirt at his feet as though it were their engagement ring and went back into the crowd, followed by Jiménez’s furious stare.

  With a smug smile, Rosalba called the next man.

  David Pérez, in a more obliging tone than Jiménez, said that it was his wish to get back his grandparents’ little piece of land. “I want to rebuild our house for me and my grandmother. You all have taken good care of her, and I thank you for that, but now I’m back and ready to take on my responsibility.” He confessed to feeling uncomfortable with some of the changes that had taken place in Mariquita, and added, “I don’t know whether or not I’ll be able to adapt to all of your ‘special characteristics,’ but I’m willing to give it a try. Just bear in mind that we got here yesterday. It’s going to take some time.” Oh, and that, by the way, he wanted to start a family. Would anyone be interested in marrying a brave and affectionate man?

  No one was interested at the moment. David’s answer, nonetheless, was received warmly.

  Campo Elías Restrepo stepped forward before Rosalba called his name.

  “What have you got to say for yourself, Señor Restrepo?” Rosalba said.

  “As you all know,” he began, “I once owned a few properties in town and many acres of land. Well, I’m back, and I think it’s only fair that they be returned to me by whoever’s working or using them. I promise I won’t charge you back rent.” He laughed alone at his own joke, then continued, “Like Comrades Jiménez and Pérez, I also want to rebuild my house and…you know, take my wife with me. Because she’s still my wife, isn’t she? Or are you ladies going to tell me that Ubaldina also became a…you know…” The crowd stared at him with contempt.

  “Why don’t you ask her yourself, Mr. Restrepo?” Rosalba suggested in a derisive tone, pointing at a small Indian woman who had been standing in the first row all this time with her back straight and her hands locked right underneath her navel.

  Restrepo glanced at the woman and furrowed his brow. He looked at Rosalba in confusion, then back at the woman who was supposed to be his wife. She stood on a couple of shapely legs and, like a statue, seemed to be cast in bronze. Two graying braids framed her round little face. She had slanting brown eyes under heavy eyelids, a wide Indian nose and full lips. Her breasts, Restrepo thought, looked shy, yet firm and graceful for her age.

  “Ubaldina?” he asked incredulously.

  She nodded.

  “You look…different,” he faltered. “Good. You look good.”

  “Do you know this is the first time you’ve ever really looked at me, Campo Elías?” Ubaldina said. “Oh, I forgot, Don Campo Elías. Please forgive me for being so disrespectful.” She laughed derisively.

  He stood there quietly, remembering. He’d married Ubaldina because he wanted his seven boys to have a mother, and they’d always thought of Ubaldina as family. Their master-servant relationship, however, had changed little with their wedding. Not once had Restrepo looked at Ubaldina through different eyes than those of an employer. The few times he’d made love to her, he’d been too drunk or too tired to go to the brothel. He hadn’t missed her all these years. The rare occasions he’d thought of Ubaldina, he’d pictured a homely woman in an apron silently cooking or cleaning, always looking down. But the wife he’d mistreated had gotten rid of her apron long ago. As he looked at her today, he saw a ripe, mellowing, attractive woman who’d felt deceived, cheated on and abused by him, and who was rightly rejecting him. Nothing he said or did now would change what he’d done in the past.

  “Don’t you have anything to say?” Ubaldina asked, cutting short the man’s reminiscences.

  Restrepo couldn�
�t think of any words that could convey the way he was beginning to feel. He shook his head.

  “It’s better that way,” she declared.

  He stepped back and hung his head.

  After a short, sensible silence, Ángel Tamacá was called to state his intentions to the villagers. As the broken man stepped forward, Rosalba couldn’t help wondering what he—the one person who’d volunteered to join the guerrillas—could possibly want from their community. He had no house to rebuild or land to claim. Perhaps his former teaching job? But what could he possibly teach them? The virtues of socialism? They were already living them.

  “All I ask of you is to give me a second chance,” Ángel said humbly to the crowd without looking at anyone in particular.

  “A second chance?” Rosalba asked. “To do what?”

  “To be human,” he replied.

  The villagers nodded affably: Ángel’s petition seemed genuine. He deserved a second chance. Amparo Marín was especially touched by Ángel’s appeal, by his manly voice, his politeness, and the sad expression of his face. How could a man convey his feelings in such a sensitive way with so few words to say and only one eye to glint?

  BEFORE BREAKING UP the meeting, Rosalba informed the four men about what would happen next. “We’ve had visitors in the past; mostly passing travelers and displaced families heading for the city. No one, however, has attempted to stay. This is all new to us, and naturally your acceptance in our community will have to go through consensus discussion. Only when we reach consensus will we be able to give you an answer.”

  “An answer to what?” Jiménez shouted. “We haven’t asked any questions or made any requests. Have we? We’re here to stay, and we don’t give a damn about your consensus. You keep forgetting that Mariquita is our village too.”

  “Señor Jiménez,” Rosalba said calmly. “Look around and tell me whether this is the same village you’re claiming to belong to.”