Tales from the Town of Widows (15 page)

“All right,” she said. “The story is about Ernesto and Soledad, a young man and a young woman who are deeply in love. They’re engaged and already planning their life together—where they’d like to live, how many children they’d like to have, that sort of thing. But then a war breaks out, and Ernesto’s ordered to go far away, across the ocean, to fight the enemy. Soledad swears undying love to him, and he promises he’ll return and marry her. But weeks and months go by without
any word from Ernesto. Every night poor Soledad stands in front of her window wishing to see Ernesto’s green eyes glow in the night, but she doesn’t see them. One day, after years of waiting, Soledad learns from a war veteran that Ernesto was badly injured and as a result lost his memory. He now lives in a remote country, happily married. She’s brokenhearted, but her love for him is so strong that she decides to keep her promise to him. And so every night Soledad stands by her window lighting candles, waiting for Ernesto to come back to her.”

By now Señorita Lucía wore the same mournful expression Santiago had noticed earlier. She lighted another cigarette and took several puffs. “That’s it,” she said.

“That’s it? What about Ernesto? Does he ever come back?” He was clearly disappointed with the ending.

“Nobody knows. That’s what I love about this story; one must imagine what happens after.”

Santiago didn’t know what to say. He continued fanning her, thinking about a satisfying ending for the story, then said, “I think Ernesto ought to get his memory back somehow, then go back and marry her.”

Señorita Lucía gave him a sympathetic look. “I think he’ll never go back.” She paused briefly. “And Soledad will stand by that window, waiting, for the rest of her life.”

Santiago thought that was a cruel and absurd ending. “That wouldn’t be right, though,” he said. “That man promised to go back and marry her. He must keep his word.”

“I have an idea,” she said with a refreshing gesture. “Take the book with you, read the story, and then we will each write our own endings and compare them.”

“I can’t read or write,” he said.

Santiago’s confession was no surprise to her, and although she was far from being socially concerned, it disturbed her conscience. “How old are you?”

“Fifteen.”

“Well, at least you seem to know the numbers.”

“I know some.”

“What about Pablo? Can he read?”

Santiago shook his head, but his face remained calm and content. Señorita Lucía held the cigarette close to her mouth, and without inhaling she, too, shook her head.

S
EÑORITA
L
UCÍA TURNED
out to be a great tutor: charismatic, dynamic, articulate and patient. Every night after work, Pablo, Santiago and two maids joined the Perdomos’ daughter in the kitchen for a two-hour lesson. First they learned the vowels, then the consonants, and then the construction of simple phrases and sentences. Pablo was a fast, eager learner. He quickly memorized the alphabet and soon began writing long, intelligible sentences. Santiago was the opposite. He scribbled letters and grouped them in no particular order, making no effort to learn. His nonchalant manner disconcerted Pablo—Santiago had always been enthusiastic about learning anything. Perhaps he just learned reading and writing at a different pace, slower than Pablo’s, slower than the two maids’. Or perhaps he was jealous of the attention Pablo frequently received from Señorita Lucía, who was unstinting in her praise for his intelligence and willingness to study.

After each class, the maids went to their room and Santiago went to his room and Pablo and Señorita Lucía moved to the porch. She was quite talkative, and Pablo was a good listener. They had long conversations, mostly about her life in the United States, and she showed him pictures and postcards of impressive cities and exotic places. Sometimes Pablo asked questions about New York, and the girl’s detailed and embellished answers made him fantasize about a majestic city with high-speed cars flying in the air; massive, indestructible towers touching the sky; lush gardens suspended from the clouds; a land flowing with money, where gold coins grew out of holes in the ground everywhere, like weeds.

Living in such a place was at first merely an idle reverie, but it soon became an obsession with Pablo. He thought about moving to New York day and night. He visualized himself dressed in khaki trousers and starched shirts, like Don William, walking along broad avenues; or sitting behind a desk in his own office; or contemplating the city skyline through the large windows of his own house, his pockets permanently filled with bank notes. He thought about moving to New York so much that it began to seem achievable. He wished for it with such devotion that at length the opportunity to fulfill his dream arose. One night, after a serious conversation with Señorita Lucía and before going to bed, Pablo broke the news to Santiago.

“I’m leaving with Señorita Lucía. She said she’d help me get there. She knows how.”

To Santiago the idea was preposterous. “That must be an expensive trip, Pablo. Where are you going to get the money to pay for it in two weeks?”

“She’s going to lend it to me.”

“But where would you live?”

“She’ll let me stay at her house for a month or so, until I get settled.”

“And how’re you going to find work over there?”

“She’s going to help me get a job.”

“But you don’t speak their language.”

“She said I’m smart. I can learn it fast.”

“But all you know how to do is fix things.”

“She said that’s a well-paid job in New York.”

“I don’t know, Pablo…it can’t be that easy.”

“It’s not impossible.”

The silence that gathered between Pablo’s last answer and Santiago’s next question was long, unbearable.

“What about us?”

“Don’t worry about us, Santiago. I’ll come back to get you. And I’m going to bring enough money to buy my family and yours their own
coffee farms.” His eyes grew wide with excitement, his nostrils swelled. “Oh, and I’m going to write you a letter every week; that way you’ll know I’m thinking about you all the time.”

Santiago sank into his bed without speaking.

S
EÑORITA
L
UCÍA HAD
never looked as hideous and wicked as she did, in the eyes of Santiago, during the two weeks prior to Pablo’s departure. It was her fault that Pablo was suddenly going away, her fault that from then on Santiago’s days and nights would seem endless. She must have found out that Pablo and Santiago were in love and thought it “abominable,” “insufferable,” and “filthy.” She might look friendly and caring on the surface, but deep inside, she was just as evil and hateful as the coffee pickers who used to beat them up. She couldn’t separate them with her fists, so she had opted to use her cleverness.

Santiago avoided coming across Señorita Lucía during the day. In the mornings, as usual, he brushed her long hair, though not as gently as he used to. And in the afternoons he stood by her, fanning away mosquitoes while she read, except now he refrained from asking what made her chuckle, heave long sighs or shed tears. He, however, didn’t miss any of the reading and writing classes she taught at night. In fact, he made an effort to learn fast because, he reasoned, he must be able to read the letters that Pablo would send him every week and write him back. During the course of the two weeks Pablo didn’t talk about anything except his forthcoming adventure, and that made Santiago furious. Santiago didn’t care to know that in New York every house had a television set, or that people in New York could afford to eat chicken every day if they wanted to. A week before leaving, Pablo made a two-day trip to Mariquita to collect his legal documents and say good-bye to his parents and two brothers. It was then that Santiago truly understood what his life would be without him. For a short time he entertained the idea of going to New York with Pablo, but he soon abandoned the thought. He was the oldest of three children and the only son, and he’d promised his father he’d help support the rest of the
family in Mariquita. And he, Santiago Marín, was a man of his word.

The Saturday before Pablo left, Santiago stole Señorita Lucía’s engagement ring. He only wanted to try it on his own finger to see what it felt like to be engaged. He had learned from the maids that she removed the ring from her delicate finger every morning before taking a bath, and that she placed it on top of her night table, next to a framed picture of her future husband. That morning, Santiago waited to hear the water of her shower running, then tiptoed into her bedroom. The room smelled heavily of cigarettes, and her clothes and shoes were scattered all over the floor. Standing in the middle of the room, he broke out in a cold sweat, and his hands began shaking. What was he doing? He started thinking about the grave consequences his brave act might have for him and for Pablo, but then he saw the ring in the exact place the maids had said. He stared at it for a moment or two, his hands tightly clasped behind his back. Then he snatched it and held it up to the light: a solid gold band crowned with three tiny clear stones. He tried it on each of his ten fingers but didn’t think it looked particularly good on any. It’d certainly look good on Pablo’s, though. He fancied Pablo’s hand writing a letter,
My dearest Santiago
—the three stones sparkling on his ring finger—and decided, in a moment of excitement, that Señorita Lucia’s ring would be his and Pablo’s engagement ring. He put it in his pocket and hurried out of the bedroom.

Back in their room, Santiago told Pablo to close his eyes. “Don’t open them until I tell you so,” he said. “Now give me your hand. The right one.” He put the ring on Pablo’s little finger, the only one that was small enough. “Before you open your eyes, you must promise me that you’ll always keep this on your finger; that you will never take it off, not even when you bathe.”

“I promise,” Pablo impatiently said, and then, opening his eyes, he hollered, “This is Señorita Lucía’s engagement ring! Did you steal it?”

“Don Míster William can buy her another one.”

Pablo quickly removed the ring from his finger and slapped it in Santiago’s hand. “This is wrong. You should be ashamed of yourself.”
He walked out of the bedroom, shutting the door with a slam. Santiago lay on his bed and wept softly against the pillow. The world he and Pablo had built together was suddenly shattering around him. He was about to lose the one person he loved.

A few minutes later Pablo came back into the room. “I know why you took that ring, but that doesn’t make it right,” he said. “You must return it right away before she notices that it’s missing.” Santiago sat on the bed and nodded. “Look at me,” Pablo whispered, turning Santiago’s chin toward him with his hand. “I’m going to make lots of money, and I’m going to buy us two rings, you hear me? And they’ll be ten times, a hundred times, better than that one, you’ll see. And when I come back, I’ll put one ring on your finger, and you’ll put the other one on mine…no, don’t cry. Please don’t. I promise I’ll be back and we’ll be together. Yes, forever. Shhh…it’ll be all right, Santiago, my Santiago. I’ll be back soon. I promise. Shhh…”

T
HE CROWD HAD
dispersed after the nurse’s warning. Only a handful of women had remained near the pitiful scene, watching through their windows and doors. Among these women was the magistrate. Rosalba was keeping an eye on the two men from the window of Cecilia and Francisca’s house—after setting her own house on fire, Francisca had been allowed to move into Cecilia’s late son Ángel’s bedroom in exchange for working in the garden and kitchen.

Pablo lay on the ground with Santiago standing over him. Both wept, their suffering partly illuminated by the pale light of the candle in Santiago’s hand.

Santiago knelt down and planted the candle on the ground. He held Pablo’s hand, damp and flaccid, in his. Pablo was nothing but bones, bones that might have collapsed if his skin hadn’t encased them. His arm, his neck and the exposed part of his body were covered with purple blotches and bright red sores. A thin layer of translucent
skin clung to the bones of his face. His eyes were sunken and gloomy, and his thick eyebrows had turned into flimsy lines of sparse hair. Only the birthmark under his right eye remained whole, dark, defined, its intense blackness magnifying the cadaverous paleness of a face that held no trace of the man Santiago loved, the one he had been waiting for.

“Take one,” Pablo muttered. “The rings. Take one.”

Santiago carefully slid the top ring off Pablo’s finger and rubbed it in circles on the ill man’s palm. “I want you to put it on my finger,” he said. “You promised you would.”

Pablo nodded. Yes, he remembered his promise. He, too, wanted to put the ring on Santiago’s finger. If only his arm had a bit of strength left…

Santiago made him hold the golden band while he slid the ring finger of his right hand all the way through it. Then he took the second ring off Santiago’s finger. “Give me your right hand,” he said, though by now he knew that Pablo had lost control of most of his muscles. He said it just to hear his own voice; to make sure he was Santiago Marín and the man before him was Pablo Jaramillo and this long-awaited moment was really happening. He reached for Pablo’s right hand and gently put the gold band on the man’s ring finger. For a little while the two rings were side by side, sparkling in the candlelight. Two solid circles of gold with no stones to detract from their plain beauty. Pablo smiled, his trembling smile a series of muscular contractions.

Santiago held his own hand up, turned it around, made a fist and released it without taking his triumphant eyes off the golden band on his finger. It was official: he was finally engaged to Pablo.

N
INETEEN EIGHTY
-
EIGHT
. F
OUR
Augusts had gone by, and Santiago still hadn’t heard a word from Pablo. Señorita Lucía and her husband had visited once, but they had no news of him. “I don’t know where he is,” she said. “William and I moved to a new house, and we haven’t
heard anything from him since.” But Santiago wouldn’t give up. Before the couple went back to the States, he gave them the stack of letters he’d written to Pablo. “New York is a big city, Santiago. It’ll be impossible to give him your letters without knowing his address.”