ch09

BEFORE SUNRISE, A GROUP of ten widows secretly gathered in the school to discuss how to kill the priest. Some brought knives and heavy clubs from their homes. Others picked up large stones from the ground. They couldn’t agree on a specific method, so they decided that each woman would contribute to the man’s murder in her own way. They split into two groups of five. The first one, led by the Sánchez widow (Trotsky’s mother), went to the main entrance of the church. The other, with the Calderón widow (Vietnam’s mother) at the head, strode purposefully toward the back of the building.

Armed with a stone, the Calderón widow pounded at the back door, which led to the priest’s chamber. “Come out, you child murderer!” she shouted. “Come out now, scoundrel, or we’re coming in!” The other four women did the same, calling the priest all sorts of names. The group in the front also ordered that el padre come out, threatening to set the church on fire if he didn’t.

Terrified, el padre Rafael rang the church bell strenuously, a desperate call for help from the sergeant, or the magistrate, or his most devoted followers, or, perhaps, from God. Only the first two took notice of his clamor. Magistrate Rosalba and Police Sergeant Ubaldina went to the women, pleading with them not to get carried away by their anger.

“We must avenge our sons’ deaths,” the Sánchez widow shouted.

“We won’t let that bastard get away with killing our boys,” the López widow echoed.

Rosalba asked the enraged women to consider that an eye for an eye was simply wrong, and that having to bury their four boys the day before had already been a terrible tragedy for Mariquita. She so pressed them that they agreed not to murder el padre on the condition that he leave Mariquita immediately.

The magistrate and the priest had a short conversation through the small metal grating of the main door.

“You must go right away,” Rosalba said.

“That’s not fair, Magistrate,” he replied in a shaky voice. “I’ve dedicated—”

“You have no moral right to talk about fairness or anything else,” Rosalba interposed. “I’ll give you half an hour to vacate, or else I’ll let the women come inside and get you.” She joined the growing crowd outside the church and silently watched the little man bring out a rolled-up mattress, a rocking chair, his enormous Bible, a small crate of chickens, sacks, boxes, bundles and bags, and load them on his old mule—a gift from the Restrepo family on el padre’s twentieth anniversary of service to Mariquita in 1991. By the time he finished, the mule could barely stand.

Afraid the women might repent of their weakness and lynch him, el padre hesitated before approaching them. They had gathered on both sides of the main street, hardly leaving any room for him and his mule to pass. He took a deep breath, armed himself with courage and, leading the mule, moved gingerly through the crowd, his head lowered just enough to protect his eyes from the light rain that had begun to fall. As he passed, the women’s rage became more fierce. The Calderón widow spat in his face, then broke into tears. The Ospina widow tried to leap on him, but two women grabbed her by the arms. “Murderer! Murderer!” she shouted, her voice choked by sobs. The rest of the women made a remarkable effort not to stab him, or hit him with their clubs, or strangle him with their bare hands. Instead they prayed loudly that he’d die a slow, painful death with no one to look after him.

The priest didn’t dare say adios. Not even to the magistrate, who had supported his church all these years and tolerated his constant meddling in her affairs. His round-shouldered, bandy-legged form grew smaller, and smaller still, until it finally disappeared in the mist that settled over the road leading to the south. When he was gone, the villagers sighed with relief. They turned around and began to walk slowly toward the church. Toward nothing.

They soon discovered that el padre Rafael had taken everything his beast could carry, and then some. In addition to his belongings he’d also stolen chandeliers, images, paintings, crucifixes, candles, the chalice, the basketwork folding screen that had served as confessional for many years, the ragged tuxedo and shabby wedding gown worn virtually by every couple married in Mariquita since 1970, and, in retaliation for the hostility the entire village had shown toward him—the emissary of the Lord God Almighty—the birth certificates of every person born in town. He left nothing but the wormwood-riddled pews, and a profound distaste for Catholicism in the mouths of nearly every woman in Mariquita.

AFTER EL PADRE left, the few remaining believers kept going to church just like always. They walked around the old building, looking at the holes in the bare walls where rusty nails had held images of their beloved saints, kneeling before shadows left by oversized crosses, whispering Hail Marys and humming hymns.

Cleotilde Guarnizo, the schoolmistress, had taken it upon herself to toll the church bell at six every morning, then again at noon and one more time at six in the evening. One morning, after a few weeks, she encountered an obstacle: the church clock had stopped at one minute after twelve the night before. The teacher, who’d never owned a watch, couldn’t tell the exact time. She searched in vain for the large silver key to wind the clock, but all she found was its empty case. El padre, she realized, also had taken the key. “Damned padre,” she muttered.

UPON HEARING THE bad news, the magistrate commissioned Police Sergeant Ubaldina to go from door to door looking for a working timepiece or a transistor radio. Ubaldina found every pendulum of every clock floating in mid-swing, broken; every hour, minute and second hand of every watch standing still; and every transistor radio collecting dust on shelftops and corner tables, their batteries long dead. A few widows had cannibalized their radios for parts. The Morales widow, for instance, had used the knobs as buttons for a dress, and turned the metal pieces and wire twists into bracelets that her daughters traded for eggs at the market. The Villegas widow had planted a beautiful violet in the carcass of her radio, then placed it on the windowsill of the modest cafeteria she owned, where it bloomed four times a year next to an old picture of Pope John XXIII.

In the same way Eloísa, the bar owner’s widow, had replaced the insides of her wristwatch with a faded picture of her slain husband’s face. Every time someone asked her what time it was, she would look at the picture inside the watch, heave a long sigh and finally utter in a melodramatic tone, “It’s too early to love him and too late to forget him.” The other women thought the widow’s answer hilarious. They often stopped her on the street just to hear her say it. But Eloísa, a born capitalist, turned her invention into a business opportunity, transforming nonworking wristwatches into photo frames in exchange for all kinds of food.

Right before nightfall, the sergeant went to the magistrate’s office to tell her what she’d found, or rather what she hadn’t.

“With all due respect, Magistrate,” Ubaldina said, “I suggest that you send someone to the city immediately to buy a new watch or batteries for the old ones.”

The magistrate stood gazing forlornly through the window at the motionless church clock. She imagined Mariquita frozen in time: a town of widows and spinsters who would never again hear the crying of a newborn baby. A miserable village condemned to endless poverty. Nothing but a few run-down shacks without running water or electricity, scattered below a big mountain on the verge of swallowing them up.

“Perhaps you’re right,” the magistrate said with a frown. “Perhaps I should send someone right now…” But then her reverie took a different turn: Mariquita, frozen in time, a town that would never again see men, ruthless guerrillas or crime. A town inhabited by courageous, self-sufficient women who worked the land from sunrise to sunset, and who would never give up, not even in the most terrible circumstances. A town ignored by diseases and tragedies, forgotten by death.

The magistrate had a contented smile on her face when she added, “Or perhaps I should just wait a few more suns.”

A FEW SUNS later, the sergeant went to the magistrate’s office again, this time to tell her that the roosters, all of them, had stopped crowing.

“They’re confused,” Ubaldina said categorically.

“Ridiculous,” the magistrate retorted. “What kind of stupid roosters can’t tell when the sun’s rising?”

“Roosters don’t have brains like you and I, Magistrate,” Ubaldina said, glancing up into Rosalba’s unfriendly face. “They were used to seeing activity during the day, and quiet at night. But now days and nights are no different.”

Indeed, in Mariquita a day was no longer a day. Freed from the tyranny of the church clock, the women weren’t all bartering at the market, or saying their prayers in church, or tending their gardens; they weren’t even all awake. And when night fell, not every woman slept, or tossed and turned in bed, or secretly made love to another woman, or whispered prayers in the darkness. The difference between day and night was within each woman, and it changed from moment to moment. Mariquita had become unpredictable, like a hailstorm in the middle of June—except by now no one could remember when June was.

THE MORNING AFTER the roosters stopped crowing, the magistrate rushed out of her house to investigate the time situation. She wore her Sunday dress, which after so many Sundays was no longer milk white but pale yellow and frayed at the sleeves. So much had happened recently that she wasn’t certain of how many days or nights had passed, and so dressing for a Sunday just felt right. She had chosen to remain faithful to the conventional system of reckoning day and night, because she felt it was her responsibility to record events at least by the color of the sky. A white dog scratching at its fleas in the middle of the main street seemed to confirm the magistrate’s conviction that everything in Mariquita was just fine.

So what if those stupid roosters don’t want to crow? she thought as she walked along the streets. If we’ve learned to live without men, we can learn to live without cocks. At that moment she caught sight of a naked woman running toward her. She had long, shiny black hair, which from a distance seemed to be floating, and her flaccid breasts moved up and down alternately, like a seesaw. Rosalba stopped instantly, as if she had seen a guerrilla standing in her way. But as the naked woman came closer, the magistrate recognized Magnolia Morales.

“What do you think you’re doing,” the magistrate snarled, “roaming the streets naked like a madwoman this early in the morning?”

“And how do you know it’s early in the morning?” Magnolia replied, catching her breath.

“Well, the sun just came out.”

“Time only exists in your mind, Magistrate.” Magnolia’s voice was so soft it was soothing. “Someone told us that when the sun rises, it is morning, and when the sun goes down, it is night. Someone said we should wake up at dawn and go to bed at nightfall, and that we need to eat breakfast, lunch and dinner at certain times. But, Magistrate, try telling a mango tree not to ripen its fruit until you’re finished with the oranges. Try telling a rose not to shrivel until your eyes get tired of its beauty.” Her voice began to rise gradually. “Tell a cow to yield more milk.” And before long she was yelling, “No one will ever again tell me when to do anything! I am free of time, like a rose!” After she was through, she squatted on her heels and, without taking her eyes from the magistrate’s disturbed face, emptied her bowels on the ground with a smile of pure satisfaction.

The magistrate wanted to say something. Say, perhaps, that mangoes and roses, like those stupid roosters, didn’t have brains; but when she realized what the girl was doing, she decided Magnolia didn’t have a brain either. Disgusted, she walked away, covering her nose with one hand and wiping the sweat off her forehead with the other.

ROSALBA TURNED RIGHT at the first corner she encountered and hurried down a desolate street. She hadn’t walked half a block when she saw the old Pérez widow in her usual outfit: a black, long-sleeved, overly conservative dress with a lacy collar, at least two sizes too large. She was on her knees, cutting daisies from the Jaramillo widow’s front yard

“Good morning, Señora Pérez,” the magistrate said politely. “What day is it today?”

The old woman glanced at Rosalba over her shoulder, as if the magistrate were her shadow. Then she shrugged, saying, “When you’re old as I am, you just live the same day every day.”

“I understand,” the magistrate said condescendingly, “but tell me, is it day or night?”

“Every moment is the right moment for praising Christ our Lord.”

Rosalba rolled her eyes and took a deep breath. Then she tried again, “Is it time for breakfast or dinner?”

The widow shrugged once again, curving her lips. “See those birds over there?” She jerked her sharp chin at a couple of pigeons pecking at a piece of guava under a tree. “I’m just like them. I eat when I find something to eat.” She stood, turned her back on the magistrate and plodded away, a tidy bunch of flowers in her left hand.

Rosalba didn’t know what to say. She followed closely behind the old woman until something came to her mind.

“Where are you going with those flowers?”

“To church,” the old woman answered without turning around. “I’m going to offer them to God.” The magistrate tried to remember whether she had ever offered anything to God. In the past she had been a devout Catholic who had attended mass almost every day, said prayers almost every night, and observed almost every one of the Ten Commandments. But had she ever offered anything to God? No, in fact she had been angry on several occasions when she noticed moldy bits of corn bread or rotten guavas, mangoes, onions and tomatoes on top of improvised altars inside the church. “It’s disgusting and unsanitary,” she’d told el padre, who promised to clean the altars more frequently to avoid vermin.

“Are you making a promise to God, Señora Pérez?”

“No.” Señora Pérez sounded annoyed. “I just go to church every day and offer flowers to Him.”

“Every day? And have you received anything in return?”

The widow stopped abruptly and turned around, her saintly face transformed by a sour expression. Then she said, “Unlike you, I don’t crave wealth or power. My reward is larger: I’m securing a good place in heaven, and when I pass on I will have a preferential place next to the most virtuous souls.” Saying this, the widow turned back again and walked away, warbling a song to God.

The magistrate leaned on a lamppost—or rather a post, because the lamp part had been stolen many years ago—and watched the old woman gradually drift away. How terribly sad, she said to herself. That poor woman has gone through life with a single purpose in her mind: to prepare for death!

THE SUN APPEARED to be playing hide-and-seek with the magistrate. Only twice, maybe three times, had the sun turned to show its face, but except for the magistrate, no one in Mariquita seemed to notice.

“Good night, Magistrate!” Francisca shouted as Rosalba passed. She was in her nightgown, brushing her long hair in front of the open window as if the street were a mirror. Rosalba didn’t reply. Instead she cupped a hand to her forehead, shading her eyes, and looked at the sun. She held the pose for a little while, then continued walking.

“Good afternoon, Magistrate!” called Virgelina Saavedra. She and Lucrecia, her senile grandmother, were sitting on rickety chairs outside their house, the girl knitting a quilt, the old woman looking dead, taking a siesta. Rosalba gave them half a smile and went on.

“Good morning, Magistrate,” said Santiago Marín, the Other Widow. He was sitting on his steps, shirtless and barefoot, his long hair loose around his shoulders. Rosalba was relieved to hear someone say, at last, the word morning.

“Good morning to you, Santiago!” she chirped. “Can you tell me about what time it is?”

“Huh, let’s see.” Santiago rose and reached under a dirty rag and pulled out a paper bag. Inside were tallow candles, which he counted, nodding his head. Then he glanced at the candle burning on the ground before announcing: “It’s four and three-quarters candles.”

Rosalba impatiently waited for Santiago to render that nonsense about candles into something intelligible, but he didn’t seem to think this necessary. He took a candle from the paper bag and lit it using the dying flame of the candle on the ground. Then he placed the new candle on top of the old one and gave Rosalba a close-lipped smile.

“So? What time is it?” she asked again, a hint of exasperation in her voice.

Only then did Santiago realize that she wasn’t familiar with his method of calculating time. He moved slowly toward her and began to explain, “You see, Magistrate, in the kind of time I keep, events are triggered by the duration of a lit candle.” He held the paper bag up in the air. “I burn one candle at a time and usually go through ten candles every sun. I light the first candle when I wake up. Before it goes out, I’m already tending my vegetable garden. I often burn two more candles while working, another while I’m cooking lunch, and one more after lunch, while I rest. I go through two more candles at work before sunset, and then two more before going to bed.”

“That only makes nine candles,” the magistrate sharply remarked.

“The last candle is for the Virgin Mary.”

“And what happens if the wind blows one of your candles out, and you don’t see it?”

“Nothing happens. I simply light it again when I see it’s out.”

“And what if you oversleep? What if you wake up when the sun is already high over your head?”

“Then I get to use less candles,” an annoyed Santiago answered derisively, then he flicked back his beautiful long hair and disappeared into his house.

Insulted, hands on her hips, Rosalba looked up and down the street. Once she was completely sure nobody was looking, she stooped, blew out Santiago’s fifth candle and then walked away, with each step gently swinging her large bottom in the breeze.

THE CAFETERÍA D’VILLEGAS, the only eatery in town, was empty when the magistrate arrived. Its owner, the Villegas widow, was folded into an old wooden chair, staring at a fragile violet in a flowerpot that rested on the windowsill. The cafeteria existed, basically, for the five families of land workers who had no one to cook for them, and who paid for their meals with their produce.

“What’s for lunch?” the magistrate asked.

“I haven’t cooked anything yet,” the widow said bitterly, without taking her eyes off the plant.

“But why? It’s midday! Your customers should be here soon.”

“Not anymore. They come whenever they please. One orders lunch, another orders breakfast and a third wants to know what’s for dinner. Everything’s backward in this damned town.” She sounded very angry. “I’m very angry,” she said.

“I’m starving,” Rosalba announced. “I don’t care what you cook for me.” She walked to the counter, poured water from a vessel into a large blue plastic cup and brought it to a table next to the Villegas widow. There she sat facing an old picture of Pope John XXIII.

“If it weren’t for the violet, I, too, would have lost track of time,” the Villegas widow said. “Do you know that this particular violet blooms every ninety suns?”

“Do you at least have any rice cooked? People eat rice with every meal.”

“I’ve watched the entire process three times already, and it never fails. It takes ten suns for the buds to be in full bloom, twenty more for their color to fade and after that, ten more suns for the flowers to die. Sometimes they’re purplish, sometimes bluish, but they’re always lovely.”

“In Italy they don’t eat much rice,” Rosalba said, contemplating the fat pope. “They eat spaghetti day and night.” She imagined the pope eating a full bowl of spaghetti for breakfast. “I don’t know about you, but I like rice better.”

“I like purplish better,” the widow returned. She waited a few seconds before continuing, her voice much lower now, “According to my calculations, I’ll have flowers for seventeen more suns, which means that in twenty-five suns my daughters can start plowing. And then…” She stopped and began silently counting on her fingers. “In thirty-three suns they can begin to sow!” she announced. “I’d better write this down.” She reared up and vanished through a beaded curtain.

Rosalba was furious. How dare she ignore the magistrate’s request for food. Her eyes went from the cup full of water on her table to the fragile violet, from the fragile violet to the pope, and from the pope back to the cup full of water, again and again, as though negotiating a bothersome decision with her conscience.

After a while, the Villegas widow emerged and was relieved to see the magistrate had left. Then she noticed the plastic cup lying on the windowsill, empty. She was devastated by grief when she realized that her flowerpot was flooded with watery mire, and her precious violet was swimming in it.

BACK IN HER house, the magistrate had just started making a pot of potato soup when she remembered that early that morning she’d used up the salt in her kitchen. She picked half a dozen mangosteens from her orchard, put them in a basket and went to the market to trade them for salt. The marketplace was depressing. A few small tomatoes and yuccas and some dry oranges lay on empty sacks spread on the ground. The magistrate walked about asking for Elvia, the López widow, also known as the salt woman. Elvia had learned, from her Indian ancestors, how to obtain salt from a saltwater spring located on a hillside near Mariquita. She boiled the springwater in a large copper pan for hours until it condensed. When the water had cooled, there’d be coarse salt at the bottom of the pan. It was bitter and grainy, but good enough to season and preserve food.

“The salt woman hasn’t been here yet, Magistrate,” a woman missing all her front teeth told her.

“Is she coming soon?”

“I don’t know what time she’s keeping,” the woman replied, shrugging.

This sort of answer regarding each woman’s time had become quite common, and to hear this over and over upset the magistrate.

She traded her mangosteens for a few tomatoes and walked away.

ALONG THE EMPTY streets of Mariquita the magistrate went with her head down and her shoulders hunched, feeling despondent: her village had turned into a Babel without a tower. How could she ever govern a community where time was a candle, a plant, or the movement of someone’s bowels, for that matter? How was she ever going to carry out any of the grand things she’d conceived for her town of widows, when ninety-four people couldn’t even agree on when morning was morning, when night was night? Perhaps if she closed her eyes and walked the other way, she would forget about all this. Maybe that was the only way to go through life. Yes, maybe Rosalba had solved the mystery of existence: every time you encounter an obstacle in your path, all you ought to do is shut your eyes and walk in the opposite direction. Maybe Rosalba’s mother had been wrong all along when she said that there was no worse blindness than that of those who refused to see. Maybe Rosalba didn’t need to see, to really see, the bad things that happened around her.

Or maybe she did.

Up and down the quiet streets the magistrate went, looking like an ant with her thin arms and legs and her large behind, feeling like a failure as she finally saw, really saw, exhausted women working the parched fields in the scorching sun, breaking their backs so their families wouldn’t starve to death; old shacks defying gravity with their cracked, weed-infested walls; scrawny dogs and cats that kept mysteriously disappearing as food became scarce….

Along the empty streets of Mariquita the magistrate went with her head down and her shoulders hunched, feeling overthrown as she finally heard, really heard, the clucking of the Sánchez widow’s hens, trained to lay eggs in the widow’s bed; and the grunting of Ubaldina’s pigs, all of which were hoarded inside the woman’s house to prevent them from being stolen….

On a sunny afternoon of a day no one recalls, in a town the existence of which no one remembers, a poor magistrate dressed in her Sunday clothes wandered up and down the streets, looking like an ant, feeling like a failure.

CHAPTER 9

The Day Time Stopped