Free Tales from the Town of Widows by James Canon Page A

growing desire for money to pay off her investment. She adopted extreme measures to ensure a good profit. Before taking a man to a room, each girl had to make him buy a bottle of liquor. The period spent with a client was shortened from twenty to fifteen minutes regardless of the man. Business hours were extended during the week, and on weekends the brothel was open twenty-four hours, with only four girls allowed to sleep at a time. Working overtime was strongly recommended, although not required. Smoking breaks were canceled, and breaks between clients shortened to five minutes. Customers could extend a session only if the girl didn’t have a waiting list. Finally, repeat customers, older and handicapped men, had priority at all times. These measures caused mixed reactions among the girls, but the madam wouldn’t accept any argument.
    Customer satisfaction reports improved tremendously. According to Doña Emilia’s latest survey, 90 percent of those serviced were satisfied, versus a mediocre 60 percent reported the week before Mariquita’s men disappeared. To get this information, the old madam made it a habit to personally say good-bye to her clients, ask them whether or not they had enjoyed their session, and give them a red rose, “For your wife or your girlfriend,” she would say.
     
    W HAT AN ENTREPRENEUR I was then! Doña Emilia said to herself as she opened her eyes. She was relieved to see the large mango still hanging from the tallest branch of the tree, and wondered who would be the fortunate one to eat it. A flock of birds, she thought. Yes, a flock of pretty white little birds would appreciate its soft pulpy flesh and sweet flavor. An approving smile appeared on her face. Or perhaps a dog…. At the moment she had a number of them sleeping at her feet. No, dogs swallow without tasting what they eat. That wouldn’t do for such a special mango.
    Her thoughts were interrupted by a group of women talking in loud voices. Four girls were approaching her. Magnolia Morales was among them; Doña Emilia could recognize the girl’s shrill voice anywhere. She once had seen in a store a talking doll that had the same screeching voice as Magnolia. The girls stopped before the old woman, murmuring something unintelligibly; soon they were but guffaws of laughter that rang in Doña Emilia’s ears long after they were gone. I only hope none of those women gets to eat that mango, she thought. Those despicable old maids don’t deserve such a treat. Her eyes narrowed with hatred, and she bit her lower lip with her dentures.
    The former madam had good reason to despise the spinsters of Mariquita. After all, it was because of them that La Casa had gone out of business.
     
    A LMOST TWO MONTHS had gone by since Mariquita’s men had disappeared, and while the widows were mourning their husbands, the young women were getting restless. They couldn’t accept the idea that they lived in a town of widows and spinsters; that they, too, were fated to be single forever.
    Magnolia Morales led a small support group for young women, which met in the middle of the plaza every night after the public rosary was said. They talked only about men; not their own male relatives, but their boyfriends, suitors or the ones they had secretly loved. Topics like the worsening drought, its consequences on their crops and the forthcoming shortage of food were positively banned from their meeting. Instead, the young women shared romantic anecdotes and stories of their sexual experiences, and showed one another pictures of their departed men as well as presents they had been given: dried flowers kept pressed between books, pieces of hair, even male underwear. Night after night they fantasized about the glorious day when their beloveds would be returned to them.
    One evening, the girls heard the roar of a car approaching the plaza. They jumped up. Not a single car had driven along Mariquita’s dusty roads in a while. Four men in a beat-up green Jeep