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

drove past them without so much as a honk or a courteous wave. The girls looked confounded. A few minutes later, another Jeep with five men drove by the plaza. Magnolia ran toward the road with her hands and kerchief flying in the air, shouting for them to stop. But they drove past without noticing her. Magnolia was upset and frustrated, but not defeated. She waited calmly until she heard yet another car approaching the plaza. Then she ordered the girls to line up across the street, their hands linked together in a human chain. The driver, a balding, middle-aged fellow, pulled over and rolled down the window of his red Jeep. Three other men traveled with him.
    “Good evening, gentlemen,” said Magnolia, addressing the driver.
    “How can we assist such lovely women?”
    “We were just wondering where you all have come from and where you’re headed. Our village is quite far from the main road—”
    “We’re from the town of Honda, muñeca, and we’re going to visit the girls of Doña Emilia,” said the driver, producing the business card the madam had given him.
    “Doña Emilia said she had twelve pretty girls available,” the harsh voice came from the back of the Jeep, “but I only see nine of you.”
    “I’m sorry to disappoint you,” Magnolia replied, her voice sarcastic, “but we’re not ladies of the night. We have nothing to do with that woman.”
    “Well, if that’s so, then clear the way, preciosas. We have some urgent business to take care of,” said the driver. The other men laughed.
    Magnolia signaled the girls to clear the road, and the men were soon gone.
    The girls went back to the plaza and sat on the ground. They tried to go on with their nightly meeting, but the strong, virile smell of the men perfumed the air, and their voices and laughter echoed in the women’s ears.
    “This is unfair,” said Sandra Villegas. “I’m sitting here longing for a man, while those whores are getting paid to sleep with several a night. I’m getting tired of living on memories. These pictures will only yellow and the faces on them disappear.”
    “It’s only been a couple of months,” replied Marcela López, who had been engaged to Jacinto Jiménez Jr., the former magistrate’s son. “We must remain loyal to our men.”
    “I have no man to be faithful to,” said Magnolia, the most experienced of the bunch, “and neither do you,” she added, jerking her chin at Pilar Villegas. “You and I could team up and compete with Doña Emilia’s girls.” The girls laughed hysterically, and their meeting broke up uneventfully.
    The following night, Magnolia canceled the girls’ meeting and, together with Pilar, went to the outskirts of Mariquita. They wore tight, sleeveless dresses and colorful makeup, and wore their hair down around their shoulders. They smelled the men before they heard the roar of the car or saw the lights. When the driver saw them, he slammed on his brakes and honked. Magnolia stopped, waved at them and continued walking, slower. Pilar kept going without looking back, her legsshaking. The four men craned their necks. They were elegant young men with shaved faces, and they smelled of cologne. “Wait,” one of them yelled through the window, his nostrils flaring. They jumped out of the Jeep and ran toward the girls.
    “What pretty flowers have fallen from heaven!” one of them said. “May I ask where you’re going at this time of night?”
    “We just needed a breath of fresh air,” said Magnolia, fanning herself with her hands.
    “I see,” said the same man. “Are you two from La Casa de Emilia?”
    “Not exactly,” replied Magnolia. “A few of us operate independently.” Between sentences, she stroked her tongue flirtatiously around her lips. She said Pilar and herself would be willing to make love to one of them each that night, free of charge, on two conditions.
    “Anything you want, muñequita,” said the youngest one, stroking his crotch.
    “Firstly, you must