Free The Dark Bride by Laura Restrepo Page A

haven’t seen it.”
    â€œHe always wears it in the pocket of his jacket and now it’s not there.”
    â€œMaybe he lost it, who knows?”
    â€œYou listen carefully to what I am going to say. For fifteen years señor Manrique has been coming to La Catunga with his gold fountain pen, for fifteen years he has fallen asleep in any of these houses, for fifteen years he has left without losing anything. Right this minute you will go, without waking him, and leave the pen where he had it. Being a puta is a profession, but being an evil puta is filth. If I haven’t been able to make you understand that, then I’ve wasted my time with you.”
    The sun burned bright, radios were already chattering, and the heat was mature when señor Manrique, rejuvenated by the cistern, gave Todos los Santos the agreed upon sum and said good-bye, stamping a kiss on her fingers; she saw in his face an expression as clear as a medal of merit, which she had never seen before.
    â€œYou look magnificent today, señor,” she said, probing the terrain.
    â€œNot to boast, señora, but last night I devoted myself completely to the mission you bestowed upon me, and I believe that my performance as initiator and guide in matters of love was favorable. Of course, I don’t imagine that a girl so young could have taken a fancy to me . . .”
    â€œI understand, señor.”
    â€œSuffice it to say that I don’t aspire to so much. But be that as it may, and you know better than I, a woman never forgets her first man and all those who pass through her bed afterward she compares to him . . .”
    â€œOf course, señor, of course,” she said condescendingly. “Of course.”
    We all have our vanities and cling to our illusions, thought Todos los Santos, and she stood there watching Manrique walk down the street toward the Plaza del Desacabezado, innocent of all suspicion and puffed up in his circumspect blue suit, carrying with him, as always, his gold fountain pen in the left breast pocket of his jacket.

six
    Today I am visiting Todos los Santos in her bedroom because she is feeling ill and has been in bed since the day before yesterday. It’s strange to find her like this, giving in to old age, propped up among the pillows on her bed and covered to the tip of her nose with a blanket despite the fact that the heat is killing the rest of us. It’s the first time I have seen her with her hair uncombed, devoid of her earrings, with no appetite for her Cigalias and mistelas .
    â€œI’m tired of going around driving away shadows,” she tells me when I ask her why she hasn’t gotten out of bed. Then she takes my hand, places it over her tired eyes, and assures me that it makes her feel better, that it is very cool.
    â€œDid many women take up the profession out of hunger?” I ask after a long conversation about everything and nothing. She remains pensive.
    â€œNo, not many, just the opposite, very few.”
    She is quiet for a while and seems to have forgotten about me, but later she continues with the subject.
    â€œMostly the indias . I saw pipatonas become putas out of physical hunger, and the proof was that once they had enough money for food, they left and went back to their people. As for the rest of us, we couldn’t go back, because for our families it was as if we were dead. With the Indians things were different; maybe it’s because the missionaries never really fully explained sin to them. Or because their sins were different from ours, who knows? But it wasn’t the same. Nor were their reasons and ours the same for getting into this life. If we had been motivated only by hunger, we would have done what they did, earn a little money, then leave, spend the money, and come back, then leave again, and keep the wheel turning that way. But our motives are more lasting.” Todos los Santos lets out a harsh laugh, devoid of