Laura Restrepo: The Dark Bride

She crossed the Lavanderas bridge just as, one here and another there, the colored lights in La Catunga were turned on, licked by the rain and very diminished in number, but still blue, red, green, and festive, like Christmas Eve.

“There aren’t as many lights now,” Sayonara said to Fideo.

“Why shouldn’t there be, if the putas have taken to the mountains and work in huts. Slow down, girl, you’re pounding me! Ay, don Enrique! Tell this merciless girl to slow down, she’s finishing me off!” shouted Fideo, bouncing around like a sack of corn because Sayonara could no longer withstand the frenetic beating of her heart, which was running wildly toward the encounter, and following her heart, she had begun running also, right down the mountain.

Before they reached the first streets, the rain had already stopped, and Sayonara, hiding behind a wall, removed her soaked clothes and put on her combat attire, complete with earrings and high heels, and she wanted to put Fideo in a clean flowered cotton robe.

“So you’ll arrive looking pretty,” she said, but Fideo, more offended than if she had been slapped, retorted something about how pretty did she think a sack of pus could be. But, finally, she let Sayonara brush her hair, dry her face, and fit the robe around her, and despite the torment in her groin she sat astride the burro, very erect and composed as a matter of pride.

Then they went, before anything else, to look for Dr. Antonio María at his clinic. They found him standing in the doorway, aged and with his rabbit’s teeth even more pronounced than before because his cheeks had become hollow.

“This pueblo has been defeated by morality and its Siamese twin, shame,” the doctor told them, after giving them a cursory greeting, happy to see them but too distressed to express it, and he went on, burning and uncontrollable, with his discourse. “They consider syphilis an obscene illness and they call its propagation and that of other venereal diseases the plague, without differentiating. Any serious illness of the body is the plague and is impure and censurable, whether it’s smallpox, Chagas disease, skin infections, yaws, leishmania, blue bloater, or even common wounds or serious-looking injuries. The generalized philosophy is that any sick man is a victim, that all putas are sick, and that any sick woman is a puta . The prostitutas , and in no instance the men who go to bed with them, are the source of infection, the origin of evil. The current credo is that the sick women must be exterminated and the putas must be eradicated, and according to what I’ve heard, some fifty prostitutas , or suspected prostitutas , have been locked up at Altos del Obispo in a detention camp with barbed wire and military guards. Others have moved to the cemetery to work double shifts, offering their love at night on the graves and earning a few extra centavos during the day as hired mourners. Meanwhile, the community of the healthy holds firm to its crusade and boasts of its inflexible conduct, because they take for granted a correlation between the plague and moral degradation. No one, especially not the prostitutas themselves, wants to know anything about the scientific explanations or methods of prevention, because it is more dramatic and seductive, more useful for the self-pity they’ve always clung to, to believe that the illness is an expression of divine anger because God is an advocate of monogamy.”

“Could you give us a glass of water, Doc?” Sayonara timidly interrupted his sermon, and only then did Dr. Antonio María notice the travelers’ absolute exhaustion and Fideo’s deplorable state of health.

“Excuse me, please!” he begged, truly ashamed. “Come in, come in, inside you will find a bed and food for both of you.”

“How are Precious and the children?” Sayonara asked, smiling, and the doctor, who at first didn’t know who Precious was, quickly remembering his wife’s words, laughed and answered that they were healthy and had moved to the back part of the clinic to live, out of fear of those who came to harangue at the house while the doctor was away, working.

“So, Doc,” asked Sayonara, “are they getting rid of the putas in Tora?”

“There are more than before, only more wretched. The men who marry don’t stop…”

“La Copa Rota was a palace compared to what we saw today,” interrupted Fideo.

“Those who marry don’t stop seeing them because of it, and the prostitutas are also sought out by the new arrivals, the multitudes who are being displaced by the violence in the countryside.”

“Well, Doc, I have to be going before it gets too late, because I’ve brought my madrina some arequipe en totumo and she won’t eat sweets after nine, because she says it causes insomnia,” said Sayonara as she prepared to depart. “I leave my sick friend in good hands. I’ll come back around eleven to take the night shift.”

“No, not tonight. Rest today and tomorrow, and I’ll wait for you on Wednesday, if you want. Precious and I will take care of Fideo. She’ll be with two others, Niña de Cádiz and Gold Teeth, who are staying here until they get better—”

“Until they get better or die,” Fideo interrupted again.

“Who are here until they get better, so she won’t be alone. What about the burro, are you taking it with you?”

“The burro belongs to Fideo.”

“Then leave it, it will be a help in carrying water. Wait, girl,” the doctor said at the last minute, taking her by the arm, “let me look at you. It won’t take more than five minutes. Don’t be irresponsible or obstinate; look how, morality aside, the infection is spreading, and if the illness is treated in time it’s better than if—”

“No chance, Doc,” Sayonara cut him off sharply, “there’s no need for you to examine my body, or to put your mirrors and fingers inside me. I know how to look at my own body and I assure you that my chocho is as fresh as a rose.”

A HARD DICK DOESN’T BELIEVE IN GOD, the subversives had written in large, irregular letters on the facade of the Ecce Homo, and Sayonara crossed the central plaza with suspicion, sniffing this and that unfamiliar item like someone returning to a place he has never been. She saw more police walking around; more boys wearing dark glasses; fewer couples dancing in the cafés; more trash in the street; people quieter, more elegant, better dressed; others more tattered and hungry; many without a roof or work, standing around on street corners with their children, with nothing to do except wait.

As she passed in front of the Descabezado, Sayonara felt the pinch of a bad memory, or a premonition, or maybe it was the cloying, perverted smell emanating from the municipal slaughterhouse. A few seconds later she ran right into the person she least wanted to see, that scoundrel Piruetas, who was moving through the crowd with nervous little jumps in his white shoes, with a portable display case hanging around his neck, on which were displayed a variety of concoctions and herbs for an improved love life, and the infamous Pomada de la Condesa to restore virginity, a very solicited gift in those times of counterreform.

“The more prohibitions, the greater the proliferation of pornographic businesses, and who better than Piruetas to squeeze the juice from that fruit. When the vein of falsified paintings ran out,” Sacramento tells me, “he dedicated himself to the sale of a stimulant that beat all the others in Tora, which he invented, produced, and promoted himself: pepper suppositories.”

“That’s why Piruetas prances through life,” laughs Todos los Santos. “Just like that, sort of like a tight-assed Punch, as if holding a pepper suppository between his buttocks.”