Laura Restrepo - A Tale of the Dispossessed

On my return, I was happy to see that the strange figure of Three Sevens was still there. I felt sure that he was going to continue on his journey, but he did not. He was still standing at the table that served as reception desk, had stopped checking the register, and was clutching his pack as if afraid someone might try to snatch it away. He seemed tired and unwell, and I thought he had to be boiling hot under so much clothing. Mother Françoise must have had the same thought, because she asked him if he wanted to have a lemonade, since it was so hot…

He answered with a grateful no and remained silent.

“What are you carrying in that pack?” she asked, seemingly to encourage some exchange.

“Firewood,” he answered, but I sensed that he was lying.

It took Mother Françoise quite a while to convince him to eat something and take off his poncho. Seeing that his skin was burned, she asked me to give him aspirins and apply some butesin picrate. At first, he allowed me to apply the cream only to the blisters on his face and arms, but maybe the softness of my fingers relieved him a bit from his sadness and mistrust, because he opened his shirt and showed me the burns on his chest and neck.

“How did this happen?”

“Sunburn,” he told me, and I knew he was lying again. That was to be expected: in this shelter all sorts of persecuted people come seeking refuge, and it is often a matter of life and death not to tell a single truth. So one has to distinguish between harmful lies and truths not told.

“Miss, you’re doing such a good job that I am better greased up than a truck transmission,” he said, laughing, when he was covered with the yellow ointment.

A couple of days later, well rested and recovered, he was helping around the vegetable patch and the kitchen, and he even offered to help with the administrative bookkeeping. We were in the middle of reviewing an expense list when he confessed to the Mother Superior and to me that he had been carrying in his pack the famous dancing image of the Virgin from colonial times, no less, the one so sought after by the authorities in Tora and the surrounding towns. Since we had already heard about this image from the radio and from the press, Mother Françoise raised her arms to her head and began hollering, which only surprised those who were not familiar with the excesses of her French temperament.

“What a terrible outrage!” she screamed in her very own French accent. “How could you think of doing this to me, bringing here a stolen image of the Virgin!”

“I did not steal it, Mother,” he insisted, but to no avail.

“Don’t you know that here I cannot allow weapons, drugs, or anything possibly illegal, because that would just be handing General Oquendo the excuse he’s been looking for? Don’t you think that it’s enough trouble to hide you, when they are looking all around for you, after the crazy things you did during the strike?”

“But I didn’t do anything, Mother.”

“Get that Virgin out of here, before Oquendo takes over the shelter with the claim that we’re just harboring a pack of thieves!”

“But, Mother Superior, you are so hospitable to everyone, how are you going to throw the Madonna out into the street? Don’t you see that I have been carrying her on my shoulders since I was a child? Don’t you see that she was not stolen but saved by my people from the looting and the fires?”

Three Sevens took the Virgin out of his pack and untied the cord to free her from the plastic cover, but he had not yet finished removing it when a small miracle occurred. The dark Madonna captivated the nun with her sweetness and the Gypsy gracefulness of her gestures. Holding on to her skirts, she seemed ready to dance her way up to the heavens.

We looked all over the shelter for a place to hide her. We thought of burying her under the tomatoes in the vegetable patch, or putting her up among the roof rafters, or hiding her behind the washing sinks or among the grain bags stored in the cupboard.

“Not there, don’t you see it’s too humid for her?” Nothing satisfied Mother Françoise. “Not there either, or the pigs will chew her up. And there, least of all! The termites will finish her off. Give her to me, I already know the best place.”

“But what are you doing, Mother?” Three Sevens protested.

“You better shut up, it’s all your fault.”

Cutting off all objections, the nun ordered that stones, cement, and trowels be brought in and had everybody building in the middle of the yard a high structure, strong and ostentatious, to house the image. She set the Dancing Madonna in a display case crowded with offerings and plastic flowers. There she was, in full view, but well protected and inaccessible behind glass. Before locking the case, Mother Françoise disguised the Madonna. She ordered a mantle with a triple flounce cut on the bias and a lined hood, the color of night with stars, which covered the image completely except for her pretty face and her light foot stepping on the Beast. Around the niche the nun planted shrubs and then fenced the enclosure.

“Where all can see her is where she can least be seen,” said Mother Françoise, pleased at last.

“What a remarkable little nun,” said Three Sevens, managing a bittersweet smile. “She put my Madonna behind bars.”

Like a knight-errant unhorsed in the defense of his lady, not knowing what to do, he sat at the foot of the niche and let himself float halfway between relief and the desire to cry. He was happy to see his Virgin so dignified and elegant, surrounded by flowers and offerings, this Madonna who had seemed so accustomed to the hardships of traveling and the roughness of his sack. Where could he go now without her company? If he continued on his way, he would leave her behind; if he stayed, the tracks of Matilde Lina, always pushing onward, would get cold. Being at the crossroads made him feel trapped by time and froze his initiative. That was perhaps the only time I saw Three Sevens truly dejected. He was dispirited and opaque, like a desiccated bird.

Meanwhile, Perpetua, who had been dragged by life to this same yard, was rearranging her ill-fitting dentures and watching the scene in utter disbelief: her small droopy eyes went from inspecting the Virgin, to observing her owner in puzzlement, and back to the Virgin, looking up and down at her. Suddenly her eyes lit up.

“Sir,” she said to Three Sevens, touching his shoulder respectfully. “Sir, isn’t this the image of the Dancing Madonna, patron of the town named after her that was once around Lost River, in the department of Huila?”

“No, madam, you are confused,” he objected, standing up, paranoid after so many episodes of persecution.

“How strange,” Perpetua insisted, “I have been looking at her for a while and I could swear that she is the same one. I think there is no one the likes of her. ..”

“No, she’s not. As far as I know, this is Saint Bridget.”

“Saint Bridget, virgin, or Saint Bridget, widow?”

“Only Saint Bridget, that’s all, and if you don’t mind, I have to go,” Three Sevens ended, convinced by now that the old woman was an infiltrator from military intelligence who was asking him questions in order to denounce him.

A few hours later, while Three Sevens was in the yard in his underwear hosing himself, Perpetua’s small droopy eyes, again perusing him, met with the sixth toe. This immediately brought back memories that dispelled all doubts.

“Three Sevens! You are alive! Don’t you remember me? I am Doña Perpetua Morales. You must remember the Morales children. .. Isn’t it true she is our patron saint, the Dancing Madonna? I could recognize her anywhere in the world. .. And you, aren’t you Matilde Lina’s godson?”