Tales from the Town of Widows by James Canon Page A

fling pebbles at the old woman.
    “You little wretches!” she yelled, shielding herself with her case. This safety measure was perfectly timed because, without delay, a rain of pebbles flew at her, hitting her mostly on her legs but also on the tips of her fingers that showed on both sides of the case. “You scoundrels!” she screamed. “You rabble!” The children ran away, laughing and congratulating one another on their aim.
    Cleotilde trembled with rage. If she stayed in this village—which she seriously doubted she would after this incident—the first thing she’d do as their teacher would be to punish them for such an affront to her dignity. She was imagining this punishment when five middle-aged women dressed in black appeared from around a corner, their heads slightly tilted and their hands joined before their chests. As they walked,the women sang, with great passion, a local version of the Hallelujah song. They must be the mothers of some of those little rascals, Cleotilde thought, giving them a withering look. She kept walking along the unpaved street until the wicked chanting of the children and the singing of their indifferent mothers were but an echo in the distance.
     
    C LEOTILDE WAS THE first and only candidate to show up for an interview that day. She sat very still in the waiting room of the magistrate’s office, the leather case resting on her lap. Her hands were shaking. She folded them on the case and decided to disregard the episode with the children and concentrate on the interview. But she couldn’t concentrate because Cecilia Guaraya, the magistrate’s secretary, was repeatedly hitting and cursing a rusty typewriter whose ribbon kept slipping out of place. “Damn you, you son of a rat! You load of pig’s shit!” Cecilia shouted.
    After a long wait, a broad-hipped woman came out of the magistrate’s office, a bucket in one hand and a broom made from branches in the other. Her head was wrapped in a colorful kerchief and she wore an apron on top of her black dress. Cleotilde seemed surprised. If the magistrate can afford a cleaning woman, she must be able to afford an excellent schoolteacher like myself, she thought, nodding her head. The woman, meanwhile, laid the cleaning tools next to Cecilia’s desk and wiped her hands on her apron. Cleotilde noticed that the woman’s apron was tattered and her shoes worn out, and this made her reconsider her earlier assumption. Maybe I’m wrong, and this poor thing earns a starvation salary, she said to herself. Then she had a bad idea. She waited for the woman to look her way and gestured to her to come closer.
    The woman looked confused. She looked at Cecilia as for guidance, but the secretary was completely absorbed in her task. And so she drew near Cleotilde.
    “How much does she pay you to clean her office?” Cleotilde whispered, pointing toward the magistrate’s office.
    “I beg your pardon?” the woman said, looking insulted.
    “How much does the magistrate pay you?” Cleotilde repeated furtively.
    “I am the magistrate,” the woman said.
    Cleotilde covered her mouth with the tips of her fingers and gave a nervous laugh. “I apologize,” she managed to say. Then, rising from the chair, added, “I’m Cleotilde Guarnizo, your humble servant.”
    “Rosalba viuda de Patiño,” the other said harshly. “Magistrate of Mariquita.”
    Neither of them made an attempt to shake the other’s hand.
     
    T HE MAGISTRATE WAS furious. Her secretary had warned her about the stranger sitting in the waiting area. “She seems weird,” Cecilia had said. But now, standing in front of her, Rosalba decided that the old woman was weird. “Please come this way,” she said, wondering when the outsider had arrived, where she came from, where she was staying, and, most importantly, why she, the magistrate, hadn’t been informed about it. What if the government had sent the old woman? What if someone out there, a commissioner of some sort, had