Tales from the Town of Widows by James Canon Page B

finally received the official report of the census that the magistrate had taken long ago, and which she made Cecilia type and send out with anyone and everyone who passed through Mariquita?
    “Thank you,” Cleotilde replied, entering Rosalba’s office. The teacher had already decided, in her mind, that the confusion had been the magistrate’s fault. She had met with magistrates and mayors before, even with governors. But she’d never been received by a dignitary dressed as a servant. She thought it inappropriate. And what was the purpose of all those cleaning rags piled up on the windowsill? And that smell, ugh! How much bleach had the woman put on the floor?
    “Please have a seat,” Rosalba said, pointing at a sad-looking chair, the stuffing showing through splits and holes. “My secretary told me that you’re here to apply for the schoolteacher’s position.”
    “That’s correct.”
    “Good. Let’s start then. Do you have related experience, Señora Guarnizo?”
    “Señorita, Magistrate,” the old woman corrected her. “And yes, I happen to have nearly fifty years of teaching experience, twenty-seven of which can be verified by looking over my portfolio under the section titled Cartas de Recomendación.”
    “Very good, Señorita Guarnizo. Very good,” Rosalba said, a little intimidated by the teacher’s husky voice, and by the complexity of the large case that Cleotilde had carefully begun to fan out on top of her mahogany desk. The documents were meticulously organized into several labeled sections, which included the names of the schools in which she had taught, subjects, periods of time, awards and distinctions and letters of recommendation. There was even a whole section with photographs and résumés of distinguished people she had tutored during the past twenty-seven years—now doctors, lawyers, architects and beauty queens.
    “I’m impressed, Señora Guarnizo, but—”
    “Señorita, Magistrate!” the teacher interrupted. “After spending sixty-seven years in chastity, one likes to be acknowledged with the proper title.”
    “Please forgive me, Señorita Guarnizo. I can’t help feeling a little—intrinsic addressing a woman older than myself as ‘señorita.’ I feel almost—concupiscent.” Overwhelmed by the old lady’s self-confidence, Rosalba made a great effort to find words that sounded as pompous as the teacher’s. “As I was saying, I am very impressed with your credentials of the past twenty-seven years, but where and what were you teaching before that?”
    “I am afraid, Magistrate, that for personal reasons I won’t be able to answer that question.” Cleotilde’s reply provoked a long, uncomfortable silence, which she had to break herself because Rosalba was pretending to read, in detail, every document in the teacher’s portfolio. “Do you have any other questions, Magistrate? Questions concerning my more recent experience? I’ll be more than happy to answer those for you.”
    “Let’s see,” Rosalba said, closing the portfolio. She thought carefully about what to ask. It had to sound smart. “Do you have a—plan of action for the students of Mariquita, Señorita Guarnizo?”
    “I’ll be very pleased to develop one as soon as I’m offered the job, in which case I’ll converse with the prospective students to evaluate their current degree of knowledge.”
    “Very good, but do you have any idea of what subjects you’d like to teach? It’s been so long since I attended school. I don’t even know what they teach these days.”
    “I’m perfectly capable of teaching language arts, science, mathematics, social studies, geography, and ethics.”
    “What about Colombian history? Can you teach Colombian history? It was my favorite subject in school.”
    “I can teach that, too, Magistrate,” Cleotilde said, “but I won’t.” She pushed her spectacles up her nose with her index finger. “And before you inquire about the reason why, I shall inform you