The Scent of Frangipani

In a particularly dry year, the third drought year, and on the day of her funeral, the prostitute Maribel Frangipani drew hundreds of men from across the republic. The men were not there to gaze one last time upon Maribel’s long lashes, or to examine her buttermilk breasts; nor were they there to steal strands of her black hair, the mysterious fragrance of which used to make men come. They were there because Maribel’s mother, Maria Antoinette Guerrera, had summoned each of them to appear before a judge. For fifteen years, Antoinette had waited. Too long had she kept her mouth shut, ever since her daughter, more patient and honorable than she, decided to raise a child on her own.