The Flight of the Condor: Stories of Violence and War from Colombia

Brides by Night

Brides by Night Evelio Rosero Diago The things that happen to us! Right now, for example, some men come to the store, all dressed in gray overalls, and select us from among at least a hundred mannequins . We’re both the same height, bald and white, and our cheeks are pink, our eyes blue, and our nails are painted. They put us in a van and after a tumultuous ride we arrive at a ladies’ clothing and perfume shop. They install us in a display window decorated to be like a church: marble angels, bibles, candles, roses, a platform, and steps going up to it. Two women come up to the window and examine us. They move us around and then they change their minds, so we end up in the same place as before. And they lovingly decorate each of us with bridal gowns: there is so much love in the women’s touch that it’s as if they were dressing themselves for their own weddings . They don’t leave out the smallest detail. Because of them, because of their love, we have golden hairs on our pubis, soft eyebrows, and sumptuous hair, and they cover us with the most exquisite lace and silk, those of a virgin who deserves the best of everything. Some passersby stop to scrutinize us enthusiastically from the outside. We are perfect: two brides on the threshold of marriage. The women leave the display window and we are alone, before the altar. It’s as if the organ had begun to play and the candles glowed and the passersby entered unseen into our church and took communion with us, in coattails, and kneeled at our side, enraptured by our whiteness. 142 143 Brides by Night Our ensemble is complete. We have pink garters. And gold chains encircle our ankles. Night falls and a great black automobile parks in front of the display window. The chauffeur opens the back door. A very old gentleman with a felt hat and a cane steps out and stares at us, enthralled. He enters the shop and tells the saleswomen that he wants to purchase the bridal gowns and you may as well throw in the mannequins. He says that money is no object. The two women consult with the manager. We listen, astonished. We’ve been purchased. The gentleman with the hat pays; he leaves the shop and gets into the great black automobile. His impatient face leans out the window. “Here,” he says. The two women carry us, one by one, with adoring care, and they insert us through the window, dressed in bridal gowns. The gentleman with the hat lays us down on his lap. When the automobile starts moving the gentleman’s trembling hands reach under our gowns and touch our buttocks, our legs, between our legs, and between our breasts. He unties the bows; he slaps us lightly. His swift, burning slaps make us blush. “What delectable brides,” he says. And he orders the chauffeur to accelerate. The chauffeur’s eyes sparkle. He also watches us through the rearview mirror: one of us— after the gentleman’s inspection—has ended up with a breast outside her gown, as if a fruit had popped out, and the chauffeur sees it and nearly crashes. So the gentleman arranges our garments, and he covers us lovingly, as if to protect us. We stop at a mansion in the suburbs. A group of very old gentlemen receive us like elated penguins: they take us to a gilded parlor full of mirrors and brightly lit lamps, they sit in a circle and take turns holding us tenderly in their laps. They kiss us very softly on our ears, on our behinds; they caress us and they moan. This delicate act continues for several hours; their gentle moaning intensifies, intensi fies into a roar. Finally they slap us, they hurl us among them, as if we were dolls, and in the course of so much flight our gowns lift up and they peer at us and explore us as if we didn’t notice, and they give us champagne to drink and the champagne spills all over our breasts, and they tear off our garments amidst biting and smacking, and they fight over us but then they smile and insult us as if they’ve abhorred us from the moment they were born, and they rip...