Cloudburst: An Anthology of Hispanic Canadian Short Stories

The Woman with Three Husbands

Ángel Mota 149 The Woman with Three Husbands I awaken in a bed that I don’t recognize. A window opposite lets in the full morning light. The window appears to be the only door. The bed is in the centre of the house and is the only white object. The house, which is the size of a room, has a ceiling and walls that are earthen-like. A sink is located next to my left hand. Its tap dripping is the only sound. I finally dare to look to my right-hand side. A woman’s naked back is facing me. We are covered by just a sheet. Pieces of bread are displayed on a white china plate. This is the only object on a wooden table near me. On a chair lies a cat. I scarcely realize that the morning light is brushing my body. I notice I’m naked. I get up. I slowly, very slowly take a few steps. Where am I, how did I get here? I gaze at the sleeping woman. She has short black hair. The woman’s back tenses. Her hands completely enfold her pillow. I see one of her breasts, outlined among the folds of the sheet. Her nipple peeks out, fragile. Part of the white sheet drapes onto the floor. What appears to be her dress lies at the foot of the bed. The light tinges her hair a deep black. I look at her, engrossed. Who is she? There’s a squawk. A rooster flaps to the floor and struts toward what appears to be a kitchen. The squawk becomes more raucous, with a growing echo. I walk quickly to the window. I look to the sides. There are only houses, and they’re in the distance. In the background, down below, I see a port, rather hidden by numerous trees and grass. I forget that I’m naked and lean out farther. I notice some vineyards and orange trees planted in steps from the top to the bottom of the mountain. Below, immediately beside the window, a pig perched on the edge of a cliff is fearlessly disputing scraps of garbage with two others. “Don’t worry, they do that every day,” I hear someone say. I turn around. The woman looks at me with flushed eyelids . She smiles slightly. Her cheekbones hold fresh imprints from sleeping. “Hello,” I muster stupidly. Cloudburst 150 “Have you been awake long?” she inquires, as if she knows me. “Just a bit,” I answer, scrutinizing her with fear and curiosity. “Don’t be afraid. He protects me, and he knows who to protect me against,” she says smiling. “And those pigs squealing?” I inquire, avoiding asking her who she is. “They were brought as presents. They’re from my three husbands; each one gave me a pig for my birthday.” “You mean you have three ex-husbands?” “No, I mean I have three husbands.” “How does that work?” “They don’t know and I only see them when each one has his holidays. I arrange it so each of them takes his vacation on different dates and I also go visit them. Since they live in different cities, there are no mix-ups.” Surprised, I change my questioning: “And the pigs?” “They’re birthday presents; that’s the only thing they’re really good at giving. Every year they buy me a pig. Now I only have three left; I’ve sold or eaten the others. These I keep as a reminder of them.” “And the townspeople, the authorities: they don’t say anything?” “They . . . say I’m a witch and a whore. That’s why I live in seclusion. They come only to ask me for favours, and the police are afraid of me. They think I can cast the evil eye on them or that I’ll turn them into pigs and their wives into hens and their children into dogs. But let me tell you, ragazzo, I’m not a whore, let alone a witch—I just like sex.” “So you go to bed with the first man who asks for your favours?” “No, I already told you I’m not a whore. I only fuck the ones I find sexy and who can give me a decent gift.” “What kind of gift?” “An animal.” “An animal?” Ángel Mota 151 “Yes. I like animals a lot; I...