The Transvestite Who Came Back to the Village to Claim Everything

Las Espigas was a provincial town that boasted of two things and only really bragged about one. The first, the one that appeared on the roadside sign, was being the self-proclaimed Capital of the Sunflower. The second, the one whispered at every counter, was having given birth to Soledad Miranda, the transvestite diva who was triumphing in the capital’s theaters.

That Thursday morning, La Espiga de Oro bakery was the epicenter of the juiciest gossip of the year. The local women clustered in front of the pastry display, their eyes gleaming with malice.

—She’s back —one of them whispered, without needing to say the name.

—Little Espiguita’s back —another one finished, chewing each syllable—. The one who went off to get famous with her shows. But here we all know how she started: as a lost little fag behind the station.

The rumor spread like wildfire, from mouth to mouth, seasoned with giggles and knowing looks. They all knew the secret that was no longer a secret: that the diva had been entered in the civil registry as Rosendo Vera, with her mother’s surname, because she’d never had a father.

Tincho was in line, waiting for his dozen medialunas, when he heard the nickname. His blood ran cold. The past crashed down on him like an old roof.

***

Fifteen years earlier, he had been the first. Rosendo had then been a skinny, delicate kid, with enormous eyes and a way of walking that drove the town men crazy without their ever wanting to admit it. Tincho, a field hand strong as an ox, had found him one summer night crossing the square alone, wearing an improvised skirt and his hair tied back in a ponytail.

He remembered that first time as if it had been yesterday. He took him to the abandoned shed behind the train station, where the air smelled of damp earth and rusted iron.

—Come here —he told him, grabbing his arm.

The kid trembled, but didn’t resist. Tincho shoved him against the corrugated wall, lifted his skirt, pulled down his underwear. He spat into his hand, got himself ready, and pushed in slowly, forcing his way through. The other one screamed, eyes full of tears, but he didn’t ask him to stop.

—Take it —he growled in his ear, thrusting hard—. Take it, because this is just getting started.

That night changed everything. After that came many more: in the cornfields, in the dry riverbed, in the club bathroom during harvest festival. Tincho hunted him in the shadows and the kid always showed up, crying at first and begging for more in the end, betrayed by his own body.

—I don’t know what you did to me —he confessed once, still breathless, his face pressed to the dirt floor—. I hate you and still wait for you.

But Tincho was selfish. After months of using him however he pleased, one night he left him lying in the street like a rag.

—Go find someone else —he said without looking at him.

And Rosendo, wounded and hooked on the rough sex only he had taught him, spread himself across half the town. Truckers, laborers, married men who then greeted their wives at Mass. In the viperish tongue of Las Espigas, he became the shame everyone enjoyed in private. Tincho watched from afar, with a mix of jealousy and sick pride, knowing he had molded him that way.

***

Fifteen years later, the news hit him like a punch on the bakery counter. Espiguita was back. Now she was Soledad Miranda, a diva with shows in theaters and appearances on TV. They said she had changed completely: hormones, surgeries, a brand-new woman’s body built through operating rooms and money.

Tincho picked up the medialunas and stepped out onto the cobblestone street. Without thinking, he walked toward old Mrs. Vera’s house, passing through the square where it had all begun. He didn’t know what he was looking for. Maybe a fight. Maybe forgiveness. Maybe the usual.

He found her that same afternoon. The door was ajar and he walked in without knocking. There she was, sitting in the living room, in a tight red dress that outlined curves the skinny kid from before would never have had.

—Tincho —she said in a rough, calm voice, not the least bit surprised—. I knew you’d come.

He looked her up and down. She’s still the same as ever, underneath all that paint.

—Soledad, or Rosendo. You came back just as much of a slut as ever.

She laughed, stood up, and came closer, moving her hips with a calm that was pure provocation.

—For everyone else I’m Soledad. For you I’ll always be something else.

She rested her hand on his chest and slowly let it slide downward. Tincho didn’t resist. He grabbed her hair, kissed her violently, biting her lip until she let out a moan.

—I’m going to fuck you like before —he warned against her mouth.

—Try it —she answered, eyes locked on his.

He shoved her onto the sofa and tore off her dress in one yank. Underneath was a body he didn’t recognize and that drove him just as wild: firm breasts, warm skin, and between her legs the result of years of surgeries. He spread her legs with a rough shove and drove in with a single thrust.

—You son of a bitch! —she cried, but her nails dug into his back asking for exactly that.

Tincho hammered into her like an animal, feeling how that new, unfamiliar body squeezed him.

—I missed this —she panted, arching her back—. Harder. Like you know how.

He flipped her over, bent her onto all fours against the back of the sofa, and went back to what had always been his territory. He spat, pushed in to the hilt, and she trembled all over with a moan that was pain and pleasure at the same time.

—Cry —he told her, smacking her ass with every thrust—. Cry like the first time in the shed.

And she cried. But this time it was different. When he eased up, she turned around, shoved him back, and climbed onto him, sinking down onto him, moving up and down with a control she’d never had before.

—Now I’m in charge —she told him, squeezing him until he groaned like never before in front of anyone.

Tincho let her. For the first time in his life he let another body decide the pace. He bit her breasts, dug his fingers into her hips, while she rode him unhurriedly, savoring every second of revenge.

They finished exhausted, covered in sweat, the living room in disarray and the makeshift sheets thrown on the floor. Tincho dressed himself while watching her sprawled on the sofa, still breathless.

—You came back for this, didn’t you? —he asked.

She smiled, licking her split lip.

—I came back for more. The whole town’s going to remember me.

***

That same afternoon, after Tincho had already left, behind him the smell of sex and sweat, old Mrs. Vera came in from the kitchen carrying a tray of mate. She wore an apron stained with flour and had narrowed eyes, like someone who’d heard everything from the hallway. She sat down in front of her daughter on the still-messy sofa and poured mate without saying a word at first.

Soledad —Rosendo to her— had put on a light robe, but the red marks on her thighs and the slight trembling in her legs gave her away. She took the mate and drank a long sip, trying to pull herself together.

—Tincho again? —the old woman asked flatly, with no preamble.

Soledad dropped her gaze for a moment and then raised it. There was no shame in her eyes, only a hot kind of resignation.

—Yes, Mom. It started again today. I couldn’t stop myself.

The mother didn’t bat an eye. She poured another mate and waited.

—I never forgot him —Soledad went on, her voice lower, almost intimate—. That first time in the shed, when I was a scared kid and he grabbed me like I’d been his all along. It hurt like hell. But after that I couldn’t stop thinking about it. About how he made me feel like I was nothing and everything at the same time.

Old Mrs. Vera set the mate down on the side table with a soft thump and folded her arms.

—Of course I know —she said—. I patched you up plenty of times.

Soledad jerked her head up.

—After that night you came home walking like you’d been split in two —the mother continued—. You arrived at dawn, with your skirt torn. You locked yourself in the bathroom and cried until you lost your voice. I went in, saw you were hurt, cleaned you up, put ointment on you, made you sit in a basin with chamomile so the swelling would go down. And you, between sobs, kept telling me you still wanted him to come back.

Soledad fell silent, her face burning. Not from embarrassment, but from the exact memory her mother had just handed back to her.

—You never said anything to me after that —she murmured.

—What for? You were old enough to know what you wanted. The only thing I cared about was that you wouldn’t really hurt yourself, that you wouldn’t end up broken. The rest was yours. And it seems it still is.

Soledad leaned forward, elbows on her knees.

—I don’t know what he has, Mom. Or what I have. But this time it’s different.

The mother looked at her with a strange mix of weariness and understanding.

—Take care anyway. Not because he’s after you again—that part you decided on yourself. But because men like Tincho don’t change. They use you until they get bored and then leave you lying there. Only now you know how to defend yourself.

Soledad gave a faint, crooked, tired smile.

—I’m not going to let him leave me again. This time I decide when it ends. And it’ll be on my terms.

Old Mrs. Vera stood, picked up the tray, and walked toward the kitchen. Before crossing the threshold, she stopped.

—When you’re feeling better, come by. I’ll make you a sitz bath with chamomile. Just in case.

Soledad was left alone on the sofa, her legs still trembling, and for a moment she felt like that night in the shed again: scared, hurt, and completely alive.

***

The town has changed over these years, but not that much. La Espiga de Oro is no longer the center of the whispers: now it’s a little corner shop with colored lights and imported candy. Gossip flies by cellphone, in the mothers’ group chat, faster than ever and with the same old spite.

But the center of the rumor is still the same as it was half a century ago. Soledad Miranda, a living legend with her loyal audience, and Tincho, now with a belly and gray hair, still looking for her every time she comes back to town. Fifty years of brutal encounters, tears, revenge, and returns.

Las Espigas likes to think of itself as the Capital of the Sunflower, but everyone knows its true queen is someone else. And that, no matter how scandalized they pretend to be in the bakery line, none of them misses the next chapter.

The legend goes on. And so do the prejudices.