The Queen of Water (21 page)

chapter 34

I
’M IN THE KITCHEN
, washing dishes and joking around with my coworkers, when Don Lucho pokes his head through the doorway. “You have some visitors, Virginia,” he says with a twinkle of the eye and a flash of his gold tooth.

I dry my hands and smooth my hair back and wipe the sweat off my forehead and hope I don’t smell too much like dish soap and grease. Unexpected visitors make me nervous. Even though my friends still like me, I can’t help worrying that someone from my past will appear and spill out all the ugly details of my life.

A short, round
mestizo
man and a pretty
indígena
woman are waiting for me on the blue velvet chairs in the lobby. When they see me, they hop up. “Finally!” the man says. “You’re a hard girl to track down.”

I stare for a moment, wary, then say, “Please sit down.” I show them to a table in the café. “Would you like a drink?”

They shake their heads politely, and the woman says, “I’m just so glad we found you!”

Are they undercover police of some kind, patrolling Otavalo to expose poor
indígena
girls disguised as
gente de clase
? Once we’re seated, I ask, squeezing my hands in my lap, “How can I help you?”

The man introduces himself as José and the woman as Susana, then leans forward eagerly. “I know you from your community, Yana Urku.”

My heart jumps. “Oh, really?” I am careful not to admit to anything.

“I saw you star in that marvelous play, and you brought me to tears, Virginia! I haven’t been able to forget it. So when our organization started looking for a beautiful and talented girl to represent us, I thought of you! It’s for the competition of Sara Ñusta. To choose the
indígena
queens of corn, water, and sky.”

I flush at being called beautiful and talented, but when he says
indígena,
I freeze, then glance around to make sure none of my coworkers are close enough to hear. “Thank you, señor.”

Susana continues, talking quickly and breathlessly. “First, we went to Yana Urku and asked around about you, and your parents couldn’t remember where you live, but finally someone at the school told us you were here in the Hotel Otavalo.”

I am speechless. I can’t help but feel flattered that they would take this time to look for me, when the town is full of indigenous girls who would love to compete for queen. I study Susana. The beads around her neck are small and expensive, glass coated with real gold paint, and her blouse shimmers with flowers of finely stitched gold and pink thread. She is one of the wealthy
indígenas
, I can tell. One of the
indígenas
I wished to be when I was a girl. One of the
indígenas
respected by
mestizos.
And she speaks Spanish perfectly, an educated Spanish, enunciating all her words delicately. They are waiting for me to say something, so I say, “Oh, and what is your organization?”

Susana smiles proudly. “We collect funds to help children in
indígena
communities study in preschool. If you represent us, you’ll compete against girls from organizations all over the Ecuadorian Andes for one of the three queen crowns. This is based on an old tradition, dating from Incan times. They stopped doing the competition about twelve years ago, and now we’re reviving it!”

“Sounds wonderful,” I say politely. I have to admit, I do like the idea of being a queen. “What are the requirements?”

“Oh, that’s easy,” Susana says. “You just need to be
indígena
and speak Quichua.”

I hesitate. First, I’m not exactly
indígena
anymore, and second, my Quichua is at the level of a three-year-old’s.

“We really hope you can do this!” José says. “It took us so long to find you, and the rehearsals start soon.”

“Well,” I begin, slowly. “It seems fun. But—”

Their faces fall.

I lower my voice so that Don Lucho and the others won’t hear. “But I don’t dress as an
indígena
anymore.” Suddenly, I realize how tired I am of hiding and keeping secrets. “See, the truth is I lived with
mestizos
for years as a servant. And they thought
indígenas
were stupid and dirty and only good for serving them, and … well, I didn’t want to be
indígena
anymore. I threw out my old clothes and dressed in regular skirts and shirts. And I don’t have enough money to buy new
indígena
clothes, especially fancy ones like yours. And—and—really, I don’t know if I’m even
indígena
anymore.” I stop there because my voice is quavering and if I say another word, I might cry.

Susana takes in what I tell her, nodding sympathetically. “Of course you’re still
indígena,
Virginia. Don’t worry. We’ll make sure you have clothes. We’ll take care of everything.”

“But I don’t speak much Quichua either, señora. I used to, but now the words feel strange coming out of my mouth.”

“No problem,” Susana says. “We’ll help you remember. So what do you say?”

I twist my hair around my finger, stalling.

“Sorry to rush you, Virginia,” José says. “But we do need to know your decision now.”

“Well, then.” I take a deep breath. “All right. I guess.”

Their faces light up. “Oh, good!” Susana says, clasping her hands together. “You’ll need to go to rehearsals, and the first is this afternoon. Can you do that?”

“I need to talk with my boss,” I say, realizing it’s too late to change my mind now, wondering how I’ll manage school and work and friends and these rehearsals.

“We’ll talk to him.” José stands up and shakes my hand. “You just get ready to go.”

Susana extends both her hands and gives mine a squeeze. “We’ll stop by my house to get you the clothes.”

In a daze, I go downstairs to my room to brush my hair and spray on some perfume to hide the kitchen grease smells. I half wish Don Walter will say I can’t have time off work, that we’re too busy. But upstairs he puts his hand on my shoulder, and says, “What an honor, Virginia! I’m proud of you. Of course you can miss some work.”

Then, in a whirlwind, Susana whisks me off in her car.

*  *  *

“Pick out whatever you want, Virginia.” We’re standing in Susana’s bedroom, in front of her open wardrobe, a treasure chest of expensive
anacos
and blouses. I choose a blouse with flowers of all colors embroidered around the neck and delicate lace ruffles at the elbows. The
anacos
are a soft wool blend with fine zigzags along the bottom, a cream
anaco
underneath and a dark one on top. I pick out a purple
faja
for around the waist, in honor of the
rabanito
flowers standing tall in the song I sang for fresh rolls as a little girl. This would have been a dream come true for me then. Susana plucks some dangly earrings and a heap of gold and red beads and a long ribbon from her jewelry box and sets them on top of the wardrobe.

“All right,” she says, glancing at her watch. “Try them on!” She turns away as I take off my skirt and shirt and fold them up, and slip on the blouse. It feels different than the blouses I wore as a child. Not only is the fabric much silkier and shinier than the plain cotton ones I used to wear, but now my breasts fill the space inside. I wrap the
anacos
around my waist. Then, with clumsy movements, I take the long
faja,
wrapping it around and around the top of the
anacos.

It isn’t easy. I wish I had another hand. But I’m too embarrassed to admit to Susana that I can’t handle wrapping my own
anacos.
It would be like asking her to zip up my fly or hook my bra.

“Everything all right?” Susana asks, still looking away to give me privacy.

“Oh, yes,” I say, struggling to hold up the fabric with one hand, while wrapping the
faja
around my waist with the other, pulling it extra tight. It’s the only thing holding up the
anaco;
it would be disastrous if it came loose. Finally, I tuck the end of the
faja
in and try to breathe. It’s suffocating, pressing on my ribs and constricting my lungs, so I can only breathe halfway. But there’s something secure-feeling about it too, familiar and almost comforting, a kind of hug.

I wrap the ribbon around my ponytail and tie it at the ends, then put on the necklace of dozens of thin golden strands and the dangly earrings. Susana drapes a cream wool
fachalina
over my left shoulder and knots it. Last, I slip on her black velvet shoes—which fit me perfectly—and tie the dainty strings around my ankles.

I turn to study myself in the mirror.

I look beautiful.

There is no other way to say it. I look exactly how, during my childhood in Yana Urku, I dreamed of myself looking as a young woman. “I’m ready, señora,” I say hesitantly.

Susana’s eyes widen. “Gorgeous! Simply gorgeous. A true queen.” She grabs her keys. “All right, let’s go.”

“Just give me a minute to change back into my regular clothes.”

“Why? Just come like this.”

“But—” I close my mouth. The truth is, this feels like a costume, like I’m playing dress-up. It’s not the kind of thing I could wear on the street. What if I run into someone I know? What if one of my classmates or teachers sees me dressed like an
indígena
?

Susana is waiting, jingling her keys.

“All right,” I say, leaving her room with my regular clothes draped over my arm. In the car on the way over, I keep my hand near my face, trying to hide myself, hoping no one will recognize me.

“Now, Virginia,” Susana says, “I’ll just drop you off here and be back in two hours to pick you up. All right?”

I nod and get ready to race across the sidewalk and into the building. “Thanks, señora. Bye.” Luckily, in front of the rehearsal building, a stream of teenage girls in
indígena
clothes are moving from their cars to the doorway. I try to blend in with them.

Inside, there’s a giant auditorium with a stage at the far end and hundreds of seats. About fifty girls, all dressed in
indígena
clothes, sit in the first few rows. Five minutes after I arrive, the organizers—three excited ladies onstage—introduce each girl, who stands up and smiles and then sits down again.

The lesson for our first rehearsal is how to walk across the stage like models. “Heads high! Like a golden string is attached to the top of your head!” one of the ladies keeps shouting. Our feet have to walk lightly, almost tiptoe, while our hips sway a little, swishing in our
anacos,
and our shoulders have to be held back and our chests thrust forward. I observe the woman closely, eager to walk like a model, grinning at the idea of myself strutting gracefully around the hotel, picking dirty dishes up off the tables with extra flair, slinking into the kitchen as if down a runway.

As we wait for our turn to cross the stage, we girls whisper together, getting to know each other. Luckily, the girls speak in Spanish, not Quichua, and I can understand. They seem mostly friendly, but with an edge of competitiveness. The undercurrent of every conversation is the knowledge we’ll be competing against each other. Only three out of fifty girls will be queen: the Queen of Corn, of Sky, and of Water.

The other girls are, without a doubt, the wealthiest, most educated class of
indígenas
I’ve ever encountered. I catch intimidating snippets of the conversations floating around the auditorium.

“Oh, we live downtown, just next to the restaurant we own, Restaurante El Pájaro. What about you?”

“We own Andes Exports.”

“Oh, really? We have another restaurant just down the street from there.”

“What did you do over summer break?”

“France, Germany, and Italy.”

“Cool. We did Europe the year before last. We were in Japan this past summer.”

One of the girls—Elsa—turns to me, her face open and friendly, assuming that I’m one of them. “What about you? Where do you live?”

“The Hotel Otavalo,” I say, and watch their eyes grow big.

“Wow! That’s a nice place! I pass it on my way to school.”

I find myself going on. “My father owns the place and I help him out.”

“Cool. Where do you go to school?”

Most of them have graduated already, and some go to Santa Juana de Chantal, which I guess must be the
colegio
for indigenous students. “República de Ecuador.”

“I’ve heard that’s a good school. But isn’t it more for
mestizos
?”

I shrug. “I love it there.” And quickly, desperate to change the subject, I ask, “Where did you get that pretty barrette?”

*  *  *

After the rehearsal, Susana picks me up in her new silver car. “Now, Virigina,” she says, “keep my clothes and wear them to the rehearsals. And promise me you won’t just change there. It would look bad, like you’re ashamed. You have to wear them to the rehearsal. Promise me.”

My stomach is starting to hurt. How can I leave the restaurant for rehearsals dressed like this? Maybe I can sneak out the back door.

Susana parks in front of the hotel. She’s staring at me, trying to figure me out. “Virginia, you’re
indígena.
You look beautiful in
indígena
clothes. Why don’t you dress as an
indígena
?”

“I just—I—I don’t know. When I was
indígena
I was poor and didn’t go to school and my parents hit me all the time. And I don’t want to be that person anymore. I left that behind me.”

Her eyes soften; her face goes tender. “You can be
indígena
and be proud. You don’t have to be like your parents. You can be educated and successful. You can speak Spanish
and
Quichua. You don’t have to choose one or the other. You can take the best of both worlds, you know.”

She kisses my cheek goodbye. Once she pulls away I sneak in the rear entrance and run straight to the basement and strip off her clothes and change back into a regular shirt and skirt. As I hang up the clothes, I feel a little sad and a little relieved and a little ashamed, all at the same time. And then, to top it off, I feel ashamed that I’m ashamed.