The Queen of Water (22 page)

The next months are a whirlwind of rehearsals and events. I barely find time to do homework. My coworkers cover my shifts. We work out deals where they leave dirty dishes for me in the sink, and then, at nine or ten o’clock, after my rehearsals, I sneak in the back door, change into my regular clothes, and wash the dishes in a sleepy daze. By midnight I’m finished, and try to keep my eyes open a few more hours to do my homework, and then, finally, I fall into bed, too tired to change into pajamas. It seems like only minutes later when my alarm clock goes off for school.

“What exactly are all these rehearsals for?” Don Lucho asks me.

“Queen stuff,” I say vaguely.

“Sounds suspicious. Sure you’re not training for the secret service?”

I force a laugh. “It’s just this competition,” I say. “Kind of a beauty pageant.” And before he can ask for details, I say with a wink, “So, Lucho, I saw that cute
gringuita
making eyes at you earlier.”

He blushes and smiles, and I’m off the hook for now.

Carmen is the only one besides Don Walter who knows what the rehearsals are really for, and, in an unspoken pact, she keeps quiet about the details. Sometimes she takes over my shifts if I’m too exhausted, or she lets me switch shifts with her. “Go, Virginia. I’ll come early and do the prep for you and stay late and wash your dishes.”

“Let me pay you, Carmen.” Although as I say this, I have no idea how I would buy next semester’s books if she accepted.

But she shrugs it off. “You’re going to be queen, I know it. And I want to help you. You deserve it,
chica.
”

I hug her and run off to the next rehearsal. I actually enjoy the rehearsals. We learn interesting things, things I can use in other parts of my life. We practice public speaking and how to converse with top government officials and important businesspeople. Soon we’ll all be representatives of our organizations, meeting high-profile public figures at dinners and luncheons. It worries me that the other girls have a head start on this since their families are already friends with the movers and shakers of Ecuador.

When Don Lucho finds out we’re practicing refined manners, after a lot of teasing, he lends me
Modern Etiquette,
a well-worn paperback with water-stained, yellowed pages. I study it every spare second. I learn which fork to use with which course and how to sip soup quietly and what wine to drink with what kind of dish.

“This is like preparing to go to war!” I tell Don Lucho. And that’s how I feel, that I’m arming myself for entering the world of the successful and wealthy, mastering skills that even the Doctorita and Niño Carlitos don’t know.

When the other girls notice me dozing off during rehearsal break times and ask, “Why are you so tired?” I just say, “Oh, my classes are really hard this semester.” I don’t mention anything about being a dishwasher. And to my coworkers, I try not to complain about how worn out I am with only five hours of sleep a night.

I learn to leave out big parts of my past and present, depending on my audience. I learn to stretch the truth and give answers that let people draw conclusions that might not be exactly true.

It is exhausting being two different people.

As the competition draws near, newspaper reporters interview us. Each week they feature a different girl. The reporter who interviews me wears red plastic-rimmed glasses and scribbles my answers in a tiny notepad. I muster up all the skills I’ve learned and hold my head high, as if it’s attached to a string, and look into his eyes and smile and enunciate my words and speak eloquently, with no
uh
s and
mmm
s.

“I believe that preschool education is vital for indigenous children in poor communities. Many children don’t even have access to books in their homes.” I leave out that I used to be one of those poor indigenous children.

“What do you do when you’re not in school or rehearsing?” he asks, tilting his head.

“I love talking to the tourists at my father’s hotel.” This lie slips off my tongue easily now, so easily I barely register it’s a lie. “I tell them about everything that the Ecuadorian Andes have to offer. I enjoy spreading my pride in our country’s rich cultural heritage.” I leave out the dishwashing part.

He scribbles my answer, looking pleased. “Tell us about your family, your childhood.”

My mind goes blank. I look at his glasses reflecting the lights above, a little smudge on the left lens. I have no idea what to say. He’s waiting and looking at me expectantly.

Finally, I say, “That is a long story, a story that I would like to write a book about one day. A story of overcoming obstacles. A story that any girl could have, if only she has the courage to follow her dreams.”

He nods, smiling, and records my answer in his little pad.

“How do you feel about participating in this competition?” he asks next, and I breathe out with relief that he’s let the issue of my childhood drop.

Two days later, when Don Walter sees the article in the paper, he clips it out and posts it above his desk. He doesn’t object that I called him my father; in fact, he seems flattered, and keeps saying, “We’re so proud of you,
m’hija
!”

My duties include going to dances and parties packed with all the richest, most important
indígenas
in town. Along with the other contestants, I wear a satin sash over my
indígena
clothes, which, like peacock feathers, attracts the attention of the young
indígena
men in the room. They flirt with us, looking handsome in their neat, long braids and pressed khaki pants and button-down shirts, all the best brand names.

“Señorita, do you care to dance?” one boy after another asks me with a little bow.

I remember what
Modern Etiquette
says about accepting a dance request. I smile graciously and nod like I’m already a queen and offer my hand delicately. They take it and lead me as I walk slowly with my head high. I dance with a smile on my face, even when my partners are ugly, or terrible dancers, so that they won’t feel bad. Around ten or eleven, I sneak away, back to the hotel to change into my regular clothes and wash the dishes piled in the sink.

The competition organizers seem to like me, even though I doze off from time to time. Doña Amelia always uses me as an example during modeling practice. My only weakness—and it is a huge one—is public speaking in Quichua. Susana has helped me prepare a speech that I’ll have to give during the competition. In rehearsals, I stumble over the words and talk in a high, nervous voice with terrible pronunciation.

One day, Doña Amelia takes me aside after a rehearsal. She is tall and graceful, and reminds me of a waterbird. “Virginia, listen, I’ll be straight with you. You have a good chance of being queen, but only if you improve your Quichua.”

“Thank you, señora. I know my Quichua is awful. I practice every night in my room, but I don’t live with my parents anymore and so I don’t have the chance to talk Quichua.”

“Why don’t you go visit your parents, then? Go speak Quichua with them.” She reaches out and tucks a loose strand of my hair behind my ear, then pats my cheek. At her touch, I remember the
mestiza
teacher and her cruel nails that pinched me and called me a stupid
longa
whenever I spoke Quichua.

Now, oddly enough, speaking Quichua is what I need most to have a chance at being queen. And, I realize, I do want to be queen, very badly. Being queen would be the opposite of crawling back to the Doctorita pregnant and begging for my job back. Being queen would show her that being
indígena
does not mean being a stupid, poor
longa.
It would show her that I am not only a star student with friends who love me but also a queen, a real, live queen.

chapter 35

T
WO DAYS LATER
, in my parents’ house in Yana Urku, I’m sitting awkwardly on the bed in a haze of pungent kerosene smoke. A chorus of crickets sings in the darkness just outside the walls. It’s late; the children have already fallen asleep. Mamita is putting away the dishes, while Papito is talking to me in starts and stops. We sit close, leaning across the space between beds, keeping our voices soft so we won’t wake the children.

“It’s good to see you,
m’hija,
” he says in Spanish, still a little bewildered at my sudden appearance earlier this evening. “What made you come visit us after so many months?”

“I just felt like it,” I say in Spanish, shrugging. Then I take a deep breath and force my mouth to make the sounds of Quichua. “Talk Quichua, Papito,” I say with such a terrible accent that he looks at me blankly until I whisper in Spanish, “Papito, please, can you speak in Quichua with me?”

“Why?” Lantern flames make spots of light and dark move over his face.

I hesitate. “I don’t know.” I can’t bring myself to tell the truth. I want to keep my lives separate—Virginia the poor
indígena
in Yana Urku, Virginia the rich
indígena
at queen rehearsals; Virginia the dishwasher at the hotel, Virginia the star student at school. And my father wouldn’t understand anyway. Even in Spanish, he wouldn’t know the words for
newspaper interview
or
modern etiquette
or
public speaking.
These words are like stars in another galaxy, light-years from his reality. “I just—I just want to speak better Quichua is all.”

“All right,” he says in Quichua, but then neither of us can think of anything to say, so finally he says, “Good night, Daughter,” and lies down in his bed. Soon he is snoring lightly.

By now Mamita has finished with the dishes, and she sits next to me on the other bed and hands me a cup of steaming lemon balm tea.

“
Pagui,
Mamita,” I say in Quichua, thanking her.

She smiles at my effort.

I look at her, trying to form a question. I realize, all of a sudden, that this is the first time since I was a little girl that I’ve felt she has something to teach me. It’s the first time I’ve made an effort to understand her.

And I think she’s been waiting for this moment. She looks at me patiently.

“Tell me”—I’m still unsure what to say—“tell me about me, when little girl,” I finally finish in choppy Quichua, pointing to myself, then gesturing with my hand to the height of a young child.

For a moment, she watches me, her eyes shiny in the lantern light. Then, from beneath the bed, she pulls out a water-stained, warped cardboard box, sets it between us, and opens it slowly.

Inside are a small
anaco
and blouse, and a pile of fabric scraps of all colors, faded and frayed. She holds up each piece, one by one. They are ancient, full of tears and holes and ground-in dirt stains. After holding each one up, she presses it to her face. She speaks slowly, resting her hand on my knee. “Your old things, my daughter.”

I pick them up and yes, I recognize my blouse, the coarse cotton mottled with berry and blood stains. When I left with the Doctorita and Niño Carlitos, I must have kept this set of clothes at home, thinking I’d wear it on the monthly visits that never happened. My fingers brush over the soft fabric scraps—my pretend clothes for sale, which I used to sell to my cousins for leaves. Holding up the bits of material, I remember how I envisioned a good life for myself, in the same way
Secrets to a Happy Life
says you should.
The first step is imagining.

“Pusaq wata,”
Mamita says, holding up eight fingers.
Eight years.
She is crying now and wiping the tears with the clothes and fabric scraps. “Eight years I cried for you, my daughter. Every night I held your clothes and cried for you.”

I speak slowly in Quichua, each word an effort. “Mamita.” I point to her tears, then to my own face. “I cry, too. So many years. I miss you, too. I cry so many years.”

She nods, tears streaming down her face.
“Ñuka guagua.”
My daughter.

“Many years I think about you,” I whisper. I look at my brother and sister sleeping, their toes poking out from the blanket that barely covers them. “But, Mamita, you have other children.” I motion to Hermelinda and Manuelito. I don’t know how to express what I feel. I’m not even sure I know what I feel. Finally, I put my hand on my chest, right over my heart. “To you, I don’t matter.” I can’t hold my tears in anymore.

She shakes her head and holds up one finger. “Each child is unique. Each one is special.”

I sniff and wipe my eyes. “Many years ago, Mamita, you say, ‘Leave, Daughter,’ ” and here I point to myself, and gesture toward the door. “You say, ‘I happy you leave.’ ” And now my voice is trembling and I am sobbing.

She shakes her head vehemently and a frantic string of Quichua words pours from her mouth.

“Slow, Mamita, slow.” I look at this woman here beside me, half stranger, half mother. I look at her weathered face that is old and worn and aching with regrets.

“Ñuka guagua.”
She takes my hands in hers. “I love you, my daughter.” These words I understand perfectly; these are the words I’ve wanted to hear my whole life.

“I love you too, Mamita.”

The next morning, we’re all sitting together around the fire pit, waiting for the potato soup to reheat—my parents, Manuelito and Hermelinda, and some little cousins who have wandered over for breakfast. Mamita is stirring the soup with a long wooden spoon, and I’m thinking what
Modern Etiquette
would say about this meal. No napkins to spread neatly on your lap, no silverware to use from outside to inside from first to last course, not even a single spoon to avoid slurping noisily from, no chair to sit straight in, no butter to ask to be passed rather than reached for, no table to keep your elbows off of … The
Modern Etiquette
author would either faint or run screaming from the house. I smile at this thought, and then see that my toddler cousin Ivan has noticed my smile and is smiling back at me.

“How are you this morning?” I ask him in broken Quichua.

“Fine,” he says, giggling.

From the corner of my eye, I catch Papito staring at me, with something close to a smile on his face. “You should speak Quichua more often, Daughter,” he says.

“Ari,”
I agree in Quichua, letting myself smile back.

The dogs start barking outside, in a friendly way, and soon Matilde and Santiago are standing in the doorway, backlit by morning sunshine.

“Virginia!” Matilde cries, throwing her arms around me. “Little sister, what are you doing here?”

“Just visiting.”

“But you never visit! Santiago and I come almost every weekend and we never see you here!”

“I’ve been busy, with school and work and stuff. But this weekend, I don’t know, I just felt like it.”

Mamita offers her stool to Santiago and moves to the floor, where she kneels with the children. I offer my stool to Matilde, but she insists, “No, stay there.”

While the soup is heating, we sip lemon balm tea and Matilde chats about married life and her new neighbors and projects that she and Santiago are doing in their house in Quito, to get ready for their baby. It turns out she’s three months pregnant.

Mamita begins serving the soup, ladles the biggest potato into a bowl, and hands it to me. “
Mana,
Mamita,” I say in Quichua, shaking my head. “Give Matilde big potato.”

Matilde laughs. “Since when do you speak Quichua, little sister?”

“I’m trying to learn it,” I say, guilty I haven’t told anyone the truth about why. My coming here, my attempting to learn Quichua—these alone are big steps for me. But I still don’t feel comfortable taking the next one—merging my two lives. If I tell my family about the queen competition, they might want to come, and then the other contestants will see my real father and mother and realize we belong to the class of poor
indígenas.
No, I can’t tell my family about the competition.

I can’t invite my classmates and coworkers to the competition either, not even Carmen and Esperanza and Sonia. If they see me wearing an
anaco
and lacy blouse and gold beads, they might start to treat me as an
indígena
—maybe a well-off one, but an
indígena
all the same. Even imagining them looking at me that way quickens my heartbeat, makes me break out in a terrified sweat. So to be safe, I’ve invited no one.

Mamita passes Matilde the bowl with the biggest potato, and Matilde says, “No, Mamita, give it to Virginia. We have to treat her well so she’ll come back to visit more often!”

Mamita hands the bowl to me, and I accept it, but stealthily pass it over to Ivan. The youngest child never gets the biggest potato, never gets served first. I remember feeling rage over this injustice as a little girl. “Here, Ivan,” I say in Quichua. “Eat big potato!”

After breakfast, Matilde and I help Mamita with the dishes, and then it’s time for me to go. “I have to get back to Otavalo for the lunch shift,” I say, and find that instead of desperately wanting to leave, I’m actually enjoying myself.

They protest for a bit, “Stay, Virginia!” and “Stay, Daughter!” and “Stay, Sister!” and finally Matilde says, “Fine, but let me walk you to the bus stop.”

We walk down the dusty street, lined with fields of knee-high corn. The sky is cloudless except for the far-off mists over the mountains Imbabura and Cotacachi. I’m wearing my track shoes, which I bought for gym class—they come in handy here. It’s hard to believe I walked down this road barefoot, so many times, years ago.

I remember once when Matilde and I were out looking for berries. I spotted some bright red ones and pointed them out, but she got to them first and started eating them. I lost my temper, tackled her to the ground, and sat on her chest, pummeling her, screaming, “They’re my berries! You stole them! I saw them first! I hate you!” She ran away, crying, “I’m telling on you!” I followed her up this very same road, calling her a tattletale. Once Mamita heard, she beat me with a eucalyptus stick and said, “You’re a terrible sister!”

I’m embarrassed at the memory. “Matilde?” I ask. “Why are you so nice to me now, after I hit you and yelled at you and was so mean to you when I was little?”

She laughs. “You weren’t mean. You were just an annoying little sister who I loved but who drove me crazy.”

“Remember that time you took the berries I wanted and I pushed you down and beat you up?”

“What are you talking about?” she says with a grin. “The only time I remember you hitting someone was Papito. Whenever he was drunk and hit Mamita, you tried to defend her. You ran up to him and hit him with a stick and yelled, ‘You’re a bad man!’ I admired your gumption. I was too scared to stand up to Papito myself. But at the same time, I felt protective, because you were my little sister, and I didn’t want him to hurt you. I felt so guilty for working in Quito, leaving you alone with Papito and his temper.”

“Really? That’s what you remember? That’s how you felt?”

“And you know, I think in a way, Mamita and Papito respected you for your spunk. Sure you drove them crazy, but you didn’t let anyone walk all over you. You stood up and fought. No matter how much they beat you, you stuck out your chin and told them you’d be a rich, famous business lady one day. That’s who I remember you being, little sister.” She laughs. “And look at you now, going to your fancy
colegio,
living in your fancy hotel. Nothing stops you! You have as much spunk as ever, little sister.”