The Queen of Water (19 page)

The next step is to a find an adult representative to sign the paperwork. Papito, of course, thinks the whole idea is ridiculous, especially after he finds out how much it costs. “That’s more money than I make in a month,” he snorts.

I remind him how much I’ve made from my little business, but he flicks that aside. “And how will you keep your business while you’re studying? While you’re on the bus two hours a day to and from school? And what about uniforms? And books?”

“I’ll find a way,” I say, gritting my teeth.

Mamita simply shakes her head at my request. When I push, I realize she’s intimidated by the thought of just walking through the school’s imposing gate, past its security guard, through its neatly manicured gardens. She won’t inflict such humiliation on herself. She won’t expose herself to the shame of not being able to speak to the administrators in Spanish, or read the paperwork, or even write her name on the form.

In frustration, I run out of our cramped, dark shack, down to the pasture, where I flop on my back and stare at the enormous blue sky. I repeat to myself
yo puedo, yo puedo. I can do it, I can do it.
The next morning, I start asking other adults in my village to be my representative, and by the afternoon, I’ve found a kind young woman who will do me the favor.

During my interview, I let my eyes dance. I talk about how much I love science, how it opened my eyes to the world around me. I talk about how reading is a doorway to another world, about how hungry I am to learn as much as they can teach me. I talk about the notebooks of poetry I keep, the stories about Soledad I’ve written.

The interviewer is a middle-aged woman with gentle eyes who asks me questions and listens carefully to my responses, taking notes on a pad of paper. At the end of the interview, she shakes my hand. “Señorita, even though you’re a few years older than the other entering students, we’d love you to attend our school.” She raises an eyebrow. “On one condition.”

I swallow hard and smooth the skirt of my dress. What if she asks me for some kind of proof that I’m
gente de clase, gente que puede
? What if there’s a secret certificate that those people have that I can never get no matter how hard I try? “What’s the condition,
maestra
?” I ask with dread.

“No chasing boys.”

I breathe out and smile. “No problem.”

“And no makeup.”

I am smiling so big I’m practically laughing. “I promise.” And then, “Thank you. Thank you,
maestra.
”

*  *  *

The first day of school I get up at four a.m. Mamita gets up early too, and heats up my soup and watches me eat, which is maybe her way of saying good luck. I put on my uniform last thing before I leave the house so it doesn’t get dirty as I eat breakfast by the fire pit. I ride the bus downtown—an hour’s trip—and quickly walk the rest of the way in the cool morning air.

I arrive a full hour early, just as the guard is opening the iron gates. I half expect him to turn me away, to tell me that only
gente de clase
can enter, not people like me. He only smiles and says, “
Buenos días,
señorita,” as I breeze past. A few other students are gathered inside the grounds, joking and talking nervously. I don’t stand too close, worried they’ll smell the wood smoke and kerosene and farm-animal stench clinging to me, even though I’ve dabbed on perfume to cover it up.

But everyone is friendly. “What’s your name? What year are you? What elementary school did you go to? Where do you live?”

I tell them, with pleasant vagueness, that I live on the outskirts of town, where I recently moved from Ibarra. I don’t mention the name of my community, in case they know it’s indigenous and impoverished. I’m careful to paint a picture of myself as
gente de clase,
a middle-class
mestiza
girl from a nice family with a rustic home in the country.

No one questions my story or acts like I don’t belong. The teachers seem to like me too, especially the social studies and science ones. I know the answer to every question already, since I’ve studied the seventh- and eighth-grade curricula in Kunu Yaku. By the end of the morning, I’ve made three friends—Esperanza and Carmen and Sonia—who are already inviting me to hang out and study together after school. They’ve been best friends for years, and for some reason, they invite me to sit with them at lunch. Within minutes, I’m laughing and joking with them as though I’ve been a part of their group for ages.

Esperanza is big, a little fat but in a muscular, athletic way. I get the feeling her family is wealthy from some things she’s mentioned, like her country club and her trips to Disneyland in California. She’s always cracking jokes, making everyone laugh. During recess, when she catches me examining a flower I’d never seen before up close, and I explain I’m counting the stamens, she starts calling me Virginia the Esteemed Scientist. Carmen and Sonia laugh and throw their arms over my shoulders. It makes me feel part of things.

Sonia is quiet and fair-skinned with light brown hair. Freckles spot her nose. She has a gentle, graceful way of floating around, from years of ballet lessons. Boys are always staring at her, trying to talk to her, but she’s too shy and instead retreats into our little group of girls. She’s sincere and thoughtful and observant and asks unexpected questions, like “What do dogs dream about?” or “Would you rather be able to fly or read minds?” or “Have you noticed that the snack vendor on the corner always wears purple pants?”

And then there’s Carmen, who’s always smiling and arranging her barrettes or refolding her socks or retucking her shirt. She’s extremely neat, with a perfect, smooth bobbed haircut—not a strand out of place. She organizes her colored pencils in their tin case according to the colors of the light spectrum and has an eraser and six writing utensils on her desk at all times—a black pen, a freshly sharpened pencil, a highlighter, and backups of each. When, in her earnest voice, Sonia asks Carmen why she does this, she laughs, “In case of emergency!” She gets along with everyone; she’s from a big family. They’re well-off, but since she has seven brothers and sisters, she has to wear their hand-me-downs and guard her possessions so no siblings will snatch them.

Even after just a few days, I adore my new friends and teachers, and they adore me. But these precious relationships seem tender, vulnerable, at the risk of disappearing with one wrong word from my mouth. I resolve to do everything I can to protect them. Not a single student or teacher at this school will ever discover that I come from a poor, indigenous family. Never.

For weeks, I follow the same pattern: wake up before dawn, catch the bus to Otavalo, walk to school, attend classes, study and hang out with my friends after school, and ride the bus back home at night. Thankfully, my friends don’t think it’s odd I live outside of town. They assume my family owns a big hacienda with plenty of land, that we simply prefer the country to the bustle of the city. Thankfully, too, they show no interest in seeing my home, content with having me visit their houses, just a convenient couple of kilometers from school.

And really, my family and home are the only things I have to hide in order to keep my heritage a secret. It’s true my skin is dark, but plenty of
mestizos
have skin just as dark as mine. I don’t speak Quichua. I don’t dress as an
indígena
. And even though
Farinango
sounds more indigenous than Spanish, I have heard of
mestizos
with the same last name.

On Fridays, I stay up late making
sambo
sandwiches to sell at parties and games over the weekend. Here and there, I find snatches of time to read
Secrets to a Happy Life,
flipping it open to random sections.

Close your eyes and visualize how you want your life to be. How does it feel? Who is there? What is your job? Where do you live?

I love these visualizations. In a way, I’ve been doing them all my life, assuming they were only fantasies, when actually, they were much more.

I let my tired eyelids fall shut and see myself as a star student, receiving awards. And an actress, who makes people cry and smile. And an elegant, beautiful young businesswoman, who people regard with respect. I imagine the Doctorita and Niño Carlitos asking my forgiveness. I imagine Andrecito and Jaimito giving me big hugs. I imagine eating rice and meat and fruit and cakes and pies. I imagine living in a purple house like a mansion from
The Slave Isaura,
with high ceilings and lots of windows, and gardens outside, and tiled floors and a stove instead of a wood fire, and shiny bathrooms, everything sparkling clean.

I whisper,
“Querer es poder,”
and open my eyes.

chapter 32

I
T WORKS!

Three days later, I discover the house from my fantasy, only it’s yellow instead of purple, and more like a palace than a house. It makes me think of a giant daisy, with its fresh, white trim like petals. And best of all, it’s real, just a few blocks from the Plaza de Ponchos in downtown Otavalo. I peek inside and actually gasp. The ceilings are high, higher than a cathedral. And at the top of the ceiling is a window that lets sunlight pour over a lush indoor garden, spilling over with orange bird-of-paradise and pink bougainvillea and giant deep green tropical leaves with red flowers. There is so much photosynthesis happening right here in this house that the air must be extra rich with oxygen. Every single breath fills me up, makes my head swim.

Carmen is at my side. We take a step into the entryway, our mouths hanging open. A minute earlier, walking along the sidewalk, we noticed the sign on the door that read
PART-TIME HELP WANTED. CLEAN, POLITE GIRLS TO WORK IN KITCHEN
.
An after-school job would be perfect for both of us, we agreed. Carmen lives in a nice big apartment in Otavalo, but because of all her brothers and sisters, her family won’t buy her new clothes. She wants her own pocket money. And I’m tired of traveling to different communities to sell
sambo
sandwiches and candy and fruit every weekend.

“This must be the home of someone important, like the mayor,” Carmen says, refolding her socks.

“Or the president,” I say.

“Or Chayanne,” she says. Like Marlenny and Marina, and every other teenage girl, Chayanne is her favorite singer.

“Or MacGyver,” I say, giggling. I love giggling with Carmen. It makes me feel like a normal teenage student, like the ones in Kunu Yaku I watched with envy for years.

A very short man, about my height, with a stocky square build and a gold tooth grins at us. “How can I help you ladies?”

“We’re interested in the kitchen jobs,” I say.

“Right this way, please,” he says with a twinkle in his eye.

He leads us past dainty tables, like white iron lace, each holding a small vase of carnations. A few people are sipping coffee and eating yellow and white pie—lemon meringue or banana cream—that matches the building. Most of them are foreign-looking people in shorts and jeans with light hair and glasses and fair skin burnt pink, some chatting, some poring over books.

We walk over wooden floors, polished to a sheen with pine-scented wax, past stairs that curve up to a wraparound balcony that overlooks the gardens. Finally, we arrive at the far end of the enormous room, stopping before a cluster of elegant blue velvet chairs.

“Please wait here and make yourselves comfortable,” the man says.

Carmen and I perch on the edge of the chairs, staring at each other, speechless, listening to the parakeets chirping in the indoor garden.

Moments later, the short man returns with a very tall man with light skin and a mustache that has a few crumbs stuck in it. “Walter Blanco Morales,” he says, extending his hand. And I can tell from the smile crinkles at the corners of his eyes and his gentle way of moving that I want to work for him. This is where I want to be.

“I’m Virginia. And this is Carmen.”

He shakes our hands and launches into a tour of the palace. There are dozens of rooms, so many he has to number each one. And each with its own TV! Twelve bedrooms on the first floor alone. This man must have hundreds of friends who come visit him. The second floor has its own kitchen, and more tables, and a formal dining room lined with wrought-iron rails and floor-to-ceiling doors of glass. The tables are already set for the next meal: napkins folded in a fancy way; three different kinds of forks, two spoons, all shining and brilliant; two glasses with stems at each setting; flowers at the center of the table—white buds floating in glass globes. Airy music is playing, classical piano, floating from speakers in the walls.

Don Walter is speaking in his low, calm voice, and I’m trying to listen, but all these beautiful things are bombarding my senses. “After school, you can come to help prep for dinner, and then after dinner, help clear the tables and wash dishes. And can you do Saturday and Sunday brunches as well?”

We both nod. “When do we start?” I ask, feeling like a firework just set off, rising and rising and full of brilliant anticipation.

After a few days of work, I realize this isn’t Don Walter’s private palace, but his hotel. The Hotel Otavalo, the best one in town. The foreigners who sit drinking coffee with their noses in books aren’t his friends and family, but paying guests, many of them
gringuitos.

Carmen thinks these pale foreigners are funny and strange, but I feel a bond with them, because like me, they don’t exactly belong here. Yet that doesn’t stop them. They are bold and adventurous, and even though many of them don’t speak much Spanish, they brazenly find a way to communicate. And best of all, they don’t seem to have much idea about the distinctions of
mestizos
and
indígenas,
or rich and poor—it’s as if we’re all just Ecuadorians to them. They’re blissfully ignorant of the invisible lines that separate one group from another.

I especially like the
gringuitos
whose faces are buried in books. When I ask them eagerly, “What are you reading?” they let me flip through their books, mostly guidebooks with little maps of Otavalo and information about the markets and Quichua culture. The books are filled with glossy photos of indigenous women, showing close-ups of their thick strands of gold necklaces, the coral beads winding up their wrists, the lace and embroidery of their blouses, the woolen
fachalinas
folded intricately on their heads or knotted around their shoulers, their proud profiles against the Andes.

Sometimes these tourists ask me about indigenous customs—a topic that fascinates them. I shrug and say, “I wouldn’t know,” and hope they don’t notice me flushing. If they ask where I’m from, I give vague answers, saying I used to live with my family in Ibarra. I would die if my coworkers overheard me admit the truth, if they discovered my secret. So I keep my roots hidden.

It’s astonishing to me, the curiosity these foreigners have about indigenous culture. It’s the very reason they come to Otavalo, sometimes from all the way across the world. With gushing admiration, they photograph indigenous clothes, pay money to watch traditional dances, marvel over everything about Quichua celebrations, crafts, folktales, rituals, gods and goddesses.

Talking to the tourists, I realize that if it weren’t for the indigenous culture here, these foreigners wouldn’t have much reason to come to Otavalo. Which means that Don Walter’s hotel might not be in business without
indígenas.
This gets me thinking. The
mestizo
business owners in town must realize that
indígenas
are important to our town’s economy. Which leads to the slippery conclusion: despite their prejudice against
indígenas,
especially poor ones, the
mestizos
value Quichua culture. It’s what makes their town special. This is a contradiction I can barely grasp.

Spending my days in Otavalo, I notice that whenever there’s an indigenous holiday, like Inti Raymi—the Festival of the Sun—the hotels and streets and squares overflow with tourists. The city spotlights Quichua parades and rituals, like the pilgrimage to the Peguche waterfall, promoting them as tourist attractions. Incredibly, it never occurred to me before that indigenous culture might be the heart of this city, maybe even the heart of the entire province of Imbabura.

Still, it seems safest to guard the secret of my roots. The well-off
indígenas
may be valued in some ways, but they keep to their own circles. If my coworkers or friends discovered who I was, they’d treat me differently, I’m sure of it. They’d expect me to hang out with other
indígenas,
people I have nothing in common with.

And I don’t want to give up the fun I have with my coworkers, especially Don Lucho with his gold tooth. He’s the doorman and security guard, and he’s always cracking jokes while he’s waiting to carry suitcases up and down the stairs. My other coworkers, too, like to joke around, and I find myself laughing and dancing around the kitchen and happily flying up and down the stairs.

After I do my homework in the lobby, I take the last bus back to Yana Urku at about eleven o’clock, arriving so exhausted I can barely drag myself home from the bus stop. It is strange, after the tinkling crystal luxury of the hotel, to lie on a woven mat on a wooden bed frame with Manuelito and Hermelinda pressed against me as I itch my flea bites for a few idle moments before falling asleep.

I sleep for about five hours, then get up before dawn to take the bus to school. Even on weekend mornings, I have to leave early to work the breakfast shift at the hotel. After I get off work, I stay in the hotel café, doing my homework, which is easier than doing it at home. At the hotel, there’s better lighting, and tables and chairs, and plenty of people nearby to help with hard math problems.

I barely see my parents anymore. My mother always wakes up early to heat up soup and eat with me while the rest of the family sleeps. Sometimes she stares at me as though she wants to ask me something, but then looks down at the ashes of the fire pit. Beyond the language divide, she probably has no idea what questions to ask me about my life. She’s never even been inside a
colegio
or a fancy hotel, places where I spend nearly all my time now. And I still don’t know our neighbors or relatives well enough to attempt to chat about the goings-on in our village. So, most of the time, we sip soup in silence.

Papito occasionally asks me questions when I come home late at night. “Do you eat decent food for lunch and dinner? Do they treat you well at the hotel? Do you have enough money?” But he doesn’t ask me about what I’m learning, or what my research papers are about, or what books I’m reading. And I don’t know what questions to ask him about his world of farming and pasturing animals.

My siblings and little cousins continue to act shy around me, huddling together and whispering with each other in Quichua. I’m too busy with school and work to try to draw them out of their shells, beyond giving them treats here and there.

It’s painfully clear that I don’t fit into the world of my family. My world now is with my new friends in Otavalo.

One morning at dawn, I’m in the dark bus, bumping down the steep, dusty dirt road to Otavalo.
Cumbia
music is blasting, too loud for me to sleep, and the driver is swerving around potholes, jerking me this way and that. I returned from the hotel last night around midnight; now, six hours later, I’m heading back again. I glimpse my reflection in the window. My face looks heavy, weary.

I catch a whiff of woodsmoke, coming from my hair, and my stomach sinks. Earlier this morning, in the pitch black, I bathed and washed my hair in the wooden shack out back, crouching, shivering, wincing beneath buckets of frigid water. Afterward, over breakfast, my freshly washed hair must have absorbed the smoke from the fire pit. I sniff my school uniform, smelling traces of smoke saturating it, too, mingled with an animal smell—the reek of guinea pigs. Bending over to scratch the flea bites on my calves, I smell something else—manure—and notice a clump clinging to my shoe. Groaning, I make a mental note to scrape it off with a stick right when I get to town.

I can’t do this anymore. If I keep this up, it’s only a matter of time before my classmates and coworkers discover my family’s poverty. I lean my forehead against the cold windowpane and shut my eyes. Under my breath, I whisper,
“Querer es poder.”
Over and over, I whisper my mantra. And then, gathering my last wisps of strength, I pull out
Secrets to a Happy Life,
flip to a random section, and reread it in the dim light.

An hour later, by the end of the bus ride, I’ve come up with a plan.

After school, I walk straight into the hotel, pausing only briefly to talk with Don Lucho. Before I lose my nerve, I find Don Walter. He’s sitting in a blue velvet chair in the lobby, going over an accounting notebook. He greets me warmly, as always, and when he sees my face, so hopeful and nervous, he asks, “What can I do for you, Virginia?”

I take a deep breath. “Don Walter, is there a little space in this hotel where I can sleep for the nights?”

Soft crinkles form at the corners of his eyes. “Your long commute’s been hard on you, hasn’t it?” He pauses, thinking. “Yes, I can find a place for you, Virginia. I’d be happy to.”

I breathe out in relief.

“You know,” he says, smiling, “our guests would be thrilled if you lived here. They love talking to you.” He closes his notebook and stands up. “Come on.”

I’m walking on air as he leads me past the indoor garden, down the stairs, to a small, windowless room in the basement. It’s the ironing room, tucked in between a storage room and the laundry room. “This is the best I can do, Virginia. We’ll move a bed in here for you, and a dresser. Not luxurious, but I won’t charge you for it.”

“Oh, this is perfect, Don Walter!” I want to cry, just thinking about the extra hours of sleep, the clean mattress, warm showers, indoor toilets, electric lights. “Thank you!”

My parents don’t seem to mind me leaving. I suspect they may even be relieved. I’m certainly relieved, although a small part of me wishes we’d discovered something to talk about, some common ground, some way to connect. It might feel good to be able to forgive them, respect them, maybe even love them. But that hasn’t happened, and I’m beginning to doubt it ever will. I plan on making a token visit to my family every few months, for Sunday lunch, and then returning to the comfort of the Hotel Otavalo.

And so, once again, I have a new home, and a new family.

Don Walter becomes like a father to me. Every day, we talk about what I’m doing in school, and he asks about my projects and homework and tests. When I tell him about getting the highest grade in the class on my science exam, he says, “I’m proud of you,
m’hija.
” And when I tell him I’m having problems with my math homework, he sits down at the table and says, “Now let’s see if I can help you with that,
m’hija.
”