The Queen of Water (20 page)

I am inside my vision of how I’ve always wanted my life to be, living in a gorgeous home with people who like me, who care about me, who laugh with me, who read books.

Still, there is a piece of me that worries I’ll be caught impersonating a
mestiza
girl, pretending to be one of the
gente que puede, gente de clase.
I’m walking a tightrope, careful with my words, hoping my friends and classmates and teachers and coworkers won’t discover my secret, because if they do, I will fall and crash. This scared piece of me gnaws at my stomach, makes it burn so badly that sometimes I can’t even eat; sometimes I double over, gasping in pain.

Carmen and Sonia and I are at Esperanza’s house, sitting at the dining room table with our social studies books and notes spread out. We’re mostly talking about cute boys in our class, and only here and there studying for our exam on the ancient Incan empire.

“Are you thirsty?” Esperanza asks. “Want some lemonade?”

We nod, and I start to stand up, to help her make the drinks.

But she stays seated and calls out, “Rosita!”

An indigenous girl a couple of years younger than me—maybe twelve or thirteen—appears at the door to the patio, her hands red and wet, probably from washing clothes. She wipes them on her
anaco
and says, “Yes, Esperanza? What can I get you?”

“Lemonade for me and my friends,” Esperanza says, not even looking at her. “And extra sugar.”

When the girl places the lemonade in front of me, I mumble, “Thank you, Rosita,” and try to avoid her eyes, because there is a place inside me that aches when I look at her. Rosita is the same age as Esperanza, yet Rosita is serving and Esperanza is ordering, and no one seems to think this is strange or terrible or unfair. No one makes the connection that the ancient Incans we’re studying—a civilization respected throughout the world for its technology and art and architecture—are Rosita’s ancestors.

I try to make sense of this, just as I’ve tried to make sense of the other contradictions I’ve been noticing more and more lately. How can people boast of Quichua culture in guidebooks and textbooks while overlooking the fact that their maids are Quichua? Maybe it’s similar to the way, while watching our favorite soap opera, the Doctorita sobbed over the cruelty of Isaura’s enslavement while failing to see that she herself had enslaved me.

Later, Rosita collects our empty glasses, slipping her arms between our piles of books and papers, unnoticed, well practiced at being invisible. I glance up and watch her walking to the sink, her hair wrapped in a ribbon hanging down to the small of her back. My stomach starts hurting and I push my thoughts away, hoping Rosita doesn’t realize that I am a traitor.

Every day, I feel lucky it doesn’t occur to the other students that I might be from a poor indigenous family. Thank God they assume I’m
gente de clase
like them. They seem to truly like me. I become known as the girl to turn to when you need advice. I listen carefully and ask questions and give them suggestions. A lot of my advice comes from
Secrets to a Happy Life,
but some of it comes from things I’ve figured out on my own. I draw on what I’ve learned over three lifetimes—one in Yana Urku, one in Kunu Yaku, and the one I’m living now in Otavalo.

After our talks, the girls always say they feel better. “Thank you, Virginia! You’re an angel.” And I smile, satisfied, like I did as a small child, after I gave
limpiezas
to troubled people to clean their spirits with eggs and fresh herbs. I remember when people exclaimed to my mother, “My, your daughter is a natural healer, isn’t she?” and Mamita said, “My daughter, she can do it.”

I also become renowned in school for imitating famous singers, using an imaginary microphone, flinging my hair around and dancing and singing and pursing my lips. Carmen and Esperanza and Sonia clap, squealing with delight. All that time dressing up in the Doctorita’s clothes and blasting her stereo and dancing has paid off. My friends and I teach each other dance moves—salsa and
cumbia
—and talk about boys we wish we could dance with. Finally, I’m living like a normal teenage girl, making up for the years that were stolen from me. Being a little older than my classmates adds to my allure; they look up to me, admire me even.

“You’re so lucky, Virginia!” they say when they visit me at the hotel, ogling the indoor garden and skylight and elegant furniture. “It’s so cool to hang out here with all these
gringuitos.
” Don Walter lets us study and practice dances there, and the
gringuitos
watch and clap for us. With my friends over, I notice how fluidly I move around my home, weaving through tables, greeting our foreign guests by name and even dropping some hellos in English or French or German. Sometimes, when students come over to work on group assignments, they assume that Don Walter is my father, that this is my family’s hotel. “Your father is so nice!” they say, and I just smile and nod.

I almost begin to believe that he
is
my father. On my occasional visits home, when I catch sight of Papito—usually from a distance, when he’s off in a field—he looks like a stranger. Every time I see him, it’s startling to remember that he’s my real father. When he takes off his boots, I stare at his feet, with their long toes—bigger and older echoes of my own—and I wonder how I could be related to this man. To him or Mamita. I help her cook soup, chopping the potatoes and onions, just wanting to get the visit over with so I can go back to the hotel and school, places where I’m comfortable.

But if I’m honest with myself, maybe I’m not really comfortable there, either. At nights, in my little room in the basement, I lie awake with my stomach aching and wonder what would happen if my friends found out who I really am. Which makes me ask myself,
Who are you, really?

chapter 33

O
NE SUNNY DAY AFTER SCHOOL
, Sonia and I are outside the
colegio
gates, eating popcorn and waiting for Esperanza and Carmen. Cars and buses pass in clouds of exhaust, and clusters of students walk by carrying steaming food bought from vendors along the street. I’m in the middle of a story about our cute math teacher when Sonia reaches out and touches my hair, which hangs loose to my waist.

All the other girls’ hair is shoulder length, or chin length, or down to midback; no one’s hair is anywhere near as long as mine. This is the last remnant of indigenousness I’ve hung on to. And somehow, even though I’ve cut bangs and permed my hair over the years, I haven’t been able to chop it off.

Sonia runs her fingers through my hair. “Your hair is so pretty, Virginia! It’s so long!”

“Thanks,” I say, stiffening a little. Something in her voice puts me on guard.

“Virginia”—she tilts her head and studies my face—“are you
indígena
?” She says it as though it can’t possibly be true, but maybe, just maybe, it is.

Nervous sweat trickles from my armpits. “Why do you ask?” I manage to say through my closed-up throat.

“
Mestizas
don’t have such long hair. Only
indígenas.
”

Why didn’t I just cut off my hair before school started? Is this the one tiny thing that will give me away and ruin the rest of my life?

Finally, in a soft voice, I say, “Yes. I’m
indígena.
”

Sonia stares at me, stunned. It takes her a while to find words. The silence is torturous. “Then why do you dress like a
mestiza
?”

I shrug. “I just—I don’t know. I just like to dress this way.”

“Oh.”

Suddenly, Esperanza and Carmen run up and steal our popcorn, giggling. Sonia tries to grab it back and soon they’re all squealing and I force myself to laugh with them, but really I feel like crying. And before I have to listen to Sonia tell the others my secret, I mumble something about having promised one of the
gringuitas
I’d help her with her Spanish. I walk away, sure that will be the last time we’ll ever laugh together.

It’s dark and the clock says three-thirty a.m. and it feels like someone is stabbing a sword through my stomach. I toss and turn, desperately trying to sleep, but I can’t stop imagining Sonia telling everyone I’m a dirty Indian. Tomorrow in school no one will want to come near me for fear of catching
indígena
germs. My friends will no longer invite me to their houses and let me sit on their sofas and eat off their plates. They will order me to bring them lemonade. The teachers will tell me I have no right to study there, that
longas
aren’t allowed in their school.

Of course, if I think about it rationally, they’d probably assume I was one of the middle-class
indígenas,
not a poor
longa.
Still, my mind can’t help spiraling into fear. It’s as if the thousands of times the Doctorita called me a dirty
longa
are being stirred up into a whirlwind of old, painful insults. It all comes back to me: how she made me use separate dishes, and wouldn’t let me sit on the bed and watch TV with the rest of the family, how she said with disgust that I’d contaminated the blankets, and told me I was no better than a stray dog in heat. No matter how much I tell myself that my friends would never call me dirty names, I feel buried under the Doctorita’s insults.

The next morning, in the bathroom, I hold a pair of scissors to my hair, right at chin level. My plan is to cut it and say I was just joking about being
indígena. See,
I’ll say,
I’m mestiza or else I wouldn’t have cut my hair.
Not a great plan, but my only hope to keep my life from being ruined. I squeeze the scissors and cut off one thin strand. It’s long, longer than my arm. My science book says that hair grows at a rate of one centimeter per month. I have five years of hair in my hand. Where was I when those strands of hair were first sprouting from my head? What was I doing at that precise moment?

Five years ago I would have been about eleven years old, living in Kunu Yaku, with Niño Carlitos and the Doctorita. Maybe I was being beaten or insulted. Maybe I was stealing food with Jaimito. Maybe I was washing Andrecito’s diapers. Maybe I was running as fast as I could around the fountain and through the town square with a bag of eggs to deliver to the Doctorita. Somehow, it feels sad to cut off all those years. They’re a part of me; they made me what I am now.

I think of my dreams when I was a little girl, dreams of becoming a rich
indígena
with long hair wrapped in a fancy ribbon. I think of the tourists at the hotel, who tell me I’m beautiful. What if my hair is the thing that makes me beautiful? What if this piece of me that is still
indígena
is actually a good thing?

I put down the scissors and start working the comb through my damp hair, untangling the knots, a process that takes a long time.

At school, I walk through the gates, conscious of my hair swinging behind me and, despite reason, bracing myself for a crowd to begin taunting,
Longa, dirty Indian.
But by the pink rosebushes where we always meet, Carmen spots me and calls out, “Virginia!
¡Hola!
” and Esperanza and Sonia wave hi too, all bright and smiling. Esperanza drapes her arm around my shoulder, saying, “
¡Hola, chica!
Cool bracelet!” and Sonia says, “Hey! Can you help me with this science homework?” No one says a word about me being
indígena.
Has Sonia told them? Do they just not care? Or did Sonia somehow miraculously forget about it?

Later, in homeroom, Sonia passes me a tightly folded note, and I think,
This is it.
She’s going to say we can’t be friends anymore. My hands shaking, I open the note.

Hola, chica! I need your advice. Jorge’s been flirting with me like crazy, but I only like him as a friend! Help!!! Can we hang together after school???

Hugs!!!
Sonia

I glance over at her. She smiles, and I search for a trace of sarcasm or scorn or disgust, but as hard as I look, I find none. Beyond all comprehension, she doesn’t seem to care if I am a
mestiza
or an
indígena.
She sees only Virginia.

Eventually, Sonia mentions my secret to Carmen and Esperanza. They’re full of questions. I become their personal
indígena
expert, their window into a foreign world. They ask how to say things in Quichua, and are disappointed when I explain I know only a few words. They’re disappointed, too, that I don’t have any
indígena
clothes to let them dress up in, not even a gold-painted bead necklace. After a few days, the novelty wears off, and they seem to forget about it. I go back to being the same old Virginia.

My friends love me for being me. To them, I am Virginia the scientist and singer and dancer and star student and advice giver. To them, the
indígena
piece is just another part of me, something that even seems to add a little allure.

But not everyone in Ecuador sees it that way. Everywhere are reminders of this.

The next week, at the Parque Bolívar, I’m sitting on a bench in the shade, watching some children play by the fountain. I’m ten minutes early to meet Sonia for a study session, and as I wait, I can’t help but overhear the boisterous laughter of two men. A man with a big red nose is telling the jokes and two younger men are laughing at them.

“When a
mestizo
is drowning,” he says, “you throw a life preserver at him. When a
longo
is drowning, you throw stones at him.”

I swallow hard and try to let the kids’ shouts stomp out the men’s voices.

The other men laugh and slap their knees. “Good one.”

The big-nosed man smiles, gathering fuel for the next joke. “If a
mestizo
goes to a brothel, he’s looking for pleasure. If a
longo
goes, he’s looking for his sister.”

More laughter.

My face burns.

He keeps going. “If a
mestizo
is running, he’s an athlete. If a
longo
is running, he’s a thief.”

I am shaking now, shaking and sweating, and the tears are sizzling off my eyes. I stand up and walk away, as tall as I can, even though my legs are quivering. Behind me, as much as I don’t want to hear, their voices travel over the water’s pounding.

“If a
mestizo
is coughing, he has a cold. If a
longo
is coughing, he has tuberculosis.”

They laugh in loud, violent barks. On the other side of the fountain, I sit on a bench and bite my lip and dig my fingernails into my palms. I try not to care, but even though the men are out of sight, their words are everywhere, in the chatter of everyone, in the tumbling water.

For her birthday, Esperanza invites me and Sonia and Carmen to her family’s country club. She loves going to the club, even though she makes fun of the snobs who go there by sneering and strutting around with her nose twitching high in the air. At her house, I’ve seen framed pictures of other birthdays she’s had at the club. There’s a big, beautiful pool with turquoise water surrounded by trees with huge orange and red flowers like upside-down bells. White lounge chairs encircle the pool, and people wear sunglasses and sip Coca-Cola in their bathing suits.

I beg Walter for extra hours of work so I can afford a bathing suit. A week before the party, I find one—red with white flowers—on sale. I try it on in my room in the hotel basement and stand on the bed so I can see myself in the small mirror. My thighs don’t look fat. They look muscular, from dance practice. I actually look good. I put my hand on the curve of my waist and feel the smooth, stretchy fabric and imagine us girls sipping our Coca-Colas in lounge chairs and then dipping our toes in the water and floating around luxuriously.

I buy Carmen a gold hair clip with little fake diamonds. It sits on top of my folded bathing suit, wrapped in shiny pink paper topped with a silver bow. Just looking at it gives me tingles.

After school on Friday, the day before the party, Esperanza rolls her eyes and says, “Just to warn you,
chicas,
my obnoxious little sister will be there. And my mother says we have to let her hang out with us. So watch what you say in front of her.”

Esperanza can’t stand her little sister. She’s like a short, bratty spy. Everything we talk about in front of her goes straight back to their parents. Last month, after Esperanza’s mother found out about her crush on the neighbor’s son, she wouldn’t leave them alone together for two seconds.

Carmen groans. “Can’t your maid keep your sister entertained?”

“Maids aren’t allowed in the club.”

“Why not?”

“Some dumb rule. The idiots in charge think the
indígenas
don’t have good hygiene or something. Like they’ll make the pool dirty.”

I want to die.

I want to melt and disappear into the sidewalk.

I want to dissolve into a zillion particles and float far, far away.

“Idiots,” Carmen says.

Sonia looks at me. I see in her eyes that she’s just remembered who I really am. One of the
indígenas
who might have bad hygiene. Who might make the pool dirty. She reaches out and strokes my long, long hair, then links her elbow in mine.

“Idiots,” she says.

All night my stomach aches. I look at the present and the bathing suit on the chair in the corner. Now they give me a sick, panicked feeling. What if the people at the club can tell I’m
indígena
? What if they let all the other girls in but send me home? Or what if I’m swimming and they realize I’m
indígena
and they clear out the pool and empty out all the water because I made it dirty? What if Esperanza’s family gets kicked out of the club because of me? Or what if people just laugh at me and crack jokes about throwing stones?

The next morning, bleary-eyed and doubled over in pain, I call Esperanza. I don’t know if she’s made the connection between me being
indígena
and her maid being
indígena
and the club’s rules. All I know is that there’s no way I can go to this party.

“Esperanza, I have a terrible stomachache today. I can’t come.”

“But Virginia, it won’t be any fun without you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Can’t you take some medicine?”

“No,
chica.
Medicine won’t fix this.”

A long sigh. Some sniffs. Is she crying? “We’ll miss you,” she says finally. “Call me later and tell me how you’re doing, okay?”

“Okay. Happy birthday.” And I hang up fast because now the tears are coming. I walk downstairs, slowly, a little bent over from the pain, and go into my dark room. I change into the bathing suit and lie on my bed, staring at the ceiling.