The Queen of Water

by Laura Resau

  Since people will pay a lot of money to eat roasted guinea pigs during celebrations, Niño Carlitos decides to raise them. He says once they’re plump and grown, he’ll sell them to restaurants. I help him by gathering alfalfa from the field behind our apartment and feeding the quickly growing pile of guinea pigs. Listening to them squeak reminds me of my life at home, of lying on my scratchy woven mat at night and listening to our guinea pigs rustle in the corner.

  In Yana Urku, Mamita used to cure sick people with our guinea pigs. When a relative was feeling bad, Mamita would grab one of the little creatures and stuff it in a sack. I trailed along behind her as she barreled straight to the patient’s house, on a mission. Inside the house, she prayed to the gods of the mountains and the God in heaven, all the while rubbing the live guinea pig over the sick person’s skin. The guinea pig soaked up the person’s evil air like a sponge, until its squeaking grew weak and its fat little body was limp as wilted lettuce from all the sickness inside it. Then Mamita drew her knife.

  I put my hands over my face, but left a space between my fingers to peek through. Mamita sliced the guinea pig’s belly from its neck down to its rear legs, then spread apart the furry, bloody flesh. She examined the guts closely, as though she were reading a book, and diagnosed the person’s sickness. She told whether they had gotten a fright from a snake or whether a witch had put a curse on them or whatever. Then she told them what they had to do to be completely cured.

  What would the Doctorita and Niño Carlitos say if they knew that even after a year of living with them, I still have these memories inside me? These images of fresh guinea-pig blood and heathen Indian things? These dirty, devil things that would give the sweet Baby Jesus doll nightmares in his cradle? I keep these memories to myself, tucked away in a dark, secret place in my mind.

  Soon after the guinea pigs comes the cow, white with black spots. Every afternoon, I take the two-minute walk down the dusty dirt side street to our cow pen. I let the cow out and lead her by a frayed rope down another dusty road to the colegio grounds, where she grazes on the grass near the avocado trees. This way the grass stays short and the cow gets fed and it works out for everyone.

  The cow reminds me of Josefa, my family’s cow in Yana Urku, and like Josefa, she quickly becomes my friend, flicking her tail happily when I rub the space between her enormous eyes.

  Niño Carlitos also starts buying crates of eggs from people in the countryside and then selling them in town. “Listen, Negra. Listen, m’hija,” he says. “These eggs are for selling, not eating.”

  We store the eggs in a musty, falling-down wooden shed next to the cow pen. Some of the eggs are huge and extra delicious, with two yolks. The Doctorita likes those eggs too. “Virginia,” she says in a conspiratorial voice, “go to the storehouse and tell Carlitos to give you some eggs. He can never say no to you.”

  So I run to the shed. “Niño Carlitos,” I say, flashing a smile and letting my eyes dance, “please be nice and let me pick out some eggs.”

  He hesitates for a moment, runs his hand over his face, then says, “Of course, m’hija.” Grinning, I pick out the biggest eggs, satisfied that being vivísima has its rewards.

  We’re taking one of our evening walks around town—the Doctorita and Niño Carlitos and Jaimito in his stroller and me. The sun is gentle and golden at this time of day, melting like butter behind the mountains. Our shadows stretch long in front of us and crisscross with the shadows of other people strolling along. On the outskirts of town, when we pass an orchard, I scamper up a tree to pick guavas, eating the sweetest, prettiest ones myself and tossing down the worm-eaten, half-rotted ones to the Doctorita. From the treetop, I hear her grumble to Niño Carlitos, “I know she’s up there eating the best.”

  He just laughs. “Oh, this Virginia! We’re lucky to have her.”

  I grin, smug in another tiny victory against the Doctorita.

  I like these walks. They’re a chance for me to figure out what other people think of the Doctorita. The more I know, the more power I have. So I’m always listening, watching, thinking in secret.

  Passersby say hello to the Doctorita, often with exaggerated respect. I’m beginning to realize that their respect isn’t as simple as it seems. They have to be nice to her. She teaches their children science at the colegio. She’s known for her temper, and no one wants her to unleash it on their children. Most of all, people know they might need the Doctorita to fill a painful cavity or pull a tooth someday. If she likes them, she’ll help them, and even if they can’t pay her money, she’ll accept a bag of fruit or a box of eggs instead. They, too, see the value in staying on her good side. Or at least appearing to.

  Every now and then, I overhear women talking about her in hushed tones. It’s too bad she’s put on so much weight, but of course, she works so much she can’t exercise, pobrecita. She wears the pants in the family, you know, but her poor son, he has to survive without a mother all day, pobrecito. She makes more than her husband, you know, so we’ll see how well the marriage fares—what a shame. She’s so much darker than her husband, but lucky for her he doesn’t seem to mind—of course who knows how long that will last.

  There is a certain wistful, almost jealous, look in the ladies’ eyes as they gossip. It occurs to me that maybe the Doctorita makes them feel bad about their lives as homemakers, mournful they don’t have their own careers.

  As much as I hate the Doctorita, I wonder if one day I could be like her, only not as fat and mean. Maybe I could graduate from college and get a professional job. Maybe I could make more money than my husband so he couldn’t boss me around. Maybe everyone would have to treat me with respect.

  Many people on the street recognize me by now and know that I’m the Doctorita’s servant. Sometimes they say, “What a pretty little girl,” or “Such a fast little girl,” or “This little girl is vivísima,” and my heart swells and I wonder: if a new person came to town, would she see me strolling and think I was part of the family, like a daughter?

  Hello, Doctorita, hello, Carlos, this newcomer would say. Oh, your daughter is getting prettier by the day. Why, I saw her on TV last night singing in a gorgeous sparkly dress. You’re so lucky to have such a talented daughter. All my daughter does is go to school and play.

  Oh, yes, Niño Carlitos would say. Virginia is our treasure.

  chapter 8

  IT’S DURING THIS TIME, my second year with the Doctorita and Niño Carlitos, that their big troubles begin. And against all logic, I find myself caring about them. In another attempt to make money to pay off their debts, they buy a bus with a brother-in-law. The idea is to hire a driver to take passengers around Otavalo, and then divide the profits. “We’ll be swimming in money soon,” Niño Carlitos says. So they take out loans to pay for the bus, claiming they’ll earn the money back in no time. But the bus is a lemon, always breaking down, and after they’ve poured heaps of money into repairs, some thieves steal it.

  “Oh, my nerves!” the Doctorita whines. She’s become a disaster herself, ever since the theft of the bus. For months now she can barely drag herself from bed in the mornings, and after school she flops right back in, frantically knitting Baby Jesus dresses and ranting about thieves. She fears that criminals are lurking around every corner, plotting to steal more of her things. “Just thinking about those horrible thieves makes my heart race,” she moans, pressing her hand to her chest. “Maybe I’m having a heart attack. Open the window, Virginia! I’m suffocating!”

  I climb onto a chair and open the window. Fresh, cool air blows into the room. “Everything will be all right, Doctorita.”

  “No, it won’t,” she says, her knitting needles flying and clicking. “We’re in debt up to our ears. We’ll all starve.”

  She has a point. The cupboard is bare except for a bag of dried rice, some sugar, and spices. Inside the refrigerator sits a lonely pitcher of our cow’s milk. “What should I make for lunch?” I ask the Doctorita hesitantly.

  “Go find something
,” she calls from her bed. “Stop bothering me.”

  I cook sweet rice pudding with milk and cinnamon for lunch, which at least makes Jaimito happy. That evening, when Niño Carlitos comes home and plops on the sofa, I say, “Excuse me. Niño Carlitos?”

  He waves his hand in the air, flicking me away. “Not now, not now, m’hija. I’m busy thinking.” He’s been spending more time away from the house, staying later at school, going out to the bar in the evenings. And always a distracted look clouds his face.

  “But there’s no food to cook,” I say.

  “Oh, you’ll think of something,” he mumbles. “You’re a clever girl.”

  A clever girl. Clever for stealing food was what Mamita always said.

  I begin to hatch my plan.

  * * *

  That afternoon, with two-year-old Jaimito at my side, I lead the cow to pasture in the colegio yard, near the clump of avocado trees. I glance around. No one in sight. “Wait here, Jaimito. Keep a lookout.”

  I climb the tree and gather avocadoes, dropping them furtively into the bag slung over my shoulder.

  Next, we take the cow farther down the dirt road, to the groves of fruit trees on Don Arturo’s property.

  “Stand guard,” I tell Jaimito, who is staring at a bee and sucking on his thumb. The Doctorita is always yelling at me about his thumb sucking, a habit which she insists could mess up his teeth for life. “And take your thumb out of your mouth,” I add.

  I scamper up a tree and quickly pluck a dozen guavas. Then we make our way farther down the path to Don Gerardo’s vegetable fields. This will be trickier; they’re surrounded by a barbed-wire fence, and rumor has it Don Gerardo pulls a gun on anyone who trespasses.

  But surely he won’t shoot at a two-year-old. “Jaimito,” I whisper, “when I say go, crawl under the fence and take some fat red tomatoes. And the biggest cucumbers you can find. And some green peppers. You’ll have to pull really hard. Can you do that?” I wish I’d brought disguises, so if someone spots us, we could run fast around a corner and then rip off our masks and act like we were innocently strolling. I take one last look up and down the dirt road and squint at the field. Not a soul in sight. “Now, Jaimito. Go!”

  He toddles to the fence and wriggles underneath like a worm. If Don Gerardo catches us, I’ll say that Jaimito is just a little boy who doesn’t know what he’s doing. Jaimito wanders through plants taller than he is, tugging with all his might at the vegetables and dropping them, with clumsy toddler hands, into the sack. Finally, he crawls back under the fence, dragging his loot and grinning. I kiss his forehead and brush the dirt off his shirt and pants so the Doctorita won’t get mad.

  “Let’s go, little friend!” I say, taking the heavy sack from him.

  On the way back, we pass Doña Juliana’s chicken coop. By this time, Niño Carlitos’s egg-buying business has fizzled. I pause in front of the coop. Doña Juliana won’t miss a few eggs. I sneak inside and snatch six eggs, still warm from the hens, and put them carefully into the bag of fruit and vegetables.

  “Now remember, Jaimito,” I said. “Don’t breathe a word about this. Not to anyone. Especially not your mother. All right?”

  He nods, slurping at his thumb, happy to share a secret that involves getting dirty. As a reward, I let him suck his thumb in peace all the way home.

  That night I make a big, colorful dinner, a cortido salad of fresh tomatoes and cucumber and peppers, rice, eggs, and guavas in sugary syrup for dessert, with enough guavas left over for the next day’s juice. I heap the plates with food and set them on the table. “Time for dinner!” I call out.

  The Doctorita wanders to the table in her bathrobe, still clutching her knitting needles, half a yellow Baby Jesus dress draped over her arm. She stares at the food, dazed at first and then suspicious. “Where did you get all this?”

  “Oh,” I say mysteriously, motioning with my chin, “over there.”

  The Doctorita raises her eyebrows at Niño Carlitos. The corners of her mouth turn up. “Well, let’s eat.”

  As usual, I haven’t set a place for myself, since I don’t eat dinner until after they’ve finished. So it’s a surprise when the Doctorita says, “Why don’t you join us tonight, Virginia?”

  Food tastes better when you’re eating with other people, much better than scarfing down leftovers alone in the kitchen. After we’ve stuffed ourselves, I collect the dirty dishes, their china ones and my metal ones.

  Niño Carlitos pats his gut. “Rrriquísimo, m’hija. And just the perfect amount of salt.” He winks.

  The Doctorita nods, her chin jiggling. “Virginia, I don’t know how you do it, but thank you. You’ve cooked food when there was nothing to cook.”

  What would they do without me? I feel like one of those saints the Doctorita is always praying to, like the Virgin of Baños in elegant robes and a giant crown who does miracles for desperate people. I imagine being carried through town on a golden throne, smiling and waving to my fans. Thank you, Virginia, everyone shouts. You are a worker of miracles! You make food out of nothing! People shower me with applause and confetti and candy, especially caramel squares and purple lollipops.

  chapter 9

  DURING MY FIRST YEAR IN KUNU YAKU, my mind was always plotting how to escape, but as the first year has slipped into the second, something inside me has shifted, settled. Oh, I can still see opportunities to run away. I could use the grocery money to pay my bus fare, or sneak out on the days the Doctorita forgets to lock me in the house. My plan to make them trust me has worked.

  But I don’t take the next leap. I give myself the same excuses—that I wouldn’t know where to go, that someone could steal me, that I’d get lost, that Mamita and Papito don’t want me anyway. I tell myself that the Doctorita’s beatings aren’t as bad or as frequent as when I first arrived. Although she still calls me hurtful names and whacks me for one thing or another every day, she usually doesn’t leave bruises or draw blood. Niño Carlitos is always telling her to treat me more kindly, reminding her that I’m a little girl, yelling at her if he sees me with a black eye or split-open lip. Now a whole month might pass between beatings, the bad beatings when she pounds me until I’m sobbing, until my legs collapse and I curl up, stinging and throbbing and aching, on the floor.

  Sometimes I wonder: What would you do if they took you with them to visit Niño Carlitos’s parents? How could you resist escaping then? But as soon as I ask the questions, I push them from my head. They scare me. And exhaust me. It’s hard work to be miserable all the time.

  At some point, I decide to dwell in the bright moments. And there are some. Moments when Jaimito wakes up babbling to himself and then, when he sees me, lights up with a smile. Moments when I’m tickling him and he’s laughing, breathlessly, and rolling around, and I can’t help laughing too. Moments when I come home from an errand and he runs to me and throws his arms around my waist like I’m the most important thing in the world.

  Sometimes I try to remember what my little brother Manuelito looks like. I close my eyes and see light brown eyes framed by curly dark lashes and wispy brown hair. It’s not Manuelito’s face I see, but Jaimito’s.

  It’s early Saturday morning and the Doctorita is dashing around the house, packing for a weekend visit to Niño Carlitos’s parents in Yana Urku. Whenever they go on these visits, they refuse to take me, locking me inside the house all weekend, which isn’t so bad because I can secretly watch all the TV I want and sleep in their pink bed and dress up in the Doctorita’s clothes.

  I’m folding Jaimito’s little pajamas and outfits and arranging them in his knapsack, when the Doctorita says, “Pack a change of clothes for yourself, Virginia. You’re coming, too.”

  “I am?”

  “We’ll be at a wedding tonight, there in Yana Urku, and we need someone to take care of Jaimito.”

  For a moment, I’m frozen in shock. Then, trembling, I change into my favorite blue dress and brush my hair back into a braid. I’m so excited I can barely fini
sh my papaya juice. I imagine walking along Alfonso’s cornfield. Mamita and Papito—who will be working in his fields—will spot me. They’ll watch with open mouths as the breeze ripples over my blue dress and the sunlight shines on the lace trim; I’ll look like an angel. Oh, my daughter, you’re beautiful! Please come to live with us again. We’ll always give you the biggest potato of the soup, always.

  It’s been a long time since I let myself think about Mamita and Papito, and it feels good, like sneaking cookies. But I usually don’t let myself think too long, because then the good thoughts veer into bad thoughts that leave my stomach aching and my eyes burning.

  As I pack my bag, I think of Mamita. I try to find a memory of her smiling at me, but in every memory she’s frowning. Now I’m remembering how she used to frown at me when I begged her to take me to work in the fields. I wanted desperately to start making money to make my dreams come true.

  “Take me, please, Mamita,” I’d beg. “Let me be your partner.”

  Everyone needed a partner to plant: one person made a hole with a stick and dropped in three corn kernels, and the other person dropped in three beans and covered up the hole with dirt. That way the bean vines could wrap around the corn plants like necklaces and dangle their pods like earrings.

  Alfonso paid his workers in cash, not in sacks of beans or corn, but real silver coins and paper bills. I’d been dreaming of buying a lamb who would be my cute, cuddly friend and grow up to be a sheep who would have lots of babies that I could raise and sell—my first step to being rich.

  One morning, annoyed by my whining and begging, Mamita snapped, “Fine.” She strapped my brother to my back and my sister to hers and headed to Alfonso’s field. I ran alongside her, breathless from Manuelito’s weight tugging down my shoulders.

  The brown field stretched out, the remains of last year’s crop plowed into the soil. Mamita tied a cloth around my shoulder and made a sling where she put a few handfuls of beans. She walked ahead, digging a hole with her stick and dropping in three corn kernels from her own sling. I followed, carefully counting out three smooth beans and letting them fall into each hole and patting dirt on top.