by Laura Resau
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.
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 uhs and mmms.
“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
TWO 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?”