by Ursula Pike
Yet maybe this was precisely why I noticed when projects seemed to embody this underlying assumption. I knew that the way things were done in the US was not always the right way. My perspective on this work was colored by the life I had lived through, the many Indian people I knew who suffered under legal and educational systems build on these same assumptions. “Do it like we do it and you’ll be better off” was not true to me. I crossed out the last line of my report and put my head down on the table as the loudspeaker approached my street again. I needed a distraction. Two volunteers had recently moved to Kantuta to work in the communities where Daniel had been. I hadn’t spent any time with them, but thought I should take them to the dance and teach them about life in Kantuta as Daniel had done for me.
Considering that I had one month left in Kantuta, this was likely to be my last dance at the market. I put on the white polyester blouse and black skirt I’d bought for the Bolivian Independence Day parade. The outline of my white camisole could be seen through the thin fabric, and the buttons hung by a single thread. I stepped in front of my full-length mirror and thought I looked almost Bolivian. My hair was shorter than most Bolivian women’s. My dark hands stood out against the white blouse. Sometimes I’d press my hand against Fernando’s bare chest and see that the darkest part of my body was the same color as the lightest part of his.
“Mucho gusto conocerte,” I said to no one as crisply and perfectly as I could. Standing by the mirror, I stuck my hand out in front of me and pretended to shake someone’s hand. I practiced standing demurely with my hands at my sides. I turned and looked at my profile. My thick middle was evident, the widest part of my apple-shaped body. My whole life I’d hated that apple shape. I even hated the word apple because it was a euphemism for fat. Two years in Bolivia had given me the tiniest bit of acceptance of my shape, of how the curves of my hip and my stomach were simply features of my unique body. In Bolivia, fat didn’t mean ugly. Fat was just one body type. Some people were fat; others were skinny. Still, two years couldn’t undo a lifetime of living in a culture where fat did mean ugly. I was about to return to my fat-obsessed culture, but I hoped I could carry some of this acceptance home with me.
My own grandfather had reminded me on a regular basis that losing weight was as simple as “eating less and exercising more.” He’d silently shake his head and purse his lips when I emerged from the kitchen with a second glass of chocolate milk. I’d turn away from him and roll my eyes, but I accepted that he was right. As he was the only adult male in my life, it was hard not to think he spoke for all mankind. He was trying to help me understand the rules of the world as he understood them. During my teenage years, I argued with him about his archaic ideas of men’s and women’s roles, but when my jeans were too tight, I’d remember everything he’d said about eating and exercising.
Bolivian women were not free of weight-loss worries. I practiced my Spanish with Teresa by reading weight-loss articles in the newspaper. But not every woman from ten to ninety was obsessed with trying to get skinny. Hefty. Chunky. Big boned. All these words we had in English that kept us from saying the word fat. Bien gordita was a phrase more than one Bolivian man had used to describe me. I thought it meant something like “nice and chubby.” Part of the reason I’d become less self-conscious about my weight was that the Bolivians weren’t afraid to say the word. Fat became less powerful when it wasn’t whispered or considered the worst thing for a woman to be. Food also was still connected to survival in Bolivia. Malnourishment was a very real problem, especially out in the countryside. A fat woman was a healthy woman.
I turned back around and faced myself in the mirror. I wasn’t going to play Bolivian. I changed into a skirt I brought from the States. I knew how ridiculous non-Native people in fake Native American regalia looked. I did not want to be the gringa putting on the Bolivian outfit.
I led the two new volunteers under the high orange arch above the entrance into the old market. The young woman sitting behind the table smiled as I handed over three bolivianos. I could already hear the horns bouncing around the brick and adobe walls of the market. We walked down the dark alley and emerged into the open-air patio that shimmered with light, music, and movement. The two flat cement slabs in the center were lit up with strings of lights and transformed into dance floors. Five portly men in wide-brimmed mariachi hats and black suits blasted music to the crowd. The horns blared loudly and then the guitar and violin joined in. Playing fast with a lively beat, the men then leaned into each other and began singing in harmony. A song about midnight and love. Teenage couples in jeans and flats, grinning widely, swung each other energetically around the dance floor. An older gentleman in a collared shirt twirled a gray-haired woman. Leaning against a brick column smoking a cigarette was Johnny, the James Dean of Kantuta. He sometimes flirted with me but was still only a kid just out of high school, so I didn’t encourage him.
Sitting at a small wood table was Ximenita. Even in her modest but form-fitting dress she was a knockout. I never understood why men were not flocking around her. Maybe because of her status as the dark-skinned cook’s helper with no family or money. Ximenita and I had spent many hours together laughing and gossiping, and having her here made me feel a little more comfortable. We sat and talked until a doctor I had once been introduced to asked me to dance. His clammy white hand closed around mine, and he held me tightly. A little too tightly.
“I like your figure,” he leaned in and whispered into my ear. I thanked him and pulled back a little. He was a little creepy, but harmless. He bought me a beer. When I rejoined Ximenita at her table, I asked where the new volunteers were. She told me they had left a few songs earlier.
“Are they together?” she asked.
“No, just friends. Like Daniel and I were.” She rolled her eyes. She never believed Daniel and I were only friends.
“Do you miss him?” she asked.
“Claro que sí, muchisimo.” Of course I missed him. But I thought I was figuring out how to survive in Kantuta by myself. Ximenita motioned with her chin toward the entrance and raised her eyebrows while looking at me. It was Fernando, slightly disheveled in an untucked shirt. He stared at me as he took a drag on a cigarette and walked in our direction.
“Oh, who is that?” I asked. I had to pretend. I knew people were gossiping about us because Teresa told me. Ximenita must have known. She watched me as he came closer, stumbling and drifting a little as he made his way toward me. Great, he was drunk.
“Hola, Urrr,” he said when he reached our table. Ximenita covered her mouth to hold in a laugh. She loved gossip, and this was like finding an extra-tender slice of meat hidden in her soup. Having to pretend I didn’t know him was a reminder of all the things we couldn’t do. He stood close enough for me to smell his cheap cigarettes. I crossed my arms over my chest and pressed my lips together in an attempt to hide any evidence of a reaction.
“Vamos a bailar,” he said. It was the exact phrase he’d used the night I met him. How many months ago had that been? Back then, it sounded brave and enticing. Now it seemed to be less an invitation and more of a command. He stumbled off to another table. I smirked at Ximenita as though he was simply another drunk flirt. I should have left. I knew nothing good could come of this. But it was my last dance at the market. Instead of leaving, I drank another beer. I wanted to be out on the dance floor.
“Quieres bailar?” he asked. I’d been trying to ignore him for three dances. The self-righteous angry girlfriend was a role I loved to play. I knew being seen together might confirm the rumors. But I couldn’t stop myself. I placed my hand in his and let him lead me. He swung me out and pulled me toward him. He held me close, closer than an unmarried woman and a married man should be dancing. His hand pressed on my lower back, and I curled around his familiar shoulder. He whispered that everyone was watching us, so we’d better dance well. I laughed, excited to be here with him. I never thought I’d have this chance again. We knew how each other moved, and I trusted him to
guide me where I needed to be. He swung me out, and I followed his lead. Here we were in plain sight. I wanted us to behave like what we were, a couple dancing at a party. We took a break. Drink. Dance. Drink.
The next time Fernando pulled me out, I wobbled as I stepped onto the cement. Every other face became a blur. I pulled him closer and laid my head on his shoulder.
“Compartarte bien,” he said harshly. Behave yourself. The teachers at the Children’s Center said that phrase ten times a day. Now I was angry. We’d already had this fight two, five, maybe ten times before. He would tell me that my behavior disrespected him. I would tell him that in my country, men didn’t tell women how to act. Of course every boyfriend I’d ever had told me how to act, but I didn’t want him to know that. On this night, I did not want to fight.
“Besa me,” I said. My face was inches from his. His feet stopped moving. I was daring him to kiss me. Right there. I wanted him to show everyone that we were together. To show them the rumors were true. To show the whole town he was mine. He looked me in the eyes, leaned in and hesitated a moment before kissing me. Not a passionate, deep kiss that made me want to pull him back to my room. Just a quick peck on the lips. I couldn’t believe he did it. I pulled back and looked at him. Even in my drunken haze, I knew we had crossed a line. We finished dancing to the song, but our movements were heavy and awkward. My mouth filled with saliva, and I knew I’d be sick before too long.
“I’m going back to my house,” I whispered in his ear when the song ended. He didn’t tell me to stop or wait. Ximenita was still sitting at the table watching us. He walked off. Ximenita started to say my name, but I held up my hand and told her I was leaving. I did not want to talk to her. I wanted to be alone. I stepped quickly to the door, already angry with myself for what I’d done. The girl at the front gate narrowed her eyes as I passed. The streets were empty as I walked the five blocks back to my house. Except for the night bus rumbling outside the bar, there was no one out.
Vergüenza. A beautiful word for the ugly shame I felt. The day after the dance, my head and heart throbbed with pain and shame. The pain in my head from drinking all night was nothing compared to the embarrassment I felt for the way I’d acted. I cringed when I thought about that kiss on the dance floor. Todo el mundo se conoce. Everyone knows. I started to rationalize it. Telling myself that all I’d done was ask my boyfriend for one tiny public display of affection. No big thing. But of course, I knew that was a lie. I did not want to remember, but I did. I left the Children’s Center in the afternoon. To hide. I crawled into my mosquito net, pulled the blanket over my head, and tried to rest. But the dance and the kiss kept playing over and over in my mind. I wondered if I’d ever see Fernando again.
In the evening, I left my apartment to look for food. I hoped the darkness would protect me. Mercifully, Tica’s hot dog stand outside the bar was open. The hot dogs popped and sizzled on the hot plate as she fried them.
Walking home from the hot dog stand, I clutched my warm and greasy paper bag to my chest. Two children stood looking at me from inside the wide-open front of the store. The boy almost looked like Fernando, I thought. Then my dehydrated brain made the connection. Those were his children. The boy was maybe four years old and had the shiny black hair and eyes of his father. I could imagine what Fernando must have looked like as a child, running around these same streets. The girl had long, straight black hair and a rounded face. She looked so much like her mother that I stopped in the middle of street. A truck trying to get by honked, and I was startled. I always knew that these children existed, but to see them was something else. Their mother had to be nearby.
“La señorita,” I heard the girl say. I was surprised that she knew who I was. Then I saw Fernando’s wife. Doña Luiza. Her round-cheeked face appeared from behind the door. She stood still and looked directly at me. I turned away and walked faster.
All I wanted to do was disappear into my little apartment three blocks away. Tonight, I just wanted to read a two-month-old Newsweek magazine and bite into that salty Bolivian hot dog. Reaching the streetlight illuminating the road in front of my apartment, I exhaled, knowing I was a few steps from invisibility.
“Señorita?” I heard behind me. She was so close. My heart was simultaneously exploding and shrinking.
“Sí?” I squeaked, turning slowly. This was it. She was going to yell at me, make a scene, and humiliate me here on the dusty cobblestone street a few feet from the safety of my bedroom. My fists clenched, and I winced with the pain I imagined she was about to lay on me. I saw her face, so close now. Those dark eyes I remembered from that rainy day last year when she brought in my laundry from the line. Dark semicircles ringed the bottom of her eyes.
“Can I speak to you about my husband?” Then I saw the kids standing behind her, peeking around her hips. The shame chilled me, spreading down from my shoulders to my arms. Her pregnant stomach extended out into the space between us. She was well into her final trimester with his next child.
“Are you my husband’s lover?” she asked. I froze, incredulous that she started with this. The directness left me speechless. It sounded like something a soap opera character would say. But I heard it for the straightforward accusation it was. I swallowed. My mouth was dry.
“No,” I started to say. But I could not lie to her face. “You’ll have to ask him,” I said and shrugged my shoulders. She was calm, no tears, no drama, simply asking me questions. A truck rumbled by at the end of the street. The daughter looked straight at me, then down at the ground. No matter what doña Luiza asked, I repeated, “You’ll have to ask him.” Trying to skate a narrow path between not incriminating myself and not lying.
“I heard what happened at the dance last night. I guess you had to find someone after Daniel left,” she said, with the first hint of anger. She didn’t know that Daniel and I were only friends or that Fernando and I had been together for several months. I was not about to correct her.
Sentences began to pop into my head: “But he said you two weren’t really together anymore” or “I didn’t mean for it to go on this long” or even, “But this is Latin America; doesn’t every husband cheat?”
Sentences that would be an excuse. Another way of saying, “I’m not a bad person.” I thought of the picture on my grandmother’s dresser of me when I was crowned “Class Sweetheart” in high school. How did I get from there to here? This was not the person I thought I was. In that moment, I accepted that the least I could do for her was to be honest about the relationship. The absolute least.
“Of course, he’s going to be with you if you let him,” she said. Her eyes bulged a little, and she seemed frustrated. “As women, it is our responsibility to make him behave.” Our responsibility? So this was her appeal to me. This was starting to sound like something my own grandmother might say. For most of my life I believed that men couldn’t help what they did and weren’t responsible for their actions, especially when it came to women and girls. If men were not responsible, then the woman’s behavior was at fault.
“You are disrespecting me.” She placed her hands on her hips. I shrugged my shoulders and opened my palms upwards. I did not anticipate this. Above us, bugs and moths crashed into the glass of the streetlamp, drawn in by the yellow light.
Maybe I would have done the same thing as she. If I were with someone who was cheating on me, I would probably go to the other woman and try to connect with her. Try to get her to see me as a person and a woman. To understand the implications of her actions. Fernando was the one who had made a commitment to her that he was breaking. I wasn’t responsible for his behavior. But I was responsible for my own behavior. How immature I had been. Playing a game that wasn’t a game—not for doña Luiza or for the children. This affair connected her with me in a strange way. We both put up with him because he gave us something we wanted. We shared the affections of a flawed human.
“I am leaving Kantuta in one month,” I blurted out. I hoped it would calm her.
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��Are you going to take him back to the United States with you?” Her voice quivered, just a little, barely noticeable, but I heard it. In that moment, with a child growing inside her and two more depending on her, fidelity took on a different meaning.
“No, you’re the lucky one who stays here with him.” I used the word luck even though I knew this kind of luck was tangled and complicated. She was both lucky and unlucky. Lucky that he was going to stay. A single mother was more ostracized than the wife of a philanderer in this small Bolivian town. Unlucky to live in a society where a husband who cheats was tolerated and even expected. She was quiet. She needed him to stay with her. To be a husband and father, imperfect though he may have been. I also needed him to stay with his family. Homewrecker was not a role I wanted to add to my identity. By staying, he would confirm that he was not a bad person. That the man I had grown to love over the last nine months was not completely worthless.
She rubbed the side of her stomach. The little boy grabbed her hand and pulled, urging her to leave. She stood for a moment, looking at me. Maybe she was trying to decide what else to say. I felt raw and exposed, and hoped she wouldn’t say anything else because I might start crying. Nodding her head toward me, she wished me good night.
“Adios,” I said softly. She turned up the street she had come down, holding her son’s and daughter’s hands.
I took a few steps toward my front door and quickly opened it. I stood in the darkness on the other side and listened to the sound of their feet on the cobblestones. The engine of the night bus, the same one I would ride in a few weeks, revved in the background. The hot dogs were cold now, but the knot in my stomach blocked out any appetite I had. Sinking down onto my butt in the dark, I felt the cold, hard cement. This was a mess. I wished Daniel was still around so I could confide in someone. Although, at this point, sympathy for poor, horny Ursula was in short supply, and he might applaud doña Luiza for what she did.