Read Online The Queen of Water by Laura Resau - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Laura Resau
Ads: Link
I’ve watched with her while lying on the floor beside her bed. Not to mention all the talk shows I’ve watched in secret, while she and Niño Carlitos are at work and Jaimito is at preschool. I often watch television while doing my chores, making sure to turn off the set fifteen minutes before they come home, so it has time to cool off. And all day long, I think.
I think about this family I’m stuck with, about my place with them, about their places with each other, their places in our town. I see that part of Niño Carlitos is proud of how smart and accomplished his wife is, yet part wishes she would be a simple mother and housewife. Part of him feels bad that she makes more money than he does. Part wishes that she would worry about staying slim and pretty and pleasing him, rather than lying like a bulging sack of potatoes on the sofa, exhausted from her two jobs, bossing me and him around.
I see from their wedding photo that the Doctorita and Niño Carlitos were once in love, and that back then, he didn’t care that his mother didn’t like her. Back then, the Doctorita’s education probably impressed him more than threatened him. Back then, he probably liked the way her fat bottom pressed at the seams of her skirt. Over the past three years, there have been times when they fought so much, I was sure they were on the verge of divorce.
Lately, though, life has flowed smoothly. Niño Carlitos seems to have a new appreciation for his wife, as though he’s remembering how he used to feel. They’ve paid their debts and made better investments and saved enough money to rent a new apartment down the street, bigger than the last, with two floors, separate bedrooms, and space for a dentist’s office downstairs. I sleep on a narrow bed in the room where they keep the ironing board and sewing machine and mops and brooms and buckets. Nothing purple or frilly, but my own bed in my own room.
Jaimito is five years old now and has a two-year-old brother. While the Doctorita was pregnant, she glowed, all pink and round and happy because she had an excuse to eat a lot. As her belly popped out, I grew more and more furious that I’d have to wash heaps of diapers again, just when Jaimito had gotten potty trained. But it turned out Andrecito was such a sweet cherub of a baby that his diapers didn’t bother me. He’s always called me Mamá, since he spent most of his first year strapped to my back with a shawl as I washed dishes and made meals and cleaned the apartment. Now that he can walk, we dance together to cumbia tunes on the stereo—which, like the television, I’m not supposed to touch, but could operate blindfolded.
I’ve made friends, students my own age from the colegio, and when I walk down the street, they talk to me as if I’m a normal kid, not a servant, not a former indigenous girl. I understand my place better, in this family, in this town, in this country. I am the only indígena maid in town. Some other people have maids, but they are poor mestiza girls from tiny farm communities. In bigger cities, like Otavalo and Quito, there must be lots of indigenous maids. I remember Matilde saying that she would see other maids like her at the markets in Quito or on the street running errands.
Here, there is no one like me. Sometimes I wonder what it would feel like to have a girl like myself to talk to, a girl who used to be indigenous, a girl who doesn’t know what she is now. I would ask her if she, too, feels an empty space inside her.
It’s a space I’m always trying to fill. It’s like the open beak of a baby bird squawking to its mother, Feed me, feed me, love me, love me. A gaping, hungry, dark space. The smiles from my friends and Jaimito and Andrecito and Niño Carlitos fill part of it, and my fantasies fill another part, but sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night afraid that the emptiness has swallowed everything.
Often in the afternoons, while I pasture the cow or gather alfalfa for the
I think about this family I’m stuck with, about my place with them, about their places with each other, their places in our town. I see that part of Niño Carlitos is proud of how smart and accomplished his wife is, yet part wishes she would be a simple mother and housewife. Part of him feels bad that she makes more money than he does. Part wishes that she would worry about staying slim and pretty and pleasing him, rather than lying like a bulging sack of potatoes on the sofa, exhausted from her two jobs, bossing me and him around.
I see from their wedding photo that the Doctorita and Niño Carlitos were once in love, and that back then, he didn’t care that his mother didn’t like her. Back then, the Doctorita’s education probably impressed him more than threatened him. Back then, he probably liked the way her fat bottom pressed at the seams of her skirt. Over the past three years, there have been times when they fought so much, I was sure they were on the verge of divorce.
Lately, though, life has flowed smoothly. Niño Carlitos seems to have a new appreciation for his wife, as though he’s remembering how he used to feel. They’ve paid their debts and made better investments and saved enough money to rent a new apartment down the street, bigger than the last, with two floors, separate bedrooms, and space for a dentist’s office downstairs. I sleep on a narrow bed in the room where they keep the ironing board and sewing machine and mops and brooms and buckets. Nothing purple or frilly, but my own bed in my own room.
Jaimito is five years old now and has a two-year-old brother. While the Doctorita was pregnant, she glowed, all pink and round and happy because she had an excuse to eat a lot. As her belly popped out, I grew more and more furious that I’d have to wash heaps of diapers again, just when Jaimito had gotten potty trained. But it turned out Andrecito was such a sweet cherub of a baby that his diapers didn’t bother me. He’s always called me Mamá, since he spent most of his first year strapped to my back with a shawl as I washed dishes and made meals and cleaned the apartment. Now that he can walk, we dance together to cumbia tunes on the stereo—which, like the television, I’m not supposed to touch, but could operate blindfolded.
I’ve made friends, students my own age from the colegio, and when I walk down the street, they talk to me as if I’m a normal kid, not a servant, not a former indigenous girl. I understand my place better, in this family, in this town, in this country. I am the only indígena maid in town. Some other people have maids, but they are poor mestiza girls from tiny farm communities. In bigger cities, like Otavalo and Quito, there must be lots of indigenous maids. I remember Matilde saying that she would see other maids like her at the markets in Quito or on the street running errands.
Here, there is no one like me. Sometimes I wonder what it would feel like to have a girl like myself to talk to, a girl who used to be indigenous, a girl who doesn’t know what she is now. I would ask her if she, too, feels an empty space inside her.
It’s a space I’m always trying to fill. It’s like the open beak of a baby bird squawking to its mother, Feed me, feed me, love me, love me. A gaping, hungry, dark space. The smiles from my friends and Jaimito and Andrecito and Niño Carlitos fill part of it, and my fantasies fill another part, but sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night afraid that the emptiness has swallowed everything.
Often in the afternoons, while I pasture the cow or gather alfalfa for the
Similar Books
