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Chapter 2
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[ 32 ] C H A P T E R 2 AT S U N S E T we gather in Enrique’s courtyard. His house is the best in the village although only half-finished. In the two years we live here, the holes where windows should have been are never filled. The radio is set to the only station. It carries a soap opera from Venezuela. The soap opera, the money from the United States, Karlos and I, who just walked into their village and stayed, and who in time left, one without the other—are only a few of the many things that do not make sense. Tomorrow we will go to the hot springs, Enrique says. It is where the sick come to be healed, where women give birth without pain. We drive two hours. It begins to snow. Steam billows from the ground as a streak of light breaks through the clouds. I have seen the power of the Andean sun, the way it can sheave glacial ice and set it free. With my palm open, I catch one flake. If I could just hold it this way, but as soon as it falls it melts and is gone. I follow Enrique’s wife, Amparo, and the other women. At a distance from the men they begin to undress and so do I. I cling to a shrub alongside the pit and ease my frozen toes into [ 33 ] the water. The mud sucks me down. I am thinking Fatima and Lourdes as I sink into the simmering cauldron. If it is brewing hepatitis, typhoid or cholera I have no immunity. The men are off to the side. Karl’s head bobs above the water. His is the only blonde one. I have never seen the men without their hats before. Amparo looks at me and asks straight out, how come you don’t get babies? I take pills. The pills prevent a baby from forming. They don’t believe me. I don’t know how to say intercourse in Quechua. Our missionary tutor, the pastor from North Dakota with the pimples and starched shirt, must have known. We never asked. We want that medicine, Amparo says, get it for us. I promise. Blanca comes to the cuyera most nights for English lessons. Karl plays the flute or bakes cookies while we sit in front of picture books. She tells me she will be twelve next week. At the end of the hour, Enrique comes for her. He hands me a package wrapped in rough brown paper. He is smiling, Amparo made this for you. Inside is a bag woven in many colors. My name is sewn along the side in red thread. She spells it Liset. Illuminated by the single bulb I see Blanca has Enrique’s face, almost exactly. He asks, who will go to the market to sell the sacks? You, I say. He doesn’t answer. Blanca stares at me. It’s an honor. No. You will go. Enrique looks at Karl. [44.200.193.174] Project MUSE (2024-03-29 14:06 GMT) [ 34 ] Karl asks, what will you do when we’re not here? We will build you a house. Better than the one you are in now. We can’t stay forever, I say. Enrique pauses. No, he says. Just until you die. But it’s the village’s project. They are your looms; the sacks you have woven belong to you. If you begin to sell in the market then others from nearby villages will follow. The money you bring in will help pay down the loans on the land. He shakes his head, Indians don’t sell in that part of the market. We are the only Indians to make these sacks because of the money that came from your government. The color drains from Karl’s face. I take a breath, Enrique, there comes a time when things must change. You can bring about change. We will go with you but you will sell them. Enrique’s eyes go dead. Blanca will not look at me. ...