7
Abundance
I had been to the mercado many times as a child, but I had never seen it from the perspective of the vendors. We woke early and set up Lupe’s goods well before the tourists and native shoppers were about, yet the ordered confusion of the market erupted well before any bargaining began. Squawking poultry competed with squealing children as their parents hurriedly set out their goods: fruits and flowers, rugs and runners, saddles and sandals. Everywhere I looked were the colors of the rainbow, and if the same could be said of smells, well, that was true, too.
As Rosa and I helped Lupe display her crafts, I made a point of setting out my eyeglass cases right in front. Where will these travel? I wondered again with excitement. Then, as I touched them gently, I thought, And where will I travel as well?
The morning went slowly with few buyers, but as the sun rose in the sky, the aisles began to fill with all sorts of people. A tall, thin woman, with hair the color of lemons and skin so pale I could see the vessels in her cheeks, fingered my eyeglass cases and spoke to a man beside her in a harsh guttural language that I had never heard before.
He then spoke in very odd Spanish asking Lupe how much. But before Lupe could answer, the woman moved on to the end of the table where she poked and prodded several other items, then shaking her head walked on down the aisle.
Suddenly Manuel appeared munching on a piece of Mexican sweet bread. “Want some?” he offered, holding it forth. I blushed as I heard Lupe chuckle. I shook my head and kept my eyes averted. The delicious aroma made my mouth water. I wanted some desperately, but it seemed like such an intimate gesture, and there were too many eyes around.
As if she read my mind, Lupe pressed a coin into my hand and said, “Go with Manuel and buy another—and get some chocolate, too.” Chocolate was a Oaxacan specialty.
I glanced at Rosa, who nodded and continued arranging a display of rebozos.
I grabbed my bag from under the table and gently slung it over my still tender shoulder. We ambled down the aisle in silence. Manuel tore off a piece of his bread, and this time when he handed it to me, I took it. I ate it in small bites as we walked, savoring the sweetness. Turning a corner, he stopped to buy a fruit drink, then motioned to a bench beneath a tree. “Lupe’s son has insisted on paying me for my help,” he said, holding out a few coins.
Once seated, I cleared my throat and began. “The book . . . with the calla lily? Thank you so much. It’s lovely. Thank you.” I looked up quickly into his eyes, then back at my hands.
“It looked like your little box of stars,” he simply said.
Silence.
Brotherly, I decided, nothing more. Of course, he didn’t feel anything more for me. What was I thinking? Hurriedly I reached into my bag and took out my journal.
“Let me show you what I’m doing.” As I opened to the cover page, The Math Journal of Alma Cruz, he stretched his arm behind me along the back of the bench, and his other hand reached over and covered mine so that we were both holding my little book. He leaned in, his fingers squeezing mine, our cheeks barely touching. His breath was moist with a light fruity fragrance from his drink. He peered into the book and began reading the first problem. It seemed to take him forever. My heart fluttered like it had the night before. I sat frozen, holding my breath while he read.
“Wow,” he said after what seemed like several minutes, “it’s confusing. What’s the answer?” He turned toward me but made no effort to move back. I looked up, and as I did his lips swept forward and brushed mine—lightly. I gasped and drew back.
“Lo siento,” he said softly, still holding my hand. “So sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I whispered, looking up timidly into his eyes.
“Is it?” he asked leaning in. This was not brotherly.
My cheeks burned, and I wondered if my eyes were dancing with light. Manuel reached up and stroked my face with the back of his hand. I lifted my chin and, like a kitten, rubbed against it. But as I did, I could see out of the corner of my eye two uniformed men walking toward us. My heart pounded with each step of their boots as they marched closer and closer.
In an instant, I pulled Manuel’s face to mine and, wrapping my arms tightly around his neck, I kissed him deeply, holding him close and tight. He moaned softly, his hands now pressing me hard against his chest, his lips parting mine, his warm tongue tickling.
I had never been kissed before. My skin tingled, a tiny moth fluttered about within my chest, my stomach bounced like a child’s ball, and my legs turned to liquid. Even my fear of the authorities melted away. We continued to kiss even after the footsteps approached, paused and moved on, interrupted only by a slight reprimand grunted by one of the passing officers, “Take it to las grutas!” a reference to the caves beyond the city.
When Manuel realized what had prompted my passionate kiss, he laughed and said, “I paid them well to do that you know!”
I slapped his knee, then turned to him and earnestly pleaded, “Please be careful. I don’t want you to be deported.”
“Neither do I,” he replied, “for many reasons now.” He squeezed my hand.
“So, you are traveling with us? To el norte?” I whispered. “¿Conmigo?”
“If you want me to,” he said. “Yes. I
