What was this body for? She holds up her hands, examining them. Yes, she could work with these; she could bandage or paint or write. She could hold a child’s hand in hers and help it cross a busy street. Hands were clearly useful. But what about the rest of her body? What were her breasts for? Were they to be forever unseen, unsucked? Would they never swell with milk and feel the fierce tug of a baby’s insistent mouth, or the kiss of a lover? Her hands slide across her belly. Her womb—every month the unused rich blood drains out of her, wasted. For a long while she lies still, conscious of her slow breathing, the blood streaming in her veins, the even beat of her heart.
Suddenly she rises with a great splash; she turns the shower on at full force, delighting in the water streaming down her body. She dries off quickly, rubbing her body hard with the thin white towel. Wrapping it around her, she goes to the mirror. Her skin is glowing, alive. She slicks back her hair behind her ears and goes over to the bed where Sheila has left the clothes. She steps into skimpy bikini underpants, a type she’s never before worn. As she puts on the lacy bra, she watches herself in the mirror. Not too bad. She’s still slim, but her body has rounded, become more generous. She tugs on the shorts and T-shirt. Now she looks like any other pale American tourist, down for a Peruvian vacation.
Having filled the sink with hot, soapy water, she scrubs each piece of her habit, plunging her arms into the hot water up to her elbows and wringing out each piece vigorously. Then she washes the black veil and carefully pats it with a dry towel. She notices a small wooden towel rack in the bathroom and decides she would hang her clothes there to dry, not wanting her habit to be seen flapping in the breeze of the hotel’s courtyard. She laughs—feeling light and free in her new costume. Once again she is playing a part, just as she had played dress-up in her grandmother’s house. While slipping on the sandals Sheila left for her, she thinks: I’ll enjoy it as long as it lasts.
When she joins the two girls on the modest beach near the lagoon, they clap and whistle.
“Now that’s better,” crows Diane. “We’ll have to watch you like a hawk. There’ll be guys all over you!”
Sheila regards her carefully. Kate suspects that this quiet, thoughtful girl senses the conflict in her, and she feels slightly irritated that she is so transparent. She lies down next to the girls and tries to relax, letting her body mold itself into the warm sand. Soon she dozes off, lulled by the lapping waves of the lagoon.
When Kate awakes the air has turned cool, and the two girls are packing up their things. Back in their room, Sheila loans Kate a long gauzy skirt to wear with the rose T-shirt she has on, and Diane slips a strand of wooden beads around her neck. Standing next to Kate, Diane gazes admiringly at Kate’s reflection in the mirror.
The three women go down the polished staircase to dinner, which is served on a veranda overlooking the lagoon. As they walk across to a table with a good view, heads turn, and there is a lull in the conversations. Kate notices that most of the patrons seem to be Peruvians, but their understated elegance speaks of shopping trips to Miami and New York. The waiter who comes over to light the lamp on the table startles Kate, for it is Pepe, dressed in a crisp white shirt and shiny black pants. When he sees her looking intently at him, his eyes widen in recognition.
Sheila looks up at the young man. “I’ve heard that Ica is famous for its wines. Could you suggest a good one for us tonight?”
Kate admires Sheila’s easy way with Spanish. Hers, she feels, is halting, awkward.
“Rojo o blanco?” he inquires.
“We’ll start with a white wine, I think.”
Kate looks at prices nervously. How many bottles are they planning to drink?
“Then I would suggest Tacama’s Blanco de Blancos. It’s from a winery very near here, about twenty minutes from town.”
“Perfect,” says Sheila.
Pepe bows and rushes off. Diane suggests that they begin with the Caldo Gallego, and follow it with the Ají de Gallina. Kate is ravenous; when the wine arrives she has to force herself to drink it slowly. It is dry and astringent, with a delicate woodsy taste. Sheila suggests they toast Pepe for his excellent choice. As the sun sinks into the lagoon, they find themselves laughing at everything. A bolero plays from somewhere inside the hotel, “Bésame, bésame mucho.” Kate thinks of Tom. Her lips tremble. She looks away from the girls, out to the lagoon. The moon is rising, casting long silver shards onto the water. Is he seeing this same moon tonight and thinking of her? She’s been a coward—or worse, a baby.
After Pepe clears away the dishes and brings tiny cups of expresso, Diane puts her elbows on the table and leans toward Kate, staring into her eyes. Kate tries to focus her slightly unsteady gaze. “Sheila and I were discussing you this afternoon, and we feel you’re holding out on us. Are you ever going to tell us the story of why you’re running away?”
“Well, it’s not very original, or even very interesting,” Kate looks away.
Diane persists. “Our guess is that there’s a man
