Kate saw a dark, fat little boy of about three dressed in a Mickey Mouse T-shirt and homemade pants. His bare chubby feet were covered with dust. He ducked behind each of the nuns, plucking their veils with a sly grin as he passed. When he stopped at Kate’s chair, she found herself staring into dark-rimmed pools of light. His straight black hair fell over his forehead, and Kate longed to slide it back to feel its silkiness.
“This is Tito, the son of Marta and Alejandro. They make everything function around here—so we put up with this little urchin.” Sister Josepha’s gruffness was undercut by the way she held the child close to her body.
Sister Magdalena abruptly pushed her chair and began gathering dishes with a loud clatter. Her lips were tight as she went into the kitchen.
Watching Magdalena’s retreat, Jeanne Marie whispered: “She thinks we spoil the child dreadfully. I’m afraid she doesn’t approve of the way Tito’s allowed to run wild around here.”
The door opened again and a young woman of about eighteen with straight black hair pulled into a pony tail stuck her head in. “Buenos días, madres.” Kate noticed the sibilant quality of the young woman’s speech, so different from the liquid music of Magdalena’s coastal Spanish. This teenager must be Marta, Tito’s mother and the convent cook.
While gathering up books and papers for the school day ahead, Sister Josepha called to Marta in the kitchen, “Come in and meet our newest Sister, Madre Catalina. She’ll go with you to market today.”
“Mucho gusto, madrecita.” Marta smiled, her broken teeth the only flaw in her young face. “La madre es muy jovencita, no?” She looked slyly at Sister Jeanne and winked. Kate sensed that Marta and Tito were an integral part of the household, and she’d have to adjust to the already existing alliances. Kate had never lived in a house with servants before. Having someone cooking for her and cleaning up after her made her self-conscious.
She thought of her mother, with three kids and a part-time job. Wouldn’t she have loved a Marta? Kate remembered that her mother had finally hired a slight white-haired lady named Miss Elsie to iron and babysit once a week while she escaped to go shopping and visit her mother.
Well, she’d learn a lot of Spanish and maybe some Aymara while living in the house all day with Marta and the child. But was this living the vow of poverty?
After helping Marta with the dishes, Kate set out with her and Tito on the daily shopping trip. “Do you go to the market every day?” she’d asked the young woman in Spanish, struggling to remember her Spanish verb tenses.
“Oh sí, madre. I must go each day to find what is fresh. Then I will decide what to put in the soup.”
They walked down the shady side street that the parish church faced, and soon came to the main street of the town. It was already bustling with business, for the morning began early in the mountains. As they walked the four blocks to the market, Kate stayed behind the mother and child, listening to Tito prattle in both Aymara and Spanish.
The market was a series of stalls where vendors spread out their wares and sat all day trying to sell hard potatoes no bigger than plums, beans, nuts, and sometimes fruit and onions. In one section dangled chickens and rabbits, plucked and shining. Kate wondered why they attracted no flies—perhaps because the cold dry air was inhospitable. She also saw a few barrels of fish, which Marta explained had been brought by truck from Puno very early that morning. In Kate’s honor, she explained, she wanted to buy a nice trucha, but fish could only be bought on important feast days because Sister Josepha held the purse strings tightly. Marta gave a short wicked laugh as she said this, which made Kate wonder what she thought of the Americans she worked for. She watched Marta make her way haughtily through the crowd, ignoring the many calls from vendors wanting her to look at their wares. Kate guessed that Marta’s position as convent cook gave her a status in the town that she relished.
After Marta selected the few things she needed for their meal, she guided Kate to a more chaotic section of the square. Aymara men and women squatted helter-skelter, their goods spread out on bright red and blue cloths on the ground. Here one could find curas, Marta explained, herbs, and potions for every need. In one area, Kate saw tiny curled-up dried creatures.
“What are those?” she said, gesturing. Marta explained they were llama fetuses, meant to be placed in the foundation of a new house or in a newly sown field.
“They make sure the house will bear fruit,” she said, and lifted one up for Kate to inspect. Kate was transfixed by the tiny figure of the unborn llama nestled in Marta’s rough palm. Suddenly her stomach heaved, and for one awful moment she felt she might vomit right there in the crowd. But the moment of nausea passed, and she hurried to catch up with Marta, determined to see everything.
There were ponchos for sale, made of llama wool and the softer, rarer wool of the alpaca. Kate examined the beads, fingering the amulets and clay figures. She remembered the vase in her room and wondered if Marta had placed it there for her.
After lunch Kate went with Sister Josepha to the school, to meet the directora and the other teachers. Sister Josepha told her about Father Jack’s struggle with the government three years before to build a public school on the parish property with teachers paid by the government. The religion classes were taught by the nuns. “We won that battle,” Sister said, striding briskly across the courtyard, her veil sailing out behind her, “but now the problem is getting the children to come. Their parents need
