aoul is 15. Like the rest of the indigenous boys in Cusco, he sells postcards during the day and goes to school at night. His parents sent him to Cusco from some shack in the mountains to learn Spanish and find a job, but Raoul has other plans.
"One day," Raoul says, "I will marry a gringa."
"Why do you want to marry a gringa?" I ask.
"Because they have blue eyes," he says, turning over my arm so the lightest part shows and stroking it, "and skin like milk."
"Okay, Romeo," I say, pulling my arm away gently. "What's wrong with Peruvian women?"
He makes the yucky face. "Dark skin, brown eyes."
"They're pretty," I say. And they are -- long, glossy black hair and dark, liquid eyes that slant ever so slightly at the corners. I imagine them in the Austin clubs, moving their bare midriffs around to the music, with small T-shirts and rings in their belly buttons, the white boys slackjawed with desire. But to the boys in the square, nothing compares to a gringa. Any white girl will do -- homely girls, dumpy girls, girls who wouldn't merit even a first glance in the United States. When I come to the plaza to read in the afternoons, the boys gather around me as though I am their queen. It doesn't matter to them that I haven't bathed in two days, that I'm wearing the same smelly jogging pants I wore yesterday. They sit beside me on the bench proudly, push and shove each other to sit closer.
"Look," the boys say, pointing at a girl in the square. She is utterly unremarkable save for her long blond hair. "Isn't she beautiful?"
I shrug. "If you say so."
The boys mistake this for jealousy, and soon someone chimes in, "She's not as beautiful as you."
"Please," I always say, rolling my eyes. But I'd be lying, lying, lying if I didn't tell you that Latin America is one long ego stroke.
"Look," Raoul says, pointing at a pretty brunette with a thick backside. "She is fat, like you."
Wait a minute. What?
"She's fat, like you," he repeats, slower this time, the smile disappearing from his face warily.
Shock. Outrage. "You shithead," I say, hitting his arm.
"What? That's good!" He grabs a handful of flesh on my arm and squeezes it, as if to prove his point.
I slap his hand away. "That's an insult in the United States," I say.
"An insult?" he says. "Like what?"
"It's rude. It's like ugly," I say, crossing my arms in a pout.
His jaw drops. "Nonono. We like fat women. Fat women are much better than skinny women."
The boys all rally in agreement, wrinkling their noses at the word "skinny," eager to win back my better mood. But I'm pissed off now, and just want to drop the subject. Don't they know they're supposed to lie to me about this?
"Look," says Raoul's friend, pointing to the girls as they pass. "She's fat, and she's fat, and she's fat."
"Stop it!" says Raoul, suddenly aware that the gringas can hear. "That's an insult in the United States. Shithead."