by Jan Baross

Mothers and daughters crowd the long rows of market stalls filling their baskets with fresh produce. Bolts of colored cloth form hammocks between the roofs, filtering afternoon sun.

Señor Domingo guts perch in his fish stall, removing the gills, the head, then slicing fillets. "Fresh fish!" he sings in a dark baritone. Señora Acola sits on a small stool across from him, dividing her birds-of-paradise into bouquets. She sells plumeria, pink hibiscus, purple jacaranda, and Arabian jasmine fitted in large rusted cans. "My plumeria brings luck in love!" she chants. Across from our stall, the vegetable vendor shakes a dry gourd to the beat of his sale song. "Cactus makes your children strong! Avocados make them smart! Green beans for the blood. Peppers for their hearts!" "Meat's a treat! Get your pigs' feet!" yells the butcher.

In our divers' stall, I spread a thick layer of ice on the plank counter. Auntie Patina wedges oysters around the rim. Rosa packs mussels, like tiny headstones, into the ice. For decoration, Mimosa lays slivers of green palm next to the shells. In the corner of the ice, she places her blue ceramic bowl full of lemon-tree thorns for those delicate eaters who prefer pricking the green snails free of their shells.

As I work, I realize that this collective effort feels like purpose. That is what Mamá wanted me to know about Papá's store. It is not too late to learn. But it is having friends that changed my world, and the world has changed according to my new senses.

"My friends, soon you will be counting your money," says Fecunda. She picks up a bell marked "For Emergencies Only." It looks small, but the loud clang breaks the song of the vendors. Villagers halt in mid-purchase, turning their heads as if all their bodies moved on one crank. Fecunda raises a tight-woven basket filled with my green snails above her head. Her great lungs reach to the far end of the market stalls. "Neighbors, my cousin, our newest diver, Tortugina Svendik, has bravely gathered a full basket of green snails by making the dangerous dive off the end of the reef. Come and buy these treasures, while they last!"

Villagers abandon Señor Domingo's perch, Señora Acola's flowers, and the vegetable vendor's produce poetry. They speed toward our stall like a tsunami curls toward a beach. Fecunda protects the basket by settling it right in front of her. Bodies crush through the narrow rows of stalls to our booth. With all the arms in the air, fists full of coins, it is like being eye level with the tails of a hundred wagging dogs.

A pregnant woman grabs my hand and will not let go. "Tortugina," she says, "a handful, please. I must make a boy this time!" "My father is sick," yells a young man. "One scoop for soup." "Let me cure my life!" begs a ravaged man. "Three handfuls will do." "Tortugina! Tortugina, Tortugina!" they shout.

Just as Fecunda predicted, we are surrounded by money. Selling as fast as we can, one scoop there, three scoops here, handfuls of snails into the palm leaf that Auntie Patina holds. She folds the green sides perfectly so that only the salty ice water drips out. If the shells cure everything, why not a marriage? I slip a handful into my pocket.

Tiny Mayor Perfecciona wiggles through the bodies to the front. "Tortugina! Remember me? Give me two handfuls!" I can barely see the top of her head over the counter. "Twenty pesos, please," says Fecunda over the roar of her customers. The mayor raises a small hand above the counter of ice and throws her coins in our tin box.

Señora Nauseobondo is right behind the mayor. "I must have those snails for my dandruff. Two handfuls." She drops the coins in the box. "If you bring a scoop of snails when you come to my taverna, you and Miguelito can drink as much as you like." She leaves with her package, and the villagers climb on top of each other to fill the gap left by the Señora's perfect hips. "Tortugina! Take my order! Tortugina! Take my money!"

Two old women pull at my fingers as though they were milking them. To get rid of them, I shove a scoop into their hands without the palm leaf. Fecunda grabs the coins that drop into the ice, but shakes her head. "Tortugina, we have standards. Please package the sales." Suddenly Fecunda has professional pride. But the villagers have no pride at all. Old push young, women push men, mothers push fathers, daughters push sons.

"Getting rich is exhausting," I say. Rosa and Mimosa cut more palm leaves, breathing as if they were plowing a field. "Tortugina, slow down." Fecunda leans over, her lips touch my ear. "Tortugina, smaller handfuls. We will run out too soon." Though Fecunda watches over my shoulder, I continue to give each person a true handful. They receive their snails like a benediction.

I work fast until there is only one handful of snails left in the basket. The villagers push, and under the pressure of their bodies, our bamboo stall begins to splinter. A gray-haired woman grabs my freezing hand. "Please, Tortugina. Let me have the last ones. My husband will die without them." "He will die with or without the snails, Aurelia," says Fecunda. "Go home."

The gray-haired woman's eyes do not move from my face. I scoop the last handful for her. Fecunda catches my wrist and squeezes until the shells drop into the melted ice. She shouts over the noisy crowd. "An auction for the last handful!" Her answer comes with the force of their bodies crushing and splintering our stall. The basket tips, and the last handful of green snails scatter in the dust.

Villagers drop to their knees, picking up one or two muddy snails from the market filth. They stick the snails down their dresses or in their pockets or even in their mouths. One old woman lowers her wrinkled lips to the empty basket on the ground and drinks what is left of the snail water. Rosa, Mimosa, Auntie Patina, and Fecunda are down on their knees picking up coins fallen from the tin box. All I can see are the shifting backs of shirts and crawling shawls.

Señor Domingo helps me up out of the debris, before stooping to help Fecunda find her coins. Aurelia, the woman with the dying husband, covers her face and cries. I reach into my pocket and give her the few snails I had stored for my own use. She hugs me to her breasts. The feel of her reminds me of Mamá's warm embrace. She pulls out a coin. "Bless you, Tortugina. Bless you." I take her coin because I have professional standards too.

My throat is dry from the dust kicked up by the scrambling villagers. I lean over a water bucket and scoop a drink. There, in the dark liquid of the bucket, is my beloved Gabito, grinning his lopsided smile. "Are you happy now?" "Gabito. I feel as if I am standing too close to a bonfire." "Happiness is always a mixed blessing," says Gabito. "Now you must give me something to relieve my suffering." "Anything," I say. "You must promise never to sleep with your pig of a husband again."

Is he crazy? "Pushing Miguel out of my bed would be as difficult as rolling a whale off the reef," I say. "Or," says Gabito, "the snails disappear." That is the problem with favors. They can be taken back, and then you are twice empty. "I promise," I say. "I promise I will find a way." He knows I am no good with promises, but we both want it to be true enough. I hate him a little when he sinks back into the uncomplicated water bucket of his life.

Past the silent pews, Fecunda lights our way through the church with a shimmering lantern. Her bulky silhouette is my guide. "Fecunda, why are we here?" I say. "For your own good," she says.

She turns down a short hallway, and we pass an elaborately carved altar. I have never noticed before, but now, in the lantern light, I am startled to see a large portrait over the altar. It is a woman, the most repulsive excuse for an old woman I have ever seen. "Who is that?" I ask. Fecunda holds her lantern up. Flames make romance of anyone's face, but not this creature. There are so many wrinkles, it is hard to distinguish the lips or nose. Only her unnatural eyes are rat-sharp. "Señora Sepulchura," she says, "Miguel's great-grandmother. She is the woman who made the terrible curse on your family. She cheated the artist out of his pay, so he came back one night and made her even more hideous than she was." Fecunda laughs. "A good thing she was too blind to see it, but everyone else could."

She waddles to the end of the corridor with her lantern and pushes open a well-worn door. Inside is a plain room with a stone altar piled high with dry oat flakes and hundreds of melted white prayer candles. "This is your salvation," says Fecunda.

On the wall over the altar hangs a portrait. This woman is even more peculiar than the hideous Señora Sepulchura. Her middle-aged face is strong, with intelligent blue eyes, and her hair is pulled back in a black bun. A black beard covers the bottom half of her face. "Who is she?" I say. "The bearded lady from the circus? A relative of Señora Nauseobondo?" "Show respect to Blessed Saint Uncumber," says Fecunda. "She has helped many women who do not want to sleep with their husbands." "How?" "By making them unattractive to their spouses. Now, put these oats on the altar and pray for help."

Fecunda sweeps the old oats off the altar. Now that I am snail-rich, she cannot do enough for me. I dump my fresh offering in a pile. "Will this work?" I say. "Tortugina, you wanted my help. I am helping you, but hurry. It is not good to be seen near the chamber of Saint Uncumber. Every husband knows why their wives come here."

"Dearest Saint Uncumber," I say, "I have made a promise to my dead husband, Gabito, not to sleep with my living husband, Miguel. I want to keep my promise. Please make me unattractive to Miguel. I pray not to wake up with a beard like you, dear Saint Uncumber, but let him find me repulsive in some way. Amen." "I have another old wives' trick," Fecunda says, "in case Saint Uncumber fails you."

It is early evening outside before we return to my house. Fecunda pours the pig's blood, cold from her root cellar, into a small, thin bladder made of pig intestine. She shows me how to push it up between my legs. The chill of it sends shivers through my body. Even José shudders in my womb. I stroke my belly to calm José. "Has this really worked?" "Husbands see the blood and think they are harming the child growing inside you. Then he will leave you alone. If Saint Uncumber is not quick enough with her repulsion miracle, this is your insurance."

She helps me tie a rag between my legs to catch the blood. "I will see you tomorrow, my little diver," says Fecunda, "for more snails." She gives me a little hug and a small envelope of palm leaf. "Put this powder in his bath," she says. "It is a relaxing herb and will slow him down. And remember, a good marriage is like everything in life, an arrangement of bribes, if not outright deceit. Men will do without sex if you frighten them or give them too much to eat or drink. I see you have set your table with that in mind."

The yellow tablecloth is spread under the flowered plates. A vase of daylilies sits in the center with a bottle of wine. Soup is hot on the stove. Dinner waits warm in the covered pan: a large beefsteak, rice, fresh carrots, and on the counter, a chocolate cake big enough for five men. "Good luck tonight, little turtle," says Fecunda. She pats my shoulder and swings the back door shut.

I am glad for a few moments alone, to ready myself for Miguel. The blood pouch inside me begins to warm, but there are still bloodstains on my hands. I wash quickly and change to an old robe that hides my figure. My hair slicks back into a greasy bun. Perhaps now there is less chance that my beauty will entrance him. The big pot, boiling with bath water, is steaming up the kitchen. I empty Fecunda's herbal potion into the huge tin tub beside the stove, adding enough cold water for a comfortable bath.

Outside, the clumsy clash of wood and metal of Miguel's toolbox serves as my warning. The door flies open. His body fills the frame. "Tortugina," sighs Miguel, "you look beautiful." He sniffs. "Mmm, beefsteak." In the doorway he shakes the chips and sawdust from his hair, strips off his filthy work pants and shirt, and drops them on the floor. Standing naked, he steps over his clothes into the room and offers me a beautiful blue orchid, the gesture of a fully dressed suitor. The scent of a bean and garlic burrito from lunch still lingers on his beard. By the look of him, it must have been a good day for sanding. There is sawdust in his pores.

"Tortugina," he says, "last night I dreamt I was a boy again, sitting alone. No girl wanted me. Then you touched me and we danced all night. At work today, I painted the Virgin's lips to look like your lips." His dry lips kiss mine. "But I have an overbite," I say. Angelicus Maximus presses against my belly. "Please, Tortugina," says Miguel. "I have been dreaming all day of your cool fingers on me."

Fecunda says the first line of defense with men is hygiene. I wrinkle my nose. "You need a bath," I say. Angelicus bows his head. Miguel sighs and steps into the tub. As he sinks beneath the hot water, it spills over the side. His scarred knees are islands above the surface. He dunks his head under the hot water, blows bubbles, and sits up. Steam ribbons off the top of his thick hair.

He hunches forward, and I scrub his back with the sea sponge. When I finish, he relaxes back into the curve of the metal tub with a deep sigh. One-eyed Angelicus, distorted and soft, watches me from below the suds. This is the time I like Miguel best. Cradled in steam with arms curled between his slick legs, confined.

Very slowly, he stands up in the tub to be rinsed. Twice he nearly topples. "I am feeling a little . . ." He grabs onto my shoulder to steady himself. "Carving this Virgin is killing me." "You work too hard," I say. A naked Miguel always reminds me of a grown bull trained to stand on its two back legs. I pour warm water over his shoulders and wash away the soap. Wherever my fingers touch, his flesh trembles. This is not the sign of a man who would embrace abstinence.

I help him out of the tub and drape a towel over his wide shoulders. It hangs open like a cape. He looks down at Angelicus, and Angelicus looks up at him. "There is an old saying, Tortugina," says Miguel. "But I am too full of steam to remember. Come here."

Miguel puts his wet hands on my shoulders and pushes me until I am trapped against the wall. The hot soapy scent of him is suffocating. "Look," I say. I reach down and pull my bloody rag into the lamplight and wait for his eyes to understand. Instead, they fill with tears. The tight rings of his wet hair shake with sobs. "What is wrong?" I say. "If there is blood," he says, "then our little baby is dead." There is such deep sadness in his voice that for a moment I believe him. "Mamá?" says José. "José, everything is fine." I speak silently to my son. "This is just strategy."

"José is not dead," I say. "Fecunda says this happens to pregnant women when the men are big as you are." Fecunda also says, "Flattery is the second line of defense with husbands." Miguel wipes his eyes. "One of the few things I remember my mother saying is that blood from a pregnant woman means the death of the baby. Who are you to argue with my mother?" It is true, a wife does not argue with the mother-in-law. Now I am caught between logics: mine, his, and his mother's.

But I am also thinking of Gabito's angry face and the snails. If I can keep Miguel off me with the excuse of pig's blood, then he will see my belly grow. He will be so grateful for a son, I can make him leave me alone until José is born. Perhaps by then I will have grown a beard or found a new excuse for celibacy.

"Let our arms console each other," he says. "Our son is dead." I relax against the strong thump of his heart through damp muscles, still heated from the bath. He smells of rose soap and cedar. For the first time our bodies touch without sex binding us, just a pleasant congealing. "Mamá?" "Hush, José," I say silently. "Never spoil a good moment between parents." I feel the full safety of the fortress that is my husband Miguel, his body offering nothing but comfort. His bearded lips brush my forehead.

"I know you are as sad as I am, Tortugina." His voice seeks to console me. "But we can make another son. We must make sure we have one in your baking oven at all times. I will be gentle. I promise." My body turns as cold as Fecunda's root cellar. The drug in the bath has barely slowed him. The excuse of blood is not working. Saint Uncumber, where are you?

Beyond the horizon of his naked shoulder, on the surface of the steaming bath water, I see the green-snail friendship of Fecunda, Rosa, Mimosa, Auntie Patina, sinking below the surface and disappearing. Miguel's body flattens my back against the spiny stucco.

"No!" I shout. "Not until the blood has all come out! It might poison your seed!" Fighting for a lie takes the same effort as fighting for a truth. His fingers cuff my wrists to the wall. "My seed will plant itself in your blood and live!" Miguel's eyes are stone. "Tortugina! I want a son!" He lifts my bottom until my toes dangle above the ground. Miguel grinds his weight against me, knifes upward, hammers against the bone. Even drugged, he is strong as a beast. "Mamá!" shouts José.

I picture José charging out of my womb to kill Miguel Svendik. With Miguel, it is always over fast, with one loud release of hot air in my face. He pushes off the wall. With his support gone, my body collapses to the floor. Angelicus Maximus settles back to innocent proportions.

Stooping over the tin tub of water, Miguel washes Angelicus again. The drying hair on his body forms spikes in the kerosene light. He inhales deeply and sniffs toward the stove like a dog sniffs a tree. "Ah, beefsteak," he says. "Clean yourself and put my dinner on the table." Wrapped in the towel, he leaves wet tracks across the floor.

Gabito's head floats up out of the tub. His eyes hold even more pain than Miguel's. "I fought him, Gabito. I drugged him! I tricked him. I even prayed to a bearded saint. Please do not take away the snails!" Gabito's head lashes out of the water. "Why not kill him!" yells Gabito. "You killed me!" I slap his cold face, and he shatters into a million drops.

My legs tremble so badly that I collapse next to the tin tub. Inside me, José is breathless. He taps on the side of my womb. "Is it over, Mamá?" says José. I run my hand over my belly to soothe José. "Yes, José. It's all over."

To be continued

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