The Vow

The Mercado Central was a layer cake of a building, squat cement floors packed with stalls and studded with household items from top to bottom. A latticework of walkways wove through it, as if a finger had gouged through the batter ferreting out the last nut. At the top was housewares, in the middle was produce and spices, and on the bottom the butchers. If you peered over a railing you could see slabs of meat gently turning on hooks and pig heads quietly yellowing as the afternoon hours ticked by.

We had flown in for a wedding, Gabriel and his friends and I. Gabriel and I were only in Lima for a brief few days. Our real destination was Buenos Aires, his favorite city.

By the time we arrived in Peru, we had been fighting on and off for more than a year. We fought about a lot of things, all of which were important then and none of which are important now.

We even fought in Lima. In the market he hissed at the three of us repeatedly to lower our voices, to not draw so much attention to ourselves. I knew who the admonishments were for, since I heard none of them when I let the group wander ahead of me, and so I lingered even farther behind.

One aisle was lined from end to end with spices and herbs. In almost every stall was a lady. I wandered slowly, allowing the distance between Gabriel and me to grow until I could no longer see him. He rounded the corner and I paused. To my left was a woman no taller than five feet, who sat on a stool in a stall full of chamomile flowers neatly bagged in small plastic sacks. To my right, a woman of equal stature standing next to a beautiful wooden bowl, over which she massaged peppers, creating a vermilion paste that stained her hands a deep reddish ochre. Neither woman was fat but each was sweetly, comfortingly round, like a fairytale auntie. As they spoke to each other, gaps flashed in their mouths where teeth were missing. They did not speak Spanish, but perhaps Quechua, or another dialect. They noticed me standing and smiled, a little shyly.

The woman to my right put down her pepper and spoke.

“¿De donde vienes?” she asked me, and so I told her, replying in kind with the same respectful formality. I told her a little about California. Her friend looked at us, listening and nodding. I did not tell them why I was there, or with whom. The wedding and Orange County seemed suddenly far away.

After only a minute or two of the simplest chatter, the woman looked me in the eye and put her red hand on my arm.

“Nunca se casa, entonces puede viajar por todo el mundo.”

I looked at her. Her gaze was steady. I took a deep breath.

Just then Gabriel and his friends rounded the corner, looking for me. “Where have you been?” I blinked quickly, and with a quick “oh!” I laughed. The lady looked at Gabriel. I looked down, and her hand was still on my forearm, warm and small. I looked up and she looked back at me, repeating herself.

“Nunca se casa, entonces puede viajar por todo el mundo.”

Never get married, so you can travel the whole world.

Gabriel looked at her and slowly shot me a glance. I shook my head and smiled, then asked him if he would take our photo. Everything was momentarily forgotten in the flurry of snapping and her smiling, gap-toothed delight. She and I said goodbye, and I turned to walk up the aisle. This time, Gabriel walked behind me.