The Foreign Service Journal, June 2005

him that the rich family wouldn’t give her a raise, and then hoarded her raise in the huge sack of pinto beans in the kitchen. A shiver coursed down her spine at the thought of her husband. She lifted her chin and clenched her teeth. This had to work. She was not going back. She searched the interviewer’s face for any sign of the bubbly voice she had heard through the partition while she had been waiting. The one that said, right after the job documents were given: “Your visa is approved. Please pass to the courier service window. Good day.” But the interviewer’s face was as blank as her hus- band’s the day she had asked him if he really loved her. The woman caressed the social security form with her finger and thumb. Rosa desperately tried to remember the feel. The vendor said it was infallible, that the papers looked so real the interviewers hardly ever took a second glance. What was she doing? The interviewer cleared her throat and slowly looked into Rosa’s eyes. “How long have you worked here? What’s your boss’s name? What do you do?” She wasn’t going back. Unblinking, Rosa locked eyes with the interviewer, and her practiced answers rolled off her tongue like the trills of a mariachi singer. Her heart beat wildly in her chest with the rush of adrenaline. For that brief moment she felt like the aggressor in a tango. Silence followed her last answer; the woman contin- ued searching her face with sad eyes. Could they be brimming with tears? They had whispered in the waiting room that she was the soft one. Rosa thumbed her new Virgin Guadalupe prayer card in her pocket and whis- pered a prayer for a miracle. With a quick shake of her head, the interviewer’s face again went blank. “We have to verify your documents. Please return at 2 p.m. You can enter with this,” she thrust a pink piece of paper under the window. “That’s all for now. Good day.” The volley of words hit her like her husband’s fist. She blinked hard and stared at the woman. “¿Mande?” she squawked. While staring at the com- puter screen, the interviewer repeated her reply. “What else do you need?” Rosa stammered. She felt like she was drowning. “I have my car title, my light and water bills . . .” “That is all for now,” the woman said firmly. Rosa walked blindly through the waiting room, focus- ing solely on the yellow arrows on the ground leading her to the exit. The waiting room seemed quieter to her now. Her footsteps echoed off the walls. She could hear mur- murs and clicking of tongues. She could almost hear the shaking of the heads, lamenting her loss. But she didn’t dare look up. Everyone had heard. She couldn’t bear to have them see her cry. Eyes watering, Rosa stood at the exit of the consulate as the world swirled around her. “¿ T axi, muchacha, necesita un taxi?” offered an unshaven man with a dirty baseball cap. She shook her head and started walking. The sun shone like a million flashlights and the heat stifled her like a wool blanket drawn over her head. She concen- trated on breathing and walking. “¡Rosa! !Rosa!” shouted Paulina, a fellow bus passen- ger. Rosa jolted back to earth. Paulina came bounding up beside her. “¿La recibiste? Did you get it?” Paulina jumped up and down, eyes sparkling behind her charcoal eyeliner and blue-tinted sunglasses. “Those fake docs worked, no?” In front of Rosa’s face, she excitedly waved the turquoise blue strip of paper announcing the approval of her application. “They’re checking mine,” Rosa said in a monotone. “What?” Paulina stopped in mid-bounce. “They’re checking my papers,” Rosa almost whis- pered. “What do you mean?” Paulina’s smile disappeared. Creases clogged the corners of her eyes. “Exactly what I said. I have to come back at 2 p.m. to see what they find out.” “Dios mio. But . . . they told us the docs were fool- proof. Mine worked!” she again flapped the blue strip in Rosa’s face. “I must have botched the interview. I couldn’t stop shaking. I guess she was suspicious.” Rosa’s voice broke. She swallowed deeply, forcing her tears back. “Oh, Rosa, don’t worry. The guys who sold us the papers told us that these always worked. I’m sure you’re covered.” Paulina stared sympathetically at Rosa, then F O C U S 52 F O R E I G N S E R V I C E J O U R N A L / J U N E 2 0 0 5 Stephanie Rowlands is a free-lance writer and the mother of a toddler. Her husband joined the Foreign Service in 2000. She worked as a consular associate and English teacher in Hermosillo. They are currently posted in Guatemala City.