Fish-Hair Woman

by Merlinda Bobis

  ‘You fighting me?’ Pilar elbows him, pulling the rope even harder.

  Estrella is crying and kicking about, clawing the air and imploring the pair below.

  ‘You’re foolish and mean and — why are you so — so — ’ He grasps her wrist, trying to get her hand off the rope.

  ‘Let go! I said, let go!’ She bites his hand.

  ‘Arayyyy!’ he yelps and punches her. ‘May the lightning strike you!’

  She hits him back.

  The rope breaks free and a screaming angel falls from the sky.

  Chapter 24

  Pay Inyo examines his patient: thick, black eyebrows that grow towards each other, as if about to meet. No doubt about it, the child is sarabaton, prone to meeting spirits. What curly lashes too, and if those eyes were open, I’d swear they’re light brown as if she were mestiza, but no, she’s too dark to be one, wonder who’s the father, no, don’t even go there. He studies the broad forehead, its smoothness extending to the back of the head. Bald, thus the purple bruise is obvious: the kiss of a bad spirit.

  The child moans, her breathing uneven again, chasing precious air. Pay Inyo imagines the tiny heart trying its hardest beneath the scrawny chest. He has seen birds breathe this way after a fatal blow from a slingshot.

  There are several novenas at his feet. Also some piedra lumbre, white medicinal stones, then herbs and the ashes of oliva, blessed last Palm Sunday. Among his healing implements, the old man squats to prepare the red candle and the basin with water. He scans a tattered book of orasyones, his special incantations. He does not dare look behind him. He has stopped meeting her eyes since she called for him an hour ago, lest she betray the unspoken. But he senses her fear, as ample as herself, ascending the stairs of his vertebra. His back is growing heavier; too heavy, it might collapse.

  ‘Her mother died here … ’ Mamay Dulce’s voice is tight, her singsong off-key. ‘This bed, my hands … ’

  And I buried her, he almost adds, but cups water instead, whispers it a prayer then lets it trickle back into the basin.

  ‘But I took care of her child well … birthed her and loved her … I love my Eya … she’s mine now, you know … ’

  ‘Mamay … ’ Pilar whispers behind the door. Her brother echoes her voice, hungry for reassurance.

  ‘Just stay there, both of you … ’ The mother attempts to scold but fails. ‘It will be all right, children … it will be … ’

  ‘Let them in. I need help,’ says the medicine man. His dolorous voice is so deep, as if drawn from his toes. ‘Come in, Pilar, Bolodoy … sit with me, you too, Dulce … I need help.’

  Pilar sees her, so pale, even her scalp is pale except for that purple. Her gaze must not leave that frail rise and fall, lest it stops — see, she’s alive, she’s alive, she’s alive, Pilar chants to herself, trying to echo the rhythm of the patient’s breathing. Of course, the Holarawnd Man can do everything, make her better again — but what to tell him now? Ay, Bolodoy hit me, so I hit back — hush, not a word, no, don’t you tell on us, Bolodoy. Yes, it’s bad spirits, Pay Inyo, they’re up to their tricks, they’ve always been, you said, keeping her hair from growing like that, because they don’t want her to be beautiful like Carmen, and, Mamay, we were just playing and she climbed the fart-fart tree, I told her not to, Bolodoy too, we told her not to, but up she went, she went and fell, just like that, when the bad spirits pushed her.

  ‘Where did you play this afternoon?’ Pay Inyo lights the red candle.

  ‘Orchard,’ Bolodoy mumbles.

  ‘Which part?’ He lets the wax drip on the water.

  A ripple of wishes.

  ‘I’m asking.’

  It’s Pilar who answers, her tone defensive. ‘Under the atut-atut tree and she climbed up and fell, that’s why — ’

  ‘How could you let her, girl, you’re the big sister, you’re supposed to take care of her, you stupid — you should have — ’ The surrogate mother is passing on a five-year-old affliction: guilt that is so excruciating, it drives her to love. ‘My Eya, my poor child … my darling … ’

  Guilt drives us to love. Is this not so, beloved?

  But hush, lest we miss my death.

  Lest we miss a change of heart.

  ‘How could you, Pilar — how could we — ay, ay, my darling Eya!’

  ‘Hush, Dulce, please — how, Pilar? How did it happen?’ The medicine man scrutinises the wax hardening on the water, then murmurs an incantation.

  A ripple of fears.

  ‘I said, how did it happen?’

  ‘Just fell … I think.’ Pilar stares at the wax.

  ‘You think?’

  The ripple echoes in her chest.

  ‘Did you see anything unusual around that tree? Any strange mounds of earth, some hovering insect?’

  Something else hovers. What is it?

  ‘I’m asking, Pilar — anything strange?’

  ‘No, nothing, Pay Inyo,’ and yet, here in her chest, this hovering tightness.

  The candle splutters a faint protest.

  ‘This, seen anything like this?’ The medicine man points to the red wax floating on the water. In the candlelight, a splatter of coagulated blood or a red raft, oddly shaped.

  ‘The spirit, Dulce. Here, see this. It’s a female spirit, truly-truly, a young female spirit, a girl … ’

  Bolodoy clutches his sister’s hand.

  Pilar stares at the solid blob of red on the basin, what girl, it’s only wax, there’s no girl, what’s the fuss, she’s all right, don’t be stupid, watch her chest, she’ll be all right, she’s alive, she’s alive, she’s —

  The rise and fall halts, abandoning the imposed rhythm, and the purple slowly spreads, the scalp breaking into sweat.

  Ay, my cruel God! Swallowing his despair, the Holarawnd Man begins to chant all the incantations that he can remember, desperately leafing through his novenas, trying to find that lost magic, that stingy miracle, willing the heavens to open, to grant that secret, elusive grace, so small a plea, ay, dearest Saint Jude, Saint Rita, have mercy on us!

  GESTURES

  Chapter 25

  Manila. A grey watercolour that has never dried. This is how Luke sees it from the air, his gut tightening, his throat dry. Outside the window, grey sky, grey water. The fish traps are also grey, like arrows on the water, pointing towards the distant grey buildings. Look over there, where you’ll see him again after thirteen years. He clenches his fist, willing the old rage to get him through this meeting, but his hand is clammy, his gut hollow. Will he recognise him? Does it matter?

  They part at the cabin door. The kissing woman walks on, very briskly, with hardly a glance at Matt Baker who dallies behind and attaches himself to Luke. The boy is too nervous to wonder at the marked change of attitude of the pair: the lovers in the plane now total strangers. Luke shuffles, clumsy behind the mostly Filipino crowd, this heave of homecoming that lets the heart out of the bag before it leaves the terminal. It unpacks itself too early, now exposed but not vulnerable. Because this is home, is home, is home. There is a confident rhythm in these arriving steps and the once foreign tongue at Sydney airport is no longer a collective chatter but individual voices rounded and robust. But Luke doesn’t hear them. He’s recalling the rage, all the potshots that he’s rehearsed for the vanishing man, but his senses have gone awry, trying to remember. Will I recognise him? He resists but his heart is out of the bag too, unpacked and afraid. Will he recognise me? Tony will meet him, a second phone call confirmed it. His very ill father will make an effort? He is craning his neck for a stranger. He does not see Matt staring at him in disbelief then scanning the crowd, trying to pick out the promised face.

  ‘You’re sure your father will meet you?’

  The draft of warm air is a shock as they walk into the open, where a woman throws jasmine leis around his neck and two men in dark glasses corral him, and a bearded older man enfolds him in his fat arms and Opium Pour Homme. Then a camera flashes as the beard says, ‘Welcom
e, my boy,’ but it’s not his father and he’s pushed into a black Mercedes, its tinted windows quickly rolled up. Just in time for him to catch the face of Matt Baker whose mouth hangs unashamedly open.

  Chapter 26

  He could have screamed. He wanted to scream and hang on to Matt, but the older man quickly detached himself from the scene. He had slipped him his card and stepped back from the mob that forced the boy into the car. It’s a 1997 Mercedes, very flash and cold inside. The air conditioning is in full vent: scent of brand new leather.

  The driver and the other man in the front seat have taken off their glasses and are eyeballing him through the rearview mirror. Beside him the speech begins as he sits down.

  ‘Don’t be alarmed. I am Dr Francisco Alvarado, but just call me Doc Kiko — for your information, in this country it’s the nickname for Francisco. I’m your father’s host and patron, and I was the one you spoke with on the phone. Yes, I said he’ll meet you, but your father is a very occupied man. He has borne himself away again to the provinces for an urgent research expedition, so he asked me to meet you. Sudden change of plan. He sends his sincerest apologies and warmest love — I am very pleasured to meet you finally, Mr Luke McIntyre — you almost look like Tony, also very guwapo, I mean very handsome, though not as blonde.’

  The corpulent engineer of this friendly abduction is a man of odd articulation, quite florid. He rolls his r’s, delighting in the rev at the roof of his mouth. ‘You look … ah… very casual,’ he says, eyes on Luke’s sandals, then adds, ‘that is your only luggage?’ There seems to be greater disapproval of the backpack, which Luke is hugging like a shield. ‘Ah-ah, not planning to stay long … uhmm … you look afraid. No need to be. I promise I’m here to make up for your father’s absence.’ The hands cut out figures in the air: dashes and circles. The fingers are pudgy, very pale, with nails meticulously shaped and manicured. A gold signet ring winks with diamonds: K.

  ‘Fear has no place in my new car. Do you like it? Too cold for you? Hoy, Kiyat,’ he says to one of the men, ‘turn the aircon down for our guest here. Relax, Luke — I may call you, Luke, may I? Bueno, Luke, I’m your host until your father returns in a few days. So for the moment, enjoy my car, my country and my humblest hospitality. Mi casa, su casa — my home, your home. And here, some notes from your father, hijo, to rest assured your heart. I hear it jumping around in worry, my Luke.’

  The Spanish mestizo is so at home in his possessive qualifiers, his bid for kinship. His affectionate hijo — ‘boy’ or ‘son’ — is lost on Luke, though.

  ‘I read people, I hear them. It’s a gift. So no one can lie to me, hijo. I know you’re scared, but no need to be.’ Then he tosses something onto the boy’s lap.

  ‘I-I want to — I need to speak — to — to my father first.’ Luke feels the words stuck in his throat. He looks out of the window, at the crawl of six o’clock traffic, and tries to catch the eye of the drivers in the other cars, but of course none can see through the tinted window.

  ‘Stop, sir, please — I must ring — ’

  ‘I trust you have the number at my house, but I told you he’s not there right now, sorry, hijo — he’ll be back next week, so don’t worry.’

  ‘I — he’s supposed to meet me.’

  ‘Of course, I said he would — but unfortunately,’ and the padded shoulder shrugs, the diamonds wink. ‘Busy, busy man, your father.’

  ‘But — was he away all along? I — I spoke earlier to — ’

  ‘Yes, my daughter, she said he’s away. Ah-ah, you look surprised. All the facts are in place. I am areglado after all — that means “all right”, genuine, a good guy. But Stella doesn’t know Tony’s busy schedule. I do. Now read his cards.’

  Something about Dr Alvarado demands that you pay attention. He is in his late sixties, his baldness compensated by a bushy beard hiding soft jowls. The softness extends to the eyes with their perpetually sleepy look, the baby fullness of the lips, the flabby arms and the gut that sags out of a Pierre Cardin belt. But the manner and voice are unalloyed steel.

  Luke obeys. More postcards of girls under coconuts.

  Welcome and sorry, son. Couldn’t get out of this trip. I’m very much looking forward to showing you around paradise. Doc Kiko will take good care of you. He’s the perfect host. Have a wonderful time.

  All cards with Love, Dad. And the perfunctory xxx — kisses! My loving father has fucking ditched me again.

  Pudgy fingers dip into the breast pocket of the silk suit. ‘And here’s the ultimate proof that your host is hundred per cent areglado, Luke.’

  His heart skips a beat. Another photo? Tony impeccably dressed and leaning against a pool table, beer in hand. Beside him, a slimmer Dr Alvarado with hair, his arm around a girl whose face is turned away from the camera.

  The man’s gone grey but is still suave, the lanky frame in a confident slouch. A string of snapshots follows, in Luke’s head. He’s finding it hard to breathe. ‘I understand … my father’s very ill … ’

  The mestizo laughs, a bull-bellow, and the circles expand in a speech of hands. ‘Relax, hijo, relax. Your father’s speciality is fiction. Ah, Dios mio, this is very, very funny — and good for breaking the ice, as your father would say? Don’t worry, my Luke, your father’s well, very well, no problem, but he had to —’ and here he giggles like a girl — ‘he had to tell a tale or two to get you here — ah, nothing like death to bring family together.’ Mirth has brought tears to his eyes. ‘Your father’s muy inventive like that — siempre, but of course — he’s a writer.’

  Fucking writer! ‘I’d like to go home — I’d like to go home on the next plane.’ Luke feels the the old anger, then panic — something about this man, this car —

  ‘But you are home, hijo, I mean, Doc Kiko will do his very best to make you feel at home — until your father returns.’

  His disappearing father! ‘I think it’s best if — if we turn around and — and — ’

  ‘And —? Ah, relax, my Luke, all is well, all is areglado,’ the doctor assures his guest. Again fingers dip into breast pocket. This time, he takes out a small dog-eared bible! Which he flips open and reads: ‘My son, you are always with me and everything I have is yours. But this brother of yours was dead, and has come back to life. He was lost and is found. And for that we have to celebrate and rejoice. Luke, Chapter 15; Verses 31 to 32 — by the way, you are a Christian, my Luke?’

  Luke’s mouth hangs open. This story has now ripened into a bizarre melodrama, flashing signals and foreshadowings, all planted like little jokes on him since that Filipina exposed her heart on her sleeve at the airport, telling him about the son she hasn’t seen in ten years, or that woman with the child, flying to her mother’s deathbed — but this is not fiction. He is in this car engulfed by this man’s perfume. He begins to giggle, a touch hysterically, much to the displeasure of the born-again Christian who is fiddling with the pages of his good book.

  Chapter 27

  Outside there is a smog moon rising above the bumper-to-bumper traffic. It crawls through endless constructions and a multitude of bodies that miss cars and buses by almost a hair’s breadth. Pedestrians are hurtling across streets, running after jeepneys, grabbing at their tails that never stop smoking — saved in time from another hour’s wait for a ride! At one traffic light, a jasmine vendor knocks on their window and the good doctor obliges. He buys all her merchandise, which he hangs around the neck of a tiny but richly garbed statue glued on the dashboard.

  ‘That’s the Santo Niño, the Child Jesus, and this is our national flower, the sampaguita,’ the doctor lectures.

  The jasmine sweetness argues with the Opium and leather.

  ‘And over there are the lechon manok, of course.’ The Mercedes is now stalled beside several lined-up carts of whole chickens rolling on spits. ‘Hoy, Kiyat, buy three. At the rate of this puñetang traffic, I’ll die of hunger before we get home. And get a good helping of sauce.’

  The window is quickly o
pened, the transaction concludes, and the doctor digs into the steaming flesh, ripping off a leg, dunking it in sauce before taking a bite with a sigh. His mouth is instantly full and masticating with pleasure.

  The spiced smell of roast chicken overpowers all other scents in the car.

  ‘Help yourself, Luke. I’m dizzy with hunger. Blood sugar problem.’

  ‘Can you — can you please take me back — I mean, back to the airport,’ he starts again, the plea sounding not only lame but absurd in the middle of this strange traffic, here in this strange car.

  ‘But you’ve just arrived — ’

  ‘Or a hotel — yes, take me to a hotel.’ Even more absurd. He knows fuckall about this city.

  ‘Ah, hijo, how could you disappoint my hospitality — and your father, of course. What will I tell him — that I just abandoned his son, especially in this city which can be … uhmm … how does your father say it — tricky? C’mon, my boy, stick with Doc Kiko and you’ll always have a good time — we’ll play other tricks safely — get me?’ The doctor winks, but the baby lips have become a thin line.

  Silence, except for Kiko finishing his chicken leg and small fists pounding on the car window. Luke makes out a boy and a girl outside, nearly kissing the glass, mouths opening and closing.

  ‘They’re carolling, Luke.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They’re beggars singing Christmas carols.’

  ‘In September?’

  ‘We take our Christmas very seriously here. Give them one of the chickens, Kiyat, those poor kids.’

  An hour or so later, a guard salutes. They pass through the gate of The Village, the millionaires row. Frenzy is left further behind. And trees begin to grow, even flowers, also very high walls and houses that stand like fortresses and so much becalmed respectability.

  Another guard salutes. They pass through the gate, private this time like the guardhouse.

  Francisco Alvarado’s mansion is ablaze, turning night into day. Every tree is smothered with fairy lights. This is the welcome party, a bienvenida.