Fish-Hair Woman

by Merlinda Bobis

  ‘I’m asking the questions — and who’s your cumpadre?’

  ‘Oh, he’s my godchild’s father, of course.’

  ‘And who’s your godchild?’

  ‘The child whom I assisted during his baptism. Of course, Kapitan.’

  Sergeant Ramon slaps the old man’s shoulder, chuckling as he asks, ‘No names then? I’m beginning to like you, you like games … and how long have you lived in Iraya?’

  ‘A lifetime, no many lives, I can’t count how many now, Kapitan,’ Pay Inyo replies, opening his arms as if he were making a speech or as if he’s about to embrace his interrogator. He has to stall for time. The fleeing guerrillas must make a good headstart back to the hills. ‘Life must be long, so long,’ he continues, ‘so it can be enjoyed, that’s what living is for, otherwise, I always tell these young people today, there’s no point in being born — ’

  ‘So you want to cook us dinner — too?’

  Pay Inyo ignores the innuendo. ‘If you want to live long, you should talk to me, Kapitan, I have secrets.’ His tone has such gravity as he opens packets of prawn crackers to go with the beer. ‘Sit, sit down, my friends, you must be very tired and hungry — of course, I’ll cook for you … ’ He waves a placating arm towards the soldiers who are checking out every corner of the store, even the adjoining house.

  ‘That’s what we’re here for, secrets — now tell us, Pay Inyo.’

  ‘Shhh … not so loud or my neighbours will hear, then it won’t be a secret anymore.’ The octogenarian never misses a beat of his act. He brandishes a key in front of the soldier, saying, ‘Come with me, Kapitan. I’ll show you. ’

  In a locked cabinet in the bedroom, among his best herbs and books of incantations, are two bottles of Johnny Walker. ‘See, I’ve kept these even from my dear cumpadre. Only my special-est guests can drink real made-in-America stuff. This is my secret.’

  On the old man’s shoulder, the other’s hand is heavy. The pressure is enough to make him wince, as the ‘Kapitan’ turns him around. ‘Very clever. I’ll be back for more of your wit, old man, I promise.’

  Pay Inyo notes that the soldier is just a boy really, surly and wearing a perpetual pout, but he has such red eyes as if he’s been weeping forever.

  The red eyes survey the room then study Pay Inyo again, thoughtfully. ‘Very clever indeed — I think you should pour me a going-away drink now,’ the ‘newly promoted’ Sergeant Ramon says, puckering his lips in a funny way. Kapitan: it has a good cadence on the tongue.

  The visit is incident free, thank God. But the old man cannot sleep. Fireflies crowd around the rooftops, even on such a late night.

  Early the next morning a group of old women buying bread at his store huddle around a fisherman. He is calling out to all the saints in an invocation of faith. ‘San Sebastian, Santa Maria, San Jose, San Pedro, San Mateo … Santa Rita — brine, I tell you, it was brine!’

  ‘Dios mio, what in heaven’s name — you tasted it too?’

  Later that afternoon, five bodies will be expelled by the water. Pay Inyo will recognise them from last night. The cadres did not reach the hills.

  ‘Salted water, santisima!’

  ‘Not sweet as the hills, never again … ’

  ‘The hills, the hills, how sweet are the hills.’

  ‘Even the river has betrayed us now.’

  ‘Ay,Virgen Maria, perhaps it’s time to go … ’

  It was the Total War. The military’s Operation Lambat Bitag: Fishnet Trap. Our village was trapped between the military’s purge of the insurgency and the insurgents’ purge of their own ranks, which extended to the cities and throughout the country. Between the right and the left ventricle of this constricted heart of a nation, the village conjured another net. Ten years after my brother died, I became their Fish-Hair Woman.

  Lambat na itom na itom

  pero sa dugo natumtom

  samong babaying parasira

  buhok pangsalbar-pangsira

  kang samong mga padaba

  hale sa salog, hale sa salog

  Very black net

  but blood soaked

  our fisherwoman

  hair to save-fish

  all our beloved

  from the river, from the river

  Ay, that ditty hovered around our bid for sanity as more families packed their meagre possessions and eloped with their fear. Nothing new, an ‘incident’ like the others; the evacuations came and went in bursts. The line of people fishing in the river grew shorter and shorter, truncated, just like the tongues of those who were left behind. They spoke only in whispers. ‘It’s been forever … ’

  But forever meant too many names. How could we even begin to accommodate all of them in our mouths?

  Chapter 64

  Damagan, dalupingan, gui, bigok, karpa, kasili — these fishes flitted in and out of my mouth, their fins teasing the tongue. Kikiyaw, palago, pusiw, abukay … so did the birds, their plumes just as flirtatious. I descended into the water for the last time, invoking its inhabitants, reciting their names.

  ‘To keep a place alive in your heart, it must dwell in your mouth. So speak its creatures aloud as if in a prayer. Then you won’t forget their home,’ so Pay Inyo said. But most of the creatures of the river were not home on that moonless night when I trawled not the Australian, but history. The fishes had also evacuated. They had grown fat but weary of the strange though predictable fare. Perhaps their gills had begun to smart with too much brine.

  How salty is a decapitated body? What minerals does a bloated limb generously shed?

  My Iraya, if I were to keep this river alive in my heart, I must chant not the creatures that had fins and wings to escape, but those who came home to drown:

  Bolodoy

  Pilar

  Raymundo

  Nonna

  Berto

  Maria

  Alex

  Anita

  Jemino

  Ben

  Johnny

  Divina

  Rex

  Remy

  Ramon

  Jesus

  Tony

  Nanette

  Tomas

  Andres

  Jose

  Nick

  Teresita

  Romulo

  Ruben

  Max

  Floro

  Lorena

  Emanuel

  Orlando

  Virginia

  Marina

  Pedring

  Sabel

  Claro

  Karding

  Eddie

  Resty

  Tonia

  Maribel

  Delfin

  Sandra

  Gusting

  Brenda

  Amor

  And all the other syllables that have flitted in and out of the mouths of lovers and loved ones alike. I loved them too, but only with my hair.

  Then you arrived and wanted to cut it. For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror. Tony, my dear reader from the land of big rocks and waves, how you loved us too for our stories so magical and terrible. As much as you loved our war. As much as you loved Iraya’s sweetest gift to the palate. Herb of all herbs. Lemon grass.

  TESTIMONIES

  Chapter 65

  Tony: Tell me about the river.

  Minyong: No go there.

  Tony: Tell me the truth.

  Minyong: No go there.

  Tony: Everyone said you’re the one who’d know —

  Minyong: Who send you?

  Tony: Tell me why you’re here. Why an intelligent and promising soldier like you goes AWOL. Why hide in these slums? You’re made for bigger things. Why here then? Because of what happened in the river, right? … I could help, you know … we could help each other …

  The two men stare at the micro-cassette recorder between them. They are waiting for Private Germinio ‘Minyong’ Esguerra’s response ten years ago. None. The pause is too long or the tape must have run out. Perhaps the interview
had concluded. Matt Baker replays it and listens again to the whine in his friend’s voice, like a door reluctant to close, and the soldier’s stoic refusal to cooperate. Then silence. Matt turns it off and studies Minyong who picks up one of the numerous cigarette butts on the floor, lights it and takes a long puff.

  The too-cramped room smells like a mangy stockade and feels like an oven. The structure is made up of mostly corrugated iron. The men’s shiny faces are barely a foot away from each other.

  The soldier puffs carefully, drawing in all that is left of the diminishing butt. Matt smells burnt flesh. He attempts to turn away but is blocked by the other’s stump, or what used to be the right knee. A rat-bitten army hammock and a small cabinet, the only furniture in the room, take up most of the space. Matt feels as if his limbs have been twisted at odd angles; he has to keep his head bowed and his shoulders hunched the whole time. The ceiling of patched up corrugated iron, cardboard and plastic bears down upon them and neither can stand. The humidity is merciless.

  A piece of the left wall was torn off to make a window. It admits the only light in the room. A shaft of four o’clock yellow hits the soldier’s face. He looks like an overexposed film. The rest is in shadow.

  ‘He was last seen walking out of here. Who knew of his visits? Who did you tell?’

  ‘You no give up,’ Minyong says, remembering how this visitor sat on his floor with the same awkwardness years ago. After another Australian, a friendlier one who almost understood and then found out for himself … Minyong sucks his burnt thumb thoughtfully.

  ‘Who knew about him?’ Matt asks again.

  The soldier smells his thumb as if it were the most fragrant flower, then says, ‘Bring more cigarettes next time.’

  ‘How sure are you there’s a next time?’

  ‘You no give up.’

  23 September 1997 in a shanty or shit-house, Matt thinks to himself, in the heart of Manila. The slums where history repeats itself, as it should: the Australian and the soldier trying to get to the river. They have been at it for three hours or for ten years now, but the man still refuses to budge. ‘I peaceful here,’ he says the moment Matt walks in. No protest, he’s too tired for that. No surprise either at seeing the same face at the door. He knows what it wants. Like the last time, it sits on its earnest bum and grills him for hours. Who does this white man think he is, the police? Minyong did not care then, he will not care now. But he allows Matt to stay and talk and talk, as if he too needs this drone of history.

  The hammock rocks with every slight movement of the men. On it the Philippine Daily News rests, displaying the main item on the Lifestyle page: Dr Alvarado welcoming Tony McIntyre’s son and the party that followed. Matt brought the newspaper with him, imagining how the soldier would flinch when he saw the photo. But his face is unreadable in this light.

  ‘He’s back, recovering his political career with the help of old friends of your kind. And I think he even conned his victim’s son to come here, to clean up his name, the slimy bastard! But how stupid is that? I don’t understand the man. That boy will trip him up, sure as hell. That boy’s the best thing that ever happened to this case, which no one wants to touch or believe. Not the police, certainly not our Foreign Affairs, everyone is bloody intent on washing his hands.’

  Minyong does not follow all of the white man’s ranting, but he comprehends the most important words.

  ‘The man’s a murderer and you know that!’

  ‘No, you know,’ the soldier replies, impassive, and Matt reiterates his plea: ‘Help us get him. Testify!’

  You mean, I’m a murderer too, I am of his kind, that’s what you’re saying. You come here and accuse me, and you believe I’ll help, that all accusations will turn my will around. Minyong keeps the retort to himself. These white men make him tired. He listens silently to the querying drone. He pulls the stump close to his chest and sucks on his burnt thumb. He rocks the hammock with the side of his thigh: to and fro, and to and fro. My will rests, I’m peaceful here, but look at how the white man sweats, decency pouring out of him like a flood.

  Matt wants to arrest the movement. Stump in unison with hammock, stump coming in and out of the light, revealing severe eczema. To and fro, and to and fro. Each time the hammock hits the wall, the hut shudders. Matt grabs it from swinging again, fearful it will collapse the shanty or his case. ‘You can take him down, Minyong, we will all take him down, I promise you, so you don’t have to hide anymore. There’s enough evidence, enough supporters that will sink the ship, and you can be one of them.’ Matt is not exactly lying. He is just being hopeful. ‘Believe me, after all these years … you’ll be safe again.’

  ‘Jus’ bring more cigarettes.’

  Chapter 66

  ‘Merry Christmas, Mr Amerkano, have drink!’

  Matt is accosted by a group of men drinking cheap gin in the middle of the pavement, blocking the narrow path. On their table, a recorder blasts its local Christmas carol.

  ‘Amerkano, no — Oztralian, yes — long time no see, Mister Oz!’ A shirtless man with a daggered heart tattooed on his chest recognises him. He even remembers ‘the other Australian’ who once extended his generosity beyond the soldier’s hut. ‘Where first Mister Oz? Long time no see.’

  Matt offers a weak smile and keeps walking, but the man overtakes him. ‘Visit Pilay again?’

  Pilay, ‘the cripple’, what they call Minyong in San Mateo Street. Everyone has forgotten his name, if he gave his name at all when he drifted to this neighbourhood. He is known as the surly resident of one of the poorest huts but hardly seen. None even knows of his military affiliation.

  ‘You give Pilay Jim Beam and imported cigarette? Mister Oz very kind — have drink with us. Let’s happy-happy!’ The man with the long memory for faces and drinks slinks close to Matt. ‘Have Merry Christmas cigarette for us?’

  ‘No, sorry,’ he says, understanding the request for gifts. Times don’t change. Same man, same preoccupation, same middle-of-the-road bravado.

  ‘Hoy, let him pass,’ someone calls out in Tagalog.

  It is the ancient man sitting at the door of one of the huts. It seems he has sat there forever. He is tiny, all bones, a wisp of a man with bushy white hair.

  ‘It’s Mister Oz, Lolo Merto!’

  ‘Mister Oz, Mister Oz!’ Lolo Merto slowly detaches himself from the door, groping his way through the group. He is blind.

  The drinking men fall silent.

  ‘Thank you, thank you, Tony, I no forget you.’ The old man is gesticulating in the middle of the pavement. ‘Thank you medicine, salamat, salamat.’

  Matt is embarrassed, like the last time. ‘Sorry, sir, I’m not Tony — ’

  ‘You very good, I very happy.’

  ‘That’s not the first Mister Oz, Lolo Merto,’ daggered heart explains in Tagalog, his voice suddenly sober, gentle.

  The old man allows the truth of the seeing men to sink into him.

  ‘Sorry, sir … I’m only Tony’s friend … ’

  The old man gropes his way back to the doorstep.

  ‘Okay, okay, you go,’ daggered heart says, catching Matt’s arm for support. ‘You tell first Mister Oz visit again, you tell Merry Christmas. Bring imported cigarette, okay?’

  ‘Sorry, I can’t stay, I’m late for an appointment,’ Matt says for the sake of the old man who is no longer listening.

  ‘Ah, you very-very busy. Not like first Mister Oz.’

  Matt is too conscious that his arm is wetter than the man’s hand.

  The first time he came, he felt threatened by this same encounter but soon realised that the men were harmless drunks. Losers who guzzled from morning till night, while their wives worked from morning till night. This was the usual rhythm of family life amidst the cheek-by-jowl huts, which seemed to be closing in on the narrow strip of asphalt. The ‘division of labour’ was marked. The men were either drinking or sitting around, reading the ‘for rent’ comics or swapping tales at the corner store, while the women f
ed babies, cooked or sold food in stalls or did the laundry, and their children played around stray dogs. Matt had never seen so many small children in such a cramped space. Or so much dog shit, he had to watch his step all the time.

  Tony did not rush past this neighbourhood. He always said hello, asked questions about Pilay and handed out Cadbury bars to the children, and sometimes cigarettes to the men, perhaps even whiskey. Once he gave Lolo Merto money for his eye medicine. He even stopped for a drink. But not sceptical Matt — these people think the white man always wears the dollar sign. We’re either the capitalist-imperialist or the capitalist-philanthropist. If they don’t hate us, they fleece us.

  Tony disagreed. He spoke about moral responsibility to his lesser brothers in a country where a year’s per capita income is less than the month’s wage of an Australian waiter. ‘This must be rectified,’ he said. So he handed ten thousand Australian dollars and his heart to a Filipina revolutionary. ‘She’s indispensable in this revolution, Matt.’ Later in his usual unabashed way, he declared, ‘I have fallen in love and I’m going to the hills.’

  Tony had met Kumander Pilar briefly when she led an ambush of a platoon of soldiers somewhere close to some river, he told Matt, suggesting this was top secret. He was with two British journalists whom the Kumander had contacted days earlier. Would they care to come and write about the people’s cause? He was invited through the Brits, he claimed. ‘You should have seen her in action, Matt, a modern day Joan of Arc!’

  Matt has now retrieved his arm.

  ‘Bye, Mister Oz,’ the tattooed man calls out. ‘Tell first Mister Oz come back. We miss first Mister Oz. Tell we love Jim Beam very-very much.’

  Relieved, Matt walks away. His shirt is soggy, his armpits inexhaustible wells. It’s early evening but it feels as if the sun is refusing to set. He desperately needs a shower. He thinks of the boy on the plane yesterday, and his shock at seeing the ex-governor welcome him at the airport. He wanted to warn the boy, grab him from that bearhug, but his gut told him, here’s a perfect set-up. Of course, the politico is playing his part to counter the newspapers now digging up the old story about the Australian writer and the river. So the boy will be safe. For the moment. Matt is trying to talk himself out of his unease over the boy’s plight. Perfect set-up indeed, he hopes, because the son will surely trip up the culprit and expose the truth about the father.