He hears Minyong fill his lungs with pleasure. He hears him sigh. The cigarette burns too close to Matt’s face.
Minyong watches it burn. He likes smoking in the dark. The glow reminds him that once he was able to see clearly, that he’s a better man than his brother who left the village before him — that’s why he’s here and not wearing a uniform or cradling an M-16. That’s why they beat him up.
The other day after the Australian had left, two men arrived. His gut sank, but he feigned indifference, saying, ‘Why would a white man visit a poor man’s hut?’ The tall man winked and the other shook his head as they fired their questions. The good doctor could set him up nice if he cooperates, they said. The interrogation lasted for an hour. Then perhaps tired of the head-shaking and winking, they beat him up. Then one drew his gun and pushed it on his stump, deep into the sores, he screamed. The shorter man shook his head, saying they could even make him disappear.
Who shall miss the likes of us when we disappear? Minyong ruminates over the question as he rocks himself in the hammock.
‘Did Mr McIntyre ask you about a woman?’ Matt tries to regain his old conviction, but the creaking hammock only makes him want to close his eyes. Conviction: the professor left with it.
‘Did he talk about a woman?’
Minyong sighs at each puff. He has his own questions in his head.
But what’s in this for me, Mr Baker? Will you also search for me when I disappear? I have withdrawn myself from history, so why should you push me back into it? After Private Germinio ‘Minyong’ Esguerra had been crippled in an ambush, he pulled back the rest of his limbs and wit into this cell. There are days when he thinks this withdrawal is all about expiation. At other times he thinks it is only about fear.
Matt tries again. ‘You’ve heard about Kumander Pilar Capas?’
The hammock stops creaking.
Both men wait, one for an answer, the other for a spirit to pass.
‘You have avenged yourself so many times, still you won’t pass.’
‘What?’ Matt queries the response, whispered in Tagalog.
The hammock creaks again. Another cigarette is lit, and the man holds the burning match closer to his face, so the visitor can see.
Matt makes out the black eye, the swollen lip, then darkness except for the glow. ‘You’re hurt, Minyong!’
‘Because you come.’
‘I’m sorry — ’
‘She take my legs — ’
‘Who — what — ’
‘The Kumander — she take my legs.’
Who will tell any of them that during a rainy day in August 1987, Minyong’s and Tony’s paths crossed in the river? Only the omniscient eye can trace the thread between their stories.
Later Tony would ask, ‘What about the stump?’ Minyong could have answered, were you not watching behind the dita trees, awed by the courage of the amazona who razed all of my comrades? The Kumander had made sure that her ambush of the Delta Bravo Platoon was witnessed by the foreign press. But Private Minyong saw only her army rushing at them from the trees before he heard the grenade explode.
‘You see river?’
Matt is embarrassed by the question. ‘I’m planning … I’m about to.’ He will ring the professor and beg her to take him there. He will be more coherent. She will believe he is sincere.
‘Visit river also, Mr Baker. Not jus’ people.’
‘So Tony did speak to you about Kumander Pilar?’
Minyong takes a deep drag on his cigarette. Again he watches it burn.
I said, don’t, so many times, but they still did it. The other men laughed at me, my Lieutenant slapped me, saying I was acting like a girl, that’s what they all said, but I just kept retching. The cigarette burns on her pregnant belly smelled, I nearly passed out.
In Minyong’s head the confession is crippled. The hammock creaks, the cigarette burns till his fingers.
From the group of six sharing cigarettes and beer around a naked woman in that military camp years ago, three men survived. Lieutenant Lucio and Sergeant Belmonte became the best of friends, even their wives became friends. Both their families now live in plush villages and their children study at exclusive Catholic schools. General Lucio and Colonel Belmonte are members of Dr Alvarado’s exclusive golf club. But the third survivor, the youngest of the group, was passed over. ‘A weakling, no potential, no balls,’ Lieutenant Lucio had said then. ‘Such a girl.’
Minyong had to vindicate himself. He was a good soldier. He asked to be assigned to the most critical areas in the military’s fight against insurgency. Then came the Total War. Lambat Bitag: Fishnet Trap. He was inextricably caught in it. Soon he was raiding villages, purging the countryside of the red army. Of course he knew of Doctor Alvardo and his private militia. For years they had been laying their own traps even before the military came to Iraya. He also knew of Kiko’s ‘special friendships’ with the official men in uniform.
Minyong nearly died from the grenade explosion. For half a year he was in hospital. He was approached by human rights activists to testify against the doctor. Nightly in his dreams he was approached by the dead. Ah, so much more to testify against, so much to confess: women and children snagged in the trap, and a drunken night around burning pregnant flesh. Long ago but suddenly present in his dreams. When he decided to testify for the fact-finding commission, high-ranking officials in the military implicated him in the river murders and arranged for his pension to be cut off. On his last day in the hospital, he was sent a crown of flowers.
Chapter 74
Dear Estrella,
Mother visit. She bring guavas. Sorry Bolodoy die. But family no important in revolution. Sorry you return where you from. Mother return you. We are not same. You are not Capas. You are not us. Better you go home.
Sending you revolutionary love,
Pilar
Not dated, written in English perhaps to impress her sister, and the wording as awkward as the strokes. The yellow paper is a page torn from a notebook.
Brother Nestor Ibay reads it only for the second time. He is waiting to finally deliver it after twenty years.
He felt honoured when the Kumander asked him and not the older cadres. ‘Take my mother back to where you found her, then go to the city and give this to my sister,’ she ordered.
To this day he regrets that he opened the letter. But he had to protect the Kumander from herself. She was getting careless with what remained of her army and morale was flagging. There were doubts about the old woman’s surprise arrival. What if she’s a decoy? There were rumours about military informers. There was fear of an offensive by nightfall. Any news from the hills could fall into the wrong hands.
Even when he worshipped the Kumander, suddenly his heart was no longer smooth. Because her mother took it out of his chest with her singsong and rotting guavas, and exposed it to the elements.
‘Why are you not at school? Why did you leave your mother? Why are you stupid? Go home! I’m going to whip you till you go home, I’m going to whip you!’
He and Dulsora Capas reached the little toe of the river by the time it got dark. The fireflies were out. The old woman thought they were mosquitoes. ‘I’m going to whip you, I’m going to whip you,’ she kept muttering as she clapped her hands over the flying lights.
He could not leave her there and head for Rodriguez. He did not know what to do. Should he take her home? Should he hide and wait until someone found her? Quandaries were his province even then. Meantime the night wore on and the longer he stayed with her, the more he wondered about the letter. He was curious. He had heard of her brother who joined the governor’s militia and was salvaged. He had heard of her sister with long, long hair, the one who did not look like a Capas. His heart was growing too many creases.
When it began to grow light, Mamay Dulce finally fell asleep. Nestor then read the letter and convinced himself that the Kumander was turning back on her word: Never speak of family in times of a revolution, lest your
heart falters. The letter compromised not only herself but also the people’s army, which had sanctioned the salvaging of her brother Bolodoy da Teribol. So Nestor did not go to the city. He walked her mother home.
Today he must deliver not only the letter but also the stories around it, and the stories around the stories. When he rang her, Brother Nestor knew he had to finish the courier’s job, even this late. It was her voice or perhaps the way she put things into words that smoothed his heart. For once it was certain and he could have confessed there and then. In his hand the phone felt like an anchor that pulled him home. In his ear her speech rolled like the currents of the river. But of course Brother Nestor was a sentimentalist. The woman on the other line was two decades away from the river. Her tongue was alien to its flow, to how it curved around the roots of trees or polished stones along the way, to how it caught the sun or the shadow.
Stella Alvarado spoke of these lyrical recollections in an American accent.
Chapter 75
The Manila Hotel is grand and dated, like a matriarch of old money: endowed in tradition, proudly unrefurbished and definitely lived in. White and green among the palms and set against Manila Bay, she appears cool despite the humid air. She does not seem to sweat like her regular patrons, the families of old money mingling with the families of new money from Filipino overseas labour, and the occasional clergy who amble through the sprawl of hardwood and marble as if it were their lounge room. A giant oil by a national artist and two Filipino flags at the entrance watch over these good people as they come and go, to keep them assured of their heritage. That Stella should choose this hotel for their meeting does not surprise Brother Nestor.
‘How do we recognise each other?’ he asked her.
‘Wear your soutane,’ and she laughed.
Brother Nestor hesitated before saying, ‘That’s not quite proper.’ The luxurious venue and the vow of poverty would make an absurd pair. For a moment he became nostalgic for absolute self-denial, for the Spartan life in the hills … sweet potatoes for breakfast, lunch …
She laughed then said, ‘I’ll wear all red then,’ sounding defiant.
Brother Nestor chose his best pair of grey pants and a darker grey shirt. Sombre colours suit him. He waits nervously in the lobby. Half an hour after the appointed time and still no one in all red. He sits at the edge of a high-backed chair under an immense capiz-shell chandelier. A red top walks past him to the reception desk, but she is blonde. He is waiting for someone with the longest hair … he remembers the stories about the Kumander’s strange sister. Brother Nestor looks around wistfully. He checks his watch. He pats his breast pocket to make sure the letter is still there.
She sees him first, senses it’s him. The grey-haired man with a sad dignity about the way he holds a palm to his heart. ‘Brother Nestor Ibay…?’ she whispers from behind.
He squints at the red shift, shoes, bag and lipstick. And where’s the hair? ‘Sorry,’ he says, ‘I didn’t see you walk in.’
‘Because you were checking your heart — how are you, Brother Nestor?’
He is flustered. Red too red, hair too short, movements too sharp … He imagined her to be different. Those light brown eyes, fine bones … she is not like her sister at all. She has Americanised her name.
‘I’m Stella Alvarado,’ she says, extending a hand towards the gaping man. ‘No soutane? Laundry day, I presume.’
His cheeks grow hot. ‘Yes, I’m Brother Nestor Ibay’ is all he manages to say as he clasps the cold hand.
‘Come then,’ she turns away and heads for the reception desk where she picks up a key.
‘I don’t think it’s a good idea, Miss Alvarado — can we just stay down here, for coffee maybe?’ He wants to cover his face, afraid that all can see him now walking to a hotel room with a woman in red, but she keeps walking on with him timorous a few paces behind.
Inside the suite he quickly hands her the letter even before they sit. He wants to get away as soon as possible. He forgets all his rehearsed lines.
She stares at the yellow paper folded numerous times. All the sharpness about her dissipates; angles round, edges soften. Once upon a time she was handed something similar. Drawn from under the pillow, a love letter folded into a diminutive square as if someone had tried so hard to make it disappear.
‘What’s this?’ she asks, her voice tight.
Midsummer 1977 when the guavas were ripe, he nearly says but ends up stammering his guilt. ‘It’s my fault that I — I must apologise, I didn’t deliver — but at that time I thought — I’m very sorry.’
She waves away his mea culpas. Both of them hold their breaths as she unfolds the truth.
A sob is wrenched from her throat. Strange that grief is akin to the sound of retching, Brother Nestor thinks. It creases his heart, constricts it.
Stella is shaking as she drops on the edge of the bed. Finally love from her sister, even if it’s qualified, even if it’s only her usual signature. I send you all my revolutionary love. But sent especially to her for the first time.
Love and, yes, hope. Her face lights up through the tears. ‘So she’s alive — where is she, Brother?’
‘I’m sorry — ?’ He does not understand the question. Doesn’t she know?
‘Where is my sister?’ she pleads with him. ‘Please … ’
For the next hour, Brother Ibay confesses about midsummer 1977, his heart slowly uncreasing, returning back to the river with stories around stories.
‘People walk to the river for many reasons. Some to swim, to wash, to fish, to make love, to fall in love … but they always return home.’ This is how he begins, his tongue more sentiment than wisdom. Brother Nestor is a sentimentalist, the kind who is unbearably indiscreet with his heart.
Stories around stories … the Kumander’s integrity, her courage or irrational boldness during combat, whichever way you looked at it, her integrity, her repudiation of family in favour of the cause.
‘We all marvelled at how easily her heart expelled her husband Kumander Benito when he abandoned the revolution for politics, and in the seventies her vigilante brother, even her own mother. Then strangely or not so perhaps, much later during the Total War there was the brief affair with a benefactor of the revolution, always for the revolution. Kumander Pilar inspired us all with her absolute conviction. In the hills, she became the legendary amazona, dreaded by the military. No holds barred, she used to say. Nothing is too precious to not give up for your country … ’
Stella is afraid of what she’s hearing, of what she’s about to hear. She remembers how she abused Matt Baker at the Australia Centre, because she was terrified to listen. There are things that you know in your bones but do not take shape unless someone articulates them for you. Because you desperately want to believe otherwise.
‘It was rumoured that her benefactor had spied for your father’s military cronies, that was in 1987. A big error of judgment on her part, taking up with that Australian, her benefactor, I mean, so she lost her credibility in the movement. Then she disappeared, perhaps salvaged, or maybe she went underground never to surface again, I still don’t know until now … such a pity. Soon after her lover also disappeared, the Australian, I mean. There was talk that maybe it was your father who was responsible … I’m so sorry.’
He sees the shoulders collapse. She is folding the letter into an even smaller size, wanting to make it completely disappear.
Chapter 76
After Inez takes Matt to the river, someone else will be forced to return to it, in his feet. At first, Miguelito Morada will dismiss the tickle in his soles. He has to finish this rushed job before he can attend to the other orders. The funeral flower shop is extremely busy today. Too much dying, Miguelito sighs, which means a little bit more income. Surely he’ll get a tip for this special crown of flowers. He’ll make it extra special and she’ll be happy. Ay, what am I thinking? Who can be happy with too much dying?
He has been getting orders from her every day for a wee
k now. She came herself for the first order, but stayed in the car. She opened the window slightly, called him over, and asked for the best design. He got chatty, even told her where he grew up in Rodriguez when she asked where he’s from. Quickly she pulled back from the window, ordered and gave him an address where to deliver the flowers, and sped off. Strange. But he couldn’t make out much behind the tinted window or those dark glasses.
This is her seventh order. Too much dying indeed or perhaps her dead is just waiting for other relatives before the funeral. Her dead must have fresh flowers daily to grace this waiting, just like the living. He is slightly relieved at the thought.
Gladioli, frangipanis, anthuriums, orchids or roses? I’ve used all of them now. Let’s hope her dead has no allergies, he laughs then chides himself again. But he is not being disrespectful, really. He only believes in humouring the dead, or else they’ll humour us and tickle our feet at night.
Long ago on the last days of his ninth year, Miguelito always checked his feet with care before he turned off the light. Lest there was a snail there that had crawled out of the neck of a butchered pig, to tickle him. It took a long time before the nightmares went away, and even longer before he stopped wearing socks to bed. Now his feet still tickle sometimes and he breaks into giggling fits. His work mates think he’s one screw loose.
He likes working in this shop. As he ties the last flower in place, he imagines he is straightening the dead’s collar or sleeve, or tying a shoe. He helps people lay their dead. Rich or poor, they can always do with a little help.
He finally decides on golden chrysanthemums. Still half opened, so the dead and the living can prolong their pleasure from his handiwork. He chooses a more elaborate design. The woman on the phone said this time it must be big, impressive and definitely bright, something that the eyes cannot miss. He’ll be paid handsomely.
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