Something stirs inside him. His stomach quivers, his heart races. He is aware of her presence but pretends not to notice. He keeps his eyes down, his wiry torso bent over, and wonders if he should say anything at all. He can hear the soft rustling of leaves as she walks nearer. He senses her approaching the talisay tree. She stops when she is barely three paces away from him. She stops and does not say a word.
The hole is getting deeper. As deep as the silence they share between them. The strange mistress does not seem to mind.
When the hole is as deep as his waist, deep enough for him to crouch in, he continues digging, prolonging his awkward agony, until fatigue and boredom finally take over. He lays down his spade and wipes his forehead with his sleeve. He stretches his arms above his head, pretends to yawn, pretends to be unaware of her presence. He estimates it must have been a quarter of an hour since she arrived. He turns around.
She is sitting on the ground in a posture he had seen once before. She sits like a sirena, a mermaid, looking out to sea.
“Hell … hell …” he stammers. “Hello.” He always greets her with the first English word she taught him; she told him it was a greeting that didn’t mean anything and was therefore more honest than “how are you doing?” or “a good day to you.”
She doesn’t return his hello. She is a year or two older than he is, perhaps only seventeen or eighteen. She has smooth alabaster skin, a compact but slender figure, a proud bosom, a strong jaw, light-colored tresses which his master once described as “chestnut blonde,” and blue-green eyes. Her melancholic eyes stare not at him nor through him but at the space between her world and the next, in a time between forgetfulness and forever. The blue-green richness of her irises accentuates her dilated pupils, like wet flower petals after a heavy rain. He looks away, and stares at her feet, which to his surprise are bare. Her toes are slightly stained with sand and soil. The rest of her body is wrapped in a red falda, a white camisa, and a dark green mantilla shawl with an unusual lace pattern similar to knot work.
She is exquisitely beautiful.
He remembers how he felt when she first appeared in Talisay barely a year ago; how his chest tightened when she walked past him; how his loins stirred when she bent over his study table. She smelled like cinnamon at the time.
He thought she looked too young to be his teacher, but his master insisted all of the school’s students should learn English, the “language of the future.” It wasn’t difficult to agree to his master’s request. She did demonstrate some experience with languages, as if she was older than she looked. Although her Spanish was mediocre, her beauty made learning a new foreign language pleasurable, and the sixteen-year-old boy of this story learned fast under her tutelage.
There had been whispers, of course, among the villagers and especially among his classmates. Where did the master first meet her? Hong Kong, as officially claimed? Germany, as some suspected? What about America and its growing Irish immigrant population? And who was this Señor Taufer, the blind American who traveled with her to Talisay? Was he really her stepfather? Or could Taufer be her lover, too?
Although they lived as husband and wife, no one had witnessed his master’s wedding. Some suspected she was only after his master’s money. Others suspected she was a spy, sent by the colonial government to report on his master’s political propensities. But her conversations with others were always apolitical, and she spent her free time walking along the shoreline, staring into the western horizon. One of his younger classmates said that Taufer was either her client or her pimp and that she’s just a pretty “foreign whore,” but the child quickly revised his views after receiving a sharp and stinging slap on the back of the head.
“Don’t let your filthy words defile her reputation or I shall spit on your tongue and scrub it with my spade to cleanse them for you.”
For good measure, he slapped his classmate again, but a little lighter this time, just to remind him who the emperador of the class was. The offense was never repeated in his presence, but secret smiles were shared among the others. Whispers have a way of spreading without speakers.
Especially if such whispers came from primary sources.
Late one moonless night, as her young champion went out of his hut to relieve himself, he passed by his master’s house and heard muffled sounds. He thought it was from some kind of animal, like the fluttering wings of a bat, the purring of a cat, or maybe a dog panting and scratching against the walls. It frightened him at first, but he mustered the courage to investigate. Upon hearing the unrestrained grunts of his master and the rhythmic gasps of his mistress-lover, the boy felt jealousy well up inside him. He knew it was wrong to listen in and he knew it was best to leave discreetly and immediately, but he found he couldn’t. His body refused to obey his reason, and he found he was anxiously aroused. He stayed where he was, crouched just outside his master’s bedroom window, and listened until his master was finished. Only then did he walk to the outhouse to relieve himself. He would also find relief in other ways.
She visited his dreams ever since that night. Once, she appeared as a fairy princess wearing light spider silk robes, and a crown of emeralds and gold. He came to her in the form of a unicorn without a horn, for she had lured him with a song and a cube of sugar, and she rode him without a saddle, holding on to his mane, and he took her swiftly away across the ocean, rescuing her from his master, to take her back to a place she called “Tír-nan-Og,” the land of the young, the land of her race. He asked her if they were going to island of Luzon, because that’s where the Tagalogs are from. He awoke before they reached the isle, because in this particular dream she flew off his back, on leathery wings, leaving behind her womb and her legs, leaving him alone to fend for himself, and he sank into the open ocean and drowned. This was an exceptional dream. Most of his dreams were not as innocent as the one just described.
About seven months ago, he had a dream that felt as real as the spade in his hand.
He was collecting seashells for his master by swimming into one of the hidden coves where a fresh water river met the sea, when he saw a white figure sitting on top of a green rock. The woman was drinking from an oddly shaped bottle, like a crystal conch. He thought he had stumbled upon a sirena, but the presence of her two long legs negated that possibility. He swam closer, and found it was his master’s Irish mistress in a translucent white dress. He had always harbored fantasies of catching her bathing, for surely she must bathe every day as is the custom in this tropical country. How else could she smell so sweet?
He pulled himself onto the rock, and sat beside her, shook off the salt water from his hair and his muscular, brown arms. He laid the seashells on her feet, and some were the same color as her eyes, for even in his dream, she had beautiful, mysterious eyes.
She offered him the bottle filled with a brown liquid, and she told him it was uisce, the “water of life” in her native tongue. She held the bottle close to her chest, enticing him to come closer.
He took the bottle from her hand, gently touching her fingers and accidentally brushing the swell of her bosom with the back of his palm. He took a whiff.
“I cannot drink this,” he said. “Maestro says I am not old enough to drink.”
She took the bottle from him.
“Sláinte,” she said, and then she licked the opening, and brought it to her lips. She titled her head back, exposing her delicate neck, which was moist with sea water and perspiration. He watched her swallow and he tried to swallow with her, but his mouth was dry. She wiped her lips with the back of her hand and offered the bottle to him again. She asked him if he would care to drink it now.
The bottle felt lighter this time. She had consumed most of its contents but left some for him.
“Es-lawn-cha,” he mimicked her toast, to the best of his ability. He brought the bottle to his lips, and noticed the salty-sweet taste of her, a delicate brackish taste dancing on his tongue, and then the shock of the burning liquid crashing into his mouth, slither
ing down his throat like a sea serpent, caressing his fast beating heart.
He winced, recovered, tears welling up.
She laughed and told him that he held his drink well. Her breath had the same sinful aroma. And then she touched his hair, played with his ears, and glided her fingers down his neck.
She laid herself down on the rock and pulled him to her. She asked him how he liked the taste of the water of life, and she invited him to taste some more. And taste her he did. Their kiss was long and deep and thorough. Then he tossed the shells out to sea and he took her, and claimed her, and as the waves thrashed about them he covered her with his body and their motions rivaled the violence of the tides.
He had many dreams like that.
The sun is setting fast. The fallen leaves about them are bright red. He feels giddy but does not know why; either his giddiness was brought about by his early exertions or from the memory of her nubile body splayed against that cold, wet rock.
While standing inside the hole, he keeps his eyes fixed at her naked feet. It is getting late and he welcomes the prospect of walking her back to his master’s house.
She asks him if she is still beautiful.
This catches him off guard. He had forgotten how musical and exciting her voice feels to his body as her question floats in the quiet air. “Of course, yes, you are the most beautiful woman I know.”
She crawls toward him on all fours, reaches out to him, placing both her hands on his shoulders to steady herself. She kisses him in the cheek. “Go raibh maith agat,” she whispers. May good things come to you. It is her way of saying “thank you,” except it’s more honest.
Her chestnut locks fall across his face, and the smell of cinnamon is stronger than ever, overpowering the scent of spirits that he imagined still lingered in her breath. Her mantilla drops casually to her waist, exposing her delicate collarbone and the cleft between her breasts. He blushes, and looks away. He points to the box and says, “Did he have a name?”
Without warning, she slaps him hard with a violence so intense he thought her hand had passed through his head and his eye had exploded out of its socket.
She screams at him in a language he has heard only in his dreams but cannot understand. “How dare you!” she seems to be telling him. “How dare you!” But in his heart he knew she meant, “How dare you reject me!”
She turns around and cries against the tree. Dusk is starting to set in, but he stands motionless, unable to speak, watching the young girl wail. He had never seen her cry like this before. Not like this. Her cry is half lamentation and half incantation, a summoning to the forest creatures to listen to her pain.
She crouches by the tree, rocking to and fro on her haunches, her back toward him, her shoulders shaking with each sob. One hand covers her face, the other curls around her knee. Her skirt is soiled with clay and moss. Her voice sounds strained, but eerily sonorous as it shifts from a sorrowful wail to an animal-like whimper and finally undulates into a series of sighs and moans the nature of which he had heard only once on a moonless night, outside the walls of his master’s house.
He climbs out of the hole, and sits next to her, unsure of what to do. His heart wants to take her at her most vulnerable but his mind wants to protect her, too. He convinces himself to put his arms around her bare shoulders to enjoy both possibilities. But instead he keeps his hands tucked beneath his armpits. He can only watch with nothing but his silence and his secret shame.
A firefly dances across her nape. Dusk has arrived. His own shadow starts to fade in the dying day. She, however, radiates a glow that seems to brighten the more distraught she becomes; it is the lone firefly that seems to cast a shadow on her skin.
He takes the lantern, and with a piece of flint and the edge of his spade, he starts a small flame. More fireflies arrive. The cicadas stop singing.
They sit in silence as the forest darkens about them. She glows brighter than the lantern light. Fireflies fly about them in respectful distance, as if warning the other insects not to disturb them.
He gets up, carefully taking the wooden box with him as he climbs back into the hole. He scrambles out again, and with his spade he begins to fill the hole with earth.
“Francisco,” she says finally.
He looks at her, trying to comprehend.
She tells him that the master wanted the child to be named Francisco, after his grandfather.
He looks at the tiny wooden box, made tinier now that it rests at the bottom of the hole. “He should be baptized then,” he says. “A priest could have carried out a simple ceremony.”
She shakes her head. She says that it was never his master’s right to name the child. He looks at her again, tries to find meaning in her face.
“Does this mean …” he stops, reconsiders, and says instead, “May I name the child?”
She stares at him. A crafty gaze, almost sinister. “It is not your right either,” her eyes seem to say. She remains silent all throughout.
He thinks for a moment, and says, “Pedro is also a good name.” He also thinks that it would be wise to name him after Saint Peter, who may then allow the infant soul to pass through the gates of heaven, but he makes the wise decision not tell her this.
She agrees to name her stillborn child Pedro Francisco.
He recites five Pater Nosters and five Ave Marias. He doesn’t know the exact number required, but it is easier to count the prayers with his ten fingers.
She tells him that he would make a good priest. It is a strange statement to make, in the gloom, by the lantern light, against the ethereal glow of her alabaster complexion.
He nods; he has considered it before.
She asks him, almost commands him, to put his arm around her. It is chilly, she seems to say to him, although he continues to sweat.
He obeys.
The heat of her flesh instantly ignites his own, but his tunic remains intact.
She leans closer, their noses almost touching, her hot breath warming his skin. Her fragrant hair frames both their faces like a silken hood, and her eyes seem to glow in the growing darkness. She kisses him on one cheek, kisses him on the other. Then, she kisses him full on the mouth. And they embrace as two old friends, embrace as two young lovers, embrace with an understanding that although the cicadas have stopped singing, they will create their own song for the night.
* * *
He finds himself alone at the bottom of the grave before dawn, with the wooden box as his pillow. Someone had untied the intricate leather knots, and he does not know how to re-tie them.
The lantern still burns, providing the only source of light and heat. He can find no trace of the mistress. No footprints, no hair strands, no evidence of her presence.
He holds the lantern to illuminate the small box.
Its lid is slightly ajar. He expects to discover the odor of decay but smells only sweetness. Will the child resemble his master, he wonders, or will the child resemble him?
With steady hands, he lifts the lid.
He does not find Pedro Francisco. He does not find a premature infant, seven months old.
Instead he finds piles of paper and several old pens.
His face does not express shock, only confusion, then realization, as he leafs through the sheets, scanning his master’s distinct handwriting… fragments of novels… complete poems and songs… a recipe for paella and sinigang… a grimoire… a page of prophesies… a partial draft of a surreal yet unfinished novel, written in Spanish and English, telling of two great wars that have not yet come to pass… a 400-page alchemical manual deceptively entitled Descripciones de Plantas Medicinales, Maderas de Contruccion Especies Olcoginosas o Resinosas y Algunos Metales, Heteropsidos y Antopsidos de una Coleccion Naturalista… and the end of a short story…
Before him are pages and pages of his master’s fertile and unrestrained mind. He can find no politics in any of these drafts, no real science, no psychology, sociology, or any other “ologies,” only passion and hone
sty. These drafts and notes are not about understanding what nature is, but appreciating what it could be, without artifice, without method.
And yet his master chose to bury it.
Perhaps his master had already found his inspiration years before she crossed his path. By publishing two novels, he had proven that his own muse already resides inside him. There was never room for another.
She had mistakenly offered his master her love. She had offered him her freedom. She had offered him her eternal spirit. And still he rejected her. So she became his slave, his plaything, his scribbled drafts, waiting to be passed on to the next man and the next, until she can find the one person who will return her love.
He picks up a page folded like a letter. It is a poem of thirteen stanzas. The boy remembers that his master had applied to the Governor General to allow him to travel to Cuba and serve as a doctor for the Spanish military, a selfish gambit to end his exile. His master was confident that his application would be accepted, and he had written a poem entitled, “El Canto del Viajero,” the Song of the Traveler, in the event of positive news.
“El Canto del Viajero” is a light, frivolous poem, nothing compared to the powerful verses that now present themselves before him. How strange that his master would choose to reject this version.
Such a shame, he thinks, to bury divinely inspired talent.
But the poem feels incomplete. Without a second thought, he takes a pen and writes a fourteenth and final stanza, mimicking his master’s cursive penmanship.
Much better.
Yet, yet … something else is missing. A poem of this magnitude deserves a worthy title. But he cannot think of any at the moment.
Leaving the poem untitled, he waits for the ink to dry. He folds the paper, and tucks it into the bottom of the lantern for safekeeping; he will also need to keep the lantern, a token of his own awakening.
He takes one of the pages in the box, a sketch of a bird, and climbs out of the hole one last time. He opens the lantern, exposes its naked flame, and sets the page on fire. He drops the burning page into the hole. The other manuscripts, which he had strewn and scattered about, immediately catch fire. A more skeptical mind would have questioned the efficacy of burning paper at the bottom of a pit since there would not be enough oxygen to sustain an even blaze. But the bright blue flame does not seem to mind.
The God Equation and Other Stories Page 9
