Julia went outside, into the inner courtyard. She heard the sound of a car engine being revved loudly and followed her ears to a covered garage the size of a small warehouse. The smell of oil and machinery permeated the doorway. Stepping inside, she saw four perfect rows of neatly aligned automobiles—all beautifully restored vintage cars. Their hoods and chromed sections were polished and gleamed in the morning light even as they appeared aged and faded.
Julia walked among them, stunned by the collection, their worth, and the care with which they’d been kept. She finally arrived at the source of all the ruckus: a white convertible. Two feet stuck out from beneath its chassis.
At the sound of her approach, the owner of the feet slid out from beneath the car and jumped up to reach inside the open hood and shut off the engine. His face was smudged with oil, and the old Filipino had quite a look of surprise behind his thick blackrimmed glasses. His dirty white shirt was riddled with holes; he wiped his hands on oilstained denim pants.
“Hi,” Julia said, feeling like a trespasser. “I’m sorry to intrude.I heard the engine and got caught up exploring. Oh. Do you speak English?”
“Yes, yes, indeed. I’m sorry for being caught off guard. It’s wonderful pleasure you came. Welcome, Miss Julia.” His eyes twinkled with welcome.
Julia recalled having seen this man among the greeters of the first day. He was shorter than Julia, and his hair was brushed back with a thick gel. His quirky smile lit his entire weathered face, and Julia loved him at once.
“I’m Mang Berto.” He offered his hand, only to retrieve it instantly and wipe his hands again on his denim pants. “I’m sorry. These are my work clothes.”
“How can one be clean working with oil and engines?” She extended her hand and took the old man’s semiclean one in greeting.
Mang Berto placed his other hand over hers. There was kindness beneath his rough appearance. He smiled continuously, looked at her deeply as if welcoming home a long-lost daughter.
“You looked hard at work down there. I’m sorry for disturbing you.”
He spread his right arm wide, motioning to the whole garage. “This is the house garage, and it’s never work for me.”
“Whose are all these cars?”
“Well . . . I guess they are yours. They belonged to your grandfather, the Captain. He inherited the first of his collection from Don Miguel, who inherited his first cars from his uncle Don Mateo.”
Julia looked at the dozens of cars in stunned silence. One of the few things her grandfather had passed down to her was a knowledge of classic automobiles. And from her initial estimate, this was a stunning and expansive collection.
“The Captain was very proud of his cars,” Mang Berto said wistfully. “We traveled all over from the auto shops in Manila to junk shops in the provinces looking for parts to rebuild these old beauties. I had hoped he’d return to see how I’ve cared for them.”
Mang Berto pointed to a Chevy Bel Air. “That one was my pride and joy. I say was because this is the car that was supposed to fetch you from Manila. Midway on the road it broke down, and I had to get it hauled back to the hacienda.” He paused a moment with a frown on his face, then opened the driver’s side door for her.
“This was your grandfather’s first car of his own purchase. He bought it secondhand from one of the hacienda’s business contacts. Not many of these still exist intact, not to mention run at all. Its parts are rare and very difficult to get here in the Philippines, and very expensive—though I ask Raul to buy them anyway.”He chuckled. “Why don’t you help me see if this baby is up and running?”
Julia climbed inside. The interior had a few cracks in the vinyl, but it was spotless and obviously well cared for. She turned the key that dangled from the ignition, and the engine rumbled to life.
Mang Berto gave the hood a proud and loving pat; then he wiped away his fingerprints. He leaned through the open passenger window. “If only she’d been this reliable a few days ago, you would have arrived in style. Oh my. Raul was so embarrassed that the granddaughter of Captain Morrison arrived by tricycle!” He bellowed in laughter so hard it made Julia laugh with him.
“It was a great experience,” she assured him. “I loved it.”
“Oh, but it was such a dishonor to us. I felt terrible myself. But it was so funny how upset Raul was over it, and then you arrive and are so gracious. Come now, let me introduce you to the rest of the family.”
Shutting off the engine, Julia followed Mang Berto as he led her from one car to the next, up and down the rows of automobiles, nearly thirty of them in all.
“Captain Morrison bought this one for your grandmother’s birthday,” Mang Berto explained, pointing to a shiny ruby red car. “It was quite the grand surprise. All the people of the hacienda, including the people from Barangay Mahinahon, were there for the unveiling. I shined that car up nice and sweet for your grand- mother. Even though she did not share the Captain’s passion, this car she definitely loved. She refused to drive any other.”
“It’s a 1950 Thunderbird, right?”
“Why, yes.” Mang Berto took a step back and gazed at her.
“Don’t look so surprised. I am the granddaughter of Captain Morrison.”
“You are indeed.”
“And this one is a Fleetline?” Julia pointed to the dark green car next to the Thunderbird. It had a roofline that swooped back like a helmet, and its hood was high and rounded. “My grandfather had a small model of this on his desk in the States.”
“A Chevrolet Fleetline—it’s 1950 as well. This was your grandfather’s very favorite. We drove it only on great occasions. The annual fiesta and, ah, I recall for the wedding of Sita and Felix as they left for their honeymoon. The sisters decorated the car, and poor Captain was quite nervous about the paint.”
“Lola Sita is married?”
“She was. Her husband is no longer living, many years gone. But it was a grand wedding.”
Julia smiled, touching the cloth roof of a convertible roadster. This garage was a museum in itself, and the old mechanic its loving curator. Mang Berto led her from car to car reciting the make and individual history of each one, who rode in it and on what occasion and what were the efforts done to restore it.
“The ones in front are all running, for the most part, though I would not trust them to make the journey to Manila. Those in the back haven’t run in many years. And I experiment on the middle three, trying to fashion parts from the scraps outside or inventing something to compensate. It gives an old man great joy.”
“This is amazing. Could we take a few out?”
“Of course,” he said with great excitement. “You’d love the sound of that 1969 Camaro. Purrs like a tiger—well, if I can get it running. The engine has been giving me headaches, but perhaps with a beautiful girl from home, that old car will surprise us and run without even a carburetor or gasoline.”
“That would be a surprise.” Julia laughed.
From the back row, she saw Raul and Markus enter the shop, talking in low conspiratorial tones and calling for Mang Berto. She wished to understand their words; the seriousness in their expressions chilled her.
“Hello!” she greeted them. “Were you looking for me or for Mang Berto?”
Their surprise showed in the jerk of their heads.
“Let me guess,” Markus said in a cheerful voice. “Mang Berto is boring you with the details of your grandfather’s car collection.”
“I’m enjoying myself immensely,” she said, gaining a huge grin from Mang Berto.
Raul still wore the same grave expression he had had in the office.
“We need to talk to you, Julia,” Markus said. “And we need to talk to Mang Berto.”
The old man wiped his hands on his pants with a look of concern.
“What’s wrong?” Julia asked.
“Usually we would keep such a matter to ourselves,” Markus said. “But Raul and I agree that as a visitor to our country and also with your role o
n the hacienda that you should be kept informed of certain delicate subjects.”
“Okay, now quit being a lawyer and just tell me.”
He paused and grinned at Raul. “She’s one to contend with.”
“Just tell her,” Raul said.
“One of our drivers is missing. And there is word that Communist rebels are congregating in the mountains around us.”
Julia wasn’t sure how to respond. “So what can I do?”
Raul appeared surprised. “Nothing. We are concerned about you remaining here.”
“So am I in danger?” she asked.
Markus gazed at her. “Julia, that is a possibility.”
TEN
Pistols and a classic car.Mang Berto drove them in an old Thunderbird with sleek fins at the taillights. Raul and Markus sat in the backseat with pistols in their belts.
Raul had explained that due to the current conditions and with news of Captain Morrison’s funeral and his granddaughter’s arrival, extra precautions were required. Markus had touched Julia’s arm and told her not to worry, and strangely, she didn’t.
They were touring the grounds of Hacienda Esperanza. But “grounds” didn’t begin to describe the lands that the property comprised. Mang Berto drove slowly past the vast rice fields to the sugarcane fields. The windows were down, and the air was rich with the smell of soil and agriculture.
“The rice is processed for use on the hacienda itself—there’s no profit in it. We have two other cash crops,” Raul said.
“Yes,” Julia replied, turning in the seat. “Sugar and coconut. Grandfather wrote extensively about them.”
“The Captain was fond of sending us articles,” Raul said as he, too, leaned over the seat to view them. “He always updated us on the new trends in the market.”
They passed a small concrete shrine to the Virgin Mary on the side of the road, nearly surrounded by tall grass. Long streaks from years of rain fell from the crown of her head to the ground. A lit red candle flickered at her feet.
Markus leaned forward with his arms on the front seat and pointed to another field where workers moved long, sheathlike machetes in a smooth rhythm, cutting down the tall sticks of sugarcane. “There are different harvesting methods. The best for the hacienda is to burn the fields first. The leaves burn from the stalk, and the rows of overgrown weeds are cleared out. The cane is then easily cut and taken directly to the mill.”
On one side the cane grew higher than her head. On the other side, the field-workers neatly cut the burned field. A strong scent permeated the air, perhaps of burned sugar and cane leaves.
“The fire doesn’t destroy the plants?” Julia asked, covering her nose as she tried to adjust to the powerful fragrance.
“The plants are green and moist, liquid rich,” Raul answered. “The method is effective before cutting the stalks. The juice holds the high sugar content in the center of the stalk. After harvest, the field is prepared for a new crop. We take part of the cut sugarcane and replant it.”
When they reached the men working in the fields, Raul asked Mang Berto to stop.
“It will please the men to meet you,” Raul said as they got out of the car. He adjusted the pistol on his belt as he walked ahead.
The men set down their machetes, wiping their brows with colored handkerchiefs. A few took the chance to put canteens of water to their mouths and brushed off their clothing.
Julia caught the mixed scents of freshly cut cane, rich soil, and human sweat.
One after the other, the field-workers shook Julia’s hand, looking at her curiously, nearly all with wide smiles and missing teeth. A few held back, more serious and hesitant, then came and respectfully greeted her.
“Hello,” she said to each man. All extended a sense of respect that Julia tried to return with her smile and attention.
As Raul spoke with the workers, a few chuckled and nodded their heads. There was camaraderie between them, but also, Julia noted, admiration and respect for their foreman.
Markus raised a hand in good-bye, walking beside Julia as they returned to the car. “I once played in these fields with some of these men. Most of them and their families have been part of the hacienda for generations. They won’t soon forget meeting you today, the American doña in her beautiful yellow sun dress. I’m sure you gave many of them something to work for today. I know I’d be swinging my machete faster to impress you.”
Julia smiled. “You’re incorrigible.”
Hacienda Esperanza stretched wider and farther than any ranch she’d been on. There were miles of sugarcane fields with men hard at work, more staff houses, a small shanty village that Raul was clearly annoyed about. If left alone, he declared, squatters would grow their own city on the land.
When they reached their other cash crop, the coconut trees, Julia learned about more innovations her grandfather had established. A forest of coconut trees were planted about ten feet apart from one another. Their tall trunks and wide branches provided an effective shade from the glaring afternoon sun. From time to time, they saw the workers climbing up the trees barehanded with long bolo knives tucked inside scabbards hanging on their hips.
Markus explained more. “Copra is the sundried meat inside the coconut nuts. Your grandfather established the hacienda’s own processing plants using a hybrid of the latest technology and some local ingenuity, seriously saving on costs. He cut out the middle-man and sold processed coconut oil instead of just the raw coconut materials, quadrupling the hacienda’s profits. Now that the Marcos regime is over, your grandfather and Raul planned to restore the plant, which is located near a local port. That was before his diagnosis, of course.”
Hopes and plans for restoration—those were what they all sought on the hacienda.
The car passed three caretakers wearing large straw hats. They smiled at the group and raised several longnecked bottles.
“They have a present for you, Julia,” Markus said, smiling as he leaned over the seat.
The car stopped by the farmers, who nodded warmly and handed Julia the bottles through the window.
“Salamat,” she said, and they laughed in surprise and delight at her use of a Tagalog word. Once they drove on, Julia asked what the drink was.
“Lambanog,” Mang Berto said, laughing. “Coconut wine, very strong.”
From the backseat Raul said, “We’ll go to the fishponds and then return to the hacienda. I have much work to do this afternoon.”
The fishponds were divided into numerous neat rectangular plots separated by raised dikes made of soil and stone. The breadth and scope of the ponds were staggering, sweeping far into the distance. Flocks of migratory birds rose and landed on the waters in artistic dances.
At the southern edge of the fishponds, huts made of bamboo and palm were built on tall poles above the water. Footprints of livestock and small bare feet pocked the muddy shoreline with water filling the deeper prints. Julia heard children laughing and in the distance, the sound of birds and women talking.
“These are the hacienda’s fishponds,” Raul explained as they walked toward it. “At one time, your grandfather and I discussed raising fish for foreign markets, but regular flooding during the rainy seasons always emptied the ponds of the fishes.”
The joyous screams and laughter of children grew louder as they walked down a slope. A woman with a child in a sling on her hip carried a bucket of water in her arms.
“Look at the children with that carabao.” Markus touched her arm and pointed to an oxlike animal standing in the pond. It reminded her of a water buffalo with its sleek black hair and thick gray horns that arched straight from his head.
A group of children circled the creature, laughing and screaming as they washed its slick body. A boy jumped on its back, then helped pull a girl up. The boy then tried to stand on the carabao’s back, but slipped in a dramatic fall that made Julia gasp.
He popped up from the muddy water like a smiling acrobat as the carabao continued chewing its cud as if no
thing unusual was happening. Two little girls, toddleraged, splashed and squealed in the water holes where Julia guessed a carabao had wallowed in the mud.
Raul stood with his arms crossed at his chest. “That is Mino-Mino. They believe he is their pet, but he is supposed to be working the field right now.”
Raul called to the children, who all jumped and dove under the water as if to hide from him. One by one their wet black-haired heads popped back up.
Markus laughed and shook his head. “Those are hacienda children, aren’t they, Raul?”
Raul nodded with his pinched expression as he perused the area, as if assuring himself of their safety.
“Different from the children of the Barangay?” Julia asked, remembering the boys and one girl around the estate house.
“Yes, very different.” Markus turned and looked at the jungle. “Two different worlds. Barangay children will be near as well, but we won’t see them.”
“There were some at the house when we left.”
“Yes, I know.” Raul and Markus glanced at each other, and Raul shook his head slightly.
The children in the fishpond had spotted Julia. They nudged each other and put their heads close together in the muddy water. Finally they came splashing toward her as if in a race. Once they reached the shore, they all stopped and smiled shyly, waiting for one to be brave enough to go forward. Black eyes and glistening hair, brown wet skin, wide white smiles.
“Good . . . afternoon to Miss Julia,” said the young girl who had been on the back of the carabao. Her wet dress clung to her thin frame, and water dripped from her hair to the muddy shore.
“Good afternoon,” Julia said, reaching out a hand.
The girl turned to her friends, who all giggled; then she stretched her small hand forward and shook Julia’s.
“What is your name?”
“Angelita.”
The children came closer, and one touched the skin on Julia’s arm as if in awe of the lightness.
“Nice to meet you, Angelita. You are very good at riding on the back of that carabao. It looks like a cow to me, though. Have you seen a cow?”
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