“Her father studied her movements as she moved back to stir something on the stove. The table was covered with oysters, prawns, cut vegetables, chicken, a bag of rice, and spices of many colors and fragrances. ‘Where have you been?’
“‘I do not know,’ Elena said. Her features had not changed, but a radiance filled her face that made her beautiful. ‘Cortinez found me.’
“Elena’s mother threw her hands into the air and burst into tears. ‘This makes no sense at all.’
“Elena explained that she didn’t know she was gone so long, saying that it was as if she’d died or lived in a dream. Then Cortinez came, and he was in that dream with her. Not until they returned from the cove did they know they were actually alive.
“Her mother paused in her tears to stare at Elena incredulously, then covered her hands and wailed again.
“Then Cortinez cleared his throat and said, ‘I searched for days, as did everyone. But I believed that my love would make Elena live. I went again to the cliff where all believed she had fallen and been taken by the sea. I climbed down and found a piece of her dress, but I continued to believe. My words were to God, the only God of truth and love, of creation and miracle, of all things good and of holy beauty. To Him I bravely spoke that I would believe until Elena was found alive. I searched down the cliff and on the rocks below. I searched a small beach of black and white sands that was secluded and deep enough to remain even in high tide. I explored until I could not walk another step, and there fell asleep. When I awoke, Elena was there by the sea, picking flowers from a vine that grew up the cliff side. She hadn’t seen me yet.’
“‘It was this flower,’ Elena said. From the cooking table she lifted a soft pink blossom. It looked like a tiny orchid with darker pink spots and a yellow center.
“‘It is from the cove,’ she said, holding it tenderly. She then plucked it in half, bringing a gasp to the lips of the others, though none were sure why it seemed such a travesty. Elena smiled and dropped the two halves into a large batter. She took several other blossoms and did the same; each time there was a sharp pain within each of them when Elena tore the delicate blossom in half. They were silent as they watched Elena, who was beautiful in an indefinable way, as she stirred the bowl with a smile on her lips.
“At last her father asked Cortinez. ‘And what happened when Elena saw you?’
“‘She came to me as if waiting for me. And we stayed there together. I do not remember sleeping or eating, only walking the beach, swimming in the sea, picking the flowers, gathering oysters, and digging for clams. I speared fish and a squid. It could have been one day or weeks perhaps, but none of our catch grew old. It was always as fresh as the day we caught it. We swam and walked. But, sir, we were innocent of all impropriety. There was no thought of anything else or anyone else or anyplace else. We were like children, and even now I can’t understand it. I know how it must sound. But at the times, we thought nothing of it all. It was . . . well, it was all we knew. Then one day Elena remembered the village priest and thought she heard him calling to her. So we climbed the cliff. And suddenly we began to remember as we found the path back to the hacienda house.’
“Her father rubbed his head, closed his eyes, and said, ‘I must get the priest.’
“Elena cooked through the day and all the next night. She seemed in a dream, and the many villagers who came to see the truth of her and Cortinez’s resurrection were too entranced to interrupt her creation. Cortinez watched, made coffee, and slept, but stayed always in the kitchen near Elena. She would allow no one to help her in the cooking. The priest arrived and prayed over the couple, thanked God for returning them, and gave the only explanation possible, ‘God’s ways are not our own.’
“That evening a multitude gathered, all drawn there as they had been when Elena disappeared and yet not knowing how to leave. And then Elena was at the doorway, peering into the dusk where dozens and dozens of people sat on benches or around tables, some playing games, others talking with babies in their arms.
“They went to silence as they saw her there, hair still wild and the apron now stained with spices.
“‘It is time to eat,’ she announced.
“Those who took a plate of Elena’s paella were said to have become nearly drunk with a joy none had known before. Some later believed it was simply the relief that the two young people were alive, but most agreed that it was Elena’s cooking. The batter into which she had dropped the orchid was made into a huge beautiful cake that was beyond description.
“The drunkenness of joy found in the paella and cake infected them all. They laughed and cried. Several guitarists began playing in the yard, and even the old women danced as they hadn’t in decades. Cortinez walked among them, observing and smiling. He would touch the shoulders of those eating on the ground and kneel beside the children, whispering things that brought their laughter.
“Two long-held grudges were resolved that night. One was between a man and woman who had loved each other in their youth. A misunderstanding separated them for forty years. That night they reunited and were married the following week. The other was between a woman and her daughter. The daughter had married against her mother’s wishes, severing their bond. When her husband deserted her and her child, the daughter remained resolute in her independence. Mother and daughter would see one another at the market and never speak. The older woman stared at her granddaughter as she grew into a young child. But they had never touched or held one another in all the days of the child’s life. Nothing dramatic closed the rift that night. After eating the paella, they simply walked from their separate groups of friends and family members and embraced without words or actions. The grand-daughter jumped into her grandmother’s arms as if it were the most usual habit in the world.
“That night would be spoken of for years to come. New miracles were discovered and most all could have been expounded upon in the retelling except that the miraculous was so profound, embellishment became ridiculous.
“The paella seemed to never end. The cake, though cut a thousand times, still had the upper layer. Some say it was similar to Jesus’s feeding of the five thousand, but others feared heresy at such a comparison. Still others said that by giving God His due glory and prayer, such a miracle was only praise to Him and His power on earth and not of pride to Elena.
“The anniversary of that night became the annual hacienda fiesta, a celebration of those who lived and worked upon the land. And Elena’s paella was the main dish, her orchid cake the dessert. And so every year Cortinez and Elena disappeared for several nights and returned with the Elena orchid.”
Markus took Julia’s hand and turned it over carefully, then slowly made the shape of the orchid in the palm of her hand. “That is how Lola Gloria draws it whenever she tells the story.”
“Are the orchids in the field from the Elena orchid?”
“Oh no. Every attempt to transplant the orchid has failed. And it’s actually been decades since anyone has brought the flower to the house, from what the Tres Lolas tell me. The Tres Lolas believe that when next the orchid is found, the hacienda will again come alive.”
“Is it that difficult to find?”
“Apparently. I don’t know.”
“And do you think it really exists? It’s not some mythical flower?”
“Oh, it certainly exists. My grandmother is from the hacienda,and she and my grandfather fell in love here when he worked as a temporary field hand. Our grandfathers were friends; in fact, Captain Morrison helped finance my grandfather so he could study at the University of the Philippines, which is the most prestigious school in the country. My grandfather became a lawyer—I interned at his firm before he died.”
Julia couldn’t see Markus’s face well in the low lights. “So what happened to Elena? Did she and Cortinez marry?”
Markus smiled, she could see that well enough. “You’ve become infatuated by the story as well, I see. Yes, yes indeed. They lived here at the hacienda where they ra
ised, I believe, four children—you must ask Lola Gloria to be sure. But I know that Elena the Cook is one of your great-great-grandmothers.”
“Are they also buried in the cemetery?”
“Well, no. Apparently their bodies were never found.”
“What do you mean?”
“The legend says that the night of a beautiful blue moon, when very old, Elena and Cortinez went walking in the night. The kitchen maid saw them holding hands in the garden. Trackers later found their pathway all the way to the same cliff overlooking the sea. And there the tracks ceased. For a long while, villagers believed they’d return. But those in the hacienda knew that they were truly gone. Their presence had left, and the kitchen felt the absence.”
The story over, Julia walked Markus to his car. He insisted that he had no choice but to drive back to Manila, though Julia expressed her worry about his driving so late and after such a long day.
Markus paused a moment. “Do you want to know the fate of Amerel?”
“Yes.”
“He remained the most beautiful man wherever he lived. But his interest in charm and desire waned completely after Elena. He desired nothing and yet had continuous propositions. He created offense and anger wherever he went. Some believed he desired men instead of women, but it was simply that he lusted for nothing. And soon enough, wherever he went, word would come about his childhood cowardice and his role in Elena’s story. And so a folk story began where Amerel was the beguiling villain like the beautiful Lucifer himself. It is said that he scarred his face with his own knife and lived out his final years in an isolated nipa hut on an island in the Visayas. But I do not know if that is true or not.”
Julia smiled in the soft light of the night.
“This is a land of myth and folklore, Julia. And strangely, when I am here, I believe every bit of it as truth. The longer you are here, the more you will feel the same. You will see.”
They reached his car, and Markus shook her hand gently.
Julia felt a strange vitality run between them. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Santos,” she said, smiling.
“And you, Julia.” He opened the car door. The interior light shone on his face, and Julia had a sudden urge to walk forward and kiss him.
She took a step back. Recalling her conversation with Nathan at the coffee shop, she said, “Markus, you wouldn’t happen to be a rice farmer, would you?’
He raised an eyebrow and chuckled. “That’s an odd question.”
“I have my reasons.”
“I live in Manila and practice law, but I do own some fields. So yeah, I guess you could say I’m a rice farmer. I hope that’s not a bad thing.”
Julia covered her eyes with her hands and laughed to herself.Of course, she thought.
FOURTEEN
The next days brought a slow succession of activity to the hacienda grounds. Manalo’s men reported on the preparations for Captain Morrison’s body to arrive within days. They kept a record of the comings and goings. Raul was ever on the move all over the hacienda.
The Barangay had their men at the border and sweeping through the plantation, making it difficult to stay for any amount of time. They were formidable foes, that was certain. Other than the Moros in the southern province of Mindanao, Manalo had not met with such skill and discipline. He worried about his men who’d grown lax and weary of jungle life, that they were not the fighters they had once been.
Paco reported to him after he studied the structure of the house and learned the room location of the American woman. Manalo himself remained miles away in the surrounding mountains as they gathered information and came up with plans.
Trouble was incited in the town. Bar fights, the burning of some abandoned cars, some tourists attacked, a few shops robbed, and an owner terrorized.
Manalo was angry about some of the excess and angrier still to learn that it wasn’t the Red Bolos who were responsible—the mercenaries had been invited to town. What was Comrade Pilo thinking? And though Manalo feared what occurred when incompetence and undisciplined mercenaries mixed, some of the created chaos was necessary. For Paco reported that through-out the town, people were talking about the return of Captain Morrison as eagerly as the return of President Marcos Ferdinand’s body had been despised. Many viewed the Captain as a symbol of hope, change, and progress. If they only knew what democracy bred—greed, selfish ambition, more poverty, and gaps in the class structure. But belief was hard to crush. It was a delicate matter. Chaos and fear could divide, or they could create alliances.
Everything was culminating at the funeral and wake. The mayor was coming out. Corruption fed and clothed the mayor of San Juan. The people would be gathered there to see their hope returned. And the American woman would of course be there—and must not be drawn into the land, but learn to fear it. And soon enough, the death of the missing boy would be revealed, and hopefully Manalo’s plan would work.
If Manalo received the word, they would assassinate the mayor, or anyone who posed a threat. Anyone. The mercenaries might be blamed, but this untrustworthy bunch wouldn’t keep the secrets of the Communists, and Manalo saw the critical nature of the coming days as he stared into the night sky and analyzed all these insomniac thoughts.
One thing was essential—the American woman had to leave the Philippines as soon as the funeral was over. Her continued presence was a threat that the higherups would not tolerate. In all his years as a rebel fighter, Manalo had never killed a woman. He dreaded such a thought, was unsure if he even could. But others would not hesitate. And with his family in the clutches of Comrade Pilo, he was in no position to argue.
Manalo had hoped all night that Timeteo wouldn’t delay his return from speaking with Comrade Pilo, and when he heard the footsteps, he rose quickly to meet him on the perimeter of the camp.
Timeteo’s face was hidden in the darkness, but his voice sounded heavy as he talked about the meeting. “I met not only with Comrade Pilo but afterward with one of his bodyguards who owed me—don’t ask why, it’s a long story.”
“Does it involve a monkey?”
“Of course, doesn’t it always?” he said lightly.
It was their inside joke, because Timeteo had once paid a debt with a monkey for the debtor’s daughter. He had won the monkey in a different gambling game. But the monkey was mean and tried to bite the girl, so Timeteo had to pay the debt in double for the misdeed.
“Okay, give me the bad news.”
“There has been major chaos in the leadership in Manila and abroad.”
“What has happened?”
“The Old Man is dead, and a viable leader is not easily found to replace him. But also it is the effect of the foreign crisis in the Communist movement.”
“Yes, I know it does affect us, even here in our jungle existence,” Manalo said wryly, thinking of the Communist countries that had fallen like dominoes in the recent years since the wall of Berlin came down.
How did men like himself and Timeteo live in such conditions and remain subject to decisions and plans made by men in palaces in Beijing or Moscow?
“What did you see as having the greatest effect on us?”
“Well, no one trusts anyone now. They want assurances of loyalty, and the measures of such have been extreme at times. While the Leftist students at the University of the Philippines march around and gather support, or at least respect, the fighters have the eye of suspicion on us—leaders are digging through both our pasts and our recent maneuvers.” Timeteo was quiet a moment. “We can talk of all this in the morning, if you want. I have to tell you something.”
“What is it?”
“I know where they are.”
Manalo felt a cold chill in his veins. “Does Comrade Pilo know that you know?”
“He does not. What do you want to do?”
“If I go, then it will be noticed and viewed as disloyalty.”
“What if I go?” Timeteo said.
Manalo put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Yes. Ti
meteo, go and see her for me. Let me get the backpack of gifts for her and the children, and we’ll give them some money. And set a time that I can call her or she me on a public telephone.”
Poor Timeteo didn’t hesitate to leave after just arriving, and Manalo didn’t even ask him to get some hours of sleep. He wanted his friend to reach Malaya as quickly as possible. His best friend knew this without saying.
Manalo still couldn’t sleep. And though a part of him didn’t know if he deserved it—what guerrilla fighter did—he was thankful to have the feeling of hope once again.
“I COULD SWEAR YOU’VE BEEN GONE FOR WEEKS.” NATHAN CALLED in his night, her early afternoon, surprised to find out she was sixteen hours ahead of him.
“Yeah, I guess for me too,” she said. “It’s such a different world here.”
Julia wanted to tell him how she walked the grounds when the morning dew was still fresh on the earth, and that every morning she found a gift outside her veranda doorway—a trinket or new type of fruit. She wished to tell how she’d explored the old coconut groves with the massive piles of shelledout hulls. A few times she’d stopped by the garage and handed tools to Mang Berto as he scooted beneath the belly of one of his cars. Or how sometimes she was drawn to the path near the overgrown orchid fields where the flowers grew through a mass overgrowth of vines and foliage. She’d discovered a small spring there in the thicket and wondered if it ended at the fishpond. She planned to find out before she left.
Instead, Nathan told her about the accounts he was getting in his freelance advertising business. A few of his new clients were enough to make his competition green with envy. “We have more work than we know what to do with.”
“You aren’t doing the business alone?” she asked, already guessing what he hinted at.
“No . . . I am,” he said. “And if you want to be part of it, it’s yours.”
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