Orchid House

by Cindy Martinusen-Coloma

  “The villages all over Batangas and beyond. As I said, your grandfather was a respected man.”

  The people lined the road like spectators awaiting a parade.Some elderly sat in lawn chairs and held small American or Philippine flags in their hands. The gathering hushed in a solemn respect, even the children who had been weaving and playing around the adults. The only sound beyond the tropical birds calling in the jungle was the sound of vehicles coming far down the hacienda road.

  The chrome-covered jeepney gleamed brightly, catching the low evening light as it came slowly down the drive. Her grand-father had requested such a return instead of a grand hearse that most rich men would be carried in. A painted sign over the windshield read “Praise Be to God.” Flowers were draped along the front grill, tucked into side mirrors, and tied along the roof all the way to the back to the bumper. As people stood, more flowers were tossed over the vehicle. Behind the jeepney followed a line of vehicles including expensive luxury cars, horse drawn carts, and several tricycles that filled the air with their high-pitched whines.

  Julia followed Raul down the walkway. She gathered with the others along the edge of the driveway. She recognized many in the lines of faces, some she’d met that day as well as the hacienda workers she’d seen in the fields or gardens and house. The cousins were mixed together with their extended families. Julia saw her cousin Mara, who was close to her age and someone she thought could become a very close friend. Mara stood with an older couple beside two other cousins, Francis and Othaniel.

  Julia felt the rustle of the children of the Barangay come behind her, surrounding her, instead of peering from the bushes as usual. They were easy to distinguish from the other children by their tattered clothing and necklaces strung around their necks. A few smaller ones she hadn’t met before looked younger than age five, and they touched her dress and gave her worried smiles. The boys’ hair was slicked and pressed to their heads, and the girl had brushed her matted mess and pulled it into a ponytail again. Brown eyes looked up at her in proud expectation.

  “You all look fine, so very fine,” she said to them, knowing few understood her at all.

  Raul stepped from the crowd as the jeepney slowed to a stop. He leaned into the window and pointed forward to the driver. The jeepney turned and backed toward the front walkway. A number of men gathered and the back was opened, giving Julia her first glimpse of her grandfather’s casket. She now saw that Markus was standing with Francis and Othaniel; she hadn’t realized he had arrived already. More people pressed in close, with some still arriving and those who had lined the driveway gathering around the jeepney. The deeper silence of voices amplified the shuffle of footsteps, every car door closing, the tropical birds and some rooster crowing in the distance.

  Then the pathway parted like the opening of the Red Sea from the jeepney to the house. Raul motioned for Julia and the Tres Lolas, who came behind her, and they walked to the vehicle as Raul, Markus, Francis, Othaniel, and two others from the hacienda lifted out the black casket draped with an American flag.

  Lola Sita took Julia’s hand and gave her some flowers. The three women put their hands on the casket, and Julia as well felt compelled to touch the smooth, black wood. Grandpa Morrison was inside, having journeyed across the sea to return to his beloved Hacienda Esperanza.

  Together with Lola Amor and Lola Gloria, Julia and Lola Sita walked in front of the casket as it was carried toward the house. Mang Berto stood at the open double doors like a butler receiving them.

  Julia turned back at the top step and saw Amang Tenio, dressed in a bright red robe. His red rooster was missing from his arms today; instead he held what appeared to be a long rooster tail with a leather strap wrapped around his wrist. He followed the casket, and his voice rose in a chanting cry. He tapped the rooster tail in the air and took heavy, defined steps with his eyes nearly closed. The children of the Barangay came behind Amang Tenio, holding their amulets against their chests as they bent their heads as if in prayer.

  Their footsteps on the hardwood floor and the low chants of Amang Tenio were the only sounds inside the house as they proceeded between the flowers through the entryway and down into the great room. The men carried the coffin to a long heavy table covered in a lace cloth and surrounded by flowers and dozens of candles. Othaniel adjusted the American flag. Around the room against the wall were benches and chairs set in rows. In the back were tables with cookies and carafes of coffee. Instead of entering the great room, Julia saw Amang Tenio and the children of the Barangay standing close at the open double doors. After a few moments, they disappeared from view.

  Julia sat on a chair close to the coffin with the Tres Lolas in a row beside her. She’d been told of the schedule of events for the wake and funeral, but mostly her role was to greet extended family and citizens who had come to pay their respects. She thought of her grandfather again, that here was his body just inches from her inside the polished wooden coffin. A shiver of eeriness passed through her; she couldn’t help but wonder what his corpse looked like after traveling across the sea from California. The strangeness of death here beside them, so close and acceptable, was something harder for Americans, she’d been told. There was the sense of a more primitive world in the abundance of ceremony for the dead man inside this very box.

  The dramatic entrance of an old Filipino priest, walking with his robe just brushing the wood floor, further amplified her thoughts. He carried a censor on a metal chain, spewing incensed smoke as it swung with his steps. He chanted in Latin, and suddenly the mourners in line behind him began to sing. The voices were like dominoes through the house, and soon the song was heard through the windows from outside as well. The room was quickly filled with people standing or sitting, swaying in their song, sniffling and crying, serious expressions carved into faces.

  Julia was the only one silent.

  From her place beside the coffin, she saw the glistening tears on the priest’s weathered cheeks as he touched the coffin with something more than reverence, holding his hand on the American flag for the longest time. She’d been told of Father Tomas but had yet to meet him, as Raul had made the arrangements with the priest of San Pablo and the hacienda. Julia wondered what the priest and Amang Tenio thought of one another, and what place each held in such an occasion.

  After a prayer and the sign of the cross, the priest touched his eyes and turned to her. He smiled as he knelt before her, taking her hands in his. The tenderness in his expression brought unexpected emotion into her chest, and she realized for all the emotion around her she’d had none until now.

  “I am Father Tomas. I grieve with you and your family.”

  For a moment she could hardly speak. Finally she said simply, “Thank you.”

  The priest held her hands firmly and nodded in understanding. “Your grandfather was great man. He was highly respected here. For his body to be returned to our land holds great meaning. We are grateful and honored to have his granddaughter here as well. It is as if he sent you to us, and we thank him.”

  The singing rose to a crescendo, and Julia thought of the spirit of the man inside that coffin—she wondered if he indeed knew he’d come home and that she had come with him.

  Home. A plot of land, a place of birth, a house, another human being. Perhaps even a faith or a future. Where was her home? Perhaps somewhere in his charts and plans, her grandfather had tried to make Hacienda Esperanza her home as well.

  Father Tomas smiled softly. “Tomorrow we talk more of the funeral Mass, okay?”

  Julia nodded, and the priest moved on to greet the Tres Lolas. The song ended, and Julia was greeted by an elderly woman who walked with her arms interlocked with a younger version of herself.

  “Nakikiramay po kami.”

  Julia understood their condolences without need for translation. A line formed, extending through the great room and beyond her view. A hand touched her shoulder, and she looked up to Markus, who then moved a chair beside her and translated the soft words
of an old man with scars on his cheeks.

  “This man says he fought beside your grandfather.”

  “He fought in the war with him?”

  The man was the size of a tall child, and his nodding smile revealed three missing front teeth.

  “Yes, and he says your grandfather was very brave and also a joking man.”

  Markus listened to the elderly man who kept talking to her and smiling; then Markus laughed.

  “What did he say?”

  “Your grandfather told him and the younger soldiers a legend of the Old West. He said it was a known fact that if a man wore a green ribbon in his hair that the man’s enemy would never be able to take his life. He was so convincing that all the younger men wore their hair pulled back or tied even a small piece of it with a green ribbon, even though it seemed a very feminine thing to do.

  “Only several days later, one of the soldiers was caught by the Japanese in the jungles and put into some barracks with a group to be executed for being guerilla fighters. The night before the execution, he walked straight up to the Japanese soldier guarding the prisoners and told him that he wore the green ribbon and would not die in the morning. Just then there was a huge explosion in the tent of ammunition. The Japanese thought they were being attacked and in the confusion this man, whose name is Simon, slipped through a hole in the rock wall and opened the front door, allowing the other prisoners to escape.

  “When he found Captain Morrison, he told your grandfather about being saved by the green ribbon. Captain Morrison burst into such great laughter that he cried. He admitted that he’d made a bet with Diego, his second in command and, incidentally, grandfather of Raul, that he could convince those men of anything. Diego hatched the idea of the green ribbon, thinking there was too much pride in the men to wear something so womanly. But your grandfather’s elaborate story worked, and after that, the green ribbon became a symbol of the group! To this day, many of the men in town wear green ribbons in their hair or around their necks.”

  “Yes, yes,” the man said, continuing to nod and smile. “Captain Morrison say green ribbon.” He turned and pointed to the green ribbon holding his long gray hair.

  “He says he has many stories of your grandfather to share with you at a later time.”

  “Say that I’d love to hear them. He should return and tell me before I go.”

  A frown flickered across Markus’s face before he translated.

  Julia turned to greet the next family waiting patiently behind. Night came quickly, and it felt like hours that she stayed there, meeting people and accepting their words of sympathy through Markus. The Tres Lolas weaved among the mourners, talking to them, joining in with prayers. More candles were set around the table until the coffin glowed from the small flames.

  Finally there was a break in those coming to meet her, and Markus went to refill her coffee. When he returned, he asked, “So, is this very different from the wakes in the States?”

  “We most often have the funeral only. Before this week, I thought only the Irish had wakes.”

  “Many cultures have wakes, Miss Julia. You need to get out more. And the Irish and Filipinos aren’t so different, you know, except that we’re brown, we like rice instead of potatoes, and we have duwendes instead of leprechauns.” He smiled. “We did have many Irish missionaries. And our great national hero, Rizal, married his Irish lover just days before his execution.”

  “Who knew?” Julia suddenly realized then she was hungry. “How long will this go on?”

  “Nine days, didn’t they tell you?”

  “What?”

  Markus smiled. “I’m joking—not very polite during a wake. However, at some wakes, the novena takes place starting on the night of a death.”

  “Novena?”

  “Nine days of prayer. Sometimes there are readings from the Scripture, stories of the deceased. It can be amazing how the family and community are drawn together in their faith and prayers. Boisterous family reunions are often the result of a death.”

  Markus nodded to a family of five standing before them. Julia blinked her eyes and took their hands. The little girl cried against her mother, and Julia wondered if it was in fear or confusion.

  More time passed with hands holding hers, words translated by Markus, the singing, the scent of candles, flowers, and incense, the tears. It was well past midnight when Markus finally told her to get some rest.

  “Go sleep for a few hours. I will have one of the lolas or Raul sit watch for a while.”

  “I need some air first.” Her head was spinning, from exhaustion or emotion or the scent of the flowers that covered every spare inch of the great room, parlor, and grand entryway.

  “I’ll walk with you and then get you to your room.”

  Outside the lights glowed from the trees. There were tables of men and women playing mahjong and poker, smoking cigarettes, and drinking beer or lemonade.

  Julia and Markus walked arm in arm in a comforting silence, passing several men asleep on benches and a family curled together on cardboard on the lawn. She estimated that hundreds of people milled around the hacienda. The palms and trees cut silhouettes into the starry night, and music played on a radio beside one of the tables of gamblers. People nodded at her as she passed, as dice were rolled and money was exchanged to the triumphant from the annoyed. There was a haze in the yard from the candles, cigarettes, and flickering lamps that gave a surreal quality to the scene.

  Finally Markus escorted her to her room. He rubbed her head in a brotherly way, then kissed her on the cheek, sending anything but brotherly tingles throughout her body.

  “Get some rest,” he said again. “I’ll take care of your guests until you return.”

  Julia closed the door and leaned against it for a long while. Finally she slid her back down the door and rested her head on her knees.

  THE FIRST WAKE EMMAN HAD ATTENDED—HIS AUNTIE’S—HAD scared him half to death. The open casket in the house for two days, the wilted flowers, and the smell of that embalming fluid. He couldn’t eat as the others did. His Tito Cris talked loudly with a plate of food in his hand while standing right beside his auntie. Once he actually set the plate on the edge of her coffin, then picked it up and continued eating.

  Captain Morrison’s funeral was respectable. He hoped someday to have a funeral even half as nice, but not anytime soon, of course.

  Sometimes he pictured Miss Julia crying at his funeral, maybe thinking that she might have loved him, and how grateful she was for his saving her life and giving up his own.

  Across the room, standing just outside the doorway with a group of mourners, Emman stared at a man he’d seen once before. Then he remembered, though he couldn’t be certain for it had been dark. It was the small man from the jungle, Emman was sure of it. He saw the small man make eye contact with another man—and Emman knew who that was without question. The man was dressed to look like someone from Manila or overseas. But Emman had studied the “wanted” posters enough to recognize that face.

  Moving closer to the winding stairway that led to where Miss Julia had gone to rest, Emman wondered how to guard her and tell Amang Tenio or Mr. Raul what was happening.

  Ka Manalo, the leader of the Red Bolo group, was in their midst.

  THEY WOULDN’T KNOW HIM HERE, HE WAS SURE. NO ONE COULD possibly guess Manalo was anything other than another contact of Captain Morrison’s come to pay respects.

  He hadn’t implemented a plan. The hundreds attending the funeral granted an opportunity. Manalo and his men could enter the hacienda house and assess for themselves the mood of the people while also getting full access to the layout of the house. The hacienda was magnificent, he couldn’t deny. A strand of jealousy and even of wonder went through him at such a magnificent structure. He wondered, if he’d given his life to something like this instead of . . . He cut the thoughts before they continued.

  It was too late anyway. He’d been on the watch list for too long for a peaceful civilian life in such
a high-profile place as Hacienda Esperanza. Unless—there was always an “unless”—unless the Communists really did change the political tide of the nation.

  Manalo saw the boy’s stare. And it made him wonder.

  There was a commotion toward the grand front entrance.

  Manalo quickly aborted any kind of action when he saw who was walking through the door. Even the boy gaped in utter shock. Everyone knew him, with the horrific war stories seared into their heads since childhood. And on top of that, he had the gall to wear his uniform.

  If anything could bind the Filipino people into unity, it was one thing. Hatred. And hatred had just walked through the front door.

  THE KNOCK MADE HER JUMP AWAKE FROM HER SPOT ON THE FLOOR. Her travel clock said three o’clock—she’d slept all of thirty minutes. But Julia couldn’t tell Lola Gloria or Lola Sita or whoever knocked that she needed a break when they’d been downstairs working all day and night.

  It was Raul on the other side of the door.

  “A man arrived here from Japan and wishes to see you.”

  “From Japan? Who is it?”

  “His name is Mr. Saeto Takada.”

  “So he knew my—” And then the name sunk in. Colonel Takada. Even Julia knew the name of the man who had lived briefly in this house not as a guest but as a victor during WWII. She knew of the horror stories of starvation and brutality, though no one had spoken much about it. At the same moment, Julia recognized the potential impact of this man’s presence at the hacienda. “Why is he here?”

  “I do not know. He will only speak with you. He is in the office.”

  Julia descended the stairs into a house of whispers. The tension was nearly palpable.

  Colonel Takada had lived here, walked the pathways she now walked, had ruled without mercy, had ordered the executions of some relatives of people in this very house. This was the hacienda’s enemy, her grandfather’s enemy, and thus, her enemy.