Mr. Takada’s back was to the door when Julia entered the office, and he didn’t turn from gazing at the map on the wall. That map had obviously been there for years, and Julia wondered if Mr. Takada had studied it during the year he ruled the house. From this room he might have directed his troops, signed execution orders, written back home to his wife.
She stood at the door until a younger man she hadn’t seen walked toward her.
“Thank you for meeting us,” he said, extending his hand. “I am Yoshuri Takada. I am Saeta-san’s grandson.”
Julia took the hand he extended first to her and then to Raul. The older man had turned toward them, but did not step forward. He was a small man, rigid and proud, with raised chin, clenched jaw, and a sharp fierceness in his black eyes.
“We are the grandchildren of two men who were enemies,” said Yoshuri Takada.
Julia nodded at that, finding it hard to look away from Mr. Takada, and surprised at the grandson’s joviality in his poignant words.
Yoshuri was taller and was dressed in a well tailored suit with a tie. He had an easygoing way about him, friendly and casual. “We have come to pay respects to your grandfather.”
“This is certainly a surprise.”
Julia noticed Raul and the older man staring at one another like two warriors preparing to fight. She felt unsure what to do next. Several men had gathered in the doorway with a child or two peek- ing between legs and arms. It came to her that these men might not be safe here, that they’d risked much to attend her grandfather’s wake. Revenge after such atrocities was rarely soothed with time.
Markus appeared at the door then.
The relief surely showed on her face, but she tried to retain a confident composure. “Markus, come in and close the door.”
The younger man was aware of the strained energy that pulsed through the house, but he remained friendly and warm in contrast to his grandfather.
“We would like to present something to you.”
Yoshuri spoke to his grandfather. The old Japanese colonel walked to the desk, where a box rested made of an old wood and carved in intricate designs of battle scenes. Mr. Takada opened the box, and as he unwrapped a scarf of deep red velvet, the blade of a sword shone in the lamplight. Mr. Takada lifted the sword from the velvet, holding it flat as he ceremoniously presented it to Julia.
“It is Samurai,” the grandson said with pride and restrained excitement. “It has been in my family for four hundred years.”
Even Raul stepped to the desk with an expression of surprise. The older man’s features remained hard and cold as he handed the sword to Julia.
“Why?” she asked Mr. Takada, then turned to his grandson beside him. “This is too great a gift. I do not understand.”
“My grandfather wishes to give it your family now. To the house and the descendents of Captain Ronald Morrison.”
“Yes, but why would he, when they were enemies?”
The old man spoke then, staring sternly at her. His jaw was firm and there was nothing decipherable in his eyes.
“He says, ‘We were enemies, but I respected him. We are not enemies any more.’ This is my grandfather’s way of making peace. Of asking for forgiveness, though he would not say so.”
Julia thought of the story of dead Filipinos filling the ditches and roadways of the hacienda. Of the innocent women and children locked in the hacienda prison. The Japanese had been relentless in their destruction of Manila, with the city bombed and nearly completely burned by the end of the war. The Japanese were merciless to the American and Filipino soldiers as well as the Filipino elderly, women, and children.
The facts and stories of that time had felt like a history long dead. There had been much turmoil in the years since, and yet the lost were not forgotten. And now here was her grandfather’s great enemy and a household of possible avengers gathering behind the door. Julia knew there could be trouble. Takada surely knew this as well, but he had braved the journey into an enemy land to reach toward reconciliation.
The sword was heavy in her hands. “I thank you from our family, for this rare and enormous gift.”
Markus gave her a proud nod that gave her added strength.
“My grandfather would like to pay respects to your grand-father, and then we will leave. Our car waits in the driveway.”
She looked to Raul for input and received his nod. “Yes, of course.”
Julia opened the door with Mr. Takada and his grandson behind her. Raul and Markus followed.
As she feared, the men in the hallway were of the Barangay. They looked like warriors even in their faded jeans and slacks, amulets dangling at their chests—this time she noticed the green ribbons—many with tattooed arms or backs, the designs creeping up their necks from beneath their T-shirts. They wore fighting expressions, hands on hips or arms crossed as they sought to see Mr. Takada. But Julia stood quietly in the doorway until they backed against the wall to allow her to pass, leading the procession. The old soldier followed, staring straight ahead.
News had spread, and the house vibrated with anger instead of grief. An elderly woman jumped forward and spat in Mr. Takada’s face. Julia took the woman’s hand gently and stepped in front of Mr. Takada. Julia felt divided in her loyalty to the people here and her desire to accept the overtures of an old enemy who came to ask for peace. The old soldier wiped his face with a handkerchief and continued to stare forward.
“He is a guest at the hacienda,” she said, and Markus translated to those who might not understand. She hoped that their own ingrained culture of hospitality might confuse their thoughts enough to soothe the anger.
They moved forward past a myriad of faces staring or leering, then into the great room and up to her grandfather’s flag-draped casket. Julia stepped aside, and Mr. Takada walked to the coffin. The room quieted. The candles flickered, and the American flag glowed in their light.
Mr. Takada didn’t move for several minutes. Finally he made a deep and slow bow, then turned to leave.
Julia and Raul walked with the man and his grandson to their black Cadillac. The car was running, and the driver quickly opened the doors for the men.
The Japanese colonel bowed to Julia, then to Raul and Markus.
“Good-bye,” Mr. Takada said.
“Good-bye. And thank you,” Julia said.
Yoshuri shook her hand, then bowed to them. This time Raul returned the respect. The older man stared long and hard at her, then spoke and waited for his grandson to translate.
“I thank you for accepting us and our gift. You are like your grandfather. Honorable.”
Such words had never been spoken of her. Julia thanked him, wishing she knew what else to say. “And thank you from my family.”
They left quickly, and Julia turned to the crowd that had gathered on the lawn. She feared their reaction. Did they think she had betrayed them, she and Raul and Markus, by offering asylum to the greatest enemy of the hacienda? She could not understand the depth of grief caused by the man now driving away. Lola Gloria and Lola Amor were holding one another and wiping their eyes. She looked for her grandfather’s war buddy, the small fighter with the green ribbon, and was relieved not to see him there.
“You did well, Miss Julia.” Markus touched her arm firmly.
The car’s taillights disappeared down the driveway, and people dispersed from their various stances.
“That was certainly unexpected.”
“Yes. Do not be concerned. Now that Mr. Takada has left, the wake will continue as usual.”
“Who was the older woman who spat on him?” Julia asked Raul.
“Her parents were murdered under Takada’s regime. She herself was brutalized and has never married or had children because of it.”
“Should I speak to her?”
“No. Some have too many memories to forgive. Others will find peace in the gesture and gift from their family. The anger will not come to you for accepting Takada. I will be sure of that.”
&n
bsp; SIXTEEN
Julia meandered through the house, which was still full of mourners, some awake, many asleep, until she found her cousin Mara in the kitchen making coffee.
“The last time I saw you, you were asleep in the parlor,” Julia said, rubbing her eyes. Mara looked tired but pretty, with her smooth complexion and her hair pulled into a silky bun.
“I saw you sleeping in a chair, practically straight up,” Mara replied with a grin, as she dried a large industrial coffeemaker.“There’s some coffee on the stove. I’m making a fresh batch for the parlor.”
Julia took a cup from the shelf. Through the kitchen window, she saw people cooking on makeshift stoves in the back courtyard and children already at play on the lawn. “Are the lolas sleeping?”
“Yes, they’ll be back in a few hours.”
“And Raul and Markus?” Julia poured steaming coffee from the percolator on the stove.
“Raul went for a quick check of the property. I’m not sure about Markus. Perhaps sleeping on the couch in the office?”
Julia wondered if Elena the Cook had ever discovered a spice for coffee that would expose secret love.
Mara scooped coffee into the large filter. “I once saw a movie about a funeral in the United States, and it was so different. Very pious and quiet, and at a funeral parlor. Here, the wake usually occurs at the home, like this, and can last for a week or even two, depending on how long it takes for relatives to arrive.”
It sounded barbaric to Julia, the idea of a body in the coffin for a week or more. “What about . . . you know, the decay?”
“By the end it can become evident, though of course the body is embalmed first. But death is not unnatural. It is as natural and normal as birth. None of us escapes it.” She laughed softly.
Julia tasted the coffee and decided to sip it black that morning. “Most Americans avoid the subject of death as much as possible. It makes us uncomfortable.”
“No one is comfortable. It is frightening, sad, eerie at times. Perhaps we understand it better because our land has known so much death. As you have seen, during the wake the family stays with the body through each night, and visitors come at all hours, around the clock. The body is never left alone. The more who come, the more honor to that person.”
Julia thought of the people all over the hacienda house and grounds, those up all night, the gambling, talking, gifts of flowers and foods. “It’s remarkable when you think of it. This entire land is remarkable.”
Mara smiled. “You may not look as if you have Filipino in your genes, but I believe you are becoming more and more a Filipina. You know, many hope you will stay.”
“But . . . how can they even think that?” Julia said. “It’s really not an option.”
“Life can surprise us,” Mara said smugly. “I need to check the biscuits and coffee in the parlor.”
That day followed a similar pattern as the evening and night before. Julia slept a few hours, and then returned to be with the mourners. Many had stayed overnight and were now becoming familiar faces. For all her offers to help in other ways, her main job continued to be greeting the visitors, who never ceased to arrive. It seemed every inhabitant of the surrounding region and perhaps a good portion of Manila had come through her door. She smiled, realizing she’d called it her door.
Julia’s cousins filled the house, helping and greeting as well. Mama Clara—Alice and Mara’s mother—took over for an afternoon, giving the lolas a break.
When Markus saw Clara, he spoke to her rapidly in Tagalog. To Julia he said, “Remember the one who always made excuses for being overweight and was always dieting, supposedly? That is Mama Clara. I told her how thin she looks—”
The old woman abruptly hit his arm, and Markus gasped and laughed as she sputtered indignantly.
“She said she gave up dieting years ago and I shouldn’t tease an old fat woman.” He put his hands up in surrender. “I guess some things do change on the hacienda.”
Soon flowers drooped and petals littered the floor around her grandfather’s coffin. The shadows in the room changed as the day progressed toward another evening. Markus continued to be her translator whenever needed. Once she saw him talking with Raul in the front entry, concerned expressions on their faces. She was curious, but then Father Tomas arrived to finalize plans for the funeral Mass and burial scheduled for the next day.
In the early morning of the third day, the house and outside grounds were renewed into activity as rooms were straightened and more tables made from sawhorses and wood panels. The Tres Lolas wove among the round and rectangular-shaped tables, giving orders, directing placement of chairs and lights.
By early morning the courtyard looked ready for a wedding party with white tablecloths and strings of white lights draped along the stucco walls. While the children of the hacienda gathered bunches of flowers and helped the women pull back the lower leaves to adorn vases for the tables, the children of the Barangay worked on the fringes of the lawn, carving wood with long, sharp knives. Julia couldn’t look their way for fear of seeing a finger instead of wood chips flicker to the ground.
Before noon Julia was dressed in another black dress and waiting on the lawn with the mourners, who after the days and night together felt like family to her. There was the woman Julia had met in the jeepney on the road to San Juan, who came with her entire family. The women she’d made jam with now welcomed her as one of their own, including her in stories of their husbands and boyfriends and teasing her about Markus. She also spoke more with the old soldier with the green ribbon—who said nothing of Takada’s visit, but instead continued to tell war stories through Markus’s or Mara’s translation. The children of the hacienda brought her wreaths of flowers and drawings of a light-haired woman on the plantation.
Her “bodyguards” were ever near. They slept on the veranda outside her bedroom when she slept, and once she peeked out to see their innocent faces at deep rest while Emman smoked on the steps, taking a turn at guard duty. Emman was always on the fringe, at times serious and looking like a younger Amang Tenio, at other times smiling or telling jokes to gain her attention.
Julia invited the lone girl in the group, Grace, into her room and showed her dresses and jewelry. Grace carefully touched necklaces, earrings, and a bottle of perfume. She hugged Julia tightly when Julia gave her a yellow blouse that mostly fit the girl. The boys teased Grace over her scented perfume, but continually came to smell her despite her punches to their arms.
As Julia joined the others on the front lawn, she marveled at how quickly she’d come to know so many people, some who knew no English at all, but still she considered her friends. They’d sung together, slept side by side, shared meals, and reorganized bouquets of flowers. Julia had learned mahjong late in the night with Markus, Mara, her cousins Francis and Othaniel, and some villagers. And of course, she felt a further closeness with Raul, Markus, Mang Berto and Aling Rosa, and the Tres Lolas. She wondered if Raul would begin courting Mara—she loved the way they used the word. Markus told her that dating was less prevalent than in the States; many still abided by the tradition of courting a woman with the intention of marriage.
The same chromeplated jeepney backed up to the walkway, and the black coffin was carried from the house where her grand-father had lived for twenty-five years. Mang Berto stood beside the black Buick parked in front of the house, awaiting Julia and the three old sisters. The other mourners in their black attire loaded into cars, jeepneys, and tricycles. Those from the Barangay crammed into the back of a farm truck.
Mang Berto followed the jeepney on the long road to the village church. The style was that of many Spanish churches and reminded Julia of the hacienda house as well. The red tiles were faded and a few broken; the white stucco was streaked from years of weather and damaged with pockmarks and chunks broken from the smooth lathed walls.
The Tres Lolas fussed with their dresses and hats as they climbed from the car. Julia walked ahead, up the stone steps, as if drawn inside b
y some force. Her grandmother had come here to light candles and pray, and her grandmother’s mother and the mothers before them. Her grandparents had married within these walls, and Julia’s own mother was christened here before being sent to the States. Her own history was within this land and the walls of this church.
The tile floor was worn in the aisles, though clean and polished. The ceiling was ornate, with murals of celestial settings; around the outer walls were depictions of the Stations of the Cross. Light streamed through arched gothic windows, and long wooden and bronze chandeliers hung from the ceiling. Outside, the church bells rang in deep resounding tones.
Julia wandered among the familiar faces already in the church, touching their arms in greeting. There was a great depth of peace in this place, and she knew she’d return here before leaving, just to sit and rest awhile.
Mara came and linked arms with her. “Let us light a candle for your grandfather,” her cousin said. “And I will light a candle for you and what you must decide for the future.”
“What I must decide?” Julia gazed up at a mural on the wall depicting Jesus weeping tears of blood in a lush garden.
“About your place in this life.”
Julia didn’t argue this time. The need filled her—a need for guidance from a source beyond herself. There’d been too many years of trying to formulate her own life, reach her own dreams, create her own happiness. None of it worked. She had ended up losing or giving up all she’d tried to gain.
The table was covered in candles, many already flickering down to their wicks. Mara reached into a basket of candles, lit one, and set it into an empty space, then closed her eyes and held the rosary beads in her hands as her lips moved silently. She then lit another and prayed again.
Julia took a candle, lit it, and wondered if God could see them there. As she set it down, she felt an overwhelming sense that He did indeed.
They walked the center aisle toward the intricate gold, porcelain, and ivory altar, in front of which her grandfather’s coffin now rested; a bittersweet yet cherished sight. Giant bouquets adorned the edges of the steps, and large wreaths stood on easels along the side aisles. The organ began to play, echoing richly from long brass pipes. The altar above the coffin was intricate with its design of gold, porcelain, and ivory.
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