Orchid House

by Cindy Martinusen-Coloma

  Manalo hadn’t planned to involve anyone except Timeteo. Now all his men would know, which meant that unless he instructed them directly not to speak of it—which would incite more curiosity and at some date in the future might endanger them—he had to carry on this plan knowing that Comrade Pilo might hear of it.

  “I trust Lon,” Manalo mused aloud.

  “Yes. But it shows the harshness of these times that we must even consider the loyalty of our own men. We would have not questioned it before.”

  Manalo nodded. “We will do this meeting, but I don’t trust this situation.”

  “We’ll take extra precautions.”

  “We always do,” Manalo said with a wry grin.

  “We’ll take extra, extra precautions.”

  “Yeah, you better start praying to that God of yours.”

  Manalo had actually seen a Bible among Timeteo’s belongings since they’d begun sharing a tent. It was worn and had lines marked throughout. He’d been going to bed before the others for maybe a year or so. Now Manalo knew why.

  Timeteo gave him a strangely sheepish look. “Who would’ve thought you’d be saying that to me?”

  “What changed you?” Manalo asked.

  “My wife.”

  Manalo raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me. How does a whore lead you to Jesus?”

  Anger flashed over Timeteo’s face.

  “I’m sorry,” Manalo said, putting up a hand. But the woman was a prostitute. What did Timeteo expect?

  “She was forced into it by her father as a girl. The life was destroying her. I went to her for more than sex. After a while, I went only to talk. We both were seeking answers beyond what our lives consisted of. I gave her some money, and a Christian group helped her train as a seamstress.”

  Manalo stared at his oldest friend for a long time. All the jokes and references about his “wife” had been to cover up that his heart had softened beyond that of even a normal man, let alone a rebel fighter. He shook his head. “Just when I thought I’d seen and heard it all . . .”

  MANG BERTO SLEPT UNDER A TREE WITH THE LARGE CARABAO, Mino-Mino, sniffing at his stomach. Emman approached the old man with gentle footsteps across the grass, hoping he wouldn’t spook the massive animal and cause it to trample the dozing figure.

  Mino-Mino suddenly bit on to Mang Berto’s hat and flung it up and down in her teeth, sending the old man into fits of laughter. He jumped up and began a tug-of-war with the carabao. His hat escaped the jaws of the cow, but not without deep indentations and wet slobber.

  “I thought you were asleep,” Emman said as he reached him.

  Mino-Mino lumbered off with a nonplused look in his droopy eyes.

  “I was faking it,” Mang Berto said with a laugh, leaning his hand against the trunk of the tree. “Seeing how close that old girl would come. Curiosity isn’t only for cats and people, you know.Did you ever hear about the old carabao Rio Grande who lived near the fishponds?”

  “Rio Grande, like the river between the United States and Mexico?” Emman knew that name from some Westerns he’d watched.

  “That very one, yes indeed. He was an old relative of Mino-Mino, perhaps her grandfather. In a village about ten kilometers from here, there lived a boy, eight years of age or so. He lived with his deaf uncle who took him in after his parents died. Oh, that’s a tragic story in itself.”

  Mang Berto dabbed his forehead with his handkerchief and leaned close. “Now a deaf uncle might sound good when you have no one else, but this was a mean old man. He loved to drink and sometimes disappeared for days, only to return in a terrible state.The boy made a few friends and created a lot of trouble in the village— oh, he could be a bad kid, that one.

  “His teacher started walking him to school every day to make sure he went. She said he was brilliant, which he liked very much to hear, especially because she was pretty, and smelled good to boot.

  “The boy loved stories and reading. His dead parents had left two books, and both were in English: Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad and Kidnapped by Robert Lewis Stevenson. He read those books again and again until the sentences were not such a struggle to decipher. And so for a year, the boy stayed with his uncle. Until the day he met Rio Grande.

  “His uncle was sleeping after being carried home that morning by his friends, and the boy was reading a new book, a gift from the teacher. The book was about gunfighters in the Old West of Arizona. Suddenly an old carabao put his whole long face up to his horns through the window of the boy’s room.”

  Mang Berto cleared his throat and tried using a young boy’s voice. “‘Well, hello there. I’m going to name you Rio Grande. What can I do for you?’”

  Emman couldn’t help but smile.

  “Old Rio Grande couldn’t speak, of course, but he stared at him so long, the boy knew what he wanted. That old carabao wanted to take him for a ride.”

  Mang Berto smiled widely.

  “And so just like that, the boy gathered his things and wrote a note for his teacher. Then he tucked the book into his knapsack, put a flatbrimmed straw hat on his head, and climbed onto the broad smooth back of Rio Grande.

  “The boy rode on that carabao all through town and beyond. Many came to see the sight of a traveling carabao with a boy on its back. The sun beat down upon the boy, who had forgotten to bring a canteen or anything to eat.”

  Emman thought of the many times he’d been in the jungle without his canteen. It was a terrible feeling.

  “At long last, Rio Grande came to a long fishpond. The boy stayed on the carabao’s back, though he dropped his knapsack on the shore. When the brown muddy water reached Rio’s stomach, the boy stood up and dove right in. The boy swam and even drank that muddy water, he was so thirsty. After swimming awhile, he crawled out upon the warm grass and went to sleep.

  “A voice woke him. ‘Can I help you?’ He thought it was his mother at first. But this wasn’t a weathered woman of the sea; this was a refined Filipina in a crisp dress and parasol blocking the sun from her smooth skin. She was not a beautiful woman, but her perfume smelled so pleasant—he did so love a nice-smelling woman—and her gloved fingers gave her such a delicate and proper air that he was intrigued to no end.

  “The boy jumped up and wiped the grass from his back. He gave his name and introduced Rio Grande. The woman stared at him and then at Rio Grande. The boy stared back. He’d never seen a woman so sophisticated and wearing such beautiful clothing. He noticed her horse-drawn buggy, how white it was. Even her horse was white.

  “As the boy and woman stood silently observing each other, a loud noise filled the air. A strange contraption came zipping down the dirt road with a plume of smoke rising behind. It was a motorcycle, but the boy had never seen a motorcycle before. He stood in awe and fear at the speed and appearance, deciding it must be some kind of mechanical horse. The motorcycle suddenly stopped, skidding to the side. The woman’s horse jumped and reared and didn’t calm until the engine was turned off.

  “‘You might come in a little slower next time,’ the woman said with a calm smile on her face.

  “The couple met in an embrace that shut out all things around them. Then the young man noticed the boy. ‘Who are you?’

  “‘He is my new friend,’ the young woman said.

  “‘Greetings, new friend. What do you think of my new toy?’

  “‘The boy could not speak; he was still in such awe of the metal horse.

  “‘You like it that much? Very good, very good indeed. I will give you a ride home if you like. Where do you live?’

  “The woman interrupted with an invitation to their picnic. She

  then said to her husband, ‘You will thank me many times for this in the future. This boy is here for us.’

  “From a basket she pulled clay pots of savory rice and foods he’d never tasted before. The boy watched and, though his stomach groaned with hunger, copied their polite manners instead of shoving fistfuls of food into his mouth as he wished.

&nbs
p; “‘Have you ever worked as a house boy?’ the woman asked. ‘Or in a mechanics garage?’

  “The boy shook his head, but smoothed down his hair and stood up all the taller.

  “‘Would you like to live here and work for us?’

  “‘What about Rio Grande?’ the boy asked.

  “‘I think he’ll like living here just fine,’ she said, pointing to the pond.

  The old carabao looked so happy the boy thought he saw him grin.

  Mang Berto slapped his leg dramatically. “And that is how Rio Grande found his place, and the boy as well. It didn’t stop the hard times, the struggles, and the challenges. The boy later fought in a war and barely survived. But what was important was that the boy knew where he belonged after that. He even found a wonderful woman to love him, and sort of tricked her into marrying him.”

  Emman looked at Mang Berto suspiciously. “Is that boy an old man now?”

  “Well, funny you should say that . . . yes, he is.”

  Mang Berto was the funniest old guy Emman had ever met. “He doesn’t happen to love old cars, does he?”

  Mang Berto put his half-chomped hat back on his head. “Well, I’d have to ask, but I’m assuming that he does. Now were you just passing by, or did you come to find me?”

  Emman had nearly forgotten why he’d come searching for Mang Berto in the first place.

  “Yes, I was searching for you. I need to see Amang this afternoon. He is in the woods collecting some herbs for Father Tomas. Could I borrow one of the tricycles?”

  “Hello, Mang Berto and Emman.” Julia walked up the pathway, followed by five “soldiers.” They weren’t being discreet, but they were certainly keeping Julia in sight. “What are you two up to?”

  “Oh, telling stories when I should be working. Emman is heading off in one of the tricycles to see Amang Tenio.”

  Emman hoped Julia wouldn’t think he was shirking his duty. “I will be gone a short time. I am leaving the others with you.”

  “I actually hoped to talk to Amang Tenio again,” Julia said. “I could drive you in one of the cars—if that’s okay with you and if Mang Berto allows it?”

  “Who am I to stop you?” Mang Berto said in his jovial manner.

  But Emman remembered how Amang Tenio had told him not to let Julia leave the hacienda grounds. He’d said that for at least the next week, more guards were to be posted. And already someone had gotten past him; Emman hadn’t been present during the storm when that betrayer had come to the house. The foolish women had even opened the door before Raul came—Miss Julia could have been killed!

  Raul and Amang Tenio had ordered that nothing happen to the man, the spy, who lived in the village. He owned a carinderia in town and admitted helping Ka Manalo and his men for weeks, even giving them shelter during the storm. He said it was because they had threatened to destroy his little café. But upon hearing of the many atrocities done by the Red Bolos, he’d come to the hacienda house to tell what he knew and seek refuge. Emman didn’t think that was any reason to forgive him for having helped their enemies, even if he had switched sides now.

  All this meant he and his soldiers should be on further alert. Well . . . he wondered what Magnum, P. I. would do.

  “Emman?” Miss Julia said.

  He made his decision. “Okay.”

  Bok gave Emman a look of concern.

  “We’d better bring the others along with us,” Emman said, which made Bok’s eyes widen all the more. Emman didn’t know whether that was from fear of getting in trouble or excitement that he’d get to ride in a car with Miss Julia. Probably it was a mixture of both.

  “Okay,” Julia said as they walked toward the garage. “We’ll be back in a few hours.”

  “Be careful,” Mang Berto yelled after them. “And Emman . . .” He switched to Tagalog. “Perhaps before you leave here, Mino-Mino will stick his head through your window and take you where you are supposed to go.”

  Emman looked in the direction that Mino-Mino had disappeared. He didn’t need a carabao to give him guidance. He could take care of Julia, and someday he’d be able to do it all by himself.

  TWENTY-THREE

  The “soldiers” climbed with their guns inside the car. They all had rifles now, except for little Kiko. Julia wanted to put the rifles in the trunk—she’d never feel comfortable seeing children with guns. But they insisted that as soldiers, it was required.

  Six kids and Julia squeezed into the car, some sitting on laps or dangling out the windows.

  “Where is Grace?” Julia asked, missing the lone girl in the bunch.

  Young Amer said, “Oh, she’s becoming a regular girl. It’s gross.”

  Ever since the Red Bolo group had invaded the hacienda on the day of the funeral, the children had replaced their wooden guns with real firearms. They were armed bodyguards. They were her bodyguards. The hacienda’s future army forces already trained in warfare instead of playing baseball or chess or video games. Their lives were cockfights, amulets, guns, and fighting. And protecting their doña.

  She looked across little Kiko to Emman and asked, “Where to?”

  “Go toward town, and then I will tell you where to turn.”

  For all their excitement, the troupe drove in silence. The children in back were simply excited to be along for the ride and settled back, enjoying the luxurious car. The ones lucky enough to be by the windows extended their arms out the sides, letting the wind rush and lift their small hands like birds in the air current.

  Emman was the only one who kept his serious demeanor, sometimes glancing to see if she noticed. Julia wished she could give him a ferocious hug and tell him to have more fun.

  She turned on the radio and found a station playing a mix of Filipino songs and American oldies. When “Lollipop, Lollipop” came on, the children started singing along softly. Julia joined in, and soon they were singing loudly and laughing as they yelled, “Pop! Ba-ba-bum-bum.” Even Emman sang along, with his head turned out toward the landscape and a grin that he tried to cover.

  Bok leaned forward from the backseat to ask her loudly, “Miss Julia, what does o-kay-do-kay-artay-cho-kay mean?”

  “Say it again?” Julia asked.

  He repeated it faster, and Julia said, “Okie dokie artichokey?”

  “Yes, yes, that’s it! What does that mean?”

  “It’s just a funny way of saying ‘okay.’”

  Bok laughed and repeated it a few times, with the others in the backseat chiming in. “Miss Julia,” he called up again. “Is hap-py-go- luck-y a funny way to say ‘happy’?”

  Julia glanced back at the humor gleaming in the boy’s expression. “Yes, I guess it is.”

  “I saw on TV this guy call his son happy-go-lucky, but when I called Emman that, he punched me in the arm.”

  They all laughed at that.

  A slow Nat King Cole song came on next, and the kids all sang gently.

  I’m happy, Julia thought. I’m so completely happy in this moment.

  Life held the most unexpected surprises. Some filled with pain, and others filled with such enormous wonder she could cry for the beauty of their discovery. It seemed that her old life had never existed, and yet how wonderful that it did. Her past was as much hers as the hacienda’s past. It was all just part of the journey to today and into tomorrow. Julia had to go through the pain—face it, feel it, look at it, and then somehow she was able to accept what it had brought to her and heal. But the healing didn’t bring her to where she’d been; it took her someplace new.

  Emman directed Julia outside of town and along a curving road into the wooded mountains not far from the rough road of Barangay Mahinahon. This road, paved years ago, was pocked with potholes and washedout edges. Julia drove carefully, mindful of the lack of seat belts. She also didn’t want Mang Berto to have a heart attack over one of his damaged babies.

  The boy pointed to a smooth pull-off area, and Julia turned, seeing a small road cut into the jungle. They drove down the secl
uded road for some time until it ended in a small clearing. Emman was sitting on the window frame watching for Amang Tenio when a surprised expression came over his face.

  Around the corner they encountered a half-ruined house and a group of men with weapons in their hands.

  “Turn around, Miss Julia,” Emman said under his breath. “Boys, get your weapons.”

  The children sprang into action.

  Before Julia could turn the wheel, she saw two armed men step into the narrow road fifty yards behind them.

  “Wait a minute,” Emman said.

  And then she saw Amang Tenio.

  He put his cane in the air. “What are you doing here?” he said angrily, first to Julia and then to Emman.

  “You said you were gathering herbs.”

  “You had instructions. They were not to be questioned. Emman, you’ve brought Julia into the exact danger we’re trying to avoid.”

  Emman held his gun protectively at his chest and stood up further in the car as if to protect her.

  Julia realized this was some kind of summit between warring leaders. She saw a man standing where Amang Tenio had been, his guerrilla fighters a dozen feet behind him. An equal number of Barangay Mahinahon men faced them. But the two men on the road were not their allies; she knew this in a moment.

  Even as she saw young Bok jump from the car with his rifle in hand, Julia didn’t fully register danger.

  “Boys, stay around the car,” Amang Tenio said in a firm tone. The old man moved steadily back to the meeting of men.

  WHAT KIND OF A PLOY WAS THIS? MANALO WONDERED. IT MADE no sense for Amang Tenio to request this gathering and then bring the American woman straight into the midst of negotiations. The old sage was regarded with respect and honor, but Manalo had seen enough corruption in men of integrity to know not to trust anyone. The American woman and a carload of armed children arriving just when the old man had said he wanted to negotiate a peaceful solution for her to remain at the hacienda.

  Manalo wanted Comrade Pilo to be taken down, and the Barangay Mahinahon could do this. So why the woman, here, now?