State of War

by Ninotchka Rosca

  It had not been a bad deal, Eliza thought as she went through the town’s market. Not bad at all. She marched through a ring of vendors, ignoring death skulls, whistles, red rattlers, tin horns. Fate was fate; there was little one could do about it—though one did try, until the day her father-in-law, silver-haired and patrician-featured, entered her bedroom to tell her that his son was tired of his Arabian horse, his London-made wardrobe, and his wife, all at the same time. The servants no longer recognized her; the dining room table remained empty and the swimming pool had been drained. The bunch of keys she carried in her purse could no longer unlock familiar doors. Worse, there were no records at all of her marriage. She had taken what her husband’s father had offered—mostly, her clothes and jewels—and resorted once more to that building near the downtown cathedral, for she had no wish to carry to full term the child of her husband’s wayward seed. Then, pawning her jewels, selling her clothes, she had drifted from day to day, wondering where Anna was and why her mother had written such a harsh fate for her.

  Batoyan treated her well. That alone would have kept her by his side. But he also shared what power he had, bringing home, so she might admire his cleverness, documents, proposals, and decrees and bragging about the squeeze. Men born to wealth pleaded their cause before him, him. She had discovered the pleasure of it by accident. Once, thumbing idly through his papers, she had found her ex-husband’s name in one of the proposals. Immediately, without even thinking of it, she had picked up a pencil, marked a huge X on the folder, thrown away the pencil, and, seizing the papers with both hands, ripped every sheet to pieces. How much of a coward everyone was, she discovered then—for no one asked Batoyan what had happened, where the papers were, and so on and so forth. No one, of course, dared approach the Commander who, during that period, was in the grip of profound sadness, convinced that his most recent facelift had slanted his eyes too much so that he looked like an adult mongoloid.

  If the truth be told, Eliza said, laughing as she danced to the rhythm of the drums one-two, one-two-three, he did look mongoloid, even before the facelift.

  The transvestite, opening and closing his eyes with delight, said but of course, it was so much fun, finding her once again; and everyone did whisper about the Commander’s looks, his wife’s looks, and his mother’s looks.

  In due time, Eliza said, she installed herself at a table in the InterCon coffee shop and thrice a week, over breakfast and three margaritas, disposed of the fates of various individuals. That young man, for instance, she said, pointing to one of the many handbills stuck on the town’s walls and storefronts. He had been a new graduate when he had brought her his American diploma and had begged for a teaching position commensurate to his degree in education. Despite his protest, she had put his name down as a possible assistant executive vice-president of the Science Center. “Don’t be stupid,” she had told him. “What does your degree have to do with it? There are no scientists at the Center—only positions and money.” Months later, while listening to the radio, she had heard the young man pontificate on his theory of a cosmic rip in the atmosphere over the islands, a hole which allowed radiation from the Sagittarian constellation to bathe the Palace, conferring miraculous abilities and powers on the country’s leaders. That had snowballed. Sometime later, the Commander’s wife assured a visiting foreign dignitary that she and her husband could focus a mysterious cosmic energy to zap all the nuclear weapons in the world, if they so wished. Eliza had to remind herself to close her mouth; at least, her protégé had been creative.

  “But he is speaking tomorrow, isn’t he?” the transvestite said, looping his arms about her as they prepared to tango down the road.

  Eliza nodded brightly. “The Commander’s wife thought it brilliant to include an educational component to the program.” She laughed and swept her eyes through the spectators, expecting to see Anna and Adrian.

  “Sssh!” The transvestite hurriedly pressed against her and steered her to the middle of the road. Two soldiers in combat uniform appeared, disappeared, appeared again, threading through the crowd.

  “Oh, it was such fun,” she said. She had altered what she could. A nuclear physicist became administrator of fish ponds in Laguna province; a dyslexic, chair of the Board of Censors (Print); a fashion designer, head of the Museum of Modern Arts; a law school graduate who had flunked the bar four times, director of the Film Center with its enormous budget and unaudited grants; a real estate broker, chair of the Land Reform Program . . . These were not really part of the squeeze which so delighted Colonel Batoyan: those papers begging for the Commander’s signature which opened the public treasury and poured money into private enterprise. Batoyan, by this time, had acquired the nickname “Colonel Ten Percent” and Eliza would tease him. Laughing, he would shove his cap on his head, salute her, and pick up the new swagger stick she had given him. Then, he would strut in the pink living room of the pink mansion he had built for her in the suburbs. Up and down, to and fro, his short legs scissoring, his cap at a rakish angle while she laughed so hard her maids were scandalized.

  “How absolutely delightful,” the transvestite said, “But do lower your voice, darling. Here—” He snatched a bottle of rum from a passerby and offered it to her.

  She took two swigs and handed the bottle back. The transvestite gathered her hair from her nape and shook it.

  “You’re sweating, love.”

  “It’s hot. But let's please not stop dancing,” she said. “Please, please, please . . .

  “Tell me the rest. We’ll dance to the music of your words, love; only tell me the rest of it.”

  “He saw it,” she said, pouting. She let the transvestite hold her again and swing her in a slow waltz. “He, of all people. He alone.”

  She had tried to explain. She was merely weaving a bright blue comic thread through the dullness of the Commander’s reign. For her own private enjoyment. Nothing more.

  “But laughter, dear, is subversive,” Amor had said.

  “Surely no one takes his rule seriously!”

  He had looked at her. “Who doesn’t? The world? Washington? Tokyo?”

  She could not answer. She felt abandoned.

  “Haven’t you noticed that I have no sense of humor?” he had asked.

  After which, of course, as though to disprove his words, he took to sending her love notes in which he conjugated his name: amo, amas, ama . . . amaretto. Six ludicrous letters on creamy linen paper, each handwritten and delivered in broad daylight by a caravan of six military cars, sirens wailing. Unfortunately, the last one was handed to Colonel Batoyan who had assumed that the tumult was on his behalf. He had ripped open the envelope, scarcely noticing the name written on it, and in a few seconds he was looking so stricken Eliza thought he had swallowed his tonsils. The silence lengthened; Eliza munched on slices of green mangoes and sipped Coke.

  Abruptly, the colonel stomped his foot. “You taught him Spanish,” he screamed. “You wouldn’t teach me Spanish!”

  He whirled; his eyes darted about the room and found his gun belt. Holy cow! Eliza was on her feet, sprinting for the front door, as he lunged across the room. She was laughing so hard her belly ached and she had to run bent over. The first shot was a thunder at her heels. She was dead, she thought, and found that so funny she nearly stopped running. Then she saw the vase on its stand beside the door disintegrate in slow motion, shards and dust falling to the carpet. She tripped on her high heels; fell against the door, her hands clawing at the lock. She had whizzed through and had slammed it behind her when a second shot resounded. A tremendous crash followed. One of the bay windows was gone. She was screaming, by then, for the garden boy to open, open, the gate. The Benz was in the driveway, being washed and polished, and she nearly tore its door handle off in her haste. She dove in, sprawling in the front seat, pulled herself up, felt the ignition key in place, and turned on the engine. What obscene wish for death made her stop and look around, she didn’t know—but there was Batoyan, legs apa
rt, knees bent, both arms stretched out full length at shoulder level, hands wrapped about his .45 pistol. She stuck out her tongue at him. “You can’t even shoot straight, you son-of-a- goat!” A third shot; the car’s rear window exploded. She gunned the engine and rammed the car through the half-open gate, sending the boy scampering over the gardenia hedge.

  She didn’t slow down until she was at Anna’s apartment. After parking the car, she had rushed up the stairs and thrown the door open. The silence in the room was so thick she froze. She was about to call out—Anna—when a fluid movement over the sofa drew her eyes. At first, she thought it was a black veil hung to dry and stirred by the wind. But the next instant, the image shifted. It was Anna’s hair, loose from its usual knot at the back of her head, falling to her flanks, covering her back, and spilling to the foot she rested on the floor while Adrian’s hand caressed the thigh that straddled him.

  She didn’t think she would see such a thing, she confessed to Colonel Amor later. Such beauty—in this day and age. No sound. Only the intensity of Adrian’s eyes as he looked into that face hidden from Eliza by the black cascade of hair.

  She was still in shock over the discovery when Amor’s men found her driving down Roxas Boulevard and with their sirens and hand gestures had made her stop. The men, austere with words, had asked her to move to the passenger side of the car while a soldier took the steering wheel. Then, escorted by four patrol jeeps, she had been taken to his headquarters.

  She had been served dinner. The colonel had appeared for dessert, apologizing for his lateness. “No rest for the righteous,” he had said. She had blurted out what she had seen, at the time not knowing what to think of it, what to make of it. “Such beauty,” she had said, savoring the words.

  “Foolhardy,” he said, “to leave doors unlocked.”

  The shooting had been reported to him, of course. “I’m afraid we will lose one extraordinary officer,” he said, dropping a folder on her lap.

  It was a listing of Batoyan’s transactions: services rendered, amounts turned over, check numbers, banks, dates, signatures . . .

  “We don’t usually pay attention to graft,” Amor said. “On the other hand, knowledge of it is pretty good leverage. Especially when the officer involved has something one wants. Such beauty . . .” In his mouth, the words became filthy. “It is a beginning,” he added.

  Or the end. She had not wanted to be involved at all, not at all. But there was no helping that now. The colonel, the more fool he was, wanted her, or wanted a version of her he kept in his mind. The fool. He had said quite bluntly that, first, he wanted the man Anna kept hidden. Eliza’s lips had moved about Adrian’s name but the colonel had twitched impatiently.

  “Guevarra,” he said.

  She had never heard of him, certainly not from Anna. “Why not tail her?” she asked brightly, still playing the game—her game.

  “Uh-uh. He’s an expert. He’d smell it and disappear. It has to be you and through you, your friend. Worm it out of her.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “So I can be promoted,” he said, grinning. “And you’ll be right by my side. After all, the professor’s dead and I need someone to—”

  “Feed you your lines?”

  “How sharp you are. I will be the envy of everyone. Under your tutelage, I shall rise from pinnacle to pinnacle. Until I am the Commander.” He drew himself up, raised his chin. “What fun! That shall be a festival to end all festivals.”

  Shit, she muttered, shit. “Are you sure I’m the right person to guide you, Colonel?”

  He frowned. “Don’t dissemble. I hate people who lie to me. Don’t pretend you’re stupid.”

  “What if I am?” She nearly laughed.

  He held up his hand. “First”—he ticked off the words on his fingers—“you marry into one of the richest families in the country; second, you get him to agree to turn you loose with enough money; third, you latch on to the Commander’s aide; fourth, you acquire more money and more power than his wife . . . Amazing luck for the daughter of a whore, I should say.”

  She turned deathly cold. Triple shit, she breathed to herself, twist facts around a little bit. . .

  “You’re wrong, you know,” she said tiredly. “But I won’t argue. I’ll need time.”

  “You’ll have it, dear,” he said, throwing his arm about her shoulder. “We have plenty of time.”

  He made reservations for her at the Hotel InterCon. When she was alone at last, she could shake her head at the magnitude of his error. But there was no arguing with the man; he saw what he wanted to see. She slept that night and, the following morning, sat at her table in the coffee shop. She had no plans, none at all, and could only wait for the world’s end.

  She was halfway through her breakfast when Batoyan appeared. He bowed to her, asked permission to join her, sat down at her nod, and ordered coffee for himself.

  “We’ve had a lot of fun,” he said. His voice seemed to have aged. She said nothing.

  “But we have to be serious now.”

  She looked at him. “They have a dossier on you.”

  He nodded. “I’ve suspected it. Strange things have happened. People shying away; my phone calls not returned. My friends in the military suddenly unavailable for poker.”

  “Will you survive?”

  He stirred milk into his coffee. “Not sure,” he said, after a while. “I can liquidate all my assets. Stash cash abroad. Also, I can ask around for a possible mission abroad.”

  “The house, too?”

  He nodded.

  “The car?”

  Again, he nodded. “Have to have that window repaired, though. Will you take it to the shop?”

  It was her turn to nod. She waited for him to mention the bank accounts, the jewels, odds and ends in her possession. There was no need to be embarrassed, she thought. She gave him a look of encouragement. Everything had been bartered, traded, bought and sold in this country since forever. Any process necessary for survival was respectable. There was no need for him to look so confused, so tentative; she would give him back everything happily, if only he survived.

  “I will need six months, at least,” he said heavily. A pause. He cleared his throat. “Will you come with me?”

  It was so unexpected that Eliza had to look around, wondering if she had heard right. She saw the dark-suited men, the handsome women, the white-clothed tables and red-upholstered chairs, the waiters in their white-and-ocher uniforms, and, finally, Batoyan himself in his simplicity. Sweat beaded his forehead.

  “I don’t think I can survive without . . .” His voice broke.

  Eliza reached out then and, with her right hand, covered his left. After a while, her palm grew warm against his skin.

  7

  Day’s end found Anna and Rafael still on the beach, watching as sea and sand turned into matching red-orange sheets and the shadows uncurled from the base of coconut trees to stretch inland. After a while, Rafael rose, inclined his head, and Anna followed. They traced the shoreline, walking into a salty wind. Anna did not ask where they were going nor how far; as Rafael would say, everything that had to be known was known in due time.

  They saw the sun vanish; a wash of orange hung briefly in the sky before it darkened slowly into a luminous blue. The stars were already out when Anna saw a cluster of upended boats on the beach. Past the boats, inland, were bamboo houses, with thatch roofs, their doorways and windows golden with light from kerosene lamps. Rafael slipped past the first circle of houses and stopped before a hut deep in the fishing village. He called out a name softly. A girl in a cotton slip appeared, peered at them, and waved them up the bamboo ladder.

  Inside, the family—old man, husband, wife, and three children—had gathered in the central room. A cloth hammock slung near an inner doorway bulged with a baby’s shape.

  The old man, smiling, gestured for them to sit down. Though two long benches were set against opposite walls in the otherwise empty room, he himself sat cross-l
egged on the polished slats of the bamboo floor. Rafael folded his legs, acknowledged the rest of the family with nods and smiles. They smiled back briefly before scattering—the children into what seemed to be a small bedroom; the woman to the kitchen in the back. The husband walked over to the cradle and, sitting himself on the floor, placed his hand flat against its side and began to rock it gently.

  “All goes well with you, Elder?” Rafael asked.

  The old man glanced briefly at Anna, then at Rafael. He sighed. “One shipment was intercepted,” he said slowly. “The boat ran into a patrol and had to veer away. It docked here. We have taken it to the—the usual place.” His dim eyes again darted at Anna.

  Rafael frowned. “Who will do the delivery?” he asked.

  “It is a problem,” the old man admitted. “No one has papers. And there are checkpoints.”

  “Is it ready?”

  The old man considered, his gnarled hands busy with a crumpled pack of cigarettes. “Not for two hours more. We have it guarded. But we can’t work on it now. Soon. Soon.”

  “It has to get there.”

  “Don’t I know it, son? We have managed to get a jeep and gasoline. We’re still looking for a driver.” He eyed Rafael pointedly.

  Rafael sighed. Nodded. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs. “Shall we trade problems?” he asked. His head jerked slightly toward Anna. “This one should not be here,” he said. “But being here, cannot leave at the moment.”

  The old man nodded.

  “When you next see her, I may or may not be with her. In either case, she will have to be ferried to the next island to—but you know to whom. Will that be a problem?”

  The old man looked a query at his son. The young man wriggled the fingers of the hand on which he rested his chin.

  “We have a volunteer,” the old man said. “But if she doesn’t make it to the place, what can we do?”

  “Your son will have to find her. It doesn’t matter where. So long as she’s on the island. But I would try the cemetery first.”