Nothing of what had happened so far had been expected. Adrian, Anna, and she, Eliza, had come to the Festival for a measure of relief—to forget, they had told one another, the city and all its problems (meaning, of course, their own) for a little while, just three days. Instead, here were all the problems still, heartache and headache both, having stowed away in the overnight bags and backpacks and waist pouches, every single troublesome one. And the Festival’s perimeter of safety had turned out to be no larger than a ten-block-long and five-block-wide plaza, with the church at one end and the town hall at the other. A step outside and, immediately, the stench of war was in one’s nostrils, unmistakable, inescapable.
A bare-chested man sat up on the buri mat and Eliza recognized with a start the night’s transvestite. He grinned, got to his feet, hooked thumbs into his blue jeans’ waist, and hitched them up. He was a mature man, perhaps forty years old, and though he had shucked off his female persona, he still looked pleasant, his soft face an odd contrast to his muscular torso. Without a word, he left the room but was back almost immediately, carrying a tray of coffee and buttered pan de sal. The hot buns’ fragrance cleared her head somewhat.
“Hungry?” the man asked.
She nodded, already reaching for the food. The coffee was hot, freshly brewed, and smelled divine. And the buns were obviously homemade.
“Mimay makes great bread,” he said, reading her thoughts. He was eating as fast as she was.
“Who?”
“House owner. The one in yellow yesterday—uh, uh. You don’t remember.”
She lifted her shoulders apologetically, looking at him over the cup’s rim.
“Are you and your friends with the underground?” he asked suddenly, tearing a bun and stuffing half into his mouth. He did not look at her.
“What underground?”
He shrugged, concentrated on his chewing. “Have it your way,” he said after a while. “One picks up rumors here and there, from festival to festival. Whispers. Hell, everyone knows about it but no one wants to talk. We’re all living it up in a fort, anyway, and the enemy’s closing in.”
“Funny but when one does come across such creatures—you know, from the underground—they’re usually dead.” He laughed. “Maybe they become visible only when dead. I’ve seen a couple, displayed at a town square on another island. They were only children: boy-man, girl-woman. I have never understood what the fuss is all about. Just children. A feast for flies.”
Eliza returned the empty cup to the tray. “I don’t know about the underground,” she said. “It seems to me that if I—if you—if anyone wanted to do something, he or she would do it on his or her own.”
His eyebrows rose in mock surprise.
“Because—well,” Eliza chose her words carefully. “To resist is so dangerous one wouldn’t wish to involve anyone else.”
He laughed. “You have a generous heart.” A moment’s silence as he studied her. “This Festival—it doesn’t feel right.” He raised his eyes to the windows and sighed.
“I don’t understand.”
“When you’ve been to as many festivals as I have, you get a feel for it. This one now—too many things happening, too many soldiers, too many scuttlings in the dark. I get goosebumps when I think of it, when I seriously think. . With the tip of a forefinger, he drew an invisible line on the mat. “This was the house where your friend was last night.”
“Is he—?”
“He’s fine. They took him to the governor’s house. He’s probably sleeping it off, whatever it was they gave him. And here, here, here— houses where soldiers are billeted. Here, the house which was raided. All in a narrow arc about this space. And guess what this is. A stage. Where the closing ceremonies are supposed to take place.” He frowned at what he had laid out. “I’m thinking of leaving. Want to join me?”
“No,” she said. “My friends are here.”
“But then again, I’ll miss the fun, whatever it is. I won’t have stories to take back with me.” His voice changed pitch, became higher, self-indulgent. “You know how we are. My friends would kill me if I came back without gossip. Lord, I haven’t even made any conquest yet. They’d be so disappointed.” He giggled.
“I wish they’d kill Amor,” she said bitterly.
He ignored her. “I certainly don’t want to miss this morning’s event. And, chica, you shouldn’t. After all, this slut’s your protégé. I just love government functionaries. They are such sluts.” He giggled again and, just as abruptly, changed his tone. “Perhaps you’ll have your chance, child, in the confusion. I wish I could do it but I don’t have the guts. I could help you, though, if you really want to do it. There are about a hundred of us here—you know, men like me. And we all are marvelous gossips.”
“How will that help?”
“I should be able to tell you where he is at any given time. Or where to find—shall we call those things implements?”
“Why?”
“He killed a friend. A benign old professor, the only one who spoke up for me when I got into trouble at the Jesuit school. Not my friend, really. When he tried to defend me, I was surprised. I hardly knew the guy—and he wasn’t, you know, like me. I suppose that was what killed him—his habit of speaking out when it’s better to be quiet. Left six children orphaned. He was a widower. Nothing much I could do for the kids but—”
“All right,” Eliza said. “I’ll keep it in mind.” She laughed. “I can’t believe we’re talking like this. I’m just an ordinary person. I feel ordinary, probably smell ordinary. But I’ll keep it in mind. After all, obligations are obligations. You have yours, I have mine. Let’s hope the twains meet.” She shook her head. Foolish, all these dreams of death.
“I have to fix my face,” the man said. He circled to the far wall and slid open the doors of a built-in closet. “Mimay has tons of gowns.” He flicked a hand at the clothes. “Want one? She has pink, green, turquoise, garnet . . . Lord, you name it.”
Eliza declined. She dusted off her T-shirt and jeans. “I’ll wash,” she said, “and remain what I am.”
“Bathroom downstairs, near the kitchcn. Ignore the maids; there’s no one home. I’ll use the bath up here.”
Half an hour later, he came down in a towering silver wig and a red beaded gown. His face was made up, the eyebrows arched, cheekbones defined, and his lips a perfect pink moue.
“That’s neat,” she said, “neat.”
“To the town hall, love,” he said, crooking his elbow. “And be sure to introduce me to this lovely deputy so-and-so. I could give him ideas. Such ideas!”
Outside, a flock of children burst into laughter at their appearance. The transvestite stuck his tongue out. The children scattered, the voices shrill as bird cries. There were too many of them, Eliza thought as she peered at them surreptitiously. The boys wore nothing but T-shirts and their tiny genitals swung freely; the girls wore camisole slips, straps edging down their slim shoulders. It seemed hardly possible that in a few years they would fill out and blossom into stupendous beauties—dark-haired, dark-eyed, skin reddish-brown. Right now, they were pests, sprouting out of the earth to run barefoot on dust roads, harking to the Festival whistles, or materializing behind trash bins to ogle Caucasians.
The drums had not started and the sparse crowd milled restlessly through the plaza. A steady stream of people headed for the town hall. Eliza’s and the transvestite’s appearance occasioned some applause and giggles—but for the most, the air was subdued, crisp with expectation, still restrained.
The town hall’s lobby had been transformed into a conference room, cracks on the wall plaster hidden by tall potted palms, the worn floor under a red carpet. Its mood of melancholic resignation contrasted oddly with the prefab seats with built-in audio systems which had been set up in the lower half of the lobby. Eliza shivered in the air conditioning, noting that the first seat rows were occupied by men in dark business suits. Half a dozen handsome youths, male and female, served as ushers and
they were so impeccably polite not one raised an eyebrow when the transvestite swept down the lobby and announced his name. After checking a list on his clipboard, a young man led them to the fourth row from the last. The transvestite, aware of the commotion his appearance had inspired, thanked the usher, smiled, and bowed to the left, the right, the front, the back, before arranging himself in his seat. In a loud voice, he informed Eliza that the speaker had seven Ph.D.s, two secretaries, and one translator in a booth somewhere to reduce his high-caliber English to plainer words—“for less gifted mortals like us.” He beamed.
Eliza recognized businessmen, industrialists, intellectuals from all regions of the country, this being—as the transvestite pointed out— the cultural high point of the Festival. “So foreigners will know we do know more than just eat, drink, and be merry.” He learned closer and whispered: “The man recommends projects to the Commander’s wife. An alternate route, you understand, when the barrier around himself can’t be pierced. So, don’t be impressed, darling. Most of the people here are failed businessmen. Looking for a way back to grace.” He giggled. “But there is your friend, way down front. Now, how did she get there while we’re here at the back?”
Eliza followed the direction of his look. It was Anna, in an aisle chair to the right, her legs crossed, face watchful. She read her expression at once, recognizing it for what Anna called “observing but not being engaged.” She was about to call her friend’s attention when a man made his way to the platform in front, walked to the lectern, and tapped the microphone.
“You have to use the earphones,” the transvestite said. “Not now. Later. Don’t slip them on. Just hold one close to your ear. That way you’ll hear what the speaker says and what the translator says. Don’t worry. It’s from English to English and back. You shall be most edified.” He laughed.
The man on the lectern greeted his audience. The lobby had filled up, all the seats were taken, and a spillover crowd stood at the fringe of the seat rows. After a few jokes, the man introduced the speaker and Eliza, smiling, recognized her protégé—much changed now though he was still a thin, dark man. Instead of the un-pressed cotton shirt and crumpled pants which had been his usual costume, he now wore a white sport suit over a lavender silk shirt which billowed over his pants’ waistband.
“The strategic intervention of authoritarian democratic bureaucratism,” he began, “could hasten the trajectory of the critical path of implementation of development plans.”
Eliza’s mouth opened.
From the earphones, a female voice issued: “Government support will ensure quicker implementation of development projects.”
For thirty minutes, the man went on in the same vein, as expressions of alarm, shock, and then despair flitted across the faces in the audience. When the man in front of her jiggled his earphones impatiently, a squeal escaped Eliza. The woman to her left was cursing steadily under her breath. The transvestite, on the other hand, listened in obvious delight, his eyes opening and closing in barely contained ecstasy. Now and then, at a particularly vile circumlocution, he breathed out a “yeah, baby!” and blew kisses toward the stage. But when Eliza chortled, he was quick to seize her knee and squeeze.
There was bewildered applause at the speech’s end, murmurs of most edifying, instructive, very intellectual, etc. An announcement was made that reactions from the floor were being accepted and no one should worry about his level of English for the translator could scale it up or down as needed. At this, a bearded man, miserable in his sleeveless shirt, stood up and tried to control the chattering of his teeth. He was obviously a stranger to the island, a Festival visitor.
After clearing his throat and hemming and hawing, he said: “I have observed that there is less and less land available, especially in the cities.”
The speaker stopped him and picked up his earphones. From her own set, Eliza heard the translation: “There is ongoing reduction of prime real estate, particularly in the urban areas.”
The speaker nodded. The man with the beard sighed.
“Even cemeteries are overcrowded. There’s barely enough space to bury a corpse. And the chances are, this will get worse with time.” From the earphones: “Even space allotted for the disposal of matter which has lost organic relevance is reaching null point. It has become a statistical difficulty to entomb such matter as needs encryptization. And the prognosis is toward an increasing gravity of the situation.”
The bearded man threw a terrified look at the earphones in his hands. But inhaling audibly, he went on: “I barely get orders for tombstones and angels anymore. There’s no room in the cemeteries.”
“Commissions for the production of elegiac sculpture are at a stage of nullity. Space for their proper display is not available.”
“Perhaps, the problem is caused by our burying the dead lying down. If we could convince people that being buried standing up is just as comfortable, we would solve the problem.” He sat down abruptly.
From the earphones: “The roots of our quandary lie in the tradition of encrypting remains horizontally. Astute re-education of our populace on the desirability of vertical burial can be a major step toward resolution of the problem.”
Silence. The speaker smiled, considered the problem. He grasped the edge of the lectern and leaned toward his audience which nervously leaned back. The transvestite said sotto voce: sock it to ’em, baby!
“Our esteemed colleague,” the speaker began, “has enunciated an illuminating summation and proposed resolution of a problem of significant proportions . . .”
F’rom the earphones: “Our friend has stated a problem and a possible solution.”
“However, if permission may be bestowed upon me by this aforesaid personality …
“If I may be allowed …
“. . . It would be to my utmost gratification to pursue the relentless induction of his proposition.”
“. . I’d like to follow his arguments to their logical conclusion.”
“Why be content with providing only the alternative of vertical sepulcherization? There are other, justified, preferences—options which may respond to the citizenry’s spectrum of desires while coincidentally providing resolutions to this quagmiric quandary. We could propose an edict, on the personal initiative of our most gracious Lady of Ladies, that our citizens be tendered the possibilities of vertical burial, or with knee joints folded, or in such a reposeful mode as would require the use of a piece of furniture for the posterior.”
The transvestite was writhing in his chair; Eliza had to clamp both hands to her mouth. She barely heard the translation: a choice of being buried upright, curled up, or seated.
“As a preventive measure, we shall also propose that, henceforth, all government projects and structures shall incorporate a designated area for the encryptization of matter of null organic relevance. So be it.”
A standing ovation. Shouts of bravo. The transvestite was screaming I love you! and blowing kisses with both hands at the speaker.
“Marvelous, isn’t he?” he yelled above the noise. “As deceased as the subject.” He turned his head toward the stage again and, raising his hands, clapped with great enthusiasm.
The audience poured out of the seat rows, some heading for the speaker while others made for the lobby doors. Eliza saw Anna walking away, edging through the crowd.
“Wait!” she yelled.
“Darling, darling,” the transvestite murmured, scandalized, as she pressed past him, knocked aside the restraining hands of an usher, and ran.
She caught up with Anna outside, on the wide portico.
“Did you see that? Did you see?” she called out eagerly. “I was responsible. I gave that man his job!”
“Oh, Eliza,” Anna said, turning away.
“What’s the matter? Didn’t you like it? A discussion of government policy?”
“Bodies and burials.” Anna started down the stairs, dragging Eliza along.
“Same thing,” she said, laughing.
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br /> “Don’t look now,” Anna said, glancing over her shoulder, “but a lady in red is making a beeline for you.”
“Oh, no!” Eliza seized her hand. “Let’s duck. Quick. I’ve had enough insanity for a while.”
They fled down the stairs and dove into the crowd, moving like quicksilver, letting themselves become one with the sudden dancing that erupted along with the drums: Hala, bira! Hala, bira! Hala, biral
“Loosen up,” Eliza yelled at Anna. “Admit it. It was marvelous. As a phony, he was a genius. And I discovered him.” She laughed. Eliza, talent scout of phonies. She danced that rhythm around Anna who swayed like a pond reed stirred by the wind.
“I don’t like it when people monkey around with language,” Anna said, raising her voice above the chanting. Step-step-step. Halt. Step- step-step. Halt. “Mess up language, mess up memory. People forget. Even what they are.” Step-step-step. Halt. Step-step-step. Halt. She whirled slowly, keeping time to the drums.
Eliza thought that they—both of them—seemed to be two people each all the time.
The drums hit a new rhythm, faster. Hala, bira! Hala, bira! People sang and chanted. Let me—LET ME!—hold you—HOLD YOU! — and I shall—I SHALL—smash you—SMASH—crush you— CRUSH—run over you— RUN OVER YOU!!! Laughter. Cheers. Anna hummed a ballad. Does anyone ever listen to what we say? Eliza added a second line. Or do they just watch us, see us, little dolls in a sea of islands? She laughed. The drums went BOOM! BOOM! Ta-ra-dyin BOOM! The crowd parted and a group of penitents appeared, their faces covered with brown hoods, their heads crowned with thorns. They lashed at their backs and at one another with spiked ropes and thorny branches. Oblivious of the celebration, they murmured Latin prayers, grunting as the whips rose and fell, rose and fell. A soldier in combat uniform cut through their ranks, his eyes held above their bent heads and backs.
The two women had stopped to watch, hand in hand. “I’ve never understood why anyone would do that,” Anna said.
“Pain to drive away other pains,” Eliza answered. “Simple. And voluntary—unlike life’s miseries.”
State of War Page 14
