State of War

by Ninotchka Rosca

  When the moment came for the piece de resistance, Luis Carlos’s shirt, inside the tuxedo, was soaking wet and he was ready to drop from exhaustion. The bells were louder. But everything had been arranged; he could not beg off at the last minute. He signaled for a halt to the music and nodded at his bass guitarist, who always spoke for the band, Luis Carlos being too shy. Into the sudden quiet, broken by murmurs and the clink of glasses and silverware, the old man announced the formal launching of a new song—to be performed by the band with the evening’s hostess.

  To enthusiastic applause, the Eurasian mounted the stage and waited for Luis Carlos to cue her. He cocked his head, straining for the single altar bell that gave him his key and heard instead a deep thoroughly unnatural boom. This jolted him so much his saxophone bleated. A ripple of laughter followed—which the Eurasian stilled by charmingly saying this was a new song, they hadn’t quite mastered it.

  Then she threw Luis Carlos a killer glance that said get on with it. Luis Carlos aimed a plea at the heavens, please, and there was the key, a tremulous harp note in his ear, cool and strengthening as rain.

  In the darkness of the war that was to follow, the memory of this song, the chanteuse’s voice and trills of the saxophone, the way it happened this night, would return to those who had been present. For in the six minutes that it took to begin and finish the song, the Casa’s roofs and walls disappeared and it seemed that the entire archipelago lay before them, all seven thousand one hundred islands, and they could focus on that hallowed place—mountainside, seashore, city or town—wherein their birth pillows (as the placenta was called in the native language) had been buried, in a tradition older than the Spanish walls of Intramuros, linking them inextricably, despite tortuous journeys, to the stones, dust, and trees of their childhood which called for their return, in accents so fraught with love that not a few of the women shivered and dropped their yes to their suitors.

  Quiet followed the song. Then, applause. The beauty took her bows, as did the band, and, finally, Luis Carlos could climb off the stage and edge to the buffet table, shaking hands and accepting shoulder claps. The bells were still now; during the song, not one had pealed out.

  “You wrote it for her,” a girl blurted out as he passed her. Abashed, she added: “Is this true?”

  At other times, he would simply have nodded. But . . . “She commissioned it,” he said curtly. “It’s actually about Binondo. Or the city. Or perhaps, even the country.” He smiled and pushed on, not noticing how the Eurasian had overheard.

  “Did you hear that,” the girl said in a loud voice, turning to her escort, “it was written for the city! How lovely.”

  To the Eurasian’s mortification, the information spread throughout the Casa, often in the same words the girl used—For the city? How lovely!—and she could barely smile as she held on to the military governor’s arm. In her distress, she failed to notice the uniformed man who, with nary an excuse, wedged himself through the crowd until he was before his superior. She barely caught his words—but it was enough. The blood drained from her face and before she could stop herself, she had repeated them aloud:

  “Clark Field! Bombed!”

  Luis Carlos had found a quiet back room in which to have his dinner and he was at one of the tables, hunched over his meal and his melancholia, when six men pushed into the room. He recognized the military governor. Fear froze him in his chair. The six, though, perhaps mistaking him for a Casa staff member, ignored his presence and, clustering in the middle of the room, proceeded to argue.

  “We’ll declare Manila an open city,” the governor said. “Can’t have the buildings and the houses wrecked. Intramuros alone is irreplaceable.”

  “But, Excellency”—this from one of the two natives in the group—“the enemy won’t accept that. The military command’s stationed here.”

  “We’ll withdraw,” he intoned.

  “Withdraw,” his aide repeated. “To Bataan. We’ll make our stand there.”

  “But the supplies, the—”

  “We won’t have long to wait. Reinforcements will come from the United States. By submarine, if necessary. By air, most certainly.” “When?” The other native looked cynical.

  The two glanced at each other. Luis Carlos could almost read their faces. What about the rest of us?

  “Excellency,” the first now said smoothly, “we can understand your wish to spare lives. Fight in Bataan, if you believe that wise. But please, let us help you.”

  “How?” the governor asked.

  “Distribute arms. To everyone,” the man said. “We won’t let the enemy occupy Manila. At least, not in peace.”

  The military governor bent a cold eye on the speaker. “And when you finish with the enemy, on whom are you going to use those guns?” There was no answer. The man dropped his eyes before the governor’s scrutiny. His mouth twisted, as at the taste of something infinitely vile. “But we will reassure the populace, gentlemen,” the governor went on.

  “How?”

  “We shall give them a promise of our return.” The governor threw back his head and smiled at his men. “We have work to do.”

  The white men swept out of the room, leaving the two Manilans. Suddenly, one turned to Luis Carlos.

  “Remember this, son. This American loco chose to leave us defenseless before the enemy.”

  “Reinforcements, bah!” the other cut in. “My spy network’s better than his. I know Pearl Harbor has been demolished.”

  “Tough times, tough times.” The first shook his head. “Well, I’m off. That was a beautiful song.”

  “Very apropos.” They waved—gestures of despair—and left the room.

  Luis Carlos, alone once more, couldn’t be certain it had not all been a hallucination. Carefully, he picked up plate, spoon, and fork and found his way back to the ballroom. There was no dancing now, despite the relief band’s efforts; the crowd had broken up into small groups, intense in their conversation. Luis Carlos surrendered his plate to a waiter and circled the room. The words were everywhere: bombs, Clark Field, war... He made his way to the stage and, waving his excuses at the band, picked up his clarinet, flute, and saxophone.

  “But where are you going,” the Eurasian stopped him.

  “Home,” he said. “My mother, the war, bombs . . .

  She sighed. “I’ll have to go with them, you know.”

  He understood. She would go to Bataan. “I know.” He sounded so forlorn her eyes misted.

  “Don’t worry. I’m used to it. I’ve been all over—born in Hong Kong, raised in Holland, etcetera, etcetera. Tell you what, we’ll promise each other—” Here, she raised a hand to her right ear, unclasped the emerald-and-diamond earring she wore, and slipped it into his coat pocket. “We’ll bring them together when we meet again. Meanwhile, meanwhile—” She laughed gaily. “I’ll just wear one earring. Perhaps start a new fashion.”

  No arrangements had been made for his ride home. In the dead of night, under the clearest evening sky he’d ever seen, Luis Carlos had to catch a bus, lugging his instrument cases and wearing a superb tuxedo. It was the only way, he thought, to end a bizarre day.

  He did not sleep at all. He paced in his room, between the bed and the windows, now and then looking at the canal that was a dark gash under the sky. Question after question raced in his mind but he couldn’t complete a single one. He thought he could hear the whine and thud of distant bombs, but that was only his imagination. Not until Manila was bombed would he find out what those things were.

  As soon as he heard the maids laying out breakfast, he slung a towel over his shoulder, went to the bathroom, and doused his face with the cold water of the cistern. Wide awake now, though still in his striped pajamas, he entered the dining room. Mayang nearly dropped her fork. Even Clarissa and Pete stared. But Luis took his seat, unfolded his napkin, bent his head in a seeming prayer, and without preamble gave them the news.

  “We’re at war,” he said. Just as abruptly, he corrected h
imself. “The Americans are at war. We are being invaded. Manila’s an open city—which means they’ll march in and take over.”

  “Take over what?” Clarissa asked.

  “Who knows? Maybe everything. But we have to prepare.”

  “I’m not a stranger to war,” Mayang said. “I’m not afraid.” “Food,” Pete said. “We have to stock up. There’ll be a riot at the stores. Money. All the money in the house. We have to buy rice—a truckload maybe.”

  “Ah, it won’t last that long,” Clarissa said. “Maybe, just a sack or two.”

  “One truckload,” Luis Carlos said firmly. “Salt and sugar. Cocoa. Coffee beans. Dried fish.”

  “I’ll go,” Pete said, gulping down his coffee.

  “You’ll get killed,” Clarissa wailed. “Mama!”

  “Stupid! He’s not going to war. He’s going shopping.” She held out her bunch of keys to Luis Carlos. “In my room, in the wardrobe, top shelf. An old cashbox. Hurry.”

  They had five thousand pesos all in all. Without ceremony, Pete shoved the cash into a brown paper bag. “I’ll go to the waterfront,” he said, while Mayang nearly had hysterics at the thought of how he had made himself and Clarissa vanish. But Pete, rolling up his sleeves good-humoredly, reassured her by throwing his arms around the weeping Clarissa and peppering her cheeks with kisses.

  “My tidbit, my incomparable morsel, my love, I’ll be back with enough food to see you through a thousand-year war.” He snapped a blue nosegay into existence and offered it to her with a bow. Entranced, Clarissa watched him from the living room window. “I’m so lucky,” she murmured.

  Mayang, looking at her shapeless figure beneath the loose house- dress, could only shake her head. “How lucky—you don’t even know.” They were all lucky indeed to have Pete in the house. Indefatigable in the emergency and aided by a peasant wisdom, he brought home, day after day, so long as there were some to be had in the city, sacks of rice, salt and sugar, cocoa and coffee, baskets of dried fish and shrimp. He fought his way through mobs at warehouses, bribing when necessary, charming storekeepers with his scarves and paper flowers, showing the threat of his massive arms when nothing else worked. He and Luis Carlos cleaned out the garage, reinforced its walls against rats and the damp, and thus managed to turn it into a storage for their provisions. The rabbit and duck cages were moved to the garden where Pete built a shed under the tree, not knowing a shed had stood there once before, a long, long time ago. Mayang was reconciled to her uncouth son-in-law at last; she even breathed thanks to him—for they were by themselves now, the five maids having packed up at the first public announcement of the war.

  Tearfully, Mayang gave each a gift of money and her blessing, despite Clarissa’s rage.

  “Give my regards to your parents,” she said, “and take care of yourselves. If there’s too much trouble at home, come back to me. I have been your second mother, after all.”

  “Madness,” Clarissa screamed. “They’ll never make it.”

  “Sssh,” Pete calmed her. “If I were far away, wouldn’t I make my way back to you? They love their parents, brothers, and sisters . . .”

  “Oh, Pete! What about you?”

  “Fortunately, my parents are dead.” He plucked a coin from her ear. “I have only this house to take care of.”

  Luis Carlos remained silent and grim. He made his way to downtown Manila to watch the military convoys roaring out of the city. He didn’t know why he watched; perhaps, he hoped for a glimpse of the woman who’d loved him so much. Or perhaps, he wished he too could leave, such was the dread that shrouded him. Or perhaps, he wished merely to fix this in his memory: jeep after jeep appearing and disappearing while on both sides of the road men and women watched helplessly, empty hands at their sides. Sometimes they craned their necks at the sky to follow the flight of strange airplanes.

  After a while, he tired of counting the jeeps and walked to the Ermita nightclub where his band had played. The place was closed but the back door was open. Inside were Jake and the manager demolishing a last bottle of brandy.

  “Can’t give you any,” Jake said. “The Americans took the whole caboodle. This”—he gestured at the bottle—“was in this man’s safe. Precious cargo.”

  “I don’t drink anyway,” Luis Carlos said, pulling a chair to the table. “What are we going to do now?”

  “I’m closing the club,” the manager said. “Though I’ll probably be forced to open it.” He shrugged. “To amuse more soldiers.”

  “Holy Christ,” Luis Carlos muttered. “Play for them?”

  “No, friend,” Jake replied. “We aren’t doing that. Definitely not. That would make us collaborators. And believe me, this imperial army’s a flash in the pan. The Yanks will be back. They promised.”

  “No,” Luis Carlos said slowly. “I don’t have any music left in my head.”

  “What you and I will do, hey, listen here,” Jake went on, “what we’ll do is go to Laguna. My cousin’s putting together a guerrilla unit. Fight the Japanese. Hit and run. Do them in here, do them in there. Disappear. Easy. And when the Yanks return, we get military ranks and back pay, not to mention retirement pensions. Then, we can go make music.”

  Luis Carlos didn’t answer. He picked a few peanuts off the dish on the table and chewed earnestly.

  “Hey, really. My cousin’s sent word to me. He’s got couriers waiting in our village. What say you?”

  “When do you go?”

  “In a week’s time. Got to say good-bye to my girlfriends. Sunday, definitely.”

  Luis Carlos nodded. Listless, he stood up. “I’ll see you before then.”

  “My pleasure, captain. Maybe, major?” Jake laughed.

  Chances were Luis Carlos wouldn’t have gone had it not been for the Japanese captain who showed up four days later at the Binondo house. Speaking impeccable Tagalog, he reduced Mayang to an indescribable state by accusing the household of the crime of hoarding. He then demanded that half of everything in the garage be donated to the Japanese Army. Clarissa had to drag Pete to their bedroom, gag him, and finally sit on him, so intent was he on assaulting the foreigner, while Luis Carlos, pretending to hug his mother from behind, calmly placed a hand over her mouth.

  “This is a big house,” the Japanese said, his eyes roaming the living room. “We can billet four or five soldiers here. You will be happy to lodge friends, yes?”

  Luis Carlos smiled at the officer. “Certainly. But we will need the food to feed them. There are four of us and with three of your men, why, our stock won’t be enough.”

  “You are a clever man,” the officer said. “Perhaps we shall revise the amount of your donation.”

  “Perhaps we won’t donate at all.”

  “In that case, we will take. Tomorrow. Half. There are other houses.”

  Mayang wriggled loose. “But I know you,” she said, “you used to work in the barbershop. At the corner.”

  The officer smiled. “Ah, true. The vagaries of war.”

  And he left, marching smartly out of the room. Mayang was so dumbfounded she stuttered for a while. But Luis Carlos’s face, its slow-blossoming rage, stopped her tirade.

  “What are we going to do, son?”

  “I’m going to Laguna, Mama,” he said, the words costing him so much pain he nearly wept. “I will join the guerrillas. There’s more danger here for me.”

  To his surprise, Mayang nodded. “Of course. There’s nothing else to do.” After a while, she added: “I will go with you.”

  “Mama!” He looked at her.

  She stood before him, slight in her felt slippers and robe, her hands clasped near her womb. But her eyes were steadfast and he understood that, far more than any danger, it would kill her not to be with him.

  Then she made the one offer he couldn’t resist.

  “I will carry your saxophone while you fight.”

  11

  The reinforcements never came. Bataan and Corregidor fell, and what was to be a short, happy war
became a deadly four-year struggle. By the time Mayang and Luis Carlos began their journey to Laguna, six months had passed. The transportation system, never stable under normal conditions, collapsed totally in this state of war. With reed suitcases and provisions of rice and dried fish, they trudged to the highway, flagged down buses, cars, water-buffalo carts, went on foot when necessary, joining the hundreds who were making for their hometowns by hook, crook, and wiles, stopping along with the others whenever planes skirmished in the sky—for it was the way of the people to seek out the amusing and ridiculous in the most terrible of events. Bets would be laid as to which plane would suddenly veer away, black smoke spewing from its tail, and drop, like a crippled duck, to the earth. Until once, at the edge of a rice paddy, spewed debris from an exploding aircraft neatly took off an onlooker’s head and that was the end of that.

  The town of Saray where Jake had agreed to post a guide was on a mountain plateau, the first hills of the mountain ridge that ran like dinosaur fins through Luzon—the Cordillera which, in the great War of Resistance against the Japanese, as later this period was to be enshrined in history, served as headquarters, sanctuary, and launching base for the guerrillas, in much the same way it had functioned and would function in many other wars. Their arrival in the village was heralded by an ear-splitting cockcrow. It was the cry of the labuyo, the wild mountain rooster which, though nearly an extinct species, retained its fame as a cockfight champion. A boy of ten, barefoot and thin, peasant shirt slipping off the sharp clavicles of his shoulders, grinned a welcome, his breath misting in the cool morning air. “Someday,” he said, “I’ll trap that son-of-a-bitch.”