State of War

by Ninotchka Rosca

  Midway down the road, suddenly aware of the distance between itself and its escort, the minibus stopped.

  “It stopped!” Anna shouted.

  The Festival flung itself at the bus. Men and women—a human wave—rushed forward even as soldiers quickly deployed themselves about the vehicle. More soldiers appeared, running from side streets, and from the trapped military jeep in which only the driver and gunner remained. At the far intersection near the church, a black van appeared, sirens screaming. An ambulance.

  She was running, dodging strays from the Festival, the children who could not get through the crush of people. They thought it was a game, this sudden flight of hers, and like a flock of pigeons on the wing they ran with her, laughing. Stunted, potbellied, half naked, barefoot. Snot running. Dust and soot streaks on cheeks, on arms; scabbed wounds on shins and toes.

  “It stopped, it stopped,” she was crying, remembering suddenly Guevarra’s wife and son, and his vote of death. He could have said no. She could have said no. Don’t go.

  She was nearly in time. The road bent into a sudden vacant lot. She saw the stage, photographs of the Commander and his wife tacked on the back wall; the lectern, the microphones; the buntings overhead, the wires twirled with cadena de amor, its pink flowers still fresh. She saw Adrian standing between the stage and the row of chairs on the ground, chairs reserved no doubt for the town officials. He was looking at his father who was on the stage, looking down at Adrian and saying something, while the governor, the mayor, and the riff-raff powers of the island milled about, some on stage, some on the ground below, checking the sound equipment, the video cameras . . . “Adrian!”

  He turned. In that instant, as though his movement and the noise were synchronized, the church bells pealed—the big, low-voiced one and the three small, silver-voiced ones. Six o’clock. A slow smile bloomed on Adrian’s face and he took a step away from the stage.

  The lectern rose, the stage floor bucked and splintered upward; a force swept the chairs back, toppling them at one blow. It scooped Adrian up and flung him against the nearest bamboo pole, which snapped at the point of impact, dragging down light bulbs, wires, buntings, and the cadena de amor. Then, the ground shook beneath Anna’s feet and she was on her hands and knees, a ringing in her ears, staring at tiny kernels of dust on the ground with the cold certainty that Adrian was dead.

  Seconds later, she was at the intersection. A terrible wind was stirring the crowd. Heads bobbed, arms flew. The minibus plowed through the Festival. The soldiers all had their guns aimed at masses of bodies which jerked, stirred, jerked back, disintegrated into individual men and women running, running. There were things on the sidewalk, things trying to climb trees and walls, things dangling from windows. A stream of people came toward her, passed her, their mouths open but she couldn’t hear. There was only this whine in her ears. She raised a hand to her head, felt a wetness. It was blood. She’d been cut.

  A half-naked woman ran up the town hall steps, struck a pillar, bounced back, then ducked into the building. Two men were pinning another woman down on the grass near the kiosk. A blond man came up, kicked at the two, but suddenly jerked back, whirled, and fell face down.

  “But how truly marvelous, Manolo,” she said. “They’re fighting back.”

  Eliza came out of the chaos, saw Anna, and calmly walked toward her. Anna, frozen at her corner, stretched a hand out, as though she could pull Eliza forward. Quick. Quicker. She nearly made it. A soldier materialized and swept his rifle butt at her. Eliza fell. He bent down, slinging his M-16 on his shoulder, and seizing her right arm, began dragging her away. Eliza raised her head, screamed something at Anna, and pointed, pointed, toward the sea. Over there, over there. Another soldier appeared, running on bent knees, stooping to catch hold of Eliza’s legs. The other soldier stopped, turned around, took her left arm. Eliza swung between them—a butchered pig, ready for flaying.

  She ran then, away from the plaza, into the side streets, meeting soldiers who, deploying for their assault on the town’s center, not knowing who the enemy was, ignored her. How she made it through the confusion, she didn’t know; but suddenly, she was at the town’s edge, at the beginning of the only road inland and the whine in her ears was abating—slowly, but enough to enable her to hear explosions, gunfire, glass shattering, and, like a voice of reassurance, the deep bark of a BAR, Guevarra’s preferred weapon. “The cemetery,” said Rafael’s voice in her head, “near the chapel. Inland.” She repeated the words, holding herself, hands on elbows, shoulders hunched. The hard edge of the knife’s hilt dug into her flesh. One thrust, straight and true, just above the nape, severing the medulla oblongata from the spinal chord. Instant paralysis. “But how marvelous, Manolo,” she murmured. “They fought back. You would’ve been so proud.”

  Run, walk. Run, walk. Behind her the darkness crept, paced her, overtook her. But the moon, its fullness marred by a bite from the night, rose, its light etching the road clearly. She didn’t know how long it took her, for she scurried into the fields at the first noise ahead and waited, hunched against tree trunks, among weeds, until whatever it was had passed. She nearly missed the chapel—it was a small shed, really—but a red altar candle signaled its presence in the moon’s silver light. She approached carefully, making no noise at all, and circled the place, making sure the lighted candle was no trap. Reassured by the silence, she walked in, looking at the pitiful pews and the raw, wood body of Christ on the cross. It was bloody, unvarnished. Two thousand years of crucifixion. Weary, she slid into the last pew, near the door, letting go of her body. Two thousand years and he was still up there. The pew was rough and splintered, the hand rest bleached by the sweat of many wrists, many fingers clasped in prayers. They had come here, the peasants, day after day, pleading. Four hundred years. Where was the end of it, this war, where the day of peace? Four hundred years and all those prayers, asking, asking, only for the simplest of joys: to know what the miracle of being alive was; to survive with the least pain. She stole a look at the Christ again— deaf, dumb, unresponsive wood. If he appeared now, would they sing hosannas and wave palm fronds? Or would they, in the grim pleasure of anger, nail him back to the cross in retribution for those centuries of silence? Bang, bang, bang. Mallet in fist, nails in hand. Another thousand years for you, indifferent friend. She could see it: the village elders picking themselves up on withered legs, hoisting their threadbare pants; the children laughing like seagulls, women peering slyly, the men holding down the body. Well, well, well, here you are. Back to the cross with you. She laughed.

  And heard a rustling outside, as of an animal dragging its belly on the ground. She rose, quickly, smoothly, sliding out of the pew, her eyes darting. To the left was another icon, beside a massive collection box. She flew to it and wedged herself in the space between the box and the wall. Tight but a good hiding place. She breathed a prayer. Let it be Rafael; let it be Rafael.

  A jackal, one leg scraping the ground. Brown and ocher skin, mimicking the pattern of foliage on the forest floor. The animal turned its head this way and that. It held a white bundle in its hands. Slowly, it slouched toward the pew, sat down, one leg held straight, and laid the bundle on the seat. It peeled its shirt off, loosened the bundle, and shook out a white shirt and slipped it on. Carefully then, it started undoing its gun belt, the laces of its boots, its pants. It inspected its damaged leg—no blood there, just cloth wound about the ankle—and inched itself up, drawing to its full height. It ran its hand through its hair before turning, turning, to inspect the church. Breath exploded from Anna’s mouth.

  Instantly, a gun was in the creature’s hand. “Out,” the voice—oh, that familiar, so-valued memory of a voice—said calmly, “come out!” Manolo! She rose to her feet and showed herself, tears already spilling down her cheeks.

  “Anna,” he said, lowering the gun. There was no denying the pleasure in his voice.

  She took a step forward; stopped. It was Manolo. And he had worn a jackal’s uniform. S
he wiped the tears off her cheeks; her eyes shifted to the gun.

  He caught the look. “Oh, this?” He tucked the gun back into its holster, picked up the belt, and wrapped it about his hips. “A precaution, that’s all. It’s me, Anna.”

  “You’re not dead,” she said.

  “Never was.” He laughed. “But how marvelous. You’re here. Good. You can help me. My ankle’s busted. We’ll have to make our way to a village, find a boat.”

  “The photographs

  He laughed again. “Wasn’t me. Someone who looked enough like me. With rigor mortis and blood, you couldn’t tell. Amor’s clever when it comes to those things. But we’re wasting time. There’s a war going on in the town—house to house. Shit! Was Amor surprised! Turned out the whole fucking place was a nest of insurgents—every single resident. It was funny. Transvestites whipping out sawed-off shotguns from under their skirts; half-naked warriors . . . Lord, those spears were real! I was half laughing all the time. Shooting and laughing.”

  “Stop!” Anna’s hands clenched at the sound of her voice. The knife’s hilt bit into her skin. “Stop, Manolo. Explain. Please explain. They took me. Did you know that?”

  He shifted uneasily, looked around. “All right,” he said, running his fingers through his hair. “But it’s too open here, too open.”

  “The cemetery,” she said. “Behind the chapel.”

  He studied her, silent. She did not flinch. “All right,” he sighed. “You lead the way.”

  She shook her head, waved vaguely. “No. You go ahead.”

  “You don’t trust me? Anna, it’s Manolo.”

  She held her silence. Waited. He sighed again, then limped toward the door. “At least we can sit on a tomb or something. My foot’s swollen.”

  She followed, keeping the distance between them. If he ran, she would let him go. Run, Manolo. But he was damaged, could not run. Run, Manolo. My slim, young rabble-rouser, all good intentions and wisdom. Run. He was damaged. Damaged. Manolo in a jackal’s uniform. In the dark, she held her wrist against her side, jerked her hand, and felt the knife slide down. Smoothly. No hitch there, no tugging at the cord. Blessed be Rafael. She waited, palming the knife, leaving the blade sheathed.

  When he turned at the perimeter of the graveyard, she slipped into the shadows.

  “Anna,” he said.

  In the moonlight, she could see his hands were empty. She took a step, gestured with her left hand. “A little further, love. Just to make sure no one sees us.”

  He stopped again when they were surrounded by graves—white, rectangular tombs of cement, set aboveground, topped by crosses, angel heads, stone wreaths. “Good enough?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said, peering at him from behind a cement crucifix. “Far enough, ghost.”

  “Don’t make fun, Anna.” With his hand, he dusted a corner of a tomb, sat down. “My foot’s killing me. That’s better. I don’t like graveyards.”

  “They suit me fine.”

  “You were always the serious one.”

  “Explain, Manolo. Tell me. It’s me, Anna.” Her voice caught. Anna who cleaned your books, put your test papers in order, cooked your meals, scrubbed the floor you walked on.

  “I went, as you know, with the guerrillas.” He snorted—a bitter sound. “I lasted only six months. Some things no man should be made to go through. Dried leeches for breakfast. Christ! The forest night. Monkey shrieks for music. The infernal rain. Drip, drip, drip. We were always wet. Everything damp, moist, wet. Fungi chewing on our elbows, crotches, and feet.”

  “But—”

  “Sssh. That wasn’t the worst of it. Not the worst of it. We were doing two tactical offensives per week. Two! With old guns, World War Two grenades, knives, wooden stakes. Week after week. The casualty rate was unbelievable. The only thing was we never lacked for manpower. We could replace men as fast as they were being killed off, maimed. But what replacements! All young, inexperienced, straight out of the city. Students. It was enough to make you weep. Bury the dead; take the new ones through the routes.”

  “But—”

  “You sing songs to forget. Peasant songs. But you never forget. Sixteen-year-old eyes, blank, below the neat hole on the forehead. And always, the enemy was there, with his bazookas, his machine guns, his grenade launchers, his inexhaustible supply of weapons. The best money could buy. Made in U.S.A. It got so I would start quaking from head to foot at the chug-chug-chug of helicopter propellers. The noise would drop from the sky, from all directions. My toes would flail; every muscle in my body would bunch up and my rifle—a stupid, antique hunting rifle—would sway this way and that. I was trembling so much. Finally, after one particular bad encounter—the military made a mistake; mortared a village and we had to clean up the mess, picking up arms and legs, shoving intestines back into the bodies, trying not to retch but heaving nevertheless, nevertheless, puking carefully so one didn’t dirty the bodies . . . After that one, I had nightmares. Nightmares. Then, the enemy came in a counteroffensive. We had been warned. We were ready, deployed for ambush. I heard the choppers. Chug-chug-chug. I fled. Abandoned my position. They found me later, as they were retreating. I had dropped my rifle and wrapped my arms around a coconut tree. I was crying and trembling and hoping the tree would open so I could hide myself.”

  He sighed.

  “After that, well, there was no point to my remaining. The others pretended nothing had gone wrong. But there was no forgetting it. We talked among ourselves. Reached a consensus.1 would surrender. They gave me some money so I could bribe the checkpoint soldiers. I didn’t want to take it, they were so poor, but they said it was for my own safety, so I wouldn’t be harmed. That was the way it was. I came down the mountain, out of the forest, and gave myself up. Amor arrived at the provincial fort and took me three days later.” He stopped. “But why are you so far away? You’re making me shout this. It’s difficult enough without my having to shout it to the world.” She sighed and approached him. She sat beside him, making sure the gun holster was pressed between his body and hers.

  “Amor took you,” she prompted him.

  “By that time, you—” He made an ineffectual gesture.

  “I’d gone through tactical interrogation.”

  “Yes. I was sure in due time you’d be freed. But of course the escape happened and you—”

  “Had to go through it again.”

  “I can never understand how you withstood it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m sure you knew how they escaped. But you kept the knowledge. How did they escape? It’s still not known.”

  She smiled. “You’re wrong,” she said. “I didn’t know. I don’t know.”

  “Oh, you poor child!”

  She shook her head, held herself rigid against the arm he placed about her shoulder. With her left hand, she groped for his free hand, entwined her fingers about his fingers.

  “Yes. It was all a mistake. But Amor took you—”

  He leaned his forehead against the side of her head and whispered: “I broke.” Whispered like a phrase of endearment.

  “I gave him everything I knew—names, routes, addresses. Except the Hong Kong address. In return, he let me live, found some use for me.He had the strange idea that since I was a scientist, I could devise better ways of”—again, the voice dropped—“getting at the truth.”

  She nodded.

  “I helped. There was no avoiding it. He was my only sanctuary. Outside, because of, of ... I was a hunted man.” He shifted his weight. “It was somewhat strange. Mixing chemicals, trying this or that combination. Drawing up a pattern of afflictions. A little of this, a little of that. Very removed from the reality. Except once. He had me do it to Adrian—”

  “Adrian!”

  “Amor said he had to be careful not to leave a trace. Of the tampering. And I had to do it. Very strange. Amor’s sense of humor. Come to think of it”—he stretched out painfully—“he must have known. He wanted me to know it wa
s all useless. My sacrifice; yours. Funny how— But listen, Anna, it was the old man, Adrian’s grandfather . . .”

  “What?”

  “He set up the Hong Kong trading company, shipping in arms, trying to make sure everything was not swallowed up by one man. A bumbling, incompetent, senile old man. Feeding money, arms, and believing he was the center. Stupid, stupid. And we holding in that stupid address. I, thinking I would escape some day, make my way to another country, and from there help out, via that Hong Kong address—salvage a shred of respect. Shit!”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We’re all peripheral. The war—it’s always been between men like Amor and that guy who escaped. Between them. No more, no less. We just got sideswiped. What we should have done was remain neutral; just gone on living our lives. Like you wanted. You were right all the time. I was stupid.”

  “I—”

  “Sssh!” He was on his feet at once, despite the injury. He thrust her behind him. His gun was out now.

  Anna listened. Only the wind; crickets. The moon. But Manolo was motioning for her to get behind a tomb. He was already folding his body into a crouch. Anna, mesmerized, watched the transformation. He was becoming an animal again.

  “Anna?” Harsh whisper. Rafael.

  Manolo tensed, unwound from his crouch. Anna jerked her right arm back. A double click. The hilt unlocking, blade sliding out, the hilt’s halves locking once more, tongue of metal bare now. She touched the back of his head with the fingers of her left hand, felt his irritated shrug, then his surprise as she increased the pressure. She pulled back a little, drawing in her breath, and with the full weight of her body behind the blow, she rammed the knife in.

  4

  ITEM: Though crippled, Adrian Banyaga survived. He replaced his grandfather in wheelchair perambulations through rooms and corridors of the ancestral mansion, Old Andy having died in his sleep one night. The doctors held out hope that in due time, with the proper therapy, he would recover. At least, physically, for there was the minor problem of his mind. The explosion seemed to have hurled Adrian into a time warp, fixing him forever in a maze of words, a verbal account of four hundred years, tortured and tormenting. Now and then, a coherent story would leap from his mouth, like a page of clear writing in a book of errors. He would rant for hours, about the legend of a half-boy, born with half a head, one arm attached to one shoulder of a half-torso, one thigh and one leg, and how this creature searched through the seven thousand one hundred islands for his completion. But his other half turned coy and disguised itself, first as a boulder jutting from a cliff, a bird piercing the mountain air, a filigree of clouds snagged by a volcano, a fern probing the earth with its toes, a green lizard asleep in the cool recesses of a banana plant, a wild boar slinking through the jungle. It eluded the seeker, taking on shapes of earth, sea, and heaven in the archipelago, in the process conferring upon each a sanctity which the seeker recognized and worshipped. He had no recourse but to love them all, for they were parts of his soul, even that female form that took on a host of names, calling itself Maya, Miss Estela, Liwayway, and even Anna.