The Keeper

by Oz Mari G.

  He sat outside to drink his coffee and was savouring the first sip when he noticed a young woman across the street. He watched her walk to the local eatery, her shoulders slumped, head bowed—her posture telegraphed defeat and misery.

  Seeing a familiar emotion in another person called out to some part of him.

  He averted his eyes to shake away the sentiment that resurfaced in him, because he had no time to feel sorry for a stranger. He had a job to do, and he needed to focus. To find his target might take more than the time he had on his hands, and he did not want to fail.

  But he found himself drawn to the woman. He could see how upset she was. Her shoulder-length hair could not hide the tautness in her jaw as she fought against her pain, or the movement in her throat as she swallowed down her emotions. Tears glistened on her cheeks as she hunched over her bowl of noodles. He noticed the struggle in her as she tried to control her shoulders from shaking.

  And his heart contracted in sympathy.

  Then her spine straightened, her chest expanded as she drew a breath. Fascinated, he saw her pull herself together and wipe the tears with the back of her hand like a child. He heard the deep indrawn breath as she fortified her courage. And he could not help but admire the way she recovered so fast from whatever devastation she had suffered earlier. She looked less like a child and more a woman at that moment.

  He wished, for an instant, that his quarry, Anza Soledad, was as evocative as this unknown woman across the street.

  She continued eating with the grim determination of a soldier who decided to plough into battle. Her fighting spirit showed clearly in the straightened line of her back and the stubborn jut of her jaw. Then she stood up and went inside the local eatery, presumably to fix herself. He waited with anticipation for her to come out again. For a second, he thought he lost her through a backdoor and was disappointed, but when she came out, his heart stopped.

  Her face wiped clean, her hair tied in a ponytail, he recognised who his crying lady was—Anza Soledad.

  His target.

  I found her.

  A thrill of satisfaction ran through him.

  Veren jumped up and followed her as she crossed the street. He kept a decent distance between them, making sure that she was always within sight.

  Her eventual destination was an inn that looked like a renovated ancestral home. She walked into the lobby with purpose and familiarity. She approached the counter. The staff seemed to recognise her, their manner familiar, their smiles welcoming. He saw her sit on the couch. She looked like she was waiting for someone.

  He didn’t want to book a room until he was sure that she was staying here. He took a brochure, chose a seat close to her, and pretended to peruse the material. Then an idea struck him. He turned to her with a slight smile.

  “Miss, are you staying here?” he asked. “How are the rooms?” He kept his tone and facial expression neutral and mild, so as not to alarm her.

  “It's nice here. Clean, secure, and the staff are friendly,” she replied, her expression polite, but not inviting any further exchange. Natural restraint ruled her interaction with strangers.

  Her parents trained her well. She didn’t confirm if she was staying here.

  A buxom older woman, her grey-tinged hair set in a loose bun, came out from behind the reception counter and drew Anza's attention. The front office staff pointed at Anza. The woman smiled from a distance and beckoned Anza over.

  Anza stood up and hastened towards her. He followed on the pretext of inquiring for a room. Their conversation reached his ears clearly.

  “Anza, what can I do for you?” The older woman asked, her gaze soft.

  “I have a favour to ask, Mrs. Bassig,” Anza replied. Her tone was hesitant, almost shy.

  The older woman looked surprised, but smiled just the same. She invited Anza into her office. Anza complied and followed Mrs. Bassig to the room behind the reception desk. The door closed on his ability to eavesdrop.

  He trusted his instinct and booked himself a room. The only way for the manager to know Anza, and for Anza to have enough confidence to ask for a favour from the older woman, was because she was staying here.

  He took his time filling up the registration form. And when he got his key and Anza had not come out yet from the office, he asked the front desk staff for tourist site suggestions. With the tourism brochures in hand, he stood by the counter and made a show of studying them with careful intent.

  A few minutes later, Anza came out of the office with a bright smile and sparkling eyes. She looked both relieved and excited. She thanked Mrs. Bassig profusely.

  “So, when do you want to start, Anza?” the older woman asked.

  “It's up to you, Mrs. Bassig, but I’m ready to start anytime.”

  “Why don't you check out the place that I recommended to you first? Get yourself settled and then we can start your training on Monday. Iza, the one you will replace, will not be available to train you till then,” Mrs. Bassig said.

  “Okay, Mrs. Bassig. I’m very grateful. I don't know how to thank you,” Anza said. There was a slight tremble in her voice.

  “Do your best, Anza—that will be the thank you I want,” Mrs. Bassig said, and with an affectionate pat on her shoulder, the older woman left Anza, who stood teary-eyed as if she still could not believe her luck.

  “Congratulations!” Veren said in a soft tone, startling her.

  “Excuse me?” she asked, blinking her tears away. “It looks like you got the job,” he said, pointing back towards the reception area. At her silence, he added, “Sorry, I can’t help but overhear. I was checking in.”

  “Oh ... Yes. I did,” she replied. Her earlier relief coloured her voice and tinted her smile.

  “Well, I took your recommendation and got a room here. So, thank you,” he said.

  “You're welcome. How long are you staying?” Her response was automatic, out of politeness rather than from genuine interest.

  “I don’t know yet.” He shrugged. It was the truth.

  “Long holiday?” she asked. Her question, this time, carried a tinge of curiosity.

  “Yes, maybe,” he replied. “How about you?” He wanted to keep his lies to her to a minimum. Perhaps he could pick up some more information about her.

  She just gave him a sad, brief smile. A spark of fear and determination glowed in her eyes. The flash of pride and protectiveness rose in him, and it took him by surprise.

  “So, I'll see you around?” she asked, but her tone carried no expectation. She was being polite once again.

  “Yes, definitely. Hopefully this afternoon?” He turned on the charm now, his smile friendly and harmless. Now that he found her, she was in his keeping, and would remain under his protection until she returned home.

  “This afternoon?” she asked, a slight frown appeared on her brow.

  “Yes, I would like to invite you for coffee. For helping me find good accommodation,” he said with a deeper smile.

  “Ah … I’m not sure.” Her rejection sounded like an automatic reaction. “Um … I need to check out a place that Mrs. Bassig recommended to me,” she said, reluctant and regretful at the same time. Her smile dimmed.

  “Can I come with you?” he asked. “I have nothing else to do …” When she didn’t respond, he said, “I would like to explore the area, mingle with the locals, and I don’t want to look like a loser by walking alone ...”.

  She hesitated for a while, regarding him with careful intent. He kept his expression benign and waited for her reply. Finally, she gave him a shy smile and nodded. “Okay.”

  He couldn’t hide his obvious delight at her response. “So, what time are we leaving?”

  “I was thinking of doing that now,” she said.

  “Well then, let's go,” he said, and held her elbow.

  She threw him a speculative glance. He could see her prudent side warred with her desire to socialise, to connect with another human being. He gave her another reassuring, friendly look,
to tip the balance in his favour.

  She returned it, and walked towards her destination. He took a relaxed step beside her, pleased with this minor success.

  4 Crossing of Paths

  Anza was very aware of the man walking beside her. She watched him through her peripheral vision. He was lithe and fit, like an athlete. If she was to guess, he would be a swimmer, based on the width of his shoulders. And he was tall; her head came up to the middle of his chest. His skin had a slight tan, a sign that he enjoyed spending time outdoors. And while he seemed relaxed in his manner, he moved with a certain controlled gait that reminded her of soldiers.

  “My name is Veren—Veren Albareda,” he said.

  He offered his right hand to her. She stopped, looked up at him, then grasped his offered hand. His grip was warm, his hand big enough to envelop both of hers. Manual tasks had roughened his palm.

  “I'm Anza,” she replied.

  Her voice faltered as she took a full look at his face. His eyes were almond-shaped, their colour an odd light brown with amber flecks, framed by straight brows that almost didn’t taper at the ends. There was a slight, natural bump on his nose. His lean cheeks and square jaw reminded her of her father. There was nothing remarkable in the individual features of his face, but combined, the result was striking.

  It was hard to guess how old he was. He seemed both young and mature, but if she would warrant a guess, he would be in his early twenties.

  “Do you have a last name, Anza?” he asked. His lips curved in a crooked smile.

  The sight of it made her retract her earlier description of his facial features. His lips were remarkable. They were full, yet masculine. Most of the men in her family had a thin upper lip.

  “Sol ... Soledad,” she replied. She was uncertain if it was a good idea to tell him her last name. She glanced at him again, gauging her own instinct about him. He looked too young to be an Iztari.

  “I’m very pleased to meet you, Anza Soledad,” he said. He seemed pleased with her response.

  “Likewise,” she replied.

  He covered her hand he still held with the other, and shook it once again. She pulled her hand away—his warm grasp made her fingers tingle. She resumed their walk to mask her nervousness. He fell beside her with effortless grace, shortening his gait to match hers.

  “So, are you from this region?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “No, I'm from the ... south,” she replied. She didn’t want to reveal more information about herself.

  “South, like Batangas? Or like Cebu?” Veren's eyebrow raised in inquiry.

  “Not as far south as Cebu. Closer to Batangas,” she replied. She braced herself for more questions, but Veren surprised her by dropping the topic.

  “So, where are we going?” he asked instead.

  “Ah, it's a bed space place. Mrs. Bassig recommended it,” she replied.

  “Bed space? You're no longer staying at Mrs. Bassig's?” He seemed alarmed at the thought.

  “I can’t afford to stay there. My future salary will not be enough to cover my cost of living.” It was painful to accept that she was no longer the Anza Soledad who never had to worry about basic survival needs like food and shelter.

  Veren touched her elbow, halting her step. He stared at her, as if trying to understand why she needed to work.

  “Are you in trouble, Anza?”

  His question startled her.

  She shook her head. “No,” she replied. She didn’t know what else to say.

  “Okay, but if you are, let me know. I’m your bodyguard, after all,” Veren said, his tone light, almost joking, but she could detect an underlying seriousness in his statement.

  She didn’t know what to think, so she walked on. They found the house exactly where and how it was described by Mrs. Bassig. It was a medium-sized structure, made of stone and wood, old but well maintained, with a colourful garden in front and surrounded by a white wooden fence made of driftwood.

  Low, thick bushes with tiny red and white flowers reinforced the fence. There were clucking chickens roaming and pecking around the garden, and a small triangular roof-like structure on the ground with a rooster perched on top of it. The wooden gate was low, with a number 32 painted on it.

  The thin, elderly owner named Teresa ushered them into her living room. The windows to the house were all open, the short flowery curtains that swayed with the breeze providing privacy to the residents. The house smelled of fried bananas and ginger tea. Her furniture was made of similar driftwood material, upholstered in green floral fabric.

  “Hija, I have no available bed space today. The next available one would be on Tuesday. I can reserve that for you if you want to wait,” she said after she set the ginger tea and bananas covered in crispy batter in front of them.

  Her heart sank. A week away. That would mean she would have to spend more of her money on her accommodation, something she would rather not do.

  Could there be other options?

  “Do you know of any other bed spaces here?” At least a temporary one until Tuesday.

  “My brother operates one. It's in the next barangay, so it’s quite a walk from your workplace. Plus, he accepts male bed-spacers, too, so you might not feel comfortable with that.” The elderly woman glanced at Veren beside her; she seemed to gauge what their relationship was.

  Veren’s gaze was intent on her. His face was impassive, but Anza sensed that he didn’t like the idea of her sleeping in proximity with strange men. She didn’t like it either. However, the landlady was looking at her expectantly, waiting for her response, and she didn’t know what to say.

  “Manang Teresa, can you give us the phone number of your brother? And yours as well. Anza needs to think about it,” Veren suggested. The old lady nodded and wrote the numbers down on a piece of paper, then handed it to him.

  They took their leave and strolled back to their inn. Her mind juggled her options. A week's stay at her current accommodation could cover five months of rent in the bed space place.

  Maybe I could stay at the other bed space for a week and then move to Manang Teresa's after?

  She was so preoccupied with her own thoughts that she didn’t notice when Veren pulled her to a small cafe. At her puzzled look, he pointed at the sign and said, “Coffee, remember? I owe you one.”

  “Okay.” She allowed herself to be pushed gently to a chair.

  “What would you like?”

  “Mocha or latte,” she replied.

  He nodded and approached the counter.

  Moments later, Veren came back with two lattes. They sipped their respective cups in silence. Out of habit, she pulled out a paper napkin from the holder, twisted it into a thin strip, and fed it into the flame of the lit candle on the table. Calm settled in her as she watched the smoke spiral upwards. With it, the earlier dismay for the situation.

  Veren set his cup down. It startled her out of her reverie and made her drop the napkin on the table. She looked up to find his eyes on her.

  “Anza. I hope I don’t appear a presumptuous prick to you … Granted, we just met, and I still fall in the category of a stranger, but ...” His statement faded, and an awkward silence followed.

  “But?” She wasn’t sure what he wanted to say.

  “I’m not comfortable with you sleeping in a house where there are strange men. It sounds dangerous,” he said, face serious.

  She didn’t know what to say to that, given that she had the same concern. “It doesn’t seem so different from having a room in an Airbnb like Mrs. Bassig’s.” Her defence to justify the plan was half-hearted.

  “It's different. You get your own room in Mrs. Bassig's. In a bed space, you’ll end up sharing a room with others. Hopefully, all women, but you might be unlucky enough to bunk in with a man. How will you be able to sleep when you have valuables to guard?”

  To hear him say it made her feel worse that she had even considered staying there for a week.

  “Veren, an extra week at Mrs. B
assig's is equivalent to five months of rent at Manang Teresa’s. I think I can handle a—a week.” Her voice faltered at the look of alarm on Veren's face.

  After a moment, he said, “I have a suggestion.”

  “What is it?”

  “If I hire you as my tour guide for a week at the cost of what you pay for your current room at Mrs. Bassig’s, would you do it?” he asked.

  “What? I’m not qualified to be a tour guide ... I’m also a visitor here. I just arrived and I don’t know the area at all.” She said this weakly—his offer had her heart pounding with hope.

  “Okay, as a travel companion then,” he suggested.

  His offer was perplexing, and his persistence baffled her. “But ... why? Why are you helping me?”

  “Why not?” He shrugged. “To travel with friends is always better than travelling alone,” he reasoned.

  She looked at him, trying to find a reason to say no. His offer was so tempting as a much-needed lifeline.

  “But I can’t afford the cost of travelling with you. The transportation, the food, the entrance fees …” The reality of her financial status dampened her hope.

  “I’ll take care of all that. So, don’t worry,” Veren said, confidence reassuring.

  “It seems… unfair to you. Taking me with you as you go around would double your cost, then add what you would pay me every day. It sounds excessive.” She was unwilling to take advantage of him, even if his offer was god-sent.

  Veren considered what she said for a moment, thinking.

  “Okay then, while we’re travelling together, would you consider telling me about you? I’ll pay for your stories and that would cover the cost of the travel. Your daily fee will be for the companionship.” The matter-of-fact way he explained this made it sound like a fair trade.

  “What happens if you tire of my company, or I bore you with my stories?”

  “That’s a risk I am willing to take … So, is that a deal?”

  There was no reason to decline his offer. It would solve her problem, and she had another week of staying in relative comfort. As much as she wanted to ignore it, he had been pleasant so far, and he intrigued her.