by Darcy Burke
Her brown eyes grew as wide as the floorboards. “I may be from West Virginia, but at least my house had plumbing that worked.”
He did not know what to say to that.
“There is a difference between water coming out of a tap—which I like—and water pouring down from my ceiling—which I do not. Or maybe you would rather wait until your lobby floods too?”
He nodded, chastened, and followed Miss Berget. He apologized to the back of her head before realizing that wouldn’t work, and then he was too embarrassed to repeat himself to her face.
She led him to the room, where water indeed streamed down the seam of the bathroom wall. Moss turned, ran out of room 27, and jogged up the stairs to number 37. This was the room of Mrs. Helen Cooper—the wife of Captain Maurice Cooper, currently stationed in Batangas.
Moss knocked furiously. No answer. He put his ear to the door and heard unrecognizable sounds. A laugh, maybe? A series of squeaks, definitely. He pounded on the door. “Mrs. Cooper!”
Still no answer.
He was reaching for his master key when the door cracked open to reveal Mrs. Cooper in a soaking wet robe that clung improperly to her body.
“There’s water downstairs,” he said, peaking around the woman to spy a flustered man trying to vanish under the waterline of an overflowing bathtub. His vain efforts only sent more water onto the floor.
Moss saw two problems here. The first was that the couple’s vigorous aquatic lovemaking was flooding his hotel. The second was that the man in question was not Captain Cooper.
Moss turned to Mrs. Cooper. “That”—he motioned to the inch of standing water on her floor—“has to disappear.”
“But—”
“It is leaking into the room below.”
“But you can’t expect us, I mean me, to—”
“You have two minutes before my staff will be up here with mops and towels.” Two minutes would give Mrs. Cooper’s friend time to clear out—barely. Moss could see her doing the calculations.
“I was not here,” he assured her. “But my staff will be. In two minutes.”
Mrs. Cooper’s bit lip gave way to a grateful smile before she hastily shut the door.
Moss turned and nearly ran into Miss Berget. She appeared to have been hiding—badly—behind a potted plant. How did she get behind him?
There was no way this woman overheard his conversation with Helen Cooper, he told himself, nor could she have added up what was happening in room 37. But when Moss saw her face, he knew that Della Berget had understood everything.
This could be a problem.
Chapter 3
Clarke’s
Della felt no compunction about commandeering her grandfather’s two-wheeled carriage, known as a calesa. She learned the word after a frustrated assistant manager of the hotel wrote it down for her. Getting the driver to understand her was far easier; everyone in the city knew Clarke’s Confectionery.
Located at the entrance to Escolta, Manila’s Fifth Avenue, the establishment proudly proclaimed its name on both the roof and a half-dozen oversized awnings facing every direction. Even without signs, a large crowd marked the place. The spacious wood-paneled room was full of investors and civil servants from all over the islands, officers of the army and navy, and tourists from half the world. Della would not have been surprised to run into her grandfather inside. He seemed to be the only American of consequence not present.
Even though she could not hear it, the place felt loud, especially the heavy treads of the wait staff pounding a path from the kitchen. But Della’s strongest impression was of the fragrance of fresh bread. After three days of the atrocious food at the Hotel Oriente, her stomach almost jumped out of her throat to lay claim to a loaf.
As if that scent wasn’t enough, an advertisement proudly proclaimed: CLARKE'S MAYON COFFEE. Fresh Roasted, Steel-Cut, Prepared with the Most Modern Machinery at Our Own Manila Plant from Handpicked, Carefully Selected Berries, Roasted to Meet the Demands. No Old Stock. Never Rancid!
Della chose a wicker chair in the corner, underneath a sign touting imported phosphate sodas. A bored soda-jerker wiped down glasses and piled them high on the dark wooden bar. She savored the delicious gingerbread cookies that accompanied her coffee.
A jolly party entered. Della did not trust cheerful people. The Oriente’s manager—Mr. North—he was one. He had let her grandfather rant and rave for three days straight. North did not exactly smile in response, but his attitude was so frustratingly good-natured that she felt sorry for the man. He could not be so bright.
The boisterous gang of colonials pushed together a few tables and sat next to Della. Included in their number was the woman who had nearly flooded Della out two nights before. Today Mrs. Room 37 was wooing a fresh target, not the man Della had spied from her leafy camouflage in the hall.
“. . . he’s missed too many boats, you reckon?” The speaker, an Army officer, enunciated well, probably to catch the attention of the women at the table. “Stashed away some sweetheart in town,” he finished, waggling his eyebrows.
“One bambino here,” another said, “one on the way at home.” The group bemoaned the moral turpitude of their friend, who had “Philippinitis.” Was that a word?
A waiter interrupted the gossip. The Navy officer turned away from his party—and, fortunately, toward Della—to order his coffee, pastry, and fruit for fifty cents “Mex,” or half a silver dollar. Della had worked out the jumbled money system after her grandfather overpaid for a calesa with four silver pesetas. The congressman had been the most sought-after customer in the Oriente’s stables ever since.
“No got,” the officer said, shaking his head. “Jaw bone?”
In her head, Della replayed the visual of the man’s mouth but divined no better interpretation than jaw bone. Shaman? Shore boat? Chore moat? Nothing made sense.
“Put it on your account?” the waiter confirmed, more comprehensible than his cockalorum customer. “Of course, sir.”
It didn’t take long for the sailor’s food to arrive. “They say that Clarke has been in Manila as long as Dewey,” he was saying. He sipped his fresh coffee and sighed. “Both men are heroes in my book.”
The Army man would not let Navy ego go unchecked. “What does your admiral know of war? I mean real ‘shit-on-your-boots’ kind of war? He carries a $10,000 Tiffany sword—cast in 24-karat gold, for God’s sake.”
“At least Dewey wouldn’t have encouraged the Filipinos with talk of going home.”
“Democrats.” The Army man scowled.
Della knew that General Arthur MacArthur had just requested an additional force of 150,000 men—to do more than sip coffee with pretty women in Clarke’s.
“What do you think of that politician?” Mrs. Room 37 asked. “The one staying at the Oriente with me and Susan.”
“I think it’s sweet that he brought his granddaughter here,” said the other woman, presumably Susan.
Mrs. Room 37 nodded. “Poor girl.”
No one noticed that the “poor girl” was sitting at the next table. Della attracted little notice because of her plain looks, but she did not mind. What she objected to was being labeled a “girl.” She would turn twenty-four later this month.
“We need 20,000 men in and around Manila to make the city safe for you able-bodied ladies,” the Army Man said. “Now we’re supposed to worry about a—?”
Della looked away from his mouth, muting him.
She caught the Navy officer shake his head. “If something happens to her, the Democrats will run with the story. They shall call on us to abandon the whole Asiatic project.”
Della spent a lot of her time reading the papers at home, and she agreed that the press could undo the war just as quickly as they had made it. She respected the power of the Fourth Estate, which is why she wanted to be a part of it.
She always had. It was why Della had stayed at boarding school, despite desperately wanting to go home and reestablish a connection with her par
ents in West Virginia. She left them when she was seven, two years after spinal meningitis took most of her hearing and nearly her life. Her grandfather gallantly offered to pay her tuition at the Kendall School for the Deaf in Washington, D.C., so she went. There was no better school in the region, and Holt could afford the $250 annual tuition. Della’s father, an accountant at the West Fairmont Coal & Coke Company, could not. Her grandfather had promised to look after Della during the half-year that Congress was in session. No one thought to ask what would happen during the other half.
From Kendall, Della matriculated into Gallaudet College, which really meant moving across the sidewalk to Old Fowler Hall. Her life there teetered between opportunity and frustration. She could take courses in English literature and composition, but extracurricular activities—like the school newspaper—required a chaperone. She wrote half of the articles that made up the Buff and Blue, but her male counterparts earned all the editorial positions because they showed up for all the meetings.
Della made several close friends at Gallaudet, but none shared her ambition. Too many aspired to be faculty wives, as if that would be the pinnacle of a woman’s achievements. One friend had married a professor on the same day she graduated. No one had thought the wedding odd, let alone distasteful.
At least the new bride had completed her degree. Della was one of many women who failed to graduate. When her grandfather had insisted that she come with him to Manila, she obediently packed and left school. But she was glad that she had—she would find her story here. She was sure of it. What would a degree matter?
Motion at the door caught her eye. Mr. North walked in. It would be more accurate to say that he slid inside Clarke’s. Instead of taking a table, he made straight for the kitchen door, but Mrs. Room 37 caught his elbow and stopped him. North gave her that generic half-smile, the same one that so infuriated Della. Mrs. Room 37 ran her hand slowly down North’s arm, lingering at the cuff just long enough to brush his wrist with her fingertips. If she stood any closer, her red lipstick would rub off on his clean white lapel. The seductive tilt of her head—slightly up and to the side—promised surrender.
Whatever the woman said to North seemed to take him by surprise. He stepped back and ran a hand through his disheveled hair. How could he maintain such a nicely pressed suit but still never comb his hair? Despite this—and despite her own better judgment—Della found the man handsome. His short sideburns, bold eyebrows, and blue eyes were hard to overlook, no matter how simple he seemed.
“There is nothing to thank me for, Mrs. Cooper.” Or was it Mrs. Goober? North’s lips were the only ones in the conversation Della could see, and thankfully they were full and clean-shaven. “There was a leak, and my men fixed it. Nothing more.”
Mrs. Room 37 used her hand to tame the runaway curls that had escaped her Gibson girl up-do. Della could appreciate the subtlety of that gesture. The woman had dark, silky hair with just the right amount of swing. It would certainly draw a man’s attention—and it did, briefly. But Mr. North’s eyes moved on to search the restaurant for curious onlookers. He made the mistake of only considering those within hearing distance. Della was halfway across the room.
North said something she could not make out. But then: “I am not your husband’s agent, nor the Army’s.”
Della processed these clues. An Army wife? Cheating on her husband in a room paid for with taxpayer funds? That story had potential.
The woman’s hand brushed something off North’s shoulder, most likely a pretext to let her nails graze the skin of his neck above the collar. North looked uncomfortable, like his tie was too tight around his neck. “That is, uh, nice, thank you.”
Della would have to pay closer attention to the traffic upstairs from now on. If she could catch the manager himself in a dalliance with an Army wife, it would make an even better story.
The kitchen door opened, and a Filipino woman rushed toward North. Another amorous appointment? North seemed to be Manila’s Don Juan. Della could not see the Filipino woman’s face, but her hands kept pointing back to the main entrance.
“I had to come here,” he said. “You have not given me an answer.”
The Filipino peered back toward the kitchen and then shook her head.
North’s frown was stubborn. “What do you mean?”
North took a hold of the woman’s arm and guided her to the calmest corner of the restaurant, even closer to Della’s prying eyes. She had to hide her face halfway behind her menu, so the only words she could parse were about ovens, yeast, and kitchens.
Unless Don Juan North used these euphemisms for sexual congress, this was no torrid affair. “You can start today if that makes a difference,” he said.
Since the Oriente needed all the skilled cooks it could get, Della silently cheered his efforts. The hotel could use the perfume of fresh bread.
The coffee in Della’s cup sloshed, alerting her to the slammed-open door and knocked tables. A balding fellow erupted from the kitchen. “I told you!” His face was red and his mouth almost too exaggerated to read. “I told you not to boat my people.”
Boat? No, poach.
The female baker fled back to the kitchen, which meant that this man was probably Clarke himself. He was an ugly yeller, with fat lips and obvious spittle.
Unfortunately, she was too close to the action to feign ignorance. When North scanned his audience again, it was Della he found first. He stared at her for a moment, eyes wide and unblinking. Then he stalked out.
On principle, Della did not believe she needed to apologize for lipreading a public conversation, but she almost followed him out to do exactly that. She held back—it would do no good to act as his friend now. If she could come up with a story about him for the papers, the result would be far more public and devastating to North than a scene at Clarke’s. If she got lucky, she would gut him in front of the whole city.
Chapter 4
Ants over Jell
As if the day had not gone badly enough, Moss returned to the Oriente to find that the dining room had not been cleaned after the lunch service. Or, more precisely, only pieces of it had. One corner of the room had not had its floor waxed, but chairs and tables were carefully polished; another corner had dusty chairs on a freshly scrubbed floor; and two tables in the middle of the room were not yet cleared. No matter where a customer sat, something would be filthy.
Moss would not normally bother the owner over dirty dishes, but Seb had overseen the hiring of Filipinos to supplement the mostly Chinese cleaners and wait staff. “Surely you could have found men to do the job, not boys.”
Seb shrugged. He knew practically everyone of consequence in Manila, but elites did not wipe down tables for a living. Moss did not blame them. He had witnessed his friend’s comedown that had led him to purchase this hotel.
Seb had been a ranking judge until the Americans took over and reorganized the justice system. After being passed over for the Supreme Court, the Municipal Board of Manila, and the City Attorney’s office in Manila, Seb was named supervisor to the police station on David Street, shepherding the lowly, know-nothing Yankee corporal, Moss North.
Moss had been one of the first Americans to land on Philippine soil, back when the Thirteenth Minnesota Volunteers seized the city from the Spanish. He had expected to be sent home after liberating the Philippines from Iberian tyranny. When the generals relegated Company E to police duty, he realized his country had not just defeated the Spanish; they had become them.
As an ilustrado, Seb had a better education than anyone Moss knew and, outside the colonial system, higher status. So it was Seb who taught the American how to earn the trust of the people so that what happened in neighboring Tondo did not happen in Binondo: guerrillas did not fire at passers-by from rooftops or gardens, nor did Moss allow American officials to burn down Filipino houses. He and Seb kept the peace, but neither of them liked the job.
The more that Seb entertained Moss in the small hours of the morning—playing music
on his new gramophone, sharing his liquor, and teaching the American panguingue, a local high stakes card game—the more Moss’s conscience questioned how a country that prided itself as republican Patriots had turned into Redcoats across the Pacific. Moss had originally enlisted in the Army to free the Cubans from Spanish tyranny, not to impose his own.
It was an unpopular opinion among his fellow soldiers. When the rest of the Thirteenth headed north to Malolos, Moss continued the dreaded police duty long enough to avoid bearing arms in a battle. His year’s enlistment was up just in time to avoid Lawton’s expedition through the rest of Luzon. Some fellows in his unit later deserted and had become brigands up in Pampanga, committing outrages and murders against anyone rich enough to draw their attention. The eight-man posse was still at large, putting the lie to American refinement and civility.
Seb was the one who talked Moss into staying. Moss found a job at the English Hotel, the self-proclaimed “Bachelor Resort of the City” on the Escolta. “Resort” had been a generous description. The floors were bare, the towels dirty, and the tea weak—the latter an unforgivable sin with the English guests. Moss worked hard to pull the establishment into a presentable form, or at least good enough so that when electric lights were installed inside, the guests did not curse the name of Edison for all the wretchedness now revealed to their eyes.
When the Oriente went up for sale, Seb was ready to leave the municipal office. He had no experience in hospitality, but he convinced his partners that he knew someone who could handle the job for them all.
And Moss could handle the hotel work—but the complex social hierarchy among the various staff members did not always parallel the jobs assigned. Seb’s excuse for the dirty dining room had something to do with discretion and saving face, but his friend left too much unsaid.
“You want me to tell our customers that I won’t offend the honor of my cleaning crew by asking them to clean?” Seb shrugged, which Moss interpreted as a signal that he was being too direct, too officious, too American. Moss wanted to say that being officious and, best of all, tidy, was essential to running a hotel. But he didn’t.
