The Tesseract

by Alex Garland

  “Okay.”

  For a short while, each listened to the other one’s noise. A ripple of car horns and revved engines for Rosa, and sighs for her husband—just audible above the mobile’s fuzz.

  “You all right, Rose?” he said after the third sigh, and added, “Corazon’s driving you crazy,” before she could answer.

  “Same old stuff, but for some reason she’s really getting to me tonight. We had an argument. She brought up Sarap, and it got me thinking…”

  “You’ve got to ignore her, Rose.”

  “I can’t. Especially not at the kids’ bedtime.”

  “Raffy can handle it, petal.”

  “He shouldn’t have to handle things at that age.”

  “He’ll be fine, stem.”

  “Stem.” Rosa smiled. “How about thorn?”

  “I don’t like thorns, root.”

  “I think I’d rather be a thorn than a root.”

  “Well, I think your mother got all the thor—” He broke off. “Uh-oh,” he muttered. Then there was a pause. “Oh no. Oh fuck! I don’t believe it!”

  “What?” said Rosa anxiously.

  “Two kids! Two fucking street kids! They put…You little bastards! Sons of fucking whores! Get back here, you little…”

  “What’s happened!”

  “Jesus.” There was the click of a car door. “Yep…Yep! They did it all right!”

  “Did what?”

  “I’ve got a flat. They put nails under the tire.” He was interrupted by a sudden series of car-horn blasts. “I’ve got a flat, you half-breeds! What am I holding you up from? Six whole feet of clear road!” The car horns continued. “As soon as I pull over, you’ll really be able to open up! Pedal to the floor!”

  “Honey, calm. Get the car off the road.”

  “Those people!”

  “I know. Please, just get the car off the road and change the tire.”

  “Jesus! I just wanted to get home! I’m ten minutes’ fucking drive away, and now I’m going to be so late!”

  “I know.”

  “I’m going to have to hang up. Jesus! Those fucking street kids!”

  “They’re gone. All you can do is change the tire.”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay.”

  He hung up.

  Rosa looked down the hall and watched the blue TV light glowing through the living room doorway. Then she turned back into the kitchen, flicked on the kettle, and opened the freezer. Quart tub of Magnolia, halo-halo.

  3.

  After calling for the third time, Corazon appeared to resign herself to watching ER alone. Rosa felt bad—it could surprise her that whatever else she felt toward her mother, the strongest feeling was love—but not bad enough to move from the kitchen. There would be time to make it up to her later.

  So she drank her coffee, scooped at the halo-halo ice cream, and ran her eyes over the crossword she had left unfinished during her lunch break.

  “Do you always sit here, po?”

  Rosa had a quick look around the seafront and the park. It was a category of reflex action—she knew where she was and knew that she always sat on the same bench, but she was checking anyway. For the benefit of the small old man who had asked the question.

  “Yes, po,” she said, once she had established that the moored cargo ships, threadbare palm trees, and bleached grass were just as they always were.

  The old man scratched his balding head. “Me too, po. Usually from around eleven to eleven-thirty. But I’m late today, so I’ve missed my spot.”

  “There’s plenty of room. I can move all this.” She slid her newspaper and lunch over to the side.

  “That’s very civil of you, po.”

  “Not at all, po. I shouldn’t take up so much space with my sandwiches. Perhaps you’d like one?”

  “Thank you,” he said. “But my teeth aren’t up to sandwiches. I have a sweet rice cake to eat.” And he produced a parcel from somewhere inside his shirt. “Don’t let me keep you from your crossword.”

  “Oh, I was getting stuck with it anyway.”

  “Give me a clue.”

  “Um, okay…” Rosa glanced at the blank boxes. “Cried over spilled milk. Six letters, third letter is a…”

  “Sayang,” said the old man cheerfully.

  “Sayang. It fits, po…”

  “Sayang. That’s what I say whenever I spill some milk.” He cackled. “With these weak wrists and fingers, I say sayang several times a day! Give me another.”

  “Okay…Number of the knife, two words, six and five…”

  “Byenté nwebé.”

  Rosa filled it in, shaking her head. “Of course. It’s so obvious. I see ten byenté nwebé cuts a day, for goodness sake. And byenté fits with sayang.”

  “There, doctora,” the old man said, and beamed. “Now I won’t do any more. I don’t want to ruin your crossword.”

  “You aren’t ruining it at all, po!”

  “You’re very kind. Anyway, you’re impressed with me at the moment. But if I don’t get the next clue, you’ll be less impressed. So I’d prefer to leave it at that.” He winked at her. “You can see, I’m very sly.”

  “Yes, po,” said Rosa, laughing. “So you are.”

  The old man took a slow munch of his rice cake. Then, after a somewhat laborious swallow, he said, “You’re a pure Tagalog. Quezon province.”

  Rosa nodded. “You are too, po.”

  “You know Infanta?”

  “I grew up near Infanta, po.”

  “I grew up on Polilio.”

  “On a clear day, I could see Polilio from my house.”

  “Yes…That’s why we come to this park to eat lunch. A little bit of sea, a few coconut trees.” He held his bony hands up to the sides of his face. “If you put your hands like this and gaze in certain directions, you will be able to see only trees and sea, and you can pretend you are home.”

  “Apart from the smell and the sounds, po.”

  “Heh. The smells and the sounds…and the sea is as filthy as the piss channel from a pigsty, and the trees have gray leaves.” The old man took an even slower mouthful of his rice cake and chewed it—mournfully, Rosa thought. Then he kicked his slipper off his right foot, and traced a line in the dust and cigarette butts with his toes.

  “I hate this city. I’ve been here thirty years, and I never liked it for even one minute. Where I live, there is no green except in the plants that grow between the cracks in the concrete. Is it like that where you live?”

  “No, po. In many ways, my area is quite pretty. There are plenty of trees and flowers, and at the moment, lots of blossom.”

  “Ah, blossom. That’s nice. But…it’s not like home.”

  “No, po,” said Rosa firmly. “It is certainly not like home.”

  “You regret leaving.”

  “No. Or, I don’t know. I mean…” Rosa’s eyebrows knotted in concentration. “I have much more in Manila than I ever dreamed I would have. I’m a doctor, my children go to a good school, I have a big house. A car…These things are not what I expected from life.”

  “I think you do miss home.”

  “Yes, po.”

  “You came here to study?”

  “Yes.”

  “To study,” said the old man, and he tilted his head. “But that’s not all.”

  “No.”

  “There was another reason. And it’s not a happy story.”

  Rosa didn’t reply. With amazing speed, tears had appeared in her eyes and were now rolling down her cheeks. “Oh,” she said, and reached to get a packet of tissues from her bag. “This is so…I don’t know why I suddenly…” When she found the tissues, she sat up again, but the packet remained unopened on her lap. “Sorry, po.”

  “Ah.” Squinting at her against the sunshine, the old man took her hand and gave it a soft squeeze. “There…There it is. Thirty years I’ve been here. Nobody comes to this city with a happy story.”

 
“Sayang.”

  Rosa traced over her earlier ink marks, thickening the letters. The coffee was cold, the ice cream was melting, and something warm had nestled against her leg. It had been there for a couple of minutes.

  “Out of interest, why aren’t you in bed, Raffy?”

  Two eyes appeared over the edge of the tabletop. “I’m not tired at all.”

  “Come here, then. Let’s have a look at you.” Holding him under the arms, she lifted him onto her knee. He wriggled slightly, getting into the most comfortable position. “Are you after ice cream?”

  “No. Where’s Dad?”

  “Stuck near United Nations Avenue. You want to call him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Pass me the phone and I’ll dial the number.”

  Three rings. “I’m going to be a while yet, Rose,” said a gruff voice. “I can’t get the wheel nuts off. It’s like they’ve been welded on.”

  “I’ve got someone who wants to speak to you.”

  “Someone who’s still wide awake, way past their bedtime?”

  “Could be…”

  “Male? Female?”

  “Guess.”

  “All right.” There was the clank of a wrench repeatedly hitting a curbstone. Then a calm voice. “Put him on.”

  4.

  “Hello, big guy. I hear you can’t sleep.”

  “Hi, Dad. Can’t sleep.”

  “That’s what I hear.”

  “It’s pretty hot tonight, and a mosquito got through my netting even though Mom covered the hole. More than one mosquito, actually.”

  “I never understood how mosquitoes always find the hole.”

  “They always do!”

  “It never fails. But you can sleep with a few mosquitoes, Raffy. Remember when we visit Mom’s relatives in the provinces? If you can deal with those country mosquitoes, these little city ones shouldn’t be any trouble.”

  “Hmm. What’s up with you, anyway? Why aren’t you home yet?”

  “Late getting away from work. Got a tribunal coming up for some Jap clients. And I got a flat. Changing it right now.”

  “You got a flat tire on the car?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Do you need any help changing it? I could come and…”

  “I think I’d rather have you tucked in bed. But thanks for the offer. Now, tell me, did you say a prayer before turning in?”

  “Uh…no.”

  “Did you forget?”

  “Mmm.”

  “Right. So maybe that’s why you couldn’t drift off. Maybe you should say it now.”

  “I couldn’t drift off because I didn’t say the prayer?”

  “Sounds like it.”

  “God was stopping me?”

  “Sure.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. So if you say it now, you’ll be able to get some rest.”

  “Why didn’t he stop my chest being burned?”

  “It wasn’t God who burned your chest.”

  “He couldn’t stop my chest being burned?”

  “He could, but…”

  “He cares more about sleep?”

  “Okay, Raffy. I’m changing a tire over here. How about you say the prayer?”

  Raphael paused, then cleared his throat.

  “Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.”

  “That’s good, Raffy.”

  “I don’t feel tired yet.”

  “Give it a few minutes. Go on, you go up to bed. I’ll come and say hello when I get back, and if you still aren’t asleep, maybe we can talk a little.”

  “What if God’s got me sleeping by then?”

  “I’ll let him get on with it.”

  “Okay.”

  “Good night, then.”

  “Yes. Good night.”

  5.

  The pak-pak of gunfire jolted Rosa’s body and made her hands tighten around Raphael’s shoulders. It was a volley of four or five shots, and in the brief lull that followed, Corazon appeared at the bottom of the stairs.

  “Where from?”

  Rosa looked around. “Let me get Raphael in bed.”

  “Shooting!” said Raphael. “Wow! Do you think it’s close?”

  “It’s miles away. And it’s not going to stop you from going to—”

  The second volley was longer and more intense. From the rippled rhythm, it was at least two guns, small-arms fire.

  “I think it’s in the direction of the squatter camps,” said Corazon quickly.

  “The squatter camps?” Raphael was breathless with excitement. “That’s not miles away at all, Mom! That’s just down the road!”

  Lita emerged from the bedroom door, blinking at the light. “Mom? There’s shooting—”

  The third volley made Rosa think of a dry kindling stack abruptly engulfed in flame.

  Lita started crying. Raphael’s gleeful expression immediately became doubtful, and then he started crying too.

  “Angels, angels,” said Corazon, coming up the stairs. “What’s to be afraid of? Rosa is perfectly right. The shooting sounds much closer than it really is.”

  Both kids looked at their mother, but Rosa was too alarmed now to be able to disguise it.

  “Come on, little ones.” Corazon bustled past and started ushering the children back to their bedroom. “I’ll sing to you if you hurry up.”

  “Thanks, Mother,” said Rosa to the empty landing moments later. She was still standing in the same spot when two final gunshots sounded. Different from the others. Not as contained, less muffled, more isolated, and somehow more deliberate. A person had been killed with those shots.

  “So let that be the end of it,” she whispered. And for the next few minutes, the only noise to be heard was Corazon’s song about dreaming dreams, and the Sandman.

  Locked and Lost

  1.

  Rosa and Lito lay on a cheap blanket bought in the Infanta open market, her head on his stomach and his hand stroking her hair. Schoolbooks, fine netting, plastic container, and clothes were placed neatly to the side. The leaves and branches around them were like four walls and a roof. The surf kept an easy rhythm.

  “Are you comfortable?” said Lito quietly.

  Rosa nodded. “What about my head here? It’s not too heavy?”

  “It’s fine.”

  “I can move.”

  “It’s the nicest thing I can think of, your head there.”

  “Good…” Rosa turned her face enough to kiss him lightly on the stomach. “Rubbing alcohol,” she whispered, and kissed him again. “Smells sweet.”

  “Like chocolate?”

  “Just something sweet.”

  Split coconut shells and husks gave a light perfume to the forest floor. Sand, blown through the tree line, gave the top-soil a dusty warmth. Strips of morning sunlight, cutting through the foliage, left gold tiger markings where they hit brown skin.

  2.

  Schoolwork, one of the first things to suffer. Not surprising, considering how much time Rosa spent gazing out of the classroom’s glassless windows. Glassless windows led to the orange dirt of the schoolyard, which led to a short stretch of road and a couple of outlying Infanta houses, which led to shadows shifting in the jungle and the cloud formations above them. A world of daydreams was never closer.

  “Are you concentrating, Rosa?”

  Yes, concentrating hard. But on a memory of clutching Lito tight in her arms and legs, as opposed to mathematics. In this more interesting equation, one plus one could resolve itself as three.

  “Perhaps you could tell the class the name of the man who founded the Liga Filipina?”

  Lito if it was a boy, Lita if it was a girl. Rosa had decided on the names after the first time they had slept with each other.

  “Where does the American president live?”

  In a nipa hut, not much different from the one in which she was raised. Unlike Leesha, Rosa had no great ambitions f
or herself or her future husband. A nipa hut and a small garden would do fine.

  “Describe the function of the heart.”

  Rosa blinked, turned from the window, and gave her teacher a slight quizzical frown. She didn’t know where to begin.

  Rosa and Leesha sat on the low wall that separated the edge of the playground from the dirt track road. To their left a few boys bounced a basketball. Each time one of the older boys shot a hoop or made a steal, he would glance over at the two girls to see if he had been noticed, and remained cheerfully undiscouraged when he saw that he had not. To Rosa and Leesha’s right, a small group of eight-to twelve-year-olds swung a skipping rope. The chant was “Black Dog.”

  “In our day,” said Leesha, “Tata Ilad was Black Dog. That poor little old man, looking after his pineapple rows, and we always said he was Black Dog.”

  “I almost never made it to Tata Ilad. I’d have tripped by the sixth or seventh verse.”

  “Seventh verse…was that the dead chickens? ‘Seven dead chickens, laid on the ground, grandmother counts them, one-two-three…’ Wasn’t that it?”

  “No,” said Rosa, after a hesitation to remember the lines. “It was six chickens. Seventh verse was Black Dog looking in the windows. Remember, he looks in seven windows at the sleeping kids.”

  “Yes!” said Leesha. “Oh, I could never trip on that verse! I always used to say to myself, if I trip then, when I have children, one of them would be chosen as the seventh kid!”

  “Naturally. I said the same thing to myself, but it didn’t work because I’d get too nervous. I remember going home one day, crying to my mother that Black Dog would be coming for my children.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She took me straight to the padre, and he blessed me. Then she made him do it again, to make sure. Then she made me promise never to skip that chant again.”

  “Mmm. Quite a strong reaction.”

  “She said that when she was a girl, she met two Visayans who had seen Black Dog with their own eyes. And they were new to Luzon, so they didn’t know the story yet.”

  “But you must have skipped it again after that. We were always skipping that chant.”