Along the Broken Bay

by Flora J. Solomon

  Rosa motioned for her to stop and jotted down a note on Gina’s application. “I’ll be contacting my choice in a few days. Thank you for coming in.” She dismissed Gina with a wave of her hand.

  On the way out, Gina perceived the others watching. Too old, she knew the young girls were thinking. Probably so, she thought, let down by the quick dismissal.

  At home, the shoes came off first; then she plucked off the barrette and shook out her hair. The linen dress got replaced by the aide’s uniform. She was due to volunteer at Remedios Hospital, an obligation she had made to Father Morgan. Establishing a rapport with him and Dr. Lopez worked to her advantage, both being on Davy’s list of those who worked with them in the underground.

  Volunteers were picking up lunch trays; cutlery and dishes clinked and clanked as they were transferred, and the smell of banana pudding lingered. She was scheduled to work with Dr. Lopez in Emergency, which meant filling out forms and cleaning and restocking the room after its use.

  She found Dr. Lopez alone in the treatment room, covering the body of a young Filipino who had been left on the hospital doorstep more dead than alive. While jotting on the chart, the doctor said, “This city’s a brutal place. Have you ever thought about going back to the mountains?”

  She sensed his weariness. “No. You can’t get away from brutal these days. I have a doctor friend who’s working with the guerrillas. You know him; he was on staff at Philippine General. Dr. Theo Parker.”

  Dr. Lopez’s head snapped up. “Theo?”

  “Yes. He lived next door to me. His wife, Vivian, is my best friend. Theo’s why I’m here. He runs a clinic of sorts . . . if you can call a hut in a guerrilla camp a clinic.” She detected an understanding in Dr. Lopez’s expression.

  An orderly arrived and wheeled the body away, and Gina began to gather up bloody sheets and instruments. Dr. Lopez stopped her. “No one is in the waiting room. Tell me more about Theo.”

  She told him Theo had been with the Ninety-First Field Hospital on Bataan when the Japanese had captured the peninsula and how he had rescued her, Vivian, and the girls on the day of the death march. “He left us at the Ramos Ranch and came back to Manila for supplies. He had to stay in hiding while he was in the city. My maid helped him out.”

  “I remember. I didn’t see him, but I knew he was here. I gave him as much as I could without raising suspicion. Where is he now?”

  “Higher up in the mountains. He met up with Major Davy McGowan. I think you know Davy. What started out as a small group of refugees turned into a guerrilla camp. Davy and Theo sent me here to raise money to support them.”

  “Why didn’t I know? And how’s it going?”

  She shrugged. “Slow. I’m just starting. Maybe you’d like to help him out again?”

  Dr. Lopez appraised her for a long moment as if he were thinking an idea through. “How do you send money to him?”

  “I have a runner.”

  “You trust him?”

  “Yes. Without a doubt.”

  He took a wad of cash from his pocket and peeled off a few notes. “Tell you what. Send this cash to Theo and have him send a letter back stating he got it and information about what he’s doing. I’ll show the letter to my colleagues. They’ll be glad to support him. Theo has many friends.”

  That evening Gina put together a package of various necessities for Vivian and Edna, a deck of old maid for Cheryl and Leah, and the money for Theo from Dr. Lopez with instructions to return a letter of receipt. After contacting Miguel, she added a note to Vivian.

  Hope the enclosed helps out. Should be able to get more to you soon. Especially lonesome for Cheryl tonight. I miss her hugs and chatter. Making important contacts. Auditioned for a new job. Sending my love to all. Kiss Cheryl for me. G.

  Chapter 16

  ROSA’S CABARET

  Thoughts of escape never leave me. I plot. I plan. I try to dupe myself into believing I wouldn’t care that nine innocents would die horribly in my stead. I stay.

  —Ray Thorpe, Cabanatuan prison camp, October 1942–January 1944

  Gina awoke to a knock on her door. She had a call on the shared telephone in the hall. She looked at the clock, which read 11:15 p.m. Groggy, she stumbled to answer it. The caller was Rosa Engelhard. Her voice sounded husky.

  “Angelina, this is Rosa. I’d like to offer you a job at the cabaret. You’d be working four nights a week from six to eleven. You’d need a slinky dress, and be prepared to sing two sets, six songs. Could you start tomorrow night?”

  The pay she offered was good, plus tips, and the hours wouldn’t conflict with her job at the diner. Gina didn’t have a dress or appropriate shoes or sheet music for one song, much less six, and the time to prepare was short. Afraid if she said no, the job would disappear, she accepted it.

  When she hung up, her thoughts whirled. After all the years away from the stage, could she pull this off, or had the entertainment world, where once she was so successful, changed too? She barely slept that night, song fragments dominating her fractured dreams.

  She needed a dress and shoes that she neither could afford nor wanted to spend a single peso on. Chan’s and Heacock’s would be expensive. Instead she’d try Malate Church’s charity closet. The skirt she was wearing was from there, and though slightly worn, it was finely made.

  Two women were sorting clothing by sex, size, and condition. Gina nodded hello, then went about her business looking for something slinky, as Rosa had suggested. There wasn’t anything like that, but she did find a black silk sarong patterned with red, pink, and white flowers and green vines. It was really quite beautiful, and the only flaw she found was a frayed seam at the hemline, an easy fix with a needle and thread. She paired it with red strappy heels, and she wondered whether the sarong and shoes had been donated together. By a shelf of books she found a box of sheet music and selected six songs she already knew. Keeping her focus, she avoided the children’s department. That would be for another day. On her way out she left a peso in the donation box.

  Makeup for her cheeks and eyes, which she’d not worn since returning to Manila, was an expense she couldn’t avoid, but at the sari-sari store she kept the purchase to a minimum, her only splurge a bottle of red nail polish for her fingers and toes.

  Gina arrived at the cabaret early, carrying a long linen bag containing the sarong. Her grocery tote held her makeup, music, shoes, and a gardenia for her hair, clipped off the tree in her yard. She found Rosa Engelhard seated at a desk in a small, smoke-filled office, brushing dandruff off the shoulders of her exquisitely tailored gray suit. On her finger she wore a huge diamond-and-ruby ring that reminded Gina of her own expensive jewelry now lost to her. She motioned Gina to a chair. “Thank you for coming in on short notice.”

  “It was no problem,” Gina answered in a voice she hoped sounded controlled.

  All business, Rosa continued. “You’ll work four nights a week and do two sets each night. Between sets I expect you to mingle with the customers . . . chat them up, push the drinks. I’ll pay you in cash at the end of each night, plus you keep any tips you get. We open at six o’clock and close at eleven, so you’ll have time to get home before curfew. I’m going to promote you as Angelina D’Licious.”

  “What?” Gina choked on the moniker. “No! I’m not a . . . a . . . D’Licious anything.”

  “It brings the customers in. Take it or leave it.”

  Gina contemplated her weak position. It was a paycheck, and if it panned out, she could send Davy money every week. “All right,” she agreed, but she tasted bile.

  Rosa reached for a ring full of keys. “Come with me; I’ll take you to the dressing room.” Rosa minced toward the door in too-high-heeled shoes. Gina, still stinging from the name change, grabbed her purse and dress and followed.

  Feathery boas in pinks, greens, and blues; outrageous oversize hats; sequined masks; and even a leather whip hung on hooks along one wall of the dressing room. Tables held jars, pots, pencils, and tubes labeled
Max Factor and Elizabeth Arden. The lights, vivid colors, and familiar odors took Gina back in time to her whirlwind years with the Follies.

  Rosa hollered over the chatter of a half dozen women. “Listen up, everyone. This is Angelina D’Licious, our new singer. Be nice and give her some room at the dressing tables.”

  Gina heard a few snickers and felt the critical stares of the women passing judgment on her hair, skin, figure, and pale-blue blouse from the charity closet. She smiled and tried to appear nonplussed by their evaluations. “Pleasure to meet you,” she muttered.

  There was a chorus of welcomes and hellos in different languages and accents, and then the women returned to their own preparations, several struggling to squeeze their curvaceous bodies into identical glittery red-and-gold chemises cut low to expose pushed-up cleavages. Garters that dangled from under black ruffled panties held up thigh-high stockings. Stacked nearby were red-and-gold-sequined top hats. As the women dressed, some chattered about dates gone sour, tight shoes, and sore feet.

  Rosa pointed to a metal locker and handed Gina a key she took off the ring. “You can keep your things in here. A bell will ding three times five minutes before you’re to be onstage. Keep track of where you are on the schedule. Don’t be late, ever. You stay until the last act is finished, in case I need a fill-in. If you don’t show up for work, you’re fired.”

  A skinny young man wearing a black-and-yellow-striped sports coat, a white shirt, and a green bow tie entered the dressing room, and Gina recognized him as the pianist who’d played at her audition.

  “Rosa,” he yelled, “the Chinaman’s here to see you.”

  Rosa turned to Gina. “You remember Julio, don’t you? He’ll finish showing you around.” She tottered out on her too-tall shoes.

  Gina hung her sarong in the locker, thinking it might be too sophisticated for this tacky venue, with its bevy of beaded and bangled cabaret entertainers.

  “So you’re the new girl.” Julio looked her up and down. “I’m surprised. I remember you from the audition. I thought you a little highbrow for this joint.”

  “Highbrow?” She chortled, thinking back to the months she had lived in a nipa hut. She thought that experience had humbled her.

  “Yeah. There’s a certain air about you. Never mind. You’ll do fine.” He swung his arm toward the door. “Come with me, madame.” He talked fast and walked faster, and she trotted along beside him. “You’ll enter here, stage right.” He led her past the moth-eaten stage curtain.

  She noted the scarred floors. Everything looked worn, and the whole place smelled musty. Peering into the theater, she saw the same disarray of tables and chairs as when she’d auditioned and was surprised the room hadn’t been cleaned up for the show. Maybe Julio was right. She was a bit of a snob, an attitude left over from years of working in classier places. She saw Chan, her Chinese tailor, standing at the back of the theater talking animatedly to Rosa, a strange place for him to be, she thought. “Do you know him?”

  “Yes. Yee Chan. He owns this building. Did you bring your music?” Julio slid onto the piano bench.

  “Yes, it’s in my bag.”

  “That’s okay. What’s your first number?”

  “‘Put Your Arms around Me, Honey.’”

  “Good choice.” Julio played a few chords. “I can follow you. The mic’s over there.” He bobbed his head toward the microphone on its stand. “Go ahead. Give it a whirl.”

  It took Gina a moment to figure out the microphone. Once she had, Julio played a few bars of the chorus, and she began to sing. Heads poked into the theater to check out the new girl, and they clapped when she finished. She smiled and bowed and then turned to Julio. “Thank you. That breaks the ice. How many other musicians are there?” She didn’t see any evidence of a band.

  “No others. Just me. Were you expecting more?”

  “Well, maybe one or two.”

  “Hey. I can make this old upright sound like an orchestra.” He showed Gina a mouth organ that hung around his neck and a unique drum he kept under one foot. “Chinwag with the audience during your set, and I’ll respond with the piano now and then. You’ve been around. You know the shtick.”

  Gina nodded hesitatingly. She knew the shtick from a long time ago, a skill she could only hope would come back quickly.

  Backstage, Julio pointed out the lavatories, the stage door, and the night’s schedule, which was tacked to the wall. “You’ll be going on after Inez and Arielle, our hula dancers. Just so you’re not surprised, the crowd—”

  Julio was almost mowed down by a woman wearing a rose satin bra and floral sarong wrap skirt. Her shiny black hair hung in waves to her waist, and the scent of jasmine lingered behind her. Julio jumped out of her path. “Speak of the devil, that’s Arielle. She’s always in a hurry. I’ll introduce you later. Hey, Sammy,” he called to a man wearing a top hat and tails, “come over here and meet Angelina, our new singer; she’s fantastic, a cut above the rest of you freaks.”

  Gina gasped, but the magician laughed and produced a red flower out of the air and handed it to her.

  “Thank you. You’re very quick.” She tucked the flower behind her ear.

  Recorded music, a lively dance tune, began to play over the PA system. Julio, seemingly unable to stand still, soft-shoed to the beat, and Gina admired his abundant energy.

  “That tune signals that the doors are opening and the party’s about to start. You’d better get yourself ready.”

  Back at the dressing room, the women in red-and-gold chemises and sequined top hats were scurrying out of the door. Gina stepped back to let them pass by before entering the now less crowded room. She saw Arielle with a needle and thread repairing a broken bra strap, and sitting beside her, dressed in a similar costume, was Inez, Gina guessed. Both were beautiful Filipino girls with dewy skin and burnt-almond eyes.

  “Welcome,” Inez said. “Great job out there, Angelina. You’ll knock ’em dead.”

  “Thank you. Please call me Gina.”

  Arielle and Inez went back to their last-minute preparations, brightening their lips and cheeks and slipping leis of pink-and-yellow plumeria around their heads, necks, and ankles.

  The flurry of preperformance preparation helped calm Gina’s first-night apprehensions. Upon retrieving her makeup from her tote and settling at a dressing table, she peered into a mirror, seeing that her eyes sparkled and her cheeks were pink. A good start. She darkened her lids and lashes and applied rouge to her cheeks. Siren-red lipstick added more color. Still a little pale. She patted glitter along her cheekbones. Better. Pushing one side of her hair back, she clipped it in place with a barrette and then pinned in the gardenia. Good enough. She then slipped into her beautiful sarong and strappy red shoes.

  Inez was watching her. “Are you new to Manila? I haven’t seen you around.”

  Wary of personal questions, Gina remained vague, a stretch for her usually friendly manner. “No, but I just started working again. It’s been a few years.”

  The call bell dinged for Arielle and Inez, and they hurried out, their tawny skin glistening, black hair swinging, and dark eyes shining huge under layers of purple shadow and dazzling pink highlighter.

  Gina overheard: “Did Julio warn her about the crowd?”

  “I’m sure she knows.”

  Gina wondered what she needed to know. Was it a rowdy bunch? She’d faced unruly audiences before, but not without beefy security men standing by. Jitters were threatening to dry out her throat, not a good thing before going onstage, and she sipped water from the jug on the side table.

  A pixie-faced woman came into the dressing room, took off her sequined hat, and flung it on the chair. “You’re on next, hon. Knock ’em dead.”

  “Thanks. I’ll try. Um . . . is there something I should know about the audience?”

  Pixie-Face fluffed her flattened hair. “Just the usual SOBs. Don’t let them get under your skin. If they sense you’re nervous, they’ll heckle the hell outa ya.”
/>   “Thanks. I won’t.” Gina left the dressing room feeling more confident. She knew all about hecklers.

  At the stage entrance she peeked from behind the dusty blue curtain and watched Inez and Arielle dance a slow, sensual hula to the hollow beat of tribal drums and the wailing vibrato of steel guitars. She let her body sway in unison with theirs, remembering the motions from her years with the Follies.

  The music stopped, and as the dancers exited the stage, Julio came to Gina’s side. “Here we go. First I need to push the piano into place; then I’ll play a few measures of your song and introduce you. Hey, don’t look so worried. You’ll do fine.” He straightened his green bow tie and stepped onto the stage.

  Gina listened for her cue, soon hearing the first bars of “Put Your Arms around Me, Honey,” and Julio bellowing over a background of jabber: “Give a rousing welcome to Rosa Cabaret’s newest songster, the most delightful and delectable Miss Angelina D’Licious.”

  To the clamor and whistles of a rowdy crowd, Gina swirled out from behind the curtain ready to woo them as she had done on stages around the world, absorbing their energy and feeding it back. There was no other feeling like it, and in this minute she realized how much she had missed it.

  Julio winked, and with her smile open and wide, she spun to face them and saw a room packed with Japanese soldiers, their arms reaching toward her, their eyes leering, their mouths grinning and yammering. One tried to jump on the stage, and fear descended so fast it swept her breath away.

  She placed her hand on the piano to steady herself and gaped at Julio, who nodded encouragingly and played the introductory bars of music again. But Gina’s mind stayed blank, and her jaw locked.

  In his raspy baritone, Julio sang the first lines of the song: “Nighttime is falling; everything is still. Cupid is calling every Jack and Jill . . .”

  Hearing the lyrics brought Gina out of her shocked state, but her usually graceful movements were bizarrely jerky and her smile oddly skewed. She continued the song, her voice thin, warbling from her constricted throat. When done, she couldn’t think of a single thing to say to the mass of leering faces an arm’s length away. Her gaze darted to Julio, who played grand flourishes on the piano and segued into the second song. Gina stood dumbstruck. The audience turned ugly, booing and heckling. Her insides churning, she stumbled off the stage and out the back door. Gulping in the fog-heavy air, she folded her arms tightly over her stomach to control convulsing tremors. Weak kneed, she leaned against a fence post.