No Surrender Soldier

by Christine Kohler

  In the end, Mori, the butcher’s son, retrieved the icon, climbed the rope, and rang the bell at the top of the shrine. Afterward, Seto ran with all the boys down to the lake where they plunged through rippling caps and submerged beneath icy water.

  Seto shook uncontrollably at the memory. When he had tried to emerge again, he came up underneath ice. He pressed his face against ice and gasped air from pockets. He swallowed water and his lungs burned as he kicked and swam for an opening. Finally he burst free, breeching the surface like a whale being hunted by whalers.

  The rest of his classmates were already on shore, wrapped in white sheets like burial cloths and being blessed by priests. Seto was last to resurrect from a watery grave and come to shore. He almost missed the blessing.

  “Domo…” he whispered as he did so many years before. Seto craved the blessing from the priest. For a boy needs to be tried, purified, and blessed to become a worthy man.

  The memory was a sad but fulfilling one. Seto fell into a deep, deep sleep. Later, as he fought between sleep and wake, he heard muffled squeals. At first he thought it was frogs still struggling to be free. But this frightful squeal was faint, yet shrill.

  Seto sat up and listened closely. His heart raced. Could it be he caught something in his snare?

  Bang!

  Seto clutched his chest at the sound of gunfire. No more squeals. Silence. The suspense of not knowing was killing him.

  CHAPTER 13

  FIESTA

  JANUARY 15, 1972

  Simon looked very handsome dressed for dinner. Our smoked pig lay on the banquet table between kelaguen shrimp and ginger chicken.

  Tasted good, too. I snatched a piece of pork from near the ribs. I smeared the grease from my mouth on the back of my hand and wiped it on my black trousers before pinching a shrimp. Tatan swiped a taro tip from the table. He was still on a roll, having a good day. Maybe Nana had gotten it wrong about his lytico-bodig growing worse. Maybe like Tatan had it wrong about Nana being raped. I closed my eyes and shook my head, trying to get all this crazy thinking to go away. I couldn’t deal with it. This was going to be a fun night. Fiesta. Why ruin it by thinking too much?

  “Boys!” Nana hissed. I downed the shrimp and scooted out of Nana’s reach before she playfully swatted my hand. Tata laughed.

  I heard Daphne giggling with the women and girls dressed in long flowered Filipina dresses. I still had not had a chance to explain and clear things up. She’d been busy getting her project ready for the science fair. So that cut out lunch hours. Then I was stuck rushing home after school every day to check on Tatan. Maybe tonight we could talk. I bent forward enough to look down the table. Daphne was stirring ambrosia, the nectar of the gods. I raked my fingers through my hair. Daphne glanced sideways at me. Could she guess I had it bad for her? Just looking at her in that yellow dress gave me a rush.

  I was getting ready to go talk to Daphne when Nana said, “Tata’s waiting for you. Get down to the procession.” I hesitated and sniffed the lemon Nana was squeezing over tuna. “I’ll join you later,” she said.

  I looked at Daphne again. Was she smiling at me? I chucked my chin and took off for the procession.

  Tatan, Tata, and I hitched a ride in the back of a pickup to the other end of the beach. We joined thousands of Catholics gathered to honor Diego Luis de San Vitores, a Spanish Jesuit missionary. A Chamorro chief ordered him beheaded four hundred years ago because the priest baptized the chief’s baby daughter without his permission. I guess I could see both sides. Nobody should go against the chief, especially not concerning his own family. But the priest was probably worried about the baby’s soul if she died. It’d be a hard call. But beheading? Whoa, that’s some seriously deep doo-doo. I wouldn’t want to mess with any of that chief’s daughters.

  The pickup parked beside nuns. I never got why people called them penguins. Not that I’ve ever seen a penguin. But the nuns looked like a pod of dolphins in their gray cloaks.

  “Care if I find Tomas, eh?”

  “Go ahead,” Tata said. “We’ll see you at Saint William’s Chapel.”

  I squinted into the setting sun, looking for Tomas. Padre Flores led the faithful down Tumon beach, his large gold cross beating against his chest steady as a drumbeat. Behind him twelve robed altar boys cupped their hands around candles. I imagine in the olden days they would have been carrying tiki torches. The tallest boy hoisted high a teakwood cross perched on a staff.

  Ah, there was Tomas, walking behind the monks in brown robes, crunching seaweed and crushed coral under their sandals. I ran to catch up to Tomas, and my thin black tie—more like a noose Nana made me wear—flapped over my shoulder.

  “Hey, bro,” Tomas said, “seen Daphne? She’s looking mighty fine.”

  I flicked my eyebrows, then looked out over the ocean instead of at Tomas. I flushed hot every time I thought about Daphne possibly seeing Tatan naked. I had to quit thinking about it, especially during this holy procession. Communion fell before the fiesta feast, so I tried to put Daphne, looking fine, out of my mind. I didn’t have time for confession tonight, and I didn’t need to spend the night with a boner.

  I craned my neck back to see Tata walking alongside Tatan.

  “Who you looking for, eh?” Tomas said.

  “Oh, Tatan.”

  “Don’t worry none. He’s probably back with the manamkos chewing the fat about old times and whose obit is in the paper.” Tomas laughed.

  “Yeah, you probably right. Tatan’s kay-o. Besides, Tata’s keeping an eye out for him.”

  Waves lapped the shore and amber streaked the sky. We marched onward like Christian soldiers to the grotto.

  “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee,” the priest chanted once we huddled at San Vitores’s shrine.

  I crossed myself. Tomas fingered the crucifix around his neck. We responded, “Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and in the hour of our death. Amen.”

  Tomas’s stomach rumbled. I started to laugh, but put my hand over my mouth.

  Tomas tried to hold back snickering, too, but it snorted through his nose.

  Daphne glanced over from across the aisle with her eyebrows knit together. I cupped a fist to my mouth like a conch shell. Ga-humph, escaped through my fist.

  The priest droned on.

  Daphne smiled shyly and Tomas nudged me with his elbow and smiled back at Daphne.

  “… which gives food to the hungry,” the priest recited.

  I looked at Tomas, which set off his snickering again.

  “The Lord sets prisoners free,” we responded.

  I flicked my eyebrows at Daphne.

  She giggled into cupped hands, but I could see her eyes dancing. Man, she was beautiful. What I wouldn’t give for one dance with her. Maybe I’d get lucky and work up the nerve to ask her. Then I could talk to her and set things right. I might even tell her I like her.

  The priest said, “The Lord takes care of strangers.”

  I shifted my eyes and caught sight of Tata and Nana, responding, “The Lord comforts the fatherless and widows…”

  “Praise ye the Lord,” the congregation ended.

  Finally, Communion. Then we could eat. Then the music and dance. Maybe then I could spend time with Daphne.

  The Father placed on the altar one gold chalice and one thin wafer the size of a tortilla. Inside the chalice sloshed a liquid the color of Simon’s blood.

  Smoke billowed from an oil incense burner, anointing my hair and clothes and skin with scents of musk and sandalwood, like the musty smell after a rain.

  Father blessed the Eucharist. He lofted the wafer high, “… with Christ’s body…” He broke off a smidgen and ate. He raised the chalice and crossed himself. “With this blood…” and drank.

  People filed forward two by two as ushers directed each from one pew, then the other.

  I looked down at my feet and tried to think pious thoughts. I didn’t notice until I reached the altar Daphne had fallen i
n step beside me.

  She closed her eyes, crossed herself, opened her eyes and lifted her face toward the padre. He placed a tiny bit of wafer on her tongue. The priest broke off another piece for me. All I could think about was what a gecko-sized bite Daphne had nibbled from the host. The priest extended the wafer. I ate Christ’s flesh.

  I turned to watch Daphne’s lips sip from the communal chalice.

  The priest handed it to me. Her mouth touched this. I gulped.

  “He who eats and drinks unworthily eats and drinks damnation unto himself.”

  Never before did Christ’s body and blood stick in my throat. I wanted to spit out the wafer and wine. I felt dirty. What about Confirmation? What made me think I was good enough to be confirmed into the faith?

  I walked down the aisle beside Daphne, close enough to whiff the plumeria blossom in her hair. I had to restrain myself from reaching over and holding her hand.

  After Communion we were swept outside to fiesta under the canvas covering. No longer the solemn atmosphere of novenas—prayers for the dead—as noisy throngs of people crowded around tables overflowing with food.

  I took a deep breath to smell the red rice stained with achiote seeds, finadene sauce, empanadas, lumpias, and Filipino noodles marinated in ginger, soy, and rice wine. My mouth watered at the sight of mangoes, papayas, guavas, breadfruit, coconuts, and tart little mountain apples that were pickled, baked, juiced, or offered whole and unspoiled.

  But at the center of the fiesta, like a sacrifice on the altar, was smoked pig. My pig. Simon. I felt proud.

  “Amen.” Father finished the blessing prayer. “And dig in!”

  The priest led the procession down the tables, pausing over each dish as if it were a rosary bead.

  Daphne smiled at me and swayed her body to strains of ancient Chamorro music. Butsu—three-quarter waltzes—flowed sweetly from the mandolin, ukulele, guitar, accordion, and bass fiddle. I wondered if after we ate, would Daphne dance with me? If I worked up the courage to ask?

  I twisted my neck around, looking for Tatan. I hadn’t seen him at the shrine with my parents. He should’ve been there, sharing in eating pig with me. After all, we slaughtered him together, Tatan and me.

  Tomas came up behind me and slapped between my shoulders. “What you standing here for, eh? Let’s eat.”

  Tata was slicing Simon, and Nana cut up pies. I lightly backhanded Tomas in the stomach. “You go on, bro. Catch you later.”

  I searched the crowd for Tatan’s pale blue guayabera—Filipino shirt. I passed tables where children pleaded for sweetbreads and cakes. I wanted him to be with me when we dished up our pig on our plates.

  I pressed by politicians, though not without having to shake a number of hands and getting caught in a few arm-on-shoulder hugs. I nodded and bobbed my head past nuns. I slipped past my buddies checking out young Chamorritas, like how I checked out Daphne.

  Finally, I thought I spotted Tatan wandering around a group of maga’hagas. The older matriarchs sat waiting for family to bring manamkos plates of food so they wouldn’t be jostled in line.

  “Tatan,” I waved, motioning for him to join me. “Tatan San Nicolas!” I called again.

  As I drew closer to where I thought Tatan was standing I heard one heavy-set maga’haga in an orange muumuu say, “Shame, eh? About Tatan San Nicolas.”

  Another maga’haga in a green dress printed with pineapples replied, “Lytico-bodig. Sad. Thought he might be husband material.”

  The orange muumuu maga’haga jiggled with laughter. Several women twittered.

  Embarrassed, I tried to move past them and call for Tatan on the other side when Widow Muumuu said my nana’s name.

  “Poor Roselina, after all these years… people forgetting where Sammy came from… now Tatan dredging up how Rosie was… soiled by those nasty Japanese fellas.”

  “Do you know that for a fact?” said a maga’haga wearing a cowry shell lei.

  “It’s come out,” Widow Muumuu assured the women. “Day he chased that Japanese man at the beach, I heard. Couldn’t help but come out now that Tatan San Nicolas has lytico-bodig. A man can’t hide anger forever.”

  “For sure,” agreed Widow Pineapple. “A-ranting and a-raving about what happened to us all in World War II. Concentration camps, Merizo massacre, the… well, you know, like what happened to poor Roselina… of course, didn’t happen to me… I hid mo’e better.”

  I moved closer. Widow Muumuu caught my eye and puckered her mouth into a sour lime shape. Her triple chin waddled. The other maga’hagas must have noticed me, too.

  Widow Cowry Lei said, “Nice fiesta, eh? Lots of food.”

  I nodded, and stomped off. I wanted to shut them up. Shut them all up. I didn’t care that they were manamkos. Old biddies. They had no business talking about my nana that way. Gossipy bunch of old maga’hagas. Didn’t they have anything better to do? Did everybody know my nana was raped? What did they say about Sammy? I broke out in a sweat and it felt as if a tight band squeezed my forehead.

  Out under the canopy of stars, lighted by moonbeams and paper Chinese lanterns, I breathed in burning citronella. My head spun along with people swaying and swirling to a kaleidoscope of music. I felt light-headed and about to pass out. I vaguely made out Tatan on the opposite side of the circle beside the ukulele player.

  “The old ladies from days of old will eat betel nut,” the musician called.

  People responded, “They’ll spit out the tobacco that stains their teeth…”

  I inhaled until my chest swelled, then exhaled a deep sigh. I breathed deep again. I felt like I couldn’t get enough air.

  Tomas came and stood beside me, balancing a plate overflowing with food.

  “Seconds?” I asked Tomas.

  “Thirds.” I dove my fingers into Tomas’s plate. He pulled it away. “Haven’t you eaten, bro?”

  “No.” The room spun around me.

  Tomas gave me a puzzled look, then pushed his plate back toward me.

  “Tell you what,” Tomas said. “I’ll give you this whole plate of food if you go ask Daphne to dance.”

  “What?” It was all I could do to keep standing.

  “I saw you two eyeballing each other,” Tomas said.

  “We weren’t eyeballing. You were snorting, and we couldn’t stop laughing.”

  “Did not.”

  “Did so. You were snorting.” I snorted warthog sounds through my nose. “Snorting like Simon before I slit his throat.” I plucked a slice of pig off Tomas’s plate and ate it.

  Tomas glared at me. “I dare you dance with her.”

  I was too upset by what the maga’hagas said about Nana to dance with anyone. I wished Tomas would just leave me alone. I cackled like a madman. “Like a double-dog dare?”

  Tomas shoved his plate at me. “If you won’t, I will.”

  My insides churned. All night I had wanted to dance with Daphne. But not now. The timing had to be right. I couldn’t dance with Nana on my mind. With what everyone said happened to her. Soiled, the maga’hagas had said. Raped, the history book had said. I shook my head, hard enough to rattle my brains. If I could have, I would have slapped the side of my head and knocked the bad thoughts out my ear.

  But I didn’t want any other guy dancing with Daphne. I’d ask her to dance when I was good and ready. I dropped his plate as my eyes followed Tomas across the dance area toward a group of giggling teenage Chamorritas. When Tomas asked her to dance, Daphne’s eyelashes fluttered on her cheeks like moth wings. The other girls huddled and giggled, covering their pink-tinted lips. But all I could see was Daphne, with her full lips puckered like the underside of a shell, and her full hips swaying onto the dance floor.

  Tomas and Daphne whirled frantically to the marimba-like music. No touching. Just a lot of twirling next to each other. Mid-stride, the band wound down and switched to a slow, soulful song about a Chamorrita who lost her love at war.

  Surely Tomas would nod, say “t’anks,” and head ba
ck to finish his plate off. He’d had his dance at my expense. He’d made his point. It was over. A bro would do this for his buddy.

  When I raised my head to the dance floor again, there was my best friend with both arms around Daphne’s delicate waist, and her hands resting on his broad shoulders.

  The band tightened across my forehead. Sweat blinded my vision. All I saw was a slant-eyed Japanese man embracing a young Chamorrita.

  I shut my eyes, pressed my warm hand against the lids, then looked again. The lovely Chamorrita’s head rested lightly on the foreign shoulder. Were his lips brushing against her long black hair? Was he holding her too tight and she couldn’t break free?

  I squinted, thrust my neck forward, and saw that the Chamorrita’s eyes were closed and a hint of smile played on the man’s face as he held her close.

  I lunged for him. “Get your filthy hands off her, you dirty Jap!”

  He spun around and scowled at me. “What the… ?”

  I grabbed him and raised my fist.

  The rest was a blur. Daphne gasped and ran off the dance floor. I remember flailing my arms and cursing a blue streak until some men and my tata held me down.

  “You’re crazy, man! You’ve lost it!” Tomas shouted at me and stomped off.

  “Kiko!” Tata yelled at me. “Stop it!” He slapped my face. Nana grabbed my arm. She was wailing and crying.

  “Leave me alone.” I shook them off and pulled away. My breathing was labored. I was suffocating.

  Tatan showed up, looking like he was stoned. “Pilar? What’s happened? Where’s Rosie? Rosie all right? Who hurt Rosie? Why she crying?”

  Nana put her hands on Tatan’s face. “Shh, it’s all right. Everyt’ing’s going to be all right. We’re going home now.”

  But it wasn’t all right. It had never been all right. We’d only been kidding ourselves. I shook all over. Yeah, they gave me what I wanted. They all left me alone. Just stood and stared at me and left me shaking like some maniac who’d cracked. Now who’s the crazy one?