by Niyati Keni
‘Marisol’s a good name,’ I said, ‘and she’s real pretty.’ Lorna beamed at me. The baby was pretty. And she had a watchful look about her, like an old woman at a roadside store. My mood softened as I took her in.
My father said very little except to the baby. It was Lorna who eventually said, ‘Your father’s worried you might drop out of school.’ I stared at her. It hadn’t even occurred to me that my father might discuss me with her. I looked at him but he nodded as if he was only half listening, though I knew from the way his hands slowed that the conversation had his full attention. Lorna said quickly, her voice appeasing, ‘He thinks you could study more. Maybe even college.’
‘I didn’t think you’d be so interested in my future,’ I said, but at the same time I was surprised that my father had such ambitions for me at all.
Lorna, undaunted, continued, ‘Aunt Bina is already teaching me to sew. There’ll be more money.’ She sounded apologetic and of course she had to know the money to keep her and the baby came from somewhere, that my schooling was not the only consideration.
My father kept quiet. Eventually, Lorna got up to take the glasses away and to feed the baby in the kitchen. When she’d gone, my father said, ‘She knows better than anyone how every opportunity must be grasped.’
‘She works hard,’ I conceded, looking round the apartment.
‘I’m getting old, Joseph,’ my father said and his voice was suddenly harsh. ‘And things will change around here soon enough.’
‘I’ll work harder at school,’ I said, and I meant it. Schoolwork was easy enough for me anyway.
‘You could study to be a teacher or an engineer,’ he said, ‘get a good job.’ I thought of Suelita and the poetry she told no one about. ‘She’s smart too,’ said my father, and his eyes flitted towards the kitchen where Lorna was trilling in a low voice at the baby, enticing it to feed. ‘When she’s older she’ll make a good wife.’ I didn’t respond, unsure for a moment why he’d said it. And then, appalled, I understood that he might be planning to marry again some time, to replace my mother with this girl. Then he said, ‘You will want to marry some day.’
From the kitchen, the sound of the trilling stopped and I remembered how little of what was said could be hidden here. The rooms were small and the walls thin. I felt my resentment bloom into anger. My father had never spoken with me about so much that mattered, yet he talked openly to this girl-child, enough that she felt she could chide me about my disinterest in school. She was smart all right. ‘Your mother would have liked her,’ he said quietly. That he could mention my mother so casually now, when for years he couldn’t bring himself to say her name, even for my sake when I was afraid of forgetting her, finally unhinged me. I chose my words hastily, too hastily. ‘I hardly saw Mom before she died because you sent me away,’ I yelled. My father looked aghast. In the kitchen Marisol started wailing. I lurched to my feet and called out a curt, acidic goodbye to Lorna. She came out of the kitchen, looked first at my father and then at me. I saw her embarrassment, her uncertainty, and saw also that, yes, a marriage had been discussed, if not as something definite, it had been given at least sufficient substance to form a hope for her. I glared at my father and, hesitating as he proffered his hand, I declined to shake it and left.
Woman with Rosary
‘You had your hair cut in the street? Like some … some comfort girl?’ Lola Lovely stood over her daughter in the sala, one hand on her hip, the other working mercilessly at a coral-and-pearl rosary that she sometimes wore as a necklace, ready for sudden moments of piety. She had come in to find the familiar sight of her daughter at the piano, the lid still closed, sheet music spread about her as she sorted and reorganised it. In the hall, I paused in my task of polishing the banister, massaged the muscles in my arm. I’d been working fiercely at the wood, still mad at my father. I wondered what might need doing elsewhere. It sounded like Lola Lovely was hankering for a row and I wanted to work at something in peace. ‘You can’t even play piano in front of your own mother, yet you can have your hair cut in the street like some cuchinta vendor?’ Aunt Mary placed the score she was holding on top of the pile on her lap and frowned at her mother. ‘He said he would never have imagined you there like that.’
‘Who said that?’
‘Mr Casama. That man who was here the other day.’
‘You spoke to Mr Casama?’
‘Yes, I just said so. He came by to apologise for his wife misleading you – he was back in Esperanza earlier than she thought, but just too busy to get home. Or something like that. I didn’t care about that. I asked him about Dominic.’
‘What? What exactly did you say?’
‘I asked him outright if he had anything to do with it. You know, he was appalled. Said he knew nothing about it. He seemed genuinely concerned.’ Aunt Mary stared at her mother. ‘He said there are some big players behind the redevelopment,’ Lola Lovely continued. ‘A lot of money at stake. Not all as honourable as himself.’ Aunt Mary smiled frostily and, seeing it, Lola Lovely snapped, ‘What were you thinking? Having your hair cut like that in front of everyone so soon after Dominic? And such a ridiculous little protest. The whole street must be laughing about it.’ Aunt Mary was silent but I knew that kind of silence. She might be seething but she didn’t want an argument and Lola Lovely’s voice was changing, becoming shrill. Neither woman seemed aware of my presence. I thought about moving away, giving them some privacy, but I’d already been there too long. I started polishing again, slowly.
‘I may be your offspring but I’m almost fifty. You can’t—’
‘Offspring!’ Lola Lovely mimicked her daughter’s tone unsuccessfully. ‘You think you’re so clever. Why do you care about some salon anyway, or this Jennie? Dominic is your son!’ Lola Lovely shook her rosary at her daughter. ‘I should take them away with me. Back to Manila. Both of them. They are my flesh and blood too, even Benny. Yes, even him!’ Aunt Mary cast a furious eye over the piles of music around her feet as her mother continued, breathlessly, ‘You think I don’t know that I’m not as good a person as you? You think I never wish I could go back and change it? I did the best I could at the time and I got it wrong. There! I said it. Are you happy?’ Aunt Mary sighed heavily; her mother’s concessions were not always a good omen.
‘What happened to Dominic wasn’t about—’
‘The rules have changed, hija. These people! They’re not gentlemen. They don’t respect the old ways, the old blood.’
‘It was only a haircut.’ Aunt Mary’s tone seemed suddenly wheedling, conciliatory.
‘No one else in this street has a right to come before your own boys. Least of all this Jennie person,’ Lola Lovely said icily.
‘I have always put them first!’
‘Dominic can come to Manila with me. It’s about time he stopped this pop-star business. He must go to college. You have to tell him so.’
‘I will not order him about. He has the right to run his own life.’
‘So that’s what this is about!’ Lola Lovely said. ‘Is this why you won’t play the piano? Because your horrible mother locked you in the sala and forced you to practise?’ Aunt Mary pushed the pile of music from her lap onto the floor and stood up to leave, but Lola Lovely was between her and the door. For a moment, the two women faced each other without speaking and then Lola Lovely said, tiredly, ‘Why do you insist on rotting here anyway? You could put on a little make-up at least.’ Aunt Mary pushed past her mother and marched out of the sala. Lola Lovely dropped into a chair. I draped my rag over the banister and slipped into the sala to pick up the papers. As I worked, I heard Lola Lovely leave, her footsteps heading for the kitchen, and shortly afterwards the sound of the door opening into the courtyard. I left the music on top of the piano in no particular order and went back to polishing the staircase. On reaching the landing, I glanced through the open door of the nearest guest room and saw Aunt Mary standing over a suitcase, packing her mother’s things.
The following m
orning, in the shade of the flame tree that leaned over the front yard, beside an idling taxi, Lola Lovely hugged first the boys, then America. She patted me on the shoulder and winked at me. Finally, she turned to her daughter. Aunt Mary, stiff in her mother’s arms, allowed herself to be embraced. Lola Lovely held her like this for a long time.
Psychic Surgery
The Reverend Julio Orenia, World Famous Psychic Surgeon, was to appear in the auditorium of a girls’ school on the other side of Salinas. A fortnight before the show, at her mother’s insistence, Aunt Mary had procured tickets through a Lopez family connection. But now Lola Lovely’s early departure had left an empty seat. America watched me mischievously as she told me I was going. Only the day before she’d listened, bristling, as I denounced psychic healing as unscientific. I turned away to hide my excitement.
The school was an easy walk from the Bougainvillea but Dub insisted on taking his motorbike. Benny clamoured to ride with him but Aunt Mary wouldn’t hear of it, declaring instead that I was to go with Dub while Benny went with the others in a taxi. Being around Dub was the last thing I wanted at that moment and I opened my mouth to protest, closing it again almost immediately on glancing at Aunt Mary; she was rarely to be persuaded out of something once she’d made up her mind, and certainly not by me. Her voice was terse as she dispatched me to fetch a cab.
The afternoon sun picked out the planes and edges of Esperanza as I rode back with the cab. The world felt solid, defined. I rolled down the window to disperse the stale air inside the car. A fine breeze blew in from the direction of the jetty, bringing the smell of the sea with it as it stirred the leaves of Aunt Mary’s cheesewood hedge. I’d have enjoyed the walk.
Dub smiled sheepishly at me as he handed me a helmet. I felt Benny’s eyes on me and, turning, I held his gaze for an instant longer than I might have before. Since the news about his real mother, the household had carried on around him as if nothing had changed, Aunt Mary and America fussing over him and berating him in equal measure as they always did. For my part, I couldn’t help but look at him differently now, though I was careful not to betray it. Of course he was the same Benny as ever, but he was half the same substance as I, even if, like his brother, the rest of him was descended from what my own mother had always referred to as good stock.
The schoolyard was heaving and it was as much as we could do to stay together as we pushed our way inside. We were early, but most of the seats were already filled and there would be many people standing for the evening. People in wheelchairs lined the walls, crowds streaming slowly past them.
Aunt Mary walked straight to the front of the auditorium and along the first row, counting off with little nods of her head the number of seats for our group. Across the hard wooden back of each seat a strip of paper asserted in capitals: RESERVED. I removed mine, studied it for a moment. Next to me, Benny leaned back in his chair, crumpling his paper strip in his fist after barely a glance. He made to drop it on the floor, hesitated as he looked at mine still in my hand. He watched as I folded it carefully into my pocket. His eyes met mine and he flushed lightly. He pushed the ball of paper into his pocket and settled back into his seat.
Beside me, Dub scanned the crowd with a studied casualness. I looked around too, as much to avoid catching his eye or having to make conversation as out of curiosity, but I saw no familiar faces in the packed hall; people had come from far afield to see the reverend’s show.
The reverend walked onto the stage late but no one protested, for he was, immediately, a charismatic performer. He was smaller and much younger than I’d imagined and he had about him the impatient demeanour of the city dweller. He wore a suit, the jacket unbuttoned so that when he raised his arms, dark rings of sweat could be seen on his shirt under the lights. ‘Welcome,’ he said, ‘in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit. You know,’ he continued, his voice like a game-show host, ‘it’s through the Holy Spirit that my healing occurs.’ Although the flyer had described it as a prayer meeting, his show was flamboyant. He rushed about the stage, his voice booming into a microphone. People continued to arrive after he’d started, sliding in carefully at the back, but he waved them forward without pausing in his speech, as if calling friends to join a picnic.
He led the audience through prayers and we sang ‘Holy Spirit, Truth Divine’, a hymn I didn’t know and mumbled along to. I heard Aunt Mary’s voice rise up, clear and sweet over the others, but even she couldn’t remember all of it.
Halfway through the hymn, I felt Dub shift in his seat and, turning, I saw Eddie and his associates settle themselves noisily at the other end of our row. They were all in suits. BabyLu was with them and she’d dressed up for the occasion, but demurely, in an outfit that wouldn’t have been out of place in church. I wondered how Eddie had conspired not to bring his wife.
On stage, the reverend apologised that he wouldn’t be able to treat everyone who had come for healing that day; he hadn’t expected such a crowd. ‘You make me feel like one of The Beatles!’ he said. He announced that he would be holding clinics in a nearby chapel over the next few days where he would see anyone who came through the door. He called on the spirit messengers to guide his hands. The audience quietened. I looked around. People were smiling, swaying, some praying with their eyes closed, some still humming the melody of the hymn. Others were laughing, though nothing funny had been said since the Beatles remark. I looked back to the stage. The reverend seemed to stumble, his eyes rolled back so that the whites underneath were stark under the lights. He held his arms out to the crowd and asked who wanted to be healed. The air was immediately full of hands. I saw BabyLu crane round to look at the crowd. She didn’t raise her hand and neither did Eddie, but from their group Cesar, his face a little feverish, his lips still moving in prayer, raised his. As BabyLu turned back, she stole a glance at Dub but she didn’t hold his gaze, turning her eyes quickly back to the stage.
From near the back of the hall, a man was brought forward and helped onto the podium by the reverend’s ushers. He moved slowly, though he wasn’t particularly old, and he was extremely thin. His delight at being called up was evident and he reached out to grasp the reverend’s hand in both of his own, pulling it to his breast. The reverend opened his arms and hugged him. The audience, already far from quiet, stirred audibly at the sight. Even I was moved by it; it was hardly something a regular doctor would do. The man was made to lie on a table in the centre of the stage, his head resting on a Bible. The reverend started praying again out loud, something in Latin or what sounded like it. Overhead, the lights dimmed and flickered awhile before steadying. America cast a fearful look at the ceiling. The reverend seemed to sag and then straighten. He moved confidently now. He rolled his sleeves up, took a bottle from a side table and poured something into his cupped palm. He rubbed his hands together as he spoke softly into them, his eyes closed. He opened his eyes again and pulled the man’s clothing aside with one hand to bare his abdomen. Next to me, America hissed under her breath. Under the lights, there seemed hardly anything of the man but stark bony ridges. The reverend started to move his hand as if it were a knife, sawing the side of his palm back and forth in the air, then jabbing downwards with his index finger. He did this a few times, his face intent on the man’s flesh as if staring into the core of him, and then his hand plunged downwards and seemed to disappear into the man’s flesh. There was a gasp from the body of the audience. It filled the room and subsided again. The air felt electrified, like it did before a storm, and for a few seconds it was as if everything slowed down. A faint scent of coconut oil drifted out across the front of the auditorium. Then the hand was out and he was rubbing the man’s belly gently. The reverend held his hand out to the patient. It was stained with blood and clenched around something. He opened his fist, palm up. The audience leaned forward in their seats. The thin man stared at the reverend’s hand and then down at his own belly. The reverend slipped the object into a jar and held it up for everyone to see. It looked like a l
ump of meat. He dipped his hands into a basin of water on the side table, taking the time to clean them properly with soap. I saw America nod her approval; she was always impressed by hygiene. He asked the patient to stand slowly, carefully, in his own time, stepping forward to help him down from the table. He needn’t have; the man almost leaped down and beaming, pulled his shirt up to show that there was no wound and no visible blood, nothing in fact to indicate that any kind of surgery had taken place. ‘No meat,’ the reverend said to him, wagging his finger like a schoolteacher. ‘No sex, no alcohol, no fizzy drinks and no losing your temper for at least two weeks.’ A surge of laughter filled the auditorium.
The patient stepped down from the stage. I watched him walk back to his seat, into a forest of raised hands as people craned forward now to be healed. The reverend’s ushers moved through the crowd, selecting people, guiding them into a line along the periphery of the hall. One by one, young and old, they climbed or were carried onto the stage. One after the other, bits of flesh, clotted blood, matted hair, worms, stones, shards of glass were displayed like auction lots. The room grew hotter and the doors and windows were flung open. The sound of night traffic and hawkers drifted into the hall, interweaving with the prayers and chants of the reverend and his congregation. The air felt thick and urgent.
I looked at Aunt Mary. She was sitting upright, her hands folded in her lap. She looked composed, contained. She seemed attentive to what was going on, but her expression was closed; she might just as well have been listening to Benny give an account of a basketball match or America recount some kitchen calamity.