White Turtle

by Merlinda Bobis

  I found it and knew I would never be the same again. Ay, listen to me, especially not after a heartstorm drove me outside the house to gather more coconut fronds, the sharpest of green hair. Not after his twenty hectares of old women began keening in my breast, “Dig into his skin! Drive each frond into him!”

  Into his brow, on each of his eyes, through his jugular, heart, elbows, palms, belly, groin, thighs, down to his feet—Madre de Dios! I wondered why there was so little blood, if at all, except of course on the groin. And that was not even his.

  White Turtle

  I’ll dream you a turtle tonight;

  cradle on her back

  bone-white.

  I’ll dream you a turtle tonight.

  Lola Basyon listened intently to the translation of the final lines from her chanted story, then to the palms which met in loud approval in the foyer of an art deco building in Sydney. She was very pleased. Her translator, an Australian anthropologist, was doing an excellent job. They must like the story or turtles or dreams, or the sound of dreams in their own tongue, the seventy-year-old chanter from the Philippines thought, as she bowed politely to the crowd, hand on her heart.

  Filipina storyteller and chanter Salvacion Ibarra, a.k.a. Lola Basyon, was on her road to fame, but she didn’t know this, nor did she care. Her main concern was to get the night over with.

  “Please—can’t you sing those last lines again in your dialect—Bikol, isn’t it? It’s beautiful…” said the woman at the other end of the stage.

  Ay, the oriole with the books that made people laugh. Lola Basyon turned towards the bright yellow streak on the black hair which was neatly combed back from a half-awed face. Of the three authors who read from their books that night, the old woman liked best this vivacious young writer with her silver bangles and vivid gear. She reminded her of a rare bird in the forest back home. A glossy oriole.

  But the novelist who sported a cowboy hat and snakeskin boots disturbed the old chanter. She kept an eye on his boots under the table, worrying that anytime they might slither all over the stage. He had a way of running his fingers over the crisp pages of his book, almost lovingly, before he began reading. He hardly looked at anyone or anything except the fine print of his text. He stared at it so hard that Lola Basyon wondered whether he had a problem with his eyes, poor man. The other author, a middle-aged man with grey sideburns and dark, heavy spectacles, was very polite, she observed, as he, half-smiling, nodded to whoever had finished reading. He himself had read for more than half an hour and, being last, Lola Basyon wondered whether they would ever get to her turn. She was very nervous; she felt she didn’t quite belong. With no book or even paper to cling to, she hid her hands under the folds of her tapis. She imagined the audience could hear them shake; she had been worried since the program began. How in the world would they see the white turtle if I can conjure it only in my dialect? Ay, Dios ko, this is very difficult indeed.

  The old woman rubbed the fabric of her tapis between her fingers for luck. She had chosen to wear her dead mother’s fiesta clothes, because they had always made her feel as if she were wrapped in a cosy blanket but, at the same time, dressed for a special occasion. The tapis was home-dyed in various shades of soft green. The blouse, a kimona made of piña, the fibres of pineapple leaves, was embroidered with tiny sampaguita blooms and intricate loops at the neck and sleeves. But this finery seemed to lose its old power of bestowing comfort and confidence when the storyteller stepped into the big building of strange, white faces. For a while, she did not know what to do with her shaking hands.

  Oriole’s reassuring smile from the other end of the table had eased her anxiety, and now the black hair with its vibrant yellow plumage was nodding towards her. “Please—I’d love to hear it again. It’s very beautiful.”

  “Salamat…thank you…” Lola Basyon bowed once more. She understood “beautiful”, but couldn’t quite comprehend the request in the foreign tongue. She turned to the anthropologist who immediately came to her aid. The chanter obliged.

  Ngunyan na banggi

  ipangaturugan taka ki pawikan;

  duyan sa saiyang likod

  kasingputi kang buto.

  Ngunyan na banggi

  ipangaturugan taka ki pawikan.

  All palms, especially Oriole’s, responded with enthusiasm once again. Except Cowboy’s. He was still glued to his book, scanning it for the next round of readings. There was a faint buzz of praise in the room. Lola Basyon felt the warmth rippling in her stomach then invading her arms, flushing her hands to their fingertips. She abandoned her tapis and lay her hands on the table.

  “Salamat…maraming salamat…thank you very much.” They saw the white turtle after all, thank God. They’re talking about it now.

  “Imagine, doing harmonies in her throat.”

  “It’s like listening to three voices singing. Amazing.”

  “I’ve never heard anything quite like that before. An unusual way to produce sound, don’t you think so?”

  Lola Basyon was tired though exhilarated. She had just flown in from the Philippines the day before for this writers’ festival. The Australian anthropologist, after so much fussy discussions with the board, had arranged that she be invited to this event. He had met her during his research on the mythologised genesis of native peoples, and was undoubtedly charmed.

  In her village of Iraya, he had fallen in love with her chant about the white turtle. Its story is pure poetry, he had explained to her in broken Bikol, his blue eyes misting over, growing as bright as the sea where the turtle swam. A mythical tale—once the turtle was small and blue-black, shiny like polished stones. It was an unusual creature even then; it had a most important task. It bore on its back the dreams of Iraya’s dead children as it dived to the navel of the sea. Here, it buried little girl and boy dreams that later sprouted into corals which were the colour of bones. After many funerals, it began to grow bigger and lighter in colour; eventually it, too, became white, bone-white. This was Lola Basyon’s story, told in a chant. When the anthropologist first heard it, he felt as if the white turtle had somersaulted into his eyes.

  That night of the readings, it dived into him again, down to the depth of his irises, as he acted as interpreter. After she sang each scene, he would read his translation. Theirs was a dialogue in two tongues blending and counterpointing. Strange to hear the turtle voice in English, Lola Basyon thought. She rather liked its sound though—

  I am your cradle

  rocking

  your babydreams

  past anemone;

  the hundred fingers

  curling

  around sleepgurgles

  passing…

  What an exciting version of performance poetry! A group from the back row tuned their ears more to the chanting than to the translated story. Notice how she sings with no effort at all. She doesn’t even blink her eyes.

  Ako ang simong duyan

  napasagid

  sa puting kurales…

  I am your cradle

  brushing

  against white corals;

  porous bones

  draw in

  your bubblebreath

  humming.

  Oriole’s eyes were closed. She was engulfed by the chant, lulled into it, falling into the sea with the anthropologist and some keen listeners to his English translation. Wonder how this feels in her dialect for someone who is born to it—

  I sail your cradle home.

  Be water.

  I sink your cradle

  deep beyond grief.

  Be stone.

  The bespectacled writer was slightly impatient—but her act is a multicultural or indigenous arts event, definitely not for a writers’ festival. And those organisers should have, at least, printed and handed out the translation to the audience. That anthropologist’s reading is painfully wooden, dead. And this could go on forever, heaven forbid. He looked at his watch, shaking his head—

  But warm. Skin-smooth

/>   and promising wings.

  Be bird.

  And hear your flapping

  from the navel of the sea.

  Cowboy was bored; he was suspicious of all performance poetry. He thought it was invented to disguise pedestrian writing. Where he came from, he had seen too many performance poets outshouting, outstyling each other. He fixed his gaze at the cover of his latest crime fiction.

  “Nice performance—and what a fabulous top.” A woman in black and pearls whispered to her companion in the front row as the anthropologist ended the reading of his translation. She could not take her eyes off Lola Basyon’s piña blouse.

  “Wonder what it’s made of.”

  “Very fine material, I’d say.”

  “I love your story. It’s poetry—where can we get your book?” A teenage boy wearing a pony-tail addressed the chanter directly in order to drown the clothes-talk at his elbow. He’s about the age of my favourite grandson back home, Lola Basyon thought. She couldn’t help but notice him. Earlier, right after her chant, he had placed two fingers into his mouth and whistled, then he had clapped vigorously, stamping his feet. She felt embarrassed, but pleased. Did you see the white turtle, she wanted to ask him.

  “I’d like a copy of your book. It would be a treasure.”

  A faint titter issued from the back row.

  Book, book. Lola Basyon understood the word, but what was he after—“Book…?”

  Cowboy rolled his eyes to heaven then back to his latest crime fiction and the bespectacled author raised his brows towards a tall woman in cobalt blue; she was the chair of the readings.

  “Yes, book—your book. I’d like very much to buy—”

  The anthropologist tried to intervene, but Lola Basyon was just beginning to speak, so he kept quiet.

  “Book…”

  “Yes, book…”

  “Gusto niya raw bumili ng libro mo,” a shrill voice from the audience interrupted the exchange. “Excuse me, I’m a journalist from the Philippine community paper here in Sydney—and I was just translating for her that young man’s request,” she addressed everyone before taking a photo of Lola Basyon and sitting down. The anthropologist-translator felt censured.

  “I’d love a copy, yes…” the young man pressed on.

  The storyteller sensed the blue sleeve at her shoulder. The chair of the readings was explaining that the audience would have enough time to chat with the writers during drinks later and that they were running out of time, but she was interrupted by the young man’s seatmate.

  “Do you have a publisher here?”

  Cowboy suppressed a giggle, the spectacles adjusted and re-adjusted itself—she shouldn’t have been in this panel in the first place—and Oriole looked very disconcerted.

  “I like your white turtle very much.”

  Now who is it this time? All heads turned towards the origin of the very young voice. A girl, about six, stood on her chair at the back of the foyer and made her own statement, “Oh, yes, I do.”

  Her mother shushed her, but she was very determined—

  “Is it really white…?”

  In broken Bikol, the anthropologist tried to explain to the storyteller just what was happening, while the cobalt blue dress took the floor and, with admirable diplomacy, introduced the second half of the readings. The embarrassed mother had to drag her protesting daughter out of the building. “But I’ve got lots of questions,” she bawled.

  Cowboy caressed his pages again and cleared his throat before launching into his old spiel, with improvisations this time. He rhapsodised over more details on the writing of his latest novel. How he was converted to crime fiction, but not the genre writing kind, mind you. He was a committed anti-gun lobbyist. His heroes were good cowboys like him, someone like the Lone Ranger without a gun. Oriole and the older writer seemed very amused, while from the audience the Filipina journalist took another photo of Lola Basyon staring at the speaker’s snakeskin boots.

  After the reading, a lively exchange of impressions filled the foyer. The exquisite poetic style of the older writer, the quirky plots in Cowboy’s fiction and Oriole’s comic eroticism were notable conversation pieces. And, of course, Lola Basyon’s extraordinary chanting was also a favoured subject. Almost like three voices harmonising in her throat, remember? A few referred to the awkward moment when the boy asked about the old woman’s publication. How silly, how ridiculously dumb, the woman in pearls complained to the anthropologist. He had put that poor thing in an embarrassing situation.

  The drinks taste very strange, but these colourful bits are so delicious—siram sana! Oblivious to all the murmurings about her, “the poor thing” was having the time of her life sampling all, from the wine to the orange juice to the trays of canapés and fruit as the crowd made a beeline for the three authors’ book-signing.

  I wish I had understood their stories, she thought, shaking her head while biting into a strawberry. They must be very important ones considering how fat their books are. Ay, impressive indeed. She ran her fingers across the books, imitating Cowboy’s loving gesture, then parked herself beside the food trays.

  “Marhay ta enjoy ka. Su kanta mo very good.” The anthropologist offered her another glass of orange juice. He said he was glad to see her having a good time and that the audience loved her story.

  “Kumusta, I’m Betty Manahan, a Filipina journalist originally from Manila. Ang galing mo talaga—great performance!” She hugged and kissed the chanter then shook the anthropologist’s hand before adjusting her camera. “I’ll put you on the front page of my paper,” she gushed at Lola Basyon. “I can make you famous in Sydney, you know—isn’t she fantastic?”

  “She’s very special,” the anthropologist agreed. “Her turtle story is just—just beyond me. I must say I—”

  “I liked your translation, too—could you take our photo, please?” The journalist handed the camera to the enthusiastic translator before posing beside Lola Basyon, who looked a bit baffled.

  “Picture tayo.” The journalist flashed her most engaging smile at the old woman and towards the camera, putting an arm around the waist of her greatest discovery.

  A quarter of an hour later, after many more compliments, Lola Basyon found herself alone beside the food trays. I must memorise the taste of this wonderful feast, so I could tell it to my grandchildren. Imagine, they put pink fish on biscuits and what’s this yellow thing that smells like old milk, I don’t like it, ay, ay. And what’s that blowing bubbles over there? Someone had just popped a champagne bottle open. Aprubicharan ngani, I’ll try it, too. Hoy, luway-luway daw, Basyon, easy, easy, she chided herself, or else they might think you’re very ignorante.

  “Thanks for that fabulous performance.”

  In the middle of gulping the bubbly thing, Lola Basyon recognised the pearled woman who had kept staring at her kimona blouse earlier. The chanter smiled up at her. Aysus, how very tall.

  “That’s beautiful, very delicate…” The woman gestured towards the kimona.

  “Beautiful.” Lola Basyon bowed and pointed to the other’s pearls.

  The woman smiled graciously. “What’s it made of?” she asked, squinting at the kimona.

  “Sige, kaputi ngani…touch…touch…” The chanter held out the edge of her blouse towards the manicured fingers.

  The pearls leant forward and fondled the floral embroidery. “I say, so dainty, so…”

  “Mother…my mother…” With little success, the storyteller was trying to tell her about the source of the heirloom when the pony-tailed young man appeared. He had just extricated himself from the long book-signing queue.

  “Thank you very, very much for your story…” he began.

  The pearls excused herself. “I guess I must join the queue now,” she told him and laid a hand on the chanter’s arm. “See you.”

  “I do like your song immensely.” The young man’s face was unabashedly radiant.

  Somehow, Lola Basyon understood this overflow of enthusiasm and youthf
ul confidence—the way he opens his hands towards me like my favourite grandson. She managed the widest grin; her jaws ached pleasantly. He smiled back.

  “I wish I could tell you how I feel about the burial of dreams of dead children. How I really feel about your story—here,” he said, cupping his hand to his chest.

  “Story…sad…happy.” She scanned her head for more English words.

  “Sad-happy, you’re quite right, and very disturbing.”

  She longed so much to understand the full meaning of his earnestness. And she wanted to ask whether he saw the white turtle, but how to say it. She looked around for the anthropologist so he could translate for her, but he was chatting with the chair of the readings. And the Filipina journalist was busy “networking with my Aussie VIPs, you know.”

  Again, the young man opened his arms towards her. “I like the sound of your dialect, too. I wish I could have a copy of your story, but—”

  Ay, my son, why don’t you speak my tongue? Lola Basyon longed for a proper conversation with this beaming face. “Story…?”

  “I know, I know, stupid of me. Of course, that was an oral story…how could I have made a fool of myself then? And look at me now trying to…”

  “Excuse me, please…”

  Lola Basyon felt a slight tug at her skirt from behind.

  “Is it really white, your turtle?”

  She turned to face the bold little girl who had asked about the turtle earlier. Her eyes were shining.

  “Really white white?”

  “White turtle…” This Lola Basyon understood.

  “There you are. I thought I’d find you here.” The mother took her daughter’s hand. “Thanks very much for your performance. We loved it.”

  “Big turtle?” The girl drew a large circle with her little hands.

  Lola Basyon chuckled, nodding vigorously, “Big…big big.”

  “White white, too.”