White Turtle

by Merlinda Bobis

  “So?” Her ample frame shifts impatiently on the wooden bench beside a stack of dried roots.

  He feels overwhelmed under her knowing gaze, ay, and those beads of sweat just above her upper lip when she gets suspicious. He waves a hand, carving out some mute explanation in the air, and nearly knocks from the counter a jar of turu-talinga, those ear-shaped biscuits which are so popular among the kids. He takes out two “ears” and claps them over his own, then makes a funny face—“Hoy, you want my ears, little Eya?”

  The head, subject of his healing expertise, comes alive, looks up, but only with her eyes; she must not disturb the medicine on her scalp. She laughs at the man with biscuit ears. “Yes, Pay Inyo, please, please.”

  “You’re not tired yet, child, are you?”

  A shake of the bald head—ay, to have some magic, to bump into a miracle. “Here, for being very patient. More ears in the jar…,” he winks.

  Tiya Dulce marches him away from the child, towards the sacks of rice behind the door, and whispers her accusation. “So, you’re going to tell me now that this hairlessness is God’s punishment of the mother, which has been inherited by her bastard daughter—sige, say it, say what everyone else has already said. It’s been a while since I heard it—your turn now, isn’t it?”

  She’s irresistible, he thinks, when she lectures in her singsong. “But, Dulce, we’ve tried everything.” He is at her mercy.

  She scans his deeply browned, open face and easily finds the faint flicker of guilt in the eyes, the drop of the jaw, that obvious admission. She turns away. Once again, she hears the echo of condemnatory condolences during a funeral five years ago. Maria Magdalena, the bad woman with beautiful hair.

  “You’re just like them after all, Inyo.”

  “She became a saint when she washed His feet with perfume and her hair, you know that, so, maybe…some …some reversal of fate or something, who knows…,” he mutters to himself and half-collapses on a sack of rice, all his despond weighing him down. In his “healing place”-cum-variety store, the medicine man fails again, and he is sick at heart.

  “I thought you were our friend.” Tiya Dulce beckons to the child savouring the last crumbs—“We’re going home, Eya, come.”

  The thick, gluey mixture is brusquely wiped off the tiny head. She does not mind; she’s used to this. She stares at the fallen mess on the earth floor. No, she can’t be a hawker of fragrances today.

  But for five years since I buried her mother, I’ve chanted all my special prayers against evil spirits, sprinkled even my prize rooster’s blood on this bare scalp, made endless offerings of my choicest dishes in the name of all growing things, concocted my best potions, but still no hair, not a stubble or a strand, or even a hint of black root somewhere. Still stubbornly naked as a clay pot’s bottom. So, on her fifth year, I decide to confront this head’s history, its maternal heritage, because that’s the only thing I know, but Dulce, ay, my secret sweetness, is brewing up a storm.

  Little Eya stoops down to play with Pay Inyo’s most recent creation: six different herbs now splattered on the dark earth, quite unidentifiable in their crushed state. Just a soggy, greenish mass, divested of its magical intentions, more like carabao shit. She squats before it, tests it with her little finger, then finger to mouth—she spits, making a face. A shower of spittle on the old man’s toe, curled in like the rest of him, but he does not notice.

  Absorbed in one of their many arguments about the child, they’ve forgotten her. How we love our progeny, they who wear our every desire and despair on their prized heads.

  “How much?” Tiya Dulce unpins the money kerchief from under her blouse.

  “No, don’t bother, please—”

  “No, nothing for free, Inyo.” Her usual reply for five years, yes, a little show of face, but always overtaken by poverty. Graciously, she had accepted every free treatment, until now. “I’ll pay, at least for the medicine.” She lays the kerchief on a candy jar and slowly counts the coins.

  “Aloe vera and—five novenas for Saint Jude then? What do you think? Patron saint of lost causes,…isn’t he?”

  “Eya is not a lost cause!”

  “You’re really angry at me now.”

  “Here, three pesos—if it’s not enough—”

  “Why not Santa Rita—?”

  “For impossible wishes?”

  “Yes, impossible—I mean—”

  “You want to make it worse, ha? Let me tell you this, Inyo, sige, lose hope and, like all the others, damn this child to eternal hairlessness, because of her poor mother’s past. But in my family, we don’t despair, you see. Next week, I’ll see another herbularyo with better medicines and prayers which will be said without judgement.”

  “But five years, Dulce…”

  “That’s not forever.”

  “You’re really angry at me now.”

  “What do you think?”

  “Yes, you’re very angry, I can tell.”

  “Take this.” She forces the money into his palm. “If it’s not enough, Pilar will bring you a sack of sweet potatoes—”

  “Are you really that angry?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Ay, Dulce—”

  “Trust me, I’ll send Pilar over, so don’t you worry—”

  “But—but—”

  Innocent of her history, Eya looks up at her surrogate mother and their cowed neighbour facing each other with much regret. They speak as if she can’t hear, and if she can hear, as if she would never understand. But they forget that she has just eaten another pair of ears; she hears more than they can. Ay, it is these sad adults who never hear the persistent geckos in their throats, repeating the same syllables over and over again—tu-ko!—tu-ko!—tu-ko!—breaking the sweaty stupor of a summer afternoon.

  Pilar reckons Pay Inyo, “the holarawnd man”, likes them a lot, or her mother, more perhaps? He hasn’t accepted any payment for almost five years of treating that bald thing, he doesn’t mind if she and Bolodoy and sometimes Eya, of course, raid his jars of candies and biscuits, and he helps her mother dig sweet potatoes at the farm, that is, when he’s not digging professionally. He’s all right, this “holarawnd man”. That’s how he describes himself when he’s boasting to the regular drinkers at his corner store after a few beers, which loosen his otherwise taciturn tongue, and after making himself more comfortable, shirt stripped off to display his “guitar”. “Gitara” and the title “holarawnd”, by-words from an encounter long ago.

  Once upon a time, thus Pay Inyo often begins this tale, a rather naive but aggressive city bum came to Iraya and had a beer too many at my store—and what happened next, children? He challenged you to a fight after some petty argument about gaming cocks, Pilar prompts him, while she and Bolodoy and Eya eat their way through the sweets at his store. They all know the event by heart now, down to its littlest detail, even the manner in which the young man posed his challenge.

  “So, you wanna fight, ha?” This was punctuated by an aggressive burp, followed by a double hiccup, right at Pay Inyo’s face.

  “A friendly mano-mano, well, why not?” the old man agreed.

  Enemy established then, the city relic thought. So he stripped off his shirt and began parading a well-padded chest, which rose like breasts, nipples taut like the rest of him, as he flaunted his biceps—look, real He-man, bako?

  Not to be outdone, Pay Inyo did the same, stripped off his shirt, and strutted about. But all his drinking friends and even the curious passers-by, who decided to stay and watch the little drama, howled with laughter—he was stick-thin! A long-dried bamboo pole with clearly defined nodes, err, ribs.

  With an exaggerated swagger, Pay Inyo insisted that, because this was his turf, he must set the rules of the fight, understood? Mister He-man, who was not very bright, agreed. He thought Pay Inyo was preparing for a fist fight, as he had bared his “muscles”—wasn’t this the signal of ultimate aggression? He didn’t know that, for the drinking crowd, it was a mere
settling down ritual. Go topless in the heat and sweat out all that beer more comfortably.

  “Hokay, let’s see, what can you do, my boy?” the old man asked, swaying drunkenly like a frail rice-stalk.

  “I can box, Cassius Clay style, wanna see, ha?” The rooster started “dancing” and throwing mock punches at his puny opponent. Everyone clapped, imagining themselves at a ringside.

  “What else—?” Pay Inyo ducked a blow.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Other than boxing—you work, plant, fish, what do you do?”

  “We-e-ll…” The “dancing” lost a bit of fire.

  “Yes, what else—other than ‘dance’?” The crowd tittered.

  “And grow breasts, yeheey!” someone added with a catcall.

  “I box…and…what else do I do…I take care of my body…see?”

  “Only two jobs? Ay, daog taka—beat you there. Me, I’m a ‘holarawnd man’—know what that means?”

  “Nuh—”

  A wink and a blissful gurgle. “You listen now to wisdom, boy. ‘Holarawnd’ means I do many things. Lots and lots. First, I do business, see? This is my own store, where I take care of all bodies—with food! And with spirits, of course—beer, gin, you name it!”

  Applause all around. Everyone knew Pay Inyo as a generous soul, but a hopeless businessman who gave his poorer customers and drinking mates an endless credit line.

  “And for your information, I’m an herbularyo, too, so I cure bodies, free them from bad spirits, those that fizzle in another way, you know—”

  A circuit of chuckles.

  “Then, when cure-less, I return their bodies to the earth, in order to free their good spirit this time, get me? My dear boy, I’m also a grave-digger—”

  He-man stared, scratching his head, wondering how this speech would culminate.

  “And you with your great chest and me, all ribs? No —gitara, my dear boy, this is gitara, pluck each rib for a note—say, you can ‘dance’? Well, hear me sing—” Pay Inyo declaimed between hiccups, then broke into a plaintive serenade, strumming his bony chest up and down, up and down, while the crowd cheered and the drinkers guffawed between swigs of beer.

  “So, you ‘He-man’, me, ‘holarawnd man’. I have many jobs, boy, many jobs. And I can do more, but not enough time to enumerate all—so I beat you, see?” he said, throwing a double punch at the air.

  “Yes, yes, great man Inyo—In-yo! In-yo! In-yo!” The crowd cheered some more, stamping their feet and clunking each other’s beer bottles. “Another round of big gulps for Inyo, yeheeey!”

  The poor He-man wilted, broad chest caving in as he stupidly stared about, then backed away. “What pathetic hicks!”

  And that, children, was the famous retreat which cemented my reputation, fixed it in history, of course. Pay Inyo always ends his tale with a raised fist and a vigorous nod. Of course, his young audience readily applauds, even Pilar who is quite sceptical about the possible “embellishments” in the narrative. She agrees, however, that he is indeed the Mister Hol-arawnd of Iraya—their “all-around” man, their Jack-of-all-trades. He can do almost anything except stand up against her mother, who now orders her to bring him a sack of sweet potatoes and cassava and a bit of yam, some kind of gift or something, who knows—and choose the best ones, girl.

  Now eleven years old, Pilar has not yet outgrown the two cowlicks which rule the top of her scalp and her disposition. Cowlick. The focal point on one’s crown, that spot where all hair seem to converge. Everyone has one. But for those who have two—ay, Dios mio! Pilar’s “two eyes of a hurricane” make for an impossibly incorrigible personality, the old folks lament. She’s a natural handful, this girl who wears her hair like a boy’s, neatly cropped and almost severe except for a fringe that softens her features. Occasionally, she flashes a peculiar smirk, a defiant coyness, as if she were proclaiming, “I’ve-a-secret-but-why-should-I-tell-you”. She likes the “holarawnd man”, because he cares for her mother whom she loves, but next only to Carmen, her best friend who died five years ago. No one knows this, of course. Pilar is secretive, loyal and confident, a gritty little heart that broke only once, under the guava trees where she hid her tears during the funeral. And nothing much has changed after five years—I’m your queen, always tough, don’t you forget this, and you, Bolodoy, are my minister. You, Eya, well, you can be my bald slave.

  She heaves the sack of tubers on her back with an economy of movement known only to those who are certain of their strength.

  The kingdom is a crumbling wooden house built on a hectare of fruit trees. Balustraded steps ascend to a sagging balkon which leads to a massive door; it sighs when you knock, betraying the timbre of rotting wood. On the west end of the house, the large capiz window begins to shimmer. Its opaque shell-inlay assumes a pearl-like lustre as the house welcomes the vibrant make-over.

  Amber light is kind. Lush, syrupy, spilling over warp and wear, hiding age in a languorous ooze. It is summer, five o’clock and so moist, even the leaves must be sweating.

  Unknown to Eya, this is so like her dead mother’s favourite afternoon that humidly stretches forever, once the perfect time for lazy baths in the river with the devoted Pilar, she who secretly guards the history of her slave whom she now orders to become an angel—

  Salampating liya-liya

  Tuminugdon sa kristiya

  Nahiling ni Padre Biya

  Kuminantang alleluia—

  “Sige na, sing the alleluia now, Eya, c’mon—alleluia, alleluia—”

  A rocking dove

  Alights on the sacristy

  Padre Biya sees her

  She sings Alleluia

  —Pilar’s naughty version of the Latin “Regina”, which is sung by the appointed angel during the Easter dawn celebration. Angelhood, every little girl’s dream in Iraya. Ah, to be chosen as the winged darling who emerges from the kalampuso, a heart-shaped contraption made of pale rice-paper and wood, which opens from the top of a five-metre bamboo scaffolding. Tied to a rope around her waist, the angel is lowered from this paper heart in a dramatic descent of fairy white dress, cotton wings, a white crown of plastic flowers with fake pearls and, don’t forget, the full face make-up which inspires her feeling of being as holy as a movie star.

  But she is an angel who must remain floating in mid-air despite the terror in her little heart that the rope might snap or the scaffolding might collapse or that she won’t be able to stand this creeping nausea, made even worse by the tight rope around her belly. The angel is afraid, but the show goes on. She releases the dove of peace, which had been shitting on her hands while they were both trapped in the heart, then sings the “Regina”.

  Then comes the highlight of the performance—the Mater Dolorosa passes by, a gothic plaster figure with her daggered heart, on a caro adorned with flowers. She is carried by the men directly under the angel who, in mid-flight, must lift this Blessed Mother’s veil of mourning with hands folded in prayer. It has to be perfectly timed, scrupulously choreographed by the faithful, this resurrection from grief on the third day.

  Yes, Pilar also dreamt of becoming an angel when she was little, but secretly. They were too poor and too busy working in the sweet potato farm. The race towards angelhood was expensive and ate up too much precious time. It meant winning a “money contest” or, kindly put, assisting the church’s fund-raising project. In this worthy task, the stage mothers of the seven- to nine-year-old aspirants must compete at selling the most number of tickets in the name of their daughters. The biggest earner wins the title of “angel”—ay, what she would have given to be an angel, even just once!

  But on this damp afternoon in the dreamer’s kingdom, there is no competition. Pilar had outgrown her chance of divinity. The only eligible angel, of course, is the smaller girl, now tied to a rope which is precariously slung over the thickest branch of an ancient tree, and managed like a pulley from below by the queen devil and Bolodoy, her reluctant minister—yes, hang the slave!


  The bastard angel is hanging from the fart-fart tree. The atut-atut. Earlier, Eya protested against the choice of tree whose leaves, once crushed, emit the foulest scent. This hardy and very tall creature is out of place in a yard of fragrant guavas, jackfruits, oranges, coffee and cacao. Can’t be helped, as Tiya Dulce vehemently dismisses any protest against a trivial discomfort and the suggestion that the culprit be chopped down. What’s a bit of unpleasant smell anyway if it gives good shade in summer?

  But, sister, I can do my alleluia from the jackfruit tree instead, the would-be angel argued. It’s as sturdy and not so high up. No, only the best tree for angels like you, was the rascal’s retort. Ah, the queen bully delights in torture, of course. She had even generously rubbed the rope around Eya’s stomach with the dreaded leaves, I bless you with this holy fart, before the angel was hoisted up, up.

  “C’mon sing, you stupid angel—why don’t you sing— alleluia, alleluia—”

  “I don’t think we should do this.” Her brother Bolodoy, older but much smaller in build and spirit, can’t bear to look at the little body clawing the air. “She’s hurting, oh, she’s hurting, I know—”

  “Aw, shut up. Just keep pulling. We’ll take her higher yet—pull!”

  “Ay, sister, sister, my tummy! My tummyyyyy!” The rope’s cutting into her navel and the world is spinning. “Take me down, take me down, arayyyyyy!”

  Five years later, the dead woman’s child is still wailing, her cry buoyed by a sudden wind around the same yard, as if the summer funeral never ended. But, under this generous amber light, the ripening orchard is not at all disturbed, like the last time. The trees remain detached from this afternoon torture, because there are preoccupations more urgent than heeding a cry for help—like growth. The crimson coffee berries are busy brewing its flavours, the cacao seeds are putting on their luscious white coats, the jackfruit is blooming and the guavas are just as sweet, delectably pink in their insides—and Pilar has not yet forgiven the child who killed her friend. Because no one has explained the death of Carmen, the fifteen-year-old girl-mother. Because no one has really buried her. Because there was no resurrection from grief on the third day.