The hard-faced sailor pointed at Tal, then to the boat he piloted. “Ito” He indicated Remy and Bascom, to signal they should board the second vessel. “Iyan”
Remy stood. Tal offered him a handshake. “Good luck.”
Remy took the hand. “Boy.”
“I’ll make it. Piece of cake. Don’t worry about me.”
“I’m not.”
“Good.”
“I want you to go with Bascom.”
Tal jerked his hand free. “What?”
“I don’t want any argument about this. I’m going to Parañaque.”
Tal stepped back, stunned. “No, you’re not. I am. We agreed.”
Remy rattled his head. “You agreed, I didn’t. Bascom.”
The young Irishman moved up. “Yeah?”
“Go with Tal to Nanhaya. If you get word I didn’t make it, you’re next. The boy goes last.”
Tal couldn’t believe his ears.
Bascom said, “Sure, Remy.”
“You promise me that.”
Bascom said, “I do.”
Tal struggled to find his voice. He ignored Bascom’s rap against his arm to go to the second banca. Remy had already taken steps away when Tal spoke.
“You can’t do this.”
Remy walked back to him.
“Listen to me. Go with Bascom and those boys. When the raid comes, you look out for Carmen and Yumi. Make sure they get out of there. Keep your head down. You understand?”
Why was Remy thwarting him? He was the youngest, the strongest of the three. He was the one chosen, by Carmen, Lucas, the guerrillas. Remy was here because he’d played a game of solitaire. Tal had readied himself, he expected and wanted the mission to Parañaque. It belonged to him.
With both hands, he shoved Remy.
He’d never before touched his father in anger, had never imagined it. Now that he’d done it, Tal was surprised and saddened at the feel of Remy’s ribs, how light and easy he was to heave backward. He’d hoped his father would have been harder, heavier.
Remy caught his balance. He lifted his fedora, gave it to Bascom. Bareheaded and gray, he covered the distance between them on the sand. Remy was scrawny, spotted from too much sun. He had the hands of a laborer and a gambler’s vacant gaze. Remy had to incline his head to bring his nose close; Tal stood taller by an inch.
“I’m gonna say this once. I’m your father. It’s been a long while since I paddled your ass, but if you’re needin’ one right now, I got time.”
Tal wanted to reel it all back in, the shove, his barefoot imitation of the guerrillas, his tumble into the paddy. These had put him on a wrong path and now he did not recognize where he’d ended up, where Remy had lost faith. He’d wanted to save the camp, and Remy and Carmen, like they’d sworn to each other they would. He wanted to be admired, face hazards, be heroic. Wasn’t that manhood, what Remy wanted for him? Tal couldn’t fathom what to say, could find no way out, so he lashed at the barriers walling him in.
“I don’t give a shit if you’re my father.”
Remy didn’t back off.
“You know what the beauty of bein’ a parent is? It don’t rely on what your kid says about it. I hope you get the chance to see that for yourself one day. Now do what you got to do, Talbot. Or step aside.”
Tal could do neither. Bascom, cherry-cheeked and embarrassed, bailed Tal out when he separated the two. The guerrilla sailor stepped between them next.
Remy snatched his hat from Bascom. Backpedaling into the water, he screwed the fedora in place. The Filipino, as young as Tal, clucked his tongue. He joined Remy in the water before climbing into the banca headed for Parañaque.
The boat turned to deeper water, off the sand bottom. The guerrillas on board hoisted the sail. Bascom had not released Tal’s wrist. With the violence left in him, Tal jerked his arm free.
~ * ~
Chapter Thirty
T
HE JAPANESE seemed distracted in their sunup exercises. Nagata stamped among the lines of soldiers in loincloths, shouting, waving madly. He slapped one balky soldier so hard Carmen heard the smack from her window.
Along the barbed-wire fence, the guards on duty did not patrol with the normal distance between them but congregated in the camp’s corners, out of sight of the commandant’s office and Nagata. The soldiers spoke with animated gestures. At the gates and pillboxes, in the several gun towers, they eyed the camp instead of the outside world. Some even trained their guns inside the wire, as if the threat might come from there. A patrol of a dozen armed guards assembled in front of the commandant’s office, then jogged past the main gate toward the village of Anos. Like a mist, edginess rose from the camp to Carmen’s high window.
The internees themselves seemed not to notice. Carmen saw no change in their dawn routines, the lines outside latrines and showers, morning mass for the Catholics, steam boiling from kitchen chimneys, the shamble in the people’s steps, the gradual weakening of their vigor.
Carmen did not spot Tal. Maybe he slept late. Where was the boy? She’d search for him again at the afternoon roll call.
Someone tapped outside Carmen’s door. Papa pushed aside the curtain. He moved gingerly, as though he ached. The old man set a pallid green soup and platter of rice balls on the table. Carmen inspected the meal. Bits of meat settled in the bottom of the bowl.
“Salamat”
Papa withdrew. Carmen stopped him.
“You don’t look well.”
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not. You’re too thin. Your face is swollen.”
Papa shrugged. “I’ll be all right.”
“Are you eating?”
Papa smiled ruefully. “I should be asked this by you?”
Carmen lifted the bowl from the table. “Is this pork in the soup?”
“Yes.”
“Where did it come from? The Japanese?”
“Yes, of course.”
“They would not give you meat for me, Papa. They have none for the prisoners, and they think even less of me. Where did this come from? And four rice balls?”
The old man would not answer.
“How long have you been giving me your food?”
“I’m not hungry lately.”
“How long?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
The soup bowl warmed her palms. Papa was in his sixties; he could not afford to grow so thin, hunger made him sick. The meat and the extra rice were more of his fear. Papa still sought favor with Carmen so she’d speak well of him when liberation came.
The old man coughed into a knotty fist.
She thought of nothing she could say or do to rescue him. His enemies would not be the Americans. He’d need to save himself from his countrymen, the neighbors who suffered under the Japanese and did not collaborate. From the guerrillas who left their homes for years to fight in the jungles. From the villages destroyed, the loved ones murdered. From Benito and his long knife.
Look in the skies, at the constant planes, the fires flaring every night on the horizon. She could not tell Papa that the guerrillas had an American radioman with them now. The war would end soon one way or another, either in freedom or in that ugly pit dug inside the camp. She saw no need for Papa to starve to death in the meantime. He was weak and bullied, not evil. Perhaps his own fate would forgive him. Let him live to it and see.
She reached the bowl to him. “Eat this. It’s yours.”
Papa pushed the soup back at her. “I have no claim on it.”
“Do you want to die?”
“Perhaps. Right now, I live. And that brings its own burden. Eat, Songu.”
Carmen set the bowl on the table. She tightened the belt of her crimson haori. “Does Mama know?”
“There’s been no reason to tell her.”
“I will. She has to work harder to find food for all of us.”
Before Papa could react, she slid an arm under the curtain to head into the hallway. Papa followed.
Carmen walked quickly to stay ahead of the old man. Mama would be furious when she found out. Carmen intended to start the spat between them, then retreat.
Reaching the landing, she halted immediately. She thrust her arms to her sides and bowed from the waist to Commandant Toshiwara. In the corner beside her mattress, Mama took the same pose. Papa did not come onto the landing, but stayed back in the hall out of sight.
Behind Toshiwara, in her green robe and barefoot, little Yumi combed her black hair. The brush had been a gift from the commandant.
Toshiwara breezed past, stiff and martial. Yumi shined his boots when he stayed nights. He brought her food, presents, sometimes sake.
When the commandant’s footfalls left the stairwell two flights below, Papa poked his head out of the hall. Mama turned on Carmen.
“What are you doing out of your room? Get back.” She glowered at Yumi. “You, too.”
“You need to find more food.”
“For who?”
“All of us.”
“Why? Look at you. You’re fat, both of you.”
Yumi stopped brushing her hair. She waved at Carmen so that Mama did not see.
Carmen said, “Look at your husband.”
“He’s not your worry.” Mama beckoned Papa onto the landing. “Come out here.”
The old man shuffled forward. Mama barked at him, “What’s wrong with you?”
The two makipilis glared at each other. Yumi motioned again, pointing to herself, then at Carmen. She opened and closed her thumb and forefinger, like a mouth. She wanted to talk.
Papa looked pitiful and small. Carmen changed her mind about telling Mama what he’d been doing. She figured the old man’s chances were poor. If starvation didn’t claim him, or if the Americans or Filipinos didn’t kill him, his wife would. Carmen couldn’t stop any of them. She signaled Yumi that she understood.
“Mama?”
The woman snapped, “What?”
“Please send a message to Kenji-sama to come today. He’ll help find food.”
“Who’ll pay for it?”
“Take the money from what you’ve kept for me.”
Mama sneered at the suggestion. They both knew no money had been saved.
“Kenji will pay, too. Please send for him.”
“Go back to your room.”
Papa said to Carmen, “I’ll go get him.” When he put his foot on the first step, Mama demanded him to stay where he was. Carmen and Yumi faded from the landing. Papa’s old head disappeared down the stairwell below the blasts of the old woman’s voice.
~ * ~
The sixth soldier of the morning entered her room. Carmen’s thighs had hardly dried from the washing she gave herself after the fifth. She had not belted her haori in two hours.
According to his ticket, this was one of the camp guards. She had not served him before. He was older than most of the boys who came to her. A scar marred his chin.
The soldier unbuttoned his fly, pushed down his pantaloons. Healed bullet holes had left white buttons on his legs. He did not untie his loincloth but tugged it around to expose himself.
A breeze in the window cooled her spread legs. From her elbows, Carmen said, “Saku.”
The soldier shook his head.
She pointed at the washed condom she kept in a bowl beside the tatami. The man chopped the air, waving it off.
He pointed at her. “Songu,” he said, meaning, “you are a pii, that’s all you are.”
Carmen considered him. His penis was clean and small. He would not tolerate embarrassment with his pants around his boots. Carmen gestured him forward. The same way she did not want Papa’s life on her hands, she cared little for Songu’s. The Americans were coming soon, and Songu would be put to a stop.
Carmen spat on her fingers to lubricate herself. The soldier entered without clumsiness; this was not his first time with a woman. Planting his arms on either side of her head, he pumped while Carmen gazed into his scarred chin. She wondered, How does a bullet come so close to leave only that ugly pink gash? Is this man lucky or unlucky? Carmen considered herself and wondered the same. Should her damage be worse? Should she be dead? Was she fortunate?
Carmen lost patience with the soldier’s scars, they made her pay attention to him. She dispensed with him quickly. He wore no sheath, so could be climaxed with little effort. She tightened in the right way and did not wait long until he finished.
The soldier bent his arms and lowered toward her, to lie on her. She reclined to wrap him in her arms.
She stroked his back.
Gently, she asked, “Daijobu desu ka?” Yumi had asked this of Carmen many times. Are you all right?
The soldier pulled his face from her neck. Under Carmen’s gliding hand, his breathing quickened until it became a shiver. She patted him and held him.
The soldier pushed off the mattress, out of her arms, red-eyed. Carmen sat up quickly and pivoted to the wall, averting her own eyes from his loss of control. Behind her, the soldier pulled up his pants, tucking his uniform together.
When he grew motionless, she turned. He’d wiped away any emotion. He stepped on the tatami to the window, a small limp in his movement. Carmen got to her feet, closing her robe. Men when they were through did not want to see her naked, they wanted her quiet and obedient, a different sort of object.
She would not stand next to him in the window, didn’t want Tal or Remy to see her again with a soldier. The man gazed over the camp, as though he’d never seen it before. The thrum of American planes filtered past. Carmen focused on his back, where she had run her hands. She waited longer behind him than she had lain under him.
From this vantage, the soldier sought something in the camp. He did not seem to find it. He turned, bolt upright.
“Songu.”
The word left his tongue differently. It sounded now like a name, not a thing.
He laid a hand along her arm. “You” He removed his touch. “Go?”
Carmen said, “No.”
The soldier dropped his head in a short bow. With one hand past the curtain, he stopped himself.
“Go,” he said, then left her.
~ * ~
In the afternoon, two more soldiers did not wear saku. Carmen washed hard after their visits and her vagina grew dry.
Papa ushered the day’s last soldier past her curtain, into the rising square of light from the sun dropping behind Mount Makiling. Papa told her Kenji waited in the foyer, then slipped out.
The young guard spoke a smattering of English. She lay back and suffered his awkward sawing at her. She squeezed him to completion, then lay with him on the tatami, stroking him. He, too, said she should disappear from the camp soon, and would not say why.
When the soldier left, she squatted over the bowl to scrub herself gingerly. She changed into pants and a drab T-shirt. Her walls flushed orange in the sunset light. Carmen’s legs felt rubbery. Kenji pushed past the curtain, ducking his height under it. He curled his nostrils; the manganic acid lingered in the room. He took down his cap.
“You sent for me.”
“What’s going on?” she asked. “Something’s wrong.”
“Yes. Something is.”
“What.”
“I’m not certain.”
“How can you not be certain?”
“I’m an interpreter. No one talks to me, just through me.”
Carmen pointed at her tatami. “Some soldiers told me ...”
Kenji cut her off. “Yes, I can imagine.” His tone was stony but this did not bother Carmen.
“Please. I need you to bring Yumi to my room. Or take me to hers. I want to talk to her.”
“Is that why you called me here?”
“What did you expect?”
“I’d hoped you changed your mind about leaving.”
“I won’t leave the camp until they’re safe.”
Kenji nodded. “Are the Americans coming for them?”
“Yes, Kenji-sama.”
He moved to the window. “Do you know when?”
“No.”
Hymns from the two churches at opposite ends of the grounds struck up while Kenji leaned on the sill. The final daylight made his face sanguine. He seemed peaceful under the songs, as if already dead.
Broken Jewel - [World War II 05] Page 29