“Will they cut my fingers like old Mang Leo’s toes?”
“No one will cut your fingers,” Mama says.
“No one,” Papa repeats. “Old Mang Leo had diabetes. Stop your worrying. And enough fighting, everyone. You wish to speak of obligations? I will tell you all a story about obligations: those that are thrust upon us, and those we tie around our own necks. It has to do with a church.”
“Ah, yes. And not just any church, the most beautiful of churches. The church of Santa Esmeralda in Blanca Negros. Magnificent, was it not, Carlito?” Mang Selso asks. “But that was before it sank into the ground.”
“A church sank into the ground whole? But how did that happen? Was the ground hungry?” Roderick jokes.
“What? Hungry? No.” Mang Selso puffs out his chest and dismisses my brother with a wave of his hand.
“I remember that church,” Aling Anna says quietly. She is drawing circles in the dirt with a small branch. “That was the church in which the angel came in the form of the dog to test the humility of the parishioners. One day, a young couple was getting married, and in the middle of the ceremony a large she-dog walked in. They all pointed and laughed at her. God had sent the dog to see how high and mighty these people were. When they laughed at her, the dog began to speak, and she stunned all the congregation. She said, ‘I wash my hands of you and your vanity,’ and the minute she left, the church began to crumble and sink into the ground. Isn’t that the story?”
Papa’s eyes are dreamy. He is a child again, standing before the church.
“Perhaps that particular story belongs to another church, in another town. Maybe not, maybe all of it is true. But if I am to tell the true story, you must know from the start that the church was merely incidental. A symptom, shall we say, of deeper troubles. Few know what really happened. Most have forgotten and moved on with their lives. The church was never the crux of the story. There is an imbalance here, you see? More focus on the church when, really, the heart of the story lies with Esmeralda Cortez and with her mysterious disappearance. The catalyst of her strange departure was a mere boy of seven, and that boy was me.”
~ a cure for happiness
IF I AM TO TELL THE STORY of the church that sank into the ground, we must first begin with the village of Blanca Negros, west of the Chico River Valley, Mountain province. There were secrets in that town, so much anger building underneath the perfect exteriors, the perfect faces, like streams of water crisscrossing in the ground beneath smooth, polished floors and sowing discord in the houses above. So much restlessness hidden by the white virgin beaches, the rich soil and rows of sugar cane. We lived in the most beautiful place on earth, yet it was just a facade. The people were not happy. That was the town I grew up in.
I lived with my father, in the upper room of a decaying house held together by chicken wire in some places, bamboo and rattan in others. It belonged to my aunt, a strange woman who in many ways resembled the house itself. Our room was nothing more than a small crawl space to keep one’s old boxes and throwaway items. That was what we were, Father and me, throwaway items.
We lived in that room under a great obligation to my aunt, Father’s younger sister, and she reminded us of this at every opportunity. Below us, my aunt and uncle occupied one room with their teenage daughter, Rosalie. In the other room my aunt’s in-laws occupied a corner, with Rosalie’s brothers, Julio and Eduardo.
I never met my mother and sister; they both died of dengue fever the year I was born. That same year, Father was diagnosed with tuberculosis and I with polio.
My earliest memory is of my hands, raw from working endless days in the bright sun, whether it be in the cane fields, in the fishing boats, or from scrubbing floors in the wealthier homes. I was never a child.
My only escape was to watch Esmeralda Cortez. She was a great beauty by any standards, and not just that of our little town of Blanca Negros. I once heard a man from Cavite say she was like a ripe plum waiting to be picked. He said that her coloring was at the peak of perfection and that to wait would be a sin because she would begin to fade. Her skin was taut, not too soft, not too tough, he explained. To select her any earlier would have been a disgrace. Any later, and one would miss such an opportune moment. She was ready, he said.
I remember studying her after this man’s words. But I could never find anything about her resembling a plum. She had dark hair that fell like a waterfall. Her cheekbones were high and wide, so that when she smiled, her chocolate eyes tilted upward at the ends. She smiled often.
She lived in the house beside ours, and each evening in the violet-and-orange sunset, I could see her clearly from my bedroom window. Our windows were so close together that if we were to sit facing each other, we could place a small wooden plank across our windowsills and pretend to have tea at the same table. But her room was larger than ours. Five steps down placed her into a bigger work area, where she greeted her customers. She always wore a long silk robe of emerald green, cinched at her waist by a matching sash embroidered with fruit trees.
I was only seven then, an ugly boy with unruly curls and fat lips. Often I hurried home as fast as my polio leg would allow. I would leave Bonita beach with its tall thin palm trees and climb upward toward the mountains of abundant green rising hundreds of kilometers high, the airy ferns brushing against my legs, just to watch Esmeralda. I would arrive home, my chest heaving, and pull off my shirt to wipe the white sand and ocean water from my feet.
I would go to Father and quickly give him his cough medicine, then hurry back to my mat, where I could watch her. Her room alone could hold me entranced. She had an oval-shaped table with two chairs where she met with her customers. Behind this, there was a wooden armoire with the two doors thrown open. There were four deep shelves ladened with wonderful bottles. The bottles were labeled with a strip of white paper handwritten in her bold script. There were tall burgundy wine bottles and small, stout cloudy bottles, all capped with cork. The labels all began with the words Gamót sa, meaning “Medicine for.” There was Gamót sa regla, for when a woman is menstruating; Gamót sa pagod, herbs to cure exhaustion; Gamót sa galit, a potion to fix anger; and Gamót sa selos, to cure jealousy, to name a few.
On the bottom shelf, she had copper and silver flasks that were labeled Kontra para sa, meaning “To counter.”
My favorite was a copper flask with engravings along the rim, though the label confused me: “To counter happiness.” Have you heard of such a thing? A cure for happiness. A mixture to make someone sad. I only saw her use this once.
Each evening, I would take out my mat and sit cross-legged as she walked into her room. She pretended never to see me, though she wore the faintest hint of a smile on her lips. Sometimes I swore she actually waited for me. The evenings in our cordillera village were always deliciously hot, with the scent of the white sampaguita flowers that grew like flakes of snow around our house. The heat remained trapped in our valley by the lush jungle-covered mountains of green on either side and the rice terraces like giant steps of velvet jade on the northern end.
I sat enthralled each time she began. First she combed out her long black hair with an ivory comb that reminded me of a fishbone. Twenty strokes on one side, then twenty more on the other. I would pin a scarf to my head and let it fall on both sides of my face and pretend to comb as she did. My cousin Eduardo played his guitar below us during this time. It was as if he quietly serenaded her. If she hummed “Dahil sa Iyo,” “Because of You,” or “Dandansoy,” Eduardo quickly played it. The little birds chirping in the banyan trees joined in every time.
She always lighted three candles as the sky blushed good night to the sun. Then she would take out her scented sticks, traded from a Chinese client. Our rooms would fill with the scents of jasmine, cinnamon, coconut. She kept a gossamer sheet pinned to her window; it was much finer than the coarse ones we had to keep the mosquitoes out. The sheet rippled in the breeze and made her seem all the more a dream to me.
I remember the
last week before her disappearance so clearly. I can remember indelibly every customer she prescribed a potion for and every word that was said. That Monday, her week started out so promising. Her first customer made my eyes pop, for it was not often I saw a senator’s wife come to our part of town.
The senator’s wife was named Aling Sofie; she had two perfect children and a house on the ocean with a private dock for their many boats. I could not imagine what ailment she would have. A sick child, I decided.
I must tell you now, the things I saw and heard were not always for a child to witness. But back then, I never considered myself a child. Someone who has to lie and steal time in order to go to the beach and play with friends is no longer a child.
Aling Sofie seemed embarrassed. Her body was closed in. The tight bun of her hair pulled the corners of her eyes back, giving her skin a painful pretense of youth. Her arms were folded tightly against her chest as she paced the floor. Esmeralda sat with her hands folded on the oval table, next to a turquoise-colored vase filled with pink lotus blossoms. She waited serenely for Aling Sofie to be seated.
“Perhaps this is a mistake.” Aling Sofie’s brow wrinkled. “I just had nowhere to go. I have heard you are very confidential. I thought—” She lifted her hand and let it fall. All this time she spoke as if to the floor, her eyes not meeting Esmeralda’s.
Esmeralda lit a short candle the color of ginger, then poured a cup of tea. “Please, you have come a long way. Have a cup before you go.” She extended her slender fingers to the empty chair.
Aling Sofie sat down with a big sigh that rolled onto the table. I think the sound of it surprised even her. “My husband wishes to do things in bed that I cannot—Improper things. I am too old for such things.” She laughed nervously and glanced up at Esmeralda. “And for a senator’s wife to comply … The mother of his children. Preposterous. I have an image to uphold in the community. It is expected of me. He clings to the past, to when we were younger.”
Esmeralda stood and took down a small glass container with tiny pieces of tree bark and violet petals floating inside. “Give me your hands.”
“Such a pretty concoction,” Aling Sofie said, intrigued. She held out her hands.
When the bottle was uncorked, the scent of sunlight and the ocean filled the room. Esmeralda rubbed the lotion onto Aling Sofie’s hands and dropped a few petals onto the opened palms. “Mm, I see …” Esmeralda nodded thoughtfully, then closed her eyes.
“What, what is it?” Aling Sofie searched her own hand as if these things would reveal themselves to her.
“I see you with your hair long and flowing. You wore your hair this way when you were younger?”
“Yes, yes.” Aling Sofie became excited.
Esmeralda frowned. “No, no. Perhaps I have called the wrong image. That girl could not be you.”
“Oh, but it is. Look, see?” Aling Sofie’s fingers fluttered quickly behind her head, and her dark hair fell about her like a cloud. The face relaxed.
“Ahh, of course. It was you, after all. Here.” Esmeralda plucked a lavender orchid from one of her bowls on the table. “Let us complete the picture, so that I have a better vision.” She placed the orchid behind Aling Sofie’s ear, then leaned back with a look of surprise. “Why, it is as if ten years have dropped from your shoulders. Why is it you no longer wear your hair this way?”
“Well, it is so …”
“Lovely,” Esmeralda finished. “See?” She placed a small wooden mirror in Aling Sofie’s hands. The frame was painted blue with clouds on the top and vines around the edges. I had seen that mirror many times. I called it the dream mirror.
Aling Sofie’s eyes grew wistful, and a small smile teased the corners of her lips. She brought one of her wrists to her nose. “Such a sweet fragrance.”
“These things your husband wishes you to do?” Esmeralda prompted.
Aling Sofie’s face puckered immediately, as if she had tasted a dried prune. “I feel silly. I cannot …” She paused. “He wishes me to dance, to undress myself, to wear feathers. To tickle him with puca shells.”
“Ah, things you’ve never done before. So he suddenly changed, wanted these extravagant things? Things only a beautiful wild temptress would think of. Where did he get such ideas?”
“Well …” Aling Sofie’s face grew red. Her eyes looked mischievously into the candle flickering on the table. “Still, it would not be proper. A woman of my standing in the community. It is not acceptable.”
“I see, you have a great dilemma. But one easily cured.”
“Yes?” Aling Sofie asked.
Esmeralda stood and took down a very dusty bottle. The bottle had a brass stopper with two snakes rising up intertwined. She eyed Aling Sofie, then blew off the dust. “I must have your word. You must not let it be known that I have this. It will ruin everything. Too many women would want it. Ahh, perhaps I am being reckless, let us try something else.” Esmeralda put the bottle back on the shelf.
“No. How much?” Aling Sofie stood, her chair falling back at the force of her desire.
“A small donation, but only after your first use of it. I am not allowed to keep the money if it does not work. And I have not used this since … well. Since the first woman died.”
Aling Sofie pulled back the money she held in her outstretched hand. “A woman died from this?”
Esmeralda threw back her luxurious hair and laughed. “Oh no, no. Quite the opposite. A woman lived because of this. Oh, how she lived. This potion belonged to Lualhatte and only to her. While she lived I could not allow another woman to use it. It is that way with these things; only one person can use it.”
“Lualhatte Cordoba? The descendant of the great Chief Kabo? They say she could seduce any man, even up to her death at the age of one hundred and two last year.”
Esmeralda’s lids lowered knowingly.
“No.” Aling Sofie’s eyes watched the bottle hungrily. “At that age she was still …” She paused. “Active?”
“Candle wax and rambutan were her bedroom tools,” Esmeralda whispered, winking at the name of the egg-shaped fruit with reddish hairy skin.
“Oh my.” Aling Sofie giggled.
“Your feathers and puca shells no longer sound so bad, hah?”
“Does this potion have any adverse effects?” Aling Sofie asked, but I could see that this was merely a formality. Her eyes had already bought the potion.
“Its only drawback is if used too much, it can make the woman a little bit, well, overly … sexed,” Esmeralda whispered.
Aling Sofie shook her head to throw back her hair, in imitation of Esmeralda. She giggled. Already her voice was deeper in tone, her eyes half-closed.
“This bottle was found buried in a cave, the final resting place of a queen, whose name I am not allowed to speak. This queen, she was a legendary temptress.
“This potion allows the user to change her identity in private, to draw on the charms of this queen. But, as I said, one word to anyone that you have this in your possession and I will no longer be allowed to give it to you. I have your word of silence?” At Aling Sofie’s nod, Esmeralda took a few drops from the bottle into a very tiny vial and gave it to her.
Aling Sofie took out a few pesos. “I know you said pay later, but this is just for your time. Take it.” She winked at Esmeralda and then left the house. I watched as Aling Sofie descended the steps with light feet. She stopped at the bottom of the stairs and pulled her hair up into a loose bun. A secret smile grew on her lips, her hips swayed, and her hands swung freely at her side.
Esmeralda waited until Aling Sofie disappeared around a corner, then she took the snake bottle, added a few more purple petals and plain water from a pitcher. She dipped her hand in a tin filled with powder, sprinkled it on the bottle to give it a dusty effect, then replaced it at the back of her shelf.
After Aling Sofie, a gambling man arrived. I had seen him before, always dressed in such fine woman-catching attire. He wore wide-brimmed straw hats and
polished black Western shoes. He pulled out the chair and sat down before being asked. He lit a big cigar that smoked up the room and caused my eyes to water even at my hidden distance.
“I want a cure for my wife’s petty jealousies. They cause her to commit crimes against my mistresses.” He puffed big circles of smoke as he talked.
“Go on,” Esmeralda answered, poised as ever.
“She cannot control herself. Perhaps something to calm the nerves, eh? Surely you have something of this kind in one of your lovely bottles, eh, maganda?” The man asked, calling her beautiful. “My wife is very good with dramatics. She should have joined the theater, or the circus.” The man slapped the table, causing Esmeralda’s candle to flicker and the flower bowl to tip. He caught the bowl, frowning at it. “But truthfully, I am worried about her. I am not without heart. I cannot look aside as my poor wife is in such apparent misery. Oh, you should see her. She pulls out her hair. She carries on so. Each time we pass these women in the streets she wants to scratch their eyes out and boil them for my dinner. She has told me this! Can you imagine the embarrassment these scenes cost me? One of my mistresses has already threatened to stop seeing me.”
Esmeralda received many customers like this man, always thinking the cure lay in the curing of others, never themselves. She gave him a bottle of soothing oils, then instructed him to send his wife over. The woman came in bent over like a fragile tree broken from a strong northern wind. Do you know, that woman’s spine began to grow after each visit? Within days she stood straight and tall like a bamboo pole.
The man returned three days later demanding his money back. He claimed the sessions had not cured her at all; instead they had made his wife crazy. She defied his every command, until finally he’d come home to a note one day that said simply, “You are not worth one more grain of my strength, not one more tear from my eye. I am leaving you.”
When the Elephants Dance Page 5