When the Elephants Dance

by Tess Uriza Holthe

  My parents were always distant, as if we were shouting at one another from opposing cliffs, with no bridge, no way to get close. I was carted to social gatherings every other day. I was left to play and bunk with strange children until Mother and Father were ready to return home. I was bought extravagant gifts to occupy myself. Grandfather was the only one who was affectionate to me. But an old man who sits by the window each day is not much of an instructor on the ways to become a man.

  I prayed in my heart for a real father, since the one I had been given was a failure to me. That was my deepest wish, and my deepest sorrow. So it is not surprising, really, who answered my prayers.

  WHEN I FIRST became interested in Mang Minno, I knew this much, that he made his living catching and selling fish and that he had become very wealthy from it. Enough to buy his way into our social circles. He even had a family, a wife and three children. They were all very embarrassed by him. To them he did not exist. He refused to live in the grand house he had bought for them and insisted on the treehouse by the sea. After a time his family became very prominent in the elite circles, and one day his eldest daughter, Amalia, came by and asked that her father not visit anymore. She asked his permission to tell her friends that he was a distant uncle and that her father was dead. Can you imagine how that must have broken the old man’s heart? To have your own daughter ask this of you?

  I shall never forget his name, for Minno reminds me of a fish—minnow, you see?

  ONE DAY AT the market I stumbled across two fishermen taking their siesta with cold coffee and their catch stored in nearby baskets filled with ice and shaded from the sun. They were trading stories about Mang Minno. One man shivered and discouraged the other from saying anything further. When I asked them to tell me more, they quickly took their belongings and bade me good day. Their quiet served only to intrigue me more.

  People told me Mang Minno was crazy, that he worshiped the devil, and that that was how he came back with so many fish each day. He had bargained his soul in exchange for money for his family. I was confused, you see, for I had always associated being a fisherman with Jesus of Nazareth, the fisherman of souls. I was not afraid.

  THAT AFTERNOON I went in search of Mang Minno. I scoured the fish markets. I waited for hours, but he never showed. Then the thought struck me. Where better to find a fisherman than his special fishing hole? I asked the market owner, Mang Saro. “Where does Mang Minno hunt for these fishes?”

  Mang Saro looked startled. “Why do you want to know? Stay away from him. Besides, there is no one special place for him. Everywhere is special, you see? He calls them, they come. Black magic,” Mang Saro whispered with large eyes.

  “What do you mean?” I scoffed. I could see my tone offended him.

  “The antíng-antíng he wears, it brings the fish. But he is too old now. It weighs on him, you see? As he gets older. If he does not give away the medallion soon, it will drag him down.”

  When I questioned him more, Mang Saro clamped his mouth tight on a soggy cigarette and turned his back on me. I tried to goad him further to see what else he would let slip.

  “You’re frightened of an old man? I shall tell everyone how much of a coward you are.”

  Mang Saro turned and tossed the cigarette stub at me.

  “Hey!” I shouted.

  “Get away from me, unwanted boy. Tell your grandpa to teach you manners. Go—” He gestured with his hands, his face like one who smelled something disgusting.

  I remained with my fists clenched.

  He placed his hands on his hips. “What, what will you do? You are tall, yes, but you have none of your grandfather’s character. Go home, mama’s boy.” He laughed. Mang Saro obviously knew more about goading than I did.

  I left with my tail between my legs.

  I WALKED HOME at the end of the day frustrated, but more determined. I went through the woods, using a shortcut. As I walked, I began to have the sensation that I was lost. The woods seemed alien to me, though I had walked them a hundred times. Has this tree always been here? I asked myself. This hill, why have I not noticed it before? I stopped and looked around, frightened. I shook the feeling. This is foolishness. You have made a wrong turn somewhere. Don’t be such a sissy. But the hair on my neck was standing on end, and my heart was playing at a tempo that made it hard to breathe. I could hear whispering and movement. And I know you will not believe it, but I heard the kind of whispering that one would imagine a fish would make when talking to another fish. Doesn’t that sound crazy?

  Then I realized what else was bothering me. The forest, usually blanketed with rows of chattering mynah birds, scurrying lizards, and snapping crickets, was quiet. Not a bird could be seen, though I squinted my eyes at every coconut tree. The silence was unnerving. All was quiet, except for the fish sounds. It was like the cackle dolphins make, but deeper in pitch, liquid somehow. I began to hear other noises as well. I heard something like a waterfall, or rainfall, or a stream. Soon, the sound of running water was everywhere, the taste of it in my mouth.

  I took a step to go, but my foot sank into swamp water. I looked down, incredulous. All around me was a kind of bayou. I was taking quick, short breaths at a time. When had the forest ended and the water begun? I couldn’t remember leaving the forest. I stayed very still, all the while my mouth tasting cool water, my ears hearing running water. I turned in a circle. I could feel the panic rising, and then I saw him. He was staring right at me, as if he had been there all along, waiting for me to pick him out from the tall swamp grass.

  He was dark, like the warlike Igorot tribes of the Cordillera Central. He wore an old gray shirt, rolled up to reveal strong forearms. His face was wide, his dark eyes dull, yet watchful.

  “Sino ang tumatawag sa akin?” he asked. Who is calling me?

  “M-Mang Minno,” I stammered.

  He nodded slowly, then looked down into the waters. He canted his head, as if listening. When he looked back to me he said my name: “Roman Flores.”

  I nearly fell backward. That was when I saw the shadows in the murky water, dark ink taking form around my feet. Fish all around me, weaving in between my feet. Mere fish, but they alarmed me. There was something different about them. I could see they had thought, and that was what frightened me the most. They gathered around and watched me expectantly, a swirl of metallic colors. They did not scatter as I turned and surveyed them.

  A group of twelve in particular hovered near me. There was a difference in their appearance from the others. Each had a bright stripe of violet down the length of their backs. Their fins cast the kind of glow a candle gives off. They appeared to watch me with great interest.

  “What is it you want, Roman? State what it is. The tribunal is listening.”

  “The tribunal? Uh … I come to ask … I want to become a fisherman.” My hands shook as I watched the purple fishes.

  He stood still at my words, then looked off toward the forest of trees. The trees had reappeared somehow. The only way I can describe it is it was as if the forest had become flooded by the ocean, the same forest, only filled with water. I could feel my feet solidly on the ground, but when I looked down I could not see past the murky waters. He studied my arms, the set of my shoulders, and the way my arms were soft from lack of work.

  “Go home, Roman. Do not speak my name again.” He turned, and as he started to walk away, the fish moved from around me and followed him.

  I was so amazed by the sight that for a moment, I lost my voice. By the time I found it, he had almost disappeared into the trees. “Wait, Mang Minno. I would give anything to become like you. My family is starving.” It came naturally, this lie.

  I explained how my family worked without sleep, job after job. I think the desperation in my voice was what gave him pause. He seemed to pick through the truth in my words. He moved toward me, his dark eyes almost violet. The tribunal surrounded me again, touching noses. They looked upward at me, as if discussing my case with one another. They seemed to come to a d
ecision, and though still surrounding my feet, they looked toward him.

  Mang Minno nodded to them. “Perhaps, perhaps.” His voice became gentle. “Come back tomorrow. Sleep tonight, and in the morning let the sun wash over you to clear your thinking.” At his words the fishes swam violently between us. “Silence!” he bellowed. I thought he had gone mad. “I am weary, Roman. But I must be certain. Come back. I ask only this: If you decide to return, remember the feel of the sun upon you.”

  “Yes, sir. How will I find you?”

  “The same as today. Begin at the edge of the forest where the rays of the sun do not touch the ground, then call out my name. Farewell.” He turned and walked away.

  “Tomorrow.” I cupped my hands together and called out to him. Already he was at the edge of darkness, surrounded by trees. No sooner had the words left my mouth than the forest became as it had always been. There was no water at my feet; my legs and pants were completely dry. I turned in a tight circle, and there were all the green-billed malkoha birds perched in the trees, grooming their long tails and chattering happily. I took a deep breath and ran home.

  THAT NIGHT, ALL was as usual, and as I eased into the simplicity of our evening I began to wonder if I had imagined it all. I went to my room to check my bed, to see if it had been slept in. There was always the chance I had fallen asleep and dreamt it entirely. The maid called us to dinner and I sat down to eat, mentally scratching my head.

  She had prepared my favorite dish, lugao with manok, the warm rice and chicken stew. I stirred the bowl, and the green onions and slivers of ginger appeared hidden in the thick porridge. I squeezed a slice of lemon over it and added a jolt of the pungent fish sauce known as patis, my mouth already watering. If you put just the right amount, the salty flavor of the sauce complements the sweetness of the ginger; too much and you have to throw out the whole bowl and start again.

  I was still pondering my afternoon, allowing the steam from the bowl to rise and cool, when my parents walked in. My father sat down at the table and flapped open the day’s news with a quick snap of his hands. He was dressed in a light gray Western vest with matching trousers. He and my mother were both dressed to go out for the evening. I glanced over their clothing with annoyance. They would be leaving us again.

  I looked at my older brother, Roger, absorbed in his bowl of lugao. He spoke without looking up from his stew. “Daniel Romero is going to study in the States, Papa. When will we look into the schools I shall attend? Daniel’s father is buying him a car.”

  I rolled my eyes. My brother and I were different, like milk and cola. We could stand each other only in front of our parents.

  “We shall see, Roger. Concentrate on your studies,” father answered through his paper. My brother pulled out a book at the table and started his studies.

  Father peered over his paper at me. “There will be a social dance tomorrow at Aling Lumina’s. Do not forget to come, Roman, not like the last time.” He thrashed his paper. My eyes followed the servants as they walked back and forth. Our maid, Sara, was getting big around the hips. I watched as the extra weight on her behind tried to find a place to protrude in her small uniform.

  My mother coughed to distract me. “Sara, please get a bigger-size uniform. I will not have you displaying yourself to my boys in this manner.”

  Poor Sara. She was sixty years old, not exactly a point of sexual interest to a fourteen-year-old. She blushed painfully and muttered, “Yes, ma’am.’ ”

  I looked at my mother in irritation. She did that, spat things out without thinking of people’s feelings. Like the time my brother brought home his first girlfriend, and my mother said as she was still smiling and waving good-bye to the girl from our window, “Her nose is as flat as the baníg the servants sleep on. Can you not pick a prettier girl, Roger?”

  “Itay, how long has it been since you have gone fishing?” I asked my father. “I hear there is a really good fishing spot just outside of the forest.”

  “What do you need to fish for? We have plenty of fish at our store.”

  “Oh, I wasn’t thinking of myself. I thought maybe we could go have a look. Maybe send our fishermen there. We could go if you like, test the spot. We could sell whatever we trapped at our stores.”

  My father laughed. “We could not catch enough to make a difference. That is what we have workers for. Really, Roman, sometimes the ideas you have. Very uneconomical. If you want fish, just tell your mother. She will have the workers bring some home on their next run.” We owned a market, and Father was not interested in anything that would cost instead of earn us money.

  My father shook his head and went back to his paper. My mother had gotten up and was rearranging her hair in front of an oval mirror. My brother was bent over his book, and I marveled at how his spoon made it to his mouth each time without spilling onto his clothes. Yet I felt someone watching me and looked up to meet my grandfather’s eyes.

  “I was at the market today, Roman. I spoke with Mang Saro. He told me you were asking about a fisherman.”

  My grandfather was a keen observer of me, and I became so nervous that I bit into my spoon and yelled.

  My mother rushed to my side and laughed. “I thought you had swallowed a bone.” She took her hand and squeezed my cheeks.

  “No, just the spoon,” I explained, pushing her away in irritation.

  She laughed and mussed my hair. “All right, a grown-up now, are you? No crying to Mommy?”

  I snuck a glance at Grandfather; I could feel his eyes boring into me. “I wanted to know more about the fishing hole I mentioned to Father. I thought it might be a good place. Someone mentioned a fisherman who goes there often.”

  “A fisherman, you say? I knew a fisherman once, by the name of Mang Minno.” My grandfather took a drink of his sangria; the slice of orange soaked red from the wine floated in the crystal goblet like a raft in a red ocean. He watched me closely as he said this. “He was a good friend of mine. In fact, you could say we were the very best of friends.”

  My head snapped up at this new development. My mind raced like a water snake. I knew my grandfather guessed every question before they even formed in my head.

  “When did you know him?” I asked, ladling more lugao into my bowl and pretending to concentrate on the amount of patis to add. My palms and the undersides of my arms had broken out in perspiration.

  “When did you hear of him?” he countered.

  “When I spoke to the other vendors at the market.”

  “And what exactly did you hear? Tell me all of it.”

  “Nothing, Lolo, just that he is a good fisherman.” I did not fear anyone, but if anyone could make me uncomfortable, it was my grandfather. I shifted in my seat and considered dropping my mother’s precious plate collection to distract him. I weighed the time that would be wasted to discipline me and thought better of it.

  Grandfather’s eyes softened, but his voice remained gruff. “Leave it to me to teach you. Who do you think taught your father how to fish? Do not bother Mang Minno again, he has no patience for outsiders.”

  “Yes, Lolo.” I nodded in disappointment. I promised Grandfather I would not search for Mang Minno, and at the time I felt it in my heart to be true, but that is the way it is for liars.

  THE NEXT AFTERNOON, I willed the clock in the suffocating heat of our classroom to reach one. Our teacher lectured on José Rizal, our national hero, and his battle in 1896 with the Spanish ruling class. What good did it do him to fight? I wondered if I could be so brave. To fight for something when it meant sacrificing my own life. He was killed in the end. I imagined myself as him, the bullets hailing down upon my body. My family on their knees, sobbing and regretting my death.

  AS SOON AS we were let out, I started walking to the forest. I hadn’t forgotten my promise to my grandfather, but neither could I forget my promise to Mang Minno. Nothing could sway me. Not Pepe Rosales’s invitation for a swim at his pool, not Paulo Cruz’s bag of makapuno, though the thought of the smal
l white balls of powdered fruit rolled in sugar made my stomach speak. I walked with a vengeance. When I got to the edge of the forest, where the blanket of branches blocked out the sun, my feet remembered the previous day, and they slowed their pace. I hesitated just outside of the darkness. I could feel my heart in my throat. I turned to look over my shoulder at my classmates, who were walking in an unorganized body. A part of me longed to go with them.

  As I stood there contemplating, a cloud drifted over, blocking the sun and shading me. I remembered Mang Minno’s words when I asked him how I would find him. Begin at the edge of the forest where the rays of the sun do not touch the ground. I looked up at the dark cloud in a panic, then back down to my feet, covered in darkness. Before I knew it, I was standing in the perimeter of the forest, where the sun did not tread. I saw my classmates off in the distance, fading from sight, then the entire area became enclosed by trees. All became eerily silent as the previous day. It was as if the entire forest were listening. I became so afraid that I called out, “Mang Minno.”

  There was a great sound of gushing water all around me. I felt as if a tidal wave were towering just behind, ready to swallow me.

  “Sino ang tumatawag sa akin?” Who is calling me? He asked this even as I stood there before him, easily recognizable. His bare feet were set solidly apart, with the water lapping at his strong calves and rising slowly. His eyes, dark and opaque, squinted menacingly.

  “Ako lang, Mang Minno. Si Roman Flores,” I called out. It is just me, Mang Minno. Roman Flores.

  “Roman, so you have returned.” His eyes blinked slowly shut, then open. It seemed a trick of the dark, but the lids of his eyes seemed to converge together the way a lizard’s do. He turned quickly as if he floated on the water. “Come, I will show you how I call the fish.”