When the Elephants Dance

by Tess Uriza Holthe

  Miguel’s face looks hideous, filled with fear. His eyes bulge out and his mouth is open, showing clenched teeth that open and chatter. His breathing is sickening to hear, a snorting that starts at the throat and goes up his nose, reminiscent of a wild boar’s. He holds a small knife, which he swings from hand to hand. His eyes are fixed on Domingo.

  Domingo is calm. He watches Miguel like a lion, not exerting his energy. Waiting. When Miguel lunges forward, Domingo grabs his hand. They struggle, and Miguel pulls his hand away quickly. The blade from his knife slices Domingo’s palm open. Thick drops of blood fall to the ground, stealing the breath from my chest.

  But Miguel looks down at his chest in surprise. There is a large circle of blood in the middle of his belly. His thin white shirt is pasted inward, as if it were being sucked into his stomach. I am stunned. Domingo was so quick.

  “Stop it, stop it,” I tell Domingo.

  The men watch as Miguel falls, and though I did not like him on sight, I feel sorry at his helpless figure. It does not seem right that he should die in front of angry faces. He looks up at us for help, with small gasps. His eyes bulge as if straining to see the tops of the dark cave. “Nasaksák ako,” he explains over and over again, in between sharp intakes of breath. I was stabbed.

  “Domingo,” I plead.

  Domingo steps forward to finish Miguel. When he does, Miguel lurches up and grabs for Domingo’s injured leg. He bites through the wrappings on the thigh and does not let go. Domingo drives the knife deep into Miguel’s neck, and Miguel drops instantly.

  WE LEAVE THE cave with assurances from the others that they shall wait for Domingo. Domingo does not allow me to help him down the mountainside. We descend another way, farther to the north of the first trail, but where it is not so steep. He walks with his head high and his back straight until we are gone from their view. Then he collapses upon me, and I carry the brunt of his weight. The struggle has sapped his energy. His skin is an ash color. The wrappings on his shoulders and thigh that the amateur doctor prepared are soaked red.

  At the second circle of men we are met by a slender woman. She runs easily up the steep mountainside to us. She wears a rifle strapped across her back. I squint to see her in the dark. On her hip is a sheathed knife. She is gaunt like the rest. But her eyes, which seem to capture the sparkle of the moon, are large and gold, and her lashes are very long. She is a mestiza, half Spanish, with chocolate hair, a high brow, and thin lips. She grins openly at Domingo until she sees me, but the sight of me does not stop her. She walks up to Domingo and embraces him, leaning back to kiss him full in the mouth. He holds her easily and for a long time. My body stiffens and my thoughts go in a hundred directions. A mistress! Domingo’s face, his entire body, speaks differently to this woman. I have never seen him act this way with his wife, Ate Lorna. I cannot tear my eyes from them. Their movements are unguarded, natural. They have been together long, I decide.

  She speaks rapid-fire. “Thank God, there were rumors the Japanese had caught you. I was so worried. The day you were to return I waited all evening and late into the next day. I refused to believe they had caught you. I was half-crazy I screamed that we must all go in search of you. No one but Bartoy could speak to me—”

  “I am here now,” Domingo says gently. They no longer touch, but his eyes seem to caress every misplaced hair around her face. He studies the whole of her while she talks. It hits me like a bullet. They are in love.

  “There is much to discuss. The Amerikanos wish to use us as guides. A submarine just dropped crates of ammunition and food for them. Some cartons fell into the bay; we can send divers to see if anything can be saved. Those damned Paghamon guerrillas wish to meet again. Our agent with the Kempeitai is under suspicion. The Japanese colonel has grown suspicious of her. I fear for her safety. The men need to go on maneuvers; they have been going crazy with waiting. And there is the matter with these damned paper guerrillas. Bandits, the lot of them. They are multiplying now that the war is coming to its climax. They are giving us a bad name with the Amerikanos. Who is this?” she demands, looking at me. “This is not Lorna.”

  “Nina, this is Isabelle. I have spoken to you of her many times. This is Mang Carlito’s daughter.”

  She looks at me. I look back, equally irritated. A slow, languid smile starts at the corners of her mouth at my refusal to look away. I do not smile. Then, just as quickly, she dismisses me. I bristle at the exchange.

  “It was Miguel’s fault,” she explains. “But I must speak to you about Palaka.”

  “We will have no more trouble from him,” Domingo says. “Palaka was easily impressed by Miguel. Miguel is dead now.”

  She nods in understanding. “Was it a good fight?”

  “No, of course not.” Domingo is annoyed with her question.

  She notices his slow speech. Her eyes begin to take account of his injuries. I can see she is worried, but she does not show it to the others.

  Domingo sees her concern. His voice is gentle. “It is all right, Nina. I will escort Isabelle home. I will be back before dawn,” he promises.

  “I shall come,” she says.

  “No, you must watch over the others.”

  I feel the irritation in me growing, pushing through the thickness of my exhaustion. I helped him here just so he could betray Ate Lorna with this tramp.

  A boy my brother Alejandro’s age comes racing up the hill. He is unhindered by its steepness. He grins stupidly and holds out a hand to Domingo. They shake. Domingo claps a hand to the boy’s shoulder and his eyes soften. He nods to the boy. Do Domingo’s eyes water? Is it a trick of the moonlight?

  “Bartolomew, have you been taking care of the troops?”

  “Hello, sir,” the boy says, his face beaming. “Yes, I have been watching everyone as you asked. Everyone is accounted for. Except Pogi, he has not yet returned. It has been almost two weeks now.”

  “You have done an excellent job. Continue the good work. Do not worry about Pogi, he is a smart dog. He will find his way back. He always has. I will return shortly.”

  The boy notices me for the first time. “Hello, miss.” He gives me the same toothy smile. I press my lips in an attempt at a smile, but I do not feel it from the heart. Bartolomew snaps his attention back to Domingo. He salutes with his left hand. “I will keep up the good work, sir.”

  “I know, Bartoy, that is why I do not worry. I must go,” he tells everyone. Domingo puts a hand out again and places a palm on the boy’s head. He has a strong affection for the boy, more than I have seen him give to his own son. I turn away as he embraces the woman once more.

  “Captain, Captain!” Innocencio runs down the hill. “You are leaving? But what is the plan?” He is very agitated. “Sir, you have not told me the plan.”

  “Sorry, sorry. You are right, Inno. Where is my head?” Domingo steadies himself and puts two hands on Innocencio’s shoulders. “You are to follow us to the third circle of guards to ensure our safety. Then you are to come back here, and await my return.”

  Innocencio is instantly relieved. “Very good, sir. That is a good plan. A very good plan.”

  I glance at the boy and the woman; they keep straight faces, but there is obvious amusement in their eyes.

  Innocencio follows us down the hill with his rifle in hand. His eyes shift continuously left to right. I feel comforted despite his strange behavior. At the last circle he tells Domingo, “Now I will return to Nina and Bartoy. We shall wait for your return, sir.” He salutes Domingo, also with the left hand.

  “Excellent.” Domingo returns the salute.

  I watch Innocencio as he walks away.

  “Does he not cause more trouble for you?” I ask.

  “He is the deadliest shot I have ever seen,” Domingo answers.

  WE HAVE LEFT the last circle of guards. We walk silently for the next two kilometers. Finally, I grow tired of the silence and I look at Domingo’s face, then turn away before he can see me.

  “Say what is on y
our mind, buliít.” He calls me by a nickname, meaning “littlest one.”

  “I hate what you did to that man.” I push the sweat and stray hair from my face.

  He watches my expression. “I could not walk away with the thought of him hovering behind me for eternity. He was bad, Bella, he had to die.”

  “How do you know you are not bad as well?” I challenge.

  “Oh, I am bad. Make no mistake. But I can be trusted. There is a difference.”

  “You killed a Filipino,” I tell him.

  “Yes, he was Filipino.” Domingo’s face is without guilt.

  “You should have stayed. Let someone else escort me.”

  He looks surprised. “That would not have been wise. I would have had to hurt them had they done anything untoward.”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  “This is not your common group of people, Bella. Their allegiance is held together only by their own vendettas and the threat of my retaliation. There are many who are good, but the other half are unsavory, crude men.”

  “Why is she safe with them?” I cannot take the sarcasm from my voice.

  “Nina? She can shoot a forty-five-caliber more than well, and she has a tongue that could stop a charging bull. She can read a person’s shame and speak publicly of it if they take even a breath against her person. Also, she has the reputation of having been Serafino Beltran’s woman, and now …” He lets his words trail into the thick air.

  “And now she is yours.” I cannot help but sneer for Ate Lorna, who is not here to do so for herself.

  Domingo stops walking and blinks at me. Obviously he has not had to explain this situation before. He tries to speak, then stops himself. He goes through this several times; each time concludes with him looking off into the distance. “It is difficult to explain, Isabelle.”

  “To yourself or to me?” I ask. “The boy is your son?” I see his unease at the question I pose, and I am glad.

  “The boy is not my son. He is an orphan like me. Only his parents did not desert him, they were killed by the Japanese. Executed before his eyes.”

  I feel ashamed suddenly at how I acted toward Bartoy. I chastise myself for not smiling back at him. “And the woman?” I ask.

  “And the woman is none of your concern.”

  “So you met her after you were married to Ate Lorna?”

  He glances at me and sighs. “I knew Nina Vargas long before I met your ate Lorna. She was the woman of Serafino Beltran, the first leader of our troops. I knew them both before the war. The three of us grew up together. Serafino and I were rivals for her attention. The only reason she fell for him and not me was that he met her a week earlier. We were from the same orphanage. I was sick with the flu the week she arrived. But we all knew secretly, though it was never spoken, that Nina and I were the better match. I knew how to speak to her. She listened to me. Serafino was a very jealous man. He did not know how to revel in her beauty, to celebrate it. He wanted to keep her locked up. It made him miserable. At times he could not act sanely if she was with him in a room full of men. He was forever forcing her to dress up like a mouse. I used to joke that he might as well sew her up in a rice sack permanently so he never had to worry.

  “We had gone our separate ways as adults. It was actually my idea. Serafino did not understand why I wanted to abandon them. I told him I wanted to go in search of my father. But secretly, I thought it best not to have my most valued prize dangled forever in front of me. I would start to resent Serafino, if I didn’t already. But she was always on my mind, this woman I could not have. Despite Serafino’s invitations I would never spend time with them except in passing, to share a drink, and then the war broke out. We were all three thrust together again. It was as if we had never been apart. That is how strong our bonds of childhood were. If only the bonds of our people were the same. But we are divided.

  “During the first year after General MacArthur’s retreat, and General Wainwright’s surrender of Corregidor, Serafino was killed. I could have predicted it. He was a brave man, but always very brash, temperamental. You need a cool head if you are to be a leader. Not all wars are won by fighting and dying. He was assassinated by the Japanese. His head was sent to Nina and his troops. Nina and I remained good friends. We kept our distance, afraid we would betray his memory, and I was already married, but it was inevitable, our coming together again.

  “When I first met your ate Lorna, I had hoped that she would be the same kind of woman. One who would follow her man into the jungles, to the death.” Domingo sighs. “But I should have known. Lorna is a wealthy man’s daughter. She might have been willing to break ties from her family, but to ask her to live in the jungles … I do not blame her. Nina and I, we are cut from the same cloth. We understand things through the same eyes. Your ate Lorna is a good woman. And I, I am a bastard.”

  I do not like his answer. It is more than I wanted to hear. In fact, I prayed that he would stop in the middle of his explanation. It is what I feared most. I feel pity for Ate Lorna. How can she compete with this woman?

  “You did not have to kill that man. You could have let him go.”

  “Let him go?” Domingo laughs. “What do you think war is about? Do you think it is just a bunch of grown men playing at leader?” He shrugs. “Possibly this is true, but there is also much struggling with the lower levels. Even, as you witnessed today, within the group. Have you ever played chess, Bella?”

  “Yes, but it is not the same,” I insist.

  “In some ways it is not. But do you see how one pawn, in order to get further ahead to the other side, must jump or, as they say, eat the other?”

  I do not answer. I watch him. I ask myself, Is this man good or bad? Would he kill me in a certain situation?

  “Miguel and I became two pawns facing one another. If I did not jump over him, he would eat me.”

  “So your murder of Miguel, it now allows you to follow your plans? It does not matter that you have killed a man? He is now off the board?”

  Domingo becomes frustrated with me. He clicks his tongue. “Your heart is so tender still. I could not have him threatening me from behind at all times. Wondering at what moment he would choose to try to rise up against me. There are people who look up to me, who watch me for guidance.”

  “So you are a god now.” I am frightened, yet I cannot help my mouth from saying these things. It has always been this way with me. My thinking and my mouth have been the matter of many arguments with my mother.

  He is silent for a long moment. Except for his occasional grunts, and the weight I help him support, we say nothing. After a few kilometers he says, “I should not have let you see that, what happened back there.”

  “It is too late,” I say with such resentment that Domingo pauses. “You could have told me that I risked my life in order for you to meet with your mistress and then kill a man. You have made me an accomplice to your sin. Ate Lorna will never forgive me.”

  “Enough. I will not make excuses for what I did. I would do it again. What did you think? That we were going to a tea party? These men are trained to live through days in the jungle without food, without hope. They fight for a better Philippinas than the one we have at this moment. We’ve been reduced to animals, and so we act as such. Do you have a better answer on how to win this war?” His face is red, the same as my mother’s when we get into these exchanges.

  I look at him, his wounds soaking through his thin clothing. The exhaustion that breathes through his whole body. I feel the weight of his responsibilities, the lives he holds in his hands. But I am still angry with him, and about this woman Nina Vargas; I wish to humiliate him for what he has done to his wife.

  “Why is it that with all these men at your disposal, you do not try to help the prisoners at Santo Tomas, or Bilibid?”

  He studies me, his eyes showing impatience with my flippant tone. “And what would I do with them once they were set free? How would I hide them? There would be hundreds of Filipinos and A
merikanos. There would not be enough weapons to give them. How would I feed them when I can barely feed my own? How would they keep up with us in their weakened states?”

  I feel my face redden with embarrassment.

  He sighs. “We cannot free the prisoners and then retreat. Do you understand? It must be all or nothing. We cannot approach the situation halfway.”

  After several hours, we find a grove of papaya trees and yellow acacias. We try to catch our breath. I think of home and wonder what they are all doing. Domingo’s eyes constantly shift left and right; I feel as if my entire body will unravel at any moment. He seats himself on a rock and unties his pants. I look away quickly, then glance back. He pulls down his pants and inspects the wound on the thigh. The rag is soaked with blood. It smells bad. When Domingo peels away the dressing, the wound oozes a greenish color. He clucks his tongue and shakes his head.

  “Miguel’s bite has infected it further. He would take me with him to the grave.”

  IT IS ALMOST morning when we reach the foot of the mountain. We are again near my hometown of Bulacan. The indigo of night is fading fast, and the moon is farther away. If I close my eyes, I can pretend I am home and that I can return to school.

  Domingo has become feverish from the exertion. Soon he is talking in a delirium. I cannot leave him this way. His strength has left him completely. We are not resting more than an hour when we hear footsteps, many of them. When I peek through the bushes, I see women of all ages walking in single file, heading toward Manila. Japanese soldiers walk beside, herding them forward like caribous. They are mostly Filipinas, but there are two Amerikanas. One, with faded yellow hair, falls on the ground. She looks odd with her dark skin and pale hair. The soldiers prod her with bayonets. “Up, up.”

  The Amerikanas have been separated and walk behind the Filipinas. I am so stricken that I accidentally put my hand down on Domingo’s leg and he cries out, muttering in his delirium. His eyes are blurred, and he does not recognize me. I put my hand to his mouth. “Quiet,” I tell him. “Sleep.”

  “Sleep,” he murmurs.