When the Elephants Dance

by Tess Uriza Holthe

  “In the name of heaven, Oscar, you begin to sound like Zoila.”

  He grinned, folded up the newspaper, and hit me over the head with it. “Then I shall see you this evening. You are certain you do not wish to come to the dog races?”

  “Here.” I handed him a few pesos. “Bet on the red.”

  I DID NOT tell Oscar that I wanted to go to the market. I waited until he left before I dressed and called Manuel to ready the kalesa. Maybe I did not even tell myself.

  We crossed back to San Andres, and I stood up in my seat and asked Manuel to pull to the side. I recognized the woman I had injured the prior day. I quickly got out of the kalesa before Manuel could bring it to a stop. She did not notice me approach. She had two baskets of fruit, the very same kind that I had damaged.

  “Señora …” I walked beside her. “Señora, let me help you.” I took one of the bags from her.

  She squinted at me as if trying to recognize an old friend. A smile teetered on her lips. “Oh, no.” She grabbed frantically for the package when she realized who I was.

  I shook my head. “Señora, I merely want to ask a question. The young woman who paid me a visit, she is your daughter?”

  “I am sorry, sir. I begged her not to go. She did much damage?” she asked in broken Spanish.

  “What is her name?”

  The lady stopped and wrung her hands. “How much to fix the damage?”

  “The damage is not an issue. I merely ask her name.”

  “Please, señor.” She looked near tears. “She is a good girl, headstrong at times, but that is my fault.”

  “I do not wish to hurt her. I am curious.”

  The woman sighed and looked down the street. A group of Filipinos were walking our way. They exchanged words, and the woman looked at me. The men made a fence around us, and they ushered the woman away. I stepped aside to follow her, but they would not let me pass. I could see Manuel waiting in the kalesa for me to give the signal for him to step down. Manuel was a giant of a man, and there would be many with broken bones if he stepped down. I shook my head at him and turned to the Filipinos.

  “What is this about?” I demanded.

  “You tell us, Spaniard,” said the spokesman of the group. He was a slender man, my age, perhaps a few years older. He had the tight muscles of the cliff climbers.

  “Step aside, I have business with the woman.”

  “The woman is my mother. Your business is with me,” the man said.

  I looked at him squarely. “You do not want trouble from me. Do you know the bad luck that will follow if you start?”

  “Worse than sharing our home with Spaniards?” the man said, smirking.

  “It is a good thing that you smile, cabrón.” I stepped back and lifted my fists.

  There were footsteps behind the men, and I saw that the woman had returned with her daughter.

  “Virgil, let me pass.” The girl shoved her brother aside.

  The sight of her eased my temper.

  “You were looking for me?” she asked, hands on hips as in the day before.

  She made me smile, though I tried my best to hide it. “I came to apologize.” The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them.

  She laughed. “That is ridiculous. What is it you want? I warn you, these people will not let you hurt me if you have come to repay me for what I did.”

  “I came to ask if you would let me paint you. As a kind of apology.” Again the words were out of my mouth without thinking. I had not intended to say them. I felt like an outsider listening to someone else speak. I was curious to hear what would come next.

  “And why would you do such a thing?”

  “I would like to. Your inay would like a portrait of you, would she not?”

  “Of course, we could display it in our sala whenever our guests arrive for tea and biscuits,” she said with magnificent derision.

  My face fell. I reached into my pockets and pulled out a few pesos. “Here, then, let me repay your mother for mutilating her food.”

  She looked at my money as if I held out carabao dung. It was a wonder she did not spit on my hand. “Surely you do not think you can assuage what my mother experienced yesterday with your spare change?”

  Again I misunderstood her and took out more money, feeling like a fool, with a crowd now starting to form around us.

  She ignored my outstretched hand. “What is it you want, señor?”

  “Fredrico, call me Fredrico, please.”

  “What is it you want, señor?”

  I looked from her to a little beggar boy pulling at my shirt. I gave him the money and he took off running, with five other children chasing after him.

  “I want to make amends. We started out very badly.”

  She looked at me and laughed. “Go home, Señor Basa, this is no place for you.”

  I could not move. I could hear myself saying, “Is there any way?”

  Her mother stepped close. I had already forgotten her presence. “A portrait, you say? You can do this? Make a grand picture of my daughter?”

  “Inay,” the girl protested. She spoke in a flurry of Tagalog, pleading and arguing with her mother.

  The mother looked at me hopefully, then back to the daughter. “He has offered. I did not ask him to come here. Oh, but it would be so lovely, would it not, Divina?”

  “SEÑOR, SEÑOR FREDRICO …” I could hear Manuel’s voice in the fog of my dreams.

  “I shall have your head for waking me this early, Manuel.” I looked around the room. My silk sheets were crumpled at the bottom of the bed. I looked toward the window. “It is still dark, you imbecile, what is the meaning of this?”

  “You asked me to wake you, señor. To paint the Filipina, remember?”

  I looked at my bare feet. The urge to pull the sheets over my head was overwhelming.

  “¿Quieres café?” he asked.

  “No coffee. Quickly,” I told him, looking at the clock. I could picture the girl smirking at my tardiness, and that image was like a dousing of ice water.

  ~

  I ARRIVED AT the flimsy excuse for a house at thirty past six. Manuel looked at me dubiously as I stepped down. “Have Luisa prepare a meal for me at noontime.”

  “Sí, señor.” He watched me walk up the three steps and waited until I waved him off. I had with me my easel folded under my arm and the rest of my paints and brushes in a leather bag. The mother opened the door and curtsied at the sight of me. She was visibly nervous.

  “Buenos días,” I said with difficulty. Good morning. It was hard for me to address the woman; I would never have greeted our servants in the morning, but I thought it best to be on civil terms.

  “Buenos días, señor. Divina is not here,” she blurted, then wrung her hands furiously. “She wait, then she become tired. She is stone-headed,” she said in broken Spanish.

  “Stubborn, you mean?” I asked sarcastically. I was furious. I had told Manuel to go, and I was impossibly stuck until noon.

  “Please, señor, do not be angry with she.”

  “Her,” I corrected.

  “Pardon?”

  “Never mind. Nada.” I paced irately.

  A little boy and girl were peeking out from behind the mother’s skirts. She shooed them, and they skipped away, shouting, “Nada! Nada!”

  “I came all this way to paint her. I should have the two of you thrown in prison. This is incredibly disrespectful.”

  “No, señor, por favor,” she begged. Please.

  “This is a setback, you understand?”

  “Sí, sí, señor.” She agreed with anything I said. “Will you sit, please?” She opened the door and pointed to a stiff-looking wooden chair. One of the legs was bent at an angle, and I was not certain it would hold my weight. I could picture the girl laughing at me as she worked in the fields. She would expect me to turn around and leave.

  “Yes, I shall sit. Have you no better accommodations?” I frowned at the chair.

  “¿
Qué?” She squinted at me.

  “La mejor silla. A better chair?”

  “Eh, anó? Ah, ¿qué?” she said in a mix of Tagalog and Spanish.

  “Nada.” I put down my belongings and gave her my best scowl.

  I seated myself and was surprised at the sturdiness of the chair. I took off my coat and watched a roach scurry across the table. I put the coat back on. We looked at each other. I must have looked as odd as a peacock in a henhouse with my fine suit and hat. I decided to go about my business and opened my leather bag and began to bring out my brushes. I laid them out according to size, and when I bent down to bring out my paints, I saw that the mother was still standing there.

  “Yes?” I looked up at her.

  “Señor, I cook morning food.” She pointed to the stove. “Desayuno.”

  “You want me to move?” I asked in disbelief.

  “Sí, move, here. Outside here.” She pointed to the back.

  I let out a big sigh, gathered my things, and followed her to the back of the house, which was only a few feet away. I saw two rooms as I passed. One had two mats folded on the floor. The other was smaller, with four mats folded up against the wall. There were no cabinets for clothes. The clothes were separated neatly in four piles against the wall. I was surprised to find that the back of the house was not so much a garden as a glorious field of wildflowers. She disappeared into the house and returned with the crooked chair.

  “What is her name, your daughter?” I asked.

  “Maricel.” She curtsied.

  “Maricel, very good.” I waved her off and set up the easel.

  “And you, señor?” She waited.

  “You may call me Señor Fredrico Jacinto-Basa.” I inclined my head.

  “Ah. Sí.” She looked confused and hurried out of the room, then came back and curtsied once again.

  The children came out and watched from the corner of the house. They threw little stones until I got up and told the mother what they were doing. The stones stopped coming, and the little boy later appeared rubbing his backside humbly.

  AN HOUR BEFORE noon I heard voices and could understand a little of the Tagalog. An older man peered outside the door. “Señor.” He bowed.

  I inclined my head and continued painting the sketch of wildflowers I had started. The man went back inside and said, “It is true he is out there.”

  Next came the sound of stomping feet. The door flew open and the young woman appeared. Her perfect olive complexion was red. Pieces of her hair were stuck to her face from sweat. She wore a simple man’s shirt folded at the sleeves, worn trousers also folded at the ends, and sandals. The rest of her hair was twisted and pinned up loosely.

  I stood. “Señorita Maricel,” I said.

  “This is ridiculous,” she said in perfect Spanish. “There is much work to be done. I do not have the time to sit for a silly portrait. You have made your point. Your apology for the other day is accepted. Now please go.”

  “My God, your arrogance matches my own.”

  “Do not flatter yourself. This kind of attitude is forged from strength; yours is simply from good looks.”

  “So you admit to it, then? My appeal.” It was difficult not to tease her.

  “Who denies it? It simply does not impress me.”

  “Why do you grow angry, then?”

  “This is not anger, it is boredom.”

  “Fantastic.” I grinned.

  “Go.” She pointed.

  I raised my voice to match hers. “I did not come all this way, wait all this time, to be treated in such a way. You are truly a peasant.”

  I could see I had her, for she started to push up both her sleeves as if she were ready for a fight.

  Her mother had been watching from the window and came running out. “Anák, please, I would like this painting of you very much.”

  The young woman clenched her fists and stalked inside the house. She came back with a second chair, sat down, and folded her arms, glaring at me.

  “Your hair, it needs to be taken down.”

  She chewed her lip but did not move to take it down.

  So it went with us. I would ask something, and she would do the opposite.

  AT NOON MANUEL came with my food. A crowd had gathered to watch my preliminary sketches of the young woman. They stared at the lavish display of food. I felt awkward and put the food aside, pretending I was not hungry. But then my stomach growled and I grew angry at my concern for them. I was midway through my fare when I noticed the crowd laughing. The two children were imitating my motions with wide, expansive gestures. In their hands were sticks they had broken off to the size of a fork and spoon.

  The family squatted on a blanket and ate with their hands from a bowl. The bowl contained a small portion of rice and a few strips of meat and onions. The young woman sat with her legs crossed and her back straight. She was eating a banana, and a young man was sitting next to her. I watched her face then. Very soft, her expression was, as she talked to her kinsman. It angered me.

  After the meal, her brother Virgil came to stand near the perimeter of trees with several of his friends. I concentrated on my art, but I could not help but hear their snide comments, most of which I did not understand. The few that I did decipher were infuriating. They questioned my masculinity, jeering that painting was an excuse for men who were not physically agile. I sat through it all, gritting my teeth and telling myself to concentrate. More than once I locked eyes with the brother.

  Next, her father came to stand beside me, and as he viewed the sketches the crowd held its breath. They strained their necks and whispered to one another. The father nodded, put his chin in his hands, and looked worthy enough to be one of the caretakers at the galleries.

  “This is very good.” He nodded at me. “The flowers—” He pointed. “They have no color. Her face is not finish,” he stated imperially.

  “Yes, this is so.” I turned my back on him and shook my head; what an ego the man had.

  The crowd began to talk furiously. Nothing annoyed me more than their giggles and their laughter. I glared at them to show I needed silence.

  “I will sit for one more hour, then we must stop.” The young woman sat back down.

  I took out my silver reloj and studied it. It was only three o’clock. “We will stop in two hours,” I stated.

  “You will stop in two hours. I will be gone in one.” She raised a brow in challenge.

  “You are talking crazy.” I began to mix the paints.

  “Does the crowd embarrass you? Did I not tell you this was a stupid idea?”

  “What are they saying?” I asked.

  She looked at me in disbelief. “You know nothing of your language?”

  “There you go again. I am a Spaniard; I speak my language. Your language I do not know. Never mind. I care not what they are saying.”

  “That is a good thing. For they are making fun of your dress, and your pretty manners,” she said, and gave me her first real smile. I felt as if someone had pierced me with a dagger.

  AT EXACTLY AN hour she stood to go.

  “Is it finished yet?” She straightened her dress, untied her dark hair, smoothed it out, then swept it up into a coil again. The image was intoxicating.

  “Finished? I have not yet begun. This is merely the groundwork. You understand, the framework of what is to come.”

  “Well, how long will this take?”

  “I do not appreciate your tone, señorita. These things cannot be rushed. Possibly two weeks, possibly a month.”

  “A month?” she shouted, then went into the house to further argue with her mother.

  I was near to breaking the brush I held in my hand.

  “Fredrico.” A voice boomed through the house, and I recognized my brother Oscar’s voice.

  “Hola, Oscar,” I called to him as I packed, and the crowd began to disperse. I watched her brother Virgil’s face darken as Oscar approached.

  Oscar returned Virgil’s gaze, grinning cond
escendingly at the Filipino.

  “Brother.” I stood. “Come see what progress I have made.”

  Oscar would not move; his eyes remained locked with the Filipino’s. Finally I walked in between the two of them and willed Oscar to look at me. “I intend to finish this portrait,” I said firmly.

  Oscar glanced at me, and immediately his tone changed. “Manuel said you had come here. But I had to witness it myself. Whom did you wager a bet with? Was it Edgar? How much did he wager you to come here? Why was I not in on this? Am I not your favorite brother?”

  “You are my only brother.” I shut the case and clapped him on the back.

  “Well?”

  “Well?” I looked at him.

  The girl came out with her furious face once again. “Come back at seven tomorrow. If you are late again, I will not return until you are gone. Is this understood, señor?” She glanced at Oscar, who was grinning like a fool.

  “Sí,” I said, wanting to wring her neck at her tone.

  She turned on her heels and slammed the back door, leaving Oscar and me to walk around to the front.

  Oscar was smiling the entire way. “Thank God, I thought you had gone mad. I see now, younger one. I see now. She is exquisite.”

  “It is not as you think.” I brushed his hand off my back in irritation.

  “Oh, I think it is.” He laughed.

  ZOILA BURST INTO the dining room that evening. “Is it true?” she demanded.

  “Zoila, sit down,” I commanded.

  Oscar leaned back in his chair and folded his arms in amusement.

  Zoila continued her tirade. “Is it true that you sat in the dirt house of a peasant girl all day just to paint her, and in front of an entire village?”

  I must admit it sounded ridiculous even to my own ears.

  “Yes, it is true.” I shrugged without apology. “This is something you do not know about artists, Zoila.” I pointed a gilded fork at her. “Any artist who is worth his paint must experience different things; they must endure hardships.”

  “My God, you are good.” Oscar raised his glass in toast.

  “Shut up,” I told him.

  “I demand you stop this. It is an embarrassment that my beau be seen in such places.” Zoila looked to Oscar for help, but he continued to pour himself another glass of wine. He couldn’t have been happier had he been at a bullfight and the matador just walked out onto the plaza to fight two bulls.