When the Elephants Dance

by Tess Uriza Holthe

  “I intend to stop when I have completed the portrait. Now have a seat.” I gestured to one of the five empty seats. Manuel rushed to pull out a chair for her.

  Zoila looked pleased. “Where is Consuelo? I would like one of her famous empanadas, and not that wine.” She frowned at Oscar as he was about to pour a glass for her.

  Oscar put down the bottle and opened his palms placatingly, like a priest. “Querida, you have not even tasted this.”

  “If it is already opened, it is already spoiled. I want a fresh one.” She liked to demand things in our house, and we entertained her in that way.

  I WOKE UP on the floor and very late in the day. When I lectured Manuel on forgetting to wake me, he claimed that he had been trying for the better part of an hour amid my kicking out and throwing things at his person. Only when Oscar had walked in, returning from a long night, did he manage to obtain some help. Oscar came into my room, put both his hands to the side of my person, and shoved me onto the floor. He then walked out of the room, leaving a horrified Manuel to explain himself when I woke up shouting.

  Of course, the young woman was gone when I arrived at her home. And true to her word, she did not return that evening. I left the house furious, threatening to throw the entire family into prison under suspicion of crimes against the aristocracy. The mother begged me to return the following morning and assured me her daughter would be there. I was so angry that I could not sleep the entire night, and when dawn broke I was the one who woke Manuel and arrived at the ramshackle little lean- to and waited on the doorstep as the young woman opened the door to let in the fresh air. After glaring at me determinedly for a long moment, she let me pass into her house. She made me wait another hour in the garden, while I watched an old beggar man picking berries from a nearby tree. I got the idea to practice and warm my fingers by sketching him before the family woke and ran him off the property.

  I had to admit to myself that for a Filipino, there was a certain dignity about him. He greeted me with a single inclination of his head, as if reaching over the fence to their papaya tree were nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing spectacular when he crept up and drank from the dog’s water trough. When he peeked into the bedroom of the house, I stood and he backed away and resumed his picking of berries with the air of a man studying a velvet satchel of loose jewels. He held each berry up to the rising sun and turned it in certain ways to the light. I do not know why he did that; it was not as if he threw away any that he deemed inedible. He ate each one that he picked.

  As with the previous day, there was much stomping of the feet and a small argument ensued before the young woman came out to sit for me. I sat up watching with pity as the old beggar man backed away from the berries, but to my surprise, she took out a small cake from her skirt pocket. “Mang Thomas,” she called.

  I watched as the beggar approached and thanked her as a beloved neighbor would and not a thief. When he left I said to her, “Maricel, you have just rewarded a thief. He has been picking your berries since I arrived.”

  “My name is Divina; why do you insist on calling me by my mother’s name? And those berries my mother planted just for him,” estupido, she added with her eyes.

  I shut my mouth and began to sketch her. “He bears my father’s name,” I said, trying to find a common ground where we were not each at each other’s jugulars.

  “You insist on drawing this portrait for my mother when we have no place for it.”

  “Why do you insist on her not having the portrait? You do not wish for her to have something beautiful?”

  “Beauty is for the Spaniards to sit and watch and sip their wine while they expound on the sunset. Others such as us need that time to harvest the rice, to chop the trees, to plant the sugar cane, while there is still yet sunlight, and then to pay the taxes imposed on our trade.”

  “You are beautiful. Do you think perhaps your God wasted His time in creating you?”

  She eyed me. “Is there a separate God, then, for the Spaniards?”

  “Of course not,” I said.

  “Then why do your people act as if they have a different God to answer to?”

  “Again you speak nonsense. We treat the peasants as peasants. Show me a Filipino who is an aristocrat and I shall treat him as such.”

  At that moment her brother Virgil walked in, grimacing and holding his back with one hand. His face was badly bruised, and his lips and teeth were bloody. “Forget this talk, sister. He will never acknowledge their treatment of our people, much less that he has Filipino blood running through his veins.”

  “Virgil.” Divina ran to him.

  “Who has done this to you?” I demanded.

  He brushed Divina aside and regarded me with a wry smile. “Go on painting with your eyes closed, Spaniard. You do not wish to know.”

  Oscar was waiting for me when I returned that evening. “Have you bedded the Filipina yet?”

  “Don’t be crude,” I said. “You know my great love for our Spanish women.”

  “Then if you have no intentions of bedding the girl, why do you keep returning to that house?” He anticipated my answer. “I know”—he waved his cigar in the air—“you owe a debt. To a peasant, Fredrico. Pay them and be done with it.”

  “Her brother was badly beaten by the constable this evening.”

  “And did he play the innocent? Incredible, what do these people expect if they do not work hard, a pat on the back?”

  “From the calluses on his hands, he appears to be a good worker.”

  “Fredrico,” Oscar said with deep gravity, “leave them to the constable.”

  DIVINA’S EYES WERE red the next morning as she let me in. There was a certain stillness to the house. “Come in.” She opened the door with a sweeping gesture. I merely raised a brow at her.

  “Good morning, señorita.” I inclined my head and headed for the back room.

  “I am afraid that I will have to cancel our sitting this morning.”

  Another trick of hers. I turned on my heels and pursed my lips. “If you would only let me finish the portrait, we will both be out of each other’s skin.”

  She clenched her fists. “I must hurry to the jailhouse. Your constable has taken my youngest brother and my father to be questioned. Pepe is only seven years old.” Her voice cracked.

  “What?” I asked in astonishment. I knew the inquisitions could be brutal, even fatal. A peasant, especially a non-Spaniard, had about as much say as a chicken after the cook has decided it is to be the evening meal.

  “They came early this morning, so sure that my father had stolen from one of your friars. A man of God lying. My father is no thief. He would rather cut off his hand.”

  “When did they take him?”

  “This morning, were you not listening?” Her voice was a mixture of sarcasm and fear.

  I grabbed her shoulders and shook her. “This is not the time to be spiteful. I need to know.”

  “An hour ago,” she stuttered.

  “Come with me.” I grabbed her hand and called out to Manuel, “Take us to Fort Santiago.”

  WHEN WE ARRIVED it was as I feared. Both father and son were badly beaten in the area of their hands. The father was sweating profusely, and his hands shook. He was about to confess to stealing the friar’s coins simply to stop them from punishing the boy. I recognized Friar De Guzman immediately. He stood straight, his hands folded before him, with his brown robe moving in the breeze.

  I knew De Guzman liked to “borrow” from the donations he collected. I had seen him many times at cockfights and drinking in the corners of the taverns late at night. I also knew there was a big collection that had been accumulating from the parishioners. It was to go to the purchase of a second stained-glass window. It was not difficult to guess where the money had gone.

  The constable stood immediately when we strode in. “Señor Basa.” He nodded. He had a wide grin for me. My family came from a long line of generals and dignitaries on the Basa side and a great deal
of money from the Jacinto side. We had given quite a bit of money to the rebuilding of that particular garrison.

  “What is the meaning of this?” I demanded. “This man and the boy are my servants. What are the charges? Speak carefully or there will be hell to pay.”

  “Señor, the friar insists that his money was stolen from his pockets and that the man and his son were the only ones present.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “Yesterday afternoon, señor.” The friar stepped forward. His eyes surveyed my polished shoes, my silk trousers and matching vest.

  “Yesterday!” I shouted. “And you only thought to report this transgression this morning? These people were with me yesterday, Padre. Can you explain how your money came to be in their hands? Or will you accuse me, too?”

  Friar De Guzman became immediately flustered. He took out his wooden rosary beads and began to feel each sphere. I was not sure of their innocence until that moment when the friar could not find his tongue. His eyes opened wide, emphasizing the dark rings under his bulging eyes. He struggled over his next words. “Perhaps I am mistaken. It was growing dark, you see.”

  “Yes, I suspect it would be dark in the taverns. I have seen you praying there on several occasions. Possibly you lost your coins in your ale, Padre.” It was a statement, not a question. I noticed then that the toad stole glances at Divina, hungry ones that even I could feel. Divina rubbed her arms, moving away from his leering look, and edged closer to me. I stepped in front of his vision.

  His attention snapped back to me. “Possibly, Señor Basa. As I said, it was growing dark.” He looked away with effort and stared at the ground, but not before he touched Divina’s breasts with his eyes.

  I addressed the constable. “Captain, how do you expect my servants to do my work now that you have injured their hands?”

  “Señor Basa, this is a terrible mistake.” The constable’s mustache twitched. He pulled out his own purse. “Here, señor, please take this. I feel terrible. Will that cover the cost for their time until their hands heal?”

  I looked at the friar. “That and the promise that I will never come here on such a fool’s errand again.”

  “Done, Señor Basa. Again my apologies.” The constable bowed.

  Friar De Guzman bowed his head. “Our apologies, señor. There is no need to fear, Divina, your father and brother are safe, you see? I shall say a prayer to ask for the swift recovery of their hands.” The friar reached out quickly and brushed her hand, speaking in a whispery, sniveling voice.

  He made to reach for her again, but I moved his hand away. “Say a prayer for your own soul.”

  I ushered the boy and his father to our kalesa. I could feel the friar’s eyes boring into the back of my head as we left. Probably praying for a torturous death for me. Of course, I thought with amusement, his prayer had to stand in line behind the Jacinto-Basa curse.

  The noon sky had softened to a powder blue, and the ocean was silver. The colors melded until they were one with the horizon. Divina watched me quietly on the ride back. Her father had thanked me once with deep gravity and then collapsed in exhaustion to sleep. His head bounced with every jolt of the carriage. The boy, too, had fallen asleep under his father’s arm. “The padre does not like to be challenged. This will be bad for you, Señor Basa?” she asked.

  “Such concern from my best enemy?” I joked.

  “I never said you were my enemy.” She looked away to the emerald-colored leaves of the banana trees that bowed and lifted as we passed. “Your countrymen, they will trouble you after this?” There was such dignity and solemnity in her almond eyes. The sun filtered through the trees and danced shadows on her golden skin, her full lips.

  “So we are friends now?” I asked.

  “I never said friends.” She looked away, but I could see the traces of a smile begin at the corners of her lips.

  WHEN WE ARRIVED at her house, her brother Virgil rushed to open the door. Her mother came out and fell to her knees, hugging my ankles. Virgil moved past his mother in irritation, his eyes counting first his father, then their younger brother, and then Divina. I watched as relief flooded his face. I braced myself for another confrontation with him, but to my surprise, he seemed almost apologetic. “Gracias.…” He nodded to me. Thank you.

  “De nada.” I inclined my head. It is nothing.

  “This was Padre De Guzman’s doing? The joy it would give me to burn down his precious church.” His eyes were dark with revenge. I had seen that look too many times on my own brother to mistake it.

  “Do not let your anger misguide you, my friend.”

  “It is time you go home, amigo.” He looked straight at me and then beyond, to the cloudless sky and the birds circling in the distance.

  “I still have much work to do. I will decide when it is time to leave.”

  We locked eyes once again, then Virgil seemed to sigh and he walked out onto the road.

  “Virgil,” his mother called out. She clutched her skirts, the green veins of her hands bloated from the effort, watching as he walked down the road, worry etched in the deep grooves of her tanned brow.

  DIVINA SAT VERY still for me that afternoon, and every now and then I caught her watching my face. When we took a siesta, I kept my hands limber by sketching the image of the priest with his deceitful eyes. I mimicked the desperation and fear I had witnessed in her father’s face. The image haunted me, for I had never seen such a look. It was one born of hate and dwindling pride, of protectiveness toward the younger boy, and of pleading. I became so obsessed with the drawing that I did not notice when her mother stepped out into the garden. I had been so preoccupied, I was surprised to find the position of the sun was now in descent. The horizon was brilliant. It was as if someone had borrowed the soft pink of the flowers that lined the roadside and brushed it with romantic strokes across the pale blue.

  She arrived with fried bananas made just for me. I took them. “Gracias.” I nodded.

  “Salamat,” Divina said, watching me.

  “¿Qué?” I asked. What?

  “In our language you say ‘salamat’ to thank someone.”

  “Salamat,” I said to the mother, who smiled and covered her mouth. I heard as she hurried into the house to recount what I had said.

  Divina studied me, and I followed the soft lines of her shoulders, the straight, delicate posture of her back. “Have you changed the sketch, señor?” She gestured to her portrait, which I had set aside on the chair.

  “Just a few sketches,” I mumbled, placing a cover over the image I had drawn of her father and the friar. “I was working on an idea, a concept.”

  She did not let me finish my explanation. She reached out and pulled the cover away. I watched as her eyes narrowed in fascination. “You see the padre as I do,” she said in wonder.

  “I was distracted by this morning’s events.” I stood, tipping the chair backward, and pulled the cover down again. I began to pack my brushes.

  WHEN I STOOD to leave, I passed the father’s room and watched as the man stared helplessly at his hands. Beside him, the boy lay asleep on a mat, his hair matted in perspiration, grinding his teeth as he dreamed.

  I knocked softly against the wall. “Señor,” I said, my voice gruff.

  “Sí.” The father stood, bowing to me. I fumbled in my pockets and took out the purse the captain had given me. I had intended to donate it to another church with a more trustworthy priest, but instead I held it out to the father. “Take this.”

  “Salamat,” the father said. Then, realizing he had spoken Tagalog instead of Spanish. “Gracias.”

  I nodded, moving past him to leave. As I reached the door, a Filipino of my age entered. He regarded me with level eyes, and we nodded to each other. I noticed the flowers in his hand and glanced in time to see Divina coming down the hallway in a fresh cotton dress. I could feel my hands tingle and an angry heat take over my face. I swung the door open harshly and heard her call out to me.

 
; “Señor Fredrico …” Her delicate sandals skipped on the floor. She stopped, breathless, as I stood in the doorway.

  “You should have worn this dress for the portrait. Why did you not tell me you had such clothes?”

  “I wanted to thank you again. What you did was …” She searched my face for the right words, and I was caught in those eyes. I wanted to remain there in her sights. “What you did was honorable.”

  I inclined my head. “I must go.”

  “Of course,” she said, and took a step back.

  Her mother was standing in the hallway, and she heard our exchange. “Señora,” I called her over.

  “Yes, Señor Basa?”

  “Tell Manuel when he arrives that I wish to start on foot. I wish to stretch my legs. I have been sitting too long today. I will stick to the main road; have him come find me.”

  ON MY WALK I remembered the younger boy’s hands, both broken. I thought of the father and the expression of worry he wore, even after I had given him the money. I had never known that desperation.

  You are overwrought; these things occur, I told myself. It was as I was reasoning this that I came upon Divina’s older brother and his friends on the roadside. They carried sticks for burning. And I remembered his comment regarding the church.

  Virgil was speaking to one of the loudmouths who had pestered me with his taunts the first day I was at their home.

  The loudmouth laughed with amazement. “We have been blessed. Look, the bastard approaches. Come, let us show him how it feels to have his hands broken so he can no longer paint.” The man gestured the group forward. He walked with a fake confidence and with maliciousness in his eyes.

  I placed my belongings on the ground, never taking my eyes from the approaching band.

  Virgil spoke. “Roland, stop. He is under my protection.”

  “I do not need your protection,” I spat, counting the number of men and watching that no one walked behind me without my notice. There were eight of them. I would go down fighting, and I would not forget a face.