Orchid House

by Cindy Martinusen-Coloma

  “They speak little English,” Markus said; then he translated her words.

  The children nodded their heads and a few chattered quickly in Tagalog.

  Markus laughed. “They’ve seen a cow on Sesame Street and other television shows from the States. One saw a cow sing a song once in a movie.”

  Raul rubbed the top of one child’s head. “The hacienda is strict about learning English, another requirement of Captain Morrison.It is good for the children of the provinces to know and practice their English as the children do in Manila. I would guess that these little ruffians are missing assignments today to play in the mud.”

  A boy with narrow almond eyes tugged at Markus’s arm and spoke as if he had a secret.

  “Mino-Mino?” Markus said to the boy, who launched into some grand explanation.

  “He wants me to tell you that Mino-Mino is an outlaw cow. He did some bad things while vacationing near Taal, the volcano.”

  The boy grinned widely at Markus.

  “Taal is the smallest volcano in the world, and according to Joc, Mino-Mino wanted to see what the smallest volcano looked like. So he went on a tour bus specially made for other carabao. But while there, he drank a bit of the funny water and acted very inappropriately. So now, the children are trying to cover him in mud because they are certain the authorities will arrive very soon.”

  Julia tried to act worried. “Well, I hope they hide him well, so the police don’t put him in jail.”

  When Markus translated, the children jumped up and down, laughing hysterically at her response.

  Markus gave her a smile that took her breath away, as Angelita reached a hand to touch Julia’s wheat-colored hair.

  “Let us go on now,” Raul said. “I need to check on something and will meet you at the car.” He marched up the hill.

  Julia said good-bye to the children, who scampered back to the fishpond.

  “Miss Julia,” they called over and over as they jumped and dove into the muddy water. The storytelling boy swam out to Mino-Mino and climbed on his back. He called for her to watch and stood up, making the motions of a surfer. “California! Beach Boys!” he cried, making them laugh as he surfed until he lost his balance and with flailing arms fell into the water.

  A hot breeze stirred the dust, but mercifully pushed some dark clouds over the sun. Tropical birds chirped and cawed from the jungle.

  Markus motioned to a grove of trees ahead where Julia spotted the girl and one of the boys she’d seen earlier at the hacienda. The children of the Barangay.

  “How did they get here? Do they play together?” she asked as the children disappeared into the greenery.

  “No, except on rare occasions. The children are very separate, very different. Their minds are molded to see life in completely different ways.”

  She and Markus walked on, and suddenly a few raindrops fell. Then, almost at once, it was a shower falling in long sudden streams.

  “Hurry, under here,” Markus said, grabbing her hand and racing beneath a thick grove of mango trees.

  Raul was down the road on the front porch of a hut, speaking to an old man.

  “I’ve never seen such rain,” Julia said, standing close to Markus beneath the branches. It came down so immediate and hard, settling the dust and cooling the air with a crisp fragrance. A few large drops traversed the wide green leaves and dripped on their heads. Unseen birds still cawed and sang.

  In ten minutes the downpour passed, and they hurried toward the car.

  Raul approached to say that he needed to deal with some things there. “Markus can escort you to the house,” he said.

  Wherever they went on the hacienda, Julia saw how the people followed Raul, not in fear or loathe servitude, but with respect. Yet much of the hacienda was in disrepair and seemed to lack organization at the lower levels. Something was missing. Perhaps they needed more manpower or tighter unity. How could she, an outsider and a foreigner, know what was needed? The burden was most certainly too great for her to bear.

  WHAT WOULD MCCLAIN DO IN A TIME LIKE THIS? MANALO THOUGHT and chuckled at himself. He was being infected by his men’s love for the Bruce Willis character in Die Hard.

  The men couldn’t identify with a policeman in the United States; they certainly wouldn’t want to. But they could understand breaking rules, doing what a man had to do—fighting one’s enemies without following protocol, continuing to fight even with a knife stuck in one’s shoulder.

  Manalo was walking in the night again. He thought of the sambar he’d seen in the meadow, and of his wife and children. If only Malaya could hear him calling to her, telling her that he’d make everything all right.

  Hacienda Esperanza was only kilometers from their camp in the jungle. They could come in the night. There had been forcible takeovers of properties in the past, many times. Much of his country was pushed and invaded not only by foreign soldiers but by their own as well. The government wasn’t strong. They’d most likely cower at a hostile takeover and leave even such a vast and important piece of property to fend for itself. For if the government sent out the army, those in power knew it might mobilize the other political factions, and the entire country might fall into civil war. It could happen. In other countries in such fragile shape, it had happened.

  Manalo walked down the road that eventually led to the hacienda gates. Just today he’d heard that foreign and domestic investors were trespassing on the property of Hacienda Esperanza. The foreman’s men had run them off.

  There was no doubt, they must act soon. But what action to take? This Manalo must carefully consider.

  He thought of some lines from the new Die Hard movie, which his men liked to quote.

  What are you going to do?

  Whatever I can.

  It wasn’t the best tactical advice when leading men, but Manalo was playing this one by instinct. His superiors could no longer be relied upon. They’d messed with his family now. He couldn’t trust anyone outside his own small group.

  When the sun came up, his men were surprised to see Manalo cooking them breakfast.

  “What’s going on?” Timeteo asked.

  “That’s not the line I’m looking for. Think of McClain,” he said with a grin as he cracked another egg into the pan.

  “Okay. Manalo, what are we going to do?”

  “Whatever we can.”

  ELEVEN

  Is there some reason, some superstition behind it?” Julia tugged at the heavy handle on the double wooden doors.

  “Oh, yes, it can be very dangerous to use the front hacienda doors.” Markus gave Mang Berto a conspiratorial glance.

  “There is a story . . . The story is, that um, this um . . . oh, I can’t do it.” Mang Berto laughed. “The story is that no one uses them, and now they’re hard to open. That’s it.”

  Markus gave an exasperated sigh.

  “Sorry, Markus. I am not good at tricking beautiful ladies. See, Miss Julia, when Captain Morrison left, we used the kitchen and back courtyard and not the rest of house. Our staff houses and the garage are past the back courtyards, so we enter from there. The humidity and salt air makes hinges rust.”

  Julia inspected the corners. “Mang Berto, do you have some WD-40?”

  “What, miss?”

  “Something to clean off the corrosion.”

  “Oh, yes, of course, miss. I am master at killing that rust.”

  “Is that all right, Markus, for us to get these doors in use once again?”

  “You’re the doña of the hacienda; you can do whatever you wish,” Markus said with a slight bow.

  “I’m only the doña for a short time, but it’s a shame to let such magnificent doors and such a grand entryway go to waste.”

  Markus watched with an odd expression about his features, then waved them to follow him down the path around the house. “I hope Lola Sita made plenty of tea. I could drink a pitcher myself.”

  The back courtyards and lawns were filled with activity. Women with aprons
covering their dresses or jeans and T-shirts used enormous wooden spoons to stir large copper caldrons that hung over fire pits. Steam billowed from the pots, and the air was sweet and smoky. Children played on the lawn and through the gardens. Makeshift tables covered in tablecloths held bags of sugar, glass jars, strainers, and lids. Beside the table were crates of mangoes, and several women sat there peeling the fruit.

  One woman in a cornflower blue dress held a child on her hip and stirred a pot. She lifted her spoon and waved at Julia like they were old friends.

  “It is for jam, mango jam,” Markus said. “This region isn’t actually known for it, but someone, perhaps one of your relatives, started the tradition. The women work together; then each takes her portion. If some is left over, they sell it in the sari-sari stores in town.”

  Julia walked among the women, greeting them, asking their names again and hearing their jobs in the mango jam assembly line while Mang Berto and Markus went for their drinks.

  A woman took one mango at a time and dipped it into boiling water. Within seconds she pulled it back out and put it in cold water, from where the seated women easily picked them up and cut the skin away, then sliced the fruit in half to cut out the seed. The bare fruit was strained, rinsed, and mashed.

  Another pot was stirred relentlessly; this was the jam cooking. The third boiling pot held glass jars that were carefully removed with a large clamplike utensil. Then the cooling jars were set out until their lids sealed.

  It was an impressive process. Julia marveled at the Tres Lolas;they were timeless women moving among the others, instructing them in the tasks, all of it a well-orchestrated dance. The movements of the women, even with toddlers clinging to the skirts of some, covered the courtyard like the waves of heat distorting the air. Many of the women had leaves and flowers woven into their hair, and they hummed or broke into song as they worked.

  A little boy ran up to Julia and rubbed his finger on her skin.

  “Hello there,” she said, bending down to speak to him. He twirled her hair in one finger; then he took one strand and, with a quick tug, pulled it out.

  “Ouch!” she said, as he laughed and skipped off with her light-colored hair held up like a trophy.

  “You’ve sacrificed to a good cause.” Markus handed Julia a tall glass of iced tea. “That boy will probably put your hair in his treasure box. These children have never seen light-colored hair except on television.”

  Lola Gloria walked toward them, wiping her hands on her apron. “Your tour of the hacienda was nice?”

  “Yes. And what an operation you have here as well.”

  Lola Gloria gazed around at the women with a proud look on her face. “You should go inside now and rest, Miss Julia.”

  “Oh, can’t I help you instead?” Julia said. “What can I do?”

  “Have you made jam before?”

  Julia laughed. “Uh, that would be a no.”

  “Then we will give you a simple job. Let me get you an apron. Markus, would you like to help as well? Or are you off to something more important in the city?”

  Markus checked his watch. “With traffic, I’d miss my dinner engagement anyway.”

  “Oh, do you have a date?”

  “Well, yes, I have a date, but I will have to cancel. One of those dinners with black ties and delegates to charm.”

  Lola Gloria glanced at Julia.

  Markus kissed the old woman on the top of the head. “Don’t worry, I won’t marry without your permission. And by the way, my date’s name is George. He’s a colleague of mine.” Markus rubbed his hands together. “So, Julia, let’s make jam. Just don’t let Raul see me doing woman’s work.”

  With that, they were swept into the dance. Lola Gloria placed them side by side and set them to work peeling mangoes. Markus was nearly as lame at the job as she was.

  “What kind of Filipino can’t cut a mango?” Julia teased.

  “I have my people do that for me,” he said with a dignified air. He rubbed his drenched fingers across her cheek, and she jerked back, startled.

  “What?” he said. “You had a little something on your face there.”

  “You are an evil attorney. I knew it from the moment I saw you,” she said, wiping off her face with her apron. She nodded toward one of the women, who was scolding them with a pointed finger. “Get back to work, Mr. Santos. You’re going to get us into trouble.” Julia reached for another mango.

  “Explain something to me,” she said. “First of all, I know my grandfather willed the hacienda to me since my mother didn’t want it. But legally, he can’t grant it to me because Filipino law doesn’t allow a foreigner to own land. So what am I doing here, other than burying my grandfather?”

  “Well, you’re learning to make some great mango jam.”

  “Yes, there is that.”

  “The hacienda is rightfully yours in many ways, and yet you are right. The laws could keep you locked up in court for years trying to get it resolved, and during that time, you might lose the land to the province or the federal government—which is not what we’re hoping to see happen. Or you could give up the land—like to the hacienda people themselves. Many are hoping for that. But such a land needs a head and a heart. The hacienda would quickly become divided and cut into smaller parcels.

  “You could also sell it. Investors call my office daily with offers. But I must say that the legacy of this place, how it was birthed and grew all of these years . . . the times of glory and near destruction, and your grandfather’s love for it—I can hardly bear the idea of it no longer being Hacienda Esperanza. But I will do whatever you decide.”

  Julia nodded her head in thought. The future truly did rest in her hands. And again she wondered, who am I to make such a decision?

  “Other questions?” Markus asked.

  “What about the political climate? I know it’s tumultuous, but how fragile is the government?”

  “Well, you can’t compare it to your country. We have been a democracy since before and after the Japanese invaded during WWII. However, our President Marcos was much more like a dictator than a president. He declared martial law and pretty much did what he wished, killed who he wanted, used the country’s money as he liked. The nation is still reeling from his time in power.”

  Markus picked up another cooling mango from the cold water and began peeling back the skin. “And now we have our president Corazon Aquino—the first female president in Asia, which is impressive. She’s the widow of a popular senator, Ninoy Aquino, who was forced into exile during Marcos’s reign. On the day of his return, he was assassinated as he got off the airplane. So you see, the country is divided. A minority still support Marcos’s ways and think his wife was the true villain—the famous shoe collection was not Imelda’s only extravagance. There is also a very strong Communist Party that wants the nation to follow in the steps of China or Russia or Vietnam, depending upon which group you talk to. There are so many different factions within each one, so these are wide generalizations.”

  “We have many different beliefs within our two major parties in the States.”

  “Yes, but those different parties and factions within each party aren’t trying to overthrow the government and take control.” Markus motioned to the scolding woman, who again was glancing at them in disapproval. “I think our talking is dropping production.”

  “Okay, back to work then,” Julia said. “I just want to know if it’s safe here.”

  “Pretty much, yes,” Markus said. “And hey, you’ve got me, Raul, and the whole hacienda to take care of you.”

  “Oh no, I’m not worried for me.” She gazed around at the women and children. “I just wondered what the future might hold for everyone here.”

  “If only I could predict the future . . . I hope real change is coming to our country. That’s what keeps me working late most nights. But who can say what will happen?”

  HOURS LATER, THE SUN FELL LOW, MAKING BLACK SILHOUETTES of the palm trees against the sky.
Her back hurt and fingers ached, yet Julia paused with a crate filled with the jars of warm mango jam in her arms to gaze around the stone courtyard. The cooking dance had slowed from a jig to a waltz. Red coals smoldered in the fire pits; the cleanup was nearly complete. Markus pointed to a basket with a young child asleep inside. An older woman patted Julia on the back, then winked and moved down the path.

  Julia followed a line of three other women carrying crates of jam through the archway of the back courtyards and through the gardens. The path left the gardens and narrowed through the jungle where fuel canisters lit the way. Julia kept a careful eye on her guide, a middleaged woman in baggy denim pants and a bright green blouse.

  Suddenly they came out of the jungle into a neat little row of buildings surrounding a small square. The houses had stucco fences with decorative iron gates protecting their secluded court-yards. Chickens scratched the ground. Laundry hung on lines outside doorways. Neat pathways of stone led to the houses, which were hung with small palms and large leafy plants in pots. Bougainvillea dangled orange flowers over the stucco walls.

  Julia set her crate down in the stack beside a doorway.

  “Thank you, Miss Julia. I walk you back, or come in house for some dinner?”

  Julia couldn’t remember the woman’s name; she had met too many people in the last few days. “Thank you, but Aling Rosa has my dinner ready. I can find my way back.”

  Julia was curious about this tiny neighborhood of maybe twelve homes. The main access to the houses came from the other end where scooters, bikes, and motorized tricycles with sidecars were parked in a haphazard fashion. Round lights hung from trees and archways.

  On the path back to the hacienda house, Julia saw five of the Barangay boys come out of the jungle with their wooden guns. When they spotted her, they acted nonchalant, as if their presence had nothing to do with her.

  Partway down the path near the courtyard, she noticed the boys walking behind her. She paused just around the bend to the back of the hacienda house, her hands on her hips and a smile on her face. When they appeared, she demanded, “Are you following me?”