SOMETHING WAS WRONG.
Bok’s sister hadn’t eaten for weeks. Malnutrition showed in her already bony arms and legs, and no makeup could hide the dark circles under her eyes. She reminded him of a sickly rat, though he didn’t want to be mean. He felt sorry for her, actually. Her boyfriend, Artur, was missing. It was discovered he’d been doing drugs, but not excessively. But some of the gossip said that was his downfall. That maybe he had connected with dealers in Manila while he was fixing the car and was now a junkie on the streets. The rumors abounded, and Bok’s sister grew thinner.
But tonight, the wails of Artur’s mother were heard throughout the Barangay Mahinahon. And that could mean only one thing.
FRANCIS MADE A TERRIBLE CUP OF COFFEE.
The cousins teased him mercilessly when he volunteered to make another pot as they sat around the outdoor table eating.
“Stick to cooking rice,” Othaniel said. “But only if you have a rice cooker.”
They had arrived with clay pots of food for an impromptu late breakfast. Rice, eggs cooked sunny-side up, some dish that reminded Julia of corned-beef hash but with a different flavor, and fried plantain bananas were in the array of pots covering the out-door table. Small serving cups held sauces of different colors. Julia contributed a large yellow jackfruit—her morning gift on the veranda steps.
Julia suspected they had come out of worry after the shootings on the day of the funeral. Heightened security. Furrowed brows.The presence of men with guns, not just children from the Barangay Mahinahon.
A different pulse beat beneath the peace of the gentle days.
But it wasn’t only fear that brought them together. Mara said the wake and funeral brought them all from their separate lives toward the closeness they’d known as children.
Now Francis and Othaniel nudged each other with their elbows and smiled widely in her direction.
“What?” Julia asked, suspecting she was the newest target of their teasing.
They solemnly tried to eat their meal as she did, instead of holding a fork in the right hand and spoon in the left.
“Hey, look at the mess you’re making on Aling Rosa’s tablecloth,” Julia said.
Francis gave up and picked up his spoon, laughing loudly.
“I can do it,” Othaniel said, scooping up some rice, but it fell onto his lap before it reached his mouth. “This is harder than chopsticks. Why do some people make eating so hard?”
Julia demonstrated her skill. “My father always scolded me about eating with elbows on the table. I had to have my left hand on my lap.”
“Child abuse, I say,” Mara’s teenaged sister, Alice, chimed in, happy to be among the older cousins.
“You know, Alice,” Julia said, “I keep hearing about a zoo around here. Maybe you could take me one day soon?”
“Zoo?” asked Mara. She looked sweet and casual in her jeans and blue embroidered blouse, her hair in a silky braid.
“Or wherever it is that the apes live.”
“Apes? There aren’t apes in the Philippines. And the only zoo I know of is in Manila,” said Othaniel.
“Maybe it’s a preserve or farm. I always hear about it. Maybe not apes. Monkeys, perhaps?”
“There are monkeys in the jungle. Is that what you mean?” Mara said.
“Someone told me about an annual fiesta in the village that’s in part a celebration for the monkeys or apes. Like maybe the year of the monkey or something. That you even had a village built for it. I think Lola Sita was telling me, but I couldn’t really understand her English, and Lola Gloria wasn’t there to translate. A monkey village. Or was it a gorilla village?”
“Gorilla village,” said Francis with a strange expression; then he smiled and burst into uproarious laughter.
Mara stared at Julia, then, as if an electric current moved from Francis to her, her eyes widened and she laughed so loudly Julia couldn’t believe this was her genteel cousin.
“Gorilla village,” Mara sputtered.
Julia, with an awkward smile, looked from one cousin to another. It must be a cultural thing.
The others couldn’t stop laughing or saying, “Gorilla village.”
Finally Francis put his arm around her and caught his breath. “Julia, it’s guerilla village, for the World War II guerilla fighters. It was a village of soldiers that began after the war and continues even now.”
With that Julia herself was infected by their mirth and laughed with her cousins until the children of the Barangay peered at them from the jungle in wonder.
“So wait,” Julia said, finally putting it together. “Barangay Mahinahon and the gorilla, I mean, guerrilla village are the same thing?”
“Yes, exactly,” and they all fell into laughter again.
Soon Raul came from his usual morning rounds and joined their meal, but even with Mara there it was clear that something was bothering him. He did chuckle heartily as the cousins told Julia’s story of gorillas and guerrillas.
“What is it?” Mara asked him as their renewed laughter died down.
“There was a death at the Barangay Mahinahon,” Raul solemnly announced.
“What?” “A death?” “How?” voices chimed.
Mara put her hand on Raul’s arm. “Who is it?”
“One of the drivers, Artur Tenio. He would have turned twenty next week.”
Raul glanced at Julia in a way that made her wonder about something from when she first arrived.
“Was he the driver when the car broke down?”
She knew he almost said no, but then he nodded.
“And how did he die?” Francis asked slowly.
“That is being investigated.”
“Has the wake begun?” Mara asked.
Julia felt a weariness wash over her at the thought of another wake and funeral; then she immediately felt guilty. He was just a kid and deserved more than that.
“There will be no wake. And no funeral.”
“What? Why not?” Francis asked.
“There is no body.”
No one asked the questions on all of their minds. The possibilities were too sobering to consider.
Julia thought of Artur’s family and said, “We should go and pay our respects.”
MANALO GROANED AT THE NEWS. SO THEY KNEW NOW ABOUT THE kid. It was right for them to know, even without a body. But the men of the Barangay Mahinahon believed the Red Bolos should be held responsible, as well they should—even if the idiotic mercenaries were the actual killers.
He wished Timeteo would return soon. Comrade Pilo was the last person he wanted to see.
They needed either to retreat or prepare for war.
THE NEWLY CONDITIONED 1937 PACKARD VICTORIA CONVERTIBLE, or “Grampa” as everyone fondly called it, growled like the old masculine car it was as Mang Berto drove it with a grouchy frown. Billows of dust plumed over the silver paint and into the clean interior as they followed with the top down behind two tricycles down the long and dusty road to the guerilla village.
Julia thought it funny how they changed cars day by day, depending on which one was running at that particular moment. Besides Grampa, there’d been Night Rider—the gorgeous black Citroen Traction Avant that they’d joked looked liked a hearse for the rich and famous, the 1938 Bugatti Type 57SC, dubbed “the Bond car,” as in James Bond, as well as other cars that Mang Berto proudly brought to the house for each occasion.
It was quite a feat for Mang Berto to keep the cars in running condition, considering that he swapped and made do with unoriginal or secondhand parts to fix them. The irony was that the cars were rarely used on the actual roads of Batangas. Their enormous value and Mang Berto’s love kept them ever caged within the hacienda grounds.
As they drove, Francis leaned toward her ear from his spot in the backseat to tell Julia that her presence worked well for him. He’d had a love affair with the antique cars since he was a kid but was never able to touch them, much less drive them, because of Mang Berto’s obsessive care.
“If you go anywhere tomorrow, will you let me know?” Francis said, and they both laughed at Mang Berto’s frown from the driver’s seat.
From time to time Julia worriedly searched the road ahead to check on her “bodyguards” on one of the tricycles, only to see their brown faces smiling back at her. Emman clung to the outside of the motorcycle’s open-air sidecar, pointing excitedly for Julia to see one scenic spot after another. She shook her head, thinking how many U.S. regulations they were violating by their joy ride.
Despite her concern, it was a most amusing sight to see these precocious children riding a tricycle, packed like sardines and going over the rough terrain that bounced them into the air at times. But oh, how they loved it, from the looks on their faces.
“Don’t worry about the kids,” Francis said, leaning forward again. “Raul will drive them well.”
“Raul is driving the tricycle?” she exclaimed, then laughed as she realized it was indeed Raul surrounded with children and guiding the motorcycle down the rough road. In the confusion of their departure, she had assumed he was bringing a different car or coming later.
The cousins chatted the whole time, never failing to come up with corny jokes and childhood stories and pranks that kept them all laughing—except for Mang Berto, who kept his hands clench- ing the steering wheel and his steady gaze on the road. Squeezed tightly beside him in the front seat sat Mara and Julia; in the back-seat were the other cousins, Miguel in the middle with Francis and Othaniel on either side.
As they neared the village, Emman as lookout pointed toward the various wreckage that greeted them on the side of the road: an old and rusted Japanese tank with overgrown vines hugging its carcass; ancient military trucks; rusted guns and artillery. All stood silent, never to fire a shot again. There were even two remnants of warplanes, Japanese by the faded orange circle on the tail, probably shot down during the war. They were like war trophies, kills proudly displayed in a gruesome but riveting death pose.
Othaniel had warned Julia about the spectacle of war trophies. During the early years, he said, decapitated Japanese heads and dead bodies used to adorn the road until Captain Morrison with the mayor slowly convinced the villagers to take them down and bury them.
“It took a long debate for the guerillas to bury their enemies,” Mara explained. “Bitterness ran deep. The Japanese killed many of the men’s wives and children and comrades. It was their only revenge, and the burial the smallest step toward healing what cannot be fully healed. Your grandfather spoke to them about God’s commands to forgive, which he compared to an order from a ranking officer. It was a foreign concept to them, as it really is for all of us when we are in pain. Revenge, not forgiveness, is our natural response.”
Mara brushed back some loose strands of hair that blew into her face. “My uncle told me that when the American soldiers came to the Philippines, it shocked many Filipino soldiers to see them in church, praying, lighting candles, and going to confession. Most Filipino men considered religious service something for women and children. Then they saw these war-toughened soldiers whom they admired, like your grandfather, kneeling in prayer at church. It had an effect on them.”
Miguel pointed forward where Emman also pointed. “Look, Julia. We are here.”
They passed through a metal arch surrounded by high canopies of lush green trees supported by gnarled brown branches. The arch read Barangay Mahinahon. “Grampa” passed beneath the archway and between the rows of small houses at the side of the narrow road.
Their arrival attracted immediate attention, drawing men from sitting at tables to a standing position. Their stares were curious but intense, and Julia noticed the guns on their shoulders or in holsters hanging on loose belts at their waists.
The road opened up to a larger area, a plateau on top of the mountain, where more houses were erected in a circular fashion. They drove deeper inside the town until they reached a circular area where a monument was constructed—a gazebo adorned with wooden sculptures in the middle, statues of men with fearsome dispositions wielding rifles and raising their arms in defiance. Mang Berto circled the rotunda twice as Mara and Miguel told Julia that the three leading statues were the sculptures of her grandmother’s brother Miguel Guevarra, the primary leader of the guerilla group;Diego, and Julia’s own grandfather, Captain Morrison, the guerilla’s American attaché.
The group then turned right to a mid sized convenience store, a larger sari-sari, where more men were gathered, sitting on wooden benches. On the left side was a large open-air billiard hall, while at its opposite side was a carinderia, or diner. Mang Berto parked the car at the side and proceeded to honk the car’s horn until some men from the billiard hall came over to greet them.
“Berto kamusta! ” the curious men greeted Mang Berto and Raul.Raul rose stiffly from the tricycle as the children piled out. The vil- lage men came ambling toward the car in their thin white sandals and shirts, many of them even shirtless in the humid air. Conversing in their strongtoned dialect, it sounded like they were shouting at each other, but Julia knew this was normal conversation to them.
“Nandyan ba si Amang Tenio?! Eto kasama ko si Julia, galing Amerika. Apo ni Kapitan Kano.”
Mara, who had become Julia’s official translator for the day, explained that Mang Berto was telling the men that the grand-daughter of Captain Morrison wished to pay a courtesy call upon Amang Tenio.
Hearing this, the village men were even more intrigued and came closer to Julia and Mara sitting in the convertible. They leaned close with smiles that grew larger as Emman and the rest of Julia’s young bodyguards surrounded the car and postured protectively, motioning the men back from such a famous lady.
“Gwapa Kana,” Julia heard again and again.
“That means ‘gorgeous American,’” Mara said under her breath, as they got out of the car.
The cousins were greeted by name and with hearty pats on the back.
“None of us has been up here in years. They’re pretty excited to have us, the guys especially. And to have you arrive—well, this will be talked about for years.”
The commotion grew as some women appeared, mothers with children pushing in between, curious to see what the fuss was all about. Julia was surprised at the disproportionate amount of men among the few women and children.
“Hello. How are you?” a man bravely greeted Julia, drawing the laughter of the people surrounding him, amused at his attempt to speak in English.
“I saw you at the funeral,” another said.
“Are you liking our village so far?”
“Yes,” she said, though they’d barely arrived.
The brave among the village men routinely pushed themselves in front to speak to Julia and Mara.
“I am Pedro,” or Carlo or Ramon, they introduced themselves, doing their best to speak in Tag-lish—a Tagalog-English hybrid language. Julia surprised them with her own few Filipino words like magandang hapon po—“good afternoon”—or maganda—“beautiful.” These words never failed to give joy and laughter to those who heard them, like parents hearing their child’s first spoken words.
While waiting for Amang Tenio, Francis decided to recount Julia’s “gorilla village” misunderstanding to the villagers. They all listened attentively at first, with expectant smiles, wanting to hear about the young American’s impressions of their home. But as it dawned on them that they were in fact being called gorillas, the smiles slowly crumbled into frowns, leaving a sea of uncomfortable silence and disturbed glances.
Even Emman and the child bodyguards appeared offended by the story. Midsentence, Francis stopped his cheerful retelling as Othaniel, shaking his head, nudged him sharply with an elbow. Francis turned left to right with a frozen smile. Julia could feel her face turning red, but there was no place to escape.
Then, amidst the silence, a lone, uncontrolled laugh exploded. Everyone looked around as the enigmatic old man with a red fighting cock in his arms pushed his way forward. And with tha
t, the others roared in laughter as well.
“Good morning, Iha,” said Amang Tenio, as he took her hand and bowed slightly. “Forgive my people—we are not that humorless that such things can offend us. It seems it has become a tradition to tease our visitors. And truth be told, it was funny to watch you blush so red. But then, I don’t think your lolo would appreciate our making fun of his dear one.”
“They were only teasing?” Julia asked with a confused grin, afraid he was just saying so to make her more comfortable. But when she saw the mischievous looks, especially on Emman’s face, her mouth dropped.
Julia looked into the face of Amang Tenio. Years beneath the sun had weathered lines around his eyes. A cigar handrolled in black paper was tucked into the corner of his mouth.
Amang Tenio studied her intently as well, as if trying to both learn her history and predict her future as only a shaman could. “Come, come, have you eaten? Are you hungry?” he asked them. “Let’s go to my house, and I will serve you merienda.”
“Apo, we just ate,” said Mara. “We came to pay respects to the parents who lost their young son.”
“Ah, yes,” Amang Tenio said. “I am sorry to say that they are not here. They have gone to the relatives of Artur’s mother for a few weeks. It has been a terrible thing.”
Julia wondered, as she had when first hearing of the boy’s death, how they were certain he was deceased. Raul had simply said that it was known, but had not explained. That Amang Tenio had said it and that a body would not be coming—this was the end of the discussion for the family. But for the men of the Barangay Mahinahon, the killing of their own would always be a call for vengeance. The exterior of Amang Tenio and the men at the village was humorous and inviting. But Julia knew by now that these men were warriors above all else.
Now Amang Tenio’s eyes lit up. In a dignified and affectionate voice, he said, “Mga anak, children. I will be very happy to take you around the village. Follow me.”
EIGHTEEN
W alking through the streets with Amang Tenio leading the way, Julia found a village unlike anything she’d ever seen. Its roads were lined by hulking acacia trees with huge dark trunks spreading their branches into an arching canopy of green that shielded the group from the harsh sunlight. Amang Tenio pointed upward where electric lights, a multitude of small ten-inch globes, were woven through the branches. He explained that the globes were made with white translucent capiz shells.
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