“Understand, I’m subject to public accountability,” he said. “However, my eldest son is not—and he has just finished college . . .”
Smiles all around.
“We didn’t mean to put you on the spot,” the lawyer said most humbly. “We can only plead the benefits that will redound to the town. Modernization. Progress. Contact with the world. Employment.”
“True,” the governor replied, his pink lips stretching into a smile. “Half the town can go on with the Festival for the tourists. Think of that. An endless fiesta. The other half—well, we can train them to work in the hotels.”
“A true cash economy for the island,” said Adrian’s father.
The governor laughed and a sigh of relief went around the table. Separate conversations started up again. Adrian felt his father’s elbow in his ribs.
“You put me to shame, Excellency,” his father was saying. “You are committing a son to the project. I shall follow your example and have Adrian on the board. Perhaps your son and my son—they are the same age, aren’t they?—will learn together, become friends. Who knows? They have years, decades before them.”
“Oh, indeed! The line shall go on—to our children’s children. Shall we have champagne now, or are there other problems?”
“A minor matter, Excellency,” the lawyer said. “We have spoken to almost all government officials and their enthusiasm has been remarkable. However, we do have to get the Commander’s approval—without which, as you know, nothing else matters, enthusiasm or no enthusiasm. We have to get an appointment through his aide. A certain Colonel Alejandro Batoyan.”
Adrian had to swallow his lechon quickly. He glanced in Eliza’s direction but she was gone, an empty chair marking where she had been. Anna shook her head slightly, answering his unspoken question. He scanned the room, rose, and went to the windows to peer at the commotion in the front yard. She was not there. When he raised his eyes to the sea, he saw two soldiers in combat uniform strolling on the beach, their M-i6s slung harmlessly over their shoulders.
3
The devil of mischief rose in Eliza as soon as she had caught the drift of the conversation at the governor’s table. She had slipped away, bowing apologetically to the women about her, her expression pained and embarrassed as she muttered about “the curse.” They had been quick to sympathize and had discreetly pointed toward the stairway. Away from their eyes, Eliza had inhaled deeply, thrown back her shoulders, and dashed down the marble stairs: la-di-da. She had divined that at some point Colonel Batoyan would be mentioned. She had to admire Adrian’s old man. Shrewd and tough; not above manipulating his own family. He must have known that both Eliza and Anna would be with Adrian and had maneuvered his own son into bringing them here. Then, of course, when the matter of an appointment came up, Eliza would have been in a ticklish situation. The faces there would have turned to her and out of courtesy she would have had to offer to make the arrangements. It would have been impossible, of course, in that social gathering to demand payment and since Batoyan was simply inept—oh, quite inept—when it came to dealing with the rich, they would have gotten off cheaply. The nerve. Now they’d have to chase her up and down the archipelago. Or perhaps, she could disappear for two weeks in Tokyo, another two in Taiwan, a week in Hong Kong, and so on and so forth. She could decide to visit each and every island of the seven thousand one hundred while executives suffered fits and heart attacks and tore their hair off their heads—for Batoyan, forewarned, would deflect every inquiry, would evade every question, and drop her name each time. When she was good and ready, she would hit them—really hit them, the whole asinine bunch with their courtly bows and their fluttering females and their noses perpetually pointed at the horizon.
She found her way back to the plaza, which was filling up again. She was about to cross the street when a voice—low, breathy— stopped her.What we have here, it said. A creature of fantasy smiled at her, one hand holding aloft a pink parasol, the other the hem of a long pink gown.
“Shall we take apaseo?” the transvestite asked. “You be the male. You’re dressed for it; I’m not. We will saunter through the plaza. I want to be seen in the company of the Festival’s most beautiful woman.”
Eliza demurred as she allowed the transvestite to take her arm. “I’m not really,” she said. “You’re prettier.” He inclined the parasol to shield both of them and pivoted on the stiletto heels of his pink shoes. She thought he was taking an awful chance; only the Commander’s wife went around in matching parasol, gown, shoes, and handbag.
“Let’s not quarrel,” he said. “We don’t belong to the same league.”
Eliza laughed. “I’m hopelessly outclassed.”
Cheers broke out when they crossed the street. The crowd, now pouring out of houses and side streets, seemed drunker than ever. Eliza hesitated but the transvestite pressed her arm and she had no choice except to wear a face of stone and brave the catcalls.
“There, there,” the transvestite crooned. “Don’t let the bullies scare you.”
Indeed, a group of men came running but stopped five feet away, rocking on the balls of their feet, as though held by an invisible force. Enraged, they taunted the transvestite and clapped their hands to their crotches, their groins thrust forward. Their shouts hinted at rape and violence and pleasure—at which the transvestite rolled his eyes in mock delight, forcing the onlookers to laugh and applaud.
“They are envious,” he said. “Of all that’s available, you find me the most charming. An insult to the men.”
“No. They’re angry you findme acceptable—even though I do not have their equipment.”
“Dear, dear. Let’s make a vow never to separate.”
Eliza laughed. “Someone irresistible may yet come.”
The transvestite halted and placed a hand over his heart. “To you or to me? I hope we won’t have to compete.” He pinched her forearm delicately.
“I am really outclassed,” Eliza said, laughing. From the corner of her eyes, she saw the men had not dared follow. Now, the two of them, still arm in arm, stepped over the cement hedge and faced the center lawn. The light, so amber and happy that morning, had splintered into a million razors lying among the grass blades. Eliza shrank back at the thought that the grass would flay her feet. Where was her car, her chariot, her horse? The transvestite drew her forward relentlessly.
They passed through a cloud of talcum powder squirted from plastic bottles two men held against their loins. The powder settled on their hair and clothes. Eliza found it amusing to think she had grown old in an instant.
“And what are you, my dear, outside the Festival?” the transvestite asked.
“I’m—oh, I don’t know. You’d probably call me a coffee shop habitué.”
“A sanitation inspector or something?”
“Something.”
“Ah. Caught in a time warp like me.” The transvestite twirled his parasol. “I was a professor once, I think—or don’t like to think, God help me. Until the dayI entered the dormitory’s shower room and found this naked young man admiring himself in the mirror. Vanity killed the professor, darling. Since then I’ve not moved away from the shower room’s twilight where I’m constantly being filled by the sweet length of that brilliant young man. I’m not really here.” He laughed modestly.
“And he is with you now?”
“Oh, no. He was a shrewd young man. He made use of me the whole semester; it was his last in school. Then a week before graduation, he reported me to the rector. It was a Jesuit school, child, and so that kind of thing, though common, once it was made official, was difficult to tolerate. I was fired.” He laughed. “But you have loved one of your sex?”
Her heart contracted. “Yes and no.”
“Don’t explain,” the transvestite said quickly. “I know all the permutations of love, my darling. I love you now.”
“Thank you,” she said, humbled. “But I am able to love only one person. Always and constantly, from the day we
discovered we were to share a room at the college dormitory. We went to the state university together.”
She saw Anna at sixteen again, already deadly serious, studying the list tacked up on the lobby bulletin board, her battered suitcase in one hand, a worn leather purse slung over a shoulder. She looked so woebegone, Eliza had thought, with her loose black dress and her straight, brown-black hair falling nearly to the back of her knees. She had sized up Eliza quickly, the long, almost reddish lashes of her pale brown eyes shadowing her cheeks momentarily.
“Anna Villaverde,” she had said, offering a formal handshake. “Majoring in history.”
Taken aback, Eliza had shaken the small hand, noting how strong the fingers’ grip was. In her circle, women kissed upon introduction— first the right, then the left cheek. She said she was taking economics, or rather would be, once she completed the first two years’ general curriculum.
“I’ll take you to the room. Holy cow, I haven’t fixed the bed yet,” Eliza added, quickly.
Anna had bent down, her right hand feeling for a black music case, and Eliza suffered her first qualms. The girl would play day and night and drive her out of her mind. But Anna picked up the case firmly and followed her to the corridor.
“What is that?” Eliza had asked, already weaving arguments in her mind to convince this girl to move out. She would not be able to find a roommate with that instrument.
“A saxophone.”
“You play it?”
“No. It was my father’s—only thing he left me, aside from my college money. He was a musician.”
Eliza had exhaled with relief. “What did he die of?”
A short silence. Then Anna’s voice, reluctant, careful: “I don’t know. He was always away—Hong Kong, Tokyo, Taipei . . . My mother died at childbirth. So I grew up with my aunt. So. Anyway, we got a letter saying he was dead and his body would be arriving at the airport at a certain time and day. I was twelve years old. My aunt chose what clothes I would wear, what everyone should wear. We went all in black, with veils.”
“Here we are.” Eliza had unlocked the door and flung it open. The room was actually a small cubicle with two single beds set against opposite walls. Two study desks and two tiny bookcases formed a short partition near the windows. “You can have that,” Eliza had said, pointing to the naked mattress on the iron slat bed near the built-in closet. Striding to her own bed, she had sat down and said rather indifferently: “I hope he had a nice funeral.”
“I’m not sure,” Anna had replied, straining as she hoisted the suitcase onto the bed. She had fiddled with the locks in silence. Suddenly, as though she had reached a decision, she had turned around to face Eliza.
“There was no corpse, really,” she had said, frowning. “He had been cremated in Hong Kong. So the purser—I think it was the purser—just offered this urn to my aunt, who promptly went into shock. We’re Catholics, much like everyone else and cremation was— well, it wasn’t acceptable.”
“Oh, boy! What happened?”
Anna had sighed. “She kept shouting for the body, to be given the body. I suppose she had prepared herself to swoon over the coffin and all that. It must have been such a disappointment. Anyhow, there was this terrific commotion and my aunt bit the purser’s shoulder and he tried to shake her off and her teeth fell out. Uh, they were false. Suddenly, everyone was laughing and my aunt, to get out of it, chose to faint. We kids—we were a half-dozen or so, I and my cousins—were so mortified. My uncle tried to faint as well but we beat him to it and started dropping like flies to the floor. My uncle had to drag us out of the airport, one by one. At the last minute, the purser shoved this urn at my lap as I sat in the taxicab. Yeech. My aunt refused to accept that that was all that remained of her brother. I carried the urn home though—and she ordered me to get rid of it. I went to our backyard rose garden and took out handfuls and scattered the ashes among the roses. The urn, I kept—”
Eliza had stopped listening for she was howling with laughter, bent over by spasms of laughter as she sat on the bed. It had been the weirdest story she’d ever heard, she had told herself, seeing the kids dropping—plonk!—on top of the ridiculous old woman. She had howled on until she caught sight of Anna’s face in the vortex of her mirth. Anna had remained standing, as though backed against a wall, her chin up, her mouth and eyes intently watching Eliza.
“I’m sorry,” Eliza had said, wiping her eyes with her hands. “I couldn’t help it. I didn’t mean to offend—”
“Don’t worry,” she had answered quickly, turning to her suitcase again. “It is a funny story. Only I can’t laugh. Never have.” And with her back to Eliza, she had added shyly: “That’s the first time I’ve talked about it. You’re nice. I like you.”
Eliza’s mouth had dropped open. She was no stranger to compliments but always it had been “beautiful,” “magnificent,” “lovely,” and so on and so forth. But nice? And from a girl who could not laugh? She couldn’t help giggling again.
“It took a while before I understood,” Eliza told the transvestite. “She couldn’t cry, either. Emotions froze her, made her rational. You would think she was indifferent. She’d stand there like a statue, her face a mask—but behind that, her mind was raging, pacing, tearing through one thought after another, calculating desperately.”
“Some are that way,” the transvestite said. “I would prefer that to extravagant displays—though, of course, you should see me in distress. Hey, grand opera. Would you care to dance? We could do a slow waltz under the trees.”
“But there’s no music.”
“I’ll sing,” he said, facing her and raising his arms. “It will be our homage to this festival of memories.”
She stepped closer to him, wrapped her right arm about his waist, and, with her left hand, made a cradle for his right hand. She led him gently, carefully; he closed his eyes and began to hum. “The Blue Danube.” Eliza had to smile. They danced under the acacia tree, their feet crushing fallen leaves. She didn’t know when exactly a circle formed about them—young men and women, beer bottles in hand, who merged their voices with the transvestite’s humming.
“We should really be dancing the tango,” the transvestite murmured, smiling happily.
She remembered how Anna had been when she had confessed finally the reason for her month-long morning sickness and afternoon lethargy. She had been so scared, she had told Anna, she would flunk biology—so scared that when the young instructor had made advances she had surrendered without precaution among the comatose snakes in the formaldehyde bottles, among the dried sea urchins and snowy exoskeletons of water creatures, under the watchful eyes of three fetuses in varying degrees of arrested development floating dreamily in their glass jars.
Failure had frightened her, she had told Anna, her tear-limned and swollen face buried in her pillow. She had seen by accident, when she was eight years old, a photograph of her mother on the front pages of one of Manila’s scandal sheets because some frumpy wife had picked up a gun and shot at her while she was having dinner at the Casa Espanol, emptying the gun’s magazine and sending the black- tied and be-frocked guests diving to the floor, hitting one tuxedoed waiter, a windowpane, a flower vase, a candlestick, and the band’s large drum. It had been an embarrassment so harmful to her mother’s discreet but wanton profession that the woman had sent Eliza off to the Franciscan nuns and herself boarded a plane for Paris where four years later, dying in a hospital in the South of France, she had written, begging her daughter to come for a last look. The letter had been answered by a creature of desperation, on the mother superior’s instructions, to the effect that she had no wish to share her mother’s immoral existence. At which, the older woman had written back saying she was leaving the bulk of her estate to the Church which didn’t care how it got its money and all Eliza could expect was the cost of her upkeep until she finished college, calculated to the last centavo and with allowances for inflation; furthermore, that the child should always remember that desti
ny was destiny, fate was fate, there was no quibbling about it, and while the nuns may have managed to give her a prim head, her own mother had given her a whore’s face and a whore’s body. If the child had any brains at all, the note had ended, she would realize soon enough that the last two were better capital for a woman than a rigid mind.
It had been a mother’s curse, Eliza had shrieked, the first indication of its fulfillment being her inability to pass a turd of a subject like biology! So, there. Anna had said nothing, merely massaged the weeping Eliza’s nape. Over the next week, Eliza would feel cold waves of rage radiating from Anna whenever she was around; she would catch the other studying her intently, as though weighing something in her mind. Perhaps, Anna would ask her to leave? But one Saturday, clutching a piece of paper in her hand, Anna had told her, as she had lain in bed cradling her miserable belly, to get dressed; they had an appointment. Anna had steered her to downtown Quiapo, to a building a stone’s throw away from the cathedral, into a doctor’s office where Eliza was stripped naked, slipped into a hospital gown, and taken into a room with a cold iron bed with stirrups. A doctor and a nurse, both impeccably professional, had ministered to her as Anna had stood beside the bed, holding on to her hand throughout the process. Eliza had wanted to free her hand, to let go, to free Anna, afraid that in the convulsive pain that wracked her thighs and belly, she would crack the other’s finger bones but Anna would not allow it, her fingers twisting with incredible strength at every tremor of Eliza’s body. Afterward, when she was rested and normal again, Eliza had watched as Anna had counted ten-peso bills (twenty of them) onto the nurse’s palm. She was thoroughly nonplussed.
Anna had never referred to the incident again, never disclosed how she had come by the information and the money. Eliza would find out by accident—first, when a girl accosted her in the dormitory shower room, asking if it were true that her roommate was in trouble and had she tried the doctor downtown; and second, at the semester’s end, when the biology instructor had given her her grade (an A— could less have been expected?), snapping at the same time that he hoped her friend was satisfied and would leave him alone. It had been a good lesson, he had added, for both of them, though a little expensive for him.
State of War Page 4