Old Andy guffawed. “It was to stretch their vulvas,” he had hollered while Adrian’s eyes widened. “They thought that way they could survive rape by the americanos who were rumored to have penises as huge as their noses.”
The new invaders, of course, could not quite understand why anyone would object to being benevolently assimilated by the great North American nation and sent half of its army to the archipelago, scattering them among the islands. Their presence bred corpses: corpses in the streets, on rooftops, hanging from coconut trees—for by the glory of God, the americanos dealt with the insurrection with great efficiency, torching villages and shoving two hundred fifty thousand corpses into mile-long graves, both men and women, for though the latter did survive rape, they could not survive the shame and committed suicide by the hundreds, opening their bodies from the throat to the groin with six-inch butterfly knives of the truest steel, or climbing to the roof and the church belfry to hurl themselves to death in the streets below as the hooves of the American cavalry slipped on the pungent mud of earth, brains, and blood for so many women killed themselves the air seemed filled with monstrous bats shrieking all the way down from the clouds to the ground.
“I was safe, though,” Old Andy had told Adrian. “I stood by the side of my dyspeptic master and fanned his pink scalp with an anahaw leaf as he sent guerrillas, my unlucky compatriots, to the hanging scaffold and to exile in Guam. My master called me Andy, short for Adrian—which is why you must never, never allow yourself to be called anything else but Adrian. It is bad luck to allow strangers to tamper with your name. If you want to change it, find a new one yourself.”
And deeming Adrian sufficiently educated, Old Andy had let him have the run of the mansion though, in the end, because the old man was given to sudden monologues inspired by scraps of memory, the child preferred to play near the wheelchair, the drone of a quavering voice in his ear. It was only after graduation from college that Adrian moved back to his parents’ house, to be taught the intricacies of business. Once a week, he still visited Old Andy and went over the mansion’s budget as well as attended to odd tasks his grandfather laid before him.
But he had to admit that for Old Andy to call his father was unusual. The old man thought his sons were comical.
“What did my father say?” he asked, turning to Julius, who was hard put to keep up with his long strides.
“Nothing else—just that your grandfather called.”
“Rats!” Despite himself, his alarm was growing. But the office of the shipping company was already in sight: a gray squat building near the wharf. Though it was only a short distance from the town plaza, the area was deserted. Someone had switched on the single bulb in the building’s front room and, in the failing light, it shone harsh and naked. Through the window jalousies, they saw a man at a desk, his back hunched.
It was Julius who spoke to the man and arranged for the use of the telephone. Adrian would call collect, he hastened to add; the man could listen until the connection was made.
“I shall leave you here,” Julius said to Adrian. “I’d like to see some of the ceremonies myself.”
Adrian nodded and picked up the phone. The man in the office eyed him without interest. When the operator answered, he gave his grandfather’s home number, his name, and asked that the charges be reversed. It took a while before the maid—Adrian was sure it was the parlor maid, the youngest of the bunch—understood who was calling.
More minutes passed before Old Andy’s creaking voice came, borne by static currents and the whistling of the wires.
“Father said you wanted to talk to me,” Adrian cut into the old man’s mumbling.
“Your father’s a comedian.” Old Andy laughed. “Where are you? What are you doing there?”
“I’m at the Festival.”
“A fiesta? The October harvest must be in. Does blood still stain the rice?”
Patiently, Adrian explained the ship, the trip to K-----, the festivities. “I came with two friends,” he added, hoping Old Andy would take the hint and cut the conversation short.
“Two!” The chuckle crashed against Adrian’s ear. “Two women, I bet. The sun and the moon. Son”—Old Andy always called him that—“come home. I had a dream of omens last night.”
“Must be something you ate,” Adrian said quickly.
“Could be. This goat-of-a-cook you found me’s no good at all. Keeps feeding me vegetables. If I wanted to eat chlorophyll, I’d graze on the lawn. I keep telling him that but he won’t listen. Last night, I saw the sun and the moon together, at the horizon. Both were in full strength—one red-orange; the other, golden. I did not like the sight, I tell you. The sea all around was on fire. Who are the women with you?”
“Now, Old Andy—”
“Give, my son. An old man can only have vicarious delights. Your father sounded worried. He wouldn’t give me their names. He said I should ask you. Such circumspection in an otherwise gossip is curious indeed; curious.”
“Andy . . .”
“You’ll be calling me grandfather next. Give, my son.”
Adrian shuffled his feet, glanced at the man behind the desk. He lowered his voice. “Eliza Hansen.”
A grunt of dismissal came over the wires.
“Anna,” he said reluctantly. “Anna Villaverde.”
A silence.
“Hello. Are you still there?”
“At the Casa Espanol.”
“What?”
“I met your grandmother there.” Old Andy’s voice quavered and Adrian could see him, his lower lip quivering. “The minute I saw her, I lost my ability to eat and sleep. That night, the muslin bed sheets suffocated me; they were that heavy from the weight of moonlight. The next morning, I found myself weeping at the corner of Azcarraga and Avenida Rizal.”
Adrian sighed, leaned his elbow on the desk, and resigned himself to listening to yet another off-tangent story from the old man.
“I went to see my old master americano. He had grown old and complained eternally about how food passed through his intestines like a toothpick. He blamed it on coconuts. We ate them, drank their juice, and sucked on their meat, you know, when we were traveling up and down the archipelago condemning all the men. It was a bad time, son. My master, who was no longer my master for I had become a journalist, said it was impossible; the lady who had launched the lightning bolt of her glance at me came from a family of lawyers. Abogados de campanilla. You savvy?”
“Sure, abuelo.” Adrian craned his neck and tried to catch a glimpse of the clock on the wall. The sunlight was fading fast.
“Abuelo yourself. I learned English, gaddamit. Her father was a lawyer, her seven brothers were lawyers, and a dozen or so cousins were practicing in as many towns around Manila. They would not take kindly to a former bottle collector turned columnist who wrote ‘gaddamit’ every other sentence. What could I do, son? I threw myself on the floor of his house and had a fit. You know what he said?” “What?”
“He said: ‘Fact is, you ain’t no lawyer.’ Then, he paused, inclined his head, and aimed one eagle eye at me. After a while, he said: ‘That doesn’t mean you can’t be one.’ ”
“Good advice.”
“Good, my foot. After reading the first three pages of the first volume of the sixty-three volumes of the Proceedings of the Supreme Court of the Philippine Islands, I knew I would never walk through the front doors of the Justice Department. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t go in through the back door. So one night I hoisted two gallons of rice wine and a sack of hard coins to the building, found the janitor and the security guards, had a high old time with them until four in the morning. When I left, they were asleep and tucked in my pockets were the answer sheets for the bar exams. Two months later, I scored the highest on those fucking tests.”
“You were a genius, Old Andy.”
“Genius, my ass. I cheated. And the entire country went wild because I hadn’t had a stitch of law school. Hee, hee, hee. The night of the celebrati
ons, Miss Estela came and I cornered her on the terrace of the Casa Espanol and poured into the shell of an ear she neither offered nor withdrew all my passionate hopes. It was a good thing I married her. She had memorized the fucking sixty-three volumes of the Proceedings. ”
“Grandma’s memory was legendary.” Adrian sighed.
“A lot of good it did her. She was so afraid she would forget during the American carpet bombing of Manila, at the end of World War II, she was so busy reciting everything aloud she did not notice the air raid warning. A piece of shrapnel, triangular like a shark’s fin, sliced through her thighs. She expired somewhere among the words in deference to. It was an end one could not imagine for the compact lady with delicate wrists and spiteful eyes I saw at the Villaverde wedding at the Casa Espanol.” Silence; then almost diffidently: “I didn’t know they were still around.”
“Who?”
“The Villaverdes. You must bring her here, son. They would never have me at their dinner table.”
“She’s just a namesake, Old Andy. She doesn’t look like her family could afford weddings at the Casa Espanol.”
“Bring her here, you son of your benighted father. Do I look like I can afford to breathe?”
Adrian laughed. “All right. All right. As soon as we get back to Manila.”
“Wonder who the moon was and who the sun? We condemned them all, you know.”
“Who?”
“Those in the Revolution. My master and I did. When will you ever get your history straight?” And without warning, he hung up.
Adrian could only shrug. It wasn’t the first time Old Andy had done that. He thanked the man, offered a tip which was refused, and, untying his T-shirt from about his waist, slipped it on. When he stepped out of the office, he saw that twilight had descended, accounting for the sudden cool in the air. Two men stood at the corner of the narrow street leading off the main seaside road to the town plaza. Adrian considered walking along the beach for a while but the women must be looking for him by now, frantic over where to bed down for the night. He quickened his steps, approached the street corner. The two men moved apart to let him pass and, as he stepped through, the one to his left swung back an arm and punched him in the solar plexus. It was a short, exact karate blow. Air exploded from his mouth; his muscles clamped down in a massive spasm and his knees buckled. But the two were already holding his arms, bearing his weight and dragging him forward. They patted him solicitously, lovingly, murmuring their regret that such a handsome young man should be so drunk, so drunk, even as they half-steered, half-carried him inexorably toward an open and shadowed doorway. As Adrian saw that maw coming closer and closer, he recalled Old Andy’s dream.
He was being guided into a room. Hands on his shoulders forced him into a seat of red velvet. Behind him, a door closed and silence thickened. Even the sound of waves pounding the nearby beach was muffled. As the pain in his body eased and he was able to gulp down air, he twisted his head to look about him. The men were gone. Black curtains sheathed all the walls while overhead a massive chandelier coruscated, spilling light on the entire room. Except for a white Japanese lacquer screen behind a white-and-gilt writing desk and chair, there were no partitions; the room sloped down to a lower end occupied by a long, white-clothed dining table and chairs. The table was fully set with gilded plates and cups, silverware and crystal glasses, embroidered napkins, a massive silver coffee and tea service, delicate curls of pastry, and an ornate centerpiece of purple and white orchids. A red Taiping rug, florid with pink and red roses, covered the floor from wall to wall. Holy bananas, Adrian thought and whistled to himself.
From behind the screen, a man in white appeared. He looked like a doctor, though of course he had no stethoscope about his neck. He crossed his hands behind his back and smiled at Adrian.
“Would you like a drink?” he asked.
Adrian gave him an incredulous look. The man smiled encouragement. Adrian opened his mouth to snarl. Deftly, the man raised a hand, palm toward Adrian, and shook his head.
“No alcohol,” the man said. “The colonel gave explicit orders. Coffee, tea, mineral water, orange juice.I recommend the juice— fresh squeezed from fruit flown in from Taiwan this morning.”
“From Taiwan?”
“Oh, they’re not as good as Japanese or American oranges. But we have to make do. You understand, don’t you, sir?” The man’s tone was ironic, mocking. “Perhaps, a slice of cheesecake?”
“I don’t understand . . .
“Because of the medication—sir. We wouldn’t want anything bad to happen, would we? Excuse me. I’ll get your orange juice. The colonel has been delayed but—momentarily. Only momentarily.”
The man ducked behind the screen swiftly. Adrian rose, hand to the knot in his belly. He turned and scanned the room. He couldn’t even tell where the door was. He sat down again and tried to compose himself. The man in white reappeared, this time balancing aloft a silver tray with a crystal glass of orange juice and a brandy glass filled to the brim.
“Please be patient,” he said. “The colonel …
“I’m here,” a mild voice cut in and another man stepped from behind the screen. He wore a khaki uniform which rustled as he moved and the insignia of his rank plus three medals whose significance escaped Adrian. The name tag was missing. It wasn’t necessary. His identity leaped to Adrian’s mind immediately: Colonel Amor.
The man his father had spoken to on the phone. If his father had had dealings with this officer, then there was nothing to worry about. Automatically, Adrian arranged himself in the chair—leaned back, crossed his legs, and raised his chin.
The colonel smiled, gold glinting briefly in his mouth. “But I am—was—your client,” Amor said, settling himself behind the writing desk and waving to the man in white to offer the drinks first to Adrian. “Your warehouse; the one that—ah, burned down. I leased it. Oh, I know, I know. A private corporation recommended by Miss Hansen—what a delightful woman—held the lease. But I used it and the rent money came from my office.Too bad about the arson. We handled that pretty well, I think.Cleaned up the place.Made sure the insurance company paid. And lo and behold! You have a brand new warehouse where an old, rotting, and useless one had stood.”
“The construction’s not finished yet,” Adrian said, taking the glass of orange juice and sipping to wet his dry mouth. “But surely, we can discuss the lease after the Festival.”
The colonel waved his words away. “I’m not interested in the warehouse anymore. Goodness, no. Though business with you does have its moments. When my men had to remove one corpse from that spinster’s bathroom. Ah, that was superb. I laughed my head off for days. It had zoomed in right through her window and was standing in the shower stall, leaning against the wall. Stark naked, of course, minus half its head and one arm. And she thought it was a pervert, waiting to rape her. We had to rush to her apartment building in three minutes to ward off the police. My men laughed themselves sick.”
“What are you talking about?” Adrian blurted.
The colonel gave a small, pained cry. With one hand, he half covered his mouth. “Dear me, I’ve violated security.” His eyes closed and opened with delight. “Of course, you didn’t know we stacked our corpses in the warehouse. In body bags or coffins. Dead soldiers from all over the archipelago—before we buried them or shipped them to their families in Luzon.”
Adrian did not dare move a muscle. Near the lacquer screen, to which he had retreated after delicately putting the brandy glass on the writing desk, the man in white nodded at Adrian. Whether in confirmation or encouragement, he could not know.
“Your father asked me to watch over you.” The colonel sighed, lifted the brandy glass, and took a hefty gulp. His face tightened as he swallowed, the thin bluish lips pursing. “That’s why I had you brought here.”
“I could have been invited,” Adrian said.
“You wouldn’t like my kind of invitation. So far, I’ve invited about three hundred men and wom
en to my office. None of them liked it. Don’t make me angry, Adrian. Be the gentleman you’re supposed to be.”
“I gather you don’t like gentlemen,” Adrian said.
“Not much,” the colonel admitted. “I have to serve them constantly and yet I can never be one. Nevertheless, your father did ask me to keep an eye on you since you’re so young and so—ah, rich. Wouldn’t do to have you fall into the wrong hands.All that money. What do you think of this room, by the way? I had it furnished for you. I didn’t want you to think I was a barbarian. I also felt it would make you more comfortable—to be in familiar surroundings.”
“We do not exactly live in such an environment, Colonel.” “Hmmm.” The man scanned the room slowly, raised the brandy glass again, and abruptly threw it across the room. “Wrong again, shit!” He stood up, took one step toward Adrian, and thrust his head forward. “Now, tell me. What are you doing here with Miss Hansen and that Villaverde woman?”
“Attending the Festival.” Adrian could not help his amazed tone.
“Miss Hansen belongs to a colleague of mine.”
“Eliza?” Adrian snorted. “She belongs to no one.”
The colonel relaxed abruptly. He smiled. “That’s true. Such a beauty. Can’t be owned. How unfortunate. Though one may try. One may try.”
Adrian had to laugh.
“And the other one?” The colonel’s voice was careful.
“She came so she could dance, make merry, sing, laugh. Just— that.”
He raised the glass again, nervous all of a sudden, and discovered he had finished the juice.
“Her kind doesn’t do”—the colonel mimicked Adrian’s dismissing gesture—“just that.”
“What is her kind?”
“Listen, this is important. Your name—Banyaga—it means foreigner. Yet, it is a native name; I have a Spanish one. But look at us. Ironic, isn’t it? Where does your grandfather fit in all this?”
For a moment, Adrian wondered who was crazier—the colonel or he for even considering the question. “I don’t know where my grandfather got his name ...”
State of War Page 8