State of War

by Ninotchka Rosca

  “Idiot. Not that. What was that phone call all about? What has it got to do with your being here, with Eliza’s being here, and with the Villaverde woman being here? And most of all, what has it got to do with the fact that the commander-in-chief will be here in less than forty-eight hours?”

  “Holy shit,” Adrian muttered. He wanted to hurl the glass in the man’s face, suppressed the impulse violently, and lowered the glass to the floor. Just to be on the safe side. “There’s—no connect—my grandfather . . . He stopped, inhaled, and began again. “My grandfather is an invalid. For all we know, he might be dying at this very minute.”

  “He doesn’t leave the house, true. We know that because we watch him. But he can still make phone calls.”

  “You watch him? Whatever for?”

  “His agents go up and down the archipelago buying all this reliquary. Of the Revolution.”

  “The 1896 Revolution, Colonel. Against Spain. And the 1902- 1908 Philippine-American War. You weren’t even born yet.”

  The colonel shook his head. “And of the 1930s uprising. The 1940s anti-Japanese resistance. The 1950s Huk rebellion and, of course, the current insurgency. Posters, documents, underground publications . . .”

  “What?” Silence. Adrian thought of the old man in his wheelchair, the blind eyes. Old Andy, help! “I had no idea, Colonel,” he said truthfully enough. “Maybe, he thinks they’ll be worth something. Or maybe, he’s trying to trace something. He’s talked about finding his family. He was raised in an orphanage, you know. And he’s talked about that, the possibility of finding out who—maybe; but I don’t know. I really don’t know. . The rush of words stopped. He raised his eyes to the colonel’s face.

  “Ah, another child.” The colonel jerked away. “Absolute loyalties. Bah!” He wheeled about, faced Adrian again. “Wait here. Don’t worry. Everything will be fine.”

  Adrian, dazed, remained in the armchair. The colonel left, followed by the man in white. Nothing moved for a few minutes. Then a dozen men and women in formal evening clothes marched from behind the screen. They did not look his way. Conversation erupted—in English, Spanish, and Tagalog. About the latest Woody Allen film, the proper size for pearls, the fantastic adventures of a guerrilla, surfing, the latest hit songs, the best dance place, and some internecine squabbling among the generals. Coffee and tea were poured; the pastries and cakes were eaten amidst the clatter of silver and the tinkle of crystal. How long it lasted, Adrian did not know for he was held frozen to his seat by the fact that all the men and women wore surreal makeup: demon faces, serpent skin, witches’ noses . . . Abruptly, as though at a signal, they moved away from the table and filed to the screen. They disappeared without a sound.

  Silence again. By this time, Adrian had to acknowledge that he was afraid. His pants were soaked through behind his thighs; the back of his shirt was wet. He wiped his palms on the chair’s armrest. He wished he were home—at his grandfather’s house, sitting on the floor at his feet. Old Andy, help!

  The man in white came into the room. He had a book tucked underneath his right arm and Adrian caught a glimpse of the word “quarks.” Something “quarks.” Old Andy laughing sounded like a duck quacking. He was losing his mind, he thought.

  “Nice party, no?” the man said, smiling. He put the book down on the writing table, opened a drawer, brought out a stainless-steel case.

  “First, a sample,” he said and, seizing Adrian’s hand, jabbed at his forefinger.

  “Hey!” He could not loosen the man’s grip.

  “Be grateful,” the man said. “He’s not this careful with others. Thank your father.” The man caught Adrian’s blood in a small vial—a thin red thread suspended in clear fluid. Then, the man released his hand and shook the vial. “There you go. Don’t move now.”

  He left again. Six men in camouflage uniform crowded from behind the screen. Four walked to the table and picked at the leftover pastries; two approached Adrian. He saw they were the men who had brought him to the house. He sighed, hoping they were there to return him. One went to his left, pivoted on his heels and stopped; the other took the same position to his right.

  Another wait. Then the man in white came again. He was grinning, his arms held close to his sides. He walked past the desk and stopped when he was in front of Adrian, so close that the tips of his shoes nearly touched Adrian’s sneakers. He raised his right hand and the two soldiers reached down, pinning Adrian’s arms to the chair’s rest.

  “Hey!”

  The man held a syringe.

  “Just a little shot,” the man said.

  Adrian arched his body off the chair but it was too late. The needle broke through his skin; the pain flared on the inside of his elbow and coursed through his arm. Just as quickly, the needle was withdrawn and the man was dabbing at the hurt with an alcohol-soaked cotton ball.

  “Easy there, easy.”

  The soldiers backed off. Adrian’s eyes stung. He was going to cry, he thought. He couldn’t even fight. Eighteen months. This madness began only eighteen months ago and here he was, the habit of subservience already ingrained. As Old Andy would say, it was as though we never had the Revolution, never really went through that war that stained the October harvest bloody, amidst the clip-clop of horses’ hooves and screams of fuego, fuego, the boom of caskets, the wheeze of artillery wheels. Old Andy, poor cripple in his wheelchair, assured him that it was true, son; no one remembered the totality of it, its entirety, only bits and pieces, that battle, this confrontation, that siege—but not, no never, the monstrous carnage of four hundred years, from the very first dawn when Lapu-lapu skewered that vagabond poacher Magellan to the most recent twilight when the forty- five caliber was developed to stop the Moros of the south in their maddened dash at the enemy whose corpse was the key to the gates of paradise . . .

  “It is taking,” a voice said and Adrian looked up.

  The chandelier lights were blurred by halos of multicolored mists. They were beautiful.

  “Now, about the Revolution . . .”

  The voice sounded familiar. Adrian forced his gaze away from the lights and found the man who had spoken. It was the good colonel— Adrian waved at him cheerfully, seeing him from a great distance— and he wore a tuxedo with a red rose in his lapel. Old Andy, whose wheelchair had appeared beside Adrian’s chair, winked and said to the colonel: “You look like a cruise ship steward—which you should be, perhaps.” Adrian laughed and went on laughing for a long time.

  6

  When she saw who was waiting in the buffet room, Eliza cursed herself. She had let down her guard and been maneuvered most skillfully, passed on from group to group, laughter to laughter, all leading to this house, this room where Adrian’s father stood near the French windows and bowed formally when she walked in. He gestured toward the food-laden table.

  “What would you like?” he asked.

  Eliza glanced over her shoulder. Her companions had disappeared and the door, which had stood open, was now shut. She inhaled, drew herself to her full height, flung back her hair, and untied the pouch about her waist. It was always better to negotiate in comfort. She peered at the food and said: “Everything.”

  Later, watching her chew on the barbecued spareribs, the prawns, the lechon, and the salad, he said: “You have a magnificent appetite.” She smiled, deliberately arch. “In everything, sir. But do proceed. You don’t have to wait on me.” She had perched herself on the sill of the side windows from where a backyard garden of roses and gladioli, daisies and jasmine, was visible. Whoever owned the house lived well.

  When the man—whatever was his name?—remained silent, she went on eating, keeping her eyes on the rice noodles she was twirling about her fork. She said abruptly: “The permit.” And punctuated her challenge by filling her mouth with food. Good, good.

  “It has to be signed as soon as possible,” the man admitted, sighing. “So we can begin to work . . .”

  “Cabanas on the beach, eh? Japanese tourists? Money?�
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  “All that. Think of what it would mean for the town.”

  She belched delicately, covering her mouth with her right hand. “If I did, you wouldn’t get anywhere.”

  “Pardon?”

  She put down the plate, picked up her wine glass. “Well. Fart,” she said, “what happens to the fishing grounds, the huts, the garden plots? Your hotels would swallow all the food in the island, drive prices up, and impoverish everyone. But that is no business of mine. So I won’t think of the town at all. Only of you.” She saluted him with the glass. Drank. Licked her lips. “My problem is coming up with a fair price for my intercession. And a scheme to distribute God’s windfall among the odds and ends of the Commander’s clan. You have thought of this?”

  He nodded, his eyes noncommittal. “Fifteen percent of total capitalization has been set aside for public relations.”

  “Some may prefer stocks; some, cash. The wife will take jewels, of course. Or foreign currency. Whichever is convenient. That can all be worked out. My fee is another matter.”

  “Name a price.”

  Eliza smiled. “I may not want money.”

  “Information? A promotion for the colonel? Or—?”

  “You know something I’d be interested in?” Eliza was intrigued.

  “Your friend. She has been looking for a body?”

  “Oh!” Eliza shrugged. “I’m not. I don’t think a corpse would do her any good.”

  “Her papers, then?” The man walked to the table, poured himself some brandy.

  “No assurance there won’t be copies lying around.” Eliza shook her head. “I’m not a novice, sir.”

  “I did not think so. But if you would name a price . . .”

  Eliza thought rapidly. “A service, perhaps. Or rather, a pledge not to act.”

  The man mulled that over; he nodded, his fingers restless among the wine and brandy glasses.

  Eliza watched him closely. “A guarantee of noninterference? So that what is taking place”—she chose her words carefully, testing for limits—“between my friends, my two friends, can proceed to its— proper conclusion. Whatever that may be,” she added quickly for the man’s eyebrows had lifted.

  He was quiet for a moment. Then, almost sadly: “Adrian is too young.”

  “I am not—note, please—not asking for, not expecting anything to come out of it. But simply to give everyone a—shall we say—a sporting chance?”

  The man turned away, considering. Eliza saw that the glasses he had fiddled with were aligned now, not one askew by even a millimeter.

  Rats, she muttered to herself.

  “Adrian is an only child,” he said after a while. “The only child of our family. My brother has—” He shrugged. “But you know that.”

  “She is my only friend. And I’m not asking for anything beyond letting what is happening proceed normally.”

  He clasped his elbows. Looked at her. He seemed an extremely sad man. “But where is the satisfaction in that?”

  She smiled. “It is difficult to explain. Especially to one who has never been interfered with. You have always been in control.”

  He shook his head. “Inaccurate. However, go on.”

  “I myself do not know what will happen,” she said, realizing at the instant the words left her mouth that that was true. “Chances are my friend will back off. They are too different. On the other hand, it could go the other way.”

  “And if it does?”

  “Then my friend becomes an heiress.” The thought was so absurd she laughed.

  The man’s face rippled. A shark surfacing, she thought.

  “Oh, don’t look so grim,” she blurted. “Money will cover any defect you think my friend has. Of course, it is speculative. If nothing comes out of it, I lose.”

  “Has Adrian—do you know something we don’t?”

  She shook her head. He sighed and approached the table again, picked up his glass of brandy, and sipped. Very carefully, Eliza observed.

  “What is the time limit? How long do we wait?”

  She thought for a moment. “Six months, maybe,” she said at last, reluctant. “A year at the most.”

  “If we refused?”

  “It won’t make any difference. Whatever’s going on will go on. All I want is—Colonel Amor should be, and you should be, interested observers. But if you do refuse, I can assure you no work will begin on these beaches. At least, not until my friends say they have reached a decision. Not a stitch of work. Not until then.”

  The man nodded. “We could ask Colonel Amor to make the arrangements with the Commander.”

  She clucked her tongue in exasperation. “You do that, sir. And let me go back to the Festival. Really, I came here to have fun; not to do business. For that, you can always find me at the hotel coffee shop.”

  She brushed off his apologies. As she had expected, his face had flushed; he had not been dismissed summarily by another human being in a long time. She placed plate and fork on the table, tuned him out as she retied her pouch, strode past him, and made for the door. If it were locked— but it wasn’t and she was sprinting lightly through the living room where a dozen men and women, almost sinking in the overstuffed cushions, looked up. She ignored the question in their eyes and headed for the front door.

  Amor indeed! That asexual creature who delighted in holding her hand and watching her face as she watched his men wreck one prisoner after another. Adrian’s father knew as well as she did that Amor would not touch the deal. The colonel prided himself on his “professionalism,” as he would say. He had marked off a territory for himself, he would say, within the Commander’s domain. He concerned himself with nothing beyond it, though he might not be averse to taking down an officer or two. Moreover, outside his world, he admitted freely enough, he was incompetent. So much for Amor. He envied and hated those who grew fat on his labors.

  As she wandered through the Festival, searching for Adrian and Anna, the sun pressed against her shoulders and back. The crowd clogging the road was a mass of colors—blue-green, red, yellow— which translated into a dull, drumming pain between her eyes. She had eaten and drunk too much, though she had known she would pay for such recklessness. She had been careless with Adrian’s father. She realized that, knowing her price, he might force the problem to come to a head. Undoubtedly, he would use Amor.

  Dealing with the Loved One had made the past six months difficult. She had made her first mistake by sending him a rare purple orchid plant after Anna’s release—a statement that she had gained something of equal value. Amor had telephoned and asked her to pay him a visit; he was so very lonely, after all, lonelier even than her friend. That had begun it. Each time she arrived, Amor had a gift for her, always elegantly boxed and wrapped, which he handed to her after the curtains had swished shut on the romance room. A Dior scarf, a bottle of perfume, a gold bracelet. Once, he gave her a rose, the color of clotted blood, still half open. It was the first flower of a garden in an island-fort where his wife, ah, lived. He had grimaced while saying it and Eliza divined that the woman was alone in the godforsaken spot, guarded by soldiers.

  Throughout those months when she had suffered the colonel’s odor, she had nagged Colonel Alejandro Batoyan about the danger. But Batoyan was a simple man. Eliza sighed. In the normal course of events, he would have been content with an ordinary life, an unremarkable career that assured him a promotion in rank every six years or so. He had had no thoughts at all of going beyond what had been ordained and was proceeding to old age, retirement, and death without regret, in the company of his wife, a large woman with magnificent square teeth, and six big-boned, unhandsome children. But the wheel of fortune turned of a sudden and bingo! According to the pseudo-science of head measurements his commander-in-chief subscribed to, Batoyan had the proper skull girth, slope of the forehead, and nearly nonexistent nose bridge that spelled fortitude, loyalty, and utter self-effacement. His file photographs were shuffled, his records studied, and in no time at all he
found himself installed in the anteroom of the Commander’s Palace office with a gold telephone, a crystal ashtray, a white desk and chair, and a secretary who seemed to suffer from lockjaw.

  The unexpected assignment created a furor that was silenced by a terse statement from the Commander himself. Colonel Batoyan, he intoned, was an honorable man, worthy of his uniform; in addition, he was dim-witted and dull and his ambitions did not go beyond having three meals a day. Moreover, he had passed the combined scrutiny of the Palace’s top scientists and astrologers. In any case, should the good colonel displease the Commander—why then, gentlemen, he could always be sent to do battle with the Moros of Jolo. So much for that.

  So dim-witted had Batoyan been that it had been six months before he understood what awesome powers had been placed in his hands. In due time, he acquired a new wardrobe, four houses, and two Mercedes-Benzes and a taste for ten percent of everything. He was not stupid enough to hog it all but studiously distributed God’s grace among the Commander’s relatives and his wife’s relatives. It was simply good policy, this cultivation of the clan, particularly since the Commander more and more fell prey to melancholia and would spend weeks at a time seeing no one, save for his wife and his aide.

  But the evening Batoyan saw Eliza, as he said later, drunk and divine and dancing by herself at a raucous nightclub, the fringes of her Spanish shawl having swept everyone else off the floor . . . that evening he saw her, all his possessions had seemed nothing more than crumbs, pitiful pickings, and he had been driven mad with dissatisfaction. It was such a class act, he told Eliza, her dancing there by herself and, unnoticed by her, he had followed her night after night, watched her even through the bottom of his brandy glass so that it had seemed he was drinking her and the liquid fire of whatever he drank was the molten fire of her limbs. He had not rested until that morning Eliza awoke to the reek of nausea in her nose and a hammer of pain in her head and saw Batoyan—pink, soft, and satisfied—emerge from under her bed sheets.