“With the Americans.”
Automatically, he turned his eyes in the direction of Intramuros, the Walled City built by Chinese artisans under orders of the Spaniards. It was said to have so drained the Castilian treasury that one day the Spanish king—which one, no one knew—having received yet another demand for more money for the walls, had exploded in rage, saying that considering how much the walls were costing they should be visible from Madrid on sunny mornings. Carlos Lucas couldn’t see Intramuros from his Binondo house but he knew, since he had seen it before that a strange flag, with stars and stripes, not the lion seal of Aragon flew atop those walls. He observed a moment of silence, wondering how and why a war begun in Cuba—a place no one from the seven thousand one hundred islands had thought of, much less visited—had managed to cross the ocean of typhoons to roost here. He recalled the rifles without sights, the cross-purposes of wars, and the dark Malays who knew only the most simple, the most fundamental language of all—life, love, and liberty—and who now would find themselves within the coils of power and politics.
“Pray for the men,” He said to the girls, his heart filled with lead, “and see that you all get pregnant. As quickly as possible. We will lose a lot of human beings.”
Ten years and two hundred fifty thousand corpses. To make matters worse, all the young men from Europe caught war fever and began murdering one another. The mathematics of history passed like wind through Hans’s ears. He thought his partner, Carlos Lucas, no better than the peasants he had such contempt and sympathy for, sharing with them both ignorance and passion. Hans had breakfast and dinner with his host and hostess every day, once a week with the strange assembly of Carlos’s friends. He lived in an upstairs room, despite Maya’s objections, and puttered about with malt and barley and test tubes and vials, his partner’s words ringing in his ears: a better beer, an excellent beer, a brew to be called Diablo. He knew nothing about beer, could find no books, and couldn’t buy secrets from the workers of the city’s only brewery. They had all been placed under the confessional seal by the Capuchins, who threatened to roast their souls in hell forever should they even dream of the brewing process. Hans ordered books from Europe but they took forever to arrive or were lost or pilfered—no one knew. He was in a miserable state.
He lived in fear of his partner’s patience coming to an end, for though he was treated as became a full partner and received a weekly allowance from the Chinese-Malay maid, no papers had been drawn up confirming the alliance. For two hours each day, from five to seven in the evening before the dinner bell rang, he trembled from head to foot as he packed away the chemicals of another failure, cursed both beer and the philosopher’s stone in one breath, washed his hands, and changed to one of the six identical formal black suits he had had tailored for himself, preferring to keep his image as a serious German scholar rather than be comfortable in the silken pineapple-fiber dress shirts the natives wore. At the silver sound of the bell, he finished his toilette by dashing cologne on his chin and neck and entered the dining room, cowering in his coat at an expected assault of insults from Don Carlos Lucas de Villaverde.
“Fraud,” he waited to hear the words from his host, “cheap German fraud; ladron; give back the money I spent on you!” It never happened.
It could never happen, for, unknown to Hans, being a stranger to the culture of the Binondo house, Carlos Lucas had taken him as fair exchange for his six brothers lost to the West. As far as Carlos Lucas was concerned, the younger man could spend a lifetime studying the secrets of beer and never come up with a formula. It didn’t matter. All he knew was that in this house run by women, from Maya down to the ten-year-old who scrubbed the outside doorsteps each morning with coconut husk, there was at least one more resident male.
Hans was not relieved that Carlos Lucas never rebuked him for a year of research spent in vain. He still trembled from head to foot every afternoon, and suffered spasms of fear at various moments of the day. He sought to forget his predicament by pinching the bottoms of the innumerable and exchangeable maids in the house, running his hands up their backs, and feeling their thighs through the often threadbare cloth of their skirts, restraining himself only in the formidable presence of the Chinese-Malay woman. He guessed that she was Maya’s twin and should not be disturbed, lest the house come crashing down on his ears.
The rest of the time he walked along the estero, anger rising like fever in his body at the sight of so much richness, so much wealth, and so much ignorance. The leaf-shaped boats bore unbelievable wares beneath his eyes—extravagant fruits and vegetables, flowers of excessive colors, a thousand kinds of fish, sometimes gold trinkets made by the northern mountain tribes, baroque pearls from the southern sea tribes, cloth of incredible patterns, and, of course, the men and women, brown as aged wood, skin varnished by the sun, dark eyes that smoldered, he could swear, with both deviltry and innocence. He cursed them one and all for not seeing the potential locked in their environment of no winter, no drought; he cursed them for being existential, so immersed in the pleasure of living in this moment and this moment alone, this drift of boats down the current of a canal whose clear waters spoke of mountain rains, while he, Hans, old soul from Europe, had to think of the future and sweat out all the possibilities of disaster before it even struck. If he could only learn not to anticipate . . .
Thus, when Don Carlos Lucas de Villaverde announced to his assembly, one Friday night, that he was to be married, Hans Zangroniz believed he had been given a reprieve. With a woman to amuse, his partner would not pay too much attention to the German albatross. He sighed, congratulated Carlos Lucas, and was about to tease Maya about grandchildren when he was struck full in the face by a glance of hatred from her eyes. He could not have known that the marriage had been engineered by the old woman; that indeed it had been compelled by the sight of him speaking to two Capuchin monks by the estero—a sight Maya caught one morning as she bent closer to the vanity mirror facing the wide balcony doors of her bedroom.
3
Her signature on the church marriage registry read Maya Batoyan and she was the daughter of the Chinese-Malay maid, though none of this was known to Carlos Lucas when he came upon her one peculiar morning. He was still in his nightshirt and robe, having been awakened by a portentous feel to the air, as though the house was breathing, its walls quivering and sighing, so he couldn’t be sure he was no longer asleep, was not in fact caught in a dream. He had yawned, stretched his arms upward, and looked out of the bedroom window to see the boats which delivered milk and eggs to the estero houses sailing, as it were, on air, six inches above the water, which was so translucent the mud spurts of burrowing crabs at its bottom were visible. Because he had no wish to remain in this impossible mood, he had gone to the bathroom to wash his face and rinse his mouth, then to the kitchen in search of coffee. Instead, he found her, shrouded by her blue-black hair from head to ankles, wearing an old-fashioned sheer loose blouse of woven pineapple fiber and a burgundy velvet skirt. Her feet were bare. She had her back to him and the noise of his appearance caused her to half turn, to glance over her right shoulder, with her lips pursed, for she was raising a cup of cocoa to her mouth, ready to blow cooling breath on the blistering liquid. He knew immediately, when her wet coal eyes fell on him, that he did not want her, would have difficulties loving her, but would marry her nevertheless, because this morning was so new it could only be the future. As soon as he accepted this, the beams of the house creaked their welcome to the sun.
That was all he knew; he would have found it surprising, had he been told, that her presence in the kitchen on that particular day and at that particular hour was the culmination of a series of events that had begun with his mother, Maya, catching sight of Hans, “the putrid German,” as she mumbled to herself, deep in conversation with two Capuchin monks on the opposite bank of the canal. The shock of that treachery, the danger it signaled, was transformed in Maya’s mind into an omen: it was time for her to go outside the Binondo house after more than a d
ecade of isolation. By what circuitous logic she arrived at this conclusion, she herself did not know, but having reached it, she did not hesitate.
“Order my caleche and horses for tomorrow,” she said to the Chinese-Malay maid who was fussing with her hair, which was pure platinum now. “We’re going for a trot by the sea.”
The maid dropped the gold high-comb she was using to rake Maya’s scalp. Retrieving it hurriedly, with her face hidden as she knelt and fumbled beneath the dresser stool, she mumbled that such an excursion needed planning, it wasn’t going to be easy, there were a thousand and one things to be done before they could leave the house and the distillery with a clear conscience, the windows had to be washed, the furniture dusted, the servants marshaled and set to work—
“Enough,” said Maya. “We leave at ten o’clock tomorrow. Have some food wrapped. We’ll have lunch by the sea.”
“But—”
“I will not discuss it anymore.”
The maid wrung her hands and finally confessed she was worried as to how Don Carlos Lucas would react.
“Since when has my son told me what to do? Don’t worry. I will tell him.” She settled down and allowed the maid to finish pinning up her hair. “Careful,” she said as the comb snagged, “my hair won’t grow again. My scalp is old.” She wondered how old she really was but discovered that a fog had grown about her memory. “I must be nearly a hundred,” she mumbled. “That putrid German!”
It was a morning of complacencies. With the land breeze came the voices of children, half-naked brats who fell in and out of the canal, taking to the water like brown dolphin pups. She heard the words, the insidious words of an insidious language—one-two, bato; three-four, bapor—driving her crazy with pickings of intelligibility. Ferdinand Magellan, the crazy old coot; took five ships and circumcised the globe. “What are they saying?” she asked her maid.
“Fernando Magallanes went around the world with five ships,” the maid translated.
“Not true,” she said. “Only one returned to Madrid. Magallanes stayed here—in Cebu. The indios killed him. Maybe ate him. I don’t know. Ferdinand? Where did they get this Ferdinand? Tell them it’s Fernando. Fer-nan-do.”
“Same thing, senora.”
“It’s not!” She was quiet for a moment, brooding over whether a word was exactly the same as its equivalent in another language. There was no answer to that so she found another question: “Do they really know English—the children?”
“I don’t know, senora. I can barely understand it myself. Almost, you have to make a goldfish mouth to pronounce it.”
Maya sighed. “You and I—we’re becoming obsolete. We should take a look at the world. And to see the world, we have to look at the sea. I was right. I’ll speak to Carlosito tonight.”
Ferdinand Magellan, the crazy old coot; took five ships and circumcised the globe . . . Skip, jump; skip, jump; a rope, held and swung at both ends by two girls in braids, rose and fell and slapped the ground in rhythm with the limerick.
Carlos Lucas took it as a personal insult.
“You will not do any such thing!” he yelled. “If you wish to commit suicide, you’ll do it in the privacy of this house.”
Maya let the spoon in her hand drop back to the soup plate, spattering chicken fat and broth on the tablecloth.
“Far be it,” she hissed at him, “far be it for me to even think of death. What will happen to you then? How will you survive?”
“I will not hear of your going to the sea. You wish to catch pneumonia, you can stand bare breasted at your window. You will not embarrass me by this public suicide.”
“Stop accusing me of wishing for what you wish yourself. Enough. My caleche and horses tomorrow. I will go to the sea.”
The blood left Carlos Lucas’s face. He fixed dead eyes on her, plucked the napkin from his lap, and threw it on the table.
“If you go tomorrow, I’ll have my lawyer draw up the partnership papers.” He swiveled toward Hans who, as usual, had been reduced to a cower by the noise. “Yes, Hans. We shall be partners in fact as well as name. And if I die without survivors, which I assuredly will, since my mother is intent on aggravating me to the death, you will inherit the entire company. All you have to do is agree that so long as it exists, it will be known as Villaverde y Compania.”
Hans’s mouth opened and closed several times, his eyes darting between Carlos Lucas and Maya. Finally, he managed to croak his agreement. Whereupon, Carlos Lucas pushed his chair back, bared his teeth at his mother, and stormed out of the dining room.
“The Capuchins have always been crazy,” Maya shouted after him. “And you’re no different.”
The outer door banged with such force that the chandelier crystals overhead tinkled.
“My dear German,” Maya said with a disarming smile, “am I being unreasonable?” To her, Hans, like the maid, was his nationality. El Aleman.
He winced at this reminder of his alien status. “Certainly not,” he answered with gallantry. Then, as always, caution prevailed. “On the other hand, my dear friend Don Carlos”—he stressed the possessive phrase, sensing danger in Maya’s affability—“has reason on his side. It could be risky—especially with the humors rising from the sea and your bones ... I mean, one could never be too careful with one’s health; he’s right to worry, I mean, though it may sound—”
“It sounds like shit,” Maya said. “I’m going to the sea. And that’s that.” She rose, forcing the German to stand up, and flounced out of the room. What, she asked herself, were they hiding from her?
Her last thought that night, just before she slipped inside the gauze mosquito net and climbed into bed, was of the sea. “Do not forget. My caleche and horses tomorrow,” she said to the maid.
All fight beaten out of her, the Chinese-Malay bent her head and murmured: “Yes, senora.”
It was nearly dawn when she was awakened by a commotion in the living room. For a moment, she was confused by the veil of white that circumscribed her world; she thought she had gone blind or her eyes had metamorphosed into a bad pair of binoculars, perhaps in retribution for the bizarre death of the only man who had loved her without reservation and against everything and everyone. Carlos Lucas was bellowing somewhere behind that whiteness. Maya called out calming words, thinking he was weeping over his father’s bier. Her voice cleared her mind. She swept aside one edge of the mosquito net and reached for the silver bell on the night table. Before she could ring, however, the maid appeared and, in a whisper, explained that Don Carlos was roaring drunk. He had been celebrating with two distillery workers who had brought him home and were now trying to make him stay in bed.
“So much for him,” Maya said. “I’m not changing my plans.” Carlos Lucas didn’t appear for breakfast and both Hans and Maya ignored the untouched plate on the table. She had a hearty meal, and asked Hans if he wished to join the excursion—which so frightened the German his refusal was incoherent. Maya shrugged, told him coldly he could do as he pleased, it was none of her business. At exactly ten o’clock, leaning on her maid’s arm, she traversed the living room, the foyer, and the great stone steps at the house’s flank.
She was dressed for the occasion in an embroidered blouse with loose lace-trimmed sleeves, an ankle-length lace underskirt over two petticoats, a short black overskirt hugging her hips, a shawl, and white leather shoes. She had considered the emeralds but decided that for such an early hour they would be vulgar. Instead, she wore three gold chains with saints’ medallions. She would look beautiful, she thought, on the driver’s seat of her caleche, holding the reins of her matched black horses—which she had had Carlosito buy for her as soon as there had been enough money.
“I’ll take the reins,” she said to her maid, as she slid one foot to the next step, followed it with her other foot, and kept one hand on the balustrade.
“No, senora, excuse me, senora, but no, no, no. We have a driver—”
“I don’t need one.”
“For
your status, senora, and for this caleche—yes, yes, you—we will need him.”
Outside the gate, there were neither horses nor caleche—only this man waiting beside a monstrous thing of metal and white paint, a huge box, it seemed, crouched on black wheels. It had square holes covered with glass at the front, sides, and back, windows which were held in place by a low-slung roof. A vast number of trumpet-shaped metal pieces stuck out from its body.
The man tugged at a handle and a section of the thing’s side swung open. Maya froze.
“What is this?”
“This is an automobile, senora,” the maid said, “a kind of caleche, without horses.”
Inclining her head to one side, she studied the monster, glanced at the man. “And will he pedal us all the way to the sea? He doesn’t look strong enough.”
“No, senora, it has a motor. The motor drives the wheels and he”—the maid pointed to the man—“will use that other little wheel to steer it. It’s quite safe.”
Maya pushed her away. “WHERE ARE MY HORSES?”
The maid burst into tears. Don Carlos Lucas, she confessed, had sold both caleche and horses years and years ago, that’s why he didn’t want the senora to go to the sea, because she would have to use the automobile. He was so distressed at the thought of her distress he had knocked himself out with gin the night before. He couldn’t face her.
“The sniveling coward,” Maya said, grinning at the fright of maid, driver, and the distillery workers alike. “My lovely horses.”
“They were getting old, senora.”
“Like me. You will replace me, too? Traitors.”
The maid covered her face.
“Really, senora, it is quite safe,” the driver interposed. “Besides which, if you want to go to the sea, there is no other way.”
“Very well,” she said, calmly. “If I must, I must. I go in there and sit?”
The man nodded. She swept forward, climbed aboard, and arranged her skirts on the velvet upholstery. “The roof,” she declared, “is too low.” She noticed the maid, who had hung back. “Well, come on in, come on. We will drive to the sea.”
State of War Page 18