It was, she thought, an omen and her witnessing it had been no accident.
It was a pestilential sight, the Loved One thought, catching a glimpse of it through an open window he did not dare approach. He remained instead in the room’s center and watched, hands clasped behind him. From the rooms below and all about him, the noise of his sanctuary’s demolition rose. He mouthed a curse. Because of that stupid goat Adrian Banyaga, he would have to face the dark. The sun and moon, now, together in the sky, boded no good, as far as he was concerned. He would have liked to go to the window, lean his hands on the sill, and examine the phenomenon. But that would not do at all, not at all. The memory of one night was still fresh. One evening when, as was his wont, he had had himself driven to his mistress’s house—that stupid, silly woman whose hysterics afterward had provoked that unfortunate gun-butt blow on her skull top—for an hour of release. The doorbell had rung. Luckily, his aide, a lieutenant of the same height and build as Amor, had opened the door, only to be saluted by six .32-caliber bullets discharged right into his face. Rest in peace. Since then, Colonel Urbano Amor stayed away from open windows and doors. The enemy was always on the prowl outside. He had gotten rid of the mistress as well. What remained of her, anyhow, with her twitching hands, dragging leg, and drooling mouth. He had had his wife taken away, too, that sterile female bonded to him by law. She was on a small uninhabited island now, in the north, guarded by soldiers, surrounded by luxury. It would take a destroyer to assault that fort.
Not that he cared, stupid woman that she was. But it would not do to give the enemy the satisfaction of touching anything remotely his. He had no doubts they would try. Sooner or later, it did not matter. They would—for he himself had no compunction about touching what was even remotely theirs.
They, theirs, the enemy. He disliked the vagueness of those words. He needed a face (faces), a name (names), a body (bodies) of flesh and blood. An identity (identities) he could hook his claws into and dissect into information. Growing angrier by the minute, he stared back at the sun and moon, wishing it was the day’s beginning instead of the end, so he could pursue her. Her face swam upward behind his eyes: the firm, smooth cheeks, the hazel eyes, the small, succulent mouth with its hint of corruption, the fair skin. An asset. He could let her loose among more powerful men and siphon off their strengths, using her, though she would be of full use only if she agreed. And she would agree only if she let go of her stupid vestiges of sentiment. Friendship, duty, obligation. These people never changed, he told himself, the words echoing a familiar thought. They still believed labels sufficed to confer a value on the intangible. Amor sighed; he made a mental note to speak to the Commander. Language had to be changed; names had to be changed; places had to be re-baptized; all moral and ethical signposts eradicated. Call the sun, the moon; the moon, the sun and no one would be able to find his way out of confusion’s labyrinth without guidance. He, Colonel Urbano Amor, shall guide the way. He would be the truth, the way, the life. He smiled at this relic of his past. But how pleasant the thought was. The truth, the way, the life.
His brow knitted. It was a pestilential sight, nevertheless, boding no good for the morrow’s undertaking. He would have to take a sleeping pill tonight but no—the stupid governor would wait for him, together with the town mayor and the provincial commander, stupid one and all. He jerked back, straining his shoulders, feeling the very air restraining him. Of all the stupid luck, she had to be a stupid officer’s mistress. Batoyan, the stupid, whom Amor himself had approved to be the Commander’s aide, precisely because of his stupidity. Now, he had to proceed slowly, carefully, for touching what was another officer’s was frowned upon. The others would say he was getting too big for his breeches. They would mass against him. And working insidiously, relentlessly, they would strip him of his privilege and his protection, leaving him to the enemy outside. His shoulders strained again. He groaned—a terrible sound that momentarily stilled the commotion outside the room. Proceed carefully. With caution. And take full measure of this pestilential omen.
Adrian knew it was coming, this conjunction of moon and sun. The children had told him. Squatting at a roadside food stall, driven by hunger to purchase two boiled plantains, he had peeled the brown soft skin back to reveal the steaming, golden flesh within. As he ate, thinking he had never had better food—or as right a kind of food at as right a moment—he returned the children’s stare. A dozen of them surrounded him, keeping their distance, but intent upon him nevertheless. Now and then, two would lean their heads together, take counsel from each other. Despite their care, his name slipped out from among the jumble of incomprehensible hisses and titters. Adrian, Adrian. He chewed calmly and when he finished the first plantain, he threw the skin at the nearest group of children. They scattered, screaming with laughter, but merely ran in circles and, like disturbed doves, returned when it was obvious he planned to go on eating. He peeled the second plantain. Adrian, Adrian, the children’s voices whispered.
“Goddamn kids,” he said to the old man vendor. “They know everything.”
He rose, tossed the other banana peel toward the trees.
“You!” he called to the nearest child, a boy, barefoot, half-naked, his penis a fat brown worm. “What do you know?”
The boy grinned, showing missing front teeth. “Today, the sun and moon hold hands.”
“Hold hands! Crazy. What does that mean?”
The boy glanced at the old man, who nodded. “It means tomorrow—” He collapsed into giggles, collected himself, and went on, struggling against laughter. “Tomorrow the sea will collect tribute. From the Festival!” The last was shouted. The boy fled.
“See,” Adrian said. “They know everything.”
The old man smiled. He, too, was missing his front teeth. “Will they be building the resort?”
Adrian shook his head in wonder. “You, too, brute?”
The old man shrugged. “Everything is known.”
“And you read it off leaves, I bet. Listen, I don’t know. And listen, I don’t care.”
He was thinking of Anna and Eliza and the problem of finding them among the two hundred thousand benighted creatures in the town. Find them before his father did, for he was sure the game was not over; traps were still being laid along his path. Old Andy, help! He called to his grandfather in his head, even as he moved down the road toward the town. Help. Bring the sun and moon together.
This was the moon’s dominion now, its milk flooding the streets, house walls, and roofs, lapping like the tide at shadowed recesses, boles of trees, coconut fronds, licking the buntings overhead, the bamboo arches, and the electric poles. Men and women chased their shadows through the town, the Festival broken and scattered. Anna joined a stream of people heading for the wharf where the steel boats scurried between ships and shore, ferrying passengers. Coleman lamps had been strung along the pier and, by their unsteady light, the visitors formed a queue, steadying one another against wind gusts and the slickness of sand and salt water underfoot. From underneath the pier, darkness crawled up, retreated, bodied forth again, with each swaying of the strings of lamps. The noise was terrific. The uncertain footing lent a sense of adventure to the waiting and each tremor of the pier at the waves’ impact set off a volley of shrieks and laughter among the passengers. Out in the sea, ship lights blazed—a beacon to ferryboats which carried their own Coleman lamps.
At the landward end of the pier, the noise was loudest. It was here that Anna saw Eliza, barefoot, shoes tied by their laces to her belt, a knapsack on her back. She was, by this time, in the queue’s center, fixed in place by the woman in front and the man behind. She waved to Eliza, calling her just as another wave hurled itself against the pier. Anna slipped but the man behind caught her by a shoulder and steadied her. Glancing back, she saw Eliza veer away and head for the water, stopping now and then to dig her toes in the sand. Did she mean to swim to the ship? But Eliza went on pacing back and forth, stamping her feet, and after a while Anna re
alized she was trying to make escape canals for seawater trapped in sand furrows. Just then, the pier shuddered; a boat had scraped against its pillars. Screams. Laughter. The line was moving. Anna found herself staring down at the boat’s bottom, a good four feet below. Two men stood there, their arms held upward. She was shoved forward and fell but the men caught her deftly, a little hard around her waist and ribs, but they set her on her feet gently enough, steadying her against the boat’s swaying. She made her way forward. Despite the primitive way of loading, the boat filled quickly—men and women standing on spread legs, some holding on to the boat’s walls, others to one another. Crammed thus in the hold, Anna couldn’t see whether Eliza had made it. She prayed she had boarded the right boat, that she would not find herself in a strange ship. She was hungry and exhausted.
By luck, it brought her to the proper ship. She climbed the rope ladder, pushed by hands from below, and pulled by hands from above, so she had no time at all to think of falling. She reached the deck, gasping with relief. It was easy passage to her cabin, for the ship was half empty, most of its passengers having elected to stay on the island. In her cabin, she laid out clothes, soap, and towel, and was about to undress when someone knocked. It was a steward, with a message from Adrian. He was in the radio room and if she wanted to, she could join him. Otherwise, they would meet for dinner. She thanked the man, and locked the door carefully before unbuttoning her right sleeve and loosening the knife’s cords. She thrust it under the pillow. Adrian was probably calling Manila. Business. He was always on business.
It was not that at all, he said to her later, looking hurt at this summary judgment. He had tried to contact his grandfather. But the connection kept failing. He thought he recognized the maids’ voices in Old Andy’s mansion, but there had been a painful sputter and the voices had waned, grown loud, waned again. Interference, the operator had said, probably from a nearby military base.
To Anna’s relief, only a dozen or so couples were in the dining room, scattered among the tables. She and Adrian had been given the best location—beside the glass-paned windows through which the island lights were visible. “But what happened to you?” he asked.“I didn’t see you the whole day.”
“Nothing. Nothing unusual. Where did you go?”
“Here and there,” he said, as careful as she was not to cause distress.“1 wish we were on the way now—back. Back home.”
“What will you do then? Make more money?” She laughed.
He picked up the menu, ran through the list quickly, found something for her and for himself. Then, having given their orders, he turned back to her, setting his arms on the table. Anna shifted in her chair.
“I want to go away.”
She nodded.
“To Hong Kong maybe. Or Tokyo. Anywhere. I’m tired. For a month, at least. Two, maybe.”
“What’re you running from? Me?”
“I want you to come with me.”
She was surprised. “What’re you running from, Adrian?”
“Don’t tease,” he said. “I want you with me. I want you to—” He flushed. “Help me. I’m no good at this.”
She shook her head. “I’m too old for you.”
His hands clenched, unclenched. He had the impulse to throw himself on his knees.
“Really,” she said. “Too old. You don’t even know anything about me.”
He opened his mouth but a spray of laughter fell on their heads. It was Eliza, soaked to the skin, waving her shoes.
“You abandoned me,” she shrieked, sliding into a vacant seat at their table.
“Not true,” said Adrian. “We held on to that chair for you.”
“Uh-uh. The place is certainly crowded.” She looked about the room mockingly. “But I had such great fun, running around with the transvestites. We danced ourselves silly.”
“Good for you,” Anna said.
“I met Colonel Amor, by the way.” She said it easily enough, keeping her eyes on the centerpiece orchid and blade of fern. Something beautiful to shroud her lie. A movement across the table. Adrian had reached for Anna’s hand, covering it with his fingers. Eliza, surprised, gave him a covert glance. He knew.
At Adrian’s touch, Anna had looked at him as well. He knew. Though Adrian made no other move, his expression was eloquent. It was in the eyes, she thought; one could always tell.
“He’s here because that son-of-a-goat Commander will be here tomorrow.”
“Sssh! Keep your voice down.” Anna picked up a spoon.
“Well, okay. That goat of a Commander. I don’t know what for. But Colonel Amor’s in charge of security—or security intelligence. I forgot what. He sends his regards. Most civilized of him, I should say.” She felt the wet hair on her nape. “I should take a shower. You order for me, Adrian. I’ll be back. And don’t gossip about me while I’m gone.”
It was done. Seamlessly. In her cabin, she slid the backpack off her shoulders to the bed. It was only after she had unzipped it and thrust in a hand to ferret among its odds and ends for the .22-caliber carefully wrapped by the transvestite that she noticed the envelope on her bed. A radiogram from Batoyan. His request for a leave of absence, having cleared the military’s first level of command, was stuck somewhere in the intelligence division. Wish you were here, said the note. Eliza smiled. Silly old man. She raised the gun and sighted. Small, the transvestite had said, but sufficient at close range. Aim for the head. Or the crotch. Her hand shook. Sighing, she lowered the gun. There was no helping it, she thought. Amor would never let her go. He had said as much during their accidental encounter in a side street. It was just lucky she had danced before then and was sober enough when he had come up behind her, tapping her shoulder with his swagger stick.
He smiled at her surprise. “Having a good time?”
He wore civilian clothes—a white shirt, a pair of black polyester pants. This close to him, she realized she was taller. Or nearly his height, though Amor’s way of craning his neck forward gave the impression he was addressing someone two inches taller.
“Come, come,” he said, “you can’t fail to recognize me!”
“No,” she said.
“I’ve been waiting and waiting. I showed myself to you at the balcony. Too bad your friend had to see me. But there’s no helping that now. Perhaps, it did her good. The soul has to be taken by the shoulders and reminded. Now and then. Otherwise, we end up mired in sloth.”
“Your words or—”
He laughed. “Don’t tease. Even though I have a military rank, I’m a true scholar of the human psyche. Someday, you’ll find out. I’m not as stupid as you think I am.” He cupped her elbow and led her away from the plaza.
“No one would make that mistake, Colonel.”
“Pah!” He smacked the swagger stick against his left thigh. “Words. Nothing but words. What do you have for me?”
Her bones ached. She was too rigid. She inhaled, forcing her heart to calm down.
“Why don’t you leave her alone? A poor kid—”
He snorted. “She would tear me apart with her hands if she could.”
“And she has no reason to do that?”
He stopped. “How sharp you are! My mistake. You’d tear me apart. If you could. With your bare hands. But what frightens you? The loss of your home? Your Mercedes? Your servants? You can have twice that and more. More!” He raised his fists. “More! Just give me, give me that man. I need him. Oh, how I need him!” He writhed. “For what?”
He bent his head, catching his forehead with a hand. “I’ve gone as far as I can go. If I don’t move soon, I’ll have to wait forever.” He looked up, bared his teeth. He sighed. “But pay no attention to me. I’m just—just tired. Vigilance is tiring. I need that man because he has important information. That’s all. Or think of him as a step. Unfortunately, I can’t jump over that step. I have to take it.” He straightened his shoulders. “But why do you ask? I serve the Commander; this man’s an enemy. And it would give me great pleasure to b
ring him to the Commander. There’s pleasure in service, Eliza. The discipline of suppressing the ego in the name of duty. There’s joy in being empty, clean, so that one can be filled with nothing more, nothing less than obedience.” He laughed. “Wasn’t that delightful?”
She shivered. “I don’t think she knows. Really. All she’s ever wanted was to walk around carrying her father’s saxophone...”
“Her fa—!” His eyes glazed. He scanned an interior country. It was only a second, then he was laughing. Laughing. He leaned against the wall of a house and wiped his eyes. “Remarkable,” he said, weakly. “Dear, dear Eliza. Remarkable. We’re fated to keep on meeting each other through time. What a war!”
She watched open-mouthed, afraid she had betrayed Anna. But how?
“How could that have escaped me? Oh, but this is truly delightful! I must check that. And check her husband’s family. Delightful. Oh, don’t look so scared. It’s nothing. An old memory.” He jerked himself forward. “But now I must have her as well. How do we manage this? The moment of truth.”
Her belly roiled. He was reaching for her again, taking her hand, walking.
“Tell me, tell me.”
She twisted, whining, saying there was nothing to find out, nothing to discover. His fingers about her hand tightened, tightened until she thought her bones would crack. She bit her underlip’s inner skin.
“We could place a bullet between your middle and ring fingers. And with pliers, we could…
“Aaaah!”
State of War Page 36