When the Elephants Dance (49 page)

Of course, the next day was a different story. Zoila plied me with so many questions that I had to beg her to stop. She made my head spin with how quickly she fired the questions at me.

“Did you enjoy the party?” and before I could answer, “Did your brother sleep with any of the women?” and then before I could lie and reassure her that he had not, “It is not my place to ask. What of you? Did you find anyone you fancied? Prettier than me? No, of course not, that is a silly question. No one is prettier than me.”

I wanted to put the whole incident behind me. The thought of Oscar bedding down with one of the natives was revolting. The excursion set my teeth on edge, like tasting a bad persimmon, with the chalky taste indelible on your tongue.

M
Y PORTRAITS WERE
becoming well-known. I was to have a showing at the end of the following month. One of the
hacendados
had commissioned me to paint a mural along the side of his barn. He wanted it to be a portrait of our homeland, of Spain. He desired it to face east, where the sun first rises, so that the blessings of God would begin with him. I had decided to do one of Magellan’s ships, with an image of the
hacendado
descending, in the costume of an aide to Magellan. I knew the man’s ego, and I knew this would please him. I
would paint the bright yellow bananas, the green jungle and palm trees, the monkeys, and the rich land. The
hacendado
was greatly pleased with the idea I proposed. In fact, he suggested I include his wife in the dress of the queen herself.

I told him it might not be a wise move, that the image might offend the others. So he agreed that his wife be one of the ladies-in-waiting. In truth, I did not like the woman and would have painted her as one of the sows if I’d thought it would escape his notice.

I ran out of supplies that day, and since I had not had the forethought to order them, I made a trip across town. There was a small shop in the middle of one of the markets in what is now the San Andres district. It meant that I would have to cross through the Filipino markets, but anything concerning my art was always a matter of life and death. If I had an image burning in my head, I would go crazy until I could begin.

Once, I had gotten up in the middle of the night and had painted a whole sunset using only egg yolk, flower, olives, and red and blue berries.

That morning I dressed more simply. I feared being hounded by the villagers for money. But as I dressed, I became angry at the thought of making concessions for them, so I tore off my cotton clothes and put on my best suit, a sombrero with a wide brim, and polished shoes. I ordered Manuel to fit our best
kalesa
and dress it with two of our Arabians. I left the house whistling. Little did I know that that morning would change my life.

O
F COURSE, ALL
the peasants stopped and stared as our
kalesa
drove through the streets. Again, the young children chased after us with their hands outstretched for money. I shooed them away with my hat.

“You want a carriage like this? It takes hard work. You cannot expect to make any money chasing carriages all day. Find some work,” I said with disgust. Soon I noticed we were slowing down. I stuck out my head. “Manuel, what is keeping you?”

Manuel shrugged, looking back at me. “A woman has dropped her package and the people are stopping to help her.”

I was overheating in the carriage and came out to inspect the delay. A woman was indeed picking up her belongings, dozens of mangoes, papayas, guavas, plums, and small packages on the ground. It would take hours before we could pass. I walked up to the crowd. I did not know if the woman spoke Spanish or not, but I did not think twice.

“You are keeping me from my appointment,” I told her, tapping my foot. Her helpers dispersed at the sight of me.

“Sorry, sir, I paid good money for these,” she said in broken Spanish.
“Uno momento, por favor,”
she begged, holding up one finger.

I walked away and looked at the men on the streets watching me with derision. “What are you staring at?” I shouted.

They shook their heads and laughed among themselves. If there was one thing I could not abide, it was to be ridiculed. The Jacinto-Basa name was not one to be scoffed at. We had come from two families of generals, doctors, admirals, heroes. I walked to the woman and pulled her by the arm.

“Basta!
Enough, you have made me late.”

“Please, sir …” She scrambled, trying to chase a few guavas. “I am almost done.”

“Manuel!” I shouted.

“Señor?”

“Help this woman pick up her baggage and let us be on our way.”

“Thank you, señor.” She smiled.

I waited ten seconds, then shouted, “Manuel!”

“Yes, señor?”

“Let us be on our way.”

The woman looked around frantically “Señor, please,” she begged, “only a few minutes more.”

I led her by her elbow and pulled her aside. “You see this
kalesa?”
I pointed. She nodded. “I am getting on. If you do not move aside, you will be crushed along with your belongings. I shall give you two seconds.”

I counted out loud, “One, two,” and ordered Manuel to ride through, and he did. The woman cried out. She must have felt every plum as the carriage bounced over each one. She stood with her strong calves spread slightly apart, wringing her hands.

W
E ARRIVED AT
the supply store just in time. I managed to gather what I could, but I was annoyed at having to choose my items quickly.

We returned to a quiet house. I was told that Oscar had waited for over an hour for me before departing for a card game. I ordered the servants to leave me and settled myself in my workroom, a room with large windows overlooking Manila Bay. It was once our father’s study. I loved the room, because it stayed cool from the shading of the large
narra
trees and the breeze from the
bay. The light allowed me to catch the various subtleties of color, the sage green to the darkest olive, the stark white of the clouds, and the brilliance of a clamshell. I could catch every phase of the horizon, from the pristine blue of a morning sky to the violet and then the deep indigo of night.

I was painting flowers that day, the wildflowers against the cliffs my brother and I had scaled the week before. I was sitting back, contemplating where to set Oscar’s image as he climbed, when the door opened. One of the servants walked in and stood behind me. “Lovely picture.”

“Mmm,” I said, annoyed at being spoken to first. Another new servant in need of manners.

“You are quite talented,” the woman said.

“I did not ask your opinion. Fetch me some wine.” I was not particularly thirsty but wanted to remind her of her place.

The door slammed, and I heard the servant walk down the hall heavily; it set my teeth on edge. When she returned she let the door shut even louder.

“Watch how you enter a room. You walk as though you have rocks in your shoes. Where is my drink?”

“Here,” she said. And before I could turn to reach for the drink, the red of the wine was flung across my canvas.

I shouted a curse.

A young woman stood with her feet set apart and her hands on her hips. Her skin was a smooth brown, her dress simple, a tan sleeveless thing. She had the figure of a dancer.

My eyes moved upward appreciatively, and I found her slender neck to be even more pleasing. I watched, transfixed, as the little pulse on her neck beat a fast tempo. The set of her wonderful chin was tight, and her almond eyes flashed hatred. Her hair was pulled back in a knot made by her own hair.

“You must learn some manners.” I laughed, my anger turning into interest.

“The same can be said of you, señor,” she said, the last part with obvious disdain.

“Who are you?” I folded my arms with a pleased smile.

“Not your servant,
Señor Estupido
. Today you were at the market?”

“Yes.” I raised my brow, inspecting her features and realizing she was Filipina. I’d been so struck by her fierce beauty, I had not realized it.

“You drove over a woman’s bag of foods?”

“Is this an inquisition?” I asked. “I was late. I would not have been able to purchase my supplies if the woman had kept me any longer, and in fact I was not in time to accompany my family on a social gathering.”

“Ah, I see. You were headed somewhere important. Well, why did you not say? And these are the supplies, señor?” Again she said the title with scoff, as she inspected my paints.

“Yes,” I said as if I were addressing a child.

“A pity your trip was a waste,” she said, and spilled my entire table of paints to the floor.

I roared and reached to grab her. I managed an arm. She swung around and laid the palm of her hand strongly against my ear. I heard a ringing in the room for some time after.

“That was my
inay
you ridiculed, and you wasted a week’s worth of our food.”

“Inay?
What is that word?”

“You are the educated class, are you not?” she asked with a smirk.

“I do not speak your language.”

“So you deny your Filipino blood?”

“What are you speaking of?”

“Are you not Fredrico Jacinto-Basa?”

“The same.”

“Then you also have Filipino blood coursing through those pathetic veins of yours, or do you dupe yourself into believing otherwise?”

I was speechless. It was no secret that our grandmother was Filipina, but I did not know the entire province knew.

“It is harder to tell with your brother and his blue eyes. But you, though you look full-blooded Spanish, at a certain angle I see the face of my people. I have seen you before in that high carriage you ride. The word
inay
means ‘mother,’ you idiot. You would do well to ask yours who your ancestors are.”

“Basta
, enough!” I roared. “What makes you take such liberties at calling me such things?”

“What makes you take such liberties with other people’s dignity? Do you think my mother was proud to have a Spaniard run over her food? Do you think it was with gratitude that she thought of those few seconds you gave her to pick up just one more apple? What gives you the right to take one’s pride away? What if that were your
inay?”

I laughed. “No one would dare do such a thing. It is out of the question.”

“You bastard,” she spat. Then she turned and walked out of the room.

“Wait,” I called, rushing after her, but she walked quickly past an amazed servant and out the front door. I tripped over a small bronze statue of a donkey my mother had recently purchased. When I swung open the door, Zoila was
standing there tapping her heels, looking over her shoulder at the Filipina’s departing figure.

“Who was that, Fredrico?” Her eyes were thin slits.

“I do not know,” I said with exasperation. “And you will not talk to me in that tone.”

She looked taken aback. “I merely asked.”

“Do not ask!” I shouted. I took a deep breath, then said more quietly, “Come, let us find where Oscar has gone.”

W
E FOUND
O
SCAR
at a restaurant called El Loro Azul, named for the bright blue parrot of the owner’s. There was a small floor for dancing and three men playing flamenco guitars while a fourth sang. Oscar was with our cousins, and as always there was a bevy of young women nearby.

“Hola, Fredrico
.” He waved. “Here is my brother now,” Oscar announced to the room.

As we crossed the floor, I noticed a young woman with the same build as the nameless Filipina who had visited me. It was not she, but that was how it went the rest of the evening. I noticed anyone who had her hair, her style of dress.

I took Oscar aside; I wanted to ask him his thoughts in this matter. I found myself watching the Filipino servants as they passed. An older Filipino came to clean our table. I watched him closely, glancing down at the color of my skin, then back to his. He must have felt my scrutiny. He became anxious and spilled a glass of sangria onto my pants.

“Damn you!” I shouted.

“Sorry, señor. My apologies, sir.” The man tried to clean the mess. He smiled, trying to elicit a smile from me.

Oscar clapped a hand on my shoulder. “Leave us,” he told the servant. “Brother, what is it? You are as nervous as a mare in a room full of stallions.”

“Do you ever think of us as one of them?” I gestured with my cigarette to the servants moving from table to table.

“As a servant?” Oscar scoffed.

I frowned. “No, as a Filipino.”

“Ah.” Oscar nodded. “I see. No, Mama never recognizes that part of her, so why should I?”

“Is she still alive? Our grandmother?”

“If she is, Mama will not say. You should know that. The woman did not want her.”

“Grandfather forced her. Isn’t that the story? She was a Filipina servant, and Grandfather had an eye for her. She became pregnant and left Mama on the doorstep.”

“Who cares what the story is. I heard Tita Annabella say that the woman was indeed Filipina, but that she seduced Grandfather. She found herself with child, then abandoned Mama as an infant, and that is that.”

“I met a Filipina woman today.”

“Ahh.” Oscar smiled knowingly. “She was very beautiful?”

“Yes, but that is beside the point.”

“Of course. What is the point?”

“Well, she was very proud for a peasant.”

“Peasants cannot have pride?”

“That is not what I am saying.”

“What are you saying, Fredrico? You are starting to make my head hurt.”

“She ruined my painting.”

“Madre de Dios
, Fredrico, so paint another one. You are becoming too obsessed with your work.”

“Of course, that is your answer to everything. Everything is replaceable. People are replaceable.” I put my hand through my hair.

Oscar looked at me. “Fredrico,” he said, “you are starting to unnerve me. You have had too much to drink. Have Manuel take you home.”

“I can take myself home. You are right. I am tired. I should not have come.”

“Yes, everything will be better after sleep.
Buenas noches
, baby,” he said in that familiar way he used to smile and frown at the same time, as if I were some amusing puzzle.