When the Elephants Dance (50 page)

H
E WAS WRONG
. My sleep was restless. I dreamt that I woke in the jungle and that my skin was a dark brown. I was one of the natives, and I wore deerhide trousers and carried a spear. I followed a trail to my house, and when my brother opened the door he did not recognize me.

It was past noon when I woke. Oscar was having coffee in the
sala
. His legs were crossed, and he was reading the paper. “You look like you’ve been in a cockfight without spurs,” he said.

“Shut up.” I sank into the sofa. “This is all your fault. You have poisoned my mind with these dark-skinned women.”

“That is the problem, Fredrico. What you need to do is poison your body with them instead.” Oscar lowered his paper and grinned. “I will find a woman just like the one you cannot stop thinking of, and after you bed her, phh.” He
waved his hand in the air, shooing away the image. “She will be out of your mind for good.”

“Save your remedies. I will not taint myself with those women. You know I prefer our señoritas.”

“That is not what Zoila thought after you left her last night. I had to take her home. You left without saying good-bye.”

I shut my eyes at his words. “She was angry?”

Oscar laughed. “You are being too kind to yourself. She was furious.”

“She will flog me with that vicious tongue. Why did you not remind me?”

“How was I to know you would leave so soon after I suggested it? When have you been known to follow any suggestions I make? Are you coming to the fiesta tonight? If you are, may I suggest you dress appropriately? Take a shower, shave that forest of a face. You smell like a horse’s ass.”

“I will meet you after I work on Señor Cardoza’s mural.”

“You will not be late?”

“No,”

“I have your word?”

“In the name of heaven, Oscar, you begin to sound like Zoila.”

He grinned, folded up the newspaper, and hit me over the head with it. “Then I shall see you this evening. You are certain you do not wish to come to the dog races?”

“Here.” I handed him a few pesos. “Bet on the red.”

I
DID NOT
tell Oscar that I wanted to go to the market. I waited until he left before I dressed and called Manuel to ready the
kalesa
. Maybe I did not even tell myself.

We crossed back to San Andres, and I stood up in my seat and asked Manuel to pull to the side. I recognized the woman I had injured the prior day. I quickly got out of the
kalesa
before Manuel could bring it to a stop. She did not notice me approach. She had two baskets of fruit, the very same kind that I had damaged.

“Señora …” I walked beside her. “Señora, let me help you.” I took one of the bags from her.

She squinted at me as if trying to recognize an old friend. A smile teetered on her lips. “Oh, no.” She grabbed frantically for the package when she realized who I was.

I shook my head. “Señora, I merely want to ask a question. The young woman who paid me a visit, she is your daughter?”

“I am sorry, sir. I begged her not to go. She did much damage?” she asked in broken Spanish.

“What is her name?”

The lady stopped and wrung her hands. “How much to fix the damage?”

“The damage is not an issue. I merely ask her name.”

“Please, señor.” She looked near tears. “She is a good girl, headstrong at times, but that is my fault.”

“I do not wish to hurt her. I am curious.”

The woman sighed and looked down the street. A group of Filipinos were walking our way. They exchanged words, and the woman looked at me. The men made a fence around us, and they ushered the woman away. I stepped aside to follow her, but they would not let me pass. I could see Manuel waiting in the
kalesa
for me to give the signal for him to step down. Manuel was a giant of a man, and there would be many with broken bones if he stepped down. I shook my head at him and turned to the Filipinos.

“What is this about?” I demanded.

“You tell us, Spaniard,” said the spokesman of the group. He was a slender man, my age, perhaps a few years older. He had the tight muscles of the cliff climbers.

“Step aside, I have business with the woman.”

“The woman is my mother. Your business is with me,” the man said.

I looked at him squarely. “You do not want trouble from me. Do you know the bad luck that will follow if you start?”

“Worse than sharing our home with Spaniards?” the man said, smirking.

“It is a good thing that you smile,
cabrón
.” I stepped back and lifted my fists.

There were footsteps behind the men, and I saw that the woman had returned with her daughter.

“Virgil, let me pass.” The girl shoved her brother aside.

The sight of her eased my temper.

“You were looking for me?” she asked, hands on hips as in the day before.

She made me smile, though I tried my best to hide it. “I came to apologize.” The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them.

She laughed. “That is ridiculous. What is it you want? I warn you, these people will not let you hurt me if you have come to repay me for what I did.”

“I came to ask if you would let me paint you. As a kind of apology.” Again the words were out of my mouth without thinking. I had not intended to say them. I felt like an outsider listening to someone else speak. I was curious to hear what would come next.

“And why would you do such a thing?”

“I would like to. Your
inay
would like a portrait of you, would she not?”

“Of course, we could display it in our
sala
whenever our guests arrive for tea and biscuits,” she said with magnificent derision.

My face fell. I reached into my pockets and pulled out a few pesos. “Here, then, let me repay your mother for mutilating her food.”

She looked at my money as if I held out carabao dung. It was a wonder she did not spit on my hand. “Surely you do not think you can assuage what my mother experienced yesterday with your spare change?”

Again I misunderstood her and took out more money, feeling like a fool, with a crowd now starting to form around us.

She ignored my outstretched hand. “What is it you want, señor?”

“Fredrico, call me Fredrico, please.”

“What is it you want, señor?”

I looked from her to a little beggar boy pulling at my shirt. I gave him the money and he took off running, with five other children chasing after him.

“I want to make amends. We started out very badly.”

She looked at me and laughed. “Go home, Señor Basa, this is no place for you.”

I could not move. I could hear myself saying, “Is there any way?”

Her mother stepped close. I had already forgotten her presence. “A portrait, you say? You can do this? Make a grand picture of my daughter?”

“Inay,”
the girl protested. She spoke in a flurry of Tagalog, pleading and arguing with her mother.

The mother looked at me hopefully, then back to the daughter. “He has offered. I did not ask him to come here. Oh, but it would be so lovely, would it not, Divina?”

“S
EÑOR
, S
EÑOR
F
REDRICO …
” I could hear Manuel’s voice in the fog of my dreams.

“I shall have your head for waking me this early, Manuel.” I looked around the room. My silk sheets were crumpled at the bottom of the bed. I looked toward the window. “It is still dark, you imbecile, what is the meaning of this?”

“You asked me to wake you, señor. To paint the Filipina, remember?”

I looked at my bare feet. The urge to pull the sheets over my head was overwhelming.

“¿Quieres café?”
he asked.

“No coffee. Quickly,” I told him, looking at the clock. I could picture the girl smirking at my tardiness, and that image was like a dousing of ice water.

~

I
ARRIVED AT
the flimsy excuse for a house at thirty past six. Manuel looked at me dubiously as I stepped down. “Have Luisa prepare a meal for me at noontime.”

“Sí, señor
.” He watched me walk up the three steps and waited until I waved him off. I had with me my easel folded under my arm and the rest of my paints and brushes in a leather bag. The mother opened the door and curtsied at the sight of me. She was visibly nervous.

“Buenos días,”
I said with difficulty. Good morning. It was hard for me to address the woman; I would never have greeted our servants in the morning, but I thought it best to be on civil terms.

“Buenos días, señor
. Divina is not here,” she blurted, then wrung her hands furiously. “She wait, then she become tired. She is stone-headed,” she said in broken Spanish.

“Stubborn, you mean?” I asked sarcastically. I was furious. I had told Manuel to go, and I was impossibly stuck until noon.

“Please, señor, do not be angry with she.”

“Her,” I corrected.

“Pardon?”

“Never mind.
Nada
.” I paced irately.

A little boy and girl were peeking out from behind the mother’s skirts. She shooed them, and they skipped away, shouting,
“Nada! Nada!”

“I came all this way to paint her. I should have the two of you thrown in prison. This is incredibly disrespectful.”

“No, señor, por favor,”
she begged. Please.

“This is a setback, you understand?”

“Sí, sí, señor
.” She agreed with anything I said. “Will you sit, please?” She opened the door and pointed to a stiff-looking wooden chair. One of the legs was bent at an angle, and I was not certain it would hold my weight. I could picture the girl laughing at me as she worked in the fields. She would expect me to turn around and leave.

“Yes, I shall sit. Have you no better accommodations?” I frowned at the chair.

“¿Qué?”
She squinted at me.

“La mejor silla
. A better chair?”

“Eh, anó? Ah, ¿qué?”
she said in a mix of Tagalog and Spanish.

“Nada
.” I put down my belongings and gave her my best scowl.

I seated myself and was surprised at the sturdiness of the chair. I took off
my coat and watched a roach scurry across the table. I put the coat back on. We looked at each other. I must have looked as odd as a peacock in a henhouse with my fine suit and hat. I decided to go about my business and opened my leather bag and began to bring out my brushes. I laid them out according to size, and when I bent down to bring out my paints, I saw that the mother was still standing there.

“Yes?” I looked up at her.

“Señor, I cook morning food.” She pointed to the stove.
“Desayuno
.”

“You want me to move?” I asked in disbelief.

“Sí
, move, here. Outside here.” She pointed to the back.

I let out a big sigh, gathered my things, and followed her to the back of the house, which was only a few feet away. I saw two rooms as I passed. One had two mats folded on the floor. The other was smaller, with four mats folded up against the wall. There were no cabinets for clothes. The clothes were separated neatly in four piles against the wall. I was surprised to find that the back of the house was not so much a garden as a glorious field of wildflowers. She disappeared into the house and returned with the crooked chair.

“What is her name, your daughter?” I asked.

“Maricel.” She curtsied.

“Maricel, very good.” I waved her off and set up the easel.

“And you, señor?” She waited.

“You may call me Señor Fredrico Jacinto-Basa.” I inclined my head.

“Ah.
Sí
.” She looked confused and hurried out of the room, then came back and curtsied once again.

The children came out and watched from the corner of the house. They threw little stones until I got up and told the mother what they were doing. The stones stopped coming, and the little boy later appeared rubbing his backside humbly.

A
N HOUR BEFORE
noon I heard voices and could understand a little of the Tagalog. An older man peered outside the door. “Señor.” He bowed.

I inclined my head and continued painting the sketch of wildflowers I had started. The man went back inside and said, “It is true he is out there.”

Next came the sound of stomping feet. The door flew open and the young woman appeared. Her perfect olive complexion was red. Pieces of her hair were stuck to her face from sweat. She wore a simple man’s shirt folded at the sleeves, worn trousers also folded at the ends, and sandals. The rest of her hair was twisted and pinned up loosely.

I stood. “Señorita Maricel,” I said.

“This is ridiculous,” she said in perfect Spanish. “There is much work to be done. I do not have the time to sit for a silly portrait. You have made your point. Your apology for the other day is accepted. Now please go.”

“My God, your arrogance matches my own.”

“Do not flatter yourself. This kind of attitude is forged from strength; yours is simply from good looks.”

“So you admit to it, then? My appeal.” It was difficult not to tease her.

“Who denies it? It simply does not impress me.”

“Why do you grow angry, then?”

“This is not anger, it is boredom.”

“Fantastic.” I grinned.

“Go.” She pointed.

I raised my voice to match hers. “I did not come all this way, wait all this time, to be treated in such a way. You are truly a peasant.”

I could see I had her, for she started to push up both her sleeves as if she were ready for a fight.

Her mother had been watching from the window and came running out.
“Anák
, please, I would like this painting of you very much.”

The young woman clenched her fists and stalked inside the house. She came back with a second chair, sat down, and folded her arms, glaring at me.

“Your hair, it needs to be taken down.”

She chewed her lip but did not move to take it down.

So it went with us. I would ask something, and she would do the opposite.

A
T NOON
M
ANUEL
came with my food. A crowd had gathered to watch my preliminary sketches of the young woman. They stared at the lavish display of food. I felt awkward and put the food aside, pretending I was not hungry. But then my stomach growled and I grew angry at my concern for them. I was midway through my fare when I noticed the crowd laughing. The two children were imitating my motions with wide, expansive gestures. In their hands were sticks they had broken off to the size of a fork and spoon.