When the Elephants Dance (54 page)

We finished our last sitting with a day that could have been taken from paradise. The jade of the leaves behind her house were brilliant, the caress of the warm breeze soft and scented with the dozen mango trees. I could not hold her gaze for long, it went straight to my soul. At the close of the day I presented her mother with the finished portrait, and within minutes she had invited the entire neighborhood to appreciate my work.

I rode home in confusion, unable to get the vision of Divina out of my mind. I had been away from Zoila too long, I told myself. Zoila would clear my worries and remind me of where I truly belonged.

W
HEN
I
ARRIVED
home, I found Zoila and Oscar in an embrace.

“Fredrico.” Oscar pushed her aside.

“Pardon me,” I said, not moving, my head spinning.

Oscar was in a panic. “I have been meaning to speak with you on this matter. But you are always gone before I open my eyes in the mornings.” He brushed a hand through his hair and looked over at Zoila, who had started to cry.

She ran to me with her fists clenched. “You have brought us to this, you.”

Oscar rushed to her and pulled her away. “Stop it. We are the ones who have wronged him.”

I could not think; I pointed to my belongings. “I need to gather my supplies. I came only to get my brush. I forgot this one, you see.” I pointed, not knowing what to say. I was sick to my stomach. I did not want to let the thought in. I did not want to believe that my brother had betrayed me. Later, I said to myself. I shall think about that later.

Oscar stumbled after me; he watched as I went about picking through my brushes as if nothing had happened. “Fredrico, say something. You know I would do anything for you.”

“Would you?” I raised a brow at him. “So this was your plan all along. Lead me to find other women so you could take mine.” I do not know why I said those things. I think I was more frightened by the fact that I had no feelings for Zoila at all. “My own brother,” I said with disgust. Even now it hurts me to think I said those things to him. I meant to stab him as if with a dagger with each word.

“Fredrico, please,” Zoila sobbed, throwing her arms around me. “I have been so lonely.”

I removed her arms. “It is too late, Divina,” I said, staring at her with solemnity. The room went silent with her sharp intake of breath. I felt the hard sting of her hand against my face.

“How dare you call me that peasant’s name? You play games with us. With yourself. You are obsessed with her. It is utterly disgusting.” She dusted off her clothes as if I had touched her with dirt.

Oscar watched me. “Fredrico, what is happening to you?”

T
HAT WAS A
desolate time. I locked myself in my gallery for five days. I painted with so much passion, I could barely stand it. I would wake each morning with a new scene to paint burning in my hands. I painted until my canvas turned pink from the glow of the evening sunset and long after that. I painted three or four portraits a day. It was never necessary for me to sketch. The images came out complete. I painted five portraits of Divina. They still hang today in the Plaza de Luna, near Malacañang Palace. The one of the beautiful Filipina with the proud eyes.

E
VEN THOUGH
I burned to speak to Divina, I refrained. I was in agreement with Virgil and Oscar. It was better to leave her alone than to challenge the
friar’s interest in her. I did not know how long I could stand to be away, but I was trying. She visited my dreams. A week had passed when word reached me that her brother Virgil had been arrested for the burning of the church. I was saddened by the news. They will kill him, I thought. You can imagine my surprise when news again reached me one morning that he had been released and that Divina was now serving Friar De Guzman’s household.

“The little fool.” I raked my hands through my hair. “She wishes to sacrifice herself to that pig. Come, let us go to her house, I will straighten her thoughts,” I ordered Manuel, but he only looked at me steadily.

“Señor, your brother instructed that I not take you to the señorita’s house. He made me promise, señor.”

“Take me or I will have you banished.” I threw down my paints.

Manuel was unaffected. “Your brother has assured me that I will not be dismissed.”

I laughed in vexation. “I will take the horses myself.”

I toppled the large desk from India. The statues from Thailand, the portraits from Italy, fell to the floor. I went crazy and scared away my mother and the servants. I turned to see Oscar standing at my door.

“Fredrico,” he said.

“Do not start with me. I am on the verge of using your blood to crimson the red of this gown I am painting.”

“Fredrico, do not interfere with her life. If she does not give herself to De Guzman, he will plague her family. You know this. These things happen. You must turn your face away. She gives herself to De Guzman to placate him. To stop him from harming her family. There is honor to this.”

“Leave me!” I roared. I saw the truth to his words, but I did not need to be in his presence. I had renounced my ties with him and Zoila.

Oscar was hurt; I could see it in his demeanor. His shoulders fell, the lines of his mouth went slack. “What has happened between us, brother? Let us fix this breach.”

“There is no cure for it.” I stomped about the room, organizing my brushes only to throw them against the wall.

“No cure,” Oscar murmured. The next time I looked up, he was gone. I wanted to run after him, but there were deep ravines between us now, steep cliffs, impassable mountains. I listened to the echo of his receding footsteps, and his sigh resounded like the lapping of the ocean against the rocks.

~

T
HE DAY OF
my gallery showing arrived, and I was excited. The household was in an uproar as everyone busied themselves with dressing. They were very proud of me. When we arrived at the grand plaza, there were many guests, many patrons of my work. My mother walked proudly. She had ordered a special gown made. It was a pale green to match her eyes, with a matching silk shawl. There were toasts made to my success. I had created twelve pieces initially, but they had doubled to twenty-four.

De Guzman approached and offered his hand, palm down, expecting me to take it and place it against my lips. He relished my blatant refusal. He gloated at my silence.

As the unveiling began, there was a great stir as one piece after the other was unsheathed. There was the one of the gondolas from our visit to Italy, and the one of the market in France teeming with people, then the transition to the Philippines and the lush jungles; there were several portraits of the wives and children of the local
hacendados
, and one of a young Insulare inspecting his father’s land. People were congratulating me and bidding for the portraits with the viewing only halfway through.

Manuel ran back to tell me, “Fredrico, already there is a war between Don Alfonso and Señor Trinidad for the one of the bullfight in Madrid.”

“Very good.” I smiled.

Slowly I began to notice peculiar looks come my way. Oscar rushed to my side. “Fredrico, are you crazy?” he asked. “These pictures of the Filipinos are offensive. The ones of the
hacendados
whipping them, the one of the friar himself leering at the young Filipina, then there is the one of the old Filipino beggar man. Already several people have walked out. What are you trying to accomplish? You had better say your apologies.”

I looked around in surprise. People were indeed aghast. In fact, a great tenseness had befallen the room. De Guzman was in attendance, he who had been the inspiration for the portrait of Divina and the leering friar. He looked at me with such intensity, I almost laughed. Even our closest friends looked away in embarrassment and made their excuses and left. My mother left, weeping, and only my uncles stayed, shaking their heads.

“I have only drawn the truth. Can I not become inspired?” I had suspected something of a sensation, but not the dangerous and castigating looks I was receiving.

“Fredrico, what has this woman done to your head?” Oscar hissed. “You have made our family a scandal, a laughingstock. You could be killed for this.”

“Ahh, but I have never felt so alive, brother.”

“You must shake this. I will tell them you have been under a great strain. Look, they leave as we speak.”

“Let them go, idiots. They do not know true art. All they wish to see is lies.”

“I blame myself. I should never have taken you to those places to mix with those people. Knowing how easily impressionable you are. That Filipina whore has taken your reasoning.”

I turned to Oscar and hit him full in the face. He got up with a shout and tackled me. We were rolling on the ground until Manuel and Tito Salvatore pulled us apart. They ushered Oscar out and left me without a backward look. I was alone.

I went to the table of food and made myself a plate. I grabbed a bottle of wine and sat. The door opened and I shouted, “Leave me. No one is welcome. The showing is finished.” When I heard no footsteps of retreat, I looked up to see Divina. She was wearing a Filipina dress of dark turquoise with a beaded bodice. I stood, my heart pounding.

“Is it true, you painted my people?” she asked.

“This is true,” I said.

“Will you show me?” she asked.

I walked up to her and held out my arm.

“Wait.” She walked to the front door and opened it. A Filipino stepped humbly forward.

“Come,” I said. “Come see your people.” I gestured to the walls.

The man took off his straw hat and held it to his chest. He was clothed in the material we used for the sacks of rice, a rough canvas material. The ends of his trousers were frayed, as were the sleeves of his shirt. As he stepped forward I saw that many Filipinos were lined up behind him. I went to the door and greeted them all as they entered. After that day, Divina and I were inseparable.

S
OON THE ENTIRE
Spanish community knew of our union, and my family became ostracized, my mother snubbed. Friar De Guzman had Divina’s brother arrested once again. I used the last of my powers to set him free. They labeled me as a traitor. Several of the Jacinto-Basa homes were set on fire. My gallery was burned. I continued to paint feverishly, using the sides of churches and the underbellies of bridges as my canvases. I painted in the dark, and the themes were all the same: the persecution of the Filipinos by the Spaniards.

I became a criminal to Spain. It seemed I was living up to the threat of the Jacinto-Basa curse. We went to live in the mountains to escape the wrath of
the friars. In the early mornings I woke before the roosters and painted on the church walls, on the homes of the wealthy, and by daybreak I was safe in the trees. I painted a grand mural along the entire side of St. Catherine’s, of the great warrior Lapu Lapu spitting in Magellan’s face.

I learned I had become something of a legend, an outlaw, and that young Filipinos were imitating my art around the islands.

It was a month before my nineteenth birthday when Virgil came to visit us. He was thin and ragged. There was continued discord within his group.

“Fredrico, your art has strengthened our people. You give voice to our suffering.”

“I am honored, brother.”

“You can do so much more. We need someone with your passion to lead us. Spain is not interested in the injustices being commited. We are the ones who must make the changes.”

“Virgil, you put too much on my abilities. I am merely an artist who enjoys pulling the friars’ robes.”

He was disappointed. Divina tried to console him. The next day he was back again.

“Fredrico, I am not the only one who values your power. Come …” Virgil gestured, and a group of fifty Spanish farmers entered with their hats in their hands. “Look outside.” He brought me to the windows. Outside were more farmers, Filipinos and Spanish. “They wish to follow you.”

“Tell them to go home. I shall only get them killed.”

“Then they wish to die with you,” Virgil replied.

I wrote endless letters to Spain; I painted many murals. My followers enjoyed re-creating my art on all the islands so that it seemed I was everywhere. What did it do? It incited the wrath of the friars even more. I was labeled a revolutionary, an enemy to Spain. I could not walk out in daylight without bodyguards watching me and Divina’s family. But I could not stop. It was a feeling that fed my soul.

Ours was not even a group—thirty, maybe sixty people. What we accomplished may not sound like much to you, but it was big then, what we did. We put a voice to the suffering, and that, to me, was worth dying for.

It was not even a thumbnail to what Rizal later did, but if you must, compare the two. I would like to consider myself the small thorn that pricked at the conscience of the Filipino people, reminding them that the abuses were cause to be angry.

~

I
COULD NOT
stop. When Oscar sent a message to me, pleading for me to take care and that my nineteenth birthday was approaching, I laughed. I sent back a message to him: “The curse cannot find me here.” Later, when Virgil was caught and executed, I became consumed. I painted his execution with a saintly halo upon Virgil’s head and Friar De Guzman as the devil, with a tail and cloven hooves. After that, I completed one of the queen having deaf ears, ignoring the pleas of the people as she bathed in her luxury.

The day a price was put on my head by the Spaniards was the day Divina announced to me that we were with child. I grew a beard, I became thin, but there was passion bursting from my chest that I had never felt before. My previous life became but a memory; my present, all-consuming.

What we called home was ever-changing. We lived out of underground caves, caves hidden on the sides of mountains, with nothing but a forty-foot drop below. We were on the run in the evenings, in the rain, in a storm. Food came to us in the form of stale bread, fish, monkey meat. I worried for the condition of our child. But Divina never complained. “For Virgil,” she would assure me. I pulled strength from those eyes of hers. They haunt me still.