When the Elephants Dance (8 page)

That night they talked of the house they would live in with their children. “And how many children shall we have?” Esmeralda asked, combing her slender fingers through his hair.

“As many as you want. A dozen,” he proclaimed.

“A dozen? Tearso, have pity. Do you know what I would look like after that many babies?” She laughed.

“Beautiful. Always beautiful,” he replied. “We could live in Bohol, where you could gaze all day at the chocolate hills. Or Guimaras, where you can watch them repeat the crucifixion of our Lord. In Guimaras, there is the fragrant scent of the mango trees you adore so much. What about Cavite? We can live beneath the craters of the Taal volcano. What do you think?”

“I think I would follow you anywhere,” she answered, slicing a large guava.

She always fed her lover such fruits, holding her hands delicately as if in dance. He caught her hands and kissed the insides of her wrists as she laughed. I blushed. He got up and drew the shades. And the guitar continued to play long into the night.

But what of the church? Well, I am getting to that, but do not be led astray. It was only a product of what I am about to tell you. The church was unlike any you would ever imagine. It was not the typical Spanish design, or even of Filipino design. It was as if a cave had risen from the ground. The church was called Santa Esmeralda, her namesake, and like Esmeralda, it was beautiful and wholly wild and unexplainable. It was said to have been made during a volcanic eruption, though from which of our thirty-seven volcanoes, I could not tell you. I know only that it was charred black on the outside. It stood thirty feet high, with stone carvings inside that depicted the Resurrection and the Holy Trinity.

It went fifteen feet into the ground, and along through the sides was the constant sound of running water from an underground spring. Three large holes were bored into it during the Spanish time between the 1500s and the 1890s, and later these holes were set with stained glass the color of jewels. I remember the deep amber and green of one of the glasses, for it was broken in the corner during one of our monsoons. The parishioners of Blanca Negros were very proud of this church. They strutted and talked to foreigners as if they had built the church themselves. “Yes, isn’t it lovely? There is no other like it.”

~

T
HE LAST
T
UESDAY
before her disappearance, I was serving as altar boy. This was, of course, at my father’s urgings. I had to wear the brown Franciscan robes, with the hooded cowl necks and the white ropes tied around my waist. Padre Ramirez insisted on an extra night of mass before Sundays so that the parishioners would not become lost in sin before the Sabbath.

I cannot tell you how humiliating it was for a young boy to be seen wearing a dress, and an ugly one at that. My aunt and uncle would sit in the front pews. My cousins would point and snicker at me. Before mass, I would pick one of the statues of the saints to pray to, Santa Teresa or Santa Lucia, and drop a coin in one of the jars as an offering to pray for the souls of my mother and sister. Esmeralda became to me like part of the altar, and the statues of the saints, and the image of the Virgin Mary.

The senator’s wife was present that evening, wearing a smug smile on her lips. The senator was in extremely jovial spirits. In fact, half the church consisted of Esmeralda’s customers. You would think, then, wouldn’t you, that Esmeralda would be among friends? But she wasn’t. Do you know that not one of them acknowledged her presence? Not even so much as a nod that strangers give in passing. They did not acknowledge her, for to do so would announce to everyone that they were her customers, and this, of course, would open the door to every sort of speculation.

Esmeralda sat alone during prayer time, but when it came time to sing in the choir, she was the center of attention. The other singers would gather around her. I would watch her the entire time. It was like this for every mass.

We went straight home after mass. I was so hungry and excited at the prospect of my aunt’s cooking. Every other day my father and I were left to fend for ourselves, but on Tuesdays, while she was still filled with the grace of prayer, my aunt invited us downstairs to eat. I remember my stomach rumbled so loudly on the walk home that my aunt turned and glared at me.

“Carlito, go find yourself some granadas fruit. Your stomach talked throughout the entire mass. It was so embarrassing. Hurry home and help your father prepare for dinner. Remember, you are his only child, the only one to care for him as he gets old. It is your duty, and as you know, he is not strong.” This was the future I had to look forward to. My aunt and uncle had three children who would care for them someday. There was only me for my father.

“Yes, Auntie,” I said, and hurried home. I did not get much farther ahead than the rest of them. My right leg was already crippled from polio. The best I could accomplish was a steady hobble. Nor did I find any pomegranate fruits. There was really nothing to do in terms of getting Papa ready for dinner. A
fresh shirt and trousers: I had readied these items the night before. The sound of my leg dragging was what bothered her. Her left eye blinked and twitched whenever another parishioner came over to talk. My aunt could not concentrate on the conversation; the scraping of my shoe against the dirt set her face twitching in a climactic symphony of blinks and jerks until she grew frustrated and ordered me to hurry home.

As soon as I reached the door to the house, I stomped my feet loudly and lit a candle to scare away the roaches. As usual, they were holding a congregation in the middle of the kitchen floor and scurried away with their meager pieces of food. I went to the cabinets where I knew the silverware was, and once again I alerted them by knocking on the drawer before I opened it. The roaches scrambled out as soon as I pulled open the handle. One was brave enough to jump on my arm. I took out the silverware and began to lay the pieces on the table. That was my chore every Tuesday evening.

At my aunt’s dinners, I was not allowed to sit in the good seats. These were wooden chairs with velvet cushions. She had acquired four of them from mah-jongg winnings. She had her eye on the remaining two at the town shop to complete her set. My aunt, in all her poverty, was obsessed with gambling. She always lived in the future. “When I win the big jackpot you will see,” her sentences always began. She wanted so badly to replicate the lives of the rich parishioners at church. She had hungry eyes for every detail of clothing, every handkerchief, or every earring they wore. She had numerous items at the various shops in town that were soon to be paid off. She paid them in installments. A gaudy ring, a tapestried lounge chair, a bureau made of cherrywood, all of the items incongruous to her meager clothing, her meager house. It never struck her that the large ring could never help her achieve a semblance of wealth, when her sandals were worn and obviously resoled. These things saddened me beyond explanation.

For dinner, I borrowed two stools from my aunt for Father and me. If I stood anywhere near her precious chairs, even if I did not intend to sit in them, she would shove me aside. That was how it was that night. I was peering over the blur of arms and dishes being placed on the table, when my aunt elbowed me in the neck.

“Carlito, here, here. Sit at the end, so that you can attend to your father. Oh, did I hurt you? You are always in the way.” She laughed.

She made pancit, the clear noodles, with slices of chicken and onions, and lumpia, the wrapped rolls of ground beef and potatoes, with sprinkles of carrots and raisins to offset the spices. This was a little more elaborate than her usual fare, to celebrate my cousin Julio’s good grades in school.

My father and I each received one lumpia and a spoon portion of pancit noodles. My cousins received heaping portions.

“In case you finish,” my aunt said, smiling, “there is always more on the table.”

But you see, there was not always more, because any glance, any look, toward the extra food would warrant another glare from my aunt, and I already felt unwelcome as it was. Sometimes she surprised us and offered more, but these times were rare and almost always when something had gone wrong in the cooking of the meal. When I was near to finishing, my eyes began to drift toward the platter in the middle of the table.

My aunt was like a watchdog. “Carlito,” she barked, “finish your food before it grows cold, then tend to your chores.” I looked to Father, willing him to say something, but he quietly ate his food. My stomach growled, irritated at the teasing I had given it. I willed my father to find his voice, to speak up. My eyes burned, urging him silently to ask for more food for the both of us. He was her older brother after all, but he never looked up from his plate. I became a keeper of secrets, a silent witness to my father’s humiliation. Finally, when I could stand it no more, I had one of my few moments of bravery, when my hunger overcame my aunt’s wrath.

I asked,
“Tita
, could I have another helping?”

She smiled frightfully at me. “Too much food makes one lazy, Carlito.”

I saw her game then; I tasted its bitter rules. “Is that why you take a siesta each afternoon?”

There was not even time to move out of the way. Her chair scraped loudly and she stood, grabbing me by my ear. “How dare you, after I have fed you this wonderful meal! You are an unruly child, Carlito. Do you know what that means?” my aunt asked.

I shook my head.

“It means you do the opposite of what good people tell you to. We are your guardian angels.” She put a hand to her chest. “You should listen to us. Yet you have a devil watching over your shoulder. A deeveel, whispering to you.”

I looked over my shoulder in terror. Throughout this my father sat with his head bowed as my aunt raged on.

“ ‘Do that, Carlito.’ ‘Say this, Carlito.’ That is what the devil whispers to you,” she spoke in a fury. “You should see my friend Sanctisimma Bulaklak’s boy. So well behaved, his
yaya
brought him up with discipline. Too bad your papa cannot afford a
yaya
. If you had one, she would watch over you like a mother hen. She would not allow such abuses from a smart-mouth such as yourself.”

I knew her friend Sanctisimma Bulaklak’s boy; he was my age, a simpering, pale-faced boy with a constant runny nose. He was not allowed to play in the dirt or to run too fast. He sat with his legs crossed and his hands folded. I saw him often being led by his
yaya
through the market. They dressed the boy like an old man, wearing a Western-style shirt and bow tie, in our tropical heat. But in my aunt’s eyes, he was the Santo Niño, the infant Jesus himself.

His
yaya
was a young woman who went to school in the neighboring village. A
yaya
, as I understood it then, was a governess who gave special privileges.

“Do you know what his
yaya
does if he is bad?” My aunt was in a rage now.

I thought quickly of the last time I saw the boy’s
yaya
. I had come to ask if he wanted to come play, we needed an extra person in our game of hide-and-seek. The boy and his mother, Sanctisimma, were not home, but the
yaya
was, with Mr. Bulaklak’s face deep in her unbuttoned blouse, and I said the first thing that came to my mind. “Feed Mr. Bulaklak milk?”

“What?” My aunt chased me out of the house, her fingers curved like talons and her face more ferocious than any demon I could ever imagine.

I was so hungry when I left that I ran over to the San Lupe house. They were a wealthy family that lived a kilometer away. I knew an older woman, one of the housekeepers, and if I came at the right time, she would bring leftovers for me and for Father. I was lucky that night. Aling Patricia was sweeping near the back door when I arrived.

“Oh, Carlito. Your aunt did not give you a second helping again?” She clucked her tongue. “Tsk, tsk. That woman. Oh, come. The missus did not finish her pie, and I think there are plenty of empanadas to bring home to your father.”

“Thank you, Aling Pat.” I smiled.

“You wait here,” she instructed.

I was not waiting more than two minutes when a side door opened and I saw him. I saw Esmeralda’s lover, Tearso. He strolled out with a cigar in his mouth and a woman on his arm. They were followed by two other people, and they chatted as they strolled away from the garden. The woman turned quickly so that her back was to me. I did not have time to stare at her face, but I knew it was not Esmeralda. For one thing, the woman’s hands were pale and she was wider around the hips, and when she turned sideways, her chest was flat like my straw mat.

“Carl, Carlito, Carlos,” Aling Pat called. She came and nudged me with her shoulder. Her hands were full, with fruits and two baskets of steaming food. “Oh, I will need the baskets back tomorrow. I asked the missus, and she said she
was going to throw the food away. Here, there is lechón and gingered beef in there. Ha?” She grinned. “You will have a feast tonight.”

“Thank you, Aling Pat.” I smiled. “Who are those people?”

“Ha, sino?”
She squinted. “Well, you know Tearso Batongbukol, and that is his lady friend, Catalina Marquez. They are to be engaged soon. Then there is Cory Carvajal and Dennis Oberes; you have seen them before, have you not? They are friends of the San Lupe children.
Hoy
. Hurry home. Your food will spoil.”

I thanked her and pretended to walk toward home. As soon as she went back into the house, I went in pursuit of Tearso’s group. I was standing in the garden, searching for which path they took, when they walked up behind me, too fast for me to hide. To my horror, the woman was now entangled with Tearso. Her arms were wrapped around his neck like a serpent, and Tearso was not struggling. I was in such a state of shock that I could not move out of the way, and they bumped into me. Tearso looked down with a frown, and then I saw the recognition in his eyes. He knew my family well from all his visits to Esmeralda’s house. Whenever my father sat on the front porch, Tearso would hold up a hand in greeting. I could see he wanted to say something to me, but I turned, stumbling, and hurried home. All the way home I kept wondering how I was going to tell Esmeralda that her lover had betrayed her.