Orchid House (13 page)

“
Maraming salamat
,” he said, leaning down to kiss Lola Amor on the head as she handed him a pastry and giggled.

Lola Sita said something in Tagalog, and Lola Gloria said to Julia, “I hope it is not rude when we speak our language. Lola Sita and Lola Amor always frustrated Captain Morrison for not learning English. Especially when many of the workers in the fields spoke it better than they.”

Raul had been staring distractedly into space; now he focused, as though he'd suddenly become aware of those around him. “You are comfortable here, Miss Julia?”

“Yes, thank you. Are we still meeting to talk today?”

“Yes,” he said with a sigh. “I apologize for my delay. We are having some trouble near the sugarcane fields.”

“Trouble?” Lola Gloria asked in alarm.

He reassured the old women and turned back to Julia. “Miss Julia, let us discuss business in the study.” He walked into the house, holding the door for her to follow, then down a hallway to the study, which had been her grandfather's long ago. The room was filled with dark wood and the smell of cigar smoke. On the wall were framed maps that looked decades old—one of the Philippines and another of Hacienda Esperanza.

“I do not discuss business with the
Tres Lolas.
Until I know more of the future, I find it unnecessary to cause them worry. You saw what effect the mere mention of trouble has upon them.”

“What happened?” Julia asked.

Instead of answering, Raul sat at his desk and pinched his eye-brows in thought. “Julia, this is a delicate business, as you say. For many years Captain Morrison hoped to return to the hacienda. There is much at stake, more than I can easily explain. It is more than this house or your family or even the entire hacienda. There is trouble from beyond our borders . . . political struggles and dangers that we are tangled in.”

Raul sighed as the weight of many words and thoughts burdened him. “We had a worker injured in the fields this morning, and I must check on his condition at the hospital. Could we delay the tour of the hacienda until tomorrow?”

“Yes, of course.” Julia realized how much the lives of people she had seen upon arriving depended upon the hacienda. It was more than their jobs; it was their entire world, even their heritage and future. Raul might be the only one who realized how unsettled the future was for all of them. Julia sensed that there was even more at stake than the people and the land knew.

And how much of the outcome would depend upon her—a girl from California who some called the doña of Hacienda Esperanza?

A
MANG TENIO WANTED TO SEE HIM
.

Emman was given the word by his cousin Abner, who kicked at him in his hammock and said only babies slept this late into the day. Emman didn't tell him that he'd only just come in an hour ago from the plantation. This was his siesta, while Abner still poured his morning coffee.

Why did Amang Tenio want to see him?

The revered leader of Barangay Mahinahon had never requested such a thing before. All the people called him “
amang
” or “great father” out of respect more than relationship. Emman couldn't recall one being individually summoned before.

He dressed quickly, then tossed his shirt into the corner of the dirt floor and went looking for something clean. Dangling from a hook in his closet was the shirt he'd worn to his mother's funeral. The sleeves were three inches too short, but he buttoned it up anyway.

The noonday sun warmed the mountain chill and promised a day of sticky humidity. Emman paced the dirt street instead of turning up the road that would lead outside the village and directly up the hill to Amang Tenio's house. He'd been on the grounds many times with the other children, doing training exercises, gathering on the porch above the vast view to hear stories or receive occasional treats.

Now his feet threatened to take him the opposite direction. He hadn't done anything wrong . . . well, not lately, or at least nothing out of the ordinary. Finally curiosity and obedience stopped his procrastination, and Emman headed up the hill.

One of Emman's third cousins worked as part of the house staff and directed him to the back porch, an expression of disapproval on her face. What had he done? Unless this was delayed punishment for his short trip to the police station after he got caught sneaking into the cinema. Emman should have guessed that nothing could escape the knowledge of Amang Tenio.

Beneath the nipa covering, the warlord smoked a pipe in his chair, his gaze turned toward the vast open view of the rolling hills and the wide blue crater of Lake Taal.

Emman shifted by the doorway, and his feet made a creak in the wooden floorboards.

“Come closer,
nonoy
. Come, come.” Amang Tenio didn't look his way, only beckoned with one hand. “Is it not a magnificent sight? I never tire of it.”

Dark clouds came from the western mountains beyond and over the small peak in the center of the lake. Called the smallest volcano in the world, Taal was actually a small peak within the larger crater. Scientists and villagers alike watched it lately, wondering if it would wake from its slumber as Mount Pinatubo was doing north of Manila.

“Yes.” He'd never been actually afraid of Amang Tenio until this moment. He noticed his famous rooster sitting in a chair on the leader's other side, as if the two had been conversing as they took in the view.

“Sit down here. Let us talk. Would you like a Coca-Cola?”

“
Hindi po
,” Emman said, shaking his head, though his dry mouth longed for what he'd just declined.

Amang Tenio waved two fingers in the air, and a housemaid quickly appeared with two Coca-Colas. “I can drink them both myself. You must say what you want in this life, or you get very little and miss out on much.”

Emman smiled. “I would like one,
maraming salamat
.”

“Very good. Now, Emman, you have been training beyond the regular disciplines.”

“Yes.” The cool liquid slid down his throat. He didn't get his own can of cola often. He and the other children bought narrow plastic bags of Coke or Kool-Aid with long straws. Emman would slurp it up faster than he liked, sometimes sucking up part of the bag and clogging the enjoyment. But his own aluminum can . . . this was a treat.

“Emman, I must discuss something important. It is with regret that you cannot be a child as children should be. None in the Barangay Mahinahon can. As a young man, this did not bother me. As an old man, it is one of my greatest regrets. We are many good things here in our village, but sadly, we are a village of lost childhoods.”

Emman wanted to say that he didn't care about lost childhoods; he wanted to be a man. But Amang Tenio continued talking.

“One of our young men is missing.”

“One of the men of the Barangay?” Emman tried to think of anyone he hadn't seen lately.

“Artur Tenio.”

Artur was the boyfriend of Bok's sister. “I just saw him a few days ago.”

“Yes. He was to drive Raul to Manila to pick up the American woman. But the car had trouble, and Raul went ahead while Artur stayed behind to fix it. No one has seen him since then. The car was found, but not Artur.”

“What could have happened?”

“We are trying to find this out. And we will.” The old man paused then, staring out at the view as if collecting wisdom and guidance from the sky. “There are things you do not understand yet.”

“I know that.” Emman shifted in his seat. “Like what?”

Amang Tenio grinned, and Emman saw his yellowed teeth and a sparkle in his dark eyes. “I might envy such youth if not for the struggle of life that all men have in their days upon this earth. That struggle for me is mostly over now.”

Emman had no response to that, so he took a drink of his cola.

“I need you to watch the American woman. There are many dangers for her. I know that already you have taken this role to protect her.”

Emman didn't know whether to stand proud or be embarrassed. “Yes, Amang. I felt she might need to be guarded.”

“Very wise of you. Please select some others to help you in the task. I will be kept informed, and the hacienda as a whole will be under constant surveillance. But I'm giving you the direct protection of the American woman. It is children who can best do such things in these strange times.”

Emman winced.

“I meant children as the
others
whom you choose, Emman. I wouldn't put you to such a responsibility if I considered you a child. You are twelve years old, nearly thirteen. Shake my hand. You are a man now, Emman.”

Emman squeezed as hard as he could to prove that he was worthy.

“There is something more.”

“What is it, Tito?”

“Don't ever sneak into a cinema again. Ask me if you want to see a movie that badly. Perhaps I will go with you.” There was a slight smile in the stern expression.

Emman didn't smile until Amang Tenio gazed back at the view. “Yes, Tito.”

“W
HERE ARE THEY?” MANALO STOOD AT THE DOOR
.

“Come inside, my brother.” Comrade Pilo opened the door wider, glancing out onto the dark and empty street.

Manalo remained just as he had when the housekeeper had urged him in before she went to find her master. “You are not my brother. My brother is dead for this great cause. I held his head and felt his brains through my fingers.” The words seethed through his teeth, and he shook from anger and fear.

“Calm down, Ka Manalo,” Comrade Pilo said, putting a hand of warning in the air. “Do not forget your place. Come inside.”

Manalo hesitated, then entered the house. The floor was of expensive tile, and a chandelier lit the entryway. He followed the older man into a small study with furnishings of the finest woods. Manalo and his men were nomads of the jungle so that the privileged Communists could live like this? Comrade Pilo didn't understand how little he cared for place and position right now. “Where is my family?” he asked again.

Ever the politician, Comrade Pilo motioned him to sit and ordered the housekeeper to make some iced tea.

Manalo struggled to restrain himself.

“I greatly apologize, brother. It was unavoidable. During the hours of your journey we had reason to believe your family's location had been compromised. They were moved in the night. We feared someone would hear the message if we radioed your transport, so nothing could be done. You were gone before we could get someone out there.”

“No one came,” Manalo said.

For over twenty years he had trusted men like Comrade Pilo without question. But everything was changing. Within the Communists, new groups were going off on their own. The Red Bolos had pulled off from the larger Communist Party of the Philippines, and for a time Manalo had thought that the best route. But lack of organization and miscommunications were becoming alarmingly common. It was hard to know whom to trust.

“My report said they brought a truck in for you at 0900 hours.But you weren't at the house, nor at the closest safe house.”

“The closest safe house I knew about took me two days to reach.” He stood up in anger. “I watched for a day at the house. No one came.”

The housekeeper walked in with a tray of snacks and iced tea. Comrade Pilo took his time preparing his tea with scoops of raw sugar while Manalo stared at him.

“I don't like discussing business with someone staring down at me. Now sit down, and enjoy a drink and something to eat.”

Manalo chose to obey, suppressing the urge to shove the tea glass into Comrade Pilo's face. Comrade Pilo was a politician, not a soldier. And certainly not a guerrilla fighter.

“Manalo, we are a proud lot. Close men who are bonded by our beliefs like a brotherhood. You see the inner working here in the Philippines. But much is beyond here, on an international basis. There are Communists in Korea, in China, in Russia, and in Eastern Europe. It is not the same there as here. And we have seen great disorder in the various factions. Sometimes I think we hold such little semblance to each other that we should not all be called Communists at all. But at the core, most of us want one thing—our people to work together for the common good.”

Manalo slammed down his hand, spilling tea from his own untouched glass. “I don't care about these things.”

The expression on Comrade Pilo's face shifted from calm teacher to angry dictator. And still Manalo didn't care.

“Where is my family?”

“Do you want me to tell you?”

The reminder that Comrade Pilo held their well being firmly in his hand shook him back down, though he did all to keep from showing it.

“If you want to know, then you must also care about these things. Your life and the lives of Malaya and your children are not your own. We all belong to something greater than ourselves. Our individual lives matter little. Do not forget that.”

EIGHT