Orchid House (18 page)

I
s there some reason, some superstition behind it?” Julia tugged at the heavy handle on the double wooden doors.

“Oh, yes, it can be very dangerous to use the front hacienda doors.” Markus gave Mang Berto a conspiratorial glance.

“There is a story . . . The story is, that um, this um . . . oh, I can't do it.” Mang Berto laughed. “The story is that no one uses them, and now they're hard to open. That's it.”

Markus gave an exasperated sigh.

“Sorry, Markus. I am not good at tricking beautiful ladies. See, Miss Julia, when Captain Morrison left, we used the kitchen and back courtyard and not the rest of house. Our staff houses and the garage are past the back courtyards, so we enter from there. The humidity and salt air makes hinges rust.”

Julia inspected the corners. “Mang Berto, do you have some WD-40?”

“What, miss?”

“Something to clean off the corrosion.”

“Oh, yes, of course, miss. I am master at killing that rust.”

“Is that all right, Markus, for us to get these doors in use once again?”

“You're the doña of the hacienda; you can do whatever you wish,” Markus said with a slight bow.

“I'm only the doña for a short time, but it's a shame to let such magnificent doors and such a grand entryway go to waste.”

Markus watched with an odd expression about his features, then waved them to follow him down the path around the house.
“
I hope Lola Sita made plenty of tea. I could drink a pitcher myself.”

The back courtyards and lawns were filled with activity. Women with aprons covering their dresses or jeans and T-shirts used enormous wooden spoons to stir large copper caldrons that hung over fire pits. Steam billowed from the pots, and the air was sweet and smoky. Children played on the lawn and through the gardens. Makeshift tables covered in tablecloths held bags of sugar, glass jars, strainers, and lids. Beside the table were crates of mangoes, and several women sat there peeling the fruit.

One woman in a cornflower blue dress held a child on her hip and stirred a pot. She lifted her spoon and waved at Julia like they were old friends.

“It is for jam, mango jam,” Markus said. “This region isn't actually known for it, but someone, perhaps one of your relatives, started the tradition. The women work together; then each takes her portion. If some is left over, they sell it in the sari-sari stores in town.”

Julia walked among the women, greeting them, asking their names again and hearing their jobs in the mango jam assembly line while Mang Berto and Markus went for their drinks.

A woman took one mango at a time and dipped it into boiling water. Within seconds she pulled it back out and put it in cold water, from where the seated women easily picked them up and cut the skin away, then sliced the fruit in half to cut out the seed. The bare fruit was strained, rinsed, and mashed.

Another pot was stirred relentlessly; this was the jam cooking. The third boiling pot held glass jars that were carefully removed with a large clamplike utensil. Then the cooling jars were set out until their lids sealed.

It was an impressive process. Julia marveled at the Tres Lolas;they were timeless women moving among the others, instructing them in the tasks, all of it a well-orchestrated dance. The movements of the women, even with toddlers clinging to the skirts of some, covered the courtyard like the waves of heat distorting the air. Many of the women had leaves and flowers woven into their hair, and they hummed or broke into song as they worked.

A little boy ran up to Julia and rubbed his finger on her skin.

“Hello there,” she said, bending down to speak to him. He twirled her hair in one finger; then he took one strand and, with a quick tug, pulled it out.

“Ouch!” she said, as he laughed and skipped off with her light-colored hair held up like a trophy.

“You've sacrificed to a good cause.” Markus handed Julia a tall glass of iced tea. “That boy will probably put your hair in his treasure box. These children have never seen light-colored hair except on television.”

Lola Gloria walked toward them, wiping her hands on her apron. “Your tour of the hacienda was nice?”

“Yes. And what an operation you have here as well.”

Lola Gloria gazed around at the women with a proud look on her face. “You should go inside now and rest, Miss Julia.”

“Oh, can't I help you instead?” Julia said. “What can I do?”

“Have you made jam before?”

Julia laughed. “Uh, that would be a
no
.”

“Then we will give you a simple job. Let me get you an apron. Markus, would you like to help as well? Or are you off to something more important in the city?”

Markus checked his watch. “With traffic, I'd miss my dinner engagement anyway.”

“Oh, do you have a date?”

“Well, yes, I have a date, but I will have to cancel. One of those dinners with black ties and delegates to charm.”

Lola Gloria glanced at Julia.

Markus kissed the old woman on the top of the head. “Don't worry, I won't marry without your permission. And by the way, my date's name is George. He's a colleague of mine.” Markus rubbed his hands together. “So, Julia, let's make jam. Just don't let Raul see me doing woman's work.”

With that, they were swept into the dance. Lola Gloria placed them side by side and set them to work peeling mangoes. Markus was nearly as lame at the job as she was.

“What kind of Filipino can't cut a mango?” Julia teased.

“I have my people do that for me,” he said with a dignified air. He rubbed his drenched fingers across her cheek, and she jerked back, startled.

“What?” he said. “You had a little something on your face there.”

“You are an evil attorney. I knew it from the moment I saw you,” she said, wiping off her face with her apron. She nodded toward one of the women, who was scolding them with a pointed finger. “Get back to work, Mr. Santos. You're going to get us into trouble.” Julia reached for another mango.

“Explain something to me,” she said. “First of all, I know my grandfather willed the hacienda to me since my mother didn't want it. But legally, he can't grant it to me because Filipino law doesn't allow a foreigner to own land. So what am I doing here, other than burying my grandfather?”

“Well, you're learning to make some great mango jam.”

“Yes, there is that.”

“The hacienda is rightfully yours in many ways, and yet you are right. The laws could keep you locked up in court for years trying to get it resolved, and during that time, you might lose the land to the province or the federal government—which is not what we're hoping to see happen. Or you could give up the land—like to the hacienda people themselves. Many are hoping for that. But such a land needs a head and a heart. The hacienda would quickly become divided and cut into smaller parcels.

“You could also sell it. Investors call my office daily with offers. But I must say that the legacy of this place, how it was birthed and grew all of these years . . . the times of glory and near destruction, and your grandfather's love for it—I can hardly bear the idea of it no longer being Hacienda Esperanza. But I will do whatever you decide.”

Julia nodded her head in thought. The future truly did rest in her hands. And again she wondered,
who am I to make such a decision
?

“Other questions?” Markus asked.

“What about the political climate? I know it's tumultuous, but how fragile is the government?”

“Well, you can't compare it to your country. We have been a democracy since before and after the Japanese invaded during WWII. However, our President Marcos was much more like a dictator than a president. He declared martial law and pretty much did what he wished, killed who he wanted, used the country's money as he liked. The nation is still reeling from his time in power.”

Markus picked up another cooling mango from the cold water and began peeling back the skin. “And now we have our president Corazon Aquino—the first female president in Asia, which is impressive. She's the widow of a popular senator, Ninoy Aquino, who was forced into exile during Marcos's reign. On the day of his return, he was assassinated as he got off the airplane. So you see, the country is divided. A minority still support Marcos's ways and think his wife was the true villain—the famous shoe collection was not Imelda's only extravagance. There is also a very strong Communist Party that wants the nation to follow in the steps of China or Russia or Vietnam, depending upon which group you talk to. There are so many different factions within each one, so these are wide generalizations.”

“We have many different beliefs within our two major parties in the States.”

“Yes, but those different parties and factions within each party aren't trying to overthrow the government and take control.” Markus motioned to the scolding woman, who again was glancing at them in disapproval. “I think our talking is dropping production.”

“Okay, back to work then,” Julia said. “I just want to know if it's safe here.”

“Pretty much, yes,” Markus said. “And hey, you've got me, Raul, and the whole hacienda to take care of you.”

“Oh no, I'm not worried for me.” She gazed around at the women and children. “I just wondered what the future might hold for everyone here.”

“If only I could predict the future . . . I hope real change is coming to our country. That's what keeps me working late most nights. But who can say what will happen?”

H
OURS LATER, THE SUN FELL LOW, MAKING BLACK SILHOUETTES
of the palm trees against the sky. Her back hurt and fingers ached, yet Julia paused with a crate filled with the jars of warm mango jam in her arms to gaze around the stone courtyard. The cooking dance had slowed from a jig to a waltz. Red coals smoldered in the fire pits; the cleanup was nearly complete. Markus pointed to a basket with a young child asleep inside. An older woman patted Julia on the back, then winked and moved down the path.

Julia followed a line of three other women carrying crates of jam through the archway of the back courtyards and through the gardens. The path left the gardens and narrowed through the jungle where fuel canisters lit the way. Julia kept a careful eye on her guide, a middleaged woman in baggy denim pants and a bright green blouse.

Suddenly they came out of the jungle into a neat little row of buildings surrounding a small square. The houses had stucco fences with decorative iron gates protecting their secluded court-yards. Chickens scratched the ground. Laundry hung on lines outside doorways. Neat pathways of stone led to the houses, which were hung with small palms and large leafy plants in pots. Bougainvillea dangled orange flowers over the stucco walls.

Julia set her crate down in the stack beside a doorway.

“Thank you, Miss Julia. I walk you back, or come in house for some dinner?”

Julia couldn't remember the woman's name; she had met too many people in the last few days. “Thank you, but Aling Rosa has my dinner ready
.
I can find my way back.”

Julia was curious about this tiny neighborhood of maybe twelve homes. The main access to the houses came from the other end where scooters, bikes, and motorized tricycles with sidecars were parked in a haphazard fashion. Round lights hung from trees and archways.

On the path back to the hacienda house, Julia saw five of the Barangay boys come out of the jungle with their wooden guns. When they spotted her, they acted nonchalant, as if their presence had nothing to do with her.

Partway down the path near the courtyard, she noticed the boys walking behind her. She paused just around the bend to the back of the hacienda house, her hands on her hips and a smile on her face. When they appeared, she demanded, “Are you following me?”

The tallest boy came forward and set his gun against the concrete wall of the courtyard. “I am Emman.” He wore an old green army jacket over a brown printed T-shirt and denim shorts. Around his neck he wore a black rosary tangled with other necklaces. Some were simply pendants made of bronze and what looked like images on hard board paper hanging from ordinary black nylon thread.

“Hello, Emman. I have seen you before.”

“Yes,” he said with a slight smile.

He introduced the rest of his group one by one. Jepoy was the cute stout boy with the red shirt who had greeted her earlier. Amer was a brown, stocky, somewhat muscular boy. Kiko was the smallest and youngest and had a mop of hair on his head down to his eyebrows, and Bok was the thin kid with a funny smile who had first helped her out of the tricycle upon her arrival.

“We are your bodyguards,” the small Kiko announced with enthusiasm. The others nodded, except for Emman.

“Oh, you are, are you?”

“Yes, Miss Julia. We are your bodyguards,” Emman confirmed. “We were assigned for your protection by Amang Tenio. I am the leader of them. And we will protect you.”

“Amang Tenio?” Julia remembered the shaman-looking man from the first day.

“Yes,” Emman replied. “He is the commander.”

“Uh-huh.” Julia smiled.
How convenient,
she thought,
to entertain children by giving them such a task.
“It is nice to meet you, my bodyguards. I'm going to the house now. Have you had your dinner?”

“We have dinner,” Emman said. He struggled for words, obviously not fluent in English. He tapped a small leather pouch tied to his belt loop, and Julia wondered what kind of dinner could be kept in that all day.

“If you want something more to eat, come inside the hacienda house. It's not haunted with ghosts, did you know?”

“Ghosts do not make us afraid.” His determined expression matched the tone.

“Okay, good-bye then for now.”

Emman walked up to her and reached for her hand, which he then kissed the top of. “Good night, Miss Julia.”