Orchid House (17 page)

“Hello,” she said to each man. All extended a sense of respect that Julia tried to return with her smile and attention.

As Raul spoke with the workers, a few chuckled and nodded their heads. There was camaraderie between them, but also, Julia noted, admiration and respect for their foreman.

Markus raised a hand in good-bye, walking beside Julia as they returned to the car. “I once played in these fields with some of these men. Most of them and their families have been part of the hacienda for generations. They won't soon forget meeting you today, the American doña in her beautiful yellow sun dress. I'm sure you gave many of them something to work for today. I know I'd be swinging my machete faster to impress you.”

Julia smiled. “You're incorrigible.”

Hacienda Esperanza stretched wider and farther than any ranch she'd been on. There were miles of sugarcane fields with men hard at work, more staff houses, a small shanty village that Raul was clearly annoyed about. If left alone, he declared, squatters would grow their own city on the land.

When they reached their other cash crop, the coconut trees, Julia learned about more innovations her grandfather had established. A forest of coconut trees were planted about ten feet apart from one another. Their tall trunks and wide branches provided an effective shade from the glaring afternoon sun. From time to time, they saw the workers climbing up the trees barehanded with long bolo knives tucked inside scabbards hanging on their hips.

Markus explained more. “Copra is the sundried meat inside the coconut nuts. Your grandfather established the hacienda's own processing plants using a hybrid of the latest technology and some local ingenuity, seriously saving on costs. He cut out the middle-man and sold processed coconut oil instead of just the raw coconut materials, quadrupling the hacienda's profits. Now that the Marcos regime is over, your grandfather and Raul planned to restore the plant, which is located near a local port. That was before his diagnosis, of course.”

Hopes and plans for restoration—those were what they all sought on the hacienda.

The car passed three caretakers wearing large straw hats. They smiled at the group and raised several longnecked bottles.

“They have a present for you, Julia,” Markus said, smiling as he leaned over the seat.

The car stopped by the farmers, who nodded warmly and handed Julia the bottles through the window.

“Salamat,” she said, and they laughed in surprise and delight at her use of a Tagalog word. Once they drove on, Julia asked what the drink was.

“
Lambanog
,” Mang Berto said, laughing. “Coconut wine, very strong.”

From the backseat Raul said, “We'll go to the fishponds and then return to the hacienda. I have much work to do this afternoon.”

The fishponds were divided into numerous neat rectangular plots separated by raised dikes made of soil and stone. The breadth and scope of the ponds were staggering, sweeping far into the distance. Flocks of migratory birds rose and landed on the waters in artistic dances.

At the southern edge of the fishponds, huts made of bamboo and palm were built on tall poles above the water. Footprints of livestock and small bare feet pocked the muddy shoreline with water filling the deeper prints. Julia heard children laughing and in the distance, the sound of birds and women talking.

“These are the hacienda's fishponds,” Raul explained as they walked toward it. “At one time, your grandfather and I discussed raising fish for foreign markets, but regular flooding during the rainy seasons always emptied the ponds of the fishes.”

The joyous screams and laughter of children grew louder as they walked down a slope. A woman with a child in a sling on her hip carried a bucket of water in her arms.

“Look at the children with that
carabao
.” Markus touched her arm and pointed to an oxlike animal standing in the pond. It reminded her of a water buffalo with its sleek black hair and thick gray horns that arched straight from his head.

A group of children circled the creature, laughing and screaming as they washed its slick body. A boy jumped on its back, then helped pull a girl up. The boy then tried to stand on the carabao's back, but slipped in a dramatic fall that made Julia gasp.

He popped up from the muddy water like a smiling acrobat as the carabao continued chewing its cud as if nothing unusual was happening. Two little girls, toddleraged, splashed and squealed in the water holes where Julia guessed a carabao had wallowed in the mud.

Raul stood with his arms crossed at his chest. “That is Mino-Mino. They believe he is their pet, but he is supposed to be working the field right now.”

Raul called to the children, who all jumped and dove under the water as if to hide from him. One by one their wet black-haired heads popped back up.

Markus laughed and shook his head. “Those are hacienda children, aren't they, Raul?”

Raul nodded with his pinched expression as he perused the area, as if assuring himself of their safety.

“Different from the children of the Barangay?” Julia asked, remembering the boys and one girl around the estate house.

“Yes, very different.” Markus turned and looked at the jungle. “Two different worlds. Barangay children will be near as well, but we won't see them.”

“There were some at the house when we left.”

“Yes, I know.” Raul and Markus glanced at each other, and Raul shook his head slightly.

The children in the fishpond had spotted Julia. They nudged each other and put their heads close together in the muddy water. Finally they came splashing toward her as if in a race. Once they reached the shore, they all stopped and smiled shyly, waiting for one to be brave enough to go forward. Black eyes and glistening hair, brown wet skin, wide white smiles.

“Good . . . afternoon to Miss Julia,” said the young girl who had been on the back of the carabao. Her wet dress clung to her thin frame, and water dripped from her hair to the muddy shore.

“Good afternoon,” Julia said, reaching out a hand.

The girl turned to her friends, who all giggled; then she stretched her small hand forward and shook Julia's.

“What is your name?”

“Angelita.”

The children came closer, and one touched the skin on Julia's arm as if in awe of the lightness.

“Nice to meet you, Angelita. You are very good at riding on the back of that carabao. It looks like a cow to me, though. Have you seen a cow?”

“They speak little English,” Markus said; then he translated her words.

The children nodded their heads and a few chattered quickly in Tagalog.

Markus laughed. “They've seen a cow on
Sesame Street
and other television shows from the States. One saw a cow sing a song once in a movie.”

Raul rubbed the top of one child's head. “The hacienda is strict about learning English, another requirement of Captain Morrison.It is good for the children of the provinces to know and practice their English as the children do in Manila. I would guess that these little ruffians are missing assignments today to play in the mud.”

A boy with narrow almond eyes tugged at Markus's arm and spoke as if he had a secret.

“Mino-Mino?” Markus said to the boy, who launched into some grand explanation.

“He wants me to tell you that Mino-Mino is an outlaw cow. He did some bad things while vacationing near Taal, the volcano.”

The boy grinned widely at Markus.

“Taal is the smallest volcano in the world, and according to Joc, Mino-Mino wanted to see what the smallest volcano looked like. So he went on a tour bus specially made for other carabao. But while there, he drank a bit of the funny water and acted very inappropriately. So now, the children are trying to cover him in mud because they are certain the authorities will arrive very soon.”

Julia tried to act worried. “Well, I hope they hide him well, so the police don't put him in jail.”

When Markus translated, the children jumped up and down, laughing hysterically at her response.

Markus gave her a smile that took her breath away, as Angelita reached a hand to touch Julia's wheat-colored hair.

“Let us go on now,” Raul said. “I need to check on something and will meet you at the car.” He marched up the hill.

Julia said good-bye to the children, who scampered back to the fishpond.

“Miss Julia,” they called over and over as they jumped and dove into the muddy water. The storytelling boy swam out to Mino-Mino and climbed on his back. He called for her to watch and stood up, making the motions of a surfer. “California! Beach Boys!” he cried, making them laugh as he surfed until he lost his balance and with flailing arms fell into the water.

A hot breeze stirred the dust, but mercifully pushed some dark clouds over the sun. Tropical birds chirped and cawed from the jungle.

Markus motioned to a grove of trees ahead where Julia spotted the girl and one of the boys she'd seen earlier at the hacienda. The children of the Barangay.

“How did they get here? Do they play together?” she asked as the children disappeared into the greenery.

“No, except on rare occasions. The children are very separate, very different. Their minds are molded to see life in completely different ways.”

She and Markus walked on, and suddenly a few raindrops fell. Then, almost at once, it was a shower falling in long sudden streams.

“Hurry, under here,” Markus said, grabbing her hand and racing beneath a thick grove of mango trees.

Raul was down the road on the front porch of a hut, speaking to an old man.

“I've never seen such rain,” Julia said, standing close to Markus beneath the branches. It came down so immediate and hard, settling the dust and cooling the air with a crisp fragrance. A few large drops traversed the wide green leaves and dripped on their heads. Unseen birds still cawed and sang.

In ten minutes the downpour passed, and they hurried toward the car.

Raul approached to say that he needed to deal with some things there. “Markus can escort you to the house,” he said.

Wherever they went on the hacienda, Julia saw how the people followed Raul, not in fear or loathe servitude, but with respect. Yet much of the hacienda was in disrepair and seemed to lack organization at the lower levels. Something was missing. Perhaps they needed more manpower or tighter unity. How could she, an outsider and a foreigner, know what was needed? The burden was most certainly too great for her to bear.

W
HAT WOULD
M
CCLAIN DO IN A TIME LIKE THIS?
M
ANALO THOUGHT
and chuckled at himself. He was being infected by his men's love for the Bruce Willis character in
Die Hard
.

The men couldn't identify with a policeman in the United States; they certainly wouldn't want to. But they could understand breaking rules, doing what a man had to do—fighting one's enemies without following protocol, continuing to fight even with a knife stuck in one's shoulder.

Manalo was walking in the night again. He thought of the sambar he'd seen in the meadow, and of his wife and children. If only Malaya could hear him calling to her, telling her that he'd make everything all right.

Hacienda Esperanza was only kilometers from their camp in the jungle. They could come in the night. There had been forcible takeovers of properties in the past, many times. Much of his country was pushed and invaded not only by foreign soldiers but by their own as well. The government wasn't strong. They'd most likely cower at a hostile takeover and leave even such a vast and important piece of property to fend for itself. For if the government sent out the army, those in power knew it might mobilize the other political factions, and the entire country might fall into civil war. It could happen. In other countries in such fragile shape, it had happened.

Manalo walked down the road that eventually led to the hacienda gates. Just today he'd heard that foreign and domestic investors were trespassing on the property of Hacienda Esperanza. The foreman's men had run them off.

There was no doubt, they must act soon. But what action to take? This Manalo must carefully consider.

He thought of some lines from the new
Die Hard
movie, which his men liked to quote.

What are you going to do?

Whatever I can.

It wasn't the best tactical advice when leading men, but Manalo was playing this one by instinct. His superiors could no longer be relied upon. They'd messed with his family now. He couldn't trust anyone outside his own small group.

When the sun came up, his men were surprised to see Manalo cooking them breakfast.

“What's going on?” Timeteo asked.

“That's not the line I'm looking for. Think of McClain,” he said with a grin as he cracked another egg into the pan.

“Okay. Manalo, what are we going to do?”

“Whatever we can.”

ELEVEN