Orchid House (5 page)

Donny rarely spoke. He took everything in and could be counted on to follow through with one word of instruction. In his inside pocket he had a photograph of a palm tree with a boy leaning his hand against it, but no one knew why. He was twenty years old, had never spoken of his family. Questions always fell to his feet with a shrug of his shoulders.

Leo and Ton were twins and as alike as they looked. Manalo's twin daughters had distinct personalities from each other, but Leo and Ton—both called Lon by the men—seemed alike in every way, as though they shared one identity. Thankfully they were most always together, so any conversation a man had with one was with the other. Manalo teased that they were twice the man.

Before dawn, the truck had stopped briefly in a small village and a six-year-old boy was loaded into Luis's arms through the canvas. It had been a year since Luis had seen his son. His wife had died in childbirth, along with a second son, and after their burial, the older boy stayed behind with another family while Manalo and his men were sent away. The family could no longer provide for the boy, and Luis needed a way to get the child to his grandparents in the southern provinces. Now Manalo watched the boy sleep with his head against his father's shoulder, one small hand holding Luis's dark tattooed arm.

Manalo closed his eyes but kept his ears attentive as they continued. The highway was busy; they were coming into Manila and now would take the trafficladen streets into Quiapo, where drugs and foreign mafias mixed with religious fanatics and open street markets. A truck backfired, but the eyes of his men barely opened. They knew real danger from counterfeit.

Luis's son, however, woke with fear in his eyes. A tear trailed dirt down his cheek, though he didn't cry out. His father slept on. The boy noticed Manalo, who motioned him to come. The child hesitated, then crawled over legs and sleeping men to a small space Manalo patted beside him.

Small black eyes stared up at him, above cheeks that were smooth and round. Manalo felt a pang of longing.

“I have a son as well,” he said. He hadn't meant to speak aloud, for the boy did not understand anyway. He had been taught Ilocano, not the usual Tagalog or English. When he went to his family in the south, it would be some time before they could communicate in the same language. The sadness in the boy's eyes stung Manalo's heart. If his own children suffered such longing, it would be more than he could bear. Manalo wanted to turn from the child, and at the same time wanted to hold him tightly and make his life safe and happy.

From his pocket he pulled out a piece of string. The black eyes studied him with interest as Manalo demonstrated how to tie a slipknot, winding the string around and pulling the ends for the knot to disappear. The boy learned quickly, after only several tries, and smiled proudly when his knot pulled through into a straight piece of string again.

Manalo winked at the boy, then nodded for him to return to his place. Hesitation . . . a gaze of longing . . . ah. Manalo handed him the string. The child clutched it as though it were a costly treasure.

The traffic grew thicker, and Manalo felt the pressing in of civilization. Exhaust and humidity stung his lungs, and beads of sweat rolled down his back. He missed the mountain air. The city felt like a death trap pressing closer around them. And he couldn't stop watching as Luis's son shook his father awake and demon-strated his new skill. Manalo hadn't seen his own son since his third year. He was six now.

Soon they'd pass Luneta Park where the statue of José Rizal stood holding his books in his hand. Though Manalo resented that it was the Americans who had pushed for Rizal to be the national hero—someone for the people to admire and see how change could come in peace—still he respected the man whose two novels sparked a revolution and cost him his life. His nation again needed words that stirred change and brought a better life for all Filipinos. Such drive and fire were too far from him now.

“What is it, Manoy?” Timeteo asked in a low voice beside him as the truck lurched forward again. The loud rumble of a bus passed by.

Few people called him by his nickname. His childhood friend knew Manalo as no one else did, except for his brother and Malaya. Timeteo had killed the man who murdered his brother, and he would give his life to protect Manalo. Of the few men he might uphold as trustworthy, Timeteo was undoubtedly the greatest—he'd entrust his family to Timeteo's care.

Manalo sighed and dabbed his forehead with an already damp handkerchief. “I grow weary of this.”

Timeteo knew he referred to more than a need for sleep; the exhaustion ran to his bones as well. He nodded. “It is time to retire, you and I. There are younger men for such work.”

“Forty-two and ready for retirement? I do not see that as an acceptable age.”

“We have lived much more than most men of forty-two.”

Manalo thought how true these words were. “And what would you do in retirement?”

Timeteo coughed and rubbed his eyes. “This blasted smog.” He leaned back his head. “Hmm, what would I do? I will tell you a story. Many years ago, when we were still children, your brother traded me a pig for my broken bicycle. He said it was a very intelligent pig that could learn tricks and put on shows. Since my bicycle was broken anyway, I thought I had the better end of the deal. I worked and worked with that pig . . . while Ricky traded some bottle caps for a new chain and very quickly was riding the bike.”

“Oh, I remember,” Manalo chuckled. “Ricky gave me rides on the handlebars, and once we watched you trying to train that pig. I was crying with laughter, it was so funny! But my brother kept his hand over my mouth. He said you'd hurt us if you spotted us laughing.”

Timeteo nodded grimly. “And I would have, most certainly. That pig did nothing but destroy my mother's garden.”

They laughed at the memory.

“But, though that pig never did any tricks, she grew into an incredible birthing sow. Some say she was magic after all. I have sold many piglets over the years, and her piglets gave me more.”

“How did I not know of this?”

“Because for, how many years now . . . seventeen, I have been with you in the jungle more than with my family and pigs. My mother puts one-fourth of the sale of each pig into a jar for when I come home.”

“How capitalistic of you all!” Manalo said, teasing.

“Ah, yes. When we have a Communist nation,
then
I will share all in equal measure with my countrymen. Until then, I put away for myself, or perhaps for your children since I have none myself. When I retire, I will be a lazy old man with a boat to fish on Laguna Lake and a pipe to smoke day and night.”

“And you will deserve it, my oldest friend.” Manalo patted his shoulder gruffly; then he felt the weariness return. “Until then, we continue to follow orders from men we do not know. And today that will take us into Quiapo.”

“Then rest, will you? You have not slept this entire journey. With this traffic, it will take us hours to get through the city.”

Manalo heard the concern in Timeteo's advice. So others, or at least Timeteo, had noticed his restless nights, how his subconscious betrayed him. Lately the nightmares had expanded beyond the borders of the subconscious. Images came throughout the day as well, at times with his eyes wide open. The day before he had heard the voice of an old rival calling to him—a rival he had killed fifteen years earlier. And in his eyes flashed bodies of the dead, many he'd forgotten, as if specters who'd gained access to haunt the corridors of his thoughts. Did insanity grow from the sleep world to overtake the daylight hours?

In childhood, Manalo's parents had taken him on a final visit to his grandfather, who raved like a madman in the asylum they'd been forced to put him. The horrors of war had taken his mind. Manalo realized in the years that followed that there was a history of weakness in the minds of his ancestors. His mother suffered enormous mood swings until she found that alcohol soothed her to an oblivious state. His father was consumed with a rage that hurt them all, and which Manalo later confronted. An aunt and a great-great-uncle had committed suicide. Manalo and Ricky kept such facts secret, as their father had instructed them. Yet even with such a history, Manalo didn't fear his own mind to that extent—at least not yet.

Timeteo stared at him. “Get some sleep. I will protect the men and wake you if trouble comes. From now on, let us take turns.”

Manalo nodded and leaned his head back. He stared at the boy still playing with the string, trying to undo a knot that had formed. Soon they would arrive in Quiapo, to some kind of evil in need of rectifying. Manalo's word would be law. His men's lives would rest on his shoulders. For now, he must sleep and hope he could win the battles within his own mind.

O
RGANIZED MAYHEM
.

Or perhaps simple mayhem best described the streets and intersections of Manila.

Julia stared in fascination out the taxi's side window while clutching the seat in front of her. She'd ridden with other crazy taxi drivers in her life, but this one kept her hanging on to keep from being bounced around the backseat as he sporadically hit the brakes and honked with enthusiasm. At another abrupt lane change, her grandfather's logbooks scattered.

In grasping for the seat in front of her, Julia grabbed part of Raul Sarmiento's shirt.

“Oops, sorry,” she said, grabbing up the books and trying to balance herself by holding onto the door.

Raul grunted a reply. But the grouchy and closemouthed foreman of her grandfather's plantation couldn't suppress the wonder surrounding her. She was really here . . . in the country she'd heard so much about. It felt surreal—like coming to a land of stories and dreams—and yet it was as real as home.

Manila was a mosaic of contrasts at every turn of street: impressive financial buildings, primitive enclaves, banks and elegant cafés, statues and monuments, an entire street of outdoor markets, dank alleyways, and residential homes from the most affluent to shanty-type neighborhoods. And all within blocks of each another. They passed several open stores where all kinds of goods were sold on the streets. Children barely dressed sat on store steps while young students in pressed school uniforms walked past them. She noticed that Raul paid little notice to a blockade down a major side street where gunclad soldiers stood as solemn as statues.

The foreman had arrived nearly an hour late that morning without excuse or apology. She'd waited in the lobby of the Hotel Manila, admiring the massive chandeliers, wood carvings, and marble floors while trying to relax to the cheerful chords of the piano played at the other end of the grand ballroom-style room. Nervousness and excitement battled within her. Perhaps all great journeys included both.

When Raul had opened the glass doors, Julia knew at once that the tall and fit-looking man in worn boots and starched work shirt must be the head of the plantation. Observing the stiff confidence in his movements, she wondered if he had a military background. He had given her a small bow and, “It is an honor to meet the granddaughter of Captain Morrison.”

The somber expression had not left the foreman's face from the moment she met him.

“Perhaps a rented car,” he said now, turning in the front seat. Julia moved to the center of the seat to hear him. “But we would need a driver . . .”

“No, really, the bus is okay,” Julia said for the second time.

Evidently the hacienda car had broken down on the road to Manila. The driver stayed behind while Raul came for her. He had wanted her to remain in Manila while the car was being repaired.

“I'd really like to get to the plantation today. I can't wait to see it. I'll go by bus, taxi, or one of those funny-looking vehicles that looks like a giant jeep.” The elongated jeep like vehicles littered the road, mixed with motorcycles with sidecars and then cars and trucks of every variety.

Raul didn't respond. Apparently another day's delay wasn't a problem, but going by bus was going to be a huge predicament.

“What are those called?” Julia leaned forward to hear his answer.

“That is a jeepney. The King of the Road, a major transportation in the Philippines.”

At stops along the street, passengers jumped in and out of the open backs of the long vehicles and sat on benches along the sides.

“I've never seen anything like it.”

“You don't have them in the United States? They came from the U.S. military jeeps after the war.”

A jeepney completely covered in chrome came into view just then with various neoncolored messages on its sides: Made in Philippines, Thank You, Lord, and Praise to Jesus. She smiled at the thought of a California highway populated with the vibrant and gaudy vehicles. “No, there are no jeepneys in the States.”

Another grunt response came from the front seat.

“Oh, Raul, I was supposed to see Mr. Santos before going to the plantation.”

“Yes, that was the plan. And Markus apologizes greatly to you. He was called into court today. He will come to the hacienda in a few days.”

“Ah, okay,” Julia said, trying to hide her disappointment. If she remembered correctly, Markus was a major advocate for the plantation, and beyond his law practice, he desired the Philippines to be a strong and successful nation. He might have been the one who spoke a phrase her grandfather used to say about the Philippines—“a land to redeem.”

The taxi braked again suddenly, and several pedestrians took the chance to cross in front of them. The video game of Frogger came to Julia's mind, where a player moved the frog in and out of traffic trying not to get squashed. The pedestrians were the bravest souls on the chaotic streets, dodging cars, jeepneys, motorcycles with sidecars, and even horse-driven carriages and bicycle-driven carts as they crossed and waited in the middle of the divider lines, even on the busiest thoroughfares.

She noticed Raul, too, had a hand of support on the dashboard. Taped to the dashboard were various religious pictures, while a crucifix dangled from the rear view mirror.