When the Elephants Dance (22 page)

My cousin Maria Ellena and her mother never fight. Maria Ellena is part of my grief. Her mother lets her do anything and everything she wants. Maria Ellena can go unescorted to parties; already her mother has sent away for different applications to different schools. She brags about the schools in Europe and the other schools in the States. She tells me of her plans to attend these universities once the war is over. Maria Ellena was never interested in these places until I told my mama that I was. Maria Ellena is just like her mother; they pretend not to brag when they are doing just that. She pretends that really she would rather attend school here, but her mama insists that she test her wings. How else will a baby bird learn to fly? she says to me. Especially if she is chained to the mama bird at all times?

Maria Ellena says these things, knowing fully that it is what I want most in life. We have the same birth date, born the same day, exactly the same age. So you see, we were competing even before we were born. My mother would compare the way each of us sat in their wombs. “See how high my baby sits, like royalty. She will marry a prince or a rich man someday.”

And my aunt would say, “My baby sits lower, close to the earth, so strong. Not even the wind can sweep her off her feet.” I know this because my father told me. He wasn’t telling me to show how silly my mother can be. He was telling me to show how proud she was of me. I just understood the other meaning. I was so mad at Mama when I left to visit Maria Ellena the other day. I am mad at her still.

W
E HAVE WALKED
for over five hours, nearly twenty kilometers, and I have forgotten our destination. Domingo collapses against a tree. I help him to stand. “There.” He points up toward a steep ravine, and I think he is delirious, for I see nothing but the evening sky.

I help him, my legs shaky from bearing too much of his weight. “Are you sure this is the place?” I ask, suspicious that he is fevered.

“Oo,”
he says, squinting. Yes. “Come,” he breathes, and jerks his chin. The
path is straight upward, thick with saw grass and entangled branches, leaves with giant stalks. As we approach I become aware of movement all around us. I tell myself it is only the trees, the forest creatures. And then I see them. Filipinos appear, stepping forward from the dark, like trees come to life.

“Hoy, pare
.” Domingo nods to one in greeting, calling him short for
kompadre
, “comrade,” “friend.”

“Si Matapang ba iyán?”
someone asks. Is that Domingo Matapang?

“If not, you are a dead man.” Domingo’s voice changes.

The man smiles and urges us forward.

I have no strength to protest. I reach for Domingo, but he tells me with his eyes not to help. The little pebbles go stumbling down the hill as we climb.

“Sige
.” Go on. He grits his teeth, and the men crowd around to help carry him. He refuses at first, and then he gives in with a sigh.

Another half hour and we meet a second circle of men. It takes us almost fifteen minutes to go a few feet. We have to stop frequently, for Domingo is bleeding again. Our guides look at us with concern. Domingo tells them that he has not had food in several days. When we reach the top, I see a dozen eyes peeking at us from the surrounding green. I see a dozen more with guns and spears pointed at us.

“Domingo,” I say.

“Si chief, si Matapang
.” It is the boss, Matapang; someone says Domingo’s last name.

“Oo ngâ!”
someone exclaims. It is! Then the ferns close in on us, and the men come down to greet Domingo. The canopy of trees blocks out the moon. I cannot even see where I place my feet.

They study Domingo with great concern. “Alert the doctor,” someone orders, and a man runs on ahead.

They escort us to the top of the cliff, and I gasp, for the height is dizzying. I fear I will go over. We do, but there is a rope, a thick one anchored to the ground and to the side of the mountain. We grab on and climb down a steep drop. There is a ledge, and a small path that hugs the mountain, and then a large cave.

All at once they speak. A man rushes forward and greets Domingo. They shake hands. Domingo is happy to see him. “Palaka,” he calls him. The name means “frog.”

Palaka glances at me and nods. His eyes are strange; they push forward, giving him a look of great curiosity.

Domingo searches the faces. “Where is Miguel?”

No one speaks. Domingo asks a second time, this time looking only at Palaka.

“It is too late, he took a group to meet with the Amerikanos,” Palaka explains.

“You let him go?” Domingo asks.

“Let him? He disappeared in the night. He talked all day about how we should meet with the Amerikanos, so that they would give us guns. In the morning he was gone, along with thirty of our men. Hippolito Capistrano, Euterio Aquino, Vicente Rivas, you know his group. When he returned”—Palaka shrugs—“he had a new gun.”

“And the men?” Domingo asks.

“All dead. The Amerikano guerrilla would not see them without a sponsor, someone who could vouch for Miguel. So of course he turned them away.

“On their way back they became lost. The terrain was not familiar. They were chased by Japanese patrols. They stumbled into a war between Bangungot’s guerrillas and Calderone’s guerrillas.”

“The fool,” Domingo spits. “Miguel the ass. Those were valuable men.”

All the men voice their grievances about this Miguel Ochoa. How he taunted that Domingo was dead. How they had begun to believe this. Someone had claimed he had been bayoneted. They are in awe of Domingo’s return, and they watch him with reverence, as if he is a walking miracle.

As the men gather around, a young man approaches with a basket of odd needles and broken knives. He lights a small fire and holds the blades over the flame. He opens up Domingo’s shirt and cleans his wounds. Palaka nods to me and gives me water to drink. Something passes between us in that instant, when he hands me the cantina, but then it is gone. The hairs on my arm stand to attention.

I drink like an animal, choking and coughing at my thirst. Palaka reignites Domingo’s anger. He fans the fire with more stories of how they are sick of Miguel, how he wants only to be top dog. At times Palaka whispers things meant only for Domingo’s ears. He shifts his eyes suspiciously at me, so smooth, like an expert knifer, a
cuchillero
.

Palaka gives Domingo a large blade, and Domingo pushes it up his sleeve, where it is hidden from view. His movements are stiff, and he grimaces when he turns. I flinch at the thought of his wounds.

It continues for an hour, the ministrations with Domingo. I feel far away from him. With all these people surrounding him, I feel so alone. He has not once tried to introduce me. In fact, he has ignored me from the moment we
arrived. I cannot help but feel slighted. After all, I carried him, I gave him water. The men wear the same look in their eyes, a mixture of desperation and pride. I see now why Domingo is their leader. He has a presence, even in his wounded state. He is calm; he looks to no one for guidance or comfort. He has it all within himself. The others do not. He is offered a cigarette; someone quickly lights it.

A man pushes forward. “Oh, boss, sir.” He stops in front of Domingo, and I am mesmerized by his movements. He jerks his chin in hello, a series of quick motions. He blinks and licks his lips. The man shifts his weight from one foot to the other. He sticks a hand inside his pants pocket, then removes it quickly. His hand shakes, tapping his leg with the same quick rhythm.

“Oh, Innocencio.” Domingo clenches his jaw as he leans forward and holds out a hand. I am the only one who notices his pain. I can see in his eyes that he has good feelings toward this skittish man. “Have you finished off the emperor’s army with your shooting?”

Innocencio blushes; he gives a big toothy grin, revealing teeth that are crooked and chipped.
“Si boss namán,”
he tells Domingo. You joke.

“I have told you all before. All we need do is put Innocencio where he can get a good shot at the Japanese and he will take them all out,” Domingo says, laughing.

I can see that all the attention has taken a toll on him. His complexion is bland, the eyes dull and his breathing labored.

“Yes, well, if he plugs his rear end, he might get something done,” Palaka shoots back. “He has been eating too many tomatoes. We found a whole crate of tomatoes and K-1 rations meant for the Amerikanos that landed in the wrong place. It took ten of us to pull it out of a swamp. You should have seen us. We were sweating like pigs. It is a good thing they were canned tomatoes. I told Innocencio to stand guard over the treasure. But what do you think happens the minute I turn my back? He ate five cans’ worth, and since then he has not stopped shitting.”

Everyone roars with laughter.

Innocencio looks offended. “It burns like someone is shooting a cannon out of my tail,” he admits. He glances at me, then covers his mouth.

Everyone notices this and looks in my direction. I am uncomfortable with their stares. There is a strange tension in the air. I wait for Domingo to introduce me; instead he changes the subject.

“I need a shave badly,” he announces.

“I got it, boss.” Innocencio runs off for a mirror. Someone else brings a razor and scissors.

Domingo waves away the scissors. “No, just the beard. Trim it a little. I don’t want to look like a houseboy.” His beard is shaved quickly and the mirror given to him to study himself. When they are done, Domingo looks more presentable. Not as fearsome, but he is not happy with the work. “You have cut too much. Take this away.” He lifts the mirror in the air. A hand is at the ready to take it from him.

Domingo shakes his head. “Innocencio, have you been practicing?”

Innocencio’s face brightens. “Yes, sir. I think I am faster than you now. Shall we try, sir?”

“No, I will rest. Palaka, can he beat you?” Domingo asks.

Palaka curls his lip in derision. “Only when he dreams. Go on, get your rifle,” he tells Innocencio.

I watch in fascination as Innocencio runs off like a jubilant child. He brings back his rifle. He and Palaka sit cross-legged on the ground, opposite each other, and they are blindfolded. The men begin to crowd together. Domingo counts to three, and in a flash of hands, they begin to take apart their rifles. The cave becomes filled with shouting and laughter.

I cannot believe the speed at which they take apart their weapons. Their hands fly over the stock, the safety, in a frenzy, their lips pressed in tight concentration. I cannot help but laugh. Innocencio beats Palaka by a quick second. Palaka protests that Innocencio had a false start. They are about to put the rifles back together when the men begin to whisper and look toward the opening of the cave. Domingo’s eyes grow dark, and he sighs heavily.

A man walks in, thin, with a sly face. He looks from person to person, then swaggers into the cave like a wolf who has his pick of sheep. He walks deliberately slowly, studying each person’s face.

“Kompadre”
—he nods to Domingo—
“buhay ka palá
.” Comrade, you’re alive. His eyes are not fully open, the lids lowered.

“Ah, Miguel, the one who does not follow orders.” Domingo nods back. I am amazed at Domingo’s transformation. His face has shed the painful grimace, and his eyes are alert. He leans back in his chair and lights a cigarette. He puts his arm around his chair and stretches one leg out. He seems a man of leisure.

“We had a change of plans. I thought, Why wait for an invitation? We were able to get to the Amerikanos much quicker. We now know where they stand. They want nothing to do with us,” Miguel explains, taking a cigarette from behind his ear.

“Of course, what had you to lose except thirty of my men?”

Miguel looks accusingly at the others. They look back with blank faces. He
shrugs. “I am convinced more would have died had we waited to follow your plans. At least we now know where the Amerikanos stand. They do not want our help. To hell with them.”

His voice is edged like a sword, and I picture his wolf fangs beginning to show.

Domingo throws back his head and blows smoke upward. “I have come to show you I am not dead. I return, and what do I find? Someone who would play leader. If there is going to be a meeting with the Amerikanos, it will be through me, and only me.” The smoke dances and twists.

“Of course,” Miguel says easily. He leans against the side of the cave with his arms folded. “Best to sleep now and go over plans once again in the morning.”

Domingo gestures to me. “I must take my sister home. She cannot follow us.”

Miguel smirks. I feel his eyes on my neck, on my cheeks, my lips. “I can watch her here.”

“No,” Domingo says. “We have seen what happens when things are left to you. I will take her home, then we shall discuss matters in the morning.”

“Of course, you are boss.” Miguel smiles tightly. “Perhaps you should tell me if we are to attempt to meet the Amerikanos again. The name of your sponsor. What is to be discussed in case …” He pauses. “You should be delayed a second time.”

“I will not be delayed.” Domingo meets Miguel’s eyes for emphasis.

“No, of course not.” Miguel’s smile is insolent, and I suddenly become alarmed.

“And you will not be in charge again.”

“Ah …” Miguel crosses his arms. “Finally you say what is in your heart. It is a pity that you choose to do so now, in your weakened state.”

“Weakness comes from the heart. You are a good example. You care nothing for our cause and only for your own glory.”

“Phh, I am no fool,” Miguel says, sneering. “I saw how they carried you here. Like an infant. There is no strength left in you to lead a group, much less to challenge me.” He watches Domingo with a smug expression of triumph.

Domingo continues to blow smoke upward. In fact, he has not even stood up. He smiles, takes his cigarette, and studies the smoldering end. “It is amazing, is it not, what five days without proper water can reduce a man to? Even more amazing how several drinks can revitalize one so quickly.” He gets up so smoothly that it takes my breath away.