Love on the Road 2015 (11 page)

The band strikes up and we tread up the stone ramp to the upper level of the barn, the steep climb forcing gallantry upon the men as ladies grab for steady arms, this being no place for heels. Inside, the band breaks into a decade-old chart hit, and the heavily worn dance floor begins to fill. A bow-tied barman stands behind a rustic counter and begins mixing some prearranged menu. Before the night is
through, these will be mutated and experimented with until the taste-to-toxicity ratio favours the latter.

I find my wife as the bride and groom have their first dance and we take our cue when the bridal party have joined. I hold her tight and kiss her often. The music ranges from soft to animated to bizarre, as the orange-and-red evening gives way to the lavender-and-lilac night. The sky breaks out in stars as we say our goodbyes with hugs, handshakes and next-time-in-Brusselses. We head back with Reija and Jarno, reliving the funnier incidents. In the distance, a single column of white clouds floats on the lake. Silently, the giant trundles in our direction until a flash of crimson ignites its recesses and a ribbon of flaming doom shoots downward. We miss the clap of Thor that follows, but are mesmerised by the sight.

Back in the market, we opt to grab a Dolly Burger purely for the novelty. Then we cycle home through the darkened streets in full formal attire, a little less polished, but feeling so much younger.

At the cabin, we unfold the spoils of the burger bar. My wife has a slim vegetarian sandwich, sensible and delicious. I opted for the Äijä (Dude) Burger. I unfold the wrapping to reveal a colossus of stinking meat and bread. Spicy lamb kebab and bacon and beef covered in processed cheese, with a slice of buffalo tomato and a leaf of lettuce. I finish it but will surely pay and pay dearly tomorrow.

We check our bags once more, to make sure nothing will be left behind. I double-check again and yet I am ill at ease. I have neglected my review. More importantly, I have neglected the Internet and my connection with civilisation. I have not rushed quickly through a city street or huddled inside a metro car either. And I have not missed it.

Teeth brushed, we climb into bed. The heat is swept around by the table-top fan, and my wife leans her head close as she drifts away in peaceful slumber, exhausted from dancing and drink, food and laughter. The morning will be upon us early, and the blitz of travel, but even so I cannot sleep. It’s not that my stomach is hard at work. I have taken on extra heavy fuel, but something is standing sentinel at the gates of Somnus’s lair. It will not let me pass. I climb from the bed and walk to the kitchen to fetch a glass of water, but I am instead drawn toward the terrace. I step outside and allow the cool night air to sweep across me. For some inexplicable reason, I am drawn forward and step down onto the grass.

The blades bow underfoot or sneak finely between my toes. I inhale slowly, deeply. The night, this Finnish night, is intoxicating. More so than any beer or wine or spirit. I suddenly notice that I am not alone. A hare has stopped close by and is eyeing me with suspicion. I refrain from any inane attempts to call it closer and we simply watch each another. Suddenly, his ears prick and he scurries away. Then, nothing. Silence and darkness and a stillness unlike any I have known before. It begins to overwhelm me. A dull thud at first. For a moment I think that some pock-faced teen in a Toyota Starlet with speakers that cost more than the car is drawing near, but no. It’s something else, something loud. A vacuous siren calling. A call not unlike the terror you experience when standing at the shore looking out into an ocean. A seething emptiness in which you are nothing.

I begin to sweat, heat rising within. My breathing becomes erratic and I drop to my knees. I begin to cough and choke and panic. On all fours, I feel a fever rest its
hands on me and, in my terror, I look for calm and coolness. I crawl toward the small brook by the cabin. I have become one of the night creatures, fur and freedom. This is my territory. When men sleep I reign. I edge closer until the silver lie of the moon’s light shows a distorted reflection of my face. I dry heave, I cough and I plunge my steaming head into the cool stream. Silence … and then I die. ‘The calm/Cool face of the water/Asked me for a kiss.’

In the darkness all is mute, my senses frozen as the water quells the inferno burning within. With a sweep, I emerge again, gasping. Straining for air and life. Ready to scream and cry. I feel alive, more alive than I have in years. I slump back onto the grass and, dripping wet, I begin to laugh. A quiet laugh. A confident, self-assured laugh. The laugh of contentment. I wonder if this is what birth feels like. If you have a few moments of infantile clarity when you emerge from your mother’s womb. Is this the sensation you feel? All ice and fire and fitful breaths. Breathing for the first time. I stand as if I were a toddler pulling myself up as I had seen my parents do so many times before. Is this what that feels like? I take a tentative and unsteady step, then another, then another. I almost lose control but manage to reach for the balustrade of the terrace and steady myself. I survey the black void of the lake, its midnight-and-amethyst solidity broken only by the treacherous moon. I am alive. I died and now I am alive. I have been reborn, at the mouth of the river.

I hadn’t really believed Mom would come, but, standing in line in the wings of the Holy Family Ceremonial Hall – the big wooden room by the library – it’s hard not to hope. Stepping out onto the platform when my name’s called, I can’t stop myself scanning the faces, willing Mom’s to be among them, then sagging when it’s clear she’s not there. Shaking Ms Navarro’s hand, it takes all my energy to hold back the tears. I take the book and certificate without looking at them. Once back among the rows of girls below the stage, I shove them under my seat and slump back, biting my lip, kneading my fingers.

What was it Mom said after that first awards ceremony?

‘That certificate is by rights your dad’s.’

And, later: ‘Smiling at your success? You glad he’s gone?’

Like every year, I wish I could swap the awards, the good school, the bedroom of my own, everything, for Dad to put his hand on my head like before, and for him to make Mom smile.

Like every year, as the ceremony closes, Ms Navarro invites the girls to join their families for snacks in the staff area of the canteen. It’s a big honour, but I don’t stay to see
my friends gush together with their moms and dads and younger siblings. Most of them have parents working overseas, but they also have moms, dads, aunties and uncles who come to awards ceremonies.

I shove my prize into my school bag, wincing a little as the certificate crumples, and walk straight out of the gates. The other students, those who haven’t won anything, are already on the way back to lessons, so there’s no one but the guards in their uniforms, shiny badges and crisp hats, to see me leave. They know me by name, know I’m not a trouble-maker, and let me go, no questions. Robby raises his hand in a wave, but I can’t face talking to either of them today.

As it’s early to be leaving, there’s only one tricycle waiting outside the gates, and I swing into the small green carriage alone, enjoying having the cushion and sunshade to myself. The boy pedalling isn’t much older than me. His faded t-shirt is speckled with small holes from sweat and over-washing. It contrasts with the modest front trim of my crisp white blouse, with its small white buttons and gathered sleeves. The boy’s skin is dark and pockmarked, and his calf muscles tense and loosen like machines as his feet work the pedals along one of Metromanila’s big residential highways to our building. Down the back of his right leg, amidst the dust, the pink scarring of old insect bites, and the scattered adolescent hair, is the word ‘J E S U S’, in the uneven black of a street tattoo.

From where I sit, to his right, below and behind, I can just make out his profile: his lashes and his soft stubble. The set of his mouth is thoughtful, but his eyes seem unfocussed. His mind must be elsewhere. I wonder where he lives.

Rather than be dropped off directly at home, I tell him to
stop at the noodle bar. I give him a handful of pesos and go in. Ordering up
pancit molo,
I sit on one of the tall stools at the bar, where I can watch the American actors and actresses on the TV screen, their moving mouths at odds with the love ballads droning overhead. The pleats of my blue college skirt stretch across my thighs, and I surprise myself by undoing the top buttons of my blouse, which feels tighter than usual around my throat. I trace the fake wood pattern in the countertop with my finger as I wait for my soup.

A man comes in and sits at the next stool. His skin and face are Filipino, but he holds himself like a foreigner: easy, filling his territory. His hair is just long enough to have that tousled look and his skin is smooth and shaven He has the smallest of lines at the corners of his eyes and in his forehead. It makes him look interesting, like he knows more than the teenage boys you meet, but he still isn’t old. As he settles, a waft of foreign aftershave passes over the rich food smells of the shop. His blue suit jacket is made of that material that always seems ironed. The heavy-looking buttons are golden. He wears a pale blue shirt, with the collar undone. He asks the owner for pork-dumpling soup and turns to me, leaning over.

‘You can’t beat homemade
pancit molo
.’

It feels like I’m in a film. On a normal day, I’d probably be embarrassed if a strange man sat down next to me and started to talk. But my mind’s still fuzzy from what happened at the ceremony, and I feel like playing along. When he asks where I work, his voice has that smooth, regular American sound to it. My cheeks get warm because he thinks I’m mature enough to be working. They burn a little deeper as I follow his eyes to the college crest on my blouse,
glad I opened the buttons. I lie that I’m in the final year. When my soup comes, I don’t know whether to wait for him before starting. I don’t want to presume we’re eating together, so I take up the spoon.

The soup’s salty and sharp, helping a little against the intense heat of the shop. Leaning over the steaming bowl, I notice the sweat droplets forming between my breasts. The man moves his stool a little closer. It’s only a centimetre or so but it feels significant.

‘I’m Michael,’ he says. ‘You?’

I don’t know how to respond. The shop owner arrives and slides the man’s soup across the counter to him. Michael reaches forward, taking a thick, rough-cut noodle that’s escaping down the side of the bowl with his fingers. Letting drips fall, he brings it towards himself, lowering it into his mouth. I can’t say anything at all. I can’t look away.

Finally, I say, ‘Teresa Lee. My name, sir. It’s Teresa Lee.’

And I watch his face.

He doesn’t seem to disapprove and it feels good to think I’ve pleased him.

Soup finished, I’m still pulling my spoon over the dregs, cupping the bowl. Michael turns to face me and slides his hand over, touching the back of my wrist. His hand is surprisingly small and childlike. The fingers are short, the nails stubby. I find myself staring at it.

He looks embarrassed.

‘Pardon me, ma’am, but could we meet again?’

Without waiting for an answer, he puts a business card on the counter between us, with his other hand. A real business card. Then he pays for both soups and smiles right into my eyes.

‘Call me,’ he says.

And leaves.

The next day is Friday, and I can’t stop thinking about him, his dark eyes, the way his brows curve, the feel of his small fingers touching mine. It takes all the way to the early evening to gather the courage to call him. I lay the card on the table in the hallway.

There’s a Manila cell phone number. I lift the receiver. Mom’s lying on the couch in the next room. José is down the hall. I almost hang up when Michael answers. But I stop myself. He sounds happy to hear from me and, feeling my face getting red again, I’m glad we’re separated by telephone wires.

He tells me to meet him the next day, at the entrance to Rizal Park in the Intramuros part of the city, so we can get to know each other. I haven’t been there since I went with Dad as a little kid. I haven’t ventured as far as the Old City since then. I try not to sound nervous as he explains about the LRT stop, and I work hard to remember the directions.

The next day, I panic about what to wear, finally settling on jeans and a T-shirt. I set out early to avoid the crush of people. It’s only when I arrive that it hits me that my brother’s never been here, where his namesake, José Rizal, breathed his last breaths and became a national hero. Part of me feels guilty, wishing I’d brought him along. But at the same time, I’m glad I didn’t.

For José, it’s different. He doesn’t remember when Mom
used to smile. All he knows is the mausoleum with closed windows and air conditioning, which feels dark and dead. For José, that life’s normal. He probably wouldn’t even recognise Dad if he walked right in the door. To be honest, I’ve always been kind of jealous of him for that. I’m thinking about all this when Michael comes around the very corner he’d said he would. And I’m back in the same film as before.

He smiles with eyes that have seen the world. Taking my hand, he leads me around the park, pointing things out. He knows so much, has read so much. It’s amazing. As we’re walking, I talk more about my family, about Dad.

‘How’d you like to come to New York yourself?’

My breath catches. I daren’t believe I’m hearing right. This really is like being in a film.

‘I know a family out there, right in Central Park, near the Statue of Liberty, that needs someone to mind their two little boys, help them with their homework, do a bit of dusting. Look, sorry if it’s out of place, but if that’s something that might interest you, they need someone quickly. I can put in a word.’

We’re walking on the tarmac area between the buildings of the park, where you could imagine the rallies and speeches from history class. It’s there, by the national monument, with the flowers blooming and all the people strolling back and forth, that he turns to me. He looks younger. Nervous. He strokes my chin gently, lifting it, and before I know what’s happening, he kisses me gently on the lips. I feel dizzy.

Then, with his face still close, he adds: ‘If I’m honest, it’s selfishness. I’d love you to come to New York. There’s so much I could show you there.’

I feel so many things it is hard to understand. It’s less than forty-eight hours since we met, but my world has swung in a way I could never have imagined, and it can’t swing back. My mind is full of pictures of Dad so happy to see me and of me telling José all the things that I’ve done and seen. I imagine holding hands with Michael, walking through the pictures on the postcards Dad stopped sending years ago.

Exploding through everything, though, making everything else faded or black-and-white is the feeling in my chest of his lips on mine. Nothing’s quite real. Nothing has consequences. I know that this is what love must feel like.

The next day is Sunday and Father Patrice is talking to his flock over the shuffling of hand fans and the crying of a baby in the back. I’m not quite sure why I came. Mom gradually stopped bringing José to church ages ago, and it’s probably been two Christmases since we’ve been, the three of us, as a family.

‘We mustn’t wait for the Lord to speak with words,’ Father Patrice declares. ‘He may send us a messenger or give us a sign. We mustn’t be afraid. God is all-encompassing. Brothers and sisters we must believe in that love. We must follow it.’

As Father Patrice is talking, all I can think of are the Bible stories of people who leave their homes to follow messengers. The congregation stands for the hymn. It is ‘Love Divine’. And I stand with them. I open and close my mouth like a fish. Perhaps I sing, but I don’t notice. I know now I’m making the right decision.

The driver revs, frustrated at the Monday-afternoon Manila traffic. Behind, my right temple flattened against the window, I gaze absently through the dusk. Outside, the red smile of the Jollibee’s Bee welcomes post-work burger-grabbers. I let my jaw hang, not knowing what to feel. Beside me, the man’s aftershave smells no less exotic than when I first smelt it. We’re no longer holding hands. He doesn’t seem to notice.

The lights change. The taxi pulls away, wooden rosary clacking against the rear-view mirror, crucifix hanging askew like a misshapen kiss. Outside, Mother Mary stands twenty feet tall, wrapped in multi-coloured blinking lights. Her face is impassive, her hands outstretched. She’s making sure that everything is okay. Behind her is some military building. On either side, ornamental plinths display ornamental mounted guns. I turn my eyes to my hands, palms down, resting on my school bag. I can’t quite believe that less than half an hour ago I was at home. It feels like a thousand years.

Mom said nothing when I left. Nothing. When I told her where I was going she didn’t even sit up from the mattress. Tears dribbled down her face. Useless. We didn’t hug. I don’t quite know what I expected, but it wrong-footed me. I figure Mom’s probably still lying there while I sit slumped and small in the back of a white cab, her only daughter, telling myself I’m making the right decision. I
have
made the right decision.

José’ll probably arrive home about now from some sports practice or other. What’ll Mom tell him? Probably she’ll say nothing at all, like when Dad left. I wish I’d known how to tell him myself.

In the car, Michael still isn’t looking at me and I turn again to the window. The city outside already feels far away, as I catch glimpses of lives being lived in a poor stretch of town. By the roadside, a pregnant woman leans against a scraggly tree trunk, right hand protecting her swollen belly, left laying, palm out, across her face. Behind her, a father combs a small child’s hair, while three others bounce on the bare branch of the sparse city tree: a family, together. Not much further on, a group of construction workers sit outside a noodle shop, white bowls in strong left hands, right hands gesticulating, scooping food and resting on tables. Above them, a sign flickers with pictures of dumplings. Today must be a celebration. They can’t be on more than 200 pesos a day, and that place probably cost at least forty.

A dull pop brings me back to the taxi, and I catch the driver using his tongue to gather the pink aftermath of bubblegum from his lips, and then continuing to chew. I hadn’t noticed his chewing before, but now it squelches loudly behind the grainy fizzle of American pop music. I study his face in the mirror, but he doesn’t meet my eyes. Between the strings of brown beads, the muscles of his jaw work the gum in an endless, unproductive effort. Emerging behind him, the mirror shows the sleeve of Michael’s suit jacket.

Outside, through the window, the multi-carriageway joins the highway and our battered white taxi rises above the city, onto the overpass. The blinking lights of a plane move steady overhead. Not far now. Outside, shacks, piled high, drip corrugated metal roofs, and bedraggled clothing hangs to dry. Points of light glow out of the gloom of the now-gathered dusk. I imagine Mom, a country girl, eighteen years old, leaving the open air of the paddy to join her
husband in those grimy shacks that grow like plaque between the districts of the city. I think of Michael. But I don’t turn from the window.