My Lola told me that after the old Señora Angela died and went to heaven after vomiting black blood, her eldest daughter never removed her mourning clothes or the gold medal that had been her mother’s. Sometimes I imagined ’Nyora Dolores in her black dress sleeping on her bed like a corpse inside a coffin, her arms crossed over her flat bosom, chiseled features sharp even in repose. I could not perceive her wearing anything else but black even to sleep. I never knew what the Señor did aside from smoking his water pipe and reading in his room that was full of books in Latin and foreign languages. The room had a funny, sweetish smell mixed with the odor of mildew because the wooden shutters remained closed the whole day. Shelves were stacked on every wall from floor to ceiling with volumes without apparent order, dark, cracking, redolent of leather with titles in gold and gilt-edged pages. There were no newspapers in the house; ’Nyora Dolores said they had no need for the vulgarity of the present and Señor was only interested in history, make-believe stories, and poetry. But Manang Azon, the coachman’s wife, remembered the many parties when Señor worked in the Ayuntamiento. They toiled long hours, dicing ripe fruits for preserves: crunchy guavas, pitted odiferous jackfruits, sensuous mangoes, and piquant santol. These were served as ice cream toppings that Mang Emong churned out of a machine, spending hours turning the wooden handle. Endless varieties of sauces rolled out of the kitchen made of chicken broth, rich drippings, coriander leaves, eggplants, and baby tomatoes depending on the season. In the summer they served cold fish with alioli, the rich scent of olive oil filling the whole house. When the weather cooled, pigs were roasted on a spit, their skin brown and crackling. But that was long ago when he was young and the old Señora was still alive. Then after the government had the three priests shot, Señor stopped working and stayed home and the family closed the doors and windows of the house, stepping out only to walk to mass. This was in ’72, more than thirty years ago. Many friends at that time sympathized with the native clergy and they were sent away because the government thought they were going to start a revolution. It made Señor very sad but the government could not show that he had done anything wrong except that he had been a classmate and friend of one of the martyred priests. A lot of money changed hands so that Señor would not have to return to Europe where he had studied at the university in Madrid. His mother believed everyone there was a Mason who was sure to go to hell. My Lola, on the other hand, never spoke about her past. It was as though she had never known another existence except this house and its inhabitants. And yet she must have been young once and had a husband. ’Nyora Isabel once said that as long as she could remember my Lola was living in the house and taking care of all of them, even the old Señora when she was dying. Lola was a young girl when she came to work for the house, not more than ten years old.
Likhaan 5