Monsoon Mansion: A Memoir(16)

“Royals!” Paolo and I said.

“And you know what else made me feel like a king?”

“What, Papa, what?”

“One time, when everyone else was sleeping, I felt around for my sister’s piggy bank. It was a rusty tin can sealed tight with masking tape and had a slot for coins. I needed money for candy, but I had spent all that I’d made from selling peanuts, so I thought I’d borrow her savings. And . . .”

“And what, Papa, tell us!”

“And while I fished for a centimo with a stick, I held my mouth open in anticipation of my prize, and . . .”

“What! What!”

“And the coin fell out of the can straight into my mouth and I choked on it! I choked on it for a good while, waking everyone up, until it passed through my throat and fell into the pit of my stomach. And there it stayed forever and ever!”

“Forever?” Paolo and I looked at each other.

“You bet. I can feel that cold coin in my stomach to this day, especially when I have my first cup of coffee in the morning. It’s a great reminder of where I’ve been and where I wanted to be—of what I wanted to become. I never wanted to be poor again. I wanted to become a businessman and provide employment for people, provide for a family, build something big,” he said, rubbing his stomach as if to search for the lost coin.

Paolo and I reached together for Papa’s belly, feeling around for a dime-size bump. We fell asleep that way—our arms stretched across Papa’s belly, our hands rising and falling with his breathing.



The smell of citrus polish woke me the next morning. The waxy orange scent perfumed the entire upstairs, the air hanging redolent over my comforter and face. I opened my eyes and mouth at the same time, unsticking eyelids and lips, feeling and tasting the product that had evaporated and thickened in our morning air. I sat up, sniffed, and discovered where it was coming from. Katring and Dehlia, the youngest of our servants, spun their hands left to right and right to left on the herringbone-patterned floor. They swirled their rags so fast, they created white blurs in the shape of eights. They exchanged chismes as they cleaned the floor, unaware that I had woken up and was listening.

“Nagsisikip ng sinturon,” Katring warned Dehlia. Tightening of their belts.

“You know what that means—we’re the youngest workers, the newest ones. Last to arrive, first to leave,” Dehlia said.

They shook their heads.

“Maybe they’ll keep us because we’re younger, faster. Lorna can barely lift the little ones on and off their beds. She can hardly walk up the mansion’s steps without panting,” Katring said.

“We just have to keep working harder. No breaks. Maybe sir will notice.”

Katring wiped her sweaty forehead on her sleeve, let go of her rag for a second, and clasped her hands in prayer. “I don’t want to go back to the province. You know what could happen to me.”

I didn’t understand what she meant, but could tell by how tight she held her hands together and how she waxed the floor to an unbelievable sheen that whatever fate awaited her in her province was much less desirable than her already-lowly station at the mansion.

I yawned and cleared my throat to get their attention.

“Good morning, Neng,” Dehlia said. “Just polishing the floor.”

“I know, I can smell it.” I inhaled. “Smells like oranges. Makes me hungry. Will you call my yaya for me so I can get changed? You might have to help her up the steps—she’s so old and slow, don’t you think?”

Katring’s jaw dropped and Dehlia covered her mouth with her wax-covered hand.

I smiled at them, pulled an imaginary zipper across my mouth, and said, “I won’t tell, I promise. She is getting really pudgy and sluggish. Sometimes I have to help her when she’s helping me get ready.” I rounded my arms and rolled from side to side on the bed and puffed up my cheeks like a balloon, making Katring and Dehlia laugh.



We prayed before breakfast. Papa blessed our meal and thanked God for the bounty. He said, “Make us content with what we have and prepare us for whatever may lie ahead.”

Mama interrupted. “Lord, keep us where we belong. We do not know how to be anywhere else. Please bless us—in the best high-class possible way—for as long as the Republic lives.”

Paolo took a turn and asked for more Nintendo games, an air gun, and a bucket of Green Slime. He would’ve kept petitioning for more toys for himself, so I interjected.

I said, “God, I need a new hairbrush. And . . . I just want everyone to stop fighting. Amen.”

The room quieted. No one spoke while we ate. We made no sounds except for the clank of forks and spoons against plates. I ate much but quickly, then excused myself and headed downstairs.

Where the servants lived, a different type of crusade took over. There transpired a Holy War composed of different sides and many opposing petitions. Lorna, Angge, and Judith prayed the rosary on their knees in the servants’ hall, moving their thumbs along a string of beads as they repeated the Hail Mary and the Lord’s Prayer, asking, petitioning, begging that they would be able to keep their jobs. Katring and Dehlia stood at the doorway, uninvited to the three older women’s prayer circle.

I pulled on Katring’s shirt and made a funny face. She giggled and tickled my side and asked if I wanted to practice my letters with her. She propped me up on the kitchen table and pulled out a legal pad Papa had given her. I wrote my name, and she wrote hers, and I called out words like aso, pusa, kuting. Dog, cat, kitty. She sounded out the syllables and jotted them down letter by letter. And I commended her for each one she got right.