Monsoon Mansion: A Memoir(37)
“The mansion’s prinsesa,” Tony said, his hand on my shoulder.
The smoker squatting next to the hospital bed and the gaffer shining a blade walked over to us. They smiled but didn’t speak, and went back to their stations. Tony struck a match and lit a cigarette.
“Watch,” he said. He reached into a cardboard crate and pulled out a white-and-yellow game fowl. It had an ombré plumage: dandelion at the neck, custard down its spine, and sunbeam and gold through the wings and tail. Tony sucked on his cigarette and puffed a one-two-three onto the bird’s face. The bird fanned its tail, stretched its neck, and lifted its white-and-gold wings. Tony puffed again, building a crown of smoke around the creature’s head. He let go of it, and it flew one meter off the ground. Pakpak, the Tagolog word for “wing,” and the sound the bird made when flapping and showing off its fair-haired feathers. It cracked the atmosphere with its bladelike wings and whipped air from under them. Pakpak. Pakpak. Its right wing flapped a half beat faster than the other, forcing the animal to swerve rather than glide. I shielded my face with my scabby arm, afraid that it would slash or scratch or peck.
“Hinay,” Tony said, commanding the bird to calm down. He clicked his tongue, and his fowl friend perched on his forearm. “We call this one Crazy Wing.”
Someone applauded.
“You talkin’ about the bird or you talkin’ about her mother?” Norman said, approaching. “Crazy Wing is one of my favorites. My other favorite still needs a name.”
I glowered at him.
“You know what, that red-and-black one upstairs is just like you,” he said, pointing his index and middle fingers at me. He licked his lips. “We should name that one after you, Strong Will.”
Tony smirked.
Norman formed his hands into brackets and raised them above his head, to hold up his invisible marquee. He said, “It’s perfect. Crazy Wing versus Strong Will, our opening show. My moneymaker. Ah, for every win, money for my goons and guns.” He wheeze-laughed as he walked away.
“Did he say guns?” I said to Tony.
“Can’t say much just yet, but that man and your mother have big political dreams, Prinsesa.”
“What dreams?”
“Like he said, goons and guns. Up north. He, the king. Your mom, the queen. And you, some kind of princess.”
“Up north, where Mama’s from?”
“No, farther north. Where he’s from. It’s bad where your mom grew up, but it’s bloodier where he’s from. Anyway, showtime soon,” he said, puffing smoke onto the bird again. “Back lot.” He tapped his cigarette, took one last drag, and stubbed it out on the ground. He kissed Crazy Wing’s cape and handed him over to the gaffer, who then wound a leatherlike tape around the bird’s leg to attach a blade.
I cringed at the knife edge as it glinted in the sun. I thought of where it could strike and how it could start a bloodbath. Tony took the bird and hugged it into his chest, shading it from the bright sun with his hunch.
“Can’t let the fowl see too much sun before a fight. It blinds them,” he said, walking to the back lot as I trailed behind.
There was the noise again: crowing, squawking, haggling, and dins. We’d had crowds in the mansion before, but only now did the noise deafen me. Five steps up the cinder-block stairs, and Tony and I were surrounded by a flock of men with sombreros, mustaches, and cigarettes. No breeze disturbed us. And no leaves trembled. The bougainvillea tree bowing over from the other side of the stone wall provided shade, but the air was rank and did not shift.
The men called out numbers and gave hand signals to one another: peace fingers, T for time-out, high fives, all ten, one up, two down, a circle, a fist, and fist against fist. They stood on furniture taken from the lanai and the maids’ break room. Beams of light shone on them—not from a chandelier or bulb, but from holes in the corrugated tin roof. A man with outstretched arms, whom they called a “kristo,” collected bets as he coasted through the thirty or so bodies.
I fit my way into the middle of the circle, where two parallel chalk lines made a fighting ring. On the inside perimeter of the circle, the potbellies in gusot mayaman sat on wooden benches—which I assumed were the best seats in the house. I continued to inspect Mansion Royale: A Cockfighting Arena.
My eyes moved around the circle and stopped when I spotted my mother.
She wore the same ball gown she had on the night of my third birthday. It fit tighter around her bust and arms, but billowed over her belly. I looked down at my outfit: Paolo’s beat-up undershirt that was blotched from my blisters. I crossed my arms in front of me to hide the mess that I was. I looked up at Mama again. She had twirled her hair into a high bun and had painted her lips and cheeks red. Papa would have loved seeing her: pretty, stylish, confident, ready to party, and ready to greet a group of investors. She was Mama from before I turned three, before she slashed the air with a knife, and before she disappeared in the night.
Mama shook hands with those in gusot mayaman. They gave besos while they complimented her looks. She waved a pageant-queen wave, reminding me of Little Benny from the stories she used to tell. Estrella, the center of her father’s campaign speeches and motorcades. Little Benny bonita.
She caught me glancing at her, or I caught her glancing at me. Either way, I refused to recognize her presence, and she gave the impression of not knowing who I was. She looked past me—waving, making her hair bounce as she moved, and smiling that smile she used for the press.