Monsoon Mansion: A Memoir(38)

There.

That’s who we had become: living in the same house, but in different worlds. Since she betrayed Paolo and me, and stole our jeepney service, I felt as if I couldn’t trust her. And since the night she pulled the door behind her as I moaned through a fever and broke out in sores, I knew that Orchid Mama had either departed the mansion or had died along with my baby brother.

As I watched her, hot air pushed from my abdomen and up to my neck and ears.

The kristo called to the crowd. “Huling taya!” he said. Last bet!

A smoker raised his hand and the kristo whistled. The haggling stopped. The crowd quieted. The trainers entered the ring with birds clutched in their arms. One human-and-animal pair stood to the right of the parallel lines, and the other to the left. A referee—one of Norman’s men—indicated that the men should squat. They followed.

Norman stepped into the ring. He announced, “Now as some of you may know, I grew up in Abra. Very poor. We had to make do. We didn’t have television, no radio, no cinemas, yeah? But we had chickens. God-fuckin’-fighting chickens, hey!”

Someone in the crowd hollered, “Yeah!”

Norman continued. “My queen and I welcome you to the first cockfight at Mansion Royale!” He gestured with his hand for Mama to step forward.

She took two steps toward the center of the ring and waved. She waved with squinty eyes, looking past people, as if into a fog.

“Make those bets big! The big winner receives a special prize. Let’s just say the prize’s name is Sampaguita,” Norman said.

Strange, I thought, that they would reward a sabong winner with a tropical flower.

Norman held up his invisible marquee again, and said, before sitting back down, “Crazy Wing versus Strong Will! Let’s begin!”

The trainers stroked the birds, and the birds looked at each other with dimmed, bloodshot eyes. The sportsmen let their gallant birds touch the dirt with their claws, but kept their hands around the birds’ breasts. The men lit cigarettes and, as Tony had shown me earlier, puffed onto the game fowls’ heads—the smoke as their battle trim.

Then they let go of the cocks. Dust clouds formed around claws, lifting off the ground as the fight commenced. With elongated necks, expanded wings, raised tails, and dancers’ feet, the cocks circled each other, pounced, circled each other, and pounced again. They beat their wings and stirred the previously still air. They raised their plumage around their necks: umbrellas to catch drips of blood. They spiked at each other with their talons.

“Yellow! Yellow!” Mama shouted.

And I said, “Red! Red!”

“Sige! Magpatayan kayo, boys!” Norman said. Go! Kill each other, boys!

Crazy Wing flapped, swerved, and poked Strong Will’s tail, thigh, and wing with his glinting blade, not letting a millisecond go by without injuring his opponent. Crazy Wing played quickly but clumsily, keen on wounding but inefficient in his attacks. Strong Will took the blows, silently, never cawing, and moved with ease. As the yellow one busied himself with strrrung! and shhung! Strong Will soared, hovered for a second, and landed with feet firm to the ground, waiting for his enemy to tire out. The patient one leapt up and landed on the other, striking at the neck with his gaff. Both birds were blood black now; it was impossible to tell them apart. But alas, one sank into itself and tipped over. The crowd cheered. Norman applauded. Mama turned away, turned back around, and clapped.

And I vomited.

Tony lowered his head and picked up his dead bird.

Norman held Strong Will overhead for spectators to see, then collected his earnings from the kristo. Gamblers in ripped jeans and sombreros exited through the back gate, while the men in gusot mayaman funneled out of the space in single file down the cinder-block steps and toward the mansion’s main floor. Norman and Mama led them to the breakfast room as they all bragged about their winnings.

I followed and crouched behind a jade urn. I saw women in lacy, polyester halter tops and wedged heels welcome the winning group.

“Gentlemen, meet Sampaguita, Gumamela, and Diyosa,” Norman said.

The winners escorted the ladies to the ballroom, disco room, and extra bedrooms, kissing their necks and caressing their breasts.

I cupped my hand over my mouth and crouched even smaller to not be seen. But the scabs on my back, legs, and arms kept itching. I think-talked to myself, Strong Will. You have a strong will. I trapped my hands in my armpits to keep them from reaching for the scabs and scratching. I told my body to be still—so still that crooks who had taken over my father’s house and the ghost who had taken over my mother’s body would forget that I was there. I bit my lower lip and whispered to myself, “Remain unseen or they take you to the ring.”





Creatures, Great and Small





1997


Paolo was gone. Gone to the mall or the billiard hall or a friend’s house for a smoke. Gone with bloodshot eyes and a mind that had holed up in his consciousness or some rift in time. But even then, he was kind and generous to me—sacrificing his meals so I could have a second serving, stealing KitKats or M&M’s from the candy store to bring home as a surprise. We still did most things together when he was home—eating the same scraped-out-of-a-can meal, listening to the same music, staying up late and talking about our dreams. But I was turning into a young lady, and he into a phantom.