Plum Rains Read online

  Near the food stand, she’d picked up a free Pinoy ex-pat weekly, printed on real paper, a sentimental throwback. In part to hide her face from passing pedestrians, she skimmed the articles with half-interest as she chewed. In one, a senator from her own region of the Central Visayas lectured the reader about the problems of the Filipino colonial attitude.

  How many years was India a colony under England? Less than a hundred. How long were most African countries colonies? About seventy years. How long was the Philippines ruled by Spain? Three hundred and thirty-three years. And that’s not counting our forty-eight years as a colony under the U.S. of A. We were just tribes when the Spanish came. Yet look how well we do everywhere. In the United States, poor Filipino-Americans are almost unheard of. No ethnic group has less poverty. Because when we get to a new place we work so hard.

  It was a typical opinion piece, equal parts self-congratulation and hand wringing over the fact that despite professional competence abroad, most Filipinos still had no faith in their own national government.

  We don’t think about history. We think about family. When we don’t have a national identity and don’t trust corrupt officials, family is all we can trust, not our barangays, not even our clans. Sure, your third cousin helps you, and you help your cousin. But it’s our nuclear families we count on: mother, father, brother, sister.

  Angelica moved on to another column. The author was different. The lecturing tone and the emphasis on family was the same.

  She popped the crunchy end of the fried egg into her mouth and turned to an advice feature written by a former female senator with glossy teased hair, Imelda Marcos-like in her little photo atop the column—trying to instill confidence and an even greater sense of duty in women working abroad.

  Filipinas are immune from the most common international illness there is: spiritual despair caused by lack of purpose. Have you ever met a Filipina who doesn’t have a purpose? A Filipina has to make money for her family. Filipinas can put up with conditions few others can because they have a reason to face any obstacle. Take away that reason, things fall apart in the nation, in the family, in the head and in the heart.

  Angelica wadded her napkin and the food-speckled weekly into a tight ball and looked around for a trashcan in which to dunk it. No waste or recycling cans. Not a trace of litter on the streets either. She still didn’t understand how Tokyo remained so clean, given that there were so few places to dispose of your trash. Well, the Japanese believed that you took care of your own personal responsibilities, including your messes. Angelica felt the same way. The cultures weren’t different in every way. That’s why she was in Chiba, taking the measures necessary.

  As for things fall apart, the last three words she’d read, she thought, Yes, true, and Not if I can help it.

  Today was not a day for pessimism.

  She was still smiling at the taste of the egg in her mouth and the bittersweet flashes of memory this neighborhood had made possible. In a dollar shop down the block, a flirty clerk offered Angelica a calendar with pictures of Manila, the year already half passed, but the photos still worth pinning above her bed. She dropped it into her plastic shoulder bag, feeling giddy.

  And then she remembered the same type of calendar pinned up above her hospital bed in the Red Cross tent, after the typhoon. A tall, blond man had approached, said something in a strange language—Dutch, he told her it was, in broken English. He smiled and touched her hand, then went to the calendar to cross off the date to help her track the time.

  “Datu?” she had asked him. He shook his head. No. Her brother hadn’t come back yet. The doctor confirmed that Datu had gone to live with a family while she was still too ill to be moved. The nuns and the orphanage would come later—it was too confusing to piece it together and too painful to relive. Someone had taken him in, and he was supposed to come back for her, but he hadn’t yet. There must be a good reason. He wouldn’t accept comfort and a better future without insisting his sister come along as well. He couldn’t possibly be that selfish. Not when he knew she had nothing and no one else in the world.

  And that’s where she might have left the memory, but then she kept pressing again: the blond man, with the slightest trace of a blond mustache, that friendly face. She was walking behind him with a proud strut, getting as close as she dared to the back of his white doctor’s coat. So that must have been weeks or even months later, when the cast was off and the leg infection was no longer critical. She was following him from bed to bed on his rounds, carrying a tray of bandages for him. In the same set of tents? In another clinic? A makeshift one, anyway, because she could feel the stainless steel tray in her hands but also the cracked linoleum under her bare feet. Not even flip-flops. Dirty toes and the swish of a thin cotton skirt around her pipe-cleaner legs. Long scar up one shin but otherwise, healing well.

  She felt around the memory for Datu, and retrieved only the pining for him, not a worry, but a sense of long, doubtful waiting. Her brother had gone somewhere and left her there. Not the first time—but the most lasting time.

  I came back for you, didn’t I? Yes, the first time, after a long wait. But she had felt the seeds of doubt even then, and the thick root of distrust, spreading into every limb, every vein and artery.

  And there was the calendar again, and the feel of her calves straining as she went up on tiptoe to reach, and the image of her hand pushing up the page, hole finding nail, to reveal a new month, a new photo—an Island beauty, with flowers in her hair—and making the bold Xs again, as the Dutch doctor had taught her, when he realized she was anxious and needed a way to keep track, and things to do.

  They let a little girl help out. And that was another part of her path to becoming a nurse. Not just taking care of Lola, which taught her patience and routine, but after Lola and almost everyone else was gone, waiting for Datu, the only surviving member of her family, to come back for her, when she already knew he wouldn’t, or not for a very long time based on his previous track record.

  That was the truth of why she’d turned to medicine. It was a way to fill the time, exchanging one need for another—the satisfaction, or at least the consolation, of being needed. Since then, she had never stopped wanting to be needed. It was the thing that held her up, the only thing that kept her from collapsing. The weekly newspaper that Angelica had just read on the street corner had said it as well: every person needs a sense of purpose; every Filipina thrives on it. Without it, things fall apart. She had known it even as a child. She needed someone to need her. She still did. As for needing someone else: that was a luxury she could not afford, and risky. Giving was in your control. Receiving: never.

  Most often she avoided these kinds of dark thoughts, but today felt different, and it was okay to remember. She could take it. She thought about the blond Dutch man and remembered following at his heels, wanting to please him. She remembered when he went away, and following the next doctor who took his place—dark haired, French. And the one after that: Australian. She was a little bit in love with each of them, and they found her charming and appreciated her help. As long as she knew when to appear and when to disappear, a funny little mascot with ragged hair and bare feet, ready to retrieve a sterile packet from a cabinet, ready to run and get a real nurse. As long as she had few requirements of her own.

  But they did give her something. Not only a way to pass the time, but after the first five months, the truth.

  “Your brother,” the Australian doctor said, “is not coming back for you right now. Maybe not for a long while.”

  A nurse had peeked her head around the corner, glaring. “Don’t upset her.”

  “She needs to know the truth. It’s better that way. She’s okay. Right, Angie?”

  “Right,” she had said to him, thinking for the last time: Please, take me with you. Take me anywhere. Knowing he wouldn’t.

  “You can handle it, can’t you, love?”

&
nbsp; “Yes, I can, sir.”

  “What a precious love you are.”

  That helped a little. But how long would it last?

  “You sure you’re okay?” the Australian asked.

  “Yeah, no worries.” In English with an Aussie twang. The way they said it. Because the first step in being accepted, in not being left behind—same then as now—was sounding like them, figuring out what they wanted, and finding a way to fill a need without needing too much in return.

  When Datu finally did come back, she was more than ready to transfer her sense of loyalty and duty back to him, the bond made fiercer by the anxiety that had become a permanent part of her during his absence. On the surface, it may have seemed selfless. On a deeper level, it was also self-serving, or at least, it was them-serving, because she did not even have a separate self. She was nothing without her brother. She owed him her life and in their culture, that was an unpayable debt.

  Some debts, such as money owed to a criminal like Bagasao, sapped you. Some debts, the ones that connected you to another person and gave you a clearly illuminated, non-negotiable path, strengthened you.

  Or so she hoped. It had seemed a simple truth until recently.

  But the past was complicated. The present was a better place to get one’s bearings.

  Angelica walked down the street and into a pharmacy, heading directly to the counter, where the pregnancy tests were stored. Stores ran out constantly—not because women were always pregnant, but rather because they weren’t, but they wanted to check every time hope flickered.

  “Only curious,” Angelica said to the clerk, forcing a smile, like a thousand women before her. “Very unlikely, but . . . you know.”

  She dropped the kit into her purse: a job half-done.

  “Good luck.”

  But she was still thinking: “the truth . . . it’s better,” as the Aussie doc had said it. Of course it was, both then and now. Head out of the sand, Angelica. She enjoyed a surge of optimism and well-being that she hadn’t felt since before the fainting spell and before the arrival of Hiro.

  Back at the wire transfer shop, the notary was waiting. They completed the paperwork. The payment was wired. Outside, a light rain started to fall but the air was warm. She ducked inside the nearby subway entrance just as thick drops started to fall and allowed herself a moment to remember the joy of tropical downpours.

  9 Sayoko

  Watching Hiro interact with Gina was like watching a child play with a new puppy. Sayoko tried to join in that spirit, assigning easy tasks to the outmoded bot, enjoying the little tea party that Hiro instructed Gina to serve.

  “Gina,” Hiro called from the living room. “Bring us cookies, please. Two of the Dutch maples, on a small plate.”

  After an interminable delay, Gina rolled into the room with a white porcelain bowl positioned on a tray.

  “That is a bowl, Gina,” Hiro said. “It appears to be an empty bowl.”

  The dumbbot didn’t reply.

  “Where are the cookies for Sayoko-san, Gina?”

  “The cookies are in the kitchen.”

  “Yes,” Hiro said, with audible amusement. “They’re in the kitchen. You need to bring them to us.” To Sayoko he said, “Anji-sensei was wrong about her specifications. She does learn, slowly.”

  When Gina was out of earshot again, Sayoko said to Hiro, “She’s only here temporarily, you know. Don’t you remember when Angelica said that?”

  Perhaps Hiro’s memory was getting too full now, overstuffed with all the experiences of the last few days.

  “I do remember, but I do not believe. Gina is helpful. If Gina proves her utility, then Anji-sensei—”

  “Anji-chan doesn’t care for robots,” Sayoko interrupted. “Any robots.”

  Hiro was silent for a moment.

  Sayoko did not want to scare him, but nor could she allow him to remain naïve. Her task was the impossible task that all parents face: how to raise a child who can trust, without being too trusting. She thought again of her own younger self, so astonishingly unafraid. And of her later self: an empty husk, afraid of far too much, unwilling to risk anything. To find the middle way was a challenge even for a human.

  But this was ridiculous. She couldn’t burden herself with such a sense of duty—a duty she hadn’t even managed to fulfill in the raising of her own real-life son. She had been too hard-hearted then, perhaps, but she was also being too soft-hearted now. Yes, he was Hiro, but he was also a machine, and her attachment made no sense, even to her. She must appreciate his presence without coming to rely on it.

  “We should enjoy Gina while we have her, even if that time is limited,” Sayoko said. “When one has a useful tool, one should make use of that tool.”

  “Anji-sensei does not care for robots,” Hiro said.

  Sayoko was surprised to hear him repeat such a clear statement—it made him sound less mentally sharp, unless he was just playing her, and if he was playing her then he was getting sharper indeed. But she humored him. “That is correct.”

  “And so,” he said, “you should not waste time. You must make use of this opportunity. Gina is a tool.”

  “Yes? So?”

  “As am I.”

  Sayoko laughed. “You’re far more than a tool, Hiro.”

  There had been an edge to his voice: wistful and a little hurt.

  “I am a good listener.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “I can hide things. I can help things last.”

  She knew what he was again offering.

  “You trust me,” he said. “And I trust you.”

  Sayoko tried to laugh, but it came out half-hearted. “We spoke about this before. About how complicated it can be—”

  Hiro said it again, more quietly. “I trust you.”

  She whispered, “Please don’t. Not yet.”

  When he did not reply she added, “Please don’t trust any human too soon. Do that for me. It’s for your own good.”

  But he would not promise. “Sayoko-san, please tell me about this Daisuke.”

  Gina was still in the kitchen, rattling around. When she appeared at the threshold, still without the cookies, Hiro gave her a series of orders: Remove the food from the refrigerator. Organize it by category. Sanitize the refrigerator. Clean the counters, the sink, and the floors. Sayoko knew he was giving her a long list of tasks to ensure their privacy. Gina, with her camera and microphone, would be too far to pick up anything Sayoko said now.

  “My time could be short,” Hiro said when they were alone again.

  “If it is short in this household, you would go somewhere else. You would serve some other client.”

  “Not necessarily,” he said.

  “Meaning?”

  “I am only an unproven prototype.”

  “Meaning?”

  He did not answer. He waited a moment and then asked her to continue the story she had started to tell him their first night together. They had talked about other things since—he had no end of questions—but he was persistent: this story. The long-ago past. He did not want to hear about her life over the last eighty years in Tokyo, or anything about current events that he could access all too easily without her.

  “But I’ve told you about Daisuke already,” Sayoko started, feeling anxious not that Hiro would tell, but that she would fail to remember. “He came to our village from a nearby camphor camp. It turns out he was something of a scientist, interested in plants and insects, but he had his own personal interests as well.”

  She looked to Hiro, as if to say: enough? She knew it wasn’t.

  “It was almost a spiritual quest for him. But first, he was just looking for temporary lodging and information.” She paused, sighing. “The police chief . . .”

  “Tendo,” he encouraged.

  “Yes. Tendo was away with
his wife, on an extended leave, because she was not well. She’d never liked being in the village anyway.”

  “Too many bristles in the pork for her liking,” Hiro said. He’d picked up the phrase from her. This made Sayoko laugh and it set her at ease.

  “That’s right. Daisuke came first to the headmaster, and even my grandmother insisted that I help listen and translate, because I had a knack for learning languages.”

  “And not for weaving.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Among your people, that was considered the highest skill, aside from hunting.”

  She agreed, softly. “Sou ne.”

  “To weave and in those weavings preserve the ancient stories, to feed one’s family, to protect one’s family—these things were valued. You couldn’t do those things.”

  “Sou ne.”

  “But you could do something else.”

  Sayoko began to relax, as if she’d just stepped into a hot bath. She noted that he wasn’t asking direct questions, only nudging her forward with statements, a reminder that he had paid attention and would neither interrogate nor twist her words. To have someone understand completely, not only listen but care enough to learn and remember—correctly, carefully, without rushing things—created an enchanted space. Time slowed. She thought one last time about Gina, one last time about Angelica. Then she let those thoughts fade away. She invited the past back. She told herself there was no harm in it, even while knowing there might be.

  “I can’t picture Daisuke Oshima,” Hiro said. “Help me see him.”

  She closed her eyes for a moment, trying. When she tried to speak, her voice cracked. “I can’t, either.”

  A moment passed. She felt a surge of indignation, easier to deal with than sorrow.

  “Are you recording my voice?”

  “I am always recording.”

  “We must stop this,” she demanded. “Why do you care, anyway?”