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  “What is it, Manoy?” Timeteo asked in a low voice beside him as the truck lurched forward again. The loud rumble of a bus passed by.

  Few people called him by his nickname. His childhood friend knew Manalo as no one else did, except for his brother and Malaya. Timeteo had killed the man who murdered his brother, and he would give his life to protect Manalo. Of the few men he might uphold as trustworthy, Timeteo was undoubtedly the greatest—he’d entrust his family to Timeteo’s care.

  Manalo sighed and dabbed his forehead with an already damp handkerchief. “I grow weary of this.”

  Timeteo knew he referred to more than a need for sleep; the exhaustion ran to his bones as well. He nodded. “It is time to retire, you and I. There are younger men for such work.”

  “Forty-two and ready for retirement? I do not see that as an acceptable age.”

  “We have lived much more than most men of forty-two.”

  Manalo thought how true these words were. “And what would you do in retirement?”

  Timeteo coughed and rubbed his eyes. “This blasted smog.” He leaned back his head. “Hmm, what would I do? I will tell you a story. Many years ago, when we were still children, your brother traded me a pig for my broken bicycle. He said it was a very intelligent pig that could learn tricks and put on shows. Since my bicycle was broken anyway, I thought I had the better end of the deal. I worked and worked with that pig . . . while Ricky traded some bottle caps for a new chain and very quickly was riding the bike.”

  “Oh, I remember,” Manalo chuckled. “Ricky gave me rides on the handlebars, and once we watched you trying to train that pig. I was crying with laughter, it was so funny! But my brother kept his hand over my mouth. He said you’d hurt us if you spotted us laughing.”

  Timeteo nodded grimly. “And I would have, most certainly. That pig did nothing but destroy my mother’s garden.”

  They laughed at the memory.

  “But, though that pig never did any tricks, she grew into an incredible birthing sow. Some say she was magic after all. I have sold many piglets over the years, and her piglets gave me more.”

  “How did I not know of this?”

  “Because for, how many years now . . . seventeen, I have been with you in the jungle more than with my family and pigs. My mother puts one-fourth of the sale of each pig into a jar for when I come home.”

  “How capitalistic of you all!” Manalo said, teasing.

  “Ah, yes. When we have a Communist nation, then I will share all in equal measure with my countrymen. Until then, I put away for myself, or perhaps for your children since I have none myself. When I retire, I will be a lazy old man with a boat to fish on Laguna Lake and a pipe to smoke day and night.”

  “And you will deserve it, my oldest friend.” Manalo patted his shoulder gruffly; then he felt the weariness return. “Until then, we continue to follow orders from men we do not know. And today that will take us into Quiapo.”

  “Then rest, will you? You have not slept this entire journey. With this traffic, it will take us hours to get through the city.”

  Manalo heard the concern in Timeteo’s advice. So others, or at least Timeteo, had noticed his restless nights, how his subconscious betrayed him. Lately the nightmares had expanded beyond the borders of the subconscious. Images came throughout the day as well, at times with his eyes wide open. The day before he had heard the voice of an old rival calling to him—a rival he had killed fifteen years earlier. And in his eyes flashed bodies of the dead, many he’d forgotten, as if specters who’d gained access to haunt the corridors of his thoughts. Did insanity grow from the sleep world to overtake the daylight hours?

  In childhood, Manalo’s parents had taken him on a final visit to his grandfather, who raved like a madman in the asylum they’d been forced to put him. The horrors of war had taken his mind. Manalo realized in the years that followed that there was a history of weakness in the minds of his ancestors. His mother suffered enormous mood swings until she found that alcohol soothed her to an oblivious state. His father was consumed with a rage that hurt them all, and which Manalo later confronted. An aunt and a great-great-uncle had committed suicide. Manalo and Ricky kept such facts secret, as their father had instructed them. Yet even with such a history, Manalo didn’t fear his own mind to that extent—at least not yet.

  Timeteo stared at him. “Get some sleep. I will protect the men and wake you if trouble comes. From now on, let us take turns.”

  Manalo nodded and leaned his head back. He stared at the boy still playing with the string, trying to undo a knot that had formed. Soon they would arrive in Quiapo, to some kind of evil in need of rectifying. Manalo’s word would be law. His men’s lives would rest on his shoulders. For now, he must sleep and hope he could win the battles within his own mind.

  ORGANIZED MAYHEM.

  Or perhaps simple mayhem best described the streets and intersections of Manila.

  Julia stared in fascination out the taxi’s side window while clutching the seat in front of her. She’d ridden with other crazy taxi drivers in her life, but this one kept her hanging on to keep from being bounced around the backseat as he sporadically hit the brakes and honked with enthusiasm. At another abrupt lane change, her grandfather’s logbooks scattered.

  In grasping for the seat in front of her, Julia grabbed part of Raul Sarmiento’s shirt.

  “Oops, sorry,” she said, grabbing up the books and trying to balance herself by holding onto the door.

  Raul grunted a reply. But the grouchy and closemouthed foreman of her grandfather’s plantation couldn’t suppress the wonder surrounding her. She was really here . . . in the country she’d heard so much about. It felt surreal—like coming to a land of stories and dreams—and yet it was as real as home.

  Manila was a mosaic of contrasts at every turn of street: impressive financial buildings, primitive enclaves, banks and elegant cafés, statues and monuments, an entire street of outdoor markets, dank alleyways, and residential homes from the most affluent to shanty-type neighborhoods. And all within blocks of each another. They passed several open stores where all kinds of goods were sold on the streets. Children barely dressed sat on store steps while young students in pressed school uniforms walked past them. She noticed that Raul paid little notice to a blockade down a major side street where gunclad soldiers stood as solemn as statues.

  The foreman had arrived nearly an hour late that morning without excuse or apology. She’d waited in the lobby of the Hotel Manila, admiring the massive chandeliers, wood carvings, and marble floors while trying to relax to the cheerful chords of the piano played at the other end of the grand ballroom-style room. Nervousness and excitement battled within her. Perhaps all great journeys included both.

  When Raul had opened the glass doors, Julia knew at once that the tall and fit-looking man in worn boots and starched work shirt must be the head of the plantation. Observing the stiff confidence in his movements, she wondered if he had a military background. He had given her a small bow and, “It is an honor to meet the granddaughter of Captain Morrison.”

  The somber expression had not left the foreman’s face from the moment she met him.

  “Perhaps a rented car,” he said now, turning in the front seat. Julia moved to the center of the seat to hear him. “But we would need a driver . . .”

  “No, really, the bus is okay,” Julia said for the second time.

  Evidently the hacienda car had broken down on the road to Manila. The driver stayed behind while Raul came for her. He had wanted her to remain in Manila while the car was being repaired.

  “I’d really like to get to the plantation today. I can’t wait to see it. I’ll go by bus, taxi, or one of those funny-looking vehicles that looks like a giant jeep.” The elongated jeep like vehicles littered the road, mixed with motorcycles with sidecars and then cars and trucks of every variety.

  Raul didn’t respond. Apparently another day’s delay wasn’t a problem, but going by bus was going to be a huge pred
icament.

  “What are those called?” Julia leaned forward to hear his answer.

  “That is a jeepney. The King of the Road, a major transportation in the Philippines.”

  At stops along the street, passengers jumped in and out of the open backs of the long vehicles and sat on benches along the sides.

  “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “You don’t have them in the United States? They came from the U.S. military jeeps after the war.”

  A jeepney completely covered in chrome came into view just then with various neoncolored messages on its sides: Made in Philippines, Thank You, Lord, and Praise to Jesus. She smiled at the thought of a California highway populated with the vibrant and gaudy vehicles. “No, there are no jeepneys in the States.”

  Another grunt response came from the front seat.

  “Oh, Raul, I was supposed to see Mr. Santos before going to the plantation.”

  “Yes, that was the plan. And Markus apologizes greatly to you. He was called into court today. He will come to the hacienda in a few days.”

  “Ah, okay,” Julia said, trying to hide her disappointment. If she remembered correctly, Markus was a major advocate for the plantation, and beyond his law practice, he desired the Philippines to be a strong and successful nation. He might have been the one who spoke a phrase her grandfather used to say about the Philippines—“a land to redeem.”

  The taxi braked again suddenly, and several pedestrians took the chance to cross in front of them. The video game of Frogger came to Julia’s mind, where a player moved the frog in and out of traffic trying not to get squashed. The pedestrians were the bravest souls on the chaotic streets, dodging cars, jeepneys, motorcycles with sidecars, and even horse-driven carriages and bicycle-driven carts as they crossed and waited in the middle of the divider lines, even on the busiest thoroughfares.

  She noticed Raul, too, had a hand of support on the dashboard. Taped to the dashboard were various religious pictures, while a crucifix dangled from the rear view mirror.

  “How far is the plantation from Manila?”

  “Five hours perhaps. Depends upon traffic. I apologize that we must take the bus.”

  “Oh, that’s all right,” she said with a laugh. “It’s more of an adventure for me this way.”

  His lack of personality could dampen any mood, she thought. As the car idled in traffic, the driver honked several times, then suddenly turned up the radio and sang along, “You’re the inspiration. You bring meaning to my life. . . .” He hummed when he didn’t know the words.

  Julia suppressed her smile and saw no reaction from Raul, though the driver continued to honk his horn and sing with the radio as if both were customary.

  At the next intersection, a horserawn carriage came up beside them with a businessman sitting in the passenger seat.

  “Miss, Miss!” A young boy slapped at her window and held up cigarettes and silk flowers.

  “What does he want?” she said.

  “He’s selling those items, but do not open the window.” Raul’s voice was firm.

  “Miss, Miss, please.” His small hands continued patting the window, and a few older children appeared to join him.

  The taxi quickly left them behind, but Julia noticed how vendors moved through the traffic with trinkets, water bottles, and snacks.

  The longing in the boy’s face remained with her, and Julia thought of the decades of struggle this nation had endured. She leaned toward the front again. “My grandfather said that Manila was mostly destroyed during the war.”

  Raul grunted an incoherent response, and Julia decided that was the end of her questions for now.

  She watched out the window, absorbing the sights and wondering how to describe this to friends and family back home. Her mother might want to know more about the country she was born in. She was just a young girl when her own mother died, and Grandpa Morrison had sent her to relatives in the States for her safety and education. It seemed to Julia that her mother had never forgiven him for it.

  This humid and congested metropolis was nothing like the small coastal town of Harper’s Bay on the rocky and cold northern California coast where Julia had grown up. After graduating from college in San Francisco, she’d remained in the Bay Area. She loved life in the city and all it offered, though she went home often to visit her mother and stepfather as well as old friends. With Nathan she’d fulfilled her dream of seeing Europe, touring Germany, France, and Austria. He was a lover of historical war sites and she a lover of art. They both loved the lavender fields of France, the vast green hills and sharp peaks of the Alps, and the culinary delights.

  But the Philippines were so far like nothing she’d experienced before, with a mix of tropics, chaos, messy streets, brown faces, and beautiful scenery. And on the tinge of her desire to take it all in, Julia wondered at the dangers that might lurk in the hovels and alleyways of a country ever on the brink of upheaval.

  The driver suddenly crammed his taxi between two parked cars, resulting in fierce honks and swerving vehicles around them. Raul hopped out and opened her door as the driver moved quickly to get her luggage.

  “Remain here, please,” Raul said and rushed off before she could respond.

  The heat beat down on her, and Julia wished for one of the umbrellas she’d seen other women carrying. Her face was damp, and she could feel the small hairs curling around her face. The taxi disappeared into the veins of the city as she stood with her pile of luggage. Streams of pedestrians moved around her, and cars sped by only feet away. The eyes of nearly every passerby stared with great interest, surprise, or friendly curiosity.

  Never had she felt so utterly, well . . . foreign.

  I can’t imagine living in such a place, she thought, but determined to make this the first adventure of the new Julia. She’d let nothing discourage her.

  And then she saw the buses.

  MANALO WANTED THEM OUT OF THE TRUCK AS SOON AS POSSIBLE. It was ridiculous to be in such a situation. A band of fugitive guerrillas traveling through the heart of Manila. They’d passed within feet of a military blockade of soldiers whom he knew had memo- rized the photographs of both him and Timeteo. They passed a bus station where two city policemen talked to a driver.

  Taxis, jeepneys, tricycles, and pedestrians surrounded them; he recognized growing claustrophobia in his men’s faces, in their bloodshot eyes and the stiffness of their backs. If they were glimpsed between the canvas flaps or stopped at a checkpoint, each man had his falsified papers, work permit, and individual story of the field work they performed. But a close inspection would reveal the shipment of guns beneath them and the suspicious myriad of documentation papers.

  Most of their weapons were packed with their gear in the crate boxes, but their knives and pistols were within easy reach, hidden in waist belts and beneath pant legs. His men were guerrilla fighters through and through. They could survive in the jungle, but the city was a foreign landscape.

  Finally the truck turned into an alley. Manalo peered through a crack in the canvas and saw a teenaged boy opening a narrow gate just wider than the truck.

  Manalo motioned for the men to lean in close. “Donny, Leo, Ton, and Luis will go with the driver. Timeteo, Frank, and Paco, come with me. In the event of separation, meet at the safe house in Batangas or return to the bar in Gapo and find Boy. Questions?”

  Heads shook and jaws were set. The truck continued through the gate and stopped, and the driver shut off the engine. Someone pulled back the canvas.

  Luis climbed out of the truck and took his son in his arms, whistling a tune as if he were a laborer back from a day in the fields. The whistle turned to a Beach Boys song as brothers Leo and Ton joined in a duet with Luis’s whistling. What band of hardened guerrilla fighters would include a whistle and song in their covert operation?

  Manalo watched his men follow the driver to a gated doorway that led to the city. By the time the men reached the chorus of “Don’t Worry, Baby,” the singing
was lost in the sounds of Quiapo. Luis’s son, high on his father’s shoulders, stared at Manalo and lifted a hand to wave good-bye.

  Manalo, Paco, Timeteo, and Frank watched them go, then entered the house within the small walled-off courtyard.

  The shower was outside on a fourth-story terrace surrounded by potted plants, drying laundry, and three dogs that barely raised their heads at their arrival. An old woman led them up the flights of stairs; the elevator hadn’t worked in ten years, she said. Piles of fresh, folded clothing of the civilized world awaited them.

  The men took turns with a bar of soap beneath a heavy spray of cold water while the rest ate rice and adobo, drinking beer as if it were the finest wine from France. Manalo scrubbed his hair with the bar of soap and then his pants and shirt before peeling them off and letting the pounding water massage the muscles in his back. They’d been so long in the jungles that a shower, clean clothes, beer, and homemade Filipino food felt like pampering for a king.

  Soon he sat before a plate of food and again thought of Malaya, as he continually did at odd moments throughout his days and nights. If only he could see her, just for a moment, like a ghost view’s beside her. He’d do that next time they were together; he’d sneak around and watch her when she didn’t know it. He wanted to see how she moved, read the different expressions on her face, hear her talk to the children or a neighbor or read her little list of errands and plans for the day.

  “What’s that smell?” Paco said, stopping with fork and spoon held dramatically midair.

  “The question isn’t what’s that smell, but what is not that smell.” Frank flexed his arms and sniffed the air; his bare chest rippled with muscles on his very small frame. Frank notoriously carried a scent that, as Paco said, would change even a lion’s mind if lions resided in the Philippine islands.