![]()
She can hear the brittle rustling of the coconut branches outside and the steady crashing of the foamy waves on the beach, the sounds a becoming accompaniment to an idle afternoon. Lisa washes her hands with some cold water in a blue dipper from the mossy tapayan on the aluminum sink. She is careful not to leave a single morsel of rice on her hands. She reaches for the white bar of detergent soap near the window and rubs her hands together creating clean, bubbly suds. She has washed the dishes and they are drying on the bamboo counter to her right. She rinses her hands and brings them close to her nose. The fishy smell has been completely replaced with an overly sweet odor of laundry soap. Lisa’s dog, Bakwet; a light brown mongrel, is chewing some fish bones and tutong that she has saved for it. A Canadian gentleman gave her the dog two years ago as a sign of his fondness for the girl. “Buckwheat” was what the foreigner called him and although Lisa persistently summoned him with another name, the dog never seemed to have shaken off the former one; a reason for her common irritation for it. She can hear the snapping together of its canines as the food is crushed into a slimy consistency before being swallowed in. She shakes her hands in the air getting rid of the water. Wiping them on an old peasant skirt she wore to her armpits, Lisa walks to the far end of the kitchen where it is darkest and where the floor is packed with sand instead of dirt. She takes an empty plastic pail from a shadowy corner and walks outside. “Isagani!” she calls out. From another hut sheltered by an old Camachile tree a few hundred meters away emerges a lanky boy in a pair of red shorts. Isagani and his family are her only neighbors. Lisa raises the pail up to the boy. He trots his way bare-feet across the sandy path making it a point not to step on any clumps of Makahiya weeds. His skin slides smoothly across his two sets of protruding ribs. The pail is handed over and the boy runs off northbound still as carefully as before. In a few seconds the boy is out of her vision. Lisa walks several steps to the middle of her small yard and looks down on her shadow. The sun pricks her brown nape as she bends her head. It is past two o’clock in the afternoon. Her gaze travels out into the horizon where the blue sky merges with the water. There are several fishing boats out in the sea and maybe one or two sun burnt fishermen on each of them. Lisa avoids these men and makes it a point never to talk to them. The stench of fish gut is unbearable to her and she detests the way they treat her without the slightest respect. Lisa enters her kitchen. She reaches up for a pouch made of cheesecloth from a nail that has been bent to form a hook and pounded to a wooden plank on the low ceiling. She retrieves a mortar and pestle from an old basket and drops seven cashew nuts from the pouch. She then crushes them into a smooth cream-colored powder. By the time she finishes, Isagani comes in burdened by the pail that he has filled with water from the community deep well. The thin layer of muscles on his arm is tense and hard. He slowly sets the pail on the corner of the kitchen. “Piso.” He recites under his breath. A bead of sweat trickles into the boy’s eye and he blinks. Lisa feels her pocket and brings out a coin. It is dropped into the open hand of the boy. He scurries away and the dog follows him. Once they are out Lisa closes the door and covers the nut powder with a clean face towel. She unknots the shabby curtain above the sink and makes sure that the window is covered before secluding herself in the dark cool corner where the pail is waiting to be emptied. She slips out of the peasant skirt printed with wilted brick colored flowers and hangs it on a wire clothesline near the wall. The orange clamp that secures her hair in a twist is removed and is fastened to the skirt. Her rich dark brown hair tumbles upon her shoulders and down her back to her waist. It hangs heavily from her scalp like a wild crawling plant that is too glad to have been released from a choking. With the dipper in her hand she bends down in a sitting position and begins to bathe herself. The coolness of the water chills her for a while and makes the tiny hairs on her body stand up. She sticks out her tongue as the gush of water slides down her curled body. She can taste the moss from the well; she can taste its slightly metallic greenness. “You are one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen, Lisa.” Adam is holding her face between his two strong hands. He looks down into her eyes admiring the blackness of her wet lashes and the perfect roundness of her irises. “I love the way you move.” Adam whispers, holding her hands and placing them on his chest. Lisa giggles and shudders slightly. He had the greenest eyes she had ever seen. The resort’s pool is getting cold. Adam Ruskin pulls her closer to his body and kisses her smooth shoulder. The warmth of his mouth tickles Lisa and she giggles again. He sways her from side to side in a slow dance sending vibrating ripples outwards on the glassy surface of the pool. Adam Ruskin begins to hum an old song with his pleasant voice. “Someday, when I’m awfully low…”
He is rubbing her back as he sways her.
Lisa’s arms encircle his neck and she closes her eyes at the comfort that she is feeling from being held. Asking herself if these feelings were the same as being loved. Later asking herself why she had been naïve to have even asked that question. Lisa scrubs her whole body vigorously with a wet face towel and then soaps herself with a smooth pink bar, never missing a square inch of her bronzen skin. She replaces the soap to its dish on the floor and massages her rounded arms and breasts, her tight belly, her buttocks, her long candle-smooth legs, and upwards again in a continuous pressing and sliding to her neck. Her skin begins to flush and is warmed by her own hands. She reaches as far back as she can, feeling her spine with slippery fingers. For several seconds she wrestles with herself trying to clean her back as well as she is able, then gives up bringing the soapy foam to her face. She closes her eyes and spreads the creamy suds all over her face with the tips of her fingers. She rinses the soap from her body and dilutes a half of one sachet of shampoo in the dipper. She stands up and bends, flipping her hair over. She is careful not to let the dripping ends of her hair touch the sandy ground. She begins to wash her hair from the roots down to the tips with meticulous hand movements, lathering up the shampoo as bubbly as she can. Lisa exhales through the straight fence of her teeth, savoring the sensation on her scalp. The kitchen is flowered with the strong sugary scent of the shampoo. She rinses her hair still in the upside-down position. When all the shampoo has been rinsed out, she squeezes her hair and shakes off the water. It is twisted again and is secured with the clamp. She stands still for a moment as blood rushes back into her head. It makes her a little dizzy. The pail is almost empty by now and she takes her time spilling dipper after dipper down her body very slowly, feeding her skin with the luxury of clean water. She relaxes, sleepily humming a familiar tune, aware of her nakedness. “…And the way you look tonight…” She ends her humming with the only phrase that she has memorized from the old song. With the skirt, she dries herself thoroughly and then wraps herself with the same piece of clothing that has become very damp. The soap dish and the dipper are brought to the kitchen counter. The curtain is knotted back to a lumpy rosette and light is let in. The shampoo scent permeates the room driving away the odor of fish and burnt rice. A bottle of coconut oil is brought down from a ledge on the wall and also a plastic bag of brown sugar. Lisa slips her hand into the bag and takes a fistful of the sand like grains. She spoons out a little amount of oil and mixes it in with the sugar in her hand. She rubs the paste gently on the back of her hands and then on her palms. She draws water from the pot and washes the sugar paste off with some soap. Her small hands are made softer by the homemade exfoliant. She returns the bottle and the bag back on to the ledge in exchange for a tall bottle of honey. The nut powder is uncovered and the honey is added in. Lisa climbs up the three bamboo steps to her tiny hut bringing the marble mortar with her. She leaves her chewed up rubber slippers on the dirt floor of her kitchen. The curtains against the four square windows here are thicker and are never tied up. On one corner is a woven matt with a thin mattress on top of it. The bedclothes are all white made from the same material as the curtains. The bamboo floor is polished and the mirror on the door of an old cabinet is clean. She sets down the mortar on the floor and takes off the skirt. She puts on a pair of lavender cotton panties. Lisa applies a glob of white perfumed cream from a bottle to her legs and arms. Enjoy the exclusive non-greasy formula that restores your skin’s lost moisture, keeping your skin young looking and beautiful it says on the label. From a black film container, she takes a pinch of alum powder and dusts her underarms. She sits down on the bed and combs through her wet hair that is still dripping. She squeezes out the remaining water with the skirt. Then the mortar is placed on her lap and the nut powder and honey are mixed with her left hand. She stands up and faces the mirror. She examines her form and is satisfied. There are no traces of lumpy fat anywhere unlike the other girls that she has seen around. Even their breasts are lumpy and their buttocks sag like burdensome pieces of old flesh. A smile curves her full lips. With the same hand that she used for mixing, Lisa spreads the honey mixture over her chest and down to her soft breasts. The stickiness spreads like an ointment. She evenly distributes the honey, reaching even underneath the curve of her breasts. She feels the old reddish scar underneath her left breast and her hand stays on the smooth two-inch line for a while, remembering. The scar was the mark of a sharp balisong knife that was used by a man to cut her a long time ago; her very first encounter with how perverse man can be. Lisa closes her eyes shut avoiding the recollection that visits her every time she feels the ruined skin. Her breathing becomes shallower as a mild anxiety grips her. After several seconds the memory is temporarily erased. She continues with the honey and places a small drop into her belly button. After she is done, she wipes her hand on the skirt and lies down on the bed to dry. The over-used skirt belonged to her mother, nine years dead, whose yellowing picture is stuck to the wall with some tape beside her bed. Lisa returns downstairs in a white sleeveless blouse and a green sarong skirt. She got the skirt on a trip to the mainland, from an Indonesian merchant selling batik textile. The skirt reaches her ankles. On one of them is tied a shell anklet, shiny and bony white. The flat sandals that she is wearing are made from genuine leather; it says so on the box. She is wearing some red brown lipstick, enhancing the curve of her mouth, but nothing more. Her black eyes are naturally lined with the abundance of her lashes. She steps outside and lets down her hair to dry in the sun. The breeze is pleasantly salted. The heat from the sun is not scorching anymore now. Slowly, the waves of her hair return as the sun and wind dries it. She collects some jasmine flowers from a bush by the entrance of her hut and places them in the folds of her white handkerchief. The dog Bakwet is basking in the sun watching a fly hovering above his tail. His brown coat is glistening. The breeze carries with it the stale animal odor of the dog. Lisa wrinkles her nose in disgust and looks away. Lisa notices Isagani coming in her direction. He approaches the dog and pets it on the head. The dog wags his tail at the touch of his friend. “Alas Syete.” Lisa announces. The boy nods at her and diverts his attention to the dog. Lisa walks away, the hem of her skirt lapping behind her. The brick hued flowers wave their farewell as they glare at her from the old skirt on a wire, flapping in the wind. She walks the shoreline lingering from one resort to another. Giving her friendly smile. Most of the locals turn their heads in the other direction when they see her approaching. Most of the women give her nasty stares as she passes them by. I understand you women, wives. You fear for your husbands when you see me. And she laughs inside. Lisa does not really mind. She is used to their discrimination. The quiet smile stays on her lips, undaunted by quiet sneers. There are foreigners dotting the white beach of San Antonio island, basking in the sun like Bakwet in her yard. Their pale skins are flushed pink from staying out too long, shining with suntan lotion. Some of them are sprawled on towels in the nude, so that the tan would be even. Others are reading their paperbacks wearing big dark sunglasses and skimpy suits. Lisa walks on smiling and nodding at anyone who would acknowledge her. She walks these shores every afternoon, every step idle and provocative, making herself seen by the foreigners. I am innocent and lovely. Lisa keeps away from the vulgar cluster of the other girls with their garish make-up and cigarettes. She does not want to be mistaken for one of them. They are dirty and undesirable. Lisa sees herself differently. She regards herself an artisan of some elaborate trade. It is almost five now and the tropical sky is bursting in different shades of orange, pink, and purple. Lisa stands for a moment facing the water. Everything is so beautiful on the island. The sharp stones that have entered her sandals are hurting her feet. She stoops over to remove one of her sandals. Lisa hears the crunching of sand behind her and is aware of the distinct smell of suntan lotion before a male hand grabs her free one. The hand is warm and smooth and she turns around to see a tall white man sizing her up, his gaze focusing on her generous buttocks. Lisa smiles up at him. “How old are you?” The deep friendly voice demands. Lisa is sure that he is American. She is well accustomed to the obvious twang in their English. This one in particular is blond and his eyes are blue. They usually have similar features. He does not strike her as handsome. To her they all look the same. Every foreigner that has ever come, and met her, and has taken her hand, looked alike. “I’m twenty-five.”
The tall white man leads Lisa away, her hair lagging behind her. The afternoon has waned into evening when Lisa returns home. Her hair has been weighed down by humidity and her skirt appears limp against her tired thighs. The walk had been long and the trip to the market has muddied up her sandals. She is carrying a plastic bag with some rice and pork chops and in another bag, a small vial of cologne and a new hairbrush. Her old comb does not feel good on her scalp anymore. The sky has become cloudy and in the far distance, a constant lightning rips the darkness every once in a while. Lisa can smell the rain coming. Isagani meets her on the coconut plantation, followed by the dog. His red shorts look almost black. “Piso.” He is holding
out his grimy hand.
The little nipa hut is lighted. Soon, she will have to go to sleep. Her dinner has been good. She treats herself to pork every once in a while. But not too often. She does not want to be like the other girls who have gotten fat by feasting too much on food and alcohol afterwards. Lisa sits on the bed and smiles to herself. She brushes her hair back to its former wildness with the new brush that she has bought from the market. The flask of perfume is lying on the white bed. The beer colored fluid reflects the light from the clean lamp. Lisa holds the bottle against the light and reads the white inscription. Experience a natural high with Sunny Fruits of May; a refreshing scented blend with a soothing brew of green tea and passion fruit extracts. She drops the bottle to the bed and unfolds the white handkerchief. The jasmine flowers have been replaced with some folded bills. She had left the blossoms behind, scattered on the pillow beside the sleeping American. Perhaps his name is Roger. But she soon drives the image of the man out of her head. She adjusts the flame of the lamp low by twisting a steel dial on its base. The bills are brought out from the fold of the handkerchief and are hidden away in the old cabinet. The smell of naphthalene balls hit her nostrils. She likes the smell. The pungent aroma of the mothballs is the usual introduction to her evenings at home when she adds the bills to an accumulating roll underneath her clothes. Lisa undresses and folds the blouse and batik neatly on the bed. She might wear them again tomorrow. She puts on the peasant skirt up to her armpits and hurries outside. The frail glow of kerosene lamps out in the opaque sea proves that there are still fishing boats chartering the waters. The pebbles on the beach are smooth on the soles of her feet. They are luminous under the half-hidden moon like little precious jewels. Looking around her, she slips out of the skirt and tiptoes her way through the water and foam. The coolness of the water chills her for a moment, causing the tiny hairs on her body to stand up. She gives an electrified shiver and then dives into the black water. Underneath, Lisa opens her eyes and sees nothing. The salt that gives no comfort stings her eyes, but the welcome blackness erases any other left recollection of Roger. She swims away from the shore until she can no longer feel the bottom with her stretched toes. Lisa resurfaces for air. The prophesied rain begins with a drizzle, the droplets coming down on her already wet face. They tickle her. She dives back in again, deeper into the sea’s black womb. She slowly releases the air in her lungs as she twirls around sharply underwater, spinning her hair tightly around her bare body, forcing the sea to wash away any alien fingerprint that is still on her skin. She flails her arms and her legs grotesquely as though she is drowning, sending bubbles shooting away from her violent choreography. Lisa comes up for air, her hair wound around her face like a mask of tar. She scrapes the hair from off her face in a cruel scratch and dives in again, still shuddering helplessly like a loose marionette, her ears and nose flooded. The rain is building up, descending with a semi-furious strength, beating down on the surface of the water. Underneath, Lisa performs the menacing convulsions again and again, swallowing some water every time, until her limbs are beaten, half distorted, and her throat sore. Then she is still, floating on her back like a log, bobbing up and down. Her nose hurts and she knows that the taste of salt will stay with her until morning. She closes her eyes as rain plays its clammy fingers on her exhausted body. She waits for the rain to weaken. In a few minutes, it completely stops. Lisa opens her drenched eyes and blinks several times. Overhead, the clouds are hesitantly clearing and the dull beams of the moon break through. There is grim satisfaction in the fatigue that she is feeling, like a dank gladness after crying for an hour. She breathes at the moon overhead, her audience. Lisa has cleaned herself. After she has rested, Lisa
turns over in the water and swims slowly back to shore.
|