The villa once beloved, p.2
The Villa, Once Beloved, page 2
The doña screamed, throwing herself onto her husband’s cold body. The caretaker, Remedios, tried to shield her away from the master’s corpse, but Olympia refused. She tearfully held onto his arm, her body half collapsed onto the floor by his bedside. She reached for his hands and enclosed them in hers. She wailed. Fifty years. Who was she without him? Had there been life before Raul? She didn’t remember anymore. She wailed and wailed, her eyes an unstoppered dam. Half a century’s worth of sorrow was only interrupted by a feeling of roughness on her skin. Olympia unclasped her hands around the rigor mortis of Raul’s fists.
With effort, she opened his petrified fingers. Then she found, to her utter confusion, enough to stem the flow of tears, that her husband’s palms were completely covered in dirt.
HER EYES PEELED OPEN, BUT ALL SOPHIE Anderson saw was darkness. Sleep clearly hadn’t helped with the exhaustion, and with the thin air and disorientation, she’d forgotten to take off her eye mask.
In the dim light, her cabin looked like her dorm room, only better appointed, slicker. It sure wasn’t smaller by much. The display panel on the wall came alive as she sat upright. She fumbled with the controls on her bedside and after a few clumsy attempts, she pulled up the flight map. The tiny airplane icon blinked on a downward slope over the Pacific.
Five more hours.
She was certain they’d be closer by now. As it turned out, she hadn’t slept as long as she thought. Well, at least she got a nap in. She reached for her phone.
No new messages. The same emails stared back at her no matter how much she refreshed. Updated links to the shared drives, follow-ups from her course advisor, reminders from her research partner. That last one closed with “Have a safe and fruitful trip.” An unwritten postscript: Two weeks is a long time to be gone during your junior year, so you better find a way to get stuff done. Unread newsletters and journal articles, an ad for Instacart that she didn’t send to Trash; the $10 off promo code would still be valid when she got back.
On her video console, the carousel of movie selections remained unchanged too. She shot another text to her friend Coralie. i didn’t know there was a new gladiator sequel, upsidedown smiley face emoji. It went through, but as with the others before it—thank fucking god they have wifi, and then this is wild af, followed by a snap of the cheese plate and champagne flute that greeted her in her luxe cabin, and then adrian says hi btw—she knew it, too, would go unanswered for a few more hours until shift change at the clinic. All the futile scrolling and texting was a bid for distraction. Sophie could at least admit that to herself.
She pulled up the flight map again and noticed the date had already changed. While she slept, she’d crossed the date line and jumped into the future. She stared at the airplane icon, willing it to fly faster. It followed a dotted arc that straddled the ocean over Hawaii, over nothing but water, sloping back down to SFO. A surge of exhilaration rippled in her veins. The trip marked a lot of firsts: her first time on a plane, for one, and in such style too. It was also her first time outside the country. Before this, the farthest she’d gone was leaving Ruskin to go to Stanford. Her father had protested, argued there were plenty of fine community colleges in Nebraska, as though they were comparable. No, Sophie would go to the finest school that would give her scholarship money. She would leave the farm. She would find herself, whatever that meant to a sixteen-year-old, but she’d known it required getting as far away from her parents as possible. On the map before her she imagined her own path from three years ago: The fifteen hundred-mile drive down the I-80 on the beat-up cobalt blue Dodge she bought with money from her late shifts at the Dollar General in Hebron and a small fundraiser by the church choir. Over the deserts of Nevada, the forests of Utah, the mountains of Colorado, Sophie drove for twenty-four hours, only stopping twice, so eager was she to start her life out west.
Now here she was, going farther than she’d ever gone before.
Yet the decision to go on this trip had been fraught, and she felt uneasy traveling on a chartered jet, all expenses paid. Until today (yesterday?) she didn’t even know that planes could be built like hotels, with suites, showers, a stocked bar. To allay her misgivings, Adrian had been quick to point out that his family didn’t usually travel this way when they visited the Philippines. His comfort and familiarity in these surroundings cast this claim in doubt.
More than that, she worried about spending that much time in the Sepulvedas’ ancestral home. There simply were too many opportunities for a misstep. Sophie was liable to struggle whenever the conversation inevitably veered into Filipino. She’d misunderstand a word, or she’d make a rude gesture, or be overly polite. She’d be unable to stop from wincing whenever the family referred to their coconut groves as the “plantation.” She’d somehow offend the elders, or the help, the way she felt she sometimes did whenever they spent time in the homes of Adrian’s trust fund buddies, despite his assurances that she was doing great, she was perfect, in fact. She was fitting in nicely. She never quite cared about fitting in then, but now …
And then there was, of course, the fact of the funeral.
A low rapping came from the other side of her cabin door. It slid open as soon as she said “come in.”
Adrian entered and sat by her bedside. “Hey there … did you get some sleep?”
“Not as much as I’d like.”
He gave her hand a kiss. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“Yes, well. You’re here because of me.” Adrian pulled a baggie out of his jeans pocket, and though the lights were turned low, she could tell it wasn’t your standard bag of multicolored gummies. “You sure you don’t want some? I got six hours on just half a gummy.”
Sophie swatted his hand away playfully, turning toward the open door. Across the aisle, his parents’ cabin door was shut.
“Look, I’m telling you, they don’t care,” Adrian said. It was somewhat attractive, the way he was so cavalier about sneaking contraband into another country, but it was also another stinging reminder of how he moved through life so differently from her.
“I don’t want to give them the wrong impression, that’s all.”
Sophie asked him about his film, and it was Adrian’s turn to see if anyone heard. He smiled askew, recognizing her attempt at evasion. He stowed the baggie away and slid the door shut. “Been at it for a while,” he answered. “Sorting through pics, old home videos. No time like the present, right?”
“In more ways than one. Is it … helping?”
“I like seeing what he was like when he was younger. Before the Alzheimer’s. He was a lot funnier than I remember.”
“You know,” Sophie started, gently, “you could just reminisce about your lolo. It’s okay. You don’t have to get your work done while you’re at it.”
Adrian smiled wryly, a glint in his eye. “Lolo would disagree—that would be … inefficient. And maudlin. Two things he hated.”
Sophie thought Don Raul Sepulveda would also disagree about the subject of his grandson’s secret project, but this was not the time for snark. A personal documentary about the Sepulveda clan and its thorny history in the style of Stories We Tell and Sherman’s March would be too vérité for his family’s taste. It was bad enough that Adrian majored in film, but his course mentor loved the pitch, and if he does it right, it was likely to get him into the honors program.
“Besides, I’m already missing school so soon into the quarter,” he continued. “I might as well come back with some progress.”
Sophie couldn’t blame him. There was guilt over the secret, over the subject matter, guilt over the very fact that his grandparents were cozy with—were closely related to!—a dictator. Guilt over his circumstances, his privileges, the very clothes he wore and the very Gulfstream they were on. Adrian had plenty he’d want to avoid, and if he could use schoolwork as a means to distance himself from them, how could she fault him?
“Is there anything I can do to help?” she asked.
Adrian leaned in and caressed her ear lobe. He knew how much this calmed her. “I just want you to get some rest while we can. We still have a way to go.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“You know you have nothing to worry about, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Everything will be fine.”
“I know that too.”
She sounded abrupt without meaning to, and she hugged him to make up for her tone. His grandfather had just died. His family was beset with grief, as was he, and that grief was compounded by travel fatigue, jet lag, and soon, the sensory strain of having to acclimate to the tropics. She was supposed to be here to support him, yet there he was, taking care of her again. She knew the questions still swimming in his mind, the same ones he’d asked several times in the last few days. Was she comfortable? Scared? Stressed about meeting the rest of the Sepulvedas? And what about going this far from home? To the Philippines, of all places? She raised her head and saw them all in Adrian’s downcast, slightly bloodshot eyes. She’d been giving him hollow assurances; she didn’t really have any answers. At the very least, she could do things for his sake, like she promised herself she would.
“All right,” Sophie said, holding out an open palm.
Adrian drew the bag from his pocket and held it up in front of her. He grinned. “Pick a color.”
By the time they arrived on the island province of Leyte, the high had worn off, but the haze did not lift. It became a new haze, caused by the noontime heat that prickled her skin and the humidity that sapped her of strength. Sophie felt rested at least, knocked out on half a dose.
The sign greeted her as she descended the boarding stairs. Daniel Z. Romualdez Airport. From Adrian’s stories, a not-so-distant cousin of his late grandfather’s.
Bodyguards with dark sunglasses waited on the tarmac. The cars would be slightly delayed, they informed Adrian’s father Eric as he descended the plane. He took the news without a hint of annoyance; if anything, he seemed overly gracious toward the men, as though he’d inconvenienced them. His wife Margot only smiled meekly.
Sophie had only met them once, two years ago, during her first Stanford Family Weekend. As she’d expected, no one came to visit her, but less expected was Adrian’s offer that she spend the weekend with his folks. For one, their relationship was so new. For another, she assumed quite reasonably that his parents would want alone time with their only child, even if Adrian didn’t sound too psyched about it. Didn’t he at least want to give them a tour of the university grounds, show off his hastily tidied off-campus bachelor pad for their inspection? He brushed the idea off. What he’d been most excited to show off was her. Sophie thought it was the most romantic thing.
She didn’t realize how serious he was. From the very first moment of introduction, Adrian sang her praises, casually dropping how tough and selective the computer science program was, and how she was top of her class, with a full course load and research assisting, not to mention extracurriculars. Adrian segued to discuss their activities with PASU, the Pilipino American Student Union, but he soon found his way back to talking about Sophie. Eric seemed genuinely impressed, and Margot even teased that she hoped Sophie would be a good influence on her son.
Sophie took everything in stride, ignoring the undercurrent of cringe. She instinctively knew that Adrian admired her achievements, but she’d never been raised in an environment that lavished her with praise. Roy and Frances Anderson were humble Midwestern folks who rarely showed pride or gave encouragement. They never wanted to spoil their daughter. Said daughter might have also believed that their restraint was tinged with resentment at how exceptional she’d become, despite everything. It was a new and foreign feeling, being lauded by someone who loved her. That was the reason for her unease, nothing more. Affirmation felt good, and in time, she could get used to this. She could come to enjoy it, even. Seeing the glimmer in Adrian’s eyes as he spoke, she felt well on her way.
The afternoon was a greater success because Adrian’s parents, deftly deploying that upper-class conversational sidestep of anything unpleasant, avoided asking about her own parents’ absence. Sophie was relieved she didn’t have to use any of the excuses she’d prepared on behalf of Roy and Frances, who would have balked at the idea of having to explain themselves, let alone have their daughter apologize to complete strangers on their behalf. She was also relieved that the big question was raised only once—yes, I am Filipino—and then the topic was swiftly dropped after some noises of approval. For a moment she worried that Eric might test her by conversing with her in Tagalog, but there had been none of that, not even a vernacular aside between father and son. No questions about her background, no “Do you know so-and-so?” or “Where in the Philippines, exactly?” This unspoken dance lasted throughout that brisk February afternoon. Now, Sophie doubted she would be quite so lucky again.
Margot sidled up next to her under the shade of the Gulfstream’s wing. She’d changed into a black satin top, lightweight for the climate but still appropriate for the occasion. Meanwhile, Sophie’s flannel was getting soaked in sweat. “Someone should have warned you,” she clucked at her son outside of his earshot. “But don’t worry, the cars have good AC. The villa too.”
“Oh, I’ll be all right.”
“You know, I was you, once. It was a while ago, but I still remember,” Margot said. “It’s okay—no need to hide it. This all takes some adjustment.” She shielded her eyes and pointed at the low clouds in the distance, over the ocean. “It’ll cool down soon anyway.”
Sophie caught her breath when she realized she was now standing halfway across the world from where she’d started. A strange sense of awe surged in her. She was finally here.
“I’m sure I’ll acclimate,” she replied absently.
“And I don’t just mean the country,” Margot said with a conspiratorial grin. “The Sepulvedas can be quite a handful. You and I gotta stick together, kid.”
“Thanks, I’m gonna need all the help I can get.” Sophie said with a straight face. There was something absurd about the idea of having Margot as her guide and ally. Her sherpa with the Sepulvedas, this tall, blonde New England WASP dressed in head-to-toe Dior, standing right next to a private jet. But yes, Margot did know what Sophie was getting herself into, and they were both outsiders, of a sort.
In time, their entire party was whisked away into gleaming white Bentleys. It would be another two hours from the airport before they would arrive at the Sepulvedas’ ancestral home in a secluded mountain town named Maalin, and by then, Sophie would have been traveling nonstop for twenty-two hours.
Her window views had changed from late-afternoon San Francisco to the murk of the Pacific, the first glimmers of dawn over the Philippine islands, the lush green provinces that she should know by name. Now, through tinted windows, she witnessed the Tacloban cityscape—the tangle of traffic, the sidewalk stalls selling everything from fruit to hardware supplies to flimsy plastic toys from China, the streets lined with billboards and banners mostly in English: Grand Opening! Live More Today. Re-elect Romualdez for Mayor. 50% Off Sale! Tough Times Call for Beautiful Measures—morph into suburbs. Along the narrow highway stood squat houses, most painted in pastels, their wooden fences each enclosing a small backyard with trees of plumeria or papaya. Eventually, these all gave way to dense shrubbery and the thick woods where no houses stood, signaling their convoy’s entry into the countryside.
At first, Sophie thought it was just the tall mahoganies casting shade, but soon enough her view was obscured by raindrops. Seen through darkened windows, the storm clouds seemed to loom lower, closer. A thunderclap followed a streak of lightning.
“It’s coming,” the driver said, in an oddly cheerful, almost apologetic manner.
“Didn’t know it was supposed to rain,” Adrian replied.
“Yes, sir. It’s a typhoon. They’ve named it Lorena.”
Adrian leaned forward to peer out the front windows. “It doesn’t look too bad.”
His remark seemed to summon the storm. A torrential downpour came upon them, obscuring their view with a thick curtain of water. In mere seconds, noon seemed to turn to dusk. The car sounded like it was being pelted by hailstones as it winded through the asphalt highway.
“Storm signal number four, they say. The first one this year. Good thing your plane came on time.”
The driver’s phone rang from its dashboard mount and a gravelly voice came through on speakerphone. “Paghinay-hinay, utoy. Peligroso hit kalye.” The driver responded, first sounding annoyed, then resigned, all in the same language that Sophie didn’t understand. She couldn’t pick out any English either. She turned to Adrian, who looked as puzzled as she was.
“You speak Waray?” the driver asked after he hung up.
“No. Just Tagalog,” Sophie answered. It was a stretch, and Adrian smirked. She’d gotten a lot better since she joined the PASU, but languages always tripped her up, spoken languages at least. French had been her talon d’Achille in high school. Give her a math problem or lines of code any day.
“No? Tsk, tsk. Just like Sir Adrian. Always Tagalog,” he replied jovially. “That was my father, from the other car.”
On the mention of a father, Sophie noticed that this driver was younger than she first thought. He might have been her age, though she couldn’t fully see his face enough to be sure.
“Is everything ok, Kuya Dante?” Adrian asked.
“He said he will slow down, and we should also. So we don’t get into an accident. Sir Eric is worried. But this is just a little water. We will get out of it soon.” The driver slowed and turned the radio down. From the rearview mirror hung a rosary with beads made of sky blue plastic. He rubbed its suspended crucifix between his fingers, then made the sign of the cross.
