Orchid House by Cindy Martinusen Coloma Page A

ready for a shower.
    Other vendors boarded the bus, offering chewing gum, drinks, paper-wrapped candies, boiled bananas, and other foods she didn’t recognize.
    As they drove from the city into the province lands, Raul leaned back slightly and slept with his hat perched over his eyes. The city and industrial areas turned to rice fields and rolling countryside pocked with gangly palms of various types and sizes.
    An older jeepney of unpainted wood and metal stayed in line with the bus for a time, but instead of passengers peering out the windows, it was filled with large pink pigs. A few had fallen asleep, and their forked feet stuck out the back.
    They passed a gated housing development with homes she might see in the Bay Area bluffs, and then a village with houses the size of large sheds where laundry dried on lines and men chatted outside on wooden chairs or worked on wood projects in dirt yards. At times, tinroofed stands lined the narrow streets with overflowing shelves of fruit and flowers.
    The bus stopped at intervals, taking on and letting off passengers as well as more vendors who came up and down the aisles offering homemade baked goods, foods, snack items, and even hot corn on the cob.
    Julia tried to take in every detail of the tropical scene, the brown faces and the vibrant greens and multicolored signs and vehicles. She wanted something of this place to embed itself within her, just as a portion of her blood was born of this land.
    Brightly colored signs and banners attracted her attention to some kind of a demonstration as they passed through another village. People were cheering and a man stood on a bench shouting to the crowd. A tank was tipped sideways, off to the side of the road. This complex nation would take more than a day to adapt to, she realized; she actually knew nothing of what she was getting into.
    Raul woke and patted his forehead and neck again.
    â€œMr. Santos wrote that my grandfather’s remains will arrive in five days’ time.”
    Raul nodded. “Mr. Santos will come to the hacienda to discuss all matters. There was much paperwork, and Markus used his contacts for approval. It is not customary for an American to be buried here. We are honored by it. And there are other legal matters to discuss.”
    Julia nodded. The lawyers were taking care of it. With their help, she’d decide what to do about the future of the land her grandfather loved.
    After a while, her bloodshot eyes stung with weariness and travel. The sound of the chickens and rumble of the bus were no longer foreign sounds, but grew soothing as the hours passed. With a dab to her forehead with her handkerchief, she leaned her head against the glass as the flash of green landscape eased her eyes toward rest. Oddly, it was California that was beginning to feel like a dream.

FOUR

    Q uiapo was the home of religious fanatics, the poverty-stricken, and mobsters, with the wealthy and tourists mingling within as they searched for some of the best bargains in the city.
    Manalo’s men separated at a street corner. Manalo hung back at a newsstand while the others went ahead at differing paces and directions. Best to arrive separately and inconspicuously.
    They came to the open square surrounding Quiapo Church. The revered “Black Nazarene” waited behind lock and key for his bi-annual parade to greet the thousands upon thousands of hands seeking healing and blessings with a touch on the dark wood sculpture.
    Two small barefooted girls ran toward Manalo with crucifix necklaces and rosaries outstretched in their hands. Their faces and dresses were smudged and black eyes pleaded more than words. He bent at the knees to feign interest in their wares and received a shy smile from the younger, who hid behind her sister’s faded skirt. As he made the exchange of coins to rosaries, he heard the footsteps for a dozen more children come quickly to surround him.
    â€œ Palimos po. Pangkain lang ,” said