Meding finished eating and rinsed her bowl. Outside, the wind and rain rattled and pelted her house furiously. This is a storm, she thought, not merely a squall. She wondered how long it would last. If the bad weather continued through the night, the men would miss a day’s fishing — another problem added to the others. The villagers needed to fish for their food and also to earn the few pesos they received selling part of their catch to the merchants from the nearby town of Narra. Lying down on the floor by the fire, she pulled her sleeping blanket over her, closed her eyes, and resumed examining what she knew about the American.
The day after the first meeting, as promised, Paquette had brought her husband and son to visit. The American was tall and lean. He had short brown hair peppered with gray, and brown eyes that were both intelligent and friendly. The boy was small for a six-year-old, but he was a handsome mixture of his father and mother’s features and skin coloring and seemed bright and happy. Both father and son were dressed in T-shirts, faded jeans, and dusty sneakers. After the introductions were over, the adults sat on the porch sipping coconut wine while the boy inspected the yard and Meding’s animals.
“You must find our ways here very simple compared to your life in the United States,” Meding had said to the American. Her English was good, remembered from her schooling and practiced at every opportunity.
“Different,” the American replied. “But your way of life here isn’t so simple. It requires skills few Americans have to live from the land and sea as people here do.” He spoke softly and, Meding thought, with confidence and authority. A man accustomed to being listened to.
“What work do you do?” she asked.
“I retired from the army just a month ago,” the American replied. “I was a soldier for twenty years.”
“We met while I was going to school,” Paquette explained. “My husband was teaching an army reserve training course at the college where I was a student.”
Meding nodded. “So what will you do now?” she asked.
“I’m not sure,” the American shrugged. “I don’t know the answer to that question yet.”
At this point, Paquette had changed the subject, asking Meding what had become of several of her classmates. Later they went around to the back of the house and Meding took Nick-Nick from his cage for feeding. The bird had made her proud, putting on a performance that had them all laughing. He ran around the yard bobbing his head and chortling, then dashing to them to snatch the pieces of fish they held out for him. When the heron’s stomach was full, he allowed the boy to hold him and stroke his feathers. The visit ended with Paquette asking Meding to attend her birthday party the following evening. Meding accepted.
Paquette’s birthday party had been memorable. All the villagers were there as well as many of Paquette’s relatives and former classmates who had traveled to the event from other villages and towns on the island. Roberto had killed a pig and several chickens for the occasion and roasted them on a spit over a huge fire built in the yard. To go with the meat, the women had prepared rice, adobo, and lumpia. For dessert there were sweet rolls, mango slices, and roasted bananas. After the meal, the men gathered by the fire, smoking cigarettes and drinking San Miguel beer bought by the American. The young children, including Paquette’s son, played tag among the trees, staying close to the light. Teenage girls danced with each other to American rock music from a transistor radio tuned to the station in Puerto Princesa. The girls giggled and pointed, trying to coax the boys their age to dance with them. The boys acted aloof, feigning uninterest to hide their shyness. The married women gathered on the porch to gossip.
“How was your trip to Arena Island today?” Meding asked Paquette.
“It was fun,” Paquette said. “We had a picnic; then my husband and I walked around the island on the beach. It was every bit as beautiful a place as I had imagined.” She leaned over and whispered in Meding’s ear: “We went skinny dipping.”
Meding laughed. “Then you had the island all to yourselves?”
“Yes. My husband and I liked Arena so much that we may be interested in buying the land and living there.”
“I don’t think there is an owner,” Meding said. “When I was on the island two years ago, there were no coconut trees. For someone to become the owner of the land, before petitioning the government, they must plant coconut trees and build a house.”
Paquette nodded. “You are probably right,” she said. “We didn’t see any coconut trees there today, and there was no house, at least not along the beach.”
In the yard, the teenage girls had succeeded in persuading two of the boys to dance. But the young men were embarrassed and shuffled to the music only half-heartedly.
“Let me show you how it’s done,” Tassig had said. He put down his San Miguel bottle and grabbed one of the girls by the hand. In the packed dirt by the fire, the two stepped and swayed skillfully to the beat of the music. Rosemary whirled and laughed, long hair streaming, while Tassig swung her around, then stepped aside to let her go it alone, clapping his hands in time with the music. Sweat glistened on his bare torso.
On the porch with the women, Tassig’s wife snorted. “If he had as much energy for work as he does for dancing with the young women, we would not be so poor,” she said. The women laughed.
“Now you try it,” Tassig told the boys. He returned to the gathering of men by the fire, and the teenagers paired off again, waiting for the next song to start.
Meding remembered that this had been the last time she had seen either Rosemary or Tassig. Two days after the party the young woman had disappeared — run away from home, her parents thought and hoped. The girl had been restless, not content to help her mother around the house. George did not have the money to send her to school in Puerto Princesa. And then, not long after, Tassig had gone fishing as usual and not returned. No sign of either him or his boat had been found.
As the evening went on and more beer was consumed, the men’s conversation became more animated. From her place on the porch with the women, Meding couldn’t tell what the men were talking about, but she noticed that the American was active in the discussion, speaking mostly in English and at times in rudimentary Tagalog. She would have to find out what the men had talked about. Perhaps there would be a clue.
It took all night for the tropical storm to sweep across the island. By first light the rain was over and the violent wind was replaced by a light and pleasant breeze. To the east the sky was clear; to the west the backside of the storm was moving away from the village across the jagged mountain peaks in the island’s interior. Meding stepped out on the porch to survey the damage caused by the storm. Her chickens were in the yard foraging busily for food. She saw that the damage was slight: a few fronds on the house roof were awry; a small coconut palm had been blown over; the yard was strewn with tree branches; and brown and green coconuts of assorted sizes were on the ground everywhere.
“Good morning.” Jess waved to her from the muddy road behind the house, then started down the path, picking his way through the fallen tree branches. He pointed to the misplaced fronds on the roof of the house. “I will fix,” he said. “I have the time — there will be no fishing until late tonight.”
While Jess worked on the roof, Meding fed her animals, then cooked rice and made coffee. From a young vendor who made regular morning rounds of Antipuluan on a bicycle, she bought pandisal to go with their breakfast. When the food was ready, she laid it out on the battered porch table and the two sat down to eat.