“At Paquette’s birthday party,” Meding said, “what did the men talk about?”
Jess shrugged. “The usual things: our families, our boats, fishing and farming — that sort of thing.”
Meding persisted. “Later in the evening your talk was of other matters?”
“Yes,” Jess replied hesitantly. “Roberto happened to mention that the leader of the bandits had come to see him and told him that there will now be a weekly tax on everyone in the village. The bandit said that Roberto would collect this tax. There was much discussion about this; of whether or not we should pay this increased tax.”
This was a development Meding was not aware of. The bandits Jess spoke of were the militant part of the longstanding Moro or Moslem uprising on their southern Philippine island. The improbable goal of this group was to take control of the island and secede from the rest of the Philippines, thus establishing a Moslem nation independent of the Manila government; this in spite of the fact that the majority of the island’s people were devout Catholics. Outlawed but tolerated by the government, several bands of pseudo-guerrillas subsisted in the mountains, coming down into the villages occasionally for food and to try to recruit supporters for their cause. When they came into the villages, they carried military rifles and wore bandoliers of ammunition draped across their chests. Because the men were armed and possibly dangerous, the villagers in Antipuluan and elsewhere put up with them, listened to their political speeches, and paid the nominal taxes the bandits demanded. The people considered the taxes a voluntary donation because sometimes they couldn’t pay and the bandits, so far at least, had done nothing in reprisal. Antipuluan’s elders, Meding included, had long ago decided that it was in their best interest to cooperate and meet the minimal demands of the bandit group.
“Why wasn’t I told of this?” Meding demanded.
“I was going to tell you today,” Jess replied sheepishly.
“Pah,” Meding spat out. Was she getting too old for her opinion to be respected?
“And what did the American have to say about this,” she asked, controlling her anger with an effort.
“He had much to say,” Jess replied. Meding saw the sudden fire come into his eyes. Resentment again?
“The American said that he had been an army advisor during the early years of his country’s fight with the Vietcong guerrillas in South Vietnam.” He pointed to the west; Vietnam lay just across the narrow South China Sea from their island. “He told us that in the beginning, the Vietcong behaved much the same as our bandits. But later they demanded that their taxes be paid and took the young men from the villages against their will to become Vietcong soldiers. He said that we must be careful to not let such a thing happen here.”
“This sounds like good advice,” Meding said.
“But what does he know?” Jess said. “He is an outsider here.”
“Right now he is,” Meding said. “But the American is considering living here with his family, so it could be said that he does have an interest.”
“I know that he is considering this,” Jess replied. His tone and smoldering eyes said to Meding that he wasn’t happy about the prospect.
“You and Paquette were schoolmates?” Meding asked, changing the subject abruptly.
Jess nodded.
“Did you like her then?”
“Of course I liked her; she was very popular.”
“I mean did you like her in a special way?”
Jess’s eyes flashed anger for a moment, then cooled.
“Yes,” he said. “In fact, I wanted her to be my wife after she finished school in Puerto Princesa, but—”
“But instead,” Meding added softly, “Paquette went to the United States and now is back here with an American husband.”
Jess nodded. “But this has nothing to do with what I suspect about the American,” he added quickly.
“What is it that you suspect?”
“The night of Paquette’s party,” Jess explained, “it was Tassig who argued that we should do whatever the bandits want. The American said—”
Their conversation was interrupted by a young girl running through the coconut grove to the house.
“Madame Meding,” the girl shouted, “come quick. My brother is very sick and my mother told me to get you.”
The afternoon sun was sinking behind the mountain peaks by the time Meding trudged wearily down the path to her house. She was tired, but it had been a good day — she was satisfied with her work. The sick child was the son of the neighbor of Paquette’s sister. He had been running a fever and had gone into convulsions that morning. Cool water baths had broken the child’s fever, and Meding was sure that her herbal medicines and prayers would cure the little boy of his ailment within a few days.
The first unusual thing she noticed as she approached the house was that her chickens were roosting in the lower branches of the trees and bushes. This was not out of the ordinary after dark — the birds sought the safety of the branches while they slept — but it was still early, the sun not yet down. On the porch she found her two ducks huddled beneath the table. The cat wasn’t in his usual napping spot on the porch rail. Her baby chicks were gathered in a tight group under the house. She counted six chicks — two were missing and the mother hen was nowhere in sight. Perplexed, Meding hurried around the house to the back. To her dismay she saw that the sea heron’s cage had been knocked off its rock foundation. The cage door was ajar and Nick-Nick was gone. For the next Fifteen minutes she took inventory of her animals and searched the surrounding jungle for signs of the missing chickens and Nick-Nick. Nothing. When she had given up her search, the cat bounded out of the jungle, ran to her, and rubbed his body back and forth on her legs, purring softly. She patted his side. I wish you could tell me, she thought.
Meding was still visibly upset, walking around the yard studying the ground, when Paquette came down the path from the road carrying a basket full of soft drinks she had purchased at Antipuluan’s tiny convenience or “Sari-Sari” store.
“What is the matter, Madame Meding?” She set her basket on the porch steps and took Meding’s hands, searching her eyes. Meding told her what had happened.
“There is no sign of who or what did this thing?” Paquette asked. Meding shook her head.
“I have looked, but in the brush and mud it is difficult to tell the marks of my animals from any other, or one person’s footprints from another’s. In fact, in some parts of the yard it looks as if someone tried to brush away any marks or footprints, perhaps with a tree branch.”
“I’m sorry this has happened to you,” Paquette said, “especially losing Nick-Nick.”
Meding nodded. “This kind of thing has been happening to others in the village lately. I should not be surprised that it has happened to me.”
The two women sat on the porch steps. Paquette opened two bottles of orange soda and handed one of them to Meding. The cat jumped into Meding’s lap and resumed his purring. She stroked his fur absently.
“How is the son of my neighbor doing?” Paquette asked. “I know that you spent most of today looking after him. That’s why you weren’t home and—”
“The boy should be well soon,” Meding said, not waiting for Paquette to finish her sentence. “I will check on his condition tomorrow and make more medicine for his treatment. And you, Paquette? Have you and your husband decided to stay in Antipuluan, or will you be returning to the United States soon?”
“It’s almost time for us to go home,” Paquette replied, “if we are going to. We’re undecided. My husband is concerned for our safety here because of the bandits. He wishes he could convince the other men of the threat to everyone that these people represent.”
“Decisions that affect everyone in Antipuluan are not necessarily made only by the men,” Meding said. “Perhaps he should come here and also talk to me about it.”