Salas was for all intents and purposes a vassal, one of an army of houseboys, butlers, washerwomen, cooks, nannies, and maids. The garden sprawled out, intensely manicured in places, in others neglected with tangled vines on the wall and crumbling fountains overrun with toads. The main house had pillars like the White House and was a monument to fawning and bad taste. Salas only approached by the back door, which was unremarkable and less offensive to his aesthetic sensibility. He said little, which was blamed on his general lack of charm and his inability to speak good Tagalog; his employer and fellow employees assumed he had grown up speaking some Igorot dialect in Baguio. He shared a room with a ripe-smelling chauffeur and a house-boy. The houseboy had a guitar and the chauffeur had a drinking problem. This combination resulted in bad folk singing and loud renditions of movie pop songs. Sometimes there were girls outside the door to their room, sashaying back and forth on broad hips, their necks weighted down with cheap, heady blooms. Salas slept on a mat on the floor.
In the daylight, maids and washerwomen would slink back to work, their flowers dead, the bards of the evening revealed as the boors of the day. Salas worked with mister and pruning shears. His wards, the orchids, yawned lazily in his direction. He understood. Time passed slowly for him as well. Late at night, when his roommates had finally quieted, Salas would enter a deep meditative state. Below the earth’s gentle crust, the jewels and gold bars waited, like patient bulbs in an eternal early spring. “Let them sleep,” Salas whispered into the night, but what he really wished for was an end to his insomnia.
One particularly hot evening (the heat had sent him to his orchids for an evening misting) Salas noticed a bright light in the guardhouse. Salas stopped to watch. No doubt, something was wrong. No bulb or candle flame would beat so brilliantly against the walls. Suddenly the security guard darted out. He was burning, lit up, flaming, and his appearance was so stunning that Salas found it impossible to help him. The guard took three springing steps across the lawn. The flames whooped and snapped. He made it to the edge of the fountain, turned to Salas (who extended his mister to him), then disappeared, with a smoky hiss, into the lilies. It was as if the earth had swallowed him.
The following morning Salas found himself weighted by a dark mood. The other workers were all buzzing about the events of the previous night guard, of how Estanislaw, the security guard, had lit himself on fire.
“He was drunk,” said the chauffeur. “He was reading comic books using a candle. The bottle spilled and then he must have knocked the candle over trying to get the rum.”
“Is that all?” asked Salas.
“No,” said the chauffeur. “When they went into the guardhouse, they discovered the boss’s missing watch. The security guard has been stealing things.”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” said Salas.
“They’re going to search our things, the maid heard the boss’s wife saying. .”
“When?”
“After lunch.”
Salas packed his things. There was nothing to directly incriminate him. There was the good-luck scarf written over with Japanese characters, a gift from a well-meaning village, but he could easily argue that this had been lifted off a dead Japanese officer. He could conceal the information to the security box, where he had placed the maps for safekeeping, but the idea of having his belongings rifled through bothered him deeply. Any scrutiny did. Besides, he was now old. He had already wasted much of his life as a servant. This was a sign to move on. He passed Estanislaw — who was bandaged like a mummy, glumly being questioned by the boss’s eldest son — and caught a jeepney downtown.
Salas found work at a multinational corporation that made shampoo, soap, and toothpaste. He spoke Japanese and was, therefore, useful.
Salas awoke early on Saturday morning, the day after he had seen Balmaceda. Salas sent his servant, Fernando, a handsome boy with feet like a duck, to buy the paper and some pan de sal. Other than Salas’s eagerness for the paper, this was all routine. As Fernando descended the steps, he no doubt thought that Salas had started on his careful straight-edged shaving. After that, Salas would choose a short-sleeved shirt, find weekend socks to match, finish off with light trousers, then head in slippers for his small balcony to tend his small orchid garden. Fernando did not expect to be accosted on the steps when he returned. Standing in the dim light of the stairwell was a tall, dark-skinned man who, despite the heat and the shadowed light, was wearing sunglasses and a long-sleeved jacket and tie, American style.
“You work for Mr. Salas?” asked the man.
“Who wants to know?” asked Fernando.
“Just give him this. He will understand.”
Fernando accepted the envelope.
Salas had heard voices on the stairs. He was nervous and when he poked his head out of the doorway, he caught Fernando shaking the envelope, checking the seal.
“Who gave you that?” asked Salas. Fernando looked down the stairs in response. When Salas peered over the edge of the railing, the stairwell was empty. He heard the door clicking shut as someone left the building.
Salas ate his roll. The envelope was on the table; he regarded it as he chewed. He did not open it, nor did he unfold the paper. Fernando peeked around from the kitchen. Today Salas would send Fernando to the movies with five pesos in his pocket, for supposedly good behavior. And after that, Salas would tear open the envelope and find sixty thousand pesos in new bills.
There was no explanation for the gift. Salas could only guess. Clearly Balmaceda had recognized him and maybe Salas had been followed home. Who knew what group Balmaceda was running with? Probably someone wealthy and powerful. This gift said a number of things. It said, “We know who you are and that you have the other maps.” It said, “We have the resources to excavate the gold.” It said, “We will make you rich if you cooperate.”
Who were these benefactors? According to the papers of the previous week, Rogelio Roxas’s gold Buddha had been confiscated by members of the president’s family. The president. That would make sense. Salas thumbed the stack of money and its exquisite flutter made him giddy.
Salas headed straight for the tailor up the street who offered same-day service. It was still early. Who could blame him for wanting some new clothes? He ordered a suit, buff-colored linen, double breasted and fully lined, which was ready at six that evening. Salas dressed at the tailor’s and took his old clothes folded in a brown paper package tied with twine.
Salas’s shoes were brand-new but he decided to have them polished, just for the pleasure of it. The shoestand rose regally off the street, with metal platforms on which to set one’s shoes. He took the leftmost of the three seats, which were worked by three kneeling boys. Salas drummed his fingertips on the worn wood of the chair’s arm; this lightness was strange to him. He owed his joy to some whim of fate, which left him feeling both lucky and nervous. Beside him, a man ruffled the pages of a newspaper, reminding Salas he’d ignored the paper this morning, its offerings overshadowed by more immediate good news. The man snapped the paper down and looked at the boy who was coating his shoes with polish.