EL MÁS SUPREMO

In the penthouse resides El Más Supremo, and none but the servants are allowed entrance into his suite. Barefoot, jangling brass anklets, they bring him the softest cloth and silks woven by virgins to drape upon his divans. Lazing about in linen robes, he gazes up at his ceiling, a clear dome filled with night sky. There in the stars, a tattooed prince, a many-headed beast slain by his hand. There, the string of pearls given to his princess. There, she waves away malevolent spirits by mimicking the ocean.

 

El Más Supremo sips chilled palm wine mixed with blue liqueur and the juice of calamansi, served in hollowed-out young coconut vessels. What meat has been scraped from inside of this shell, the chefs soak in this same azure cocktail, then sprinkle with sea salts and green sili.

 

What a banquet for El Más Supremo’s eyes, these panorama sunsets the color of orchids, trees of the beloved orphan spirit swaying in guava-scented breezes. Processions from afar bring tithes from pearl farmers and miners of silver. Those who harvest rice fields also come to bring tribute. They do not stop to ask what he gives in return.

 

From above he cannot smell the salt of their bodies, nor can he see the lines carved into their brows. From above, the numerous are so very small.