The curandero’s alley split in two as it moved away from Esperanza Street. To the right, it widened and finally grew a sidewalk before leading to the basilica, the Chinese shops and restaurants and, eventually, the expensive apartment blocks higher on the hill. To the left, the alley led into the heart of Greenhills, so called by the inhabitants, though it was the colour of dirt and was flat, in mockery of the circumstances in which they lived: in Manila, Greenhills was where the rich lived; in Puerto it was a slum. If one continued walking through Greenhills in the direction of the sea, one came to Colon Market, quiet only at night, its stench declaring its presence long before and after its boundaries.
At the spot where the alley split stood the Espiritista chapel. Uncle Bee’s grandmother had established the chapel in the 1920s. The congregation had grown steadily since then but the chapel, hemmed in by wooden double storeys, had stayed the same size. To accommodate everyone, the rough wooden pews had been moved outside to line the courtyard in front of the chapel and the services were now all conducted standing. Even after mass, when the worshippers lingered awhile in the courtyard, people remained standing for there was nowhere left to sit, the pews having gradually accumulated ranks of potted plants: flat-leaved palms or succulents in empty paint cans, rusty pails, gallon vegetable-oil canisters with the tops cut jaggedly away. In one corner of the courtyard, empty fish baskets and firewood were stacked. In another stood a hen-coop, its inhabitants noisy, ruffled by the presence of the congregation. After everyone had left, the chickens would be let out to scratch and shit. Or if it was late, they’d settle where they were while Nening, Uncle Bee’s sister and the Espiritista priestess, swept the yard clean.
People came to the Espiritista chapel from a distance sometimes. In the alley, some evenings one might see a car that didn’t belong – a BMW or a Mercedes – its owners in the congregation, searching for something money couldn’t buy. The cars always drew an audience, children mainly, who were watched in their turn by the chauffeurs that leaned against the bonnet smoking or singing along to the hymns that drifted out into the evening. Most of the congregation, however, were from Greenhills or from the lower half of Esperanza, people whose skins were dark from working long days under the sun.
I attended the Espiritista church once with America, but only the once, for Aunt Mary made it clear afterwards how much she disapproved. It was two years after my mother died and I’d heard America talk about the Espiritista priestess contacting the dead, drawing power from them to heal the sick. I was ten years old and couldn’t resist; I pleaded with her for weeks before she agreed to take me.
We went to an evening service. In the chapel yard, the air was heavy with incense and the scent of night jasmine. Standing behind America, I watched the chickens squabble in the hen-coop and the lizards slip between the plant pots. Inside, the chapel was like a shop, with a counter but nothing for sale. It wasn’t what I’d expected at all. I’d pictured Nening in a flowing white robe and behind her a high arched chapel, its shadows filled with echoes. She came out to meet us, a plump woman – brown arms bleached a European white in patches by some skin ailment – wearing a faded skirt printed with orange flowers, a pale-green shirt, rubber sandals. Perhaps she’d half read my mind, for she said to America, ‘I’m the High Priestess of fashion too, no?’ And on seeing me, ‘Yours?’
America said, ‘Naw. This is Joseph. Dante Santos’ boy.’
‘O-oh,’ said Nening. I didn’t like the way she stretched the word out, as if my identity was quite a revelation.
The service was to be at nine o’clock. The congregation started arriving around half past eight but by nine they were still drifting in through the gate, no more than forty of them in total perhaps, and Nening didn’t call for everyone to be silent until about twenty past the hour.
I stood close by America. A girl, not much older than I, came to the front and sang the national anthem in a thin, high voice, first in Tagalog, then in English. The people were silent; some looked about to see who else was present. I looked about too, but America squeezed my hand and I turned back to the girl. Thy banner, dear to all our hearts, its sun and stars all right, never shall its shining feel be dimmed by tyrant mice. I grinned up at America. She gave me a stern look. From all around us came a murmur of approval, scattered claps. The girl slid back into the crowd.
Nening stepped forward again and led the worshippers into a hymn. There were no song sheets or books. The congregation sang ‘Abide with Me’ and ‘Come Holy Ghost’. I didn’t know all the words and joined in intermittently, worrying the whole while that my efforts might not be enough to draw my mother. After the voices had died away, Nening raised her hands for silence again. The worshippers, whispering to stragglers that had joined the group during the singing or fidgeting against the night insects, became still. A clamour arose from the chickens and a barrio dog, unseen and unheard during the singing, was spotted nosing around the hen-coop. A man – I recognised Uncle Bee – stepped forward and chased the dog away. He addressed the dog as sir while he ran it out the gate, which made me giggle. America clicked her tongue at me but even some of the adults had started laughing softly.
When people had subsided again and the chickens were some way to settling, Nening read from the Bible, a short passage about raising the dead, cleansing lepers, casting out demons. She started reciting a prayer. I tried to listen but it was late and her voice and the night air, sweet with flowers and sweat and putrefaction, conspired to make me sleepy. I yawned loudly, but America didn’t notice. I looked up into the faces of the people around me; some were swaying as they prayed, eyes closed, trembling. After a while the voices of the congregation rose and the trembling for some became shaking. Nening called out for the Spirit Protectors to come and to keep away the evil spirits, those that might for their own reasons mean her flock some harm. She called for the Spirit Protectors to speak. The people pushed forward and one or two started to speak in Tagalog, but words that I didn’t understand. I wanted to move forward myself, hear what was being said, but America, her lips still moving in prayer, gripped my shoulder and held me back. Then Nening, in a shrill and urgent voice, called out a name and someone in the congregation answered. One by one she called out more names and someone came forward and laughed or wept or cried out and I waited for the moment when she would call out my mother’s name or mine. It never came.
We didn’t idle in the yard after the service. America knew many of the congregation and she called to them in passing, pausing only to make me recite my thanks and a good night to Nening. The priestess winked at me cheerfully as she said, ‘Your father came to mass here too. Once or twice only. After your mother died.’ I was young and didn’t know how to ask then if my father had found what he came for, or if he too had left disappointed.
I thought about my father at the Espiritistas all the way back to the boarding house. He’d kept his visits there a secret. After my mother died, he’d carried a vigilant look in his eye, as if he’d misplaced something that he might, without warning, come across again at any moment. It had taken a long time for that look finally to leave him and be replaced by a kind of dullness.
America pulled me home quickly. She’d not told Aunt Mary she was taking me to the Espiritistas. I’d worked hard all afternoon to complete my chores and my schoolwork and had assumed that Aunt Mary would have no objection, but I was wrong. She was even less pleased with America for taking me and I didn’t attend an Espiritista service again, though Nening called out in greeting whenever she saw me.