Read Online When the Elephants Dance by Tess Uriza Holthe - Free Book Online Page B

time he brought a gilded cage with two yellow birds that nestled close to each other.
    That night they talked of the house they would live in with their children. “And how many children shall we have?” Esmeralda asked, combing her slender fingers through his hair.
    “As many as you want. A dozen,” he proclaimed.
    “A dozen? Tearso, have pity. Do you know what I would look like after that many babies?” She laughed.
    “Beautiful. Always beautiful,” he replied. “We could live in Bohol, where you could gaze all day at the chocolate hills. Or Guimaras, where you can watch them repeat the crucifixion of our Lord. In Guimaras, there is the fragrant scent of the mango trees you adore so much. What about Cavite? We can live beneath the craters of the Taal volcano. What do you think?”
    “I think I would follow you anywhere,” she answered, slicing a large guava.
    She always fed her lover such fruits, holding her hands delicately as if in dance. He caught her hands and kissed the insides of her wrists as she laughed. I blushed. He got up and drew the shades. And the guitar continued to play long into the night.
    But what of the church? Well, I am getting to that, but do not be led astray. It was only a product of what I am about to tell you. The church was unlike any you would ever imagine. It was not the typical Spanish design, or even of Filipino design. It was as if a cave had risen from the ground. The church was called Santa Esmeralda, her namesake, and like Esmeralda, it was beautiful and wholly wild and unexplainable. It was said to have been made during a volcanic eruption, though from which of our thirty-seven volcanoes, I could not tell you. I know only that it was charred black on the outside. It stood thirty feet high, with stone carvings inside that depicted the Resurrection and the Holy Trinity.
    It went fifteen feet into the ground, and along through the sides was the constant sound of running water from an underground spring. Three large holes were bored into it during the Spanish time between the 1500s and the 1890s, and later these holes were set with stained glass the color of jewels. I remember the deep amber and green of one of the glasses, for it was broken in the corner during one of our monsoons. The parishioners of Blanca Negros were very proud of this church. They strutted and talked to foreigners as if they had built the church themselves. “Yes, isn’t it lovely? There is no other like it.”
    ~
    T HE LAST T UESDAY before her disappearance, I was serving as altar boy. This was, of course, at my father’s urgings. I had to wear the brown Franciscan robes, with the hooded cowl necks and the white ropes tied around my waist. Padre Ramirez insisted on an extra night of mass before Sundays so that the parishioners would not become lost in sin before the Sabbath.
    I cannot tell you how humiliating it was for a young boy to be seen wearing a dress, and an ugly one at that. My aunt and uncle would sit in the front pews. My cousins would point and snicker at me. Before mass, I would pick one of the statues of the saints to pray to, Santa Teresa or Santa Lucia, and drop a coin in one of the jars as an offering to pray for the souls of my mother and sister. Esmeralda became to me like part of the altar, and the statues of the saints, and the image of the Virgin Mary.
    The senator’s wife was present that evening, wearing a smug smile on her lips. The senator was in extremely jovial spirits. In fact, half the church consisted of Esmeralda’s customers. You would think, then, wouldn’t you, that Esmeralda would be among friends? But she wasn’t. Do you know that not one of them acknowledged her presence? Not even so much as a nod that strangers give in passing. They did not acknowledge her, for to do so would announce to everyone that they were her customers, and this, of course, would open the door to every sort of speculation.
    Esmeralda sat alone during prayer time, but when it came time to