The Caprices Read online

  Praise for The Caprices

  “Murray writes stories of fierce intensity, stories that are evocative, distinct and haunting. . . . Dark and unflinching, these brimming, sometimes jagged stories endure powerfully in the reader’s memory as they reach across continents and time with precision and—in the heart of darkness—a measure of grace.”

  —Claire Messud, The New York Times Book Review

  “War is an unusual subject for a young female writer; with each piece, Murray proves to be increasingly exceptional.”

  — Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  “[The Caprices] is a wrenching account of war taken personally.”

  —Barbara Lloyd McMichael, The Seattle Times

  “There is no denying that [The Caprices] is indeed an artistic achievement.”

  —Terry Hong, The Bloomsbury Review

  “In this sobering book, [Murray] turns the bombed-out and broken setting of World War II into a theater for humankind, where both weakness and grace are writ large.”

  —The Washington Post

  “A feverish combination of passion and lucidity.”

  —Valerie Martin, author of Property and Mary Reilly

  “Along with these characters—inside their skins, their very bones—we learn, sometimes unwillingly, more of the possibilities that arise with being human.”

  —Kate Wheeler, author of When Mountains Walked

  “[A] trenchant short story collection . . . For Murray, war is an interlocking series of events that swallow up human dignity, conscience, and memory, leaving only phantoms. . . . With an unwavering eye . . . Murray fuse[s] together the ordinary and incomprehensible.”

  —Irina Reyn, San Francisco Chronicle

  “With The Caprices, Sabina Murray proves her mastery of historical fiction. . . . Insightful and beautifully written . . . Her themes resonate with a fresh relevance and her voice is a welcome addition to contemporary fiction.”

  —Jana Daugherty, The Asian Reporter

  “A refreshing take on the sweep and effect of war.”

  —Geeta Sharma-Jensen, Milwaukee Journal Sentinel Online

  THE CAPRICES

  Sabina Murray

  Copyright © 2002 by Sabina Murray

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, or the facilitation thereof, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Any members of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use, or publishers who would like to obtain permission to include the work in an anthology, should send their inquiries to Grove/Atlantic, Inc., 841 Broadway, New York, NY 10003.

  Originally published by in the United States in 2002 by Mariner Books,

  a division of Houghton Mifflin Company

  Published simultaneously in Canada

  Printed in the United States of America

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Murray, Sabina.

  The caprices / Sabina Murray.

  p. cm.

  eBook ISBN-13: 978-1-5558-4820-0

  1. World War, 1939–1945—Campaigns—Pacific Area—Fiction.

  2. Pacific Area—Fiction. 3. War stories, American. I. Title.

  PS3563.U787 C36 2001

  813′.54—dc21 2001024527

  Some of the stories in this collection have appeared elsewhere in slightly different form: “Intramuros” in Ploughshares, “The Caprices” in New England Review, “Walkabout” in Ontario Review, “Folly” in Charlie Chan Is Dead 2: At Home in the World, edited by Jessica Hagedom, and “Position” in The Norton Anthology of Short Fiction, 7th Edition.

  Grove Press

  an imprint of Grove/Atlantic, Inc.

  841 Broadway

  New York, NY 10003

  Distributed by Publishers Group West

  www.groveatlantic.com

  For my mother

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to thank Don Hymans, Heidi Pitlor, Valerie Martin, and the Bunting Fellowship Program at the Radcliffe Institute of Harvard University.

  I am grateful to my husband, John, and son, Nicholas, and to the rest of my family, without whom I would not have been able to write this book.

  Contents

  The Caprices

  Order of Precedence

  Guinea

  Walkabout

  Folly

  Colossus

  Yamashita’s Gold

  Intramuros

  Position

  The Caprices

  THIS COULD BE any village street. The packed dirt could cover any country road, and the dust that rises in billowing sheets, lifted by the lazy hands of the dry season, could menace any provincial town. It is three o’clock in the afternoon, but no children wander back from school. The Chinese shopkeeper’s door has been shut for nearly a year, but no matter, since the children will not bother him for moon cakes, sweet wafers, and candied tamarind. A kalesa driver sits idly by his cart; his horse, unperturbed by the state of affairs, dozes behind blinkers, flicking rhythmically with his tail, one rear hoof casually cocked to bear no weight. In response to a fly, the horse shakes his head, jangling gear and whipping his mane from side to side. The fly rises up, buzzing at a higher pitch.

  What you are witnessing is war.

  A woman in a faded floral shift slowly makes her way down the sidewalk. She carries two huge woven bags; one is full of vegetables, the other holds a few canned goods and some dried fish, although a year ago this bag would have been full of meat. The woman has black hair, which she has pulled into a tight bun. Even streaks of gray (a new appearance this last year) break through the black. Her face is thin. She clenches her teeth with the effort necessary to carry her load. She sets down her bags, takes a deep breath, then manages a few more steps. The faded cloth of her dress is damp with perspiration. She wears a scarf wrapped around her neck, which must be uncomfortable in this heat. She sees the kalesa. She waves, then calls. The driver lifts his head. He was dreaming. The beautiful washerwoman was offering him a rice cake. The cake was blue. She was smiling at him with perfect teeth. “This is for you,” she said. The beautiful washerwoman moved her hips from side to side. She smiled slyly. “Take the cake . . .”

  And then the sight of Mrs. Garcia waving at him down the street. She can barely manage.

  It is 1943.

  Imagine, a woman of such standing carrying her own groceries, there on the street, bareheaded in the early afternoon heat. Imagine all that gray hair, overnight, it seems. He closes his eyes again; sadly, the beautiful washerwoman is gone. He pulls himself to his feet.

  “Oo po,” he shouts, although lazily, in Mrs. Garcia’s direction. Oo po—the polite greeting, but the driver manages to make it sound like an insult. What will she do, this woman? She isn’t wealthy anymore. She is merely someone who was once wealthy, which is still worth something—she has held on to her house. He pats his horse’s dusty shoulder. What sentimental urge has made him keep Diablo alive? He knows the horse will be stew meat within a month or so. How can he feel sorry for his horse when his brother and little son are dead? It is easy to feel sorry for a horse, even easy to feel sorry for Mrs. Garcia, who has never had to carry bags before.

  Trinidad watches her grandmother paying the kalesa driver. Auring, the maid, is standing at the gate. She tries to carry one of the bags, but can’t even get it off the ground. Auring is very old although she does not know her age. She remembers the great typhoon of 1852. She tells Trinidad about it—the carabao lifted off the ground as if God himself had reached down and carried it off, how Mr. Pedrino’s great-grandfather was decapitated by
a piece of flying tin while chasing his hat. Auring was Mrs. Garcia’s nanny, which is all well and good, but she is not much use as a maid. Trinidad jumps off the window ledge. She runs down the broad mahogany stairs.

  “Ija, don’t run,” her grandmother says, but her voice is rundown, and Trinidad can sense that she really doesn’t care. “Call Jose.”

  But Jose is standing in the doorway. He walks in the awkward, dragging motion dictated by his clubfoot. He hooks his arm through the handles of one bag, then grabs the other with his good hand. Trinidad stares, as she has been told not to. Just a forefinger and a thumb like a little bird’s beak on his bad hand. Jose can’t even make them touch, these two pathetic digits. He wiggles them toward each other constantly. Trinidad wonders what would happen if they did touch, what magic this would cause.

  “Trinidad,” her grandmother warns her, and Trinidad looks down at the toes of her shoes. She begins edging backward up the stairway. “Trinidad, what are you doing?”

  “I am praying,” she lies. “I am praying that God will see how good I have become, and return Nanay and Tatay. I am praying that the Japanese will go back to Japan.” And Trinidad will go back to Manila. She will walk between her parents on Saturday afternoons as they make their way to the cinema to watch an American movie. Vivien Leigh. Gary Cooper. Trinidad tells herself this, even though she knows her parents are dead. Now, Trinidad can only go to mass with her grandmother and the ancient maid. She walks in the middle and Auring leans on her. When Auring does this, Trinidad surreptitiously pinches her arm. And Auring never complains. Close to a century of servitude has taught her that much. They go to Santo Tomas with its paint-chipped idols—Santa Teresa, San Jose. Trinidad is a city girl. She does not want to die in this dusty provincial town. She does not even want to turn twelve here, and her birthday is only two months away.

  Manila is dead.

  Yesterday, Thursday, Trinidad found that her doll had suffered a haircut. She brought the doll to her grandmother. “Jose did it.”

  “How can you prove it, ija?”

  “Who else?”

  Mrs. Garcia knows that her granddaughter is right, but she is frightened of Jose—his deformity would scare anyone. She is also grateful to him. The Japanese have looted all the other large houses in the town. When they came to claim her house, they saw Jose dragging himself across the parquet floor with his head cradled in the crook of his shoulder—that hook of a hand pulling him along through the air, as if it anchored and reanchored him to an invisible weight. He frightened the Japanese. Who knows what they squawked at each other? But she knew. They saw the house and they wanted it; they saw Jose and they didn’t. The Japanese thought the very walls were diseased.

  Sergeant Shori checks that the lock on his bedroom door is secure, then unbuttons his jacket and carefully hangs it up in preparation for a siesta. Sergeant Shori is not accustomed to having so many people hate him. He is a schoolteacher. He has slender white hands that are good at painting, good at playing the piano. Now they carry a gun. He likes modern women with short hair. He likes opera, except for Puccini, who he feels is overrated. He likes European food. He hates the Philippines and often wonders why the emperor doesn’t let these frightening aborigines have it back. Twice he has contracted malaria. Twice he has been sniped at and nearly killed, once when he was relieving himself in a banana grove. Shori is scared that the other officers will find out that he is weak, although he has no problem with his actual weakness. To keep them from suspecting, Shori says things that are particularly cruel. He has said, “I would like the hand of a Filipino to take back to my father as a souvenir,” although the thought of this disgusts him. He says, with feigned enthusiasm, “I would gladly die for the emperor,” instead of the usual “I would die for the emperor,” not realizing that the “gladly” is what gives him away. Shori is a frightened man. He feels his countrymen have gone mad in this land of rot and horror. He only speaks to deceive them with his false loyalty. Secretly, he feels that he has been transferred from Manila because he does not get along with the other men. His is a solitary post.

  The ring is heavy platinum set with a pale blue emerald-cut diamond. He wears it on his left ring finger. The ring is rightfully his. He was the officer in charge of possessing the house. He took the ring, looted by Corporal Miwa, back in Intramuros last year; yes, it is true that Shori waited outside. The killing of civilians is distasteful to him, especially in the city, where one finds elegant paneling in the living rooms, German crystal in the cabinets, grand pianos that are perfectly tuned . . . No, he could not go inside. This was the house of a lawyer with pro-American sentiments, Spanish ancestry, and most likely a radio. The locals looked up to him.

  Shori remembers taking the ring from Miwa. There was blood on the band which had just started to dry and flake. Miwa said that the ring had been on the lawyer’s pinkie finger. It was stuck. Miwa had cut the lawyer’s finger off. A girl had cried out. She must have been the man’s daughter. She was gone, swallowed in the mayhem. Miwa had killed two people in that house—first the lawyer, then his wife. Miwa laughed when he remembered the woman running at him with her fists.

  Shori looks at the ring. Inside is an inscription. He can read the letters, but he does not know what they mean. He does not even know that the words are in Latin: Semper Fidelis. He can only point out S and F. Shori is a schoolteacher, not a scholar.

  Trinidad throws her doll down at Jose, who is picking over a tray of rice.

  “In Manila, we would have drowned you right after birth. We would have slid you out of your mother and straight into a bucket of soapy water. Slip.”

  Jose smiles at her. He is handsome with fine regular features and soft, straight hair. His eyes are lighter than most, more amber than brown. Jose has the face of an angel, they say, and the body of the devil himself. What a curse. Better to be ugly and understand your lot. Better to be miserable than dissatisfied. “Aren’t you too old for dolls?”

  Trinidad grabs back her doll. “Aren’t you too mouthy for a halfwit, deformado servant?”

  Jose laughs. In a way, he likes Trinidad, who takes herself so seriously. “Go away, little girl. I have to cook.”

  “Now?” It’s only five and Trinidad wants to harass him. Jose cooks this meal every day at the same time. Trinidad has figured it out, but still the others persist in pretending she does not know.

  Before the Japanese invaded, Trinidad and her brother spent long hours together. Their parents had forbidden them to leave the house. On this particular day, Miguel, who hardly ever bothered to speak to Trinidad, was telling stories. He laughed at Trinidad when she said that she couldn’t wait to leave Manila. Why weren’t they in the province, where it was safe?

  “Safe? You think the house in the province is safe?”

  “But Miguel, the Japanese are cannibals.”

  “Just listen.” Miguel grew serious, which was a novelty. “About four years ago we were all in the province for the feast of San Isidro. I was running around with Jose. Anyway, he tells me that all the desserts for the big dinner are in the basement. He says they’re hiding them there. But I know that they keep the basement locked. Even the stairs to the basement are always locked. But Jose knows where the key is. So he gives me this candle, and tells me to knock myself out.”

  Trinidad urged her brother to continue.

  “I’m pretty excited. Jose lets me in at the top of the stairs. I go down to the basement. The key’s hanging by the door and I have my candle. There’s this huge padlock on the door, kind of a little grate section at the top, like a prison. So I put the key in the padlock.” Miguel shuddered, then smiled broadly. “I’d rather deal with the Japanese.”

  “What happened?”

  “So I’m down there, looking around in the dark, with my little candle, and that’s just lighting up my stupid hand and nothing else, and it sure as hell doesn’t smell like cake down there. It smells like a sewer, and I can hear water trickling, because I guess the creek runs by the
re, and I’m getting scared, because, as you know, I’m terrified of rats.”

  “Rats?”

  “No, Trinidad, this is not a rat story.”

  “Cakes?”

  “There sure as hell wasn’t any cake down there.” Miguel began to roll a cigarette, and Trinidad noticed that his hands were shaking. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph . . .” he said to himself.

  “So you’re in Grandmama’s basement . . .”

  “They started yelling and screaming upstairs. I could hear them, Tatay in particular. They were yelling for me. And I’m thinking, It’s just cake, and Tatay’s yelling, ‘Miguel, get out of there. Get out of there,’ and I think I’m going to get the beating of my life, so I blow out the candle. I say to myself, ‘I’ll just sneak out, then say I was somewhere else.’ So it’s completely dark and I’m edging my way to the door, and they’re all running around upstairs, boom boom boom, and down the stairs, boom boom boom, and I can see Tatay’s silhouette on the wall because he’s holding a candle. Now he’s whispering my name, ‘Miguel, please come out. Come out slowly and quietly.’ And I’m thinking, When did he get so smart? But I’m smarter. So I stay hiding there, then I hear this shuffling near me and I think, Jesus, that has to be the biggest rat in the world, because it sounds like a person, then I think, That’s no rat, that’s a ghost, so I start screaming, and Tatay rushes in and grabs me . . .”

  “And?”

  “It wasn’t a cake and it wasn’t a rat.” Miguel shook his head. “And it wasn’t a ghost.”

  Shortly after Miguel told Trinidad that story, he disappeared. He sneaked out a window—said he needed a chocolate bar—and never came back. Sometimes Trinidad thinks he joined the guerrillas. He was fourteen, which isn’t that young. Sometimes she knows better. She knows the Japanese and what they can do.

  Jose puts on a clean T-shirt. He combs his hair, watching his distorted reflection. The tin back of the mirror is rotting. He is accompanying Mrs. Garcia on the bus today. Jose makes her feel safe. Jose is not scared of the Japanese. He is only scared of pain. “They torture,” the other villagers say. “They rip off your fingernails. They fill your belly with water, then jump on you.” These Japanese are an imaginative bunch. When Jose thinks of the pain they might inflict, the hair rises on the back of his neck. His lower back feels cold, wet chills. He fears the pain. He cannot associate it with the Japanese, like the others. He does not imagine Shori’s face hanging golden in the sky as he faints away. But only the sensations of pain. How could the other villagers know what it is like? Were they born with the blueprint of self-torture in their genes? Do their bones rebel against them, twisting and pulling in the night, trying to flex themselves and correct their knotted bodies? When they go to sleep, do they fear waking to a nightmare cramp that strangles from the neck to the ankles? In a year or two, they will wake from the nightmare of war, and he, Jose, will only be delivered into another.