I'm happy to share the chapter "The SS Pacifica" from my novel, The Newspaper Widow ( University of Santo Tomas Publishing House 2017; PALH 2021). It is now available in Kindle format: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0785MMKB4
~~~~
The SS
Pacifica
by
Cecilia Manguerra Brainard
copyright 2017 & 2021 by Cecilia M. Brainard, All rights reserved)
It
was Samir’s mother who had said, “Take Didier and go. I’ll be all right.”
The idea
had germinated, taken root, and like a wild plant branched out and filled
Samir’s mind. With Melisande’s letter in his hands, Samir had read to his son
the part about the two talking mynahs in a huge cage beside the picture window
with the mannequins.
Didier,
who had been his biggest concern, lit up when he heard about the birds. “I
can’t wait to see them, Papa. Do you think they’ll talk to us?”
The boy had
not even turned to say goodbye to France when their steamship, the SS Pacifica, pulled away from the dock of
Marseilles; he was busy studying the seagulls, gannets, and other seabirds.
Later he drew pictures of the birds in his sketchbook — Didier also had a
passion for drawing.
And
so Samir and Didier sailed on the SS
Pacifica, which traveled at 20 knots per hour, and slowly they left behind
the cold European winter. The ship paused at Port Said for coaling, and father
and son watched the glowing torches of the barges carrying the coal. They
strained to see the shadowy figures hauling heavy baskets up steep planks to
the steamship, the men singing in unison while they worked. It took eight hours
to get the job done, and by then, the sun beat down on the statue of Ferdinand
de Lesseps. Samir’s chest expanded as he told Didier of the marvelous feat the
Frenchman had done — ten arduous years it had taken de Lesseps to unite the
waters of the Mediterranean and the Red Sea; ten years Samir had been separated
from Melisande.
Slowly, the
Pacifica inched through the narrow
Suez Canal. At times it seemed the ship would scrape the sides of the canal;
and just a stone’s throw away was Egypt, with its people, camels, donkeys, and
ancient ruins. He bought from some men on feluccas, a silk jalabiya for
Melisande and a fez for Didier, which the boy kept on his head even while they
dined with the ship’s captain and surgeon. (They had peacock and camel’s hump
for dinner that night.)
Samir
sketched the enormous sand dunes that reminded him of his painting of his
mother in the Arabian dress, the same image that had upset Melisande, but which
drew them close. He often thought of that Sunday, that afternoon of lovemaking —
the memory helped sustain his spirit.
It had been with them, Desire, from the moment
Melisande had stood outside his apartment door, through lunch, on to the drawing
session on his balcony. He had seen a shadow cross her face when she finally
saw his drawing of her. It was not unhappiness, she later explained, but all
emotions that welled up, that indeed his work had feeling. He had
pulled her close and touched her face, slowly as if he were a blind man
committing it to memory — his fingers molding her cheeks, her forehead, her
eyebrows, her lips, his fingers sliding down to her neck, to her shoulders. He
had caught the scent of citrus from her hair. He had
desired her, knew he could take her, but restrained himself. Later that
afternoon, it was the portrait of his mother that drew tears from her eyes —
she had mistaken the Arabian woman for his lover. How could he stop himself
from saying, “Spend the afternoon with me. I want to give you pleasure.” There was no protest, no resistance as he
bent down to kiss her forehead, her eyes, and then her lips. With his hand
around her waist, he had led her to his bedroom, and he had cleared away her
things from the brass bed, and lifted her unto it.
That day,
after they had made love, he told her that Plato said humans were originally
created with four arms, four legs, and a head with two faces. But fearing their
power, Zeus split them into two separate parts, condemning them to spend their
lives in search of their other halves.
He had told
her that they were very fortunate they had found each other, because they were
meant to be one. He said, when they part, it will hurt them very much, because
the one-ness will be separated once again.
They had
been apart for years. They had suffered. It was now time for their two halves
to become one.
Melisande.
The Pacifica chugged on to the Bitter Lakes
and then to the Red Sea. By this time, they knew their ship by heart: their
first class cabin with its side table always stocked with Turkish delight and
other delicacies; the smoking room where Samir chatted with the men; the
promenade deck where they walked and gazed out at the ever-changeable sea; the
women who fawned over Didier, their eyes sparkling at Samir as well. And there was the library where Didier
scoured all the bird books; one afternoon, he appeared wide-eyed in front of
his father to report that mynah birds could die from loneliness.
At the
southern end of the Red Sea, they stopped at Port Aden where they caught a
glimpse of the twin minarets of a mosque, then like a birthing, they passed
through its gulf into the Arabian Sea. As he studied the wide expanse of the
dark sea, Samir knew with certainty that Europe and the desert sands of Arabia
were behind him. His throat had tightened when he considered that Melisande had
been in these same waters after she left him — how could he have driven her to
this distant place?
Melisande
had always been in his thoughts. From the time he and Didier had boarded the
train in Paris, he had tried to imagine the voyage she had taken a decade ago.
He saw her on the ship’s deck, in the dining saloons, the music hall, in all
the port stops they made — there Melisande was, tall with her woman’s figure
and long curly red-brown hair.
Their
next stop was Colombo, Ceylon, where they stared in awe at the modern General
Post office and grand hotels. During their port stop, he bought a thumb sized
sapphire stone, violet-blue in color. That evening, he sketched a ring design
for the gemstone, with Melisande in mind.
A few more
days at sea and they arrived Penang in Malaysia where he saw an elephant
hauling logs near a river. The air was more humid now, and the sun gleamed
white, and the sky and sea were brilliant blue, and the palms and birds of
paradise startling in their crayola colors.
Then one
clear morning, after travelling for 21 days, the SS Pacifica made its way through the strait between Mactan and Ubec
islands. The captain had warned them of their early morning arrival, but
suddenly, Samir and Didier were unprepared, their things scattered in their
cabin, Didier’s books and toys lost in tight corners.
After
packing the last of their belongings into their bags, Samir and Didier left
their cabin and hurried toward the boat’s railing to stare at the larger
island, Ubec, a name they had only read, but which now held their future.
“Papa,
are we here?” the boy asked, his voice quivering with excitement. He had on a
white sailor suit, crisp and immaculate; it had been buried in the bottom of
his suitcase, kept new for today.
“Yes,
Didier.” Samir held his son’s hand tightly.
Samir’s
bravura had deserted him last night. He had peered out at the velvet darkness
of the sky and sea and he had felt drained, afraid: He had left his work, his
mother, Paris — his past. Had he done the right thing? Did Melisande have the
capacity to forgive him? Would she be able to love this boy who was not hers?
With Didier snoring softly near him, he had rummaged for her letter and had
reread it for the thousandth time — she loved him still.
Didier
swayed from left to right, straining to see more of the sea and the sandy shore
with coconut trees and nipa huts; and the boy pointed at the lush green
mountains that ran down the center of the island like a spine. Later, Didier’s
eyes fixed on some boys and girls who were playing in the water. “Papa, look,
children.” Didier waved at them. “Can I also swim in the sea, like them?” he
asked.
“You
have to learn to swim first,” Samir said.
“I
will, and I will also visit those mountains. I am sure there are many birds
there, talking ones, like the mynahs.” Didier became thoughtful before adding,
“I wonder if the mynahs will sound like a phonograph.”
Samir
mussed the boy’s hair; a feeling of well-being surged through him; he had not
felt such happiness in a long time. “We’ll find out when we’re there,” Samir
said, his voice redolent of hope.
~
The City of
Ubec loomed ahead, with its old Spanish fort and plaza, the stone churches, the
sparkling white American buildings, and the myriad wood and stone structures
that seemed strewn haphazardly. It was early morning in December, and the
weather cool for the tropics. Ines closed the door to The Ubec Daily and hurried down Cristobal Colon Street toward
Printemps. She knocked and opened the door. Melisande’s assistants were not yet
in and the shop was quiet. A long time ago, before Melisande had moved in, Ines
had seen this place. It had looked like a warehouse then, rundown and dirty.
Melisande had transformed it into a vibrant dress shop that the women of Ubec
loved. The hanging dividers and mirrors gave a sense of space and light, which
made visitors feel as if they were walking on air. A beveled glass showcase
near the door displayed items that Melisande also sold: crystal bottles of
perfume, alabaster pots of skin lotions and makeup, bed linens, tablecloth with
matching napkins, lace handkerchiefs. There in the back section were two Singer
sewing machines, silent this morning. A large bird cage and two mannequins
wearing Melisande’s haute couture faced the picture window. Ines hurried up the
stairs to find Melisande in her bedroom. She was seated in front of her dresser
mirror, studying her image while brushing her thick mass of hair.
“The boat
is coming,” Ines said, out of breath with excitement. She had in her hands
sprigs of jasmine, whose scent filled the room. The
jasmine vine outside her bedroom window, had grown back thicker and healthier,
filled with cascading clouds of sweet snow-white flowers.
Melisande
moaned. “Oh Ines, I’ve gained two kilos since I last saw him. And my hair is so
unruly today … and oh, my skin …” She reached for a pot with rouge which she
lightly rubbed into her cheeks, leaving her skin glowing pink. Melisande stared
at her image and made a face. “Look at me, Ines. I look terrible.”
“There is
no time for that now. Felix said the boat is almost at the dock.”
Melisande gasped.
“And I haven’t checked the shop.” She quickly anchored her hair into a bun
using combs and pins, and put some powder on her face.
“I’ll make
sure everything is in order.” She found a vase, filled it with water, and
arranged the spray of jasmine in it.
“But what
if he notices that I’ve … grown old?”
“What does
that have to do with their arrival?” Ines asked, perplexed.
The mantel
clock chimed just then — it was getting late — and Melisande twirled around,
threw her hands up in the air and laughed.
“Go, now!”
Ines said.
~end~
Author’s bio:
Cecilia Manguerra Brainard is the award-winning author and editor
of nineteen books, including the novels When
the Rainbow Goddess Wept and Magdalena.
The books she edited include, Fiction by
Filipinos in America, and Growing Up Filipino I and II. Cecilia has
also written a novel with four other women entitled, Angelica's Daughters, a
Dugtungan Novel.
Her work has been translated into Finnish and Turkish; and many of
her stories and articles have been widely anthologized.
Cecilia has received a California Arts Council Fellowship in
Fiction, a Brody Arts Fund Award, a Special Recognition Award for her work
dealing with Asian American youths, as well as a Certificate of Recognition
from the California State Senate, 21st District. She has also been awarded
by the Filipino and Filipino American communities she has served. In
1998, she received the Outstanding Individual Award from her birth city, Cebu,
Philippines. She has received several travel grants in the Philippines, from
the USIS (United States Information Service). In 2001, she received a Filipinas
Magazine Award for Arts. Her books have won the Gourmand Award and the Gintong
Aklat Award.
She has lectured and performed in worldwide literary arts
organizations and universities, including UCLA, USC, University of Connecticut,
University of the Philippines, PEN, Beyond Baroque, Shakespeare & Company
in Paris, and many others. She teaches creative writing at the Writers
Program at UCLA-Extension.
She is married to Lauren R. Brainard, a former Peace Corp Volunteer
to Leyte, Philippines; they have three sons.
She has website at www.ceciliabrainard.com and
a blog at cbrainard.blogspot.com.
~~~
Read Also
- Fiction - The Syrian Doctor in Paris by Cecilia Brainard
- Fiction - The Old Mansion Near the Plaza, Novel Excerpt
- Fiction - The Turkish Seamstress in Ubec, by Cecilia Manguerra Brainard
- Fiction - Flip Gothic, by Cecilia Manguerra Brainard
- Fiction - Manila Without Verna, by Cecilia Manguerra Brainard
- Fiction - Winning Hearts and Minds, by Cecilia Manguerra Brainard
This is all for now,
Cecilia
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