Ligaya and Morna share a look. Not the kind of look I shared with Nestor, or hundreds of other bedfellows before him. It’s like sharing thoughts with only your eyes, its own kind of magic. It’s always mystified me.
‘Everyone’s celebrating something: the Magliyab festival, the upcoming royal birth, the ports opening at long last,’ Morna says.
‘So, the Seaguardians will have their hands full,’ Ligaya says, trying to reassure me.
‘I know there’s some tenderness left in that broken heart of yours,’ Morna teases.
‘Whatever happened to small weddings?’ I groan. ‘Or simply saying your vows to each other, witness only to the powers of Life and Death under a full moon?’
Weddings are not low-key affairs. I usually enjoy the merriment, the booze, the opportunities for a romantic fumble. But not when I’m trying to act respectable and keep my head down. Narra keeps insistingit’ll be a small gathering, before reminding me of the hundred spring rolls that need to be rolled and fried, and the fact that we are still earning our keep. She says it in the same tone with which she threatens to haul us in to the Seaguardians.
We roll up our sleeves and wash our hands, setting ourselves at the counter. Grumbling aside, I relish the energy of a communal space. The same energy of a ship, although on board it can’t really be any other way.
‘Many hands make light work,’ Morna says, bringing out the mixing bowl of filling and the thin sheets of pastry.
‘Lumpia is easy but requires patience,’ Ligaya explains, in the sweet way a parent might explain to a child. ‘First you heat the oil until it sizzles, and then you place each roll in the pan, rotating it so the outside crisps evenly and the filling is piping hot all the way through.’
I didn’t think this would require so much dexterity. The women have got five done in the time it takes me to wrap one. And even then, mine looks like an overstuffed sausage bursting out of its casing.
‘You’ve overfilled it.’ Morna laughs, though not unkindly. ‘Here, let me show you.’
I don’t quite get the knack but there’s something satisfying in picking out which rustic-looking rolls are mine as we drop them into the oil. Mostly because they come apart straight away, the filling falling out and swimming around the oil. By the end of our work, I have oil burns across both my forearms and a sweat breaking out on my top lip. In time we’ve got rolls aplenty. Let’s just hope the palm liquor is as forthcoming as the food.
chapter twenty-two
ris
‘Oh, that’s beautifulRis. I’m sure they’ll love it,’ Narra says, surveying my handiwork with a smile.
It’s about as much as I could do without my loom and with only scant notice: a patchwork quilt hand-sewn from scraps of fabric Narra had lying around. We’ve enjoyed meals and nights of hospitality over the past few weeks, nominally earning our keep through caring for the inn and the other guests. No choice but to spend time with this motley crew, and in truth a fondness has grown since our arrival. There’s been a loosening of sorts, a comfort in letting go, in slackening my grip just a little.
‘For the brides,’ Biba says, handing me scraps of golden thread. Then I see the now-bald Dodi doll in her hand.
‘Are you sure?’ I ask, searching her face.
She nods. ‘It’s a special day.’
‘Oh, isn’t that kind,’ Narra says, patting Biba’s cheek.
‘But you love Dodi,’ I say quietly, looking at the bits of thread in my hand.
‘It’s all right, Mama,’ Biba reassures me.
The tears come then. At first, Biba looks pleased, but quickly I realise I can’t stop sobbing. Biba’s face crumples. Narra holds me, stroking my hair. ‘What’s the matter, Ris? She did well.’
‘Her father carved her that doll,’ I manage through heaving breaths.
Narra gently pats my back, making circles the same way I soothe Biba.
‘It’s mine to give,’ Biba says. ‘Dodi is still all right; she just has no hair.’
‘See, there’s no harm done,’ Narra says. ‘And what a thoughtful gesture.’
Narra opens her embrace and puts the other arm around Biba. ‘You poor girls don’t realise you’re looking in a mirror. Look at each other now, really look.’
She’s the likeness of Larkin, the strong chin and tufts of thick hair. But her eyes are like mine, wide and wet. Oh, my girl, to hold us all in your small hands. If only they were always this gentle.
‘What doyousee in her?’ I ask Narra quietly when my daughter moves away, now gently playing with the bald Dodi doll.
