Blemish

Chapter Three

The Garcia mansion buzzed with activity until about five in the afternoon, when the maids returned to their quarters to tidy themselves up and to put on clean, starched aprons. The head-servant, Lucito, was dressed in his finest shirt and trousers, ready to receive visitors. Once more, he stopped in the doorway to the ballroom and surveyed the preparations with satisfaction.

The silver had been polished and re-polished, set out in fanned patterns on hand-painted trays beside the stacks and stacks of gleaming china and crystal goblets, the dozens of food platters and porcelain soup bowls covered until the steaming hot viands were ready to be sampled. Members of the hired orchestra were tuning their instruments on the newly constructed stage, while above them, meticulously dusted fans whirred slowly and silently. It wasn’t dark yet outside, but all the chandeliers had already been lit, casting delicate prisms across the ballroom.

Lucito crossed the newly waxed floor and walked to a row of chairs set up along the perimeter of the dance floor, straightening it. He fiddled with a chair, moving it this way and that for another moment, before declaring it done. He had to be done for he could hear a clattering of horse hooves on the cobblestone drive and a driver’s voice calling his team to a stop.

“The first guests are here!” Lucito said to himself, bursting with excitement. It was time to show off his handiwork, the party he had been laboring over for the last few months. He straightened his cuffs and made his way down to the front door.

***

“The first guests are here!” Maristella said in her bedroom. She stood up and stole one last glance at her reflection. Her eyes sparkled and her skin glowed. Her pale pink terno made her look like a delicate butterfly. Behind her, Aling Floring fussed at a fold.

“On your best behavior now,” Aling Floring said. “Make your old yaya proud.”

Maristella smiled. “Does it mean I have to dance with every single boy?”

Aling Floring nodded. “Not only that but you will also converse with them politely.”

“Very well, I will dance with everyone,” she promised. “And ask them about controversial subjects.”

“Now, now.”

A maid knocked and entered. “For you, miss,” she said, handing a box to Maristella, then left.

Maristella bit her lip with anticipation as she studied the pink box with a pretty design that reminded her of a box of chocolates from Paris. She read “From Pancho” on a tag and her heart raced.

“You’re fit to adorn the gardens as a lantern,” Aling Floring said. “Open the thing.”

Maristella opened the box and looked in, then simply stared, while the old woman said, “What is it?” With shining eyes, Maristella took out the pink orchid corsage that lay in tissue paper. She eased the band over her wrist. The flower matched her dress perfectly.

“He’s practically declaring himself to you,” Aling Floring said, sniffing with disapproval.

Maristella thought of the past two years, when Pancho’s interest in her evolved from that of a casual acquaintance to that of a young man whose gaze lingered deliciously. Thrillingly.

“Who’s declaring himself?”

The two women turned to the voice at the doorway, where Maristella’s stepmother, Hilda, stood, looking from one to the other. She was dressed for the evening, but something looked off about her, like she hadn’t properly groomed. A comb on one side of her hear was askew and her red lipstick was smudged. She awaited an answer with that telltale, glassy stare. No doubt, Hilda had been drinking again.

“The question is, what young man wouldn’t?” Aling Floring said.

Hilda raised an eyebrow.  “Lucito needs your help in the kitchen, Floring,” she said, her voice cold.

Maristella stiffened. Hilda was always trying to put Aling Floring in her place.

“I had better go down then, shouldn’t I?” Aling Floring’s feet shuffled slowly on the hardwood floor until she disappeared into the hallway.

 “You really must watch how you carry on with the servants.” Hilda said when she and Maristella were alone. “It’s undignified.”

Maristella studied her stepmother. Her red terno, embellished with dozens of girlish bows, and the garish pink stripes on her thickly powdered cheeks made her look like she was trying to turn back the hands of time. And she wanted to lecture Maristella about dignity?

“Aling Floring is more than just a servant to me,” Maristella said with a steely glance. “I’ve known her all my life.”

“It doesn’t change the fact she’s a servant,” Hilda said. “Anyway, I wasn’t trying to upset you. After all, you must present your best to your guests and not frown like that.” She lowered her voice. “It’s not flattering.”

Maristella held her tongue.

“Your first guests have arrived,” Hilda said. “That’s what I came up to tell you.”

Maristella nodded. “I heard the carriage and was just about to come down.”

“Ah, there you are.”

Maristella looked past Hilda to the man standing in the doorway and forced a bright smile. “Hello, Papa,” she greeted her father.

 She brushed past Hilda and joined him. With his gray hair combed neatly and the easy grace he carried himself in his fine barong Tagalog, Don Jaime Garcia looked handsome. But he looked tired and worn out, as he always did of late.

“It pleases me that you and Hilda are having an initimate moment together,” he said, looking from one to the other. “Like a mother and daughter, yes?”

“Yes,” Hilda said. “We were getting along famously. Weren’t we, Maristella?”

Maristella pretended to be preoccupied with a piece of lint on her dress and didn’t answer.

“Shall we greet your first guests, my dear?” Don Jaime said. “The Quirantes are here.”

“Yes, Papa,” Maristella said, anxious to leave Hilda’s presence.

“Go on down,” Hilda urged them. “I’ll follow shortly.”

***

Hilda watched Don Jaime escort his daughter out the door. Maristella sure had the old man fooled, sweet to his face, but sullen and disrespectful to Hilda behind his back, her eyes condescending. Hilda had tried to fit into high society since marrying Jaime after a whirlwind courtship, but it seemed that this little socialite could see right through the slum roots Hilda would just as soon forget.

After a minute or two, when Hilda was sure the hall was empty, walked briskly out of Maristella’s room and back to the bedroom Jaime no longer shared with her. Reaching under the bed, she smiled when she found what she was looking for.

Hilda unscrewed the bottle of gin and tossed back a swig. And another. The liquid burned her throat and settled in her gut like molten fire. She waited for a minute or two and was rewarded by a delicious lassitude that descended upon her body. She clamped her mouth with a trembling hand and took a deep breath. There. She was ready to face the crowd.

She screwed the cap back on, returned the bottle in its hiding place, and headed downstairs to the party.