Patti warily inches her way toward the mirror. Hair — at least 3 to 4 inches of strands of hair hold the ornaments in place. She can almost hear the tiny tinkling sound of the bells.
Her uncle disappears and the mirror turns black except for the figure of the woman in her glittering, stark red mandarin-collared dress that makes her neck seem longer. The image is like a frighteningly beautiful work of art. Patti cannot tear her gaze away from the dancing woman.
Suddenly, the woman’s piercing eyes lock in on her, holding her prisoner. She is unable to move, and all she can do is look into the woman’s eyes.
Disturbing images of people and places take shape in the woman’s eyes, as if to warn Patti not to dare cross this formidable foe. She sees an old wrinkled man, his skin hanging loosely from his protruding bones on his knees pleading, other men cowering in fear and countless of women walking like zombies. A tingle of fear runs down her spine.
Poof! The image of the Chinese woman disappears, and the last mirror goes dark. What is going on? Is this a puzzle for me to solve?
Patti turns this way and that, hoping the spotlight will light up some black corner and present her with a clue, but it has gone dark. She gropes her way back to her laptop. Maybe a message will magically appear on the screen.
Before she can reach the desk, there is a loud clicking noise, as if a door is opening. She steps back and falls straight down into a trapdoor. But before she is consumed by the darkness, the mirror with the split images of Yvonne and Jack reappears — Jack is walking away from his wife.
Stop! I need to know what it all means. How am I supposed to know what to do? The trapdoor slams shut and Patti is engulfed in blackness.
Oh no, I’m plunging to my death and no one will know. Am I having a stroke or something? Will someone discover me dead at Ugu’s place?
She awoke safe in her bed in her friend’s guest room. She wiped her face; it was wet from crying.
Patti switched on the light. The bed cover was all rumpled, as if she had been struggling to hold onto something. She remembered the fall into the darkness, and her hands flailing about for something to hold on to.
She felt a slight breeze from above, and looked up to see something floating down, as if it followed her from her dream fall. A photograph landed on the bed. It was of her in a busy market square in Germany.
Patti had lived in Wiesbaden and went to school in Heidelberg some 80 kilometers away. Later she worked in the newsroom of an American newspaper based in Darmstadt. That was where she met John.
Looks like it was taken in Wiesbaden, she said to herself. Where did this photo come from? I don’t remember this.
She was smiling at the camera, surrounded by people. In her hand was the familiar market basket she still used for shopping in Honolulu’s Chinatown. A man with black hair dressed in dark grey stood behind her. There was something familiar about him, but she couldn’t make out his face. It was blurry.
She wracked her memory, but nothing came to mind. She stuck the photo in one of the several books on the bed stand. She felt a chill.
She reached out to her great-great uncle. Lolo Ciano, where are you? I need you. I have a very bad feeling about this. Please come as quickly as you can.
No reply — only the thumping sound of rotten fruit falling on the roof from the huge mango tree that towered over her bedroom.
4
Wilhelmsfeld
The Neckar River flows beneath the ancient stone bridges of Heidelberg where Germany’s oldest university was founded in 1386. Planter boxes cascading with brilliantly colored flowers adorn the windows of the houses and shops in the Altstadt district (old city).
The Rizal brothers walked along the medieval cobblestone streets of the town. Ciano, the older and taller of the two, bent his head as he listened intently to Pepe who acted as his guide.
Kuya Ciano, look! That is the pub where I used to meet with other fencing students. Of course, I didn’t go there often. I had to be careful with my allowance.
I would hope so, Pepe.
Ciano was frugal, whereas his younger brother tended to be on the frivolous side.
You weren’t here long, and yet you wrote the poem Flowers of Heidelberg, and finished the last chapters of your first novel.
How could one not be inspired to write a poem about this place? Look around you, kuya. This place swarms with inspiration; the brilliant colors of the flowers, the hills and the forests surrounding Heidelberg.
For you it comes easy, Pepe. But for those of us who do not have the talent to write words on paper, we are content to admire our surroundings or read about them thanks to people like you.
Kuya, anyone can write. It’s a matter of applying and committing yourself to the task. Certainly, it’s hard work, but it is a most satisfying feeling when you’ve written the last sentence and placed a period after it.
They walked past Philosophen Weg, the famous pathway along the Neckar River visited by many famous writers, composers and philosophers. People passed by without seeing the spirits from another century. The younger brother was revisiting his past, the older on a path of discovery.
Ciano wanted to know more of Pepe’s short life on this Earth. He now had the opportunity to visit places he had never seen when he attended to all the serious concerns back home. Europe? He was too busy caring for his parents and other siblings. He had the estate to run and Spanish friars to deal with.
He was a head taller than Pepe, who inherited more of the family’s Malay features; Ciano took after the Chinese side. Pepe’s darker complexion was a contrast to Ciano’s fair skin, but they shared the prominent cheekbones that most family members inherited from their Chinese ancestors.
Soon they reached the village of Wilhelmsfeld where Pepe lived for a short time with Pastor Karl Ullmer and his family. They stood before the tidy square house with white stucco walls, green wooden window shutters and peaked tile roof. It was here the younger brother completed his first novel, the one that set the Philippines aflame.
Pepe, your book, Noli Me Tangere — how old were you when finished it?
I was 25.
That book! The friars focused their attention on our family after it was published. That was the beginning of the end for you. The brother part of me was afraid and concerned for your safety, but the Filipino in me was so proud of you. Do you regret writing it?
No kuya, and I didn't regret that you encouraged me to do what I was supposed to do. I was meant to write about the friars’ atrocities. I wanted the world to know how Filipinos suffered under them.
The world certainly found out, Pepe.
This village and this house in particular hold a special place in my heart. The pastor and his family were very kind to me, but the 13-kilometer walk to Heidelberg and back was murder on my feet and shoes!
They walked to a little park where a statue of Pepe stood.
The life-sized statue portrayed Pepe in a pensive and scholarly mood with his arms crossed, holding his novel in one hand and a feather quill pen in the other. Bouquets of fresh flowers were laid at the base of the statue.
Ciano read the inscription on the base: Dr. Jose Rizal, 1861-1896, Filipino novelist, scholar, patriot and the martyr for his people. Executed by the Spanish.
They stood silent for a moment.
If anyone deserved a monument, it should have been you, kuya. You took care of the family, sent me abroad to study and endured the friars and their cruelty. They jailed our mother and you were tortured.