A Resurrection on Day of The Dead

I won't walk over graves; my wife, Riz, has no such compunction.

Filipinos' sepulchers are built over forgotten then neglected interments, which subside, perhaps collapse into the ground. I watched her hop from tomb to tomb, desecrating the spoil-heap to reach those of her family. She busied herself distributing food, drink, cigarettes and candles to the departed Cruzs, and arranging for the painters to whiten their resting places. Most families do, on the Day of the Dead. Some set up tables, chairs, and canopies over their tombs and sit to eat with their departed loved ones, the elderly passing recollections of famous, and notorious, family members down the generations.

It was hot, humid, and oppressive; I was not a heathen, I was a bored, disapproving conscript stood to the back of the perimeter path, rocked back on one hip, arms folded through the chinstraps of our helmets. I watched Riz impatiently, occasionally glancing left or right as families, in celebratory mood, streamed by. I glanced to my left, but quickly looked back. A familiar face: was it her? I guardedly swiveled my eyes. It was; with a Kano of my vintage and three teenagers. Two decades had passed, but it was her. Again, I checked that Riz was distracted.

By common understanding, if you encountered, in shop, bar, restaurant or street, a bar-girl who'd entertained you, now in company with another guy, you were strangers and didn't acknowledge one-another. But, did that etiquette endure for twenty years? It was more than a nice point.

Zara and Riz had history. During our dalliance, Riz, unable to raise a response, had walked to the rear of my bungalow and looked through the bedroom window. Verbal hostilities commenced immediately and a Keystone Cops chase continued until I lured Riz to the back of the house allowing Zara to exit through the front door, and out the gate. If I smiled at Zara, and she smiled at me, and - at that moment - Riz looked our way, a Cemetery would be a convenient place to be.

For her twenty-first birthday, I'd arranged for Zara to have her nipples pierced. She was already a notable entertainer, and these glittering embellishments amplified her celebrity. But her notoriety, amongst those with tastes of a certain refinement, was for an, oft requested oft refused, indulgence of anal sex. Few girls entertained that. I'd long since ticked that box and moved on. Some never do. The self-styled 'Lords of the Brown Ring' didn't and Zara was one of their regulars.

Because she and I were seen about town together I was invited to attend their occasional lock-ins, presumably on an assumption I shared their fetish. She encouraged me, I went, twice, my only experiences of lock-ins showcasing the anus - and group anal sex. I'd been curious about her anal inclinations, but never raised the topic directly. She was, unashamedly, mercenary and implied she found it profitable, thus pleasurable.

.

She married before me, an Australian, and went to live in Oz. We communicated for a couple of years. She was having difficulty settling. She and her stepdaughters, of similar age, were uncomfortable with each other. His family disapproved of the people she befriended. Eventually, we lost touch. I'd, sadly, assumed her marriage would fail.

Now, she was closing fast, and Riz was standing, inspecting her ritual gifts to the dead. She bent to pull some weeds. I casually unfolded my arms and ostentatiously fiddled with my wedding ring, a helmet swinging under each elbow. I swiveled my eyes, left.

Zara was looking at me, amused and smiling, "Hello Tom."

I didn't move my lips. "Herro Zara."

John caught my eye, nodded, smiled, and I returned the compliment.

They passed; danger passed. I relaxed and watched the family group recede. Zara exchanged words with the kids. Maybe, answering to, "Who's that odd guy? Why'd he call you Zara?"

I was elated. Zara had weathered well, her marriage had survived, her family looked sleek and prosperous. But her Glory Days were photographed, Wet-Ts, Body-Paints, glamour-shoots. She featured on several local-porn CDs, distributed through barrio sari-sari stores. When family and friends' albums were opened for her children, I wondered what mementos of their mother would be resurrected. Which of auntie's CDs would cousins furtively play for her kids?

I saw Riz returning and grinned. My Glory Days were also resurrected: so many beguiling girls, such dissolute fun. I had an erection for her, a peace offering from a resurrected frenemy.