As the night went deeper, the more comfortable Paz became. The generals and their wives fawned over her, captivated by her charm, and it made me wonder if placing her at the edge of the table had been the wrong decision. She thrived on the attention—gracefully smiling and answering questions—while never letting her guard down.
And she kept her poise, even when they eventually asked her what had kept her indoors for so long. It wasn't consumption, as tuberculosis was called at the time, which the town doctor had diagnosed when she was in her early teens.
Just last year, a visit from her cousin's husband, a Spanish doctor by the name of Felipe Carlos, finally corrected the diagnosis. According to her, Dr. Carlos posited that it might have been only "an unfortunate combination of nervous asthma and lung fever"—whatever that meant.
After the doctor prescribed rest, vapor inhalation, cupping, mustard plasters, and some medication, she slowly but steadily recovered. By October last year, she was already managing occasional excursions outside her house. And by New Year, she was regularly stepping out.
Not long after, the rondalla once again changed tune to signal the serving of the next course. The banquet had begun with the soup course—or primero plato—followed by the fish course (segundo plato), then the tercer plato or meat course… and finally, it was time for desserts.
The plates were cleared from the table and the leche flan, pastillas, and other sweet pastries were introduced. No more than thirty minutes later, the servants were bringing out bottles of wine and champagne, as well as coffee and hot chocolate for the more conservative guests.
Before I knew it, the banquet was transitioning to the next phase. The rondalla changed tempo. Some had started to clear the tables and chairs from the center of the hall. It was time for the dance, and the first couples streamed toward the cleared space.
Paz chuckled when she saw Agapita dragging her husband with her.
From much nearer, I heard the screech of a chair against the floor. I turned toward the sound and saw one of the younger generals stand up. The other seemed to be enthusiastically encouraging him.
I watched him walk around the table, heading toward Paz. My ears warmed when I realized what he was about to do.
"Señorita, may I have the honor of this dance?" said the young general, extending a hand to the surprised Paz. He wore that self-assured swagger and a well-practiced smile—one I wager had worked more than a few times before.
"Uhm… Heneral del Pilar…" Paz muttered as she swallowed, glancing at me. I didn't know what to do or say.
"Goyong, you are being impolite," Heneral Torres rebuked the young general. "Her escort should have her first dance—and you're trying to steal it right in front of his face."
The young general glanced at me and nervously muttered an apology. He quickly retreated to his seat, where he was met with loud laughter from his friend.
The rondalla began to play the prelude to La Flor de Manila. I looked at Paz, and she met my gaze before awkwardly looking away.
There was a chance she didn't want to dance. She had hesitated to attend the banquet, and I imagined she was even more hesitant to join the dance floor.
But when would I have this chance again? I would soon return to Marinduque and likely not see her for a long time. Dark and difficult times lay ahead, and having her dance with me tonight would be a comforting memory once the bullets started flying and my only company was mud and blood.
I pressed my lips together, stood up, and decided to be selfish—at least for the night. I extended my hand and gave her an offer that would be impolite to refuse.
She looked at me, and this time, she held my gaze, studying my face. "I… I'm not very good at dancing, Señor," she said as her soft hand gently took mine.
"You just need to follow my lead," I replied.
She stood up with some hesitation, but when she was finally on her feet, she gave me a reassuring smile. We walked to the center of the room just as the prelude ended and the dance began.
I raised her left hand and placed my right behind her back. With a burst of courage, I pulled her a little closer. If she disliked it, she didn't show it. I caught the scent of her sampaguita perfume, drifting either from her neck or from behind her ears.
The first note of the habanera's verse rang out and we began to dance. I watched her dangling earring gently swing to the motions of the slow waltz. I already knew how to dance even in my previous life, and Martin had his fair share of balls as well—but to my surprise, Paz was not half bad herself.
"I… I wouldn't have minded if you'd taken the young general's hand," I said, realizing there might have been a chance she had wanted to accept his offer. Heneral del Pilar was a handsome young fellow, likely in his early twenties.
"I would have refused…" she smiled at me.
I raised my eyebrows. "Why?"
"Well… he's a… he's a bit of a womanizer. He's rumored to have a woman in every town he's visited," she said.
Paz quickly studied my reaction, as if worried she'd said something inappropriate. Then she chuckled. "Am I too prude for your taste, Heneral?"
"Too much love shared, and love is cheapened," I said, staring into her eyes. "If a man's love is to mean anything… he needs to learn to love only one woman."
I internally shook my head at how cheesy it sounded. But I truly believed it—albeit only in my old age. If I had only known earlier how to properly cherish what was worth cherishing, maybe I needn't have died so miserably in my past life.
And if I were to be given another chance… maybe…
"I think you'll make a better poet than a general, Don Martin," she said, her laughter tumbling out before she could catch it. It wasn't as modest-sounding as she had tried to be all night—but it was far more genuine.
"You think so, Señorita?" I chuckled.
"You can call me Paz."