The Important Fact

by Veronica Montes

When pressed about his bewildering tolerance for the population of Filipino field workers taking over his small farming town, William Ivy replied thus: “My parents were Protestant missionaries in Korea for three years beginning in 1882.”

None of the men asking the questions could make sense of William’s answer, but his peculiar response put their inquiries to rest. There were, after all, strawberries to pick, lettuce to pack, asparagus to cut. Filipinos were good for these things, for sweating and stooping.

* * *

A skittery peace settled like rain clouds over the valley. It was the townsfolk, of course, who arranged the terms. With their voices and eyes and carefully lettered placards they proclaimed you are allowed here and sometimes here, but never here or here. For a while the field workers abided by these terse directives, but by the time they’d crated the last of the nectarines in September, their compliance had become far less obliging.

In October they grew bold.

They roamed the streets freely in groups of eight or ten with their hair meticulously pomaded and their trousers precisely creased. They pooled their cash to purchase automobiles, which they then took turns driving, the sound of their laughter and singing sending onlookers into a rage. Then—worst of all—the blondes working the taxi dance halls began to prefer the polite, small-statured Filipinos to the burly local men who, to be honest, didn’t smell half as nice or dance half as well.

It wouldn’t do.

* * *

William was approached once more by his fellow citizens, who each day grew more certain that the deterioration of their race was well underway and that the virtue of white women all over the valley was in grave danger. Would William not now join the armed uproar against this hoard of filthy demons? Storm their bunkhouses, crack their dusky heads open with bats and pipes? “I’ve a bank to run, gentlemen,” said William, who was indeed President of the Pajaro Valley National Bank. “And I’m a Christian,” he added pointedly. “I can’t be caught up in this unsavory business.” In further truth, William considered the situation to be a working class tussle. He was above such things, surely.

And that is why, when a young Filipino man with ramrod posture and shining white teeth entered the lobby of the Pajaro Valley National Bank one afternoon, William took no umbrage. To his dismay, the tellers hissed and closed their windows one by one, a breach in etiquette so extraordinary that William was compelled to make up for it by jumping out of his chair and arranging his face in an expression of sincere welcome. He took note of the stranger’s appearance, which was objectively beyond reproach: Glenn Plaid suit, white Oxfords, and some sort of carved bamboo walking stick. His hair was neatly parted on the right and slicked back, making it impossible for William not to be reminded of Gary Cooper in Beau Sabreur.

“Sir, good afternoon. My name is Fidel Cabezón.”

“And I am William Ivy. A pleasure to meet you.”

Fidel held out his hand, and just as William took it in his own, a deep voice rang out across the now-silent bank: “Don’t touch that god damn monkey paw.”

William watched as Fidel tightened his grip around the walking stick, watched as the color rose in his cheeks, watched as his smile grew brittle and broke apart, falling into pieces at his feet. The two men stared at each other and came to a silent agreement: they would ignore the outburst.

“Mr. Ivy, is there a place we may speak privately?”

“Of course,” William murmured. And then much louder: “You’re interested in a safe deposit box, you say? Let me show you the options.”

William led Fidel to the far side of the bank and down a wide staircase, which led to a short hallway which led, in turn, to the bank vault. He found himself walking in rhythm to the tap of Fidel’s walking stick as it rang out against the marble floor.

The enormous, round vault door was already open. The second door—the day gate—was closed and locked, and an armed guard was visible through the metal mesh. William nodded at the guard, raised a hand in greeting, and then led Fidel to a large standing desk. “Now, Mr. Cabezón, what is all this about?”

“There are two things, sir. The first is that I have twenty-five dollars that I’d like to deposit in your bank.”

The fear of being impolite prevented William from asking aloud exactly how a field worker had amassed such a sum. “Can you repeat that, please?”

“Of course,” said Fidel. “Twenty-five dollars. Is there a problem, Mr. Ivy?”

The young man stood at least three inches shorter than William, but seemed somehow taller. In fact, William had the curious sensation that he was being stared down upon from a great height. “Not at all,” he said. “I’d be happy to open your account myself.” He retrieved a form from a file cabinet, and then handed Fidel the fountain pen from his own breast pocket. “Fill this out, would you?”

Fidel exhaled and carefully leaned his walking stick against the desk. “No one else in the valley would take my money, Mr. Ivy. Thank you.”

William stared as Fidel’s hand moved smoothly across the paper, leaving in its wake a string of elegantly formed letters. “What fine penmanship you have, Mr. Cabezón,” he said. “It’s remarkable.”

Fidel smiled and took his walking stick in hand once again. “Thank you. My ‘monkey paw’ works quite well, you see.”

William turned red at the collar, but held Fidel’s eye. “Might I ask,” he said, “how it is that you speak English so well? Were you taught by missionaries? My parents were missionaries—”

“No, no. My father was schooled by the American teachers who arrived in my country in 1901—the Thomasites. You’ve heard of this?”

“Yes, of course,” replied William, though he had not. He was only mildly ashamed of this character flaw, this pretending to know things. He wished Fidel had not stopped him before he could relate the story about his parents and their missionary work in Korea.

“They told my father and all his classmates that Americans believe in liberty, justice, and the pursuit of happiness,” said Fidel.

“Indeed. Yes, that’s exactly right.” William was uncomfortable with this turn in the conversation. He waved his hand as if to clear the air, and then returned to the topic of his choosing. “And so it was your father,” he said, “who taught you to speak English?”

Fidel nodded. Then, in a sudden movement that provoked a gasp from William, Fidel twirled his walking stick end over end like a drum major. It was not a walking stick at all, William realized, but a spear whose iron tip now pointed at the vault ceiling.

“Step back, George,” William said to the approaching guard. “Everything is fine. Isn’t it, Mr. Cabezón?”

“I didn’t mean to frighten anyone,” said Fidel.

“Perhaps, then, you should have left your spear at home.”

“But this is the second thing I need to speak to you about, Mr. Ivy.”

“What do you mean?”

“The tip of this spear pierced the leg of Ferdinand Magellan in 1521 at the Battle of Mactan. It inflicted one of many wounds that led to the terrible man’s death.”

William was beginning to think that something was not quite right with Fidel Cabezón. “What on earth are you talking about? How can you possibly know this?”

“Would you not know if you were descended from the line of George Washington, sir? Or Charlemagne? I’m telling you that two of my ancestors served as warriors to Lapulapu, the great datu who led the attack against Magellan.”

“They did?” William snuck a glance at the security guard who now had his nose stuck deep in the pages of a tattered Photoplay magazine.

“Yes,” Fidel replied, “it’s a fact.” He lowered his voice. “But this fact isn’t the important one today, Mr. Ivy.”

William spoke slowly, as if addressing an uncomprehending child. “No?” he said. “What is the important fact, then?”

“The important fact,” replied Fidel, “is that if you do not take this spear from me and lock it in your bank vault, Mr. Ivy, I will run it through the heart of the next white man who calls me a monkey or spits in my face or rips my dancing partner from my arms or beats me in the street. That is the important fact.”

William sighed, unsure of whether he was being accused or absolved. There were many things he wanted to say, but all that escaped his mouth was, “I see.” He held out his hands and Fidel surrendered both his weapon and a tightly rolled wad of twenty-five one dollar bills. William watched Fidel Cabezón as he walked away, and found that he was tapping the spear on the marble floor in time to the young man’s footsteps. It would be many years before they saw each other again.

About the author

Veronica Montes is the author of the award-winning chapbook The Conquered Sits at the Bus Stop, Waiting (Black Lawrence Press, 2020) and Benedicta Takes Wing & Other Stories (Philippine American Literary House, 2018). Her flash fiction has been published in Wigleaf, SmokeLong Quarterly, jmww, CHEAP POP, and elsewhere.

About the illustration

The illustration is a photograph of a truck with the words "Filipino Employment Agency" on the side. Year unknown. In the collection of the Filipino American National Historical Society.