So this is how most women die, she learned, lying in pain on the floor of the main hallway at the governor’s palace. Forgotten.
Her dress—once a beautiful, cream-white, sequined Filipiniana in the style of the former first lady—had been torn almost into shreds, at the humiliating parts, leaving her exposed to anybody who dared to pass by. There were dusty shoe prints on what was left of it, and blood stains, everything from pinpricks to splotches. Even closing her eyes hurt, since he had punched her there, too. But there was not much to see either with the layer of tears that blurred her vision.
It was her mistake, again, of course, it was her mistake. There was a doctor at that evening party who had innocently approached her, and that triggered a simmering rage in her husband whom she didn’t even know had seen them until he exploded at the entrance of their mansion, a white marble fortress quite a distance away from the city proper, heavily guarded by armed men and far from the prying eyes of ordinary citizens. It wasn’t easy being governor of the home province of the exiled former dictator; neither was it easy being the governor’s young trophy wife. She felt that eyes were following her all the time—the eyes of her husband and his staff, the press and the people. And of course, there was the painting. The same painting that hung on the wall where her pained body was now pressed, the portrait of a comely, pale lady in white lying in bed, a painting by a renowned 19th-century artist. A painting said to be cursed.
“But it’s not cursed at all,” said the art curator not long ago, as she and her husband walked through the revered artist’s ancestral home-turned-museum. It was a musty and dusty place, barely visited, only now becoming some sort of a tourist destination since people were starting to forget the previous president’s atrocities. Meanwhile, the governor and his wife followed the curator through the maze of angular sculptures, realist wood carvings, neoclassical paintings, and boards bearing information and facts. The governor had wanted an original painting from his province’s most famous artist, but the only one the art curator said could be sold was a cursed portrait of some unknown, unnamed lady. The other paintings were considered national government property.
“It’s just rumors, urban legends,” continued the curator, and he nearly missed a step in the narrow stairway leading to the back gallery. “Passed down from one generation to another and embedded with lies along the way, although I guess there might be a bit of truth in it. This painter, after all, shot his wife to death in a crime of passion. But if this particular painting is cursed, then why aren’t the rest of his works?”
They reached the painting at last, and she almost recoiled from the sight of it. Something about it—the woman lying almost unconscious on the bed, her pale and almost-dead features, her sleeve slipping off to reveal a portion of her breast repulsed her. It was supposed to be lovely and tender, but the woman’s vulnerability only brought about the worst feelings in her heart. To put it simply, she found the painting disgusting.
“Well, do you still want to purchase it?” the curator asked, turning to her and her husband. “What do you think?”
The governor was nodding. “It’s perfect!”
II
They said that terrible things had befallen the painting’s previous owners. One tragedy came after another. Miscarriages and murders. Accidents and illnesses. At best, a sudden reverse of good luck; at worst, death in its various faces.
The governor didn’t care. As soon as he bought the painting, he had it hung where guests could easily see it. To get to the grand dining area that faced the swimming pool, one had to go through the main hallway, with its crystal chandeliers, teak parquet floor tiles, and reddish-brown brick walls where hung multiple frames. The painting was now in its crowning glory, flanked by Amorsolo replicas of nature scenes and black-and-white photos of his ancestors in formal clothing. Even those who were not into art would notice the elephant in the room, the one figure dressed scantily, light and pink amidst a sea of sepia and brown. The woman in the painting held everybody from servant to superior spellbound in its presence, but only she, the governor’s wife, averted her eyes whenever she passed by it. Of course, she did not dare express this to her husband, unless she wanted another bruise or burn to her growing collection.
It was during one particularly bad morning that she first noticed something strange about the painting, beyond her initial repulsion.
Her husband was in a hurry, having been called to an unscheduled press conference about some rebels caught in the mountains deep in the province. After breakfast, he scrambled to the bath that she had prepared. While he bathed, she began to fix his clothes and things. She couldn’t find his favorite work briefcase, the black leather one from a designer store abroad. She swore she’d put it in the cabinet near the bed.
Panic struck the moment she heard the faucet turning off. He emerged, in a towel, and dressed himself as she busily looked around for his suitcase. “What?” her husband said, crossly. “Didn’t you prepare it while I was bathing? Or were you just lazing around, as usual?”
She was about to explain the truth to him when his elbow came and jutted the side of her face, sending her on her knees, to the floor. The room around her spun. Her head felt as if a million jagged rocks were trying to force themselves out of her skull. To her husband’s chagrin, and to her horror, she began to tear up.
He kicked her with his left foot, sending her against the wall. She sobbed even louder, knowing that the maids outside could hear the commotion. (In any case, they were used to it by now.) The governor looked at her in disgust before reaching for his leather briefcase between a couch and the wall. “That’s where I said I put it yesterday,” he went on, coolly, before leaving her.
His wife sobbed, pressing her hand against her shattered nose as she watched multiple droplets of blood staining her printed floral skirt. One of the maids later came in with an ice bag. She thanked the maid and remained there, on the floor, her nose against the coldness, badly wanting to lie down and rest on the bed, but then her blood would stain the bedclothes and she’d have to risk another beating from her husband.
When the pain had subsided to a dull ache, she stood up and decided to start going about her household duties. She went downstairs first, to check if there were letters or anything that the cook or maids needed (new laundry detergent, perhaps, or some food ingredients). She had to pass by the main hallway leading to the spiral staircase at the end. It was the only staircase leading to the dirty kitchen and servants’ quarters. Normally, when she had to pass through this area, she would refuse to glance at the wall that held the painting, but the dull ache in her nose made her less vigilant, and she stopped halfway through and stared right into the object of her disdain.
Her eyes were open.
The governor’s wife blinked, and the eyes of the woman in the painting were closed again, just as they had always been. It’s my mind, the wife thought, playing tricks as usual. She hurried down the hallway, trying to shake off the feeling that the woman in the painting had opened her eyes again, now that her back was turned, and was following her when and where she could not see.
She could not escape it, she knew. The painting was there and it would haunt her the same way the ghost of what once was a happy marriage did. And how it all began to unfurl, she continued to wonder.
III
She was thirty-one when her husband bought the painting, but when he married her, she was only twenty. He was twelve years older.
Many from his side opposed the match. She was a local beauty queen from a middle-class family, while he came from a wealthy business clan in the region. She had never known her father, a late foreign serviceman; his parents had close ties with the exiled former dictator. That was how he entered politics in the first place—as a bar topnotcher first, as the province capital’s youngest mayor, and soon, as an elected, unopposed governor. The goal was to establish the first politician in what would be a longer-lasting dynasty than the deposed ex-president’s.
But her future husband was still a mayor when he first laid his eyes on her. And she was just fresh off a pageant win. They first met at the town fiesta, a cool and colorful February day filled with songs, dances, and other forms of merriment. Then, at the beachfront casino hotel (the first of its kind in the province), she was invited to an afterparty featuring prominent officials, businessmen, and celebrities alike. That was where he took her aside, to a corner, glasses of champagne in hand. What they talked about, she couldn’t even remember. All she remembered was the exhilarating feeling of being swept off one’s feet by a real-life Prince Charming. They were married in less than a year.
She was completely clueless then. She had no idea that ten years later, she would be this miserable, trapped in a nightmare that had no end in sight. What made things worse was how the painting followed her when she slept.
She told no one about the moving eyes in the painting. When her husband arrived home that night, he was in a better mood, having charmed everybody at the press conference. The defense minister had been there, too, to relay everything to the president herself, a close friend of both. The governor was so happy about his performance that he embraced his wife upon entering the house. He kissed her gently on the lips, his hand on her chin, not seeming to notice her flinch. Then he retreated to his study.
That night, she had a strange dream.
She was trapped inside a frame, probably a mirror, and this she knew because she could see her reflection staring back at her, and the living room around and behind her, but her surroundings were cloudier and more faded and somehow less real, less solid than its reflection, whereas in reality it would have been the other way around, since her husband’s ancestral home kept some faded Spanish-era mirrors. She was staring at her reflection, or perhaps her real self, when it suddenly began to change. The bruises and burns, the faded scars on her face, all cleared and gave way to unblemished fair skin, but then the rest of her features began to change—her eyes first, her lips, her chin and then the shape of her head—until she looked exactly like the woman in the painting, and with that horrifying realization, she woke up, bathed in her own sweat. Her heart thumped so hard she could almost hear it.
Beside her, her husband snored, sleeping soundly and dreamlessly.
It’s just a dream, she reminded herself. It’s my mind again, tricking me, just like this afternoon. In a sense, her husband wasn’t wrong when he said that she had the tendency to distort both truth and memory in her mind.
With that final thought, she lay down again, turning to her side, clutching the covers. But it took a long time for her to get back to sleep.
IV
This wasn’t the first time reality and dream blurred for the governor’s wife. Her mind was a mess, as trapped as her body was, for ever since she had married the governor, every day had become a battle between her truth and his.
The first time he hit her was only a week into their marriage. She had long ago forgotten her mistake. Was it a word she said or a look on her face? Over time, though, she began to sense whenever it was particularly rough or nerve wracking for him at work. To be a politician, one never had to stop campaigning; but her husband wore a different face to the public. At home, anything could set him off. What were initially slaps and punches to different areas of her body turned into more sadistic forms of torture. He was especially livid whenever she talked to other men, no matter how innocuous or brief that interaction was. Then, he would resort to worse punishments—locking her inside a vault, burning her with cigarettes, threatening her at gunpoint until she would admit to affairs that never occurred.
But the worst part of the last decade or so was the isolation. Nobody dared to stand up for her, to cross her husband.
The guards and aides obeyed his every word; the helpers and drivers averted their eyes; the doctors and nurses at the provincial hospital erased every record of her confinements. The public said nothing when she appeared with her husband at public events, wearing long sleeves and thick makeup under the torrid northern sun. Her family—her mother and her older brothers—remained far away from the country, phoning her monthly and believing in her fear-tainted lies about a successful marriage. In reality, she was living every single day in survival mode.
A week passed. But even though the woman in the painting didn’t appear in her dreams during that period, the governor’s wife had every reason to be paranoid. Every day, she wandered about the palace—doing her household tasks, conversing about safe topics with a few trusted helpers, playing the piano when she was bored, feeding the stray cats in the backyard, petting the guard dogs. The guards always kept her within their sight, and apparently, so did the painting. She felt the lady’s eyes following her whenever she had to pass by that hallway. Once or twice, she swore she heard disembodied footsteps, or the swish of a long nightdress when nobody else was in the area. She could see flitting shadows in the peripheries of her sight, and convinced herself that it was just one of the helpers. But more often than not, she was enraged with the painting. She wanted to grab it from its position and hurl it against the other side of the hallway, and then stamp on it, destroying it forever.
She was in reverie, replaying this fantasy in her mind as she sat on a long sofa by the window, when her husband’s black Rover rumbled up the dirt path leading to the gated entrance of their fortress. She straightened up, nervously watching the scene. The driver opened the door to the front seat, and the governor emerged, his arms balled into fists, his strides swift and uneven. He stomped towards the palace, surrounded by guards, and his face was scrunched in a growl. It had not been a good day at work.
She had to greet him. That was her duty. She gulped, dragging herself to the front of the house. She could hear the maids whispering to themselves. She could see nervous glances exchanged among the bodyguards. She could sense her husband’s heavy, rage-filled breathing.
She met his face. She opened her mouth, about to ask him how his day had been. But before she could even get a word out, his hands reached for her neck and tightened. Something heavy and hard hit her on the chest. Then everything went black.
She woke up at the provincial hospital. Her husband, two nurses, and a doctor surrounded her bed. Through the window nearby, she could see two bodyguards in the hallway, keeping watch. The top of her head throbbed. She took a deep breath, then winced at the pain. She tried to cough it out—the discomfort, the pain, the blood.
“Take it easy, Ma’am,” one of the nurses said, grabbing a wad of white tissue paper from the table nearby for the governor’s wife to spit on, which she did. Blood covered it in thick splotches. Tears filled her eyes again. How long will I have to live like this, fearing that each day might be my last?
The governor cleared his throat and turned to the doctor. “You were saying?”
The doctor looked him grimly in the eye. “She broke a rib and suffered from subdural hematoma.”
“Pardon?”
“Blood pooling in her brain, caused by a heavy blow to her head.” The doctor did not even flinch. “This can’t go on forever,” he said. “Do you want to kill your wife, Governor?”
This was the first time in years that someone stood up for her, and that was enough to enrage her husband. “Do you even know who I am?” he thundered, raising his fist. The nurses swerved away.
“You wretched bastard!” the governor continued. “You have no idea what you’ve just done!” The doctor merely stepped back, his face expressionless. “If you want to threaten my family, they all died during the former president’s rule,” he said coolly. “Nothing scares me, and you’re proving to be just as ruthless and dictatorial as he was. Come now,” he added to the nurses, and they scurried out of the room, the latter two glancing nervously at the bodyguards flanking the door.
“I’m going to find out everything about that bastard, who he is, where he lives,” her husband continued rambling. His mask of concern had dropped; he had completely forgotten about his wife as he stepped out of the room to give orders to the bodyguards. She lay stranded and sick in bed, her head whirling, her eyes staring straight into another person’s. She was not left alone. The woman in the painting, hazy at first but unmistakable, stood by her bed, wearing her loose white nightdress and a sad, sympathetic look on her face. Had it not been so painful, the governor’s wife would have screamed. In any case, the vision lasted for only a few seconds until the woman in the painting vanished into thin air.
V
In two weeks, she recovered, at least in the physical sense. The woman in the painting visited her dreams more than ever during that period. She would be in that strange frame-house again, and then the woman would creep at her from behind and put her hands on her shoulders, making the governor’s wife wake up at midnight, panting and breathless. The face of the apparition grew sadder and more distinct with each dream, but this was not the worst part of it all. Sometimes, the governor visited.
Nurses flitted in and out of her hospital room. The doctor checked on her every day. The bodyguards remained outside the door, keeping watch, but they never entered the room. In any case, when it was dark and empty, she could sense that she was not completely alone. The vision of the woman in the painting would take form by her bed, watching her sadly for a few seconds. The governor’s wife would then clutch her blanket, close her eyes, and whisper the prayers of her childhood until she could sense the figure by her bed disappearing. True enough, when she would open her eyes again, or when someone entered the room, the woman would no longer be found.
The doctor told her to rest at home, so after those two weeks, she spent most of her time in bed, or on the sofa downstairs to get some sunlight. Her husband was particularly gentlemanly, as he always was when he knew he had gone too far. His kisses and embraces were gentler. He bought her flowers and chocolates. He did not force her to make love to him. To his wife’s delight, the woman in the painting began to bother her less. She no longer appeared in her dreams. The mysterious, cold gusts of wind and the passing shadows no longer bothered her, and it was easier now to ignore the painting hanging in the hallway. Everything was going well until the end of the week when her middle brother called up all of a sudden and she had to answer him, leaning by the wall in the small sitting room facing the side-garden, with her husband keeping a close watch on a chair close by.
“You were confined again?” her brother said crossly. “Why didn’t you tell us? You had Mother and Kuya worried sick!”
She glanced at her husband before replying. “It was an accident.”
“Another one?”
“I was wiping the bannister on the spiral staircase and I slipped, knocking my head on the wall.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“You don’t have to believe it, but that’s the truth.”
“Tell you what: Mother, Kuya, and I will return to the country and drop by completely unplanned in your province sometime after the presidential visit. I know that you and that brute will be busy then, assuming he doesn’t kill you first.”
“How dare you say that! He’s a wonderful and loving husband.”
“Whatever you say. One doesn’t just have three hospital confinements in less than a year for ‘accidents.’ Listen. We can help you get out of this. There are government agencies in the city—”Here, she dropped her voice. “Are you crazy?” she hissed. “He is part of the government!” And when her husband gave her a warning glance across the room, she added: “He’s not corrupt, too, unlike most people working in it.”
Her brother sighed. “I see now. He’s in the same room. That’s why you can’t open up.”
“I love him, Kuya. I really do.” In moments like this, when he wasn’t angry, when he returned to his old and real self from all those years ago, yes, she loved him so much she could forget how she also feared him.
“I’m only saying this out of concern.” Her brother’s voice was a little more than a whisper. “I don’t want to see my little sister in a coffin the next time we meet.”
She hung up. Her husband shook his head. “How nosy of him,” he remarked. He stood up and walked towards his wife, embracing her from behind. “We’ll take a trip to the city tomorrow,” he said. “We’ll ride the deluxe bus and go clothes-shopping. There will be a huge afterparty at the casino hotel next week, following the president’s visit, and everyone will be there. I want them all to see how beautiful and charming my wife is.”
They kissed, a passionate yet tender moment, and she let her guard down again. He excused himself to his study, and she retreated to their bedroom. She passed by the main hallway, noticing the eyes following her within her periphery.
The eyes of the woman in the painting seemed to glower in rage. The governor’s wife quickly averted her gaze, willing herself to believe that this and everything else that had happened were just tricks of her mind.
VI
The president finally arrived, but not in the grand, public way that her ousted predecessor did whenever he visited his bulwark. This new president was more discreet, as she had every reason to be. Many in this northern province considered her the cause of their country’s shame and their province’s fall from glory. She came, either way, not in her usual stark yellow shirts or dresses, but a simple white blouse with a big ribbon and a black vest. She had just survived a coup and was not really in the mood to party.
So there was no parade. The school children did not flash victory signs and wave flags in the streetsides, and there were no chants and claps of support from the adults. The president met briefly with the governor and his aides at the provincial capitol, exchanged niceties, and talked about different ways of running the province smoothly considering that the communist threat had not left with the ousted dictator. The governor’s secretary—who also happened to be his mistress—invited the current president to the afterparty at the casino hotel. “We’ll see,” she replied. In other words, she wouldn’t attend. But the party would go on.
That night, the beachfront casino hotel was all lit up. The ballroom dazzled. The massive chandelier made the room and its wideness shimmer. The round tables were covered in deep red, velvety cloth. Arches of the same velvety hue covered the curtains, some of which were partially drawn to let in the moonlight. The catering tables overflowed with food—hot steamed rice, different kinds of fish, pasta with three different sauces, beef and pork, salads and soup, small cakes—enough to feed the hungry stomachs that made up a bulk of the region’s population for a whole month. Piano music filled the air and soon the ballroom was abuzz with noise—quick strides, clanking utensils, careful and high-heeled steps, dismissive laughter, social climbing, backhanded compliments. Who was wearing what and why? Who married whom and where? Who did what now and what for? Where did you get your bag? What kind of car did you come in? Inside, prominent people danced, talked and ate, served by a flurry of waiters; outside, at the parking lot, drivers and a few bodyguards leaned against cars and smoked cigarettes, likewise exchanging gossip.
Back at the ballroom, the governor’s wife danced only once with her husband, did not eat much, and stayed silent for most of the program. She was feeling unwell. Her head was starting to hurt all over again. She wondered if the blow to her head weeks ago had been more severe than they all initially thought. Her vision would blur. Her heart would palpitate. She had to force herself to eat or she would starve. Or perhaps that was just her anxiety.
She sat alone at one of the frontmost round tables for most of the time, while everybody enjoyed or pretended to. She avoided their gaze and stared at her hands, wondering when this would all be over so she could sleep. She was dressed grandly for this occasion—a tiara-like clip over her long, wavy hair, a cream-white Filipiniana with sequins, high-heeled designer shoes. Some of the men would throw glances at her from time to time, and since she knew that even daring to look back at them would enrage her husband, she refused to even acknowledge them, even though she knew that it would make her look like a snob. Nevertheless, there were two other reasons why she refused to glance up.
For a first, her husband and his secretary were dancing together again. And again. And again. Laughing and flirting, genuinely happy, unashamed.
Second, the woman in the painting was part of the crowd. She was now fully garbed, in a similar white-sequined Filipiniana and black shoes. There was a distinct look on her face, an alertness, like a warning. And everytime the wife dared to look up, the woman was in a different place. By the punch bowl. Standing near the curtains. Sitting at another table. Unseen by everybody. Everybody but her.
“Ma’am,” called a deep voice nearby. The governor’s wife let out a startled gasp, then saw a young, clean-cut man two seats away from her at the same table. He offered his hand, and she glanced at her husband, still preoccupied in a far corner with his secretary, before shaking it.
“I’m a resident at the provincial hospital,” he introduced himself. “I believe my father treated you multiple times before there? He’s one of their preeminent physicians.”
“Yes, he’s a great doctor.” To be honest, she had no idea which doctor he was talking about. She was no stranger to the provincial hospital and had been treated by its various doctors, including the one that enraged her husband last time.
“He told me a great deal about you and the governor’s donations to the hospital. I’m sorry my father couldn’t come today; he has a conference in the Metro. Listen. I was just noticing you from far away. Your hands are trembling and you honestly look like you’re about to collapse. Do you want me to call your husband and let him know that you want to rest?”
“That’s very considerate of you. But I’ll be fine here.”
“If you say so.” He smiled again, and walked back towards the dancing area. As he disappeared behind two other dancers, the woman in the painting appeared again, briefly, smiling at the governor’s wife, before one of the waiters blocked her from view.
She wanted to scream, but she clenched her fists and remained rooted in her seat. When was her husband going to stop dancing with that secretary of his? Could she, somehow, sneak to the bathroom unnoticed? This was nothing short of torture, even for someone used to it like her.
The party ended a couple of hours before midnight, and those who came all the way from other provinces had reserved rooms at the hotel. The governor and his wife, meanwhile, headed straight home. He did not speak the entire ride. Was it the secretary, was it the president snubbing him, or was it her fault again?
She was not sure.
She was sure of one thing, though. She would get it again back home.
VII
It was dark and crickets were chirping in the front garden. He told the bodyguards and driver to return to the servants’ quarters, a smaller, separate compound from the rest of the mansion. There, the cook and the helpers also slept at night. When one of them opened the door for the couple, the governor kindly asked her to go back to the servants’ compound as well. The helper forced on a smile, brushing against his wife’s hand on her way outside. A sympathetic touch. The opposite of what the governor’s wife was expecting from her husband.
They stepped inside. The door was shut. The governor raised his hand and slapped her so hard across the face that she was knocked off balance. Then he grabbed her by the shoulders and slammed her so hard against the wall, the framed photographs hanging above her shook.
He balled his hand into a fist. “Who was he and why was he talking to you?”
She sobbed. “I don’t–I don’t know–”
He threw his fist back and aimed forward, landing straight on her face. She could almost feel her skull move. The pain was immense. It was impossible to say sorry.
And yet, he demanded it. To name. To admit. To apologize. Over and over. He strangled her, slamming her against the wall again and again. He boxed her on the face and all over her body. He shoved her violently to the floor. He pulled her hair and dragged her across the room, towards the main hallway. He then sat on her and pulled her by the collar, ripping off most of her gown. She thought he was going to rape her, as he sometimes did to let off some steam. But he didn’t. He stood up and kicked her, his dusty black shoes landing indiscriminately on her, but mostly targeting her exposed areas. She couldn’t raise her arms or hands, couldn’t find a way to defend herself from his blows. She was utterly shattered in every sense of the word. And yet he hollered, loud enough for the whole compound to hear. He had never gone this far before. Blood soaked her gown and stained the tiles, where she lay, a broken and dying heap under the cursed painting.
He was tired. At last, he stopped, hands on his knees, his enraged face hovering over her. “I can’t get rid of you,” he hissed. “My god, how I want to get rid of you! But I can’t!” He kicked her hard, one last time, and stomped outside, wherein he ordered the driver to take him to his secretary’s house at once. He was sure that she would let him in, and the rest of the night would be spent in blissful intimacy. He was right.
The rest of the servants were at their separate quarters, and so not a single soul had witnessed what just happened to the governor’s wife, who lay practically naked in her own blood on the floor of the main hallway. Nobody could see her. Perhaps they heard her cries, but nobody came up to check on her.
So this is how most women die, she thought, out of nowhere. Forgotten.
There was a sudden cold gust, the rustling of chimes and leaves. And then, out of nowhere, gentleness. Steady yet tender arms enveloped her, cradling her broken body like a mother would to her sick child. Through her tears, the governor’s wife could barely make out a familiar face. The woman in the painting held her, stroking her hair with a kindness she had almost forgotten. Then she spoke.
“It will be over soon,” the woman whispered softly. “The pain will end.”
“Nobody will know,” replied the governor’s wife. Except that she did not say these words out loud. She no longer had the strength to do so. The woman from the painting seemed to hear her anyway. “Everybody knows,” she told the governor’s wife.
“But everybody forgot you.”
“No, they didn’t. You of all people should know that.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The same cycle, this same message, will repeat over and over until someone, one day, hears. Until then, it would be impossible to forget.”
There was silence, as the woman from the painting held the governor’s wife closer to her, as the darkness gave way to dawn and the pain gradually slipped away from her body along with her life. Sunlight broke through the glass-panelled windows in the sitting room facing the entrance, not far from the main hallway. Both the president and the defense minister had arrived – the communists were coming, there was the threat of another coup, the governor was needed and he could not be reached. Where on earth was he? This was now his bulwark, and his absence was a sign of irresponsibility. It was unlike him to be unavailable for an emergency meeting. Warrantless as they were, the presidential aides demanded the governor’s staff to let them see him. “But he isn’t here,” they all said. “Then, where is he?” the defense minister asked crossly. Only then did everyone remember his wife.
The front door was broken down forcibly, and a horrible stench permeated the air. The president was immediately ushered back to her armored vehicle by her guards. The defense minister reached for his gun. His companions went in first, tentatively, wondering what kind of assassination attempt had taken place. The governor’s bodyguards – the ones that did not join him – kept silent. The cook and helpers sobbed outside, knowing exactly what had taken place.
They found the governor’s wife dead, nearly naked, and lying alone on the floor of the main hallway. Almost every inch of her was covered in blood. Her body was grotesque, mangled – and yet her face was serene. Despite its brokenness, its bruises and wounds, her expression was so calm one would almost believe she was just asleep. Almost. Her skin was skin and stiff and cold, and there was no way anybody who had been through what she went through could survive.
It was such a horrifying scene that they all averted their gaze by instinct. Hanging on the wall above the governor’s late wife was the supposedly cursed painting. Its female subject stared into the distance as the witnesses made arrangements for the coroners and officers to arrive. Nobody mentioned it to each other, but they all felt—as did the coroners and officers later—that somebody’s eyes were on them, following them when their backs were turned. And so silently they all refused to look at the painting as well.
VIII
Nobody did know what happened that fateful night, as its sordid details lived and died with the governor and his wife. The governor’s family paid a massive hush money that the government readily accepted, as they needed it more than ever. So, too, were the mainstream media and police. No official investigation was made, and although her mother and brothers begged for a case to be opened, their pleas fell on deaf ears. But not everyone was as deaf.
Word spread quickly in places like this. The cursed painting had struck again, people whispered to each other. It was not a suicide, they said, shaking their heads. He went too far. He murdered her. But all of these speculations were uttered only in private. The common people, after all, were just as much victims of the governor as his wife had been, and they understood all too well that some things ought to remain unseen and unsaid. The price was one’s life.
And yet, the world worked in mysterious ways. His staff left in droves—the helpers returning to their provinces or sneaking by bus out of the region, the bodyguards resigning and serving rival political dynasties, his secretary dumping him for an engineer immediately after the murder. He lost the following elections. His family’s finances crumbled due to his incessant gambling and failed businesses until they had no choice but to file for bankruptcy. They also had to let go of the former governor’s palace and everything in it—including the painting.
The dynasty had crumbled, and it was now safe to speak of certain things. “Did you really believe that she killed herself?” said one of the men carrying the painting from the pile to the truck waiting outside.
There was no need to ask who “she” was. “Of course not,” replied his companion. “My uncle used to be one of his drivers. He himself witnessed how the governor would humiliate her in public. Once, he ripped off her blouse and kicked her out of the car. She had to walk home by herself, in the heat, in her bra.”
The other man shuddered. “Their karma wasn’t enough.”
“I agree,” said his companion. Then he grunted as they loaded the painting to the truck. “Where’s this cursed thing headed, anyway?”
“I don’t know,” said the other man. “The government owns it now, I think.”
He was right. The painting, as of this writing, now hangs on the wall of a newly-opened domestic violence shelter. The eyes no longer move. The women and children who live there, however, swear that they sometimes hear soft laughter at night, along with mysterious cold gusts of wind, and the shadows of women watching over them protectively, remembering.
