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THE SPOUSE

by Luis Dato

Rose in her hand, and moist eyes young with weeping,She stands upon the threshold of herhouse,Fragrant with scent that wakens love from sleeping,She looks far down to where her husbandplows.

Her hair dishevelled in the night of passion,Her warm limbs humid with the sacred strife,What may sheknow but man and woman fashionOut of the clay of wrath and sorrow—Life?

She holds no joys beyond the day’s tomorrow,She finds no worlds beyond her love’s embrace;Shelooks upon the Form behind the furrow,Who is her Mind, her Motion, Time and Space.

O somber mystery of eyes unspeaking,O dark enigma of Life’s love forlorn;The Sphinx beside the riversmiles with seekingThe secret answer since the world was born.

*This poem is spoken by a third person. It is about a woman who is not satisfied with her life. She iscrying because after their night of passion, when she woke up her husband is already gone plowing thefields. Isn’t that makes you feel alone? Just when you expect you’ll see his face the moment you openyour eyes after a passionate night, but you only see a rose – a compromise. But she cannot do anythingabout it. She is just a woman. And she believe she has no other life but other than this. In the end, itquestions: Will there ever be a change? Will she get the love she deserved?

PATALIM

by Cirilio Bautista

Araw-araw sinusubok naming mag-asawa ang talimng aming balaraw Halimbawakung umiiyakang bunsong anak at hindi kumikilos ang sintang mahal sasaksakin ko siya sa likodat patawang pagmamasdan habang duguangpasususuhin niyaang bunso Kung pundi ang bumbilyasa aming kusina at ako’y abalasa paglikha ng tula hindi niya ako titigilanng saksak sa batokhangga’t ang ilaw ay di napapalitan patas lang ang aming labanan lagot kung lagot walang dayaan Kaya’tsa katapusan ng arawmagbibilang kami ngsugat at tila mga gulanit na kaluluwa ay magtatawanan magsusuntukan paGanito kaming lagisapagkatlabis ang pag-ibig namin sa isa’t isa.

*This poem is an example of cariño brutal. It justifies violence as a way of caring, as a way of love. “Balaraw” can be identified as the forces that drives their relationship.

SONNETS TO A GARDENER 

by Trinidad Tarrosa-Subido

Cool is the night. There is a tender breeze

 

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stirring the vine-leaves curtaining my room.is it the amorous secrets of the trees,is it my name, it murmurs through the gloom?The altar-fires gleam fearful in the dusk,But stars allure me with their lustrous glow.Fragrance of lilies, rose-released musk...Such wonders can not last, and i must go.Yonder he waits, O whisp'rer of my name,Tarry a little while! I come, my Love.I come, forsaking prayer and altar-flames,To burn for you my incense in this grove.Night, call me not a soulless infied ...Only a pagan, worshipping love too well.

SONG FOR A DRY SEASON

by Emmanuel Torres

It is a wonder on a fine day like this With the sun spilled on the hardstained planks of walls,The wind following, the birds singing and singing, We pick up broken pieces and are poor,

Though nothing had changed our lean and hardwood house.We can still bear our faces on the cracked glassAnd be glad that our is personal, be glad The bed is in one corner, the table nailed in place.

No special feast lies on the breakfast table;It is rice and fish and coffee steaming and steaming, There is no wine but a china jug of water Will do to make us relish appetite.

Everything is spare and useful to keep alive Talk– such as the rough-grained texture of table, The stove burning, the floorboards creaking and creaking, Familiarity still fails to blunt our senses.

Somewhere rich relations are flattening and flatteningOur surplus, yet ours is the nearer country of plenty As your full breast tames that babe’s loud hunger andYour thighs conceive of islands green with legend.

This lot may not be worth a curse. All isWithin reach of want as long as love is able. The sunhammered tree outside our crooked window Manages some leaves in a dry season.

FINDER LOSER 

by Ophelia Dimalanta

More than half of my lifeI spend searching for lostobjects ( papers, receipts,

 

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old letters, pills and whateverelse) and causes and the rest,losing and finding, and losingthem again, found or otherwise;losing what I have in goodmeasure, finding whatI can’t almost have-One perpetual lifetime probe,Forever rummaging throughBureaus and drawers and pagesOf my life’s past disarray. . .And so when I finally gokeep vault unlidded for Ishall surely sit up and lookaround to pursue this search,holding on to dear life,or to dear death, does it matter- – -they are one in the propertime but not till then,I shall go on seeking outlost faces and faiths in thecold, collecting, calculatingcrowd, sadly aware that laterbut an unbreath awayI shall lose them all again;as I was won’t, losing allin this final irretrievablelose of my death timeor perhaps, possibly, yes,death will be kinder and oh, yesallow me at last thisflowing final find.

ANG BABAENG NAMUMUHAY NG MAG-ISA

by Joi Barrios

Babae akong namumuhay nang mag-isa,hiwalay sa asawa,matandang dalaga,kerida,puta.Ang aking pag-iisa'ybatik na itinuturing,

latay na pabaon ng nakaraan,pilat na taglay habambuhay.May pagsusulit na di ko nakayanan,may timbangan sumukat sa aking pagkukulang,may pagsusuring kumilatissa pagkatanso ng aking pagkatao.Lagi'y may paghuhusga sa aking pag-iisa.Ang di nila nakita'yakin ang pasya.Maliit na kalayaang

 

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hinahamak ng iba pangpagkapiit at pagkaalipinsa aking lipunan.

Ang pag-iisa'y di pagtalikod sapag-ibig, o pagnanasa o pananagutan.Hindi ito pagsukosa katuparan ng mga pangakoo pagkakatutuo ng mga pangarap.Hindi pagtanaw sa buhaynang hubad sa pag-asa.Paghangad lamangna kamay ko ang magpatakbo sa aking orasan,puso at isipan ang sumulat ng aking kasaysayan,sarili ko ang humubog sa aking kabuuan.Hayaan akong mamuhay nang payapa,nang hindi ikinakabit sa aking pangalanang mga tawag na pagkutya:puta,kerida,matandang dalaga,hiwalay sa asawa.Babae man akong namumuhay nang mag-isa.

WEDDING DANCE

By Amador Daguio

Awiyao reached for the upper horizontal log which served as the edge of the headhigh threshold.Clinging to the log, he lifted himself with one bound that carried him across to the narrow door. He slidback the cover, stepped inside, then pushed the cover back in place. After some moments during whichhe seemed to wait, he talked to the listening darkness.  "I'm sorry this had to be done. I am really sorry. But neither of us can help it." 

The sound of the gangsas beat through the walls of the dark house like muffled roars of falling waters.The woman who had moved with a start when the sliding door opened had been hearing the gangsas forshe did not know how long. There was a sudden rush of fire in her. She gave no sign that she heardAwiyao, but continued to sit unmoving in the darkness.

But Awiyao knew that she heard him and his heart pitied her. He crawled on all fours to the middle of the room; he knew exactly where the stove was. With bare fingers he stirred the covered smolderingembers, and blew into the stove. When the coals began to glow, Awiyao put pieces of pine on them, thenfull round logs as his arms. The room brightened.

"Why don't you go out," he said, "and join the dancing women?" He felt a pang inside him, becausewhat he said was really not the right thing to say and because the woman did not stir. "You should jointhe dancers," he said, "as if--as if nothing had happened." He looked at the woman huddled in a corner of the room, leaning against the wall. The stove fire played with strange moving shadows and lights uponher face. She was partly sullen, but her sullenness was not because of anger or hate. 

"Go out--go out and dance. If you really don't hate me for this separation, go out and dance. One of themen will see you dance well; he will like your dancing, he will marry you. Who knows but that, with him,you will be luckier than you were with me."

"I don't want any man," she said sharply. "I don't want any other man."

He felt relieved that at least she talked: "You know very well that I won't want any other woman

 

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either. You know that, don't you? Lumnay, you know it, don't you?" 

She did not answer him."You know it Lumnay, don't you?" he repeated."Yes, I know," she said weakly."It is not my fault," he said, feeling relieved."You cannot blame me; I have been a good husband to you.""Neither can you blame me," she said. She seemed about to cry. "No, you have been very good to me. You have been a good wife. I have nothing to say against you." Heset some of the burning wood in place.

"It's only that a man must have a child. Seven harvests is just too long to wait. Yes, we have waited toolong. We should have another chance before it is too late for both of us.

"This time the woman stirred, stretched her right leg out and bent her left leg in. She wound theblanket more snugly around herself. "You know that I have done my best," she said. "I have prayed to Kabunyan much. I have sacrificedmany chickens in my prayers." "Yes, I know." "You remember how angry you were once when you came home from your work in the terrace because Ibutchered one of our pigs without your permission? I did it to appease Kabunyan, because, like you, Iwanted to have a child. But what could I do?" "Kabunyan does not see fit for us to have a child," he said. He stirred the fire. The spark rose through thecrackles of the flames. The smoke and soot went up the ceiling. Lumnay looked down and unconsciously started to pull at the rattan that kept the split bamboo flooring inplace. She tugged at the rattan flooring. Each time she did this the split bamboo went up and came downwith a slight rattle. The gong of the dancers clamorously called in her care through the walls.

Awiyao went to the corner where Lumnay sat, paused before her, looked at her bronzed and sturdy face,then turned to where the jars of water stood piled one over the other.

Awiyao took a coconut cup and dipped it in the top jar and drank. Lumnay had filled the jars from themountain creek early that evening. "I came home," he said. "Because I did not find you among the dancers. Of course, I am not forcing youto come, if you don't want to join my wedding ceremony. I came to tell you that Madulimay, although Iam marrying her, can never become as good as you are. She is not as strong in planting beans, not asfast in cleaning water jars, not as good keeping a house clean. You are one of the best wives in thewhole village." 

"That has not done me any good, has it?" She said. She looked at him lovingly. She almost seemed tosmile. 

He put the coconut cup aside on the floor and came closer to her. He held her face between his handsand looked longingly at her beauty. But her eyes looked away. Never again would he hold her face. Thenext day she would not be his any more. She would go back to her parents. He let go of her face, andshe bent to the floor again and looked at her fingers as they tugged softly at the split bamboo floor.

"This house is yours," he said. "I built it for you. Make it your own, live in it as long as you wish. I willbuild another house for Madulimay."

"I have no need for a house," she said slowly. "I'll go to my own house. My parents are old. They willneed help in the planting of the beans, in the pounding of the rice."

 

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"I will give you the field that I dug out of the mountains during the first year of our marriage," he said."You know I did it for you. You helped me to make it for the two of us."

"I have no use for any field," she said. He looked at her, then turned away, and became silent. They were silent for a time.

"Go back to the dance," she said finally. "It is not right for you to be here. They will wonder where youare, and Madulimay will not feel good. Go back to the dance."

"I would feel better if you could come, and dance---for the last time. The gangsas are playing." "You know that I cannot." "Lumnay," he said tenderly.

"Lumnay, if I did this it is because of my need for a child. You know that life is not worth living without achild. The man have mocked me behind my back. You know that." "I know it," he said. "I will pray that Kabunyan will bless you and Madulimay." She bit her lips now, thenshook her head wildly, and sobbed. 

She thought of the seven harvests that had passed, the high hopes they had in the beginning of theirnew life, the day he took her away from her parents across the roaring river, on the other side of themountain, the trip up the trail which they had to climb, the steep canyon which they had to cross.

The waters boiled in her mind in forms of white and jade and roaring silver; the waters tolled andgrowled resounded in thunderous echoes through the walls of the stiff cliffs; they were far away nowfrom somewhere on the tops of the other ranges, and they had looked carefully at the buttresses of rocksthey had to step on---a slip would have meant death. 

They both drank of the water then rested on the other bank before they made the final climb to the otherside of the mountain. 

She looked at his face with the fire playing upon his features---hard and strong, and kind. He had a senseof lightness in his way of saying things, which often made her and the village people laugh. How proudshe had been of his humor. The muscles where taut and firm, bronze and compact in their hold upon hisskull---how frank his bright eyes were. She looked at his body the carved out of the mountains fivefields for her; his wide and supple torso heaved as if a slab of shining lumber were heaving; his arms andlegs flowed down in fluent muscles--he was strong and for that she had lost him. She flung herself upon his knees and clung to them.

"Awiyao, Awiyao, my husband," she cried. "I did everything to have a child," she said passionately in ahoarse whisper.

"Look at me," she cried. "Look at my body. Then it was full of promise. It could dance; it could work fastin the fields; it could climb the mountains fast. Even now it is firm, full. But, Awiyao, I am useless. I mustdie." 

"It will not be right to die," he said, gathering her in his arms. Her whole warm naked breast quiveredagainst his own; she clung now to his neck, and her hand lay upon his right shoulder; her hair floweddown in cascades of gleaming darkness. 

"I don't care about the fields," she said. "I don't care about the house. I don't care for anything but you.I'll have no other man.""Then you'll always be fruitless.""I'll go back to my father, I'll die." "Then you hate me," he said. "If you die it means you hate me. You do not want me to have a child. Youdo not want my name to live on in our tribe."

 

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She was silent. "If I do not try a second time," he explained, "it means I'll die. Nobody will get the fields I have carvedout of the mountains; nobody will come after me." 

"If you fail--if you fail this second time--" she said thoughtfully. The voice was a shudder. "No--no, I don'twant you to fail." "If I fail," he said, "I'll come back to you. Then both of us will die together. Both of us will vanish from thelife of our tribe." The gongs thundered through the walls of their house, sonorous and faraway. "I'll keep my beads," she said. "Awiyao, let me keep my beads," she half-whispered. 

"You will keep the beads. They come from far-off times. My grandmother said they come from up North,from the slant-eyed people across the sea. You keep them, Lumnay. They are worth twenty fields."

"I'll keep them because they stand for the love you have for me," she said. "I love you. I love you andhave nothing to give."

She took herself away from him, for a voice was calling out to him from outside. "Awiyao! Awiyao! OAwiyao! They are looking for you at the dance!""I am not in hurry." "The elders will scold you. You had better go.""Not until you tell me that it is all right with you.""It is all right with me."

He clasped her hands. "I do this for the sake of the tribe," he said."I know," she said. He went to the door. "Awiyao!" He stopped as if suddenly hit by a spear. In pain he turned to her. Her face was in agony. It pained himto leave. She had been wonderful to him.

What was it that made a man wish for a child? What was it in life, in the work in the field, in the plantingand harvest, in the silence of the night, in the communing with husband and wife, in the whole life of thetribe itself that made man wish for the laughter and speech of a child? Suppose he changed his mind?Why did the unwritten law demand, anyway, that a man, to be a man, must have a child to come afterhim?

And if he was fruitless--but he loved Lumnay. It was like taking away of his life to leave her like this.

"Awiyao," she said, and her eyes seemed to smile in the light. "The beads!" He turned back andwalked to the farthest corner of their room, to the trunk where they kept their worldly possession---hisbattle-ax and his spear points, her betel nut box and her beads. He dug out from the darkness the beadswhich had been given to him by his grandmother to give to Lumnay on the beads on, and tied them inplace. The white and jade and deep orange obsidians shone in the firelight.

She suddenly clung to him, clung to his neck as if she would never let him go.

"Awiyao! Awiyao, it is hard!" She gasped, and she closed her eyes and huried her face in his neck. 

The call for him from the outside repeated; her grip loosened, and he buried out into the night.

Lumnay sat for some time in the darkness. Then she went to the door and opened it. The moonlightstruck her face; the moonlight spilled itself on the whole village. She could hear the throbbing of the gangsas coming to her through the caverns of the other houses. Sheknew that all the houses were empty that the whole tribe was at the dance.

 

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Only she was absent. And yet was she not the best dancer of the village? Did she not have the mostlightness and grace? Could she not, alone among all women, dance like a bird tripping for grains on theground, beautifully timed to the beat of the gangsas?

Did not the men praise her supple body, and the women envy the way she stretched her hands like thewings of the mountain eagle now and then as she danced? How long ago did she dance at her ownwedding?

Tonight, all the women who counted, who once danced in her honor, were dancing now in honor of another whose only claim was that perhaps she could give her husband a child.

"It is not right. It is not right!" she cried."How does she know? How can anybody know? It is not right," she said. 

Suddenly she found courage. She would go to the dance. She would go to the chief of the village, to theelders, to tell them it was not right.

Awiyao was hers; nobody could take him away from her. Let her be the first woman to complain, todenounce the unwritten rule that a man may take another woman. She would tell Awiyao to come backto her. He surely would relent. Was not their love as strong as theriver?

She made for the other side of the village where the dancing was. There was a flaming glow over thewhole place; a great bonfire was burning. The gangsas clamored more loudly now, and it seemed theywere calling to her. She was near at last. She could see the dancers clearly now.

The man leaped lightly with their gangsas as they circled the dancing women decked in feast garmentsand beads, tripping on the ground like graceful birds, following their men. Her heart warmed to theflaming call of the dance; strange heat in her blood welled up, and she started to run. But the gleamingbrightness of the bonfire commanded her to stop. Did anybody see her approach? She stopped.

What if somebody had seen her coming? The flames of the bonfire leaped in countless sparks whichspread and rose like yellow points and died out in the night. The blaze reached out to her like a spreadingradiance. She did not have the courage to break into the wedding feast.

Lumnay walked away from the dancing ground, away from the village. She thought of the newclearing of beans which Awiyao and she had started to make only four moons before. She followed thetrail above the village.

When she came to the mountain stream she crossed it carefully. Nobody held her hand, and thestream water was very cold. The trail went up again, and she was in the moonlight shadows among thetrees and shrubs. Slowly she climbed the mountain. 

When Lumnay reached the clearing, she cold see from where she stood the blazing bonfire at the edge of the village, where the wedding was. She could hear the far-off clamor of the gongs, still rich in theirsonorousness, echoing from mountain to mountain. The sound did not mock her; they seemed to call farto her, to speak to her in the language of unspeaking love.

She felt the pull of their gratitude for her sacrifice.Her heartbeat began to sound to her like many gangsas.Lumnay though of Awiyao as the Awiyao she had known long ago-- a strong, muscular boy carrying

his heavy loads of fuel logs down the mountains to his home.She had met him one day as she was on her way to fill her clay jars with water. He had stopped at thespring to drink and rest; and she had made him drink the cool mountain water from her coconut shell.

After that it did not take him long to decide to throw his spear on the stairs of her father's house in tokenon his desire to marry her. 

 

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The mountain clearing was cold in the freezing moonlight. The wind began to stir the leaves of the beanplants. Lumnay looked for a big rock on which to sit down. The bean plants now surrounded her, and shewas lost among them.

A few more weeks, a few more months, a few more harvests---what did it matter? She would be

holding the bean flowers, soft in the texture, silken almost, but moist where the dew got into them, silverto look at, silver on the light blue, blooming whiteness, when the morning comes.

The stretching of the bean pods full length from the hearts of the wilting petals would go on. 

Lumnay's fingers moved a long, long time among the growing bean pods.

THE SMALL KEY

by Paz M. Latorena

It was very warm. The sun, up above a sky that was blue and tremendous and beckoning to birds everon the wing, shone bright as if determined to scorch everything under heaven, even the low, square nipahouse that stood in an unashamed relief against the gray-green haze of grass and leaves.

It was lonely dwelling located far from its neighbors, which were huddled close to one another as if formutual comfort. It was flanked on both sides by tall, slender bamboo tree which rustled plaintively undera gentle wind.

On the porch a woman past her early twenties stood regarding the scene before her with eyes madeincurious by its familiarity. All around her the land stretched endlessly, it seemed, and vanished into thedistance. There were dark, newly plowed furrows where in due time timorous seedling would give rise tosturdy stalks and golden grain, to a rippling yellow sea in the wind and sun during harvest time. Promiseof plenty and reward for hard toil! With a sigh of discontent, however, the woman turned and entered asmall dining room where a man sat over a belated a midday meal.

Pedro Buhay, a prosperous farmer, looked up from his plate and smiled at his wife as she stood framedby the doorway, the sunlight glinting on her dark hair, which was drawn back, without relenting wave,from a rather prominent and austere brow.

 “Where are the shirts I ironed yesterday?” she asked as she approached the table.

 “In my trunk, I think,” he answered.

 “Some of them need darning,” and observing the empty plate, she added, “do you want some morerice?” 

 “No,” hastily, “I am in a burry to get back. We must finish plowing the south field today becausetomorrow is Sunday.” 

Pedro pushed the chair back and stood up. Soledad began to pile the dirty dishes one on top of the other.

 “Here is the key to my trunk.” From the pocket of his khaki coat he pulled a string of non descript redwhich held together a big shiny key and another small, rather rusty looking one.

With deliberate care he untied the knot and, detaching the big key, dropped the small one back into hispocket. She watched him fixedly as he did this. The smile left her face and a strange look came into hereyes as she took the big key from him without a word. Together they left the dining room.

 

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Out of the porch he put an arm around her shoulders and peered into her shadowed face.

 “You look pale and tired,” he remarked softly. “What have you been doing all morning?” 

 “Nothing,” she said listlessly. “But the heat gives me a headache.” 

 “Then lie down and try to sleep while I am gone.” For a moment they looked deep into each other’s eyes.

 “It is really warm,” he continued. “I think I will take off my coat.” 

He removed the garment absent mindedly and handed it to her. The stairs creaked under his weight ashe went down.

 “Choleng,” he turned his head as he opened the gate, “I shall pass by Tia Maria’s house and tell her tocome. I may not return before dark.” 

Soledad nodded. Her eyes followed her husband down the road, noting the fine set of his head andshoulders, the case of his stride. A strange ache rose in her throat.

She looked at the coat he had handed to her. It exuded a faint smell of his favorite cigars, one of whichhe invariably smoked, after the day’s work, on his way home from the fields. Mechanically, she began tofold the garment.

As she was doing so, s small object fell from the floor with a dull, metallic sound. Soledad stooped downto pick it up. It was the small key! She stared at it in her palm as if she had never seen it before. Hermouth was tightly drawn and for a while she looked almost old.

She passed into the small bedroom and tossed the coat carelessly on the back of a chair. She opened thewindow and the early afternoon sunshine flooded in. On a mat spread on the bamboo floor were somenewly washed garments.

She began to fold them one by one in feverish haste, as if seeking in the task of the moment in refugefrom painful thoughts. But her eyes moved restlessly around the room until they rested almost furtivelyon a small trunk that was half concealed by a rolled mat in a dark corner.

It was a small old trunk, without anything on the outside that might arouse one’s curiosity. But it held thethings she had come to hate with unreasoning violence, the things that were causing her so muchunnecessary anguish and pain and threatened to destroy all that was most beautiful between her and herhusband!

Soledad came across a torn garment. She threaded a needle, but after a few uneven stitches she prickedher finger and a crimson drop stained the white garment. Then she saw she had been mending on thewrong side.

 “What is the matter with me?” she asked herself aloud as she pulled the thread with nervous andimpatient fingers.

What did it matter if her husband chose to keep the clothes of his first wife?

 “She is dead anyhow. She is dead,” she repeated to herself over and over again.

The sound of her own voice calmed her. She tried to thread the needle once more. But she could not, notfor the tears had come unbidden and completely blinded her.

 “My God,” she cried with a sob, “make me forget Indo’s face as he put the small key back into hispocket.” 

 

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 She brushed her tears with the sleeves of her camisa and abruptly stood up. The heat was stifling, andthe silence in the house was beginning to be unendurable.

She looked out of the window. She wondered what was keeping Tia Maria. Perhaps Pedro had forgottento pass by her house in his hurry. She could picture him out there in the south field gazing far and wideat the newly plowed land with no thought in his mind but of work, work. For to the people of the barriowhose patron saint, San Isidro Labrador, smiled on them with benign eyes from his crude altar in thelittle chapel up the hill, this season was a prolonged hour during which they were blind and dead toeverything but the demands of the land.

During the next half hour Soledad wandered in and out of the rooms in effort to seek escape from herown thoughts and to fight down an overpowering impulse. If Tia Maria would only come and talk to her todivert her thoughts to other channels!

But the expression on her husband’s face as he put the small key back into his pocket kept torturing herlike a nightmare, goading beyond endurance. Then, with all resistance to the impulse gone, she waskneeling before the small trunk. With the long drawn breath she inserted the small key. There was anunpleasant metallic sound, for the key had not been used for a long time and it was rusty.

That evening Pedro Buhay hurried home with the usual cigar dangling from his mouth, pleased withhimself and the tenants because the work in the south field had been finished. Tia Maria met him at thegate and told him that Soledad was in bed with a fever.

 “I shall go to town and bring Doctor Santos,” he decided, his cool hand on his wife’s brow.

Soledad opened her eyes.

 “Don’t, Indo,” she begged with a vague terror in her eyes which he took for anxiety for him because thetown was pretty far and the road was dark and deserted by that hour of the night. “I shall be alrighttomorrow.” 

Pedro returned an hour later, very tired and very worried. The doctor was not at home but his wife hadpromised to give him Pedro’s message as soon as he came in.

Tia Maria decide to remain for the night. But it was Pedro who stayed up to watch the sick woman. Hewas puzzled and worried – more than he cared to admit it. It was true that Soledad did not looked verywell early that afternoon. Yet, he thought, the fever was rather sudden. He was afraid it might be asymptom of a serious illness.

Soledad was restless the whole night. She tossed from one side to another, but toward morning she fellinto some sort of troubled sleep. Pedro then lay down to snatch a few winks.

He woke up to find the soft morning sunshine streaming through the half-open window. He got upwithout making any noise. His wife was still asleep and now breathing evenly. A sudden rush of tenderness came over him at the sight of her – so slight, so frail.

Tia Maria was nowhere to be seen, but that did not bother him, for it was Sunday and the work in thesouth field was finished. However, he missed the pleasant aroma which came from the kitchen every timehe had awakened early in the morning.

The kitchen was neat but cheerless, and an immediate search for wood brought no results. Soshouldering an ax, Pedro descended the rickety stairs that led to the backyard.

The morning was clear and the breeze soft and cool. Pedro took in a deep breath of air. It was good – itsmelt of trees, of the ricefields, of the land he loved.

 

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 He found a pile of logs under the young mango tree near the house and began to chop. He swung the axwith rapid clean sweeps, enjoying the feel of the smooth wooden handle in his palms.

As he stopped for a while to mop his brow, his eyes caught the remnants of a smudge that had been builtin the backyard.

 “Ah!” he muttered to himself. “She swept the yard yesterday after I left her. That, coupled with the heat,must have given her a headache and then the fever.” 

The morning breeze stirred the ashes and a piece of white cloth fluttered into view.

Pedro dropped his ax. It was a half-burn panuelo. Somebody had been burning clothes. He examined theslightly ruined garment closely. A puzzled expression came into his eyes. First it was doubt groping fortruth, then amazement, and finally agonized incredulity passed across his face. He almost ran back to thehouse. In three strides he was upstairs. He found his coat hanging from the back of a chair.

Cautiously he entered the room. The heavy breathing of his wife told him that she was still asleep. As hestood by the small trunk, a vague distaste to open it assailed to him. Surely he must be mistaken. Shecould not have done it, she could not have been that… that foolish.

Resolutely he opened the trunk. It was empty.

It was nearly noon when the doctor arrived. He felt Soledad’s pulse and asked question which sheanswered in monosyllables. Pedro stood by listening to the whole procedure with an inscrutableexpression on his face. He had the same expression when the doctor told him that nothing was reallywrong with his wife although she seemed to be worried about something. The physician merelyprescribed a day of complete rest.

Pedro lingered on the porch after the doctor left. He was trying not to be angry with his wife. He hoped itwould be just an interlude that could be recalled without bitterness. She would explain sooner or later,she would be repentant, perhaps she would even listen and eventually forgive her, for she was young andhe loved her. But somehow he knew that this incident would always remain a shadow in their lives.

THE DAY THE DANCERS CAME

by Bienvenido Santos

AS soon as Fil woke up, he noticed a whiteness outside, quite unusual for the November mornings theyhad been having. That fall, Chicago was sandman's town, sleepy valley, drowsy gray, slumberousmistiness from sunup till noon when the clouds drifted away in cauliflower clusters and suddenly it wasevening. The lights shone on the avenues like soiled lamps centuries old and the skyscrapers becamemonsters with a thousand sore eyes. Now there was a brightness in the air land Fil knew what it was andhe shouted, "Snow! It's snowing!"

Tony, who slept in the adjoining room, was awakened.

"What's that?" he asked.

"It's snowing," Fil said, smiling to himself as if he had ordered this and was satisfied with the promptdelivery. "Oh, they'll love this, they'll love this."

"Who'll love that?" Tony asked, his voice raised in annoyance.

"The dancers, of course," Fil answered. "They're arriving today. Maybe they've already arrived. They'llwalk in the snow and love it. Their first snow, I'm sure."

 

13

 "How do you know it wasn't snowing in New York while they were there?" Tony asked.

"Snow in New York in early November?" Fil said. "Are you crazy?"

"Who's crazy?" Tony replied. "Ever since you heard of those dancers from the Philippines, you've beenacting nuts. Loco. As if they're coming here just for you.

Tony chuckled. Hearing him, Fil blushed, realizing that he had, indeed, been acting too eager, but Tonyhad said it. It felt that way--as if the dancers were coming here only for him.

Filemon Acayan, Filipino, was fifty, a U.S., citizen. He was a corporal in the U.S. Army, training at SanLuis Obispo, on the day he was discharged honorably, in 1945. A few months later, he got his citizenshippapers. Thousands of them, smart and small in their uniforms, stood at attention in drill formation, in thescalding sun, and pledged allegiance to the flat and the republic for which it stands. Soon after he gotback to work. To a new citizen, work meant many places and many ways: factories and hotels, waiterand cook. A timeless drifting: once he tended a rose garden and took care of a hundred year old veteranof a border war. As a menial in a hospital in Cook Country, all day he handled filth and gore. He camehome smelling of surgical soap and disinfectant. In the hospital, he took charge of row of bottles on ashelf, each bottle containing a stage of the human embryo in preservatives, from the lizard-like fetus of afew days, through the newly born infant, with its position unchanged, cold and cowering and afraid. Hehad nightmares through the years of himself inside a bottle. l That was long ago. Now he had a morepleasant job as special policemen in the post office.

He was a few years younger than Tony-Antonio Bataller, a retired pullman porter but he looked older ininspite of the fact that Tony had been bedridden most of the time for the last two years, suffering from akind of wasting disease that had frustrated doctors. All over Tony's body, a gradual peeling was takingplace. l At first, he thought it was merely tiniaflava, a skin disease common among adolescent in thePhilippines. It had started around the neck and had spread to his extremities. His face looked as if it washealing from sever burns. Nevertheless, it was a young face much younger than Fil's, which had neverlooked young.

"I'm becoming a white man," Tony had said once, chuckling softly.

It was the same chuckle Fil seemed to have heard now, only this time it sounded derisive, insulting.

Fil said, "I know who's nuts. It's the sick guy with the sick thoughts. You don't care for nothing but yourpain, your imaginary pain."

"You're the imagining fellow. I got the real thing," Tony shouted from the room. He believed he hadsomething worse than the whiteness spreading on his skin. There was a pain in his insides, like dullscissors scraping his intestines. Angrily he added, "What for I got retired?"

"You're old, man, old, that's what, and sick, yes, but not cancer," Fil said turning towards the snow-filledsky. He pressed his faced against the glass window. There's about an inch now on the ground, hethought, maybe more.

Tony came out of his room looking as if he had not slept all night. "I know what I got," he said, as if itwere an honor and a privilege to die of cancer and Fill was trying to deprive him of it. "Never a pain likethis. One day, I'm just gonna die."

"Naturally. Who says you won't?" Fil argued, thinking how wonderful it would be if he could join thecompany of dancers from the Philippines, show them around walk with them in the snow, watch theireyes as they stared about them, answer their questions, tell them everything they wanted to know aboutthe changing seasons in this strange land. They would pick up fistfuls of snow, crunch it in their fingers orshove it into their mouths. He had done just that the first time, long, long ago, and it had reminded him

 

14

of the grated ice the Chinese sold near the town plaza where he had played tatching with an olderbrother who later drowned in a squall. How his mother had grieved over that death, she who has notcried too much when his father died, a broken man. Now they were all gone, quick death after a storm,or lingeringly, in a season of drought, all, all of them he had loved.

He continued, "All of us will die. One day. A medium bomb marked Chicago and this whole dump is tapus,finished. Who'll escape then?"

"Maybe your dancers will," Fil answered, now watching the snow himself.

"Of course, they will," Fil retorted, his voice sounding like a big assurance that all the dancers would besafe in his care. "The bombs won't be falling on this night. And when the dancers are back in thePhilippines..."

He paused, as if he was no longer sure of what he was going to say. "But maybe, even in the Philippinesthe bombs gonna fall, no?" he said, gazing sadly at the falling snow.

"What's that to you?" Tony replied. "You got no more folks over 'der right? I know it's nothing to me. I'llbe dead before that."

"Let's talk about something nice," Fil said, the sadness spreading on his face as he tried to smile. "Tellme, how will I talk, how am I gonna introduce myself?"

He would go ahead with his plans, introduce himself to the dancers and volunteer to take them sight-seeing. His car was clean and ready for his guests. He had soaped the ashtrays, dusted off the floorboards and thrown away the old mats, replacing them with new plastic throw rugs. He had got himself soaking wet while spraying the car, humming, as he worked, faintly-remembered tunes from the oldcountry.

Fill shook his head as he waited for Tony to say something. "Gosh, I wish I had your looks, even withthose white spots, then I could face everyone of them," he said, "but this mug."

"That's the important thing, you mug. It's your calling card. It says, Filipino. Countrymen," Tony said.

"You're not fooling me, friend," Fil said. "This mug says, Ugly Filipino. It says, old-timer, muchacho. Itsays Pinoy, bejo."

For Fil, time was the villain. In the beginning, the words he often heard were: too young, too young; butall of a sudden, too young became too old, too late. What happened in between, a mist covering allthings. You don't have to look at your face in a mirror to know that you are old, suddenly old, grownuseless for a lot of things land too late for all the dreams you had wrapped up w ell against a day of need.

"It also says sucker," Fil answered, "but who wants a palace when they can have the most deliciousadobo here ands the best stuffed chicken... yum...yum..."

Tony was angry, "Yum, yum, you're nuts," he said, "plain and simple loco. What for you want to spend?You've been living on loose change all your life and now on dancing kids who don't know you and won'teven send you a card afterwards."

"Never mind the cards," Fil answered. "Who wants cards? But don't you see, they'll be happy; and then,you know what? I'm going to keep their voices, their words and their singing and their laughter in mymagic sound mirror."

He had a portable tape recorder and a stack of recordings, patiently labeled, songs and speeches. Thesongs were in English, but most of the speeches were in the dialect, debates between him and Tony. It

 

15

was evident Tony was the better speaker of the two in English, but in the dialect, Fil showed greatermastery. His style, however, was florid, sentimental, poetic.

Without telling Tony, he had experimented on recording sounds, like the way a bed creaked, doorsopening and closing, rain or sleet tapping on the window panes, footsteps through the corridor. He wasbeginning to think that they did. He was learning to identify each of the sounds with a particular mood orfact. Sometimes, like today, he wished that there was a way of keeping a record of silence because it wasto him the richest sound, like snow falling. He wondered as he watched the snow blowing in the wind,what took care of that moment if memory didn't. Like time, memory was often a villain, a betrayer.

"Fall, snow, fall," he murmured and, turning to Tony, said, "As soon as they accept my invitation, I'll callyou up. No, you don't have to do anything, but I'd want to be here to meet them."

"I'm going out myself," Tony said. "And I don't know what time I'll be back."Then he added. "You're notworking today. Are you on leave?"

"For two days. While the dancers are here." Fil said.

"It still don't make sense to me," Tony said. "But good luck, any way."

"Aren't you going to see them tonight? Our reserved seats are right out in front, you know."

"I know. But I'm not sure I can come."

"What? You're not sure?"

Fil could not believe it. Tony was indifferent. Something must be wrong with him. He looked at himclosely, saying nothing.

"I want to, but I'm sick Fil. I tell you, I'm not feeling so good. My doctor will know today. He'll tell me."Tony said.

"What will he tell you?"

"How do I know?"

"I mean, what's he trying to find out?"

"If it's cancer," Tony said. l Without saying another word, he went straight back to is room.

Fil remembered those times, at night, when Tony kept him awake with his moaning. When he called outto him, asking, "Tony, what's the matter?" his sighs ceased for a while, but afterwards, Tony screamed,deadening his cries with a pillow against his mouth. When Fill rushed to his side, Tony dove him aboutthe previous night, he would reply, "I was dying," but it sounded more like disgust overt a namelessannoyance.

Fil has misgivings, too, about the whiteness spreading on Tony's skin. He had heard of leprosy. Everytime he thought of that dreaded disease, he felt tears in his eyes. In all the years he had been inAmerica, he had not has a friend until he meet Tony whom he liked immediately and, in a way,worshipped, for all the things the man had which Fil knew he himself lacked.

They had shared a lot together. They made merry on Christmas, sometimes got drunk and became loud.Fil recited poems in the dialect and praised himself. Tony fell to giggling and cursed all the railroadcompanies of America. But last Christmas, they hadn't gotten drunk. They hadn't even talked to eachother on Christmas day. Soon, it would be Christmas again.

 

16

The snow was still falling.

"Well, I'll be seeing you," Fil said, getting ready to leave. "Try to be home on time. I shall invites thedancers for luncheon or dinner maybe, tomorrow. But tonight, let's go to the theater together, ha?"

"I'll try," Tony answered. He didn't need boots. He loved to walk in the snow.

The air outside felt good. Fil lifted his face to the sky and closed his eyes as the snow and a wet winddrench his face. He stood that way for some time, crying, more, more to himself, drunk with snow andcoolness. His car was parked a block away. As he walked towards it, he plowed into the snow with onefoot and studied the scar he made, a hideous shape among perfect footmarks. He felt strong as his lungsfilled with the cold air, as if just now it did not matter too much that he was the way he looked and hisEnglish way the way it was. But perhaps, he could talk to the dancers in his dialect. Why not?

A heavy frosting of snow covered his car and as he wiped it off with his bare hands, he felt light andyoung, like a child at play, and once again, he raised his face to the sky and licked the flakes, cold andtasteless on his tongue.

When Fil arrived at the Hamilton, it seemed to him the Philippine dancers had taken over the hotel. Theywere all over the lobby on the mezzanine, talking in groups animatedly, their teeth sparkling as theylaughed, their eyes disappearing in mere slits of light. Some of the girls wore their black hair long. For amoment, the sight seemed too much for him who had but all forgotten how beautiful Philippine girlswere. He wanted to look away, but their loveliness held him. He must do something, close his eyesperhaps. As he did so, their laughter came to him like a breeze murmurous with sounds native to hisland.

Later, he tried to relax, to appear inconspicuous. True, they were all very young, but there were a fewelderly men and women who must have been their chaperons or well-wishers like him. He would smile ateveryone who happened to look his way. Most of them smiled back, or rather, seemed to smile, but itwas quick, without recognition, and might not have been for him but for someone else near or behindhim.

His lips formed the words he was trying to phrase in his mind: Ilocano ka? Bicol? Ano na, paisano?Comusta? Or should he introduce himself---How? For what he wanted to say, the words didn't come tooeasily, they were unfamiliar, they stumbled and broke on his lips into a jumble of incoherence.

Suddenly, he felt as if he was in the center of a group where he was not welcome. All the things he hadbeen trying to hide now showed: the age in his face, his horny hands. He knew it the instant he wantedto shake hands with the first boy who had drawn close to him, smiling and friendly. Fil put his hands inhis pocket.

Now he wished Tony had been with him. Tony would know what to do. He would harm these youngpeople with his smile and his learned words. Fil wanted to leave, but he seemed caught up in the tangleof moving bodies that merged and broke in a fluid strangle hold. Everybody was talking, mostly inEnglish. Once in a while he heard exclamations in the dialect right out of the past, conjuring up playtime,long shadows of evening on the plaza, barrio fiestas, misa de gallo.

Time was passing and he had yet to talk to someone. Suppose he stood on a chair and addressed themin the manner of his flamboyant speeches recorded in his magic sound mirror?

"Beloved countrymen, lovely children of the Pearl of the Orient Seas, listen to me. I'm Fil Acayan. I'vecome to volunteer my services. I'm yours to command. Your servant. Tell me where you wish to go, whatyou want to see in Chicago. I know every foot of the lakeshore drive, all the gardens and the parks, themuseums, the huge department stores, the planetarium. Let me be your guide. That's what I'm offeringyou, a free tour of Chicago, and finally, dinner at my apartment on West Sheridan Road--pork adobo and

 

17

chicken relleno, name your dish. How about it, paisanos?"

No. That would be a foolish thing to do. They would laugh at him. He felt a dryness in his throat. He wassweating. As he wiped his face with a handkerchief, he bumped against a slim, short girl who quitegracefully, stepped aside, and for a moment he thought he would swoon in the perfume that envelopedhim. It was fragrance, essence of camia, of ilang-ilang, and dama de noche.

Two boys with sleek, pomaded hair were sitting near an empty chair. He sat down and said in the dialect,"May I invite you to my apartment?" The boys stood up, saying, "Excuse us, please," and walked away.He mopped his brow, but instead of getting discouraged, he grew bolder as though he hand moved onestep beyond shame. Approaching another group, he repeated his invitation, and a girl with a mole on herupper lip, said, "Thank you, but we have no time." As he turned towards another group, he felt their eyeson his back. Another boy drifted towards him, but as soon as he began to speak, the boy said, "Pardon,please," and moved away.

They were always moving away. As if by common consent, they had decided to avoid him, ignore hispresence. Perhaps it was not their fault. They must have been instructed to do so. Or was it his looks thatkept them away? The though was a sharpness inside him.

After a while, as he wandered about the mezzanine, among the dancers, but alone, he noticed that theyhad begun to leave. Some had crowded noisily into the two elevators. He followed the others going downthe stairs. Through the glass doors, he saw them getting into a bus parked beside the subway entranceon Dearborn.

The snow had stopped falling; it was melting fast in the sun and turning into slush.

As he moved about aimlessly, he felt someone touch him on the sleeve. It was one of the dancers, amere boy, tall and thin, who was saying, "Excuse, please." Fil realized he was in the way betweenanother boy with a camera and a group posing in front of the hotel.

"Sorry," Fill said, jumping away awkwardly.

The crowd burst out laughing.

Then everything became a blur in his eyes, a moving picture out of focus, but gradually, the figurecleared, there was mud on the pavement on which the dancers stood posing, and the sun throw shadowsat their feet.

Let them have fun, he said to himself, they're young and away from home. I have no business up theirschedule, forcing my company on them.

He watched the dancers till the last of them was on the bus. The voices came to him, above the trafficsounds. They waved their hands and smiled towards him as the bus started. Fil raised his hand to waveback, but stopped quickly, aborting the gesture. He turned to look behind him at whomever the dancerswere waving their hands to. There was no one there except his own reflection in the glass door, a doubleexposure of himself and a giant plant with its thorny branches around him like arms in a loving embrace.

Even before he opened the door to their apartment, Fil knew that Tony had not yet arrived. There wereno boots outside on the landing. Somehow he felt relieved, for until then he did not know how he wasgoing to explain his failure.

From the hotel, he had driven around, cruised by the lakeshore drive, hoping he could see the dancerssomewhere, in a park perhaps, taking pictures of the mist over the lake and the last gold on the treesnow wet with melted snow, or on some picnic grounds, near a bubbling fountain. Still taking pictures of themselves against a background of Chicago's gray and dirty skyscrapers. He slowed down every time hesaw a crowd, but the dancers were nowhere along his way. Perhaps they had gone to the theater to

 

18

rehearse. He turned back before reaching Evanston.

He felt weak, not hungry. Just the same, he ate, warming up some left-over food. The rice was cold, butthe soup was hot and tasty. While he ate, he listened for footfalls.

Afterwards, he lay down on the sofa and a weariness came over him, but he tried hard not to sleep. Ashe stared at the ceiling, he felt like floating away, but he kept his eyes open, willing himself hard toremain awake. He wanted to explain everything to Tony when he arrived. But soon his eyes closedagainst a weary will too tired and weak to fight back sleep--and then there were voices. Tony was in theroom, eager to tell his own bit of news.

"I've discovered a new way of keeping afloat," he was saying.

"Who wants to keep afloat?" Fil asked.

"Just in case. In a shipwreck, for example," Tony said.

"Never mind shipwrecks. I must tell you about the dancers," Fil said.

"But this is important," Tony insisted. "This way, you can keep floating indefinitely."

"What for indefinitely?" Fil asked.

"Say in a ship... I mean, in an emergency, you're stranded without help in the middle of the Pacific or theAtlantic, you must keep floating till help comes..." Tony explained.

"More better," Fil said, "find a way to reach shore before the sharks smells you. You discover that."

"I will," Tony said, without eagerness, as though certain that there was no such way, that, after all, hisdiscovery was worthless.

"Now you listen to me," Fil said, sitting up abruptly. As he talked in the dialect, Tony listened withincreasing apathy.

"There they were," Fil began, his tone taking on the orator's pitch, "Who could have been my children if Ihad not left home-- or yours, Tony. They gazed around them with wonder, smiling at me, answering myquestions, but grudgingly, edging away as if to be near me were wrong, a violation in their rule book. Butit could be that every time I opened my mouth, I gave myself away. I talked in the dialect, Ilocano,Tagalog, Bicol, but no one listened. They avoided me. They had been briefed too well: Do not talk tostrangers. Ignore their invitations. Be extra careful in the big cities like New York and Chicago, beware of the old-timers, the Pinoys. Most of them are bums. Keep away ;from them. Be on the safe side--sticktogether, entertain only those who have been introduced to you properly.

"I'm sure they had such instructions, safety measures, they must have called them. What then could Ihave done, scream out my good intentions, prove my harmlessness and my love for them by beating mybreast? Oh, but I loved them. You see, I was like them once. I, too, was nimble with my feet, gracefulwith my hands; and I had the tongue of a poet. Ask the village girls and the envious boys from the city--but first you have to find them. After these many years, it won't be easy. You'll have to search everysuffering pace in the village gloom for a hint of youth and beauty or go where the grave-yards are andthe tombs under the lime trees. One such face...oh, God, what am I saying...

"All I wanted was to talk to them, guide them around Chicago, spend money on them so that they wouldhave something special to remember about us here when they return to our country. They would telltheir folks: We melt a kind, old man, who took us to his apartment. It was not much of a place. It wasold-like him. When we sat on the sofa in the living room, the bottom sank heavily, the broken springstouching the floor. But what a cook that man was! And how kind! We never thought that rice and adobo

 

19

could be that delicious. And the chicken relleno! When someone asked what the stuffing was--we hadnever tasted anything like it, he smiled saying, 'From heaven's supermarket' touching his head andpressing his heart like a clown as if heaven were there. He had his tape recorder which he called a magicsound mirror, and he had all of us record our voices. Say anything in the dialect, sing, if you please, ourkundiman, please, he said, his eyes pleading, too. Oh, we had fun listening to the playback. When you'regone, the old man said, I shall listen to your voices with my eyes closed and you'll be here again and Iwon't ever be alone, no, not anymore, after this. We wanted to cry, but he looked very funny, so welaughed and he laughed with us.

"But, Tony, they would not come. They thanked me, but they said they had no time. Others said nothing.They looked through me. I didn't exist. Or worse, I was unclean. Basura. Garbage. They were ashamedme. How could I be Filipino?"

The memory, distinctly recalled, was a rock on his breast. He grasped for breath.

"Now, let me teach you how to keep afloat," Tony said, but is was not Tony's voice.

Fil was alone and gasping for air. His eyes opened slowly till he began to breathe more easily. The skyoutside was gray. He looked at his watch--a quarter past five. The show would begin at eight. There wastime. Perhaps Tony would be home soon.

The apartment was warming up. The radiators sounded full of scampering rats. He had a recording of that in his sound mirror.

Fil smiled. He had an idea. He would take the sound mirror to the theater, take his seat close to thestage, and make tape recordings of the singing and the dances.

Now he was wide-awake and somehow pleased with himself. The more he thought of the idea, the betterhe felt. If Tony showed up now... He sat up, listening. The radiators were quiet. There were no footfalls,no sound of a key turning.

Late that night, back from the theater, Fill knew at once that Tony was back. The boots were outside thedoor. He, too, must be tired, and should not be disturb.

He was careful not to make any noise. As he turned on the floor lamp, he thought that perhaps Tony wasawake and waiting for him. They would listen together to a playback of the dances and songs Tony hadmissed. Then he would tell Tony what happened that day, repeating part of the dream.

From Tony's bedroom came the regular breathing of a man sound asleep. To be sure, he looked into theroom and in the half-darkness, Tony's head showed darkly, deep in a pillow, on its side, his knees bent,almost touching the clasped hands under his chin, an oversized fetus in the last bottle. Fill shut the doorbetween them and went over to the portable. Now. He turned it on to low. At first nothing but static andodd sounds came through, but soon after there was the patter of feet to the rhythm of a familiar melody.

All the beautiful boys and girls were in the room now, dancing and singing. A boy and a girl sat on thefloor holding two bamboo poles by their ends flat on floor, clapping them together, then apart, andpounding them on the boards, while dancers swayed and balanced their lithe forms, dipping their barebrown legs in and out of the clapping bamboos, the pace gradually increasing into a fury of wood onwood in a counterpoint of panic among the dancers and in a harmonious flurry of toes and anklesescaping certain pain--crushed bones, and bruised flesh, and humiliation. Other dances followed,accompanied by songs and live with the sounds of life and death in the old country; I go rot natives in G-strings walking down a mountainside; peasants climbing up a hill on a rainy day; neighbors moving ahouse, their sturdy legs showing under a moving roof; a distant gong sounding off a summons either to afeast for a wake. And finally, prolonged ovation, thunderous, wave upon wave...

 

20

"Turn that thing off!" Tony's voice was sharp above the echoes of the gongs and the applause settlinginto silence.

Fil switched off the dial and in the sudden stillness, the voices turned into faces, familiar and near, likegesture and touch that stayed on even as the memory withdrew, bowing out, as it were, in a gracefulexit, saying, thank you, thank you, before a ghostly audience that clapped hands in silence and stompedtheir feet in a such emptiness. He wanted to join the finale, such as it was, pretend that the curtain callincluded him, and attempt a shamefaced imitation of a graceful adieu, but he was stiff and old, incapableof grace; but he said, thank you, thank you, his voice sincere and contrite, grateful for the other voicesand the sound of singing and the memory.

"Oh, my God..." the man in the other room cried, followed by a moan of such anguish that Fil fell on hisknees, covering the sound mirror with his hands to muffle the sounds that had started again, it seemedto him, even after he had turned it off.

Then he remembered.

"Tony, what did the doctor say? What did he say?" he shouted and listened, holding his breath, no longerable to tell at the moment who had truly waited all day for the final sentence.

There was no answer. Meanwhile, under his hands, there was Tony saying? That was his voice, no? Filwanted to hear, he must know. He switched dials on and off, again and again, pressing buttons.Suddenly, he didn't know what to do. The spool were live, they kept turning. His arms went around themachine, his chest pressing down on the spools. In the quick silence, Tony's voice came clear.

"So they didn't come after all?"

"Tony, what did the doctor say?" Fil asked, straining hard to hear.

"I knew they wouldn't come. But that's okay. The apartment is old anyhow. And it smells of death."

"How you talk. In this country, there's a cure for everything."

"I guess we can't complain. We had it good here all the time. Most of the time, anyway."

"I wish, though, they had come. I could..."

"Yes, they could have. They didn't have to see me, but I could have seen them. I have seen theirpictures, but what do they really look like?"

"Tony, they're beautiful, all of them, but especially the girls. Their complexion, their grace, their eyes,they were what we call talking eyes, they say, things to you. And the scent of them!"

There was a sigh from the room soft, hardly like a sigh. A louder, grating sound, almost under his handsthat had relaxed their hold, called his attention. The sound mirror had kept going, the tape was fastunraveling.

"Oh, no! he screamed, noticing that somehow, he had pushed the eraser.

Frantically, he tried to rewind and play back the sounds and the music, but there was nothing now butthe full creaking of the tape on the spool and meaningless sounds that somehow had not been erased,the thud of dancing feet, a quick clapping of hands, alien voices and words: in this country...everything... all of them... talking eyes... and the scent... a fading away into nothingness, till about theend when there was a screaming, senseless kind of finale detached from the body of a song in thebackground, drums and sticks and the tolling of a bell.

 

21

"Tony! Tony!" Fil cried, looking towards the sick man's room, "I've lost them all."

Biting his lips, Fil turned towards the window, startled by the first light of the dawn. He hadn't realized tillthen the long night was over.

ZITA 

by Arturo B. Rotor  

TURONG brought him from Pauambang in his small sailboat, for the coastwise steamer did not stop atany little island of broken cliffs and coconut palms. It was almost midday; they had been standing in thatwhite glare where the tiniest pebble and fluted conch had become points of light, piercing-bright--themunicipal president, the parish priest, Don Eliodoro who owned almost all the coconuts, the herb doctor,the village character. Their mild surprise over when he spoke in their native dialect, they looked at himmore closely and his easy manner did not deceive them. His head was uncovered and he had a way of bringing the back of his hand to his brow or mouth; they read behind that too, it was not a gesture of protection. "An exile has come to Anayat… and he is so young, so young." So young and lonely andsufficient unto himself. There was no mistaking the stamp of a strong decision on that brow, the brow of those who have to be cold and haughty, those shoulders stooped slightly, less from the burden that theybore than from a carefully cultivated air of unconcern; no common school-teacher could dress socarelessly and not appear shoddy.

They had prepared a room for him in Don Eliodoro's house so that he would not have to walk far toschool every morning, but he gave nothing more than a glance at the big stone building with its Spanishazotea, its arched doorways, its flagged courtyard. He chose instead Turong's home, a shaky hut nearthe sea. Was the sea rough and dangerous at times? He did not mind it. Was the place far from thechurch and the schoolhouse? The walk would do him good. Would he not feel lonely with nobody but anilliterate fisherman for a companion? He was used to living alone. And they let him do as he wanted, forthe old men knew that it was not so much the nearness of the sea that he desired as its silence so thathe might tell it secrets he could not tell anyone else.

They thought of nobody but him; they talked about him in the barber shop, in the cockpit, in the sari-saristore, the way he walked, the way he looked at you, his unruly hair. They dressed him in purple andlinen, in myth and mystery, put him astride a black stallion, at the wheel of a blue automobile. Mr.Reteche? Mr. Reteche! The name suggested the fantasy and the glitter of a place and people they neverwould see; he was the scion of a powerful family, a poet and artist, a prince.

That night, Don Eliodoro had the story from his daughter of his first day in the classroom; she perchedwide-eyed, low-voiced, short of breath on the arm of his chair.

"He strode into the room, very tall and serious and polite, stood in front of us and looked at us all overand yet did not seem to see us.

" 'Good morning, teacher,' we said timidly.

"He bowed as if we were his equals. He asked for the fist of our names and as he read off each one welooked at him long. When he came to my name, Father, the most surprising thing happened. He startedpronouncing it and then he stopped as if he had forgotten something and just stared and stared at thepaper in his hand. I heard my name repeated three times through his half-closed lips, 'Zita. Zita. Zita.'

" 'Yes sir, I am Zita.'

"He looked at me uncomprehendingly, inarticulate, and it seemed to me, Father, it actually seemed thathe was begging me to tell him that that was not my name, that I was deceiving him. He looked somiserable and sick I felt like sinking down or running away.

 

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" 'Zita is not your name; it is just a pet name, no?'

" 'My father has always called me that, sir.'

" 'It can't be; maybe it is Pacita or Luisa or--'

"His voice was scarcely above a whisper, Father, and all the while he looked at me begging, begging. Ishook my head determinedly. My answer must have angered him. He must have thought I was veryhard-headed, for he said, 'A thousand miles, Mother of Mercy… it is not possible.' He kept on looking atme; he was hurt perhaps that he should have such a stubborn pupil. But I am not really so, Father?"

"Yes, you are, my dear. But you must try to please him, he is a gentleman; he comes from the city. I wasthinking… Private lessons, perhaps, if he won't ask too much." Don Eliodoro had his dreams and she washis only daughter.

Turong had his own story to tell in the barber shop that night, a story as vividly etched as the lonecoconut palm in front of the shop that shot up straight into the darkness of the night, as vaguelydisturbing as the secrets that the sea whispered into the night.

"He did not sleep a wink, I am sure of it. When I came from the market the stars were already out and Isaw that he had not touched the food I had prepared. I asked him to eat and he said he was not hungry.He sat by the window that faces the sea and just looked out hour after hour. I woke up three timesduring the night and saw that he had not so much as changed his position. I thought once that he wasasleep and came near, but he motioned me away. When I awoke at dawn to prepare the nets, he wasstill there."

"Maybe he wants to go home already." They looked up with concern.

"He is sick. You remember Father Fernando? He had a way of looking like that, into space, seeingnobody, just before he died."

Every month there was a letter that came for him, sometimes two or three; large, blue envelopes with agold design in the upper left hand comer, and addressed in broad, angular, sweeping handwriting. Onetime Turong brought one of them to him in the classroom. The students were busy writing a compositionon a subject that he had given them, "The Things That I Love Most." Carelessly he had opened the letter,carelessly read it, and carelessly tossed it aside. Zita was all aflutter when the students handed in theirwork for he had promised that he would read aloud the best. He went over the pile two times, and onceagain, absently, a deep frown on his brow, as if he were displeased with their work. Then he stopped andpicked up one. Her heart sank when she saw that it was not hers, she hardly heard him reading:

"I did not know any better. Moths are not supposed to know; they only come to the light. And the lightlooked so inviting, there was no resisting it. Moths are not supposed to know, one does not even knowone is a moth until one's wings are burned."

It was incomprehensible, no beginning, no end. It did not have unity, coherence, emphasis. Why did hechoose that one? What did he see in it? And she had worked so hard, she had wanted to please, she hadwritten about the flowers that she loved most. Who could have written what he had read aloud? She didnot know that any of her classmates could write so, use such words, sentences, use a blue paper to writeher lessons on.

But then there was little in Mr. Reteche that the young people there could understand. Even his wordswere so difficult, just like those dark and dismaying things that they came across in their readers, whichtook them hour after hour in the dictionary. She had learned like a good student to pick out the wordsshe did not recognize, writing them down as she heard them, but it was a thankless task. She had awhole notebook filled now, two columns to each page:

 

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esurient greedy.Amaranth a flower that never fades.peacock a large bird with lovely gold and

green feathers.MirashThe last word was not in the dictionary.

And what did such things as original sin, selfishness, insatiable, actress of a thousand faces mean, andwho were Sirse, Lorelay, other names she could not find anywhere? She meant to ask him someday,someday when his eyes were kinder.

He never went to church, but then, that always went with learning and education, did it not? One nightBue saw him coming out of the dim doorway. He watched again and the following night he saw himagain. They would not believe it, they must see it with their own eyes and so they came. He did not go inevery night, but he could be seen at the most unusual hours, sometimes at dusk, sometimes at dawn,once when it was storming and the lightning etched ragged paths from heaven to earth. Sometimes hestayed for a few minutes, sometimes he came twice or thrice in one evening. They reported it to FatherCesareo but it seemed that he already knew. "Let a peaceful man alone in his prayers." The answer hadsurprised them.

The sky hangs over Anayat, in the middle of the Anayat Sea, like an inverted wineglass, a glass whosewine had been spilled, a purple wine of which Anayat was the last precious drop. For that is Anayat in thecrepuscule, purple and mellow, sparkling and warm and effulgent when there is a moon, cool and headyand sensuous when there is no moon.

One may drink of it and forget what lies beyond a thousand miles, beyond a thousand years; one may sipit at the top of a jagged cliff, nearer peace, nearer God, where one can see the ocean dashing against therocks in eternal frustration, more moving, more terrible than man's; or touch it to his lips in the lushshadows of the dama de noche, its blossoms iridescent like a thousand fireflies, its bouquet the fragranceof flowers that know no fading.

Zita sat by her open window, half asleep, half dreaming. Francisco B. Reteche; what a name! What couldhis nickname be. Paking, Frank, Pa… The night lay silent and expectant, a fairy princess waiting for thewhispered words of a lover. She was not a bit sleepy; already she had counted three stars that had fallento earth, one almost directly into that bush of dama de noche at their garden gate, where it had lightedthe lamps of a thousand fireflies. He was not so forbidding now, he spoke less frequently to himself, morefrequently to her; his eyes were still unseeing, but now they rested on her. She loved to remember thosemoments she had caught him looking when he thought she did not know. The knowledge came keenly,bitingly, like the sea breeze at dawn, like the prick of the rose's thorn, or--yes, like the purple liquid thather father gave the visitors during pintakasi which made them red and noisy. She had stolen a few dropsone day, because she wanted to know, to taste, and that little sip had made her head whirl.

Suddenly she stiffened; a shadow had emerged from the shrubs and had been lost in the other shadows.Her pulses raced, she strained forward. Was she dreaming? Who was it? A lost soul, an unvoiced thought,the shadow of a shadow, the prince from his tryst with the fairy princess? What were the words that hewhispered to her?

They who have been young once say that only youth can make youth forget itself; that life is a river bed;the water passes over it, sometimes it encounters obstacles and cannot go on, sometimes it flowsunencumbered with a song in every bubble and ripple, but always it goes forward. When its way isobstructed it burrows deeply or swerves aside and leaves its impression, and whether the impress will beshallow and transient, or deep and searing, only God determines. The people remembered the day whenhe went up Don Eliodoro's house, the light of a great decision in his eyes, and finally accepted thefather's request that he teach his daughter "to be a lady."

"We are going to the city soon, after the next harvest perhaps; I want her not to feel like a 'provinciana'

 

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when we get there."

They remembered the time when his walks by the seashore became less solitary, for now of afternoons,he would draw the whole crowd of village boys from their game of leapfrog or patintero and bring themwith him. And they would go home hours after sunset with the wonderful things that Mr. Reteche had toldthem, why the sea is green, the sky blue, what one who is strong and fearless might find at that exactplace where the sky meets the sea. They would be flushed and happy and bright-eyed, for he could standon his head longer than any of them, catch more crabs, send a pebble skimming over the breast of Anayat Bay farthest.

Turong still remembered those ominous, terrifying nights when he had got up cold and trembling to listento the aching groan of the bamboo floor, as somebody in the other room restlessly paced to and fro. Andhis pupils still remember those mornings he received their flowers, the camia which had fainted away ather own fragrance, the kampupot, with the night dew still trembling in its heart; receive them with asmile and forget the lessons of the day and tell them all about those princesses and fairies who dwelt inflowers; why the dama de noche must have the darkness of the night to bring out its fragrance; how thepetals of the ylang-ylang, crushed and soaked in some liquid, would one day touch the lips of somewondrous creature in some faraway land whose eyes were blue and hair golden.

Those were days of surprises for Zita. Box after box came in Turong's sailboat and each time theycontained things that took the words from her lips. Silk as sheer and perishable as gossamer, or heavyand shiny and tinted like the sunset sky; slippers with bright stones which twinkled with the leastmovement of her feet; a necklace of green, flat, polished stone, whose feel against her throat sent acurious choking sensation there; perfume that she must touch her lips with. If only there would alwaysbe such things in Turong's sailboat, and none of those horrid blue envelopes that he always brought. Andyet--the Virgin have pity on her selfish soul--suppose one day Turong brought not only those letters butthe writer as well? She shuddered, not because she feared it but because she knew it would be.

"Why are these dresses so tight fitting?" Her father wanted to know.

"In society, women use clothes to reveal, not to hide." Was that a sneer or a smile in his eyes? The gownshowed her arms and shoulders and she had never known how round and fair they were, how they couldexpress so many things.

"Why do these dresses have such bright colors?"

"Because the peacock has bright feathers."

"They paint their lips…"

"So that they can smile when they do not want to."

"And their eyelashes are long."

"To hide deception."

He was not pleased like her father; she saw it, he had turned his face toward the window. And as shecame nearer, swaying like a lily atop its stalk she heard the harsh, muttered words:

"One would think she'd feel shy or uncomfortable, but no… oh no… not a bit… all alike… comes naturally."

There were books to read; pictures, names to learn; lessons in everything; how to polish the nails, howto use a fan, even how to walk. How did these days come, how did they go? What does one do when oneis so happy, so breathless? Sometimes they were a memory, sometimes a dream.

 

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"Look, Zita, a society girl does not smile so openly; her eyes don't seek one's so--that reveals your truefeelings."

"But if I am glad and happy and I want to show it?"

"Don't. If you must show it by smiling, let your eyes be mocking; if you would invite with your eyes,repulse with your lips."

That was a memory.

She was in a great drawing room whose floor was so polished it reflected the myriad red and green andblue fights above, the arches of flowers and ribbons and streamers. All the great names of the capitalwere there, stately ladies in wonderful gowns who walked so, waved their fans so, who said one thingwith their eyes and another with their lips. And she was among them and every young and good-lookingman wanted to dance with her. They were all so clever and charming but she answered: "Please, I amtired." For beyond them she had seen him alone, he whose eyes were dark and brooding anddisapproving and she was waiting for him to take her.

That was a dream. Sometimes though, she could not tell so easily which was the dream and which thememory.

If only those letters would not bother him now, he might be happy and at peace. True he never answeredthem, but every time Turong brought him one, he would still become thoughtful and distracted. Like thattime he was teaching her a dance, a Spanish dance, he said, and had told her to dress accordingly. Herheavy hair hung in a big, carelessly tied knot that always threatened to come loose but never did; itsdark, deep shadows showing off in startling vividness how red a rose can be, how like velvet its petals.Her earrings--two circlets of precious stones, red like the pigeon's blood--almost touched her shoulders.The heavy Spanish shawl gave her the most trouble--she had nothing to help her but some pictures andmagazines--she could not put it on just as she wanted. Like this, it revealed her shoulder too much; thatway, it hampered the free movement of the legs. But she had done her best; for hours she had stoodbefore her mirror and for hours it had told her that she was beautiful, that red lips and tragic eyes werebecoming to her.

She'd never forget that look on his face when she came out. It was not surprise, joy, admiration. It wasas if he saw somebody there whom he was expecting, for whom he had waited, prayed.

"Zita!" It was a cry of recognition.

She blushed even under her rouge when he took her in his arms and taught her to step this way, glideso, turn about; she looked half questioningly at her father for disapproval, but she saw that there wasnothing there but admiration too. Mr. Reteche seemed so serious and so intent that she should learnquickly; but he did not deceive her, for once she happened to lean close and she felt how wildly his heartwas beating. It frightened her and she drew away, but when she saw how unconcerned he seemed, as if he did not even know that she was in his arms, she smiled knowingly and drew close again. Dreamily sheclosed her eyes and dimly wondered if his were shut too, whether he was thinking the same thoughts,breathing the same prayer.

Turong came up and after his respectful "Good evening" he handed an envelope to the school teacher. Itwas large and blue and had a gold design in one comer; the handwriting was broad, angular, sweeping.

"Thank you, Turong." His voice was drawling, heavy, the voice of one who has just awakened. With onemovement he tore the unopened envelope slowly, unconsciously, it seemed to her, to pieces.

"I thought I had forgotten," he murmured dully.

That changed the whole evening. His eyes lost their sparkle, his gaze wandered from time to time.

 

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Something powerful and dark had come between them, something which shut out the light, brought in achill. The tears came to her eyes for she felt utterly powerless. When her sight cleared she saw that hewas sitting down and trying to piece the letter together.

"Why do you tear up a letter if you must put it together again?" rebelliously.

He looked at her kindly. "Someday, Zita, you will do it too, and then you will understand."

One day Turong came from Pauambang and this time he brought a stranger. They knew at once that hecame from where the teacher came--his clothes, his features, his politeness--and that he had come forthe teacher. This one did not speak their dialect, and as he was led through the dusty, crooked streets,he kept forever wiping his face, gazing at the wobbly, thatched huts and muttering short, vehementphrases to himself. Zita heard his knock before Mr. Reteche did and she knew what he had come for. Shemust have been as pale as her teacher, as shaken, as rebellious. And yet the stranger was so cordial;there was nothing but gladness in his greeting, gladness at meeting an old friend. How strong he was;even at that moment he did not forget himself, but turned to his class and dismissed them for the day.

The door was thick and she did not dare lean against the jamb too much, so sometimes their voicesfloated away before they reached her.

"…like children… making yourselves… so unhappy."

"…happiness? Her idea of happiness…"

Mr. Reteche's voice was more low-pitched, hoarse, so that it didn't carry at all. She shuddered as helaughed, it was that way when he first came.

"She's been… did not mean… understand."

"…learning to forget…"

There were periods when they both became excited and talked fast and hard; she heard somebody'srestless pacing, somebody sitting down heavily.

"I never realized what she meant to me until I began trying to seek from others what she would not giveme."

She knew what was coming now, knew it before the stranger asked the question:

"Tomorrow?"

She fled; she could not wait for the answer.

He did not sleep that night, she knew he did not, she told herself fiercely. And it was not only hispreparations that kept him awake, she knew it, she knew it. With the first flicker of light she ran to hermirror. She must not show her feeling, it was not in good form, she must manage somehow. If her lipsquivered, her eyes must smile, if in her eyes there were tears… She heard her father go out, but she didnot go; although she knew his purpose, she had more important things to do. Little boys came up to thehouse and she wiped away their tears and told them that he was coming back, coming back, soon, soon.

The minutes flew, she was almost done now; her lips were red and her eyebrows penciled; the crimsonshawl thrown over her shoulders just right. Everything must be like that day he had first seen her in aSpanish dress. Still he did not come, he must be bidding farewell now to Father Cesareo; now he was inDoña Ramona's house; now he was shaking the barber's hand. He would soon be through and come toher house. She glanced at the mirror and decided that her lips were not red enough; she put on more

 

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color. The rose in her hair had too long a stem; she tried to trim it with her fingers and a thorn dugdeeply into her flesh.

Who knows? Perhaps they would soon meet again in the city; she wondered if she could not wheedle herfather into going earlier. But she must know now what were the words he had wanted to whisper thatnight under the dama de noche, what he had wanted to say that day he held her in his arms; otherthings, questions whose answers she knew. She smiled. How well she knew them!

The big house was silent as death; the little village seemed deserted, everybody had gone to theseashore. Again she looked at the mirror. She was too pale, she must put on more rouge. She tried tokeep from counting the minutes, the seconds, from getting up and pacing. But she was getting chilly andshe must do it to keep warm.

The steps creaked. She bit her lips to stifle a wild cry there. The door opened.

"Turong!"

"Mr. Reteche bade me give you this. He said you would understand."

In one bound she had reached the open window. But dimly, for the sun was too bright, or was her sightfailing?--she saw a blur of white moving out to sea, then disappearing behind a point of land so that shecould no longer follow it; and then, clearly against a horizon suddenly drawn out of perspective, "Mr.Reteche," tall, lean, brooding, looking at her with eyes that told her somebody had hurt him. It was likethat when he first came, and now he was gone. The tears came freely now. What matter, what matter?There was nobody to see and criticize her breeding. They came down unchecked and when she tried tobrush them off with her hand, the color came away too from her cheeks, leaving them bloodless, cold.Sometimes they got into her mouth and they tasted bitter.

Her hands worked convulsively; there was a sound of tearing paper, once, twice. She became suddenlyaware of what she had done when she looked at the pieces, wet and brightly stained with uneven streaksof red. Slowly, painfully, she tried to put the pieces together and as she did so a sob escaped deep fromher breast--a great understanding had come to her.