BEST PHILIPPINE SHORT STORIES: A NIGHT IN THE HILLS

A NIGHT IN THE HILLS
by Paz Marquez Benitez

HOW Gerardo Luna came by his dream no one could have told, not even he. He was a salesman in a jewelry store on Rosario street and had been little else. His job he had inherited from his father, one might say; for his father before him had leaned behind the self-same counter, also solicitous, also short-sighted and thin of hair.

After office hours, if he was tired, he took the street car to his home in Intramuros. If he was feeling well, he walked; not frequent­ly, however, for he was frail of constitution and not unduly thrifty. The stairs of his house were narrow and dark and rank with charac­teristic odors from a Chinese sari-sari store which occupied part of the ground floor.

He would sit down to a supper which savored strongly of Chinese cooking. He was a fastidious eater. He liked to have the courses spread out where he could survey them all. He would sample each and daintily pick out his favorite portions—the wing tips, the liver, the brains from the chicken course, the tail-end from the fish. He ate appreciatively, but rarely with much appetite. After supper he spent quite a time picking his teeth meditatively, thinking of this and that. On the verge of dozing he would perhaps think of the forest.

For his dream concerned the forest. He wanted to go to the forest. He had wanted to go ever since he could remember. The forest was beautiful. Straight-growing trees. Clear streams. A mountain brook which he might follow back to its source up among the clouds. Perhaps the thought that most charmed and enslaved him was of seeing the image of the forest in the water. He would see the infinitely far blue of the sky in the clear stream, as in his childhood, when playing in his father’s azotea, he saw in the water-jars an image of the sky and of the pomelo tree that bent over the railing, also to look at the sky in the jars.

Only once did he speak of this dream of his. One day, Ambo the gatherer of orchids came up from the provinces to buy some cheap ear-rings for his wife’s store. He had proudly told Gerardo that the orchid season had been good and had netted him over a thousand pesos. Then he talked to him of orchids and where they were to be found and also of the trees that he knew as he knew the palm of his hand. He spoke of sleeping in the forest, of living there for weeks at a time. Gerardo had listened with his prominent eyes staring and with thrills coursing through his spare body. At home he told his wife about the conversation, and she was interested in the business aspect of it.

“It would be nice to go with him once,” he ventured hopefully.

“Yes,” she agreed, “but I doubt if he would let you in on his business.”

“No,” he sounded apologetically. “But just to have the experience, to be out.”

“Out?” doubtfully.

“To be out of doors, in the hills,” he said precipitately.

“Why? That would be just courting discomfort and even sickness. And for nothing.”

He was silent.

He never mentioned the dream again. It was a sensitive, well-mannered dream which nevertheless grew in its quiet way. It lived under Gerardo Luna’s pigeon chest and filled it with something, not warm or sweet, but cool and green and murmurous with waters.

He was under forty. One of these days when he least expected it the dream would come true. How, he did not know. It seemed so unlikely that he would deliberately contrive things so as to make the dream a fact. That would he very difficult.

Then his wife died.

And now, at last, he was to see the forest. For Ambo had come once more, this time with tales of newly opened public land up on a forest plateau where he had been gathering orchids. If Gerardo was interested—he seemed to be—they would go out and locate a good piece. Gerardo was interested—not exactly in land, but Ambo need not be told.

He had big false teeth that did not quite fit into his gums. When he was excited, as he was now, he spluttered and stammered and his teeth got in the way of his words.

“I am leaving town tomorrow morning.” he informed Sotera. “Will—”

“Leaving town? Where are you going?”

“S-someone is inviting me to look at some land in Laguna.”

“Land? What are you going to do with land?”

That question had never occurred to him.

“Why,” he stammered, “Ra-raise something, I-I suppose.”

“How can you raise anything! You don’t know anything about it. You haven’t even seen a carabao!”

“Don’t exaggerate, Ate. You know that is not true.”

“Hitched to a carreton, yes; but hitched to a plow—”

“Never mind!” said Gerardo patiently. “I just want to leave you my keys tomorrow and ask you to look after the house.”

“Who is this man you are going with?”

“Ambo, who came to the store to buy some cheap jewelry. His wife has a little business in jewels. He suggested that I—g-go with him.”

He found himself then putting the thing as matter-of-factly and plausibly as he could. He emphasized the immense possibilities of land and waxed eloquently over the idea that land was the only form of wealth that could not he carried away.

“Why, whatever happens, your land will be there. Nothing can possibly take it away. You may lose one crop, two, three. Que importe! The land will still he there.”

Sotera said coldly, “I do not see any sense in it. How can you think of land when a pawnshop is so much more profitable? Think! People coming to you to urge you to accept their business. There’s Peregrina. She would make the right partner for you, the right wife. Why don’t you decide?”

“If I marry her, I’ll keep a pawnshop—no, if I keep a pawnshop I’ll marry her,” he said hurriedly.

He knew quite without vanity that Peregrina would take him the minute he proposed. But he could not propose. Not now that he had visions of himself completely made over, ranging the forest at will, knowing it thoroughly as Ambo knew it, fearless, free. No, not Peregrina for him! Not even for his own sake, much less Sotera’s.

Sotera was Ate Tere to him through a devious reckoning of rela­tionship that was not without ingenuity. For Gerardo Luna was a younger brother to the former mistress of Sotera’s also younger brother, and it was to Sotera’s credit that when her brother died after a death-bed marriage she took Gerardo under her wings and married him off to a poor relation who took good care of him and submitted his problem as well as her own to Sotera’s competent management. Now that Gerardo was a widower she intended to repeat the good office and provide him with another poor relation guaranteed to look after his physical and economic well-being and, in addition, guaranteed to stay healthy and not die on him. “Marrying to play nurse to your wife,” was certainly not Sotera’s idea of a worthwhile marriage.

This time, however, he was not so tractable. He never openly opposed her plans, but he would not commit himself. Not that he failed to realize the disadvantages of widowerhood. How much more comfortable it would be to give up resisting, marry good, fat Peregri­na, and be taken care of until he died for she would surely outlive him.

But he could not, he must not. Uncomfortable though he was, he still looked on his widowerhood as something not fortuitous, but a feat triumphantly achieved. The thought of another marriage was to shed his wings, was to feel himself in a small, warm room, while overhead someone shut down on him an opening that gave him the sky.

So to the hills he went with the gatherer of orchids.



AMONG the foothills noon found them. He was weary and wet with sweat.

“Can’t we get water?” he asked dispiritedly.

“We are coming to water,” said Ambo. “We shall be there in ten minutes.”

Up a huge scorched log Ambo clambered, the party following. Along it they edged precariously to avoid the charred twigs and branches that strewed the ground. Here and there a wisp of smoke still curled feebly out of the ashes.

“A new kaingin,” said Ambo. “The owner will be around, I suppose. He will not be going home before the end of the week. Too far.”

A little farther they came upon the owner, a young man with a cheerful face streaked and smudged from his work. He stood looking at them, his two hands resting on the shaft of his axe.

“Where are you going?” he asked quietly and casually. All these people were casual and quiet.

“Looking at some land,” said Ambo. “Mang Gerardo is from Manila. We are going to sleep up there.”

He looked at Gerardo Luna curiously and reviewed the two por­ters and their load. An admiring look slowly appeared in his likeable eyes.

“There is a spring around here, isn’t there? Or is it dried up?”

“No, there is still water in it. Very little but good.”

They clambered over logs and stumps down a flight of steps cut into the side of the hill. At the foot sheltered by an overhanging fern-covered rock was what at first seemed only a wetness. The young man squatted before it and lifted off a mat of leaves from a tiny little pool. Taking his tin cup he cleared the surface by trailing the bottom of the cup on it. Then he scooped up some of the water. It was cool and clear, with an indescribable tang of leaf and rock. It seemed the very essence of the hills.

He sat with the young man on a fallen log and talked with him. The young man said that he was a high school graduate, that he had taught school for a while and had laid aside some money with which he had bought this land. Then he had got married, and as soon as he could manage it he would build a home here near this spring. His voice was peaceful and even. Gerardo suddenly heard his own voice and was embarrassed. He lowered his tone and tried to capture the other’s quiet.

That house would be like those he had seen on the way—brown, and in time flecked with gray. The surroundings would be stripped bare. There would be san franciscos around it and probably beer bottles stuck in the ground. In the evening the burning leaves in the yard would send a pleasant odor of smoke through the two rooms, driving away the mosquitoes, then wandering out-doors again into the forest. At night the red fire in the kitchen would glow through the door of the batalan and would be visible in the forest,

The forest was there, near enough for his upturned eyes to reach. The way was steep, the path rising ruthlessly from the clearing in an almost straight course. His eyes were wistful, and he sighed tremulously. The student followed his gaze upward.

Then he said, “It must take money to live in Manila. If I had the capital I would have gone into business in Manila.”

“Why?” Gerardo was surprised.

“Why—because the money is there, and if one wishes to fish he must go where the fishes are. However,” he continued slowly after a silence, “it is not likely that I shall ever do that. Well, this little place is all right.”

They left the high school graduate standing on the clearing, his weight resting on one foot, his eyes following them as they toiled up the perpendicular path. At the top of the climb Gerardo sat on the ground and looked down on the green fields far below, the lake in the distance, the clearings on the hill sides, and then on the diminishing figure of the high school graduate now busily hacking away, making the most of the remaining hours of day-light. Perched above them all, he felt an exhilaration in his painfully drumming chest.

Soon they entered the dim forest.

Here was the trail that once was followed by the galleon traders when, to outwit those that lay in wait for them, they landed the treasure on the eastern shores of Luzon, and, crossing the Cordillera on this secret trail, brought it to Laguna. A trail centuries old. Stalwart adventurers, imperious and fearless, treasure coveted by others as imperious and fearless, carriers bent beneath burden almost too great to bear—stuff of ancient splendors and ancient griefs.



ON his bed of twigs and small branches, under a roughly contrived roof Gerardo lay down that evening after automatically crossing himself. He shifted around until at last he settled into a comfortable hollow. The fire was burning brightly, fed occasionally with dead branches that the men had collected into a pile. Ambo and the porters were sitting on the black oilcloth that had served them for a dining table. They sat with their arms hugging their knees and talked together in peaceable tones punctuated with brief laughter. From where he lay Gerardo Luna could feel the warmth of the fire on his face.

He was drifting into deeply contented slumber, lulled by the even tones of his companions. Voices out-doors had a strange quality. They blended with the wind, and, on its waves, flowed gently around and past one who listened. In the haze of new sleep he thought he was listening not to human voices, but to something more elemental. A warm sea on level stretches of beach. Or, if he had ever known such a thing, raindrops on the bamboos.

He awoke uneasily after an hour or two. The men were still talking, but intermittently. The fire was not so bright nor so warm.

Ambo was saying:

“Gather more firewood. We must keep the fire burning all night. You may sleep. I shall wake up once in a while to put on more wood.”

Gerardo was reassured. The thought that he would have to sleep in the dark not knowing whether snakes were crawling towards him was intolerable. He settled once more into light slumber.

The men talked on. They did not sing as boatmen would have done while paddling their bancas in the dark. Perhaps only sea-folk sang and hill-folk kept silence. For sea-folk bear no burdens to weigh them down to the earth. Into whatever wilderness of remote sea their wanderer’s hearts may urge them, they may load their treasures in sturdy craft, pull at the oar or invoke the wind, and raise their voices in song. The depths of ocean beneath, the height of sky above, and between, a song floating out on the darkness. A song in the hills would only add to the lonesomeness a hundredfold.

He woke up again feeling that the little twigs underneath him had suddenly acquired uncomfortable proportions. Surely when he lay down they were almost unnoticeable. He raised himself on his elbow and carefully scrutinized his mat for snakes. He shook his blanket out and once more eased himself into a new and smoother corner. The men were now absolutely quiet, except for their snoring. The fire was burning low. Ambo evidently had failed to wake up in time to feed it.

He thought of getting up to attend to the fire, but hesitated. He lay listening to the forest and sensing the darkness. How vast that darkness! Mile upon mile of it all around. Lost somewhere in it, a little flicker, a little warmth.

He got up. He found his limbs stiff and his muscles sore. He ­could not straighten his back without discomfort. He went out of the tent and carefully arranged two small logs on the fire. The air was chilly. He looked about him at the sleeping men huddled together and doubled up for warmth. He looked toward his tent, fit­fully lighted by the fire that was now crackling and rising higher. And at last his gaze lifted to look into the forest. Straight white trunks gleaming dimly in the darkness. The startling glimmer of a firefly. Outside of the circle of the fire was the measureless unknown, hostile now, he felt. Or was it he who was hostile? This fire was the only protection, the only thing that isolated this little strip of space and made it shelter for defenseless man. Let the fire go out and the unknown would roll in and engulf them all in darkness. He hastily placed four more logs on the fire and retreated to his tent.

He could not sleep. He felt absolutely alone. Aloneness was like hunger in that it drove away sleep.

He remembered his wife. He had a fleeting thought of God. Then he remembered his wife again. Probably not his wife as her­self, as a definite personality, but merely as a companion and a minis­terer to his comfort. Not his wife, but a wife. His mind recreated a scene which had no reason at all for persisting as a memory. There was very little to it. He had waked one midnight to find his wife sit­ting up in the bed they shared. She had on her flannel camisa de chino, always more or less dingy, and she was telling her beads. “What are you doing?” he had asked. “I forgot to say my prayers,” she had answered.

He was oppressed by nostalgia. And because he did not know what it was he wanted his longing became keener. Not for his wife, nor for his life in the city. Not for his parents nor even for his lost childhood. What was there in these that could provoke anything remotely resembling this regret? What was not within the life span could not be memories. Something more remote even than race memory. His longing went farther back, to some age in Paradise maybe when the soul of man was limitless and unshackled: when it embraced the infinite and did not hunger because it had the inexhaustible at its command.

When he woke again the fire was smoldering. But there was a light in the forest, an eerie light. It was diffused and cold. He wondered what it was. There were noises now where before had seemed only the silence itself. There were a continuous trilling, strange night-calls and a peculiar, soft clinking which recurred at regular intervals. Forest noises. There was the noise, too, of nearby waters.

One of the men woke up and said something to another who was also evidently awake, Gerardo called out.

“What noise is that?”

“Which noise?”

“That queer, ringing noise.”

“That? That’s caused by tree worms, I have been told.”

He had a sudden vision of long, strong worms drumming with their heads on the barks of trees.

“The other noise is the worm noise,” corrected Ambo. “That hissing. That noise you are talking about is made by crickets.”

“What is that light?” he presently asked.

“That is the moon,” said Ambo.

“The moon!” Gerardo exclaimed and fell silent. He would never understand the forest.

Later he asked, “Where is that water that I hear?”

“A little farther and lower, I did not wish to camp there because of the leeches. At daylight we shall stop there, if you wish.”

When he awoke again it was to find the dawn invading the forest. He knew the feel of the dawn from the many misas de gallo that he had gone to on December mornings. The approach of day-light gave him a feeling of relief. And he was saddened.

He sat quietly on a flat stone with his legs in the water and looked around. He was still sore all over. His neck ached, his back hurt, his joints troubled him. He sat there, his wet shirt tightly plastered over his meager form and wondered confusedly about many things. The sky showed overhead through the rift in the trees. The sun looked through that opening on the rushing water. The sky was high and blue. It was as it always had been in his dreams, beau­tiful as he had always thought it would be. But he would never come back. This little corner of the earth hidden in the hills would never again be before his gaze.

He looked up again at the blue sky and thought of God. God for him was always up in the sky. Only the God he thought of now was not the God he had always known. This God he was thinking of was another God. He was wondering if when man died and moved on to another life he would not find there the things he missed and so wished to have. He had a deep certainty that that would be so, that after his mortal life was over and we came against that obstruc­tion called death, our lives, like a stream that runs up against a dam, would still flow on, in courses fuller and smoother. This must be so. He had a feeling, almost an instinct, that he was not wrong. And a Being, all wise and compassionate, would enable us to remedy our frustrations and heartaches.

HE went straight to Sotera’s to get the key to his house. In the half light of the stairs he met Peregrina, who in the solicitous expression of her eyes saw the dust on his face, his hands, and his hair, saw the unkempt air of the whole of him. He muttered something polite and hurried up stairs, self-consciousness hampering his feet. Peregrina, quite without embarrassment, turned and climbed the stairs after him.

On his way out with the keys in his hand he saw her at the head of the stairs anxiously lingering. He stopped and considered her thoughtfully.

“Pereg, as soon as I get these clothes off I shall come to ask you a question that is very—very important to me.”

As she smiled eagerly but uncertainly into his face, he heard a jangling in his hand. He felt, queerly, that something was closing above his hand, and that whoever was closing it, was rattling the keys.

BEST PHILIPPINE SHORT STORIES: NANKING STORE

NANKING STORE
by Macario D. Tiu

I WAS only three years old then, but I have vivid memories of Peter and Linda's wedding. What I remember most was jumping and romping on their pristine matrimonial bed after the wedding. I would learn later that it was to ensure that their first-born would be a boy. I was chosen to do the honors because I was robust and fat.

I also remember that I got violently sick after drinking endless bottles of soft drinks. I threw up everything that I had eaten, staining Linda's shimmering satin wedding gown. Practically the entire Chinese community of the city was present. There was so much food that some Bisayan children from the squatter's area were allowed to enter the compound to eat in a shed near the kitchen.

During their first year of marriage, Linda often brought me to their house in Bajada. She and Peter would pick me up after nursery school from our store in their car. She would tell Mother it was her way of easing her loneliness, as all her relatives and friends were in Cebu, her hometown. Sometimes I stayed overnight with them.

I liked going there because she pampered me, feeding me fresh fruits as well as preserved Chinese fruits like dikiam, champoy and kiamoy. Peter was fun too, making me ride piggyback. He was very strong and did not complain about my weight.

Tua Poy, that's what she fondly called me. It meant Fatso. I called her Achi, and Peter, Ahiya. They were a happy couple. I would see them chase each other among the furniture and into the rooms. There was much laughter in the house. It was this happy image that played in my mind about Peter and Linda for a long time.

I was six years old when I sensed that something had gone wrong with their marriage. Linda left the Bajada house and moved into the upstairs portions of Nanking Store which was right across from Father's grocery store in Santa Ana. The Bajada residence was the wedding gift of Peter's parents to the couple. It was therefore strange that Linda would choose to live in Santa Ana while Peter would stay in Bajada, a distance of some three kilometers.

In Santa Ana where the Chinese stores were concentrated, the buildings used to be uniformly two storeys high. The first floor was the store; the second floor was the residence. In time some Chinese grew prosperous and moved out to establish little enclaves in different parts of the city and in the suburbs. We remained in Santa Ana.

One late afternoon, after school, I caught Linda at home talking with Mother.

"Hoa, Tua Poya. You've grown very tall!" Linda greeted me, ruffling my hair.

At that age, the show of affection made me feel awkward and I sidled up to Mother. Linda gave me two Mandarin oranges. I stayed at the table in the same room, eating an orange and pretending not to listen to their conversation.

I noticed that Linda's eyes were sad, not the eyes that I remembered. Her eyes used to be full of light and laughter. Now her eyes were somber even when her voice sounded casual and happy.

"I got bored in Bajada," Linda said. "I thought I'd help Peter at the store."

That was how she explained why she had moved to Santa Ana. I wanted to know if she could not do that by going to the store in the morning and returning home to Bajada at night like Peter did. I wished Mother would ask the question, but she did not.

However, at the New Canton Barbershop I learned the real reason. One night Mother told me to fetch Father because it was past eight o'clock and he hadn't had his dinner. As a family we ate early. Like most Chinese, we would close the store by five and go up to the second floor to eat supper.

The New Canton Barbershop served as the recreation center of our block. At night the sidewalk was brightly lighted, serving as the extension of the barbershop's waiting room. People congregated there to play Chinese chess, to read the Orient News or just talk. It was a very informal place. Father and the other elderly males would go there in shorts and sando shirts.

He was playing chess when I got there. He sat on a stool with one leg raised on the stool.

"Mama says you should go home and eat," I said.

Father looked at me and I immediately noticed that he had had a drink. The focus of his eyes was not straight.

"I have eaten. Go home. Tell Mother I'll follow in a short while," he said.

I stayed on and watched the game although I did not understand a thing.

"I said go home," Father said, glowering at me.

I did not budge.

"This is how children behave now. You tell them to do something and they won't obey," he complained to his opponent. Turning to me, he said, "Go home."

"Check," his opponent said.

"Hoakonga!" Father cried, "I turn around and you cheat me."

His opponent laughed aloud, showing toothless gums.

Father studied the chessboard. "Hoakonga! You've defeated me four times in a row!"

"Seven times."

"What? You're a big cheat and you know that. Certainly five times, no more!"

It elicited another round of laughter from the toothless man. Several people in the adjoining tables joined in the laughter. Father reset the chess pieces to start another game.

"You beat me in chess, but I have six children. All boys. Can you beat that?" he announced.

Father's laughter was very loud. When he had had a drink he was very talkative.

"See this?" he hooked his arm around my waist and drew me to his side. "This is my youngest. Can you beat this?"

The men laughed. They laughed very hard. I did not know what was funny, but it must be because of the incongruous sight of the two of us. He was very thin and I was very fat.

"Well, I have I seven children!" the toothless man said.

"Ah, four daughters. Not counted," Father said.

"Ah Kong! Ah Kong!" somebody said.

The laughter was deafening. Ah Kong lived several blocks away. He had ten children, all daughters, and his wife was pregnant again.

They laughed at their communal joke, but the laughter slowly died down until there was absolute silence. It was a very curious thing. Father saw Peter coming around the corner and he suddenly stopped laughing. The toothless man turned, saw Peter, and he stopped laughing, too. Anybody who saw Peter became instantly quiet so that by the time he was near the barbershop the group was absolutely silent.

It was Peter who broke the silence by greeting Father. He also greeted some people, and suddenly they were alive again. The chess pieces made scraping noises on the board, the newspapers rustled, and people began to talk.

"Hoa, Tua Poya, you've grown very tall!" he said, ruffling my hair.

I smiled shyly at him. He exchanged a few words with Father and then, ruffling my hair once more, he went away. It struck me that he was not the Peter I knew, vigorous and alert. This Peter looked tired, and his shoulders sagged.

I followed him with my eyes. Down the road I noted that his car was parked in front of Nanking Store. But he did not get into his car; instead he went inside the store. It was one of those nights when he would sleep in the store.

"A bad stock," the toothless man said, shaking his head. "Ah Kong has no bones. But Peter is a bad stock. A pity. After four years, still no son. Not even a daughter."

"It's the woman, not Peter," said a man from a neighboring table. "I heard they tried everything. She even had regular massage by a Bisayan medicine woman."

"It's sad. It's very sad," the toothless man said. "His parents want him to junk her, but he loves her."

When Father and I got home, I went to my First Brother's room.

"Why do they say that Ah Kong has no bones?" I asked my brother.

"Where did you learn that?" my brother asked.

"At the barbershop."

"Don't listen in on adult talk," he said. "It's bad manners."

"Well, what does it mean?"

"It means Ah Kong cannot produce a son."

"And what is a bad stock?"

My brother told me to go to sleep, but I persisted.

"It means you cannot produce any children. It's like a seed, see? It won't grow. Why do you ask?" he said.

"They say Peter is a bad stock."

"Well, that's what's going to happen to him if he won't produce a child. But it's not really Peter's problem. It is Linda's problem. She had an appendectomy when she was still single. It could have affected her."

Somehow I felt responsible for their having no children. I worried that I could be the cause. I hoped nobody remembered that I jumped on their matrimonial bed to give them good luck. I failed to give them a son. I failed to give them even a daughter. But nobody really blamed me for it. Everybody agreed it was Linda's problem.

That was why Linda had moved in to Santa Ana.

But the problem was more complicated than this. First Brother explained it all to me patiently. Peter's father was the sole survivor of the Zhin family. He had a brother but he died when still young. The family name was therefore in danger of dying out. It was the worst thing that could happen to a Chinese family, for the bloodline to vanish from the world. Who would pay respects to the ancestors? It was unthinkable. Peter was the family's only hope to carry on the family name, and he still remained childless.

But while everybody agreed that it was Linda's fault, some people also doubted Peter's virility. At the New Canton Barbershop it was the subject of drunken bantering. He was aware that people were talking behind his back. From a very gregarious man, he became withdrawn and no longer socialized.

Instead he put his energies into Nanking Store. His father had retired and had given him full authority. Under his management, Nanking Store expanded, eating up two adjacent doors. It was rumored he had bought a large chunk of Santa Ana and was diversifying into manufacturing and mining.

Once, I met him in the street and I smiled at him but he did not return my greeting. He did not ruffle my hair. He had become a very different man. His mouth was set very hard. He looked like he was angry at something.

The changes in Linda occurred over a period of time. At first, she seemed to be in equal command with Peter in Nanking Store. She had her own desk and sometimes acted as cashier. Later she began to serve customers directly as if she were one of the salesgirls.

Then her personal maid was fired. Gossip blamed this on Peter's parents. She lived pretty much like the three stay-in salesgirls and the young mestizo driver who cooked their own meals and washed their own clothes.

Members of the community whose opinions mattered began to sympathize with her because her in-laws were becoming hostile towards her openly. The mother-in-law made it known to everybody she was unhappy with her. She began to scold Linda in public. "That worthless, barren woman," she would spit out. Linda became a very jittery person. One time, she served tea to her mother-in-law and the cup slid off the saucer. It gave the mother-in-law a perfect excuse to slap Linda in the face in public.

Peter did not help her when it was a matter between his parents and herself. I think at that time he still loved Linda, but he always deferred to the wishes of his parents. When it was that he stopped loving her I would not know. But he had learned to go to night spots and the talk began that he was dating a Bisayan bar girl. First Brother saw this woman and had nothing but contempt for her.

"A bad woman," First brother told me one night about this woman. "All make-up. I don't know what he sees in her."

It seemed that Peter did not even try to hide his affair because he would occasionally bring the girl to a very expensive restaurant in Matina. Matina was somewhat far from Santa Ana, but the rich and mobile young generation Chinese no longer confined themselves to Santa Ana. Many of them saw Peter with the woman. As if to lend credence to the rumor, the occasional night visits he made at Nanking Store stopped. I would not see his car parked there at night again.

One day, Peter brought First Brother to a house in a subdivision in Mandug where he proudly showed him a baby boy. It was now an open secret that he kept his woman there and visited her frequently. First Brother told me about it after swearing me to secrecy, the way Peter had sworn him to secrecy.

"Well, that settles the question. Peter is no bad stock after all. It had been Linda all along," First Brother said.

It turned out Peter showed his baby boy to several other people and made them swear to keep it a secret. In no time at all everybody in the community knew he had finally produced a son. People talked about the scandal in whispers. A son by a Bisayan woman? And a bad woman at that? But they no longer joked about his being a bad stock.

All in all people were happy for Peter. Once again his prestige rose. Peter basked in this renewed respect. He regained his old self; he now walked with his shoulders straight, and looked openly into people's eyes. He also began to socialize at New Canton Barbershop. And whenever we met, he would ruffle my hair.

As for his parents, they acted as if nothing had happened. Perhaps they knew about the scandal, but pretended not to know. They were caught in a dilemma. On one hand, it should make them happy that Peter finally produced a son. On the other hand, they did not relish the idea of having a half-breed for a grandson, the old generation Chinese being conscious of racial purity. What was certain though was that they remained unkind to Linda.

So there came a time when nobody was paying any attention anymore to Linda, not even Peter. Our neighbors began to accept her fate. It was natural for her to get scolded by her mother-in-law in public. It was natural that she should stay with the salesgirls and the driver. She no longer visited with Mother. She rarely went out, and when she did, she wore a scarf over her head, as if she were ashamed for people to see her. Once in the street I greeted her--she looked at me with panic in her eyes, mumbled something, drew her scarf down to cover her face, and hurriedly walked away.

First Brother had told me once that Linda's degradation was rather a strange case. She was an educated girl, and although her family was not rich, it was not poor either. Why she allowed herself to be treated that way was something that baffled people. She was not that submissive before. Once, I was witness to how she stood her ground. Her mother-in-law had ordered her to remove a painting of an eagle from a living room wall of their Bajada house, saying it was bad feng shui. With great courtesy, Linda refused, saying it was beautiful. But the mother-in-law won in the end. She nagged Peter about it, and he removed the painting.

When the Bisayan woman gave Peter a second son, it no longer created a stir in the community. What created a minor stir was that late one night, when the New Canton Barbershop was about to close and there were only a few people left, Peter dropped by with his eldest son whom he carried piggyback. First Brother was there. He said everybody pretended the boy did not exist.

Then Peter died in a car accident in the Buhangin Diversion Road. He was returning from Mandug and a truck rammed his car, killing him instantly. I cried when I heard about it, remembering how he had been good to me.

At the wake, Linda took her place two rows behind her mother-in-law who completely ignored her. People passed by her and expressed their condolences very quickly, as if they were afraid of being seen doing so by the mother-in-law. At the burial, Linda stood stoically throughout the ceremony, and when Peter was finally interred, she swooned.

A few weeks after Peter's burial, we learned that Linda's mother-in-law wanted her out of Nanking Store. She offered Linda a tempting amount of money. People thought it was a vicious thing to do, but none could help her. It was a purely family affair. However, a month or two passed and Linda was still in Nanking Store. In fact, Linda was now taking over Peter's work.

I was happy to see that she had begun to stir herself to life. It was ironic that she would do so only after her husband's death. But at the same time, we feared for her. Her mother-in-law's hostility was implacable. She blamed Linda for everything. She knew about the scandal all along, and she never forgave Linda for making Peter the laughing stock of the community, forcing him into the arms of a Bisayan girl of an unsavory reputation and producing half-breed bastard sons.

We waited keenly for the showdown that was coming. A flurry of emissaries went to Nanking Store but Linda stood pat on her decision to stay. Then one morning, her mother-in-law herself came in her flashy Mercedes. We learned about what actually happened through our domestic helper who got her story from the stay-in salesgirls. That was how the entire community learned the details of the confrontation.

According to them, Linda ran upstairs to avoid talking to her mother-in-law. But the older woman followed and started berating her and calling her names. Linda kept her composure. She did not even retaliate when the older woman slapped her. But when the mother-in-law grabbed Linda's hair, intending to drag her down the stairs, Linda kicked her in the shin. The old woman went wild and flayed at Linda. Linda at first fought back defensively, but as the older woman kept on, she finally slapped her mother-in-law hard in the face. Stunned, the older woman retreated, shouting threats at her. She never showed her face in Santa Ana again.

While some conservative parties in the community did not approve of Linda's actions, many others cheered her secretly. They were sad, though, that the mother-in-law, otherwise a good woman, would become a cruel woman out of desperation to protect and perpetuate the family name.

Since the enmity had become violent, the break was now total and absolute. This family quarrel provided an interesting diversion in the entire community; we followed each and every twist of its development like a TV soap opera. When the in-laws hired a lawyer, Linda also hired her own lawyer. It was going to be an ugly fight over property.

Meanwhile, Linda's transformation fascinated the entire community. She had removed her scarf and made herself visible in the community again. I was glad that every time I saw her she was getting back to her old self. Indeed it was only then that I noticed how beautiful she was. She had well-shaped lips that needed no lipstick. Her eyes sparkled. Color had returned to her cheeks, accentuating her fine complexion. Blooming, the women said, seeming to thrive on the fight to remain in Nanking Store. The young men sat up whenever she passed by. But they would shake their heads, and say "What a pity, she's barren."

Then without warning the in-laws suddenly moved to Manila, bringing with them the two bastard sons. They made it known to everybody that it was to show their contempt for Linda. It was said that the other woman received a handsome amount so she would never disturb them again.

We all thought that was that. For several months an uneasy peace settled down in Nanking Store as the struggle shifted to the courts. People pursued other interests. Then to the utter horror of the community, they realized Linda was pregnant.

Like most people, I thought at first that she was just getting fat. But everyday it was getting obvious that her body was growing. People had mixed reactions. When she could not bear a child she was a disgrace. Now that she was pregnant, she was still a disgrace. But she did not care about what people thought or said about her. Wearing a pair of elastic pants that highlighted her swollen belly, she walked all over Santa Ana. She dropped by every store on our block and chatted with the storeowners, as if to make sure that everybody knew she was pregnant.

There was no other suspect for her condition but the driver. Nobody had ever paid him any attention before, and now they watched him closely. He was a shy mestizo about Peter's age. A very dependable fellow, yes. And good-looking, they now grudgingly admitted.

"Naughty, naughty," the young men teased him, some of whom turned unfriendly. Unused to attention, the driver went on leave to visit his parents in Iligan City.

One night, I arrived home to find Linda talking with Mother.

"Hoa, Tua Poya! You're so tall!" she greeted me. "Here are some oranges. I know you like them."

I said my thanks. How heavy with child she was!

"How old are you now?"

"Twelve," I said.

"Hmm, you're a man already. I should start calling you Napoleon, huh? Well, Napoleon, I've come here to say goodbye to your mother, and to you, too."

She smiled; it was the smile I remembered when I was still very young, the smile of my childhood.

"Tomorrow, I'm going to Iligan to fetch Oliver. Then we'll proceed to Cebu to visit my parents. Would you like to go with me?"

I looked at Mother. She was teary eyed. Linda stood up and ruffled my hair.

"So tall," she said.

That was two years ago. We have not heard from Linda again. Nanking Store remains closed. The store sign has streaked into pastel colors like a stale wedding cake. First Brother says it is best for Linda to stay away. As for me, I am happy for her but I keep wondering if she had given birth to a boy.