BEST PHILIPPINE SHORT STORIES: THE SUMMER I LEARNED TO BIKE

THE SUMMER I LEARNED TO BIKE
by E.L. Koh

I WAS around ten years old when the Americans liberated Manila. Years of hardship under the Japanese regime were finally coming to an end. Though the air that morning was no different from two days earlier when the Japanese soldiers left, there was some tension, a hurry-up kind of tension intensified by crowd noise--the sound of running footsteps and of people yelling for others to hurry up. Looking out through the iron grill of our living room window down the looban, I could see our neighbors, young and old, rushing past the rickety wooden bridge to Surbaran Street and farther on.

There was Mang Enteng without his fighting cock. He was in his usual faded undershirt with a black cigarette hanging from his lips, running like there was no tomorrow. Not far behind was Aling Isyang, our local gossip, dragging her wooden bakya and pulling up her skirt to run faster and keep pace with the crowd that was now becoming a mob. There was also Conrad, the handsome college basketball player and craze of the looban women. He too was running. It wasn't long before my good buddy Pitoy came and called me to join him.

"Madali ka, may luting sa Azcarraga," he yelled above the noise of the crowd.

"What looting?" I yelled back.

"Just come. Maybe we can get ourselves something. A bike maybe." Pitoy was firm. Living on the edge of the Tondo slums, we sometimes fantasized about owning bikes so we can go around like the rich boys of Santa Cruz and Binondo. We could even bike all the way to Santa Mesa to see those big houses we had only heard about.

"Okay," I yelled again and by way of taking leave, hollered to Inay and Ate Panching who were in the kitchen, "There's looting, they say."

I then headed for the door. Since my father's death, Inay had been very liberal about letting us kids come and go as we please. She set a curfew of ten o'clock, which we followed, give or take five minutes. My older sister was stricter in demanding that we tell her where we were going and what we were going to do. Inay said something I didn't catch. So did Ate Panching but I only heard the last part which sounded like "lipstick."

I left in a hurry in my undershirt, raggedy shorts and bare feet. My puny, lethargic body got into gear. There we were--two skinny boys, barely four feet tall, rushing to where everybody was heading, half-running, half-walking. As we turned the corner of O'Donnell and Surbaran, we saw more people heading for Azcarraga. In the bedlam, I lost sight of Pitoy who until then had been running next to me.

When I got to Azcarraga near Avenida Rizal, I saw men carting away all kinds of goods--clothes, radio, small appliances, and bikes--from the Chinese department stores that lined the streets. One man had a small bike in one hand, a frying pan in the other, and dresses draped over his shoulder. Someone asked where he got the bike. He pointed with his lips towards a store and said, "Duon." He continued on his way without losing a step. I knew he was going to leave them at home and come back for more.

I went straight to the store the man pointed to. I was deterred from joining the looters partly because of my Catholic upbringing but mostly out of fear of getting hurt or getting caught. The latter, of course, was almost impossible as there was no longer law and order but I didn't know that. To minimize my guilt, I went into the store after most of the looters had left. There was broken glass, furniture and garbage all over the place. Most of the merchandise was gone except for some broken and torn stuff. There was a loose bike wheel but somebody grabbed it before I could get it.

Being barefoot, I had to carefully pick my way to look around. I have been cut by a shard of glass before and it took forever to heal. In a corner behind the counter, I saw a stack of new calendars lying untouched. After some hesitation, I grabbed an armful and went out. At the next store, it was the same thing--ransacked, empty, broken glass and garbage all over, but nothing worthwhile to pick up. So I decided to go home with my calendars.

When I brought my loot home, Ate Panching blew her top. "Gago, why didn't you get something we could use?"

We could use these calendars, why not, I thought. We could have one in the living room, one in the bedroom where all five of us slept on the straw mat wall to wall, one in the kitchen and even one in the bathroom. Besides, the color picture of the nipa hut near the rice field was really nice, I said to myself. I didn't answer as she rattled off a list of things I should have picked up--the pots and pans Inay mentioned and the cosmetics she wanted.

I quickly took off for Azcarraga again. I knew I could do better this time. It was a good twenty minutes of half-run and half-walk. There were still a good number of people going my way and I blended in with them. By this time, the looters had picked up almost everything and had moved up several blocks along Avenida Rizal. As I scrounged around the nearly empty shelves of once glorious stores, I found more clutter and garbage than usable goods. There were piles of stationery I could use in school but they were not on Ate Panching's list.

I caught up with the main crowd and saw a few things that would have pleased her. But looters were fighting and grabbing the goods from each other. I saw cosmetics strewn about but was afraid of getting hurt so I stayed away. When the place cleared out, I picked up a lipstick and a small powder case, put them in my pocket and moved on. At another store, I saw a pile of toilet paper rolls. I wanted to string them up but there was no string so I gathered as many in my small arms as I could to take home.

As I got closer to home, it felt like my arms were about to fall off. Toilet paper wasn't heavy but it was bulky and made my arms stretch awkwardly during the long walk home. Even from afar, I could already see Ate Panching by our door with her arms akimbo. She didn't blow her top this time. When I got within earshot, she said, "Toilet paper lang? You better quit your looting before you get killed." I was grounded for the rest of the day. I wanted to give her the compact and lipstick bulging in my pocket but she was so mean to me.

"What will I do with these?" I said to myself as I fingered the cosmetics in my pocket. So I slowly dropped them on the floor and kicked them under the aparador. All the while I wondered how Pitoy did. I didn't see him the next day although there was looting still going on. Two days later, he came to our apartment and yelled for me under our grilled window. He showed off his spanking new bike.

"What? You got it!" I said as I looked in disbelief. I eyed the cross bar where I could sit to hitch a ride with him.

"Yeah, got it yesterday."

"How? I don't believe it. Are there any more? Can you show me where?"

"Sure. But you can't hitch a ride with me yet because I'm still learning how to ride it. Let's leave it at my home and we can go."

After walking briskly for some ten minutes, Pitoy turned to me and with a broad grin said, "Nah, it was Conrad who got it and gave it to me."

Now that really got me wondering. Although Conrad was popular in the looban, he was no philanthropist. I had seen him give a bag of mangoes to our neighbor Clarita once before but that was because he was courting her. At another time, he handed a bunch of hibiscus he picked from the bush to pretty Sonya. But a bike to Pitoy? I didn't believe it.

Pitoy and I walked back to our regular haunt behind the rickety Surbaran bridge. It was a clear spot covered by a discarded galvanized iron sheet. We sat on the broken benches and Pitoy told me how it happened.

"Remember last Christmas when I was delivering pyembreras of food for Aling Maria?" Indeed, he was. Aling Maria was in my opinion the best cook in our looban. I especially liked her dinuguan and her ginataan.

Several of our neighbors had their meals catered by her. There was Mrs. Malacon who was always in poor health and couldn't be bothered to cook for her husband and two kids. There was Aling Conching, the seamstress, who was advised not to wet her hands after working long hours with the sewing machine. Then there was young Mrs. Garcia who wouldn't let kitchen work ruin her beautiful hands, Cutex on her nails and all. We heard she didn't want kids because they would ruin her figure and that was why Mr. Garcia, who was an assistant manager at Tiger Store, spent more and more time at the store.

"Yeah, I know you made a lot of money then."

"Nah, that was only ten centavos a delivery in Japanese money and now it's worth nothing."

"So what happened?"

"You know when I deliver pyembreras to the houses, people usually left the payment on their kitchen table for me to pick up."

"So?"

"This time at Mrs. Garcia's house, there was no money. I thought she probably forgot so I walked to the bedroom where I heard some noise. The door was slightly open and I was going to call her when I heard heavy breathing. I peeked in and saw Conrad half-naked on top of Mrs. Garcia. They didn't see me but I knew they were doing you know what."

"Yay! Why didn't you tell me that before?"

"I couldn't."

"And where was Mr. Garcia?"

"You know he was at the store and wouldn't be home till late that night."

"Did you stay and watch? What did you do?"

"I was scared. I tip-toed softly back to the kitchen, took the pyembrera and went back out. I then knocked loudly on the apartment door and called out, 'Mrs. Garcia, here's your pyembrera. Will you bring me the money? I am late.' I had to wait a few minutes before she came to the door in her bathrobe."

"What did she say?"

"She said she was in the bathroom. I tell you, Tony. She is the most beautiful woman I ever saw." Pitoy then told me how he pretended to hurry but went to hide a few doors down the street and waited for Conrad to come out. When he finally did fifteen minutes later, Pitoy sauntered towards him and asked how he liked the bistek, the beef steak in soy sauce, Pitoy had just delivered to Mrs. Garcia.

"What do you mean?" Conrad asked, his face a little flushed.

"Oh, I just delivered the pyembrera to Mrs. Garcia. I brought it to the kitchen but took it out again when I saw you were busy in the bedroom. You heard me yell from the door, didn't you?"

Conrad, though proud of his sexual conquests, hated it when caught red-handed. He grabbed Pitoy by the collar and threatened to kill him if he ever repeated to anyone what he had just said. He quickly let go when he saw Aling Isyang some distance in the looban. He glared at Pitoy. When he cooled down, he promised Pitoy a reward if he kept his mouth shut.

"So that's why he gave you the bike?"

"In a way, yes. You see when you and I got separated at O'Donnell I just kept going to Avenida Rizal and up towards Times Cinema. I was almost all the way to the bike shop on Carriedo Street when I saw Conrad coming out of the store with a big radio in one hand and steering a bike out with his other hand. I ran to him and asked if there were any more bikes left. He said yes but that I wouldn't be able to get one because I wasn't strong and big enough."

"So how did you get it?"

"I begged him to go back in and get even a small one while I kept an eye on his radio and his bike. I also reminded him I hadn't said anything to anyone about what happened at Mrs. Garcia's home. Since that had been so long ago, he smiled, winked at me and agreed. He got me this smaller bike."

"Great. But now that you've told me what happened last Christmas, won't he be upset and take the bike back, or worse beat you up?"

"Tony! How will he know? Are you gonna tell him?" Pitoy was suddenly angry and screaming at me. "This is supposed to be a secret and you are not to tell anyone. Not even your brothers or your Ate Panching," he yelled.

"Of course, not. We're friends, are we not?" When I saw how agitated he had become, I added, "Wait, I have a new calendar for you. Maybe you can teach me how to bike once you get the hang of it. It's a nice bike." I was going to give him a roll of toilet paper too but Ate Panching had locked them away in the footlocker. (Hah, I knew I got something useful.)

Pitoy gave me a worried look, scratched his head and mumbled, "Putang 'na, you have to keep my secret." Though I was never one to squeal on a friend, I realized I had something on him. I knew I could now twirl him around in my fingers as I wished. From that time on, Pitoy began to give in more and more whenever we argued. He also began to say "putang 'na" more and more when he got upset.

That was a great summer for me. I learned to ride a bike. Pitoy and I took turns pedaling while the other hitched a ride. It was almost as if I was part owner of the bike. We biked all around our neighborhood and even ventured to Binondo and Santa Cruz. We became the best of friends and we told no one about our little secret.

BEST PHILIPPINE SHORT STORIES: THE STEEL BRASSIERE

THE STEEL BRASSIERE
by Iris Sheila G. Crisostomo

AT first I thought I was hearing the wind whistling through the termite-infested wall of Tiya Anding's house. Wind on a hot summer afternoon? Dismissing the noise as coming from rats slipping through hidden holes and crevices in the old house, I rummaged through the remaining boxes for things worth keeping.

My visit to Tiya Anding's house on J.P. Rizal Street was prompted by a public notice from the city engineer's office that the property was scheduled for demolition to give way to the construction of an annex building for the town's health clinic.

Tiya Anding was a friend who had no living relatives. When she died, her house and the 300-square-meter lot reverted to the government. With the impending demolition, I had hastily driven to that humble abode hoping to save a few memories of a past life.

One of the queerest things I recovered from the pile of old clothes was an old bra. It wasn't fit for any young lady's breasts because it was made not of soft cotton or lace but of cold and hard metal. A steel bra. What was it doing in Tiya Anding's box? I thought to myself.

For several nights, my thoughts were on the brassiere. Two cones of stainless steel with straps made of hammered wire. I tried it in front of the elongated mirror in the bedroom after I made sure the door was locked and the children had retired to their beds. I knew Lindoln wouldn't be home until midnight.

I laughed when I saw myself with the bra covering my breasts. I looked like a character from a Mad Max movie. The bra looked like pointed armor ready to deflect an ax or a lance from the enemy--a sure protection for the delicate female flesh underneath. I remembered Madonna in her skimpy get-ups, net stockings and all, her tits in similar, pointed cones.

After a while, the cold of the metal against my skin produced a strange eerie feeling. The bra properly belonged to an ancient warrior-princess yet I felt I was too weak to fight my own battles.

"YOU'VE been to the old house again," my husband's voice boomed from the bathroom. He had just finished shaving. I said nothing as I handed him the towel like I always do each morning. "I called the house at 3 o'clock and the maids said you went out," he continued while wiping his chin dry.

"I was at the house all afternoon," I replied, seeing no reason to withhold the truth. "The house will go down next week. I just took home some things."

I thought I saw a smirk on his face when he remarked, "It's about time they do something about that house. It's rotting, anyway." I wanted to walk out of the room in protest but didn't. I was too kind--too foolishly kind.

Sunlight was streaming in through the open window. The curtains lifted in the breeze. It would have been a beautiful day if not for the conversation.

AFTER breakfast, I asked him for money because I would be taking little Gina and Jonathan to the park that afternoon. He took out P500 then changed his mind and gave me P300 instead. I whispered "Thank you" loud enough for him to hear but my hand was crushing the bills inside my pocket.

I had been married to Lindoln for eight years but it felt like I'd been living with a stranger. He was the champion debater in my class and he won me over an argument why two people needed each other to live: "A man needs a woman to take care of his needs and the woman needs a man to support her." Later I wondered about the role of love which was supposed to be the reason why two people share their lives.

Lindoln was a good provider, the sales manager of a pharmaceutical company that paid well. He gave me a big house with a lush garden, a dutiful maid and an excellent cook. There was nothing more to ask but I felt I really had nothing.

"Stay home. It's best for you and our children," he told me after I gave birth to Jonathan. He thought he was relieving me of the trouble of working outside the home but he was really closing a door and locking me in.

I took the children to the park to see the great fountain that squirted water 50 meters high. With each squirt came sounds of innocent wonder as little heads looked up the sky, following the burst of crystal liquid that disappeared for a moment then fell back with a great splashing sound. There were shrieks of glee and the patter of little feet running to get nearer for a closer look each time the fountain squirted water once more.

"Mama, the fountain!" cried eight-year-old Jonathan. He was holding his sister Gina by the hand and leading her to the edge of the fountain.

"Take care not to get wet," I called out. He nodded. I could see him smiling in the distance. He had his father's winsome smile. I finished my ice cream, my second helping.

Later in the afternoon, we wandered through the playground and spent time pushing one another on the swing. Twin metal chains fastened the swing to a horizontal steel bar and once again the feel of the cold steel between my fingers made me think of Tiya Anding's breast armor.

As the swing swayed back and forth, I closed my eyes and my hand went over my chest, remembering how the hard metal felt against my flesh. The wind was brushing against my face with every swing and I felt like a warrior riding with the wind, charging towards the enemy. Then I felt a drop of liquid on my cheek. Was it a tear? Was I crying?

As I felt more drops, I realized a drizzle was starting. I called out to the children and we ran to the parking lot but it was a long way getting there. I stepped on mud and slipped on the pavement made slippery by the rain. Jonathan came back to help me but I was already up and laughing at my own clumsiness.

The rain was now falling harder and I was dripping wet. Trotting to the car with the children, I found myself in a playful mood, enjoining them to guess which key will open the car door. There were about twenty keys in the chain and it took me several minutes before I finally opened the door.

By that time, we were soaked to our skins. Jonathan made faces as he pulled at his baggy pants heavy with rain. Gina was laughing as she changed into an old T-shirt she found in the car. It turned out to be a clean rag but she didn't mind. She was just glad to be out of her wet clothes. I knew it was foolish to play in the rain but I felt no remorse.

As expected, the children came down with a cold and Lindoln kept me up all night with his how-to-be-a-good-mother lectures.

"Haven't you any sense at all?" he asked, slamming the closet door with a loud thud. "No mother in her right mind would permit her children to play in the rain. And what's worse, they did not even ask to do it. You actually invited them to play. So what do you call that?"

"I'm sorry," I replied flatly. "'Something just got into me. It will never happen again."

"Unbelievable. The kids get into more trouble when they're with you," he barked then crept into bed with his back turned to me. I lay awake for what seemed like an hour before I heard a faint snore. Then I went to the balcony for some air. I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream. I wanted to laugh if it would help. For the first time, I felt nothing. Lindoln's words which used to bother me into sleepless nights didn't mean anything anymore. I looked up the sky but saw no stars. I felt no fear. I felt I could do anything and still remain unfeeling.

Then I remembered Tiya Anding. We used to walk together along stretches of empty streets with nothing but towering lamp posts above us craning their necks as if eager to listen. She would tell me about her husband, Tata Fernan, who used to berate her about her smoking. Tata Fernan hated her smoking. But Tiya Anding brushed aside all his words aside calling him a coward because he feared for her life.

"That old man just cannot live without me;" she said with a smirk on her face.

"And you?" I asked.

"You can say the feeling is mutual. We go a long way back. Had lots of fun together. He was never a bore. So how is Lindoln?" Tiya Anding always had a way of shifting our conversation to my husband. She remembered Lindoln whenever she spoke about Tata Fernan.

"Always too busy," I answered.

"If that man could just slow down a bit, he wouldn't be missing out on things." Tiya Anding said, making a round billow of smoke in the air.

I WATCHED as the demolition team tore the house down, clouds of dust and dirt went flying everywhere. I thought of Tiya Anding's similar emissions as a heavy smoker. I watched as wooden planks were pried from the walls and the old, rusty roofing pulled down. Doorposts fell like giant toothpicks against the heavy arm of moving machines. Besides myself, children from nearby shanties were standing by, watching the men operate their giant toys with ease.

When the entire structure finally torn down, I felt like I had lost a part of myself--an arm maimed or broken off in an injury. With a heavy heart, I headed back to the house thinking about Tiya Anding and her words: "That old man just can't live without me." Can I say the same about Lindoln? And can I live without him?

After lunch, I helped the maid get the laundry from the clothesline. After a few minutes under the hot midday sun, I went back inside to the kitchen for a cold glass of water. The feel of the cold pitcher in my hand made me think of the cold metal I once wore against my breast. The feel of the steel brassiere was as comforting and reassuring as the ice water running down my throat.

The sound of the ringing phone brought me back to my senses. It was Lindoln.

"Hey, Pareng Jimmy will be coming over for dinner tonight. Can you prepare his favorite rellenong bangus?"

"What?" I asked, still holding the cold glass in hand.

"I said Pareng Jimmy will come for dinner tonight..."

"Call again. The line is bad. I can't quite hear you." I put the phone down and leisurely walked to the bedroom.

And the phone rang again and again and again.

Sunlight was streaming in through the open window. The curtains lifted in the breeze. It would have been a beautiful day if not for the incessant ringing of the phone.

BEST PHILIPPINE SHORT STORIES: SINIGANG

SINIGANG
by Marby Villaceran

“SO, what happened?”

She had finally decided to ask the question. I had been wondering how long my Tita Loleng could contain her curiosity.

I continued to pick out tomatoes for the sinigang we were to have for dinner. I wasn’t usually the one who assisted my aunt with the cooking. She preferred my younger sister, Meg, for I knew far less in this area—not having the aptitude, or the interest, I guess—for remembering recipes. That didn’t matter today, though. This time, Tita Loleng wanted more than just an extra pair of hands in the kitchen.

“Nothing much,” I answered offhandedly. “We did what people usually do during funerals.” I reminded myself to tread carefully with her. Though I did not really feel like talking, I could not tell her off for she took offense rather easily.

I put the tomatoes in the small palanggana, careful not to bruise their delicate skin, and carried them to the sink.

“Did you meet…her?” Tita Loleng asked.

There came to me a memory of sitting in one of the smaller narra sofas in the living room in Bulacan. I faced a smooth white coffin whose corners bore gold-plated figures of cherubs framed by elaborate swirls resembling thick, curling vines. Two golden candelabras, each supporting three rows of high-wattage electric candles, flanked the coffin and seared the white kalachuchi in the funeral wreaths, causing the flowers to release more of their heady scent before they wilted prematurely. Through an open doorway, I could see into the next room where a few unfamiliar faces held murmured conversations above their coffee cups.

“Are you Liza?” A woman beside me suddenly asked.

I was surprised, for I had not heard anyone approaching. Most of the mourners preferred to stay out on the veranda for fear that the heat from the lights might also cause them to wither.

I looked up slowly: long, slim feet with mauve-painted toenails that peeked through the opening of a pair of scruffy-looking slippers; smooth legs unmarred by swollen veins or scars—so unlike the spider-veined legs of my mom—encased in a black, pencil-cut skirt; a white blouse with its sleeves too long for the wearer, causing the extra fabric to bunch around the cuffs; a slim neck whose skin sagged just a little bit; and a pale face that seemed like it had not experienced sleep in days. The woman looked to me like she was in her forties—the same age as my mother.

“Yes,” I had answered that woman—the same answer I now gave to Tita Loleng.

I gently spilled out all the tomatoes into the sink and turned on the tap. The water, like agua bendita, cleansed each tomato of the grime from its origins.

“What did she tell you?” Tita Loleng asked.

“Nothing much. She told me who she was.”

“What did she look like?”

“She’s pretty, I guess.”

She was. She looked like she had Indian blood with her sharp nose and deep-set eyes thickly bordered by long lashes. Just like Mom, she still maintained a slim figure though she already had children. The woman, upon seeing my curious stare, had explained, “I am Sylvia.”

All my muscles tensed upon hearing her name. It took all my self-control to outwardly remain calm and simply raise an eyebrow.

My reaction caused a range of emotion to cross the woman’s face before it finally crumbled and gave way to tears. Suddenly, she grabbed my hand from where it had been resting on the arm of the sofa. Her own hands were damp and sticky with sweat. She knelt in front of me—a sinner confessing before a priest so he could wash away the dirt from her past.

But I was not a priest. I looked down at her and my face remained impassive.

When her weeping had subsided, she raised her head and looked at me. “Everyone makes mistakes, Liza.” Her eyes begged for understanding.

It was a line straight out of a Filipino soap opera. I had a feeling that the whole situation was a scene from a very bad melodrama I was watching. I looked around to see if anyone had witnessed the spectacle unfolding in this living room, but it was as if an invisible director had banned all but the actors from the set. Except for us, not a soul could be seen.

I wanted Sylvia to free my hand so I nodded and pretended to understand. Apparently convinced, she let go and, to my shock, suddenly hugged me tight. My nose wrinkled as the pungent mix of heavy perfume and sweat assailed me. I wanted to scream at her to let go but I did not move away.

“Hmm, I think they’re washed enough na.” Tita Loleng said.

Turning off the tap, I placed the tomatoes inside the basin once more. Then, as an afterthought, I told my Tita, “I don’t think she is as pretty as Mom, though.”

Tita Loleng nodded understandingly. She gestured for me to place the basin on the table where she already had the knives and chopping board ready.

“Where was your Dad when she was talking to you?”

“Oh, he was sleeping in one of the bedrooms. Mom did not want to wake him up because they told her he had not slept for two nights straight.”

Tita Loleng snorted. “Haay, your mother talaga,” she said, shaking her head.

I had to smile at that before continuing. “When he saw me, Sylvia had already been called away to entertain some of the visitors.”

“Was he surprised to see you?” Tita knew that I had not wanted to go to the funeral. Actually, she was one of the few people who respected, and understood, my decision.

“No.” I sliced each of the tomatoes in quarters. The blade of the knife clacked fiercely against the hard wood of the chopping board. “He requested Mom to make me go there.” We both knew that I could never have refused my mother once she insisted that I attend. I had even gone out and gotten drunk with some friends the night before we were to leave just so I could have an excuse not to go, but my mom was inflexible. She had ordered my two sisters to wake me up.

Tita Loleng gave me a sympathetic look. “No choice then, huh?” She was forever baffled at the way my mother could be such a martyr when it came to my father and such a tyrant to her children.

Clack! Clack! The knife hacked violently against the board.

“Nope.”

When my Dad had come out of the room, I remembered sensing it immediately—the same way an animal instinctively perceives when it is in danger. I had been looking at the face of my dead half-brother, searching for any resemblance between us. Chemotherapy had sunk his cheeks and had made his hair fall out, but even in this condition, I could see how handsome he must have been before his treatment. His framed photograph atop the glass covering of the coffin confirmed this. Lem took after my father so much that Dad could never even hope to deny that he was his son. I, on the other hand, had taken after my mother.

I knew my father was staring at me but I refused look at him. He approached and stood next to me. I remained silent.

“I am glad you came,” he said.

I gave him a non-committal nod, not even glancing his way.

Tita Loleng interrupted my thoughts with another one of her questions. “Did you cry?”

I shook my head vehemently as I answered, “No.”

I took the sliced tomatoes, surprised to find not even a splinter of wood with them, as well as the onions Tita Loleng had chopped and put them in a pot. “What next?” I asked her.

“The salt.” Then she went and added a heaping tablespoonful of salt to the pot.

“Is that all?”

“Uh-huh. Your Mom and I prefer it a bit saltier, but your Dad likes it this way.” Then she gestured towards the pot, closing and opening her fist like a baby flexing its fingers.

I started crushing the onions, tomatoes, and salt together with my hand.

“He was an acolyte in church,” my father had said then, finally splintering the silence I had adamantly maintained. “Father Mario said that we shouldn’t feel sad because Lem is assured of going to a better place because he was such a good child.” Good, I thought, unlike me whom he always called “Sinverguenza”, the shameless daughter.

I finally turned to him. There was only one question I needed to ask. “Why?”

He met my gaze. I waited but he would not—could not— answer me. He looked away.

My mask of indifference slipped. It felt like a giant hand was rubbing salt into me, squeezing and mashing, unsatisfied until all of me had been crushed.

“Stop it na, Liza!” Tita Loleng exclaimed. “Anymore of that mashing and you will be putting bits of your own flesh and bone in there,” my aunt warned. She went to the refrigerator and took out plastic bags containing vegetables. She placed them in the sink. “All of these will be needed for the sinigang,” she said. “Prepare them while you’re softening the meat.” Then she took off her apron, “You go and finish off here. I will just go to my room and stretch my back out a bit.” With a tender pat on my head, she walked out of the kitchen.

I breathed a sigh of relief. The questions had stopped, for now.

I poured the hugas bigas into the mass of crushed onions and tomatoes and added the chunks of beef into the concoction before covering the pot and placing it on the stove. I turned on the flame. The sinigang needed to simmer for close to an hour to tenderize the meat.

In the meantime, I started preparing all the other ingredients that will be added to the pot later on. Taking all the plastic bags, I unloaded their contents into the sink then washed and drained each vegetable thoroughly before putting them beside my chopping board.

I reached for the bunch of kangkong and began breaking off choice sections to be included in the stew. When I was a child, before Tita Loleng had chosen to stay with us, my mom used to do the cooking and she would have Meg and I sit beside her while she readied the meals. I remembered that whenever it came to any dish involving kangkong, I would always insist on preparing it because I loved the crisp popping sound the vegetable made whenever I broke off a stem. It was on one such occasion, I was in second year high school by then but still insistent on kangkong preparation, when Mom had divulged the truth about the boy who kept calling Dad on the phone everyday at home. Meg had also been there, breaking off string beans into two-inch sections. Neither of us had reacted much then, but between us, I knew I was more affected by what Mom had said because right until then, I had always been Daddy’s girl.

When the kangkong was done, I threw away the tough, unwanted parts and reached for the labanos. I used a peeler to strip away the skin—revealing the white, slightly grainy flesh—and then sliced each root diagonally. Next came the sigarilyas, and finally, the string beans. Once, I asked Tita Loleng how she knew what type of vegetable to put into sinigang and she said, “Well, one never really knows which will taste good until one has tried it. I mean, some people cook sinigang with guavas, some with kamias. It is a dish whose recipe would depend mostly on the taste of those who will do the eating.”

I got a fork and went to the stove where the meat was simmering. I prodded the chunks to test whether they were tender enough—and they were. After pouring in some more of the rice washing, I cleared the table and waited for the stew to boil. A few minutes later, the sound of rapidly popping bubbles declared that it was now time to add the powdered tamarind mix. I poured in the whole packet and stirred. Then I took the vegetables and added them, a fistful at a time, to the pot. As I did so, I remembered the flower petals each of my two sisters and I had thrown, fistful by fistful, into the freshly dug grave as Lem’s casket was being lowered into it. My dad was crying beside me and I recalled thinking, would he be the same if I was the one who had died? I glanced up at him and was surprised to find that he was looking at me. His hand, heavy with sadness, fell on my shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he had told me.

I let the stew boil for a few more minutes before turning off the fire.

The sinigang would be served later during dinner. I pictured myself seated in my usual place beside my father who is at the head of the table. He would tell Mom about his day and then he would ask each of us about our own. I would answer, not in the animated way I would have done when I was still young and his pet, but politely and without any rancor.

Then, he would compliment me on the way I had cooked his favorite dish and I would give him a smile that would never quite show, not even in my eyes.

BEST PHILIPPINE SHORT STORIES: SERVANT GIRL

SERVANT GIRL
by Estrella D. Alfon

ROSA was scrubbing the clothes she was washing slowly. Alone in the washroom of her mistress’ house she could hear the laughter of women washing clothes in the public bathhouse from which she was separated by only a thin wall. She would have liked to be there with the other women to take part in their jokes and their laughter and their merry gossiping, but they paid a centavo for every piece of soiled linen they brought there to wash and her mistress wanted to save this money.

A pin she had failed to remove from a dress sank its point deep into her fin­ger. She cried to herself in surprise and squeezed the finger until the blood came out. She watched the bright red drop fall into the suds of soap and looked in delight at its gradual mingling into the whiteness. Her mistress came upon her thus and, shouting at her, startled her into busily rubbing while she tried not to listen to the scolding words.

When her mistress left her, she fell to doing her work slowly again, and sometimes she paused to listen to the talk in the bathhouse behind her. A little later her mistress’ shrill voice told her to go to the bathhouse for drinking water. Eagerly wiping her hands on her wet wrap, she took the can from the kitchen table and went out quickly.

She was sweating at the defective town pump when strong hands closed over hers and started to help her. The hands pressing down on hers made her wince and she withdrew her hands hastily. The movement was greeted by a shout of laughter from the women washing and Rosa looked at them in surprise. The women said to each other “Rosa does not like to be touched by Sancho” and then slapped their thighs in laughter. Rosa frowned and picked up her can. Sancho made a move to help her but she thrust him away, and the women roared again, saying “Because we are here, Sancho, she is ashamed.”

Rosa carried the can away, her head angrily down, and Sancho followed her, saying “Do not be angry,” in coaxing tones. But she went her slow way with the can.

Her mistress’ voice came to her, calling impatiently, and she tried to hurry. When she arrived, the woman asked her what had kept her so long, and without waiting for an answer she ranted on, saying she had heard the women joking in the bathhouse, and she knew what had kept the girl so long. Her anger mounting with every angry word she said, she finally swung out an arm, and before she quite knew what she was doing, she slapped Rosa’s face.

She was sorry as soon as she realized what she had done. She turned away, muttering still, while Rosa’s eyes filled with sudden tears. The girl poured the water from the can into the earthen jar, a bitter lump in her throat, and thought of what she would do to people like her mistress when she herself, God willing, would be “rich.” Soon however, she thought of Sancho, and the jokes the women had shouted at her. She thought of their laughter and Sancho following her with his coaxing tones, and she smiled slowly.

Getting back to her washing, she gathered the clothes she had to bleach, and piled them into a basin she balanced on her head. Passing her mistress in the kitchen, she said something about going to bleach the clothes and under her breath added an epithet. She had to cross the street to get to the stones gathered about in a whitened circle in a neighbor’s yard where she was wont to lay out the clothes. She passed some women hanging clothes on a barbed-wire fence to dry. They called to her and she smiled at them.

Some dogs chasing each other on the street, she did not notice because the women were praising her for the whiteness of the linen in the basin on her head. She was answering them that she hadn’t even bleached them yet, when one of the dogs passed swiftly very close to her. Looking down, she saw in wide alarm another dog close on the heels of the first. An instinctive fear of animals made her want to dodge the heedlessly running dog, and she stepped gingerly this way and that. The dog, intent on the other it was pursuing, gave her no heed and ran right between her legs as Rosa held on to the basin in frantic fear lest it fall and the clothes get soiled. Her patadiong was tight in their wetness about her legs, and she fell down, in the middle of the street. She heard the other women’s exclamations of alarm and her first thought was for the clothes. Without getting up, she looked at the basin and gave obscene thanks when she saw the clothes still piled secure and undirtied. She tried to get up, hurrying lest her mistress come out and see her thus and slap her again. Already the women were setting up a great to do about what had happened. Some were coming to her, loudly abusing the dogs, solicitousness on their faces. Rosa cried, “Nothing’s the matter with me.” Still struggling to get up, she noticed that her wrap had been loosened and had bared her breasts. She looked around wildly, sudden shame coloring her cheeks, and raised the wrap and tied it securely around herself again.

She could stand but she found she could not walk. The women had gone back to their drying, seeing she was up and apparently nothing the worse for the accident. Rosa looked down at her right foot which twinged with pain. She stooped to pick up the basin and put it on her head again. She tried stepping on the toes of her right foot but it made her wince. She tried the heel but that also made her bite her lip. Already her foot above the ankle was swelling. She thought of the slap her mistress had given her for staying in the bathhouse too long and the slap she was most certain to get now for delaying like this. But she couldn’t walk, that was settled.

Then there came down the street a tartanilla without any occupant except the cochero who rang his bell, but she couldn’t move away from the middle of the street. She looked up at the driver and started angrily to tell him that there was plenty of room at the sides of the street, and that she couldn’t move anyway, even if there weren’t. The man jumped down from his seat and bent down and looked at her foot. The basin was still on Rosa’s head and he took it from her, and put it in his vehicle. Then he squatted down and bidding Rosa put a hand on his shoulders to steady herself, he began to touch with gentle fingers the swelling ankle, pulling at it and massaging it. They were still in the middle of the street. Rosa looked around to see if the women were still there to look at them but they had gone away. There was no one but a small boy licking a candy stick, and he wasn’t paying any attention to them. The cochero looked up at her, the sweat on his face, saw her looking around with pain and embarrassment mingled on her face. Then, so swiftly she found no time to protest, he closed his arms about her knees and lifted her like a child. He carried her to his tartanilla, plumped her down on one of the seats. Then he left her, coming back after a short while with some coconut oil in the hollow of his palm. He rubbed the oil on her foot, and massaged it. He was seated on the seat opposite Rosa’s and had raised the injured foot to his thigh, letting it rest there, despite Rosa’s protest, on his blue faded trousers. The basin of wet clothes was beside Rosa on the seat and she fingered the clothing with fluttering hands. The cochero asked her where she lived and she told him, pointing out the house. He asked what had happened, and she recited the whole thing to him, stopping with embarrassment when she remembered the loosening of her patadiongand the nakedness of her bosom. How glad she was he had not seen her thus. The cochero had finished with her foot, and she slid from the seat, her basin on a hip. But he took it from her, asking her to tell him where the bleaching stones were. He went then, and himself laid out the white linen on the stones, knowing like a woman, which part to turn to the sun.

He came back after a while, just as Rosa heard with frightened ears the call of her mistress. She snatched the basin from the cochero’s hand and despite the pain caused her, limped away.

She told her mistress about the accident. The woman did not do anything save to scold her lightly for being careless. Then she looked at the swollen foot and asked who had put oil on it. Rosa was suddenly shy of having to let anyone know about her cochero, so she said she had asked for a little oil at the store and put it on her foot herself. Her mistress was unusually tolerant, and Rosa forgot about the slapping and said to herself this was a day full of luck!

It was with very sharp regret that she thought of her having forgotten to ask the cochero his name. Now, in the days that followed, she thought of him, the way he had wound an arm around her knees and carried her like a little girl. She dreamed about the gentleness of his fingers. She smiled remembering the way he had laid out the clothes on stones to bleach. She knew that meant he must do his own washing. And she ached in ten­derness over him and his need for a woman like her to do such things for him—things like mending the straight tear she had noticed at the knee of his trousers when her foot had rested on them; like measuring his tartanilla seat cushions for him, and making them, and stringing them on his vehicle. She thought of the names for men she knew and called him by it in thinking of him, ever afterwards. In her thoughts she spoke to him and he always answered.

She found time to come out on the street for a while, every day. Sometimes she would sweep the yard or trim the scraggly hedge of viola bushes; or she would loiter on an errand for tomatoes or vinegar. She said to herself, He dreams of me too, and he thinks of me. He passes here every day wishing to see me. She never saw him pass, but she said to herself, He passes just when I am in the house, that’s why I never see him.

Some tartanilla would pass, and if she could, as soon as she heard the sound of the wheels, she looked out of a window, hoping it would be Angel’s. Sometimes she would sing very loudly, if she felt her mistress was in a good humor and not likely to object. She told herself that if he could not see her, he would at least wish to hear her voice.

She longed no more to be part of the group about the water tank in the bathhouse. She thought of the women there and their jokes and she smiled, in pity, because they did not have what she had, some one by the name of Angel, who knew how to massage injured feet back to being good for walking and who knew how to lay out clothes for bleaching.

When they teased her about Sancho, who insisted on pumping her can full every time she went for drinking water, she smiled at the women and at the man, full of her hidden knowledge about someone picking her up and being gentle with her. She was too full of this secret joy to mind their teasing. Where before she had been openly angry and secretly pleased, now she was indifferent. She looked at Sancho and thought him very rude beside… beside Angel. He always put his hands over hers when she made a move to pump water. He always spoke to her about not being angry with the women’s teasing. She thought he was merely trying to show off. And when one day Sancho said, “Do not mind their teasing; they would tease you more if they knew I really feel like they say I do,” she glared at him and thought him unbearably ill-mannered. She spat out of the corner of her mouth, letting him see the grimace of distaste she made when she did so, and seeing Sancho’s disturbed face, she thought, If Angel knew, he’d strike you a big blow. But she was silent and proud and unsmiling. Sancho looked after her with the heavy can of water held by one hand, the other hand flung out to balance herself against the weight. He waited for her to turn and smile at him as she sometimes did, but she simply went her way. He flung his head up and then laughed snortingly.

Rosa’s mistress made her usual bad-humored sallies against her fancied slowness. Noticing Rosa’s sudden excursions into the street, she made remarks and asked curious questions. Always the girl had an excuse and her mistress soon made no further questions. And unless she was in bad temper, she was amused at her servant’s attempts at singing.

One night she sent the maid to a store for wine. Rosa came back with a broken bottle empty of all its contents. Sudden anger at the waste and the loss made her strike out with closed fists, not caring where her blows landed until the girl was in tears. It often touched her when she saw Rosa crying and cowering, but now the woman was too angry to pity.

It never occurred to Rosa that she could herself strike out and return every blow. Her mistress was thirtyish, with peaked face and thin frame, and Rosa’s strong arms, used to pounding clothes and carrying water, could easily have done her hurt. But Rosa merely cried and cried, saying now and then Aruy! Aruy!, until the woman, exhausted by her own anger left off striking the girl to sit down in a chair, curse loudly about the loss of such good wine, and ask where she was going to get the money to buy another bottle.

Rosa folded her clothes into a neat bundle, wrapped them in her blanket, and getting out her slippers, thrust her feet into them. She crept out of a door without her mistress seeing her and told herself she’d never come back to that house again.

It would have been useless to tell her mistress how the bottle had been broken, and the wine spilled. She had been walking alone in the street hurrying to the wine store, and Sancho had met her. They had talked; he begging her to let him walk with her and she saying her mistress would be angry if she saw. Sancho had insisted and they had gone to the store and bought the wine, and then going home, her foot had struck a sharp stone. She had bent to hold a foot up, looking at the sole to see if the stone had made it bleed. Her dress had a wide, deep neck, and it must have hung away from her body when she bent. Anyway, she had looked up to find Sancho looking into the neck of her dress. His eyes were turned hastily away as soon as she straightened up, and she thought she could do nothing but hold her peace. But after a short distance in their resumed walk home, he had stopped to pick up a long twig lying on the ground. With deft strokes he had drawn twin sharp peaks on the ground. They looked merely like the zigzags one does draw playfully with any stick, but Rosa, having seen him looking into her dress while she bent over, now became so angry that she swung out and with all her force struck him on the check with her open palm. He reeled from the unexpected blow, and quickly steadied himself while Rosa shot name after name at him. Anger rose in his face. It was nearly dark, and there was no one else on the street. He laughed, short angry laughter, and called her back name for name. Rosa approached him and made to slap him again, but Sancho was too quick for her. He had slipped out of her way and himself slapped her instead. The surprise of it angered her into sudden tears. She swung up the bottle of wine she had held tightly in one hand, and ran after the man to strike him with it. Sancho slapped her arm so hard that she dropped the bottle. The man had run away laughing, calling back a final undeserved name at her, leaving her to look with tears at the wine seeping into the ground. Some people had come toward her then, asking what had happened. She had stooped, picked up the biggest piece of glass, and hurried back to her mistress, wondering whether she would be believed and forgiven.

Rosa walked down street after street. She had long ago wiped the tears from her face, and her thoughts were of a place to sleep, for it was late at night. She told herself she would kill Sancho if she ever saw him again. She picked up a stone from the road, saying, I wish a cold wind would strike him dead, and so on; and the stone she grasped tightly, say­ing, If I meet him now, I would throw this at him, and aim so well that I would surely hit him.

She rubbed her arm in memory of the numbing blow the man had dealt it, and touched her face with furious shame for the slap he had dared to give her. Her fists closed more tightly about the stone and she looked about her as if she expected Sancho to appear.

She thought of her mistress. She had been almost a year in the woman’s employ. Usually she stayed in a place, at the most, for four months. Sometimes it was the master’s smirking ways and evil eyes, sometimes it was the children’s bullying demands. She had stayed with this last mistress because in spite of her spells of bad humor, there were periods afterward when she would be generous with money for a dress, or for a cine with other maids. And they had been alone, the two of them. Sometimes the mistress would get so drunk that she would slobber into her drink and mumble of persons that must have died. When she was helpless she might perhaps have starved if Rosa had not forcibly fed her. Now, however, thought of the fierce beating the woman had given her made Rosa cry a little and repeat her vow that she would never step into the house again.

Then she thought of Angel, the cochero who had been gentle, and she lost her tears in thinking how he would never have done what Sancho did. If he knew what had happened to her, he would come running now and take her to his own home, and she would not have to worry about a place to sleep this night. She wandered about, not stopping at those places where she knew she would be accepted if she tried, her mind full of the injustices she had received and of comparisons between Sancho and Angel. She paused every time a tartanilla came her way, peering intently into the face of the cochero, hoping it would be he, ready to break her face into smiles if it were indeed. She carried her bundle on her arm all this while, now clenching a fist about the stone she still had not dropped and gnashing her teeth.

She had been walking about for quite a while, feeling not very tired, having no urgent need to hurry about finding herself a place, so sharp her hopes were of somehow seeing her cochero on the streets. That was all she cared about, that she must walk into whatever street she came to, because only in that way would he see her and learn what they had done to her.

Then, turning into a street full of stores set side by side, she felt the swish of a horse almost brushing against her. She looked up angrily at the cochero’s laughing remark about his whip missing her beautiful bust. An offense like that, so soon after all her grief at what Sancho had done, inflamed her into passionate anger, and mouthing a quick curse, she flung the stone in her hand at the cochero on his seat. It was rather dark and she did not quite see his face. But apparently she hit something, for he suddenly yelled a stop at the horse, clambered down, and ran back to her, demanding the reason for her throwing the stone. She exclaimed hotly at his offense with the whip, and then looking up into his face, she gasped. She gasped and said, “Angel!”

For it was he. He was wearing a striped shirt, like so many other people were wearing, and he had on the very same trousers of dark blue he had worn when he massaged her foot. But he gazed at her in nothing but anger, asking whether her body was so precious that she would kill his horse. Also, why did she keep saying Angel; that was not his name!

Rosa kept looking up at him not hearing a word of his threats about taking her to the municipio, saying only Angel, Angel, in spite of his protests that that was not his name. At last she understood that the cochero did not even remember her and she realized how empty her thoughts of him now were. Even his name was not Angel. She turned suddenly to walk away from him, saying, “You do not even remember me.”

The cochero peered at her face and exclaimed after a while, “Oh yes! the girl with the swollen foot!” Rosa forgot all the emptiness, forgot the sudden sinking of her heart when she had realized that even he would flick his whip at a girl alone on the road, and lifted her smiling face at him, stopping suddenly to tell him her foot had healed very quickly. The cochero asked her after a while where she was going, and she said breathlessly, without knowing just why she answered so, “I am going home!” He asked no questions about where she had been, why she was so late. He bade her ride in his vehicle, grandly saying he would not make her pay, and then, with many a loud exclamation to his horse, he drove her to her mistress’ house.

Rosa didn’t tell him what had happened. Nor anything about her dreams. She merely answered the questions the cochero asked her about how she had been. “With the grace of God, all right, thank you.” Once he made her a sly joke about his knowing there were simply lots of men courting her. Rosa laughed breathlessly and denied it. She wished they would never arrive, but they soon did. The cochero waited for her to get out, and then drove off, saying “Don’t mention it” to her many thanks. She ran after the tartanilla when it had gone off a little way, and asked, running beside the moving vehicle, looking up into his face, “What is your name?”

The cochero shouted, without stopping his horse, “Pedro” and continued to drive away.

Rosa went into the house without hesitation, forgetting all her vows about never stepping into it again and wondering why it was so still. She turned on the lights and found her mistress sleeping at a table with her head cradled in her arms, a new wine bottle before her, empty now of all its contents. With an arm about the thin woman’s waist, she half dragged her into her bed. When the woman would wake, she would say nothing, remembering nothing. Rosa turned on the light in the kitchen and hummed her preparations for a meal.