BEST PHILIPPINE SHORT STORIES: KARA'S PLACE

KARA'S PLACE
by Luis Joaquin M. Katigbak

I'M pretty sure there are only two rats. I've seen both so often that I can tell them apart now, and ever since I gave them names, I've started feeling something almost like affection for them. I mean, I don't feed them or anything -- they manage to steal quite enough of my food, thank you -- but at least I don't freak out any more when they pop up, and I don't reach for the nearest blunt object. I saw Ludlum (he's the smaller, darker one) this morning, just behind the dishrack, and Le Carré paid me a visit as I was eating lunch. I guess that's how I think of them now: they're visitors, and God knows I don't get many of those here in Krus na Ligas.

Well, there's Eric, of course. It's kind of funny; we've known each other for years -- went to the same high school and all -- and we've never really been more than buddies, but nowadays, I think he's gotten kind of sweet on me. Why else would he squeeze his Civic into the narrow streets of KnL? Why else would he hang out in this lousy place? I mean, to call my room makeshift would be an act of kindness; it doesn't seem constructed so much as slapped together. That it's an architectural afterthought is proven by a window set in its back wall: a grimy screen covers said window, and its wooden jalousies have now been nailed shut, but anyone can see that it once served as the house's front window. I guess the owners needed some extra money, looked at the square meter or so of extra space in front of their house, and decided to cobble together a "room" for some gullible student, i.e. me, to rent.

The right wall was made out of hollow blocks, up to a point, that is. From around waist height upwards, it's just chicken wire, supported by a wooden framework. This fact is just barely disguised by the heavy yellow curtains that hang down from the roof. The left wall is made of wood; but it's also unfortunately a shared wall. Half of it belongs to the people next door, I can hear them arguing from here.

I don't really mind all that, though. I've rented worse places. I spend most of my time asleep anyway, so I don't give a damn about the interior design, or lack thereof. The noise I can tune out, after a while; it just becomes like a background hiss, like the white noise an off-duty TV makes when it's way past midnight and you're nodding off on the couch. The thing that bugs me, though, is when I have to go into the main house to use the bathroom. Of course I know enough never to step out of the bathroom wearing just a towel or even a bathrobe; but for my landlord's useless son it's apparently a turn-on just to see me in shorts and slippers. I have to pass through the kitchen to get to the CR, and if he happens to be there, I'll feel his gaze on me, travelling the length of my body up and down. I don't even have to glance at him to know this; he's not exactly subtle about it. Get a job, I want to tell him; get a goddamned life.

A knock sounds on my door. My door is made of cheap lawanit half-heartedly reinforced by some galvanized iron. Somehow any sounds produced by striking it don't sound quite real, and so I wait until I hear the knock a second, a third time, before I get up to answer.

"Who is it?" I call.

"Just me," a familiar voice replies.

"Eric?"

"Yah."

I push my monobloc chair aside to clear the way to my so-called closet. The chair makes an irritating scraping sound. "Hold on," I say, as I open the closet door, and tug at one of the drawers. "Just give me a minute or two to make myself decent."

"Okay," he says, as I rummage for a bra -- my white T-shirt is pretty flimsy, and there are limits to my bohemianism. I find one, snap it on, then get up and open the door.

"Hi, Kara," he says, with a big grin and a small hand-wave, as though I were several meters away. The goof.

"Hey, Eric," I smile, " -- come in." I point at the chair. "Sit down, feel at home." He sits, quite happily obedient, and I can't help trusty-canine comparisons from springing to my mind. I know, I know, I can be so mean. And to think Eric's one of those rare persons I actually like.

I sit down on my bed; it's an old army-issue steel number whose aged springs creak whenever I shift my weight.

"So. How are your classes?" Eric asks, plunging straight away into the small talk. A new semester has just begun, our second here in this university, and for the first time in a long while I don't feel the usual surge of enthusiasm for a new grading period, that wave of self-delusion that has me telling myself, this time I'm going to work my butt off, this time I'm getting high grades in everything. I just feel kind of blah about it all.

"My classes? They'd be okay if they didn't interfere with my sleep so much."

Eric laughs, and then his face turns serious and he says, "Kara? Can I talk to you about something that's been bothering me a little?" I say sure, go ahead.

Eric starts talking about this quartet of sweaty sando-clad men who don't seem to do anything except hang out at the sari-sari store down the street. He says that, just now, when he got out of his car and glanced at them, he noticed that they were drunk. He goes on about how they could be dangerous, about how one of these nights when I'm going home, you know, something could happen, that I should let him fetch me from my last class every day, it's no big deal...

I feel like telling him that I'm pretty sure they're all right, that they seem nice enough, that all they ever do when they're drunk is sing -- badly -- but I know he'll just say I'm being uncharacteristically naive. I also feel like asking, hey, wait, what are we anyway? What's this fetch-me-every-day business? Did I miss something? Aren't we getting a little bit ahead of ourselves? But sometimes it's just easier to let awkward questions simmer, in the false hope that they'll evaporate completely. So instead, I stare absent-mindedly at my lumpy mattress. It's covered with a shabby white bedsheet decorated with little orange flowers.

Then, just as Eric finishes up his speech, there's a tap on the roof. And then another. And another. We look up. It's beginning to rain.

We sit there for a while, listening to the taps coming faster and stronger, listening to the rain gathering strength. Soon it sounds like the entire Filipiniana Dance Group, on steroids, is performing on the roof.

"Ha! Never fails... Just had the car washed." Eric shakes his head, and then a slow grin spreads across his face. "You remember Jo-ann's birthday, in senior year?"

How could I forget? Jo-ann was one of only a handful of people in our batch who had a car, and she was the only one who had a new car, a brand-spanking-new Galant, as opposed to the secondhand slabs of rust that normally sputtered around the parking lot. And so, on her birthday, the barkada decided to slather gunk all over her car, as a surprise. The plan was that we would bring cans of shaving cream, spray their contents all over the car's surface, put some cherries on the hood, and then hide. When Jo-ann returned to the parking lot, we would savor our view of her stunned expression, and then suddenly leap out of the hedges, scream 'surprise!' and then cheerfully wipe off all the gunk. The problem was, we didn't know that the shaving cream would eat right through the car's paint job. We spent the next few months pooling our allowances to pay for the repair work.

Eric and I are laughing, as we tell each other the story again. "And then," I say, gasping, "and then there was that time when we were sophomores, and it was raining like a bastard, raining so hard they cancelled classes, and then Rachel announced that she wanted to watch a movie...?" Eric is nodding his head vigorously. He finishes the story for me -- "Yeah, and we told her she was nuts, but somehow she commandeered the Assistant Director's official transport, and we got a free ride to the mall!"

Story follows familiar story. Do you remember that time in the biology lab, when...? And how about that day at the fair... We've forgotten the room, the ratty yellow curtains, the question of us. For the moment, we're somewhere else, safe from decisions and possibilities and consequences. We're in a shared area of memory, a kind of amusement park of the heart, where nothing goes awry unless it's for our enjoyment, where days past can be repainted in colors bright as happiness.

Sometimes I think that that's what I really like about Eric -- that we can talk about all that, all the stuff that happened to us in high school.

"Well," Eric concludes, "those were the days."

I make a derisive sound, something that's between a laugh and a snort. I don't know why. Is it because of the cliché? The fact that those words sound kind of stupid coming from someone who's not even twenty? Or maybe it's because his careless, tossed-off statement has scared me a little. What if those really were 'the days'?

Eric senses my unease, and steers the conversation back into safe waters. "So what are you taking this sem?" he asks.

I start rattling off my subjects. Communication II, Social Science, etcetera, etcetera, and Math 17.

"Hey," he says, frowning. "Didn't you take that last sem?"

"Yes," I say.

"So what's the deal?" He has a genuinely puzzled expression on his face.

I wonder how I'm going to answer him. Eric knows me well enough to realize that there's no way in hell I could have failed Math 17.

"I failed it."

"No way."

"It's true." I point at the containers arrayed by the kitchen sink. "Hey. You want something to drink? Iced tea? Coffee...? Some Dom Perignon, perhaps?"

"No, no… I'm okay." He brushes off my attempt to change the topic, with the determination of someone whose mind tends to run on a single track. "How could you fail Math? I mean, you were the best in high school. Everyone copied assignments off you. Heck, you probably solve calculus problems in your sleep!"

I shrug, and look away from him. I suddenly realize that I'm going to give him an explanation, and I don't want to be looking at him when I do. I pick up my newsprint edition of the Math 17 textbook, and flip it open to a random page: a mass of graphs, symbols and equations unfurls. I recognize this chapter, and some of the problems listed.

"Well..." I start, "Well, you know how, in Math, attendance doesn't mean anything?" He frowns. "I mean, that's what all the other Math majors told me. All the teachers care about is if you're good. Some of them don't even bother to check who's absent or present. All that matters is that you pass the exams."

Eric's still frowning. I begin to worry that he might crease his forehead permanently.

"So, my Math 17 class was at seven in the morning. Too early for me. I cut class, a lot. By the end of the sem, I was just showing up for the exams. And let me tell you, I aced those exams." I'm still looking at the open page. With my index finger, I trace an arc of plotted points on one of the graphs. "And then, just after the finals, my teacher asks me to see him in his office." I pause. I take a slow, deep breath.

"I go there, he's all smiles, come in, come in, he says. He sits down, points to a chair just opposite him, tells me to sit down. I do. He starts by saying that I didn't show up for classes enough, that I'm in trouble because I went over the maximum number of absences. I'm listening, and I don't know what to say in my defense. Suddenly his hand's resting on my thigh, and he's telling me that actually, the attendance really won't be a problem, as long as I'm not averse to the idea of having a little 'fun'."

Eric is staring at me, like he can't understand, much less believe what I'm saying, like all he's doing is watching my lips move.

"I left, of course. And when I got my class card, there was a big fat failing grade on it."

Eric blurts out, "Why didn't you tell me?" And then, as if fearing the honest answer to that question, he quickly asks another. "Did you confront him?"

"Sure I did. I asked Rach to come with me, we went to his room, and I told him that I thought the whole thing was stupid. I told him that our last encounter in his office constituted harassment. I also pointed out that there were other people in the section who cut class just as much as I did, and he didn't fail them. He denied that he ever came on to me, and, regarding the grade, he said that he was just executing University attendance policy. He also implied that I would be in big trouble if I spread my story around."

Eric is pissed off. He actually looks more pissed off than I ever was.

"Eric, calm down," I say, but looking at him, I know I'm wasting my words.

"Ba't ang yabang niya? Does he have a frat? Is he the brother of a senator or something?"

"What does it matter?"

"You're right, it doesn't matter. I mean, he's not gonna know who or what hit him anyway."

"That's not what I meant."

"Look, it's in the Bible! If you have a grievance against somebody, the first thing you do is talk to him. Then, if he doesn't listen, you bring a friend and you try to talk to him again. And then, after all else has failed, you have to go ahead and smite him. You know, beat the shit out of him."

"I know what smite means, thank you. And just where in the Bible did you read that?"

"I think it's in Matthew. I'm pretty sure that's what it says."

"I find that really hard to believe, Eric."

"Look," he says, and for the first time he frightens me. I'm looking into his eyes, and I realize that Eric, sort-of-goofy Eric, my old high school friend, is perfectly capable of premeditated violence. "Look, we have to do something. He can't get away with this."

"Eric, I swear to God, if I pick up the Collegian next week and find out he's the lead story, I'll never talk to you again."

He has nothing to say in response. He just sits there, his fists clenched, in silence. Finally, he mutters, "He just shouldn't get away with it."

I suddenly feel very tired.

Eric stands up. "I guess I should..." He makes some vague hand-motion in the general direction of the door, but otherwise he doesn't move. I look at his eyes; they're glistening. He puts his hand over them, as if to stop them from leaking.

I get up, walk over to him, and put my arms around him in a reassuring hug. The last time I hugged Eric was our graduation day, right after the last ceremony, when everyone was laughing and cheering, and throwing their programs in the air because we didn't have those silly four-cornered caps. That was a good day. Here, now, his arms wrap around me, and they start to squeeze just a little too tightly. He opens his wet eyes, looks at me, and his head ducks down and his mouth meets mine and I can feel his tongue work its way between my lips.

I push him away, with all the strength that suddenly surges into me. He staggers, and for a second he looks like he's going to fall, but he manages to plant his hand on the table for support.

"I'm sorry," he says, straightening up abruptly. He just stands there, looking utterly lost, frozen for a moment, and then he almost trips over his own feet as he turns around, and lunges for the door. He swings it open, and just like that, before I can say anything, before I can yell at him or offer him an umbrella to borrow, he's outside, running towards his car, getting drenched. I watch as he fumbles with his keys. Finally he manages to get in, and start the engine. His headlights blink on and he honks the car horn a couple of times. I make a small waving gesture, but I'm not sure if he can see me through this downpour.

I close the door, and sit down at my kitchen table. I pick up a screw-top plastic container, it's full of this iced tea powdered mix. I shovel a couple of tablespoons of the stuff into a glass, pour water into it and stir the whole thing vigorously, until I can no longer see the individual grains swirling around, until all that's left is a homogenous dark brown liquid. I take a swig. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Ludlum as he zips across the kitchen sink's edge.

There are times when I wish rats could talk. Hell, there are times when I wish dogs could talk, and cats, and all sorts of animals, and inanimate objects too -- I could have conversations with my books, and ask my clothes which of them wants to go out today. I could go to our old school, run my hand across the pebbly surface of the Humanities building's walls, and thank my favorite narra tree -- the one near the Girls' Dorm -- for pleasant oblivious afternoons spent in its shade. I gulp down the last of my instant, too-sweet tea, and smack my lips. There's an unpleasant puckery aftertaste. I set the glass down on my table and shuffle over to my bed. The springs creak as I lie down. I take a deep breath, close my eyes. I can hear another argument starting next door. I can hear the scratching and scrabbling of my two rodent roommates as they cavort inside the hollow wooden wall to my left. And outside, there's the constant roar of the rain, as if the sky itself is laughing at some great joke that I just don't get.

BESTPHILIPPINE SHORT STORIES: HARVEST

HARVEST
by Loreto Paras Sulit

HE first saw her in his brother’s eyes. The palay stalks were taking on gold in the late after­noon sun, were losing their trampled, wind-swept look and stirring into little, almost inaudi­ble whispers.

The rhythm of Fabian’s strokes was smooth and unbroken. So many palay stalks had to be harvested before sundown and there was no time to be lost in idle dallying. But when he stopped to heap up the fallen palay stalks he glanced at his brother as if to fathom the other’s state of mind in that one, side-long glance.

The swing of Vidal’s figure was as graceful as the downward curve of the cres­cent-shaped scythe. How stubborn, this younger brother of his, how hard-headed, fumed Fabian as he felled stalk after stalk. It is because he knows how very good-looking he is, how he is so much run-after by all the women in town. The obstinate, young fool! With his queer dreams, his strange adorations, his wistfulness for a life not of these fields, not of their quiet, colorless women and the dullness of long nights of unbroken silence and sleep. But he would bend… he must bend… one of these days.

Vidal stopped in his work to wipe off the heavy sweat from his brow. He wondered how his brother could work that fast all day without pausing to rest, with­out slowing in the rapidity of his strokes. But that was the reason the master would not let him go; he could harvest a field in a morning that would require three men to finish in a day. He had always been afraid of this older brother of his; there was something terrible in the way he deter­mined things, how he always brought them to pass, how he disregarded the soft and the beautiful in his life and sometimes how he crushed, trampled people, things he wanted destroyed. There were flowers, insects, birds of boyhood memories, what Fabian had done to them. There was Tinay… she did not truly like him, but her widowed mother had some lands… he won and mar­ried Tinay.

I wonder what can touch him. Vidal thought of miracles, perhaps a vision, a woman… But no… he would overpower them…he was so strong with those arms of steel, those huge arms of his that could throttle a spirited horse into obedience.

“Harvest time is almost ended, Vidal.” (I must be strong also, the other prayed). “Soon the planting season will be on us and we shall have need of many carabaos. Milia’s father has five. You have but to ask her and Milia will accept you any time. Why do you delay…”

He stopped in surprise for his brother had sprung up so suddenly and from the look on his face it was as if a shining glory was smiling shyly, tremulously in that adoring way of his that called forth all the boyishness of his nature—There was the slow crunch, crunch of footsteps on dried soil and Fabian sensed the presence of people behind him. Vidal had taken off his wide, buri hat and was twisting and untwisting it nervously.

“Ah, it is my model! How are you, Vidal?” It was a voice too deep and throaty for a woman but beneath it one could detect a gentle, smooth nuance, soft as silk. It affected Fabian very queerly, he could feel his muscles tensing as he waited for her to speak again. But he did not stop in work nor turn to look at her.

She was talking to Vidal about things he had no idea of. He could not under­stand why the sound of her voice filled him with this resentment that was increasing with every passing minute. She was so near him that when she gestured, perhaps as she spoke, the silken folds of her dress brushed against him slightly, and her perfume, a very subtle fragrance, was cool and scented in the air about him.

“From now on he must work for me every morning, possibly all day.”

“Very well. Everything as you please.” So it was the master who was with her.

“He is your brother, you say, Vidal? Oh, your elder brother.” The curiosity in her voice must be in her eyes. “He has very splendid arms.”

Then Fabian turned to look at her.

He had never seen anyone like her. She was tall, with a regal unconscious assurance in her figure that she carried so well, and pale as though she had just recovered from a recent illness. She was not exactly very young nor very beautiful. But there was something disquieting and haunting in the unsymmetry of her features, in the queer reflection of the dark blue-blackness of her hair, in her eyes, in that mole just above her nether lips, that tinged her whole face with a strange loveliness. For, yes, she was indeed beautiful. One dis­covered it after a second, careful glance. Then the whole plan of the brow and lip and eye was revealed; one realized that her pallor was the ivory-white of rice grain just husked, that the sinuous folds of silken lines were but the undertones of the grace that flowed from her as she walked away from you.

The blood rushed hot to his very eyes and ears as he met her grave, searching look that swept him from head to foot. She approached him and examined his hot, moist arms critically.

“How splendid! How splendid!” she kept on murmuring.

Then “Thank you,” and taking and leaning on the arm of the master she walked slowly away.

The two brothers returned to their work but to the very end of the day did not exchange a word. Once Vidal attempted to whistle but gave it up after a few bars. When sundown came they stopped harvesting and started on their way home. They walked with difficulty on the dried rice paddies till they reached the end of the rice fields.

The stiffness, the peace of the twilit landscape was maddening to Fabian. It aug­mented the spell of that woman that was still over him. It was queer how he kept on thinking about her, on remembering the scent of her perfume, the brush of her dress against him and the look of her eyes on his arms. If he had been in bed he would be tossing painfully, fever­ishly. Why was her face always before him as though it were always focused somewhere in the distance and he was forever walking up to it?

A large moth with mottled, highly colored wings fluttered blindly against the bough, its long, feathery antennae quivering sensitively in the air. Vidal paused to pick it up, but before he could do so his brother had hit it with the bundle of palay stalks he carried. The moth fell to the ground, a mass of broken wings, of fluttering wing-dust.

After they had walked a distance, Vidal asked, “Why are you that way?”

“What is my way?”

“That—that way of destroying things that are beautiful like moths… like…”

“If the dust from the wings of a moth should get into your eyes, you would be blind.”

“That is not the reason.”

“Things that are beautiful have a way of hurting. I destroy it when I feel a hurt.”

To avoid the painful silence that would surely ensue Vidal talked on whatever subject entered his mind. But gradually, slowly the topics converged into one. He found himself talking about the woman who came to them this afternoon in the fields. She was a relative of the master. A cousin, I think. They call her Miss Francia. But I know she has a lovely, hid­den name… like her beauty. She is convalescing from a very serious illness she has had and to pass the time she makes men out of clay, of stone. Sometimes she uses her fingers, some­times a chisel.

One day Vidal came into the house with a message for the master. She saw him. He was just the model for a figure she was working on; she had asked him to pose for her.

“Brother, her loveliness is one I cannot understand. When one talks to her forever so long in the patio, many dreams, many desires come to me. I am lost… I am glad to be lost.”

It was merciful the darkness was up on the fields. Fabian could not see his brother’s face. But it was cruel that the darkness was heavy and without end except where it reached the little, faint star. For in the deep darkness, he saw her face clearly and understood his brother.

On the batalan of his home, two tall clay jars were full of water. He emptied one on his feet, he cooled his warm face and bathed his arms in the other. The light from the kero­sene lamp within came in wisps into the batalan. In the meager light he looked at his arms to discover where their splendor lay. He rubbed them with a large, smooth pebble till they glowed warm and rich brown. Gently he felt his own muscles, the strength, the power beneath. His wife was crooning to the baby inside. He started guiltily and entered the house.

Supper was already set on the table. Tinay would not eat; she could not leave the baby, she said. She was a small, nervous woman still with the lingering prettiness of her youth. She was rocking a baby in a swing made of a blanket tied at both ends to ropes hanging from the ceiling. Trining, his other child, a girl of four, was in a corner playing siklot solemnly all by herself.

Everything seemed a dream, a large spreading dream. This little room with all the people inside, faces, faces in a dream. That woman in the fields, this afternoon, a colored, past dream by now. But the unrest, the fever she had left behind… was still on him. He turned almost savagely on his brother and spoke to break these two gro­tesque, dream bub­bles of his life. “When I was your age, Vidal, I was already mar­ried. It is high time you should be settling down. There is Milia.”

“I have no desire to marry her nor anybody else. Just—just—for five carabaos.” There! He had spoken out at last. What a relief it was. But he did not like the way his brother pursed his lips tightly That boded not defeat. Vidal rose, stretching himself luxuriously. On the door of the silid where he slept he paused to watch his little niece. As she threw a pebble into the air he caught it and would not give it up. She pinched, bit, shook his pants furiously while he laughed in great amusement.

“What a very pretty woman Trining is going to be. Look at her skin; white as rice grains just husked; and her nose, what a high bridge. Ah, she is going to be a proud lady… and what deep, dark eyes. Let me see, let me see. Why, you have a little mole on your lips. That means you are very talkative.”

“You will wake up the baby. Vidal! Vidal!” Tinay rocked the child almost despair­ingly. But the young man would not have stopped his teasing if Fabian had not called Trin­ing to his side.

“Why does she not braid her hair?” he asked his wife.

“Oh, but she is so pretty with her curls free that way about her head.”

“We shall have to trim her head. I will do it before going out to work tomor­row.”

Vidal bit his lips in anger. Sometimes… well, it was not his child anyway. He retired to his room and fell in a deep sleep unbroken till after dawn when the sobs of a child awak­ened him. Peering between the bamboo slats of the floor he could see dark curls falling from a child’s head to the ground.

He avoided his brother from that morning. For one thing he did not want repetitions of the carabao question with Milia to boot. For another there was the glo­rious world and new life opened to him by his work in the master’s house. The glam­our, the enchantment of hour after hour spent on the shadow-flecked ylang-ylang scented patio where she molded, shaped, reshaped many kinds of men, who all had his face from the clay she worked on.

In the evening after supper he stood by the window and told the tale of that day to a very quiet group. And he brought that look, that was more than a gleam of a voice made weak by strong, deep emotions.

His brother saw and understood. Fury was a high flame in his heart… If that look, that quiver of voice had been a moth, a curl on the dark head of his daughter… Now more than ever he was determined to have Milia in his home as his brother’s wife… that would come to pass. Someday, that look, that quiver would become a moth in his hands, a frail, helpless moth.

When Vidal, one night, broke out the news Fabian knew he had to act at once. Miss Francia would leave within two days; she wanted Vidal to go to the city with her, where she would finish the figures she was working on.

“She will pay me more than I can earn here, and help me get a position there. And shall always be near her. Oh, I am going! I am going!”

“And live the life of a—a servant?”

“What of that? I shall be near her always.”

“Why do you wish to be near her?”

“Why? Why? Oh, my God! Why?”

That sentence rang and resounded and vibrated in Fabian’s ears during the days that followed. He had seen her closely only once and only glimpses thereafter. But the song of loveliness had haunted his life thereafter. If by a magic transfusing he, Fabian, could be Vidal and… and… how one’s thoughts can make one forget of the world. There she was at work on a figure that represented a reaper who had paused to wipe off the heavy sweat from his brow. It was Vidal in stone.

Again—as it ever would be—the disquieting nature of her loveliness was on him so that all his body tensed and flexed as he gathered in at a glance all the marvel of her beauty.

She smiled graciously at him while he made known himself; he did not expect she would remember him.

“Ah, the man with the splendid arms.”

“I am the brother of Vidal.” He had not forgotten to roll up his sleeves.

He did not know how he worded his thoughts, but he succeeded in making her understand that Vidal could not possibly go with her, that he had to stay behind in the fields.

There was an amusement rippling beneath her tones. “To marry the girl whose father has five carabaos. You see, Vidal told me about it.”

He flushed again a painful brick-red; even to his eyes he felt the hot blood flow.

“That is the only reason to cover up something that would not be known. My brother has wronged this girl. There will be a child.”

She said nothing, but the look in her face protested against what she had heard. It said, it was not so.

But she merely answered, “I understand. He shall not go with me.” She called a ser­vant, gave him a twenty-peso bill and some instruction. “Vidal, is he at your house?” The brother on the patio nodded.

Now they were alone again. After this afternoon he would never see her, she would never know. But what had she to know? A pang without a voice, a dream without a plan… how could they be understood in words.

“Your brother should never know you have told me the real reason why he should not go with me. It would hurt him, I know.

“I have to finish this statue before I leave. The arms are still incomplete—would it be too much to ask you to pose for just a little while?”

While she smoothed the clay, patted it and molded the vein, muscle, arm, stole the firmness, the strength, of his arms to give to this lifeless statue, it seemed as if life left him, left his arms that were being copied. She was lost in her work and noticed neither the twi­light stealing into the patio nor the silence brooding over them.

Wrapped in that silver-grey dusk of early night and silence she appeared in her true light to the man who watched her every movement. She was one he had glimpsed and crushed all his life, the shining glory in moth and flower and eyes he had never understood because it hurt with its unearthly radiance.

If he could have the whole of her in the cup of his hands, drink of her strange loveli­ness, forgetful of this unrest he called life, if… but his arms had already found their duplicate in the white clay beyond…

When Fabian returned Vidal was at the batalan brooding over a crumpled twenty-peso bill in his hands. The haggard tired look in his young eyes was as grey as the skies above.

He was speaking to Tinay jokingly. “Soon all your sampaguitas and camias will be gone, my dear sister-in-law because I shall be seeing Milia every night… and her father.” He watched Fabian cleansing his face and arms and later wondered why it took his brother that long to wash his arms, why he was rubbing them as hard as that…

BEST PHILIPPINE SHORT STORIES: FIREWORKS

FIREWORKS
by H.O. Santos

 ENSENADA is only one hour south of Tijuana but what a difference one hour makes. It's still a tourist town--gringos contribute a lot to the town's economy--but it's more tranquil. Unlike the border town of Tijuana, vendors in Ensenada aren't always in your face trying to sell you a souvenir or a bed warmer for the evening. As a matter of fact, many commercial establishments don't have employees who speak English--we do very well without you tourists, thank you very much, they seem to say. Even the popular Hussong's Cantina with its almost hundred percent gringo clientele is outside of town and doesn't affect Ensenada's relative calm.

I love the isolation Baja California provides, all within a day's drive from Los Angeles. My favorite Baja destination is easily San Felipe, a sleepy fishing village on the Gulf of California side, and that's where Barbara and I were headed for. There are many ways to get there from Los Angeles but my favorite route is the one which goes all the way south to Ensenada via Tijuana. You then cross the peninsula through the winding road over the mountains to reach the other side.

Close to the halfway mark, Ensenada is a good stopping point to take a break. We hit it at the right time on this trip, at eleven in the morning.

I was with Barbara Westbay, my girl friend of almost two years. In spite of her decidedly non-Hispanic surname, she claims to have Latino ancestors. You couldn't tell from the way she looked--she had red hair, green eyes, and freckles that showed prominently if she stayed in the sun too long. Lately it had been fashionable among gringos to claim Latino or Native American ancestry. I often wondered if she has been stretching the truth about her ancestry a little too much.

I never fully understood why she put up with my proclivity for these trips since she can't take too much sun, an almost impossible thing to do in Baja. She's envious of women who tan perfectly, those who can take on a beautiful shade of bronze without burning. She has to be careful for it's extremely uncomfortable for her to lie down when she gets burned. I like to think she puts up with these trips because she loves me but I know she does it as much to get away from the madness of city life as she cares for me.

I parked Barbara's Nissan Pathfinder in the center of Ensenada near the beach. We went to look for our favorite food vendors--the ones who plied the streets in their pushcarts and lunch trucks. She went to a truck that sold fish tacos. I found a vendor who served fresh clam cocktails from his pushcart. He picked a live one from a bucket, opened and cut it up, then put the meat into a large plastic cup. He squeezed lime juice into it, added chopped tomatoes, onions, cilantro, and red peppers and handed the cup to me with several packets of Santos saltine crackers.

We stopped at the corner store to buy two cold bottles of Corona Beer before going to the beach to eat our lunch.

"Have a bite of my fish taco, it's good."

"What did you get this time, the usual shark?"

"They didn't have shark but this tuna is good--it's not overcooked, just lightly grilled." I took a bite and agreed it was good.

"Here, have some of my cocktail, it's pismo clam." I brought a spoonful to her mouth to let her try it.

"Super. I wish we had these vendors in L.A. They're so convenient."

"We're starting to have them already. I see vendors selling ice cream and drinks out of pushcarts. They're probably all illegals, too."

"Come on, you wouldn't know an illegal if you saw one. Just because you see somebody who looks Hispanic doesn't mean he's a mojado."

"They mostly are."

"I don't think so. As an immigrant yourself, I expect you'd be more sensitive to their plight."

"But I came to America legally. I'm not against immigration, only against those who do it illegally," I protested.

"You have a lot to learn about how America stole most of the West from Mexico. All of the Western states from Texas to California used to belong to Mexico. The 1849 Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo unfairly gave the West to America. Before, those areas were part of Mexico and people could move freely because there was no border. The worst part about it was that land was taken away illegally from their Mexican owners and given to the new settlers."

"All right, but what are laws for if they're not going to be enforced."

"Some laws are so unfair they shouldn't be enforced."

I let Barbara have the last word because I suspected she would win the argument. She once told me that new immigrants like myself who have been in the U.S. just long enough are sometimes worse than native-born Americans when it comes to tolerating new immigration. Each new group thinks the door should be closed after they've come in.

After lunch, we bought two more six-packs of Corona and stashed them in our ice chest before going on our way. We were soon outside Ensenada going east and climbing along the winding road. Some parts of the mountain range were as high as seven thousand feet although the highway only reached five thousand. I had a chance to enjoy the scenery as Barbara had taken over the driving chores.

Along the mountain road were large boulders that looked like they could roll down and crush us at any moment. Although I knew they had been there for thousands of years, it was hard not to get disturbed. I was happy when we reached the high plateau and left them behind us.

We stopped to buy gasoline at a small town. The mountain towns didn't have electricity--gas was dispensed in a primitive but ingenuous manner. The dispenser was a graduated glass container set high on a stand. An attendant pumped gas by hand from fifty-five gallon drums on the ground to the container until the desired amount was transferred. The gas was then allowed to flow down through a hose to your tank. We took in fifty liters of regular unleaded gas. I paid in dollars and didn't bother to count the change which was given to me in pesos. In all the times I've been to Baja, no one has yet cheated me on the change owed me.

The gas attendant was an attractive young girl who must have been around ten or twelve. She wore jeans, a Western shirt, and cowboy boots. She had light hair and looked European unlike most of the other children around her who had mostly Indian features.

"You know, she could easily cross the border and won't even get stopped," Barbara commented. "None of her friends will make it, though."

I knew Barbara was trying to tell me looks had everything to do with who was mistaken for an illegal alien in the United States. She was good at giving not-too-subtle hints like that to prove a point.

We were soon on the eastern slope of the mountain. From here on, the road is straight for the most part. It didn't need to snake around since the slope is gentle all the way to the ocean. The landscape also changes radically here--the marine layer which blows in from the Pacific and makes the western side of the peninsula green doesn't reach this far. It is an alkali desert--starkly bright white except for the black cinder cones of extinct volcanoes that rose from the desert floor in the distance. Every now and then we would see green farmland made possible by irrigation. I saw a red double-winged crop dusting plane make a pass to drop insecticide on the crops below. I thought of Snoopy--he would have loved to have been on that plane.

After an hour more, we got to the lowlands and at last I saw the ocean in the distance. I soon heard the ocean's roar and smelled the salt air. Even after all the trips I've made to San Felipe, it was still a surprise to suddenly see an ocean at the edge of a dry and desolate desert.

We turned right when we reached the main highway. The road was surrounded by sand dunes on both sides and gently rose and fell but was absolutely straight. The ocean was only a few miles to our left but it didn't do much to alleviate the July heat. We had turned the air conditioner off to spare the car's cooling system and get used to the heat.

There were no clouds in the sky and it was hard to imagine there was life around except for the few scrub cactus and stunted mesquite that broke through the chalky soil. I knew from previous visits, though, that they were simply hiding from the midday heat and would come out when it got cooler.

As we approached San Felipe, billboards touting campsites along the beach became visible to our left. We turned left at our favorite, the Playas del Sol, which was two-thirds of the way to the center of San Felipe from where the first campground was. We left a trail of dust on the gravel road as Barbara drove to the campground which was half a mile from the highway. We were lucky to find a cabaña still available--the shade provided by the thatched palm roof supported on four wooden posts made all the difference between comfort and torture.

Our chosen spot was on a bluff fifteen feet higher than the beach. Barbara and I quickly got our equipment from the car and set them up. Barbara then moved her car to the west side of the cabaña to block the sun when it got low. We decided we didn't need the tent--the wind wasn't strong enough and we could sleep in the open. We worked quickly and changed into bathing suits so we could get in the water before the tide started receding again.

High tide is the only time you can swim in San Felipe. The water is all the way to the beach then. Fish come close and often jump out of the water. You can see an occasional flying fish skip thirty yards or more before dropping back into the water again.

The water temperature was pleasant--cool enough to be refreshing but not ice cold like it was in the winter. We stayed only long enough to cool off and went back to tidy up our little camp area for the evening. It was better to do this while it was still light because it gets very dark at night.

I had some pork chops marinating in a container in the ice chest. While waiting for the charcoal to get going, I set a couple of beach chairs on the bluff facing the ocean. We sat on the chairs and watched the tide go out. Sea gulls were making their last attempts at catching fish before the tide receded some more. The temperature must have been in the mid-nineties so we were dry without needing to towel off.

We had a good dinner--Barbara's salsa was hotter than usual so it required frequent washing down with beer. Coronas weren't heavy anyway and here in the hot climate you sweated off the effects of beer faster than you could drink it.

We took a shower after we washed our pots and pans in the wash area. The camp site had free toilets but charged a nominal fee for showers. Fresh water was trucked in daily from Mexicali which was sixty miles away. The lack of fresh water is what has slowed developers from fully exploiting this place, thank heavens.

By the time we got back, the camp manager had already turned on the generator that provided electricity to the fluorescent lamps along the main camp road. Besides the road, the wash, bath, and toilet areas were also lit. Lights were turned off at eleven o'clock.

At night, there's absolutely nothing to do in the campground except stroll on the beach. It's the kind of place that drive Las Vegas types crazy. We took a flashlight with us to look around--tiny crabs scurried away as we made our way through the tide pools. The exposed ocean floor was muddy, and we found an occasional fish or shrimp trapped in the shallow pools of water.

After the walk, we sat on our folding chairs, sipping beer again. I loved Barbara for understanding there were times when you could be with someone and not need to say anything. The connection was made through the silence, not the exchange of words.

In the distance, I could see the lights of Mexican towns on the mainland and an occasional ferry or fishing boat crossing the gulf which separated us from them. Looking out towards the mainland made it clear to me why early explorers mistook California for an island.

I looked up the moonless sky and through the clear desert air saw more stars than I could count. The Milky Way and the reddish Magellanic Cloud were clearly visible. I thought about my namesake, my tocayo, Antonio Miranda Rodriguez--he must have gazed at these very same stars from this same spot more than two centuries before.

I had read he was a Filipino carpenter who passed through Baja in 1781 with a group of settlers who were going to start a settlement, near the San Gabriel Mission, which would later become Los Angeles. He never made it because his Mexican wife and daughter got sick. He stayed behind to take care of them until they died. He ended up in Santa Barbara instead of Los Angeles.

I wondered what made him and countless other Filipinos cross the Pacific on Spanish galleons leaving everything behind, how he must have felt upon losing his family to illness just when they were getting close to Alta California where they would have had a better life. It seemed Filipinos had been going to strange lands to find better lives forever.

I counted three shooting stars in fifteen minutes but didn't make a wish. What I wanted I already had.

"Do you mind if I turned the radio on?" I asked Barbara.

"No, it would be good to listen to some music."

I fiddled with the dial--I could only get AM. I got stations from the Mexican mainland, a strong one from Albuquerque, but stopped at a station from Tuczon that was giving a news summary. The temperature had been over a hundred in most places along the border and the Border Patrol had found some illegal border crossers in the desert. Four were dead and seven were suffering from heat stroke and severe dehydration. The authorities were investigating whether their coyote had abandoned them or if they had crossed on their own without realizing how high the temperature would be that day.

"My God, what a terrible way to die," Barbara said.

"I don't understand why people take such chances. It's dumb," I replied.

"Maybe some day you will. I'll love you even more when you do."

"There are legal ways to get in…"

"Most people can't get in legally. One day you'll meet a real illegal and you'll find out why they do things you consider dumb."

The news was over. I turned the dial to a Mexican station that played boleros. It was depressing to hear about people crossing the border only to die after they make it to their promised land. The music helped me push the thought away from my mind. I had more beer and watched the stars until I fell asleep.

IT must have been already in the eighties when I woke up. The tide had started to move out again and it was getting quieter. It had come in during the night, its roar lulling me to a deeper sleep. Its sound is so soothing you tend to wake up when it goes away.

The sun hadn't as yet risen but the eastern horizon already had a pink tinge. Clouds over the mainland were slowly turning crimson. Stars were still visible on the zenith and towards the western horizon. After a while, the sun peeked out and the sky was filled with a riot of colors. I don't think there's a more beautiful sunrise than in San Felipe. Too bad not many people get to see it because they don't wake up early enough.

I placed a towel on Barbara to cover her--I noticed she hadn't bothered to put her clothes back on after we woke up in the middle of the night wanting each other badly. She was still sleeping soundly and I didn't want to wake her up.

I filled a pot with water and made coffee, then watched the sun rise higher as I drank my coffee. A few people around camp were now beginning to stir and move about and so did Barbara. She gave me an amused grin when she realized she was naked--she hastily put her clothes on. As she washed her face in a small basin, I made her a cup of coffee. She didn't say anything but hugged me to give her silent thank you before starting to fry bacon and eggs.

Barbara fried our leftover rice with garlic in the bacon fat. I was surprised how easily she had gotten to like the Filipino breakfast staple I taught her to make. She fixes it every time she gets a chance.

It was a lazy morning and by the time we had everything stowed away, it was already nine o'clock and very hot. We went to town to buy more food, drinks, and ice.

When we returned to Playas del Sol, an itinerant vendor was standing in the shade of our cabaña. He politely waited until we got everything out from the car before showing us what he was selling. He had jamacas, a very compact hammock made from hand-tied twine. It was only a few bucks so I bought one. I didn't necessarily want to sleep in one but I thought it would be handy in keeping our stuff up from the sand.

I was hanging the hammock from the cabaña posts when I saw this young woman carrying a basket on top of her head. She had it effortlessly balanced and didn't need to hold it with her hands. It had been a long time since I last saw a woman do that.

She was walking towards us. She was petite, must have been only an inch or two over five feet, and had a nice figure. Her skin was deep brown, perhaps from the sun, and she was wearing an embroidered blouse of rough cotton. She looked like a typical chinita poblana, a Mexican country woman of mostly Indian blood, except she was wearing shorts instead of a skirt. She was a pretty sight to look at--good looking, nice figure, shapely legs, and walking like a model on a runway. The basket on her head made her walk in a sensuous manner, her hips and hands swaying gracefully to keep her balance in the soft sand. I noticed that all the men around us had turned their heads to ogle her.

She approached Barbara and showed what she had in her basket--pork and chicken tamales, she said. She had an intense look in her eyes but they looked like they were ready to turn into a twinkle anytime.

"Do you have salsa to go with it?" Barbara asked.

"Yes, of course," she answered. "It is good and fresh."

"Let me try one chicken," Barbara said.

I brought over a paper plate and a fork. The woman put the tamale on the plate and Barbara split the cornhusk wrapper open with her fork. She then poured salsa straight from the jar and started eating.

"It's good, I can eat another one. Do you want one, hon?"

"I'll try one," I said. I got another paper plate and asked for pork tamale. It was almost lunch time anyway and it was too hot to cook. All we needed was cold beer and our lunch would be complete.

I pulled the beach chairs into the shade and offered one to the woman.

"My name is Tony, this is Barbara. We're from Los Angeles."

"I am Lita," she said softly as she sat down. She had been staring at me for a while. I got a plastic cup and asked if she wanted soda or beer.

"Coke is fine, if you have."

I put ice in the plastic cup for her and poured her some Coke. I got a couple of Coronas for myself and Barbara.

After Lita took a sip, she said, "Dalawa na lang po ang natitira, bilhin na po ninyo para huwag na akong maglakad pa."

I was pleasantly surprised and smiled, "Pinay ka pala. Kaya naman pala napakaganda mo."

She lowered her eyes and blushed. I turned to Barbara, "Luv, she's Filipina. She says she has only two tamales left and was wondering if we want to buy them so she can go home."

"Why not, they're good--I'm sure you can eat another one."

We sat there in the shade eating our lunch. I offered a tamale to Lita but she declined saying she couldn't eat one--she made them every day. I gave her instead a mango we got from town.

"How did you get to Baja?" I asked.

"It is long story, take too long to tell."

"Oh, we got time," I said but Lita didn't say anything.

"Tell you what," Barbara said, joining in. "We'd like to invite you for dinner tonight. It's the Fourth of July and we'd like to celebrate a little bit. Then you can tell us."

Lita thought for a while then said, "Only if you let me cook."

"Nothing fancy, we don't have a lot of utensils here. I was just going to cook what we were able to buy in the market this morning."

Lita checked the icebox. "We have plenty--I bring what else we need," she said as she picked up her basket. "Let me go now so I tell my family about tonight--they are very good to me."

"Do you live far? I can drive you," Barbara offered.

"No, I can walk. The house I live is near entrance to this camp. Across street, on left, only house there."

"I'll see you later then--I won't start till you get here."

Meanwhile, the tide had rolled back in. People were now all over the beach frolicking in the surf. To the right, I could see Cerro El Machorro, dark, tall, and majestic. It hid San Felipe from our view. I imagine it was what fishermen used as a landmark in finding their way back to port. I wouldn't know--I have never been out to sea in San Felipe.

It was a lazy and peaceful feeling, sitting in the shade and listening to the surf. It's hard to imagine how a hot, barren, and remote place could have attracted settlers hundreds of years ago. But then some people tend to occupy niches and would gladly settle for a less abundant place to call home rather than struggle against other people in a more opulent location. I wondered if I had what it takes to live in such a place or if I would do what many of them do--cross the border to find better life in Alta California.

Barbara had gone to the water to cool off. You can't really swim very well in San Felipe, the water is shallow in most places. But you can sit on the sandy bottom and let the cool water splash over you and the strong waves rock you back and forth. It's a great place to pretend you're a seaweed.

By the time I got in the water, Barbara already had her limit of sun for the day. I stayed in the water for an hour while she dozed off on the beach chair in the shade of the cabaña.

BARBARA and I had already showered and changed when Lita arrived promptly at five o'clock. She was wearing a loose, lavender printed shift that draped beautifully over her body. It showed off her figure quite well. She had with her a wok and a small basket filled with vegetables. It seemed she was ready for some serious cooking and wasn't going to settle for anything less.

"Lita, you shouldn't have bothered," Barbara said.

"I want to cook good food this time--we don't have much what we cook here in Baja, we're too poor. And I want to practice, too."

"I leave everything up to you, then. I'll help--tell me what you want me to do."

Lita and Barbara were soon at work--Lita taught Barbara her recipes. I stayed out of their way and helped by washing the dirty dishes, pots, and pans.

It took them a while but when they got done, we had sinigang of mullet, beef fajitas, pepper fried shrimp, and steamed rice. We had more food than we could eat so I suggested they take some to Lita's foster family. Barbara and Lita wrapped food in aluminum foil and took them there. It was a chance to let her family know how good a cook she was.

While they were away, I managed to appropriate for our use a couple of wooden planks which I set across the two ice chests to make a table. I used an extra bed sheet for a tablecloth. I set the food, paper plates, napkins, and plastic flatware on our banquet table. It was beginning to look like a real party and I wished we had dinner candles to make it perfect.

A man selling fireworks out of the trunk of his car was making the rounds when Barbara and Lita got back. I bought a few each of the different kinds he had. Fireworks are illegal in most of California because they're dangerous. But what the heck, I was in Mexico and wanted to live a bit dangerously.

We ate dinner out of styrofoam plates using plastic flatware. Lita was a good cook--I especially liked her pepper fried shrimp which was lightly battered and crispy. I kept going back with my paper cup for additional helpings of her sour soup.

"Where did you learn to cook?" I asked.

"I cook at home when I was young girl. Then I live in Hong Kong, and now in Mexico. I learn all kinds of cooking because I always help whoever cooks."

"Where are you from?"

"I am Bicolana, from Daraga, Albay. I went to Hong Kong as maid. I was sixteen when I left home--I make false papers to show I was eighteen."

"That's interesting. How did you get to Mexico?"

She didn't answer but sipped her tequila instead. Like when I asked earlier, she evaded my question.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry into your life."

She looked at me and said, "I like to tell people my story but nobody believe me because it sound not true."

Barbara put an arm around her shoulder and said, "Tell me--I'll believe you." Barbara was a people person, one who easily obtained the trust of those she met. I was her exact opposite, I didn't trust anyone and nobody trusted me.

Lita began by telling us how she got recruited from her hometown in Albay by an agent from Manila. She didn't have enough money for fees and airfare so she signed a promissory note to pay an exorbitant amount for her expenses. The payments would come out of her pay once she started working in Hong Kong. She and several other girls were taken to a residence in Manila where they were briefed on how to behave and how to conduct themselves. More importantly, they were told how a company representative would come around every payday to collect the amount due on the loans.

Things went fine with her--she was able to send a little money home and save a little for herself even after making her monthly payments to the recruiting company. Her dream was to save enough to be able to buy a modest house and start a little dress shop in her hometown when she returned.

It had gotten dark and the camp generator was turned on. People began setting off fireworks and lighting firecrackers. I got mine out and was getting ready to join in the celebration when I saw two local boys looking enviously at everybody else. I called them over and said they could light my fireworks if they felt like it.

"Gracias, señor. Feliz Cuatro de Julio!" one said as they proceeded to argue about who was going to light which rocket. Soon the sky was filled with rockets bursting into multicolored sparklers that floated down leisurely. The pop-pop-pop of firecrackers came from all around. It was strange to see the Fourth of July being celebrated in another country but tonight San Felipe, with all its visitors, was an American town.

Lita continued with her story as we sipped more tequila.

"Everything fine until my master's wife visit her family in New Territories. My amo came home one night and wanted a woman. He force me--I never been in bed with a man before. I was scared and wish to die. He did it again the next night and until his wife return home.

"I told her what happen but she laugh, say to me I only want money from them to make accusation. I went to Philippine Consulate and they tell me go to office that would help. I learn they could not because I cannot prove--I did not run away or call police when it happen.

"I become so sad. I do not know what to do, then later houseboy next door who was good person tell me he leave for America. A ship take a boat full of people to America. He give money for down payment and pay balance after he work in America.

"I ask to come but I do not know if I have enough money so he tell boat officer we are married so I only pay little amount for down payment."

At that point it seemed Lita wouldn't continue with her story. Barbara put more ice in her glass. I poured more tequila and lime soda for her. We watched the last of the fireworks as Lita continued with her story.

It took them four weeks to cross the Pacific. The ship's captain first tried to dump them off in Canada but a navy ship started trailing them when they got close. Their ship moved south but it was impossible to get close to the western shores of the United States--the Coast Guard must have been warned by the Canadian Navy. The ship's officers were getting desperate so when they got to Mexico they packed their load of passengers onto lifeboats and let them paddle by themselves to shore in Baja California.

Unfortunately, the weather wasn't very good. A few boats capsized and some people drowned. Most of those who made it to shore were apprehended and taken into custody. Lita was one of the few who managed not to get caught. Her brown skin helped her blend in with the locals--the Chinese didn't have a chance.

Lita was taken in by a friendly family who lived outside Ensenada. They hid her from the authorities but after a few weeks took her to San Felipe where they said she would be safer. They had relatives there who were just as poor but who understood how it was to hide from the authorities.

After all the fireworks had been lit and exploded, relative peace settled once more on the beach. We started putting things away--tomorrow we'd be on our way back to L.A. Back to routine, back to trying to make enough money to pay off bills and still have enough left for an occasional trip like this.

Unexpectedly, Lita came to me and said, "Manong, if you could be so kind can I go with you to Los Angeles tomorrow? I think I can pass the border checkpoint because they know I am not Mexican and they think I come with you for July 4th vacation."

I was flabbergasted. I felt sorry for her but I knew what would happen if we got caught trying to smuggle her in.

"It's not a simple task," I said. "If they get suspicious, they'll not only get you but also put us in jail. Barbara has a lot to lose because they can take her car away."

"Oh, I don't mind," Barbara said. "I think it's the best time to get her in because there'll be thousands of other people returning to the U.S. from this three-day weekend. The border agents will have their hands full and won't be able to scrutinize everybody as much as they normally would."

"Well, it's still a big risk--we should really think it over before we say yes or no. If we get caught, they'll take away my green card and kick me out of the country."

They didn't say anything more but gave me a pained and disappointed look. The mood turned dark.

"Let me take you home, Lita," Barbara finally said. "We'll get this settled somehow."

WHEN Barbara returned, she was sullen and quiet. I tried to make small talk but she kept ignoring me. Finally, she blurted out, "Dammit, why can't you have compassion for other people for once. Here's your chance to do something good and you refuse to do it."

"You know I can't take the chance--you're safe because you're American-born. You know what they would do to me if we get caught."

"You're so fuckin' gutless you can't even stick your neck out for one of your own kind. You know what she's been through? You haven't even tasted a fraction of what she's been through. How can you be so smug in your self-righteousness about what's right or wrong?"

"I can't take the chance…"

"Look, if you're so fuckin' chicken you can get out from the car before we get to the border. You can fuckin' walk across--you have papers. Why don't you let us take that chance? Just make sure you have enough money for bus fare to L.A. because I wouldn't want you back in my car… Gosh, I thought I knew you better."

With that she started crying and moved her sleeping bag as far away as she could from mine. Barbara tended to use colorful language when she gets mad but I had never seen her so agitated before. It bothered me because it seemed we truly didn't know each other very well.

I had a fitful night--I wanted to reach out and touch Barbara but she seemed so far away. I had nightmares about being left behind and walking all the way across the desert to get back to L.A. The sun was mercilessly beating down on me and I wanted water but there was none.

The next morning started out exactly like the last one--hot and muggy. I didn't feel like drinking coffee so I didn't make any. Nobody bothered to fix breakfast. I knew Barbara was feeling as badly as I was for her eyes were red from crying and she was unusually quiet. We packed our things and loaded them into her car in silence. So this was how relationships ended. I didn't know it would be so quiet.

I had a sick and empty feeling as we left the campground. I drove along the gravel road towards the main highway where I had to turn right to get back to California.

As I stopped at the corner to check for cross traffic, I saw through the already shimmering haze of the midmorning heat a lone shack across the road on the left--it looked so far from Daraga. I remembered my tocayo who vainly tried more than two hundred years ago to take his family north from here to give them a better life.

I wasn't sure whether it was because borders didn't make sense to me anymore or if I was simply scared of losing Barbara. Whatever it was, I crossed to the other side of the highway and turned left. When she noticed, Barbara reached out to touch my hand and started weeping. Her touch made me feel good again.

WE had Lita sit in the front with me, Barbara moved to the back seat. It would look better that way at the border. Lita only had one duffel bag--I thought it odd that one can move from one country to another with so very little. It made clear to me one doesn't need much in life except his own wits to survive.

We were quiet on the way back to the border. The long drive gave me time to reflect on what happened the night before--I began to understand how my dreams had shaped not only how others saw me but how I perceived them as well.

Barbara was right--the immigration officer was busy and only asked how long we've been away, where we've been, and whether we had purchased anything in Mexico. He entered our vehicle's plate number into his computer and waved us through when he found nothing.

When we got back on the freeway inside the U.S. I told Barbara I needed to stop in San Diego to do something. I got off the freeway and drove to the parking lot at the Amtrak station.

I got out of the car, opened the back door, and picked up my knapsack. I handed Barbara the car keys and gave her a long, lingering hug. I found it hard to keep everything in as I said, "Luv, I'm taking the train home."

BEST PHILIPPINE SHORT STORIES: ESSENCE

ESSENCE
by Jose Claudio B. Guerrero

WE had just finished lunch in a small café along Katipunan Road. Two cups of steamy brew enveloped our table in a delicious aroma.

"So where did you meet?" I asked my friend Patrick as he put down his coffee cup.

"In the Faculty Center in UP."

"Again? How come you meet a lot of guys there? I'm always there and nothing ever happens."

Patrick pointed to his face and smiled.

"Che!" I replied laughing. But I knew that it was true. Patrick was not really that good looking, but he had this sexy air about him. And he had fair skin which is, for most Filipinos, a prerequisite for beauty. I looked at the mirror behind him and saw my dark, emaciated reflection.

"So anyway, I was washing my face in the ground floor washroom when in comes this really cute guy. I've seen him on campus a few times before. So anyway, he goes and takes a leak," Patrick paused. "You know those FC urinals, right?"

I nodded. "No partitions."

Patrick took another sip from his cup and continued. "So anyway, this guy sees me checking him out. To my surprise, he turns to me, giving me full view of him in all his glory and smiles. I smile back. And," Patrick took a deep breath, "the rest is for me alone to know." He ended by dabbing the sides of his napkin to his mouth.

I knew pressing Patrick for more details would shut him up just like that so I let it pass. I could wheedle out all the details later. "So what's his name?"

"Carlo."

I raised an eyebrow and gave Patrick my you've-got-to-be-kidding look. He laughed and nodded in agreement.

"Yes it's another Carlo. It's always Carlo, or Paolo, or Mike, or Jay--"

"So what name did you use?" I asked, cutting him short.

"My favorite, Paolo." We both laughed. "Enough of me. Tell me about yourself. It's been what, a month since we've talked?"

"More like three weeks," I answered as I motioned to a waiter for the cake menu.

"Oh no. You're ordering cake."

"Why?"

"You order cake when you're depressed."

"No I don't. And anyway, I'm not depressed this time." The waiter arrived with the cake menu. After giving our orders, Patrick continued pressing me for news.

"I told you, I lead a boring life."

"I'm sure," answered Patrick mischievously. "So how's your Chinese boyfriend?"

Patrick's question caught me off-guard as I sipped from my cup. I snorted and felt coffee go up my nose. We both started laughing. "He's not Chinese," I answered when I had recovered. "He's Korean. And he's not my boyfriend, excuse me. I'm his tutor."

"I'm sure," said Patrick needling me. "And what are you tutoring him in?"

"English."

"I'm sure. Oh good, here's the cake."

As I dug my fork into my cake's rich cream cheese, I happened to look at the mirror and saw the café doors open. A dumpy, fair-skinned guy walked in. "Oh my God." I froze.

Patrick saw the expression on my face and looked around for what caused it. Finding it, he said, "Don't tell me you're still crazy over Mark."

"No I'm not. It's just that, well…"

"Well what?" asked Patrick, his eyes suddenly alive with curiosity.

"It's…you know," I answered. My eyes told him the rest.

"No," he answered not wanting to believe it.

I smiled.

"When?"

"Two weeks ago."

"Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

"You're always busy."

"Well I'm not busy anymore. Tell me everything." Patrick leaned over to me forgetting all about his cake. "It's not everyday your best friend loses his virginity."

"It happened two weeks ago. Our teacher dismissed us early so I was walking in the AS parking lot looking for my driver. It was already dark and only a few cars were left. Well, one of the cars was his. He smiled at me and asked me what time it was," I paused and took a bite from my cake.

"And?"

"And what happened next is for me alone to know." I replied mimicking him.

"Fuck. Don't do this to me. Tell me. I have to know. I won't be able to sleep," Patrick begged. Noticing his unused fork, he grabbed it. "Tell me or I'll stab you with this." Just then Mark passed so he hurriedly lowered his fork. "He looks conscious. Maybe he suspects you've told me."

I just smiled.

"I know some guys who are like that. Once something has happened between you, they suddenly feel awkward when you're around. Eventually you end up avoiding each other." Patrick studied his cake for a while then started eating. After some time he spoke up. "I'm so happy for you," he said smiling as he grabbed my hand and shook it warmly. "I remember all those times we sat here eating cake and talking about your to-die-for classmate Mark. Mark and his cologne, Mark and his new cologne, Mark and his crew cut, Mark and his burnt-out cigarette butt." He considered for a moment and then said, "Boy, am I glad those days are over." He laughed. I smiled.

"Is it really true that you took puffs from his cigarette butt?"

My ears went red and I nodded. "Whatever he touches, he leaves an essence. When I take a puff from his cigarette butt, our essences meld. We become one," I hastened to explain. "It's like we've shared something. Like a bond."

Patrick gave me a pitying look. "At least you don't have to do that anymore."

I smiled and mashed the blueberries on my plate.

We finished our cakes as we updated each other with what has happened to our high school barkada. As we waited for our change, Mark stood up to leave and finally noticed us. He smiled and went out. Patrick pinched me as I smiled back, my ears burning.

PATRICK dropped me off at the Faculty Center after lunch and rushed to the theater for rehearsal. Having thirty minutes to waste before my next class, I decided to go to the FC washroom and tidy up.

The faint scent of detergent, cigarette smoke, and stale urine greeted me as I opened the door. As I expected, the washroom was deserted. I stood in front of the mirror and took out tissue from my bag. As I dabbed moistened tissue on my face, the washroom door opened and a woody cologne scent wafted in.

It was Mark. He went straight to the urinals. I pretended not to notice him. When he finished peeing, he joined me by the mirror, washed his hands, and then straightened his shirt collar. As he looked at his reflection, he saw me watching him and smiled, "It's you again." I smiled back and offered him a tissue. He declined and left.

When the door closed, I hurried to the urinal. I unbuttoned my fly and peed. I looked down and watched my pale yellow fluid join his, a bit darker and frothy against the white porcelain. As I watched the fluids mix, their colors getting more and more difficult to distinguish until finally no difference could be seen, a warm pleasurable sensation from within me slowly surged, growing more and more powerful, until finally shudders of ecstasy racked my still untouched body.

BEST PHILIPPINE SHORT STORIES: THE DOLL

THE DOLL
by Egmidio Enriquez

THE was christened Narciso and his mother called him Sising. But when be took a fancy to his mother’s old rag dolls which she preserved with moth balls for the little girls she had expected to have, his father decided to call him Boy. His father was excessively masculine, from the low broad forehead and the thick bushy brows to the wide cleft chest and the ridged abdomen beneath it; and the impotence of his left leg which rheumatic attacks had rendered almost useless only goaded him to assert his maleness by an extravagant display of superiority.
“We’ll call him Boy. He is my son. A male. The offspring of a male.” Don Endong told his wife in a tone as crowy as a rooster’s after pecking a hen. “A man is fashioned by heredity and environment. I’ve given him enough red for his blood, but a lot of good it will do him with the kind of environment you are giving him. That doll you gave him—”
“I didn’t give him that doll,” Doña Enchay explained hastily. “He happened upon it in my aparador when I was clearing it. He took pity on it and drew it out. He said it looked very unhappy because it was naked and lonely. He asked me to make a dress for it—”
“And you made one. You encouraged him to play with it,” he accused her.
Doña Enchay looked at her husband embarrassedly. “I had many cuttings, and I thought I’d make use of them,” she said brushing an imaginary wisp of hair from her forehead. It was still a smooth forehead, clean swept and unlined. It did not match the tired look of her eyes, nor the droop of her heavy mouth.
Don Endong saw the forehead and the gesture, took in the quiver of the delicate nostrils and the single dimple on her cheek. “You are such a child yourself, Enchay,” he told her. “You still want to play with dolls. That is why, I suppose, you refuse to have your son’s hair cut short. You’ll make a sissy out of him!” His eyes hardened, and a pulse ticked under his right ear. “No, I will not allow it,” he said struggling to his feet with his cane and shouting, “Boy! Boy! Boy!”
His wife leapt forward to assist him, but as he steadied himself on his cane she couldn’t touch him. Even in his infirmity she could not give him support. His eyes held her back, melted her strength away, reminded her she was only a woman—the weaker, the inferior, the dependent. She felt like a flame in the wind that had frantically reached out for something to burn and having found nothing to feed itself on, settled back upon its wick to burn itself out. She watched him struggle to the window.
When he had reached it and laid his cane on the sill, she moved close to him and passed an arm around his waist. “The curls will not harm him, Marido,” she said. “They are so pretty. They make him look like the little boys in the story books. Remember the page boys at the feet of queen? His hair does not make him a girl. He looks too much like you. That wide thin-lipped mouth and that stubborn chin, and that manly chest—why you yourself say he has a pecho de paloma.”
Don Endong’s mouth twitched at one corner, looking down at her, he passed an arm across her back and under an arm. His hand spread out on her body like a crab and taking a handful of her soft flesh kneaded it gently. “All right, mujer,” he said, “but not the doll!” And he raised his voice again. “Boy! Boy! Boy!”
The boy was getting the doll ready for bed in the wigwam of coconut fronds he had built in the yard below. The doll was long, slender, rag-bodied with a glossy head of porcelain. He had pulled off its frilly, ribbon trimmed dress, and was thrusting its head into a white cotton slip of a garment that his mother had made and was a little too tight. His father’s stentorian voice drew his brows together. At whom was his father shouting now? His father was always shouting and fuming. He filled the house with his presence, invalid though he was. How could his mother stand him?
“Boy! Boy! Boy!” came his father’s voice again.
Ripping the cotton piece from the head of the doll where the head was caught, he flung the little garment away, and picking up the doll walked hastily towards the house.
His father and mother met him at the head of the stairs. He looked at his father’s angry face and said without flinching: “Were you calling me, Father? My name is not Boy!”
“It is Boy from now on,” his father told him. “That will help you to remember that you are a boy. A boy, understand?”
His father looked ugly when he was mad, but he was not afraid of him. He never beat him. He only cursed and cursed. “I don’t understand, why?” he asked.
“Because little boys don’t play with dolls,” Don Endong thundered at him, “that’s why!” And snatching the doll from the boy, Don Endong flung it viciously to the floor.
Boy was not prepared for his father’s precipitate move. He was not prepared to save his doll. One moment it was cradled snugly in the crook of his arm. The next it was sprawled on the floor, naked, and broken, an arm twisted limp beneath it, another flung across its face. as if to hide the shame of its disaster. Suddenly it was as if he were the doll. There was a broken feeling within him. The blood crept up his face and pinched his ears. He couldn’t speak, he couldn’t move. He could only stare and stare until his mother taking him in her arms cradled his head between her breasts.

ONE day in May his mother came home from a meeting of the “Marias” at the parish rectory in a flurry of excitement. Our Lady of Fatima was coming to town. The image from Portugal was making a tour of the Catholic world and was due in town the following week. Doña Enchay had been unanimously elected chairman of the reception committee. ‘‘What shall I do? What shall I do?” she kept saying.
“To be sure, mujer, I don’t know,” Don Endong told her. “Ask the Lady herself. She’ll tell you. maybe.
“Endong! you mustn’t speak that way of Our Lady of Fatima.” she told him in as severe a tone as she dared. “She’s milagrosa. haven’t you heard how she appeared on the limb of a tree before three little children—”
“Oh, yes! Also the countless novenas you have said in my behalf.”
“Ah,. Endong, it is your lack of faith, I’m sure. If you would only believe! If you would at least keep your peace and allow Our Lady to help you in her own quiet way, maybe—” She sighed.
He couldn’t argue with her when she was suppliant. There was something about feminine weakness which he couldn’t fight. He kept his peace.
But not the boy.
It was like the circus coming to town and he had to know all about the strange Lady. He and his mother kept up an incessant jabber about miracles and angels and saints the whole week through. Boy easily caught his mother’s enthusiasm about the great welcome as he tagged along with her on her rounds every day requesting people living along the route the procession was to take from the air port to the cathedral to decorate their houses with some flags, or candles. or paper lanterns… She fondly suggested paper buntings strung on a line across the street. “Arcos” she called them.
“Don’t deceive yourself,” Don Endong told her. “You know they’re more like clothes-lines than anything else. Does the Lady launder?”
“Que Dos te perdone, Endong!” Doña Enchay exclaimed, crossing herself and looking like she was ready to cry.
Boy wondered why his father loved to taunt his mother about her religious enthusiasm. Sometimes he himself could not help but snicker over the jokes his father made. Like when Mr. Wilson’s ice plant siren blew the hour of twelve and the family was having lunch. His mother would bless herself and intone aloud: “Bendita sea la Hora en que Nuestra Señora del Pilar vino en carne mortal a Zaragoza,” and begin a Dios te Salve. His father would ostentatiously bend over the platter of steaming white rice in the center of the table and watch it intently until someone inquired, “What is it?” Then he would reply, “I want to see by how many grains the rice has increased in the platter.” If Boy had not seen his father’s picture as a little boy dressed in white with a large silk ribbon on one arm and a candle twined with tiny white flowers in one hand, he would think maybe, he was a protestante—like that woman his mother and he happened upon one day on their rounds.
The woman had met them on the stairs of her house and said to his mother: “The Lady of Fatima did you say, Ñora? You mean some woman like you and me, or your little girl here,” pointing at him, “with such pretty hair, who can talk, and walk. and laugh. and cry?” His mother retreated fanning herself frantically and flapping the cola of her black saya. “To be sure she can’t, but she stands as the symbol of one who can!” she explained with difficulty as though a fish bone was caught in her throat. He hated the woman for making his mother feel that way, and on the last rung of the steps vindictively spat her error at her: “I am not a girl. I’m a boy! A boy! You don’t know anything!”
When they arrived home he told his mother he wanted his hair cut short. “1 don’t want the Lady of Fatima to mistake me for a girl like the Protestant woman,” he told his mother.
“But Our Lady knows you are a boy. Her Son tells her. Her Son is all knowing.” But Boy threw himself on the floor and started to kick. “I want my hair cut! I want my hair cut!” he screamed and screamed.

THE Lady came on a day that threatened rain. The brows of the hills beyond the rice fields were furious with clouds. The sun cowered out of sight and the Venerable Peter dragged his cart across the heavens continuously drowning all kinds of human utterances—religious, profane, ribald, humorous, sarcastic-from the milling crowd gathered at the air port to see the Lady of Miracles arrive. There were the colegialas in their jumpers and cotton stockings, the Ateneo band and cadets in khaki and white mittens, the Caballeros de Colon with their paunches and their bald heads, the Hijas de Maria with their medals, the Apostolados with their scapulars, the Liga de Mujeres with their beads… there was no panguingue, nor landay, nor poker sessions anywhere in town; nor chapu, nor talang, nor tachi in the coconut groves, for even the bootblacks and the newsboys and the factory boys were there to see the great spectacle. Even Babu Sawang, the Moro woman who fried bananas for the school children. was there, for was not Our Lady of Fatima a Mora like herself, since Fatima was a Moro name?
But when the heavens broke open and rain came tearing down, the people scampered for shelter like chickens on the approach of a hawk. All but a few old women and the priests and the bishop and Doña Enchay and Boy hung on to the Lady on her flowered float intoning hymns and repeating aves.
The bishop laid a hand on Boy’s head and Boy immediately shot up into manhood. His chest filled out, his arms grew thick, and his strides stretched as long as the giant’s of the seven-league boots. He felt a thousand eyes leveled at him, and he gathered those eyes and wore them on his breast as a hero wears his medals in a parade. “You are a brave little boy,” the bishop told him. “Our Lady must be well pleased with you.
Boy took a look at the Lady. She was smiling brightly through tears of happiness. Her eyes spilled water of love, her lips dropped freshets of sweetness. And her checks—they were dew-filled calyxes of kindly care. Suddenly, he was seized with a great thirst. His lips felt cracked and his tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth. An urgent longing to drink possessed him. He felt he should drink, drink. drink-of the Lady’s eyes, of the Lady’s lips, of the Lady’s cheeks…

AS he grew older his thirst intensified. He felt he should drink also from the cup of her breast, from the hollow of her hands, from the hem of her trailing white gown, from the ends of each strand of her long brown tresses. But when he approached his Lady at various shrines in the town chapel, whether she had a serpent at her feet, a child in her arms, or beads in her hands, his cracking lips climbed no higher than her pink and white toes and his thirst was quenched.
When he was nineteen and graduated from high school, he told his mother he wanted to take Our Lady for a bride. “Que dicha!” his mother said. “To wed the Mother of God. To be a priest and sing her glorias forever. Que dicha!”
But his father said: “A priest? Is that all you will amount to—a sissy, a maricon, a half-man? I’d rather you died. I’d rather I died!”
It was night, and late, when the household was making ready to turn in. The feeble light of a single electric bulb lit the veranda where Boy stood facing his father in his wicker chair; but the yellow light was flat on the boy’s face and Don Endong saw that it was a dead mask except for the eyes which held a pointed brilliance. The boy’s voice was as taut as the string of an instrument that is about to snap. “The priesthood is the noblest profession on earth. Father,” he said. “It is the most manly, too. One who is master of himself, who can leash the lust of his loins to the eye of the spirit. is indeed the man! A man is not measured by the length of his limbs and the breadth of his chest or the depth of his voice, but by the strength of his mind, the depth of his courage, the firmness of his will!”
“God gave you the body of a male to do the functions of a male—not to hide under a skirt!” Don Endong goaded him.
Boy gripped the back of a chair until the knuckles turned white. Sweat broke out on his forehead and a trembling seized his frame.
“Strike! Strike your father! Raise your hand against the man who was man enough to give you the figure of a man!”
“Boy! Boy!” His mother’s voice pierced through his clouding mind, unnerving him, leaving him strengthless. Suddenly, he couldn’t look his father in the face. His mother’s wail followed him as he fled into the night.

ON the little deserted and unlighted dock where the wind was carefree and all was still except for the muffled cry of a hadji in the distant Moro village and the mournful beat of an agong, Boy faced the night and the sea He flung his eyes to the stars above and gave his body up to the wind to soothe…
Fingers touched him lightly on the shoulder, a little nervously, like birds about to take flight at the least sign of danger. Fingers dipped into his sensitive flesh, and melted into the still pounding rivers of his blood. A strong. sweetly pungent scent invaded his nostrils, and his heart picked tip the beat of the distant agong.
“What do you want with me?” he asked the woman without turning around. He had not sensed her coming. She could have sprung like Venus from the foam of the sea—but there she was, and her perfume betrayed her calling.
Her hand dropped from his shoulder to the bulge of his biceps. “You are a large man. You are very strong. And you are lonely,” she said.
Her voice was cool as water from a jar and soft as cotton. And it had a sad tingle. He checked a rough rebuke. Who was he to condemn her for what she was? Had not Christ said to the men outside the city walls who were about to stone the adulterous woman, ‘‘Let him among you that is without sin cast the first stone”?’
He looked up into her face. Stars were beating in her eyes. And on her wet lips were slumbering many more. Her arms were long and white and slender like fragrant azucenas unfolding in the night…
“Yes, I am strong, and I’m lonely,” he said. “And I’m a man. A big man,” he added almost angrily, “am I not?”
“Oh, but of course,” she said. “I can see that. and I can feel that!”
And fragrant azucenas folded about him in the night.

HE opened his eyes in total darkness. He couldn’t see his hand before him, but the air was thick around him, and he had a feeling he was trapped in a narrow place. He flung an arm out and the body of a woman slithered under his arm. She turned toward him and her breath pushed into his face. He raised himself on his elbow for air. The woman stretched herself awake, and slowly a long clammy coil like the sinuous body of the serpent at the feet of Our Lady of the Immaculate Conception in her shrine in the town church began to close around his neck. His flesh crawled. With a quick movement he caught the coil in a strong grip, twisting it.
The hoarse cry of a woman lashed out and cracked the stillness of the night. A mouth found his shoulder and sharp vicious teeth sank into his flesh. The stinging pain sent a shiver through the length of his long frame. but he hung on to the squirming limb, squeezing and twisting it… until the clamor of angry voices, and a splintering crash, and a sudden flood of light burst upon him…
Lying at his feet before him was a woman, naked and broken. But a short while before, under the sheet of night, she was cradled in his arms, receiving the reverence of his kisses. Now, under the eye of light, she was but a limp mass of woman flesh, sprawled grotesquely on the floor, an upper limb twisted behind her another flung across her face as if to hide the shame of her disaster.
Two men grabbed him and dragged him out into the street. Angry cries and curses followed him. But as he felt the clean air of morning sweep against his face, his chest filled out, his arms grew thick, and his sturdy legs stretched long like the giant’s of the seven-league boots

BEST PHILIPPINE SHORT STORIES: THE DEVIL IN THE DETAILS

THE DEVIL IN THE DETAILS

by Carlos Cortés

NEXT in line was a typical family: man and woman and a kid about two years old, and a baggage cart laden with their boxes and suitcases. The man handed over their tickets and passports. The flight was for Singapore, with many of the passengers having outbound connections: some to Jakarta, others to Cairns, still others to Auckland, Heathrow, or JFK. This family, two Germans and a Filipina, was bound for Frankfurt.

When I say they were Germans and a Filipina I am going by their passports, of course; in my line of work one speaks of these things in a technical manner, disregarding racial and ethnic considerations. The man happened to have the Aryan features associated with the typical German, such as blond hair and blue eyes. For me, however, all that mattered was that he had a German passport.

The boy was German, too, but if I hadn’t seen his passport I would have guessed him to be Filipino. His mother was cooing to him, in babytalk of course, but Cebuano babytalk, in which I detected a faint Boholano accent. The kid was repeating some of her words; he was taking to her language in much the same way he took after her. He had only the slightest hint of the mestizo alemán about him. To be sure, his complexion was rather light and his hair was brownish. But he did not look Nordic at all. He could have been a son of mine: he looked Visayan enough. The only thing German about him was a piece of paper. However, I was trained to give due credit to such pieces of paper.

The kid’s passport was literally a piece of paper. It wasn’t the kind of German passport his father had, the booklet with a hard maroon cover that had the words Europäische Gemeinschaft, then below that Bundesrepublik Deutschland, then below the heraldic eagle the word Reisepass. That kind of passport was sometimes issued to children too, but not often; the German government offered a children’s version of its passport, and since the processing fee for the Kinderausweis, as it was called, was much lower, it was what German children almost always had. A single sheet of green paper folded and refolded upon itself so that one could unfold it into four pages, the Kinderausweis looked like a fun passport; one could imagine it had been made in a gingerbread house, whereas the Reisepass could only have come from an office.

WE used the Departure Control System, DCS for short, a simple and good computer program. Accepting passengers for a flight was a breeze in DCS. For international flights, however, we had to input so many things the entries often became cumbersome. Care was essential. A single typo was all it took for the whole entry to be invalid, and then one would have to start all over again.

I would assign them good seats, one seat by the window for the kid, for both flights. I would tag their baggage for Frankfurt and waive the charge for excess weight of—I checked the readout on the weighing scale—seven kilos. But first things first. Were their documents in order?

The German was at the top of the name list. On my screen he was EFKEMANN/HEINZJUERGENMR and now I entered the supplementary information for him: PASDE6792035487.DOB09OCT67. The code PAS DE meant Passport Deutsch. The numerals were his passport number. DOB was date of birth, 10-09-67 on his Reisepass. The name on the passport, Efkemann, Heinz Jürgen, matched the name on the ticket, except for the spelling of Jürgen. No big deal. I knew the u with an umlaut was usually written as ue on tickets. I idly wondered if they could print out the umlaut on tickets issued in Germany. I could ask this guy, but in this line of work one did not ask too many irrelevant questions.

The kid was EFKEMANN/PETERMSTR and I put in the details from his Kinderausweis: PASDE2057644.DOB07AUG00. His color picture on the inside page showed him to be a beautiful baby, brownish hair topping a face more Visayan than Eurasian. It didn’t seem jarring to me, because brown hair appeared in my family too, about once a generation...we got it from a friar or two somewhere in the family tree; a recessive gene, but one that popped up now and then: my sister’s hair, jet black indoors, blazed with chestnut highlights in afternoon sunshine; my aunt had hair that was nearly auburn; my great-grandmother was supposed to have been a real blonde...my mind was wandering again. I wrenched it back to the present, to this little boy I was accepting for the flight, Master Peter Efkemann. I was glad to see they hadn’t given him one of those uniquely German names like Dietmar, Detlev, Heinrich, or Wolfgang. Peter was a very German name, but it was also very Anglo, very American, very Filipino: a good international name.

ONE had to anticipate how things would be at the destination, in this case Frankfurt. From the German point of view the two males, holders of German passports, would be natives coming home; no problems there. It was different for the woman. As a Philippine passport holder, she would be a visiting alien. Here I had to be careful. If Frankfurt found this one inadmissible, she would be deported and the airline would be fined five thousand Deutschmarks. They wouldn’t deduct that amount from my salary but an investigation would be launched, explanations would have to be submitted, and I would probably wind up getting a week’s suspension. A week’s pay for me wasn’t quite DM5000, but it was hefty enough.

For EFKEMANN/CHERILYNMS I typed in PASPHZZ395624. The passport had been issued in Cebu on February 20, 1998. Philippine passports were valid for five years, and hers would expire in 2003: good enough. As a general rule, anyone going to a foreign country had to have at least six months’ validity left in his passport.

After doing DOB24AUG75 I glanced at her to check if she was indeed 26 going on 27. She actually looked somewhat younger, but it had to be because she was a very lovely girl. I noticed the passport had been issued to Dayonot, Cherilyn Hawak, place of birth Talibon, Bohol. I turned to page 4 and sure enough the amendment was there: a change of name from Dayonot to Efkemann due to marriage to Efkemann, Heinz Jurgen, on 28 January 2000. The DFA official who signed the amendment hadn’t put the umlaut over the u in Jürgen, but I supposed he had merely copied the name from the marriage contract. If the wedding had been in Bohol there was little chance an umlaut would have appeared on that marriage certificate.

There would be a German visa inside that passport, I knew. I didn’t think it would be the one called the Aufenhaltsberechtigung, as I knew that kind of visa got issued only to foreigners who had been in Germany for some time. It was roughly the German equivalent of the American green card: it had no expiry date, and it doubled as a work permit. I had no idea how the word Aufenhaltsberechtigung translated, only that people who had that visa could speak German very well and knew their way around the country.

Perhaps her visa would be the Aufenhaltserlaubnis. This one had an expiration date, found in the space after gültig bis (“valid until”). In many cases, instead of a date there would be the word unbefristet. This meant something like “indefinite” and was what I most often saw on the visas of Filipinas married to Germans. This unbefristet was usually written on the visa in longhand, by someone with a Teutonic scrawl.

There were entry and exit stamps showing she had been to Hong Kong and Taipei but I barely glanced at those; they were irrelevant. She had an expired visa for Dubai with corresponding entry/exit stamps: she must have been an OFW not too long ago, but this too was none of my concern. When I found it, her German visa was the Schengen Staten type, which is valid for only a few months. All right, this probably meant she was going to Germany for the first time. Married three years and never yet been to her husband’s homeland? A question for the curious, but one I did not ask; it wasn’t politic to ask too many impertinent questions in this business.

Unlike the Aufenhalstserlaubnis, which was valid as soon as it was issued, the Schengen Staten visa did not become valid until a certain date, which might be a month or more from its date of issuance. The words to look for were gültig vom and gültig bis, “valid from” and “valid until.” On Cherilyn’s visa I saw a gültig für Schengener Staten, then below that a vom 04-05-02, which was tomorrow’s date, and a bis 07-07-02, which was months away in the future, as the expiration date should be.

So now the entry for EFKEMANN/CHERILYNMS was PASPHBB335622.DOB08 JAN 75.VISD13581677. The visa number belonged more or less to the same series I had seen on other Schengen Staten visas. Everything about this visa looked and felt authentic, down to the imprinted curlicues and the holograph.

Efkemann had waited in silence as I pounded the computer keys but now, from the amount of time I had spent scrutinizing the visa, he must have thought I looked unsure of the German words in it.

“Issued yesterday,” he said, “by ze Cherman Embassy in Manila.”

“Sus, kapoya gyud uy,” said Cherilyn. “We flew back from Manila last night, and now we are flying off again. Give us seats near the front, won’t you? I get seasick when I sit at the back, and Singapore to Frankfurt is such a long flight.”

“Ja, ja,” said Efkemann, “give us seats by ze emerchency exit. I haf fery long legs.”

Today was April 4; by the time their connecting flight landed in Frankfurt it would be early in the morning of April 5, the first day Cherilyn’s visa was valid. That was all right, then. I couldn’t assign them to seats in any of the exit rows, as they had a child with them. Safety regulations required that only able-bodied adults be put in those rows. Nor could I put them in front, as all the seats there were taken. I would have to explain these things tactfully and put them where I could.

An itch in my groin bothered me. I pushed the irritation away from the forefront of my consciousness and concentrated on the task at hand. Had I missed anything? Was there something not quite right? I was glad Cherilyn was a very poised young lady. I had been nonchalant, and so had she. I had never seen her before. She had never seen me before. I was just the guy at the counter and she was just another passenger...

They were all passengers: veteran travellers, first timers, it was always passengers and more passengers. Every day I sat there and took on long lines of passengers: rich tourists, backpackers, businessmen, contract workers, domestic helpers, emigrants, nuns, monks, refugees, laissez-passiers, diplomats, envoys, mercenaries; Sikhs, Arabs, Orthodox Jews, Amish, Hottentots, Lapps, Australian aborigines; Koreans, Czechs, Rwandans, Turks, Brazilians, Swedes, Zambians, Greeks...I had seen them all, I would see many more of them tomorrow, it was all one long line, stretching on across the years I had spent in this job, an endless line that snaked around the globe, passengers joining the line in Timbuktu and Xanadu and Cuzco and Urumqi and inching forward until one day they reached me at the counter...

THE difference between the American and the European styles of writing dates all in numbers was what had been bothering me. Only now did I remember that a date written as 01-02-03 would mean January 2, 2003 to an American, but would be read as 01 February 2003 by a European. I for that matter would tend to read it as January 2, as I had learned this shortcut for writing dates in elementary school, and it was the American system that had been taught to us.

I looked at the visa again. Of course, why hadn’t I seen it before? The gültig für Schengener Staten vom 04-05-02 did not mean April 5; it meant 04 May. I had been blind. I had wanted to see a visa that would become valid only a few hours before its holder entered German airspace. I had trusted Efkemann: like any methodical German, he would have made sure everything was in order. If their flight would bring them to Frankfurt on April 5, his wife’s visa would be valid on April 5. Unthinkable for it not to be.

Yet there it was, staring me right in the face, gültig vom 04-05-02, and it seemed the height of silliness to point it out, but this visa was definitely not in order. No doubt about it. The German immigration officer who would be looking at this visa in Frankfurt would interpret 04-05-02 as 04 Mai and inform Herr Efkemann that Frau Efkemann’s visa was not valid, would not be valid for another month, and very sorry about this, mein Herr, but we are only doing our duty. We must deport her.

My finger was about to hit ENTER but now I desisted. I would have to break the information to them as succinctly as I could. You just did not pussyfoot around a German. You had to come right to the point.

“Very sorry, Herr Efkemann,” I said, “but this visa is not yet valid. It will be valid on May fourth, a month from now.”

I showed it to him.

He did not say anything. He took the passport and peered at the visa. Then, handing the passport to Cherilyn, he stepped off to the side and whipped out a cell phone. Soon he was talking in rapid German.

“It’s a mistake!” Cherilyn said. “We told the people at the Embassy we had a booking for April 4, we would arrive in Germany on April 5! Susmariosep, I’m sure somebody inverted those numbers!”

Germans, I reflected, obeyed traffic lights and all kinds of signs. That one there had seen a sign that said gültig vom 04-05-02, and it never occurred to him that it should not be obeyed. Filipinos on the other hand always looked for exemptions, for a way out. This one in front of me was trying to put it all down to some clerical error.

I went to apprise my supervisor of the situation. When he came out with me, Efkmann was still talking on his phone. We waited for him to finish.

“Gott in Himmel,” he muttered as he put the phone back into his pocket.

“Mr. Efkemann?” my supervisor began, “Very sorry, but we cannot check in Mrs. Efkemann all the way to Frankfurt. We could check her in, but up to Singapore only. Do you still want to take the flight? Maybe it would be better if you rebook for May 3 or 4.”

He was outlining the options. None of those scenarios had been in this family’s mind a few minutes ago. But the German, I could see, was adjusting his thinking to the changed situation as quickly as anyone could.

“It’s those Filipina office workers at the German Embassy,” Cherilyn said. “They must have mixed up the date. We told them we were leaving April 4, nicht wahr, mein schatz?”

I didn’t know about that. I had a couple of friends who had been to Germany; if I understood it right, there was a space in the visa application form where one filled in one’s desired date of entry in DD/MM/YR form. In most cases the Embassy, if it could, simply gave you what you wanted. Was that the most likely explanation, then? That Cherilyn herself had mixed up the date? She had gone to school in Bohol: she must have learned to write dates in number format the American way. The confounded date was a dumb mistake, but quite natural in this context. I might have made the same mistake myself, and the chances were I wouldn’t have noticed it until it was too late to do anything about it.

What Cherilyn did not fully appreciate was that Germans would follow the letter of the law in things like this. It would be of no moment that some silly mistake had been made; what had been written was written and that was that. She seemed to be holding on to the hope that a spoken word from some German Embassy official would make everything all right and they could then get on the flight and reach Frankfurt to find the mistake smoothed over. She looked at her husband expectantly.

“Ach, to make in ze visa a refision ve must haf to go to ze Cherman Embassy in Manila, ja? No, I zink ve must rebook.”

“Very well, Mr. Efkemann,” said my supervisor, “would you come inside the office please? We will rebook your tickets now.”

CHERILYN remained in front of me at the counter, her little boy in her arms; most of the booked passengers had checked in by now and gone on to the Immigration counters.

“That’s probably what happened,” I said. “Some Filipino wrote April 4 the Filipino way.”

“God, how dumb. And it turns out to be May 4 to the Germans.”

“Yeah, all of them in Europe write it that way.”

“Oh, I guess we were dummies, too. We looked at the visa when we got it yesterday, but we never saw that. Jürgen should have seen it. I don’t know why he didn’t. But we were in a hurry. We had to catch the flight back to Cebu.”

“Things like that, everything looks okay...until you read the fine print.”

“Bitaw, ma-o gyud! It’s the fine print that gets you every time. The devil is in the details.”

“Handsome boy you’ve got there. Takes after the father, doesn’t he?”

“Hoy, abi nimo, when he came out I was relieved to see he had light hair. Up until that moment I was afraid he might take after you.”

“Well, he didn’t, did he?”

“He’s got your eyes.”

“Yeah, I can see that.”

“But it’s his hair that clinches it. Your hair’s black. His is brown.”

“Right. I guess that’s the clincher all right.”

“No doubt about it.”

There was no point in mentioning that brown hair popped up in my family every now and then. That would be the height of silliness. In this business, one did not say too many unnecessary things.