BEST PHILIPPINE SHORT STORIES: PORTRAIT OF A GREAT MAN

PORTRAIT OF A GREAT MAN
by Manuel A. Viray

DR. RUFINO T. Ventanilla knew this capricious mood of the city but he was too irritated to care. To the east, where the sun, intruder of sleep and stolen love, was slowly rising, he could see the black smoke spiraling above the shipyards. He and Serafin, his chauffeur, whose unkempt head and dirty nape annoyed him, had left the snarled traffic of Avenida Rizal. They were now speeding along the street leading to Mabini Avenue. It was a comparatively quiet street. All he could see were two or three employees from his bureau—hurrying, hurrying, because of the stern compulsion of the Bundy clock he himself had ordered installed according to civil service requirements. The employees had grumbled: but it did not matter.

As the sleek car moved slowly he wanted to ask Serafin what it was he had forgotten of the items Lita had asked to him to bring, but forcibly caught himself in time. How would Serafin know? What Lita wanted was strictly a matter between them. Let’s see, remembering the tyrannical, exciting lips of Lita, the fierce passionate hours at dawn. A case of evaporated milk, a sack of white sugar, and… He was baffled.

The car eased to a stop before the high, imposing structure housing his office. He heaved his heavy bulk from the front seat, yanking his bulging black portfolio, and told Serafin to send in the personnel clerk right away. As he turned right from the long flight of steps, he saw three figures. The thin, angular girl whom he had assigned to the research section smiled at him as she wiped her pink eyeglasses.

“Don’t be in a hurry, doctor, you are on time; it’s still five minutes to eight,” she said without apparent guile.

He managed a parody of a laugh and said, “Yes. Yes. That’s good.” Darn her, doesn’t she know I am the Deputy Commissioner? I will fire her yet. But he knew he never would; she was the protégée of Assemblyman Juan Tuviera y Sibulsibul.

He strode into his office and found himself barricaded by the hill of papers on his desk. If only I can sweep all this blasted correspondence aside. The refrigerator in the inner room to his right was purring softly.

He shouted at Zabala, his stenotypist and asked him if he had put in the bottle of Schenley in the frigidaire. When Zabala said yes, Dr. Ventanilla said: “What are you standing there for? Give it to me.” Silently, as he rested his bulk on the plush armchair, he drummed his fingers and was discomfited to find that the papers and bundles of previous records were scattered as far as the edge of the table. He tried to remember what the third item was that Lita wanted.

His stenotypist poured a thimbleful of whisky for him impassively, with a nonchalant, economical gesture. “Put it away,” he said. “And don’t touch it.”

“I never do, sir,” was the reply.

When he looked up he saw the personnel clerk saying, “Good morning, sir,” with a crooked smile.

“Here. Come here.” For the life of him he could never recall the man’s name. “I want you to order from the Republic Rehabilita­tion Center some rice (for the real Mrs. Ventanilla), a case of evapo­rated milk and a bag—no, make it two bags of white sugar.”

“But, sir, we ordered only last week.”

“Our supplies have run out, so I want these tomorrow. Make a special request.”

The clerk stared at him.

“What are you standing there for?” he said testily. “Well, pass a circular among the employees. Find out who wants sugar and milk and rice.” He could not remember the third item Lita wanted.

The telephone rang, its sound jarring him. Picking it up with his pudgy hands, he said: “Yes. Who? Oh, yes, Colonel. What? All right, I’ll see you at nine-thirty.” He put the phone down on its cradle.

He picked up the paper on top of the middle hill of correspondence—and peered at it through his eyeglasses. Rapidly he skimmed over the fine print, noting typographical errors—a period which should have been a semicolon, a comma which had been misplaced. The bundle of previous records was on top of the pile. He saw that some pages were folded. Time and again, with meticulous care, he riffled through the other file, comparing the legal clauses. He was thankful it was Adriano Perez who had prepared the treatise for his signature. Good man, Perez was, he thought. This would look fine to the Commissioner.

In the next thirty minutes, he signed a memorandum, the text of a cablegram, a letter, a four-page instruction to some chairman of a committee, and the voucher for partial salary of Marcos Montalbo II, special assistant.

There was a knock at the door. “Good morning, boss,” Perez, tall, his mop of hair falling over his forehead burst in cheerily.

“Say, Perez, that treatise was well done,” he said.

“Thanks, chief. That was my first draft,” Perez said. He sat down and filled his Kaywoodie, thinking that it was a pity the doctor could not plow through all the correspondence in one day. Poor farmer, he thought impulsively making comparisons while sucking in the fragrant smoke with satisfaction. If only he delegated the work in the office properly, instead of bothering himself with every word and comma that went in the papers, the office would run more efficiently. Why, when he was editorial writer on Humanidad…

“But your stenographer missed a semicolon,” Dr. Ventanilla shoved the paper forward unceremoniously. Perez suppressing a smile, placated his superior and said it would be changed right away.

“Hurry it up. The Commissioner may call for it this morning.”

He watched Perez’ well-formed back disappear.

As Perez closed the door, the doctor removed his eyeglasses and rested his head before picking up the next bunch of papers. This had to do with the appointment of an assistant chief in the administrative division. The memorandum below was signed by the Commissioner himself. Two pages beneath the memorandum were the letters of Assemblyman Tuviera, chairman of the finance committee of the Assembly, urging the appointment of a certain Eduardo Botelho, a topnotcher in the 1930 bar examination. “No doubt, he can’t make enough money outside,” he muttered, “if I refuse it, but I must.” He had not heard of the name before.

Edrosa was the man he wanted. Self-made man. Graduate of Harvard. Good-looking, brilliant. Law partner of Ozamis, Ozamis and Ozamis. A keen analyst. “This fellow Botelho… he’s just like the rest of the fellows forced upon me… only wants a big salary… maybe he’s too lazy to make a living. I won’t appoint him.”

He pressed the buzzer. The messenger came in with alacrity. Dr Ventanilla asked him to send in Del Mundo and Estabillo, the assistants on mechanization. When Del Mundo and Estabillo entered he told them to wait for the Colonel.

Just then the Colonel entered, preceded by the messenger.

“I got your call. Sit down. There, there at the long table.”

They did. “Now, then, in this estimate of the exports of the Hindus, I see a discrepancy. It’s too high. Silver is getting out of the country.”

“A greater figure can be found in the estimate of American investors,” Del Mundo interposed.

“No matter, the Americans are our allies. Don’t be an ungrateful pup.”

Del Mundo reddened. The telephone jingled.

Zabala, the typist, said it was for the doctor. He sat down again, pounding his typewriter with machinegun precision, but never missing the dialogue over the wire. “Yes, sir,” the doctor was saying, “right away, sir. The treatise is ready. I’ll take it over myself.” He could see the figures of his fellow employees reflected in the doctor’s alert but fawning look, the strained and fidgety intonation, and the bobbing Adam’s apple. Zabala stopped typing and looked at the paper he was copying with pretended industry while Dr. Ventanilla stood up and went over to the trio huddled around the long table and told them to finish the draft of the trade contract. He would be right back. Za­bala could not help smiling a little as the doctor went to the rest room—the “House of Commons,” everyone called it—possibly to allay his nervousness. The doctor always did that, every time the Commission­er’s call came in.

Ten minutes after Dr. Ventanilla had gone, the door opened again and Dr. Adriano Perez y Tiron and Marcos Montalbo II asked Zabala where the Deputy Commissioner was. He told them. “When he returns and wants me, tell him Mr. Montalbo and I are at the restaurant,” Dr. Perez said and the stenographer nodded.



MARCOS Montalbo II lighted Perez’ cigarette while the waiter hovered over them. The two had finished their coffee and Marcos was saying, “But seriously, chico,” striking a match, “if the deputy commissionership were offered you, would you turn it down?”

“I don’t know,” Perez leaned forward, his restless eyes subdued for a moment. “It’s too much of a responsibility.” He recited the story of the semicolon.

Marcos laughed. “Sometimes I think. Dr. Ventanilla has an unhappy home life.”

“Maybe. Or perhaps, he has been given too big a bite to chew. You, you’re an accessory to the fact. Your lawyers’ guild urged his appointment on the Secretary.”

“I’m disappointed. It’s a pity. He was forcibly yanked out of the foundation. Now there is some talk he might be appointed Director of Internal Affairs.”

“I don’t have a grudge against him, you know. It’s just that all the routine appalls him. Maybe. What the office needs is more integration, proper distribution of work, and greater trust in the abilities of subordinates. Day after day, the office becomes more entangled. Papers that should be signed in two days do not get signed until after one week.”

“The word is bureaucracy. Red tape.”

‘That’s right. You know, the other day the Commissioner objected to a clause in the contract with the British engineers. But since Dr. Ventanilla wrote the clause himself, he insisted that it be retained. What he got was a ‘the trouble with you, Ventanilla, you are not a lawyer,’ accompanied by a laugh.”

“I heard about that. And Ventanilla naively said: ‘But I am, Commissioner, I am.’”

Dr. Perez and Montalbo decried the tragic implication of the incident. They knew that Dr. Ventanilla was a graduate of the Escuela de Derecho, and had gone to Oxford for his master’s and doctor’s degrees in jurisprudence.

“There’s plenty of talent in our office, you know, even discounting the lame ducks and political protégées.”

“You are the best.”

“Don’t pull my leg,” said Perez, putting his pipe on the ashtray. “If the work were systematized and coordinated, Dr. Ventanilla would not have to yell and tear his hair as he usually does.”

“Tear his hair? But the man is baldheaded.”

“There should be a course given for young men anxious to enter the public service. Once in, after graduation, they should be given a chance to go to the top of the ladder.”

“Not in this country. The ladder is incessantly pulled thither and yon by scheming politicians. For instance, the doctor should have acceded to Reyes’ appointment. After all, he is the heir, though only a nephew of Secretary Reyes. The Secretary is the President’s closest confidant. Besides he controls government accounts.”

“If I were Dr. Ventanilla I would have insisted on a free hand before accepting the deputy commissionership. He executes the pol­icies. It’s late. Let’s go.”



AFTER two weeks, Perez was appointed Deputy Commissioner to succeed Dr. Ventanilla.

Now he was relaxing luxuriously in the car as Serafin drove slowly towards Mabini Avenue. He ran his fingers delicately across the smooth cellophane box containing a corsage. Esperanza will like the orchids, he thought. He had met Esperanza at a musicale last night. He remembered her face at the furioso, and how she threw back her head at the finish. He read the card again as the car slowly rolled in front of the tall, imposing building.

He gave Serafin the address and told him to take the flowers up right away and return. “There will he no answer,” he said. “And come back after you have delivered it. I have an appointment with the chairman of the Planning Commission.”

Swiftly, Perez ran up the long flight of steps, looking neither right nor left.

He asked Zabala to send Mr. Montalbo in at once.

Marcos strode in. “We made it,” he said, as he sat down with ease. “Smoke?”

Perez waved away the offer. “Look. Marcos,” he said. “Help me in this. Sort out the urgent papers. By God, by tomorrow I expect to clear this mess.”

“All right. Now our good friend, the doctor, is already sweating it out in the Bureau of Internal Affairs.”

“Uh-huh,” Perez bent down.

“Look, can I give you a good-looking stenographer?”

Perez looked up with interest. “Why not?” He did not see the alarm on Zabala’s face.

The door opened. Del Mundo came in.

“What do you want?”

“I would like to see you about the trade agreement.”

Marcos went out, obviously pleased with himself, noting Del Mundo’s discomfiture, for he knew Perez and Del Mundo were classmates in college.

“That’s right. You made a terrible mistake in the last paragraph. Wrong figures. Luckily I saw it. What’s the matter with you? Do you want the Commissioner to howl? Type it yourself if you have to.”

Del Mundo tried to open his mouth in protest.

“That’s all. On your way out, send Villalva to me.”

The door creaked.

“Villalva,” he said, “why did you write that atrocious memorandum regarding Botelho’s appointment? Don’t you realize Botelho is a protégée of Assemblyman Tuviera?”

“I thought you were against political lame ducks,” Villalva was amazed.

“Not when appropriations are at stake. He will put the squeeze on us and where would you be? You want a promotion, don’t you?”

Villalva scowled darkly and strode out without making a reply. The telephone rang. He picked it up. “Yes, yes, Commissioner, I’ll be right over.”

There was a knock at the door.

Perez strode to the “House of Commons.” As he came out the personnel clerk stood at the doorway.

“What do you want?”

“I would like to have this voucher signed, sir.”

“Don’t bother me. I have an appointment.”

“It’s for a partial salary, sir. My wife is sick, terribly sick. I have to take her to the hospital at once.”

“Don’t bother me,” Perez said curtly and walked past him.

BEST PHILIPPINE SHORT STORIES: PIÑA COLADA

PIÑA COLADA
by H.O. Santos

IT looked like a Christmas card but it was only November, the early part of November at that. But then, you can't tell anymore when the season begins. It used to begin after Thanksgiving, then after Halloween, and now who knows when the season starts. The envelope was fairly large and thick, had gold trim on the flap, and a return address I didn't recognize. I didn't think I knew anyone who would confess to being from Fresno, not that I thought it was a hick town or anything but it really was in the middle of nowhere and nobody I knew would want to live there.

The card turned out to be a wedding invitation. It was from William Hagen and Carolina Dimarocot. That's when I realized I knew people from Fresno after all--how could I have forgotten Carol? She had burst into my life not too long ago and turned my everyday routine upside down for a few months.

Enclosed with the invitation was a picture of the couple and a note from Carol which said,

    Dear Kuya Ben,

    Please come to our wedding. Bill and I would like for you to stay in our house as our guest. We have a large home with several bedrooms so it won't be a problem. As you know, I have no relatives here. I told them you were my cousin and that I wanted you to give me away as the bride during the wedding ceremony.

    Bill thinks you're a very good cousin and he's grateful to you for taking good care of me when I first arrived. I would also like to thank you again, in person, when you get here for all the things you've done for me. I think we can find time for that.

    I look forward to seeing you again so don't fail me.

    As always,        
    Carol                 


She had called me kuya, the Filipino term for an older brother or some other older relative one shows respect for. How can I refuse her now, after she bestowed that term of respect on me. And she would like to thank me again--I wondered what she meant. I liked it the first time she thanked me.

IT was on July 3rd when I went to the airport to pick up Carol. It was a three-day weekend and it took me forty-five minutes to get from my apartment in the mid-Wilshire area to the entrance to LAX. Twenty minutes would have been normal. It took me another twenty-five minutes from the entrance to the parking lot closest to the Tom Bradley International Terminal. I wasn't in a very good mood after that to go look for a woman I had never seen in person before. I was sorry I agreed to meet her but it was too late to back out now. I could just see the newspaper headlines: TOURIST RAPED AND KILLED AFTER FRIEND FAILS TO PICK HER UP AT AIRPORT.

I knew who to blame for this. My friend, Ernie, from Manila had set me up with her. He thought I was lonesome and could use some company for a while. "A few months at the most--she's a tourist," he said in his email. "She's a hot woman, if you know what I mean." No, I didn't exactly know what he meant but I hadn't asked for clarification. He even attached a JPEG file to his email. The woman looked terrific in the picture.

My love life wasn't precisely very healthy then or even now and that characterization should have been enough incentive for me but I tried to convince myself I was doing it for a kababayan, a Filipino countryman, who needed a place to stay for a while. After all, not too many Filipinos can afford the high hotel rates in L.A. when they visit.

I walked to the Tom Bradley terminal and waited. Luckily, the traffic delay didn't matter for the Philippine Airlines flight was behind schedule as usual. I got there at the right time, the plane had just arrived. Now all I had to do was wait until they get three hundred people out of the plane, get them through Customs and Immigration, and watch them come out through the long corridor up the ramp to street level.

I racked my brain trying to figure out how I could identify her--I didn't know how tall she was, how much she weighed, and what she would be wearing. If things ran true to form, she would look nowhere close to the picture I got of her.

The best place to watch the passengers come out is by the railing near the ramp but everybody was crowded around there. I settled for the roped-off area near the end of the ramp where passengers finally turned to get out of the terminal. I watched families join together again as those who went to the Philippines were met by those who didn't. You could tell who were local--they immediately went for the exit door. The newcomers would take more time to say hello and exchange greetings--some even wanted to hand out presents right there. Filipinos always give presents when they travel--once when they reach their destination and again when they return home.

I closely watched every unaccompanied woman who came out and tried to guess whether it was Carol. Mostly, I'd ask if she was pretty and alone. I wanted very much for Carol to be pretty. No luck so far. The crowd of people coming out of the tunnel soon started thinning out. It was already half an hour since I saw the first passenger come out. What if Carol didn't make it? But I couldn't leave until I was absolutely sure there were no more passengers left.

I hadn't seen a lone woman come out for a while until this one came out. She was pushing a cart with two large suitcases and two large carryons that were almost as large as the suitcases. She was wearing a short dress, a coat, a hat, and boots that may have been fashionable years ago. Her figure wasn't bad but her face was plain and homely. My heart sank. She had to be Carol and she was.

I honestly had no reason to get disappointed since my looks were not of movie star caliber, either. It dawned on me that maybe she was expecting something better, too. I decided to be kinder.

"Why did it take you so long to get out of there?" I asked.

"The immigration guy was giving me a hard time. He asked a lot of questions about what I was going to do here, where I was going to stay, and what places I was going to visit. I gave him your address and phone number and he finally let me go."

I took a good look at her, she must have been in her late twenties or early thirties. I couldn't decide whether her hair was yellow, red, or orange. I finally decided it was faded henna. Her skin was sallow, she probably avoided the sun. She was well-built but not heavy, everything was firm and nicely toned. I figured she exercised regularly. She wore a heavy, sweetish perfume that she must have refreshed before she stepped off the plane.

Well, her face was plain but it wasn't ugly. Why should I complain? I wasn't getting stuck with a mail-order bride in the first place. She'll be back in Manila in a few months.

When we got to my apartment, I had to carry all her stuff upstairs. She didn't offer to help but I remembered that women didn't do those things in the Philippines. Men carried the heavy stuff. It took me three trips to take everything up to the spare room I had prepared for her. It had been my study and computer room until I moved my computer and desk to a little corner in the living room.

"Why don't you freshen up before we eat? You have all the time tomorrow to put your things away."

"Isn't it too early to eat?"

"No, it's already seven o'clock."

"But it's still bright outside."

"That's the way it is in the summer here. It's light until after nine. But in the winter, it gets dark before five."

"That's weird," she said as she went to her bedroom to get ready.

I had gone earlier to the Kentucky Fried Chicken place down the street to get some food. I made sure I discarded all clues as to where the food may have come from and put them all in nice, clean platters and bowls. Carol enjoyed the extra crunchy chicken, the cole slaw, the mashed potatoes and gravy, and the biscuits. I didn't feel too guilty as that KFC outlet was one of the better ones in town. Their chicken wasn't all that greasy like in most of their other branches.

We made small talk and tried to feel each other out. She made her living in Manila as a real estate agent. She said she had been top agent for several months in a row but now the market had gone soft. She decided it was time to visit America and enjoy the bit of money she had saved up over the years.

"How do you plan to spend your time here and when are you going back?"

"Oh, I don't know yet what I'll do in the next few months but I'm not going back."

"Doesn't your tourist visa expire in six months?"

"Yes, but I hope to fix my status before my visa expires."

I almost shouted, Putang ina! Here's another Filipino who's going TNT--tago nang tago or "someone who keeps hiding." Filipinos are great for acronyms and abbreviations that sometimes I think the Pentagon is staffed by Filipinos who spend most of their time thinking of acronyms for the military. Great! If she doesn't leave in six months the first place Immigration will check would be my apartment. I saw myself going to Federal prison for harboring an undocumented alien and obstructing justice. That's all I need, I'll never get another job. Worse, they'll take away my green card and send me back to the Philippines. All because I was trying to be nice. Or more correctly, all because I thought I was going to make an easy score.

I remembered the stories I'd heard. They were true after all. Somebody once told me of a Filipino tour group that consisted of forty people who were going to visit six cities. After each stop, the number of people in the group shrank. Only twelve went back to the Philippines.

I was speechless until Carol broke the silence by trying to explain what she perceived to be what I must have been worrying about. "I've been corresponding with four men, all of them Americans. They have all proposed to me. I'll let them know I'm here and I'll marry one of them."

It sounded so simple, why should I have worried? But the thought of jail time continued to scare me. I also worried about jail food and getting sodomized when I got there. My future suddenly looked bleak. It was bright just a few hours ago. That's what I get for thinking about making an easy score. Next time I know I'll have to score the hard way.

I showed Carol how to operate the remote for the cable TV box and where the things she would be needing were. "Just make yourself at home," I said. If I had known what that innocent expression would bring about, I wouldn't have said it.

I had gotten tired by midnight while Carol's biological clock was still fighting her new time zone. I bade her goodnight and went to bed while she watched a movie channel.

The day proved uneventful. She slept in the daytime and watched TV all night. We spoke little with each other but I noticed that her things were now spread all over our shared bathroom. She had strung up a line to hang her wash over the tub. Her wash greeted me each time I went into the bathroom.

I told her about the coin operated washer and dryer down the hall. I said it would be easier for her to wait until she had enough dirty clothes then use the machine. And if she really had a lot of clothes to wash, I could take her to a real laundromat where we could do our wash together.

The third day was Sunday. When I woke up to make coffee, I saw that she was already all dressed up. Her dress was of a shiny material, like she was going to a cocktail party. She had those horrible boots on again. She had lots of makeup just like when I first saw her at the airport. And she wore the same heavy perfume again.

"What time do you go to church?"

I hadn't been inside a church since I was a child but for some reason I couldn't bring myself to tell her that. "Oh, there's Mass all day long," I said, hoping what I said was true. Hadn't I seen people coming out of church all hours of the day on Sundays?

"The church you go to, who goes there? The rich? The poor, or mixed?"

"I don't know, I guess they're mixed." I didn't know that churches were for different levels of economic prosperity.

We went to St. Basil's on Wilshire Boulevard for the noon Mass. I was immediately lost as soon as I got in. I tried to copy exactly what Carol was doing. I knelt when she knelt, stood when she stood, and sat when she sat. The last time I heard Mass, the priest said it in Latin. Now, it was in English just like those Protestant services. And people were holding hands, raising them up in the air, and even greeting each other just like Protestants. It probably had something to do with Vatican II but I couldn't be sure. I thought if they'd only get rid of the kneeling part just like the Protestants had done, it would be perfect.

After Mass, I took her to lunch at a Thai restaurant. Her shiny cocktail dress made people stare. I ordered for both of us since Carol didn't know anything about Thai food. I noticed she hardly ate anything except the stuffed chicken wings. She barely touched her Thai ice tea.

As we were leaving, I asked if there was anything wrong. She said she found it hard to eat at a Thai restaurant. A friend in Manila had told her that the Thais ate cats and dogs. "I couldn't tell what kind of meat they used in their cooking except for the chicken wings. And I thought the tea tasted funny."

She was starting to be a pain in the ass but I still wasn't getting any, either. Not that I tried because it's hard to get motivated when you're annoyed. She had taken over the whole bathroom. She cooked and ate but didn't wash the cooking utensils or the dishes.

My simmering anger finally boiled over when I got my phone bill. The record showed she had called friends all over the U.S. and talked for hours at a time. She even managed to call the Philippines five times. The total amount was about what I normally would have paid for six months of telephone service. I showed it to her but she didn't offer to pay for any of her calls. I told her she was going to drive me to the poorhouse if she kept it up.

One day I returned home to find that five of my wine bottles had been opened. I was letting them get a few more years in the bottle before opening them for a special occasion. They were the most expensive wine I could afford on my pitiful salary. I asked her about the open bottles.

"I was looking for something like the good wine I tasted before in a restaurant in Manila. They called it 'lady's drink,'" she said. "Don't worry, I just tasted them and all the bottles are still almost full. They're too sour for me."

In my rage, I went to the nearest market and bought her a couple of bottles of Mogen David Concord Wine. She liked them. "That's what I was looking for," she said. "How did you know?" She thanked me for being so sweet.

On yet another day, I found her crying in the living room when I got home. It sounded like the world had fallen in on her. She was inconsolable. I grabbed her and shook her hard to make her snap out of whatever it was that was happening with her.

"I flooded the laundry room."

She had at last tried to use the washer at the end of the hallway. She put two large cups of detergent into the wash and it bubbled over filling the whole laundry room with beautiful bubbles.

I got a mop and a bucket and cleaned up. I then showed her how much detergent to put in. I stayed there until she put her clothes in the dryer. I made sure she did it right. I felt guilty that I had expected her to know these things. Wasn't it not too long ago when I was making the same stupid mistakes?

I blew up again when I got my cable TV bill. It seemed like she had ordered every pay-per-view program available. I had never even watched one yet. And she was watching two, sometimes three, a day. I showed the bill to her and told her it would take at least a whole week's salary for me to pay for it.

Carol broke down and cried. "I'm sorry I keep doing dumb things that make you mad. I don't know anything about life here. It's miserable--I'll never get used to it. It's a very lonely life, very different from what I expected."

She made me feel mean and selfish. I remembered how it was for me when I first arrived. It was scary, I didn't know which bus to take to get anywhere. I was afraid to use home appliances I hadn't seen before. Everything was unfamiliar and I was miserable. Now, she was going through the very same things and all I could think about was making it with her.

I thought about the friend who took me in. It took me more than two months to find work and move to my own place. He must have gone through the same frustration I was now going through. When I tried to pay him back after I got my first paycheck, he told me to save it. He said it was now my turn to help our next kababayan who had nobody to turn to. I promised I would do just that. And now I was complaining.

I embraced Carol and said it was okay. "I'm not mad--I just want you to think what you would do if this were your own home. I know you wouldn't waste money and you would want to keep the place neat and clean. That's all I want."

She put her face on my shoulder and finished crying. "Someday, I'll be in a position to thank you properly," she said.

Our relationship after that incident improved. It wasn't perfect but she was doing a lot more things around the apartment. Of course, she was also getting used by now to how things worked in America.

"BILL'S in town," she said. "He wants to take me out tonight."

"Who's Bill?"

"He's one of the guys I've been corresponding with. He flew in last night and is staying at the Sheraton. I know where that is--I've seen it, it's not far from here."

"Well, enjoy yourself."

"You're coming with me."

"I can't, I have lots of things to do."

"You have to. A Filipina has to be chaperoned on her first date. You know that--Bill does, too. I've explained the custom to him. I'll look cheap if you don't come with me. Please, just this first time."

I understood the danger of saying yes--there'll be other first dates with her other penpals and I'll be stuck with chaperone duty if I relented. But of course, she was right. Just because I'd been in America five years doesn't mean I should put asunder Filipino traditions such as what Carol was now invoking so I said okay.

We picked up Bill at the Sheraton. Carol introduced me to Bill as her cousin. Carol was in the front seat with me, Bill was in the back, typical Filipino style first date. Bill had already picked out a restaurant. It was one of the more expensive restaurants on La Cienega that I had never been to before.

When we sat down for cocktails, Carol asked me what she should get so I ordered piña colada for her. I ordered the same to assure her it was a good drink. Bill got a double Jack Daniels. Carol loved the piña colada just as I thought she would. She ordered another after finishing her first drink in record time.

Bill must have been in his late fifties. He was fit and trim--had been married once and had a good business in farm equipment repair. His children had all moved away and he lived alone. I figured he was at least twenty-five years older than Carol but that was okay. I'd seen many happy couples with the same age difference before.

When it was time for dinner, I shamelessly ordered chateaubriand. I wasn't paying and I knew if I didn't do it then, I would never have another chance to try it in that restaurant. Carol had salmon and Bill, a large T-bone steak. We ate slowly and had more drinks. By the time we had dessert, a band had set up and was playing. The restaurant had a small dance floor.

When Bill excused himself to go to the rest room, Carol asked me in confidence what I thought of Bill.

"I think he's all right. He seems to be well off and knows how to live."

"I like him, too. But do you think he can still perform? I mean, I don't want to be stuck with somebody who can only do it once a week or less."

"Oh, I think he can do better than that. He looks strong." I had faith that Bill would have access to Viagra in case he needed it. I wondered if it was the alcohol that made her ask for my opinion on a very private and sensitive matter.

Carol wanted to dance with me but I told her I had two left feet. She got confused by the expression and didn't press on. She got Bill to dance with her. They were both good dancers and I enjoyed watching them cut it on the dance floor. They'd stop dancing every now and then and get back to our table to drink some more. They kept it up for a while until I noticed that Carol was already finding it hard to keep her balance. I pulled Bill aside and told him that maybe I should take Carol home before she got worse. It was very late anyway and time to go home.

Bill and I placed Carol in the back seat of my car where she dozed off and I took him back to his hotel.

"I hope she's okay," he said as he got off.

"Oh, she'll be fine--she just got carried away by finally meeting you after all these years."

By the time we got to the underground garage in my apartment, Carol was half awake and singing, "I love the night life…" She had a fine voice but it was late and I didn't want her to create a scene and wake people up. I picked her up and put a finger to her lips in an attempt to make her quiet.

"Kiss me," she said.

I softly touched her lips with mine. "There."

"No, a real one. I want a real one."

"Not here, wait till we get in the elevator."

I kissed her for real when we got in. She stuck her tongue in my mouth and sucked hard. I did the same to her. She was holding on to me as she still found it hard to stand on her own. I moved my hand to her breast--I had always wanted to check if she wore pushups. She didn't. Her bra was of thin material and I could feel her nipples. She giggled and reached down my pants--she made me hard and said, "I want this."

The elevator door opened on our floor. By then she had unbuttoned her blouse and was unbuckling her bra to show me her breasts. "They're real, they're not rubber," she drunkenly bragged. It was late but I was afraid someone might come so I quickly got her inside my apartment.

She reached down my crotch again and said, "I want it now."

She was completely undressed by the time we got to her bed, her clothes trailing on the floor all the way from the door. She was still woozy and wanted to be kissed and touched everywhere and wasn't satisfied until I finally got inside her.

SHE was already awake and had coffee ready when I got up the next morning. She was having toast and jam with her coffee. I sat down next to her and poured myself a cup.

"Good morning," I said.

"Do you know what happened to me last night?" she asked directly.

I didn't answer, I didn't know what to say.

"Look, it's okay. I just want to know whether it was a dream or Bill or you. I had a good time last night--it's been a long while since I had a more enjoyable evening."

I still didn't answer, so she continued, "I felt very relaxed when I woke up. It seemed so real--it's hard to believe it could have been a dream." She started laughing and joked, "I just want to know who to thank, and maybe do it with him again."

It was good to know she wasn't mad at me but she had never talked like that before.

"I was pretty drunk last night when we got here. I went straight to bed. I don't remember how long Bill stayed but the two of you were still in the living room when I went to sleep," I lied. In the two months she had been with me, I had learned to lie brazenly. The ease with which I was doing it now bothered me a bit.

She turned to me with a questioning look, poured herself another cup of coffee, and dropped the subject. Later that morning, she told me she was having early dinner with Bill before his flight back home. I didn't have to go with them this time.

It was on a Saturday a week later that Carol told me she was going to Fresno to accept a job offer from Bill. I was on my way out to get my car washed and gassed up. She asked me to make sure I came back for lunch because she was preparing something special.

When I got back, she had lunch ready. She had sinigang na bangus, bistek sa sibuyas, and leche flan. She surprised me--she knew how to cook after all. Best of all the pots, pans, utensils, and plates she used had all been washed and put away. I felt like hugging her but didn't because I didn't want her to change her mind about that Fresno job.

Free at last, or almost, I thought. Not only from Carol but from my promise to return the favor somebody did for me when I first arrived in America. My slate was about to be wiped clean. We ate quietly and it really felt like a special occasion for the first time since Carol arrived. She had some good qualities after all. She had even learned how to make piña coladas.

After lunch, we took our drinks to the living room to watch football on television. She knew what channel to turn it to. She turned to me and said, "I'm sorry to have to leave you. I hope you won't feel lonely."

Who, me? Are you kidding? I thought to myself.

It was now raining outside--it figured, I had just washed my car. We sat down to watch the game. I explained to Carol how football was played but I couldn't tell if she cared or not. She pulled her feet up and snuggled close to me.

"I don't know how I can thank you enough for putting up with me."

The piña colada had made us mellow. I gave in to the urge to hug her. She hugged me back and I kissed her without being asked like the first time. She didn't protest and we shed off any remaining antagonism we had towards each other.

After a while, Carol got up and turned the TV off. She smiled faintly at me and silently walked to her room. I followed her in.

ANOTHER Saturday, this time two months later in Fresno. The air is crisp but the warm sun takes the chill out from my bones. I wait at the church door for Carol as I was the designated closest relative who would give her away.

She arrives in a limo and looks radiant as the sun hits her veil to form a halo around her face. She's wearing virginal white and is beautiful as brides should be. She comes to me--and gives me a knowing smile.

BEST PHILIPPINE SHORT STORIES: THE OLD WOMAN OF THE CANDLES

THE OLD WOMAN OF THE CANDLES
by Kevin Piamonte

HOLY Thursday.

The house loomed over the street. Massive. Windows gaped open like mouths. So this would be summer for me. There were other houses nearby, but not as big and old as this one. As I stood outside the rusty iron gate, Doray came running out of the heavy wooden door. It was almost sundown.

"You're finally here. I've been waiting since morning." She kissed me on the cheek.

"The bus broke down," I sighed and gave her a hug.

She brought me inside the house. The basement was dark. A familiar scent filtered through my nose. I sneezed.

"It's old wood, remember?"

SHE had brought me to Ibajay, Aklan, a year ago for her Lola Conching's 90th birthday. We stayed for a couple of days.

Doray and I usually spend summer at beaches. She suggested that we spend this particular one in her Lola Conching's house. I declined at first, but couldn't bear the thought of going to the beach without her. So we made a deal. An hour's ride from Ibajay was a white sand beach.

"I promise." She held up her hand. "We'll go to Boracay after. You just have to see how they spend Holy Week in my Lola Conching's town."

"But I'm not even a practicing Catholic," I protested.

"Don't deny it Burt Macaraig," Doray pointed her accusing finger at me." Once I saw you lighting all the candles in church so that Rona would live."

Ask and you shall be given. I thought that was the doctrine of the Church. Rona died of abuse three years. ago. She was one of those deaf children we took care of in the Center. The twelve-year old girl was suddenly missing one day. When we finally found her in a cemetery, her body had been battered. She lingered in the hospital for two days. The pain was deeply etched on her face. Even her pleas for comfort had ceased to be human.

"All right, all right." I gave up. "We'll go to your Lola Conching's house first, purify our souls during Holy Week and burn them after in Boracay."

Doray and I have been the best of friends since college. We were drinking buddies. Everybody on campus thought we were a couple. In a way we were, since we were always together. After college we went on to do volunteer work for the deaf. We thought we would be serving the best of humanity. But the truth was we were both reluctant to get an eight-to-five job. We called that a straitjacket.

For some reason I wasn't able to make it on the day Doray and I were supposed to leave for Ibajay.

"You'd better follow, mister," she warned, her hand balled to a fist.

SAN Jose Street, Ibajay. Doray told me that on Holy Week the townspeople follow a certain tradition. Her Lola Conching owned a Santo Entierro, the dead Christ. It had been with the family for years. Every year, during Holy Week, they would bring out the statue and everybody would participate in the preparation. Some people would be in charge of dressing up the statue while others would take care of decorating the carriage that would carry it through the streets.

"What's so exciting about that?"

"It's a feast, Burt, a celebration."

I thought it was ridiculous celebrating death. There was something eerie about the whole idea.

"Lola Conching, do you remember Burt?" Doray asked as we got to the landing.

The old woman sat on a chair carefully lighting candles on the altar in front of her. Her lips reverently moved in silence and her gaze was strange as if she wasn't looking at any of the images in particular. It was this same sight that greeted me a year ago.

"The old woman of the candles," I whispered to Doray on our first visit.

"He's here to help in the activities for the Holy Week."

"It's good to see you again, Lola Conching."

"Did you have a good trip? Perhaps you need to rest."

The old woman stared at me. Her face looked tired. It sagged with wrinkles. But I could see there had been beauty there ages ago. The fine line of her brow softly curved to gray almond eyes. Her nose suggested not Spanish descent. Beside her was a wooden cane bedecked with shells intricately embedded, forming a floral design.

"Come." Doray led me through the living room. Carved lattice frames on walls complemented the chandelier made of brass and cut-glass.

"Where is the rest of the family?"

"They'll be here in the morning," Doray said as she opened the door to the bedroom.

I stepped inside.

"You'll sleep here." She indicated. "That's the washroom."

"And the other door to the right leads to your room," I recalled.

Lola Conching was blind. She suffered greatly at the hands of the Japanese. This I came to know last year. Lola Conching was a comfort woman. She had to give in so her parents could be saved. At first she resisted. Then the Japanese hit her on the head with a plank of wood. She became blind. Then she got pregnant.

Was it her story or was it for want of a grandmother that somehow had drawn me to her?

"I think I'll rest for a while," I said quietly.

"Yes, do," she replied as she opened the door to her room. "We'll have dinner later."

The room was replete with old wooden heads of saints. Some had no eyes, but they looked real. I shivered--a familiar feeling. In front of my bed was a cabinet with glass casing. It was empty. The whiff of camphor from the wooden heads made me dizzy and I fell asleep. Soundly.

I WOKE up to the sound of voices. A soft stream of morning light seeped through the gauze of the mosquito net. I hurriedly washed and dressed. Then I opened the door and stepped out of the room. There were people moving around, talking.

"Burt Macaraig?" An elderly woman looked at me knowingly.

"Yes. Burt, you've met Tiya Basyon," Doray began. "And Tiya Patring, Tiyo Lindo, my cousins Ted, Joey, Ina, Elena, Nicky and Damian."

"Well, I'm back." I didn't know what else to say.

"Let's have breakfast." She tugged at my arm. "Everybody has eaten."

The combination of dried fish, scrambled eggs and fried rice sprinkled with chopped onion leaves made me very hungry.

"Nobody here eats meat on Good Friday," Doray explained as we sat down. "It's the belief."

I was too hungry to mind whatever Doray was trying to say.

"I didn't bother to wake you up last night," she said between bites. "You were snoring and I took care not to wake you when I put up your mosquito net."

"I fell asleep as soon as I hit the pillow."

"Did Burt have a good sleep last night, Doray?" Lola Conching asked as she walked into the dining room.

She sat on the chair at the head of the table. It was uncanny how she could move with just a cane. She seemed to know every inch of space in her house.

"Good morning," I greeted her.

"Ah, there you are." Her head followed the sound of my voice. "Did you sleep well last night?" "Yes, I did."

"You should. You will be doing many things today."

After breakfast, we went downstairs. The light from the bulb coated the basement in amber. I sneezed. In a corner was the carriage. Black. It was lined with leaves of silver. On the carriage was a casing whose sides were made of glass. Angels with dark faces adorned each of the upper four corners. The carriage looked ominous, like a hearse. Tiyo Lindo and Tiya Patring came in.

"Boys, let's do this together." Tiyo Lindo went to the carriage and started pulling it out from the corner. All of us did our share. The wheels creaked.

"It needs oiling," Tiyo Lindo said.

We positioned the carriage under the bulb.

"Why don't we just open the door?" I suggested. "Then we can have light."

"No, don't," Tiya Patring said. "It's a tradition. Nobody should see the Santo Entierro until everything is done."

I helped polish the carriage, shining the leaves of silver lining. With agility Ted climbed the carriage and dusted the wooden top of the casing. Tiyo Lindo wiped the inside of the glass. No way would I go in there, I thought. It would be like going inside a coffin.

"We're ready with the Santo Entierro," one of the girls called out. They had been cleaning the body.

The dead Christ was laid out on a mat. My stomach tumbled over. I felt like I was looking at a corpse in a morgue.

"Are you all right?" Doray approached me. She had been arranging the flowers and leaves of palm.

"Look," I said quietly. "I don't know what this is all about, but I'm not at all comfortable."

"What is it?"

"The dead Christ. I just don't like it." I sneezed. "And this scent of old wood, it's driving my nose nuts."

She laughed.

"What is so funny?" I looked at her squarely.

"That's what you get for being a heretic." She brushed my face with the bouquet she held in her hands.

"Oh, stop that." I wiped my face. "I think I'd better go upstairs for a while and rest."

"Don't be so lazy. Lola Conching won't like that kind of attitude."

"Well, she's not my grandmother in the first place." I made my way up.

Lola Conching was sitting by the altar when I got to the top of the stairs. The subtlety of light coming from the candles caressed the features of her tired face.

"Are you done?"

I was startled.

"No, Lola Conching."

"Who are you?" Her voice was stern. "Ah, you're Burt."

"Yes, Lola Conching." I was relieved that she recognized me.

"What are you doing up here?" she curtly asked.

My throat went dry.

"I want to rest for a while. I'm feeling quite sick because of the smell of old wood."

"I light candles for the Santo Entierro because it is most precious to us. It is our indu1gencia," declared Lola Conching. "It protected us during the war. Doray's father was a baby then."

I sat down in front of the old woman.

"You mean the Santo Entierro has some kind of power?" My curiosity started to grow.

"Yes, it does." Lola Conching confirmed. "It protects us from the evil of Good Fridays. Aswang."

I almost snickered. But in her voice was the weight of her belief. Aswangs, witches were myths to my knowledge. They would fly at night using their huge bat-like wings. Their hands had claws for fingers, and their teeth were razor sharp. They would look ghoulish, eyes gleaming bright red. But at daytime they were beautiful.

My gaze was transfixed on the old woman's face. I searched for the delicate features that used to be there.

"They come out on the eve of the death of Christ." Her voice slightly quivered. Was it fright I heard? Or a threat?

I was getting edgy on my seat. Faith, belief, knowledge boiled up, blurring my mind.

"You'll see on Good Friday. When the moon rises, all windows are shut in houses except ours," she proudly declared. "Windows in this house are left wide open."

It dawned on me. The Santo Entierro was not the family's iindulgencia. It was hers--for all the fears she kept inside.

"I thought you went to sleep." Doray had come upstairs.

"No, I was talking to your Lola Conching," I stammered. Cold sweat dripped down my forehead.

"I told him stories about the Santo Entierro," the old woman said with an air of accomplishment.

"Let's go." I grabbed Doray's arm.

For the first time I felt afraid. Yet I could not understand why. I raced downstairs. Doray came after me.

"Wait," she called.

Everybody stared at me blankly when I got to the basement. I turned around and faced Doray. We almost bumped into each other.

"Can we go for a walk?" I panted.

We went to the plaza in front of the church. We were both quiet. I pondered why she brought me to this strange place. I felt she had done it on purpose. I never questioned events, phenomena. I always took them as though they were a natural order of the cosmos, like birth and death. True, I did light candles for Rona, but the girl died nonetheless. I felt humiliated. That menial task was my turning point. Never again did candles burn.

"This is where the procession ends," she said as we sat on a concrete bench. We were facing the church. "The procession goes around, through several streets and it ends here at about seven in the evening."

"Do you believe in your Lola Conching's stories about the Santo Entierro?"

Doray looked lost in thought. She groped for words.

"I don't have any answers, Burt. But this is what I can tell you." Her eyes brightened up. "What I saw was the crowd surging toward the Santo Entierro as it got to the door of the church. It was a mad scramble. Everybody wanted a piece of the Santo. They say its hair or any part of its clothing can be used as an amulet, a protection against evil spirits."

Another mythical explanation.

"I'm hungry." I stood up and we went back to the house.

Lunch was quick. Everybody was rushing to finish the morning's activity for the procession in the afternoon.

I went to sleep. In the first place, vacations were meant for naps. Besides I felt I had done my share already with the carriage.

"Burt." I heard Doray's voice through my slumber. "It's time to get ready."

"Hmmm," I protested. I was too tired to do anything.

"Wake up, sleepyhead." She sat on the bed. "You've been sleeping for hours. Come on." She gave me a gentle slap on my face.

"All right." I rubbed my eyes and got out of bed.

"Call me when you're ready." She stood up and went inside her room.

When Doray and I went downstairs, I gasped at the sight that greeted me. There was the Santo Entierro inside the glass casing of the carriage. Asleep. Its long golden brown hair was spread out like a fan. Its body covered with the richness of white and red velvet was adorned with beads of gold. The carriage was bedecked with sprays of palms and flowers, the ones used for funerals. Trinkets of lights illuminated the whole presentation. Death never had this brilliance.

"Well, we're ready," Tiya Patring said.

The boys--Ted, Joey, Nicky and Damian--opened the door and pulled the carriage out. A small crowd stood outside. They applauded as we made our way into the street behind the image. They made the sign of the cross and followed us. As we neared the church, I could see other carriages lined up, each one carrying a different image representing Lent. We were made to position somewhere at the end of the line. And the procession began. The band with scant composition of trumpets and drums lazily accompanied our strides. I snickered.

"Shhh," Doray warned.

When the sun came down, some people started handing out candles.

"Want to light one?" Doray slyly offered.

The procession went on for about two hours. People lined the streets. There were old people sitting on wheelchairs. Soon they would drown in the shadow of the evening. I thought of Lola Conching left alone in the house seeing the whole procession in her mind as she prayed for her soul. In her house candles burned like tired spirits.

When we neared the end of the procession, the carriages were brought inside the church.

"Let's go." Doray pulled me.

"Where?" I thought this would be the most awaited event of the day.

But her clutch slipped off my arm.

Then I saw a throng of people rushing towards us. Joey, Nicky and Damian struggled to pull the carriage to the entrance of the church. On top of the carriage were Tiyo Lindo and Ted brandishing wooden canes like warriors. Everyone was trying to get near the Santo Entierro. I was trapped. I couldn't get out from the sea of bodies. The wave threatened to crush me. I couldn't breathe. I was drowning. Some people had tears streaming down their faces, sobbing. Others screamed as Tiyo Lindo and Ted hit their hands with their wooden canes.

"The hair," someone shouted. "A strand of hair."

"No, don't!" I could no longer hear myself as I went down, pressed by the rush of wave.

Suddenly Tiyo Lindo and Ted were pulling me up. I slumped on the wooden top of the carriage, catching my breath. Below, the maddened faces of people receded as we entered the portals of the church.

We jumped off the carriage. Sweat pasted my shirt on to my skin. I felt we had gone through a siege. But the carriage was intact. The glass remained unbroken. The leaves of silver lining still glistened. Everything was in place. The rest of the boys, Joey, Nicky and Damian, volunteered to stay behind while we went home for dinner.

"You were lucky you didn't get crushed," said Ted.

I did not bother to say anything. I had not seen raw madness before.

"Is he all right?" Lola Conching asked me as we got to the top of the stairs.

"Burt," Doray came towards me. We need not say anything to each other. Tears were about to fall from my eyes.

"It's all right," I held her hands tight. "I'll be fine."

Later that evening we stayed in my room and drank whiskey.

"I'm sorry, Burt, I tried to get through." She recalled what happened earlier that evening.

We were silent for a while.

"It was so weird. They were scrambling. Those people were fanatics."

"The first time I saw it I thought I would go down on my knees." She smiled in disbelief.

Doray left at midnight to sleep in her room. I tossed in bed. I kept thinking about the mad rush of the crowd towards the Santo Entierro. What awesome power for one made of wood to draw the tide toward himself. My mind reeled. It was Black Saturday. The day of the dead Christ.

In the haze of alcohol, I got out of the room and cautiously made my way down the stairs and out of the house. I went out into the street and walked to the church. The moon had risen, big and bright. Its color oozed beyond its shape and bled the sky. The street was silent. As I neared the church, I heard its door open. It moaned. In the dimness of the surroundings I saw four men coming out of the church. They were carrying something wrapped in white sheets, like a dead man. It was the Santo Entierro! Oblivious of my presence, they struggled with its weight. Slowly I took several steps back. I turned around and cautiously walked back to the house. Then I saw that the windows of the other houses were shut. Tight. I remembered what Lola Conching said about the witches. I ran towards the house, racing against the pounding in my chest. Then I swiftly ascended the stairs. When I got to my room, I threw myself on the bed. At a surprising rate, I tucked the mosquito net in and closed my eyes. The Santo Entierro was stolen, the Santo Entierro was stolen! This I kept repeating to myself. I wanted to get up and tell Doray. But I was feeling too heady. I felt I was going to throw up. I closed my eyes and cascaded down into a labyrinth of darkness. Then I heard a flapping on wings. Wak, wak, wak. It flapped in the breeze blowing through my window. Wak, wak, wak. There it was again. I bolted up, charged with a current of electricity running through my veins. The mosquito net plunged down. I struggled against the mesh of its gauze. Then I saw the Santo Entierro! It stood inside the glass cabinet in front of my bed. I screamed. The shrillness shot through the stillness of San Jose Street.

"Burt," Doray rushed in. I screamed again. She peeled the mosquito net away. Then I felt her hands, her arms holding me close. I was drenched with sweat.

Someone knocked on the door.

I looked at the glass cabinet in front of my bed. It was empty.

"The Santo Entierro was stolen." I breathlessly whispered to Doray.

"The what?" She barely heard me.

"The Santo Entierro." I punctuated each word.

Doray stood up and opened the door. Lola Conching entered the room.

The Santo Entierro was stolen!" I cried. "It was stolen."

Lola Conching covered her face, fingers digging into her skin. Her breathing came in spasms. The rest of her kin stood behind her. I got out of bed.

"Where are you going?" Doray asked.

"To the church."

I grabbed Lola Conching and carried her in my arms as if she were a child. She weakly struggled against my strength.

"Leave her alone!" Doray cried. The rest of the family encircled us like the crowd that earlier surged towards the Santo Entierro.

"No!" I stared at them.

And we all marched down into the darkness of the street, all the way to the church. Lola Conching buried her face my chest. Her resistance was drowned in her sobbing.

The door of the church was open when we got there. Some people had left it open. We made our way through the carriages inside the shadow of the church's belly. Images loomed. Near the altar stood the black carriage with leaves of silver lining. I Set Lola Conching down on the floor She grappled with my feet, whimpering.

"Here." Tiya Patring offered me a candle. I took it.

"Light all the candles, Burt," Doray's voice quivered.

I numbly walked around the church and lit all the candles I could find. My hands shook. Lola Conching wailed Then I saw it. It was there. The Santo Entierro glistened inside the glass casing of its carriage.

"It's here, Lola Conching." My lips trembled. "The Santo Entierro is back!"

We all looked at Lola Conching, still slumped on the floor. She had stopped crying.

"Put out the candles," Lola Conching commanded.

Nobody moved. For a while everybody had stoned expressions on their faces.

"Put out the candles." This time her voice came undaunted.

One at a time her kin blew out the flames. Their somber faces were ghosts extinguished with the past. The Santo Entierro faded into darkness.

I sank to my knees with the last candle in my hands. Lola Conching rose. Layers of tormented skin peeled off her face that came to the light. I saw her real beauty. Immaculate, a flower whose petals would wither with a careless brush of fingers. I saw a girl of eighteen whose face was as fine and gentle as the hair of the wind. Then the features slowly changed with the diminishing flame. And between light and darkness was Rona's face completely devoid of pain.

The light of the candle in my hands flickered and died as Lola Conching's blind eyes gave way to tears that had welled through the years. In the darkness of the church I bowed my head as I convulsed with my own truths. Lola Conching held on to my arms as I held on to the candle. I could smell the pregnant whips of smoke rising from the faint orange glow of its wick.

Black Saturday. And now, Easter Sunday.

BEST PHILIPPINE SHORT STORIES: A NIGHT IN THE HILLS

A NIGHT IN THE HILLS
by Paz Marquez Benitez

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Out?” doubtfully.

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

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

He was silent.

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

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

Then his wife died.

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

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

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

“Leaving town? Where are you going?”

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

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

That question had never occurred to him.

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

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

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

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

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

“Who is this man you are going with?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why?” Gerardo was surprised.

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

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

Soon they entered the dim forest.

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



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

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

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

Ambo was saying:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What noise is that?”

“Which noise?”

“That queer, ringing noise.”

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

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

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

“What is that light?” he presently asked.

“That is the moon,” said Ambo.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

BEST PHILIPPINE SHORT STORIES: NANKING STORE

NANKING STORE
by Macario D. Tiu

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I did not budge.

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

"Check," his opponent said.

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

His opponent laughed aloud, showing toothless gums.

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

"Seven times."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ah Kong! Ah Kong!" somebody said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"At the barbershop."

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

"Well, what does it mean?"

"It means Ah Kong cannot produce a son."

"And what is a bad stock?"

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

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

"They say Peter is a bad stock."

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

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

That was why Linda had moved in to Santa Ana.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How old are you now?"

"Twelve," I said.

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

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

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

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

"So tall," she said.

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