Scent of Apples

Bienvenido N. Santos

When I arrived in Kalamazoo it was October and the war was still
on. Gold and silver stars hung on pennants above silent windows of
white and brick-red cottages. In a backyard an old man burned
leaves and twigs while a gray-haired woman sat on the porch, her
red hands quiet on her lap, watching the smoke rising above the
elms, both of them thinking the same thought perhaps, about a tall,
grinning boy with his blue eyes and flying hair, who went out to war:
where could he be now this month when leaves were turning into
gold and the fragrance of gathered apples was in the wind?
It was a cold night when I left my room at the hotel for a usual
speaking engagement. I walked but a little way. A heavy wind
coming up from Lake Michigan was icy on the face. If felt like winter
straying early in the northern woodlands. Under the lampposts the
leaves shone like bronze. And they rolled on the pavements like the
ghost feet of a thousand autumns long dead, long before the boys
left for faraway lands without great icy winds and promise of winter
early in the air, lands without apple trees, the singing and the gold!
It was the same night I met Celestino Fabia, "just a Filipino farmer"
as he called himself, who had a farm about thirty miles east of
Kalamazoo.
"You came all that way on a night like this just to hear me talk?"

"I've seen no Filipino for so many years now," he answered quickly.

"So when I saw your name in the papers where it says you come
from the Islands and that you're going to talk, I come right away."
Earlier that night I had addressed a college crowd, mostly women. It
appeared they wanted me to talk about my country, they wanted
me to tell them things about it because my country had become a
lost country. Everywhere in the land the enemy stalked. Over it a
great silence hung, and their boys were there, unheard from, or
they were on their way to some little known island on the Pacific,
young boys all, hardly men, thinking of harvest moons and the smell
of forest fire.
It was not hard talking about our own people. I knew them well and
I loved them. And they seemed so far away during those terrible
years that I must have spoken of them with a little fervor, a little
nostalgia.
In the open forum that followed, the audience wanted to know
whether there was much difference between our women and the
American women. I tried to answer the question as best I could,
saying, among other things, that I did not know that much about
American women, except that they looked friendly, but differences
or similarities in inner qualities such as naturally belonged to the
heart or to the mind, I could only speak about with vagueness.
While I was trying to explain away the fact that it was not easy to
make comparisons, a man rose from the rear of the hall, wanting to
say something. In the distance, he looked slight and old and very
brown. Even before he spoke, I knew that he was, like me, a Filipino.

"I'm a Filipino," he began, loud and clear, in a voice that seemed

used to wide open spaces, "I'm just a Filipino farmer out in the
country." He waved his hand toward the door. "I left the Philippines
more than twenty years ago and have never been back. Never will
perhaps. I want to find out, sir, are our Filipino women the same like
they were twenty years ago?"

as they were twenty years ago. God-fearing, faithful, modest, and

nice."

As he sat down, the hall filled with voices, hushed and intrigued. I
weighed my answer carefully. I did not want to tell a lie yet I did not
want to say anything that would seem platitudinous, insincere. But
more important than these considerations, it seemed to me that
moment as I looked towards my countryman, I must give him an
answer that would not make him so unhappy. Surely, all these
years, he must have held on to certain ideals, certain beliefs, even
illusions peculiar to the exile.

After this, everything that was said and done in that hall that night
seemed like an anti-climax, and later, as we walked outside, he gave
me his name and told me of his farm thirty miles east of the city.

"First," I said as the voices gradually died down and every eye
seemed upon me, "First, tell me what our women were like twenty
years ago."

"No, thank you," he said, "you are tired. And I don't want to stay out
too late."

The man stood to answer. "Yes," he said, "you're too young . . .

Twenty years ago our women were nice, they were modest, they
wore their hair long, they dressed proper and went for no monkey
business. They were natural, they went to church regular, and they
were faithful." He had spoken slowly, and now in what seemed like
an afterthought, added, "It's the men who ain't."
Now I knew what I was going to say.
"Well," I began, "it will interest you to know that our women have
changed--but definitely! The change, however, has been on the
outside only. Inside, here," pointing to the heart, "they are the same

The man was visibly moved. "I'm very happy, sir," he said, in the
manner of one who, having stakes on the land, had found no cause
to regret one's sentimental investment.

We had stopped at the main entrance to the hotel lobby. We had

not talked very much on the way. As a matter of fact, we were
never alone. Kindly American friends talked to us, asked us
questions, said goodnight. So now I asked him whether he cared to
step into the lobby with me and talk.

"Yes, you live very far."

"I got a car," he said, "besides . . . "
Now he smiled, he truly smiled. All night I had been watching his
face and I wondered when he was going to smile.
"Will you do me a favor, please," he continued smiling almost
sweetly. "I want you to have dinner with my family out in the
country. I'd call for you tomorrow afternoon, then drive you back.
Will that be alright?"

"Of course," I said. "I'd love to meet your family." I was leaving
Kalamazoo for Muncie, Indiana, in two days. There was plenty of
time.
"You will make my wife very happy," he said.
"You flatter me."
"Honest. She'll be very happy. Ruth is a country girl and hasn't met
many Filipinos. I mean Filipinos younger than I, cleaner looking.
We're just poor farmer folk, you know, and we don't get to town
very often. Roger, that's my boy, he goes to school in town. A bus
takes him early in the morning and he's back in the afternoon. He's
nice boy."
"I bet he is," I agreed. "I've seen the children of some of the boys by
their American wives and the boys are tall, taller than their father,
and very good looking."
"Roger, he'd be tall. You'll like him."
Then he said goodbye and I waved to him as he disappeared in the
darkness.
The next day he came, at about three in the afternoon. There was a
mild, ineffectual sun shining, and it was not too cold. He was
wearing an old brown tweed jacket and worsted trousers to match.
His shoes were polished, and although the green of his tie seemed
faded, a colored shirt hardly accentuated it. He looked younger than
he appeared the night before now that he was clean shaven and
seemed ready to go to a party. He was grinning as we met.

"Oh, Ruth can't believe it," he kept repeating as he led me to his car-a nondescript thing in faded black that had known better days and
many hands. "I says to her, I'm bringing you a first class Filipino, and
she says, aw, go away, quit kidding, there's no such thing as first
class Filipino. But Roger, that's my boy, he believed me immediately.
What's he like, daddy, he asks. Oh, you will see, I says, he's first
class. Like you daddy? No, no, I laugh at him, your daddy ain't first
class. Aw, but you are, daddy, he says. So you can see what a nice
boy he is, so innocent. Then Ruth starts griping about the house, but
the house is a mess, she says. True it's a mess, it's always a mess,
but you don't mind, do you? We're poor folks, you know.
The trip seemed interminable. We passed through narrow lanes and
disappeared into thickets, and came out on barren land overgrown
with weeds in places. All around were dead leaves and dry earth. In
the distance were apple trees.
"Aren't those apple trees?" I asked wanting to be sure.
"Yes, those are apple trees," he replied. "Do you like apples? I got
lots of 'em. I got an apple orchard, I'll show you."
All the beauty of the afternoon seemed in the distance, on the hills,
in the dull soft sky.
"Those trees are beautiful on the hills," I said.
"Autumn's a lovely season. The trees are getting ready to die, and
they show their colors, proud-like."
"No such thing in our own country," I said.

That remark seemed unkind, I realized later. It touched him off on a

long deserted tangent, but ever there perhaps. How many times did
lonely mind take unpleasant detours away from the familiar winding
lanes towards home for fear of this, the remembered hurt, the long
lost youth, the grim shadows of the years; how many times indeed,
only the exile knows.

I was born in that house. I grew up there into a pampered brat. I

was mean. One day I broke their hearts. I saw mother cry wordlessly
as father heaped his curses upon me and drove me out of the
house, the gate closing heavily after me. And my brothers and
sisters took up my father's hate for me and multiplied it numberless
times in their own broken hearts. I was no good.

It was a rugged road we were traveling and the car made so much
noise that I could not hear everything he said, but I understood him.
He was telling his story for the first time in many years. He was
remembering his own youth. He was thinking of home. In these odd
moments there seemed no cause for fear no cause at all, no pain.
That would come later. In the night perhaps. Or lonely on the farm
under the apple trees.

But sometimes, you know, I miss that house, the roosting chickens
on the low-topped walls. I miss my brothers and sisters, Mother
sitting in her chair, looking like a pale ghost in a corner of the room.
I would remember the great live posts, massive tree trunks from the
forests. Leafy plants grew on the sides, buds pointing downwards,
wilted and died before they could become flowers. As they fell on
the floor, father bent to pick them and throw them out into the
coral streets. His hands were strong. I have kissed these hands . . .
many times, many times.

In this old Visayan town, the streets are narrow and dirty and
strewn with coral shells. You have been there? You could not have
missed our house, it was the biggest in town, one of the oldest, ours
was a big family. The house stood right on the edge of the street. A
door opened heavily and you enter a dark hall leading to the stairs.
There is the smell of chickens roosting on the low-topped walls,
there is the familiar sound they make and you grope your way up a
massive staircase, the bannisters smooth upon the trembling hand.
Such nights, they are no better than the days, windows are closed
against the sun; they close heavily.
Mother sits in her corner looking very white and sick. This was her
world, her domain. In all these years, I cannot remember the sound
of her voice. Father was different. He moved about. He shouted. He
ranted. He lived in the past and talked of honor as though it were
the only thing.

Finally we rounded a deep curve and suddenly came upon a shanty,

all but ready to crumble in a heap on the ground, its plastered walls
were rotting away, the floor was hardly a foot from the ground. I
thought of the cottages of the poor colored folk in the south, the
hovels of the poor everywhere in the land. This one stood all by
itself as though by common consent all the folk that used to live
here had decided to say away, despising it, ashamed of it. Even the
lovely season could not color it with beauty.
A dog barked loudly as we approached. A fat blonde woman stood
at the door with a little boy by her side. Roger seemed newly
scrubbed. He hardly took his eyes off me. Ruth had a clean apron
around her shapeless waist. Now as she shook my hands in sincere
delight I noticed shamefacedly (that I should notice) how rough her

hands were, how coarse and red with labor, how ugly! She was no
longer young and her smile was pathetic.
As we stepped inside and the door closed behind us, immediately I
was aware of the familiar scent of apples. The room was bare
except for a few ancient pieces of second-hand furniture. In the
middle of the room stood a stove to keep the family warm in winter.
The walls were bare. Over the dining table hung a lamp yet
unlighted.

"The face wasn't a blur in the beginning?"

"Oh, no. It was a young face and good."
Ruth came with a plate full of apples.
"Ah," I cried, picking out a ripe one. "I've been thinking where all the
scent of apples came from. The room is full of it."
"I'll show you," said Fabia.

Ruth got busy with the drinks. She kept coming in and out of a rear
room that must have been the kitchen and soon the table was
heavy with food, fried chicken legs and rice, and green peas and
corn on the ear. Even as we ate, Ruth kept standing, and going to
the kitchen for more food. Roger ate like a little gentleman.

He showed me a backroom, not very big. It was half-full of apples.

"Isn't he nice looking?" his father asked.

"We'll feed them to the pigs."

"You are a handsome boy, Roger," I said.

Then he showed me around the farm. It was twilight now and the
apple trees stood bare against a glowing western sky. In apple
blossom time it must be lovely here. But what about wintertime?

The boy smiled at me. You look like Daddy," he said.

Afterwards I noticed an old picture leaning on the top of a dresser
and stood to pick it up. It was yellow and soiled with many
fingerings. The faded figure of a woman in Philippine dress could yet
be distinguished although the face had become a blur.
"Your . . . " I began.
"I don't know who she is," Fabia hastened to say. "I picked that
picture many years ago in a room on La Salle street in Chicago. I
have often wondered who she is."

"Every day," he explained, "I take some of them to town to sell to

the groceries. Prices have been low. I've been losing on the trips."
"These apples will spoil," I said.

One day, according to Fabia, a few years ago, before Roger was
born, he had an attack of acute appendicitis. It was deep winter.
The snow lay heavy everywhere. Ruth was pregnant and none too
well herself. At first she did not know what to do. She bundled him
in warm clothing and put him on a cot near the stove. She shoveled
the snow from their front door and practically carried the suffering
man on her shoulders, dragging him through the newly made path
towards the road where they waited for the U.S. Mail car to pass.

Meanwhile snowflakes poured all over them and she kept rubbing
the man's arms and legs as she herself nearly froze to death.
"Go back to the house, Ruth!" her husband cried, "you'll freeze to
death."
But she clung to him wordlessly. Even as she massaged his arms and
legs, her tears rolled down her cheeks. "I won't leave you," she
repeated.
Finally the U.S. Mail car arrived. The mailman, who knew them well,
helped them board the car, and, without stopping on his usual
route, took the sick man and his wife direct to the nearest hospital.
Ruth stayed in the hospital with Fabia. She slept in a corridor
outside the patients' ward and in the day time helped in scrubbing
the floor and washing the dishes and cleaning the men's things.
They didn't have enough money and Ruth was willing to work like a
slave.
"Ruth's a nice girl," said Fabia, "like our own Filipino women."
Before nightfall, he took me back to the hotel. Ruth and Roger stood
at the door holding hands and smiling at me. From inside the room
of the shanty, a low light flickered. I had a last glimpse of the apple
trees in the orchard under the darkened sky as Fabia backed up the
car. And soon we were on our way back to town. The dog had
started barking. We could hear it for some time, until finally, we
could not hear it anymore, and all was darkness around us, except
where the headlamps revealed a stretch of road leading
somewhere.

Fabia did not talk this time. I didn't seem to have anything to say
myself. But when finally we came to the hotel and I got down, Fabia
said, "Well, I guess I won't be seeing you again."
It was dimly lighted in front of the hotel and I could hardly see
Fabia's face. Without getting off the car, he moved to where I had
sat, and I saw him extend his hand. I gripped it.
"Tell Ruth and Roger," I said, "I love them."
He dropped my hand quickly. "They'll be waiting for me now," he
said.
"Look," I said, not knowing why I said it, "one of these days, very
soon, I hope, I'll be going home. I could go to your town."
"No," he said softly, sounding very much defeated but brave,
"Thanks a lot. But, you see, nobody would remember me now."
Then he started the car, and as it moved away, he waved his hand.
"Goodbye," I said, waving back into the darkness. And suddenly the
night was cold like winter straying early in these northern
woodlands.
I hurried inside. There was a train the next morning that left for
Muncie, Indiana, at a quarter after eight.

The Chieftest Mourner by Aida Rivera

Ford

ever

throbbed

with

Malayan

chords."

Something

caught at my throat and I let out one sob--the

rest merely followed. When the girls hurried over

He was my uncle because he married my aunt (even

to me to see what had happened, I could only point

if he had not come to her these past ten years),

to the item on the front page with my uncle's

so when the papers brought the news of his death,

picture

I felt that some part of me had died, too.I was

Everybody suddenly spoke in a low voice and Ning,

boarding then at a big girls' college in Manila

who worshipped me, said that I shouldn't be so

and I remember quite vividly that a few other

unhappy because my uncle was now with the other

girls were gathered about the lobby of our school,

great poets in heaven--at which I really howled in

looking very straight and proper since it was

earnest because my uncle had not only deserted

seven in the morning and the starch in our long-

poor Aunt Sophia but had also been living with

sleeved uniform had not yet given way. I tried to

another woman these many years and, most horrible

be brave while I read that my uncle had actually

of

been "the last of a distinct school of Philippine

embrace!Perhaps

poets." I was still being brave all the way down

commiseration

the lengthy eulogies, until I got to the line

husband of my aunt, but it wasn't my fault because

which said that he was "the sweetest lyre that

I never really lied about anything; only, nobody

all,

taken

when

he

had
I

for

he

still

probably

received
the

was

an

death

died
undue

of

the

handsome.

in

her

amount

of

delinquent

thought to ask me just how close an uncle he was.

knowing the kind of husband he would make, but

It wasn't my doing either when, some months after

that her beauty drove him out of his right mind.

his demise, my poem entitled The Rose Was Not So

My aunt always forgave him but one day she had

Fair O Alma Mater was captioned "by the niece of

more than she could bear, and when he was really

the late beloved Filipino Poet." And that having

drunk, she tied him to a chair with a strong rope

been printed, I couldn't possibly refuse when I

to teach him a lesson. She never saw him drunk

was asked to write on My Uncle--The Poetry of His

again, for as soon as he was able to, he walked

Life. The article, as printed, covered only his

out the door and never came back.I was very little

boyhood and early manhood because our adviser cut

at that time, but I remembered that shortly after

out everything that happened after he was married.

he went away, my aunt put me in a car and sent me

She said that the last half of his life was not

to his hotel with a letter from her. Uncle ushered

exactly poetic, although I still maintain that in

me into his room very formally and while I looked

his vices, as in his poetry, he followed closely

all around the place, he prepared a special kind

the pattern of the great poets he admired.My aunt

of lemonade for the two of us. I was sorry he

used

extremely

poured it out into wee glasses because it was

considerate man--when he was sober, and on those

unlike any lemonade I had ever tasted. While I

occasions he always tried to make up for his past

sipped solemnly at my glass, he inquired after my

sins. She said that he had never meant to marry,

aunt. To my surprise, I found myself answering

to

relate

that

he

was

an

with alacrity. I was happy to report all details

dozen of the saints to witness the act. I never

of my aunt's health, including the number of crabs

got a taste of Uncle's lemonade.It began to be a

she ate for lunch and the amazing fact that she

habit with Aunt Sophia to drop in for a periodic

was getting fatter and fatter without the benefit

recital of woe to which Mama was a sympathetic

of Scott's Emulsion or Ovaltine at all. Uncle

audience. The topic of the conversation was always

smiled his beautiful somber smile and drew some

the latest low on Uncle's state of misery. It gave

poems from his desk. He scribbled a dedication on

Aunt Sophia profound satisfaction to relay

them and instructed me to give them to my aunt. I

report of friends on the number of creases on

made much show of putting the empty glass down but

Uncle's shirt or the appalling decrease in his

Uncle was dense to the hint. At the door, however,

weight. To her, the fact that Uncle was getting

he told me that I could have some lemonade every

thinner proved conclusively that he was suffering

time I came to visit him. Aunt Sophia was so

as a result of the separation. It looked as if

pleased with the poems that she kissed me. And

Uncle would not be able to hold much longer, the

then all of a sudden she looked at me queerly and

way

made a most peculiar request of me. She asked me

because Uncle didn't have much weight to start

to say ha-ha, and when I said ha-ha, she took me

with. The paradox of the situation, however, was

to the sink and began to wash the inside of my

that Aunt Sophia was now crowding Mama off the

mouth with soap and water while calling upon a

sofa

he was

and

reported to be

yet

she

wasn't

the

thinner each time,

looking

very

happy

either.When I was about eleven, there began to be

herself but of his career. Knowing him so well,

a difference. Everytime I cam into the room when

she was positive that he was unhappier than ever,

Mama and Aunt Sophia were holding conference, the

for that horrid woman never allowed him to have

talk would suddenly be switched to Spanish. It was

his own way; she even denied him those little

about this time that I took an interest in the

drinks which he took merely to aid him into poetic

Spanish taught in school. It was also at this time

composition. Because the woman brazenly followed

that Aunt Sophia exclaimed over my industry at the

Uncle

piano--which stood a short distance from the sofa.

confusing situation ensued. When people mentioned

At first I couldn't gather much except that Uncle

Uncle's wife, there was no way of knowing whether

was not any more the main topic. It was a woman by

they referred to my aunt or to the woman. After a

the name of Esa--or so I thought she was called.

while

Later I began to appreciate the subtlety of the

friends of the different parties. No. 1 came to

Spanish la mujer esa.And so I learned about the

stand for Aunt Sophia and No. 2 for the woman.I

woman. She was young, accomplished, a woman of

hadn't

means. (A surprising number of connotations were

lemonade, but one day in school all the girls were

attached to these terms.) Aunt Sophia, being a

asked to come down to the lecture room--Uncle was

loyal wife, grieved that Uncle should have been

to read some of his poems! Up in my room, I

ensnared by such a woman, thinking not so much of

stopped

everywhere,

system

seen

to

calling

was

Uncle

fasten

worked

since

pink

herself

out

the

by

his

the

episode

ribbon

wife,

to

mutual

of

my

the

hair

thinking the while how I would play my role to

which managed to display its full yardage over the

perfection--for the dear niece was to be presented

seat. Across the aisle from her was a very slight

to the uncle she had not seen for so long. My

woman in her early thirties who was dressed in a

musings were interrupted, however, when a girl

dramatic black outfit with a heavy veil coming up

came up and excitedly bubbled that she had seen my

to

uncle--and my aunt, who was surprisingly young and

suddenly

so very modern!I couldn't go down after all; I was

paunchy and worn at the corners. I wanted to ask

indisposed.Complicated as the situation was when

my aunt who she was but after embracing me when I

Uncle was alive, it became more so when he died. I

arrived, she kept her eyes stolidly fixed before

was puzzling over who was to be the official widow

her. I directed my gaze in the same direction. At

at his funeral when word came that I was to keep

the

Aunt Sophia company at the little chapel where the

leaning

service would be held. I concluded with relief

himself; and a pace behind, as though in deference

that No. 2 had decamped.The morning wasn't far

to it, were other wreaths arranged according to

gone when I arrived at the chapel and there were

the rank and prominence of the people who had sent

only a few people present. Aunt Sophia was sitting

them. I suppose protocol had something to do with

in one of the front pews at the right section of

it.I tiptoed over to the muse before Uncle as he

the chapel. She had on a black and white print

lay in the dignity of death, the faintest trace of

her

forehead.
aware

front

was

heavily

Something

that

the

Aunt

about
Sophia's

president's

backward,

her

like

made

bag

immense
that

me

looked

wreath

personage

his somber smile still on his face. My eyes fell

uncles funeral. There were two women, each taking

upon a cluster of white flowers placed at the foot

possession of her portion of the chapel just as

of the casket. It was ingeniously fashioned in the

though stakes had been laid, seemingly unmindful

shape of a dove and it bore the inscription "From

of

the Loyal One." I looked at Aunt Sophia and didn't

disregard that each was very much aware of the

see anything dove-like about her. I looked at the

other. As though to give balance to the scene, the

slight woman in black and knew of a sudden that

young man stood his full height near the woman to

she

offset the collective bulk of Aunt Sophia and

her

myself, although I was merely a disproportionate

solicitously. I took no notice of him even though

shadow behind her.The friends of the poet began to

he had elegant manners, a mischievous cowlick,

come.

wistful eyes, a Dennis Morgan chin, and a pin

surveying

which testified that he belonged to what we girls

consciously

called our "brother college." I showed him that he

there, and then they wrenched themselves from the

absolutely did not exist for me, especially when I

spot and moved--no, slithered--either towards my

caught him looking in our direction.I always feel

aunt or towards the woman. The choice must have

guilty of sacrilege everytime I think of it, but

been difficult when they knew both. The women

there

almost invariably came to talk to my aunt whereas

was

brother

the
or

was

woman.
a

nephew,

something

young
was

grimly

man,

obviously

bending

ludicrous

over

about

my

each

other,

They

yet

paused

the

scene

towards

revealing

by

this

studied

long

time

at

the

door,

before

they

marched

self-

casket.

Another

pause

the

most of the men turned to the woman at the left. I

heard from the door, that the president himself

recognized some important Malacaang men and some

was

writers from seeing their pictures in the papers.

lunchtime, it became obvious that neither my aunt

Later in the morning a horde of black-clad women,

nor the woman wished to leave ahead of the other.

the sisters and cousins of the poet, swept into

I could appreciate my aunt's delicadeza in this

the chapel and came directly to where my aunt sat.

matter but then got hungry and therefore grew

They had the same deep eye-sockets and hollow

resourceful: I called a taxi and told her it was

cheek-bones which had lent a sensitive expression

at the door with the

to the poet's face but which on them suggested

unwillingness lasted as long as forty centavos.We

t.b. The air became dense with the sickly-sweet

made up for leaving ahead of the woman by getting

smell of many flowers clashing and I went over to

back to the chapel early. For a long time she did

get my breath of air. As I glanced back I had a

not come and when Uncle's kinswomen arrived, I

crazy surrealist impression of mouths opening and

thought their faces showed a little disappointment

closing into Aunt Sophia's ear, and eyes darting

at finding the left side of the chapel empty. Aunt

toward

clan

Sophia, on the other hand, looked relieved. But at

certainly made short work of my aunt for when I

about three, the woman arrived and I perceived at

returned, she was sobbing. As though to comfort

once

her, one of the women said, in a whisper which I

appearance. She wore the same black dress but her

the

woman

at

the

left.

Uncle's

expected

that

to

there

come

was

in

the

meter

afternoon.Toward

on.

Aunt

difference

Sophia's

in

her

thick hair was now carefully swept into a regal

you who are creating a scene. Didn't you come here

coil; her skin glowing; her eyes, which had been

purposely to start one?""We're only trying to make

striking enough, looked even larger. The eyebrows

you see reason.... If you think of the dead at

of

and

all...""Let's see who has the reason. I understand

finally, the scrawniest of the poet's relations

that you want me to leave, isn't it? Now that he

whispered to the others and slowly, together, they

is dead and cannot speak for me you think I should

closed in on the woman.I went over to sit with my

quietly hide in a corner?" The woman's voice was

aunt who was gazing not so steadily at nothing in

now

particular.At first the women spoke in whispers,

chapel. "Let me ask you. During the war when the

and

Still,

poet was hard up do you suppose I deserted him?

everybody was polite. There was more talking back

Whose jewels do you think we sold when he did not

and forth, and suddenly the conversation wasn't

make money... When he was ill, who was it who

polite any more. The only good thing about it was

stayed at his side... Who took care of him during

that now I could hear everything distinctly."So

all those months... and who peddled his books and

you want to put me in a corner, do you? You think

poems to the publishers so that he could pay for

perhaps you can bully me out of here?" the woman

the hospital and doctor's bills? Did any of you

said."Shh!

the

come to him then? Let me ask you that! Now that he

poet's sisters said, going one pitch higher."It's

is dead you want me to leave his side so that you

the

women

then

the

around

me

voices

Please

don't

started

rose

create

working

trifle.

scene,"

pitched

up

for

the

benefit

of

the

whole

and that vieja can have the honors and have your

protector, his eyes blazing, came between her and

picture taken with the president. That's what you

the poet's kinswomen. Her face began to twitch.

want,

the

And then the sobs came. Big noisy sobs that shook

it--

her body and spilled the tears down her carefully

somebody stop her mouth!" cried Aunt Sophia, her

made-up face. Fitfully, desperately, she tugged at

eyes

you

her eyes and nose with her widow's veil. The young

scandalous woman," one of the clan said, taking it

man took hold of her shoulders gently to lead her

up for Aunt Sophia. "We don't care for the honors-

away, but she shook free; and in a few quick steps

-we don't want it for ourselves. But we want the

she was there before the casket, looking down upon

poet to be honored in death... to have a decent

that infinitely sad smile on Uncle's face. It may

and respectable funeral without scandal... and the

have been a second that she stood there, but it

least you can do is to leave him in peace as he

seemed like a long time."All right," she blurted,

lies

said.

turning about. "All right. You can have him--all

"You've created enough scandal for him in life--

that's left of him!"At that moment before she

that's why we couldn't go to him when he was

fled, I saw what I had waited to see. The mascara

sick... because you were there, you--you shameless

had indeed run down her cheeks. But somehow it

bitch."The woman's face went livid with shock and

wasn't funny at all.

isn't

it--to

president....""Por

rage.

going

up

to

Dios!

stood

Make

heaven."Now

there....""Yes,"

She

pose

the

wordless

with
her

you

scrawny

while

stop

listen,

one

her

young

FAITH, LOVE, TIME AND DR. LAZARO

By: Greg Brillantes

From the upstairs veranda, Dr. Lazaro had a view of stars, the
country darkness, the lights on the distant highway at the edge of
town. The phonograph in the sala played Chopin like a vast sorrow
controlled, made familiar, he had wont to think. But as he sat there,
his lean frame in the habitual slack repose took after supper, and
stared at the plains of night that had evoked gentle images and
even a kind of peace (in the end, sweet and invincible oblivion), Dr.
Lazaro remembered nothing, his mind lay untouched by any
conscious thought, he was scarcely aware of the April heat; the
pattern of music fell around him and dissolved swiftly,
uncomprehended. It was as though indifference were an infection
that had entered his blood it was everywhere in his body. In the
scattered light from the sala his angular face had a dusty, wasted
quality, only his eyes contained life. He could have remained there
all evening, unmoving, and buried, it is were, in a strange half-sleep,
had his wife not come to tell him he was wanted on the phone.
Gradually his mind stirred, focused; as he rose from the chair he
recognized the somber passage in the sonata that, curiosly, made
him think of ancient monuments, faded stone walls, a greyness. The
brain filed away an image; and arrangement of sounds released it
He switched off the phonograph, suppressed and impatient quiver
in his throat as he reached for the phone: everyone had a claim on
his time. He thought: Why not the younger ones for a change? He
had spent a long day at the provincial hospital.

The man was calling from a service station outside the town the
station after the agricultural high school, and before the San Miguel
bridge, the man added rather needlessly, in a voice that was frantic
yet oddly subdued and courteous. Dr. Lazaro thad heard it countless
times, in the corridors of the hospitals, in waiting rooms: the
perpetual awkward misery. He was Pedro Esteban, the brother of
the doctors tenant in Nambalan, said the voice, trying to make
itself less sudden remote.
But the connection was faulty, there was a humming in the wires, as
though darkness had added to the distance between the house in
the town and the gas station beyond the summer fields. Dr. Lazaro
could barely catch the severed phrases. The mans week-old child
had a high fever, a bluish skin; its mouth would not open to suckle.
They could not take the baby to the poblacion, they would not dare
move it; its body turned rigid at the slightest touch. If the doctor
would consent to come at so late an hour, Esteban would wait for
him at the station. If the doctor would be so kind

Tetanus of the newborn: that was elementary, and most likely it

was so hopeless, a waste of time. Dr. Lazaro said yes, he would be
there; he had committed himself to that answer, long ago; duty had
taken the place of an exhausted compassion. The carelessness of
the poor, the infected blankets, the toxin moving toward the heart:
they were casual scribbled items in a clinical report. But outside the
grilled windows, the night suddenly seemed alive and waiting. He
had no choice left now but action: it was the only certitude he
sometimes reminded himself even if it would prove futile, before,

the descent into nothingness.

His wife looked up from her needles and twine, under the shaded
lamp of the bedroom; she had finished the pullover for the
grandchild in Bagiuo and had begun work, he noted, on another of
those altar vestments for the parish church. Religion and her
grandchild certainly kept her busy She looked at him, into so
much to inquire as to be spoken to: a large and placid woman.
Shouldnt have let the drive go home so early, Dr. Lazaro said.
They had to wait till now to call Childs probably dead
Ben can drive for you.
I hardly see that boy around the house. He seems to be on
vacation both from home and in school.
Hes downstairs, his wife said.
Dr. Lazaro put on fresh shirt, buttoned it with tense, abrupt
motions, I thought hed gone out again Whos that girl hes been
seeing?...Its not just warm, its hot. You shouldve stayed on in
Baguio Theres disease, suffering, death, because Adam ate the
apple. They must have an answer to everything He paused at the
door, as though for the echo of his words.
Mrs. Lazaro had resumed the knitting; in the circle of yellow light,
her head bowed, she seemed absorbed in some contemplative
prayer. But her silences had ceased t disturb him, like the plaster
saints she kept in the room, in their cases of glass, or that air she

wore of conspiracy, when she left with Ben for Mass in the
mornings. Dr. Lazaro would ramble about miracle drugs, politics,
music, the common sense of his unbelief; unrelated things strung
together in a monologue; he posed questions, supplied with his own
answers; and she would merely nod, with an occasional Yes? and
Is that so? and something like a shadow of anxiety in her gaze.

He hurried down the curving stairs, under the votive lamps of the
Sacred Heart. Ben lay sprawled on the sofa, in the front parlor;
engrossed in a book, one leg propped against the back cushions.
Come along, were going somewhere, Dr. Lazaro said, and went
into the clinic for his medical bag. He added a vial of penstrep, an
ampule of caffeine to the satchels contents; rechecked the bag
before closing it; the cutgut would last just one more patient. One
can only cure, and know nothing beyond ones work There had
been the man, today, in the hospital: the cancer pain no longer
helped by the doses of morphine; the patientss eyes flickering their
despair in the eroded face. Dr. Lazaro brushed aside the stray vision
as he strode out of the whitewashed room; he was back in his
element, among syringes, steel instruments, quick decisions made
without emotion, and it gave him a kind of blunt energy.

Ill drive, Pa? Ben followed him through the kitchen, where the
maids were ironing the weeks wash, gossiping, and out to the yard
shrouded in the dimness of the single bulb under the eaves. The boy
push back the folding doors of the garage and slid behind the wheel.
Somebodys waiting at the gas station near San Miguel. You know

the place?

emptiness. He said: You seem to have had a lot of practice, Ben.

Sure, Ben said.

A lot of what, Pa?

The engine sputtered briefly and stopped. Batterys weak, Dr.

Lazaro said. Try it without the lights, and smelled the gasoline
overflow as the old Pontiac finally lurched around the house and
through the trellised gate, its front sweeping over the dry dusty
street.

The ways you drive. Very professional.

But hes all right, Dr. Lazaro thought as they swung smoothly into
the main avenue of the town, past the church and the plaza, the
kiosko bare for once in a season of fiestas, the lam-posts shining on
the quiet square. They did not speak; he could sense his sons
concentration on the road, and he noted, with a tentative
amusement, the intense way the boy sat behind the wheel, his
eagerness to be of help. They passed the drab frame houses behind
the marketplace, and the capitol building on its landscaped hill, the
gears shifting easily as they went over the railroad tracks that
crossed the asphalted street.

Then the road was pebbled and uneven, the car bucking slightly;
and they were speeding between open fields, a succession of
narrow wooden bridges breaking the crunching drive of the wheels.
Dr. Lazaro gazed at the wide darkness around them, the shapes of
trees and bushes hurling toward them and sliding away and he saw
the stars, hard glinting points of light yards, black space, infinite
distances; in the unmeasured universe, mans life flared briefly and
was gone, traceless in the void. He turned away from the

In the glow of the dashboard lights, the boys face relaxed, smiled.
Tio Cesar let me use his car, in Manila. On special occasions.
No reckless driving now, Dr. Lazaro said. Some fellows think its
smart. Gives them a thrill. Dont be like that.
No, I wont, Pa. I just like to drive and and go place, thats all.
Dr. Lazaro watched the young face intent on the road, a cowlick
over the forehead, the mall curve of the nose, his own face before
he left to study in another country, a young student of full illusions,
a lifetime ago; long before the loss of faith, God turning abstract,
unknowable, and everywhere, it seemed to him, those senseless
accidents of pain. He felt a need to define unspoken things, to come
closer somehow to the last of his sons; one of these days, before
the boys vacation was over, they might to on a picnic together, a
trip to the farm; a special day for the two of them father and son,
as well as friends. In the two years Ben had been away in college,
they had written a few brief, almost formal letters to each other:
your money is on the way, these are the best years, make the most
of them
Time was moving toward them, was swirling around and rushing
away and it seemed Dr. Lazaro could almost hear its hallow receding

roar; and discovering his sons profile against the flowing darkness,
he had a thirst to speak. He could not find what it was he had meant
to say.

Specialized in cancer, maybe or neuro-surgery, and join a good

hospital. It was like trying to recall some rare happiness, in the car,
in the shifting darkness.

The agricultural school buildings came up in the headlights and

glided back into blurred shapes behind a fence.

Ive been thinking about it, Ben said. Its a vocation, a great one.
Being able to really help people, I mean.

What was that book you were reading, Ben?

Youve done well in math, havent you?

A biography, the boy said.

Well enough, I guess, Ben said.

Statesman? Scientist maybe?

Its about a guy who became a monk.
Thats your summer reading? Dr. Lazaro asked with a small laugh,
half mockery, half affection. Youre getting to be a regular saint,
like your mother.

Engineering is a fine course too, Dr. Lazaro said. Therell be lots of

room for engineers. Planners and builders, they are what this
country needs. Far too many lawyers and salesmen these days. Now
if your brother He closed his eyes, erasing the slashed wrists, part
of the future dead in a boarding-house room, the landlady
whimpering, He was such a nice boy, doctor, your son Sorrow
lay in ambush among the years.
I have all summer to think about, Ben said.

Its an interesting book, Ben said.

I can imagine He dropped the bantering tone. I suppose youll
go on to medicine after your AB?
I dont know yet, Pa.
Tiny moth like blown bits of paper flew toward the windshield and
funneled away above them. You dont have to be a country doctor
like me, Ben. You could build up a good practice in the city.

Theres no hurry, Dr. Lazaro said. What was it he had wanted to

say? Something about knowing each other, about sharing; no, it was
not that at all
The stations appeared as they coasted down the incline of a low hill,
its fluorescent lights the only brightness on the plain before them,
on the road that led farther into deeper darkness. A freight truck
was taking on a load of gasoline as they drove up the concrete
apron and came to a stop beside the station shed.

A short barefoot man in a patchwork shirt shuffled forward to meet

them.
I am Esteban, doctor, the man said, his voice faint and hoarse,
almost inaudible, and he bowed slightly with a careful politeness.
He stood blinking, looking up at the doctor, who had taken his bag
and flashlight form the car.
In the windless space, Dr. Lazaro could hear Estebans labored
breathing, the clank of the metal nozzle as the attendant replaced it
in the pump. The men in the truck stared at them curiously.
Esteban said, pointing at the darkness beyond the road: We will
have to go through those fields, doctor, then cross the river, The
apology for yet one more imposition was a wounded look in his
eyes. He added, in his subdued voice: Its not very far Ben had
spoken to the attendants and was locking the car.
The truck rumbled and moved ponderously onto the road, its throb
strong and then fading in the warm night stillness.
Lead the way, Dr. Lazaro said, handing Esteban the flashlight.
They crossed the road, to a cleft in the embankment that bordered
the fields, Dr. Lazaro was sweating now in the dry heat; following
the swinging ball of the flashlight beam, sorrow wounded by the
stifling night, he felt he was being dragged, helplessly, toward some
huge and complicated error, a meaningless ceremony. Somewhere
to his left rose a flapping of wings, a bird cried among unseen

leaves: they walked swiftly, and there was only the sound of the
silence, the constant whirl of crickets and the whisper of their feet
on the path between the stubble fields.
With the boy close behind him, Dr. Lazaro followed Esteban down a
clay slope to the slope and ripple of water in the darkness. The
flashlight showed a banca drawn up at the rivers edge. Esteban
wade waist-deep into the water, holding the boat steady as Dr.
Lazaro and Ben stepped on the board. In the darkness, with the
opposite bank like the far rise of an island, Dr. Lazaro had a
moments tremor of fear as the boar slide out over the black water;
below prowled the deadly currents; to drown her in the dephts of
the night But it took only a minute to cross the river. Were here
doctor, Esteban said, and they padded p a stretch of sand to a
clump of trees; a dog started to bark, the shadows of a kerosene
lamp wavered at a window.
Unsteady on a steep ladder, Dr. Lazaro entered the cave of
Estebans hut. The single room contained the odors he often
encountered but had remained alien to, stirring an impersonal
disgust: the sourish decay, the smells of the unaired sick. An old
man greeted him, lisping incoherently; a woman, the grandmother,
sat crouched in a corner, beneath a famed print of the Mother of
Perpetual Help; a boy, about ten, slept on, sprawled on a mat.
Estebans wife, pale and thin, lay on the floor with the sick child
beside her.

Motionless, its tiny blue-tinged face drawn way from its chest in a
fixed wrinkled grimace, the infant seemed to be straining to express

some terrible ancient wisdom.

Esteban said: Doctor..
Dr. Lazaro made a cursory check skin dry, turning cold; breathing
shallow; heartbeat
fast and irregular. And I that moment, only the child existed before
him; only the child and his own mind probing now like a hard
gleaming instrument. How strange that it should still live, his mind
said as it considered the spark that persisted within the rigid and
tortured body. He was alone with the child, his whole being focused
on it, in those intense minutes shaped into a habit now by so many
similar instances: his physicians knowledge trying to keep the heart
beating, to revive an ebbing life and somehow make it rise again.
Dr. Lazaro removed the blankets that bundled the child and injected
a whole ampule to check the tonic spasms, the needle piercing
neatly into the sparse flesh; he broke another ampule, with deft
precise movements , and emptied the syringe, while the infant lay
stiff as wood beneath his hands. He wiped off the sweat running
into his eyes, then holding the rigid body with one hand, he tried to
draw air into the faltering lungs, pressing and releasing the chest;
but even as he worked to rescue the child, the bluish color of its
face began to turn gray.

Dr. Lazaro rose from his crouch on the floor, a cramped ache in his
shoulders, his mouth dry. The lamplight glistened on his pale hollow
face as he confronted the room again, the stale heat, the poverty.
Esteban met his gaze; all their eyes were upon him, Ben at the door,
the old man, the woman in the corner, and Estebans wife, in the
trembling shadows.

He shook his head, and replaced the syringe case in his bag, slowly
and deliberately, and fastened the clasp. T Here was murmuring
him, a rustle across the bamboo floor, and when he turned, Ben was
kneeling beside the child. And he watched, with a tired detached
surprise, as the boy poured water from a coconut shell on the
infants brow. He caught the words half-whispered in the quietness:
.. in the name of the Father.. the Son the Holy Ghost
The shadows flapped on the walls, the heart of the lamp quivering
before it settled into a slender flame. By the river dogs were
barking. Dr. Lazaro glanced at his watch; it was close to midnight.
Ben stood over the child, the coconut shell in his hands, as though
wandering what next to do with it, until he saw his father nod for
them to go.
Doctor, tell us Esteban took a step forward.
I did everything: Dr. Lazaro said. Its too late

He gestured vaguely, with a dull resentment; by some implicit

relationship, he was also responsible, for the misery in the room,
the hopelessness. Theres nothing more I can do, Esteban, he
said. He thought with a flick of anger: Soon the child will be out of it,
you ought to be grateful. Estebans wife began to cry, a weak
smothered gasping, and the old woman was comforting her, it is the
will of God, my daughter

In the yard, Esteban pressed carefully folded bills into the doctors
hand; the limp, tattered feel of the money was sort of the futile
journey, I know this is not enough, doctor, Esteban said. as you
can see we are very poor I shall bring you fruit, chickens,
someday

Dr. Lazaro felt the oppression of the night begin to life from him, an
emotionless calm returned to his mind. The sparrow does not fall
without the Fathers leave he mused at the sky, but it falls just the
same. But to what end are the sufferings of a child? The crickets
chirped peacefully in the moon-pale darkness beneath the trees.
You baptized the child, didnt you, Ben?

A late moon had risen, edging over the tops of the trees, and in the
faint wash of its light, Esteban guided them back to the boat. A
glimmering rippled on the surface of the water as they paddled
across,; the white moonlight spread in the sky, and a sudden wind
sprang rain-like and was lost in the tress massed on the riverbank.
I cannot thank you enough, doctor, Esteban said. You have been
very kind to come this far, at this hour. He trail is just over there,
isnt it? He wanted to be rid of the man, to be away from the shy
humble voice, the prolonged wretchedness.
I shall be grateful always, doctor, Esteban said. And to you son,
too. God go with you. He was a faceless voice withdrawing in the
shadows, a cipher in the shabby crowds that came to town on
market days.
Lets go, Ben Dr. Lazaro said.
They took the path across the field; around them the moonlight had
transformed the landscape, revealing a gentle, more familiar
dimension, a luminous haze upon the trees stirring with a growing
wind; and the heat of the night had passed, a coolness was falling
from the deep sky. Unhurried, his pace no more than a casual stroll,

Yes, Pa. The boy kept in the step beside him.

He used to believe in it, too. The power of the Holy Spirit washing
away original sin, the purified soul made heir of heaven. He could
still remember fragments of his boy hood faith, as one might
remember an improbable and long-discarded dream.
Lay baptism, isnt that the name for it?
Yes, Ben said. I asked the father. The baby hadnt been baptized.
He added as they came to the embankment that separated the field
from the road: They were waiting for it to get well.
The station had closed, with only the canopy light and the blobed
neon sign left burning. A steady wind was blowing now across the
filed, the moonlit plains.
He saw Ben stifle a yawn. Ill drive, Dr. Lazaro said.
His eyes were not what they used to be, and he drove leaning
forward, his hands tight on the wheel. He began to sweat again, and

the empty road and the lateness and the memory of Esteban and of
the child dying before morning in the impoverished, lamplit room
fused into tired melancholy. He started to think of his other son,
one he had lost.
He said, seeking conversation, If other people carried on like you,
Ben, the priests would be run out of business.
The boy sat beside him, his face averted, not answering.
Now, youll have an angel praying for you in heaven, Dr. Lazaro
said, teasing, trying to create an easy mood between the. What if
you hadnt baptized the baby and it died? What would happen to it
then?
It wont see God, Ben said.
But isnt that unfair? It was like riddle, trivial, but diverting. Just
because..
Maybe God has another remedy, Ben said. I dont know. But the
church says.

He could sense the boy groping for the tremendous answers. The
Church teaches, the church says. God: Christ: the
communications of saints: Dr. Lazaro found himself wondering
about the world of novenas and candles, where bread and wine
became the flesh and blood of the Lord, and a woman bathed in
light appeared before children, and mortal men spoke of eternal

life; the visions of God, the bodys resurrection at the tend of time.
It was a country from which he was barred; no matter the
customs, the geography didnt appeal to him. But in the care
suddenly, driving through the night, he was aware of an obscure
disappointment, a subtle pressure around his heart, as though he
had been deprived of a certain joy
A bus roared around a hill toward, its lights blinding him, and he
pulled to the side of the road, braking involuntarily as a billow of
dust swept over the car. He had not closed the window on his side,
and the flung dust poured in, the thick brittle powder almost
choking him, making him cough, his eyes smarting, before he could
shield his face with his hands. In the headlights, the dust sifted
down and when the air was clear again, Dr. Lazaro, swallowing a
taste of earth, of darkness, maneuvered the car back onto the road,
his arms exhausted and numb. He drove the last half-mile to town
in silence, his mind registering nothing but the frit of dust in his
mouth and the empty road unwinding swiftly before him.

They reached the sleeping town, the desolate streets, the plaza
empty in the moonlight, and the dhuddled shapes of houses, the old
houses that Dr. Lazaro had always know. How many nights had he
driven home like this through the quiet town, with a mans life
ended behind him, or a child crying newly risen from the womb; and
a sense of constant motions, of change, of the days moving swiftly
toward and immense reverlation touched him onced more, briefly,
and still he could not find the words.. He turned the last corner,
then steered the car down the graveled driveway to the garage,
while Ben closed the gate. Dr. Lazaro sat there a momen, in the

stillness, resting his eyes, conscious of the measured beating of his

heart, and breathing a scent of dust that lingered on his clothes, his
skin..SLowely he merged from the car, locking it, and went around
the towere of the water-tank to the frotnyard where Ben Stood
waiting.
With unaccustomed tenderness he placed a hand on Bens shoulder
was they turned toward the ement walled house. They had gone
on a trip; they had come home safely together. He felt closer to the
boy than he hade ever been in years.
Sorry for ekeeping you up this late, Dr. Lazaro said.
Its all right, Pa.
Some night, huh, Ben? What you did back in that barrio ther was
just the slightest patronage in this one your momother will love
to hear about it.
He shook the boy beside him gently. Reverend Father Ben Lazaro.
The impulse of certain humor it was part of the comradeship. He
chuckled drowsily: father Lazaro, what must I do to gain eternal
life?
As he slid the door open on the vault of darkness, the familiar depth
of the house, it came to Dr. Lazaro faitly in the late night that for
certain things, like love there was only so much time. But the
glimmer was lost instantly, buried in the mist of indifference and
sleep rising now in his brain.