Nadine L. SarreaI was born in Seattle to Filipino parents.

She is the author of two volumes of

poetry, Start of Infinity (1973) and In the Fullness of Time (1991). She holds an MFA in Creative
Writing from Vermont College. After residing with her family in Euless, Texas, Nadine is now
based in Singapore with her family. Her work has often appeared in Our Own Voice.


Short story
Laurel
- Nadine L. SarreaI
Mom and cruise Aisle 9 for the umpteenth time tonight. She can't find laurel leaves. ("Lao-REHL," she
told the store manager, rolling the r. He looked at her apologetically and shrugged.) The pimple-faced
stock clerk (who is also Albert, a classmate of mine in AP Lit at school) also shrugged when she cornered
him. "f it's not on the shelf, we don't have it," he said, his voice pitching upward at the end. "Well," she
replied, "Kim Cheung Asian Grocery always had laurel, fresh and packaged, both ways." look at the
floor, knowing Albert hasn't ever heard of an Asian grocery, not even the one two blocks away that closed
down because the Vietnamese family who ran it moved to California. Probably a big improvement for
them after Texas.
mean, come on, Lolo Ramon's been
dead for like 50 years, in World War .
Who is she really talking to? f it's Lolo
Ramon in her head, then Lola's senile,
too.
The thing is, we have to have the laurel leaves for Lola's
birthday party on Sunday. Mom's been planning the event for
her mother for a couple of months now. She's invited practically
the whole rving Filipino community. Lola gets homesick, Mom says. Hey, tell her, what do you expect,
she's going on 80. All the people she grew up with are back home. Or dead. The two sisters who are still
alive in Manila Mom says are ulyanin, senile. She'd be homesick wherever she was, just because she's
so old. There's no one to talk to who knows about her times.
And senile? What about Lola? hear her talking all the time, especially when she's alone. She calls out to
Lolo Ramon as if he was right there in the living room with her. "Monching," she says in that low voice
meant for secrets you're allowed to hear but can't let on you're hearing because then it's eavesdropping.
"Monching, que barbaridad! Los hijos de putas!" And then she'll go on about her favorite grievancesthe
guy she caught peeing in our front yard at two in the morning, or the lady driver who honked at her
because she was still crossing the street when the traffic light turned green. mean, come on, Lolo
Ramon's been dead for like 50 years, in World War . Who is she really talking to? f it's Lolo Ramon in
her head, then Lola's senile, too.
See? Well, get sidetracked. My point is, we're looking for these leaves because people have told her
that her adobo is DA BES! And she needs to cook a couple of pots' worth for Lola's big 8-0. This is the
third grocery we've hit tonight in search of the elusive spice.
Our fourth trip down this aisle, turn to Mom and catch the determined set of her face, the knotted space
between her eyebrows. Her eyes, dark with suspicion, skim the shelves left to right, top to bottom, as if
the leaves might suddenly pop up between the garlic powder and nutmeg while she scans over allspice,
basil, curry...She studies a clear bottle of sharp-tipped leaves, muted green. She shakes it a little to force
the contents to reveal themselves beyond the paper label which reads "BAY LEAVES."
"C'mon, Ma," wheedle nasally to annoy her so she'll pay attention to me. "Just buy that, if you think that's
it." Her hand is poised over the cap and know she's tempted to break the seal and open the bottle to
sniff the leaves inside. Albert is stocking plastic bags of powdered sugar a few feet away. "Ma-ah!" She

hates it when call her Ma and talk like an American. "Just make the adobo with what you've got, okay? t
won't make a difference if there's no laurel."
She swats at her ear to push my voice away. Keeps scanning labels, reaching out for a bottle and then
changing her mind. She fiddles with neat red and white containers of peppercorn and paprika, gently
lining them back up, re-alphabetized.
"Mom?"
"Adobo needs a special blend of spices in the right proportions," she says intensely, half for my benefit,
and half for the benefit of Albert, who is now taking inventory of cooking oil. "t won't taste right without the
lao-rel."
do my exasperated eye rolls and heavy sighs. t's past ten. have a pre-calc test first period tomorrow.
Me, cram. f we get home in the next few minutes, 'll have less than an hour to shower and read four
sections on derivative equations. Mom sniffs and pushes the cart towards the bank of cash registers
without checking to see if 'm following. Finally, we leave Humpty Dumpty and head home with two sacks
of groceries, but no laurel.
We startle Lola, although we come in quietly. She's sitting on the sofa in her velour robe with an afghan
spread over her legsyes, in the middle of an unusually hot April. She's always cold, always, and to see
her wardrobe of sweaters, shawls and fluffy slippers, you'd think she lived in Alaska.
They protect each other and soften
the discrepancies between
expectations and harsh truths with
loads and loads of what they think is
sympathy. f could, 'd tell Mom
think this just hastens Lola's loss of
The TV is on; the mirror image of a black and white movie plays
on her glasses which have slid halfway down her nose. "Ayan,
hija," she says, smoothing the already smooth cover on her lap
before she stands. "Are you hangry? There is merienda in the
kusina."
Mom sighs and puts down her armload of groceries. "Mamang," she says in a surprisingly tender voice.
"You shouldn't have waited up for us. We just ran out to the grocery for Tina's vitamins."
"My vit" start, but Mom's shoe hits my shin in warning. My vitamins? Since when were laurel leaves
my medicine? know, know, Mom doesn't want Lola to think we were going to any trouble on her
account, for the birthday that looms ahead.
Lola and Mom do this. They protect each other and soften the discrepancies between expectations and
harsh truths with loads and loads of what they think is sympathy. f could, 'd tell Mom think this just
hastens Lola's loss of memory and loosens her grip on reality here in the States. Mom feeds her
overbearing kindness every moment she can. When get old and batty, want my kids to give me the
honest truth, straight and plain. Never mind. 've got 24 pages of math to read tonight.
* * *
Sometimes, Mom forgets how little Tagalog remember. "Tina, naaalala mo pa ba si Tito Tiyaging, 'yung
asawa ni Ate Charing?"
"What, Mom?"
An uncomfortable silence follows. Mom deals anew with her disappointment in me. know, know. She
figures she's losing her daughter, her only child, just the way she lost Dad to another woman when we
lived in L.A. She won't lose me, though. try to tell her without actually saying it. Saying it would mean
could see her vulnerability and she wouldn't like that.
memory and loosens her grip on
reality here in the States.

wish she'd do fun things sometimes. But Mom's on a treadmillwork, home, work, home. She puts in as
much overtime as she can at the clinic. At night, she sheds her outer work clothes carefully into a
separate hamper in the laundry room, and then scrubs her hands and arms vigorously, even though she
already washed up before her drive home. She lathers up with a no-nonsense antiseptic soap, working
the suds into her skin, to erase the smell of the clinic and the kidney patients. We work quickly,
wordlessly, in the kitchen, getting supper on the table. see her arms, red from her relentless scrubbing
and the hot water.
Then after dinner and a long shower, she goes directly to bed. Sometimes on Friday nights, she stays up
late enough to catch the 10 o'clock news. That's because she can sleep in till 8:00 on Saturdays, when
she works at a clothes store at the mall. On weekdays, though, she's up at 5:00 so she can leave for work
by 6:00. don't see her until scrub time the next evening.
* * *
On Friday, during AP Lit class, Ms. McGee is in one of her mysterious moods. She writes two lines of
poetry on the white board, her marker squeaking. She makes the period at the end of the couplet with
great emphasis so that it looks like a black blob, a squashed fly. We're studying Blake's poetry and his
tendency to aphorism, at least according to Ms. McGee.
%e strongest poison ever known
Came from Caesar's IaureI crown.
Martin and Jeff crack up again, and
know, really just know Albert told
them about Mom cornering first the
manager and then him in Humpty
Dumpty in her pursuit of laurel.
"Albert," she says, pacing the front of the room. "nterpret."
There are just eight of us in the class and our chairs are set in a
half circle. sit at one end and Albert on the other of the half
circle so that we're facing each other.
Albert sits up from his usual slouch. He's been dozing off in class lately, probably working too late at
Humpty Dumpty. He squints at the lines on the board. The rest of us squirm in agony, knowing that she
won't let Albert off the hook, that he'll have to make some kind of attempt. feel sorry for him, but at the
same time, relieved that she didn't call on me.
Albert puckers his lips and scans the lines again. "Um, maybe it means, uh, laurel is poisonous? So
Caesar got killed from the toxins in his crown?"
Martin and Jeff, the other guys in the class, burst out in derisive laughter. Ms. McGee sighs and looks
over at me. "Tina? Can you do any better?"
open my mouth, hoping to extemporaneously paraphrase, but Albert cuts in, "No, wait, know now. Lao-
REHL, right?" He rolls the R just the way Mom did at the grocery. "Hey, Tina, isn't that what gives a-doe-
boe it's special blend of flavor and spices?" Martin and Jeff crack up again, and know, really just know
Albert told them about Mom cornering first the manager and then him in Humpty Dumpty in her pursuit of
laurel. scowl at Albert and he crosses his eyes at me.
Ms. McGee shakes her head at us both. "What is it with you? Laurel, laurel. Read up on it. want you to
understand what it means."
* * *
've fallen asleep with my face in the smack dab middle of Hummerman's ntro to Philosophy. wake up to
Lola calling out from her room, which is next to mine. She sounds like she's arguing with someone, her
voice quivery but firm. shake off the sweet dream in which 've just won the 200-meter dash against
Albert and am strutting off the track with a crown of adobo. lie still for a moment, trying to relate my

dream to Lola's voice. hear her bed springs squeaking, a sign that she's getting up by herself. She's not
supposed to. leave my door open so can hear her calling for me when she needs to go to the bathroom
in the middle of the night. 'm a pretty light sleeper. almost fall over my own legs now as fight my way
out of my bed covers. Maybe she's having a memory attack. Maybe it was her party this afternoon that
got her excited: the crush of a hundred people in our small apartment, strangers coming in to eat and talk
and then leave so more Filipinos could come in. Everyone made their way to the arm chair in the living
room where Lola sat and bowed their foreheads to her wrinkled hand in respect and to wish her good
health..
Was the party as much of a nightmare for her as it was for mepeople speaking excitedly in Tagalog or
lokano, depending on which part of the Philippines they're from. Children pushing and running, bumping
into our knees. People were eating in my bedroom, on the floor in Lola's room; just anywhere they could
park themselves. knew we would find scraps of chicken and noodles, shriveled book Choy in the oddest
places later on when we cleaned.
The din of happy voices pressed down in the living room, on the stairwayeverywhere, just everywhere,
people. That old Mr. Herrero, the guy who loves puns, was at his best. He told the same joke over and
over. As soon as a new batch of visitors arrived, he cornered them and demanded, "Why did the
probinsiyano bring his newborn son to the Frito Lay factory?" Without fail, his audience would back away
a few inches and shrug. "Why did the probinsiyano bring his baby boy to the Frito Lay factory?" he would
exclaim again, his voice rising with excitement. "Because he thought he could get a free circumcision. Ha
ha ha! Free tul! You see, you see!" he cried, slapping his thigh and ushering the guests in, as if this were
his home and it was his birthday party. He caught my elbow once as he delivered the punchline. "Tina,
did you understand it?" shook my head and tried to move on. "Anak," he chided, "you're becoming too
American to appreciate Pinoy humor." rolled my eyes and pulled my elbow from his hand.
"Celina, Ramon is no more. My
Monching. The Japanese soldiers.
Mom glanced up from arranging the food on the dining table,
worry scrawled on her flushed face. got that second skin
feeling again, this time among the very people Mom says are
our fellow countrymen, the people who think and act the way 'm
supposed to. Mrs. Herrero nudged her husband and whispered
fiercely into his ear. She covered her moving lips with a hand
covered in diamond and emerald rings, almost as if she wanted
us to notice her jewelry. "Okay, okay," he agreed reluctantly,
looking at me sideways. "My jokes aren't good for young ladies
like you. Excuse me, 'm getting too old, guess," he apologized. A sheen of perspiration covered his
forehead. felt terrible then. Mom called me to help Lola with her pile of presents, and was relieved to be
away from scrutinizing eyes and shaking heads. That Tina, they would say to each other on the way
home, becoming too American.
So it had been quite a party. Lola fell asleep in the middle of the noise and mad shuffle. Someone had put
a baby in her arms and the baby was sleeping, too.
peer in to Lola's room now. Mom, just across the hall, must be too tired to have heard her. No need to
bother her and rouse her from a hard-earned sleep.
Lola is sitting up, her shoulders hunched over. She has drawn her blanket up to her shoulders and she
squints at me in the semi-dark. "Who are you?" she says. "Celina? s that you?" She mistakes me for her
sister, the one who died during the Japanese occupation of the Philippines, when Mom was still a child.

sit at the foot of her bed. "Lola, Lola," whisper. Sometimes, just hearing someone else's voice brings
her back to the present. have to be gentle, though, so don't spook her.
She shakes her head, rocking back and forth so that the mattress coils creak beneath her shifting weight.
"Celina, Ramon is no more. My Monching. The Japanese soldiers. They came and rounded up all the
men in San Lucas. knew they were coming. told him to hide in nay's aparador, the one with double
They came and rounded up all the
men in San Lucas. knew they were
coming. told him to hide in nay's
aparador, the one with double doors
and the cut glass mirror. Hide, hide,
said..."

doors and the cut glass mirror. Hide, hide, said. But he stood on the front porch. Waited for them as if
they were welcome guests. Hiding is for cowards, he said." Tears streaked her face, but Lola's voice was
calm, unemotional. "They had black boots. They smelled sour, unwashed. Two of them came to the porch
and pointed their rifles at him. They said something, don't know. Monching looked at them, surprised,
and he told them to leave the family alone, that there were no more men in the house, and he went with
them, his hands clasped behind his head. They poked him with their guns, pushed him into their truck."
Lola shakes her head, a look of disbelief on her face. "t was Manong toy's truck, from his farm. ran after
them, shouting that they had to bring Ramon back. ran and ran."
hand Lola some tissue. She rubs her eyes and blows her nose. "Nana Vita and went to the municipal
hall every day. They kept the men there. We couldn't even go into the yard. We waited outside, just in
case, anything, just to see him, to hear news. Once, we heard some screams. Terrible, terrible. 've never
heard screams like that again, but 'll always remember. The woman who lived close to the hall said one
night, she heard shots, seven. Celina, Celina! Nana Vita gave money to the head guard and asked if we
could see. wanted to know. The guard just took the money and told us to leave him alone."
Lola leans back against her headboard. " never saw him again. Not even once. What did they do with his
body?"
kneel beside her bed, stroking her forehead, pushing stray wisps of hair out of her face. Her skin is
smooth, dry. She hums a song, her voice breaking on the high notes. The tune is vaguely familiar, a
lullaby or a love song. Maybe a loving lullaby. wish knew.
No one had ever told me how Lolo
Ramon died. had pictured him dying
a simpler wayof pneumonia or a
heart attack, a few years after the war.
Now realize that at a young age, he
must have been tortured and killed by
n a few minutes, she is asleep. kiss the air above her cheek.
place her hands carefully at her sides and tiptoe out of the room.
Mom stands in her doorway, tying the sash of her robe around
her. "When did she start? Why didn't you call me?" Her hair is
wild with sudden waking. Weariness lines the puffy flesh beneath her eyes. shake my head, suddenly
tired, too. No one had ever told me how Lolo Ramon died. had pictured him dying a simpler wayof
pneumonia or a heart attack, a few years after the war. Now realize that at a young age, he must have
been tortured and killed by the Japanese. What a burden of memories Lola has carried.
"She's okay now," tell her. "She's sleeping."
Mom and sit side by side on the top stair, gazing down the well of darkness. She reaches into her robe
pocket and fishes out a cigarette. "Poor Mamang. The party must have tired her. Good thing Tita Lou and
Manang Tess stayed to help clean up." She covers a wide yawn with her hand.
"Still a lot of cleaning to do," remind her.
Mom groans. "You know, Tita Lou said everything, the food, was pretty good. Except the adobo." Mom
shakes her head, making her hair dance in untamed clusters. "Tita Lou said the adobo lacked fragrance.
Walang bango. She asked why didn't use laurel. Laurel." Mom's voice catches on itself. " just stared at
her because we looked so hard for that laurel and thought maybe no one would notice we didn't have
any. But she said, laurel, laurel, you know, what they call bay leaves here."
"Bay leaves!" exclaim. "Didn't we see bay leaves at Humpty Dumpty?"
Mom nods fiercely, setting her hair in motion. "Humpty Dumpty. Albertson's. Krogers. Everybody had bay
leaves."
An easy silence grows between us. "Well, what can be done now?" she says, raising her hands palms up,
as if pleading for leniency. "Next time. Next time. We'll get used to this life yet." She slips an arm around
the Japanese.

my waist and gathers me in a quick, tight hug. "Let's get some sleep. t's only four. We can still have a few
dreams."
For the briefest moment, before we part in the hallway to return to our rooms, feel a joyful lightness.
Tomorrow, might forget this moment, especially when Albert mocks me in Lit class. Tonight, though,
nothing feels impossible and know each of us, Mom, Lola and , has to get through this new life a day at
a time.
Nadine L. Sarreal



Poetry
"Mary Claire"
No more sa malamig or sugar-cane wine.
Apple juice, Tab and chardonnay are fine.

In sunlight, her hair is a scarlet cascade,
Sleek and wavy from last night's French braid.


The skin that was brown, kayumanggi,
Is bleached unmistakeably white, puti.

!inch her, though, and she'll start,
7ay! but then follow with "Damn!"

She's !inay in her heart,
The rest of her, American.

"The Old !eople Talking"
(in memoriam, NVM Gonzalez)

It's comforting to know
their voices weave safety
over our sleepy heads

NVM talking about Cecilia's story
with his wife, Narita

Reminds me of childhood
how the walls didn't quite reach the ceiling

I could hear Mom and Dad
Talking about us,
Me, Audrey, Cindy

Our follies and glories of the day
The shoes that were wearing out
How we were doing in school

We are growing old now,
Older, anyway

And the people who talk about us
Are going off, one by one,
They leave us
To worry about the shoes
The stories, the work


They leave us
To take up the weaving

Nadine L. Sarreal




Essay
Execution
B Nadine SarreaI
t wasn't easy choosing from among the submitted stories to fill the prize list for the second vy
Terasaka Short Story Competition. Each of the entries had Pinoy essence and universal heart,
the primary elements sought in the fiction. Ultimately, pulled my statistical background into
use (as rusty as it is) and used nonparametric ranking on the stories. Twice. Three times.
We Filipino baby boomers have heard horror stories of the Japanese occupation of the
Philippines . My father was a young boy during World War . He and his family went into hiding
because they were on the Japanese military's "wanted" list. My mother's family fled Manila for
the relative safety of Bacolod . Their memories are of deprivation and second-hand humiliation
at having to hide in their own country.
Grace Talusan's "Japanese Times" is not a pretty story, but rather, one full of grit and
unpleasant things, rooted in a quiet ferocity. Papa gives Titong a bolo on his seventh birthday,
his first blade, won in a gambling match. Suddenly, the boy finds himself armed with
responsibility and the keen delight of accompanying power over plants, and chickens that his
mother needs slaughtered for the annual fiesta. n the harsh world Ms. Talusan has created,
Titong's coming of age arrives much too early. He realizes the weapon in his hand is a
dangerous extension of himself. The story's arch of violence starts in young Titong's family-his
father's alcoholism, his parents who mate like animals on hot Sunday afternoons, their hard
brand of love for him-and projects out to the community where men bet bolo knives in gambling
games, and neighbors turn each other in to the Japanese soldiers. The final scene pares down
the barrio dwellers' existence to an anxious filial loyalty as they watch soldiers execute some of
their kabayans.
The sensory images start out sharp and succinct-Papa's sharpened thumbnail in Titong's ear,
by way of birthday greeting-and build to the focused crescendo of Jesse's death in the town
plaza. congratulate Grace Talusan on a strong and memorable story.
















FIREWORKS
- H.O. Santos
(SHOR% S%ORY)

by Hector Santos

ENSENADA is only one hour south of Tijuana but what a difference one hour makes. t's still a
tourist town--gringos contribute a lot to the town's economy--but it's more tranquil. Unlike the
border town of Tijuana, vendors in Ensenada aren't always in your face trying to sell you a
souvenir or a bed warmer for the evening. As a matter of fact, many commercial establishments
don't have employees who speak English--we do very well without you tourists, thank you very
much, they seem to say. Even the popular Hussong's Cantina with its almost hundred percent
gringo clientele is outside of town and doesn't affect Ensenada's relative calm.
love the isolation Baja California provides, all within a day's drive from Los Angeles. My
favorite Baja destination is easily San Felipe, a sleepy fishing village on the Gulf of California
side, and that's where Barbara and were headed for. There are many ways to get there from
Los Angeles but my favorite route is the one which goes all the way south to Ensenada via
Tijuana. You then cross the peninsula through the winding road over the mountains to reach the
other side.
Close to the halfway mark, Ensenada is a good stopping point to take a break. We hit it at the
right time on this trip, at eleven in the morning.
was with Barbara West bay, my girlfriend of almost two years. n spite of her decidedly non-
Hispanic surname, she claims to have Latino ancestors. You couldn't tell from the way she
looked--she had red hair, green eyes, and freckles that showed prominently if she stayed in the
sun too long. Lately it had been fashionable among gringos to claim Latino or Native American
ancestry. often wondered if she has been stretching the truth about her ancestry a little too
much.
never fully understood why she put up with my proclivity for these trips since she can't take too
much sun, an almost impossible thing to do in Baja. She's envious of women who tan perfectly,
those who can take on a beautiful shade of bronze without burning. She has to be careful for it's
extremely uncomfortable for her to lie down when she gets burned. like to think she puts up
with these trips because she loves me but know she does it as much to get away from the
madness of city life as she cares for me.
parked Barbara's Nissan Pathfinder in the center of Ensenada near the beach. We went to
look for our favorite food vendors--the ones who plied the streets in their pushcarts and lunch
trucks. She went to a truck that sold fish tacos. found a vendor who served fresh clam cocktails
from his pushcart. He picked a live one from a bucket, opened and cut it up, then put the meat
into a large plastic cup. He squeezed lime juice into it, added chopped tomatoes, onions,
cilantro, and red peppers and handed the cup to me with several packets of Santos saltine
crackers.
We stopped at the corner store to buy two cold bottles of Corona Beer before going to the
beach to eat our lunch.
"Have a bite of my fish taco, it's good."
"What did you get this time, the usual shark?"
"They didn't have shark but this tuna is good--it's not overcooked, just lightly grilled." took a
bite and agreed it was good.
"Here, have some of my cocktail, it's pismo clam." brought a spoonful to her mouth to let her
try it.
"Super. wish we had these vendors in L.A. They're so convenient."
"We're starting to have them already. see vendors selling ice cream and drinks out of
pushcarts. They're probably all illegals, too."
"Come on, you wouldn't know an illegal if you saw one. Just because you see somebody who
looks Hispanic doesn't mean he's a mojado."
"They mostly are."
" don't think so. As an immigrant yourself, expect you'd be more sensitive to their plight."
"But came to America legally. 'm not against immigration, only against those who do it
illegally," protested.
"You have a lot to learn about how America stole most of the West from Mexico. All of the
Western states from Texas to California used to belong to Mexico. The 1849 Treaty of
Guadalupe Hidalgo unfairly gave the West to America. Before, those areas were part of Mexico
and people could move freely because there was no border. The worst part about it was that
land was taken away illegally from their Mexican owners and given to the new settlers."
"All right, but what are laws for if they're not going to be enforced."
"Some laws are so unfair they shouldn't be enforced."
let Barbara have the last word because suspected she would win the argument. She once
told me that new immigrants like myself who have been in the U.S. just long enough are
sometimes worse than native-born Americans when it comes to tolerating new immigration.
Each new group thinks the door should be closed after they've come in.
After lunch, we bought two more six-packs of Corona and stashed them in our ice chest before
going on our way. We were soon outside Ensenada going east and climbing along the winding
road. Some parts of the mountain range were as high as seven thousand feet although the
highway only reached five thousand. had a chance to enjoy the scenery as Barbara had taken
over the driving chores.
Along the mountain road were large boulders that looked like they could roll down and crush us
at any moment. Although knew they had been there for thousands of years, it was hard not to
get disturbed. was happy when we reached the high plateau and left them behind us.
We stopped to buy gasoline at a small town. The mountain towns didn't have electricity--gas
was dispensed in a primitive but ingenuous manner. The dispenser was a graduated glass
container set high on a stand. An attendant pumped gas by hand from fifty-five gallon drums on
the ground to the container until the desired amount was transferred. The gas was then allowed
to flow down through a hose to your tank. We took in fifty liters of regular unleaded gas. paid in
dollars and didn't bother to count the change which was given to me in pesos. n all the times
've been to Baja, no one has yet cheated me on the change owed me.
The gas attendant was an attractive young girl who must have been around ten or twelve. She
wore jeans, a Western shirt, and cowboy boots. She had light hair and looked European unlike
most of the other children around her who had mostly ndian features.
"You know, she could easily cross the border and won't even get stopped," Barbara
commented. "None of her friends will make it, though."
knew Barbara was trying to tell me looks had everything to do with who was mistaken for an
illegal alien in the United States. She was good at giving not-too-subtle hints like that to prove a
point.
We were soon on the eastern slope of the mountain. From here on, the road is straight for the
most part. t didn't need to snake around since the slope is gentle all the way to the ocean. The
landscape also changes radically here--the marine layer which blows in from the Pacific and
makes the western side of the peninsula green doesn't reach this far. t is an alkali desert--
starkly bright white except for the black cinder cones of extinct volcanoes that rose from the
desert floor in the distance. Every now and then we would see green farmland made possible by
irrigation. saw a red double-winged crop dusting plane make a pass to drop insecticide on the
crops below. thought of Snoopy--he would have loved to have been on that plane.
After an hour more, we got to the lowlands and at last saw the ocean in the distance. soon
heard the ocean's roar and smelled the salt air. Even after all the trips 've made to San Felipe,
it was still a surprise to suddenly see an ocean at the edge of a dry and desolate desert.
We turned right when we reached the main highway. The road was surrounded by sand dunes
on both sides and gently rose and fell but was absolutely straight. The ocean was only a few
miles to our left but it didn't do much to alleviate the July heat. We had turned the air conditioner
off to spare the car's cooling system and get used to the heat.
There were no clouds in the sky and it was hard to imagine there was life around except for the
few scrub cactus and stunted mesquite that broke through the chalky soil. knew from previous
visits, though, that they were simply hiding from the midday heat and would come out when it
got cooler.
As we approached San Felipe, billboards touting campsites along the beach became visible to
our left. We turned left at our favorite, the Playas del Sol, which was two-thirds of the way to the
center of San Felipe from where the first campground was. We left a trail of dust on the gravel
road as Barbara drove to the campground which was half a mile from the highway. We were
lucky to find a cabaa still available--the shade provided by the thatched palm roof supported on
four wooden posts made all the difference between comfort and torture.
Our chosen spot was on a bluff fifteen feet higher than the beach. Barbara and quickly got our
equipment from the car and set them up. Barbara then moved her car to the west side of the
cabaa to block the sun when it got low. We decided we didn't need the tent--the wind wasn't
strong enough and we could sleep in the open. We worked quickly and changed into bathing
suits so we could get in the water before the tide started receding again.
High tide is the only time you can swim in San Felipe. The water is all the way to the beach
then. Fish come close and often jump out of the water. You can see an occasional flying fish
skip thirty yards or more before dropping back into the water again.
The water temperature was pleasant--cool enough to be refreshing but not ice cold like it was in
the winter. We stayed only long enough to cool off and went back to tidy up our little camp area
for the evening. t was better to do this while it was still light because it gets very dark at night.
had some pork chops marinating in a container in the ice chest. While waiting for the charcoal
to get going, set a couple of beach chairs on the bluff facing the ocean. We sat on the chairs
and watched the tide go out. Sea gulls were making their last attempts at catching fish before
the tide receded some more. The temperature must have been in the mid-nineties so we were
dry without needing to towel off.
We had a good dinner--Barbara's salsa was hotter than usual so it required frequent washing
down with beer. Coronas weren't heavy anyway and here in the hot climate you sweated off the
effects of beer faster than you could drink it.
We took a shower after we washed our pots and pans in the wash area. The camp site had free
toilets but charged a nominal fee for showers. Fresh water was trucked in daily from Mexicali
which was sixty miles away. The lack of fresh water is what has slowed developers from fully
exploiting this place, thank heavens.
By the time we got back, the camp manager had already turned on the generator that provided
electricity to the fluorescent lamps along the main camp road. Besides the road, the wash, bath,
and toilet areas were also lit. Lights were turned off at eleven o'clock.
At night, there's absolutely nothing to do in the campground except stroll on the beach. t's the
kind of place that drive Las Vegas types crazy. We took a flashlight with us to look around--tiny
crabs scurried away as we made our way through the tide pools. The exposed ocean floor was
muddy, and we found an occasional fish or shrimp trapped in the shallow pools of water.
After the walk, we sat on our folding chairs, sipping beer again. loved Barbara for
understanding there were times when you could be with someone and not need to say anything.
The connection was made through the silence, not the exchange of words.
n the distance, could see the lights of Mexican towns on the mainland and an occasional ferry
or fishing boat crossing the gulf which separated us from them. Looking out towards the
mainland made it clear to me why early explorers mistook California for an island.
looked up the moonless sky and through the clear desert air saw more stars than could
count. The Milky Way and the reddish Magellanic Cloud were clearly visible. thought about my
namesake, my tocayo, Antonio Miranda Rodriguez--he must have gazed at these very same
stars from this same spot more than two centuries before.
had read he was a Filipino carpenter who passed through Baja in 1781 with a group of settlers
who were going to start a settlement, near the San Gabriel Mission, which would later become
Los Angeles. He never made it because his Mexican wife and daughter got sick. He stayed
behind to take care of them until they died. He ended up in Santa Barbara instead of Los
Angeles.
wondered what made him and countless other Filipinos cross the Pacific on Spanish galleons
leaving everything behind, how he must have felt upon losing his family to illness just when they
were getting close to Alta California where they would have had a better life. t seemed Filipinos
had been going to strange lands to find better lives forever.
counted three shooting stars in fifteen minutes but didn't make a wish. What wanted already
had.
"Do you mind if turned the radio on?" asked Barbara.
"No, it would be good to listen to some music."
fiddled with the dial-- could only get AM. got stations from the Mexican mainland, a strong
one from Albuquerque, but stopped at a station from Tuczon that was giving a news summary.
The temperature had been over a hundred in most places along the border and the Border
Patrol had found some illegal border crossers in the desert. Four were dead and seven were
suffering from heat stroke and severe dehydration. The authorities were investigating whether
their coyote had abandoned them or if they had crossed on their own without realizing how high
the temperature would be that day.
"My God, what a terrible way to die," Barbara said.
" don't understand why people take such chances. t's dumb," replied.
"Maybe some day you will. 'll love you even more when you do."
"There are legal ways to get in."
"Most people can't get in legally. One day you'll meet a real illegal and you'll find out why they
do things you consider dumb."
The news was over. turned the dial to a Mexican station that played boleros. t was depressing
to hear about people crossing the border only to die after they make it to their promised land.
The music helped me push the thought away from my mind. had more beer and watched the
stars until fell asleep.

T must have been already in the eighties when woke up. The tide had started to move out
again and it was getting quieter. t had come in during the night, its roar lulling me to a deeper
sleep. ts sound is so soothing you tend to wake up when it goes away.
The sun hadn't as yet risen but the eastern horizon already had a pink tinge. Clouds over the
mainland were slowly turning crimson. Stars were still visible on the zenith and towards the
western horizon. After a while, the sun peeked out and the sky was filled with a riot of colors.
don't think there's a more beautiful sunrise than in San Felipe. Too bad not many people get to
see it because they don't wake up early enough.
placed a towel on Barbara to cover her-- noticed she hadn't bothered to put her clothes back
on after we woke up in the middle of the night wanting each other badly. She was still sleeping
soundly and didn't want to wake her up.
filled a pot with water and made coffee, then watched the sun rise higher as drank my coffee.
A few people around camp were now beginning to stir and move about and so did Barbara. She
gave me an amused grin when she realized she was naked--she hastily put her clothes on. As
she washed her face in a small basin, made her a cup of coffee. She didn't say anything but
hugged me to give her silent thank you before starting to fry bacon and eggs.
Barbara fried our leftover rice with garlic in the bacon fat. was surprised how easily she had
gotten to like the Filipino breakfast staple taught her to make. She fixes it every time she gets a
chance.
t was a lazy morning and by the time we had everything stowed away, it was already nine
o'clock and very hot. We went to town to buy more food, drinks, and ice.
When we returned to Playas del Sol, an itinerant vendor was standing in the shade of our
cabaa. He politely waited until we got everything out from the car before showing us what he
was selling. He had jamacas, a very compact hammock made from hand-tied twine. t was only
a few bucks so bought one. didn't necessarily want to sleep in one but thought it would be
handy in keeping our stuff up from the sand.
was hanging the hammock from the cabaa posts when saw this young woman carrying a
basket on top of her head. She had it effortlessly balanced and didn't need to hold it with her
hands. t had been a long time since last saw a woman do that.
She was walking towards us. She was petite, must have been only an inch or two over five feet,
and had a nice figure. Her skin was deep brown, perhaps from the sun, and she was wearing an
embroidered blouse of rough cotton. She looked like a typical chinita poblana, a Mexican
country woman of mostly ndian blood, except she was wearing shorts instead of a skirt. She
was a pretty sight to look at--good looking, nice figure, shapely legs, and walking like a model
on a runway. The basket on her head made her walk in a sensuous manner, her hips and hands
swaying gracefully to keep her balance in the soft sand. noticed that all the men around us had
turned their heads to ogle her.
She approached Barbara and showed what she had in her basket--pork and chicken tamales,
she said. She had an intense look in her eyes but they looked like they were ready to turn into a
twinkle anytime.
"Do you have salsa to go with it?" Barbara asked.
"Yes, of course," she answered. "t is good and fresh."
"Let me try one chicken," Barbara said.
brought over a paper plate and a fork. The woman put the tamale on the plate and Barbara
split the cornhusk wrapper open with her fork. She then poured salsa straight from the jar and
started eating.
"t's good, can eat another one. Do you want one, hon?"
"'ll try one," said. got another paper plate and asked for pork tamale. t was almost lunch time
anyway and it was too hot to cook. All we needed was cold beer and our lunch would be
complete.
pulled the beach chairs into the shade and offered one to the woman.
"My name is Tony, this is Barbara. We're from Los Angeles."
" am Lita," she said softly as she sat down. She had been staring at me for a while. got a
plastic cup and asked if she wanted soda or beer.
"Coke is fine, if you have."
put ice in the plastic cup for her and poured her some Coke. got a couple of Coronas for
myself and Barbara.
After Lita took a sip, she said, alawa na lang po ang natitira, bilhin na po ninyo para huwag na
akong maglakad pa.
was pleasantly surprised and smiled, !inay ka pala. Kaya naman pala napakaganda mo.
She lowered her eyes and blushed. turned to Barbara, "Luv, she's Filipina. She says she has
only two tamales left and was wondering if we want to buy them so she can go home."
"Why not, they're good--'m sure you can eat another one."
We sat there in the shade eating our lunch. offered a tamale to Lita but she declined saying
she couldn't eat one--she made them every day. gave her instead a mango we got from town.
"How did you get to Baja?" asked.
"t is long story, take too long to tell."
"Oh, we got time," said but Lita didn't say anything.
"Tell you what," Barbara said, joining in. "We'd like to invite you for dinner tonight. t's the Fourth
of July and we'd like to celebrate a little bit. Then you can tell us."
Lita thought for a while then said, "Only if you let me cook."
"Nothing fancy, we don't have a lot of utensils here. was just going to cook what we were able
to buy in the market this morning."
Lita checked the icebox. "We have plenty-- bring what else we need," she said as she picked
up her basket. "Let me go now so tell my family about tonight--they are very good to me."
"Do you live far? can drive you," Barbara offered.
"No, can walk. The house live is near entrance to this camp. Across street, on left, only house
there."
"'ll see you later then-- won't start till you get here."
Meanwhile, the tide had rolled back in. People were now all over the beach frolicking in the surf.
To the right, could see Cerro El Machorro, dark, tall, and majestic. t hid San Felipe from our
view. imagine it was what fishermen used as a landmark in finding their way back to port.
wouldn't know-- have never been out to sea in San Felipe.
t was a lazy and peaceful feeling, sitting in the shade and listening to the surf. t's hard to
imagine how a hot, barren, and remote place could have attracted settlers hundreds of years
ago. But then some people tend to occupy niches and would gladly settle for a less abundant
place to call home rather than struggle against other people in a more opulent location.
wondered if had what it takes to live in such a place or if would do what many of them do--
cross the border to find better life in Alta California.
Barbara had gone to the water to cool off. You can't really swim very well in San Felipe, the
water is shallow in most places. But you can sit on the sandy bottom and let the cool water
splash over you and the strong waves rock you back and forth. t's a great place to pretend
you're a seaweed.
By the time got in the water, Barbara already had her limit of sun for the day. stayed in the
water for an hour while she dozed off on the beach chair in the shade of the cabaa.

BARBARA and had already showered and changed when Lita arrived promptly at five o'clock.
She was wearing a loose, lavender printed shift that draped beautifully over her body. t showed
off her figure quite well. She had with her a wok and a small basket filled with vegetables. t
seemed she was ready for some serious cooking and wasn't going to settle for anything less.
"Lita, you shouldn't have bothered," Barbara said.
" want to cook good food this time--we don't have much what we cook here in Baja, we're too
poor. And want to practice, too."
" leave everything up to you, then. 'll help--tell me what you want me to do."
Lita and Barbara were soon at work--Lita taught Barbara her recipes. stayed out of their way
and helped by washing the dirty dishes, pots, and pans.
t took them a while but when they got done, we had sinigang of mullet, beef fajitas, pepper fried
shrimp, and steamed rice. We had more food than we could eat so suggested they take some
to Lita's foster family. Barbara and Lita wrapped food in aluminum foil and took them there. t
was a chance to let her family know how good a cook she was.
While they were away, managed to appropriate for our use a couple of wooden planks which
set across the two ice chests to make a table. used an extra bed sheet for a tablecloth. set
the food, paper plates, napkins, and plastic flatware on our banquet table. t was beginning to
look like a real party and wished we had dinner candles to make it perfect.
A man selling fireworks out of the trunk of his car was making the rounds when Barbara and Lita
got back. bought a few each of the different kinds he had. Fireworks are illegal in most of
California because they're dangerous. But what the heck, was in Mexico and wanted to live a
bit dangerously.
We ate dinner out of styrofoam plates using plastic flatware. Lita was a good cook-- especially
liked her pepper fried shrimp which was lightly battered and crispy. kept going back with my
paper cup for additional helpings of her sour soup.
"Where did you learn to cook?" asked.
" cook at home when was young girl. Then live in Hong Kong, and now in Mexico. learn all
kinds of cooking because always help whoever cooks."
"Where are you from?"
" am Bicolana, from Daraga, Albay. went to Hong Kong as maid. was sixteen when left
home-- make false papers to show was eighteen."
"That's interesting. How did you get to Mexico?"
She didn't answer but sipped her tequila instead. Like when asked earlier, she evaded my
question.
"'m sorry, didn't mean to pry into your life."
She looked at me and said, " like to tell people my story but nobody believe me because it
sound not true."
Barbara put an arm around her shoulder and said, "Tell me--'ll believe you." Barbara was a
people person, one who easily obtained the trust of those she met. was her exact opposite,
didn't trust anyone and nobody trusted me.
Lita began by telling us how she got recruited from her hometown in Albay by an agent from
Manila. She didn't have enough money for fees and airfare so she signed a promissory note to
pay an exorbitant amount for her expenses. The payments would come out of her pay once she
started working in Hong Kong. She and several other girls were taken to a residence in Manila
where they were briefed on how to behave and how to conduct themselves. More importantly,
they were told how a company representative would come around every payday to collect the
amount due on the loans.
Things went fine with her--she was able to send a little money home and save a little for herself
even after making her monthly payments to the recruiting company. Her dream was to save
enough to be able to buy a modest house and start a little dress shop in her hometown when
she returned.
t had gotten dark and the camp generator was turned on. People began setting off fireworks
and lighting firecrackers. got mine out and was getting ready to join in the celebration when
saw two local boys looking enviously at everybody else. called them over and said they could
light my fireworks if they felt like it.
racias, seor. Feliz Cuatro de Julio! one said as they proceeded to argue about who was
going to light which rocket. Soon the sky was filled with rockets bursting into multicolored
sparklers that floated down leisurely. The pop-pop-pop of firecrackers came from all around. t
was strange to see the Fourth of July being celebrated in another country but tonight San
Felipe, with all its visitors, was an American town.
Lita continued with her story as we sipped more tequila.
"Everything fine until my master's wife visit her family in New Territories. Myamo came home
one night and wanted a woman. He force me-- never been in bed with a man before. was
scared and wish to die. He did it again the next night and until his wife return home.
" told her what happen but she laugh, say to me only want money from them to make
accusation. went to Philippine Consulate and they tell me go to office that would help. learn
they could not because cannot prove-- did not run away or call police when it happen.
" become so sad. do not know what to do, then later houseboy next door who was good
person tell me he leave for America. A ship take a boat full of people to America. He give money
for down payment and pay balance after he work in America.
" ask to come but do not know if have enough money so he tell boat officer we are married
so only pay little amount for down payment."
At that point it seemed Lita wouldn't continue with her story. Barbara put more ice in her glass.
poured more tequila and lime soda for her. We watched the last of the fireworks as Lita
continued with her story.
t took them four weeks to cross the Pacific. The ship's captain first tried to dump them off in
Canada but a navy ship started trailing them when they got close. Their ship moved south but it
was impossible to get close to the western shores of the United States--the Coast Guard must
have been warned by the Canadian Navy. The ship's officers were getting desperate so when
they got to Mexico they packed their load of passengers onto lifeboats and let them paddle by
themselves to shore in Baja California.
Unfortunately, the weather wasn't very good. A few boats capsized and some people drowned.
Most of those who made it to shore were apprehended and taken into custody. Lita was one of
the few who managed not to get caught. Her brown skin helped her blend in with the locals--the
Chinese didn't have a chance.
Lita was taken in by a friendly family who lived outside Ensenada. They hid her from the
authorities but after a few weeks took her to San Felipe where they said she would be safer.
They had relatives there who were just as poor but who understood how it was to hide from the
authorities.
After all the fireworks had been lit and exploded, relative peace settled once more on the beach.
We started putting things away--tomorrow we'd be on our way back to L.A. Back to routine, back
to trying to make enough money to pay off bills and still have enough left for an occasional trip
like this.
Unexpectedly, Lita came to me and said, anong, if you could be so kind can go with you to
Los Angeles tomorrow? think can pass the border checkpoint because they know am not
Mexican and they think come with you for July 4th vacation."
was flabbergasted. felt sorry for her but knew what would happen if we got caught trying to
smuggle her in.
"t's not a simple task," said. "f they get suspicious, they'll not only get you but also put us in
jail. Barbara has a lot to lose because they can take her car away."
"Oh, don't mind," Barbara said. " think it's the best time to get her in because there'll be
thousands of other people returning to the U.S. from this three-day weekend. The border agents
will have their hands full and won't be able to scrutinize everybody as much as they normally
would."
"Well, it's still a big risk--we should really think it over before we say yes or no. f we get caught,
they'll take away my green card and kick me out of the country."
They didn't say anything more but gave me a pained and disappointed look. The mood turned
dark.
"Let me take you home, Lita," Barbara finally said. "We'll get this settled somehow."
WHEN Barbara returned, she was sullen and quiet. tried to make small talk but she kept
ignoring me. Finally, she blurted out, "Dammit, why can't you have compassion for other people
for once. Here's your chance to do something good and you refuse to do it."
"You know can't take the chance--you're safe because you're American-born. You know what
they would do to me if we get caught."
"You're so fuckin' gutless you can't even stick your neck out for one of your own kind. You know
what she's been through? You haven't even tasted a fraction of what she's been through. How
can you be so smug in your self-righteousness about what's right or wrong?"
" can't take the chance."
"Look, if you're so fuckin' chicken you can get out from the car before we get to the border. You
can fuckin' walk across--you have papers. Why don't you let us take that chance? Just make
sure you have enough money for bus fare to L.A. because wouldn't want you back in my car.
Gosh, thought knew you better."
With that she started crying and moved her sleeping bag as far away as she could from mine.
Barbara tended to use colorful language when she gets mad but had never seen her so
agitated before. t bothered me because it seemed we truly didn't know each other very well.
had a fitful night-- wanted to reach out and touch Barbara but she seemed so far away. had
nightmares about being left behind and walking all the way across the desert to get back to L.A.
The sun was mercilessly beating down on me and wanted water but there was none.
The next morning started out exactly like the last one--hot and muggy. didn't feel like drinking
coffee so didn't make any. Nobody bothered to fix breakfast. knew Barbara was feeling as
badly as was for her eyes were red from crying and she was unusually quiet. We packed our
things and loaded them into her car in silence. So this was how relationships ended. didn't
know it would be so quiet.
had a sick and empty feeling as we left the campground. drove along the gravel road towards
the main highway where had to turn right to get back to California.
As stopped at the corner to check for cross traffic, saw through the already shimmering haze
of the midmorning heat a lone shack across the road on the left--it looked so far from Daraga.
remembered my tocayo who vainly tried more than two hundred years ago to take his family
north from here to give them a better life.
wasn't sure whether it was because borders didn't make sense to me anymore or if was
simply scared of losing Barbara. Whatever it was, crossed to the other side of the highway and
turned left. When she noticed, Barbara reached out to touch my hand and started weeping. Her
touch made me feel good again.
WE had Lita sit in the front with me, Barbara moved to the back seat. t would look better that
way at the border. Lita only had one duffel bag-- thought it odd that one can move from one
country to another with so very little. t made clear to me one doesn't need much in life except
his own wits to survive.
We were quiet on the way back to the border. The long drive gave me time to reflect on what
happened the night before-- began to understand how my dreams had shaped not only how
others saw me but how perceived them as well.
Barbara was right--the immigration officer was busy and only asked how long we've been away,
where we've been, and whether we had purchased anything in Mexico. He entered our vehicle's
plate number into his computer and waved us through when he found nothing.
When we got back on the freeway inside the U.S. told Barbara needed to stop in San Diego
to do something. got off the freeway and drove to the parking lot at the Amtrak station.
got out of the car, opened the back door, and picked up my knapsack. handed Barbara the
car keys and gave her a long, lingering hug. found it hard to keep everything in as said, "Luv,
'm taking the train home."

2001 by H.O. Santos



EA S%ARS
(for Paz Marquez Benitez)
- H.O. Santos
(poem)

f still think of her today
Why didn't tell her long ago?
could have saved all wondering
For 'd have peace if did know.

f had learned of metaphors
Before wondered 'bout the stars
Would have written verses then
And worshipped Venus instead of Mars?

f had found my tongue could rhyme
Would have shown a face sans mask,
A heart unsure? But woe is me--
'll never know, didn't ask.




CRLOBAUTSTA is a resident of Quezon City with his wife
Rose Marie Jimenez Bautista and together, they raised their three children.
Education
Doctor of Arts in Language and Literature, De La Salle Univ., Mla
M.A. Literature, magna cum laude, Saint Louis Univ., Baguio City
A.B. Literature, magna cum laude, University of Santo Tomas, Mla
Present Employment
Full Professor, Dept. of Literature at De La Salle Univ.
Fields of Specialization: Journalism and
Literature (Poetry, Fiction, Essay, Poetics, Semiotics, Translation)
Literary Editor, Philippine Panorama of the Manila Bulletin
Member of the Board of Advisers and Associate,
Bienvenido N. Santos Creative Writing Center, De La Salle Univ.
Senior Associate Director, The University of Santo Tomas (UST) Center
for Creative Writing and Studies
Lectures & Workshops Conducted/Community Service
Cirilo has given lectures on literature and poetry all over the Phils.,
in the ASEAN regions, in USA and in Europe.
n the Phil.-British Literary Conference held in the UST in 2001,
Bautista gave a lecture entitled, "Shaping the Past
The Writer's Necessary Topography.
Titles/topics of Bautista's lectures include: "Fictionalizing History
The Writing of the Centennial Epic, "Confessions of a Literary Life,
"Surrealism and the Mind of Oscar de Zuniga, "Poetry and the
Human Condition, "The Literary Mind and the Creation of Metaphors,
"Effective Strategies in the Teaching of Literature, "Rizal, Pop Culture,
Semiotics, and the Sociology of Writing; or What George Steiner
Told Me, "Philippine National Language Policies: Why They Failed,
"The Creation of Poetry is a Sociological Act,
"The Phenomenology of Poetry, "Reality and the Nature of Fiction,
"On the Matter of a Philippine National Language, etc.
He has served as judge in the Don Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards
for Literature since 1980.
He has served as panelist/resource speaker in national writers workshops
in Dumaguete, in ligan, YAS of Bacolod, in loilo, among many others.
Member, Manila Critics Circle, 2002-present
Member, Philippine Center of nternational PEN
Past President, Philippine Writers Academy
Founding Member and Trustee, Philippine Literary Arts Council, 1981
Elected Director-General, Bienvenido N. Santos Creative Writing Center
at De La Salle University, 1991 to 1995.
Kung Paano Matatamo Ang Katahimikan SA
Mundo
Cirilo bautista
(Poem)
Nakikilala sa kulay ng balat, 'ika nga,
kaya sa San Francisco'y maingat ako
habang nanaghiihntay ng bus patungong owa.
Malakas daw ang racial prejudice, sabi nila,
kawawa ang mga Negro at mga di puti,
malapit na raw magrebolusyon dahil dito.
Ngatog na ngatog ako sa takot at gutom
dahil kalalapag ko lang buhat sa Tokyo.
Pumasok ang isang Negro sa istasyon
naka-African hairdo, may hawak na munting
latigo: nakatatakot tumingin, kaya
di ko siya tinignan. Kumakalansing
ang pilak na borlas ng kanyang sapatos
at sigaw niya, "Peace, brothers! Ngumiting litaw
ang mapuputing ngipin. Tinignan ako
siguro'y natawa siya sa kanyang natanaw
isang dayuhang maliit, maitim na kung
saana lupalog nanggaling. Bumaligtad
ang aking bituka sa takot at dumukot
ako ng sigarilyo para di malantad
ang pamumula ng aking mukha. Nahalata
kong pati ang mga Putting naroo'y tahimik
na tahimik, di makaimik sa harapan
ng Negrong iyon. Pagkaalis lang niya nagbalik
ang normalcy sa loob ng istasyonnagbasang
muli ang iba, tsismisang muli ang mga miron,
tawanan, ang dyanitor ay muling nagwalis.
Maya-maya'y nagdaang muli ang Negrong iyon
Kaakbay ang dalawang Amerikanang puti,
Blonde, at sa kagandaha'y walang kaparis.
Napatigil ang dyanitor sa pagwawalis.
Naisip ko, 'Ganito pala ang racial prejudice.



PESUPPECTIDN
BY: Cirilo bautista
(2005)


On a Friday afternoon, Lazaro Corpuz, 38, businessman and head of a corporation that
engaged in heavy machinery, emerged from the coolness of his office on the sixth floor of a
building in downtown Manila; while the elevator carried his body to the ground floor, or while the
building was going up against the stability of the elevator, his mind was flying somewhere else.
Ernie was saying as he dropped ice cubes into his glass of scotch that it was better for Garmel,
Limited plunk! 0 to chuck their deal with them if they would not honor their contract of two
years ago, and plunk! Anyway that lousy president of theirs was no better at golf than a
crippled midget. Lazaro had smiled to himself then, thinking of Ernie's peculiar manner of
stringing illogical facts together whenever he wanted, out of envy or sheer malice, to downgrade
someone. n this case, the president of Garmel, Limited, who was a friend of theirs both, having
failed to deliver contracted items, became the object of his displeasure. The morning, however,
ended well for him and Ernie and the absent president because Ernie took his suggestion of
freezing the matter for at least two days until they had heard from the erring company. Lazaro
brushed away a bit of white string from the lapel of his dark coat tailored from talian wool how
the devil it had got there he did not know, his office being air-conditioned and kept clean by a
man he had hired to do nothing but vacuum its carpeted floor and dust the bookshelves and the
mahogany table thus he brushed the string away with a little annoyance creasing his
forehead. n his expensive suit he felt big and important. Though his friends had ribbed for his
western habit, he did not feel compelled to wear the barong Tagalog that Ernie and the rest of
his staff favored. What they did not realize was that it was not a habit for him it was his way of
wrapping himself with prestige that his office, he insisted, called upon him to uphold. nside his
air-conditioned [sic] room he enjoyed the aura of superiority his suit gave him, but when walking
outside the building, and this he had to admit to himself, he sweated a lot. His physiognomy was
such that he sweated a lot, even in the mild season before summer. But then, so what? That
was a small sacrifice he had to face, that was a reality he had to face because he, Lazaro
Corpuz, had been chosen, out of so many men in the business world, to head a big corporation.
He could not let the image of this corporation tarnish because he sweated a lot. Satisfied by this
justification,
he looked up at the numerals blinking at the top of the elevator door. Damn, they should make
elevators go faster. Suppose have an appointment to fulfill (and he was glad that at the
moment he did not have any), the way this box is running 'd surely be late for it. He gazed at
his patent leather black shoes shining against the polished wall of the elevator and again a
feeling of
satisfaction filled him. Just last night at a cocktail party, a man, he had forgotten whom and so
he was sure it was nobody important remarked that he knew how to carry his clothes, and
though it had elated him no end, he did not allow his elation to show, he merely nodded at the
man as though what he had said was an incontrovertible fact, and therefore needed no
commentary. Well, he though, stroking his gray silk tie cravat, he always referred to it, for he
found a secret joy in referring to it thus he could give any man a run for his money when it
came to good grooming. Not only was he handsome that was another fact but he could also
afford to indulge his delicate taste. There was nothing theologically erroneous about it. He
flicked
a strand of hair off the cuff of his shirt with a snap of his thumb and forefinger. He worked hard
for his money, and it was not his fault that he was a bachelor and would probably be to the
end and not saddled with a wife and kids. No one could grudge him his pursuit of the finer
things in life. t was as though an emblem of some mysterious heraldic origin had appeared
before him, golden with some some strange inscriptions that said follow Me, and he had
followed, and was still following. Along the way he had to shed off the naivete, the crudeness in
words and mannerisms, to be worthy of this singular calling. t was a devotion whose outward
manifestation took the forms of expensive clothes, the proper residence, the correct circle of
acquaintances, the right women. And all his waking hours he had stepped to the silent music
which accompanied that emblem, ardor and uprightness his cul-de-sac, ready to joust with any
intruder that would deign to break his vigilance. There was a slow, soft sound, and when he
raised his eyes from his shoes, he saw the elevator door opening.

"Sir!There was a voice somewhere near his elbow as he walked along the corridor. He turned
around and saw Romero holding several sheets of white paper.

"Oy, romero, Lazaro said with a slight irritation in his voice."What is it?He could not imagine
what the office messenger wanted with him.

"'m sorry to bother you, Sir, but these invoice slips have "

"Go see Reyes. He's in charge of those things.

His irritation was growing.

" have seen Mr. Reyes already, Sir he told me these needed your signature. nvisibly,
Romero was shaking in his shoes. Obviously he did not want to get in Lazaro's way, but he did
not want to displease Reyes either, Reyes being his immediate superior.He realized, however,
that Lazaro was the Fianl eing whose decisions and orders made the corporation move, and
survive.The wretched man, thus noticing Lazaro's irritation, had the mind to flee before Lazaro
could say another word, and befroe he aggravated the situation, when Lazaro snatched the
sheets from his hand and, after glancing at them, said, "Tell Reyes to see em first thing
tomorrow, and with a wave of his hand dismissed the messenger.By God, he said to himself as
he resumed walking, what sense has this Reyes got?He should know better than to send a
messenger after me.The time have, my schedule.Again he rejoiced with the knowledge that he
had no appointment to meet, at least for that afternoon.

The automatic door hissed ecstatically as he stepped out of the building.Momentarily he shut his
eyes against the glaring sun that struck him like a giant machete, then he glanced at his gold
wristwatch.Four o'clock.Time enough for a drink.God, how he needed one in this hot sticky
place.He was beginning to sweat inside his coat, but with the perseverance of a martyr buttoned
it up, saw to it that his tie was straight, and lsowly crossed the street.a man was mugged, by
mistake, by a group of thugs trailing a businessman who had just withdrawn a great amount
from a bank; the peso's devaluation, beautifully illustrated by a graph, showed its purchasing
power declining in a world market; a man was hacked to death while sleeping hby his wife who
had discovered his affair with her sister.From this last item literally accompanied by
photographs of the bleeding man in bed and of his contrite wife crying in the police station
Lazaro averted his eyes.He had never had the stomach for such bloody things, that was why he
never bought htose papers, if he could help it, for they seemed to feature nothing but
bloodshed; nevertheless, he had not totally outgrown his habit of browsing over their front pages
spread out by the windows of the newsstands. Four-fifteen. He refused the offer of a
sweepstakes ticket by a thin, almost cadaverous woman who hung by his side for a few hopeful
seconds, then, seeing no encouraging signs on his face, turned around to try her luck with
another passerby. He must tell Reyes not to bother him with those little matters of invoice slips.
Anyway that was what he was paid for. He could always see the accountant in case of some
difficulties. But God, to send a messenger to him, and just when he was about to go home He
dropped a twenty-five-centavo coin in the metal box of a beggar who, by all appearance, was no
less healthy that he was, and the clink of the coin was like the sound of heavenly approval of his
generosity. As it were, all that was lacking was the blare of clarions or a dance of pyrotechnics
to announce his brotherly concern for his fellowmen. As far as he could remember, he had
always
patronized that beggar. Probably because the beggar stood in front of the hotel where Lazaro
usually took his afternoon drink, and the beggar always acknowledge this patronage with a
slight inclination of his head which to Lazaro meant, "Much obliged.Four-twenty. lazaro touched
his tie involuntarily. He returned the doorman's smile and strode across the hotel lobby. two
Americans in their middle fifties, obviously tourists, were signing the hotel book. Their luggage
stood beside the registry table. Turning left, Lazaro caught a glimpse of his imaged in the giant
mirror standing near a door marked "Cocktail Lounge.He passed his hand over his hair, pushed
the door, stood awhile by the doorway to familiarize himself with the dimly lit room, and moved
across the carpet to the bar on his right."Scotch on the rocks, he said to the barman and took
one of the stools lining the counter. t was here, secure and comfortable in this cozy room that
caressed him like a womb, where he could sink into the luxury of fanciful cogitation, removed
from the pressure of office work. Papers. Papers. Papers. He had examined and signed
mountains of them. Well, he could not deny that he relished his work, but a man needed respite
now and then. The ice cubes tinkled in the glass as the barman handed him his drink. He took a
sip and the coolness and the heat of the liquid snaked down his throat, leaving him with a
sensation of
seductive warmth. How would eh tell Emma that everything was over between them? A
charming girl, but a bit on the aggressive side. They had dinner together yesterday one of
those private expensive restaurants and he had noticed the signs. She frequently spoke of
"our friends, "our summer vacation, "our life. Our. He did not like being spoken of in such
possessive terms, no, even though the speaker was one whose company and beauty he had
greatly enjoyed. He took another sip. No. The barman was shaking a concoction in a chilled
glass, his face serious and impassive. No. He must tell her he hated to belong, to be
possessed; he had plans which did not include and this was what he read in Emma's recent
actions marriage. He could write her. Dear Emma have told you how much enjoy your
company. always look forward to meeting you for you and he smiled to himself at this are
on oasis that redeems me from the ennui of my uneventful days. He could imagine her sitting on
the iron swing in her garden, a tall glass of iced lemonade on the table by her feet, reading his
letter that would be sent by private courier. He knew that garden, he had been there several
times before: there was a small fishpond by the brick wall covered by overhanging morning
glories. She had told him the yellow and blue angel fish had come direct from [sic] Hong Kong,
and indeed he has been captivated by the tiny fish that seemed merely to float, so light and
delicate they were in water. A pair of sculpted swans stood near the pond, to its left, while to its
right was an invitation, almost life size, of the Venus of Milo. Yes, he could imagine her now
going over the scene letter, 've noted your he did not know how to put it without sounding
offensive predilection for speaking of our affairs seriously. made it perfectly clear from the
start that our friendship would be just that friendship, and believe you understood that. She
would crease her brows at this point, but what could he do? So, much as hate it, have to say
goodbye. know this would pain you, but, believe me, it would pain me more. must confess it
would take me some time to get over the memories of the sweet time we spent together, your
smile, your peculiar gestures, your love, yet have a life to lead, and must not object to such a
sacrifice. He signaled the barman for a fresh drink and crossed his legs. Well, that was that. No
used stretching the point. She would understand. He could even send her a bunch of red roses,
her favorite, with the letter, to indicate that he was a gentleman [sic] through and through. Not a
bad idea. Satisfied, he sipped his second drink with concentration. A voice at his side said, "May
join you?He turned and recognized Pete.

"Sure, he said.

Pete dropped his heavy bulk on the nearby stool.

" say, nothing better to smoothen a day that a cool drink, eh? [sic] he said.

"How's business?Lazaro said. Pete occupied a room in Lazaro's building where his name, with
its proper title, in bold letters printed on the door, proclaimed his existence: Pedro salgado,
Attorney-at-law.

can't complain. a lot of people still get robbed, or embezzled, and have my hands full settling
their problems.

"Glad tohear that.

"As a matter of fact, even get divorce cases.

"Divorce cases, in this country?Let's drink to that.Come one, let's have another round.This one's
on me.Lazaro gave the order to the barman and when their drinks came they drank in silence,
each momentarily absorbed in his own thoughts.Lazaro saw Emma again in the garden.Poor
girl, but he had to do it.He remembered they had taken a stroll after dinner.When they came
upon a jewelry store.Emma had stopped and looked at the display window.she pointed out a
gold wedding band to him."Wouldn't that make a perfect wedding ring?she said.Lazaro knew
he was right.That was another sign.Poor girl.He finished his drink.Pete was still nursing his, with
his big hand almost hiding his glass.Lazaro checked his watch.Five-fifteen.

"Well, must go, he said.He stood up.

"Appointment?

"No.Home.see you tomorrow.

"Same time, same place, Pete said [sic] smiling.

THE DOORMAN opoened the glass door and flashed another smile as Lazaro got out of the
lobby.the air had grown oppressively hot, and he began to sweat again.the liquor was working in
his system already, no doubt about that, for he felt heady, the flesh of his cheeks was taut in
reddishness, his lips dry.After reachiing almost the end of the block he remembered his car was
at the serviceman's.With a sigh of resignatino he walked back to the hotel, trying to ignore the
progressive heaviness of his coat that now was like a sheet of copper embracing his trunk.He
hurried to the telephone in the lobby.He fumbled [sic] for a coin in his pocket, found it, inserted it
into the slot, and waited for a voice on the other end of the line.He was shaking his head as he
put down the phone.dAmn it, just when he needed the car it was not ready.He walked out of the
hotel, this time not noticing the doorman's smile, and cursed under his breath. He did not enjoy
the prospect of a five-minute walk to the jeepney stop and jostling for a seat in one of those
infernal machines.He was still cursing as he climbed up the cement steps of the overpass.The
neon lights of the tall buildings near the pass cast shadows of diverse patterns on the people
who rushed up and down, their faces commonly haggard and unsmiling, for it was the end of the
day for them who had jsut ememrged from struggling with time to earn a living.Typists,
seamstresses, vendors, teachers, waiters, writers a little scrutiny of the arms, the hair, the
movement of their bodies, would reveal they were there, but Lazaro did not scrutinize:for him
they were all the same, a faceless tide of humanity that went by him in a kind of blurred
procession, hardly distinguishable each from the other, confounding in their continued motin.He
slowed his pace to catch his breath.He took out his silk handkerchief and wiped off the
perspiration that dotted his forehead.damn this heat.Paris, or New York ah, that was
something else.t would be spring at this time in New York with those pleasant smiling people
enjoying the air and the oakleaves and the elmleaves putting on their sheen of green, and in
Paris those fascinating ladies in short skirts greeting everyone, their pretty faces lending a touch
of beauty to the already intoxicating beauty of the day, would be letting their hair go in the wind
ah, Paris, why had he not stayed there, why did he have to come back to this heat and this dirt
and htis smog that was Maila?Shaking his head in mournful regret he quickened his pace.Well,
there was hoe to anticipate, or what passed for his home, he being a bachelor his apartment
in New Ermita, with its air-conditioning and record player and refrigerator always stocked with
the necessary provisions.He licked his lips thinking of the drink he would have right after
arriveing home.ah, the feel of a soft couch under his tired bones... Occupied by theses htoughts
he barely realized that he ahd already reached the jeepney stop.With dismay he eyed the long
line of people waiting for a ride.Again he cursed under his breath.He hardly had the strength to
fight for a seat with that number of people around, and the number, he noticed, increased
rapidly.They were spouted out, as it were, byt he cavernous mouth of the nderground pass near
the church and it seemed to him that all of them headed for the same jeepney stop.Damn it.He
stood elbow to elbow with a man on his left and an old woman carrying a basket of cabbages
and fish on his right.Well, nothing to do but sweat it out and wait.Lazaro dipped his hand into his
pocket for the twenty-five-centavo coin that he would need for his fare; but hwen his fingers
encountered no round, small, serrated object, he searched more carefully;
still there was no coin.t took him a while to remember that he had used his last coin in making
thtat call to the serviceman's.Grinning to himself in secret shame at this momentary lapse of
memory, he took out his wallet.He hoped the driver would have no objection to breaking a five-
peso bill that was the smallest amount he always carried.He looked into the bill compartment
of his wallet, and for the first time he felt a shiver that was like a cold knife against his
spine:there was nothing there.No, it could not be.Just this morning he had fifty pesos there, he
could not have spent all of it...n growing panic he explored his wallet meticulously, inch by
inch.First he removed the various cards credit cards, calling cards, identification cards, and a
small plastic calendar ad transferred them to his left hsirt pocket; then he went over the secret
bill folder covered by a false flap, brought out some more cards, a few airmail stamps, folded
pieces of paper where he had jotted down important phone numbers and addresses still he
could not find any peso bill.Once more, although he knew there would be nothing there, he
turned to the coin pocket, inserted his forefingers there, hoping by some miracle to touch a coin
God, even just a single ten-centavo coin but, God, there was nothing
there.No, it could not be.How come... n his mind he reviewed his activities that day in order to
find out just how his money had gone.There was that drink those drinks in the bar, and
before that, lunch, taxi fare to the office no, he could not have spent fifty pesos for those
things.There must be

...Damn it , yes lunch. That's what it went. He had three guests for lunch- prospective buyers-
and he had brought then to the Shanghai. He had forgotten exactly how much he spent there,
but he knew the place was not

exactly a poor man's restaurant. Yes. That was why-and this he recalled

vividly the last peso bill he drew from his wallet was the one he gave to the

cashier in the bar, and it seemed there was no change for that , no, none. He

was fooled into thinking that some more bills remained in his wallet by those

folded sheets of paper. His panic subsided into fear, but even then he tried to

get hold of himself. He must not be put off by this. There must be some way-

Well, he could get into a jeepney, just the same, and alight nonchalantly later

as though he paid for his fare. f the driver demanded his fare, he could put

on an aggrieved face and say the driver must be mistaken, he had already

pain, then he could stride off with a show of indignation. Perhaps, the driver

would even apologize to him...but how couldhe really attempt it? Suppose he

bungled it, suppose he could not act convincingly, suppose the driver insisted

that he has not paid? No, it was dangerous. He could not do it. He could take

a taxi and pay the driver at home, but this was out of the question. Taxis in

this place, and at this time of the evening were as rare as pearls in a bucket

of oysters. No, he had to take a jeep. f only, his hand holding his

handkerchief stopped midway to his perspiring forehead, He experienced a

surge of hope. Yes, why did he not think of it before? Pete. He must still be in

the bar. He had to be. He would not object to a loan of, say, one peso. Lazaro

turned around abruptly, almost knocking down a small boy, and pushed his

way out of the crowd. Pete, he had to be there. Running, in spite of his

drenched coat that stuck to his back, and in spite of the slight, dizziness

caused by the liquor he had taken earlier, his legs covered the cement steps

of the over pass three at the time, so that when he reached the top of the

steps he was puffing. Still he ran getting down the last flight of steps , he ran

down the sidewalk, barely aware of the newsboys and newsstands and the

ticket seller, he ran past the record shop and the blareof a phonograph player

exuding the sounds of the latest pop song, he ran and ran and ran. The

doorman had barely the time to open the hotel door for him and bring out his

customary smile.He watched in puzzlement as Lazaro barged in and crossed

the lobby for the cocktail lounge. The doorman shook his head. Lazaro was

shaking in excitement and fear, or in a fearful excitement, running along the

corridor and avoiding looking at himself in the giant mirror. Reaching the

door of the lounge, he stopped and tried to get hold of himself . He passed his

fingers over his hair , arranged a lock of hair that had fallen over his

forehead, adjusted his coat , wipe his face with his handkerchief . After

achieving a semblance of composure thus, he entered the room. He gave the

interior a careful survey; there were more people now occupying the stools of

the counter; a man and a woman sat in animated conversation near the right

wall where the tables were lighted by the subdued discreet glow of small

electric lamps; clinking of glasses punctuated the formal atmosphere . But

his eyes encountered no human form that belonged to Pete . His heart

beating fast, he strode to the counter.

'the usual , sir?' the barman said.
'not this time , Joe.' Lazaro said. 'but tell me, is Pete still around?'

'Pete?' The barman raised his brows

' mean Mr. Salgado. Attorney Salgedo.'

'Ah, 'm afraid not , Sir. He left a few minutes after you did'

'Damn it,' Lazaro said under his breath.

'Sir?'

'No, nothing, thanks jus the same.'

Slowly, crestfallen, he moved out of the room. His legs were lead, and the

heaviness spread up to his lungs and head. He could not believe this was

happening to him. t was preposterous. He- Lazaro Corpus...He gave the

doorman a forced smile as the latter opened the door for him . Outside, he

paused by the hotel steps and stared absent-mindedly at the neon lights

blazing their messages on top of the opposite buildings. On the top of his

building , the image of a beverage bottle changed colors-now red, now blue,

announcing in unmistakable terms that it was a nation's number one drink.

Lazaro sighed, put his hands deep in his pockets, gazed at the sidewalk. He

was about to walk uncertainly into the night when a glint of metal caught his
eyes. The thin hand holding the metal box was familiar to him. Lazaro
thought for a while and a smile flitted across his face. He approached the

beggar who extended his box to him. The box was already half-filled with

coins, Lazaro noticed.

'You remember me, don't you?' Lazaro said.

The beggar smiled

'm glad you do. You see- ' Lazaro did not know how to put it. ; You see...you

know always drop something in your box whenever pass by, always.'

The beggar continued to smile.

'Damn it, can't you talk?' Lazaro almost shouted.

The neggar's eyes widened in fear, but he managed to open his mouth and

point out his tongue, at the same time shaking his head.

'Oh, so you can' speak. Well, as was saying, 've always been kind to you .

This afternoon, -well- didn't know it but -we;;- spent all my money-'

Lazaro felt uneasy talking to the beggar. He quickly looked around to see if

anyone was watching him. A few people passed by hardly glancing at them.

'You see,' Lazaro said turning to the man again. The beggar stood pressed
against the wall of the hotel and stared with uncomprehending eyes at

Lazaro. The beggar had ceased smiling. 'You see, 've spent all my money

and discovered it too late that have none left to get home. That can happen

to anyone, can't it ?Sometimes no forgets, no?'

The beggar held his box close to his chest. He kept staring at Lazaro.

't can happen to anyone.' Lazaro continued. 'Damn it, it happened to me

today. You realize 'm in a fix. Pete-Pete, my friend- has gone home and

there's no one could-' Lazaro winced, embarrassed at having to explain

such personal details to this unknown creature before him. ' What mean is,

could you could you give me back the twent-five centavos dropped in your

box this afternoon?'

There was a blanked expression on the beggar's face.

'Just twenty-five centavos, man, that's all 'm asking of you . Surely you

won;t refuse me that? Just twenty-five centavos.'

The beggar hugged his metal box and pressed closer to the wall. t was

absurd, surely this gentleman was trying to play a joke on him- this

gentleman was drunk. With pleading eyes he looked at Lazaro. Please, the
eyes, said, please leave me alone. 'm just a poor man, can't understand.

Lazaro became irritated at the beggar's reluctance.

'Look.' he said, trying to conceal his annoyance, ' let's consider this a loan,

see? Give me twenty-five centavos and first thing tomorrow 'll give fifty,

even a peso, all right?'

The beggarshrank against the wall . The joke was going too far. f only a

policeman would come around...
'Damn it, man,' Lazaro finally shouted, and the beggar shrank further in fear,
'can't you understand? need twenty-five centavos . Do you want me to rob
you out of it?'
The beggar's eyes shone in terror and his lips quivered as though he wanted
to say something. Confused by Lazaro's anger, and wanting to avoid another
outburst from the man, with shaking hands the beggar extended his box to
Lazaro. Lazaro smiled and picked up the twenty-five centavos coin from the
box. Then he walked away as fast as he could , grasping the coin firmly in his
palm. He climbed up the overpass and did not look back, for he was afraid he
would see the beggar following himwith his eyes. Lazaro slipped the coin into
his coat pocket and reaching the top of the over pass, he suddenly felt file
laughing out loud; and he did, but the sound came out in short muffled
ejaculations, staringstrong from the stomach and weakening at the throat,
much like a sob.


#0;0 of Cala ng Asog0 by Jason Chancoco
(Essay)

"Asoge", otherwise known as mercury or Hg is described as silvery white and weighs 298K,
making it the heaviest elemental fluid. Heavy but swift and dexterous, just like the nearest planet
to our sun, or Mercurius, the messenger of the gods and god of traders. A poor conductor of
electricity, it is sensitive to temperature and thus used in making thermometers, barometers and
other heat measuring devices. When absorbed through the skin, it can be hazardous to health
but still it is used by some people as talisman, injecting the fluid in their system believing that it
can prolong a person's lifespan, even delaying death during the last hours of life.

"Asoge" has all this reputed properties, thus the term quicksilver, but it could very well be
National Artist for Literature Award top contender Cirilo F. Bautista's latest Tagalog novel.
Galaw ng Asoge has all the qualities and ways of mercury, plot-wise and character-wise.

The narrative has sudden playful shifts in the point of view.

From deliberately writing boring sequences (except the sex scene) and off humor lines in the
first three chapters, the author jolts the readers through a sudden shift in POV in chapter four.
Here Bautista talks to his readers and explains some points-that it was a case of wrong choice
in POV and some details were missed out because of it. Very modern. A sort of creative
acrobatics or literary discourse combined. Reading those parts would seem like the author was
doing a lecture on how to write an effective story.

Ending almost like the way it started (as the author finds the first person POV of Amado, the
main player, as misleading), the narrative restarts in chapter forty-four, employing the third
person POV once again. Obviously there will be a sequel, and in fact Galaw ng Asoge is
conceived to be part of a trilogy.

From here we can say that it has the "birtud" of mercury as talisman. A sort of a delaying tactic
that leaves the readers craving for more, even if it is just a cycle or repetition of the same
storyline but only with varying POVs. Each sequence is well planned and with inputs on the
philosophy of the author as articulated by his characters.

But these characters tend to hide certain truths that only the author knows.
Thus we not only have a deceptive narrative but also some characters whom we cannot trust
such as the corporate tandem of father and son Carlos and Amado Ortiz.

Amado's Weak Voice
Again, this is deliberate. As this novel is designed to play tricks on its readers, it is easy to fall
into the trap of Amado's narrative. A poseur, a poet, and a romantic, his lines are metaphorical,
dreamy and unreliable. He is the novel's weak voice and he sees, feels and says only what he
finds necessary in building up his image around his selfish motive, and he is so good a
pretender that he sounds so sincere-and so perhaps he believes himself.

As the author himself pointed out later in the novel, Amado's viewpoint is limited. For instance,
he kept on referring to his mother as "Mama", which is understandable, but almost missed out
on mentioning her real name, Rosario. Also his detached relationship with his mother deprived
the readers of Rosario's greatness as a woman and mother.

Being a poet, he tends to exaggerate on some details. Not to say that all poets are like this and
that in effect they are liars like Amado. Perhaps this goes to say that the dreams of a poet are
much different from the ambitions of a politician or business tycoon.

When he says that he adores his sister Clara he also tries to paint a picture of them as soul
mates, if we could call it that. He says they could read each other's minds. However, if this were
true, how come he did not learn of Mita's (Amado's girlfriend) early relationship with this father?
t was later revealed that Clara actually knew all about it.

Amado's younger brother, Gerry is the only character allowed to witness his confused side and
this was after Mita's suicide. n the same way that he looks up to his father Carlos for guidance,
Gerry also tries to emulate him, as he seems to be so at ease even when in times of trouble.
But of course this is just a pose. He still has to learn the "birtud" of his poet-boxer friend, Ben.

Even during his most triumphant moment, Amado is still unimpressive. Sure he was able to trick
the corporate trickster Don Agustin. But he was lucky the old man did not have a gun with a
silencer when he was trying to blackmail him. He could have easily been shot and disposed of
in Manila Bay. Who would suspect a president maker like Don Agustin? Not his Mama who was
the fianc of Agustin in their youth.

Among Amado's exploits was his portrayal of Carlos Ortiz in the novel as a loser and a quitter
so that only he would gain glory for their redeemed fortune. Perhaps the sequel will have Don
Carlos as voice so that we can hear his side. When he calmly took his own life, there was an
attempt in his part to recover his honor.

%HE CEN%IPEE
(- Ron V. iaz)


WHEN saw my sister, Delia, beating my dog with a stick, felt hate heave like a caged, angry
beast in my chest. Out in the sun, the hair of my sister glinted like metal and, in her brown
dress, she looked like a sheathed dagger. Biryuk hugged the earth and screamed but could
not bound forward nor cry out to my sister. She had a weak heart and she must not be
surprised. So held myself, my throat swelled, and felt hate rear and plunge in its cage of ribs.

WAS thirteen when my father first took me hunting. All through the summer of that year, had
tramped alone and unarmed the fields and forest around our farm. Then one afternoon in late
July my father told me could use his shotgun.
Beyond the ipil grove, in a grass field we spotted a covey of brown pigeons. n the open,
they kept springing to the air and gliding away every time we were within range. But finally they
dropped to the ground inside a wedge of guava trees. My father pressed my shoulder and
stopped. Then slowly, in a half-crouch, we advanced. The breeze rose lightly; the grass scuffed
against my bare legs. My father stopped again. He knelt down and held my hand.
"Wait for the birds to rise and then fire, he whispered.
pushed the safety lever of the rifle off and sighted along the barrel. The saddle of the stock
felt greasy on my cheek. The gun was heavy and my arm muscles twitched. My mouth was dry;
felt vaguely sick. wanted to sit down.
"You forgot to spit, my father said.
Father had told me that hunters always spat for luck before firing. spat and saw the
breeze bend the ragged, glassy threads of spittle toward the birds.
"That's good, Father said.
"Can't we throw a stone, whispered fiercely. "t's taking them a long time.
"No, you've to wait.
Suddenly, a small dog yelping shrilly came tearing across the brooding plain of grass and
small trees. t raced across the plain in long slewy swoops, on outraged shanks that
disappeared and flashed alternately in the light of the cloud-banked sun. One of the birds
whistled and the covey dispersed like seeds thrown in the wind. fired and my body shook with
the fierce momentary life of the rifle. saw three pigeons flutter in a last convulsive effort to stay
afloat, then fall to the ground. The shot did not scare the dog. He came to us, sniffing cautiously.
He circled around us until snapped my fingers and then he came me.
"Not bad, my father said grinning. "Three birds with one tube. went to the brush to get the
birds. The dog ambled after me. He found the birds for me. The breast of one of the birds was
torn. The bird had fallen on a spot where the earth was worn bare, and its blood was spread like
a tiny, red rag. The dog scraped the blood with his tongue. picked up the birds and its warm,
mangled flesh clung to the palm of my hand.
"You're keen, said to the dog. "Here. Come here. offered him my bloody palm. He came
to me and licked my palm clean.
gave the birds to my father. "May keep him, Father? said pointing to the dog. He put the
birds in a leather bag which he carried strapped around his waist.
Father looked at me a minute and then said: "Well, 'm not sure. That dog belongs to
somebody.
"May keep him until his owner comes for him? pursued.
"He'd make a good pointer, Father remarked. "But would not like my son to be accused of
dog-stealing.
"Oh, no! said quickly. " shall return him when the owner comes to claim him.
"All right, he said, " hope that dog makes a hunter out of you.
Biryuk and became fast friends. Every afternoon after school we went to the field to chase
quails or to the bank of the river which was fenced by tall, blade-sharp reeds to flush snipes.
Father was away most of the time but when he was home he hunted with us.

BRYUK scampered off and my sister flung the stick at him. Then she turned about and she saw
me.
"Eddie, come here, she commanded. approached with apprehension. Slowly, almost
carefully, she reached over and twisted my ear.
" don't want to see that dog again in the house, she said coldly. "That dog destroyed my
slippers again. 'll tell Berto to kill that dog if see it around again. She clutched one side of my
face with her hot, moist hand and shoved me, roughly. tumbled to the ground. But did not cry
or protest. had passed that phase. Now, every word and gesture she hurled at me caught and
fed to my growing and restless hate.

MY sister was the meanest creature knew. She was eight when was born, the day my mother
died. Although we continued to live in the same house, she had gone, it seemed, to another
country from where she looked at me with increasing annoyance and contempt.
One of my first solid memories was of standing before a grass hut. ts dirt floor was covered
with white banana stalks, and there was a small box filled with crushed and dismembered
flowers in one corner. A doll was cradled in the box. t was my sister's playhouse and
remembered she told me to keep out of it. She was not around so went in. The fresh banana
hides were cold under my feet. The interior of the hut was rife with the sour smell of damp dead
grass. Against the flowers, the doll looked incredibly heavy. picked it up. t was slight but it had
hard, unflexing limbs. tried to bend one of the legs and it snapped. stared with horror at the
hollow tube that was the leg of the doll. Then saw my sister coming. hid the leg under one of
the banana pelts. She was running and knew she was furious. The walls of the hut suddenly
constricted me. felt sick with a nameless pain. My sister snatched the doll from me and when
she saw the torn leg she gasped. She pushed me hard and crashed against the wall of the hut.
The flimsy wall collapsed over me. heard my sister screaming; she denounced me in a high,
wild voice and my body ached with fear. She seized one of the saplings that held up the hut and
hit me again and again until the flesh of my back and thighs sang with pain. Then suddenly my
sister moaned; she stiffened, the sapling fell from her hand and quietly, as though a sling were
lowering her, she sank to the ground. Her eyes were wild as scud and on the edges of her lips,.
Drawn tight over her teeth, quivered a wide lace of froth. ran to the house yelling for Father.
She came back from the hospital in the city, pale and quiet and mean, drained, it seemed, of
all emotions, she moved and acted with the keen, perversity and deceptive dullness of a
sheathed knife, concealing in her body that awful power for inspiring fear and pain and hate, not
always with its drawn blade but only with its fearful shape, defined by the sheath as her
meanness was defined by her body.
Nothing did ever pleased her. She destroyed willfully anything liked. At first, took it as a
process of adaptation, a step of adjustment; snatched and crushed every seed of anger she
planted in me, but later on realized that it had become a habit with her. did not say anything
when she told Berto to kill my monkey because it snickered at her one morning, while she was
brushing her teeth. did not say anything when she told Father that she did not like my pigeon
house because it stank and had to give away my pigeons and Berto had to chop the house
into kindling wood. learned how to hold myself because knew we had to put up with her
whims to keep her calm and quiet. But when she dumped my butterflies into a waste can and
burned them in the backyard, realized that she was spiting me.
My butterflies never snickered at her and they did not smell. kept them in an unused
cabinet in the living room and unless she opened the drawers, they were out of her sight. And
she knew too that my butterfly collection had grown with me. But when arrived home, one
afternoon, from school, found my butterflies in a can, burned in their cotton beds like deckle.
wept and Father had to call my sister for an explanation. She stood straight and calm before
Father but my tear-logged eyes saw only her harsh and arrogant silhouette. She looked at me
curiously but she did not say anything and Father began gently to question her. She listened
politely and when Father had stopped talking, she said without rush, heat or concern: "They
were attracting ants.

RAN after Biryuk. He had fled to the brambles. ran after him, bugling his name. found him
under a low, shriveled bush. called him and he only whimpered. Then saw that one of his
eyes was bleeding. sat on the ground and looked closer. The eye had been pierced. The stick
of my sister had stabbed the eye of my dog. was stunned. ,For a long time sat motionless,
staring at Biryuk. Then felt hate crouch; its paws dug hard into the floor of its cage; it bunched
muscles tensed; it held itself for a minute and then it sprang and the door of the cage crashed
open and hate clawed wildly my brain. screamed. Biryuk, frightened, yelped and fled, rattling
the dead bush that sheltered him. did not run after him.
A large hawk wheeled gracefully above a group of birds. t flew in a tightening spiral above
the birds.
On my way back to the house, passed the woodshed. saw Berto in the shade of a tree,
splitting wood. He was splitting the wood he had stacked last year. A mound of bone-white slats
was piled near his chopping block When he saw me, he stopped and called me.
His head was drenched with sweat. He brushed away the sweat and hair from his eyes and
said to me: "'ve got something for you.
He dropped his ax and walked into the woodshed. followed him. Berto went to a corner of
the shed. saw a jute sack spread on the ground. Berto stopped and picked up the sack.
"Look, he said.
approached. Pinned to the ground by a piece of wood, was a big centipede. ts malignantly
red body twitched back and forth.
"t's large, said.
" found him under the stack chopped. Berto smiled happily; he looked at me with his
muddy eyes.
"You know, he said. "That son of a devil nearly frightened me to death
stiffened. "Did it, really? said trying to control my rising voice. Berto was still grinning and
felt hot all over.
" didn't expect to find any centipede here, he said. "t nearly bit me. Who wouldn't get
shocked? He bent and picked up a piece of wood.
"This wood was here, he said and put down the block. "Then picked it up, like this. And
this centipede was coiled here. Right here. nearly touched it with my hand. What do you think
you would feel?
did not answer. squatted to look at the reptile. ts antennae quivered searching the tense
afternoon air. picked up a sliver of wood and prodded the centipede. t uncoiled viciously. ts
pinchers slashed at the tiny spear.
" could carry it dead, said half-aloud.
"Yes, Berto said. " did not kill him because knew you would like it.
"Yes, you're right.
"That's bigger than the one you found last year, isn't it?
"Yes, it's very much bigger.
stuck the sliver into the carapace of the centipede. t went through the flesh under the red
armor; a whitish liquid oozed out. Then made sure it was dead by brushing its antennae. The
centipede did not move. wrapped it in a handkerchief.
My sister was enthroned in a large chair in the porch of the house. Her back was turned
away from the door; she sat facing the window She was embroidering a strip of white cloth.
went near, stood behind her chair. She was not aware of my presence. unwrapped the
centipede. threw it on her lap.
My sister shrieked and the strip of white sheet flew off like an unhanded hawk. She shot up
from her chair, turned around and she saw me but she collapsed again to her chair clutching her
breast, doubled up with pain The centipede had fallen to the floor.
"You did it, she gasped. "You tried to kill me. You've health. life. you tried. Her voice
dragged off into a pain-stricken moan.
was engulfed by a sudden feeling of pity and guilt.
"But it's dead! cried kneeling before her. "t's dead! Look! Look! snatched up the
centipede and crushed its head between my fingers. "t's dead!
My sister did not move. held the centipede before her like a hunter displaying the tail of a
deer, save that the centipede felt thorny in my hand.
by Rony V. iaz
ore from this author:






Gmino Henson Abad is a poet and critic from Cebu, Philippines. His family
moved to Manila when his father, Antonio Abad, was offered professorships at Far Eastern
University and theUniversity of the Philippines. He earned his B.A. English from the University of
the Philippines in 1964 and Ph.D. in English literature from the University of Chicago in 1970.
He served theUniversity of the Philippines in various capacities: as Secretary of the University,
Secretary of the Board of Regents, Vice President for Academic Affairs and Director of the U.P.
nstitute of Creative Writing. For many years, he also taught English,
comparative literature and creative writing at U.P. Diliman.
Abad co-founded the Philippine Literary Arts Council (PLAC) which published Caracoa, a poetry
journal in English. His other works includeFugitive Emphasis (poems, 1973); n Another
Light (poems and critical essays, 1976); A Formal Approach to Lyric Poetry (critical theory,
1978); The Space Between (poems and critical essays, 1985); Poems and
Parables (1988); ndex to Filipino Poetry in English, 1905-1950(with Edna Zapanta Manlapaz,
1988) and State of Play (letter-essays and parables, 1990). He edited landmark anthologies of
Filipino poetry in English, among them Man of Earth (1989), A Native Clearing (1993) and A
Habit of Shores: Filipino Poetry and Verse from English, '60s to the '90s (1999).
The University of the Philippines has elevated Abad to the rank of University Professor, the
highest academic rank awarded by the university to an exemplary faculty member. He currently
sits on the Board of Advisers of the U.P. nstitute of Creative Writing and teaches creative
writing as Emeritus University Professor at the College of Arts and Letters, U.P. Diliman.





A QUES%ION OF FIELI%Y
(- Gmino H. A-ad)
(Short story)


KNOW, Filo know, Paco told his imaginary self, "in a story it would be a cheap trick, and
Nelson would surely deride it. But there it was! Could he help it?on the cab's front door was
written, reat is your faithfulness. t caught him up as though it laid a mocking charge at his
door, and as his heart tingled, he sensed that it was the last incident, entirely factual, which
should illuminate the fiction of his past. But his own life story? "Ye gods! it was farthest from his
mind. And the last incident? Why? The first day of the advertisers' conference had just ended
and he was only waiting for Bianca at the balcony of nday's candle shop, idly watching in
Baguio's misty dusk the customers that came into the caf below, when the cab drove in and
stopped to let off someone. A pretty girl, her legs faintly luminous as she slid out, glanced up at
him and hurried inside. t was the merest instant, lost at once. "How many such moments in a
lifetime, ha Filo? he gibed, but Filo only stared, wildly considering a moment's impulse. No,
Paco didn't think the pretty girl resembled Bianca. Not at all.
Paco was creative director in the Asia-Pacific Ad World, nc., and Bianca, his assistant, who
took charge of the two biggest accounts with the company, Coca-Cola and Philip Morris. For
quite a while now, whenever they had their coffee breaks and exchanged notes on the
company's business dealings and enjoyed each other's bantering, he sometimes sensed a
sweet yearning for her. She was young and alive, nice-smelling, pretty. But he would quickly
repress it. "Ye gods, Filo! he'd inwardly cry, "'m past fifty and happily married. t's juvenile, your
hankering after a lost youth, also called midlife crisis, haha! Bianca in her mid-twenties, could
very well be my own daughter, and surely has not a few male friends, much younger, and not-
unlikely, has a special affection for one.
n the hazy light from street and caf Paco couldn't catch more of the cab's text as it drove
away. t was surely from the Old Testament, the Psalms maybe, but surely too, this puzzling
now was a distraction, a quick evasion. For some time he had wondered whether he could
unravel to himself his own story. Then, perhaps, he might see into his future or, at least, the sort
of person that he had become from which events still to happen must inexorably take their form.
But what a strange notion, that if he were to contrive now his real life-story, just such a cab's
message should happen just as it already has, as a twist to his past's fiction.
Paco smiled to himself. He was in fact, it seemed to him, always living his story, or that of his
pathetic "other, Filo. Bianca had promised that she would join him at nday's. He glanced at his
watch, quarter to six. There were many things to talk over, they had agreed, but he wasn't eager
to review them just now, he would as usual simply let things happen as they come. Filo would of
course insist that he take control, but he knew Filoat the last moment, he would draw back.
No, certain things you just let happen, they take their natural course like the common cold.
Sometimes, when you try to have it your way, things become a little perverse, as though they
have a will of their own. The important thing is to avoid hurting anyone.
"Are you avoiding me, Paco? Bianca had asked point-blank while they were having their usual
coffee break in the office. "No, of course not, Bai, he had quickly denied. t was a lie, but what
choice did he have? She had frowned but did not press. A simple denial was best, for
explanations are like clouds, forming and dispersing, the words failing short, or worse, aghast to
spell out the heart's agenda, embarrassed with its yearning items. There are simply no clear
skies in human affairs, and so, how could he even begin to explain to Bianca?
Whenever he mentioned Bianca to his wife Agnes, usually over breakfast when they would
relate some events the day before, he sensed that it agitated her although she never let on. An
uneasy feeling would come over him, perhaps from the way Agnes looked, as though she had
not heard anything, or as though on a sudden her mind were somewhere else, but her eyes
would turn sad, as if a light there had been snuffed, and he would feel guilty and vexed at the
same time. t would always make him vaguely apprehensive and irritable, her sad look, her
silence, as though he had done her wrong, haunting him through his day at the office.
Agnes was the senior partner with four women friends in a law firm that they had put up. She
often came home late, and after kissing him, looking up from his papers at his work table, she
would quietly enter their teenage son Dylan's room and kiss him, already fast asleep, and later
carry the laundry in her arms to the washing machine before she retired for the night. She called
it a form of relaxation! She had a remarkable strength of character, managerial, down-to-earth,
which often bared his pathetic inadequacy in practical matters, yet capable of gentleness, a rich
warmth of affection and intense loyalty, but also to his secret discomfiture a fine, sometimes
even caustic moral sense. Surely he had resented it at times,. Finding no reasonable excuse,
because he tended toward sloth and a happy indifference. Filo was poor refuge, just as well
quite hid. O, he loved Agnes, and the future had often seemed bleak without her quiet affection,
her cool efficiency.
What could be keeping Bianca? Paco lighted a cigarette. Maybe in a quarter or so, he could
take a cab back to Pines Hotel to look for her. He leaned over the balcony and watched the
small crowd below in the caf's patio. A young man with unkempt hair swirling around his twin
cowlicks, in faded jeans with a tear on the right knee, was sitting at one table, tuning his guitar
and trying a few chords. A dark frail-looking girl sat close to him, indifferently watching the
passersby on the street as she sipped at the straw into her bottle of Coke. The tip of her straw
was stained a deep red. "What, Filo? t was strange that Filo should be perturbed by the stain.
"Maybe they're lovers, ha Filo? he felt a twinge of envy. Maybe there was going to be a
performance later, and would she be singing? Four guys were noisily talking and laughing over
their bottles of beer and chicharon at another table, and rose as one with a loud cheer, "Rita! as
the pretty girl he was earlier looking at joined them.
A dj vu swept Paco to a familiar caf, he had met Rita before! Among other noisy customers,
but as he looked closely at her, he was certain it had never happened. No, it was not possible,
however Filo denied it. He looked again. Though the light from street and caf struggled with the
pervading dusk, Rita's face seemed to glow with a kind of companionable warmth. Just such
bright almond eyes, too, and a full sensual mouth... Rita threw her head back and laughed, and
Paco could hardly take his eyes off where the little delta between her breasts fairly glowed in the
hazy light. Something snakelike too about her as she leaned over the table to touch familiarly an
arm or push jestingly at one or the other of the flirtatious guys. "Like a snake, Filo? however did
he, Paco, get that impression? Filo sneered at Paco's recollection. He was only eighteen when
he had gone up to Baguio for the first time and proposed to meet the woman caller at Star Caf.
She too had long dark hair and wore a tight dark red dress which showed her figure to
advantage. No, she was not a Chinese 73estizo like Rita, but she was not unattractive. Her
name, she had told him over the phone, was Zita.
His parents didn't know at the time that he was attending the YMCA Summer Youth Leadership
Conference. t wasn't right, they would have said, to participate in a Protestant fellowship. He
went ahead of his friends Nelson and Deomund from UP Los Baos to see the city for himself
the day before, enjoy the scenery freely wandering around, even perhaps write ardent verses
under the pine trees for Deomund's sister, Celine, without the distraction of endless debates
with Nelson on what makes a poem.
At the bus stationwas it somewhere near Tutuban? He couldn't quite recall just nowafter a
hurried lunch, he noticed that his Dangwa ticket bore his lucky number: 7490. Neither could he
recall where Nelson had read that 4 was in Chinese mythology the number for Death, but it had
always seemed to him a good omen. He sat almost at the edge of his seat during the entire trip
because he had an old couple for seatmates, an enormously fat woman with a can of La Perla
biscuits on her lap where she would dip from time to time for a nibble, and a small, sickly looking
man, obviously her husband, who was quite glum but would sometimes mutter and whine to
himself. To keep from failing or pressing against the glum old man whenever the bus made a
sharp turn, he would grip hard the bar on the back of the opposite seat across the aisle which
had become cluttered with luggage and boxes. He decided the old couple wouldn't be pleasant
company for six hours, and pretended to be dozing most of the time while keeping his grip with
an outstretched hand on his bar. The fat woman never offered him a biscuit during the entire
trip.
Isbo! Isbo!" the conductor cried before they went up Kennon Road. The bus stopped at a
roadside where, as the cloud of dust settled, he could see dark naked boys cavorting like nimble
goats over the rocks and diving into the clear waters of a mountain stream that glittered in the
sun. A number of passengers, among them the old couple, went down to relieve themselves
among the scraggly bushes. t was a painful sight, the fat woman with her husband in tow
navigating the cluttered aisle, stepping carefully over the luggage and holding on to the seats or
the other passengers, as they made their way to the door. Outside, in the soft wash of five
o'clock sunlight, the glum old man had to cling to the fat woman's neck with his left arm as he
stood shaking, waited, and then blessed the grass and scatter of shards on the ground.
As the bus climbed the zigzag along the mountain slopes, Paco's ears seemed suddenly to
have fallen deaf and then softly popped and filled again with the bus engine's roar and the
passengers' incessant chatter. He felt buoyant and free, eagerly awaiting his first sight of
Baguio as pine trees raced past the fat woman's dozing head at the window and flushed the
cool mountain air with their fresh invigorating scent. His eye caught a waterfall dropping
gracefully like a long, serene sheet of shimmering lace down a cliff crowded with desperate
trees and shrubs. How he wished, as the sight vanished around a bend, he could get off there
awhile to stretch his cramped legs and gaze at the silent marvel of clear mountain water leaping
out of the sky! Was it perhaps an American colonial officer who called it Bridal Veil the first time
that he climbed up to the site of Baguio from camp to camp on a relay of horses? Who was the
bride he thought ofperhaps an gorot maid, a village chief's peace offering. Paco dismissed
his fantasy. Deomund would surely scoff: "So the past romanticizes itself to clear its
conscience. When Paco saw the gigantic lion's head carved out of the rock over a cliff's edge,
he knew they would he in Baguio soon enough.
They drove past villas and pretty cottages along a ridge amid their lush flowering gardens, a
roadside caf, a sprawling bungalow displaying its rich stores of woodcraft and woven things
Ah, here at last, thought Paco, the summer capital of government and the rich, the Shangri-La
of honeymoons. The bus chugged tiredly on a narrow dirt road to its station, on either side a
clutter of shanties and ramshackle stores, and ragged children playing among the litter of the
poora squatter colony among pine trees vanishing down a ravine. Through the tall pines like
towers lost in the gathering shadows, Paco glimpsed the dull gold-brown sheen of dome and
spires, the Baguio Cathedral in the last light of day.
At the bus station, he asked for directions to Session Road from a boy vendor of strawberries in
little rattan baskets. A cab driver offered to take him to Patria nn, but no, he preferred to walk
the distance, breathe the cool pine-scented air, and jostle with the crowd strolling pell-mell down
Session Road as the city throbbed to life in the neon flood and blare of music and hubbub of
trade and fellowship. He was in no hurry to get to his inn. His luggage was light, which he slung
over his shoulder, and despite the long trip, he felt energized by the festive tumult around him.
Neither was he hungry; perhaps he might just have a snack before midnight in one of those bars
that he had passed. Never had he felt freer, it was as though he had all of life and the world to
enjoy at leisure. He was glad when, at the inn, he was given a room that looked out on an empty
lot, filled with the debris of a wrecked building but gazing out on Session Road so that, at his
window, he caught still the strains of music from the bars and felt the quiet, undemanding
companionship of strangers in the streaming crowd.
The phone suddenly rang, startling him. He hadn't told either Deomund or Nelson about Patria
nn. "Hello? Perhaps someone had dialed the wrong number. "Yes? A tinny rasp at the other
end. "Who is it? Standing by the large bed, he held the telephone set absently over the lamp at
a low side table. "You don't know me, a woman's soft voice, "if you're lonely, 'm at Star
Caf. s it right to justhang up' now? "Hello? pretending he didn't quite hear. But she
probably sensed his confusion. "Will you come? So frank and direct a dare, and is he able? A
listening silence like a spell. Who is she? "t's okay, just got in. at once he felt stupid. ".
Yes, why shouldn't he just hang up, 'Sorry, ma'am'a cruel touch! "Oh, a sigh, or so he
imagined, "'ll wait, take your time. What lame excuse now? He'd be a silly "country bumpkin,
in Nelson's words. "Alright, pretending casualness, a cool indifference. "'ll see you there. He
heard a low nervous giggle, as to say perhaps how easily she had won! "Oh, how nice. like
your voice. Call me Zita. She twitters, and he is caught! But she cannot see, he had better have
a hold on himself. "'m Filo, the first name that came to mind "how will know it's you, Zita? Ah,
what pretense, even the way he made his voice deep and resonant; he felt a tremor of
adventurous daring. What will happen now? He had crossed over. "'m in a red mini, with a
white handbag, Zita's voice caught on a light mischievous note, "waiting at the counter by the
cashier. Will you really come, Filo? She was confidently teasing. "Yes, he was surer of himself
now, "'ll have a dark-leather jacket on, and a blue cap, both which he didn't have, but he had
already formed a plan.
She was indeed sitting at the counter on a high stool near the cashier, her long shapely legs
catching the eye at once, and a glass of Coke beside her small white handbag. He dallied just
outside Star Caf to buy the anila Times from an old woman vendor before he took a corner
table at the foot of a stair where he took cover in the editorial page. Ostensibly reading"Oh,
just coffee, black ha," to the Chinese waiter who hovered above the pagehe watched Zita
cross her legs and lean her head a little on her left hand which she had placed behind her ear,
her long dark hair flowing to the small of her back. She was not unattractive, just about his age,
too, and she cut a nice sensuous figure in her red mini. He was glad he hadn't said, "Oh, so
sorry, ma'am and hung up. Something easy and nimble too about her movement as, she
reached for her bag and took out a little mirror where she checked her face, frowning a little.
This is for real, Filo, he thought, he wasn't imagining a temptress in a garden. Perhaps Zita
earns her college tuition from tourists and vacationers. But now, what? Zita looked quickly
around as she put back the mirror into her bag, then scanned three, four customers as they
went in from the crowd of passersby and vendors on the pavement just outside Star Caf. She
straightened up, looked briefly in his direction where he slid between the movie pages and
reached for his cup of coffee. For a split second there, did not her glance catch his eye, his
solitariness suddenly suspect, as his hand froze at his cup? She must already have paid her bill,
or perhaps, she was a favored customer at the caf; pushing aside her empty glass, she spoke
to the cashier, slid gracefully from her high stool at the counter, and left him stranded, somehow
disconsolate, amid all the movies "Now Showing.
His eyes followed Zita's dark red form and quickly lost her in the crowd. But Filo still pursued
her, calling her name. How he filled Paco with distaste. The milling crowd on Session Road
suddenly seemed cheerless and indifferent. Passing by a bar called Melody, he thought a snack
would feel like gravel in his mouth. Zita? Probably his own fiction. Couldn't he just have walked
casually up to her, confidently touch her arm on the counter, say "'m Filo. Now she was only
an imaginary garden, and Filo the only live toad there, he could croak all night! He went up to
his room and stripped to mock Filo in the bathroom mirror. Filo only hovers at the edge of critical
moments, but does not live. At heart perhaps, give him breath and space for action, a schemer,
and like all schemers, slinks away as the moment rises to its accomplishment. Ah, he was
thoroughly punished for his empty daring.
"O, Paco, how long were you waiting? He started at Bianca's cheery voice as she tapped lightly
his elbow on the balcony's railing. She looked pretty and elegant in her plaid skirt, sky blue
blouse, and a silken scarf around her throat. Paco was glad he hadn't gone back to the hotel to
look for her. She always seemed to bring exhilaration to his accustomed solitude where Filo, he
imagined, would just sulk in a shallow pond, his dreams awash in lichen. t was what drew him
to her, not simply that hey enjoyed their imagination together in creating images and texts for
their clients, it always seemed as though they were opening up worlds where they could be
quite free, basking in their fantastic light; no, not only the free rein to their imagination, but her
vitality, which seemed to sharpen a sad knowledge, long denied, that he had missed those
tricky and delicious moments with women in his youth's dry and desolate solitariness; Bianca's
was a kind of wild electric vibrancy which often expressed itself in youthful mischief, when she'd
slice into his seriousness with some witty gibe or even play a trick or two on his projects,
deliberately confounding the mathematics in some corner of the budget (but she always found a
clever way for him to notice the absurd error).
"'m so sorry, Paco, had to help the girls run photocopies. "t's okay, Bai, was just watching
Rita. "Rita? Bianca's eyes squinted with mock envy. "t's a secret. He wanted to see surprise
on her face. "Oh. you were dreaming! she jeered blithely. "Look there. but keep your voice
down. There, with those boisterous crooks. She's very pretty, no? "So. you were dreaming.
She looked at him, smiling, and he laughed. t was so characteristic of Bianca, scoring at once
and taking charge, while he let things be, considering most as indifferent, and content to be left
alone or merely jest and banter. "O, but was also thinking, how do you steal an image from that
scene for a Coca-Cola commercial? "Right, she taunted, "how do you rouse a clich? "Maybe
you'd like to look around in the shop? "No, let's go somewhere else. "Neutron's? Bianca
nodded. "The evening's so cool, Paco, let's enjoy it and walk.
They took the spiral stairs down to the caf. As they passed Rita's table, Bianca glanced at her,
the way a woman swiftly appraises another, it always mystified Paco why women seem
instinctively driven to it. As they rounded a corner of the street, she asked, "Did you just invent
that name for her? "No, heard those guys call her Rita, "She's pretty, she concluded, "with a
mole on her lip which makes her a chatterbox. Paco couldn't help but laugh, "Such a serious
charge, Bai!
As they turned another corner, they could see through the dark cascade of pine trees down a
winding street, dimly lighted Burnham Park and its small glimmering lake, now quite deserted.
Neutron's was a private cozy caf on a hill that overlooked it. Only a few customers were quietly
conversing at small round tables. Seeming to flow and tingle like a brook in air were soft strains
played by a pianist behind a trellis of flowering plants. They took a table in an alcove and
ordered drinks, de menthe for Bianca and vodka tonic for himself.
"Well, you start it, Bai, as they waited for their drinks, "you said we have things to talk over.
"Okay, fingering her scarf around her throat, "you just seem a little distant these days. s there
something. wrong? "Really? but Paco knew it was coming, Bianca was always forthright, "it
may just be something that worries me. in the family, you know. He lighted a cigarette. Bianca
seemed to study him a while. "Dylan is asthmatic. But we've been to an acupuncturist, think it'll
cure the kid.
Paco considered his white lie. t would be indelicate to involve Agnes; besides, his impression of
her odd silences on Bianca might really be quite spurious. He remembered Dylan's first attack
of asthma a month back. The poor kid barged crying into their bedroom, breathing heavily. "t's
alright, son, he tried to comfort him as he got out of bed and placed his arm around his son's
shoulder, "you can sleep with usas Dylan used to when he was little. But he felt helpless
before his son's anguish and could only wish it were his own affliction. Agnes went to the
medicine cabinet and set up the respirator. She took off Dylan's shirt and rubbed some ointment
on his chest as he lay in bed, gasping for breath. Through all that, leaning on the headboard, he
kept gently tapping his son's shoulder as to tame his drowning, and as he watched mother and
son, he felt a wave of tenderness toward Agnes.
"Acupuncture? Bianca broke into his thoughts. "Yes, he pulled himself up, "Dr. Jesus Santiago,
he's getting to be quite famous. He trained in China, 'm told, after Harvard medical school. "
sure hope, Paco, your son gets well soon. Can acupuncture treat insomnia, do you think? "O,
should think so, but 'll ask next time we visit.
They fell silent awhile as a waitress in a light green uniform came with their drinks. She looked
at Paco with a querying smile, Would that be all? And he waved her away, "Just ice water,
please, and an ashtray, ha."
He looked earnestly at Bianca. " think need to be sure about something. "What? teasing.
"Does it bother you, Bai, when people talk, mean, seeing how were often together, they'd be
gossiping soon enough. "O, would just ignore it, gossips are so empty-headed. "Trouble is,
swirling the ice in his drink, "they don't know how else to fill up. "Too bad, shaking her head.
"Well, as for me, 'd actually be pleased, said Paco, chuckling and looking slyly at her. " think it
would sort of improve my reputation. "Meaning? her eyes lighted up mocking. "That there's
danger in my character, Paco pursued quizzically, but half-serious, "not all milk of kindness,
you know; it has a dark side. "So has everyone, but then, laughing, "as to that sleazy fame you
want, you'd be using me. "Gads, thought you said you wouldn't mind the whole town talking.
"Now do, becausewhy do you want a double? "The dark side needs light. "Paco, you're
being melodramatic. Are you writing a story?
She was close. Filo, it occurred to him, was not quite man at his bestPaco smiled over his
drinkno, yet deeper than he knew himself, with quite a pagan notion of sexuality. f Eve, he'd
darkly say, were the first woman, then woman is life's very source, and man must connect with
her or be less than human; man is the parasite, drawing his vigor, his machismo, from that
source, her sex. Gads! How Filo's silly notions carry him away. He crushed his cigarette in the
ashtray.
"Am writing a: story? he echoed. "Actually, at lnday's, was thinking that. On a sudden he
remembered the near fatal accident with Agnes two weeks back that he had told Bianca about,
and a strange intuition swept through his mind, a sense that for one deeply troubled and in
denial, something just happens or erupts as though to express the unnamed distress. But how
really stupid of him then! As their old Ford stalled on a slope along Krus na Ligas on their way to
a reunion of friends, how could he have let go of the handbrake!
"Did you write stories before, Paco? "No. only recalled just now that near accident with our
car. "Ah, that was terrible. Bianca waved her hand as though to ward off an imminent
tragedy.
But Paco couldn't shake off his memory. t wasn't so much the terror of that moment that shook
him, but an immense feeling afterwards of sadness, as though for the first time in his life he
knew emptiness if he should lose Agnes. But what stark mindlessness! When their Ford stalled,
he had put the hand brake on, gone out of the car, and walked to a mechanic's shop they had
just passed. What luck, he had told himself, for he knew little about cars, and Agnes would
sometimes reprove him for not reading the car's manual. The mechanic told him to release the
hand brake, or so he thought he heard, and he did like an idiot! Opened the car door as he
stood on the street and released the brake. Of course the car slid down, rolling backward
without direction, and desperately trying to seize it by its side, he fell on the road where he
barely had time and space to duck as the open door swung past his head. He picked himself up
and scurried after the runaway car, unmindful of vehicles driving past up and down on either
side of the slope. All this time Agnes froze on the front seat, she told him afterwards that she
closed her eyes when she saw a truck down the slope, and thought he would surely go under its
wheels.
"Hello? Bianca shook his hand. "Oh, sorry, Bai. got distracted. The same feeling swept
through him, a great inexplicable sadness, sweet to the soul as it suffered the sudden rush of
memory and in a flash seemed to have at last fathomed a great mystery. Oh, a tired truism. t
certainly is, how each day's familiarity blinds one, and the easy companionship devours the
ardor of feeling, and one takes the affection freely given, and takes it, like the air one breathes
without having to take thought. Filo could be cynical about all that, and stand back and jeer, but
right now, now, as he remembered how the Ford caught on a tree stump where it would have
plunged into the squatter's shanties across the shallow ditch, the sudden tide of sadness was
suffering almost more than he could bear so that his tears seemed to well up where he stood
shamed upon a crumbling strand of his life's own time.
"Paco. is anything wrong? You look. Bianca gently pressed his hand. "t's alright, . aybe
this vodka, suggested itself; no, he must not lie again. He felt strangely pure with the sudden
resolve, a new wholeness seemed to surge through him. How could he in his heart return to
Agnes if he didn't face up his feeling for Bianca, make a clean breast of it, and let go? Now was
the moment he had sensed at nday's candle shop. "Have told you about Zita? "You mean
Rita? "No. it was my first time in Baguio. "Ah, yes, that woman who called you at Patria nn,
you played a heartless trick on her! " was only eighteen, and think frightened. Nothing really
happened there, but maybe it struck me then. about sex and women, you know. Ah, there
was no help for Filo now, so daring in dream, who wouldn't think of jumping like Basho's frog!
"What? she looked mockingly at him. "There's that need. maybe we guys joke no end about it
to sort of make light of it. Bianca shook her head, smiling. "Oh, you're just thinking it, Paco,
intellectualizing it. t's the normal thing, but, laughing softly, "it's just to start things. He laughed
with her, but the moment had come, although he had a vague sense of its rashness. " meant to
tell you, Bai. 'm quite drawn to you, but. But it isn't right, oh, he shouldn't have so foolishly
blurted, what need to be so honest?
Bianca looked startled, and the mocking glint in her eyes blinked out. " know, Bai, it's crazy.
She was silent a long time. "But if the feeling is honest? t was almost a whisper. "Oh, it's
honest, Bianca, was all he could say as he stared at his drink. Couldn't he have found another
way without hurt to be open and plain? He felt oppressed by a feeling that he had transgressed
a silence between them where their light heartedness with one another had seemed perfectly
natural.
"Paco, Bianca placed her hand gently on his. She sounded distant and looked beautiful and
sad and inaccessible. I'm sorry, Bai, it's crazy of me, let it go, he wanted to say. "Maybe, Paco,
it's really just Zitalike you have to make it up to her. She let her hand stay on his.
Was she just saying it? But, Yes, he thought bitterly, it might be Zita, for she had become a
creature of his disappointed memory; but also, No, for it was rather with having to be honest
with Bianca, by a hurtful bridge of poor words, that he had crossed over a darkness. He looked
at her as though across a great distance, "You may be right, Bai. he said, and pressed her
hand. What words more? I'm sorry, Bai. anything more would seem to mock the silence that
he had in foolhardiness transgressed. She smiled at him and released his hand.

by Gmino H. bad

















REPUBLC OF THE PHLPPNES
EULOGO ''AMANG'' RODRGUEZ
NSTTUTE OF SCENCE AND TECHNOLOGY
NAGTAHAN SAMPALOC, MANLA
COLLEGE OF PUBLC ADMNSTRATON AND CRMNOLOGY




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Su8MMl11Lu 1C MS LvLL?n 8 CLLLS1lAL
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uA1L Su8MMl11Lu 10/11/2011

REFLECTON
Ang galing nang mga pinoy ay kahanga-hanga talaga lalo na sa larangan
ng literatura mapa tula, dula, mga maikling kwento o mahaba man
nangingibabaw parin ang galing ng mga piny san man sa mundo. Tulad na
lang halimbawa sa mga nanalo sa don carlos palanca awards for literature
pinatunayan ng mga nanalo dito na kaya nila makipagsabayan sa iba.
Hanga ako sa kanila isa silang inspirasyon para sa akin dahil kahit kathang
isip lang nila ay hindi matutumbasan ng kahit ano mang bagay ang
kanilang mga ginawa sa larangan ng literature. Akoy maraming natutunan
sa kanilang mga ginaaw at ng dahil sa palanca awards maraming mga
manunulat ang naiingganyo na sumali at maipakita nila ang kanilang
natatanging angking talinto pagdating sa literature sa lahat ng nanalo
congratulation sa inyo isa kayong kahanga-hangang pilipino.