FAITH, LOVE, TIME AND DR. LAZARO

February 6, 2010

FAITH, LOVE, TIME AND DR. LAZARO

By: Greg Brillantes


From the upstairs veranda, Dr. Lazaro had a view of stars, the country darkness, the lights on the distant highway at the edge of town. The phonograph in the sala played Chopin – like a vast sorrow controlled, made familiar, he had wont to think. But as he sat there, his lean frame in the habitual slack repose took after supper, and stared at the plains of night that had evoked gentle images and even a kind of peace (in the end, sweet and invincible oblivion), Dr. Lazaro remembered nothing, his mind lay untouched by any conscious thought, he was scarcely aware of the April heat; the pattern of music fell around him and dissolved swiftly, uncomprehended. It was as though indifference were an infection that had entered his blood it was everywhere in his body. In the scattered light from the sala his angular face had a dusty, wasted quality, only his eyes contained life. He could have remained there all evening, unmoving, and buried, it is were, in a strange half-sleep, had his wife not come to tell him he was wanted on the phone.

Gradually his mind stirred, focused; as he rose from the chair he recognized the somber passage in the sonata that, curiosly, made him think of ancient monuments, faded stone walls, a greyness. The brain filed away an image; and arrangement of sounds released it… He switched off the phonograph, suppressed and impatient quiver in his throat as he reached for the phone: everyone had a claim on his time. He thought: Why not the younger ones for a change? He had spent a long day at the provincial hospital.

The man was calling from a service station outside the town – the station after the agricultural high school, and before the San Miguel bridge, the man added rather needlessly, in a voice that was frantic yet oddly subdued and courteous. Dr. Lazaro thad heard it countless times, in the corridors of the hospitals, in waiting rooms: the perpetual awkward misery. He was Pedro Esteban, the brother of the doctor’s tenant in Nambalan, said the voice, trying to make itself less sudden remote.

But the connection was faulty, there was a humming in the wires, as though darkness had added to the distance between the house in the town and the gas station beyond the summer fields. Dr. Lazaro could barely catch the severed phrases. The man’s week-old child had a high fever, a bluish skin; its mouth would not open to suckle. They could not take the baby to the poblacion, they would not dare move it; its body turned rigid at the slightest touch. If the doctor would consent to come at so late an hour, Esteban would wait for him at the station. If the doctor would be so kind…


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

His wife looked up from her needles and twine, under the shaded lamp of the bedroom; she had finished the pullover for the grandchild in Bagiuo and had begun work, he noted, on another of those altar vestments for the parish church. Religion and her grandchild certainly kept her busy … She looked at him, into so much to inquire as to be spoken to: a large and placid woman.

“Shouldn’t have let the drive go home so early,” Dr. Lazaro said. “They had to wait till now to call … Child’s probably dead…”

“Ben can drive for you.”

“I hardly see that boy around the house. He seems to be on vacation both from home and in school.”

“He’s downstairs,” his wife said.

Dr. Lazaro put on fresh shirt, buttoned it with tense, abrupt motions, “I thought he’d gone out again… Who’s that girl he’s been seeing?...It’s not just warm, it’s hot. You should’ve stayed on in Baguio… There’s disease, suffering, death, because Adam ate the apple. They must have an answer to everything… “He paused at the door, as though for the echo of his words.

Mrs. Lazaro had resumed the knitting; in the circle of yellow light, her head bowed, she seemed absorbed in some contemplative prayer. But her silences had ceased t disturb him, like the plaster saints she kept in the room, in their cases of glass, or that air she wore of conspiracy, when she left with Ben for Mass in the mornings. Dr. Lazaro would ramble about miracle drugs, politics, music, the common sense of his unbelief; unrelated things strung together in a monologue; he posed questions, supplied with his own answers; and she would merely nod, with an occasional “Yes?” and “Is that so?” and something like a shadow of anxiety in her gaze.


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


I’ll drive, Pa?” Ben followed him through the kitchen, where the maids were ironing the week’s wash, gossiping, and out to the yard shrouded in the dimness of the single bulb under the eaves. The boy push back the folding doors of the garage and slid behind the wheel.

“Somebody’s waiting at the gas station near San Miguel. You know the place?”

“Sure,” Ben said.

The engine sputtered briefly and stopped. “Battery’s weak,” Dr. Lazaro said. “Try it without the lights,” and smelled the gasoline overflow as the old Pontiac finally lurched around the house and through the trellised gate, its front sweeping over the dry dusty street.

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


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

“A lot of what, Pa?”

“The ways you drive. Very professional.”

In the glow of the dashboard lights, the boy’s face relaxed, smiled. “Tio Cesar let me use his car, in Manila. On special occasions.”

“No reckless driving now,” Dr. Lazaro said. “Some fellows think it’s smart. Gives them a thrill. Don’t be like that.”

“No, I won’t, Pa. I just like to drive and – and go place, that’s all.”

Dr. Lazaro watched the young face intent on the road, a cowlick over the forehead, the mall curve of the nose, his own face before he left to study in another country, a young student of full illusions, a lifetime ago; long before the loss of faith, God turning abstract, unknowable, and everywhere, it seemed to him, those senseless accidents of pain. He felt a need to define unspoken things, to come closer somehow to the last of his sons; one of these days, before the boy’s vacation was over, they might to on a picnic together, a trip to the farm; a special day for the two of them – father and son, as well as friends. In the two years Ben had been away in college, they had written a few brief, almost formal letters to each other: your money is on the way, these are the best years, make the most of them…

Time was moving toward them, was swirling around and rushing away and it seemed Dr. Lazaro could almost hear its hallow receding roar; and discovering his son’s profile against the flowing darkness, he had a thirst to speak. He could not find what it was he had meant to say.

The agricultural school buildings came up in the headlights and glided back into blurred shapes behind a fence.

“What was that book you were reading, Ben?”

“A biography,” the boy said.


“Statesman? Scientist maybe?”

It’s about a guy who became a monk.”

“That’s your summer reading?” Dr. Lazaro asked with a small laugh, half mockery, half affection. “You’re getting to be a regular saint, like your mother.”

“It’s an interesting book,” Ben said.

“I can imagine…” He dropped the bantering tone. “I suppose you’ll go on to medicine after your AB?”

“I don’t know yet, Pa.”

Tiny moth like blown bits of paper flew toward the windshield and funneled away above them. “You don’t have to be a country doctor like me, Ben. You could build up a good practice in the city. Specialized in cancer, maybe or neuro-surgery, and join a good hospital.” It was like trying to recall some rare happiness, in the car, in the shifting darkness.

“I’ve been thinking about it,” Ben said. It’s a vocation, a great one. Being able to really help people, I mean.”

“You’ve done well in math, haven’t you?”

“Well enough, I guess,” Ben said.

Engineering is a fine course too, “ Dr. Lazaro said. “There’ll be lots of room for engineers. Planners and builders, they are what this country needs. Far too many lawyers and salesmen these days. Now if your brother –“ He closed his eyes, erasing the slashed wrists, part of the future dead in a boarding-house room, the landlady whimpering, “He was such a nice boy, doctor, your son…” Sorrow lay in ambush among the years.

“I have all summer to think about, “ Ben said.

“There’s no hurry,” Dr. Lazaro said. What was it he had wanted to say? Something about knowing each other, about sharing; no, it was not that at all…

The stations appeared as they coasted down the incline of a low hill, its fluorescent lights the only brightness on the plain before them, on the road that led farther into deeper darkness. A freight truck was taking on a load of gasoline as they drove up the concrete apron and came to a stop beside the station shed.


A short barefoot man in a patchwork shirt shuffled forward to meet them.
I am Esteban, doctor,” the man said, his voice faint and hoarse, almost inaudible, and he bowed slightly with a careful politeness. He stood blinking, looking up at the doctor, who had taken his bag and flashlight form the car.

In the windless space, Dr. Lazaro could hear Esteban’s labored breathing, the clank of the metal nozzle as the attendant replaced it in the pump. The men in the truck stared at them curiously.

Esteban said, pointing at the darkness beyond the road: “We will have to go through those fields, doctor, then cross the river,” The apology for yet one more imposition was a wounded look in his eyes. He added, in his subdued voice: “It’s not very far…” Ben had spoken to the attendants and was locking the car.

The truck rumbled and moved ponderously onto the road, its throb strong and then fading in the warm night stillness.

“Lead the way, “ Dr. Lazaro said, handing Esteban the flashlight.

They crossed the road, to a cleft in the embankment that bordered the fields, Dr. Lazaro was sweating now in the dry heat; following the swinging ball of the flashlight beam, sorrow wounded by the stifling night, he felt he was being dragged, helplessly, toward some huge and complicated error, a meaningless ceremony. Somewhere to his left rose a flapping of wings, a bird cried among unseen leaves: they walked swiftly, and there was only the sound of the silence, the constant whirl of crickets and the whisper of their feet on the path between the stubble fields.

With the boy close behind him, Dr. Lazaro followed Esteban down a clay slope to the slope and ripple of water in the darkness. The flashlight showed a banca drawn up at the river’s edge. Esteban wade waist-deep into the water, holding the boat steady as Dr. Lazaro and Ben stepped on the board. In the darkness, with the opposite bank like the far rise of an island, Dr. Lazaro had a moment’s tremor of fear as the boar slide out over the black water; below prowled the deadly currents; to drown her in the dephts of the night… But it took only a minute to cross the river. “We’re here doctor,” Esteban said, and they padded p a stretch of sand to a clump of trees; a dog started to bark, the shadows of a kerosene lamp wavered at a window.

Unsteady on a steep ladder, Dr. Lazaro entered the cave of Esteban’s hut. The single room contained the odors he often encountered but had remained alien to, stirring an impersonal disgust: the sourish decay, the smells of the unaired sick. An old man greeted him, lisping incoherently; a woman, the grandmother, sat crouched in a corner, beneath a famed print of the Mother of Perpetual Help; a boy, about ten, slept on, sprawled on a mat. Esteban’s wife, pale and thin, lay on the floor with the sick child beside her.


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

Dr. Lazaro made a cursory check – skin dry, turning cold; breathing shallow; heartbeat
fast and irregular. And I that moment, only the child existed before him; only the child and his own mind probing now like a hard gleaming instrument. How strange that it should still live, his mind said as it considered the spark that persisted within the rigid and tortured body. He was alone with the child, his whole being focused on it, in those intense minutes shaped into a habit now by so many similar instances: his physician’s knowledge trying to keep the heart beating, to revive an ebbing life and somehow make it rise again.

Dr. Lazaro removed the blankets that bundled the child and injected a whole ampule to check the tonic spasms, the needle piercing neatly into the sparse flesh; he broke another ampule, with deft precise movements , and emptied the syringe, while the infant lay stiff as wood beneath his hands. He wiped off the sweat running into his eyes, then holding the rigid body with one hand, he tried to draw air into the faltering lungs, pressing and releasing the chest; but even as he worked to rescue the child, the bluish color of its face began to turn gray.


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

Esteban said: “Doctor..”

He shook his head, and replaced the syringe case in his bag, slowly and deliberately, and fastened the clasp. T Here was murmuring him, a rustle across the bamboo floor, and when he turned, Ben was kneeling beside the child. And he watched, with a tired detached surprise, as the boy poured water from a coconut shell on the infant’s brow. He caught the words half-whispered in the quietness: “.. in the name of the Father.. the Son… the Holy Ghost…”

The shadows flapped on the walls, the heart of the lamp quivering before it settled into a slender flame. By the river dogs were barking. Dr. Lazaro glanced at his watch; it was close to midnight. Ben stood over the child, the coconut shell in his hands, as though wandering what next to do with it, until he saw his father nod for them to go.

Doctor, tell us – “Esteban took a step forward.

“I did everything: Dr. Lazaro said. “It’s too late –“


He gestured vaguely, with a dull resentment; by some implicit relationship, he was also responsible, for the misery in the room, the hopelessness. “There’s nothing more I can do, Esteban, “ he said. He thought with a flick of anger: Soon the child will be out of it, you ought to be grateful. Esteban’s wife began to cry, a weak smothered gasping, and the old woman was comforting her, it is the will of God, my daughter…”

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

A late moon had risen, edging over the tops of the trees, and in the faint wash of its light, Esteban guided them back to the boat. A glimmering rippled on the surface of the water as they paddled across,; the white moonlight spread in the sky, and a sudden wind sprang rain-like and was lost in the tress massed on the riverbank.

“I cannot thank you enough, doctor,” Esteban said. “You have been very kind to come this far, at this hour.” He trail is just over there, isn’t it?” He wanted to be rid of the man, to be away from the shy humble voice, the prolonged wretchedness.

I shall be grateful always, doctor,” Esteban said. “And to you son, too. God go with you.” He was a faceless voice withdrawing in the shadows, a cipher in the shabby crowds that came to town on market days.

“Let’s go, Ben” Dr. Lazaro said.

They took the path across the field; around them the moonlight had transformed the landscape, revealing a gentle, more familiar dimension, a luminous haze upon the trees stirring with a growing wind; and the heat of the night had passed, a coolness was falling from the deep sky. Unhurried, his pace no more than a casual stroll, Dr. Lazaro felt the oppression of the night begin to life from him, an emotionless calm returned to his mind. The sparrow does not fall without the Father’s leave he mused at the sky, but it falls just the same. But to what end are the sufferings of a child? The crickets chirped peacefully in the moon-pale darkness beneath the trees.

“You baptized the child, didn’t you, Ben?”

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


He used to believe in it, too. The power of the Holy Spirit washing away original sin, the purified soul made heir of heaven. He could still remember fragments of his boy hood faith, as one might remember an improbable and long-discarded dream.

“Lay baptism, isn’t that the name for it?”

“Yes,” Ben said. I asked the father. The baby hadn’t been baptized.” He added as they came to the embankment that separated the field from the road: “They were waiting for it to get well.”

The station had closed, with only the canopy light and the blobed neon sign left burning. A steady wind was blowing now across the filed, the moonlit plains.

He saw Ben stifle a yawn. I’ll drive,” Dr. Lazaro said.

His eyes were not what they used to be, and he drove leaning forward, his hands tight on the wheel. He began to sweat again, and the empty road and the lateness and the memory of Esteban and of the child dying before morning in the impoverished, lamplit room fused into tired melancholy. He started to think of his other son, one he had lost.

He said, seeking conversation, If other people carried on like you, Ben, the priests would be run out of business.”

The boy sat beside him, his face averted, not answering.

“Now, you’ll have an angel praying for you in heaven,” Dr. Lazaro said, teasing, trying to create an easy mood between the. “What if you hadn’t baptized the baby and it died? What would happen to it then?”

It won’t see God,” Ben said.

“But isn’t that unfair?” It was like riddle, trivial, but diverting. “Just because..”

“Maybe God has another remedy,” Ben said. “I don’t know. But the church says.”


He could sense the boy groping for the tremendous answers. “The Church teaches, the church says…. “ God: Christ: the communications of saints: Dr. Lazaro found himself wondering about the world of novenas and candles, where bread and wine became the flesh and blood of the Lord, and a woman bathed in light appeared before children, and mortal men spoke of eternal life; the visions of God, the body’s resurrection at the tend of time. It was a country from which he was barred; no matter – the customs, the geography didn’t appeal to him. But in the care suddenly, driving through the night, he was aware of an obscure disappointment, a subtle pressure around his heart, as though he had been deprived of a certain joy…

A bus roared around a hill toward, its lights blinding him, and he pulled to the side of the road, braking involuntarily as a billow of dust swept over the car. He had not closed the window on his side, and the flung dust poured in, the thick brittle powder almost choking him, making him cough, his eyes smarting, before he could shield his face with his hands. In the headlights, the dust sifted down and when the air was clear again, Dr. Lazaro, swallowing a taste of earth, of darkness, maneuvered the car back onto the road, his arms exhausted and numb. He drove the last half-mile to town in silence, his mind registering nothing but the frit of dust in his mouth and the empty road unwinding swiftly before him.


They reached the sleeping town, the desolate streets, the plaza empty in the moonlight, and the dhuddled shapes of houses, the old houses that Dr. Lazaro had always know. How many nights had he driven home like this through the quiet town, with a man’s life ended behind him, or a child crying newly risen from the womb; and a sense of constant motions, of change, of the days moving swiftly toward and immense reverlation touched him onced more, briefly, and still he could not find the words.. He turned the last corner, then steered the car down the graveled driveway to the garage, while Ben closed the gate. Dr. Lazaro sat there a momen, in the stillness, resting his eyes, conscious of the measured beating of his heart, and breathing a scent of dust that lingered on his clothes, his skin..SLowely he merged from the car, locking it, and went around the towere of the water-tank to the frotnyard where Ben Stood waiting.

With unaccustomed tenderness he placed a hand on Ben’s shoulder was they turned toward the ement –walled house. They had gone on a trip; they had come home safely together. He felt closer to the boy than he hade ever been in years.

“Sorry for ekeeping you up this late,” Dr. Lazaro said.

“It’s all right, Pa.”

Some night, huh, Ben? What you did back in that barrio” – ther was just the slightest patronage in this one –“ your momother will love to hear about it.”

He shook the boy beside him gently. “Reverend Father Ben Lazaro.”

The impulse of certain humor – it was part of the comradeship. He chuckled drowsily: father Lazaro, what must I do to gain eternal life?”

As he slid the door open on the vault of darkness, the familiar depth of the house, it came to Dr. Lazaro faitly in the late night that for certain things, like love there was only so much time. But the glimmer was lost instantly, buried in the mist of indifference and sleep rising now in his brain.


Posted by Rose Flores Martinez,iwrotefiction
4.27.2010

this will be translated in Filipino by rosalinda flores martinez
project for a translation class, Dr. Zeus Salazar

Maikling Kuwento: Economy Class

Maikling Kuwento: Economy Class

Economy Class

“Kita tau?” nabasa ko sa iskrin ng aking selfon.  Napangiti ako. Itiniggil kong muli ang paghuhugas ng mga pinggan para makapag-text.

Kelan?

“Maya sa baba ng LRT.  Kain sa labas tapos, bahala na.Sige.  Tex kta maya kung tuloy.Miz na kita.”

Dalawang buwan na kaming magkakilala ni Alex.  Seatmate ko siya sa tren.

Dapat “first class with beds”ang  trennamin kaya lang  nagkaaberya.  Sabing train supervisor ay  mamili na lang daw kung gusto ang sunod na sleeper pero walang aircon o ang third class na paalis na.  Humingi ang supervisor ng patawad para sa PNR. 

“Ano pa nga ba ang magagawa ng mga pasahero,”  pakutya kong sabi para marinig ng marami.

Naghintay ang mga pasaherong gusto ng makaalis.

Ang third class ay walang aircon, walang sleeping beds, walang malambot na upuan. Ang mga ilaw ay parang kutitap ng gamogamu.Di tulad sa first class malamig at maluwang.  Sira ang carriage ng first class kaya ang mga pasaherong gustong makaluwas kaagad ay sumakay na rin.

“Bahala na, kung bukas pa ako luluwas ay hindi ako makakahabol sa meeting.”

Agawan kami sa pagpila sa ticket booth para ma-irefund ang pera.   Lahat nagbakasakali.  Pati ang apat na postoryosang senior citizens ay sumakay na rin.  Waring lahat kami sa first class ay may hinahabol.

Mabilis tumabi sa akin ang isang matandang lalaki. Grabe kung makatitig. Para akong kakainin.  Umalis ako sa tabi niya at nagawi ako sa pinto katabi ng isang babae at isang lalaki.  Nagusap kami ng katabi ko.Mayla ang pangalan ng babae.Natuwa ako dahil may kasama na ako.  Sa ilang sandali, lumipat si Mayla sa harapan dahil natakot sa katabi niyang lalaking mataba na siksik nang siksik sa kanya.  Sumenyas si Mayla sa akin.

Paalis na ang tren at tabi na nga kami ng lalaki at isang tineyger na may dalang lata ng biskuwit.

Ngumiti sa akin ang lalaki.  Ngumiti din ako.

“Bakit ka lumipat ?”  tanong ng lalaki.

Ayoko dun  sa dati.

Parang nahalata niya na natakot ako sa matandang lalaki.  “Takot ka dun sa mama?  Hindi ka aanuhin niyon.Matanda na si Tatay.”

Ayokong makipagsapalaran .Bastos siyang tumingin.Parang nanggigitgit pa ng katawan.

“Ako si Alex.”

Peechy.

Inilabas niya ang isang ID na nagpapatunay ng kanyang pagkatao.Isa siyang  agrikultyurist.

Ilang sandali pa umandar na ang tren. 

“Dapat hindi tayo dito nakasakay ngayon.  Sana nainform nila kaagad na may problema para napalitan agad ng ibang tren sa ibang araw.”

“Oo nga!Malaki and diperensya nitong PNR.  Dapat bigyang pansin ito ng gobyerno kasi inaasahan ang trenng  publiko.”

Ang trenay tatalon talon.Di gaanong mabilis.Ang mga katawan ng pasahero parang nakasakay ng kabayo.

“Diyos ko nakakatakot naman ang mga pintong dito, parang may giyera. Ang aluminom door  ay bukas- sarang humahampas.  Parang may labanan.

Natawa si Alexsa sinabi ko.

“May asawa ka na?”

Meron.

“Bakit hindi mo kasama?”

Nasa abroad.  Sa Dubai.

“Ako hiwalay.Kaya binata ako uli.  Ang ganda mo”   Misteryoso ang kanyang ngiti ngunit alam ko mabait siyang tao.

Pinagmasdan ko si Alex. Matikas.Mataas.  Moreno.  Ang mga bisig niya, maskulado at matatapang ang mga ugat.

Naging sagabal ang pinto ng tren sa akin,  sa diwa, pati na sa  pag-uusap namin.  Halos mapayuko ako sa takot na gustong magtago sa ilalim ng upuan.  Yun bang parang may kalaban ka na hindi mo nakikita.  Hindi ka man lamang makaganti.

Grabe naman ang pinto nila parang may sasalakay na mga terrorista .

Natatakot ka nanaman?  Huwag kang matakot, isipin mo ako ay sundalo.  Sanay ako sa bundok.  Tumawa siya.

Tumawa rin ako.

Pero kahit anong lakas at tapang niya grabe ang takot na bumalot sa akin nung gabing iyon.  Parang may dudukot ng likod ko sa bintana.  Parang may babaril sa bukas at sarang pintuan.  Parang may magtatapon ng Granada sa madilim na loob ng tren.

Marami sa amin ang waring hindi sanay sa third class na iyon dahil sa first class dapat kami nakasakay. Ang matandang babae sa harapan ko ang nagpalakas ng loob ko; ang akap niya ay ang kangyang higanteng kahon.  Waring sanay siya sa third class.  Nakihati ako sa nakita kong katapangan.

Ngunit sa paghampas na naman ng pinto ay nagulat akong muli.  “Diyos ko!”  Maluha-luha ako sa takot at hindi nagatubili si Alex.  Niyakap niya ako.  Mabilis at mahigpit niyakap ko rin siya.

Mayamaya tumigil mulisa isang estasyon ang tren.Bumitaw ang aming mga bisig.

Kalmadong muli ang mga pasahero. Tahimik ang lahat; maingat sa gabi.

“Iwan ko sa ‘yo ang gamit ko.  Punta lang ako sa comfort room.Ikaw?”

“Hindi, ayokong gumamit ng  toilet.”

Ngumiti sa akin si Alex. 

Naglakad siyang marahan, maingat para hindi madapa sa tren.  Malakas ang kanyang mga hita, matatas ang kanyang likod.

Ang bag niyang itim ay iniwan ngasa akin.  Parang gusto kong buksan upang malaman ko kung anong kulay ang bituka niya.

Maya maya pa bumalik  na si Alex.

Malinis ba ang toilet?tanong ko.

“Hehe, okay naman.CR ka na...”

Hindi.

“Ayaw mo lang yata,” parang nanunuya siya.

Ayaw ko talaga.  Isa isang lagok langng tubig ang iniinom ko.

“Hindi ka nagugutom?”

Hindi.

Andar ng andar and tren at marami pa kaming pinag-usapan.  Nawawala ng panandalian ang takot ko.  Pero bumabalik kapag biglang kumakalabog ang mga pinto.

Sa tuwing nahahalata niya ang sidhi ng takot sa ‘kin ay hinahawakan niya ang kamay ko.  Hinawakan ko rin siya.  Ramdam ko may  kapangyarihan ang kanyang mga kamay.

“Tulog ka na. Babantayan kita,” ang sabi ni Alex.

Okay lang ako. Ikaw na ang matulog at ako ang magbabantay.

Sa gabing iyong parang nakakita ako ng kasama sa biyahe. Malaking bulong ng aking puso ‘ Salamat po’. Marahil kung wala si Alex grabe na ang sakit ng utak at katawan ko sa takot.  Mabait ang Langit.

Payapang muli ang tren.Pawang lahat ng mga pasahero ay nakapikit.  Ang iba naman may headphones at nakikinig.

Ang ilaw sa loob ng tren ay kutitap ng isang wat lamang.Ano ba naman ang PNR?Sa isip ko kahit third class dapat may lock ang mga pinto, may wastong ilaw at malinis na toilet.  Dapat may gard din at kliner dahil 21^st century na tayo. 

Ensure passengers’ safety! Ginising ko si Alex.  Di ba Alex?

Tumawa siya at iminulat ang mga mata.

Hindi ako makatulog sa lalim ng gabi.  Si Alex paunti-unti and pikit.Ang mga tao tulog-gising.Ang ibang mga pasaheronakataas ang mga paa.  Kapag sathird class ka nakasakay, halos walang ayus.  Walang namber and upuan.  Pero kahit ganoon kagulo marami pa rin ang may mababait na kaluluwa at handang tumulong lalo na kapag may bata.  Mailap ang bawat isa, ngunit pawang buo ang bawat loob.

Alas-dos na ng gabi.  Tumigil muli ang tren.Nagbaba ng ilang mga pasahero.

Alex bakit hindi pa umaandar?  Ang tagal ng hinto?

“Huwag kang magalala, aalis na tayo.  Ilang sandali na lang.”

Maya-maya may mga taong papalapit.  Nagsisigawan.Isang grupo.  Ang mga tao sa loob naalarma. 

“Sa pinto, sa pinto, bantayan ang mga pinto!”sigaw ng kalalakihan.  Hindi ko alam kung bakit.  Matindi ang takot ko.  Mabilis bago makalapit ang grupo umandar na ang tren.Ang ibang mga babae, nagsigawan sa takot.  Nagkwentuhan ang mga pasaherong mailap.Nagdamayan.Nagsiinom ng tubig.Nagbigayan ng mga baon.

“Malamig ang mga kamay mo. Halika dito.”Niyakap niya ako ng mahipit.  “Matulog ka sa akin.”  Pinasandal ako ni Alex sa dibdib niya.  Sumandal ako.  Yumapos at inilapit ang buo kong katawan dahil sa takot.  Para akong bata na naghahanap ng kumot.  Ipinikit ko ang aking mga mata. 

“Matulog ka na.”  Hindi ako makapagsalita.  Ramdam ko hinalikan niya ang aking noo.  Pinabayaan ko siya.  Pagkatapos hinalikan niya ang aking pisngi, ang aking mga mata, ilong, labi.  Masarap siyang humalik pero hindi ako makaganti sa takot.

“Nandito lang ako.Magpahinga ka muna.”

Lagi kong hinihintay ang text ni Alex.  Simula ng maghiwalay kami sa tren sa celfon na lang ang usapan namin.  Hindi pa kami muling nagkita pero parang matagal na kaming magkakilala.  Alam niya ang buhay ko. 

“Tuloy tau mamaya sa Makati na lang.”

San?

“Sa Walter Mart.May ibibigay ako sau.”

“Sige.  Anong ibibigay mosa ‘kin? Tiket sa tren?  Pabiro kong tanong.

Sagot ng text ni Alex, “Singsing!”

/Rosalinda flores martinez. Katinigwriters 2014

Hi. This is Me. Have a good day everyone! Mwahs.

You. I Remember You (in the Anima Christi)

NET CHAT

Net Chat (A Fiction Story)


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NET CHAT



Madness creeps to explore new possibilities. How many men can a woman have in a day? I was curious. It was discovering a feeling I had not the luxury in life. I was in a barred, cemented walls that was almost like a tomb. A core in a crust. So I plunged my fears and swam across depths of time and space. First time.

I would taste the pleasure of emotions in words. It was a trance. A temporary exit to the power-playing people around me in the real-now. I began to find the answers to my complicated ideas, deconstructing and reconstructing every word; trying to separate water and oil. I would like to think, there is a knife on my neck and every wrong move I make would slit a cut on my throbbing throat like killing a helpless chicken.

Maybe, I can become what I dream now. In this development of technology, words and letters are like people talking to me face to face.



Connecting…



“Hello and heller!”

Everyone greeted everyone hello. Well, not hell and below, I suppose. It was a greeting of cheers like “Aloha” in Hawaiian and “Ciao” in Italian. I thought all eyes were on me. Searching me head to foot, undressing me, my heart and my soul. But I was armed and shielded. I was wearing a complete battle gear. I floated with the cursor throbbing systolic and diastolic. The keypads wrote the murmurs in the blue sea of fiber optic cables, wires, and wireless connections of the internet.

“How is everyone?

“I want to join in.”

“Nice and happy to be here!”

“Where are you from?”

I could not pretend. I got recharged by the electronic vibrations, pulling my fingers. My emotions were letting go. I needed someone to talk to – like a friend. Maybe another thrill seeker in a machine, or an android at my bidding. On and off with my PC, I was giggling – to this my net baptism. It seemed like exploring a part of the earth where a star would burst and become another planet.

Well, this is technology.

“Asl please…”

“What is asl?” My ignorance let me ask.

“Age, sex, location.”

“Okay.” I got so excited because these were the things I didn’t know.

“Asian, female, between 35-45 years old.”

I went private. At first, I was scared about these private domains. I was foreign to this idea of being too personal, and afraid of some people who were lewd. But I needed these experiences that could break the walls surrounding my routine and sad life. “ The Edge of Things” by Edith Tiempo, pushed me to “that brink or threshold, none other may enter.” And that “leap of faith,” which Kierkegaard calls, let me jump into the abyss or beyond the abyss.

My fight, mhwhahahahah… I’ll do it in cyberspace – I have to make out of something, or else I’ll just be keeping everything and I would die, too. I had to free these golden butterflies inside my stomach and shreds of heaven-threads in my veins if for moments of releasing my act of faith.

I met Eazymaan, Medicate, Caterpillar, Virgo Woman, Pilot, and Wild Fire while I hid on the pseudo Moon and Stars. I thought I had the whole world right before my eyes. Tasks were done at the same time as I searched for the books of Exupery, the Essays of Montaigne and the Reflection of Solitude by Thoreau. I was in the chatroom, inside my room with only the beating PC.

For hours, unrelenting thoughts fell on the monitor, every letter captured the moment of truth and illusions. I found rooms full of people from different places and different time zones and different clothing. I met them as ants would kiss each other and stop and go. And then I’ve learned tags on this new dimension of Science. A new dictionary on the internet.

“LOL.” LOL means laugh out loud. You say that when someone goes funny.

“BRB” means: Be right back.

“Mwah” means a big kiss. Chatmates offer and receive a bunch of flowers as token of

appreciation, a cup of steaming coffee from Starbucks, munch chocolates – Hersheys, Kisses, and Snickers, or Life Savers candy. Yummy! Pick your choice. It was a room full of everything. Illusions over life. This became not a portion of my reality, but my reality. It was fun.

Deprived of power and feeling destitute that time, I explored possibilities. The big difference was taking Jose Rizal’s “Touch me not.”

I got close connections with some chatmates all over the globe. Some names I couldn’t remember though…BUT there were two of them who became my best of friends. Here I found out that people in the chatrooms were not bad, not bums, not stupid. They were ordinary and loveable people just like you and me. I would like to think a few were machines, or maybe models to promote a product. They could even be members of a cult. I don’t know. But above all, proper rules were observed in the room. We called it “netiquette,” which means internet etiquette.

My first private chat was full of oohs and aahs. I was curious how the conversation would go. My chatmate being a gentleman taught me how to be technologically literate and updated. Adriano, I could recall his name. I couldn’t believe he was a sexy star in Italy. I tried chatting with him and when he asked me about my vital statistics, I boasted a perfect measurement of “36-24-36.” He went gaga over me, while I described the features of a beauty titlist, the softness of Venus de Milo, and the charm of Monalisa. I seduced him to beg for my virginal words, until he told me he was aching. The dialogues were spiels in a movie spinning to manifest desires. Adriano thanked me and I laughed out all my stored energy that almost drove me mad.

And you know what? He owned a villa and a number of cars that bestirred my financial desires. How I wished I could reveal my true identity, but because it was in Italy, and Rome is in Italy, the home base of the Pope – I had second thoughts… The act was disgraceful for a respected woman. Besides, I did not have that Aphrodite figure, I was more huggable like Winnie the Pooh bear than a sexually titillating bold star. We were two different worlds.

Good bye Adriano.

I continued searching for unlimited territories. I tried saying hi to all, baring sweet words. The thin line between words and emotions almost cracked like abyss. A word especially written would crush a heart and rip a soul if not thought of carefully. Yet positive words encouraged dreams, strengthened confidence, and saved lives.

Switching from one site to another searched me the stories told long ago. It reminded me the fairy tales, the narrations, and the poems, that gave hope. The stories chanted me to fairy land. The journals of Virginia Woolf, the Diary of Anne Frank, and the letters of the Philippines’ Bienvenido Santos took my breath away. And because I was Filipino, I also found Rizal’s Noli Me Tangere and El Filibusterismo plus the recommended and popular articles that inspired ambitions and made heroes, and Saints. Of course, I never forgot chapters on the Book of Wisdom, the Koran, and the Holy Bible written through the ages – those that until now introduce the words of the prophets, the words of Yaweh, the words of Allah, the words of Jesus Christ.

Cyberspace gulped me. Here’s the evidence of the evolution of language, communication, and words. From the writings of the Nambikwara, the scribbles in the caves to the cultured populace, for ordinary people and literary gods – words are life.

Each passing day the computer was my pal. In the computer were my friends now, and unlike my first time – I realized these people were people who could be trusted – better than those next to me, better than those next to my house. Some of them better than families. Well done! I had my men and the rendezvous I wanted. It taught me that life could be meaningful and exciting as the night closes and the day begins.

The internet thrilled arid fields of my activities . I didn’t know why. My friends laughed at me because I was really growing mad while I tell them stories about chatting. “Find a boyfriend? Why not? I could do that, I told a friend.” And so did I. I chose names from different sites and tried to match; flaming, crossing out, comparing names I felt were charming. I thought their names suggested something, I thought it meant something. Until, I clicked my mouse to an American chatmate, and got agitated when he shouted at me. “Whore!” I knew he shouted. The texts were in BOLD letters.

My blood rose to my head, “ Be careful of what you say!” I could not fight him to the hilt because I was new in the game. He kicked me out of his domain, and I didn’t expect he’d do that. I tried to get even with this rude character.

I shouted back at him…”You are ugly!” “Ugly!” “Ugly!” The colors of his letters changed in rage. He was so angry. And shouted again “Get out of my private!”

I was shocked, his words got into my nerves. I thought he was in front of me, and he made me feel nervous. I could slap his cheeks. I thought I’d shut down. But no —

Instead, I chose another name, “Marksman.” I clicked on Marksman. Because I thought he could shoot him. I ran to him.

Marksman was Jake. Jake was an Indian. He was a Muslim. He lived in Kuwait.

“What’s the matter?” I told Jake, the American kicked me out of his domain because he shouted impolite words at me. He told me to relax, and so I calmed down. It was kind of getting instructed. The chatroom was in a commotion. Then Jake popped up to me in his kind words, “ It’s over. Don’t be furious sweety. Take a deep breath.” Jake saved me from the rude limping white mouse who was hiding in a black cloak.

Marksman and I had become the best of friends. We exchanged ideas and he gave me good literature. His words were profound, you know Indians are identified with the wisdom of Mahatma Gandhi and Teresa of Calcutta. I learned a lot from his one liners and tried to memorize his evoking thoughts. He told me that I would succeed. This gave me confidence. And from here I knew that there were good people around. It’s not because of ones race, or belief, or sex, or religion, or status in life, or even education, that people become friends but people become friends because they respect each other.

Jake was so amiable. He called me Florentine which means a beautiful flower. Jake was proud to tell me that he had lots of women on the net but he had only one wife. He observed Ramadan and other Muslim holidays.

Yakub was the Muslim name of Jake. I told Yakub “We’d watch the stars together.”

After Yakub, I found another bestfriend. His name was Norman. He was based in the United Kingdom. He lived in a house on top of a hill at Yorkshire. I could imagine his house like a castle. What’s fantastic to me was because the movie “Dracula” was shot on that place. And so I was sort of intrigued about this new friend Norman. “In Yorkshire, at night, the fog was a shade of purple,” Norman told me.

Norman was a paramedic. “My job required most of my time and what’s sad is because people only recognize us during emergencies.” Though he told me, that was okay because it’s a way serving people. He was devoted his work so much and told me stories about his job, his schedules, his promotion, his new car, his favorite things. Then he laughed out loud, typing the keys, “LOL.”

Norman was real romantic. He was the sweetest person, ever in this planet telling me about my possibilities and that I was the most beautiful girl in this world. He said he would move the world if I were ill, and would be devastated if I leave him. I fell in love with him on the net, and revealed my wounded soul. Here, I’ve realized that love is faceless (anonymous). Serving the other as in reciprocal love. No one using the other. It is reflective of the Divine (Carol Wotyla). Days and nights had passed, and I did not miss a day writing him. Sometimes we’d chat, sometimes we’d just leave IM’s (instant messages). I thought he was right in front of me. He was the husband I never had and he called me a wife. I promised him a lot of things. I even swore to him and had the guts of a divorce in my marriage after 3 years and I would fly and live with him in UK. We’ve known each other for more than a year and at the close of each day we’d say good night.

One time we had a fight because I crossed some limitations asking him to come and get me. He let me recognize I was too dependent on him and that we were just living our lives in fiction. That struck my head and split my skull.

The plight made me see that I lived quite a miserable state. It opened my eyes to examine my life. I wanted to deny the facts, but it was evident that my spouse had another family. My miserable marriage would in some time, freeze me alone. Fairy tales can’t come true. And cyberspace is abstract and intangible. Should I want to fulfill something – I have to accept my spouse doesn’t love me anymore. The root of this madness is the marriage problem, not the internet gigs, not my Englishman chatmate. And so for three nights and three days, my tears wouldn’t dry living my fiction.

I acted the protagonist who could not decide how to end the fate given her by the creator of the story. Day by day I constantly went online and was surprised on the fifth day checking my inbox: “I’ve got mail!” Norman was too good to start again our unfinished love story. He said I’m sorry and cheered me up. This time he tried to weave a better story for me. I thought we were Romeo and Juliet.

I felt so loved without exerting much effort, just typing on the keyboard: words, living words. I had that intense and affectionate feeling of being the only woman in Norman’s life, a woman who satisfied a lover, a woman with great power over a man to let her bleed and bloom. Norman made me a woman who exulted her man as the toughest among all men to conquer love at the apex of eternity.

He wrote me a letter:

“I could never chain you to my heart.

That would mean that you would forever be a prisoner of my love.

I want willingly to give your life to me.

Your embrace is my wish.

Your touch is my dream.

Your love my salvation.”

I was mesmerized! He held all my senses, he embedded my heart in his and his in mine. For me, this prose was the best poem of my life.

At 12 o’clock midnight, Philippine time, we would get online for five to ten minutes then he would go. We would communicate about us, about work, and some ideas – a lot more. It was worthwhile as I’ve learned a pattern of how an Englishman speaks, his culture, and how he treats a woman, just by the email exchanges. Norman was kind and unselfish of his time chatting to me, as if I was getting a tutorial online for free. And more than that, he made me feel like a dainty wine glass carved with diamonds. He told me he would kiss me anywhere, and would be so proud to have me in his arms, “And if just holding each other’s hand would still be special,” to make me happy.

I kept a journal of our love stories immersing in my dream fiction. From sunrise to sunset my thoughts would not free me, had I not written something and bled for words for Norman. Here – I regained the dignity I’ve lost. 1440 minutes a day, Norman became my real husband. I forgot my problems. I forgot my husband, his devilish mistress.

Norman’s love conquered space and time. His mwahs taught me about a kiss that breaks the glass of age into pieces. Our hearts became one and had thought if we could make love together. It was impossible! Although at times, I felt my ears red and my body weaker every time he teased me he wished for a release. He told me we could have sons and daughters, and if none, he would still love me. “As long as you are with me.” He promised “We would live in the shelter of our love and we would make love while the sun slides down slowly. Then we would sleep together while the stars watch over us and wake again to make love with the rising sun.” Norman was my dream.

Everyday I felt so excited and so beautiful. I was not the dumped wife. I was then the wife of an Englishman. Mrs. Peri.

For a year again we chatted and lived our perfect love story. Him – my husband, and me – his wife. There was that enchanting feeling of being loved and cared for. And though the oceans parting us from different lands, I could never betray him. “Take care of my heart.” He always reminded me. “My love is for you alone.”

How would one contend with this madness? Of living in books? Of living in fairy tales? Of living a life on the net, without seeing, without knowing, and without real touching. Soulmates should I say, or could he be a creature like me? Dying for words? I knew how to differentiate fiction from nonfiction, but now I’m forgetting the rules. Am I getting crazy?

One day my spouse came home at dawn, and noticed me getting online those sleepy hours. He didn’t care. Neither did I. He often mocked, “Stop imagining things!” He exclaimed that I was a deranged writer who could never be satisfied with reality. I was imperfect and I was almost like a chip in the computer programmed for stories. I couldn’t have flesh, I couldn’t have urges, I couldn’t smack, I couldn’t satisfy. I’m only good at words, and that is all. His friends teased I was not a woman, embarrassed by the thought of accused frigidity, maybe.

While time passed by, my situation became more transparent to Norman. I asked him if we could really be together should I get an annulment. He confused me with a vague answer, “ I could not break your marriage vow, it is sacred.”

What? I turned pale and unbelieving. He was playing up…

“Liar!”

He swooned me, got into my soul, melted my heart – let me believe our love was real now he’s telling me he couldn’t break my marriage vow? He couldn’t fight for me.

“Coward!”

His arrogance showed like his well-chiseled pointed nose, “Don’t you know I was just making you feel good? How could you think I would marry you for real? I thought it was clear we were just making up fiction?”

I wanted to kill myself at his insensitivity. How belittling his strong words went through at me, then leaving me with a blank space. That time, I hoped I would never wake up. My marriage was a failure. And now my love affair is a fake. Love dries up on me. My lovers come and go leaving unexplained memories, drowning me in tears of remembering dreams that would never come true – so my flashes of reverie.

Norman swore to me “I adore you.” He was at my disposal.

“I am yours and you are mine. I think of you and yearn for your touch every waking moment. My heart is yours till the sun fades from the sky for the very last time…”

I lament this lying poetry. He lied to me like Genaro. I am one stupid woman.

For several days I was out of touch. I felt I was one of the most repressed persons on earth where I could not email and chat. I forgot my other friends and denied my global community on the World Wide Web (www).

Still, some friends emailed me but I didn’t email back. “Whats up? Why aren’t you getting online now? Keep in touch and take good care of yourself.”

Yes, my friends cared for me a bit, too. But I wouldn’t tell them anymore. I couldn’t figure out the limits from hereon. I felt so broken for weeks, couldn’t escape what I’ve been through. It would be funny and unreasonable for people to know that a deadly computer virus hit me, maybe a damaging Trojan lurking in my soul, crashing my humanity, feasting on my breath.

“Heaven please give me dignity!”

For months I never emailed. I swore I wouldn’t go back to my inbox, never ever. A guy tricked me again! I curse Adam. How I thirst for the male blood and urging to burn his flesh. But then, the internet isn’t human. They’re just wires. I should never be affected. I should understand…

As I am locked in an inadequate marriage, the romance of my life is only an untouchable fulfilling shadow of an earth of technology under the sky.

If for times I had happiness with this creeping madness, then I would sign in. Chat again. Maybe science would extend Norman, once my haven and a dummy, zoom another Norman in tiles and icons, chips and softwares, around space and time. And sometime, online – we would find each other; or, I would find another him among millions chatting, an offspring perhaps, for the rest of my life.

Signing off.

Note: The names and identities of persons here are not true. This is a fiction story.



copyright rosalinda flores – martinez 2009
reposted/copyright rose flores martinez; rosevoc2.2015
iwrotefiction

THE MIRACLE

THE MIRACLE


By Rosalinda Flores and Ben Crisp



The coffee was still too hot, so I cradled the foam cup between my knees and lit my last cigarette.

My last ever, I promised myself, as I had done the day before.

The park was mostly empty. The sun had not yet crept above the horizon, to burn the dirty greyness from the dawn sky, and it would be at least an hour before the rest of the city left the their homes to brave another miserable taglamig day outside.

There had been reports of another journalist shot in Manila. I had long grown used to such news, acknowledging it with a kind of postured indifference that my ex-girlfriend had found no comfort in. It didn’t matter to her that I was relegated to the smallest sections of the sports pages; I was white, and besides, could not an outraged sports fan be just as violent as a vengeful gangster or deranged terrorist? She was probably right. Still, I found comfort in my own sense of insignificance. Speaking barely a word of Filipino, and – some had argued – only just enough English to get by, I would never rise to the ranks of martyrdom like my braver, more talented brethren. I may have been white, but with no money, no connections and no friends I was worth nothing to anyone.

A familiar figure appeared from behind the trees that formed the arched entrance to the park. She always wore yellow dresses, or perhaps the same yellow dress, that danced beneath her knees. She was pretty, or at least she gave an impression of prettiness from across a distance too far to know for sure. She meandered, indecisive, between the benches scattered beneath pines that brushed the air in the morning breeze, before choosing the one she always chose.

It faced the statue of the Madonna that stood upon a plinth in the centre of a small pond. It was a simple carving, as they all were; achieving no greatness in aesthetic or skill. The virgin’s head tilted to one side, serenely, eyes opened wide and her hands stretched out in blessing - not, as it had always appeared to me, shrugging as if to say: what?

To the pinay in her yellow dress she was captivating. She sat before the statue, alternating between long, lingering stares and moments with head bowed, eyes closed, I guessed, though I was too far away to know.

I sipped my coffee and watched her watching the Madonna, killing time as I waited for my day to begin.



There was no place to go, but here.

I was raging as always, to imperfections. As such, at least, be perfect in front of this holy woman.

Something stirred into my memory, while I uttered chants I couldn’t even understand. So, this holy woman people called their mother, and the Catholics believed to be the mother of Christ, had always stunned me. No, she did not stun me like ghosts scared, but her benevolence scared my sins and inspired me to hope. At least, in this way, I could re-organize my undecided life.

At least, I’d be prim in front of her, confident in front of her; complete. Apart from my whoring affairs to get money, I wished some guy would come back for me, as my yellow dress meant waiting.

In a few weeks, my boyfriend, a married man, would decide whether to marry me and annul their marriage, or leave me for his wife. Of all the men in my life, I just got into material quests so I could sustain my falling business, but this married man was different because he thrilled my every need, other than desire.

We’ve been on and off this love affair for two years now, and I could see how he craved for my being, because of his maid wife. “My wife compared to your diplomas is only good for a housekeeper,” he told me.

And so, I summoned him. “You must choose between me and your wife.” In a few weeks, I hoped, he’d be back to cuddle me and present me a diamond engagement ring.

A yellow dress would be good to wear all the time! I’d go for this good luck hype.

“Oh, would you always come back for me, Madonna?”

In my thoughts I chanted, “My boy friend would come back for me; heaven might let the maid wife curse me, but what can I do? I have to steal something to love me, or else I won’t stop whoring. Who would come back for me? Maybe, a thousand other men, to prance on my neck and mark it “Hey, I’ve got your ass, too.” Will I be punished for ruining a sacred matrimony or stealing a father?

In this place, was something more real and tender. “Love me tender, love me sweet… Oh, my love complete,” I hummed. After my love affairs, here was the only concrete and beautiful thing.

Across the benches, of this, which I called a sanctuary, were a few others who breathed solace like me. Perhaps. One could be on a fitness program, another read a newspaper, and still another guy, sipped his brew. This guy, sipping his brew, could be thinking nuts like me. Or could he be thanking the magnificence of another day, while he looked up the sky, bowed low for his cup, and darted again, in front this Madonna?

Or would he look at me, too? His gaze was flaming hot. For what thoughts, he could have sensed my urgent pleading to this holy statue, sublime in simplicity and honesty. “Well, we’re flesh and bones, but if for moments, we could be holy,” an old priest said that during the mass I had attended when I was younger, so once in a lifetime I had been serious in the temples; so once pure, I was, before I came into this labyrinth. Would my pleadings echo around?

I caught him looking into nothingness, unconscious maybe, when he glanced into my space and my confused efforts. That time, when he raised his cup, swallowed and sipped again, I thought he was a handsome bum.



It must be nice, I thought, to have some sort of certainty in life.

To be able to look to a faith to guide you when reality – that deluge of chaos that tears at the flesh and soul – is inescapable. Or maybe she just liked the statue.

More people began to trickle into the park. The illusion that this was my place began to fade, like it always did, as the sun drew long shadows on the ground; soon it would be time for work. Once I had enjoyed the anonymity of living in a big foreign city. Now, I feared, solitude was decaying into loneliness and I felt myself disappearing into the crowds that lined the streets each day.

She finished or paused whatever thoughts had held her and stood up to leave, as though in a sudden hurry.

Was this my life? Watching others from outside a window like a child at a pet store?

It took a moment for me to notice the sliver of yellow beneath the bench. Curious, I stood and walked slowly across the park to the space in the front of the statue. The impassive Madonna did not turn to look at me as I entered her periphery, and when I stooped to inspect I saw it was a silk summer scarf that had fallen from the bench; that same canary hue of the woman’s dress.

She was already at the end of the park, turning left out of the gates without looking back. The scarf in one hand, my other reached into its pocket to retrieve my phone.

comedwn sick. mybe flu. srry. tlk 2morrow.

I had taken three sick days in four years. Whatever else that devotion to such a badly paying job might be called, I reasoned, it wasn’t the symptom of a well man.

I quickened my pace not quite to a jog and scanned the streets when I reached the gates. For a moment I thought I had lost her until I spied a flash of yellow amidst a crowd of pedestrians moving across an intersection two blocks down. The traffic closed after them like parted waters and I waited, tense.

Overloaded trucks and bikes whined past at high speed in the dangerous dance of weaving engines that only the Filipinos can survive. A group of wiry children aligned at the curb next to me, chattering like squirrels, watching the road with unblinking eyes and gesturing to each other with their hands. They were preparing to cross. I watched them watching the cars, and when they darted out I sucked in a breath and ran with them.

Horns blared all around me, and I felt the thundering slabs of steel rush by close enough to feel the heat from their choking and spluttering motors, but after a few terrifying moments we were across safely – the children giggling and pointing at the idiotic white man.

The woman had vanished from sight, and I spent a few moments striding between street corners, standing on the tips of my toes as I scanned the faceless crowds for her. Then the yellow dress peeked out through gaps in the crowd ahead of me, and I moved again in her direction, pushing my way past the suits and the sneakers and the cell phones and sunglasses.

I followed her to a street lined with townhouses – the angular, rendered townhouses for people with the money to pay others to choose their tastes for them. I had gained enough ground now to call out to her from the other side of the street, but I caught myself when she stopped in front of a high stone wall to push the button on an intercom panel.

She spoke for only a moment and waited for a response, then the courtyard door must have been unlatched from within because she pushed it open quickly and stepped inside.

I was alone, on that lush and empty street, the scarf still wrapped in my hands.

As the days had been stressful, good times were numbered.

Friends came and disappeared. When people smelled you could not give enough, they stayed away. If they could not get anything from you or suck anything from you, merry days would be over; you would be out of the circle. See I’m out? They smelled they couldn’t get much from me.

“Good morning, Miss!”

Where is he?

“Please see him in the living room.”

He was sitting in his wheel chair. He was reading the newspaper and a glass of water was on the table. Postcards were scattered, a record book, and medals of his faith. He was supposed to be a priest, but due to weak health, he didn’t get it through. Instead, he ventured on a business that earned him a fortune.

I always borrowed from this man, and he was the only one who didn’t tax me. As people could see outside, he lived in luxury – but his heart, it was benevolent to any creature who would seek his help. The only thing that he asked from me was to help him on his records and choose medals for him, which I really liked. He collected stones, as well; precious and non precious; even diamonds.

“What’s the problem?”

It is the same as yesterday.

“The love affairs...”

Yes. And he will be back for me soon.

“Could you be happy...”

Yes, you know I love him so much. I danced in front of him.

“You are must be mad.”

Yes, I am. I thought we could be married.

“Next time he would sell you for a gold coin.”

We sorted out the medals. Some were very, very old. Some were new. Some were uniquely precious and of great value. In a while, he got something inside his fist and told me.

“Close your eyes. Give me your hands.”

Nah, you will play up on me.

“I’m serious now. I have something for you to drive evil spirits away.” He teased me.

You and your fart! I laughed out loud. My sad laughter filled the quiet room.

“I said open your hands!”

Okay, Sir, here it is.

I closed my eyes and slowly he dropped the object in my hand. “Magic, here!” My palms were excited and cold, just like when one student told me to open my hands across snowy Japan, then surprised me with a Sakura. She told me, she liked me a lot, offering me the national flower of her country. And now, was another guessing moment.

Is it another precious gem?

“Hold it carefully and see for yourself.”

That time was special. I could see his face full of compassion for someone weary. I felt it was an act of consolation to blow zeal to my broken spirit. It was as though a magic clock made me a princess or sent me somewhere in another time like, Alice in Wonderland. What I held in my hands was dear to my heart, and the feeling was all of a child so loved dearly: free and happy. It was a gold heart locket; an old one, embed with red tiny rubies. Inside was a picture of the Madonna. He knew I liked the Madonna. My throat tightened and my eyes blurred with clouds of water. And then, his hands came gentle on my cheeks. He smiled and hugged me, tight.

I was certain I would get a chain for this. My ringing phone intruded. He told me, “Go now.”

“Why do you want me to leave? Am I disturbing your holy hours?”

“No, you need to go and find what will make you happy. And that boyfriend? Stay away from him. Do you think he’ll marry you for real? He has got a wife.”

Before I left his house, he’d always tell me the same reminders. That was what I evaded. I couldn’t let any one, not even my family or closest friends mock my boyfriend. It was time to leave again.

“Thank you for the Madonna.”

I hurriedly kissed him and went out of the house. I didn’t look into my phone to check, nor answer it. My boy friend was always exciting, as there might be something confidential – not business, not updates, but the tweets and yearnings of him.

Outside, when the gate was closed, I dialled his number. He was the one who called. Was he meeting me? I waited. He wasn’t answering the phone. I tried calling him again, but still, there was no answer. I texted, “Plz answr ur phne nw. I miss you so much.” As I walked the empty street, the air glistened to me. I was reminded, of my separation with him, my incompleteness, and that I was only, waiting for crumbs.

As I looked the next post, I saw that same white guy, walking and holding something that was mine. Was it my scarf?



“Yes,” I said, gesturing pointlessly down the street as I crossed to her. “I… you left it at the park.”

“Thank you,” she said, reaching out a hand to take it. She brushed a loose strand of hair back and squinted at me. “I have no money, sorry. But thank you.”

“No, you don’t… I didn’t want a reward. Are you alright? You look upset.”

She turned away, and I wondered how I could be so direct to this perfect stranger.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m inquisitive.”

“OK,Yankee Steve. I have to go now,” she said, and started to walk.A stupid, mad chuckle escaped my mouth and I caught it quickly in my hand as I chased after her.

“No, not… it means I’m nosy. I’m curious, sorry. Like a cat, you know.”

She stopped and squinted at me again, as though wondering whether to smile at this insane white man or not. Then she pointed at my nose. “Curiosity kills the cats.”

“Yes it does,” I said, nodding. “Do you want a coffee?”

She turned and started walking again. “If I had money I would give it to you, but thank you for bringing my scarf.”

I chased after her. “No! No, it’s nothing to do with… I want nothing from you. I just thought you looked like you could use a coffee.”

Her squinting tortured me. I had no clue what was going on behind those stern brown eyes, and not knowing this little thing was vanishing all that I did know; every instinct was fading from me.

“I’m a journalist, I’m not…” I said helplessly, and shrugged. Not what?

She shrugged back.



“Your boyfriend’s house?” I asked as we sat at a table beneath a red canvas umbrella.

“Why do you think that?”

“The locket.” I pointed at the little golden heart turning restlessly between her thumb and forefinger. She snapped it into her palm defiantly.

“The scarf is from my boyfriend,” she said, pulling it from her neck and resting it on the table as our coffees arrived.

I tore open a sugar packet and tapped it into my cup. “I’ll bet you chose it. It matches your dress.”

She checked her phone and did not answer me. I was right.

“You drink too much coffee,” she said at last, after she had sighed and tucked her phone away again. “Caffeine is bad for the heart.”

I shrugged again. “Everything is bad for the heart these days.”

We sipped from our cups and ventured into the silence that filled the air around us. Empty, silent air; it choked me more than smoke. Was that why my fingers reached for last cigarette after last cigarette after last cigarette?

“May I see?” I said, and held out my palm.

She stared at me through steam rising from her coffee, a cradle of warmth between her two soft hands; then lowered the cup, unfolding her fingers to proffer the locket.

It was of the yellow gold I had never admired, adorned with rubies that might have been real, or might have not; and not knowing made them seem worthless. A tiny clasp unhinged its two halves, splitting the fragile little heart in two, revealing a miniature biscuit-tin print of the veiled Madonna.

“Lucky charm?” I asked.

“She is pure. Perfect. Everything else is dirty in the morning.”

“Nothing’s quite as pretty as Mary in the morning,” I sang in my best Elvis voice, but she did not smile. A digital chirrup sounded beneath the table, and she withdrew her phone swiftly, reading the message with that same familiar squint.

“Boyfriend?” I asked.

She reached out and took the locket back, standing as she did so.

“I have to go. Now.”

Her voice had a tiny tinge of urgency to it. I stood too.

“Thank you for the coffee,” she said as she started to walk away.

I was about to remind her that I hadn’t actually offered to pay for her drink, but changed my mind and dropped a handful of coins on the table instead, following her.

“Your scarf,” I said, offering it to her. She snatched it from me with a little noise of annoyance – at herself or at me I was not sure. “It’s Michael, by the way.”

“Violeta,” she said.

She began to murmur underneath her breath as she quickened her pace. I was almost jogging just to keep up with her, my hands in my pockets as though we were just two friends in a mutual hurry. She was praying, I realised; every other word of the rosary filtered from her lips through the noise of the traffic – into which she suddenly stepped, waving her hand at a Corolla with barely readable taxicab printing that skidded to a halt beside her.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

She glanced at me like an impatient schoolteacher as she grabbed at the door.

“Hospital,” she said.



“Then Michael hop in! Or would you leave now?” So we boarded the Corolla.

I didn’t know what this guy wanted from me, but I didn’t care less because my thoughts were horrible. I knew something would happen, and whatever fate again would present to me – as to my friend Hannibal’s wisdom was to be happy and free. I assured myself that what could happen to my boyfriend was reality, like the shifting of clouds – we just couldn’t stop their movements, only God can. The next thing I felt our hands were tightly locked, and Michael’s gaze trying to seize my brokenness.

“Is there something I can do?” he asked.

“Nothing. Thank you.”

Lane upon lane, track upon track; my mind whizzed the clouds, the nothingness, the coldness of my fright, the fallen hopes, the waiting, my single life of faith. At this time, the locket...

“Don’t worry. We’ll get there.” Michael asserted.

And then, in my bag the phone buzzed again. I grasped the phone firmly, but my hands were weak so the phone dropped down the cab floor. Michael got it and read the message.

I did not mind his resolve. The driver was silent with only the twist of his wheels. The air was cold and my heart pounded heavily like rocks on my chest breaking for mercy. “Oh, Maria!”

Silence in the cab, in the air, near the afternoon... Michael didn’t say any word, but searched the locket for me and put them in my hands. He held me close and I did not resist the comfort of his arms around my bereft shoulders that needed warmth and flesh.

“We’d go to the back office of the hospital, Violeta. The staff will give us instructions...”

I paid the driver as she sprang from the taxi.

My only thought during the ride was that I could not remember the last time I had hugged someone out of the simple instinct to comfort; when had the act of touch become so foreign?

Please hurry.

That’s all the second text had said.So whatever disaster had befallen him had not restricted his use of a phone. I hated myself for the unkind thought. Had my ex looked as Violeta looked, whenever I had told her I was ill?

The nurse at the back office desk glanced at the clipboard hanging by her side. Emergency. Bay 212. Violeta hurried ahead and I followed, helplessly, at a distance. I thrust my hands into my pockets and peered through the gridded windows on the doors as we walked the length of the corridor, my lungs filling with the smell of disinfectant. The figures in the beds looked so small and vulnerable. As Violeta stopped ahead of me I realised they were children. The realisation shook in me, and my fingers closed around something in my pocket. The familiar scratch of a paper curl on skin. A forgotten cigarette.

I stood behind her. Through the window in front of us I saw a dimly lit room. A woman leaned forward in a chair, her back to us. Her hands were clasped around the hand of a boy who lay motionless in the hospital bed. From where I stood I could see his eyes were not quite closed, fine red lines crossing his face around them. Machines surrounded him, their cables disappearing under his sheet, electric green and blue lights winking and flickering softly.

Across the bed from the woman stood her husband. I recognised him. I had seen his face in newspapers; a politician, maybe. He was short, dressed in a dark business suit. His hands were deep in his pockets and he stood, slumped, staring at the boy with a strange look on his face. It was the look of a man for whom the curtain of life had been pulled aside, and he saw nothing behind it.

His glassy eyes drifted from the boy across the room to the door. He saw Violeta. He saw me. I glanced at Violeta, her eyes now welling. Across the space, through the glass, the two of them were sharing a look filled with all the sadness, the sweetness, the tenderness and heartache that I had ever known love to be about. It was then I felt alone, as the lonely will do, rain soaked neighbour to the world of the loved. A world for those who felt the warmth of others even when parted, and who felt another’s pain.

I felt pain. I felt Violeta’s, as she felt her lover’s, as she felt and he felt the pain of his son, and the mother did too, and I; all of us there in the chapel of pain, Our Lady of the Sacred Heart Hospital.

He looked to his wife, and Violeta turned from the window, her hands to her mouth, eyes searching for some solace in mine. I curled an arm around her shoulder and walked her to the stairwell at the end of the ward. As we rose, step by step, I heard the rooftop doorway humming a mellow chant between the cold conditioned inside air and the free and humid day outside.

On the roof we stood and stared, listening together as the yellow scarf fluttered in morning eddies, and I saw… I saw, across the avenue, beyond the cries and howls and mirth of the city streets, through a border of bricks and bolts and steel, perched on a plinth in the centre of a pond, the concrete Madonna.

Perhaps love was not pure, but stained. Perhaps love was not harmony, but discord. Perhaps love came in all the shades of earth and grime, and in the moist and dirty breath of the taglamig air that brushed our faces on mornings such as this.

Violeta prayed in silence beside me, and I lit my last cigarette.

My last ever, I promised myself, as I had done the day before.


First published on Conversations Across Borders website
for the CAB Project (2012/june) :  Air

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