Spent three weeks offline in Manila. Found a lot of old writing from when I was in high school and college.
"I'm... I'm leaving," she said, the words forming with difficulty. "I'm going home to mother--until I can come home to you." She picked up her back and went to the open door.
She stopped and turned.
"I love you," she said. And left.
He watched her through the window, impassive. He watched the sunlight turn her hair from brown to gold, watched it paint the leaves and the petals of the flowerbed she had planted. He squinted at the blue of the sky and the wisps of clouds that laced lightly through it. He looked again to where she was walking but she was gone. He drew in his breath and turned away. He lay down on the couch and closed his eyes. He had a hell of a headache.
He stopped going out of the house. He stopped answering the door. He subsisted on canned and dried food, rice and the cooking skills he learned during the guerrilla war against the occupiers. He lay down all day, asleep, and stayed awake all night, prowling around the house. During these hours, he would fix anything that needed fixing. He repaired the damage the bombings made on the roof.
Once, when working on the shingles, he hit his finger with the hammer. Swearing loudly at earth-dwelling demons, h e started to work but hit his finger again. He erupted.
Hammering and bellowing, he made a hole in the thin wall, pounding at first, then tearing at it with his hands at last--he hurled the cursed hammer at a nearby window, shattering the glass--he tore through the house, destroying what he could, destroying. He picked up her picture, framed for her last birthday, and smashed it with his fists. He looked up into her dressing mirror and stopped.
He saw that he was weeping.
...
"Bert! Stop!"
Her voice pealed like a clear bell in her head as he washed the dishes. "I'm going to shoot into the moon!" She had laughed. He laughed too, then, but went on pushing the swing. "Shoot to the moon!" he echoed.
Carefully, he rinsed the dish of its soap. He had to be careful. For some reason, he couldn't stop his hands from shaking. That was going on for days. "Lucing said that you and she were sweethearts", she had pouted, looking so young and fresh on the green grass.
He picked up another dish. "Lucing is crazy, plain crazy", he had reassured her. They were in Laguna then, at a class picnic. The shouts of the boys busy finding field frogs for lunch could be heard above the wind.
He soaped the dish slowly. "Then you're not?" she asked with studied innocence. "No," he said, swinging her around, gazing intently into her face.
Another image crept traitorously into his mind. The moon was high and the breeze cool. The whispers of the leaves were hushed and fireflies danced around them. "I love you, Bert," she had said. "I love you, my husband."
He blinked and saw that he had dropped a dish. His hands were still shaking.
...
"Bert! Bert!"
A shrill voice woke him; a hand that felt like a claw shook him roughly. Bert's limbs were heavy with sleep and it was hard to lift his eyelids.
He swore inwardly. It was his mother-in-law. He closed his eyes.
"Aling Flor," he rumbled, "go home.
"Bert! Come with me. Por Dios, por Santo, Marie is hardly eating anymore. She is getting thinner and weaker, Bert!" The small woman was frantically trying to get him to move, her hands flying about nervously. "Bert," she pleaded, tears streaming, "death will come for my child.
"Please. Talk to her."
Bert said nothing.
"She needs your love, now! Bert!" she wailed, collapsing on her knees in defeat. "Her condition is grave. She'll die--have you forgotten that she is with child?"
Bert's anger suddenly came to life.
"Devil's child!" He spat. "Child of a whore! It will be born with hooves and a tail, surely!"
He watched the old woman anxiously make the sign of the cross and watched sacred, holy words pass her lips. He wanted to bash her head in. He wanted to bash his own head in.
"How can I forget that she is with child?" He asked her this tightly and left her crying, slumped on the floor. He stamped up the stairs to escape, his mind in chaos. He didin't know what to do. Breathing was hard labor. What was he going to do?
The old hag chased him up the stairs, her voice rising. "What do you want to do, ha? Let her die? After all she has been through?"
He ignored her.
"Listen! Will you leave her to die?"
"Find the bastard's father. Tell him to save the whore." He entered his bedroom and slammed the door behind him. She followed and grappled with him.
She slapped him, hard. It jarred him for a moment.
"Listen." Her voice was heavy with intensity, almost a low growl. "My daughter is no whore." She slapped him again. And again. "Understand that first."
Dumbfounded, numb with the pain, he sat on his bed and stared at her stupidly. If she wasn't a whore, the japanese Captain's pampered whore, then what was she?
"Things were quiet in Laguna then. You were gone and Marie stayed with us. We had no problems. There was plenty of food." The mother's eyes glazed as if the images were burned on their surfaces. Her voice didn't seem to be her own.
"Then one day the trucks came into the schoolyards and the marketplace. And the children clinging to their mothers were kicked away by the soldiers, by those beasts!, as she.. they---the young women were forced into the trucks."
She turned from him and seemed to speak from farther and farther away. "I could see them from the window. I didn't know what was going on and I stared too long. I was just standing there." He noticed that her tears were drying. "I got a glimpse of her as they pushed her in. Her face was bleeding... I think I saw it drip onto the red circle on his uniform. I thought, where did it go, that drop blood? It just became part of the circle, blood against the white. I though... how much blood did it take to make that red sun?" He saw her move farther away, faster, dizzyingly fast. She got smaller until she became a dot, until he couldn't see her anymore.
Diliman, 1994
"I'm... I'm leaving," she said, the words forming with difficulty. "I'm going home to mother--until I can come home to you." She picked up her back and went to the open door.
She stopped and turned.
"I love you," she said. And left.
He watched her through the window, impassive. He watched the sunlight turn her hair from brown to gold, watched it paint the leaves and the petals of the flowerbed she had planted. He squinted at the blue of the sky and the wisps of clouds that laced lightly through it. He looked again to where she was walking but she was gone. He drew in his breath and turned away. He lay down on the couch and closed his eyes. He had a hell of a headache.
He stopped going out of the house. He stopped answering the door. He subsisted on canned and dried food, rice and the cooking skills he learned during the guerrilla war against the occupiers. He lay down all day, asleep, and stayed awake all night, prowling around the house. During these hours, he would fix anything that needed fixing. He repaired the damage the bombings made on the roof.
Once, when working on the shingles, he hit his finger with the hammer. Swearing loudly at earth-dwelling demons, h e started to work but hit his finger again. He erupted.
Hammering and bellowing, he made a hole in the thin wall, pounding at first, then tearing at it with his hands at last--he hurled the cursed hammer at a nearby window, shattering the glass--he tore through the house, destroying what he could, destroying. He picked up her picture, framed for her last birthday, and smashed it with his fists. He looked up into her dressing mirror and stopped.
He saw that he was weeping.
...
"Bert! Stop!"
Her voice pealed like a clear bell in her head as he washed the dishes. "I'm going to shoot into the moon!" She had laughed. He laughed too, then, but went on pushing the swing. "Shoot to the moon!" he echoed.
Carefully, he rinsed the dish of its soap. He had to be careful. For some reason, he couldn't stop his hands from shaking. That was going on for days. "Lucing said that you and she were sweethearts", she had pouted, looking so young and fresh on the green grass.
He picked up another dish. "Lucing is crazy, plain crazy", he had reassured her. They were in Laguna then, at a class picnic. The shouts of the boys busy finding field frogs for lunch could be heard above the wind.
He soaped the dish slowly. "Then you're not?" she asked with studied innocence. "No," he said, swinging her around, gazing intently into her face.
Another image crept traitorously into his mind. The moon was high and the breeze cool. The whispers of the leaves were hushed and fireflies danced around them. "I love you, Bert," she had said. "I love you, my husband."
He blinked and saw that he had dropped a dish. His hands were still shaking.
...
"Bert! Bert!"
A shrill voice woke him; a hand that felt like a claw shook him roughly. Bert's limbs were heavy with sleep and it was hard to lift his eyelids.
He swore inwardly. It was his mother-in-law. He closed his eyes.
"Aling Flor," he rumbled, "go home.
"Bert! Come with me. Por Dios, por Santo, Marie is hardly eating anymore. She is getting thinner and weaker, Bert!" The small woman was frantically trying to get him to move, her hands flying about nervously. "Bert," she pleaded, tears streaming, "death will come for my child.
"Please. Talk to her."
Bert said nothing.
"She needs your love, now! Bert!" she wailed, collapsing on her knees in defeat. "Her condition is grave. She'll die--have you forgotten that she is with child?"
Bert's anger suddenly came to life.
"Devil's child!" He spat. "Child of a whore! It will be born with hooves and a tail, surely!"
He watched the old woman anxiously make the sign of the cross and watched sacred, holy words pass her lips. He wanted to bash her head in. He wanted to bash his own head in.
"How can I forget that she is with child?" He asked her this tightly and left her crying, slumped on the floor. He stamped up the stairs to escape, his mind in chaos. He didin't know what to do. Breathing was hard labor. What was he going to do?
The old hag chased him up the stairs, her voice rising. "What do you want to do, ha? Let her die? After all she has been through?"
He ignored her.
"Listen! Will you leave her to die?"
"Find the bastard's father. Tell him to save the whore." He entered his bedroom and slammed the door behind him. She followed and grappled with him.
She slapped him, hard. It jarred him for a moment.
"Listen." Her voice was heavy with intensity, almost a low growl. "My daughter is no whore." She slapped him again. And again. "Understand that first."
Dumbfounded, numb with the pain, he sat on his bed and stared at her stupidly. If she wasn't a whore, the japanese Captain's pampered whore, then what was she?
"Things were quiet in Laguna then. You were gone and Marie stayed with us. We had no problems. There was plenty of food." The mother's eyes glazed as if the images were burned on their surfaces. Her voice didn't seem to be her own.
"Then one day the trucks came into the schoolyards and the marketplace. And the children clinging to their mothers were kicked away by the soldiers, by those beasts!, as she.. they---the young women were forced into the trucks."
She turned from him and seemed to speak from farther and farther away. "I could see them from the window. I didn't know what was going on and I stared too long. I was just standing there." He noticed that her tears were drying. "I got a glimpse of her as they pushed her in. Her face was bleeding... I think I saw it drip onto the red circle on his uniform. I thought, where did it go, that drop blood? It just became part of the circle, blood against the white. I though... how much blood did it take to make that red sun?" He saw her move farther away, faster, dizzyingly fast. She got smaller until she became a dot, until he couldn't see her anymore.
Diliman, 1994
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