SINIGANG by Marby Villaceran

SO, what happened? She had finally decided to ask the question. I had been wondering how long my Tita Loleng could contain her curiosity. I continued to pick out tomatoes for the sinigang we were to have for dinner. I wasnt usually the one who assisted my aunt with the cooking. She preferred my younger sister, Meg, for I knew far less in this areanot having the aptitude, or the interest, I guessfor remembering recipes. That didnt matter today, though. This time, Tita Loleng wanted more than just an extra pair of hands in the kitchen. Nothing much, I answered offhandedly. We did what people usually do during funerals. I reminded myself to tread carefully with her. Though I did not really feel like talking, I could not tell her off for she took offense rather easily. I put the tomatoes in the small palanggana, careful not to bruise their delicate skin, and carried them to the sink. Did you meether? Tita Loleng asked. There came to me a memory of sitting in one of the smaller narra sofas in the living room in Bulacan. I faced a smooth white coffin whose corners bore gold-plated figures of cherubs framed by elaborate swirls resembling thick, curling vines. Two golden candelabras, each supporting three rows of high-wattage electric candles, flanked the coffin and seared the white kalachuchi in the funeral wreaths, causing the flowers to release more of their heady scent before they wilted prematurely. Through an open doorway, I could see into the next room where a few unfamiliar faces held murmured conversations above their coffee cups. Are you Liza? A woman beside me suddenly asked. I was surprised, for I had not heard anyone approaching. Most of the mourners preferred to stay out on the veranda for fear that the heat from the lights might also cause them to wither. I looked up slowly: long, slim feet with mauve-painted toenails that peeked through the opening of a pair of scruffy-looking slippers; smooth legs unmarred by swollen veins or scarsso unlike the spider-veined legs of my momencased in a black, pencil-cut skirt; a white blouse with its sleeves too long for the wearer, causing the extra fabric to bunch around the cuffs; a slim neck whose skin sagged just a little bit; and a pale face that seemed like it had not experienced sleep in days. The woman looked to me like she was in her fortiesthe same age as my mother. Yes, I had answered that womanthe same answer I now gave to Tita Loleng. I gently spilled out all the tomatoes into the sink and turned on the tap. The water, like agua bendita, cleansed each tomato of the grime from its origins. What did she tell you? Tita Loleng asked. Nothing much. She told me who she was.

What did she look like? Shes pretty, I guess. She was. She looked like she had Indian blood with her sharp nose and deep-set eyes thickly bordered by long lashes. Just like Mom, she still maintained a slim figure though she already had children. The woman, upon seeing my curious stare, had explained, I am Sylvia. All my muscles tensed upon hearing her name. It took all my self-control to outwardly remain calm and simply raise an eyebrow. My reaction caused a range of emotion to cross the womans face before it finally crumbled and gave way to tears. Suddenly, she grabbed my hand from where it had been resting on the arm of the sofa. Her own hands were damp and sticky with sweat. She knelt in front of mea sinner confessing before a priest so he could wash away the dirt from her past. But I was not a priest. I looked down at her and my face remained impassive. When her weeping had subsided, she raised her head and looked at me. Everyone makes mistakes, Liza. Her eyes begged for understanding. It was a line straight out of a Filipino soap opera. I had a feeling that the whole situation was a scene from a very bad melodrama I was watching. I looked around to see if anyone had witnessed the spectacle unfolding in this living room, but it was as if an invisible director had banned all but the actors from the set. Except for us, not a soul could be seen. I wanted Sylvia to free my hand so I nodded and pretended to understand. Apparently convinced, she let go and, to my shock, suddenly hugged me tight. My nose wrinkled as the pungent mix of heavy perfume and sweat assailed me. I wanted to scream at her to let go but I did not move away. Hmm, I think theyre washed enough na. Tita Loleng said. Turning off the tap, I placed the tomatoes inside the basin once more. Then, as an afterthought, I told my Tita, I dont think she is as pretty as Mom, though. Tita Loleng nodded understandingly. She gestured for me to place the basin on the table where she already had the knives and chopping board ready. Where was your Dad when she was talking to you? Oh, he was sleeping in one of the bedrooms. Mom did not want to wake him up because they told her he had not slept for two nights straight. Tita Loleng snorted. Haay, your mother talaga, she said, shaking her head. I had to smile at that before continuing. When he saw me, Sylvia had already been called away to entertain some of the visitors. Was he surprised to see you? Tita knew that I had not wanted to go to the funeral. Actually, she was one of the few people who respected, and understood, my decision.

No. I sliced each of the tomatoes in quarters. The blade of the knife clacked fiercely against the hard wood of the chopping board. He requested Mom to make me go there. We both knew that I could never have refused my mother once she insisted that I attend. I had even gone out and gotten drunk with some friends the night before we were to leave just so I could have an excuse not to go, but my mom was inflexible. She had ordered my two sisters to wake me up. Tita Loleng gave me a sympathetic look. No choice then, huh? She was forever baffled at the way my mother could be such a martyr when it came to my father and such a tyrant to her children. Clack! Clack! The knife hacked violently against the board. Nope. When my Dad had come out of the room, I remembered sensing it immediatelythe same way an animal instinctively perceives when it is in danger. I had been looking at the face of my dead half-brother, searching for any resemblance between us. Chemotherapy had sunk his cheeks and had made his hair fall out, but even in this condition, I could see how handsome he must have been before his treatment. His framed photograph atop the glass covering of the coffin confirmed this. Lem took after my father so much that Dad could never even hope to deny that he was his son. I, on the other hand, had taken after my mother. I knew my father was staring at me but I refused look at him. He approached and stood next to me. I remained silent. I am glad you came, he said. I gave him a non-committal nod, not even glancing his way. Tita Loleng interrupted my thoughts with another one of her questions. Did you cry? I shook my head vehemently as I answered, No. I took the sliced tomatoes, surprised to find not even a splinter of wood with them, as well as the onions Tita Loleng had chopped and put them in a pot. What next? I asked her. The salt. Then she went and added a heaping tablespoonful of salt to the pot. Is that all? Uh-huh. Your Mom and I prefer it a bit saltier, but your Dad likes it this way. Then she gestured towards the pot, closing and opening her fist like a baby flexing its fingers. I started crushing the onions, tomatoes, and salt together with my hand. He was an acolyte in church, my father had said then, finally splintering the silence I had adamantly maintained. Father Mario said that we shouldnt feel sad because Lem is assured of going to a better place because he was such a good child. Good, I thought, unlike me whom he always called Sinverguenza, the shameless daughter. I finally turned to him. There was only one question I needed to ask. Why? He met my gaze. I waited but he would notcould not answer me. He looked away.

My mask of indifference slipped. It felt like a giant hand was rubbing salt into me, squeezing and mashing, unsatisfied until all of me had been crushed. Stop it na, Liza! Tita Loleng exclaimed. Anymore of that mashing and you will be putting bits of your own flesh and bone in there, my aunt warned. She went to the refrigerator and took out plastic bags containing vegetables. She placed them in the sink. All of these will be needed for the sinigang, she said. Prepare them while youre softening the meat. Then she took off her apron, You go and finish off here. I will just go to my room and stretch my back out a bit. With a tender pat on my head, she walked out of the kitchen. I breathed a sigh of relief. The questions had stopped, for now. I poured the hugas bigas into the mass of crushed onions and tomatoes and added the chunks of beef into the concoction before covering the pot and placing it on the stove. I turned on the flame. The sinigang needed to simmer for close to an hour to tenderize the meat. In the meantime, I started preparing all the other ingredients that will be added to the pot later on. Taking all the plastic bags, I unloaded their contents into the sink then washed and drained each vegetable thoroughly before putting them beside my chopping board. I reached for the bunch of kangkong and began breaking off choice sections to be included in the stew. When I was a child, before Tita Loleng had chosen to stay with us, my mom used to do the cooking and she would have Meg and I sit beside her while she readied the meals. I remembered that whenever it came to any dish involving kangkong, I would always insist on preparing it because I loved the crisp popping sound the vegetable made whenever I broke off a stem. It was on one such occasion, I was in second year high school by then but still insistent on kangkong preparation, when Mom had divulged the truth about the boy who kept calling Dad on the phone everyday at home. Meg had also been there, breaking off string beans into two-inch sections. Neither of us had reacted much then, but between us, I knew I was more affected by what Mom had said because right until then, I had always been Daddys girl. When the kangkong was done, I threw away the tough, unwanted parts and reached for the labanos. I used a peeler to strip away the skinrevealing the white, slightly grainy fleshand then sliced each root diagonally. Next came the sigarilyas, and finally, the string beans. Once, I asked Tita Loleng how she knew what type of vegetable to put into sinigang and she said, Well, one never really knows which will taste good until one has tried it. I mean, some people cook sinigang with guavas, some with kamias. It is a dish whose recipe would depend mostly on the taste of those who will do the eating. I got a fork and went to the stove where the meat was simmering. I prodded the chunks to test whether they were tender enoughand they were. After pouring in some more of the rice washing, I cleared the table and waited for the stew to boil. A few minutes later, the sound of rapidly popping bubbles declared that it was now time to add the powdered tamarind mix. I poured in the whole packet and stirred. Then I took the vegetables and added them, a fistful at a time, to the pot. As I did so, I remembered the flower petals each of my two sisters and I had thrown, fistful by fistful, into the freshly dug grave as Lems casket was being lowered into it. My dad was crying beside me and I recalled thinking, would he be the same if I was the one who had died? I glanced up at him and was surprised to find that he was looking at me. His hand, heavy with sadness, fell on my shoulder. Im sorry, he had told me. I let the stew boil for a few more minutes before turning off the fire. The sinigang would be served later during dinner. I pictured myself seated in my usual place beside my father who is at the head of the table. He would tell Mom about his day and then he would ask each of us about our

own. I would answer, not in the animated way I would have done when I was still young and his pet, but politely and without any rancor. Then, he would compliment me on the way I had cooked his favorite dish and I would give him a smile that would never quite show, not even in my eyes.

BIG SISTER by Consorcio Borje

"YOU can use this," said Inciang, smiling brightly and trying to keep her tears back. "It is still quite strong, and you will not outgrow if for a year yet." Itong watched his sister fold his old khaki shirt carefully and pack it into the rattan tampipi, which already bulged with his clothes. He stood helplessly by, shifting his weight from one bare foot to the other, looking down at his big sister, who had always done everything for him. "There, that's done," said Inciang, pressing down the lid. "Give me that rope. I'll truss it up for you. And be careful with it, Itong? Your Tia Orin has been very kind to lend it to us for your trip to Vigan." Itong assented and obediently handed his sister the rope. His eyes followed her deft movements with visible impatience; his friends were waiting outside to play with him. He was twelve years old, and growing fast. Sometimes when Inciang toiling in the kitchen, sweeping the house, or washing clothes by the well in the front yard held a long session with herself, she admitted she did not want Itong to grow. She wanted to keep him the boy that he was, always. Inciang had raised Itong from the whimpering, little, red lump of flesh that he was when their mother died soon after giving birth to him. She had been as a mother to him as long as she could remember. "May I go out now and play, Manang?" And Inciang heard herself saying, "It will be a year before you will see your friends again Go now." She listened to the sound of his footsteps down the bamboo ladder, across the bare earthen front yard. Then she heard him whistle. There were answering whistles, running feet.

"TELL him, Inciang," her father had said. That was about three months ago. Inciang was washing clothes by the well with Tia Orin. "Yes, you tell him, Inciang," said Tia Orin. It was always Inciang who had dealt with Itong if anything of importance happened. Inciang rose to her feet. She had been squatting long over her washtub and pains shot up her spine. "Hoy, Itong," called Inciang. Itong was out in the street playing with Nena, Lacay Illo's daughter. "Hoy, Itong," called Inciang. "Come here. I have something to tell you." Itong gave a playful push at Nena before he came running. He smiled as he stepped over the low bamboo barrier at the gate which kept the neighbors' pigs out. How bright his face was! Inciang's heart skipped a beat. "You have something to tell me, Manang?" Inciang brushed her sudsy hands against her soiled skirt. "Yes. It is about your going to Vigan."

Itong sat down suddenly on the barrier. "Your are going to high school, after all, Itong," Inciang said. She said it defiantly, as if afraid that Itong would like going away. She looked up at her father, as if to ask him to confirm her words. Father sat leaning out of the low front window, smoking his pipe. Itong looked at her foolishly. Inciang's heart felt heavy within her, but she said, with a little reproach, "Why, Itong, aren't you glad? We thought you wanted to go to high school." Itong began to cry. He sat there in front of his father and his sister and his aunt Orin, and tears crept down his cheeks. "The supervising principal teacher, Mr. Cablana," went on Inciang in a rush, "came this afternoon and told us you may go to high school without paying the fees, because you are the balibictorian." Itong nodded. "Now, don't cry," said his aunt Orin. "You are no longer a baby." "Yes," added the father. "And Mr. Cablana also promised to give his laundry to Inciang, so you'll have money for your books. Mr. Cablana is also sure to get the Castila's laundry for Inciang, and that will do for your food, besides the rice that we shall be sending you. Stop crying." "Your Tata Cilin's house is in Nagpartian, very near the high school. You will stay with him. And," Inciang said, "I don't have to accompany you to Vigan, Itong. You'll ride in the passenger bus where your cousin Pedro is the conductor. Your cousin Pedro will show you where your Tata Cilin lives. Your cousin Merto, son of your uncle Cilin, will help you register in school. He is studying in the same school. Will you stop crying?" Itong looked at Inciang, and the tears continued creeping down his cheeks. Itong was so young. Inciang began to scold him. "Is that the way you should act? Why, you're old now!" Then Itong ran into the house and remained inside. His father laughed heartily as he pulled at his pipe. Inciang started to laugh also, but her tears began to fall fast also, and she bent her head over her washtub and she began scrubbing industriously, while she laughed and laughed. Outside the gate, standing with her face pressed against the fence, was Nena, watching the tableau with a great wonder in her eyes. Inciang had watched Itong grow up from a new-born baby. She was six years old when she carried him around, straddled over her hip. She kept house, did the family wash, encouraged Itong to go through primary, then intermediate school, when he showed rebellion against school authority. When he was in the second grade and could speak more English words than Inciang, her father began to laugh at her; also her Tia Orin and her brood had laughed at her. "Schooling would never do me any good," Inciang had said lightly. She watched Itong go through school, ministering to his needs lovingly, doing more perhaps for him than was good for him. Once she helped him fight a gang of rowdies from the other end of the town. Or better, she fought the gang for him using the big rice ladle she was using in the kitchen at the time. And her father had never married again, being always faithful to the memory of Inciang's mother. The farm which he tilled produced enough rice and vegetables for the family's use, and such few centavos as Lacay Iban would now and then need for the cockpit he got out of Inciang's occasional sales of vegetables in the public

market or of a few bundles of rice in the camarin. Few were the times when they were hard pressed for money. One was the time when Inciang's mother died. Another was now that Itong was going to Vigan. Inciang was working to send him away, when all she wanted was to keep him always at her side! She spent sleepless nights thinking of how Itong would fare in a strange town amidst strange people, even though their parientes would be near him. It would not be the same. She cried again and again, it would not be the same.

WHEN she finished tying up the tampipi, she pushed it to one side of the main room of the house and went to the window. Itong was with a bunch of his friends under the acacia tree across the dirt road. They were sitting on the buttress roots of the tree, chin in hand, toes making figures in the dust. And, of course, Itong's closest friend, Nena, was there with them. Strange, Inciang thought, how Itong, even though already twelve years old, still played around with a girl. And then, that afternoon, the departure. The passenger truck pausing at the gate. The tampipi of Itong being tossed up to the roof of the truck. The bag of rice. The crate of chickens. The young coconuts for Tata Cilin's children. Then Itong himself, in the pair of rubber shoes which he had worn at the graduation exercises and which since then had been kept in the family trunk. Itong being handed into the truck. Lacay Iban, Tia Orin, and Inciang were all there shouting instructions. All the children in the neighborhood were there. Nena was there. It was quite a crowd come to watch Itong go away for a year! A year seemed forever to Inciang. Itong sat in the dim interior of the bus, timid and teary-eyed. Inciang glanced again and again at him, her heart heavy within her, and then as the bus was about to leave, there was such a pleading look in his eyes that Inciang had to go close to him, and he put his hand on hers. "I'm afraid, Manang." "Why should you be?" said Inciang loudly, trying to drown out her own fears. "This boy. Why, you're going to Vigan, where there are many things to see. I haven't been to Vigan, myself. You're a lucky boy." "I don't want to leave you." "I'll come to see you in Vigan." She had considered the idea and knew that she could not afford the trip. "Manang," said Itong, "I have a bag of lipay seeds and marbles tied to the rafter over the shelf for the plates. See that no one takes it away, will you?" "Yes." "And, Manang, next time you make linubbian, don't forget to send Nena some, ah?" Inciang nodded. "You like Nena very much?" "Yes," coloring a little. Itong had never concealed anything from her. He had been secretive with his father, with his aunt Orin, but never with her. From Vigan, Itong wrote his sister only once a month so as to save on stamps and writing paper. His letters were full of expressions of warm endearment, and Inciang read them over and over again aloud to her father and

to Tia Orin and her brood who came to listen, and when her eyes were dim with reading, Inciang stood on a chair and put the letters away in the space between a bamboo rafter and the cogon roof. "My dear sister," Itong would write in moro-moro Ilocano, "and you, my father, and Tia Orin, I can never hope to repay my great debt to all of you." And then a narration of day-to-day events as they had happened to him. And so a year passed. Inciang discussed Itong with her father every day. She wanted him to become a doctor, because doctors earned even one hundred pesos a month, and besides her father was complaining about pain in the small of his back. Lacay Iban, on the other hand, wanted Itong to become a lawyer, because lawyers were big shots and made big names and big money for themselves if they could have the courts acquit murderers, embezzlers, and other criminals despite all damning evidence of guilt, and people elected them to the National Assembly. Itong's last letter said that classes were about to close. And then, one morning, when Inciang was washing the clothes of the supervising principal teacher, with a piece of cotton cloth thrown over her head and shoulders to shelter her from the hot sun, a passenger truck came to a stop beside the gate and a boy came out. He was wearing white short pants, a shirt, and a pair of leather slippers. It was Itong. But this stranger was taller by the width of a palm, and much narrower. Itong had grown so very fast, he had no time to fill in. "Itong, are you here already?" "It is vacation, Manang. Are you not glad to see me?" They ran into each other's arms. Father came in from the rice field later in the afternoon. "How is my lawyer?" he asked, and then he noticed Itong wore a handkerchief around his throat. "I have a cold, Father," said Itong huskily. "How long have you had it?" "For several weeks now." "Jesus, Maria, y Jose, Inciang, boil some ginger with a little sugar for your poor brother. This is bad. Are you sure your cold will not become tuberculosis?" Itong drank the concoction, and it eased his sore throat a little. It seemed he would never get tired talking, though, telling Inciang and Lacay Iban about Vigan, about school, about the boys he met there, about his uncle Cilin and his cousin Merto and the other people at the house in Nagpartian. He went out with his old cronies, but he had neglected his marbles. The marbles hung from the rafter over the shelf for the plates, gathering soot and dust and cobwebs. It was a reminder of Itong's earlier boyhood. And he did not go out with Nena any more. "Have you forgotten your friend, Nena, already?" Inciang asked him and he reddened. "Have you been giving her linubbian, Manang?" he asked. And when she said "Yes," he looked glad. On those nights when he did not go out to play, he occupied himself with writing letters in the red light of the kerosene lamp. He used the wooden trunk for a table. Inciang accustomed to go to sleep soon after the chickens had gone to roost under the house, would lie on the bed-mat on the floor, looking up at Itong's back bent studiously over the wooden trunk.

Once she asked, "What are you writing about, Itong?" And Itong had replied, "Nothing, Manang." One day she found a letter in one of the pockets of his shirt in the laundry pile. She did not mean to read it, but she saw enough to know that the letter came from Nena. She could guess what Itong then had been writing. He had been writing to Nena. Itong had changed. He had begun keeping secrets from Inciang. Inciang noted the development with a slight tightening of her throat. Yes, Itong had grown up. His old clothes appeared two sizes too small for him now. Inciang had to sew him new clothes. And when Itong saw the peso bills and the silver coins that Inciang kept under her clothes in the trunk toward the purchase of a silk kerchief which she had long desired, especially since the constabulary corporal had been casting eyes at her when she went to market, he snuggled up to Inciang and begged her to buy him a drill suit. "A drill terno! You are sure a drill terno is what you want?" Itong patted his throat, as if to clear it. "Please Manang?" "Oh, you little beggar, you're always asking for things." She tried to be severe. She was actually sorry to part with the money. She had been in love with that silk kerchief for years now. "Promise me, then to take care of your throat. Your cold is a bad one." Another summertime, when Itong came home from school, he was a young man. He had put on his white drill suit and a pink shirt and a pink tie to match, and Inciang could hardly believe her eyes. She was even quite abashed to go meet him at the gate. "Why, is it you, Itong?" He was taller than she. He kept looking down at her. "Manang, who else could I be? You look at me so strangely." His voice was deep and husky, and it had queer inflections. "But how do I look?" Inciang embraced him tears again in her eyes, as tears had been in her eyes a year ago when Itong had come back after the first year of parting but Itong pulled away hastily, and he looked back self-consciously at the people in the truck which was then starting away. "You have your cold still, so I hear," said Lacay Iban, as he came out of the house to join his children. "Yes," said Itong, his words accented in the wrong places. "I have my cold still." Looking at Itong, Inciang understood. And Itong, too, understood. Lacay Iban and Inciang looked at each other, and when Inciang saw the broad grin spreading over her father's face, she knew he understood, too. He should know! "Inciang," said Father gravely. Inciang wrested her eyes from Nena whom she saw was looking at Itong shyly from behind the fence of her father's front yard. "Inciang, boil some ginger and vinegar for your poor brother. He has that bad cold still."

Inciang wept deep inside of her as she cooked rice in the kitchen a little later. She had seen Itong stay at the door and make signs to Nena. She resented his attentions to Nena. She resented his height, his pink shirt, his necktie. But that night, as she lay awake on the floor, waiting for Itong to come home, she knew despite all the ache of her heart, that she could not keep Itong forever young, forever the boy whom she had brought up. That time would keep him growing for several years yet, and more distant to her. And then all the bitterness in her heart flowed out in tears. In the morning, when Nena came to borrow one of the pestles. "We are three to pound rice, Manang Inciang; may we borrow one of your pestles?" Inciang could smile easily at Nena. She could feel a comradely spirit toward Nena growing within her. After all, she thought, as she gave Nena the pestle, she never had a sister, she would like to see how it was to have a sister. A good-looking one like Nena. Inciang smiled at Nena, and Nena blushing, smiled back at her.

AT WARS END: AN ELEGY by Rony V. Diaz

1. THE DINNER PARTY

THE evening before he killed himself, Virgilio Serrano gave a dinner party. He invited five guestsfriends and classmates in university myself included. Since we lived on campus in barracks built by the U.S. Army, he sent his Packard to fetch us. Virgilio lived alone in a pre-war chalet that belonged to his family. Four servants and a driver waited on him hand and foot. The chalet, partly damaged, was one of the few buildings in Ermita that survived the bombardment and street fighting to liberate Manila. It had been skillfully restored; the broken lattices, fretwork, shell windows and wrought iron fence had been repaired or replaced at considerable expense. A hedge of bandera espaola had been planted and the scorched frangipani and hibiscus shrubs had been pruned carefully. Thus, Virgilios house was an ironic presence in the violated neighborhood. He was on the porch when the car came to a crunching halt on the graveled driveway. He shook our hands solemnly, then ushered us into the living room. In the half-light, everything in the room glowed, shimmered or shone. The old ferruginous narra floor glowed. The pier glass coruscated. The bentwood furniture from the house in Jaen looked as if they had been burnished. In a corner, surrounded by bookcases, a black Steinway piano sparkled like glass. Virgilio was immaculate in white de hilo pants and cotton shirt. I felt ill at ease in my surplus khakis and combat boots. We were all in our second year. Soon we will be on different academic pathsVictor in philosophy; Zacarias in physics and chemistry; Enrique in electrical engineering; and Apolonio, law. Virgilio and I have both decided to make a career in English literature. Virgilio was also enrolled in the Conservatory and in courses in the philosophy of science. We were all in awe of Virgilio. He seemed to know everything. He also did everything without any effort. He had not been seen studying or cramming for an exam in any subject, be it history, anthropology or calculus. Yet the grades that he won were only a shade off perfection.

HE and I were from the same province where our families owned rice farms except that ours was tiny, a hundred hectares, compared to the Serranos, a well-watered hacienda that covered 2,000 hectares of land as flat as a table. The hacienda had been parceled out to eleven inquilinos who together controlled about a thousand tenants. The Serranos had a large stone house with a tile roof that dated back to the 17th century that they used during the summer months. The inquilinos dealt with Don Pepes spinster sister, the formidable Clara, who knew their share of the harvest to the last chupa. She was furthermore in residence all days of the year.

Virgilio was the only child. His mother was killed in a motor accident when he was nine. Don Pepe never remarried. He became more and more dependent on Clara as he devoted himself to books, music and conversation. His house in Cabildo was a salon during the years of the Commonwealth. At night, spirited debates on art, religion language, politics and world affairs would last until the first light of dawn. The guests who lived in the suburbs were served breakfasts before they drove off in their runabouts to Sta. Cruz, Ermita or San Miguel. The others stumbled on cobblestones on their way back to their own mansions within the cincture of Intramuros. In October, Quezon himself came for merienda. He had just appointed General MacArthur field marshal of the Philippine Army because of disturbing news from Nanking and Chosun. Quezon cursed the Americans for not taking him in their confidence. But like most gifted politicians, he had a preternatural sense of danger. The Japanese will go to war against the Americans before this year is out, Pepe, Quezon rasped, looking him straight in the eye. This was the reason the Serranos prepared to move out of Manila. As discreetly as possible, Don Pepe had all his personal things packed and sent by train to Jaen. He stopped inviting his friends. But when the Steinway was crated and loaded on a large truck that blocked the street completely, the neighbors became curious. Don Pepe dissembled, saying that he had decided to live in the province for reasons of health, at least until after Christmas. Two weeks later, he suffered a massive stroke and died. The whole town went into mourning. His remains were interred, along with his forebears, in the south wall of the parish church. A month later, before the period of mourning had ended, Japanese planes bombed and strafed Clark Field. Except for about three months in their hunting lodge in the forests of Bongabong (to escape the rumored rapine that was expected to be visited on the country by the yellow horde. Virgilio and Clara spent the war years in peace and comfort in their ancestral house in Jaen. Clara hired the best teachers for Virgilio. When food became scare in the big towns and cities, Clara put up their families in the granaries and bodegas of the hacienda so that they would go on tutoring Virgilio in science, history, literature, mathematics, philosophy and English. After his lessons, he read and practiced on the piano. He even learned to box and to fence although he was always nauseated by the ammoniac smell of the gloves and mask. Despite Claras best effort, she could not find new boxing gloves and fencing equipment. Until she met Honesto Garcia. Honesto Garcia was a petty trader in rice who had mastered the intricate mechanics of the black market. He dealt in anything that could be moved but he became rich by buying and selling commodities such as soap, matches, cloth and quinine pills. Garcia maintained a network of informers to help him align supply and demandand at the same time collect intelligence for both the Japanese Army and the Hukbalahap. One of his informers told him about Clara Serranos need for a pair of new boxing gloves and protective gear for escrima. He found these items. He personally drove in his amazing old car to Jaen to present them to Clara, throwing in a French epe that was still in its original case for good measure. He refused payment but asked to be allowed to visit. Honesto Garcia was the son of a kasama of the Villavicencios of Cabanatuan. By hard work and numerous acts of fealty, his father became an inquilino. Honesto, the second of six children, however made up his mind very early that he would break loose from farming. He reached the seventh grade and although his father at that time had enough money to send him to high school, he decided to apprentice himself to a Chinese rice trader in

Gapan. His wage was a few centavos a day, hardly enough for his meals, but after two years, he knew enough about the business to ask his father for a loan of P60 to set himself up as a rice dealer. And then the war broke out. Honesto was handsome in a rough-hewn way. He tended to fat but because he was tall he was an imposing figure. He was unschooled in the social graces; he preferred to eat, squatting before a dulang, with his fingers. Despite these deficiencies, he exuded an aura of arrogance and self-confidence. It was this trait that attracted Clara to him. Clara had never known strong-willed men, having grown up with effete persons like Don Pepe and compliant men like the inquilinos who were always silent in her presence. When Clara told Virgilio that Honesto had proposed and that she was inclined to accept, Virgilio was not surprised. He also had grown to like Honesto who always came with unusual gifts. Once, Honesto gave him a mynah that Virgilio was able to teach within a few days to say Good morning. How are you today? The wedding took place in June of the second year of the war. It was a grand affair. The church and the house were decked in flowers. The inquilinos fell over each other to, supply the wedding feast. Carts and sleds laden with squealing pigs, earthen water jars filled with squirming river fish, pullets bound at the shank like posies, fragrant rice that had been husked in wooden mortars with pestles, the freshest eggs and demijohns of carabao milk for leche flan and slews of vegetables and fruit that had been picked at exactly the right time descended on the big house. The wives and daughters of the tenants cooked the food in huge vats while their menfolk roasted the suckling pigs on spluttering coals. The quests were served on bamboo tables spread with banana leaves. The war was forgotten, a rondalla played the whole day, the children fought each other for the bladders of the pigs which they blew up into balloons and for the ears and tails of the lechon as they were lifted on their spits from the fire. The bride wore the traje de boda of Virgilios mother, a masterpiece confected in Madrid of Belgian lace and seed pearls. The prettiest daughters of the inquilinos, dressed in organza and ribbons, held the long, embroidered train of the wedding gown. Honestos family were awe-struck by this display of wealth and power. They cringed and cowered in the sala of the big house and all of them were too frightened to go to the comedor for the wedding lunch. Not very long after the wedding, Honesto was running the hacienda. The inquilinos found him more congenial and understanding. At this time, the Huks were already making demands on them for food and other necessities. The fall in the Serrano share would have been impossible to explain to Clara. In fact, the Huks had established themselves on Carlos Valdefuerzas parcel because his male children had joined the guerilla group. Honesto learned for the first time that the Huks were primarily a political and not a resistance organization. They were spreading a foreign idea called scientific socialism that predicted the takeover of all lands by the workers. Ricardo Valdefuerza, who had taken instruction from Luis Taruc, was holding classes for the children of the other tenants. Honesto was alarmed enough to take it up with Clara who merely shrugged him off. How can illiterate farmers understand a complex idea like scientific socialism? she asked. But they seem to understand it, Honesto expostulated because it promises to give them the land that they farm. How is that possible? Quezon and the Americans will not allow it. They dont have the Torrens Title, Clara said with finality.

Carding Valdefuerza has been saying that all value comes from work. What we get as our share is surplus that we do not deserve because we did nothing to it. It rightly belongs to the workers, according to him. I myself dont understand this idea too clearly but that is how it is being explained to the tenants. They are idle now. After the war, all this talk will vanish, Clara said. When American troops landed in Leyte, Clara was four months with child.

THE table had been cleared. Little glasses of a pale sweetish wine were passed around. Victor pushed back his chair to slouch. The war has given us the opportunity to change this country. The feudal order is being challenged all over the world. Mao Tse Tung has triumphed in China. Soon the revolution will be here. We have to help prepare the people for it. Victor declared. Why change? Virgilio asked. The pre-war order had brought prosperity and democracy. What you call feudalism is necessary to rebuild the country. Who will lead? The Huks? The young turks of the Liberal Party? All they have are ideas; they have no capital, no power. The university was alive with talk of imminent revolutionary change. Young men and women, most of them from the upper classes, spoke earnestly of redistributing wealth. Nothing will come of it Virgilio said, sipping his wine. Of all of us, you have the most to lose in a revolution, Apolonio said. What we should aim for is orderly lawful change. You might lose your hacienda but you must be paid for it. So in the end, you will still have the capital to live on in style. You dont understand, Virgilio said. It is not only a question of capital or compensation. I am talking of a way of life, of emotional bonds, of relationships that are immutable. In any case, we can do nothing one way or the other so let us change the subject. Dont be too sure, I said. We can influence these events one way or another. You talk as it you have joined the Communist Party, Virgilio said. Have you? But before I could answer, he was off on another tack. You know I have just been reading about black holes, Virgilio said addressing himself to Zacarias. Oppenheimer and Snyder solved Einsteins equations on what happens when a sun or star had used up its supply of nuclear energy. The star collapses gravitationally, disappears from view and remains in a state of permanent free fall, collapsing endlessly inward into a gravitational pit without end. What a marvelous idea! Such ideas are art in the highest sense but at the same time, the decisive proof of relativity, Virgilio enthused. Do you know that Einstein is embarrassed by these black holes? He considers them a diversion from his search for a unified theory, Zacarias said.

Ah! The impulse towards simplicity, towards reduction. The need to explain all knowledge with a few, elegant equations. Dont you think that his reductionism is the ultimate arrogance? Even if it is Einsteins. In any case, he is not succeeding, Virgilio said. But isnt reductionism the human tendency? This is what Communism is all about, the reduction of human relationships to a set of unproven economic theorems, I interjected. But the reductionist approach can also lead to astounding results. Take the Schredinger and Dirac equations that reduced previous mysterious atomic physics to elegant order, Enrique said. What is missing in all this is the effect on men of reductionism. It can very well lead to totalitarian control in the name of progress and social order, Apolonio ventured. Let me resolve our debate by playing for you a piece that builds intuitively on three seemingly separate movements. This is Beethovens Sonata, Opus 27, No. 2. Virgilio rose and walked gravely to the piano while we distributed ourselves on the bentwood furniture in the living room. He played the opening Adagio with sensitive authority, escalating note to note until it resolved into the fragile D-flat major which in turn disappeared in the powerful rush of the concluding Presto, the movement that crystallized the disparate emotional resonances of the first two movements into an assured and balanced relationship. When the last note had faded, we broke into cheers. But at that moment, I felt a deep sadness for Virgilio. As the Presto flooded the Allegretto, I knew that he was not of this world. Outside, through the shell windows, moonlight softened the jagged ruins of battle.

2. THE INVESTIGATION

ON July 14, 1950, in the evening, Virgilio killed himself in his bedroom by slitting his wrists with a straight razor and thrusting them into a pail of warm water. His body was not found until the next morning. He did not appear for breakfast at eight. At eight-thirty, Josefa, the housemaid, knocked on the door of Virgilios bedroom. Getting no response, she asked Arturo, the driver, to climb up the window to look inside. The three maids panicked. Arturo drove off at once in the Packard to get me. After leaving a note for the Dean of the College of Liberal Arts, we stopped at the police station near General Luna to report the suicide. Two police officers were immediately assigned to investigate. They came with us in the car to the house in Ermita. They started interrogating me in the car.

Who are you? Police Officer No. 1 asked. Why are you involved?, Police Officer No. 2 demanded. I was somewhat nervous but as calmly as I could be, I answered. My name is Nestor Gallego. I am a second-year student at University of the Philippines. Virgilio Serrano, the deceased, and I come from the same town, Jaen, in Nueva Ecija. I have known Virgilio since 1942 and I think he considers me his closest friend in university. That is the reason the driver came to me. The policemen brought together the household staff. Did you touch, move or remove anything in the bedroom? Did any of you go out of the house after the driver left for the university? To both questions, the maids answered, No, whereupon they were told to stay within the premises for separate interviews later in the morning. Police Officer No. 1 went out to the yard presumably to look for clues. Police Officer No. 2 made a sketch of the scene and then searched the bedroom systematically. He opened the drawers of the tallboy carefully, he felt around the linen and underwear. The wardrobe and the aparador were also examined. But it was on the contents of the rolltop desk that No. 1 concentrated. The notebooks, a diary, and address book were all neatly arranged around a Remington typewriter. He was looking for a letter, a note even, to give him a clue or lead to the motive for the suicide. On the first page of one of the notebooks were the Down There and then To my friend and confidant, Nestor Gallego, with affection. Although unsigned, it was in Virgilios spidery hand. You know anything about this? No. 1 said in a low, threatening voice. He handed it to me. I leafed through the pages. It looked like a long poem that had been broken down into thirteen cantos. No, I said. I have not seen this before. But it is for you. What does it say? I dont know, I have to read it first, cuttingly. My sarcasm rolled off him like water on a duck. Well thenread, he ordered, motioning me to the wooden swivel chair. A frisson ran up my spine. My hands trembled as I opened the notebook and scanned the poem. There were recognizable names, places and events. There were references to his professors in university and his tutors in Jaen. The names of some of his inquilinos appeared again and again. But the longest sections were about Honesto and Clara Garcia and Ricardo Valdefuerza. From the tone and the words, it was a satire patterned closely after Dantes Inferno. Virgilio, like Dante, had assigned or consigned people to different circles down there. It ended with a line from Valery, A lextrme de toute pense est un soupir. I cannot say truthfully that I understand it. I know some of the people and places referred to but not why they appear in this poem.

I will have to bring this back for analysis, No. 1 said, giving it to No. 2 who put it carelessly in a plastic carryall. When you are done with it, can I have it back? I have a right to it since it was dedicated to me. I wanted desperately to read it because I felt that it concealed the reason for Virgilios suicide. They spent another hour talking to the household help and scribbling in grimy notebooks. Before they left past one oclock, No. 1 said: It is clearly a suicide. There was no struggle. In fact, it was a very neat suicide. He made it sound as if it was a remarkable piece of craftsmanship. I hated him. I went with Arturo to the post office to send a telegram to Jaen. Virgilio dead stop please come at once. The undertaker took charge thereafter, informing us that by six oclock, the remains would be ready for viewing. He asked me to select the clothes for the dead. I chose the white de hilo pants and the white cotton shirt that Virgilio wore the other day. It is wrinkled, the undertaker said. Dont you want to choose something else. No, I shouted at him. Put him in these.

3. THE FUNERAL

FATHER Sean ODonovan, S.J., refused to say Mass or to bless the corpse. Those who die by their own hand are beyond the pale of the Church, he said firmly. Let us take him home, Clara said. She asked me to make all the arrangements and not to mind the cost. The rent for the hearse was clearly exorbitant. I bargained feebly and then agreed. Victor, Zacarias, Enrique, Apolonio and myself were to travel in the Packard. Honesto and Clara had driven to Manila in a new Buick. The hearse moved at a stately 30 kilometers per hour while a scratchy dirge poured out of it at full volume. The Garcias followed in their Buick and we brought up the rear. The rains of July had transformed the brown, dusty fields of Bulacan and Nueva Ecija into muddy fields. We passed small, nut-brown men, following a beast and a stick that scored the wet earth; dithering birds swooped down to pluck the crickets and worms that were turned up by the plow. The beat of sprung pebbles against the fender of the car marked our passage. The yard of the big house was already full of people. In the sala, a bier had been prepared. The wives of inquilinos were all in black. Large yellow tapers gave off a warm, oily smell that commingled with the attar of the flowers, producing an odor that the barrio folk called the smell of death.

Then the local worthies arrived, led by the congressman of the district, the governor of the province, the mayor of Jaen, the commander of the Scout Rangers who was leading a campaign against the Huks, with their wives and retainers. They were all on intimate teams with Honesto and Clara. Except for the colonel who was in full combat uniform, they were dressed in sharkskin and two-toned shoes. They wore their hair tightly sculpted with pomade against their skulls and on their wrists and fingers gold watches and jeweled rings glistened. They all knew that Honesto had political ambition. It was not clear yet which position he had his sights on. With the death of Virgilio, the immense wealth of the Serranos devolved on Clara and on Honesto and on their 5-year old son, Jose Jr. Both the Nacionalista and Liberal Parties have been dangling all manner of bait before Honesto. Now, there will be a scramble. Honesto shook hands with everyone, murmuring acknowledgments of their expressions of grief but secretly assessing their separate motives. Clara was surrounded by the simpering wives of the politicians; like birds they postured to show their jewels to best advantage. They only fell silent when Father Francisco Santander, the parish priest, came to say the prayer for the dead and to lead the procession to the Church where Virgilios mortal remains would be displayed on a catafalque before the altar before interment in the south wall side by side with Don Pepes. I left the sala to join the crowd in the yard. My parents were there with the Serranos and our tenants. There was a palpable tension in the air. A number of the kasamas had been seized by the Scout Rangers, detained and tortured, so that they may reveal the whereabouts of Carding. They were frightened. From what I heard from my parents, most of the tenants distrusted Honesto who they felt was using the campaign against the Huks to remove those he did not like. The inquilinos were helpless because Clara was now completely under the sway of Honesto. I walked home. When I got there, Restituto, our caretaker, very agitated, took me aside and whispered. Carding is in the house. He has been waiting for you since early morning. I kept him from view in your bedroom. He looked at me, uncertain and obviously frightened. What shall we do? Leave it to me. But do not tell anyonenot even my parents. He shall be gone by the time they return. I put my arm around Restitutos shoulder to reassure him. Carding wheeled when I walked in, pistol at the ready. He was dressed in army fatigues and combat boots. A pair of Ray-Ban glasses dangled on his shirt. He put the pistol back in its holster. You shouldnt be here. There are soldiers all around. They will not come here. They are too busy in the hacienda, Carding said. The shy, spindly boy that I knew during the war had grown into a broad muscular man. His eyes were hooded and cunning. I have to talk to you. Did Virgilio leave a last will and testament? Not that I know of. He left a notebook of poems. What is that? Carding demanded, startled.

A notebook of verses with the title Down There. You are mentioned in the poem. But the police has it, I answered. Did it say anything about the disposition of the hacienda in case of his death? I did not have a chance to read it closely but I doubt it. Arent such things always done up in legal language? There certainly is nothing like that in the notebook. What are you leading up to? Carding sighed. In 1943; Virgilio came to see me. He had heard from Honesto that I have been talking to the tenants about their rights. Virgilio wanted to know himself the bases of my claims. We had a long talk. I told him about the inevitability of the triumph of the peasant class. Despite his wide reading, he had not heard of Marx, Lenin, or Mao Tse Tung. He was visibly shaken. But when I told him of the coming calamity that will bring down his class, he asked What can I do? and I said: Give up. Give up your land, your privilege and your power. That is the only way to avoid the coming calamity. He apparently did not have any grasp of social forces. He kept talking of individual personstenants that he had known since he was a child, inquilinos who had been faithful to his father until their old age, and all that nonsense. The individual does not matter, I yelled at him. Only the class called the proletariat. But even without understanding, he said that he will leave the hacienda to the tenants because it was probably the right thing to do. But Clara should not be completely deprived of her means of support. It was exasperating, talking to him, but he did promise that in his will the tenants would get all. Obviously, he changed his mind. Carding said in a low voice. That is too bad because now we have to take his land by force. I was speechless. In university, talk of revolution was all the rage but this was my first encounter with a man who could or would try to make it happen. When I get back the notebook, I will study it to see if there is any statement that will legally transfer the Serrano hacienda to you and the other tenants, I said weakly. I will be in touch, Carding said. He walked out the door. The day of the funeral was clear and hot. Dust devils rose from the road. In the shadow of the acacia trees in the churchyard, hundreds of people of all ages crowded to get away from the sun. Inside the church, even the aisles were packed. Introibo ad altare Dei Father Santander intoned. Ad Deum qui laetificat juventutem meam, I answered. The mass for the dead began. My heart was racing because I knew the reason for Virgilios suicide. But nobody would care, save me.

ALL OVER THE WORLD by Vicente Rivera, Jr.

ONE evening in August 1941, I came out of a late movie to a silent, cold night. I shivered a little as I stood for a moment in the narrow street, looking up at the distant sky, alive with stars. I stood there, letting the night wind seep through me, and listening. The street was empty, the houses on the street dimwith the kind of ghostly dimness that seems to embrace sleeping houses. I had always liked empty streets in the night; I had always stopped for a while in these streets listening for something I did not quite know what. Perhaps for low, soft cries that empty streets and sleeping houses seem to share in the night. I lived in an old, nearly crumbling apartment house just across the street from the moviehouse. From the street, I could see into the open courtyard, around which rooms for the tenants, mostly a whole family to a single room, were ranged. My room, like all the other rooms on the groundfloor, opened on this court. Three other boys, my cousins, shared the room with me. As I turned into the courtyard from the street, I noticed that the light over our study-table, which stood on the corridor outside our room, was still burning. Earlier in the evening after supper, I had taken out my books to study, but I went to a movie instead. I must have forgotten to turn off the light; apparently, the boys had forgotten, too. I went around the low screen that partitioned off our study and there was a girl reading at the table. We looked at each other, startled. I had never seen her before. She was about eleven years old, and she wore a faded blue dress. She had long, straight hair falling to her shoulders. She was reading my copy of Greek Myths. The eyes she had turned to me were wide, darkened a little by apprehension. For a long time neither of us said anything. She was a delicately pretty girl with a fine, smooth. pale olive skin that shone richly in the yellow light. Her nose was straight, small and finely molded. Her lips, full and red, were fixed and tense. And there was something else about her. Something lonely? something lost? I know, I said, I like stories, too. I read anything good I find lying around. Have you been reading long? Yes, she said. not looking at me now. She got up slowly, closing the book. Im sorry. Dont you want to read anymore? I asked her, trying to smile, trying to make her feel that everything was all right. No. she said, thank you. Oh, yes, I said, picking up the book. Its late. You ought to be in bed. But, you can take this along. She hesitated, hanging back, then shyly she took the book, brought it to her side. She looked down at her feet uncertain as to where to turn. You live here? I asked her. Yes. What room?

She turned her face and nodded towards the far corner, across the courtyard, to a little room near the communal kitchen. It was the room occupied by the janitor: a small square room with no windows except for a transom above the door. You live with Mang Lucio? Hes my uncle. How long have you been here? I havent seen you before, have I? Ive always been here. Ive seen you. Oh. Well, good nightyour name? Maria. Good night, Maria. She turned quickly, ran across the courtyard, straight to her room, and closed the door without looking back. I undressed, turned off the light and lay in bed dreaming of far-away things. I was twenty-one and had a job for the first time. The salary was not much and I lived in a house that was slowly coming apart, but life seemed good. And in the evening when the noise of living had died down and you lay safe in bed, you could dream of better times, look back and ahead, and find that life could be gentleeven with the hardness. And afterwards, when the night had grown colder, and suddenly you felt alone in the world, adrift, caught in a current of mystery that came in the hour between sleep and waking, the vaguely frightening loneliness only brought you closer to everything, to the walls and the shadows on the walls, to the other sleeping people in the room, to everything within and beyond this house, this street, this city, everywhere. I met Maria again one early evening, a week later, as I was coming home from the office. I saw her walking ahead of me, slowly, as if she could not be too careful, and with a kind of grownup poise that was somehow touching. But I did not know it was Maria until she stopped and I overtook her. She was wearing a white dress that had been old many months ago. She wore a pair of brown sneakers that had been white once. She had stopped to look at the posters of pictures advertised as Coming to our neighborhood theater. Hello, I said, trying to sound casual. She smiled at me and looked away quickly. She did not say anything nor did she step away. I felt her shyness, but there was no self-consciousness, none of the tenseness and restraint of the night we first met. I stood beside her, looked at the pictures tacked to a tilted board, and tried whistling a tune. She turned to go, hesitated, and looked at me full in the eyes. There was again that wide-eyedand sad? stare. I smiled, feeling a remote desire to comfort her, as if it would do any good, as if it was comfort she needed. Ill return your book now, she said. Youve finished it?

Yes. We walked down the shadowed street. Magallanes Street in Intramuros, like all the other streets there, was not wide enough, hemmed in by old, mostly unpainted houses, clumsy and unlovely, even in the darkening light of the fading day. We went into the apartment house and I followed her across the court. I stood outside the door which she closed carefully after her. She came out almost immediately and put in my hands the book of Greek myths. She did not look at me as she stood straight and remote. My name is Felix, I said. She smiled suddenly. It was a little smile, almost an unfinished smile. But, somehow, it felt special, something given from way deep inside in sincere friendship. I walked away whistling. At the door of my room, I stopped and looked back. Maria was not in sight. Her door was firmly closed. August, 1941, was a warm month. The hangover of summer still permeated the air, specially in Intramuros. But, like some of the days of late summer, there were afternoons when the weather was soft and clear, the sky a watery green, with a shell-like quality to it that almost made you see through and beyond, so that, watching it made you lightheaded. I walked out of the office one day into just such an afternoon. The day had been full of grinding worklike all the other days past. I was tired. I walked slowly, towards the far side of the old city, where traffic was not heavy. On the street there were old trees, as old as the walls that enclosed the city. Half-way towards school, I changed my mind and headed for the gate that led out to Bonifacio Drive. I needed stiffer winds, wider skies. I needed all of the afternoon to myself. Maria was sitting on the first bench, as you went up the sloping drive that curved away from the western gate. She saw me before I saw her. When I looked her way, she was already smiling that half-smile of hers, which even so told you all the truth she knew, without your asking. Hello, I said. Its a small world. What? I said its nice running into you. Do you always come here? As often as I can. I go to many places. Doesnt your uncle disapprove? No. Hes never around. Besides, he doesnt mind anything. Where do you go? Oh, up on the walls. In the gardens up there, near Victoria gate. Dyou know? I think so. What do you do up there?

Sit down and And what? Nothing. Just sit down. She fell silent. Something seemed to come between us. She was suddenly far-away. It was like the first night again. I decided to change the subject. Look, I said, carefully, where are your folks? You mean, my mother and father? Yes. And your brothers and sisters, if any. My mother and father are dead. My elder sister is married. Shes in the province. There isnt anybody else. Did you grow up with your uncle? I think so. We were silent again. Maria had answered my questions without embarrassment. almost without emotion, in a cool light voice that had no tone. Are you in school, Maria? Yes. What grade? Six. How dyou like it? Oh, I like it. I know you like reading. She had no comment. The afternoon had waned. The breeze from the sea had died down. The last lingering warmth of the sun was now edged with cold. The trees and buildings in the distance seemed to flounder in a red-gold mist. It was a time of day that never failed to carry an enchantment for me. Maria and I sat still together, caught in some spell that made the silence between us right, that made our being together on a bench in the boulevard, man and girl, stranger and stranger, a thing not to be wondered at, as natural and inevitable as the lengthening shadows before the setting sun. Other days came, and soon it was the season of the rain. The city grew dim and gray at the first onslaught of the monsoon. There were no more walks in the sun. I caught a cold. Maria and I had become friends now, though we saw each other infrequently. I became engrossed in my studies. You could not do anything else in a city caught in the rains. September came and went.

In November, the sun broke through the now ever present clouds, and for three or four days we had bright clear weather. Then, my mind once again began flitting from my desk, to the walls outside the office, to the gardens on the walls and the benches under the trees in the boulevards. Once, while working on a particularly bad copy on the news desk, my mind scattered, the way it sometimes does and, coming together again, went back to that first meeting with Maria. And the remembrance came clear, coming into sharper focusthe electric light, the shadows around us, the stillness. And Maria, with her wide-eyed stare, the lost look in her eyes

IN December, I had a little fever. On sick leave, I went home to the province. I stayed three days. I felt restless, as if I had strayed and lost contact with myself. I suppose you got that way from being sick, A pouring rain followed our train all the way back to Manila. Outside my window, the landscape was a series of dissolved hills and fields. What is it in the click of the wheels of a train that makes you feel gray inside? What is it in being sick, in lying abed that makes you feel you are awake in a dream, and that you are just an occurrence in the crying grief of streets and houses and people? In December, we had our first air-raid practice. I came home one night through darkened streets, peopled by shadows. There was a ragged look to everything, as if no one and nothing cared any more for appearances. I reached my room just as the siren shrilled. I undressed and got into my old clothes. It was dark, darker than the moment after moon-set. I went out on the corridor and sat in a chair. All around me were movements and voices. anonymous and hushed, even when they laughed. I sat still, afraid and cold. Is that you. Felix? Yes. Maria. She was standing beside my chair, close to the wall. Her voice was small and disembodied in the darkness. A chill went through me, She said nothing more for a long time. I dont like the darkness, she said. Oh, come now. When you sleep, you turn the lights off, dont you? Its not like this darkness, she said, softly. Its all over the world. We did not speak again until the lights went on. Then she was gone. The war happened not long after. At first, everything was unreal. It was like living on a motion picture screen, with yourself as actor and audience. But the sounds of bombs exploding were real enough, thudding dully against the unready ear. In Intramuros, the people left their homes the first night of the war. Many of them slept in the niches of the old walls the first time they heard the sirens scream in earnest. That evening, I returned home to find the apartment

house empty. The janitor was there. My cousin who worked in the army was there. But the rest of the tenants were gone. I asked Mang Lucio, Maria? Shes gone with your aunt to the walls. he told me. They will sleep there tonight. My cousin told me that in the morning we would transfer to Singalong. There was a house available. The only reason he was staying, he said, was because they were unable to move our things. Tomorrow that would be taken care of immediately. And you, Mang Lucio? I dont know where I could go. We ate canned pork and beans and bread. We slept on the floor, with the lights swathed in black cloth. The house creaked in the night and sent off hollow echoes. We slept uneasily. I woke up early. It was disquieting to wake up to stillness in that house which rang with childrens voices and laughter the whole day everyday. In the kitchen, there were sounds and smells of cooking. Hello, I said. It was Maria, frying rice. She turned from the stove and looked at me for a long time. Then, without a word, she turned back to her cooking. Are you and your uncle going away? I asked. I dont know. Did he not tell you? No. Were moving to Singalong. Yes, I know. Well, anyway, Ill come back tonight. Maybe this afternoon. Well not have to say goodbye till then. She did not say anything. I finished washing and went back to my room. I dressed and went out. At noon, I went to Singalong to eat. All our things were there already, and the folks were busy putting the house in order. As soon as I finished lunch, I went back to the office. There were few vehicles about. Air-raid alerts were frequent. The brightness of the day seemed glaring. The faces of people were all pale and drawn. In the evening, I went back down the familiar street. I was stopped many times by air-raid volunteers. The house was dark. I walked back to the street. I stood for a long time before the house. Something did not want me to go away just yet. A light burst in my face. It was a volunteer. Do you live here?

I used to. Up to yesterday. Im looking for the janitor. Why, did you leave something behind? Yes, I did. But I think Ive lost it now. Well, you better get along, son. This place, the whole area. has been ordered evacuated. Nobody lives here anymore. Yes, I know, I said. Nobody.

THE CENTIPEDE by Rony V. Diaz

WHEN I saw my sister, Delia, beating my dog with a stick, I 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 I could not bound forward nor cry out to my sister. She had a weak heart and she must not be surprised. So I held myself, my throat swelled, and I felt hate rear and plunge in its cage of ribs.

I WAS thirteen when my father first took me hunting. All through the summer of that year, I had tramped alone and unarmed the fields and forest around our farm. Then one afternoon in late July my father told me I could use his shotgun. Beyond the ipil grove, in a grass field we spotted a covey of brown pigeons. In 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 I 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. I 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; I felt vaguely sick. I wanted to sit down. You forgot to spit, my father said. Father had told me that hunters always spat for luck before firing. I spat and I saw the breeze bend the ragged, glassy threads of spittle toward the birds. Thats good, Father said. Cant we throw a stone, I whispered fiercely. Its taking them a long time. No, youve to wait. Suddenly, a small dog yelping shrilly came tearing across the brooding plain of grass and small trees. It 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. I fired and my body shook with the fierce momentary life of the rifle. I 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 I snapped my fingers and then he came me. Not bad, my father said grinning. Three birds with one tube. I 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. I picked up the birds and its warm, mangled flesh clung to the palm of my hand.

Youre keen, I said to the dog. Here. Come here. I offered him my bloody palm. He came to me and licked my palm clean. I gave the birds to my father. May I keep him, Father? I 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, Im not sure. That dog belongs to somebody. May I keep him until his owner comes for him? I pursued. Hed make a good pointer, Father remarked. But I would not like my son to be accused of dog-stealing. Oh, no! I said quickly. I shall return him when the owner comes to claim him. All right, he said, I hope that dog makes a hunter out of you. Biryuk and I 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.

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

MY sister was the meanest creature I knew. She was eight when I 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. Its 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. It was my sisters playhouse and I remembered she told me to keep out of it. She was not around so I 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. I picked it up. It was slight but it had hard, unflexing limbs. I tried to bend one of the legs and it snapped. I stared with horror at the hollow tube that was the leg of the doll. Then I saw my sister coming. I hid the leg under one of the banana pelts. She was running and I knew she was furious. The walls of the hut suddenly constricted me. I 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 I crashed against the wall of the hut. The flimsy wall collapsed over me. I 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. I 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 I did ever pleased her. She destroyed willfully anything I liked. At first, I took it as a process of adaptation, a step of adjustment; I snatched and crushed every seed of anger she planted in me, but later on I realized that it had become a habit with her. I 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. I did not say anything when she told Father that she did not like my pigeon house because it stank and I had to give away my pigeons and Berto had to chop the house into kindling wood. I learned how to hold myself because I 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, I realized that she was spiting me. My butterflies never snickered at her and they did not smell. I 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 I arrived home, one afternoon, from school, I found my butterflies in a can, burned in their cotton beds like deckle. I 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.

I RAN after Biryuk. He had fled to the brambles. I ran after him, bugling his name. I found him under a low, shriveled bush. I called him and he only whimpered. Then I saw that one of his eyes was bleeding. I sat on the ground and looked closer. The eye had been pierced. The stick of my sister had stabbed the eye of my dog. I was stunned. ,For a long time I sat motionless, staring at Biryuk. Then I 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. I screamed. Biryuk, frightened, yelped and fled, rattling the dead bush that sheltered him. I did not run after him. A large hawk wheeled gracefully above a group of birds. It flew in a tightening spiral above the birds. On my way back to the house, I passed the woodshed. I 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: Ive got something for you. He dropped his ax and walked into the woodshed. I followed him. Berto went to a corner of the shed. I saw a jute sack spread on the ground. Berto stopped and picked up the sack. Look, he said. I approached. Pinned to the ground by a piece of wood, was a big centipede. Its malignantly red body twitched back and forth.

Its large, I said. I found him under the stack I 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 I stiffened. Did it, really? I said trying to control my rising voice. Berto was still grinning and I felt hot all over. I didnt expect to find any centipede here, he said. It nearly bit me. Who wouldnt get shocked? He bent and picked up a piece of wood. This wood was here, he said and put down the block. Then I picked it up, like this. And this centipede was coiled here. Right here. I nearly touched it with my hand. What do you think you would feel? I did not answer. I squatted to look at the reptile. Its antennae quivered searching the tense afternoon air. I picked up a sliver of wood and prodded the centipede. It uncoiled viciously. Its pinchers slashed at the tiny spear. I could carry it dead, I said half-aloud. Yes, Berto said. I did not kill him because I knew you would like it. Yes, youre right. Thats bigger than the one you found last year, isnt it? Yes, its very much bigger. I stuck the sliver into the carapace of the centipede. It went through the flesh under the red armor; a whitish liquid oozed out. Then I made sure it was dead by brushing its antennae. The centipede did not move. I 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. I went near, I stood behind her chair. She was not aware of my presence. I unwrapped the centipede. I 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. Youve health life you tried Her voice dragged off into a pain-stricken moan. I was engulfed by a sudden feeling of pity and guilt. But its dead! I cried kneeling before her. Its dead! Look! Look! I snatched up the centipede and crushed its head between my fingers. Its dead! My sister did not move. I held the centipede before her like a hunter displaying the tail of a deer, save that the centipede felt thorny in my hand.

THE DEVIL IN THE DETAILS by Carlos Corts

NEXT in line was a typical family: man and woman and a kid about two years old, and a baggage cart laden with their boxes and suitcases. The man handed over their tickets and passports. The flight was for Singapore, with many of the passengers having outbound connections: some to Jakarta, others to Cairns, still others to Auckland, Heathrow, or JFK. This family, two Germans and a Filipina, was bound for Frankfurt. When I say they were Germans and a Filipina I am going by their passports, of course; in my line of work one speaks of these things in a technical manner, disregarding racial and ethnic considerations. The man happened to have the Aryan features associated with the typical German, such as blond hair and blue eyes. For me, however, all that mattered was that he had a German passport. The boy was German, too, but if I hadnt seen his passport I would have guessed him to be Filipino. His mother was cooing to him, in babytalk of course, but Cebuano babytalk, in which I detected a faint Boholano accent. The kid was repeating some of her words; he was taking to her language in much the same way he took after her. He had only the slightest hint of the mestizo alemn about him. To be sure, his complexion was rather light and his hair was brownish. But he did not look Nordic at all. He could have been a son of mine: he looked Visayan enough. The only thing German about him was a piece of paper. However, I was trained to give due credit to such pieces of paper. The kids passport was literally a piece of paper. It wasnt the kind of German passport his father had, the booklet with a hard maroon cover that had the words Europische Gemeinschaft, then below that Bundesrepublik Deutschland, then below the heraldic eagle the word Reisepass. That kind of passport was sometimes issued to children too, but not often; the German government offered a childrens version of its passport, and since the processing fee for the Kinderausweis, as it was called, was much lower, it was what German children almost always had. A single sheet of green paper folded and refolded upon itself so that one could unfold it into four pages, the Kinderausweis looked like a fun passport; one could imagine it had been made in a gingerbread house, whereas the Reisepass could only have come from an office.

WE used the Departure Control System, DCS for short, a simple and good computer program. Accepting passengers for a flight was a breeze in DCS. For international flights, however, we had to input so many things the entries often became cumbersome. Care was essential. A single typo was all it took for the whole entry to be invalid, and then one would have to start all over again. I would assign them good seats, one seat by the window for the kid, for both flights. I would tag their baggage for Frankfurt and waive the charge for excess weight ofI checked the readout on the weighing scaleseven kilos. But first things first. Were their documents in order? The German was at the top of the name list. On my screen he was EFKEMANN/HEINZJUERGENMR and now I entered the supplementary information for him: PASDE6792035487.DOB09OCT67. The code PAS DE meant Passport Deutsch. The numerals were his passport number. DOB was date of birth, 10-09-67 on his Reisepass. The name on the passport, Efkemann, Heinz Jrgen, matched the name on the ticket, except for the spelling of Jrgen. No big deal. I knew the u with an umlaut was usually written as ue on tickets. I idly wondered if they could print out the umlaut on tickets issued in Germany. I could ask this guy, but in this line of work one did not ask too many irrelevant questions.

The kid was EFKEMANN/PETERMSTR and I put in the details from his Kinderausweis: PASDE2057644.DOB07AUG00. His color picture on the inside page showed him to be a beautiful baby, brownish hair topping a face more Visayan than Eurasian. It didnt seem jarring to me, because brown hair appeared in my family too, about once a generation...we got it from a friar or two somewhere in the family tree; a recessive gene, but one that popped up now and then: my sisters hair, jet black indoors, blazed with chestnut highlights in afternoon sunshine; my aunt had hair that was nearly auburn; my great-grandmother was supposed to have been a real blonde...my mind was wandering again. I wrenched it back to the present, to this little boy I was accepting for the flight, Master Peter Efkemann. I was glad to see they hadnt given him one of those uniquely German names like Dietmar, Detlev, Heinrich, or Wolfgang. Peter was a very German name, but it was also very Anglo, very American, very Filipino: a good international name.

ONE had to anticipate how things would be at the destination, in this case Frankfurt. From the German point of view the two males, holders of German passports, would be natives coming home; no problems there. It was different for the woman. As a Philippine passport holder, she would be a visiting alien. Here I had to be careful. If Frankfurt found this one inadmissible, she would be deported and the airline would be fined five thousand Deutschmarks. They wouldnt deduct that amount from my salary but an investigation would be launched, explanations would have to be submitted, and I would probably wind up getting a weeks suspension. A weeks pay for me wasnt quite DM5000, but it was hefty enough. For EFKEMANN/CHERILYNMS I typed in PASPHZZ395624. The passport had been issued in Cebu on February 20, 1998. Philippine passports were valid for five years, and hers would expire in 2003: good enough. As a general rule, anyone going to a foreign country had to have at least six months validity left in his passport. After doing DOB24AUG75 I glanced at her to check if she was indeed 26 going on 27. She actually looked somewhat younger, but it had to be because she was a very lovely girl. I noticed the passport had been issued to Dayonot, Cherilyn Hawak, place of birth Talibon, Bohol. I turned to page 4 and sure enough the amendment was there: a change of name from Dayonot to Efkemann due to marriage to Efkemann, Heinz Jurgen, on 28 January 2000. The DFA official who signed the amendment hadnt put the umlaut over the u in Jrgen, but I supposed he had merely copied the name from the marriage contract. If the wedding had been in Bohol there was little chance an umlaut would have appeared on that marriage certificate. There would be a German visa inside that passport, I knew. I didnt think it would be the one called the Aufenhaltsberechtigung, as I knew that kind of visa got issued only to foreigners who had been in Germany for some time. It was roughly the German equivalent of the American green card: it had no expiry date, and it doubled as a work permit. I had no idea how the word Aufenhaltsberechtigung translated, only that people who had that visa could speak German very well and knew their way around the country. Perhaps her visa would be the Aufenhaltserlaubnis. This one had an expiration date, found in the space after gltig bis (valid until). In many cases, instead of a date there would be the word unbefristet. This meant something like indefinite and was what I most often saw on the visas of Filipinas married to Germans. This unbefristet was usually written on the visa in longhand, by someone with a Teutonic scrawl. There were entry and exit stamps showing she had been to Hong Kong and Taipei but I barely glanced at those; they were irrelevant. She had an expired visa for Dubai with corresponding entry/exit stamps: she must have been an OFW not too long ago, but this too was none of my concern. When I found it, her German visa was the Schengen Staten type, which is valid for only a few months. All right, this probably meant she was going to Germany for the first time. Married three years and never yet been to her husbands homeland? A question for the curious, but one I did not ask; it wasnt politic to ask too many impertinent questions in this business.

Unlike the Aufenhalstserlaubnis, which was valid as soon as it was issued, the Schengen Staten visa did not become valid until a certain date, which might be a month or more from its date of issuance. The words to look for were gltig vom and gltig bis, valid from and valid until. On Cherilyns visa I saw a gltig fr Schengener Staten, then below that a vom 04-05-02, which was tomorrows date, and a bis 07-07-02, which was months away in the future, as the expiration date should be. So now the entry for EFKEMANN/CHERILYNMS was PASPHBB335622.DOB08 JAN 75.VISD13581677. The visa number belonged more or less to the same series I had seen on other Schengen Staten visas. Everything about this visa looked and felt authentic, down to the imprinted curlicues and the holograph. Efkemann had waited in silence as I pounded the computer keys but now, from the amount of time I had spent scrutinizing the visa, he must have thought I looked unsure of the German words in it. Issued yesterday, he said, by ze Cherman Embassy in Manila. Sus, kapoya gyud uy, said Cherilyn. We flew back from Manila last night, and now we are flying off again. Give us seats near the front, wont you? I get seasick when I sit at the back, and Singapore to Frankfurt is such a long flight. Ja, ja, said Efkemann, give us seats by ze emerchency exit. I haf fery long legs. Today was April 4; by the time their connecting flight landed in Frankfurt it would be early in the morning of April 5, the first day Cherilyns visa was valid. That was all right, then. I couldnt assign them to seats in any of the exit rows, as they had a child with them. Safety regulations required that only able-bodied adults be put in those rows. Nor could I put them in front, as all the seats there were taken. I would have to explain these things tactfully and put them where I could. An itch in my groin bothered me. I pushed the irritation away from the forefront of my consciousness and concentrated on the task at hand. Had I missed anything? Was there something not quite right? I was glad Cherilyn was a very poised young lady. I had been nonchalant, and so had she. I had never seen her before. She had never seen me before. I was just the guy at the counter and she was just another passenger... They were all passengers: veteran travellers, first timers, it was always passengers and more passengers. Every day I sat there and took on long lines of passengers: rich tourists, backpackers, businessmen, contract workers, domestic helpers, emigrants, nuns, monks, refugees, laissez-passiers, diplomats, envoys, mercenaries; Sikhs, Arabs, Orthodox Jews, Amish, Hottentots, Lapps, Australian aborigines; Koreans, Czechs, Rwandans, Turks, Brazilians, Swedes, Zambians, Greeks...I had seen them all, I would see many more of them tomorrow, it was all one long line, stretching on across the years I had spent in this job, an endless line that snaked around the globe, passengers joining the line in Timbuktu and Xanadu and Cuzco and Urumqi and inching forward until one day they reached me at the counter...

THE difference between the American and the European styles of writing dates all in numbers was what had been bothering me. Only now did I remember that a date written as 01-02-03 would mean January 2, 2003 to an American, but would be read as 01 February 2003 by a European. I for that matter would tend to read it as January 2, as I had learned this shortcut for writing dates in elementary school, and it was the American system that had been taught to us. I looked at the visa again. Of course, why hadnt I seen it before? The gltig fr Schengener Staten vom 04-0502 did not mean April 5; it meant 04 May. I had been blind. I had wanted to see a visa that would become valid only a few hours before its holder entered German airspace. I had trusted Efkemann: like any methodical

German, he would have made sure everything was in order. If their flight would bring them to Frankfurt on April 5, his wifes visa would be valid on April 5. Unthinkable for it not to be. Yet there it was, staring me right in the face, gltig vom 04-05-02, and it seemed the height of silliness to point it out, but this visa was definitely not in order. No doubt about it. The German immigration officer who would be looking at this visa in Frankfurt would interpret 04-05-02 as 04 Mai and inform Herr Efkemann that Frau Efkemanns visa was not valid, would not be valid for another month, and very sorry about this, mein Herr, but we are only doing our duty. We must deport her. My finger was about to hit ENTER but now I desisted. I would have to break the information to them as succinctly as I could. You just did not pussyfoot around a German. You had to come right to the point. Very sorry, Herr Efkemann, I said, but this visa is not yet valid. It will be valid on May fourth, a month from now. I showed it to him. He did not say anything. He took the passport and peered at the visa. Then, handing the passport to Cherilyn, he stepped off to the side and whipped out a cell phone. Soon he was talking in rapid German. Its a mistake! Cherilyn said. We told the people at the Embassy we had a booking for April 4, we would arrive in Germany on April 5! Susmariosep, Im sure somebody inverted those numbers! Germans, I reflected, obeyed traffic lights and all kinds of signs. That one there had seen a sign that said gltig vom 04-05-02, and it never occurred to him that it should not be obeyed. Filipinos on the other hand always looked for exemptions, for a way out. This one in front of me was trying to put it all down to some clerical error. I went to apprise my supervisor of the situation. When he came out with me, Efkmann was still talking on his phone. We waited for him to finish. Gott in Himmel, he muttered as he put the phone back into his pocket. Mr. Efkemann? my supervisor began, Very sorry, but we cannot check in Mrs. Efkemann all the way to Frankfurt. We could check her in, but up to Singapore only. Do you still want to take the flight? Maybe it would be better if you rebook for May 3 or 4. He was outlining the options. None of those scenarios had been in this familys mind a few minutes ago. But the German, I could see, was adjusting his thinking to the changed situation as quickly as anyone could. Its those Filipina office workers at the German Embassy, Cherilyn said. They must have mixed up the date. We told them we were leaving April 4, nicht wahr, mein schatz? I didnt know about that. I had a couple of friends who had been to Germany; if I understood it right, there was a space in the visa application form where one filled in ones desired date of entry in DD/MM/YR form. In most cases the Embassy, if it could, simply gave you what you wanted. Was that the most likely explanation, then? That Cherilyn herself had mixed up the date? She had gone to school in Bohol: she must have learned to write dates in number format the American way. The confounded date was a dumb mistake, but quite natural in this context. I might have made the same mistake myself, and the chances were I wouldnt have noticed it until it was too late to do anything about it.

What Cherilyn did not fully appreciate was that Germans would follow the letter of the law in things like this. It would be of no moment that some silly mistake had been made; what had been written was written and that was that. She seemed to be holding on to the hope that a spoken word from some German Embassy official would make everything all right and they could then get on the flight and reach Frankfurt to find the mistake smoothed over. She looked at her husband expectantly. Ach, to make in ze visa a refision ve must haf to go to ze Cherman Embassy in Manila, ja? No, I zink ve must rebook. Very well, Mr. Efkemann, said my supervisor, would you come inside the office please? We will rebook your tickets now.

CHERILYN remained in front of me at the counter, her little boy in her arms; most of the booked passengers had checked in by now and gone on to the Immigration counters. Thats probably what happened, I said. Some Filipino wrote April 4 the Filipino way. God, how dumb. And it turns out to be May 4 to the Germans. Yeah, all of them in Europe write it that way. Oh, I guess we were dummies, too. We looked at the visa when we got it yesterday, but we never saw that. Jrgen should have seen it. I dont know why he didnt. But we were in a hurry. We had to catch the flight back to Cebu. Things like that, everything looks okay...until you read the fine print. Bitaw, ma-o gyud! Its the fine print that gets you every time. The devil is in the details. Handsome boy youve got there. Takes after the father, doesnt he? Hoy, abi nimo, when he came out I was relieved to see he had light hair. Up until that moment I was afraid he might take after you. Well, he didnt, did he? Hes got your eyes. Yeah, I can see that. But its his hair that clinches it. Your hairs black. His is brown. Right. I guess thats the clincher all right. No doubt about it. There was no point in mentioning that brown hair popped up in my family every now and then. That would be the height of silliness. In this business, one did not say too many unnecessary things.

THE DOLL by Egmidio Enriquez

HE was christened Narciso and his mother called him Sising. But when be took a fancy to his mothers old rag dolls which she preserved with moth balls for the little girls she had expected to have, his father decided to call him Boy. His father was excessively masculine, from the low broad forehead and the thick bushy brows to the wide cleft chest and the ridged abdomen beneath it; and the impotence of his left leg which rheumatic attacks had rendered almost useless only goaded him to assert his maleness by an extravagant display of superiority. Well call him Boy. He is my son. A male. The offspring of a male. Don Endong told his wife in a tone as crowy as a roosters after pecking a hen. A man is fashioned by heredity and environment. Ive given him enough red for his blood, but a lot of good it will do him with the kind of environment you are giving him. That doll you gave him I didnt give him that doll, Doa Enchay explained hastily. He happened upon it in my aparador when I was clearing it. He took pity on it and drew it out. He said it looked very unhappy because it was naked and lonely. He asked me to make a dress for it And you made one. You encouraged him to play with it, he accused her. Doa Enchay looked at her husband embarrassedly. I had many cuttings, and I thought Id make use of them, she said brushing an imaginary wisp of hair from her forehead. It was still a smooth forehead, clean swept and unlined. It did not match the tired look of her eyes, nor the droop of her heavy mouth. Don Endong saw the forehead and the gesture, took in the quiver of the delicate nostrils and the single dimple on her cheek. You are such a child yourself, Enchay, he told her. You still want to play with dolls. That is why, I suppose, you refuse to have your sons hair cut short. Youll make a sissy out of him! His eyes hardened, and a pulse ticked under his right ear. No, I will not allow it, he said struggling to his feet with his cane and shouting, Boy! Boy! Boy! His wife leapt forward to assist him, but as he steadied himself on his cane she couldnt touch him. Even in his infirmity she could not give him support. His eyes held her back, melted her strength away, reminded her she was only a womanthe weaker, the inferior, the dependent. She felt like a flame in the wind that had frantically reached out for something to burn and having found nothing to feed itself on, settled back upon its wick to burn itself out. She watched him struggle to the window. When he had reached it and laid his cane on the sill, she moved close to him and passed an arm around his waist. The curls will not harm him, Marido, she said. They are so pretty. They make him look like the little boys in the story books. Remember the page boys at the feet of queen? His hair does not make him a girl. He looks too much like you. That wide thin-lipped mouth and that stubborn chin, and that manly chestwhy you yourself say he has a pecho de paloma. Don Endongs mouth twitched at one corner, looking down at her, he passed an arm across her back and under an arm. His hand spread out on her body like a crab and taking a handful of her soft flesh kneaded it gently. All right, mujer, he said, but not the doll! And he raised his voice again. Boy! Boy! Boy! The boy was getting the doll ready for bed in the wigwam of coconut fronds he had built in the yard below. The doll was long, slender, rag-bodied with a glossy head of porcelain. He had pulled off its frilly, ribbon trimmed dress, and was thrusting its head into a white cotton slip of a garment that his mother had made and was a little too tight. His fathers stentorian voice drew his brows together. At whom was his father shouting now? His

father was always shouting and fuming. He filled the house with his presence, invalid though he was. How could his mother stand him? Boy! Boy! Boy! came his fathers voice again. Ripping the cotton piece from the head of the doll where the head was caught, he flung the little garment away, and picking up the doll walked hastily towards the house. His father and mother met him at the head of the stairs. He looked at his fathers angry face and said without flinching: Were you calling me, Father? My name is not Boy! It is Boy from now on, his father told him. That will help you to remember that you are a boy. A boy, understand? His father looked ugly when he was mad, but he was not afraid of him. He never beat him. He only cursed and cursed. I dont understand, why? he asked. Because little boys dont play with dolls, Don Endong thundered at him, thats why! And snatching the doll from the boy, Don Endong flung it viciously to the floor. Boy was not prepared for his fathers precipitate move. He was not prepared to save his doll. One moment it was cradled snugly in the crook of his arm. The next it was sprawled on the floor, naked, and broken, an arm twisted limp beneath it, another flung across its face. as if to hide the shame of its disaster. Suddenly it was as if he were the doll. There was a broken feeling within him. The blood crept up his face and pinched his ears. He couldnt speak, he couldnt move. He could only stare and stare until his mother taking him in her arms cradled his head between her breasts.

ONE day in May his mother came home from a meeting of the Marias at the parish rectory in a flurry of excitement. Our Lady of Fatima was coming to town. The image from Portugal was making a tour of the Catholic world and was due in town the following week. Doa Enchay had been unanimously elected chairman of the reception committee. What shall I do? What shall I do? she kept saying. To be sure, mujer, I dont know, Don Endong told her. Ask the Lady herself. Shell tell you. maybe. Endong! you mustnt speak that way of Our Lady of Fatima. she told him in as severe a tone as she dared. Shes milagrosa. havent you heard how she appeared on the limb of a tree before three little children Oh, yes! Also the countless novenas you have said in my behalf. Ah,. Endong, it is your lack of faith, Im sure. If you would only believe! If you would at least keep your peace and allow Our Lady to help you in her own quiet way, maybe She sighed. He couldnt argue with her when she was suppliant. There was something about feminine weakness which he couldnt fight. He kept his peace. But not the boy. It was like the circus coming to town and he had to know all about the strange Lady. He and his mother kept up an incessant jabber about miracles and angels and saints the whole week through. Boy easily caught his

mothers enthusiasm about the great welcome as he tagged along with her on her rounds every day requesting people living along the route the procession was to take from the air port to the cathedral to decorate their houses with some flags, or candles. or paper lanterns She fondly suggested paper buntings strung on a line across the street. Arcos she called them. Dont deceive yourself, Don Endong told her. You know theyre more like clothes-lines than anything else. Does the Lady launder? Que Dos te perdone, Endong! Doa Enchay exclaimed, crossing herself and looking like she was ready to cry. Boy wondered why his father loved to taunt his mother about her religious enthusiasm. Sometimes he himself could not help but snicker over the jokes his father made. Like when Mr. Wilsons ice plant siren blew the hour of twelve and the family was having lunch. His mother would bless herself and intone aloud: Bendita sea la Hora en que Nuestra Seora del Pilar vino en carne mortal a Zaragoza, and begin a Dios te Salve. His father would ostentatiously bend over the platter of steaming white rice in the center of the table and watch it intently until someone inquired, What is it? Then he would reply, I want to see by how many grains the rice has increased in the platter. If Boy had not seen his fathers picture as a little boy dressed in white with a large silk ribbon on one arm and a candle twined with tiny white flowers in one hand, he would think maybe, he was a protestantelike that woman his mother and he happened upon one day on their rounds. The woman had met them on the stairs of her house and said to his mother: The Lady of Fatima did you say, ora? You mean some woman like you and me, or your little girl here, pointing at him, with such pretty hair, who can talk, and walk. and laugh. and cry? His mother retreated fanning herself frantically and flapping the cola of her black saya. To be sure she cant, but she stands as the symbol of one who can! she explained with difficulty as though a fish bone was caught in her throat. He hated the woman for making his mother feel that way, and on the last rung of the steps vindictively spat her error at her: I am not a girl. Im a boy! A boy! You dont know anything! When they arrived home he told his mother he wanted his hair cut short. 1 dont want the Lady of Fatima to mistake me for a girl like the Protestant woman, he told his mother. But Our Lady knows you are a boy. Her Son tells her. Her Son is all knowing. But Boy threw himself on the floor and started to kick. I want my hair cut! I want my hair cut! he screamed and screamed.

THE Lady came on a day that threatened rain. The brows of the hills beyond the rice fields were furious with clouds. The sun cowered out of sight and the Venerable Peter dragged his cart across the heavens continuously drowning all kinds of human utterancesreligious, profane, ribald, humorous, sarcastic-from the milling crowd gathered at the air port to see the Lady of Miracles arrive. There were the colegialas in their jumpers and cotton stockings, the Ateneo band and cadets in khaki and white mittens, the Caballeros de Colon with their paunches and their bald heads, the Hijas de Maria with their medals, the Apostolados with their scapulars, the Liga de Mujeres with their beads there was no panguingue, nor landay, nor poker sessions anywhere in town; nor chapu, nor talang, nor tachi in the coconut groves, for even the bootblacks and the newsboys and the factory boys were there to see the great spectacle. Even Babu Sawang, the Moro woman who fried bananas for the school children. was there, for was not Our Lady of Fatima a Mora like herself, since Fatima was a Moro name? But when the heavens broke open and rain came tearing down, the people scampered for shelter like chickens on the approach of a hawk. All but a few old women and the priests and the bishop and Doa Enchay and Boy hung on to the Lady on her flowered float intoning hymns and repeating aves.

The bishop laid a hand on Boys head and Boy immediately shot up into manhood. His chest filled out, his arms grew thick, and his strides stretched as long as the giants of the seven-league boots. He felt a thousand eyes leveled at him, and he gathered those eyes and wore them on his breast as a hero wears his medals in a parade. You are a brave little boy, the bishop told him. Our Lady must be well pleased with you. Boy took a look at the Lady. She was smiling brightly through tears of happiness. Her eyes spilled water of love, her lips dropped freshets of sweetness. And her checksthey were dew-filled calyxes of kindly care. Suddenly, he was seized with a great thirst. His lips felt cracked and his tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth. An urgent longing to drink possessed him. He felt he should drink, drink. drink-of the Ladys eyes, of the Ladys lips, of the Ladys cheeks

AS he grew older his thirst intensified. He felt he should drink also from the cup of her breast, from the hollow of her hands, from the hem of her trailing white gown, from the ends of each strand of her long brown tresses. But when he approached his Lady at various shrines in the town chapel, whether she had a serpent at her feet, a child in her arms, or beads in her hands, his cracking lips climbed no higher than her pink and white toes and his thirst was quenched. When he was nineteen and graduated from high school, he told his mother he wanted to take Our Lady for a bride. Que dicha! his mother said. To wed the Mother of God. To be a priest and sing her glorias forever. Que dicha! But his father said: A priest? Is that all you will amount toa sissy, a maricon, a half-man? Id rather you died. Id rather I died! It was night, and late, when the household was making ready to turn in. The feeble light of a single electric bulb lit the veranda where Boy stood facing his father in his wicker chair; but the yellow light was flat on the boys face and Don Endong saw that it was a dead mask except for the eyes which held a pointed brilliance. The boys voice was as taut as the string of an instrument that is about to snap. The priesthood is the noblest profession on earth. Father, he said. It is the most manly, too. One who is master of himself, who can leash the lust of his loins to the eye of the spirit. is indeed the man! A man is not measured by the length of his limbs and the breadth of his chest or the depth of his voice, but by the strength of his mind, the depth of his courage, the firmness of his will! God gave you the body of a male to do the functions of a malenot to hide under a skirt! Don Endong goaded him. Boy gripped the back of a chair until the knuckles turned white. Sweat broke out on his forehead and a trembling seized his frame. Strike! Strike your father! Raise your hand against the man who was man enough to give you the figure of a man! Boy! Boy! His mothers voice pierced through his clouding mind, unnerving him, leaving him strengthless. Suddenly, he couldnt look his father in the face. His mothers wail followed him as he fled into the night.

ON the little deserted and unlighted dock where the wind was carefree and all was still except for the muffled cry of a hadji in the distant Moro village and the mournful beat of an agong, Boy faced the night and the sea He flung his eyes to the stars above and gave his body up to the wind to soothe

Fingers touched him lightly on the shoulder, a little nervously, like birds about to take flight at the least sign of danger. Fingers dipped into his sensitive flesh, and melted into the still pounding rivers of his blood. A strong. sweetly pungent scent invaded his nostrils, and his heart picked tip the beat of the distant agong. What do you want with me? he asked the woman without turning around. He had not sensed her coming. She could have sprung like Venus from the foam of the seabut there she was, and her perfume betrayed her calling. Her hand dropped from his shoulder to the bulge of his biceps. You are a large man. You are very strong. And you are lonely, she said. Her voice was cool as water from a jar and soft as cotton. And it had a sad tingle. He checked a rough rebuke. Who was he to condemn her for what she was? Had not Christ said to the men outside the city walls who were about to stone the adulterous woman, Let him among you that is without sin cast the first stone? He looked up into her face. Stars were beating in her eyes. And on her wet lips were slumbering many more. Her arms were long and white and slender like fragrant azucenas unfolding in the night Yes, I am strong, and Im lonely, he said. And Im a man. A big man, he added almost angrily, am I not? Oh, but of course, she said. I can see that. and I can feel that! And fragrant azucenas folded about him in the night.

HE opened his eyes in total darkness. He couldnt see his hand before him, but the air was thick around him, and he had a feeling he was trapped in a narrow place. He flung an arm out and the body of a woman slithered under his arm. She turned toward him and her breath pushed into his face. He raised himself on his elbow for air. The woman stretched herself awake, and slowly a long clammy coil like the sinuous body of the serpent at the feet of Our Lady of the Immaculate Conception in her shrine in the town church began to close around his neck. His flesh crawled. With a quick movement he caught the coil in a strong grip, twisting it. The hoarse cry of a woman lashed out and cracked the stillness of the night. A mouth found his shoulder and sharp vicious teeth sank into his flesh. The stinging pain sent a shiver through the length of his long frame. but he hung on to the squirming limb, squeezing and twisting it until the clamor of angry voices, and a splintering crash, and a sudden flood of light burst upon him Lying at his feet before him was a woman, naked and broken. But a short while before, under the sheet of night, she was cradled in his arms, receiving the reverence of his kisses. Now, under the eye of light, she was but a limp mass of woman flesh, sprawled grotesquely on the floor, an upper limb twisted behind her another flung across her face as if to hide the shame of her disaster. Two men grabbed him and dragged him out into the street. Angry cries and curses followed him. But as he felt the clean air of morning sweep against his face, his chest filled out, his arms grew thick, and his sturdy legs stretched long like the giants of the seven-league boots.

ESSENCE by Jose Claudio B. Guerrero

WE had just finished lunch in a small caf along Katipunan Road. Two cups of steamy brew enveloped our table in a delicious aroma. "So where did you meet?" I asked my friend Patrick as he put down his coffee cup. "In the Faculty Center in UP." "Again? How come you meet a lot of guys there? I'm always there and nothing ever happens." Patrick pointed to his face and smiled. "Che!" I replied laughing. But I knew that it was true. Patrick was not really that good looking, but he had this sexy air about him. And he had fair skin which is, for most Filipinos, a prerequisite for beauty. I looked at the mirror behind him and saw my dark, emaciated reflection. "So anyway, I was washing my face in the ground floor washroom when in comes this really cute guy. I've seen him on campus a few times before. So anyway, he goes and takes a leak," Patrick paused. "You know those FC urinals, right?" I nodded. "No partitions." Patrick took another sip from his cup and continued. "So anyway, this guy sees me checking him out. To my surprise, he turns to me, giving me full view of him in all his glory and smiles. I smile back. And," Patrick took a deep breath, "the rest is for me alone to know." He ended by dabbing the sides of his napkin to his mouth. I knew pressing Patrick for more details would shut him up just like that so I let it pass. I could wheedle out all the details later. "So what's his name?" "Carlo." I raised an eyebrow and gave Patrick my you've-got-to-be-kidding look. He laughed and nodded in agreement. "Yes it's another Carlo. It's always Carlo, or Paolo, or Mike, or Jay--" "So what name did you use?" I asked, cutting him short. "My favorite, Paolo." We both laughed. "Enough of me. Tell me about yourself. It's been what, a month since we've talked?" "More like three weeks," I answered as I motioned to a waiter for the cake menu. "Oh no. You're ordering cake." "Why?" "You order cake when you're depressed."

"No I don't. And anyway, I'm not depressed this time." The waiter arrived with the cake menu. After giving our orders, Patrick continued pressing me for news. "I told you, I lead a boring life." "I'm sure," answered Patrick mischievously. "So how's your Chinese boyfriend?" Patrick's question caught me off-guard as I sipped from my cup. I snorted and felt coffee go up my nose. We both started laughing. "He's not Chinese," I answered when I had recovered. "He's Korean. And he's not my boyfriend, excuse me. I'm his tutor." "I'm sure," said Patrick needling me. "And what are you tutoring him in?" "English." "I'm sure. Oh good, here's the cake." As I dug my fork into my cake's rich cream cheese, I happened to look at the mirror and saw the caf doors open. A dumpy, fair-skinned guy walked in. "Oh my God." I froze. Patrick saw the expression on my face and looked around for what caused it. Finding it, he said, "Don't tell me you're still crazy over Mark." "No I'm not. It's just that, well" "Well what?" asked Patrick, his eyes suddenly alive with curiosity. "It'syou know," I answered. My eyes told him the rest. "No," he answered not wanting to believe it. I smiled. "When?" "Two weeks ago." "Why didn't you tell me sooner?" "You're always busy." "Well I'm not busy anymore. Tell me everything." Patrick leaned over to me forgetting all about his cake. "It's not everyday your best friend loses his virginity." "It happened two weeks ago. Our teacher dismissed us early so I was walking in the AS parking lot looking for my driver. It was already dark and only a few cars were left. Well, one of the cars was his. He smiled at me and asked me what time it was," I paused and took a bite from my cake. "And?" "And what happened next is for me alone to know." I replied mimicking him.

"Fuck. Don't do this to me. Tell me. I have to know. I won't be able to sleep," Patrick begged. Noticing his unused fork, he grabbed it. "Tell me or I'll stab you with this." Just then Mark passed so he hurriedly lowered his fork. "He looks conscious. Maybe he suspects you've told me." I just smiled. "I know some guys who are like that. Once something has happened between you, they suddenly feel awkward when you're around. Eventually you end up avoiding each other." Patrick studied his cake for a while then started eating. After some time he spoke up. "I'm so happy for you," he said smiling as he grabbed my hand and shook it warmly. "I remember all those times we sat here eating cake and talking about your to-die-for classmate Mark. Mark and his cologne, Mark and his new cologne, Mark and his crew cut, Mark and his burntout cigarette butt." He considered for a moment and then said, "Boy, am I glad those days are over." He laughed. I smiled. "Is it really true that you took puffs from his cigarette butt?" My ears went red and I nodded. "Whatever he touches, he leaves an essence. When I take a puff from his cigarette butt, our essences meld. We become one," I hastened to explain. "It's like we've shared something. Like a bond." Patrick gave me a pitying look. "At least you don't have to do that anymore." I smiled and mashed the blueberries on my plate. We finished our cakes as we updated each other with what has happened to our high school barkada. As we waited for our change, Mark stood up to leave and finally noticed us. He smiled and went out. Patrick pinched me as I smiled back, my ears burning.

PATRICK dropped me off at the Faculty Center after lunch and rushed to the theater for rehearsal. Having thirty minutes to waste before my next class, I decided to go to the FC washroom and tidy up. The faint scent of detergent, cigarette smoke, and stale urine greeted me as I opened the door. As I expected, the washroom was deserted. I stood in front of the mirror and took out tissue from my bag. As I dabbed moistened tissue on my face, the washroom door opened and a woody cologne scent wafted in. It was Mark. He went straight to the urinals. I pretended not to notice him. When he finished peeing, he joined me by the mirror, washed his hands, and then straightened his shirt collar. As he looked at his reflection, he saw me watching him and smiled, "It's you again." I smiled back and offered him a tissue. He declined and left. When the door closed, I hurried to the urinal. I unbuttoned my fly and peed. I looked down and watched my pale yellow fluid join his, a bit darker and frothy against the white porcelain. As I watched the fluids mix, their colors getting more and more difficult to distinguish until finally no difference could be seen, a warm pleasurable sensation from within me slowly surged, growing more and more powerful, until finally shudders of ecstasy racked my still untouched body.

A NIGHT IN THE HIL by Paz Marquez Benitez

HOW Gerardo Luna came by his dream no one could have told, not even he. He was a salesman in a jewelry store on Rosario street and had been little else. His job he had inherited from his father, one might say; for his father before him had leaned behind the self-same counter, also solicitous, also short-sighted and thin of hair. After office hours, if he was tired, he took the street car to his home in Intramuros. If he was feeling well, he walked; not frequently, however, for he was frail of constitution and not unduly thrifty. The stairs of his house were narrow and dark and rank with characteristic odors from a Chinese sari-sari store which occupied part of the ground floor. He would sit down to a supper which savored strongly of Chinese cooking. He was a fastidious eater. He liked to have the courses spread out where he could survey them all. He would sample each and daintily pick out his favorite portionsthe wing tips, the liver, the brains from the chicken course, the tail-end from the fish. He ate appreciatively, but rarely with much appetite. After supper he spent quite a time picking his teeth meditatively, thinking of this and that. On the verge of dozing he would perhaps think of the forest. For his dream concerned the forest. He wanted to go to the forest. He had wanted to go ever since he could remember. The forest was beautiful. Straight-growing trees. Clear streams. A mountain brook which he might follow back to its source up among the clouds. Perhaps the thought that most charmed and enslaved him was of seeing the image of the forest in the water. He would see the infinitely far blue of the sky in the clear stream, as in his childhood, when playing in his fathers azotea, he saw in the water-jars an image of the sky and of the pomelo tree that bent over the railing, also to look at the sky in the jars. Only once did he speak of this dream of his. One day, Ambo the gatherer of orchids came up from the provinces to buy some cheap ear-rings for his wifes store. He had proudly told Gerardo that the orchid season had been good and had netted him over a thousand pesos. Then he talked to him of orchids and where they were to be found and also of the trees that he knew as he knew the palm of his hand. He spoke of sleeping in the forest, of living there for weeks at a time. Gerardo had listened with his prominent eyes staring and with thrills coursing through his spare body. At home he told his wife about the conversation, and she was interested in the business aspect of it. It would be nice to go with him once, he ventured hopefully. Yes, she agreed, but I doubt if he would let you in on his business. No, he sounded apologetically. But just to have the experience, to be out. Out? doubtfully. To be out of doors, in the hills, he said precipitately. Why? That would be just courting discomfort and even sickness. And for nothing. He was silent.

He never mentioned the dream again. It was a sensitive, well-mannered dream which nevertheless grew in its quiet way. It lived under Gerardo Lunas pigeon chest and filled it with something, not warm or sweet, but cool and green and murmurous with waters. He was under forty. One of these days when he least expected it the dream would come true. How, he did not know. It seemed so unlikely that he would deliberately contrive things so as to make the dream a fact. That would he very difficult. Then his wife died. And now, at last, he was to see the forest. For Ambo had come once more, this time with tales of newly opened public land up on a forest plateau where he had been gathering orchids. If Gerardo was interestedhe seemed to bethey would go out and locate a good piece. Gerardo was interestednot exactly in land, but Ambo need not be told. He had big false teeth that did not quite fit into his gums. When he was excited, as he was now, he spluttered and stammered and his teeth got in the way of his words. I am leaving town tomorrow morning. he informed Sotera. Will Leaving town? Where are you going? S-someone is inviting me to look at some land in Laguna. Land? What are you going to do with land? That question had never occurred to him. Why, he stammered, Ra-raise something, I-I suppose. How can you raise anything! You dont know anything about it. You havent even seen a carabao! Dont exaggerate, Ate. You know that is not true. Hitched to a carreton, yes; but hitched to a plow Never mind! said Gerardo patiently. I just want to leave you my keys tomorrow and ask you to look after the house. Who is this man you are going with? Ambo, who came to the store to buy some cheap jewelry. His wife has a little business in jewels. He suggested that Ig-go with him. He found himself then putting the thing as matter-of-factly and plausibly as he could. He emphasized the immense possibilities of land and waxed eloquently over the idea that land was the only form of wealth that could not he carried away. Why, whatever happens, your land will be there. Nothing can possibly take it away. You may lose one crop, two, three. Que importe! The land will still he there.

Sotera said coldly, I do not see any sense in it. How can you think of land when a pawnshop is so much more profitable? Think! People coming to you to urge you to accept their business. Theres Peregrina. She would make the right partner for you, the right wife. Why dont you decide? If I marry her, Ill keep a pawnshopno, if I keep a pawnshop Ill marry her, he said hurriedly. He knew quite without vanity that Peregrina would take him the minute he proposed. But he could not propose. Not now that he had visions of himself completely made over, ranging the forest at will, knowing it thoroughly as Ambo knew it, fearless, free. No, not Peregrina for him! Not even for his own sake, much less Soteras. Sotera was Ate Tere to him through a devious reckoning of relationship that was not without ingenuity. For Gerardo Luna was a younger brother to the former mistress of Soteras also younger brother, and it was to Soteras credit that when her brother died after a death-bed marriage she took Gerardo under her wings and married him off to a poor relation who took good care of him and submitted his problem as well as her own to Soteras competent management. Now that Gerardo was a widower she intended to repeat the good office and provide him with another poor relation guaranteed to look after his physical and economic well-being and, in addition, guaranteed to stay healthy and not die on him. Marrying to play nurse to your wife, was certainly not Soteras idea of a worthwhile marriage. This time, however, he was not so tractable. He never openly opposed her plans, but he would not commit himself. Not that he failed to realize the disadvantages of widowerhood. How much more comfortable it would be to give up resisting, marry good, fat Peregrina, and be taken care of until he died for she would surely outlive him. But he could not, he must not. Uncomfortable though he was, he still looked on his widowerhood as something not fortuitous, but a feat triumphantly achieved. The thought of another marriage was to shed his wings, was to feel himself in a small, warm room, while overhead someone shut down on him an opening that gave him the sky. So to the hills he went with the gatherer of orchids.

AMONG the foothills noon found them. He was weary and wet with sweat. Cant we get water? he asked dispiritedly. We are coming to water, said Ambo. We shall be there in ten minutes. Up a huge scorched log Ambo clambered, the party following. Along it they edged precariously to avoid the charred twigs and branches that strewed the ground. Here and there a wisp of smoke still curled feebly out of the ashes. A new kaingin, said Ambo. The owner will be around, I suppose. He will not be going home before the end of the week. Too far. A little farther they came upon the owner, a young man with a cheerful face streaked and smudged from his work. He stood looking at them, his two hands resting on the shaft of his axe. Where are you going? he asked quietly and casually. All these people were casual and quiet.

Looking at some land, said Ambo. Mang Gerardo is from Manila. We are going to sleep up there. He looked at Gerardo Luna curiously and reviewed the two porters and their load. An admiring look slowly appeared in his likeable eyes. There is a spring around here, isnt there? Or is it dried up? No, there is still water in it. Very little but good. They clambered over logs and stumps down a flight of steps cut into the side of the hill. At the foot sheltered by an overhanging fern-covered rock was what at first seemed only a wetness. The young man squatted before it and lifted off a mat of leaves from a tiny little pool. Taking his tin cup he cleared the surface by trailing the bottom of the cup on it. Then he scooped up some of the water. It was cool and clear, with an indescribable tang of leaf and rock. It seemed the very essence of the hills. He sat with the young man on a fallen log and talked with him. The young man said that he was a high school graduate, that he had taught school for a while and had laid aside some money with which he had bought this land. Then he had got married, and as soon as he could manage it he would build a home here near this spring. His voice was peaceful and even. Gerardo suddenly heard his own voice and was embarrassed. He lowered his tone and tried to capture the others quiet. That house would be like those he had seen on the waybrown, and in time flecked with gray. The surroundings would be stripped bare. There would be san franciscos around it and probably beer bottles stuck in the ground. In the evening the burning leaves in the yard would send a pleasant odor of smoke through the two rooms, driving away the mosquitoes, then wandering out-doors again into the forest. At night the red fire in the kitchen would glow through the door of the batalan and would be visible in the forest, The forest was there, near enough for his upturned eyes to reach. The way was steep, the path rising ruthlessly from the clearing in an almost straight course. His eyes were wistful, and he sighed tremulously. The student followed his gaze upward. Then he said, It must take money to live in Manila. If I had the capital I would have gone into business in Manila. Why? Gerardo was surprised. Whybecause the money is there, and if one wishes to fish he must go where the fishes are. However, he continued slowly after a silence, it is not likely that I shall ever do that. Well, this little place is all right. They left the high school graduate standing on the clearing, his weight resting on one foot, his eyes following them as they toiled up the perpendicular path. At the top of the climb Gerardo sat on the ground and looked down on the green fields far below, the lake in the distance, the clearings on the hill sides, and then on the diminishing figure of the high school graduate now busily hacking away, making the most of the remaining hours of day-light. Perched above them all, he felt an exhilaration in his painfully drumming chest. Soon they entered the dim forest. Here was the trail that once was followed by the galleon traders when, to outwit those that lay in wait for them, they landed the treasure on the eastern shores of Luzon, and, crossing the Cordillera on this secret trail, brought it to Laguna. A trail centuries old. Stalwart adventurers, imperious and fearless, treasure coveted by others as

imperious and fearless, carriers bent beneath burden almost too great to bearstuff of ancient splendors and ancient griefs.

ON his bed of twigs and small branches, under a roughly contrived roof Gerardo lay down that evening after automatically crossing himself. He shifted around until at last he settled into a comfortable hollow. The fire was burning brightly, fed occasionally with dead branches that the men had collected into a pile. Ambo and the porters were sitting on the black oilcloth that had served them for a dining table. They sat with their arms hugging their knees and talked together in peaceable tones punctuated with brief laughter. From where he lay Gerardo Luna could feel the warmth of the fire on his face. He was drifting into deeply contented slumber, lulled by the even tones of his companions. Voices out-doors had a strange quality. They blended with the wind, and, on its waves, flowed gently around and past one who listened. In the haze of new sleep he thought he was listening not to human voices, but to something more elemental. A warm sea on level stretches of beach. Or, if he had ever known such a thing, raindrops on the bamboos. He awoke uneasily after an hour or two. The men were still talking, but intermittently. The fire was not so bright nor so warm. Ambo was saying: Gather more firewood. We must keep the fire burning all night. You may sleep. I shall wake up once in a while to put on more wood. Gerardo was reassured. The thought that he would have to sleep in the dark not knowing whether snakes were crawling towards him was intolerable. He settled once more into light slumber. The men talked on. They did not sing as boatmen would have done while paddling their bancas in the dark. Perhaps only sea-folk sang and hill-folk kept silence. For sea-folk bear no burdens to weigh them down to the earth. Into whatever wilderness of remote sea their wanderers hearts may urge them, they may load their treasures in sturdy craft, pull at the oar or invoke the wind, and raise their voices in song. The depths of ocean beneath, the height of sky above, and between, a song floating out on the darkness. A song in the hills would only add to the lonesomeness a hundredfold. He woke up again feeling that the little twigs underneath him had suddenly acquired uncomfortable proportions. Surely when he lay down they were almost unnoticeable. He raised himself on his elbow and carefully scrutinized his mat for snakes. He shook his blanket out and once more eased himself into a new and smoother corner. The men were now absolutely quiet, except for their snoring. The fire was burning low. Ambo evidently had failed to wake up in time to feed it. He thought of getting up to attend to the fire, but hesitated. He lay listening to the forest and sensing the darkness. How vast that darkness! Mile upon mile of it all around. Lost somewhere in it, a little flicker, a little warmth. He got up. He found his limbs stiff and his muscles sore. He could not straighten his back without discomfort. He went out of the tent and carefully arranged two small logs on the fire. The air was chilly. He looked about him at the sleeping men huddled together and doubled up for warmth. He looked toward his tent, fitfully lighted by the fire that was now crackling and rising higher. And at last his gaze lifted to look into the forest. Straight white trunks gleaming dimly in the darkness. The startling glimmer of a firefly. Outside of the circle of the fire was the measureless unknown, hostile now, he felt. Or was it he who was hostile? This fire was the only

protection, the only thing that isolated this little strip of space and made it shelter for defenseless man. Let the fire go out and the unknown would roll in and engulf them all in darkness. He hastily placed four more logs on the fire and retreated to his tent. He could not sleep. He felt absolutely alone. Aloneness was like hunger in that it drove away sleep. He remembered his wife. He had a fleeting thought of God. Then he remembered his wife again. Probably not his wife as herself, as a definite personality, but merely as a companion and a ministerer to his comfort. Not his wife, but a wife. His mind recreated a scene which had no reason at all for persisting as a memory. There was very little to it. He had waked one midnight to find his wife sitting up in the bed they shared. She had on her flannel camisa de chino, always more or less dingy, and she was telling her beads. What are you doing? he had asked. I forgot to say my prayers, she had answered. He was oppressed by nostalgia. And because he did not know what it was he wanted his longing became keener. Not for his wife, nor for his life in the city. Not for his parents nor even for his lost childhood. What was there in these that could provoke anything remotely resembling this regret? What was not within the life span could not be memories. Something more remote even than race memory. His longing went farther back, to some age in Paradise maybe when the soul of man was limitless and unshackled: when it embraced the infinite and did not hunger because it had the inexhaustible at its command. When he woke again the fire was smoldering. But there was a light in the forest, an eerie light. It was diffused and cold. He wondered what it was. There were noises now where before had seemed only the silence itself. There were a continuous trilling, strange night-calls and a peculiar, soft clinking which recurred at regular intervals. Forest noises. There was the noise, too, of nearby waters. One of the men woke up and said something to another who was also evidently awake, Gerardo called out. What noise is that? Which noise? That queer, ringing noise. That? Thats caused by tree worms, I have been told. He had a sudden vision of long, strong worms drumming with their heads on the barks of trees. The other noise is the worm noise, corrected Ambo. That hissing. That noise you are talking about is made by crickets. What is that light? he presently asked. That is the moon, said Ambo. The moon! Gerardo exclaimed and fell silent. He would never understand the forest. Later he asked, Where is that water that I hear? A little farther and lower, I did not wish to camp there because of the leeches. At daylight we shall stop there, if you wish.

When he awoke again it was to find the dawn invading the forest. He knew the feel of the dawn from the many misas de gallo that he had gone to on December mornings. The approach of day-light gave him a feeling of relief. And he was saddened. He sat quietly on a flat stone with his legs in the water and looked around. He was still sore all over. His neck ached, his back hurt, his joints troubled him. He sat there, his wet shirt tightly plastered over his meager form and wondered confusedly about many things. The sky showed overhead through the rift in the trees. The sun looked through that opening on the rushing water. The sky was high and blue. It was as it always had been in his dreams, beautiful as he had always thought it would be. But he would never come back. This little corner of the earth hidden in the hills would never again be before his gaze. He looked up again at the blue sky and thought of God. God for him was always up in the sky. Only the God he thought of now was not the God he had always known. This God he was thinking of was another God. He was wondering if when man died and moved on to another life he would not find there the things he missed and so wished to have. He had a deep certainty that that would be so, that after his mortal life was over and we came against that obstruction called death, our lives, like a stream that runs up against a dam, would still flow on, in courses fuller and smoother. This must be so. He had a feeling, almost an instinct, that he was not wrong. And a Being, all wise and compassionate, would enable us to remedy our frustrations and heartaches.

HE went straight to Soteras to get the key to his house. In the half light of the stairs he met Peregrina, who in the solicitous expression of her eyes saw the dust on his face, his hands, and his hair, saw the unkempt air of the whole of him. He muttered something polite and hurried up stairs, self-consciousness hampering his feet. Peregrina, quite without embarrassment, turned and climbed the stairs after him. On his way out with the keys in his hand he saw her at the head of the stairs anxiously lingering. He stopped and considered her thoughtfully. Pereg, as soon as I get these clothes off I shall come to ask you a question that is veryvery important to me. As she smiled eagerly but uncertainly into his face, he heard a jangling in his hand. He felt, queerly, that something was closing above his hand, and that whoever was closing it, was rattling the keys.

THE LITTLE PEOPLE by Maria Aleah G. Taboclaon

THE elves came to stay with us when I was nine. They were noisy creatures and we would hear them stomping on an old crib on the ceiling. We heard them from morning till night. They kept us awake at night. One night, when it was particularly unbearable, Papa mustered enough courage and called out. "Excuse me!" he said. "Our family would like to sleep, please? Resume your banging tomorrow!" Of course, we had tried restraining him for we didn't know how the elves would react to such audacity. We got the shock of our lives when silence suddenly filled the house--no more banging, no more stomping from the elves. Papa turned to us smugly. Sheepishly, we turned in for the night, thankful for the respite. When dawn came, the smug look on Papa's face the night before turned into anger for shortly before six, the banging started again, and louder this time! We got up and tried speaking to the elves but got no response. The banging continued all day and into the night, and stopped at the same hour--eleven o'clock. And at exactly six a.m. the next day, it started again. What could our poor family do? Papa tried to call an albularyo to get rid of our unwelcome housemates but the woman was booked till the end of the week. Meanwhile, the elves had become our alarm clock. When they start their noise, we would get up and do our errands. Papa would start cooking, I would start setting the table, Mama would sweep. The whole house--my older sister and my cousin would water the plants, and my brother would start coloring his books. (We really didn't expect him to work, he was only four.) After a week, we got hold of the albularyo. She spent the night in our house and by morning, she told us to never bother her again. The elves had already made themselves a part of our life, she said. Prax, the leader of the elves, had spoken to her and had told her that his family had no plans of moving out. They liked things as they were. We eventually settled down to a comfortable coexistence with the elves. They woke us up at six, they let us sleep at eleven, and in return for the alarm service we would leave food on the table. By morning, the food would be gone and the table cleaned. All in all, it was a very good relationship. After three weeks--the first week of May--I met Prax, the leader and oldest in the clan, and I met him literally by accident. I was climbing the mango tree in our yard when one of its branches broke. I fell and broke my ankle. The pain was so great that I just sat there numb, staring at my ankle which had begun to turn blue. I could not move or cry out. I went to sleep to forget the pain. My last conscious thought was that the ground was too cold to sleep on. I woke to a hand touching my foot. It belonged to someone--something nonhuman, for his hand radiated warmth that seemed to penetrate to my bones. His hand was small, wrinkled and felt like dried prunes. Although I was curious, I kept my eyes closed. I imagined a hideously deformed face, with long and sharp teeth. Would he disappear when I open my eyes? Or would he devour me? I pretended to be asleep.

After several minutes, I could pretend no longer; I was too curious to remain still. When I opened my eyes, the horrible sight that I expected was not there. Instead, there was this old, wrinkled creature, even shorter than I was although I was the smallest in my class. He wore overalls unlike any clothing I knew of. Its texture was a mixture of green leaves and earth. It clung to his skin and writhed with a life of its own. Its color continually changed from deep to light green, to dark to light brown, and to green again. It was fascinating to look at. I felt a sense of awe and respect towards the elf. He was good with his hands. My ankle already felt better. He was massaging it with an ointment that smelled nice. Before I could stop myself, I sniffed deeply, bringing the healing aroma of the ointment deep into my lungs. Detecting my movement, the elf turned to me and smiled kindly. Although I didn't see his mouth moving, I could hear him talking. "Don't be afraid," he said. His voice was so soothing that I had to fight my urge to snuggle and sleep in his small arms. I shook my head slightly. What was I supposed to say? Hello, elf? How are you? I could not. I didn't even know if I was supposed to call him that or just say Tabi or Apo. As if knowing what I was thinking, the elf smiled again. "You call our kind dwendes or elves, no?" I nodded. "I actually don't mind if you call me an elf, but please call me Prax." Seeing my astonished look, Prax laughed. His laugh sounded like the whistling of wind through the trees and a bit like the breaking of the waves on the seashore. I thought it nice and longed to hear more. And I wanted to know more about his kind. Did they have children? Wives? Did they play games like patintero? Habulan? But Prax was not in the mood to chat. He told me that I should have been more careful. I could have been seriously hurt. I nodded absently, thinking that I liked his clothes, his laugh, and his voice. He reminded me of my grandfather who had died a long time ago. I closed my eyes, letting Prax's healing massage lull me to sleep. Thirty minutes later when I woke up, the elf was gone. Only the lingering fragrance of his balm remained. When Mama and Papa arrived, I told them what had happened. It was really frustrating seeing their reactions. They became pale, then collapsed on the sofa. I had to douse them with water before they revived. Why couldn't they be like other people and be glad that I had been befriended by a supernatural being? I had told them about my first encounter with a real elf, and they fainted on the spot! I sulked for the rest of the evening. Mama told me to never, never talk to elves again. Or did I forget the countless tales of elves taking people to their kingdom after killing them? I just shrugged. After all, the elf had saved my life! I thought no more of it and, indeed, began to enjoy the banging and stomping on our ceiling. I almost wished to be hurt again just so I could see Prax. But nothing happened and I passed the rest of my summer days dreaming about playing with elves. I met my second elf in school. I was in Grade 3, a transferee to a new public school that had a haunted classroom. My classmates related tales about dwendes, white ladies, and kapres in our school. I believed their stories readily.

I tried to tell them about Prax but since they were skeptical, I decided to let them be. As it was, I was excluded from their games. In the classroom, I chose the seat I felt was the most haunted, the one farthest away from the teacher's table. Nobody wanted to sit near me. Behind me was a picture of the president. Without the company of my classmates, I expected elves to make their presence felt. So I waited. By the third month in class, it happened. We had a very difficult math exam. Our teacher left us and went to gossip outside and all around me my classmates were openly copying each other's work. I looked at their papers from my seat, hoping that their scribbles would mean something to me but the answers to the blasted long divisions eluded me. I looked at the ceiling, trying to see if my brain would work better if my head was tilted a certain angle. It did not. I looked to my right, nothing there. And finally, I looked down and saw this tiny little elf, smaller than Prax by as much as six inches, sitting on the bag in front of me tap-tapping his foot impatiently. "What took you so long to notice? I've been here for hours!" he said. What gall! Did he really think that his race would excuse his bad manners? I ignored him and frowned at my test paper. What was 3996 divided by 6? Immediately, he apologized and told me that his name was Bat. He had seen me play outside and thought that I was beautiful, sensitive, and romantic. Did I want him to help me in my test? Me beautiful? I enthusiastically agreed to let him answer the test. I showed him my paper, and he snorted. "For us elves, this is elementary!" he said. I wanted to tell him that to us humans, these problems are also elementary, third-grade in fact, but I changed my mind. Bat and I became friends. He helped me with my homework and gave me little things such as colored pencils and stationery that were the craze in school. He cautioned me strongly against telling my parents of my friendship with him. After all, he said, some people might not understand our relationship. They might forbid us from seeing each other. I thought nothing of it and kept silent about my friendship with Bat. I enjoyed his company, for he was very thoughtful. He was a good friend and I thought we would be friends forever. The time came, though, when he declared that he loved me. He wanted me to go with him to his kingdom and be his princess. I refused, of course. For God's sake, I was only nine! I didn't know how to cook or do the laundry or do the other things that wives are expected to do. And he was an elf! Short as I was, he only came up to my knees. What a ridiculous picture we would surely make. He pleaded with me for days but out of spite I told him that I had already confided to my parents, and that they were very angry. It was not true, but Bat didn't know that. He got angry and launched into diatribes about promises being made and broken. Then he vanished. That night I dreamed that Prax talked to me. He told me that I should have never offended Bat outright. "That elf is a stranger in our town," he said. "We don't know his family. He might be violent." But I had already done what I had done and there was no use wishing otherwise. I told Prax I'd never worry. After all, he'd always be there for me and my family, right? "Wrong," he said. His gift was for giving good luck and for healing minor, nonfatal injuries. "What good is that for?" I asked. He couldn't answer, and left me to a dream of falling houses and shrieking elves.

The next day, I got sick and did not get well even after the best doctor in town treated me. My parents had grown desperate so the albularyo was called once more. She told my parents to roast a whole cow, which they did willingly. The albularyo and her family feasted on it. When I was still sick after a few days, she instructed my parents to cut my hair; she told them that elves liked longhaired women. The problem was Bat liked my new look, and in my dreams, he was always there, entreating me to go with him. I got sicker than ever. The albularyo, getting an idea from a dream, then tried her last cure--an ointment taken from the bark of seven old trees applied to my hair. It cost more than the cow and nobody could enter my room without gagging. The smell was terrible. That did the trick. Apparently, Bat was disgusted but he would stop at nothing to get me, even if it meant getting my family out of the way. I told him again and again that I didn't love him and would never go with him, but the elf's mind was set. In the end I just ignored him, for who could reason with an elf, and a mad one at that? He did not turn up in my dreams the next few nights. In a week, I was up and running again and I thought that all was right. My parents decided that I should transfer to another school, this time a sectarian school. Then something happened. My mother had a miscarriage. People blamed the elves and talked about it for a long time. I remember the sad and fearful looks of my parents every day as they heard the banging on our ceiling. Were they friends or were they responsible for the accident? I had never told them about Bat, who Prax said was the one behind all these incidents. Years passed, and since nothing untoward had happened since my mother's miscarriage, we began to let go of our fears. The alarm service continued, and our belief that my mother's miscarriage was the elves' doing was discarded. It was simply the fetus's fate to die before it was born. "Bat left town, probably to look for some of his kin to help him," Prax said. It was a chilling thought, and with Bat's words the last time we talked, I was terrified. I laid awake at night thinking of a way to protect my family. I had Prax, but what about them? When I was twelve, the banging on our ceiling stopped. We were having lunch, feasting on the pork barbecue my mother had bought after her experiment with chicken curry failed. The sudden cessation of the noise we had been living with for years was jarring. The silence grated on our ears. For the first time, we could hear ourselves breathe. No one moved. Even my brother, who was now seven, stopped chewing the pork he had just bitten off the stick. Papa stood up and called to the elves. Nobody answered. Gesturing for my cousin to follow him, they got the ladder and prepared to climb to the ceiling. They took with them an old wooden crucifix and a bottle of water from the first rain of May. My cousin brought along a two-by-two and a rope. I didn't know what they wanted to do but we looked on, our barbecue forgotten. Papa went inside the ceiling and my cousin followed. Moments later, they came back running. My cousin descended the ladder first and I don't know whether it was because of fright or just because he was careless, but a rung broke and he fell to the ground, back first, hitting the two-by-two he had dropped in his haste. He lay there, unmoving except for his ragged breathing, his back bent at an angle we never thought possible. Mama fainted, Papa stood still, my sister called an ambulance, my brother wailed, and I sat in the ground, laughing. It was not a laugh of gladness, just my nervous reaction to what happened. But they misunderstood and locked me in my room. I cried, shouted, cursed, but remained locked in. From inside my room I could hear them talking, the medical help coming in, and relatives pouring inside our house. I was ignored. I slept and dreamed that an elf was laughing. When I woke up, the whole house was filled by elven laughter. Then my cousin died.

After another year, my little brother followed. He was run over by a postal service van. I can still hear the anguished wail of the driver as he asked for forgiveness. He claimed that a tiny creature had run in front of his van and he had swerved to avoid it. My brother was unfortunately playing by the roadside and the van ran straight into him. Witnesses say they had heard laughter at the exact moment the wheels caught my brother. The driver was imprisoned, but the deaths did not stop there. Barely six months later, my father drowned while fishing. A freak storm, the fishermen said, but for us who were left alive there was no mistaking that our family would die one by one. There were only three of us left: my mother, my sister, and I. We tried to seek help, but the policemen laughed in our faces. We were branded as lunatics. And Prax was gone, defeated by Bat and his family apparently on the day the banging stopped. Even the albularyo could not help us. What use were her potions and ointments? What the elves needed was a good dose of magic, and the albularyo was primarily a healer and an exorcist. She had no training when it came to defending a whole family against vengeful elves. And poor Mama! A mere week after my father died she followed. Extreme despair, the doctors said but we knew better. My sister and I left home and went to live with our relatives in the city, hundreds of kilometers away. We told them about the elves but they laughed and told us we were being provincial. "It is the 90s," they said. "Belief in the little people died a long time ago." We knew they were wrong, but how could two orphaned teenagers convince the skeptics? Perhaps, we should have insisted on talking more but, as things were, our aunt had already scheduled counseling sessions for the two of us The fear of being sent to a mental institution stopped us from further trying to convince them. In the end, we just hoped that the distance from our old home would keep us safe from the elves. But they followed and, one by one, our foster family died. Car accidents, food poisonings, assassinations through mistaken identity--there were logical explanations for their deaths but we knew we had been responsible. We could only look on helplessly, and despaired. We traveled again, haphazardly enough to let us think that we could outwit the elves. But they finally caught my sister about a year ago. We were on the bus bound for another town when a tire blew out. The bus crashed into a ditch and although most of the passengers including myself were injured, the only fatality was my sister. I realized then that there was no escaping the fury of the little people. After my sister's death, there was a period of silence from the elves. I decided to continue studying and enrolled at the local college. I had no problem with finances. I had inherited a large sum from a relative I had unwittingly sent to death. After I got settled in the school dormitory, Prax appeared in my dreams again. He told me about a chant that he had dug up in the enormous library of a human psychic he had befriended. It was a weapon against any creature--effective against those with malicious intentions, whether towards humans or other creatures. Prax thought it would he better if I could defeat Bat myself. After all, hadn't Bat done me great harm already? I agreed and prepared myself for the battle that would decide my fate. It was not long after my conversation with Prax that Bat tracked me down. It was a weekend and I had the room all to myself. I looked up from my notes and saw him--much older, his once clear complexion now marred with dark, crisscrossing veins. Hate screamed from him, and he stooped and walked with great difficulty. I pitied him.

He gave me an ultimatum: go with him or die on the spot. I pretended to look defeated and worn out. My act was effective and Bat looked pleased. He wanted us to go immediately but I dallied. At the pretext of packing my few valuable possessions, I told him to wait outside and count to a hundred. When he was gone, I took out the ingredients I had prepared and the mini-stove I had borrowed. I boiled a small amount of sweet milk. I unwrapped Bat's image made in green and brown clay, with strands of his hair given to me by Prax, and started blowing and chanting words that meant nothing to me. Blow. Allif, casyl, zaze, hit, mel, meltat. Blow. Allif, casyl, zaze, hit, mel, meltat. Blow. Allif, casyl, zaze, hit, mel, meltat. Outside the room, Bat's count reached 70. I put aside the image and into the pan I poured hundreds of brand new pins and needles that had been blessed. The count reached 80. I repeated the chant and immersed the image in the boiling liquid. I waited. Bat's count reached a hundred but I did not worry for it had become faint and weak, just as Prax had told me. Then Bat dissipated into a mist--shrieking, I might add--to where, only God would ever know. Prax appeared again in my dreams that night and told me that they--Bat and his family--would never bother me again. He himself would move his family away from humans to avoid similar incidents in the future. It was too bad he didn't discover the old book with the vanquishing spell earlier for I could have saved my family. I could not bring them back, he said, but I could build a good life of my own. With the luck he bestowed on me, I would never be in need for material things the rest of my life. I kissed the old elf, knowing that we would never see each other again. I watched him fade away, seeing the last of my family go. When I woke up, I went to my desk and studied math, remembering where it all began.

Contex Clues
a method by which the meanings of unknown words may be obtained by examining the parts of a sentence surrounding the word for definition/explanation clues, restatement/synonym clues, contrast/antonym clues, and inference/general context clues
Context Clue #1: Definition or Restatement The meaning of the vocabulary word is in the sentence itself, usually following the vocabulary word. 1. Jack's duplicity crafty dishonesty caused him to steal his coworker's pensions by funneling their money into an offshore account. 2. His emaciation, that is, his skeleton-like appearance, was frightening to see. Skeleton-like appearance is the definition of emaciation. 3. Fluoroscopy, examination with a fluoroscope, has become a common practice. The commas before and after examination with a fluoroscope point out the definition of fluoroscopy. 4. The dudeen a short-stemmed clay pipe is found in Irish folk tales. Context Clue #2: Synonym The sentence uses a similar word to help explain the meaning of the vocabulary word. 1. The baseball coach punished the team's duplicity or deceitfulness after they admitted to using steroids to boost their batting averages. 2. Flooded with spotlights the focus of all attention the new Miss America began her year-long reign. She was the cynosure of all eyes for the rest of the evening. 3. The mountain pass was a tortuous road, winding and twisting like a snake around the trees of the mountainside. Context Clue #3: Antonym /Opposite/Contrast The sentence uses a word with an opposite definition to give the meaning of the vocabulary word. 1. It was your duplicity that caused me to break up with you! Had you been honest, I wouldn't have felt the need. 2. Unlike my last employee who had integrity to spare, you have nothing more than duplicity and will not receive a recommendation from me for another job. 3. The children were as different as day and night. He was a lively conversationalist, but she was reserved and taciturn . 4. When the light brightens, the pupils of the eyes contract; however, when it grows darker, they dilate.

Context Clue #4: Example or Explanation This type of context clue uses examples to help the reader infer the meaning of the vocabulary word. 1. His duplicity involved lowering his employee's salaries, increasing their stock options, and then stealing the money he saved by doing so. 2. Piscatorial creatures, such as flounder, salmon, and trout, live in the coldest parts of the ocean. Piscatorial obviously refers to fish. 3. Celestial bodies, including the sun, moon, and stars, have fascinated man through the centuries. Celestial objects are those in the sky or heavens. 4. I was aghast at her duplicity when she stole my diamond earrings, sold them on eBay and lied to me about it the whole time. 5. In the course of mans evolution, certain organs have atrophied. The appendix, for example, has wasted away from disuse. Atrophied means wasted away.

CONTEXT CLUES -- PRACTICE EXERCISES 1.My brother said, I just freed myself from a very loquacious history professor. All he seemed to want was an audience. a. pretentious b .grouchy c. talkative d. worried 2. There is no doubt that the idea of living in such a benign climate was appealing. The islanders seemed to keep their vitality and live longer than Europeans. a. tropical b. not malignant c. kind d. favorable 3.It is difficult to imagine a surfeit of talent in one individual, yet Leonard Bernstein simply does not have the time to make complete use of his talent as conductor, performer, writer, and lecturer. a. excess b. variety c. superiority d. lack 4.There is a large demand all over the United States for plants indigenous to the desert. Many people in Arizona have made a good business of growing and selling cacti and other local plants. a. native b. necessary c. foreign d. alien 5. After the Romans left, a millennium and a half passed before people again lived in such comfort. Churchill wrote, From the year 400 until the year 1900 no one had central heating and very few had hot baths. a. a decade b. many years c.1000 years d. a century

Misplaced and Daggling Modifiers

Misplaced Modifiers
A misplaced modifier is a word, phrase, or clause that is improperly separated from the word it modifies / describes. Because of the separation, sentences with this error often sound awkward, ridiculous, or confusing. Furthermore, they can be downright illogical. Example

The example above suggests that a gold man owns a watch. Misplaced modifiers can usually be corrected by moving the modifier to a more sensible place in the sentence, generally next to the word it modifies. Example

Now it is the watch that is gold.

Dangling Modifiers
The dangling modifier, a persistent and frequent grammatical problem in writing, is often (though not always) located at the beginning of a sentence. A dangling modifier is usually a phrase or an elliptical clause -- a dependent clause whose subject and verb are implied rather than expressed -- that functions as an adjective but does not modify any specific word in the sentence, or (worse) modifies the wrong word. Consider the following example: Raised in Nova Scotia, it is natural to miss the smell of the sea.

Think you understand dangling and misplaced modifiers?

Dangling modifiers From the following pairs of sentences, select the one which is correct.

Piled up next to the washer, I began doing the laundry. I began doing the laundry piled up next to the washer.

While John was talking on the phone, the doorbell rang. While talking on the phone, the doorbell rang.

Standing on the balcony, the ocean view was magnificent. Standing on the balcony, we had a magnificent ocean view.

As I was running across the floor, the rug slipped and I lost my balance, Running across the floor, the rug slipped and I lost my balance.

While taking out the trash, the sack broke. While Jamie was taking out the trash, the sack broke.

Misplaced modifiers

I almost listened to the whole album. I listened to almost the whole album.

He was staring at the girl wearing dark glasses by the vending machine. He was staring at the girl by the vending machine wearing dark glasses.

We read that Janet was married in her last letter. In her last letter, we read that Janet was married.

The faulty alarm nearly sounded five times yesterday. The faulty alarm system sounded nearly five times yesterday.

On the evening news, I heard that there was a revolution. I heard that there was a revolution on the evening news.