CHARACTERS:
1. The cripple, Tranquilino Penoy – otherwise known as Gagamba (spider) to the denizenz of Ermita – was one of those who survived the collapse of the Camarin building on Marcelo H. Del Pilar Street – the only building in Manila which totally wrecked. He is selling sweepstakes tickets. He looks like a two -legged spider, ball of a head, squat body, and long arms. He was born with short limp limbs no longer than a foot and even now that he was fifty; they were as useless as ever.
2. Didi Gamboa, the first owner of Camarin, would not have permitted Gagamba to be at the entrance for so long, selling sweepstakes tickets. Didi Gamboa is the madam of Camarin, migrated to the United States out of boredom with the lesbian debauchery provided by her establishment; she got her second cousin Fred Villa.
3. Aling Pacing brood of twelve. The vegetable vendor’s dullard husband had died. Aling Pacing is the mother of Gagamba.
4. Fred Villa is interested in the restaurant. He was a most auspicious choice. Not only was he family, he was also Camarin regular and personally knew most of the old clientele. When they learned that he was going to take over, they were relieved and at the same time pleased – they could trust him with their peccadilloes as well as their idiosyncrasies for Fred Villa had one quality they appreciated. He was discreet.
5. Don José Villa the father of Fred Villa.
6. Don Manuel the son of Don José Villa and the brother of Fred Villa
7. Jose Rizal the head waiter who looked like Jose Rizal was the only one in tuxedo.
8. Mars Floro he was the old customer and a good friend of Fred Villa.
9. Lina Reyes was barely eighteen. She came from a middle-class family in Pampanga, where her father was a small town doctor, her mother a schoolteacher. She is the youngest, was well on her way to finishing a nondescript course in the humanities at the state university. She was tall, with a pert nose and a face virginal in appearance. She was five feet six inches, almost as tall as Fred Villa, with such clear ivory skin that he drooled every time she undressed before him. Her breasts were not all that large and her height, thirty-four inches seemed almost small.
10. Namnama- Gagamba’s wife. She was adopted by Aling Pacing because she was an orphan back then. She did not look at the deformity of Gagamba and did not hesitate to marry the cripple.
11. Joe Patalinghug- A 22 year old man. He and his wife traveled from Dalaguete to Manila because of the fear that he will also be killed like his two brothers. Joe’s younger brother was killed; the reason why he and his wife went to Manila, knowing that he would probably be killed. He has a teenage wife whose name was Nancy, who was 6, months pregnant. Because of sudden-environment change and no one helped them; they ended up begging in the streets of Manila.
12. Pedro (Pete) Domingo- also known as Jose Rizal at Camarin. Although he is 50 years old, he is still youthful. He is the easygoing and voluble head waiter in Camarin. After several years of working in Camarin with Madam Gamboa and Sir Fred he already know by heart the favorite order of most of the costumers. He has a wife named Bebang who had a cancer and will die in nearly 2 months.
13. Sixto Carmelo- also known as Mabini, also a waiter of Camarin, a close friend of Rizal. He came from Tayug, Pangasinan and like Rizal, was Ilokano. He has no problems at all but his looks because he was the darkest and in senses the homeliest of the waiters in Camarin but he is the most popular waiter in Camarin because of his quick and honest answers.
14. Jim Denison- Son of Ruth Denison, who would be going to Asia for the first time, specifically to Philippines. But the other reason behind his brilliant mind is actually, he wanted to meet his half sister and the Filipino wife of his father Cresencia Reyes.
15. Emma Denison- Jim Denison’s half sister, daughter of Cresencia Reyes. She was always being protected by Cresencia her mom, specifically her virginity. Emma was always in the list of honored students in his high school and college years. More than of her intelligence, she was also very beautiful that she won the title of Miss Philippines.
16. Hiroki Sato- executive of Mitsui, who liked the Philippines best of all Southeast Asian Countries. He visited annually. He was wary in dealings with the Filipinos in the beginning what attract him most in returning the Philippines is actually the girls which his friend, Mars Floro, is partnering with him. He has one child.
17. Mars Floro- Close friend of Hiroki Sato, who has as well one child like his friend. But what his friend doesn’t know about him is that he has a dozen of children with different women.
18. Eric Hariyan- he is a friend of Gaston Navato when they were taking up law in University of the Philippines. He is a student leader. With his friend, that led those Demos against Marcos regime. When they were released for Marcos got irritated with them and put them in jail, he got a fellowship to Yale. Eric Hariyan is brighter than his companion, was in more modest circumstances. He is parenting six children. He was famous for his intelligence.
19. Gaston Navato- also known as Gasty, he was with his friend in University of the Philippines and in prison. But when they were released he stayed on, took the bar and continued his human rights campaign against the regime. He was middle class. Eric and him remained friends.
20. Rudy Golangco- Marco’s closest crony. He had gone into exile when the dictator was deposed. And now he was out of power and only way he could get back all the wealth that been taken from him was to acquire political clout himself.
21. Eduardo Dantes- is a business man who retired from his active life for he was already old and weak, actually in the age of 80. He had left the management of his publishing empire to his two sons. He always dresses elegantly. In his age he could still walk sprightly, with no need for a nurse the way other ancients move abort a nurse always in tow. He hates Japanese a lot.
22. Senator Reyes- wheeled senator for he is having some medical tests. HE is eighty years old as Eduardo Dantes. He is also retired from his janges life. His vast property were divided among his heirs but was assured a hefty income in his last days from his investments and stocks.
23. Dolf Contreras- was not a regular Camarin costumer. He had a very successful real estate business which he had inherited from his father whom he has paid his grate attention. He is now in his forty. He has a wife whose name was Elisa. But before her, he had a lot of affairs with different women, mutually and sexually.
24. Elisa- Dolf Contreras’s wife. A patient woman who bears all the things that Dolf throws to her. She is working before in Camarin, where Dolf actually met her. Even though her patience was long, she still got fed up with what Dolf was doing to her. She went a far from Dolf and ended up being a nun.
25. Tony Picazo- is a son of an honest politician. He visited his former teacher, Fr.dela Terra. He is a young man who is losing hope for his own country, Philippines. He is planning to migrate to other country and leave his own. He is earning a lot.
26. Fr. Dela Terra- old priest, who is actually considered to be a missionary. He is a Spanish priest who came from China before getting in the Philippines. He lived almost half of his life in the Philippines, to be specific 30 years of his life on earth. And because of this he really doesn’t want to go back to the Seedbed of his life, in Spain. And he believes in the capacity of the young people.
27. Major Solomon (Sol) Flor- Philippine Military Class ’72. He is a senior aide to Major General Calixto (Cal) Primo and general’s confidante, he lives a very simple life compare to his co-majors. Actually just renting an apartment in Cubao. He is living with his wife and children.
28. Colonel Simeon Flores- an elegant and dishonest colonel who is a close friend of his opposite Major Sol. He is tempting and influencing Major Sol to do something which in one click will make him a millionaire.
SETTING:
The story happened on July 15, 1990, Sunday at around one pm, a killer earthquake – the strongest recorded in the Philippine history – struck and for four minutes of apocalyptic turbulence, Central Luzon including Manila was submerged in a wave of panic. Farther to the north of the capital, where the epicenter was recorded as exceeding intensity 8 on the Richter scale, the landscape was changed as mountainsides crumbled and the earth cracked. The story was ended at the Camarin building on Marcelo H. Del Pilar Street – the only building in Manila which totally wrecked.
PLOT
The date of the mid July 1990, the earthquake happened and so many people died in the natural disaster, rich, beggars, old, and all kind of creatures are being suffered because this earthquake is the strongest recorded in the Philippine history. Gagamba a sweepstakes’ vendor located in the Ermita restaurant also known as Camarin. Gagamba is not a beggar nevertheless he had a casualties and defects in his body. He was born with short limb that why he always stays in his cart to move and work to have food every day. All of the costumers are being known by gagamba and their stories, gagamba told the story all costumers og camarin restaurant. The first one is a landlord, Fred Villa.
The big boss of Camarin because madam Didi was migrated in the United States and Fred was being appointed to take charge of the business. His girls are well selected to work in the Camarin, All of the women in the Camarin would be tested first by Fred and one of them is Lina an eighteen year old girl from Pampanga. She was beautiful not taller but in the average height. Her family is in the middle class but her studies not so well supported by family that why she found a job like this.
There are costumer, Mars Floro who waited to her but Fred Villa where tested her first. The next character was a Cebuano; Joe Patalinhug arrived on November in 1989. In the first day in manila they are slept in a culvert intended to the bridge construction site in Tondo Manila. After a month’s they know that there’s a people from Cebu was staying in the squatters area in Paranaque that Joe’s family can live. They life is worst than their life in Cebu before because they have only a little rice and some salted oyster mussel. He live his wife in Tondo and went to Paranaque alone to have a better life and find a job that suits his capacity.
The next character was apparent and a regular costumer of Camarin. He is Pedro (pete) Domingo, he is youthful and still wavy hair in place and lived at the squatter area close to the Rizal Memorial stadium. The place was once swum, and being criticized by other people, Although Rizal and his children lived in squatters surroundings. Rizal had discovered his wife had a cancer, two months to live. His children do not know what to do and Rizal makes all way to cure and extend the life of his wife. He tried so many faith healers one of those was the faith healer of former president Marcos. He tried going to Quipo and completing the nine days on novena and to the Baclaran. He wishes to God his wife would be spared not to death because all men die, but the pain that she was now suffering. Eric hariyan and Gaston was best friend in university of the Philippines.
`While Eric is joining in the Law firm of lastog, Cacab and Rawet. One of the biggest law firms in the county. They are jailed in camp Crame because they oppose to government of President Marcos. They have experienced together nevertheless they have so many differences they were stay as best friend, While Eric invited him to meet Rudy Golangco, perhaps Marco’s closest crony. While Marcos dictatorship change the ownership the majority stock went to Rudy Golangco. Lastog want to meet him because e want to interrogate asked at so many issues before about him. First he research and finding all the information about him and use his knowledge as a lawyer and give so many question hat Rudy cannot be known.
There are compadres Senator Reyes and Eduardo Dantes. As a sugar man and Politician, they are so elegant and regular customer of Camirin Restaurant. Senator Reyes was always buying tickets from Gagamba. Like no other higher class people they are always have money and women that they are always treasure in spite of their age. They are Sherry one of the women of Senator Reyes who were always giving him pleasure. He gave a brand new car to her because she celebrated her 24th birthday. The waiter to them and Senator looked to his Rolex gold watch. It was almost one o’clock
Dolf Contreras was the next story. He is not regular customer of the Camarin restaurant it because of he had a company. He finished his studies in states in a course in art history and most of his classmates were from New York and foreigners, because of his very successful real states business which he inherited from his father. He can afford any pleasure he wanted. He had a wife name Elisa; she had a mind of her own. He pampered her with many clothes and shoes hat you compare to the shoes of Imelda. Dolf Contreras has so many women except of his wife. He gave all of the things to his women and disregards his wife apparently. There’s a time that he wanted to take Elisa in Singapore but Elisa cannot go because of her personal reasons.
Tony Picazo decided to go to abroad to support his growing family. When he come back here almost so many years he found his former teacher Fr. Hospicio dela terra rending in the house of balcony that opened to the Pasig. Fr. Dela terra Terra was reading a thesis while Tony approaches him and has some on conversation happen. Father said so many things in environment and he is missionary from Spain, first he went to china but when the communist come he went to the Philippines. Tony had a problem that’s why he went back, because of his father are been dismissed from his work and need some assistance. The government need to change said the priest. Tony were joined some revealed groups before where some young priest are killed. Tony asked Fr. Hospicio to go to the popular Spanish restaurant Camarin for him to thank and because he was a long ago that he meet again and he want to treat him. Fr. Hospicio are trying to caped because of food eat so expensive and he said it is a sin because other people cannot eat this kind of expensive food. But don’t have a choice and then they stayed there until one o’clock.
The people trap in Camarin had money, influence in the highest places in the society. The earthquake had happened all the Jaguar, Pajero and other vehicles parked outside of Camarin restaurant are destroyed like a scrap of metal. all the people inside of the Camarin are died but there’ a three survivor. On is Joe’s six moth old daughter had found by the rescuer. Gagamba doesn’t know the parents of the child but he knew they came from Cebu. He named the child Namnam like the name of his wife. After three days of searching to the missing survivor, Fred Villa lay his body in a huge rock and felt his head of so much pain. He screamed repeatedly while he heard a jackhammer somewhere in place. In the three days that he had not eaten, his waistline had receded. He was paralysed from waist down. Gagamba think that God was everywhere, and it was God’s breath that blew him away from the blocks of cement that had crashing down. I want to tell the one of the sentences in the book that struck me most. “Blessed are the poor, blessed are the meek he had always known those words belonging to God”. Hate story ended were Gagamba selling sweepstakes and said “maybe you will be millionaires next Sunday...”
http://gomezjames.blogspot.com/2009/12/gagamba-by-f-sionil-jose.html
Friday, February 25, 2011
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Ambon,Ulan, Baha by Frank Rivera
AMBON ULAN BAHA” is a two-hour ethno-rock modern zarzuela that showcases twenty original musical scores inspired by kundiman, balitaw, ethnic and modern musical trends with choreography based on ethnic, folk/traditional and creative dances
An original production of the celebrated Mindanao State University –Sining Kambayoka ( founded by Theater Artist Frank G. Rivera ) in 1978, “ Ambon…” was remounted by Teatro Metropolitano through NCCA Grant in 1992, also at the helm of Rivera.
This long –time running musical which predicted the Ormoc tragedy in 1991, highlights environmental concerns and focuses on the preservation of Philippine forests. It also deals heavily on Filipino values, the importance of education, religion, family and youth. It also carries relevant commentaries on socio-economic and political issues of the times. It aims to educate its audiences especially the youth about issues of urgent and national importance To – date, ARNAI’s “ Ambon, Ulan, Baha” has been sponsored by several organizations and institutions and has seen more than 500 performances. The zarzuela’s success in depicting the Filipino lives after almost three decades after it was first staged, proved its timelessness and its relevance to the evolutions of Philippine Theater.
Its music, inspired by folk/traditional songs like balitaw and kundiman, formerly considered provincial “ bakya “ , and unsophisticated as compared to “mainstream” of legitimate theater, proved to be good venue for improvisation and fusion, thus exploring and experimenting for new forms.
Its dances: a fusion of folk/traditional, modern and creative movements showcase creative interpretation of the play’s songs and scene.
An original production of the celebrated Mindanao State University –Sining Kambayoka ( founded by Theater Artist Frank G. Rivera ) in 1978, “ Ambon…” was remounted by Teatro Metropolitano through NCCA Grant in 1992, also at the helm of Rivera.
This long –time running musical which predicted the Ormoc tragedy in 1991, highlights environmental concerns and focuses on the preservation of Philippine forests. It also deals heavily on Filipino values, the importance of education, religion, family and youth. It also carries relevant commentaries on socio-economic and political issues of the times. It aims to educate its audiences especially the youth about issues of urgent and national importance To – date, ARNAI’s “ Ambon, Ulan, Baha” has been sponsored by several organizations and institutions and has seen more than 500 performances. The zarzuela’s success in depicting the Filipino lives after almost three decades after it was first staged, proved its timelessness and its relevance to the evolutions of Philippine Theater.
Its music, inspired by folk/traditional songs like balitaw and kundiman, formerly considered provincial “ bakya “ , and unsophisticated as compared to “mainstream” of legitimate theater, proved to be good venue for improvisation and fusion, thus exploring and experimenting for new forms.
Its dances: a fusion of folk/traditional, modern and creative movements showcase creative interpretation of the play’s songs and scene.
THE WAY WE LIVE Danton Remoto
Bang the drum, baby,
let us roll tremors
of sound to wake
the Lord God of motion
sleeping under the skin.
Of choosing what to wear
this Saturday night:
cool, sexy black
or simply fuck-me red?
Should I gel my hair
or let it fall like water?
Of sitting on the sad
and beautiful face of James Dean
while listening to reggae
at Blue Café.
Of chatting with friends
at The Library
while Allan Shimmers
with his sequins and wit.
Of listening to stories at Cine Café:
the first eye-contact,
conversations glowing
in the night,
lips and fingers touching,
groping for each other’s loneliness.
Of driving home
under the flyover’s dark wings
(a blackout once again plunges
the city to darkness)
Summer’s thunder
lighting up the sky
oh heat thick
as desire
Then suddenly the rain:
finally falling,
falling everywhere:
to let go, then,
to let go and to move on,
this is the way it seems
to be. Bang the drum, baby.
http://pipoymendoza.multiply.com/journal/item/8
let us roll tremors
of sound to wake
the Lord God of motion
sleeping under the skin.
Of choosing what to wear
this Saturday night:
cool, sexy black
or simply fuck-me red?
Should I gel my hair
or let it fall like water?
Of sitting on the sad
and beautiful face of James Dean
while listening to reggae
at Blue Café.
Of chatting with friends
at The Library
while Allan Shimmers
with his sequins and wit.
Of listening to stories at Cine Café:
the first eye-contact,
conversations glowing
in the night,
lips and fingers touching,
groping for each other’s loneliness.
Of driving home
under the flyover’s dark wings
(a blackout once again plunges
the city to darkness)
Summer’s thunder
lighting up the sky
oh heat thick
as desire
Then suddenly the rain:
finally falling,
falling everywhere:
to let go, then,
to let go and to move on,
this is the way it seems
to be. Bang the drum, baby.
http://pipoymendoza.multiply.com/journal/item/8
Regla sa Buwan ng Hunyo (Ruth E. Mabanglo.)
Pagbigyan ang pwersang ito:
lakas na umaahon sa sinapupunan,
init na sumusubo, dumadaloy, umiigkas,
kusang lumalaya't lumalayaw
kahit na sinusupil,
dumadanak at bumabakas
hatdan man ng hilahil.
Pagbigyan ang pwersang ito--
ito:
kabuuan ng lahat kong pagkatao,
kabuuan ng kaibhan ko't pagkakatulad
sa lahat ng tao,
kabuuan ng naimpok kong alaala't
ginagastang kasalukuyan
kabuuan ng kinabukasang isinasanla
sa kalendaryo.
Pagbigyan ang pwersang ito--
hayaang magmapa sa talaan
ng utang ko't pautang,
hayaang maglimbag ng sagutin ko't
pananagutan:
sa sarili, sa angkan at sa lipunan:
hayaang magbadya
ng karaingan ko't pangangailangan,
ngayon,
habang nilalason ng maraming kabaro
ang itlog at semilya
at binubulok naman ng iba
sa sansupot na goma
ang bunga ng pag-ibig at pagtatalik.
Ay, anong kilusan, martsa't litanya
upang mapuksa ang sanggol
nang buong laya?
Ilang liblib na klinika, basurahan at
kubeta
ang pag-iimbakan ng kapusuka't sala?
Kahit ang ampunang nagbobodega
ng pananagutang itinatwa
may sumbat ng kalikasang
di matatakasan.
Pagbigyan ang pwersang ito--
ismiran ang humuhugot na kirot,
batahin ang hagupit
habang tinatanggap, tinatanggap
ang katuturang
pumapaso sa pagtigmak.
Ito ang pagtagay sa Hunyo
sa kalis ko--
nobya,
asawa,
kerida,
o kahit ng bayarang tagapagpaligaya:
ito ang testamento, ang kontrata, ang
sumpa:
ito ang saligan,
ang kahulugan at kahungkagan
ng buhay at pag-iral.
Pagbigyan,
ito,
ang agos ng madlang pagsulong--
hininga ng pag-asa
ang namimilapil dito.
http://www2.hawaii.edu/~mabanglo/about.htm
lakas na umaahon sa sinapupunan,
init na sumusubo, dumadaloy, umiigkas,
kusang lumalaya't lumalayaw
kahit na sinusupil,
dumadanak at bumabakas
hatdan man ng hilahil.
Pagbigyan ang pwersang ito--
ito:
kabuuan ng lahat kong pagkatao,
kabuuan ng kaibhan ko't pagkakatulad
sa lahat ng tao,
kabuuan ng naimpok kong alaala't
ginagastang kasalukuyan
kabuuan ng kinabukasang isinasanla
sa kalendaryo.
Pagbigyan ang pwersang ito--
hayaang magmapa sa talaan
ng utang ko't pautang,
hayaang maglimbag ng sagutin ko't
pananagutan:
sa sarili, sa angkan at sa lipunan:
hayaang magbadya
ng karaingan ko't pangangailangan,
ngayon,
habang nilalason ng maraming kabaro
ang itlog at semilya
at binubulok naman ng iba
sa sansupot na goma
ang bunga ng pag-ibig at pagtatalik.
Ay, anong kilusan, martsa't litanya
upang mapuksa ang sanggol
nang buong laya?
Ilang liblib na klinika, basurahan at
kubeta
ang pag-iimbakan ng kapusuka't sala?
Kahit ang ampunang nagbobodega
ng pananagutang itinatwa
may sumbat ng kalikasang
di matatakasan.
Pagbigyan ang pwersang ito--
ismiran ang humuhugot na kirot,
batahin ang hagupit
habang tinatanggap, tinatanggap
ang katuturang
pumapaso sa pagtigmak.
Ito ang pagtagay sa Hunyo
sa kalis ko--
nobya,
asawa,
kerida,
o kahit ng bayarang tagapagpaligaya:
ito ang testamento, ang kontrata, ang
sumpa:
ito ang saligan,
ang kahulugan at kahungkagan
ng buhay at pag-iral.
Pagbigyan,
ito,
ang agos ng madlang pagsulong--
hininga ng pag-asa
ang namimilapil dito.
http://www2.hawaii.edu/~mabanglo/about.htm
Full script of new yorker in tondo by marcelino agana jr.? In: Biography, Plays, Play Script Writing [Edit categories]
Scene 1:
Mrs. M: Visitors, always visitors, nothing but visitors all day long. I'm beginning to feel like a society matron.
Mrs. M: Tony! I thought you were on the province.
Tony: Is that you aling Atang?
Mrs. M: of course. It's I, foolish boy. Why?
Tony: You don' look like Aling Atang.
Mrs. M: I had a hair cut. Think it's horrible?
Tony: Oh, no, no.. You look just wonderful. Aling Atang for a moment, I thought you were Kikay.
Mrs. M: Oh, you are so palikero as ever, Tony. But come in. Here, sit down. How is your mother?
Tony: Poor mother. She is homesick for Tondo. She wants to come back here at once.
Mrs. M: How long have you been away?
Tony: Only 3 months..
Mrs. M: Only 3 months!!! It's too long for a Tondo native to be away from Tondo. My poor kumara. She must be bored out there.
Tony: Well, you know, we engineers are always on call. But as soon as I finish the bridge in Bulacan, we'll be going here in Tondo.
Mrs. M: Yes, must bring her back as soon as possible. We miss her when we play mahjong..
Tony: That is what she misses most of all.
Mrs. M: I understand. Once a Tondo girl always a Tondo girl. I wonder if that's fit my Kikay because after a year in America , she says she's not homesick at all..
Tony: When did Kikay arrive Aling Atang?
Mrs. M: Last Monday.
Tony: I didn't know it 'till I read it in the newspaper.
Mrs. M: That girl only arrived last Monday and look what happened to me! She dragged me to the parlor. My hair was cut, eyebrows shaved, nails manicured. And when I'm going to the market, I used lipstick! All my kumara are laughing. People think I'm a loose woman. Because of my age, but I can't do anything because it's hard to argue with Kikay. And she insists that I should look like an Americana ..
Tony: You look just wonderful, and where is she now?
Mrs. M: Who?
Tony: Kikay? Is she at home?
Mrs. M: She's still sleeping!
Tony: Still sleeping?!
Mrs. M: She says, in New York , people don't wake up until 12:00 noon.
Tony: It's only 10:00 now.
Mrs. M: Besides, she's busy. Since she came home. Welcome parties here and there. Visitors all day long. She's spinning like a top.
Tony: Well, will you tell her I called to welcome her. And kindly give her these flowers.
Mrs. M: But surely you're not going yet?
Tony: I did want to see Kikay. But if she doesn't get up at 12 noon
Mrs. M: Wait a minute. I'll go and wake her up.
Tony: Please don't bother Aling Atang. I can come back some other time.
Mrs. M: Wait right here. She'll simply be delighted to see her childhood friend. The flowers are beautiful, how expensive they must be.
Tony: Oh, they're nothing at all Aling Atang.
Mrs. M: Oh, Tony..
Tony: Yes Aling Atang?
Mrs. M: You mustn't call me "Aling Atang"
Tony: Why not?
Mrs. M: Kikay says that it's more civilized to call me Mrs. Mendoza.
Tony: Yes aling... I mean, Yes, Mrs. Mendoza..
Mrs. M: Wait a minute and I'll call Kikay.
Tony: Huh!!
Mrs. M: Oh! And Tony..
Tony: Yes, Aling.... I mean, Mrs. Mendoza?
Mrs. M: You must not call her Kikay.
Tony: And what shall I call her?
Mrs. M: You must call her Francesca..
Tony: Francisca?
Mrs. M: Not Francisca.. Fran-CES-ca..
Tony: But why Francesca?
Mrs. M: Because in New York , she says that's the way they pronounce he name, it sounds like "chi-chi" so Italian, be sure to call her Francesca and not Kikay.
Tony: Yes, Mrs. Mendoza .
Mrs. M: Now, wait right here while I call Francesca.... AIE DIOSMIO!!!
Tony: Never mind Mrs. Mendoza, I'll answer it.
Mrs. M: Just tell them to wait, Tony.
Scene 2:
Totoy: Tony!
Tony: Totoy!
Totoy: You old son of your father!
Tony: You big carabao!
Totoy: Mayroon ba tayo dyan?
Tony: You ask me that... and you look like a walking goldmine! How many depots have you been looting, huh!!??
Totoy: Hey hey!! More slowly there.. It is you the police are looking for.
Tony: Impossible! I'm a reformed character! Come in Totoy
Totoy: Okay Tony.
Tony: Good to see you old pal.. Here, have a smoke.
Totoy: I thought you were in the province, partner.
Tony: I am. I just came to say hello to Kikay.
Totoy: Tony. I've been hearing the most frightful things about that girl.
Tony: So have I.
Totoy: People say she has gone crazy.
Tony: No, she has only gone New York .
Totoy: What was she doing in New York anyway?
Tony: Oh, studying.
Totoy: Studying what?
Tony: Hair culture and Beauty Science. She got a diploma.
Totoy: Imagine that! Our dear old Kikay!
Tony: Pardon me, she's not Kikay anymore,.. She's Fran-CeS-ca..
Totoy: Fran-CeS-ca??
Tony: Our dear Kikay is now an American.
Totoy: Don't make me laugh! Why I knew that girl when she's still selling rice cakes.. Puto kayo dyan!! Bili na kayo ng puto mga suki!!
Tony: Remember when we pushed her into the canal?
Totoy: She chased us around the streets.
Tony: She was dripping with mud!
Totoy: Naku! How that girl could fight!
Scene 3:
Nena: Why, Totoy?!
Totoy: Nena, my own.
Nena: And Tony, too.. What's all this? A Canto Boy Reunion ?
Totoy: We have come to greet the Lady from New York .
Nena: So have I. Is she at home?
Tony: Aling Atang is trying to wake her up.
Nana: To wake her up?! Is she still sleeping??
Mrs. M: No, she's awake already. She's dressing. Good morning Nena and Totoy.
Mrs. M: Well, Totoy? Nena? Why are you staring me like that?
Nena: Is that you Aling Atang?
Totoy: Good God, it is Aling Atang!
Mrs. M: It's Kikay who prefers it.
Nena: How you used to pinch and pinch me Aling Atang, when I was a li'l girl.
Mrs. M: Because you were all naughty, especially you! Always sneaking into our backyard for mangoes
Totoy: Do you still have that mango tree?
Mrs. M: Yes. Come and help me carry something in the kitchen.
Nena: Aling Atang, don't you prepare anything for us. We're not visitors
Mrs. M: It's only orange juice. I was preparing some for Kikay.
Nena: Well. Tony.
Tony: You shouldn't have come today, Nena.
Nena: Oh, why not?
Tony: I haven't talked with Kikay yet.
Nena: Not yet! I thought you said it last night.
Tony: I lost my nerve.
Nena: Oh Tony, Tony!
Tony: Use your head. Nena it's not easy breaking off his engagement with Kikay
or with the girl for God sake!!
Nena: Are you in love with Kikay or with me?
Tony: Of course with you!! I'm engage with you.
Nena: Yes, and with Kikay. Too!
Tony: That was a year ago! Nena, you know how much I love you.
Nena: How could you ask me if you're still engage with Kikay!
Tony: This is what I get from being honest!
Nena: Honest? Making me fall for you when you're inlove and engaged with Kikay!
Tony: I thought I didn't belong to Kikay anymore. It's only a secret engagement anyway. I proposed to her before she left for America . But when she stopped answering my letters, I considered myself a freeman again.
Nena: And so you proposed to me..
Tony: Yes..
Nena: Then, you tell me to keep it a secret!
Tony: Because I found out that Kikay was coming back.
Nena: I'm tired of being secretly engaged to you!
Tony: Just give me a chance to explain to Kikay. Then we'll tell them.
Nena: Well, you better hurry. I'm getting impatient.
Tony: How can I talk to Kikay?
Nena: Why not?
Tony: Because you're here and also Totoy. I don't wanna jilt Kikay infront of everybody.
Nena: You want Totoy and me to clear out?
Tony: No.. just give me a chance to be alone with Kikay for a moment..
Nena: I'll take care of Totoy..
Tony: That's good..
Nena: Just leave it to me..
Scene 4:
Totoy: Puto kayo dyan.. Bili na kayo..
Mrs. M: Here comes Kikay, But she wants to call her Francesca.
Kikay: Oh hello darling people!! Nena my dear...... But how but you've become.. and Tony, my little pal... how are you? And Totoy... my raishing! You look goodness,, you look like a Tondo Super Production in Technicolor!! But sit-downmumsy!!!
everybody and let me look at you.. Oh
Mrs. M: What's the matter now?
Kikay: How many times I must tell you, never to serve fruit juices in water glasses?
Mrs. M: I couldn't find those tall glasses you brought home.
Kikay: Oh, poor li'l mumsy.. she is so clumsy noh? But never mind, don't break your heart about it. Here sit down.
Mrs. M: No, I must be going to the market.
Kikay: Oh, don't forget my celery. I can't live without it. I' like a rabbit, munch all day.
Mrs. M: Well, if you people will excuse me. Tony, remember me to your mother.
Kikay: And remember, a little bloom on the lips, a little bloom on the cheeks. Say mwah, mwah..
Mrs. M: Do I have to, Kikay?
Kikay: Again mumsy?
Mrs. M: Do I have to paint this old face of mine? Rancesca, what am I going to do with you?
Kikay: But how dreadfully you put it. Oh mumsy, what am I going to do with you?
Mrs. M: I give up!
Kikay: Poor mumsy. How pathetic!
Nena: Tell us about New York .
Tony: How long did you stay there?
Kikay: 10 months, 4 days, 7 hours and 21 minutes.
Totoy: And she's still there.... In her dreams...
Kikay: Yes, I feel as if I was still there, as though I had never left it, as though I lived there all my life. But I look around me and I realized that no, no, I'm not there. I'm not in New York , I'm at home. But which is home for me, this cannot be home because here, my heart aches with homesickness..
Nena: I don't think we ought to be here at all.
Tony: Yes, we shouldn't disturb her.
Totoy: Let's all just walk out very, very quietly.
Nena: And leave her alone with her memories.
Tony: Is that girl we used to go swimming with the mud puddles?
Kikay: Ah, New York , my own dear New York ..
Nena: Totoy, will you come with me..
Totoy: To the ends of the earth!
Nena: No darling, just out to our dear little backyard.
Totoy: Oh, the backyards of Tondo, the barong barongs of Mypaho, the streets of Sibakong..
Nena: Listen Idiot! Are you coming with me or not??
Totoy: Anywhere dream girl, anywhere at all!!
Scene 5:
Kikay: Apparently, out Totoy still has a most terrific crush on Nena. Do wake up, Tony. What are you looking so miserable about?
Tony: Kikay, I don't know how to begin.
Kikay: Just call me Francesca... that's a good beginning.
Tony: There is something I must tell you... something very important.
Kikay: Oh, Tony, can't we just forget all about it?
Tony: Forget??
Kikay: That's the New York way, Tony. Forget, nothing must ever too serious; nothing must drag on too long. Tonight, give all your heart, tomorrow, forget. And when you meet again, smile, shake hands... just good sports..
Tony: What are you talking about?
Kikay: Tony, I was only a child at that time.
Tony: When?
Kikay: When you and I got engaged. I've changed so much since then, Tony.
Tony: That was only a year ago.
Kikay: To me, it seems a century. So much had happened to me. More can happen to you in just one year in New York .
Tony: Listen, I don't want to talk about New York ... I want to talk about our engagement.
Kikay: And that's what we cannot do Tony. Not anymore.
Tony: Why not?
Kikay: Tony, you got engaged to a girl named Kikay. Well, that girl doesn't exist anymore. She's dead. The person you see before you is Francesca. Don't you see, Tony, I'm a stranger to you. I hate to hurt you, but surely you see that there can be no more talk of an engagement between us. Imagine, a New York Girl, marrying a Tondo Boy!!! It's so insane!!
Tony: Now look here..
Kikay: I'm sorry if I've hurt you, Tony.
Tony: I'm not going to sit here and be insulted.
Kikay: Hush! Tony! Hush! Don't shout, don't lose your temper. It's so uncivilized. People in New York don't lose their temper.
Tony: What do you want me to do? Smile, say thank you for slapping my face?
Kikay: Yes, Tony. Be a sport, let's smile and shake hands, and be just friends, huh?
Tony: If you weren't a woman, I'd I'd...
Scene 6:
Totoy: Hold it Tony. You must never, never hit a woman.
Nena: What's all this?
Kikay: Nothing,,, nothing at all..
Totoy: What were you two quarrelling about?
Kikay: We were not quarrelling. Tony and I just decided to be good friends and nothing more
Nena: Tony, is it true?
Tony: Yes!
Nena: Now, we can tell them!
Kikay: Tell us what?
Totoy: What's going on here?
Nena: Tony and I are engaged!!
Kikay: Engaged!!
Totoy: Engaged! Engaged!!
Nena: Yes! We've been secretly engaged for a month!
Kikay: A month!? Why you....you...
Tony: I did try to tell you Kikay, I was trying to tell you...
Kikay: You unspeakable cad!!
Nena: Hey, carefully there!! You're speaking top of my fiancé..
Kikay: He's not your fiancé!
Nena: Oh No!! And why not, huh!!??
Kikay: Because he was still engaged to me when he got engaged to you!
Nena: Well, he's not engaged to you anymore, you just said it yourself.
Kikay: Ah, but I didn't know about all this..
Tony: Now remember, Kikay... it's so uncivilized to lose one's temper, People in New York don't lose their temper.
Kikay: I've never felt so humiliated in all my life!! You beast, I'll teach you!!
Nena: I told you to leave him alone. He's my fiancé!!
Kikay: And I tell you he's not!! He's engaged to me until I release him... and I haven't release him yet.
Nena: You ought to be ashamed of yourself! You're just being a dog in the manger!
Kikay: You ought to be ashamed of yourself! Stealing my man behind my back!
Nena: What? What did you say!!??
Tony: Totoy, pull them apart!
Kikay: You keep out of this or I'll knock your head off!
Totoy: Naku lumabas din ang pagka Tondo!
Nena: Shameless hussy!!
Kikay: Man eater!!
Tony: How dare you suck her??!!
Nena: She hit me first!
Tony: Look what you've done to her!
Nena: Are you trying to defend her? You never defended me!
Tony: Shut up!!
Nena: I hate you! I hate you
Tony: Shut up or I'll bash your mouth off!!
Totoy: Hey, don't you talk to Nena that way.
Tony: You keep out of this!
Nena: He's more of a gentleman than you are. He defends me!
Totoy: You take your hands off her!
Tony: I told you to keep out of this!
Nena: Oh, Totoy, you've save my life
Kikay: Tony! Tony, open you eyes!
Tony: Oh, get away from her!
Nena: Take me away from her!
Totoy: Are you still engaged to him?
Nena: I hate him! I never want to see him again in my life!
Totoy: Good! Come on, and let's go!
Tony: Hey!
Nena: Don't you speak to me, you brute!
Tony: I wasn't talking to you!
Totoy: Don't you speak to me either! You have insulted the woman I love!
Nena: Oh, Totoy, why have you never told me?
Totoy: Well, now you know.
Tony: Congratulations!!!
Nena: Let's go darling; I don't want the smell around here.
Scene 7:
Tony: Now, you've ruined my life! I hope you're satisfied.
Kikay: I.... have ruined your life??? You.... Ruined mine!!
Tony: What you need is a good spanking!
Kikay: Don't you come near me, you,,, you Canto Boy..
Tony: Don't worry, I wouldn't touch you with my ten foot pole.
Kikay: And I wouldn't touch you with my twenty foot pole.
Tony: Just one year in New York and you forgot your old friends.
Kikay: Just one year that I'm in New York ... and what did you do? But when we got engaged, you swore to be true, you promised to wait for me. And I believe you!! Oh, you're a fickle, fickle..
Tony: What are you crying about? Be brave.....forget..... That's the New York way.. Nothing must ever be too serious, nothing must ever drag on too long..
Kikay: Oh Tony Please, please!
Tony: Besides, there could be no more talk of an engagement between us. Imagine a New York Girl, marrying a Tondo boy!!
Kikay: Oh Tony, I've been such a fool.. I'm sorry, Tony..
Tony: Well, I'm not! I'm glad I found out what kind of a person you are!
Kikay: Oh Tony, you're wrong, you're wrong! I'm not that kind of person at all..
Tony: Oh. "person" is just a relative name, huh!?
Kikay: Yes Tony, that was Francesca saying all that. But Francesca exist no more, Tony, the girl standing before you now, is Kikay.
Tony: In that silly dress?
Kikay: Oh this is just a gift wrapping, Tony.
Tony: Well, well, well..
Kikay: It's true Tony. I'm Kikay....remember me??
Tony: If I remember it right, I was right, I was engaged to a girl named Kikay.
Kikay: Yes, and you're still engaged to her Tony!
Tony: Welcome home Kikay!!! How was the trip?
Kikay: Horrible!! I couldn't wait to get back.
Tony: Like it in New York ?
Kikay: Uh-uh! Give me a Tondo anytime!
Tony: Why didn't you answer my letters?
Kikay: Francesca wouldn't let me write, Tony.
Tony: That nasty girl. I'm glad she's dead!
Mrs. M: Frances ....... Oh, Tony, are you still here? Francesca, don't be angry but I couldn't find any celery..
Kikay: Oh, never mind, Inay, I hate celery!
Mrs. M: Hate celery? Why? You said, you couldn't live without it!
Tony: That was Francesca. Aling Atang and Francesca is dead. The girl standing before you is Kikay!
Mrs. M: But Kikay is Francesca..
Kikay: Oh, no, Inay, I'm not Francesca......I'm Kikay!
Mrs. M: I give up!!
Kikay: That tune! What memories it brings back! I first heard it in New York , at Eddie Candon's..
Tony: uh-uh..
Kikay: Sorry darling. May I have this dance with you partner?
Tony: Delighted, madame.
http://wiki.answers.com/Q/Full_script_of_new_yorker_in_tondo_by_marcellino
Ang Kagila-gilalas na Pakikipagsapalaran ni Juan Dela Cruz by Dan Capule
1.
isang gabing madilim
puno ng pangambang sumakay sa bus
si Juan dela Cruz
pusturang-pustura
kahit walang laman ang bulsa
BAWAL MANIGARILYO BOSS
sabi ng kondoktora
at minura
si Juan dela Cruz
2.
pusturang-pustura
kahit walang laman ang bulsa
nilakad ni Juan dela Cruz
ang buong Avenida
BAWAL PUMARADA
sabi ng bakod
kaya napagod
si Juan dela Cruz
3.
nang abutin ng gutom
si Juan dela Cruz
tumapat sa Ma Mon Luk
inamoy and mami, siopao, lumpia, pansit
hanggang mabusog
nagdaan sa Sine Dalisay
tinitigan ang litrato ni Chichay
PASSES NOT HONORED TODAY
sabi ng takilyera
tawa ng tawa
4.
dumalaw sa kongreso
si Juan dela Cruz
MAG-INGAT SA ASO
sabi ng deputado
nagtuloy sa Malakanyang
wala namang dalang kamanyang
KEEP OF THE GRASS
sabi ng hardinero
sabi ng sundalo
kay Juan dela Cruz
5.
nang dapuan ng...
si Juan dela Cruz
namasyal sa Culi-Culi
parang espadang bali-bali
YOUR CREDIT IS GOOD BUT WE NEED CASH
sabi ng bugaw
habang humihigop ng sabaw
6.
pusturang-pustura
kahit walang laman ang bulsa
naglibot sa Dewey
si Juan dela Cruz
PAN-AM BAYSIDE SAVOY THEY SATISFY
sabi ng neon
humikab ang dagat na parang leon
masarap sanang tumalon
BAWAL MAGTAPON NG BASURA
sabi ng alon
7.
bumalik sa quiapo
si Juan dela Cruz
at medyo kinabahan
pumasok sa simbahan
IN GOD WE TRUST
sabi ng obispo
ALL OTHERS PAY CASH
ang wala ng malunok
si Juan dela Cruz
dala-dala'y gulok
gula-gulanit ang damit
wala pa ring laman and bulsa
umakyat sa Arayat
ang namayat na
si Juan dela Cruz
WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE
sabi ng PC
ang walanghiyang kabataan
kung bakit sinulsulan
ang isang tahimik na mamamayan
katulad ni Juan dela Cruz
http://cowy.tabulas.com/2004/08/02/@396648/
isang gabing madilim
puno ng pangambang sumakay sa bus
si Juan dela Cruz
pusturang-pustura
kahit walang laman ang bulsa
BAWAL MANIGARILYO BOSS
sabi ng kondoktora
at minura
si Juan dela Cruz
2.
pusturang-pustura
kahit walang laman ang bulsa
nilakad ni Juan dela Cruz
ang buong Avenida
BAWAL PUMARADA
sabi ng bakod
kaya napagod
si Juan dela Cruz
3.
nang abutin ng gutom
si Juan dela Cruz
tumapat sa Ma Mon Luk
inamoy and mami, siopao, lumpia, pansit
hanggang mabusog
nagdaan sa Sine Dalisay
tinitigan ang litrato ni Chichay
PASSES NOT HONORED TODAY
sabi ng takilyera
tawa ng tawa
4.
dumalaw sa kongreso
si Juan dela Cruz
MAG-INGAT SA ASO
sabi ng deputado
nagtuloy sa Malakanyang
wala namang dalang kamanyang
KEEP OF THE GRASS
sabi ng hardinero
sabi ng sundalo
kay Juan dela Cruz
5.
nang dapuan ng...
si Juan dela Cruz
namasyal sa Culi-Culi
parang espadang bali-bali
YOUR CREDIT IS GOOD BUT WE NEED CASH
sabi ng bugaw
habang humihigop ng sabaw
6.
pusturang-pustura
kahit walang laman ang bulsa
naglibot sa Dewey
si Juan dela Cruz
PAN-AM BAYSIDE SAVOY THEY SATISFY
sabi ng neon
humikab ang dagat na parang leon
masarap sanang tumalon
BAWAL MAGTAPON NG BASURA
sabi ng alon
7.
bumalik sa quiapo
si Juan dela Cruz
at medyo kinabahan
pumasok sa simbahan
IN GOD WE TRUST
sabi ng obispo
ALL OTHERS PAY CASH
ang wala ng malunok
si Juan dela Cruz
dala-dala'y gulok
gula-gulanit ang damit
wala pa ring laman and bulsa
umakyat sa Arayat
ang namayat na
si Juan dela Cruz
WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE
sabi ng PC
ang walanghiyang kabataan
kung bakit sinulsulan
ang isang tahimik na mamamayan
katulad ni Juan dela Cruz
http://cowy.tabulas.com/2004/08/02/@396648/
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Gabi ng Isang Piyon (Lamberto E. Antonio)
Paano ka makakatulog?
Iniwan man ng mga palad mo ang pala,
Martilyo, tubo’t kawad at iba pang kasangkapan,
Alas-singko’y hindi naging hudyat upang
Umibis ang graba’t semento sa iyong hininga.
Sa karimlan mo nga lamang maaaring ihabilin
Ang kirot at silakbo ng iyong himaymay:
Mga lintos, galos, hiwa ng daliri braso’t utak
Kapag binabanig na ang kapirasong playwud,
Mga kusot o supot-semento sa ulilang
Sulok ng gusaling nakatirik.
Binabalisa ka ng paggawa —
(Hindi ka maidlip kahit sagad-buto ang pagod mo)
Dugo’t pawis pang lalangkap
Sa buhangin at sementong hinahalo na kalamnang
Itatapal mo sa bakal na mga tadyang:
Kalansay na nabubuong dambuhala mula
Sa pagdurugo mo bawat saglit; kapalit
Ang kitang di-maipantawid-gutom ng pamilya,
Pag-asam sa bagong kontrata at dalanging paos.
Paano ka matutulog kung sa bawat paghiga mo’y
Unti-unting nilalagom ng bubungang sakdal-tayog
Ang mga bituin? Maaari ka nga lamang
Mag-usisa sa dilim kung bakit di umiibis
Ang graba’t ‘semento sa iyong hininga...
Kung nabubuo sa guniguni mo maya’t maya
Na ikaw ay mistulang bahagi ng iskapold
Na kinabukasa’y babaklasin mo rin.
gabi-ng-isang-piyon-lamberto-e-antonio.html
Iniwan man ng mga palad mo ang pala,
Martilyo, tubo’t kawad at iba pang kasangkapan,
Alas-singko’y hindi naging hudyat upang
Umibis ang graba’t semento sa iyong hininga.
Sa karimlan mo nga lamang maaaring ihabilin
Ang kirot at silakbo ng iyong himaymay:
Mga lintos, galos, hiwa ng daliri braso’t utak
Kapag binabanig na ang kapirasong playwud,
Mga kusot o supot-semento sa ulilang
Sulok ng gusaling nakatirik.
Binabalisa ka ng paggawa —
(Hindi ka maidlip kahit sagad-buto ang pagod mo)
Dugo’t pawis pang lalangkap
Sa buhangin at sementong hinahalo na kalamnang
Itatapal mo sa bakal na mga tadyang:
Kalansay na nabubuong dambuhala mula
Sa pagdurugo mo bawat saglit; kapalit
Ang kitang di-maipantawid-gutom ng pamilya,
Pag-asam sa bagong kontrata at dalanging paos.
Paano ka matutulog kung sa bawat paghiga mo’y
Unti-unting nilalagom ng bubungang sakdal-tayog
Ang mga bituin? Maaari ka nga lamang
Mag-usisa sa dilim kung bakit di umiibis
Ang graba’t ‘semento sa iyong hininga...
Kung nabubuo sa guniguni mo maya’t maya
Na ikaw ay mistulang bahagi ng iskapold
Na kinabukasa’y babaklasin mo rin.
gabi-ng-isang-piyon-lamberto-e-antonio.html
The World Is An Apple by Alberto S. Florentino
This is a story of how wrong decisions become greater burdens to a family. Mario’s family happens to be in the lower bracket of society. He cannot even provide for his family’s basic needs. Albeit all this hardships, his wife Gloria, still manages to keep her good virtuous. She insists that the way they are living is a much better than the one they will have if they do wrong acts. But Gloria’s entire constant reminder to Mario did not prosper. Mario decided to come back to his old life of crime when he lost his job when he tried to steal an apple for his daughter. He keeps on insisting that his priority is to provide what his wife and daughter needs. He left with Pablo, his old crime buddy, even if Gloria pleaded very hard for him not to go with the man. This is a sad representation of what is happening in the society today. Due to lack of better opportunities to heighten one’s standard of living, some become entangled with the wrong crowd. By doing so, these individuals do not help their family at all; instead, they end up worsening their family’s problem. It is man’s basic instinct that drives him towards his survival. But, no matter what, he should not forget that society expects him to conform to its norms. One’s action is weighed right or wrong and thus should be kept towards the proper action.
http://www.shvoong.com/humanities/1760480-world-apple/
http://www.shvoong.com/humanities/1760480-world-apple/
Saturday, February 19, 2011
♥LITERATURE SHAPING OUR FUTURE♥
Literature is a term used to describe written or spoken material. Broadly speaking, "literature" is used to describe anything from creative writing to more technical or scientific works, but the term is most commonly used to refer to works of the creative imagination, including works of poetry, drama, fiction, and nonfiction. Literature is the denunciation of the times in which one lives.Literature adds to reality, it does not simply describe it. It enriches the necessary competencies that daily life requires and provides; and in this respect, it irrigates the deserts that our lives have already become.
Literature represents a language or a people: culture and tradition. But, literature is more important than just a historical or cultural artifact. Literature introduces us to new worlds of experience. We learn about books and literature; we enjoy the comedies and the tragedies of poems, stories, and plays; and we may even grow and evolve through our literary journey with books. It is against poverty, and a building block of development, an essential complement to investments in roads, dams, clinics and factories.It is a platform for democratization, and a vehicle for the promotion of cultural and national identity. Especially for girls and women, it is an agent of family health and nutrition. For everyone, everywhere, literacy is, along with education in general, a basic human right.... Literacy is, finally, the road to human progress and the means through which every man, woman and child can realize his or her full potential.”
Literature represents a language or a people: culture and tradition. But, literature is more important than just a historical or cultural artifact. Literature introduces us to new worlds of experience. We learn about books and literature; we enjoy the comedies and the tragedies of poems, stories, and plays; and we may even grow and evolve through our literary journey with books. It is against poverty, and a building block of development, an essential complement to investments in roads, dams, clinics and factories.It is a platform for democratization, and a vehicle for the promotion of cultural and national identity. Especially for girls and women, it is an agent of family health and nutrition. For everyone, everywhere, literacy is, along with education in general, a basic human right.... Literacy is, finally, the road to human progress and the means through which every man, woman and child can realize his or her full potential.”
Friday, February 18, 2011
Another Invitation To the Pope To Visit Tondo by Emmanuel Torres
Next time your Holiness slums through our lives,
we will try to make our poverty exemplary.
The best is a typhoon month. It never fails
To find us, like charity, knocking on
all sides of the rough arrangements we thrive in.
Mud shall be plenty for the feet of the pious.
We will show uoi how we pull things together
from nowhere, life after life,
prosper with children, whom you love. To be sure,
we shall have more for you to love.
We will show you where the sun leaks on
our sleep,
on the dailiness of piece meals and wages
with their habit of slipping away
from fists that have holes for pockets.
We will show you our latest child with a sore
that never sleeps. When he cries,
the dogs of the afternoon bark without stopping,
and evening darkens early on the mats.
Stay for supper of turnips on our table
since 1946 swollen with the same hard tears.
The buntings over our one and only window
shall welcome a short breeze.
And lead prayers for the family that starves
and stays together. If we wear roasries round
our nexks
it is not because they never bruise our fingers,
(Pardon if we doze on a dream of Amen.)
But remember to remember to reward us
with something . . . more lush, greener than all
the lawns of memorial parks singing together.
Our eyes shall belss the liveliness of dollars.
Shed no tears, please, for the brown multitudes
who thicken on chance and feast on leftovers
as the burning garbage smuts the sky of Manila
pile after pile after pile.
Fear not. Now there are only surreal assassins
about who dream of your death in the shape
of a flowering kris.
http://thepinkponder.blogspot.com/2005/01/another-invitation-to-pope-to-visit.html
we will try to make our poverty exemplary.
The best is a typhoon month. It never fails
To find us, like charity, knocking on
all sides of the rough arrangements we thrive in.
Mud shall be plenty for the feet of the pious.
We will show uoi how we pull things together
from nowhere, life after life,
prosper with children, whom you love. To be sure,
we shall have more for you to love.
We will show you where the sun leaks on
our sleep,
on the dailiness of piece meals and wages
with their habit of slipping away
from fists that have holes for pockets.
We will show you our latest child with a sore
that never sleeps. When he cries,
the dogs of the afternoon bark without stopping,
and evening darkens early on the mats.
Stay for supper of turnips on our table
since 1946 swollen with the same hard tears.
The buntings over our one and only window
shall welcome a short breeze.
And lead prayers for the family that starves
and stays together. If we wear roasries round
our nexks
it is not because they never bruise our fingers,
(Pardon if we doze on a dream of Amen.)
But remember to remember to reward us
with something . . . more lush, greener than all
the lawns of memorial parks singing together.
Our eyes shall belss the liveliness of dollars.
Shed no tears, please, for the brown multitudes
who thicken on chance and feast on leftovers
as the burning garbage smuts the sky of Manila
pile after pile after pile.
Fear not. Now there are only surreal assassins
about who dream of your death in the shape
of a flowering kris.
http://thepinkponder.blogspot.com/2005/01/another-invitation-to-pope-to-visit.html
Zita by Arturo B. Rotor
TURONG brought him from Pauambang in his small sailboat, for the coastwise steamer did not stop at any little island of broken cliffs and coconut palms. It was almost midday; they had been standing in that white glare where the tiniest pebble and fluted conch had become points of light, piercing-bright--the municipal president, the parish priest, Don Eliodoro who owned almost all the coconuts, the herb doctor, the village character. Their mild surprise over when he spoke in their native dialect, they looked at him more closely and his easy manner did not deceive them. His head was uncovered and he had a way of bringing the back of his hand to his brow or mouth; they read behind that too, it was not a gesture of protection. "An exile has come to Anayat… and he is so young, so young." So young and lonely and sufficient unto himself. There was no mistaking the stamp of a strong decision on that brow, the brow of those who have to be cold and haughty, those shoulders stooped slightly, less from the burden that they bore than from a carefully cultivated air of unconcern; no common school-teacher could dress so carelessly and not appear shoddy.
They had prepared a room for him in Don Eliodoro's house so that he would not have to walk far to school every morning, but he gave nothing more than a glance at the big stone building with its Spanish azotea, its arched doorways, its flagged courtyard. He chose instead Turong's home, a shaky hut near the sea. Was the sea rough and dangerous at times? He did not mind it. Was the place far from the church and the schoolhouse? The walk would do him good. Would he not feel lonely with nobody but an illiterate fisherman for a companion? He was used to living alone. And they let him do as he wanted, for the old men knew that it was not so much the nearness of the sea that he desired as its silence so that he might tell it secrets he could not tell anyone else.
They thought of nobody but him; they talked about him in the barber shop, in the cockpit, in the sari-sari store, the way he walked, the way he looked at you, his unruly hair. They dressed him in purple and linen, in myth and mystery, put him astride a black stallion, at the wheel of a blue automobile. Mr. Reteche? Mr. Reteche! The name suggested the fantasy and the glitter of a place and people they never would see; he was the scion of a powerful family, a poet and artist, a prince.
That night, Don Eliodoro had the story from his daughter of his first day in the classroom; she perched wide-eyed, low-voiced, short of breath on the arm of his chair.
"He strode into the room, very tall and serious and polite, stood in front of us and looked at us all over and yet did not seem to see us.
" 'Good morning, teacher,' we said timidly.
"He bowed as if we were his equals. He asked for the fist of our names and as he read off each one we looked at him long. When he came to my name, Father, the most surprising thing happened. He started pronouncing it and then he stopped as if he had forgotten something and just stared and stared at the paper in his hand. I heard my name repeated three times through his half-closed lips, 'Zita. Zita. Zita.'
" 'Yes sir, I am Zita.'
"He looked at me uncomprehendingly, inarticulate, and it seemed to me, Father, it actually seemed that he was begging me to tell him that that was not my name, that I was deceiving him. He looked so miserable and sick I felt like sinking down or running away.
" 'Zita is not your name; it is just a pet name, no?'
" 'My father has always called me that, sir.'
" 'It can't be; maybe it is Pacita or Luisa or--'
"His voice was scarcely above a whisper, Father, and all the while he looked at me begging, begging. I shook my head determinedly. My answer must have angered him. He must have thought I was very hard-headed, for he said, 'A thousand miles, Mother of Mercy… it is not possible.' He kept on looking at me; he was hurt perhaps that he should have such a stubborn pupil. But I am not really so, Father?"
"Yes, you are, my dear. But you must try to please him, he is a gentleman; he comes from the city. I was thinking… Private lessons, perhaps, if he won't ask too much." Don Eliodoro had his dreams and she was his only daughter.
Turong had his own story to tell in the barber shop that night, a story as vividly etched as the lone coconut palm in front of the shop that shot up straight into the darkness of the night, as vaguely disturbing as the secrets that the sea whispered into the night.
"He did not sleep a wink, I am sure of it. When I came from the market the stars were already out and I saw that he had not touched the food I had prepared. I asked him to eat and he said he was not hungry. He sat by the window that faces the sea and just looked out hour after hour. I woke up three times during the night and saw that he had not so much as changed his position. I thought once that he was asleep and came near, but he motioned me away. When I awoke at dawn to prepare the nets, he was still there."
"Maybe he wants to go home already." They looked up with concern.
"He is sick. You remember Father Fernando? He had a way of looking like that, into space, seeing nobody, just before he died."
Every month there was a letter that came for him, sometimes two or three; large, blue envelopes with a gold design in the upper left hand comer, and addressed in broad, angular, sweeping handwriting. One time Turong brought one of them to him in the classroom. The students were busy writing a composition on a subject that he had given them, "The Things That I Love Most." Carelessly he had opened the letter, carelessly read it, and carelessly tossed it aside. Zita was all aflutter when the students handed in their work for he had promised that he would read aloud the best. He went over the pile two times, and once again, absently, a deep frown on his brow, as if he were displeased with their work. Then he stopped and picked up one. Her heart sank when she saw that it was not hers, she hardly heard him reading:
"I did not know any better. Moths are not supposed to know; they only come to the light. And the light looked so inviting, there was no resisting it. Moths are not supposed to know, one does not even know one is a moth until one's wings are burned."
It was incomprehensible, no beginning, no end. It did not have unity, coherence, emphasis. Why did he choose that one? What did he see in it? And she had worked so hard, she had wanted to please, she had written about the flowers that she loved most. Who could have written what he had read aloud? She did not know that any of her classmates could write so, use such words, sentences, use a blue paper to write her lessons on.
But then there was little in Mr. Reteche that the young people there could understand. Even his words were so difficult, just like those dark and dismaying things that they came across in their readers, which took them hour after hour in the dictionary. She had learned like a good student to pick out the words she did not recognize, writing them down as she heard them, but it was a thankless task. She had a whole notebook filled now, two columns to each page:
esurient greedy.
Amaranth a flower that never fades.
peacock a large bird with lovely gold and
green feathers.
Mirash
The last word was not in the dictionary.
And what did such things as original sin, selfishness, insatiable, actress of a thousand faces mean, and who were Sirse, Lorelay, other names she could not find anywhere? She meant to ask him someday, someday when his eyes were kinder.
He never went to church, but then, that always went with learning and education, did it not? One night Bue saw him coming out of the dim doorway. He watched again and the following night he saw him again. They would not believe it, they must see it with their own eyes and so they came. He did not go in every night, but he could be seen at the most unusual hours, sometimes at dusk, sometimes at dawn, once when it was storming and the lightning etched ragged paths from heaven to earth. Sometimes he stayed for a few minutes, sometimes he came twice or thrice in one evening. They reported it to Father Cesareo but it seemed that he already knew. "Let a peaceful man alone in his prayers." The answer had surprised them.
The sky hangs over Anayat, in the middle of the Anayat Sea, like an inverted wineglass, a glass whose wine had been spilled, a purple wine of which Anayat was the last precious drop. For that is Anayat in the crepuscule, purple and mellow, sparkling and warm and effulgent when there is a moon, cool and heady and sensuous when there is no moon.
One may drink of it and forget what lies beyond a thousand miles, beyond a thousand years; one may sip it at the top of a jagged cliff, nearer peace, nearer God, where one can see the ocean dashing against the rocks in eternal frustration, more moving, more terrible than man's; or touch it to his lips in the lush shadows of the dama de noche, its blossoms iridescent like a thousand fireflies, its bouquet the fragrance of flowers that know no fading.
Zita sat by her open window, half asleep, half dreaming. Francisco B. Reteche; what a name! What could his nickname be. Paking, Frank, Pa… The night lay silent and expectant, a fairy princess waiting for the whispered words of a lover. She was not a bit sleepy; already she had counted three stars that had fallen to earth, one almost directly into that bush of dama de noche at their garden gate, where it had lighted the lamps of a thousand fireflies. He was not so forbidding now, he spoke less frequently to himself, more frequently to her; his eyes were still unseeing, but now they rested on her. She loved to remember those moments she had caught him looking when he thought she did not know. The knowledge came keenly, bitingly, like the sea breeze at dawn, like the prick of the rose's thorn, or--yes, like the purple liquid that her father gave the visitors during pintakasi which made them red and noisy. She had stolen a few drops one day, because she wanted to know, to taste, and that little sip had made her head whirl.
Suddenly she stiffened; a shadow had emerged from the shrubs and had been lost in the other shadows. Her pulses raced, she strained forward. Was she dreaming? Who was it? A lost soul, an unvoiced thought, the shadow of a shadow, the prince from his tryst with the fairy princess? What were the words that he whispered to her?
They who have been young once say that only youth can make youth forget itself; that life is a river bed; the water passes over it, sometimes it encounters obstacles and cannot go on, sometimes it flows unencumbered with a song in every bubble and ripple, but always it goes forward. When its way is obstructed it burrows deeply or swerves aside and leaves its impression, and whether the impress will be shallow and transient, or deep and searing, only God determines. The people remembered the day when he went up Don Eliodoro's house, the light of a great decision in his eyes, and finally accepted the father's request that he teach his daughter "to be a lady."
"We are going to the city soon, after the next harvest perhaps; I want her not to feel like a 'provinciana' when we get there."
They remembered the time when his walks by the seashore became less solitary, for now of afternoons, he would draw the whole crowd of village boys from their game of leapfrog or patintero and bring them with him. And they would go home hours after sunset with the wonderful things that Mr. Reteche had told them, why the sea is green, the sky blue, what one who is strong and fearless might find at that exact place where the sky meets the sea. They would be flushed and happy and bright-eyed, for he could stand on his head longer than any of them, catch more crabs, send a pebble skimming over the breast of Anayat Bay farthest.
Turong still remembered those ominous, terrifying nights when he had got up cold and trembling to listen to the aching groan of the bamboo floor, as somebody in the other room restlessly paced to and fro. And his pupils still remember those mornings he received their flowers, the camia which had fainted away at her own fragrance, the kampupot, with the night dew still trembling in its heart; receive them with a smile and forget the lessons of the day and tell them all about those princesses and fairies who dwelt in flowers; why the dama de noche must have the darkness of the night to bring out its fragrance; how the petals of the ylang-ylang, crushed and soaked in some liquid, would one day touch the lips of some wondrous creature in some faraway land whose eyes were blue and hair golden.
ilang-ilang
Those were days of surprises for Zita. Box after box came in Turong's sailboat and each time they contained things that took the words from her lips. Silk as sheer and perishable as gossamer, or heavy and shiny and tinted like the sunset sky; slippers with bright stones which twinkled with the least movement of her feet; a necklace of green, flat, polished stone, whose feel against her throat sent a curious choking sensation there; perfume that she must touch her lips with. If only there would always be such things in Turong's sailboat, and none of those horrid blue envelopes that he always brought. And yet--the Virgin have pity on her selfish soul--suppose one day Turong brought not only those letters but the writer as well? She shuddered, not because she feared it but because she knew it would be.
"Why are these dresses so tight fitting?" Her father wanted to know.
"In society, women use clothes to reveal, not to hide." Was that a sneer or a smile in his eyes? The gown showed her arms and shoulders and she had never known how round and fair they were, how they could express so many things.
"Why do these dresses have such bright colors?"
"Because the peacock has bright feathers."
"They paint their lips…"
"So that they can smile when they do not want to."
"And their eyelashes are long."
"To hide deception."
He was not pleased like her father; she saw it, he had turned his face toward the window. And as she came nearer, swaying like a lily atop its stalk she heard the harsh, muttered words:
"One would think she'd feel shy or uncomfortable, but no… oh no… not a bit… all alike… comes naturally."
There were books to read; pictures, names to learn; lessons in everything; how to polish the nails, how to use a fan, even how to walk. How did these days come, how did they go? What does one do when one is so happy, so breathless? Sometimes they were a memory, sometimes a dream.
"Look, Zita, a society girl does not smile so openly; her eyes don't seek one's so--that reveals your true feelings."
"But if I am glad and happy and I want to show it?"
"Don't. If you must show it by smiling, let your eyes be mocking; if you would invite with your eyes, repulse with your lips."
That was a memory.
She was in a great drawing room whose floor was so polished it reflected the myriad red and green and blue fights above, the arches of flowers and ribbons and streamers. All the great names of the capital were there, stately ladies in wonderful gowns who walked so, waved their fans so, who said one thing with their eyes and another with their lips. And she was among them and every young and good-looking man wanted to dance with her. They were all so clever and charming but she answered: "Please, I am tired." For beyond them she had seen him alone, he whose eyes were dark and brooding and disapproving and she was waiting for him to take her.
That was a dream. Sometimes though, she could not tell so easily which was the dream and which the memory.
If only those letters would not bother him now, he might be happy and at peace. True he never answered them, but every time Turong brought him one, he would still become thoughtful and distracted. Like that time he was teaching her a dance, a Spanish dance, he said, and had told her to dress accordingly. Her heavy hair hung in a big, carelessly tied knot that always threatened to come loose but never did; its dark, deep shadows showing off in startling vividness how red a rose can be, how like velvet its petals. Her earrings--two circlets of precious stones, red like the pigeon's blood--almost touched her shoulders. The heavy Spanish shawl gave her the most trouble--she had nothing to help her but some pictures and magazines--she could not put it on just as she wanted. Like this, it revealed her shoulder too much; that way, it hampered the free movement of the legs. But she had done her best; for hours she had stood before her mirror and for hours it had told her that she was beautiful, that red lips and tragic eyes were becoming to her.
She'd never forget that look on his face when she came out. It was not surprise, joy, admiration. It was as if he saw somebody there whom he was expecting, for whom he had waited, prayed.
"Zita!" It was a cry of recognition.
She blushed even under her rouge when he took her in his arms and taught her to step this way, glide so, turn about; she looked half questioningly at her father for disapproval, but she saw that there was nothing there but admiration too. Mr. Reteche seemed so serious and so intent that she should learn quickly; but he did not deceive her, for once she happened to lean close and she felt how wildly his heart was beating. It frightened her and she drew away, but when she saw how unconcerned he seemed, as if he did not even know that she was in his arms, she smiled knowingly and drew close again. Dreamily she closed her eyes and dimly wondered if his were shut too, whether he was thinking the same thoughts, breathing the same prayer.
Turong came up and after his respectful "Good evening" he handed an envelope to the school teacher. It was large and blue and had a gold design in one comer; the handwriting was broad, angular, sweeping.
"Thank you, Turong." His voice was drawling, heavy, the voice of one who has just awakened. With one movement he tore the unopened envelope slowly, unconsciously, it seemed to her, to pieces.
"I thought I had forgotten," he murmured dully.
That changed the whole evening. His eyes lost their sparkle, his gaze wandered from time to time. Something powerful and dark had come between them, something which shut out the light, brought in a chill. The tears came to her eyes for she felt utterly powerless. When her sight cleared she saw that he was sitting down and trying to piece the letter together.
"Why do you tear up a letter if you must put it together again?" rebelliously.
He looked at her kindly. "Someday, Zita, you will do it too, and then you will understand."
One day Turong came from Pauambang and this time he brought a stranger. They knew at once that he came from where the teacher came--his clothes, his features, his politeness--and that he had come for the teacher. This one did not speak their dialect, and as he was led through the dusty, crooked streets, he kept forever wiping his face, gazing at the wobbly, thatched huts and muttering short, vehement phrases to himself. Zita heard his knock before Mr. Reteche did and she knew what he had come for. She must have been as pale as her teacher, as shaken, as rebellious. And yet the stranger was so cordial; there was nothing but gladness in his greeting, gladness at meeting an old friend. How strong he was; even at that moment he did not forget himself, but turned to his class and dismissed them for the day.
The door was thick and she did not dare lean against the jamb too much, so sometimes their voices floated away before they reached her.
"…like children… making yourselves… so unhappy."
"…happiness? Her idea of happiness…"
Mr. Reteche's voice was more low-pitched, hoarse, so that it didn't carry at all. She shuddered as he laughed, it was that way when he first came.
"She's been… did not mean… understand."
"…learning to forget…"
There were periods when they both became excited and talked fast and hard; she heard somebody's restless pacing, somebody sitting down heavily.
"I never realized what she meant to me until I began trying to seek from others what she would not give me."
She knew what was coming now, knew it before the stranger asked the question:
"Tomorrow?"
She fled; she could not wait for the answer.
He did not sleep that night, she knew he did not, she told herself fiercely. And it was not only his preparations that kept him awake, she knew it, she knew it. With the first flicker of light she ran to her mirror. She must not show her feeling, it was not in good form, she must manage somehow. If her lips quivered, her eyes must smile, if in her eyes there were tears… She heard her father go out, but she did not go; although she knew his purpose, she had more important things to do. Little boys came up to the house and she wiped away their tears and told them that he was coming back, coming back, soon, soon.
The minutes flew, she was almost done now; her lips were red and her eyebrows penciled; the crimson shawl thrown over her shoulders just right. Everything must be like that day he had first seen her in a Spanish dress. Still he did not come, he must be bidding farewell now to Father Cesareo; now he was in Doña Ramona's house; now he was shaking the barber's hand. He would soon be through and come to her house. She glanced at the mirror and decided that her lips were not red enough; she put on more color. The rose in her hair had too long a stem; she tried to trim it with her fingers and a thorn dug deeply into her flesh.
Who knows? Perhaps they would soon meet again in the city; she wondered if she could not wheedle her father into going earlier. But she must know now what were the words he had wanted to whisper that night under the dama de noche, what he had wanted to say that day he held her in his arms; other things, questions whose answers she knew. She smiled. How well she knew them!
The big house was silent as death; the little village seemed deserted, everybody had gone to the seashore. Again she looked at the mirror. She was too pale, she must put on more rouge. She tried to keep from counting the minutes, the seconds, from getting up and pacing. But she was getting chilly and she must do it to keep warm.
The steps creaked. She bit her lips to stifle a wild cry there. The door opened.
"Turong!"
"Mr. Reteche bade me give you this. He said you would understand."
In one bound she had reached the open window. But dimly, for the sun was too bright, or was her sight failing?--she saw a blur of white moving out to sea, then disappearing behind a point of land so that she could no longer follow it; and then, clearly against a horizon suddenly drawn out of perspective, "Mr. Reteche," tall, lean, brooding, looking at her with eyes that told her somebody had hurt him. It was like that when he first came, and now he was gone. The tears came freely now. What matter, what matter? There was nobody to see and criticize her breeding. They came down unchecked and when she tried to brush them off with her hand, the color came away too from her cheeks, leaving them bloodless, cold. Sometimes they got into her mouth and they tasted bitter.
Her hands worked convulsively; there was a sound of tearing paper, once, twice. She became suddenly aware of what she had done when she looked at the pieces, wet and brightly stained with uneven streaks of red. Slowly, painfully, she tried to put the pieces together and as she did so a sob escaped deep from her breast--a great understanding had come to her.
http://www.sushidog.com/bpss/stories/zita.htm
They had prepared a room for him in Don Eliodoro's house so that he would not have to walk far to school every morning, but he gave nothing more than a glance at the big stone building with its Spanish azotea, its arched doorways, its flagged courtyard. He chose instead Turong's home, a shaky hut near the sea. Was the sea rough and dangerous at times? He did not mind it. Was the place far from the church and the schoolhouse? The walk would do him good. Would he not feel lonely with nobody but an illiterate fisherman for a companion? He was used to living alone. And they let him do as he wanted, for the old men knew that it was not so much the nearness of the sea that he desired as its silence so that he might tell it secrets he could not tell anyone else.
They thought of nobody but him; they talked about him in the barber shop, in the cockpit, in the sari-sari store, the way he walked, the way he looked at you, his unruly hair. They dressed him in purple and linen, in myth and mystery, put him astride a black stallion, at the wheel of a blue automobile. Mr. Reteche? Mr. Reteche! The name suggested the fantasy and the glitter of a place and people they never would see; he was the scion of a powerful family, a poet and artist, a prince.
That night, Don Eliodoro had the story from his daughter of his first day in the classroom; she perched wide-eyed, low-voiced, short of breath on the arm of his chair.
"He strode into the room, very tall and serious and polite, stood in front of us and looked at us all over and yet did not seem to see us.
" 'Good morning, teacher,' we said timidly.
"He bowed as if we were his equals. He asked for the fist of our names and as he read off each one we looked at him long. When he came to my name, Father, the most surprising thing happened. He started pronouncing it and then he stopped as if he had forgotten something and just stared and stared at the paper in his hand. I heard my name repeated three times through his half-closed lips, 'Zita. Zita. Zita.'
" 'Yes sir, I am Zita.'
"He looked at me uncomprehendingly, inarticulate, and it seemed to me, Father, it actually seemed that he was begging me to tell him that that was not my name, that I was deceiving him. He looked so miserable and sick I felt like sinking down or running away.
" 'Zita is not your name; it is just a pet name, no?'
" 'My father has always called me that, sir.'
" 'It can't be; maybe it is Pacita or Luisa or--'
"His voice was scarcely above a whisper, Father, and all the while he looked at me begging, begging. I shook my head determinedly. My answer must have angered him. He must have thought I was very hard-headed, for he said, 'A thousand miles, Mother of Mercy… it is not possible.' He kept on looking at me; he was hurt perhaps that he should have such a stubborn pupil. But I am not really so, Father?"
"Yes, you are, my dear. But you must try to please him, he is a gentleman; he comes from the city. I was thinking… Private lessons, perhaps, if he won't ask too much." Don Eliodoro had his dreams and she was his only daughter.
Turong had his own story to tell in the barber shop that night, a story as vividly etched as the lone coconut palm in front of the shop that shot up straight into the darkness of the night, as vaguely disturbing as the secrets that the sea whispered into the night.
"He did not sleep a wink, I am sure of it. When I came from the market the stars were already out and I saw that he had not touched the food I had prepared. I asked him to eat and he said he was not hungry. He sat by the window that faces the sea and just looked out hour after hour. I woke up three times during the night and saw that he had not so much as changed his position. I thought once that he was asleep and came near, but he motioned me away. When I awoke at dawn to prepare the nets, he was still there."
"Maybe he wants to go home already." They looked up with concern.
"He is sick. You remember Father Fernando? He had a way of looking like that, into space, seeing nobody, just before he died."
Every month there was a letter that came for him, sometimes two or three; large, blue envelopes with a gold design in the upper left hand comer, and addressed in broad, angular, sweeping handwriting. One time Turong brought one of them to him in the classroom. The students were busy writing a composition on a subject that he had given them, "The Things That I Love Most." Carelessly he had opened the letter, carelessly read it, and carelessly tossed it aside. Zita was all aflutter when the students handed in their work for he had promised that he would read aloud the best. He went over the pile two times, and once again, absently, a deep frown on his brow, as if he were displeased with their work. Then he stopped and picked up one. Her heart sank when she saw that it was not hers, she hardly heard him reading:
"I did not know any better. Moths are not supposed to know; they only come to the light. And the light looked so inviting, there was no resisting it. Moths are not supposed to know, one does not even know one is a moth until one's wings are burned."
It was incomprehensible, no beginning, no end. It did not have unity, coherence, emphasis. Why did he choose that one? What did he see in it? And she had worked so hard, she had wanted to please, she had written about the flowers that she loved most. Who could have written what he had read aloud? She did not know that any of her classmates could write so, use such words, sentences, use a blue paper to write her lessons on.
But then there was little in Mr. Reteche that the young people there could understand. Even his words were so difficult, just like those dark and dismaying things that they came across in their readers, which took them hour after hour in the dictionary. She had learned like a good student to pick out the words she did not recognize, writing them down as she heard them, but it was a thankless task. She had a whole notebook filled now, two columns to each page:
esurient greedy.
Amaranth a flower that never fades.
peacock a large bird with lovely gold and
green feathers.
Mirash
The last word was not in the dictionary.
And what did such things as original sin, selfishness, insatiable, actress of a thousand faces mean, and who were Sirse, Lorelay, other names she could not find anywhere? She meant to ask him someday, someday when his eyes were kinder.
He never went to church, but then, that always went with learning and education, did it not? One night Bue saw him coming out of the dim doorway. He watched again and the following night he saw him again. They would not believe it, they must see it with their own eyes and so they came. He did not go in every night, but he could be seen at the most unusual hours, sometimes at dusk, sometimes at dawn, once when it was storming and the lightning etched ragged paths from heaven to earth. Sometimes he stayed for a few minutes, sometimes he came twice or thrice in one evening. They reported it to Father Cesareo but it seemed that he already knew. "Let a peaceful man alone in his prayers." The answer had surprised them.
The sky hangs over Anayat, in the middle of the Anayat Sea, like an inverted wineglass, a glass whose wine had been spilled, a purple wine of which Anayat was the last precious drop. For that is Anayat in the crepuscule, purple and mellow, sparkling and warm and effulgent when there is a moon, cool and heady and sensuous when there is no moon.
One may drink of it and forget what lies beyond a thousand miles, beyond a thousand years; one may sip it at the top of a jagged cliff, nearer peace, nearer God, where one can see the ocean dashing against the rocks in eternal frustration, more moving, more terrible than man's; or touch it to his lips in the lush shadows of the dama de noche, its blossoms iridescent like a thousand fireflies, its bouquet the fragrance of flowers that know no fading.
Zita sat by her open window, half asleep, half dreaming. Francisco B. Reteche; what a name! What could his nickname be. Paking, Frank, Pa… The night lay silent and expectant, a fairy princess waiting for the whispered words of a lover. She was not a bit sleepy; already she had counted three stars that had fallen to earth, one almost directly into that bush of dama de noche at their garden gate, where it had lighted the lamps of a thousand fireflies. He was not so forbidding now, he spoke less frequently to himself, more frequently to her; his eyes were still unseeing, but now they rested on her. She loved to remember those moments she had caught him looking when he thought she did not know. The knowledge came keenly, bitingly, like the sea breeze at dawn, like the prick of the rose's thorn, or--yes, like the purple liquid that her father gave the visitors during pintakasi which made them red and noisy. She had stolen a few drops one day, because she wanted to know, to taste, and that little sip had made her head whirl.
Suddenly she stiffened; a shadow had emerged from the shrubs and had been lost in the other shadows. Her pulses raced, she strained forward. Was she dreaming? Who was it? A lost soul, an unvoiced thought, the shadow of a shadow, the prince from his tryst with the fairy princess? What were the words that he whispered to her?
They who have been young once say that only youth can make youth forget itself; that life is a river bed; the water passes over it, sometimes it encounters obstacles and cannot go on, sometimes it flows unencumbered with a song in every bubble and ripple, but always it goes forward. When its way is obstructed it burrows deeply or swerves aside and leaves its impression, and whether the impress will be shallow and transient, or deep and searing, only God determines. The people remembered the day when he went up Don Eliodoro's house, the light of a great decision in his eyes, and finally accepted the father's request that he teach his daughter "to be a lady."
"We are going to the city soon, after the next harvest perhaps; I want her not to feel like a 'provinciana' when we get there."
They remembered the time when his walks by the seashore became less solitary, for now of afternoons, he would draw the whole crowd of village boys from their game of leapfrog or patintero and bring them with him. And they would go home hours after sunset with the wonderful things that Mr. Reteche had told them, why the sea is green, the sky blue, what one who is strong and fearless might find at that exact place where the sky meets the sea. They would be flushed and happy and bright-eyed, for he could stand on his head longer than any of them, catch more crabs, send a pebble skimming over the breast of Anayat Bay farthest.
Turong still remembered those ominous, terrifying nights when he had got up cold and trembling to listen to the aching groan of the bamboo floor, as somebody in the other room restlessly paced to and fro. And his pupils still remember those mornings he received their flowers, the camia which had fainted away at her own fragrance, the kampupot, with the night dew still trembling in its heart; receive them with a smile and forget the lessons of the day and tell them all about those princesses and fairies who dwelt in flowers; why the dama de noche must have the darkness of the night to bring out its fragrance; how the petals of the ylang-ylang, crushed and soaked in some liquid, would one day touch the lips of some wondrous creature in some faraway land whose eyes were blue and hair golden.
ilang-ilang
Those were days of surprises for Zita. Box after box came in Turong's sailboat and each time they contained things that took the words from her lips. Silk as sheer and perishable as gossamer, or heavy and shiny and tinted like the sunset sky; slippers with bright stones which twinkled with the least movement of her feet; a necklace of green, flat, polished stone, whose feel against her throat sent a curious choking sensation there; perfume that she must touch her lips with. If only there would always be such things in Turong's sailboat, and none of those horrid blue envelopes that he always brought. And yet--the Virgin have pity on her selfish soul--suppose one day Turong brought not only those letters but the writer as well? She shuddered, not because she feared it but because she knew it would be.
"Why are these dresses so tight fitting?" Her father wanted to know.
"In society, women use clothes to reveal, not to hide." Was that a sneer or a smile in his eyes? The gown showed her arms and shoulders and she had never known how round and fair they were, how they could express so many things.
"Why do these dresses have such bright colors?"
"Because the peacock has bright feathers."
"They paint their lips…"
"So that they can smile when they do not want to."
"And their eyelashes are long."
"To hide deception."
He was not pleased like her father; she saw it, he had turned his face toward the window. And as she came nearer, swaying like a lily atop its stalk she heard the harsh, muttered words:
"One would think she'd feel shy or uncomfortable, but no… oh no… not a bit… all alike… comes naturally."
There were books to read; pictures, names to learn; lessons in everything; how to polish the nails, how to use a fan, even how to walk. How did these days come, how did they go? What does one do when one is so happy, so breathless? Sometimes they were a memory, sometimes a dream.
"Look, Zita, a society girl does not smile so openly; her eyes don't seek one's so--that reveals your true feelings."
"But if I am glad and happy and I want to show it?"
"Don't. If you must show it by smiling, let your eyes be mocking; if you would invite with your eyes, repulse with your lips."
That was a memory.
She was in a great drawing room whose floor was so polished it reflected the myriad red and green and blue fights above, the arches of flowers and ribbons and streamers. All the great names of the capital were there, stately ladies in wonderful gowns who walked so, waved their fans so, who said one thing with their eyes and another with their lips. And she was among them and every young and good-looking man wanted to dance with her. They were all so clever and charming but she answered: "Please, I am tired." For beyond them she had seen him alone, he whose eyes were dark and brooding and disapproving and she was waiting for him to take her.
That was a dream. Sometimes though, she could not tell so easily which was the dream and which the memory.
If only those letters would not bother him now, he might be happy and at peace. True he never answered them, but every time Turong brought him one, he would still become thoughtful and distracted. Like that time he was teaching her a dance, a Spanish dance, he said, and had told her to dress accordingly. Her heavy hair hung in a big, carelessly tied knot that always threatened to come loose but never did; its dark, deep shadows showing off in startling vividness how red a rose can be, how like velvet its petals. Her earrings--two circlets of precious stones, red like the pigeon's blood--almost touched her shoulders. The heavy Spanish shawl gave her the most trouble--she had nothing to help her but some pictures and magazines--she could not put it on just as she wanted. Like this, it revealed her shoulder too much; that way, it hampered the free movement of the legs. But she had done her best; for hours she had stood before her mirror and for hours it had told her that she was beautiful, that red lips and tragic eyes were becoming to her.
She'd never forget that look on his face when she came out. It was not surprise, joy, admiration. It was as if he saw somebody there whom he was expecting, for whom he had waited, prayed.
"Zita!" It was a cry of recognition.
She blushed even under her rouge when he took her in his arms and taught her to step this way, glide so, turn about; she looked half questioningly at her father for disapproval, but she saw that there was nothing there but admiration too. Mr. Reteche seemed so serious and so intent that she should learn quickly; but he did not deceive her, for once she happened to lean close and she felt how wildly his heart was beating. It frightened her and she drew away, but when she saw how unconcerned he seemed, as if he did not even know that she was in his arms, she smiled knowingly and drew close again. Dreamily she closed her eyes and dimly wondered if his were shut too, whether he was thinking the same thoughts, breathing the same prayer.
Turong came up and after his respectful "Good evening" he handed an envelope to the school teacher. It was large and blue and had a gold design in one comer; the handwriting was broad, angular, sweeping.
"Thank you, Turong." His voice was drawling, heavy, the voice of one who has just awakened. With one movement he tore the unopened envelope slowly, unconsciously, it seemed to her, to pieces.
"I thought I had forgotten," he murmured dully.
That changed the whole evening. His eyes lost their sparkle, his gaze wandered from time to time. Something powerful and dark had come between them, something which shut out the light, brought in a chill. The tears came to her eyes for she felt utterly powerless. When her sight cleared she saw that he was sitting down and trying to piece the letter together.
"Why do you tear up a letter if you must put it together again?" rebelliously.
He looked at her kindly. "Someday, Zita, you will do it too, and then you will understand."
One day Turong came from Pauambang and this time he brought a stranger. They knew at once that he came from where the teacher came--his clothes, his features, his politeness--and that he had come for the teacher. This one did not speak their dialect, and as he was led through the dusty, crooked streets, he kept forever wiping his face, gazing at the wobbly, thatched huts and muttering short, vehement phrases to himself. Zita heard his knock before Mr. Reteche did and she knew what he had come for. She must have been as pale as her teacher, as shaken, as rebellious. And yet the stranger was so cordial; there was nothing but gladness in his greeting, gladness at meeting an old friend. How strong he was; even at that moment he did not forget himself, but turned to his class and dismissed them for the day.
The door was thick and she did not dare lean against the jamb too much, so sometimes their voices floated away before they reached her.
"…like children… making yourselves… so unhappy."
"…happiness? Her idea of happiness…"
Mr. Reteche's voice was more low-pitched, hoarse, so that it didn't carry at all. She shuddered as he laughed, it was that way when he first came.
"She's been… did not mean… understand."
"…learning to forget…"
There were periods when they both became excited and talked fast and hard; she heard somebody's restless pacing, somebody sitting down heavily.
"I never realized what she meant to me until I began trying to seek from others what she would not give me."
She knew what was coming now, knew it before the stranger asked the question:
"Tomorrow?"
She fled; she could not wait for the answer.
He did not sleep that night, she knew he did not, she told herself fiercely. And it was not only his preparations that kept him awake, she knew it, she knew it. With the first flicker of light she ran to her mirror. She must not show her feeling, it was not in good form, she must manage somehow. If her lips quivered, her eyes must smile, if in her eyes there were tears… She heard her father go out, but she did not go; although she knew his purpose, she had more important things to do. Little boys came up to the house and she wiped away their tears and told them that he was coming back, coming back, soon, soon.
The minutes flew, she was almost done now; her lips were red and her eyebrows penciled; the crimson shawl thrown over her shoulders just right. Everything must be like that day he had first seen her in a Spanish dress. Still he did not come, he must be bidding farewell now to Father Cesareo; now he was in Doña Ramona's house; now he was shaking the barber's hand. He would soon be through and come to her house. She glanced at the mirror and decided that her lips were not red enough; she put on more color. The rose in her hair had too long a stem; she tried to trim it with her fingers and a thorn dug deeply into her flesh.
Who knows? Perhaps they would soon meet again in the city; she wondered if she could not wheedle her father into going earlier. But she must know now what were the words he had wanted to whisper that night under the dama de noche, what he had wanted to say that day he held her in his arms; other things, questions whose answers she knew. She smiled. How well she knew them!
The big house was silent as death; the little village seemed deserted, everybody had gone to the seashore. Again she looked at the mirror. She was too pale, she must put on more rouge. She tried to keep from counting the minutes, the seconds, from getting up and pacing. But she was getting chilly and she must do it to keep warm.
The steps creaked. She bit her lips to stifle a wild cry there. The door opened.
"Turong!"
"Mr. Reteche bade me give you this. He said you would understand."
In one bound she had reached the open window. But dimly, for the sun was too bright, or was her sight failing?--she saw a blur of white moving out to sea, then disappearing behind a point of land so that she could no longer follow it; and then, clearly against a horizon suddenly drawn out of perspective, "Mr. Reteche," tall, lean, brooding, looking at her with eyes that told her somebody had hurt him. It was like that when he first came, and now he was gone. The tears came freely now. What matter, what matter? There was nobody to see and criticize her breeding. They came down unchecked and when she tried to brush them off with her hand, the color came away too from her cheeks, leaving them bloodless, cold. Sometimes they got into her mouth and they tasted bitter.
Her hands worked convulsively; there was a sound of tearing paper, once, twice. She became suddenly aware of what she had done when she looked at the pieces, wet and brightly stained with uneven streaks of red. Slowly, painfully, she tried to put the pieces together and as she did so a sob escaped deep from her breast--a great understanding had come to her.
http://www.sushidog.com/bpss/stories/zita.htm
Ako ang Daigdig ni Alejandro Abadilla
I
ako
ang daigdig
ako
ang tula
ako
ang daigdig
ng tula
ang tula
ng daigdig
ako
ang walang maliw na ako
ang walang kamatayang ako
ang tula ng daigdig
II
ako
ang daigdig ng tula
ako
ang tula ng daigdig
ako ang malayang ako
matapat sa sarili
sa aking daigdig
ng tula
ako
ang tula
sa daidig
ako
ang daigdig
ng tula
ako
III
ako
ang damdaming
malaya
ako
ang larawang
buhay
ako
ang buhay
na walang hanggan
ako
ang damdamin
ang larawan
ang buhay
damdamin
larawan
buhay
tula
ako
IV
ako
ang daigdig
sa tula
ako
ang tula
sa daigdig
ako
ang daigdig
ako
ang tula
daigdig
tula
ako....
http://romanoredublo.blogspot.com/2009/12/ako-ang-daigdig-ni-alejandro-abadilla.html
ako
ang daigdig
ako
ang tula
ako
ang daigdig
ng tula
ang tula
ng daigdig
ako
ang walang maliw na ako
ang walang kamatayang ako
ang tula ng daigdig
II
ako
ang daigdig ng tula
ako
ang tula ng daigdig
ako ang malayang ako
matapat sa sarili
sa aking daigdig
ng tula
ako
ang tula
sa daidig
ako
ang daigdig
ng tula
ako
III
ako
ang damdaming
malaya
ako
ang larawang
buhay
ako
ang buhay
na walang hanggan
ako
ang damdamin
ang larawan
ang buhay
damdamin
larawan
buhay
tula
ako
IV
ako
ang daigdig
sa tula
ako
ang tula
sa daigdig
ako
ang daigdig
ako
ang tula
daigdig
tula
ako....
http://romanoredublo.blogspot.com/2009/12/ako-ang-daigdig-ni-alejandro-abadilla.html
Si Malakas at si Maganda (the Strong and the Beautiful)
This is a very popular folk tale in the country and has varied details in different provinces all over the Philipines. Nevertheless, i would like to share the essence of the story to all those who want to read and go back to the stories of our yesteryears.
This story was made by ancient filipinos in order to explain the mystery of the origin of humankind. According to this folk tale, there was nothing in the world but the sea, the sky, a piece of land, a bamboo tree, and a bird. The bird was on the bamboo and heard sounds in a couple of bamboo trees so it tried to break the bamboo trees through its beak. After sometime, the bamboo trees broke and a man and a woman came out. The man was called Malakas, and the woman, Maganda. They then started a family and produced children who filled the archipelago.
The name Malakas and Maganda also denote a deeper meaning and truth about Filipino culture. Filipinos consider women to be maganda or beautiful,sweet, and soft; while men as malakas or strong and sturdy human being to whom the family can depend on at all times especially in times of trouble and disasters in life...
http://www.shvoong.com/books/mythology-ancient-literature/1777503-si-malakas-si-maganda-strong/
This story was made by ancient filipinos in order to explain the mystery of the origin of humankind. According to this folk tale, there was nothing in the world but the sea, the sky, a piece of land, a bamboo tree, and a bird. The bird was on the bamboo and heard sounds in a couple of bamboo trees so it tried to break the bamboo trees through its beak. After sometime, the bamboo trees broke and a man and a woman came out. The man was called Malakas, and the woman, Maganda. They then started a family and produced children who filled the archipelago.
The name Malakas and Maganda also denote a deeper meaning and truth about Filipino culture. Filipinos consider women to be maganda or beautiful,sweet, and soft; while men as malakas or strong and sturdy human being to whom the family can depend on at all times especially in times of trouble and disasters in life...
http://www.shvoong.com/books/mythology-ancient-literature/1777503-si-malakas-si-maganda-strong/
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
SINO ANG BALIW ( Basil VAldez )
Ang natutuwang baliw, yaman ay pinagyabang
dahil ari niya raw, ang araw pati ang buwan
May isang sa yaman ay, salapi ang hinihigan
ngunit ang gintong baul, panay kasalanan ang laman
Sinasambit ng baliw, awit na walang laman
ulo mo'y maiiling, tatawagin mong hangal
May isang hindi baliw, iba ang awit na alam
Buong araw magdasal, sinungaling rin naman
Sinong dakila? Sino ang tunay na baliw?
Sinong mapalad? Sinong tumatawag ng habag?
Yaong bang sinilang, na ang pag-iisip hindi lubos?
O husto ang isip, Ngunit sa pag-ibig ay kapos
Ang kanyang tanging suot, ay sira-sirang damit
Na nakikiramay sa isip niyang punit-punit
May binata ang gayak, ay diamante at hiyas
Ngunit oras maghubad, kulay ahas ang balat
Sinong dakila? Sino ang tunay na baliw?
Sinong mapalad? Sinong tumatawag ng habag?
Yaong bang sinilang, na ang pag-iisip hindi lubos?
O husto ang isip, Ngunit sa pag-ibig ay kapos
Sa kanyang kilos at galaw, tayo ay naaaliw
Sa ating mga mata, isa lamang siyang baliw
Ngunit, kung tayo ay, hahatulang sabay
Sa mata ng Maykapal, siya'y higit na banal
Sinong dakila? Sino ang tunay na baliw?
Sinong mapalad? Sinong tumatawag ng habag?
Yaong bang sinilang, na ang pag-iisip hindi lubos?
O husto ang isip
Kaya't sino, sino, sino, sino nga
Sino nga ba, Sino Sino ba,
Sino nga ba ang tunay na baliw?
http://www.gugalyrics.com/BASIL-VALDEZ-SINO-ANG-BALIW-LYRICS/378281
dahil ari niya raw, ang araw pati ang buwan
May isang sa yaman ay, salapi ang hinihigan
ngunit ang gintong baul, panay kasalanan ang laman
Sinasambit ng baliw, awit na walang laman
ulo mo'y maiiling, tatawagin mong hangal
May isang hindi baliw, iba ang awit na alam
Buong araw magdasal, sinungaling rin naman
Sinong dakila? Sino ang tunay na baliw?
Sinong mapalad? Sinong tumatawag ng habag?
Yaong bang sinilang, na ang pag-iisip hindi lubos?
O husto ang isip, Ngunit sa pag-ibig ay kapos
Ang kanyang tanging suot, ay sira-sirang damit
Na nakikiramay sa isip niyang punit-punit
May binata ang gayak, ay diamante at hiyas
Ngunit oras maghubad, kulay ahas ang balat
Sinong dakila? Sino ang tunay na baliw?
Sinong mapalad? Sinong tumatawag ng habag?
Yaong bang sinilang, na ang pag-iisip hindi lubos?
O husto ang isip, Ngunit sa pag-ibig ay kapos
Sa kanyang kilos at galaw, tayo ay naaaliw
Sa ating mga mata, isa lamang siyang baliw
Ngunit, kung tayo ay, hahatulang sabay
Sa mata ng Maykapal, siya'y higit na banal
Sinong dakila? Sino ang tunay na baliw?
Sinong mapalad? Sinong tumatawag ng habag?
Yaong bang sinilang, na ang pag-iisip hindi lubos?
O husto ang isip
Kaya't sino, sino, sino, sino nga
Sino nga ba, Sino Sino ba,
Sino nga ba ang tunay na baliw?
http://www.gugalyrics.com/BASIL-VALDEZ-SINO-ANG-BALIW-LYRICS/378281
Sunday, February 13, 2011
May Day Eve By Nick Joaquin
The old people had ordered that the dancing should stop at ten o’clock but it was almost midnight before the carriages came filing up the departing guests, while the girls who were staying were promptly herded upstairs to the bedrooms, the young men gathering around to wish them a good night and lamenting their ascent with mock signs and moaning, proclaiming themselves disconsolate but straightway going off to finish the punch and the brandy though they were quite drunk already and simply bursting with wild spirits, merriment, arrogance and audacity, for they were young bucks newly arrived from Europe; the ball had been in their honor; and they had waltzed and polka-ed and bragged and swaggered and flirted all night and where in no mood to sleep yet--no, caramba, not on this moist tropic eve! not on this mystic May eve! --with the night still young and so seductive that it was madness not to go out, not to go forth---and serenade the neighbors! cried one; and swim in the Pasid! cried another; and gather fireflies! cried a third—whereupon there arose a great clamor for coats and capes, for hats and canes, and they were a couple of street-lamps flickered and a last carriage rattled away upon the cobbles while the blind black houses muttered hush-hush, their tile roofs looming like sinister chessboards against a wile sky murky with clouds, save where an evil young moon prowled about in a corner or where a murderous wind whirled, whistling and whining, smelling now of the sea and now of the summer orchards and wafting unbearable childhood fragrances or ripe guavas to the young men trooping so uproariously down the street that the girls who were desiring upstairs in the bedrooms catered screaming to the windows, crowded giggling at the windows, but were soon sighing amorously over those young men bawling below; over those wicked young men and their handsome apparel, their proud flashing eyes, and their elegant mustaches so black and vivid in the moonlight that the girls were quite ravished with love, and began crying to one another how carefree were men but how awful to be a girl and what a horrid, horrid world it was, till old Anastasia plucked them off by the ear or the pigtail and chases them off to bed---while from up the street came the clackety-clack of the watchman’s boots on the cobble and the clang-clang of his lantern against his knee, and the mighty roll of his great voice booming through the night, "Guardia serno-o-o! A las doce han dado-o-o.
And it was May again, said the old Anastasia. It was the first day of May and witches were abroad in the night, she said--for it was a night of divination, and night of lovers, and those who cared might peer into a mirror and would there behold the face of whoever it was they were fated to marry, said the old Anastasia as she hobble about picking up the piled crinolines and folding up shawls and raking slippers in corner while the girls climbing into four great poster-beds that overwhelmed the room began shrieking with terror, scrambling over each other and imploring the old woman not to frighten them.
"Enough, enough, Anastasia! We want to sleep!"
"Go scare the boys instead, you old witch!"
"She is not a witch, she is a maga. She is a maga. She was born of Christmas Eve!"
"St. Anastasia, virgin and martyr."
"Huh? Impossible! She has conquered seven husbands! Are you a virgin, Anastasia?"
"No, but I am seven times a martyr because of you girls!"
"Let her prophesy, let her prophesy! Whom will I marry, old gypsy? Come, tell me."
"You may learn in a mirror if you are not afraid."
"I am not afraid, I will go," cried the young cousin Agueda, jumping up in bed.
"Girls, girls---we are making too much noise! My mother will hear and will come and pinch us all. Agueda, lie down! And you Anastasia, I command you to shut your mouth and go away!""Your mother told me to stay here all night, my grand lady!"
"And I will not lie down!" cried the rebellious Agueda, leaping to the floor. "Stay, old woman. Tell me what I have to do."
"Tell her! Tell her!" chimed the other girls.
The old woman dropped the clothes she had gathered and approached and fixed her eyes on the girl. "You must take a candle," she instructed, "and go into a room that is dark and that has a mirror in it and you must be alone in the room. Go up to the mirror and close your eyes and shy:
Mirror, mirror, show to me him whose woman I will be. If all goes right, just above your left shoulder will appear the face of the man you will marry." A silence. Then: "And hat if all does not go right?" asked Agueda. "Ah, then the Lord have mercy on you!" "Why." "Because you may see--the Devil!"
The girls screamed and clutched one another, shivering. "But what nonsense!" cried Agueda. "This is the year 1847. There are no devil anymore!" Nevertheless she had turned pale. "But where could I go, hugh? Yes, I know! Down to the sala. It has that big mirror and no one is there now." "No, Agueda, no! It is a mortal sin! You will see the devil!" "I do not care! I am not afraid! I will go!" "Oh, you wicked girl! Oh, you mad girl!" "If you do not come to bed, Agueda, I will call my mother." "And if you do I will tell her who came to visit you at the convent last March. Come, old woman---give me that candle. I go." "Oh girls---give me that candle, I go."
But Agueda had already slipped outside; was already tiptoeing across the hall; her feet bare and her dark hair falling down her shoulders and streaming in the wind as she fled down the stairs, the lighted candle sputtering in one hand while with the other she pulled up her white gown from her ankles. She paused breathless in the doorway to the sala and her heart failed her. She tried to imagine the room filled again with lights, laughter, whirling couples, and the jolly jerky music of the fiddlers. But, oh, it was a dark den, a weird cavern for the windows had been closed and the furniture stacked up against the walls. She crossed herself and stepped inside.
The mirror hung on the wall before her; a big antique mirror with a gold frame carved into leaves and flowers and mysterious curlicues. She saw herself approaching fearfully in it: a small while ghost that the darkness bodied forth---but not willingly, not completely, for her eyes and hair were so dark that the face approaching in the mirror seemed only a mask that floated forward; a bright mask with two holes gaping in it, blown forward by the white cloud of her gown. But when she stood before the mirror she lifted the candle level with her chin and the dead mask bloomed into her living face.
She closed her eyes and whispered the incantation. When she had finished such a terror took hold of her that she felt unable to move, unable to open her eyes and thought she would stand there forever, enchanted. But she heard a step behind her, and a smothered giggle, and instantly opened her eyes.
"And what did you see, Mama? Oh, what was it?" But Dona Agueda had forgotten the little girl on her lap: she was staring pass the curly head nestling at her breast and seeing herself in the big mirror hanging in the room. It was the same room and the same mirror out the face she now saw in it was an old face---a hard, bitter, vengeful face, framed in graying hair, and so sadly altered, so sadly different from that other face like a white mask, that fresh young face like a pure mask than she had brought before this mirror one wild May Day midnight years and years ago.... "But what was it Mama? Oh please go on! What did you see?" Dona Agueda looked down at her daughter but her face did not soften though her eyes filled with tears. "I saw the devil." she said bitterly. The child blanched. "The devil, Mama? Oh... Oh..." "Yes, my love. I opened my eyes and there in the mirror, smiling at me over my left shoulder, was the face of the devil." "Oh, my poor little Mama! And were you very frightened?" "You can imagine. And that is why good little girls do not look into mirrors except when their mothers tell them. You must stop this naughty habit, darling, of admiring yourself in every mirror you pass- or you may see something frightful some day." "But the devil, Mama---what did he look like?" "Well, let me see... he has curly hair and a scar on his cheek---" "Like the scar of Papa?" "Well, yes. But this of the devil was a scar of sin, while that of your Papa is a scar of honor. Or so he says." "Go on about the devil." "Well, he had mustaches." "Like those of Papa?" "Oh, no. Those of your Papa are dirty and graying and smell horribly of tobacco, while these of the devil were very black and elegant--oh, how elegant!" "And did he speak to you, Mama?" "Yes… Yes, he spoke to me," said Dona Agueda. And bowing her graying head; she wept.
"Charms like yours have no need for a candle, fair one," he had said, smiling at her in the mirror and stepping back to give her a low mocking bow. She had whirled around and glared at him and he had burst into laughter. "But I remember you!" he cried. "You are Agueda, whom I left a mere infant and came home to find a tremendous beauty, and I danced a waltz with you but you would not give me the polka." "Let me pass," she muttered fiercely, for he was barring the way. "But I want to dance the polka with you, fair one," he said. So they stood before the mirror; their panting breath the only sound in the dark room; the candle shining between them and flinging their shadows to the wall. And young Badoy Montiya (who had crept home very drunk to pass out quietly in bed) suddenly found himself cold sober and very much awake and ready for anything. His eyes sparkled and the scar on his face gleamed scarlet. "Let me pass!" she cried again, in a voice of fury, but he grasped her by the wrist. "No," he smiled. "Not until we have danced." "Go to the devil!" "What a temper has my serrana!" "I am not your serrana!" "Whose, then? Someone I know? Someone I have offended grievously? Because you treat me, you treat all my friends like your mortal enemies." "And why not?" she demanded, jerking her wrist away and flashing her teeth in his face. "Oh, how I detest you, you pompous young men! You go to Europe and you come back elegant lords and we poor girls are too tame to please you. We have no grace like the Parisiennes, we have no fire like the Sevillians, and we have no salt, no salt, no salt! Aie, how you weary me, how you bore me, you fastidious men!" "Come, come---how do you know about us?"
"I was not admiring myself, sir!" "You were admiring the moon perhaps?" "Oh!" she gasped, and burst into tears. The candle dropped from her hand and she covered her face and sobbed piteously. The candle had gone out and they stood in darkness, and young Badoy was conscience-stricken. "Oh, do not cry, little one!" Oh, please forgive me! Please do not cry! But what a brute I am! I was drunk, little one, I was drunk and knew not what I said." He groped and found her hand and touched it to his lips. She shuddered in her white gown. "Let me go," she moaned, and tugged feebly. "No. Say you forgive me first. Say you forgive me, Agueda." But instead she pulled his hand to her mouth and bit it - bit so sharply in the knuckles that he cried with pain and lashed cut with his other hand--lashed out and hit the air, for she was gone, she had fled, and he heard the rustling of her skirts up the stairs as he furiously sucked his bleeding fingers. Cruel thoughts raced through his head: he would go and tell his mother and make her turn the savage girl out of the house--or he would go himself to the girl’s room and drag her out of bed and slap, slap, slap her silly face! But at the same time he was thinking that they were all going to Antipolo in the morning and was already planning how he would maneuver himself into the same boat with her. Oh, he would have his revenge, he would make her pay, that little harlot! She should suffer for this, he thought greedily, licking his bleeding knuckles. But---Judas! He remembered her bare shoulders: gold in her candlelight and delicately furred. He saw the mobile insolence of her neck, and her taut breasts steady in the fluid gown. Son of a Turk, but she was quite enchanting! How could she think she had no fire or grace? And no salt? An arroba she had of it!
"... No lack of salt in the chrism At the moment of thy baptism!" He sang aloud in the dark room and suddenly realized that he had fallen madly in love with her. He ached intensely to see her again---at once! ---to touch her hands and her hair; to hear her harsh voice. He ran to the window and flung open the casements and the beauty of the night struck him back like a blow. It was May, it was summer, and he was young---young! ---and deliriously in love. Such a happiness welled up within him that the tears spurted from his eyes. But he did not forgive her--no! He would still make her pay, he would still have his revenge, he thought viciously, and kissed his wounded fingers. But what a night it had been! "I will never forge this night! he thought aloud in an awed voice, standing by the window in the dark room, the tears in his eyes and the wind in his hair and his bleeding knuckles pressed to his mouth.
But, alas, the heart forgets; the heart is distracted; and May time passes; summer lends; the storms break over the rot-tipe orchards and the heart grows old; while the hours, the days, the months, and the years pile up and pile up, till the mind becomes too crowded, too confused: dust gathers in it; cobwebs multiply; the walls darken and fall into ruin and decay; the memory perished...and there came a time when Don Badoy Montiya walked home through a May Day midnight without remembering, without even caring to remember; being merely concerned in feeling his way across the street with his cane; his eyes having grown quite dim and his legs uncertain--for he was old; he was over sixty; he was a very stopped and shivered old man with white hair and mustaches coming home from a secret meeting of conspirators; his mind still resounding with the speeches and his patriot heart still exultant as he picked his way up the steps to the front door and inside into the slumbering darkness of the house; wholly unconscious of the May night, till on his way down the hall, chancing to glance into the sala, he shuddered, he stopped, his blood ran cold-- for he had seen a face in the mirror there---a ghostly candlelight face with the eyes closed and the lips moving, a face that he suddenly felt he had been there before though it was a full minutes before the lost memory came flowing, came tiding back, so overflooding the actual moment and so swiftly washing away the piled hours and days and months and years that he was left suddenly young again; he was a gay young buck again, lately came from Europe; he had been dancing all night; he was very drunk; he s stepped in the doorway; he saw a face in the dark; he called out...and the lad standing before the mirror (for it was a lad in a night go jumped with fright and almost dropped his candle, but looking around and seeing the old man, laughed out with relief and came running.
"Oh Grandpa, how you frightened me. Don Badoy had turned very pale. "So it was you, you young bandit! And what is all this, hey? What are you doing down here at this hour?" "Nothing, Grandpa. I was only... I am only ..." "Yes, you are the great Señor only and how delighted I am to make your acquaintance, Señor Only! But if I break this cane on your head you maga wish you were someone else, Sir!" "It was just foolishness, Grandpa. They told me I would see my wife."
"Wife? What wife?" "Mine. The boys at school said I would see her if I looked in a mirror tonight and said: Mirror, mirror show to me her whose lover I will be.
Don Badoy cackled ruefully. He took the boy by the hair, pulled him along into the room, sat down on a chair, and drew the boy between his knees. "Now, put your cane down the floor, son, and let us talk this over. So you want your wife already, hey? You want to see her in advance, hey? But so you know that these are wicked games and that wicked boys who play them are in danger of seeing horrors?"
"Well, the boys did warn me I might see a witch instead."
"Exactly! A witch so horrible you may die of fright. And she will be witch you, she will torture you, she will eat
your heart and drink your blood!"
"Oh, come now Grandpa. This is 1890. There are no witches anymore."
"Oh-ho, my young Voltaire! And what if I tell you that I myself have seen a witch.
"You? Where?
"Right in this room land right in that mirror," said the old man, and his playful voice had turned savage.
"When, Grandpa?"
"Not so long ago. When I was a bit older than you. Oh, I was a vain fellow and though I was feeling very sick that night and merely wanted to lie down somewhere and die I could not pass that doorway of course without stopping to see in the mirror what I looked like when dying. But when I poked my head in what should I see in the mirror but...but..."
"The witch?"
"Exactly!"
"And then she bewitch you, Grandpa!"
"She bewitched me and she tortured me. l She ate my heart and drank my blood." said the old man bitterly.
"Oh, my poor little Grandpa! Why have you never told me! And she very horrible?
"Horrible? God, no--- she was the most beautiful creature I have ever seen! Her eyes were somewhat like yours but her hair was like black waters and her golden shoulders were bare. My God, she was enchanting! But I should have known---I should have known even then---the dark and fatal creature she was!"
A silence. Then: "What a horrid mirror this is, Grandpa," whispered the boy.
"What makes you slay that, hey?"
"Well, you saw this witch in it. And Mama once told me that Grandma once told her that Grandma once saw the devil in this mirror. Was it of the scare that Grandma died?"
Don Badoy started. For a moment he had forgotten that she was dead, that she had perished---the poor Agueda; that they were at peace at last, the two of them, her tired body at rest; her broken body set free at last from the brutal pranks of the earth---from the trap of a May night; from the snare of summer; from the terrible silver nets of the moon. She had been a mere heap of white hair and bones in the end: a whimpering withered consumptive, lashing out with her cruel tongue; her eye like live coals; her face like ashes... Now, nothing--- nothing save a name on a stone; save a stone in a graveyard---nothing! was left of the young girl who had flamed so vividly in a mirror one wild May Day midnight, long, long ago.
And remembering how she had sobbed so piteously; remembering how she had bitten his hand and fled and how he had sung aloud in the dark room and surprised his heart in the instant of falling in love: such a grief tore up his throat and eyes that he felt ashamed before the boy; pushed the boy away; stood up and looked out----looked out upon the medieval shadows of the foul street where a couple of street-lamps flickered and a last carriage was rattling away upon the cobbles, while the blind black houses muttered hush-hush, their tiled roofs looming like sinister chessboards against a wild sky murky with clouds, save where an evil old moon prowled about in a corner or where a murderous wind whirled, whistling and whining, smelling now of the sea and now of the summer orchards and wafting unbearable the window; the bowed old man sobbing so bitterly at the window; the tears streaming down his cheeks and the wind in his hair and one hand pressed to his mouth---while from up the street came the clackety-clack of the watchman’s boots on the cobbles, and the clang-clang of his lantern against his knee, and the mighty roll of his voice booming through the night:
"Guardia sereno-o-o! A las doce han dado-o-o!"
http://www.seasite.niu.edu/Tagalog/Literature/Short%20Stories/May%20Day%20Eve.htm
And it was May again, said the old Anastasia. It was the first day of May and witches were abroad in the night, she said--for it was a night of divination, and night of lovers, and those who cared might peer into a mirror and would there behold the face of whoever it was they were fated to marry, said the old Anastasia as she hobble about picking up the piled crinolines and folding up shawls and raking slippers in corner while the girls climbing into four great poster-beds that overwhelmed the room began shrieking with terror, scrambling over each other and imploring the old woman not to frighten them.
"Enough, enough, Anastasia! We want to sleep!"
"Go scare the boys instead, you old witch!"
"She is not a witch, she is a maga. She is a maga. She was born of Christmas Eve!"
"St. Anastasia, virgin and martyr."
"Huh? Impossible! She has conquered seven husbands! Are you a virgin, Anastasia?"
"No, but I am seven times a martyr because of you girls!"
"Let her prophesy, let her prophesy! Whom will I marry, old gypsy? Come, tell me."
"You may learn in a mirror if you are not afraid."
"I am not afraid, I will go," cried the young cousin Agueda, jumping up in bed.
"Girls, girls---we are making too much noise! My mother will hear and will come and pinch us all. Agueda, lie down! And you Anastasia, I command you to shut your mouth and go away!""Your mother told me to stay here all night, my grand lady!"
"And I will not lie down!" cried the rebellious Agueda, leaping to the floor. "Stay, old woman. Tell me what I have to do."
"Tell her! Tell her!" chimed the other girls.
The old woman dropped the clothes she had gathered and approached and fixed her eyes on the girl. "You must take a candle," she instructed, "and go into a room that is dark and that has a mirror in it and you must be alone in the room. Go up to the mirror and close your eyes and shy:
Mirror, mirror, show to me him whose woman I will be. If all goes right, just above your left shoulder will appear the face of the man you will marry." A silence. Then: "And hat if all does not go right?" asked Agueda. "Ah, then the Lord have mercy on you!" "Why." "Because you may see--the Devil!"
The girls screamed and clutched one another, shivering. "But what nonsense!" cried Agueda. "This is the year 1847. There are no devil anymore!" Nevertheless she had turned pale. "But where could I go, hugh? Yes, I know! Down to the sala. It has that big mirror and no one is there now." "No, Agueda, no! It is a mortal sin! You will see the devil!" "I do not care! I am not afraid! I will go!" "Oh, you wicked girl! Oh, you mad girl!" "If you do not come to bed, Agueda, I will call my mother." "And if you do I will tell her who came to visit you at the convent last March. Come, old woman---give me that candle. I go." "Oh girls---give me that candle, I go."
But Agueda had already slipped outside; was already tiptoeing across the hall; her feet bare and her dark hair falling down her shoulders and streaming in the wind as she fled down the stairs, the lighted candle sputtering in one hand while with the other she pulled up her white gown from her ankles. She paused breathless in the doorway to the sala and her heart failed her. She tried to imagine the room filled again with lights, laughter, whirling couples, and the jolly jerky music of the fiddlers. But, oh, it was a dark den, a weird cavern for the windows had been closed and the furniture stacked up against the walls. She crossed herself and stepped inside.
The mirror hung on the wall before her; a big antique mirror with a gold frame carved into leaves and flowers and mysterious curlicues. She saw herself approaching fearfully in it: a small while ghost that the darkness bodied forth---but not willingly, not completely, for her eyes and hair were so dark that the face approaching in the mirror seemed only a mask that floated forward; a bright mask with two holes gaping in it, blown forward by the white cloud of her gown. But when she stood before the mirror she lifted the candle level with her chin and the dead mask bloomed into her living face.
She closed her eyes and whispered the incantation. When she had finished such a terror took hold of her that she felt unable to move, unable to open her eyes and thought she would stand there forever, enchanted. But she heard a step behind her, and a smothered giggle, and instantly opened her eyes.
"And what did you see, Mama? Oh, what was it?" But Dona Agueda had forgotten the little girl on her lap: she was staring pass the curly head nestling at her breast and seeing herself in the big mirror hanging in the room. It was the same room and the same mirror out the face she now saw in it was an old face---a hard, bitter, vengeful face, framed in graying hair, and so sadly altered, so sadly different from that other face like a white mask, that fresh young face like a pure mask than she had brought before this mirror one wild May Day midnight years and years ago.... "But what was it Mama? Oh please go on! What did you see?" Dona Agueda looked down at her daughter but her face did not soften though her eyes filled with tears. "I saw the devil." she said bitterly. The child blanched. "The devil, Mama? Oh... Oh..." "Yes, my love. I opened my eyes and there in the mirror, smiling at me over my left shoulder, was the face of the devil." "Oh, my poor little Mama! And were you very frightened?" "You can imagine. And that is why good little girls do not look into mirrors except when their mothers tell them. You must stop this naughty habit, darling, of admiring yourself in every mirror you pass- or you may see something frightful some day." "But the devil, Mama---what did he look like?" "Well, let me see... he has curly hair and a scar on his cheek---" "Like the scar of Papa?" "Well, yes. But this of the devil was a scar of sin, while that of your Papa is a scar of honor. Or so he says." "Go on about the devil." "Well, he had mustaches." "Like those of Papa?" "Oh, no. Those of your Papa are dirty and graying and smell horribly of tobacco, while these of the devil were very black and elegant--oh, how elegant!" "And did he speak to you, Mama?" "Yes… Yes, he spoke to me," said Dona Agueda. And bowing her graying head; she wept.
"Charms like yours have no need for a candle, fair one," he had said, smiling at her in the mirror and stepping back to give her a low mocking bow. She had whirled around and glared at him and he had burst into laughter. "But I remember you!" he cried. "You are Agueda, whom I left a mere infant and came home to find a tremendous beauty, and I danced a waltz with you but you would not give me the polka." "Let me pass," she muttered fiercely, for he was barring the way. "But I want to dance the polka with you, fair one," he said. So they stood before the mirror; their panting breath the only sound in the dark room; the candle shining between them and flinging their shadows to the wall. And young Badoy Montiya (who had crept home very drunk to pass out quietly in bed) suddenly found himself cold sober and very much awake and ready for anything. His eyes sparkled and the scar on his face gleamed scarlet. "Let me pass!" she cried again, in a voice of fury, but he grasped her by the wrist. "No," he smiled. "Not until we have danced." "Go to the devil!" "What a temper has my serrana!" "I am not your serrana!" "Whose, then? Someone I know? Someone I have offended grievously? Because you treat me, you treat all my friends like your mortal enemies." "And why not?" she demanded, jerking her wrist away and flashing her teeth in his face. "Oh, how I detest you, you pompous young men! You go to Europe and you come back elegant lords and we poor girls are too tame to please you. We have no grace like the Parisiennes, we have no fire like the Sevillians, and we have no salt, no salt, no salt! Aie, how you weary me, how you bore me, you fastidious men!" "Come, come---how do you know about us?"
"I was not admiring myself, sir!" "You were admiring the moon perhaps?" "Oh!" she gasped, and burst into tears. The candle dropped from her hand and she covered her face and sobbed piteously. The candle had gone out and they stood in darkness, and young Badoy was conscience-stricken. "Oh, do not cry, little one!" Oh, please forgive me! Please do not cry! But what a brute I am! I was drunk, little one, I was drunk and knew not what I said." He groped and found her hand and touched it to his lips. She shuddered in her white gown. "Let me go," she moaned, and tugged feebly. "No. Say you forgive me first. Say you forgive me, Agueda." But instead she pulled his hand to her mouth and bit it - bit so sharply in the knuckles that he cried with pain and lashed cut with his other hand--lashed out and hit the air, for she was gone, she had fled, and he heard the rustling of her skirts up the stairs as he furiously sucked his bleeding fingers. Cruel thoughts raced through his head: he would go and tell his mother and make her turn the savage girl out of the house--or he would go himself to the girl’s room and drag her out of bed and slap, slap, slap her silly face! But at the same time he was thinking that they were all going to Antipolo in the morning and was already planning how he would maneuver himself into the same boat with her. Oh, he would have his revenge, he would make her pay, that little harlot! She should suffer for this, he thought greedily, licking his bleeding knuckles. But---Judas! He remembered her bare shoulders: gold in her candlelight and delicately furred. He saw the mobile insolence of her neck, and her taut breasts steady in the fluid gown. Son of a Turk, but she was quite enchanting! How could she think she had no fire or grace? And no salt? An arroba she had of it!
"... No lack of salt in the chrism At the moment of thy baptism!" He sang aloud in the dark room and suddenly realized that he had fallen madly in love with her. He ached intensely to see her again---at once! ---to touch her hands and her hair; to hear her harsh voice. He ran to the window and flung open the casements and the beauty of the night struck him back like a blow. It was May, it was summer, and he was young---young! ---and deliriously in love. Such a happiness welled up within him that the tears spurted from his eyes. But he did not forgive her--no! He would still make her pay, he would still have his revenge, he thought viciously, and kissed his wounded fingers. But what a night it had been! "I will never forge this night! he thought aloud in an awed voice, standing by the window in the dark room, the tears in his eyes and the wind in his hair and his bleeding knuckles pressed to his mouth.
But, alas, the heart forgets; the heart is distracted; and May time passes; summer lends; the storms break over the rot-tipe orchards and the heart grows old; while the hours, the days, the months, and the years pile up and pile up, till the mind becomes too crowded, too confused: dust gathers in it; cobwebs multiply; the walls darken and fall into ruin and decay; the memory perished...and there came a time when Don Badoy Montiya walked home through a May Day midnight without remembering, without even caring to remember; being merely concerned in feeling his way across the street with his cane; his eyes having grown quite dim and his legs uncertain--for he was old; he was over sixty; he was a very stopped and shivered old man with white hair and mustaches coming home from a secret meeting of conspirators; his mind still resounding with the speeches and his patriot heart still exultant as he picked his way up the steps to the front door and inside into the slumbering darkness of the house; wholly unconscious of the May night, till on his way down the hall, chancing to glance into the sala, he shuddered, he stopped, his blood ran cold-- for he had seen a face in the mirror there---a ghostly candlelight face with the eyes closed and the lips moving, a face that he suddenly felt he had been there before though it was a full minutes before the lost memory came flowing, came tiding back, so overflooding the actual moment and so swiftly washing away the piled hours and days and months and years that he was left suddenly young again; he was a gay young buck again, lately came from Europe; he had been dancing all night; he was very drunk; he s stepped in the doorway; he saw a face in the dark; he called out...and the lad standing before the mirror (for it was a lad in a night go jumped with fright and almost dropped his candle, but looking around and seeing the old man, laughed out with relief and came running.
"Oh Grandpa, how you frightened me. Don Badoy had turned very pale. "So it was you, you young bandit! And what is all this, hey? What are you doing down here at this hour?" "Nothing, Grandpa. I was only... I am only ..." "Yes, you are the great Señor only and how delighted I am to make your acquaintance, Señor Only! But if I break this cane on your head you maga wish you were someone else, Sir!" "It was just foolishness, Grandpa. They told me I would see my wife."
"Wife? What wife?" "Mine. The boys at school said I would see her if I looked in a mirror tonight and said: Mirror, mirror show to me her whose lover I will be.
Don Badoy cackled ruefully. He took the boy by the hair, pulled him along into the room, sat down on a chair, and drew the boy between his knees. "Now, put your cane down the floor, son, and let us talk this over. So you want your wife already, hey? You want to see her in advance, hey? But so you know that these are wicked games and that wicked boys who play them are in danger of seeing horrors?"
"Well, the boys did warn me I might see a witch instead."
"Exactly! A witch so horrible you may die of fright. And she will be witch you, she will torture you, she will eat
your heart and drink your blood!"
"Oh, come now Grandpa. This is 1890. There are no witches anymore."
"Oh-ho, my young Voltaire! And what if I tell you that I myself have seen a witch.
"You? Where?
"Right in this room land right in that mirror," said the old man, and his playful voice had turned savage.
"When, Grandpa?"
"Not so long ago. When I was a bit older than you. Oh, I was a vain fellow and though I was feeling very sick that night and merely wanted to lie down somewhere and die I could not pass that doorway of course without stopping to see in the mirror what I looked like when dying. But when I poked my head in what should I see in the mirror but...but..."
"The witch?"
"Exactly!"
"And then she bewitch you, Grandpa!"
"She bewitched me and she tortured me. l She ate my heart and drank my blood." said the old man bitterly.
"Oh, my poor little Grandpa! Why have you never told me! And she very horrible?
"Horrible? God, no--- she was the most beautiful creature I have ever seen! Her eyes were somewhat like yours but her hair was like black waters and her golden shoulders were bare. My God, she was enchanting! But I should have known---I should have known even then---the dark and fatal creature she was!"
A silence. Then: "What a horrid mirror this is, Grandpa," whispered the boy.
"What makes you slay that, hey?"
"Well, you saw this witch in it. And Mama once told me that Grandma once told her that Grandma once saw the devil in this mirror. Was it of the scare that Grandma died?"
Don Badoy started. For a moment he had forgotten that she was dead, that she had perished---the poor Agueda; that they were at peace at last, the two of them, her tired body at rest; her broken body set free at last from the brutal pranks of the earth---from the trap of a May night; from the snare of summer; from the terrible silver nets of the moon. She had been a mere heap of white hair and bones in the end: a whimpering withered consumptive, lashing out with her cruel tongue; her eye like live coals; her face like ashes... Now, nothing--- nothing save a name on a stone; save a stone in a graveyard---nothing! was left of the young girl who had flamed so vividly in a mirror one wild May Day midnight, long, long ago.
And remembering how she had sobbed so piteously; remembering how she had bitten his hand and fled and how he had sung aloud in the dark room and surprised his heart in the instant of falling in love: such a grief tore up his throat and eyes that he felt ashamed before the boy; pushed the boy away; stood up and looked out----looked out upon the medieval shadows of the foul street where a couple of street-lamps flickered and a last carriage was rattling away upon the cobbles, while the blind black houses muttered hush-hush, their tiled roofs looming like sinister chessboards against a wild sky murky with clouds, save where an evil old moon prowled about in a corner or where a murderous wind whirled, whistling and whining, smelling now of the sea and now of the summer orchards and wafting unbearable the window; the bowed old man sobbing so bitterly at the window; the tears streaming down his cheeks and the wind in his hair and one hand pressed to his mouth---while from up the street came the clackety-clack of the watchman’s boots on the cobbles, and the clang-clang of his lantern against his knee, and the mighty roll of his voice booming through the night:
"Guardia sereno-o-o! A las doce han dado-o-o!"
http://www.seasite.niu.edu/Tagalog/Literature/Short%20Stories/May%20Day%20Eve.htm
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