The bus was eerily quiet. Everyone was asleep. I wouldn't have noticed that I was on a moving vehicle if not for the occasional bump. I looked around the dark expanse and noticed nothing remarkable. There were the usual travelers, with their noticeable heavy luggage - obviously probinsiyanos on their way home to wherever God-forsaken place they were born. Forgive me for these utterly cruel, prejudiced words. My mind was still numb with the effects of alcohol. Seven hours had elapsed since we had left that stink-ridden, mosquito-infested terminal in Cubao. As usual, the bus left a few minutes after the designated departure time. But that did not matter for I was intoxicated with a good amount of San Miguel Beer.
My mouth was thirsty from an entire afternoon's worth of drinking by my lonesome. I took a few sips from an overpriced bottle of water. The cold liquid felt good on my parched tongue - almost as good as pale lager. There will be plenty of time for drinking (drinking alone at that) once I get to my destination, I told myself. I tried to close my eyes for some much-needed shut-eye, but sleep did not come. Even with alcohol I could not will myself to the much sought after golden slumber. For an entire month, this insomnia had hounded me incessantly. I heaved an audible sigh of resignation, loud enough to catch the attention of the girl seated at the opposite end of my row.
Her eyes were bright, luminous even, in the dimly lit bus. For a split second our eyes met in a fleeting moment of convergence. I turned away from her gaze for those twin sparkling stars that were her eyes and her long brown hair reminded me of Kara.
For as long as I can remember, I have always been a coward. I ran away from my first fistfight as a 6-year old, hiding behind that tall and friendly security guard. In my pre-pubescent days, I helplessly watched from the sidelines as my best friend traded punches with an enemy I myself was supposed to fight. My entire body was paralyzed, my fists curled into a shaking lump of skin and bones. As a child, my father enrolled my brother and I into a summer swimming school. After the first day, my fear of water got the better of me. I didn't show up for the rest of the remaining sessions, much to my father's chagrin.
I was struck with my chronic bouts of cowardice when I first laid my eyes on Kara Ina Villasanta. It was a hot June day, the first day of classes. My Literature block was crammed into one of those nondescript, half-a-century old buildings in that Jesuit-run school. The fans were humming at its full strength. The heat seemed to permeate right into my bones; the humidity a warm, woolen blanket. I was sweating all right, but I did not mind the searing heat since I have always been fond of summer. The heat and the fire trees in full bloom were the last vestiges of the fast-disappearing season – the final remnants of summer vacation.
I was chatting with one of my friends when I noticed a girl seated at the far corner of the room, silently engrossed in an old book.
"Pare, are you listening?" said Ray. "As I was saying...." The rest of his words were mere babbles of gibberish to me. I was oblivious to the noise in the room, the omnipresent blanket of humidity - my entire being was centered upon that other being across the room.
"Huy!" Ray exclaimed as he slapped my shoulder. "You're day-dreaming again. What's on your mind buddy?"
"What did you just say?"
"What's bothering you? Is it the heat or the bottles of beer we had for lunch?"
"Wala, pare."
"I don't believe you, Joaquin." Ray said behind that omnipresent grin of his. "We've known each other through grade school and high school and I know that look of yours."
"Okay," I said. "Who's that girl, the silent one reading a book all by herself?"
"You really are a sucker for the nerdy ones, dude. Go to her and start some small talk. Or are you too scared again?"
Although in my constant daydreams in the subsequent months, I pictured myself mustering every ounce of courage to finally talk to her and ask her out, my dreams did not go beyond its subconscious realm. In everything I did, I thought of her. In those lazy Monday mornings in the still deserted cafeteria, I imagined her likeness beside me as I sipped my cheap, instant coffee. During our breaks, I coerced my friends to choose a table that provided an excellent vantage point to simply watch her eat.
I hardly listened in class, spending most of my time looking out the window, staring at the fire trees whose fiery leaves were starting to fade. My mind was unreceptive, unable to take in anything academic-related. Instead of paying attention to Mr. Soriano's lively lectures about Faulkner, Hemingway and other literary giants, I stole gazes at my muse who was seated at the front, a good three seats from my place. My grades started to suffer. One time after class, Mr. Soriano told me to stay.
"It is almost midterms, Mr. Roque." He said behind those thick glasses of his, his eyes never parting from the papers on his desk. "You have talent. Your papers are not bad at all, just poorly written - lazily written if you allow me to be blunt."
"I'm sorry about that, Sir." I said hastily. The clock was ticking and I still had to meet up with the rest of the guys. "I'll try to do better next time."
"You don't have to apologize to me," Mr. Soriano said firmly. "With your natural flair for English, you'll surely pass this course with the effort you've been showing."
I was awestruck by his eloquence and touched by his concern. I always thought highly of Mr. Soriano, but found him too aloof, too unreachable for my tastes.
"In the end," he continued. "It's the little things that matter. You may leave, Mr. Roque."
The loud wailing of a petulant 6-year old seated behind, roused me from my reverie. At that very moment, I felt the urge to stuff that kid's mouth with all the newspaper it could handle. I was in an irritable state. It took all my willpower to contain my anger and channeling it to that child. I took out my Ipod to listen to some music, to block these unwanted decibels. Brad Mehldau's melancholic piano playing greeted my ears. It was aptly entitled "Find Me in Your Dreams." Again, I sighed. Kara and I used to listen to songs like these whilst studying together. "When I study," she explained. "I always listen to instrumental music. Songs with lyrics always seem to stir me from my thoughts." As I listened to the song, it brought me back to that particular Wednesday afternoon.
The days of summer were long gone. The monsoon season was in full swing. It was about 4 o'clock in the afternoon, a good 30 minutes before the end of class, and yet the sky had that dark gray metallic pallor. There were flashes of lightning all over. A cold wind was blowing profusely into the room, bringing a few droplets of rain with it, prompting those seated near the antiquated French windows (myself included) to close them. I brought out my jacket and was greeted by its warm, cozy feel. My eyelids began to feel heavy as I felt sleepy with each seemingly slowing tick of the clock.
With my senses dulled by sleep, I could barely understand what Mr. Soriano was saying. It was about the final project for the term. I was completely lost after the introductory part. But the mere mention of her name woke me up, more so, when her name was juxtaposed to mine.
"Ms. Villasanta and Mr. Roque."
I was in disbelief. I felt that familiar sense of coldness, as if the blood that flows within my veins were frozen with fear. My face became pale. Ray, who was seated beside me, was grinning as usual.
"I bet she doesn't even know you, Waks." He whispered.
And he was right. I haven't had the privilege of meeting Kara yet. Ligaw, tingin; kantot hangin, as the saying goes. Darn it. I'm even worse than that.
After class Kara approached me. "Hi there," she said shyly. "So, do you have any suggestions for the topic?"
"Uh," I said dumbly. "What topic?"
"For the term project."
"Sorry," I said with an embarrassed smile. "I fell asleep."
I haven't seen her this close yet. Her brown eyes were really quite stunning. Looking at those sparkling jewels made me calm. I’ve never seen such peaceful eyes. Her mestiza face, with her high cheekbones and moist, pink lips, evoked a certain sense of tranquility. I could gaze at her for the longest time, never getting tired with each passing hour.
That afternoon, we had merienda at a nearby coffee shop (I don't usually visit coffee shops, but that was an exception). We talked about a lot of things. It turned out that she was a thespian, having been involved with the stage since her high school days.
“Really?” I asked. “I love watching plays. Especially the Dulaang Sibol productions back in high school.”
“Oh? Have you seen Cyrano de Bergerac?”
"I haven't, but we read the book for class. I've forgotten practically everything about the play, except for Cyrano's nose and his love for Roxanne, of course."
She laughed with genuine glee at my remark. It was the first time I saw her smile. And it was wonderful, seeing her cover her mouth with her hands. “I played Roxanne in Sibol’s rendition of Cyrano.”
“Sayang. If we only knew each other back then, I would’ve watched your play.”
“Thanks, Waks.” She replied. “You made me smile again. Anyway, I was originally slated to play a supporting role, but something came up that I had to play Roxanne!”
“Whoa. Talk about short notice.”
“Yeah! God knows how I memorized my lines in time!”
With the ice broken by such a warm exchange of words, we continued talking. She was a big fan of Emily Bronte, Emily Dickinson and Jane Austen while I preferred male macho writers such as Ernest Hemingway and F. Sionil Jose.
We both shared a love for the Old Philippines seen only in Rizal’s novels, as well as in those pre-war literary works. The town of Vigan, seemingly frozen in a bygone Spanish era, has always fascinated her. I on the other hand, was enthralled by something less distant and yet just as remote. As we sipped our coffee, I told her stories about Manila being one of Asia’s most beautiful cities until the Americans razed it to the ground in its so-called “Liberation” from the Japanese. There are still traces of Manila’s old grandeur, I told her - one only has to look deeper to see it.
“That’s it!” She exclaimed. “That’s a great topic for the research paper!”
“Vigan and Manila? Aren’t these two a little far-off from each other?”
“Not at all. Imagine two parallel lines, one for Vigan and one for Manila. Each point represents each particular year – it signifies the passage of time.”
“Go on,” I said as I sipped the last of my coffee. “I can see where you’re getting at.”
“And then at some point in time, the straight line of Manila becomes a sordid mass of disarray.”
“I see. Let’s get started.”
For a month, we toiled and worked together. To better familiarize ourselves in the topic of our paper, we underwent a process of immersion. We devoured countless materials about Old Manila, from its beginnings as a pre-colonial town, to its golden days, its destruction and its continuing decay. We went to the old Art Deco buildings in the city. Scattered around its various districts are architectural gems like the Far Eastern University Campus, the Rizal Memorial Sports Complex and the derelict Metropolitan Theater. Kara and I rode calesas within Intramuros and ate in a restaurant serving genuine Spanish cuisine. We visited the ruins of Fort Santiago and the various museums and Churches in the Old Walled City.
Even though I had Kara to myself, I never could stop stealing glances. It was as if I was still in class or in the cafeteria again, wallowing under the mud of cowardice and inferiority – katorpehan, simply put – that turned out to be nothing more than self-construed machinations.
It was a memorable day, which for me, did not seem like a boring research activity. Before taking the trains back home, we decided to go to one of those obscure shops along the bay, to gaze at Manila’s famed sunset.
We found a good place to sit and ordered a few refreshments. “Is it really that beautiful?” Kara asked. It was about 4 o’clock in the afternoon. The sun’s rays were no longer harsh, but gentle.
"The sunset?”
"Yes."
“I haven’t seen it yet.”
“Really?”
“It’s my first time as well.”
An uneasy silence took over. We were both gazing beyond the breakwater, beyond the waters of the bay, towards the horizon, which seemed so far away.
“Waks,” Kara turned to me. “Can you ride a boat all the way towards the north? To Alaminos and Lingayen? To Vigan?”
“I’m not sure.” I replied. “But I remember reading from somewhere about a steamship ride all the way to Pagudpod. And besides, nothing beats a scenic, long drive.”
She was silent, deep in thought. Without a word, my hand reached for hers. My heart worked triple time. It was as if a big bass drum, like the ones they use in those basketball games, was forcefully being hit within my chest. Then our eyes met. She was smiling and so was I. Her soothing demeanor calmed me. We stood up and walked hand-in-hand on the boardwalk.
We simply strolled the afternoon away, basking under the fading warmth of the sun. We watched the sky as night reclaimed it from day, as the sky reverted from its warm, red glow. In a few minutes, the sun has fully set. But there was no moon. The stars were hardly visible through all the pollution.
Kara and I never found the time to go to Vigan, to immerse ourselves in its surroundings as we had done in Manila. Perhaps it was just the pure tendency to be lazy (since we were, after all, just students) or a sense of hesitance on my part. Despite all my delusions, despite the daydreams of what-might-have-been’s and despite those arguments with me, myself and I, I knew deep down that it was the latter – that the fault was solely mine.
I passed Mr. Soriano’s Literature Class of course. But I could have done better – a lot better.
As for Kara, we drifted apart as soon as we passed our research paper. Although we greeted each other when we met randomly in various places, we never had the chance to simply sit and talk like we did back then.
Like the sun, Kara faded underneath the black sheath of the starless night sky.
That image of this featureless nighttime milieu brought me crashing back to reality. I became aware of the dark, surreal surroundings of the bus once again. Like the dreamer that I am, I gazed out of the lightly tinted window.
The sky had a purplish hue. Mere moments separated darkness from light, night from day. Beyond the horizon, I saw the distinct spires of old Churches and the shingled roofs of Spanish-era houses. Beyond the horizon was Vigan.
I rented a single room in one of those old houses in the Old Quarter. It was located at the town square, directly adjacent to the antiquated, adobe-walled church. My surroundings, despite the occasional abomination of a few fast-food joints nearby, were refreshing. I found some measure of peace in this quaint, old town, seemingly frozen in time. Although I did not miss the urban jungle of Manila with its highways of death, endless squatter colonies and its utter chaotic existence, I did miss one little bright spot of the big city.
As I hit the sack, I was unable to sleep. For hours, I just stared at the mildewed ceiling, suspended in some sort of solitary existence. After a few hours of doing absolutely nothing, I went out to catch some fresh air. The clouds that have obscured the night sky were gone, as if blown away by some omnipresent force. I haven’t seen the sky this clear in ages. There was no pollution or bright city lights to obscure this black canvas of wonder. All the stars were out that night; the full moon was shining brightly, the centerpiece of this heavenly work of art.
I laid down at one of the stone benches by the town square, gazing upwards. I took out from a paper bag a single cookie – or pieces of cookies that have been mercilessly crushed and battered throughout my 14-hour northward journey.
As I immersed myself in emotions unknown and surroundings equally foreign, I had an epiphany. I decided there and then that my place was in Manila, no matter how hellish, no matter how brutish or cruel and not in this sterile, sleepy town up north. And so, I decided to go home the next morning. I came back to Manila a changed man. For the first time in weeks, I was sober. My mind had never felt this lucid.
The timing was perfect. Dulaang Sibol was at the latter parts of its staging of Cyrano, with the old cast members of the past years reprising their former roles in the spirit of nostalgia.
Tickets were almost sold out by the time I came. I was fortunate to purchase the final ones available for sale. The theater was packed to the brim. Every inch of space was occupied. From my vantage point, I could hardly see the entire stage. My legs felt numb from trip back home that I could hardly stand still.
Then I saw Kara.
Everything else was a blur except her wonderfully crafted image. Her face was whiter than usual from all the makeup and the lighting; her hair was as straight and brown as ever, exuding a subtle inward glow. As she moved gracefully around the stage, I felt her feigned pain and purported happiness, as if this spectacle was not a mere play. Her words evoked a certain sense of sincere quality. It seemed as if she was not reciting the lines that another man wrote. Kara was a fine actress indeed.
As the play ended and the audience hurriedly vacated the theater, I stood conspicuously by the theater door, scrutinizing each face that passed by. The seconds and minutes elapsed but it felt a lot longer than that. I felt someone lightly tapping my shoulder.
“I’m glad you came, Waks.” My spine froze. That soft yet firm voice was familiar.
“Hi, Kara.” I replied. “I’m speechless.”
“Speechless in a good way, I suppose?”
“Of course.”
Words did not have to be said. Words were mere formalities. Her brown, gentle eyes said it all and so did mine. The night, brightly lit by the full moon, was a remarkably cold one despite the summer season. Countless stars glistened amidst this dark sheath. Beyond the horizon, beyond the canopies of decades-old Acacia trees were grayish clouds, almost invisible to eye.
- Quezon City, April 2008
