"Senses" (11 July 2008)

I wrote "Senses" back in 2008. I had ended my UAAP track & field days, and was still sulking from the pain of losing. I was jobless and penniless, but I had loads of free time and tons of pent-up emotion. I did as much writing as I possibly can and was able to churn out a couple of [crappy] short stories.

Have you ever had the feeling in the morning of desperately wanting to go back to sleep, to grasp the final glimpses of a wonderful dream? I did. I always do. The boundaries between what was real and unreal seemed blurred within the confines of my mind. I usually wake up at the middle of the night, my mind hazy in thought. I would lie in bed motionless for minutes, sorting out those fantasies and accepting, in a sense, that they were nothing more than figments of the subconscious.

Alone within the four corners of my room, it was like any other Sunday. The streets were more silent, disrupted only by the occasional low hum of a passing car, or the vibrant noises of people going to the nearby Church. Each passing moment was punctuated by the pleasant chirping of unseen creatures. I tried to go back to sleep, but I simply could not.

I have always been the sentimental fool. For as long as I could remember, I actually enjoyed staring blankly at nowhere, as my mind drifted to some faraway place. Life and life's experiences, despite my young age, are a treasure trove of emotions both high and low. The worn-out, spiral bound notebook - my trusty, dog-eared journal - was my constant companion. It was a living record of the summits, plains, and canyons of my so-called life.

I've picked up the habit of writing as a toddler, according to my parents. I used to scribble incomprehensible marks in different parts of the house. The kitchen wall was one of my favorites. To curb these tendencies of vandalism, my mother gave me an entire stack of scratch paper, a fancy pen and a desk of my own.

I have written constantly since then.

Morning Crush (Second Draft)

The following is a work of fiction. 

The Metro Manila public transport system is not for the faint of heart. Traffic snarls are common rush hour occurrences. Buses are notoriously undisciplined. The overloaded elevated rail system, the MRT, is packed to the brim during the morning and afternoon crush. To beat the traffic (both foot and vehicle), I park my car in one of those mammoth malls adjacent to a rail station, then ride the train all the way to the Central Business District.

Music is a constant companion during those oft-monotonous sojourns. I've been enamored by Edith Piaf the past few months, with her songs being on constant repeat. Although I don’t speak French at all, foreign-language records have a certain exotic, almost mesmerizing allure. One feels the song through the impact of the singing alone, without necessarily comprehending the words.

It was a Monday when I first saw her. Her car, one of those late-model hatchbacks, was ahead of mine on the parking queue. From afar, I saw the way she flicked through her stereo switch with one hand, as she brushed her long hair with another. She took the parking slot opposite mine. As she stepped out of the car, she glanced towards my direction, attracted to Piaf’s “Hymne a l’amour,” emanating from my car speakers. I swore I saw her smile faintly, as if mildly amused at my Monday morning soundtrack.

The statuesque stranger walked away, with me following a few meters behind. I wanted to strike up a conversation, but was too shy to make an overture. Morning commutes are private affairs. I did not want to appear invasive. I hid under my own cocoon of indifference, putting on the earphones of my MP3 player.

There was a long, crawling line at the turnstiles. Thanks to the rainy season, the usually atrocious humidity was a tad less stifling. I chose the coach the farthest away from the queues, as it tended to be less crowded. I fell in line, like the rest of my fellow, nameless commuters.

When the doors slid open, there was a lot of hustle and bustle amongst the eager ones wanting to grab a seat. Luckily, I got one of the last available spots, much to the chagrin of the heavyset man whom I beat to the tape. Comfortably seated, I replaced my eyeglasses with a pair of shades, preparing to doze off throughout the thirty-minute train ride. I glanced around for old ladies, senior citizens or pregnant women to offer my seat to, but found no suitable candidate.

Before the doors closed, a tall figure hurried inside the coach. The girl from the parking lot was standing right in front of me. I glanced up at the beautiful stranger. Her eyes had that gentle, comforting allure. She wore light makeup that accentuated the glow of her porcelain skin. Her shoulder length hair danced softly as the train made that bumpy, shaky acceleration to full speed.

I stood up and offered my seat, politely gesturing with my free hand for her to sit down. She flashed that shy, unassuming smile of hers, albeit this time I was considerably closer. 

Thanks to my dark glasses, stolen glances from my vantage point were common. She had earphones on, which she took out once in a while to change tracks. Her slender fingers nimbly negotiated the touch screen keys of her music player.

As the people piled up inside the train, we drew closer. Someone bumped me from behind. My left leg hit her right knee, her music player almost falling from her grasp because of the impact.

“Sorry,” I said as I muttered a muted apology.

“No worries,” she replied as she glanced up. Our eyes met, this time a bit longer. She opened her bag to put the gadget safely inside.

Halfway through the commute, she herself offered her seat to a white-haired old man. She stood up clutching her handbag in front. I could not help but inch towards her a bit closer. Amidst the harsh, everyman smell of the crowded MRT coach, the scent of her freshly shampooed hair was refreshingly welcome. I found myself closing my eyes, imagining the feel of her flowing black hair on my fingers.

I deliberately turned off my music player, hoping to listen on the music she’s playing. The familiar timbre of Edith Piaf was barely audible, as well as the notes of one her most endearing songs, “L'hymne à L'amour.”

As the train approached my station, she took off the ear buds.

“That is my favorite Piaf song.” I said, oblivious to the reactions of the other commuters. “Even if I don’t speak a word of French.”

“I like it too.” She replied, seemingly unsurprised at my sudden comment.

We alighted from the coach, like the other nameless and faceless commuters the world over - muted strangers who follow the same dreary morning tune. We walked away from the hustle and bustle, and talked.

Beyond the Horizon

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

Moonlit March

I

The platoon was scattered amongst a thin line of foxholes and fortifications. Ahead was a no-man’s land of burnt trees, water-filled craters and charred corpses. Hiding behind the nearby canopy of trees was the enemy

Silence momentarily engulfed this sordid mass of earth, flesh and metal. From my vantage point, I could hear the faint whispers of those beside me and the screams of the wounded. The last enemy artillery barrage was hellish. The very ground seemed to shake from its very foundations. There were explosions everywhere. In two hours of constant bombardment, the men had to seek cover from the deadly combination of tree bursts and shrapnel.

I scanned the area in front of me with the eyes of a hunter, even though in reality, we were the cornered prey. An enemy breakthrough could occur any minute. There was a sharp ringing inside my ears. My entire body shook with uncontrolled tremors. I was afraid of getting wounded. I’ve seen boys hardly any younger than I get their arms and legs blown off. Their ghoulish screams were ear piercing. And since the platoon and the entire USAFFE[1] were almost out of morphine, one had to wonder whether a bullet in the head to end their wretched existence would be considered a merciful act.

As the debilitating effects of the monstrous barrage started to subside, I regained control of my senses. I ignored the rumblings of an empty stomach. The rations were dwindling with each passing day. It was a minor miracle, really, that I have been spared from the malaria and dysentery that had stricken the rest of my comrades. Despite my relative good health, I felt weakened. I longed for the cozy confines of home and the warmth of parents’ presence. Night after night, I dreamt of the good old days in the University, my tight circle of friends and the simple yet peaceful way of life that was abruptly interrupted by war.

Amidst this omnipresent chaos, I paused for a while to gaze at the distant horizon, beyond the jagged outline of felled trees, beyond this man-made abyss of pain, towards an existence so distant and surreal.

II

I have always been a dreamer. As a child, I would spend my nights ceaselessly walking around our suburban home, gazing at the high heavens. Many a time, I had stumbled upon unseen bumps or the occasional passers-by. In the day, my mind often drifted off to far-away lands, to places much cooler and certainly more exciting than this lazy, tropical country of ours. Books were my constant companions. Wherever I went, I always carried a book or two. The works of Dickens, Dostoevsky and Chekhov were my personal favorites.

In my adolescence, I learned to be more outgoing, but I did not seem to enjoy the various socials and dances that punctuated the typical life of a young man. I found it far too pretentious. It was on one of those forgettable March nights when I first laid my eyes of Marita.

The dance hall was hazy with cigarette smoke, irritating my weak eyes. Since I’ve lost sight of Jaime and Miguel, my two closest friends, I decided to go outside to get some fresh air.

I saw her sitting by her lonesome at one of the benches a few meters from the dance hall. Her white dress was resplendent amidst the solitary streetlight that shone brightly nearby. Her long brown hair gently danced with the steady sea breeze coming from the bay. As I drew closer, I wanted to feel her radiant skin. My heart became a big bass drum, like the ones played in those basketball games in Rizal Memorial.

I wanted to turn back as my knees wobbled with each step. For a moment, I paused, contemplating the first moves of my so-called overture. I felt the uncannily strong urge to simply walk away. As I began my retreat, she turned to me. Our eyes met briefly. Slowly, she stood up and walked right past me. I was frozen on my tracks, unable to move or speak. Her steps were light, stealthy even. As she walked past me, our shoulders almost touched. I was motionless for a few moments, and then mustered enough courage to look back at her. With the starry night sky and a full moon as a backdrop, her silhouette was utterly majestic – in perfect harmony with this serene nighttime milieu.

I spent the next few weeks in some sort of solitary limbo. I tried to ask around about this particular girl, but I just didn’t know enough facts about her other than her immediate physical attributes. It was a futile task. My only recourse was to hope for the best, to pray to the high heavens for destiny to smile at me. I tried to fight the feeling of hopelessness by distracting myself with such menial tasks like cleaning the room and tending the yard. I attempted to drown those fantasies, immersing myself in the wealth of literature available at home. I spent long hours day and night writing letters – letters bound not to be sent - to my muse.

In vain, I revisited the dance hall by the bayside as frequently as I could, hoping for that fortuitous chance meeting. It seemed as if everywhere I went – from the occasional trips to the Escolta or the customary weekend family dinner in some restaurant - I saw her face. Whenever I was in crowded places, a faint resemblance to her never failed to evoke a second look.

For weeks, I was stuck in this cycle of hope and despair, unable to progress. I was on the verge of simply giving up when that serendipitous moment finally came my way.

During one particularly lazy Saturday afternoon, Jaime boisterously barged into my room, rousing me from my customary afternoon nap.

“Wake up Luis!” He shouted as he wildly shook my rickety wooden bed. “Come, let’s watch Miguel’s play tonight.”

“What?” I asked, my mind still groggy from sleep.

“Have you forgotten already? Tonight’s the last show date for Tristan and Isolde.”

“Oh, yeah! Give me a few minutes to get dressed.”

Miguel was a thespian, a very good one. In fact, he was a supposed to go to Britain for a scholarship at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art but the onset of war a few months later interrupted his plans. Jaime and I never really found the time to diligently watch his plays, despite his constant pleas.

We went to the Met quite early. As we walked up the grand staircase, I was frozen in disbelief at the sight of her image at one of the promotional posters for the play. How could I have been so myopic all this time? How could I have failed to realize something so obvious?

“Jaime, do you know that girl?”

“No. But she’s pretty.”

“Remember the girl by the bay?”

“Yeah,” He replied matter-of-factly. “You have been blabbering about her for weeks now.”

I could not even speak as I gazed at her photograph. She was quite different from the last time I saw her. Perhaps it was the dearth of light. Nevertheless, it was so long since the first encounter that I had almost forgotten how she looked.

“Luis?”

“She’s the girl.”

“Marita Asprilla. The name’s familiar. I think I’ve met her at one of those soirees with Assumption once.”

“Did you, really?”

“I’m not too sure. There was lots of girls pare, and all of them were head-turners!”

“You are a sucker for mestizas, Luis.”

“Guilty as charged.”

“The Asprillas are into banking, sugar planting, trading, manufacturing and whatever imaginable business there is to man.” Jaime said cynically. “Dream on, my star-crossed friend. She’ll probably marry someone who has the same skin color as hers. For now, can we just go to our seats in peace?”

“We’re in the 20th century for crying out loud.”

“Bah, say whatever it is that you want old friend. You really are an optimist.”

“Indeed I am.”

We loitered for a good half hour then went to our seats. The Met[2] was already crowded with a sizable number of patrons. Fortunately, Miguel had reserved seats for us near the stage.

The theater was neither stuffy nor chilly. The ventilation was just right for this nondescript, tropical evening. I looked around for familiar faces, but found none. There were the usual groups of giggly schoolgirls and squeamish schoolboys jostling for the others’ attention. In addition, there was the usual collection of couples since “Tristan and Isolde” is a timeless tragedy of youthful passions, predating even its better-known Elizabethan cousin.

The lights went out. The buzzing noise of the patrons gradually toned down as well. When I laid my eyes on Marita – the first time since that fateful bayside night – I was enthralled. She looked every inch the medieval maiden. Her dark brownish hair was styled neatly, each strand tenderly bouncing with the subtlest and the most pronounced of her movements.

I was completely enamored that I ignored Jaime’s sly whispers about some attractive lass seated nearby. The dialogue of the play, aside from my muse’s own lines, of course, was barely intelligible to my inattentive ears. I suppressed the desire to reach to her and touch her. It was like gazing at a genuine Monet at the Louvre, unable to look closer, much less feel the delicate combination of paint and brush strokes.

Before I knew it, the curtains closed and the lights flickered back to life.

“Pare, I have to meet her,” I said to Jaime.

“Ask for an introduction then. Want to go back stage?”

“Okay. Give me a few minutes to fix myself up.”

As I walked the fifty or so steps to the ornately furnished lavatories, I felt my knees buckle with every step. Never have I felt this scared my entire life. My emotions were akin to the tense moments before Fr. Croghan’s cutthroat Latin oral examinations. To sooth my nerves, I craved for a bottle of beer. Alcohol, after all, lubricates one’s speech and makes one bold and daring.

I looked at myself in the mirror unable to believe that I was moments away from the moment I have dreamt of so fervently the past few weeks. My mind was working triple time – a bad sign since one’s verbal faculties could not keep up with such a rigid pace of thought.

I closed my eyes. The momentary calm was soothing.

“Marita, I’d like you to meet two of my closest friends: Jaime and Luis.”

“Hello there, I’m Jaime.”

“Luis. Pleased to meet you,” I said somewhat blankly as we shook hands. I smiled. She smiled back.

After a few perfunctory exchanges of words, Jaime and Miguel excused themselves. Marita and I were alone.

“Great performance,” I remarked.

“Thank you, I’m glad you liked it. By the way, you three seem really close.”

“Yeah we are. We’ve been buddies ever since we were little tots. Our parents are close friends as well.”

“That’s nice. You’re almost brothers then.”

“Almost but not quite. So, how long did you rehearse for your role?”

“Six times a week for three months.”

“Wow,” Of course I knew the answer. Miguel was practically incognito when preparing for a play. “That certainly is tiring.”

III

Before I could even recall the subsequent words of our conversation, the resumption of the enemy’s artillery bombardment interrupted my reverie. The medics and the soldiers who were out of their foxholes to tend to the wounded were the ones badly hit. It was a deliberate tactic on the enemy’s part to lure out potential targets for their big guns.

For an hour, the fires of Hades burnt everything it touched into the afterlife. Our own artillery battalions were silent in reply. The final stores of ammunition had been used up days ago.

The men ran for cover. We were unable to even fire our weapons in a meek show of resistance. Each man was down to his final reserves of bullets.

With the enemy’s barrage a relentless hail of noise and buzzing pieces of shrapnel, the soldier beside me had lost his wits. I heard Ciriaco’s screams even through all the bursts and explosions of the shelling. The young Ilonggo recruit covered his ears with his bare hands to try and drown out the monstrous noise. He tried to bury his face inside his coconut shell helmet. All these were for naught. Three months of holding out in this wretched peninsula had taken its toll. In a final attempt to rid him of these mortal pains, Ciriaco put the barrel of his rifle right into his mouth and fired.

Even through the incapacitating effects of disease, through the biting jaws of a persistent hunger that eats one up from the inside, each man in our foxhole remained speechless at the sight of such blatant desperation.

“Gomez and Villanueva,” The gunnery sergeant ordered through the chaos. “Get a blanket and cover Ciriaco. Get his dog tag too.”

“Got it Sarge,” They grunted in reply.

“Hold fast men, they’re bound to stop this shelling some time.”

Silence.

“Fix bayonets.”

There and then, I took out the silver pen Marita gave me. A deluge of memories came back.

IV

After we met backstage, Marita and I were inseparable. Since she didn’t have any plays scheduled in the next two months, she had lots of time to kill after school. Everyday, we met at this quaint Italian coffee shop in Adriatico Street near Rizal Memorial. We would talk for hours at a time, after which we took strolls by the bay as I walked her home to the Asprilla mansion in Ermita.

“Luis,” Marita asked during one of those pleasant afternoons. “What do you plan to take up in college?”

“An engineering course, definitely. I want to fix things and build cars and trains.”

“Man and his love affair with machines never fail to amaze me.”

“I’ll to the States and make a name for myself! I’ll travel the world even! What about you ‘Rita?”

“I’m going to attend the Philippine Normal School. I want to be a teacher.”

“Now that’s a noble profession.” I remarked. “Don’t you want to be a professional stage actress?”

“I do, in fact. But that career path entails leaving the country. And I don’t ever want to leave. I grew up here. I was born here.”

“Ah, but man has to set sail for the open oceans of the world to experience life.”

“Look around you, Luis.” She said gently. “There’s so much life here already. Think of me as a modern-day, female Immanuel Kant.”

“Who never went beyond 100 kilometers away from his birthplace all his life,” I said, completing her sentence.

It was about a quarter past five. Since Marita had to be home by six, we paid the bill and walked towards the bay area. We were silent the entire time. Perhaps it was the prospect of a future intruding upon the present that made us so contemplative.

The sun had almost set. The sky was an orange canvas of light, dashed with the occasional grayish black brush stroke and random sprinklings of white. There were quite a few ships at the bay, ranging from the large ocean-going liners to small fishing boats. The palm trees that lined Dewey Boulevard swayed with each gust of the strong, afternoon breeze. The sounds of the dancing leaves and the serene waves continuously crashing to the shore evoked a certain sense of tranquil hypnosis.

I caught a glimpse of Marita. Her brown eyes were glowing as it reflected the sun’s mellow rays. Her mouth was suspended in an expression of wonder she usually made whenever she was in deep thought. Her skin had a certain likeness to an ancient Ming vase – smooth and round – and tinged with her innate warmth.

My thoughts were broken as the wind blew her hair into my face. Her fragrance was truly that of woman’s. It reminded me of that safe feeling of being home – of being at ease.

Noticing my sideward glances, Marita beamed then blushed when she realized how uncomfortably flushed I was. Without hesitating, I took her hand and held it in a delicate, intimate grasp. Our touch lingered as we gazed into each other’s eyes. The loud blaring of a ship’s horn shattered the peace of this little, shared paradise of ours.

“Let’s get going, Luis,” She said. “It’s getting late.”

We walked hand-in-hand for the hundred paces to her house. It was a perfect ending to a perfect day. We strolled by the tree-lined pavement, invigorated by salty air. As we drew closer to Ermita, the skies began to darken; the Sun gave way to the Moon and the Stars.

V

The sergeant’s slap awakened me from the daydream.

“Snap out of it Private!”

“Sorry sir,” I apologized, my senses in full alert yet again.

The entire platoon was silent. We knew for a fact that the line was spread too thin and held by men half-dead from disease. From a distance, I noticed a rustling of shrubs – signs of a mobile, heavily camouflaged enemy. The men held their fire. Suddenly, a sharp retort of a rifle broke through the fragile silence. A loud, fierce scream of “banzai!” resonated through the jungle, preceding the mighty charge.

The enemy’s first wave was mowed down by heavy firing from our lines. Soon enough, the determined attacks took its toll on the famished defenders. By the forty-fifth minute, the defenses were breached in various places, but the attackers were repelled with heavy loss of life. The fighting became too close for the use of guns. What transpired was a brutal, hand-to-hand bloodbath.

I felt a sharp burst of pain pierce in my left thigh. An enemy soldier had just stabbed me with his bayonet. With my eyes blind with rage, my mouth drooling with a carnal desire for blood, I aimed for the antagonist’s throat with my own bayonet. I tasted the saline, slimy broth of death – a fate my own hands had inflicted. As a rifle butt hit me squarely on the temple, I passed out.

VI

Through college, Marita and I never drifted apart. Even though we had different circles of friends and somewhat distant set of interests, we still found the time to meet in the Italian coffee shop in Adriatico as often as we could. In those pleasant afternoon sojourns, it was as if we were carefree younglings once again, albeit without the youthful school uniforms and heavy rucksacks.

“How’s college?” asked Marita.

“Nothing remarkable,” I replied. “Except for the fact that Christmas is just around the corner!”

“Oh yeah! I have something for you.”

“What is it?”

“It’s a surprise.”

“C’mon, ‘Rita.”

“Wait until Christmas!”

“But that’s almost two months away!”

“Just wait for it, Luis.”

It was getting dark, so Marita and I stood up from an old, wooden bench for the walk home. On the way, we came by a young family of three. The little boy was playing a game with his father, as the mother sat nearby reading a book. They were so happy and seemed really content.

“Hi there, little boy,” I said with a childish smile, as the basketball they were playing with hit my foot. “Is this yours?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

After I handed the ball to the exuberant youngster, I gave a friendly nod to the father, but he didn’t seem to notice my subtle, affable gesture.

Over the horizon, rain clouds loomed. Flashes of lightning preceded the deep thunderous roars of an impending storm. It became even darker, as the nimbus clouds obscured whatever sunlight was left. Rain started to fall in trickles, at first, and then into an unceasing torrent of water and wind.

Marita and I walked amidst the deluge like kids frolicking in an unexpected downpour. Every inch of our clothing became soaked. Fortunately, the Asprilla mansion was a short distance away. As soon as we stopped our childish horseplay, our bodies drew closer for warmth. When we were in front of the imposing steel gate, Marita gave me one of her innocent, radiant looks.

“Are you sure you don’t want to go in?” she asked.

“No, I’m fine.” I explained. “I should get home myself.”

An awkward silence loomed.

I wanted to make the first move. I longed for one of those melodramatic embraces one only sees in theatres. I wanted to be her Tristan, even if there was no such thing as a “happily ever after” in their tragic anti-thesis of a fairy tale. Our hearts gravitated around each other. Our eyes met and our lips intertwined. We were locked in a tight, passionate embrace. I felt a deluge of warm, pleasant emotions amidst the environs of gloom.

Neither of us wanted to break off.

We held on to each other for as long possible, impervious to our surroundings. When we finally drew apart, I noticed a certain redness in her cheeks – she was blushing. I kissed her again, this time a tender peck on the forehead as I held her hand still, not wanting to let go.

Could this be the beginning of something wonderful? Everything seemed so perfect, the timing opportune. I began to picture the future, five or ten years from that point in time. The prospect of change was scary, but then again, it was something to look forward to. It was a future worth working hard for, especially if the portrait’s focal point is Marita.

But life, it seemed, had another vision of what lay ahead. Man, after all, is but a speck amidst the greater scheme of things.

A few weeks later, I received a letter from the government: I had been drafted into the army.

Marita and I wrote to each other as often as possible, since vacation leaves were a rarity to a lowly recruit. There came a point where I received many letters from a single date – all from Marita. I cherished her handwritten messages. I read it constantly as I felt the soft texture of her personal stationery. Her penmanship was rhythmic and a joy to read again and again.

At the onset of December, Marita sent a parcel containing food, books, more letters and a small innocent-looking, rectangular box. It was an early Christmas gift from her – an elegantly simple silver pen.

When war broke out a few weeks later, the letters stopped arriving as the army scattered to man defensive positions along the route to Manila. The ferocity of our oriental foe was shocking. Soon enough, the army retreated to Bataan, to hold out until outside help could arrive.

But none ever did.

VII

I woke up to the sounds of death. All around me, men were screaming in pain. The few who were left unscathed and fit enough to bear arms waited calmly for the next onslaught.

A hail of bullets fell on our positions. High-pitched shouts signaled the commencement of another episode of this long-drawn bloodletting. The enemy was so superior and aggressive that, soon enough, there was not any semblance of a front line anymore. My body felt so tired and heavy that I could have instantly fallen asleep if not for the fighting. All around me, fellow soldiers were being stabbed and shot en masse.

I felt a sharp pain in my chest and heard a dull thud as I fell prostrate to the ground. The pain was excruciating. I could hardly breathe as I choked on my own blood. Desperately, I took out Marita’s letters and the silver pen from my chest pocket. Her one hundred letters became stained with blood. I tried to read them, but I could hardly see what was written, though I knew each line’s content by heart. Everything became a hazy blur as the horrid sensations began to subside.

Through the darkness I saw an endless white light.

When I opened my eyes, I found myself by the bayside again on a quiet moonlit March evening. I saw a girl with long brown hair and porcelain skin, and walked towards her.


[1] United States Armed Forces in the Far East – The combined Filipino-American force formed to defend the Philippines against Japanese aggression shortly before the 2nd World War.

[2] The Manila Metropolitan Theater – A renowned Art Deco building located in Padre Burgos St., Manila.