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Heights tomo lv / bilang 1 karapatang ari © 2007

Reserbado ang karapatang-ari sa mga indibidwal na awtor ng mga akda sa isyung ito. Hindi maaaring ilathala, ipakopya o ipamudmod sa anumang anyo ang mga akda nang walang pahintulot ng mga awtor. Hindi maaaring ibenta sa kahit anong paraan at pagkakataon ang kopyang ito.

Maaaring makipag-ugnayan sa: Heights, Publications Room, Room 206, Gonzaga Hall Ateneo de Manila University, p.o. Box 154, Manila Telepono 426-6001 lokal 5448 thinking_chair@Heights-Ateneo.org www.Heights-Ateneo.org Heights ang Opisyal na Publikasyon at Organisasyong Pampanitikan at Pansining ng Pamantasang Ateneo de Manila.

Pabalat Disenyo at Paglalapat

“Musa,” JPaul Marasigan Stef Macam

Inilimbag ng Inkwell Publishing Co., Inc. sa Pilipinas

Heights

Tomo lv Bilang 1 Ateneo de Manila University 2007

Mul[ Sa P[+nuGOt “Meron pa palang Heights,” ang nanunuyang hirit ukol sa kasalukuyang kalagayan ng organisasyon, at marahil sa kalagayan ng panitikan sa Ateneo.

Hindi namin masisisi ang mga taong nagpapalaganap ng birong ito. Totoo ngang sa mga nagdaang taon, kapansin-pansing panipis nang panipis at paunti nang paunti ang mga librong nailalabas ng Heights. Sa katunayan, matagal nang suliranin ito. Noong dekada sisenta pa lamang, laman na ng mga editoryal ang daing ng mga patnugot ukol sa napipintong kamatayan ng panitikan sa Ateneo.

Magbibigay ako ng mas malinaw na imahen at gagamitin kong halimbawa ang kapalaran ng Heights nitong nagdaang dalawang taon. Disyembre ng 2005 nang magsimula ang ikalawang panawagan ng kontribusyon ng Heights mula sa mga mag-aaral, guro at alumni ng Ateneo. Sinimulan ang pangingilatis sa mga naipasang gawa nang Pebrero ng sumunod na taon at nagpatuloy hanggang sa magtapos ang taong pang-akademiko. Kasapi pa lamang ako noon at inaasahan kong may lalabas na namang isa pang isyu ng Heights bago ang Marso dahil sa pagkakaalam ko’y tatlo hanggang apat na aklat ang naililimbag ng organisasyon sa isang taon. Ngunit hindi dumating ang inaasahang isyu. Itinanong ko sa mga patnugot ng mga panahong iyon kung bakit walang ikatlong libro ang Heights at lahat sila, sinabing hindi sapat ang bilang ng mga napiling akda.

Naging patnugot ako ng sumunod na taon at Mayo pa lamang, nag-

simula na kaming humingi ng mga akda at likhang sining. Bagaman maaga na ang aming panawagan at may ilang mga gawa nang pumasa noong nagdaang taon, Nobyembre na nang mailunsad ang unang isyu ng Heights para sa taong 2006-2007. Halos siyam na buwan mula nang ilunsad ang sinundan nitong libro. Bagaman malaki ang agwat ng panahon sa pagitan ng mga ito, manipis pa rin ang kinalabasan ng isyu ng Heights. Naipamudmod sa Ateneo ang ikalawang isyu ng taon nitong Hunyo lamang at lalo pang numipis ang nailimbag.

Alam ng mga kasapi ng organisasyong hindi ang bilang ng mga ipinapasa ang suliranin. Laging nag-uumapaw ng mga sobre ng kontribusyon ang aming tanggapan subalit iilan lamang sa mga ito ang naibibigay sa maglalapat ng libro. Maraming nagpapasa ngunit sadyang bihira ang pumapasa sa aming mga pamantayan. Sa katunayan nga’y hindi pa rin kasiguruhan ng pagkakalimbag sa Heights ang pagiging kasapi ng publikasyon.

Napuna rin ng mga patnugot na hindi na ulit nagpasa ng kontribusyon ang mga mga manunulat o dibuhistang dating naglakas-loob na magpasa ngunit hindi natanggap. Tila napanghihinaan sila ng loob sa kabiguang mailimbag ang kanilang mga pinaghirapan at pinagpuyatang akda. Sinusubukan itong tugunan ng Heights sa pamamagitan ng post-deliberations kung saan nabibigyan ang mga may-akda ng pagkakataong makausap ang ilang mga kasapi ng Heights upang makakuha ang mga nagpasa ng paliwanag sa kung bakit hindi pinalad ang kanilang likha. Layunin ng post-deliberations na paghusayin pa ng mga manunulat at dibuhista ang kanilang mga gawa. Kaya naman patuloy ang aming panghihikayat sa lahat ng kukuha ng contribution form na lubusin ang pagkakataong ito upang paghusayin ang kanilang sining sa tulong ng Heights.

Sa ngayon, mayroon kaming mga tugon sa mga hamong ito sa panitikan sa Ateneo. Kasalukuyan naming ginagalugad at sinusuyod ang lahat ng sulok ng pamantasan kung saan kami makahahagilap ng mga sulatin, dibuho at litrato. Noon pa ma’y lumalapit na ang Heights sa mga Kagawaran ng Filipino, Ingles at Panitikan sa paghingi ng mga likhang ilalathala sa mga pahina ng aming aklat. Subalit ngayon, sumangguni na rin kami sa iba pang mga Kagawaran ng pamantasan tulad ng Pilosopiya, Teolohiya, at Kasaysayan kung saan umaasa kaming makatagpo ng ilang mga malikhaing sanaysay o creative non-fiction, isang uri ng panitikang naging popular sa mga manunulat ng Heights sa mga nagdaang taon. Kumatok na rin kami maging sa lumalagong komunidad ng mga manunulat at alagad ng sining biswal ng Programang Fine Arts. Nagpamudmod kami noong simula ng taon ng mga liham sa mga guro ng mga kagawarang ito na umaanyaya sa

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kanilang ipakita sa amin ang mga mamamataang sulatin o likhang sining na may potensyal na pumasa sa mga pamantayan ng Heights.   Gayumpaman, ang kinatatakutang pagkamatay ng panitikan sa Ateneo ay hindi lamang pasanin ng mga patnugot at kasapi ng Heights. Nakikibahagi rin sa pagpupunyagi laban sa dahan-dahang paglubog ng panitikan sa Mga Paaralang Loyola ang mga mag-aaral, guro, at kawani ng pamantasan, at kung susuriing mabuti, pati na rin ng buong bansa sa pangkalahatan. Inaanyayahan namin ang lahat ng sumusulat, nagpipinta, gumuguhit, kumukuha ng litrato at nagdidisenyo na huwag matakot at magtangkang ipakita sa amin ang kanilang mga gawa. Sakaling matanggihan, huwag magdalawang-isip na kausapin ang patnugutan ukol dito. Magtiwala sa sariling maililimbag ang inyong likha sa mga pahina ng Heights balangaraw at magpursiging pagyamanin pa ang inyong sining. Mayroon pang Heights ngunit kung wala tayong gagawin, maaaring tuluyan na nga itong maglaho.

JPaul Marasigan Punong Patnugot Agosto 2007

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Nil[laMaN Tula VICTOR ANASTACIO 3 The Final Stroke 4 Watawat Mikael Co 5 Archipelago 10 Cryptic MOOKIE KATIGBAK 12 As Far as Cho-Fu-Sa MARIE LA VIÑA 14 The Stoic PETRA MAGNO 15 novena pantoum KRISTIAN MAMFORTE 16 Mga Kandila KEVIN BRYAN MARIN 18 Pornai WYATT ONG 20 Zoology ALI SANGALANG 22 ChickenJoy AUDREY TRINIDAD 23 Desaparecido 24 Pananalig

1\\

Tuluyan ANNE CALMA 27 Kusinero DOUGLAS CANDANO 31 A Visit to the Exhibition of the International Committee on Children’s Rights 42 Dreaming Valhalla MICHAEL M. COROZA 59 Imbisibol Man ang Tatay ALLAN DERAIN 65 Paputian ng Laba PETRA MAGNO 83 When They Think They Can Fly DANTON REMOTO 85 A Lighted Matchstick, A Novel (Excerpts) EDGAR CALABIA SAMAR 92 Walong Diwata ng Pagkahulog (Mga Sipi sa Nobela) CARINA SAMANTHA SANTOS 99 the end of the world: peter gabriel is on the radio JASON TABINAS 103 Ang Aso sa Likod ng Karinderya MARTIN VILLANUEVA 108 A Time of Silence

Sining Anne Carly Abad 128 Water Veil Erika Bacani 131 Breached 134 Paglimot Justine Cabrera 127 My Subconscious Has A Project Genevieve Go 129 Daughters of Propriety Elie Javier 125 Beautiful Vice Miguel Mercado 126 Pocket Rockets Kimberley Ong 124 Smoke and Mirrors Alyza Taguilaso 123 Take Flight 132 Lungsod 133 Reticence Maurice Wong 130 Omen

Tu la

The Final S+=ok} Victor Anastacio

Millions and millions I have killed In the name of lust and a passing thrill.

tula  

Watawat Ano pa ang daratnan ng araw na malamlam at bit’wing walang kinang kundi tuktok ng tagdan?

heights  tomo lv bilang 1

Unang Gantimpala 2007 Don Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature Tulang Ingles Mula sa Hands for a Fistful of Sand

Archipelago Mikael Co

1.

The horizon, my ancestors say, is an eye. When it shuts its lashes sift the sea for rafts and turn fishermen and divers to stone, their hands still clenched around pearls, their blood turning crystalline and cold.

The gods were in love with the horizon.

They hung their jewels on the night-sky and ebbed into the eye while my people stared at the orphaned trinkets.

The priestesses rummaged through their rucksacks.

They rubbed twigs and killed goats.

They chanted and chanted until their voices felled the trees.

The gods have vanished.

The storms and smog have snatched their jewels from the sky.

When the skies cleared, we saw a sun not even ours.

tula  

2.

The horizon is a lover of light.

Look: The galleons came and went and none were turned to stone.

3.

Ours is a history of consequences.

He who fails to look back.

And what is there to look forward to?

What is left but light? He who runs fast.

When the galleons came, no one ran.

We bartered our tongues for something to chew on, our hands for a fistful of sand.

The priestesses rummaged through their rucksacks.

What is left but light? A stray grain of rice, the hard shell of a crab, a leaf.

An infinite shoreline pining for the bare feet of its vanished gods. A few stars long gone, their carcasses floating in the night sky, beneath them the horizon, wide like an eye, its hungry iris luring the forgetful.

heights  tomo lv bilang 1

4.

What is left but light?

In the mountains my people dance around bonfires and pour the blood of birds unto the parched soil.

In the cities they huddle to tell stories: My throat burns with the echoes of ancient curses. My fingertips have forgotten the texture of sand.

Fireflies gather around lampposts, their tails having already forgotten luminescence, their hearts valuing memory over flight.

Once I closed my eyes and imagined the horizon.

Instead I saw driftwood and the barren bodies of oysters.

Instead I saw a history that has turned to stone.

5.

The Horizon, Lover of Light: Your gods no longer wish to return.

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Priestesses Rummaging Through Their Rucksacks: Carcass of a whale. Coins and crushed coral. Wet maps.

The Horizon, Lover of Light You have looked at the skies and seen only shadows.

You have pressed your ears to a seashell and heard nothing but dust settling on scorched earth.

Priestesses Rummaging Through Their Rucksacks: Slingshots. Many-titted statues.

A stone.

The Horizon, The Lover of Light You have forgotten.

Priestesses Rummaging Through Their Rucksacks: But what is left to remember?

6.

May the horizon grant us salt.

May it pry our pearls from the fists of pirates.

May it blink and turn our enemies to stone and forgive us our dreams of light.

heights  tomo lv bilang 1

7.

Stars remind us of our forgetfulness.

As do shorelines, infinities of sand and jagged stone shifting like memory. Here a story about blood. Here, the quiet resonance of a riddle: two black balls. A well full of swords. Here a song about the horizon. Here, a poem about light.

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Mula sa Hands for a Fistful of Sand

Cryptic Twenty-peso bills are orange and fifty-peso bills are red and the dead men on them were presidents and still we couldn’t decide on whether to leave a tip or to lie down in a field of whithered dandelions.

I don’t think I’ll ever miss snow if I lived in this country, she said. Walang salita para sa snow dito, I said. She didn’t understand, who would, but I spoke just the same. Niyebe, the man beside me said, but I knew that he, like everyone else at the table, just wanted to get inside the girl’s pants, so I pointed out three hundred and thirty-three years of Spanish rule. The sun was busy trying to fit itself inside a spoon. I was thinking of lying down naked on a field of withered dandelions with a Polish exchange student, thinking of how to say “big dick” or “tight twat” or “Fuck you, Arnold” in Polish, but I remembered the Terminator was Austrian, and this guy’s name wasn’t Arnold, anyway, but he had a tattoo that said wielki biokragly, which means big dick in Polish, and his fists reminded me of war and anesthesia and guts strewn across fences. I leave in two days, the girl said. Does that mean come up to my room?

Does that mean I’m burning, you look like it too, let me cool you down with the fists of snow inside my body, hold me with your sun-stained hands?

Welcome to Fantasy Island. Why don’t you get a chair, dream on, talk to the hand, mutter

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titing malaki, makipot na puke, parusa ang magwika, which means big dick, tight twat, to speak is to suffer. Your tongue sounds beautiful, she said and I knew she didn’t mean it that way. What does it mean, she said but in my head I was already home and she was with me, under me, writhing on my sheets, shouting Wielki biokragly! Wielki biokragly! In my head I was already writing a poem. Fuck you, Arnold, so what if you can speak nine languages, the poem would say. No words for snow in my tongue, it would say. To speak is to suffer it would say and in the background the sun raging as it does in the tropics, parusa ang magwika and rice paddies as far as the eyes can see, parusa ang magwika and a field of brittle brown petals so near to dust.

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Unang Gantimpala The Philippines Free Press 2007 Literary Awards Tula

As Far aS C>o-<u-S[ Mookie Katigbak

“If you are coming down the narrows of the river Kiang,

let me know beforehand and I will come out to meet you

As far as Cho-Fu-Sa.”

-Li Po, translated by Ezra Pound

What I am, ever, is this: composure of stone.

Spare weather visiting the garden, small as the hours I keep watch by. Beyond this wall Must be better weathers. This claw of stars Must constellate somewhere into a bear, Else names would lie.

Since winter’s thaws, no script from you Save this: “I travel the river and follow The white gulls—” Husband. See me walking the dusty pass Where loom our prior lives?

Here the years pass that I enshrine Within these walls, sparing nothing From the ardors of my stare. Blue plums, Paired butterflies repeat you

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In a walled world. I tell myself To clear the moss, mend the gate So long unswayed and caked with dirt, But nothing moves. Somewhere You are actual. Happen to me there.

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The StoiC Marie La Viña

While there’s the past in all its gore and glory, rife with miracles and misery I want only now, which is weightless and knows it will not last While time, which loves symmetry, spins in perfect circles, to sleep soundly through the mornings, unburdened by eternity While the pyramids and pleasure-domes beckon from their lucent cities, to watch the trees in the garden trace the light Whistling through the leaves, whisper of water —our nameless, faceless god While the scent of supper wafts through windows into the darkened street, to tell a shoeless man hunched on the curb it’s nothing personal When every twinge and sting to flesh feels like a singed edge of self, I watch the glowworms flicker out on the moonlit lawn While floes float down a river faraway and snow falls in the mountains, how not to love the air, moving everywhere imperceptibly?

When sadness, the old bugger, saunters in, wearing a coat of gloom to let myself remember, in passing, what I’ve lost Which is everything, but nothing ineluctable, nothing I truly need.

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novena pan+ou| Petra Magno

this is our infernal eternal romance when the floor drops from below me i hang on the sounds that make your name now there’s nothing but our milk skin when the floor drops from below me our very breathing is a prayer now there’s nothing but our milk skin & the beads of sweat binding us together our very breathing is a prayer i’d break you into my body & the beads of sweat binding us together this is our rosary; our holy novena i’d break you into my body but i’m clumsy, and all too real this is our rosary; our holy novena & i fear i’ll forget the sacred lines but i’m clumsy, and all too real all blunt edges & heavy bones & i fear i’ll forget the sacred lines you once taught me; our hands in the dark all blunt edges & heavy bones this is our infernal eternal romance you once taught me; our hands in the dark i hang on the sounds that make your name

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Mga Kandila Kristian Mamforte

Pagkatapos ng misa, Susubukin kong makinig sa kaluluwa Ng mga nakahilerang bangkay sa iyong harap.

Humpak na likod, nauupos kang kandilang Nakaupo, nakatitig sa tumpok-tumpok na Bangkay ng hinulmang dasal. .

May pagkakataong naiidlip kaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t namimingwit Ng mailap na panaginip sa madilim Na dagat ng pag-iisa o sa malalim Na ilog ng nalulusaw mong saya Nang biglang huhudyat ang Pagtatapos ng misa.

Larawan ng muling pagdulog sa altar, Dagsa ang sasaglit sa iyong harap.

Aabutan ka ng ilang barya Pipili ng kulay na wawangis sa sisindihang nasa: Puti, katiwasayan; Pula, binubuhay na tibok; Asul, parol sa kaanak na napiit sa purgatoryo.

Nang aking itirik sa katabing kandelero, Agad itinanghal sa aking harap Ang napansin din marahil ng iba: Habang inilalakip sa manipis na aso Ang mga lihim na lunggati, mapangutya Ang sayaw ng lagablab ng kandila

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At ng ngiti ng Birheng Maria sa dagat Ng liwanag sa kaniyang paanan.

Ano mang gawing pikit bumabalik sa akin Ang sanlibo’t isang titig ng pang-uusig.

Ilan na’ng kaluluwa ang lumuhod at sumisid Ng titig sa nalusaw na kandila ng mga nauna Nang tumanghod sa harap ng Birhen?

Ano ang maaaring mahuli sa titig Ng napakaraming kandila?

Habang nakikipagtuos ang apoy sa banta Ng simoy, lalayo tayo’t hindi matatagalan Ang pagpatak ng nangingilid na luha; Ang panganib na malusaw itong pananalig At talinghaga. At samantalang iniiwan nating nakasindi Sa kandelero ang saksi ng namamatay nating titig, Isa-isa tayong matitisod sa daan pauwi. At bigla, Maaalala natin ang matang nag-abot ng kandila Ang nauupos na matanda sa talampakan ng simbahan.

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Porn[i* Kevin Bryan Marin

Nililibot nila ang mga kalye ng Atenas, suot ang pares ng sandalyas na tinadtad ng tinik ang talampakan upang manganyaya sa mga kapi-kapirasong pusong naghahanap ng panandaliang pampuno.

Bitbit nila ang puhunang mga sako ng pag-ibig.

Tinatakpan ng makapal na palamuti ang mga mukha; nakapinta ang paupahang mga mata at labi.

Biniyayaan sila ng de-metrong mga kamay at bisig na yumayakap at umaampon sa mga ulila ng gabi.

Binibigyan nila ng paunang lunas ang pinupulikat na mga dibdib at naghihingalong mga puso.

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Sila ang unang nakadiskubre na apat ang puwang sa puso, kayaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t naniniwala silang hindi masamang umibig nang higit sa isa; mas masamang mamili at umibig lamang ng isa.

_____________ * Pornai ang tawag sa mga bayarang babae sa sinaunang Gresya.

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ZOOlOGy Wyatt Ong

I cannot believe that I am studying The male anatomy The male anatomy The male anatomy The male anatomy of a frog.

It is like prison Only my cell has an endoplasmic reticulum And I have no inmates.

Escape is impossible.

My cell has real walls.

I always knew that man was a complicated thing.

Problems, thoughts, solutions But I didn’t know that he had so many goddamned parts.

I want to feel my heart racing My pulse exploding in the whirlwind depths of feeling and emotion But my textbook says my intercalated disks are rubbing against each other.

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I want to play music To hear the soft sounds, the angry notes Make love with each other in the crisp night air But I am offered only windpipes and other organs.

Even now as I feel the weight Of the pluripotent hematopoietic stem cells I also feel the crushing heaviness of defeat Clutching my throat.

Positional asphyxia, says Prentice Hall.

The tears well up uncontrollably I reach for a tissue But I am offered only adipose or areolar.

tulaâ&#x20AC;&#x192;â&#x20AC;&#x192;

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Chickenjoy Ali Sangalang

Mula nang mapanood ko sa telebisyon ang mamang nangangalkal ng tira-tira sa basurahan, hindi ko na sinasaid ang manok ko sa pinggan.

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DesaParecido Audrey Trinidad

Sa gitna ng panalangin at panaginip, kitaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;y nadatnan maputla ang balat at makapal ang pulbos sa iyong mukha.

Kasal pa natin noong huli mong ginamit ang barong Tagalog na nakabihis sa katawan mong puno ng latay.

Bali ang tadyang durog ang apdo punit ang atay labi na lamang ng lalaking kay tagal kong hinintay.

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Pananalig Dumaan ako sa simbahan kanina nagsindi ng kandila at binigkas ang mga orasyong naisaulo mula pagkabata.

Sa aking pag-alis, dinig ko ang marupok na tunog ng kampana.

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T u l u ya n

Kusinero Anne Calma

Sa kanto ng A. Luna at F. Castillo nakatayo ang Teban’s Eatery. Ang buong kainan ay sukat na sampung malalaking hakbang palapad at mga walo paloob.

May isang malaking mesang kahoy sa harap, kung saan nakapatong ang isang malalim at isang malawak na metal na bandehada ng ulam, tatlong ibaba ng taperwer at isang bilaong lalagyan ng saging. Isang bangkong de dospor-dos ang tanging upuan ng sinumang kakain. Magsasampung taon nang naroon ang kainan, ika nga ng mga taga-roon, sa sabaw na ni Mang Teban sila lumaki.

Menudo, Bicol Express, piniritong tilapia at sopas ang madalas na laman ng apat na bandehada ng ulam. Gigising si Mang Teban ng ala-sais ng umaga para magluto. Inihanda na niya ang mga sahog kinagabihan para mas mabilis ang gawa, para saktong alas nuwebe nasalin na sa kani-kaniyang lalagyan ang mga ulam, para maunahan niya ang karinderya sa tapat na nagbubukas pa ng alas diyes. Ang sabi ng mga taga-roon, pinakamasarap daw ang sopas ni Mang Teban, kaya naman hindi na ito umaabot ng hapunan.

Maliit na lalake lamang si Mang Teban. May kalakihan ang kaniyang mga bisig dahil sa araw-araw na paghahalo ngunit sa kabuuan ay may payat na pangangatawan. Tuwing pasko’y namimigay siya ng halayang ube. Tatlong gusali na tigsampung patong-patong na lanera ang matatanaw na nakapatong sa kusina niya mula sa labas ng kainan. Lahat ito sa loob ng isang araw, patunay ng angking lakas ng mga braso niya. Napanot na rin siya ng panahon.

Nangingintab na ang kaniyang bumbunan habang nagkukulay-abo na ang bandang ibaba. Kahit ang amoy ng bawang at sibuyas ay hindi na maalis sa kaniya. Araw-araw ay laman siya ng kusina, ng kaniyang kainan, kung hindi

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ay ng palengke. Malimit siyang ngumiti, mahilig makipag-usap sa tao, sa kostumer—bata, matanda, babae o lalake, suki o perstaym, madalas na nakikipagbiruan, kakatwa na rin ang kaniyang itsura, at higit sa lahat, walang mintis ang kaniyang pagluluto kaya siguro nakalimutan na ng mga katandaan ang nangyari sa kaniya sampung taon na’ng nakalilipas ngayong pagsapit ng Disyembre.

Kapansin-pansin ang mga pilat sa kaniyang mga kamay. Mga tilamsik ng mantika sa pagluluto. Mga sugat na malalim at mababaw mula sa paghihiwa.

Alam na alam ni Mang Teban kung kailan niya nakuha ang bawat isa. Ang pinakamalaking pilat sa kaniyang kanang kamay, sa bandang gitna ng hinlalaki at hintuturo, sa malapit sa kamao ay natamo niya noong kinuha siyang magluto para sa isang binyag sa isang bahay dalawang kanto ang layo, tatlong taon na’ng nakalilipas.

Subalit ang pinakaunang pilat niya sa pagluluto ay noong tatlumpu’t apat pa siya. Sa Maynilad pa siya nagtatrabaho noon. May asawa siyang namamalagi lamang sa bahay at nagluluto. Pinag-uusapan na nila noon ang pagtatayo ng isang kainan sa harap ng kanilang bahay. Isang gabi, nag-iinuman si Teban at iba pang kalalakihan sa kapitbahay. Nagpaalam siyang sandali sa mga kaibigan at babalik raw siya’t may mabilis lamang na kukunin sa bahay. At dahil tulog na ang asawa’t anak, hindi na niya ito inistorbo upang gisingin.

Dumeretso siya sa kusina. Naroon ang natirang sopas na niluto ng kaniyang asawa panghapunan. Ininit niya ito at tinikman. Sa kaniyang panlasa’y matabang. Habang kinukuha niya sa kaliwang kamay ang isang balot ng asin ay ipinang-abot niya ang kanan sa kutsilyo. Hindi niya namalayan na ang talim ang nahawakan niya. Bumaon at gumuhit ito sa kaniyang palad. Kumuha siya ng kapirasong tela at ibinalot sa sugat para lamang hindi dumugo. Hinipo niya ang kaniyang mukha at pinakiramdaman ang sarili. Mainit na ang kaniyang balat, marahil ay namumula na siya. Nang kumulo nang kaunti ang sabaw at pagkatapos lagyan ng asin, madali niyang inilipat sa mangkok ang sopas at mabilis na pumanaog at bumalik sa kapitbahay. Wari niya’y may nakaligtaan siya ngunit hindi na niya ito pinansin sa pagmamadali at hapdi ng hiwa. Bumalik na siya sa kapitbahay at nakipag-inuman ulit at pinalipas ang dalawa pang lapad ng dyin.

“Teban, bakit naman ang alat nito?” sabi ng katabing umiinom.

“O? dinagdagan ko yan ng ’shin. Antabang kashi nung tinikiman ko ’nina.” sagot ni Teban sabay tagay.

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“Lasing ka na, Tebaaan”, kantiyaw ng katabi.

Pinuno ng magkakapit-bahay ang gabi ng tawanan at hiyawan, biro at usapang pamilya. Hindi maantala ang kanilang kasiyahan hanggang sa makarinig nang sunud-sunod na sigaw mula sa labas.

“Sunog!”

Pagkatapos ay agad na tinigunan nina Teban at pinuntahan ang bahay na pinanggagalingan ng sunog.

“Bahay mo Teban!”, hiyaw ng katabi.

Hindi pa mawari ni Teban ang mga nangyayari. Makalipas ang ilang sandali at nang pagkakita niya ng sunog ay nanumbalik siya sa kaniyang ulirat.

Nagkakagulo noon ang mga tao. Naglabasan ang mga balde ng mga kapitbahay. Binuhos sa nasusunog na bahay ang pila-pilang lalagyan ng tubig, pinilit winawaksi ang sunog na tumutupok sa bahay ni Teban. Wala pa noon ang mga bumbero—ang iyak, hudyat ng isang sakuna. Mabilis kumalat ang apoy sa bato’t kahoy niyang bahay. Sinubok ni Teban na pumasok ngunit nagliliyab na ang lahat ng daanan. Bumigay ang kisame at nabasag ang mga salamin, at lumabas ang apoy sa mga bintana na para lamang biktimang hayok na hayok na makalabas at makasinghap ng hangin. Hinila na lamang siya ng mga kapitbahay palabas upang hindi na muling pumasok. Walang iyak na narinig mula sa loob. Ang sabi-sabi ng mga kapitbahay hindi na raw nakahinga ang mag-ina kaya namatay. Bago pa man tupukin ng sunog ang mga katawan nila’y bangkay na ang mga ito. Maghahalo ang abo ng natupok na bahay, buto’t buhay sa lupa.

Nakasinding kalan daw ang pinagmulan ng apoy. Nasagap ng hinahanging kurtina ang liyab kaya mabilis itong kumalat.

Marami ang nakiramay at nahabag kay Mang Teban. Noong mga unang buwan pagkatapos ng nangyari ay naging maaalalahanin ang mga tao. Lagi’t lagi siyang kinakamusta. Subalit paglaon pa ng ilang buwan nalimot na ng mga tao ang nangyari kasabay ng tuluyang pagkawala ng mga bakas ng sakuna.

Ibinenta ni Mang Teban ang higit sa kalahati ng naiwang lupa. Makalipas ang tatlong buwan ay pinagtayuan niya ng kainan ang naiwang pag-aari.

Binuhay niya ang huling kahilingan ng asawa.

Hindi naging madali para kay Mang Teban ang pagpapatakbo ng eatery.

Wala siyang karanasan sa pagluluto maliban sa panonood niya sa nasirang asawa. Kaya ng unang taon ng eatery ay madalang ang kostumer. Ngunit pinagtsagaan niya ito. Pinaulit-ulit ang pagluluto ng putahe, inaral ang tuluyan

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mali— matabang, maalat, sunog, hilaw, matigas, o lata hanggang sa magtugma ang lasa ng niluto sa lasa ng mga putahe ng asawa sa kaniyang alaala.

At doon nakilala ang kaniyang sopas. Hitik na hitik sa sahog. Lasang-lasa ang pinag-lagaan ng manok. Sopas pa lamang busog ka na. Hindi gawain ni Mang Teban ang magkuripot sa kung anong ilalagay niya sa putahe. Ika ng mga tagaroon, magaling na kusinero si Mang Teban. Gamay na gamay niya ang kusina, ang kaniyang mga kagamitan—kalan, sandok, kaldero, kutsilyo.

Kapag nagluluto, usok pa lamang alam na niya kung may nasusunog na sa kailaliman ng kaldero. Hindi na niya namamalayan na kusa nang gagalaw ang kaniyang kamay upang hinaan ito bagamat may iba pa siyang ginagawa.

Hindi na rin siya tumitingin pag tinatapon ang balat ng itlog pagkatapos itong basagin. Alam na alam na niya ang lakas na gagamitin upang sumakto sa basurahang tatlong hakbang ang layo sa kanyang kanan. Masaya na siya sa nakamit niyang ito. Limot na niya na pangarap ito ng asawa at hindi niya. Hindi na siya ang dating nagtatrabaho sa Maynilad. Kusinero na siya ngayon. Wala na ang nakalipas. Walang bakas nito. Walang litratong pagmamasdan. Walang kagamitan, pigurin, regalo na pagmumunihan. Nabubuhay siya sa ngayon at sa hinaharap. Pawang alaala ng isang malaking sunog ang kahapon.

Bisperas ng ikasampung taong pagkasunog ng kaniyang bahay ngayong gabi. Tulad ng mga ginawa niya sa nakalipas na siyam na taon, patuloy lamang siya sa araw-araw na gawain, ang paghanda ng mga sahog na gagamitin para sa pagluluto bukas. Inaabot niya ang isang malaking mangkok gamit ang kaliwang kamay. Nasagi ng kaniyang baywang ang mesang pinaggagawaan.

Naalog ang mga nakapatong, ang mga mangkok ng hiniwang bawang at sibuyas, ang lalagyan ng asin. Ang tinimplang maanghang na suka at ang bote ng patis nangatapon rin. Natigilan siya’t pinanood ang isang sakuna sa kusina. Sa gilid ng kaniyang paningin nakita niyang nahulog mula sa kanto ng mesa ang kutsilyo. At mabilis niya itong nasalo sa kaniyang kanang palad.

May biglang kumislot. Hindi niya matukoy kung saan at ano ang kumirot.

Napatitig siya sa nabuksang pilat sa kanang palad sabay pisil sa kaliwang dibdib gamit ang kabila.

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Ikatlong Gantimpala The Philippines Free Press 2007 Literary Awards Maikling Kuwento

a Visit to the Exhibition of the International Committee on Children’s Rights Douglas Candano

We were a bit taken aback when we learned that we would be going to the National Conference Center to see the visiting exhibition of the International Committee on Children’s Rights. After all, we had already gone to the Museum of the Filipino Republic earlier in the year, and with the final exams approaching, a school circular about another field trip was totally unexpected.

While we were hardly impressed by the circular, with its formulaic exposition extolling the virtues of the exhibition as a means of bringing awareness to the plight of other children and its usual return slip that had to be signed, acknowledged and cut by our parents, the news it bore brought a lingering sense of excitement and unease in us.

Though we had all heard about the Committee, we struggled to recall what we knew about it. Like Save the Children, care and Greenpeace, the International Committee on Children’s Rights was one of those organizations that people nominally recognized while having only vague ideas about their actual activities. Some of us recalled reading in the newspapers that the exhibition had just arrived from Jakarta the other night, and after a few days, would be moving on to Cebu and Davao to complete its first Southeast Asian tour. As far as anyone knew, the Committee had been touring the world with its exhibition for the past couple of decades. Strange as this may have tuluyan

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seemed, it was apparent from the newspapers that the Committee was doing well, since aside from being awarded numerous international citations, it also counted on constant donations from a multicultural array of benefactors such as Li Ka Shing, George Soros and Rafiq Hariri.

However, this did not mean that the Committee was beyond reproach.

The more studious of us remembered the existence of a few critical articles, which were immediately found and circulated through our mailing list. Some of these pieces painted the exhibition as a tasteless gimmick that focused too much on emotions but failed to tackle any of the social, economic and cultural reasons for the violation of children’s rights. Others saw it as an attempt to impose the hegemony of a certain moral code among poorer nations. A few even questioned the usefulness of the Committee itself, especially since its activities were seemingly limited to its perpetually touring exhibition.

Since we were generally unable to follow the complex arguments in the articles, we were far more disturbed by the presence of unconfirmed and untraceable rumors that suggested a more sinister side to the Committee. It was said that the during the mid-1980s, the Committee was banned in several countries in Latin America and Eastern Europe after some visitors experienced mass hallucinations which left them hysterically rambling for hours about their essences being sucked by unseen entities. It was also said that more recently, the Committee had been hiring psychics, shamans and occultists as part of its circle of consultants. There was even talk of the Committee as a front for shady evangelicals who used the exhibition as a way to conduct covert baptisms.

There was little to be known about the exhibition itself. Nothing but a few random sentences directly mentioned it, even in the articles critical of the Committee. These little bits of information were at best vague, such as that the contents of the exhibition, which ranged from the cheerful to the macabre, changed daily, and that it was, for better or worse, a life-changing experience for any visitor.

These facts and rumors were a constant source of anxiety and curiosity for us in the days leading up to our visit. Though we constantly thought of the infinite possibilities that the exhibition may bring, at different points we also wondered if we could somehow persuade our parents not to allow us to go, or if the field trip could possibly be cancelled. Yet we knew that the school had already called our parents not only to assure them of our safety and well-be32

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ing, but also to inform them that our visit was a rare educational opportunity to deepen our understanding of the school’s values through a venue unavailable to previous batches.

And so, whatever concerns and worries we may have had remained unanswered until the day that, all present, we boarded a rented tour bus en route to the National Conference Center. Though the unease and uncertainty of the previous week lingered, we shared chips, crackers and dirty jokes. This was, after all, a field trip, an anomaly in the monotony of student life that somehow, despite the rumors, we welcomed as a distraction from our academic responsibilities and club duties.

Because of heavy traffic, it was only after an hour that we arrived at the National Conference Center at the bayside boundary of Pasay and Manila.

The parking lot was full. We were not the only ones to visit the exhibition as we saw students from different schools move among the throngs of buses.

From the variety of uniforms, it appeared that a good percentage of Manila’s schools, both public and private, were represented, almost giving the place the atmosphere of a papal visit.

After alighting from the bus, our teachers led us towards one of the Center’s many entrances to take our place among the winding queues. Huge banners emblazoned with four skeletal children of different races squatting within a globe – the seal of the International Committee on Children’s Rights, were scattered around the Center’s façade. Though the sun seemed to burn the back of our heads and the incessant chattering around us was a source of irritation, the line fortunately moved fast, and within a few minutes, we entered the air-conditioned comfort of the Center’s lobby.

Our teachers led us to a corner of the white-tiled lobby and asked us to stay put while they got our tickets from the counter at the opposite end. While waiting, we chatted among ourselves. From where we stood, we could see a pair of black curtains embroidered with the Committee’s seal a few meters away from the back of the counter. As we discussed the possibilities that lay behind those curtains, the more suave of us tried to draw the girls from the other schools into our conversations. Like us, they knew little of the Committee and its exhibition, and had been equally surprised when they were informed of their field trip.

This mini soirée was broken up after a few minutes by the arrival of our teachers, who handed each of us a non-descript ticket, and a pair of earphones tuluyan

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connected to a small device that was to be strapped to our arms. We were then instructed to pass by the red dots scattered throughout the exhibition proper.

As we moved in two lines towards the black curtains, past the other students who were already beginning to strap their listening devices, and past the registration counter where we surrendered our tickets, we saw and passed by a red dot on the floor. A red light flickered on our listening devices and a voice with a gruff Scottish accent welcomed us to the exhibition of the International Committee on Children’s Rights.

While the voice finished explaining that the exhibition was composed of different rooms that the Committee constantly adjusted to suit local and regional concerns, we made our way past the curtains. Though we wondered what the voice meant by that, our listening devices fell silent. We found ourselves in a dark, narrow hallway that led to a room with another red dot at the entrance.

Inside, the walls of the room had glass panels displaying various girls and boys of different ages in the nude. At this point the Scottish voice returned by explaining that this room illustrated the physical aspects of a child by showing the physiological diversity among children. Propped up by stands, the display of girls and boys seemed to cut across age and race while apparently being ordered in a chronological manner. The voice directed our attention to the leftmost portion of the room, where we saw a collection of newborn babies of different races, all appearing to be covered by a shiny glaze. The voice explained that these were the remains of real children that were preserved using a special type of plasticine. This news left an odd sense of surprise and fascination among us. Until then, we had no inkling of what we were looking at, and we were a bit surprised at how easy it was to look at something that we would have normally thought terrifying and disturbing.

From the newborn babies, the voice then led us through the exhibitions’ displays on infants, toddlers, and a wide-range of various pre-pubescent and pre-teen children. Though we were bored by the voice’s jargon-laced explanations of the physical changes that happened as one child transited from one stage to the other, we found the female portion of the exhibition’s display on adolescents riveting.

In retrospect, the girls behind the glass display that day could have barely been called women. However, since it was the first time most of us had actu34

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ally seen a naked girl, the sight of budding breasts and the first wisps of pubic hair titillated us. We barely listened to the voice’s exposition on puberty as we sheepishly looked at the girls. Though the special plasticine gave their bodies an odd sheen that was more prominent among the girls of African descent, we somehow got the impression that this was a very natural, albeit rare sight, and continued staring until the voice announced that we had to proceed to the next room.

By this time we were already standing on the right side of the room, near a brightly illuminated doorway with yet another red dot at its entrance. As we passed by the red dot and into the next room, the voice announced that we had entered the Hall of Recreation.

From where we stood, we could see several rows of shelves stretch out into the shadows. On the shelves was an immense variety of toys, games and sporting goods – some familiar to us, while others we found a bit odd and foreign.

The voice explained that the Hall of Recreation was created because of the importance of recreational activities in the physical, mental, social and cultural development of every child. The Hall contained the most extensive collection of children’s recreational materials in the world. This collection was also exhaustive given that its contents continuously grew with every new toy, game or sport invented.

As the voice spoke we witnessed new items materialize. Were the Hall not so brightly illuminated we would have been more frightened than confused.

Toy guns, spears and swords appeared beside die-cast robots, cars and planes while different dolls suddenly sat beside tennis rackets, baseball bats, and basketballs. Rocking horses, action figures and slingshots took their place beside chess sets, board games, and video game consoles as cuddly animals, cricket wickets and masks appeared alongside kitchen sets, putty and Frisbees. More confusing were the headless dolls, misshapen mud globs and various kinds of rocks that were scattered on different shelves. As a seemingly infinite array of items sprouted on endless rows of shelves, the voice announced that owing to the nature of the Hall, our tour would only take us through a tiny portion of the exhibit.

At the voice’s instructions, we started to move forward. We were told that the path that had been designed for our tour was special since instead of the regular shelves, we were to go through the ones where the new items were tuluyan

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held before being placed in the exhibit. As we drew closer, we began to see that on the shelves, behind each item, were thin television monitors that flickered on as soon as we saw them.

Since flat screen televisions would only become commercially available years later, we were amazed by the sharpness and resolution of the images that flashed on the multitude of monitors. On each screen, a picture of the recreational item in front of it was shown, followed by a series of short clips showing the item being used by different children, whose joy and energy seemed to be magnified by the television screens. After a few seconds, the items would all disappear, making way for another batch of items and videos as they became part of the Hall’s perpetually growing collection.

Though we were still a bit confused, as we moved around, witnessing fishing rods turn into boomerangs and jackstones give way to plastic dinosaurs, the numerous clips of happy children seemed to rub off. Gradually, an uncontrollable and inexplicable kind of happiness took root in each of us, so that we were skipping and humming by the time we reached the other side of the Hall of Recreation.

We were so happy that when the voice announced that we were to leave the Hall and move on to the next part of the Exhibition, we realized that we weren’t really certain if we had heard it speak since its introduction to the area. And so, while we struggled to suppress our mirth, we made our way through the Hall’s exit and into the next room.

Unlike the first two rooms, the third area did not have a corridor or a red dot at its entrance. Instead, we immediately found ourselves in a white-carpeted room with several mannequins of different races. These mannequins were all dressed differently. There were male and female mannequins in business suits, lab coats, and various uniforms, while a few were dressed in a more informal manner – the males in boxer shorts and undershirts and the females in tattered dusters.

There was a red dot embedded in the carpet a few meters from the closest mannequin – a Caucasian male wearing a doctor’s coat with a stethoscope dangling from its ears. Already accustomed to the Exhibition’s red dots, each of us walked over it in anticipation of an explanation for such a bland display.

Almost on cue, the voice revealed that this room was created to illustrate how access to a good education was crucial towards unlocking the potential 36

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of every child. Because of the uniqueness inherent in each child, the room tried to effect a convergence of life stories in the form of the mannequins, which we were then instructed to approach.

One by one the mannequins started to stir and open their expressionless glass eyes. Then the mannequin nearest to us – the one dressed as a Caucasian doctor, started to speak.

Introducing itself as the late Dr. James Smith, the mannequin started by saying that as a child growing up in an American suburb, he had wanted to become an astronaut so that he could visit other planets. However, his mother’s death due to cancer led him to decide that he wanted to become a doctor, which he finally accomplished a decade later. As a doctor, he had felt good helping the sick and infirm, especially those who had went on to live long and prosperous lives.

As the Dr. Smith mannequin talked more about his life, a few of us started to feel a bit bored and began to approach the next mannequin – this time a Chinese-looking male in business attire. In an odd Chinese-British accent, the mannequin said that it was the late Stanley Lim, a Malaysian businessman whose parents immigrated to Malaysia before he was born. Since his family was poor, while growing up he knew that he wanted to become rich so that his children wouldn’t experience hardship. As such, he became very serious in his studies and eventually was able to acquire the skills and experiences necessary to become successful in Malaysia’s real estate market.

After a few minutes, we decided to move on to the other mannequins, and left Dr. Smith and Mr. Lim to their monologues. We moved from mannequin to mannequin, setting off such a varied collection of life stories that within a few minutes, the whole room resonated with the monotonous drone of their voices.

It was soon apparent that the room had both successes and failures. Aside from the American doctor and the Malaysian businessman, there was the Pakistani imam whose diligence at the madrassa gave him the authority to speak about Allah’s law, the Morrocan women’s rights activist who successfully petitioned the King for the establishment of gender parity measures, and the Filipino human rights lawyer who defended the wrongfully accused during the Martial Law period. In contrast, there were also mannequins of the Brazilian slum dweller who was content to spend his time drinking cachaça all day, the German woman who was content to stay at home while living on tuluyan

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welfare benefits, as well as the Kazakh woman who dropped out of school to become a masseuse in a Macanese massage parlor.

Although we found the mannequins’ stories a bit too preachy and did not really care for the fact that they continued to speak even after we had left them, we were a bit disconcerted by the way they referred to themselves in past terms, and how they seemed to convey a feeling of repressed anguish despite their blank faces and monotonous tones. In this sense, we were very relieved when the talking of the mannequins began to wane, their eyes began to close, and the voice returned with directions to proceed to the next area of the Exhibition.

The white carpet of the previous room was soon replaced by wooden-paneled flooring as we stepped past another red dot and into the Exhibition’s next part. A few dozen strange machines were scattered in an otherwise insignificant area. Each unit consisted of complex modules that were attached to each other by colorful wires and circuits. Perhaps the most discernable part of these machines were chairs that we could see through the glass panels on the surface of each contraption. As we pondered the purpose of these machines, the voice told us that the area where we were in was called the Viewing Room of Abuses.

The voice continued by saying that although most of the world’s countries had already ratified the International Convention on the Protection of the Fundamental Rights of the Child, child abuse still constituted one of the world’s more acute problems. Despite the continued efforts of groups such as the International Committee on Children’s Rights, child abuse has become a rampant if not lucrative business, especially in developing countries. As such, the Viewing Room of Abuses was created to give viewers an idea of a social disease that had to be stamped out.

At this point, the voice drew our attention towards the strange machines.

As we had imagined when we first saw the chairs, each one of us was to be seated in what the voice called a “viewing unit.” As per the voice’s instructions, our teachers led us to be seated inside a viewing unit, where we were strapped with a safety harness and told to remain calm. A few minutes after the hatches were closed, the lights began to dim, and within seconds, we found ourselves in different places and scenarios.

Though each one of us knew that we were still somewhere in the National Conference Center, our senses were telling us that we were alone in a dif38

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ferent space and time. Some of us found ourselves as child laborers, stitching sneakers in hot, cramped Chinese factories where we had to work despite aching hands and parched throats. Others felt the heavy burden of cargo being strapped to their backs as they staggered through the world’s piers. There were even a few of us who appeared in Cambodian brothels, looking helplessly as overweight, balding foreigners loosened their belts to ask for “boom-boom.”

As some of us felt the horrors of child abuse rooted in poverty, others experienced a more domestic kind of suffering. While a number of us went through being cursed, slapped and punched by drunken parents, a handful became a parish priest’s “little sultana.”

Although we were not sure how long we stayed in those infernal viewing units, the unspeakable horrors during those moments were so intense that, by the time we were brought back and the lights were turned on, most of us – even those known to be bullies in class, were reduced to silent sobbing. At that point, none of us wanted to continue. The only thing we wanted to do was to go home. We took off our earphones and began to unstrap our listening devices from our arms.

To our dismay, the gruff Scottish voice was still audible even without the earphones. Without hesitation, it told us that we were to proceed to the next, and final area of the Exhibition. At this we turned to our teachers with angry sobs. Although we all wanted nothing to do with the Exhibition, our teachers made it clear that we had no choice but to proceed. This was because the Exhibition’s path was extremely linear such that there was really only one exit. We then agreed that we would all leave our listening devices, that none of us would walk over a red dot, and that we would all walk swiftly through the next room and out of the National Conference Center.

With our resolutions, we left the Viewing Room of Abuses and entered a dark, humid corridor with no lights save for different patches of faint colors eerily suspended in the air. Contrary to our expectations, there was no red dot to be seen. As we made our way into the room, the voice welcomed us into the Corridor of the Nameless, the final area of the Exhibition.

The voice began by saying that individuality was something that people considered important. Although names generally tended to recur in specific cultural milieus, having a name is crucial in the development of one’s individuality. As such, one of the most fundamental rights of every child is to be named and to know their name. tuluyan

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Unfortunately, some children die before being named or get to know their name. In this context, the International Committee on Children’s Rights had decided to pay homage to the memory of the nameless by creating an area for them to collectively gather and be remembered.

While the voice was still speaking, we had tried to make our way through the corridor. However, upon reaching the area of the room that had orange particles floating around, we were seized by a happiness that was even more intense than the one we had felt earlier. As we forgot about our problems and began to immerse ourselves in laughter, the voice said that we were standing in the area where all the nameless children who died happy were gathered.

Our laughter continued for a few more minutes, until it slowed down and finally disappeared along with the orange particles. Still grinning, we walked towards the area with blue particles, where we were overwhelmed by a tremendous melancholia and depression. At this, the voice announced that we had reached the area where the nameless children who died sad were gathered.

A pattern then became clear. After a few minutes, we would be able to regain our composure albeit still feeling the effects of the colored particles, which by then would have vanished. Then, we would move into another area with a different set of floating particles that triggered an emotion that corresponded to that of the nameless babies at their time of death. This emotion would render us helpless until the pattern began all over again.

This pattern held true for most of the subsequent areas. For example, in the area with the red particles, which supposedly contained the children who had died angry, we became prone to an outburst of anger that had us shouting and nearly coming to blows with one another. In much the same way, the area where the nameless children who died selfish and envious - where the green particles floated, had us obsessively touching our pockets while keeping a close eye on one another.

However, the pattern would prove to be relative. As we approached the last area before the exit – where white particles formed a thick haze above the floor, we felt a distilled kind of nothingness, a deep kind of numbness that left us devoid of any emotions. The voice then said that the area housed the stillborn and aborted babies.

As we passed through the exit, the voice thanked us for visiting the Exhibition of the International Committee on Children’s Rights. Back on the 40

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bus, we were all silent. When we got home, we all told our parents that the trip was alright and did not add any other details. During the next few days of school, no one talked about the field trip in public, and although we had originally thought that our teachers would ask for a reflection paper or conduct a quiz about our visit, no such requirement ever came up.

The months, then years passed, and we went along with our lives, going through school, marrying, and fathering children, barely remembering the Visiting Exhibition of the International Committee on Children’s’ Rights except during sudden, seemingly tangential instances, or in the nightmares that take us back to hear the voice’s gruff monotone in our sleep.

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Ikalawang Gantimpala 2007 Don Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature Maikling Kuwento sa Ingles

Dreaming Valhalla Taken from www.tsinoy.org/mysterentreps/echua.html as part of the site’s online repository of information concerning unusual events in the Chinese-Filipino community’s history.

While the Church of the Nativity along Katapatan Road is considered a landmark, by no means does it date back to Hispanic times. For despite its arched doorways, stained glass windows and stone carvings typical of 18th century Manila, the Church was actually constructed in the late 1990s, on the spot where the Valhalla Club used to be until it burned down, and its owner, Ericsson Chua, disappeared.

In its heyday, the Valhalla Club was Manila’s premier nightclub, where politicians rubbed elbows with lonely expatriates and the sons of Chinese taipans. There, they would drink, dine and be merry as they stroked the thighs of the lovely valkyries.

From the outside, the Valhalla Club was nothing special. It was shaped like a huge concrete box, its façade whitewashed with rainbow trimmings.

Two guards were stationed under the huge Valhalla Club logo that was fixed in bronze. Right beside them were mirrored doors that reflected the faces of customers in the neon glow of the Valhalla Club sign atop the building. On any given night, the club’s parking lot was full of cars with their license plates covered with newspaper, while uniformed guards and drivers smoked under the huge Balete trees clustered at the lot’s corner.

Once past the mirrored doors, however, the customer would find himself in a different world. The Valhalla Club appeared true to its name. Rows of long wooden tables stretched into the shadows of the immense stone walls. The 42

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customer would then be approached by one of the slender, blue-eyed valkyries who with a whisper of “Welcome einheri,” would lead him to his table. There, the newly christened warrior could subject himself to the full pleasures of Valhalla, drinking from horns always filled to the brim with mead and eating endless servings of boar dishes prepared in the most delectable ways. Ranging from medallions of boar with foie gras to exotic boar curries, the dishes were served by the valkyries, who also took care to refill each customer’s drinking horn while providing an attentive ear to the lonely einheriar. If a customer wanted to become more intimate with one of the valkyries, special rooms were located at the sides of the hall.

It is said that to be a valkyrie at the Valhalla Club one had to be a virgin.

As such, it was rumored that a generous compensation package awaited the valkyries who followed a customer into the special rooms. Despite all this, it should be noted that the Valhalla Club was never raided in its years of operation – something attributed to the effectiveness with which Ericsson Chua, its owner, ran the nightclub.

Right until his disappearance during the burning of the Valhalla Club, Ericsson kept a low profile despite his rumored ties to influential politicians, businessmen and even members of the diplomatic corps. He was but a shadow in the club, only occasionally seen outside his office.

Ericsson Chua was born in the middle of 1953 to Chinese immigrants. His parents originally came from a small town in the province of Fujian. Because of a land dispute between their families, the young couple decided to elope, somehow finding their way aboard a ship bound for Manila, where they arrived in September of 1951. The Chua couple eagerly settled in the sizable Chinese community in Binondo while pondering ways in which they would prosper. After a few unsuccessful business attempts, Ericsson’s father decided to open a panciteria, taking the name of a popular jazz song for the eatery.

In those days Dizzy Malone’s Dreaming Valhalla was a jukebox favorite. In the same manner, the Panciteria Valhalla, which operated inside the house of the Chua couple, became successful, with Manileños quickly falling in love with the eatery’s special mami, miki and lomi.

The success of the Panciteria Valhalla ensured that, by April 15, 1953, the day Ericsson Chua was born, the Chua family was among the Chinese middle class. To celebrate the birth of his son, Ericsson’s father served free bowls of mami to the panciteria’s customers that day. tuluyan

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The actual entry of Ericsson Chua into the world was not exactly memorable. He was born at three in the morning in his parents’ house. The baby was not named immediately. In fact, Ericsson was a name suggested by one of the panciteria’s regular patrons – a history student from ust. The Chuas liked the sound of the name although they were barely able to pronounce it. In this manner, Ericsson Chua only came to exist a week after he was born.

Ericsson’s early childhood was spent among the sights and smells of the panciteria, where he crawled, stood, and finally walked among the servers and customers, sometimes upsetting an order or two. By his fifth birthday, Ericsson’s parents decided to send him to school.

A few blocks from the Panciteria Valhalla was a Chinese school run by the Jesuits, who were chased out of China upon the Communist’s assumption of power. The school was housed in a three-story building with huge wooden doors. There were two areas. Elementary classes were held in the west wing, while high school students crowded the eastern wing. Today part of a warehouse, the school was famous for its emphasis on mathematics and science.

Classes were taught mostly in English, with special lessons on Chinese language and composition, as well as basic Filipino.

Ericsson Chua was enrolled from 1959 to 1970. Those who remembered him generally had a picture of a quiet boy who excelled in his studies but was notorious for some reason.

Though he did not graduate valedictorian or salutatorian, Ericsson Chua maintained an average of 93 throughout his elementary years. His discipline record was spotless save for an incident that happened on February 13, 1964.

Ericsson was then in the fifth grade. Not counting his high grades and aversion to competitive sports, he tended to blend into the background. Perhaps it was this anonymity that drew Robertson Co to pick on him.

Records show that Robertson Co was then also enrolled in the fifth grade.

Robertson was considered problematic, with barely passing grades and a number of disciplinary cases to his name. On the 13th of February, right after the lunch bell had sounded, Robertson Co approached Ericsson. Robertson started by telling him that he knew that Ericsson’s parents owned Panciteria Valhalla. He then demanded that Ericsson give him a free bowl of miki that afternoon. Ericsson appeared taken aback. However, after a few moments, he shrugged his shoulders noncommittally and proceeded down the stairs. This upset Robertson Co, who rushed behind Ericsson and pushed him against the 44

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railing. He then tried to strangle Ericsson.

The scene that followed was described by the disciplinary report as “unfortunate and strange,” especially since “Mr. Chua acted in a way not just out of character but also detrimental to the ideals and good name of the school.”

Ericsson Chua never did give Robertson Co a chance to strangle him. Turning around quickly, he gouged Roberston’s eyes, then “kicked his genitals, after which he pushed him face first down the stairs.” He then “went up to Mr. Co, who was already starting to bleed, and rammed his head repeatedly against the wall until they were separated by nearby students and teachers.”

While Robertson Co was brought to the hospital, Ericsson was brought to the principal’s office. After being orally reprimanded, he was given a two-day suspension. Interestingly enough, Robertson Co did not sustain any injuries.

Despite being unconscious and bleeding while being brought to the hospital, he did not even have a bruise upon his admission, which led the doctors to question if a fight had indeed, taken place.

It is uncertain what Ericsson did during his suspension. Though some said he stayed in his room, there were rumors that he was expelled from the Chua household for the duration of the two days. Those who whispered rumors said that Ericsson stayed in the Chinese cemetery during this time, living on grave offerings and stray cats. Whatever the truth may have been, when Ericsson Chua returned from his suspension, those who knew him began to treat him with a detached respect that bordered on fear.

Aside from that incident, nothing of note happened during Ericsson’s elementary years. He graduated with honors on March 29, 1966. In June of that same year, Ericsson Chua entered his school’s eastern wing.

While Ericsson suddenly became taller and his voice changed during this time, he still avoided sports and did well in class. For the first few months of high school, Ericsson was wont to spend his breaks sitting on an otherwise empty bench, aloof to his classmates and teachers as he stared into space.

At home, the Chua family was bent on expanding the panciteria, which was generally full at every mealtime. Their clientele was also becoming more diverse, with even an occasional probinsyano making an appearance on weekends and holidays. Additionally, the Chuas also talked about getting a new house.

As such, money was becoming an important part of family discussions.

Around this time, comic books were popular among teenagers. While local titles such as Darna, Captain Barbell and Lastikman were eagerly followed, tuluyan

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Ericsson wanted to amass a collection of American comics, especially those featuring Superman, Spiderman and The Avengers. However, he could buy only one comic book per month with his allowance and with his family’s investments right around the corner, asking more money from his parents was useless. As such, it would hardly seem surprising that in around October of 1966, Ericsson Chua decided to go into business.

By then, some of his schoolmates had begun smoking. Every day, after the last bell had rung, some students would hide behind the school building to smoke and chat. American brands such as Winston, Camel and Marlboro were popular within these circles. However, newer, cheaper brands such as Ericsson Chua’s Asgard were always welcome.

Where Ericsson got his Asgard cigarettes has never been known. There were rumors that they were homemade in the Chua’s panciteria. Each stick was an uneven piece of yellowed paper rolled in various sizes. The filters came in different colors and sizes with the Asgard name stenciled on each. Asgards came in small cardboard boxes that had stickers of a bearded Thor on them.

The god of thunder and lighting was shown smoking a cigarette while leaning on his fiery goat cart, his trademark glove and hammer casually lying on the floor. Some pointed out that coincidentally, Thor was also one of Ericsson Chua’s favorite Avengers. Often, the stickers appeared browned and curled, especially during the hotter days of the year.

However crude Asgard cigarettes may have appeared to be, students quickly bought Ericsson Chua’s entire stock. Their flavor was described as addictively nutty with a taste of honey that lingered a few seconds after their gold-tainted smoke was exhaled. Students usually finished a pack within hours, which was good considering that the cigarettes appeared to work for only a limited time.

This meant that those who bought a pack of Asgards intending to smoke them later usually found bits of wax and string where the cigarettes were supposed to be.

With the growing number of students finding their Asgards useless being added to those who already developed a taste for them, it was no surprise that people were always looking for Ericsson Chua. However, these people had a hard time finding him. While Ericsson still attended class regularly, he was never seen during breaks. Those who tried to confront him during class hours were ignored.

On January 14, 1967, right after dismissal time, Ericsson Chua was seen 46

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outside the school. He was talking to an old Chinese lady. A few of those looking for him drew near. Ericsson did not acknowledge their presence and gradually, their numbers grew. After a few minutes, Ericsson turned to face them. Without giving them time to speak, he pointed to the old Chinese lady, telling them to direct any questions or concerns to his cousin Socorro.

Though she opened her toothless mouth, not a sound passed between the old lady’s lips. People drew closer to her. It soon became apparent that she was not going to speak. Frustrated, the people then turned towards Ericsson Chua.

Shouts and curses were hurled at Ericsson. There was even a boy who threatened to have him castrated. Suddenly, one of the boys lunged at him.

However, before he could reach Ericsson, the old lady got in his way and the boy fell to the ground. Others tried to push their way past the old lady.

However, she did not budge. A few bystanders broke off everything, and by the time things were in order, both Ericsson and the old Chinese lady had disappeared.

The identity of the old lady has never been established. The existence of an actual “cousin Soccorro” is questionable, since the Chua couple had no known relatives in the Philippines during this time. Nevertheless, while the incident earned Ericsson enemies, it also attracted people to him.

Most notable of those whose attentions Ericsson Chua attracted were members of “the group,” a clique composed mostly of the rich, spoiled sons of influential Binondo families. A common characteristic of its members was that none of them would accept things not being done their way. As such, it is not certain how the members got along. Membership was by invitation only, and there were rumors that a vow of secrecy and a blood compact were prerequisites for initiation. This vow appears to be eternally binding, as the surviving members of the group all refused to be interviewed about internal group dynamics, as well as the extent of Ericsson Chua’s involvement in their activities.

However, it appears that Ericsson held an important position within the group’s hierarchy, since they met frequently at the Panciteria Valhalla.

While little can be written about the internal workings of the group, the actions of the group have become a part of Binondo lore. For example, versions of the events of September 27, 1968 can still be heard among the current student population of Binondo’s different schools. tuluyan

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According to all accounts, at around three in the afternoon, known members of the group were seen in the vicinity of the abandoned Athena Drug Store building on P. Damaso. Each dragged huge, wolf-like dogs by thick chains. Although all the dogs were vicious, Ericsson’s was the biggest and most terrifying.

Eyewitnesses described the dogs as ravenous, with spittle dribbling down their huge jaws. Ericsson Chua’s dog was foaming at the mouth. A cooked ham – one of the lesser-known specialties of the panciteria – was then brought out, and the dogs were left to fight things among themselves.

As the members of the group stood by, the dogs tore at each other’s throats.

Although it was a terrible battle, Ericsson’s dog was the most vicious. By the end of the hour, all the other dogs were dead, their exposed entrails steaming in the afternoon heat.

Despite a city ordinance against dog fighting, the viciousness of the dogs assured that no official of the local government considered interfering. That the members of the group were scions of the Binondo elite also proved detrimental to the local government’s implementation of its rules.

The origin of the dogs has never been adequately established, yet several rumors about an underground source for what have been called hellhounds has been a Binondo urban legend since the late 1960s. Aside from its initial appearance, Ericsson Chua’s dog was never publicly seen again. However, according to those familiar with the Valhalla Club’s inner workings, Ericsson Chua was occasionally seen with a vicious-looking dog that ate from a pail of human hands. The hands, they said, could be attributed to Ericsson’s links with the public mortuary.

At any rate, that incident marked the beginning of a series of activities attributed to the group. Aside from well-known incidents such as the Pussycat Orgy, and the spread of cherub dust, the group was also purportedly linked to several smaller incidents. It would only be fair, however, to point out that the police were said to have arrested group members on a few occasions, but the records of these arrests would always disappear as soon as they were filed, and the group member would be free to go to school the following day. This was also true of the discipline records of group members, which were spotless through each member’s high school education. As a consequence, it was difficult to tell the difference between an ordinary student and a group member.

By December 1969, the Chua family had moved into a two-story house 48

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along Patola Road. The family’s living quarters inside the panciteria were converted into an additional dining room, marking the first of many renovations to the Panciteria Valhalla, which by this time had become a Binondo institution. As such, when Ericsson graduated from high school with honors on March 20, 1970, the panciteria had satisfied the hunger of many famous personalities, such as Pedro Adigue, Carina Afable, and Pilita Corrales. Even President Marcos was said to have been a customer, occasionally stopping by to savor Valhalla’s version of pinakbet with a side dish of bihon.

After they graduated from high school, the different members of the group parted ways. Some decided to go to college, either in the country’s top universities, or abroad, while others decided to become immediately involved in their family businesses. Ericsson decided to study in the United States. Although his sats were remarkably high, he decided to forego the opportunity to study in universities such as Harvard, Yale or Princeton, choosing instead to go to the University of Northeastern Indiana, where he matriculated on September 10, 1970.

Not much can be gathered from Ericsson’s stay in the University of Northeastern Indiana, a cluster of nondescript buildings situated in a sparsely populated area a hundred miles from Indianapolis. Like most other foreign students, Ericsson lived in the co-ed Hench Hall, a dormitory on the Eastern side of the campus. Because of the university’s small foreign student population, the residents of Hench Hall during Ericsson Chua’s freshman year were limited to one student each from the countries of Turkey, Czechoslovakia, Trinidad and Tobago, Bolivia, South Korea, and in Ericsson’s case, the Philippines. Thus, membership in the University of Northeastern Indiana Foreign Students Association (uneifsa) during this time only amounted to eight people.

Enrolled from September 10, 1970 to June 12, 1974, Ericsson Chua graduated magna cum laude with a bachelor’s degree in business management, and minors in history and mathematics. His college years were unremarkable for a bright foreign student save for his relationship with the foreign student from Trinidad and Tobago.

At the onset of his junior year in September, 1972, Ericsson moved out of Hench Hall to rent an off-campus cottage. There, he lived with Samantha Manning, the student from Trinidad and Tobago. Although they were often seen in each other’s company, no one expected Ericsson Chua and Samantha Manning to be on intimate terms. As ranking members of the uneifsa, that tuluyan

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the two were often seen together was of no surprise, especially since the foreign student population had recently risen to 15 students. Besides, it was hard to picture Samantha as anyone’s love interest. Often called Aunt Jemima the Ogress behind her back, Samantha was a humongously fat black woman with bad skin, frizzy hair, tiny, irregular teeth and an abrasive attitude. As such, it was only in its later stages that her pregnancy was noticed, as people attributed her increase in girth to her robust appetite.

Because of their relative seclusion in their cottage, not much is known about the domestic life of Ericsson and Samantha. However, it is well known that Samantha gave birth in the middle of December 1972, a couple of days before Christmas vacation began. Owing to the fact that neither the local hospital nor any public place had any records of Samatha’s giving birth, it can be assumed that she gave birth inside the cottage. At any rate, people were shocked when they saw the offspring of Ericsson Chua and Samantha Manning.

Among all the other mysteries surrounding Ericsson Chua, the known details about his two children are perhaps, the hardest to comprehend. A boy and girl, Ericsson’s twins have been described as monstrously ugly. In contrast to the gargantuan proportions of its mother, the boy was a small, skeletal thing with serpentine features. If the boy had not been born with teeth, it seemed that it had started growing them within days of its birth as, according to all accounts, rows of jagged, fang-like teeth could be seen in its mouth.

While toothless, the girl was by no means ordinary. Unusually pale, the girl appeared to be perpetually frowning and devoid of any emotion.

While no harm came to Ericsson Chua, Samantha Manning, or their brood, this did not mean there were no rumors about them. Some said that the twins were manifestations of evil spirits. Others said that the children’s ugliness was a form of divine punishment, while some of the more ignorant claimed that they were the result of their parents’ inadequate Third World nutrition.

Whatever the case may have been, it is known that upon his graduation in June of 1974, Ericsson Chua left Samantha and the twins behind to return to Manila. His parents had asked that he help in the operations of the panciteria.

Since his parents were traditional Chinese, Ericsson apparently kept his relations with Samantha and his fatherhood from them, choosing instead to leave his quasi-family behind in Indiana, although from later events, it is apparent that some kind of correspondence was maintained after he left.

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The Panciteria Valhalla that Ericsson Chua returned to had expanded during Ericsson’s years in Indiana. The Martial Law years had proved to be profitable for the Chua family. As the president’s favorite eatery, the now occupied a three-story building, and had played host to a number of visiting dignitaries such as Ugandan President Idi Amin, then American Vice President Gerald Ford, and Persia’s Shah Mohammad Reza Pahlavi. Its menu had expanded to include dishes with ingredients such as truffles and Kobe beef. Additionally, the panciteria also employed the services of Chua Yun Ting, a blind Chinese noodle master from the mainland, who was said to be a distant cousin of Ericsson’s mother.

Despite his blindness, it is said that the noodles of Chua Yun Ting were the finest anywhere, even in China. Blinded in his forties by an accident, Chua Yun Ting could still prepare and slice noodle dough with precision while creating dishes that never failed to amaze. Ranging from soft clay-roasted duck on a bed of noodles to his version of birthday noodles with prawns and abalone, Chua Yun Ting’s cooking skills, coupled with his gentle nature, made him the most loved among the Panciteria Valhalla staff.

The Panciteria Valhalla’s success ensured that when Ericsson Chua arrived from Indiana to work as the panciteria’s assistant manager, he had no difficulty reestablishing contact with the other members of the group, who had remained loyal patrons during his absence. By this time, most of his friends were executives in their family corporations.

And so, when Ericsson Chua came back to Manila on June 20, 1974, he found himself in very good company. Aside from his friends from the group, his job as the panciteria’s assistant manager brought him in contact with a variety of famous personalities. Ericsson was often the one who entertained highlevel politicians and movie stars after the Chua couple first welcomed them.

This was mostly due to practical reasons – Ericsson’s command of both English and Tagalog was impeccable, and he was knowledgeable about a variety of topics that would make for interesting conversations. While this resulted in many invitations to social events, Ericsson would always beg off for one reason or another. The reasons for this have never been established.

Aside from entertaining the panciteria’s guests, Ericsson’s duties also involved marketing. However, since the Panciteria Valhalla was already well established, Ericsson’s fulfillment of his marketing duties mainly consisted of buying ad space in Manila guidebooks, and occasionally inviting food critics tuluyan

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from the country’s different broad sheets.

However, on August 20, 1979, life changed for Ericsson. His father suddenly died of a stroke. Given the prominence of the Panciteria Valhalla, it should hardly be surprising that the wake and funeral were grand. Although the president was only at the wake for a few minutes, he did give a huge funeral wreath in addition to sending a personal representative to the funeral.

Understandably, things changed after the death of Ericsson’s father. His mother was now the sole proprietor and manager of the Panciteria Valhalla, and Ericsson Chua’s duties were expanded to include operations. This marked the beginning of several changes in the panciteria.

One of the first changes that Ericsson Chua instituted was to keep the panciteria open for twenty-four hours. The Panciteria Valhalla’s prominence had made demand for its food unusually high. Customers were known to queue outside the panciteria until closing time approached. Ericsson’s move made certain that the appetites of the panciteria’s customers would always be satisfied. Ericsson also tried to accommodate the panciteria’s customers by adding two additional floors to serve as dining rooms, in addition to purchasing an empty lot along Katapatan Road that was to be the site of the second Panciteria Valhalla branch.

Ericsson also expanded the panciteria’s products. Working with Chua Yun Ting, he added several dishes to the menu such as baked quail on thin cellophane noodles, flame roasted mutton on a spit, and liquidless turtle soup, which instantly became a best seller, as much as a novelty. Ericsson also added alcoholic beverages, stocking wines, liquors and beers from around the world.

More importantly, in December of 1979, the panciteria became the first establishment in the Philippines to offer mead.

Much has been said about the mead served in the Panciteria Valhalla – a golden concoction that amazed even those from Poland and the Scandinavian countries. It is said that a sip would bring solace to the broke, comfort to the stressed, and laughter to the heartbroken. However not everyone was impressed by the new drink. There were rumors that Valhalla’s mead was nothing more than adulterated beer laced with endorphins, while some said that the mead was manufactured in a dirty, old warehouse by scruffy men who would occasionally spit into the brew to add foam. Whatever the case, Valhalla’s mead was ordered with most meals in the panciteria.

Ericsson Chua’s changes were approved by his mother, who delighted in 52

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the revenue increases that these brought. However, on November 4, 1982, Ericsson proposed and pushed for an idea that would affect the relationship between mother and son.

Shortly after a trip to Olongapo, Ericsson Chua suggested to his mother that the panciteria staff be replaced by scantily clad waitresses. He pointed out that this would add to the panciteria’s ability to attract customers. Such a move would give the panciteria a fresh new look, especially since it would be hard to argue with the selling power of sex. Ericsson’s suggestion was immediately rejected by his mother, who was appalled at the thought of replacing the staff – some of whom had been working in the Panciteria Valhalla since the mid1950s. Moreover, she also thought that Ericsson’s suggestion would destroy the image that the panciteria had spent close to 30 years building. Ericsson’s suggestion led to a heated argument. By the end of the month, Ericsson Chua was effectively pushed aside when his mother told him to stop interfering with the panciteria’s operations and instead concentrate on the construction of the new Panciteria Valhalla branch on Katapatan Road. They never spoke to each other again.

At this time, work on the Katapatan Road lot had not yet begun. Spanning a couple thousand square meters, the lot was enclosed by thick walls with graffiti sprayed on them. Inside, rubbish lay littered in the areas close to the walls, while a few Balete trees were clustered together in the middle of the lot. After his argument with his mother, Ericsson Chua made himself scarce. There were rumors that he had left the country to go back to the United States, while some said that he had begun to work in a siopao factory in Malabon, where he butchered stray cats for the factory’s special bola-bola pao. Whatever the case, Ericsson Chua disappeared, only reappearing after the death of his mother on her birthday, April 10, 1983.

Ericsson’s mother was poisoned at her birthday party. In a departure from traditional Chinese practice, she had eaten a bowl of birthday noodles, first and alone. To the horror of her guests, moments later, she fell face-first into the dining table, turning purple while frothing at the mouth. Analysis later revealed that she had been poisoned by the birthday noodles, which had been laced with a complex toxic substance. Consequently, the blind noodle master Chua Yun Ting was arrested and charged with the murder of his employer and distant cousin.

During the trial of Chua Yun Ting, prosecutors found it hard to establish a tuluyan

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motive. Ericsson’s mother was loved and respected by the panciteria staff, and Chua Yun Ting was no exception. In fact, the relationship between the blind noodle master and his deceased employer appeared to be very close. However, during the trial, Chua Yun Ting admitted to preparing the fatal noodles, which had been requested by the birthday celebrant for her banquet. He denied poisoning his distant cousin though, maintaining that he had prepared the noodles to give the birthday celebrant a delight that was by no means meant to be fatal. Interestingly enough, those present during the trial say that Chua Yun Ting had claimed that Ericsson Chua had assisted by handing him the spices used to flavor the fatal dish. Given the old noodle master’s blindness and the fact that nobody had seen Ericsson in almost a year, Chua Yun Ting’s statements were not taken seriously, and he was sentenced to death, dying on the electric chair on June 12, 1984. It is of note, however, that the name of Ericsson Chua does not appear in any of the trial’s official proceedings.

Following the death of Ericsson Chua’s mother, the Panciteria Valhalla closed for the first time in years. Ericsson Chua, who for years had been expected to continue his parents’ legacy, was nowhere to be found. It was only on December 15, 1984 that Ericsson resurfaced and the Panciteria Valhalla reopened.

The Panciteria Valhalla reopened with only mediocre success. Since it had been closed for more than a year, a lot of the panciteria’s former patrons had found other places to eat. Additionally, most of the eatery’s old staff had found other jobs, or refused to work for Ericsson Chua out of loyalty to his mother.

The panciteria itself was beginning to deteriorate as the floors and tables – untouched since Ericsson arrived from Indiana a decade before, began to creak and groan. As such, customers were greeted by creaky old furniture, bad service, and bland food. It was clear that the Panciteria Valhalla would gradually slip into obscurity if nothing were done.

Nothing was done by Ericsson to save the Panciteria Valhalla, which, after whetting the appetites of presidents, foreign dignitaries and ordinary people for more than 30 years, quietly closed on April 6, 1985. The Panciteria Valhalla’s gradual decline and eventual closure did not mean that Ericsson Chua was idle since his reappearance. On the contrary, it appeared that he was busy developing the Katapatan Road lot that was originally envisioned to be the second branch of the panciteria.

During the time of the panciteria’s decline, a flurry of activity could be 54

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seen at the lot. A portion of the wall had been torn down, and several guards were posted at the newly made entrance. Everyday, workmen and their heavy machines could be seen entering and leaving the lot. Some of the Balete trees at the middle of the lot were also transferred near the wall. As the months passed, the wall was eventually torn down, revealing a huge whitewashed concrete building with rainbow trimmings and mirrored doors, beside which was the bronze Valhalla Club sign.

And so, on January 5, 1986, nine months after the Panciteria Valhalla closed, the Valhalla Club opened. Many famous personalities graced the club’s opening, among them General Fidel Ramos, Minister Juan Ponce Enrile, General Fabian Ver and Bongbong Marcos. It would be the last time these personalities partied together before Ramos and Enrile broke ties with the government. Foreign dignitaries and Ericsson Chua’s friends from the group – who by now had begun running their respective family corporations were also present at the event, where they were all named einheriar for the first time by the beautiful, blue eyed valkyries.

The opening of the Valhalla Club also earned it enemies that pushed for its closure on moral grounds. Letters were published in newspapers that hit the nightclub as symptomatic of the decay of the Filipino people, while priests warned their congregation never to set foot in that house of sin.

The outbreak of the Edsa Revolution on February 22, 1986 drew attention away from the Valhalla Club, although there were those who, upon the inauguration of Corazon Aquino as the country’s 11th president, thought that the club would be closed because of its links to the Marcos regime. Needless to say, no such closure happened and despite the political changes, nothing at the Valhalla Club changed. Every night, its mirrored doors would bring its high-profile guests in to be welcomed and entertained by the lovely, mysterious and eternally virginal blue-eyed valkyries.

There is a lot of debate about where Ericsson Chua got the valkyries. Some whispered that he had shady partners in the ussr who would supply women from such places as Kiev, Leningrad and Moscow. Others even said that the valkyries were aetas that took an entirely different form inside the club because of drugs or witchcraft. The more paranoid even said that Ericsson Chua had a two-decade old agreement with some American soldiers stationed at Clark and Subic to spread their blond and blue-eyed genes among the locals to create illegitimate children who would go on to work at the Valhalla Club. tuluyan

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Whatever the case, the Valhalla Club’s valkyries were seemingly infinite.

No valkyrie was ever seen in the club more than once, although the names of Brunhild, Hildr, and Sigrun were always present, albeit belonging to different faces. The einheriar seemed not to really mind this, as each sultry valkyrie seemed to know each customer’s deepest desires. It fact, it would seem that conversations with valkyries were carried over from one visit to the next, as each new valkyrie seemed to know everything about their einheriar, who also found solace in the seemingly limitless mead and boar dishes offered at the Valhalla Club.

Although it seemed that the mead served at the Valhalla Club was a carryover from the panciteria days, those who had tried both swore that they were different. While the panciteria’s mead relaxed and consoled, it is said that the mead served at the Valhalla Club blocked all thoughts of the outside world.

Wives, children, meetings, and court cases were all forgotten with a sip, allowing each einheri to concentrate on Valhalla’s delights. The never-ending variety of boar dishes, too, were said to possess the power to open senses that went beyond tasting, touching, seeing, hearing, and smelling. For the Club’s Muslim einheriar such as Arab dignitaries, halal mutton was used instead, although those who had tried both said that dishes prepared with boar seemed to unlock more hidden senses.

While the einheriar lost themselves in the company of the valkyries, Ericsson Chua was usually in his office. Those who entered the office often described it as nothing really remarkable save for it sometimes smelling like a dead snake and muriatic acid-burned flesh, and that there was sometimes a viscous dog at the corner of the room.

As the years passed, it seemed that the Valhalla Club remained oddly constant. This is interesting since aside from the nightly valkyrie changes, the arrangement of the hall also seemed to change every night. Though the long tables would always look different, as would the different decorations on the stone walls, these changes always seemed to be variations of the same services that the einheriar could undoubtedly count on, even amidst the chaos of the ram coup attempts of the late 1980s.

However, on the evening of June 1 and the early hours of June 2, 1992, everything came to an end at the Valhalla Club. Those present during that night said that even before entering the club, something seemed wrong. The huge Balete trees at the corner of the club’s lot – placed there since the Valhalla 56

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Club’s construction, had been cut, leaving behind their withered roots. The rainbow trimmings of the building’s façade also appeared dull and cracked.

Inside, it was chillier than usual. Nonetheless, the Valhalla Club’s einheriar – politicians, diplomats, and the taipans who were members of Ericsson’s group, were present, entertained by the valkyries, whose charms they could not resist despite noticing that all their fingernails seemed to be gone.

By ten in the evening, everything seemed normal. Families and the intrigues of the business and political worlds were forgotten, the einheriar were drinking mead and eating boar, and quite a few were leading their valkyries into the private corner rooms. At around ten thirty, Ericsson Chua made an uncharacteristic appearance outside his office, followed by a young man and a young woman.

People were disturbed and appalled by the appearance of Ericsson’s companions. Towering at around eight feet, the young man was thin and had a distinctly serpentine face. His shifty eyes seemed to look in different directions and he had rows of pointed teeth that were all fang-like. For her part, the young woman was short and had a grayish complexion. Her face was fixed in a sorrowful grimace. Ericsson Chua and his two companions sat at the end of a sparsely occupied long table. Some said that Ericsson’s shoes appeared to have been made of fingernails. Asked about the identity of Ericsson’s two companions, the Valhalla Club staff replied that they had heard that these were Ericsson’s children that he had not seen for the past two decades. This was apparently their first time in Manila, and as such, Ericsson had much to talk about with them. However vague, this answer appeared to have satisfied the einheriar in their detached state, and nobody paid much attention to Ericsson Chua and his ugly children for most of the night.

Shortly after midnight, a series of strange and horrifying events began to take place in the Valhalla Club.

Although several contradictory details have been noticed in the accounts of survivors, it should be pointed out that the basic sequence of events appears to be generally consistent in the testimonies. At around one or one thirty in the morning, the main lights of the Valhalla Club dimmed then suddenly turned off. Already unusually cold that night, the temperature inside the club became freezing, and the einheriar could only snuggle against the valkyries for warmth.

The usually smooth skin of the valkyries seemed to feel a little damp and tuluyan

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irregular, and as their eyes adjusted to the darkness, the einheriar saw that they were actually embracing corpses with their skins peeled off. Understandably, each customer recoiled in horror, especially those who were in the process of enjoying the services of the valkyries in the private rooms. Needless to say, at this point the desire to leave was great, and each warrior began running towards the exit.

The next few moments have been described as chaotic and surreal. As the customers tried to make their way towards the exit, Ericsson Chua remained seated. His two companions, however, could be seen in the middle of the pack of bodies rushing towards the club’s doors. The tall young man began swallowing people. Survivors said that the young man’s belly had expanded to unbelievable proportions after he had eaten a few people, while the young woman watched passively. The door of Ericsson Chua’s office then burst open as a huge, wolf-like dog ran towards the customers, foaming at the mouth.

As Ericsson’s dog tore off hands and feet, the Valhalla Club suddenly caught fire all around. Nobody really knows where the fire came from, but it quickly consumed everything in its path while thick smoke filled the smoldering hall.

According to all accounts, the smoke caused not only customers, but also Ericsson’s dog and young companions, to choke and collapse. The young man in particular was frightening, as it coughed out body parts on the floor before it finally stopped breathing. Interestingly enough, the accounts differ on what happened to Ericsson Chua. Some survivors said that he was swallowed by the young man who was reportedly his son. Others said that he was buried alive as the burning roof beams collapsed. It has also been said that Ericsson Chua melted into a liquid mass as he was consumed by flames.

Whatever happened to Ericsson Chua, it is certain that he disappeared, and the morning of June 2, 1992 saw a lot of missing public officials, diplomats, and businessmen. The identities of all the fatalities have to this day not yet been established, as it is said that well-disguised actors assumed some identities and positions. What is certain, however, is on that morning, the Valhalla Club which, like its owner, had its roots in the small Panciteria Valhalla at the heart of Binondo, ceased to exist, and on its ruins was built the Church of the Nativity a few years later.

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Ikatlong Gantimpala 2007 Don Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature Maikling Kuwentong Pambata sa Filipino

Imbisibol Man ang Tatay Michael M. Coroza

Sabi ni Lola, magkakaroon daw ng tagabulag ang sinumang makasaló sa mutya ng puso ng saging. Hatinggabing walang buwan daw kung pumatak ito. Sa gitna ng karimlan, kailangang abangan ang halos kisap-matang pagbuka ng puso. Kailangang agad na masaló ng bibig ang mutyang papatak. Kung hindi, malalaglag ito sa lupa at tuluyang maglalaho.

Ang sarap sigurong magkaroon ng tagabulag. Biruin mo, isang subò mo lamang dito, hindi ka na matatayâ kapag nakipaglaro ka ng taguan. Hindi ka na makikita ng nanay mo kung ayaw mong maligo. Malulusutan mo ang guwardiya sa paaralan kahit naiwanan mo sa bahay ang id mo.

Gustong-gusto kong magkaroon ng tagabulag. Pag mayroon ako nito, puwede na akong maging isang superhero. Halimbawa, pag ginagabi ng uwi si Nanay mula sa trabaho at naghihilik na si Lola sa kaniyang tumba-tumba, at biglang may pumasok na magnanakaw sa bahay namin, isusubo ko agad ang aking tagabulag. Papatirin ko ang walang kamalay-malay na magnanakaw. Pagsubsob niya sa sahig, dadambahan ko siya nang dadambahan sa likod.

Pihadong magugulat siya at paninindigan ng buhok kapag dinampot ko ang kaniyang baril o patalim na nalaglag sa sahig. Makikita niya itong parang nakalutang at sasayaw-sayaw sa hangin. Kakaripas siya ng takbo sa pag-aakalang may multo sa bahay namin.

Kung halimbawang nagpapalit kami ni Nanay ng tseke sa bangko, at biglang may sumigaw ng “Holdap ito! Itaas ang inyong mga kamay,” agad na isusubo ko ang aking tagabulag. Pupunta ako doon sa may lalagyan ng pera at hihilahin ko ang isang sako ng barya. Magugulat ang holdaper kapag nakita nitong umuulan ng barya sa kaniyang ulunan. Tiyak na mapapaaray siya sa tuluyan

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sunod-sunod na patak ng mga limampiso sa kaniyang bumbunan. Pihadong magtatatarang siya at mabaliw-baliw na susuko sa mga armadong pulis na nag-aabang sa labas ng bangko. Magpapalakpakan ang mga tao, pati na ang Nanay ko, matapos kong iluwa ang aking tagabulag. Halos hindi nila mapaniwalaang isang bata ang nagligtas sa kanila. At tatawagin nila akong “imbisibol boy.”

Sana nga may tagabulag ako. Isinubo ko na sana ito noong tinatanong ako ng titser ko sa Sibika at Kultura: “Nasaan ang assignment mo, Miguelito?”

Napayuko na lamang ako at hindi tumutugon habang patuloy siya sa pagtatanong: “Wala ka bang retrato ng pamilya mo?”

Dinukot ko sa bulsa ng aking bag ang dala kong retrato. Pero si Nanay, Lola, at ako lamang ang naroon.

“Pero nasaan ang Tatay mo, Miguelito?”

“Ma’am, imbisibol man po ang Tatay ko.”

Nagtawanan ang aking mga kaklase.

“Putok sa buho ka siguro,” sabad ng isang nasa harapan.

“Baka kabit ang nanay mo,” singit ng isang nasa likuran.

Nagpanting ang tenga ko.

Ngitngit na ngitngit ang titser ko.

“Gusto kong makausap ang Nanay mo!”

Madalang lamang talagang umuwi ang Tatay ko sa amin. Pasulpot-sulpot, walang tiyak na panahon ang pagdating. Si Lola, si Nanay, at ako lamang ang palaging magkakasama sa bahay. Pag nag-uusisa ako kung nasaan si Tatay, “Nasa malayong bayan siya at naghahanapbuhay,” ang laging tugon ni Nanay.

May mga kaklase rin akong may tatay na naghahanapbuhay sa malayo. Si Aya, halimbawa, nasa Canada ang tatay niya. Hulíng umuwi raw ang tatay niya noong magdiwang siya ng ikapitong kaarawan. Pero lagi siyang sinusulatan nito. Pinadadalhan pa nga raw siya ng mga mensaheng naka-video. At dose-dosena ang album ng mga retrato niya kasama ang kaniyang tatay at nanay.

Sa bahay namin, wala akong mahalungkat na retrato na magkakasama kami nina Tatay at Nanay. Sa album nga ng mga retrato noong binyagán ako at noong magdiwang ako ng una at ikapitong kaarawan, walang mukha o hugis man lamang ni Tatay na nahagip ng kamera. Tinititigan kong mabuti ang 60

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mga retrato. Sa mga siwang o bakanteng espasyo na puwedeng pagsingitan ng mukha o hugis ng tao, iniisip kong naroon si Tatay. May tagabulag lamang siguro siya kaya hindi makita.

Laging maagap at malambing naman si Nanay sa pagpapaliwanag: “Salesman ang Tatay mo at nasa malayong destino siya noon kaya hindi nakarating.”

“Mga bata, magdala kayo búkas ng retrato ng kasal ng nanay at tatay ninyo,” ang minsang mahigpit na bilin ng titser ko sa Christian Living.

Hinalughog ko ang lahat ng puwedeng pagtaguan ng retrato sa aming bahay. Halos maiyak si Lola sa pagkumbinsi sa akin: “Apo, inanod ng baha ang retrato ng kasal ng Tatay at Nanay mo.”

Madalas ngang bumaha sa lugar namin. Pag matindi ang buhos ng ulan, kahit walang bagyo, nagmimistulang ilog ang kalye at halos isang metro ang taas ng tubig na pumapasok sa silong ng bahay namin. Lumulutang at natatangay palabas ang anumang bagay na magaan tulad ng silya o mesa. Pero bakit naanod pati ang importanteng retrato ng kasal nina Tatay at Nanay?

Ayokong muling mapahiya sa titser ko. Ayokong muling mapagtawanan ng mga kaklase ko. Kaya magdamag na hinintay ko noon ang pagpatak ng mutya ng puso ng saging sa likod-bahay namin. Kinaumagahan, natagpuan ako nina Nanay at Lola sa ilalim ng puno ng saging, nakahandusay at inaapoy ng lagnat. Nagkaroon ako ng dahilan para umabsent sa klase nang araw na iyon.

Halos isang linggo akong nilalagnat at inuubo. Isang gabi, himalang dumating ang Tatay ko. Madalas na gabi siya kung dumating at maagang-maagang umaalis din kinabukasan. Sinasabi na lamang ni Nanay sa akin na dumating siya, at nakaalis na.

Pero nang gabing iyon, magdamag niya akong binantayan sa aking higaan.

Pinunasan niya ng bimpong basâ ang buo kong katawan. Maya’t maya, binabasâ niya ng malamig na tubig ang tuwalyang nakatapal sa aking noo. Alam kong hindi ako nananaginip nang sabihin niya sa akin ang mga katagang: “Anak, pasensiya ka na kung di tayo madalas magkita. May trabaho ang Tatay.

Gusto kitang bigyan ng magandang kinabukasan.”

Iyon na siguro ang pinakamabisang gamot na nagpagaling sa akin.

Natutuhan ko nang tanggapin ang pagiging laging wala ni Tatay sa amin.

Napag-isip-isip ko na hindi ko ito dapat problemahin. Imbisibol man siya palagi, hindi naman niya kami pinababayaan. Tinutustusan niya ang lahat ng tuluyan

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pangangailangan namin nina Nanay at Lola. Pinapag-aaral niya ako sa isang magandang eskuwelahan.

Nang minsang umuwi si Tatay, kahit maghahatinggabi na, tiniyak ni Nanay na makunan kaming tatlo ng retrato. Ginising pa niya si Lola para siyang pumindot sa kamera. Sa huwes lamang pala ikinasal sina Tatay at Nanay kaya wala silang retrato na katulad ng sa mga kaklase ko—naka-Barong Tagalog o Amerikana ang tatay, nakamahabang bestidong puti ang nanay.

Isang linggo bago ang aking ikasampung kaarawan, nakatanggap si Nanay ng tsekeng padala raw ni Tatay. Bilang regalo sa bertdey ko, ibinilin daw ni Tatay na ipamili ako ni Nanay ng damit, laruan, at kung ano pang gusto ko.

Tuwang-tuwa si Nanay. Magpasalamat daw ako at hindi nalilimutan ni Tatay ang aking kaarawan.

Bisperas ng kaarawan ko nang masayang-masayang namili kami ni Nanay sa mall. Bitbit namin sa magkabilang kamay ang aming mga pinamili. Halos mabitiwan ko sa bigat ang aking mga dala. Pababa na kami sa escalator nang biglang matanaw ko sa ikalawang palapag ng mall ang Tatay ko. Hindi ako nagkakamali. Si Tatay nga iyon.

Nagtatalon at nagsisigaw ako: “Tatay! Tatay! Narito kami ni Nanay.”

Nagtinginan sa akin ang mga tao. Halos magkanlalaglag sa escalator ang mga bitbit ko. Sinasaway ako ni Nanay. Huwag daw akong maingay. Nakakahiya raw. Pero hindi ko siya pinansin. Nagpatuloy ako sa paghiyaw: “Tatay!

Tatay! Narito kami ni Nanay.”

Pagkababa namin sa escalator, biglang sumabog ang isang súpot ng mga damit na bitbit ni Nanay. Kinailangang isa-isa niyang damputin ang naglaglagang damit. Hindi ko siya tinulungan. Habol ng tingin ko si Tatay.

Pababa na rin si Tatay sa escalator, may bitbit ding súpot ng pinamili. Pero may akay siyang batang babae, halos kasing edad ko. Isang nakaposturang babae, na kasing edad siguro ni Nanay, ang nasa likuran niya. Parang may ibinubulong sa kaniya. Parang may kung anong pumigil sa akin sa pagsigaw.

Sinundan ko na lamang sila ng tingin hanggang sa tuluyan silang makababa sa escalator. Abala pa rin si Nanay sa pagdampot sa mga sumambulat na pinamili namin.

Dumaan si Tatay, ang batang akay niya, at ang babaeng nakapostura sa harap namin ni Nanay. “Tatay, narito kami ni Nanay,” impit na nasambit ko.

Pero hindi niya ako narinig. Kakalabitin ko sana siya sa braso pero mabilis at tuloy-tuloy ang lakad nila papalabas ng mall. Parang hindi kami napansin ni 62

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Tatay. Parang bigla kaming naging imbisibol.

Kinabukasan, nang mismong araw ng bertdey ko, hindi ko na inasahan ang pagdating ni Tatay. Tulad ng dati, si Nanay at si Lola lamang ang aking kasama. Walang nakadalo ni isa man sa mga titser ko. Sa mga kaklase ko, si Aya lamang ang dumating. Sinamahan siya ng kaniyang nanay at ng tatay niyang kauuwi mula sa Canada para magbakasyon nang tatlong buwan sa Filipinas.

Maagang sinamahan ako ni Nanay sa pagsisimba. Marami raw akong dapat ipagpasalamat sa kabila ng lahat. Pagkatapos ng misa, nanatili kaming nakaupo sa malapit sa altar. May gusto raw ipagtapat sa akin si Nanay. Maintindihan ko raw sana ang kaniyang isasalaysay.

Hindi pala inakala ni Nanay na may asawa na si Tatay nang maging kasintahan niya ito. Ipinagbubuntis na niya ako nang malaman niyang hindi na siya puwedeng pakasalan ni Tatay. Muntik na raw niya akong ipinalaglag dahil sa kahihiyan. Pero pinakiusapan siya ni Lola na huwag akong pagkaitan ng buhay. Napag-isip-isip niya rin na wala naman akong kinalaman sa pagkakamali nila ni Tatay. Kinailangan lamang lumipat ng tirahan sina Lola at Nanay. Nangako naman daw si Tatay na susuportahan ang aking paglaki. At naghihintay lamang daw ito ng tamang pagkakataon para maipakilala ako sa aking kapatid—sa batang babaeng anak ng tunay na asawa ni Tatay.

Nang mga sandaling iyon, hindi ko malaman kung ano ang dapat kong itugon kay Nanay. Higit na mahirap ang kaniyang pinagdaanan. Wala siyang asawa pero nabuntis. Wala siyang asawang nag-alaga sa kaniya habang lumalaki ang kaniyang tiyan. Noong manganganak na siya, walang asawang nagdala sa kaniya sa ospital. At ano kaya ang sinabi sa kaniya ng mga tao?

Palagay ko, higit sa ngitngit ng titser ko at sa pagtatawa ng mga kaklase ko ang bulong-bulungan ng mga tao tungkol sa kaniyang pagiging dalagang ina.

Ginusto niya rin sigurong magkaroon ng tagabulag.

Niyakap ko si Nanay nang mahigpit. Marami nga pala akong dapat ipagpasalamat. At nasa kaniya lamang pala ang mutyang matagal ko nang hinahanap. Sa pagbuka ng kaniyang bibig, nasalo ko ang mutyang higit na mabisa kaysa sa tagabulag. Nakamit ko ang mutyang nagmulat sa akin para makita ko ang hindi karaniwang nakikita. Mahal na mahal ako ng Nanay ko. Anak din ako ng Tatay ko. Kahit ano ang sabihin ng mga tao, may karapatan akong mabuhay sa mundo. May karapatan akong magmahal at mahalin ng kapuwa ko. tuluyan

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Kanina, nang sindihan ni Lola ang sampung kandila sa aking cake at magsimulang kumanta ng “Maligayang Bati” ang mga bisita, may ibinulong sa akin si Nanay. Taimtim daw na sambitin ko ang pinakamimithi kong makamit sa aking kaarawan bago ko hipan ang mga kandila. Sinunod ko si Nanay.

Taimtim kong binigkas sa sarili ang isang panalangin: “Gusto kong magmahal na tulad ng pagmamahal ng Nanay ko sa akin. At kung magiging tatay ako balang araw, titiyakin kong hindi ako magiging imbisibol man.”

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Unang Gantimpala 2007 Don Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature Maikling Kuwento sa Filipino

Paputian ng Laba Allan Derain

HINDI TALAGA KAMI makapaniwala sa kanilang alok nung una. Isang libong piso para sa bawat maghapong paggamit nila dito sa aming barongbarong? Aba, para palang upa sa hotel, hirit ni Papadu na di naman nauunawaan talaga ang kaniyang hinihirit puwera na lang kung ang ibig pala niyang sabihin ng hotel ay motel. Kung ba’t ganito ang tingin ko, malalaman n’yo rin maya-maya. Basta tatandaan n’yo lang ’yong salitang ‘motel’ dahil diyan mahilig ang tatay namin. Pero hindi kasi talaga ’yan ang kuwento ko kaya balik tayo sa aming barong-barong.

Masinsinan kaming kinausap nung matabang baklang nakakulay abong alampay at puting sun visor. Siya raw ang kumakatawan para sa Lavides Entertainment Venture. Sa dinami-rami ng mga bahay dito sa Maynila, ang sa amin daw ang totoong tumawag ng kanilang pansin. Kung sa bagay, sa labas pa lang talagang may dating nang pang ‘Maalaala Mo Kaya?’ itong aming tinitirhan. Kung titingnan mo itong maigi mula sa di kalayuan, parang lagi itong humihingi ng tulong, pang-unawa at proteksyon laban sa karahasan. Sa kabila ng mga nagdaang bagyo, baha at lindol, nakatayo pa rin ang tatlo pero dati’y lima nitong haligi. Palo tsina at tabla ang mga dinding na pinuno namin ng mga puting krus panakot sa manananggal na pasumpong-sumpong kung manalakay sa Maynila. Harap lang ng bahay ang konkreto kaya nga maliwanag na nakasulat sa gawing itaas nito sa itim at malalaking letra: BAWAL TIBAGIN. Sinulat sadya ito para do’n sa mga naiinggit na mga kapitbahay na may mga tirahang naibabalibag ng bagyo hanggang kabilang barangay. Kung tutuusin halos wala na ngang titibagin dito dahil sa pagkalaki-laking guang gawa ng bintanang may inartehang rehas na halos sumakop na sa buong dingtuluyan

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ding. Harap ng sari-sari store sana ang gustong mangyari ni Mamadu sa gawing ito ng bahay pero dahil walang mga panindang maisasabit sa bintana kaya naging bintana na lang. Pero hindi ko siguro puwedeng sabihing ‘naging bintana’ na lang. Hindi lang naman ito simpleng bintanang nagpapakita sa amin kung ano ang nasa labas. Bintana rin ito ng mga tagalabas para laguslagusang makita kami ritong mga nasa loob. At sa pagdating ng mga artista ng pinakaaabangang telenobela sa aming bahay ay lalo pang mag-iibayo ang silbi ng bintanang ito sa mga usyoso.

Pagpasok niya sa aming bahay, lalo pang natuwa ’yong baklang nakakulay abong alampay at puting sun visor nang makita ang mataas at kinakalawang na banggerahan.

“Dito masarap mambrutal,” sabi niya. “Damang-dama ko ’yong dahas, ’yong poot, ’yong sarap ng pananadista dito mismo sa sulok na ito. Kaya kung meron tayong isang katutak na sampalan, lahat ’yon dito natin gagawin. At itong lababong ito—naku marami akong eksena para sa lababong ito na ngayon pa lang makikita sa telebisyon.” Nabuksan ang aming mga mata sa unang pagkakataon at noon lang din namin nakitang may gano’ng pampelikulang katangian pala ang aming banggerahan.

Tatlong van ang dumating no’ng sumunod na araw. Nang makita naming inilabas buhat sa isang van ’yong mga kable at ’yong kamera, naniwala na kami. Artista na nga itong bahay namin.

‘Dakila, Busilak at Wagas’ daw ang pamagat ng telenobelang gagawin nila dito sa amin. Tungkol daw ito kay Veronica, isang karaniwang labandera na anak pala ng mayamang mag-asawang may malaking korporasyon sa Ayala-Makati. Kung paano siya napagkaitan ng tunay niyang pagkatao at kung paano niya ito babawiin sa huli, dito magpapaikot-ikot ang buong istorya ng nasabing telenobela. Iyong matabang baklang nakakulay abong alampay at puting sun visor pala ang magiging direktor at si Mari Jodi Lualhati ang gaganap naman daw sa papel ni Veronica.

“Direk, gipit lang kami ngayon kaya kung puwede isasanla ko muna sa inyo itong relo ko.” Si Papadu iyon—maagang sinusubukan ang kaniyang kapalaran. “Direk, kakaiba itong relong ito. Nawawala.”

“Paanong nawawala?” Alam kong hindi na sana gustong magtanong ni Direk Taba.

“E kanina pa kasi ito hinahanap ng may-ari.” At saka humagalpak ng tawa si Papadu. Pero mag-isa siyang tumawa. Gusto sana niyang magpakitang gilas 66

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pero sori dahil panahon pa ni Chiquito ’yong gimik na alam niya. Sinimangutan lang siya nung Direk Taba. Mukhang nabuwisit sa ginawang pagpatol sa kaniya.

Sa loob ng ilang linggo, mga artistang namumukhaan lang namin pero di masapol-sapol ang mga pangalan ang panay na dumarating. Sa loob ng mga linggong iyon, kinunan sa loob ng aming bahay ang ginawang pagpapalaki sa magandang sanggol na napulot sa isang inabandonang bodega. Matapos nun, isa namang batang may sampung taong gulang ang kinuha nila para gumanap na batang Veronica. Madalas dumungaw sa bintana ang batang Veronica. Nakatingala siya sa mga bituin habang nangangarap ng buhay malayo sa amoy ng pusali. Pero dahil sa kapal ng usok at alikabok sa langit hindi naman talaga nagpapakita ang mga bituin sa gawing ito ng lungsod. Kaya hindi mga bituin ang totoong kaharap ni Veronica kundi mga mukha ng mga taong nanonood ng shuting na maluha-luha na sa kanilang pagkaawa sa bata. Kung may nakita man kayong mga bituin no’ng ipinalabas sa tv ’yong eksena, daya na ’yon.

Isa pang daya ’yong pagpatak ng mahinang ulan na idinagdag ng direktor sa eksena sa tulong ng sprinkler. Luha raw ’yon ng mga bituing nakikiiyak din sa kasawian ni Veronica. Naluha na rin si Veronica at napakanta pa ng “Somewhere Out There.” Pumipiyok-piyok pa ang bata pero wala namang problema dahil boses ng ibang singer naman ang ginamit nang lumabas ito sa tv. Natapos ang eksena sa isa niyang munting dasal na ang nilalaman ay halos kahawig din ng kaniyang katatapos lang na kanta. Dinala ng batang ito ang ganitong mga gawain hanggang sa magdalaga. (Kung susumahin, ipinakitang halos doon na sa harap ng bintana ito lumaki.) At sa puntong ito ng istorya papasok ang tunay na bidang artista—si Mari Jodi Lualhati.

Nung araw bago dumating si Mari Jodi, naglinis kami ng bahay. Winalis naming mabuti ang buong bakuran. Tinambakan namin ang mga parteng maburak. Nanghiram din kami ng mga halamang nakapaso na ipapalamuti sa paligid ng bahay. Hindi lang ’yon, sa tulong ng mga kabarangay at sa pangunguna rin ni Kapitan, winalis namin ang buong kalye. Ipinagbawal ng barangay ang pagtapon ng mga basura kung saan-saan. Sandali ring ipinagbawal ang umagang-umagang inuman ng iba’t ibang tropa ng mga sunog-baga, ang paghihingutuhan sa harap ng mga pinto ng mga bagong gising, ang mga pabingo at ang paggala-gala sa lansangan ng mga batang walang saplot.

Pero nang makita ni Direk Taba ang kinalabasan ng aming mga preparasyon, nanggalaiti siya sa sobrang galit. Sinabihan kaming mga di nag-iisip. tuluyan

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Dahil kung nag-iisip daw kami, maiintindihan namin kung bakit sa dinamirami ng mga iskwater sa Maynila, ang aming lugar ang napili nilang gawing lokesyon. Nagbanta pa siya na kung di namin ibabalik sa dati ang lugar, hahanap sila ng ibang pagdadausan ng kanilang shuting. Kaya ibinalik namin ang lahat ng mga kalat, ang mga sunog-baga, ang mga hingutuhan sa harap ng mga pinto, ang mga pa-bingo, ganun na rin ang mga batang malayang nakapaglalakad-lakad nang walang saplot. Sa pagtutulungan naming mga magkakabarangay nagawa pa nga naming gawing mas masahol pa sa dati ang aming lugar.

Sa wakas, dumating si Mari Jodi sakay ng dilaw na limo. Pagbaba na pagbaba sa sasakyan, mabilis siyang sinalubong ng mga tao. Isang kariton ng sorbetes ang nabangga at naitaob ng mga taong nagpapanakbuhan. Lahat kasi gustong makita at gustong mapisil kahit sandali para mapatunayan kung totoo nga ba ang labing-anim na taong gulang na aktres na kung ilang gabi rin naming sinubaybayan sa Once and Future Star ng Channel B. Matapos niyang magwagi bilang Most Shining Teen Star sa kontes na ’yon na naghahanap ng mga pinakabagong artista, ang ‘Dakila, Busilak at Wagas’ ang kauna-unahan niyang breyk. Hindi namin akalaing ang breyk na ito’y magkakaroon pa ng kinalaman sa bahay namin. Kaya kung pamilya namin ang tatanungin, hindi namin gusto ang ginagawang pamumutakti sa kaniya ng mga tagarito. Nakagugulo lang kasi. Kung iisipin, bisita namin ang artista dahil sa bahay namin siya makikituloy. Gustong hawiin ni Mamadu ’yong mga tao. Pero iika-ika kasi ’yong lakad niya kaya di siya makasunod sa daloy. Nakuha ni Mamadu ’yong ika niya sa ganito ring eksena. Gitgitan. Kuyugan. Kasama ng ilang mga tagarito, sinugod kasi nila noon ang Malacañang. Napanood kasi nila sa tv na namimigay ng libreng titulo ng mga lupa ang Presidente. Unahan ang mga tao sa geyt ng Palasyo. Sa gitna ng tulakan at balyahan, di sinasadyang may nakaapak sa paa ni Mamadu at bakya pa ’ata ang suot ng nakaapak. Kaya iyon. Durog ang buto ng isang paa. At ang masama, di naman siya nakakuha ng sinasabing titulo. Kaya imbes na makipaggitgitan sa mga tao para tulungan ’yong kawawang artista, sumandal na lang si Mamadu sa may punong alatres at pinanood ang mga nagkakagulo. May pobiya na ’ata sa gitigtian.

Kaya si Kuya Tor ang kinausap ko. Si Kuya Tor lang ang puwedeng humawi sa mga tao. Hawak ang paborito niyang pamalong bakal na may sariling taguan pa sa aming kusina, iwinasiwas niya ito sa mga magugulong ayaw magbigay daan. Sa pagkakaalam ko, pito ang kaniyang nabukulan. Habang 68

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sumasalunga sa mga taong nagkakagulo, itinuro namin kay Mari Jodi kung saan ang papunta sa aming bahay. Do’n sana namin siya dadalhin. Pero sabi no’ng babaeng tagabitbit ng kaniyang gamit, sa van daw magpapahinga ang alaga niya.

Ilang sandali pa, sa labas ng bahay naglagay na ng kordon ang ilang mga alalay para markahan kung hanggang saan lang makalalapit ang mga tao sa set. Nasa loob na kasi ng bahay ang buong cast. Nakaupo sa aming sopang monoblocks si Mari Jodi, nakasuot na ng lumang t-shirt at tsinelas na sa akin pa lahat hiniram. Binabasa na niya ang kaniyang mga linya. Ilang mga kapitbahay na nasa labas ang nakiusap na kung pupuwede pa silang makalapit sa bintana sabay pangakong hindi sila mag-iingay. ’Yon lang mga nagpahiram kahapon ng halaman sa paso ang pinayagan ni Mamadu. Napakarami nila kaya nawalan din ng saysay ang ipinalibot na kordon.

Tinawag ako no’ng isang alalay. May itatanong daw sa akin si Ate Jodi.

Ate Jodi na ang tawag ko kasi sa simple nitong meyk-ap, sa t-shirt na suot at sa prenteng pagkakaupo sa aming upuan, no’ng araw na ’yon parang naging kapamilya na rin namin ang artista.

“Ano’ng neym mo?” tanong niya sa akin.

“Lailani po.”

“Wala nang ‘po’. Ilang taon ka na ba?”

“Pareho Po ng edad ninyo.”

“Kitam.”

Wala naman akong masamang ibig sabihin doon sa ‘Po.’ Pero kung hindi kasi gagamit ng ‘Po’, paanong paggalang ang puwede naming ipakita tuwing makikipag-usap sa mga artistang kagaya niya?

“Marunong ka bang maglaba?”

“Marunong Po.” “Sinabi nang wala ng ‘po’.”

“Magpapalaba ka ate?” “(Ate?) Puwede bang imuwestra mo ngayon sa ’kin kung paano kunwari kinukusot itong tuwalyang minantsahan ng grasa? Sabi kasi dito sa iskrip, kelangan ko raw tulungan ’yong nanay-nanayan kong labandera kaya kelangan ko ring maglaba.”

Bigla naisip ko, sana may nanay-nanayan din akong labandera. O sana si Mamadu na labandera sa tunay na buhay ay isa ko lang palang nanay-nanayan.

Dahil ang tunay kong ina ay naroon sa Ayala-Makati at nagpapatakbo rin ng tuluyan

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isang malaking kumpanya. Pero hindi siya masaya. May malaking kulang pa sa buhay niya. Hinahanap kasi niya ang kaniyang Matagal Nang Di Nakikitang Tunay Na Anak At Heredera at ako ’yon. Pero hindi ’ata gano’n kadaling magwaglit ng mga anak ang mga inang may malalaking kumpanya sa AyalaMakati, maliban na lang siguro kung marami pa silang mga anak sa labas na nagpapalipat-lipat ng tirahan sa kung saan-saang mga dako.

“Ate Jodi, ano’ng ginagawa ng mommy mo?”

Inginuso niya ’g aleng akala ko kanina’y tagabitbit lang ng damit niya.

Ilang sandali pa, nagsimula na ang shuting. Pinatahimik na ang mga tao at nagsimula nang gumiling ang kamera. Sa eksena, nakaupo at magkaharap na naglalaba sina Veronica (na ginagampanan nga ni Ate Jodi) at ’yong isang beteranang aktres na gumaganap bilang Nanay-nanayan. Hindi mapakali si Veronica habang nagkukusot ng tuwalya. May gusto siyang itanong sa ina na di niya maitanong-tanong. Pero nang makakuha ng buwelo, naitanong rin niya ito. “Nay, totoo bang ampon n’yo lang ako?”

Gustong pagsabayin no’ng beteranang aktres ang tawa at kaba. “Itong batang ’to. Ba’t mo naman naitanong ’yan?”

“Narinig ko po kasing pinag-uusapan ng mga tao diyan sa tindahan…”

Iyong tindahan ni Weng-Weng sa harap ang tinutukoy ni Veronica. Do’n kinunan ’yong eksena ng ilang mga ekstrang dito rin sa lugar namin pinaghuhugot, ’yong eksenang pinag-uusapan ng mga ekstra ang tungkol sa tunay na pagkatao ni Veronica. Sa totoong buhay, tambayan naman talaga ng mga matatalas na tsismosa ang tindahang ’yon. Katunayan, lahat ng mga naging kabit ni Papadu at kahit pa nga mga pokpok sa beerhouse na isang gabi lang niyang nailabas, diyan sa tindahang iyan namin unang narinig ang mga pangalan. Kahuli-hulihang na-link kay Papadu itong biyudang nagtitinda ng balut at tsitsaron sa may labasan ng beerhouse. At tingin ng mga tsismosa sa tindahan, hanggang ngayon may relasyon pa ang dalawa.

SI PAPADU ANG UMAABOT doon sa perang binabayad nila Direk para sa pagsu-shuting dito sa aming bahay. Kaya kapag wala siyang perang maipakita sa ’min, puwede na naming hulaan kung saan ’yon napunta.

“Walanghiya ka, Juanito! Hayup ka! Pambili natin ’yon ng bigas,” ipapaalala naman sa kaniya ni Mamadu. Kaya sa puntong ito, dapat alam na ninyo ang koneksyon ng motel sa buhay ng aming ama. Sa unang tingin, di bagay kay Papadu ang maging babaero. Bagay lang sa kaniya ang pangalan 70

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niyang Juanito. Katunog ng Chiquito. Parang pangalan pa nga ng isang bansot at patpating komidyante. Sabi ni Mamadu, dito raw siya nadaya ng mga napapanood niya. Sa mga pelikula, panay macho kasi ang madalas na babaero.

At iyong mga patpatin at lampa, kundi komedyante, santo. Malay daw ba niya na sa totoong buhay, meron palang mga katulad ni Juanito.

“E tarantada ka pala, e! Sinabi nang wala pang inaabot na pera ’yong mga tao.”

“Anong wala! Lolokohin mo pa ’ko, demonyo ka. Gugutumin mo pamilya mo may maisustento ka lang talaga sa kabit mo!”

Sa kabilang bahay, kakatwang ganito rin ang mismong linyang binitiwan no’ng nagda-drama sa radyo. O baka nga ’yong radyo lang talaga ’yong narinig ko. Pero tiyak kong si Mamadu ’yon. Ako pa ba’ng di makatiyak? Tuwing nagsasalita siya, maliban sa ’kin walang ibang nakikinig. Kaya kung isasapelikula siguro ang buhay namin, bagay na gumanap sa papel niya si Perla Bautista na mahilig magsabi ng “Anak, huwag mong ilagay sa ’yong kamay ang batas.” Kahit minsan ba kasi may nakinig kay Perla Bautista? Kung pakikinggan nga naman siya, e paano pang magkakaharap-harap ang mga bida’t kontrabida sa palabas? Pero sa isang banda, hindi sasabihin ni Mamadu ’yon sa akin o kahit kanino sa ’ming magkakapatid. Na iasa ang lahat sa batas. Walang batas batas. Mahirap na nga kami tapos magpapaapi pa kami sa ibang tao? ’Yon ang madalas niyang sabihin sa ’kin no’ng maliit pa ’ko.

“Ma, anong gagawin ko ’pag may umaway sa ’kin?”

“Awayin mo rin. Awayin mo hanggang magkamatayan kayo.”

“Magkamatayan? Pa’no kung lalake ang umaway sa ‘kin?” “’Pag lalake, bayagan mo. Alam mo ba kung nasa’n ang bayag?”

Gano’n si Mamadu. Noon. Pero ngayon siya itong madalas na nakakatikim. “’Pag di ka pa tumigil sa kakangalngal mo makakatikim ka na talaga!”

Hudyat na ’yon para sa maliliit ko pang mga kapatid (labing-isa lahat kami hindi pa kasama ’yong dalawang sinundan ko na parehong namatay) na magkumpol-kumpol na sa isang tabi at magtalukbong ng kumot. Hindi kasi pambata ang mga susunod na eksena. Pero ako, alam ko na ang mga susunod na mangyayari. Hihilahin ni Papadu si Mamadu sa buhok papunta sa banggerahan. Ewan ko ba kung anong meron sa banggerahan. Ang kalawang ba sa gilid ng lababo o baka ang kalawang sa matagal nang natuyong tubo o baka naman ang hilera ng matatalim na kawayang nagsisilbing pangharang, sabitan tuluyan

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ng mga baso at suksukan ng itak at kutsilyo kung bakit parang totoo nga ’yong sinabi nung direktor. Na sa gawing ito masarap mambrutal.

Nahulog sa sahig ang mga baso, kutsara at plato. Malamang na si Mamadu ’yon na nagtangkang dumampot ng kahit anong ipupukpok sana kay Papadu.

O baka si Mamadu ’yon na bumagsak sa sahig kasama ng mga baso, kutsara at plato.

Dumagsa ang mga tao sa labas. Do’n sila sa malaking bintana naggitgitan. ’Yong iba bumuhat pa ng bangko di para upuan kundi para tuntungan. Para nga naman kahit marami nang taong nakatayo sa unahan nila, meron pa rin silang matanaw kahit pa’no. Pakiramdam ko para kaming isang palabas sa sinehan. Ang malaking bintana ang iskrin nitong sinehan. At sa gawing itaas mababasa ang pamagat ng aming palabas sa itim at malalaking letra, ang dati na doong nakasulat, ‘BAWAL TIBAGIN’.

“Magsiuwi na kayo,” sabi ko sa mga tao. “Tapos na’ng drama dito.”

“Tapos? E talaga bang may katapusan ’yan?” tanong no’ng isang gusto pang mamilosopo. Parang gusto kong buhusan silang lahat ng ihi dahil doon sa nagtanong na ’yon.

“E di abangan n’yo na lang kung may kasunod pa.”

“E di sige. E di babalik na lang kami.” Parang isang matinong kasunduan iyon, isa-isa na silang nagsitalikod at nagsiuwi matapos magpaalam nang gano’n.

UMULAN NANG MALAKAS KINAGABIHAN. Dumating si Kuya Tor galing konstraksyon, basang-basa ang katawan. Dahil gutom na gutom, hindi na niya nagawang magbihis muna bago humarap sa mesa. Walang imik siyang nagpista sa inihaw na talong na nakababad sa platito ng toyo, sibuyas at kalamansi habang sa kabilang dulo ng bangko, naro’n si Mamadu at ngumungulngol. Nagsusumbong kay Kuya.

Si Kuya Tor lang ang may trabaho sa amin ngayon. Tagamaso at tagatibag siya ng mga lumang bilding na kailangan nang tanggalin para matayuan ng bago. Si Kuya ang nagpapaaral sa akin dati. Natigil lang ako nang matanggal siya sa trabaho. Pero nangako sa akin si Kuya na ’pag nakabalik uli siya sa konstraksyon, pag-aaralin daw niya uli ako. Samantala, ituloy ko lang daw muna ang pagbabasa. Magbasa ako ng kahit ano para mapraktis kahit paano.

Madalas, si Kuya pa nga ang nag-uuwi sa akin ng mga babasahin. Komiks, diaryo, Liwayway at mga polyeto pa minsan ng kanilang unyon. Dahil kay 72

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Kuya Tor, nagkahilig akong magbasa. Pati library nga sa Luneta, pinasok ko na rin dahil sa kaniya. Nahinto lang akong tumambay doon nang manalo sa lotto si Papadu at nakabili kami ng bagong colored tv. Simula kasi noon, masyado na akong nahaling sa pagsubaybay sa mga telenobela. Hindi na ako nakapagbabasa. Kung sa bagay, marami rin naman akong natututunan sa tv.

Isa pa, naniningil na ng entrance ’yong library sa Luneta. Mas mahal pa nga entrance nila kaysa sa tiket sa sine.

Pero hindi nakalimutan ni Kuya ’yong pangako niya. Nung isang buwan, nagkatrabaho uli siya, at sabi niya, mamili na raw ako ng gusto kong kolehiyo dahil sa susunod na pasukan, mag-aaral na uli ako.

Sa pangatlo na ’atang pagkakataon, inisa-isa uli ni Mamadu kay Kuya kung paano siya binugbog ng kaniyang asawa. Huminto sa pagkain si Kuya. Hinanap ng mga mata ang paboritong bakal na tubo. Nang matanaw ito, tumayo, dinampot ang pamalo at walang sabi-sabing pinasok sa kuwarto si Papadu.

Bugbugan uli. Kahit umuulan nagsibalik uli ’yong mga tao para magitgitan sa harap ng aming bintana. Suot ng marami ang kanilang mga kapoteng tila yari sa selopen. ’Yong iba’y nagbitbit pa ng payong. Lahat sila, naniningil para doon sa karugtong ng eksenang nasimulan na nila kanina. Sa pagkakataong ito, iba naman do’n sa unang bugbugan ang masasaksihan nila. Si Mamadu at si Kuya Tor naman ngayon ang magkatulong sa paggulpi kay Papadu. Panay tungayaw lang ang naisagot ni Papadu sa bawat hampas ni Kuya na sinasagot naman ni Kuya ng isa pa uling paghataw habang nakaayuda naman si Mamadu sa kaniyang mga kamot at tadyak. Habang pinanonood ko si Kuya, nakikita kong para nga siyang may tinitibag na isang lumang bagay—dahil may gusto siyang itayong bago. Nakikita ko rin ang mga mukha ng mga taong nanonood sa amin. Nakikita kong ninanamnam nilang maigi ang bawat pahirap na tinatanggap ni Papadu sa kamay ng dalawa. Siguro, gusto nilang bumakas sa ginagawang paghihiganti ng dalawa. Katunayan, alam kong marami silang gustong gawin pero di lang nila magawa. Gusto nilang magkape tuwing umaga para mainitan kahit paano ang kanilang mga sikmura. Pero mahal ang kape. Mahal ang asukal. Mahal din ang gas pang-init ng tubig. Gusto lang nilang makabawi kahit paano.

Nakalabas ng bahay si Papadu. Putok ang noo. Tatakbo na sana siya papalayo pero may mga kapitbahay na humarang at tumulak sa kaniya pabalik sa bahay. Mabuti na lang at dumating bigla ang mga pulis. Dinampot nila ang tatlo at ’yong iba pang mga nakisali sa gulo. tuluyan

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“Kuya! Kuya!” Hinabol ko si Kuya para iabot ang isang tuyong kamiseta.

Hindi pa kasi siya nakapagpapalit ng tuyong kamiseta. “Kuya, ikukulong ka ba nila? Kuya, sasama ako sa ’yo.”

“E di sumama ka. Lintek na!”

BINATILYO, HINATAW NG TUBO ANG SARILING AMA. Iyan ang lumabas na headline sa tv no’ng sumunod na gabi kasama ng balitang holdapan sa lrt at salpukan ng dalawang trak sa may Tandang Sora.

Oy, nasa tv kami!

Talaga? Anong tsanel?

Lahat ng tsanel.

Kumpol-kumpol kaming magkakapatid sa harap ng tv. Magkatabi sa upuan si Papadu at Mamadu habang nanonood. May tagas pa ng dugo ang gasa sa noo ni Papadu pero katulad din namin, kita sa mukha niya ang pananabik na mapanood ang balita. Sa presinto pa lang, pinagbati na ng mga pulis ang dalawa.

“Kung ako lang talaga Tsip, gusto ko talaga hiwalay na,” sabi pa ni Mamadu noon do’n sa presinto. “Puro kalbaryo ang inaabot ko sa hayup na manyak na ’yan. Kung di lang talaga dahil sa mga bata, dahil maliliit pa ’yong ibang mga anak ko…”

“Tama po ’yan misis. Alang-alang po sa mga anak ninyo…”

Para magkaayos, nagkasundo ang dalawa sa harap mismo ni Tsip na magmula sa araw na ’yon si Mamadu na ang aabot sa perang binabayad nila Direk.

Pero si Kuya Tor, maiiwan sa presinto. Walang isinampang reklamo sa kaniya ang aming ama. Pero baka raw kasi adik, sabi ng mga lispu. Kaya di muna palalabasin si Kuya hangga’t di pa lumulusot sa drug test. Si Kapitan na dumating din no’ng huli ang umako na do’n sa pangdrug test ni Kuya. Pero bakit si Papadu di rin nila pinagdrug test? ’Yong pambubugbog kasi ng tatay namin sa nanay namin, away mag-asawa lang daw ’yon. Kaya normal lang. Pero ’yong pambubugbog ni Kuya sa sariling ama, iyon daw talaga ang di normal.

Pero sayang at di mapapanood ni Kuya ’yong balita tungkol sa kaniya.

Matapos ipakita ang tungkol sa holdapan, iyong tungkol na sa amin ang sumunod na ipinasok. Tutok ang mga mata naming lahat. Walang kumukurap. Walang humihinga. Nang biglang napatili si Mamadu. Pero hindi ’yon tili ng pananabik. Tili ’yon ng isang parang nakakita ng taong mababangga ng sasakyan. At naintindihan ko si Mamadu. Sa iskrin ng tv, naro’n nga ang ba74

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lita tungkol sa amin. Pero parang hindi na tungkol sa amin. May tinatanong ang reporter kay Mamadu. Pero dahil sa utos na rin no’ng reporter na sinunod naman namin, nagsasalita si Mamadu sa tv pero may talukbong namang tuwalya ang mukha. Si Kuya, may balot ng kamiseta ang buong ulo. Si Papadu, nakadukdok na ang ulo sa mesa ng pulis, nahaharangan pa ng malaking makinilya. At ’yon namang parteng nagpapaliwanag ako sa reporter kung ba’t biglang nagalit si Kuya, hindi na ipinakita. Tinanggalan kami ng karapatan sa madaling sabi. Bakit ’pag malalaking tao ang sangkot sa mga krimen, orasoras pa at malapitan kung ibandera ang mga mukha sa tv? Bakit kaming mga maliliit, minsan lang magkaroon ng sarili naming kuwento, tatalukbungan pa ng kumot ang mga ulo? Nasaan ang sinasabing pagkakapantay-pantay?

Nasaan?

Iyan ang tinatanong ko noon doon sa pinakamalapit na aleng nakatanghod sa may bintana, noong araw na ’yon na nagalit si Direk sa mga maiingay. Iyon din ’yong di inaasahang araw na nagbigay sa ’kin ng pagkakataong mabago ang aking kapalaran at kapalaran ng mga mahal ko sa buhay. Ang araw na nakapagpatunay sa lahat na matapos mong maapi, ikaw pa rin ang magwawagi sa huli.

“ANAK NG PUTEK! Cut! Cut! CUT!” bulyaw ni Direk Taba. “Sino ba ’yang ngakngak nang ngakngak diyan?”

Nilingon ng direktor ang pinanggalingan ng ingay. Nagulat pa siya nang makita ang isang damukal na mga taong nakatunghay sa may bintana.

“Ano’ng ginagawa ng mga ’yan dito? Paalisin sila, para n’yo nang awa.”

Lumabas ng bahay ang isa sa mga alalay. Nakiusap siya sa mga taong magsiuwi na lang sa kani-kanilang mga bahay.

“Nakapagluto na ba kayo ng tanghalian para sa mga pamilya ninyo?” pangongonsensya pa no’ng alalay.

Napahiya siguro dahil sa tanong na ’yon kaya nagsialis ang mga tao. Pero makaraan ng ilang sandali, tahimik at sunod-sunod din silang nagsibalik sa mga dati nilang puwesto sa may bintana. Malamang mga wala rin silang gaanong nailutong pananghalian kaya nakabalik din agad galing sa kani-kanilang mga bahay. Sa pagkakataong ito, mas ibayo ang kanilang mga pag-iingat na huwag makatawag ng pansin.

Nagsimula uli ang paggiling ng kamera. Itatanong muli ni Veronica sa ina kung ampon nga lang ba siya habang nasa gitna ng kanilang paglalabada. tuluyan

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“Cut! Cut! CUT!” Malaki ang problema ni Direk sa ginagawang paglalaba ni Veronica doon sa tuwalyang minantsahan ng grasa. Katunayan, nakakalimang teyk na sila dahil dito at di pa napapaputi ng artista ang nilalabhan. Kailangan daw kasing mahuli ’yon sa kamera nang walang daya, sabi ni Direk.

“Hindi ganyan ang naglalaba sa totoong buhay!”

Oo, alam ko, ako ang nagturo sa kaniya kung paano magkusot, magbanlaw at magpiga nung tuwalya. Pero kung paano ’yon gagawin nang makatotohanan kahit inaarte mo lang sa harap ng kamera: iyong tamang pag-upo sa bangkito para di agad mangawit ang balakang, iyong tamang lapit sa palanggana, iyong tamang paghukot ng likod, iyong tamang bilang ng kusot, lublob at piga dahil kung tutuusin para rin itong isang denumerong sayaw, pero higit sa lahat ay iyong hirap at pagod na dapat mabasa sa mukha sa manakanakang pagpunas ng pawis sa noo o hilam ng sabon sa mata, hirap at pagod na inaasahang matutumbasan ng singkuwenta pesos kada kilo ng malalabhan, iyon siguro ang hinahanap ni Direk. Pero hindi ito naituturo sa loob lang ng ilang minuto. Lalo na sa katulad ni Mari Jodi na isang baguhan. Baguhan sa paglalaba at pati na rin sa pag-aartista.

“Direk, itong akin, mungkahi lang. Hindi ba puwedeng imbes na naglalaba, ipakita na lang na nagsasampay ng damit itong si Veronica?” Nanay ni Mari Jodi ’yon habang isa-isang pinapatakan ng agua oxigenada ang maliliit na sugat sa mga kamay ng alaga.

“Hindi puwede. Masisira ang eksena. Hindi n’yo ba nakikita? Katulad ng paglalaba, nililinaw din ni Veronica ang pagkatao niya sa eksenang ito. Kaya ‘pag tinanggal n’yo ang paglalaba, mawawalan ako ng metapor. Isa pa, Tidy Detergent Powder ang isponsor ng telenobelang ito kaya dapat lang na ipakita ang galing ng bida sa ganitong klase ng gawaing bahay,” paliwanag ni Direk Taba. “Kaya kailangan ko ng isang pares ng kamay. Iyong mahusay na mga kamay na kayang paputiin mismo sa harap ko itong tuwalyang ito na pinaitim sa grasa.”

“E di ako na lang ang gagawa no’n para kay Jodi,” boluntaryo agad ng nanay ni Mari Jodi na itinaas pa ang isang kamay na parang may sasaguting tanong sa loob ng klase na siya lang ang nakakaalam ng sagot.

“Tingin mo naman puwede kang maging kadobol ng anak mo?” Pauyam na tiningnan ni Direk Taba ang kausap mula ulo hanggang paa at pabalik mula paa hanggang ulo.

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“Direk, mas kayang gawin ’yan ni Lailani ko. Sige anak, ipakita mo.”

Matalas ang pakiramdam ng nanay ko sa ganitong mga pagkakataong minsan lang sa buhay kung dumating. Kagaya ng paglusob niya sa Malacañang.

Kailangang isapalaran. Makipagbalyahan kung kinakailangan. Pero siyempre, nagsigaya rin sa kaniya ang ibang mga inang naroon. Hindi sila papayag na di mabigyan ng gano’n ding pagkakataon ang kanilang mga anak na dalaga.

Kaya kani-kaniya sila ng pakiusap. Nagsimula ang isang uri ng ingay na di nalalayo sa ingay ng mga itik tuwing oras ng pagpapakain.

Imbes na pagbubulyawan ang mga nanay na maiingay, tahimik lang silang pinagmasdan ni Direk. Parang may kung anong mailap na hayup siyang hinuhuli sa kaniyang isip. Nang bigla siyang napatingala sa aming kisame at parang doon ay nagpakita sa kaniya ang Diyos na may dalang mahalagang mensahe kung paano maisasalba ang makasalanang sanlibutan. Nang humupa ang ingay, saka siya tumayo sa aming kalagitnaan. Mayroon daw siyang importanteng sasabihin sa lahat. Nagsalita siya sa boses na parang nagmumula sa ibang daigdig. Doon sa daigdig na matagal nang napagpasiyahan ang kapalaran ng bawat tao—kung meron mang gano’ng klaseng daigdig.

“Hahanap ako ng isang puwedeng maging kadobol ni Veronica para sa eksenang ito. Para mabigyan ng pagkakataon ang lahat ng mga kadalagahan mula kinse hanggang dise-nuwebe anyos ang edad, sandali munang isasantabi ang pagsu-shut sa eksena ni Veronica para bigyang daan ang isang kontes sa paputian ng laba. Dito mismo sa inyong lugar gagawin ang kontes. Ilang opisyal galing Tidy ang tatawagin natin para magsilbing mga hurado. Iikot ang buong kontes na ito sa temang ‘Mga Kamay ni Veronica: Masdan ang Naggagawa ng Isang May Dakila, Busilak at Wagas na Kalooban’ ”.

Prankahan na. Gusto ko talagang maging artista. Hindi sa kung ano pa mang dahilan. Pero kilala n’yo ba si Trixie Minero? Ni hindi siya kilala ng nanay ko. Pero dahil alaga ng Channel B kaya nakabili ng sariling islang bakasyunan. At wala pang isang taong nag-aartista ’yon. Baka sabihin naman, naiinggit lang ako. Opo, naiinggit nga po ako. E sino ba sa panahon ngayon ang di puwedeng mag-artista? Basta may gimik ka sa buhay, at kung papatok ’yan, pasok ka.

Kinabukasan, hindi dumating ang grupo nila Direk Taba. Lumipas pa ang mga araw at ang pahayag na ’yon ng direktor ay itinuring na lang ng mga tagarito bilang mga salitang nabitiwan ng isang nagkaroon ng sandaling pagkabuang, o di kaya sinabi lang para bolahin ang mga nanay na handang-handa tuluyan

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na sana noong makipagsabunutan para sa kanilang mga anak na dalaga. Pero nang sumunod na linggo, muli silang nagbalik sa aming lugar. Kasama nila, sabay-sabay ding nagsidating ang limang trak ng rasyong tubig na pinangungunahan ng van ng Channel B. Sakay ng van ang sikat na sikat na tv host na kinagigiliwan ng marami, si Sweet Anton. Nakaputing bandana, puting polo, puting maong at puting bota ang tv host. Madalas ko siyang napapanood maginterview ng mga artistang napariwara ang mga buhay—iyong mga nalulong sa drugs, sugal, prostitusyon, kidnaping at estafa—pero nais nang magbagong buhay. Gustong-gusto ko ang paraan ng kaniyang pag-iinterview, lalo na’t lagi niyang tinatanong sa bandang huli kung ano’ng pinakamahalagang aral ang natutunan ng kaniyang kausap at kung pa’no pa ito higit na napalapit sa Diyos dahil sa natutunang aral.

Muli na namang nabuhay ang aming lugar. Kani-kaniyang labas ng mga palanggana, timba at tabo ang maraming tahanan. Bilang kaayusan, inihelera sa isang linya ang mga palanggana ng lahat ng mga sasali. Lumalagos ang haba ng hilerang ito mula pasukan hanggang labasan ng aming barangay.

Ilang sandali pa, binigyan na kami ng tig-iisang kamisetang lalabhan. Tiniyak ng mga huradong pantay-pantay ang bahid ng mantsang nasa bawat kamiseta. Sa likod ng bawat kalahok, nakaabang ang mga sumusuportang kamag-anak. Nakahanda silang umalalay sa pag-aabot ng kailangang tabo, palo-palo at inigib na tubig. Ilang patakaran ang ibinigay ng mga hurado.

Pinakaimportante sa lahat, sabi nila, na ang sabon lang nila ang gagamitin sa pagtanggal ng mantsa at pagpapaputi sa mga kamiseta. Nagpahabol pa ’yong isang hurado na ang sabong Tidy lang talaga ang may kumpletong sangkap para sa tunay na puti at kakaibang brilyo. Kaya naman gamit ito ng mga may dakila, busilak at wagas na kalooban.

Matapos ibigay ni Sweet Anton ang countdown, nagsimula na ang paglalaba. Hindi namin alintana ang mainit na sikat ng araw sa katanghaliang tapat. Gigil na gigil pa nga ang mga kamag-anak sa pagtuturo sa kanilang mga kalahok kung paano ang mas mainam na pagkusot. Si Mamadu naman, pasimpleng inabot sa ’kin ang isang botelyang ibinalot sa pabalat ng Tidy.

Pampaputi raw ’yon na gamit pa ng kaniyang inang dating tagalaba ng mga sundalong kano no’ng panahon ng giyera. Klorox at dayap.

Para makatiyak, limang ulit ko pang sinabon at binanlawan ang nilalabhan kong kamiseta. Tiyak kong paulit-ulit din ang sabon at banlaw na ginagawa ng iba. Paulit-ulit din ang palit namin ng tubig. Maya-maya, naglawa na ang 78

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buong paligid. Mabilis na kumalat ang mga bula at umabot ang tubig hanggang sa mga inuupuan naming bangkito.

“Gloria, Gloria labandera Gloria, Gloria labandera Gloria, Gloria labandera Labandera si Gloria!”

Tumaas nang tumaas ang mga bula. Parang nabalot ng malagulamang ulap ang nilalakaran at tinatayuan ng mga tao. Kung di kami maghahanap ng pupuwedeng patungan ng aming mga palanggana para magpatuloy sa paglalaba nang nakatayo, tiyak na matatabunan at lalangoy kaming lahat sa bula.

Pagkatapos ng labing limang minutong palugit, tuloy sa sampayan ang mga kamiseta. Habang hinihintay na matuyo ang mga ito, nagsiuwi ang mga kalahok para sandaling magpalit ng maayos na damit. ’Yong iba, nagpaayos pa ng buhok, nagpa-pedikyur at nagpameyk-ap. Gusto kasi nila, pagharap sa mga hurado, walang anumang bakas na puwedeng magsabing kagagaling lang nilang maglaba. Pero ibang pag-aayos ang ginawa sa ’kin ni Mamadu. Pinagsuot niya ako ng panluksa. Pinahiran pa niya ng uling ang aking mga braso pati na mukha. Para raw mahabag sa akin ang mga hurado. Bukod dito, kapag itinabi raw ako sa kamisetang nilabhan ko ay lalong lulutang ang kaputian at kalinisan nito.

Nang matuyo ang mga sinampay, pinatayo kami sa harap ng aming nilabhan. Nilibot ng mga hurado ang sampayan. Habang naghihintay ang mga tao, paulit-ulit na maririnig sa loudspeaker ang theme song ng telenobelang “Dakila, Busilak at Wagas.” Tungkol sa babaeng nangungulila sa tunay na pag-ibig ang paksa ng kanta. Sa dulo ng kanta, maririnig muli ang paalala na ang sabong Tidy lang ang may kumpletong sangkap para sa tunay na puti at kakaibang brilyo, kaya nga gamit ito ng mga may dakila, busilak at wagas na kalooban. Paulit-ulit ito hanggang sa magsiakyat na sa entablado ang mga hurado para sa resulta ng kontes.

At ngayon, ang pinakahihintay ng lahat, ang mga nagwagi. Third place, Contestant Number 38. Si Ipang. Kasamang umakyat sa entablado ang nanay ni Ipang. Parehong labandera ang dalawa. Tangi ang mag-inang ito na tumatanggap ng mga palaba buhat sa mga pokpok. ’Yong iba kasi natatakot na baka makakuha ng sakit sa paghipo-hipo sa mga panloob na ginamit ng mga pokpok. Pero sabi ng nanay ni Ipang, nagbabanyos naman daw sila ng alkotuluyan

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hol pagkatapos maglaba kaya walang problema. Pero simula nang magsalita ng gano’n ang nanay ni Ipang, kahit kelan hindi na nagpalaba sa kanila ang kahit sinong pokpok, bata man o matanda. Kung ba’t ko naman ito nabanggit, gusto ko lang kasing sabihin, propesyunal si Ipang. Kaya di nga malayong manalo.

Second place, Contestant Number 12. Si Verna. Isa pa ring propesyunal.

Pero mas matindi. Balitang alalay daw kasi itong si Verna ng aborsyonistang may klinik sa Recto. Siya ang naglalaba ng mga pinagduguan.

At ang nagwagi. Ang dakila, ang busilak, ang wagas, Contestant Number 10. “Anak, ikaw ’yon! Ikaw ’yon!”

Habang naglalakad patungong entablado, kung ilang ulit ko pang tiningnan ang aking numero. Ako nga si Contestant Number 10. Sa itaas, sinalubong ako ni Sweet Anton ng isang mahigpit na yakap. Sumunod na umakyat ang lahat ng aking kaanak sa pangunguna ng aking ama. Lahat kami, nasa itaas na ng entablado, lahat maliban nga lang kay Kuya Tor na nasa presinto pa rin ng mga sandaling iyon. Di ko na napigilang mapahagulhol sa pag-iyak. Nang mapansin ni Sweet Anton na pareho na kaming basang-basa sa luha, saka lang siya umawat sa pagkakayakap.

“Ano’ng pangalan mo, iha?” tanong ni Sweet Anton.

“Lailani po.”

“Alam mo ba Lailani na nanalo ka ng P50,000 cash prize at isang taong supply ng Tidy Detergent Powder?” Nagpalakpakan ang mga tao. May narinig pa akong bumaswit.

“Bukod diyan,” patuloy ni Sweet Anton, “bibigyan ka ng pagkakataong gumanap bilang kadobol ng idolo mong si Mari Jodi Lualhati sa papel ni Veronica ng telenobelang gabi-gabi nang inaabangan ng buong bayan, ang ‘Dakila, Busilak at Wagas’.” Lalong lumakas ang palakpakan ng mga tao.

Ngayon may kasama nang hiyawan.

“Kaya Lailani, ano’ng masasabi mo ngayon sa Channel B at saka sa Tidy?”

“Maraming salamat po. Talagang maraming-maraming salamat po.

Sa Channel B at saka dito sa Tidy. Malaki po ang naitulong ninyo sa aming pamilya…” Hindi ko na nakuhang ituloy ang gusto ko pa sanang sabihin. Naunahan uli kasi ako ng iyak. Bilang pag-alo, lumapit si Mamadu at hinimas-himas ang aking likod sabay turo ng mga dapat ko pang sabihin sa mikropono.

“Bakit Lailani? Pa’no ba nakatulong sa pamilya mo ang kontes na ito?”

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tanong ni Sweet Anton.

“Kailangang-kailangan po kasi talaga namin ngayon ng pera. Nasa presinto po kasi ngayon ang kuya ko. Nakakulong. Pero wala po siyang kasalanan.

Mabait po ang kuya ko.”

“Ano ba’ng trabaho dati ng kuya mo?”

“Konstraksyon worker po. Siya nga lang po ang bumubuhay ngayon sa aming pamilya. Pero mag-iilang araw na po siyang nakakulong. ’Yong bilding na ginagawa nila, malapit na pong matapos. Pero si Kuya, hanggang ngayon di pa nakalalabas ng kulungan.”

“Kung nandito sa harap mo ngayon ang iyong kuya, ano’ng sasabihin mo sa kaniya?”

“Kuya, bukas tuloy na uli ang shuting dito sa bahay. Kakausapin daw ako ng mga taga-Channel B. Kuya, baka isali raw nila ako sa shuting bukas. At saka Kuya, bukas na bukas din makakalaya ka na. Meron na tayong pera.”

“Ayan po mga kaibigan. Nakita n’yo naman at narinig: Ang Channel B, bukod sa nagbibigay na ng aliw, e tumutulong pa po sa mga kapos-palad na nangangailangan. Kaya hindi n’yo lang kami Kapuso, hindi n’yo lang kami Kapamilya. Higit pa riyan, kami ay—” “KASAMA SA HIRAP AT GINHAWA!” Mga tao na ang nagtuloy sa sasabihin ni Sweet Anton.

“Marami pong salamat. Mahal na mahal po namin kayo. Bueno, bago tayo magtapos, Lailani, ano’ng pinakaimportanteng aral ang natutunan mo dito sa iyong pagkapanalo na puwede mong ibahagi sa mga kabataang katulad mo, na maaaring nangangarap din na balang araw ay magkaroon ng puwang sa showbusiness?”

“Habang may pangarap po may pag-asa. Basta panatilihin lang po nating dakila, busilak at wagas ang atin pong mga kalooban, wala pong imposible.

Iyon lang po.”

“Alam mo Lailani…” Sandaling tumigil si Sweet Anton para abutin ang aking kamay, “Napakaganda ng iyong sinabi. Mga kaibigan, palakpakan po natin si Lailani.”

Pagkatapos no’n, agad na rin kaming pinababa sa entablado. Pero bago tuluyang bumaba, binalikan ni Mamadu si Sweet Anton para tanungin kung kanino tatanggapin ang perang papremyo.

“Naku, misis, tinanggap na po ng mister ninyo.”

Kinagabihan, matapos mapaalis ang pinakahuli sa mga nanghihingi ng tuluyan

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balato, tumayo ako sa harap ng malaking bintana. Wala kasing malaking salamin sa bahay. Kaya para sa aking paghahanda sa Bagong Hamon ng Tadhanang Haharapin Ko Bukas, ang malaking bintanang ito na lang kunwari ang magsisilbi munang apat na kanto ng iskrin ng telebisyon. Dito, eneeksena ko sa isip ko kung pa’no ako dapat lumabas sa telebisyon. Hindi sapat na tanungin ko lang kung ampon nga lang ba ako. Inay, kelangang malaman ko po talaga ang totoo. Dapat ko ring idagdag ’yon sa linya. Pero hihingin ba nilang magsalita ako? Di ba’t hindi naman nagsasalita ang mga kadobol? Ang kailangan ko lang ’ata ay maglaba sa harap ng kamera.

Sa labas, bigla kong napuna ang ilang mga kamisetang ginamit sa kontes na naiwan pa sa sampayan. Isa doon ang kamisetang nilabhan ko. Sa sobrang aligaga ng mga tao kanina, nakaligtaan sigurong ipasok sa bahay. Kahit sa dilim, puting-puti pa rin sila. Para silang mga watawat ng pagsuko na sabay-sabay na winawagayway ngayon ng hangin.

E ano ba kung mga kamay ko lang na naglalaba ang kelangang ipakita.

Puwede nang simula ’yon. Ang dapat siguro, ngayon pa lang, isa-isahin ko nang lahat ang mga kaya ko pang gawin bukod sa paglalaba. Halimbawa rito ang pagkukula. Ang pamamalantsa. Kaya ko ring magsaing ng kanin nang di nasusunog, nalulugaw o nahihilaw. Kaya ko ring magpatahan ng nag-aalburutong bata. Marami pa. Kelangang mailista ko lang lahat sa papel.

Kaya imbes na magtuon pa ng pansin sa malulungkot na mga kamiseta, sinubukan kong tumingala sa mga bituin. Gano’n kasi ang ginagawa ng mga bidang babae sa mga pelikula kapag nangangarap. Pero hindi nga pala nagpapakita ang mga bituin sa gawing ito ng lungsod.

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When Th}y Thin\ They C[n Fly Petra Magno

Hannah is only five years old when all the birds disappear. Her most distinct memory of that lost species is that of a pigeon on the city street. It had dared flap stale wind into her face when she once ventured out holding a slice of bread. She remembers the flurry of white wings, the sudden air.

She had felt – though she did not have the words to say so then – that she had been swallowed by a cloud.

All together the birds disappear one day, but it takes people a few weeks to realize that above the cacophony of the awakening city, there hangs a silence thicker than cloth, heavier than atmosphere. Trees do not rustle anymore, & Missouri mourns the loss of a punctuated sky. In her young mother’s apartment on the sixteenth floor, Hannah toys with an empty cage, with a driedout wedding bouquet.

Hannah is seven when the sun swells. Her mother replaces the airconditioning, keeps it on around the clock. They tie strips of cloth to their hands & run around the apartment, flapping their arms to keep cool. There is no more night; the darkest it gets is a mild dusk. Hannah’s mother misses the sunset, but she has other things to worry about now.

All recordings of birdcalls have been erased. The homeless make umbrellas out of the cages, & they stack them to create merciful shade. Hannah discovers her mother’s wedding dress the night she turns eight, except it is day, & her mother pulls out black curtains so Hannah can blow out her candles in the dark.

The sky is as tight & as pale as a drum. There is no more blue, there are no more clouds. Hannah dreams of birds, of soft cool wings, & she awakens tuluyan

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instead to death-bright windows. Hannah keeps her mother’s wedding veil underneath her pillow. Now, she wraps it around her hand for comfort, all that delicate lace. From her open bedroom door, she watches her mother pad barefoot into the kitchen. She watches her mother pause before the bars of shadow from the window grills, as if they were not to be stepped on, as if they were hot coals.

News of death by fire fills the morning news, & they stop subscribing to it because there is no morning anymore. Day comes, day stays. Hannah watches her mother shave her head, & afterward, she places her hot little palms on the smooth skin. “It’s cooler,” her mother says into the mirror, & Hannah agrees.

One day in one too many days, Hannah wakes up crying for clouds. Her mother holds her, fans her with white cloth until she falls asleep again. They have unplugged the television, not to stifle bad news, but to lessen the risk of its explosion. Mother sings to Hannah, Mother tries to remember what the birds used to sound like.

Hannah’s mother returns from the market, where she saw a security guard keel over dead from the heat. One of many, she thinks. Or just one of the first to go. Right underneath her window, she hears what she thinks is a bird, & suddenly delirious with fear, she dares look up.

Hannah is standing on the ledge of their window, her arms akimbo. She is wearing her pajamas, & to her hands she has tied her mother’s veil. In the absence of wind, it dangles like a sad umbrella, like broken wings. Coo, Hannah says, & she opens her arms to encompass the dry, waiting world. Coo, coo.

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A lighte] |atc>s+ick, [ novel (excerpts) Danton Remoto Power is like a lighted matchstick. The closer your fingers are to it, the more you will get burnt.

Tu Fu

Chapter 1 The Commission on Independent Elections (cie) was housed in a three-storey wooden building erected right after World War II. Its dark-brown paint was peeling off, and the musty interiors were hardly lit by bulbs filmed with dust. One hundred meters away to the north, the Manila Cathedral sat on raised ground. Its round gray dome could be seen from the Manila Bay, and the long central aisle towards the grand altar had already exhausted many old women who walked to the altar on their knees. In front of the cathedral was the plaza built by the Spaniards. When the wind from the bay began to blow, the fire trees moved like waves touching each other. The orange-red flowers of the caballero trees lifted the hearts of the newlyweds as they walked down the stone stairs of the majestic cathedral.

But the poor country cousin that was the Commission on Independent Elections was never to be bothered, and continued on its merry way. Its three commissioners served eight-year terms, which meant that they oversaw the election of two Presidents, who served four-year terms. And being a Contuluyan

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stitutional Commission, the Commissioners were exempted from the threats of dismissal, dissolution, or impeachment coming from the Philippine Congress—that honorable Chamber that God, in His or Her Infinite Glory, had filled with cobras, vipers, and scorpions whose venom could send government officials shaking in their half-boot shoes.

And on the last midterm election that I ran for public office, the Commissioners were composed of three middling lawyers. Jorge Luis Borges, the chairman, was a balding man with bee-stung lips and an accent so thick you could freeze it overnight and use it to fry the next morning’s cold rice. His associates included Italo Calvino, who had a face as dark and thick as carabao hide and a voice as sibilant as the hiss of a snake; and Gabriel Garcia Marquez, with a body bigger than a Kelvinator refrigerator that his staff would, behind his back, of course, snicker that the Commissioner should walk sideways, like a crab, so he could enter the main gate of the decrepit building.

Chairman Borges was a former activist during the time of the Presidentturned-dictator Ferdinand Marcos. When Angel Aquino, I mean President Cory Aquino, kicked Marcos out of the Presidential Palace, she appointed Borges as the Officer-in-Charge of a sleepy town in the southern island of Mindanao. Borges lost no time in cutting down the huge trees that grew on the mountains nearby, and thus became immeasurably rich.

Calvino was a former speechwriter of Marcos who, since his skin could molt like a snake’s, slithered his way into the circles of power in Cory Aquino’s time. Garcia Marquez, bless him, was a former military general in charge of Procurement during the time of Marcos. He went with Da Real Macoy in the dictator’s exile in Hawaii, and was with him when Marcos’s Madame Tussaude-remade face and figure returned to Manila, for burial. With a monkey-like agility nobody would suspect he had in that rhinoceros of a body, he was able to grab a branch and bound into the middle of the circle, and have himself appointed.

The only thing I wanted to do was to run as one of the Congressional nominees of Coming Out, the gay-lesbian-bisexual-transgender party, sit for one term in the venomous Congress, pass the anti-discrimination bill, and return to my quiet life teaching English to rich brats in a Catholic university.

But the three Commissioners, their Friends in the Presidential Palace, and perhaps God in His or Her Infinite Glory had other plans for me.

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Chapter 2 Three years ago we formed Coming Out, and started chapters in major cities from, as they say, Aparri to Jolo. We have gay members working efficiently and well for Manong Chavit in the North, for Ate Bombo Grace in Luzon, for Inday Susan in Bacolod, and for Governor Adel Tamano in Mindanao. In short, we had the whole country covered with our dainty fingers.

Our members had livelihood programs courtesy of Mother Ricky Reyes’s Isang Gunting, Isang Suklay, Hanapbuhay, which trained both gays and nongays alike to wield the power of a pair of scissors to earn their keep for the day. We had medical missions courtesy of Doctor Joey Montemayor, who is our magnet to those med reps (many of them gay), who gave us tons of free medicines. And lastly, we had literacy and reading programs courtesy of Nanay Coring, The Lady with a National Book Store, who gave us free children’s books so we could teach the young to read before they entered elementary school.

And every year, we also held the annual Pride March, to celebrate our Pink Power.

I had always worked behind the scenes, as chief fund-raiser of the annual Pride March. I would call up my rich and bored classmates at the Ateneo, and ask them for ten thousand pesos each to fund the floats and the costumes. If they were abroad or haven’t withdrawn yet from their trust funds, I would go to Mother Ricky, Kuya Boy, and Ate Fanny; I would badger Direk Joel, Manay Ichu and Tita Armida, for donations. With my begging bowl I went around shamelessly. I wanted to make sure that we had fabulous costumes and floats to-die-for, that we had a small but brilliantly-lit stage, with a sound system loud enough to broadcast the Pussycats’ “Don’t Cha” into the blasted air.

During the last Pride March, I was besieged with calls up to the night before the march itself. One of the callers was from Manila’s Finest, a corpulent policeman on his motorcycle, who would escort our marchers from the Royal and Pontifical University of Santo Tomas, down to Quiapo, and our eventual destination, the Square of Democracy called Plaza Miranda.

The cop on wheels said, “Ser, we need two pulishmen. Lash year, you paid us one thousand pesos. Dahil may e-vat na dish year, you should pay us one thousand payb hundred per pulishman. So ser, three thousand ol in ol, payabol bepor da march.” tuluyan

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“Okay,” I said, since we still had extra funds from the donations.

The next caller had a very soft and a very slow voice. It seemed to come from someone on his last legs. “Elow, ez theze Danota, da organizer of da Pride Marsh?”

“Yes po,” I answered.

“Ah, this is Gloria.”

Huh? I thought. The Vice-President of the country?

“Gloria Manila. Remember me? I waz a zinger in the 1970s.”

And then I remembered Gloria Manila, the Queen of Philippine Impersonators. With her curly eyelashes, high cheekbones and rubbery lips, she did not lip-sync but sang all the hits of Motown. She was Dionne Warwick and Diana Ross and Tina Turner rolled into one. She pouted and gyrated and jumped, and then dropped to the floor in a perfect split.

“Of course, I remember,” I said quickly, dismissing the thought of how painful that split could be. “What po can I do for you?”

“Ahhh, I am with the Golden Gayz of the beloved Councilor Justo C. Justo. May we join your Pride Marsh tomorrow? I also want to sing.”

“Ah, that is okay po, Madame Gloria.”

“How long is the march?”

“Around one kilometer po. You can just wait for us in Plaza Miranda, if you like.”

“Ay shempre, no,” Gloria Manila said. “We want to join the marsh, but we are worried that with the heat, our makeup will melt.”

“Ahhh—“ “Actually, our oldest member, Mama Chuvaness, also wants to join. Pero she is already 85 years old.”

“Oh, maybe she can wait for us na lang in Plaza Miranda?”

“I think zhe will do that.”

“Eh, where po si Mama Chuvaness now?”

“Ay, she went to her friend in Santa Ana. She will borrow a white ballroom gown for tomorrow’s march.”

“Ahhh—” “O sige, Danota, zee you tomorrow, ha?”

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Chapter 3 Maria Orosa and Julio Nakpil were the names of two streets in bohemian Malate. They were not very long, but they formed what was known as Manila’s gay enclave. The Library karaoke bar was still there, on nearby Adriatico Street, and from there to Orosa and Nakpil was like liberated territory.

Every guy who walked was either gay or a rent boy, and the eyes, of course, spoke a language of their own.

The White Party was held every June. The dukes and duchesses of Big Business fell into a swoon and would hang big tarpaulins of their products all around. After all, the Pink Peso was one of the few profitable marketing niches in a country that had long ago gone to the dogs.

But the bitches were still there, taking various forms.

One of them was the Marketing Manager of a bar whose cultural pretensions included poetry readings, film showings, and such. The bar sat beside a dance club; both of them were owned by ten guppies (gay urban professionals, so-called). The cultural chi-chi was held on the second floor, which our Marketing Manager made sure would be colder than a morgue. I did not know what it was about Filipinos in a tropical climate that made them put their air-cons on full blast. You were supposed to condition the air so the customers would feel cool, not let icicles form and drip down their chins.

Once I read my poems in this Center of Culture, for which I was given a free drink of tepid gin tonic. That was all right. But then our Marketing Manager asked me to write about their place. I tried to eat the food he served – indigestible meat from some poor tamaraw in Mindoro – and of course, I did not write about their place.

When I came back and asked him to hang the tarpaulin of Coming Out in front of their bar, he said “yes.” But he did not hang the tarpaulin – and even promptly lost it. The tarpaulin cost all of one thousand pesos. If it were my money I would have just listed it under “bad debts” and forgot all about it, after asking my psychic to put a hex on him. But since it was bought from donated funds that had to be audited, I texted, e-mailed, and called up our Marketing Manager. The man with the forked tongue hissed “yes,” “yes,” “yes,” but he never returned the tarpaulin. So I wrote to one of the ten owners, a man I had known at the State University many years ago, when he was younger, thinner, and poorer. He sent me a frosty text message: “Send mestuluyan

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senger.” No “please,” no apologies. I sent the messenger to collect the money that did not belong to me, and promptly struck the owner off my list.

Another bitch used to own this bar in Malate. He told me he would make a donation of three thousand pesos to the Pride March, which I could collect any time. So I advanced my own money, used his donation to help pay for the printing of the souvenir magazine, but when it was time to collect, he was always absent. He would text me to go to his bar and collect the money, but he was nowhere to be found. One time, the waiters said he was in Puerto Galera, the next time he was in Boracay, the third time he was in Phuket. He seemed to be getting farther and farther away from my grasp that I just forgot about it, listed it under “bad debts,” and asked my psychic to put a boil on his buttocks, so that the next time he sat on the beach, the boil would burst and bring him to paradise.

The third bitch was the Advertising and Promotions Manager of one of the country’s biggest underwear and clothing brands. Began 20 years ago, I used to buy their products since I wanted to help local brands. But after a month, the bands of their underwear fell. After two months, their shirts lost all shape. And after three months, the blue dye on their jeans simply paled. I complained to one of my former columnists in the Philippine Daily Planet, a guy our publisher’s niece hired when I was still editing the Saturday Special section and who, unbeknownst to me, also did PR for the underwear and clothing company. After hearing my complaint, the PR Twat simply said, “Ikaw naman, you know their products are for the local market, what else would you expect for such cheap prices?”

My jaw fell. Since I counted all my hard-earned centavos, I just stopped buying their products. But with a savvy marketing campaign that featured the hottest and newest bodies as models, this company was soon making millions.

Their shirts became tighter, their jeans more low-slung, and their underwear ads catered most obviously to a gay market.

And so, when I was raising funds for the Pride March, I wrote them to ask for a donation. No answer. After I filed for the party-list registration of Coming Out, I wrote them again. No answer. Okay, all right, no skin off my nose, I said to myself, then taught my freshman English students the virtue of arsenic poisoning in William Faulkner’s “A Rose for Emily.”

But on this White Party, there he was, the Advertising and Promotions Manager of the company. He was all done up like a horse. His newly-dyed 90

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bottle-blonde hair was made to fall waywardly down his head. His face belonged most succinctly to the equine kingdom. He was older than me, but since he had just gone through another round of botox and cosmetic surgery, his forehead and cheeks were so tight you could see the capillaries like small rivers on dry sand. His collagen-implanted lips were puckered and he could barely speak, much less laugh. Speech and laughter would have ripped the stitches done behind his ears.

And so when he saw me he was apologetic and almost curtseyed. He said he had gotten my letters but his slim wrists were tied. “You know naman how my Chinese bosses are. They are such tightwads,” he simpered.

I just looked at him, my eyebrows reaching my forehead rivered with lines.

“But I promise you, we will give you all the T-shirts and tarpaulins you need for the campaign of Coming Out Party List.”

I smiled without showing my serrated teeth.

“I am just an e-mail or a text message away. Don’t be a strangeh,” he muttered, before curtseying again, almost, and joining the noise and the lunacy around him.

Of course, he never delivered. Before the 90-day political campaign started, I texted and e-mailed and wanted to collect on his promise of “all the T-shirts and tarpaulins you need.” But all my messages were coldly ignored.

He must be sitting somewhere, in a cabana on Kho Samui, or a sofa in Dr. Belo’s, or on a bench in Quiapo, looking at the newest designs of their shirts and jeans.

More like a bench in Quiapo.

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2005 National Commission for Culture and the Arts Writers Prize Nobela

Walong Diwata ng Pagkahulog

(Mga Sipi sa Nobela) Edgar Calabia Samar ILANG SAGLIT bago siya itinulak ng binatilyo sa bangin, naalala ni Daniel noong limang taong gulang siya at iniligaw ng isang tiyanak sa unang pagkakataon: nakasiksik siya sa pagitan ng nakausling mga ugat ng kalamyas, nanlalagkit sa pawis ang leeg, at nangangako sa sariling hindi na talaga siya makikipaglaro bastaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t lumubog na ang araw. Maghahatinggabi na nang matagpuan siya ng Tito Tony niya, nakasiksik pa rin siya sa pagitan ng mga ugat ng kalamyas, naglibag na ang pawis sa leeg, at nakamulagat sa dilim. Maghahatinggabi na rin siguro, naisip ni Daniel kasabay ng pagpuwersa ng mga kamay at braso ng binatilyo sa tagiliran niya upang itulak siya sa bangin. Susubukan sana niyang lumaban pero nawalan na siya ng balanse.

Nang matiyak niyang mahuhulog siya, saka nakaramdam ng panghihinayang si Daniel. Kumbakit ngayon pa siya mamamatay kung kailan mayroon na siyang totoong kuwento.

To: <arcangel_81@yahoo.com.ph> From: <ecsamar@gmail.com> Subject: Atisan, et. al.

Atisan Boy! Kamusta? Friendster never fails to surprise me ha ha ha. Kilala pa kita, siyempre. How can I forget our storyteller? It was good to finally hear from you. I wrote you letters, pare. Akala ko tinatamad ka lang sumulat. Kami ni Erik, nagsusulatan pa. He just emailed me the other day. Kinukuwento ka niyang madalas. Pero hindi niya binabanggit ang Atisan. Minsan lang.

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Bro, I miss Atisan. Kahit hindi naman talaga ako taga-roon. Siguro, I just miss your stories of Atisan. Would you believe pare that I saw this monograph on Atisan? I couldn’t believe it myself. Pero I found it while I was researching on it for one of my college papers here years ago. Ganun ako ka-loyal sa ’yo noon. Dito pa talaga sa Canada. You should read it. I mean, the monograph, not my paper ha ha. I sent you a copy pero mukhang di mo rin natanggap.

God, ang tagal na pala nun. But Erik got a copy. I was thinking na pinakita n’ya sa ’yo.

Kumusta ba kayo ni Erik. Minsan, he would send me weird emails. Alam mo naman ’yun, tahimik lang, laging pa-mysterious ha ha ha. He would tell me na ang alam n’yo nina Michael, he already died. Na ibinurol pa siya.

Na inilibing n’yo pa siya. Nagugulat daw siya kung bakit hindi n’yo na siya nakikita. Kapag umuuwi ka raw sa Atisan, nag-iinuman kayong tatlo pero nag-uusap kayo ni Michael na parang kayo lang dalawa ang andun. Pero naroon lang din daw siya. Jesus, kinikilabutan ako sa mga kuwento nun. Sabi ko sa kanya, pag bumalik pa ako d’yan, ako’ng papatay sa kaniya pag di n’ya tinigilan ang pananakot.

Pero mukhang malabo na. I already got my job here. Ikaw, balita ko, di ka pa rin nakakatapos. Mukhang may phobia ka na yata sa graduation a he he he.

At lumalaki na rin si Dustin. Alam mo na ba, may junior na ako. But Marissa and I were never married. Hindi mo rin nga pala kilala si Marissa. We’re just living together. Dustin’s turning three na next month. Siguro someday, iuuwi ko siya. Dadalhin ko siguro siya sa Atisan. Inglisero, pare.

Alam mo ba, when I sent Erik the manuscript I was telling you about, sabi niya, its contents were pure lies. Damang-dama ko sa email na galit siya.

Sabi ko hindi niya naman kailangang seryosohin ’yun. I mean, ni hindi ko nga kilala ’yung nagsulat nun. But there was a byline, I just forgot the name.

Babae, pare. Alam mo ba kung bakit galit na galit si Erik, kasi nga, and this was the only time he mentioned the place in all the emails he sent, kasi nga wala naman daw talagang Atisan. Would you believe he said it? And he meant it literally. Walang Atisan.

Pare, ano ba’ng nangyayari kay Erik? I’m glad you wrote, that you finally found me. Laging nalilimutang ibigay sa akin ni Erik ang email mo e. O sinasadya na ’ata nun. Nawalan talaga ako ng connection sa iyo. I was sending you mails, kahit cards pag pasko, pero di nga ’ata nakakarating. Baka may mali sa address na binigay mo sa ’kin. Minsan, I was thinking, putsa, baka tuluyan

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wala talagang Atisan a. Pero minsan lang ’yun, paano naman, it’s weird. I mean, bakit di nakakarating ’yung mails ko sa ’yo. Pero siyempre, nawawala rin ’yun agad, I mean ’yung doubt, kasi nga I’ve been there. Nakita ko ang Atisan. Pero sa mapa ng San Pablo, I searched for it talaga sa net ha, minsan, at walang Atisan, alam mo ba. Pero maliit lang kasi ’yung map, siyempre, ’yung bigger barrios lang ang makikita dun. It can’t possibly name all the 80 plus barrios in San Pablo, right? Ganun, kaya baka wala ang Atisan.

Pero minsan, natatakot ako, paano kung wala talagang Atisan? And it was just part of your stories? It was just in your imagination? Pero nakakatakot ipursue ang ganung line of thinking pare, kasi baka bumalik sa akin. I mean, baka pati ako pala e part lang ng imagination mo. God, mababaliw ako nun.

I mean, even my fingers that now type these letters are just doing their part to feed your fantasy. O, Atisan boy, puwede na rin akong storyteller di ba.

Ha ha ha.

But seriously pare, kailan ka pa ba huling umuwi sa Atisan? Naroon pa ba talaga ’yun? O, wag mo akong pag-isipan ng masama ha. I meant that figuratively. Another way of thinking about it pare, maaari namang hindi iisa lang ang Atisan di ba? I mean, malawak ang mundo. There could possibly be a lot of other Atisans. Baka nga sa Pilipinas lang, meron din. Sino ba kasing isang tao ang nakatuntong na sa buong Pilipinas. At posible ba kasi ’yun. Basta ganun.

Pero hindi ibig sabihin, hindi na espesyal ’yung Atisan mo. Natin. Of course, it’s special. But only for us. Sa ’yo, kay Michael, kay Erik. Sa Lola at tito mo. Sa Papa mo. Kay Orange. Teka, nagkatuluyan ba kayo, pare? Wala ring binabanggit dun si Erik e. Pero nakuha mo, nothing is special in itself.

Alam mo naman ’yun siyempre. Someone, some people make us special.

We are never special just by being who we are. Naks, philosophical pare. I mean, o halimbawa, si Dustin, special siya sa ’kin, at kay Marissa, pero hindi siya special sa lahat ng makakasalubong niya sa daan, o sa lahat ng batang makakalaro niya di ba. Sasabihin, uy, ang cute ng bata. Pero hanggang doon lang. Kahit sa lahat ng makikilala niya habang lumalaki siya. Why am I saying this. Alam ko naman na alam mo’ng ibig kong sabihin.

I think, humahaba na ang email na ito. Just want you to know that I’m glad you wrote. But I have this weird feeling that the road somehow ends here.

Kaya nilulubos ko na. I mean, even friendships should end somewhere, di ba?

You were my friend, well, you still are. But I just remember you, the idea of 94

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you, your name, us singing the Beatles song, the humming, I can even see our feet walking, I still carry the faint smell of our mornings in Banahaw, but I’m sorry pare, I can’t remember your face. I’d probably recognize you when I see you. You don’t even have your picture in your Friendster profile to remind me of how you look. It would have been great seeing you again, kahit sa pic.

I call this the Atisan syndrome. Images fading. Slowly. Exhaustively. Until I totally forget that I even had memory of those images. Ikaw, would you recognize me kaya when we see each other? Weird, ano? Ilang taon na ba, five? Six? The things we forget in less than a decade. We had better capacities for keeping memories when we were younger, ano? But we are young. Atisan syndrome. When you leave someplace, you continue living as if the place you left do not exist anymore, but was there, in your past. As if it ceased to exist the moment you left. Pampawala ng guilt.

Alam mo, I realized, may espiritu rin ang mga lugar. Di ba, kapag may nakikita tayong maganda sa paligid, o magandang lugar, for instance, that view in Banahaw when we were on top of it, di ba, we say, buhay na buhay ’yung lugar. Buhay na buhay. Kaya it’s possible then that places also die. Alam natin ito, I mean, literally. History had lost so many civilizations in the past.

If there really was Atisan, can it be possible that now it’s dead? That Atisan is no longer.

Pare, don’t mind me if this sounds weird to you. Alam mo naman, when you’re miles away from home, you’re always confronted with existential questions. Who am I? Ha ha ha. What is my purpose in life? And then, in the end, we all surrender.

The day I first read your message, you see, I don’t regularly open my Friendster, I was reading a book on love. On love, pare ha ha. That’s why it took me sometime before I finally decided to write this letter. Yes, I still read books, write occasional poems, get drunk with the songs of Beatles. Kung ngayon tayo nagkakilala rito sa Canada, I believe we’ll still have reasons to be friends. Anyway, the writer just quoted this from another philosopher, and so I’ll just quote him quoting that guy Nietzsche. It is also my way of saying it ends here. That it must end here: “...and perhaps we shall never see each other again; perhaps we shall meet again but fail to recognize each other: our exposure to different seas and suns has changed us.”

Glen tuluyan

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p.s.

Dahil parang kulang kung walang ps. And I’d like to think that I still forgot to say something, kahit ito na ’yung pinakamahabang email na nasulat ko.

Pero di ko rin maisip kung ano. Basta ingat ka na lang, pare.

1/Delka Linar NASA GRADE 2 si Daniel nang una siyang makabuo ng kuwento. Iyung kuwento na sa palagay niya noon, kapani-paniwala. Hindi na niya maalala kung kailan talaga niya unang-unang sinabi at kung sino-sino ang unang nakarinig. Basta’t nasa grade two siya nang kumalat sa kanilang magkakaklase na may kaibigan siyang duwende. Nakatira rin sa lumang bahay ng Lola Bining niya.

Noong una, ayaw maniwala ng mga kaklase niya, lalo na iyung matatangkad at matataba na madalas mang-agaw ng baon ng maliliit at payat. Kabilang si Daniel noon sa maliliit at payat. “Wala namang duwende,” igigiit ng mga ito sa kanya.

Pero hindi sila pinakikinggan ni Daniel. Marunong makiramdam si Daniel. Ang totoo, mas matalas ang pakiramdam ni Daniel noong bata pa siya. Nababasa niya sa mga mata ng mga nagsasabing walang duwende na gusto rin naman talagang mapatunayan ng mga ito na may duwende nga.

Kaya tuloy lang siya sa paglalarawan sa damit ng kaibigan niyang duwende.

Makintab na makintab na puti. Ang alam lang kasi niya noon, basta may duwendeng puti at duwendeng itim. Siyempre, dahil napapanood niya sa Ora Encantada na ’yung duwendeng puti ang mabait, kaya ’yun dapat ang kaibigan niya. Patusok ang pagkaputi-puti ring sombrero na mahabang-mahaba, mas mataas pa kaysa sa duwende mismo. At walang sapin sa paa ang duwende!

– ito ang binago niya sa mga larawan ng duwende na napapanood niya. Untiunti, natuklasan niya noon na hindi puwedeng ulitin lang niya ang lahat ng detalye na alam na rin ng mga kaklase niya. Nanonood din kasi siyempre ng tv ang mga ito. Kailangang magdagdag siya ng iba, para maging mas kapani-paniwala. At iyung paang walang sapin, puting-puti talaga. At kapag tumutuntong sa lupa o sa damo, nagiging puti rin ang niyayapakan nito.

Bumabalik lang sa dating kulay oras na iangat na ng duwende ang paa para ihakbang.

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“Ano ngang pangalan?” tanong ni Michael, ’yung kaklase n’ya na laging napapagalitan ni Miss Luciano dahil madalas na hindi purong puti ang tshirt na pang-ilalim sa school uniform. Kabilang si Michael sa pangkat ng matatangkad, pero hindi ito mataba. Kaya naiinis si Daniel dito noong una.

Nasisira kasi kay Michael ang pagpapangkat niya sa mga kaklase sa isip niya.

“Wala,” isasagot na lang ni Daniel, habang ang totoo’y nag-iisip siya ng magandang pangalan. Iyung kakaiba dapat. Iyung hindi pa naririnig ng mga kaklase niya. Pero wala talaga siyang maisip.

“E bakit wala? Paano s’ya tinatawag ng mga kasamahan n’yang d’wende?” nakangisi nang tanong nung pinakamalaki, pinakamatangkad at matabangmataba sa klase nila kaya laging sergeant at arms kahit ito ang madalas na pagmulan ng away. Naisip ni Daniel, mukhang-mukha talagang kontrabida.

Ilang taon pa’t patataubin si Max Alvarado.

“Meron,” humina nang bahagya ang boses ni Daniel na para bang may lihim na ibubunyag. “Pero hindi ko puwedeng sabihin.” Lalong sumiksik palapit sa kanya ang ulo ng mga kaklase. “Hindi na siya magpapakita ulit kapag sinabi ko iyon,” bulong pa ni Daniel.

Dahil sa sikretong iyon, lalo siyang araw-araw na dinumog ng mga kaklase. Natuklasan niya na hindi rin dapat sinasabi lahat, pakaunti-kaunti lang, para may binabalikan ang mga nakikinig. Hindi pa niya kilala noon si Scheherazade, pero nabasa na niya sa komiks ang kuwento ni Aladdin. Sa komiks n’ya rin siguro natutuhan ang bisa ng pambibitin sa pagkukuwento.

Laging itutuloy, para subaybayan.

Kahit hindi siya ang pinakamatalino sa klase, o ang pinaka-“kyut” ayon sa pamantayan ni Miss Luciano, naging bida rin siya noon. Pinakikinggan siya kahit ng matatangkad at matataba. May naiinis din, siyempre. Kaya naging halos bodyguard niya si Michael noon. Tagapagtanggol. Mas naiinis pa ito kapag may hindi makumbinsi sa mga kuwento niya. Noon sila nagsimulang magkalapit. Dahil sa kanya kaya naging malapit din si Michael kay Erik, na kababata naman niya at kasamang lumaki sa Atisan. Pagdating ng grade 4, iisa na ang section nilang tatlo.

HINDI NA RIN maalala ni Daniel kung paanong basta na lang nawala ang interes ng mga kaklase niya tungkol sa kaibigan niyang duwende. Kapag recess, nakikita niyang mas masaya nang naghahabulan ang mga ito. Sikyo.

Langit-lupa. Saksak-puso. Minsan, nakikisali siya, at sa tuwing libang na tuluyan

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libang siya sa pagtakbo para hindi mataya—madalas nga’y nakayapak pa sila kaya madalas silang mapagalitan ni Miss Luciano dahil nanlilimahid silang bumabalik sa classroom—nalilimot din niya ang tungkol sa kaibigan niyang duwende. Pero paminsan-minsan lang iyon. Mas madalas na mag-isa lang siya, nakaupo sa pinakataas ng bleacher sa soccer field nila, nakatingin sa mga naghahabulan niyang kaklase, habang bumubuo ng kuwento sa isip. Hindi gaya ng babae sa sinaunang kuwento ng mga Arabo, hindi nakataya ang buhay niya rito, kaya siguro hindi rin siya tatagal ng sanlibo’t isang gabi sa pag-iisip ng mga bagong kuwento.

Isang araw, basta na lang niya naisip na sabihin na sa mga kaklase niya ang pangalan ng kaibigan niya. Wala na siyang maisip na ibang paraan para maengganyo muli ang mga ito na makinig sa kanya.

“Delka Linar,” sabi niya sa ilang lumapit matapos niyang ibalita ang pagtatapat. Nabigla pa siya, dahil hindi niya inasahan na pagkatapos ng lahat, bibitiwan niya iyon nang walang kasere-seremonya. Lunch break noon, at marami sa mga kaklase niya ang umuuwi para sa bahay mananghalian. Kaunti rin lang ang nakarinig. Kumalat na lang iyon sa klase nang magsipasok na sila sa hapon.

Pagkadismaya ang nakita niya sa mukha ng mga kaklase. Para bang mayroon silang inasahang pangalan at hindi iyon ang sinabi niya. Ang totoo, pinagbalibaligtad lang niya ang mga letra sa buo niyang pangalan. Karl Daniel. Ang tagal niyang pinag-isipan iyon nang sinundang gabi. Kahit nang bago siya matulog, isinulat pa niya iyon sa notebook niya sa gmrc para masiguradong hindi niya malilimutan kinabukasan.

Nang mag-uwian sila kinahapunan, halos wala nang bumabanggit kay Delka Linar. Kani-kaniya na muling umpukan ang mga kaklase niya para ipagpatuloy ng mga ito ang pagteteks. O pag-uusap tungkol sa ipapalabas pa lang na episode ng Bioman at Shaider pagdating ng Sabado.

Noon unang nakadama ng lungkot si Daniel na may kinalaman sa pagkukuwento. Pakiramdam niya, totoong may kaibigan siya na hindi na magpapakita sa kanya.

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the end of the world:

Peter ga{riel iS on t>e r[]io Carina Samantha Santos Did they evolve as naturally and as quietly as did the parts of our bodies?

The Evolution of Useful Things, Henry Petroski

i.

It’s night-time and the room is dark.

Jake is fingering the threadwork of the blankets. They are white and delicate, but they’re warm and he likes that. Beside him, Joel is snoring lightly, mouth open, eyes half-closed. Passing cars flicker headlights across the bedroom wall, and he thinks he sees something that wasn’t really there. He sits up and rubs his temples.

You’re friends.

He slips on his paper slippers, treads to the bathroom and splashes his face with cold water. His reflection looks unimpressed, but he ignores this and dries off his face with a towel; it is dry and scratchy on his face. He then takes one, two pills to help him sleep. He walks back to the bed and slips under the sheets, turns to face a still-sleeping Joel, but looks away after two minutes.

There are times when he knows he stares too long (sometimes, perhaps, tuluyan

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too longingly). But he’s looked at him long enough to know when to and when not to.

The night is warm, and his head hurts. He turns to face the wall instead.

ii.

Jake puts on three cups of coffee and turns on the news; he’s met with static. The only news team still on the airwaves is channel four. The tv trembles with a steady view of a side-ways floor and people who are running on walls. There are explosions, but Jake can’t tell if they’re coming from the tv, from outside the window or from inside himself.

Somebody kicks the camera and it focuses on the Macy’s across the building where he works.

He puts the tv on mute and climbs back into bed, waiting for the coffee to brew. Three minutes later, it does and he pours himself a cup. And then, two. In the middle of the second cup of coffee, he comes across a cocktail umbrella, wedged between the table napkins. He opens it, closes, opens, closes and then, he throws it in his teacup when he’s done.

He saves the third cup for Joel.

He is still sleeping.

iii. The sky is dusty when he looks out. He tries to tune out the people

screaming, but he knows that whatever happens in his head, they’re still burning and he’s still breathing them in.

He coughs a little, on purpose. He thinks, perhaps, he can somehow hack out from his lungs, the dead bodies he’s inhaled.

It doesn’t really work.

On the couch, Joel is finally awake, glued to the radio and breathing a little rapidly. His forehead is wrinkled as he is straining to hear the radio 100

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forecast. There is a half-empty coffee cup on the table.

This is it, right?

There is nothing but static on the tv screen.

iv. Jake slinks back into bed, but he doesn’t mean to fall asleep. He is

awakened by soft lips on his own, nails scratching the nape of his neck and fingers in his hair. You should have known, and he kisses him back, arms around his neck, toes rubbing his calves, bellies touching and then not.

The radio isn’t screeching anymore – it’s Peter Gabriel.

Joel licks Jake’s neck and nibbles at his ear. No one is on top, because no one wants to leave beside. They are side-by-side and together; their lips converge, following the highs and lows on the static-y guitars, dying along with the disappearing reception.

There is a little laughing, a little bit of sighing, and the world is falling to pieces around them. The song stops and they come up for a breath of what is left of the oxygen. ( Jake wonders if he has breathed his mother in yet.)

They don’t have sex, but that’s okay. That’s perfectly fine.

v.

Somehow, the fire edges toward their apartment.

For a few minutes, Jake is in a panic. He is pacing, but it’s a little bit harder to do on the cracked pavement on the rooftop. Especially when you are with the boy, and when you can see the whole world turn into a bonfire right before your eyes. The last scene from Fight Club fills his head, and he half-expects “Where is My Mind?” to make an entrance.

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But there’s just the crackling of the fire, and the tumbling of rubble. He doesn’t understand why it sounds like music. Nothing is ever fair.

Joel is quiet – resigned, Jake finally settles – and they wait for the flames to consume them, hand in hand and sweaty.

He thought he brought them high enough.

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Ang Aso sa Likod ng Karinderya

Jason Tabinas Sininghot-singhot niya ang nakagawiang daan papuntang balon ng basurahan. Tumigil, pagkaraan ay iginalaw-galaw ang kanyang tainga at itinaas ang buntot.

Walang puwedeng makain. Tuyong dahon lang ng saging ang naroon kasama ng cellophane, plastik, at mga nabubulok na bayabas.

Dahan-dahan siyang bumaba sa balon, maingat sa pagtapak sa gilid para hindi tuluyang madulas at dumausdos sa may kalalimang basurahan. Malutong ang tunog ng pagdantay ng kanyang bigat sa ibabaw ng dahon.

Abot niya na. Dinilaan niya ang nasa loob ng mga plastik. Tuyo. Tuyongtuyo.

Bumalik siya paitaas. Lumagaslas pababa ang buhaghag na lupang naapakan ng kanyang maliliit na paa. Pagdating sa taas, nakalabas ang kanyang dilang mala-rosas.

Tumilaok ang talisaing tandang malapit sa balon. Nang hindi siya tuminag, muling kumahig ang tandang, nangagtayuan ang balahibo sa dibdib at tinungo ang kanyang kinatatayuan.

Naglakad siya paunti-unti palayo sa tandang at nang maamoy ang niluluto sa di kalayuan, nilakihan niya ang kanyang mga hakbang. Tumunog nang bahagya ang kanyang kuwintas na kampa-kampana.

Lumusot siya sa kawayang bakod, sa isang maliit na siit kung saan siya lamang ang tanging nakakapasok. Ang malalaki na ay natutusok ng matatalim na dulo ng kawayan kaya sa halos lahat ng panahon, solo niya ang likuran ng tuluyan

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karinderya.

Nakaharap na naman siya sa isa pang balon. Inamoy niya ang paligid ng balon, suminghot-singhot at pumasok sa kanyang ilong ang alikabok at napaatsing. Tinitigan niya ang itim na balon, ang rabaw ng tubig, minamatyagan ang munting paggalaw.

Minsan na siyang nakakain ng tilapyang malapit nang mamatay. Nahulog iyon sa hugasang mesa sa likod ng karinderya at dumausdos sa balon. Nang gumilid iyon, sinungkit niya ng kanyang mga kuko at inilapag sa lupa.

Inilabas niya ang dila, binasa ang labi at dulo ng ilong. Nalulungkot siyang mapatunayan na mali siya sa pag-aakalang ang tilapya niyang kinain noon ay siyang pinakawalang lasa. Nagbalik ang gunita ng kanyang malutong na pagkagat sa laman ng isda gamit ang kanyang maliliit na pangil.

Walang gumagalaw. Pumunta siya sa gawing kaliwa ng bakuran kung saan nakatirik ang karinderya. Sumuot siya sa gawing ibaba ng dingding na gawa sa pinagtagpi-tagping kinakalawang na yero. Walang nahulog na dumi ng tao sa sahig.

Pumunta siyang muli sa gilid ng bakod sa patuloy na paghahanap ng pagkain. Sa bakod, nakabayubay ang bulig ng saging. Dinilaan niya ang dulo.

Matamis. Hindi napuknat ang kanyang dila sa mga dulo ng palumpon ng saging.

Kwish…kwish…

Tumigil siya sa pagdila at tiningnan ang gawing mesa kung saan may nagaalis ng kaliskis ng isda. Binalikan niya ang dating kinakain at nang magsawa na ay tumingin sa taas ng bakod kung may ibang makakain. Karton at pabilog na tali lang ng panggatong ang naroon. Sa baba naman ay ang sakong sinubukan niyang butasin noong isang araw subalit hindi niya nagawa.

Walang pagkain.

Tumuloy siya sa ilalim ng mesa. Nagsisimula pa lang ang mama sa pag-aalis ng kaliskis ng isda. Umaaligid at dumadampi ang langaw sa paa ng mama.

Palaging ginagalaw ng mama ang kanyang paa sa pagbugaw ng langaw.

Pagkaraa’y tumawag sa loob.

“Nasusunog ‘yong kanin!”

Nakaabot sa kanyang pang-amoy ang mabangong samyo ng sinaing. May kumalantog sa loob ng karinderya.

Sinimulan niyang simutin ang nahuhulog na mga kaliskis ng isda. Minsan ay may nahuhulog na palikpik at dinadakma niya ito bago pumailalim sa 104

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pagitan ng mga bato sa paanan ng mesa. Itinaob ng mama ang pinaglinisan ng isda at dumaloy ang tubig sa balon. Umiwas siya sa tilamsik ng tubig. Mayamaya, pumasok ang mama sa loob ng karinderya.

Isang mababaw na palanggana ng tubig ang katabi ng pintuan subalit baka makita siya ng mama at hampasin. Ininom na lang niya ang tubig sa ilalim ng bato sa paanan ng mesa.

Gutom pa rin siya.

Tinungo niya ang gilid ng karinderya. Isinandal niya ang paa sa dingding at sinilip ang loob. Sari-saring karne at isda ang nasa bandehadong nakalapag sa mababang mesa. Lumakas ang amoy ng sibuyas at bawang sa pagkiti-kiti ng kawali.

Inilabas niya ang dila at binasa ang kanyang bibig at ilong.

Inilagay ng mama ang mga sangkap sa kawali kasunod ng pagbudbod ng kung ano-ano. Mukhang masarap ang pagkain kaya lang hindi siya makapasok.

Tinungo niya na lang ang katabing karinderya. Tapos na rito sa pagluluto.

Ang baga na lang ang natira kasama ang tungkong bato.

Umiwas siya, masyadong mainit.

Biglang-bigla, may lumabas na batang maitim. May dala-dala itong plato, kutsara, tinidor, baso, at tasa. May tumilapong tira-tira sa lupa nang hindi mabalanse ng bata ang dala-dalahan. Nang abala na ang bata sa paghuhugas, dinilaan niya ang tumilapon sa lupa. Nang maubos na ang tumilapon, tinungo niya ang gilid ng mesang hugasan. Kumislot-kislot ang kanyang ilong habang naghihintay sa paanan ng mesa. Nagalaw ang burak nang dumaloy ang tubig.

Wala nang tumitilapong tira subalit hindi pa siya umalis. Pinagmasdan niya ang batang gumigiwang-giwang at kumukumpas-kumpas ang kamay at tumatango-tango.

“Anding, ang mga kutsara’t tinidor!” ang tawag mula sa loob. ”Bilisan mo!”

“Opo!” sagot ng bata. Dinala ng bata ang kutsara’t tinidor kasabay ng baso, pinggan at tasa.

Hindi pa rin siya umalis. Gutom na gutom pa siya.

Maya-maya’y lumabas muli ang bata mula sa karinderya at tinungo ang hugasan. May dala-dala itong maliit na palanggana at inilapag sa paanan ng hugasan. Umalis kaagad ang bata. tuluyan

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Tinungo niya ang palanggang may takip. Gamit ang kanyang kuko, tinungkab niya ang takip. Tamang-tama namang may dumating na pusa. Papalapit iyon sa kanya. Kumahol siya sa pusa, inilabas ang pangil. Madali namang nahintakutan ang pusa at umalis nang dahan-dahan. Mabilis niyang hinabhab ang pagkain—tira-tirang goto, buto ng manok na may lamang kaunti, at pirapirasong tinapay.

Di pa niya nauubos ang pagkain, naramdaman niyang may dalawang paang huminto sa di kalayuan. Subalit ipinagpatuloy niya lang ang pagkain. Ang bata lang naman iyon. Nang hindi pa lumapit ang yabag, tiningala niya ang dumating.

May dalang kalderong kulay-pilak.

Ibinaba niya ang isang paa mula sa palanggana subalit bago pa man niya maibaba ang isa pang paa mula sa palanggana at mag-anyong kakaripas, humakbang na ang babae at isinaboy sa kanya ang laman ng kaldero.

Pumuti ang kanyang paningin. Napasara ang kanyang mata sa init. Pagmulat ng kanyang mata, naramdaman niya na lang ang pag-alingasaw ng sakit. Nag-iinit ang buo niyang katawan. Halos mamanhid na ang kanyang pakiramdam subalit tiniis niya at kumaripas.

Binuhusan pa siya ng natitirang mainit na tubig mula sa maliit na kaldero.

Nailagan niya ang karamihan subalit may ilang tubig na dumantay sa kanyang mukha.Nagliliyab ang kanyang pakiramdam habang tumatakas papunta sa karatig na madamo at mabatong bakanteng lupa. Inilapag niya ang katawang nagliliyab sa damuhan katabi ng nabubulok na kahoy. Isinara niya ang kanyang mga mata.

Pagkaraan, ibinuka niya ang mga mata, dahan-dahang tiningnan ang kanyang katawan. Kalahati ng balahibo niya ay naglaho sa mabagsik na init ng tubig. Lumabas ang kaputian ng kanyang buto. Numipis ang gilid ng kanyang tiyan na nabalatan.

Binalikan niya ang mga alaala ng paglalambing ng kanyang ina noong hindi pa niya kayang maghanap ng sariling pagkain. Dinidilaan ng kanyang ina ang kanyang balahibo at kapag anyong iiyak ay pasususuhin. Nang malakilaki na, naglalaro sila ng kanyang mga kapatid. Naghahabulan sila, nagkakalmutan, at nagsisipaan. Ngayon ay hanap-hanap niya ang paglalambing ng kanyang ina.

Napadaan ang pusang itinaboy niya kanina. Napatigil at pagkabatid sa nangyari sa kanya, kumaripas papalayo.

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Dati na siyang payat magmula nang maunang mawala ang kanyang ina at isa-isang maglaho ang apat niyang kapatid. Ang naririnig niya lang sa paligid ay ang halakhakan ng mga nag-iinuman sa bawat gabing may nawawala sa kanila. Sa mababang mesa ay nakaumpok silang pabilog, panay ang tungga at sibnit sa bandehado sa gitna.

Nanlabo ang kanyang paningin. Bumalik ang alaala ng ina nang gabing iwan siya nito. Umuungol iyon, kumikisay-kisay sa hapdi, pigil ang paggalaw ng nalapnusang katawan. Ngayong nanlalabo ang kanyang mga mata, malinaw na bumabalik sa kanya ang unti-unting pagsara ng mata ng ina. Nagkatitigan lamang sila ng kanyang ina bago tuluyang isinara ng ina ang mata.

Mahaba ang gunita ng paglisan ng kanyang ina hanggang ngayong nagsisimula nang dumapo ang langaw sa kanyang balat. Naghahanap siya ng mukhang makakaharap ngayong pinapawian na siya ng pakiramdam at namamanhid ang lahat ng bahagi ng kanyang katawan, gaya ng paghahanap ng ina sa kanyang mukha nang lisanin siya nito.

Subalit wala siyang matunghayang mukha. Wala kahit agunyas ng tilaok ng manok o ngiyaw ng pusa.

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A time O< SilenC} Martin Villanueva

viii He had been up all night. Sleeping became a chore long ago. He had particularly gone to bed extra early this time. Seven-thirty to be exact, an hour or so earlier than usual. But come around 11pm, he was wide awake.

He spent the next few hours just lying in bed, in the dark of the basement den-turned-makeshift bedroom. He stared at the silver container of pomade that sat on the table at the foot of his bed. It was really the only clear thing that could be seen. The silver reflected the light from the lamppost outside, which peered through the full-length windows that aligned the walls behind his bed.

Bored of the gleam of the silver tin can, circa 2am, he decided that he might as well get dressed already. He turned on the fluorescent lights to reveal the two tattered duffel bags that he had packed days before. One was filled with his clothes, the other with his shoes, some canned goods from the States, and a Sto. Niño from Quiapo. On the desk that sat to the left of the bed, his attire for the day was already sprawled out. There was an ash-colored polo given to him by his eldest niece. The jacket was given to him by the husband of another niece. The loafers were pre-owned by his nephew, Glen, with whom he had been staying with over the past year. And finally, his slacks, chocolate in color, decades worn-in, were his own—a tailor made investment from back in the ’70s.

Straight from bed, he washed his face, brushed his teeth, applied the pomade, then proceeded to style his hair in the standard slick-back look he’s had since way before the salt and pepper which now crowned him. A bath was unnecessary; he had taken one the night before.

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After getting dressed and packing the last of his belongings he needed to pack—the clothes he slept in, the pomade, the toothbrush, and the like—he checked the clock: 2:34. Still a good two hours to go. So he waited.

He made himself comfortable on the living room couch, alighted only by the stars and another lamppost that peered in from outside. He sat there on the couch. Sat there, and stared. He stared, waited, stared, and waited some more. He checked the clock: 2:39.

i If only forever could be like this, he wonders, sitting against an acacia tree towards the side of Ria’s house. It is a bright mid-morning in summer, a gentle breeze serving as enough coolness. Ria’s parents are in Manila to visit a distant relative, her sister at work in the town’s lone bank, leaving the two alone in her house where little is said.

He has his arm around her, his skin feeling her arms, which are bare to the sun’s warmth. Her hair warmed up quite a bit, as well, its aroma like that of flowers. He imagines the scene years later, with two boys running around, maybe a girl near by. But they, he hopes, would remain as such, years passed perhaps only seen in the surroundings and its changes. She would remain as beautiful as she is today, her face would remain as smooth as it is now resting against his chest, slight dimples telling of her contentment.

They sit there, lounging quietly. Words, however sweet, would be like scratching against a chalkboard. The moment has achieved its bliss. Nothing more is needed.

ix It took him quite a while to notice anything. Noise had been muffled for years.

He found himself entranced by the rhythmic gusts of wind that would sneak through the sides of the windows, tickling the goose bumps on his wrinkled skin. A sudden shaft of light from the kitchen. Someone was awake. He checked the clock: 4:13. It was almost time.

He stood up and walked towards the kitchen. His nephew, Glen, was dressed, tuluyan

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ready to bring him to the airport. He was just fixing himself a cup of coffee.

Upon putting the teaspoon by the sink, he turned to go back upstairs.

“Tito!” Glen was startled. His uncle gave him a small wave. Glen didn’t need to ask. He knew his uncle had been up all night; he could see it in the eye bags.

He just gave him a pat on the back before going back upstairs to his bedroom.

Lolo checked the clock. Fifteen more minutes.

ii He thinks that all’s well. He stands there at the pier, everyone around him running about, many yelling at any figures of authority for any answers, few in tears, most in denial. Looking out at the ocean, the water appears relatively still, making it easy to see each gentle ripple along the wide expanse.

And so he waits, pacing a few steps, nothing really pronounced in his movement. The only negative thoughts are still his disappointment in Ria for not taking the plane to visit. The barko, she insisted, claiming it was much safer.

Nothing could happen, he argued, but a plane would be just that much faster.

He hasn’t seen her since he had left a year ago. An opportunity in Manila would not wait, not even for the most romantic of justifications. He had to go, leaving her behind. But they promised themselves to each other, and it would only be a matter of time before she could come to Manila for visits, and inevitably to begin forever with him.

So he made do. He bore with mid-mornings at the factory, closed off from sunlight and gentle breezes. And he bore with imagining her under the shade of their favorite acacia, delaying his dreams of those kids running around.

Everyone at the pier is called to gather by the main offices of the ferry line.

People rush, hearts heavy, hopes holding on to whatever. He does not move.

He continues to stare at the ocean, in its stillness lay his own hope. The barko is much safer, he could hear her saying. It is much safer. A sudden gust of wind sweeps the pier; he feels a distinct chill. Out in the ocean, the tide picks up.

x The car ride to the airport was quiet.Well, it has always been quiet for Lolo. But 110

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it was quiet for Glen, too. He knew better than to start any sort of conversation; it would just lead to further misunderstandings.

The spectacular lighting from the high lampposts along Villamor romanticized the beer houses and karinderias that aligned the side of the streets. Lolo stared up at them. Each lamppost was a step closer, a step closer to seeing her again.

He could see a reflection of himself against the dark strip of tint along the top of the windshield. Oh how so much older he’s gotten in just a year. The wrinkles have gained more depth. The weight of the skin of his cheeks dragged the corners of his lips further down. He looked at himself. He forced a smile. He would soon see her again.

iii It looks so odd, he thinks, as they insert it into his ear lobe. Sure, it helps—his hearing hasn’t been this clear in years—but it looks wrong, unsuitable for man.

And it’s not like he needs it much. He did not miss the machine’s engine at the plant, and almost thanks them for the loss of a supposed human need. Gone are the yells of the dictator of a supervisor; both of them were laid off of work when the company pulled out.

But most importantly, gone is the sweet voice that he needs to lullaby him to sleep. Gone are the kids (if at all they came to be) whose cries he needs to be alarmed about. He has lost it all, everything, to the waters of somewhere unknown.

xi At the departure area of the domestic airport, it seemed like all cars out this early in Metro Manila had converged at this tiny terminal. Lolo looked around.

It took quite a tug-of-war for Glen to get him to remove the duffel bags from his shoulders to be placed onto the trolley. Lolo hated convenience. It reminded him of his age.

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and well-wishes.

For Lolo, it was just his nephew. His traveling companion, his grandniece, was nowhere to be seen.

“Lolo! Lolo! Lolo!” It took a while for the muffled noise to translate into meaning. He turned around. It was Hilda, his grandniece. He obliged with a smile. She gave him a kiss on the cheek as she placed her bag on top of his on the trolley.

Glen extended his hand. It was a firm handshake. No words needed. Hilda gave her tito a final kiss and hug, before leading Lolo into the terminal. He tried to push the cart. She insisted on doing so herself. He reluctantly obliged and walked a half step behind.

iv “Excuse me, po.” She has a soft voice, its tone fluctuating ever so gently with every syllable. There is expressiveness in its tone, as if life had yet to weigh it down to monotony.

“I’ll just sweep the floors. Please continue. Don’t let me be a hindrance.”

Conscious, he takes the aid out from his ear lobe. He turns off the radio. She seems to have noticed his sudden withdrawal from the game being broadcasted over the airwaves. Their eyes meet. She smiles.

He notices her hair, long, soft, draping over her neck. Her cheeks are slightly plump, enticing an imagined kiss, while her eyes are that of a mother’s, sullen and nurturing. And as she comes closer to sweep the area by his desk where he’s sitting, her fragrance, reminiscent of flowers, unlocks feelings, memories long suppressed.

“I’m Lia. I’m the new house-help here.” She gives another reassuring smile, slight dimples forming on both her cheeks.

He did not hear what she said; he didn’t need to. The smile, the slight dimples are enough. Surprised by his being charmed by a girl decades younger, he invites feelings from long ago. He can’t help it, and has no intention to fight back.

“I’ll be on my way now, po. Dinner will be ready soon. I’ll come back to take you downstairs later.” And another smile before she closes the door.

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xii The flight was less than an hour long. Beside him, Hilda tried to take a nap, but the activity on the plane was too distracting. Lolo was expecting a quiet flight himself, but his eyes had a lot to hear. And as he couldn’t find it within himself to try to sleep while being x-thousands of feet above the ground, his eyes heard it all.

Gone were the usual flight attendants who were dolled-up, pretty, normally with their hair in sophisticated buns. Gone were the flight attendants with their blouses, knee-length skirts, and violet neckerchiefs. Gone were the flight attendants with the quietly warm smile, offering a complimentary beverage or assistance in straightening your seat.

The ones on this plane were wearing shorts and collared shirts. Almost all of them wore their hair in a ponytail. Sneakers were the standard footwear. Smiles came with babbling as they offered bottled drinks you had to pay for. They received little attention. It was just too damn early.

Lolo checked the watch Hilda had on: 5:45.The aisles were being cleared.The FASTEN SEATBELT sign lighted up from the overhead compartment. Lolo straightened up. They were about to land. He would finally see her again.

“Are you okay, Lolo?” Hilda asked, gently pressing her hand against his left arm.

He turned to his grandniece and smiled. He didn’t hear a thing.

v Five-thirty am. He is already awake. He turns on the light to the kitchen, which still smells of the paksiw from the night before. On a round table at the kitchen’s center, two Tupperware containers are filled with the stuff, telling of the maid’s constant overestimation of how much the four who lived in the house could consume in one sitting.

He takes out the kettle from the cabinet under the sink. He fills it up, making sure the water level rises to just below the base of the spout. He takes a match and strikes it; it breaks at the center. He takes out another match and strikes it, this time successfully igniting the largest of the four gas burners. After placing the kettle on top, he turns off the light to the kitchen, then times his getting tuluyan

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washed up and dressed according to the estimated fifteen minutes it takes for the water to boil.

Every morning is this routine. Before anyone has stepped out of their bedrooms, Lolo is dressed, hot water is awaiting the coffee drinkers of the house, and he would be outside watering the plants. By 7am, his day would be over. He would be called upon to eat the three meals, otherwise remaining unnoticed as his nephew goes off to work with his niece, and his grandnephew would catch the school bus. It has been this way everyday for three months now.

It has been around four months since his sister died. That’s why they had to go to Manila in the first place. As much as the daily routine in the province was just as monotonous, at least Lia was there. And as long as she was there, their lay hope in his day that something between them might happen—perhaps watching a film on TV, or maybe trying out the crossword puzzle together. This was what the loss of another relegated romance to for him—imagined spectacles disguising pleasantly insignificant moments.

But Lolo realized that he needed to accompany his sister to Manila when she became ill. The best doctors as well as her son awaited her in the big city, while he was the only one who could accompany her on the trip. And he did so obediently to the laws of family. He spent part of the first few months by his sister’s side as she became more and more ill. And he sat in front of the small crowd while his beloved manang was lowered to the ground.

And though he obliged with all that was expected of a brother, an uncle, a lolo, he couldn’t escape a longing for the girl that was at home in the province. So young, so innocent—far removed from the prevailing bitterness in Lolo’s own family. They had invested little in their lonely uncle, their lonely lolo. He didn’t expect anything from them, anyway.

He appreciated the gifts that would come on birthdays and Christmas, but he maintains distance—them not really needing him, while he never needed anybody since Ria had passed away years back.

All he wants now is to be with himself, and with Lia not too far, taking care of him, providing those moments seemingly lost. In his mind, this is the closest thing to the forever he wanted.

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xiii The airport in Iloilo was already bustling. As passengers awaited their bags, youngsters—already in their Bora attire—clamored away amongst each other, finding it hard to hide excitement. Lolas, nanays, and titas were either by the conveyer belt where the bags were coming out, or peeking through the windows for familiar faces. The men would either sit or just roam around the small terminal while waiting. Outside, hoards of people leaned over the barricade that separated them from the walkway to the entrance of the terminal. Many squeezed in between jeepney drivers awaiting passengers to make eye contact with their family members who had just arrived. Unsatisfied, many would result to shouting, hoping their voices could be heard from the other side of the glass window.

Lolo stood in one corner of the terminal where Hilda asked him to wait. He took out a comb from his back pocket and made sure no strand of hair was out of place. He felt through his side pockets for his shades—another gift from another grandnephew. Outside, the sun wasn’t even completely up yet. The clock read 6:20. He would see her soon. He put on his shades, feeling every bit the groovier guy now.

vi “Tito! Tito! It’s LIA on the phone!”

Lolo looks up from his newspaper. His nephew is looking at him, the phone in his hand extended forward. Lolo never received calls, nor did he expect any.

“Lia!” Lia? He drops the papers and marches towards the phone after recognizing the movement of Glen’s lips. He takes the receiver, holds it to his ear, hoping the voice would come through clearly.

“Hello?”

“Lolo! Lolo!” He recognizes the faint voice. It brings a smile to his face.

“How are you? Hope you’re doing well?”

“Hello, Lia.” “Hi. Lolo, I have good news. I’m going to have a baby.”

He smiles. tuluyan

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“Can you hear me? Lolo? Anyways, I just called to remind Manong Glen about the money for the rent. And I also wanted to relay the good news to you.

I’m so happy. I look forward to seeing you soon.”

Silence.

“Goodbye, Lolo.”

The phone clicks, faintly. Lolo smiles.

“How are you, Lia?”

xiv The shades would prove useful once he and Hilda were in the cab. Hilda contemplated taking the jeepney, but decided that a cab would cut the thirty-minute drive down by half. Lolo wasn’t one to complain, nor would he if he was the type. The faster, the better. He took the front seat, leaving Hilda in the back with the bags, consumed by her new toy sent from her mother in the States—an iPod. Lolo sat in front, shades on, protecting him from the glare of the sun, allowing him the joy from the familiar views he had not seen in a year. He became entranced by the dirt that would float outside the windshield from the side of the road. It appeared to float endlessly, unscathed by cars that would’ve inhabited every inch of space had this been Manila. He thought of her, and she was all he wanted to see. It had been far too long.

The cab pulled up by the side of the familiar adobe fence of their house. Lolo smiled at the driver, who only paid attention to the P70 being handed to him

by Hilda. Lolo stepped out of the cab and stood there for a minute, by the side of the road, looking up.

He stared at the second window from the left, her window, the window to her room, the window he used to steal glimpses of while taking his morning walks.

He would see her there every morning reading something, a romantic pocket book, the tabloid, he didn’t care what. It was just a beautifully framed blessing to gaze upon everyday.

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vii Tito, I’m going to Iloilo next week for that geriatric nursing conference. The agency said it’ll help with my working visa.”

“Oh.” Glen takes a sip of water. “Good luck with that, Hilda.”

Hilda glances at her Tita Luli who nods in response, egging her on.

“Maybe Lolo would like to go with me. It’s about time he went home, don’t you think?”

“She has a point, dear. It’s been quite some time since Mama died.”

Glen looks at his wife, then his niece. He puts down his spoon and fork, wipes his mouth. “But what about the meeting? For the will?”

“Oh Glen, you know your sisters can’t come home within the next year or so.”

“Yeah, Tito. Mom will be lucky if she can come back next year after all the leaves she took when Lola was sick.”

Glen remains silent, staring at the shredded pieces of beef on his plate. “We’re really tight for—” “The will can wait,” Luli asserts. “It can be dealt with when we’re all ready. In the mean time, we still have that loan. And the Korean buyers will check out our condo next week. We’ll be okay.”

Glen still remains silent.

“Oh just let him go home, Tito. He has nothing to do here. And it’s not like his being here will hasten things.”

“Do you really think that’s why I’m keeping him here?” challenges Glen.

“Isn’t it?”

“That’s enough, you two.”

Silence.

“Sorry,Tito.” Glen takes Hilda’s hand, clasps it reassuringly. In walks Lolo from the kitchen, cooling himself with a tattered old fan. He acknowledges everyone with a faint smile, a slight nod of the head, before walking out to the terrace.

“You’ve always said that you would allow him to go once he had someone to accompany him,” reminds Luli. “Now here’s Hilda offering.”

Glen reluctantly asks, “When are you leaving, Hilda?”

“Next Thursday, Tito. 5:30 flight.”

“In the morning?”

“Yeah. I have to be there in time for the morning session.” tuluyan

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Her aunt looks at her uncle, awaiting an answer. Glen is contemplating, eyes shifting from his plate to the napkin that sat next to it.

“Okay. I’ll inform him later.”

Outside, Lolo sits on a Monobloc chair, looking up at the sky, staring at the half-moon.

xv “Lolo! Lolo! Lolo!”

And there she was, by the gate of the house next to the adobe fence. She appeared more mature, heavier. She had traded in her usual short shorts and baby t-shirt with a duster. But she looked beautiful. More beautiful than when he had left the year before. She was more woman. Lolo took off his shades, gave her smile.

She smiled back, went inside the gate for a while. Lolo took the time to take the two duffel bags out from the cab. And when the cab drove off, Lolo looked up to see her again…but carrying a new fellow…a baby.

She approached him slowly, presenting the precious little thing. Inside, Lolo hoped that the smile he had on had not given in to suspicion. From behind her, a man stepped out of the gate, a tall man, wearing a straw hat and a wide smile.

Lolo forced a smile back. He accepted the offer to hold the baby. He took him in his arms, making sure to cradle his little head properly.The baby smiled at him. A familiar smile. Lolo looked at the man with the straw hat.Yes. A familiar smile, indeed.

Lolo turned to Lia. Yes, she was more beautiful. She was more woman.

He smiled.

His time had passed. Her time had just begun.

He tried to share in her happiness.

Cradled in his arms, head propped up by his tired left arm, the precious little thing began to cry.

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Sin ing

PambunGad Kamakailan lamang, binisita ko ang Archives ng pamantasan upang manaliksik tungkol sa kasaysayan ng Heights. Hindi ko maiwasang paghambingin ang pabalat ng mga isyu at pagmasdan nang ilang sandali ang mga dibuho habang binubuklat ang mga aklat. Mula sa unang isyu ng Heights na inilimbag noong 1952 hanggang sa kasalukuyan, kapansin-pansin ang patuloy na pagbabago ng tema at disenyo ng bawat isyu at ang paglipana ng mga likhang-sining sa mga pahina ng mga ito. Makikita ang mga dibuho kaugnay ng mga tula o sa pagitan ng mga katha at sanaysay. Tila hindi mapaghihiwalay ang panitikan at ang sining.

Mahalaga ang papel na ginagampanan ng sining at disenyo sa Heights. Seeing comes before words, ang sabi ni John Berger, isang kritiko ng sining. Ibig lamang niyang sabihin na may katangiang matatagpuan sa kilos ng pagkakita na hindi matatapatan ng salita. Sa paglikha ng sining, ibig ipakita ng dibuhista sa iba ang kanyang nakita. Ngunit hindi lamang ginagaya ng dibuhista ang anyo ng kanyang pinagmamasdan; tinatangka niyang ipahiwatig ang hindi kayang tukuyin ng salita. Hindi mapaglalayo ang sining at panitikan sapagkat iisa ang kanilang pinagmulan. Naiiba lamang ang dalawa sa kanilang pagkakalikha.

Noon pa man, kinilala na ng Heights ang masalimuot na ugnayan ng panitikan at sining biswal. Sa taong ito, pormal na ginawang bahagi ng titulo ng Heights ang papel ng sining sa publikasyon. Sa ganitong paraan, pinagtitibay ng Heights ang pagtataguyod ng sining. Maaari ninyong asahan ang higit pang

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pagpapahalaga ng Heights sa sining at disenyo, at ang aming patuloy na pagaasam na lalong mapahusay ang paglikha ng sining. â&#x20AC;&#x192; Sa bawat likhang sining, inaasahan ng manlilikha na makita rin natin ang kanilang natagpuan. Hinahangad nilang lumikha rin sa ating kalooban ng panibagong kakintalan. Sa mga susunod na pahina, handog namin sa inyo ang ilang likhang sining na sanaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;y magbubukas ng inyong mga mata. Nawaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;y matuklasan natin mula sa mga likhang-sining ang likha ng sining sa ating sarili.

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Maurice Wong Patnugot ng Sining Agosto 2007

Take fligh+ ALYZA TAGUILASO Colored Pencils & Watercolor 22.9 cm x 30.5 cm 2007

sining

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Smoke and MirrorS KIMBERLEY ONG Ink & Watercolor 15.3 cm x 22.3 cm 2007

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Beautiful vic} ELIE JAVIER Colored Pencils & Ink 21.6 cm x 28.0 cm 2007

sining

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Pocket rocketS MIGUEL MERCADO Digital Media 13.3 cm x 25.2 cm 2007

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My subconscious has A project JUSTINE CABRERA Colored Pencils, Ink, & Digital Media 10.8 cm x 14.5 cm 2007

sining

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Water veil ANNE CARLY ABAD Watercolor 21.6 cm x 29.2 cm 2007

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Daughters of propriety GENEVIEVE GO Ink 21.4 cm x 27.7 cm 2007

sining

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Omen MAURICE WONG Oil on Canvas Paper 20.8 cm x 21.8 cm 2007

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Breache] ERIKA BACANI Photography 43.4 cm x 32.5 cm 2007

sining

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Lungso] ALYZA TAGUILASO Photography 6.4 cm x 5.1 cm 2006

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Reticenc} ALYZA TAGUILASO Photography 14.0 cm x 10.2 cm 2005

sining

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Paglimo+ ERIKA BACANI Graphite with Digital Media 15.3 cm x 19.4 cm 2007

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mga

M a y- A k d a

Anne Carly Abad Communications Technology Management

ii bs

Anne is an aspiring artist. She has competed in various art contests, and won fifth place in the national painting competition: Coco Life Colors of Life Art Contest. She is presently Sec. General of the Freelance Art Society (fas).

Victor Anastacio iii bs

Management

Bumaba ka sa bundok!

— mula sa kantang

“Bumaba Ka Sa Pundok” Ang inyong lingkod ay isa lamang sa mga Atenistang nagpapakasasa sa Lux-In-Domino, protektado ng Loyola Shield mula sa mundo ng mga asong-yagit na kumakain ng basura sa labas. Ngunit nais kong ihagis ang pananggalang na ito, upang pasabugin ang Liwanag, at sugurin ang mundo hindi bilang Blue Eagle kundi bilang Garuda, hindi sa pamamagitan ng pagalay ng espada gaya ni Ignacio, kundi sa pagtaga ng mga kataga ng marahas kong machete ng panunula.

Erika Bacani iii ab

Interdisciplinary Studies

To my beloved Ali, Thank you so much for inspiring me to draw again.

Justine Cabrera i bs

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Psychology

Art is a lower-case world.

— Jack Chambers

heights tomo lv bilang 1

Anne Calma iii ab

Interdisciplinary Studies

Salamat kina Brandz at Moreen, Apauls, Kevin, Ali, sa buong Bagwisan, at sa Blue Babble Cheerdancers at Lifters.

Namamangha siya sa misteryo ng lungkot. Kasabay nito, naniniwala siya na isa ito sa mga nagpapatao sa tao dahil nag-uudyok itong makaramdam ng pangangailangang makiramay sa isang nilalang na hindi namamalas ng mata at hindi tunay na umiiral.

Douglas Candano AB Development Studies ’05

Douglas Candano graduated in 2005 from the Ateneo de Manila University, where he was awarded the Development Studies Departmental Award and the Loyola Schools Awards for the Arts for Fiction. A former Associate Editor of Heights, he has received a Philippines Free Press Literary Award and a Don Carlos Palanca Memorial Award for his short stories, and has been awarded fellowships to the 8th Ateneo Heights, 4th Ateneo National, 7th iyas, 14th Iligan ( Jimmy Y. Balacuit Award for English Fiction) and 45th Dumaguete National Writers Workshops. His stories have appeared in Heights, the Philippines Free Press, Story Philippines, and Philippine Speculative Fiction Volume 1, and will appear in the forthcoming Likhaan Journal of Contemporary Philippine Literature, and the 2007 Philippine pen Anthology of Short Stories. He is currently a graduate student at McGill University’s School of Urban Planning.

Mikael Co BS Environmental Science ’03

Si Mikael de Lara Co ay nakatira sa Sta. Ana, Maynila.

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Michael M. Coroza Filipino ’01 Kagawaran ng Filipino ma

Premyadong makata at iginagalang na iskolar at guro ng wika at panitikan ng Pilipinas si Michael M. Coroza. Matagal nang inaabangan ng tatlo niyang bulilit itong una niyang kuwentong pambata.

Allan Derain Kagawaran ng Filipino

Isang ganap nang puno ang itinanim niyang Kabalyero sa kanilang bakuran dalawang tag-araw na’ng nakararaan.

Patunay, dinadalaw na ito di lang ng mga maya, kundi Pati na rin ng mga pipit, tarat at maria kapra.

Genevieve Go ii bs

Communications Technology Management

... I set apart an Hour or two each Day: and thus repair’d in some degree the Loss of the Learned Education my Father once intended for me.

— Benjamin Franklin

A EliE Javier iii ab

Economics

Make this easy

Make this easy

It’s not as heavy as it seems

Wrapped in metal

Wrapped in ivy

Paint it in mint ice cream

— Tori Amos, Bouncing Off Clouds

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Mookie Katigbak AB Communication ’01 Kagawaran ng Ingles

Mookie Katigbak finished her ba at the Ateneo de Manila University and her mfa at the New School University, New York. She has won the Palanca award for her poetry. In April of this year, her poem “As Far As Cho-Fu-Sa” won first place at the Philippines Free Press Awards. She was also recently recognized by the Ateneo for her contribution to women’s writing. She is currently pursuing her PhD at the University of the Philippines.

MARIE LA VIÑA ii ab

Philosophy

Petra Magno ii bs

Health Sciences

What we cannot tame we talk about.

— J. Winterston

Kristian Mamforte iii bs

Applied Mathematics Major in Mathematical Finance

Kamakailan lamang ay nabuo na niya sa wakas ang mga letra ng Halls at nanalo ng isang milyon. Sa kasalukuyan, pinapangarap naman niyang mabuo ang kaniyang nawalang mga ngipin.

Kevin Bryan Marin iii bs

Health Sciences

Bago ang unang araw ng paglikha, tumula ang Diyos.

Kina Anne, Ali, Brandz, Pablo Garuda, Jason, Audrey, sa bagwisang Filipino at sa Heights EdBoard 2007-2008, na hindi matatawaran ang kasipagan at dedikasyon sa panitikan, maraming salamat.

Kay Regina (alam mo kung sino ka), na kahit madalas hindi ganap na naiintindihan ang punto ng mga tulang pag-ibig, ay alam ang pag-ibig at alam umibig.

At para sa aking pamilyang bumubuo ng matulaing pagsasama.

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Miguel Mercado ii bfa

Information Design

No… It’s a time machine.

Kimberley Ong iv bs

Communications Technology Management

Hottahwikamana!

WYATT Ong ii bs

Management

Because don’t we always ask why?

Danton Remoto Interdisciplinary Studies ’83 Kagawaran ng Ingles ab

Danton Remoto is an Associate Professor of English at the Ateneo de Manila University. He has written eight books and writes a popular column for the Philippine Star. He will run as a Senator of the republic in the May 2010 elections.

Edgar Calabia Samar ab

Psychology ’02

Literature-Filipino ’04 Kagawaran ng Filipino ma

Para sa tatlong kaibigan na nasa Canada na ngayon ang bahaging ito ng nobela: Joma, Caio at Glen.

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Ali Sangalang iii ab

Interdisciplinary Studies

Kunin mo na ang lahat, huwag lang ang balat.

Salamat sa mga nakisalo’t nakikagat.

Sa Bagwisang Filipino, sa mga panelista, lupon, at fellows ng 13th AteneoHeights Writers Workshop, kay Moreen, Tricia, Erika, Sir Yol, at Sir Brion.

Para sa mga taong patuloy na inuulam ang ating kawalan ng pakialam.

Carina Samantha Santos ii bfa

Information Design

We try to look at life with soft eyes and a smile. It’s too easy to cry.

— Munaf Rayani, Explosions in the Sky (Where is my Lloyd Dobler?)

Jason Tabinas iii ab

Economics

Ganito kabilis lumisan ang aking panahon sa pamantasan: sa loob ng limang taludtod na paggunita sa nakaraan kailangan kong agad magpaalam.

Alyza Taguilaso ii bs

Biology

The person you love is made of 78.2% water.

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Audrey Trinidad iv bs

Management, Major in Communications Technology Management

The only way for a woman, as for a man, to know herself as a person, is by creative work of her own.

— Betty Friedan, The Feminine Mystique Para kay Kev, dahil ang kulit mo. Salamat.

Para kay Nikko, dahil tinuruan mo akong maniwala muli.

Martin Villanueva iv bfa

Creative Writing

Wonders why underclassmen are so happy.

Maurice Wong iii bs

Chemistry - Materials Science Engineering

The relation between what we see and what we know is never settled. Each evening we see the sun set. We know that the earth is turning away from it. Yet the knowledge, the explanation, never quite fits the sight.

— John Berger, Ways of Seeing

142 heights tomo lv bilang 1

PaSaSalamat Fr. Bienvenido Nebres, s.j. at ang Office of the President Dr. Ma. Assunta Cuyegkeng at ang Office of the Vice President for the Loyola Schools Bb. Pia Sandra Acevedo at ang Office of Student Activities Bb. Karen Cardenas at ang Office of Research and Publications G. Rene San Andres at ang Office of the Associate Dean for Student Affairs Bb. Lourdes Sumpaico at ang Office of Administrative Services Bb. Leonora Wijangco at ang Central Accounting Office Bb. Christina Barzabal at ang Purchasing Office Bb. Consolacion Conception at ang Ateneo Placement Office G. Leovino Ma. Garcia, Dr. Benilda Santos at ang Office of the Dean, School of Humanities Bb. Corazon Lalu Santos at ang Kagawaran ng Filipino Dr. Margarita Orendain at ang Department of English Fr. Rene Javellana, s.j., G. Xander Soriano at ang Fine Arts Program G. Marco A.V. Lopez at ang Ateneo Institute of Literary Arts and Practices G. Rodolfo Allayban at ang University Archives Fr. Arcenio Nuñez at ang Sacred Heart Novitiate, G. Alexis Abola, G. Edgar Samar, Dr. Benilda Santos, G. Vincenz Serrano, Bb. Luna Sicat-Cleto, G. Alvin Yapan, G. Lawrence Ypil, Louise Bacoy, Mitch Cerda, Airam Ferrer, Martin Gonzales, Kevin Marin, Ralph Menchavez, Geran Piquero, Fidelis Tan, 143

Bea Celdran, Garet Garcia, Fidel Pamintuan, Douglas Candano, at mga kasapi ng Workshop Committee sa idinaos na 13th Ateneo-Heights Writers Workshop G. Melvin Calingo, G. Karl de Mesa, Airam Ferrer, G. Yolando Jamendang, G. Edgar Samar, at G. Norman Wilwayco sa pagiging bahagi ng mga nakaraang Heights Formalist, Creative at Art Talks Bb. Miriam Robles at Inkwell Publishing Co., Inc. Entablado at Tanghalang Ateneo para sa mga paanyayang manood ng kani-kanilang mga pagtatanghal Mark Benedict Lim at ang Matanglawin Ana Corina Arceo at ang The Guidon Clark Que at ang Council of Organizations of the Ateneo High Chair, up Writers Club, dlsu Malate Literary Folio at ust Dapitan Literary Folio Ang Gonzaga Hall Maintenance Personnel At sa lahat ng mga walang sawang tumatangkilik sa mga proyekto ng Heights at sa mga nagpapasa ng kanilang mga gawa

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The 13th Ateneo-HeightS writers Workshop Sacred Heart Novitiate 27-30 July 2007 Workshop Director

Audrey Trinidad

Workshop Moderator

Edgar Calabia Samar

Fellows Katrina Paola Alvarez Victor Michael Patricio Anastacio Kyra Camille Ballesteros Therese Anne Calma Zoe Anne Dulay Marie La Viña Kristian Mamforte Ali Sangalang Jason Tabinas Timothy Villarica

iv ab Communication iii bs Management i ab Literature in English iii ab Interdisciplinary Studies iii bfa Creative Writing and Arts Managment ii ab Philosophy iii bs Applied Mathematics, major in Mathematical Finance iii ab Interdisciplinary Studies iii ab Economics iii ab Social Sciences

Panelists

Mr. Alexis Abola Ms. Luna Sicat-Cleto Mr. Edgar Calabia Samar Dr. Benilda Santos Mr.Vincenz Serrano Mr. Alvin Yapan Mr. Larry Lacambra Ypil

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PatnuGutan

2007-2008

John Paul F. Marasigan Audrey Phylicia N. Trinidad Katrina Paola B. Alvarez Kevin Bryan E. Marin Therese Anne C. Calma Fidelis Angela C. Tan Maurice Y. Wong Eliana Laurice C. Javier Stefanie D. Macam

Punong Patnugot Katuwang na Patnugot Tagapangasiwang Patnugot Patnugot sa Filipino Katuwang na Patnugot sa Filipino Patnugot sa Ingles Patnugot ng Sining Katuwang na Patnugot ng Sining Patnugot ng Disenyo

Patricia Angela F. Magno

Tagapangasiwa ng mga Natatanging Proyekto

Francis Joseph L. de Guzman

Tagapangasiwa ng mga Natatanging Proyekto

Joanna Victoria D. Ruaro Justine Joyce L. Alim Pancho D. Alvarez

Edgar Calabia Samar

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Panlabas na Pangkalahatang Kalihim Panloob na Pangkalahatang Kalihim Tagapangasiwa ng Kalakal

Tagapamagitan

Mga KaSapi INGLES

Filipino

Catherine Alpay, Kyra Ballesteros, Jerik Cruz, Paula Elise Doroteo, Dominique Du, Yam Esmenda, Martin Gonzales, Marie La Viña, Gian Lao, Petra Magno, Wyatt Ong, Karla Patricia Placido, April Sescon, Diane Kristine Siy, Hobee Sy, Tim Villarica, Martin Villanueva

Lester Abuel, Victor Anastacio, Kat Bulaong, Brandz Dollente, Walther Hontiveros, Julio Julongbayan, Chuck Marin, Geriandre Piquero, Ayon Sanchez, Ali Sangalang, Eugene Soyosa, Jason Tabinas

SINING

DISENYO

Dave Oliver Anastacio, Jessica Amanda Bauza, Erika Bacani, Tasie Cabrera, Bea Celdran, Miguel Mercado, Isabelle Danielle Ocier, Paulina Paige Ortega, Gracy Otocan, Mary Frances Rañises, Ria Rigoroso, Danielle San Pedro, Alyza Taguilaso, Lys Te, Gani Tornilla

Garet Garcia, Fidel Pamintuan, Carina Samantha Santos

MGA NATATANGING PROYEKTO Paul Ablan, Angelica Candano, Bea Celdran, Jose Fernandez, Jaclyn Ledonio, Monica Tiosejo, Selene Uy

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