Fidel's March: A Screenplay of a Novel (Chapter 03)

“LATEX PAINT,” read a graffiti text drawn with chalk on the lower, steel-plated part of the Roxases’ black gate.

     Outside, Fidel had just arrived in his black Expedition, honking for the maid to open the gate. The vehicle went in.

     A front tire had run over canine shit. The maid could only look at what happened and said, “Sus!”

     Neighbors outside the house, standing before a banana-cue vendor’s mobile stall, were looking in envy at the big house and Fidel’s new vehicle. The stall-owner had a radio blaring the rock band Yano’s freedom song “Naroon.”

     “Sisirin mo sa dagat, baka naroon ang kalayaan!” it sang.

     One of the tambays (bystanders) said, “Kelan kaya tayo yayaman, pare?” He spat then chewed on his banana cue.

     His thin compadre said, “Matuto ka munang manloko o mandaya. Walang yumayaman na di marunong no’n.”

     “Kung ikaw yayaman nang ganyan, siguro naman tataba ka na,” said the first tambay, alluding to Fidel’s relatively slim body.

     The other tambays near the neighborhood banana-cue stall laughed, while the compadre also spat and then chewed on his banana cue.

     “Pare,” another tambay said, “di mo naman kailangang yumaman para tumaba, pare, e. Mag-apply ka riyan bilang boy. Katulong ni Sienna sa kusina. Tingnan mo si Sienna, tumaba na nang husto.”

     All the tambays, along with the women standing behind the vendor, laughed. Then the men all spat, almost together. Then they chewed on their respective banana cues.

     Vicente was standing outside the gate with his cameragirl. He looked at the neighbors and shook his head. He and his cameragirl entered the closed gate again, going through it, but avoiding the dog shit, chuckling at it, as if it could stick to the shoes of their invisible persons. They again climbed back up the house stairs.

@ @ @

Inside the house, in the living area, Fidel’s son Pablo ran to his Papa, kissing him then running back to his toys on the floor. Fidel just looked at his son, too tired to give him further attention. Wana went to Fidel with a smile to hug and kiss him.

     She was saying, “alam mo ba ‘yang si Pablo, may bagong salitang English na naman ‘yan. ‘No, don’t!’ sabi niya sa ‘kin kanina.”

     Usually Fidel would launch into a speech over the Filipino language which he’d be wont to encourage, against the grain of Ingleseros in his milieu, a habit he acquired from his student days among the nationalists at the University of the Philippines at its Diliman, Quezon City campus. But today Fidel just smiled on the sofa, half of his mind somewhere else, or out nowhere.

     Vicente and his cameragirl sat down on a shiny rattan sofa at a side of the living area where the rug was not modern Persian but a lovely local banig.

     “Kumusta ang lakad?” Joanna asked.

     “Well, nakasingil din ng konti. Kay Mr. Sia,” Fidel said, frowning a bit and looking around, as if it was hot in the house.

     “Alin yun?” she asked.

     Indifferently, he said, “Yung . . . buong family na portrait.”

     “Buong family, di ko nakitang tapos yun a,” she said.

     The cameragirl went to the kitchen with her camera and was shooting the maid brewing coffee and unwrapping and then slicing a binagol. Binagol is made from giant taro (alocasia macrorrhizos) cooked with coconut and molasses syrup and then, after having been pre-cooked, placed inside half of a coconut shell and covered in leaves tied around the shell with a thread and steamed thereafter.
     Sienna cut the strings and removed the leaf cover of another binagol. She slid a bowl scraper under the sticky cake and, turning over the shell, dropped the cake to a plate where she sliced the cake into eight little sticky slices.

     Back in the living area, the couple got up and moved to the dinner table. The maid served them the coffee and binagol, intermittently glancing at Fidel.

     As soon as the couple settled, Fidel asked, putting half a teaspoon of sugar in his coffee:

     “Speaking of tapos na art, Joanne, . . . ikaw, kelan ka ba babalik sa art mo?”

     “Ha?” said Joanna, totally surprised.

     “Sa paggawa mo ng mga short films, alam mo na. Nami-miss ko na yun e. Ikaw?”

     Joanna smiled and sighed.

     “Ano’ng art ba ang pinagsasasabi mo?” she said, putting sugar into her cup, “tapos na ako ro’n, ano.”

     Vicente and the cam-girl just sat on the rattan sofa across the hall in the living area, looking at each other and then back at the couple in the dining area.

     “Ikaw talaga,” said Fidel, “kahit digital camera ba e. Tutal me pera na tayo para tayo na mismo ang mag-produce. O ibenta mo ang luma mong kamera, bili ka ng bago. Digital, mas mura, pati post-production.”

     “Sus, Fidel, huwag na nating pag-usapan yan. At ang luma kong kamera, di ko ipagbibili yun, regalo ng Papa yon. At wala na akong oras para sa mga ganyan, ano.”

@ @ @

Vicente said to the camera, “Kung sabagay, sino nga ba ang nanonood ng mga short films niya noon? Well, mga estudyante, at pagka-graduate ng mga yun iba na ang tatangkiliking uri ng cinema at mga artista. Puro love teams na, o di kaya mga Amerikanong pelikula, wala na kasing nirerequire sa kanila na dapat panoorin.”

@ @ @

Now it was evening. They were at dinner, at the dining table. Vicente and the cameragirl were not on the rattan sofa anymore. Pablo had fallen asleep on the living area sofa, his toy trucks now in a box below him. The couple continued their conversation as they ate.

     “Ano pa bang oras ang kelangan mo? Puwede naman tayong kumuha ng babysitter,” Fidel said. “Unless tinatamad ka na.”

     Joanna was starting to get irritated and sighed. But she soon smiled and said:

     “Hindi ako tinatamad. Wala lang akong motivation, ano. Para saan ba? Sabi nga, if you have nothing to say, say nothing. Ako, wala akong isu-shoot. Nakakahiya naman kung gumawa ako ng documentary tungkol sa mga paintings mo, magmumukhang self-serving. Yun lang kasi ang love ko sa ngayon, ang mga paintings mo, ikaw, si Pablo. Period.”

     Fidel sighed, then said, “o, yun pala e. E di ito ang gawin mong subject: ang bahay, ang garden mo, o kung gusto mo mas malawak diyan, yung bagong barangay natin, o ang bagong hometown natin. Maganda nga ‘yon, pareho tayo di galing dito, may naiiba tayong pananaw tungkol sa mga taga-rito. Baka mas positibo.”

     “E, para saan naman yun, ano? Yun nga ang tanong e. Sino ba’ng nanonood ng short films? At sino’ng magpapalabas?”

     Fidel was insistent. He said, “alam mo, huwag mo munang isipin kung sino ang manonood ng mga short films mo. Hindi mo alam, baka sa susunod na henerasyon ng mga Pilipino sikat na sa TV ang mga short films, o di kaya may magkagustong gawing anthology film ang shorts mo para makabuo ng isang feature-length na obra. Darating ang panahon baka maging isa na lang ang pera ng ilang bansa sa Southeast Asia. Tapos no’n, baka maging isang United Republics of Southeast Asia yun!”

     “E, ang tagal pa no’n e. At ano naman ang kinalaman nun sa short films ko?”

     “Aba, Joanna, ibig sabihin maaaring umangat ang level of education ng mga tao tungkol sa arts. Pag nangyari yun, magpapalabas na ngayon ng mga symbolist o allegorical o poetic na short films sa TV, parang mga maliliit na D.W. Griffith o . . . mga Yevgeni Bauer . . . o mga Marcel L’Herbier! Di ba? O, e, nasaan na ang ibang mga pelikula mo pagdating ng panahong iyon? Hindi mo ginawa!”

     Joanna laughed, putting her arms on the table and staring lovingly at her husband. “Naaalala mo pa ang mga idols ko ha,” she said.

     “Alam mo,” continued Fidel, “pag pinagdugtong-dugtong mo ang mga nagawa mo na mula nung dati, baka tatlong oras na ang aabutin nun, puwede na rin sa sinehan yun. Para silang mga maiikling kuwento, di ba? . . . O, di kaya, ganito: isali muna natin ‘to sa mga film festivals sa labas ng bansa. O, ano? Malay mo, baka maging sikat ka rin, masama ang pangalan mo sa Pinoy artists encyclopedia ng Cultural Center of the Philippines.”

     She laughed.

     “CCP encyclopedia na walang bumibili?”

     “Meron, ha.”

     “Sino, yung mga bumibili ng paintings mo?”

     She was laughing and Fidel was smiling at the table as he continued to eat.

     She would every now and then look at Fidel, lovingly as we said, as he ate, laughingly.

@ @ @

The couple was now having dessert. The young cameragirl was standing behind Joanna.

     “Teka, teka, teka, teka. Lumalayo na yata tayo,” said Joanna, smiling, as she took a spoonful of ice cream.

     “Hindi, hindi. Ibig kong sabihin, kung sino man ang mga sikat sa isang panahon, nag-iiba yun e. Sa susunod na henerasyon, baka hindi na sila. Halimbawa, dati sikat ang mga statesmen, ito ang mga taong mga nangangalaga sa bayan, sila ang konsyensiya ng bayan. Di ba? Ngayon, kelangan politiko ka lang, kahit wala kang pakialam sa bayan mo, kahit hindi ka statesman, puwede kang iboto ng tao; magpakita ka lang ng yabang mo, okey na sa nakararaming Pilipino. At ang mga pagbabago, ang mga reporma, kaugnay sa lebel ng edukasyon ng tao yan, sa access nila sa totoong impormasyon. At ipagpalagay nating may nangyari na magpapahintulot na sa kanilang taasan ang antas ng kanilang edukasyon at kaalaman. Pag tumaas ang level of education nila, formal man o informal, hindi sila basta-basta magiging biktima ng disinformation o black propaganda ng mga taong akala mo malilinis. Magiging mataas na ngayon ang kamulatan ng tao. Muli, kung umangat ang antas ng edukasyon, aangat din ang antas ng pagpili natin ng mga mamamahala sa atin, di ba? At marami pang kaunlaran ang mangyayari sa larangan ng kaalaman.”

     “Right.”

     “So, ibig kong sabihin, darating din ang panahon ng pagbabagong ito. Dahil dahan-dahang magsasawa ang taumbayan sa bulok na edukasyon na binibigay sa kanila ng ruling class. Magkakarebolusyon sa bandang yan, yan ay di maiiwasan.”

     “Okay,” she said, smiling, “not necessarily a violent revolution, I hope?”

     “Sure. . . . At pag dumating na ang panahong iyon na ang mga tao ay handa nang magbasa ng libro, o manood ng metaphorical short films sa TV, as I was saying, at gugustuhin na nila yun kesa manood ng mga estupidong parlor games sa tanghali na tumulong magpanatili sa kanilang kamangmangan noon, o yun kesa sa magbabad sa old moralizing sa mga soap opera na matagal na nating pinanalangin na sana’y pagsawaan na nila, . . . well, pag dumating na ang panahong yun ng ganung uri ng pagbabago, ng ganung uri ng pagsasawa, well, ang tanong ko uli ay . . . nasaan na ang mga short films mo para sa bagong henerasyon ng mga Pilipinong ito? Hindi mo ginawa!”

     Simultaneously with his saying those two last clauses, she said, “nasaan na ang mga mas bagong short films ko? Hindi ko ginawa!”

     She laughed.

     “Ibig kong sabihin, huwag mo munang hintayin na magbago ang bayan bago ka gumawa ng mga bagay para sa bagong bayan.”

     She laughed again, saying, “Bagumbayan? Parang park yata yan a.”

     “Bagumbayan, yes. At baka nakakalimutan na natin, ang ating magiting na revolutionary martyr na si Jose Rizal was shot there! Sa Bagumbayan! So, start shooting now!”

     She laughed out loud. He smiled.

     After she settled down, he said:

     “Kaya gawin mo na.”

     Joanna felt happy. She went over to sit on Fidel’s lap and kissed him. Then she went back to her chair, the cameragirl behind Joanna’s chair going through the wood of the table to get a close-up shot of Joanna on Fidel’s lap and then of Joanna’s smiling face when she went back to her chair.

     “O, ano ka ba?” he said, smiling, when Joanna sat on his lap like a child, “hayaan mo. Ako’ng bahala. Basta planuhin mo muna. Planuhin mo na.”

     As Joanna went back to her chair, Fidel stood up to go to the kitchen to get a bottle of imported beer, a Stella Artois. The maid was in the kitchen eating her supper, facing the wall.

     As Fidel walked to the kitchen Joanna said, “e pa’no ko nga gagawin, di ko naman alam kung para kanino ko gagawin? Hindi ko naman kilala ang mga Pilipino bukas, kilala ko lang ang mga Pilipino ngayon!”

     “O, di, sige,” said Fidel as he returned to the dining area. “Isipin mo na kung sino sa mga Pilipino ngayon ang gusto mong kausapin sa mga pelikula mo. Tapos, ibebenta natin nang ganun.”

     “Ano?”

     “Halimbawa, sino ba ang kinakausap ng mga pelikula mo, mga hurado sa Cannes Film Festival sa Pransiya? O sa Berlin Film Festival? O sa Venice? Toronto? Sundance? O mga kritiko sa bansa natin? Mga propesor? Estudyante? O mga mangingisda sa Leyte! . . . Kasi, pag alam natin kung sino ang gusto nating kausapin, alam na rin natin kung saan natin ipapalabas. E kung mangingisda nga, aba, e, di na natin kailangan ipalabas sa sinehan yang pelikula mo. Puwede tayong magpa-sponsor sa Coca-Cola o Pepsi pickups o vans para ipalabas nila sa mga barangay ng mga mangingisda. Doon, hindi sa sinehan.”

     If this were a movie, we’d surely insert here a view of such a pickup or van with a speaker on its roof and a small screen on a stand on the truck’s bed or tacked to a frame on the van’s side, an almost-square rollout screen facing the villagers. This was a common sight in the ’70s.

     After a pause, while amusedly looking at Fidel, Joanna said, “Okay, pag-iisipan ko.”

     She put her teaspoon in her now-empty ice cream cup.

     “Nga pala, talking about audiences, . . . sabihin mo nga sa akin. Sino ba ang naging inspirasyon mo noon sa mga huli mong ginawang short films?” asked Fidel. “Alam ko kasi huminto tayo sa pagiging mag-boyfriend-girlfriend no’n, di ba?”

     He was smiling, teasing, and Joanna laughed.

     “Ano ba’ng nangyayari sa ‘yo? Wala, ano. Ahh, alam ko na. . . . Papa ko. Siya yata ang genius sa filmmaking, di ba?”

     “Well. Sa palagay ko hindi.”

     She laughed, saying, “E, sino?”

     “Siguro co-teacher mo sa U.P. Alam ko pagkagraduate mo sa U.P. nagturo ka ro’n. At nung sinabi kong pakasal na tayo matapos ang graduation mo, umuwi ka sa Papa mo para magpaalam, ngunit wala na siya sa bahay niyo, at sabi ng mga kapitbahay umalis na sa bahay niyo ang Papa mo, dahilan kung bakit na-depress ka, at mga isang taon later pa tayo nagkita muli at nagpakasal, with your Papa in absentia. Di ba? So I don’t think your later films were inspired by your Papa either. So, ang tanong ko: habang nagtuturo ka sa taong ‘yon bago naging tayo muli, sino ang nakalaguyo mo? Ha?”

     “Ano ka ba?” said Joanna, laughing, “sabi na sa yo’ng Papa ko ang pinasisikatan ko noon, kahit galit na ako sa kanya noon. . . . Actually, pinag-rerebeldehan ko ang cinema niya. Sabi ko kasi sa kanya, bago pa man siya mag-disappear, na ang mga pelikula niya puro maka-mestiza at mestizo, at kahit ba may social message ang mga ito, e ayaw naman mag-empleyo ng production ng mga artistang purong kayumanggi at mapapayat tulad ko noon. At hindi naman kami Tisoy na pamilya, di ba? Tingnan mo nga ang kulay ko.”

     “Ayaw niya ke Tetchie Agbayani? Na naka-muumuu na puno ng gumamela?”

     “Isang pelikula lang naman ‘yon, actually. At actually, producer niya may kasalanan.”

     “So, ano’ng nangyari?”

     “Yun. Kaya nga gumawa ako ng short film tungkol sa Christmas tree na may snow no’n, di ba? Para maipamukha ko sa kanya.”

     They both giggled.

     “Ano ka ba, ilang beses ko na kinukuwento sa yo ‘to a,” said Joanna.

     “O, tingnan mo nga,” said Fidel, gesturing. “Ilang beses mo na kinuwento, hindi pa rin nakakasawa.”

     Joanna smiled, looking at him. Then she turned serious. She sighed. She looked toward the relative darkness of the front porch.

     “Sana alam ko kung napa’no ang Papa ko, kung nasa’n siya ngayon, kung buhay pa siya,” said Joanna, looking at the porch.

     Fidel looked at her guiltily.

     Then, smiling, she added, “tell you what, baka ‘pag makita ko siya uli ma-inspire na nga akong gumawa ng short films uli.”

     “Ha?”

     “E, wala na kasi akong pagrerebeldehan e. Ikaw, puro love lang naman nararamdaman ko sa ‘yo e, kahit pag masungit ka sa ‘kin.”

     They smiled at each other.

     There was another silence.

     Then Fidel said, “So, ayaw mo na ba talaga?”

     “Fidel,” said Joanna, turning serious, straightening up on her seat to face him as she held his hands, “ang art ko ngayon ay ang pamilya ko. Ginawa ko lang ‘yon para sa university noon, nagwo-work din kasi ako sa U.P. Film Center noon habang nagtuturo. Pang-eskwelahan lang ‘yon. . . . Ito ay ang tunay na buhay, Fidel. And I love this more. Much, much more.”

     “Okay,” said Fidel, smiling. “Naiintindihan kita. I think.”

     Fidel kissed his wife on her forehead hair, his cold beer mug-soaked palms on her neck below her ears, and then walked away.

     “Got to get back to work,” he said.

     “Pero pag-iisipan ko pa rin,” she said, as he turned the hallway on his way to his studio.

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Fidel's March: A Screenplay of a Novel (Chapter 02)

IN the master bedroom, Joanna was still brushing her hair when she was startled by Fidel calling her name. To my would-be casting director, all I can tell you for now is that the actress who would play Joanna must be quite an attractive young woman herself, and though it is true that such beauty might be diminished somewhat and might become just another bit of uninteresting face once placed in the person of a young housewife in a muumuu dress busy with housework and gardening, Joanna’s youthful attractiveness was of a kind that filled the house with cheerfulness, her mundane sweat (over newly-bathed skin) and still-wet hair (smelling of fruit-scented shampoo) accessories to a brown-tanned glow in happy harmony with the red hibiscuses on her pale yellow-green muumuu that she chose to wear today. Here, then, was a cheerfulness that had taken the role of a wife in her post-teenage-years, in knee-length house dress or otherwise sweaty blouse, but yet one that can’t be brought into a world of disorder. She put her wooden hairbrush down on an old dressing table and gracefully hurried out.

@ @ @

Wana came into the studio smiling.

     “Bakit?” she asked.

     Fidel gestured to her to come closer. They were quite a couple that any other couple similarly in their salad days would definitely envy: young, as we said, good-looking, smart, nouveau-riche. And although Fidel’s recurrent expressions toward Joanna could make one doubt he was a happy man, typical though this disposition might be of artist-husbands, Joanna looked without a doubt to be very much in love with her husband as well as his art, in fact looked joyfully contented with this rare life of the now-well-off young and settled.

     “Halika muna rito. Ito ba yung gusto mo? Blue na buhok?” Fidel asked, gesturing toward the painting he was working on. “O ganito?” He was now pointing to a sketch for the same work with a different color scheme.

     Wana, now right beside Fidel, was suddenly ecstatic.

     “Wow. Mas gusto ko siyempre ito,” she said, pointing at the canvas. “Alam mo naman ako, maka-blue ako e. Para kasing nasa lumang black and white TV pag blue ang mukha at buhok e, kaya gusto ko.”

     “Pag blue ang mukha at buhok parang galing sa isang lumang black and white na TV,” echoed Fidel. “Ibang klase yun a.”

     They laugh.

     “Pero, okay, nakuha ko. Sige. Thank you. Ano’ng ginagawa ni Pablo?”

     “Nandu’n, nanonood ng cartoons, as usual. Sige ha, bantayan ko muna ang malikot na yun, baka makuryente na naman sa kalikutan.”

     “Pero mas maganda yata ‘tong violet e. I-test ko muna ha, okey lang?”

     Fidel quickly, jerkily, reached for the color on a palette and instantly applied it on the hair. Wana, now by the door, sighed, disappointed at the disappearance of the blue, but still smiling.

     “Kasi . . . tanong ka pa nang tanong sa ‘kin, e, alam mo naman pala ang gusto mo. Ikaw ang magaling diyan e, ano bang alam ko riyan, except, . . . alam mo naman ako, . . . magugustuhan ko ang lahat ng gagawin mo sa canvas, tapos.” She hurried out of the studio.

     There was a crash.

     “Uy, Pablo!” called Joanna, running to the master bedroom. “Ano na naman ‘yang nilikot mo riyan?!”

@ @ @

The portly maid ran through the corridor. She reached the studio, where she found Fidel in the studio’s balcony, rather in a kind of mood, with a frown on his face.

     “Kuya,” carefully said the maid, and using the Tagalog kinship term, “may long-distance po galing Maynila. Sa gallery raw.”

@ @ @

The maid and Fidel emerged from the hallway and were now in the open living room where the breeze from the front porch and the bougainvillea tree and the street right below it mixed with the perfume of the house and the aroma from the kitchen. He headed for the telephone, she ran toward her kitchen.

     “Hello!” said Fidel. “Uy, Ma’am Leni, opo! Opo, matatapos ko na po yung tatlo para sa Artwalk exhibit—. Opo. Tapos sisimulan ko na po yung orange series para sa Mandaluyong gallery niyo po. Opo. Opo. O sige po, andiyan po ako first week next month. Definite na po yun. Definitely, po. Okay po, sige po. Gusto niyo po i-email ko sa inyo ang images ng orange series? O sige po, no problem. Okay, pag natapos ko po ang preliminary sketches. Sigurado po ‘yon. Sige po. Ok, ‘bye.”

     Wana came into the room with Pablo in her arms. Pablo was playing with a small toy truck.

     “Si Ms. Lanuza ‘yon?” asked Joanna, with a smile, as usual. “Na-schedule na ba exhibit mo? Kelan daw?” But before Fidel could answer she added, “uy, Fidel, remember, may pinangako kang painting kay Governor, tsaka sa pinsan ko. Bayad na sila pareho ha. At ang mga commissioned works mo ha, huwag mong pababayaan. Na naman.”

     “Di ko pa yata kaya yung mga yun a, baka pangit lang magawa ko kung pipilitin ko.”

     Joanna laughed.

     “Kelan ka ba nakagawa ng pangit? Ha?” she said, moving toward Fidel to touch and kiss him. It’s now obvious to the cameragirl’s camera that Fidel is not quite a happy man with his art (an actor must be able to create this effect) although he acknowledges his wife’s caresses. Anyone who sees him in a close-up shot would wonder what he is uneasy about, what his state is.

     Pablo said he wanted to pee. Joanna ran him to the bedroom toilet room (“dito na, sa bedroom toilet,” she said, laughing).

@ @ @

A dog began to drop its canine shit outside the Roxases’ house.

     Wana was in the front garden of their house with her maid. Her three-year-old toddler was playing with a toy dump truck and the pebbles around a palm plant in a large pot. Wana was trimming some shrubs and plant stems, the maid was watering some other plants.

     “Gupitan kaya natin ang damo rito, Ate?” The maid called Joanna Ate even if she looked years older than the latter. She was pointing her finger at a part of the garden where an island of grass was already a tad tall.

     Joanna was happy in her garden. So was the housemaid with her Ate.

     “Hindi na kailangang putulin diyan,” Joanna said. “Alam mo, Sienna, ang damo halaman din iyan. Hindi sa bawat makakita ka ng damo ay gugustuhin mo agad na tanggalin ito, o di kaya putulin. Kung di makakaapekto sa ibang mga halaman, okay lang ang mga iyan. Tsaka puro pangdekorasyon lang naman ‘tong mga ‘to e, di ba? Wala naman prutas dito, di ba, Sienna?” They laughed together. “Ibig sabihin, pati damo puwedeng gawing pangdekorasyon, ililimit mo nga lang sa isang parte. Maganda rin naman tingnan ang damo, di ba? Importante, alam mo kung sa’n mo patutubuin ang damo, at saan hindi. Di ba?”

     “Opo, Ate. E, maganda sana kung Bermuda grass, Ate. Pero kahit po ba yung masamang damo tulad niyan, Ate?”

     Again, they laughed together.

     “Aba, iyan ay masamang damo, sabi mo nga. Pero maaaring gumanda ang tinatawag nating masamang damo kung nagagamit natin sa ating hardin, di ba? Dito sa sandy part, halimbawa, ayan.”

     Joanna extended her sermon as she worked with trowels and shearers, while Sienna kept on saying “opo” in agreement.

     “Parang tao ‘yan e. Ang mga bahay-mahirap ba dapat itago sa likod ng isang malaking pader o di kaya tagpasin? Hindi, di ba? Merong makikitang ganda sa mga bahay-mahirap. Oo nga, tinuturing ng maraming pulitiko na nagpapapangit sa bayan ang mga bahay-mahirap. Pero kung susuriin nga, ang daming bahay mayaman na ang babaduy ng disenyo.”

     “Oo nga, Ate.”

     They chuckled in amusement at the thought.

     “Ewan ko ba sa ibang mayayaman, nakakalimutan na yatang kumain ng banana cue at gusto ang bahay nila parating mukhang Amerikano.”

     Sienna made a face in agreement.

     “Iba kasi ang isip ng mayayaman, Ate e,” Sienna said. “Kayo po, iba kayo ni kuya. Isipin niyo itong lumang bahay pa ang binili niyo, samantalang puwede naman kayong nagpagawa ng kongkretong bahay.”

     “Kongkreto na rin naman ang maraming bahagi nitong bahay. Pero, diyan sa sinabi mo, hindi kasi kami galing sa mayamang pamilya, Sienna, alam mo naman ‘yan. ‘Bagong yaman’ lang naman kami.”

     They both giggled.

     “Pero alam mo, tama ka rin,” Joanna said, “ang karamihan dyan, kahit ang mahihirap, isip-aircon agad pag nagkapera. Di ko rin naman sila masisisi, dahil marami sa kanila wala o di makapaglagay ng bintana. Pero yung puwedeng maglagay ng bintana, gugustuhin talaga nilang puro salamin ang bintana nila at ayaw pa ng jalousies na bagay sa klima natin, dahil di na raw uso yan ngayon.”

     They laughed loudly, with the knowledge that the Roxases’ house doesn’t have a single aircon’d room, with the bedrooms the only rooms with screened doors and windows.

     The whole facade and gate of the house seemed to likewise enjoy that moment as the two talked and trimmed and watered the shrubs and the orchids and the flowering plants, and plowed the soil with the trowel. Happy were they, as happy as the guarded birds and flimsy butterflies and triumphant leaves and the light through the leaves that made shadows on the sandy soil and the colors, the laughter in Joanna’s and Sienna’s conversation pummeling the front walls of the house and the pebbles in the pots to all be free from their erstwhile peace.

     In front of the house outside of the fence the invisible old man Vicente talked again to the invisible camera, continuing to talk even as a motorized tricycle and a bicycle went through his body. The gate was open. He was saying:

     “Itong aking si Joanna, nakuntento na lamang sa pag-aalaga ng bahay at bata. Di nga ba’t tinuruan ko siyang humawak ng kamera noong nasa kalagitnaan pa lang siya ng kolehiyo, dahil nga gusto ring maging direktor ng mga sine tulad ko? Di ba? Tsk, tsk, tsk. Sayang. Mas minarapat niyang ialay ang kanyang buhay sa ganitong buhay kesa sa sining.” He paused. “Subalit, baka naman hindi sayang, dahil . . . kahit di man nasa likod ng kamera ang mga mata niya, marahil ay nakakatulong naman ang mga ito sa asawa niya sa pagbuo ng mga obra maestra. Kung di man parati, at least paminsan-minsan, di ba? So, may art pa rin sa kanyang buhay.” He smiled. “Kaya okey lang siguro. Kung sabagay, may kasama siya sa gardening art niya: itong si Sienna. At kung sabagay, sino ba naman ang nanonood ng mga short films niya? Well, mga estudyante, at pagka-graduate ng mga yun iba na ang tatangkilikin na mga pelikula at artista. Puro love teams na, o mga latest na pelikulang Amerikano. Wala na kasing nirerequire na panoorin.” He sighed. “Kaya, okey na rin siguro ‘tong ginawa niya. May audience na totoo, kahit isa o dalawa lang.” He smiled.

     The old man Vicente started to go back into the yard past the open house gate, a bird flying through his chest. The invisible cameragirl said, “Oops, Pa, me tae ng aso.”

     “Sus, ano ba’ng ginagawa ng meyor sa bayan na ‘to? Pati aso sa daan, di kayang alisin.”

     Now, back inside the yard, Vicente sat on a step of the front stairs that led up to the porch. “Mahal ‘tong bahay na ito, alam niyo ba? Binili nilang mag-asawa mula sa isang matanda na nasa Hawaii na ngayon kasama ng kanyang anak na nurse. Si Fidel ang unang nakakita ng bahay na ito. Ganda, ano. Tiyak magugustuhan ‘to ng kapatid ni Fidel na isa nang sikat na arkitekto.”

@ @ @

As we said, Fidel’s portraits were all of fisherfolk looking over their shoulders. Or otherwise were full-body profile portraits of fisherfolk. Or mere heads with their back to the viewer, foregrounding a seascape or beachscape.

     Vicente was all over the house’s living area and adjoining dining area, looking at Fidel’s portraits on the walls. One of these portraits depicted two coconut-tree trunks looking like Greek columns in a classical painting. Another had a fisherman at the center of the painting standing on his boat in the sea looking out to a dark beach, waving his hand to dark faces on this beach, one child’s silhouette on the beach waving back. The star of the painting was the orchestra of palm tree leaves in the background profiled against a dark orange sky.

     “Mga portrait ng mga mangingisda,” Vicente said to the cam-girl’s camera, “na parang ayaw humarap. Tumitingin sa kaliwa o sa kanan, di kaya nakatalikod. Ito ang style ni Fidel Roxas. Nagpapahiwatig ng kanyang pagiging malapit sa mga mandaragat at nagpapahiwatig din ng kanyang pagiging malayo sa mga ito. Alam kaya ito ng kanyang mga taga-hangang mga mayayaman?”

     Joanna was suddenly in the living area beside the invisible Vicente, going through Vicente’s cloud of a body as she called to Sienna, “Sienna, palitan mo na nga itong mga paintings ng kuya mo rito. Itong mga ito sa wall na ito, palitan mo ng mga green na paintings dun sa kuwarto ni Pablo.”

     Fidel passed them on his way to the kitchen refrigerator to get a can of beer, saying, “palitan mo yung iba riyan ng gawa ng mga kaibigan ko.”

     “Huwag na, luv, gusto ko lahat sa iyo. At least sa wall na ‘to,” said Joanna, referring to the wall directly beside the dining area.

     Fidel came out of the kitchen with his can of beer, shaking his head and passing Joanna as she continued to take down the paintings to be replaced.

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