YOU probably noticed the repetition: attractive Joanna and a younger comely camera-girl who’s Joanna’s spitting image; good-looking Fidel, even; pretty town; nice electronic music; fine violin music; beautiful house; and so on. What can I say?
Have I introduced myself? Only now? Well, sorry about that. So I guess I should say something.
I am Vicente, my reader. Vicente Apostol. And if you noticed, my vocabulary is quite sparse, hahaha. Yes, sparse; only a month ago I didn’t know what that word meant until my co-writer and editor took the word from somewhere up his sleeve, hahaha. My vocabulary is sparse . . . because I am not a writer. You see? I am a screenwriter, as you already know. No, I was a “mere” screenwriter who later became a cinema director. No, I became a cinema auteur, hehehe. So, you see, I’m better known for works culled from standing behind the lens than for any work made sitting behind the pen, so to speak. That’s obviously because screenplays are not really published as books. And even if screenplays were published as books, my screenplays are seldom written in the traditional form. Of course my screenplays can sometimes pass off as prose art for being narrated in the past tense, but mostly I see them as more like guides for the team than anything else, where the dialogues can actually be amended by the actors. So, what else can I say? I’m not a writer, let me repeat that. So if I think something is beautiful, what word do you think I would use? Otherwise I’ll just say “it’s pretty,” or “it’s great-looking,” or “it’s just so goddam beautiful,” all of which may be worse. Anyway, I left the choice of words to my co-writer and editor in this screenplay of a novel of mine, I mean if he would want to look for other words to use, or if he would just leave alone those words I used in the draft, leave them on like some sic elements in a prose, all up to him. I mean, I’ve allowed my co-writer and editor to come up with better words on my behalf, because it doesn’t matter to me if suddenly the writing in this or that paragraph doesn’t anymore sound like it was from the same author. After all, I am not writing this for literary critics. I am writing this for a movie, although of course I would also want to see this published, as a publishable prose work, in case I never get funding for the film.
Funding! Ha! Speaking of which, reader, . . . the actual reason why I am also telling you this story in a book instead of from the screen (in case, indeed, you’re reading this now from a book, because it did not become a movie) . . . is because I’ve lost my camera, reader. Oh, okay, I’ll rephrase that. I am telling you this story in a book . . . because I cannot anymore be behind the camera. Oh, how should I put it? Though I’m not exactly telling you this as whispers from the beyond, I am delivering to you these fragments of what should soon unfold as a complete story . . . “from yonder.” Yes, from yonder, that’s how I’d call it. Okay? Pardon my French.
But don’t get me wrong. I am not in prison, haha. I am here, reader, with you. So, as you read, I inhabit the story. That is, as I tell the story I also read it with you, because that is how I am and how I’ll always be, I am very much interested in my audience’s reading. Yes, so much so that even when I’m abroad, I would be there with them to whom I am telling my story. It even starts from that moment with me sitting not yet with my co-writer and editor, then that moment where I’m with my co-writer and editor, sparse as a spare tire; you could even say that that moment inside which I was writing this and this moment inside which you are now reading this . . . occupy almost the same moment. And in terms of space in geography, I may indeed be away now as the teller of this story, but I will always be here, with you! For as long as your attention is here I am with you.
@ @ @
Today I am shooting again. Or, rather, my co-writer and editor, who happens to be my son, shall here be shooting again, representing me, alongside my camera assistant, my daughter. My camera assistant is my true daughter, the daughter whom you could also tag as similarly from yonder, but now here, with you, shooting, a ghostly presence, a product of my wishes.
Also, this film is not about my Joanna. Not anymore. The Joanna I know is gone. I wish I could bring her back but she’s gone. So I’ll just tell the story of the new Joanna.
No, no, this story is probably about Fidel, primarily. But, you see, in Fidel is also the new Joanna in so far as he inhabits her world, and I thought that by telling his story I can also maybe tell the new Joanna’s story. Or is it actually vice versa?
No, no, this story is probably about Fidel, primarily. But, you see, in Fidel is also the new Joanna in so far as he inhabits her world, and I thought that by telling his story I can also maybe tell the new Joanna’s story. Or is it actually vice versa?
But don’t get me wrong. This is not much of a story, really. This does not include much about me, therefore I won’t be bringing you to places as far as the Sierra Madre—that would be boring to many of you, really. I will be bringing you here. Simply here, melodramatic here, which I know is more to the masses’ liking. However, if you’re that part of the masses that are more inclined to look for an “action” sort of story in book pages, you better get out now. I may be who I am, but my story will be removed from all the action here. I will see you merely at the table.
@ @ @
That is the strange, new Joanna at the dining room table, and that is Fidel. Only a chapter ago they were having supper. That was yesterday, March 1. Tonight, after supper, they’re drinking.
I am inclined to talk to the camera again, but what the hell, I am talking to the page now, where you are. I am talking to you, my camera. You are my camera and I want you to tell my story with me. I want you to walk around with me, you are my co-writer and editor son representing me and my voice (even though I am invisible here, we still have to make it a habit to take precautions), and you, as the camera, would also be my camera-girl daughter representing my visual perspective.
@ @ @
That is my strange, new daughter Joanna at the table, as we said, and that is Fidel her husband. I am here though I am beyond. coming from yonder, here but not here, shh. I miss Joanna, my daughter. I want to hug her tight, I want to tell her I’m so sorry, I want to cry on her shoulder, but I cannot do any of that. To do that is to stop telling her story, and to stop telling her story is to stop loving her. The old her and the new her.
I must tell Fidel’s story because it is also her story, and it is also my story; it is the story of our family, but it is yours as well. But, again, this all happens in a house, around a house, around a town, around an area inside our country, because if I take you from one end of the Sierra Madre to the other end, that would bore you, as I said, and bore me as well as a consequence of your boredom, and when that happens I cannot tell you the story anymore. You must bear with me, here—which could be in Joanna’s garden and backyard pond or anywhere else in this house and yard—where all the action shall be, inside her words, inside her smile, in this pretty town with the pretty butterflies among the pretty plants in her front and backyard garden, swaying to Fidel’s beautiful fine nice music accompanying his beautiful fine nice paintings for Mrs. Lanuza’s fine nice gallery.
@ @ @
March 2, as I said. The couple was at their dinner table again—that night, this night—, wearing different clothes now of course (just to remind my would-be costume designer), the plates telling us they had just finished eating supper. Pablo was watching cable TV cartoons on the living room TV, Fidel and Wana having what looked like bahalina, that Northern Leyte tubâ, which they served themselves this night funnily in wineglasses.
Let us digress. Reader, with this tubâ the coconut-tree sap, collected from bamboo tubes from different trees, was not allowed to ferment to become vinegar but placed in what may have looked like a large fiasco bottle, or plastic jerrycan, filled to the brim and covered tightly and kept up to the brim every week, every day, covered tightly lest air at the top of the fiasco or the jerrycan turns the whole thing sour. With a red bark (say, from the vateria indica tree) that helps flavor the aging as well as absorb any sourness, the sap juice slowly turns to wine. Some would say this is really too roughneck a drink to occupy a wineglass. They’d say it’s so simple it lacks glamor. Well, . . . as I myself am a writer not inclined to use fancy adjectives, as long as the bottle echoes like a tiny bell when you hit it lightly with your pointer finger’s nail, that to me already guarantees a fine wine inside it, albeit aged to perfection only short of a year; that to me would already fit well into a movie shot under adequate three-point lighting and good enough sound care of a simple wind-attenuating microphone cover on a boom mic. That to me would already be a fine subject for a pretty, nice, beautiful, good-looking, fine movie. I don’t care what your high art says. I am a movie-maker, I am not a palace decorator. I too would, like Joanna and Fidel, pour anything from the peasant world into my fine wine glasses I once received from a prince, my fine wine glasses now in Joanna’s possession.
@ @ @
Every now and then Pablo butted in on Fidel and Joanna’s conversation, his kiddie pronouncements happily acknowledged by both Fidel and Wana.
“O, tingnan mo nga naman yan,” said Fidel to Joanna. “Noon kung umiinom kami ng bahalina ng mga kaibigan ko sa Tacloban, o noong tayong dalawa sa amin, kahit sa bote lang ng mayonnaise, di ba?”
She laughed.
“Ngayon, tingnan mo yan ha, sa wineglasses pa!”
The couple laughed, at themselves too perhaps, aware of their glorification of the bahalina, as well as the comedy’s contradiction via their equal glorification, or re-glorification, of the wine glass’ supposed superiority to, say, the mayonnaise bottle.
“Ikaw talaga, paulit-ulit mong sinasabi yan. Oo na. Ano pa ba ang gusto mo?”
Suddenly there was a pause. There was a change of mood. Fidel had suddenly turned serious.
“Wana, may sasabihin ako sa ‘yo, e,” he said.
Joanna frowned at the weird prologue.
“Sa tingin mo ba dapat tayong maging maligaya . . . sa . . . sa ginagawa natin?”
Joanna was speechless, totally unsure about what to say. She had to wait. Was this a prologue to another fight . . . or to another fun night?
“Ano’ng ibig mong sabihin, ‘Del
“Alam mo, Joanne, . . . parang . . . pakiramdam ko parang nakukulong ako sa ginagawa ko e.”
Joanna listened intently, a little nervous, unsure of what her husband was trying to say. Should she start rebelling against this new verbal puzzle?
“I mean,” Fidel went on, “it’s not because Mrs. Lanuza doesn’t allow me to do new things, it’s not about that. . . . Bakit ba tuwang-tuwa ang mga collectors ko sa mga ganito?”
Fidel gestured toward two of his paintings on a wall.
“Oo, inaamin ko, ako rin tuwang-tuwa nung naisip ko ang ideya. Pero hindi ba ako puwedeng lumihis, kahit konti? Alam mo, gusto ko namang gumawa ng ibang uri ng painting, Joanne, ibang thesis naman kumbaga, mga photorealist landscapes, halimbawa! O mga abstract seascapes! Hindi ba puwede? Bakit . . . bakit ang isang Gerhard Richter ng Germany
“E, Fidel, sino ba’ng pumipigil sa ‘yo? May sinabi ba si Mrs. Lanuza na nagpahiwatig ng ganon?”
“Oh. Well, . . . of course, alam ko, advise lang naman sa ‘kin ni Mrs. Lanuza yan. Huwag daw, sabi niya, at baka raw mawala ang following ko ngayon, ang mga fans ko na di tumitigil ang orders. Bago lang daw akong pinagkaguluhan, kelangan daw panindigan ko muna ang style ko ngayon, paramihin ko raw muna ang pera ko sa style na ‘to bago ako gumawa ng mga pagbabago. At least for another year or two. Sabi, the orange series will just be an experiment.” He sighed. “Ewan ko nga ba. Hindi naman ako pinipilit, kaya lang . . . parang naniniwala rin ako e. At tila dun ako naiirita. Lahat kasi parang may marketing e. Shit. At kung wala ka namang marketing, wala kang makakamit na posisyon sa merkado, ikanga, wala kang image. Putragis.” He laughed, nervously. “Ganun nga yata kahit saan.” He looked at Joanna. “Mga direktor ng pelikula, ganun din, kahit iba-iba ang pelikula nila, hinahanapan sila ng kanilang mga image o identity, hinahanapan ng relationship ang magkakaiba nilang mga gawa. Ang isang direktor, taga-gawa raw ng . . . sabihin natin mga sine tungkol sa yaman at poder at tsaka survival ng indibidwal sa loob ng mga tradisyon na nakapalibot sa kanya. Maging isang taxi driver na Vietnam veteran man ang isa niyang lead character at bilyonaryong negosyante naman ang isa, naroon sila nakapaloob sa iisang imahe niya, let’s say bilang isang director ng mga pelikula tungkol sa marahas na mundo na bumuo ng marahas na pag-iisip ng kanyang mga hero. Ewan ko ba. Lahat yata ng artist nakakulong. At least ang mga direktor puwedeng lumihis sa kanilang naunang style, PR na lang ang bahalang magsabi na di sila lumihis, nag-expand lang ang style nila. Putragis yan.”
After lecturing toward the dinner table, not toward Joanna, gesturing like an Italian with his wine, Fidel was now suddenly pensive. Then he smiled. Joanna remained silent.
“Masuwerte nga ang mga gumagawa ng sine, tulad ng Papa mo. Puwede silang lumihis, meron silang mga PR people na kagabay,” he continued. “E, kaming mga pintor … sa ibang bansa siguro meron. Pero dito, . . .”
“Fidel, ano bang pinoproblema mo? Gusto mong lumihis sa ginagawa mo ngayon totally o gusto mong lumihis pero ang sinasabi mo dapat me ‘PR people’ na magsasabi sa press na di ka naman lumihis? Alin ba talaga ang concern mo? Alin ba sa dalawa ang mas gusto mong solusyunan ngayon?”
“Yun na nga, Joanna, e.”
That’s all Fidel said.
That’s all Fidel said.
“Yun na nga? Yun na nga? Yun na nga, ano?”
Fidel laughed.
“Fidel, yun na nga. Yun na nga, yun na nga, Fidel, hindi kita maintindihan.”
“Precisely. Kahit ako, hindi ko maintindihan ang sarili ko. Ano ba talaga ang concerns ko, Joanna? Why can’t I just be . . . happy?”
@ @ @
Joanna was silent, playing with some cheese and cake on her plate with her fork.
“Ano bang sabi ni Mrs. Lanuza?” she asked in a low voice.
Fidel smiled at the table.
“Kelangan pare-pareho raw ang gawa, paulit-ulit ganun, at least for now. Kung gagawa kami ng magkakaibang serye, walang maghahanap para sa amin ng pagkakaparepareho nito dahil walang sapat na suporta ang art pages ng mga diyaryo sa mga galleries.”
“Fidel,” said Joanna, taking her time, “Fidel, ganyan talaga e. Sa lahat ng fields may hinihinging konting consistency, you know that. Kahit karpintero, . . . uhm, minsan di pinagkakatiwalaan bilang mason, di ba, kahit maaaring magaling din siyang magmason. Di ba yun ang sabi ng kapatid mong arkitekto? At alam mo naman yan e, lahat ng arts ay industriya, lahat ng produkto dapat may marketing. Nasa sa ‘yo na yon kung gusto mong ikaw mismo ang mag-market sa sarili mo, kung wala kang tiwala sa mga taong nagmamarket sa yo. Kasi, siyempre, yang magagaling sa marketing na mga yan, nagkakamali rin ang mga yan e. Sino ba ang talagang nakakaalam kung ano ang gusto ng merkado, sa gusto ng tao?”
Joanna was smiling, trying to lure Fidel back into a light if not bright mood, holding his finger curled toward the stem of his wineglass. She placed her hand on his arm.
“Kaya, sige na,” she said, chuckling, “sige na, Fidel, smile naman diyan o! Huwag mo nang isipin yang mga ganyan for now. And then, kung may maisip kang bagong gagawin at lilihis sa advice ni Mrs. Lanuza, then we can talk about it.”
“Ewan ko nga ba, Joanne. Sa palagay ko may mga tao rin namang libreng gumawa ng gusto nila kahit kelan. Yung mga walang nagdidiktang tradisyon. In my case, apart from the advice, ako mismo ang pumipigil sa sarili ko e. Dahil ang tradisyon ko ako rin ang pumili.”
“Lahat ng artists, Fidel, may tradisyon, nasa loob sila ng kanilang sariling tradisyon at mas malaking tradisyon ng . . . ng kanilang sining. Ang rak en rol, may mga tradisyon, at nanganganak ito ng mga bagong tradisyon, pero tradisyon pa rin, o mga bagong bagay na magiging tradisyon. At nagiging tradisyon ang mga ito dahil pinalaki muna sila, pinatagal. Oo nga, mga munting rebolusyon ang mga ito, pero dahil sa loob pa rin ng kultura ng mga tradisyon, kelangan silang maging tradisyon, mababad, ikanga, upang maging tradisyon o genre. At ganun din sa lahat ng skills, . . . lahat ng career, . . . lahat ng trabaho, lahat ito ay nasa kultura ng mga tradisyon. Fidel, magpasalamat na lang tayo na masuwerte ka at binigyan ka ng oportunidad na mag-pinta. Ang ibang kabataan diyan, gustong magpinta ng mga bagay na nasa kanilang isip, pero kelangang tumulong sa kanilang Tatay, sa kanilang kinagisnang hanapbuhay, magbantay ng tindahan, o di kaya mangisda o magsaka. Sila ay mas kulong kaysa artists na kailangang magpalaki muna ng isang bagong tradisyon o would-be tradition. . . . Sa Africa nga, …”
He looked at her, and laughed a low laugh. She laughed, happy to make him laugh.
“Ang corny mo talaga, alam mo ba yon? Joke ko yun a. Sa Africa nga maraming nagugutom,” he repeated, placing some of her hair on her face to make her laugh further before he pushed some to behind her ear.
Joanna stroked back Fidel’s hair.
“Sige na, huwag ka nang malungkot. Mahal naman kita e, my African chief.”
Fidel smiled.
“Pero, back to the subject, Wana, wala naman talagang kuntentong tao, e. Lahat naman talaga naghahanap ng bago, di ba? May risk nga lang ‘pag gagawa ka ng kahit maliit na rebolusyon sa sarili mo. Tingnan mo, halimbawa, ang mga bumibili ng CD. Ang bumibili ng CD hindi makuntento sa isang music artist lamang, gusto ng iba-ibang genres sa kanilang collection, right? Pero collector yun. Ang artist, on the other hand, at least sa ating panahon, hindi puwedeng lumihis sa paggawa ng mga kanta tungkol sa giyera, to cite a narrow identity, at gumawa naman ng mga bagong kanta sa genre ng … ng …”—he pointed to a dish on the table—“ng pansit rock, halimbawa. Kelangan ba ang artist makuntento na lang sa image na binigay sa kanya? At kung papayagan niya ang kanyang sarili na gumawa ng bago, dapat ba sa loob pa rin ng image na binuo niya sa media?”
Joanna poured bahalina into Fidel’s wineglass, a little into hers.
“O, sige, tama na yan, inumin mo na yan, lasing ka na. Last na yan. Sienna! Iligpit mo na nga ito, please.”
The maid came into the dining area to clean up the table.
“Kumain ka na ba, Sienna?” asked Fidel.
“Opo, Kuya.”
Sienna went back into the kitchen with some plates.
Joanna turned serious. She held Fidel’s hand again.
“Fidel, ito ang sasabihin ko sa ‘yo ha. . . . Anu man ang gusto mong gawin sa painting mo, go for it. Yumaman ka, tayo, dahil sa painting mo; at hindi mo inisip ang pera noon. Hindi mo na ako kelangan pang kausapin tungkol diyan. Alam mo, kahit pa man natutuwa ako na kinu-consult mo ako about your paintings paminsan-minsan, natutuwa rin ako actually na ikaw ang nagdidisisyon sa bandang huli, na hindi mo ako pinakikinggan sa ano man ang sabihin ko. Dahil ikaw ang nakakaalam kung ano ang gagawin mo na makapagpapasaya sa iyo at iyon ay labas sa opinyon ng sinuman. Kaya nga ako na-in love sa yo e, wala kang pakialam sa sinasabi ng mundo.”
He smiled. She laughed, slapping his right arm. He laughed a bit too.
“God,” she said. “lasing na rin yata ako a, ayoko na.”
She pushed her own last glass to the center of the table.
Fidel smiled at Joanna. Then he stared at the table again, staring blankly at something, his face turning sad again.
Pablo was now asleep on the sofa, like the previous night, the TV still on. A character in the movie on the TV rang a doorbell, jolting Fidel from his trance. He sighed.
“Ikaw, Joan. What do you think? Ano ba talaga ang dapat concern ko ngayon, from your point of view?”
“A, ayoko na, please,” she said, standing up to help Sienna clean the table.
Fidel laughed, then combed his hair with his two hands. Then he stopped.
“A, alam ko na,” he said, pointing at Joanne walking back from and then to the kitchen. “Movement. Yun ang concern ko, movement! Movement ng dagat. Movement ng sand. Movement ng T-shirt ng mangingsda. Yun!”
“Sigurado ka ba riyan?” Joanna called from the kitchen, but started singing before Fidel could answer. When she stopped singing, she added, “Alam mo, tama ka, meron din siguro ibang artist na namomroblema tulad ng mga pinoproblema mo. Pero ito ang tanong ko, ha: ba’t niyo pa ba poproblemahin iyon? Dapat maging masaya kayo habang masaya ang buhay artist niyo. Tapos, kapag di na, e di mag-retire kayo. Maraming ibang puwedeng gawin.”
@ @ @
March 3. Breakfast table.
Fidel was now at the breakfast table, with all the eggs and longanizas and coffee ready. The gate bell rang a second time.
The courier was calling, “Roxas!”
Sienna ran to get the mail the courier already tucked between the gate’s steel curves while the courier took out his logbook for Sienna to sign.
Behind the courier across the street some men sat on the asphalt pavement and the curb with cockfighting roosters, beside the banana-cue stall now frying maruya.
These men often gathered here beside the banana-cue stall at breakfast time not because they prefer to have banana cue or maruya for breakfast but because 9 a.m. to them is not breakfast, 9 a.m. to them is recess from their work that already started as early as 3 a.m. Work could be simple housework or going to the harbor to meet the fishing boats or work from the nearby furniture shop or nearby jeepney painting shop.
One of the men asked his compadre, “Ano ba’ng trabaho niyang nakatira riyan, ‘pare?”
“Pintor yan, ‘pare. Sikat yan, e.”
“Nasa dyaryo yan,” said the banana-cue vendor. “Nakita ko picture niyan sa malaking dyaryo, Minsan nandun ako kina Engineer Duarte
“Ilang taon na ba iyang mag-asawang yan dito?”
“Mag-iisang taon na yan dito.”
“Hanggang ngayon di pa nakikipaghalubilo sa mga kapitbahay?”
“Makipaghalubilo? Kanino, sa iyo? E, di ka naman naliligo e,” joked one of the men.
“Gago.”
“Mabait yan, si kuya. Mahiyain lang yan.”
“Yang lalaki nagpupunta yan kina Mang Juaning, nagpapamasahe yata.”
The sun’s morning rays played with the tree leaves to dance a shadow dance on the road and driveway pavements as smoke from some of the houses gave the weekend morning a mixed aroma of rice cooking, rice cake steaming, garlic rice frying, coffee boiling, anchovies heating, and so on, while birds from the trees looked for their worms.
@ @ @
“O? Sikat pala yan? Ba’t di ko kilala?”
Laughter.
“E, wala naman tayong alam tungkol diyan, pare, e. Tsaka, ang mamahal ng benta ng mga yan. Pangmayaman lang yan.”
“E, ba’t ako, pintor din naman ako a. Ba’t di ako sikat? Ba’t di ako mayaman?”
Giggles.
“Bahay naman ang pinipinturahan mo e. Tsaka, pa’no ka ba naman yayaman advance ka nang advance kay engineer?”
Laughter.
A jeepney stopped by the banana-cue stall.
“Kape tsaka maruya,” the jeepney driver called.
“E, pare, ako pintor din. Jeepney nga lang pinipintahan ko,” said another man with a rooster.
The jeepney driver heard their conversation and said to the jeepney painter, “uy, pare, tenkyu ha, galing ng ginawa mo sa jeepney ko ha. Daming natutuwa e.” The driver, with a wide grin, was referring of course to his jeepney’s ceiling with a Michelangelo painting.
“Nakakita na ako ng painting niyan,” said someone who arrived at the banana-cue stall just when the conversation about Fidel started. “Ganda. Ganda ng kulay, galing ng kamay pati, mga p’re. Minsan naglinis ako ng garden diyan e, sa likod nila, pare, daming ginagawa nyan, sabay-sabay. Bilib ako.”
“Talaga, ha?”
. . . Fidel walked to the porch with his coffee mug. The men with the roosters looked at him while the gardener greeted him with a raised hand.
“Good morning po, sir,” the gardener called.
Fidel greeted the gardener with a smile and a nod and a raised left hand. He sat on a porch couch to read his magazines and finish his coffee. But Sienna gave him the mail she earlier removed from the gate curves.
He opened the envelope, read the mail, as Sienna went inside.
He opened the envelope, read the mail, as Sienna went inside.
The men started to go their separate ways as the sun grew hotter.
“Wana! Joanne! Joanna!” Fidel called inside.
Joanna appeared at the house’s main door only a minute later. She went to Fidel’s side and looked at the letter with him.
“Card sa ‘tin from UP Tacloban. Yan, tuloy na ang film festival para sa Papa mo. March 15! May invite na.”
“Talaga, ha.” Joanna was smiling. "Wow, naman, naka-courier pa, ang daming pera. Hindi na lang in-email e, ano. Sabagay, official-looking."
Fidel lazily walked toward the living area, looking for another issue of his art magazines. Then he sat on the living area sofa after finding the latest issue of his magazines.
“Magtatalumpati ka raw? Wow, ha,” he said.
Joanna, still reading the letter, added, “at ikaw hinihingan ng design for the stage? Diyosko naman, pinakyaw na talaga. . . . O, e, para naman pala sa benefit ng Waray Arts Foundation ‘to e. Mga fans mo lang pala makikinabang e.”
She sat beside Fidel, saying, “akala ko nga di na ‘to matutuloy e.”
Fidel sighed, then smiled, glancing at her for a second.
“Si Pablo?” he asked.
“Tulog,” Wana said, standing up to go to the edge of the porch to look at one of the ferns on the porch rails. “Nakalimutan ko yatang diligin ‘tong isang fern na ‘to a. Nalalanta na a.”
Fidel stood up. “Halika, punta tayo ng Tacloban, grocery tayo.”
Joanne looked at him, a bit surprised. “O sige, paggising ni Pablo. Mauna ka nang maligo.”
@ @ @
“Walang tae ng aso, kuya. Sige po, diretso po, kuya, walang parating,” called Sienna outside the gate toward Fidel taking out his car.
Fidel’s new SUV came out of the gate, going to the right of the house, if you’re facing the house, meaning to the west, then backed up to the side of the road beside the Roxases’ gate as Fidel waited for Joanna. Pablo was alone in the rear seat of the truck, but he was dangerously standing behind the gap between the two front seats. Fidel still had his window down; he said greetings and other friendly words to neighbors standing at the point between the Roxases’ house and their immediate neighbor’s house. These were neighbors he had come to know: the gardener, the storeowner he once bought kerosene from (he once needed kerosene to clean old gesso brushes with, to quickly loosen the gesso before he could use the brushes for oils). One of the neighbors was an old woman in a maroon dress mysteriously wearing sunglasses who followed the car with her sunglasses’ stare when it left.
Ahead of the car, a few houses away, was a dental clinic. A boy of about 14 was standing in front of it, looking at Fidel’s and Wana’s car. He ran inside the clinic. When he came out again, the Roxases’ SUV was now near the front of the clinic and he waved to Fidel to stop. Fidel stepped on the breaks.
“Kuya Fidel, nakalimutan ko nga palang ihatid sa inyo kanina, pinabibigay sa iyo ng pasyente ng Papa ko kaninang umaga. Nakalimutan ko kasi e,” the boy said.
The boy handed a note to Fidel.
“Uy, thank you ha, Carlos. Sinong pasyente?”
“Nakalimutan ko ho pangalan e, kasama ho ng kaibigan niya, yung organista po sa simbahan. Kaibigan niyo rin daw po sila, sabi nung organista.”
“Thank you ha, bait mo talaga. Sige, pare, thanks uli,” said Fidel, holding on to the note with his left hand on the steering wheel, waving to the young Carlos with his right hand. Carlos seemed happy to have been called “‘pa’re”.
The car moved on, moving slowly in the narrow street with kids playing tug of war on it as Fidel held on to the three-folded note with his left hand.
The car turned a corner and Fidel, slowly steering the car on the now quiet and empty part of the street, unfolded the note and began to read it. He swerved the car to the side of the road, stopped.
A little puzzled, he said, in a near-whisper, “Si Kuya Rico? Nandito kaninang umaga? Sa kapitbahay nating dentista?”
He laughed, shaking his head.
Not giving the note to Joanna, who was sitting beside Pablo in the back, and still smiling and frowning at it, Fidel said, “Nagpa-prophylaxis ng ngipin ke Dr. Santos kanina.”
He laughed. He turned to Joanna, giving her the note, saying, “Pupunta rawsana
He laughed. He turned to Joanna, giving her the note, saying, “Pupunta raw
Joanna finished reading the note. Pablo was eager for the car to move on, jumping up and down. Fidel took back the note, reading it again, aloud this time, almost declaiming it:
“Papunta sana ako sa inyo kanina, sosorpresahin sana
Fidel was smiling and moved the car forward.
“Buti na lang pala nag-decide tayong mag-grocery. Para makapagluto ako bukas,” said Joanna.
“Oo nga,” said Fidel, still smiling.
All this time Pablo had been butting in, and Fidel and Wana happily answered his queries about kids playing in the street, about the mountain above the town, about the trees on the side of the street, and so never-ending on.
@ @ @
The Roxas’s car was now on the San Juanico Bridge.
When they were still in the middle part of the long bridge, where the Leyte-ward eastward-and-then-southward route of the S-shaped bridge got them ready to climb the bump part of the bridge that allowed boats to pass beneath, Fidel played Ringo Sheena and Neko Saito’s Heisei Fūzoku album on the car CD player. Nice music, thought Joanna, dancing a bit on her seat. The car clock said 10:00 AM. Pablo was about to fall asleep in the backseat. Joanna reached out to hold one of his feet dangling from his safety seat.
A bit later they were entering Tacloban City
Fidel woke Joanna, who had also fallen asleep in the backseat beside a sleeping Pablo.
“Wana, Pablo, gising na kayo, downtown Tacloban na tayo. Dito na tayo mag-lunch sa McDonald’s.”
@ @ @
The couple, carrying bags of groceries, crossed a street toward their car parked beside a McDonald’s restaurant.
Soon the car was back at the entrance to San Juanico Bridge on the Leyte side. In the middle part of the bridge, Pablo was shouting, calling boats below the bridge. Soon the Roxas’s car was exiting the bridge at the Samar island side.
@ @ @
The grandfather clock in the dining area said 3:00 o’clock. The couple was having merienda.
As was often, Pablo was all over the house with a toy car, moving its rubber tires on the dining and living area tables, on the armrest of a chair, on the side of a cabinet, and so on.
Fidel stood up to play Lucrecia Kasilag’s Divertissement for Piano and Orchestra on the living area music player to create a celebratory mood. Sienna came in with a plate of pancakes and reached to put it on the dining area table center.
The banana-cue stall’s radio started playing a Gary Granada folk song about squatters’ dwellings, ruining the Kasilag mood a bit, but since neither the Roxases’ player nor the radio was loud there was not much competition, really.
“Dalubhasa’t propesor, lahat sila’y nagkasundo na ang tawag sa ganito ay bahay,” sang Granada
No comments:
Post a Comment