If you look closer, you will find that the hovering clouds that cast a dark shadow on the still mountains of San Martin are the very same clouds that cast a tumultuous clout on the endless streets of Zaragoza.
My name is Leon. I grew up in a city where you cannot set apart the living from the dead. We do not know the exact color of the sun. Its rays are filtered by the madness of the marring clouds, sending only shades of red, to hide the blood-drenched streets from every bleeding soul seeking justice in the wake of the living. You wouldn’t like the breeze of the air that we breathe here. If you listen hard to the wind that blows from the sidewalks of Zaragoza to the recesses of our homes, you will hear the loud cries of forgotten dreams, and the moaning voice of freedom, with smells of blood that grips the whole place with an atmosphere of fear.
It was with a stroke of sheer luck that my parents married on the year when freedom was yet on its deathbed. When it finally died, they were lucky to have seen exile in the unheard of mountains of San Martin, a small barrio outside of Toledo, where my father was born and spent the early years of his life. It was by fate that the death of freedom gave way to my conception, and by destiny that I was born on the day of the formal declaration of chaos.
When I reached the age of two, my mother gave birth to another son. They call him, Rafael, after the patron saint of the famous cathedral in Zaragoza, where our parents first met. His birth was marked by the conception of an upheaval that would soon give a different view of the quiet mountains of San Martin, the time when the crystal water of the river that runs through the mountains have changed to the color of blood.
When I turned four, my parents separated. With my mother, having used to the noisy streets of crowding people, and the visible air of the city life, and my father, finding comfort in the serenity of the vast green fields of a farm life, it dawned upon themselves that they both came from two different worlds and cannot therefore live together as one.
Withstanding the turmoil that have been sweeping and have become more evident in the city, my mother dragged me all the way with her back to Zaragoza, leaving my father and my poor two years old brother behind, to live with her lowly mother back in the city.
When I was twelve, my grandmother died.
When I turned fourteen, my mother left me all alone in the old house for an army officer.
But to me, nothing has changed. Once there were three bodies in that house, but are without spirits. Mother worked as a clerk at the barracks and would come home late and drunk most of the time. If she comes home earlier she would just spend the whole evening in quarrel with my grandmother.
Lola, as I called my grandmother, hardly even talked to me. The longest exchange of words that we had in a day would be the hour-long recitation of the rosary and the litany. Once I asked her why we had to go through all those exhausting rituals, she turned red and burst out, saying, ‘Susmariosep! The holy lord forgive your sinful soul for questioning him like that!’ I thought, I wasn’t questioning Him. I was questioning her. But I thought, it was nonsense anyway, and I feared that I might cause her early repose, so I just let it all pass and carried on with her six o’clock evening habit with blind faith. Blind, because the prayers are said in Latin, and I never understood every bit of word I uttered with her. The rest of the day, I spent in silence. She spent her remaining days in solitude, forever mourning the death of my grandfather.
I on the other hand have become a lot more enterprising than my age. All day on weekends, and almost every afternoon after class on schooldays, I set out with the bakal boys, pushing a kariton for bote, diaryo, garapa at iba pa. We collect old newspapers, empty bottles and metal scraps from one neighborhood to another. We would then sell it to Mr. Hong at the end of the day, for the most, fifteen pesos, and divide the money among ourselves.
My mother took nothing when she left, as there was nothing in the house, which, is of great monetary value, other than those with utmost sentimental value. There was nothing but old pieces of furniture, and big statues of the Virgin Mary and the two other saints that my grandmother so devotedly kept for sentimental reasons.
The house is an old two-storey house, with three empty bedrooms, so dusty and full of cobwebs, it has become a haven for rats and all forms of insects. It is one of those old Spanish-type houses with windows made of capiz shells and walls made of darkened wood, worn out by time, the changing weather, and termites.
My mother was not at all that bad though. She left me with two things before she totally abandoned me. One, she brushed, shook my head and told me that I am old enough to take care of myself, said goodbye after she gave me a tight hug. Two, she gave me my father’s address in San Martin. If you would think about what she did, you would find that she was actually too generous enough to have given me five things before she left. One, she stroked my head, two, she told me that I am old enough to take care of myself, three, she bid me goodbye, four, she hugged me, and five, she gave me my father’s address in San Martin.
But if I had to go into details myself, I would only consider three things. One, when she told me that I am old enough to take care of myself, because it sounded to me so trusting and reassuring. Two, when she bid me goodbye, because it sounded to me like a wish of good fate and a true act of goodwill, even if it was just a byword from someone who is about to leave. The third would be my father’s address, because somehow, I felt that I belonged still. I wouldn’t consider her gesture of stroking my hair because, it destroyed its neatness and got it all sticking up. I wouldn’t consider the hug neither because, she hugged me too tight I couldn’t breathe. I thought she’d want to kill me. If I was intent of counting, I could have included the house and everything in it, including all forms of life living in it. But I was not that desperate. It wasn’t even a teary departure. I had to contemplate on crying but I never did, and I wasn’t able to.
Immediately after she left, I closed the door and headed upstairs to my Lola’s room. There was no more need to follow he with a sad look and watch her till the last strand of her hair blended into the busy streets. I entered my grandmother’s room and knelt before the giant statues of the Virgin Mary and the two other saints. The statues are standing on their pedestals which measured up to my knees and they were towering tall above it that my head only leveled their knees and I had to stretch back my head in order for me to see their holy faces when I knelt. The Virgin Mary stood in the middle of the two saints. My Lola once told me that the Virgin Mary has so many titles. That one is called The Immaculate Conception. On her left stand the statue of Santa Clara, and the statue of San Pedro holding a rooster on one hand and the keys to all our doors and cabinets on the other. We never got to use those keys though because, since the time the original keys that the San Pedro held in his hand was lost, Lola surrendered all our house keys to the statue. She said she could never enter the doors and gates of heaven if we won’t replace the lost keys that the statue was holding. What would the saint use to open the gates of heaven for her anyway, if he doesn’t have the keys? Perhaps she thought that our house keys would make a good substitute.
I closed my eyes for the need to concentrate. My knees started to hurt but I still do not know what prayers I would say to whom. From what I know, Santa Clara is the patron saint of wives who want to become mothers. I was too young to be asking San Pedro to open the gates of heaven for me. I have never been to a cockpit, not a rooster to pray for. And I found it embarrassing for a sinner like me to pray before a Virgin Mary whose title is, the virgin conceived without sin.
Nevertheless, with due respect to their individual specialization, I addressed my prayer to all three. I prayed that San Pedro would take our house keys and use it to open the gates of heaven and let my Lola in. I prayed that it fits. I prayed for my mother’s future babies, that if they’ll only grow up to be abandoned by my mother, Santa Clara should better be thinking about it a hundred times before giving in to the idea of allowing my mother to bear babies in the future. I also prayed that they would take away the curfew because, at night, when the streets would be swept by silence, the sound of sirens from the patrolling police cars brings a lot of discomfort in my head, alone in the creeping darkness of the house. I prayed for my security, that nothing bad would happen to me, like being chased by the police, as I often see them doing around the city, all the time. I prayed that stray bullets would not catch me when I’m out in the streets, or salvaged for no reasons, as it has become the common practice for a pastime by the city police. I prayed that my father and my brother are still alive, in the hopes that I could see them one day.
I was about to make the sign of the cross when I remembered my business. So I prayed that they would provide for my friends, and me a lot of scraps in every house to collect so I could earn enough money for my food. I thought about praying for my continuous education, but right then, I decided to stop going to school. So I ended my prayer, did the sign of the cross and opened my eyes.
I retreated from kneeling and threw myself into the bed behind me. I laid myself on Lola’s bed with both hands pinned behind my head. It was then that I realized how things have changed, and how with it, I have to start anew. I started thinking about a lot of things - my life, tomorrow, and what I want to do with it. I thought of nothing to keep me going but my small business with the bakal boys. But I know that the share of money that I’m getting from our trade would not be enough to sustain my everyday meals. So I went on thinking some more. Then I thought about selling the house. But I thought I would be homeless if I did. Then after a while, I thought about taking in boarders to occupy the other rooms so I could at least earn extra money. I removed my hands that cupped my head for a clench at such a brilliant thought, but when I did, a small piece of paper fell on my face. I realized that my father’s address was in my hand and all the while, I did not even notice that I was holding it. The thought of writing my father a letter, entered my mind, and I immediately picked up the paper that slipped from my face and got up.
I thought of going out to buy a small envelope for the letter, but when I looked through the window behind Lola’s bed, it was already dark. I left and headed to my room next to Lola’s and decided to draft my letter first and maybe just buy the envelope in the morning. After closing the windows in Lola’s room, I found myself walking through the dimness of the entire house. The dark corners that have never seen the light of day in so far as I can remember. The house has never been penetrated by brightness. Day and night, it was always dark inside it. It only gets even darker in the evening. I had already taken out the light bulb from Lola’s room and transferred it in my room, immediately after she died. There’s one in the kitchen, and one in the living room. The other one was in my mother’s room and would be of no more use until I find a boarder who would be willing to occupy her room. But for all its worth, it can hardly light the place, as these are too old to shed enough brightness. It was nearly even covered with dusts and the occasional cobwebs.
I could hear even the slightest sound that I make, including my footsteps, no matter how I tried to walk as slowly and as carefully as a cat, because the wooden floor squeaked with every step that I make. It was so quiet all around and I could hear my heartbeat. I could hear the scratching and thumping sound of the rats above the ceiling, frolicking like rolling little thunders in their own piece of heaven. I could hear the noise of the horns blowing and the thumping and pounding sound across the neighborhood, and I felt the movements of people passing on the street outside that tells a different story of their own.
I have never felt the stillness of the house, and have never felt more aware of it until mother left. When she and Lola were still around, I had always thought of nothing else but my usual routine of clearing up my mother’s mess whenever she came home drunk, my six o’clock rituals with Lola, cooking for supper, washing the dishes, opening and closing all the windows of the house, and pulling out Lola’s pee pot from underneath her bed first thing in the morning. Most of all, I had to think about minding my own direction to stay out of their way when they started to quarrel. I have never felt the emptiness of that house until then.
I began to feel sad. Not for all that’s gone, because I have never felt the loss, but because of all that was left. There were so much for my counting, and the more I notice it, the louder I hear the echoing of hollowness. More so when I realized that I have no one to share it with.
When I entered my room, I turned on the light and searched for my notebook in the cabinet. I have never really used a bag going to school. The sling bag that my mother gave me was too small for my books alone, and it was made out of cloth that it was not good enough to protect my notebooks from getting wet on a rainy day when I walked my way going to and on my way home from school.
I found it lying on top of my pile of clothes. I pulled out the pen that I have inserted inside the spring and tore out a page for a paper to write my letter on. My room is without a table so I went down to do the letter in the kitchen where there’s a dining table huge enough to accommodate me.
I thought for a while before I started drafting my letter. I had to thank my mother in my mind for sending me to school. I learned to read and write because she made me go to school. Then I thought about how I am going to address my father. I remembered calling him Tatay when I was four, but since then, I have already forgotten the way the word sounded to my ears. I call my mother, Nanay, so I thought, I should be calling him, Tatay. I felt awkward. I had been constantly keeping the idea in my memory, but for me to let it out in the paper, was something I had never really gotten myself used to doing. I started writing.
Dear Tatay Luis,
I am your son. My name is Leon Corpuz. I am the older brother of another son of yours, Rafael Corpuz. I am sorry that I have to introduce myself to you again. It’s been ten long years that we have not seen each other, and I thought that maybe you have already forgotten about me. How do you do? How is my brother, Rafael? I hope you told him that he has a brother too. He was still going through his first steps when we were separated. I wonder how he looks like today. He must be twelve years old by now, and will be graduating from grade six soon. I hope I can attend his graduation. I will try to save money to be able to go home. Tay, Nanay left me today. She won’t be coming back anymore. She went off to marry an army officer from the barracks, where she’s working as a clerk. I think she’s happy so we do not have to worry about her. Lola died two years ago. She was not killed. I think she just died of old age. She’s lucky is she not? I am alone now here in Lola’s house here in Zaragoza. But you do not have to worry about me. When Nanay left, she told me that I am old enough to be taking care of myself. I think so too. Indeed I am. I have work so you do not have to worry if I have nothing to eat. I have friends here. We collect old newspapers, empty bottles, and metal scraps, and sell them to a Chinese scrap buyer in Nakpil. We call ourselves, BAKAL BOYS. How is your condition there in San Martin? I do not remember the place so much anymore. I hope it is peaceful there. It is not totally peaceful here in Zaragoza. Almost everyday, there are riots on the streets. There’s not a week that passes without us, hearing the sound of gunshots and loud explosions. But that is the way it is here, and again, I will have to remind you that you do not have to worry about me. We have gotten used to it here, and I am capable enough to be looking after my own safety. Like Nanay said, I am old enough to take care of myself, and I believe her. I am fourteen and already in second year of high school, but I have already decided on quitting. I have already decided about it just today, and I do not really mind it too much. I have decided to just concentrate on my peddling job with the rest of the boys. Some of them have already quit school too, so it is not hard to see that it is a natural thing for us here. Tay, I am sorry that I only get to write to you today, because Nanay only gave me your address before she left today. I did not bother to ask it from her before because I was afraid that she would send me away. I have it at last, and now, I can write to you as often as I can. I hope you are not angry for taking me this long to write. Tay, I hope that you could visit me here also, you and Rafael. The house here is big, and there are plenty of rooms for Rafael and me to run around. Though it doesn’t look good and new, there is enough space here for the three of us. Rafael will not feel the boredom here. I will introduce him to the rest of the bakal boys. He will enjoy their company. They are good kids, about the same age as him and me. Some are even younger than he is. The neighbor has a television set, and in the evening, they are kind enough to let us watch the programs through their windows. My favorite is Rintintin and the Lone Ranger. Rafael will love them too. I think you will, also. Anyway, I hope that you could also tell me about your condition there and about San Martin. I would love to hear from you. By the way I have attached my school ID in this letter. It is the only picture I have. I won’t be using it anymore so I thought of giving it to you so you could imagine how much I have grown. I hope you can send me pictures of you and my brother too. Tay, I hope I could also visit you one of these days. For now, I have decided to stay here and find my luck. I will still have to wait and see if I will make it here on my own. I have grown to love this place and I can say that this is where I belong for now, at least for the moment that I am still within hoping. Tay, please pray for me. I have learned to cope with my life here but I do not know how I am going to survive being all alone in this big house. Your letters will be my sole comfort, so I am hoping to hear a reply from you. I will have to end it here for now. I will tell you more stories in my next letter. Goodbye, Tay. Please extend my regards to Rafael. I miss you and I love you. Please reply soon. God bless us all.
Love,
Your son, Leon
It took me hours before I was able to finish my letter. I had to watch the time because I might miss the curfew. By eight o’clock I turned off the florescent light in the kitchen and had to settle for a kerosene lamp for a light. The curfew included all lights to be out by eight o’clock so I had to keep myself conscious of the passing of time. A couple of times I had to run up to my room. First, to pull out another blank page off my notebook, and then to search for my school ID which, took me quite a while to find. It was already about ten o’clock in the evening. I fought so had with my thoughts about what to write, that I had to stop after every sentence I wrote.
It was hard writing to somebody I hardly know. But what’s more difficult is the idea that I am a son, and I am writing to my father whose existence I am not even assured of, and whose face I could hardly even remember. I cannot anymore tell how far we have gone, as far as differences is concerned, and I must only rely on what little recollections I have, of the green mountains, the sprawling wide reaches of rice fields, and the crystal waters of the river before I left the place where I took my first steps ten years ago, to give them a vivid picture of the place that I have come to know. To the last word that I wrote, I did not realize that tears have already been rolling down my cheek. That was a very sad night indeed. It’s silence, and the cold stillness of the air, brought no greater pain than that which, with isolation, elicits a feeling of rejection and fear of the uncertain.
The following day, I woke up amidst the gloom that has invaded my room. Nobody was telling me what to do anymore. There was no more school to prepare in haste for. All that there was is a new life that I had yet to build on my own. A life ahead of me, the survival of which, now lays a direct responsibility to the circumstances of my actions. Nobody’s watching me no more, and I belonged to nobody’s responsibility all the more. There was nobody but myself, raising myself and looking after myself.
Outside, the news about my abandoned soul spread easily in the neighborhood. It had created spirits of its own. I have become the favorite topic of conversation, from the breakfast table to the sari-sari store fronting the house, for the day and until who knows when. When I looked outside the window, I saw a group of familiar faces of women, some holding a broomstick on their hands, and some men, some smoking, some with roosters quietly listening to their masters’ conversation while taking pleasure in their owner’s caresses, running their fingers through their feathers. These faces are whispering about to each other, with eyes prying on my direction every now and then. I am the poor orphan boy, abandoned by his mother to seek the comfort of freedom in the arms of a privileged soldier. What ever is going to happen to that poor orphan boy now? Whatever is going to happen to me?
I had to convince myself that I was no longer a little boy. I may be poor in spirit, but not so much with what my able body can do. I kept telling myself, I am already a young man, old enough to take care of myself. I do not have to mind them. I will find my way to survival. I will live. But these thoughts came to me with so much pain in my bleeding heart. With tears inevitably forming in my eyes. Somehow, I was aware of the painful reality that I was faced with and could never deny. But on the other hand, I know that I belong. To the house that will protect me from the dangers of the street, hiding me from the face of the enemies, with a roof that will shelter me through the rain. Where my spirit weeps in loneliness, I know that I belong to my friends. And when it years for home, I know that it bears so much hope that somewhere in the world, half of the blood that runs through my system still belonged to somebody that has been looking for me. That when the burden on my shoulder becomes unbearable, the hope still exists for a family that I could ran to, that will provide me a caring home and a shelter for my refuge.
Whatever is going to happen to that poor and helpless little boy that they are talking about may just be the least of my concerns. Whatever the future holds is the least of my priorities. I would live my life one day at a time.
I went out of my room, and as I was descending down the stairs, I heard constant knockings on our front door, the voice of Albert and Tony Boy, alternating in calling out my name. First, I heard Albert, then Tony Boy, then the two of them altogether yelling out my name at the top of their voices. When I opened the door, Tony Boy was collecting his air, about to call out again, but was interrupted when he saw me. My eyes squinted at the sight of the sun glaring above the sky before me. They were silenced by my sudden appearance and had to take a few moment to compose themselves from their strained throats. They were giving me a look of unfamiliarity, studying me from my foot up to my head.
Albert shifted his attention away from me, his eyes journeyed through the interiors of the house. He pushed the door open, brushed himself past me and entered, as Tony Boy started to speak. They were acting like a couple of policemen, one, given the order to just barge in and ransack the house, and the other, given the order to interrogate.
"Is it true?" Tony Boy eagerly asked, as Albert made his way through the stairs into the rooms upstairs.
They invaded the house, and I remained in awe about their restless behavior.
"Come on in."
"Is it true?"
"What?"
He did not answer my question. Instead, he made his way through the door, with his eyes swinging to all directions, heading for the kitchen. I followed him, and I remained quiet myself. He was pacing through the kitchen, opening the cabinets, opening the pots and shuffling the utensils. When he found no trace of food, he quickly turned to me. I was closely following behind him, and I almost stumbled before I managed to take a step back when he made the quick turn. This time I could already hear the slamming of doors and windows that goes with Albert’s heavy footsteps from upstairs.
"Is it true?"
"What?"
"Leon, have you eaten?"
"No."
"Is it true, Leon?"
He was asking me with a serious, inquisitive yet sympathetic look in his face, his eyes, as if searching for an answer from every spot in my face. He was looking at me as if my mouth was never good enough to trust every word that comes out of it.
"What? What are you talking about?"
From my sleepy face, I managed to give him a confused look. His face leaned closer to mine and his eyes opened wide as he gently slapped me in the cheek with his dirty hands, finally clearing himself to me.
"Wake up, Leon. I wanted to know if it is true that you are going to quit school!"
"Oh…"
He waited for an answer, still staring at me straight in the eyes. But it took me quite a while to collect myself and answer the question. I thought he was going to ask me about my mother, and not about me. I have prepared myself, in case somebody would ask me about my mother, but not about whatever decisions I have come up with for myself. He was acting as if he was in a great hurry. His eyes shifted on the wall to his left, going up to the ceiling. Then he started pacing again, and headed for the living room. I followed him.
"Who told you that?"
"Albert dropped by the house early this morning." He began as we left the kitchen and positioned ourselves in one of the wooden chairs in the living room.
"Inay told us to pay you a visit when she found us talking outside. She told us that your mother left you yesterday. So is it true?"
"How did she know?"
"How did she know what? The whole neighborhood knows about it, Leon."
"There’s nobody in there, and it’s empty!"
Albert interrupted. He just got out from one of the rooms and going down with hopping strides. He stood before us, sitting on the long wooden chair, his hands clipped on both hips, sternly looking at me. Our heads turned to his direction. Then Tony Boy turned to me and asked me the very same question for the millionth time. This time, I do not know if he was referring to my mother or to my quitting school.
"So is it true?"
"My mother is not coming back, so I’m on my own now. She gave me my father’s address in San Martin. Last night I wrote him a letter, and I’m going to mail it today, but I do not know how. I have never been to the post office before. Can we drop by there this morning and help me out with it?"
"Sure, that’s easy. I used to send my mother letters before. I know how it works."
"Thanks ‘Bert."
"No problem."
"Are you leaving? Are you planning to go home to your father in San Martin?" Tony Boy asked with cynicism.
"No. I have decided to stay and try out my luck here. Nanay said I’m old enough to take care of myself. I will try and see if I can make it here on my own."
"Of course you are!" Albert exclaimed. Tony Boy interrupted, throwing a fist on my shoulder.
"Of course you can! And besides, you’ve got work here. We’ve got a lot of things to do."
"That’s what I told my father in the letter. By the way, where’s Victor?"
"He’s watching over his mother. She delivered the baby last night." Albert said.
"Is it a boy or a girl?"
"It’s a boy. The seventh. Seven boys, five girls. They’re a dozen now."
"Are you counting eggs?" I joked. We laughed. Then for the billionth time, Tony Boy asked me again.
"So is it true?"
"True what?"
"That you are going to leave school, Leon."
"Yes. Is it true?" Albert seconded his question.
"I think it would be better that way. Yes."
Upon hearing my reply, they burst out laughing. They slapped me in the face, hit me in the back, and destroyed my hair, forever. They danced and jumped, rejoicing my declaration to quit school.
At that moment my sorrows disappeared. I felt like the whole house was filled with brightness that I have never seen in it ever before. I realized that I was never alone after all. I do not know if I will ever have to regret my decision, but I know that I do not have much of a choice. I thought that maybe soon, if I would have enough, I may consider going back to school. I knew then that I was still with the company of friends whose sole purpose for living was geared towards the means for survival. The lessons learned in the streets became of ultimate importance at the time when honing minds was rather suicidal to the spirit.
That morning, the bakal boys set out with their kariton to collect their living. We set out first to the post office and Albert taught me how to write the addresses on the envelope and the whole process of mailing the letter. Then we dropped by to see Victor and his recuperating mother, and his newborn brother.
In one of the more depressed areas that surrounded the city of Zaragoza, immediately at the far end of our street, on the opposite direction from our house, covering the banks of the river Sol, lies a multitude of small houses, most of which, are standing on stilts, crowding together almost leaning against each other, that you can hardly see spaces in between. The only piece of lot perhaps that was left unoccupied are the narrow corrugated alleys in between, that is always wet, and was never cleared of wastes, scattering all over the place. If you were not used to it, you wouldn’t be able to stand the foul smell of the air that attracts a swarm of flies in every corner. If you would care to walk through these alleys, you would think that it is the only thing that keeps the houses lining up in place. The place is always full of people, children running across, naked and barefooted, skinny but with bloated stomachs, dogs disposing their wastes just about anywhere, and cats feeding on heaps of garbage in every corner.
But the people here do not care so much about their surroundings. Blending with the picture, are sari-sari stores, stalls of turo-turo, those small time food stopovers, and as much as you would see it all over the city, a number of maize and banana cue vendors, including barbecue stands of chicken parts variety, from chicken foot to gizzards and intestines. They never escaped the place.
The people here have become immune to all kinds of diseases. They can stand an order of mami in one of the turo-turos, while inhaling the steaming smell of the soup, contaminated by the air that carried the smell of a pigpen hidden among the houses nearby. This, plus the sight and smell of a couple or more stinky old stray dogs that flanked on the side. Their mouths dripping with saliva, hoping for a share of the feast. If you were they, you wouldn’t mind because you have developed a strong stomach for all these. I have gotten used to it myself.
In the summer, when it hardly rained, electrical cables with faulty set-ups on low standing posts, can be an easy cause of fire. The fire trucks cannot get through the alleys for the firemen to extinguish the fire, but somehow, because of the crowding population of the area, they never ran out of vigilant eyes to take notice of the threat of a building catastrophe. They would be quick to take upon themselves the responsibility of preventing the calamity, before it builds up even more and burn all the houses down to ashes.
That proved to be the comforting side to all these. The people would not speak so much of complains with regards to their plight. Though they never learn, when the situation calls for it, they bind together as one large family who wouldn’t deny responding a help to another.
During the seasons of heavy rains, when the river Sol overflows into their alleys and every pavements, with the water, rising above chest high going to the neck, they are always prepared with their bancas, to paddle their way from one place to another. Those situated in low-lying areas would settle on the top of the roof of their own house with their few belongings, while waiting for the water to return back to the river and they can set foot on soft land again.
The people have developed a high level of tolerance, and a resilient attitude to every hardship that they have learned to live with. On top of it all, they never hesitated to wear a smile on their faces, as long as there is life in the sun behind the clouds.
But these are images of happy days. In between the flood and the fire are the tough times. It would not be difficult to explain how these times of calamities bring about an air of celebration of life in the place. On ordinary days, the whole place is a lear of fear. As much as it has become widespread in the city, the place is cradle to a lot of heinous crimes. Oftentimes, the narrow alleys seemed especially designed to resemble a hideaway maze for criminals and innocent alike, to confuse the chasing band of police, devoted to the reign of anarchy brought about by the regime of fascism. The place becomes a passage for escape by these so-called fugitives and criminals. The walls of the houses hide the communing group of underground resistance of revolutionaries young and old.
It is a natural thing, that a member of a household would wake up one morning, to find a cold body, its brain blown out of his head, bathed in his own blood, lying before the entrance of his house. He would be quick to drag the corpse in the middle of the way, or to somebody else’s doorstep, and sweep off the blood to remove the traces that dripped all the way from in front of his house where it originally lay dead, to prevent the risk of being accused of a crime before the rest of the neighborhood would wake up and point their fingers on him. He would step back inside the house in horror, and would prevent the rest of his family from going out. He trembles with fear, enough for his spirit to flee his body.
If he is unlucky to have somebody witnessing what he did, he would get the handcuffs and there would be no more use explaining. He is a dead man walking. He will receive the credit of being much talked about. As he helplessly walk the alleys, head hanging low, stripped of his liberty, the metal cuffs pulling his hands together as he is ushered by two men in uniform to the vehicle that would give him the free ride to prison, he will only get the stares, some with despising look, others looking at him in pity, aware of the truth of his innocence. The windows will shut before him, the people he comes across with will stay out of his way, mothers will lock their children inside the house, fathers will refuse having any close association with him. As the vehicle roll off and the sound of sirens fades into the smoggy air, life resumes with the rising of the sun. But his home looms with misery, taking comfort only in the sympathy of the few who suffered the same fate as they have, yet forever isolated by the curse of shame and unbounded guilt that was cast upon them by the rest of their people.
Among the rest who have suffered the same fate was Victor’s father. He was accused of a murder of a man whose existence he was not even aware of, and whose death he can only tell by the bullet that ripped his head. He was dragged out of their house six months before, for a crime everybody, and even his accusers, know he was never responsible for.
His innocence killed him. He tried to escape one rainy night, but was caught by the patrolling guards, as he was about to leap off the high hurled barbwires that surrounded the penitentiary. He was shot straight in the head, in the manner that took the life of the man he was accused of killing. His body hanged with one foot folded up to what could have been the last step to freedom. His blood dripped fast all over to the direction of the pouring rain. That was a month close to the birth of his new boy, his last son, Victor’s brother.
Victor sat motionless on the doorway, watching his little brothers and sisters playfully running across the muddy alley, while another small brother crawled on his side, threatening to jump off the stairs. We pushed the kariton to a stop right in front of their doorstep. He immediately picked up the crawling brother and signaled for us to come inside the house.
Upon entering, the little brother that he was carrying in his arms started to cry. He left us standing before the smiling mother who was then feeding the baby, with one breast exposed, lying on the floor with another of his sister who was sick and sleeping quietly on her opposite side. Standing on the doorway, Victor called on the older sister and gave her the crying boy for the watching. He then ordered her to leave.
The house is without enough space that we had to crowd ourselves. There are no division, no tables, no chairs, and no cabinets. All that there was into it are four square walls. On one side is the sink, with empty plastic containers for water, a rack of tin plates and a canister containing all the condiments and two outstanding ladles on the left. There is a small kalan on the right with two pots hanging on the wall above it, all darkened with soot. On the opposite side of the wall, in the corner, are boxes of clothes, and a broken mirror hanging on the wall on top of it, with a cross made of palm leaf inserted on the side. On the wall at the side of the doorway is a big calendar, with illustrations of the different faces of the moon and Chinese characters in small prints below every number and the bold letters of the month. It belonged to one of those Chinese-owned merchandising stores in Nakpil, which, they give out after every day following the New Year holiday.
All eleven children, and their parents used to occupy the floor when they sleep in the evening. They all lump together on the floor like sardines. When his two elder brothers landed their jobs at the candle factory, and goes home only on Sundays, they got the enough space for every twisting and turning in their sleep. When his elder sister, the one before him, found a job as a house maid in one of the well-to-do families in Zaragoza, her parents must have found the house too spacious for all ten of them, that they decide to produce another child to add in to the family. How they did it was a mystery that Victor could not even imagine. It was just too bad that his father was not able to see the child when it came into the world now that he’s dead. There are only ten of them left in the house, and at the age of thirteen, he has become the second oldest member of the household, next to his mother.
When Victor got back, we were already enjoying a chat with his mother about her delivery and the baby. She was then asking me if it was true what Albert and Tony Boy told her about my mother, and how she left me. I figured, even a woman who just got away with a delivery, and whose attention was supposed to be solely focused on her newborn, still could not escape the news about my abandoned soul.
On Victor’s interruption, I was not able to dig in my story. He led us outside after he gently tickled the baby’s cheek with his finger. Outside, he opened to us about how he succeeded his father’s job as a dishwasher in a restaurant, and how he may not be able to join us anymore.
