I fell asleep towards the middle of the sermon. Aling Taleng had to constantly press her elbow against mine everytime I begin to slouch, so I won’t fall on the front or on my side. She had to squeeze my arm when we had to kneel or stand to wake me up. Most of the time I get a slap on the leg or a soft pinch on the side when she saw my eyes beginning to close.
I begged of Albert and Tony Boy to come with us, but they opted to stay and just be watching the house when they found out that I would be going with the lady. They laughed when they saw my cut-on-the-side, carabao-licked hair. I had a hard time fixing it, especially since it has been a while since a comb last touched my head. It had been a while since my last haircut.
I put on the cleanest of all my worn-out shirts. The only pair of pants I had hardly fit anymore. I had to squeeze in my stomach before I could zip it close. Its length had reduced above ankle’s high. I do not know if it shrank or I have grown big and tall. The only pair of shoes I had looked old and hopeless. It no longer fit. I settled for my slippers.
It didn’t matter much for them though, not even for me, except for the hair that they couldn’t help noticing. It all slumped in the head when wet, like a rice field stricken by flood, but when it started to dry, little strands of hair started sticking out, like dried corn stalks that remained standing on a deserted field after the rest had fell down from the picking season.
When everyone at the mass did the sign of peace, where everyone would turn and nod at the person next to him, front, side, and back, I gathered myself and performed the gesture. Everyone said, peace, and it sounded like piss. Aling Taleng was as graceful as ever with her head gently moving up and down in synchrony with her softly spoken, piss. I was never more awake. I knew what was going to happen next. The priest would tell us to kneel, bless the host and the chalice, lift it up, raise it down, divide the oversized host into two, swallow all of it while bending his head, as if ashamed that he had to divide it but had to eat all of it anyway. He then drank the wine as only he can, and he’s done. Then everyone would get up from kneeling and line up for the communion. After the communion, the priest would bless us all and the mass is over.
When the crowd started kneeling down, I knelt down myself, faster than the time it took Aling Taleng to reach the kneeler. The whole time, I watched the priest while he was chewing the oversized host and had his fill of the wine from the chalice, the ones referred to as the flesh and blood of Christ. Perhaps they couldn’t stand looking at him, eating flesh and drinking blood that’s why they all bowed down their heads.
We were the first to leave. As the last hymn was being sung, Aling Taleng led the way, genuflected in the middle of the aisles, bowed her head, strike her chest thrice, and did the sign of the cross, got up and paraded her way out, head high, looking proud as always. I walked behind her in shame. I figured she did it on purpose, leaving before the crowd of churchgoers so that in their pews, while they were still singing, they would be witness to her dramatic exit. She got what she wanted.
On our way out, an old lady, about her age approached her. Then a fat lady joined them. Then another, and another. I walked a little slower to keep my distance. She seemed to have forgotten about me when she saw her amigas. They were enjoying their conversations while I was beginning to feel the heat, standing away from them, in the middle of those melting bodies outside the church.
It was a very hot midday sun blasting its burning might, and I was perspiring from my head, down. I looked at the crowd of people coming out of the church. It added up to the heat. I busied myself watching the beautiful faces of some women that passed me by. There was one. She was about my age, judging from her body structure. Our eyes crossed but she quickly turned away. My eyes followed her until she disappeared. In my mind, I was comparing her with Mira. Mira is still prettier. Then I caught sight of her again. She was looking at me, but she was with an older man and he pulled her away and she was gone. Then, I thought, her beauty is different but she’s pretty too, like Mira.
Then I saw a familiar face. She was alone, walking away from view, away from the crowd of people outside the church. I followed her without hesitation. She crossed the street from the church. She hasn’t changed, not a single trace of jewelry wrapped around her. The clothes she wore were not even new to my sight. They way she walked that seemed always in a hurry was still the same as before. I crossed the street following her trail. I had to keep a longer distance away from her so she wouldn’t see me. One moment she blended into the busy street, among the multitude of people walking, or behind the jeepneys crossing the intersecting streets. But I was keeping a close watch on her and again I would find her reappearing into view. Then she crossed another street, turned left from a corner into a street where there are more houses and less people. Still I followed her.
Finally she halted and stood in front of a gate of one of the houses. The street was much like the one where I live, except that the houses that lined up were a mixture of old and new ones. I could not see the house in front of her because we were on the same side of the street and I was about five or six houses away from her. I crossed the street to a sari-sari store, bought a stick of cigarette from the money Boyet handed me the night before. My second for the day. I pretended I was a bystander. The whole time, I watched her until she disappeared behind the rusty gate. I stayed there for a while until I was done with my smoking.
I was without a thought of anything. Everything came at an impulse that I have not the slightest idea where my feet had led me. I was not even worried that Aling Taleng must have been looking for me then. I had not a single thought of what I was doing, where I had been and where I was at that moment. My mind was solely focused on following her, yet I have not even given her so much of a thought. I just wanted to follow her and that was the only thing I know I was doing.
I never intended to stay. I only thought of walking by, just to see the house, but when I reached the spot, my feet can no longer afford to take another step. I wanted to see some more. I stood on the side of the street, next to the rusty gate. I looked at the entire stretch of the house, a concrete bungalow, not like those Spanish type houses. It’s not an old house, but not a new one either. The interiors of the house can be seen from outside, at least those near the open windows. Hiding behind a huge post, I took a closer look at what was inside it. They were having lunch, she and the man. There were only two of them I saw from where I was.
Then, I thought, I saw enough. I walked away not minding the beads of sweat rolling down my face. I walked away searching for a clear direction. It happened all the time. I often find myself lost in small places. I walked the way going home. Zaragoza is a small place to walk through in poor spirit.
I dropped by Aling Taleng’s house. I know I owe her some explanations. And I did. I heard no blaming and no rebuking words from her, but she said more than enough, for me to leave their doorstep feeling miserable about my sense of being.
As I was coming through the gate, I saw Tony Boy, still reading on the steps. He asked me where I had been. I walked past him without a word of response. He followed me going inside the house. Julian was there with his guitar, Albert closely watching him play. They both looked surprised when they saw me.
"Where have you been? Aling Taleng came by, asking about you. She said you left her." Julian asked, worrying.
"We thought maybe you were not able to stand going to church with her that’s why you left her. I knew you’d find your way home. I was not a bit worried." Albert said, laughing.
They laughed. Tony Boy behind me laughed, except Julian. He managed a smile, still curious about what happened. I smiled, though inside me I wanted to leave again. When Julian saw me smiling, he looked relieved.
I was tired. I wanted to be alone, by myself. I want to send them all away, out of my sight, if only I could, but I couldn’t. I didn’t want them to suspect there was something else I did other than running away from the lady. That could probably be an immediate explanation Albert and Tony Boy could think about what had happened. I just let them be. Tony Boy went back out with his book and the two went on, teaching each other every song they know. I laid myself on the long chair and forced myself to sleep. My mind was too weary to be thinking of something more.
But it was a quick recession from the world. Even a cat would find it hard to get a nap when the air around it is filled with music that begins and ends halfway, only to begin all over again. Since the time I rested on the long chair, I had been serenaded by the same tune that the guitar played over and over again. Even music hardly finds justice. I do not know if it was the guitar that should be taking the blame or the two heads drooling over it that couldn’t make up their minds. I got up and watched them play. They had gone mad over the guitar I could tell. They were like vultures feasting over dead meat. I attempted to break in but to no avail.
"What’s wrong with Tony Boy? He’s been reading that book the whole day."
No reply. They were too busy looking for the right tune, heads almost knocking over the guitar, eyes almost popping on the strings, as if the tune they were looking for was hidden somewhere behind it. I thought, maybe they were expecting to hear a rumbling sound from the strings. Futile attempt.
I left them and headed out wondering if Tony Boy was still alive. I thought, the book must have swallowed him by then. I found him, having a hard time reaching to scratch his back. I took the lower step, next to where he was seated. I sat slouching, my feet stretched on to the cemented walk. He was still busy reciting the words on the book, giving it a scornful look. He was never more serious and looking like a fool at the same time. I stuck my face close to him, my head covering the book.
"Stop it, Leon! Can’t you see I’m reading?" He exclaimed, pushing away my head.
"The book has got no pictures. It’s boring."
"I don’t care. I’m reading it. Stop fooling around with me."
I snatched the book away from him, but he grabbed it back. He was beginning to act irritated. He forcefully pushed me on the chest.
"What is your problem, Leon?"
I do not know. I do not know what was inside me. I had no idea what it was that got into my system, or if there was any. I was feeling restless. It was as if there was something that I wanted to do, but I had no idea what it was. It was as if there was something that I wanted to say but could not find the words. Whatever the problem was, I do not know.
"Nothing."
"Then stop bothering me."
"Why don’t you just read it at home some other time?"
"I don’t have all the time."
"What’s with that book? I never thought you were so interested in books."
"I am not."
"I mean, reading."
"Neither."
"Then why re you giving that book so much of your time?"
He looked at me. He was silent. Then he turned away and thought for a moment. All of a sudden, as if some stroke of cold wind swept his mind away, he closed the book placed it on his side and started imagining things. He bit his lower lip, thrusting it out as if he was with a proud thought of something.
"Boyet allowed me to borrow this book."
"I know. He told me. You borrowed it from him?"
"No. I was just looking at it on the side, then he told me I could borrow it."
"Did he ask you to read it?"
"No."
"Then you don’t have to read it."
His face brightened up. A look that I have never seen in his face before. He was staring straight in front of him, but he was not looking. Something occurred to him, I could tell, something I do not know. I thought, maybe it was something from the book. I never said anything amusing, but he looked very amused. I have never seen him wearing a face so relaxed, filled with so much comfort. There was always a hint of disoriented emptiness mounted in an angle, but this one’s different. It was not even a dreamy face. It was beaming with content. It was peaceful, and it was killing me. He took the book from beside him and watched it as he carefully tucked it under his arm.
"I wonder how it is like to be at the university, Leon?"
"’Sus! Nangarap ka na naman! You’re dreaming again! You haven’t even reached high school."
He laughed, quite unlikely for a reaction. It was the least of all that I expected he would do. I thought, I sounded more like taunting him, but he did not seem to mind it at all. I was taken aback. Then he sighed, and again held the book under his arm, as if trying to check if it was still there. He adjusted it as if he was clipping something breathing, and he had to saw to it that he was not tucking it too tight to kill it, or too loose to let it fall. Then he turned to me and smiled.
"I’m going home."
"No, it’s yet too early. Stay a while. You read that book, I won’t bother you."
Quickly I got up and headed back in. The rest of the afternoon I did nothing but sit by the window, waiting for daylight to fade, watch the passing people on the street, watching them come and go, count the number of strangers buying at the sari-sari store and the slowly growing number of children playing under the afternoon sun, while listening to the sound of the wailing guitar.
I wondered if they could ever get enough from torturing the instrument. It’s hard when you know a lot. You played certain music and before you can finish it, something comes up in your head and start with it before you could even get through with the other. When they get all mixed up, you pick the wrong string, goes out of tune, and start all over again. You will never get a single song done. That was what Julian and Albert was going through. They guitar would scream, if only it could.
I remembered her. But I soon forgot about the thought, as quickly as it entered my mind. I do not know why. Perhaps, because I have already seen how comfortable her life had become, living in a concrete house with food to eat and someone looking after her. Perhaps because she’s become a stranger to me.
The sun had started falling when Boyet arrived. He waved a hand at me, coming through the leaning gate when he saw me sitting by the window. I heard Tony Boy calling him from the steps, and he came in hopping. He was smiling at his direction, revealing all his teeth. I did not know that he went out. I thought, maybe Mira was not in her room either. I turned to Julian and told him that Boyet had arrived. He handed the guitar over to Albert and got up. He reached the window and stuck his head out of the frame, looking from the gate, all the way in. then he headed for the doorway. I waited for the door to open before he could reach the handle, but it did not. Julian opened the door and in came Boyet. They chatted for a while by the doorway. They seemed to have something very important in their conversation because they both look very serious and they’re almost whispering that I could not hear what they were talking about. They then headed straight to the stairs and hurried inside Boyet’s room. I turned to Albert, whose eyes, looking puzzled, seek through me.
"When will you ever get enough of that? It’s almost getting dark."
"Why don’t you come home with me? Stay there for the night."
I thought for a while. I looked to the direction of Boyet’s room. He waited for an answer but I could not make up my mind.
"Lolo’s been looking for you." He added.
"What did he say?"
"Let’s go, Leon. I should be cooking for the old man by now, it’s getting late."
He laid the guitar on the table, got up and headed his way out. I followed him.
When I got out of the doorway, he was already running towards the gate. Tony Boy walked behind him, holding the book under one arm. I followed Tony Boy, catching up with Albert. We hurried out into the street.
We were walking fast on our way. No one spoke a single word. Tony Boy was enjoying his own pace. I was catching up with Albert. When we reached Tony Boy’s place we just gave him a tap on the shoulder and separated from him on the way. I watched him as he walked farther into their house. He never turned back. He went straight inside their house. The last thing I heard was the sound of the sewing machine from their window, but I have not seen his mother from the view. I turned and ran towards Albert who has then increased his distance from me.
When we arrived at the house, Albert asked me to stay outside for a while. I don’t know why. I asked him but he did not say anything. He was rushing in. The kariton was there, tied by a chain in one of the big posts that supported the house. Theirs was a single storey house that stood on four large posts, giving it an elevation so that you can see everything below the house all the way to the backyard. There was nothing below the house than piles of lumber that had all been covered with dust and dirt. They have a small porch connected in front of the house, and there’s nothing more to it than Lolo Ishmael’s age-old rocking chair and a small table beside it for playing chess. They have a smaller front lawn than ours. There was a giant mango tree that stood in the middle, giving a whole day shade on the lawn that there was no more grass growing in it. The lawn was always damp, even with the bright sun shining over the tree. The thick leaves and branches of the tree extend over the roof of the house so that when mango season comes, we would climb up the roof for an easy pick.
I headed for the kariton, holding on to the handle and rocked it gently the chains clanked. I inspected everything about it including the thinning tires. It was still well in place. Just in time, when Albert came calling from the porch, the wooden gate squeaked open, and in came the old man. I approached him, reached for his hand unto my forehead. Albert came down and did the same. The old man looked at me as if I was a familiar stranger he must have met somewhere in his lifetime. Albert was quick to recognize this.
"’Lo, si Leon po yan. That’s Leon. You’ve wanted to see him, right? Now here he is."
"Oh, yes, yes, Leon. Come, come get inside."
I smiled at him and gave him a salute. When he saw this, he straightened himself from his slouching posture, eyes smiled, lips pressed against each other, his head nodding, and gave me a quick snappy salute, with trembling hands. He was looking at me like I was one of his fellow veterans who fought against the Japs in World War II. He then held on, squeezing my shoulder as he led me into the house. Albert went ahead of us, headed straight to the kitchen. He had to cook for supper. It was almost dark and he was running late for his obligations. Some days he would cook for breakfast that could last till supper, but never on Sundays.
The old man led me to the living room. It was furnished with a soft sofa set, and though the springs beneath the cushions had long caved in, it was unlike the hard wooden chairs in our living room. There was a round center table with a pot of plastic flowers placed on top of the mat at the center, unlike our bare center table that had by then, accommodated a flock of burnt-scented cigarette remains in an ashtray.
Our house was bigger, but theirs was packed with all the necessary furniture and even the needed appliances. There was a huge television set with a wooden cabinet that can be locked close when not in use. It was long locked, even before Albert was born. Albert said the antenna was struck by lightning that damaged the picture tube. It was a Black and White Zenith, placed between the two doors leading from the living room to the two bedrooms of the house. Above it was a gallery of frames with pictures, some living, and some dead. There was a picture of Albert when he was a young boy, of him and his mother, holding him in her arms when he was a baby. There’s a black and white picture of his Lolo in uniform, and a whole body picture of his father, also in uniform. His father was an officer of the Constabulary, but was killed in action in one of the encounters with the rebels up north when Albert was two.
His mother was petitioned by her brother to work in the United States of America and have not gone home since he was eight. Albert said she had no plans of coming back. She and his uncle had been persuading them to follow, but the old man would not entertain the idea of leaving his beloved country, the land he fought for with blood and hunger to be free. The land he went to battle for. There was no way to convince him. He has decided to devote his entire lifetime to service for his motherland. That explained his regular trips to police stations, and to any armed forces headquarters, including the barracks, lobbying for attention, that he may still feel his worth and his country’s need for his service. There’s not a single man in uniform within the small city of Zaragoza who do not know a particular Col. Ishmael Aguas, retired.
Albert on the other hand shared the same no interest in it all. They had been bribing him with imported chocolates and Toblerones, and sending him pictures of them, standing before a white mass of three layered, rounded, funny-looking dummy in the field of ice, with his mother and her brother with his wife and children, all wearing happy faces. Albert saw something else from the pictures. He noticed how they were all wrapped in thick clothes and heavy sweaters, and figured for himself how cold it must be to be in America. He pitied them more than he pitied himself. He pitied the poor iceman in the pictures whose nose and eyes and lips have shrunk. He pitied the sun that shone so bright, yet too weak to warm them up. He pitied his little cousins in America whom he thought, could never run naked in the rain. He pitied everyone but himself.
The old man settled in his most comfortable spot on the sofa. He rested his head on the cushion and I did the same. My eyes pulled me to the kitchen, my eyeballs moved, from him on my side, to Albert at the kitchen. I watched them both
Albert was busy with his cooking. He opened the old Frigidaire and searched through the contents. There was nothing much in the refrigerator but cold water in different bottle shapes and sizes, some vegetables on the bin and fish on the freezer. The old man would not eat any meat, except fish. His dentures could not stand a bite of hard meat. Albert took out something wrapped in plastic, and on his way, he checked the fire on the stove for the rice he was cooking. Their stove was like that of ours, Theirs was older, but since the time my mother left, it was never more untidy and there was no more telling the difference from theirs. He then unhooked a chopping board that hanged among the ladles on the wall next to the sink. The faucet was the only thing that constantly made a sound with its continuous dripping. The rubber casting on the valve has worn out that even if you close it, you can only stop the flowing but can never avoid the dripping. And the more you listen to the drops ticking on the sink, the louder the pounding sound you hear.
I turned to Lolo. He was not moving, not even winking his eyes. It remained squinting. He was staring at the ceiling, I thought he was watching the lizards. He did not mind me at all, I though he must have forgotten that I was on his side.
It had been a while since I last saw him. I could see some changes in him. The old man was deteriorating. He has lost some weight and the skin in his face has become soggier, revealing the lines of his years. The lines spoke of the complexities of the ages, forming the furrows of all the battlefields of his earlier years. But he never lost the slick becoming of his bearing. His pomaded white hairs had mastered its position, tamed by the seasons, falling into place like rays of golden sunshine resenting the dusk. His long-sleeved clothes hide the then bulking flesh of the braving mountains on his arms that once was refuge to the many casualties of the killing fields, now crumbling with dignity.
His upper garment, it was always tucked in his neatly ironed dark trousers, free of scratch, not a trace of unwanted folds, reflecting the hard-earned discipline of experience. The strong legs that rested inside it had never grown weak. The strong pair of running machine that toppled the might of the iron wheels, that ran the million-mile stretch, crossing the crater of erupting volcanoes that once became of the land. A pair of shoes now covered the hardened feet to maintain the warmth of the heels that was born to walk on flaming earth.
He’s done with his running, and the cold pavements that equally burned bellow our feet, to him, have become the cobbled streets that brought no amount of harm. He has gone past wandering, and the streets opened wide with every step he took, leading the way.
I got up slowly. I haven’t noticed how, but the old man had fallen to sleep. I was careful not to shake the sofa, or I would wake him up. He hadn’t gotten over his delirium with the war. If I frightened him, he would think that I was an enemy and would easily shot me right on target if he had his long barrel with him. The old man had a shotgun hidden under his bed. He showed it to me once. I was no more surprised to see him easily getting a nap. It happened in the past. Once when we were playing chess, and one night when he asked me to read aloud the newspaper for him. Sometimes I thought, maybe I was a lousy reader. This time though, he passed out rather quickly, too early as the twilight had just set in.
I tiptoed to the kitchen. The rice had just started to boil, and the lid of the pot danced with the steam coming out, softly whistling. Albert had prepared the ingredients for the stew. He had sliced a medium-sized milkfish into three. He heated another pot of water for it. I told him about Lolo Ishmael and how he has fallen asleep on the sofa. He looked over to the old man and told me not to mind him so much. He said the old man had been getting a lot of sleeps lately, waking up early in the morning and going to bed early at night, sometimes forgetting his super. Sometimes the police would drop him off, giving him a ride home from the police station when it would already be too late to be walking on the streets. He said they told him, his old man’s getting grumpy and peevish, at times arrogant. I told him, I was wondering how they were able to find time accommodating him id he’s become a cross to them. He said, because they find him amusing, funny and forgetful. I told him I agree. He said the old man is crazy.
At the dinner table, the old man told us the story of the fish. During the war, they experienced scarcity of food. The women would bury a lot of fish in a box full of salt to preserve it for longer days. It was the only food they fed their mouths with, and they would be satisfied with it, as though no matter how salty it tasted, it was the only good tasting over everything that they found edible. It was not anymore interesting to hear it coming from him. We must have heard of the same story for probably over a hundred times already, and we paid more attention to our grumbling stomach than to his story. Albert would not bother making any further comments. Whatever he said would come as a complain to the old man. But I couldn’t help but deliver my own piece, like I always do just to show him my unsolicited interest. I was half joking.
"At least now, Lolo, you get to catch the fish swimming in the stew."
I never intended to annoy him, but it seemed to have appeared that way. He quickly bursts out, irritated.
"You have no idea what you are talking about, young man! When I was your age, during the war, we would feast over a small piece of salted fish…"
"I told you." Albert, drawing close to me, whispered. As if he had already warned me about what was going to happen if I could not keep my mouth shut. He hurried his food and got up, leaving me with the old man.
Lolo Ishmael went on with his sermon, my second for the day. The first one I slept through in the church and did not sank into me, but this one was running over me. I should have shut my mouth and concentrated on my meal. I told him I was sorry, that I was only joking, but he would not stop.
During the war... He would always begin by saying, ‘during the war,’ or, ‘when I was your age.’ Sometimes I wondered if he was ever worried about us, living in the dark shadows of our time. It would seem to me, that for him, all the bad things that could happen to anyone have been done in the past, in his time.
Albert was clearing the table when, suddenly we heard a series of gunshots. The old man interrupted himself, got up and hurried out. He was finally done with me. I vacated the dinner table immediately. I could have been stuck had it not for the interruption. Somehow, I felt relaxed to see him rattle. The old man was more interested with what was going on outside. He always behaved like he was being held responsible in handling situations like this one, like someone in control. The sound came so near, like it just came from outside, and we would hear the flying bullets escaping the guns.
Albert tried to stop him, but there was no way of stopping the aging warrior. We were almost crawling on the floor for cover as we followed him up to the porch. It was already dark, and we witnessed how the lights on the houses in the neighborhood went out like dominoes falling from no particular point. Albert went on calling for Lolo to get inside the house, but he wouldn’t listen. The old man braved his way through the gate. There were two metro police that I saw running on the fronting street with their guns aimed in front of them, ready to fire again.
"What is going on out there?" He asked, shouting at the two men in uniform.
The two men looked at each other, as if they were more scared for the old man. He went out and stood outside the gate, both hands on his hips, never afraid. They were quick to recognize him.
"You better get inside, sir! They’re firing back! Baka matamaan po kayo ng ligaw na bala! You might get caught by stray bullets!" One of them shouted back in reply.
They were running farther for an attack. The other man was shooting in the dark. We could see the sparks of firing bullets coming out of the gun. Albert kept calling on to him to get inside the house. When the two men disappeared in view, the old man shook down his head in dismay and walked back in.
Albert was raging with anger. I have never seen him so mad at the old man ever before. He scolded Lolo for what he did, but he would not listen to him. It was like, they have exchanged places, the young angry with the old. The old went straight to his room without a word and locked himself inside.
Albert spoke nothing when we did the dishes. He was still beaming with anger. We were halfway through the plates when the exchange of fire stopped. A patrolling vehicle rolled by with shrieking sirens. After the wash, we secured the doors and the windows, turned off the lights and proceed immediately to the other room.
There was a wick in Albert’s room. He used a wick since the time the florescent light in his room was busted. The walls are bare, except for a guitar that hanged at the back of the door, and a framed picture of his parents during their wedding day in one of the walls. There were two windows overlooking the backyard, and two windows overlooking the neighbor’s house on the side. Next to the two windows on the side is a table with a drawer, and a chair. On top of the small table was the wick that illuminated the corner. Beside the table, on the corner was the closet for his clothes. Some of Albert’s clothes were imported. They were sent by his mother, along with some money. Some of these are shirts that are oversized, with sleeves hanging loose, covering the elbows. He had to cut the sleeves to make good use of it.
His bed is a double-decker. His Lolo used to occupy the lower part when his parents were still with them. He used to occupy the upper deck. When his father died, and his mother went to America, Lolo Ishmael occupied their room, and Albert transferred to the lower deck.
When we entered his room, he asked me to put off the wick on the table. He went straight to his bed. I climbed up the upper deck, groping. Albert never closed the windows of the room, to allow some air inside, even if it invited a lot of mosquitoes inside the room. He has learned to live with it, and so have I.
Not long after I lay down, I heard Lolo, talking in his sleep on the other side of the wall, in his room. I asked Albert if the old man was talking in his sleep because I never recalled him doing it before, everytime I stayed there for the night. He said the old man was not sleeping yet, that he was talking to his wife in hell, asking her to get him and scare him to his death. He told me not to mind him, and that I should better go to sleep.
Albert has never seen his grandmother. She died before he was born, before his uncle left for America, and even before his mother met his father. That was why it was so easy for him to speak of her like she was doomed to hell. I do not know if what he said about Lolo was true, but the way he sounded, he was still upset with the old man. I thought about it till I fell asleep.
The morning came like any ordinary day. I woke up to the chirping sound of a small bird prancing on one of the windows. The thought of it made me realize how stagnated the room was, for a bird to rest on its window. I thought if I was meant to wake up and live through the day, I have already found the reason.
If there were places that, though as gloomy, are as still as a graveyard, a place where one cannot see daylight, but the sun coming through the windows, then it would include Albert’s room. I stayed on the bed for a while and watched the small bird dancing, at one point, spreading down its wings, and singing with a voice louder than its size could contain. When I finally raised my head, the bird flew off. I looked to check Albert below me, but was no longer in his bed. I got up, climbed down and went out of the room. I was not anymore surprised to see the empty bed of the early riser.
When I got out, nobody was there. I have not seen the old man. I went to the kitchen and Albert wasn’t there. I proceeded to wash my face. From where I stood, after washing my face, I saw nobody from wall to wall, from the front door to the back door in the kitchen. A typical house in the place had no clear division of the living room, the dining area, and the kitchen. It extends all the way in one direction.
I went out to the porch. Still there was nobody there. I rested for a while, leaned against the baluster. After a while, I saw Albert coming from the street outside. There was a newspaper tucked under one arm, and a bulking paper bag he held on one hand, coming inside the gate. I figured he went out to buy the newspaper for Lolo and a bag of pan de Sal for breakfast.
Just in time when I went inside the house, the old man came out of his room, limping, like his balls were too heavy, or he had just been castrated. He was no gladder to see the newspaper, and Albert handed it to him. I smiled at him and greeted him good morning.
"It’s Monday, ‘Lo." Said Albert to the old man.
"I know. I know." He grunted like he was irked that he was being reminded of the day.
"What’s with Monday?"
"He will be going to the plaza to meet his fellow grumpy old veterans. He goes there to meet them every Monday."
"What do they do there?"
"I don’t know. Ask him."
I was contemplating on what pleasing way to ask the old man when, he asked Albert to make us coffee. He then handed me the newspaper and positioned himself on his favorite spot on the sofa. He sat down, crossed his legs, like a general waiting to be served by his subordinates. Albert left me standing before him. There was no more telling me what I need to do. I scanned through the pages of the paper and asked him what story he wanted me to read for him. He told me to start with the front page.
The headlines printed in big bold letters said of something called, ‘Snap Elections.’ I do not know what a snap elections was, but I disregard my ignorance and read to him the story. He himself was surprised to hear me when I said, snap elections. I halted in curiosity, looked at him, but he demanded of me to read on, so I did. I did not understand all the English words that I was reading. I know there was a lot that I mispronounced but he did not bother teaching me the right way of saying it. My English is poor, unlike him who was already talking straight with the language with the American Joes when he was about my age, or Tony Boy who performed well when he was still in school.
I was shuffling through the papers for the continuation of the story when Albert came with a cup of coffee for the old man, and a saucer containing five pieces of pan de Sal. The old man complained about the pan de Sal getting smaller each day, but Albert did not react to this. On the dinner table were two glasses of black coffee, no milk, each with a spoon dipped on it. The rest of the pan de Sal he bought he placed on a plate. The old man asked for the newspaper, so I handed it to him. Then we left him at the sofa for our own fill of coffee and pan de Sal.
At the table, I asked Albert what a snap election is. He does not know anything about it either, so I decided not to give it so much of a thought.
I was still going through my second sip of the coffee, and Albert, with his first bite of the pan de Sal when the old man stood on his feet and left. He departed without a sound, no goodbye, nothing whatsoever. It was as if we were never there. He did not finish his coffee and had only consumed tow pieces of pan de Sal. Albert went to collect his leftover. He added the remaining three on our plate. We finished everything. We had four a piece. We finished our coffee.
We were out in the street, pushing the kariton on the way to Tony Boy’s for yet another day of scrap collection. It had been almost a week since I last joined them. Albert started calling for bote-diaryo at the top of his voice. It was his job to do the yelling out because his voice was bigger. At times I would help with the shouting, but my voice was rather low, and sometimes it squeaked so it was him and Tony Boy who did all the shouting. Tony Boy’s job was mostly the collecting. Sometimes I would help when there’s a lot that a house would yield, but my main job was watching over the kariton and the piling. I was good with putting everything in place. Albert holds the money because he was the oldest. We would start the morning with twenty pesos as starting capital for buying scraps. In some houses, people were kind enough to let us have all their waste without having to pay for it. But in some, we had to buy it. It was plain to see how others treated us like we were doing them a favor o collecting their garbage, clearing up their dirt, while others found it an opportunity for a trade to make money from all their wastes. Sometimes I would think that I live in a city where the manufacture of garbage is the only business that keeps us going.
We came upon one of the houses along the road. A lady called on us to collect a pile of newspaper. They lady was kind enough to let us go without asking any payment of the newspapers. We thought it was a good way to start the day. Pa-bueanas.
As we rolled along, Albert asked, wondering how Victor was doing with his new job. O remembered, I have not told them about our encounter during the previous day. So I told him about it.
"I dropped by their house the other night."
"You did?"
"I met him on the way late in the afternoon the day before. He was on his way home from work."
"Why didn’t you tell me?"
"I forgot."
"How is he?"
"Good. Same old hardworking Vic."
"Good for him."
"He told me he received his first salary that day."
He was silent. I thought, maybe something got into him when I told him about Victor receiving his first salary. Sometimes I know exactly what runs in his mind. He went into a deep thought. His grip on the handle of the kariton went even harder. I could feel him pushing the kariton on the bumpy sideways of the asphalt street with much force. I noticed the increasing pace of the trot. He shouted for bote-diaryo with an even louder voice. I looked at him and saw in his low eyes, sparks of envy and frustration. Then his face squinted as he took a deep breath, like there was so much discomfort that swathed him.
"What do you think, Leon?"
"What?"
"I think it’s about time we stop doing this, and start looking for a real job."
"I don’t know."
"We can’t stay like this forever."
"Where are we going to find work?"
"Anywhere. There are factories around where we can apply."
"I think we’re too young. They won’t hire us."
"Vic is younger, but look at him. Besides, I’ve seen a lot of young factory workers, about our age."
"I don’t know still. Some factories have closed. Job is hard."
"Maybe we could get some help."
"But what are we going to tell Tony Boy? You know he doesn’t want to be separated."
"We’re still the Bakal Boys. It’s just that we have to move on. I’m thinking, it’s high time we should each be getting a backbone of our own."
"Why don’t you just go back to school first, ‘Bert. Your mother is sending you money. Lolo is receiving his monthly war pension. You can afford it, ‘Bert."
He did not comment any further. He opted to change the topic. He asked me about Victor and how I got to their house. I know at the back of his mind he was up to something, about a plan.
I on the other hand, was thinking about Tony Boy. He has long been on his own, even with both parents around. His father doesn’t care much about him. His mother remained as tacit as the piece of cloth that would not scream even if a scissors would rip it into pieces.
I admired him about his dreams, though I wondered what would become of him. His interests are far beyond everything practical. His dreams are surreal. But then I thought that was dreaming is all about. I remembered the day before when he showed me the book that Boyet was kind enough to allow him to borrow. I thought if he were in Albert’s place, he would be surely to drop everything just to be able to finish school. I figured why he was so proud, carrying that book. I figured why, all of a sudden, he became so interested about reading that book. I thought, maybe he has found his worth with the way Boyet, a university student, entrusted him that book. Someone so highly educated as the college student that Boyet was, had bestowed dignity and respect to the person that he is. But then again, I thought, maybe there are some other reasons.
We parked the kariton beside the bushy plants that lined surrounding the house when we reached Tony Boy’s. Their house does not have any solid structure for a fence that could secure the whole place, but are lined with those tall, leafy plants that reached chest high, planted closely beside every stem to separate their front yard from the street. Their house was like that of Albert’s, except for the front porch. Theirs had a small veranda on the right side of the house, about the length of the steps that was enough to give shade to the side entrance of the house.
His father was at the veranda, reading newspaper. He looked dignified and as respectable as he always was in the morning. Only in the morning, because the dark half of his shows up in the afternoon. Their front window was as large as that of Aling Taleng’s. From there I could see his mother with her sewing machine. I was looking at her through the window and listened to the sound of the sewing machine when Albert called, looking at the same direction.
"Let’s go!"
I know he was referring to Tony Boy, but I did not saw him, so I turned to him, who was then waving his arm.
"Where is he?"
"Didn’t you see him? He was sitting by the window when we arrived."
"I didn’t see him. I was looking through the window the whole time."
"Are you blind, Leon? He just left the window when I called him. He was there, in black!"
