MAGNIFICENCE (Estrella D. Alfon) There was nothing to fear, for the man was always so gentle, so kind.

At night when the little girl and her brother were bathed in the light of the big shaded bulb that hung over the big study table in the downstairs hall, the man would knock gently on the door, and come in. he would stand for a while just beyond the pool of light, his feet in the circle of illumination, the rest of him in shadow. The little girl and her brother would look up at him where they sat at the big table, their eyes bright in the bright light, and watch him come fully into the light, but his voice soft, his manner slow. He would smell very faintly of sweat and pomade, but the children didnt mind although they did notice, for they waited for him every evening as they sat at their lessons like this. Hed throw his visored cap on the table, and it would fall down with a soft plop, then hed nod his head to say one was right, or shake it to say one was wrong. It was not always that he came. They could remember perhaps two weeks when he remarked to their mother that he had never seen two children looking so smart. The praise had made their mother look over them as they stood around listening to the goings-on at the meeting of the neighborhood association, of which their mother was president. Two children, one a girl of seven, and a boy of eight. They were both very tall for their age, and their legs were the long gangly legs of fine spirited colts. Their mother saw them with eyes that held pride, and then to partly gloss over the maternal gloating she exhibited, she said to the man, in answer to his praise, But their homework. Theyre so lazy with them. And the man said, I have nothing to do in the evenings, let me help them. Mother nodded her head and said, if you want to bother yourself. And the thing rested there, and the man came in the evenings therefore, and he helped solve fractions for the boy, and write correct phrases in language for the little girl. In those days, the rage was for pencils. School children always have rages going at one time or another. Sometimes for paper butterflies that are held on sticks, and whirr in the wind. The Japanese bazaars promoted a rage for those. Sometimes it is for little lead toys found in the folded waffles that Japanese confection-makers had such light hands with. At this particular time, it was for pencils. Pencils big but light in circumference not smaller than a mans thumb. They were unwieldy in a childs hands, but in all schools then, where Japanese bazaars clustered there were all colors of these pencils selling for very low, but unattainable to a child budgeted at a baon of a centavo a day. They were all of five centavos each, and one pencil was not at all what one had ambitions for. In rages, one kept a collection. Four or five pencils, of different colors, to tie with strings near the eraser end, to dangle from ones book-basket, to arouse the envy of the other children who probably possessed less.

Add to the mans gentleness and his kindness in knowing a childs desires, his promise that he would give each of them not one pencil but two. And for the little girl who he said was very bright and deserved more, ho would get the biggest pencil he could find. One evening he did bring them. The evenings of waiting had made them look forward to this final giving, and when they got the pencils they whooped with joy. The little boy had tow pencils, one green, one blue. And the little girl had three pencils, two of the same circumference as the little boys but colored red and yellow. And the third pencil, a jumbo size pencil really, was white, and had been sharpened, and the little girl jumped up and down, and shouted with glee. Until their mother called from down the stairs. What are you shouting about? And they told her, shouting gladly, Vicente, for that was his name. Vicente had brought the pencils he had promised them. Thank him, their mother called. The little boy smiled and said, Thank you. And the little girl smiled, and said, Thank you, too. But the man said, Are you not going to kiss me for those pencils? They both came forward, the little girl and the little boy, and they both made to kiss him but Vicente slapped the boy smartly on his lean hips, and said, Boys do not kiss boys. And the little boy laughed and scampered away, and then ran back and kissed him anyway. The little girl went up to the man shyly, put her arms about his neck as he crouched to receive her embrace, and kissed him on the cheeks. The mans arms tightened suddenly about the little girl until the little girl squirmed out of his arms, and laughed a little breathlessly, disturbed but innocent, looking at the man with a smiling little question of puzzlement. The next evening, he came around again. All through that day, they had been very proud in school showing off their brand new pencils. All the little girls and boys had been envying them. And their mother had finally to tell them to stop talking about the pencils, pencils, for now that they had, the boy two, and the girl three, they were asking their mother to buy more, so they could each have five, and three at least in the jumbo size that the little girls third pencil was. Their mother said, Oh stop it, what will you do with so many pencils, you can only write with one at a time. And the little girl muttered under her breath, Ill ask Vicente for some more. Their mother replied, Hes only a bus conductor, dont ask him for too many things. Its a pity. And this observation their mother said to their father, who was eating his evening meal between paragraphs of the book on masonry rites that he was

reading. It is a pity, said their mother, People like those, they make friends with people like us, and they feel it is nice to give us gifts, or the children toys and things. Youd think they wouldnt be able to afford it. The father grunted, and said, the man probably needed a new job, and was softening his way through to him by going at the children like that. And the mother said, No, I dont think so, hes a rather queer young man, I think he doesnt have many friends, but I have watched him with the children, and he seems to dote on them. The father grunted again, and did not pay any further attention. Vicente was earlier than usual that evening. The children immediately put their lessons down, telling him of the envy of their schoolmates, and would he buy them more please? Vicente said to the little boy, Go and ask if you can let me have a glass of water. And the little boy ran away to comply, saying behind him, But buy us some more pencils, huh, buy us more pencils, and then went up to stairs to their mother. Vicente held the little girl by the arm, and said gently, Of course I will buy you more pencils, as many as you want And the little girl giggled and said, Oh, then I will tell my friends, and they will envy me, for they dont have as many or as pretty. Vicente took the girl up lightly in his arms, holding her under the armpits, and held her to sit down on his lap and he said, still gently, What are your lessons for tomorrow? And the little girl turned to the paper on the table where she had been writing with the jumbo pencil, and she told him that that was her lesson but it was easy. Then go ahead and write, and I will watch you. Dont hold me on your lap, said the little girl, I am very heavy, you will get very tired. The man shook his head, and said nothing, but held her on his lap just the same. The little girl kept squirming, for somehow she felt uncomfortable to be held thus, her mother and father always treated her like a big girl, she was always told never to act like a baby. She looked around at Vicente, interrupting her careful writing to twist around.

His face was all in sweat, and his eyes looked very strange, and he indicated to her that she must turn around, attend to the homework she was writing. But the little girl felt very queer, she didnt know why, all of a sudden she was immensely frightened, and she jumped up away from Vicentes lap. She stood looking at him, feeling that queer frightened feeling, not knowing what to do. By and by, in a very short while her mother came down the stairs, holding in her hand a glass of sarsaparilla, Vicente. But Vicente had jumped up too soon as the little girl had jumped from his lap. He snatched at the papers that lay on the table and held them to his stomach, turning away from the mothers coming. The mother looked at him, stopped in her tracks, and advanced into the light. She had been in the shadow. Her voice had been like a bell of safety to the little girl. But now she advanced into glare of the light that held like a tableau the figures of Vicente holding the little girls papers to him, and the little girl looking up at him frightenedly, in her eyes dark pools of wonder and fear and question. The little girl looked at her mother, and saw the beloved face transfigured by some sort of glow. The mother kept coming into the light, and when Vicente made as if to move away into the shadow, she said, very low, but very heavily, Do not move. She put the glass of soft drink down on the table, where in the light one could watch the little bubbles go up and down in the dark liquid. The mother said to the boy, Oscar, finish your lessons. And turning to the little girl, she said, Come here. The little girl went to her, and the mother knelt down, for she was a tall woman and she said, Turn around. Obediently the little girl turned around, and her mother passed her hands over the little girls back. Go upstairs, she said. The mothers voice was of such a heavy quality and of such awful timbre that the girl could only nod her head, and without looking at Vicente again, she raced up the stairs. The mother went to the cowering man, and marched him with a glance out of the circle of light that held the little boy. Once in the shadow, she extended her hand, and without any opposition took away the papers that Vicente was holding to himself. She stood there saying nothing as the man fumbled with his hands and with his fingers, and she waited until he had finished. She was going to open her mouth but she glanced at the boy and closed it, and with a look and an inclination of the head, she bade Vicente go up the stairs.

The man said nothing, for she said nothing either. Up the stairs went the man, and the mother followed behind. When they had reached the upper landing, the woman called down to her son, Son, come up and go to your room. The little boy did as he was told, asking no questions, for indeed he was feeling sleepy already. As soon as the boy was gone, the mother turned on Vicente. There was a pause. Finally, the woman raised her hand and slapped him full hard in the face. Her retreated down one tread of the stairs with the force of the blow, but the mother followed him. With her other hand she slapped him on the other side of the face again. And so down the stairs they went, the man backwards, his face continually open to the force of the womans slapping. Alternately she lifted her right hand and made him retreat before her until they reached the bottom landing. He made no resistance, offered no defense. Before the silence and the grimness of her attack he cowered, retreating, until out of his mouth issued something like a whimper. The mother thus shut his mouth, and with those hard forceful slaps she escorted him right to the other door. As soon as the cool air of the free night touched him, he recovered enough to turn away and run, into the shadows that ate him up. The woman looked after him, and closed the door. She turned off the blazing light over the study table, and went slowly up the stairs and out into the dark night. When her mother reached her, the woman, held her hand out to the child. Always also, with the terrible indelibility that one associated with terror, the girl was to remember the touch of that hand on her shoulder, heavy, kneading at her flesh, the woman herself stricken almost dumb, but her eyes eloquent with that angered fire. She knelt, She felt the little girls dress and took it off with haste that was almost frantic, tearing at the buttons and imparting a terror to the little girl that almost made her sob. Hush, the mother said. Take a bath quickly. Her mother presided over the bath the little girl took, scrubbed her, and soaped her, and then wiped her gently all over and changed her into new clothes that smelt of the clean fresh smell of clothes that had hung in the light of the sun. The clothes that she had taken off the little girl, she bundled into a tight wrenched bunch, which she threw into the kitchen range. Take also the pencils, said the mother to the watching newly bathed, newly changed child. Take them and throw them into the fire. But when the girl turned to

comply, the mother said, No, tomorrow will do. And taking the little girl by the hand, she led her to her little girls bed, made her lie down and tucked the covers gently about her as the girl dropped off into quick slumber.

The God Stealer (Fransico Sionil Jose) They were the best of friends and that was possible because they worked in the same office and both were young and imbued with a freshness in outlook. Sam Christie was twenty eight and his Filipino assistant, Philip Latak, was twenty six and was just as Sam had been at the Agency before he assumed his post intelligent and industrious. That is to be expected, the official whom Sam replaced explained because Philip is Ifugao and you dont know patience until you have seen the rice terraces his ancestors built. You will find, Sam Christie was also told, that the Igorots, like the Ilocanos, no matter how urbanized they already are, entertain a sense of inferiority. Not Philip. He is proud of his being Ifugao. He talks about it the first chance he gets. Now, on this December dawn, Sam Christie was on his way to Ifugao with his native assistant. It was last month in the Philippines and in a matter of days he would return to Boston for that leave which he had not had in years. The bus station was actually a narrow sidestreet which sloped down to a deserted plaza, one of the many in the summer capital. Sam could make out the shapes of the stone buildings huddled, it seemed, in the cold, their narrow windows shuttered and the frames advertising Coca Cola above their doorways indistinct in the dark. Philip Latak seemed listless. They had been in the station for over half an hour and still there was no bus. He zipped his old suede jacket up to his neck. It had been four years that he had lived in Manila and during all these years he had never gone home. Now, the cold of the pine clad mountains seemed to bother him. He turned to Sam and, with a hint of urgency One favour, Sam. Let me take a swig. Sam and Christie said, Sure, you are welcome to it. Just make sure we have some left when we get Ifugao. He stopped, brought out a bottle of White Label one of the four in the bag which also contained bars of candy and cartons of cigarettes and matches for the natives. He removed the tinfoil and handed the bottle to his companion. Phil raised it to his lips and made happy gurgling sounds. Rice wine I hope theres still a jar around when we get to my grandfathers. He couldnt be as seriously sick as my brother wrote. As long as he has wine he will live. Hell, its not as potent as this, but it can knock out a man, too.

Sam Christie kidded his companion about the weather. They had arrived in the summer capital the previous day and the bracing air and the scent of pine had invigorated him. Its like New England in the spring, he said. In winter, when it really gets cold, I can still go around quite naked by your standards. I sent home a clipping this week, something in the Manila papers about it being chilly. And it was only 68! My old man will get a kick out of that. But its really cold! Philip Latak said ruefully. He handed the bottle back to Sam Christie, who took a swig, too. You dont know how good it is to have that along. Do you know how much it costs nowadays? Twenty four bucks. Its cheaper at the commissary, Sam Christie said simply. He threw his chest out, flexed his lean arms and inhaled. He wore a white, dacron shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Im glad you didnt fall for those carvings in Manila, Phil said after a while. A Grecian urn, a Japanese sword, a Siamese mask and now, an Ifugao God. The Siamese mask, Sam spoke in a monotone, it was really a bargain. A student was going to Boston. He needed the dollars, so I told him he could get the money from my father. Forty dollars and the mask was worth more than that. Now, the gray buildings around them emerged from the dark with white, definite shapes. The east was starting to glow and more people had arrived with crates and battered rattan suitcases. In the chill most of them were quiet. A coffee shop opened along the street with a great deal of clatter and in its warm, golden light Sam Christie could see the heavy, peasant faces, their happy anticipation as the steaming cups were pushed before them. The bus finally came and Sam Christie, because he was a foreigner, was given the seat of honour, next to the driver. It was an old bus, with woven rattan seats and side entrances that admitted not only people, but cargo, fowl, and pigs. They did not wait long, for the bats filled up quickly with government clerks going to their posts and hefty Igorots, in their bare feet or with canvas shoes who sat in the rear, talking and smelling of earth and strong tobacco. After the bus had started, for the first time during their stay in Baguio, Sam Christie felt sleepy. He dozed, his head knocking intermittently against the hard edge of his seat and in that limbo between wakefulness and sleep he hurtled briefly to his home in Boston, to that basement study his father had tidied up, in it the mementoes of his years with the Agency. Sam had not actually intended to serve in the Agency, but he had always wanted to travel and, after college, a career with the Agency offered him the best chance of seeing the world.

the rocks shone and over everything the mist, as fine as powder, danced. Soon it was light. The bus hugged the thin line of a road that was carved on the mountainside. Pine trees studded both sides of the road and beyond their green, across the ravines and the gray socks, was shimmery sky and endless ranges also draped with this mist that swirled, pervasive and alive, to their very faces. And Sam Christie, in the midst of all this whiteness and life, was quiet. Someone in the bus recognized Philip and he called out in the native tongue, Ip pig! the name did not jell at once and the man shouted again. Philip turned to the man and acknowledged the greeting and to Sam he explained: Thats my name up here and thats why I was baptized Philip. Sam Christie realized there were many things he did not know about Phil. Tell me more about your grandfather, he said. There isnt much worth knowing about him, Philip said. How old is he? Eighty or more. He must be a character, Sam Christie said. And the village doctor, Philip said. Mumbo jumbo stuff, you know. I was taken ill when I was young something I ate, perhaps. I had to go to the Mission Hospital and that evening he came and right there in the ward he danced to drive away the evil spirit that had gotten hold of me. And the doctor? He was broad minded, Philip said, still laughing. They withstood it, the gongs and stamping. It must be have been quite a night. Hell, I was never so embarrassed in my life, Philip Latak said, shaking his head, Much later, thinking of it, his voice became soft and a smile lingered in his thick lidded eyes, I realized that the old man never did that thing again for anyone, not even when his own son my father lay dying. Now they were in the heart of the highlands. The pine trees were bigger, loftier than those in Baguio, and most were wreathing with hoary moss. Sunflowers burst on the slopes, bright yellow against the grass. The sun rode over the mountains and The first view of the terraces left in Sams mind a kind of stupefaction which, when it had cleared, was replaced by a sense of wastefulness. He mused on whether or not these terraces were necessary, since he knew that beyond these hand carved genealogical monuments were plains that could be had for the asking. And you say that these terraces do not produce enough food for the people? Philip Latak turned quizzically to him. Hell, if I can live here, would I go to Manila? Their destination was no more than a cluster of houses beyond the gleaming tiers. A creek ran through the town, white with froth among the rocks, and across the creek, beyond the town, was a hill, on top of which stood the Mission four red roofed buildings the chapel, the school, the hospital, and residence. Thats where I first learned about Jesus Christ and scotch, Philip Latak said. They marked me for success. Another peal of laughter. The bus shuddered into first gear as it dipped down the gravel road and in a while they were in the town, along its main street lined with wooden frame houses. It conformed with the usual small town arrangement and was properly palisaded with stores, whose fronts were plastered with impieties of soft drink and patent medicine signs. And in the stores were crowds of people, heavy jowled Ifugaos in G string and tattered Western coats that must have reached them in relief packages from the United States. The women wore the native gay blouses and The bus swung around the curves and it paused, twice or thrice to allow them to take coffee. It was past noon when they reached the feral fringes of the Ifugao country. The trip had not been exhausting, for there was much to see. Sam Christie, gazing down at the ravines, at the geometric patterns of the sweet potato patches there and the crystal waters that cascaded down the mountainsides and the streams below, remembered the Alpine roads of Europe and those of his own New England and about these he talked effusively. See how vegetation changes. The people, too. The mountains, Sam Christie said, breed independence. Mountain people are always self reliant. Then, at turn of a hill, they came, without warning upon the water filled rice terraces stretched out in the sun and laid out tier upon shining tier to the very summit of the mountains. And in the face of that achievement, Sam Christie did not speak. After a while he nudged Philip. Yeah, the terraces are colossal. And he wished he had expressed his admiration better, for he had sounded so empty and trite.

skirts. The two travellers got down from the bus and walked to one of the bigger houses, a shapeless wooden building with rusting tin proof and cheap, printed curtains. It was a boarding house and a small curio store was on the ground floor, together with the usual merchandise of country shops: canned sardines and squid, milk, soap, matches, kerosene, a few bolts and twine. The landlady, an acquaintance of Philip Latak, assigned them a bare room, which overlooked the creek and the mountain terraced to the very summit. We could stay in my brothers place, Philip Latak reiterated apologetically as they brought their things up, but there is no plumbing there. Past noon, after a plentiful lunch of fried highland rice and venison, they headed for the footpath that broke from the street and disappeared behind a turn of hillside. The walk to Philip Lataks village itself was not far from the town and wherever they turned the terraces were sheets of mirror that dogged them. The village was no more than ten houses in a valley, which were no different from the other Ifugao homes. They stood on stilts and all their four posts were crowned with circular rat guards. A lone house roofed with tin stood at one end of the village. My brothers, Philip said. Shall I bring the candies out now? Sam asked. He had, at Phils suggestion, brought them along, together with matches and cheap cigarettes, for his private assistance program. Sadek, Philips brother, was home. You have decided to visit us after all he greeted Philip in English and with a tinge of sarcasm. He was older and spoke with authority. I thought the city had won you so completely that you have forgotten this humble place and its humble people. Then, turning to Sam, Sadek said, I must apologize, sir, for my brother, for his bringing you to this poor house. His deed embarrasses us... We work in the same office, Sam said simply, feeling uneasy at hearing the speech. I know, sir, Sadek said. Philip Latak held his brother by the shoulder. You see, Sam, he said, my brother dislikes me. Like my grandfather, he feels that I shouldnt have left this place, that I

should rot here. Hell, everyone knows the terraces are good for the eye, but they cant produce enough for the stomach. Thats not a nice thing to say, Sam said warily, not wanting to be drawn into a family quarrel. But its true, Philip Latak said with a nervous laugh. My brother dislikes me. All of them here dislike me. They think that by living in Manila for a few years I have forgotten what is to be an Ifugao. I cant help it, Sam. I like it down there. Hell, they will never understand. My grandfather do you know that on the day I left he followed me to the town, to the bus, pleading with me and at the same time scolding me? He said Id get all his terraces. But I like it down there, Sam, he threw his chest and yawned. Unmindful of his younger brothers ribbing Sadek dragged in some battered chairs from within the house and set them in the living room. He was a farmer and the weariness of working the terraces showed in his massive arms, in his sunburned and stolid face. His wife, who was an Ifugao like him, with high cheekbones and firm, dumpy legs, came out and served them Coca Cola. Sam Christie accepted the drink, washed it down his throat politely, excruciatingly, for it was the first time that he took warm Coke and it curdled his tongue. Sadek said, Grandfather had a high fever and we all thought the end was near. I didnt want to bother you, but the old man said you should come. He is no longer angry with you for leaving, Ip pig. He has forgiven you... Theres nothing to forgive, my brother, Philip Latak said, but if he wants to he can show his forgiveness by opening his wine jar. Is he drinking still? He has abandoned the jar for some time now, Sadek said, but now that you are here, he will drink again. Then the children started stealing in, five of them with grime on their faces, their feet caked with mud, their bellies shiny and disproportionately rounded and big. They stood, wide eyed, near the sagging wall. The tallest and the oldest, a boy of thirteen or twelve, Sadek pointed out as Philips namesake. Philip bent down and thrust a fistful of candy at his nephews and nieces. They did not move. They hedged closer to one another, their brows, their simple faces empty of recognition, of that simple spark that would tell him, Ip Pig, that he belonged here. He spoke in the native tongue, but that did not help either. The children held their scrawny hands behind them and stepped back until their backs were pressed against the wall.

Hell, you are all my relatives, arent you? he asked. Turning to Sam, Give it to them. Maybe, they like you better. His open palm brimming with the tinsel wrapped sweets, Sam strode to the oldest, to Philips namesake, and tousled the youngsters black, matted hair. He knelt, pinched the cheeks of the dirty child next to the oldest and placed a candy in his small hand. In another moment it was all noise, the children scrambling over the young American and about the floor, where the candy had spilled. Philip Latak watched them, and above the happy sounds, the squeals of children, Sadek said, You see now that even your relatives do not know you, Ip pig. You speak our tongue, you have our blood but you are a stranger nevertheless. See what I mean, Sam? Philip Latak said. He strode to the door. Beyond the betel nut plams in the yard, up a sharp incline, was his grandfathers house. It stood on four stilts like all the rest and below its roof were the bleached skulls of goats, dogs, pigs, and carabaos which the old man had butchered in past feats. He had the most number of skulls in the village to show his social position. Now new skulls would be added to this collection. Well, he will recognize and I wont be a stranger to him. Come, Philip Latak turned to his friend, let us see the old man. They toiled up the hill, which was greasy although steps had been gouged out on it for easier climbing. Before going up the slender rungs of the old house Philip Latak called his grandfather twice. Sam Christie waited under the grass marquee that extended above the doorway. He couldnt see what transpired inside and there was no invitation for him to come up. However, some could hear, Philip speaking in his native tongue and there was also a crackled, old voice, high pitched with excitement and pleasure. And, listening to the pleasant sounds of the homecoming, he smiled and called to mind the homecomings, he, too, had known, and he thought how the next vacation would be, his father and his mother at the Back Bay station, the luggage in the back seat, and on his lap this wooden idol which he now sought. But after a while, the visions he conjured were dispelled. The effusion within the hut had subsided into some sort of spirited talking and Philip was saying Americano Americano. Sam heard the old man raise his voice, this time in anger and not in pleasure. Then silence, a rustling within the house, the door stirring and Philip easing himself down the ladder, on his face a numbed, crestfallen look. And, without another word, he hurried down the hill, the American behind him. Philip Latak explained later on the way back to the town: I had asked him where we could get a god and he said he didnt know. And when I told him it was for an

American friend he got mad. He never liked strangers, Sam. He said they took everything away from him tranquillity, me. Hell, you cant do anything to an old man, Sam. We shouldnt have bothered with him at all. Now, tell me, have I spoiled your first day here? Sam objected vehemently. The old man wants a feast tomorrow night. My bienvenida of course. You will be a damned fool if you dont go, Sam said. Im thinking about you. You shouldnt come, Philip said. It will be a bore and a ghastly sight. But Sam Christies interest had been piqued and even when he realized that Philip Latak really did not want him to come he decided that this was one party he would not miss. They visited the Mission the following day after having hiked to the villages. As Philip Latak had warned, their search was fruitless. They struggled up terraces and were met by howling dogs and barebottomed children and old Ifugaos, who offered them sweet potatoes and rice wine. To all of them Sam Christie was impeccably polite and charitable with his matches and his candies. And after this initial amenity, Philip would start talking and always sullen silence would answer him, and he would turn to Sam, a foolish, optimistic grin on his face. Reverend Doone, who managed the Mission, invited them for lunch. He was quite pleased to have a fellow American as guest. He was a San Fransiscan, and one consolation of his assignment was its meagre similarity to San Francisco. In the afternoons, he said with nostalgia, when the mist drifts in and starts to wrap the terraces and the hills, Im reminded of the ocean fog which steals over the white hills of San Francisco and then I feel like Im home. They had finished lunch and were in the living room of the Mission, sipping coffee, while Philip Latak was in the kitchen, where he had gone to joke with old friends. Sams knowledge of San Francisco was limited to a drizzly afternoon at the airport, an iron cold rain and a nasty wind that crept under the top coat, clammy and gripping, and he kept quiet while Reverend Doone reminisced. The missionary was a short man with a bulbous nose and heavy brows and homesickness written all over his pallid face. Then it was Sams turn and he rambled about the places he had seen Greece ans

the marble ruins glinting in the sun, the urn; Japan, the small green country, and the samurai sword. And now, an Ifugao God. Reverend Doone reiterated what Philip had said. You must understand their religion, he said, and if you understand it, then youll know why its difficult to get this god. Then youll know why the Ifugaos are so attached to it. Its a religion based on fear, retribution. Every calamity or every luck which happens to them is based on this relief. A good harvest means the gods are pleased. A bad one means they are angered. Its not different from Christianity then, Sam said. Christianity is based on fear, too fear of hell and final judgment. Reverend Doone drew back, laid his cup of coffee on the well worn table and spoke sternly. Christianity is based on love. Thats the difference. You are in the Agency and you should know the significance of this distinction. Reverend Doone became thoughtful again. Besides, he said, Christianity is based on the belief that man has a soul and that soul is eternal. What happens when a man loses his soul? Sam asked. I wish I could answer that, Reverend Doone said humbly. All I can say is that a man without a soul is nothing. A pig in the sty that lives only for food. Without a soul... Does the Ifugao believe in a soul? Reverend Doone smiled gravely, His god he believes in them. Can a man lose his soul? Sam insisted.

less greed here and pettiness here. There are no land grabbers, no scandals. Going down the hill, Sam decided to bare his mind to Philip who was below him, teetering on the sleepy trail, he said with finality. Phil, I must not leave Ifugao without that god. Its more than just a souvenir. It will remind me of you, of this place. The samurai sword you should have seen the place where I got it and the people I had to deal with to get it. Its not just some souvenir, mind you. It belonged to a soldier who had fought in the South Pacific and had managed somehow to save the thing when he was made prisoner. But his daughter its a sad story she had to go to college, she was majoring English and she didnt have tuition money. In the comfort of their little room back in the town, Sam brought out his liquor. Well, he said as he poured a glass for Philip. At least the hike did me good. All that walking and all these people how nice they were, how they offered us wine and sweet potatoes. You get a lot better in cocktail parties, Philip Latak said. How many people in Manila would feel honoured to attend the parties you go to? They are a bore, Sam said. And I have to be there thats the difference. I have to be there to spread sweetness and light. Sometimes, it makes me sick, but I have to be there. Phil was silent. He emptied the glass and raised his muddy shoes to the woollen sheet on his cot. Toying with his empty glass, he asks the question Sam loathed most: Why are you with the Agency, Sam? He did not hesitate. Because I have to be somewhere, just as you have to be somewhere. Its that simple. Im glad you are in the Agency, Sam. We need people like you.

You have seen examples, Reverend Doone smiled wanly. In the city people are corrupted by easy living, the pleasures of senses and the flesh, the mass corruption that is seeping into the government and everything. A generation of soulless men is growing up and dictating the future... How can one who loses his soul regain it? Sam came back with sudden life. It takes cataclysm, something tragic to knock a man back to his wits, to make him realize his loss... They are all human beings. But look what is in this mountain locked country. It is poor let there be no doubt about it. They dont make enough to eat. But there is

Sam emptied his glass, too, and sank into his cot. Dust had gathered outside. Fireflies ignited the grove of pine on the ledge below the house and farther, across the creek, above the brooding terraces, the stars shone. After a while Philip Latak spoke again: We will be luckier tomorrow, I know. Youll have your god, Sam. Theres a way. I can steal one for you. Sam stood up and waved his lean hands. You cant do that, he said with great solemnity. Thats not fair. And what will happen to you or to the man whose god you will steal?

Lots if you believe all that trash, Philip said lightly Ill be afflicted with pain, same with the owner. But he can always make another. Its not so difficult to carve a new one. I tried it when I was young, before I went to the Mission. You cannot steal a god, not even for me, Sam said. Philip laughed. Lets not be bull headed about this. Its the least I can do for you. You made this vacation possible and that raise. Do you know that I have been with the Agency for four years and I never got a raise until you came? You had it coming. Its that simple. Youll have your god. Philip Latak said gravely. They did not have supper at the boarding house because in a while Sadek arrived to fetch them. He wore an old straw hat, a faded flannel coat and old denim pants. The butchers are ready and the guests are waiting and Grandfather has opened his wine jar. The hike to the village was not difficult as it had been the previous day. Sam had become an expert in scaling the dikes, in balancing himself on the strips of slippery earth that formed the terrace embankment, in jumping across the conduits of spring water that continuously gushed from springs higher up in the mountain to the terraces. When they reached the village many people had already gathered and on the crest of the hill, on which the old mans house stood, a huge fire bloomed and the flames crackled and threw quivering shadows upon the betel palms. In the orange light Sam, could discern the unsmiling faces of men carrying spears, the women and the children, and beyond the scattered groups, near the slope, inside a bamboo corral, were about a dozen squealing pigs, dogs, and goats, all ready for the sacrificial knife. Philip Latak acknowledged the greetings, then breaking away from the tenuous groups, he went to his grandfathers hut. Waiting outside, Sam heard the same words of endearment. A pause, then the wooden door opened and Philip peeped out. Its okay, Sam. Come up. And Sam, pleased with the prospect of being inside an Ifugao house for the first time, dashed up the ladder. The old man really looked ancient and, in the light of the stove fire that lived and died at one end of the one room house, Sam could see the careworn face, stoic and unsmiling. Sam took in everything; the hollow cheeks, the white, scraggly hair, the horn hands and the big boned knees. The patriarch was half naked like the

other Ifugaos, but his loin cloth had a belt with circular bone embellishments and around his neck dangled a necklace of bronze. To Sam the old man extended a bowl of rice wine and Sam took it and lifted it to his lips, savoured the gentle tang and acridness of it. He then sat down on the mud splattered floor. Beyond the open door, in the blaze of the bonfire, the pigs were already being butchered and someone had started beating the gongs and their deep, sonorous whang rang sharp and clear above the grunts of the dying animals. The light in the hut became alive again and showed the artefacts within: an old, gray pillow, dirty with use, a few rusty tipped spears, fish traps and a small wooden trunk. The whole house smelled of filth, of chicken droppings, and dank earth, but Sam Christie ignored these smells and attended only to the old man, who had now risen, his bony frame shaking, and from a compartment in the roof, brought out his black and ghastly looking god, no taller than two feet, and set it before the fire before his grandson. Someone called at the door and thrust to them a wooden bowl of blood. Philip Latak picked it up and gave it to the old man, who was kneeling. Slowly, piously, the old man poured the living, frothy blood on the idols head and the blood washed down the ugly head to its arms and legs, to its very feet and as he poured the blood, in his crackled voice, he recited a prayer. Philip turned to his American friend and, with usual levity said: My grandfather is thanking his god that Im here. He says he can die now because he has seen me again. Outside, the rhythm of the gongs quickened and fierce chanting started, filled the air, the hut, crept under the very skin and into the subconscious. The old man picked up the idol again and, standing, he returned to its niche. Lets go down, Philip said. They made their way to the iron cauldrons, where rice was cooking, and to the butchers table where big chunks of pork and dog meat were being distributed to the guests. For some time, Sam Christie watched the dancers and the singers, but the steps and the tune did not have any variation and soon he was bored completely so. The hiking that had preoccupied them during the day began to weigh on his spirits and he told Philip Latak who was with the old man before newly opened wine jar, that he would like to return to the boarding house. No, he did not need any guide. He knew the way, having gone through the route thrice. But Sadek would not let him go alone and, after more senseless palaver, Sam finally broke away from the party and headed for the town with Sadek behind him.

The night was cool, as all nights in the Ifugao country are and that evening, as he lay on his cot, he mused. In his ears the din of gongs still rang, in his minds eye loomed the shrunken, unsmiling face of the Ifugao. He saw again the dancers, their brown, sweating bodies whirling before the fire, their guttural voices rising as one, and finally, the wooden god, dirty and black and drenched with blood. And recalling all this in vivid sharpness, he thought he smelled, too, that peculiar odour of blood and the dirt of many years that had gathered in the old mans house. Sam Christie went to sleep with the wind soughing the pines, the cicadas whirring in the grass. He had no idea what time it was, but it must have been past midnight. The clatter woke him up and, without risking, he groped for the flashlight under his pillow. He lifted the mosquito net and beamed the light at the dark from which had paused at the door. It was Philip Latak, swaying and holding on to a black, bloody mass. Sam let the ray play on Phils face, at the splotch on his breast the sacrificial blood and finally, on the thing. I told you Id get it, Philip Latak said with drunken triumph. I told you Id steal a god, and staggering forward, he shoved his grandfathers idol at his friend. Sam Christie, too surprised to speak, pushed the idol away and it fell with a thud on the floor. You shouldnt have done it! was all he could say. Philip Latak stumbled, the flashlight beam still on his shiny, porcine face. He fumbled with the stub of candle on the table and in a while the room was bright. What a night, he crowed, heaving himself in his cot. No, you dont have to worry. No one saw me. I did it when all were busy dancing and drinking. I danced a little, too, you know with the old man. He is going to give me everything, his terraces, his spears, his wine jars. We danced and my legs they are not rusty at all. Philip Latak stood up and started prancing. Sam bolted up, too, and held him by the shoulder. Youll be waking up everyone up. Go to bed now and we will talk in the morning. Philip Latak sank back on his cot. The air around him was heavy with the smell of sweat, rice wine, and earth. He will be surprised, he repeated. He will be surprised and when he does he will perhaps get drunk and make a new one. Then there will be another feast to celebrate the new god and another god to steal...

You are lucky to have someone who loves you so much. And you did him wrong, Sam said sullenly. He sat on the edge of his cot and looked down at the dirty thing that lay his feet. He did himself wrong, Philip said. He was wrong in being so attached to me who no longer believes in these idols. Sadek you have seen his house. Its different. And not because he has the money to build a different house. Its because he doesnt believe in the old things any more. He cannot say that aloud. Phil whacked his stomach. Not while he lives with a hundred ignorant natives. Its a miserable thing to do, Sam said. Take it back tomorrow. Take it back? Phil turned to him with a mocking leer. Now, thats good of you. Hell, after my trouble... Yes, Sam said. Take it back. But there was no conviction in him, because in the back of his mind he was grateful that Philip Latak had brought him this dirty god, because it was real, because it had significance and meaning and was no cheap tourist bait, such as those that were displayed in the hotel lobbies in Manila. I wont, Philip said resolutely. If I do, Ill look bad. That would be the death of my grandfather. Ill take it back if you wont, Sam said almost inaudibly. He will kill you. Dont frighten me. Hell, Im just stating a fact, Phil said. Do you think he would be happy to know that his god had been fondled by a stranger? Its no time for jokes, Sam said, lying down. That isnt funny at all. And in his minds resolute eye, there crowded again one irrefrangible darkness and in it, like a light, was the old mans wrinkled face, dirtied with the mud of the terraces, the eyes narrow and gleaming with wisdom, with hate. He wished he knew more about him, for to know him would be to discover this miserly land and the hardiness (or was it foolhardiness?) which it nourished. And it was these thoughts that were rankling his mind when he heard Philip Latak snore, heard his slow, pleasant breathing and with his hand, Sam picked up the taper and quashed its flame. At the same time Sam Christie woke up it was already daylight and the sun lay pure and dazzling on the rough pine sidings of the room. It was Philip Latak who had

stirred him, his voice shrill and grating. Sam blinked, then sat up and walked to the door, where Philip was talking with a boy. Im sorry I woke you up, he said, turning momentarily to him, My nephew, a pause. Its grandfather. His voice was no longer drunken. I have to leave you here. Anything the matter? Philip had already packed his things and the boy held them, the canvas bag and the old suede jacket. My grandfather is dying, Sam. He collapsed an attack. When Sam found words again, all he could ask was, Why... how... Hell, that should be no riddle, Philip said. The feast last night. The dancing and the drinking. It must have been too much for his heart. And at his age... Im sorry... Ill be back as soon as I can, but dont wait, whatever your plans are.

Philips brother did not waste words. Its about my brother, he said. He looked down self consciously at his shoes they were a trifle big and Sam saw immediately that the pair was not Sadeks but Philips. He saw, too, that the jacket which Sadek wore was Philips old suede. And as if Sams unspoken scrutiny bothered him, Sadek took the jacket off and held it behind him. How is he? Sam asked. He did not wait for an answer. Come, lets have a drink. He held the Ifugao by the arm, but Sadek squirmed free from his grasp. I still have a half bottle of scotch, Sam said brightly. Its the best in the world, Sadek said humbly, but he did not move. Nothing but the best for Americans. Sam did not press. When is Phil coming back? he asked. There was nothing we could do, Sadek said. He did not face the young American and a faraway gaze was in his eyes. Our grandfather... He is dead?

After the two had gone, Sam returned to the room and picked up the idol. In the light he saw that the blood had dried and had lost its colour. The idol was heavy, so Sam quickly deduced that it must be made of good hardwood. It was crudely shaped and its proportions were almost grotesque. The arms were too long and the legs were mere stumps. The feet, on other hand, were huge. It was not very different, Sam concluded lightly, from the creations of sculptors who called themselves modernists. And wrapping it up in an old newspaper, he pushed it under his cot near his mud caked shoes. The next day, Sam Christie idled in the town and developed the acquaintance of the Chief of Police, a small man with a pinched, anonymous face that gained character only when he smiled, for then he bared a set of buckteeth reddened from chewing betel nut. He was extremely hospitable and had volunteered to guide him to wherever he wanted to hike. They had tried the villages farther up the mountains. It was early afternoon when they returned and the mist, white as starch in the sum, had started to crawl again down into town. The Chief of Police had been very helpful almost to the point of obsequiousness and Sam asked him to come up for a drink. After the Chief had savoured every drop in his glass, he declaimed. Indeed, I am honoured to taste this most wonderful hospitality, which should be reserved only for important people... The party could have gone further, but it was at this moment that Sadek arrived.

Sadek nodded. Sam took the news calmly. He did not find it, its finality, depressing and he was surprised even that the death of someone who was dear to a friend had not affected him at all. In the back of his mind, he even found himself thinking that, perhaps, it was best that the old man had died, so that his passing would seal, forever, as far as Philip Latak was concerned, the familys concern with the idols dubious grace. And Phil? Sam asked. He isnt going back to Manila, Sadek said simply, smiling again that meaningless grin of peasants. And why not? Sadek did not speak. Tell me more, Sam insisted. Does his decision have something to do with burial customs and all that sort of thing?

Its not matter of custom, sir! I must see him. Sadek faced the American squarely now. Mr. Christie, you cannot do anything now. You must go back to Manila. And wheeling round, the Ifugao walked out in the street. Sam followed him, rifled by the unexpected show of rudeness. I cannot leave like this, Sadek. Im sorry about what happened to your grandfather. In a time of grief I should at least be able to express my... my condolence. You have already done that, sir. Sadek paused again. All right then, he said sharply. Do come, then softly, supplicatingly, Please, please dont think we are being unreasonable and dont make me responsible for what will happen. Sam Christie was now troubled. How did the old man die? That was the question he wanted to ask and when he did it seemed as if the words were strangled from his throat. Walking slowly, Sadek glanced at the stranger keeping step behind him. It happened in the morning after the feast. He had a lot of wine. Of course, of course, Sam said. I saw him gulp it like water. A man his age shouldnt have indulged in drinking like he did. But it wasnt the drink that did it, sir, Sadek said emphatically. It was the loss of the god. It was stolen. It was not the god, Sam said aloud and the words were not for Sadek alone, but for himself that he was not involved, that his hands were unsoiled. And a pang of regret, of sadness, touched him. No, he said. It wasnt the god. It couldnt be as simple as that. The liquor, the dancing, the exertion these did it. Sadek did not answer. They went down the incline and at the base of the terraces the path was wide and level again. Then, softly, My grandfather always love Ip pig Philip more than anyone of us. He wanted to see Ip pig before he died. He died in Ip pigs arms. Near the hill on which stood the old mans house Sadek paused again. We buried him there, he pointed to a new digging on the side of the hill, and we held

another feast this morning. Two feasts in so short a time. One was a welcome to a youth gone astray, the other a farewell to him who gave us blood in us... At the edge of the hilltop the open pits which had served as stoves still smoked and the dried blood of the butchered animals stained the earth. Sadek faced Sam. My brother... he will not starve here, but he will no longer have the pleasures that he knew. Will that be good to him, Mr. Christie? He did not wait for an answer and he droned, As long as he works... but he is no longer a farmer of course. We are not learned like him and we have never been to Manila. But my brother... and, shaking his head as if a great weight had fallen on his shoulders, Sadek left the young American. Now there was nothing to do but go up the Ifugao hut, this flimsy thing of straw hat had survived all of times ravages, this house that was also granary and altar, which had retained its shape through hungry years and was, as it stood on this patch of earth, everything that endured. And as he approached it, Sam Christie found himself asking why he was here, among these primitive monuments, when he could very well be in his apartment in Manila, enjoying his liquor and his books and, maybe, a mestiza thrown in, too. Phil? Sam Christie stood in the sun, crinkling his brow and wondering if he had spoken a bit too harshly or too loudly to disturb the silence within. Phil, are you there? No answer. Phil, he repeated, raising his voice. I heard you, Philip Lataks reply from within the hut was abrupt and gruff. I thought you would forget. Remember, tomorrow morning, we are leaving. Ive already packed and I was waiting. You didnt even send word. We will still shop, Phil. And that woven stuff and the utensils do you know if we can get them before we leave tomorrow? You cant mean what you say, Sam said. Come on, we still have many things to do. But if its against the custom that is, if you have to stay here for more weeks after the burial The words exploded from the hut with a viciousness that jolted Sam: Damn it. Im not coming! It was no longer voice. It was something elemental and distressing. Im not going back, do you hear? You can bring the whole mountain with you if

you care. The god, my grandfathers god isnt it enough payment for your kindness? The words, their keenness, their meaning, bit deep. Let us be reasonable, Sam said, his voice starting to quiver. I didnt want you to steal the idol, Phil. You would have gotten it anyway, the voice quieted down, because you are always curious and determined. I could forgive myself for having stolen it, but the old man he had always been wise, Sam. I killed him because I wanted to be free from these... these terraces, because I wanted to be grateful. I killed him who loved me most... a faltering and a stifled sob. Dont blame me Phil. Sam choked on the words. I didnt want to steal it. Remember, I even wanted to return it? Besides, I could have gone on searching until I found one I could buy... Thats it! the voice within the hut had become a shriek. Thats it! Youll always find a way because you have all the money. You can buy everything, even gods. His face burning with bewilderment and shame, Sam Christie moved towards the ladder. Phil, lets talk this over. We are friends, Phil, he said in a low, anguished voice. You are not a friend, the voice within the grass hut had become a wail. If you are, you wouldnt have come here searching for gods to buy. We are friends, Sam insisted, toiling up the ladder and at the top rung, he pushed aside the flimsy bamboo door. In the semi darkness, amid the poverty and the soot of many years, Sam Christie saw Philip Latak squatting before the same earthen stove aglow with embers. And in this glow Sam Christie saw his friend not the Philip Latak with a suede jacket, but a well built Ifugao attired in the simple costume of the highlands, his broad flanks uncovered, and around his waist was the black and red breech cloth with yellow tassels. From his neck dangled the bronze necklace of an Ifugao warrior. Philip Latak did not, even face Sam. He seemed completely absorbed in his work and, with the sharp blade in his hands, he started scraping again the block of wood which he held tightly between his knees. Leave me alone, Sam, Philip Latak said softly, as if all grief had been squeezed from him. I have to finish this and it will take time.

Sam Christies ever observant eyes lingered on the face. Where he had seen it before? Was it Greece or in Japan or in Siam? The recognition came swiftly, savagely; with waterly legs and trembling hands, he stepped down and let the door slide quietly back into place. He knew then that Philip Latak really had work to do and it would take some time before he could finish a new god to replace the old one, the stolen idol which he was bringing home to America to take its place among his souvenirs of benighted and faraway places.

May Day Eve (Nick Joaquin) The old people had ordered that the dancing should stop at ten oclock but it was almost midnight before the carriages came filing up the departing guests, while the girls who were staying were promptly herded upstairs to the bedrooms, the young men gathering around to wish them a good night and lamenting their ascent with mock signs and moaning, proclaiming themselves disconsolate but straightway going off to finish the punch and the brandy though they were quite drunk already and simply bursting with wild spirits, merriment, arrogance and audacity, for they were young bucks newly arrived from Europe; the ball had been in their honor; and they had waltzed and polka-ed and bragged and swaggered and flirted all night and where in no mood to sleep yet--no, caramba, not on this moist tropic eve! not on this mystic May eve! --with the night still young and so seductive that it was madness not to go out, not to go forth---and serenade the neighbors! cried one; and swim in the Pasid! cried another; and gather fireflies! cried a thirdwhereupon there arose a great clamor for coats and capes, for hats and canes, and they were a couple of street-lamps flickered and a last carriage rattled away upon the cobbles while the blind black houses muttered hush-hush, their tile roofs looming like sinister chessboards against a wile sky murky with clouds, save where an evil young moon prowled about in a corner or where a murderous wind whirled, whistling and whining, smelling now of the sea and now of the summer orchards and wafting unbearable childhood fragrances or ripe guavas to the young men trooping so uproariously down the street that the girls who were desiring upstairs in the bedrooms catered screaming to the windows, crowded giggling at the windows, but were soon sighing amorously over those young men bawling below; over those wicked young men and their handsome apparel, their proud flashing eyes, and their elegant mustaches so black and vivid in the moonlight that the girls were quite ravished with love, and began crying to one another how carefree were men but how awful to be a girl and what a horrid, horrid world it was, till old Anastasia plucked them off by the ear or the pigtail and chases them off to bed---while from up the street came the clackety-clack of the watchmans boots on the cobble and the clang-clang of his lantern against his knee, and the mighty roll of his great voice booming through the night, "Guardia serno-o-o! A las doce han dado-o-o. And it was May again, said the old Anastasia. It was the first day of May and witches were abroad in the night, she said--for it was a night of divination, and night of lovers, and those who cared might peer into a mirror and would there behold the face of whoever it was they were fated to marry, said the old Anastasia as she hobble about picking up the piled crinolines and folding up shawls and raking slippers in corner while the girls climbing into four great poster-beds that overwhelmed the room began shrieking with terror, scrambling over each other and imploring the old woman not to frighten them.

"Enough, enough, Anastasia! We want to sleep!" "Go scare the boys instead, you old witch!" "She is not a witch, she is a maga. She is a maga. She was born of Christmas Eve!" "St. Anastasia, virgin and martyr." "Huh? Impossible! She has conquered seven husbands! Are you a virgin, Anastasia?" "No, but I am seven times a martyr because of you girls!" "Let her prophesy, let her prophesy! Whom will I marry, old gypsy? Come, tell me." "You may learn in a mirror if you are not afraid." "I am not afraid, I will go," cried the young cousin Agueda, jumping up in bed. "Girls, girls---we are making too much noise! My mother will hear and will come and pinch us all. Agueda, lie down! And you Anastasia, I command you to shut your mouth and go away!""Your mother told me to stay here all night, my grand lady!" "And I will not lie down!" cried the rebellious Agueda, leaping to the floor. "Stay, old woman. Tell me what I have to do." "Tell her! Tell her!" chimed the other girls. The old woman dropped the clothes she had gathered and approached and fixed her eyes on the girl. "You must take a candle," she instructed, "and go into a room that is dark and that has a mirror in it and you must be alone in the room. Go up to the mirror and close your eyes and shy: Mirror, mirror, show to me him whose woman I will be. If all goes right, just above your left shoulder will appear the face of the man you will marry." A silence. Then: "And hat if all does not go right?" asked Agueda. "Ah, then the Lord have mercy on you!" "Why." "Because you may see--the Devil!" The girls screamed and clutched one another, shivering. "But what nonsense!" cried Agueda. "This is the year 1847. There are no devil anymore!" Nevertheless she had

turned pale. "But where could I go, hugh? Yes, I know! Down to the sala. It has that big mirror and no one is there now." "No, Agueda, no! It is a mortal sin! You will see the devil!" "I do not care! I am not afraid! I will go!" "Oh, you wicked girl! Oh, you mad girl!" "If you do not come to bed, Agueda, I will call my mother." "And if you do I will tell her who came to visit you at the convent last March. Come, old woman--give me that candle. I go." "Oh girls---give me that candle, I go." But Agueda had already slipped outside; was already tiptoeing across the hall; her feet bare and her dark hair falling down her shoulders and streaming in the wind as she fled down the stairs, the lighted candle sputtering in one hand while with the other she pulled up her white gown from her ankles. She paused breathless in the doorway to the sala and her heart failed her. She tried to imagine the room filled again with lights, laughter, whirling couples, and the jolly jerky music of the fiddlers. But, oh, it was a dark den, a weird cavern for the windows had been closed and the furniture stacked up against the walls. She crossed herself and stepped inside. The mirror hung on the wall before her; a big antique mirror with a gold frame carved into leaves and flowers and mysterious curlicues. She saw herself approaching fearfully in it: a small while ghost that the darkness bodied forth---but not willingly, not completely, for her eyes and hair were so dark that the face approaching in the mirror seemed only a mask that floated forward; a bright mask with two holes gaping in it, blown forward by the white cloud of her gown. But when she stood before the mirror she lifted the candle level with her chin and the dead mask bloomed into her living face. She closed her eyes and whispered the incantation. When she had finished such a terror took hold of her that she felt unable to move, unable to open her eyes and thought she would stand there forever, enchanted. But she heard a step behind her, and a smothered giggle, and instantly opened her eyes. "And what did you see, Mama? Oh, what was it?" But Dona Agueda had forgotten the little girl on her lap: she was staring pass the curly head nestling at her breast and seeing herself in the big mirror hanging in the room. It was the same room and the same mirror out the face she now saw in it was an old face---a hard, bitter, vengeful face, framed in graying hair, and so sadly altered, so sadly different from that other face like a white mask, that fresh young face like a pure mask than she had brought before this mirror one wild May Day midnight years and years ago.... "But what was it Mama? Oh please go on! What did you see?" Dona Agueda looked down at her daughter but her face did not soften though her eyes filled with tears. "I saw the devil." she said bitterly. The child blanched. "The devil, Mama? Oh... Oh..." "Yes, my love. I opened my eyes and there in the mirror, smiling at me over my left shoulder, was the face of the devil." "Oh, my poor little Mama! And were

you very frightened?" "You can imagine. And that is why good little girls do not look into mirrors except when their mothers tell them. You must stop this naughty habit, darling, of admiring yourself in every mirror you pass- or you may see something frightful some day." "But the devil, Mama---what did he look like?" "Well, let me see... he has curly hair and a scar on his cheek---" "Like the scar of Papa?" "Well, yes. But this of the devil was a scar of sin, while that of your Papa is a scar of honor. Or so he says." "Go on about the devil." "Well, he had mustaches." "Like those of Papa?" "Oh, no. Those of your Papa are dirty and graying and smell horribly of tobacco, while these of the devil were very black and elegant--oh, how elegant!" "And did he speak to you, Mama?" "Yes Yes, he spoke to me," said Dona Agueda. And bowing her graying head; she wept. "Charms like yours have no need for a candle, fair one," he had said, smiling at her in the mirror and stepping back to give her a low mocking bow. She had whirled around and glared at him and he had burst into laughter. "But I remember you!" he cried. "You are Agueda, whom I left a mere infant and came home to find a tremendous beauty, and I danced a waltz with you but you would not give me the polka." "Let me pass," she muttered fiercely, for he was barring the way. "But I want to dance the polka with you, fair one," he said. So they stood before the mirror; their panting breath the only sound in the dark room; the candle shining between them and flinging their shadows to the wall. And young Badoy Montiya (who had crept home very drunk to pass out quietly in bed) suddenly found himself cold sober and very much awake and ready for anything. His eyes sparkled and the scar on his face gleamed scarlet. "Let me pass!" she cried again, in a voice of fury, but he grasped her by the wrist. "No," he smiled. "Not until we have danced." "Go to the devil!" "What a temper has my serrana!" "I am not your serrana!" "Whose, then? Someone I know? Someone I have offended grievously? Because you treat me, you treat all my friends like your mortal enemies." "And why not?" she demanded, jerking her wrist away and flashing her teeth in his face. "Oh, how I detest you, you pompous young men! You go to Europe and you come back elegant lords and we poor girls are too tame to please you. We have no grace like the Parisiennes, we have no fire like the Sevillians, and we have no salt, no salt, no salt! Aie, how you weary me, how you bore me, you fastidious men!" "Come, come--how do you know about us?" "I was not admiring myself, sir!" "You were admiring the moon perhaps?" "Oh!" she gasped, and burst into tears. The candle dropped from her hand and she covered her face and sobbed piteously. The candle had gone out and they stood in darkness, and young Badoy was conscience-stricken. "Oh, do not cry, little one!" Oh, please forgive me! Please do not cry! But what a brute I am! I was drunk, little one, I was drunk and knew not what I said." He groped and found her hand and touched it to his lips. She shuddered in her white gown. "Let me go," she moaned, and tugged feebly. "No. Say you forgive me first. Say you forgive me, Agueda." But

instead she pulled his hand to her mouth and bit it - bit so sharply in the knuckles that he cried with pain and lashed cut with his other hand--lashed out and hit the air, for she was gone, she had fled, and he heard the rustling of her skirts up the stairs as he furiously sucked his bleeding fingers. Cruel thoughts raced through his head: he would go and tell his mother and make her turn the savage girl out of the house--or he would go himself to the girls room and drag her out of bed and slap, slap, slap her silly face! But at the same time he was thinking that they were all going to Antipolo in the morning and was already planning how he would maneuver himself into the same boat with her. Oh, he would have his revenge, he would make her pay, that little harlot! She should suffer for this, he thought greedily, licking his bleeding knuckles. But---Judas! He remembered her bare shoulders: gold in her candlelight and delicately furred. He saw the mobile insolence of her neck, and her taut breasts steady in the fluid gown. Son of a Turk, but she was quite enchanting! How could she think she had no fire or grace? And no salt? An arroba she had of it! "... No lack of salt in the chrism At the moment of thy baptism!" He sang aloud in the dark room and suddenly realized that he had fallen madly in love with her. He ached intensely to see her again---at once! ---to touch her hands and her hair; to hear her harsh voice. He ran to the window and flung open the casements and the beauty of the night struck him back like a blow. It was May, it was summer, and he was young---young! ---and deliriously in love. Such a happiness welled up within him that the tears spurted from his eyes. But he did not forgive her--no! He would still make her pay, he would still have his revenge, he thought viciously, and kissed his wounded fingers. But what a night it had been! "I will never forge this night! he thought aloud in an awed voice, standing by the window in the dark room, the tears in his eyes and the wind in his hair and his bleeding knuckles pressed to his mouth. But, alas, the heart forgets; the heart is distracted; and May time passes; summer lends; the storms break over the rot-tipe orchards and the heart grows old; while the hours, the days, the months, and the years pile up and pile up, till the mind becomes too crowded, too confused: dust gathers in it; cobwebs multiply; the walls darken and fall into ruin and decay; the memory perished...and there came a time when Don Badoy Montiya walked home through a May Day midnight without remembering, without even caring to remember; being merely concerned in feeling his way across the street with his cane; his eyes having grown quite dim and his legs uncertain--for he was old; he was over sixty; he was a very stopped and shivered old man with white hair and mustaches coming home from a secret meeting of conspirators; his mind still resounding with the speeches and his patriot heart still exultant as he picked his way up the steps to the front door and inside into the slumbering darkness of the house; wholly unconscious of the May night, till on his way down the hall, chancing to glance into the sala, he shuddered, he stopped, his

blood ran cold-- for he had seen a face in the mirror there---a ghostly candlelight face with the eyes closed and the lips moving, a face that he suddenly felt he had been there before though it was a full minutes before the lost memory came flowing, came tiding back, so overflooding the actual moment and so swiftly washing away the piled hours and days and months and years that he was left suddenly young again; he was a gay young buck again, lately came from Europe; he had been dancing all night; he was very drunk; he s stepped in the doorway; he saw a face in the dark; he called out...and the lad standing before the mirror (for it was a lad in a night go jumped with fright and almost dropped his candle, but looking around and seeing the old man, laughed out with relief and came running. "Oh Grandpa, how you frightened me. Don Badoy had turned very pale. "So it was you, you young bandit! And what is all this, hey? What are you doing down here at this hour?" "Nothing, Grandpa. I was only... I am only ..." "Yes, you are the great Seor only and how delighted I am to make your acquaintance, Seor Only! But if I break this cane on your head you maga wish you were someone else, Sir!" "It was just foolishness, Grandpa. They told me I would see my wife." "Wife? What wife?" "Mine. The boys at school said I would see her if I looked in a mirror tonight and said: Mirror, mirror show to me her whose lover I will be. Don Badoy cackled ruefully. He took the boy by the hair, pulled him along into the room, sat down on a chair, and drew the boy between his knees. "Now, put your cane down the floor, son, and let us talk this over. So you want your wife already, hey? You want to see her in advance, hey? But so you know that these are wicked games and that wicked boys who play them are in danger of seeing horrors?" "Well, the boys did warn me I might see a witch instead." "Exactly! A witch so horrible you may die of fright. And she will be witch you, she will torture you, she will eat your heart and drink your blood!" "Oh, come now Grandpa. This is 1890. There are no witches anymore." "Oh-ho, my young Voltaire! And what if I tell you that I myself have seen a witch. "You? Where?

"Right in this room land right in that mirror," said the old man, and his playful voice had turned savage. "When, Grandpa?" "Not so long ago. When I was a bit older than you. Oh, I was a vain fellow and though I was feeling very sick that night and merely wanted to lie down somewhere and die I could not pass that doorway of course without stopping to see in the mirror what I looked like when dying. But when I poked my head in what should I see in the mirror but...but..." "The witch?" "Exactly!" "And then she bewitch you, Grandpa!" "She bewitched me and she tortured me. l She ate my heart and drank my blood." said the old man bitterly. "Oh, my poor little Grandpa! Why have you never told me! And she very horrible? "Horrible? God, no--- she was the most beautiful creature I have ever seen! Her eyes were somewhat like yours but her hair was like black waters and her golden shoulders were bare. My God, she was enchanting! But I should have known---I should have known even then---the dark and fatal creature she was!" A silence. Then: "What a horrid mirror this is, Grandpa," whispered the boy. "What makes you slay that, hey?" "Well, you saw this witch in it. And Mama once told me that Grandma once told her that Grandma once saw the devil in this mirror. Was it of the scare that Grandma died?" Don Badoy started. For a moment he had forgotten that she was dead, that she had perished---the poor Agueda; that they were at peace at last, the two of them, her tired body at rest; her broken body set free at last from the brutal pranks of the earth---from the trap of a May night; from the snare of summer; from the terrible silver nets of the moon. She had been a mere heap of white hair and bones in the

end: a whimpering withered consumptive, lashing out with her cruel tongue; her eye like live coals; her face like ashes... Now, nothing--- nothing save a name on a stone; save a stone in a graveyard---nothing! was left of the young girl who had flamed so vividly in a mirror one wild May Day midnight, long, long ago. And remembering how she had sobbed so piteously; remembering how she had bitten his hand and fled and how he had sung aloud in the dark room and surprised his heart in the instant of falling in love: such a grief tore up his throat and eyes that he felt ashamed before the boy; pushed the boy away; stood up and looked out---looked out upon the medieval shadows of the foul street where a couple of streetlamps flickered and a last carriage was rattling away upon the cobbles, while the blind black houses muttered hush-hush, their tiled roofs looming like sinister chessboards against a wild sky murky with clouds, save where an evil old moon prowled about in a corner or where a murderous wind whirled, whistling and whining, smelling now of the sea and now of the summer orchards and wafting unbearable the window; the bowed old man sobbing so bitterly at the window; the tears streaming down his cheeks and the wind in his hair and one hand pressed to his mouth---while from up the street came the clackety-clack of the watchmans boots on the cobbles, and the clang-clang of his lantern against his knee, and the mighty roll of his voice booming through the night: "Guardia sereno-o-o! A las doce han dado-o-o!"

WHERE'S THE PATIS? (Carmen Guerrero Nakpil)

elegant wagon of hors d'oeuvres approaches: pink salmon from Scotland, golden English herring, sensuous anchovies from France, green salad from a Belgian farm, mounds of Italian pasta, Russian caviar on ice, melon halves, stuffed eggs, shrimp smothered in piquant red sauce. At that precise moment the Pinoy is overcome with a yearning for a mound of white rice, a bowl of sinigang and a little saucer of patis. What would happen, he asked himself, if I shouted for sinigang na bangus? The thought that perishes as he catches sight of the world-weary hauteur on the face of the waiter. With a sigh, he applies himself to the foreign delicacies. The herring, after a few mouthfuls tastes almost like tinapa. The shrimp would be excellent if he had some white sukang lloko to soak it in but the melon is never half as good as the ones his wife buys from her suki in San Andres. Now he must make another choice. The waiter, with an air of prime minister approaching a concordat murmurs, something about choosing a soup. The menu is in French and to be safe, our hero asks the waiter to recommend the specialty of the house. A clear consomme! When it comes, the Pinoy discovers that it is merely the kind of soup Filipinos sip when they are convalescing from "tifus" or "trancazo". Tomato soup is almost an emetic. Onion soup with bits of bread and cheese is too odd for words but palatable. If he is lucky, the waiter brings bouillabaisse with a flourish. A French classic? Nonsense. We Filipinos invented it. It is sinigang, he tells the astonished waiter, only not quite as good as we do it at home. And where, for heaven's sake is the patis? The entree or the main course is quite another problem. Poulet is chicken. Fillet de sole is fish, though recognizable neither as apahap nor lapulapu. Tournedos is meat done in a barbarian way, thick and barely cooked with red juices still oozing out. The safest choice is steak. If the Pinoy can get it, well done enough and slice thinly enough, it might remind him of tapa. If the waiter only knew enough about Philippine cuisine, he might suggest venison which is really something like tapang usa, or escargots which the unstylish poor on Philippine beaches know as snails. Or even frogs legs which are a Pampango delight. But this is the crux of the problem- where is the rice? A silver tray offers varieties of bread: slices of crusty French bread, soft yellow rolls, rye bread, crescents studded with sesame seeds. There are also potatoes in every conceivable manner, fried mashed, boiled, buttered. But no rice. The Pinoys learn that rice is considered a vegetable in Europe and America. The staff of life a vegetable!

Travel has become the great Filipino dream. In the same way what an American dreams of becoming a millionaire or an English boy dreams of going to one of the great universities, the Filipino dreams of going abroad. His most constant vision is that of himself as a tourist. To visit Hong Kong, Tokyo, and other cities of Asia, per chance, to catch a glimpse of Rome, Paris, or London and to go to America( even if only for a week in a fly- specked motel in California) in the sum of all delights. Yet having left the Manila International Airport in a pink cloud of despedidas and sampaguita garlands and pabilin, the dream turns into nightmare very quickly. But why? Because the first bastion of the Filipino spirit was the palate. And in all the palaces and flesh pots and skycrapers of that magic world called "abroad" there is no par/5 to be have. Consider the Piony abroad, he has discarded barong tagalog or "polo" for a sleek, dark western suit. He takes to the habiliments from Tlong Kong Brooks Brothers or Savile Row with the greatest of ease. He has also shed the casual informality of manner that is characteristically Filipino. He gives himself the airs of cosmopolite to the credit- card born. He is extravagantly courteous (especially in a borrowed language) and has taken to hand- kissing and too plenty of American "D'you mind?" 's. He hardly misses the heat, the native accent of Tagalog or llonggo or the company of his brown-skinned cheerful compatriots. He takes, like a duck to water, to the skyscrapers, the temperate climate, the strange landscape and the fabled refinement of another world. How nice, after all, to be away from old RP for a change! But as he sits down to meal, no matter how sumptuous, his heart sinks. His stomach juices, he discovers, are much less cosmopolitan than the rest of him. They are much less adaptable that his sartorial or social habits. They have remained in that dear barrio in Bulacan or in that little town in llocos andnothing that is set on the table before him can summon them to London or Paris. There he is in the most expensive restaurant in Europe, surrounded by beautiful women and impeccably dressed men bending over their rich meal. Waiters in black ties and tails stand at his elbow ready to cater to his smallest wish. An array of glass, silver, china, and artistic blooms is set before him. An

And when it comes- a special order which takes at least half an hourthe grains are large, oval, and foreign-looking and what's more, yellow with butter. And oh horrors! - One must shove it with pork or piled it with one's knife on the back of another fork. After a few days of these debacles, the Pinoy, sick with longing, decides to comb the strange city for a Chinese Restaurant, the closest thing to the beloved, gastronomic country. There in the company of other Asian exiles, he will put his nose finally in a bowl of rice and find it mire fragrant than an English rose garden, more exciting than a castle on the Rhine and more delicious than pink champagne. To go with rice, there is siopao (not so rich as at Salazar) pansit guisado reeking with garlic (but never so good as any that can be had in the sidewalks of Quiapo) fried lumpia with the incorrect sauce, and even mami (but nothing like the downtown wanton) Better than a Chinese restaurant is the kitchen of a kababayan. When in a foreign city, a Pinoy searches every busy sidewalks, theater, restaurant for the well- remembered golden features of a fellow- Pinoy. But make no mistake. It is only because he is in desperate need of Filipino meal and, like a homing pigeon, he follows his nose to a Filipino kitchen that is well stocked with bagoong, patis, garlic, balat ng lumpia, gabi leaves and misua. When the Pinoy finally finds such a treasure- house, he will have every meal with his kababayan. Forgotten are the bistros and the smart restaurant. The back of his hand to the Four Seasons and the Tour d' Argent. Ah, the regular orgies of cooking and eating the ensue. He may never have known his host before. In Manila, if he saw him again, they would hardly exchange two words. But here in this odd, barbarian land where people eat inedible things and have never heard of patis, they are brothers forever. The Filipino may denationalized himself but not his stomach. He may travel over the seven seas and the five continents and the two hemispheres and lose the savor of home and forget his identity and believe himself a citizen of the world. But he remains- the astronomically, at least- always a Filipino. For, if in no other way, the Filipino loves his country with his stomach.

THE VIRGIN by Kerima Polotan Tuvera

He went to where Miss Mijares sat, a tall, big man, walking with an economy of movement, graceful and light, a man who knew his body and used it well. He sat in the low chair worn decrepit by countless other interviewers and laid all ten fingerprints carefully on the edge of her desk. She pushed a sheet towards him, rolling a pencil along with it. While he read the question and wrote down his answers, she glanced at her watch and saw that it was ten. "I shall be coming back quickly," she said, speaking distinctly in the dialect (you were never sure about these people on their first visit, if they could speak English, or even write at all, the poor were always proud and to use the dialect with them was an act of charity), "you will wait for me." As she walked to the cafeteria, Miss Mijares thought how she could easily have said, Please wait for me, or will you wait for me? But years of working for the placement section had dulled the edges of her instinct for courtesy. She spoke now peremtorily, with an abruptness she knew annoyed the people about her. When she talked with the jobless across her desk, asking them the damning questions that completed their humiliation, watching pale tongues run over dry lips, dirt crusted handkerchiefs flutter in trembling hands, she was filled with an impatience she could not understand. Sign here, she had said thousands of times, pushing the familiar form across, her finger held to a line, feeling the impatience grow at sight of the man or woman tracing a wavering "X" or laying the impress of a thumb. Invariably, Miss Mijares would turn away to touch the delicate edge of the handkerchief she wore on her breast. Where she sat alone at one of the cafeteria tables, Miss Mijares did not look 34. She was slight, almost bony, but she had learned early how to dress herself to achieve an illusion of hips and bosom. She liked poufs and shirrings and little girlish pastel colors. On her bodice, astride or lengthwise, there sat an inevitable row of thick camouflaging ruffles that made her look almost as though she had a bosom, if she bent her shoulders slightly and inconspicuously drew her neckline open to puff some air into her bodice. Her brow was smooth and clear and she was always pushing off it the hair she kept in tight curls at night. She had thin cheeks, small and angular, falling down to what would have been a nondescript, receding chin, but Nature's hand had erred and given her a jaw instead. When displeased, she had a lippy, almost sensual pout, surprising on such a small face. So while not exactly an ugly woman, she was no beauty. She teetered precariously on the border line to which belonged countless others who you found, if they were not working at some job, in the kitchen of some married sister's house shushing a brood of devilish little nephews. And yet Miss Mijares did think of love. Secret, short-lived thoughts flitted through her

mind in the jeepneys she took to work when a man pressed down beside her and through her dress she felt the curve of his thigh; when she held a baby in her arms, a married friend's baby or a relative's, holding in her hands the tiny, pulsing body, what thoughts did she not think, her eyes straying against her will to the bedroom door and then to her friend's laughing, talking face, to think: how did it look now, spread upon a pillow, unmasked of the little wayward coquetries, how went the lines about the mouth and beneath the eyes: (did they close? did they open?) in the one final, fatal coquetry of all? to finally, miserably bury her face in the baby's hair. And in the movies, to sink into a seat as into an embrace, in the darkness with a hundred shadowy figures about her and high on the screen, a man kissing a woman's mouth while her own fingers stole unconsciously to her unbruised lips. When she was younger, there had been other things to do--- college to finish, a niece to put through school, a mother to care for. She had gone through all these with singular patience, for it had seemed to her that love stood behind her, biding her time, a quiet hand upon her shoulder (I wait. Do not despair) so that if she wished she had but to turn from her mother's bed to see the man and all her timid, pure dreams would burst into glory. But it had taken her parent many years to die. Towards the end, it had become a thankless chore, kneading her mother's loose flesh, hour after hour, struggling to awaken the cold, sluggish blood in her drying body. In the end, she had died --- her toothless, thin-haired, flabby-fleshed mother --and Miss Mijares had pushed against the bed in grief and also in gratitude. But neither love nor glory stood behind her, only the empty shadows, and nine years gone, nine years. In the room for her unburied dead, she had held up her hands to the light, noting the thick, durable fingers, thinking in a mixture of shame and bitterness and guilt that they had never touched a man. When she returned to the bleak replacement office, the man stood by a window, his back to her, half-bending over something he held in his hands. "Here," she said, approaching, "have you signed this?" "Yes," he replied, facing her. In his hands, he held her paperweight, an old gift from long ago, a heavy wooden block on which stood, as though poised for flight, an undistinguished, badly done bird. It had come apart recently. The screws beneath the block had loosened so that lately it had stood upon her desk with one wing tilted unevenly, a miniature eagle or swallow? felled by time before it could spread its wings. She had laughed and laughed that day it had fallen on her desk, plop! "What happened? What happened?" they had asked her, beginning to laugh, and she had said, caught between amusement and sharp despair, "Some one shot it," and she had laughed and laughed till faces turned and eyebrows rose and she told herself, whoa, get a hold, a hold, a hold! He had turned it and with a penknife tightened the screws and dusted it. In this man's

hands, cupped like that, it looked suddenly like a dove. She took it away from him and put it down on her table. Then she picked up his paper and read it. He was a high school graduate. He was also a carpenter. He was not starved, like the rest. His clothes, though old, were pressed and she could see the cuffs of his shirt buttoned and wrapped about big, strong wrists. "I heard about this place," he said, "from a friend you got a job at the pier." Seated, he towered over her, "I'm not starving yet," he said with a quick smile. "I still got some money from that last job, but my team broke up after that and you got too many jobs if you're working alone. You know carpentering," he continued, "you can't finish a job quickly enough if you got to do the planing and sawing and nailing all by your lone self. You got to be on a team." Perhaps he was not meaning to be impolite? But for a jobseeker, Miss Mijares thought, he talked too much and without call. He was bursting all over with an obtruding insolence that at once disarmed and annoyed her. So then she drew a slip and wrote his name on it. "Since you are not starving yet," she said, speaking in English now, wanting to put him in his place, "you will not mind working in our woodcraft section, three times a week at two-fifty to four a day, depending on your skill and the foreman's discretion, for two or three months after which there might be a call from outside we may hold for you." "Thank you," he said. He came on the odd days, Tuesday, Thursday, Sunday. She was often down at the shanty that housed their bureau's woodcraft, talking with Ato, his foreman, going over with him the list of old hands due for release. They hired their men on a rotation basis and three months was the longest one could stay. "The new one there, hey," Ato said once. "We're breaking him in proper." And he looked across several shirted backs to where he stopped, planing what was to become the side of a bookcase. How much was he going to get? Miss Mijares asked Ato on Wednesday. "Three," the old man said, chewing away on a cud. She looked at the list in her hands, quickly running a pencil down. "But he's filling a four-peso vacancy," she said. "Come now," surprised that she should wheedle so, "give him the extra peso." "Only a half," the stubborn foreman shook his head, "three-fifty."

"Ato says I have you to thank," he said, stopping Miss Mijares along a pathway in the compound. It was noon, that unhappy hour of the day when she was oldest, tiredest, when it seemed the sun put forth cruel fingers to search out the signs of age on her thin, pinched face. The crow's feet showed unmistakably beneath her eyes and she smiled widely to cover them up and aquinting a little, said, "Only a half-peso --- Ato would have given it to you eventually." "Yes, but you spoke for me," he said, his big body heaving before her. "Thank you, though I don't need it as badly as the rest, for to look at me, you would knew I have no wife --- yet." She looked at him sharply, feeling the malice in his voice. "I'd do it for any one," she said and turned away, angry and also ashamed, as though he had found out suddenly that the ruffles on her dress rested on a flat chest. The following week, something happened to her: she lost her way home. Miss Mijares was quite sure she had boarded the right jeepneys but the driver, hoping to beat traffic, had detoured down a side alley, and then seeing he was low on gas, he took still another shortcut to a filling station. After that, he rode through alien country. The houses were low and dark, the people shadowy, and even the driver, who earlier had been an amiable, talkative fellow, now loomed like a sinister stranger over the wheel. Through it all, she sat tightly, feeling oddly that she had dreamed of this, that some night not very long ago, she had taken a ride in her sleep and lost her way. Again and again, in that dream, she had changed direction, losing her way each time, for something huge and bewildering stood blocking the old, familiar road home. But that evening, she was lost only for a while. The driver stopped at a corner that looked like a little known part of the boulevard she passed each day and she alighted and stood on a street island, the passing headlights playing on her, a tired, shaken woman, the ruffles on her skirt crumpled, the hemline of her skirt awry. The new hand was absent for a week. Miss Mijares waited on that Tuesday he first failed to report for some word from him sent to Ato and then to her. That was regulation. Briefly though they were held, the bureau jobs were not ones to take chances with. When a man was absent and he sent no word, it upset the system. In the absence of a definite notice, someone else who needed a job badly was kept away from it. "I went to the province, ma'am," he said, on his return. "You could have sent someone to tell us," she said.

straight ahead." "It was an emergency, ma'am," he said. "My son died." "But it's raining," someone protested. "How so?" "Sorry. But if I got into a traffic, I won't come out of it in a year. Sorry." A slow bitter anger began to form inside her. "But you said you were not married!" One by one the passengers got off, walking swiftly, disappearing in the night. "No, ma'am," he said gesturing. "Are you married?" she asked loudly. "No, ma'am." She gestured, bestowing pardon. "But you have -- you had a son!" she said. "I am not married to his mother," he said, grinning stupidly, and for the first time she noticed his two front teeth were set widely apart. A flush had climbed to his face, suffusing it, and two large throbbing veins crawled along his temples. She looked away, sick all at once. "You should told us everything," she said and she put forth hands to restrain her anger but it slipped away she stood shaking despite herself. "I did not think," he said. "Your lives are our business here," she shouted. It rained that afternoon in one of the city's fierce, unexpected thunder-storms. Without warning, it seemed to shine outside Miss Mijares' window a gray, unhappy look. It was past six when Miss Mijares, ventured outside the office. Night had come swiftly and from the dark sky the thick, black, rainy curtain continued to fall. She stood on the curb, telling herself she must not lose her way tonight. When she flagged a jeepney and got in, somebody jumped in after her. She looked up into the carpenter's faintly smiling eyes. She nodded her head once in recognition and then turned away. The cold tight fear of the old dream was upon her. Before she had time to think, the driver had swerved his vehicle and swung into a side street. Perhaps it was a different alley this time. But it wound itself in the same tortuous manner as before, now by the banks of overflowing esteros, again behind faintly familiar buildings. She bent her tiny, distraught face, conjuring in her heart the lonely safety of the street island she had stood on for an hour that night of her confusion. "Only this far, folks," the driver spoke, stopping his vehicle. "Main street's a block Up and down the empty, rain-beaten street she looked. It was as though all at once everyone else had died and they were alone in the world, in the dark. In her secret heart, Miss Mijares' young dreams fluttered faintly to life, seeming monstrous in the rain, near this man --- seeming monstrous but sweet overwhelming. I must get away, she thought wildly, but he had moved and brushed against her, and where his touch had fallen, her flesh leaped, and she recalled how his hands had looked that first day, lain tenderly on the edge of her desk and about the wooden bird (that had looked like a moving, shining dove) and she turned to him with her ruffles wet and wilted, in the dark she turned to him. Miss Mijares stepped down to a sidewalk in front of a boarded store. The wind had begun again and she could hear it whipping in the eaves above her head. "Ma'am," the man's voice sounded at her shoulders, "I am sorry if you thought I lied."

How My Brother Leon Brought Home A Wife By Manuel E. Arguilla She stepped down from the carretela of Ca Celin with a quick, delicate grace. She was lovely. SHe was tall. She looked up to my brother with a smile, and her forehead was on a level with his mouth. "You are Baldo," she said and placed her hand lightly on my shoulder. Her nails were long, but they were not painted. She was fragrant like a morning when papayas are in bloom. And a small dimple appeared momently high on her right cheek. "And this is Labang of whom I have heard so much." She held the wrist of one hand with the other and looked at Labang, and Labang never stopped chewing his cud. He swallowed and brought up to his mouth more cud and the sound of his insides was like a drum. I laid a hand on Labang's massive neck and said to her: "You may scratch his forehead now." She hesitated and I saw that her eyes were on the long, curving horns. But she came and touched Labang's forehead with her long fingers, and Labang never stopped chewing his cud except that his big eyes half closed. And by and by she was scratching his forehead very daintily. My brother Leon put down the two trunks on the grassy side of the road. He paid Ca Celin twice the usual fare from the station to the edge of Nagrebcan. Then he was standing beside us, and she turned to him eagerly. I watched Ca Celin, where he stood in front of his horse, and he ran his fingers through its forelock and could not keep his eyes away from her. "Maria---" my brother Leon said. He did not say Maring. He did not say Mayang. I knew then that he had always called her Maria and that to us all she would be Maria; and in my mind I said 'Maria' and it was a beautiful name. "Yes, Noel." Now where did she get that name? I pondered the matter quietly to myself, thinking Father might not like it. But it was only the name of my brother Leon said backward and it sounded much better that way. "There is Nagrebcan, Maria," my brother Leon said, gesturing widely toward the west. She moved close to him and slipped her arm through his. And after a while she said quietly.

"You love Nagrebcan, don't you, Noel?" Ca Celin drove away hi-yi-ing to his horse loudly. At the bend of the camino real where the big duhat tree grew, he rattled the handle of his braided rattan whip against the spokes of the wheel. We stood alone on the roadside. The sun was in our eyes, for it was dipping into the bright sea. The sky was wide and deep and very blue above us: but along the saw-tooth rim of the Katayaghan hills to the southwest flamed huge masses of clouds. Before us the fields swam in a golden haze through which floated big purple and red and yellow bubbles when I looked at the sinking sun. Labang's white coat, which I had wshed and brushed that morning with coconut husk, glistened like beaten cotton under the lamplight and his horns appeared tipped with fire.

He faced the sun and from his mouth came a call so loud and vibrant that the earth seemed to tremble underfoot. And far away in the middle of the field a cow lowed softly in answer. "Hitch him to the cart, Baldo," my brother Leon said, laughing, and she laughed with him a big uncertainly, and I saw that he had put his arm around her shoulders. "Why does he make that sound?" she asked. "I have never heard the like of it." "There is not another like it," my brother Leon said. "I have yet to hear another bull call like Labang. In all the world there is no other bull like him." She was smiling at him, and I stopped in the act of tying the sinta across Labang's neck to the opposite end of the yoke, because her teeth were very white, her eyes were so full of laughter, and there was the small dimple high up on her right cheek. "If you continue to talk about him like that, either I shall fall in love with him or become greatly jealous." My brother Leon laughed and she laughed and they looked at each other and it seemed to me there was a world of laughter between them and in them. I climbed into the cart over the wheel and Labang would have bolted, for he was always like that, but I kept a firm hold on his rope. He was restless and would not stand still, so that my brother Leon had to say "Labang" several times. When he was quiet again, my brother Leon lifted the trunks into the cart, placing the smaller on top. She looked down once at her high-heeled shoes, then she gave her left hand to my

brother Leon, placed a foot on the hub of the wheel, and in one breath she had swung up into the cart. Oh, the fragrance of her. But Labang was fairly dancing with impatience and it was all I could do to keep him from running away. "Give me the rope, Baldo," my brother Leon said. "Maria, sit down on the hay and hold on to anything." Then he put a foot on the left shaft and that instand labang leaped forward. My brother Leon laughed as he drew himself up to the top of the side of the cart and made the slack of the rope hiss above the back of labang. The wind whistled against my cheeks and the rattling of the wheels on the pebbly road echoed in my ears. She sat up straight on the bottom of the cart, legs bent togther to one side, her skirts spread over them so that only the toes and heels of her shoes were visible. her eyes were on my brother Leon's back; I saw the wind on her hair. When Labang slowed down, my brother Leon handed to me the rope. I knelt on the straw inside the cart and pulled on the rope until Labang was merely shuffling along, then I made him turn around. "What is it you have forgotten now, Baldo?" my brother Leon said. I did not say anything but tickled with my fingers the rump of Labang; and away we went---back to where I had unhitched and waited for them. The sun had sunk and down from the wooded sides of the Katayaghan hills shadows were stealing into the fields. High up overhead the sky burned with many slow fires. When I sent Labang down the deep cut that would take us to the dry bed of the Waig which could be used as a path to our place during the dry season, my brother Leon laid a hand on my shoulder and said sternly: "Who told you to drive through the fields tonight?" His hand was heavy on my shoulder, but I did not look at him or utter a word until we were on the rocky bottom of the Waig. "Baldo, you fool, answer me before I lay the rope of Labang on you. Why do you follow the Wait instead of the camino real?" His fingers bit into my shoulder. "Father, he told me to follow the Waig tonight, Manong." Swiftly, his hand fell away from my shoulder and he reached for the rope of Labang. Then my brother Leon laughed, and he sat back, and laughing still, he said: "And I suppose Father also told you to hitch Labang to the cart and meet us with him instead of with Castano and the calesa."

Without waiting for me to answer, he turned to her and said, "Maria, why do you think Father should do that, now?" He laughed and added, "Have you ever seen so many stars before?" I looked back and they were sitting side by side, leaning against the trunks, hands clasped across knees. Seemingly, but a man's height above the tops of the steep banks of the Wait, hung the stars. But in the deep gorge the shadows had fallen heavily, and even the white of Labang's coat was merely a dim, grayish blur. Crickets chirped from their homes in the cracks in the banks. The thick, unpleasant smell of dangla bushes and cooling sun-heated earth mingled with the clean, sharp scent of arrais roots exposed to the night air and of the hay inside the cart. "Look, Noel, yonder is our star!" Deep surprise and gladness were in her voice. Very low in the west, almost touching the ragged edge of the bank, was the star, the biggest and brightest in the sky. "I have been looking at it," my brother Leon said. "Do you remember how I would tell you that when you want to see stars you must come to Nagrebcan?" "Yes, Noel," she said. "Look at it," she murmured, half to herself. "It is so many times bigger and brighter than it was at Ermita beach." "The air here is clean, free of dust and smoke." "So it is, Noel," she said, drawing a long breath. "Making fun of me, Maria?" She laughed then and they laughed together and she took my brother Leon's hand and put it against her face. I stopped Labang, climbed down, and lighted the lantern that hung from the cart between the wheels. "Good boy, Baldo," my brother Leon said as I climbed back into the cart, and my heart sant. Now the shadows took fright and did not crowd so near. Clumps of andadasi and arrais flashed into view and quickly disappeared as we passed by. Ahead, the elongated shadow of Labang bobbled up and down and swayed drunkenly from side to side, for the lantern rocked jerkily with the cart. "Have we far to go yet, Noel?" she asked.

"Ask Baldo," my brother Leon said, "we have been neglecting him." "I am asking you, Baldo," she said. Without looking back, I answered, picking my words slowly: "Soon we will get out of the Wait and pass into the fields. After the fields is home--Manong." "So near already." I did not say anything more because I did not know what to make of the tone of her voice as she said her last words. All the laughter seemed to have gone out of her. I waited for my brother Leon to say something, but he was not saying anything. Suddenly he broke out into song and the song was 'Sky Sown with Stars'---the same that he and Father sang when we cut hay in the fields at night before he went away to study. He must have taught her the song because she joined him, and her voice flowed into his like a gentle stream meeting a stronger one. And each time the wheels encountered a big rock, her voice would catch in her throat, but my brother Leon would sing on, until, laughing softly, she would join him again. Then we were climbing out into the fields, and through the spokes of the wheels the light of the lantern mocked the shadows. Labang quickened his steps. The jolting became more frequent and painful as we crossed the low dikes. "But it is so very wide here," she said. The light of the stars broke and scattered the darkness so that one could see far on every side, though indistinctly. "You miss the houses, and the cars, and the people and the noise, don't you?" My brother Leon stopped singing. "Yes, but in a different way. I am glad they are not here." With difficulty I turned Labang to the left, for he wanted to go straight on. He was breathing hard, but I knew he was more thirsty than tired. In a little while we drope up the grassy side onto the camino real. "---you see," my brother Leon was explaining, "the camino real curves around the foot of the Katayaghan hills and passes by our house. We drove through the fields because--but I'll be asking Father as soon as we get home." "Noel," she said. "Yes, Maria."

"I am afraid. He may not like me." "Does that worry you still, Maria?" my brother Leon said. "From the way you talk, he might be an ogre, for all the world. Except when his leg that was wounded in the Revolution is troubling him, Father is the mildest-tempered, gentlest man I know." We came to the house of Lacay Julian and I spoke to Labang loudly, but Moning did not come to the window, so I surmised she must be eating with the rest of her family. And I thought of the food being made ready at home and my mouth watered. We met the twins, Urong and Celin, and I said "Hoy!" calling them by name. And they shouted back and asked if my brother Leon and his wife were with me. And my brother Leon shouted to them and then told me to make Labang run; their answers were lost in the noise of the wheels. I stopped labang on the road before our house and would have gotten down but my brother Leon took the rope and told me to stay in the cart. He turned Labang into the open gate and we dashed into our yard. I thought we would crash into the camachile tree, but my brother Leon reined in Labang in time. There was light downstairs in the kitchen, and Mother stood in the doorway, and I could see her smiling shyly. My brother Leon was helping Maria over the wheel. The first words that fell from his lips after he had kissed Mother's hand were: "Father... where is he?" "He is in his room upstairs," Mother said, her face becoming serious. "His leg is bothering him again." I did not hear anything more because I had to go back to the cart to unhitch Labang. But I hardly tied him under the barn when I heard Father calling me. I met my brother Leon going to bring up the trunks. As I passed through the kitchen, there were Mother and my sister Aurelia and Maria and it seemed to me they were crying, all of them. There was no light in Father's room. There was no movement. He sat in the big armchair by the western window, and a star shone directly through it. He was smoking, but he removed the roll of tobacco from his mouth when he saw me. He laid it carefully on the windowsill before speaking. "Did you meet anybody on the way?" he asked. "No, Father," I said. "Nobody passes through the Waig at night." He reached for his roll of tobacco and hithced himself up in the chair. "She is very beautiful, Father."

"Was she afraid of Labang?" My father had not raised his voice, but the room seemed to resound with it. And again I saw her eyes on the long curving horns and the arm of my brother Leon around her shoulders. "No, Father, she was not afraid." "On the way---" "She looked at the stars, Father. And Manong Leon sang." "What did he sing?" "---Sky Sown with Stars... She sang with him." He was silent again. I could hear the low voices of Mother and my sister Aurelia downstairs. There was also the voice of my brother Leon, and I thought that Father's voice must have been like it when Father was young. He had laid the roll of tobacco on the windowsill once more. I watched the smoke waver faintly upward from the lighted end and vanish slowly into the night outside. The door opened and my brother Leon and Maria came in. "Have you watered Labang?" Father spoke to me. I told him that Labang was resting yet under the barn. "It is time you watered him, my son," my father said. I looked at Maria and she was lovely. She was tall. Beside my brother Leon, she was tall and very still. Then I went out, and in the darkened hall the fragrance of her was like a morning when papayas are in bloom.

Si Lola Isyang at ang Matandang Puno ng Kaimito Chary Lou Navarro-Defante

Isang gabi Si Lola Isyang dumungaw sa bintana Natanaw niya ang mga daliri ng hangin Isa-isa, dahan-dahang pinipitas Ang mga dahon ng matandang puno ng kaimito. At ang mga mata ni Lola ay kinurot Ng mga daliri ring iyon Isinara ni Lola ang bintana At dahan-dahang nahiga. Doon naramdaman ni Lola Isyang Ang hapdi na dala ng kurot Ang talukap ng kanyang mga matay Unti-unting nag-abot Kasabay ng pagkaubos ng mga dahon Ng matandang puno ng kaimito. **The author wrote the poem in 1994 when she was a 4th year college student. It was just an output for a poetry writing seminar with Palance Awardee Dr. Leoncio P. Deriada who is also a poetry editor of Homelife magazine. The piece was first published in the book Patubas: An Anthology of West Visayan Poetry: 1986-1994 by the National Committee on the Literary Arts (NCLA) of the National Commission for Culture and the Arts (NCCA) and then in Philippine Literatures: texts, themes, approaches by UST Publishing House in 2008.

The poem was inspired by O. Henry's short story The Last Leaf. She used the puno ng kaimito or star apple tree because it was one of her favorite "childhood fruits".

THE BOY WHO ATE STARS ( Alfred A. Yuson) *summary The boy lived in a village in the middle of a forest. There was nothing much to do at night so he kept gazing at the stars above. He was really fond of them that he wanted to put them into his mouth and taste them. He always tried to reach them but they're just too far away from his grasp. He wished long and hard that he could taste and eat them. The boy waited and waited. When the opportunity came he quickly grabbed it. He was so happy when he could already taste them in his mouth. However, the stars eventually became lesser until none was left. He became sad and guilty for eating all of them. He wanted the stars back shining at the sky. He cried until stars rushed out of his mouth up to the sky above and he became really happy. One day, a stranger came into the village the boy was living. He Offered any wishes in exchange for cutting their tress down. The villager quickly agreed and let him cut them. He promised the boy he could eat the stars if he'll allow him to cut more of their trees. The boy agreed without second thought and the man made his wish come true. He had been easily tricked and fooled. The author was probably the person who understand the boy and the

other characters all-round well. As the tress were gradually destroyed more of the stars came to his sight and so was his yearning started to grow. He had observed how his character acted and felt how was his character was feeling. The boy tasted the stars and he was happy. However, guilt also ate him and he wanted the stars back. His pure intentions of wanting the star back was enough for them to rush out off of his mouth and return to the sky making the boy happy. The boy grew up to be a young man with the very special lesson he learned from his experience The first stranger offered whishes in exchange for the forest trees. The villagers gave in easily. He offered more and they offered more until none was left for them. Not even the stars. Then, another stranger came and offered them help. Like before, they easily accepted and gave him gratitude. Little by little the things they lost come back and been happy when stars was brought back at the sky by the boy. Idea Analysis The boy had eaten and tasted the stars. He was happy that he could finally have his wish to come true. He reached out a fist-full of stars and put them on his mouth, enjoying the taste of it. It was exactly imagined, it was his liking. He was very happy. However, never thought about what the consequences are. The boy cried by the guilt he felt that he had eaten all stars and none was

left. The second stranger, however explained that when he wished hard on the Star of Peace . He will get his wish of all time. The boy wished hard and soon stars came rushing off of his mouth and twinkled back to life at the heavens above. The boy had learned a very valuable lesson by his experience that he will never forget for all of his life. The boy ate all the stars without any regards. He enjoyed the taste of every star that he ate. He continued this until none was left. He became sad but still wanted to eat the last star that was place on a top of tree. He made a reached for it. The second stranger stopped him and opened his mind. He felt guilty and wished them all to be back. The boy had live a boring life during nights on a village at the middle of the forest. Every night he longed and wished he could just eat the twinkling stars above. But, no matter how far he reached he still can't grasp it. One day, when a stranger offered them a bargain, which was he will grant any of their wished in exchange for their trees, the villagers agreed even the boy. His wished came true at last and he was able to taste the stars even eat them. However, not long enough, they disappeared. Another stranger came into their village and this time offered them help. Like before, the villagers agreed. He helped them restore their forest. The remaining star left on the top of a tree, the boy tried reaching it. He felt guilty of eating all the stars at the sky. The

stranger told him that if he wished upon the left remaining star, the Star of Peace, he will get his wish for all time, which is bringing back all the stars twinkling again above. Personal Reaction Nothing would be so much free to do but gaze at the pretty stars that was twinkling above the heavenly sky at night. And there wasn't any more arousing curiosity than to imagine what they taste like. This was probably the boy was feeling that time, at least for me. The story made an impact to me about stars making me, even a little bit, be interested in them. I became very interested at the first time he had tasted a star, I wanted to taste them too, to know how they taste like. I was kinda surprised at the naivety of the villagers, but I guess that wasn't a big shocked since it's understandable, cause they grew up in a village that was in a middle of a forest from society. I was also kinda annoyed that they had been easily tricked by the first stranger by letting him destroy their nature. But, thankful for the second stranger for helping them restore it again. I was touched also by the boy's guilt as he wanted to bring the stars that he had eaten, back to the stars above..

The Bread of Salt by NVM Gonzalez (1958)

yards or so of riverbed beyond it, where an old Spaniard's house stood. At low tide, when the bed was dry and the rocks glinted with broken bottles, the stone fence of the Spaniard's compound set off the house as if it were a castle. Sunrise

Usually I was in bed by ten and up by five and thus was ready for one more day of my fourteenth year. Unless Grandmother had forgotten, the fifteen centavos for the baker down Progreso Street - and how I enjoyed jingling those coins in my pocket!- would be in the empty fruit jar in the cupboard. I would remember then that rolls were what Grandmother wanted because recently she had lost three molars. For young people like my cousins and myself, she had always said that the kind called pan de sal ought to be quite all right. The bread of salt! How did it get that name? From where did its flavor come, through what secret action of flour and yeast? At the risk of being jostled from the counter by early buyers, I would push my way into the shop so that I might watch the men who, stripped to the waist, worked their long flat wooden spades in and out of the glowing maw of the oven. Why did the bread come nut-brown and the size of my little fist? And why did it have a pair of lips convulsed into a painful frown? In the half light of the street, and hurrying, the paper bag pressed to my chest, I felt my curiosity a little gratified by the oven-fresh warmth of the bread I was proudly bringing home for breakfast. Well I knew how Grandmother would not mind if I nibbled away at one piece; perhaps, I might even eat two, to be charged later against my share at the table. But that would be betraying a trust; and so, indeed, I kept my purchase intact. To guard it from harm, I watched my steps and avoided the dark street corners. For my reward, I had only to look in the direction of the sea wall and the fifty

brought a wash of silver upon the roofs of the laundry and garden sheds which had been built low and close to the fence. On dull mornings the light dripped from the bamboo screen which covered the veranda and hung some four or five yards from the ground. Unless it was August, when the damp, northeast monsoon had to be kept away from the rooms, three servants raised the screen promptly at six-thirty until it was completely hidden under the veranda eaves. From the sound of the pulleys, I knew it was time to set out for school. It was in his service, as a coconut plantation overseer, that Grandfather had spent the last thirty years of his life. Grandmother had been widowed three years now. I often wondered whether I was being depended upon to spend the years ahead in the service of this great house. One day I learned that Aida, a classmate in high school, was the old Spaniard's niece. All my doubts disappeared. It was as if, before his death, Grandfather had spoken to me about her, concealing the seriousness of the matter by putting it over as a joke. If now I kept true to the virtues, she would step out of her bedroom ostensibly to say UGood Morning to her uncle. Her real purpose, I knew, was to reveal thus her assent to my desire. On quiet mornings I imagined the patter of her shoes upon the wooden veranda floor as a further sign, and I would hurry off to school, taking the route she had fixed for me past the post office, the town plaza and the church, the health center east of the plaza, and at last the school grounds. I asked myself whether I would

try to walk with her and decided it would be the height of rudeness. Enough that in her blue skirt and white middy she would be half a block ahead and, from that distance, perhaps throw a glance in my direction, to bestow upon my heart a deserved and abundant blessing. I believed it was but right that, in some such way as this, her mission in my life was disguised. Her name, I was to learn many years later, was a convenient mnemonic for the qualities to which argument might aspire. But in those days it was a living voice. "Oh that you might be worthy of uttering me," it said. And how I endeavored to build my body so that I might live long to honor her. With every victory at singles at the handball court the game was then the craze at school -- I could feel my body glow in the sun as though it had instantly been cast in bronze. I guarded my

straggling notes across the pebbled river did not transform them into Schubert's "Serenade." At last Mr. Custodio, who was in charge of our school orchestra, became aware of my progress. He moved me from second to first violin. During the Thanksgiving Day program he bade me render a number, complete with pizzicati and harmonics. "Another Vallejo! Our own Albert Spalding!" I heard from the front row. Aida, I thought, would be in the audience. I looked around quickly but could not see her. As I retired to my place in the orchestra I heard Pete Saez, the trombone player, call my name."You must join my band," he said. "Look, we'll have many engagements soon. It'll be vacation time."

mind and did not let my wits go astray. In class I would not allow a lesson to pass Pete pressed my arm. He had for some time now been asking me to join the unmastered. Our English teacher could put no question before us that did not Minviluz Orchestra, his private band. All I had been able to tell him was that I had have a ready answer in my head. One day he read Robert Louis Stevenson's my schoolwork to mind. He was twenty-two. I was perhaps too young to be going The Sire de Maletroit's Door, and we were so enthralled that our breaths around with him. He earned his school fees and supported his mother hiring out trembled. I knew then that somewhere, sometime in the not too improbable his band at least three or four times a month. He now said: future, a benign old man with a lantern in his hand would also detain me in a "Tomorrow we play at the funeral of a Chinese-four to six in the afternoon; in the secret room, and there daybreak would find me thrilled by the sudden certainty evening, judge Roldan's silver wedding anniversary; Sunday, the municipal that I had won Aida's hand. dance." It was perhaps on my violin that her name wrought such a tender spell. Maestro My head began to whirl. On the stage, in front of us, the principal had begun a Antonino remarked the dexterity of my stubby fingers. Quickly I raced through speech about America. Nothing he could say about the Pilgrim Fathers and the Alard-until I had all but committed two thirds of the book to memory. My short, American custom of feasting on turkey seemed interesting. I thought of the brown arm learned at last to draw the bow with grace. Sometimes, when money I would earn. For several days now I had but one wish, to buy a box of practising my scales in the early evening, I wondered if the sea wind carrying the

linen stationery. At night when the house was quiet I would fill the sheets with words that would tell Aida how much I adored her. One of these mornings,

excuse, my aunt remarked:"What do you want to be a musician for? At parties, musicians always eat last." Perhaps, I said to myself, she was thinking of a pack of dogs scrambling for

perhaps before school closed for the holidays, I would borrow her algebra book scraps tossed over the fence by some careless kitchen maid. She was the sort and there, upon a good pageful of equations, there I would slip my message, you could depend on to say such vulgar things. For that reason, I thought, she tenderly pressing the leaves of the book. She would perhaps never write back. ought not to be taken seriously at all. Neither by post nor by hand would a reply reach me. But no matter; it would be a But the remark hurt me. Although Grandmother had counseled me kindly to mind silence full of voices. my work at school, I went again and again to Pete Saez's house for rehearsals. That night I dreamed I had returned from a tour of the world's music centers; the She had demanded that I deposit with her my earnings; I had felt too weak to newspapers of Manila had been generous with praise. I saw my picture on the refuse. Secretly, I counted the money and decided not to ask for it until I had cover of a magazine. A writer had described how, many years ago, I used to enough with which to buy a brooch. Why this time I wanted to give Aida a brooch, trudge the streets of Buenavista with my violin in a battered black cardboard I didn't know. But I had set my heart on it. I searched the downtown shops. The case. In New York, he reported, a millionaire had offered me a Stradivarius violin, Chinese clerks, seeing me so young, were annoyed when I inquired about prices. with a card that bore the inscription: "In admiration of a genius your own people At last the Christmas season began. I had not counted on Aida's leaving home, must surely be proud of." I dreamed I spent a weekend at the millionaire's and remembering that her parents lived in Badajoz, my torment was almost country house by the Hudson. A young girl in a blue skirt and white middy unbearable. Not once had I tried to tell her of my love. My letters had remained clapped her lily-white hands and, her voice trembling, cried "Bravo!" unwritten, and the algebra book unborrowed. There was still the brooch to find, What people now observed at home was the diligence with which I attended to but I could not decide on the sort of brooch I really wanted. And the money, in my violin lessons. My aunt, who had come from the farm to join her children for any case, was in Grandmother's purse, which smelled of "Tiger Balm." I grew the holidays, brought with her a maidservant, and to the poor girl was given the somewhat feverish as our class Christmas program drew near. Finally it came; it chore of taking the money to the baker's for rolls and pan de sal. I realized at was a warm December afternoon. I decided to leave the room when our English once that it would be no longer becoming on my part to make these morning trips teacher announced that members of the class might exchange gifts. I felt to the baker's. I could not thank my aunt enough. fortunate; Pete was at the door, beckoning to me. We walked out to the porch I began to chafe on being given other errands. Suspecting my violin to be the where, Pete said, he would tell me a secret.

It was about an asalto the next Sunday which the Buenavista Women's Club wished to give Don Esteban's daughters, Josefina and Alicia, who were arriving on the morning steamer from Manila. The spinsters were much loved by the ladies. Years ago, when they were younger, these ladies studied solfeggio with Josefina and the piano and harp with Alicia. As Pete told me all this, his lips ash-gray from practising all morning on his trombone, I saw in my mind the sisters in their silk dresses, shuffling off to church for theevening benediction. They were very devout, and the Buenavista ladies admired that. I had almost forgotten that they were twins and, despite their age, often dressed alike. In low-bosomed voile bodices and white summer hats, I remembered, the pair had attended Grandfather's funeral, at old Don Esteban's behest. I wondered how successful they had been in Manila during the past three years in the matter of finding suitable husbands. "This party will be a complete surprise," Pete said, looking around the porch as if to swear me to secrecy. "They've hired our band." I joined my classmates in the room, greeting everyone with a Merry Christmasjollier than that of the others. When I saw Aida in one corner unwrapping something two girls had given her, I found the boldness to greet her also.

answer to my greeting. But I recovered shortly and asked: "Will you be away during the vacation?" "No, I'll be staying here," she said. When she added that her cousins were arriving and that a big party in their honor was being planned, I remarked: "So you know all about it?" I felt I had to explain that the party was meant to be a surprise, an asalto. And now it would be nothing of the kind, really. The women's club matrons would hustle about, disguising their scurrying around for cakes and candies as for some baptismal party or other. In the end, the Rivas sisters would outdo them. Boxes of meringues, bonbons, ladyfingers, and cinnamon buns that only the Swiss bakers in Manila could make were perhaps coming on the boat with them. I imagined a table glimmering with long-stemmed punch glasses; enthroned in that array would be a huge brick-red bowl of gleaming china with golden flowers around the brim. The local matrons, however hard they tried, however sincere their efforts, were bound to fail in their aspiration to rise to the level of Don Esteban's daughters. Perhaps, I thought, Aida knew all this. And that I should share in a foreknowledge of the matrons' hopes was a matter beyond love. Aida and I could laugh together with the gods.

"Merry Christmas," I said in English, as a hairbrush and a powder case emerged At seven, on the appointed evening, our small band gathered quietly at the gate from the fancy wrapping. It seemed to me rather apt that such gifts went to her. of Don Esteban's house, and when the ladies arrived in their heavy shawls and Already several girls were gathered around Aida. Their eyes glowed with envy, it trim panuelo, twittering with excitement, we were commanded to play the Poet seemed to me, for those fair cheeks and the bobbed dark-brown hair which and Peasant overture. As Pete directed the band, his eyes glowed with pride for lineage had denied them. his having been part of the big event. The multicolored lights that the old I was too dumbstruck by my own meanness to hear exactly what Aida said in Spaniard's gardeners had strung along the vine-covered fence were switched on,

and the women remarked that Don Esteban's daughters might have made some preparations after all. Pete hid his face from the glare. If the women felt let down, they did not show it. The overture shuffled along to its climax while five men in white shirts bore huge boxes of goods into the house. I recognized one of the bakers in spite of the uniform. A chorus of confused greetings, and the women trooped into the house;and before we had settled in the sala to play "A Basket of Roses," the heavy damask curtains at the far end of the room were drawn and a long table richly

offered an encore. Josefina sang afterward. Her voice, though a little husky, fetched enormous sighs. For her encore, she gave "The Last Rose of Summer"; and the song brought back snatches of the years gone by. Memories of solfeggio lessons eddied about us, as if there were rustling leaves scattered all over the hall. Don Esteban appeared. Earlier, he had greeted the crowd handsomely, twisting his mustache to hide a natural shyness before talkative women. He stayed long enough to listen to the harp again, whispering in his rapture: "Heavenly. Heavenly . . ."

spread was revealed under the chandeliers. I remembered that, in our haste to By midnight, the merrymaking lagged. We played while the party gathered be on hand for the asalto, Pete and I had discouraged the members of the band around the great table at the end of the sala. My mind traveled across the seas to from taking their suppers. the distant cities I had dreamed about. The sisters sailed among the ladies like "You've done us a great honor!" Josefina, the more buxom of the twins, greeted two great white liners amid a fleet of tugboats in a bay. Someone had the ladies. thoughtfully remembered-and at last Pete Saez signaled to us to put our "Oh, but you have not allowed us to take you by surprise!" the ladies demurred in instruments away. We walked in single file across the hall, led by one of the a chorus. barefoot servants. There were sighs and further protestations amid a rustle of skirts and the glitter of Behind us a couple of hoarse sopranos sang "La Paloma" to the accompaniment earrings. I saw Aida in a long, flowing white gown and wearing an arch of of the harp, but I did not care to find out who they were. The sight of so much sampaguita flowers on her hair. At her command, two servants brought out a silver and china confused me. There was more food before us than I had ever gleaming harp from the music room. Only the slightest scraping could be heard imagined. I searched in my mind for the names of the dishes; but my ignorance because the servants were barefoot. As Aida directed them to place the appalled me. I wondered what had happened to the boxes of food that the instrument near the seats we occupied, my heart leaped to my throat. Soon she Buenavista ladies had sent up earlier. In a silver bowl was something, I was lost among the guests, and we played "The Dance of the Glowworms." I kept my eyes closed and held for as long as I could her radiant figure before me. Alicia played on the harp and then, in answer to the deafening applause, she discovered, that appeared like whole egg yolks that had been dipped in honeyand peppermint. The seven of us in the orchestra were all of one mind about the feast; and so, confident that I was with friends, I allowed my covetousness to

have its sway and not only stuffed my mouth with this and that confection but also wrapped up a quantity of those egg-yolk things in several sheets of napkin paper. None of my companions had thought of doing the same, and it was with some pride that I slipped the packet under my shirt. There, I knew, it would not bulge. "Have you eaten?" I turned around. It was Aida. My bow tie seemed to tighten around my collar. I mumbled something, I did not know what. "If you wait a little while till they've gone, I'll wrap up a big package for you," she added. I brought a handkerchief to my mouth. I might have honored her solicitude adequately and even relieved myself of any embarrassment; I could not quite believe that she had seen me, and yet I was sure that she knew what I had done, and I felt all ardor for her gone from me entirely. I walked away to the nearest door, praying that the damask curtains might hide me in my shame. The door gave on to the veranda, where once my love had trod on sunbeams. Outside it was dark, and a faint wind was singing in the harbor. With the napkin balled up in my hand, I flung out my arm to scatter the egg-yolk things in the dark. I waited for the soft sound of their fall on the garden-shed roof. Instead, I heard a spatter in the rising night-tide beyond the stone fence. Farther away glimmered the light from Grandmother's window, calling me home. But the party broke up at one or thereabouts. We walked away with our instruments after the matrons were done with their interminable good-byes. Then, to the tune of "Joy to the World," we pulled the Progreso Street

shopkeepers out of their beds. The Chinese merchants were especially generous. When Pete divided our collection under a street lamp, there was already a little glow of daybreak. He walked with me part of the way home. We stopped at the baker's when I told him that I wanted to buy with my own money some bread to eat on the way to Grandmother's house at the edge of the sea wall. He laughed, thinking it strange that I should be hungry. We found ourselves alone at the counter; and we watched the bakery assistants at work until our bodies grew warm from the oven across the door. It was not quite five, and the bread was not yet ready.