Lakambini by May Navarro

The night has began to cool, the air seeping through the bamboo slats of the hut. Oriang drew her shawl closer and tasted the sauce on the earthen pot. Nowhere near the adobo she used to have during family Sunday meals but still, it will be a feast with more potatoes than chicken parts. Her comrades found some native chicken wandering near the hut and happily caught these for her. It’s been awhile since they had some meat. Living in the mountains for weeks before coming to Cavite have been hard, digging rootcrops and hacking sap vines for water. Tonight they’ll partake chicken steeped in vinegar and garlic with mounds of warm rice. Then she heard a slight commotion and looked out the window, She saw people congregating, jubilant with someone’s arrival. “Supremo! “ someone called. Her husband had arrived.

Coming back from the camp in Tejeros, he went past her with no word. She knew it wouldn’t be a celebration tonight. His somber mood reflected the same one when he lost in San Juan, when the Spanish guards defeated them when its reinforcements arrived, he lost many Katipunero brothers there. She herself witnessed the slaughter, riding her mare on the sidelines, watching from afar as he tried to raid the powder room of the colonizers and heard the bursts of gunshots and curses and screams in Spanish. It was the same look he had in every defeat. But this one had a sting it seems. He looked downtrodden, his bolo haphazardly thrown on the table, his crumpled and dented strawhat at his feet. He let out a  sigh and slumped on a bamboo bench. Unfazed about this blight, Oriang took out large spread of banana leaf and smoothed it on the table. She then poured some contents of the adobo, careful to leave enough for the others, the rich scent wafting inside the hut. He smiled and eagerly scooped the chicken bits with his hand.

After dinner, Oriang gathered her needles and thread to sew some of his worn and yellowed shirts. She took off her payneta and let her hair flow freely, taking advantage of the breeze. He sat in front of her, his head leaned back, his eyes closed.

“They demoted me..” he said, his voice hoarse. She didn’t say anything, letting the rustling of the leaves outside fill the gap of her silence. She knew there are still words he had to say like a wound that needs to fester with coagulated blood still willing to flow. They were in Cavite to unify the two warring groups of the revolutionary group he established, the Katipunan and as its leader, he felt he had to intervene.  But this meeting turned into an election he didn’t foresee. As he continued, she learned that they wanted Emilio, a Caviteño to lead a revolutionary government not him. He who pierced the silence of the Motherland and rattled the Spanish government.  She can hear his deep sighs and noticed his closed fist, clenching his arm.

 “After everything, Oriang, everything… ” he lamented.

Everything, she thought. What does that encompass really?  Fleeing for your life, surviving a fire, losing a child and living in the mountains for this fight for independence, does that cover it? Isn’t that enough sacrifice for this cause? What more can they possibly want from him?

            “I almost killed that Tirona..calling me unlettered, unqualified even for a post they spat at me”, he continued in anguish.

Oriang didn’t say a word. His defeat in San Juan had grazed his pride but now it was hacked in pieces. Recalling his sacrifices, she remembered their son and felt the familiar pain. He was named Andres too, like his father. He was barely three and died of smallpox. They couldn’t reach to get medicines on time. He was giddy and playful boy. Andres used to carve him play daggers and wooden boxes from discarded lumber.  But they didn’t have time to mourn him because they had to flee. It was day in August when they buried him.  Andres face had been gaunt, emotionless while looking at the men placing their child to the ground. She held tightly at his arm as their son was being lowered to the pit and let out a faint scream as a primal pain gutted her. She tried hard to steady herself as her legs wobbled and threatened to give way. But Oriang didn’t fall.

“Maybe wanting a free county is not enough,” Andres continued in the cool night.“Because why would they want to believe me, I’m not an ilustrado like Rizal. Maybe they’ve treated him with more respect” he mocked.

Then he stood up and paced the bamboo floors, creaking at each step. Then in a sudden fit, he kicked a wooden chair that came crashing into the nipa wall. “Mga punyeta!” he yelled. “Andres!” Oriang wailed, dropping her threads. She made her way to the fallen chair.

“I’m sorry he said, following her. She looks at him, his eyes filmed with defeat. Their betrayal flicked his armor, pricking the braggadocio he insolently waved. But Oriang refused to acknowledge his defeat. There was too much at stake. The Supremo has to have the tenacity to lead the people.  She touched his shoulder. “We will go past this, like we always do” she said. Her face determined in the darkened room, her frail frame undeterred. He nodded and went to his men.

It had been a few days when the frantic knocks came on the door. Her heart lurched as she remembered the same sounds that awakened her at night in Caloocan when the Guardia Civil came. But this time it was different. Emilio’s men were here. With thundering hoove steps, they fired shots and Oriang saw some of her Katipunero brothers fell, others beaten.  She held her Remington rifle tight but Andres told her to flee before they arrived. She tried hiding in a thicket but was captured with Andres and his brother, Procopio and brought to Naic for trial.

His meeting with other Katipuneros a few days ago had been the subject for this sedition trial.  The trial lasted for days and they were placed in a dingy cellar with only one window.  It was stuffy and overheated. Andres was weak from his wounds, a gunshot in the arm and stab wounds on his neck. He was also feverish. Oriang ripped portions of her tapis to bind his wounds and dipped some of it in water and dabbed it on his body to lower his fever. With an old, musky blanket she covered him. Her solitude often awakened by her worries of his fate, triggering sobs that are stifled when he stirs.

It had been the ninth of May and it was the night of her birthday. Andres heard her cries. He touched her hand. “What is it?” he asked weakly. “Nothing” she replied. “Please..”  he pressed. She was silent then replied.  “It’s just my birthday…I’m sorry I’m being a baby..” He smiled. “Happy birthday, mahal“ he said. She leaned to meet his lips. “I’m sorry we couldn’t celebrate tonight…” he sighed. “You deserve a grand celebration, Oriang with lots of food, lots of friends, lots of laughter, he said “Maybe your parents were right..I can’t give you a good life” he said. She jerked and looked at him. “Don’t say that“ she admonished. Andres smiled and wearily closed his eyes.

When he fell asleep, Oriang remembered how she has changed, from a daughter of a gobernadorcillo to a revolutionary. And how escaping from the Guardia Civil have became apart of her life when she married Andres.  Like riding a carromata in darkened alleys  while clutching critical Katipunan documents or paddling a riverboat in Pasig River to get away from the Spaniards. Perilous as it was, she loved the river part of her escape, the lapping water, the moon that suffused the river with its light, the silence. Far from the travails, the torture, the anguish. She found a stillness there, a comfort she often brings back as she goes through the chaos, the cries again.

The next day the verdict came out, its content was unknown. When the guards arrived at their door, Oriang held on to Andres as long as she can, grabbing his shirt, holding on to his leg until they forcibly ripped them apart. They led him to a hammock because he was too weakened to walk.  Her cries teamed with the tempest that arrived that day. The wind whined as it broke the tree branches and the rain fell hard, angry and steady. She begged the guards not to take his husband and let her go to Heneral Miong and beg for his life or at least let him recover from his wounds before taking him away. They agreed. Holding up her saya tightly, she crossed a furious river while holding on to the sides of white-washed boulders embedded in the water. But when she arrived in the camp, the Heneral wasn’t there.

When she went returned, she saw some guards carrying the blanket they used and the hammock lay in a pile. “Where is he? Where are they?” she screamed frantically. They didn’t answer and walked away. “Please, please, sirs, where are they?” she asked each soldier, grabbing the sides of their uniform, begging and kneeling along their path. Finally, someone said. “We left them in the mountains.”

Oriang ran. In her wooden clogs, she hauled herself up the rocks that littered the slope, grabbing the branches, vines that covered a soggy trail. The rain drummed her face as she clambered on the mud-covered rocks and protruding tree roots. She searched the mountain, going through the thick cogon grasses, scraping herself and calling out his name. She didn’t find him. Days passed and other Katipuneros went up and stayed with her, bringing her food and clothes. But she didn’t eat, accepting only buko shards to abate her hunger. She was filthy and her saya was soiled from dirt, her fingernails ragged and scratches adorned her hands and shoulders.

No, they could not have done it, she thought. We are brothers. Filipinos. No. She refused to believe that they can commit an atrocious act to a brother. After all he did, this was it? Fate can’t be that cruel. No. She wanted to believe he was alive even if the gritty mountains mocked her with its immovable stance, bearing witness to her harried state. No, this can’t be the end. We will always go past anything.

Then he arrived. Julio. One of their trusted friends.  They led him to Oriang. He was aghast at her despondent state but remained collected. She had a slight stench that whiffed in the air. “Oriang, you have to go down..,please don’t do this to yourself  ” he said urgently. She looked at him in his white rolled-up polo and blue trousers with a pistol hanging on his side. Nakpil, she sometimes calls him, is a scrubbed face she haven’t seen in weeks.“ I haven’t found him yet, Julio” she said, barely a whisper. Her lips were dry and her hair was down and unruly, her payneta dangling on the side. They were at a peak of a valley, the sun simmering on their heads. “We already scoured the mountains” he said then shook his head. Her eyes remained fixed on the shrubs below. Yes, fate can be unkind. It can. With that, she drew a deep breath and let the searing numbness she fought for days finally subdue her.  Then she looked at Julio’s kind face and noticed the darkness edging on his side, slowly filling the afternoon light then her legs gave way.

The Gift of Asul by May Navarro

A new set of gray clouds began to float towards us, suffusing the morning sky. My hands began to turn cold. The sea began to gather its own shade of gray as if the nimbus fleet wasn’t enough to cast an ominous mood. Meanwhile, the winds laps at our hair, scattering it to our faces. Where are you, Taytay? I thought. Dear Lord, I hope he’s okay. My grandfather has been missing in the enormous ocean, reduced to a speck in the vastness of it, alone in his beaten bangka. It has been three days. “The storm erupted suddenly, catching everyone by surprise” said one of the lucky fishermen who escaped the grasp of this temperamental monsoon.  But Taytay wasn’t so lucky, swept away by the furious winds, he still hasn’t made it back.

Naynay clutched her sand-crusted rosary beads and held her scarf tightly on her neck as she looks at the defiant ocean. Her duster mottled with sprays from the sea, the lashing waves threatening to get to us. I held on to my wilted umbrella as the wind tried to pull it away, adamantly refusing to give in to this tug-of-war. He will come back, I tell myself, he should. Because he can’t leave me like Asul did.

It is the summer I turned nine, the summer of 1985. I had been reading my Archie comic book in my room when I heard a familiar rumble and slid the curtains aside. It was Taytay revving his owner type jeep inside our subdivision, breaking the lull of monotonous silence in our place. After kissing my wary parents goodbye for the summer, I clambered up Taytay’s stainless steel jeepney and touched the old rosary that hanged in his rearview mirror. Naynay made sure that it was always here, swinging like a pendulum during the ride.  Taytay’s jeep was old and spartan, no fancy radio or contraption, only rolled black plastic covers on the side to protect us from the rain. I have always awaited his arrival, his presence a gift of momentary freedom, freedom from the suffocating house riddled with angry crashes and bitter ramblings, fights that was becoming intense as of late. But when my parents made up, it was as if they didn’t almost kill each other with my mother beaming at the baubles my father bribed as a peace offering. But the lull is achieved only for a time. Then the tempest rises again and I am at my room, listening to rants of a rock band on my headphones to mute their voices.

Taytay often whisked me away, his only apo to the coastal town of Laiya during vacations. Maybe he pitied me, an only child, an innocent civilian caught in the crossfire. I always felt welcomed in their home despite its bare conditions. They lived in an old nipa hut with slats of bamboo as floor and earthen jars to store water with. They ate with their hands, happily polishing the plastic plates that often had fish as viand. But their warmth more than compensated for these modest accommodations as Naynay would  hungrily gather me in her arms when I arrive. “My, you’ve grown up so fast Mina”, she often would exclaim, the lines of her face deepening with each grin. Sometimes, it’s hard to believe my mother grew up in a simple fishing village like this, even harder to comprehend how her red-tinted nails and fully-made up face  is a sharp contrast to Naynay’s rough, hands and weathered face. But I was nine years old and I didn’t think about it much, only the kind concern of my grandparents mattered and the sound of gentle waves washing away the numbness that trailed me from the city.

I wasn’t very fond of taguan and patintero, games some of the kids played in the village. I played for a time then settled to reading my Funny or Hiwaga komiks near the shore. I enjoyed watching the fishermen going out to sea as if embarking on a new adventure and going back before sunset with a heavy bounty. I wondered what kind of fish they caught and the sea creatures they saw. Did they wrestle a giant, hungry squid or dived with the sharks? I wondered. Then I looked at my freshly-brushed doll with a crudely sewn- fish tail courtesy of patches of cloth that fell from Naynay’s sewing machine. Did they see mermaids too?  Were they beautiful as regaled by books and had long, lustrous hair? Did they see their tails in the waves? I always wanted to ask Taytay these question many times. But I knew they were as true as Santa Claus jumping down the chimney and the elves making my doll.

When I exhausted my pile of komiks, I often go to the waves, submerging my feet, feeling the coarse sand underneath. I would also dive and grab seashells underwater and hide it in my pocket and polish the white, smooth stones I would get on my walks. Sometimes, I would chase a skittering hermit crab to its hole, marveling at its speed. Then I would go further down and climb a bed of rocks and sit on top while the sun set, eagerly awaiting the crimson hues and orange splashes that painted the sky.  The display of colors stirred a sadness that made me miss my family.

I always love eating crabs, scraping away at the lavish orange fat inside it shells and dipping it in vinegar strewn with crushed garlic and sea salt. Taytay told me that these crustaceans often lived in the crevices of rocks. So one day I went to my bed of rocks earlier than sunset so I can surprise Naynay with the crabs I can collect. With a basket on hand, I untangled the rocks with my stick, but there weren’t any. Disappointed, I pushed on then I noticed a slight movement behind a pile of rocks, a big crab! I thought. So I tentatively navigated myself there and then saw her. A young girl my age was sitting with dark ringlets like curled noodles framing her face. I was miffed by the intrusion on my space and wanted to call her about it. Then I noticed her long curled locks discreetly covered half her body, her skin dark tan with ridges like scales and a tail covered with blush pink scales. And her eyes had the deepest blue disconcertingly standing out from her brown face. I didn’t move, so surprised, I almost fell down the rocks. She smiled, her teeth the color of ivory. “Hi” I said. She didn’t talk. She had some kind of telepathy. Something like Hello, she conveyed. “You’re a sirena” I told her in my mind. “Is that what they call us here?” she teased.

I called her Asul because she doesn’t have a name. We became friends and played with the pearls she gathered from the oysters she ate. She only eats seaweeds and oysters, nothing with tail. I would bring my sungka and drop the pearls on its wooden ends. I taught her how to play this native game and with my swimming goggles and snorkel on, she would hold my hand as she showed me the yellow and blue lathered fishes swimming in the corals. My grandparents would worry at the time spent near the sea but I told them I met a friend there and they would be appeased.  Nobody minded me as I am an outcast, the city girl who refused to play and keeps to herself so I was free to swim with Asul, and how she swims so beautifully, so fluid and effortless, her tail elegantly dancing through the water. When I couldn’t keep up with her, I would swim on my back and watch the soft clouds float by, listening to her stories. I love hearing her adventures like the pink jellyfish with thin filaments that she swam with in Coron, the dangerous, blustery waves that almost crashed her near the cliffs of Batanes and the timid whalesharks  she observed in quiet Donsol.  

Asul had an acute sense of hearing and would swiftly swim away once anyone gets near us. She also heard their thoughts like she does mine. And this is why their kind was never discovered. But to my detriment, some kids curious about my solitary stance in the rocks often caught me talking to myself as Asul swiftly left, observing us from below the water. The cruel kids then branded me as their Sisa, heckling me as deranged, not only an outcast.

I once asked Asul why she chose me to see her. Or why her kind let them be seen my humans. After taking her turn at sungka, dropping the tiny seashells on the holes, she replied “Because you love the ocean, I know, I’ve heard it” I looked at her, my eyes searched her azure eyes. Is that why? Or maybe she was amused. Maybe she has watched me often lying on the sand, face down, arms tucked my chest and my legs pointed to the sea, anticipating the gregarious waves to sweep me to shore. I would often fantasize being a mermaid, wishing I could swim the depths of the sea and be overwhelmed by the silence of the underwater world . No screams, no crashes, just plain serenity. Maybe Asul had read my mind.

The summer was ending and I was ecstatic about my new friend, one I could anticipate playing with every summer. But she handed me grave news. She would be leaving soon. Her family has had enough of the loud destruction they had to endure from the humans, aghast at the slaughter they have seen. Asul recalled the scores of dead fish that often floated by after each attack, the blood on their gills and the destruction of precious corals where sea animals thrived on. She disliked the bombardment on her home with rocks sometimes crashing at them. Dynamite fishing, I thought. Taytay abhorred these practices and dissuaded the other fishermen from abusing the sea. But some never learned and the amount of fish began to dwindle.  They had to go farther into the ocean to cast their nets like Taytay did the day he went missing.

Saddened, I cried at the cruelty of fate. I’m losing a friend. But Asul softly held my hand then pressed one of the biggest gold hued pearl I’ve seen. She said it was a gift, a reminder of our friendship.  I held it in my hands, watching it catch the light and gape at its smooth perfection. Then I remembered something I could give her and told her to wait. I scampered back to the hut, hid my pearl inside the pocket of my rust-colored jacket, and rustled through my toys then I went back to the rocks. Other kids amused by my fast retreat, called out “Hey Sisa, what’s the rush?” and laughed. Heaving from the run, I gave her a small glass colored sphere with a colored strip embedded inside. Asul looked at it, amazed by this ordinary marble. “It’s so beautiful, I’ve never seen anything like this in the ocean” she gushed “ We call it our glass pearl” I said proudly. She hugged me and I felt the surprising coolness of her textured skin and inhaled the scent of seaweed on her hair. I would often remember that when I think of her. Asul left at sunset, waving goodbye as the last rays of the sun diminished in the sky. I was inconsolable that night and my grandparents didn’t know why.

The coast guards have arrived, muscled men in deep orange shirts, quietly determined to fight the towering waves and scour the islands for Taytay.  Brave men, I thought. I hope they find Taytay fast. Hours passed and some people were muttering that no one could have survived at sea that long, that it was a miracle if he was found. I glared at them for losing hope as I walked the slippery slope of hope and hopelessness. I slid closer to Naynay and held her hand tightly. Then I heard the roar of a rubber boat, from afar it looked like a toy bobbing up and down the unsteady waves, then I saw a figure weakly standing and waving his hands. The rain began to pour and the visibility began to worsen. Then I recognized him. Taytay! I ran to the shore, tearing away my umbrella and screamed with jubilation. Naynay made the sign of the cross and sighed her relief.

Taytay was assisted out of the boat, drenched, shivering and severely dehydrated. His hands and feet crumpled by the sea. He told me that he hanged on his boat as the waves overpowered it, he didn’t let go even if the frightening darkness of the ocean engulfed him at night. And when all had left us alone, he ushered me to come sit beside him. ” I didn’t tell them but I had a friend with me”, he whispered to my ear. “Taytay, come on!” I exclaimed blaming his hallucination to fatigue and hunger. He had been at sea too long, it was muddling his senses. I was just glad that he made it. Digging inside his wet pocket, he smiled then looked at me. “She even gave me this” he said and opened his wrinkled palm, a marble tumbled to the floor.

Musings of the Unworthy by May Navarro

The shifting groan of the aircon hurtled my thoughts back to the sparse motel room.  Here in this rented cocoon, the uncomfortable silence welcomes me again. I stifle a smile as I remember the little justice I tried to mete in my mind, images of him succumbing to my blows, a scene I have wanted to be played out an hour ago. But I remain seated hiding the onslaught within.  He is here unharmed, murmuring in his sleep with the crisp white sheet askew on his bare thighs, innocently unaware of the violence I pictured him in. Only the steady hum of an old aircon keep me company.  I don’t know what time it is. The windows are boarded up, blocking any streak of light, only the rickety side lamps illuminate the room casting it with a homey glow I find ironic.  I look at him, unmindful of me in his slumber. I wonder if I’m part of his dream. Is he dreaming of me? Or is he lost in it with her and their two boys?  I sighed as I adjusted myself on the worn sofa opposite the bed, watching him.  Will I ever be strong enough to leave?  I wonder.

It had been a rainy evening in July 2009. I had been waiting on a jeepney stop wilted by the rain watching packed jeepneys careen on the slippery streets with no headlights on when a black Mercedes glided to a stop in front of me. He rolled down a window and asked if I wanted a ride. I immediately recognized the face.   “Naku, Sir Charlie, thanks po”, I said and without much thinking, folded my soggy umbrella and stepped inside, my wet shoe almost getting stuck on the door. Then I looked at him, his wide smile crumpling his slanted eyes, his face smooth with pinkish tints and an outline reserved for magazines. I almost held my breath. I have always watched him from afar encased in his office or with a slew of assistant trailing him. I’m surprised he would remember me. I tried to look detached, distracting myself with the car’s confines, its wood-paneled interiors and fancy leather. This was a far cry from the cramped jeepneys I rode in where I jostled for position, burrowing my behind into a conquered space and bracing my nostrils for polluted fumes.

 Looking back, I didn’t realize then that these “car rides” would become frequent, initially peppered with friendly conversations, how’s your job, the family, your holiday followed by long side glances and accidental touching of hands. Then one day he just kissed me.  Euphoric was an understatement as I felt a blush under my brown cheeks. Of course, he wasn’t into me because of my charm. I realized that when he turned the car to an alley lined with garage rooms. Locking the door behind him, his once affable eyes slowly became heated. He came near and kissed me hard, his tongue lingering in my mouth. He quickly unbuttoned my blouse then lifted me up and carried me to the thinly covered bed. Lying there, I noticed our reflection above, his smooth back and my disheveled hair. Then I felt him tug off my last undergarment. I don’t know why but I suddenly panicked and covered myself with my hands. He smiled then softly kissed my lips, trailing it to the back of my ears.  He pulled my hands down and I felt a tingle that radiated to my body. .So this is how it feels like as I recalled some of the lewd scenes in my dog-eared novels. Finally….then I touched his face as I spread myself to him.

There were no promises on his part and I didn’t care. Over time, I became more than the prey, I learned to hunt for his pleasures, subduing him with my caresses and charged kisses. I also became a mute listener to his frustrations, his disappointments.  I listened while he ranted about his father’s interference with the business and his hard campaign for his approval while his wife maxes out his credit cards with her trips abroad. Then he softens when he talks about his two boys he hardly knows, blaming himself for not having time for them. I listened to him in earnest while massaging his back or while caressing his hair as he laid on my chest. It didn’t matter to me then, holding this handsome angel in my arms was more than enough for me. Even if I don’t see him as much especially during the holidays. Christmases and New Years were reserved for his family. Forlorn and dejected, I would often spend those days walking aimlessly in festive malls.

I wasn’t a beauty. Men didn’t fall all over me. Riding the LRT, I often look down during Valentine’s day, embarrassed by my empty hands, secretly envious of the roses the other girls had. Men ignored me or pegged me as a younger sister or the silent friend. My first kiss was with a short boy with premature gray hair from a nearby college when I was twenty.  He was visibly elated when I agreed, maybe I was the first one who said yes.  I was still flattered even if he slobbered me like a dog, his saliva almost reaching my eyes. It was my first kiss immortalized in the darkened cavern of a moviehouse while AiAi de las Alas spirited it away with Aling Dionesia. He didn’t call after and I didn’t mind, he’s not someone to look at anyway, I thought callously. No one asked me after that. I studied for the Accounting Board which I didn’t pass. Then came Charlie, my manna from heaven.

My friends like to ask me if I have someone in my life. Often I lie, while the others who know are aghast with the arrangement. “So is he leaving his wife for you?” they ask. I stare back with no answer and they shake their heads. Then they talk about something else. Honestly, Charlie never mentioned it and I didn’t ask or didn’t demand it. Maybe I was grateful he chose me, that he wanted to see me even for a couple of hours even if I have to wait for his call or text messages in the middle of the night. With each ring or bleat, I step out in the shadowed streets to meet him, his Mercedes waiting in a hidden side street. Any doubts I have about us dissipates once the car door opens and I see his face.  Beholden, his soft lips will distract my ungainly mind and I will feel enamored again. Then our exhilarating ride will end and I have to get out, back to the ghoulish roads again.

Alone, a part of me will brood, a nibbling ache will surface.  Is it wrong to hunger for more time with him not only the crumbs he can spare me? Do I even have the right?  I know I don’t. I should know my place. But sometimes, I just want to know more things about him, what food he likes, who his favorite band is and the names of his pets when he was ten. We never talked about that. And when he leaves me two streets away from my boarding house in a drizzling midnight, I sometimes wonder if this affair is still worth it when the feeling of worthlessness throbs after each tryst.  Why do I go on like an addict who needs her fix?  Ingesting a drug that vividly colors my existence yet slowly destroys me within.  Why do I need this quick high, this heady feeling when I burn after?  I can’t seem to stop yearning for him. It is an addiction that doesn’t seem to care about anybody else anymore.

“Don’t you ever feel remorse about his wife and kids?” a friend once asked me while waiting inside a coffeeshop.  Remorse, that’s a strong word.  I looked at her and gripped the handle of my scalding cup. And with an amused smile I met her accusing eyes and pursed lips. “Sometimes”, I say, knowing all too well of the intensifying guilt that has started to fester lately.  “If she finds out, what then?” she asks as she calmly stirred sugar in her espresso, maybe imagining tearing out her husband’s other woman’s roots if she had a chance.“She knows” I say casually. Her eyes widen but say nothing. “She doesn’t care as long as he still lives with her” I continued blandly. And she shakes her head like most of my close friends do when I talk about us.

I’ve seen her wife, sometimes visiting the office with kids in tow chased by yayas in matching starched uniforms. She seems larger than life with her glutathione-injected ivory skin, brown hued lustrous hair and a kind face that belies her fierce temper. Her voluptuous figure is often hugged by skinny jeans and sheer tops. Everything about her spelled of expensive derma treatments, hours in the gym and exclusive salons. She often throws me a glance when she meanders by the Accounting department and smiles like I’m a joke. She believes there are others too, not only me. I sometimes wonder if she doesn’t care anymore or only pretends not to or perhaps she had been hardened by his infidelities. But she takes it in stride, parading her expensive bags and slutty heels maybe because she knows that in the end he will always come back to her and her children and I am but one of his flings.  

Meanwhile, in the office where no one knows or if they did pretended not to know, Charlie refers to me perfunctorily, just another employee, no secret glances or messages. I am contacted only through my phone. He never really asked anything about me, my family nor does he notice the new things I try for him, the fruity cologne I dab on my wrist or the lacey pink camisole I bought for three “gives” from our resident Avon lady. He never seemed to be interested in me, in who I am or what I like. I don’t even know if he knows anything about me either.  And I never really minded. He wants to see me and that’s what matters.

I’ve always thought I would get married, imagined myself wearing a resplendent white gown with lace sleeves like the Barbie my classmate used to have. And the only man I imagined marrying is Charlie, he in his white tux, polished and breathtaking like a Ken doll. I know that’s quite a laugh, dreaming to be married to a married man.  But my elaborate imagination had already captured us kissing on a dusky beach at a sunset wedding, our feet submerged in the soft sand caressed by the waves. It’s a fantasy I’ve always seen through while standing inside an LRT train, watching the blur of buildings go by and listening to the nasal voice of the train driver as he announced each station. And when the train fluidly stops and the people spills out, I’m jolted back to the real world again. He is a married man and I have quite an imagination.

           

Lying on my cot at night, disturbed by the sounds of mattresses squeaking and other boarders snoring, I often wonder about my fate. I’m not the type who strives for the best things in life. I wait for it to arrive. Like my job, proudly endorsed to me by my Aunt Lalaine, thanks to her “connections”  in the company I’m working for and of course, the arrival of Charlie.  Maybe this roots from my childhood recalling the Freudian discussions I heard in the HR office once.  My father left when I was five. He left us for another woman, a hulking woman with large breasts manning a convenience store. My mother, a frail woman didn’t fight back, she let him go. Fits of tears often accompanied our days when I would see her lying in bed, defeated, tissues discarded on the floor. Sometimes, she refuses to get up and I would go to school with unpressed shirts and empty lunchboxes. But she recovered and went to work as a seamstress in a nearby garment factory to support me. She died before my college graduation.

It was the week before my thirtieth birthday and an unexpected gift arrived, a wandering butterfly unconsciously landed on my palm.  Riza, a friend handed it to me with an envelope, thanking me for trimming her business expenses. It was a butterfly mirror case adorned with indigo stones. “You deserve it” she beamed and walked away. I touched the glistening beads and the intricate butterfly setting, I never had anything this beautiful, this pretty. I’m used to hand-me downs from my richer cousins from faded clothes and yellowed books. I studied my reflection on the mirror. Is she right? Do I deserve this? Do I deserve this radiant and brand new gift? I sighed as I glimpsed at the dark and plain-looking woman staring back at me. I’m not really sure.

I never expected this day to arrive, one of the rare occasions I asked Charlie what will happen to us, our future. Maybe being thirty in two days disconcerts one’s mind. Or maybe it was the butterfly. He becomes evasive as always. “Can we not talk about it please?” he said while checking his phone looking away.”  I just want to know if this is leading somewhere” I said, surprised by my honesty. He didn’t move, his eyes locked on the screen. Then he calmly it puts down. He comes closer and looks at me with steely eyes.“If you’re not happy with me then maybe you deserve someone better”. Then he abruptly turned his back.  And I stood there, dressed down, aghast, fixing my eyes on his turned head as the room turned silent. It felt like a gunshot had been fired and everything faded into black and white. The world turned slowly and I couldn’t move. I felt parts of me collapsing inside.

He ignored me as he strips down his clothes and entered the shower, I wanted to lunge at him and hit his face. But I wasn’t like that. So I sat down and began to look back. Seven years, Charlie, seven fuckin years of hiding me, of ignoring me in public, of leaving me in isolated roads, of whisking me away when your friends or family were nearby and I’m reduced to a damn cliché. You deserve someone better.  That’s it, that’s the best you can fling to me? I didn’t even deserve a half-hearted excuse or a nebulous one. I was silent and he avoided my eyes. He finished his shower and lay in bed. I remained seated and said nothing.  He never did love me, the realization echoing mercilessly in the pallid walls of my mind. I was convenient and available for seven years.  So it really is possible then for a man to reach for a warm body when he needs it even if he doesn’t feel anything for this thing, this person. I let him sleep, his back turned to me. Maybe he was thinking that when he wakens, I would be over my dramatics, the way he always does me after our fights.

Sometimes being hidden like a leper feels like rain chipping away at you, piece by piece, flesh by flesh, cell by cell, pounding slowly but relentlessly or like waves smashing at you in the ocean tearing at you with undulating constancy, leaving you deformed and almost unrecognizable. I was always picked last and I never felt that I deserved better. Maybe I deserved this. And if people ask me, “Susan, why did you stay too long? Wasn’t it obvious that he was just using you” stopping short of saying how could you be so stupid.  Then I will say, even if it’s none of their business that I genuinely believed that he must have felt even an iota of affection for me in that span of seven years, that maybe I may have meant something more to him other than his trusty booty call. Now, naïve as it sounds, I still wanted to hold on to this theory even after his devastating cliché because if I was never his beloved mistress, what am I then, a decent whore with a day job?  Maybe in the end it was wrong for me to hope. Maybe I should have given my terms. Maybe I shouldn’t have put a low price on myself. Maybe.

He woke up and got dressed. No words passed between us as he slipped on his polo, adjusted his belt and combed his hair. He didn’t utter a word even when I opened the car door and slipped into the dark streets. And as the usual cacophony reverberated in our neighborhood, a new silence began echoing in my heart, my humiliation dawned to me again. I know this should be the last time I should see him but I know it won’t be. Part of me still wanted to see his face even after all this. Such was the cruel reality of this addiction. And yes, Charlie still called me after that night and I still met him. Again and again. And though, everything may have felt the same to him, something in me have changed. The steady warmth I’ve always felt for him have warped into an unexplainable frost that I didn’t show. I had begun biding my time. Hours, days, weeks passed. Then it arrived, the phone call with an accented voice, another manna from heaven. I couldn’t believe it at first and repeated the offer numerous times as if I had not heard it right. Then I began to feel happy. Finally, someone wanted me.

One night he called and I told him I would be waiting in the usual street of M. Domingo. I waited and a car finally came. I saw the streets bathed in weakened lights flashing through the car window as my mind wandered inside. Then I found myself in Edsa with cars inching in millipede pace. But I didn’t mind, I amused myself by watching people through their untinted cars, yawning and bored while some have a deranged look on their faces, staring ahead, seething at the stall of cars. Exiting Edsa, I felt the car cruise to a faster pace, I looked out to see unfamiliar roads coming into view. Finally the car moved toward a sloping pavement. Upon reaching the top, it stopped and someone unloaded my things from the back. I stepped out and tugged my black cardigan tighter. A mild breeze touched my skin.  I checked all my bags then gave him my last crisp bill. “Thanks po manong”. The taxi driver took it with his hardened palm and nodded. My phone was furiously ringing and I took it out of my pocket and turned it off.  Then I looked up to see the moving lights in the sky and adjusted my ears to the sound of loud engines welcoming the night.

The Last Sunrise by May Navarro

A crimson hue lightly painted the early morning sky while a gentle chill seeped in the air. Only a soft hum of a Mercedes seems out of place, blending out of tune with the chirping of the birds. The figure inside the car glances at his watch. Quarter to six. Just five minutes more, he tells himself and carefully pulls a lever that slightly dips him backwards, giving him a comfortable position as he waits for her. He closes his eyes welcoming the frigid air and at the same time irritated by the assaulting stench of his new car. He touches his unshaven face and remembers the dark circles under his eyes. Minutes passed and the grating creak of an iron gate wakes him up. It was three houses down. A woman emerges, tilting on the side, carrying a pail of water to freshen the santan shrubs. He glances at her from the dark tint of his car. She doesn’t see him. The way she doesn’t even after three days.

“Hi, I’m Rose”, extending her hand coupled with a blushing smile.

” Shortcut for Rosario, I presume” , he replied.

“ No, just plain Rose”

Watching her closely, Rafael can still remember meeting her in a smoke-filled bar lovingly called Insanity, eyeing each other in the midst of the wrenching paintings that decorated the walls while half- listening to the stirring poems read on stage. After being introduced by a friend, they found themselves in a corner smoking cigarettes and looking at each other’s tattoos. Her boyish hair nicely contradicted by her blush lipstick and the delicate hoops on her ears.  He smiled as he recalled her laughter, uninhibited, no apologies. He liked that.  And inked on her wrist was a string of petals with the word fearless created with subtle intricacy. He asked her why that word. 

Her smile slightly retreated and looked down, examining the drops forming on her glass.“ I want to be fearless in life especially when I’m writing my poems ”, she said without meeting his eyes. He  looked at her intently, understanding what she meant. Whether crafting a stanza or lathering the last stroke of color on a painting, both can be fulfilling and frightening, unconsciously exposing a part of yourself. They turned silent, recognizing a kinship. Then he raised his glass. “ Let’s drink to that then, for the fearless and the fearful.. like me”  he joked dousing the sober moment. She laughed then aimed a billow of smoke towards him.

            In his mind, he waited for the nicotine-tinged smoke to part and reveal the smile that beguiled him.  But his reverie rebelled and the images flickered. His memory of Rose began to fade. Instead it revealed a barrel of a gun. He remembered this gun, he has pulled its trigger many times as he mercilessly eviscerated his target unmindful of the wry stares he attracted. Onlookers didn’t know that he conjured Napoleon Andal’s face in each shot. He wanted him to pay. He also wanted to erase that haunting image of Miguel from his memory. The grotesque corpse of his brother laid out in the morgue, face blown by a rain of bullets, waiting to be identified. After all this time, he can still hear the piercing wails of his mother echoing the walls as she saw her son and glimpse at the silent tears in his father’s  cheeks  as he hesitantly touched Miguel’s icy hand.  Deemed to replace his father as Mayor, his brother was ambushed in their town, fatally inspired by his father’s old political rival, Napoleon Andal.

            Sitting outside the morgue, everything felt surreal to him, he felt like a spectator watching someone else enduring this heinous pain.  Seeing Miguel disfigured and killed like useless prey had been almost unbearable. But he had to build an unflappable front, anchoring for his parents who were severely weakened by his brother’s death. And when relatives started arriving, offering their warm sympathies, he quietly stumbled out of the hospital and reached his car. Inside, he ferociously thumped at the steering wheel, letting loose the pain and the vicious anger. Tears came down copiously as he plotted his next move.

Rafael never liked politics, shunning it to the point of leaving their province to study in Manila. He didn’t want this life but he seemed to be thrust in it now. No longer carrying easels and boxes of paints, he now carries a briefcase of licensed firearms inside his car. If Rose could see me now, she’ll be aghast, he thought. “Hey Rambo”, she’d joke. But this is no longer a laughing matter. The Rafael she knew then was different from the one who sits in a car three houses down. She didn’t know about his brother Miguel before, the similar tattoos they carry, the one their father threw a fit over, a menacing dragon on their arms. “What are you members of a gang, part of the bilibid?” he shouted, a vein throbbing on his head. Her mother led him away and shot them a disappointed look. In their room, they laughed about the grunts each emitted while the dragon was branded on their skin. “You were almost crying, bro”, Miguel teased. “Duh, look who’s talking, you were grunting so loud, I thought you were going to pass out”, he ribbed back. He remembers that day, seared in his mind like the tattoos they both had, the same one that he identified his brother with.

That time Rose didn’t know about his political family. He didn’t want to. He thought he could escape from it, let Miguel be the one to continue it. He abhorred large crowds, meetings, ass-kissing, grandstanding. He wanted a peaceful life. Then this happened. No one has to say it but he knows he has to step up. If he doesn’t they’ll be hunted like dogs. The Andals wouldn’t stop harassing them until they got their power back.  This power can be so addictive, it can warp someone so deep it’s frightening, he thought. He fears that donning it would plunge him deeper into a greater abyss, darker than the murky streams of grief, the one where he may not stop falling into. The one that can transform him to the thing he hated.

His idea of a simple life has always included Rose, lying back on a beach, watching the stars dotting the dark sky and drinking beer on the side. She would recite poems by Neruda while he is soothed by a mild breeze and the lapping of the waves. But that is wishful thinking. They live in realities now. Their choices affect other people too. Once she confided to him about her need to go abroad for work. “Nanay can no longer fund his medicines for diabetes and Rica will be starting college soon”. I want to stay here, but I’m not sure if my call center job and writing poems on the side would be enough to pay the bills, she said softly. That time, Rafael wished he was Donald Trump and save her from going to Canada as a caregiver and leave him here. It has all changed now. He can’t stop her and he wouldn’t stop her either.

Grief softly descends like feather then slits you apart like a tip of a knife. He wanted to tell Rose of his pain as he watched her gather her now longer hair and twist it into a bun, how he once watched his mother inside his brother’s untouched room with a faded polo shirt in her hands.  How he went inside and sat beside her and watched grief engulf her. “Your Kuya Migui has left us, Rafa, he’s not coming back” she said sadly. His mothers haven’t called them in their childhood nicknames in a while and he can feel the grief slowly burrowing inside him again, shredding him within. He shared almost everything with his brother, clothes, cars, shoes and even black eyes. He stood up and held a dusty Tamiya trophy they won, remembering the high fives of their youth. He looked around and felt a hollowness enveloping the room. How can anyone think of this dastardly act, he thought ,when each one of us has a mother who will mourn our loss,  a family who will be forever altered by this traitorous act? And why can’t you fight like a man, Napoleon Andal instead of sending your henchmen to do this criminal deed? Why can’t you just slug it out in the elections than maim us with this cowardly attrition? But I guess you don’t have enough balls, to face it off with Miguel and even pull the f**n trigger. But don’t worry, I’m not a coward and I will be waiting for your downfall on election day.

Justice is for the rich and its quest a long, uncertain battle, he thought if I had my way, I will go by Napoleon Andal’s house and scorch him until his last pathetic breath. Rafael vaguely recalled an incident days after seeing Miguel in the morgue, when one of the supposed gunmen was arrested. He stormed to the police station and upon seeing the dark man escorted by the police, lunged at him. He was held back. Then in a fit of fury and a shot of adrenaline, he snatched a policeman’s firearm and pointed at the man. The crowd cowered as he pulled the trigger again and again. The safety lock was on. He was wrestled to the cold floor while he screamed invectives and handcuffs were locked behind him. He was led to the crowded jail and no one inside attempted to come near him. His eyes were burning in anger even as his father collected him. 

Inside the car, his father gripped at the wheel, a succumbed look in his face “Anak, I don’t want to lose both of you, I don’t want to visit Miguel in cemetery and you in jail, we couldn’t take it especially your Mom…besides we’re not barbarians, we have to follow the rule of law, we’ll find another way. “ Yes, we’ll find another way, he thought , Napoleon Andal wouldn’t get what he wants, I will stand by his way, I will replace Miguel.

He has hidden so much from Rose. He has kept her at arm’s length, not letting her inside his world. But she kept it in stride, even when he shuts down when she asks him about his family. “Sometimes, I feel like I don’t know you, like making love to a man I just met, a traveling stranger”, she told her once in a dingy room suffused with kinky red lights and their rapture reflected by a luminous ceiling. Rafael looked at her hurt and said nothing because how can he tell her that she may not fit in his world, a world full of deceit, and corruption with men frothing for power.  And though he adores her bracelet tattoo, her brazen short hair and her form- hugging shirts, his conservative political family may not understand. They have tolerated him, his whims at painting while becoming a vagabond of sorts but taking her there may be too much. Especially after what happened to Miguel. Maybe like Napoleon Andal I too am a coward, he thought while looking at Rose carefully removing weeds near the santan bushes. I wasn’t able to tell her the truth. But now she knows it and doesn’t want to see me anymore.

After Miguel was laid to rest, he stayed in the province and replaced Miguel’s candidacy. He never saw his father so proud of him, always putting his arm around him and often eliciting a smile. His mother’s grief abated as she saw his son preparing to take on the mantle of power he always refused.  But he knows his brother’s absence left a void in his parents’ lives, something he cannot replace, they get teary-eyed when they encounter his friends or arranges his things. He too, sometimes sits in his brother’s room, silently talking to him in his mind. He still called Rose but never mentioned his candidacy. Or that he met someone else.  Someone who can help him win and exact his revenge. 

Jasmine is the eldest daughter of a congressman in their province. So different from Rose, she was coy, simple, a provincial lass his parents approved of. But he felt no fire.  She was appropriate but he felt no passion. But she will fit the role. It all became a matter of strategies for him, putting emotions aside and crafted a roadmap to a successful bid. His phone calls to Rose became infrequent, and dwindled into nothing. He began pursuing Jasmine like another feather in his cap. The elections were nearing and the alliance with her father was vital. The goal is to win and nothing else mattered, he thought. Napoleon Andal will pay.

Rafael won in a landslide victory and the Andals have scurried away like frightened mice. Jasmine was on his side. She was a great confidante. She understood him and the challenges and expectations of a political family. And he also began to see another side of her. While Rose’s thorny exterior covered a fierce sense of affection and duty to family, Jasmine’s delicate front camouflaged a hardened and calculating iron will. Like him, she has seen it all, the corruption, the deaths, the heady taste of power.  They are alike. He can no longer face Rose and say he is still the man she met in the bar, the carefree guy who loved the beach and had aspirations of being a Renoir. His easels and paintbrushes have gathered dust in the attic together with his half-finished stabs at impressionism. How quick has fate decided for them, how easy for him to turn off all the eager promises and self-fulfillment awaiting him in his craft. Just one scene, just one event and your life stirs in another direction, he thought. I am just a character in a plot and fate a cruel puppet master in all of this.

He wanted to tell Rose everything then, about Miguel, the candidacy. After a couple of tries, she finally answered her cell phone. There was a strangeness in her voice, a distant quality he understood. They agreed to meet at the bar. But she didn’t arrive. Rafael waited and waited. At 3 am, he chucked his last cigarette in the parking lot. He tried calling her again but she shut it off.  The next morning, he picked up yesterday’s paper and glared on the side bar of the front page, it was a picture of him and Jasmine, a feature on political clans and a hint of an upcoming engagement. He can see Jasmine’s maneuverings underneath all of this, staking her claim on him. You are mine and you and I are alike. Now his secrets are blurted in a major broadsheet for Rose to see.

It’s been a year. And Rafael is sitting in his car watching her.  This will be the last time, he thought, last time I might see her.  He will be leaving tonight after three mornings of watching Rose, ending his flimsy excuse of going to a convention and finally arranging his wedding to Jasmine. Two snakes deserve each other, he thought. Rose, too will be leaving soon. Driven by her desire to provide for her family, she has accepted a caregiver position in Canada. A mutual friend mentioned it. After the blatant revelation, they never spoke again. Her wall of silence, the only way she can grieve his deceptions, his secrets. Nary a word would she give him despite his pleadings and apologies on the phone, it is over. And I deserve it, he thought. How could I say I love her if I can’t tell her the truth? She has to walk away from a spineless man like me.

The crimson shade of the sky is giving way to a more ambient light. He wonders why is he here? Why has he come back? Is it to see the reflection of the man before Miguel’s death? To recapture what he had before the tragedy? Or to see the last sunrise he and Rose will have together? Because they will no longer have a quiet sunrise in the beach like the one they had in Anilao. His sunrise have now included sounds of vehicles being readied for his transport while a team of bodyguards argues in the background and hers  will soon be on top of freezing balcony overlooking a snowy sidewalk while she momentarily taking a puff of cigarette, pausing for a minute before going inside to clean the bedpans. The paintings and the poems will be forgotten, the painter and the poet will soon disappear.

He shifted the gear to drive and boldly cruised towards her. He drove deliberately but she didn’t budge to glance at the coal-colored car driving by. Rafael felt a tint of sadness, disappointment spreading towards him. He wanted to see her but she didn’t care or didn’t notice. Does she know it was him? Or not? Dejected, he accelerated the car and raced towards the outgoing vehicles.  He didn’t look back. And didn’t notice that she finally looked up and watched the fading car.