PASILYO 8

Antonio Maria Nieva

One day along Pasilyo 8, in a n entresuelo that passed for home for Bianong and Estela, for Ikong,
Tenteng and Miniang and the baby called Biik, one day the katsa curtains shut out the sky. Bianong
touched a lapad to his lips, and the baby cried from hunger, and Ikong was terrified of his father, and
Tenteng and Miniang lay as still as death, and Estela, and Estela, and Estela …

Somewhere in the morning a radio came to life, and Aling Upe a door away was berating her Sigue-
Sigue-Sputnik son, and still farther on, the puto vendor was singing, Puuuuuuuuto! Itoy Bayag, the
kubrador, was collecting the early bets for Jai-alai, working his way down from the far end of the Pasilyo,
and at exactly 12 noon, he was going to poke his head through the door to ask if Bianong had any sondo
to bet with, which was not likely, and also to see if by any chance Estela was not wearing anything under
her cotton shift. Bianong touched the lapad to his lips. A fly buzzed and alighted on his arm, and he
banged the table with his fist. The baby cried harder, and Ikong cringed, and Tenteng and Miniang lay
unmoving.

The morning reeled in Bianong’s mind, and reeled before his eyes, and he was groeing more irritated
because it would not stand still long for him to think, and how could a man think clearly in all this when
there was no milk for Biik and not even any aspirin fro Tenteng and Miniang?
Poor Bianong, poor Estela, poor Ikong, and Biik, and Tenteng and Miniang. Poor Estela who had to work
all night so her family could eat, and Bianong, ay, what a burden he was the lazy carabao. The fishwives
clucked their their tongues,a nd stradled the edge of his vision, safely beyond reach, mocking him.
Bianong touched the lapad to his lips then shook his fist at them. He wanted to kill them, kill them, kill,
kill them, but Pareng Isko merely laughed. He slapped his knee and winked at Mareng Estela when she
emerged with a platter of pinapaitang aso, and winked at Pareng Bianong as they touched their lapads
together, Pareng Isko saying , “ tagay,” and Bianong saying, “tagay,” and when their Marka Demonyo
was empty, he called Ikong and sent him out to Aling Upe’s for more.

Bianong was a jeepney driver. Boundary: 50 pesos a day. He worked tenhours at the wheel, with only a
quick lunch and quicker coffee with pandesal and a slice of cheese later in the afternoon, and yet he
could make no more than 20 pesos at the end of the day. No matter how he tried to figure it out. Ten
pesos for him and ten for Estela. Ten, ten, ten, pesos, pesos, pesos. He did not see the bus turning the
corner, but an old woman vending Marlboro/Hope/Philip cigarettes nearby did, and she screamed.

He wanted to retch. He felt terrible. His head swam and the pisong pansit that he had eaten earlier at
Aling Upe’s was rising, and now it was spilling out, and he closed his mouth, trying to force it back, but
could but could not swallow, and it came in spite of himself, dribbling down in gobs of
noodle/tokwa/shreds of pork/bile/saliva over the front of his shirt, and he retched again, and again. The
sun’s glare was blinding him.

Diyoskodiyoskodiyosko. Why couldn’t he move? Where was everybody?

EMERGENCY WARD, Philippine General Hospital: The nurse-on-duty logged the patient’s admission at
5:30 p.m., and paged a resident surgeon who was at the time wolfing down an egg sandwich with Coke
at the Medical Personnel Canteen and thinking of his dinner-date with the new student nurse. He swore,
as his name came over the PA system., and was still swearing under his breath as he hurried to
Emergency, leaving a third of his sandwich unconsumed.

They prepared him for surgery, cutting away the shirt with the vomit still damp on it, and then his pants,
and after it, his briefs; and after swabbing him with alcohol, they wheeled him under the lights at the
ampitheatre. Estela, wringing her hands, accompanied them, and Pareng Isko accompanied her, his gaze
transfixed upon her swaying buttocks, up to the swinging door where the NO ADMISSION sign barred
them. PAreng Isko glared balefully at the attendant who was shouldering them out. Estela was going to
be hysterical again, but Pareng Isko held her hand, saying there, there, Mare, Pareng Bianong is all right,
and moving his free hand up and down her back, up and down, until the tenseness left her and she was
beginning to feel a pleasant tingle; and all the while, under the other, Bianong was dreaming of Estela.

She had come to him after class behind the densest gumamela stand on the muni green og Intramuros,
back where it was darkest, and they had lain together on the grass, seeking each other out with
trembling hands, and afterwards just laying there into the early hours, despite the mosquitoes and the
dampness, despite sometimes the drizzle. And what if there had been clandestine spectators?

Bianong touched the lapad to his lips, and the baby cried from hunger, and Ikong looked bleakly at him,
and Tenteng and Miniang lay as unmoving as before.

He dragged himself from the bench and on to the wooden papag where Tenteng and Miniang lay. He
brushed a strand of hair off Miniang’s forehead. Tenteng whimpered. Their fever had not abated. The
morning heat was oppressive, and Estela’s absence intruded upon Bianong’s mind with the persistence
of a knife turning in his belly. He had not had anything but gin for nearly two days, and all he could
scrape up for the children was a cellophane packet of soda crackers, courtesy of Aleng Upe – I’m giving
this, you understand? For the children – who had told Ikong to tell his father, Bianong, that their credit
was definitely, for the last time, and finally, closed until further notice because their debts were already
up to here (hand rising, palm down to neck level). Biik refused to nurse at his milk bottle which held
plain tapwater sweetened with panutsa, squalling his protest over this rank deception till it tore at
Bianong’s nerves. He buried his head in his hands. Tenteng and Miniang could not eat anything at all.
The comatose twins looked like waxen dolls and were hot to the touch, and Bianong found himself
thinking, what if they suddenly melt? Should he call the doctor? Would Doctor Bangloy accept gin in lieu
of the five-peso consultation fee? Bianong thought it was funny, but he did not laugh. The twins were
too still, their silence frightened him; it reminded him too much of long hospital corridors smelling of
alcohol, and 50 watt bulbs and masked surgeons, and giggling nurses, and scalpels, and clamps, and a
darkeness shot through with screams and screeching wheels, and screams, and screams.

He wanted to scream, and found out he couldn’t, nor even move; he was drifting weightless in a false
dawn of shifting shadows, always that murkiness. It was cold. What were they doing to him? Where was
Estela? Was he never going to wake up? Tch- tch, the doctor replied through his surgical mask, and the
OR nurse handed him a cotton swab.He was working on the kneecap now, thinking whether it was not
too late to call up the girl at her boarding house. Bianong dreamed listlessly of crispy pata.

Doc washed up and headed for the phone in the nurses station outside the operating room where Isko
was rubbing EStela’s clammy hand to dispel the fear. She smelled good. It was 10:30 p.m.

All of Pasilyo 8 thought it was a great joke that Bianong could no longer drive a jeepney. How could he?
His lower extremities ended in stumps below the knees. The moment she heard he was back, Aling Upe
had materialized before his doctor to collect. Bianong remonstrated and flung silent imprecations after
her and snapped at Estela who had been after him to do something, sell cigarettes, sweepstakes tickets,
sago – couldn’t he even think of anything? she tearfully demanded of Bianong. There was no more rice,
Estela was pleading. Think of the children and the monthly rental. But Bianong could not think of
anything at all without getting furious. The room stifled him, the heat, - Estela. Bianong clenched his fist
and banged the table. Ikong shrank back in fright. The lapad was empty, and Bianong scowled the wrath
of heaven.

Estela had found work in a soda fountain of dubious route at the Avenida on Pareng Isko’s
recommendation. Pare was a personal friend of the manager. Nothing was wrong with Estela working,
Pareng Isko assured, nudging Bianong. Bianong must use his brains and not be too emotional. After all,
there were so many expenses to be paid,hindi ba? Tagay! Isko winked at Bianong and stabbed a fork
into the pansit that he had brought along for pulutan. It was good of Pareng Isko to show concern,
Bianong agreed. Isko was kind. He gave Ikong a whole peso, and Tenteng and Miniang 50 centavos each,
and Mareng Estela, a fat wink when Bianong was not looking.

Bianong blinked back the tears. He had known it all along, right from the Day of the Accident, but he
played blind, refusing to admit that Isko’s trivialities were more than what they were. Now the tears
were streaming down his face; whore, whore, whore, he shouted, his voice a hurt lament in the drift of
morning sounds. He was strangling Estela. Confess, he snarled; his fingers curled around her neck and
tightened until it distended into a lapad. He hurled the empty bottle fro him and the scene dissolved
into another morning on Pasilyo 8 when he sat on the doorsteps, smoking a cigarette while he awaited
Estela and wondered why she did not come home.

At eight o’clock, he saw the two of them. Estela and Pareng Isko, saw how their shoulders touched as
they walked down the alley. Aling Upe was looking curiously at him from behind her small counter,
while her son and his barkada snickered. He saw all this, the brethren of Pasilyo 8 expectant; Bianong
knew they were relishing it and he deliberately spat on the ground to show them that he knew it.
Pareng Isko was loaded down with bulging paper bags, grinned a good morning. Bianong mechanically
waved them in; Estela bent to give him a dutiful peck at the forehead, and Bianong scrutinised her
sourly. It was Big Night, Estela said, and that was the reason for her lateness. Pareng Isko, of course,
happened to be drinking with his friend, the manager, so he decided to accompany her home. Pareng
Isko was unloading the bags and unwrapping a lapad. Tagay, he said, lifting the lapad to his lips, after
which he handed it to Bianong, whose head was beginning to ache. The liquor burned his throat at first,
gradually settled in his stomache, an expansive warmth that filled him with lassitude. Estela said nothing.

She had decided to say nothing to Bianong about her father’s younger brother in Cagayan. He didn’t
even know she had an uncle named Pepe. She thought it best to tell Bianong about it only when she
came back. Now she had the money. Three hundred pesos in 20-peso bills that Tiyo Pepe himself had
grudgingly counted in her presence. He was shrewd trader. Pay it back when you have money, Tio Pepe
reminded in the bus station. The envelope of peso bills was tucked securely in her bra.

What Estela was thinking as she rode back to Manila on the bus: a cigarette stand, home-cooked lumpia
for Ikong to peddle in the afternoon to jeepney drivers at the corner stop, milk for Biik, a bottle of cough
syrup for Tenteng and Miniang who needed it- she wondered if they were all right. She had been three
days gone. At the junction near Angeles, the bus rode into a bumpy stretch and the driver geared down
to a crumbling crawl at the tail-end of the straggle of cargo trucks and cars and jeepneys following an
arrow. The sign advised DETOUR, Estela mentally filling out the word. It was painted sloppily on a slat of
plywood nailed to a utility post. Workers had torn up a section of the highway and were lowering
culverts into an excavation gouged across it. A Cola billboard bounced past, a bleak storefront, a
roadside tire-vulcanizing shop that brought a whiff of burnt rubber, Estela watched dispiritedly from her
seat.

The sun was just stealing upon the scarred table when Bianong raised his head, his eyes puffed and his
breathe heavily; midnight sat on his brain, a clot of stygian fears that pulsed and skittered. He was only
vaguely aware that Biik was still yowling.
The sun, sun, sun was cold, cold, cold. Somebody was hammering somewhere, the nails pounding into
his head. Bianong clapped his hands to his ears. The darkness undulated sluggishly before him and
Bianong fought back his nausea.

Estela, Biik, Tenteng, Miniang, Ikong. The boy crouched in a corner, poised for flight; he edged warily
forward at Ikong at both shoulders, and looked at him for a long time, and embraced him. Ikong
squealed and Bianong squeezed him tighter and touched the blade to his neck and held it there until the
shoulders subsided. He lay the limp body on the bed, briefly patting the boy’s cheek; and then he took
Biik, and hugged him, and touched the blade to his neck; after Biik, Tenteng ang Miniang, one after the
other, hugging them and touching the blade on their necks; and his nausea erupted, and he fell upon
himself in a dull rage, twisting the cold steel again and again so he could feel it, the wrenching
fulfillment and the excruciation, as it should be felt.

And it was one day along Pasilyo 8, Itoy Bayag, the jai-alai kubrador, poked his head through the door of
an entresuelo at 12 noon, and came upon the darkness, and stumbled back, muttering:
Diyoskodiyoskodiyosko …