“What I Love or Will Remember "Right.
"Right. Please give this to him,"
Most about High School”
By: Vicente Garcia Groyon
Dressed identically in fatigues, the boys
milled about the covered court, waiting for
their weekly Citizen's Army Training to begin.
Letty Jayme hovered at the edge of the court
and craned her neck, looking for her son.
The boys recognized her immediately, calling
out her name or a polite "Miss!" in greeting,
but she didn't ask them for help. All she could
manage was a quick smile or a slight nod of
her head. Teaching high school students in
such a small city meant a loss of privacy to
her. These days, anywhere she went there
was always the inevitable familiar face
asking, "Miss, do you remember me?"
Letty began to move through the olive-
drabbed crowd. She disapproved of military
training for civilian students, but the boys, her
son included, appeared to enjoy it, and there
was no way around the government ruling.
She came upon a cluster of uniforms
engaged in loud conversation. She didn't see
him right away, but knew she had found him
when they looked her way and nudged a
companion. A capless head, half-shorn of
hair, swiveled on a slender neck to reveal the
features of the youth she had married in
1968. The head turned away, and with small
smiles his friends studied the face hidden
from her.
"Jambee."
He came to her and grasped her elbow. She
allowed him to walk her away from his
friends, stopping when she felt they were a
safe distance from them.
"What's your commandant's name again?"
"Gacuma."
She sat at the conference table in the Faculty
"Why?'
"It's a note from me. Just give it to him."
“About what?”
She felt it starting. He was being difficult
again, for no other apparent reason than
because she wanted something done. If they
had been at home, this conversation would
have gone on for the rest of the day, but she
was running out of time.
"l want to excuse someone for a few minutes.
"Who?"
“Jambee –“
“Mom, he’s in his office. I can’t go in there.”
"So just drop it off, or ask one of your officer
classmates to do it for you. say it's from me.'
"His office is just there. See?"
"I'd rather not give it myself."
"Why not?"
"Basta Just hand it to him." She held out the
envelope. "Please?"
Without answering, he plucked the note from
her fingers and walked towards where he
said the office was. She wanted to get angry,
but doing so now, in full view of his friends,
would be a big mistake. She sighed and
began walking back to the Faculty Room.
From behind her a deep voice shouted, "Fall
in!" She turned to see a shapeless green
mass break into several pieces, each one
moving in the same direction, but separately,
like a school of fish. The angry trilling of
police whistles pierced the rumbling of more
than a hundred pairs of boots running
towards the athletic field. She watched until
ragged rows of green-clad bodies began to
form before going on her way.
Room without moving, her body forming a
lazy C against the rigid angle of the chair.
The room and the halls outside were
unnervingly quiet. The exams had ended at
noon that day, since it was the last day of the
school year, and the rest of the faculty had
gone home early. She alone in the high
school section of the campus.
An early evening breeze came through the
open door stirred the papers in folder that lay
open on the table in front of her. She had
been rereading them for the fifth or sixth time
that afternoon before stopping, defeated,
Just three hours ago, Father Bernardo Luz,
vice-principal of St. Martin's
Institute for Boys, had held the same folder
in his hands.
They were large, she noticed for the first
time, with thick knobby fingers and long
squared-off nails almost as pale as the
starched habit he wore. He licked his thumb
to turn the pages of the essay. Lush patches
of coarse black hair sprouted on the backs of
his hands. Cradled by them, the sturdy
cardboard folder appeared suddenly fragile.
She looked down at her own hands, noting
that the veins there were not as large or as
pronounced as his were, but that a few more
years of keeping a home clean and livable for
two sons would soon produce the same
effect.
She looked up at the sound of the folder
being closed. He was holding it up to his chin
with both hands, staring up at the ceiling with
a thoughtful air.
"These things do happen, Mrs. Jayme. Oh,
yes, they do." He tossed the folder on his
desk and laced his fingers over his belly.
"It was the last thing I expected, Father. I've
used this topic as a final composition
assignment for the Seniors ever since I
started teaching here, but I've never received
anything as—delicate as this. I really thought
that the topic was quite harmless."
"It is harmless, Mrs. Jayme. It's not your fault
at all."
"l know that, but—"
"l think you are wondering what should be
done." He straightened up and placed his
hands on the folder.
"What actions, if any, should be taken."
"Yes."
His sudden shifts to down-to-business mode
often caught her off-guard. Now he was
going to do the talking, it told her.
"There appears to be no doubt that
something has happened, but what do we
actually have here?"
He picked up the folder and leafed through
the pages. To Letty, his every movement was
calculated to cause a specific effect in people
– whether he was saying mass or chatting
with students in the hallway.
“There are suggestions, innuendoes, to be
sure, but there is actually nothing that would
indicate definitely that something indecent
has really happened.
Based on what the boy—who is it, Luis?—
based on what he has written, it could have
been anything, from—“ He trailed off, looking
past her shoulder, up the wall, to the ceiling.
“You have to read between the lines. I could
show you his other essays. He has never
been this sentimental or emotional before.
He's very quiet—reserved. He does the work
correctly, but he never puts himself into it.
This is the first time he's been this-open.”
"l see. So it's as if his conscience is bothering
him."
"Exactly."
"Exactly why he is emotional."
"No, it's more than that. I can't explain—"
"A boy's conscience can be overpowering
sometimes, Mrs. Jayme."
He was beginning to use his pulpit voice now.
Letty hated that.
"I've listened to countless boys overpowered
by conscience. Sometimes it seems like their
very souls are being burned in hell already,
even as they speak. When I tell them that
they can still be forgiven, provided they
perform the penance sincerely and with
conviction, the relief in their voices is almost
laughable."
"It—doesn't seem that way—in this case."
"Well, all right. Supposing what you say is—
supposing your suspicions are well-founded,
what do you propose to do?"
"l don't know. That's why I asked to see you.
Perhaps you could speak to--
"l think that this is a simple case of a boy's
imagination working in close alliance with his
conscience, blowing things up beyond their
actual proportions.
He chuckled. "Perhaps even with our
imaginations."
"But you were saying a while ago that things
like this do happen. Have happened.”
.'"Yes, they have. I've heard things in the
confessional that I cannot repeat— you
understand. But they do not apply in this
case, I believe."
"What makes you say so?"
"It is highly unlikely."
"But it happens."
"l simply would not want to act rashly on this
matter, Mrs. Jayme.'
"Which is why I brought it to you first.'
“I am simply concerned because Max—Mr.
Gacuma—is simply not the type of man who
would—" He waved his hand over the table.
"He came to the institution right after he
graduated from college, when I was just the
discipline officer. I have known him ever
since."
He shrugged, held his hands up in mock
helplessness.
"The ideals ridiculous. I've known him for a
long time."
"But it's clear that something wrong is going
on."
"Clear?" He grimaced and shook his head,
staring 'down at the folder. "As I said, all we
have here is, at best, a hazy innuendo that
has been most likely colored by an emotional
fit brought about by an attack of conscience.
It won't do."
She realized that she had leaned forward in
her chair without meaning to, and drew back,
"The institution has just rewarded Max for
twenty-five years of service. Do you
seriously think?"
He looked at her with an almost-smile playing
on his lips.
"l suppose not."
"He's married."
"Yes, he is."
"When did you join us, Mrs. Jayme?"
"1973. No, '72."
"Twenty-two.Three more years to go for you,
eh? How has it been for you?"
“Oh-wonderful, father.”
"Well, that's goods I've been here for almost
40 years, myself. When Father Clarence dies
I'll be the oldest Father around here.'
"Sometimes I myself am surprised by how
much the school has progressed
Just compare what you see now to what it
was like when you first joined us,"
"Yes, Father."
"Well, I'll see you during the summer term,
then, eh?"
He had risen from behind his desk and was
moving to the door, where he held out the
folder to her. She stood up and took it from
him.
"What about this, then, Father?"
"l will keep in mind what you have told me.
We simply cannot act on it until we have
more proof that something has actually
happened."
By this time they were outside his private
room, moving through the administrative
office, and his voice had grown louder.
"I'm very glad about your dedication, eh?
Keep up the good work."
They shook hands. The large hand
swallowed hers.
"Thank you, Father."
With a wide grin he turned and reentered his
office. The Venetian blinds behind the glass
clattered as he closed his door.
She got up and stepped out into the corridor,
looking up and down the empty hallway. It
was getting darker, and Luis was nowhere in
sight. She wondered if
Jambee had delivered her note at all. It was
likely he had not; out of resentment' perhaps,
or just to annoy her. She felt the anger rising
in her again, and went back in to sit down.
Lately the tone of voice that Jambee had
begun to use with her had begun to bother
her. She couldn't tell, however, what it was.
Sometimes it sounded like politeness with an
undercurrent of irritation, sometimes like
impatience, sometimes like the tired disgust
that came right before giving up. Whatever it
was, it sounded the same. Whether he was
telling her to get out of the bathroom because
he was taking a bath, or taking the time to
inform her about what he was watching on
TV, or whatever, it was the same tone, and
she thought she was more or less familiar
with it.
She first recognized it in Icky-boy, her eldest,
now attending college in the city. She had
taken offense when he first spoke to her that
way, but she decided to be patient with it.
Then she decided to ignore it. She knew now
that it would go away in time, as it did with
Icky-boy. But she feared that it only seemed
to go away, evolving instead into another
uniform tone—more adult, more restrained,
more patronizing—one that allowed its user
to avoid confrontation. She was already
familiar with this higher form of tone when
Icky-boy—Ricky, he insisted now— first tried
it on her. But she didn't feel ready for the
moment when Jambee would start using it.
Watching Jambee's features mature into
those of his father comforted her, even if it
meant that he too was slipping away. Once,
she took the boys to their father's
restaurant—a dimly lit, pseudo-Italian bistro
where Julio Iglesias sang from the huge
black speakers that used to sit in the corners
of their den. It was
Icky-boy's high school graduation, so she
had been nice to Mike. Mike had been nice
to the boys too, and decent enough not to
introduce the girl who sat smoking at the
table nearest the cashier. Letty thought that
the girl had been quite civilized, even if she
should have done the more civilized thing
and stayed in their love nest for the evening.
She never even looked up as Mike herded
Letty and the boys out of the restaurant and
stood by as they climbed into the car and
drove away. Letty drove that night, even if
Icky-boy wanted to show off for his dad.
She heard two soft knocks, and turned to see
the boy's head hovering sideways next to the
doorjamb.
"Luis. Come in."
The rest of Luis appeared in the doorway. He
was among the shorter boys in his class.
Letty found the randomness with which
puberty pounced on the boys touching.
Poignant, even. Her students were often a
motley bunch, ranging from fully formed men
to gangly, awkward types, to boys who
looked like they would be more comfortable
in the sixth or seventh grade. This boy's build
was compact but already muscular, with
limbs that were too short for the rest of him.
His face, though, still had the androgynous
beauty of a child: a rounded square with full
cheeks, long lashes, and a soft, tender
mouth. He was attractive to girls, she could
tell. His upper lip was paler than the rest of
his face, indicating that he had begun
scraping with a at the uncertain black
shadow there, but nowhere else.
"You wanted to see me, Miss?"
"Have a seat."
He sat in the chair opposite her, snatching
the marine cap off his head just
a shade too late and thrusting it into his lap.
His movements were sudden but
restrained—the body language peculiar to
young men that seemed to communicate
politeness and deference to superiors. All the
boys, she noticed, moved in this way I
whenever they were in an office.
His haircut was the generic military style 'that
left him with an absurd shock of hair around
the top of the head, and a white stripe around
the lower half. Letty suddenly remembered a
time two or three years ago when Luis's
mother had his hair curled. Pre-perm, it had
fallen from his crown in even, straight lines,
usually in the '90s version of the bowl-cut,
which to Letty resembled a biker's helmet.
One morning, he arrived in school with his
hair swept up and back, undulating in fibrous
waves all the way from his forehead to the
nape of his neck. In the Faculty Room that
afternoon, his homeroom teacher confided in
her that Luis had glanced at him once with an
imploring look on his face—just once—and
then looked back down at his notebook. But
he wore the haircut with a straight face, Letty
remembered, wore it until it grew out and
returned to normal.
His hands were under the table where Letty
assumed they were fidgeting with the cap.
"l called you because I wanted to discuss this
with you—your composition.'
He said nothing, but his gaze dropped to the
folder on the table. Letty's hand jumped to it
and at once she felt foolish—her first thought
had been that he would snatch it off the table
and run away.
"You don't have to worry about anything—it's
very well-written, as usual.'
He shifted position just the slightest bit.
"You still express Yourself very well. More so
in this essay, because it seems you allowed
yourself to become more personal."
He nodded.
"Your past essays all felt like you were just
doing the assignment, without feeling
anything, but here you seem more open,
more honest, and that really improves one's
writing."
"Yes, Miss." The wet snap of his mouth
opening was loud in the quiet of the room.
"But I am very concerned with some of the
things that you said in your essay."
He had begun to nod before she had even
finished. She paused, waiting to see if he say
something. His gaze remained fixed on the
folder, so she went on.
"Well, some parts of the essay are a little bit
vague, so I just wanted to clarify with you
what exactly you meant in certain parts."
"Mm."
She waited for more, and he looked up at her
with wide eyes, as if wondering why she had
stopped talking.
"Do you understand?"
"Yes, Miss."
"I'd just like to know what you wanted to say
in the essay."
"What part, Miss?"
She opened her mouth, and shut it again.
Now it was her turn to look down at the folder,
and with a small frown she opened it and
began to leaf through its contents.
"Well, first of all you decided to omit the
'Remember' from the title. So it became
'What Love Most About High School."' She
stole a glance at him; he was watching her.
"Well, it seemed kind of-redundant. I mean,
you can assume."
He was right; his intelligence was of a
correct, bookish sort. Letty discouraged this
in her students, but St. Martin's nurtured such
types. Luis was a likely candidate for
Valedictorian, or at least one of the top
honors. They would all know by next week.
She looked at him without raising her head.
"That's true. But isn't it also true that
sometimes you don't love what you
remember? Or remember what you love?"
She wasn't making much sense, and he
seemed skeptical, but he averred anyway.
"You said that you loved being a CAT officer
the most."
"Yes, Miss,"
"And you made it very clear here why you
loved it, I think."
"Yes, Miss."
"Is your father in the military? Or anyone in
your family?"
"No, Miss!'
"My father was a Colonel in the army." There
was only a slight reaction to this but she
plowed on. "There was a time when our
family actually lived in the Camp, in the
houses provided for the officers. Life there
was very routine, very ordered, But I think my
father loved it." He was looking at her, his
forehead only the slightest bit wrinkled. "And
my mother grew to love it," she added in a
rush, hoping that it meant something.
"Discipline, Miss."
"Yes, exactly. Anyway. As I said, it's very
clear why you love being an officer, It agrees
with you, apparently.'
"Yes, Miss."
"Now, this is what I was concerned about.
You said that you love it, even if sometimes
things are 'not always right' in the
organization. And then you mention things,
like for instance When the Officers have
arguments among themselves, or when your
classmates come to hate you for imposing
rules On them. These are all quite clear, I
think.”
He was staring at the folder again.
"And then you start talking about the higher
officials in the corps. About how sometimes
they-do not behave in admirable ways. I
mean, how sometimes they can be petty and
vindictive and childish." She waited for a
reply. "Yes?"
“Yes, Miss.”
She inhaled quietly, and went on. “That’s
normal, you know. I mean, adults don’t
always grow out of some kinds of behavior
right away, Right?
"Yes."
"And then you mentioned Mr. Gacuma," She
had planned to say it quickly, but had to stop
as she forced herself to look at him.
"Yes, Miss."
His voice was suddenly hoarse, and the
words were almost inaudible.
"Is there something else about him that you
didn't mention in your essay?"
"No, Miss." He cleared his throat,
"Because I—couldn't quite understand what
you meant when you said that he was 'not
proper' in some of his behavior."
He was staring past her, at the cabinets
perhaps.
"In what way is Mr. Gacuma 'not proper'?"
Now he was staring at his lap.
"Luis."
He shook his head, and shrugged.
"Luis, if there is anything that you want to
say, you can tell me. You wanted to say
something in your essay, butl think you
decided not to. Please tell me."
His gaze flicked towards her, and for a
moment he seemed to waver. But
Lefty thought that she was leaning too far
forward again, or her face looked too
concerned, because he looked away and
made little stretching movements with his
shoulders and neck.
"It's just that I used to admire him so much,
and I thought that he couldn't be reached by
us. Us cadets. But I realized that he was also
human, and that he could also have faults
like the rest of us.
"What faults?"
"Nothing, really. Like he also has moody
days, he also forgets things. You know." He
looked at her. "Things like that."
It was too late. He had closed himself off. He
was giving her the safe rubber stamp
replies—the sort of unthreatening, neutral,
yet realistic responses that were expected of
him.
"What else?"
"Nothing else, Miss."
"Luis, are you sure?"
"Yes, Miss."
"Because you can tell me, you know."
"Yes, Miss."
She waited for him to say more, but he just
stared at her. His mouth had hardened into a
cold line.
"Luis, if there is anything going on among the
officers, if one of the officers is doing
something to you that you don't like, you
should say something about it,"
Her voice had taken on a pleading tone, but
she no longer cared. "Even if it involves Mr.
Gacuma."
"There's nothing, Miss."
"You don't have to be afraid if you know that
what is happening is wrong. You can't get
into trouble if what you're doing is the right
thing."
'”There's nothing at all, Miss."
His voice had turned insistent, defensive.
She knew that for some reason she had
become the enemy again.
"Luis, don't you want it to stop?"
His lips began to tremble, but she knew that
it was no use. She had not approached him
in the right way, and now he would never tell
her. She sensed it in the way Jambee would
give up on explaining how to use the
computer to her' or when Icky-boy would
refuse to tell her who he was dating at the
moment, She leaned back in her chair,
"You don't understand."
His eyes dared her to refute the words. She
said nothing, because she knew he was
right. In the end, he was right.
He stood up and left the office. She didn't
follow him.
When she got to the athletic field the
ceremonies were still in progress. She saw
Gacuma behind a podium on the grandstand,
reading out cadets' names from a list,
Uniformed boys mounted the stage as they
were called, received a piece of rolled
parchment tied with a ribbon, and returned to
their ranks. Not wanting to draw attention to
herself, she decided to wait in Gacuma's
office behind the grandstand.
As she approached the door, it opened and
a student in fatigues stepped out.
He was a Junior with a white armband that
had 'SP' appliqued to it in red plastic. He
stopped for a moment and mumbled a "Good
afternoon" before brushing past her.
She entered the office, which was empty and
quiet except for the distant booming of
Gacuma's amplified voice, and looked
around. The office was all angles and hard
edges—every fixture, every piece of furniture
was functional in a recognizably military way.
The color of the walls was the sort of
toothpaste green seen in public hospitals,
and the tables, chairs, and cabinets were the
familiar generic shade of undiluted burnt
umber enamel paint, The entire room looked
like it had been painted only a month ago. A
tiny dustpan made of a quartered cooking oil
can and a piece of wood for a handle stood
in the corner. It cradled a walis tambo whose
handle had been shortened to match the
dustpan's proportions, and whose fan had
been worn down almost to the tip of the
broomstick.
She sat on the chair nearest the door, which
swung shut with a gentle click as soon as she
let go of it. The seat was made of inch-thick
wooden slats, and there had been some
ineffectual attempt to match its curve to the
human anatomy. Each of the officers had a
space on the long desk that ran along the
length of two walls. Textbooks were piled
according to size in each place, telling Letty
what year each officer was in.
The sternness that pervaded the room was
relieved only by the presence of
Photographs. They seemed to be
everywhere—taped on cabinet doors, tacked
to little Corkboards above each desk, or, as
in the case of the table she was sitting
beside, protected under glass.
She leaned over to get a better look. This
was obviously Gacuma's place, for the word
'MAX' had been cut out of green felt paper in
large block letters, covered with a
Camouflage pattern drawn in brown marker,
and arranged in a straight line under the
glass. Arrayed all around the name were
snapshots of students in military Uniforms
and graduation photos. She could tell how
old the photos were by the degree to which
they had faded or adhered to the glass. She
recognized them all; they had all been in her
Senior English classes at one time or
another. Remembering Luis's essay, she
shuddered and looked away. Their smiling
faces reminded her of butterflies impaled on
long pins.
Her eyes were met by another photo—larger,
older, framed on the wall. It was
'o dress uniform. She did not have to look at
the date to know that the photo had been
taken in the early 60--she had a photo of
herself taken in the same style, for the same
purpose, There was the same soft focus, the
artfully angled body, the three quarter twist of
the torso, and the smile. The smile, she
remembered, was the most important
element in a studio portrait, Her own
photographer had fretted over her smile,
unsatisfied with every one she preferred,
until he lost his composure and made a face,
As she suppressed
a giggle, he declared the expression "Right!"
and snapped the shutter. Gacuma's smile,
on the other hand, looked fabricated—just
the right amount of curve to bring out his
cheekbones without showing too many teeth.
He looked young and fresh—a far cry from
the sour, taciturn man he had become.
She stood up and stepped forward to peer at
the photo and saw that she had been
deceived. His eyes did not belong with the
rest of his face. They stared out at the viewer,
not out of frame as was the fashion then.
They seemed confident, challenging the
viewer to pass judgment on the sitter. At the
same time, they shielded the man by
showing nothing more. Their coldness jarred
with the photo's intended effect.
The uniform made her think of her own
father. In her wallet she kept an Old photo of
him in his cadet dress grays. Unsmiling, he
stood at attention: his chest puffed out, his
chin tucked in, and his back arched to its
limit. He was a quiet not given to displays of
affection. She could not remember him ever
having touched her, except to take her hand
when they crossed the street. Even this
happened infrequently. In her memory he
was a dark bulky shape with his back to her,
sitting on a chair on the Veranda, emitting
languid streams of white smoke touched with
twilight blue at the edges. She wept more
than was necessary at his funeral, which
surprised her She understood that she Was
saying goodbye forever, but only to someone
who bore no more connection to her than the
amiable corporal assigned to escort her
family to military functions when her father
was away on a mission. Still, she wept. Later,
when she went away to college, she read
that people at funerals weep not for the dead,
but themselves. Then her histrionics made
perfect sense to her.
The severity of the office pressed in on her.
She began to ask herself what she was doing
here, but was out the door before an answer
could come. She rushed back along the
cement pathway, staring down at it without
blinking. She knew she would go back home
and tuck the folder away in one of the cartons
that contained her college notes. She would
forget about the entire incident and the boy
would be relieved. Father Bernie would be
relieved too,
When she looked up she was back at the
edge of the covered court. The distribution of
certificates was over, and now the troops
were in the middle of an inspection. Or it
could have been a marching demonstration;
she couldn't tell the difference anymore.
She squinted and looked for Jambee. She
scanned the platoons for classmates that
would lead her to him, but recognized no
one. She tried looking for Luis, as well, but
gave up.
The cadets and the officers had turned
motionless, and even the spectators sat in
stiff rows. From where she stood no one
appeared to be breathing.
Then her throat jerked in a sudden spasm
and she swallowed hard to suppress the
nausea. Her strangled cry was the only
sound in the covered court. She had looked
back at the cadets and seen instead a solid
green wall topped by rows and rows of
identical stony faces. Their mouths were all
set in the same hard line, their chins set at
just the same angle. Their backs were all
arched, and their chests were all puffed out.
A deep wailing rose from the far end of the
field. It began strong and firm, sustaining the
last syllable of a word she didn't catch at first.
Then she realized that it was the Battalion
Commander informing the Commandant that
all the lines and all the rows in all the
companies were straight, perfectly straight.
She saw Gacuma stand up and acknowledge
the report with a crisp salute.
She walked to a bench and sat down, fighting pieces of equipment back to the office. She
an urge to burst into tears. She felt tired, and wondered if he had seen her, Gacuma
wanted Jambee to accompany her home, but walked among tbem, distinguishable only by
she knew that after this there would still be his erect bearing and his more careful,
the marching demonstration before the measured gait. They were talking about
cadets were released. something, probably the graduation, and
She sat through the Pasa Masid, the they all looked very pleased. Even Luis.
reassembly, the last roll call, and the final They disappeared into the office, probably to
dismissal. She stood up as they came put the equipment away in their proper
towards her in waves. She realized in relief places. She waited until she could no longer
that she could now pick out individual hear their voices before walking back to the
students in the crowd as they came nearer or Faculty Room. By that time, the covered
took off their caps. She heard them call out court was deserted.
greetings to her, but managed to respond to
only a few.
"Mom?"
Jambee was beside her. She fought back an
urge to burst into tears.
"Jambee. I was waiting for you.'
"Mom, I'm going to come home late tonight.
I'm going to Emil's place to play basketball."
She wondered if her disappointment had
registered on her face. She caught herself
leaning forward too much again, and
straightened up just a little bit,
"l see."
"Mom, it's the last day of school."
"Yes, yes. Go ahead. It's okay."
"Thanks."
"Do you have your keys?"
"Yes, mom."
With a diffident nod he ran to where his
friends ewere waiting. She watched them
lope off together until they turned a corner
and disappeared from view.
She turned back to the field and saw Luis
with the other junior officers carrying various
 “Magnificence” for their age, and their legs were the long tie with strings near the eraser end, to dangle
gangly legs of fine spirited colts. from one’s book-basket, to
(Estrella D. Alfon) Their mother saw them with eyes that held arouse the envy of the other children who
There was nothing to fear, for the man was
pride, and then to partly gloss probably possessed less.
always so gentle, so
over the maternal gloating she exhibited, she
kind. At night when the little girl and her
said to the man, in answer Add to the man’s gentleness and his
brother were bathed in the light
to his praise, But their homework. They’re so kindness in knowing a child’s
of the big shaded bulb that hung over the big
lazy with them. And the desires, his promise that he would give each
study table in the
man said, I have nothing to do in the of them not one pencil but
downstairs hall, the man would knock gently
evenings, let me help them. Mother two. And for the little girl who he said was
on the door, and come in. he
nodded her head and said, if you want to very bright and deserved more,
would stand for a while just beyond the pool
bother yourself. And the thing ho would get the biggest pencil he could find.
of light, his feet in the circle
rested there, and the man came in the
of illumination, the rest of him in shadow. The
evenings therefore, and he helped One evening he did bring them. The
little girl and her brother
solve fractions for the boy, and write correct evenings of waiting had
would look up at him where they sat at the
phrases in language for the made them look forward to this final giving,
big table, their eyes bright in
little girl. and when they got the
the bright light, and watch him come fully into
pencils they whooped with joy. The little boy
the light, but his voice soft,
In those days, the rage was for pencils. had tow pencils, one green,
his manner slow. He would smell very faintly
School children always one blue. And the little girl had three pencils,
of sweat and pomade, but
have rages going at one time or another. two of the same
the children didn’t mind although they did
Sometimes for paper butterflies circumference as the little boy’s but colored
notice, for they waited for him
that are held on sticks, and whirr in the wind. red and yellow. And the third
every evening as they sat at their lessons like
The Japanese bazaars pencil, a jumbo size pencil really, was white,
this. He’d throw his visored
promoted a rage for those. Sometimes it is and had been sharpened,
cap on the table, and it would fall down with
for little lead toys found in the and the little girl jumped up and down, and
a soft plop, then he’d nod his
folded waffles that Japanese confection- shouted with glee. Until their
head to say one was right, or shake it to say
makers had such light hands mother called from down the stairs. What are
one was wrong.
with. At this particular time, it was for pencils. you shouting about? And
Pencils big but light in they told her, shouting gladly, Vicente, for
It was not always that he came. They could
circumference not smaller than a man’s that was his name. Vicente had
remember perhaps
thumb. They were unwieldy in a brought the pencils he had promised them.
two weeks when he remarked to their mother
child’s hands, but in all schools then, where
that he had never seen two
Japanese bazaars clustered there were all Thank him, their mother called. The little boy
children looking so smart. The praise had
colors of these pencils selling for very low, smiled and said,
made their mother look over
but unattainable Thank you. And the little girl smiled, and said,
them as they stood around listening to the
to a child budgeted at a baon of a centavo a Thank you, too. But the
goings-on at the meeting of the
day. They were all of five man said, Are you not going to kiss me for
neighborhood association, of which their
centavos each, and one pencil was not at all those pencils? They both came
mother was president. Two
what one had ambitions for. forward, the little girl and the little boy, and
children, one a girl of seven, and a boy of
In rages, one kept a collection. Four or five they both made to kiss him
eight. They were both very tall
pencils, of different colors, to
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 man’s 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 girl’s 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,
I’ll ask Vicente for some more. Their mother
replied, He’s only a bus conductor, don’t ask
him for
too many things. It’s 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. You’d think they
wouldn’t 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 don’t think
so, he’s a rather queer young
man, I think he doesn’t 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 don’t 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.
Don’t 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 didn’t
know why, all of a sudden she was
immensely frightened, and she jumped up
away from Vicente’s 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
mother’s 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 girl’s 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 girl’s back.
Go upstairs, she said.
The mother’s 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 woman’s
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 girl’s 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 girl’s bed,
made her lie down and tucked the covers
gently about her as the girl
dropped off into quick slumber.
 “The Summer Solstice”
by: Nick Joaquin
THE MORETAS WERE spending St. John’s
Day with the children’s grandfather, whose
feast day it was. Doña Lupeng awoke feeling
faint with the heat, a sound of screaming in
her ears. In the dining room the three boys
already attired in their holiday suits, were at
breakfast, and came crowding around her,
talking all at once.
“How long you have slept, Mama!”
“We thought you were never getting up!”
“Do we leave at once, huh? Are we going
now?”
“Hush, hush I implore you! Now look: your
father has a headache, and so have I. So be
quiet this instant—or no one goes to
Grandfather.”
Though it was only seven by the clock the
house was already a furnace, the windows
dilating with the harsh light and the air
already burning with the immense, intense
fever of noon.
She found the children’s nurse working in the
kitchen. “And why is it you who are preparing
breakfast? Where is Amada?” But without
waiting for an answer she went to the
backdoor and opened it, and the screaming
in her ears became wild screaming in the
stables across the yard. “Oh my God!” she
groaned and, grasping her skirts, hurried
across the yard.
In the stables Entoy, the driver, apparently
deaf to the screams, was hitching the pair of
piebald ponies to the coach.
“Not the closed coach, Entoy! The open
carriage!” shouted Doña Lupeng as she
came up.
“But the dust, señora—”
“I know, but better to be dirty than to be boiled
alive. And what ails your wife, eh? Have you
been beating her again?”
“Oh no, señora: I have not touched her.”
“Then why is she screaming? Is she ill?”
“I do not think so. But how do I know? You
can go and see for yourself, señora. She is
up there.”
When Doña Lupeng entered the room, the
big half-naked woman sprawled across the
bamboo bed stopped screaming. Doña
Lupeng was shocked.
“What is this Amada? Why are you still in bed
at this hour? And in such a posture! Come,
get up at once. You should be ashamed!”
But the woman on the bed merely stared. Her
sweat-beaded brows contracted, as if in an
effort to understand. Then her face relax her
mouth sagged open humorously and, rolling
over on her back and spreading out her big
soft arms and legs, she began noiselessly
quaking with laughter—the mute mirth
jerking in her throat; the moist pile of her flesh
quivering like brown jelly. Saliva dribbled
from the corners of her mouth.
Doña Lupeng blushed, looking around
helplessly, and seeing that Entoy had
followed and was leaning in the doorway,
watching stolidly, she blushed again. The
room reeked hotly of intimate odors. She
averted her eyes from the laughing woman
on the bed, in whose nakedness she seemed
so to participate that she was ashamed to
look directly at the man in the doorway.
“Tell me, Entoy: has she had been to the
Tadtarin?”
“Yes, señora. Last night.”
“But I forbade her to go! And I forbade you to
let her go!”
“I could do nothing.”
“Why, you beat her at the least pretext!”
“But now I dare not touch her.”
“Oh, and why not?”
“It is the day of St. John: the spirit is in her.”
“But, man—”
“It is true, señora. The spirit is in her. She is
the Tadtarin. She must do as she pleases.
Otherwise, the grain would not grow, the
trees would bear no fruit, the rivers would
give no fish, and the animals would die.”
“Naku, I did no know your wife was so
powerful, Entoy.”
 “At such times she is not my wife: she is the
wife of the river, she is the wife of the
crocodile, she is the wife of the moon.”
“BUT HOW CAN they still believe such
things?” demanded Doña Lupeng of her
husband as they drove in the open carriage
through the pastoral countryside that was
the arrabal of Paco in the 1850’s.
Don Paeng darted a sidelong glance at his
wife, by which he intimated that the subject
was not a proper one for the children, who
were sitting opposite, facing their parents.
Don Paeng, drowsily stroking his
moustaches, his eyes closed against the hot
light, merely shrugged.
“And you should have seen that Entoy,”
continued his wife. “You know how the brute
treats her: she cannot say a word but he
thrashes her. But this morning he stood as
meek as a lamb while she screamed and
screamed. He seemed actually in awe of her,
do you know—actually afraid of her!”
“Oh, look, boys—here comes the St. John!”
cried Doña Lupeng, and she sprang up in the
swaying carriage, propping one hand on her
husband’s shoulder wile the other she held
up her silk parasol.
And “Here come the men with their St. John!”
cried voices up and down the countryside.
People in wet clothes dripping with well-
water, ditch-water and river-water came
running across the hot woods and fields and
meadows, brandishing cans of water, wetting
each other uproariously, and shouting San
Juan! San Juan!as they ran to meet the
procession.
Up the road, stirring a cloud of dust, and gaily
bedrenched by the crowds gathered along
the wayside, a concourse of young men clad
only in soggy trousers were carrying aloft an
image of the Precursor. Their teeth flashed
white in their laughing faces and their hot
bodies glowed crimson as they pranced past,
shrouded in fiery dust, singing and shouting
and waving their arms: the St. John riding
swiftly above the sea of dark heads and
glittering in the noon sun—a fine, blonde,
heroic St. John: very male, very arrogant: the
Lord of Summer indeed; the Lord of Light and
Heat—erect and godly virile above the prone
and female earth—while the worshippers
danced and the dust thickened and the
animals reared and roared and the merciless
fires came raining down form the skies—the
relentlessly upon field and river and town and
winding road, and upon the joyous throng of
young men against whose uproar a couple of
seminarians in muddy cassocks vainly
intoned the hymn of the noon god:
That we, thy servants, in chorus
May praise thee, our tongues restore us…
But Doña Lupeng, standing in the stopped
carriage, looking very young and elegant in
her white frock, under the twirling parasol,
stared down on the passing male horde with
increasing annoyance. The insolent man-
smell of their bodies rose all about her—
wave upon wave of it—enveloping her,
assaulting her senses, till she felt faint with it
and pressed a handkerchief to her nose. And
as she glanced at her husband and saw with
what a smug smile he was watching the
revelers, her annoyance deepened. When he
bade her sit down because all eyes were
turned on her, she pretended not to hear;
stood up even straighter, as if to defy those
rude creatures flaunting their manhood in the
sun.
And she wondered peevishly what the
braggarts were being so cocky about? For
this arrogance, this pride, this bluff male
health of theirs was (she told herself)
founded on the impregnable virtue of
generations of good women. The boobies
were so sure of themselves because they
had always been sure of their wives. “All the
sisters being virtuous, all the brothers are
brave,” thought Doña Lupeng, with a
bitterness that rather surprised her. Women
had built it up: this poise of the male. Ah, and
women could destroy it, too! She recalled,
vindictively, this morning’s scene at the
stables: Amada naked and screaming in bed
whiled from the doorway her lord and master
looked on in meek silence. And was it not the
mystery of a woman in her flowers that had
restored the tongue of that old Hebrew
prophet?
“Look, Lupeng, they have all passed now,”
Don Paeng was saying, “Do you mean to
stand all the way?”
She looked around in surprise and hastily sat
down. The children tittered, and the carriage
started.
“Has the heat gone to your head, woman?”
asked Don Paeng, smiling. The children
burst frankly into laughter.
Their mother colored and hung her head.
She was beginning to feel ashamed of the
thoughts that had filled her mind. They
seemed improper—almost obscene—and
the discovery of such depths of wickedness
in herself appalled her. She moved closer to
her husband to share the parasol with him.
“And did you see our young cousin Guido?”
he asked.
“Oh, was he in that crowd?”
“A European education does not seem to
have spoiled his taste for country pleasures.”
“I did not see him.” “He waved and waved.”
“The poor boy. He will feel hurt. But truly,
Paeng. I did not see him.” “Well, that is
always a woman’s privilege.”
BUT WHEN THAT afternoon, at the
grandfather’s, the young Guido presented
himself, properly attired and brushed and
scented, Doña Lupeng was so charming and
gracious with him that he was enchanted and
gazed after her all afternoon with enamored
eyes.
This was the time when our young men were
all going to Europe and bringing back with
them, not the Age of Victoria, but the Age of
Byron. The young Guido knew nothing of
Darwin and evolution; he knew everything
about Napoleon and the Revolution. When
Doña Lupeng expressed surprise at his
presence that morning in the St. John’s
crowd, he laughed in her face.
“But I adore these old fiestas of ours! They
are so romantic! Last night, do you know, we
walked all the way through the woods, I and
some boys, to see the procession of the
Tadtarin.”
“And was that romantic too?” asked Doña
Lupeng.
“It was weird. It made my flesh crawl. All
those women in such a mystic frenzy! And
she who was the Tadtarin last night—she
was a figure right out of a flamenco!”
“I fear to disenchant you, Guido—but that
woman happens to be our cook.”
“She is beautiful.”
“Our Amada beautiful? But she is old and
fat!”
“She is beautiful—as that old tree you are
leaning on is beautiful,” calmly insisted the
young man, mocking her with his eyes.
They were out in the buzzing orchard, among
the ripe mangoes; Doña Lupeng seated on
the grass, her legs tucked beneath her, and
the young man sprawled flat on his belly,
gazing up at her, his face moist with sweat.
The children were chasing dragonflies. The
sun stood still in the west. The long day
refused to end. From the house came the
sudden roaring laughter of the men playing
cards.
“Beautiful! Romantic! Adorable! Are those
the only words you learned in Europe?” cried
Doña Lupeng, feeling very annoyed with this
young man whose eyes adored her one
moment and mocked her the next.
“Ah, I also learned to open my eyes over
there—to see the holiness and the mystery
of what is vulgar.”
“And what is so holy and mysterious about—
about the Tadtarin, for instance?”
“I do not know. I can only feel it. And
it frightens me. Those rituals come to us from
the earliest dawn of the world. And the
dominant figure is not the male but the
female.”
“But they are in honor of St. John.”
“What has your St. John to do with them?
Those women worship a more ancient lord.
Why, do you know that no man may join
those rites unless he first puts on some
article of women’s apparel and—”
“And what did you put on, Guido?”
“How sharp you are! Oh, I made such love to
a toothless old hag there that she pulled off
her stocking for me. And I pulled it on, over
my arm, like a glove. How your husband
would have despised me!”
“But what on earth does it mean?”
“I think it is to remind us men that once upon
a time you women were supreme and we
men were the slaves.”
“But surely there have always been kings?”
“Oh, no. The queen came before the king,
and the priestess before the priest, and the
moon before the sun.”
“The moon?”
“—who is the Lord of the women.”
“Why?”
“Because the tides of women, like the tides
of the sea, are tides of the moon. Because
the first blood -But what is the matter, Lupe?
Oh, have I offended you?”
“Is this how they talk to decent women in
Europe?”
“They do not talk to women, they pray to
them—as men did in the dawn of the world.”
“Oh, you are mad! mad!”
“Why are you so afraid, Lupe?”
“I afraid? And of whom? My dear boy, you still
have your mother’s milk in your mouth. I only
wish you to remember that I am a married
woman.”
“I remember that you are a woman, yes. A
beautiful woman. And why not? Did you turn
into some dreadful monster when you
married? Did you stop being a woman? Did
you stop being beautiful? Then why should
my eyes not tell you what you are—just
because you are married?”
“Ah, this is too much now!” cried Doña
Lupeng, and she rose to her feet.
“Do not go, I implore you! Have pity on me!”
“No more of your comedy, Guido! And
besides—where have those children gone to!
I must go after them.”
As she lifted her skirts to walk away, the
young man, propping up his elbows, dragged
himself forward on the ground and solemnly
kissed the tips of her shoes. She stared down
in sudden horror, transfixed—and he felt her
violent shudder. She backed away slowly,
still staring; then turned and fled toward the
house.
ON THE WAY home that evening Don Paeng
noticed that his wife was in a mood. They
were alone in the carriage: the children were
staying overnight at their grandfather’s. The
heat had not subsided. It was heat without
gradations: that knew no twilights and no
dawns; that was still there, after the sun had
set; that would be there already, before the
sun had risen.
“Has young Guido been annoying you?”
asked Don Paeng.
“Yes! All afternoon.”
“These young men today—what a disgrace
they are! I felt embarrassed as a man to see
him following you about with those eyes of a
whipped dog.”
She glanced at him coldly. “And was that all
you felt, Paeng? embarrassed—as a man?”
“A good husband has constant confidence in
the good sense of his wife,” he pronounced
grandly, and smiled at her.
But she drew away; huddled herself in the
other corner. “He kissed my feet,” she told
him disdainfully, her eyes on his face.
He frowned and made a gesture of distaste.
“Do you see? They have the instincts, the
style of the canalla! To kiss a woman’s feet,
to follow her like a dog, to adore her like a
slave -“
“Is it so shameful for a man to adore
women?”
“A gentleman loves and respects Woman.
The cads and lunatics—they ‘adore’ the
women.”
“But maybe we do not want to be loved and
respected—but to be adored.”
But when they reached home she did not lie
down but wandered listlessly through the
empty house. When Don Paeng, having
bathed and changed, came down from the
bedroom, he found her in the dark parlour
seated at the harp and plucking out a tune,
still in her white frock and shoes.
“How can you bear those hot clothes,
Lupeng? And why the darkness? Order
someone to bring light in here.”
“There is no one, they have all gone to see
the Tadtarin.”
“A pack of loafers we are feeding!”
She had risen and gone to the window. He
approached and stood behind her, grasped
her elbows and, stooping, kissed the nape of
her neck. But she stood still, not responding,
and he released her sulkily. She turned
around to face him.
“Listen, Paeng. I want to see it, too. The
Tadtarin, I mean. I have not seen it since I
was a little girl. And tonight is the last night.”
“You must be crazy! Only low people go
there. And I thought you had a headache?”
He was still sulking.
“But I want to go! My head aches worse in
the house. For a favor, Paeng.”
“I told you: No! go and take those clothes off.
But, woman, whatever has got into you!” he
strode off to the table, opened the box of
cigars, took one, banged the lid shut, bit off
an end of the cigar, and glared about for a
light.
She was still standing by the window and her
chin was up.
“Very well, if you do want to come, do not
come—but I am going.”
“I warn you, Lupe; do not provoke me!”
“I will go with Amada. Entoy can take us. You
cannot forbid me, Paeng. There is nothing
wrong with it. I am not a child.”
But standing very straight in her white frock,
her eyes shining in the dark and her chin
thrust up, she looked so young, so fragile,
that his heart was touched. He sighed,
smiled ruefully, and shrugged his shoulders.
“Yes, the heat ahs touched you in the head,
Lupeng. And since you are so set on it—very
well, let us go. Come, have the coach
ordered!”
THE CULT OF the Tadtarin is celebrated on
three days: the feast of St. John and the two
preceding days. On the first night, a young
girl heads the procession; on the second, a
mature woman; and on the third, a very old
woman who dies and comes to life again. In
these processions, as in those of Pakil and
Obando, everyone dances.
Around the tiny plaza in front of the barrio
chapel, quite a stream of carriages was
flowing leisurely. The Moretas were
constantly being hailed from the other
vehicles. The plaza itself and the sidewalks
were filled with chattering, strolling, profusely
sweating people. More people were crowded
on the balconies and windows of the houses.
The moon had not yet risen; the black night
smoldered; in the windless sky the lightning’s
abruptly branching fire seemed the nerves of
the tortured air made visible.
“Here they come now!” cried the people on
the balconies.
And “Here come the women with their St.
John!” cried the people on the sidewalks,
surging forth on the street. The carriages
halted and their occupants descended. The
plaza rang with the shouts of people and the
neighing of horses—and with another keener
sound: a sound as of sea-waves steadily
rolling nearer.
The crowd parted, and up the street came
the prancing, screaming, writhing women,
their eyes wild, black shawls flying around
their shoulders, and their long hair streaming
and covered with leaves and flowers. But the
Tadtarin, a small old woman with white hair,
walked with calm dignity in the midst of the
female tumult, a wand in one hand, a bunch
of seedling in the other. Behind her, a group
of girls bore aloft a little black image of the
Baptist—a crude, primitive, grotesque
image, its big-eyed head too big for its puny
naked torso, bobbing and swaying above the
hysterical female horde and looking at once
so comical and so pathetic that Don Paeng,
watching with his wife on the sidewalk, was
outraged. The image seemed to be crying for
help, to be struggling to escape—a St. John
indeed in the hands of the Herodias; a
doomed captive these witches were
subjecting first to their derision; a gross and
brutal caricature of his sex.
Don Paeng flushed hotly: he felt that all those
women had personally insulted him. He
turned to his wife, to take her away—but she
was watching greedily, taut and breathless,
her head thrust forward and her eyes
bulging, the teeth bared in the slack mouth,
and the sweat gleaning on her face. Don
Paeng was horrified. He grasped her arm—
but just then a flash of lightning blazed and
the screaming women fell silent: the Tadtarin
was about to die.
The old woman closed her eyes and bowed
her head and sank slowly to her knees. A
pallet was brought and set on the ground and
she was laid in it and her face covered with a
shroud. Her hands still clutched the wand
and the seedlings. The women drew away,
leaving her in a cleared space. They covered
their heads with their black shawls and
began wailing softly, unhumanly—a hushed,
animal keening.
Overhead the sky was brightening, silver
light defined the rooftops. When the moon
rose and flooded with hot brilliance the
moveless crowded square, the black-
shawled women stopped wailing and a girl
approached and unshrouded the Tadtarin,
who opened her eyes and sat up, her face
lifted to the moonlight. She rose to her feet
and extended the wand and the seedlings
and the women joined in a mighty shout.
They pulled off and waved their shawls and
whirled and began dancing again—laughing
and dancing with such joyous exciting
abandon that the people in the square and
on the sidewalk, and even those on the
balconies, were soon laughing and dancing,
too. Girls broke away from their parents and
wives from their husbands to join in the orgy.
“Come, let us go now,” said Don Paeng to his
wife. She was shaking with fascination; tears
trembled on her lashes; but she nodded
meekly and allowed herself to be led away.
But suddenly she pulled free from his grasp,
darted off, and ran into the crowd of dancing
women.
She flung her hands to her hair and whirled
and her hair came undone. Then, planting
her arms akimbo, she began to trip a nimble
measure, an indistinctive folk-movement.
She tossed her head back and her arched
throat bloomed whitely. Her eyes brimmed
with moonlight, and her mouth with laughter.
Don Paeng ran after her, shouting her name,
but she laughed and shook her head and
darted deeper into the dense maze of
procession, which was moving again,
towards the chapel. He followed her,
shouting; she eluded him, laughing—and
through the thick of the female horde they
lost and found and lost each other again—
she, dancing and he pursuing—till, carried
along by the tide, they were both swallowed
up into the hot, packed, turbulent darkness of
the chapel. Inside poured the entire
procession, and Don Paeng, finding himself
trapped tight among milling female bodies,
struggled with sudden panic to fight his way
out. Angry voices rose all about him in the
stifling darkness.
“Hoy you are crushing my feet!”
“And let go of my shawl, my shawl!”
“Stop pushing, shameless one, or I kick you!”
“Let me pass, let me pass, you harlots!” cried
Don Paeng.
“Abah, it is a man!”
“How dare he come in here?”
“Break his head!”
“Throw the animal out!”
“Throw him out! Throw him out!” shrieked the
voices, and Don Paeng found himself
surrounded by a swarm of gleaming eyes.
Terror possessed him and he struck out
savagely with both fists, with all his
strength—but they closed in as savagely:
solid walls of flesh that crushed upon him and
pinned his arms helpless, while unseen
hands struck and struck his face, and
ravaged his hair and clothes, and clawed at
his flesh, as—kicked and buffeted, his eyes
blind and his torn mouth salty with blood—he
was pushed down, down to his knees, and
half-shoved, half-dragged to the doorway
and rolled out to the street. He picked himself
up at once and walked away with a dignity
that forbade the crowd gathered outside to
laugh or to pity. Entoy came running to meet
him.
“But what has happened to you, Don
Paeng?”
“Nothing. Where is the coach?”
“Just over there, sir. But you are wounded in
the face!”
“No, these are only scratches. Go and get the
sehora. We are going home.”
When she entered the coach and saw his
bruised face and torn clothing, she smiled
coolly.
“What a sight you are, man! What have you
done with yourself?”
And when he did not answer: “Why, have
they pulled out his tongue too?” she
wondered aloud.
AND WHEN THEY are home and stood
facing each other in the bedroom, she was
still as light-hearted.
“What are you going to do, Rafael?”
“I am going to give you a whipping.”
“But why?”
“Because you have behaved tonight like a
lewd woman.”
“How I behaved tonight is what I am. If you
call that lewd, then I was always a lewd
woman and a whipping will not change me—
though you whipped me till I died.”
“I want this madness to die in you.”
“No, you want me to pay for your bruises.”
He flushed darkly. “How can you say that,
Lupe?”
“Because it is true. You have been whipped
by the women and now you think to avenge
yourself by whipping me.”
His shoulders sagged and his face dulled. “If
you can think that of me -“
“You could think me a lewd woman!”
“Oh, how do I know what to think of you? I
was sure I knew you as I knew myself. But
now you are as distant and strange to me as
a female Turk in Africa.”
“Yet you would dare whip me -“
“Because I love you, because I respect you.”
“And because if you ceased to respect me
you would cease to respect yourself?”
“Ah, I did not say that!”
“Then why not say it? It is true. And you want
to say it, you want to say it!”
But he struggled against her power. “Why
should I want to?” he demanded peevishly.
“Because, either you must say it—or you
must whip me,” she taunted.
Her eyes were upon him and the shameful
fear that had unmanned him in the dark
chapel possessed him again. His legs had
turned to water; it was a monstrous agony to Without moment’s hesitation, he sprawled
remain standing. down flat and, working his arms and legs,
gaspingly clawed his way across the floor,
But she was waiting for him to speak, forcing like a great agonized lizard, the woman
him to speak. steadily backing away as he approached, her
eyes watching him avidly, her nostrils
“No, I cannot whip you!” he confessed dilating, till behind her loomed the open
miserably. window, the huge glittering moon, the rapid
flashes of lightning. she stopped, panting,
“Then say it! Say it!” she cried, pounding her and leaned against the sill. He lay exhausted
clenched fists together. “Why suffer and at her feet, his face flat on the floor.
suffer? And in the end you would only
submit.” She raised her skirts and contemptuously
thrust out a naked foot. He lifted his dripping
But he still struggled stubbornly. “Is it not face and touched his bruised lips to her toes;
enough that you have me helpless? Is it not lifted his hands and grasped the white foot
enough that I feel what you want me feel?” and kiss it savagely – kissed the step, the
sole, the frail ankle – while she bit her lips
But she shook her head furiously. “Until you and clutched in pain at the whole windowsill
her body and her loose hair streaming out the
have said to me, there can be no peace
between us.” window – streaming fluid and black in the
white night where the huge moon glowed like
a sun and the dry air flamed into lightning and
He was exhausted at last; he sank heavily to
the pure heat burned with the immense
his knees, breathing hard and streaming with
intense fever of noon.
sweat, his fine body curiously diminished
now in its ravaged apparel.
“I adore you, Lupe,” he said tonelessly.
She strained forward avidly, “What? What did
you say?” she screamed.
And he, in his dead voice: “That I adore you.
That I adore you. That I worship you. That the
air you breathe and the ground you tread is
so holy to me. That I am your dog, your
slave… “
But it was still not enough. Her fists were still
clenched, and she cried: “Then come, crawl
on the floor, and kiss my feet!”