THE ALMS

Wenceslao F. Flores

Everyday my grandfather and I positioned ourselves near the portico of San Cosme. My
grandfather was tall, he was lean; between the edges of his tangled beard, the red nose seemed like a
thick big drop of blood about to trickie from the forehead to the ches; his dim eyes were always open.
When the faithful entered the church, the children looked at him fearfully and huddled themselves
against their mothers. At times I still dream of him, and I see him like he was, already bent by age, and
covered by a dirty sheepskin jacket, holding the thick cudgel with which he felt his way when he
walked. Even now, I still feel the pressure of his enormous knotty hands on my shoulder as a blind
man's guide. When some misfortune embitters me, that pressure seems to become friendly and say to
me:

“Eh, little Esteban, remember those times of ours! Does it seem to you that however bad it is for
you now, you are happy?”

We lived in a garret that was like all those which one reads about in the stories of beggars. You
very well know it, so that I can speak to you one more time, of the ill-fitting doors through which the
icy wind enters and the broken mattress spread out on the wooden floor, and of the narrow glass that
had never been replaced. My brothers crawled like intestinal worms among those ramshackle utensils,
with their ruddy legs in the air.

During rainy nights, a leak simulated in the room a muted noise of a clock: “tic-tac” “tac-tac...”
I tell you truly that it was a miserable life. Habit gets to lessen sufferings: but even then, when I was
able to hoist myself by the chain of a boat and hide myself in its bilge, when I felt the vibrations of the
mavhines that were taking us towards America, I felt the greatest joy of my life.

During those times, I already had the habit of dreaming. During our long wait opposite the
partico, I thought about many good things! Thus, when the hand of grandfather look me aways from
my abstraction. I kept within myself a pent-up rancor towards the old man, I kept thinking...Oh! My
dreams then were like letters of one's first love that are never shown, that have for one the secret and
keen delight of ingeniousness, imperceptible to other people; I have that sad treasure of memories very
deeply hidden in me. Sometimes during nights of my meditation, my mind is extremely aroused and
will open the small chest of remote memories with the caution of a miser; better yet, with the secretness
of a woman that would get from its hiding place the relics if an unfortunate love.

I will not relate those dreams; you will laugh...Oh, that first love of mine! She lived in a house
near ours. Frequently, I used to see her from our garret playing on her terrace or lean out on their
balconies and look at the street for a long time with the gravity of a woman. She must been of my age,
ten years old. Now, when there are white hairs on our head, we usually forget our childish sentiments
and we think that at ten years of age, it is not possible to fall in love. I adored her. More than one day. I
jumped down the stairs ro see her leave. I would reach the portal painting, I would keep under my hat
the unruly cowlick that almost covered my eyes, I would hide myself a little, sheltered under the ratter
of my door. And she would pass by, tall and graceful, serious, with that strange seriousness of hers, her
hands hidden in the white gloves, increasing the brightness of the big eyes under the brim of her hat.
The governess, tall, grave, and her face hidden under a thick veil, walked by her side.

I saw them pass by; my tiny heart beat faster. Afterwards, I kept looking for a long time without
seeing , dreaming, dreaming... When in the humble school where I used to attend at times, we were
made to read the story wherein the poor and the good boy saves the young lady who denied him a piece
of bread, I used to feel a withdrawn and sweet emotion. Afterwards, in my bed's rags I commented on
the story with new fantasies. Suddenly though red glow filtered through the skylight of our room: it is
the house in front of us that is burning. The house where she lives. I run and save her also, like the
good boy who was despised.

It is gratesque, isn't it? I saw myself pushing aside the people, with my head naked. I advanvced
towards the burning house. The people shouted.

“Don't let him pass...! Everything is burning!”

I would hurt myself into the fire and smoke, like I had seen in the cover of a navel I found on
the flagstones of the street. Then the multitude would shout unanimously. Amidst the fire. I would
reappear with the sweet little boy in my arms. Must I say that I fainted afterwards? When I would
regain consciousness, she would look at me with her great dark eyes full of love. And her father would
come, fat, enchisterado, with a huge golden chain crossed over his belly, and he would tell me, like in
the story read in school; “You have a soul of gold, my son, and the riches of the spirit are more valuable
than the worldly ones, because they are pleasing to God.”

Like in the story, the same as in the story. But to me – sacrilege! The gratitude of my small
adored one interested me more.

That day – Christmas Eve – the devout passed by hurriedly. Rain fell persistently: the gargoyles
of the church disgorged water in heavy gushes. My poor feet were numb with cold in the puddle. Many
beggars had come to the portico. Charity has its propitious surroundings. In days like that, it is much
easier to find a generous heart beside the door of a church than near the shining display windows. In
such a day their begging voices harassed those who entered or left the temple. We were so many! We,
the poor who had our usual place in the inner court, complained against the intrusion. My grandfather
grumbled:
“Thieves! They come to take away ones's bread...”

It was very late already. From the interior of the church some old women latecomers were
coming out. They came noiselessly up to the door and left silently also, moving their lips like they
were finishing their prayers. They passed by without looking at us. My grandfather had kept quiet,
gloomy. Night was approaching. Young voices singing Christmas carols had been heard in the church. I
could have wanted to go in, willingly.

“ Before we left – I told myself, I will go and see the Three Magi and the cow with golden
horns...”

Between the shadowas of portico, two persons appeared. They advanced. I became motionless
like one of the saints in the niches. “She,” beside the governess, grave and serious, was approaching us.
When they heard the footsteps, the beggars' pestering stood out again. They stopped. My small loved
one walked towards us: she searched her wallet. She was sporting the white leather of her glove in the
growing darkness. She come nearer. She offered me a coin; I saw a silver coin in her hands.

I backed off a little, blushing, my hands hidden at my back, with a sharp pain in my spirit, with
a faltering of all my ingenuous love. She looked at me. I mumbled then:
“Thank you...; we are not begging for alms...; we don't...”
That night there eas no bread in our house.

Sabatina de la Vanguardia
Manila (June 3, 1939), pp. 10-14