THE VIRGIN

by Kerima Polotan Tuvera

He went to where Miss Mijares sat, a tall, big man, walking with an economy of
movement, graceful and light, a man who knew his body and used it well. He
sat in the low chair worn decrepit by countless other interviewers and laid all
ten fingerprints carefully on the edge of her desk. She pushed a sheet towards
him, rolling a pencil along with it. While he read the question and wrote down
his answers, she glanced at her watch and saw that it was ten. "I shall be
coming back quickly," she said, speaking distinctly in the dialect (you were
never sure about these people on their first visit, if they could speak English, or
even write at all, the poor were always proud and to use the dialect with them
was an act of charity), "you will wait for me."

As she walked to the cafeteria, Miss Mijares thought how she could easily have
said, Please wait for me, or will you wait for me? But years of working for the
placement section had dulled the edges of her instinct for courtesy. She spoke
now peremptorily, with an abruptness she knew annoyed the people about her.

When she talked with the jobless across her desk, asking them the damning
questions that completed their humiliation, watching pale tongues run over dry
lips, dirt crusted handkerchiefs flutter in trembling hands, she was filled with
an impatience she could not understand. Sign here, she had said thousands of
times, pushing the familiar form across, her finger held to a line, feeling the
impatience grow at sight of the man or woman tracing a wavering "X" or laying
the impress of a thumb. Invariably, Miss Mijares would turn away to touch the
delicate edge of the handkerchief she wore on her breast.

Where she sat alone at one of the cafeteria tables, Miss Mijares did not look 34.
She was slight, almost bony, but she had learned early how to dress herself to
achieve an illusion of hips and bosom. She liked poufs and shirrings and little
girlish pastel colors. On her bodice, across or lengthwise, there sat an
inevitable row of thick camouflaging ruffles that made her look almost as
though she had a bosom, if she bent her shoulders slightly and
inconspicuously drew her neckline open to puff some air into her bodice.

Her brow was smooth and clear and she was always pushing off it the hair she
kept in tight curls at night. She had thin cheeks, small and angular, falling
down to what would have been a nondescript, receding chin, but Nature's hand
had erred and given her a jaw instead. When displeased, she had a lippy,
almost sensual pout, surprising on such a small face.

So while not exactly an ugly woman, she was no beauty. She teetered
precariously on the border line to which belonged countless others who you
found, if they were not working at some job, in the kitchen of some married
sister's house shushing a brood of devilish little nephews.

Philippine Literature in English Page 1

And yet Miss Mijares did think of love. Secret, short-lived thoughts flitted
through her mind in the jeepneys she took to work when a man pressed down
beside her and through her dress she felt the curve of his thigh; when she held
a baby in her arms, a married friend's baby or a relative's, holding in her hands
the tiny, pulsing body, what thoughts did she not think, her eyes straying
against her will to the bedroom door and then to her friend's laughing, talking
face, to think: how did it look now, spread upon a pillow, unmasked of the little
wayward coquetries, how went the lines about the mouth and beneath the
eyes: (did they close? did they open?) in the one final, fatal coquetry of all? to
finally, miserably bury her face in the baby's hair. And in the movies, to sink
into a seat as into an embrace, in the darkness with a hundred shadowy
figures about her and high on the screen, a man kissing a woman's mouth
while her own fingers stole unconsciously to her unbruised lips.

When she was younger, there had been other things to do--- college to finish, a
niece to put through school, a mother to care for.

She had gone through all these with singular patience, for it had seemed to her
that love stood behind her, biding her time, a quiet hand upon her shoulder (I
wait. Do not despair) so that if she wished she had but to turn from her
mother's bed to see the man and all her timid, pure dreams would burst into
glory. But it had taken her parent many years to die. Towards the end, it had
become a thankless chore, kneading her mother's loose flesh, hour after hour,
struggling to awaken the cold, sluggish blood in her drying body. In the end,
she had died --- her toothless, thin-haired, flabby-fleshed mother --- and Miss
Mijares had pushed against the bed in grief and also in gratitude. But neither
love nor glory stood behind her, only the empty shadows, and nine years gone,
nine years. In the room for her unburied dead, she had held up her hands to
the light, noting the thick, durable fingers, thinking in a mixture of shame and
bitterness and guilt that they had never touched a man.

When she returned to the bleak replacement office, the man stood by a
window, his back to her, half-bending over something he held in his hands.
"Here," she said, approaching, "have you signed this?"

"Yes," he replied, facing her.

In his hands, he held her paperweight, an old gift from long ago, a heavy
wooden block on which stood, as though poised for flight, an undistinguished,
badly done bird. It had come apart recently. The screws beneath the block had
loosened so that lately it had stood upon her desk with one wing tilted
unevenly, a miniature eagle or swallow? felled by time before it could spread its
wings. She had laughed and laughed that day it had fallen on her desk, plop!
"What happened? What happened?" they had asked her, beginning to laugh,
and she had said, caught between amusement and sharp despair, "Some one
shot it," and she had laughed and laughed till faces turned and eyebrows rose
and she told herself, whoa, get a hold, a hold, a hold!

He had turned it and with a penknife tightened the screws and dusted it. In
Philippine Literature in English Page 2
this man's hands, cupped like that, it looked suddenly like a dove.

She took it away from him and put it down on her table. Then she picked up
his paper and read it.

He was a high school graduate. He was also a carpenter.

He was not starved, like the rest. His clothes, though old, were pressed and she
could see the cuffs of his shirt buttoned and wrapped about big, strong wrists.

"I heard about this place," he said, "from a friend you got a job at the pier."
Seated, he towered over her, "I'm not starving yet," he said with a quick smile.
"I still got some money from that last job, but my team broke up after that and
you got too many jobs if you're working alone. You know carpentering," he
continued, "you can't finish a job quickly enough if you got to do the planing
and sawing and nailing all by your lone self. You got to be on a team."

Perhaps he was not meaning to be impolite? But for a jobseeker, Miss Mijares
thought, he talked too much and without call. He was bursting all over with an
obtruding insolence that at once disarmed and annoyed her.

So then she drew a slip and wrote his name on it. "Since you are not starving
yet," she said, speaking in English now, wanting to put him in his place, "you
will not mind working in our woodcraft section, three times a week at two-fifty
to four a day, depending on your skill and the foreman's discretion, for two or
three months after which there might be a call from outside we may hold for
you."

"Thank you," he said.

He came on the odd days, Tuesday, Thursday, Sunday.

She was often down at the shanty that housed their bureau's woodcraft,
talking with Ato, his foreman, going over with him the list of old hands due for
release. They hired their men on a rotation basis and three months was the
longest one could stay.

"The new one there, hey," Ato said once. "We're breaking him in proper." And
he looked across several shirted backs to where he stopped, planing what was
to become the side of a bookcase.

How much was he going to get? Miss Mijares asked Ato on Wednesday. "Three,"
the old man said, chewing away on a cud. She looked at the list in her hands,
quickly running a pencil down. "But he's filling a four-peso vacancy," she said.
"Come now," surprised that she should wheedle so, "give him the extra peso."
"Only a half," the stubborn foreman shook his head, "three-fifty."

"Ato says I have you to thank," he said, stopping Miss Mijares along a pathway
in the compound.
Philippine Literature in English Page 3
It was noon, that unhappy hour of the day when she was oldest, tiredest, when
it seemed the sun put forth cruel fingers to search out the signs of age on her
thin, pinched face. The crow's feet showed unmistakably beneath her eyes and
she smiled widely to cover them up and aquinting a little, said, "Only a half-
peso --- Ato would have given it to you eventually."

"Yes, but you spoke for me," he said, his big body heaving before her. "Thank
you, though I don't need it as badly as the rest, for to look at me, you would
knew I have no wife --- yet."

She looked at him sharply, feeling the malice in his voice. "I'd do it for any one,"
she said and turned away, angry and also ashamed, as though he had found
out suddenly that the ruffles on her dress rested on a flat chest.

The following week, something happened to her: she lost her way home.

Miss Mijares was quite sure she had boarded the right jeepneys but the driver,
hoping to beat traffic, had detoured down a side alley, and then seeing he was
low on gas, he took still another shortcut to a filling station. After that, he rode
through alien country.

The houses were low and dark, the people shadowy, and even the driver, who
earlier had been an amiable, talkative fellow, now loomed like a sinister
stranger over the wheel. Through it all, she sat tightly, feeling oddly that she
had dreamed of this, that some night not very long ago, she had taken a ride in
her sleep and lost her way. Again and again, in that dream, she had changed
direction, losing her way each time, for something huge and bewildering stood
blocking the old, familiar road home.

But that evening, she was lost only for a while. The driver stopped at a corner
that looked like a little known part of the boulevard she passed each day and
she alighted and stood on a street island, the passing headlights playing on
her, a tired, shaken woman, the ruffles on her skirt crumpled, the hemline of
her skirt awry.

The new hand was absent for a week. Miss Mijares waited on that Tuesday he
first failed to report for some word from him sent to Ato and then to her. That
was regulation. Briefly though they were held, the bureau jobs were not ones to
take chances with. When a man was absent and he sent no word, it upset the
system. In the absence of a definite notice, someone else who needed a job
badly was kept away from it.

"I went to the province, ma'am," he said, on his return.

"You could have sent someone to tell us," she said.

"It was an emergency, ma'am," he said. "My son died."

Philippine Literature in English Page 4
"How so?"

A slow bitter anger began to form inside her. "But you said you were not
married!"

"No, ma'am," he said gesturing.

"Are you married?" she asked loudly.

"No, ma'am."

"But you have -- you had a son!" she said.

"I am not married to his mother," he said, grinning stupidly, and for the first
time she noticed his two front teeth were set widely apart. A flush had climbed
to his face, suffusing it, and two large throbbing veins crawled along his
temples.

She looked away, sick all at once.

"You should told us everything," she said and she put forth hands to restrain
her anger but it slipped away she stood shaking despite herself.

"I did not think," he said.

"Your lives are our business here," she shouted.

It rained that afternoon in one of the city's fierce, unexpected thunder-storms.

Without warning, it seemed to shine outside Miss Mijares' window a gray,
unhappy look.

It was past six when Miss Mijares, ventured outside the office. Night had come
swiftly and from the dark sky the thick, black, rainy curtain continued to fall.
She stood on the curb, telling herself she must not lose her way tonight. When
she flagged a jeepney and got in, somebody jumped in after her. She looked up
into the carpenter's faintly smiling eyes. She nodded her head once in
recognition and then turned away.

The cold tight fear of the old dream was upon her. Before she had time to
think, the driver had swerved his vehicle and swung into a side street. Perhaps
it was a different alley this time. But it wound itself in the same tortuous
manner as before, now by the banks of overflowing esteros, again behind
faintly familiar buildings. She bent her tiny, distraught face, conjuring in her
heart the lonely safety of the street island she had stood on for an hour that
night of her confusion.

"Only this far, folks," the driver spoke, stopping his vehicle. "Main street's a
block straight ahead."
Philippine Literature in English Page 5
"But it's raining," someone protested.

"Sorry. But if I got into a traffic, I won't come out of it in a year. Sorry."

One by one the passengers got off, walking swiftly, disappearing in the night.

Miss Mijares stepped down to a sidewalk in front of a boarded store. The wind
had begun again and she could hear it whipping in the eaves above her head.
"Ma'am," the man's voice sounded at her shoulders, "I am sorry if you thought I
lied."

She gestured, bestowing pardon.

Up and down the empty, rain-beaten street she looked. It was as though all at
once everyone else had died and they were alone in the world, in the dark.

In her secret heart, Miss Mijares' young dreams fluttered faintly to life, seeming
monstrous in the rain, near this man --- seeming monstrous but sweet
overwhelming. I must get away, she thought wildly, but he had moved and
brushed against her, and where his touch had fallen, her flesh leaped, and she
recalled how his hands had looked that first day, lain tenderly on the edge of
her desk and about the wooden bird (that had looked like a moving, shining
dove) and she turned to him with her ruffles wet and wilted, in the dark she
turned to him.

Philippine Literature in English Page 6