SCENT OF APPLES

BIENVENIDO N. SANTOS
When I arrved n Kaamazoo t was October and the war was st on. God
and sver stars hung on pennants above sent wndows of whte and brck-
red cottages. In a backyard an od man burned eaves and twgs whe a gray-
hared woman sat on the porch, her red hands quet on her ap, watchng the
smoke rsng above the ems, both of them thnkng the same thought
perhaps, about a ta, grnnng boy wth hs bue eyes and yng har, who
went out to war: where coud he be now ths month when eaves were
turnng nto god and the fragrance of gathered appes was n the wnd?
It was a cod nght when I eft my room at the hote for a usua speakng
engagement. I waked but a tte way. A heavy wnd comng up from Lake
Mchgan was cy on the face. If fet ke wnter strayng eary n the northern
woodands. Under the ampposts the eaves shone ke bronze. And they
roed on the pavements ke the ghost feet of a thousand autumns ong
dead, ong before the boys eft for faraway ands wthout great cy wnds and
promse of wnter eary n the ar, ands wthout appe trees, the singing and
the gold!
It was the same nght I met Ceestno Faba, "|ust a Fpno farmer" as he
caed hmsef, who had a farm about thrty mes east of Kaamazoo. "You
came a that way on a nght ke ths |ust to hear me tak?" "I've seen no
Fpno for so many years now," he answered qucky. "So when I saw your
name n the papers where t says you come from the Isands and that you're
gong to tak, I come rght away." Earer that nght I had addressed a coege
crowd, mosty women. It appeared they wanted me to tak about my country,
they wanted me to te them thngs about t because my country had become
a ost country. Everywhere n the and the enemy staked. Over t a great
sence hung, and ther boys were there, unheard from, or they were on ther
way to some tte known sand on the Pacc, young boys a, hardy men,
thnkng of harvest moons and the sme of forest re. It was not hard takng
about our own peope. I knew them we and I oved them. And they seemed
so far away durng those terrbe years that I must have spoken of them wth
a tte fervor, a tte nostaga.
In the open forum that foowed, the audence wanted to know whether there
was much dherence between our women and the Amercan women. I tred
to answer the queston as best I coud, sayng, among other thngs, that I dd
not know that much about Amercan women, except that they ooked
frendy, but dherences or smartes n nner quates such as naturay
beonged to the heart or to the mnd, I coud ony speak about wth
vagueness. Whe I was tryng to expan away the fact that t was not easy to
make comparsons, a man rose from the rear of the ha, wantng to say
somethng. In the dstance, he ooked sght and od and very brown. Even
before he spoke, I knew that he was, ke me, a Fpno. "I'm a Fpno," he
began, oud and cear, n a voce that seemed used to wde open spaces, "I'm
|ust a Fpno farmer out n the country." He waved hs hand toward the door.
"I eft the Phppnes more than twenty years ago and have never been back.
Never w perhaps. I want to nd out, sr, are our Fpno women the same
ke they were twenty years ago?"
As he sat down, the ha ed wth voces, hushed and ntrgued. I weghed
my answer carefuy. I dd not want to te a e yet I dd not want to say
anythng that woud seem pattudnous, nsncere. But more mportant than
these consderatons, t seemed to me that moment as I ooked towards my
countryman, I must gve hm an answer that woud not make hm so
unhappy. Surey, a these years, he must have hed on to certan deas,
certan beefs, even usons pecuar to the exe. "Frst," I sad as the voces
graduay ded down and every eye seemed upon me, "Frst, te me what our
women were ke twenty years ago." The man stood to answer. "Yes," he sad,
"you're too young . . . Twenty years ago our women were nce, they were
modest, they wore ther har ong, they dressed proper and went for no
monkey busness. They were natura, they went to church reguar, and they
were fathfu." He had spoken sowy, and now n what seemed ke an
afterthought, added, "It's the men who an't."
Now I knew what I was gong to say. "We," I began, "t w nterest you to
know that our women have changed--but dentey! The change, however,
has been on the outsde ony. Insde, here," pontng to the heart, "they are
the same as they were twenty years ago. God-fearng, fathfu, modest,
and nice." The man was vsby moved. "I'm very happy, sr," he sad, n the
manner of one who, havng stakes on the and, had found no cause to regret
one's sentmenta nvestment. After ths, everythng that was sad and done
n that ha that nght seemed ke an ant-cmax, and ater, as we waked
outsde, he gave me hs name and tod me of hs farm thrty mes east of the
cty.
We had stopped at the man entrance to the hote obby. We had not taked
very much on the way. As a matter of fact, we were never aone. Kndy
Amercan frends taked to us, asked us questons, sad goodnght. So now I
asked hm whether he cared to step nto the obby wth me and tak.
"No, thank you," he sad, "you are tred. And I don't want to stay out too
ate." "Yes, you ve very far." "I got a car," he sad, "besdes . . . "Now he
smed, he truy smed. A nght I had been watchng hs face and I wondered
when he was gong to sme.
"W you do me a favor, pease," he contnued smng amost sweety. "I
want you to have dnner wth my famy out n the country. I'd ca for you
tomorrow afternoon, then drve you back. W that be arght?" "Of course," I
sad. "I'd ove to meet your famy." I was eavng Kaamazoo for Munce,
Indana, n two days. There was penty of tme. "You w make my wfe very
happy," he sad. "You atter me." "Honest. She' be very happy. Ruth s a
country gr and hasn't met many Fpnos. I mean Fpnos younger than I,
ceaner ookng. We're |ust poor farmer fok, you know, and we don't get to
town very often. Roger, that's my boy, he goes to schoo n town. A bus takes
hm eary n the mornng and he's back n the afternoon. He's nce boy."
"I bet he s," I agreed. "I've seen the chdren of some of the boys by ther
Amercan wves and the boys are ta, taer than ther father, and very good
ookng. "Roger, he'd be ta. You' ke hm." Then he sad goodbye and I
waved to hm as he dsappeared n the darkness.
The next day he came, at about three n the afternoon. There was a md,
nehectua sun shnng, and t was not too cod. He was wearng an od brown
tweed |acket and worsted trousers to match. Hs shoes were poshed, and
athough the green of hs te seemed faded, a coored shrt hardy
accentuated t. He ooked younger than he appeared the nght before now
that he was cean shaven and seemed ready to go to a party. He was
grnnng as we met.
"Oh, Ruth can't beeve t," he kept repeatng as he ed me to hs car--a
nondescrpt thng n faded back that had known better days and many
hands. "I says to her, I'm brngng you a rst cass Fpno, and she says, aw,
go away, qut kddng, there's no such thng as rst cass Fpno. But Roger,
that's my boy, he beeved me mmedatey. What's he ke, daddy, he asks.
Oh, you w see, I says, he's rst cass. Lke you daddy? No, no, I augh at
hm, your daddy an't rst cass. Aw, but you are, daddy, he says. So you can
see what a nce boy he s, so nnocent. Then Ruth starts grpng about the
house, but the house s a mess, she says. True t's a mess, t's aways a
mess, but you don't mnd, do you? We're poor foks, you know.
The trp seemed ntermnabe. We passed through narrow anes and
dsappeared nto thckets, and came out on barren and overgrown wth
weeds n paces. A around were dead eaves and dry earth. In the dstance
were appe trees. "Aren't those appe trees?" I asked wantng to be sure.
"Yes, those are appe trees," he reped. "Do you ke appes? I got ots of 'em.
I got an appe orchard, I' show you." A the beauty of the afternoon seemed
n the dstance, on the hs, n the du soft sky. "Those trees are beautfu on
the hs," I sad. "Autumn's a ovey season. The trees are gettng ready to
de, and they show ther coors, proud-ke." "No such thng n our own
country," I sad.
That remark seemed unknd, I reazed ater. It touched hm oh on a ong
deserted tangent, but ever there perhaps. How many tmes dd oney mnd
take unpeasant detours away from the famar wndng anes towards home
for fear of ths, the remembered hurt, the ong ost youth, the grm shadows
of the years; how many tmes ndeed, ony the exe knows. It was a rugged
road we were traveng and the car made so much nose that I coud not hear
everythng he sad, but I understood hm. He was teng hs story for the rst
tme n many years. He was rememberng hs own youth. He was thnkng of
home. In these odd moments there seemed no cause for fear no cause at a,
no pan. That woud come ater. In the nght perhaps. Or oney on the farm
under the appe trees.
In this old Visayan town, the streets are narrow and dirty and strewn with
coral shells. You have been there? You could not have missed our house, it
was the biggest in town, one of the oldest, ours was a big family. The house
stood right on the edge of the street. A door opened heavily and you enter a
dar hall leading to the stairs. There is the smell of chicens roosting on the
low!topped walls, there is the familiar sound they mae and you grope your
way up a massive staircase, the bannisters smooth upon the trembling hand.
"uch nights, they are no better than the days, windows are closed against
the sun# they close heavily. $other sits in her corner looing very white and
sic. This was her world, her domain. In all these years, I cannot remember
the sound of her voice. %ather was di&erent. 'e moved about. 'e shouted.
'e ranted. 'e lived in the past and taled of honor as though it were the
only thing. I was born in that house. I grew up there into a pampered brat. I
was mean. (ne day I broe their hearts. I saw mother cry wordlessly as
father heaped his curses upon me and drove me out of the house, the gate
closing heavily after me. And my brothers and sisters too up my father)s
hate for me and multiplied it numberless times in their own broen hearts. I
was no good. *ut sometimes, you now, I miss that house, the roosting
chicens on the low!topped walls. I miss my brothers and sisters, $other
sitting in her chair, looing lie a pale ghost in a corner of the room. I would
remember the great live posts, massive tree truns from the forests. +eafy
plants grew on the sides, buds pointing downwards, wilted and died before
they could become ,owers. As they fell on the ,oor, father bent to pic them
and throw them out into the coral streets. 'is hands were strong. I have
issed these hands . . . many times, many times.
Fnay we rounded a deep curve and suddeny came upon a shanty, a but
ready to crumbe n a heap on the ground, ts pastered was were rottng
away, the oor was hardy a foot from the ground. I thought of the cottages
of the poor coored fok n the south, the hoves of the poor everywhere n
the and. Ths one stood a by tsef as though by common consent a the
fok that used to ve here had decded to say away, despsng t, ashamed of
t. Even the ovey season coud not coor t wth beauty.
A dog barked oudy as we approached. A fat bonde woman stood at the
door wth a tte boy by her sde. Roger seemed newy scrubbed. He hardy
took hs eyes oh me. Ruth had a cean apron around her shapeess wast.
Now as she shook my hands n sncere deght I notced shamefacedy (that I
shoud notce) how rough her hands were, how coarse and red wth abor,
how ugy! She was no onger young and her sme was pathetc.
As we stepped nsde and the door cosed behnd us, mmedatey I was
aware of the famar scent of appes. The room was bare except for a few
ancent peces of second-hand furnture. In the mdde of the room stood a
stove to keep the famy warm n wnter. The was were bare. Over the dnng
tabe hung a amp yet unghted.
Ruth got busy wth the drnks. She kept comng n and out of a rear room that
must have been the ktchen and soon the tabe was heavy wth food, fred
chcken egs and rce, and green peas and corn on the ear. Even as we ate,
Ruth kept standng, and gong to the ktchen for more food. Roger ate ke a
tte genteman. "Isn't he nce ookng?" hs father asked. "You are a
handsome boy, Roger," I sad. The boy smed at me. You ook ke Daddy," he
sad. Afterwards I notced an od pcture eanng on the top of a dresser and
stood to pck t up. It was yeow and soed wth many ngerngs. The faded
gure of a woman n Phppne dress coud yet be dstngushed athough the
face had become a bur. "Your . . . " I began. "I don't know who she s," Faba
hastened to say. "I pcked that pcture many years ago n a room on La Sae
street n Chcago. I have often wondered who she s." "The face wasn't a bur
n the begnnng?" "Oh, no. It was a young face and good." Ruth came wth a
pate fu of appes.
"Ah," I cred, pckng out a rpe one. "I've been thnkng where a the scent of
appes came from. The room s fu of t." "I' show you," sad Faba.
He showed me a backroom, not very bg. It was haf-fu of appes. "Every
day," he expaned, "I take some of them to town to se to the groceres.
Prces have been ow. I've been osng on the trps." "These appes w spo,"
I sad. "We' feed them to the pgs." Then he showed me around the farm. It
was twght now and the appe trees stood bare aganst a gowng western
sky. In appe bossom tme t must be ovey here. But what about
wntertme?
One day, accordng to Faba, a few years ago, before Roger was born, he had
an attack of acute appendcts. It was deep wnter. The snow ay heavy
everywhere. Ruth was pregnant and none too we hersef. At rst she dd not
know what to do. She bunded hm n warm cothng and put hm on a cot
near the stove. She shoveed the snow from ther front door and practcay
carred the suherng man on her shouders, draggng hm through the newy
made path towards the road where they wated for the U.S. Ma car to pass.
Meanwhe snowakes poured a over them and she kept rubbng the man's
arms and egs as she hersef neary froze to death. "Go back to the house,
Ruth!" her husband cred, "you' freeze to death." But she cung to hm
wordessy. Even as she massaged hs arms and egs, her tears roed down
her cheeks. "I won't eave you," she repeated.
Fnay the U.S. Ma car arrved. The maman, who knew them we, heped
them board the car, and, wthout stoppng on hs usua route, took the sck
man and hs wfe drect to the nearest hospta. Ruth stayed n the hospta
wth Faba. She sept n a corrdor outsde the patents' ward and n the day
tme heped n scrubbng the oor and washng the dshes and ceanng the
men's thngs. They ddn't have enough money and Ruth was wng to work
ke a save. "Ruth's a nce gr," sad Faba, "ke our own Fpno women."
Before nghtfa, he took me back to the hote. Ruth and Roger stood at the
door hodng hands and smng at me. From nsde the room of the shanty, a
ow ght ckered. I had a ast gmpse of the appe trees n the orchard
under the darkened sky as Faba backed up the car. And soon we were on our
way back to town. The dog had started barkng. We coud hear t for some
tme, unt nay, we coud not hear t anymore, and a was darkness around
us, except where the headamps reveaed a stretch of road eadng
somewhere. Faba dd not tak ths tme. I ddn't seem to have anythng to
say mysef. But when nay we came to the hote and I got down, Faba sad,
"We, I guess I won't be seeng you agan." It was dmy ghted n front of the
hote and I coud hardy see Faba's face. Wthout gettng oh the car, he
moved to where I had sat, and I saw hm extend hs hand. I grpped t. "Te
Ruth and Roger," I sad, "I ove them." He dropped my hand qucky. "They'
be watng for me now," he sad.
"Look," I sad, not knowng why I sad t, "one of these days, very soon, I
hope, I' be gong home. I coud go to your town." "No," he sad softy,
soundng very much defeated but brave, "Thanks a ot. But, you see, nobody
woud remember me now."
Then he started the car, and as t moved away, he waved hs hand.
"Goodbye," I sad, wavng back nto the darkness. And suddeny the nght
was cod ke wnter strayng eary n these northern woodands. I hurred
nsde. There was a tran the next mornng that eft for Munce, Indana, at a
quarter after eght.