Wedding Dance By Amador Daguio Awiyao reached for the upper horizontal log which served as the edge

of the headhigh threshold. Clinging to the log, he lifted himself with one bound that carried him across to the narrow door. He slid back the cover, stepped inside, then pushed the cover back in place. After some moments during which he seemed to wait, he talked to the listening darkness. "I'm sorry this had to be done. I am really sorry. But neither of us can help it." The sound of the gangsas beat through the walls of the dark house like muffled roars of falling waters. The woman who had moved with a start when the sliding door opened had been hearing the gangsas for she did not know how long. There was a sudden rush of fire in her. She gave no sign that she heard Awiyao, but continued to sit unmoving in the darkness. But Awiyao knew that she heard him and his heart pitied her. He crawled on all fours to the middle of the room; he knew exactly where the stove was. With bare fingers he stirred the covered smoldering embers, and blew into the stove. When the coals began to glow, Awiyao put pieces of pine on them, then full round logs as his arms. The room brightened. "Why don't you go out," he said, "and join the dancing women?" He felt a pang inside him, because what he said was really not the right thing to say and because the woman did not stir. "You should join the dancers," he said, "as if--as if nothing had happened." He looked at the woman huddled in a corner of the room, leaning against the wall. The stove fire played with strange moving shadows and lights upon her face. She was partly sullen, but her sullenness was not because of anger or hate. "Go out--go out and dance. If you really don't hate me for this separation, go out and dance. One of the men will see you dance well; he will like your dancing, he will marry you. Who knows but that, with him, you will be luckier than you were with me." "I don't want any man," she said sharply. "I don't want any other man." He felt relieved that at least she talked: "You know very well that I won't want any other woman either. You know that, don't you? Lumnay, you know it, don't you?" She did not answer him. "You know it Lumnay, don't you?" he repeated. "Yes, I know," she said weakly.

"It is not my fault," he said, feeling relieved. "You cannot blame me; I have been a good husband to you." "Neither can you blame me," she said. She seemed about to cry. "No, you have been very good to me. You have been a good wife. I have nothing to say against you." He set some of the burning wood in place. "It's only that a man must have a child. Seven harvests is just too long to wait. Yes, we have waited too long. We should have another chance before it is too late for both of us." This time the woman stirred, stretched her right leg out and bent her left leg in. She wound the blanket more snugly around herself. "You know that I have done my best," she said. "I have prayed to Kabunyan much. I have sacrificed many chickens in my prayers." "Yes, I know." "You remember how angry you were once when you came home from your work in the terrace because I butchered one of our pigs without your permission? I did it to appease Kabunyan, because, like you, I wanted to have a child. But what could I do?" "Kabunyan does not see fit for us to have a child," he said. He stirred the fire. The spark rose through the crackles of the flames. The smoke and soot went up the ceiling. Lumnay looked down and unconsciously started to pull at the rattan that kept the split bamboo flooring in place. She tugged at the rattan flooring. Each time she did this the split bamboo went up and came down with a slight rattle. The gong of the dancers clamorously called in her care through the walls. Awiyao went to the corner where Lumnay sat, paused before her, looked at her bronzed and sturdy face, then turned to where the jars of water stood piled one over the other. Awiyao took a coconut cup and dipped it in the top jar and drank. Lumnay had filled the jars from the mountain creek early that evening. "I came home," he said. "Because I did not find you among the dancers. Of course, I am not forcing you to come, if you don't want to join my wedding ceremony. I came to tell you that Madulimay, although I am marrying her, can never become as good as you are. She is not as strong in planting beans, not as fast in cleaning water jars, not as good keeping a house clean. You are one of the best wives in the whole village." "That has not done me any good, has it?" She said. She looked at him lovingly. She almost seemed to smile.

He put the coconut cup aside on the floor and came closer to her. He held her face between his hands and looked longingly at her beauty. But her eyes looked away. Never again would he hold her face. The next day she would not be his any more. She would go back to her parents. He let go of her face, and she bent to the floor again and looked at her fingers as they tugged softly at the split bamboo floor. "This house is yours," he said. "I built it for you. Make it your own, live in it as long as you wish. I will build another house for Madulimay." "I have no need for a house," she said slowly. "I'll go to my own house. My parents are old. They will need help in the planting of the beans, in the pounding of the rice." "I will give you the field that I dug out of the mountains during the first year of our marriage," he said. "You know I did it for you. You helped me to make it for the two of us." "I have no use for any field," she said. He looked at her, then turned away, and became silent. They were silent for a time. "Go back to the dance," she said finally. "It is not right for you to be here. They will wonder where you are, and Madulimay will not feel good. Go back to the dance." "I would feel better if you could come, and dance---for the last time. The gangsas are playing." "You know that I cannot." "Lumnay," he said tenderly. "Lumnay, if I did this it is because of my need for a child. You know that life is not worth living without a child. The man have mocked me behind my back. You know that." "I know it," he said. "I will pray that Kabunyan will bless you and Madulimay." She bit her lips now, then shook her head wildly, and sobbed. She thought of the seven harvests that had passed, the high hopes they had in the beginning of their new life, the day he took her away from her parents across the roaring river, on the other side of the mountain, the trip up the trail which they had to climb, the steep canyon which they had to cross. The waters boiled in her mind in forms of white and jade and roaring silver; the waters tolled and growled, resounded in thunderous echoes through the walls of the stiff cliffs; they were far away now from somewhere on the tops of the other ranges, and they had looked carefully at the buttresses of rocks they had to step on---a slip would have meant death. They both drank of the water then rested on the other bank before they made the final climb to the

other side of the mountain. She looked at his face with the fire playing upon his features---hard and strong, and kind. He had a sense of lightness in his way of saying things which often made her and the village people laugh. How proud she had been of his humor. The muscles where taut and firm, bronze and compact in their hold upon his skull---how frank his bright eyes were. She looked at his body the carved out of the mountains five fields for her; his wide and supple torso heaved as if a slab of shining lumber were heaving; his arms and legs flowed down in fluent muscles--he was strong and for that she had lost him. She flung herself upon his knees and clung to them. "Awiyao, Awiyao, my husband," she cried. "I did everything to have a child," she said passionately in a hoarse whisper. "Look at me," she cried. "Look at my body. Then it was full of promise. It could dance; it could work fast in the fields; it could climb the mountains fast. Even now it is firm, full. But, Awiyao, I am useless. I must die." "It will not be right to die," he said, gathering her in his arms. Her whole warm naked naked breast quivered against his own; she clung now to his neck, and her hand lay upon his right shoulder; her hair flowed down in cascades of gleaming darkness. "I don't care about the fields," she said. "I don't care about the house. I don't care for anything but you. I'll have no other man." "Then you'll always be fruitless." "I'll go back to my father, I'll die." "Then you hate me," he said. "If you die it means you hate me. You do not want me to have a child. You do not want my name to live on in our tribe." She was silent. "If I do not try a second time," he explained, "it means I'll die. Nobody will get the fields I have carved out of the mountains; nobody will come after me." "If you fail--if you fail this second time--" she said thoughtfully. The voice was a shudder. "No--no, I don't want you to fail." "If I fail," he said, "I'll come back to you. Then both of us will die together. Both of us will vanish from the life of our tribe." The gongs thundered through the walls of their house, sonorous and faraway. "I'll keep my beads," she said. "Awiyao, let me keep my beads," she half-whispered.

"You will keep the beads. They come from far-off times. My grandmother said they come from up North, from the slant-eyed people across the sea. You keep them, Lumnay. They are worth twenty fields." "I'll keep them because they stand for the love you have for me," she said. "I love you. I love you and have nothing to give." She took herself away from him, for a voice was calling out to him from outside. "Awiyao! Awiyao! O Awiyao! They are looking for you at the dance!" "I am not in hurry." "The elders will scold you. You had better go." "Not until you tell me that it is all right with you." "It is all right with me." He clasped her hands. "I do this for the sake of the tribe," he said. "I know," she said. He went to the door. "Awiyao!" He stopped as if suddenly hit by a spear. In pain he turned to her. Her face was in agony. It pained him to leave. She had been wonderful to him. What was it that made a man wish for a child? What was it in life, in the work in the field, in the planting and harvest, in the silence of the night, in the communing with husband and wife, in the whole life of the tribe itself that made man wish for the laughter and speech of a child? Suppose he changed his mind? Why did the unwritten law demand, anyway, that a man, to be a man, must have a child to come after him? And if he was fruitless--but he loved Lumnay. It was like taking away of his life to leave her like this. "Awiyao," she said, and her eyes seemed to smile in the light. "The beads!" He turned back and walked to the farthest corner of their room, to the trunk where they kept their worldly possession---his battleax and his spear points, her betel nut box and her beads. He dug out from the darkness the beads which had been given to him by his grandmother to give to Lumnay on the beads on, and tied them in place. The white and jade and deep orange obsidians shone in the firelight. She suddenly clung to him, clung to his neck as if she would never let him go. "Awiyao! Awiyao, it is hard!" She gasped, and she closed her eyes and huried her face in his neck.

The call for him from the outside repeated; her grip loosened, and he buried out into the night. Lumnay sat for some time in the darkness. Then she went to the door and opened it. The moonlight struck her face; the moonlight spilled itself on the whole village. She could hear the throbbing of the gangsas coming to her through the caverns of the other houses. She knew that all the houses were empty that the whole tribe was at the dance. Only she was absent. And yet was she not the best dancer of the village? Did she not have the most lightness and grace? Could she not, alone among all women, dance like a bird tripping for grains on the ground, beautifully timed to the beat of the gangsas? Did not the men praise her supple body, and the women envy the way she stretched her hands like the wings of the mountain eagle now and then as she danced? How long ago did she dance at her own wedding? Tonight, all the women who counted, who once danced in her honor, were dancing now in honor of another whose only claim was that perhaps she could give her husband a child. "It is not right. It is not right!" she cried. "How does she know? How can anybody know? It is not right," she said. Suddenly she found courage. She would go to the dance. She would go to the chief of the village, to the elders, to tell them it was not right. Awiyao was hers; nobody could take him away from her. Let her be the first woman to complain, to denounce the unwritten rule that a man may take another woman. She would tell Awiyao to come back to her. He surely would relent. Was not their love as strong as the river? She made for the other side of the village where the dancing was. There was a flaming glow over the whole place; a great bonfire was burning. The gangsas clamored more loudly now, and it seemed they were calling to her. She was near at last. She could see the dancers clearly now. The man leaped lightly with their gangsas as they circled the dancing women decked in feast garments and beads, tripping on the ground like graceful birds, following their men. Her heart warmed to the flaming call of the dance; strange heat in her blood welled up, and she started to run. But the gleaming brightness of the bonfire commanded her to stop. Did anybody see her approach? She stopped. What if somebody had seen her coming? The flames of the bonfire leaped in countless sparks which spread and rose like yellow points and died out in the night. The blaze reached out to her like a spreading radiance. She did not have the courage to break into the wedding feast. Lumnay walked away from the dancing ground, away from the village. She thought of the new clearing of beans which Awiyao and she had started to make only four moons before. She followed the trail above the village. When she came to the mountain stream she crossed it carefully. Nobody held her hand, and the stream water was very cold. The trail went up again, and she was in the moonlight shadows among the trees

and shrubs. Slowly she climbed the mountain. When Lumnay reached the clearing, she cold see from where she stood the blazing bonfire at the edge of the village, where the wedding was. She could hear the far-off clamor of the gongs, still rich in their sonorousness, echoing from mountain to mountain. The sound did not mock her; they seemed to call far to her, to speak to her in the language of unspeaking love. She felt the pull of their gratitude for her sacrifice. Her heartbeat began to sound to her like many gangsas. Lumnay though of Awiyao as the Awiyao she had known long ago-- a strong, muscular boy carrying his heavy loads of fuel logs down the mountains to his home. She had met him one day as she was on her way to fill her clay jars with water. He had stopped at the spring to drink and rest; and she had made him drink the cool mountain water from her coconut shell. After that it did not take him long to decide to throw his spear on the stairs of her father's house in token on his desire to marry her. The mountain clearing was cold in the freezing moonlight. The wind began to stir the leaves of the bean plants. Lumnay looked for a big rock on which to sit down. The bean plants now surrounded her, and she was lost among them. A few more weeks, a few more months, a few more harvests---what did it matter? She would be holding the bean flowers, soft in the texture, silken almost, but moist where the dew got into them, silver to look at, silver on the light blue, blooming whiteness, when the morning comes. The stretching of the bean pods full length from the hearts of the wilting petals would go on. Lumnay's fingers moved a long, long time among the growing bean pods. NANKING STORE by Macario D. Tiu I WAS only three years old then, but I have vivid memories of Peter and Linda's wedding. What I remember most was jumping and romping on their pristine matrimonial bed after the wedding. I would learn later that it was to ensure that their first-born would be a boy. I was chosen to do the honors because I was robust and fat. I also remember that I got violently sick after drinking endless bottles of soft drinks. I threw up everything that I had eaten, staining Linda's shimmering satin wedding gown. Practically the entire Chinese community of the city was present. There was so much food that some Bisayan children from the squatter's area were allowed to enter the compound to eat in a shed near the kitchen. During their first year of marriage, Linda often brought me to their house in Bajada. She and Peter would pick me up after nursery school from our store in their car. She would tell Mother it was her way of easing her loneliness, as all her relatives and friends were in Cebu, her hometown. Sometimes I stayed overnight with them.

I liked going there because she pampered me, feeding me fresh fruits as well as preserved Chinese fruits like dikiam, champoy and kiamoy. Peter was fun too, making me ride piggyback. He was very strong and did not complain about my weight. Tua Poy, that's what she fondly called me. It meant Fatso. I called her Achi, and Peter, Ahiya. They were a happy couple. I would see them chase each other among the furniture and into the rooms. There was much laughter in the house. It was this happy image that played in my mind about Peter and Linda for a long time. I was six years old when I sensed that something had gone wrong with their marriage. Linda left the Bajada house and moved into the upstairs portions of Nanking Store which was right across from Father's grocery store in Santa Ana. The Bajada residence was the wedding gift of Peter's parents to the couple. It was therefore strange that Linda would choose to live in Santa Ana while Peter would stay in Bajada, a distance of some three kilometers. In Santa Ana where the Chinese stores were concentrated, the buildings used to be uniformly two storeys high. The first floor was the store; the second floor was the residence. In time some Chinese grew prosperous and moved out to establish little enclaves in different parts of the city and in the suburbs. We remained in Santa Ana. One late afternoon, after school, I caught Linda at home talking with Mother. "Hoa, Tua Poya. You've grown very tall!" Linda greeted me, ruffling my hair. At that age, the show of affection made me feel awkward and I sidled up to Mother. Linda gave me two Mandarin oranges. I stayed at the table in the same room, eating an orange and pretending not to listen to their conversation. I noticed that Linda's eyes were sad, not the eyes that I remembered. Her eyes used to be full of light and laughter. Now her eyes were somber even when her voice sounded casual and happy. "I got bored in Bajada," Linda said. "I thought I'd help Peter at the store." That was how she explained why she had moved to Santa Ana. I wanted to know if she could not do that by going to the store in the morning and returning home to Bajada at night like Peter did. I wished Mother would ask the question, but she did not. However, at the New Canton Barbershop I learned the real reason. One night Mother told me to fetch Father because it was past eight o'clock and he hadn't had his dinner. As a family we ate early. Like most Chinese, we would close the store by five and go up to the second floor to eat supper. The New Canton Barbershop served as the recreation center of our block. At night the sidewalk was brightly lighted, serving as the extension of the barbershop's waiting room. People congregated there to play Chinese chess, to read the Orient News or just talk. It was a very informal place. Father and the other elderly males would go there in shorts and sando shirts.

He was playing chess when I got there. He sat on a stool with one leg raised on the stool. "Mama says you should go home and eat," I said. Father looked at me and I immediately noticed that he had had a drink. The focus of his eyes was not straight. "I have eaten. Go home. Tell Mother I'll follow in a short while," he said. I stayed on and watched the game although I did not understand a thing. "I said go home," Father said, glowering at me. I did not budge. "This is how children behave now. You tell them to do something and they won't obey," he complained to his opponent. Turning to me, he said, "Go home." "Check," his opponent said. "Hoakonga!" Father cried, "I turn around and you cheat me." His opponent laughed aloud, showing toothless gums. Father studied the chessboard. "Hoakonga! You've defeated me four times in a row!" "Seven times." "What? You're a big cheat and you know that. Certainly five times, no more!" It elicited another round of laughter from the toothless man. Several people in the adjoining tables joined in the laughter. Father reset the chess pieces to start another game. "You beat me in chess, but I have six children. All boys. Can you beat that?" he announced. Father's laughter was very loud. When he had had a drink he was very talkative. "See this?" he hooked his arm around my waist and drew me to his side. "This is my youngest. Can you beat this?" The men laughed. They laughed very hard. I did not know what was funny, but it must be because of the incongruous sight of the two of us. He was very thin and I was very fat. "Well, I have I seven children!" the toothless man said. "Ah, four daughters. Not counted," Father said. "Ah Kong! Ah Kong!" somebody said.

The laughter was deafening. Ah Kong lived several blocks away. He had ten children, all daughters, and his wife was pregnant again. They laughed at their communal joke, but the laughter slowly died down until there was absolute silence. It was a very curious thing. Father saw Peter coming around the corner and he suddenly stopped laughing. The toothless man turned, saw Peter, and he stopped laughing, too. Anybody who saw Peter became instantly quiet so that by the time he was near the barbershop the group was absolutely silent. It was Peter who broke the silence by greeting Father. He also greeted some people, and suddenly they were alive again. The chess pieces made scraping noises on the board, the newspapers rustled, and people began to talk. "Hoa, Tua Poya, you've grown very tall!" he said, ruffling my hair. I smiled shyly at him. He exchanged a few words with Father and then, ruffling my hair once more, he went away. It struck me that he was not the Peter I knew, vigorous and alert. This Peter looked tired, and his shoulders sagged. I followed him with my eyes. Down the road I noted that his car was parked in front of Nanking Store. But he did not get into his car; instead he went inside the store. It was one of those nights when he would sleep in the store. "A bad stock," the toothless man said, shaking his head. "Ah Kong has no bones. But Peter is a bad stock. A pity. After four years, still no son. Not even a daughter." "It's the woman, not Peter," said a man from a neighboring table. "I heard they tried everything. She even had regular massage by a Bisayan medicine woman." "It's sad. It's very sad," the toothless man said. "His parents want him to junk her, but he loves her." When Father and I got home, I went to my First Brother's room. "Why do they say that Ah Kong has no bones?" I asked my brother. "Where did you learn that?" my brother asked. "At the barbershop." "Don't listen in on adult talk," he said. "It's bad manners." "Well, what does it mean?" "It means Ah Kong cannot produce a son." "And what is a bad stock?" My brother told me to go to sleep, but I persisted.

"It means you cannot produce any children. It's like a seed, see? It won't grow. Why do you ask?" he said. "They say Peter is a bad stock." "Well, that's what's going to happen to him if he won't produce a child. But it's not really Peter's problem. It is Linda's problem. She had an appendectomy when she was still single. It could have affected her." Somehow I felt responsible for their having no children. I worried that I could be the cause. I hoped nobody remembered that I jumped on their matrimonial bed to give them good luck. I failed to give them a son. I failed to give them even a daughter. But nobody really blamed me for it. Everybody agreed it was Linda's problem. That was why Linda had moved in to Santa Ana. But the problem was more complicated than this. First Brother explained it all to me patiently. Peter's father was the sole survivor of the Zhin family. He had a brother but he died when still young. The family name was therefore in danger of dying out. It was the worst thing that could happen to a Chinese family, for the bloodline to vanish from the world. Who would pay respects to the ancestors? It was unthinkable. Peter was the family's only hope to carry on the family name, and he still remained childless. But while everybody agreed that it was Linda's fault, some people also doubted Peter's virility. At the New Canton Barbershop it was the subject of drunken bantering. He was aware that people were talking behind his back. From a very gregarious man, he became withdrawn and no longer socialized. Instead he put his energies into Nanking Store. His father had retired and had given him full authority. Under his management, Nanking Store expanded, eating up two adjacent doors. It was rumored he had bought a large chunk of Santa Ana and was diversifying into manufacturing and mining. Once, I met him in the street and I smiled at him but he did not return my greeting. He did not ruffle my hair. He had become a very different man. His mouth was set very hard. He looked like he was angry at something. The changes in Linda occurred over a period of time. At first, she seemed to be in equal command with Peter in Nanking Store. She had her own desk and sometimes acted as cashier. Later she began to serve customers directly as if she were one of the salesgirls. Then her personal maid was fired. Gossip blamed this on Peter's parents. She lived pretty much like the three stay-in salesgirls and the young mestizo driver who cooked their own meals and washed their own clothes. Members of the community whose opinions mattered began to sympathize with her because her inlaws were becoming hostile towards her openly. The mother-in-law made it known to everybody she

was unhappy with her. She began to scold Linda in public. "That worthless, barren woman," she would spit out. Linda became a very jittery person. One time, she served tea to her mother-in-law and the cup slid off the saucer. It gave the mother-in-law a perfect excuse to slap Linda in the face in public. Peter did not help her when it was a matter between his parents and herself. I think at that time he still loved Linda, but he always deferred to the wishes of his parents. When it was that he stopped loving her I would not know. But he had learned to go to night spots and the talk began that he was dating a Bisayan bar girl. First Brother saw this woman and had nothing but contempt for her. "A bad woman," First brother told me one night about this woman. "All make-up. I don't know what he sees in her." It seemed that Peter did not even try to hide his affair because he would occasionally bring the girl to a very expensive restaurant in Matina. Matina was somewhat far from Santa Ana, but the rich and mobile young generation Chinese no longer confined themselves to Santa Ana. Many of them saw Peter with the woman. As if to lend credence to the rumor, the occasional night visits he made at Nanking Store stopped. I would not see his car parked there at night again. One day, Peter brought First Brother to a house in a subdivision in Mandug where he proudly showed him a baby boy. It was now an open secret that he kept his woman there and visited her frequently. First Brother told me about it after swearing me to secrecy, the way Peter had sworn him to secrecy. "Well, that settles the question. Peter is no bad stock after all. It had been Linda all along," First Brother said. It turned out Peter showed his baby boy to several other people and made them swear to keep it a secret. In no time at all everybody in the community knew he had finally produced a son. People talked about the scandal in whispers. A son by a Bisayan woman? And a bad woman at that? But they no longer joked about his being a bad stock. All in all people were happy for Peter. Once again his prestige rose. Peter basked in this renewed respect. He regained his old self; he now walked with his shoulders straight, and looked openly into people's eyes. He also began to socialize at New Canton Barbershop. And whenever we met, he would ruffle my hair. As for his parents, they acted as if nothing had happened. Perhaps they knew about the scandal, but pretended not to know. They were caught in a dilemma. On one hand, it should make them happy that Peter finally produced a son. On the other hand, they did not relish the idea of having a half-breed for a grandson, the old generation Chinese being conscious of racial purity. What was certain though was that they remained unkind to Linda. So there came a time when nobody was paying any attention anymore to Linda, not even Peter. Our neighbors began to accept her fate. It was natural for her to get scolded by her mother-in-law in public. It was natural that she should stay with the salesgirls and the driver. She no longer visited with Mother. She rarely went out, and when she did, she wore a scarf over her head, as if she were ashamed for

people to see her. Once in the street I greeted her--she looked at me with panic in her eyes, mumbled something, drew her scarf down to cover her face, and hurriedly walked away. First Brother had told me once that Linda's degradation was rather a strange case. She was an educated girl, and although her family was not rich, it was not poor either. Why she allowed herself to be treated that way was something that baffled people. She was not that submissive before. Once, I was witness to how she stood her ground. Her mother-in-law had ordered her to remove a painting of an eagle from a living room wall of their Bajada house, saying it was bad feng shui. With great courtesy, Linda refused, saying it was beautiful. But the mother-in-law won in the end. She nagged Peter about it, and he removed the painting. When the Bisayan woman gave Peter a second son, it no longer created a stir in the community. What created a minor stir was that late one night, when the New Canton Barbershop was about to close and there were only a few people left, Peter dropped by with his eldest son whom he carried piggyback. First Brother was there. He said everybody pretended the boy did not exist. Then Peter died in a car accident in the Buhangin Diversion Road. He was returning from Mandug and a truck rammed his car, killing him instantly. I cried when I heard about it, remembering how he had been good to me. At the wake, Linda took her place two rows behind her mother-in-law who completely ignored her. People passed by her and expressed their condolences very quickly, as if they were afraid of being seen doing so by the mother-in-law. At the burial, Linda stood stoically throughout the ceremony, and when Peter was finally interred, she swooned. A few weeks after Peter's burial, we learned that Linda's mother-in-law wanted her out of Nanking Store. She offered Linda a tempting amount of money. People thought it was a vicious thing to do, but none could help her. It was a purely family affair. However, a month or two passed and Linda was still in Nanking Store. In fact, Linda was now taking over Peter's work. I was happy to see that she had begun to stir herself to life. It was ironic that she would do so only after her husband's death. But at the same time, we feared for her. Her mother-in-law's hostility was implacable. She blamed Linda for everything. She knew about the scandal all along, and she never forgave Linda for making Peter the laughing stock of the community, forcing him into the arms of a Bisayan girl of an unsavory reputation and producing half-breed bastard sons. We waited keenly for the showdown that was coming. A flurry of emissaries went to Nanking Store but Linda stood pat on her decision to stay. Then one morning, her mother-in-law herself came in her flashy Mercedes. We learned about what actually happened through our domestic helper who got her story from the stay-in salesgirls. That was how the entire community learned the details of the confrontation. According to them, Linda ran upstairs to avoid talking to her mother-in-law. But the older woman followed and started berating her and calling her names. Linda kept her composure. She did not even retaliate when the older woman slapped her. But when the mother-in-law grabbed Linda's hair,

intending to drag her down the stairs, Linda kicked her in the shin. The old woman went wild and flayed at Linda. Linda at first fought back defensively, but as the older woman kept on, she finally slapped her mother-in-law hard in the face. Stunned, the older woman retreated, shouting threats at her. She never showed her face in Santa Ana again. While some conservative parties in the community did not approve of Linda's actions, many others cheered her secretly. They were sad, though, that the mother-in-law, otherwise a good woman, would become a cruel woman out of desperation to protect and perpetuate the family name. Since the enmity had become violent, the break was now total and absolute. This family quarrel provided an interesting diversion in the entire community; we followed each and every twist of its development like a TV soap opera. When the in-laws hired a lawyer, Linda also hired her own lawyer. It was going to be an ugly fight over property. Meanwhile, Linda's transformation fascinated the entire community. She had removed her scarf and made herself visible in the community again. I was glad that every time I saw her she was getting back to her old self. Indeed it was only then that I noticed how beautiful she was. She had well-shaped lips that needed no lipstick. Her eyes sparkled. Color had returned to her cheeks, accentuating her fine complexion. Blooming, the women said, seeming to thrive on the fight to remain in Nanking Store. The young men sat up whenever she passed by. But they would shake their heads, and say "What a pity, she's barren." Then without warning the in-laws suddenly moved to Manila, bringing with them the two bastard sons. They made it known to everybody that it was to show their contempt for Linda. It was said that the other woman received a handsome amount so she would never disturb them again. We all thought that was that. For several months an uneasy peace settled down in Nanking Store as the struggle shifted to the courts. People pursued other interests. Then to the utter horror of the community, they realized Linda was pregnant. Like most people, I thought at first that she was just getting fat. But everyday it was getting obvious that her body was growing. People had mixed reactions. When she could not bear a child she was a disgrace. Now that she was pregnant, she was still a disgrace. But she did not care about what people thought or said about her. Wearing a pair of elastic pants that highlighted her swollen belly, she walked all over Santa Ana. She dropped by every store on our block and chatted with the storeowners, as if to make sure that everybody knew she was pregnant. There was no other suspect for her condition but the driver. Nobody had ever paid him any attention before, and now they watched him closely. He was a shy mestizo about Peter's age. A very dependable fellow, yes. And good-looking, they now grudgingly admitted. "Naughty, naughty," the young men teased him, some of whom turned unfriendly. Unused to attention, the driver went on leave to visit his parents in Iligan City. One night, I arrived home to find Linda talking with Mother.

"Hoa, Tua Poya! You're so tall!" she greeted me. "Here are some oranges. I know you like them." I said my thanks. How heavy with child she was! "How old are you now?" "Twelve," I said. "Hmm, you're a man already. I should start calling you Napoleon, huh? Well, Napoleon, I've come here to say goodbye to your mother, and to you, too." She smiled; it was the smile I remembered when I was still very young, the smile of my childhood. "Tomorrow, I'm going to Iligan to fetch Oliver. Then we'll proceed to Cebu to visit my parents. Would you like to go with me?" I looked at Mother. She was teary eyed. Linda stood up and ruffled my hair. "So tall," she said. That was two years ago. We have not heard from Linda again. Nanking Store remains closed. The store sign has streaked into pastel colors like a stale wedding cake. First Brother says it is best for Linda to stay away. As for me, I am happy for her but I keep wondering if she had given birth to a boy. Story of the Emperor's New Clothes by Hans Christian Andersen Many years ago there lived an Emperor who was so fond of new clothes that he spent all his money on them in order to be beautifully dressed. He did not care about his soldiers, he did not care about the theatre; he only liked to go out walking to show off his new clothes. He had a coat for every hour of the day; and just as they say of a king, 'He is in the council-chamber,' they always said here, 'The Emperor is in the wardrobe.' In the great city in which he lived there was always something going on; every day many strangers came there. One day two impostors arrived who gave themselves out as weavers, and said that they knew how to manufacture the most beautiful cloth imaginable. Not only were the texture and pattern uncommonly beautiful, but the clothes which were made of the stuff possessed this wonderful property that they were invisible to anyone who was not fit for his office, or who was unpardonably stupid. 'Those must indeed be splendid clothes,' thought the Emperor. 'If I had them on I could find out which men in my kingdom are unfit for the offices they hold; I could distinguish the wise from the stupid! Yes, this cloth must be woven for me at once.' And he gave both the impostors much money, so that they might begin their work.

They placed two weaving-looms, and began to do as if they were working, but they had not the least thing on the looms. They also demanded the finest silk and the best gold, which they put in their pockets, and worked at the empty looms till late into the night. 'I should like very much to know how far they have got on with the cloth,' thought the Emperor. But he remembered when he thought about it that whoever was stupid or not fit for his office would not be able to see it. Now he certainly believed that he had nothing to fear for himself, but he wanted first to send somebody else in order to see how he stood with regard to his office. Everybody in the whole town knew what a wonderful power the cloth had, and they were all curious to see how bad or how stupid their neighbour was. 'I will send my old and honoured minister to the weavers,' thought the Emperor. 'He can judge best what the cloth is like, for he has intellect, and no one understands his office better than he.' Now the good old minister went into the hall where the two impostors sat working at the empty weaving-looms. 'Dear me!' thought the old minister, opening his eyes wide, 'I can see nothing!' But he did not say so. Both the impostors begged him to be so kind as to step closer, and asked him if it were not a beautiful texture and lovely colours. They pointed to the empty loom, and the poor old minister went forward rubbing his eyes; but he could see nothing, for there was nothing there. 'Dear, dear!' thought he, 'can I be stupid? I have never thought that, and nobody must know it! Can I be not fit for my office? No, I must certainly not say that I cannot see the cloth!' 'Have you nothing to say about it?' asked one of the men who was weaving. 'Oh, it is lovely, most lovely!' answered the old minister, looking through his spectacles. 'What a texture! What colours! Yes, I will tell the Emperor that it pleases me very much.' 'Now we are delighted at that,' said both the weavers, and thereupon they named the colours and explained the make of the texture. The old minister paid great attention, so that he could tell the same to the Emperor when he came back to him, which he did. The impostors now wanted more money, more silk, and more gold to use in their weaving. They put it all in their own pockets, and there came no threads on the loom, but they went on as they had done before, working at the empty loom. The Emperor soon sent another worthy statesman to see how the weaving was getting on, and whether the cloth would soon be finished. It was the same with him as the first one; he looked and looked, but because there was nothing on the empty loom he could see nothing. 'Is it not a beautiful piece of cloth?' asked the two impostors, and they pointed to and described the splendid material which was not there.

'Stupid I am not!' thought the man, 'so it must be my good office for which I am not fitted. It is strange, certainly, but no one must be allowed to notice it.' And so he praised the cloth which he did not see, and expressed to them his delight at the beautiful colours and the splendid texture. 'Yes, it is quite beautiful,' he said to the Emperor. Everybody in the town was talking of the magnificent cloth. Now the Emperor wanted to see it himself while it was still on the loom. With a great crowd of select followers, amongst whom were both the worthy statesmen who had already been there before, he went to the cunning impostors, who were now weaving with all their might, but without fibre or thread. 'Is it not splendid!' said both the old statesmen who had already been there. 'See, your Majesty, what a texture! What colours!' And then they pointed to the empty loom, for they believed that the others could see the cloth quite well. 'What!' thought the Emperor, 'I can see nothing! This is indeed horrible! Am I stupid? Am I not fit to be Emperor? That were the most dreadful thing that could happen to me. Oh, it is very beautiful,' he said. 'It has my gracious approval.' And then he nodded pleasantly, and examined the empty loom, for he would not say that he could see nothing. His whole Court round him looked and looked, and saw no more than the others; but they said like the Emperor, 'Oh! it is beautiful!' And they advised him to wear these new and magnificent clothes for the first time at the great procession which was soon to take place. 'Splendid! Lovely! Most beautiful!' went from mouth to mouth; everyone seemed delighted over them, and the Emperor gave to the impostors the title of Court weavers to the Emperor. Throughout the whole of the night before the morning on which the procession was to take place, the impostors were up and were working by the light of over sixteen candles. The people could see that they were very busy making the Emperor's new clothes ready. They pretended they were taking the cloth from the loom, cut with huge scissors in the air, sewed with needles without thread, and then said at last, 'Now the clothes are finished!' The Emperor came himself with his most distinguished knights, and each impostor held up his arm just as if he were holding something, and said, 'See! here are the breeches! Here is the coat! Here the cloak!' and so on. 'Spun clothes are so comfortable that one would imagine one had nothing on at all; but that is the beauty of it!' 'Yes,' said all the knights, but they could see nothing, for there was nothing there. 'Will it please your Majesty graciously to take off your clothes,' said the impostors, 'then we will put on the new clothes, here before the mirror.'

The Emperor took off all his clothes, and the impostors placed themselves before him as if they were putting on each part of his new clothes which was ready, and the Emperor turned and bent himself in front of the mirror. 'How beautifully they fit! How well they sit!' said everybody. 'What material! What colours! It is a gorgeous suit!' 'They are waiting outside with the canopy which your Majesty is wont to have borne over you in the procession,' announced the Master of the Ceremonies. 'Look, I am ready,' said the Emperor. 'Doesn't it sit well!' And he turned himself again to the mirror to see if his finery was on all right. The chamberlains who were used to carry the train put their hands near the floor as if they were lifting up the train; then they did as if they were holding something in the air. They would not have it noticed that they could see nothing. So the Emperor went along in the procession under the splendid canopy, and all the people in the streets and at the windows said, 'How matchless are the Emperor's new clothes! That train fastened to his dress, how beautifully it hangs!' No one wished it to be noticed that he could see nothing, for then he would have been unfit for his office, or else very stupid. None of the Emperor's clothes had met with such approval as these had. 'But he has nothing on!' said a little child at last. 'Just listen to the innocent child!' said the father, and each one whispered to his neighbour what the child had said. 'But he has nothing on!' the whole of the people called out at last. This struck the Emperor, for it seemed to him as if they were right; but he thought to himself, 'I must go on with the procession now. And the chamberlains walked along still more uprightly, holding up the train which was not there at all. "Footnote to Youth" was written by Jose Garcia Villa. Story: The sun was salmon and hazy in the west. Dodong thought to himself he would tell his father about Teang when he got home, after he had unhitched the carabao from the plow, and let it to its shed and fed it. He was hesitant about saying it, but he wanted his father to know. What he had to say was of serious import as it would mark a climacteric in his life. Dodong finally decided to tell it, at a thought came to him his father might refuse to consider it. His father was silent hard-working farmer who chewed areca nut, which he had learned to do from his mother, Dodong's grandmother. I will tell it to him. I will tell it to him. The ground was broken up into many fresh wounds and fragrant with a sweetish

earthy smell. Many slender soft worms emerged from the furrows and then burrowed again deeper into the soil. A short colorless worm marched blindly to Dodong's foot and crawled calmly over it. Dodong go tickled and jerked his foot, flinging the worm into the air. Dodong did not bother to look where it fell, but thought of his age, seventeen, and he said to himself he was not young any more. Dodong unhitched the carabao leisurely and gave it a healthy tap on the hip. The beast turned its head to look at him with dumb faithful eyes. Dodong gave it a slight push and the animal walked alongside him to its shed. He placed bundles of grass before it land the carabao began to eat. Dodong looked at it without interests. Dodong started homeward, thinking how he would break his news to his father. He wanted to marry, Dodong did. He was seventeen, he had pimples on his face, the down on his upper lip already was darkthese meant he was no longer a boy. He was growing into a man--he was a man. Dodong felt insolent and big at the thought of it although he was by nature low in statue. Thinking himself a man grown Dodong felt he could do anything. He walked faster, prodded by the thought of his virility. A small angled stone bled his foot, but he dismissed it cursorily. He lifted his leg and looked at the hurt toe and then went on walking. In the cool sundown he thought wild you dreams of himself and Teang. Teang, his girl. She had a small brown face and small black eyes and straightglossy hair. How desirable she was to him. She made him dream even during the day. Dodong tensed with desire and looked at the muscles of his arms. Dirty. This field work was healthy, invigorating but it begrimed you, smudged you terribly. He turned back the way he had come, then marched obliquely to a creek. Dodong stripped himself and laid his clothes, a gray undershirt and red kundiman shorts, on the grass. The he went into the water, wet his body over, and rubbed at it vigorously. He was not long in bathing, then he marched homeward again. The bath made him feel cool. It was dusk when he reached home. The petroleum lamp on the ceiling already was lighted and the low unvarnished square table was set for supper. His parents and he sat down on the floor around the table to eat. They had fried fresh-water fish, rice, bananas, and caked sugar. Dodong ate fish and rice, but didnot partake of the fruit. The bananas were overripe and when one held them they felt more fluid than solid. Dodong broke off a piece of the cakes sugar, dipped it in his glass of water and ate it. He got another piece and wanted some more, but he thought of leaving the remainder for his parents. Dodong's mother removed the dishes when they were through and went out to the batalan to wash them. She walked with slow careful steps and Dodong wanted to help her carry the dishes out, but he was tired and now felt lazy. He wished as he looked at her that he had a sister who could help his mother in the housework. He pitied her, doing all the housework alone. His father remained in the room, sucking a diseased tooth. It was paining him again, Dodong knew. Dodong had told him often and again to let the town dentist pull it out, but he was afraid, his father was. He did not tell that to Dodong, but Dodong guessed it. Afterward Dodong himself thought that if he had a decayed tooth he would be afraid to go to the dentist; he would not be any bolder than his father. Dodong said while his mother was out that he was going to marry Teang. There it was out, what he had to say, and over which he had done so much thinking. He had said it without any effort at all and without selfconsciousness. Dodong felt relieved and looked at his father expectantly. A decrescent moon outside shed its feeble light into the window, graying the still black temples of his father. His father looked old now. "I am going to marry Teang," Dodong said.His father looked at him silently and stopped sucking the broken tooth. The silence became intense and cruel, and Dodong wished his father would suck that troublous tooth again. Dodong was uncomfortable and then became angry because his father kept looking at him without uttering anything.

"I will marry Teang," Dodong repeated. "I will marry Teang." His father kept gazing at him in inflexible silence and Dodong fidgeted on his seat. "I asked her last night to marry me and she said...yes. I want your permission. I... want... it...." There was impatient clamor in his voice, an exacting protest at this coldness, this indifference. Dodong looked at his father sourly. He cracked his knuckles one by one, and the little sounds it made broke dully the night stillness. "Must you marry, Dodong?" Dodong resented his father's questions; his father himself had married. Dodong made a quick impassioned easy in his mind about selfishness, but later he got confused. "You are very young, Dodong." "I'm... seventeen." "That's very young to get married at." "I... I want to marry...Teang's good girl." "Tell your mother," his father said. "You tell her, tatay." "Dodong, you tell your inay." "You tell her." "All right, Dodong." "You will let me marry Teang?" "Son, if that is your wish... of course..." There was a strange helpless light in his father's eyes. Dodong did not read it, too absorbed was he in himself. Dodong was immensely glad he had asserted himself. He lost his resentment for his father. For a while he even felt sorry for him about the diseased tooth. Then he confined his mind to dreaming of Teang and himself. Sweet young dream.... Dodong stood in the sweltering noon heat, sweating profusely, so that his camiseta was damp. He was still like a tree and his thoughts were confused. His mother had told him not to leave the house, but he had left. He had wanted to get out of it without clear reason at all. He was afraid, he felt. Afraid of the house. It had seemed to cage him, to compares his thoughts with severe tyranny. Afraid also of Teang. Teang was giving birth in the house; she gave screams that chilled his blood. He did not want her to scream like that, he seemed to be rebuking him. He began to wonder madly if the process of childbirth was really painful. Some women, when they gave birth, did not cry. In a few moments he would be a father. "Father, father," he whispered the word with awe, with strangeness. He was young, he realized now, contradicting himself of nine months comfortable... "Your son," people would soon be telling him. "Your son, Dodong." Dodong felt tired standing. He sat down on a saw horse with his feet close together. He looked at his callused toes. Suppose he had ten children... What made him think that? What was the matter with him? God! He heard his mother's voice from the house: "Come up, Dodong. It is over." Of a sudden he felt terribly embarrassed as he looked at her. Somehow he was ashamed to his mother of his youthful paternity. It made him feel guilty, as if he had taken something no properly his. He dropped his eyes and pretended to dust dirt off his kundiman shorts. "Dodong," his mother called again. "Dodong." He turned to look again and this time saw his father beside his mother. "It is a boy," his father said. He beckoned Dodong to come up. Dodong felt more embarrassed and did not move. What a moment for him. His parents' eyes seemed to pierce him through and he felt limp. He wanted to hide from them, to run away. "Dodong, you come up. You come up," he mother said. Dodong did not want to come up and stayed in the sun. "Dodong. Dodong." "I'll... come up." Dodong traced tremulous steps on the dry parched yard. He ascended the bamboo steps slowly. His heart pounded mercilessly in him. Within, he avoided his parents eyes. He walked ahead of them so that they should not see his face. He felt guilty and untrue. He felt like crying. His eyes smarted and his chest wanted to burst. He wanted to turn back, to go back to the yard. He

wanted somebody to punish him. His father thrust his hand in his and gripped it gently. "Son," his father said. And his mother: "Dodong..." How kind were their voices. They flowed into him, making him strong. "Teang?" Dodong said. "She's sleeping. But you go in..." His father led him into the small sawali room. Dodong saw Teang, his girl wife, asleep on the papag with her black hair soft around her face. He did not want her to look that pale... Dodong wanted to touch her, to push away that stray wisp of hair that touched her lips, but again that feeling of embarrassment came over him and before his parents he did not want to be demonstrative. The hilot was wrapping the child, Dodong heart it cry. The thin voice pierced him queerly. He could not control the swelling of happiness in him. You give him to me. You give him to me," Dodong said. * * * Blas was not Dodong's child. Many more children came. For six successive years a new child came along. Dodong did not want any more children, but they came. It seemed the coming of children could not be helped. Dodong got angry with himself sometimes. Teang did not complain, but the bearing of children told on her. She was shapeless and thin now, even if she was young. There was interminable work to be done. Cooking. Laundering. The house. The children. She cried sometimes, wishing she had not married. She did not tell Dodong this, not wishing him to dislike her. Yet she wished she had not married. Not even Dodong, whom she loved. There has been another suitor, Lucio, older than Dodong by nine years, and that was why she had chosen Dodong. Young Dodong. Seventeen. Lucio had married another after her marriage to Dodong, but he was childless until now. She wondered if she had married Lucio, would she have borne him children. Maybe not either. That was a better lot. But she loved Dodong... Dodong whom life had made ugly. One night, as he lay beside his wife, he roe and went out of the house. He stood in the moonlight, tired and querulous. He wanted to ask questions and somebody to answer him. He w anted to be wise about many things. One of them was why life did not fulfill all of Youth's dreams. Why it must be so. Why one was forsaken... after Love. Dodong would not find the answer. Maybe the question was not to be answered. It must be so to make Youth. Youth. Youth must be dreamfully sweet. Dreamfully sweet. Dodong returned to the house humiliated by himself. He had wanted to know a little wisdom but was denied it. * * * When Blas was eighteen he came home one night very flustered and happy. It was late at night and Teang and the other children were asleep. Dodong heard Blas's steps, for he could not sleep well of nights. He watched Blas undress in the dark and lie down softly. Blas was restless on his mat and could not sleep. Dodong called him name and asked why he did not sleep. Blas said he could not sleep. "You better go to sleep. It is late," Dodong said. Blas raised himself on his elbow and muttered something in a low fluttering voice. Dodong did not answer and tried to sleep. "Itay ...," Blas called softly. Dodong stirred and asked him what was it. "I am going to marry Tena. She accepted me tonight." Dodong lay on the red pillow without moving. "Itay, you think it over." Dodong lay silent. "I love Tena and... I want her." Dodong rose f ROM his mat and told Blas to follow him. They descended to the yard, where everything was still and quiet. The moonlight was cold and white. "You want to marry Tena," Dodong said. He did not want Blas to marry yet. Blas was very young. The life that would follow marriage would be heard... "Yes." "Must you marry?" Blas's voice stilled with resentment. "I will marry Tena." Dodong kept silent, hurt. "You have objections, Itay?" Blas asked acridly. "Son... n-none..." (But truly, God, I don't want Blas to marry yet... not yet. I don't want Blas to marry yet....) But he was helpless. He could not do anything. Youth must triumph... now. Love must

triumph... now. Afterwards... it will be life. As long ago Youth and Love did triumph for Dodong... and then Life. Dodong looked wistfully at his young son in the moonlight. He felt extremely sad and sorry for him.

Sa Pula, Sa Puti Ni Francisco "Soc" Rodrigo

Kulas: Ahem! E, kumusta ka ngayong umaga, Celing. Celing: Mabuti naman, Kulas. Salamat at naalala mo akong kamustahin. Kulas: Si Celing naman, bakit naman ganyan ang sagot mo sa akin? Celing: Sapagkat pagkidlat ng mata mo sa umaga, wala ka ng iniisip kamustahin at himasin kundi ang iyong tinali. Tila mahal mo ang tinali mo kaysa sa akin. Kulas: Ano ka ba naman, Celing, wala ng mas mahal pa sa akin sa buhay na ito kundi ang asawa. (Ilalagay ang kamay sa balikat ni Celing). Celing: Siya nga ba? Ngunit kung nakikita kong hinihimas mo ang iyong tinali, ibig ko ng kung minsang mainggit at magselos. Kulas: Ngunit Celing, alam mo namang kaya ko lamang inaalagaang mabuti ang mga tinaling ito ay para sa atin din. Sila ang magdadala sa atin ng grasya. Celing: Grasya ba o disgrasya, gaya ng karaniwang nangyayari? Kulas: Huwag mo sanang ungkatin ang nakaraan. Oo, ako nga'y napagtalo noong mga nakaraang araw, sapagkat noon ay hindi pa ako bihasa sa pagpili at paghimas ng manok. Ngunit ngayon ay marami na akong natutuhan, mga bagong sistema. Celing: At noong nakaraang Linggo, noong matalo ang iyong talisain, hindi mo pa ba alam ang mga bagong sistema. Kulas: Iyon ay disgrasya lamang, Celing, makinig ka. Alam mo, kagabi ay nanaginip ako. Napanaginipan kong ako'y hinahabol ng isang kalabaw na puti. Kalabaw na puti, Celing! Celing: E ano kung puti? Kulas: Ang pilak ay puti, samakatwid ang ibig sabihin ay pilak. At ako'y hinahabolHinahabol ako ng pilakng kuwarta! Celing: Ngunit ngayon ay wala nang kuwartang pilak. Kulas: Mayroon pa, nakabaon lang. kaya walang duda, Celing. Bigyan mo lamang ako ng limang piso ngayon ay walang salang magkakuwarta tayo. Celing: Ngunit, Kulas, hindi ka pa ba nadadala sa mga panaginip mong iyan? Noong isang buwan, nanaginip ka ng ahas na numero 8. Ang pintakasi noon ay nation sa a-8 ng Pebrero at sabi mo'y kuwarta na ngunit natalo ka ng anim na piso. Kulas: Oo nga, ngunit ang batayan ko ngayon ay hindi lamang panaginip. Pinag-aralan kong mabuti ang kaliskis at ang tainga ng manok na ito.Ito'y walang pagkatalo, Celing. Ipinapangako ko sa iyo, walang sala tayo ay mananalo. Celing: Kulas, natatandaan mo bang ganyan-ganyan din ang sabi mo sa akin noong isang Linggo tungkol

sa manok mong talisain? At ano ang nangyari? Nagkaulam tayo ng pakang na manok. Kulas: Sinabi ko nang iyon ay disgrasya! (Maririnig uli ang sigawan sa sabungan. Maiinip si Kulas). Sige na, Celing. Ito na lamang. Pag natalo pa ang manok na ito, hindi na ako magsasabong. Celing: Totoong-totoo? Kulas: Totoo. Sige na, madali ka at nagsusultada na. sige na, may katrato ako sa susunod na sultada. Pag hindi ako dumating ay kahiya-hiya. (Titingnan ni Celing ang pagkakabalisa ni Kulas at maisip na walang saysay ang pakikipagtalo pa, iilingiling na dudukot ng salapi sa kanyang bulsa). Celing: O, Buweno, kung sa bagay, ay tatago lamang ako ng pera. O, heto. Huwag mo sana akong sisihan kung mauubos ang kaunting pinagbilhan ng ating palay. Kulas: (Kukunin ang salapi) Huwag kang mag-alala, Celing, ito'y kuwarta na. seguradong-segurado! O, Buweno, diyan ka muna. (Magmamadaling lalabas si Kulas, ngunit masasalubong si Sioning sa may pintuan.) Sioning: Kumusta ka, Kulas? Kulas: (Nagmamadali) KumustaeehSioning didispensahin mo ako. Ako lang ay nagmamadali. Ehestenandiyan si Celing! Heto si Sioning. Buwena-diyan kana. (Lalabas si Kulas). Sioning: Celing, ano ba ang nangyayari sa iyong asawa? Tila pupunta sa sunog. Celing: Ay, Sioning, masahol pa sa sunog ang pupuntahan. Pupunta na naman sa sabungan. Sioning: Celing, talaga bang Celing: Sandali lang ha, Sioning. (Sisigaw sa gawing kusina). Teban! Teban! Teban! Teban: (Masunurin ngunit may kahinaan ang ulo). Ano po iyon Aling Celing? Celing: (Kukuha ng limang piso sa bulsa at ibibigay kay Tebang). O heto, Teban, limang pisoNagpunta na naman ang amo mo sa sabungan. Madali, ipusta mo ito. Madali ka at baka mahuli! Teban: (Nagmamadaling itinulak ni Celing sa labas). Sioning: Ipusta ang limang piso! Ano ba ito, Celing, ikaw man ba'y naging sabungera na rin? Celing: Si Sioning naman. Hindi ako sabungera! Ngunit sa tuwing magsasabong si Kulas ay pumupusta rin ako. Sioning: AHindi ka sabungera, ngunit pumupusta ka lamang sa sabong? Hoy, Celing, ano ba ang pinagsasabi mo? Celing: O, Buweno, Sioning, maupo ka't ipaliliwanag ko sa iyo. Ngunit huwag mo namang ipaalam

kaninuman. Sioning: Oo, huwag kang mag-alala sa akin. Celing: Alam mo, Sioning, ako'y pumupusta sa sabong upang huwag kaming matalo. Sioning: Ah, pumupusta ka sa sabong upang huwag kayong matalo. Celing pinaglalaruan mo yata ako. Celing: Hindi. Alam mo'y marami kaming nawawalang kuwarta sa kasasabong ni Kulas. Nag-aalaala akong darating ang araw na magdidildil na lamang kami ng asin. Pinilit kong siya'y pigilin. Ngunit madalas kaming magkagalit. Upang huwag kaming magkagalit at huwag maubos ang aming kuwarta, ay umisip ako ng paraan. May isang buwan na ngayon, na tuwing pupusta si Kulas sa kaniyang manok ay pinupusta ko si Teban sa sabungan upang pumusta sa manok na kalaban. Sioning: (May kahinaan din ang ulo). Sa anong dahilan? Celing: Puwes, kung matalo ang manok ni Kulas ay nanalo ako. At kung ako nama'y matalo at nanalo si Kulas, kaya't anuman ang mangyari ay hindi nababawasan ang aming kuwarta.Sioning. A siya nga. Siya nga pala naman. (Mag-uumpisang Maririnig ang sigawan buhat sa sabungan). Celing: Hayan, nagsusultada na marahil. Naku, sumasakit ang ulo ko sa sigawang iyan. Sioning: Ikaw kasi, eh. Sukat ka bang pumili ng bahay sa tapat ng sabungan. Celing: Ano bang ako ang pumili ng bahay na ito. Ang gusto kong bahay ay sa tabi ng simbahan, ngunit ang gusto ni Kulas ay sa tabi ng sabungan. Sioning: (Lalong lalakas ang sigawan). Ah, siya nga pala, Celing naparito ako upang ibalita sa iyo na dumating na ang rasyon ng sabon sa tindahan ni Aling Kikay. Baka tayo maubusan. Celing: Hindi, siyempre ipagtitira tayo ni Aling Kikay. Sayang lamang ang pagkukumare namin. (Dudungaw) O heto na nga si Teban. Tumatakbo. (Papasok si Teban na may hawak na dalawang lilimahin). Teban: (Tuwang-tuwa) Nanalo tayo, Aling Celing, nanalo tayo! (Ibibigay ang salapi kay Aling Celing. Agad-agad namang itatago ito.) Celing: Mabuti Teban, o magpunta ka na sa kusina. Baka dumating na si Kulas ay mahalaga ang ating ginagawa. (Magmamadaling lalabas si Teban). Sioning: O, Buweno, lumakad na tayo, Celing. (Kukunin ni Celing ang tapis niyang nakasampay sa isang silya. Aalis na sila. Papasok si Kulas na tila walang kasigla-sigla). Celing: Ano ba, Kulas, tila hindi ka inabutan ng kalabaw na puti. Kulas: (Mainit ang ulo) Huwag mo ngang banggitin iyan. Talagang ako'y malas. Celing, uyo'y disgrasya kamang. Ang aking

manok ay nananalo hanggang sa huling sandali. Talagang wala akong suwerte! Celing: Iyan ang hirap sa sugal, Kulas, walang pinaghahawakan kundi suwerte! Kulas: Talagang buwisit ang sabong! Isinusumpa ko na ang sabong! Ni ayaw ko nang Makita ang anino ng sabungang iyan. Celing: Nawa'y magkatotoo na sana iyan, Kulas. Kulas: Oo, Celing, ipinapangako ko sa iyo, hindi na ako magsasabong kailanman. Celing: Buweno, magpalamig ka muna ng ulo. Pupunta lang kami kay Kumareng Kikay upang bumili ng sabon. (Lalabas sina Celing at Sioning. Sisindihan ang natitirang kalahati ng sigarilyo, hihithit at pagkatapos ay ihahagis sa sahig at papadyakan. Pupunta sa isang silya at uupong may kalumbayan.) Castor: Hoy, Kulas kumusta na? Kulas: Ay, Castorat lagi na lamang akong natatalo. Talagang ako'y malas! Akalain mo bang kanina'y natalo pa ako? Tingnan mo lang, Castor. Noong magsagupaan ang mga manok ay lumundag agad ang manok ko at pinalo nang pailalim ang kalaban. Nagbuwelta pareho, at naggirian na parang buksingero. Biglang sabay na lumundag at nagsugapaan (nagsagupaan?) sa hangin. Palo diyan, palo dini ang ginawa ng aking manok. Madalas tamaan ang kalaban, ngunit namortalan. Sige ang batalya nila sa hangin, at tumaas ang balahibo. Unang lumagapak ang kalaban., patihaya. Lundag ang aking manok. Walang sugat at patayo, ngunit alam mo kung saan lumagpak? Castor: O saan? Kulas: Sa tari ng kalaban. Talagang ayaw ko na ng sabong. Castor: Bakit naman? Wala pa namang maraming natatalo sa iyo. Kulas: Ano bang walang marami? Halos, tutong na laang ang natitira sa aming natitipon. Castor: Ngunit hindi tamang katwiran ang huwag ka nang magsabong. Kulas: Ano bang hindi tama? Castor: Sapagkat pag hindi ka na nagsabong ay Talagang patuluyan nang perdida ang kuwartang natalo sa iyo. Samantalang kung ikaw ay magsasabong pa maaaring makabawi! Kulas: Hindi Castor, lalo lang akong mababaon. Tama si Celing. Ang sugal ay suwerte-suwerte lamang, at masama ang aking suwerte. Castor: Ano bang suwerte-suwerte? Iyan ay hindi totoo. Tingnan mo ako, Kulas, ako'u hindi natatalo sa sabong. Kulas: Mano nga lang magtigil ka Castor. Kung hindi sana nakikita na ang lahat ng manok mo ay laging nakabitin kung iuwi. Castor: Ito si Kulas, nabastos ka na nga pala sa huwego. Oo, natatalo nga ang aking manok ngunit nananalo ako sa pustahan! Kulas: Ngunit paano iyan? Castor: Taong itopumupusta ako, hindi sa aking manok, kundi sa kalaban. Kulas: Eh, kung magkataong ang manok mo ang manalo? Castor: Hindi maaaring manalo ang aking manok. Ginagawan ko ng paraan. Kulas: Hoy, Castor, maano nga lang huwag mo akong biruin. Masama ang ulo ko ngayon. Castor: Ano bang biro ang sinasabi mo? Ito'y totoo. At kung di lamang kita kaibigan, ay hindi ko sasabihin sa iyo.

Kulas: Ngunit, Castor, paano mangyayari iyan? Castor: Talaga bang gusto mo malaman? Kulas: Aba, oo. Sige na. Castor: O, Buweno, kunin mo ang isa sa iyong mga tinali at ipapaliwanag ko sa iyo. Kulas: Kahit ba alin sa aking tinali? Castor: Oo, kahit alin, sige, kunin mo. (Lalabas si Kulas patungo sa kusina. Babalik na may dalang tinali.) Kulas: (Ibibigay ang tinali kay Castor). O heto, Castor. Castor: Ngayon, kumuha ng isang karayom. Kulas: Karayom? Castor: Oo, karayom. Iyong ipinanahi! Kulas: Ah (Pupunta sa kahong kunalalagyan ng panahi ni Celing at kukuha ng isang karayom.) O heto ang karayom. Castor: (Hawak ang tinali sa kaliwa at ang karayom sa kanan.) O halika rito at magmasid ka. Ang lahat ng manok ay may litid sa paa na kapag iyong dinuro ay hihina ang paa. Tingnan mo (Anyong duduruin ni Castro ang hita ng tinali.) Hayan! (Ibababa ang tinali.) Tingnan mo. Matuwid pang lumakad ang tinaling iyan. Walang sinumang makahahalata sa ating ginawa, ngunit mahina na ang paang ating dinuro, at ang manok na iyan ay hindi makapapalo. Kulas: Samakatuwid ay hindi na nga maaaring manalo ang manok na iyanSiguradong matatalo. Castor: Natural, ngayon, ang dapat na lamang gawin ay magpunta sa sabunganilaban ang manok na iyanat pumunta nang palihim sa kalaban. Kulas: Siya nga pala. Magaling na paraan! Castor: Nakita mo na? Ang hirap sa iyo ay hindi mo ginagamit ang ulo mo. Kulas: (Balisa) Ngunit, Castor, hindi ba iya'y pandaraya? Castor: Oo, pandarayangunit po Diyos! Sino bang tao ang nagkakuwarta sa sugal na hindi gum,agamit ng daya? At bukod diyan, ay marami nang kuwartang natalo sa iyo. Ito'y gagawin mo lamang upang makabawi. Ano ang sama niyan? Kulas: Siya nga, Castor, kung sa bagay, malaki na ang natatalo sa akin. Castor: At akala mo kay, sa mga pagkatalo mong iyan ay hindi ka dinaya. Kulas: Kung sa bagay Castor: Nakita mo na. Hindi ka mandaraya, Kulas. Gaganti ka lamang. Kulas: Siya nga, may katwiran ka. Castor: Oehano pa ang inaantay mo? Tayo na.

Kulas: EsteCastorehhintayin lamang natin si Celing, ang aking asawa. Castor: Bakit, ano pa ang kailangan? Kulas: Alam mo na ang aking asawa ang may hawak ng supot sa bahay na ito. Castor: Naku, itong si Kulas! Talunan na sa sabungan ay dehado pa sa bahayBuweno, hintayin mo siya, ngunit laki-lakihan mo ang iyong hihingin, ha? At nang makaitpak tayo ng malaki-laki. Kulas: OoEsteCastor Castor: O, ano na naman? Kulas: Ehmalapit na segurong dumating si Celingalam mo'y ayaw kong Makita ka niya rito. Huwag ka sanang magagalit kung maaari lang ay umalis ka na. Castor: (Tatawa) Ooaalis na ako. Mabuti nga at nang makahanap na ako ng kareto ng manok mo. Sumunod ka agad, ha? Pagdating mo roon malalaban agad iyan. Kulas: Buweno, diyan ka na. Laki-lakihan mo lang ang tipak ha? (Lalabas si Castor. Ngingiti si Kulas, hihimas-himasin ang kanyang tinali, at hahangaan ang nadurong hita ng tinali. Papasok sina Celing at Sioning.) Celing: Ano ba yan, Kulas? At akala ko ba'y Isinusumpa mo na ang sabungan? Kulas: (Lulundag na palapit.) Celing, ngayon na lamang. Walang salang tayo ay makababawi. Celing: Naku, itong si Kulas, parang presyo ng asukal. Oras-oras ay nagbabago. Kulas: Celing Talagang ngayon na lamang! Pag natalo pa ako ay patayin mo na ang lahat ng aking tinali. Ipinangangako ko sa iyo. Celing: Ngunit baka pangako na naman ng napapako. Kulas: Hindi, Celing! Hayan si Sioning, siya ang testigo. Sioning: (Kikindatan si Celing) Siya nga naman. Celing, bigyan mo na, ako ang testigo. Celing: O buweno, ngunit tandaan mo, ito na lamang ha? Kulas: Oo, Celing, itaga mo sa bato! Celing: Magkano ba ang kailangan mo? Kulas: Ehdalawampung piso lamang. Celing: Dalawampung piso? Sioning: Susmaryosep! Kulas: Oo, Celing. Dalawampung piso, upang tayo ay makabawi. (Mag-aatubili si Celing). Sioning: Sige na, Celing. Tutal ito naman ay kahuli-hulihan. Celing: O buweno, heto. (Bibigyan ng dalawampung piso si Kulas. Kukunin ang salapi sa baul) Kulas: (Kukunin ang salapi) Ay, salamat sa iyo, Celing. Ito'y kuwarta na. Hindi ka magsisisi. O buweno, diyan na muna kayo, hane?

(Magmamadaling lalabas si Kulas na dala ang kanyang tinali). Celing: (Susundan ng tingin si Kulas hanggang nasa malayo na) Teban! Teban! Sioning: Teban, madali ka! (Papasok si Teban buhat sa kusina) Teban: Opo, opo, Aling Celing. Celing: O heta ang pera. Nasa sabungan na naman ang iyong amo. Sioning: Madali ka. Teban, ipusta mo iyan sa manok ng kalaban. Teban: (Magugulat sa dami ng salapi). Dalawampung piso ito a Celing: Oo, dalawampung piso. Sige, madali ka na. Teban: (Hindi maintindihan) ito ba'y itotodo ko? Sioning: Oo, todo. Teban: Opo, naku! Malaking halaga ito (lalabas si Teban). Celing: Ikaw naman, Sioning, bakit inayunan mo pa si Kulas? Sioning: Hindi bale. Tutal, wala naman kayo sa pagkatalo. Celing: Kung sa bagay. Ngunit hindi lamang ang kuwarta ang aking ipinagdaramdam. Sioning: Eh ano pa? Celing: Ang iba pang masasamang bunga ng bisyoSioning, alam mo namang ang bisyo ay nagbubuntot. Karaniwang kasama ng bisyo a ng pandaraya, pagnanakawat kung anu-ano pa. Sioning: Ngunit nangako naman si Kulas na ito na ang huli. Celing: Oo nga, ngunit isulat mo sa tubig ang pangakong iyan. (Lalong lalakas ang sigawan) Sioning: Ang hirap sa iyo, Celing, ehindi mo tigasan ang loob mo. Tingnan mo ako. Noong ang aking asawa ay hindi makatkat sa monte, pinuntahan ko siya isang araw sa kanilang klub at sa harap ng lahat minura ko siya mula ulo hanggang talampakan. E, di mula noo'y hindi na siya nakalitaw sa klub. Celing: Ngunit natatandaan mo ba Sioning na ikaw nama'y hindi nakalabas ng bahay nang may limang araw, hindi ba dahil sa nangingitim ang buong mukha mo? Sioning: Oo nga, ngunit iyon ay sandali lamang. Pagkaraan niyon ay esta bien, tsokolate na naman kami. Celing: Hindi ko yata magagawa iyon. Magaan pa sa akin ang magtiis lamang. (Agad huhupa ang sigawan). Sioning: Ayan, tila tapos na ang sultada. Sino kaya ang nanalo? Celing: Malalaman natin pagdating ni Teban. Siya'y umuwi agad, upang huwag silang mag-abot ni Kulas. Sioning: Celing, mag-iingat ka naman sa pagtitiwala ng pera kay Teban. Celing: Huwag mong alalahanin si Teban. Siya'y mapagkakatiwalaan. Sioning: Siya nga, ngunit tandaan mong ang kuwarta ay Mainit kapag nasa palad na ng tao. Celing: Huwag kang mag-alala

(Papasok si Teban) Teban: (Walang sigla) Aling Celing, natalo po tao. Celing: A, natalo. O hindi bale. Tutal nanalo naman si Kulas. Buweno, Teban, magpunta ka na sa kusina at baka dumating ang iyong amo. (Lalabas si Teban) Sioning: Talagang magaan ang paraan mong iyan, Celing. Celing: (Nalulungkot) Siya nga. Sioning: O, Celing bakit ka malungkot? Celing: Dahil sa nanalo si Kulas. Sioning: O, e ano ngayon. Kay nanalo si Kulas, kay manalo ka, hindi naman mababawasan ang iyong kuwarta. At ikaw pa rin lamang ang maghahawak ng supot. Celing: Oo nga, ngunit ang alaala ko'yNgayong manalo si Kulas, lalo siyang maninikit sa sabungan. (Papasok si Kulas na nalulumbay). Kulas: Ay, Celing, Talagang napakasama ng aking suwerte! Hindi na ako magsasabong kailanman. Sioning: Ha? Celing: Ano kamo? Kulas: Talagang buwisit ang sabong! Isinusumpa ko na! Celing: Ngunit, Kulas hindi ba't nanalo ka? Kulas: Hindi, natalo na naman ako! At natodas ang dalawampung piso! Celing: (May hinala) Kulas, huwag mo sana akong ululin. Alam kong nanalo ka. Kulas: Sino ba ang may sabi sa iyong ako'y nanalo? Bakit ba ako nakinig sa buwisit na si Castor. Celing: Kulas, hindi mo ako makukuha sa drama. Isauli mo rito ang dalawampung piso. Kulas: Diyos na maawain, saan ako kukuha? Celing: (Lalo pang maghihinala) Teka, baka kaya ikaw Kulas, ay mayroon nang kulasisiat ipinatuka ang dalawampung piso. Kulas: Celing, ano bang kaululan ito? Isinusumpa kong natalo ang dalawampung piso. Sino baga ang nagkwento sa iyo na ako'y nanalo. Celing: Si Teban. Nanggaling siya sa sabungan. Sioning: (Magliliwanag ang mukha) A teka, Celing, baka si Teban ang kumupit ng kuwarta. Celing: Siya nga pala. Sioning: Sinabi ko na sa iyo, huwag kang masyadong magtitiwala. (Pupunta si Celing sa pintuan ng kusina). Celing: Teban! Teban!

(Lalabas si Teban) Teban: Ano po iyon? Celing: Teban, hindi ko akalain na ikaw ay magnanakaw. Teban: Magnanakaw? Ako? Bakit po? Celing: At bakit pala? Isauli mo rito ang pera. Teban: Alin pong pera? Celing: Ang dalawampung pisong dala mo sa sabungan kanina. Teban: Aba e, natalo po, e. Celing: Sinungaling! Ano bang natalo! Kung natalo ka, nanalo sana si Kulas. Ngunit natalo sa Kulas, samakatuwid nanalo ka. Teban: (Hindi maintindihan) Ha? Ano po? Kung ako'y nataloay Kulas: 'Tay kayo. Tila gumugulo ang salitaan. Teban, ikaw ba'y pumusta sa sabong kanina? Teban: Opo. Kulas: Saan ka nagnakaw ng kuwarta? Teban: Kay Aling Celing po. Kulas: Ha? Nagnakaw ka kay Aling Celing? Teban: Ehindi po. Pinapusta po ako ni Aling Celing. Kulas: A, ganoon! Hoy, Celing pinipigilan mo ako sa pagsabong, ha? Ikaw pala'y sabungerang pailalim. Sioning: Hindi, Kulas, pumupusta lamang si Celing sa kalaban ng manok mo. Kulas: (kay Celing) Aat ako pala'y kinakalaban mo pa, ha? Celing: Huwag kang magalit, Kulas. Ako'y pumupusta sa manok na kalaban para kahit ikaw ay manalo o matalo ay hindi tayo awawalan. Kulas: Samakatuwid, kahit pala manalo ang aking manok ay bale wala rin. Sioning: Siya nga at kahit naman matalo ay bale mayroon din. Kulas: E, sayang lamang ang kahihimas at kabubuga ko ng usok sa manok. Ako pala'y parang ulol na Celing: Teka muna. Ang liwanagin muna natin ay ang dalawampung piso. Teban, saan mo dinala ang pera? Kulas: Celing, ako man ay natalo sa pinupustahan sapagkat sa manok ng kalaban din ako pumusta. Sioning: Naku, at lalong nag-block out. Celing: (Kay Kulas) Pumusta ka sa kalaban ng manok mo? Kulas: Oo, alam mo'y pinilayan ko ang aking tinali upang seguradong matalo at pumusta ako sa manok ng kalaban. Ngunit, kabibitiw pa lamang ay tumakbo na ang diyaskeng manok ng kalaban at nanalo ang aking manok. Celing: Agusto mong maniyope? Ikaw ngayon ang matitiyope (Tatawa)

Kulas: Aba, at nagtawa pa. Sioning: Siyanga. Bakit ka nagtatawa, Celing? Celing: (Tumatawa pa) Sapagkat ako'y tuwang-tuwa, Sioning, dito ka maghapunan mamayang gabi. At anyayahon mo sina Kumareng Kikay at ang iba pang kaibigan. Ako'y maghahanda. Kulas: Ha! Maghahanda? Celing: Oo, Teban, ihanda mo ang mga palayok, ha? At hiramin mo ang kaserola ni Ate Nena. Teban: Opo, opo. (Lalabas sa pintuan ng kusina) Kulas: Ngunit paano tayo maghahanda? Ngayon lang ay natalunan tayo ng mahigpit apatnapung piso. Celing: Hindi bale. Ibig kong ipagdiwang ang iyong huling paalam sa sabungan. Kulas: Huling paalam? Celing: Oo, sapagkat ikaw ay nangako at nanumpa at bukod diyan hindi na tayo kailangang bumili pa ng ulam. Kulas: Bakit? Celing: Mayroon pang anim na tinali sa kulungan. Aadobohin ko ang tatlo at ang tatlo ay sasabawan. (Tatawa sina Sioning at Celing. Hindi tatawa si Kulas ngunit pagkailang saglit ay tatawa rin siya. Maguumpisa na naman ang sigawan sa sabungan ngunit makikita sa kilos ni Kulas na kailanman ay hindi na siya magsasabong.)

How My Brother Leon Brought Home A Wife (American Colonial Literature) By Manuel E. Arguilla She stepped down from the carretela of Ca Celin with a quick, delicate grace. She was lovely. SHe was tall. She looked up to my brother with a smile, and her forehead was on a level with his mouth. "You are Baldo," she said and placed her hand lightly on my shoulder. Her nails were long, but they were not painted. She was fragrant like a morning when papayas are in bloom. And a small dimple appeared momently high on her right cheek. "And this is Labang of whom I have heard so much." She held the wrist of one hand with the other and looked at Labang, and Labang never stopped chewing his cud. He swallowed and brought up to his mouth more cud and the sound of his insides was like a drum. I laid a hand on Labang's massive neck and said to her: "You may scratch his forehead now." She hesitated and I saw that her eyes were on the long, curving horns. But she came and touched Labang's forehead with her long fingers, and Labang never stopped chewing his cud except that his big eyes half closed. And by and by she was scratching his forehead very daintily.

My brother Leon put down the two trunks on the grassy side of the road. He paid Ca Celin twice the usual fare from the station to the edge of Nagrebcan. Then he was standing beside us, and she turned to him eagerly. I watched Ca Celin, where he stood in front of his horse, and he ran his fingers through its forelock and could not keep his eyes away from her. "Maria---" my brother Leon said. He did not say Maring. He did not say Mayang. I knew then that he had always called her Maria and that to us all she would be Maria; and in my mind I said 'Maria' and it was a beautiful name. "Yes, Noel." Now where did she get that name? I pondered the matter quietly to myself, thinking Father might not like it. But it was only the name of my brother Leon said backward and it sounded much better that way. "There is Nagrebcan, Maria," my brother Leon said, gesturing widely toward the west. She moved close to him and slipped her arm through his. And after a while she said quietly. "You love Nagrebcan, don't you, Noel?" Ca Celin drove away hi-yi-ing to his horse loudly. At the bend of the camino real where the big duhat tree grew, he rattled the handle of his braided rattan whip against the spokes of the wheel. We stood alone on the roadside. The sun was in our eyes, for it was dipping into the bright sea. The sky was wide and deep and very blue above us: but along the saw-tooth rim of the Katayaghan hills to the southwest flamed huge masses of clouds. Before us the fields swam in a golden haze through which floated big purple and red and yellow bubbles when I looked at the sinking sun. Labang's white coat, which I had wshed and brushed that morning with coconut husk, glistened like beaten cotton under the lamplight and his horns appeared tipped with fire.

He faced the sun and from his mouth came a call so loud and vibrant that the earth seemed to tremble underfoot. And far away in the middle of the field a cow lowed softly in answer. "Hitch him to the cart, Baldo," my brother Leon said, laughing, and she laughed with him a big uncertainly, and I saw that he had put his arm around her shoulders.

"Why does he make that sound?" she asked. "I have never heard the like of it." "There is not another like it," my brother Leon said. "I have yet to hear another bull call like Labang. In all the world there is no other bull like him." She was smiling at him, and I stopped in the act of tying the sinta across Labang's neck to the opposite end of the yoke, because her teeth were very white, her eyes were so full of laughter, and there was the small dimple high up on her right cheek. "If you continue to talk about him like that, either I shall fall in love with him or become greatly jealous." My brother Leon laughed and she laughed and they looked at each other and it seemed to me there was a world of laughter between them and in them. I climbed into the cart over the wheel and Labang would have bolted, for he was always like that, but I kept a firm hold on his rope. He was restless and would not stand still, so that my brother Leon had to say "Labang" several times. When he was quiet again, my brother Leon lifted the trunks into the cart, placing the smaller on top. She looked down once at her high-heeled shoes, then she gave her left hand to my brother Leon, placed a foot on the hub of the wheel, and in one breath she had swung up into the cart. Oh, the fragrance of her. But Labang was fairly dancing with impatience and it was all I could do to keep him from running away. "Give me the rope, Baldo," my brother Leon said. "Maria, sit down on the hay and hold on to anything." Then he put a foot on the left shaft and that instand labang leaped forward. My brother Leon laughed as he drew himself up to the top of the side of the cart and made the slack of the rope hiss above the back of labang. The wind whistled against my cheeks and the rattling of the wheels on the pebbly road echoed in my ears. She sat up straight on the bottom of the cart, legs bent togther to one side, her skirts spread over them so that only the toes and heels of her shoes were visible. her eyes were on my brother Leon's back; I saw the wind on her hair. When Labang slowed down, my brother Leon handed to me the rope. I knelt on the straw inside the cart and pulled on the rope until Labang was merely shuffling along, then I made him turn around. "What is it you have forgotten now, Baldo?" my brother Leon said. I did not say anything but tickled with my fingers the rump of Labang; and away we went---back to where I had unhitched and waited for them. The sun had sunk and down from the wooded sides of the Katayaghan hills shadows were stealing into the fields. High up overhead the sky burned with many slow fires.

When I sent Labang down the deep cut that would take us to the dry bed of the Waig which could be used as a path to our place during the dry season, my brother Leon laid a hand on my shoulder and said sternly: "Who told you to drive through the fields tonight?" His hand was heavy on my shoulder, but I did not look at him or utter a word until we were on the rocky bottom of the Waig. "Baldo, you fool, answer me before I lay the rope of Labang on you. Why do you follow the Wait instead of the camino real?" His fingers bit into my shoulder. "Father, he told me to follow the Waig tonight, Manong." Swiftly, his hand fell away from my shoulder and he reached for the rope of Labang. Then my brother Leon laughed, and he sat back, and laughing still, he said: "And I suppose Father also told you to hitch Labang to the cart and meet us with him instead of with Castano and the calesa." Without waiting for me to answer, he turned to her and said, "Maria, why do you think Father should do that, now?" He laughed and added, "Have you ever seen so many stars before?" I looked back and they were sitting side by side, leaning against the trunks, hands clasped across knees. Seemingly, but a man's height above the tops of the steep banks of the Wait, hung the stars. But in the deep gorge the shadows had fallen heavily, and even the white of Labang's coat was merely a dim, grayish blur. Crickets chirped from their homes in the cracks in the banks. The thick, unpleasant smell of dangla bushes and cooling sun-heated earth mingled with the clean, sharp scent of arrais roots exposed to the night air and of the hay inside the cart. "Look, Noel, yonder is our star!" Deep surprise and gladness were in her voice. Very low in the west, almost touching the ragged edge of the bank, was the star, the biggest and brightest in the sky. "I have been looking at it," my brother Leon said. "Do you remember how I would tell you that when you want to see stars you must come to Nagrebcan?" "Yes, Noel," she said. "Look at it," she murmured, half to herself. "It is so many times bigger and brighter than it was at Ermita beach."

"The air here is clean, free of dust and smoke." "So it is, Noel," she said, drawing a long breath. "Making fun of me, Maria?" She laughed then and they laughed together and she took my brother Leon's hand and put it against her face. I stopped Labang, climbed down, and lighted the lantern that hung from the cart between the wheels. "Good boy, Baldo," my brother Leon said as I climbed back into the cart, and my heart sant. Now the shadows took fright and did not crowd so near. Clumps of andadasi and arrais flashed into view and quickly disappeared as we passed by. Ahead, the elongated shadow of Labang bobbled up and down and swayed drunkenly from side to side, for the lantern rocked jerkily with the cart. "Have we far to go yet, Noel?" she asked. "Ask Baldo," my brother Leon said, "we have been neglecting him." "I am asking you, Baldo," she said. Without looking back, I answered, picking my words slowly: "Soon we will get out of the Wait and pass into the fields. After the fields is home---Manong." "So near already." I did not say anything more because I did not know what to make of the tone of her voice as she said her last words. All the laughter seemed to have gone out of her. I waited for my brother Leon to say something, but he was not saying anything. Suddenly he broke out into song and the song was 'Sky Sown with Stars'---the same that he and Father sang when we cut hay in the fields at night before he went away to study. He must have taught her the song because she joined him, and her voice flowed into his like a gentle stream meeting a stronger one. And each time the wheels encountered a big rock, her voice would catch in her throat, but my brother Leon would sing on, until, laughing softly, she would join him again. Then we were climbing out into the fields, and through the spokes of the wheels the light of the lantern mocked the shadows. Labang quickened his steps. The jolting became more frequent and painful as we crossed the low dikes.

"But it is so very wide here," she said. The light of the stars broke and scattered the darkness so that one could see far on every side, though indistinctly. "You miss the houses, and the cars, and the people and the noise, don't you?" My brother Leon stopped singing. "Yes, but in a different way. I am glad they are not here." With difficulty I turned Labang to the left, for he wanted to go straight on. He was breathing hard, but I knew he was more thirsty than tired. In a little while we drope up the grassy side onto the camino real. "---you see," my brother Leon was explaining, "the camino real curves around the foot of the Katayaghan hills and passes by our house. We drove through the fields because---but I'll be asking Father as soon as we get home." "Noel," she said. "Yes, Maria." "I am afraid. He may not like me." "Does that worry you still, Maria?" my brother Leon said. "From the way you talk, he might be an ogre, for all the world. Except when his leg that was wounded in the Revolution is troubling him, Father is the mildest-tempered, gentlest man I know." We came to the house of Lacay Julian and I spoke to Labang loudly, but Moning did not come to the window, so I surmised she must be eating with the rest of her family. And I thought of the food being made ready at home and my mouth watered. We met the twins, Urong and Celin, and I said "Hoy!" calling them by name. And they shouted back and asked if my brother Leon and his wife were with me. And my brother Leon shouted to them and then told me to make Labang run; their answers were lost in the noise of the wheels. I stopped labang on the road before our house and would have gotten down but my brother Leon took the rope and told me to stay in the cart. He turned Labang into the open gate and we dashed into our yard. I thought we would crash into the camachile tree, but my brother Leon reined in Labang in time. There was light downstairs in the kitchen, and Mother stood in the doorway, and I could see her smiling shyly. My brother Leon was helping Maria over the wheel. The first words that fell from his lips after he had kissed Mother's hand were: "Father... where is he?" "He is in his room upstairs," Mother said, her face becoming serious. "His leg is bothering him again."

I did not hear anything more because I had to go back to the cart to unhitch Labang. But I hardly tied him under the barn when I heard Father calling me. I met my brother Leon going to bring up the trunks. As I passed through the kitchen, there were Mother and my sister Aurelia and Maria and it seemed to me they were crying, all of them. There was no light in Father's room. There was no movement. He sat in the big armchair by the western window, and a star shone directly through it. He was smoking, but he removed the roll of tobacco from his mouth when he saw me. He laid it carefully on the windowsill before speaking. "Did you meet anybody on the way?" he asked. "No, Father," I said. "Nobody passes through the Waig at night." He reached for his roll of tobacco and hithced himself up in the chair. "She is very beautiful, Father." "Was she afraid of Labang?" My father had not raised his voice, but the room seemed to resound with it. And again I saw her eyes on the long curving horns and the arm of my brother Leon around her shoulders. "No, Father, she was not afraid." "On the way---" "She looked at the stars, Father. And Manong Leon sang." "What did he sing?" "---Sky Sown with Stars... She sang with him." He was silent again. I could hear the low voices of Mother and my sister Aurelia downstairs. There was also the voice of my brother Leon, and I thought that Father's voice must have been like it when Father was young. He had laid the roll of tobacco on the windowsill once more. I watched the smoke waver faintly upward from the lighted end and vanish slowly into the night outside. The door opened and my brother Leon and Maria came in. "Have you watered Labang?" Father spoke to me. I told him that Labang was resting yet under the barn.

"It is time you watered him, my son," my father said. I looked at Maria and she was lovely. She was tall. Beside my brother Leon, she was tall and very still. Then I went out, and in the darkened hall the fragrance of her was like a morning when papayas are in bloom. Bonsai All that I love I fold over once And once again And keep in a box Or a slit in a hollow post Or in my shoe. All that I love? Why, yes, but for the moment --And for all time, both. Something that folds and keeps easy, Sons note or Dads one gaudy tie, A roto picture of a young queen, A blue Indian shawl, even A money bill. Its utter sublimation A feat, this hearts control Moment to moment To scale all love down To a cupped hands size, Till seashells are broken pieces From Gods own bright teeth. And life and love are real Things you can run and Breathless hand over To the merest child.

My Fathers Tragedy
It was one of those lean years of our lives. Our rice field was destroyed by locusts that came from the neighboring towns. When the locusts were gone, we planted string beans but a fire burned the whole plantation. My brothers went away because they got tired working for nothing. Mother and my

sisters went from house to house, asking for something to do, but every family was plagued with some kind of disaster. The children walked in the streets looking for the fruit that fell to the ground from the acacia tree. The men hung on the fence around the market and watched the meat dealers hungrily. We were all suffering from lack of proper food. But the professional gamblers had money. They sat in the fish house at the station and gave their orders aloud. The loafers and other bystanders watched them eat boiled rice and fried fish with silver spoons. They never used forks because the prongs stuck between their teeth. They always cut their lips and tongues with the knives, so they never asked for them If the waiter was new and he put the knives on the table, they looked at each other furtively and slipped them into their pockets. They washed their hands in one big wooden bowl of water and wiped their mouths with the leaves of the arbour trees that fell on the ground. The rainy season was approaching. There were rumors of famine. The grass did not grow and our carabao became thin. Fathers fighting cock, Burick, was practically the only healthy thing in our household. Its father, Kanaway, had won a house for us some three years before, and Father had commanded me to give it the choicest rice. He took the soft-boiled eggs from the plate of my sister Marcela, who was sick with meningitis that year. He was preparing Burick for something big, but the great catastrophe came to our town. The peasants and most of the rich men spent their money on food. They had stopped going to the cockpit for fear of temptation; if they went atall, they just sat in the gallery and shouted at the top of their lungs. They went home with their heads down, thinking of the money they would have won. It was during this impasse that Father sat every day in our backyard with his fighting cock. He would not go anywhere. He would do anything. He just sat there caressing Burick and exercising his legs . He sapt at his hackles and rubbed them,, looking far away with a big dream. When Mother came home with some food, he went to the granary and sat there till evening. Sometimes, he slept there with Burick, but at dawn the cock woke him up with its majestic crowing. He crept into the house and fumbled for the cold rice in the pot under the stove. Then, he put the cock in the pen and slept on the bench all day. Mother was very patient. But the day came when she kicked him off the bench. He fell on the floor face down, looked up at her, and then resumed his sleep. Mother took my sister Francisca with her. They went from house to house in the neighbourhood, pounding rice for some people and hauling drinking water for others. They came home with their share in a big basket that Mother carried on her head. Father wasstill sleeping on the bench when they arrived. Mother told my sister to cook some of the rice. She dipped a cup in the jar and splashed the cold water on Fathers face. He jumped up, looked at Mother with anger, and went to Buricks pen. He gathered the cock in his arms and went down the porch. He sat on a log in the backyard and started caressing his fighting cock. Mother went on with her washing. Francisca fed Marcela with some boiled rice. Father was still caressing Burick. Mother was mad at him. Is that all you can do? she shouted at him. Why do you say that to me? Father said. Im thinking of some ways to become rich. Mother threw a piece of wood at the cock. Father saw her in time. He ducked and covered the cock with his body. The wood struck him. It cut a hole at the base of his head. He got up and examined Burick. He acted as though the cock were the one that was hurt. He looked up at Mother and his face was pitiful. Why dont you see what you are doing? he said, hugging Burick. I would like to wring that cocks neck, mother said.

Thats his fortune, I said. Mother looked sharply at me. Shut up, idiot! she said. You are becoming more like your father every day. I watched her eyes move foolishly. I thought she would cry. She tucked her skirt between her legs and went on with her work. I ran down the ladder and went to the granary, where Father was treating the wound on his head. I held the cock for him. Take good care of it, son, he said. Yes, Sir, I said. Go to the river and exercise its legs. Come back right away. We are going to town. I ran down the street with the cock. avoiding the pigs and dogs that came in my way. I plunged into the water in my clothes and swam with Burick. I put some water in my mouth and blew it into his face. I ran back to our house slapping the water off my clothes. Father and I went to the cockpit. It was Sunday, but there were many loafers an gamblers at the place. There were peasants and teachers. There was a strange man who had a black fighting cock. He had come from one of the neighboring towns to seek his fortune in our cockpit. His name was Burcio. He held our cock above his head and closed one eye, looking sharply at Buricks eyes. He put it on the ground and bent over it, pressing down the cocks back with his hands. Burcio was testing Buricks strength. The loafers and gamblers formed a ring around the, watching Burcios deft hands expertly moving around Burick. Father also tested the cock of Burcio. He threw it in the air and watched it glide smoothly to the ground. He sparred with it. The black cock pecked at his legs and stopped to crow proudly for the bystanders. Father picked it up an spread its wings, feeling the tough hide beneath the feathers. The bystanders knew that a fight was about to be matched. They counted the money in their pockets without showing it to their neighbours.They felt the edges of the coins with amazing swiftness and accuracy. Only a highly magnified amplifier could have recorded the tiny clink of the coins that fell between deft fingers. The caressing rustle of the paper money was inaudible. The peasants broke from the ring and hid behind the coconut trees. They unfolded their handkerchiefs and counted their money. They rolled the paper money in their hands and returned to the crowd. They waited for the final decision. Shall we make it this coming Sunday? Burcio asked. Its too soon for my Burick, Father said. His hand moved mechanically into his pocket. But it was empty. He looked around at his cronies. But two of the peasants caught Fathers arm and whispered something to him. They slipped some money in his hand and pushed him toward Burcio. He tried to estimate the amount of money in his hand by balling it hard. It was one of his many tricks with money. He knew right away that he had some twenty-peso bills. A light of hope appeared in his face. This coming Sundays all right, he said.

All at once the men broke into wild confusion. Some went to Burcio with their money; others went to Father. They were not bettors, but investors. Their money would back up the cocks at the cockpit. In the late afternoon the fight was arranged. We returned to our house with some hope. Father put Burick in the pen and told me to go to the fish ponds across the river. I ran down the road with mounting joy. I found a fish pond under a camachili tree. It was the favourite haunt of snails and shrimps. Then I went home. Mother was cooking something good. I smelled it the moment I entered the gate. I rushed into the house and spilled some of the snails on the floor. Mother was at the stove. She was stirring the ladle in the boiling pot. Father was still sleeping on the bench. Francisca was feeding Marcela with hot soup. I put the snails and shrimps in a pot and sat on the bench. Mother was cooking chicken with some bitter melons. I sat wondering where she got it. I knew that our poultry house in the village was empty. We had no poultry in town. Father opened his eyes when he heard the bubbling pot. Mother put the rice on a big wooden platter and set it on the table. She filled our plates with chicken meat and ginger. Father got up suddenly and went to the table. Francisca sat b the stove. Father was reaching for the white meat in the platter when Mother slapped his hand away. he was saying grace. Then we put our legs under the table and started eating. It was our first taste of chicken in a long time. Father filled his plate twice and ate very little rice. He usually ate more rice when we had only salted fish and some leaves of trees. We ate grass most of the time. Father tilted his plate and took the soup noisily, as though he were drinking wine. He put the empty chicken meat. It is good chicken, he said. Mother was very quiet. She put the breast on a plate and told Francisca to give ti to Marcela. She gave me some bitter melons. Father put his hand in the pot and fished out a drumstick. Where did you get this lovely chicken? he asked. Where do you think I got it Mother said. The drumstick fell from his mouth. It rolled into the space between the bamboo splits and fell on the ground. Our dog snapped it up and ran away. Fathers face broke in great agony. He rushed outside the house. I could hear him running the toward the highway. My sister continued eating, but my appetite was gone. What are you doing, Son? Mother said. Eat your chicken.