Senior's Folio 2009

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Heights Issue No. 4 Vol. LVI No. 4, 2009 Book Cover Design by Eliana Javier Book Design by Panch Alvarez Printed by LSA Printing The copyright reverts to the individual authors of the works appearing in this issue. The works may not be published nor reproduced without the sole consent of the authors. This publication is not for sale.

Correspondence may be addressed to:

Heights, Publication room, MVP Bldg. Rm. 202

Ateneo de Manila University, P.O. Boc 154, Manila

Telephone No. 426-6001 loc. 50741 Hieghts is the official literary and aristic organization and publication of the Ateneo de Manial University 2

HEIGHTS

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SENIORS’ FOLIO 2009

HEIGHTS

Editorial Fidelis Angela C. Tan 1 May 2009

4

HEIGHTS

Four years isn’t that long of a time. Compared to a lifetime (assuming we all live long lives), four years is the blink of an eye. When you stand on the brink of graduation however (or in my case, in the dark lands following graduation), you get the urge to look back, to throw a glance over your shoulder, at who you were back in first year. The shock of it makes you reel.

Did I really have that hair? Those braces? That t-shirt? That ridiculous way of saying ‘hey’ in an attempt to be noticeable to the opposite sex? It makes you want to stride back in time and hit yourself.

And, those poems. Those doodles in your notebooks. Those fanfics.

Once upon a time, your High School teacher said you had talent. You want to tell yourself, your younger, naïve, idiot self, who has never taken an oral exam, or chugged three bottles of beer, or walked the length of Katipunan to find a taxi, that yes – you had talent. But that didn’t mean you were good.

Yet.

Four years isn’t that long of a time. But the changes that happened in the days and months that made up those four years were an entire step in evolution. One does, like reptilian creatures or Pokemon, evolve. The stretch of time following that first day as an Atenean freshman were riveted with friendships, heartbreaks, aced exams, failed exams, emotional breakdowns, insane drunken revelries at blockmates’ condos, moments of complete, abject ennui, and moments so quiet and beautiful you’ll remember them until you die. There’s a fire that charges college life, one from which many things arise from. Among them are learnings, regrets, and sometimes, art you may never have come up with otherwise.

The works in this folio are products of that creative fire, tempered by all those classes, mentors, workshops, contests and artistic orgs one encounters being in college. The featured writers and artists have gone in and through the wastelands of college and burst out the other side entirely different from who they were before. And, they’re good.

If you’re a regular reader of Heights, or at the very least someone who’s picked up the book before just because the cover was nice, do enjoy the selection therein. The creators have all graduated and gone out into the world and you may never meet them / see them again, but these stories and impressions are shreds of themselves that will remain with you wherever you might end up.

On the other hand, if you’ve never read Heights before, have never even heard of it until now, consider this a taster. If you’re a freshman, here’s hoping Heights, literature, art, and creativity will be part of your life for the next four years, and all the years that follow.

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Table of Contents victor anastacio

10 11

Mercutio Pook sa Timog

brandon dollente

14

15

Tulang naisulat matapos ayain ang isang kaibigang lumabas at mabigong muli Poem written after reclining on the grass with a lover

trish elamparo

18 19

Interlude Trailing

maki lim

28 42

Interlude Mga Alaalang Naiwan

kristian mamforte

58 59 60

Purgatoryo Tagpo Looban

kevin marin

6

64 65 67

Trahedya ng Magsasaka Daan Pauwi Kung sakaling magkita tayong muli

sasha martinez 70 75

Manifesto No Life in Sheep

nikay paredes

98 99

Passage Jeepney

ali sangalang

102 103 104

Tamis-Anghang Laglag Panyo

HEIGHTS

eugene soyosa

108 109

Bangungot Kerida

fidelis tan

112

Pig Run

tim villarica

122 127

The Memory Man A Letter to the Romans and a Note from the Curator for His Wife who left a Year Ago

panch alvarez

132 133

Monopoly 1 Monopoly 2

noelle intal

136 137

Seen Windows

eliana javier

140 141 142

Faber’s Horse

By Any Other Name Breathe

dan napa

146 147 148

Ngisi Soak Up The Sun You’re Next

cristine pavia

152 153 154

Hija Sa Katipunan Tiis Lang

nikki real

158 159

A Thorn among the Roses Traffic

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Victor

8

HEIGHTS

Anastacio Revelation 2:11: “The victor shall not be harmed by the second death.�

Nag-aral si Victor sa Ateneo mula elementarya hanggang kolehiyo, nang magtapos siya ng BS Management noong 2009. Sa paaralang ito tumubo ang kanyang pagkahilig at nalinang ang kanyang dunong sa mga salita. Isa siyang kasapi sa 13th Ateneo-Heights Writers’ Workshop at nalimbag sa Tomo LV bilang I ng Heights. Dagdag sa pagiging nagsisikap na makata, ibinabahagi niya rin ni Victor ang kanyang paglalaro sa- salita bilang isang standup comedian. Sa pagkakasulat nito, nakatira siya sa Quezon City.

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Mercutio Nakikipagduwelo si Mercutio.

Nagtutulakan upang manood ang mga tao.

Nasaksak ng espada si Mercutio.

Nagagalak na tumitig sa pagtatanghal ang mga tao.

Tumatagas ang dugo ni Mercutio.

Umaapaw ang hiyawan ng mga tao.

Saklolo! higop ng hininga ni Mercutio.

Ha ha ha! kinakabag na halakhak ng mga tao.

Namimilipit sa sahig si Mercutio.

Namimilipit sa katatawa ang mga tao.

Tumatayo na at pumapalakpak ang naaaliw na mga tao.

Nananatiling nakahandusay ang bangkay ni Mercutio.

10 HEIGHTS

Pook sa Timog May pook sa Timog kung saan ang luha’y humahalo sa hamog habang lumalangoy ang mga bangkay sa ilog.

Umaagos sa mga batis ang dugo habang sumasabay sa huni ng mga tuko ang pagsipol ng nagliliparang punglo.

Pag-ibig na wagas ang pagtatalik sa gabi na balang araw ang magiging silbi ay mga anak na maghihiganti.

Sa gubat na kanilang paaralan hinahasa ang musmos na kabataan upang itakwil ang gobyerno at magtulisan.

Ang lupang sagana ay inaararo habang nagmamartsa ang mga sundalo at nagtatanim sa sementeryo.

Pigil-hiningang naghihintay ang mga asawa naghahanda ng hapunang lasang pulbura umaasang may uuwi pa.

At silang mga kinatandaan na ang pook na bayolente dumarapa’t nananangis sa mosque habang gumagapang papalapit ang mga tangke.

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Brandon

12 HEIGHTS

Dollente Brandz looks good naked.

At least, that’s probably what you would say if you ever got the chance to see him naked (Feel free to use your imagination). But if he says he does, just take his word for it.

Like how you’d believe him if he said he draws pigs that meow, or he knows every Fall Out Boy song by heart, or just “I’ll be here when you want me, like the sound inside a shell.”

He’ll show you that there is a poem etched in the corners of little things, in words inked on a handrail, or a waltz, or the way your hair spreads out above your head when you lie down.

During warm summer days you might find him sitting in a certain field, folding a certain number of paper cranes, with a certain special someone.

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Tulang naisulat matapos ayain ang isang kaibigang lumabas at mabigong muli Matagal na kitang gustong isulat sa tula, kaibigan.

Heto ako ngayon, sa harap ng humihikab na bintana, ibinubulong itong mga salita sa natutulog na lungsod: naririnig kita sa aking isipan. Malapit nang umulan ng abo, sabi mo sa akin noong naupos ang mga ulap matapos magliyab ng takipsilim. Nanahimik ako noon dahil nanahimik ka rin. Dahil wala akong ganoong lihim.

Naaalala mo pa ba iyon? Minsan sabi mo, iba pa rin talaga ang langit sa Las Pi単as. Dito, walang napapagod umusad. Nasa tren tayo noon, nakatiklop ang mga kamay sa naghunos nang hawakan. Tila nagdarasal. Sinasagasaan ng ating paningin ang kalansay ng mga inulilang gusali.

Kinausap mo na rin ako tungkol sa pananalig at mga kasalanan.

Tungkol sa palihim na pakikinig ng mga anghel sa ating usapan.

Tungkol sa Katubusan, at sa marami pang eskinitang ganoon ang pangalan. Matagal na tayong di nagsasama, kaibigan, at nakikipagbuno ako ngayon sa katahimikan. May nasabi ka na rin ba tungkol doon? Tungkol sa takot na matulog at di na magising ang mga nahimbing na paninindigan?

Tungkol sa lahat ng puwang na di natin kinayang punan?

Binabagabag ako ngayon ng mga tinig natin noon, kaibigan. Marami na akong nadarama na lamang at hindi na maalala. Ang totoo: nasa bintana ka ngayon ng aking haraya. Kukuha ka ng papel. Magpaparaya. kay Moreen

14 HEIGHTS

Poem written after reclining on the grass with a lover I reach for your hand and put my faith in contact and the many pinholes that allow it. I believe in movement and the consequences of movement.

Dry current coursing through meadows.

Tall grass falling on each other. “Waves,” you say “are not owned by the sea.”

A leaf rests on your shoulder and I remember Nothing Lasts Forever inked on a handrail of an escalator.

A leaf falls and I remember rivers of people funnelled by train doors.

“When did it become this hard to get home?” a passenger stops and sighs and I continue to read a poem and believe in its power to break a heart, turn it into sunset, let the dusk flow through our veins.

I believe that moments could fail to reveal themselves. I believe we could stay a little longer in this time of trees and quiet and spaces that settle between us holding each other’s hand, feeling our own. for Jamie

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Trish

16 HEIGHTS

Elamparo Morning masses and meditations, lessons on Zen and Transcendence, gym and latte sessions, free verse and travel writing, Literary Journalism and the workshop process, small accidents and limited opportunities, Kurt Vonnegut and Anne Michaels, Ayesa and Patrick---after them, it’s hard to put things back the way they had been.

Ma, Pa, Trix, Gel, Tiff--thanks for showing me that (inspite of it all) there’s still a natural order of things.

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Interlude Forgive me, mother for the pirouette I failed in the interlude, a ten-minute war in Debussy’s Clair de Lune.

We have learned to arch our backs and carry ourselves on our toes, seven year-olds fighting for their Mama’s pride as they claim their daughter’s elegance is purely genetic.

Last night, after a lesson on charm and grace I wondered if motherhood was a business.

Afternoons we talk about perfection, projection, calculating how much good manners and aced tests would send the competition packing.

How we would train in the art of uttering words that can remind elders of April and May, wanting your daughter to be Eternal Spring in a package of laced stockings, clean fingernails, and well-timed curtsies.

Now I see you with the company of mothers whose daughters have landed on cue, en pointe.

I search you, questioning if I needed applying for daughterhood.

18 HEIGHTS

Trailing So it was a shirtless boy, Albert, who showed us the way to our faith. My group of six girls journeyed across the mountains of Antipolo believing our Theology teacher when she said that it is only in living with the less fortunate--even for three days--that our beliefs can be turned into something meaningful. In our pilgrimage through the mountains, Albert was to make sure that we didn’t stray from the right path.

There was something in the way the boy was introduced to us: He is Albert, and he is a katutubo,’ our coordinator told us as we waited at the foot of the mountains. He savored that last word, let it travel slowly through his palette like it was the essence of the boy’s life. The coordinator was too eager and giddy, pausing afterwards for dramatic effect as if he had just unveiled a museum relic.

We made our way through the mountains with Albert leading the way to the sitio. He followed his instincts while were too busy consulting an outdated map of the place, and he seemed more sure than we ever could be. I wondered how he differentiated one tree from the next as he made precise turns in a landmark-less terrain. All around there was nothing but trees, and horse dung was strewn at every few meters of the trail.

My mother would never approve of this kind of trekking: anticipate, anticipate, anticipate—that was her mantra. But these mountains thrive in the unpredictable, that the possibility of anything happening becomes nothing anymore. And because we had been walking for seven hours in nothing but alternate patches of grass and mud, we doubted whether the first bahay kubo we saw was simply a mirage *** I was seven when I stalked a boy—a dark, scab-kneed kid who wore the same pair of bright yellow shorts around three times a week.

He used to walk by the street as soon as the local afternoon soap opera started, and I was lucky because our maid never reached the opening scene awake. I easily slipped outside the house one March afternoon, saw this boy walking in front of our house, and followed him. It was not as if I liked him--for me, all the neighborhood boys looked exactly alike. I can’t really remember what came to me that day I first walked behind him as he made his leisurely walk through the streets of San Antonio Valley. All I know is that waiting for this boy had been the object of so many afternoons one idle summer in the past.

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He took me through three streets in the neighborhood-- first on his route was our street, St. John, where all the houses have front lawns and balconies. Reaching the corner, he would walk a few steps on the main road and would turn left to St. Valentine, the street parallel ours.

This was the busiest street on our side of the neighborhood for it was dotted with sari-sari stores that the children flocked to during afternoons. Then the boy made his way to St. Joseph, a quiet street with too many grumpy old men. Our journey would end there for I thought the next street was already too far, and by the time I reached home, the maid would still be hopelessly asleep.

I followed the boy along the subdivision’s streets because it gave me a sense of purpose. After all, my mom would never allow me to walk outside for the sake of, well, just walking. That would be suspicious--the San Antonio families never seemed to do that. They walked to get off at some point, bringing home the objects of their pursuits. There was the possibility of meeting a lover (our maid had a fling with a tricycle driver), or of walking to shed off a few pounds (our next-door neighbor swore by his brisk-walking routine). Telling my mom that I simply wanted to walk was like admitting that I was up to no good. Telling her that I was following a boy might have sounded preposterous and crazy, but at least I had a purpose, no matter how mundane it was. *** I was the shamelessly observant kid those three days we stayed in the sitio. My fellow students would always find me walking around, poking pots and plates in my adoptive parent’s bahay kubo, taking note of the different plants around the house, and identifying soil types.

Sitio Paglitao lay on top of a plateau, and if we continued our trek, we would come face-to-face with the Sierra Madre. On all sides of the sitio, there was nothing but stretches and stretches of grassland, and only a narrow, beaten path broke the monotony of the green landscape. A river snaked its way across the mountain, and it is in Sitio Paglitao where the water always rose. Where it dropped was aptly called Sitio Paglubog.

But despite being surrounded by a wide expanse of land, I had never felt more claustrophobic than ever. I would literally have trouble breathing every time I’d catch a glimpse of all that space I could run into, tumble in, and lie spread-eagled on. The six of us city girls revel in the idea of boundaries and labeled spaces, of one 20 HEIGHTS

small compartment leading to the next, that if we are left with miles and miles of street-less land, it is then that we panic and say ‘I have nowhere to go.’ A dead end would have been more comforting.

Twenty minutes of walking could easily cover all of Sitio Paglitao, and I walked around like a child on her first day on the world. At six o’ clock one damp morning, I went outside the house to feel how early-morning rain felt on a newly-woken body. And there outside were fifteen locals, walking aimlessly like marionettes being tugged by some invisible hand. This is the kind of walking that doesn’t promise to bring anything in return, for one sets out to walk to be emptied out. I saw this in their blank faces, the mountains looming in their eyes. When I got back to the house, I rehearsed my excuses to appease a possibly furious mother. But they weren’t even looking for me, and if I read the signs right, there was pride in their faces as the welcomed me back home, their child, a natural stoic. My groupmates, feasting on Vienna sausages straight from the can, were untrusting: For what homework are you doing all that walking around for? Philosophy, I told them. *** Ten years of my life I shared a bedroom with a younger sister who found everything I owned to be unbearably ‘girly.’ And because she was so disgusted with the clutter I had, I had to defend myself every time she tried to ridicule my stuff. My parents had to give in and give me and my monstrous things a room of our own.

A bedroom can mean many things for different people. For my sister, it is where she can put up her pin-ups of all her personal heroes—a crippled CEO, woman leaders of the world, and a guy from Animal Planet. My cousin’s room is a storehouse for all the clothes and shoes she has shopped for. But mine is a hiding place, and if you are in a nine-room house in a five-house compound in a ten-house street, no hole can be too deep to burrow in.

My grandmother never lost time telling me stories about the house where she spent her childhood. It has one multi-use space, and every imaginary part flows into one another. Roll out a banig and you have a bedroom. Roll out an even fancier mat and set a simple table arrangement (though you have no real tables) and it becomes a living room to entertain guests. No one demands a well-demarcated territory unto himself.

Most elders lament over the presence of rooms for they remember a time when solitude meant being separated by a piece of cloth LVI 4 21

draped over two posts. Then came the sawali walls which are temporary partitions made of split bamboo. Only when a woman changes clothes do they install these novelties, and they hasten to remove it when business has been taken care of. Sawali then evolved into concrete walls, and they are blamed for the alienation of this generation.

But these houses our elders are nostalgic about are not at all extinct. Sitio Paglitao, standing stubbornly seven hours away from the town, is still stranger to the notion of secondary spaces. Nothing is too private for them. My family’s bahay kubo was nothing but a big woven basket that kept a family of twelve, and at night we would be lined in one long papag with rice sacks as imaginary mattresses.

Of the twenty-seven houses in the sitio, ours was the closest to the river, the nearest to the edge. So during the few moments when my ten adoptive siblings were quiet, I could hear the river roar and I’d desperately start a conversation only to cover up the water’s frightening rage. In those heights and edges, everything was magnanimous-we were closer to the heavens, receiving thunder unfiltered as it bellowed straight to our ears. At eight o’ clock in the evening, everything was already pitch-dark, an unscheduled lunar eclipse (a phenomenon which will make for a good news headline back in the city). Only there was the moon, and I could have sworn I even saw two on my first night.

It was only in the mountains where I felt that being alone is indeed synonymous to being with nobody. Back in the city, I would lock myself in my room after a long day in school, not talking to anyone until late in the evening. Most city people are not bothered by this kind of confinement. In fact, the time when they feel alone is when they are in the middle of a crowd where eyes and hands and bodies do not meet. I used to pity myself whenever I did some things on my own. I made my friends guilty, telling them dramatically: I was alone at the mall today. It was such a hassle to ride the train and no one was even there with me. But how could I really have been alone when I was pushed and shoved inside the train?

In the mountains, I wanted nothing more than to tap the nearest human being and talk about anything, even the weather. That was the only time when small talk was bearable. I did it because I feared that the mightiness of nature might just suddenly move me to madness. It was the only time when the word overwhelming seemed superficial.

22 HEIGHTS

*** Sunday Mass is a serious affair for the San Antonio families, and the time you choose to go to church may just give away who you are.

The early morning mass at seven is full of the elderly, two whole rows of pews occupied by veiled women for whom the greatest glory was sainthood. Ten-thirty is for the rich, and they seem to be dressing for a different occasion. The 5 pm mass is still for the rich, and though they come with less pizzazz their silence is more intimidating. The evening mass at 7 caps the whole day and everyone is welcome, old and young, rich and deprived, the faithful and the hopeless. Hence the church would be speaking in different tongues and the Tower of Babel is again resurrected. My father has always wanted to run away from it all, and attending the Anticipated Mass is his ingenious solution.

Theists argue that the path to a well-lived life is essentially the same for every man. It’s all about ethics, they say. A fundamental option for the Other. This is the Truth that we all latch on to, the mission we are all sent forth to fulfill. And because there is only one path, then the real purpose of religions is in knowing that there are others who are comforted with the same rites and beliefs we admit we don’t fully understand. There will always be consolations in exclusivity. But we have perfected the Art of Belonging are now verging on territorial, wielding our weapons at the sight of trespassers. Just in our church, four different subcategories of Catholics can be found.

So they say that more than politics, it is in the name of religion that the world’s wars have begun. *** The natives of Sitio Paglitao refuse definitions. Their dialect is that of the Mangyans of Mindoro, they looked like the Aetas of Zambales, but their closest ties is with the Dinagat tribe. They are saintly pagans, people of the wide world who toy with boundaries and demarcations. I must have started a dozen sentences with ‘back in the city…,’ forgetting that I was moving within its limits and was very present in Antipolo (Population: 2, 101, 947, Pilgrimage Capital of the Philippines). The most surreal moment was listening to the radio.

With the imperial mountains and a soufflé of clouds as our backdrop, we listened to local showbiz tsimis that seemed to have come from a different world altogether. AM Signals reached places the government could not.

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The census of the city leaves no record of Sitio Paglitao and its inhabitants, and if people are right in saying that places exist only when they have been written about, then I must have spent three days in a dream and lived with figments of my imagination. But the natives live without definitions, and boundaries are but lines in a map that scaled their world in a sheet of paper. The six girls from the city were the only ones bothered by the lack of clear-cut classifications. *** I came home to Paranaque City sunburned and a pound lighter.

There was a traffic jam four blocks away from the village because they were reconstructing the roads that just weren’t too straight for the mayor. Our car was blocked two streets from the house, barricaded by a newly-formed association: Samahang St. Joseph Residents, the cardboard signage said. Papa was amused. Mama was irritated.

24 HEIGHTS

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Maki

26 HEIGHTS

Lim “Dahil bukas maiintindihan kong sa bayang ito ng mga bigong mangingibig at anak sa labas, ang mga kuwento ay nananatiling buhay magpakailanman sa kanilang pagkaluwal bilang mga alamat na walang kamatayan.�

Alvin B. Yapan, Ang Sandali ng mga Mata Maraming akong nais pasalamatan. Ngunit iniisip ko pa lang ang dami nila at ang mga nais kong sabihin, napatitigil na ako. Ang mga susunod na pasasalamat ang nakaya kong isulat. Humihingi ako ng paumanhin sa mga pagkukulang nito. Nawa’y ang mga kuwento na mismo ang magsilbing pasasalamat sa mga taong naging sandigan ko.

Sa Sperms, sa Matanglawin, sa Gabay, sa Kagawaran ng Filipino, sa CEGP, sa mga dating ka-block, sa aking pamilya, maraming salamat.

Kay Danna, ang musa ng aking panulat, ang kasama ko sa buhay, walang hanggang pasasalamat.

At sa aking ina, na walang tigil na bumuhay sa akin kahit na ang ginagawa ko lang ay magbasa at magsulat, walang pasasalamat na makasasapat. Para sa kaniya talaga ang mga kuwento ko.

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Nawawala: Kabanata ng Isang Alamat Walang nagmamalasakit, kayat walang umaawit

Mamaya, noong malapit nang balutin ang siyudad ng liwanag at patapos na ang ulan, masasagasaan niya ang isang babae.

Bago ang oras na iyon, haharurot siya sa McArthur Bridge, nang walang pakundangan kung may pusa, aso o batang madaraanan, walang pakialam kung mahigpit na ang kapit ng kaniyang mga pasahero sa mga rehas at bara. Sa kaniyang pagragasa, magwawala sa kaniyang paningin ang mga ilaw-poste sa gilid na nagsusuka ng bughaw; magsasanib at kakalat ang mga kulay ng paligid sa patapos nang dilim. Pipikit siya upang lalong maramdaman ang hagupit ng hangin at lalong maamoy ang nakalululang baho ng Ilog Pasig, upang makalimutan ang lahat ng kaniyang nasaksihan, naranasan at naisalaysay na kuwento. Subalit mapapaisip siya kung bakit tila pamilyar ang ganoong pagkahilo, ngunit noong malapit nang magkahugis ang kaniyang gunita, noong malapit na ang dyip sa kabilang dulo ng tulay, hihiyaw ang mga pasahero. Mapapadilat siya at makikita ang isang tumatawid na babaeng nakatitig sa kaniya, isang babaeng duguan ang mukha at walang mata.

“Mamang drayber, hindi pa ba kayo aandar? Ang tagal na natin dito,” pang-iistorbo ng naiirita nang matandang babae sa kaniyang pag-iisip.

“Isa na lang po.”

Kanina pang alas dos ng umaga siya naghihintay ng pasahero sa ilalim ng estasyon ng Doroteo Jose, habang kinakabahan sa patuloy na pag-ulan gayong nakalagpas na ang bagyong Egay sa Filipinas. Baka hindi matuloy ang kaniyang plano, isip niya, o baka dahil lang ito sa kaniya. Hindi niya napansing may mga pasahero na pala siya. Dala siguro ng lapad na naitungga niya. Hindi siya sanay na pumasada nang lasing; madalas, pagkatapos pa ng huling biyahe.

Marami-rami na pala, batid niya, puwede na para sa madaling-araw.

Isa na lang at lalarga na siya. Isang tauhan na lang para sa lagiang pagkukuwento niya sa kapuwa niya drayber sa pahingahan nila sa may Harrison.

Siya ang tinaguriang Lolo Basyang ng mga drayber. Siya ang laging tigib sa mga istorya tungkol sa kung ano-ano—sa mga patayan, saksakan, rambulan sa kung saang kanto, sa mga nakawan, tiktikan, at timbugang nauulat mula sa iba’t ibang himpilan, sa mga kababalaghan at kahiwagaang nangyayari sa mga kasuluk-sulukan ng 28 HEIGHTS

lungsod, sa mga sunog na una pa niyang nalalaman kaysa sa mga bumbero, sa mga bangkay na hindi na mapapangalan, sa mga bangkay na nabuhay, sa mga bangkay na nabuhay na pinatay ngunit nabuhay pa ring muli—mga istoryang minsa’y pampatulog at minsa’y pampagising na nagbibigay-lakas sa mga drayber upang sumabak muli sa pamamasada kahit na hindi sapat ang sampung pisong lugaw na ibinebenta ng mga de-gulong na karinderya.

Dati pa siyang inaapawan ng mga kuwento. Kahit noong bata pa siya, pumapalibot na sa kaniya ang mga kaibigan niya upang makinig sa salamangka ng kaniyang mga binibigkas na salita. May natatanging galing siya sa pagtatagpi, pag-uugnay at paghuhugis ng mga pangyayari. Nagkakakulay ang karaniwang itim at puti, at lalong tumitingkad ang kulay ng mga makulay na. Alam niya kung kailan dapat umaapoy ang kaniyang pagsasalaysay at kung kailan naman dapat parang ihip lamang ng hangin ito, kung paano mapapanginig ang mga nakikinig at kung paano sila mapapaindayog sa bawat pasabog. Mayroong pagkakataong magaslaw siya, mayroon namang matipid siya sa galaw, depende sa hinihingi ng kuwento.

Marami ang nagsabing siya ang magmamana sa posisyon ng kaniyang ama sa mesa ng mga manginginom. Ang ama niyang si Julio ang pinakamaingay sa lahat ng tumatambay sa tindahan sa kanto ng isang eskinita sa Santa Cruz. Sinasama siya nito paminsan-minsan, kapag hindi pa siya tulog sa oras ng inuman. Doon niya masasaksihan ang pagbabagong-anyo ng kaniyang tatay na sa araw nama’y tahimik at matimpiing tao. Kapag dumaloy na sa kalooban nito ang hiwaga ng hinyebra, walang humpay na ang patutsada sa mga tao-tao at bagaybagay, mula kay Tserman at sa mga pulis na kasama nito sa krimen hanggang kay Magsaysay na hindi niya pinaniniwalaan, mula sa muling pagbubuntis ni Aling Tekla hanggang sa tigil-paggawa sa kanilang pabrika. Subalit kapag marami na ang bagsak, kapag umaalimuom na ang semento dahil sa kaiihi ng mga hindi na nakatiis, kapag naghahanda na ang mga tandang sa kanilang pang-umagang trabaho, kapag tumalab na nang lubusan ang kamandag ng alak, kapag ang hiwaga’y naging lason na, dadalawin ito ng hulagway ng mailap nitong diwata.

At maririnig ng dilim, at ng iilan pang gising, ang tagulaylay ni Julio kay Ligaya—ang hinahanap nitong kasintahan na siyang pangunahing dahilan sa pagpunta nito sa Maynila. Sa mga natirang gising, walang makaaalalang may Ligayang iniibig at hinahanap si Julio; walang makaaalala maliban sa kaniya, na nananatiling listo sa bawat inuman, sinusubaybayan LVI 4 29

ang bawat yugto ng mumunting pagbabanyuhay ng kaniyang ama, itinitipon ang bawat pangyayari sa sisidlan ng kaniyang haraya.

Ang kaniyang pagkasaksi at pag-alala sa di-nasasaksihan at di-naaalala ng karamihan ang marahil pinakasanhi kung bakit inaantabayanan ng kaniyang mga kaibigan ang pagkuwento niya; mas sanhi pa ito marahil kaysa ang kagalingan niyang pagsunud-sunurin nang mahusay ang mga pangyayari. Mahilig siyang magliwaliw kapag wala ang kaniyang ama sa bahay, marahil naghahanap-buhay o naghahanap ng hanap-buhay, o hinahanap si Ligaya. Kaunting lakad lamang patungong Quiapo at makararating na siya sa malaperyang bahagi ng lungsod. Walang hindi kumikilos at nakatiwangwang lamang. Hindi tumitigil ang lakaran at bungguan, walang pansinan ang mga tao kahit magkatamaan at magpalitan ng amoy. Kahit ang mga nagbebenta, hindi makampante sa pagkakaupo; kailangan nilang sumigaw o makipagtsismisan, tumayo-tayo at ayus-ayusin ang mga panindang laging tinitigan at sinisiyasat subalit madalang na paggastusan. Labas-masok ang mga tao sa simbahan, umaasang pakikinggan sila ng Mesiyas na pilit hinahatak ng kanilang mga dasal pabalik sa lupa. Kapag natapos na silang manalangin at maglakad nang paluhod patungo sa itim na Kristo, lalabas sila habang napapasulyap sa mga gayuma at pampalaglag. Bibilisan nila ang pag-iwas ng tingin subalit waring may balani ang mga botelya’t dahong humihila sa kanilang mga mata pabalik sa pag-asam sa mga makamundong solusyong hindi hamak ay higit na mabilis kaysa dasal. Gayunpama’y makawawala pa rin sila sa nanghahalinang tukso at sasama ulit sa hindi humihintong pagsalubong at pag-ikot ng mga tao sa Quiapo na hindi niya malaman kung puno ng buhay o unti-unti nang namamatay—hindi lamang napapansin dahil walang pumapansin. Parang mga bump car at roller coaster ang mga tao, maiisip niya sa hinaharap matapos niyang dalhin sa Boom na Boom ang kaniyang anak noong balatuhan siya ng kaniyang kumpareng dyumakpat sa huweteng.

Sa lahat ng mga ito, sa lahat ng paggalaw na hindi maikulongkulong ng mata o alaala, sa libo-libong dumaraan doon sa tagpuan ng makadiyos at makamundo at ng kung sino-sinong gipit ngunit umaasang tao, siya lamang ang nagmamasid, siya lamang ang nakahinto.

Kaya’t siya lamang ang nakakita sa mga natatakpan ng tabing ng sanlaksang pagkilos at pagdalangin. Siya lang ang nakakita sa pagtulo ng pawis at, kung hindi siya nagkakamali, ng tamod sa estatwa ni Hesus.

Siya lang ang nakasaksi sa pagtatalo ng mga reb 30 HEIGHTS

ulto nina San Pedro’t San Juan sa wikang Chavacano. Siya lang ang nakarinig ng pagbubulung-bulungan ng mga ibinebentang rosaryo sa isa’t isa. Siya lang, sa hinuha niya noon, ang nakasilip sa kuwento ng Quiapo na ipinagkakait nito sa mga taong naglalakad nang matulin.

At sa pamamagitan ng mga ito, lilikha siya ng mga kuwento, at paguugnayin ang mga napapansin at di-napapansin; lilikha siya ng mga panibagong alamat ng lungsod na hindi pa naririnig ninuman, maging ng matatanda.

Katulad na lamang ng isa sa mga alamat niya tungkol sa henesis ng simbahan ng Quiapo. Ayon sa kuwento niyang isinalaysay sa gilid ng simbahan, lumitaw bigla-bigla ang simbahan noong isang gabing hindi makalilimutan ninuman sapagkat wala namang nilalang na may alaala sa pangyayaring ito. Noong oras ng mga mangkukulam, nasagasaan ng isang kalesa ang tumatawid na pusang itim na babae. Napisat ang pusa at tumilamsik sa kalsada ang mga lamanloob nito. Hindi pinayagang makawala ng mga diyos ng lungsod ang kaluluwa ng pusa mula sa katawan nito sapagkat hindi na ito buo.

Hindi alam ng kaluluwa kung saan siya makapupunta. Dumaloy ang katas at dugo ng mga laman sa batuhing daan, tila ipinapabatid sa kapaligiran at dilim na lumuluha ang kaluluwang tagpi-tagpi. Naramdaman ito ng mga mangkukulam na umaali-aligid sa paligid, nagtatago sa dilim, naghihintay ng bulong ng mga diyos. Naawa sila at sa kauna-unahang pagkakataon sa pook na iyon, nagsabay ng pagsusumpa ang mga mangkukulam. Isinumpa nilang maging buo ulit ang babaeng pusa at tuwing umaga, sambahin ng mga nilalang. Dahandahang gumalaw ang mga laman-loob, humaba patungong langit ang mga sanga-sangang kalansay, naglingkis-lingkis at nagkahugis. Pumasok sa loob ang puso at tumungo muli sa dibdib ng bagong hinugis na katawan. Sumunod ang mga bituka’t ugat upang magsilbi muling daluyan ng dugo’t sustansiya. At sa huli’y nag-anyong-tao ang balat at iba pang kasama nitong nagtatakip sa kalooban at kaluluwa ng pusa. Pagsapit ng umaga, nasilayan ng mga tao ang isang simbahang may altar na kulay-dugo at patungo rito mula sa pinto, may mahabang telang kulay-dugo rin.. At sa gilid nito, makikita ang kakaibang Kristong itim ang balat. Walang maisambit ang mga tao kundi himala ito ng Diyos at hulog ng Langit. Pagkatapos niyang magkuwento, nanatiling tahimik ang mga nakinig, may mga mukhang mababanaagan ng pagkamangha; iyong iba nama’y ng pagtatanong; at iyong iba pa’y hindi malaman kung anong naramdaman nila kahit na alam nilang may naramdaman silang dinulot LVI 4 31

ng kuwento niya. Umalis siyang walang sinabi, nasiyahan sa nalikha niyang kuwentong mula sa pagkakita niya ng unti-unting pagpisa sa pusa ng kotse ng mga nalasing na tinedyer.

Noong sinubok niyang magdyip, hindi na niya madalas lakbayin ang siyudad para lamang makahanap ng maihahabing kuwento.

Kahit naman marami na siyang napuntahan dahil sa pagdidyip, hindi siya makahinto at makamasid nang matagal. Madalas, umaasa na lang siya sa mga pasaherong laging bukal ng mga kuwento, malay man sila o hindi. Laging may bitbit na kuwento ang bawat pasahero, kahit na hindi pa nila ito isalaysay. Ang kanilang bawat kasuotan at dala-dala, iginagalaw at sinasabi sa loob ng dyip ay may ipinapahiwatig na kasaysayang hindi ikinukuwento sapagkat hindi lamang maikuwento sa loob ng panahon ng kanilang sakay. Siya na ang bahalang maghinuha kung ano ang kasaysayang iyon upang may maidalang sorpresa sa mga nag-aabang na kapuwa niya drayber.

Iyon ang iniisip niya ngayon habang nakatingala sa harapang salamin sa dyip upang tingnan kung sino-sino na ang kaniyang pasahero. Hindi pa naman umaalis ang kanina pang naiiritang matandang babae. May bahid na ng kulubot ang balat nito subalit labis-labis pa rin ang palamuti; matingkad na pula ang damit na kung tawagin ng kabataan ngayon ay spaghetti; palda’y hindi pa umabot sa tuhod. Matronang-matrona ang dating.

Nasa tabi naman nito ang isang binatilyong naka-Uncle Sam na damit at kamuplaheng pantalong maluwag na maluwag. Kanina pa nakabulsa ang kanang kamay nito at nakatitig sa katapat nitong kayumangging nars na nakatingin sa labas.

Matindi naman ang kapit ng babaeng pinakamalapit sa kaniya sa braso ng isang may edad nang lalaki, hindi siguro dahil sa takot bagkus para lang makalambing. Wala namang tigil at hiya sa paghaplos ang matanda sa babaeng matipid sa kasuotan, hindi pinapansin ang katapat nitong mag-asawang hindi mawari kung pandidiri o pagkagalit ang ipinapabatid ng kanilang tingin. May bitbit ang babaeng asawa na sanggol na balot na balot sa saping matagal na yatang hindi nakatitikim ng kaputian.

Hindi pa niya mapapansin ang kakaibang katangian ng biyaheng iyon sapagkat naagaw nang lubusan ang kaniyang pansin ng dalawang gusgusing batang babae na magkayakap sa dulo ng dyip.

Hinuha niya’y magkapatid ang dalawa. Ngunit ang hindi niya masagot ay kung bakit silang dalawa lamang ang magkasama, sa oras pang iyon, at sa panahon pang iyon ng pag-ulan nang walang 32 HEIGHTS

dahilan—pagbabadya, para sa kaniya, ng isang di-inaasahang pangyayari. At may kutob siyang hindi iyon isang karaniwang biyahe mula sa isang lugar patungo sa tahanan, o mula sa tahanan tungo sa isang lugar. May nakakandong na pekeng bag na Barbie sa bawat isa at may nakalapag pang mala-maletang sisidlan sa paanan. Sinubok niyang maalala kung saan sila sumakay at kung nagbayad na ba sila at nagsabi ng bababaan, subalit kabiguan lamang ang kaniyang narating.

Tulog ang mas bata sa dalawa. Nakatingin naman ang isa sa malayo— kay bata pa’y tumitingin na sa malayo, isip niya—hindi maipinta ang mukha. Tila mabigat ang pinapasan ng kilay nito sa pagkakunot at ang mga mata nama’y tila walang nakikita kundi walang katiyakan, nananawagang tulungan sapagkat hindi alam kung ano ang pupuntahan at saan mananahan. Hindi makaalis ang titig niya sa dalawa.

Walang humpay ang pag-usbong ng mga tanong sa kaniyang utak— kung naglayas ba ang mga ito o pinalayas, kung iniwan ba o namatayan ng magulang, naulila ba sila o matagal nang ulila at matagal na ring palaboy-laboy. Wala siyang ibang maisip na sagot kundi ang ipinipilit sa kaniya ng kasaysayan niyang tanging dahilan marahil ng patuloy na pag-ulan—na ang dalawang magkapatid ay, katulad niya, wala ring nadatnang tunay na magulang sa mundo at palipat-lipat lamang ng tinitirhan.

Hindi kailanman ipinagkait ni Julio sa kaniya ang katotohanang ampon lamang siya. Kahit noong una siyang magtanong tungkol sa kaniyang ina, inamin na agad ni Julio na hindi siya anak nito. Naisip niya, sa paglaon, na hindi iyon dahil inalala ng kaniyang itinuring na ama ang kaniyang kapakanan, kundi dahil hindi lamang nito matiis ikuwento ang pangyayari kung bakit siya natagpuan nito.

Ayon sa kuwento ni Julio, kasisisante lamang niya bilang security guard noon, kaya’t ipinagpatuloy na lamang muna niya ang paghahanap kay Ligaya. Naglalakad siya noon sa may Kalaw, malapit na sa embahada ng Estados Unidos. Marami na ang nagsasabi, kahit noon pa, na tanga ang hindi magtangkang pumila roon upang makakuha ng visa. Subalit sabihan man siyang tanga, nangako siyang hindi siya titigil sa paghahanap. Sa pagtawid niya sa interseksiyon papuntang embahada, may tubig na pumatak sa kaniyang harapan bagaman walang senyales na uulan. At sinundan ito ng isa pang patak, at isa pa, at isa pa, hanggang sa nakabuo ng linya patungo sa dating gusali ng hukbong pandagat ng mga Kano. Una’y hindi niya ito pinagtuunan ng pansin, subalit sa bawat hakbang niya palayo, pinapatakan ng tubig ang kaniyang ulo at sa paglingon niya pabalik, LVI 4 33

nakita niyang sinusundan siya ng linya ng mga patak. Hindi na siya nag-alinlangan pang sundan ang linya bagaman may nararamdamang magkahalong pagtataka at kaba. Hindi ang mismong gusali ang pinatunguhan ng mga patak kundi ang tambakan ng basura sa isang sulok nito. At hindi isang tambakang nag-uumaapaw sa tira-tira ang tatambad sa kaniya kundi isang tambakang nag-uumapaw sa tubig—tubig na patuloy na rumaragasa palabas ng tambakan. Sa pagtanggal niya ng takip nito, matutunghayan niya ang isang sanggol na nakalutang sa sarili nitong luhang mula sa mata nitong kaiba sa lahat ng matang nakita ni Julio. Ang kulay ng mismong mata ng sanggol ay tila kulay ng dalisay na dagat tuwing tinatamaan ng sariwang silahis ng umaga—bughaw na bughaw na kumikinang-kinang pa. Nakatatawa mang isipin, kinuha niya ang sanggol sapagkat natakot siyang bumaha ang paligid at mapagbintangang may sala. Subalit sa pagkuha niya nito, natigil man ang pagluha, nagsimula naman ang pinakamalubha at pinakamatagal na bagyong naranasan ng modernong Maynila sa panahong iyon. Kinupkop at inaruga niya ang sanggol nang walang naramdamang kahit ano sa pasiya niyang iyon. At maski sa sanggol, na lumaking halos katulad niya, na mas sumikat pa nga kaysa kaniya sa pagkukuwento, na ipinakilala niya sa mundo nang walang pangalan, ay naging manhid siya, hindi nasisiyahan sa tagumpay at hindi rin naman nabigatan sa pasanin at responsibilidad. Alam lang ni Julio na hindi dapat pabayaan ang sanggol na nailalang ng tubig.

Simula noong nagkamalay-tao siya, sa pagkakaalala niya, hindi na nahiwalay o nabuwag mula sa kaniyang pag-iral ang elementong tubig. Katulad ngayong hindi pa rin tumitila ang ulan—alam niyang may mangyayari sa kaniya. Kung siya ang masusunod, nais na niya itong tumigil bago paandarin muli ang dyip. Alam niyang siya ang dahilan sa mga kakaibang pag-ulan subalit madalas, wala siyang kapangyarihan upang mapasunod ito o mahulaan ang mga pangyayaring ibinabadya nito. Nagpatuloy ang kasalukuyang ulan, hindi humihina o lumalakas, tumatama-tama sa sa salaming kalasag niya mula sa pagkabasa, tila nangungutya, ipinapaalala sa kaniya ang mga panahong sinasabayan ng bagyo ang kaniyang bawat pagluha.

At nangyari nga ang isa niyang pinangangambahan: mayroong sumakay. Napabuntong-hininga ang ilan at nagpasalamat. Kailangan na niyang bumiyahe, sa gitna ng umuulang lungsod. Habang ipinipihit niya ang susi, tiningnan niya ang sumakay.

34 HEIGHTS

Kabataan, bihis-estudyante. Nakadamit na may disenyong ulong malaki na mahaba ang buhok, nakamaong na kupas, nakatsinelas at may bag na karaniwa’y para sa mga mensahero. Ngunit ang pinakatumambad sa kaniya ay ang nakalabas nitong kuwaderno at bolpen.

Nang maiayos ang pagkakaupo, inikutan nito ang dyip ng tingin subalit napatigil nang makarating sa dalawang batang babae. Mukha itong nababagabag. Matapos ang ilang segundong pagtitig sa dalawa, nagsimula na itong magsulat. Umaandar na ang dyip ngunit patuloy pa rin ito sa pagsusulat. At patuloy naman siyang hindi mapakali sa tanawing iyon gayong dapat nakatuon na siya sa kalsada at manibela.

Hindi talaga siya kampante sa mga estudyanteng nagsusulat, para siyang inaagawan ng kuwento. Hindi sa dyip ang unang engkuwentro niya sa mga ganoon. Sa isang inuman ng kaniyang ama at mga kasama nito, mayroong nagpaalam na estudyanteng mula raw sa UE na maisama sa inuman at makapagsulat. Para raw sa pananaliksik nito para sa isang nobela. Pumayag si Julio, na siya namang pinakamakuwento sa lahat. Akala niya, siya ulit ang matitirang gising at ang tanging makaririnig ulit ng kuwento ni Ligaya. Subalit pagsapit ng madaling-araw, nang ikinuwento na muli ni Julio si Ligaya, gising din ang estudyante, isinusulat ang bawat detalye ng kuwento. Kung hindi nakaramdam noon ng sakit si Julio dahil wala rin naman itong malay na nagkukuwento, siya nakaramdam. At mula noon, wala na siyang tiwala sa mga estudyanteng nagsusulat.

Lalo pa itong pinalala ng nangyari noong kinagabihang pagkatapos ng pagbisita ng estudyante. Katatapos lamang ng pagbomba ng Plaza Miranda at tila disyerto na ang malaperya sa umaga. Naroon siya upang maikuwento na naman ang nakalimutang ikuwento ng karamihan, subalit hindi ang inaasahan niys ang kaniyang nakita.

Mula sa dilim ng eskinita ng Quiapo, lumitaw si Julio, tumatakbo patungo sa simbahan. Subalit pagdating sa gitna ng Plaza Miranda, pumalahaw ang shotgun ng pulis; tinamaan ang tuhod ni Julio at napaluhod ito sa tapat ng simbahan. Lumapit ang pulis sa likuran nito, tinutok ang baril sa ulo at pinaputok. Talsik ang mga mata ni Julio at sabog ang utak. Hindi nakontento ang pulis at binaril din ang dibdib ng katawang inari kani-kanila lamang ni Julio. Nagkalat ang kalooban ni Julio. Nagkalat katulad ng sa pusa sa kuwento niya. Dumugo at kumatas, tila nagpapahiwatig ng pagluha ng kaluluwang hindi pinayagang makapasok sa langit. Subalit hindi nagbagong-hugis ang bangkay ng kaniyang itinuring na ama. At naroon lamang siya, LVI 4 35

nagmamasid, saksi sa di-nasaksihan ng karamhin.

Matapos ang pagpaslang kay Julio, napipi siya. Nagkamali ang propesiyang siya ang tagapagmana. Naging madalang na rin ang inuman sa Sta. Cruz. Naging lubos na rin siyang batang-lansangan, walang tinitirhan kundi ang mga bangketa, walang tinutulugan kundi semento. Dahil sa kaniyang di-pagkuwento at pag-iyak, noon din ang panahon ng walang tigil na pag-ulan sa Quiapo at sa Quiapo lamang.

Hindi ito napansin ng mga taong dinaraanan lamang ang Quiapo sapagkat kahit naman hindi umuulan, lagi namang mukhang nagsisilikas ang mga taga-Quiapo at mahilig magpunta sa Quiapo. Kaya’t umulan nang umulan sa Quiapo ng ilang buwan nang hindi nababalita. Umulan nang umulan sapagkat napipi ang kuwentista ng lungsod.

Noong malapit nang mag-isang taon ang ulan sa Quiapo, napaupo siyang humihikbi-hikbi sa labas ng simbahan, malapit sa anderpas. Naalala na naman niya ang kaniyang itinuring na ama. Lilingon sana siya sa Plaza Miranda ngunit maririnig niya ang isang batang babaeng tumatakbo. Hindi niya ito dapat papansinin subalit iba ang pagtakbo ng babaeng iyon—isang pagtakbong hindi kasama ang pagtalsik ng putik, parang tumatapak sa tuyong semento. Basa pa rin ang bata subalit pagtitig niya sa tinapakan nito, tuyong-tuyo ang semento.

Kapag inaalis nito ang paa sa tinatapakan, babalik ito sa pagkabasa at ang bago namang tinatapakan ang matutuyo. Namangha at nabighani siya; nakahanap na siya ng katapat. Tila nahahawi ng babaeng iyon, kahit panandalian lang ang kaniyang nililikhang tubig. Bumaba ang babae sa anderpas at sinundan niya ito. Noon din, sa sandaling iyon, tumigil ang ulan at natuyo agad ang kapaligiran. Sapagkat natagpuan niya ang babaeng magbabago sa takbo ng buhay niya at pagkukuwento.

Ang babaeng lagiang kakuwentuhan niya. Ang babaeng magiging lagi niyang pasahero, hahatirin tuwing dapit-hapon at susunduin tuwing dapit-umaga. Ang babaeng hindi niya pinakasalan subalit naging may-bahay niya. Ang babaeng ina ng kaniyang anak. Ang babaeng bigla-biglang lumilitaw sa kaniyang buhay nang walang dahilan at bigla-biglang naglalaho nang walang paalam. Ang babaeng nag-uugnay sa kaniyang masalimuot na kasaysayan at nagsisilbing lagusan sa laberinto ng kalungsuran. Ang babaeng ngayo’y hindi na niya mahanap. Ang babaeng nagtataglay ng tanging kuwentong hindi niya maikuwento. Si Mharia.

Biglang nagising ang sanggol sa dyip at umiyak. Nabulabog 36 HEIGHTS

ang lahat maliban marahil sa dalawang batang babae. Tumigil sa pagsusulat ang estudyante, pinagtuunan ng tingin ang sanggol at inihanda muli ang panulat. Natigil sa paghaplos ang matandang lalaki at nailabas ng binatilyo ang kanang kamay mula sa bulsa. Napatingala naman siyang muli sa harapang salamin. Nagtalo ang mag-asawa.

Walang nakaintindi sa kanila. Tama ang hinala niya, galing probinsya ang mag-anak, malamang Bisaya, matigas ang dila. Hindi nawawala ang mga taga-probinsiya sa mga ganitong oras – pauwi na, o bagong dayo pa lamang. Sa mga ganitong oras, laging may lumuluwas at may bumabalik. Kung tutuusin, halos lahat may probinsiya, may binabalikan kahit na hindi alam ang patutunguhan. Siya lamang ang wala at marahil ang dalawang batang babae.

Isa si Mharia sa maraming may probinsiya. Iyon ang isa sa marami nitong naikuwento sa kaniya. Noong pagbaba nila sa anderpas, tinanong agad niya kung paano nito nagagawa ang pagpapatuyo ng tinatapakan.

“Ikaw, paano ka nakapagpapaulan?”

Natulala siya. Hindi niya alam kung paano nalaman ni Mharia. Nang wala siyang masabi, nagsimulang magkuwento si Mharia, tungkol sa kaniyang sarili. Nakatira sila ng kaniyang ina sa isang sulok ng anderpas at nagbebenta ng katutubong kasangkapan tuwing araw sa gawing kanan ng simbahan. Tubong Olonggapo sila, may lahing Aeta, kaya’t maraming alam na katutubong kasangkapan na gawin, maraming alam na kuwento tungkol sa kagubatan. Napaluwas sila ng Maynila dahil nagsawa na ang mga sundalong Kano sa mga ibinebenta nila.

Si Mharia marahil ang nanguna sa bansa sa paggamit ng karagdagang H sa pangalan bago ang mga Jhun-Jhun, Bhoy, Nhene, Jhosephine, Hherkules, at iba pa. Ayon kay Mharia, na wala namang kamuwangang mauuso iyon, naglagay raw ang kaniyang ina ng H sa pangalan niya upang maalala niya ang kaniyang ama na si Harold, isang sundalong Kano na nangakong babalik upang kunin sila. Hindi alam ng dating tagasaksi ng lahat kung bakit hindi agad niyang napansin subalit nakita nga niyang parehas sila ni Mhariang bughaw ang mga mata, bagaman kayumanggi ang balat.

Lubhang mapagbigay at mabait ang mag-ina, nagpapautang ngunit hindi naniningil, nag-aalay sa simbahan kahit gipit na gipit, at hindi nagagalit kahit na minsa’y inaabuso ng mga tao. Nakararaos naman sila, ang dahilan ni Mharia.

“Ikaw, ano ang kuwento ng buhay mo?”

LVI 4 37

At sa kauna-unahang pagkakataon, hindi siya nakasagot; hindi nakapagkuwento ang kuwentista ng lungsod. Kahit noong nagkukuwento pa lamang si Mharia, tulala na siya. Noon lang siya nakarinig ng ganoong kuwento—ang kuwento ng sariling buhay. Hindi niya alam na mayroon palang ganoon. Hindi niya alam kung ano iyon.

Hindi niya alam kung paano iyon. At sa kauna-unahan ding pagkakataon, mahihiya siya at makararamdam ng matinding kawalan.

Mayroon siyang hindi maikuwento. Tatakbo siya palayo kay Mharia at hindi babalik sa anderpas ng ilang buwan.

Magliliwaliw siyang muli sa iba’t ibang pook sa Maynila subalit hindi na para makahanap ng maikukuwento kundi para mahanap ang sarili, ang sariling kuwento, ang sariling buhay, ang kuwento ng sariling buhay. Sa bawat pook na kaniyang puntahan, umuulan subalit iyong ulan ay nadadala lang ng hangin at naglalaho bago pa man bumagsak sa lupa.

Noong bumalik siya sa anderpas, hindi na niya naabutan si Mharia. Nagtanong-tanong siya sa mga tao kung saan pumunta ang mag-inang nakatira dati sa anderpas subalit kahit kailan daw ay wala pang mag-inang tumitira roon at nang tanungin niya iyong pook na bentahan ng katutubong kasangkapan, kahit kailan din daw ay wala pang nagbebenta ng katutubong kasangkapan.

At noon niya napagtantong isang sumpa rin ang pagiging kuwentista.

“Ermita,” bulong ng matandang lalaki sa kaniya noong nasa tapat na ng National Bookstore ang dyip, sabay abot ng bayad. Malawak man ang Ermita, alam niya kung anong Ermita ang tinutukoy ng matanda. Hindi niya alam kung kaya pa ba nitong tigasan o gumagamit na lang ng pampatigas. Lalong hindi niya alam kung bakit mukhang iniisip ng babaeng nakakapit dito na hindi siya mabubuhay kapag nawala o pumanaw ito. Mukha namang walang pera ang matanda; kulang ang bayad nito.

Nang nagsisimula pa lang siyang mamasada, marami na agad ang nagkukulang ang bayad, lalo na iyong mga bumababa sa Ermita.

Gagawin nila ang lahat ng uri ng pagtitipid upang hindi magipit sa dalas ng pag-upa ng kuwarto at tao. Sa simula pa lang, binalaan na siya tungkol dito ng mga nagturo sa kaniyang magmaneho subalit wala naman siyang problema rito kahit na isa sa mga dahilan kung bakit siya sumubok sa pagdidyip ay upang kumita, sapagkat pahirap na nang pahirap ang mabuhay sa Maynila nang walang ginagawa kundi magkuwento. Ang pinakadahilan naman niya ay upang 38 HEIGHTS

matagpuan si Mharia.

At natagpuan nga niya ito, isang umuulan na dapit-hapon sa may estasyon ng Doroteo Jose, sinusubok na bawiin nang tuluyan ang ulan sa kaniyang paanan habang naghihintay ng masasakyan.

“Pasensiya na, hindi ko maiwasang magpaulan paminsanminsan.”

Ngumiti si Mharia at sumakay sa harapan. Wala pa ring maliw ang pagkukuwento nito, at nanatili pa rin siyang tahimik. Simula noong naglaho si Mharia, sinubok na niyang bumalik sa pagkukuwento subalit nag-iba na ang kaniyang pagkukuwento; hindi na siya iyong dating kuwentistang ubod nang daming paksa at ubod nang daming estilo. Maganda pa rin ang mga kuwento subalit may nawala, o may nalaman siyang aspekto ng pagkukuwentong wala sa kaniya sa simula pa lang. Hindi na niya ito nahanap, o natuklasan, hanggang ngayon.

Sa Ermita niya ibinaba si Mharia, hindi na lamang ito mapagbigay tuwing maliwanag, mapagbigay na rin ito tuwing gabi. “Ang Diwatang Tagapagbigay ng Ginintuang Ligaya,” iyon ang ibiniro ni Mharia na bansag nito sa pinagtatrabahuan. Mga dayuhan na ang pinaglilingkuran ni Mharia: Europeo, Amerikano, Hapon, Tsino at iba pa. Mataas ang bayad kaya sobra rin ang ibinibigay nitong pamasahe.

Nakiusap si Mharia na sunduin din siya ng alas kuwatro ng umaga.

Sa susunod na araw, naabutan ulit niya si Mharia sa Doroteo Jose, hinatid niya ito ulit sa Ermita at sinundo muli ng alas kuwatro ng umaga. Nangyari ito ng maraming buwan, binabasà nila ang isa’t isa ng suyuan at pinapatuyo ang sugat na dinulot na sumpa ng pagkukuwento. Nangyari ito ng maraming buwan, hanggang nagsama sila sa iisang bahay na naipundar ni Mharia sa may Ermita at nakalikha ng isang anak na babae.

Noong paliko na ang ang dyip mula sa Avenida, hindi na nakapigil ang binatilyong nakatitig sa nars. Gumalaw-galaw ang kanang kamay nito sa loob ng maluwag na bulsa. Halatang wala na sa gilid ang kamay at nasa may singit na. Tila may kinakalikot ang binatilyo.

Pabilis nang pabilis ang galaw ng kamay nito. Nakahalata ang nars at nanlaki ang mata, pumikit, nandiri at tumalikod. Hindi na nakita ng nars ang pagtagas ng malapot na likido sa kamuplahe ng binatilyo.

Hindi makapaniwala ang estudyanteng patuloy pa ring nagsusulat. At nagmukha namang halimaw na mangagain ang matandang nakapalamuti. Walang bakas ng pagkahiya o pagkasising LVI 4 39

makikita sa binatilyo.

Wala ring bakas ng pagkasising nakita sa mukha ng Amerikanong sundalong nalasing at nanggahasa kay Mharia sa kalye noong lumabas ito upang hintayin ang kaniyang may-bahay. Walang nagawa si Mharia—si Mhariang lubos na mapagbigay, si Mhariang bukas na bukas, si Mhariang walang alinlangang ikuwento ang sariling kuwento, si Mhariang lunsaran ng ginintuang ligaya. Nang dumating siya mula sa pasada, siya na may-bahay at ama, siya na walang alam kundi ang magkuwento nang tapat, siya na tubig lamang ang elemento, siya na may matang kaparehas ng mata ng nanggahasa, wala na rin siyang magawa kundi pagmasdan, gaya ng pagmasid niya sa sa kaniyang ama, ang kaniyang tuyong-tuyong may-bahay na tinapakan at pinasuk-pinasukan ng walang konsensiyang sundalo. Nanawagan siya sa tubig upang basain si Mharia, subalit sa pagbuhos ng ulan, nanatiling tuyo ang buong katawan nito. Sa wakas, tuluyan nang nahawi ni Mharia ang tubig. At sa susunod na gabi, tuluyan na ring naglaho si Mharia.

Simula noon, nangako siyang hindi titigil sa pamamasada hangga’t hindi niya nakikita si Mharia at itutuloy ang pagkukuwento hanggang maikuwento ang kuwento ni Mharia. Subalit ngayon, ngayong gabing unang beses siyang uminom bago ang huling biyahe, ngayong gabing napagpasiyahan niyang ituloy ang kaniyang plano, ngayo’y hindi na niya alam kung paano iyon gagawin sa kagubatan ng lungsod na paikot-ikot at walang pinupuntahan ang mga daan, sa laberinto kung saan umuulit-ulit lamang ang mga kuwentong kaniyang nasaksihan at naranasan—ang kuwento sa Quiapo, sa Ermita, sa dyip, ang kuwento ng mga taong laging lumilikas at lumuluwas, ng mga nanggagahasa at ginagahasa, ng mga pumapatay at pinapatay, ng mga sinasagasaan, binabaril, inuulanan at tinatapakan, at ang kuwento ng mga kuwentistang isinumpang ikuwento ang mga ito. Hindi niya alam kung paano niya iyon gagawin kung siya mismo’y hindi makaluwas sapagkat wala namang pinanggalingan, siya na kuwentistang hindi maisalaysay ang kuwento ng sariling buhay.

Katulad na lamang siya niyong matrona, tigang na tigang na sa paghihintay, paghahanap at pag-aasam at nagpapalamuti na lamang upang ipahiwatig sa sarili na hindi pa huli ang lahat.

alam niya, katulad ng pagkaalam ng ama niya, na kailangan lamang niyang tanggapin na walang pupuntahan ang mga kuwento niya kundi sa pag-uulit-ulit at kailanman hindi niya matutuklasan 40 HEIGHTS

ang kuwento ni Mharia—ang kuwento ng sariling buhay, katulad ng hindi pagtuklas ng ama niya kay Ligaya. At wala siyang magagawa kundi hintayin na lamang na paslangin siya ng lungsod.

Ngunit may plano na siya, uunahan na niya ang lungsod. Papalapit na ang dyip sa McArthur Bridge at malapit na rin ang oras ng hiwaga, ang oras ng paglaho’t kamatayan, ang oras na aabutan niya bago lumagpas ng tulay. Wala nang atrasan. Tinapakan niya ang silinyador at humarurot sa McArthur Bridge.

Subalit, katulad ng ipinapahiwatig ng ulan, nangyari ang diinaasahan. Malapit sa dulo ng tulay, naroon ang babaeng nakatitig sa kaniya ngunit walang mata, duguan ang mukha, ang dibdib, at ang ari, tumatawid sa sementong natutuyo sa kaniyang bawat hakbang.

Noong malapit nang balutin ang siyudad ng liwanag at patapos na ang ulan, sasagasaan niya ang isang babae. Walang laman-loob na tatalsik. Dugo’t katas lamang, na tila nagpapahiwatig ng isang lumuluhang kaluluwa. At babalutan ang sasakyan ng dugo.

Sa paglagpas sa tulay, lilingon siya.

Subalit noong nakatingin na siya sa dinaan niyang tuyong tulay, hindi na niya maalala kung bakit siya lumingon. Marahil dahil hindi talaga matatawaran ang ganda ng tulay na iyon para sa kaniya.

Bukas, balak niya, sa unang pagkakataon, iinom siya bago ang kaniyang huling biyahe at itutuloy na niya ang kaniyang plano sa tulay na iyon. Matatapos na rin ang lahat, bulong niya sa kaniyang sarili.

Patay na ang mga ilaw-poste, pinaghahandaan na ng lungsod ang parating na umaga. Bumalik siya sa pagmamaneho, inis na inis sa nag-iisa niyang pasahero na patuloy pa ring nagsusulat, patingintingin sa mga bakanteng upuan.

McDonald’s Katipunan Marso 2008

LVI 4 41

Mga Alaalang Naiwan

Sa labas ng estasyon ng Recto, sa kalsadang patungong Quiapo, sa pagitan ng naglalako ng kendi’t dyaryo at ng nagtitinda ng balot at penoy, nakatingala si Julio, nakatingin sa mga ulap na hindi niya matanto-tanto kung ano ang inihuhugis. Tatlong araw nang nangingitim ang mga ulap subalit hindi pa rin bumabagsak bilang ulang nakapaglalanggas ng sugat ng lungsod. Tatlong araw na rin siyang nakatingala, simula noong napansin niyang maaari nang masagot ng langit ang kaniyang mga tanong.

Marami man ang dumaraan, doon man natutulog ang kaniyang mga katabing tindera, katapat man niya ang Isetann, walang kahit isang pumapansin sa kaniya. O higit na tama, mapansin man siya, walang bahid ng pagtataka sa mga mukha ng nakakita sa kaniya. May ibang napapalingon subalit magpapatuloy lamang sa paglakad. Isip ng marami sa kanila, lahat naman, sa isang paraan o iba pa, nakatingala sa langit, naghihintay ng biyayang magbabago sa kanilang buhay— literal nga lamang ang pagtingala ni Julio. Susuko’t maglalakad ka rin, wika nila nang napakahina—tila mas kinakausap ang kanilang sarili, sa halip na si Julio—habang palipat na ang kanilang isip sa mas mahalagang bagay katulad ng pagpoproblema sa makakain mamaya.

Iyong ilan pang napalingon, nakaalala ng kuwentong tungkol sa isang binatang naghihintay na mahulog ang bunga ng puno ng bayabas. Nagustuhan nila ang kuwentong ito noon sapagkat para sa kanila, sila ang binatang iyon at ayaw man nilang aminin, katulad pa rin sila niyong binata hanggang ngayon. Mapatitigil na sana sila ngunit nakalimutan nila kung ano nga ba ang naturang kuwento. Magpapatuloy sila sa paglalakad at mawawala na ulit sa kanilang isip ang kuwentong humubog sa mismong paglalakad nila sa lansangan ng buhay, pati na ang nakatingalang si Julio na nagbigay-buhay sa kuwentong ito.

Ang kuwentong ding iyon ang naalala ng mga tindera subalit taliwas doon sa mga naglalakad, inis ang naramdaman nila nang unang isalaysay sa kanila ito ng kanilang ina. Sila noon ang mga batang atat na laging nauuna sa kahit saan, ang mga laging umaakyat ng mga puno upang makuha ang bunga ng mga ito kahit hindi pa hinog. Subalit dahil doon, agad din silang napagod sa buhay at nakuntento na lamang sa pag-upo sa gilid ng estasyon, kung kaya’t lalo pa silang nainis sa kuwentong pinilit nilang talikuran ngunit naging larawan pa rin ng kanilang pamamalagi sa mundo. Ito rin ang dahilan nila kung bakit hindi na lamang 42 HEIGHTS

nila pinansin nang tatlong araw at dalawang gabi ang katabi nilang si Julio, na siyang naging tanda para sa kanila ng balintunang sumaklaw sa kanilang buhay.

Kung huminto lamang ang mga naglalakad at tumingin nang mas matagal, kung hindi lamang sinisisi ng mga tindera ang kanilang kapalaran sa isang kuwento, makikita sana nila ang tulalang itsura ni Julio. Dilat na dilat ang kaniyang mga mata habang ang kaniyang mga labi ay tahimik na bumubukas-sara, tila nangungusap sa langit, paulit-ulit na binibigkas ang hindi magkatunog-tunog na salita—isang salitang ilang beses na niyang sinambit sa kaniyang ilang taon nang pakikipagsapalaran sa lungsod na noong una’y mailap sa kaniyang pag-unawa ngunit ngayo’y naging marahas na rin. Katulad ng marami pang ibang nakaranas sa kadiliman o sa nagliliyab na liwanag ng lungsod, katulad ng mga biktima ng pananaksak o pamamaril sa kung saang kantong walang pinupuntahan, katulad ng mga kaluluwang nanatiling nakahimlay sa aspaltong huling kinalagyan ng kanilang sinagasaan at iniwang katawan, katulad ng mga tauhan sa telenobela na nakaranas ng hindi kapani-paniwalang trahedya, katulad ng mga taong sumuko na sa kaaasang mahulog ang biyaya ng bayabas at mesiyas, katulad ng mga taong napagod na sa kaaakyat sa kung saang punong wala namang maiaalay kundi pagkabigo, wala siyang ibang masabi kundi bakit. Iyon ang tanging salitang ibinabato niya sa langit habang ito’y walang kibong nagpapatuloy sa paggalaw. Bakit ang tanging salitang inuulit niya sapagkat iyon na lamang ang nararapat sabihin. Iyon na lamang ang maaaring sabihin. Sa huling sandali niya sa lungsod, iyon din ang lalabas sa kaniyang mga labi habang nakatitig siya sa kaniyang palad. Ngunit sa pagsambit niya niyon, tila may kaakibat na itong tiyak na sagot.

Sa ngayon, habang hindi pa dumarating ang sandaling iyon, hinagpis lamang ang kasama ng salitang kay tagal sagutin ng langit.

At marahil wala talaga itong balak sumagot. Kung hindi lamang napansin ng isang bata si Julio.

“Tay, ang tagal mo nang nakatingala. Ano ang meron sa langit?”

Nagulat si Julio, nawala sa kaniyang pagkatulala at napayuko. Hindi sila kailanman nagkaanak ni Joy, bagaman ilang beses na nilang sinubok—iyong huli, noong gabi bago ang simula ng Panahon ng Tatlong Sunog. Kung nagkabunga man ito, hindi na niya malalaman. “ LVI 4 43

Hindi ako ang ama mo,” sagot niya habang nababagabag sa itsura ng bata, lalo na sa mga mata nito. Kakulay ito ng mga mata ni Joy, hindi nga lamang ito parang ilog na dumadaloy.

“Nais mo bang umulan?”

At lalo pa siyang nagulat. Nasa mukha ni Julio noon ang pagkagulat na mababanaagan ng pagkaunawa sa bigat ng sandali, na maaaring pagbabadya iyon ng mangyayari, na maaaring hudyat iyon ng pagbabago sa kaniya. Iyon ang pagkagulat na nakita na niya dati sa taong dahilan ng kaniyang pagtungo sa lungsod. Iyon din ang makikita sa mukha niya nang magkatagpo ang mata niya at ang mata ng lalaking tinangka niyang iligtas sa nasusunog na gusali.

Ngunit bago pa siya makasagot muli sa bata, hinablot na ito ng isang lalaki at agad-agad silang lumayo. Ang huling napansin ni Julio sa bata ay ang pagtingin nito sa lalaki, ang pagkabigla nito at ang pagtanong ng, “Itay?” Hindi na niya nakita ang itsura ng lalaki. Kung nakita lamang niya ito, magugulat siyang muli sapagkat kamukhang-kamukha niya ito. Hindi na rin niya nakita ang pagtingala ng bata sa langit.

Bago pa siya magkaroon ng pagkakataon na magtaka sa nangyari, nagsimula nang umulan. Tumingala siyang muli at nang tumama sa kaniyang noo ang unang patak, naalala niya ang una niyang karanasan sa ulan.

Iyon ang tinagurian nila sa kanilang lugar na Panahon ng Madilim na Ulan. Iyon ang pinakamalakas at pinakamatagal na ulan na naranasan niya. Sa lakas nito, natakpan na nito ang araw kung kaya’t ang araw nila ay parang gabi. Ngunit ang gabi nila ay sabi ng matatanda, mas madilim pa sa dilim. Kahit ang mga lamang-lupa at mga aswang ay naghanap ng masisilungan at matagal na nagtago. Sa tagal ng pagtakip ng ulan sa araw, halos makalimutan na ng mga tao roon ang itsura ng liwanag. Kung paano sila nabuhay noon sa ganap na kadiliman at higit pa, wala nang makapagsabi. Ang alam lamang nila, hindi sila umalis sa kani-kanilang kubo. Hindi sila naubusan ng pagkain o ng inumin, bagaman sa pagkakaalam nila, ilang taon din ang lumipas bago tumila ang ulan. Nang bumalik sila sa kanilang karaniwang gawain, hindi na nila tinanong kung paano nangyari iyon. Nagpasalamat na lamang sila at nagkaliwanag na.

Noong tuluyang sinaklot ng kadiliman ng ulan ang kanilang lugar, takot na takot si Julio, hindi siya umaalis sa tabi ng kaniyang ama.

Sa bawat pagkulog at pagkidlat, iyak siya ng iyak. Nang mapansin ng kaniyang ama na naubusan na siya ng mailuluha, nagsalita na ito.

44 HEIGHTS

“Julio, ang lahat ay nagsimula sa tubig,” pagsisimula ng kaniya ama.

Habang pinipigilan ni Julio ang kaniyang sarili sa paghagulgol nang walang luha, isinalaysay ng kaniyang ama ang Pagkalikha ng daigdig.

Wala pa raw noong lupa at langit. Isang malawak na karagatan lamang. Sa gitna ng kalawakang iyon, nanahan ang kauna-unahang Diyos. Nakaupo siya sa isang bolang tubig, kung saan iniipon niya ang kaniyang alaala. Noong magpasiya siyang lumikha, hinati niya ang bolang iyon. Inihagis niya pataas ang isa at ito ang naging langit. Samantalang ipinalutang naman niya ang isa pa at ito ang naging lupa. Mula sa kaniyang mga alaala, nabuo ang mga nilalang ng daigdig: ang mga hayop, halaman, at higit sa lahat, ang tao—ang pinakainiingatan niyang alaala.

“Kung kaya huwag kang matakot sa ulan. Diyan tayo nagmula,” anang ama ni Julio, sabay dala sa kaniya sa durungawan upang ipadama sa kaniya ang ulang palatandaan ng kanilang pinagsimulan.

Iyon ang una at huling kuwento sa kaniya ng ama niyang halos magisang nag-alaga sa kaniya dahil sa kalubhaan ng sakit ng kaniyang ina. Nang manirahan na siya sa lungsod, naisip niya na baka ito lamang ang alam na kuwento ng Tatay Turing niyang sukdulan ang katipiran sa mga salita, maliban sa panahong iyon na nagkuwento siya. O baka dahil sapat na iyon, sa pananaw ng kaniyang ama, upang magabayan at magkadireksiyon ang kaniyang buhay. Subalit naisip din niyang baka wala sa hinagap ni Turing ang pagpunta ng kaniyang anak sa lungsod, ang lugar na matagal na niyang nilisan. Sapagkat kung alam lamang ito ni Turing, marahil hindi niya tinipid ang kaniyang mga salita at hindi lamang isang kuwento ang kaniyang isinalaysay. Hindi sapat ang isang kuwento upang saklawin ang kalupitan ng pamumuhay sa lungsod, isip niya noong napadaan siya isang araw sa isang komunidad ng mga iskuwater at nasaksihan kung paano sila pinapalayas ng MMDA habang ginigiba ang mga bahay na bagaman maliliit ay sarili naman nilang gawa.

Lingid sa kaniyang kaalaman, ang nabatid niyang iyon ang nabatid din ni Turing noong magkadigma at madeklarang Open City ang lungsod upang mailigtas ito sa pinsalang maidudulot ng paglusob ng mga Hapon. Pinawalang-bisa ng mga bombang inihulog ng eroplanong Hapon ang deklarasyong ito. Saksi si Turing sa biglang pagdami ng mga kaluluwang hindi na kailanman matatahimik sapagkat sa lubusang pagkasunog at pagkawasak nila sa pagsabog, wala nang matatagpuang katawan o kahit buto man lamang ang kanilang LVI 4 45

upang mailibing at maipagluksa sila. Dahil sa kaguluhan, nagpasiya ang mga magulang ni Turing na lumikas isang gabi, kasama ang ilan sa mga kaibigan nila. Gamit ang isang malaking bangka, binaybay nila ang Ilog Pasig nang hindi alam kung saan tutungo. Nagpaubaya sila sa alon. Mapayapa ang kanilang paglalakbay noong una. Subalit sa pagsapit ng alas tres ng madaling-araw, nagdilim ang paligid. Naglaho ang mga bituin at buwan. Ramdam pa rin nila ang pag-andar ng bangka, dinig pa rin nila ang tunog ng mga alon. Ngunit wala silang makita, kahit ang mga katabi nila, kahit ang mga sarili nila. Kakatwa ang pakiramdam: natatakot sila, sabay namamangha, kapag iginagalaw nila ang kanilang kamay o hindi kaya ang mga paa. Noong panahong bumuhos ang madilim na ulan, noong halos makalimutan na nila ang naging buhay nila sa lungsod, napagtanto nilang naihanda pala sila ng karanasang iyon para sa pamumuhay sa ganap na kadiliman at higit pa. Ang karanasang ding iyon ang pinakasalik kung bakit ang paglikha mula sa tubig ang tanging ikinuwento ni Turing kay Julio. Siya lamang sa lahat ng nasa bangka ang sumubok na ibabad ang kaniyang kamay sa hindi makitang tubig. Nang gawin niya ito, naramdaman niya ang kapangyarihang taglay ng ilog doon: ang kapangyarihan ng alaala at panahon. Lumiwanag ang kaniyang paningin at napunta siya sa ibang pook. Napunta siya sa Unang Sandali, noong nagpasiya ang kauna-unahang Diyos na likhain ang daigdig.

Napanood niya ang lahat. Subalit nang kakausapin na ng Diyos ang tao, nagsimulang lumangitngit ang ilalim ng bangka. Narinig niya ito at naalalang nasa loob nga pala siya nito. Sa kaniyang pagkabigla, naalis niya sa tubig ang kaniyang kamay at bumalik ang kaniyang paningin sa dilim. Lumakas at dumalas ang langitngit. Natakot ang lahat. Noong tumayo ang isa, nagkabiyak ang gitna ng bangka. Sumigaw ang isa pa sa kanila, kusang nasisira ang bangka at hindi na nila mapipigilan ito. Sumang-ayon ang lahat, maliban kay Turing. Para sa kaniya, ang tubig ang gumagawa nito sa bangka. Minamadali ng ilog ang pagtanda nito, wika niya sa kaniyang sarili. Bago pa niya ito masabi sa kaniyang mga kasamahan, nagsitalon na ang mga ito.

Matapos tumalon ang mga magulang niya, tumalon na rin siya. Kaiba sa naranasan ni Turing noong ibinababad niya ang kaniyang kamay, pagkawala ng alaala ang nangyari sa kanila, sa halip na panunumbalik ng isang nagdaang pangyayari. Kapag ginugunita nila ang karanasang iyon, naaalala nila ang kanilang pagtalon at ang takot na kasama niyon subalit kasunod na nito ang pag-apak nila sa lupa. At kasabay ng pag-apak nila doon, biglang 46 HEIGHTS

lumiwanag ang paligid. Isa iyong senyal, ayon sa mga mas nakatatanda, na malugod silang tinatanggap ng lugar—ang lugar na magiging bagong tahanan nila, na kukupkop din sa kanilang apo at sa apo ng kanilang apo, ang lugar na hindi nila kailanman malalaman kung ano ang pangalan at kung saan nga ba sa Filipinas. Ang alam lang nila, wala na sila sa lungsod, ngunit wala rin sa kahit aling lalawigan. Sinubok nilang maghanap ng taong nakatira na doon bago pa sa kanila, ngunit wala silang natagpuan. Naghintay rin sila ng mga darating pang dayo mula sa ibang lugar subalit wala nang iba pang napadpad doon, maliban na lamang sa estrangherong nagngangalang Makata, ang tagapagligtas nilang tumapos sa Panahon ng Madilim na Ulan at ang taong nagsabi kay Julio na may pook palang tinatawag na lungsod—ang pook na buong buhay na iniwasan ni Turing na isalaysay sa kaniyang anak. Lingid sa kaniyang kaalaman, ang mismong pagkuwento pa niya ng pagkalikha sa daigdig ang naghawan ng landas patungo sa pagtuklas ni Julio sa lungsod.

Mula noong ikuwento sa kaniya ni Turing ang kaniyang nasaksihan doon sa ilog na pinaglalaruan ang alaala ng daigdig, hindi na ito natakot sa ulan o sa kahit ano mang anyo ng tubig. Noong natapos ang pag-ulan, makikita na lagi si Julio sa pampang, kasa-kasama ang Makata, parehas na pinagmamasdan ang mapayapang daloy ng ilog, naghahanap ng alaala o ng sarili. Noon magkakaroon ng pagkakataon na mag-usap ang dalawa, noon magsisimulang hubugin ng Makata, bagaman hindi niya sinasadya, ang buhay ni Julio. Kung hindi lang nagkuwento si Turing, o kung hindi lang iyon ang kaniyang ikinuwento, hindi sana magkakaroon ng lakas ang anak niyang tumungo sa ilog kahit noong higit pa sa kadiliman ang dilim ng paligid.

Kung mayroon lang nilalang na may kapangyarihang makakita sa ganoong uri ng dilim, mamamangha siya sa kapanatagan ng loob at ng yapak ni Julio, walang kabang mahihiwatigan sa kaniyang mukha mula sa unang hakbang hanggang sa huminto siya. Subalit higit pa rito, marahil maiisip pa ng nilalang iyon na may salamangkang ginagamit ang bata, o kung hindi man, hinihila siya ng ilog patungo rito.

Sapagkat tila may nakikitang daan si Julio na deretsong-deretso sa pampang; at kahit kailan hindi siya lumihis sa daang iyon. Hindi na rin marahil pagdududahan ng nilalang ang kaniyang haka kung mapapansin niyang hindi nakatingin sa ilog ang bata, bagkus nakatitig sa kaniyang palad, tila nasa mga guhit nito ang direksiyon patungo sa kaniyang nilalandas. Kung walang kapangyarihan ang nilalang LVI 4 47

na iyon na makasilip sa hinaharap, hindi niya malalamang mauulit ang pagtitig na iyon ni Julio sa palad niya. Sa panahong iyon nga lamang, hindi na ito upang makarating siya sa paroroonan, bagkus dahil nakarating na siya rito. Subalit walang nilalang na ganoon noong naglakad siya. Walang nakasaksi sa kaniya. Higit sa lahat, hindi nalaman ni Turing ang nakatagong kapangyarihan ng kuwento, na nagmula sa mismong ipinaksa, at ang epekto nito sa kaniyang nag-iisang anak.

Pagdating ni Julio sa pampang, huminto siya isa o dalawang hakbang mula sa ilog. Matagal siyang nanatili doon. Ramdam niya ang mala-sampal na galaw ng hangin, ang matulis na pagbagsak ng ulan, ang nakawawasak na ragasa ng ilog. Hindi siya natinag, katulad noong tatlong araw niyang pagtingala. Subalit noong nasa pampang, nakayuko siya, tila may tinititigan. Nang maglaon, unti-unti niyang itinaas ang kaniyang ulo. Nang bahagya na siyang nakatingala na katulad sa mga panahong kausap siya ni Turing, katulad sa oras na hinihintay niyang magsalita ito, nakarinig ang lahat ng sigaw, na ayon sa mga malilikhang kuwento tungkol dito ay makapagdudulot ng lindol sa lupa at maging sa ilog. Nagmula ito sa harapan ni Julio. At siya lang ang nakaunawa.

“Tao po,” ang winika ng boses ng isang lalaki. Pagkatapos na pagkatapos niyang magsalita, tumigil ang ulan at lumiwanag ang paligid, katulad ng nangyari noong unang umapak sina Turing sa pampang. Lumabas agad ang mga tao at nagdiwang. May mga nagsitalon at nagsisigaw, may mga lumuhod at napadasal kahit na wala silang sinasamba sa lugar na iyon. Pati ang mga laman-lupa at mga aswang, nakisama, bagaman nag-anyong-hayop sila o nagpanggap na tao. Walang makapapansin na nanatiling nakatayo si Julio, nakatingin sa Makata na nakatingin din sa kaniya. Sa hindi mapangalanang lugar na iyon, na nasadlak nang matagal sa dilim na higit pa sa kadiliman, silang dalawa lamang, ang Makata at si Julio, ang hindi gumalaw sa kanilang kinatatayuan, nanatiling nakatingin sa isa’t isa. Nasa mukha nila noon ang pagkagulat—isang matagal na pagkagulat—na mababanaagan ng pagkaunawa sa bigat ng sandali.

Iyon din ang pagkagulat na makikita sa mukha niya nang magkatitigan sila ni Joy, halos isang taon matapos siyang makarating sa lungsod. Sa tabi ng isang ilaw-poste sa may Liwasang Bonifacio kung saan siya natulog, tumigil si Joy mula sa kaniyang paglalakad, at pinagmasdan siyang managinip. Kung ano ang dahilan niya sa paghinto at pagmasid sa isang lalaking hindi niya kilala, walang 48 HEIGHTS

nakaaalam sapagkat wala rin namang nakasaksi, wala rin namang nakialam. Palaisipan din ang mga susunod pa niyang gagawin. Kung pag-ibig ba o awa, o pagkabilang ang dahilan niya, hindi na naging mahalaga sa huli kay Julio. Hindi lamang dahil mababatid niyang hindi niya ito masasagot, kundi dahil matatanto rin niyang hindi nararapat sa mga katulad ni Joy ang mga ganoong tanong at lalong hindi dapat itanong ang mga iyon sa lungsod na nanununog ng pag-ibig at awa, ng mga umiibig at naaawa.

Sa paggising ni Julio bago sumikat ang araw, naroon pa rin si Joy. At sa kaniyang pagtayo, nagkatitigan sila nang matagal, nang walang pag-iisip man lang ng dahilan o ng kahihinatnan. Dahan-dahan nilang sisisirin ang lalim ng mata ng isa’t isa. Habang unti-unting bumibilis ang paggalaw ng lungsod, habang nagmamadaling magtago ang mga umiibig tuwing gabi at ang mga umiibig sa gabi, habang umaakyat muli si Andres sa kaniyang pedestal upang ipagpaliban na lamang muli sa susunod na gabi ang pagpapatuloy ng kaniyang paghibik sa sinapit ng kaniyang bayan, habang gumigising na rin ang mga natutulog sa bangketa at bangko upang mapaghandaan kaagad ang kanilang pakikipagtuos sa mga nilalang ng araw na magtataboy sa kanila mula sa kanilang panandaliang tahanan, mga nilalang na mas masahol pa sa mga multo at aswang. Dahan-dahan silang sisisid nang hindi namamalayan ang mga ito.

Mabundol man sila, masigawan, maapakan, patuloy pa rin sila sa pagtitig, walang mga salitang binibitiwan. Nasa mukha nila ang pangungusap. Isang taimtim at mapayapang ngiti ang kay Joy. Sa tagal nilang magkatitig, hindi nawala ang ngiting iyon. Subalit hindi iyon ang ikinagulat ni Julio. Hindi pa siya nakakikita ng matang katulad niyong kay Joy. Parang iyong ilog na lagi niyang pinagmamasdan. Hindi lamang iyong kulay. Umaagos paikot ang balintataw nito at sa inla, nakikita niya ang kuwento ng kaniyang ama, pati ang mga pag-uusap nila ng Makata—ang mga alaalang lagi niya ring natatanaw kapag ibinababad niya ang kaniyang kamay sa ilog. Siya na ba ang sagot na matagal na niyang hinahanap, unang tanong niya sa kaniyang sarili.

Siya ba ang pag-asa niyang maintindihan ang lungsod? Siya ba ang patunay na tama pa rin ang kuwento ng kaniyang ama? Paulit-ulit niya itong itinatanong sa kaniyang sarili habang pinagmamasdan ang ngiti ni Joy. Gayunpaman, kahit pakiramdam na niyang masasagot na ang mga tanong niya, mauuwi pa rin siya, gaya ng mga iba pang pagkatataon, sa tanong na bakit. At mababatid niyang wala pala siyang nasasagot at dumarami lang ang mga tanong.

LVI 4 49

Dadami pa ang mga ito nang hawakan ni Joy ang kaniyang kamay. “Samahan mo ko,� wika niya.

Bagaman hindi mawala ang mga tanong, walang pag-aatubiling nagpatangay si Julio sa babaeng parang ilog ang mata. Hindi siya bumitiw, hindi niya naisip na bumitaw. Sapagkat noon lamang siya nagkaroon ng kakapitan, noon lamang siya nagkaroon ng kasama sa lungsod, kung saan may bayad kahit ang pagkakaroon ng kasama.

Nang dalhin siya nito sa Roxas Boulevard, nakaramdam siya ng kaisahang hindi niya aakalaing mararamdaman niya sa lungsod. Sa tabi ni Joy, habang tinatanaw ang kalawakan ng katubigan. Sa sandaling iyon, kahit napakasandali lamang, habang tumatalsik-talsik sa kaniyang ang tubig-dagat, naglaho ang mga tanong at naging payapa ang kaniyang loob. Bago matapos ang araw, nauwi ang pagsama ni Julio kay Joy sa pagsasama nilang dalawa.

Mula noon, sa mumunting tahanan na ni Joy sa loob ng Intramuros tumira si Julio. Tindahan ang harap ng bahay at ang tanging ikinabubuhay ni Joy. Dito niya naipagpatuloy ang sinimulan ng Makata: ang turuan si Julio sa mga gawi ng lungsod. Habang nagbabantay ng tindahan, tinuruan niya itong magbasa at magsulat, ng matematika, at ilang konseptong pang-ekonomiya. Dahil sa ilang garapal na kostumer, nagkaroon din ng kaunting kaalaman si Julio sa araling panlipunan at kultura. Hindi nagtagal, nakakaya na niyang magbantay ng tindahan nang mag-isa, habang naghahanap si Joy ng bagong trabaho.

Nang masanay na nang tuluyan, naisip niyang magbenta ng ice tubig sa panahong nagliliyab ang lungsod. Kumita ito kahit papaano, ngunit hindi pa rin sapat. Hindi naman makahanap ng trabaho si Joy sapagkat wala namang disenteng trabaho ang para sa mga katulad niyang parang ilog ang mata.

Gamit-gamit ang kaniyang natutuhan, kasama na ang kuwento ng kaniyang ama at ang tula ng Makata, naisip ni Julio na gawing water refilling station ang tindahan. Pagkatapos ng panahon ng pag-uutang, pamimili ng mga kagamitan, at pagpapagawa ng estasyon, nagsimula naman ang panahon ng kita. Pumatok ang negosyo. Lubos itong ikinatuwa ng dalawa, lalo na ni Julio. Mukhang, sa wakas, hinuha niya, naintindihan na niya ang lungsod. At dahil ito sa babaeng parang ilog ang mata.

Noong gabi ng unang araw na kumita ang estasyon, agad-agad silang tumungo sa kama at sinubok muli ang matagal na nilang sinusubok mula pa noong unang gabi ng kanilang pagsasama. Akala nila, dahil sa tagumpay ng ideya ni Julio, makapaglalabas na siya ng 50 HEIGHTS

kaniyang binhi. Subalit sa kasukdulan ng kanilang pagtatalik, ganoon pa rin ang nangyari, sa halip na magsabog siya sa loob ni Joy, mararamdaman niyang muli na nasusunog ang kaniyang ari. Hindi alam ni Julio kung may sakit siya o dulot ito ng pagkakaiba ng lungsod at ng kuwentong humubog sa kaniyang pagkatao at kilos. Katulad noong mga naunang pagkabigo, buong gabi niyang pag-iisipan ang kaniyang pagkukulang, hahanapin ang sanhi ng suliranin, at susubuking balikan ang mga yugto ng kaniyang buhay. Lagi’t lagi, mauuwi ang kaniyang pag-iisip sa mga pangyayaring nagtulak sa kaniyang makipagsapalaran sa lungsod at ang kinahinatnan ng pakikipagsapalaran nito.

Nagsimula ang lahat sa pampang, sa pag-uusap nila ng Makata. Siya lamang ang kinakausap ng Makata, sapagkat siya lang din naman ang tumutungo sa ilog.

“Ano ang pangalan ng ilog na ito?” unang tanong nito kay Julio.

“Basta, ilog iyon ng mga alaala,” tugon ng batang si Julio.

“Ibabad mo ang iyong kamay at malalaman mo kung bakit.”

Sinunod siya ng Makata. Subalit sa halip na mamangha, nagimbal ito at agad-agad niyang inalis ang kaniyang kamay. “Hindi iyan ilog ng alaala. Ilog iyan ng mga kaluluwa. Mga kaluluwa ang nakita ko,” sigaw ng Makata.

“Baka mga kaluluwa ang alaala mo.”

Nagulat ang Makata sa sagot niya. “Ilog ng mga kaluluwa,” ulit nito. “Mukhang ganoon nga ang ginagawa sa aming mga alaala doon sa lungsod. Pati mga alaala namin pinapatay, pilit tinatanggal.”

Ikinuwento niya kung bakit siya nakarating doon. Tumakas siya mula sa mga sundalong naghahanap sa kaniya. Batas Militar doon sa lungsod at marami siyang bawal na nagawa.

“Ano bang ginagawa mo roon? Ano ba iyong lungsod?”

Tumutula siya, sagot ng Makata. Tamang-tama, dagdag niya, kagagawa lang niya ng tula doon sa pampang. Kung nais ni Julio babasahin daw niya. Tumango ang bata.

“Tama ang matandang pilosopo: ang lahat ay tubig. Ilog na humahalakhak. Naghihintay sa ating maruming katawan.”

Namangha si Julio, katulad ng pagkamangha niya sa kuwento ng kaniyang ama.

“Kung gusto mo, sumama ka sa akin pagbalik ko sa lungsod.

O kung hindi man, pumunta ka na lang doon at hanapin mo ako,” wika ng Makata nang hindi tumugon si Julio. Tuluyan nang LVI 4 51

tumahimik ang bata, hindi namamalayang hindi nasagot ng Makata ang kaniyang pangalawang tanong. Nagpatuloy naman sa pagmamasid sa ilog ang Makata habang paulit-ulit na binibigkas ang kaniyang ipinangalan sa ilog ng lugar na iyon. Matapos ang ilang linggo, aalis ito nang hindi pa rin nasasagot ang tanong ni Julio.

Noong yumao si Turing, walang pag-aalinlangang gumawa ng bangka si Julio. At nang matapos, agad-agad siyang pumalaot at umalis. Akala niya, sapagkat hindi sinagot ng Makata ang kaniyang pangalawang tanong, katulad din ng kuwento ng kaniyang ama ang kuwento ng lungsod. Matapos dumilim ang buong paligid, matapos siyang matakot nang lubusan dahil hindi ikinuwento ni Turing ang kanilang pagdating sa ilog na puno ng alaala, o kaluluwa, kung tatanungin ang Makata, makararating siya sa ilalim ng Quezon Bridge at sukdulan siyang masisindak sa kaniyang makikita.

Umaapoy ang lungsod. Nasusunog ang mga punong sobrang taas na tila naaabot na nito ang langit. Baka masunog pati langit, isip niya. Umikot ang kaniyang tingin, ganoon pa rin. Lahat ng bahagi ng lungsod, nasusunog. Hindi niya alam na mga dekuryenteng ilaw ang mga apoy at mga gusali ang mga punong sobrang taas. Hindi niya maunawaan ang kaniyang nakikita. Hindi siya inihanda ng kaniyang ama. Nilinlang siya ng Makata. Hindi lahat tubig. Hindi ilog na humahalakhak ang lungsod. Nagmadali siyang naghanap ng madadaungan—hindi niya alam kung paano bumalik. Kailangan niyang mahanap ang Makata. Nasa kaniya malamang ang sagot.

Nang makarating siya sa kalsada sa may City Hall, tinanong niya isa-isa ang mga dumaraan. Nagtaka ang mga tinanungan niya.

Marami ang nainis. Marami ang minura siya. Pinakamalubha ang sinabi ng isang pulis: “Wala nang mga makata sa panahon ngayon.�

Halos mabaliw siya nang banggitin ito sa kaniya. Sa tabi ng mga ilawposte, sa gilid ng mga bangketa, halos mabaliw siya. Nang mapadpad siya sa Liwasan, napaupo siya sa ilalim ng isang poste. Noon, matapos siyang mabangga ng daan-daang tao, mamura nang ilang beses, naramdaman niyang nag-iisa siya. At tahimik niyang winika ang salitang bakit. Makalipas ang ilang sandali, nakatulog siya sa uyayi ng mga barker, mga takatak boy, at mga mag-inang namamalimos.

Tila uyayi rin ang tunog ng ulan noong nasa pagitan ng dalawang tindera si Julio, noong tumingala siya nang tatlong araw. Nakatulog din siya ngunit nagising siya ng tunog sirena ng mga trak ng bumbero. May sunog na naman, wika niya sa kaniyang sarili.

52 HEIGHTS

May sunog kahit umuulan na. Sinundan niya ang mga tunog. Sa kaibuturan ng kaniyang kalooban, naroon na ang damdaming hindi na dapat maulit ang karahasan ng lungsod. Hindi na dapat manaig ang nagbabagang apoy.

Dinala siya ng mga tunog sa may Doroteo Jose. Isang matandang apartment ang nasusunog. Malakas ang buhos ng ulan subalit hindi tumitigil ang paglaki ng apoy. Sumisigaw ang mga nanonood, nasa loob pa rin ang isang Tsino at ang kaniyang anak. Agad-agad, katulad ng ginawa niya sa Good Earth Emporium, sinugod ni Julio ang apartment. Pagpasok niya, nadinig agad niya, sa kabila ng mga naghuhulugan at nagliliyab na kahoy, ang mga palahaw ng ama at ng kaniyang anak. Sa pagdinig niya ng mga tawag ng saklolo, bumalik sa kaniyang gunita ang nangyari sa Good Earth Emporium.

Panahon ng Tatlong Sunog ang naitawag niya roon. Sunodsunod ang mga gusaling nasusunog at lahat, malapit sa mga estasyon ng LRT. Isa na rito ang FB Harrison Megaplex sa Baclaran. Isa pa ang Puregold sa Libertad. At higit sa lahat ang Good Earth Emporium sa Carriedo. Masaya sana ang panahong iyon. Natanggap si Joy sa isang sangay ng Robinson’s Supermarket na nasa loob ng Good Earth. Sa unang araw niya, dahil espesyal ang araw na iyon, hinatid siya ni Julio. Nabalitaan na nila ang nangyaring sunog sa Libertad. Subalit wala pang nakaaalam na bahagi lamang iyon ng isang serye ng pagsunog. Noon, walang ibang maramdaman ang dalawa kundi kasiyahan dahil mukhang sunod-sunod na ang kanilang suwerte sa buhay.

Kagabi nga, naalala ni Julio, sa sobrang galak marahil ni Julio, o baka dahil, naisip niya, talagang natagpuan na niya ang kuwento ng kaniyang ama sa piling ni Joy, nilabasan na siya sa wakas. Kung kaya’t bago umalis si Julio, tinukso siya ulit ng kaniyang kasiping noong nakaraang gabi.

“Mamayang gabi ulit, ha.” At napangiti na lang si Julio, isang taimtim at mapayapang ngiti.

Nang makarating siya sa estasyon ng Carriedo, hindi pa rin nawawala ang ngiting iyon. Nawala na lamang ito nang may mga nagsisigaw ng sunog. Hindi na niya tinanong kung saan, nakutuban na niya. Kumaripas siya ng takbo papunta sa pinagtatrabahuan ni Joy. Tama ang kaniyang kutob. Dalawang palapag na ang nasusunog noong naghihingal siyang dumating sa Good Earth. Hindi na niya nakuhang habulin ang kaniyang hininga. Dali-dali siyang humagibis sa puwesto ng Robinson’s. Sa mga balitang kumalat, naisulat at naiulat, walang namatay sa sunog. Kung nakapanayam lang LVI 4 53

nila si Julio, iba ang kaniyang sasabihin, siya na nauna pa sa mga bumbero. Sa loob ng gusali, nakita niya ang mga nakakulong na mga kaluluwang muling pinapatay ng sunog na lumampas sa daigdig ng mga nabubuhay. Hindi na sila nakauungol, ngunit mababanaag pa rin sa kanila ang paghihinagpis, ang mga mukhang naghahanap ng saklolo. Subalit, nakarinig pa rin siya ng ungol. Alam na alam niya ang boses na iyon, ang boses na nagsabi sa kaniya na samahan siya kahit hindi pa talaga sila magkakilala, ang boses ng babaeng parang ilog ang mata. Nang matagpuan niya ang pinanggalingan ng sunog, huli na ang lahat. Nag-aalab na ang katawan ni Joy. Ang tanging nakita na lamang niya, bago tuluyang maging abo si Joy, ay ang mga mata niya.

Ang mga matang umaagos ang balintataw. Ang mga matang may inlang nagsisilid sa mga pinakaiingatan niyang alaala. Ang mga matang nagbigay sa kaniya ng pag-asa. Ang tangi niyang pag-asa sa lungsod ng apoy. Subalit nang makita niya ang mga ito, tumigil na ang pagagos at wala na siyang alaalang nasisilayan. Tuyong-tuyo na ang mga mata ni Joy. Hanggang sa tuluyan na ring maging abo ang mga ito.

Hindi niya hahayaang mangyari ulit iyon; mahahanap niya ang Tsino bago ito matupok, wika niya sa kaniyang sarili. Hindi pa nga nasusunog ang Tsino at ang kaniyang anak. Subalit may nakahambalang na kahoy na pumapagitan sa kaniya at sa mag-ama. Sinubok niya ngunit hindi niya ito mabuhat. Noong sumuko na siya, nagsimula nang masunog ang dalawa. Tiningnan niya ang mag-ama, hindi niya inaasahan ang kaniyang nakita. Sa sandaling iyon, bago mawala ang kinang sa mga mata ng Tsino, nasaksihan niya sa mga ito ang kasaysayan ng lungsod.

Noon niya naintindihan ang lahat. Pumuputok na apoy ang ginamit ng mga Espanyol upang sunugin ang kalooban ng mga Tagalog. Apoy rin ang ginamit upang wasakin ang kaharian ng mga Raha at upang maitayo ang kanilang moog, ang unang bahagi ng lungsod.

Sa isang iglap, silakbo na lamang ang pinaghirapan ng mga Tagalog.

Nasaksihan ito ng mga ninuno ng Tsino. Upang hindi makasagabal, itinapon silang mga mangangalakal sa pook na ngayo’y Binondo, kung saan saktong-saktong babagsak ang mga bolang apoy na magmumula sa mga kanyon ng Intramuros. Paulit-ulit itong isasagawa ng mga Espanyol sa tuwing naiisip nilang nagiging panganib na ang mga mangangalakal sa pag-iral ng lungsod. Paulit-ulit nila itong isasagawa, sa tuwing may rebelyon, lalo na noong sumiklab ang rebolusyon, upang magpatuloy ang lungsod. Sa apoy nabubuhay 54 HEIGHTS

ang lungsod. Noong dumating ang mga Amerikano, noong sumalakay ang mga Hapon, noong bumalik ang mga Amerikano, noong dumali ang mga kilos-protesta, noong nadeklara ang Batas Militar, hanggang ngayon. Hanggang ngayong nasusunog ang Tsino at ang kaniyang anak.

Naunawaan na niya, hindi karapat-dapat ang mga katulad nila at ni Joy sa lungsod na umiiral dahil sa apoy. Paulit-ulit lang silang susunugin nito. Paminsan-minsan, pumapatak ang ulan, bibigyan siya ng kaunting pag-asa, subalit bumibisita lang ito, ipinapaalala lang sa lungsod ang nakaraan, ang panahong tinapos nito. Lumabas siya ng apartment na walang nailigtas ngunit may pasiya. Lilisanin na niya ang lungsod.

Subalit, pagkalabas niya, may lumapit sa kaniyang babae, bitbit-bitbit ang isang sanggol. Magsasalita na sana ito, marahil siya ang asawa ng Tsino, marahil tatanungin kung anong nangyari sa anak niya, ngunit nang makita nito ang mukha ni Julio, natulala ito. Natulala rin siya nang makita ang mga mata ng babae.

Parang ilog na umaagos. Kung saan masisilayan ang mga alaala. Nagulat siya—isang pagkagulat na mababanaagan ng pagkaunawa. Hindi sila bahagi ng kuwento ng lungsod. Bahagi sila ng ibang kuwento. Balang araw, susunugin din sila ng lungsod upang mabuhay ito. Katulad ni Joy, sinabi niya sa babae, “Samahan mo ako.” At sumunod ang babae, katulad ng pagsunod niya kay Joy.

“Ligaya nga pala ang pangalan ko.”

Hindi nakatugon si Julio at nagsimula na lang maglakad. Kailangan nilang makaalis hangga’t umuulan pa. Pagdating sa may estasyon ng LRT, sumakay sila ng dyip.

“Salamat, Julio,” wika ni Ligaya, bagaman hindi pa binabanggit ni Julio ang kaniyang pangalan, at sumandal siya sa balikat nito.

Hindi nabigla si Julio. Ni hindi niya nilingon ang babaeng parang ilog din ang mata. Nakatingin lang siya sa kaniyang palad, nakangiti nang taimtim at payapa.

“Bakit,” bulong niya. Ngunit hindi na ito tanong. Tila isang paggunita na lamang. May tiyak na siyang sagot. Pagdating sa McArthur Bridge, nang pumapasok na sa dyip ang ulan, unti-unting sumanib sa mga patak ang katawan nina Julio, at dahan-dahan silang tinunaw ng tinangay ng tubig patungo sa mga alaala.

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Kristian

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Mamforte

“Gising!” - guard, after the photoshoot

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Purgatoryo Mula sa dilim Dahan-dahan niyang binuhat Ang katawang bagamat nilisan ng anino Nananatiling mabigat upang humakbang Matagal siyang hindi Humakbang at waring pagkilala muli Sa katawan ang bawat yabag ang bawat ilap na Tunog na napakakawalan at pagkaraan Iniiwan niya sa likod hindi Upang lingunin—paano Hahakbang ang katawan mula sa pagkakapatda Sa tinig na mariing tumatawag Sa bungad, nangilag siya sa liwanag 58 HEIGHTS

Tagpo Alam ko ang lihim mo alam ko Alam mong alam ko ito Na lamang ang ating maililihim

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Looban Sa panaginip nagising siya Sa iyak ng maraming sanggol at hikbi Ng mga puta na mapagkakamalang halinghing At natagpuan ang sarili sa loob Ng maliit na silid kung saan naiipon Ang lahat ng ingay (ang lahat ng gutom) Na nagpapasikip sa silid At pumapaso sa kaniyang balat kung kaya Hindi niya madarama ang sariling Gutom Na gigising sa kaniya anumang sandali

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“A year, ten years from now, I’ll remember this; not why, only that we were here like this, together.” –Adrienne Rich Muli’t muli kong pinasasalamatan ang aking pamilya na kahit anong tula yata ang isulat ko ay maganda para sa kanila.

Pasasalamat din sa aking mga kaibigan sa Heights (lalo na sa mga Fil Staff members noon at ngayon, kina Audrey, Twinkle, Jason, Brandz, Walther, Chan, Ali, Victor, Eugene, Anne, at marami pang iba), sa Matanglawin (kina Bek, Moreen, Danna, Julz, Karen), sa Health Sci Batch 2009 (ang dami niyong masyado, alam niyo na kung sinosino kayo), sa mga naging guro (Sir Egay, Sir Larry, Sir Allan Popa, Sir Aris, Ma’am Beni, Sir Roy, Sir Bernz, Dr. Marquez at maraming marami pa)—salamat sa pagbabahagi ng dunong, inspirasyon at oras sa mga kuwentuhan at inuman/wasakan.

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Si Kevin Bryan E. Marin ay lumaki sa Cabanatuan, Nueva Ecija at napadpad sa Quezon City simula nang mag-aral siya sa Mataas na Paaralan ng Ateneo. Nagtapos ng cum laude sa kursong BS Health Sciences at minor sa AB Health and Development.

Naging bahagi ng Bagwisang Filipino ng Heights sa loob ng apat na taon at nanungkulan bilang Katuwang na Patnugot sa Filipino (20062007) at Patnugot sa Filipino (2007-2008) ng nasabing organisasyon at publikasyon. Bahagi rin siya ng Bagwisan ng Sulatin at Saliksikan ng magasing Matanglawin.

Naging fellow rin siya sa 12th Heights Workshop at 10th UST National Writers Workshop para sa Tulang Filipino. Nagkamit ng ikalawang gantimpala ang kanyang tulang “Por Kilo� sa Timpalak Tula noong Buwan ng Wika taong 2008. Pinarangalan siya ng Raul Locsin Award for Student Journalism para sa artikulo niyang isinulat na tumatalakay sa isyu ng organ trafficking sa Pilipinas.

Habang kasalukuyang nakikipagsapalaran sa medical school upang maging ganap na doktor, nakikita niya ang sarili sa hinaharap na nanggagamot at patuloy na tumutula—nagpapakadalubhasa sa dalawang sining na kapwa bumubuhay at lumilikha.

Kevin Marin LVI 4 63

Trahedya ng Magsasaka Sa kalyado’t paltusado mong mga paa nalilok ang kabukiran ng nayon, at pininturahan ng makapal mong palad ang bawat pulgada’t hangganan ng buháy na luntian.

Pawis ang idinilig sa tuwing nagtatampo ang Bathalang ipinagkakait ang hamog at tikatik.

Sabik sa alimuom na tanda ng muling pakikipagtalik sa diwata mong kasintahan na siyang bantay ng mga bunga’t bulaklak.

Hanggang ipataw ang sumpa ng isang lagdang nagtaboy sa iyo sa tinubuan. Kinaladkad kang sinasabunutan gaya ng pagbunot sa bawat tanim, habang ginagahasa ang diwatang panambitan ng mga piyon ng pabrika’t pag-unlad.

Tinalupan ang kabukiran, pinasabog ng dinamita, binulabog ang mga duwende’t ulupong.

(May mas nakahihilakbot pa pala sa engkanto’t kamandag.)

Hinukay ang mga mineral at batong nagpapatakbo sa makinarya ng siyudad.

Kinapon kang nagtanim at nagsaka, binaog ang lupa sa ngalan ng industriya.

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Daan Pauwi Sa wakas, lilisanin ko ang siyudad, matapos maligaw sa mga eskinita’t mapadpad sa kung saan habang sinusundan ang sala-salabid na mga kable ng kuryente at mga riles ng tren; matapos makipagpatintero sa humahagibis na mga sasakyan, mag-ingat sa mga patibong at humanap ng daan palabas sa loob nitong labirinto.

Gaya ng mga pusang sinisilid sa sako’t itinatapon sa malayo, natutunan ko ang daan pauwi.

Sasakay ng bus, tatakasan ang lungsod, iiwan ang alaala ng mga gusaling humaharang sa langit at ng namumuong banil sa mga pader na kumakahon at kumukubli sa mga gulong, ehe, at turnilyo ng siyudad.

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Sabik sa pangalan ng bayang pinagmulan, animo’y pangalan ng mangingibig na matamang naghihintay sa aking pagbalik.

Pagbaba ng bus, makikisindi ng sigarilyo sa mga alitaptap ng nayon, bubuga ng usok at magbibilang ng mga pagod na bituin.

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Kung sakaling magkita tayong muli sa loob ng tren, palaso ang mga titig natin sa isa’t isang sisibat sa kumpol-kumpol na alaala, sabay ng pagkabig natin paatras sa biglang pag-usad.

At sakaling madiskaril ang tren, matapos mabilis na lamunin ng sindi ang mitsa ng bomba at mapigtal ang mga riles; bibitaw ang mga magkakakapit, impit na paghinga, mulagat na mga mata.

Magliliparan ang mga katawan, tataob ang distansyang nasakop na.

At kung sakali ay hindi man, tiyak na maghihiwalay tayo sa susunod na istasyon.

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Sasha Martinez

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Sasha Martinez is nineteen, and hails from Cavite. She has been awarded fellowships for Fiction to the 46th National Writers Workshop in Dumaguete, and to the 14th Ateneo-Heights Writers Workshop. Her work has been published in Fudge, Heights, Philippine Daily Inquirer, Philippines Free Press, and Philippines Graphic. Her short story “The Return” was shortlisted for the Philippines Free Press Literary Awards in 2008. This March, she was awarded the Loyola School Awards for the Arts, for the Creative Writing-Fiction category. She was also supposed to have graduated last March, but had decided the recession wouldn’t welcome her too kindly, not to mention she was quite resolutely held back by something that rhymes with recession.

She would like to extend her gratitude to the people and the institutions that have been instrumental in making her into the writer she is now. They are also to blame for the writer she will become: her family, the Ateneo de Manila University, the Office of Admission and Aid, the Fine Arts Program and Xander Soriano. The coordinators, panelists, and fellows of the 46th Dumaguete National Writers Workshop and the 8th Ateneo-Heights Writers Workshop. The LSAA Committee and her fellow awardees. The editors and staff of Heights, Philippines Graphic, Philippines Free Press.

To her blockmates, especially Jasmine Nikki Paredes, Angela Casauay, Enrique Estagle, Isel Garcia, and Zoe Dulay. Petra Magno and Pancho Alvarez. Joel M. Toledo, Mikael de Lara Co, Rafael San Diego, and all the Happy Mondays people, as well as the friends and artists in Conspiracy. To the professors, teachers, mentors, bullies: Sir Larry Ypil, Sir Krip Yuson, Sir Exie Abola, Suchen Lim, and Chona Lin; Sir Sawi, Ma’am Beni, Sir D.M., Dr. Brion, Sir Jimmy, Sir Butch, and Sir Marne. And to the writers whose books started it all.

To Martin Villanueva and all the curbsides. To Marie La Vina and all the McNuggets, and running along Katipunan in search of a bathroom.

To Pancho, for many things, all shiny and Scrabble rage-y.

She would like to assume that this write-up has gone Academey Awards on you.

She would also like to stop referring to herself in the third person.

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Manifesto

“Prose is far more trusting than poetry. Poetry speaks to the immediate wound.”

– John Berger

I. Important: Know, my love, that something is wrong with me. Know that I know this.

II. Know that there are other men whose eyes I try to meet, but know that I have not been fucked by another man in two years. Know that I may think of other men and women when we fuck, like someone else’s shoulder or the immediate strangeness of a breast, but know that I have not been fucked by another man in two years.

III. Know that when I kissed the boy I no longer loved I did so because the sun tiptoeing through the horizon compelled me to, that the pine scents and cigarette scents and walking-around-all-day scents got to me inside that compact foreign car.

IV. Know that when I looked at the man with the checked shirt bent over his dinner, I felt the rocking of an unnamable weight in the pit of my stomach, that which began in the bottom of my feet, and that my body started swaying in rhythm with the journey of his spoon from plate, to mouth, and back again.

V. Know that when the man with scarred hands sat beside me, I longed for his shoulder to remain pressed against mine, that maybe, just maybe, on his way home, the imprint of the curves of my bones shall linger against his skin, beating, beat beat beat.

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VI. Know that there are other men whose eyes I try to meet. Know that the boy I once loved cannot say your name. Know that the man with the checked shirt looks at me from across the room with a small, secret smile, before he catches himself and turns away. Know that the man with scarred hands protests with a smile when I do not kiss his cheek when we say goodbye.

VII. Know, however, that I know the scent of only one man. I am, of course, talking about you. Perhaps you are the only man I have ever had the chance to smell, perhaps the only one I have ever bothered to. Perhaps there were others, but now I forget. I know the scent of this man, of you, know it so well I remember it long after I’ve left the bed we share. I know it has attached itself onto my skin, that both our fragrances melt into each other, and I am its proud carrier. It has draped itself on my neck, my shoulder, my hands where nicotine has not touched them. Every glance backwards, every sigh offered, I smell you. I know this man, I tell myself. At the end of the day, I return to you, and having to smell your scent straight from your body is like having to come home twice, having the door opened one time, and then again, and kissing you when it happens. This is familiar, this scent, this body, this man, and always, at that moment where our scents meet once more, I realize that what I have been carrying with me is a pale imitation, like a black-and-white photograph of a bed freshly rumpled at daybreak.

VIII. Let us hope some routines never waver. Know that I do wish for some things to never change. Many times I have wondered how, in the mornings, you and I reach for each other, still thinking that the other is a dream. I could wake up curled into the solid warmth of your body, the slope of my shoulders fitting into the shallow dip above your chest. Your heartbeat could be quiet, fervent against my back.

Our legs pressed against each other, your knees secure in the dips of my knees, our calves calmly flowing, our ankles might cross and our toes could even touch. You could hold me even closer to you, your arms firm and gentle around my waist, my arms atop your arms, our LVI 4 71

hands slacking then firming their grips as we see-saw between sleep and waking. Your breath would be hot against my nape.

XVI. Of course this surprises me. Sometimes, I imagine that what remains of my loving you lies in wait in dark corners and overlapping shadows. Know that I may be caught anytime. It could happen as we wake up, like that. It could happen when I run my hands along your cheek, or trace the subtle, noble ridge of your brow, gentleness nudging you awake. It could happen when you dip your fingers in the secret shadows of my flesh, between my breasts, behind my knees, around my ankles. A fingertip is a good morning greeting. The pressure from it is the prophecy of a day. I could touch you like this in the morning, and you would touch me right back. We could make love, or maybe we wouldn’t. I might be late for something, you could be running away.

But we would keep touching each other, not only because it is something that we don’t think about doing, it is also something we have to do. Something we simply do.

IX Know that sometimes, I hold you tight and wait for the rush—that rush—to rise from the bottoms of my feet to spread, tingling, through each tapering finger. Know that too many times, I am left staring at a point far from us. And when we break away, I have to look at you.

You offer me a kiss on the side of my head, and then you walk out through the front door.

VI. Know that once, I tried to run away. That is, I left while you were checking if I had washed the dishes correctly. And on the long, illumined road between your house and mine, I noticed the world makes sounds when it thinks no one is listening. Sometimes, it relents when the ones who could hear do not care to: a handful of new mothers, some drunks down the road, and wives who have risen from their beds to cool their chafed hands with the still chill of the air. That there, that is a young widow’s faulty air-conditioning, and then, two houses away, the sound of an idling car. The barest of traffic far off, 72 HEIGHTS

the drone of a television turned low, yet loud enough in this nearsilence. Echo: the halo around the top of a lamppost when it finally ceases to flicker, the low-hanging tangled telephone wires, the glow of stained glass doors and windows of select houses. When I came back, when I came back to you, you began to tell me of the soap suds you found on the rough undersides of two coffee mugs.

VII. Know that sometimes I imagine myself to be the protagonist of a badly written book. This is the scene: man is staring at the faucet woman has just turned off, then his gaze travels through the wooden drawers to the damp dishes she has just stored. This is how the scene moves on: as the man stares, looks, woman makes her way out of the gate, dressed only in a flimsy blouse that only manages to reach mid-thigh.

She has long legs; that is supposed to be a dress. Woman moves on, continues to walk, not stopping when she offers the almost-obligatory look at the waning moon on the transient moods of the sky. What the man may be doing then does not matter anymore. I am, of course, that woman.

XVII. Let’s say I kiss someone tonight. Tomorrow, most of the neighbors will blame the moon for all the kissing done the day before – isn’t it always the moon? Mothers will look at their children, and shake their heads, and think so much had been forgotten under that moon, thank god when they woke up today, everything was back. Lovers will spend the first hours of their day tangled with each other in bed, apologizing for an unnamable transgression with their hands. Those who wake in their beds alone will press the plumpest part of their palms against their lips, and wonder if it really was the moon that had them leaning into the faces of near-strangers, or something – a desire?

A desire? – that had once been unvoiced. And the few who do not kiss today, allow themselves to dwell on images of people’s mouths, their lips, the way their eyelashes flutter to rest on their cheeks the moment they feel the warmth of another person’s face on theirs. Know that it will be you that I kiss. The boy I once loved vowed never to kiss me again, for I told him that you are the only one I want to kiss, and as I said that, I had hoped he would LVI 4 73

believe me. The man with the checked shirt does not allow himself to smile at me long enough with that small, secret smile of his. The man with the scarred hands begins every conversation by inquiring about you.

XIX. You must know how this is. Know that this, everything, is important.

Know that I love you still. Know that there is only something wrong with me.

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Excerpt from a work in progress:

No Life in Sheep LIE I only see my mother once a month nowadays, and only then for a weekend: I’d go to the house I grew up in, always on a late Saturday afternoon, telling the taxi driver to take the long route, making sure he never pressed too hard on the pedal, informing whoever was on the wheel that I get carsick easily. This usually works. On Sunday mornings, I’d take my leave, sometimes making excuses like ungraded papers, an early meeting, sometimes not bothering to explain at all. You don’t like to visit, do you? was my mother’s refrain, although there would never be any accusation in her voice; she was merely observing. Mother, I’d tell her, zipping up my overnight bag, making my way to the telephone to call for a taxi, it’s fine, really. I’m just so busy.

I am Eve Montoya’s daughter.

When I was younger: “Evie,” I liked to ask her, “what are you doing right now? Right now?” Even though I was in the same room as her like, say, in the kitchen, with me leaning against the counters, watching her prepare our dinner.

“I am making dinner, Diana.”

“That’s it?” I would watch her knife run across a cut of meat, the blade nudging two unraveling pieces, its sheen reflecting the grains, the fibers.

“I am making dinner, Diana,” she would repeat, she would smile a little.

People like to say that their parents never told them anything when they were younger. But then: My daughter knows a lot of things, and it’s because I am not threatened to provide her with what she needs to know, was my mother’s admonition to teachers who thought I knew far too much. And perhaps I did. I knew because my mother told me many things. When I asked, I got the most clear-cut of answers. And I asked a lot of questions, some of them relevant and, given certain situations, admissible, but some would have been grounds for any other parent to tell his or her child to stop asking so many questions.

My mother was simply patient, her voice precise, but never unkind—

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she urged me to ask questions, and in return for my bravery, she’d answer the best she could. Or the easiest, most honest way she could.

The most obvious.

“Evie, what is that man doing?” I would ask, pointing to the hazy silhouette of a man sitting on a naked steel beam of an unfinished building. And my mother would look toward the direction of my finger, put one hand on my shoulder as the other lifted to shield her eyes, and say, “It’s noon, Diana. The man must be eating his lunch.”

I’d see a man huddled under a tattered box that once must have held canned goods, see its drape on his shoulder, imagine wings.

“Evie, what’s that man doing with that thing on his back?” And my mother would say, her face close to mine, so close that I could smell the minty sourness of her antacid tablets, my mother would say, “That thing, Diana, is a cardboard box worn to shreds. That man is using it as his home.”

Eve Montoya is my mother.

– When I was almost fifteen, an obviously educated girl—a friend of mine, in fact—moved out of her house next door and into ours, on the pretense that my mother and I needed help around the house, and I had hardly turned toward my mother to ask as to why, when she told me. Evie told me everything. She didn’t beg me to understand, she simply told me what was happening, and why, and how.

She presented the facts, Lui, herself.

(Taxi drivers liked to chat, to ask questions. They’d always begin with, “Ma’am, what do you do?” And I would say, “I’m a writer. I wrote that telenovela,” while pointing to a billboard looming on the horizon. I would say, “I used to be an actress, but then I got fat. I lost the weight, but no one wants me anymore.” I would say, “I sort mail at the post office. I like to read postcards during my lunch break.” I would say, “I teach little children how to read.”)

– I knew why my mother stopped making sure I’d read a chapter of the book she would lend me, gently quizzing me on details, and on my opinion, each night before I went to bed. I knew why Lui took it upon herself to do our laundry, why she had to beat the clothes with a paddle when she laundered, even though she only teased when I asked her: “So they learn their lesson.”

(The driver would ask, “Where do you come from, Ma’am?”

And I would put on my best imitation of a Visayan accent, and say, “Guimaras. My parents were fishermen.

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I’m the first person in my family to live in Manila.” I would say, “France,” and not say anything else, let him think I do not know the words. I would say, “I’ve lived here for most of my life.” I would say, “Here and there.” I would say, “I can’t tell you, I’m running away.”)

– I knew why, one day, Lui transferred all of her belongings out of the small guest room, and into my mother’s bedroom. I knew why, before bedtime, I’d be in the kitchen washing the dishes, and the two of them would be in the backyard, and if I looked, if my eyes strayed too long from the foam covering my arms, I’d see they were holding each other, Evie with her head on Lui’s shoulder, Lui with her hand around Eve’s waist.

(“Ma’am, may asawa na po ba kayo?” And I would as politely tell them that yes, I do in fact have a husband, when really, I do not. I never did. Sometimes, I’d tell the driver, keeping my eyes on the threadbare little towel slung around their necks, “I’m meeting my husband where we’re going.” Sometimes, I’d say, “We’re separated.

It was one of those marriages when you realized you’ve been holding on to nothing but a love that only existed when you still didn’t know everything about each other.” And sometimes, I tell the man, “He died. We were in a car accident a year ago. This is why I ride taxis now.”)

– I knew why my mother had to leave her school, why the chalk dust stopped clinging to her, even though her voice never once wavered, never once lost its fondness for stressing consonants. They all told me this, first her, and then Lui. I deserved to know, they told me: it was my right.

(The driver would ask, “Do you have any children, Ma’am?”

And I would say, “Yes, but I don’t know where she is.” Or, “Yes, two with my first husband, and three with my second.” Or, “Yes, just a son.” Or I would say, “No.”)

– I even knew why Lui had to leave eventually. And this was one thing I was certain my mother didn’t know—because Lui had told me herself that she’d told no one the reason, no one but me; because when Lui left, no one sat me down and gave me a briefing; because when Lui left, my mother, finally, for the first time, kept her silence.

(The taxi driver would turn in his seat to face me, and ask, Okay lang kayo? And I would look at the man, his brown face, the sweat running down his temples, and I would say, “Yes, I’m fine. Yes, I can handle this.”)

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THE CLEVER LITTLE GIRL Diana Montoya had the reputation for being a clever little girl.

Her teachers adored her, glad that they had one less child to worry about, although that child did have the annoying tendency to correct one in the classroom. Or point out things that no one had ever heard of before, but were so calmly stated despite their outrageousness that no one had a choice but to believe her: Where do humans belong? asked Diana, during a lesson on food groups. What do you mean? asked the teacher, peering at her diagram of the food pyramid more closely, as though a pocket of space would open up to answer Diana’s question. Humans, ma’am. There are some people who eat other people. I believe they’re called cannibals. And the teacher stared at the little girl, with the plump cheeks, the wide eyes, and the long straight hair cascading over one softly rounded shoulder, and the teacher said, “Um.”

On her first day of school, in kindergarten, she was given a piece of thin cardboard, painted white, framed by blue lines at its top and bottom, with a jagged red line down the middle. Two inches in width, hardly more than the length of her arm. “What’s your name?” asked the teacher, preparing herself for the tedious undertaking of teaching a child her first letters.

The child said, “It’s a mouthful.” The child tapped the end of the pencil on the table, squared her shoulders. Her eyes moved across the piece of cardboard that was to be her nametag once, then another, and then, she wrote Diana Marie Margarita Cortez Montoya, in a neat, tiny script, the handwriting of a person who no longer needs to think about what lines and curves make up a letter, the handwriting of a person who, in order to write her name, need only to pause for a second or two, and only to determine if her mouthful of a name would fit in the prescribed space.

The little girl Diana knew a lot. The moon and the sun did not have a fight when the earth was born; the sun allowed itself to be surrounded by planets, the earth one of them, the earth that spun like a top while a moon faithfully held its vigil. People could not fly, they would not look like people if they did, and their bones would be hollow. The rustling of trees did not mean they talked to each other. Dinosaurs did exist. The was not spelled Da. She could recite the parts of a turtle, to the astonishment of the kindergarten teacher—a substitute, really, who had no idea how to handle four-year-olds, and had with her that day the twentieth volume of an encyclopedia. Carapace, 78 HEIGHTS

young Diana murmured, extending one dimpled hand to the bright illustration on the glossy pages of the thick book.

As she got older, Diana grew more clever, seemingly more privy to the natural order of life, and even to matters no one wanted to talk about. She was the picture of serenity when a classmate got her period years too early: she pulled the terrified girl out of the crowd—some jeering, some simply in shock—and guided her to the bathroom, where she handed over a thick wad of tissues. “I’m going to ask the teacher if she has any napkins,” Diana said to her classmate, who was staring at the tissues, clearly unaware as to what one did with them. “On second thought,” continued Diana, more to herself, “probably not Mrs. Amparo.

She’s too old for this.”

“What’s happening to me?” asked the girl, the tissues crumpling in her fists.

Diana looked at her, her eyebrows shooting up. “Oh. Well. It’s quite simple, really, and I’ll gladly explain it to you, if no one hasn’t yet. But I really need to get you some napkins. And an extra skirt. And underthings.”

Diana, at eight, did not like to say panties.

She knew there was no Santa Claus, no Tooth Fairy, no Easter Bunny, but then she knew why people believed them anyway.

Diana was the first child to know in among her peers what really went on during sex, the first who didn’t giggle at the thought of it, and why there was no need to be frightened when they heard their parents grunting and moaning, and that strange, rhythmic, magnetic rustling of sheets from the room next to theirs—except, of course, in certain circumstances. She even knew about what circumstances those were.

She knew what borborygmus was.

She was the veritable fountain of forbidden trivia, and at the start, all the boys and girls came to her with their desserts and their Barbie’s spare dresses and shoes as offerings. She was quite popular. She was quite popular, then.

She was clever, yes, but more so because her mother told her everything. Everything. Diana Marie Margarita Cortez Montoya had the good fortune—although later on, a girl named Lui would disagree—to have a parent who hid nothing from her, scoffed at the idea of sugarcoating: Eve Montoya—Eve who would bring home large paper bags of books from her own store, Eve who was always quoting one person or another, Eve from whom chalk dust drifted when she walked, Eve whose favorite word, by far, was Nonsense.

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WRITING ASSIGNMENT NO. 05 Hello. My name is Diana Marie Montoya, and I’m here to talk about my family.

My Papa’s name is Tomas de Dios. He died when I was two.

My Mama’s name is Eve Montoya, and I like to call her Mama Evie.

Sometimes, she lets me call her just Evie, but then I don’t call her that so much when other people are around because a lot of people get angry when kids don’t call their parents Mama or Papa. I’m writing this here, and I will tell you if Mrs. Amparo picks me to go up to the front and read this, so that you will know that when I talk about someone named Evie, I am talking about my Mama.

When I was small, Evie always told me stories about how she and Papa met when she was still a girl, in college. College is a school for big people, and it’s a school that teaches you how to do your job.

I think that’s more practical than having to sit on a chair all day and do fractions or recite the parts of a sentence according to the parts of speech, and I think a lot of other kids will agree with me on this one.

Actually, Evie agrees with me. She looked at my homework once and said that no one has much use for fractions in the real world, and that no one talks knowing what parts of speech they just said out loud.

When she said that, I asked if I could skip school because it’s not much useful after all, but then she told me it’s the law. I didn’t want to ask her why it was the law, because her answers are always so long when she answers questions about the law, and she has to drag me to the bookstore to look through some really big books.

Anyway. In college, Papa and Evie met there, and Papa was studying how to teach kids very hard math, and Evie was studying how to write. Of course Evie already knew how to write then, because you can’t get to be big and go to college and study how to do your job if you couldn’t even write. Evie said that she already knew how to write, but this kind of writing was different. I asked her how different it was because I always thought that writing was the same way all over, with pencil and paper, and you drew the alphabet there, and the alphabet side by side would make out words, and you had to know a lot of words so you could use the alphabet many different ways.

Evie said I will understand when I got older, but then I scrunched my mouth up so the top part of my lip touched the bottom of my nose, and Evie told me not to make a face, and 80 HEIGHTS

then Evie apologized because she never said things like “You’ll understand when you get older,” and so she told me how this kind of writing was different. Evie said she wrote stories and poems, and she called the poems “littler stories,” and I really liked how the word poems sounded like: powmmms. I asked her if she wrote the stories she read to me at night to make me sleep, although they never really make me sleep because I always stay up longer thinking about the story.

Anyway, Evie said she didn’t write those stories. Her face looked funny, and even if she didn’t scrunch up her lips and let her mouth touch her nose, I wanted to tell her that she shouldn’t make a face.

But I decided not to, because Evie might spank me, even if Evie never spanked me, not once, not even when I broke her most favorite plate and made her blood come out when one piece of the plate hit her leg.

I knew other kids were always spanked, and I didn’t really want that to happen to me. Good thing Evie says she doesn’t believe in hurting children to make them learn. She says that all the time when Grandma comes over and tells me what a terrible child I am, running all over the house with no slippers on. Grandma says all the germs from the ground will go inside my foot, but I don’t believe her because Evie told me that doesn’t exactly happen that way. Evie knows a lot of things because she owns a bookstore, and sometimes, she goes to the high school and teaches them about books. I asked my Grandma once that if germs get inside my foot, why can’t I feel them? And she said that the germs are too small even to see, and they enter very small holes under your foot. And then I asked her how come she knows that germs get inside my foot when they’re really small and no one can see them. But then Grandma got mad and said I was asking too many questions, and she told Evie again that I was a terrible child. By the way, Grandma’s part of my family too, even if she doesn’t live with my Mama and me, and I only see her three times a month, and sometimes, on my birthday.

Anyway. I asked Evie where her stories and powmmms were, and Evie said she was keeping them hidden until the time was right and she knew when to take them out of hiding. I don’t really understand this part, but I didn’t really want to ask then, because I had to know about Papa. Evie always got to talking about her different writing, and she would forget that I was asking about Papa, and so I had to remind her: “What happened to Papa?”

When I was small, Evie said that Papa died because a bad man hit him with a car. The bad man shouldn’t have been in the car, LVI 4 81

and I said, “No one should give cars to bad men.” And Evie nodded and told me I was right, but then that night that Papa died, no one cared that a bad man had a car. Then Papa died, and Evie said she was so sad, and she cried, and she cried, and her crying had scared me, and I was only learning how to walk then, I was pretty much still a baby when Papa got killed by a bad man, and baby Diana didn’t understand why her Evie was crying, and soon baby Diana was crying all the time too. Evie said the neighbors were shaking their heads because the house was so noisy, the two of us were crying all the time, and I remember that I wondered then why no one came in and spanked me and Evie, because her playmates said that their parents always got mad and spanked them when they were really noisy, sometimes, even when they were crying. But then I think now that they didn’t spank us because you can’t spank Evie because she wasn’t a kid anymore, and they couldn’t spank me then, because I was still a baby then, I didn’t even know how to walk!

I don’t remember anything about her father, or anything about crying so much that the house was really noisy and all the neighbors outside were shaking their heads no-no-no, and at first, I didn’t know why I didn’t remember, and I asked Evie why, and Evie told me that kids don’t remember much when they’re still kids, because their brains were still small.

I’m sure my brain became larger because now I could remember many things, like one time, when I was five, Evie did not come home for a long, long time, and when it was dark, and there was nothing to eat in the fridge except for some sticky green stuff in a plastic bag that smelled really bad that I did not want to eat it anyway, I had to go to Aling Isang for food. Aling Isang lives next door with her husband Mang Bert, and they have six children, and I’m sure that if one of the six children had an assignment like this, they would have really cool things to say. Anyway, when I went next door, Aling Isang hugged me and told me everything was going to be all right, but then I told her of course everything was going to be all right, I was just very hungry. Aling Isang smelled like market day, like vegetables in striped plastic bags, and that just made me more hungry.

During dinner, the table was so full with Mang Bert home from his work in the factory, and their six children, and Aling Isang had to let the youngest sit on her lap while they all ate. They ate lots of rice, and some fish mashed into little pieces that they 82 HEIGHTS

could be sprinkled on top of the rice. I noticed that Mang Bert and Aling Isang had more brown stuff on their rice than me and the other kids did, and I would have told them that Evie never ate the brown stuff, instead left it out for the stray cats and the homeless dogs, but then that wasn’t a nice thing to say when you think about it, because Mang Bert and Aling Isang might think that I was telling them that my Mama thought they were like stray cats and homeless dogs because they ate the brown stuff for dinner.

This is actually one of the few times I saw Mang Bert, because he was always working in the factory, and on the weekends, he was always inside the house, watching the television show about chickens and pigs. That was what I heard every weekend back then anyway, and that was what Evie heard too, and there would be snorts and grunts and crowing, although there wouldn’t be any pigs and chickens around because we were living in a town where the streets were hard and not muddy, and Evie would say that Mang Bert was watching TV. Mang Bert was a small man, Aling Isang was taller than him. Mang Bert was very pale too. During that dinner, he was wearing a blue long-sleeved shirt that had a little hole near the neck, and pants that were not so blue anymore. Mang Bert had glasses in front of his eyes, and he always touched his glasses, pushing it closer to his face, maybe because it kept slipping down his nose, his nose was very shiny, and got shinier, the longer they ate, the longer I looked at him.

If Evie was there, she would have told me not to stare, because staring was impolite, that’s another one of the rules. But then you know, if Evie was there, I wouldn’t have actually been there.

Anyway. I was staring at Mang Bert so much I sort of forgot to eat, even though I was so hungry, that one of the kids announced at the table that I was wasting food. I sort of felt bad for that, but I didn’t want them to think I didn’t like their food, and so I told them I was just very hungry, and I wanted to taste every little piece of rice and mashed fish. I was lying, of course, but it would be weird for me to say that I was too busy staring at Mang Bert to eat.

Aling Isang laughed at me, and the kid on her lap wiggled when she laughed, and Mang Bert looked at Aling Isang and gave her a really big smile, and Mang Bert said, “Pilya ‘tong batang ‘to,” and he put his big warm hand on the top of my head, and he just held my head like that, and even though I wanted to at first, I didn’t ask anymore what pilya meant, because it felt really funny LVI 4 83

felt really funny when he held my head, and I didn’t really want the funny feeling to go away when he answered my question. Anyway, I thought that I could always ask my Mama when she got back.

After we ate, Aling Isang made the two oldest children wash the dishes, and I played with the other kids. I wanted to play lutu-lutuan with them, but they didn’t have the little pink plastic plates like I did, not even little yellow plastic spoons and forks, not even little fake plastic food all sorts of colors, and so I just played dolls with them.

Their dolls were made of paper, and not even the kind Evie bought for me one birthday. These dolls were made by the kids, because I could see the smudged lines of pencils where the dolls were cut out, and there were many blue lines across each of the paper people. And each doll didn’t have much of a face, only tiny little dots for eyes, and only a few had lines for their mouths. The paper dolls I had at home all had shiny faces, with big blue eyes, and pink cheeks, and red mouths.

Back then, I never played with those dolls anymore, because I had real dolls now, and they didn’t get all thin and pulpy when I took them to the bathroom with me for a bath. I thought I should give the paper dolls to the kids, because I didn’t want them anyway, I already had dolls, I might as well share.

Aling Isang told me I could sleep in the house, with the children, but I said I should go home, Evie might be there, or might come home soon. Aling Isang shook her head, and said, “We will see tomorrow,” and she said this in English, and this was the first time I heard her speak in English before. She must have done this because Evie always spoke in English, and I always noticed how Evie’s lips would pinch a little before she had to speak in Tagalog.

“Okay,” I said, and I heard the other kids giggle. I was very sleepy by this time, and I let my face be scrubbed clean, and I obeyed when Aling Isang made me swish water around my mouth then spit it on the sink, because I didn’t bring mmy toothbrush. I slept on the floor with the other kids, but Aling Isang gave me a tiny pillow to put my head on. I did not want to sleep yet, but I did anyway, I was hungry all day, Evie was gone, and I was just very, very tired.

The next day, Evie went to Aling Isang’s house, and hugged me when she saw me playing with the paper dolls with the children again, because they had so little toys, and I really didn’t mind playing with the paper dolls anyway. Evie kept saying, “Diana, Diana, Diana,” and she hugged me, and she lifted me up to carry even though Evie always said I was already a big girl, I was five then.

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Evie and I left the house of Aling Isang, and went back to our own house. Evie said thank you to Aling Isang and all the other children, and the littlest kids all stared at her with wide eyes, and I knew it was because Evie was very beautiful, and she still is. That morning, she had a green dress on and her hair was fluffy around her face. I said thank you and goodbye to everyone, and I kept wondering where Mang Bert was, because I wanted to say thank you and goodbye to him too, but Aling Isang said he was in the factory. Before Evie and I left, Aling Isang gave me a really long, tight hug, and told her to be a good girl.

Back in our house, I asked Evie, who was still carrying me, why people always told me to be a good girl, when I was always a good girl. And Evie laughed, and held me tighter, Evie said, “You’re my good girl, you know that?” and Evie held me so tight I could smell her cologne, the one she used for special occasions like her birthday or Christmas: it smelled like the tiny white flowers on the side of the road, after a night of rain, like the ones Evie and I picked while we were walking back to our home under the rain because we didn’t have an umbrella.

Later that night, Evie made me go to Aling Isang’s house with a big bowl of fruit salad, which she made all afternoon. I spent my afternoon looking inside cabinets and drawers and boxes, looking for the paper dolls. When Mama asked me what I was doing, and I told her, she shook her head no, and said that maybe I shouldn’t give the kids toys, because they might feel bad. I asked her why they would feel bad when I was giving them new toys. Mama shook her head no again, and then she told me she had thrown the paper dolls away because I never played with them anyway. I felt a little sad that I couldn’t give the paper dolls to the six children next door like I had planned I could, but at least I didn’t tell anyone but Evie my plan. If the six children had known, I would have felt more sad because they would have felt sad themselves.

I guess I talked a lot about the family next door when I was supposed to be talking about my family. But then, maybe I’m allowed, because there’s only Evie and me in my family, I don’t count Grandma anyway. Besides, nothing really exciting happens between Evie and me, mostly she just reads in the house, and I just read right with her, but with a different book, or course. If I wrote here what Evie and I talk about, like those things about the law, this assignment would be longer than it already is, because Evie always takes a LVI 4 85

long time talking about that, maybe because the books she reads on that are thick too. And besides, I’ve already written more than the five pages that was assigned. But then Evie always said that it doesn’t matter if what you write is really long, as long as you write something interesting. And I think I wrote something interesting, not like the Bible, which is so long, there’s not much in it anyway. I read through the first chapters, and that was really nice, but then God started talking about all those rules about killing goats, and then it got really boring. And Evie agrees with me. Oh, another thing about my family is that we don’t have a Bible in the house. That Bible I read was from the library, because Mama’s bookstore doesn’t have Bibles either. Evie says the Bible is a book that’s like a weapon to control the minds of people, like a demon that possesses you. Okay, so Mama didn’t really say it that way, and she also had that funny face of hers when she didn’t say it that way, but I guess that’s what she meant.

I don’t know how to end this now, and so I asked my Mama, because after all, she knows a lot about writing, and I guess this is the different writing she used to talk about, and she told me that I could always say “The End” at the end. So I will say it here, partly because she makes sense, mostly because it fits: The End. MONTOYA AND SONS Eve Montoya owned a bookstore, an inheritance from her dead father, who’d always liked to say that “knowledge is everything, my dear” or variations of that bit of wisdom he probably stole from some book’s dust jacket—the Montoya patriarch was not a reading man; the bookstore, in itself, was a superfluous venture for a man already made wealthy by acres of hacienda property. At the time of his death, all the assets were divided among his widow, and their four children—save, of course, for Eve, the youngest, who was forever besmirched in the family’s eyes by the very existence of a fatherless little girl. Eve’s mother, the only member of the family who had actually seen the fatherless little girl, begrudgingly handed over the deed to Montoya and Sons Books, which Eve promptly renamed The Nook.

Another thing that set apart Eve from her sisters (there were actually no Sons) was that she had studied for the purpose of taking up a job. Whereas the four older Montoya girls were happily

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attending to their husband’s households and progeny, Eve went to college, first to be a writer, and then, given the lack of practical choices (by this time, Diana was already born, her father already gone), to be a schoolteacher.

And so Eve Montoya became a teacher, mostly to first and second graders. And, of course, to her daughter Diana, whom she treated the same way as she did her students. She could never let go of that overt patience of hers, of the way she talked to you with her face really close to yours, that you could smell the sourness of the antacid tablets she always chewed on. Diana, of course, got some allowances.

For example, she was allowed to talk without raising her hand.

To Diana, her mother, and how much she knew, was nothing sort of magical. Her knowledge seemed to have latched on to her, then permeated her mother’s very being, that everything Eve did or did not do was a direct indication of how much she already knew.

For one, her mother always seemed to snow chalk dust, as though she were a fairy godmother dispersing with her gifts that way. For more than half of Diana’s life, she would always associate her mother with chalk. There’d be some that managed to get under her trimmed fingernails, or she’d have a smudge or two on her uniform. One day, she even saw a cursive R on the bun into which her mother’s hair was often arranged, a cursive R, like some ghostly message, and Diana could clearly see her mother leaning against the blackboard, tipping her head back to look at a stuttering student better, and that R just felt compelled to leap onto her hair. R is for Rabbit. R is for Rhododendron. R is for Rimbaud. It was easy to see her as a schoolteacher, even if Diana hadn’t been her student in an actual classroom, never said Diana’s name from a class list at the beginning of the day. Eve even had that schoolteacher voice, which was her normal voice all around—all low and sonorous, every syllable enunciated, too calm and yes, probably a little too sensual because of all that.

But then, in the middle of her sixteenth year of teaching, without ever moving from her small yellow room, the one with Miss Eve stenciled on the door, the school told her that she had to resign. Because of Lui. They overlooked her daily reading of Lady Chatterley’s Lover to the six-, seven-, eight-year-olds, but they couldn’t forgive what happened with Lui.

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All her mother said was, when Diana, at fifteen, pointed this out: “It continually amazes me how people assign danger to things, almost often getting it all wrong.”

THE VAMPIRE IN THE ROOM Nowadays, my mother spends most of her time reading through the now-closed bookstore’s inventory. Sometimes, she has one of her old friends over at the house, because, she says, “It does get lonely.”

My father, by the way, is dead. And I don’t really know where Luisa Bastes is. I stopped knowing some five years ago, I guess. Maybe my mother knows. But then, if she did, she really wouldn’t be able to help but tell me. Inform me.

My parents, especially my mother informed me of a lot of things. Eve tended to echo her father’s attitude towards knowledge— Knowledge is everything, engraved on the cashier’s desk of the bookstore—although I’ve always suspected she bases it on more than a little experience, and not just some long-ago afternoon spent perusing the contents of a bookstore’s inventory. Eve prided herself on knowing that her daughter would not want for answers, was steadily learning all the possible explanations for life’s mysteries, and that she was the one who granted me these. She said so herself, to my teachers over the years, “My daughter knows a lot of things, and it’s because I am not threatened to provide her with what she needs to know.” My mother answered my questions, offered answers even when I didn’t ask, didn’t tire of correcting me, sometimes none too gently. She gave me the freedom to waltz in his store and snatch a book from the shelves, and take it home with me, with only a nod at whoever was manning the counter that day. I guess this approach is something I should be grateful for, since, I’m sure, it made me smarter, if not more curious about being smart, that I managed to go to a fairly decent university, through a scholarship. By that time, Evie’s family had refused to have anything to do with us. And there was nothing to be expected from my father’s family.

My mother had answers to everything, plus a theory here, and another there. This openness—I guess you could call it that—didn’t begin with Lui, or even when I was “of age” or something like that. I remember when I was four, I told my mother I knew how to count to one hundred and, quite possibly, farther than that, to the gajillions and she told me—she was pinning a brooch to the collar of 88 HEIGHTS

her uniform then—that it was nonsense: “Nonsense, Diana. I know you’re smart, but you can’t count to a hundred yet.” She patted the brooch and continued, “Besides, there is no such thing as a gajillion.” I listened to how she said gajillion, with that voice of hers, the J sounding very much like when you press your palms to the bed and smooth the wrinkles on the bed sheets, and I couldn’t let go of that word all day.

Until she obliged me, and took the dictionary from on top of the refrigerator, and made me look for the word. “See, Diana, the word doesn’t exist. Didn’t I tell you?”

One time—I was seven, I think—I went with her on the rare vacation, and we lived in this two-bedroom cottage for about a week.

When we got there, I ran to the room Eve had pointed to me, with her warning me not to stay too long inside, since it had been renovated only recently. I jumped on the wide bed, willed it to soothe my aching arms and tired legs, allowing my numbing behind to be cradled by the sheets heavily scented by detergent and, vaguely, coffee. That was when I saw it: a set of footprints, on the ceiling, all gray and dusted, the edges caked with the remnants of mud. A pair of large shoes had left their imprint on the ceiling directly above my bed, and they were clear enough that I could raise my arm and trace with a finger the marks, the grooves, and the dips of their soles.

And then it came to me—it was so clear, this realization—that probably, most probably, a vampire lived in that very room, and as a bat he’d held on to the ceiling with his little bat feet, upside-down and suspended, and that he changed into a man whenever evening came.

Anybody out there could be him; this very night, while everyone slept, he could flutter into my room, turn his sightless eyes onto this strange lump I’d make on the bed that had been empty for the longest time, and then—and then what would he do then? The uncertainty of it all unnerved me. Nothing was more dangerous, I felt, than a man who slept in a body no larger than my palm, with large eyes so blind that he had to utter a little scream if only to make the smallest movement possible.

I looked out the window and saw that there was already orange in the sky. I’d read all this in a book not long before. The heroine wore a necklace made of cloves of garlic. The hero was allergic to the mere smell of them, an innocent and very human quirk that, for more than half of the book, made him susceptible to the danger of falling in love with a mortal.

I leapt off the bed, ran to where I had left my mother, and I was shrieking in the excitement of having discovered something that LVI 4 89

was so strange, so unexplainably brilliant, so surreal in its auspiciousness—I ran from my room to the living room, demanding all the while that they bathe me in garlic, and a giggle couldn’t help but slip out a couple of times.

My mother took time smoothing down her skirt, and followed me back to my room, stopping once in while to straighten prints on the walls, plastic plants in clay pots, the occasional table runner. I kept on chattering, convinced I’d meet my death-by-inevitable-bloodlessness in that very room. I kept thinking of how I was going to be the stuff of legend, if Eve couldn’t do anything about this—and for those moments before I went back into my bedroom, I believed she couldn’t.

Upon my death, she would bemoan how helpless she had been, when I’d staunchly faced my demise—why couldn’t she have believed her own daughter? All my classmates would fling themselves onto my parents’ front yard, and wail at how brave I had always been, and how, deep in their hearts, they’d wish I’d passed away through less-thansensational methods, by more attainable, imitable ways.

My mother sat on the bed and looked up. I kept quiet, waiting for her decision. I resisted jumping from one foot to another, if only to calm me down, but mostly because it always annoyed her when I did that.

“Diana.” She leveled me a stare. “Don’t jump to conclusions.”

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. “But Mom, how did those footprints get up there, huh? Well?” I had never done that before, challenge her carrying as ammunition only the plotline of a paperback that hadn’t been that good anyway. “That’s a vampire, Mom.”

“Nonsense.” She looked up again. “I told you this room was recently renovated, am I not right? They most probably had to replace the old ceiling, painting new plywood, installing them. One of the carpenters must have been careless. He had to step on a pristine white job.” I saw her teeth when she savored the N in pristine. Her teeth glimmered. One had a small dot of color from her lipstick—she liked beige, or skin tones—although it looked red when not on her lips.

Suddenly, I wanted to reach up and rub that stain off so badly, I had to keep my hands pinned to my sides, my fingers restless, tapping, against my jeans.

She took her eyes from the ceiling, and turned her gaze to me, and she didn’t bother to hide the disappointment in her features. It was all there in the barely discernible tightening of her lower lip: a small 90 HEIGHTS

line would appear right above her chin. “Diana, you should know better. Use your common sense, before you indulge in whimsy.”

That monologue of hers contained some of her most favorite words and phrases: nonsense, common sense, right, and know, as in you should know better.

I apologized to her. I said, “I’m sorry, that was too fanciful,” using the word I had recently learned from one of my her own tirades about Latin American literature.

Scant moments after she’d left my room, I looked at the ceiling for a long time, before I allowed myself the thought that the carpenter must have been a vampire. Those where the times I’d yearn for someone else, someone aside from my mother: someone to indulge me, to chuckle at my fanciful imaginings.

My childhood was marked by an unparalleled freedom to pursue the accumulation of knowledge, and the constant desire to be patronized every once in a little while.

SIMPLER WORDS Eve was fired for “behavior unbefitting an educator” or some other bureaucratic terminology that anyone—even me—could have replaced with much simpler words: my mother slept with women, and not only that, she slept with women, with her daughter fully aware of what was going on. Knowledge is everything.

Lui wasn’t the first one (she wasn’t even the last one):

There was Jan, whom my mother met in a teacher’s convention. When I first saw her, I thought she was a cousin of my mother’s, even a long-lost sister: they both had the same short hair that glinted brown under light, pale skin, and a tendency to enunciate. (Jan didn’t stay in our house, although there was enough of her presence in it that made it seem so. There were always those gray stockings she favored hanging out to dry. The first time I saw them, gauzy and flaccid, hanging from the clothesline, I was struck by how repulsive they were, when on Jan, all I wanted was to run my hands up and down the raspy sheerness.)

And then there was Paula, who had a forehead that spanned her entire palm. She liked to walk around the house wearing a camisole and a pair of my socks. She stuttered, which most probably caused my mother an endless amount of consternation.

LVI 4 91

And then there was Cassandra, who hated it when I stumbled over her name and called her Cassie. She was one of the thinnest women I’d ever known. I spent most dinners pushing food around my plate, watching how the overhead lights failed to erase the dark, dark shadows in the groove that her collarbone made. When she smiled, pencil-thin muscles popped out of her neck, too much like buttresses supporting an ostentatious tower.

And then Renee, who was so glamorous, she wore three-inch heels around the house. When she lived with us, I made it a point to go in after her when she used the bathroom; the walls, even the water, it seemed, smelled of crushed jasmines. She called my father Eva, and she said it in a way that the V unfolded itself out her mouth, velvet and drawn-out. She often purred my mother’s name. The first time she did it, I ran up to my room and mimicked her, until Eve knocked on my door, and said I shouldn’t be rude for running off like that, anyone would think I hated the sight of Renee.

And then there was Luz, although she didn’t last too long, because Eve found out that she’d been lying when she said her husband was dead. I found that out at the same time she did, when a bedraggled hunchback unceremoniously marched into the living room one evening and demanded that Luz go home now.

And then there was Yasmin of the buck teeth, Leonora of the wide pink muumuus, Helen of the short spiky hair, Naomi who made the best fried rice I ever tasted, Georgia who could only hear out of one ear, Ophelia who read books out loud, and Jess who slept a lot during the day, usually in front of the television. After Lui: Susan the ex-mayor’s estranged wife, Isabel the mother of a little boy who often talked to himself, Nidia who said she was a poet and made me read a chapbook she’d had printed in college, Marisa who always looked out the windows before making sure they were locked, Nora whom I sometimes wished had been my mother.

There were more, of course, some spanning months, others, like Lui, barely a week. At some point, I stopped counting, the way you stopped counting how many books you’ve read in a year, or how many times you wore a former favorite pair of shoes, or how many times you opened a gaudily wrapped Christmas gift and discovered it was yet another picture frame, blond men and women with impossibly wide smiles underneath the thin glass.

It was Luisa Bastes from next door who was apparently the last straw for the school where my mother had been working for 92 HEIGHTS

nearly sixteen years, and they all pointed at the Bastes girl as the glaring evidence for my mother’s moral shortcomings.

Lui and I were friends even before her affair with my parents.

She was pretty, in a vague way that made me think of old photographs of long-dead women in lace caps and dark lipstick. She was a short woman, very thin, with a surprising amount of bosom on her. She’s always reminded me of that Arcellana poem: She’s so thin, I know / though her breasts are generous, / and her mouth more so. She always giggled and said “Oh, stop” when I recited those lines. But I always caught her glancing down at herself, then throwing back her shoulders, a smile ghosting around her plump lips.

I met her when I was running out of the house with an envelope near-crumpled in one hand, a postage stamp sticking to my tongue. I nearly bumped into her, and she said Hey in such a breathless way, I felt compelled to apologize three times.

“What’s that on your tongue?” she asked, looking up at me, squinting. She had straight eyebrows, two stark slashes that signaled the end of her smooth pale forehead. They were very dark, nearly black.

I held one corner of the stamp and peeled it off my tongue, then held it up. “It’s a stamp,” I said, and my voice came out like my mother’s: impatient, a little annoyed at having to point out the obvious.

For a moment, I felt proud for that, but then the next, I was racked with the sharpest sense of guilt.

“We know which stamps have been licked, you know.”

“I’m sorry?” I pressed the stamp on the upper-left corner of the envelope. It was a letter to my grandmother, telling her that I’d always wanted to go to college, and asking her in the most roundabout way possible to shoulder everything. My grandmother still believed in letters, even though she was only a bus ride away.

“I work in the post office. We leave little pots of foam moistened with watered-down glue. That works just fine.” She looked at the stamp with something like glee in her eyes, and when she snuck looks at me, she did so warily. “Most stamps fall off or get bubbles under the surface when you just use spit.”

I was yet to decide whether I appreciated her use of the word spit or not. “Not everyone has a little pot of foam moistened with watered-down glue.”

She laughed, and she tossed her hair back the way I’d seen it done on hair commercials. She had very fine hair, the outline of her head light brown and translucent.

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“I’m Luisa. You can call me Lui.”

“Diana. It’s always been just Diana.”

“How old are you?”

“Why?”

She laughed again. “I’m just asking. I’m twenty-two, by the way.”

I nodded. “I just turned fifteen last month.”

“I remember when I was fifteen,” she said, and a corner of her mouth lifted, although she didn’t laugh, like I expected her to.

“You’re pretty tall for fifteen.”

“I know. My parents are tall. When my father’s father died, the family had to wait ten hours for a longer coffin to be brought in from the next town.”

Her eyes widened, and she said, “Oh.”

When she didn’t say anything else, I told her I had to go. She asked me to drop by her house for snacks whenever I felt like it, that she was usually home from work at this time. She pointed past me, to a house completely covered from view by squat mango trees. I told her I’d try. It was just the start of the summer, after all. In less than two months, I’d be beginning my senior year in high school. I had planned to spend those two months reading through the titles in the Classics section of the bookstore.

In the post office, I saw the pots of foam on the counters, their surfaces darkened, a few small holes having grown to eat off a quarter of the top. I asked for a new envelope, and a new stamp. I rewrote my grandmother’s name and address, placed my letter inside the envelope. I carefully ran the bottom of the stamp on top of the foam, and with the tip of my index finger, smoothed it down, making sure that there were no air pockets. I stood in front of one counter, blowing on the stamp. I could feel the clerk looking at me. When I handed her the letter, she gave me a little smile. I resisted the urge to ask her if she knew who Lui was.

When I went back home, I stood on the sidewalk for a long time, trying to discern what color Lui’s house was, from behind the cover of leaves and the graying sky.

The next day, I called on her. I was carrying a book about rare stamps, full of glossy illustrations of misprints. When we sat down her juice and sandwiches, she breezed through the pages, never lingering too long on one, and in the end, put it on top of the kitchen counter, right beside the sink.

94 HEIGHTS

“Does your mother know you’re here?” was the first thing she asked me that afternoon.

LVI 4 95

Nikay

96 HEIGHTS

Paredes

Work Cited Carabuena, Maria Jane, and Meinrado Paredes. Jasmine Nikki Paredes. Cebu City:

Holy House, Inc., 1988.

LVI 4 97

Passage I am someone who knows her way home. I must insist.

You were only meant to help me hail a cab after coffee, but you settled to rob me of my lips, the youngest part of myself.

You answered, “I think you’re pretty.”

I have chosen not to believe.

There have been occasions since when I find myself lost and forced open like a little bean, a timid oyster shucked out of my consolations.

Many quiet months have passed but I still wonder if you know.

Every time I think of you, I want to scream and vomit pearls.

98 HEIGHTS

Jeepney after Aleksander Wat I. The mudguard reads: Amahan namo, which in the vernacular means “Our Father.”

II. Coins are passed from hand to hand until the man in front drops them into a tin box near an image of the Child Jesus who has lost his crown.

III. (Preaches the radio: “for he guards the course of the just and protects the way of the faithful ones.”)

We are strangers, yet we trust.

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Ali Sangalang

100 HEIGHTS

Hindi ako barbero pero mahilig akong mag-cut.

Hindi ako barbero pero ayoko ng makalat.

Hindi ako barbero

pero mahilig akong mag de-kwatro.

Hindi ako barbero

pero sing-smut ko ang pulbo.

Hindi ako barbero

pero mahilig akong manalamin.

Hindi ako barbero

pero sintulis ko ang gunting.

Hindi ako barbero

pero mahilig akong manghingi ng tip.

Hindi ako barbero

pero ang tuwalya ko’y amoy brip.

Hindi ako barbero

pero mahilig ako sa balitang sports at pulitika.

Hindi ako barbero

pero ang brip ko’y amoy tuwalya.

Hindi ako barbero

pero mahilig akong magkuwento’t mangulit.

Hindi ako barbero

pero marunong akong umawit.

Hindi ako barbero pero mahilig akong manghaplos at mangmasahe.

Hindi ako barbero

pero madalas akong kinakapos sa pamasahe.

Hindi ako barbero

pero mahilig ako.

Hindi ako barbero

pero digs na digs ko ang kanilang trabaho.

At higit pa sa halaga ng Good Morning towel sa kanila, lubos kong pinahahalagahan at pinasasalamatan ang mga nagturo at gumabay sa paggupit-gupit at pagsuklay ko sa mga salita: Si Sir Rofel Brion, ang aking mentor, na nagbigay ng tiwala at sumubaybay sa aking mga tula. Si Sir Yol Jamendang, ang aking master na tinitingala. Si Sir Egay Samar, na lubos kong hinahangaan. Si Sir Larry Ypil na nagpatibay ng aking kalooban. Ang Bagwisan, lalo na kena Brandz, Anne, Chan, Jason, Moreen, Victor, Walt at Rachel. Sa buong pamilya ko sa Heights at AISM, at Yabang Pinoy. Pasasalamat din sa pagmamahal at suporta mula sa Block D1, tatanchahinko barkada, kay Ginoong Pasco at Sir Eddie Boy Calasanz, sa paborito kong pinsan na si Ate Maits, sa aking pamilya, lalong-lalo na sa aking mahal na ama’t ina.

Si Ali ay tubong Novaliches, nagtapos ng AB Interdisciplinary Studies sa tracks na Communication at Creative Writing. Isa siya sa mga nagsusulong at nagtaguyod ng kampanyang Yabang Pinoy. Siya ay nangangarap na makagawa ng malulupit at astig na advertisements. Nananabik siyang mapalitan si Mark Logan sa TV Patrol World. Patuloy siyang nananaginip na maging isang rapper balang-araw.

LVI 4 101

Tamis-Anghang Kumakain tayong dalawa ng fishball noon nang maalala kong sinabi mong mahilig ka sa matamis, kaya dali-dali kong binuksan ang sawsawan sa gawing kaliwa, ngunit bago ko pa man matapos paikutin at iangat ang takip, nailublob mo na ang fishball mo sa botelya sa gawing kanan kung kaya’t napasubo na lamang ako at nagpatuloy sa pagkain ng akin.

102 HEIGHTS

Laglag Mahal

kita kaya ko ito ginawa.

(magpalaki ng bata, maliit pa rin)

LVI 4 103

Panyo Hindi ko alam kung iyo pang naaalala: sa iisang mesa, magkasama tayo noon sa magkabilang silya.

Tinatanaw kita samantalang sa bawat pagbukas-sara ng talukap ng iyong mga mata, iba’t ibang imahen ninyong dalawa ang aking nakikita.

Muli’t muling tinatawid ng iyong mga pilik-mata ang malumanay na daloy ng pagsasama ninyo noong hindi mo mapaniwalaang natuyo na.

Saglit kang pumikit at umagos ang mga salitang lagi’t lagi mong ibinubuhos sa kanya.

Inilabas ko ang aking panyo, at sinalo ito isa-isa.

104 HEIGHTS

LVI 4 105

Eugene

106 HEIGHTS

Soyosa Isinilang noong 1989 at lumaki sa Muntinlupa City si Eugene C. Soyosa. Nakapagtapos siya ng kursong AB Economics at may minor sa Development Management. Naging fellow siya sa 14th AteneoHeights Writers Workshop. Bukod sa pagsusulat, mahilig siyang umawit at miyembro ng Ateneo College Glee Club. Ginawaran siya ng LS Awards for the Arts in Music (2009).

And the sun rises and the sun sets, And the sun rises and the sun sets While they go on running, running.

- Czeslaw Milosz, Creating the World Salamat sa mga kapuso ko sa Heights (napakarami kong natutunan sa inyo), sa mga kapamilya ko sa ACGC (first love never dies), sa mga kabarkada sa I1 (DOTA ulit tayo minsan), at sa mga natatanging guro na nagturo ng mga mahahalagang aral ng buhay (kina Sir Dy-Liacco, Mam Domdom, at Sir Calasanz) at muli’t muli, sa pusa kong mataba na mahilig magpacute.

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Bangungot Nabibingi sa matinis na tinig at nangingimay ang mga paa habang unti-unting sinisipsip ng kaluluwa ang lahat ng hangin sa katawan hanggang marahang sumalimbay ang tao pataas sa kawalan at dumatal ang isang iglap ng kamatayan

108 HEIGHTS

Kerida Dalawang taon bago siya nakauwi.

Sa maginaw na restoran, ako lang ang di makangiti.

Mabagal ang mga subo at mabilis kaming naubusan ng mapag-uusapan.

Nasaid ang red wine at umuwi kami.

Ginawa namin ang dalawang taon niyang pinanabikan.

Habang sinisisid ko ang malamig na dagat sa pagitan ng kanyang mga hita, tikom ang aking bibig— nakasabit sa aking dila ang iyong pangalan.

LVI 4 109

Fidelis

110 HEIGHTS

Tan Fidelis is thankful for Heights (which she liked so much she stuck with it all four years of college), for the publication office in Gonzaga and the publication office in MVP (and all the little vandalisms, paper scraps, logbook intrigue and second-hand books within, and also the space and quiet to take thirty-minute naps between classes stretched out on the bench near the tables and trying not to topple over to the floor), the people of the English, Filipino, Design, Art and Special Projects staffs (each of whom have given Fid thoughts to pick over to unhealthy extents--the purpose of art, Japanese porn stars, and DC’s Infinite Crisis among them), and the chance to be in Senior’s Folio (where she gets to show off that story suggested to her by a friend as they sat along Katipunan watching a pig truck go by).

She is also grateful for Psychology (the field of study and university course, as well as the doing-thesis aspect of it, through which Fid learned that talking to children with cancer rearranges one’s entire outlook on living), afternoons playing the what-happens-after story game in the Psyche org room or in a bench in front of MVP (with very strange people who figure it’s all right to follow “and then the hero climbed up the mountain of blue cheese” with “and met a bunch of wise old grapes who spoke with Indian accents”), P30 beers in Mamus (P40 in Cantina, and in the long run that’s pricey), the LRT (and the trike ride to get there if you’re too lazy to walk and mostly you are), Thursday afternoons at Bo’s Coffee (where many long and convoluted conversations about comics Love for the Tan Clan and the many branches and extensions of it, the beautiful bastards and bitches of Block C, Neil Gaiman, Irish and the SOM brood with whom Fid shared many drinks and pleasant conversations with, Delm, who after everyone else had fallen asleep or gone to do business elsewhere remained online to tell Fid to finish her stories, and the written word.

LVI 4 111

Pig Run There are many stories. A lot are about how it started. What everyone agrees on is the whole thing happened on a hot afternoon in June.

The heat’s what did it, some say. Too much sun. It was the last stretch of summer and the heat drilled into your skull slowly, so when you opened your eyes the whole world blurred at the edges. Imagine what it did to the pigs.

Me though, I beg to differ. When I think of the pigs, I imagine something else. Think of being caged in a truck with the sun on your back and the sweltering metal bodies of Katipunan traffic pressing in from all sides. You know the hum cars make when they’re just sitting on the road spewing exhaust out behind them? A kind of muffled roaring. It must have sounded like slaughter to the pigs. Slaughter and processing. Just think of all those gears and pistons and metal whatsits turning and churning and getting hot and making smoke. It would’ve sent the pigs into a panic. You see, I think that’s what really made them do it. Not the heat. The heat might’ve made it worse, yeah. But if I were a pig stuck in traffic, in transit from the piggery to the butcher’s, and I knew what was coming to me, I think I would’ve done the same.

Given what happened.

All the major channels had it as breaking news. Helicopter coverage of the length of Katipunan and the cars deadlocked, bumper to bumper. The jam went up all the way past the flyover.

The starting point was right under the bridge that links Ateneo to Jollibee on the other side of the street. That walkway those street kids hang around so much you’d think they were gatekeepers. Those kids were smart enough to keep on the bridge when the accident happened.

If not, they might’ve been part of the body count.

Among the humans, one died. Among the pigs, at least nine.

For those of us who actually saw what happened, there was a cold layer of shock that persisted long after the noise died down and the blood was being washed off the pavement. Pigs’ blood. Pigs’ parts.

112 HEIGHTS

The MMDA came to clean it all up. They had firetrucks with them, and guys in raincoats who hosed the gore down the storm drain.

I’ve been telling people what I saw. In six months, I’ll still be telling people what I saw. This is my little contribution to the cesspit of yarns that continues to accumulate around the incident.

I’ll be telling people – there’s a car and it stalls. Freakishly. I’m on the bridge, with the lighter halfway to the cigarette in my mouth. Behind the car is the pig truck. The truck slams on its brakes.

Behind the truck though is a second-hand Honda Civic being driven by this freshman, this arrogant little snot who thinks driving with the windows down and the volume up makes him something. So he’s banging his head to some Fall Out Boy shit when his front bumper crashes into the back of the truck.

I’m watching this and a little girl bumps into my leg. I look down to see the biggest, brownest eyes I’ve ever seen. She clutches coins tight in her fist. The moment she opens her mouth to ask what’s going on, a haze of noise swells around us. Not the honking of car horns, or the sweltering engine buzz. These are throat noises, rising around me and that little girl til they block out the sounds of the road. For an insane moment I imagined it’s the air that’s squealing, drawn out, thick with spit and breath.

The little girl gasps and runs to the railing. “The pigs!”

There’s at least two dozen of them caged in, panicking, snorting, grunting, rubbing shoulder to shoulder to shoulder. Their ancestors might have felt the same thing when they realized they were being hunted by men with spears.

That arrogant snot, ‘this ain’t a scene, it’s a damned arms race’ out his windows, he goes in reverse, a foot back, his bumper coming loose at the ends The truck’s lock comes loose with it. The lock that kept the pigs in the transport. It falls to the pavement in two pieces.

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The hinges of the cage creak, just enough to catch the attention of the pigs who had been piled in at the back, the ones who had suffered the glare of the car hoods on their rumps and shoulders and snouts. They are the ones who begin the almighty snorting that signal to the rest of the pigs – they’re out.

The girl beside me jumps up and down. “The pigs! The pigs!”

At this point someone’s going to cut in. See, I’ve told the story a lot of times, to a lot of people, and someone always cuts in. A blockmate, or orgmate or family member. That cesspit, it’s a large cesspit. And rank. Someone will pipe up and say they saw the whole thing too. ‘Oh yeah?’ I’ll say, unimpressed. Yeah, they saw it. But from across the street. All the way past the pink mesh that keeps people from running the width of Katipunan.

There was a great hulking sow, they’ll tell me.

She pulls her bulk two lanes down and into the afternoon traffic. A trike driver curses, louder than the roar of his motor, before his front wheel burns itself into the sow’s broad hide. The pig screeches, expelling wind from the wettest corners of her throat. Hot metal bulldozes her an entire car’s length down the street. The passenger of the trike had already thrown herself out of the cab, screaming. The car behind them brakes short of totaling her, so she finds herself dazed and shaken, creamy layers of pig fat on her shoulder.

My friend who sees all this, he’ll tell me he saw her wipe the pig grease off her shoulder.

The people under the bridge though, they don’t see this as an accident.

What they see is opportunity. They come from the Jollibee side of the bridge, picking their way past the traffic and going over the pink mesh barricade. There’s three, four guys coming over, to that glistening trail of fat from the sow’s open side. While the pig squeals at the sky, they’re scooping up her remains, with their hands. Leaving oil and slippery wetness on the pavement.

I don’t know what one would use pig fat for. Fry it into chicharon?

Use it as lamp fuel? In ten minutes flat, the trail the sow left 114 HEIGHTS

disappears. In the next ten minutes, the sow dies. The person telling me this story will go on to tell me he knows it’s died because he saw one of the guys walk over to the mass of ribs and meat in the middle of the road and give it a little kick in the head. The sow doesn’t move.

The body gets picked up by the MMDA when they arrive, and for the next two weeks you see those people who hang out under the bridge, the vendors and the tambays and the kids, and they’re smiling and their lips and the space around their mouths shine with oily smears.

And then I think of the sow, that poor sow who died while she fried under the noon sun. But it’s not just the sow who dies, someone else will come up to tell me. Another person, most likely someone from Ateneo, he or she’ll mosey up to me and tell me about the single human fatality during that incident.

It was the guard at the gate under the bridge. The one who asks people coming from the bridge for their IDs before they enter the university.

When the accident happens, he’s at his desk, dreaming of something far away from Katipunan.

It’s the crash of pigs’ hooves that brings him out of it. The car horns and yelling might’ve just flown over his head. It’s the squealing that draws him out towards the street. Like it were music, or his mother’s call.

He wanders out into the street like a man in a daze, towards the source of the sound, out the wire mesh gate.

What he sees is a street alive with pink bodies – fat, shuddering pods on short, hard feet, brushing the salt and smell from their bodies on the cars lining the street. They scream in their high pig voices—out, out, away!

He doesn’t panic though. Doesn’t even gasp. He walks out into the sidewalk like a man in a dream. A pig smashes its face on a car door.

The guard dreams. A pig rushes past a woman on the corner. She shrieks, topples into the gutter, breaks a kneecap. The guard’s listening to the belly-scraping, snorting, chomping.

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A great big boar catches him by the knees, and he gasps, once. He falls backwards under the rush of what might seem like a hundred stout pigs’ feet. It’s not the stampede that kills him though. He’s still alive when the last of the pigs leave a dusty print right on his chin.

When he had fallen backwards though, he had hit his head on a particularly jagged crumple of pavement.

He doesn’t realize the pigs have gone past his post leaving foot prints in his blood. He’s shuddering, near the foot of the bridge, and I can tell you he was shuddering because I’m on the bridge when it’s happening and the girl with the coins and the brown eyes and I are watching him twitch.

We can’t explain why he’s smiling so widely, his teeth red.

A couple of weeks later I find out that this guard had come from a pigging farm, somewhere in Batangas. The man’s father dealt in the raising and fattening of pigs. His father’s father dealt in the raising and fattening of pigs. This guy became a security guard. But the squeal of the pigs, all together like slaughter was upon them, must have reminded him of home.

I laughed when I first heard that story. I’ve heard it maybe ten times since then. Sometimes the guard comes from Bulacan. Or Binondo.

Other times, there’s a little sub-story attached to it that the man always wanted to inherit the piggery, but his elder brother did and so he was forced to find other work.

You may or may not believe that. Me personally, I believe that. Most of the other stories I don’t. They’re just scum lining the cesspit that grew around that one-time big-time show. Accident. Catastrophe. Or, no. Spectacle?

But then, that depends on the telling, doesn’t it? In my story, the whole thing was a mess. Though I could tell you this other story, and then I’m not sure if it’ll still be a mess. Maybe an elevated sort of mess.

Or…what do you call a mess after it’s been cleaned up and all that’s left is the memory of the splash and scattering? And when you play that memory, you know all the pieces fell where they were supposed to, and it was all perfectly orderly the way they landed?

116 HEIGHTS

I’ve never told anyone else this story that I could tell you. If I do though, I’ll be telling you that after all the blood was washed away, and all the pig parts were cleaned up, thrown away or eaten, the rest of the summer proceeded like summers always do. Until it wasn’t summer anymore, and it was hell season at the end of 1st sem.

I’m in nature walk, you know, the walkway going out into Katipunan, and there’s something about the way the foliage wraps itself around you that’s relaxing. All shadows and grass smells and occasional shreds of sunlight. I’m needing the relaxation at the moment, because I just came from my third or fourth failed exam for the year and the fact that I might get expelled for sheer lack of trying is real.

I’m alone on a bench, one of those stone benches so far removed from the walkway that one might wonder what they’re even there for. And I’m smoking, even if you’re not supposed to, and listening to bird calls and the screeching of distant tires.

A rustling comes from behind. Something walking low, near the ground.

I look up to find the face of the largest, squattest hog I’ve ever seen.

The cigarette slips from my lips, lands on the grass.

It’s enormous— the bulk of it cut through with folds that graze the grass when the pig ambles towards the bench. It’s old, white hairs cropping up from its ears, nose, snout. Its brows meet at the smooth of its forehead and a ridge goes deep in between.

Instinctively, I rise, but not to step away. I notice the hog walks with a limp, though I’m not sure if it got that during its great escape from the pig truck, or in all the months it’s kept alive in the hidden nooks of the nature walk’s greenery. Maybe it’s just always had that limp.

Except for the breathing, it makes no sound. Neither do I. There’s wisdom in the pig’s oily eyes, and its stare makes a solid chill drop through me.

Between us, my cigarette smolders to nothing.

LVI 4 117

Not slaughtered, it tells me just by its black, steady gaze.

I blink. Not slaughtered, I agree.

It tilts its massive head to the side, by just a bit, the eyes never leaving my face. Brothers, sisters slaughtered. Children, mother, father slaughtered.

There’s a heaviness that hangs in the air. It colors the light that breaks in between the branches.

We tread on their blood, the pig continues. The blood is washed away but the smell remains.

I lift my hands towards the pig. Not close enough to touch, but neither to beckon nor drive away. I notice my palms are sweaty. I was there, I want to say. On the bridge with the girl with the big brown eyes. We were watching the run. I want to tell the pig, it was a great big ugly mess.

But there’s no way you can lie when you’re having an exchange like this. Between me and the hog and the crossing of our gazes, I can only speak the truth.

It was magnificent, I tell it.

The pig grunts, once, licks its chops. It makes a small wheezing noise, like it were thinking about it. Much like how one thinks over a joke before getting the punch line, half a second later, and everyone bursts into laughter. The hog does nothing of the sort. It just looks up at me, one last time, and I see how thick the lashes are around its eye.

That it was, it tells me simply, before making another series of small limping brushes that takes it back into the glade.

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1. He is a most attentive owl to yearning little brother and sister figures, while penning down alternate universes in his spare time. Like Iris Murdoch, he believes that the purpose of literature is to prove that other people exist.

2. Rain pouring down his windowsills makes his heart open and fresh on paper.

Tim

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Villarica 3. He once made the mistake of missing the last word after the blank filling up his Heights application form: I will never drink, smoke, do drugs again.

4. In one of his possible futures, he lives alone in a New York apartment under the name William Wilson and writes detective stories.

5. His favorite superheroes are Batman and the Green Lanterns but echoing what he heard once from a friend, he firmly believes that Jesus Christ is the greatest superhero of all time.

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The Memory Man “So what are you going to do for your birthday?”

“I don’t know. Probably not much. Maybe stay home, watch a bunch of movies. Eat cake.”

She was the kind of friend that he could call in the middle of the night for coffee and talk during those kinds of nights when the sky pressed upon the world like a heavy fog. They were always awake doing homework or not doing homework, and so they were awake on this night. The nearest café was a minute’s drive away for the both of them, he coming from the north and she coming from the opposite direction.

“That doesn’t sound so great.” she said. She was wearing a vintage Beatles’ shirt, skinny jeans and Chucks. Her eyes hovered momentarily over her mocha frappe as she took a sip out of the muddy liquid.

She absentmindedly browsed through a fashion magazine the way children browse through books looking for pictures. He took a sip out of his green tea, his thoughts rising into the air like the white vapor from his drink.

The boy bit into the pastry speared on his fork as if he were eating courage. There was never any one way to be brave. The boy could have done this lifetimes over and he might still not have been brave enough. But the night was filled with endless possibilities and there was no telling what was lurking around the corner of every dimly lit street alley.

“What if…I told you that I’m leaving for another country? Let’s say the people in this country are the same as the ones as the people here.

You’re there, your boyfriend’s there, your mother’s probably still sick at the hospital there, but I seem to be out of the picture.

In the boy’s mind, the girl was sitting lazily on a chair with her legs lounging on a desk, her back nestled against her easy chair, forming its restful creases. She looked up casually from her magazine.

“Isn’t that just the same thing as saying that you’re leaving?” She 122 HEIGHTS

thought of Canada, the monster that ate up all of her friends. “Is this another one of your weird jokes?” she chided, half-amused, half-curious. If this was a game, she seemed ready to play.

The boy seemed to shrug off this statement. A part of him was thinking to himself “Geez, what the heck am I doing?” The other part blurted out, “Sometimes, I just shed my skin and disappear. One of these days I’ll be gone and I’ll be someplace you can’t follow. It’s as if we’re walking through this forest and it gets darker and darker as we go deeper inside. The forest eats me up and I realize (wherever I am) that I shouldn’t have asked you to come along in the first place. You seem to realize this too because you turn back.”

At that moment, the café seemed to fill with the cacophany of voices, like a swarm of cars crammed in the highway, like a parade of lights dancing over the city.

“So what are you going to be from there?”

“All I can make sense of is that I’m always going to be 21 but I’m to going to be someone else. I’m telling you this now because I’ll probably never make it past graduation day.”

She laughed. “Well if you see me, throw something at me so I’ll know it’s you.”

“But this will be a different me. Maybe that’s something I would do, but I don’t know about him.”

“Have you ever…tried to find out whatever happens to your self?”

“I have. Normally, I leave a note saying that I’m staying at a friend’s place (a “friend” whose name I’ve made up) for a couple of nights.

Then they start looking for me. A year goes by…two years…three… then they either give up figuring I don’t want to be found or give me up for dead. I tried attending the funeral once out of sheer morbid curiosity. It was a cloudy day but the light crept through--enough so it was bright even without the sun. There were flowers and food all around. People kept on talking to each other about how I was in a “better place”, but they also kept on speaking to this empty jar like I LVI 4 123

was still there. They talked about how I pulled this prank on my prof, got into a fight over that girl, drank like a camel at the parties, helped a friend through some tight spots, went to church religiously every Sunday. It was so depressing I had to leave because I felt that I wasn’t supposed to be there; that I was violating some natural law by my choosing to be there. Who were these people anyway? What right did I have to these memories and their memories? On the other hand, I felt disgusted with myself at the same time. Did what they say even matter? Don’t people say things like this at funerals all the time? In the end, all I got was a bad headache.”

He paused as if he himself did not fully comprehend the weight of his words, as if he were a constipated raincloud.

She grinned. “Effing hell. How do you feel about leaving?”

“I’ve done some good in the world. Of course I won’t be remembered for doing anything special, but I think people will miss me all the same. This life’s alright I guess.”

“If you’re not happy with it, then you better do something about it.”

“I can leave.”

She imagined how it would be like to be violently plucked out of existence. When she was a child, she often had an impulse to burst out of the car door and run into the streets. She wondered where the impulse came from, why it was so irrationally desirable. But she never really did this because the safety lock in her parents’ car was always set. So it stayed in her head and burrowed itself in her thoughts like a worm in soil. But that was not how he must feel at all, she thought to herself.

“You can’t just stand there and hope the next one’s better.”

“It doesn’t matter. It will end anyway. I’m just rolling along waiting for the next tide to come in. The least I can do is to tell one person before I go. It doesn’t really matter who I tell. All my memories were just made up anyway. 19 years of stuffing. Lifetimes of the same reruns.” He raised his hands.

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“I don’t think I want to be around forever.”

“But I still change just like everyone else. The only difference between you and I is that I never stop changing.”

“What if you could choose?”

“How could I choose? I don’t think I want to think about it. I have a feeling that if I did, something bad would happen to me. I’m always 21. I’m no wiser than 21.”

He continued. “Now that I think about it, this isn’t the first time someone has asked me this question. But I guess I’ve always made the same decision because I’m still here.”

The girl smiled but her eyes grew dim and she seemed to be gazing off into the distance. The pale light seemed to reflect off the surface of her unfocused irises as if she had forgotten how to see. He gently placed a hand on her shoulder and roused her from reverie.

“I’m sorry. I should have never put you through this. It’s late and you best be getting home.”

“I just want to say that I don’t think you chose me to share this with me out of coincidence. We’ve been friends ever since that time back in high school when I was failing my Math subject and I coerced you into letting me see the answers on your test paper. I was there when you got drunk, stoned, smitten, dumped. If you didn’t make all this up and if it’s the case that the past 5 years were all just “made up”, it doesn’t really matter. A building is a building because its foundations are there. I know you pretty well regardless of what you say.”

She punched him on the arm and told him that she couldn’t stay, though when she stepped outside and got into the car she seemed lost and restless at the same time. It was when the girl drove her car to the intersection that she realized that the safety locks had come undone, so she drove past all the familiar skyways and byways, skirting past the familiar buildings she had always known. She drove past the suburbs and into the red light districts and the casinos with LVI 4 125

their glaring neon signs and ragged beggars and hopeless drunks.

She moved willfully yet aimlessly, the speed at which the car was accelerating rhythmically matching the flow of adrenaline surging through her veins.

But that was not how he felt. The 21-year old boy watched as she drove away, though he did not drive back home in the opposite direction. He stayed in the coffee shop for some time, staring at his halffinished drink as if it were an old, fine wine until he fell asleep on the sofa where he was sitting. The barista nudged him an hour later to tell him that he was about to close shop.

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A Letter to the Romans and a Note from the Curator for His Wife who left a Year Ago Romans 8:18-25 18I consider that our present sufferings are not worth comparing with the glory that will be revealed in us. 19The creation waits in eager expectation for the sons of God to be revealed. 20For the creation was subjected to frustration, not by its own choice, but by the will of the one who subjected it, in hope 21that[a] the creation itself will be liberated from its bondage to decay and brought into the glorious freedom of the children of God. 22We know that the whole creation has been groaning as in the pains of childbirth right up to the present time. 23Not only so, but we ourselves, who have the firstfruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly as we wait eagerly for our adoption as sons, the redemption of our bodies. 24For in this hope we were saved. But hope that is seen is no hope at all. Who hopes for what he already has?

1.

Today marks the start of something that should have never happened.

As I was sitting at the steps with a friend and these words--or rather, a series of tired old memories, varying in order and circumstance (a chimera) flashed in my head almost a full 24 hours before they happened in the past (and in the ghost of the future). I’ve known for some time that it would be approaching, and I thought to myself, “Here, I’ll be standing at the crack of the door.” yet the door has swung wide open well before its time. That should have never happened also.

2.

But that no longer matters. Once the dreams have begun, there is no turning back or closing this door. You see, I have a museum lodged in my head. It is full of old things, and even if I am older then they, they will always remain in the past (Here I am now visiting them). This is the stuff dreams are made of, and I am the curator of dreams. I collect things of value, and what could be more valuable to a man than these ancient bones that make him a man? The answer to the question is this-what is most valuable are the things that make us more than men, the things that outlast our brittle mortalities. Here, words will be insufficient to description and must fall silent.

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3.

That’s the reason why I am here--because I am trying to see past death. Did you ever want to see a brachiasaurous eating the leaves off a tree? I do. That is why I am not an atheist even when I am a scientist. That is why I dream of heaven, because I imagine a day when I wake up to a world where all things have been made whole again.

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To my dad and mom, I hope I made you proud.

Panch

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Alvarez to my siblings for being an inspiration to Amang Jun Cruz Reyes, Pancho Villanueva, Martin Villanueva, Joel Toledo, Tito HB, and Kutat Llaguno for moving me to Tita Cha, Tita Poy, Tito Ogot, Tita Fried and Tito Gil for the undying support for both my art and you know what to TTT, Bonus Bordado, Kristoff Arcega, Caloy Mangco, Lin Yaw and the blue house boys for being like brothers to Justine Joyce Alim for the joining me watch smoke vanish in the air to Waps San Diego, Sasha Martinez, Mikael Co, Doug Candano, the Conspiracy artists, and all the Happy Mondays people for the conversations over endless bottles of beer to my Heights Family, Bro. Lando Jaluag, AtSCA, Sir Jonny and Maam Alma Salvador, Sir Bobby Guevarra, and Maam Devi Paez for believing Thank you. I’ll let my art speak.

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Monopoly 1

Mixed Media on Board

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Monopoly 2

Mixed Media on Board

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Businesswoman and artist—two sides of the same coin. From her first crayon and colored pencil artworks in early childhood to her digital paintings today, art has been and will always be an integral part of who Alana is.

Noelle

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Intal But the journey she began when she first picked up pen, paintbrush, and tablet is simply the beginning. Like a whirlwind it could take her anywhere.

Her art can be found at reikavich.deviantart.com.

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Seen Digital

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Windows Digital

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Someday gives me a headache Yesterday leaves me wanting for more But today lets me see, That there’s something better Than yesterday in someday.

Eliana

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Javier What exactly that is, I am still uncertain.

Still thank you to everyone who shared those countless todays with me.

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Faber’s Horse

Ink and Coloured Pencils on Paper

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By Any Other Name

Ink and Coloured Pencils on Paper

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Breathe

Ink and Coloured Pencils on Paper

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Dan

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Napa Nevermind the medium.

It’s what you can pass off as art.

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Ngisi

Photography

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Soak Up The Sun Photography

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You’re Next Photography

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Cristine

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Pavia I’ve loved everything about art since I was 7 years old and it has always been my dream to be a great artist. I’m not sure where I stand on that dream but I do know I’m working my way through it.

And I just have to say… that to be able to express emotions, ideas, and beauty through illustrations is such a priceless gift that it can only come from my Father. And for that I thank Him. I am humbled and I would continue to treasure and use this gift, all for His glory.

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Hija

Ink and Watercolour on Paper

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Sa Katipunan

Ink and Watercolour on Paper

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Tiis Lang

Ink and Watercolour on Paper

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Let each man exercise the art he knows.

-Aristophanes

Nikki

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Real Nikki is a frustrated artist and writer and has found solace in photography.

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A Thorn among the Roses Photography

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Traffic

Photography

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Editorial Board 2008 - 2009

Fidelis Angela Tan Editor-In-Chief Patricia Angela Magno Associate Editor Pancho Alvarez Managing Editor Marie La Vi単a English Editor Wyatt Ong Associate English Editor Jan Brandon Dollente Filipino Editor Walther Hontiveros Associate Filipino Editor Eliana Laurice Javier Art Editor Miguel Mercado Associate Art Editor Stefanie Macam Design Editor Selene Uy Special Projects Manager Angelica Candano Special Projects Manager Justine Joyce Alim Secretary-General Julio Benigno Julongbayan Business Manager Edgar Calabia Samar Moderator

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Staff English

Filipino

Ysobel Andrada, Kyra Ballesteros, Lyle Belen, Abby Castelo, Jenica Chuahiock, Jerik Cruz, Migs del Callar, Tina del Rosario, Elise Doroteo, Dominique Du, Phil Golez, Gian Lao, Abby Lewis, Mikey Manalo, Chris V. Reyes, Carina Santos, April Sescon, Miggy Sulangi, Manuel Sy-Quia, Mia Tetangco, Nash Tysmans, Timmy Villarica, Isabel Yap

Victor Anastacio, EJ Bagacina, Kat Bulaong, Anne Calma, Jan Patrick Caluptian, Angelique Detaunan, Joven Angelo Flordelis, Carmina Gosiengfiao, Joseph Casimiro, Irae Jardin, Julio Julongbayan, Chan Mamforte, Kevin Marin, Rachel Marra, Mike Orlino, Geriandre Piquero, Ayon Sanchez, Ali Sangalang, Eugene Soyosa

Art

Design

John Alexis Balaguer, Jessica Amanda Bauza, Justine Cabrera, Isabelle Danielle Ocier, Patrick Padla, Natasha Ringor, Ria Rigoroso, Selene Sarmiento, Alyza Taguilaso, Maurice Wong, Katherine Denise Yap

Frances Alvarez, Gia Banaag, Miko Galvez, Marielle Ferrer, Michelle Garcia, Aziel Mendoza, Charz Mendoza, Ionne Ocampo, Paulina Ortega, Mikhail Plata, Carina Santos, Chino Viceral, Madi Vilela, Lesly Yiu, Camille Zapata

Special Projects Paul Ablan, Steven Chuacokiong, Tanya Diaz, Diane Galindez, Joma Fernandez, Franz Garay, Ailyn Lau, Tiffany Lim, Jeremiah Limsico, Dawn Niekamp, Ria Rigoroso, Gabriel Ruaro

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