Riddles, Short Stories and Proverbs from the Philippines

PROVERBS

God helps those who help themselves.
Without perseverance, there is no reward.
If it isnt related to the matter at hand, its irrelevant.
A sincere invitation is augmented by a pull.

RIDDLES

A deep well that is full of chisels. (Mouth)
The captain took a bath without his belly getting wet. (Canoe)
Five coconut trees, one stands out. (Fingers)

SHORT STORIES

Morning in Nagrebcan by Manuel E. Arguilla

It was sunrise at Nagrebcan. The fine, bluish mist, low over the tobacco fields, was lifting and thinning
moment by moment. A ragged strip of mist, pulled away by the morning breeze, had caught on the
clumps of bamboo along the banks of the stream that flowed to one side of the barrio. Before long the sun
would top the Katayaghan hills, but as yet no people were around. In the grey shadow of the hills, the
barrio was gradually awaking. Roosters crowed and strutted on the ground while hens hesitated on their
perches among the branches of the camanchile trees. Stray goats nibbled the weeds on the sides of the
road, and the bull carabaos tugged restively against their stakes.


In the early morning the puppies lay curled up together between their mothers paws under the ladder of
the house. Four puppies were all white like the mother. They had pink noses and pink eyelids and pink
mouths. The skin between their toes and on the inside of their large, limp ears was pink. They had short
sleek hair, for the mother licked them often. The fifth puppy lay across the mothers neck. On the puppys
back was a big black spot like a saddle. The tips of its ears were black and so was a patch of hair on its
chest.

The opening of the sawali door, its uneven bottom dragging noisily against the bamboo flooring, aroused
the mother dog and she got up and stretched and shook herself, scattering dust and loose white hair. A
rank doggy smell rose in the cool morning air. She took a quick leap forward, clearing the puppies which
had begun to whine about her, wanting to suckle. She trotted away and disappeared beyond the house of a
neighbor.

The puppies sat back on their rumps, whining. After a little while they lay down and went back to sleep,
the black-spotted puppy on top.

Baldo stood at the threshold and rubbed his sleep-heavy eyes with his fists. He must have been about ten
years old, small for his age, but compactly built, and he stood straight on his bony legs. He wore one of
his fathers discarded cotton undershirts.

The boy descended the ladder, leaning heavily on the single bamboo railing that served as a banister. He
sat on the lowest step of the ladder, yawning and rubbing his eyes one after the other. Bending down, he
reached between his legs for the black-spotted puppy. He held it to him, stroking its soft, warm body. He
blew on its nose. The puppy stuck out a small red tongue, lapping the air. It whined eagerly. Baldo
laughed a low gurgle.

He rubbed his face against that of the dog. He said softly, My puppy. My puppy. He said it many times.
The puppy licked his ears, his cheeks. When it licked his mouth, Baldo straightened up, raised the puppy
on a level with his eyes. You are a foolish puppy, he said, laughing. Foolish, foolish, foolish, he said,
rolling the puppy on his lap so that it howled.

The four other puppies awoke and came scrambling about Baldos legs. He put down the black-spotted
puppy and ran to the narrow foot bridge of woven split-bamboo spanning the roadside ditch. When it
rained, water from the roadway flowed under the makeshift bridge, but it had not rained for a long time
and the ground was dry and sandy. Baldo sat on the bridge, digging his bare feet into the sand, feeling the
cool particles escaping between his toes. He whistled, a toneless whistle with a curious trilling to it
produced by placing the tongue against the lower teeth and then curving it up and down.

The whistle excited the puppies; they ran to the boy as fast as their unsteady legs could carry them,
barking choppy little barks.

Nana Elang, the mother of Baldo, now appeared in the doorway with handful of rice straw. She called
Baldo and told him to get some live coals from their neighbor.

Get two or three burning coals and bring them home on the rice straw, she said. Do not wave the straw
in the wind. If you do, it will catch fire before you get home. She watched him run toward Ka Ikaos
house where already smoke was rising through the nipa roofing into the misty air. One or two empty
carromatas drawn by sleepy little ponies rattled along the pebbly street, bound for the railroad station.

Nana Elang must have been thirty, but she looked at least fifty. She was a thin, wispy woman, with bony
hands and arms. She had scanty, straight, graying hair which she gathered behind her head in a small,
tight knot. It made her look thinner than ever. Her cheekbones seemed on the point of bursting through
the dry, yellowish-brown skin. Above a gray-checkered skirt, she wore a single wide-sleeved cotton
blouse that ended below her flat breasts. Sometimes when she stooped or reached up for anything, a
glimpse of the flesh at her waist showed in a dark, purplish band where the skirt had been tied so often.

She turned from the doorway into the small, untidy kitchen. She washed the rice and put it in a pot which
she placed on the cold stove. She made ready the other pot for the mess of vegetables and dried fish.
When Baldo came back with the rice straw and burning coals, she told him to start a fire in the stove,
while she cut the ampalaya tendrils and sliced the eggplants. When the fire finally flamed inside the clay
stove, Baldos eyes were smarting from the smoke of the rice straw.

There is the fire, mother, he said. Is father awake already?

Nana Elang shook her head. Baldo went out slowly on tiptoe.

There were already many people going out. Several fishermen wearing coffee-colored shirts and trousers
and hats made from the shell of white pumpkins passed by. The smoke of their home-made cigars floated
behind them like shreds of the morning mist. Women carrying big empty baskets were going to the
tobacco fields. They walked fast, talking among themselves. Each woman had gathered the loose folds of
her skirt in front and, twisting the end two or three times, passed it between her legs, pulling it up at the
back, and slipping it inside her waist. The women seemed to be wearing trousers that reached only to their
knees and flared at the thighs.

Day was quickly growing older. The east flamed redly and Baldo called to his mother, Look, mother,
God also cooks his breakfast.

He went to play with the puppies. He sat on the bridge and took them on his lap one by one. He searched
for fleas which he crushed between his thumbnails. You, puppy. You, puppy, he murmured softly.
When he held the black-spotted puppy, he said, My puppy. My puppy.

Ambo, his seven-year old brother, awoke crying. Nana Elang could be heard patiently calling him to the
kitchen. Later he came down with a ripe banana in his hand. Ambo was almost as tall as his older brother
and he had stout husky legs. Baldo often called him the son of an Igorot. The home-made cotton shirt he
wore was variously stained. The pocket was torn, and it flipped down. He ate the banana without peeling
it.

You foolish boy, remove the skin, Baldo said.

I will not, Ambo said. It is not your banana. He took a big bite and swallowed it with exaggerated
relish.

But the skin is tart. It tastes bad.

You are not eating it, Ambo said. The rest of the banana vanished in his mouth.

He sat beside Baldo and both played with the puppies. The mother dog had not yet returned and the
puppies were becoming hungry and restless. They sniffed the hands of Ambo, licked his fingers. They
tried to scramble up his breast to lick his mouth, but he brushed them down. Baldo laughed. He held the
black-spotted puppy closely, fondled it lovingly. My puppy, he said. My puppy.

Ambo played with the other puppies, but he soon grew tired of them. He wanted the black-spotted one.
He sidled close to Baldo and put out a hand to caress the puppy nestling contentedly in the crook of his
brothers arm. But Baldo struck the hand away. Dont touch my puppy, he said. My puppy.

Ambo begged to be allowed to hold the black-spotted puppy. But Baldo said he would not let him hold
the black-spotted puppy because he would not peel the banana. Ambo then said that he would obey his
older brother next time, for all time. Baldo would not believe him; he refused to let him touch the puppy.

Ambo rose to his feet. He looked longingly at the black-spotted puppy in Baldos arms. Suddenly he bent
down and tried to snatch the puppy away. But Baldo sent him sprawling in the dust with a deft push.
Ambo did not cry. He came up with a fistful of sand which he flung in his brothers face. But as he started
to run away, Baldo thrust out his leg and tripped him. In complete silence, Ambo slowly got up from the
dust, getting to his feet with both hands full of sand which again he cast at his older brother. Baldo put
down the puppy and leaped upon Ambo.

Seeing the black-spotted puppy waddling away, Ambo turned around and made a dive for it. Baldo saw
his intention in time and both fell on the puppy which began to howl loudly, struggling to get away. Baldo
cursed Ambo and screamed at him as they grappled and rolled in the sand. Ambo kicked and bit and
scratched without a sound. He got hold of Baldos hair and ear and tugged with all his might. They rolled
over and over and then Baldo was sitting on Ambos back, pummeling him with his fists. He
accompanied every blow with a curse. I hope you die, you little demon, he said between sobs, for he
was crying and he could hardly see. Ambo wriggled and struggled and tried to bite Baldos legs. Failing,
he buried his face in the sand and howled lustily.

Baldo now left him and ran to the black-spotted puppy which he caught up in his arms, holding it against
his throat. Ambo followed, crying out threats and curses. He grabbed the tail of the puppy and jerked
hard. The puppy howled shrilly and Baldo let it go, but Ambo kept hold of the tail as the dog fell to the
ground. It turned around and snapped at the hand holding its tail. Its sharp little teeth sank into the fleshy
edge of Ambos palm. With a cry, Ambo snatched away his hand from the mouth of the enraged puppy.
At that moment the window of the house facing the street was pushed violently open and the boys father,
Tang Ciaco, looked out. He saw the blood from the toothmarks on Ambos hand. He called out
inarticulately and the two brothers looked up in surprise and fear. Ambo hid his bitten hand behind him.
Baldo stopped to pick up the black-spotted puppy, but Tang Ciaco shouted hoarsely to him not to touch
the dog. At Tang Ciacos angry voice, the puppy had crouched back snarling, its pink lips drawn back, the
hair on its back rising. The dog has gone mad, the man cried, coming down hurriedly. By the stove in
the kitchen, he stopped to get a sizeable piece of firewood, throwing an angry look and a curse at Nana
Elang for letting her sons play with the dogs. He removed a splinter or two, then hurried down the ladder,
cursing in a loud angry voice. Nana Elang ran to the doorway and stood there silently fingering her skirt.

Baldo and Ambo awaited the coming of their father with fear written on their faces. Baldo hated his father
as much as he feared him. He watched him now with half a mind to flee as Tang Ciaco approached with
the piece of firewood held firmly in one hand. He is a big, gaunt man with thick bony wrists and stoop
shoulders. A short-sleeved cotton shirt revealed his sinewy arms on which the blood-vessels stood out
like roots. His short pants showed his bony-kneed, hard-muscled legs covered with black hair. He was a
carpenter. He had come home drunk the night before. He was not a habitual drunkard, but now and then
he drank great quantities of basi and came home and beat his wife and children. He would blame them for
their hard life and poverty. You are a prostitute, he would roar at his wife, and as he beat his children,
he would shout, I will kill you both, you bastards. If Nana Elang ventured to remonstrate, he would beat
them harder and curse her for being an interfering whore. I am king in my house, he would say.

Now as he approached the two, Ambo cowered behind his elder brother. He held onto Baldos undershirt,
keeping his wounded hand at his back, unable to remove his gaze from his fathers close-set, red-specked
eyes. The puppy with a yelp slunk between Baldos legs. Baldo looked at the dog, avoiding his fathers
eyes.

Tang Ciaco roared at them to get away from the dog: Fools! Dont you see it is mad? Baldo laid a hand
on Ambo as they moved back hastily. He wanted to tell his father it was not true, the dog was not mad, it
was all Ambos fault, but his tongue refused to move. The puppy attempted to follow them, but Tang
Ciaco caught it with a sweeping blow of the piece of firewood. The puppy was flung into the air. It rolled
over once before it fell, howling weakly. Again the chunk of firewood descended, Tang Ciaco grunting
with the effort he put into the blow, and the puppy ceased to howl. It lay on its side, feebly moving its
jaws from which dark blood oozed. Once more Tang Ciaco raised his arm, but Baldo suddenly clung to it
with both hands and begged him to stop. Enough, father, enough. Dont beat it anymore, he entreated.
Tears flowed down his upraised face.

Tang Ciaco shook him off with an oath. Baldo fell on his face in the dust. He did not rise, but cried and
sobbed and tore his hair. The rays of the rising sun fell brightly upon him, turned to gold the dust that he
raised with his kicking feet.

Tang Ciaco dealt the battered puppy another blow and at last it lay limpy still. He kicked it over and
watched for a sign of life. The puppy did not move where it lay twisted on its side.

He turned his attention to Baldo.

Get up, he said, hoarsely, pushing the boy with his foot.

Baldo was deaf. He went on crying and kicking in the dust. Tang Ciaco struck him with the piece of wood
in his hand and again told him to get up. Baldo writhed and cried harder, clasping his hands over the back
of his head. Tang Ciaco took hold of one of the boys arms and jerked him to his feet. Then he began to
beat him, regardless of where the blows fell.

Baldo encircled his head with his loose arm and strove to free himself, running around his father,
plunging backward, ducking and twisting. Shameless son of a whore, Tang Ciaco roared. Stand still,
Ill teach you to obey me. He shortened his grip on the arm of Baldo and laid on his blows. Baldo fell to
his knees, screaming for mercy. He called on his mother to help him.

Nana Elang came down, but she hesitated at the foot of the ladder. Ambo ran to her. You too, Tang
Ciaco cried, and struck at the fleeing Ambo. The piece of firewood caught him behind the knees and he
fell on his face. Nana Elang ran to the fallen boy and picked him up, brushing his clothes with her hands
to shake off the dust.

Tang Ciaco pushed Baldo toward her. The boy tottered forward weakly, dazed and trembling. He had
ceased to cry aloud, but he shook with hard, spasmodic sobs which he tried vainly to stop.

Here take your child, Tang Ciaco said, thickly.

He faced the curious students and neighbors who had gathered by the side of the road. He yelled at them
to go away. He said it was none of their business if he killed his children.

They are mine, he shouted. I feed them and I can do anything I like with them.

The students ran hastily to school. The neighbors returned to their work.

Tang Ciaco went to the house, cursing in a loud voice. Passing the dead puppy, he picked it up by its hind
legs and flung it away. The black and white body soared through the sunlit air; fell among the tall corn
behind the house. Tang Ciaco, still cursing and grumbling, strode upstairs. He threw the chunk of
firewood beside the stove. He squatted by the low table and began eating the breakfast his wife had
prepared for him.

Nana Elang knelt by her children and dusted their clothes. She passed her hand over the red welts on
Baldo, but Baldo shook himself away. He was still trying to stop sobbing, wiping his tears away with his
forearm. Nana Elang put one arm around Ambo. She sucked the wound in his hand. She was crying
silently.

When the mother of the puppies returned, she licked the remaining four by the small bridge of woven
split bamboo. She lay down in the dust and suckled her young. She did not seem to miss the black-spotted
puppy.

Afterward Baldo and Ambo searched among the tall corn for the body of the dead puppy. Tang Ciaco had
gone to work and would not be back till nightfall. In the house, Nana Elang was busy washing the
breakfast dishes. Later she came down and fed the mother dog. The two brothers were entirely hidden by
the tall corn plants. As they moved about among the slender stalks, the corn-flowers shook agitatedly.
Pollen scattered like gold dust in the sun, falling on the fuzzy green leaves.

When they found the dead dog, they buried it in one corner of the field. Baldo dug the grove with a sharp-
pointed stake. Ambo stood silently by, holding the dead puppy.

When Baldo finished his work, he and his brother gently placed the puppy in the hole. Then they covered
the dog with soft earth and stamped on the grave until the disturbed ground was flat and hard again. With
difficulty they rolled a big stone on top of the grave. Then Baldo wound an arm around the shoulders of
Ambo and without a word they hurried up to the house.

The sun had risen high above the Katayaghan hills, and warm, golden sunlight filled Nagrebcan. The mist
on the tobacco fields had completely dissolved.

The Chieftest Mourner by Aida Rivera-Ford

He was my uncle because he married my aunt (even if he had not come to her these past ten years), so
when the papers brought the news of his death, I felt that some part of me had died, too.

I was boarding then at a big girls college in Manila and I remember quite vividly that a few other girls
were gathered about the lobby of our school, looking very straight and proper since it was seven in the
morning and the starch in our long-sleeved uniform had not yet given way. I tried to be brave while I read
that my uncle had actually been the last of a distinct school of Philippine poets. I was still being brave
all the way down the lengthy eulogies, until I got to the line which said that he was the sweetest lyre that
ever throbbed with Malayan chords. Something caught at my throat and I let out one sobthe rest merely
followed. When the girls hurried over to me to see what had happened, I could only point to the item on
the front page with my uncles picture taken when he was still handsome. Everybody suddenly spoke in a
low voice and Ning who worshipped me said that I shouldnt be so unhappy because my uncle was now
with the other great poets in heavenat which I really howled in earnest because my uncle had not only
deserted poor Aunt Sophia but had also been living with another woman these many years and, most
horrible of all, he had probably died in her embrace!


Perhaps I received an undue amount of commiseration for the death of the delinquent husband of my aunt,
but it wasnt my fault because I never really lied about anything; only, nobody thought to ask me just how
close an uncle he was. It wasnt my doing either when, some months after his demise, my poem entitled
The Rose Was Not So Fair O Alma Mater was captioned by the niece of the late beloved Filipino Poet.
And that having been printed, I couldnt possibly refuse when I was asked to write on My UncleThe
Poetry of His Life. The article, as printed, covered only his boyhood and early manhood because our
adviser cut out everything that happened after he was married. She said that the last half of his life was
not exactly poetic, although I still maintain that in his vices, as in his poetry, he followed closely the
pattern of the great poets he admired.

My aunt used to relate that he was an extremely considerate manwhen he was sober, and on those
occasions he always tried to make up for his past sins. She said that he had never meant to marry,
knowing the kind of husband he would make, but that her beauty drove him out of his right mind. My
aunt always forgave him but one day she had more than she could bear, and when he was really drunk,
she tied him to a chair with a strong rope to teach him a lesson. She never saw him drunk again, for as
soon as he was able to, he walked out the door and never came back.

I was very little at that time, but I remembered that shortly after he went away, my aunt put me in a car
and sent me to his hotel with a letter from her. Uncle ushered me into his room very formally and while I
looked all around the place, he prepared a special kind of lemonade for the two of us. I was sorry he
poured it out into wee glasses because it was unlike any lemonade I had ever tasted. While I sipped
solemnly at my glass, he inquired after my aunt. To my surprise, I found myself answering with alacrity. I
was happy to report all details of my aunts health, including the number of crabs she ate for lunch and
the amazing fact that she was getting fatter and fatter without the benefit of Scotts Emulsion or Ovaltine
at all. Uncle smiled his beautiful somber smile and drew some poems from his desk. He scribbled a
dedication on them and instructed me to give them to my aunt. I made much show of putting the empty
glass down but Uncle was dense to the hint. At the door, however, he told me that I could have some
lemonade every time I came to visit him. Aunt Sophia was so pleased with the poems that she kissed me.
And then all of a sudden she looked at me queerly and made a most peculiar request of me. She asked me
to say ha-ha, and when I said ha-ha, she took me to the sink and began to wash the inside of my mouth
with soap and water while calling upon a dozen of the saints to witness the act. I never got a taste of
Uncles lemonade.

It began to be a habit with Aunt Sophia to drop in for a periodic recital of woe to which Mama was a
sympathetic audience. The topic of the conversation was always the latest low on Uncles state of misery.
It gave Aunt Sophia profound satisfaction to relay the report of friends on the number of creases on
Uncles shirt or the appalling decrease in his weight. To her, the fact that Uncle was getting thinner
proved conclusively that he was suffering as a result of the separation. It looked as if Uncle would not be
able to hold much longer, the way he was reported to be thinner each time, because Uncle didnt have
much weight to start with. The paradox of the situation, however, was that Aunt Sophia was now
crowding Mama off the sofa and yet she wasnt looking very happy either.

When I was about eleven, there began to be a difference. Everytime I came into the room when Mama
and Aunt Sophia were holding conference, the talk would suddenly be switched to Spanish. It was about
this time that I took an interest in the Spanish taught in school. It was also at this time that Aunt Sophia
exclaimed over my industry at the pianowhich stood a short distance from the sofa. At first I couldnt
gather much except that Uncle was not any more the main topic. It was a woman by the name of Esaor
so I thought she was called. Later I began to appreciate the subtlety of the Spanish la mujer esa.

And so I learned about the woman. She was young, accomplished, a woman of means. (A surprising
number of connotations were attached to these terms.) Aunt Sophia, being a loyal wife, grieved that Uncle
should have been ensnared by such a woman, thinking not so much of herself but of his career. Knowing
him so well, she was positive that he was unhappier than ever, for that horrid woman never allowed him
to have his own way; she even denied him those little drinks which he took merely to aid him into poetic
composition. Because the woman brazenly followed Uncle everywhere, calling herself his wife, a
confusing situation ensued. When people mentioned Uncles wife, there was no way of knowing whether
they referred to my aunt or to the woman. After a while a system was worked out by the mutual friends of
the different parties. No. 1 came to stand for Aunt Sophia and No. 2 for the woman.

I hadnt seen Uncle since the episode of the lemonade, but one day in school all the girls were asked to
come down to the lecture roomUncle was to read some of his poems! Up in my room, I stopped to fasten
a pink ribbon to my hair thinking the while how I would play my role to perfectionfor the dear niece was
to be presented to the uncle she had not seen for so long. My musings were interrupted, however, when a
girl came up and excitedly bubbled that she had seen my uncleand my aunt, who was surprisingly young
and so very modern!

I couldnt go down after all; I was indisposed.

Complicated as the situation was when Uncle was alive, it became more so when he died. I was puzzling
over who was to be the official widow at his funeral when word came that I was to keep Aunt Sophia
company at the little chapel where the service would be held. I concluded with relief that No. 2 had
decamped.

The morning wasnt far gone when I arrived at the chapel and there were only a few people present. Aunt
Sophia was sitting in one of the front pews at the right section of the chapel. She had on a black and white
print which managed to display its full yardage over the seat. Across the aisle from her was a very slight
woman in her early thirties who was dressed in a dramatic black outfit with a heavy veil coming up to her
forehead. Something about her made me suddenly aware that Aunt Sophias bag looked paunchy and
worn at the corners. I wanted to ask my aunt who she was but after embracing me when I arrived, she
kept her eyes stolidly fixed before her. I directed my gaze in the same direction. At the front was the
presidents immense wreath leaning heavily backward, like that personage himself; and a pace behind, as
though in deference to it, were other wreaths arranged according to the rank and prominence of the people
who had sent them. I suppose protocol had something to do with it.

I tiptoed over to the muse before Uncle as he lay in the dignity of death, the faintest trace of his somber
smile still on his face. My eyes fell upon a cluster of white flowers placed at the foot of the casket. It was
ingeniously fashioned in the shape of a dove and it bore the inscription From the Loyal One. I looked at
Aunt Sophia and didnt see anything dove-like about her. I looked at the slight woman in black and knew
of a sudden that she was the woman. A young man, obviously a brother or a nephew, was bending over
her solicitously. I took no notice of him even though he had elegant manners, a mischievous cowlick,
wistful eyes, a Dennis Morgan chin, and a pin which testified that he belonged to what we girls called our
brother college. I showed him that he absolutely did not exist for me, especially when I caught him
looking in our direction.

I always feel guilty of sacrilege everytime I think of it, but there was something grimly ludicrous about
my uncles funeral. There were two women, each taking possession of her portion of the chapel just as
though stakes had been laid, seemingly unmindful of each other, yet revealing by this studied disregard
that each was very much aware of the other. As though to give balance to the scene, the young man stood
his full height near the woman to offset the collective bulk of Aunt Sophia and myself, although I was
merely a disproportionate shadow behind her.

The friends of the poet began to come. They paused a long time at the door, surveying the scene before
they marched self-consciously towards the casket. Another pause there, and then they wrenched
themselves from the spot and movedno, slitheredeither towards my aunt or towards the woman. The
choice must have been difficult when they knew both. The women almost invariably came to talk to my
aunt whereas most of the men turned to the woman at the left. I recognized some important Malacaang
men and some writers from seeing their pictures in the papers. Later in the morning a horde of black-clad
women, the sisters and cousins of the poet, swept into the chapel and came directly to where my aunt sat.
They had the same deep eye-sockets and hollow cheek-bones which had lent a sensitive expression to the
poets face but which on them suggested t.b. The air became dense with the sickly-sweet smell of many
flowers clashing and I went over to get my breath of air. As I glanced back, I had a crazy surrealist
impression of mouths opening and closing into Aunt Sophias ear, and eyes darting toward the woman at
the left. Uncles clan certainly made short work of my aunt for when I returned, she was sobbing. As
though to comfort her, one of the women said, in a whisper which I heard from the door, that the
president himself was expected to come in the afternoon.

Toward lunchtime, it became obvious that neither my aunt nor the woman wished to leave ahead of the
other. I could appreciate my aunts delicadeza in this matter but then got hungry and therefore grew
resourceful: I called a taxi and told her it was at the door with the meter on. Aunt Sophias unwillingness
lasted as long as forty centavos.

We made up for leaving ahead of the woman by getting back to the chapel early. For a long time she did
not come and when Uncles kinswomen arrived, I thought their faces showed a little disappointment at
finding the left side of the chapel empty. Aunt Sophia, on the other hand, looked relieved. But at about
three, the woman arrived and I perceived at once that there was a difference in her appearance. She wore
the same black dress but her thick hair was now carefully swept into a regal coil; her skin glowing; her
eyes, which had been striking enough, looked even larger. The eyebrows of the women around me started
working and finally, the scrawniest of the poets relations whispered to the others and slowly, together,
they closed in on the woman.

I went over to sit with my aunt who was gazing not so steadily at nothing in particular.

At first the women spoke in whispers, and then the voices rose a trifle. Still, everybody was polite. There
was more talking back and forth, and suddenly the conversation wasnt polite any more. The only good
thing about it was that now I could hear everything distinctly.

So you want to put me in a corner, do you? You think perhaps you can bully me out of here? the
woman said.

Shh! Please dont create a scene, the poets sisters said, going one pitch higher.

Its you who are creating a scene. Didnt you come here purposely to start one?

Were only trying to make you see reason. If you think of the dead at all

Lets see who has the reason. I understand that you want me to leave, isnt it? Now that he is dead and
cannot speak for me you think I should quietly hide in a corner? The womans voice was now pitched up
for the benefit of the whole chapel. Let me ask you. During the war when the poet was hard up do you
suppose I deserted him? Whose jewels do you think we sold when he did not make money When he
was ill, who was it who stayed at his side Who took care of him during all those months and who
peddled his books and poems to the publishers so that he could pay for the hospital and doctors bills?
Did any of you come to him then? Let me ask you that! Now that he is dead you want me to leave his side
so that you and that vieja can have the honors and have your picture taken with the president. Thats what
you want, isnt itto pose with the president.

Por Dios! Make her stop itsomebody stop her mouth! cried Aunt Sophia, her eyes going up to heaven.

Now you listen, you scandalous woman, one of the clan said, taking it up for Aunt Sophia. We dont
care for the honorswe dont want it for ourselves. But we want the poet to be honored in death to have
a decent and respectable funeral without scandal and the least you can do is to leave him in peace as he
lies there.

Yes, the scrawny one said. Youve created enough scandal for him in lifethats why we couldnt go
to him when he was sick because you were there, youyou shameless bitch.

The womans face went livid with shock and rage. She stood wordless while her young protector, his
eyes blazing, came between her and the poets kinswomen. Her face began to twitch. And then the sobs
came. Big noisy sobs that shook her body and spilled the tears down her carefully made-up face. Fitfully,
desperately, she tugged at her eyes and nose with her widows veil. The young man took hold of her
shoulders gently to lead her away, but she shook free; and in a few quick steps she was there before the
casket, looking down upon that infinitely sad smile on Uncles face. It may have been a second that she
stood there, but it seemed like a long time.

All right, she blurted, turning about. All right. You can have himall thats left of him!

At that moment before she fled, I saw what I had waited to see. The mascara had indeed run down her
cheeks. But somehow it wasnt funny at all.

Faith, Love, Time and Dr. Lazaro by Gregorio C. Brillantes

From the upstairs veranda, Dr. Lazaro had a view of stars, the country darkness, the lights on the distant
highway at the edge of town. The phonograph in the sala played Chopin like a vast sorrow controlled,
made familiar, he had wont to think. But as he sat there, his lean frame in the habitual slack repose took
after supper, and stared at the plains of night that had evoked gentle images and even a kind of peace (in
the end, sweet and invincible oblivion), Dr. Lazaro remembered nothing, his mind lay untouched by any
conscious thought, he was scarcely aware of the April heat; the pattern of music fell around him and
dissolved swiftly, uncomprehended. It was as though indifference were an infection that had entered his
blood it was everywhere in his body. In the scattered light from the sala his angular face had a dusty,
wasted quality, only his eyes contained life. He could have remained there all evening, unmoving, and
buried, it is were, in a strange half-sleep, had his wife not come to tell him he was wanted on the phone.
The man was calling from a service station outside the town the station after the agricultural high
school, and before the San Miguel bridge, the man added rather needlessly, in a voice that was frantic yet
oddly subdued and courteous. Dr. Lazaro thad heard it countless times, in the corridors of the hospitals, in
waiting rooms: the perpetual awkward misery. He was Pedro Esteban, the brother of the doctors tenant in
Nambalan, said the voice, trying to make itself less sudden remote.Gradually his mind stirred, focused; as
he rose from the chair he recognized the somber passage in the sonata that, curiosly, made him think of
ancient monuments, faded stone walls, a greyness. The brain filed away an image; and arrangement of
sounds released it He switched off the phonograph, suppressed and impatient quiver in his throat as he
reached for the phone: everyone had a claim on his time. He thought: Why not the younger ones for a
change? He had spent a long day at the provincial hospital.

But the connection was faulty, there was a humming in the wires, as though darkness had added to the
distance between the house in the town and the gas station beyond the summer fields. Dr. Lazaro could
barely catch the severed phrases. The mans week-old child had a high fever, a bluish skin; its mouth
would not open to suckle. They could not take the baby to the poblacion, they would not dare move it; its
body turned rigid at the slightest touch. If the doctor would consent to come at so late an hour, Esteban
would wait for him at the station. If the doctor would be so kind

Tetanus of the newborn: that was elementary, and most likely it was so hopeless, a waste of time. Dr.
Lazaro said yes, he would be there; he had committed himself to that answer, long ago; duty had taken the
place of an exhausted compassion. The carelessness of the poor, the infected blankets, the toxin moving
toward the heart: they were casual scribbled items in a clinical report. But outside the grilled windows,
the night suddenly seemed alive and waiting. He had no choice left now but action: it was the only
certitude he sometimes reminded himself even if it would prove futile, before, the descent into
nothingness.

His wife looked up from her needles and twine, under the shaded lamp of the bedroom; she had finished
the pullover for the grandchild in Bagiuo and had begun work, he noted, on another of those altar
vestments for the parish church. Religion and her grandchild certainly kept her busy She looked at
him, into so much to inquire as to be spoken to: a large and placid woman.

Shouldnt have let the drive go home so early, Dr. Lazaro said. They had to wait till now to call
Childs probably dead

Ben can drive for you.

I hardly see that boy around the house. He seems to be on vacation both from home and in school.

Hes downstairs, his wife said.

Dr. Lazaro put on fresh shirt, buttoned it with tense, abrupt motions, I thought hed gone out again
Whos that girl hes been seeing?Its not just warm, its hot. You shouldve stayed on in Baguio
Theres disease, suffering, death, because Adam ate the apple. They must have an answer to everything
He paused at the door, as though for the echo of his words.

Mrs. Lazaro had resumed the knitting; in the circle of yellow light, her head bowed, she seemed absorbed
in some contemplative prayer. But her silences had ceased t disturb him, like the plaster saints she kept in
the room, in their cases of glass, or that air she wore of conspiracy, when she left with Ben for Mass in the
mornings. Dr. Lazaro would ramble about miracle drugs, politics, music, the common sense of his
unbelief; unrelated things strung together in a monologue; he posed questions, supplied with his own
answers; and she would merely nod, with an occasional Yes? and Is that so? and something like a
shadow of anxiety in her gaze.

He hurried down the curving stairs, under the votive lamps of the Sacred Heart. Ben lay sprawled on the
sofa, in the front parlor; engrossed in a book, one leg propped against the back cushions. Come along,
were going somewhere, Dr. Lazaro said, and went into the clinic for his medical bag. He added a vial of
penstrep, an ampule of caffeine to the satchels contents; rechecked the bag before closing it; the cutgut
would last just one more patient. One can only cure, and know nothing beyond ones work There had
been the man, today, in the hospital: the cancer pain no longer helped by the doses of morphine; the
patientss eyes flickering their despair in the eroded face. Dr. Lazaro brushed aside the stray vision as he
strode out of the whitewashed room; he was back in his element, among syringes, steel instruments, quick
decisions made without emotion, and it gave him a kind of blunt energy.

Ill drive, Pa? Ben followed him through the kitchen, where the maids were ironing the weeks wash,
gossiping, and out to the yard shrouded in the dimness of the single bulb under the eaves. The boy push
back the folding doors of the garage and slid behind the wheel.

Somebodys waiting at the gas station near San Miguel. You know the place?

Sure, Ben said.

The engine sputtered briefly and stopped. Batterys weak, Dr. Lazaro said. Try it without the lights,
and smelled the gasoline overflow as the old Pontiac finally lurched around the house and through the
trellised gate, its front sweeping over the dry dusty street.

But hes all right, Dr. Lazaro thought as they swung smoothly into the main avenue of the town, past the
church and the plaza, the kiosko bare for once in a season of fiestas, the lam-posts shining on the quiet
square. They did not speak; he could sense his sons concentration on the road, and he noted, with a
tentative amusement, the intense way the boy sat behind the wheel, his eagerness to be of help. They
passed the drab frame houses behind the marketplace, and the capitol building on its landscaped hill, the
gears shifting easily as they went over the railroad tracks that crossed the asphalted street.

Then the road was pebbled and uneven, the car bucking slightly; and they were speeding between open
fields, a succession of narrow wooden bridges breaking the crunching drive of the wheels. Dr. Lazaro
gazed at the wide darkness around them, the shapes of trees and bushes hurling toward them and sliding
away and he saw the stars, hard glinting points of light yards, black space, infinite distances; in the
unmeasured universe, mans life flared briefly and was gone, traceless in the void. He turned away from
the emptiness. He said: You seem to have had a lot of practice, Ben.

A lot of what, Pa?

The ways you drive. Very professional.

In the glow of the dashboard lights, the boys face relaxed, smiled. Tio Cesar let me use his car, in
Manila. On special occasions.

No reckless driving now, Dr. Lazaro said. Some fellows think its smart. Gives them a thrill. Dont be
like that.

No, I wont, Pa. I just like to drive and and go place, thats all.

Dr. Lazaro watched the young face intent on the road, a cowlick over the forehead, the mall curve of the
nose, his own face before he left to study in another country, a young student of full illusions, a lifetime
ago; long before the loss of faith, God turning abstract, unknowable, and everywhere, it seemed to him,
those senseless accidents of pain. He felt a need to define unspoken things, to come closer somehow to
the last of his sons; one of these days, before the boys vacation was over, they might to on a picnic
together, a trip to the farm; a special day for the two of them father and son, as well as friends. In the
two years Ben had been away in college, they had written a few brief, almost formal letters to each other:
your money is on the way, these are the best years, make the most of them

Time was moving toward them, was swirling around and rushing away and it seemed Dr. Lazaro could
almost hear its hallow receding roar; and discovering his sons profile against the flowing darkness, he
had a thirst to speak. He could not find what it was he had meant to say.

The agricultural school buildings came up in the headlights and glided back into blurred shapes behind a
fence.

What was that book you were reading, Ben?

A biography, the boy said.

Statesman? Scientist maybe?

Its about a guy who became a monk.

Thats your summer reading? Dr. Lazaro asked with a small laugh, half mockery, half affection.
Youre getting to be a regular saint, like your mother.

Its an interesting book, Ben said.

I can imagine He dropped the bantering tone. I suppose youll go on to medicine after your AB?

I dont know yet, Pa.

Tiny moth like blown bits of paper flew toward the windshield and funneled away above them. You
dont have to be a country doctor like me, Ben. You could build up a good practice in the city.
Specialized in cancer, maybe or neuro-surgery, and join a good hospital. It was like trying to recall some
rare happiness, in the car, in the shifting darkness.

Ive been thinking about it, Ben said. Its a vocation, a great one. Being able to really help people, I
mean.

Youve done well in math, havent you?

Well enough, I guess, Ben said.

Engineering is a fine course too, Dr. Lazaro said. Therell be lots of room for engineers. Planners and
builders, they are what this country needs. Far too many lawyers and salesmen these days. Now if your
brother He closed his eyes, erasing the slashed wrists, part of the future dead in a boarding-house
room, the landlady whimpering, He was such a nice boy, doctor, your son Sorrow lay in ambush
among the years.

I have all summer to think about, Ben said.

Theres no hurry, Dr. Lazaro said. What was it he had wanted to say? Something about knowing each
other, about sharing; no, it was not that at all

The stations appeared as they coasted down the incline of a low hill, its fluorescent lights the only
brightness on the plain before them, on the road that led farther into deeper darkness. A freight truck was
taking on a load of gasoline as they drove up the concrete apron and came to a stop beside the station
shed.

A short barefoot man in a patchwork shirt shuffled forward to meet them.

I am Esteban, doctor, the man said, his voice faint and hoarse, almost inaudible, and he bowed slightly
with a careful politeness. He stood blinking, looking up at the doctor, who had taken his bag and
flashlight form the car.

In the windless space, Dr. Lazaro could hear Estebans labored breathing, the clank of the metal nozzle as
the attendant replaced it in the pump. The men in the truck stared at them curiously.

Esteban said, pointing at the darkness beyond the road: We will have to go through those fields, doctor,
then cross the river, The apology for yet one more imposition was a wounded look in his eyes. He added,
in his subdued voice: Its not very far Ben had spoken to the attendants and was locking the car.

The truck rumbled and moved ponderously onto the road, its throb strong and then fading in the warm
night stillness.

Lead the way, Dr. Lazaro said, handing Esteban the flashlight.

They crossed the road, to a cleft in the embankment that bordered the fields, Dr. Lazaro was sweating
now in the dry heat; following the swinging ball of the flashlight beam, sorrow wounded by the stifling
night, he felt he was being dragged, helplessly, toward some huge and complicated error, a meaningless
ceremony. Somewhere to his left rose a flapping of wings, a bird cried among unseen leaves: they walked
swiftly, and there was only the sound of the silence, the constant whirl of crickets and the whisper of their
feet on the path between the stubble fields.

With the boy close behind him, Dr. Lazaro followed Esteban down a clay slope to the slope and ripple of
water in the darkness. The flashlight showed a banca drawn up at the rivers edge. Esteban wade waist-
deep into the water, holding the boat steady as Dr. Lazaro and Ben stepped on the board. In the darkness,
with the opposite bank like the far rise of an island, Dr. Lazaro had a moments tremor of fear as the boar
slide out over the black water; below prowled the deadly currents; to drown her in the dephts of the
night But it took only a minute to cross the river. Were here doctor, Esteban said, and they padded p
a stretch of sand to a clump of trees; a dog started to bark, the shadows of a kerosene lamp wavered at a
window.

Unsteady on a steep ladder, Dr. Lazaro entered the cave of Estebans hut. The single room contained the
odors he often encountered but had remained alien to, stirring an impersonal disgust: the sourish decay,
the smells of the unaired sick. An old man greeted him, lisping incoherently; a woman, the grandmother,
sat crouched in a corner, beneath a famed print of the Mother of Perpetual Help; a boy, about ten, slept
on, sprawled on a mat. Estebans wife, pale and thin, lay on the floor with the sick child beside her.

Motionless, its tiny blue-tinged face drawn way from its chest in a fixed wrinkled grimace, the infant
seemed to be straining to express some terrible ancient wisdom.

Dr. Lazaro made a cursory check skin dry, turning cold; breathing shallow; heartbeat fast and irregular.
And I that moment, only the child existed before him; only the child and his own mind probing now like a
hard gleaming instrument. How strange that it should still live, his mind said as it considered the spark
that persisted within the rigid and tortured body. He was alone with the child, his whole being focused on
it, in those intense minutes shaped into a habit now by so many similar instances: his physicians
knowledge trying to keep the heart beating, to revive an ebbing life and somehow make it rise again.

Dr. Lazaro removed the blankets that bundled the child and injected a whole ampule to check the tonic
spasms, the needle piercing neatly into the sparse flesh; he broke another ampule, with deft precise
movements, and emptied the syringe, while the infant lay stiff as wood beneath his hands. He wiped off
the sweat running into his eyes, then holding the rigid body with one hand, he tried to draw air into the
faltering lungs, pressing and releasing the chest; but even as he worked to rescue the child, the bluish
color of its face began to turn gray.

Dr. Lazaro rose from his crouch on the floor, a cramped ache in his shoulders, his mouth dry. The
lamplight glistened on his pale hollow face as he confronted the room again, the stale heat, the poverty.
Esteban met his gaze; all their eyes were upon him, Ben at the door, the old man, the woman in the
corner, and Estebans wife, in the trembling shadows.

Esteban said: Doctor..

He shook his head, and replaced the syringe case in his bag, slowly and deliberately, and fastened the
clasp. T Here was murmuring him, a rustle across the bamboo floor, and when he turned, Ben was
kneeling beside the child. And he watched, with a tired detached surprise, as the boy poured water from a
coconut shell on the infants brow. He caught the words half-whispered in the quietness: .. in the name
of the Father.. the Son the Holy Ghost

The shadows flapped on the walls, the heart of the lamp quivering before it settled into a slender flame.
By the river dogs were barking. Dr. Lazaro glanced at his watch; it was close to midnight. Ben stood over
the child, the coconut shell in his hands, as though wandering what next to do with it, until he saw his
father nod for them to go.

Doctor, tell us Esteban took a step forward.

I did everything: Dr. Lazaro said. Its too late

He gestured vaguely, with a dull resentment; by some implicit relationship, he was also responsible, for
the misery in the room, the hopelessness. Theres nothing more I can do, Esteban, he said. He thought
with a flick of anger: Soon the child will be out of it, you ought to be grateful. Estebans wife began to
cry, a weak smothered gasping, and the old woman was comforting her, it is the will of God, my
daughter

In the yard, Esteban pressed carefully folded bills into the doctors hand; the limp, tattered feel of the
money was sort of the futile journey, I know this is not enough, doctor, Esteban said. As you can see
we are very poor I shall bring you fruit, chickens, someday

A late moon had risen, edging over the tops of the trees, and in the faint wash of its light, Esteban guided
them back to the boat. A glimmering rippled on the surface of the water as they paddled across,; the white
moonlight spread in the sky, and a sudden wind sprang rain-like and was lost in the tress massed on the
riverbank.

I cannot thank you enough, doctor, Esteban said. You have been very kind to come this far, at this
hour. His trail is just over there, isnt it? He wanted to be rid of the man, to be away from the shy
humble voice, the prolonged wretchedness.

I shall be grateful always, doctor, Esteban said. And to you son, too. God go with you. He was a
faceless voice withdrawing in the shadows, a cipher in the shabby crowds that came to town on market
days.

Lets go, Ben Dr. Lazaro said.

They took the path across the field; around them the moonlight had transformed the landscape, revealing
a gentle, more familiar dimension, a luminous haze upon the trees stirring with a growing wind; and the
heat of the night had passed, a coolness was falling from the deep sky. Unhurried, his pace no more than a
casual stroll, Dr. Lazaro felt the oppression of the night begin to life from him, an emotionless calm
returned to his mind. The sparrow does not fall without the Fathers leave he mused at the sky, but it falls
just the same. But to what end are the sufferings of a child? The crickets chirped peacefully in the moon-
pale darkness beneath the trees.

You baptized the child, didnt you, Ben?

Yes, Pa. The boy kept in the step beside him.

He used to believe in it, too. The power of the Holy Spirit washing away original sin, the purified soul
made heir of heaven. He could still remember fragments of his boy hood faith, as one might remember an
improbable and long-discarded dream.

Lay baptism, isnt that the name for it?

Yes, Ben said. I asked the father. The baby hadnt been baptized. He added as they came to the
embankment that separated the field from the road: They were waiting for it to get well.

The station had closed, with only the canopy light and the blobed neon sign left burning. A steady wind
was blowing now across the field, the moonlit plains.

He saw Ben stifle a yawn. Ill drive, Dr. Lazaro said.

His eyes were not what they used to be, and he drove leaning forward, his hands tight on the wheel. He
began to sweat again, and the empty road and the lateness and the memory of Esteban and of the child
dying before morning in the impoverished, lamp-lit room fused into tired melancholy. He started to think
of his other son, one he had lost.

He said, seeking conversation, if other people carried on like you, Ben, the priests would be run out of
business.

The boy sat beside him, his face averted, not answering.

Now, youll have an angel praying for you in heaven, Dr. Lazaro said, teasing, trying to create an easy
mood between them. What if you hadnt baptized the baby and it died? What would happen to it then?

It wont see God, Ben said.

But isnt that unfair? It was like riddle, trivial, but diverting. Just because.

Maybe God has another remedy, Ben said. I dont know. But the church says.

He could sense the boy groping for the tremendous answers. The Church teaches, the church says.
God: Christ: the communications of saints: Dr. Lazaro found himself wondering about the world of
novenas and candles, where bread and wine became the flesh and blood of the Lord, and a woman bathed
in light appeared before children, and mortal men spoke of eternal life; the visions of God, the bodys
resurrection at the end of time. It was a country from which he was barred; no matter the customs, the
geography didnt appeal to him. But in the care suddenly, driving through the night, he was aware of an
obscure disappointment, a subtle pressure around his heart, as though he had been deprived of a certain
joy

A bus roared around a hill toward, its lights blinding him, and he pulled to the side of the road, braking
involuntarily as a billow of dust swept over the car. He had not closed the window on his side, and the
flung dust poured in, the thick brittle powder almost choking him, making him cough, his eyes smarting,
before he could shield his face with his hands. In the headlights, the dust sifted down and when the air
was clear again, Dr. Lazaro, swallowing a taste of earth, of darkness, maneuvered the car back onto the
road, his arms exhausted and numb. He drove the last half-mile to town in silence, his mind registering
nothing but the frit of dust in his mouth and the empty road unwinding swiftly before him.

They reached the sleeping town, the desolate streets, the plaza empty in the moonlight, and the huddled
shapes of houses, the old houses that Dr. Lazaro had always know. How many nights had he driven home
like this through the quiet town, with a mans life ended behind him, or a child crying newly risen from
the womb; and a sense of constant motions, of change, of the days moving swiftly toward and immense
revelation touched him once more, briefly, and still he could not find the words. He turned the last corner,
then steered the car down the graveled driveway to the garage, while Ben closed the gate. Dr. Lazaro sat
there a moment, in the stillness, resting his eyes, conscious of the measured beating of his heart, and
breathing a scent of dust that lingered on his clothes, his skin. Slowly he emerged from the car, locking it,
and went around the tower of the water-tank to the front yard where Ben Stood waiting.

With unaccustomed tenderness he placed a hand on Bens shoulder was they turned toward the cement
walled house. They had gone on a trip; they had come home safely together. He felt closer to the boy than
he had ever been in years.

Sorry for keeping you up this late, Dr. Lazaro said.

Its all right, Pa.

Some night, huh, Ben? What you did back in that barrio there was just the slightest patronage in this
one your mother will love to hear about it.

He shook the boy beside him gently. Reverend Father Ben Lazaro.

The impulse of certain humor it was part of the comradeship. He chuckled drowsily: father Lazaro,
what must I do to gain eternal life?

As he slid the door open on the vault of darkness, the familiar depth of the house, it came to Dr. Lazaro
faintly in the late night that for certain things, like love there was only so much time. But the glimmer was
lost instantly, buried in the mist of indifference and sleep rising now in his brain.