One of Neneng’s younger brothers was sprinting towards them. “Ka Neneng,” the boy said, “mother asked me to whisper to you her invitation for Ka Kardo to join us for supper …”
Kardo gave out a chuckle. And the couple walked, with the brother between them, their arms around each other, occasionally touching, discreetly done behind the little boy’s back.
My Country Is a Filipina
The picture that accompanied the letter was that of an eighteen-year-old woman. She was wearing an expensive-looking dress, so fit and snug that it called attention to her delectable figure. Underneath the hemline was a pair of exceedingly well-shaped legs that the picture could not hide. Indeed, from her head crowned with wavy hair, to her ample breasts, her tiny and seductive waist, to the attractive pair of legs, and sandalled dainty and delicate feet, she was truly a vision of loveliness.
Yet, more alluring than those features were her attractive eyes and lips. I ransacked my brain for several moments for the proper words to describe her eyes and lips, but I failed. Even Guini, the real poet, was at a loss for words. Despite this inability to do justice to her beauty, Guini and I agreed that the young woman’s eyes “playfully intimated delight and wonder.” It was easier to describe the lips. Guini proclaimed, “a rose bud about to unfold.” I suggested “pouty lips with faint traces of sweet annoyance.”
The letter where the picture was enclosed came from Captain Alcaraz. In their encounter with the enemies in Villa Verde, “Arturo was hit (you know him). The wound was not life-threatening, and he is presently recuperating in a hospital. I visited him earlier and he requested me to return the picture to its owner. I did not know what to do because I could not leave my post, and so I am asking you to do what Arturo has requested.”
That was true. I did not only know Arturo del Rosario; he was my friend. I could still recall the unusual experience he had to undergo to fulfill his desire to join the guerilla forces.
In 1944, after the recently concluded battle of Saipan, a patrol goup arrived at the barracks of the Kakarong Regiment in Bigaa during the night. According to the sergeant leading the patrol, they captured a spy.
In those days, spies were as numerous as the fleas roaming the head of a slatternly woman, and each suspected spy remained a suspect unless proven otherwise.
I proceeded to the hut where the suspects were being temporarily held and I came across the suspect being investigated.
The suspect sat on a bamboo bench, his hands loosely tied. Surrounding him were operatives peppering him with questions.
I noticed his attire—an expensive suit, made probably of sharskin and white wool. His shoes were made to order. To my mind, the prisoner was either very rich or at the very least, belonged to the middle class.
What aroused suspicion was the man’s insistence that from Manila, where he came from, he had travelled because he really wanted to locate the headquarters of the Kakarong Regiment, and that his wish was to join the guerillas.
When asked for the reason why he wanted to join the guerilla movement despite the hardships it entailed, he replied, his eyes shining brightly. He wanted to serve his country.
According to him, he would never go hungry nor want for anything, but he was willing to turn his back on comfort at a time when his country was reeling from the enemies’ cruelty. He said he wanted to be one with the soldiers in their suffering as they battled the enemies. He claimed he wanted to share in the hunger, thirst, fatigue, and even in the death that came the way of the guerillas fighting a war.
Later, the guerillas decided to put the suspect through a test. That night, the guerillas planned to raid a warehouse in Biba, near the train station in Bigaa, to secure sacks of rice. And this was to be the test.
Major Constantino’s order was clear—to shoot the suspect the moment he attempted to flee from the scene. He might really be a spy tasked to find out who to betray to the Japanese soldiers; the consequences would be terrible.
The events during the raid remained unclear to me, but I was informed by the lieutenant who was with the raiding team that the new recruit displayed courage and skill to avert danger.
And that was Arturo del Rosario that Captain Alcaraz mentioned in his letter.
I often found Arturo at the headquarters. On those evenings when the moon shone brightly, we would sit by the window and talk.
Once, Arturo shared some of his personal experiences. He let on that he was secretly in love with a woman. He and the woman grew up together. And he showed me a picture.
I asked him: “Why don’t you tell her that you love her?”
That was impossible, he replied, because the woman was exceedingly sensitive and might harbor resentment towards him if ever he made known to her his feelings, since they had been treating each other as brother and sister.
“And,” Arturo revealed, “I had wished that when I truly disclosed my love for her, I could offer something at her feet: an important thing that money could not buy, and could not be possessed except through hard work and real effort.”
Arturo spoke well. His voice exuded gentleness and sweetness that were not unusual for a man.
“That was the real motive for wanting to be a guerilla soldier,” he explained. “I thought that in the midst of my country’s suffering, I had to display what my heart felt in any manner towards her glory. And it came to me that, if in my joining the movement, I did fufill my duty and be proclaimed a hero—please do not mock me—I would receive a precious gift that no amount of wealth can buy and which I would lay down at her feet.”
His words led me to conclude that the phrase, “my country,” did not exclusively refer to a place measured in meters and kilometers, but pointed to the emotions dwelling in the hearts of those who inhabited it: the ties that bound two lovers, the affection among brothers and sisters, the parents’ love and desire to obey each other, the family’s warm-hearted relationship—the joy, sorrow, hardship, bitterness, abundance, and love shared and felt by every soul collectively evoking an awesome feeling among its people, a mighty shield in the face of difficulties and even imminent death, should the need arise to pay tribute to the meaning behind the phrase, “my country.”
It was then that I viewed at Arturo in another light. It was at this precise moment that I understood the uncanny sparkle in his eyes, the nobility his unfurrowed forehead signified, the resolute valor in his jaws and chin, the deep sense of loyalty in that heart-shaped face. It was then that the idea raced through my mind that if ever there was a woman who would take pride in her son, that mother was the fortunate woman who had given birth to Arturo.
I remember the day when, hearing how fiercely and recklessly he did battle with the enemies, I sought him out because I was afraid these fearless but daredevil engagements with the enemies would lead to his early death. His response, as he flashed a smile that exposed his even and white teeth: “If I need to fight, I will fight, or else I would pack up my gear, go home to Manila and enjoy myself leafing through the pages of magazines.”
In a matter ot time, and after displaying his immense courage, Major Constantino ordered him to join his group assigned to undertake dangerous missions. And when the major’s men successfully attacked and blew to pieces the warehouse in Biba in Bigaa, where bullets and other ammunition were stored, and when the guerillas set fire to the train wagons carrying gasoline at the train station, it was Arturo himself who lit a bundle of dried rice straws and threw it under the lead train.
I was not surprised when I heard that Arturo had joined the group dispatched by Major Constantino to fight with the Buenavista Regiment. I just hoped that Arturo would survive so that one day in the future, he could offer to the woman he had secretly loved the priceless treasure his courage and patriotism had procured.
For two weeks after I had received the letter and the picture, I was not able to leave for Manila. But then I got another letter from Kapitan Alcaraz. I did not hesitate. I immediately left for the city.
Following the
direction given to me, I easily located the address of the young woman, Arturo’s lodestar. It was not a huge mansion, but it was, nevertheless, a large house and following the current fashion, featured modern and expensive furniture. It was situated in the lair of thieves.
A maid opened the door. I told her why I was there. She asked me to wait for a few minutes. When the maid returned, a woman walked behind her: Arturo’s lodestar.
The picture was not a faithful reproduction. Arturo’s beloved was infinitely lovelier. She did possess those lips like “a rosebud about to unfold” or “pouty lips with traces of sweet annoyance.” I saw her eyes that “playfully intimated delight and wonder.” And to die for were those attractive legs, when for a few seconds her eyes were averted, I had the chance to examine surreptitiously.
The photograph contained no traces of the fine, smooth, silken skin of her face, the graceful gestures of a young woman exuding innate artistry each time she opened her lips, she moved her head, she breathed, and each time she fluttered her lashes—those eyes with thick, curvy eyelashes.
And when she began to speak, Arturo’s passionate worship of her made more sense to me: her voice seemed like some mysterious healing potion that pierced my soul and transported me into a vast silence like the peace that reigned as one listened to heavenly music.
She invited me to join her on the second floor of the house. And there, as we faced one another by the window, separated by a round table covered with a silken cloth, I began to unfold the story of a soldier and a pure love held in secret.
I recalled the events from the time I met Arturo—it was enough to make her realize that the man who had adored her for a long time grew up with her.
And as I disclosed the hardships and sufferings Arturo had to undergo as he vowed to serve his country—in truth a complex juxtaposition of the land circumscribed by the eyes, lips, and voice of a childhood friend, and by a great love that knew how to endure pain—tears of pity began to well up in the woman’s eyes until two drops of tears streamed down her face.
In the middle of our conversation, a distinguished-looking middle-aged man approched us. The woman stood up and introduced me to the man. He was her father.
The man sat beside his daughter and listened intently to me. His mind appeared busy trying to identify the character in the story. Could he be the son of this doctor or this rich man or wealthy matron? He might be the offspring of this man and the sole heir of that woman. He could be the child of that senator. Finally, he asked me for the name of the young man—the young hero—who, because of his deep love for his daughter, willingly offered his life in the face of danger and death.
“His name is Arturo del Rosario, sir,” I said.
The woman’s face turned instantly red and the distinguished-looking man was immediately on his feet, eyes blazing, apoplectic with rage. He was incredulous to hear that the man was Arturo del Rosario.
“Yes, that’s Arturo,” I replied. “Perhaps you knew him.”
The young woman’s face fell to her chest, while her stunned father looked on, with his energy appearing to have been drained away, as he collapsed on the chair. Shocked, the father took some time before he regained his voice while my eyes anxiously flitted between father and daughter.
The father finally spoke. “So, it’s Arturo!” he exclaimed. “I never imagined this. Of course, I knew him. He and my daughter grew up together. He was a good-looking man. He was kind. But he was only the son of our deceased laundry woman, and during the Japanese time, he drove my carretela and looked after my horses.”
It did not affect me in any way to learn that Arturo was merely the son of a laundry woman, nor that he was just a lowly rig driver and a stable keeper.
What filled me with sadness was the slew of abusive and harsh words that flew from the rich man, the father of Arturo’s beloved, who vituperated that because Arturo was born into a poor class, his honesty, his heroism, his valor, his courage, and all his ideals and dreams amounted to nothing.
Suddenly crowding in my frazzled mind were sharp images of the sons of rig drivers, baggage carriers, wood-gatherers, fishermen, farmers, and those whose lives, society had declared, did not matter, who at that time engaged the enemies, fell and died in battlefields, in the plains and hillsides of Villa Verde, Kiangan, Imugan, Antipolo, Tagaytay, Ipo, Infanta, while those pigs and carabaos, unfazed in life and indifferent towards those that owned them, as long as their stomachs were full, lived in their palaces made of paper.
I was immediately on my feet. I deliberately left the picture on the round table. And from my wallet, I took out two silver medals, a Silver Star and a Purple Heart, that Arturo received because of his valor as a soldier and defender.
I addressed the woman who was quiety weeping, head bowed down. “I don’t know what to do, miss. I had been requested to leave Arturo’s two medals in your care. You can always throw them away because they belonged to a mere rig driver.”
Then I turned to the father whose fury still consumed him: “I regret that Arturo was only your rig driver. As a lowly menial, he had absolutely no right to dream and to strive to be a hero, driven by his love for your daughter. But you need not worry. Arturo is dead.”
The young woman accompanied me to the door. No one broke the silence. I looked at her eyes brimming with tears and I sensed her struggle to say something, except that the words remained trapped in her throat.
I sighed wearily when I reached the street. I knew, deep in my heart, that among the hundreds of crosses in the cemetery for soldiers in Sta. Barbara, there remained a cross that would never stand unmourned.
For one hero, the son of a laundry woman, the words “my country,” in any language or uttered in other ways, would always evoke the image of a beloved woman, his lodestar, as long as his memory continued to live in her heart till the end of time.
A Wedding in the Big House
The sun was hardly up when our group from the village arrived in front of the big house. We paused for a moment and gazed at that old house where generations of village captains were born.
Nana Tale gave each one a probing look. “Are you all here?” she asked.
Tinong could not control himself as he sniggered. “Stop counting, Nana Tale. Not one of your maidens bolted from the group.”
All the single men in the group chuckled in amusement, and even the young women smiled, joining the merry exchange.
Nana Tale furrowed her forehead although she retained the smile on her face. “This impertinent Tinong—such a pest early in the morning.”
“But that’s really what is nagging you, Nana Tale,” piped in the naughty Tinong in mock self-defense. “Since when have you spent time worrying about the men?”
A peal of good-humored laughter rang in the air.
From the corner of my eyes, I noticed Belen and Minyang who seemed engrossed talking about the big house. “Yes, isn’t she?” Iting asked.
Doming and I sidled up closer. “Who’s that ‘she’ you’re referring to?” I asked Belen.
“The big house appears to have put on a smile,” was the reply.
Doming grinned sarcastically. “What do you mean? It’s just because the house has been spruced up and is spotlessly clean. We worked our butts off cleaning up, can you believe?”
“But it’s true,” Taling, throwing Doming a sharp look, insisted. “It’s smiling. Take a look! If you’re not blind, you’ll agree …”
In the soft light of sunrise, the big house appeared to open itself up in a warm gesture of welcome. The roof’s red brickstone, that used to be covered with moss, seemed to sparkle. Even the window curtains, gently fluttering in the breeze, appeared to wave happily at the onlookers.
All this time, we did not notice the presence of Donya Isabel. She and her guests had just come back from the first mass at dawn.
“Yes, it is smiling,” she added, a broad smile etched on her face. She threw a glance at her guests who seemed amused listening to what sounded like a childis
h conversation. “Do you know, if it is true that the the spirits of the dead can return to earth, I am certain that my ancestors who dwelt in that house for over a hundred years are in the house, joining in the mirth.”
“That’s right,” a guest observed.
Martin tapped my arm lightly. “Those guests from Manila,” he spoke softly, “the more I think about it, the more I am convinced that they open their mouths without meaning what they say. Did you hear that? I agree, Donya Isabel. You’re right, Donya Isabel! It’s like in a movie!” I could not help but chuckle.
As we walked through the huge doorway, I heard Donya Isabel asking Nana Tale. “Aren’t the others coming, Tale? What about the men? Tandang Tasyo, Tandang Pedro …”
“They’ll be here after lunch. The youngsters came ahead to assist,” Nana Tale explained. “I decided to join them because the young women …” And she glared balefully at us, the young men, wickedly suggesting that we might just spirit them away and take them to God-knows-where.
“What about your father, Tonio?” Donya Isabel turned to me.
For once I could not find my voice “He’ll be here later, ma’am,” I told her and I felt a lump in my throat.
A whiff of mist briefly clouded Donya Isabel’s eyes. She smiled. “Perhaps you are all hungry. These young men have been working like mad for three days.”
“No, ma’am …. What’s hard about the work?” we chorused.
It was said that the long dining table came all the way from a Mindanao sultan and would easily accommodate fifty guests; the table’s surface was made of kamagong, without any patch work. We sat at the table with the guests from Manila. The village girls could not join us because they served the food.
To the arched eyebrows of one of the guests throwing us a quizzical look, Donya Isabel replied with a smile. “Years ago, my late father almost struck me when once, during a party, my father tried to persuade some elderly folk to eat with us. I was still unmarried then, and because I had some of my college classmates as guests, I threw a tantrum …”
Love in the Rice Fields Page 4
