Love in the Rice Fields

by Macario Pineda

  Her eyes briefly shone as she recalled the incident. She flashed a self-deprecating smile. “Little did I realize then who had helped us build whatever small fortune we had.”

  From where they were seated, the guests from Manila threw us curious glances. Doming was looking downward and kept tapping my thigh. Martin concentrated on his food, apparently not paying attention, but his ears had turned beet red. Tinong was slowly chewing his fried chicken. I thought my nose was dipping into my plate. I had the urge to tell the guests from Manila: “Aha, now you know who we are. Just because we only wear slippers …”

  We helped out after eating. And before we sat down for lunch, the task was almost done. The young women had prepared the plates, glasses, and other utensils for a huge feast. Fifty hens had been gutted and cleaned. The men had slaughtered and roasted a cow and two pigs. The huge earthern jars had been filled with water, the dried wood for cooking had been chopped. The cooks were satisfied. True to her role as a self-appointed taskmaster, Nana Tale, endlessly firing off directions, was all over the house seeing to it that things were running smoothly.

  Senyorita Anita and Doctor Arturo, with their handsome male guests and beautiful female friends from Manila, arrived after twelve noon.

  Senyorita Anita was such a vision of loveliness that she seemed to float as she walked. She kissed her mother and together, they proceeded to the spacious living room. Nana Tale’s glinted with tears when she saw the bride and groom. Doming threw a quick look at Taling, while I cast a glance at Belen. Minang was absent-mindedly biting her thumb as she watched.

  We hurriedly cleaned up and donned the barong tagalog from Malabon. Doming and I apprached the women busy scooping ice cream for the guests. “We’ll serve them,” Doming volunteered.

  The women broke up into laughter. “Those hands of yours carrying the trays! You might think these are hoes you’ll take into the hall.” Iting said tartly.

  “Please,” I begged. “I’d very much like to be near Senyorita Anita. At one party, I found myself inexplicably thrust into offering ice cream to her, naku po, she smelled so good.”

  Unbeknownst to me, Senyorita Anita was right behind us. That was why the women were thrown into confusion.

  “A, so you liked the scent of my perfume, Tonio?” I suddenly heard the tinkle of voice behind me. “Don’t worry, I’ll give you some of that perfume in a little while.”

  I tried to get rid of the lump in my throat several times and when I finally spoke, my voice probably sounded dull and dry. “Thank you, Senyorita Anita.”

  She touched my arm and asked, “Tonio, is your father not coming? Won’t he attend?”

  “He will be here,” I replied, as I felt a stab of pain in my chest. I forced mysef to smile. “The truth is, though threatened at knifepoint, my father would willingly face death to see you. You know …”

  “Yes, that’s true. I know he had no choice but to attend our wedding.” She took a deep breath before giving me a gentle smile. “Please call me as soon as he arrives, yes?” she reminded me as she turned away.

  Taling and her friends crowded around me. “You will share the perfume with us, alright?” Taling said. “Me, too, Tonio, ha?” Minang piped in. I glanced at Belen. She was gazing at the distance and seemed oblivious to our conversation.

  I nodded my assent to the requests. And I hastily fled. They might just touch the arm that Senyorita Anita had briefly put her hand on, and my boundless joy might just evaporate.

  I walked towards the huge staircase. The other guests had been arriving in droves. The marble table was overflowing with heaps of gifts. The heady scent of flowers floated in the hall.

  Donya Isabel and Doctor Arturo came into the balcony. “Your father is not here yet, Arturo,” I overheard Donya Isabel telling the young man.

  “He’s not here yet, Nanay. But he promised me that he and Ate would join us,” he said.

  Donya Isabel noticed me. She walked towards me. “I don’t see your father, Tonio,” she said.

  “He might just decide to wait in the church,” I replied.

  “Aba, I don’t like that. He must go down the stairs with my children, Tonio. Why don’t you go to the church and ask him to come over?”

  I did not say anything and hurriedly left to fetch my father.

  I found my father inside the church. He apeared to have just finished saying his prayers. “Donya Isabel asked me to fetch you,” I said, worried that my father would get angry because he might think that I had informed Donya Isabel of his plan to wait for the entourage in the church.

  Without saying a word, my father did as I had asked. He walked with me in total silence until we climbed up the stairs.

  Donya isabel had been waiting for us and when father had reached the top of the stairs, Donya isabel put her arm on his shoulder. “Why, Terong, did you say you would just wait for wedding party in the church?” she asked with a trace of resentment.

  My father kept his silence. “Hummm …” was the only sound that came from him. And my old man blinked, again and again. I noticed Donya Isabel desperately trying to control her tears.

  Everything had been readied for the trip to the church, and it was four o’clock by the church bell when a berlina stopped in front of the gate. Several young women, carrying gifts and flowers, alighted from the car. Doctor Arturo was hurriedly descending the stairs when he caught a glimpse of the last person to get off the car. For a few seconds, he seemed stuck where he was.

  Senyorita Anita also came out and walked down the stairs. She was practically dragging Doctor Arturo as they made their way towards the newly arrived group. The guests from Manila rushed towards the windows, craned their necks, and the incessant murmurs became louder.

  The last woman to get off the car was also the last to approach Anita and the two kissed each other. And then the woman shook Doctor Arturo’s hand.

  “I was beginning to feel rejected, Anita,” the woman said. “But I consoled myself that perhaps my invitation had been sent elsewhere, is that what happened?”

  Laughter rang out, but the awkwardness that gripped the group was palpable.

  “Please come in,” Senyorita Anita asked. It was then that I saw how Doctor Arturo’s face had turned ashen.

  Senyorita Anita buried her face in the huge bouquet she was cradling, as she smelled the flowers. The last woman who alighted from the car briefly joined Anita, bent over, and inhaled the fragrance. Since I stood near where they passed by, I caught a glimpse of a drop of tear that gently fell on a petal. Doctor Arturo, who had been left behind in the balcony, was wiping off his perspiration.

  Donya Isabel turned to Arturo. “She’s such a kind person, Arturo,” Donya Isabel said softly. “Anita and Celia were really good friends when they became estranged because of you.”

  The man daubbed his forehead. “I did not expect her to attend the wedding.”

  Another batch of arrivals in a jitney soon found their way into the doorway. They were Alfonso, Arturo’s father, and his older sister.

  My father and I greeted Mang Alfonso. The two hugged each other. My father had tears in his eyes but Mang Alfonso’s face seemed illumined by a strange light.

  “During the wedding, kneel with us, Terong,” Mang Alfonso whispered to my father. “Consider all those forty years coming back and our dreams living on.”

  “Earlier, while I was at church,” my father slowly said, “I prayed and forgave the late Kapitang Monang for sending me to prison as an act revenge against the two of us.”

  “I did that, too,” Mang Alfonso said in a low voice. “I learned to forgive. I have come to realize that the reason for my exile from this town would culminate, by the grace of God, in today’s event.”

  Mang Alfonso reached out for a bouquet of flowers from Doctor Arturo’s older sister. To my mind, those flowers gained such import in the hands of Mang Alfonso.

  The two friends ascended the stairs and I followed them with measured steps. On the balcony, Doctor Arturo solicitousl
y stood by Donya Isabel’s side.

  Blood seemed to have rushed to Donya Isabel’s face. She could have fallen to the floor had not Doctor Arturo held her firmly.

  The guests from Manila noticed nothing unusual. But for us from the village, who had shared precious moments and history with Donya Isabel’s family, the event was of special significance.

  A radiant smile was etched on Mang Alfonso’s face as he offered the bouquet to Donya Isabel, but his eyes were welling up with tears. He spoke in a pained voice that also intimated a hint of triumph.

  “For you, Isabel,” he slowly and deliberately uttered. “This is 1906. My seventh and youngest son brought the years back. What happened belongs to the past and won’t change. But in a dream, Isabel, the moment they pledge their love for each other …”

  Donya Isabel’s eyes were drenched with tears. “Yes, Ponso,” she mumbled.

  My father rubbed his tears with his fist.

  The bride and her groom knelt in front of the altar as they made their vows. The sponsors—Donya Isabel and Mang Alfonso—were also on their knees, stiff and upright. In the pew, near the back of the church, my father was also kneeling upright.

  “Anita, do you accept …?”

  Nana Tale, seated beside my father and me, was sobbing softly. “Yes, she accepts … she accepts …” my father’s sister muttered in between sobs. “There is no longer a Kapitang Monang who will forcibly prevent the fulfillment of the love between two people …. no one will have my brother imprisoned for carrying love letters for his friend …”

  The sound of the pealing of the bells was joyously mirthful. In the midst of such happiness, a lovely smile had begun to spread on the facade of the big house where generations of village captains once lived.

  Oh My Jesus …

  By Thy Crown of Thorns

  It was past eight o’clock in the evening when we arrived at the house of Nana Hina. There was hardly any space in the crowded living room and a table had been placed near the small balcony for the traditional repast.

  We climbed up the stairs and an altar came to view. The women were at prayer, and Tonio and I momentarily surrendered ourselves to the gentle sound of the plaintive invocations.

  For a few moments, verses from the novena prayers flooded my mind: “Open, my Lord, our lips, let our spirit move forward and cleanse it from senseless, impure, erroneous desires ….”

  The altar was neat and pleasing to the eyes. With the help of a white piece of cloth, kamuning leaves and sheathings from a banana trunk, the altar took on an appearance enticing the viewer to ponder and reflect.

  “Clear our minds, stoke the fire in our hearts to lead us to meditate, with sorrow, on those moments of intense suffering and death, together with the bitter pain Your Blessed Mother had to endure …”

  The kamuning leaves had been deftly arranged to form the name REGINA on the altar, and right below were the words REQUIESCANT IN PACE.

  “May we find ourselves in the presence of the divine power that binds God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Spirit, forever and ever ….”

  Led by Impong Sela, the women murmured their prayers with devotion. The old woman uttered each word in the litany for the dead clearly, the sounds falling from her lips seemingy able to awaken long slumbering feelings in the heart. I turned my back on the group to walk towards the balcony, but after a few minutes, the words coming from Impong Sela when I left continued to reverberate in my mind.

  “Oh my Jesus … by thy crown of thorns ….

  “Have mercy and forgive the soul of Regina …” the voices responded.

  Several men chose to remain in the balcony. They were engaged in desultory talk. Tonio and I kissed the hands of Tata Berto and Ingkong Tomas. “I see the two of you are back,” our uncle said.

  “Yes, uncle.” Tonio replied. “But we’re sorry we were not able to attend the funeral …”

  “We failed to send word to you. But I’m glad you managed to make it to the last day of the novena.” Tata Berto turned to Tonio. “Your Nana Hina doted on you when you were just a small boy, do you remember?”

  From the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of Edo outside the house. I left Tonio and Tata Berto.

  “Cousin,” I greeted him, “we were not here for the funeral. We did not find out soon enough.”

  Edo smiled sadly. “We just did not have enough time to inform everyone.”

  It was last May when I last saw Edo. And it was then that he told me that Nana Hina was steadily losing weight for some reason. They had consulted a doctor who prescribed some pills and vitamins, and she also got injections.

  I distinctly remember Edo muttering. “It was probably because Mother underwent so much suffering and deprivation during the war. Now that we’re all grown up, we can’t do anything …” His voice was full of bitterness as it trailed off.

  I said. “That’s true, if not for the war, your parents would have led a comfortable life, for all their children had stable jobs.”

  “I agree, but when the war broke out, we were forced to look for other jobs. But you know what happened—though we buried ourselves in the occasional work we found, we hardly earned enough to survive …”

  A grim image of the old parents in the latter part of 1944 flashed through my mind—early in the morning, the old man weighed down by two cylindrical baskets hanging from his shoulders, with Nana Hina carrying a huge basket on her head, would rush to the neighboring town to buy fish wholesale. That was what they did for endless days and weeks. Rain or shine, as the sun rose, the two would begin the day, with hardly anything in their stomach, save for a little bit of hot ginger tea.

  “It’s depressing to think that our mother had to go through these hardships when we could have made her life comfortable, since we were grown adults when the war began. It would have caused less pain for them to work hard if they had been younger and we were just dependent children.” Edo let out a long sigh of regret and sadness.

  A woman, her two children in tow, entered the yard. “Oh, it’s you,” she said when she recognized me, “when did you arrive?” To Edo, she explained. “We’re late because I had to tuck in the little ones to sleep, you now how it is. Is Tata Berto upstairs?”

  “He’s in the balcony, Ka Nene,” Edo replied.

  “Please, go in, Ka Nene. Ano, Boy, you’re all grown … How many children do you have, Ka Nene?”

  Ka Nene paused on the second step. “I have five, two of them girls. Naku, they’re a handful. I have chest pains washing their dirty clothes every day.”

  “Leave them be, Nene.” It was my turn to speak. “The day will come when you’ll get your crown. You will receive your just rewards when they grow up.”

  Nene’s face broke into a sad smile and in the dim light cast by the bulbs, I noticed the lines beginning to appear on her forehead and cheeks. Her once robust body had lost its roundness, its freshness gone.

  Edo took a deep breath and clenched his teeth. “People used to tell Mother the same thing when we were young—that once we were older, my mother would be crowned, would be rewarded, relieved from a life of want, her labor reciprocated …. What a horrible lie. A crown, yes. A crown of thorns!”

  I gently placed my hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Don’t wallow in grief and blame fate, cousin. Such is life. And who could say that Nana Hina would not get her crown after giving you everything. Isn’t it the case that before the war, your parents lived in comfort, freed from anxiety because you and your siblings were taking care of their needs?”

  A group of young women came into view. How happy they seemed. I searched each of the young women’s faces—with no trace of worry, with eyes full of dreams, and seemed unfazed by life. Belen, the daughter of Ka Maria, Onor of Nana Ineng, Nene of Kumareng Lucia, Iting of Ka Disyang, they were all there. And so was Minang, daughter of Nana Sencia. I turned my head. I looked around until my eyes caught a glimpse of Tonio still talking with Tata Berto in the balcony.

  After the us
ual greetings at the foot of the stairs, Edo escorted the group to the balcony. Tonio moved to the side to give the young women passage. I knew, without my seeing them, how Minang and Tonio exchanged a meaningful glance. Minang briefly threw Tonio a glance and instantly lowered her gaze to focus her attention on the stairs. The two had not resolved their misunderstanding.

  After a while, a group of young men arrived—Teming of Ka Inso, Ading of Ka Pedro, Narsing of Ka Porong, Pecto of Ka Doro. Their faces seemed untroubled: young men with fire in their blood, looking to fulfill their dreams ….

  “Dance,” I muttered to myself, “ dance to the music of the heart. Dance as a new day dawns. And then face the real reason, the real aim, the real meaning of this infinitesimal world floating in the vast expanse of a limitless universe.”

  Edo came down again. “Why don’t you go up, cousin?” he asked me solicitously. “Let’s join them.”

  “Let’s just stay here,” I said. “You should be the one to mingle with them. Has the idea of settling down ever crossed your mind?”

  Edo looked at me intently. “You know, cousin, I have frequently considered it. But do you know, cousin?” he continued, “the very idea has evoked so much fear. I would not want my future wife to go through the tough times my parents experienced. And when the thought flashed through my mind, I’d rather not …”

  I kept my silence for a while. The images I saw one day in August of 1944, when Nana Hina’s three children, with their families in tow, returned, rushed through my mind—Avelino, his wife and three small children, Tadeo who had five children, and Berong who had two kids. Edo had been back for several weeks.

  Nana Hina was beside herself with joy as she warmly greeted her children and grandchildren. The children were noisy and quarrelsome—ten tired children coming to Nana Hina’s house after a tedious bus ride. Perhaps that was why they fretted and whined.

  I glanced at Edo. “If it were not for the children’s sake, I doubt if my parents would throw themselves into work with such intensity …”

  “That was the reason why my siblings and I vehemently objected when Mother begged my eldest brother to leave Manila. We feared, even then, that if in a worst case scenario we would stare poverty in the face, my parents would be forced to help support the family.”