OUTPOURING: Typhoon Yolanda Relief Anthology

by Dean Francis Alfar

  Once he was out of sight, Mrs. Singh stepped back into her stall and closed the segmented metal gate with her inside. She looked to the aquarium, hoping to have one final conversation with her friend the talking fish, but he had quietly stopped moving and now floated upside down in its tank. Her eyes began to water, and she swiped at them with her fingers. She could cry later; she had work to do. Mrs. Singh reached up and gently lifted her dead friend out of the water. She scaled the snapper, gutted it, and cooked it whole in fiery curry along with fingers of okra and slices of eggplant.

  With the first bite, she experienced a heightening of all her senses. The normally drab concrete and stainless steel of her food stall exploded with colors and textures she couldn’t have imagined possible. The flavors of the fish’s flesh and the curry itself filled her mouth, her sinuses, rising up to the top of her head, the ultimate fish, the apotheosis of fish. She could taste the Atlantic sea water of the fish’s original home in the Gulf of Mexico (it was thankfully caught before the cataclysmic oil spill there), the small fish and crustaceans on which it fed itself, the silt that was filtered through its gills. She could hear each individual conversation on the other side of her stall’s gate, each intake of breath, each clattering of flatware on melamine plates, all as if it were right there in the stall with her. Her world expanded, as if she were experiencing reality through a wide-angle lens.

  With the second bite, she gained understanding of the speech of plants. Combined with her augmented hearing, she could detect faint laughter as a breeze rippled through the bushes in a park nearby, the harrumphing discontent of various old angsana and palm trees, the shrill excitement of tridax seeds adrift on the wind. As well, the echoes of sad resignation from the okra and eggplant she had employed in this curry, and, she assumed, in all the dishes she had cooked today. The buzzing of a weedeater from the direction of the road, and the subsequent cries of “Danger!” and “Help!” from the grass being cut down there.

  With the third bite, Mrs. Singh perceived the sticky strings of the vast LifeWeb that connects all living beings. Ropes of infinitely thin energy crisscrossed through and around her, a visual and mental manifestation of the karma the fish had earlier alluded to. Every action she made had consequences somewhere on the web, and actions by others manifested results in her. The LifeWeb also extended backward and forward in time, to her past and future selves, and to selves that never existed or would exist. Never again would she be able to blindly go about her life without thinking about the impact that she made on the world.

  With the fourth bite, she came to the realization that her new perceptions would fade by tomorrow. As with all things, this perspicacity was temporary and impermanent. She would need to savor the moment, because it would not last.

  Mrs. Singh wept for the fish’s gift, eating every last bit of flesh until her wise friend was completely gone.

  Pilar Echeverria: Novel Excerpt

  By Cecilia Manguerra Brainard

  The wedding of Santiago and Aphrodite had been talked about, written about, and attended by luminaries from as far away as Madrid, Paris, and London. Ines and Pablo had been pointedly not invited, but since the wedding was held in Manila and only a fraction of the invited Ubecans could attend, their absence wasn’t too obvious. Even if they had been invited to this so-called wedding of the year, Ines and Pablo wouldn’t have attended; Ines had already heard ripples of Santiago’s virulent anti-Pablo sentiments. After the wedding, Ines learned from her mother just how lavish everything had been. As if rubbing salt into an open wound, Blanca described in minute detail the grand ceremony at the Cathedral and the opulent reception at the Manila Hotel. She made sure Ines knew what she had missed by not marrying Santiago: Arabian horses pulling the bride’s carriage to church, the diamond tiara perched on Aphrodite’s head, bigwigs from Europe and America, decorative flowers and ribbons made of pure silver thread, giveaways made of gold charms depicting the bride and groom, French champagne, English scotch, Spanish wine, Russian caviar, French fois gras, Argentine beef, Australian lamb, Belgian chocolates, etcetera.

  In fact the mindboggling extravagance was paid for by Aphrodite’s father who had silver mines in Northern Luzon. If money could buy it, Aphrodite’s father got it for his only daughter; he even paid off Manila judges so Aphrodite would have the coveted title of Manila’s Carnival Queen. He had hoped to marry her off to a Spanish noble but before he could put her on the ship bound for Sevilla, Aphrodite and Santiago had a whirlwind and highly indiscrete romance, leaving no choice but for her to marry Santiago. It was one of those cases where the couple had spent the weekend together in what they thought was a secret hideaway. There were no secrets in Manila (nor in Ubec for that matter) and to make the weekend scandal recede in the minds of people, her father made a big to-do about giving Aphrodite a Cartier diamond and platinum jewelry set—a faithful replica of a set worn by Empress Eugenie, wife of Napoleon III, and reportedly worth the price of a ship. The newspapers and public lapped it up and indeed the scandalous weekend that had resulted in the rushed wedding faded in the background.

  After the spectacular wedding and month-long honeymoon in Spain, Santiago brought Aphrodite to the Echeverria hacienda in Carcar. Suddenly the excitement of Madrid, Barcelona, Toledo, and Sevilla were gone; the busy Manila society vanished. Gone were the nightly dinners and parties, the promenades at the Luneta, the visits by Aphrodite’s multitude of girlfriends. There Aphrodite was in a huge house with false walls and secret doors and hidden staircases and compartments, which she simply couldn’t figure out. Twice, she locked herself in a room and couldn’t find her way out; she had to shout for help. She couldn’t understand the conversations (nor did she care) between Santiago and his mother about hacienda matters; the servants only spoke Ubecan; and out there was sugar cane from one end of the world to the other, a relentless sea of green that rippled when the warm breeze blew, making her seasick, making her weep.

  Some people suggested that Aphrodite died because she had no will to live. Her daughter Pilar, born prematurely and who Aphrodite had never known, displayed more spirit and survived. Pilar was reportedly the spitting image of her mother, with an irresistible smile and large eyes fringed with long eyelashes.

  Ines had seen pictures of Aphrodite and she had seen Pilar now and then in Ubec, and Ines never saw the similarity between the two. Aphrodite had a glitzy presence with her European gowns, heavy makeup, and elaborate hairdos; Pilar was a thin ghostlike creature wearing simple school uniforms or dresses—quite plain.

  It was the same observation that came to Ines that Friday afternoon when their carriage rolled into the Echeverria hacienda. There, near the end of the dirt road, stood Pilar with a group of children under a sprawling acacia tree. She was a toothpick-of-a girl wearing a pink cotton dress, her long brown hair tied in the back with a matching pink ribbon. Seated on benches eight children listened attentively to her. Pilar widened her eyes (indeed, she had large eyes with long eyelashes) and clapped her hands. “All right, class, catechism next week, at the same time. You can have your juice, but be careful not to break the glasses,” she said, pointing to a nearby table with two pitchers and hand painted glasses.

  Ines had never seen these glasses in the Echeverria house, so Aphrodite must have acquired them. They were exactly like the glassware used by the kindly spinsters who lived in the mansion near Ubec’s plaza. Something happened to Ines as she watched the children guzzling their juice and running their fingers on the painted images of wild animals—she was whisked back to the May days of her youth when she and other children drank tamarind juice from the same type of glasses. Oh, how tender the memory was of those beloved glasses with painted zebra, lion, giraffe, and the unforgettable tiger!

  Ines, who had been predisposed to disliking Pilar, now felt an unexpected warm feeling toward the skinny girl. Ines watched the children swarm around her as they said their goodbyes. Pilar hugged and kissed them before sending them on their way. Pilar then turned her attent
ion to the three women who were getting out of their carriage. She kissed them on the cheeks, and she addressed them cordially as well—“Lola” to Blanca, and “Tiya” to Ines and Melisande. Linking arms with Blanca whom she knew well, Pilar led them to the house. The young girl explained that she was preparing the children of the hacienda workers for their First Confession and First Holy Communion. She spoke in a clear voice, direct and devoid of artifice.

  Ines and Melisande exchanged glances—the girl seemed very amiable. Melisande smiled, but Ines couldn’t shake off her worry about Blanca’s agenda. Ines considered asking her mother to please allow her and Melisande to speak first, to ask for the statement from Pilar, but she could tell from the way Blanca’s jaw jutted out with determination that she was going to pursue the crazy matter of marrying off Pilar to Andres. Ines’ only hope was that Echeverrias would laugh off the idea.

  Upstairs in the huge living room, Pilar helped Blanca settle down in a settee. Pointing at nearby chairs, she asked Ines and Melisande to please feel at home.

  Ines had known this house from her childhood days but things had changed. For instance, her favorite nipa hut under the flame tree outside was gone—she had quickly glanced out the window. The living room seemed more cluttered with elaborate furniture that Ines had never seen. A side table had a bronze statue that was also new to her. Ironically, it was Atlas carrying the world on his shoulders, the sight of which made Ines heave a deep sigh and think of her own burdens.

  “I’ll call Papa,” Pilar said in her crystal-clear voice, and she gave a little curtsey before leaving.

  “And your grandmother,” said Blanca.

  Pilar nodded before leaving.

  It didn’t take long for the three Echeverrias to appear—Santiago, Maria Christina, and Pilar. Blanca and Maria Christina gravitated to each other. The two looked like sisters in their muted gray clothes and understated jewelry—daughters of Chinese merchants who always thought twice about flaunting their wealth. They huddled together on the settee and started whispering to each other.

  A servant girl appeared with lemoncito drinks and some tortas, and Pilar supervised her and made sure the tea cart was within reach of the guests. Afterwards, Pilar sat down next to her father. The circle of six carried on an obligatory chit-chat, even though everyone knew there was something serious looming. That was how Ubecans did things. The niceties had to be exchanged. One had to complement the other about their looks, their dress, the house, the curtains, any pleasantry at all. And there were some questions to Melisande about the latest fashion and light discussion about the upcoming carnival. The tete-a-tete had to come to pass. No one ever simply “got to the point.”

  While the exchange went on, Ines composed herself and tried to focus on securing the statement first and foremost. She decided she would talk first before her mother spoke up. But when the chit-chat petered off, it was Santiago who said, “Ines, it’s good to see you here. It’s been a long time since you’ve visited our home. I never told you, but I’m sorry about Pablo’s passing. I apologize I couldn’t go to the funeral, I was in Manila.”

  Ines said nothing; that was water under the bridge; there were now more important matters to deal with.

  Santiago sipped his juice before continuing, “I’m glad you’ve come to your senses, Ines. To tell you the truth I don’t need the Miehl, but for old time’s sake, I’m willing to get it off your hands. I knew it would be a matter of time before you’d come around and give up the Imprenta Rosario. It’s not a business for a woman, certainly. Let me assure you that I will pay you best price I can—”

  It took Ines a few heartbeats before she could answer, “Santiago, you misunderstand. I am not selling the Miehl, not to you nor to anyone else. I am now in charge of The Ubec Daily. It will continue.”

  Santiago looked befuddled. “I see. May I ask why you are here then?”

  Blanca stepped into the conversation. “It’s very complicated, Santiago, it has to do with Pilar and Andres. They were together. Just the two of them. Alone.”

  Maria Christina placed her right hand over her heart. “Blanca here just told me what happened, Santiago. Isn’t Carmen supposed to chaperone her at all times? That is why we sent her to Ubec, to watch over Pilar,” she said.

  Blanca reached out to touch her friend’s arm. “Maria Christina, don’t worry; we are here to right this wrong —“

  “Mama, stop!” Ines said. “Santiago, I have something very important to discuss with you. You see, I ... they… Andres…” She fumbled for words.

  Melisande took over. “There is something that happened. It has to do with the dead priest. Your paper wrote about it.”

  Santiago nodded, “Father Zobel, of course. We ran that issue with Tonying Borja’s picture in the front page.”

  Ines found her voice. “Well, your friend, Tonying Borja, came to the house and arrested my son.”

  “Andres? Now, why would Tonying do that? He told me he wouldn’t be surprised if the American monsignor did it. The American and Spanish priests have been fighting over power, the Spanish wanting to keep their Friar lands of course, and the American priests obliging the new American law.”

  “Tonying thinks Monsignor Logan killed the priest?”

  “Priests are not all saints, Ines. Just last night, we were talking about the murder of the Rector Provincial in San Pablo Church in Manila. He was stabbed to death in a chapel in the second floor.”

  “I never heard about this. Did this happen last month?” Ines asked.

  “No. Back in 1617.”

  Ines rolled her eyes. She wanted to remind him to stick to the issue at hand, but held her tongue. After all, she was here asking for help.

  Santiago kept on talking. “Some friars thought of a way to catch the murderer whom they believed was still in the monastery. They laid out the dead Provincial’s corpse in the small chapel where they had found the body. They arranged his arm and hand so he was pointing at the door. These friars sat by the doorway and observed the other friars who were obliged to pay their respects to the dead Rector. One friar panicked at the sight of the dead man’s accusing finger and ran out of the chapel. He was caught and hanged in the church courtyard.” Santiago sat back, pleased with his story.

  “That happened almost three hundred years ago. What is your point, Santiago?” Ines asked.

  “My point is that the religious are not immune to committing murders.”

  Everyone in the room watched them, especially the two mothers, who had, in some distant past, hoped these two would marry.

  “Then have Tonying investigate the Monsignor and tell him to release my son. He had the nerve, Santiago, to show up yesterday and arrest Andres. I protested, but there’s no arguing with Tonying, you know that. Ever since we were children he was impossible. Attorney Jose Vargas said we can get Andres out quickly if we have a statement.”

  “A statement.” Santiago sat forward. “From me?”

  “No, not from you …” Then taking a deep breath she blurted out, “From your daughter.” Ines threw a glance at Pilar who sat quietly with her hands folded on her lap. Blanca and Maria Christina started whispering to each once again.

  “Pilar? What does she have to do with all this?”

  “Andres was with Pilar,” Ines said.

  “Pilar was with your son? When?” Then, “Is that true, hija?” he asked Pilar, who stared back without answering. “Hija, my Pan de Sal, answer me, this is a serious matter.” (Pilar’s nickname “Pan de Sal” came about because she was the size of a loaf of bread when she was born, and her mother’s untimely death caused a lot of tears.)

  “Santiago, I know it’s upsetting,” Ines said, “I, too, was upset, but right now my son is in jail and we need a statement from Pilar that she was with Andres on the night of January 3. A simple notarized statement, that is all.”

  Blanca interrupted, “I have been trying to say all along that we are here to correct this wrong. To clear her name, if it is necessary for them to get
married—”

  “Mama, please. The night the priest was murdered, three boys serenaded Pilar in Ubec; two left, and Andres and Pilar were by themselves. We need a statement from her so Andres can prove he did not harm the priest.”

  All of them turned and stared at Pilar who maintained her quiet composure.

  Santiago said, “Hija, my Pan de Sal, is this true? If your mother were alive, she would be very upset.”

  This time Maria Christina spoke up, “Santiago, I’m having palpitations. My granddaughter’s name is ruined. The Echeverria name is ruined. Blanca is right, there is no choice but for the two to get married.”

  And here the slight seventeen-year-old girl stood up and said, “Papa, Lola, this whole thing sounds like a comedy. First of all, Tiya Ines, I will give you the notarized statement that you need; and second of all, I have something to say to you, Papa and Lola.”

  Santiago and Maria Christina exchanged glances.

  Santiago stammered, “Well… ah… Pan de Sal… go ahead…”

  Pilar looked straight into her father’s eyes. “Have I ever lied to you?”

  Santiago shook his head. “Never, my Pan de Sal, but…”