Riverrun

by Danton Remoto

  The kites of Enrique and Luis rose majestically in the air. The heads of their kites bumped again and again. The threads entwined, trying to cut each other. Finally, Luis’s thread snapped, and his kite went veering to the left. Luis ran after it.

  “Al-agua! Al-agua!” the boys chorused.

  Eduardo and I were the opponents, and this early, I was not sure of my chances. Eduardo’s kite was bigger, but I knew my thread was stronger.

  Our kites soared in the blue enamel of the sky. I felt the wind becoming heavy on the line of my thread. Cheers rose around us while the heads of our kites tried to smash each other’s body, cut each other’s tail. On and on it went for minutes, the kites circling each other, bumping and hitting: gladiators on the kill.

  With a tug at my kite, I finally ripped Eduardo’s kite. But Eduardo’s kite swung back, his thread entwining itself around my thread. Then suddenly, I felt the wind’s pull beginning to lighten. When I squinted, I was horrified to see my kite falling in a wide, aimless arc.

  My kite drifted away, borne by the wind in the direction of the cogon field. I ran after it, my ears filling with the sound of the boys’ voices: “Al-agua! Al-agua!”

  Everything was green and sharp. I used my arms to ward off the stalks of cogon. The flowers smothered me, filling my nose and mouth with the spores hidden inside the thin, light strands.

  Something warm began to trickle from my left arm, but I did not stop to look at it.

  I only wanted to save my kite. But something in the middle of the field cut the light. It sent a swift, sharp reflection bouncing back to me. My kite had fallen near the wreckage of the C-47 plane, now a mass of twisted aluminum and steel.

  My heart boomed. When I looked down, there were threads of blood on my left arm. For a moment, I just stood there without moving, not knowing what to do.

  Slowly, I went to my kite. I bent down and picked it up. I thought it would have a hole, but it looked just the way it did before. It was still whole.

  Suddenly, the wind blew. It sounded like a moan, like somebody in pain. The cogon lifted their stalks and flowers to the wind, heaving wildly, loudly, about me. I began to sweat. I began to call the name of Luis, my dearest Luis …

  But nothing else happened.

  Years later, I would know that what I had heard, if anything, was the sound of something fleeing from me. But on that day, in the middle of the field, standing beside the plane’s wreckage, I could only grip my kite—solid, whole, almost pure—gripping it like a shield against the wilderness of wind.

  The Freak Show

  THE FIELD OF grass between the commissary and school would be fenced off a week before the eighth of May. We knew it was time for the perya, the carnival which was always the centerpiece of our fiesta.

  My neighbors and I would be there, among the bright and multicolored lights, the endless rides and games. There would be the rollercoaster and the carousel, the Woman Who Eats Live Chickens, and the Man from the Deepest Jungle of Borneo.

  On the night of the fiesta I took the ferris wheel with Luis, and in that spinning cage I felt my heart throbbing. Whoosh! went the sound of the big wheel, and soon our cage was on top of the world, rocking to and fro. In front of us, the dark mountains brooded. Above us, the light of dead stars.

  A wind blew, and something stirred in me as I gripped the cold iron bars. I wanted to touch the hand of Luis, which was so very near me. I wanted to touch his hand and not these cold iron bars. But I did not dare. I felt an access of sadness as I sat there, feeling alone in the cold, empty air, even if Luis sat close beside me. When the ride at the ferris wheel ended, Luis and I walked round and round the perya. Of course, we did not walk with our hands locked together—even if I ached to do so.

  Yes, the queens were also back from last year’s performance and they were not a drag. Tall and willowy, lovely in their red minis and black bustiers, the transvestites had come to paint the town flamenco-pink.

  I love you hate you love you hate you, I’ll love you till the world stopped turning, sang Shirley Bassey in the karera ng daga, the race of the hamster. The handsomest boys in the base ogled her, hooted and whistled as Shirley Bassey did the torch. The queen just batted her mile-long eyelashes, pouted those lips daubed with glitter, and threw kisses at the boys.

  Luis and I just stood there, at the back, following with our eyes the hamster running and running in the tracks, finally stopping before a number. Whatever item (plastic pail, a deck of cards, a small mirror) was attached to the number went to the lucky person holding that number. And in between the heats of this rat race, Shirley Bassey and Diana Ross and Tina Turner and Dionne Warwick—the Queens of the High Cheekbones—sang of unrequited love and pouted marvelously and pulled on the straps of their black bras.

  But I deliberately ignored them, because Papa had told me to avoid them because they were freaks. Once, my father even scolded me for walking with my books held close to my chest. Chest out, stomach in, and gaze level in the distance—this is the way boys should walk, he said. He had also sketched my life for me—university studies at a good school in Manila, preferably a course on Business Management, then Law School at either the University of the Philippines or Ateneo de Manila University, then working my way up in the corporate canyons of Makati, while taking a Masters of Law on the side. This was the arc of his dreams for me.

  When classes resumed in June, all the boys in Practical Arts class crowded around Ernie, who said he was in the perya with one of the general’s sons.

  Paco was 18, and he was a gorgeous brat with his deep dimples, strong jawline, and penetrating eyes. That night in May his hair was tousled; he was freshly-bathed and he was wearing his tight jeans when I saw him and his friends stop before Shirley Bassey, who was wearing a red feather boa and a black mermaid dress with silver sequins like so many small moons. She immediately locked eyes with Paco. In turn, the gorgeous brat smiled, Ernie said, showing his deep dimples.

  “To blow,” Ernie said, and I waited for him to tell me what it meant. But Shirley Bassey did not really blow at Paco’s dick. She licked and nibbled and sucked, but she never blew. And like the future President of a great country, she blew but she never swallowed.

  I turned away and thought, to blow? Won’t it tickle you so? The mouth turning into wind?

  After the show, Ernie said that Paco went to the back door of the rat-race stall and talked to Shirley Bassey, whose real name was Horace Saturnino Botictic. A deal was struck and later that night, Shirley Bassey found herself the happiest person in the world.

  How Does One Fall In Love?

  LUIS WAS MY seatmate in Grade One. He sat on my left side while Vivian sat on the right. Even on the first few days of school, I was already confused. I liked Vivian—she was tall and bright and kind. I liked her even if she had scabies on her legs. But I also liked Luis. Not only was he tall and bright and kind, there was also an almost electric energy around him that I felt whenever I saw him.

  When I was in Grade One, I didn’t know what it was called. Just that I wanted to be with him in Gardening class, fetching water from the pool in front of the Principal’s Office, then watering our garden plots bursting with the leaves of pechay and the appendages of eggplants. Just that I wanted to stare at him when he recited in class, giving the square roots of numbers and answering questions in multiplication with almost the speed of light. Or so I surmised, being in that state between admiration and levitation. Just that I wanted to walk with him on the way home, looking at the playground swarming with children, the commissary filling up with customers, the cogon fields aflame with sunset’s vermilion and gold.

  He was the last person I thought of before I slept, Luis of the smooth skin and the face aureoled with light.

  And he was the first person I thought of upon waking up, inventing scenes in my mind about how the weekdays would turn up. Or if it was a Saturday, I would invite Luis for a game of pelota in the court beside the humongous hangar, then we would have snacks of hopia and
soda in the commissary, while around us, the small, pink flowers of the acacia fell, one by one.

  The Initiation

  THE CRISP AIR of early morning made me shiver as I stepped out of our house. The sky was smooth and white like an eggshell.

  I walked, gripping my black imitation-leather bag filled with ten hardbound books and ten spiral notebooks. Beyond the cogon loomed the commissary, a series of buildings formed the letter L, sitting in the middle of the base. Streaks of white and blue blurred before my eyes. Maybe my classmates are also excited, I thought, on this, the first day of classes. My strides became longer and faster when I remembered that Don Bosco in Bacolor, the private high school where I was enrolled, was 20 kilometers away.

  The shops were still boarded up when I reached the commissary. Some of the guys sat on the concrete benches; others loitered about, displaying their new black leather shoes. Three of them stared at me. Or rather, glared at me. I walked slower, deciding where to wait for the school bus, suddenly conscious of my new white polo shirt with its crisp collar and my new double-knit pants, their elephant bottoms so wide they could sweep the floor clean.

  I met their gaze squarely, my eyes traveling from their faces to their hands: no bags, not even a single spiral notebook. I bit my lower lip.

  I sat on a bench, crossed my legs, and put my bag on my lap, defiantly. From the corner of my eyes, I saw the three guys exchanging amused glances.

  On my left stood a huge acacia, its pink flowers like a carpet on the ground. This was the same tree whose small, pink petals rained down on Luis and I a few months ago.

  Only Luis and I could study in Don Bosco: Some could not afford it; others flunked the entrance exams, while the parents of some feared the men from the hills would swoop down on the busload of students, sons of soldiers in the base, and hold us hostage.

  Finally, Luis arrived at 6:15. I marked the time on my black Casio, a gift from my father because I had graduated as Class Valedictorian. I thought my friend looked different now: in his new high-school uniform, he was already a young man. A small pimple even bloomed on his right cheek. Luis’s hair still dripped from his morning bath. And he also did not bring any bag or notebook with him. I wanted to tell Luis to dry the beads of water sliding down the sides of his cheeks, but I was still annoyed.

  “Why didn’t you tell me we’re not supposed to bring our things today?” I asked, rising from the bench to meet him.

  The smile from Luis turned into a grin when he saw my things. Then he said sheepishly, “I’m sorry. I wasn’t able to go to your house over the weekend. I should have told you the first day is just the orientation day. We’ll only bring our things on the second day.”

  I just smiled at him, although what I really wanted to do was to spank him.

  The rumble of the bus cut our conversation short. The bus stopped beneath the shadows cast by the acacia. Along the length of its blue body ran the tawny stripes of a tiger. On top of the stripes, ARMED FORCES OF THE PHILIPPINES was spelled out in white paint.

  We all rushed for the door. The upperclassmen began teasing Sergeant Molina, the escort, with easy unfamiliarity. “Oh, you again, Sarge?” they said, slapping his shoulders and tugging at the broad black strap of his Armalite. An ammunition belt bristling with bullets the size of thumbs wound around his waist.

  “Hurry up,” he said through teeth with the shape and color of corn ears. “Traffic might be heavy again in Guagua.”

  The moment I stepped inside the bus, I noticed the young driver: His crew cut showed a strong neck. He had wide shoulders, his body forming the letter V, and his buttocks filled the seat of his khaki pants.

  The Salesian Brother who led the singing of the national anthem looked as if he had just come out of a closet: His cassock hung from his shoulders that were as thin as a hanger.

  “Please form a line,” he said while raising his hand to silence us. “You’ll first attend Mass, which you’ll do every morning. Then you’ll go to your rooms for the orientation session. You’ll also have a diagnostic test.” A murmur broke among the students at the word test.

  The chapel was darkly lit and the sermon, abominably long. What kept me going was the sight of the glass windows: When the sunlight touched them, the window panes bloomed. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph sprang to life, the reds and blues of their robes vibrant, shimmering between the sunlight outside and chapel’s dark interiors.

  After the mass, I followed the other 1-A students to the classroom. A small, balding man with lidless eyes slouched near the door. The skin round his neck was loose, like a turtle’s.

  After the last student had stepped inside the room, the teacher went inside and walked to the platform. “Okay, please be seated. I’m Mr. Baltazar, your English teacher,” he said in a voice that came from his nose.

  I sat on the second row, not in front: I sensed that my teacher was the type who would send a shower of saliva when he spoke. Besides, I noticed that my eyes were beginning to go bad. Must be from reading my father’s Penthouse at sundown, before he came back from work.

  “Please pass this around,” Mr. Baltazar said, handing over a bundle of mimeographed paper to the student in front of him. “Just a test to gauge your skills in English.” Then his eyes lit up: “Those who graduated from this school, please raise your hands.” Almost half of the students did. “Good, I’m sure you’ll find this test very easy.” He paced the platform, an actor conscious of his blocking. Then he added: “But I’m sure those who came from the public schools will find this test really difficult.”

  The school was built like a fortress. Its walls were tall and thick, their tops spiked with glass shards and nails, with the pointed tips up. Outside the school a group of shanties leaned on the walls. Below the shanties, the ground seemed perpetually under water. The shanties seemed to tremble as our school bus sped past them.

  Mount Arayat rose on the horizon. The sugarcane fields had been burned to the ground after the cane had been cut, to fertilize the earth. Every summer, Luis and I would sneak out of the base and hide in the dry canal beside the road. We would throw stones at the trucks loaded with cut sticks of sugarcane. When the truck stopped, we would run to its back, pull a stick of sugarcane, and then run back to the canal. We did all of this in a few seconds, such that when the driver had slid down the truck, he would find nobody around. And since the sugar mill waited for no man, he would curse us whom he knew were just hiding somewhere around, “Your mothers are whores.” Then he would return morosely to the truck and leave. Luis and I would gleefully suck on the sticks of sugarcane, all that burst of liquid sweetness dripping down our fingers, down our chins.

  If the sugarcane fields were dead, the rice fields were just beginning to turn green. Men and women would transfer the saplings from seedbed to field. I wondered how it must have hurt the body, bending in that arc for a long time, with the sun flagellating their backs.

  Suddenly, I remembered my father. We were on a train bound for Albay, passing by a painterly scene straight out of an Amorsolo: the rice fields amazing in the golden ripeness of their grain. Father told me he used to help in the rice fields when he was a kid. “During harvest time, my eyes had to be really sharp so I could spot the grains that fell on the ground, son.”

  After that, I took pains to finish all the morsels of rice that Ludy set before me, especially when my father was there. Not out of a sense of duty, I told myself, but out of a sense of pain, for my father had told me these stories again and again, especially on those nights when he would go home drunk, a dark and bitter edge in his voice as he told me about escaping from the barrio to try his luck in the city, working as a newspaper boy and a bootblack to support himself through public high school, and later, getting a scholarship at the Philippine Military Academy and then finally, the American military school in Colorado. When I was growing up, my father took evening classes for his degree in Political Science, and after that, he continued taking evening classes in Law School, tangling with the thorny texts of The
Revised Penal Code, Books One and Two, and getting lost in the slippery labyrinths of Statutory Construction.

  My father had wanted me to study in this Catholic high school, although it was far and expensive. He even went with me during the exam day. He was also there when I got the results: number two among more than 1,000 applicants. I had wanted to tell Papa I might not finish in Don Bosco Bacolor. Papa would soon resign from the military to work as an engineer with Lockheed in Saudi Arabia. He would leave in September.

  “The government is a thankless employer, son. The pay is low, that’s why I have to leave. But don’t worry. You’ll still study in a good private school when we move to Quezon City. You can transfer to Don Bosco Mandaluyong by September. I want you to have the best—” We were walking down the long driveway, flanked by big acacias whose leaves and branches interlaced overhead, forming the green dome of a cathedral. Sunlight dappled the leaves, and we walked in spots of shadow and light. It was a long walk toward the tall and ornate gate. Later, we would go to San Fernando and Papa would treat me to pancit luglug at Razon’s, the noodles neither limp nor hard, the bits of pork skin fried just to the right crispness, the red-orange sour-sweet sauce made more savory by a lemony dash of calamansi …

  Luis whispered something in my ear, but I could not make out his words. The wind in the highway leapt from the window and lashed our faces. “What did you say?”

  “The initiation,” he said, his eyes shifting. “The upperclassmen in this bus will have an initiation for us, freshmen.”

  Suddenly, Ricky, who sat behind the driver, stood. He had three chins and a nose scarred with pimples. He was the son of the second highest officer in the base. This brat laughed at his lewd jokes, followed by the canned laughter coming from his friends.

  I heard Luis heave a sigh when Ricky walked past us and sit beside Eddie, the mayor’s son. Eddie was a tall, handsome boy whose singular embarrassment was his mother. Every morning, the school bus would stop in front of their tall, blue gate. Eddie would run out of their big house, followed by his mother, her hair a peroxide blonde, and her reminder—“Drink this milk!”—then handling him a jug.