Blurbs for The Kite of Stars and Other Stories
“Dean Francis Alfar's stories are like fallen stars: they glow with the light of another world, illuminating our own if only for an instant. These are new myths for the global civilization we find ourselves living in at the beginning of the twenty-first century.”
—Christopher Barzak, author of One for Sorrow
“Blindfolded courier pigeons, insatiable appetites, overwhelming pride, toes painted blue, spooned soursop, the AsiaPac community station in geosynch orbit around the moon, love without a heart, tragedy and absurdity; stars of course, in many forms; and always, riddles. For those who like their stories rich, their wit dry and their history served with a twist, this gorgeous collection from a cynical romantic deserves a global readership. Alfar writes of many times and in many styles including the classic fairy tale, but in two ways he is a 21st century English-language-plus writer. His use of words and surprising vocabulary is so wonderfully, playfully true to meaning that he can only be an English-as-a-second-language writer (among which are the best users of English in the world today). And he writes of place with a calm assurance of its importance, not as some ethnic other than the default normal western setting, but as important in itself. I have to add that I particularly love his historical concoctions, especially the footnotes.”
—Anna Tambour, author of Spotted Lily and Monterra's Deliciosa & Other Tales
“Surely one of the most unusual writers to burst on the literary scene in the last decade or so is Dean Francis Alfar, who may have introduced the term ‘speculative fiction’ to Filipinos. This first collection of short stories is obviously from the same hand that wrought the funny, magical Salamanca, the hand of a warlock dreaming dreams of unnamed stars. Readers would do well to step into the dreams.”
—Cristina Pantoja Hidalgo, author of Recuerdo and Book of Dreams
“These stories are celebrations of the prolific and promiscuous imagination that informs the writer's magical abilities. But the true spell of this collection is the language — capable, confident, fluid, so that readers of any literary disposition will find themselves leaping from sensation to sensation, story to story, with excitement and pleasure. Before any discussions of genre, and certainly beyond any speculation, Filipino literature is a sure thing in Alfar’s graceful hands.”
—Sarge Lacuesta, author of White Elephants and Other Stories
“This collection presents Dean Francis Alfar at his transcendent best, crafting crystalline stories that teleport readers to that elusive realm found only in the heartbeat prior to waking. But Alfar wields these visions all day, and it makes him an incomparable talent as a fictionist.”
—Ruel S. De Vera, author of The Most Careful of Stars
“Dean Francis Alfar's stories are distinctive for his graceful prose and his unbridled, occasionally cruel imagination. This book is a Wunderkammer of bright magic and dark bargains, of memories and passions, of the sordid and the sublime.”
—Luis Katigbak, author of Happy Endings
For Nikki, Sage and Rowan
Table of Contents
Acknowledgements
Terminós
The Kite of Stars (L’Aquilone du Estrellas)
Saturdays with Fray Villalobos
The Maiden and the Crocodile
Dragon Eyes
How Rosang Taba Won a Race
An Excerpt from “Princes of the Sultanate” (Ghazali: 1902); Annotated by Omar Jamad Maududi, MLS, HOL, JMS
The Middle Prince
The New Daughter
Into the Morning
In the Dim Plane
Six from Downtown
Four-Letter Words
(push)
MaMachine
Hollow Girl: A Romance
Endnotes
About the Author
Copyright page
Publication Notes
Acknowledgements
Great thanks to everyone who helped me undertake this first journey back in 2008, and who are part of this digital incarnation:
Jeffrey Ford, Christopher Barzak and the Ratbastards, Kelly Link, Gavin Grant, Jed Hartman, Anna Tambour, Don Webb, Sarge Lacuesta, Luis Katigbak, Cecilia Brainard, Marily Orosa, Jade Bernas, Paolo Manalo, Kenneth Yu, Cristina Pantoja Hidalgo, Ruey de Vera, Edith Tiempo, Susan Lara, Marjorie Evasco, Butch Dalisay and Ian Casocot – fellow authors and editors whose encouragement kept me going;
Vincent Simbulan, Andrew Drilon, Alexander Osias and Kate Osias – Litcritters who kept me anchored;
Karina Bolasco and the lovely people at Anvil Publishing – for creating the print edition and fully supporting it;
Charles Tan, Kristine Reynaldo, Honey de Peralta, Adam David, Lester Banzuelo, and all the good people of Flipside Publishing who ensure digital dreams come true;
Rebecca Disini, Joanna Lopez, Maureen Disini and Johnny Disini – siblings who helped form who I am;
Monjiera Disini – the first storyteller who triggered the trapdoor under my feet and caused me to fall into strange worlds;
Sage and Rowan Alfar – daughters for whom writing is a pleasure;
And Nikki Alfar – the best part of existence.
Terminós
Mr. Henares thinks about time
FROM THE MOMENT he opened his eyes in the morning to the instant before he fell asleep alone at night, Mr. Henares thought only about time.
He reflected about how time slowed down when he was engaged in an unpleasant activity, such as dyeing his thinning grey hair over the broken antique basin installed by his son-in-law Alvaro in his blue-tiled bathroom; and how time went faster during the rare instances when he felt happy, such as when his brace of grandchildren came for the cold weather holidays, their hypnotic music invariably loud and invigorating.
Mr. Henares recalled days when time did not move at all: waking up one morning convinced that it was the exact same day as the day before, watching the red display of his tableside clock blinking fruitlessly. The experience of the twin miércoles was to be repeated thrice more, adding jueves, viernes and sábado to his list of repeating days. He endured the repeated conversations and graceless routines, read the same stories in the newspapers and watched the same interviews on television.
Once, when he was a much younger man, Mr. Henares went back in time. The incident caught him completely unaware — he realized he was walking backwards and thinking thoughts in reverse. This unfortunate event flustered him so much that when it was suddenly over, he broke down in tears and resolved never to travel back in time if he could help it.
One morning Mr. Henares thought about the future, methodically spooning sweetsop into his mouth and spitting out the seeds into a cup. He sat at the breakfast alcove of his house that adjoined his little shop and squinted at the sun outside the windows.
“The future is always happening,” he said to the empty kitchen. “If it is always happening, then it is, in fact, the present; and any instances of the future having occurred are, in fact, the past. “
Mr. Henares stood up, wiped sweetsop juice from his chin, washed his hands, crossed the connecting corridor and went about opening his shop for the day.
Mr. Henares makes some sales
HIS FIRST VISITORS were a trio of young men, all sporting nose rings and dressed in last year’s affectation of jeans and tulle.
“Vueño arao, Mr. Henares,” the thinnest one said, removing his Pepsi-blue hat as he entered the shop.
“Good morning,” Mr. Henares replied. “What can I do for you gentlemen?”
“We would like to sell,” the stoutest one replied, wiping beads of perspiration from his forehead with a swipe of a ruffled sle
eve. “We’ve been waiting for you to open.”
“Ah,” the old merchant said, “And what do you have for me?”
“We have time to kill,” the tallest one told him, offering his hands, palms up. He looked at Mr. Henares with half-lidded eyes.
Mr. Henares shook his head. “You understand, of course, that rates have really gone down. With the new teatros and entretenimientos, people are finding things to occupy themselves with.”
“Certainly, Mr. Henares,” the stoutest one replied. “We will take what you will offer. You are the fairest merchant in all of Ciudad Manila.”
Mr. Henares brought out his tools, brass and glass and wood, and extracted the precise amount of time each young man wanted to sell. They waited patiently as he labeled each vial, heads tilted to the mellow bossa nova tracks that emanated from a pair of speakers from behind the counter. When he had finished putting everything away, he gave them their payment, wrapped in blue encaje.
The three young men opened the package then and there, much to the discomfort of Mr. Henares. The tallest one took out the Planet Hollywood shot glass and read aloud what was written around the logo, as his two companions unabashedly held hands and closed their eyes.
Silence is foolish if we are wise, but wise if we are foolish
BY EARLY EVENING, Mr. Henares had completed four more transactions.
A young mother, fresh from the provinces, who sold all her memories of childhood: Mr. Henares’s payment was etched on a Flores bandalore, the inscription set deep in the yo-yo’s polished wooden rim.
A drop hollows out a stone
A pair of lovers, who entered his store and left it hand-in-hand, traded in five separate occasions of romance: when they first knew they were in love, when they first kissed, when they first made love, when they first reconciled, and when they decided to stay together for as long as they could, despite all inconvenience, difficulty or portent. Mr. Henares gave them, in exchange, words written on yellowed Badtz Maru stationery, sweat and ink staining the image of the little black Japanese penguin.
Night follows day
A bored widow was next, bartering away two years of future solitude. “I’m certain someone will want that,” she said wryly, “I certainly don’t.” Mr. Henares gave her a polished citrine carved into the form of a tiny fluted flower with even smaller engraved words.
We do not care of what we have, but we cry when it is lost
The widow sniffed, “True, true,” and asked if she could purchase some romance. Mr. Henares offered her the vials he obtained from the lovers earlier. She took two and stepped out into the humidity.
The fourth customer was a proud-looking soldier, the buttons on his dress uniform shiny and golden. “My maternal grandaunt told me that I would lose my right arm in war across the sea. If it must be so, then I’d like to sell the time of actual loss and recovery.”
Mr. Henares studied the man’s resigned face and offered him, in exchange for his future pain, words woven in sawali.
An empty barrel makes the greatest sound
Mr. Henares prepares for bed
AS HE CLOSED the shop, he reflected on how time’s ebb and flow meant different things to different people. He once had a customer, a dark-skinned young man from Cabarroquis, who protested against his good fortune in the game of love.
“Everyone I meet wants me,” the dark-eyed man sighed in Mr. Henares’ bed. “Everyone wants to devour me. I never have time for myself. I am certain that even you will soon speak to me of love.”
Mr. Henares had not really been listening to him then, but was instead enraptured by the young man’s skin, marveling at the game of hide-and-seek the candlelight and shadows played upon it. It was only much later when he remembered the words the man spoke.
As he prepared his frugal dinner of salted fish and boiled aubergine, Mr. Henares thought about how some people believed in time as a panacea for all hurt, all pain, all woes.
A pair of sisters, veiled and somber, once asked him if he had thirty years of uninterrupted time for sale. He sadly told them he did not, that no one had ever sold him a block of personal time greater than a handful of years. But inwardly, he cringed at the notion that there were people who believed in a blessed future, guaranteed happiness by imbibing his vials or selling their sorrow, whether past or yet-to-come.
He felt too old to believe in what he sold.
Before going to bed in the house that adjoined his shop, Mr. Henares checked on his trading stock, arranging various items containing words, phrases and maxims. Behind a shelf, almost hidden from his eyesight, he found a faded adarna plume etched with
Vision is the art of seeing things invisible
and a handkerchief embroidered with
What we see depends on what we look for
That night, as he stripped his clothes and slipped into bed, Mr. Henares thought about how time, whether bought or sold or unsold, robbed everyone of everything in the end. He chuckled at himself, surprised by his cynical perspective, scratched at a sore spot on his spotted arms, and went to sleep, thinking about time.
Miguel Lopez Vicente’s drought
THREE DAYS LATER, on the eve of his thirty-second natal day, the storyteller Miguel Lopez Vicente came to terms with the fact that he had nothing more to write. His body of work, unmatched in terms of scope and volume, was testament to his genius, read, devoured and performed in various venues all over Hinirang. In years past, he tilled the soil of his homeland and harvested the loves and hopes of its people, transmuting their mundane lives into great dramas of passion. He listened to the tales of sailors, merchants and ambassadors to foreign lands and improved upon what he heard, spinning marvels from the barest descriptions and epics from whispered rumors. But with each year that passed, his ideas dwindled and diminished, leaving a profound void in the center of his heart. He found himself staring at virgin pages, his quill sapped by the ennui of waiting.
“There is nothing left,” he said to his reflection in the mirror. “I don’t want to grow old.”
He recalled the first time he knew he would be a writer, how the sight of farmers during rice-planting season triggered a sudden rapture in him. But the matter of age and the ravages of time had been weighing heavily on his head for the past few months. When he passed the halfway mark of a healthy man’s lifespan the year prior, he did it in a wine-induced stupor, drinking in an effort to obliterate the fact that he had written only one wondrous play the previous year.
This year, he thought about doing something else, to ward off the thoughts of another year ending, a fruitless year of utter desolation — perhaps by losing himself in the arms of some unknown young man, but decided against it. A young man’s embrace would repeat a story he already knew (no doubt the boy’s arms would be strong; his skin perfect and tight; his eyes round; his life exactly the same as every other young man that Miguel had known), a futile exercise. And so Miguel simply resolved to determine his own story’s ending.
Miguel Lopez Vicente selects an ending
THE AFTERNOON OF the next day, Miguel walked to the Encanto lu Caminata to the shop of Mr. Henares. The shop was empty of people when he arrived, but filled to the rafters with all manner of jars, pots and woven baskets; vials, censers and tsino incense stick holders; beads, feathers, and boxes and bowls of various sizes, shapes and colors. A peculiar scent permeated the room, swirling slowly around a large storm lantern on the counter — the mingled smells of an eclipse, stolen kisses, and newly-opened luggage fresh from an airplane’s belly.
Miguel was about to touch the lantern when he decided instead to ring the tiny porcelain bell whose intricate details seemed to never end.
“Vueño arao, what can I do for you?” Mr. Henares said, appearing from an adjoining room.
“Good morning, Mr. Henares,” Miguel Lopez Vicente replied. “I have come to trade away all my days.”
“All your days? Are you certain?” The old merchant looked him straight in the eye and for a moment Miguel felt
himself dissolve into sad and heavy motes that just barely kept the shape of a man.
“Yes,” Miguel nodded. “Believe me, this decision was not at all spontaneous.”
“I cannot buy them all,” Mr. Henares said. “This is not that kind of place.”
“Do you know who I am?” Miguel asked him.
“It makes no difference, sir,” Mr. Henares replied. “But, yes. I do.”
“This way, at least, let someone benefit,” Miguel told him with an unflinching gaze.
“I see,” said Mr. Henares. He leaned forward until the space between him and Miguel was no wider than a fist. “But I have nothing in stock to give you for what you want give me. It is quite early in the month. The value of your—”
“Sir,” Miguel interrupted him, taking a step back. “Just give me the first thing you see and we’ll call it an exchange fair and well-made.”
“Very well,” the old man said, before vanishing into the other room. He returned a moment later with his tools, brass and glass and wood, and took precisely the amount of time Miguel Lopez Vicente wanted to exchange. Afterwards, he handed Miguel a silver thimble, discolored and slightly dented.
“This was found in a ship sleeping at the bottom of the sea, off the island of Siqui’jor. The vessel sank fleeing pirates — it is a story old but true.” Mr. Henares said in a soft tone. “Sometimes, one cannot run away.”
“I am aware of that story,” Miguel sighed as he looked closely at the thimble for the inscription.
“Of course. Of course, you are,” Mr. Henares nodded, scratching at a sore on his left arm. He left Miguel alone to read.
Around the rim of the thimble, almost worn away, were the words
There is a reason why past is past.
That night at his home, Miguel Lopez Vicente dismissed his maidservant early, mixed water with his last supper’s vino, a simple claret from the vineyards of Sevilla in Ispancio, undressed himself, taking care to empty his bowels beforehand to maintain a semblance of dignity for the benefit of those who would find him, and stretched out on his lonely bed built for two.
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