HOW Gerardo Luna came by his dream no one could have told, not even he. He was a salesman in a jewelry store on Rosario street and had been little else. His job he had inherited from his father, one might say; for his father before him had leaned behind the self-same counter, also solicitous, also short-sighted and thin of hair. After office hours, if he was tired, he took the street car to his home in Intramuros. If he was feeling well, he walked; not frequently, however, for he was frail of constitution and not unduly thrifty. The stairs of his house were narrow and dark and rank with characteristic odors from a Chinese sari-sari store which occupied part of the ground floor. He would sit down to a supper which savored strongly of Chinese cooking. He was a fastidious eater. He liked to have the courses spread out where he could survey them all. He would sample each and daintily pick out his favorite portions—the wing tips, the liver, the brains from the chicken course, the tail-end from the fish. He ate appreciatively, but rarely with much appetite. After supper he spent quite a time picking his teeth meditatively, thinking of this and that. On the verge of dozing he would perhaps think of the forest.
For his dream concerned the forest. He wanted to go to the forest. He had wanted to go ever since he could remember. The forest was beautiful. Straight-growing trees. Clear streams. A mountain brook which he might follow back to its source up among the clouds. Perhaps the thought that most charmed and enslaved him was of seeing the image of the forest in the water. He would see the infinitely far blue of the sky in the clear stream, as in his childhood, when playing in his father’s azotea, he saw in the water-jars an image of the sky and of the pomelo tree that bent over the railing, also to look at the sky in the jars.Only once did he speak of this dream of his. One day, Ambo the gatherer of orchids came up from the provinces to buy some cheap ear-rings for his wife’s store. He had proudly told Gerardo that the orchid season had been good and had netted him over a thousand pesos. Then he talked to him of orchids and where they were to be found and also of the trees that he knew as he knew the palm of his hand. He spoke of sleeping in the forest, of living there for weeks at a time. Gerardo had listened with his prominent eyes staring and with thrills coursing through his spare body. At home he told his wife about the conversation, and she was interested in the business aspect of it.
“It would be nice to go with him once,” he ventured hopefully.
“Yes,” she agreed, “but I doubt if he would let you in on his business.”
“No,” he sounded apologetically. “But just to have the experience, to be out.”
“Out?” doubtfully.
“To be out of doors, in the hills,” he said precipitately.
“Why? That would be just courting discomfort and even sickness. And for nothing.”
He was silent.
He never mentioned the dream again. It was a sensitive, well-mannered dream which nevertheless grew in its quiet way. It lived under Gerardo Luna’s pigeon chest and filled it with something, not warm or sweet, but cool and green and murmurous with waters.
He was under forty. One of these days when he least expected it the dream would come true. How, he did not know. It seemed so unlikely that he would deliberately contrive things so as to make the dream a fact. That would he very difficult.
Then his wife died.
And now, at last, he was to see the forest. For Ambo had come once more, this time with tales of newly opened public land up on a forest plateau where he had been gathering orchids. If Gerardo was interested—he seemed to be—they would go out and locate a good piece. Gerardo was interested—not exactly in land, but Ambo need not be told.
He had big false teeth that did not quite fit into his gums. When he was excited, as he was now, he spluttered and stammered and his teeth got in the way of his words.
“I am leaving town tomorrow morning.” he informed Sotera. “Will—”
“Leaving town? Where are you going?”
“S-someone is inviting me to look at some land in Laguna.”
“Land? What are you going to do with land?”
That question had never occurred to him.
“Why,” he stammered, “Ra-raise something, I-I suppose.”
“How can you raise anything! You don’t know anything about it. You haven’t even seen a carabao!”
“Don’t exaggerate, Ate. You know that is not true.”
“Hitched to a carreton, yes; but hitched to a plow—”
“Never mind!” said Gerardo patiently. “I just want to leave you my keys tomorrow and ask you to look after the house.”
“Who is this man you are going with?”
“Ambo, who came to the store to buy some cheap jewelry. His wife has a little business in jewels. He suggested that I—g-go with him.”
He found himself then putting the thing as matter-of-factly and plausibly as he could. He emphasized the immense possibilities of land and waxed eloquently over the idea that land was the only form of wealth that could not he carried away.
“Why, whatever happens, your land will be there. Nothing can possibly take it away. You may lose one crop, two, three. Que importe! The land will still he there.”
Sotera said coldly, “I do not see any sense in it. How can you think of land when a pawnshop is so much more profitable? Think! People coming to you to urge you to accept their business. There’s Peregrina. She would make the right partner for you, the right wife. Why don’t you decide?”
“If I marry her, I’ll keep a pawnshop—no, if I keep a pawnshop I’ll marry her,” he said hurriedly.
He knew quite without vanity that Peregrina would take him the minute he proposed. But he could not propose. Not now that he had visions of himself completely made over, ranging the forest at will, knowing it thoroughly as Ambo knew it, fearless, free. No, not Peregrina for him! Not even for his own sake, much less Sotera’s.
Sotera was Ate Tere to him through a devious reckoning of relationship that was not without ingenuity. For Gerardo Luna was a younger brother to the former mistress of Sotera’s also younger brother, and it was to Sotera’s credit that when her brother died after a death-bed marriage she took Gerardo under her wings and married him off to a poor relation who took good care of him and submitted his problem as well as her own to Sotera’s competent management. Now that Gerardo was a widower she intended to repeat the good office and provide him with another poor relation guaranteed to look after his physical and economic well-being and, in addition, guaranteed to stay healthy and not die on him. “Marrying to play nurse to your wife,” was certainly not Sotera’s idea of a worthwhile marriage.
This time, however, he was not so tractable. He never openly opposed her plans, but he would not commit himself. Not that he failed to realize the disadvantages of widowerhood. How much more comfortable it would be to give up resisting, marry good, fat Peregrina, and be taken care of until he died for she would surely outlive him.
But he could not, he must not. Uncomfortable though he was, he still looked on his widowerhood as something not fortuitous, but a feat triumphantly achieved. The thought of another marriage was to shed his wings, was to feel himself in a small, warm room, while overhead someone shut down on him an opening that gave him the sky.
So to the hills he went with the gatherer of orchids.
Manuel possessed a vitality that was insatiable. His healthy, younger years were marked by a succession of mistresses. Even servant girls were prey to his desires. Cecilia, the wife had taken Loida, the harelip as a househelp in a desperate hope that she would repel him. His philandering caused the state of penury in which they existed. So it was surprising how even with his intended imperfections, Cecilia seemed to have loved him even more. Loida had been with the couple since. She possessed a face which to a stranger would most likely be described as hideous. The cleft lip, with repulsively livid gums went up in an angle to a flat nose framed in an equally flat face as though it had been bashed in by repeated fist blows. Now Manuel is dying, his appearance a far cry from the lusty man he was once known to be and he has the ashen look of a corpse. Cecilia cares for him and she seldom goes out his room. For Cecilia, Manuel has finally became hers. Loida on the other hand had adopted an unservantly attitude. Suspicious of strangers and guests, she doesn''t bother to hide her bitterness at the thought of Cecilia alone caring for Manuel and sleeping in a room with him. She seems to bristle with suppressed anger and moves around doing her chores in furious haste. In one of those rare times when Cecilia went out of the room, Loida screamed repeatedly. Her screams sent Cecilia back to the room where she saw Loida holding the inert form of Manuel, screaming while tears flowed down her face, saliva flying from her mouth that he is hers too, that he loved her.
A NIGHT IN THE HILLS BY PAZ MARQUEZ BENITEZ
ReplyDeleteHOW Gerardo Luna came by his dream no one could have told, not even he. He was a salesman in a jewelry store on Rosario street and had been little else. His job he had inherited from his father, one might say; for his father before him had leaned behind the self-same counter, also solicitous, also short-sighted and thin of hair.
After office hours, if he was tired, he took the street car to his home in Intramuros. If he was feeling well, he walked; not frequently, however, for he was frail of constitution and not unduly thrifty. The stairs of his house were narrow and dark and rank with characteristic odors from a Chinese sari-sari store which occupied part of the ground floor.
He would sit down to a supper which savored strongly of Chinese cooking. He was a fastidious eater. He liked to have the courses spread out where he could survey them all. He would sample each and daintily pick out his favorite portions—the wing tips, the liver, the brains from the chicken course, the tail-end from the fish. He ate appreciatively, but rarely with much appetite. After supper he spent quite a time picking his teeth meditatively, thinking of this and that. On the verge of dozing he would perhaps think of the forest.
For his dream concerned the forest. He wanted to go to the forest. He had wanted to go ever since he could remember. The forest was beautiful. Straight-growing trees. Clear streams. A mountain brook which he might follow back to its source up among the clouds. Perhaps the thought that most charmed and enslaved him was of seeing the image of the forest in the water. He would see the infinitely far blue of the sky in the clear stream, as in his childhood, when playing in his father’s azotea, he saw in the water-jars an image of the sky and of the pomelo tree that bent over the railing, also to look at the sky in the jars.Only once did he speak of this dream of his. One day, Ambo the gatherer of orchids came up from the provinces to buy some cheap ear-rings for his wife’s store. He had proudly told Gerardo that the orchid season had been good and had netted him over a thousand pesos. Then he talked to him of orchids and where they were to be found and also of the trees that he knew as he knew the palm of his hand. He spoke of sleeping in the forest, of living there for weeks at a time. Gerardo had listened with his prominent eyes staring and with thrills coursing through his spare body. At home he told his wife about the conversation, and she was interested in the business aspect of it.
“It would be nice to go with him once,” he ventured hopefully.
ReplyDelete“Yes,” she agreed, “but I doubt if he would let you in on his business.”
“No,” he sounded apologetically. “But just to have the experience, to be out.”
“Out?” doubtfully.
“To be out of doors, in the hills,” he said precipitately.
“Why? That would be just courting discomfort and even sickness. And for nothing.”
He was silent.
He never mentioned the dream again. It was a sensitive, well-mannered dream which nevertheless grew in its quiet way. It lived under Gerardo Luna’s pigeon chest and filled it with something, not warm or sweet, but cool and green and murmurous with waters.
He was under forty. One of these days when he least expected it the dream would come true. How, he did not know. It seemed so unlikely that he would deliberately contrive things so as to make the dream a fact. That would he very difficult.
ReplyDeleteThen his wife died.
And now, at last, he was to see the forest. For Ambo had come once more, this time with tales of newly opened public land up on a forest plateau where he had been gathering orchids. If Gerardo was interested—he seemed to be—they would go out and locate a good piece. Gerardo was interested—not exactly in land, but Ambo need not be told.
He had big false teeth that did not quite fit into his gums. When he was excited, as he was now, he spluttered and stammered and his teeth got in the way of his words.
“I am leaving town tomorrow morning.” he informed Sotera. “Will—”
“Leaving town? Where are you going?”
“S-someone is inviting me to look at some land in Laguna.”
“Land? What are you going to do with land?”
That question had never occurred to him.
“Why,” he stammered, “Ra-raise something, I-I suppose.”
“How can you raise anything! You don’t know anything about it. You haven’t even seen a carabao!”
“Don’t exaggerate, Ate. You know that is not true.”
“Hitched to a carreton, yes; but hitched to a plow—”
“Never mind!” said Gerardo patiently. “I just want to leave you my keys tomorrow and ask you to look after the house.”
“Who is this man you are going with?”
“Ambo, who came to the store to buy some cheap jewelry. His wife has a little business in jewels. He suggested that I—g-go with him.”
He found himself then putting the thing as matter-of-factly and plausibly as he could. He emphasized the immense possibilities of land and waxed eloquently over the idea that land was the only form of wealth that could not he carried away.
“Why, whatever happens, your land will be there. Nothing can possibly take it away. You may lose one crop, two, three. Que importe! The land will still he there.”
Sotera said coldly, “I do not see any sense in it. How can you think of land when a pawnshop is so much more profitable? Think! People coming to you to urge you to accept their business. There’s Peregrina. She would make the right partner for you, the right wife. Why don’t you decide?”
“If I marry her, I’ll keep a pawnshop—no, if I keep a pawnshop I’ll marry her,” he said hurriedly.
ReplyDeleteHe knew quite without vanity that Peregrina would take him the minute he proposed. But he could not propose. Not now that he had visions of himself completely made over, ranging the forest at will, knowing it thoroughly as Ambo knew it, fearless, free. No, not Peregrina for him! Not even for his own sake, much less Sotera’s.
Sotera was Ate Tere to him through a devious reckoning of relationship that was not without ingenuity. For Gerardo Luna was a younger brother to the former mistress of Sotera’s also younger brother, and it was to Sotera’s credit that when her brother died after a death-bed marriage she took Gerardo under her wings and married him off to a poor relation who took good care of him and submitted his problem as well as her own to Sotera’s competent management. Now that Gerardo was a widower she intended to repeat the good office and provide him with another poor relation guaranteed to look after his physical and economic well-being and, in addition, guaranteed to stay healthy and not die on him. “Marrying to play nurse to your wife,” was certainly not Sotera’s idea of a worthwhile marriage.
This time, however, he was not so tractable. He never openly opposed her plans, but he would not commit himself. Not that he failed to realize the disadvantages of widowerhood. How much more comfortable it would be to give up resisting, marry good, fat Peregrina, and be taken care of until he died for she would surely outlive him.
But he could not, he must not. Uncomfortable though he was, he still looked on his widowerhood as something not fortuitous, but a feat triumphantly achieved. The thought of another marriage was to shed his wings, was to feel himself in a small, warm room, while overhead someone shut down on him an opening that gave him the sky.
So to the hills he went with the gatherer of orchids.
THE OTHER WOMAN BY VIRGILIO SAMONTE
ReplyDeleteManuel possessed a vitality that was insatiable. His healthy, younger years were marked by a succession of mistresses. Even servant girls were prey to his desires. Cecilia, the wife had taken Loida, the harelip as a househelp in a desperate hope that she would repel him. His philandering caused the state of penury in which they existed. So it was surprising how even with his intended imperfections, Cecilia seemed to have loved him even more.
Loida had been with the couple since. She possessed a face which to a stranger would most likely be described as hideous. The cleft lip, with repulsively livid gums went up in an angle to a flat nose framed in an equally flat face as though it had been bashed in by repeated fist blows.
Now Manuel is dying, his appearance a far cry from the lusty man he was once known to be and he has the ashen look of a corpse. Cecilia cares for him and she seldom goes out his room. For Cecilia, Manuel has finally became hers.
Loida on the other hand had adopted an unservantly attitude. Suspicious of strangers and guests, she doesn''t bother to hide her bitterness at the thought of Cecilia alone caring for Manuel and sleeping in a room with him. She seems to bristle with suppressed anger and moves around doing her chores in furious haste.
In one of those rare times when Cecilia went out of the room, Loida screamed repeatedly. Her screams sent Cecilia back to the room where she saw Loida holding the inert form of Manuel, screaming while tears flowed down her face, saliva flying from her mouth that he is hers too, that he loved her.
would you pls include the elements of the story about this story?
Deletei did'nt read the story but the comments.......hehehehehee
ReplyDelete