A FURTIVE TEAR

PART 1: MIGUEL I. SIXTY YEAR OLD Miguel Samaniego was walking down what used to be Roxas Boulevard. Gusts of wind were blowing from the opposite direction making his long, wiry hair flutter and the sagging skin under his chin dangle like a hungry geckos tongue. His weak shoulders rose unevenly as he breathed. The steps slapping on the pavement were the steps of a man whose feet had walked on various surfaces, soundless and calculated. He did not have the slightest hint where his strides were leading himhe did not carethat he was standing on solid ground was already enough. In the distance a building Miguel was much familiar with stood defeated against the backdrop of the setting sun. Half of the sky now burned with the deceptively beautiful flames of saffron more intense around the crown of the vanishing celestial body, fading into lighter shades as the rays spilled away like water rivulets across the firmament. Beauty precedes death. Concrete barriers with twisted barbed wire on top were put up around the buildings perimeter to fend off scavengers who might unwittingly go near this ghost of a structure in search for items to sellor to exchange for food. They thought it was that easy. Remaining patches of concrete clung loosely to the huge metal bars which once served as the skeleton of the building. Any moment from now, everything would succumb to gravity one only needed to see

the huge cracks that ran around the base of the building to infer that it would not last any longerand at that point, this building once immediately recognizable, the very symbol of

wealth and excess during the pre-war times, Manilas most famous edifice, would completely be one with the earth. A philosophical dilemma was raised by someone before, it went like this: If a tree falls down in a forest, and nobodys around to hear it, does it make a sound? There was virtually no one in that place except for Miguel. The silence was so immense he could hear the pain-cries of his own shadow as it got dragged along the road. If the slabs started detaching themselves from the metal bones , hed be there to bear witness to what, forty years ago, was deemed impossible. But then, why would he stay? What was there that was mesmerizing enough to have his gaze transfixed at? He had to go. This was no longer the Roxas Boulevard of his childhood. The panoramic image was something straight out of a surrealist painting or an artists nightmare. But if perchance the slabs started falling off one by one while he was still there, he would, for certain, close his eyes, cover his ears with his hands and hum a song by Bob Dylan or Cynthia Alexander because something that was not seen nor heard did not happen. Because he had memories to protect. He stopped walking and inhaled his floating thoughts in. Feelings convulsed inside his chest, he wanted to shout, to shudder, to cry, to laugh all at once. He wanted to dissolve at that very moment. To be totally eaten by the abyss he knew was slowly gnawing his insides. For forty years he had been a wanderer lost in a labyrinth of faces that had forgotten how to dream and voices that never in their lives took a happy inflection. There were many moments when he had wanted to let go. Moments when all he needed to do was to put the noose around his

neck, or pull the trigger of the gun that he was holding. And the suffering would end. But always, courage slipped away from his hands.

It was hard to believe that this place of dust and ruins was once frequented by lovers.
They stood there, before the once majestic bay with arms entwined, and breaths heavy with words of endearment, words that passed only through the lips of people in love. Their eyes were dazed. And their movements were fluid and violent at the same time. Love, the only form of madness glorified in works of literature. Miguel remembered quite clearly how he and his friends, teenagers as they were and with no experience yet of that convoluted feeling which supposedly made men out of boys, would derisively laugh at these people, at how silly they looked and sounded when they talked. They would even hide behind bushes and throw miniscule stones at smooching couples and run until they ran out of breath. That was more than forty years ago, when what one looked forward to every time he slept at night was the scent of morning air. Good old days, he thought, he felt sad. Waves were crashing on the shore in six second intervalshe knew the logic behind such precision: the waves were simulatedthat was the rate with which the authorities set the function of the wavemachine. All the water in the bay dried up in the third year of the Great War. The Government that took over after the Third Republic was toppled tried to restore the things that were destroyed during the warbridges, buildings, roads (not churches since the Government wanted its subjects to believe only in its superiority, and what greater hindrance to achieving that kind of control than religion?) but the destruction was too much, in the end, the Government gave up. It just made do with imitations of things. The capital region was almost reduced to smithereens, places which were heavily populated prior to the War became virtual deserts after it. According to statistics, at least a tenth of the population had miraculously survived. Around two million people. Miguel doubted if this was true. Of the people he knew, his friends, his tatay, acquaintances, no one was able to survive, which come to think of it was good, at least they did not have to suffer anymore. Almost half of the Sun was now below the waters of Manila Bay. Still a beautiful scene, only he had no one to share it with. Flashes of memories started to flit inside his head, some were amorphous while others were agonizingly vivid: . The day when he lost everything was of course the most painful and unforgettableHe woke up to the sound of wailing and explosions, smoke crawling up his nose. All over their neighborhood, firestealth fighters from that neighboring country, once an ally of the resistance, hovered above like messengers of death. As it appeared, almost the whole barangay, or maybe the whole city (there was no way of knowing), was already being consumed by fire. But inspite this already apparent state of chaos and destruction, solar bombs still kept dropping from heaven like manna. The poet in him shunned the basic instinct of survival and started thinking about the paradox he was witnessing, hell-fire coming from the high heavens and not spurting from the earths wounds. The impact of an explosion nearby shook violently the floor where he stood, and part of the

ceiling crashed on him. The shout of his Tatay Doming telling him to save himself was the last sound he heard before his consciousness drifted away. Illusions, the powers-that-be figured, could substitute reality, as a resultalmost nothing was real now. The waves, the air he breathed even the Sun that made his angular cheeks shine like an aluminum sheet, were fake. Lies as he put it. Or Simulacra, as a fallen philosopher friend would have surely called everything now. In the horizon, only a pale glimmer of the fake Sun could be seen. Its last rays consumed ravenously by the artificial azure waters of the bay. Night was starting to flood this side of the Earth. He began walking again, this time he had his head bowed, he was watching his steps so that he does not trip on a jagged stone or on a crack on the pavement and hurt his surgicallyrepaired knee. His hands were inside the pockets of his frayed army jacket. He suddenly thought of that girl he met a while ago at Ma Mon Luk, one of the few ancient establishments that was not totally destroyed by war. Aurea was her name. Those eyes, he said to himself, I've seen them before, but where? You are entering restricted area, may we request to see your I.D. The soldier said in e ven tone. He mechanically stretched his hand and gestured Miguel to stop. Miguel suddenly came to his senses, he realized how long he had walked. He wanted to just turn his back on the soldier because he did not really want to enter the restricted area. But that would arouse suspicion, so he obsequiously fished for his I.D. from the breast pocket of his polo shirt and showed it to the soldier manning the gate. The I.D. was fed to the verifier, green light blinked, meaning he was safe. He was not part of a rebel group, his record was clean. You may now enter the premises. No. Its fine, I was just strolling around. The soldier did not reply. Miguel walked away.

II. The light bulb directly above his head flickered as if it were a bear taking in its last breaths. Or some deranged guy experiencing epileptic spasms. The air felt hot and oily making the sweat trickling down his neck sticky and irritating. In front of him, a man and a woman, both in their late sixties or early seventies were talking. They just finished eating. The man had thick lensed glasses and grey hair. While the woman had pale complexion and wore no specs. The glasses kept sliding down the mans n ose, he kept pushing it up. Well, the smell hasnt changed has it? Nope. Its the same as it was forty years ago. The grey haired man said in a tone that was both nostalgic and sad.

All the while, Miguel was sitting still in the old beaten rattan chair looking at the gently swirling water in the plastic cup that he was holding. A dull pain ran across his left leg. His lips contorted into a bitter smile, he was old. He swung his leg to even up the circulation of blood. He then gave it a good rub. Sir, your order The waiter then placed the bowl of steaming mami and the plate of siopao on the table. Miguel thanked him, the waiter nodded and smiled. Miguel lifted the metal spoon and plunged it slowly into the surface of the mami, gradually, the hot soup started to fill the concave surface of the spoons head. He then twirled some noodle strands using the fork, chewing it carefully his eyes surveyed the hall. The old couple in front of him were gone. In their place was a young lady, around twenty, tracing invisible figures on the table with a wobbly index finger. She was wearing a red t-shirt, with lines from a song Miguel was not familiar with. He started gorging on the siopao. Excuse me, can you please hand me some of those tissues? The lady said. As he was about to give her the tissue dispenser, the ladys lips quivered and curled and her eyes went wide. Oh my God, youre him, arent you? Who? The lady was uneasy for a moment, she stared at him blankly. Miguel stood waiting for her answer. Then she spoke, almost in a whisper Reb Sumulong. Youre him, right? I saw your face in an old newspaper my lola kept. You wrote stories after the war, when you were very young. Stories about the pain and suffering of the peopleabout your own suffering. I loved them. I dreamt of one day meeting the man. You are him, I know. A pained expression flitted across his face. He looked at her. She was pretty. But it was her eyes which drew his attention. It was as if they were black holes sucking his whole being. I am not him, he turned around and picked up his canvass bag. He did not finish his food. Wait! He stopped. I am Aurea. If youre not him, then at least tell me who you are. Miguel. Miguel Samaniego. They shook hands. Miguel went out of the establishment. Leaving behind the puzzled lady, Aurea.

III. Anna said he only cared about the little things. This on their second date, when Miguel just shrugged his shoulders after she asked him what her mothers name was to test him if he was

paying attention to her during times when she was talking. Girls are like that, he thought, they conjure up silly ways of measuring your sincerity, your love for them. He knew the answer of course, his memory was sharp. Miranda. It was Miranda. But there are things that one ought to conceal, the fact that you knew the name of your dates mother, for example. Imagine his surprise when Anna said yes to him when it was his turn to ask her (if shed like to be his girlfriend). He had read a considerable amount of Mishima, meaning, Miguel expected Anna to turn him down, and he, to be exultant about what was superficially and supposedly, a failure. Death in love. He drew a cigarette from his breast pocket and lit it with his zippo lighter, a gift from a friend. He was lying in bed, he stood up and walked towards the window, he opened it and sat on the wooden sill. In truth, he had never been in love. Well, he collected matchboxes and old coins, he liked to play fantasy basketball, play his harmonica, listen to violinists (the last, he told no one about, for one, people might think he was overly pretentious. For another, he thought no one would understand), perhaps Anna was right, the only thing that mattered for him were the little things. The cellphone placed on his writing table vibrated. He took a very deep drag, blew the smoke and crushed the stub on the ash tray. He read the message, it was from Anna. Meet me in the library at two pm tomorrow. Dont be late! He locked the cellphone and placed it on the writing table, beside his laptop and a stack of papers. He jumped onto his bed and slept the afternoon away.

IV. It was mayhem. Billows of smoke rose from the burning infrastructures and massed into dark clouds that rolled ominously and hid the noonday sun. Firemen were trying hard to extinguish the flames but there was nothing they could do, water evaporated as soon as they touch the the burning infrastructures. The fire consuming most of the city was reddish orange in color. The firmament was covered in clouds of smoke, thick dust and flying embers, thin shafts of sunlight were able to pass through holes in the clouds. Black, Orange, Yellow, Red, a burst of colors. This chromatic dissonance gave a touch of artistic madness to the scene. Like a Wagnerian piece, the violence is what precisely maked it beautiful. Shouts of people, pain stricken, dying, searching for missing loved ones and passing into insanity flooded the alleyways, undulated over the streets and converged at road bends before they exploded into splinters of sound the assaulted the ears. It was harrowing enough for people bearing witness to what was happening to wish for death. Uniformed men managed to break into their house. They searched for people to be saved Quick here, this guys still alive!

The rescuers were frantic, they lifted the bookshelf that was obstructing their way and scampered like rats towards the guy who was unconscious on the floor. Blood had already coagulated around his head. He was the only one saved in their neighborhood.

V. He has wide eyes, this child. Tatay tousled my hair, lifted me and made me sit on his lap. Here, take a sip. He smelled strongly of beer, his face was red, he was holding the cold bottle of San Miguel in his left hand was pressed on my abdomen making sure that I wont slip down his lap. His friends were all laughing. He pushed the bottles lid gently to my lips. I took a sip, no, a gulpthe beer was bitter I coughed hard. Beer ran down my nose, and my stomach rumbled. I ran towards the manga tree which my lola planted in our backyard, and on the ground where the roots crawled, I puked. Tatay followed me. He rubbed my back and wiped the tears that streamed down my eyes with the back of his hand. He patted me gently on my face and asked if I was ok. I said yes. He said I should drink water and sleep. I did exactly what he told me, while tatay and his friends resumed the drinking session which I had interrupted momentarily. He died in that explosion, his body was never recovered. The ironic thing was, his manner of death and enigmatic disappearance, in a sense, were what he asked for: To walk this world

without leaving traces of my passing. To be like a cloud, or an ant. To flit and be gone unremembered.

Miguel was the name of the grandfather who took care of him when he was a child. It was also the name of his best friend in the State University, an igorot, who was killed by a head hunter from a rival tribe while he was having a vacation in Sagada. But tatay seldom talked about these people. The only Miguel he loved talking about was me, his son. When asked by relatives if I was doing good in school, his answer was always indirect despite the fact that I was always at the top of my class, he never told them that I was smart or intelligent, since according to him those adjectives were already too used up they probably were on their last legs by now. Instead, he told them that I had wide eyes. He did not mean it literally, of course. It was just that, I looked at everything with a curious wonder. Once when I was seven years old, while we were walking home from school I asked tatay why at around six, when it was already dark, the light on the Meralco posts simultaneously went on. Was there someone, unseen, flicking a switch somewhere? He smiled at me, and explained something about photovoltaic cells, how the absence of sunlight triggered something in the postsyou see, he relished it when I asked things. I owe much of what I would eventually become to tatay. He made me read his books. He had a lot. I remember, I was in grade four then, watching the Flintstones when he deliberately turned the T.V. off and asked me to come with him to his room. There he gestured me to look at his bookshelves, at the disheveled pile of books. Son, I own this much misery. He said pointing at the books. And soon, I am going to pass them on to you.

It was too cryptic, I wasnt able to get what he was trying to say. I guess, he was just a peculiar character, spontaneous. He then picked a book from the pile, and gave it to me. Here, start with this. And tell me if you liked it. The book was Antoine de Saint Exuperys The Little Prince. I loved the book. The morning when the bombs rained from the sky, tatay was surely listening to cassette tapes of Bob Dylan and Joey Ayala or some relatively less known artists. That was what he did during mornings. If that day had gone as normally as the days before it had, after listening to his eccentric music, tatay would surely do Qi Gong, some sort of Chinese exercise whose purpose is to normalize the Qi (Chi) flow in the body. He started practicing it a couple of years after suffering a minor stroke that nonetheless rendered almost half his body paralyzed. He knew a lot of things. He knew about Anna, and that girl I met in Baguio, Elise. He knew Anna was my girlfriend and that I did not love her. That my relationship with her was just because, you know, I had to conform with the norms of societyat nineteen I felt that I had to have a girlfriend lest I be teased a sissy. Tatay advised me against the relationship. He said love would come and I shouldnt force things because I might get hurt in the end . Eventually, I would realize the wisdom behind his advice. He was a poet, and the poems which he composed, he kept to himself. He told me he came from the land of moons, and that was why he weaved great tales and made lyrical verses. He taught me how to make kites that were too heavy, they never flew. And to fold papers into planes that crashed immediately after they were released from my hands. He taught me to love the stars, the fireflies, the wind. He showed me the colors of dreams and made me feel the warmth of lovedancing feverishly like the shadows cast by a lampinside ones chest. He consciously made himself look happy. But the things he tried hard to hide from me showed, he was a poetmeaning, the pain he felt was thrice the magnitude of what ordinary people felt. That morning, his shout cut through the cacophony of other noises. Son, save yourself. I still had many questions to ask. Still, there were things that puzzled me. But life was to put it in a not so poetic term, unkind. VI. Pacing back and forth the dingy room, the nervousness the young man was feeling was becoming too obvious it was starting to infect the still, musty air. The floorboards were squeaking under his staccato steps. Held tight in between his tensed fingers was a lit Marlboro cigarette, he gave it a soft tap and the ashes fell down to the wooden floor. Bad news came early that dayimportant Party documents were seized in a safe house in Baclaran, top cadres were arrested. A portrait of Mao Zedong hung on the wall, the late Chairman of the Chinese Communist Party was staring at them benevolently. It was placed there to give them encouragement in times of distress, but it seemed not to be working now. Ka Dencio, a guy clad in a fit Nike shirt and tattered Levis jeans was repeatedly cursing under his breath. Ka Maria a typist and the only female member of their collective, was the only one who exhibited composure, she was trying to calm her comrades down while packing important things in a duffel bag. It was standard operational procedure among people of the Under Ground to abandon a safe house when another safe house whose inhabitants they had communication with had been raided.

Fuck it. The guy who was walking nervously retorted. He was Reb Sumulong, a top ranking member of the Party and secretary general of Armas (Artista at Manunulat Para sa Sambayanan). How could they be too clumsy? He said balling his fists in rage. Now they have endangered the lives of many comrades. Among the documents seized by the military of the fourth republic were letters of correspondence between Reb and the Manila-Rizal Regional Party Committee, and most importantly, the manuscript for the November edition of Ulos. The official cultural journal of the NDF. It was a time of dissent, a time when almost everyone held a clenched fist in in the open and in secret. Ulos played a huge role in ushering this era of great politicization, the stories, poems and essays it contained were read by the common people with trepidation. These pieces reflected what was happening in their everyday lives. The voices they heard from the journal were their very own voices. Ulos had become too influential that it needed to be released quarterly from being just a biannual publication. Reb finally decided to sit down. He heaved a sigh and tried to calm himself. From the heap of documentsto be burned later before they escapehe picked a piece of coupon bond, slightly crumpled and with blotches of ink along the edges. It was the first page of a short story he wrote many months ago, the title was Blood and Scars it was printed at the top of the paper in standard Times New Roman Script. He read the first sentence: It was disgust that filled everyones heart when they saw that the baby had the face of a hyena. He grinned, who would have thought this story is about an intellectual who spurned the promise of a successful career in the academe to join the revolution. Okay, I am done. I have packed everything that we would need. Let us go. The police will come anytime soon. Somebody knocked on the door. They were still, paralyzed. Reb groped for his pistol, hidden in a secret pocket under his jacket. He asked Ka Dencio, the one who was repeatedly cursing under his breath to slowly open the door. They are going to kill us anyway, so we might as well die fighting. Ka Maria whispered, as she herself produced a glock which was tucked safely in the waist of her pants. Ka Dencio slowly opened the door. Reb ducked and pointed his gun at the direction of the door. Ka Maria was behind him with her gun pointed in the same direction. The head of the man who was knocking peered inside the room through the tiny opening. When he saw that Ka Reb and Ka Maria were poised to shoot him, he shouted. Whoah. Relax its me, Karlo! Ka Reb and Ka Maria immediately put away their guns and sighed in relief. Karlo is one of the couriers of the M-R Regional Party Committee. Karlo was the one assigned to search for a safe house to which the three would be transferred. Hurry up, or the vultures will catch us. Karlo said loudly, his words almost echoed inside the room. Ka Reb and Ka Maria slung their bags across their shoulders, Ka Dencio carried the huge duffel bag which contained their clothes. They had already alighted the steps leading to the door of

the safe house when Ka Dencio remembered the heap of UG documents on the floor. He asked Karlo for his ligther and after having it, he immediately went up. He got a bottle of kerosene from the kitchen, poured all of its contents on the documents. He then pulled a piece of paper, rolled it and used it to set the documents aflame. He watched the fire grow big. When it was already halfway from reaching the ceiling, he got out as the smoke was starting to choke him and make his eyes tear. The house was bought by the movement because of its ideal location, it was located in a part of Valenzuela which was almost isolated from the city. Their nearest neighbor was a sixty year old cripple who owned a junkshop. The guys house (and junkshop) was more than a hundred meters away from their safe house. They jumped into the old corolla, Karlo put the key in the ignition and started the engine. It coughed once, twice before it came to life. They sped away from the burning house and its crumbling memories. After several minutes of driving, they were on the C5 road, everyone was immersed in his/her own thoughts. They reached Pasig at around 5:00 pm, from the main road the car took a turn and moved into a minor one, which seemed to be more like a one-way street. The safe house was in Taguig, Reb felt a tinge of worry about its location because Camp Bagong Diwa was just a kilometer or two away, but he did not express his discomfiture. The house was smaller than the last one, it was situated at a squatters area in Bicutan. While they were walking, several people lining the narrow path leading to the new house stopped what ever it was they were doing and cast glances at them, these glances, Reb observed were not the inquisitive nor the surprised types, which strangers who invaded someones turf were sure to receive.The eyes of these people, Reb surmis ed, reflected a feeling akin to pitty. It was already dark and the lights inside were off. Ka Reb, Ka Maria and Ka Dencio entered the house, Karlo was behind them. Darkness coated the walls the furniture if there were anyand was the only thing visible. But they had been to the mountains, wherein honing ones senses was a necessity if one were to survive. Because thieves come in the night. Reb sensed movement. It was minimal, maybe an eyelid twitching, an index finger tapping at a cellular phone or restrained breathing, at any rate he was sure something moved. When they were all inside, Karlo closed the door and turned the lights on. Welcome guys. When the light displaced the darkness and made things visible, they saw a corpulent guy with narrow eyes and a small mouth sitting in a plastic chair with legs crossed, he uncrossed them, crouched forward and squinted his eyes to have a better look of the people before him. Ka Reb, Ka Maria and Ka Dencio were dumbfounded for a moment, they were completely clueless of what was happening. Somebody opened the door, it swung violently. Uniformed men entered, in Ka Rebs estimate there were eight of them, they formed a semi circle around the four. Raise your hands and do not try to resist or we will not hesitate to plant bullets in your skulls. One of them, a tall dark man, said in a tagalog that had a heavy visayan accent. They did as ordered. Two of the policemen searched them for weapons, the policeman assigned to Ka Maria

was obviously taking advantage of the situation, he cupped her breasts and remarked on how huge her butt was. Ka Maria shut her eyes and cried silently. They saw Karlo walk towards the fat guy. It then dawned on all three of them Karlo was a DPA (Deep Penetration Agent), he was also the one responsible for the raid on the Baclaran safe house. Karlo shook the hands of the fat guy enthusiastically, Colonel Caliwag, that was what he called him. They laughed together over some remark which only the two of them heard. Ka Dencio was fuming, he gritted his teeth. You snake! Ka Dencio shouted then he jumped forward with a fist clenched, he aimed to strike Karlos face. But the policemen were quick to react, each one of them fired multiple shots at Ka Dencio. After the sound and the fury had subsided, Ka Dencios body lay sprawled on the floor with its eyes and mouth opened, his feet moved in an odd convulsive manner, he was alive but inevitably dying soon. Colonel Caliwag stood up and produced a pistol from a leather bag which was placed on top of an old television. He shot Ka Dencio in the head, and spat on his bloodied and disfigured face. Coup de grace. He smiled mockingly at Ka Reb and Ka Maria. The two were too shocked at what happened they were speechless. Thats what is in store for you communists when you try to mess with us. Garcia do whatever you want to do with the lady, she is inconsequential anyway. The tall dark guy called the names of two other policemen, and motioned them to follow him. Ka Maria was shouting for help. Garcia, punched her twice in the stomach. No one here is going to help you, idiot. They are all afraid of us. He dragged her by the hair, one of the two policeman cuffed her hands behind her back, wrapped his arms around her midsection and lifted her. The other policeman was holding her feet together, she was trying to break away from the hold of her captors but their combined strength was just too much. All the while, Ka Reb just watched everything. Not a single word of protest flew out of his mouth. Now, look who we have here. The fabled Reb Sumulong. You know, you are a fine young writer. Everyone loves your stories. But you are an enemy of the state. And therefore, you must suffer the consequences Hold him. The policemen held Ka Reb tight. One of them handed Colonel Caliwag a hammer, without the Colonel asking. The Colonel held the hammer aloft. Ka Reb thought the bastard was going to hit his head, or his face. But when the blow fell, he was surprised to feel intense pain in his left knee. Release him. They all let go of him at the same time. Ka Reb collapsed on the floor head first. He writhed like a worm daubed in bleach. The pain from his left knee climbed up to his chest,

and then, to his head and pounded on the walls of his skull. Colonel Caliwag, the sadist kicked Ka Reb in the face, blood oozed from his nose and his split lips. Men, take him out of here. Let us go. Ka Reb was hauled into a van. Colonel Caliwag was already seated beside Karlo in the backseat, thinking about his promotion, when he noticed the droplets of blood that soiled his favorite white shirt.

VII.

After the war, she had become Amy Ballete. She had not taken the new name to disguise her identityas yet there was no needbut, as she imagined at that time, to forget her life.
Roth was one of his favorite authors. And he did not know why. The book was secondhand, with stains of what seemed to be chocolate drink on its jacket. He put it down, ran his right hand across his face, a gesture of boredom. The previous owner read the book in a caf, he surmised. Or perhaps at home, on the veranda of his house while looking at the overgrown lawn of its garden, did he perchance think about the many species of insects that surely crawled unnoticed beneath it? Dont be late my ass. It was 2:30, and Anna had yet to show up. Miguel texted her multiple times already, but there was no response from her. He walked towards the Filipiniana section of the library, there was a plethora of books, he had a hard time choosing the books which he would read. In the end, he came back to his seat with three books by Ambeth Ocampo to amuse himself. Anna was there when he returned. Hey, youre almost an hour late. Miguel said, placing the stack of books on top of the desk. I know. It is the first instance Im late in our appointment. Usually, it is you who make me wait. So I figured, this time Id arrive at 3:00, instead of 2:00 pm, you know, for a change. And besides, you only confirmed during lunch time, I texted you like morning yesterday? What, mister, too important to reply yeah to this poor lady? I only expected a monosyllable from you. Turned out I was expecting too much. Miguel looked at her and said sorry. You know, I am not as stupid as you think I am, Migs. Lately youve been treating me like trash, not that you have treated me like a princess in the first placebut these past few days, you know, things just went from awful to worse. At least before, youd ask if I had eaten and wish me goodnight even if they were just for show. But now, it seems you have completely forgotten about me, your girlfriend, She put emphasis on the word girlfriend. She began sobbing, Miguel stretched an arm across the table to reach her, he touched her shoulders but she slapped his hand away, now be honest, I want an honest answer from you.

I have read those poems. Who is the girl? VIII.

There are no more stars in Manila. Were the words he wrote down the notepadwhile walking
in the vicinity of the Teachers camp with his head upturned, eyes searching for familiar constellations, those which he remembered from the constellation map he bought in grade schoolbefore he tore the sheet and threw it away. Baguio always had this surreal effect on him, every time he was here, he would always be suffused by the urge to write and write to the point when it had became almost an imperative, like breathing. Always, he would return to Manila with a short-story or two. Neatly folded between the pages of a magazine or book. But now something seemed to be wrong, he could not get past the first sentence. The urge was there but words would not jump out of his head onto his hands. Inside the conference hall, delegates were singing hymns of worship, it was already ten oclock in the evening, the designated time for devotion. He snuck out of the hall, went to their cottage to get some scratch paper and a can of beer, and took a clandestine walk. Maybe, he thought, silence was the thing he needed to pull down the paragraphs that were stubbornly clinging to his brain. But he had been sitting on the pathway for close to an hour now, and he had not written anything yet except for that sentence which to him appeared bland and lacking in sophistication. Hugged by the chilling mist which carried a rather sweet scent, of flowers maybe, or it could be a whiff of the fragrance of the mountain goddess herself. Miguels lips quivered like a dof left out in the cold. Baguio at this time of the year? Whose bright idea was this? He consumed in one gulp the remaining beer in the can. Her voice rang in his head. He was at the back of the hall when she sang her rendition of a song by a troubled pop star, it was so beautiful almost all of the delegates stood up and clapped their hands for at least a minute, a fitting show of appreciation for an impeccable artistic performance. He just stood, un-moving. The lady had a face which eluded remembering. No matter how intently he stared at her there would be details which he couldnt capture in his memory. After the performance, he went immediately back to their cottage to compose a story, which he was determined to give her. Elise was her name. Said a fellow delegate who belonged to the same commission as the lady. On any normal days, her name would have sounded ordinary, but now it strangely took a cantabilic qualityElise. Then he rememberedwasnt she Beethovens paramour? Milan Kundera wrote in his book, The Unbearable Lightness of Being this beautiful line:

Beethoven creates Eternity out of the physical limitation of the symphony.

That was what he wanted to doto create an eternity out of the physical limitation of his chosen artistic medium, the short-story. To make a piece of four thousand words contain everything, all the emotions he felt pain while he was rigidly standing there: longing, lovelove, he searched for another word for it. He failed. Beethoven made a beautiful paean to his lover, Fur Elise. He wanted to make his own for this Elise. And hours passed by like strangers on a street but his notepad remained blank. Dews were starting to form on the grass making them soggy, and lights from cottages already were going off one by one. And the stars, he noticed, had changed their positions. Seeing these made him feel sleepy. He stood up, this day had exhausted him. He needed to rest. Get up, mofo. Its already eight. If you dawdle in bed a little longer, the food will be cold as an ice berg. And fuck you if that happens. Jay, a fellow delegate and friend told him. He was already dressed. Miguel took a quick bath. Inside the Abada hall, a throng of people were already seated at their respective tables waiting for the food to be served. Someone bumped into him from behind, he didnt turn back to see who it was. People who were with the person laughed. It was a female voice who apologized. It was Elise. He stopped walking for a brief instant. Elise and the people with her moved past him, she was laughing with them. Miguel saw her eyes, sparkling like a jewel in the middle of a concrete road on a hot day. Jay called him. He sat down and started eating. He gave up. He could not write. That afternoon, they were scheduled to return to Manila. Elise, to Lipa. They had never said a word to each other, except f or that I am sorry from Elise. They never talked formally. And he felt their roads were never going to cross again. Which, he thought, was sort of depressing. The Jeep that would transport them to the bus station screeched to a halt in front of the main hall. Miguel sat in the front seat with Jay. The Jeep picked up speed, and in a few seconds, the teachers camp had disappeared in the distance as could be seen from the side mirror. On the ground where he stood before boarding the jeepney, a furtive tear the shape of a sunflower was transforming slowly into vapors that would soon become clouds. No one would ever know that it was shed.

IX. Miguel now remembered where. Loving is short, forgetting is so longone of the few poets he admired wrote in green ink. That he had forgotten her was as much a conundrum to him as the reason why he was not able to write anythingand therefore given her something to remind her of himthat night. He had met thousands of people in his life, meaning, he had looked at

more than a thousand pairs of eyes. Always, there would be a glimmer in them that would speak of what that particular person was feeling at that particular moment. A playful light sparked from the eyes of his tormentors when they were pulling his nails and electrocuting him to make him squeal about the secrets of the movement which he was part of. Humans can be cruel to fellow human. When talking about a particularly funny experience to his inherently silent father, his fathers delighted laughter would show through his eyes. While his face remained rigid, seemingly detached. While Miguel knew sorrow unmistakably flowed, like a river, unimpeded from his that was why he avoided looking at mirrors. Eliseher eyes, they were different. Not like anything that he had seen. Forty years after, he realized why he was not able to remember how her face looked like. Because when he was standing still at the back of the hall trying hard to remember the geography of her face, the slope of her nose, the curve of her lips, the size of her ears and if the skin on her forehead had folded when she raised her browssomething sucked all his attention, he did not notice it then. But the whole time, he was only looking at one particular feature of her physiognomy, the eyes. Aureaher eyes, they were the same as Elise. Just when he thought that the Universe was done playing jokes on him. Just when he thought that he had seen enough. The unmistakable sound of footstepsexcited, dashing, without poise nor rhythm as if young and learning again, unafraid to trip and fallcleaved the air. Who is the girl? Anna asked him before. The answer was there in some street corner or in an old boarding house, He was stupid enough to let Elise go away. He was determined now to rectify the errors of the past. I will find

you.