Three Filipino Women (21 page)

Alone, I really had nothing to covet but memories and they came alive at the mere mention of places or names; with them, I was often mesmerized, oblivious to the turmoil around me, the clatter of living. Where could she be now? With whom was she sharing the night? Who was listening to her laughter? Once, driving in Makati, I saw her—or someone like her—hurrying on the sidewalk across the street. I slammed on the brakes, left the car where I had stopped and crossed over, unmindful of the traffic that bore down on me, but when I reached the corner where I thought I saw her, she was gone.

Alone, I sometimes walked the palm-shaded lane by the seawall. The breeze would waft the acrid tang of the sea, now polluted by tidal wash. We had been here several times, usually after visiting Mother in the old Ermita house, and here we watched the sun go down in a splash of reds and golds, waited for the night to take over and the bay and the night above it become one vast blackness sprinkled with stars. All over the world it was dark, so why then could I not live with this gloom? This was the order of things and
I should not let it frighten me, intimidate me into thinking that I could not escape it. Her father, after all, had hope and very soon, he would walk in the light again.

I visited the chapel in Navotas. Aling Atang, the priestess, could not tell me where she was other than that she was with friends and that she was always in great danger. But they would try and bring her back. The next time I visited, I could not understand at first when she made-believe and talked to an imaginary Malu with me. She asked how she was, how her father was getting along. She conducted the conversation as if Malu was there answering all her questions.

We went to the prayer meeting and it was the same—all the members acted as if she was with me, as if nothing was wrong. Aling Atang told me afterwards that they had done this every week, prayed as if Malu was in their midst. They would reach out to her and she would then return.

Following their example, I imagined her at the breakfast table, beside me in the car, in bed when I went to sleep. Once the maid who cleaned the apartment and brought the food which Mother always sent, caught me talking alone. She must have thought my mind had snapped for Mother came that evening. She tried to persuade me to return to the house in Ermita.

Like a man with terminal cancer, I was ready to try anything.

Maybe the ritual worked after all. It took an eternity. The fourth year of martial law; one evening in May—I had by then taken to meditation as she had suggested—the phone rang.

“Teng-ga, I am glad I reached you!”

“Plat!” All the nerves in my body sang, my voice a squeak. “Thank God …”

“Listen carefully.”

“Yes …”

“Teng-ga, I owe a friend some money. Can you lend me …”

“Of course!”

“Now?”

“Yes!”

“I will be at the acacia in half an hour.”

The acacia. I was happy we had a rendezvous about which no one knew. There was no time for me to go to Mother or to her parents. A thousand pesos were in my wallet and about a thousand more were in my drawer. I did not keep money in the apartment and now I wished I did. What else was there of value? The engagement ring which she had left, my watch. I brought them.

I did not even bother putting on shoes. I drove fast, aware that I had little time, filled as I was with joy that I would see her again. See her again! The very thought surged through me, lifted me, I could fly.

The university streets were empty; classes had long ended. I parked, then went down the grassy lawn and on to the tree beyond the library building. When I reached it, there was no one. Had I missed her instructions? Did I hear right? Then in a short while from the shadow of the library, she came. I could not miss her, that height, that build, but she walked slowly as if she was limping.

I rushed to her, kissed her, held her tight and long, smelled the sun on her hair, her face, saw the happiness glistening in her eyes. She was slimmer now and though it was not very bright, I could see she was no longer fair. When I held her hand, I was surprised at how hard and callused it had become.

“Did someone follow you?”

I was in such a hurry that I did not notice, but I was sure no one followed me to the campus.

“Any strangers near the apartment? Any cars you don’t recognize parked there?”

I shook my head. “The money,” I said, “it may not be enough. I can get more in the morning. But now, I just want to look at you, to hold you. Four years—I have stayed in the apartment alone and waited and waited. Four years …” I started to cry.

Her arms tightened around me. “Thank you, my precious Teng-ga.” Her voice quavered. “I hope that you have learned to trust me the way I always trusted you. Remember? All those Sunday nights—I was working …” She paused and brushed my tears away. “I thought of you, and could not tell you that I was with our group. I know you tried to keep me away from them. I understood.”

She did not have to tell me; I had long been convinced of her unblemished constancy. She clasped my hand. “Let us go to the motel again. I need to lie down—even just for a few moments.”

“And why not the apartment?”

She did not want to go there; it was dangerous.

I remembered her limp. “Are you hurt?”

“Just a little,” she mumbled. “We can talk about other things afterwards.”

We walked across the green enveloped by night. A car turned at the far corner and briefly lighted her features. Under the street lamp, she still looked as pretty as ever. I helped her into the car then drove off to Pasay. Once upstairs in the motel, I examined her in the light. She was pale and the brutal life showed in her arms, her face. There was this big blotch on her right thigh. I knew at once what it was.

“You are wounded!”

“It’s small,” she said, shaking her head.

“Let me see it.”

“It will heal when I get back.”

“I must find a doctor.”

She sat on the bed. “No.” she said firmly. “I will be all right.”

“You are not all right,” I said. “Let me look at it.”

She consented after awhile. She lay down with great effort. Around her thigh was a bandage made with her green T-shirt, which she had shredded. She had just a bra beneath her old nylon jacket. The dressing—poorly done and locked with a safety pin—was drenched with dried blood. Beneath was a deep wound which cut across her thigh, the beautiful thigh that I had often caressed, still fair, unlike her lower limbs which were dark with sun and specked with insect bites.

“I was able to run,” she said, breathing deeply. “So I was able to call you. I just had a few coins for the phone and the bus.”

I carefully put the bandage back. “It must hurt a lot,” I said hoarsely, my throat gone dry. She did not reply. Physical pain was not her worry now.

She had to be in the hospital immediately. There was the possibility of infection and the wound had to be closed. She had to have a transfusion, too. But I could not take her to a hospital and to call a doctor to the motel was out of the question. The apartment—that was the best place. In the years that I was alone, I had noticed nothing unusual. I was now keen to the possibility that the house would be watched, but I was positive this was not done. No one knew of the acacia, and I doubted if any of her friends or mine knew our private nicknames.

“I will bring you to the apartment where you will stay until you are strong again.” Then, I said it and was surprised how easily the words came. “I will go with you now, wherever you will go.”

Her eyes misted. She was tired and in pain and did not argue anymore. God, I don’t know how long she had endured it.

“You know best,” she said weakly, then passed out.

I was amazed at my self-control. After I had calmly phoned the desk that we were leaving, I carried her down to the car, wondering
if Dr. Alvarez, who was a family friend, would be at home, and who would be a good alternative if he was not available.

She revived when we reached the highway and she snuggled close, whimpering like a child.

Who was it who said that we all hurt the ones we love? With Malu, I did not hurt her; I killed her. Why did I have to bring her home?

We were going up the incline toward the compound when a car blocked our way. It must have been with her last reserve of strength that she swung the door open and sprinted out, limping, and to the men who had rushed out of their cars, guns drawn, I shouted “Don’t shoot! She is wounded! She cannot run!”

Flashes of fire spurted from the snouts of their guns and the bullets winked like fireflies as they hit the asphalt. Malu, my dear wife, crumpled and even when she was already dead, they still fired at her.

SHORT STORIES
The God Stealer and Other Stories
Waywaya, Eleven Filipino Short Stories
Platinum and Ten Filipino Stories
Olvidon and Other Stories

NOVELLAS
Two Filipino Women

NOVELS
Po-on
Tree
My Brother, My Executioner
The Pretenders
Mass
Ermita
Gagamba

VERSE
Questions

Born in 1924 in the township of Rosales on the island of Luzon, F. S
IONIL
J
OSÉ
is one of the foremost Filipino novelists in English, as well as a leading publisher, magazine editor, and bookseller. He found the Philippine Center of International PEN in 1958. His work has been translated widely, and he has won numerous awards, including the prestigeous Ramon Magsaysay Memorial Award
^*
for Journalism, Literature, and Creative Communication Arts in 1980. In addition to his other novels and stories, Mr. José is well known for the Rosales Saga, a social history of the Philippines that Random House will begin to publish in 1993.