Carlos A. Angeles Biography and Literary Works (Poems)

- Carlos A. Angeles was a Filipino poet. He was born on May 25, 1921 in Tacloban City in the province of Leyte. He attained secondary education at Rizal High and graduated in 1938. He attended several universities - Ateneo de Manila, University of the Philippines, and Central Luzon Colleges. When he was studying in UP, he became an active member of the UP Writer's Club. His award-winning poetry collection, A Stun of Jewels, was published to great acclaim in 1963. Another collection, A Bruise of Ahses, was published by the Ateneo University Press in 1993.

- Angeles worked at the Philippine Bureau of International News Service from 1950 to 1958.

- Angeles was a recipient of the Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature in the Poetry category in 1964. This was the year that poetry was added to the list of categories. Angeles won the award for A Stun of Jewels, a collection of 47 poems. These were poems he wrote and dedicated to his wife Concepcion Reynoso. The collection also won the Republic Cultural Heritage Award for Literature.

Poems:
1. Gabu
2. Dusk
3. Landscape II
4. Badoc
5. Family Reunion
6. The Wonderful Machine
7. From the Rooftop

A Bruise of Ashes: Collected Poems by Carlos A. Angeles.

The Short Stories of Manuel E. Arguilla

1. How My Brother Leon Brought Home A Wife - This is Arguilla's most famous story and literary work. Hell, it's probably the most popular short story ever written by a Filipino author. Anyone who has gone through a literature subject or course in any university in the Philippines knows this story. Think of it as the Philippine version of The Tell-Tale Heart by Edgar Allan Poe, or The Legend of Sleepy Hollow by Washington Irving, or The Magi by O. Henry. It's so popular that a large percentage of Filipinos have read or at least heard about it. 

2. Midsummer - 

3. Morning in Nagrebcan
3. Ato
5. Heat
6. A Son Is Born
7. The Strongest Man
8. Mr. Alisangco
9. Though Young He Is Married
10. The Maid, the Man, and the Wife
11. Elias
12. Imperfect Farewell
13. Felisa
14. The Long Vacation
15. Caps and Lower Case
16. The Socialists
17. Epilogue to Revolt
18. Apes and Men
19. Rice

The Bolo by Loreto Paras Sulit (Short Story) - Plot, Summary, Analysis, Critique, Themes

The Bolo is a short story written by Loreto Paras Sulit and published in 1927. Together with Harvest, it's Sulit's most well-known short story. It's widely taught and analyzed in literature and English classes in the country. It also has the distinction of being among the first short stories in the English language written by a Filipino writer.

The Main Characters

1. Clara - a widow
2. Sita - Clara's younger sister
3. Ramon -Clara's dead husband
4. Oscar - a customer at Old Hison's Store
5. The storekeeper at the Old Hison Store

Plot and Summary

Clara and her younger sister Sita are in the middle of a serious predicament. They are poor and starving. Not only that, Clara is weak and sick. She has also previously not only her husband Ramon but their unborn child as well. If Clara and Sita are not going to get much-needed sustenance, there's a possibility that they might starve to death. At this moment, they realize that the most viable solution to their problem is to sell one of their most prized possessions - a bolo with a handle made of ivory, jade, and gold. The bolo is a family heirloom that has been passed from generation to generation.

When the idea to sell the bolo came up, Clara was very hesitant and didn't want to sell it. She was also holding on to the hope that her late husband's family will send them money to help them. But time is running out and she is gravely sick and weak. Still, she didn't want to let go of the prized bolo.

Due to desperation, Sita snatched the bolo from her sister's weak and helpless hands and promptly headed to Old Hison's Store to sell it. The storekeeper took advantage of Sita's desperation and bought the bolo at a price which was way lower than what it's actually worth. Sita is aware she's being taken advantage of but she had no choice. She sold the bolo for a meager 50 pesos.

Before she can leave Old Hison's Store, another customer named Oscar bought the bolo from the storekeeper for a much higher price. Oscar then gave the bolo back to Sita, reminding her of the value of such possessions. And that such possessions should be appreciated and not easily given away. Sita accepted the bolo and returned the 50 pesos to the storekeeper telling him, "Here is yourmoney and I shall keep the bolo".

Questions for Discussion

1. What are the themes of the story?
- The story covers a few themes - poverty, unbridled capitalism, cultural values, and ingrained Filipino traditions. Poverty affects everyone. There are people out there who wouldn't bat an eye while taking advantage of poor folks. The story is also a subtle commentary on Filipino cultural and traditional values like keeping family heirlooms and expecting charity from relatives.

2. What's the moral lesson in the story?
- There are several moral lessons that can be learned from the story. However, there are two important ones. One, no matter how dark the tunnel is, there's always light at the end of it. The light in the tunnel was personified by Oscar, the man who bought back the bolo from the storekeeper and gave it back to Sita. The second lesson is that there may be bad people out there who would take advantage of you in a heartbeat but there are also good-hearted people out there. The storekeeper scammed Sita but she was saved from further harm by Oscar.

3. What are the symbolisms in the story?
- The storekeeper symbolized greed and unbridled capitalism. Oscar symbolized hope and proper charity.

Loreto Paras Sulit Biography and Literary Works (Short Stories)

- Loreto Paras Sulit was a Filipino writer most well-known for her short stories in the English language. She was born on December 10, 1908 in Ermita, Manila. She lived her formative years in Manila. After graduating from high school, she enrolled at the University of the Philippines. It was at the university where she started gaining attention as a serious fiction writer. In 1927, along with other student-writers like Jose Garcia Villa and Arturo Rotor, Sulit co-founded the UP Witer's Club. She finished her studies in U.P. in 1930. She graduated magna cum laude with a Bachelor of Science in Education degree.

- After graduating from UP, Sulit went to work as an English teacher at the Florentino Torres High School. Despite the demands of her teaching job, Sulit still maintained a prolific and active writing life. She joined several writing associations, most notably the Literary Guild of the Philippines and the Philippine Writers Association.

- Sulit joined the Philippine National Red Cross in June of 1946. She worked with the humanitarian organization for decades as Secretary General. She was organization's first woman Secretary General. She continued writing during her stint at the Red Cross. However, her works during this time shifted to short stories geared towards children and young adults. Many of these stories were published by the Philippine Junior Red Cross Magazine of which she was the editor.

- Sulit died on April 23, 2008 at the ripe age of 99. Had she lived 8 months more, she would have been a centenarian. Right after her death, the Philippine Congress released a "resolution recognizing the invaluable contribution of Loreto Paras Sulit to the upliftment of the Filipino people through more than forty-one years of most outstanding service in the Philippine National Red Cross.

- Sulit's contribution to Philippine literature is her serious and sophisticated short stories. She produced her most well-known works in the period between 1927 and 1937. Among her admirers is no other than the great Jose Garcia Villa. Villa often referred to her as his "idol". Villa wrote: "Nobody told me I was good. The one whom I thought was very good was Loreto. She was my idol. I never thought I was good, not in the short story. I didn't think much of me; I thought highly of Loreto."In multiple occassions, Villa included Sulit's stories in his annual honor roll of short fiction. Juan Cabreros Laya, a novelist, described Sulit as "one of the few remaining great pioneers of Philippine literature in English." "Many of her stories remain unsurpassed in this day in sensitivity and depth of feeling," he added.

Short Stories:
1. Harvest
2. The Bolo

Harvest by Loreto Paras Sulit (Short Story)

(Harvest is a short story by Loreto Paras Sulit, a founding member of the University of the Philippines Writers Club. The story was first published in 1930. It's one of Sulit's most anthologized literary works.)

Questions for Discussion:

1. What is the story about and who are the main characters? 

2. Is there symbolism in the story? If so, what does such symbolism play in the overall theme of the story?

3. What is the main conflict in the story and was there a resolution for it? Are you satisfied with the story's ending?

Harvest

by Loreto Paras Sulit

He first saw her in his brother’s eyes. The palay stalks were taking on gold in the late afternoon sun, were losing their trampled, wind-swept look and stirring into little, almost inaudible whispers.

The rhythm of Fabian’s strokes was smooth and unbroken. So many palay stalks had to be harvested before sundown and there was no time to be lost in idle dallying. But when he stopped to heap up the fallen palay stalks he glanced at his brother as if to fathom the other’s state of mind in that one, side-long glance.

The swing of Vidal’s figure was as graceful as the downward curve of the crescent-shaped scythe. How stubborn, this younger brother of his, how hard-headed, fumed Fabian as he felled stalk after stalk. It is because he knows how very good-looking he is, how he is so much run-after by all the women in town. The obstinate, young fool! With his queer dreams, his strange adorations, his wistfulness for a life not of these fields, not of their quiet, colorless women and the dullness of long nights of unbroken silence and sleep. But he would bend… he must bend… one of these days.

Vidal stopped in his work to wipe off the heavy sweat from his brow. He wondered how his brother could work that fast all day without pausing to rest, without slowing in the rapidity of his strokes. But that was the reason the master would not let him go; he could harvest a field in a morning that would require three men to finish in a day. He had always been afraid of this older brother of his; there was something terrible in the way he determined things, how he always brought them to pass, how he disregarded the soft and the beautiful in his life and sometimes how he crushed, trampled people, things he wanted destroyed. There were flowers, insects, birds of boyhood memories, what Fabian had done to them. There was Tinay… she did not truly like him, but her widowed mother had some lands… he won and married Tinay.

I wonder what can touch him. Vidal thought of miracles, perhaps a vision, a woman… But no… he would overpower them…he was so strong with those arms of steel, those huge arms of his that could throttle a spirited horse into obedience.

“Harvest time is almost ended, Vidal.” (I must be strong also, the other prayed). “Soon the planting season will be on us and we shall have need of many carabaos. Milia’s father has five. You have but to ask her and Milia will accept you any time. Why do you delay…”

He stopped in surprise for his brother had sprung up so suddenly and from the look on his face it was as if a shining glory was smiling shyly, tremulously in that adoring way of his that called forth all the boyishness of his nature—There was the slow crunch, crunch of footsteps on dried soil and Fabian sensed the presence of people behind him. Vidal had taken off his wide, buri hat and was twisting and untwisting it nervously.

“Ah, it is my model! How are you, Vidal?” It was a voice too deep and throaty for a woman but beneath it one could detect a gentle, smooth nuance, soft as silk. It affected Fabian very queerly, he could feel his muscles tensing as he waited for her to speak again. But he did not stop in work nor turn to look at her.

She was talking to Vidal about things he had no idea of. He could not understand why the sound of her voice filled him with this resentment that was increasing with every passing minute. She was so near him that when she gestured, perhaps as she spoke, the silken folds of her dress brushed against him slightly, and her perfume, a very subtle fragrance, was cool and scented in the air about him.

“From now on he must work for me every morning, possibly all day.”

“Very well. Everything as you please.” So it was the master who was with her.

“He is your brother, you say, Vidal? Oh, your elder brother.” The curiosity in her voice must be in her eyes. “He has very splendid arms.”

Then Fabian turned to look at her.

He had never seen anyone like her. She was tall, with a regal unconscious assurance in her figure that she carried so well, and pale as though she had just recovered from a recent illness. She was not exactly very young nor very beautiful. But there was something disquieting and haunting in the unsymmetry of her features, in the queer reflection of the dark blue-blackness of her hair, in her eyes, in that mole just above her nether lips, that tinged her whole face with a strange loveliness. For, yes, she was indeed beautiful. One discovered it after a second, careful glance. Then the whole plan of the brow and lip and eye was revealed; one realized that her pallor was the ivory-white of rice grain just husked, that the sinuous folds of silken lines were but the undertones of the grace that flowed from her as she walked away from you.

The blood rushed hot to his very eyes and ears as he met her grave, searching look that swept him from head to foot. She approached him and examined his hot, moist arms critically.

“How splendid! How splendid!” she kept on murmuring.

Then “Thank you,” and taking and leaning on the arm of the master she walked slowly away.

The two brothers returned to their work but to the very end of the day did not exchange a word. Once Vidal attempted to whistle but gave it up after a few bars. When sundown came they stopped harvesting and started on their way home. They walked with difficulty on the dried rice paddies till they reached the end of the rice fields.

The stiffness, the peace of the twilit landscape was maddening to Fabian. It augmented the spell of that woman that was still over him. It was queer how he kept on thinking about her, on remembering the scent of her perfume, the brush of her dress against him and the look of her eyes on his arms. If he had been in bed he would be tossing painfully, feverishly. Why was her face always before him as though it were always focused somewhere in the distance and he was forever walking up to it?

A large moth with mottled, highly colored wings fluttered blindly against the bough, its long, feathery antennae quivering sensitively in the air. Vidal paused to pick it up, but before he could do so his brother had hit it with the bundle of palay stalks he carried. The moth fell to the ground, a mass of broken wings, of fluttering wing-dust.

After they had walked a distance, Vidal asked, “Why are you that way?”

“What is my way?”

“That—that way of destroying things that are beautiful like moths… like…”

“If the dust from the wings of a moth should get into your eyes, you would be blind.”

“That is not the reason.”

“Things that are beautiful have a way of hurting. I destroy it when I feel a hurt.”

To avoid the painful silence that would surely ensue Vidal talked on whatever subject entered his mind. But gradually, slowly the topics converged into one. He found himself talking about the woman who came to them this afternoon in the fields. She was a relative of the master. A cousin, I think. They call her Miss Francia. But I know she has a lovely, hidden name… like her beauty. She is convalescing from a very serious illness she has had and to pass the time she makes men out of clay, of stone. Sometimes she uses her fingers, sometimes a chisel.

One day Vidal came into the house with a message for the master. She saw him. He was just the model for a figure she was working on; she had asked him to pose for her.

“Brother, her loveliness is one I cannot understand. When one talks to her forever so long in the patio, many dreams, many desires come to me. I am lost… I am glad to be lost.”

It was merciful the darkness was up on the fields. Fabian could not see his brother’s face. But it was cruel that the darkness was heavy and without end except where it reached the little, faint star. For in the deep darkness, he saw her face clearly and understood his brother.

On the batalan of his home, two tall clay jars were full of water. He emptied one on his feet, he cooled his warm face and bathed his arms in the other. The light from the kerosene lamp within came in wisps into the batalan. In the meager light he looked at his arms to discover where their splendor lay. He rubbed them with a large, smooth pebble till they glowed warm and rich brown. Gently he felt his own muscles, the strength, the power beneath. His wife was crooning to the baby inside. He started guiltily and entered the house.

Supper was already set on the table. Tinay would not eat; she could not leave the baby, she said. She was a small, nervous woman still with the lingering prettiness of her youth. She was rocking a baby in a swing made of a blanket tied at both ends to ropes hanging from the ceiling. Trining, his other child, a girl of four, was in a corner playing siklot solemnly all by herself.

Everything seemed a dream, a large spreading dream. This little room with all the people inside, faces, faces in a dream. That woman in the fields, this afternoon, a colored, past dream by now. But the unrest, the fever she had left behind… was still on him. He turned almost savagely on his brother and spoke to break these two grotesque, dream bubbles of his life. “When I was your age, Vidal, I was already married. It is high time you should be settling down. There is Milia.”

“I have no desire to marry her nor anybody else. Just—just—for five carabaos.” There! He had spoken out at last. What a relief it was. But he did not like the way his brother pursed his lips tightly That boded not defeat. Vidal rose, stretching himself luxuriously. On the door of the silid where he slept he paused to watch his little niece. As she threw a pebble into the air he caught it and would not give it up. She pinched, bit, shook his pants furiously while he laughed in great amusement.

“What a very pretty woman Trining is going to be. Look at her skin; white as rice grains just husked; and her nose, what a high bridge. Ah, she is going to be a proud lady… and what deep, dark eyes. Let me see, let me see. Why, you have a little mole on your lips. That means you are very talkative.”

“You will wake up the baby. Vidal! Vidal!” Tinay rocked the child almost despairingly. But the young man would not have stopped his teasing if Fabian had not called Trining to his side.

“Why does she not braid her hair?” he asked his wife.

“Oh, but she is so pretty with her curls free that way about her head.”

“We shall have to trim her head. I will do it before going out to work tomorrow.”

Vidal bit his lips in anger. Sometimes… well, it was not his child anyway. He retired to his room and fell in a deep sleep unbroken till after dawn when the sobs of a child awakened him. Peering between the bamboo slats of the floor he could see dark curls falling from a child’s head to the ground.

He avoided his brother from that morning. For one thing he did not want repetitions of the carabao question with Milia to boot. For another there was the glorious world and new life opened to him by his work in the master’s house. The glamour, the enchantment of hour after hour spent on the shadow-flecked ylang-ylang scented patio where she molded, shaped, reshaped many kinds of men, who all had his face from the clay she worked on.

In the evening after supper he stood by the window and told the tale of that day to a very quiet group. And he brought that look, that was more than a gleam of a voice made weak by strong, deep emotions.

His brother saw and understood. Fury was a high flame in his heart… If that look, that quiver of voice had been a moth, a curl on the dark head of his daughter… Now more than ever he was determined to have Milia in his home as his brother’s wife… that would come to pass. Someday, that look, that quiver would become a moth in his hands, a frail, helpless moth.

When Vidal, one night, broke out the news Fabian knew he had to act at once. Miss Francia would leave within two days; she wanted Vidal to go to the city with her, where she would finish the figures she was working on.

“She will pay me more than I can earn here, and help me get a position there. And shall always be near her. Oh, I am going! I am going!”

“And live the life of a—a servant?”

“What of that? I shall be near her always.”

“Why do you wish to be near her?”

“Why? Why? Oh, my God! Why?”

That sentence rang and resounded and vibrated in Fabian’s ears during the days that followed. He had seen her closely only once and only glimpses thereafter. But the song of loveliness had haunted his life thereafter. If by a magic transfusing he, Fabian, could be Vidal and… and… how one’s thoughts can make one forget of the world. There she was at work on a figure that represented a reaper who had paused to wipe off the heavy sweat from his brow. It was Vidal in stone.

Again—as it ever would be—the disquieting nature of her loveliness was on him so that all his body tensed and flexed as he gathered in at a glance all the marvel of her beauty.

She smiled graciously at him while he made known himself; he did not expect she would remember him.

“Ah, the man with the splendid arms.”

“I am the brother of Vidal.” He had not forgotten to roll up his sleeves.

He did not know how he worded his thoughts, but he succeeded in making her understand that Vidal could not possibly go with her, that he had to stay behind in the fields.

There was an amusement rippling beneath her tones. “To marry the girl whose father has five carabaos. You see, Vidal told me about it.”

He flushed again a painful brick-red; even to his eyes he felt the hot blood flow.

“That is the only reason to cover up something that would not be known. My brother has wronged this girl. There will be a child.”

She said nothing, but the look in her face protested against what she had heard. It said, it was not so.

But she merely answered, “I understand. He shall not go with me.” She called a servant, gave him a twenty-peso bill and some instruction. “Vidal, is he at your house?” The brother on the patio nodded.

Now they were alone again. After this afternoon he would never see her, she would never know. But what had she to know? A pang without a voice, a dream without a plan… how could they be understood in words.

“Your brother should never know you have told me the real reason why he should not go with me. It would hurt him, I know.

“I have to finish this statue before I leave. The arms are still incomplete—would it be too much to ask you to pose for just a little while?”

While she smoothed the clay, patted it and molded the vein, muscle, arm, stole the firmness, the strength, of his arms to give to this lifeless statue, it seemed as if life left him, left his arms that were being copied. She was lost in her work and noticed neither the twilight stealing into the patio nor the silence brooding over them.

Wrapped in that silver-grey dusk of early night and silence she appeared in her true light to the man who watched her every movement. She was one he had glimpsed and crushed all his life, the shining glory in moth and flower and eyes he had never understood because it hurt with its unearthly radiance.

If he could have the whole of her in the cup of his hands, drink of her strange loveliness, forgetful of this unrest he called life, if… but his arms had already found their duplicate in the white clay beyond…

When Fabian returned Vidal was at the batalan brooding over a crumpled twenty-peso bill in his hands. The haggard tired look in his young eyes was as grey as the skies above.

He was speaking to Tinay jokingly. “Soon all your sampaguitas and camias will be gone, my dear sister-in-law because I shall be seeing Milia every night… and her father.” He watched Fabian cleansing his face and arms and later wondered why it took his brother that long to wash his arms, why he was rubbing them as hard as that…

Zita by Arturo B. Rotor (Short Story)

(First published in 1930, Zita is a short story by Arturo B. Rotor and is one of the author's most famous and most influential literary works. It's widely considered as among the best short works of fiction by a Filipino author in the 20th century.)

Turong brought him from Pauambang in his small sailboat, for the coastwise steamer did not stop at any little island of broken cliffs and coconut palms. It was almost midday; they had been standing in that white glare where the tiniest pebble and fluted conch had become points of light, piercing-bright–the municipal president, the parish priest, Don Eliodoro who owned almost all the coconuts, the herb doctor, the village character. Their mild surprise over when he spoke in their native dialect, they looked at him more closely and his easy manner did not deceive them. His head was uncovered and he had a way of bringing the back of his hand to his brow or mouth; they read behind that too, it was not a gesture of protection. “An exile has come to Anayat… and he is so young, so young.” So young and lonely and sufficient unto himself. There was no mistaking the stamp of a strong decision on that brow, the brow of those who have to be cold and haughty, those shoulders stooped slightly, less from the burden that they bore than from a carefully cultivated air of unconcern; no common school-teacher could dress so carelessly and not appear shoddy.

They had prepared a room for him in Don Eliodoro’s house so that he would not have to walk far to school every morning, but he gave nothing more than a glance at the big stone building with its Spanish azotea, its arched doorways, its flagged courtyard. He chose instead Turong’s home, a shaky hut near the sea. Was the sea rough and dangerous at times? He did not mind it. Was the place far from the church and the schoolhouse? The walk would do him good. Would he not feel lonely with nobody but an illiterate fisherman for a companion? He was used to living alone. And they let him do as he wanted, for the old men knew that it was not so much the nearness of the sea that he desired as its silence so that he might tell it secrets he could not tell anyone else.

They thought of nobody but him; they talked about him in the barber shop, in the cockpit, in the sari-sari store, the way he walked, the way he looked at you, his unruly hair. They dressed him in purple and linen, in myth and mystery, put him astride a black stallion, at the wheel of a blue automobile. Mr. Reteche? Mr. Reteche! The name suggested the fantasy and the glitter of a place and people they never would see; he was the scion of a powerful family, a poet and artist, a prince.

That night, Don Eliodoro had the story from his daughter of his first day in the classroom; she perched wide-eyed, low-voiced, short of breath on the arm of his chair.

“He strode into the room, very tall and serious and polite, stood in front of us and looked at us all over and yet did not seem to see us.

” ‘Good morning, teacher,’ we said timidly.

“He bowed as if we were his equals. He asked for the fist of our names and as he read off each one we looked at him long. When he came to my name, Father, the most surprising thing happened. He started pronouncing it and then he stopped as if he had forgotten something and just stared and stared at the paper in his hand. I heard my name repeated three times through his half-closed lips, ‘Zita. Zita. Zita.’

” ‘Yes sir, I am Zita.’

“He looked at me uncomprehendingly, inarticulate, and it seemed to me, Father, it actually seemed that he was begging me to tell him that that was not my name, that I was deceiving him. He looked so miserable and sick I felt like sinking down or running away.

” ‘Zita is not your name; it is just a pet name, no?’

” ‘My father has always called me that, sir.’

” ‘It can’t be; maybe it is Pacita or Luisa or–‘

“His voice was scarcely above a whisper, Father, and all the while he looked at me begging, begging. I shook my head determinedly. My answer must have angered him. He must have thought I was very hard-headed, for he said, ‘A thousand miles, Mother of Mercy… it is not possible.’ He kept on looking at me; he was hurt perhaps that he should have such a stubborn pupil. But I am not really so, Father?”

“Yes, you are, my dear. But you must try to please him, he is a gentleman; he comes from the city. I was thinking… Private lessons, perhaps, if he won’t ask too much.” Don Eliodoro had his dreams and she was his only daughter.

Turong had his own story to tell in the barber shop that night, a story as vividly etched as the lone coconut palm in front of the shop that shot up straight into the darkness of the night, as vaguely disturbing as the secrets that the sea whispered into the night.

“He did not sleep a wink, I am sure of it. When I came from the market the stars were already out and I saw that he had not touched the food I had prepared. I asked him to eat and he said he was not hungry. He sat by the window that faces the sea and just looked out hour after hour. I woke up three times during the night and saw that he had not so much as changed his position. I thought once that he was asleep and came near, but he motioned me away. When I awoke at dawn to prepare the nets, he was still there.”

“Maybe he wants to go home already.” They looked up with concern.

“He is sick. You remember Father Fernando? He had a way of looking like that, into space, seeing nobody, just before he died.”

Every month there was a letter that came for him, sometimes two or three; large, blue envelopes with a gold design in the upper left hand comer, and addressed in broad, angular, sweeping handwriting. One time Turong brought one of them to him in the classroom. The students were busy writing a composition on a subject that he had given them, “The Things That I Love Most.” Carelessly he had opened the letter, carelessly read it, and carelessly tossed it aside. Zita was all aflutter when the students handed in their work for he had promised that he would read aloud the best. He went over the pile two times, and once again, absently, a deep frown on his brow, as if he were displeased with their work. Then he stopped and picked up one. Her heart sank when she saw that it was not hers, she hardly heard him reading:

“I did not know any better. Moths are not supposed to know; they only come to the light. And the light looked so inviting, there was no resisting it. Moths are not supposed to know, one does not even know one is a moth until one’s wings are burned.”

It was incomprehensible, no beginning, no end. It did not have unity, coherence, emphasis. Why did he choose that one? What did he see in it? And she had worked so hard, she had wanted to please, she had written about the flowers that she loved most. Who could have written what he had read aloud? She did not know that any of her classmates could write so, use such words, sentences, use a blue paper to write her lessons on.

But then there was little in Mr. Reteche that the young people there could understand. Even his words were so difficult, just like those dark and dismaying things that they came across in their readers, which took them hour after hour in the dictionary. She had learned like a good student to pick out the words she did not recognize, writing them down as she heard them, but it was a thankless task. She had a whole notebook filled now, two columns to each page:

esurient greedy. Amaranth a flower that never fades. peacock a large bird with lovely gold and green feathers. Mirash

The last word was not in the dictionary.

And what did such things as original sin, selfishness, insatiable, actress of a thousand faces mean, and who were Sirse, Lorelay, other names she could not find anywhere? She meant to ask him someday, someday when his eyes were kinder.

He never went to church, but then, that always went with learning and education, did it not? One night Bue saw him coming out of the dim doorway. He watched again and the following night he saw him again. They would not believe it, they must see it with their own eyes and so they came. He did not go in every night, but he could be seen at the most unusual hours, sometimes at dusk, sometimes at dawn, once when it was storming and the lightning etched ragged paths from heaven to earth. Sometimes he stayed for a few minutes, sometimes he came twice or thrice in one evening. They reported it to Father Cesareo but it seemed that he already knew. “Let a peaceful man alone in his prayers.” The answer had surprised them.

The sky hangs over Anayat, in the middle of the Anayat Sea, like an inverted wineglass, a glass whose wine had been spilled, a purple wine of which Anayat was the last precious drop. For that is Anayat in the crepuscule, purple and mellow, sparkling and warm and effulgent when there is a moon, cool and heady and sensuous when there is no moon.

One may drink of it and forget what lies beyond a thousand miles, beyond a thousand years; one may sip it at the top of a jagged cliff, nearer peace, nearer God, where one can see the ocean dashing against the rocks in eternal frustration, more moving, more terrible than man’s; or touch it to his lips in the lush shadows of the dama de noche, its blossoms iridescent like a thousand fireflies, its bouquet the fragrance of flowers that know no fading.

Zita sat by her open window, half asleep, half dreaming. Francisco B. Reteche; what a name! What could his nickname be. Paking, Frank, Pa… The night lay silent and expectant, a fairy princess waiting for the whispered words of a lover. She was not a bit sleepy; already she had counted three stars that had fallen to earth, one almost directly into that bush of dama de noche at their garden gate, where it had lighted the lamps of a thousand fireflies. He was not so forbidding now, he spoke less frequently to himself, more frequently to her; his eyes were still unseeing, but now they rested on her. She loved to remember those moments she had caught him looking when he thought she did not know. The knowledge came keenly, bitingly, like the sea breeze at dawn, like the prick of the rose’s thorn, or–yes, like the purple liquid that her father gave the visitors during pintakasi which made them red and noisy. She had stolen a few drops one day, because she wanted to know, to taste, and that little sip had made her head whirl.

Suddenly she stiffened; a shadow had emerged from the shrubs and had been lost in the other shadows. Her pulses raced, she strained forward. Was she dreaming? Who was it? A lost soul, an unvoiced thought, the shadow of a shadow, the prince from his tryst with the fairy princess? What were the words that he whispered to her?

They who have been young once say that only youth can make youth forget itself; that life is a river bed; the water passes over it, sometimes it encounters obstacles and cannot go on, sometimes it flows unencumbered with a song in every bubble and ripple, but always it goes forward. When its way is obstructed it burrows deeply or swerves aside and leaves its impression, and whether the impress will be shallow and transient, or deep and searing, only God determines. The people remembered the day when he went up Don Eliodoro’s house, the light of a great decision in his eyes, and finally accepted the father’s request that he teach his daughter “to be a lady.”

“We are going to the city soon, after the next harvest perhaps; I want her not to feel like a ‘provinciana’ when we get there.”

They remembered the time when his walks by the seashore became less solitary, for now of afternoons, he would draw the whole crowd of village boys from their game of leapfrog or patintero and bring them with him. And they would go home hours after sunset with the wonderful things that Mr. Reteche had told them, why the sea is green, the sky blue, what one who is strong and fearless might find at that exact place where the sky meets the sea. They would be flushed and happy and bright-eyed, for he could stand on his head longer than any of them, catch more crabs, send a pebble skimming over the breast of Anayat Bay farthest.

Turong still remembered those ominous, terrifying nights when he had got up cold and trembling to listen to the aching groan of the bamboo floor, as somebody in the other room restlessly paced to and fro. And his pupils still remember those mornings he received their flowers, the camia which had fainted away at her own fragrance, the kampupot, with the night dew still trembling in its heart; receive them with a smile and forget the lessons of the day and tell them all about those princesses and fairies who dwelt in flowers; why the dama de noche must have the darkness of the night to bring out its fragrance; how the petals of the ylang-ylang, crushed and soaked in some liquid, would one day touch the lips of some wondrous creature in some faraway land whose eyes were blue and hair golden.

Those were days of surprises for Zita. Box after box came in Turong’s sailboat and each time they contained things that took the words from her lips. Silk as sheer and perishable as gossamer, or heavy and shiny and tinted like the sunset sky; slippers with bright stones which twinkled with the least movement of her feet; a necklace of green, flat, polished stone, whose feel against her throat sent a curious choking sensation there; perfume that she must touch her lips with. If only there would always be such things in Turong’s sailboat, and none of those horrid blue envelopes that he always brought. And yet–the Virgin have pity on her selfish soul–suppose one day Turong brought not only those letters but the writer as well? She shuddered, not because she feared it but because she knew it would be.

“Why are these dresses so tight fitting?” Her father wanted to know.

“In society, women use clothes to reveal, not to hide.” Was that a sneer or a smile in his eyes? The gown showed her arms and shoulders and she had never known how round and fair they were, how they could express so many things.

“Why do these dresses have such bright colors?”

“Because the peacock has bright feathers.”

“They paint their lips…”

“So that they can smile when they do not want to.”

“And their eyelashes are long.”

“To hide deception.”

He was not pleased like her father; she saw it, he had turned his face toward the window. And as she came nearer, swaying like a lily atop its stalk she heard the harsh, muttered words:

“One would think she’d feel shy or uncomfortable, but no… oh no… not a bit… all alike… comes naturally.”

There were books to read; pictures, names to learn; lessons in everything; how to polish the nails, how to use a fan, even how to walk. How did these days come, how did they go? What does one do when one is so happy, so breathless? Sometimes they were a memory, sometimes a dream.

“Look, Zita, a society girl does not smile so openly; her eyes don’t seek one’s so–that reveals your true feelings.”

“But if I am glad and happy and I want to show it?”

“Don’t. If you must show it by smiling, let your eyes be mocking; if you would invite with your eyes, repulse with your lips.”

That was a memory.

She was in a great drawing room whose floor was so polished it reflected the myriad red and green and blue fights above, the arches of flowers and ribbons and streamers. All the great names of the capital were there, stately ladies in wonderful gowns who walked so, waved their fans so, who said one thing with their eyes and another with their lips. And she was among them and every young and good-looking man wanted to dance with her. They were all so clever and charming but she answered: “Please, I am tired.” For beyond them she had seen him alone, he whose eyes were dark and brooding and disapproving and she was waiting for him to take her.

That was a dream. Sometimes though, she could not tell so easily which was the dream and which the memory.

If only those letters would not bother him now, he might be happy and at peace. True he never answered them, but every time Turong brought him one, he would still become thoughtful and distracted. Like that time he was teaching her a dance, a Spanish dance, he said, and had told her to dress accordingly. Her heavy hair hung in a big, carelessly tied knot that always threatened to come loose but never did; its dark, deep shadows showing off in startling vividness how red a rose can be, how like velvet its petals. Her earrings–two circlets of precious stones, red like the pigeon’s blood–almost touched her shoulders. The heavy Spanish shawl gave her the most trouble–she had nothing to help her but some pictures and magazines–she could not put it on just as she wanted. Like this, it revealed her shoulder too much; that way, it hampered the free movement of the legs. But she had done her best; for hours she had stood before her mirror and for hours it had told her that she was beautiful, that red lips and tragic eyes were becoming to her.

She’d never forget that look on his face when she came out. It was not surprise, joy, admiration. It was as if he saw somebody there whom he was expecting, for whom he had waited, prayed.

“Zita!” It was a cry of recognition.

She blushed even under her rouge when he took her in his arms and taught her to step this way, glide so, turn about; she looked half questioningly at her father for disapproval, but she saw that there was nothing there but admiration too. Mr. Reteche seemed so serious and so intent that she should learn quickly; but he did not deceive her, for once she happened to lean close and she felt how wildly his heart was beating. It frightened her and she drew away, but when she saw how unconcerned he seemed, as if he did not even know that she was in his arms, she smiled knowingly and drew close again. Dreamily she closed her eyes and dimly wondered if his were shut too, whether he was thinking the same thoughts, breathing the same prayer.

Turong came up and after his respectful “Good evening” he handed an envelope to the school teacher. It was large and blue and had a gold design in one comer; the handwriting was broad, angular, sweeping.

“Thank you, Turong.” His voice was drawling, heavy, the voice of one who has just awakened. With one movement he tore the unopened envelope slowly, unconsciously, it seemed to her, to pieces.

“I thought I had forgotten,” he murmured dully.

That changed the whole evening. His eyes lost their sparkle, his gaze wandered from time to time. Something powerful and dark had come between them, something which shut out the light, brought in a chill. The tears came to her eyes for she felt utterly powerless. When her sight cleared she saw that he was sitting down and trying to piece the letter together.

“Why do you tear up a letter if you must put it together again?” rebelliously.

He looked at her kindly. “Someday, Zita, you will do it too, and then you will understand.”

One day Turong came from Pauambang and this time he brought a stranger. They knew at once that he came from where the teacher came–his clothes, his features, his politeness–and that he had come for the teacher. This one did not speak their dialect, and as he was led through the dusty, crooked streets, he kept forever wiping his face, gazing at the wobbly, thatched huts and muttering short, vehement phrases to himself. Zita heard his knock before Mr. Reteche did and she knew what he had come for. She must have been as pale as her teacher, as shaken, as rebellious. And yet the stranger was so cordial; there was nothing but gladness in his greeting, gladness at meeting an old friend. How strong he was; even at that moment he did not forget himself, but turned to his class and dismissed them for the day.

The door was thick and she did not dare lean against the jamb too much, so sometimes their voices floated away before they reached her.

“…like children… making yourselves… so unhappy.”

“…happiness? Her idea of happiness…”

Mr. Reteche’s voice was more low-pitched, hoarse, so that it didn’t carry at all. She shuddered as he laughed, it was that way when he first came.

“She’s been… did not mean… understand.”

“…learning to forget…”

There were periods when they both became excited and talked fast and hard; she heard somebody’s restless pacing, somebody sitting down heavily.

“I never realized what she meant to me until I began trying to seek from others what she would not give me.”

She knew what was coming now, knew it before the stranger asked the question:

“Tomorrow?”

She fled; she could not wait for the answer.

He did not sleep that night, she knew he did not, she told herself fiercely. And it was not only his preparations that kept him awake, she knew it, she knew it. With the first flicker of light she ran to her mirror. She must not show her feeling, it was not in good form, she must manage somehow. If her lips quivered, her eyes must smile, if in her eyes there were tears… She heard her father go out, but she did not go; although she knew his purpose, she had more important things to do. Little boys came up to the house and she wiped away their tears and told them that he was coming back, coming back, soon, soon.

The minutes flew, she was almost done now; her lips were red and her eyebrows penciled; the crimson shawl thrown over her shoulders just right. Everything must be like that day he had first seen her in a Spanish dress. Still he did not come, he must be bidding farewell now to Father Cesareo; now he was in Doña Ramona’s house; now he was shaking the barber’s hand. He would soon be through and come to her house. She glanced at the mirror and decided that her lips were not red enough; she put on more color. The rose in her hair had too long a stem; she tried to trim it with her fingers and a thorn dug deeply into her flesh.

Who knows? Perhaps they would soon meet again in the city; she wondered if she could not wheedle her father into going earlier. But she must know now what were the words he had wanted to whisper that night under the dama de noche, what he had wanted to say that day he held her in his arms; other things, questions whose answers she knew. She smiled. How well she knew them!

The big house was silent as death; the little village seemed deserted, everybody had gone to the seashore. Again she looked at the mirror. She was too pale, she must put on more rouge. She tried to keep from counting the minutes, the seconds, from getting up and pacing. But she was getting chilly and she must do it to keep warm.

The steps creaked. She bit her lips to stifle a wild cry there. The door opened.

“Turong!”

“Mr. Reteche bade me give you this. He said you would understand.”

In one bound she had reached the open window. But dimly, for the sun was too bright, or was her sight failing?–she saw a blur of white moving out to sea, then disappearing behind a point of land so that she could no longer follow it; and then, clearly against a horizon suddenly drawn out of perspective, “Mr. Reteche,” tall, lean, brooding, looking at her with eyes that told her somebody had hurt him. It was like that when he first came, and now he was gone. The tears came freely now. What matter, what matter? There was nobody to see and criticize her breeding. They came down unchecked and when she tried to brush them off with her hand, the color came away too from her cheeks, leaving them bloodless, cold. Sometimes they got into her mouth and they tasted bitter.

Her hands worked convulsively; there was a sound of tearing paper, once, twice. She became suddenly aware of what she had done when she looked at the pieces, wet and brightly stained with uneven streaks of red. Slowly, painfully, she tried to put the pieces together and as she did so a sob escaped deep from her breast–a great understanding had come to her.

Questions for Discussion

1. What is Zita all about? What is the overall theme of the story?

2. When was Zita written and published? Why is the story and its themes still relevant beyond the 20th century?

3. Can you find any symbolism or symbolisms in the story? 

4. What are your thoughts on the resolution of the story?

5. Is there a moral lesson in the story? If there is, what is it?

6. Can you find examples of foreshadowing, irony, and flashbacks in the story? If yes, briefly discuss. 

Activity

1. Write an essay about the story. Start the essay with a quick background of the author. 

Benilda S. Santos Biography and Literary Works (Poems)

- Benilda S. Santos is a writer, film critic, editor, and professor but she is most well-known within the Philippine literary community as a poet. She was born in 1948 in Manila. Her literary work has been recognized by the Carlos Palanca Foundation, Talaang Ginto, Manila Critics Circle, and the Unyon ng mga Manunulat sa Pilipinas. She won a National Book Award in 1996. She is a two-time recipient of a Palanca award (Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Poetry, Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Poetry in Filipino). She was conferred the Gawad Pambansang Alagad ni Balagtas in 2003.

- Santos teaches at the School of Humanities at the Ateneo de Manila University. Her areas of specialization are Literature, Creative Writing, and Poetry. She is the former director of the Fine Arts Program. She has also served as director for Ateneo National Writers Workshop.

- Santos obtained her AB-BSE in English Literature at the Assumption Convent in 1970, MA in English Literature at the ADMU in 1975, PhD in Filipino at the UP Diliman in 1998.

Poetry Collections:
1. Kuwadro Numero Uno: Mga Tula (1996)
2. Pali-palitong Posporo: Mga Tula (1991)
3. Alipato: Mga Bago At Piling Tula (1999)
4. Ruta: Mga Bago at Piling Tula (2019)

Poems:
1. Sa Kasintahang Nilimot Na
2. Kundiman
3. Enero
4. Paglikha 5. Yevtushenko, On A Rainy Day

Three Rats by Wilfrido Ma. Guerrero (Play)

Three Rats is a play by Wilfrido Ma. Guerrero. It was first performed - under the direction of the author - by the UP Dramatic Club at the Assumption College Auditorium on December 10, 1948. Guerrero dedicated the play to Joe and Nuqui Velez.

CHARACTERS:

GONZALO
NITA (his wife)
ADRIAN (his best friend)

PLACE: Forbes Park, a suburb near Manila.

SCENE: The living room. A coffee-table in front of the sofa. On left side, a large balcony through which the street lights pour in. On a table near the balcony are a telephone and a lamp. A floor-lamp beside the sofa. Magazines on the tables. The room reveals the refined taste of the owners.

TIME: Evening, about nine o'clock. August.

GONZALO is seated on the sofa, reading the paper. GONZALO is tall, with a compelling personality. About twenty-seven, he possesses a warm and attractive charm, except for his piercing eyes which can flash with contempt when the occasion demands. He wears a well-cut suit, and a flashing red tie. He speaks with a low caressing voice.

NITA, his wife, comes in with a large tray, with a pot of coffee and two cups, etc. NITA is an attractive woman of nineteen. She is rather short, with laughing eyes and a gentle voice. Her expression is innocent, and there is a subtle air of adolescence about her. She wears a striking evening gown.

NITA. Here's the coffee, Gonzalo. (She sets the tray on the table.)

GONZALO (Without lifting his eyes from the paper) Is it hot?

NITA. (Laughing) -- Boiling. (She pours a cup and gives it to him.) Here. (He takes his cup, slowly sips it, without taking his eyes off the paper.) You must be tired from your trip to Baguio.

GONZALO. Not at all, Nita.

NITA Two whole weeks. Long enough for me. I was – lonely.

GONZALO Were you? (Looks at her briefly.)

NITA Of course, Gonzalo. I forgot to tell you. I dismissed the maid this morning. I couldn't stand her insolent ways.

GONZALO. Cora insolent? I never noticed it She was quite efficient, it seems to me -- and we've had her for a good many years.

NITA. (Laughing again). No, Gonzalo, remember? We got her when we were married-- and we have been married only seven months (She sits beside her husband and puts her arm around him). Do you know that the prices of canned goods have gone up?-- And it took me a long time before I could find the right pair of shoes to go with this dress.. Luckily I found what I wanted at Rustan's. By the way, Menchu came this afternoon and brought me the towels.

GONZALO. Hmm?

NITA. You aren't listening, Gonzalo.

GONZALO. Who did you say came?

NITA. Menchu. I had her initial the new towels They turned out to be perfectly charming. Your initials are in blue.

GONZALO. You said somebody came this afternoon?

NITA. (Laughing long). Yes, Menchu, the woman who does the embroidery.

GONZALO. Ah yes. Sorry, Nita. Who else?

NITA. No one else, Gonzalo. (She starts imperceptibly, a flitting across her face. But all this Gonzalo does not notice. Suddenly he puts dawn the paper and stares at her dress.

NITA sits, inexplicably tense.)

GONZALO. Nita.

NITA. (With a slight trembling of the voice).. Yes?

GONZALO. How come?

NITA. What do you mean?

GONZALO. What are you all dressed up for?. (NITA relaxes and laughs again)

NITA. Like it?

GONZALO. Exquisite.

NITA. I'm glad it's to your taste. I’m merely trying it on for the big day tomorrow.

GONZALO. Tomorrow?

NITA. You haven't forgotten, Gonzalo?

GONZALO. Frankly-- it escapes my memory.

NITA. Our wedding sort-- of-- anniversary.

GONZALO. Our first anniversary?

NITA. (Bursting out Laughing.) No, no, Gonzalo We've been married only seven months. We decided, during out honeymoon -- remember? -- to celebrate our anniversary every month of our marriage.

GONZALO Ah, this beautiful forgetful memory of mine.

NITA (Playfully) Yes, I know it has been getting worse lately. Two weeks ago, before you went up to Baguio, we decided to go out and celebrate at the Jai-Alai that's where we met for the first time-- a year ago.

GONZALO. Or like it, definitely.

NITA. (Mockingly, but hurt). Well, I am flattered. Husbands are so hard to please these days.

GONZALO. Where did we celebrate last month?

NITA. We went to Hilton.

GONZALO. And the month before that?

NITA. May I refresh your failing memory? The month before last we had supper at Bon Vivant- - and the previous month we went to La Parrilla and afterwards to Manila Hotel for dancing.

GONZALO. The first month?

NITA. We went, to that panciteria on Carvajal street.

GONZALO. Couldn't we go tomorrow to another panciteria and just have siopao and arroz caldo?

NITA. Oh no, Gonzalo! I want to show off my beautiful dress!

GONZALO: As you wish, Nita. Know something?

NITA What?

GONZALO. You look as beautiful and as young as that night we met.

NITA, But, Gonzalo, do you expect me to turn into an old hag so soon?

GONZALO. I must buy you a present then. What would you like?

NITA. How much can you afford?

GONZALO. The sky's the limit--

NITA. Is business that good?'

GONZALO. I closed a big deal in Baguio.

NITA I saw a diamond bracelet at Estrella del Sur that simply took my breath away.

GONZALO. How much?

NITA. A bargain, practically.

GONZALO. How much of a bargain?

NITA. Ten thousand (GONZALO gives a low whistle. NITA laughs too. She stands up.) That's too much, I know. I was only kidding. But you did' say the sky's the limit, so—

GONZALO. You heard right, Nita. Buy it.

NITA. (Embracing him) -- Oh Gonzalo, thanks! I'm a lucky woman to have such a wonderful husband, (GONZALO smiles briefly, but there is irony in his smile. NITA starts putting the cups on the tray.)

GONZALO. Nita, did a man come this afternoon?

NITA. (Stiffening imperceptibly). A man? why-- no.

GONZALO. I mean-- I sent a man to fix the TV set.

NITA. No, nobody came-- aside from Menchu. But there's nothing wrong with our TV,

Gonzalo. I was watching my favorite program half an hour ago. (GONZALO, aware that his wife it staring at him, tries to laugh it off.)

GONZALO. I'm sorry-- an agent was selling me a new TV set this morning-- and I thought I had bought it-- oh, what am I saying? This splendid memory of mine, Nita

NITA. (Smiling). And you at the decrepit age of twenty-- seven. GONZALO. (Changing the subject). The coffee still warm?

NITA. (Touching the pot). It is (She fills up his cup again. GONZALO has sat down... As he drinks his coffee, NITA, her back to him, is arranging the tray. GONZALO takes out a piece of paper and unfolds it. NITA turns and sees it.) What's that, Gonzalo?

GONZALO.. (Quietly). Cyanide.

NITA. Cyanide?

GONZALO. Potassium cyanide.

NITA. Is it dangerous?

GONZALO. It should be. People are known to commit murder or suicide-- with it.

NITA. Is it that fatal?

GONZALO. Those are the rumors.

NITA. (Alarmed). Why do you carry it around with you?

GONZALO. Oh-- just as a joke.

NITA. Gonzalo! Carrying poison around isn't a joke.

GONZALO. Well, it isn't the kind of a joke the average person would indulge in, but, Nita, don't bother your pretty little head about it. Cyanide is sold in drugstores, and you wouldn't order closing the drugstores because of it, would you?

NITA. (Sitting beside him). Why, in heaven's name, do you have that poison with you?

GONZALO: It isn't just ordinary poison-- it's an unusual one. I use it in my business. Cyanide is a necessary ingredient in the plating process. We couldn't do without it.

NITA. I understand now, Gonzalo. But I still think you should throw it away. (Taking two or three crystals of cyanide, GONZALO drops them inside the cup. NITA gasps softly.) Gonzalo!

GONZALO; Will you stop worrying? You can throw it away later

NITA. But the cup--

GONZALO You can throw away the cup and the cyanide together.

NITA But the cup is from my favorite coffee set. Adrian gave it to us.

GONZALO He did?

NITA It was his wedding present.... Oh Gonzalo, your memory!

GONZALO I can always buy you another.

NITA You wouldn't find another like it, even if you looked all over town.

GONZALO One set is as good as another.

NITA (Softly but with a strained tone). No, it isn't, Gonzalo. The sentimental value --

GONZALO. People attach too much importance to sentimental value. One should attach himself to nothing and to nobody. (NITA looks at him, aghast)

NITA (Slowly and softly, as if afraid to contradict him). How can you say that, Gonzalo?

Attach oneself to nothing and to nobody. Don't I mean anything to you? And Adrian -- your best friend -- you've always been so attached to him.

(GONZALO stares at her briefly, smiles feebly, and goes to her.)

GONZALO Sorry Nita, Business worries and all that sort of thing. You know how deeply attached I am to you.

NITA And to Adrian.

GONZALO And to Adrian.

NITA The doctor told you time and time again to take good care of your hyperthyroid. You refuse to take Lugol. He also told you to avoid any emotional strain.

GONZALO I know, Nita, I know. All this irritability and my high-- strung condition --

NITA (With a conciliatory tone). You should have taken a good rest in Baguio, instead of rushing about with your business--

GONZALO I did try to rest up there, but something unexpected came up -- I got through with my business sooner than I expected.

NITA Something unexpected? Something serious?

GONZALO No, nothing important really. (Changing his tone.) By the way, has Adrian been around?

NITA Not since you left two weeks ago.

GONZALO Does he know I am back?

NITA How could he? You arrived only a few hours ago.

GONZALO Nita, please bring me some whisky, please.

(NITA picks up her cup and puts it in the tray.)

GONZALO (Laughingly). You know what your cousin Chita once said at a party? She said that Filipinos who have bars in their homes are cheap imitators of Hollywood and the American ways, and -- guess what else she said?

GONZALO; What?

NITA. She said drinking in one's home is a sign of decadence. Can you imagine her insolence?

GONZALO. Perhaps she's right, Nita. Perhaps we're becoming decadent

(GONZALO still holds the cup with cyanide in it; NITA puts Out her hand to get the cup, when the telephone Tint'. NITA grows slightly tense. She puts down the tray and is about to answer the telephone, but GONZALO rises abruptly, still holding the cup, and goes to the table.) -- Hello?-- Adrian (NITA becomes apprehensive.) Well-- talk about the devil! Nita and I were just talking about you. (NITA pretends to busy herself with the tray, but she is listening.) Oh, I arrived a few hours ago. Where are you now? In the drugstore across the street? Well, drop over. When? Right now-- No, no, Nita and I are still awake. I'll give you exactly one minute. (He promptly puts down the receiver. GONZALO has left the cup on the table.)

NITA. What did he want?

GONZALO. Nothing. He said he was calling from the drugstore. How did he know I was back?

NITA. He probably heard about it.

GONZALO. (After a brief pause.) Naturally.

NITA. (Taking the tray). I'll get the whisky-- (She goes out. GONZALO sits immobile. His eyes turn to the table where the fatal cup lies. He stands up, picks up the cup, and puts it down again. He goes to the balcony, waves his hand at someone he has seen. NITA comes in with a tray.)

GONZALO. Adrian is here!

(NITA sets the tray on the low table, as ADRIAN comes in. ADRIAN is twenty4ive, with a boyish personality. He wears a pair of brown pants and a light-colored coat. He carries his clothes indifferently. He smokes incessantly. His voice is slightly highpitched but pleasant. He goes to GONZALO and shakes hands).

ADRIAN. When did you get back?

GONZALO. Didn't you know I was back?

ADRIAN. (flushing). Why-- er-- yes. I missed you, Gonzalo. (Turning to NITA.) Hello, Nita. Stepping. out?

NITA. (Pointing to her dress). Oh, this? No, just trying it on (GONZALO has motioned ADRIAN to sit down.)

GONZALO. Whisky, Adrian?

ADRIAN. You know. I never touch it.

NITA. How about some coffee?

ADRIAN. I don't mind. (NITA goes out.)

GONZALO. Where have you been hiding yourself?

ADRIAN. I've been very busy lately.

GONZALO You and your restless nature. You have passed the bar exams. Why don't you get settled once and for all?

ADRIAN I will Gonzalo, I will.

GONZALO What did you call me up for just now. Adrian?

(ADRIAN hesitates briefly.)

ADRIAN Er -- my cigaret case. The plating. finished?

GONZALO. It was ready before I left for Baguio. I have it here with me. (Takes cigaret case from his pocket.) You'll hardly recognize it. It looks like new.

ADRIAN. This was a present from you-- our college graduation, remember?

GONZALO Yes, I remember. the saleslady told me it was gold, -- but it turned out to be only gold plated.

ADRIAN Yout re looking fine, Gonzalo.

GONZALO Frankly, I lost a few pounds. (GONZALO goes near the balcony, lights a cigaret.) By the way, Adrian, were you here this afternoon?

ADRIAN. Yes, Gonzalo.

GONZALO. At what time?

ADRIAN. I came at about two, but the maid told me Nita was asleep, so I left. I thought perhaps you had already arrived from Baguio. Didn't the maid tell you?

GONZALO. (Picking up the cup and setting it down). Oh yes she told me. (NITA comes in with the coffee tray, but has forgotten to bring in cups. She puts it down on the coffee table. ADRIAN feels the pot.)

ADRIAN. Ouch! Boiling!

NITA. Gonzalo likes it that way.

ADRIAN. I'll wait till it cools off a little.

GONZALO. (Filling up his glass with more whisky). As you wish. (NITA sits beside GONZALO.)

NITA. You know what your friend Gonzalo said a while ago?

ADRIAN. Not unless you tell me--

NITA. He said, and I quote: "One should attach himself to nothing and to nobody." ADRIAN. Did you really, Gonzalo?

GONZALO. I don't remember.

NITA Imagine Gonzalo talking like that, when he talked so much -- about you before we got married. In fact, once or twice we had a quarrel because he insisted on repeating "Adrian said this and Adrian said that and Adrian and I did this-- " (Pause) How. old were you when you became friends?'

ADRIAN.. I was about ten then.

GONZALO. Adrian and I went to grade school together.

NITA. You managed to be classmates all the time?

GONZALO. We managed.

NITA. But aren't you older?

GONZALO. By tad years. Once, in seventh grade, the. teacher insisted on putting us in separate sections.

ADRIAN. The teacher thought I was smarter and should be in Section A.

GONZALO. But Adrian went to the principal's office and pleaded--

ADRIAN I won. We both stayed in the same section.

NITA. Section A?

ADRIAN. No, Section C. (They laugh.)

GONZALO. Adrian looked so boyish then-- he was considered the best-looking in school-- that I used to tease him by calling him Baby- Face.

NITA. He still retains much of that baby-like expression, doesn't he? (They laugh again. GONZALO grows serious.)

GONZALO. Adrian had a characteristic then.

ADRIAN. Yeah? What was that?

GONZALO. Mind you, I am not saying you still have it-- besides, it wasn't anything usual.

NITA. A characteristic?

GONZALO. Adrian was seldom satisfied with what he had. Once-- in high school--

NITA. I see your memory is still good, Gonzalo.

GONZALO. (Quietly). Yes, strange how oftentimes our memory vividly relives incidents hidden in our past--

ADRIAN. Go ahead. You were saying--

GONZALO. Well, my mother gave me, on my birthday, a linen suit. Adrian liked it so much he insisted on borrowing it every Sunday. He had other suits, but he fell in love with this particular one.

NITA. What happened?

GONZALO. I finally gave it to him.

ADRIAN. (Laughing). I don't recall that incident.

GONZALO. And on another occasion Nita. Guess what I found this afternoon, while looking over some papers? Some pictures of our wedding.

GONZALO. (Suddenly). Not becoming sentimental at so early a stage of our marriage, are you, Nita?

NITA. I. know, but Adrian was best man-- and he looked so funny in one of the pictures. He was staring at me, while you, Gonzalo, were looking somewhere else.

ADRIAN. Let me see it. I haven't seen any of the wedding pictures

NITA. I'll get them. (NITA goes out. GONZALO walks over to the table, picks-up the poisoned cup and places is on the low table in of the sofa.)

ADRIAN. Gonzalo- I'm glad you're back. (GONZALO looks at ADRIAN for a brief moment. With the usual clairvoyance of old friends being able to read each others expression,

GONZALO goes to ADRIAN and puts his arm around him.)

GONZALO. What's wrong?

ADRIAN. I-er-I'm in trouble again.

GONZALO; Financial? (ADRIAN nods sheepishly.) How much is it this time?

ADRIAN. Quite a sum.

GONZALO. One thousand?

ADRIAN. Two and a half. (GONZALO takes out his check book and pen, and sits down.)

GONZALO. Poker?

ADRIAN. Races and Jai-Alai. (GONZALO writes out the amount.)

GONZALO. (Giving him the check). You haven't changed, Adrian. (After a pause.) No woman trouble?

ADRIAN. (Taking the check). Thanks. You know I've never had much use for women.

GONZALO. It's about time you started looking for someone to settle down with.

ADRIAN. If I find the right girlGONZALO. And your idea of the right woman?

ADRIAN. You know what my idea of the right girlGONZALO. I still remember it. "She must be serious and intelligent-she must be a virgin and-"

ADRIAN. Can you find a woman like that nowadays?

GONZALO. There aren't many, I admit, but if you look hard enough- (NITA comes in.)

NITA. Here it is. (Both men look at the picture, and then burst out laughing).

ADRIAN. Gonzalo looked scared or something.

GONZALO. I was. The last words in the ritual "-till death do us part' were still ringing in my ears-and the doctor had just told me I might live up to seventy. (NITA laughs long and loud.)

NITA. Look who's talking? I hope to live up to eighty myself.

GONZALO. (As he pours himself another drink). You know, Adrian was always an idealist. That's why he hasn't married yet. He's twenty-four

ADRIAN. Twenty-five.

NITA. I like the cold-blooded callousness with which men reveal their age

GONZALO. I remember. during our college days-- Adrian fell in love once. When he found out the girl had a regular boy friend, he gave her up.

NITA. But if the girl was engagedGONZALO. She wasn't. And even if she were that doesn't stop most men from going after her.

NITA. Men's tremendous conceit. And you still have those ideals, Adrian?

GONZALO. Adrian will never change.

NITA. Don't rush him. He'll give up those ideals yet.

GONZALO. (Brusquely). Why? (Caught by the suddenness, NITA stops.)

NITA. Well, people-sometimes-alter their ideals as they grow older, don't they?

GONZALO. (Softening his tone). You're right. People shouldn't hold on to their original ideals, too long. (Taking the bottle again.) Want a drink, Adrian?

ADRIAN. But I don't drink.

NITA. Just try once, Adrian.

ADRIAN. All right. (ADRIAN takes the drink. As he puts back the glass on the table, the newspaper falls off the low table.)

GONZALO. (Picking up the newspaper and tossing it on a chair). Have you read this afternoon's paper?

ADRIAN. Haven't had time.

GONZALO. There's an interesting item on the front page.

NITA. What about?

GONZALO. About a murder last night.

NITA. I shudder at the mere sound of the word "murder"

GONZALO. (Laughing briefly). You never can tell, Nita. Someday you or I might be a witness to one.

NITA. Oh, not me!

GONZALO. Suppose we’re walking along the Escolta, and some-body sticks a knife into or shoots somebody? Shall we dose our eyes and pretend we didn't see it?

NITA. That would be different. But I know I’ll be careful not to be around when a crime takes place.

ADRIAN. What was last night's case?

GONZALO. (Glancing at the paper). You know Mr. and Mrs. Tito Viterbo?

ADRIAN. The prominent attorney, isn't he?

NITA. Not the Viterbo married to Mila Revilla?

GONZALO. You know her?

NITA. Very well. Mila and I were classmates in the same convent school, the Annunciata.

GONZALO. A very religious woman, according to the paper.- She never missed going to Quiapo church every Friday afternoon-you know, the Nazarene.

NITA. She was the most religious girl in our class.

GONZALO. The papers say she used to meet her lover in Quiapo church.

NITA. Did anything happen to Mila?

GONZALO. It seems Tito Viterbo's best friend was having an affair with Tito's wife.

NITA. I can't believe it of Mila.

ADRIAN. Mr. Viterbo killed his friend?

GONZALO. No, he killed his wife;

NITA. Poor Mila.

ADRIAN. Unfortunate husband.

GONZALO: (Laughing). Unfortunate, my eye! Stupid rather!

ADRIAN. But why?

NITA. Gonzalo, how can you be so callous? After all, he had the right to kill her.

GONZALO. Because she was unfaithful to him? Decades ago that might have been justified-but in an enlightened age like-ours, killing a faithless wife or her lover speaks none too highly of the husbandt s sense of proportion.

ADRIAN. (Shocked). What an idea, Gonzalo!

GONZALO. To kill the wife because she is unfaithful is for the husband to admit that he has lost her-and if you lose some-thing or somebody. don't you think that it's most probably through your own carelessness? The sense of possession is strong in every love.

ADRIAN. Granted. in another generation. when material things were few and expensive, one could understand the fierce desire to possess and hold on to something.

NITA. Gonzalo, you can't confuse love with the material.

GONZALO. I am not confusing them. True love isn't a material thing. It's intangible, spiritual~ capable of touching the stars, reaching the infinite, embracing God!

NITA. Poetry, Gonzalo.

ADRIAN. No, Nita. Truth.

GONZALO (Smiling). But not all marriages are born of love.

ADRIAN. Of what then?

GONZALO. Of passion. And if it is passion in your marriage, to lose the object of your passion need not-should not-necessarily be tragic.

ADRIAN. What would you have had Mr. Viterbo do, then?

GONZALO Forgiven his wife..

ADRIAN. But Mr. Viterbo's wife was guilty of breakingGONZALO. The fourth commandmentNITA. The sixth, Gonzalo.

GONZALO. (Laughing). Right. "Thou shalt not commit adultery." Ah, but I know the ninth. 'Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's wife."

NITA. Splendid. Your memory is improving.

GONZALO. (As he pours himself another dnnk). There's one word that has disappeared from the vocabulary of the moderns.

NITA. What word?

GONZALO. The word adultery. The moderns have such a revolting dread of such an ugly, repulsive, old-fashioned word that they have substituted for it, "So-and-so is having an affair with-or is in love with somebody else," and similar, charming, harmless phrases. But the word adultery itself they. avoid and abhor. To the moderns, adultery doesn't exist any more.

NITA. Your narrow views surprise me, Gonzalo.

ADRIAN. Levity aside, if ! had my way I'd have a name for Mr. Viterbo's wife and her lover.

GONZALO. And that isADRIAN. I'd call them a couple of rats.

GONZALO. (Laughing uproariously). That's interesting, Adrian. Why, in heaven's name?

ADRIAN. Adultery is punishable by law, don't you know?

GONZALO. If I may be permitted to stretch the point further, I'd prefer to call the three of them rats.

NITA. Why include the poor husband?

GONZALO. For breaking the fifth commandment-"Thou shalt not kill." (They all break into laughter. GONZALO again takes the bottle.) Another, Adrian?

ADRIAN. If you don't mind, I'd like some coffee.

NITA. Oh, I forgot to bring in new cups.

GONZALO. (Stopping her as she is about to go). Don't bother,

NITA. Here's one.

NITA. But you used that cup before.

ADRIAN. I don't mind.

NITA. (Staring at him-realizing it is the fatal cup). Gonzalo, that cup--

ADRIAN. I don't believe in germs, Nita.

NITA. (Alarmed). It isn't thatGONZALO. Adrian is right, Nita. One cup is as good- (NITA utters a muffled scream.

GONZALO goes to her and holds her arm firmly, cruelly. NITA winces.)

ADRIAN. Is she ill?

GONZALO. If you call expecting a babyNITA. No! (But NITA, still feeling the pressure of GONZALO'S hand on her, remains speechless.)

ADRIAN. Well, congratulations!

GONZALO. It's too early to tell.. She'll be all right Women insist on deluding themselves that they can be the equal. of men. When they are pregnant, they wake up from their trance.

(NITA, struck with terror, falls in a chair. GONZALO takes the pot, and, making it seem accidental, spills some' coffee on ADRIAN's clothes) How stupid of me!

GONZALO. Go inside and wipe it off. (ADRIAN stands up and walks toward the door. NITA tries to follow.)

NITA. I'll 'get you a clean towel.

GONZALO (Looking at her steadily). Adrian knows his way around. He's like one of the family. There's a clean towel in the bathroom. (ADRIAN goes out. NITA springs up from the chair and runs to GONZALO.)

NITA. What are you trying to do?

GONZALO. What are you talking about?

NITA. The cup, Gonzalo, the cup!, (He looks at her, without saying -a word.) Throw it away, throw it away! (GONZALO pushes her away, roughly.)

GONZALO. Shut up, you bitch!

NITA. Don't do it, don't! (GONZALO lights a cigaret, sits calmly.)

GONZALO. So no one came this afternoon. Adrian admitted he did.

NITA. No!

GONZALO, (Ignoring her interruptions). But he made one slight -mistake: he said he had told the maid he had come. But he doesn’t know you dismissed her this morning.

NITA. N~, no!

GONZALO. That's why you dismissed Cora. She knew 'and you were afraid she was going to talk. Adrian has been coming here every afternoon for the last two weeks. I had . my suspicions-that's why I went up to Baguio. I could have~ come hack in a day or two-but I wanted to give you and-Adrian the satisfaction of a last romantic, evil fling! (NITA throws herself on his knees.)

NITA. Gonzalo-Gonzalo!

GONZALO. Both of you pretending, deceiving, lying behind my back!- (NITA breaks into sobs.)

NITA. True, true! And I'm so ashamed!

GONZALO. (Contemptuously). Ashamed? (Gently.) You know the meaning of the word?

NITA. I don't know why I did it, I don't know!

GONZALO. Now you know-and it's too late.

NITA (Pleadingly). What are you going to do?

GONZALO. Destroy him

NITA. Adrian?

GONZALO. You're quite psychic, beloved.

NITA. Let Adrian go!

GONZALO. Because my love for him is deeper-him I must destroy

NITA. But not this way-not this callous way! Give him an even chance!

GONZALO. For a rat like him?

NITA. If you must destroy, destroy me then! Spare Adrian!

GONZALO. (Softly). He means that much to you, my dear?

NITA. No, no-not now-not any more! But there must be some pity left in you!

GONZALO. There is-a tiny bit-but my pity isn't for Adrian. I’m reserving it for you. NITA. Destroy me then-I'm just as guilty!

GONZALO. No, Nita, I cannot destroy you. I'll let you live-but I'll let you breathe, eat, and sleep~ every second of your cursed life-with that ugly word adulteress in your heart!

NITA. I'd rather die! I'd rather be destroyed!

GONZALO. You must live, my dearest Nita. Dying is so easy. And why die when there's so much ahead of you?

NITA. (Brokenly). There's nothing-nothing-ahead, or me-now.

GONZALO. Your feelings are a matter of indifference' to me. Soon you're going to witness a crime. You're going to see your beloved-and my beloved friend-Adrian-die the death of a rat

NITA. I won't stand it. I won't! I won't! I can't! (GONZALO stands up smiling.)

GONZALO. You're going to stay here and not utter a single word or make the least gesture.

(His tone dripping with venom.) Even though you aren’t a very intelligent woman I think you understand my words. (Bending over.) Come, my dear, allow me to take you to this chair. You need, a rest. (GONZALO forcibly raises NITA up. She sinks, exhausted and terrified, into a chain Presently ADRIAN comes in.) Everything all right, Adrian?

ADRIAN. It was nothing. It won't show.

GONZALO. (Pouring). Take your coffee.

ADRIAN. Sorry. I must be getting along.

GONZALO. Take your coffee first.

ADRIAN. (After a brief hesitation). All right.(Seeing NITA) she feeling worse?

GONZALO. Nothing serious.

ADRIAN. She should go in and rest, don't you think?

GONZALO. She will, presently.

ADRIAN. (Taking the cup). This coffee is still hot. (NITA wakes up from her trance and watches GONZALO'S actions. ADRIAN takes some sugar and stirs it.)

GONZALO. Still warm?

ADRIAN. Just right. (As he is about to drink it, NITA stands up.)

NITA. Oh Adrian, I'm sure it's cold nowADRIAN. Don't bother, NitaGONZALO. (To NITA). Stop being so fussyNITA. Are you sure, Adrian?

ADRIAN. Sure. (He gulps down tire drink. NITA covers her mouth with her hand. Frightened, site rushes out.)

GONZALO. Poor Nita. Sometimes, Adrian, I think you're better off as a bachelor.

ADRIAN. Well, well! A while ago you were advising me to get married.

GONZALO. You should, Adrian, you should.

ADRIAN. I'm not prepared-to settle down yet.

GONZALO. Aren't you afraid to die a bachelor?

ADRIAN. (Laughing). I expect to live a little longer, Gonzalo.

GONZALO. A little longer is right. (ADRIAN'S face slowly begins to get red. He feels a giddiness in his head-- he presses his temples.)

ADRIAN. My headGONZALO. What's wrong?

ADRIAN. Don't know-my head-never felt like thisGONZALO. Sit down. (ADRIAN sits on the sofa.) You'll feel better.

ADRIAN. (Touching his throat). My throat-- can't breathe

GONZALO. An aspirin will do you good.

ADRIAN. The coffee-- could it be--

GONZALO. (Picking up the cup and smelling it). No, I don't think so. Probably the effect of the whisky eh Adrian?

ADRIAN. (Laughing dryly). Yes-first time, you know.

GONZALO. By the way, will the two thousand and a half be enough? I could lend you more.

ADRIAN. (Taking out the check from his pocket). Thanks, Gonzalo Always the wonderful friend.

GONZALO. Friendship is unto the graveADRIAN. And beyond it.

GONZALO. Yes-even beyond it.

ADRIAN. I sometimes-wonder-what I would do-or where-I would be-without you. Gonzalo.

GONZALO. (Affectionately). Aw, shut up, Baby Face.

ADRIAN You haven't-called me-Baby Face since Our high school days- (ADRIAN'S eyes start to protrude-they become staring and wide open the pupils dilated and immobile.)

GONZALO. Lie down -- you're just tired. The light must be bothering you (GONZALO turns off all the lights, leaving the scene in complete darkness, except for some light streaming through the balcony from the street.)

GONZALO. Just rest, Adrian.

ADRIAN. No, no-I must-tell you-something-GONZALO. Not now. Tomorrow.

ADRIAN. (Terror in his voice). Now!-very important-very-(ADRIAN begins to gasp and moan softly. Then silence.)

GONZALO. I attach myself to nothing and to nobody.

(As ADRIAN continues moaning, GONZALO lights a cigaret. A long silence, ThenADRIAN falls noisily upsetting the coffee table, breaking the cup and glasses.

Simultaneously, we hear a long, shrill, agonizing, terrifying scream outside.)

NITA. (Outside-- unspeakable terror in her voice). Adrian-Adrian! ADRIAN!! (Her words are followed by heartrending sobs which keep on till the final curtain. GONZALO throws his cigaret away, goes to ADRIAN, gets the check, tears it up. Slowly he goes to the telephone and dials.)

GONZALO. (Quietly and deliberately). Hello? Police Department? If you care to come to 60 Banaba St., Forbes Park, you'll find three rats- (pause) yes, yes, that's what I just saidthree rats.

(As we hear NITA hysterically sobbing her heart out, the curtain falls.)

Nick Maximov Biography, Facts, and Trivia

1. Nick Maximov is an American mixed martial arts fighter who campaigns in the light heavyweight division. He is associated with the Nick Diaz Academy.

2.Maximov was born in Bend, Oregon, United States but he fights out of Chico, California, United States. He was born on December 23, 1997. He went to high school at Chico High and graduated in 2016. He attended college at the Clackamas Community College in Oregon City.

3. Before turning professional, Maximov had three amateur fights. He won all three via finishes - one through TKO by punches and two by submission (triangle choke).

4. Maximov made his professional debut in October 6, 2018. He fought in the undercard of Terminal Velocity, an event by King of the Cage (KOTC). He won the bout by knocking out Nick Piecuch in the very first round. He extended his winning streak to 5 with victories over Bruni Casillas, William Hope, Robert Allensworth, and Johnny James Jr. For his sixth fight in November of 2020, Maximov appeared on Dana White's Contender Series. He decisioned Oscar Cota in said bout.

5. In 2021, the undefeated Maximov signed with the UFC. Not long after, it was announced that he will be sharing the cage with Cody Brundage in the undercard of UFC 266: Volkanovski vs. Ortega.

6. At a young age, Maximov started learning karate. He also took on jiu-jitsu. Maximov also heavily wrestled in high school. He finished his wrestling career at Chico High with a 137-37 record.

A Night in the Hills by Paz Marquez Benitez (Short Story)

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.

AMONG the foothills noon found them. He was weary and wet with sweat.

“Can’t we get water?” he asked dispiritedly.

“We are coming to water,” said Ambo. “We shall be there in ten minutes.”

Up a huge scorched log Ambo clambered, the party following. Along it they edged precariously to avoid the charred twigs and branches that strewed the ground. Here and there a wisp of smoke still curled feebly out of the ashes.

“A new kaingin,” said Ambo. “The owner will be around, I suppose. He will not be going home before the end of the week. Too far.”

A little farther they came upon the owner, a young man with a cheerful face streaked and smudged from his work. He stood looking at them, his two hands resting on the shaft of his axe.

“Where are you going?” he asked quietly and casually. All these people were casual and quiet.

“Looking at some land,” said Ambo. “Mang Gerardo is from Manila. We are going to sleep up there.”

He looked at Gerardo Luna curiously and reviewed the two por­ters and their load. An admiring look slowly appeared in his likeable eyes.

“There is a spring around here, isn’t there? Or is it dried up?”

“No, there is still water in it. Very little but good.”

They clambered over logs and stumps down a flight of steps cut into the side of the hill. At the foot sheltered by an overhanging fern-covered rock was what at first seemed only a wetness. The young man squatted before it and lifted off a mat of leaves from a tiny little pool. Taking his tin cup he cleared the surface by trailing the bottom of the cup on it. Then he scooped up some of the water. It was cool and clear, with an indescribable tang of leaf and rock. It seemed the very essence of the hills.

He sat with the young man on a fallen log and talked with him. The young man said that he was a high school graduate, that he had taught school for a while and had laid aside some money with which he had bought this land. Then he had got married, and as soon as he could manage it he would build a home here near this spring. His voice was peaceful and even. Gerardo suddenly heard his own voice and was embarrassed. He lowered his tone and tried to capture the other’s quiet.

That house would be like those he had seen on the way—brown, and in time flecked with gray. The surroundings would be stripped bare. There would be san franciscos around it and probably beer bottles stuck in the ground. In the evening the burning leaves in the yard would send a pleasant odor of smoke through the two rooms, driving away the mosquitoes, then wandering out-doors again into the forest. At night the red fire in the kitchen would glow through the door of the batalan and would be visible in the forest.

The forest was there, near enough for his upturned eyes to reach. The way was steep, the path rising ruthlessly from the clearing in an almost straight course. His eyes were wistful, and he sighed tremulously. The student followed his gaze upward.

Then he said, “It must take money to live in Manila. If I had the capital I would have gone into business in Manila.”

“Why?” Gerardo was surprised.

“Why—because the money is there, and if one wishes to fish he must go where the fishes are. However,” he continued slowly after a silence, “it is not likely that I shall ever do that. Well, this little place is all right.”

They left the high school graduate standing on the clearing, his weight resting on one foot, his eyes following them as they toiled up the perpendicular path. At the top of the climb Gerardo sat on the ground and looked down on the green fields far below, the lake in the distance, the clearings on the hill sides, and then on the diminishing figure of the high school graduate now busily hacking away, making the most of the remaining hours of day-light. Perched above them all, he felt an exhilaration in his painfully drumming chest.

Soon they entered the dim forest.

Here was the trail that once was followed by the galleon traders when, to outwit those that lay in wait for them, they landed the treasure on the eastern shores of Luzon, and, crossing the Cordillera on this secret trail, brought it to Laguna. A trail centuries old. Stalwart adventurers, imperious and fearless, treasure coveted by others as imperious and fearless, carriers bent beneath burden almost too great to bear—stuff of ancient splendors and ancient griefs.

ON his bed of twigs and small branches, under a roughly contrived roof Gerardo lay down that evening after automatically crossing himself. He shifted around until at last he settled into a comfortable hollow. The fire was burning brightly, fed occasionally with dead branches that the men had collected into a pile. Ambo and the porters were sitting on the black oilcloth that had served them for a dining table. They sat with their arms hugging their knees and talked together in peaceable tones punctuated with brief laughter. From where he lay Gerardo Luna could feel the warmth of the fire on his face.

He was drifting into deeply contented slumber, lulled by the even tones of his companions. Voices out-doors had a strange quality. They blended with the wind, and, on its waves, flowed gently around and past one who listened. In the haze of new sleep he thought he was listening not to human voices, but to something more elemental. A warm sea on level stretches of beach. Or, if he had ever known such a thing, raindrops on the bamboos.

He awoke uneasily after an hour or two. The men were still talking, but intermittently. The fire was not so bright nor so warm.

Ambo was saying:

“Gather more firewood. We must keep the fire burning all night. You may sleep. I shall wake up once in a while to put on more wood.”

Gerardo was reassured. The thought that he would have to sleep in the dark not knowing whether snakes were crawling towards him was intolerable. He settled once more into light slumber.

The men talked on. They did not sing as boatmen would have done while paddling their bancas in the dark. Perhaps only sea-folk sang and hill-folk kept silence. For sea-folk bear no burdens to weigh them down to the earth. Into whatever wilderness of remote sea their wanderer’s hearts may urge them, they may load their treasures in sturdy craft, pull at the oar or invoke the wind, and raise their voices in song. The depths of ocean beneath, the height of sky above, and between, a song floating out on the darkness. A song in the hills would only add to the lonesomeness a hundredfold.

He woke up again feeling that the little twigs underneath him had suddenly acquired uncomfortable proportions. Surely when he lay down they were almost unnoticeable. He raised himself on his elbow and carefully scrutinized his mat for snakes. He shook his blanket out and once more eased himself into a new and smoother corner. The men were now absolutely quiet, except for their snoring. The fire was burning low. Ambo evidently had failed to wake up in time to feed it.

He thought of getting up to attend to the fire, but hesitated. He lay listening to the forest and sensing the darkness. How vast that darkness! Mile upon mile of it all around. Lost somewhere in it, a little flicker, a little warmth.

He got up. He found his limbs stiff and his muscles sore. He ­could not straighten his back without discomfort. He went out of the tent and carefully arranged two small logs on the fire. The air was chilly. He looked about him at the sleeping men huddled together and doubled up for warmth. He looked toward his tent, fit­fully lighted by the fire that was now crackling and rising higher. And at last his gaze lifted to look into the forest. Straight white trunks gleaming dimly in the darkness. The startling glimmer of a firefly. Outside of the circle of the fire was the measureless unknown, hostile now, he felt. Or was it he who was hostile? This fire was the only protection, the only thing that isolated this little strip of space and made it shelter for defenseless man. Let the fire go out and the unknown would roll in and engulf them all in darkness. He hastily placed four more logs on the fire and retreated to his tent.

He could not sleep. He felt absolutely alone. Aloneness was like hunger in that it drove away sleep.

He remembered his wife. He had a fleeting thought of God. Then he remembered his wife again. Probably not his wife as her­self, as a definite personality, but merely as a companion and a minis­terer to his comfort. Not his wife, but a wife. His mind recreated a scene which had no reason at all for persisting as a memory. There was very little to it. He had waked one midnight to find his wife sit­ting up in the bed they shared. She had on her flannel camisa de chino, always more or less dingy, and she was telling her beads. “What are you doing?” he had asked. “I forgot to say my prayers,” she had answered.

He was oppressed by nostalgia. And because he did not know what it was he wanted his longing became keener. Not for his wife, nor for his life in the city. Not for his parents nor even for his lost childhood. What was there in these that could provoke anything remotely resembling this regret? What was not within the life span could not be memories. Something more remote even than race memory. His longing went farther back, to some age in Paradise maybe when the soul of man was limitless and unshackled: when it embraced the infinite and did not hunger because it had the inexhaustible at its command.

When he woke again the fire was smoldering. But there was a light in the forest, an eerie light. It was diffused and cold. He wondered what it was. There were noises now where before had seemed only the silence itself. There were a continuous trilling, strange night-calls and a peculiar, soft clinking which recurred at regular intervals. Forest noises. There was the noise, too, of nearby waters.

One of the men woke up and said something to another who was also evidently awake, Gerardo called out.

“What noise is that?”

“Which noise?”

“That queer, ringing noise.”

“That? That’s caused by tree worms, I have been told.”

He had a sudden vision of long, strong worms drumming with their heads on the barks of trees.

“The other noise is the worm noise,” corrected Ambo. “That hissing. That noise you are talking about is made by crickets.”

“What is that light?” he presently asked.

“That is the moon,” said Ambo.

“The moon!” Gerardo exclaimed and fell silent. He would never understand the forest.

Later he asked, “Where is that water that I hear?”

“A little farther and lower, I did not wish to camp there because of the leeches. At daylight we shall stop there, if you wish.”

When he awoke again it was to find the dawn invading the forest. He knew the feel of the dawn from the many misas de gallo that he had gone to on December mornings. The approach of day-light gave him a feeling of relief. And he was saddened.

He sat quietly on a flat stone with his legs in the water and looked around. He was still sore all over. His neck ached, his back hurt, his joints troubled him. He sat there, his wet shirt tightly plastered over his meager form and wondered confusedly about many things. The sky showed overhead through the rift in the trees. The sun looked through that opening on the rushing water. The sky was high and blue. It was as it always had been in his dreams, beau­tiful as he had always thought it would be. But he would never come back. This little corner of the earth hidden in the hills would never again be before his gaze.

He looked up again at the blue sky and thought of God. God for him was always up in the sky. Only the God he thought of now was not the God he had always known. This God he was thinking of was another God. He was wondering if when man died and moved on to another life he would not find there the things he missed and so wished to have. He had a deep certainty that that would be so, that after his mortal life was over and we came against that obstruc­tion called death, our lives, like a stream that runs up against a dam, would still flow on, in courses fuller and smoother. This must be so. He had a feeling, almost an instinct, that he was not wrong. And a Being, all wise and compassionate, would enable us to remedy our frustrations and heartaches.

HE went straight to Sotera’s to get the key to his house. In the half light of the stairs he met Peregrina, who in the solicitous expression of her eyes saw the dust on his face, his hands, and his hair, saw the unkempt air of the whole of him. He muttered something polite and hurried up stairs, self-consciousness hampering his feet. Peregrina, quite without embarrassment, turned and climbed the stairs after him.

On his way out with the keys in his hand he saw her at the head of the stairs anxiously lingering. He stopped and considered her thoughtfully.

“Pereg, as soon as I get these clothes off I shall come to ask you a question that is very—very important to me.”

As she smiled eagerly but uncertainly into his face, he heard a jangling in his hand. He felt, queerly, that something was closing above his hand, and that whoever was closing it, was rattling the keys.