I open the door at the westernmost end of the corridor. It is the room where Lola likes to stay during the late hours of the afternoon, ironing starched clothes that we have grown out of, repairing torn curtains and communion caps on her antiquated Singer sewing machine, while I perch on a chair and excavate boxes of her old school records. The capiz windows are open from end to end, and we can see the sun set on the horizon. This time, when I enter, the windows are closed, and there is no one else in the room. The iron is cold to the touch. I spin the wheel of the sewing machine as I walk towards the windows. The stench of burning is so strong now that, were it not for the knowledge that it will rain soon, I will run away. I am suddenly so afraid but I must find the fire first. I do not want to get caught in the rain, and Saint Joseph will be angry if I run. So I slide the windows open, slowly, and I find myself gazing through another open window. The room inside is very dark. Then I see the shadow of a door opening, and someone steps into the room, carrying several blazing candles. I cannot see his face. The rain must be falling hard, I think, stupidly, because they have no electricity over there. Then the door behind me opens, and I realize what is burning, after all.
Dogmatic repetitions are the morphology of my nightmares. I know it will rain. It never does, but I know it will, so I open windows, I open doors, and these windows open to other windows, and doors open to other doors, and the scent of a flower then becomes that of a burning candle, or burning flesh, or my favorite afternoon merienda. I never feel trapped, or lost, but I am always turning a handle, unfastening a shutter, looking out, never looking back. My nightmares are transitive functions infinitely transposed.
M’s nightmares as she recounts them, on the other hand, are perfect, elaborate cinematographies. Where I used to open my doors to childhood monsters wearing cheap goth eye makeup, her persecutors have beautiful serene faces, and they touch her cheek gently with fingers dripping with long threads of blood. She walks in the town plaza of Jaro when the church bell is tolling the noon mass, and she sees young girls dressed in white funereal clothes calmly falling back on the sharp iron spikes of the gate leading to the cursillo house. She says she is always walking in her dreams. She finds herself following the path of a small creek, where baroque guns float along waters of swiftly flowing blood like flashflood debris. A man she loves sits where the creek ends. He picks a gun, douses it once again in the blood, then places it on his lap, where he cleans it carefully, oils it until the blood strangely shines, and then loads it with bullets.
While Joy disclaims these grand—mannered sentimentalities, her nightmares are calibrated like malfunctioning film reels of a fashionable urban noir, like a Banana Yoshimoto literary device — they are made up entirely of the wrong awakening, the horrifying volt-face. She is lying on her bed, in her bedroom, and she opens her eyes to see a young boy, whom she knows and does not know, laughing while he opens and shuts her bedroom cabinet, asking over his shoulder if she has found his math homework. A friend who is living six hundred miles away is seated at her vanity table, applying her lipstick, which Joy has just bought yesterday, as if it is the most natural thing to do. This is the sort of nightmare which is signified by its existence at that slightest, most formal angle to reality, where the known world is skewed with such precision that hallucinations reflexively become facts, and one inevitably wakes up to a crazed vision, thinking, terror-stricken, that one must be dreaming, and then goes back to sleep. The noise of the electric fan is the devastated whirring of a film projector.
YY’s nightmares are the manifestation of a singular physical fantasy. This fantasy is a spiral metal staircase, without banister or support, and every step is a digression, somehow but not quite an illogical syntax. It is rather like a little girl’s, says YY, but the physics are also quite correct. It might be the ubiquitous double-helix, an Iron Maiden prototype, the shape of a divine dick, a quantum computer, the model of a black hole. Or it might be a sort of retrograde Tower of Pisa, we point out, and when you find yourself at the foot of it, you know Galileo, Zeus, some pre-Newtonian asshole is going to cast you back down and you’ll have to find your way up again.
Ida sits throughout this entire discussion, sipping her coffee silently. When we ask her about her nightmares, her pseudo-conscious morbidities, she shrugs and says that sometimes she dreams she is flying. Then she hears people shouting and she looks down at the road, and she sees them running. When she asks them why they are running, they scream: “Monster! There’s a monster!” Her heart pounds, knowing then that the monster is right behind her, and she thinks hysterically that there must be a way for her to land, even if she has to fall. She tries to do so, but something pulls her back up. She looks over her shoulder and she sees the wings of the monster looming over her. Then the fear is gone and she is irritated at herself for being so stupid. She realizes the truth. The mob starts shooting at her. She ignores them now.
The wings hurt her spine.
DOUGLAS L. CANDANO
THE LIFE AND DEATH OF HERMES UY
Douglas L. Candano graduated in 2005 from the Ateneo de Manila University, where he was given the Development Studies Departmental Award and the Loyola Schools Award for the Arts for Fiction. A former Associate Editor of Heights, the official literary publication and organization of the Ateneo de Manila University, he has been awarded fellowships to the Ateneo-Heights and Ateneo National Writers Workshops. A Don Carlos Palanca Awardee, his stories and essays have been published in Heights, the Philippine Daily Inquirer, and the Philippine Star. He is currently conceptualizing his first novel, while doing consultancy work for a Canadian International Development Agency project.
The Life and Death of Hermes Uy, which combines world mythology, alternative Chinese-Filipino history, and pop-culture, first appeared in Heights.
REPRODUCED HERE is most of “The Life and Death of Hermes Uy,” which is found in Rainier Chua’s Mysterious Ongpin: a Collection of Stories on Chinese Entrepreneurs (1972, Manila: Newlife Publishing)
[A]nd if one were to go down P. Damaso, one would surely notice the site of the first Athena Drug Store. Although boarded-up for more than a decade, the building still hints of an opulent past. Each intricate groove of the once-famous carvings on the facade is still deep; every plank-covered window still retains some welcoming magnificence. On rainy days, when the drains clog and the floodwaters begin to rise, one can see the drug store in a dirty, ever-changing mirror. Frankly, there is not much difference. For all its hints of an opulent past, the building is still abandoned and decaying. However, in the 1950’s, the first branch of the Athena Drug Store chain was one of the most talked-about places in Manila, mostly due to the efforts of Hermes Uy, its owner.
Born in the middle of the 1930’s, Hermes was a child of the War. His father migrated from Nanking in the 1920’s, bringing nothing but his doctorate in Classical Western Studies. Nonetheless, he was able to marry, finding a wife from the thousands of sangleys that occupied Manila in its post-Parian era.
Without any university post, his degree simply did not translate into money. Because of this, Hermes’ father had to find employment in his father-in-law’s furniture shop, where his job was to carve the less-intricate designs on the cheaper orders.
Being a specialist in Hellenic mythology, Hermes’ father chose to name his firstborn Hermes, for all the kicking in his wife’s stomach reminded him of the wily messenger of the gods.
However, when Hermes Uy was born on November 18, 1935, there seemed nothing godly about him. At birth, he weighed seven pounds and had no birthmarks. Hermes Uy’s first years were also not very memorable. However, This was to change with the outbreak of the Second World War.
Hermes was barely six when war broke out. By then, he had lived a life that, save for the occasional stories from Greek mythology and the constant exposure to the smell of lacquered wood, was perfectly nondescript for a Chinese boy in Manila. With the outbreak of war, Hermes’ father, the memories of the Rape of Nanking still fresh in his memory, i
mmediately forsook his life as a minor furniture carver and volunteered to serve as a member of the Hua Chi militia, leaving both wife and son to head for the hills. Despite this, Hermes and his mother did not starve throughout the war.
In the days of the Japanese occupation, when the most basic necessities were rationed and Mickey Mouse money caused massive inflation, Hermes proved himself very resourceful. A few weeks after the Imperial Army established itself as Manila’s new ruler, some of those who ventured outdoors were treated to an interesting sight.
Outside the Uy’s house, people noticed little papier-mâché figures on a cardboard box. There was a Manchu emperor, flanked by an elegantly dressed courtesan beside a caged Pegasus. There was also a barong-clad gentleman on a carabao, which was being led by the Greek god Pan. All the papier-mâché figures were all automated.
The little Manchu emperor, seated on his Imperial throne, would look up and down, his contented smile visible to all. In contrast, the pretty courtesan would cover her face with one of her long sleeves, now and then moving her arm to show an intricately designed face, with the lips drawn in a demure manner. The comedy of the elegant man in a barong riding the carabao was highlighted by the mans scratching his butt as the carabao swung its tail. However, Pan and the Pegasus were faulty in that their divinity seemed to be more nominal than anything. Pans movements resembled a slow goat, while Hermes Uys Pegasus was more of an old nag than anything else.
Nonetheless, the public did not seem to mind these faults and as the days passed, more people stopped to watch the performances of the papier-mâché figures. Eventually, the show caught the attention of the Japanese Imperial Army.
The Japanese dispatched several soldiers to check the shows. When the soldiers returned, they made a full report to Lieutenant General Kinhide Tanaka, who commanded Manila during the early days of the occupation. The news the soldiers gave was interesting. The show apparently amused the soldiers, who said that although they found no subversive material in the show, it would have been better if Japanese figures were included. Lt. Gen. Tanaka regarded this matter for a few seconds. He saw Hermes’ figures as a way of gaining public support for the Japanese. He quickly sent for Hermes.
Although an ethnic Chinese, Hermes did not show any resentment towards the Japanese. He agreed to put in a grand samurai and a kabuki actor in his theatre of papier-mâché figures, the Japanese pledging to supply them with two extra rations of food for the duration of the war. The next day, the Japanese were pleased to see a grand samurai warrior beside the barong-clad man on the carabao. With his great katana, the samurai would strike at invisible enemies. The kabuki actor never did show up. However, nobody seemed to mind, not even the Japanese, who never noticed that their samurai was made out of shredded Mickey Mouse money. The Uys ate well for most of the war because of the agreement, even after the mechanical movements of the Manchu emperor finally grounded to a halt.
A few months after leaving to join the guerrillas, Hermes’ father came home. He had been injured in one of the skirmishes that the Hua Chi unit figured in, a stray bullet shattering his kneecap. Although he hated the Japanese, he accepted his family’s extra rations without a qualm, as he had learned in the front that hunger was more dangerous than any human enemy.
As the war progressed, the family craved and ate many times, usually under the obscure cover of anonymity. However, the 1945 surrender of the Japanese heralded new times for the Uy household.
His father-in-law long dead and the furniture business long gone, Hermes’ father found a job in the US army stock rooms. He made friends in the US army, who encouraged him to sell surplus army goods to the public, whose appetites were already whetted by years without Coca-Cola, Hershey’s and Spam.
While his father grew wealthy, Hermes moved into his teens. He did not do well in school, despite his father’s PhD. By his 16th birthday, he had only completed a third grade education. The odd skills that he showcased as a child seemed to have disappeared. He spent most of his time idle, the only sign of brain activity was his fiddling of the abacus his mother gave him when he was younger. Occasionally, the sharp collision of beads would be heard around the Uy household through the wee hours of the morning. Though her sleep was disturbed, Hermes mother would wear a strange smile as she listened to the sound of clashing beads. However, his father thought differently. He attributed his sons behavior to a childhood enclosed in the smell of lacquer. The former professor of Classical Western Studies seemed to forget that it was his sons shows that kept the family full during the War. It didnt really matter though. Business was brisk. Life was good.
And so, when his father died of an aneurysm during the early months of 1950, Hermes found himself with a sizable amount of money. Yet, with his mother an unskilled housewife and Hermes halfway to a grade school diploma, the family knew that their present life was not sustainable. Adding to the family’s problems was the fact that Hermes was still a Chinese citizen under Filipino law and therefore prohibited from professional occupations. As such, like many other Chinese, he was forced to set up his own business.
For weeks, Hermes did not know what to do. He paced around the house, smoking pack after pack of cigarettes. One night, Hermes suddenly stopped in mid-track. To the amazement of his mother, he told her detailed ideas on how he was to dabble in the pharmaceutical trade, how he was to make and market placebos and how he would import chemicals from Taiwan. His mother’s shock wore off the next day as she woke up seeing Hermes sitting down, staring into space as he moved beads on his abacus. Yet, Hermes was all but idle. As he sat, Hermes toyed with using his name on the shop’s signboard. He imagined a big sign with the words Hermes’ Drug Store – The Fastest Service in Manila in bold colors. However, when he checked his father’s notebooks for the meaning of his name, he discovered that Hermes was also the god of thieves. He looked at the other pages of the notebooks, and saw many interesting possibilities. From Zeus to Apollo to even Asklepios. Eventually, he decided on the goddess Athena, conjuring up the now-famous slogan of Athena Drug Store –The Wise Choice.
With Athena Drug Store already a reality in his mind, the next few months was a flurry of activity for Hermes, who tirelessly went through the bureaucracy involved in setting a business.
On March 14, 1951, the first branch of Athena Drug Store opened on P. Damaso. Only Hermes’ mother, a few curious people and those enticed by the promise of a 10% opening day discount bothered to drop by.
People found the early version of Athena Drug Store neat but bland. It was a one-floor place, its centerpiece a huge wooden counter with the insides hollowed out and made into a glass-covered cupboard. Different-sized medicine bottles were put on display under the green-hued glass. During the first few weeks, the neighborhood children would go to the store, and press their hands and foreheads to the glass display case. Then, they would step back and giggle at the foggy green imprints they left. They would then run out to the shouting of Hermes Uy. It seemed that these periodic episodes were the only things that gave life to Athena Drug Store, which almost broke even on the first month.
Poring over his receipts, Hermes couldn’t understand why Athena Drug Store had made such a small profit. His selection was complete, his store clean and he served his customers courteously and quickly. Seeing nothing wrong with his store, he decided to look outside his shop.
Hermes noticed the different vendors hawking their wares. He looked at their sun-baked faces and their sweat-stained camisa de chinos and skirts. They sold a variety of goods. There were wicker baskets full of ukoy, biscuits and balut. Bilaos of puto and kutsyinta were beside plastic water pistols, rosaries and candles. Each vendor had his or her own way to attract customers. Some gesticulated in the air, drawing attention to their goods through the language of movement. Others whistled in high and low pitches, filling the air with disorganized musicality. There were even those who took to tapping the shoulders of prospective customers then, with a smile and a wink, would offer a sliver of puto or shoot a
stray cat with a water pistol. After looking at the vendors, Hermes went back into the store. He had an idea.
The next day, Athena Drug Store did not open. Instead, Hermes was seen talking to some vendors. Their meeting was held under the oppressive April heat. There were proposals and counterproposals, ideas accepted and refuted. Finally, after three hours, the two sides reached an agreement.
Over the next few days, people passing through P. Damaso noticed something odd. Save for the ones near the Church of Sta. Catalina, there were no more vendors. Absent were the gestures, sounds and distractions that somehow gave character to the avenue. Although a lot of people were flabbergasted, it was not long before it became known that the missing vendors had begun working at Athena Drug Store.
With the introduction of the street vendors, Athena Drug Store changed. New shelves were added, since the store now began to carry a variety of goods, some common on the street, while others, rare imports. The usual bilaos of kakanin were placed beside bottles of the finest balsamic vinegar. Plastic water pistols were guarded by red-coated tin soldiers. It seemed that Hermes Uy was bent on Athena Drug Store becoming a self-contained commercial center. As they had done in the streets, the vendors used their methods to coax customers into buying, their shrill sounds and amusing gestures infusing the store with a bazaar-like aura. Yet as before, Hermes would always be the one who closed the store, checking and tabulating the receipts for the day.
Not surprisingly, a lot of people began to visit the drug store. Professionals and the unemployed, maids, and even lawyers were among those who rubbed elbows daily at Athena Drug. Clearly, Hermes’ plan was a success, albeit not without problems.
While the number of customers grew, the store still stayed the same. In only a few weeks, the store began to look cramped. The vendors drowned each other’s sales pitches. People increasingly found it difficult to buy what they needed. It soon became apparent that the bazaar idea would only work if the number of people remained constant at a certain level. As such, no one was shocked when Athena Drug Store was closed on January 28, 1952 for renovations. People saw this as a minor inconvenience and as most of them were wont to do, went elsewhere to shop.
Philippine Speculative Fiction Volume 1 Page 21