The Woman Who Had Two Navels and Tales of the Tropical Gothic

by Nick Joaquin

  The problem had been there from the moment he opened his eyes the morning after the party and found himself back in the world of clothes. Everybody was in their clothes again—nurse and doctor, the folks and Tita Menchu, the combo and Minnie and Father O’Brien and the other visitors—and it was great to be back in that world; but how go back to a home he had seen naked? He was Bobby again, yes, but Bobby different, and wondering that morning what had become of Cándido he had looked around and seen Cándido in the crowded room, Cándido still in the Beatles shirt and beige trousers and red socks and cream boosters, Cándido leaning against a corner of the room, arms folded, with a quizzical smile for the visitors and a wink for Bobby, as though saying: Don’t overdo it, kid. Cándido was right, of course. This high-pitched love for people he was singing now would have to be keyed lower. One would have to strike a balance between loving people too much and judging them too hard. And through the week in the hospital, Cándido—dodging food trays, peering into medical contraptions, riffling through magazines, or just clowning around—had kept reminding him that one shouldn’t lose one’s sense of judgment. Cándido raised an eyebrow at a nurse’s gush, made a face at the tailor’s label on the doctor’s pants, wrinkled his nose at Sophie’s armpits, wolf-whistled at Tita Menchu’s gewgaws.

  Cándido there all the time had posed the problem of where to go from here and he could only think of Grandmother’s house as a place where one might learn balance. During the talk this morning with Grandmother he had kept glancing at Cándido, but Cándido had stayed out of it completely, leaning in his corner, arms folded, studying the ceiling, only looking at Bobby, with a shake of the head, when Grandmother had walked out. Cándido was right again, of course, and so was Grandmother. One had to face the music. But he still didn’t feel like going home.

  And sitting on the edge of the bed, waiting for his parents, rehearsing in his mind what he would say, garbed now in plaid shirt-jac and tan slacks and lemon mocs, his left shoulder bulgy from the padding of bandages, he had flashed appeals to Cándido, still in his corner, not to stay out of this coming talk, to back him up and stiffen his morale. The talk would go easier if Cándido was there to raise an eyebrow, make a face, wrinkle his nose, purse his mouth.

  But his parents had entered in such a rush he forgot all about Cándido and could only see his father suddenly grinning there before him.

  “Hi, boy. Ready? Come on, we’re going home. Got your bag? Can you carry it?”

  “Yes, Dad,” he heard himself saying, bending down in a daze to pick up the bag and sprinting after his parents who were already on their way out. The nurse coming in to say goodbye backed out in terror as they burst forth. If she didn’t know better she would have thought this a one-two-three.

  Setting the pace, leading the way, Totong Heredia, as he strode back up the corridor, pulled out his car keys, dangled and jingled them on a finger, winked at the nurse at the desk, hummed a tune, hardly glanced at his wife and son trying to keep in step.

  Scurrying between her two men, Ineng Heredia giggled and slipped a hand round the arm of each.

  Linked thus to his parents and borne along, Bobby, the bag bumping on a leg, could only concentrate on motion and didn’t remember Cándido until they were at the head of the stairs, when he looked around and saw Cándido down the hall, leaning in the open doorway of the room, raising an eyebrow at the togetherness, but as they went down the stairs Cándido was waiting at the foot of it, making a face as they descended, and he was perched on a chair’s arm, wrinkling his nose, as they crossed the lobby toward the door, he was out on the driveway, pursing his mouth, when they stepped out into the shady grounds, he was sprawled on the lawn, pretending to be languishing, while they were crowded into the front seat, and as the car drove off toward the boulevard and the sea, Bobby, turning around for a last look, saw Cándido on the sidewalk wistfully shrug his shoulders and wave a hand and then, buttoning up Bobby’s Beatles shirt, digging fists into Bobby’s beige trousers, go off in Bobby’s boosters in the other direction, up Taft Way, where the traffic was and the sunshine.

  A PORTRAIT OF THE ARTIST AS FILIPINO

  (AN ELEGY IN THREE SCENES)

  How but in custom and in ceremony

  Are innocence and beauty born?

  —YEATS

  THE SCENES—

  FIRST SCENE:

  The sala of the Marasigan house in Intramuros. An afternoon toward the beginning of October, 1941.

  SECOND SCENE:

  The same. A week later. Late in the morning.

  THIRD SCENE:

  The same. Two days later. Afternoon of the second Sunday of October.

  THE PEOPLE—

  CANDIDA & PAULA MARASIGAN, spinster daughters of Don Lorenzo

  PEPANG, their elder married sister

  MANOLO, their eldest brother

  BITOY CAMACHO, a friend of the family

  TONY JAVIER, a lodger at the Marasigan House

  PETE, a Sunday Magazine editor

  EDDIE, a writer

  CORA, a news photographer

  SUSAN & VIOLET, vaudeville artists

  DON PERICO, a senator

  DOÑA LOLENG, his wife

  PATSY, their daughter

  ELSA MONTES & CHARLIE DACANAY, friends of Doña Loleng

  Friends of the Marasigans.

  DON ALVARO & DOÑA UPENG, his wife

  DON PEPE

  DON MIGUEL & DOÑA IRENE, his wife

  DON ARISTEO

  A WATCHMAN

  A DETECTIVE

  TWO POLICEMEN

  THE FIRST SCENE

  The curtains open on a second curtain depicting the ruins of Intramuros in the moonlight. The sides of the stage are in shadow. BITOY CAMACHO is standing at far left. He begins to speak unseen, just a voice in the dark.

  BITOY: Intramuros! The old Manila. The original Manila. The Noble and Ever Loyal City . . .

  To the early conquistadores she was a new Tyre and Sidon; to the early missionaries she was a new Rome. Within these walls was gathered the wealth of the Orient—silk from China; spices from Java; gold and ivory and precious stones from India. And within these walls the Champions of Christ assembled to conquer the Orient for the Cross. Through these old streets once crowded a marvelous multitude—viceroys and archbishops; mystics and merchants; pagan sorcerers and Christian martyrs; nuns and harlots and elegant marquesas; English pirates, Chinese mandarins, Portuguese traitors, Dutch spies, Moro sultans, and Yankee clipper captains. For three centuries this medieval town was a Babylon in its commerce and a New Jerusalem in its faith . . .

  Now look: this is all that’s left of it now. Weeds and rubble and scrap iron. A piece of wall, a fragment of stairway—and over there, the smashed gothic facade of old Santo Domingo . . . Quomodo desolata es, Civitas Dei!

  [From this point, light slowly grows about Bitoy.]

  I stand here in the moonlight and I look down this desolate street. Not so long ago, people were dying here—a horrible death—by sword and fire—their screams drowned out by the shriller screaming of the guns. Only silence now. Only silence, and the moonlight, and the tall grass thickening everywhere . . .

  This is the great Calle Real—the main street of the city, the main street of the land, the main street of our history. I don’t think there is any town in the Philippines that does not have—or that did not used to have—its own Calle Real. Well, this is the mother street of them all. Through this street the viceroys made their formal entry into the city. Along this street, amidst a glory of banners, the Seal of the King was borne in parade whenever letters arrived from the royal hand. Down this street marched the great annual processions of the city. And on this street the principal families had their town-houses—splendid ancient structures with red-tile roofs and wrought-iron balconies and fountains
playing in the interior patios.

  When I was a little boy, some of those old houses were still standing—but, oh, they had come down in the world! No longer splendid, no longer the seats of the mighty; abandoned and forgotten; they stood decaying all along this street; dreaming of past glories; growing ever more dark and dingy and dilapidated with the years; turning into slum-tenements at last—a dozen families crowded into each of the old rooms; garbage piled all over the patios; and washlines dangling between the sagging balconies . . .

  Intramuros was dying, Intramuros was decaying even before the war. The jungle had returned—the modern jungle, the slum-jungle—just as merciless and effective as the real thing—demolishing man’s moment of history and devouring his monuments. The noble and ever loyal City had become just another jungle of slums. And that is how most of us remember the imperial city of our fathers!

  But there was one house on this street that never became a slum; that resisted the jungle, and resisted it to the very end; fighting stubbornly to keep itself intact, to keep itself individual. It finally took a global war to destroy that house and the three people who fought for it. Though they were destroyed, they were never conquered. They died with their house, and they died with their city—and maybe it’s just as well they did. They could never have survived the destruction of the old Manila . . .

  Their house stood on this corner of Calle Real. This piece of wall, this heap of broken stones are all that’s left of it now—the house of Don Lorenzo Marasigan. Here it stood—and here it had been standing for generations. Oh, from the outside, you would have thought it just another slum-tenement. It looked like all the other old houses on this street—the roof black with moss, the rusty balconies sagging, the cracked walls unpainted . . . But enter—push open the old massive gates—and you find a clean bare passageway, you see a clean bright patio. No garbage anywhere, no washlines. And when you walk up the polished stairway, when you enter the gleaming sala, you step into another world—a world “where all’s accustomed, ceremonious . . .”

  [The lights go on inside the stage. Through the transparent curtain, the sala of the Marasigan house becomes visible.]

  It wasn’t merely the seashells lining the stairway, or the baroque furniture, or the old portraits hanging on the walls, or the family albums stacked on the shelves. The very atmosphere of the house suggested another Age—an Age of lamplight and gaslight, of harps and whiskers and fine carriages; an Age of manners and melodrama, of Religion and Revolution.

  [The “Intramuros Curtain” begins to open, revealing the set proper.]

  It is gone now—that house—the house of Don Lorenzo El Magnifico. Nothing remains of it now save a piece of wall and a heap of broken stones. But this is how it looked before it perished—and I’m sure it looked just like this a hundred years ago. It never changed, it never altered. I had known it since I was a little boy—and it always looked like this. All the time I was growing up, the city was growing up too, the city was changing fast all around me. I could never be sure of anything or of any place staying the way I remembered it. This was the one thing I was always sure of—this house. This was the one place I could always come back to, and find unchanged. Oh, older, yes—and darker, and more silent. But still, just the same; just the way I remembered it when I was a little boy and my father took me here with him on Friday evenings.

  [The sala now stands fully revealed. It is a large room, clean and polished, but—like the furniture—dismally shows its age. The paint has darkened and is peeling off the walls. The windowpanes are broken. The doorways are not quite square anymore. The baroque elegance has tarnished.

  Rear wall opens out, through French windows, into two sagging balconies that overhang the street. At center, against the wall between the balconies, is a large sofa. Ordinarily grouped with this sofa are two rocking chairs, a round table, and two straight chairs. Right now, the table and the straight chairs have been moved in front of the balcony at right, its windows having been closed. The table is set for merienda. Through the open windows of the other balcony, late afternoon sunlight streams into the room, and you get a glimpse of the untidy tenements across the street.

  At left side of the room, downstage, is a portion of the banisters and the head of the stairway, facing toward rear. In the middle of the left wall is a closed door. Against back wall, facing stairway, stands an old-fashioned combination hatrack and umbrella-stand with mirror.

  At right side of the room, downstage, against the walls, is a what-not filled with sea-shells, figurines, family albums, magazines, and books. In the middle of the right wall is a large open doorway framed with curtains. Next to it, against right wall, stands an upright piano.

  Embroidered cushions decorate the chairs. Pedestals bearing potted plants flank the balconies and the doorway at right. On the walls above the sofa, the piano, and the what-not, are enlarged family photographs in ornate frames: A chandelier hangs from the ceiling. The painting entitled “A PORTRAIT OF THE ARTIST AS FILIPINO” is supposed to be hanging in the center of the invisible “fourth wall” between stage & audience. “Left” and “Right” in all the stage directions are according to the view from the audience. Bitoy Camacho steps into the room.]

  I remember coming here one day early in October back in 1941—just two months before the war broke out. 1941! Remember that year? It was the year of Hitler for the people in Europe—but for us over here, it was the year of the Conga and the Boogie-woogie, the year of practice black-outs, the year of the Bare Midriff. Oh, we were all sure that the war was coming our way pretty soon—but we were just as sure that it would not stay long—and that nothing, nothing at all, would happen to us. When we said: “Keep ’em flying!” and “Business as Usual!” our voices were brave and gay, our hearts were untroubled. And because we felt so safe, because we felt so confident, we deliberately tried to scare ourselves. Remember all those gruesome rumors we kept spreading? We enjoyed shivering as we told them, and we enjoyed shivering as we listened. It was all just a thrilling game. We were sophisticated children playing at rape and murder, and half-wishing it was all true.

  [He places himself at stair-landing, as though he had just come up the stairs.]

  That October afternoon, I had come here with my head buzzing with rumors. Out there in the street, people were stopping each other to exchange interpretations of the latest headlines. In the restaurants and barber shops, military experts were fighting the war in Europe. And in all the houses in all the streets, radios were screaming out the latest bulletins. I felt excited—and I felt very pleased with myself for feeling excited. It proved how involved I was in my times; and how concerned, how nobly concerned I was with the human condition. So, I came up those stairs and I paused here on the landing and I looked at this room that I hadn’t seen again since my boyhood—and, suddenly, all the people and all the headlines and all the radios stopped screaming in my ears. I stood here—and the whole world had become silent. It was astonishing—and it was also highly unpleasant. The silence of this room was like an insult, like a slap in the face. I felt suddenly ashamed of all that noble excitement I had been enjoying so much. But my next feeling was of bitter resentment. I resented this room. I hated those old chairs for standing there so calmly. I wanted to walk right down again, to leave this house, to run back to the street—back to the screaming people and headlines and radios. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. The silence had me helpless. And after a while I stopped feeling outraged, I began to smile at myself. For the first time in a long, long time, I could hear myself thinking, I could feel myself feeling and breathing and living and remembering. I was conscious of myself as a separate person with a separate, secret life of my own. This old room grew young again, and familiar. The silence whispered with memories . . . Outside, the world was hurrying gaily toward destruction. In here, life went on as usual; unaltered, unchanged; everything in its proper place; everything just the same today as yesterday, or last year, or a hund
red years ago . . .

  [A pause, while Bitoy stands smiling at the room.

  Enter CANDIDA MARASIGAN at right, bearing a chocolate-pot on tray. Seeing Bitoy, she stops in the doorway and stares at him inquiringly. Candida is forty-two, and is dressed in the style of the twenties. Her uncut hair, already graying, is coiled up and knotted in the old manner. Her body is straight, firm, and spare. Not conventionally pretty, she can, however, when among friends, grow radiant with girlish charm and innocence. When among strangers, she is apt, from shyness, to assume the severe forbidding expression of the crabbed old maid. She is staring very severely now at the grinning young man on the stairway.]

  BITOY: Hello, Candida.

  [He waits, smiling; but as her face remains severe he walks toward her.]

  Candida, surely you know me?

  [As he approaches, her face quickens with recognition, and she advances to meet him.]

  CANDIDA: But of course, of course! You are Bitoy, the son of old Camacho! And shame on you, Bitoy Camacho—shame, shame on you for forgetting your old friends!

  [They have met at center of stage.]

  BITOY: I have never forgotten my old friends, Candida.

  CANDIDA: Then why have you never—

  [She speaks this with emphatic gesture that causes chocolate to splash from pot. Bitoy backs away. She laughs.]

  Oh, excuse me, Bitoy!

  BITOY: Here, let me take that.

  [He takes tray and places it on table. Her eyes follow him. He turns around and, smiling, submits to her gaze.]

  Well?

  CANDIDA [approaching him]: So thin, Bitoy? And so many lines in your face already? You cannot be more than twenty.

  BITOY: I am twenty-five.

  CANDIDA: Twenty-five! Imagine that!

  [She moves away, downstage.]