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

by Nick Joaquin

  And the last time we saw you, you were just a small boy in short pants and a sailor blouse . . .

  BITOY: And the last time I saw you, Candida—

  CANDIDA [whirling around passionately]: No! No!

  BITOY [startled]: Huh?

  CANDIDA [laughing]: Oh Bitoy, when you begin to get as old as I am, it hurts!

  BITOY: What?

  CANDIDA: To be told how much one has changed.

  BITOY: You have not changed, Candida.

  CANDIDA: Oh yes, I have—oh yes, I have! The last time you saw me, Bitoy, [She says this with all the gestures of a lively belle.]

  I was a very grown-up young lady, a very proud young lady—with rings on my fingers and a ribbon in my hair and the stars in my eyes! Oh, I was so full of vanity, so full of vivacity! I was so sure that any moment at all someone very wonderful would arrive to take me away! I was waiting, do you know, waiting for my Principe de Asturias!

  BITOY: And he has not come yet—your Principe de Asturias?

  CANDIDA: Alas, he has not come at all! And none of our old friends come anymore . . .

  BITOY: Not even on Friday evenings?

  CANDIDA: Not even on Friday evenings. No more “tertulias” on Friday, Bitoy. We have given them up. The old people are dying off; and the young people—you young people, Bitoy—do not care to come.

  [She turns her face toward doorway at right and raises her voice.]

  Paula! Paula!

  [Offstage, Paula is heard answering: “Coming!” Candida approaches Bitoy and takes both his hands in hers.]

  Bitoy, how sweet of you to remember us. You make me feel very happy. You bring back memories of such happy days.

  BITOY: Yes, I know. You bring them back to me, too—all those Friday evenings I spent here with my father.

  CANDIDA: [releasing his hands]: But how is it you remember? You were only a child.

  BITOY: But I do, I do! Oh, those “tertulias”—how I remember them all! On Saturday nights, there was the tertulia at the Monson house in Binondo; on Monday nights, at the Botica of Doctor Moreta in Quiapo; on Wednesday nights, at the bookshop of Don Aristeo on Carriedo; and on Friday nights— Listen, Candida. On Fridays, do you know, I still wake up sometimes, even now, thinking: Today is Friday; the tertulia will be at the Marasigan house in Intramuros; and Father and I will be going . . .

  [He pauses as PAULA appears in doorway, carrying a platter of biscuits. Paula is forty, also slightly gray-haired already, and also wearing a funny old dress. She is smaller than Candida, and looks more delicate, more timid; like Candida, she is ambiguous—the bleakest of old maids, you would call her, until she smiles, when you discover, astonished, a humorous girl—still fresh, still charming—lurking under the gray hair.]

  CANDIDA: Well, Paula—do you see who has come to visit us after all these years?

  PAULA [as she hurries to table and sets down the platter]: Why, Bitoy! Bitoy Camacho!

  [She goes to Bitoy and gives him both her hands.]

  Holy Virgin, how he has grown! Can this be our baby, Candida?

  BITOY: In the short pants and the sailor blouse?

  CANDIDA: He still fondly remembers our old Friday tertulias.

  PAULA: Oh, you were a big nuisance in those days, Bitoy! I was always having to wipe your nose or to take you out to the small room. Why did your father always bring you along?

  BITOY: Because I howled and howled if he tried to leave me behind!

  PAULA [throwing back her head]: Oh, those old Friday nights! How we talked and talked!

  [She begins to move gaily all over the room as though a crowded “tertulia” were in progress, chattering to imaginary visitors and fanning herself with an imaginary fan.]

  More brandy, Don Pepe? Some more brandy, Don Isidro? Doña Upeng, come here by the window, it is cooler! What, Don Alvaro—you have not read the new poem by Darío? But, my good man, in the latest issue of the “Blanco y Negro,” of course! Doña Irene, we are talking about the divine Ruben! You have read his latest offering?

  “Tuvo razon tu abuela con su cabello cano,

  muy mas que tu con rizos en que se enrosca el dia . . .”

  Aie, Don Pepe, Don Pepe—tell me, do you not consider that poem an absolute miracle? Oh, look everybody—here comes Don Aristeo at last! Welcome to our house, noble soldier! Candida, find him a seat somewhere!

  CANDIDA [acting up, too]: Over here, Don Aristeo, over here! And may I ask, my dear sir, why you failed us last Friday? Paula, some brandy for Don Aristeo!

  PAULA [offering imaginary glass]: I forbid you to talk politics tonight! Must we hear about nothing else these days except this eternal Don Q?

  CANDIDA: Oh, listen everybody! Don Alvaro is telling us just where this Don Q was, during the Revolution!

  PAULA: Oh yes, Doña Irene, we went to all the performances—but we consider this zarzuela company inferior to the one we had last year.

  CANDIDA: And next month, the Italian singers are arriving! Alas for us girls! The men will all be lined up again at the stage-door!

  PAULA: More brandy, Don Miguel? Some more brandy, Don Pepe? Doña Irene, would you prefer to sit here by the piano? Oh, go on, go on, Don Alvaro! And you say that General Aguinaldo was actually preparing his army for a last assault?

  BITOY [in voice of ten-year-old]: Tita Paula, Tita Paula—I wanna go to the small room!

  PAULA: Hush, hush, you little savage! And just look at your nose!

  CANDIDA: And how many times have we told you not to call us Tita!

  PAULA: You will call us Paula and Candida.

  CANDIDA: Just Paula and Candida—understand?

  PAULA: Jesús, we are not old maids yet!

  CANDIDA: No, no—we are not old maids yet! We are young, we are pretty, we are delightful! Oh, listen, Doña Upeng—last night we went to a ball, and we danced and danced and danced till morning!

  [She dances around the room.]

  PAULA: Papa said we were the prettiest girls in all the gathering!

  CANDIDA: Oh yes, Doña Irene—our papa accompanied us—and he was the most distinguished gentleman present!

  BITOY [still the ten-year-old; gesturing excitedly toward doorway]: And here he comes! Here he comes!

  CANDIDA [whirling around]: Oh, here you are at last, papa! [Raising her voice excitedly] Don Miguel, here is papa! Here is papa, Doña Upeng!

  PAULA [joyously excited, too]: Here is papa, Don Alvaro! Doña Irene, here is papa!

  [The sisters gesture toward front of stage as they say: “Here is papa!”]

  CANDIDA: Hush, hush, everybody! Papa wants to say something!

  [The sisters stand side by side, directly facing audience, their faces lifted, their hands clasped to their breasts, and their bodies at attention, as though they were listening to their father speaking. Then, clapping their hands, they cry out in joyous adoration “Oh, papa, papa!”

  They hold the pose a moment longer. The PORTRAIT is hanging on the wall right in front of them; and as they become aware of it, the rapture fades from their faces, their bodies droop, their hands fall to their sides. The game is ended; the make-believe is over. They stand silent, bleakly staring up—two shabby old maids in a shabby old house.

  Bitoy is watching them from upstage. Becoming aware of their fixed stare, he lifts his eyes and sees the PORTRAIT for the first time. Staring, he comes forward and stands behind the sisters, his face between their staring faces.]

  BITOY: Is that it?

  CANDIDA [expressionless]: Yes.

  BITOY: When did your father paint it?

  PAULA: About a year ago.

  BITOY [after a staring pause]: What a strange, strange picture!

  CANDIDA: Do you know what he calls it?

  BITOY: Yes.

  CANDIDA: “RETRATO DEL ARTISTA COMO FILIPINO.”

&
nbsp; BITOY: Yes, I know. “A Portrait of the Artist as Filipino.” But why, why? The scene is not Filipino . . . What did your father mean?

  [He holds up a hand toward PORTRAIT.]

  A young man carrying an old man on his back . . . and behind them, a burning city . . .

  PAULA: The old man is our father.

  BITOY: Yes, I recognize his face . . .

  CANDIDA: And the young man is our father also—our father when he was young.

  BITOY [excitedly]: Why, yes, yes!

  PAULA: And the burning city—

  BITOY: The burning city is Troy.

  PAULA: Well, you know all about it.

  BITOY [smiling]: Yes, I know all about it. Aeneas carrying his father Anchises out of Troy. And your father has painted himself both as Aeneas and as Anchises.

  CANDIDA: He has painted himself as he is now—and as he used to be—in the past.

  BITOY: The effect is rather frightening . . .

  CANDIDA: Oh, do you feel it, too?

  BITOY: I feel as if I were seeing double.

  CANDIDA: I sometimes feel as if that figure up there were a monster—a man with two heads.

  BITOY: Yes. “That strange monster, the Artist . . .” But how marvelously your father has caught that clear, pure classic simplicity! What flowing lines, what luminous colors, what a calm and spacious atmosphere! One can almost feel the sun shining and the seawinds blowing! Space, light, cleanliness, beauty, grace—and suddenly, there in the foreground, those frightening faces, those darkly smiling faces—like faces in a mirror . . . And behind them, in the distance, the burning towers of Troy . . . My God, this is magnificent! This is a masterpiece!

  [He pauses and his rapturous face becomes troubled.]

  But why does your father call it “A Portrait of the Artist as Filipino”?

  PAULA: Well—it is a portrait of himself after all.

  CANDIDA: A double portrait, in fact.

  PAULA: And he is an artist and a Filipino.

  BITOY: Yes, yes—but, then, why paint himself as Aeneas? why paint himself against the Trojan War?

  PAULA [shrugging]: We do not know.

  CANDIDA: He did not tell us.

  BITOY: Do you know, a visiting Frenchman has written an enthusiastic article about this picture.

  CANDIDA: Oh yes—he was very nice, that Frenchman. He said he had long been an admirer of my father. He was thoroughly acquainted with my father’s work. He had seen them in Madrid and Barcelona. And he promised himself—[She pauses. Bitoy has taken out a notebook and is jotting down what she is saying. She and Paula exchange glances.]

  BITOY [looking up expectantly]: Yes? He promised himself what?

  CANDIDA [drily continuing]: Well, he promised himself that if he ever found himself here in the Philippines he would try to locate father. So, he came here, and he saw father, and he saw this new painting, and then he published that article. As I said, he was a very nice man—but we are sorry now he ever came.

  BITOY [looking up]: Sorry?

  CANDIDA: Tell me something, Bitoy—are you a newspaper reporter?

  BITOY [after a moment’s hesitation]: Yes. Yes, I am.

  CANDIDA [smiling]: And that is why you have come to visit us after all these years!

  [Still smiling, she walks away. Bitoy looks blankly after her. She goes to table and begins to beat the chocolate. Bitoy turns to Paula.]

  BITOY: Paula, what is the matter! What have I done?

  PAULA: Oh, nothing, Bitoy. Only, when people come here now, it is not to visit us, but to see this picture.

  BITOY: Well, you ought to be glad, you ought to be proud! People thought your father died a long time ago! Now, after all these years of silence and obscurity, everybody is talking about him! The whole country is agog to discover that Don Lorenzo Marasigan, one of the greatest painters of the Philippines and the friend and rival of Juan Luna, is not only alive but has actually painted another masterpiece in his old age!

  PAULA [gently]: My father painted this picture only for us—for Candida and myself. He gave it to us as a present; and for a whole year it has hung here in peace. Then that Frenchman came and saw it and wrote about it. And since then we have had no peace. No day passes but we must face a reporter from the newspapers or a photographer from the magazines or a group of students from the universities. And we—[laying a hand on his shoulder]—we do not like it, Bitoy.

  [She turns away and goes to table where she begins to prepare her father’s merienda on a tray. Meanwhile, Bitoy stands where she has left him, staring at PORTRAIT. Then he pockets his notebook and goes toward table.]

  BITOY: Forgive me, Candida. Forgive me, Paula.

  [Paula goes on arranging tray; Candida goes on beating chocolate.]

  Well . . . I suppose I ought to go away.

  CANDIDA [not looking up]: No; stay and have some merienda. Paula, get another cup.

  BITOY [as Paula goes to doorway]: Please do not bother, Paula. I really must be going.

  PAULA [pausing]: Oh, Bitoy!

  BITOY: There are some people waiting for me.

  CANDIDA [pouring chocolate into a cup]: Sit down, Bitoy, and no more nonsense.

  BITOY: These people are waiting just around the corner, Candida, and they will be coming here in a moment.

  CANDIDA [looking up]: More people from the newspapers?

  BITOY: Yes.

  CANDIDA: Friends of yours?

  BITOY: We all work for the same company.

  CANDIDA: I see. And because you are a friend of the family, they have sent you ahead to prepare the way—is that it?

  BITOY: Exactly.

  CANDIDA [laughing]: Well! You are a scoundrel, Bitoy Camacho!

  BITOY: But I will go right down and tell them not to come anymore.

  CANDIDA: Oh, why not? [She shrugs.] Let them come.

  PAULA: After all, we have to accustom ourselves, you know.

  BITOY: But I do not want them to come.

  PAULA: I thought you wanted us to be glad about people coming.

  BITOY: No.

  PAULA: Then, what do you want?

  BITOY [after a pause: parodying again a small boy’s voice]: Oh Tita Paula, I wanna go to the small room!

  [They all laugh. Bitoy draws himself up and, one arm akimbo, begins to pace the floor, twirling an imaginary mustache. His gruff voice now parodies a gentleman of the old school.]

  Caramba! These young people nowadays, they are so terrible, no? Hombre, when I was young, in the days before the Revolution—Señorita, if you will be so gracious, a little more of your excellent brandy.

  CANDIDA [offering him cup of chocolate on saucer]: With a thousand pleasures, Don Benito!

  PAULA [waving imaginary fan]: Oh, please, Don Benito—please tell us about your student days in Paris!

  BITOY [rolling his eyes at the ceiling]: Ah, Paris! Paris in the old days!

  CANDIDA: Doña Irene, come quick! Doña Upeng, hurry over here! Don Benito is going to tell us about his love-affairs with those Parisian cocottes!

  PAULA: Were they thrilling? Were they passionate? Were they shameless? Ah, speak no more—speak no more! My head whirls, my heart pounds! I shall swoon, I shall swoon!

  [She claps one hand to her brow, the other to her heart, and waltzes out of the room. Candida and Bitoy burst into laughter. Candida resumes beating chocolate.]

  BITOY [approaching table]: I really am very sorry, Candida.

  CANDIDA: Oh, sit down, Bitoy, and drink your chocolate.

  BITOY [sitting down]: Have people really been annoying you?

  CANDIDA: Well, you know how it is—reporters, photographers, people wanting to talk to father—and they are offended when he refuses to see them.

  [She looks up toward PORTRAIT].

  And you know what, Bitoy? That pictu
re affects people in a very strange way.

  BITOY: How do you mean?

  CANDIDA: It makes them angry.

  BITOY [also looking toward PORTRAIT]: It is rather enigmatic, you know.

  CANDIDA: Well, we explain—we explain to everybody. We tell them: this is Aeneas, and this is his father Anchises. But they just look blankly at us. And then they ask: Who is Aeneas? Was he a Filipino? [She laughs.] There were some people here the other day—some kind of civic society—and they were shocked to learn that we had had this painting for a whole year without anybody knowing about it, until that Frenchman came along. They were furious with Paula and me for not telling everybody sooner. One of them—a small man with big eyes—he pointed a finger right in my face and he said to me in a very solomn voice: “Miss Marasigan, I shall urge the government to confiscate this painting right away! You and your sister are unworthy to possess it!”

  BITOY [joining in her laughter]: I begin to see what you and Paula have had to suffer.

  [Paula enters with extra cup.]

  CANDIDA: Oh, Paula and I do not mind really. It is father we want to spare.

  [She picks up tray and gives it to Paula.]

  Here, Paula. And tell father that the son of his old friend Camacho has come to visit him.

  [Exit Paula with tray.]

  BITOY: And how is he—your father—[gazing toward PORTRAIT]—Don Lorenzo el magnifico?

  CANDIDA [pouring a cup for herself]: Oh, quite well.

  BITOY: Is he too weak now to leave his room?

  CANDIDA: Oh no.

  BITOY: But something is the matter with him?

  CANDIDA [evasively]: He had an accident.

  BITOY: When?

  CANDIDA: About a year ago.

  BITOY: When he painted that picture?

  CANDIDA: A short time after he finished painting it.

  BITOY: What happened?

  CANDIDA: We do not quite know. We did not see it happen, and it happened at night. We think he must have been walking in his sleep. And he . . . he fell from the balcony of his room into the courtyard below.

  BITOY [rising]: Oh, my God! Did he break anything?

  CANDIDA: No—thank God!

  BITOY: And how is he now?

  CANDIDA: He can move about—but he prefers to stay in bed. Do you know, Bitoy—he has not once come out of his room for a whole year.