by Nick Joaquin
TONY: How about now?
PAULA: And they were just dreams—just the foolish dreams of a young girl . . .
TONY: You could make your dreams come true.
PAULA [with a sigh]: Ah, it is too late now!
TONY [moving closer]: Paula—
PAULA [stiffening]: It is too late now!
TONY [softly, tenderly]: Paula . . . too late?
PAULA [beginning to shiver]: Yes!
TONY: But why, Paula—why?
PAULA: I am not a young girl anymore!
TONY [moving still closer]: Paula, listen to me—
PAULA [shivering; rooted to the floor; but keeping her face rigidly averted from his approaching face]: No, no! It is too late now! I am not young anymore, I am not young anymore!
TONY: Paula, you do like me a little, don’t you?
[She is tensely silent, her face averted.]
Won’t you say you like me a little, Paula?
PAULA: Oh, you must not talk like that! What would people say?
TONY: Who cares what people say? Are you afraid of their big mouths?
PAULA [with sudden spirit]: I despise them!
TONY: Then show it! Show your contempt! Do what you like—and to hell with what people say!
PAULA [her face hardening]: Yes, you are right!
TONY: And what can they do to you anyway?
PAULA: I am not afraid!
TONY: You can leave them to their nasty talk! Pack up whenever you please, and go wherever you want!
PAULA: Far away?
TONY: Yes, Paula—as far away as you like. You can make your dreams come true.
PAULA [faltering]: My dreams are dead.
TONY: Dreams don’t die.
PAULA: Mine did. A long time ago.
TONY: But suppose somebody came along and said the right words, do you think they would come alive again?
PAULA: I stopped waiting—a long time ago . . .
TONY: Paula, look at me. [She keeps her face averted.] Look at me, Paula—please!
[She begins to turn her face; but catching sight of PORTRAIT she freezes, her eyes widening with horror. He looks at her & then at PORTRAIT & he begins to back off.]
Turn your back on him, Paula! Turn your back on him!
PAULA [agonized; unable to move; eyes fixed on PORTRAIT]: I cannot do it, I cannot do it!
TONY [sternly]: Yes, you can! Yes, you can! Turn around, Paula! If he wants to rot here, then let him! Why should you rot with him? Turn around, Paula—turn around!
PAULA [struggling to move her body]: I cannot do it!
TONY: Try, Paula—try! Here I am, Paula—here I am behind you! Come to me, Paula!
[With a supreme effort, she twists around until she is facing him, her back to the audience. He utters a great groan of relief & breaks into a gay smile.]
There! You did it! Oh Paula, you’re not afraid anymore! You have turned your back on him! You have won! Oh, come—come, Paula!
[Holding out his arms, he begins to step backward slowly, toward stairway, talking steadily. Tranced, she steps forward slowly, following him.]
Come on, girl—keep moving! You’ve smashed your shell! No, don’t look back, don’t stop—just keep moving! That’s right! That’s the spirit! Atta, girl, Paula! Hooray for you! Oh, you’ll join the navy and see the world! Hell, you won’t either—you don’t have to! You’re loaded—you lucky girl! And think of it! All those places you’ve dreamed about—Spain and France and Italy! You’ll see them now! You’re still young, Paula! You’ve got a right to be happy! And you will be happy, Paula! Your dreams aren’t dead yet! They’ll come alive again! They’ll come true at last!
[He has reached the balustrade, and stops. She stops too. He moves toward her, his arms extended. She suddenly shudders away from his touch.]
PAULA: No, no! Do not touch me! You must not touch me! Not—[glancing round the room]—not here . . .
TONY [with knowing smile]: Okay, Paula—not here. [He goes to stair-landing.] Come, Paula. [He waits, smiling. After a while, she walks to his side, her head bowed. He smiles down at her; she looks up at him, her face grave. Looking thus into each other’s eyes, they descend the stairs. After a moment, his car is heard starting. Simultaneously, Candida begins to shout “Paula! Paula!” inside.]
CANDIDA [appearing in doorway]: Paula!
[The car is heard moving away. She runs to balcony where she stands, looking up the street. Then she turns around, a hand pressed to her throat.]
CANDIDA [in shocked whisper]: Paula!
[Then, resolutely, she strides toward stairway. But she catches sight of PORTRAIT and, with a terrified gasp, she cowers away. She stands shuddering, her eyes fixed on PORTRAIT, her breath coming faster and faster as
THE CURTAIN FALLS
THE THIRD SCENE
As in preceding Scene, curtains open on the “Intramuros Curtain,” with Bitoy Camacho standing at far left, in light.
BITOY: The next time I went to the Marasigan house was on a cold cloudy afternoon—the afternoon of the second Sunday of October. A typhoon wind was blowing; the skies above were dark—as dark as the weather in our hearts—for the rumors of war were thickening fast; panic was in the air.
But that afternoon, Intramuros was in a holiday mood. As though knowing that it was about to die, about to be obliterated forever, this old city was celebrating—celebrating for the last time. The streets were decorated, and filled with hurrying people. The bells rang out high and clear. It was the feast of La Naval de Manila.
[A faint faraway sound of bells and band-music.]
As I walked down this street, I could hear my footsteps reverberating against the cobblestones; when I talked or laughed, my voice seemed to echo on and on. Aware of the doom hanging overhead, I looked about me with keener eyes; and everything I saw—even the slum-tenements—seemed suddenly very beautiful and very precious—because I might be seeing them for the last time.
[The lights go on inside the stage; through the curtain, the sala becomes visible.]
I was seeing them for the last time. Two months later, the bombs began to fall. There is nothing left of it now—of the old Manila. It is dead, obliterated forever—except in my memory—where it lives; still young, still great, still the Noble and Ever Loyal City. And whenever I remember it, the skies about are dark; a typhoon wind is blowing; it is October; it is the feast of the Naval.
[The “Intramuros Curtain” begins to open, revealing the sala. It is late in the afternoon and the room is rather dim. The doorway at right and the balconies have been decorated with festive curtains, which are blowing steadily in the wild wind.]
In October, a breath of the North stirs Manila, blowing summer’s dust and doves from the tile roofs, freshening the moss of old walls, as the city festoons itself with arches and paper lanterns for its great votive feast to the Virgin.
[Candida comes slowly up the stairs, carrying prayer-book, rosary, and umbrella. She goes to the stand to deposit her umbrella.]
Women hurrying into their finery upstairs, bewhiskered men tapping canes downstairs, children teeming in the doorways, coachmen holding impatient ponies in the streets, glance up anxiously, fearing the wind’s chill: would it rain this year?
[Candida pauses in front of balcony and puts out a hand to feel the wind.]
But the eyes that long ago had gazed up anxiously, invoking the Virgin, had feared a grimmer rain—of fire and metal—for pirate craft crowded the horizon.
[Candida goes to table at center where she lays down her prayer-book and rosary. She takes off her veil and begins to fold it. She pauses, hearing a sound of distant bells and band-music.]
The bells begin to peal again and sound like silver coins showering in the fine air; at the rumor of drums and trumpets as bands march smartly down the cobblestones a pang of ch
ildhood happiness smites every heart. October in Manila!
[Candida stands still, listening. The veil drops from her hands onto the table. Candida is wearing her best dress—an archaic blue frock—and her jewels.]
But the emotion, so special to one’s childhood, seems no longer purely one’s own; seems to have traveled ahead, deep into Time, since one first felt its pang—growing ever more poignant, more complex: a child’s rhyme swelling epical; a clan treasure one bequeaths at the very moment of inheritance, having added one’s gem to it.
[Candida goes to the other balcony, on one side of which she stands, her face lifted, her eyes closed, the wind blowing her hair.]
And Time creates unexpected destinations; history raises figs from thistles: yesterday’s pirates become today’s roast pork and paper lanterns, a tapping of impatient canes, a clamor of trumpets . . .
[Candida bows her head and covers her face with her hands. The distant rumor of bells and music fades out. Bitoy steps into the room and places himself at stair-landing.]
Hello, Candida.
[She whirls around, nervously.]
CANDIDA [with relief]: Oh, it is you, Bitoy.
BITOY [walking in]: Boy, are you all dressed up!
CANDIDA [coming forward]: The fiesta, you know.
BITOY: I saw you and Paula in church.
CANDIDA: Yes, I came home ahead. There was such a crowd. I felt dizzy. Sit down, Bitoy. Paula will be coming in a moment.
BITOY [remaining standing]: And how is your father?
CANDIDA: Oh, just the same as usual. Do you want to see him? But he will—
CANDIDA & BITOY [together]: —be having a nap just now.
BITOY [laughing]: I knew you would say that!
[Candida smiles. Sound of bells pealing again. They listen, glancing toward the balconies.]
CANDIDA: Have you come for the procession?
BITOY: October again, Candida!
CANDIDA: Yes . . . Oh Bitoy, the Octobers of our childhood! The dear, dear Octobers of our childhood!
BITOY: Remember how my family used to come here to watch the Naval procession from your balconies?
CANDIDA: And so did the families of all our friends.
BITOY: Year after year—
CANDIDA: And year after year our house stood open to all comers on this day, the feast of the Naval. It was always the biggest fiesta in this house.
BITOY: Lechon and relleno in the dining room—
CANDIDA: And ice-cream and turrones here in the sala—
BITOY: And the chandeliers all lighted up—
CANDIDA: And all our windows and balconies simply crowded with visitors—
BITOY: The procession passing below and all the children shouting continually: “Who is that one, mama?” and “Who is that other one now, mama?”
CANDIDA [in pious maternal tones]: That, my son, is the good San Vicente Ferrer—and he is wearing wings because he was as eloquent as an angel.
BITOY [wide-eyed and craning his neck]: And who is that one coming now, mama?
CANDIDA: That, my son, is the noble San Pedro Martir.
BITOY: Oh look, look—he has a bolo in his head! Why has he got a bolo in his head?
CANDIDA: Because wicked men killed him with a bolo.
BITOY: And who is that one now carrying a flag?
CANDIDA [laughing]: Oh, shut your big mouth, my son! You are a pest and a nuisance!
BITOY: And then you knock me on the head—
CANDIDA: And one more nuisance carried off howling—
BITOY: To be silenced with ice-cream and turron—
CANDIDA: Or dragged off to the small room—
BITOY: And the bells ringing, the bands playing, the crowds clamoring in the street—
CANDIDA: And the rain suddenly falling!
BITOY: Alas!
CANDIDA: Remember?
BITOY: If I forget thee, O Jerusalem—
CANDIDA: Oh, smell that wind, Bitoy! It is the smell of the holiday, the smell of the old Manila—the Manila of our affections!
BITOY [throwing back his head & singing]: “Adios, Reina del cielo!
Madre, madre del Salvador . . .”
CANDIDA [suddenly pressing a hand to her eyes]: Oh, stop it, Bitoy!
BITOY [laughing]: Gosh, do I sing that bad?
CANDIDA [trying to smile]: Much, much worse!
BITOY: You should have knocked me on the head!
CANDIDA: Shall I?
BITOY [offering his head]: Sure. Go ahead. Right here.
[Candida disconsolately turns away. Bitoy straightens up.]
I’m sorry, Candida. Is anything wrong?
CANDIDA [bitterly]: Yes! Everything!
BITOY: What?
CANDIDA: This is our last October here—in this house—where we were born, where we grew up!
BITOY: The last October?
CANDIDA: We are leaving this house.
BITOY: Why?
CANDIDA: Because to save one’s life is to lose it!
BITOY: Oh Candida, you would have had to leave this house anyway, sooner or later. It is too old—
CANDIDA: It is our youth.
BITOY: And when the war breaks out it will become very unsafe—
CANDIDA: There is no safety for us anymore, anywhere.
BITOY: And you must think of your father, you must think of this painting—
[He looks toward the site of the PORTRAIT and, suddenly, his eyes pop out, he gasps and steps forward, staring in amazement.]
Candida, the painting! it is gone!
CANDIDA [not looking around]: Yes.
BITOY: Where is it?
CANDIDA: I do not know.
BITOY: Has it been sold?
CANDIDA: No.
BITOY: Stolen?
CANDIDA: No, no!
BITOY: Then, where is it!
CANDIDA: I tell you, I do not know!
BITOY: Oh Candida, what have you done with it!
CANDIDA: Paula took it down and put it away. She did not tell me where.
BITOY: But why did she take it down?
CANDIDA: She did not tell me that either.
BITOY: But how could you allow—
CANDIDA: Oh, stop asking, Bitoy! I know nothing, I know nothing at all!
[Sound of rapid knocking downstairs. Candida starts nervously again, and presses a hand to her forehead.]
Oh God, God! Bitoy, please see who that is. And remember: whoever it is, I am not at home, Paula is not at home, nobody is at home!
[She turns around quickly to leave the room but Susan and Violet have already appeared on the landing].
SUSAN: Oh yes—you are home all right!
[Susan & Violet advance into the room. They are sober this time, and look extremely determined. They have hurried right over from the Sunday matinee, and are still wearing their stage make-up and costumes: very brief gaudy ballet skirts.]
VIOLET: Excuse us for coming right up.
SUSAN: And don’t tell us to go away because we won’t go away!
VIOLET: Not till we find out what we want to find out!
SUSAN [earnestly]: Look, we’ll behave ourselves—honest!
VIOLET: You remember us, don’t you? We’re from the Parisian Theatre. We were here about a week ago.
SUSAN: And I’m sorry about how I acted that time—and about the things I said.
CANDIDA: What can I do for you?
SUSAN: We want to see Tony.
VIOLET: What’s the matter with him?
SUSAN: Is he sick?
VIOLET: He hasn’t shown up at the theatre for the last two days. And if he still doesn’t show up tonight, the manager is going to fire him!
SUSAN: He’ll lose his job!
VIOLET: We came right over from the show to tell him. It’s important!
SUSAN: Where is he?
CANDIDA: I do not know. Mr. Javier hasn’t come back here either for the last two days.
SUSAN: Oh, where did he go!
VIOLET: Did he take his clothes with him?
CANDIDA: No; his clothes and all his things are still here. Tell me—are you very good friends of his?
VIOLET: Yes, we are!
CANDIDA: Then, will you do me a favor? I have put his clothes and all his things together. They are downstairs.
VIOLET: In those two suitcases?
CANDIDA: Yes. Will you take them with you and give them to Mr. Javier when you find him?
SUSAN: So, you’re throwing him out!
VIOLET: Couldn’t he pay his rent?
CANDIDA: And please tell Mr. Javier that I beg him never, never to show himself here again!
SUSAN: What did he do?
BITOY: Now look, girls—that’s strictly between Tony and Miss Marasigan. It’s none of our business. You go and take his clothes with you. He’s bound to show up sooner or later.
SUSAN: I won’t go away until I find out what’s happened to him!
BITOY: Nothing’s happened to him. He’s probably just out on a binge!
SUSAN: Are you throwing him out because of what I said the last time?
CANDIDA: That had nothing to do with it.
SUSAN: Oh, he’s not bad, he’s not bad! But you make him feel cheap! You make him run wild!
BITOY: I thought you said you were going to behave!
[Sound of people coming up the stairs.]
CANDIDA: Oh God, who are those now!
[They all look toward stairway. Enter Doña Loleng, Elsa, & Charlie. Elsa is wearing a terrific Carmen Miranda costume with a towering head-dress. Charlie is in the costume of a Cuban rhumba dancer. Doña Loleng is in a swanky terno. She hurries forward and grasps Candida’s hands.]
LOLENG: Candida my dear—do forgive us for dropping in like this! But I have been so worried about you, my dear—so very worried! I have been hearing the most fantastic rumors!
CANDIDA: What rumors, Doña Loleng?
LOLENG [looking around]: Where is Paula?
CANDIDA [trying to draw away]: Won’t you sit down? Paula will be coming in a moment. She has gone to church.