by Nick Joaquin
BITOY [speaking exultantly through the sound of bells and music]: October in Manila! The month when, in full typhoon season, the city broke out into its biggest celebrations! The month that started the display of hams and cheeses among its grocers, and of turrones among its sweet-shops; when her markets overflowed with apples, grapes, oranges, pomelos—and her sidewalks with chestnuts and lanzons! The month when, back in our childhood, the very air turned festive and the Circus came to town and the season opened at the old Opera House!
[The lights die out inside the stage; the sound of bells & music fades off. The ruins stand out distinctly.]
Well, that was the last October the old city was ever to celebrate. And that was my last time to see it still alive—the old Manila; my last time to see the Naval procession advancing down this street, and to salute the Virgin from the balconies of the old Marasigan house.
It is gone now—that house—the house of Don Lorenzo el Magnifico. This piece of wall, this heap of stones, are all that’s left of it. It finally took a global war to destroy this house and the three people who fought for it. Though they were destroyed, they were never conquered. They were still fighting—right to the very end—fighting against the jungle.
They are dead now—Don Lorenzo, Candida, Paula—they are all dead now—a horrible death—by sword and fire . . . 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 death of the old Manila.
And yet—listen!—it is not dead; it has not perished! Listen, Paula! Listen, Candida! Your city—my city—the city of our fathers—still lives! Something of it is left; something of it survives, and will survive, as long as I live and remember—I who have known and loved and cherished these things!
[He stoops down on one knee and makes a gesture of scooping earth.]
Oh Paula, Candida—listen to me! By your dust, and by the dust of all the generations, I promise to continue, I promise to preserve! The jungle may advance, the bombs may fall again—but while I live, you live—and this dear city of our affections shall rise again—if only in my song! To remember and to sing: that is my vocation . . .
[The lights die out on Bitoy. All you can see now are the stark ruins, gleaming in the silent moonlight.]
FINAL CURTAIN
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