Banana Heart Summer

by Merlinda Bobis

  In that lot of guavas and bananas, I knew my place.

  After abandoning the red gate, I pursued my chore halfheartedly. Still, I played truant, choosing to climb the guava trees first, so I could save myself from my growing despondency. So I could feel the flush in the cheeks again. A face alive and tingling, like my hand fondling two unripe guavas. And I didn’t feel ashamed; no one was looking. Then I applied myself to my assigned task. The banana trees flaunted their purple hearts, wantonly unfurling the outer skin here and there.

  I could climb any tree in my time. I was a monkey. But I admit banana trees demanded that I be a very patient monkey. I kept slipping from the trunk, especially when my hand came close to the loot. I tried several trees. The hearts taunted me.

  It was nearly six o’clock. I had been gone from my job for almost half an hour. My mistress, who never scolded me, would have much to say by now.

  Then I heard it, the iron gate opening and the dogs going wild as a car drove out, just as I had wrung off a heart from its stem. On cue, I stretched my torso and neck, an impossible pose at that moment—dear Manoling in the chauffeured Mercedes smiling at me! I lost my footing and came crashing down, my skirt flying to my face and I couldn’t cover my ragged knickers while holding on to the heart, of course, and God, it hurt.

  How could I miss it? That smile breaking into laughter, loud and cruel, and a finger pointing at pale, pale me and my whitely bleeding heart.

  twenty-six

  Ginatan and curly hair

  How many times can one fall from the sky? Is this the destination of first love, inevitably back to solid ground with a thump?

  My parents, Gable and Marina: childhood sweethearts. Destiny: a one-room house plus a ceiling and six-going-on-seven children, and that inverse kinship between the heart and the spleen. The more one broke, the more the other vented itself.

  As we progressed through summer, I went about my chores sighing long sighs. Worse, I found myself desperately tuned in to all the love stories of our street.

  First, I noted a change in the Lovingly Yours program. Basilio Profundo’s voice lost its deep timbre. The baritone stopped being a baritone, as if his voice had surfaced from the depth of a pool and was coming up for air and could not stop rising. Each day, his voice rose higher and higher, grating, metallic almost, as if edged with little knives. Ay, perhaps he was just being percussive, like his latest theme songs. You see, Patsy Cline’s throne had been usurped by the Beatles. No more solitary heart-in-the-throat crooning. Bring on the drums, the tambourines, the electric guitars!

  VV stopped tuning in to the program. Earlier she had told the radio man, gently of course, to stop offering his special palitaw every Sunday, then to stop visiting every Sunday, and finally to stop coming at all. You can never be sure about the destiny of first love.

  Meanwhile at the other end of our street, Juanito Guwapito had other ideas. “Little Handsome Johnny.” He was handsome indeed though a bit short (barely five feet), and all of aggressive eighteen. Tiya Miling’s only son and the leader of the gang that drank at Tiya Viring’s store each Friday night, just so he could spite his mother, had the most glorious blue-black curls. Exactly like the kind that saints and angels wore under their halos, if they had been as dark-haired as Filipinos. Mind you, our Juanito could have given them a run for their tall noses any day. His was perfect.

  Looks aside, it worried me that he was my brother Junior’s idol. The man had an oversupply of spunk and rah-rah-rah. He only drank marka demonyo, “mark of the devil,” a gin so called because, though it had the image of the angel St. Michael defeating the devil, the latter wore a triumphant smirk.

  Next to gin, Juanito Guwapito had always loved the Beatles, even before Lovingly Yours discovered them. At Tiya Viring’s store, after too much marka demonyo, he sometimes practiced screaming like in “Mr. Moonlight” and “Shake, Baby, Shake,” always causing her to beam with her usual amusement and tolerant graciousness. My brother Junior also took to straining his lungs and throat. It was some time before I recognized the source of his inspiration.

  Juanito’s curls were the kind that tickled your heart, even if you thought little of his other body or soul parts. Perhaps that was why he was always welcome at Tiya Viring’s, or perhaps because his tongue was just as curly, a veritable tickler of hearts. That summer, he dropped by more often than usual at her store, even before Friday night, and always with a Beatles line that rivaled the sweetest snack in her jars. “I Want to Hold Your Hand,” “From Me to You,” “If I Fell in Love with You” and even “Help!” cried out with amorous conviction. Who could tell what conversations were exchanged between him and the woman twenty years his senior? Or if there were any conversations at all beyond his dropped sweet line. Under the for-rent comics strung like flags from her awning, he leaned towards the back cover of her Mills & Boon romance. “Go away,” perhaps she had said, never allowing her eyes to stray from the page. But Juanito Guwapito had other ideas about the destination of first love. And how he fell.

  Sometimes I wondered whether it was the Beatles or the nightly operas of Mr. Alano or the persuasive timbre of Lovingly Yours, or even her Mills & Boon that made Tiya Viring capitulate. And how she fell.

  In that summer of broken hearts and vented spleens, this odd couple began their journey towards what should perhaps be our common destination: holding the balance between our love and anger. For when life overtakes love, isn’t anger inevitable? It is easy to feel betrayed and even easier to upset the balance beyond repair.

  But unlike my mother, Viring and Juanito understood balance, the almost equal size of those organs shaped like a fist. Even many years later, they never lost track of their route. The heart pumped, the spleen cleaned, and the union most unlikely to succeed thrived, even if they were damned from the start.

  My mother’s union with my father was also damned from the start by her parents, but sadly she was not born to beam at the world from her book of romance. She wore her parents’ spleen like a good daughter and I bore its weight also like a good daughter, even when I was still in her womb perhaps and sensing too soon that there would be no love at first sight between us.

  But trust other loves to compensate for our lack and that no damning can derail them.

  “How could that poor boy elope with a spinster old enough to be his mother? Ay, a most terrible, terrible scandal!” the card players were quick to declare when they heard of Juanito’s fate. Meanwhile Tiya Miling howled to the half-moon.

  When a star appears near a half-moon, the old folks say it’s a sign that young couples are eloping.

  “But por Dios y por Santo, she is not even young!”

  That’s why the star kept its distance and appeared at the other side instead, facing the half-moon. The star sat on the slope of the volcano, winking signals on that late night. And the half-moon rose from the dome of the church, like a yellow ear.

  I remember that night well, because it was marked by the bowl of very hot ginatan that I was trying to pass over the fence to my brother Nilo. It was one of those nights of my secret neighboring (after the mango disaster, I hid this occupation from my mother). I saw the lovers walk past about eleven in the evening. First Tiya Viring, seeming resolute with her small suitcase. Then, far behind, Juanito Guwapito with an overnight bag; he was in full stride, perhaps trying to catch up though she had begged that he keep his distance. Eyes fixed on their common destination, neither saw me. Well, I was hidden by the hibiscus hedge. They passed so close to me.

  A diva’s tremolo trailed behind, all the way from Mr. Alano’s phonograph. Then all was silent again, as if the night were holding its breath.

  Under the half-moon that spied like a yellow ear, Tiya Viring looked young, girlish. I had never seen her before in that frock of all the tropical fruit that you could ever wish for. She was at her festive, fruity best. And our curly-haired lover boy, ay, he was transformed. No adolescent cocksureness in those strides, just a purposeful dignity. Our Juanito Guwapi
to had suddenly grown up.

  I froze on tiptoe, with the just heated bowl of ginatan raised like a chalice almost over the fence. On they walked, sure of their destination—towards the hidden garden of Boy Hapon. I thought of the chickens roosting on piles of Mills & Boon and his nightly reading, their appreciative crowing, and her daily reading—surely Boy Hapon had lent his chickens’ love stories to Tiya Viring? And they said he had no friends.

  “Hoy, Nining, give it to me—now!”

  That did it. I swear Nilo startled the bowl as much as he did me. It teetered, then leapt from my hands. Sticky yam, sweet potatoes, sugar bananas, jackfruit and pearls of sago and, again, the proverbial coconut milk flavored with sweet anise scalded my poor brother’s shoulder.

  He dared not cry out, lest my mother heard. Again and again, he whimpered like a dying cat.

  twenty-seven

  Missing the Bicol Express

  I knew I would never see Manolito again and would never want to see him again, even if I kept dreaming of his Beatles mop. And in my waking hours, I longed to go neighboring next door, properly that is, with a heaping plate to set in my mother’s hands. But all I could do was ride on another love story. I was the angel destined to guard its secret.

  I never told on the lovers hidden in Boy Hapon’s forest of vegetables.

  Yes, they had eloped to only a few doors from their own. No one saw them for a month. All believed they had run away to another town or perhaps the city. They reemerged only when both had rings on their fingers. Who knows how and where Boy Hapon arranged the wedding? Perhaps under a canopy of bittermelon, where the bride and groom each wore a crown of squash flowers and were bound in ceremony by a cord of legume tendrils, while the chickens crowed their joyous punctuations to a story better than any Mills & Boon romance.

  Chickens are quite at home with good tidings. They greet each day for us in that hearty crow, whether the morning is sunny or wet. But human beings speak a different language, less generous and often the medium of spleen.

  Where I come from, an old maid is an old maid is an old maid. And that means someone who has turned thirty. She “missed the last trip,” she is a “frozen delight,” she is a “chassis that’s kiribad,” bent and unusable.

  “Ay, poor Juanito Guwapito, abducted by her who missed the last trip years and years ago too! Santamaria, what tragedy!” Our street was not wanting in unkindness. Tiya Miling was as damning as she was inconsolable. From the moment she woke up and found her son missing, then found out that Tiya Viring had not opened her store, she did not rest, putting two and two together in various combinations. The card players worked overtime.

  “That evil woman—she had no right! When you miss the trip, you miss it! Ay, poor son, poor me!” Even years after the elopement, the offal breath still hung around the store of Tiya Miling. What spleen she had. Ever burning, fermented in a large harvest of chilies.

  My town, in fact my region of Bicol, was known as the land of chilies, aside from being the land of coconut dishes. Other regions smirked about our women—chilies, hot. The men winked and sniggered. “Bicolanas are hot in bed!” I commiserate with these poor men. There, there, blame the chili for your unconsummated desires. And if it helps at all, take some crushed chilies to bed or wear them in your pants. Soothe that little aggravation there. My Señorita VV confided to me that she never had the courage to make such retorts when men from other regions made those insinuations at the hospital. Sometimes they told tales about how we secured our chili plants first, before we did our house, whenever there was a storm. Such was our laughable priority. We were a hot and trivial people. We even used chili not just as a condiment or spice, but as a main vegetable in the Bicol Express.

  Why the dish was named after a train has always been debated. The most acceptable explanation is because when you eat it, your mouth burns so bad, you rush to the tap for relief, as fast as the Bicol Express! Quite prosaic a reason, an insipid match to the fire of the dish. This you cook with conviction, with courage. This is no dish for the weak at heart, I mean, mouth.

  You begin with red and green long chilies halved, seeded, then soaked in water, so the usual bite is tamed. You slice these into short, diagonal strips. Then you cut into small cubes a handful of pork fat for an added wicked taste. Next, the coconut milk as always, garnished with chopped garlic and shrimp paste. Boil this with the pork till the mixture is thick and add the chilies. Then simmer until the coconut milk dries and leaves an oily base. A more than wicked dish for the heart.

  Tiya Miling was hell-bent on exposing her wicked smile, her evil heart, her manipulative soul. The embittered mother spent hours with the card players, in a campaign against her daughter-in-law. She called Tiya Viring unrepeatable names, she spun tales about that woman’s scheming or her family’s scheming. Remember, Tiya Miling’s heart was broken when her first beau married Tiya Viring’s aunt instead, and that was just a small knot in these women’s entangled histories.

  Much later, I heard it was only after her first grandchild was born that Tiya Miling allowed Tiya Viring to step into her house, and she would not even speak to her. Worse, she humiliated her daughter-in-law, so her son packed up his new family from our street, from our town, and did not visit for three years. And through those lonesome years, with only the card players for company, Tiya Miling grieved and wondered, “Ay, where did I go wrong?”

  For all our stories of sisterhood, there are women who will be cruel to other women and will lash out with the searing heat of chilies. And there are women who will remain unfazed by this cruelty, who will not run to the tap for relief, but who will deflect this heat with their own, beaming serenely, confident in their personal sun. I will always remember Tiya Viring beaming, munching and reading her borrowed romances, one ear to Mr. Alano’s tragic divas or to a young man’s dropped sweet line, tickling its way into her heart.

  Years later, I was told that Tiya Viring and Juanito Guwapito loved and raised five children in a farm five towns away from ours. They planted rice, a forest of vegetables, bittermelon included. They also kept chickens and I presume piles and piles of Mills & Boon where they could roost. Surely they missed no train. It was the train that missed them, thank God, with its cargo of offal breath.

  twenty-eight

  Praying the peccadillo

  Our street did not recover from the elopement. As if in sympathy, other affections began taking off to somewhere unreachable. “Mother stopped talking to Father and Aunt Rosario doesn’t invite us anymore.” Junior passed the news over the fence. “It’s the fault of that thing in her tummy, ay, I’m going to torment it when it comes out, just you wait and see!”

  Meanwhile Chi-chi and Bebet stopped coming around to see me. The twins disappeared from our street. I knocked at their door a few times, but no one answered. I watched out for their father at the construction, but I hardly saw him. He did get a job too, didn’t he? Those were supposed to be happy days.

  Manolito Ching also withdrew his rare appearances. The gossips suggested that he had absolutely refused to come home to the almost mansion. Even the Calcium Man stopped hawking. I found my sighs lengthening, as if they had no hope of ever concluding. I felt as if all our street had eloped from me.

  But for many of the women, the worst desertion happened in the airwaves. Lovingly Yours was terminated, all passions gone kaput. Basilio Profundo had resigned, though the summer wind was telling other versions of his program’s demise: the radio management could not bear Basilio’s rising voice, or his voice rose because he could not bear management’s low pay, or because that girl sang “Crazy” and he lost his mind then his voice, and switched to those screaming mop-haired boys, so his fans protested and the management was flooded with letters bearing less than love. So he was sacked.

  I imagined I was the only one who remained faithful. I still longed to be my mother’s best girl. I still cooked with the fervor to please or appease, perhaps in a sneaking wish to undo the rice disaster and its hidden stories.
/>
  Even now, I know my passion will never be exhausted.

  Passion can be exhausting, so I gathered when Señorita VV began her fervent novenas to the Mother of Perpetual Succor. Surely she was praying for poor Basilio’s return, I thought. She missed his floating faith, she had a change of heart. But soon I realized that this fickle organ had veered towards another direction. Patsy Cline was singing too regularly with Roy Orbison in those Saturday jam sessions.

  Peccadillos. Now where did I first hear that word? Ah, from Dr. Valenzuela at the dinner table. He was talking again about his American friend whose ex-wife loved peccadillos—“Ay, poor Ralph, it would be good for him to travel, to get away from it all,” the doctor sighed. And Mrs. Valenzuela looked at me, then frowned at him, as if to say I shouldn’t be hearing such things. Of course, I can hear them. I’m a cook and I know peccadillos are fraught with risks.

  The peccadillo is a dangerous fish dish. The turingan, a blue-grey fish, could be poisonous if not thoroughly cooked. It must be boiled in coconut milk with whole large green chilies, sliced tomatoes, crushed ginger, lemongrass if so desired, garlic and onion, and a bit of peppercorn. Make absolutely sure that the fish is cooked past danger, then simmer till the coconut milk dries a bit, as this is not a soup. Finally add some pechay leaves and season with salt.

  Peccadillos. Only now do I understand this significant addition to my vocabulary that summer. As much as another addition: “the woman with loose molars.”

  You see, right after her loss, Tiya Miling began speaking in tongues, inventing fresh terminology for “that evil woman who stole my son.” I must admit I was confused when I overheard something about teeth, as they shuffled cards.