Her eyes had dried and were now going round and round as I concluded my tale. I told her about how Boy Hapon answered his own question.
How to see through so much spleen in the air?
“We need some purging around here,” he said, looking up. His forest of vegetables could not obscure the cross and the smoking peak facing each other, blocked for a duel.
Boy Hapon had foretold what happened next. He had grown an angel’s tongue.
thirty-three
Magic igado: with plenty of eggplants for purgation
We understood that the devil and the angel were equal partners in the balance of the universe. Their polar powers were duly recognized, whether it was with blame or with a benevolent heart. While we accused the devil of eating our words when we forgot something, we said “May you grow an angel’s tongue” to reinforce someone’s best wishes—may your words come true. Ay, I should have invoked the devil to eat Boy Hapon’s words. But among his frowning fruit, I allowed his portent to take root. I kept quiet when he wished for purgation. I upset the balance of the universe by omission.
Or was it by commission?
Like when you commit to improving your immediate universe, but bungle the job. Magic malfunctioning. Magic missing a crucial ingredient: the real. For what use is magic if it’s not grounded in reality, if it has no flesh-and-blood palate that you can manipulate into hope?
So I considered eggplants, plenty of eggplants. In my sleep, I conspired with them. They would not only aid digestion; they would purge the digestive faculties.
Then I consulted the whole neighborhood: Mrs. Soledad Ching, Basilio Profundo, Tiya Miling, Nana Dora, Chi-chi and Bebet, the lot of them, even my mother. Well, not directly. Nightly I consulted their spleen. The size, the weight, the venting power.
Then I cooked it.
Igado is a liver dish, but spleen it was going to be instead. Nightly I made a pact with the butcher. He’d carve out the spleen for me in exchange for my perpetual patronage. If he wanted my soul, we could negotiate later.
I would serve spleen in a magic dish. In my dreams.
Feed it to the angry mouths of this world. In my dreams.
But my mother would eat the first meal. In my dreams.
And she would know how bitter it is. In my dreams.
And the bitterness would be unbearable. In my dreams.
But I would force it down her throat. In my dreams.
I would be both devil and angel. In my dreams.
And her stomach would heave in protest. In my dreams.
And she will be purged. In my dreams.
So cut the spleen into bite-sized pieces in my dreams then add diced sweet capsicum and hot peppers in my dreams and plenty of purgative eggplants in my dreams and onions and garlic in my dreams flavored by soy and the salt of her look in my dreams and the bit of sugar of her smile in my dreams long before she bore me in my dreams when she was still in love in my dreams with the young construction worker in my dreams whose tongue was never eaten by the devil only in my dreams—
The next day, the volcano erupted.
It had given no warning. It did not even rumble days before that fated lunchtime. After two tormenting hot weeks, when the humidity convinced us that we were surely taking a peek at hell, the earth shook, sending lunch spilling, rolling, falling from tables and running into each other on the floor of every household, as if the world were about to end in a sorry mush which we used to call food.
Then a loud explosion shattered the heavens before it rained ash for a whole week.
This was not in my dreams.
thirty-four
Pan graciosa: the bread of graciousness
“Another terrible stomach upset,” my brother Junior said, unfazed by the calamitous regurgitation. He understood that we lived on titled earth, that it could tip over any day but would surely recover its balance.
Everywhere, rice fields were reduced to mud from the lava flow, gardens turned grey or shriveled in even hotter air, food grew scarce and prices skyrocketed, and there was much hoarding of basic commodities. And the more affluent parts of the world visited us with their generosity, so I learned much later on. The “ghost” foreign aid, as we hardly saw it, flowed into our ports, and into the pockets of our politicians. Our town mayor suddenly became generous. Foreign aid was rebadged as “my personal aid” to ease the suffering of his people. On the side, he traded sacks of imported flour, powdered milk, sardines and corned beef on the black market. Much later, he would build his second mansion in Manila. “One eruption, one mansion.” It almost became his epitaph when he died ten years later.
Summer in our street was usually endless blue skies with barely a cloud in sight. But that summer felt like a stifling prelude to a monsoon, a perpetual threat of rain that would never ever pour. The air was as dry as kindling.
Into this air, Tiyo Anding flew.
It was late afternoon. Mr. Ching had advised his construction workers to pack their tools and go home, and Tiyo Anding found it hard to breathe. There was ash in his lungs, his wife was extremely ill, his twins were hungry, there would be no pay that week and perhaps in the weeks to come. “No point in working under this damned ash!” Mr. Ching had said. Tiyo Anding sidled towards his workmates to borrow a bit of cash, but all were counting their last pesos.
A carpenter later retold that Chi-chi had come past earlier to ask her father for money to buy rice, but he had waved her away, swearing under his breath. No one thought much about that little incident until after the next day.
Tiyo Anding was the last to leave. First he packed his tools, then he walked around the fourth floor, which was thrice the size of his house. He studied the walls, he knocked at them: here lie the marks of my ten fingers. He stopped at each window and found that he could barely see the houses below. Everything was ash and ash and ash. Where was the volcano or the church, where was his left, where was his right? Was this his street?
He moved on to the next window. It was just a square on the wall, no glass or wooden frame yet. He ran a hand on the ledge. He made sure this was smooth, the measurements precise. He was a good mason, my father said.
It was a strong ledge. It was not hard to climb up and stand on it. It was not hard to step out and fly.
At the wake, the Chings were distinctly absent, including their maids. They could not bear to relive their shock. All four of them, including the two drivers, had to wash and scrub the driveway for hours. In her red turret, Soledad Ching did not stop screaming long after the body had fallen.
All were generous with donations. Mother sold her only jewelry, a necklace given to her by my father when they were courting, to buy the wood for the coffin which Father made. The Valenzuelas promised to assist with the medical needs of Tiya Asun. Mr. Alano offered his band for the funeral, for free. Mrs. Alano made cookies and muffins for the wake. Nana Dora cared for the orphans, cooking three full meals a day, from her own pocket. The Calcium Man, who was still in the hospital, donated his meager savings. Boy Hapon sent over vegetables that he had salvaged from his garden. The eloped lovers secretly communicated their condolences with an envelope of cash. Even Tiya Miling offered cases of Coca-Cola from her store and the card players paid for the flowers.
The Chings donated five hundred pesos and hired the funeral car, just before they shut themselves in their almost mansion throughout the wake and the funeral. Sadly there was no mass for the dead; the parish priest could not allow “such a death” to enter his church. Mr. Alano’s band compensated for this ban. On the march to the cemetery, they played the religious hymns with great solemnity, as if the dead were an eminent personage. I swear heaven could have opened if not for the ash. It was extremely stubborn ash; it stuck. Surely we could not allow contamination beyond the pearly gates.
After the funeral, the afternoon snack was graced by freshly baked bread from the mayor’s bakery, of all places. His was the most talked-about donation. It was a rare phenomenon indeed: the pan graciosa, the br
ead of graciousness. Hard white bread, one and a half hand spans in length and about five inches in width. It was the shape of a pillow, the shape of comfort. A comforted soul will be gracious, the mayor must have thought. Gracious and appreciative of the source of comfort, in next year’s elections. He added cans of Star margarine and coffee though, just to be sure.
The bread of graciousness was filling bread; it seemed to rise even inside the stomach. It made at least eight slices, best eaten with a spread of margarine, then a good dunking in coffee. We loved the dunking. It softened the bread, which soaked up the merged coffee and margarine tastes. Post-dunking, the coffee left a fatty residue on the tongue.
My friends could hardly believe the grace that filled their table. Even in grief, they ate with relish. I saw them weep and eat and weep and eat.
thirty-five
Biko, a just-right sweetness
I remember looking up at shriveled grey hearts and wanting to dust them like a good housekeeper. The banana trees were not spared by the ash rain, and neither were the guavas. I looked up too much near the end of that summer, hoping to catch some color other than grey, perhaps a banana heart’s purple or the chrome of the cross, the volcano’s lilac. But all I kept seeing was a falling body, grey shirt, grey trousers and the greyest look encompassing the length of our street, also grey and indeterminate. From the air like that, it could have been any street.
For a while I feared it was my eyes that had turned grey and I had imposed the color even on my mother’s face. Surely she had looked at me during Tiyo Anding’s funeral, her face trembling, ashen. But I couldn’t wipe it clean, afraid to also erase her eyes on me. So I looked down on the shovelfuls of earth instead, counting each thud on the coffin. So like my heartbeat. The earth was falling in here, in here, and I couldn’t clean it up.
We were caught in a housekeeping frenzy after that eruption. Daily we walked around with a rag, a broom or a mop with obsessive industry, wiping off the residue of all fallen things. So when Ralph McKenna stepped off the JCM bus, he immediately believed we were a very clean people. Then he saw the standby boys stringing the banderitas from end to end of our street, criss-crossing them over our houses. He was delighted, he took photos of the multicolored bunting and had a Coca-Cola at Tiya Miling’s, where he learned about the upcoming feast of our patron saint San Nicolas. He was overcome by admiration—a very clean and stoic people indeed. No eruption will stop their fiesta.
I marveled at the apparition that was soon knocking at the Valenzuelas’ door. The American stood there, red hair protesting against the grey. Red as in red-red! I had never seen hair that color before, and we hardly saw any white men on our street anyway, except during eruptions when a few wandered around with awed, sweaty faces and cameras fixed on the volcano. But this white man was different. I was sure that his hair was the color of the stone that Father gave me: fire with the promise of burning. Of course, it had no black ridges or anything like that, but it would keep its promise at the end of that summer.
“Maraey na haepown,” he said with a smile so crooked, I wanted to straighten it, to set it to rights. But I shook my head instead, hanging on to the doorknob, ready to shut it. Not that I was being rude, just slightly nervous. The giant, for he was a very large man, was deeply flushed and sweaty, as if he were drunk or painted with some moist blush-on. I had never seen serious sunburn before.
He repeated his greeting, for it was a greeting in our dialect I realized later, his version of our “Good afternoon—Marhay na hapon.” But his attempt was lost on me and I could only shake my head. Then he tried something more complicated: “Aetow haerowng Dr. Valenzuela?” I nodded and shook my head again, understanding only my employer’s name.
He laughed and shook his head too, as if to dislodge all that red on his crown, then finally reverted to his own tongue. “Good afternoon. Is this the house of Dr. Valenzuela?”
By that time, I had stepped back and instinctively pushed the door towards his face. His laughter had startled me; it was loud and echoey as if from a deep well in his chest. Then slowly I emerged from behind the door, with little confidence, so he shortened himself. He actually, well, almost, dropped to his knees, to engage me face-to-face. Then, voice a notch softer, he said, “I’m Ralph McKenna, a friend of Dr. Valenzuela,” smiling sweetly, as only a crooked smile can be sweet.
So this is the Ralph. I felt my cheeks stretching. I was smiling back.
“You have a beautiful smile, miss.”
My face grew hot, perhaps taking on a touch of the red silk on his brow. No one had ever called me “miss” before and none had ever, ever said I was beautiful. Or at least my smile was. Ralph, Ralph, my heart went.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
I had no chance to answer. All I could do was note how green his eyes were, because the doctor, who had just arrived, was already raising the American to his feet, shaking both his hands vigorously as though he were about to pull them off. “Hello, hello, welcome, Ralph, it’s so good to see you. I can’t believe this. How are you? How was the trip? Did you take the bus? Did someone drive you? Why didn’t you visit earlier? Looks like you had too much sun—”
“Hold it, hold it, Andy,” he said, laughing again from the well in his chest. “I’m very fine, thank you, and it’s great to see you too. God, look at you, look at us now!”
They hugged, then continued talking, but Ralph did not forget me. “This girl has the most beautiful smile I’ve seen yet,” he said.
I couldn’t look at either of them, not without an acute sense of being caught savoring a stolen delight.
“Ah, this is our very dependable Nenita—Nining. Come, come in, Ralph.”
“I like Nenita better.” Ralph winked at me, before he allowed himself to be ushered into the house amid more questions and laughter.
I was left holding on to the doorknob, thinking, Nenita it must be from now on. As Ralph had said it, like a slow ascent and descent, gliding down on the t, softening it. Ne-ni-da. A name that would never sound angry, even when said in anger. I was used to my name being spat out at home.
“Some refreshment, please, Nining—and that nice biko you made yesterday, let’s have some of that. Let’s see how we can sweeten this American,” Dr. Valenzuela teased, and the generous laughter bounced around the room again, amplifying itself in a bigger well.
Later I learned that Ralph McKenna and Dr. Valenzuela had met in Oregon, when the doctor was an exchange student in a high school there. Ralph, now an engineer, came to work as a Peace Corps volunteer in a geothermal development. He had arrived in the Philippines two weeks ago and had been raving about the eruption. “I’m glad I caught it, God, it was incredible, Andy, I hardly slept, y’know, waiting for the fireworks each night, incredible, just incredible…”
The volcano talk followed me to the kitchen where I hurriedly warmed two slices of biko, a sticky rice cake cooked in coconut milk and palm sugar, with the slight flavor of pandan leaves. A simple snack, a just-right sweetness, not for sweetening Americans or any temper of any nationality for that matter. A just-right sweetness is only for recalling the memory of sweetness, its possibilities. Like when we wonder about a slight taste—what is it, where is it, how is it—and the wondering becomes more precious than the taste. It is the slightness, not the flavor, that is the gift.
Of course, at that time, I did not think this way. I simply believed that the essence of pandan, playing hide-and-seek in the palate, ensured my biko was not cloying, so a second helping was always possible. I added two more slices on the warming pan and hunted for some soft drinks in the refrigerator with little success. I came out to the lounge room with only the biko, and served my master and his guest on the best china of the house.
“Isn’t your kid joining us?” Ralph asked.
An awkward pause, so I whispered, “We’re out of Coca-Cola,” my hand held out to my employer.
“Of course.” Dr. Valenzuela quickly dug into his pocket.
“But
I just had one, Andy—don’t bother. Ne-ni-da, come, join us.”
“Then have another, it will cool you down, you must be hot—here, Nining,” the doctor said, handing me some coins.
“You have a lovely kid there.”
“Oh, no—I told you my daughter’s grown up, my only one.”
“Niece?”
As I walked out the door, I heard the doctor say, “Maid,” sounding apologetic. There was no rejoinder from the American, just a subtle clearing of the throat.
thirty-six
Sweet to very sweet
In the fiesta scheme of things, only the “can-afford” households remained standing in dignity. Our house ceased to exist, because there was no bountiful spread on our table and certainly no sweetness. We were an embarrassment in a neighborhood especially proud of its desserts. How they trickled through our street, much like the sweetest rumors.
The Chings’ maja blanca, a corn and milk-based, melt-on-the-tongue cake with strips of young coconut; yemas, syrup-glazed balls with a soft milky core; chilled upside-down cake with a fruit cocktail gelatin top and a moist chiffon cake base; leche flan, a rich and creamy eight-egg-yolk cake; the “stained glass” gelatin cake with all the cathedral colors shimmering in each slice—it’s almost too beautiful to eat; halo-halo, the iced and milky “mix-mix” of candied fruit and jellies; mazapan, buding, taldis, all ground pili nuts fashioned into little cakes with the texture of slightly grainy chocolates; and sugar-coated pili, crunchy whole nuts slow-roasted in honey.
Tiya Miling’s buco salad of strips of young coconut meat, pineapple, banana, macapuno balls, jackfruit, peeled grapes, raisins, cherries, diced apples and multicolored sago in sweet cream sprinkled with cheese; and bibingka made of grated cassava baked with coconut milk, melted butter, shredded young coconut meat, cheddar, topped with boiled egg yolk and strips of native white cheese.
Banana Heart Summer Page 12