Wings of memory
fountains and wide gardens choked by weeds, the heavy wooden doors now closed forever. And then the baroque churches: covered with moss and lichen, cratered by wind and rain. And in the air, the heavy, cloying smell of molasses from the mills of PASUDECO, inducing me finally to sleep. Ahhh, such lethargy, such a sweet sweet smell.
Manila would burst upon you like a bucket of icy water thrown on the face. The Bonifacio Monument loomed (the proletarian hero in a voiceless scream), the bus deftly circling the rotunda, and down we went to EDSA, the unbearable smell of the Cloverleaf Market, the diesel fumes darkening the air. We got off in a Cubao that still had no shopping malls, just small specialty shops and a row of movie houses. Then the jeepney ride to Sta. Mesa, so very fast, the miniature steel horses on the hood seemingly clop-clopping in the wind, the thin plastic strips of many colors flying, the jeepney swerving, going up and down a bridge, then here we were.
My uncle lived in his in-law’s house on a strip of government land behind the motels of Old Sta. Mesa. Gardenia, Seven Seas, Rose Tattoo, Exotica—I could still recall their names in a breathless rush, these places where supposedly illicit love happened between people not married to each other. Down we went, down, down the rough steps hewn out of stone. The wooden houses seemed to breathe into each other. One’s kitchen ended where another’s bedroom began. The alleys coiled round and round, like intestines. And when the rainy season came, everything turned muddy and a perpetually green slime covered the ground for days.
After Papa and I had turned this way and that, poking into someone else’s living room and scanning another’s open bedroom, we reached the place—a one-storey affair at the foot of the stairs of an old wooden house.
Even at noon, bright lights burnt in the living room. The candelabra’s fingers glowed. Under the lights, the coffin of my cousin Ramon.
My Aunt Emilia broke down at the sight of Papa. “Manoy, Mon is gone. What will I do?” Sobs tore from her chest, and the old women around her also began to cry. They were all in black. Like a flock of crows. Papa let her go on. She babbled that if she only knew Mon would sustain a bad fall and bash his head, her son who was torn away from her by the doctor’s forceps—
“I shouldn’t have allowed him to play basketball the previous afternoon. Manoy, should I tell Conrado?”
Silence. Papa seemed to weigh his words very carefully. Then, looking straight into my aunt’s eyes, actually looking through her, he said: “I think it’s best not to tell Conrado. I know my brother very well. He’ll take it badly. He might—” Papa sighed deeply. He suddenly looked tired, and very old. “He might even jump from the ship if he hears about it.”
My aunt sank silently on the sofa. She cried wordlessly. It was painful to look at her. I stood up and walked over to the coffin of Ramon.
Atop the glass was his photograph taken a month ago, so very young, his eyes like clearest water. The gold First Honor medal shone on his white polo shirt. Leis of white jasmine buds and yellow-green ylangylang flowers were hung around the photograph. And then, I looked down at him slowly.
In my dream my Uncle Conrado comes home. He has left behind him the North Sea cold enough to break even your bones. Now he is borne by waves that have slowly shaped themselves into the whitest of wings. The world below is a blue nothingness. The bird glides slowly, reaching an archipelago of the greenest islands, until it reaches the brown filth that is Manila. The bird alights finally at Old Sta. Mesa, and my uncle slides down its furry body. He waves farewell to the strange, magnificent bird. And then just as suddenly, the bird is gone.
Down, down, down the steps hewn from stone. The air closing in around my uncle, darkness descending, a door opening and closing on its one rusty hinge. Ramon? Ramon? where is my son Ramon? Words from the palest lips. The electric volt of pain crackling from one nerve ending to another.
Sometimes, when we call out a name, even the very wind crumbles.