TWILIGHT HUGS By Genoveva Edroza-MatuteTranslated Buenventura S. Medina, Jr.

She first learned about it from Lydia.

‘La, said Lydia who sat on her lap and laid her palms on her nape, are you really leaving us, ‘La?

Leaving? But where I shall I go? She asked with light laughter. I can’t even move-with this cursed rheumatism. How can I leave?

That’s nice! Nice! Lydia could not have sounded happier. Releasing her hold on her grandmother’s nape, she clapped her hands. That’s what I said, you won’t ever go to Odet’s!

The light laughter that made her show the toothless gums slowly banished as he squinted peering into her grandchild’s face.

This spite, what mouthfuls of nonsense! Where did you learn them? Why should I go to Odet’s-I don’t even know where they live? I’ve been to them only twice…and God knows when!

But Lydia was no longer listening to her. She had quickly jumped out her grandmother’s lap as she heard the first warning squeak of door that revealed the child’s pretty mother.

“Lydia,” pretty Carmen called. The voice that Grandmother heard was not harsh, not angry. Cool. Cool. Pretty Carmen was brought up in the convent. She never heard her voice ever become harsh, angry. It was cool. Lydia quickly left the kitchen. Her mother followed. From the wheelchar, the grandmother followed mother and child with her eyes.

Pretty Carmen was soaping hard Lydia’s arms and hands. It was form her eldest that she learned about it again. Mother, Ramon gently said, Rey would like you to stay with them-his daughter Odet would like to have her grandmother with them. If you’d just think of it, you have not really known your grandchildren by your youngest. Soft laughter without sparkle accompanied Ramon’s words. And I said that Carmen and I would not allow him to take you away form us, but…

And I don’t want to be there. It was you who said that I didn’t even know my grandchildren-nor my daugher-in-law-by Rey…

…But, Ramon continued… Rey might get hurt. So I said, Carmen and I would allow that… you spend your vacation with them.

Ramon’s eyes grew restless. They did not want to meet the furrowed face that looked up at him, the eyes of the fading light that stared at him.

Spend my vacation…at the home…of my youngest? Through her mind crossed lazily the words just spoken by her eldest. Her bony fingers gently caressed her hair now turned silver. Was it to spend a vacation that her eldest had just said? With Rey? Where does my youngest stay? What is the name of the girl she married? Odet must be granddaughter by my youngest child. I cannot even recall her face. Ah, but Lydia’s different. I know Lydia. The youngest by my eldest. Her mother is pretty. She washes clean the little hands of Lydia. But why? Will my children really visit me? Their father had long been dead…

Mother, are you listening? The voice of Ramon rang through the million thoughts that lumbered through her brain. Why would w\million thoughts now frequent her mind? When she was still young… If I should leave ahead of you, do not take it to hear so much: you have two sons anyway…

Heavy were the hands that touched her shoulder. Carmen and I have discussed this, Mother. We have agreed to consider Rey’s wishes.

Now she was beginning to understand things better. You said I would spend my vacation at Rey’s? Her eyes of the fading light sought for the face that was looking at her a while ago, but now she was alone. She turned the wheel of her chair towards the door. She clutched at the knob. The door would not move. It remained locked.

Beyond the locked door she overheard Ramon’s voice. Loud. But the words were vague, shut off by the thick door. She could hardy hear Carmen’s voice. Gentle. Not angry. Cool. The voice’s coolness penetrated the closed door.

She fell drowsy listening to these voices. Why would she get sleepy often now even during the day? As often as the hovering thoughts in her mind that was getting slow in understanding the words said by Ramon. By Lydia. By the other children. By the maids. Pretty Carmen had not talked with her for so long now.

With the drowsiness that fell over her came hovering million thoughts. Thoughts or memories? Memories or imaginings?

We have two sons anyway. The voice would rise above the years. It would come back to her in its gentleness. In its deep lovingness. We have put them through college. They can start growing roots by themselves and we can travel together-even just until Mindanao, just until the Ilocos. I would wish to see our hometown before we die.

Oh, but we will do that-you know I just love to travel. But they still need us. No, it is wrong to give them all they need-and spend on them the little that is left of our savings. They might turn selfish… That voice in its gentleness, in its deep lovingness, was beclouded with doubt. But this doubt was readily banished by the blinding light of her faith: My two sons, grown selfish? Oh, but you do not really know them-as I know them!

First there was Ramon. A big portion of their savings went to the establishment of a nice law office for him. Handsomeness that attracted handsome clients, cases of delicate matter about delicate people, which brought him success, the convent-bred and pretty Carmen. Then next came Rey. The rest of their savings introduced Rey to society where he found an heiress from the South.

The morning after the wedding, that voice returned to the silence where it had sprung. A mishap clutched and stilled, forever, that voice, in the fragile twilight of her life.

Do not cry, Mother. That was Ramon. You will stay with us. Carmen is kind, and soon you will have grandchildren.

Grandchildren? Soft footsteps that were uncertain about direction… running steps… shrill voices…

The ball… I… t! A moment’s silence that broke into spills of voices.

What could it be? The grandmother stirred in her wheelchair, out of her momentary drowsiness. Had she fallen asleep? Had she dreamt?

Tinay, the maid, was coming to her. She was holding a teaspoon of medicine and glass of water.

Lola, you take medicine-for your skin. Here, quickly drink water-your medicine is very bitter. Tinay glanced at the scales on the old woman’s arms. Oh God, suppose I get old, will my skin be scaly like yours? Tinay laughed. But before she left she told her something.

Lola, Mister and Misis Valli are coming.

Who?

That Misis, the comadre of Nyora Carmen-the one who says when she sees you that she almost sees her mother who died. She says that Lydia is fortunate because she has a grandmother-her child does not have any…

Oh, is she the one?

Tinay lelt, taking away with her the teaspoon and the glass that held nothing anymore. She closed the door behind her, beyond the room there no was the timber of Ramon’s loud voice. Nor the cool voice of Carmen.

It was drizzling that afternoon when Rey’s car drove through the front gate. It was Tinay, the maid, who told her about the arrival.

But Lola, Tinay said laughing. What guest are you talking about? That was Mang Rey! Your own son, don’t you know? Tinay laughed again.

Something suddenly sang inside Grandmother. Something danced about. Something shone bright. She peered with her eyes of the fading light at the tall and husky figure that went straight into the living room. Like a ray of sun that shone by her was the face that was almost that of the father who would worry so much about her-in case she would be left behind.

s swift as her memory was the way she turned the wheels of her chair, towards where her youngest went. The memory of that voice so gentle and loving: But you-you love the younger of the two better. And her voice when she answered: Oh, but I am not like you who play favorites. Don’t I know you favor the elder?

Her voice now would span space between life and death, and now she was addressing the father of her sons. You see don’t have to worry, even if you left me behind. Our youngest will take me away. To their home in the South. See? You don’t have to worry.

She intended to move her chair into the room where her youngest had gone. Her bony fingers would love very much to touch that face akin to her dear departed, her eyes of the fading light would love very much to see the figure that she once cradled in her young arms.

At the door, she was halted by the raucous voices of her eldest and her youngest. The turning of her wheelchair stopped as her own word ceased revolving.

All through the years we took care of her. Now that it is your turn, you have many excuses…

Now that you don’t get anything from her, is that is? And didn’t I tell you that we would be traveling around the world? How could we?

Pretty Carmen’s voice came next. A cool voice which she could not understand. A cool voice that sank through the marrow of her bones.

As cool as the droplets of rain that pelted her as she moved her chair into the terrace. As cool as the twilight that hugged her bony of bones.

It was Tinay, the maid, who saw her in the terrace.

Oh God, this old woman… why get soaked in the rain? Come inside. What are you whispering? Misis Valli… Misis Valli… Missis Valli… Oh God, Lola must be getting to be a child again. Come inside…

There was a whole world of gentleness, of candor, in the voice of the maid.

The Wedding Dance by Amador T. Daguio

¹Awiyao reached for the upper horizontal log which served as the edge of the head high threshold. Clinging to the log, he lifted himself with one bound that carried him across to the narrow door. He slid back the cover, stepped inside, then pushed the cover back in place. After some moments during which he seemed to wait, he talked to the listening darkness.

²“I’m sorry this had to be done. I am really sorry. But neither of us can help it.”

³The sounds of the gangsas beat through the walls of the dark house, like muffled roars of falling waters. The woman who had moved with a start when the sliding doors opened had been hearing the gangsas for she did not know how long. The sudden rush of rich sounds when the door opened was like a sharp gush of fire in her. She gave no sign that she heard Awiyao, but continued to sit unmoving in the darkness.

⁴But Awiyao knew that she heard him and his heart pitted her. He crawled on all fours to the middle of the room; he knew exactly where the stove was. With his fingers he stirred the covered smouldering embers, and blew into them. When the coals began to glow, Awiyao put pieces of pine wood on them, then full round logs as big as his arms. The room brightened.

⁵“Why don’t you go out,” he said, “and join the dancing women?” He felt a pang inside him, because what he said was really not the right thing to say and because the woman did not talk or stir.

⁶“You should join the dancers, he said, “as if nothing happened.” He looked at the woman huddled in a corner, leaning against the wall. The stove fire played with strange moving shadows and light upon her face. She was partly sullen, but her sulleness was not because of anger or hate.

⁷“Go out-go out and dance. If you really don’t hate me for this separation, go out and dance. One of the men will see you dance well; he will like your dancing; he will marry you. Who knows but that, with him, you will be luckier than you are with me?”

⁸“I don’t want any man,” she said sharply. I don’t want any other man.”

⁹“He felt relieved that at last she talked:”You know very well that I don’t want any other woman, either. You know that, don’t you? Lumnay, you know it, don’t you?”

¹⁰She did not answer him.

¹¹“You know it Lumnay, don’t you?” he repeated.

¹²”Yes, I know,” she said weakly.

¹³”It is not my fault,” he said feeling relieved. You cannot blame me; I have been a good husband to you.”

¹⁴”Neither can you blame me, “ she said. She seemed about to cry.

¹⁵”You, you have been very good to me. You have been a good wife. I have nothing to say against you.” He set some of the burning wood in place. “It’s only that a man must have a child. Seven harvests are just too long to wait. Yes, we have waited long. We should have another chance before it is too late for both of us.”

¹⁶This time the woman stirred, stretched her right leg out and bent her left leg in. She wound the blanket more snugly around herself.

¹⁷”You know that I have done my best, she said.”I have prayed to Kabunayan much. I have sacrificed many chickens in my prayers.”

¹⁸”Yes, I know.”

¹⁹You remember how angry you were once when you came home from your work in the terrace because I butchered one of our pigs without permission. I did it to appease Kabunayan, because like you, I wanted so much to have a child. But what could I do?”

²⁰”Kabunayan does not see fit for us to have a child,”he said. He stirred the fire. The sparks rose through the crackles of the flames. The smoke soot went up to the ceiling.

²¹Lumnay looked down and unconsciously started to pull at the rattan that kept the split bamboo flooring in place. She tugged at the rattan flooring. Each time she did this the split bamboo went up and came down with a sligh rattle. The gongs of the dancers clamorously called in her ears through the walls.

²²Awiyao went to the corner where Lumnay sat, paused before her, look at her bronzed and sturdy face, then turned to where the jars of the water stood piled one over the other. Awiyao took a coconut cup and dipped it in the top jar and drank. Lumnay had filled the jars from the mountain creek early that evening.

²³”I came home,” he said, “because I did not find you among the dancers. Of course, I am not forcing you to come, if you don’t want to join my wedding ceremony. I came to tell you that Madulimay, although I am marrying her, can never become as good as you are. She is not strong in planting beans, not as fast in cleaning water jars, not as good in keeping a house clean. You are one of the best wives in the whole village.”

²⁴That has not done me any good, has it” she said. She looked at him lovingly. She almost seemed to smile.

²⁵He put the coconut cup aside on the floor and came closer to her. He held her face between his hands, and looked longingly at her beauty. But her eyes looked away. Never again would he hold her face. The next day she would go back to her parents. He let go of her face, and she bent to the floor again and looked at her fingers as they tugged softly at the split bamboo floor.

²⁶This house is yours, he said. “I built it for you. Make it your own; live in it as long as you wish. I will build another house for Madulimay.”

²⁷I have no need for the house,” she said slowly. I’II go to my own house. My parents are old. They will need help in planting of the beans, in pounding of the rice.

²⁸I will give you the field that I dug out of the mountain during the first year of our marriage,” he said. “You know I did it for you. You helped me to make it for the two of us.”

²⁹ “I have no use for any field,” she said.

³⁰He looked at her, then turned away, and became silent. They were silent for a long time.

³¹”Go back to the dance,” she said finally, “It is not right for you to be here. They will wonder where you are, and Madulimay will not feel good. Go back to the dance.”

³²”I would feel better if you could come, and dance – for the last time. ‘The gangas are playing.”

³³”You know that I cannot.”

³⁴”Lumnay, “ he said tenderly. “Lumnay, if I did this it is because of my need for a child. You know that life is not worth living without a child. They have mocked me behind my back. You know that.”

³⁵”I know it, “she said. “I will pray that Kabunayan will bless you and Madulimay.”

³⁶She bit her lips now, then shook her head wildly, and sobbed.

³⁷She thought of the seven harvests that had passed, the high hopes they had in the beginning of their new life, the day he took her away from her parents across the roaring river, on the other side of the mountain, the trip up the trail which they had to climb, the steep canyon which they had to cross – the waters boiled in her mind in foams of white and jade and roaring silver; the waters rolled and growled, resounded in thunderous echoes through the walls of the stiff cliff; they were far away now but loud still and receding; the waters violently smashed down from somewhere on the tops of the other ranges, and they had looked carefully at the buttresses of rocks they had to step on—a slip would have meant death.

³⁸They both drank of the water, then rested on the other bank before they made the final climb to the other side of the mountain.

³⁹She looked at his face with the fire playing upon his features- hard and strong, and kind. He had a sense of lightness in his way of saying things, which often made her and the village people laugh. How proud she had been of his humor! The muscles were taut and firm, bronze and compact in their hold upon his skull – how frank his bright eyes were. She looked at this body that carved out of the mountains five fields for her; his wide and supple torso heaved as if a slab of shining lumber were heaving; his arms and legs flowed down in fluent muscles – he was strong and for that she had lost him.

⁴⁰She flung herself upon his knees and clung to them.” Awiyao, Awiyao, my husband,” she cried. “I did everything to have a child,” she said passionately in a hoarse whisper. She took away the blanket that covered her. “Look at me,” she cried, “Look at my body. Then it was full of promise. It could dance; it could work fast in the field; it could climb the mountains fast. Even now it is firm, full. But Awiyao, Kabunayan never blessed me. Awiyao, Kabunayan is cruel to me. Awiyao, I am useless, I must die.”

⁴¹”It will not be right to die,” he said, gathering her in his arms. Her whole arm naked breasts quivered against his own; she clung now to his neck, and her head lay upon his right shoulder, her hair flowed down in cascades of gleaming darkness.

⁴²”I don’t care about the fields,” she said. “I don’t care about the house.” “I don’t care for anything but you. I’ll never have another man.”

⁴³”Then you’ll always be fruitless.”

⁴⁴”I’ll go back to my father, I’ll die”

⁴⁵”Then you hate me, “he said. ‘If you die, it means you hate me. You do not want me to have a child. You don’t want my name to live on in our tribe.”

⁴⁶She was silent.

⁴⁷”If I do not try a second time,” he explained, “it means I’ll die. Nobody will get the fields I have carved out of the mountains; nobody will come after me.”

⁴⁸”If you fail- if you fail this second time-, “she said thoughtfully. Then her voice was a shudder. “No-no, I don’t want you to fail.”

⁴⁹”If I fail, “he said, “I’ll come back to you. Then both of us will die together. Both of us will vanish from life of our tribe.”

⁵⁰The gongs thundered through the walls of their house, sonorous and far away.

⁵¹”I’ll keep my beads, “she said. “ Awiyao let me keep my beads,” she half-whispered.

⁵²You will keep the beads. They came from far-off times. My grandmother said they came from way up North, from the slant-eyed people from across the sea. You keep them, Lumnay. They are worth twenty fields.”

⁵³”I’ll keep them because they stand for the love you have for me,” she said. “I love you. I love you and have nothing to give.”

⁵⁴She took herself away from him, for a voice was calling out to him from the outside. “Awiyao! Awiyao! O Awiyao! They are looking for you at the dance!”

⁵⁵”I am not in a hurry.”

⁵⁶”The elders will scold you. You had better go.”

⁵⁷Not until you tell me it is all right with you.”

⁵⁸”It is all right with me.”

⁵⁹He clasped her hands. “I do this for the sake of the tribe,” he said.

⁶⁰”I know,” she said.

⁶¹He went to the door.

⁶²”Awiyao!”

⁶³He stopped as if suddenly hit by a spear. In pain he turned to her. Her face was in agony. It pained him to leave. She had been wonderful to him. What was it that made a man wish for a child? What was it in life, in works in the fields, in planting and harvesting, in the silence of the tribe itself that made man wish for the laughter and speech of a child? Suppose he changed his mind? Why did the unwritten law demand, anyway, that a man, to be a man, must have a child to come after him? And if he was fruitless – but he loved Lumnay. It was like taking away half of his life to leave her like this.

⁶⁴”Awiyao,” she said, and her eyes seemed to smile in the light. “The beads!”

⁶⁵He turned back and walked to the farthest corner of their room, to the trunk where they kept their wordly possessions – his battle-axe and his spear points, her betel nut box and her beads. He dug out from the darkness the beads which had been given to him by his grandmother to give to Lumnay on the day of his marriage. He went to her, lifted her head, put the beads on, and tied them in place. The white, jade and deep orange obsidians shone in the firelight. She suddenly clung to him, clung to his neck, as if she would never let him go.

⁶⁶”Awiyao! Awiyao, it is hard!” she gasped and she closed her eyes and buried her face in his neck.

⁶⁷The call for him from the outside repeated; her grip loosened, and hurried out into the night.

⁶⁸Lumnay sat for sometime in the darkness. Then she went to the door and opened it. The moonlight struck her face; the moonlight spilled itself upon the whole village.

⁶⁹She could hear the throbbing of the gangsas coming to her through the caverns of the other houses. She knew that all houses were empty; that the whole tribe was at the dance. Only she was absent. And yet was she not the best dancer in the village? Did she not have the most lightness and grace? Could she not, alone among the women, dance like a bird tripping for grains on the ground, beautifully timed to the beat of the gangsas? Did not the men praise her supple body, and the women envy. The way she stretched her hands like the wings of the mountain eagle now and then as she danced? How long ago did she dance at her own now and then? How long ago did she dance at her own wedding? Tonight, all the women who counted, who once danced in her honor, where dancing now in honor of another whose only claim was that perhaps she could not give her husband a child?

⁷⁰”It is not right. It is not right!” she cried. “How does she know? How can anybody know? It is not right,” she said.

⁷¹Suddenly she found courage. She would go to the dance. She would go to the chief of the village, to the elders, to tell them it was not right. Awiyao was hers; nobody could take him away from her. Let her be the first woman to complain, to denounce the unwritten rule that a man may take another woman. She would break the dancing of the men and women. She would tell Awiyao to come back to her. He surely would relent. Was not their love as strong as the river?

⁷²She made for the other side of the village where the dancing was. There was a flaming glow over the whole place; a great bonfire was burning. The gangsas clamoured more loudly now, and it seemed they were calling her. She was near at last. She could see the dancers clearly now. The men leaped lithely with their gangsas as they circled the dancing women decked in feast garments and beads, tripping on the ground like graceful birds, following their men. Her heart warmed to the flaming call of the dance; strange heat in her blood welled up, and she started to run.

⁷³But the flaming brightness of the bonfire commanded her to stop. Did anybody see her approach? She stopped. What if somebody had seen her coming? The lames of the bonfire leaped in countless sparks which spread and rose like yellow points and dies out in the night. The blaze reached out to her like a spreading radiance. She did not have the courage to break into the wedding feast.

⁷⁴ Lumnay walked from the ground, away from the village. She thought of the new clearing of beans which Awiyao and she had started to make only four moons before. She followed the trail above the village.

⁷⁵ When she came to mountain stream, she crossed it carefully. Nobody held her hands, and the stream water was very cold. The trail went up again, and she was in the moonlight shadows among the trees and shrubs. Slowly she climbed the mountain.

⁷⁶ When Lumnay reached the clearing, she could see from where she stood the blazing bonfire at the edge of the village where the dancing was. She could hear the far-off clamor of the gongs,still rich in their sonorousness, echoing from mountain to mountain. The sound did not mock her; they seemed to call far to her; speak to her in the language of unspeaking love. She felt the pull of their clamour, almost feeling that they wer telling to her the gratitude for her sacrifice. Her heartbeat began to sound to her like many gangsas.

⁷⁷ Lumnay thought of Awiyao as the Awiyao she had known long ago- a strong, muscular boy carrying his heagy loads of fuel logs down the mountain to his home. She had met him one day as she was on her way to fill her clay glass with water. He had stopped at the spring to drink the rest; and she had made him drink the cool mountain water from her coconut shell. After that it did not take long for him to decide to throw his spear on the stairs of her father’s house in toke of his desire to marry her.

⁷⁸ The mountain clearing was cold in the freezing moonlight. The wind began to sough and stir the leaves of the bean plants. Lumnay looked for a big rock on which to sit down. Th bean plants surrounded her, and she was lost among them.

⁷⁹A few more weeks, a few more months, a few more harvests- what did it matter? She would be holding the bean flowers, soft in texture, silken almost, but moist where the dew got into them, silver to look at, silver on the light blue, blooming whiteness, when the morning comes. The stretching of the bean pods full length form the hearts of the wilting petals would go on.

⁸⁰ Lumnay’s fingers moved a long, long time among the growing bean pods.

Footnote to Youth by: Jose Garcia Villa

The sun was salmon and hazy in the west. Dodong thought to himself he would tell his father about Teang when he got home, after he had unhitched the carabao from the plow, and led it to its shed and fed it. He was hesitant about saying it, he wanted his father to know what he had to say was of serious importance as it would mark a climacteric in his life. Dodong finally decided to tell it, but a thought came to him that his father might refuse to consider it. His father was a silent hardworking farmer, who chewed areca nut, which he had learned to do from his mother, Dodong’s grandmother.

He wished as he looked at her that he had a sister who could help his mother in the housework.

I will tell him. I will tell it to him.

The ground was broken up into many fresh wounds and fragrant with a sweetish earthy smell. Many slender soft worm emerged from the further rows and then burrowed again deeper into the soil. A short colorless worm marched blindly to Dodong’s foot and crawled clammilu over it. Dodong got tickled and jerked his foot, flinging the worm into the air. Dodong did not bother to look where into the air, but thought of his age, seventeen, and he said to himself he was not young anymore.

Dodong unhitched the carabao leisurely and fave it a healthy tap on the hip. The beast turned its head to look at him with dumb faithful eyes. Dodong gave it a slight push and the animal walked alongside him to its shed. He placed bundles of grass before it and the carabao began to eat. Dodong looked at it without interest.

Dodong started homeward thinking how he would break his news to his father. He wanted to marry, Dodong did. He was seventeen, he had pimples on his face, then down on his upper lip was dark-these meant he was no longer a boy. He was growing into a man – he was a man. Dodong felt insolent and big at the thought of it, although he was by nature low in stature.

Thinking himself man – grown, Dodong felt he could do anything.

He walked faster, prodded by the thought of his virility. A small angled stone bled his foot, but he dismissed it cursorily. He lifted his leg and looked at the hurt toe and then went on walking. In the cool sundown, he thought wild young dreams of himself and Teang, his girl. She had a small brown face and small black eyes and straight glossy hair. How desirable she was to him. She made him want to touch her, to hold her. She made him dream even during the day.

Dodong tensed with desire and looked at the muscle of his arms. Dirty. This fieldwork was healthy invigorating, but it begrimed you, smudged you terribly. He turned back the way he had come, then marched obliquely to a creek.

Must you marry, Dodong?” Dodong resented his father’s question; his father himself had married early.

Dodong stripped himself and laid his clothes, a gray under shirt and red kundiman shorts, on the grass. Then he went into the water, wet his body over and rubbed at it vigorously. He was not long in bathing, then he marched homeward again. The bath made him feel cool.

It was dusk when he reached home. The petroleum lamp on the ceiling was already lighted and the low unvarnished square table was set for supper. He and his parents sat down on the floor around the table to eat. They had fried freshwater fish, and rice, but did not partake of the fruit. The bananas were overripe and when one held the,, they felt more fluid than solid. Dodong broke off a piece of caked sugar, dipped it in his glass of water and ate it. He got another piece and wanted some more, but he thought of leaving the remainder for his parent.

Dodong’s mother removed the dishes when they were through, and went with slow careful steps and Dodong wanted to help her carry the dishes out. But he was tired and now, feld lazy. He wished as he looked at her that he had a sister who could help his mother in the housework. He pitied her, doing all the housework alone.

His father remained in the room, sucking a diseased tooth. It was paining him, again. Dodong knew, Dodong had told him often and again to let the town dentist pull it out, but he was afraid, his father was. He did not tell that to Dodong, but Dodong guessed it. Afterward, Dodong himself thought that if he had a decayed tooth, he would be afraid to go to the dentist; he would not be any bolder than his father.

Dodong said while his mother was out that he was going to marry Teang. There it was out, what we had to say, and over which he head said it without any effort at all and without self-consciousness. Dodong felt relived and looked at his father expectantly. A decresent moon outside shed its feebled light into the window, graying the still black temples of his father. His father look old now.

“I am going to marry Teang,” Dodong said.

His father looked at him silently and stopped sucking the broken tooth, The silenece became intense and cruel, and Dodong was uncomfortable and then became very angry because his father kept looking at him without uttering anything.

“I will marry Teang,” Dodong repeated. “I will marry Teang.”

His father kept gazing at him in flexible silence and Dodong fidgeted on his seat.

I asked her last night to marry me and she said… “Yes. I want your permission… I… want… it…” There was an impatient clamor in his voice, an exacting protest at his coldness, this indifference. Dodong looked at his father sourly. He cracked his knuckles one by one, and the little sound it made broke dully the night stillness.

“Must you marry, Dodong?”

Dodong resented his father’s question; his father himself had married early. Dodong made a quick impassioned essay in his mind about selfishness, but later, he got confused.

“You are very young, Dodong.”

“I’m seventeen.”

“That’s very young to get married at.”

“I… I want to marry… Teang’s a good girl…

“Tell your mother,” his father said.

“You tell her, Tatay.”

“Dodong, you tell your Inay.”

“You tell her.”

“All right, Dodong.”

“All right, Dodong.”

“You will let me marry Teang?”

“Son, if that is your wish… of course…” There was a strange helpless light in his father’s eyes. Dodong did not read it. Too absorbed was he in himself.

Dodong was immensely glad he has asserted himself. He lost his resentment for his father, for a while, he even felt sorry for him about the pain I his tooth. Then he confined his mind dreaming of Teang and himself. Sweet young dreams…

***

Dodong stood in the sweltering noon heat, sweating profusely so that his camiseta was damp. He was still like a tree and his thoughts were confused. His mother had told him not to leave the house, but he had left. He wanted to get out of it without clear reason at all. He was afraid, he felt afraid of the house. It had seemingly caged him, to compress his thoughts with severe tyranny. He was also afraid of Teang who was giving birth in the house; she face screams that chilled his blood. He did not want her to scream like that. He began to wonder madly if the process of childbirth was really painful. Some women, when they gave birth, did not cry.

In a few moments he would be a father. “Father, father,” he whispered the word with awe, with strangeness. He was young, he realized now contradicting himself of nine months ago. He was very young… He felt queer, troubled, uncomfortable.

Dodong felt tired of standing. He sat down on a saw-horse with his feet close together. He looked at his calloused toes. Then he thought, supposed he had ten children…

The journey of thought came to a halt when he heard his mother’s voice from the house.

Some how, he was ashamed to his mother of his youthful paternity. It made him feel guilty, as if he had taken something not properly his.

“Come up, Dodong. It is over.”

Suddenly, he felt terribly embarrassed as he looked at her. Somehow, he was ashamed to his mother of his youthful paternity. It made him feel guilty, as if he has taken something not properly his. He dropped his eyes and pretended to dust off his kundiman shorts.

“Dodong,” his mother called again. “Dodong.”

He turned to look again and this time, he saw his father beside his mother.

“It is a boy.” His father said. He beckoned Dodong to come up.

Dodong felt more embarrassed and did not move. His parent’s eyes seemed to pierce through him so he felt limp. He wanted to hide or even run away from them.

“Dodong, you come up. You come up,” his mother said.

Dodong did not want to come up. He’d rather stayed in the sun.

“Dodong… Dodong.”

I’ll… come up.

Dodong traced the tremulous steps on the dry parched yard. He ascended the bamboo steps slowly. His heart pounded mercilessly in him. Within, he avoided his parent’s eyes. He walked ahead of them so that they should not see his face. He felt guilty and untru. He felt like crying. His eyes smarted and his chest wanted to burst. He wanted to turn back, to go back to the yard. He wanted somebody to punish him.

“Son,” his father said.

And his mother: “Dodong..”

How kind their voices were. They flowed into him, making him strong.

“Teanf?” Dodong said.

“She’s sleeping. But you go in…”

His father led him into the small sawali room. Dodong saw Teang, his wife, asleep on the paper with her soft black hair around her face. He did not want her to look that pale.

Dodong wanted to touch her, to push away that stray wisp of hair that touched her lips. But again that feeling of embarrassment came over him, and before his parent, he did not want to be demonstrative.

The hilot was wrapping the child Dodong heard him cry. The thin voice touched his heart. He could not control the swelling of happiness in him.

“You give him to me. You give him to me,” Dodong said.

***

Blas was not Dodong’s only child. Many more children came. For six successive years, a new child came along. Dodong did not want any more children. But they came. It seemed that the coming of children could not helped. Dodong got angry with himself sometimes.

Teang did not complain, but the bearing of children tolled on her. She was shapeless and thin even if she was young. There was interminable work that kept her tied up. Cooking, laundering. The house. The children. She cried sometimes, wishing she had no married. She did not tell Dodong this, not wishing him to dislike her. Yet, she wished she had not married. Not even Dodong whom she loved. There had neen another suitor, Lucio older than Dodong by nine years and that wasw why she had chosen Dodong. Young Dodong who was only seventeen. Lucio had married another. Lucio, she wondered, would she have born him children? Maybe not, either. That was a better lot. But she loved Dodong… in the moonlight, tired and querulous. He wanted to ask questions and somebody to answer him. He wanted to be wise about many thins.

Life did not fulfill all of Youth’s dreams. Why must be so? Why one was forsaken… after love?

One of them was why life did not fulfill all of the youth’ dreams. Why it must be so. Why one was forsaken… after love.

Dodong could not find the answer. Maybe the question was not to be answered. It must be so to make youth. Youth must be dreamfully sweet. Dreamfully sweet.

Dodong returned to the house, humiliated by himself. He had wanted to know little wisdom but was denied it.

When Blas was eighteen, he came home one night, very flustered and happy. Dodong heard Blas’ steps for he could not sleep well at night. He watched Blass undress in the dark and lie down softly. Blas was restless on his mat and could not sleep. Dodong called his name and asked why he did not sleep.

You better go to sleep. It is late,” Dodong said.

Life did not fulfill all of youth’s dreams. Why it must be so? Why one was forsaken after love?

“Itay..” Blas called softly.

Dodong stirred and asked him what it was.

“I’m going to marry Tona. She accepted me tonight.

“Itay, you think its over.”

Dodong lay silent.

I loved Tona and… I want her.”

Dodong rose from his mat and told Blas to follow him. They descended to the yard where everything was still and quiet.

The moonlight was cold and white.

“You want to marry Tona, Dodong said, although he did not want Blas to marry yet. Blas was very young. The life that would follow marriage would be hard…

“Yes.”

“Must you marry?”

Blas’ voice was steeled with resentment. “I will mary Tona.”

“You have objection, Itay?” Blas asked acridly.

“Son… non…” But for Dodong, he do anything. Youth must triumph… now. Afterward… It will be life.

As long ago, Youth and Love did triumph for Dodong… and then life.

Dodong looked wistfully at his young son in the moonlight. He felt extremely sad and sorry for him.