My heart and mind are focused on the victims of the super typhoon, Haiyan, that recently devastated the Philippines.
I'm sharing with you an excerpt from my novel, Magdalena, entitled Typhoon (1912). This is a work of fiction.
I'm also sharing my article that appeared in CNN.com, Childhood in the Path of Typhoons.
Please include the victims of Haiyan in your prayers.
Cecilia
~~~
TYPHOON (1912)
It was still dark when
the sound of shattering glass cut through his deep sleep. Nestor held his
breath at the sharp, splintering crash, and he turned his head toward the bedroom
door and listened through the rain and wind for more noise. There were footsteps
then the muffled voices of people. He wondered about the commotion and
speculated these had something to do with last night’s events.
Last night, the storm
had not raged as violently as it now did. The wind had not howled as loudly
through the pines and coconut trees. It had been different last night. Things
had been all right yesterday, unlike this cold, dark, early morning. He could
sense the change, smell the moisture in the air, feel the prickling tension as
people padded back and forth and the house strained against the wind and
lashing rain that fell in hard rapping sounds on the rooftiles.
He and and his
brother had misbehaved; there was no doubt about that. Their father Jose had
spanked them; their mother April had screamed at them; and worse, Yaya Taying
cried and refused to talk to them, would not hold them in her arms, would not
kiss them.
He felt like crying
but did not want people angry again. Crying was something Junior often did; but
it was not his way; and so he tugged at the end of his blanket and began to
suck on it. He waited, hoping his yaya would open the bedroom door and sail in
to pick him up from his crib, rescue him from this newness that confronted him.
He wanted her to press him against her as she usually did, and to kiss him and
promise things would be as they had always been. But the only sound that
greeted him was a tree branch scraping the side of the house menacingly. The
creaking of the house grew louder as if the house would fall apart, like the
houses of blocks that he and Junior often built. He lay still for a long time,
breathing in the unfamiliar wetness that clung to the insides of his nostrils
and made him chilly.
Finally, he sat up
because his diapers were wet and terribly uncomfortable. He peered through his
crib’s bars at the bed of Junior, who was sleeping soundly. Junior had had a fit
last night and had fallen asleep late, thoroughly exhausted. Everyone had been
so upset; last night, things had been terrible.
Nestor scrambled up
and out the crib. Barefoot and cold, he ran out the room and down the hall and
stairs. He paused by the music room. Morning light had filtered in and he could
see that a window was boarded up. Rags were scattered on the floor to soak up
the water that had gushed in through the window.
He glanced at the
piano stool and shivered. Last night his parents had an important visitor over
for dinner. To keep him and Junior out of the grownups’ way, Yaya Taying had
entertained him and Junior in the music room.
During suppertime,
Nestor became fussy, and he went to Taying and asked to “titi.” Taying sat on
the piano stool and picked him up. She lifted her blouse to give him her breast
and Nestor began suckling. Junior, who had been playing with model soldiers,
saw them. He dropped his toys, joined them and said he also wanted to “titi.”
Taying shook her head. “You’re too big, no.”
Junior took a deep
breath until his face turned red, and then he screamed.
“Ssshhh, don’t cry! Your parents
will get angry. We have an important visitor,” Taying begged.
Junior howled louder,
as if in agony.
Giving in, Taying
gestured for Junior to come near her and she allowed the older boy to take her
other breast into his mouth. For a few seconds the two boys suckled contentedly
until it entered Junior’s mind to pull away from Taying’s nipple. Very quickly,
he pointed the yaya’s nipple toward Nestor, then he squeezed so that milk
squirted all over the younger brother’s face. The feel of warm milk spraying
his face surprised Nestor, and he pulled away from Taying’s breast. His eyes
lit up when he realized what his brother was doing. Imitating his older
brother, he squeezed his yaya’s nipple. The two boys played with her breasts,
as if they were playing with water pistols.
Taying was distraught
but did not know what to do. She considered spanking the boys, but their cries
would only get her in trouble. The best she could do was beg them to please
stop, that what they were doing wasn’t nice.
Disregarding her weak
pleas, the boys kept up the game, that is until the visitor, who was the
Chairman of the Board of Ubec’s Electric Company, wandered into the music room
from the living room, paused in front of the three and bellowed: “What have you
here, Jose? Two calves?”
Jose Hernandez, who
had been smoking his pipe in the living room, got up to investigate. Even
though Taying had pulled her blouse down, he got enough of the picture to
understand what had gone on. He gave the two boys two hard swats on their
bottoms and exiled them to the kitchen.
April soon appeared
in the kitchen, whitefaced, livid. She had tried hard to impress their visitor;
she had used her Wedgewood China, her sterling service; she had culled up all
her Manila sophistication, and here her two boys and their yaya made them
appear like provincial hicks, something she had wanted desperately to avoid.
She took it out on
Taying. “What do you think you were doing, right in front of our visitor? Don’t
you know better than to nurse those two boys in public, like lowclass people,
that’s what it looks like, just like those ignorant women breast-feeding their
babies in buses? And besides, these boys are too old to be breast-feeding;
don’t you know any better than to wean them once and for all? I didn’t hire you
just to sit around doing nothing. You’re supposed to take care of those
children!”
“I have been trying,
señora, but the boys cry.”
“Well, do something
about it or else you’ll have to leave!” April shouted.
That was what had
happened last night, and this cold, early morning, he hurried to the dirty
kitchen to look for Yaya Taying. He wanted to erase last night, to make
everything all right once again.
His head barely
touched the top of the rough-hewn table. He looked up and around the room. Two
maids scampered here and there, shutting all the windows and doors from the
heavy rain. The cook was bent over the hearth, digging out yesterday’s burning
embers from under the ashes, then blowing back life to them. Very carefully,
she piled crumpled paper and firewood on top of the glowing embers. He continued
scanning the room until at last he spotted Taying. She was there; she had not
left after all. She was standing in front of an ironing board, pressing an
enormous, billowy white sheet. He chortled.
Upon hearing him,
everyone paused and the cook said: “Why are you walking around barefoot? You’ll
get worms.” She whisked him up and carried him to where his Yaya Taying was.
Yaya Taying did not
smile as he expected her to; she simply placed the iron down and lifted him.
“You’re awake,” she
said, holding him up to scrutinize him. “And wet. Come, let’s change you.”
Unceremoniously, she plopped him down on the bench and proceeded to change his
diaper.
He tugged at her
skirt, wanting for her to lift her blouse and offer him her breast. Instead,
she shook her head. “I’ll fix you milk.”
She went to the
cupboard and took out a can of Carnation evaporated milk. She opened this,
poured half the can into an enamel cup, then added water. She stirred in sugar,
and offered him the cup. He sipped the milk, felt the thick liquid coat his throat,
and he swallowed hard its strong flavor.
“It’s good for you.
It will make you grow big and strong, just like a Carnation Baby.” She pointed
at a calendar on the wall with the picture of a fat smiling baby. Sighing in
resignation, he drank the rest of the milk. Maybe it would wash away last
night.
The memory of last
night continued to hover around, even when Taying placed him on the bench near
the rough-hewn table and he watched her chop and mince vegetables on a block of
wood. “When the fire is lit, Lena will fix you and Junior your oatmeal. This is
for lunch. You’ll also have liver. I’ll chop it up, add ketchup if necessary.
It’s big-boy food,” she said.
She did not sound
happy, and so he sat quietly, somberly.
Taying was a woman in
her mid-twenties. She was small in build, with a round face and two deep
dimples on her cheeks. Her long hair was anchored at her nape with a
tortoise-shell comb. She had a quiet, pleasant demeanor, and even when Junior
hit her during his tantrums, she would calmly say, “No, Junior, don’t hurt
people.”
She was the mother of
Carding, who was two years older than Junior. She had been hired as Junior’s
wet-nurse shortly after April gave birth to Junior, and she had breastfed
Carding and Junior simultaneously. When Nestor was born, Taying weaned Carding,
so she could continue breast-feeding her employer’s two children — Junior and
Nestor. For all practical purposes, she served as the boys’ mother. In many
ways, she was closer to them than to her own son, Carding, who had been
dispatched to her hometown of Lozada to be raised by her mother after he was
weaned and it became impossible for Taying to take care of three boys.
Nestor sat observing
the woman who was closest to him, while outside the rain slanted down, and the
tall trees strained against the winds. He had the sensation that the world had
changed, and the sun would never shine again. It would rain forever. He hated
rain then, hated all that water that washed out of the sky, hated how it seeped
into the house no matter how carefully they bolted all windows and doors, hated
the smell of mushrooms that wafted from damp corners of the house.
Junior was in a
terrible mood when he woke up. He flung the bowl of oatmeal that the cook gave
them. When Taying told him he would have to stay in the kitchen until he ate,
Junior threw himself backwards from the bench and fell head first on the
concrete floor. Junior’s crying was interrupted by Jose’s appearance in the
kitchen. Without saying anything, he picked up Junior from the floor and spanked
him. Junior’s loud crying dissolved into soft sobbing, which persisted even
when Taying fed the two boys one spoonful at a time.
The storm worsened as
the day went on, and it grew darker indoors so that the servants lit some
candles. They were jittery, anxious. They talked about roads flooding and
bridges being washed away. And there was a man, they said, whose head was cut
off by a corrugated metal sheet zipping through the air.
The sense of doom
rooted in the child-Nestor, and he became quiet, as if withdrawing to another
world, as if dislocated from people’s hysteria, and the lightning flashing in
the sky and torrents of rain falling on the roof.
It became worse at
nighttime. Nestor had been dreading it most of all, even before Taying changed
them into their pajamas. He had clung to the hope that this night would be like
any other night, that Taying would lay down with both boys on Junior’s bed. She
would bare her breast to Nestor and she would pat both their backs until the
boys fell asleep. But now, she simply tucked them in, checked the windows and
left. Nestor could not hold himself back and started sobbing. Junior, who had
been crying all day and who was exhausted, rooted around in his bed, then fell
asleep. For a long time Nestor lay still, looking at the wild shadows on the
walls and ceiling. It was cold; it was frightening; and he was all alone. He
felt the darkness, felt as if he were sinking into a deep, deep pit. Then, when
it seemed almost unbearable, the door opened slightly so that candlelight
sprayed into the room. He heard footsteps, then arms lifted him out of the
crib. It was Taying. He began to sob uncontrollably. She set the candle down
and sat on the rocking chair with him in her arms. “Sshhh,” she said, lifting
her blouse to offer him her breast. “Stop your crying, I’m here.” Her right
hand stroked his hair.
He nuzzled his head
against her breast and surrendered to the sensation of warm milk filling his
mouth. With his thumb and forefinger, he played with the silky hair of her
armpits. The feeling of lightness, of traveling upward from the dark pit spread
over him. Most important, he felt the dreaded memory of last night dissolving
in his Yaya Taying’s warm, smoky scent. Everything was all right once again.
~end of novel excerpt~
For more fiction, read also:
Linda Ty Casper's "In Place of Trees"
Talking About the Woman in Cholon
Old Man, by Brian Ascalon Roley
Linda Ty Casper's "In Place of Trees"
Talking About the Woman in Cholon
Old Man, by Brian Ascalon Roley
1943: Tiya Octavia
Read also:
The Importance of Keeping a Journal and My Pink Lock and Key Diary
The Importance of Sensual Writing
Vintage pictures that help me write my novel - Paris, Barcelona, Ubec
How to Write a Novel #1
How to Write a Novel #2
All for now,
Cecilia
Read also:
The Importance of Keeping a Journal and My Pink Lock and Key Diary
The Importance of Sensual Writing
Vintage pictures that help me write my novel - Paris, Barcelona, Ubec
How to Write a Novel #1
How to Write a Novel #2
All for now,
Cecilia
tags: Philippines, Philippine, Filipino, fiction, literature, fiction, novel, book, author, writer, typhoon
No comments:
Post a Comment