(UNTITLED)
Entry No. 3
Salvatore Narvaez did not wish to see his youngest son set out to sea, if not for the grave consequences that befall the young lad if he would stay, or to the danger of a life being constantly pursued, where one’s freedom is limited and has to turn his head every once in a while to guard against those who wish him harm. No, he reasoned, as he tried to search for another way. But they were poor. Hard enough as it was to be consumed by poverty, harder it was to be the subject of a cruelty designated between the impoverished and the rich. He could not blame Francisco, whose youth exhibited all the markings of an idealist, and the subterfuge offered by being young – invincibility – which made them feel safe from the aftermath of their folly. Neither could he blame Amelia, for she, too, can be considered a victim. Indeed, her deep blue eyes sparkled with the tears running down her cheeks when he and his son saw her, knowing that a simple glance could mean goodbye, and that love is not what it often seems to be, a package handed on one’s lap, a mystery that could never be fully comprehended.
There had been two attempts on the life of Francisco, both he narrowly escaped. If there’s one thing that Salvatore should be thankful for, it was the fact that his son was still alive. One fine morning, while the former was delivering candles that they made, two men charged at Francisco with daggers waiting to be plunged. If not for the quick response of the neighborhood, who quickly hid him at one of their cellars, the candles Francisco would deliver would have been lighted on his grave. After learning of the incident, Francisco confessed to his father why those men have tried to slain him.
It was on one of those long walks toward the market in Barcelona that Francisco caught sight of the most beautiful creature he saw. Standing by the window of her room, Amelia, who just came back from Paris with her father, tended to a pot of rose waiting to bloom. Like a child mystified by a sight he never saw before, for a moment he felt that he could not breathe freely, stop dead, suspended on where he stood. When the young lady looked out and saw him, she gave him light smile – the kind of smile that greets an early morning – and continued with what she was doing. Francisco looked around him, then behind him. He could not believe that an angel would take notice of his existence, furthermore, endow him with the sweetest smile he could remember. He slightly waved his hand and Amelia covered her mouth to laugh, such fine intricacy it was among women, able to wield even the movements of their body to define and redefine man’s concept of beauty. Then suddenly, an old man appeared behind her and motioned her to close the window.
For the cautious, boldness is a form of stupidity, cloaked in disguise of bravery - and passion, it’s biggest accomplice. Even before the sun was up, Francisco would pick roses and stealthily climb beneath Amelia’s window. Later, he would pass the same street as if nothing had happened, take a glimpse on where he left his precious flowers, and smile at Amelia if chance would permit. This he did for one week. Then one day, while climbing the low fence to submit his offering, a letter was tied to a string hanging on the pot of rose. It was addressed to “The Rose Bearer.” Quickly, he read the note and it said, “Meet me tonight at one in the morning. And thank you for the roses.”
Needless to say, Francisco did not sleep while waiting for the passing of midnight. Twice, he scrubbed his body with water and scented oil. With heavy steps denoting excitement and nervousness, he made his way to Amelia’s house. She was waiting for him.
“Thank you for the lovely roses,” Amelia, in a low voice, said while she smiled. “I knew it was you.”
He could not speak a word. It was as if everything stood motionless, and that fraction of a second seemed like forever. If moments could be seized and held within one’s hand, he would have kept this instant on his pocket, free from the harm of the outside world, and that certainty which is change. They say that love could be fathomed in different degrees, and the wise when confronted with it could not be as wise as an imbecile, but when their eyes locked in a trance, Cupid with his folly must have felt no responsibility. The choices we make are ours alone; Francisco and Amelia did not see any distance, for love they say is blind, blind enough to see what other senses have failed to decipher.
Apr 26, 2003
Apr 7, 2003
(UNTITLED)
Entry No. 2
Little by little, piece by piece, like teardrops forming a downpour. Father Narvaez, with his right leg still buried on the ground, laid back on the soil and fervently tried to put things in perspective. It was not because he felt weak, neither does the weight of the world seem to hang on him. What grew heavy in his heart was the fact that it seemed that all things are either blown by the wind, or that life is like a leaf - slowly descending from a great big tree - from its birth then falling to the ground. Soon it would be forgotten, and all markings that would be left is a single twig, where once it tried to feed the caterpillars, and gave shade to numerous little insects. It was a full moon that night. The mango tree seemed to be silent, as if paying reverence to Luna, unnerved by an intruder beneath its branches. Scanning the fruits that would soon be ready by May, Father Narvaez grew accustomed to the grasshoppers singing their serenade, and to the chirping of the kulisap, which seemed to last from dusk ‘til dawn. But tonight was different. A strange kind of silence emanated all around him, like the sound he heard during a solitary meditation in Rome. It was not an eerie sound – unsetlling maybe, but never fearful - a silence encased in a strange melancholy. A silence that was so loud he could practically hear it screaming on his head.
He then chanced upon a spider, slowly weaving upon its web. Nestled high, secured from the torrents of the rain, the spider was unmindful of the curious eye staring at it as if it was a novelty, something to help the priest contemplate on his musings. He noticed that the moon was slowly moving, right above the web, just like it does on a total lunar eclipse. He noticed too, the changing of the color of the moon. From a bright whitish yellow, from the illusion produced by the movement of the earth, and from the spider’s web clinging on a branch, the moon seemed to be turning into a red round plump tomato, almost ripe, yet not in its fullness. “The moon is a big red tomato,” he grinned.
Staring at the moon right above the spider’s web, Father Narvaez had let his mind be drowned by the flashbacks of his life slowly turning into crystals. “Maybe Death is grinning upon me,” he thought. Right there and then, he embarked on a journey that was his past. He should have taken it as a sign, a premonition of some sort, the conversation he had with Father Damaso, and the latter’s complaint of the barbaric ways of the indio, or his distrust upon a Filipino priest like him. Indeed, the execution of Father Mariano Gomez, Father Jose Burgos and Father Jacinto Zamora at the province of Cavite made evident the deep animosity between colonialists and natives, even among the servants of God. The fat Spanish priest who served San Diego for twenty years did not bother to say it on his back, instead, like a whiplash he declared, “I bet that you - Father Salvador Narvaez , that you would not last for five years without being corrupted by the indios - and all the things the Holy Church has taught you, would be burned down into ashes. Everything is bound to happen. Lintek! Mother Spain’s effort to civilize you and your people is just a waste of time.” Those words left a vile taste in his mouth.
Now that he was beginning to think about it, he also remembered how Mang Turino, Father Salvi’s gardener, warned him that the latter was not in a good mood when he stopped by San Diego’s church. The slightly thin priest with a crooked nose was to assign him to a parish that needed his assistance.
“Good morning,” he said in tagalog, alighting a coach, looking at the gardener trimming a sampaguita bush on the garden at the back of the church.
“Good morning po,” Mang Turino bowed his head.
“Is Father Salvi in?” he inquired.
“Yes he is Father,” the gardener replied while staring at his slightly brown skin. “But I wouldn’t go in there if I were you just yet.”
Father Narvaez was curious.
“Well, humbly speaking Father, I know things. Maybe it would be better if you go back at noon, right after Father Salvi has taken his siesta.”
“Why is that?”
“This morning, as soon as the morning prayers were said, and the church bells were tolled, Father Salvi shouted angrily at the sakristan mayor and asked for tsokolate-a.”
“And what’s wrong with that?” he asked.
“Tsokolate-e would mean a light cocoa drink. Tsokolate-a would mean a strong, thick cocoa drink. And that makes the difference.”
Father Narvaez gave a soft laugh and dismissed the gardener. He continued to walk towards Father Salvi’s parochial residence.
That was a turning point in his life, that by some sort of scheme, he was thrown to a farming village called Malamig, where he now lay - taking a journey that started at the outskirts of Barcelona - while looking at the sky beneath the spider’s web, and the moon was red, looking like a plump round tomato.
Entry No. 2
Little by little, piece by piece, like teardrops forming a downpour. Father Narvaez, with his right leg still buried on the ground, laid back on the soil and fervently tried to put things in perspective. It was not because he felt weak, neither does the weight of the world seem to hang on him. What grew heavy in his heart was the fact that it seemed that all things are either blown by the wind, or that life is like a leaf - slowly descending from a great big tree - from its birth then falling to the ground. Soon it would be forgotten, and all markings that would be left is a single twig, where once it tried to feed the caterpillars, and gave shade to numerous little insects. It was a full moon that night. The mango tree seemed to be silent, as if paying reverence to Luna, unnerved by an intruder beneath its branches. Scanning the fruits that would soon be ready by May, Father Narvaez grew accustomed to the grasshoppers singing their serenade, and to the chirping of the kulisap, which seemed to last from dusk ‘til dawn. But tonight was different. A strange kind of silence emanated all around him, like the sound he heard during a solitary meditation in Rome. It was not an eerie sound – unsetlling maybe, but never fearful - a silence encased in a strange melancholy. A silence that was so loud he could practically hear it screaming on his head.
He then chanced upon a spider, slowly weaving upon its web. Nestled high, secured from the torrents of the rain, the spider was unmindful of the curious eye staring at it as if it was a novelty, something to help the priest contemplate on his musings. He noticed that the moon was slowly moving, right above the web, just like it does on a total lunar eclipse. He noticed too, the changing of the color of the moon. From a bright whitish yellow, from the illusion produced by the movement of the earth, and from the spider’s web clinging on a branch, the moon seemed to be turning into a red round plump tomato, almost ripe, yet not in its fullness. “The moon is a big red tomato,” he grinned.
Staring at the moon right above the spider’s web, Father Narvaez had let his mind be drowned by the flashbacks of his life slowly turning into crystals. “Maybe Death is grinning upon me,” he thought. Right there and then, he embarked on a journey that was his past. He should have taken it as a sign, a premonition of some sort, the conversation he had with Father Damaso, and the latter’s complaint of the barbaric ways of the indio, or his distrust upon a Filipino priest like him. Indeed, the execution of Father Mariano Gomez, Father Jose Burgos and Father Jacinto Zamora at the province of Cavite made evident the deep animosity between colonialists and natives, even among the servants of God. The fat Spanish priest who served San Diego for twenty years did not bother to say it on his back, instead, like a whiplash he declared, “I bet that you - Father Salvador Narvaez , that you would not last for five years without being corrupted by the indios - and all the things the Holy Church has taught you, would be burned down into ashes. Everything is bound to happen. Lintek! Mother Spain’s effort to civilize you and your people is just a waste of time.” Those words left a vile taste in his mouth.
Now that he was beginning to think about it, he also remembered how Mang Turino, Father Salvi’s gardener, warned him that the latter was not in a good mood when he stopped by San Diego’s church. The slightly thin priest with a crooked nose was to assign him to a parish that needed his assistance.
“Good morning,” he said in tagalog, alighting a coach, looking at the gardener trimming a sampaguita bush on the garden at the back of the church.
“Good morning po,” Mang Turino bowed his head.
“Is Father Salvi in?” he inquired.
“Yes he is Father,” the gardener replied while staring at his slightly brown skin. “But I wouldn’t go in there if I were you just yet.”
Father Narvaez was curious.
“Well, humbly speaking Father, I know things. Maybe it would be better if you go back at noon, right after Father Salvi has taken his siesta.”
“Why is that?”
“This morning, as soon as the morning prayers were said, and the church bells were tolled, Father Salvi shouted angrily at the sakristan mayor and asked for tsokolate-a.”
“And what’s wrong with that?” he asked.
“Tsokolate-e would mean a light cocoa drink. Tsokolate-a would mean a strong, thick cocoa drink. And that makes the difference.”
Father Narvaez gave a soft laugh and dismissed the gardener. He continued to walk towards Father Salvi’s parochial residence.
That was a turning point in his life, that by some sort of scheme, he was thrown to a farming village called Malamig, where he now lay - taking a journey that started at the outskirts of Barcelona - while looking at the sky beneath the spider’s web, and the moon was red, looking like a plump round tomato.
Apr 4, 2003
(UNTITLED)
Entry No. 1
When Father Narvaez accepted his fate at the hands of the gentlest people he knew, he reasoned that time, faith and destiny are crossbreeds - locked up in an eternal entanglement to say which conquers which, and to whom man must pay tribute. He would remember clearly how his father, Don Juan Narvaez, told him years ago, while the former was lying on his deathbed, that there are very few instances when one could see clearly, like crystals shining from a distance, the flashback of ones life. You see it on the face of your newborn child, a memory that one would forever keep. And on moments when Death pays you a visit, with a serene solemnity that touches your bone with a coldness freezing than a damp December morning, and still has the courtesy to smile at you and say that you have been given the privilege to wait for the final blow of his reaper. And on instances like this, as Father Narvaez murmured though no one could hear him, when hope was all that he could ever hope for, and that solitude was no more than a discipline he was beginning to get acquainted with.
He closed his eyes for a while, trying to remember what it felt like to run against the wind. He knew he might never do that again. With his right leg, the stronger leg he has, buried from below the knee to the ground, he felt pain reserved only for the dead. He recalled the English poet Shakespeare, and how he said on Sonnet 71 how vile this world was, with vilest worms do dwell. He sensed strange sensations, like tiny needles pricking on his flesh. He could not move. Immobile from the punishment he volunteered for, the only freedom he had was to think and to let his mind wander. But even that could be exhausting, more tiring than a hard day’s of work tending vegetables and fruit trees. During his days at the seminary, he figured that the best way not to sleep, is to try with all your might to sleep instantly. On nights like this described herein, when the world does not rest because of the anguish of those who can’t sleep, Father Narvaez have had recited all the prayers he could think of, memorized by his heart, seeking redemption on every discontent the mind could offer. But the mind has strange ways of bringing up memories, memories of the things we seek to bury on the fragments of our imaginations.
He had been provided shade under a large mango tree - it was to be his shelter for the remaining two weeks - a privilege not given to other offenders. But his was a special case. The town of Malamig and its inhabitants were torn on the issue of punishing Father Narvaez. Some were begging for mercy while others were strict on their resolve. The elders were adamant on the belief that they hold, the same faith they see as their aegis against any harm brought from the outside. In the end, Ka Bianong, the eldest and the wisest in Malamig, the same person Father Narvaez spent countless moments talking with, drinking strong coffee with, and helped the former take care of his beloved cabbage patches, said in audible whispers so that the rest could hear: “Let the priest decide his fate. He could leave Malamig in peace, or he could suffer two months fused on the grounds we dwell.”
He was taken to the nipa hut the villagers renovated for him when they were convinced that he had no plans of leaving their town. They explained the details of his options. For him, it was a long and arduous journey. Two years to be exact, only to fall back to scratches, only to try to rebuilt the trust he had earned at the hands of the hard-working people he grew fond of, and only to see for himself that faith could never be thrust on the throats of those whose religion is tied up to their own survival. He could have packed his things and rode a horse towards Lilio, Laguna, or Majayjay, or Magdalena. Instead, he sorted the things he would need. His mind was made-up. He would try to do what Christ did to the people of Israel. By the time the sun was perching itself on a clear sky that was that morning, Father Narvaez had already dug two feet on the secluded grounds where the largest squash could be seen, the reddest tomato could be admired, and every imaginable vegetable that the ground would permit to grow could be looked upon in all its glory. With his right leg buried to the ground, secured and not able to move the slightest bit, that was to be the partial tombstone that Father Narvaez had chosen to commit.
Entry No. 1
When Father Narvaez accepted his fate at the hands of the gentlest people he knew, he reasoned that time, faith and destiny are crossbreeds - locked up in an eternal entanglement to say which conquers which, and to whom man must pay tribute. He would remember clearly how his father, Don Juan Narvaez, told him years ago, while the former was lying on his deathbed, that there are very few instances when one could see clearly, like crystals shining from a distance, the flashback of ones life. You see it on the face of your newborn child, a memory that one would forever keep. And on moments when Death pays you a visit, with a serene solemnity that touches your bone with a coldness freezing than a damp December morning, and still has the courtesy to smile at you and say that you have been given the privilege to wait for the final blow of his reaper. And on instances like this, as Father Narvaez murmured though no one could hear him, when hope was all that he could ever hope for, and that solitude was no more than a discipline he was beginning to get acquainted with.
He closed his eyes for a while, trying to remember what it felt like to run against the wind. He knew he might never do that again. With his right leg, the stronger leg he has, buried from below the knee to the ground, he felt pain reserved only for the dead. He recalled the English poet Shakespeare, and how he said on Sonnet 71 how vile this world was, with vilest worms do dwell. He sensed strange sensations, like tiny needles pricking on his flesh. He could not move. Immobile from the punishment he volunteered for, the only freedom he had was to think and to let his mind wander. But even that could be exhausting, more tiring than a hard day’s of work tending vegetables and fruit trees. During his days at the seminary, he figured that the best way not to sleep, is to try with all your might to sleep instantly. On nights like this described herein, when the world does not rest because of the anguish of those who can’t sleep, Father Narvaez have had recited all the prayers he could think of, memorized by his heart, seeking redemption on every discontent the mind could offer. But the mind has strange ways of bringing up memories, memories of the things we seek to bury on the fragments of our imaginations.
He had been provided shade under a large mango tree - it was to be his shelter for the remaining two weeks - a privilege not given to other offenders. But his was a special case. The town of Malamig and its inhabitants were torn on the issue of punishing Father Narvaez. Some were begging for mercy while others were strict on their resolve. The elders were adamant on the belief that they hold, the same faith they see as their aegis against any harm brought from the outside. In the end, Ka Bianong, the eldest and the wisest in Malamig, the same person Father Narvaez spent countless moments talking with, drinking strong coffee with, and helped the former take care of his beloved cabbage patches, said in audible whispers so that the rest could hear: “Let the priest decide his fate. He could leave Malamig in peace, or he could suffer two months fused on the grounds we dwell.”
He was taken to the nipa hut the villagers renovated for him when they were convinced that he had no plans of leaving their town. They explained the details of his options. For him, it was a long and arduous journey. Two years to be exact, only to fall back to scratches, only to try to rebuilt the trust he had earned at the hands of the hard-working people he grew fond of, and only to see for himself that faith could never be thrust on the throats of those whose religion is tied up to their own survival. He could have packed his things and rode a horse towards Lilio, Laguna, or Majayjay, or Magdalena. Instead, he sorted the things he would need. His mind was made-up. He would try to do what Christ did to the people of Israel. By the time the sun was perching itself on a clear sky that was that morning, Father Narvaez had already dug two feet on the secluded grounds where the largest squash could be seen, the reddest tomato could be admired, and every imaginable vegetable that the ground would permit to grow could be looked upon in all its glory. With his right leg buried to the ground, secured and not able to move the slightest bit, that was to be the partial tombstone that Father Narvaez had chosen to commit.
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