Francisco Jose - Three Filipino Women

It began to drizzle; waiting for her in the rain-washed station, these thoughts rankled again. Then it was eight and still no bus. I began to wonder, a clamminess in my hands even as I crossed my fingers. Had the bus fallen off one of those ravines? Had she taken it at all? Other buses arrived, their headlights bright on the pavement, disgorging their passengers into the night. One finally drew in. I saw her as she came down, trim in her blue jeans and white silk blouse, her plastic high-heeled shoes gleaming momentarily in the glare of headlights. She held on to me with the cozy familiarity of a wife and we walked to the Pines close by. She just had an overnight bag which contained an extra pair of jeans, a couple of T-shirts and over her shoulder, a brown leatherette jacket.

I was going to take her first to the coffee shop so she could have something warm in her stomach but she said she was full, she had eaten a sandwich in Tarlac and wanted to go to bed immediately because she was tired.

The room had twin beds. I was not too sure that she would want to share a wider bed because I snored, but she would have none of that so I pushed the two beds together. Then she said: “Don’t leave me alone. I am afraid.”

I thought she was just making a professional gesture, a commercial caress, but she added quickly that she could get into a panic in this strange room if left alone. Even as she spoke, she started to breathe heavily. I wondered if she was doing this to turn me into manageable putty in her hands, if there was some reason in her clever mind that I did not know or could not know. I was quite alarmed when she said that if she fainted or went into hysteria, I should give her a glass of water immediately. I held her close, felt her body tremble.

It was sometime before she really calmed down. But by then, she had become sullen. She went to the bathroom and then came out in her pajamas, her breasts showing through the transparent blouse. She sat on the edge of the bed, and did not move. I went to her and explained that I just did not know how to react to her. She just sat there, motionless, a block of wood. Then she turned, a smile breaking on her face, and kissed me.

It was our first and I let it pass like a whiff of wind upon a desert.

“Roly, please don’t think I am trying to be difficult,” she said after a while. “But I am like this — when I am angry, or very sad, or very frightened. I remember, when I was a child, I’d just keep silent when I was angry — and then, everything would turn black. Even now, at home, my family pampers me and everyone tries to protect me. Still, it sometimes happens — and then when I become conscious again, I realize that someone has bitten my thumb to revive me. My thumb would hurt after that. But what can I do? Will you remember that?”

“The world is too much with you,” I said. “I will keep problems away from you … if I can. But remember this: We cannot run away. We have to face them sometime. To live with ourselves …”

She lay beside me, her breathing now quiet and slow, and as she kissed me again on the cheek, somehow, I could not quite forget that I was just another hunk of flesh, no different from all the others who had loved her. I was determined to hold back, not because I did not want to spend the three thousand pesos — she had consented to come and that in itself was a binding contract. But by not possessing her, this was the only way I would be different; I was going to transcend the act which had, to her, become a common-place thing. It was difficult, of course. I desired her, this union, this fullest expression of affection. But what would it do for me?

I recalled a massage parlor attendant I had interviewed much earlier; she was building a house somewhere in Pasay and the house was not yet finished. Looking at the windows that lacked shutters, at the kitchen that still had to be tiled, she had told me that she wondered aloud how many more men she would serve before her house would be finished. I was not going to be either a tile or a shutter in her restaurant. I wanted Ermi to remember me as a man who loved her not with his money, of which I had little, but with his heart.

Perhaps it was masochism as well. I asked her to tell me about the lovers she remembered best and she started talking breezily about them. There was one customer she pitied afterwards for he had spent a sizable sum on her. His wife had hired a detective to trail him and succeeded in producing some photographs of Ermi getting into his car. The wife knew where they usually met and she went there ahead of her husband and talked with her, begged her rather to set him free. “Which I did,” Ermi said proudly, “but only because his wife was so nice and decent about it all …”

By midnight, we had not yet made love. Her head nestled in the crook of my arm and the warmth of her nearness drugged me into blissful silence. Then she said it, without warning, without the pretense that must have always accompanied her behavior with men. “I am so unhappy, Roly. Sometimes, I just sit by myself, wondering how I got into this …”

I gazed at the lustrous eyes, the finely molded face, the lips slightly parted. I never knew her as she was now, the belligerence drained from her, the mask finally torn away. At last she was herself, insecure and, I think, wracked by feelings of guilt. She was being honest with me the way I was always honest with her. I had told her of my unhappy childhood, which I never told anyone, the detestable things I had to do to make a comfortable living. I had also told her that if she could not love me, she could, at least, trust me. Did she trust me now? And why should she when I was a man of words? When I had used words as a veneer — shiny and brimming with guile — while underneath them was the dark intent?

I wanted to comfort her, to let her know that if all others would condemn her, I would not.

I had never expected a moment like this when it would come easily to me, the capacity to give shape to this seeking. I uttered the words hoarsely, surprised that I said them at all, that I meant them, that this woman whose body belonged to everyone who could afford it would now be the object of my faith.

“Ermi, I love you.”

I was sincere and knowing this sent a cold chill to my marrow. What has happened to me? Had I, in this one moment, forgotten what she was?

She did not stir; she seemed lost in some limbo.

“Ermi, I love you.”

She sighed. She had heard the words all too often and they must have lost their meaning. Turning, she kissed me on the chin. The gloom in her face vanished and in its place, this glow of contentment. Somehow, I had succeeded.

“ Bola ,” she said, smiling.

“With your experience, you know it is not bull. ”

She did not speak for some time. “I have never loved anyone,” she said finally.

“I don’t expect anything from you,” I said. It would be that way. “I am not young anymore. I am not rich, I cannot give you anything. I am not handsome …”

“I was never impressed by handsome men,” she said pinching my shoulder. It had become a habit with her and though it hurt a bit, I let her.

“All that I am, all that I can give — it’s like rain fallen on stone.”

She did not understand, she asked me to explain.

“Rain which falls on the ground, on the parched earth, brings life. The seeds grow into plants, into harvests. But not rain which falls on stone. Nothing grows on it.”

She kissed me again, a wet kiss and I wondered about all the men to whom she had given that token of affection.

“You are my precious piece of rock,” I said. “But have you heard of the Chinese water torture?”

She was now an avid listener. “No, tell me.”

“Well, water has power, too. The Grand Canyon — you must have also seen those seashores with the stone cut and polished by the constant battering of waves. Erosion. Right on Kennon Road — those big rocks cut by water …”