Francisco Jose - Three Filipino Women

“The Chinese water torture, does it operate on the same principle?”

“They strap a man to a seat and directly above him there is this pail of water with a tiny hole. Water drips slowly, drop by drop, on the man’s head, on the same spot …”

“It would take ages for that kind of water to break his skull,” she said.

“It is not that way,” I explained. “The drops come slowly, they make a sound inside the man’s brain. He waits for them. Waiting is agony, and when the next drop comes, it is an explosion which gets louder, louder, louder. He is driven insane …”

“Is that what you will do to me?”

“This does not work on stone,” I said.

She was surprised, of course, when I really refused to touch her.

For a moment, perhaps she suspected that I was impotent had she not felt a stirring in my loins when her hand had wandered there. I assured her I would not cheat her of her money and she laughed at this. Then turning on her side, she was soon breathing deeply, and then she snored, too, lightly.

The mountain cold seeped through the shuttered windows and she snuggled closer. Through stretches of wakefulness, I watched her face in repose; looking at her quiet in sleep, I felt all desire ebb away and in its place this ineffable tenderness. I wanted to enfold her, to shield her from the ignominy that we both knew. I had never experienced this feeling before; it warmed me, filled me with wonder, a strength to do anything to give her joy, to protect her — yes, except how could I protect her from herself?

Once during the night, she roused me with her mumbling. She was moaning softly. I woke her up. “Ermi, is something the matter?”

Her eyes opened and they were frightened. Her arms shot up as if to defend herself and she said aloud, “Don’t — don’t!” then she realized that it was me.

“I was having a bad dream,” she said, her arms now tight around me. “I feel so weak …” For some time, she just lay beside me breathing softly, her eyelids fluttering. I held her hand and found her pulse beating very fast. “I am all right,” she assured me. “I was being pushed off a cliff — and I was fighting back.”

It was almost daybreak, mayas were chirping on the sill outside, and she slept a little more. The best time to look at a woman, to find the truth about her inner beauty, is in the morning when she wakes up. Ermi’s face, even with the wash of sleep, was appealing in its simplicity.

We breakfasted in our room — fried rice, eggs, ham, coffee and a slice of papaya. Then we went out to buy her a pair of walking shoes. Her high heels were not made for the inclines of Baguio. She bought a bunch of bananas — their skins clear yellow and untarnished. “They are so pretty,” she said. “I will just look at them first.” I also bought her a rattan shoulder bag. After the market we did Mines View Park, Burnham, the souvenir shops. I took pictures of her all the way but she insisted that I give her the film when the roll was finished, which I did.

There was a carnival on the grounds of the Pines and we lingered there on our last night. It was brightly lit, throbbing with music, but there were so few people, it was pathetic. It was, after all, the last days of the dry season and Baguio would soon be bereft of vacationing crowds. She tried her hand at the darts and then at a shooting gallery and was rewarded with two small packets of mentholated candy. Above us, the Ferris wheel was still but there were people at the roller coaster which had started and was soon clattering noisily above us. “I am scared of that,” she said. “In Manila, when I first took a ride in it, I screamed and ordered it stopped …”

We talked again till past midnight. I was now sure that it was I who was in a roller coaster, that there was no stopping the ride, and that in the end, it would not ease down but zoom up instead into that gray, terrifying space from where there can be no returning.

She was in my arms again, her hair upon my face. She always turned away after a prolonged kiss and I suspected it was my breath she did not like. This time, I held her face and probed her mouth. She did not open it.

“For whom are you reserving it?” I asked.

“You are too much,” she said, sticking out her tongue at last. The taste was of honey salt. “There,” she said. I looked at her eyes that had dredged from me my deepest secrets, my regard for myself and I realized that with her, I was shorn of armor and shield. I did not know till then how vulnerable I had become and I was afraid lest she take advantage of me.

We had begun, surely there must be an ending as well. “Ermi,” I said softly, “please don’t make a plaything out of me. Should there come a time very soon when you don’t want to see me anymore, just say so. I will stay away.”

“What are you saying?” she asked.

“With you, I have no pride,” I said. “It seems as if I had given you a knife and said, kill me. If that time comes, please make it swift.”

“This is all very melodramatic,” she said. “But it never entered my mind.”

I bent over and kissed the line of her neck, her breasts.

“Thank you,” I murmured.

“What for?”

“For being kind.”

“That is not difficult to do,” she said. “Now, shall we make love?”

I looked lingeringly at her. I shook my head.

She raised herself on her elbows, hugged me and whispered, “Thank you.”

After breakfast in our room, I got her bag from the dresser and placed the envelope in it. “What is that?” she asked.

“My contribution to your restaurant.”

She took the envelope and gave it back. “But we didn’t do it,” she said. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“But I do,” I insisted. “You gave me two nights.”

“I had free lodging. I did some sight-seeing and had one of the most engaging conversations in my life. No, you don’t have to give me anything.”

“If I did not do it, it was not your fault.”

She grinned and pinched me. “All right then,” she said, “if you want your guilt feelings eased.” She tore the envelope open, picked out a few hundred pesos bills without counting them, and placed them in her bag.

My first meeting was to be in the evening. There was time for me to go to Manila with her then return to Baguio.

“You don’t have to. It is such a tedious trip.”

“I want this suffering,” I said, shushing her.

We sat together in the bus and on occasion, her hand would rest on my thigh or she would hold my hand as we talked. As in the night when she arrived, the first rains of May were upon the land. They came in sheets over the plains of Pangasinan that had started to green. “See what rain does to a land that is parched,” I said.

She pressed my hand.

“You make plants grow,” I said. “When your gate opened, I caught a glimpse of your lawn — the plants looked very healthy.”

“I love gardening,” she said.

I remembered the people in her house. “Who are those living with you? Relatives?”

She shook her head. “A driver and his family …”

“But you have no car.”

She smiled again. “No, he stopped driving a long time ago. He is old now. His wife and children — and grandchildren …”

“And you are not related?”

“Not blood relations, but something more real. And there is a girl. She was like me, you know. But she became a drug addict. She has a daughter and she cannot work anymore. She has lost her looks, you know what I mean.”

“And you work for them?”

She did not speak. “They are my family,” she said simply.

“You are a good girl, Ermi.”

“Flattery will get you somewhere,” she said.