Fifties

By B.S. Medina Jr.

A collection of short stories by B.S. Medina Jr., winner from the Philippines of the 1994 South East Asia Write Award. Stories in this collection appeared in national weeklies: “Long Night” and “Wedding Fire” in Sunday Times Magazine; “Deep Earth” in Philippines
Free Press; “Rebirth,” “The Dying of the Sun,” “Storm,” “Crack in the Wall,” “The Cat,” “The Bridges,” “Tree,” “Portion of the World,” “Dog Meat,” “Burial,” and “A Bag of Heart” in This Week Magazine; “Dead Fish in the Pond” and “Alms” in Weekly Graphic; and “Matabungkay” in Weekly Women’s Magazine. Sixteen stories appeared from 1950 to 1959, one in 1964.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Anvil Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Nov 2, 2017
• ISBN: 9789712727399

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Fifties

Copyright © 2012

Anvil Publishing, Inc.

B.S. Medina, Jr.

This electronic edition:

Published by Anvil Publishing, Inc. for De La Salle University-Manila by special agreement.

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Version 1.0.1

Stories by the winner from the Philippines’

1994 SOUTH EAST ASIA WRITE AWARD

FIFTIES

B.S. Medina, Jr.

Stories in this collection appeared in national weeklies: Long Night and Wedding Fire in Sunday Times Magazine; Deep Earth in Philippines Free Press; Rebirth, The Dying of the Sun, Storm, Crack in the Wall, The Cat, The Bridges, Tree, Portion of the World, Dog Meat, Burial, and A Bag of Heart in This Week Magazine; Dead Fish in the Pond and Alms in Weekly Graphic; and Matabungkay in Weekly Women’s Magazine. Sixteen stories appeared from 1950 to 1959, one in 1964.

For Frankie and Tessie

The Stories

Long Night

Deep Earth

Rebirth

The Dying of the Sun

Storm

Crack in the Wall

The Cat

The Brides

Tree

Portion of the World

Dog Meat

Dead Fish in the Pond

Burial

A Bag of Heart

Wedding Fire

Matabungkay

Alms

LONG NIGHT

SOME MINUTES ago when the dusk had hardly set upon them, he wished it were night and dark and without light so he could gather back his courage and not quiver in the summer heat and not think of whether or not he could do what he was ordered to do. He found himself unsteady, yet he would not want his comrades to notice, even in the gathering night, the slight shakiness of his hold on the pistol. He would not want them to doubt his grit tested in many other wild missions. Now it was night: dark and without light save for the twinkle of some lost stars with the little fire the nocturnal kin of flies brought with them. And he would want it over now. The night was heavy on him. The night seemed to move and like rain it fell on him in torrents, like wind it bruised him as it blew. He felt wet and hurt with dreams and hopes and wishes. Only he knew he must not dream, hope now, wish now. He knew there was not much time left for the signal and he would commence on what he was ordered to do. Already he could hear the whisperings of his comrades prefatory to the spark, prefatory to the hurling of grenades, perhaps, to the oozing of precious patriotic blood, the trickling, wild trickling of heroes’ sweat and tears, and to the spinning of the world, the seeing of numerous stars, the sudden heaving of breasts, and the remaining forever of night. But he must not be daunted. Only cowards feel defeated even before the task is done. Only the untried, the unwounded, would cower before a mission. Only you, Lieutenant, can do it, we are certain, he heard the guerrilla captain say and all the time he felt honored, elated, as he smiled and spat out on the arid earth that was floor to their jungle camp something that glittered white and shone like a medal for him. Only you, he would hear from his comrades who now perhaps would be looking at him, trying to understand his silence, but of course not hearing the words that died on his lips, not seeing the shaking of his hands. But they would as young and as bold and fiery as he, because they were not as he was – tried, wounded, many times, many times. Only he, only he is he, he thought. He would want to dream, dream, dream. Yet he would not want to brush away the dreams that would make him feel the heaviness of night. And the night wore on. Only, he must be awake even in dreaming. Fully awake he dreamed of Carla, of his love and sweetheart and wife, and love again, saw himself tearing the net that the night had woven and having been freed he ran, till it was day again as it was some, many, minutes ago, and reaching Carla he shouted Carla! Carla! And all was blank again, for he was sobbing, only lightly. Did his comrades hear him cry? Did they hear and ask themselves why must the Lieutenant cry in this night? But perhaps they would not be hearing him, for he thought they might also be dreaming now, hoping now, wishing now, for they might also have left a love, a sweetheart, a wife, a Carla, fresh, lovely, young, at home, and they might also be crying now, only lightly, in the night that seemed to wear on, long, long. Very quickly he brushed his eyes with one of the sleeves of his denim shirt now full and heavy with the odor of man. He tightened the grip on the pistol and his other hand intuitively searched for the box that contained hell, demons, fire. Be awake and alert, he said, and his voice that was pitched high was readily audible to his comrades now lying flat, now crawling, now nearing him. Be awake. And he thought he was enjoining himself, for he would want to continue dreaming, to continue crossing the span of some minutes ago and now, to continue bridging the gap of then and now, for in that way he could more embolden himself. In that way he could reach Carla. Carla! Carla! Wish the night did not come at all, now he wished. Yet some minutes ago he wished that all were over, that all be dark and without light. Yet some minutes ago he would have wanted the dark to engulf the world he knew and wherein he was, so he could test his grit, his strength, his courage once more and so would know that only he was really he.

THAT NIGHT he fled to Carla as perhaps all his comrades did: running to their loves, their sweethearts, their wives. With a sigh he blasted the darkness and soon it was bright as some, many, minutes before the day had been. So very quickly it was day, for as quickly day must leave and be bright again, be now again. But wait! There was Carla now, her seventeen Aprils crowning her long, black hair (and he remembered night again), refreshing her youthfulness, baring her stockiness, but she was lovely, lovely, and she was his Carla, his love, his sweetheart, his wife. But still she was Carla seeing him clad in denims, waving to him from afar, her figure curtained by the cogon grass that grew tall and sharp by the roadside. She was shouting and he could hear Kadyo! Kadyo!

He stopped for a while. He looked at Carla from afar. He would want to see her there like a goddess enthroned in an altar of grass. He would want to worship her. He stood unmoving almost. But the sun was viciously burning and the summer wind brutally blowing that subconsciously he moved, stepped, then sped towards Carla. He forgot all about the sun being vicious and the wind brutal, forgot that he was sweating hard, forgot that his denims smelled of the days and nights and nights and days in the jungle camp, when he came near Carla who smelled fresh with the odor of gogo leaves, and felt soft and yielding like bulak newly-gathered.

Completely, for a while, he forgot it was night and that he was dreaming awake. He said, Carla how are you? Only Carla could not hear because his voice did not come out. He did not try to speak anymore because Carla would not care to hear him because Carla was sobbing. Then out of the bare brightness of the day they ran towards a bamboo thicket and under its shade they sought refuge from the sun and wind. There he was able to speak, for the urge was great, for he wanted to know how it was with the people, his people, her people and more particularly with her, her doings, her feelings, her love.

"Carla, the japones do not bother you?" he asked remembering how the guerilla captain would ask him, Lieutenant, did the japs bother you? and to which he would reply, as always, of course not, kapitan. But Carla nodded.

What did they do? Now he was holding Carla’s hands and felt them much softer, but trembling, so he squeezed them tight. The tremble was gone and instead there was flame.

Carla said the japones would come and ask for whatever they like, for whatever they see would please them. As usual, Kadyo, they ask for food...

He looked at Carla inquiringly.

They did not ask for more than food?

Carla looked at him.

Of course they did, Kadyo. You know how they are: lonely, sad even.

He did not smile.

"But they could find many in the poblacion. White. Mestizas. The japones pay much. For the girls pay much for their lodging and board and upkeep."

Now Kadyo would not want Carla to speak of those things. He would want to hear about her, not about the japones, their likes and dislikes, their pleasure and displeasure; he would want to know if she herself was not bothered by the japones, if she had not been ill, if she always took care of herself. But he did not try to speak. Only Carla spoke. She told him of how one japon grew fond of the sampaguita she was tending, of how the same japon picked the buds and smelled them till the perfume filled his nostrils and intoxicated him and soon he was found chewing the tiny white blossoms and shouting, Ano ne! nice! nice! And she laughed at her anecdote. Kadyo kept on looking at Carla perhaps to engrave in his mind the wonderful figure that she had, the stock of youth that she was, the lovely fresh being she appeared to him. He would not like to disturb Carla, because he would like to see her very much alive and active. Very much moving and breathing. For this might be the last precious seeing, the last of the once-in-a-blue-moon trysts. This might be the last bright day. And he would not want to try to stop Carla from telling her tales, for if he would stop her, he would have to speak, and so have to tell her about the night and task and the guerrilla captain. He would have to tell her of how one morning he was summoned by the guerrilla captain who told him of how easily they would lick the many japones in the makeshift wooden garrison, by setting this on fire, by blasting the damned hole of torture and mercilessness with grenades hurled one after the other at short range by him and by four others who were picked as the tested, the tried, the wounded, and therefore brave and strong and hard-willed. He would have to tell her about how the captain ordered men to find a secure hideout for the ammo and how he was told, only you. Lieutenant, can do it, and how he beamed happily, and elated, he spat out something that shone like medal, glistening in the day, medal for bravery. And of course he would to tell her what he felt this moment now that he was near her, close to her, he had to say something that would amount to farewell, that would mean goodbye, goodbye forever, Carla. He chose not to speak.

Only the love odorous, love-smelling presence of Carla mattered. Must he bid her goodbye? (He must not!) And yet he knew he ought to, for Carla would be waiting always, would be waiting tirelessly for his coming up the road, for Carla would be there by the cogon-infested roadside always looking afar, always hoping that he would come running towards her welcoming, loving arms. But how could he tell? How could he, when now Carla, very near, very close to him, felt the most fresh, the most soft, and was now asking him when shall we be wed? When? How could he, when now Carla was like a flower newly-opened, beautifully perched on a stem and he, he, only had to pluck, gently, gently, and now was asking him, when Kadyo? On your next coming? And he could not speak (lost my tongue?). How could he answer? How could he answer? He felt himself weak, as if Carla were a weakening presence, and slowly he felt himself go limp.

Kadyo, Kadyo when shall I become your wife?

Kadyo only looked at her and pressed her to him and in the process felt the softness, the loveliness, the freshness of woman, and what and how could but simple, Now Carla, now even in the glaring day, even in the torrid sun, and now Carla you are my wife, and in that very tender moment when hearts pulsed as one, when the body limp in completeness surrendered to the body strong, words were meaningless, senseless, and only the gentle caress and endearing sighs mattered. Kadyo would not want to whisper anything to Carla’s lovely white ears, yet he wanted to tell her, In this, our wedding, not only hearts but souls are wed and these mute tall bamboos, these leaves that shower us a shade, these streaks of lucid sunlight, these gentle gusts of wind are witnesses and we are happy, we must exult, oh Carla, Carla love.

Now, we are man and wife, Carla, he said afterwards.

When shall you come back, Kadyo? she asked.

When? But he only smiled. It shall be anytime, Carla, anytime...

Anytime is long, Kadyo...

Yes, it is long as the night is tonight, he remembered saying while waiting for the spark so that he and his comrades could start on what they were ordered to do. Yes, long as the night, as waiting as eternity. He remembered he did not tell Carla what he ought to.

Coming back?

That was the last question he was to hear from Carla. That was the question he intended not to answer. Ever. When he was left, after giving Carla one long loving look, he only heard a cry. Kadyo! Kadyo! and now he would not want to remember anymore, for he knew it would be futile to dream and wish and hope now, for he knew every dream must be shattered to bring one down to earth again, no, he must stop dreaming, only he must be brave and strong and hard-willed, forget Carla, forget his love, his sweetheart, his wife (in the cool shade of the bamboo thicket), forget, forget everything, everything.

He glanced around, his hands groped around and felt the cold earth whereon they lay and the cold grass behind which they hid. The night was bleached in horrifying black. But he did not find time to grow weary of the long night, because so soon the signal was sounded and the spark flashed and he and his comrades grew tense and being so, became dead to memories that struggle to cling to, that vainly sought to remain in, their embittered minds, became dead to the clinging memories of Carla, their loves,