Eight Muses of the Fall

By Edgar Calabia Samar

This novel is on the one hand a young man’s frustrated attempt to write the great Filipino novel, and on the other, his coming to terms with the futility of his search for his lost mother. 

Along the way, he is guided and misdirected by some muses and demons to reimagine his personal past without the burden of national history. 

He will be forced to accept that truth can somehow be in the deceptive, inchoate recreation of memories, without which, the fall seems inevitable.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Anvil Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Nov 2, 2017
• ISBN: 9789712729225

Book preview

Eight Muses

of the Fall

EDGAR CALABIA SAMAR

translated by Mikael de Lara Co & Sasha Martinez

from the Tagalog novel

Walong Diwata ng Pagkahulog

Longlisted in the 2009 Man Asian Literary Prize

Grand Prize, NCCA Writer’s Prize for the Novel

Eight Muses of the Fall

by Edgar Calabia Samar

translated by Mikael de Lara Co & Sasha Martinez

from the Tagalog novel Walong Diwata ng Pagkahulog

Copyright 2013

by Edgar Calabia Samar and Anvil Publishing, Inc.

Copyright of English translation 2013

by Jan Mikael dL. Co, Elisha Marjorie B. Martinez and Anvil Publishing, Inc.

Copyright of illustrations 2013

by Gem Leonard Boy and Anvil Publishing, Inc.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by

any means without the written permission of the copyright owner and

the publisher.

Published and exclusively distributed by

ANVIL PUBLISHING, INC.

7th Floor Quad Alpha Centrum Building

125 Pioneer Street, Mandaluyong City

1550 Philippines

Sales and Marketing: [e-mail]

Fax: [phone]

www.anvilpublishing.com

Book design by Martin Malabanan (cover); Gem Leonard Boy

(cover and interior illustrations); Ani Habúlan and Joshene Bersales (interior)

ISBN 9789712729225 (e-book)

Version 1.0.1

Contents

Revenge catches up with everything except the wind.

–Tagalog saying

The world is comic to those who think, And tragic to those who feel.

–Horace Walpole

And is a novel anything but a trap set for a hero?

–Milan Kundera, Life Is Elsewhere

A FEW MOMENTS before the young man pushed him off the cliff, Daniel remembered when he was five, the first time he was led astray by the tiyanak, child-trickster of the woods: Nestled between the roots of a kalamyas tree, his neck sticky with sweat, he promised himself he’d never go out to play again once the sun had set. It was almost midnight when his Uncle Tony found him, still snuggling up to the roots, dirty and grimy and with eyes wide, staring at the darkness. It’s probably almost midnight here, too, Daniel thought to himself as the young man’s hands dug unto his side, pushing him off the cliff. He considered fighting back but he had already lost his balance. It was only when he was sure that there would be no escaping the fall that Daniel felt a sense of loss, of regret. Why now, he thought, why did he have to die now, when, finally, he had a story to tell.

To:

From:

Subject: Atisan, et al.

Hey Atisan Boy! What’s up? Friendster and these online social network things never fail to surprise me ha ha ha. Of course I remember you. How can I forget our storyteller? It’s good to finally hear from you. I wrote you letters, man. I always thought you were just too lazy to write back. Erik and I still write to each other. He just emailed me the other day. He always talks about you. But he never talks about Atisan. Just that one time.

Man, I miss Atisan. Even though I’m not really from there. Or maybe I just miss your stories about Atisan. Would you believe that I found this monograph on the place? Couldn’t believe it myself. Stumbled upon it while doing some research for one of my college papers here years ago. I was that loyal to you then; I always thought of Atisan even when I was here in Canada. You should read it. I mean, the monograph, not my paper, ha ha ha. I sent you a copy, but it looks like it never reached you. God, that was so long ago. I know Erik got a copy. I always thought that he might’ve shown it to you.

What’s up with you and Erik? Sometimes he’d send me these weird emails. You know him; he’s always been the quiet one, always wanted to be the guy with the mystique, ha ha ha. He’d tell me that you and Michael thought he’d already died. That there was even a funeral. He’s always wondering why you guys don’t seem to see him anymore. Whenever you go back to Atisan, Erik says that the three of you get together for a drink, but Michael and you talk as if there were only the two of you there. You don’t even give him so much as a glance. Jesus, that guy’s stories scare the hell out of me. I even told him that if I go back home, I’d kill him myself if he didn’t stop with the stories.

But I probably won’t get to go home soon. I already have a job here. And it costs so much—the plane fare, etc. And you—I heard you haven’t even graduated yet. You have something against graduations? A phobia, maybe? He he he. And oh, Dustin’s growing up. Have you heard?—I have a kid now. But Marissa and I never married. I guess you don’t know Marissa, either. She’s the girl I live with. Dustin’s turning three next month. Maybe someday I’ll take him home. Bring him to Atisan. The boy speaks perfect English, I tell you, ha ha.

Would you believe that when I sent Erik the manuscript I was telling you about, he said that it was all made up. He was so angry in that email. I told him he didn’t have to take it so seriously. I didn’t even know who wrote that thing. There was a byline, though; I just forgot the name. It was written by a girl, man. And you know why Erik was so angry? Because—and this was the only time he mentioned the place in all the emails he sent—because, he said, there’s no such place as Atisan. Would you believe that? And he meant it literally. There’s no such place as Atisan!

Man, what’s happening to Erik? I’m glad you wrote, that you finally found me. Erik never remembers to give me your email address. Or maybe he does it on purpose. I didn’t know how to reach you, man. I was always sending you letters, cards during Christmas, but I don’t think they ever got to you. Maybe there was something wrong with the address you gave me? Sometimes I get to thinking, fuck it, maybe there really is no such place as Atisan. Only sometimes, you know, because it’s weird, right? I mean, why don’t you get any of my letters? But I always come to my senses, because of course I’ve been there. I’ve seen Atisan. But you know what, there was this time when I looked at the map of San Pablo—I searched for it in the Internet—and I couldn’t find Atisan. Anyway the map was so small, and you could only see the bigger barrios. It can’t possibly name the more than 80 barrios in San Pablo, right? So maybe that’s why I couldn’t find Atisan.

You know, sometimes I get scared: What if there really is no such place as Atisan? What if Atisan was just part of your stories, just a place you imagined? That line of thinking gives me the creeps, man, because it says something about me, too. I mean, what if even I was just someone you imagined? God, I’d go crazy if that were the case. I mean, even my fingers, typing this email, my fingers could just be doing their part in feeding your fantasy. O, Atisan boy, see—I can be a storyteller too. Ha ha ha.

But seriously man, when was the last time you went home to Atisan? Is it really still there? Hey, I meant that figuratively, don’t get offended, okay? Another way of thinking about it, man: Maybe there isn’t just one, single Atisan. I mean, the world’s a huge place, right? It’s possible that there are a lot of other Atisans. Maybe several in the Philippines alone. I don’t think anyone’s been able to set foot on the whole country for us to say for sure. And is that even possible? You know what I mean.

But that doesn’t mean that your Atisan isn’t special, man. Our Atisan. Of course it’s special. But only for us. For you, for Michael, for Erik. For your grandmother and your uncle. Your Dad. For Orange. Hey, man, did you guys ever get together? Erik’s never mentioned anything about it. But you get it, right? Nothing’s special in itself. You know that, of course. There’s always someone else, other people, who make us special. We are never special just by being who we are. Ha ha, how’s that for waxing philosophical? I mean, for example, Dustin’s special to me, and to Marissa, but he’s not special to every person he meets on the way to wherever, or to every kid he gets to play with. Some might say, hey, that’s a cute kid. But it stops there. And it’s the same with a lot of people he’s going to meet as he grows older. God, why am I saying this. I know you get what I mean.

I think this email’s getting a bit too long. Just want you to know that I’m glad you wrote. I have this weird feeling, though, that the road somehow ends here. That’s why I’m taking this as far as it can go. I mean, even friendships should end somewhere, right? You were my friend; well, you still are. But I just remember you, your name, singing that Beatles song, humming, I can even see our feet as we walked, I still carry the faint smell of our mornings in Mount Banahaw, but I’m sorry, man, I can’t remember your face. I’d probably recognize you when I see you, but you know what I mean. You don’t even have a picture in your Friendster profile to remind me of how you look. It would’ve been great to see you again, even if it were only in a picture.

I call this the Atisan syndrome. Images fading. Slowly. Exhaustively. Until I totally forget that I even knew those images, that I had a memory of them, even. You—would you recognize me if we saw each other? Weird, isn’t it? How many years has it been? Five? Six? The things we forget in less than a decade. We were better at keeping memories when we were younger, don’t you think? But we are young. Blame this on the Atisan syndrome. When you leave some place, you go on living as if the place you left behind doesn’t exist anymore, it’s just there, static, in your past. As if it stopped existing the moment you left. So that you won’t feel so guilty about leaving.

You know what? I realized that places have souls too. Like when we see something beautiful, or a beautiful place—for instance that view in Banahaw when we were at the top—isn’t it that we always say, this place is so alive. So alive. So maybe it’s possible too that places die. We know this, I mean, literally. So many civilizations have been lost in history. If Atisan really did exist, could it be possible that now it’s dead? That Atisan doesn’t exist anymore?

Hey man, don’t mind me if this sounds weird to you. You know how it feels, to be miles away from home, to be confronted with all these existential questions. Who am I? Ha ha ha. What is my purpose in life? And then, in the end, we all surrender.

The day I first read your message—you see, I don’t regularly open my Friendster account—I was reading a book on love. On love, man, ha ha. That’s why it took me some time to finally write this letter. Yes, I still read books, write the occasional poem, get drunk to Beatles songs. If we’d only met now, here in Canada, I believe we could still be friends. That thought really helped me work on this email. I’d like to think that there’s still something I forgot to say, even though this is by far the longest email I’ve written in my whole life. But whatever I forgot, I don’t know what it is anymore. I can’t think anymore. Just take care of yourself, man.

Glen

1. Delka Linar

DANIEL WAS IN second grade when he first came up with a story. A story that, he thought then, was entirely believable. He doesn’t remember exactly when he told the story, or to whom. But it was in the second grade when his classmates started talking about Daniel, the kid with a duwende, a magical dwarf, for a friend. The duwende lived with him in his Grandma Bining’s house.

At first his classmates wouldn’t believe him, especially the tall, fat ones who’d often steal food from the small, thin ones. Daniel was one of the small, thin ones. There’s no such thing as a duwende, the others would tell him.

But Daniel wouldn’t mind them. He was a sensitive child. The truth is, Daniel was more sensitive back then. Looking at the eyes of those who said that the duwende didn’t exist, he’d know that deep inside they really wanted to prove that it did exist.

And so he’d go on describing what his duwende-friend wore. Shimmering white, he’d say. Back then, the only thing Daniel was sure of was that there were white duwendes and black ones. And he saw on TV that the white ones were the nicer duwendes, so certainly his friend would be white. He wore a tall, pointed hat, white as white can get, taller than the duwende himself. And the duwende doesn’t have shoes!—this was an improvisation, something Daniel changed from the pictures he saw. Slowly, he discovered that he couldn’t just repeat the details that for sure his classmates already knew. Of course they watched television too. He’d have to add some details to make his duwende more believable. The shoeless feet would also be white, really white. And when the duwende stepped on grass or land, a white halo would surround the space he stepped on. This would return to its natural color once he raised his foot to take another step.

So what’s his name? Michael asked. Michael, the kid who Miss Luciano would always scold for wearing printed shirts beneath his white school uniform. Michael was one of the tall ones, but he wasn’t fat. And that’s why Daniel didn’t like Michael at first. The partitions he made in his mind—tall and fat, short and thin—didn’t work out so well with Michael.

Nothing, Daniel would answer, while in truth, he was already thinking of a cool name. It should be a strange name. It should be something that his classmates haven’t heard yet. But he couldn’t think of anything.

Why doesn’t he have a name? How would his fellow duwendes call him, then? someone asked with a grin, the largest, tallest, fattest one who would always be assigned as the class sergeant-at-arms, the grade school version of a referee, even though more often than not he’d be the guy behind classroom fights. Daniel thought that the kid looked like the typical movie villain. Give him a few more years and Max Alvarado himself—tall, fat, mustachioed villain of the silverscreen, the most villainous of them all—wouldn’t have been able to hold a candle to this kid.

He has a name, Daniel said in a slightly lower voice, as if he were about to whisper a secret. But I can’t tell you guys. His classmates leaned closer, crowding him, eager to hear. He’d never show himself to me again if I told you his name, Daniel whispered.

Because of that secret, his classmates became even more interested in Daniel. He discovered that you shouldn’t say everything in one sitting; everything must be told piecemeal, so that the audience would want to come back for the next session. Back then Daniel hadn’t yet heard of Scheherazade, but he’d already read about Aladdin in comic books. It was in these serial comicbooks that he learned how effective cliffhangers could be. There was always a to be continued at the end, so that the audience would anticipate the next installment.

Even though he wasn’t the smartest in class, or the cutest according to Miss Luciano’s standards, Daniel was a star in his own right. Even the tall, fat ones would listen to him. There were, of course, those who’d get annoyed at him. And so Michael took on the role of his bodyguard. His defender. Michael would get more upset than Daniel would whenever a classmate came out unconvinced with his stories. This was how the two of them began to grow close. Because of him, Michael also became friends with Erik, a childhood friend who Daniel grew up with in Atisan. By the fourth grade, the three were almost inseparable.

DANIEL COULDN’T EXACTLY remember, either, how his classmates grew uninterested with the stories about his duwende friend. During snack breaks, they’d be happier chasing each other around, playing one variation of tag or another. Cops-and-robbers.      Heaven-or-earth.      Stab-you-in-the-heart. Sometimes he’d join in, and whenever he was lost in the exhilaration of running, of trying not be tagged—sometimes they’d even be barefoot as they ran, inviting Miss Luciano’s scorn as they filed into the classroom, full of sweat and grime—sometimes, then, even he could forget about his duwende. But only sometimes. Most of the time, he’d be alone on the topmost seat of the bleachers by the football field, staring at his classmates as they ran around and around, creating a story in his head. Unlike the woman in the ancient Arabian tales, his life wasn’t at stake, and so he didn’t have to come up with new stories for a thousand and one nights.

One day, Daniel decided to tell his classmates the duwende’s name. There was no other way to make them interested again, he thought.

Delka Linar, he said to those who gathered around after he told them about the impending revelation. Even he was surprised, because he hadn’t expected that after all that time, he’d utter the name so unceremoniously. It was their lunch break, and a lot of his classmates went home for their meals. Only a few heard him speak. The word spread only in the afternoon, after everyone had gotten back from their breaks.

He saw the dismay written on his classmates’ faces. It was as if they were expecting to hear another name, a name other than the one he told them. In truth, Daniel just shuffled the letters in his own name. Karl Daniel. He spent a lot of time thinking about it the previous night. Before going to sleep, he even went so far as to write it down in his Good Manners and Right Conduct notebook just so he’d be sure to remember it the next day.

By the time the bell rang that afternoon, Delka Linar was old news. They filed out in their own small cliques to trade cards, or to talk about the next episode of the robot or superhero TV show airing that Saturday.

That was the first time Daniel felt the sadness of storytelling. He felt as if he really had a friend who would never again show himself to him.

Of course, back then he had no idea that there really was a Delka Linar, and that one day he would indeed show himself to Daniel.

2. Atisan

EACH PERSON HAS several worlds. You will create one when your hands cannot find anything to grasp. You will add to it when you feel it lacking, search for it when it is lost. When it is found, the cowards will do everything to escape, while the brave ones will tear it apart so that new ones can be created.

When Daniel read that in a novel (even marking it with a yellow highlighter so that he can always go back to it) and then met the author in a book launch: Thus began his dream of writing a novel. And he wanted to write a novel, a novel at once even though he hadn’t yet even published a short story anywhere. All of the short stories he’d written were nothing but pieces stuck at the beginning. He couldn’t finish anything; he felt that he was really meant to write a novel. That whatever it is he wanted to say wouldn’t be able to fit inside a mere short story.

I’ll create my own world, he’d always remind himself as he waited for the ride to school. He was in college then.

There were days when Daniel would be staring into space, waiting for the right words to come so that he could begin to say what he wanted to say. And even though these things were still to be written, even though they were as yet only in his mind, he was utterly convinced that they were meant to be written in the form of a novel, and not in a short story. He never thought about what he really meant when he said this, that these things were meant to be in a novel. Just that he had an abstract idea of the vastness, the grandness, whenever he thought of it. Like the view on top of a mountain, or from the edge of a cliff. Yes, he thought, it would be great. There were nights when he would fall asleep with a smile on his lips, thinking perhaps that he could embrace it, or that it would embrace him, whatever this great thing was.

He started buying and reading novels. He skipped the classics, the Old Greats; he thought that he wouldn’t write like that. Those were old, obsolete. For him the classics were past its time, and it wasn’t true that a classic always stood the test of time. Who would be reading Faulkner if it wasn’t required in class? Or Dostoevsky? Especially in the Philippines. Or even Aguilar or Pineda, for example. It didn’t matter that he did like Pineda’s The Gold in Makiling when he read it for his class in Philippine Literature.

I’m going to write something different, he said to himself. New. And his collection of books grew and grew, books he bought second-hand (most of the time), or from mainstream bookstores (sometimes), or from specialty bookstores (whenever he felt that it wouldn’t be so bad to go hungry, or whenever there wasn’t anything else he’d have to pay for or buy)—books by Garcia Marquez, Kundera, Murakami, Rushdie, Fuentes—all of them still alive. He couldn’t care less what dead people had to say. There was never a shortage of titles in his reading list; he had so little time to read these novels in the middle of all the other things he had to do for his major—Psychology at first, before he shifted to Developmental Studies which he was able to stand for only a few terms, before he went to Communications, until he came to terms with himself and shifted finally into Creative Writing, which is taking him ages to graduate from, anyway. The books piled up. Time passed and still