Zita
By Arturo B.
Rotor
TURONG brought
him from Pauambang in his small sailboat, for the coastwise steamer did not
stop at any little island of broken cliffs and coconut palms. It was almost
midday; they had been standing in that white glare where the tiniest pebble and
fluted conch had become points of light, piercing-bright--the municipal
president, the parish priest, Don Eliodoro who owned almost all the coconuts,
the herb doctor, the village character. Their mild surprise over when he spoke
in their native dialect, they looked at him more closely and his easy manner
did not deceive them. His head was uncovered and he had a way of bringing the
back of his hand to his brow or mouth; they read behind that too, it was not a
gesture of protection. "An exile has come to Anayat… and he is so young,
so young." So young and lonely and sufficient unto himself. There was no
mistaking the stamp of a strong decision on that brow, the brow of those who
have to be cold and haughty, those shoulders stooped slightly, less from the
burden that they bore than from a carefully cultivated air of unconcern; no
common school-teacher could dress so carelessly and not appear shoddy.
They had
prepared a room for him in Don Eliodoro's house so that he would not have to
walk far to school every morning, but he gave nothing more than a glance at the
big stone building with its Spanish azotea, its arched doorways, its flagged
courtyard. He chose instead Turong's home, a shaky hut near the sea. Was the
sea rough and dangerous at times? He did not mind it. Was the place far from
the church and the schoolhouse? The walk would do him good. Would he not feel
lonely with nobody but an illiterate fisherman for a companion? He was used to
living alone. And they let him do as he wanted, for the old men knew that it
was not so much the nearness of the sea that he desired as its silence so that
he might tell it secrets he could not tell anyone else.
They thought
of nobody but him; they talked about him in the barber shop, in the cockpit, in
the sari-sari store, the way he walked, the way he looked at you, his unruly
hair. They dressed him in purple and linen, in myth and mystery, put him
astride a black stallion, at the wheel of a blue automobile. Mr. Reteche? Mr.
Reteche! The name suggested the fantasy and the glitter of a place and people
they never would see; he was the scion of a powerful family, a poet and artist,
a prince.
That night,
Don Eliodoro had the story from his daughter of his first day in the classroom;
she perched wide-eyed, low-voiced, short of breath on the arm of his chair.
"He
strode into the room, very tall and serious and polite, stood in front of us
and looked at us all over and yet did not seem to see us.
" 'Good
morning, teacher,' we said timidly.
"He
bowed as if we were his equals. He asked for the fist of our names and as he
read off each one we looked at him long. When he came to my name, Father, the
most surprising thing happened. He started pronouncing it and then he stopped
as if he had forgotten something and just stared and stared at the paper in his
hand. I heard my name repeated three times through his half-closed lips, 'Zita.
Zita. Zita.'
" 'Yes
sir, I am Zita.'
"He looked
at me uncomprehendingly, inarticulate, and it seemed to me, Father, it actually
seemed that he was begging me to tell him that that was not my name, that I was
deceiving him. He looked so miserable and sick I felt like sinking down or
running away.
" 'Zita
is not your name; it is just a pet name, no?'
" 'My
father has always called me that, sir.'
" 'It
can't be; maybe it is Pacita or Luisa or--'
"His
voice was scarcely above a whisper, Father, and all the while he looked at me
begging, begging. I shook my head determinedly. My answer must have angered
him. He must have thought I was very hard-headed, for he said, 'A thousand
miles, Mother of Mercy… it is not possible.' He kept on looking at me; he was
hurt perhaps that he should have such a stubborn pupil. But I am not really so,
Father?"
"Yes,
you are, my dear. But you must try to please him, he is a gentleman; he comes
from the city. I was thinking… Private lessons, perhaps, if he won't ask too
much." Don Eliodoro had his dreams and she was his only daughter.
Turong had
his own story to tell in the barber shop that night, a story as vividly etched
as the lone coconut palm in front of the shop that shot up straight into the
darkness of the night, as vaguely disturbing as the secrets that the sea
whispered into the night.
"He did
not sleep a wink, I am sure of it. When I came from the market the stars were
already out and I saw that he had not touched the food I had prepared. I asked
him to eat and he said he was not hungry. He sat by the window that faces the
sea and just looked out hour after hour. I woke up three times during the night
and saw that he had not so much as changed his position. I thought once that he
was asleep and came near, but he motioned me away. When I awoke at dawn to
prepare the nets, he was still there."
"Maybe
he wants to go home already." They looked up with concern.
"He is
sick. You remember Father Fernando? He had a way of looking like that, into
space, seeing nobody, just before he died."
Every month
there was a letter that came for him, sometimes two or three; large, blue
envelopes with a gold design in the upper left hand comer, and addressed in
broad, angular, sweeping handwriting. One time Turong brought one of them to
him in the classroom. The students were busy writing a composition on a subject
that he had given them, "The Things That I Love Most." Carelessly he
had opened the letter, carelessly read it, and carelessly tossed it aside. Zita
was all aflutter when the students handed in their work for he had promised
that he would read aloud the best. He went over the pile two times, and once
again, absently, a deep frown on his brow, as if he were displeased with their
work. Then he stopped and picked up one. Her heart sank when she saw that it
was not hers, she hardly heard him reading:
"I did
not know any better. Moths are not supposed to know; they only come to the
light. And the light looked so inviting, there was no resisting it. Moths are
not supposed to know, one does not even know one is a moth until one's wings
are burned."
It was
incomprehensible, no beginning, no end. It did not have unity, coherence,
emphasis. Why did he choose that one? What did he see in it? And she had worked
so hard, she had wanted to please, she had written about the flowers that she
loved most. Who could have written what he had read aloud? She did not know
that any of her classmates could write so, use such words, sentences, use a
blue paper to write her lessons on.
But then
there was little in Mr. Reteche that the young people there could understand.
Even his words were so difficult, just like those dark and dismaying things
that they came across in their readers, which took them hour after hour in the
dictionary. She had learned like a good student to pick out the words she did
not recognize, writing them down as she heard them, but it was a thankless
task. She had a whole notebook filled now, two columns to each page:
esurient
greedy.
Amaranth
a flower that never fades.
peacock
a large bird with lovely gold and
green feathers.
Mirash
The last word was not in the
dictionary.
And what did
such things as original sin, selfishness, insatiable, actress of a thousand
faces mean, and who were Sirse, Lorelay, other names she could not find
anywhere? She meant to ask him someday, someday when his eyes were kinder.
He never went
to church, but then, that always went with learning and education, did it not?
One night Bue saw him coming out of the dim doorway. He watched again and the
following night he saw him again. They would not believe it, they must see it
with their own eyes and so they came. He did not go in every night, but he
could be seen at the most unusual hours, sometimes at dusk, sometimes at dawn,
once when it was storming and the lightning etched ragged paths from heaven to
earth. Sometimes he stayed for a few minutes, sometimes he came twice or thrice
in one evening. They reported it to Father Cesareo but it seemed that he
already knew. "Let a peaceful man alone in his prayers." The answer
had surprised them.
The sky hangs
over Anayat, in the middle of the Anayat Sea, like an inverted wineglass, a
glass whose wine had been spilled, a purple wine of which Anayat was the last
precious drop. For that is Anayat in the crepuscule, purple and mellow,
sparkling and warm and effulgent when there is a moon, cool and heady and
sensuous when there is no moon.
One may drink
of it and forget what lies beyond a thousand miles, beyond a thousand years;
one may sip it at the top of a jagged cliff, nearer peace, nearer God, where
one can see the ocean dashing against the rocks in eternal frustration, more
moving, more terrible than man's; or touch it to his lips in the lush shadows
of the dama de noche, its blossoms iridescent like a thousand fireflies, its
bouquet the fragrance of flowers that know no fading.
Zita sat by
her open window, half asleep, half dreaming. Francisco B. Reteche; what a name!
What could his nickname be. Paking, Frank, Pa… The night lay silent and
expectant, a fairy princess waiting for the whispered words of a lover. She was
not a bit sleepy; already she had counted three stars that had fallen to earth,
one almost directly into that bush of dama de noche at their garden gate, where
it had lighted the lamps of a thousand fireflies. He was not so forbidding now,
he spoke less frequently to himself, more frequently to her; his eyes were
still unseeing, but now they rested on her. She loved to remember those moments
she had caught him looking when he thought she did not know. The knowledge came
keenly, bitingly, like the sea breeze at dawn, like the prick of the rose's
thorn, or--yes, like the purple liquid that her father gave the visitors
during pintakasi which made them red and noisy. She had stolen a few
drops one day, because she wanted to know, to taste, and that little sip had
made her head whirl.
Suddenly she
stiffened; a shadow had emerged from the shrubs and had been lost in the other
shadows. Her pulses raced, she strained forward. Was she dreaming? Who was it?
A lost soul, an unvoiced thought, the shadow of a shadow, the prince from his
tryst with the fairy princess? What were the words that he whispered to her?
They who have
been young once say that only youth can make youth forget itself; that life is
a river bed; the water passes over it, sometimes it encounters obstacles and
cannot go on, sometimes it flows unencumbered with a song in every bubble and
ripple, but always it goes forward. When its way is obstructed it burrows
deeply or swerves aside and leaves its impression, and whether the impress will
be shallow and transient, or deep and searing, only God determines. The people
remembered the day when he went up Don Eliodoro's house, the light of a great
decision in his eyes, and finally accepted the father's request that he teach
his daughter "to be a lady."
"We are
going to the city soon, after the next harvest perhaps; I want her not to feel
like a 'provinciana' when we get there."
They
remembered the time when his walks by the seashore became less solitary, for
now of afternoons, he would draw the whole crowd of village boys from their
game of leapfrog or patintero and bring them with him. And they would
go home hours after sunset with the wonderful things that Mr. Reteche had told
them, why the sea is green, the sky blue, what one who is strong and fearless
might find at that exact place where the sky meets the sea. They would be flushed
and happy and bright-eyed, for he could stand on his head longer than any of
them, catch more crabs, send a pebble skimming over the breast of Anayat Bay
farthest.
Turong still
remembered those ominous, terrifying nights when he had got up cold and trembling
to listen to the aching groan of the bamboo floor, as somebody in the other
room restlessly paced to and fro. And his pupils still remember those mornings
he received their flowers, the camia which had fainted away at her own
fragrance, the kampupot, with the night dew still trembling in its heart;
receive them with a smile and forget the lessons of the day and tell them all
about those princesses and fairies who dwelt in flowers; why the dama de noche
must have the darkness of the night to bring out its fragrance; how the petals
of the ylang-ylang, crushed and soaked in some liquid, would one day touch the
lips of some wondrous creature in some faraway land whose eyes were blue and
hair golden.
Those were
days of surprises for Zita. Box after box came in Turong's sailboat and each
time they contained things that took the words from her lips. Silk as sheer and
perishable as gossamer, or heavy and shiny and tinted like the sunset sky;
slippers with bright stones which twinkled with the least movement of her feet;
a necklace of green, flat, polished stone, whose feel against her throat sent a
curious choking sensation there; perfume that she must touch her lips with. If
only there would always be such things in Turong's sailboat, and none of those
horrid blue envelopes that he always brought. And yet--the Virgin have pity on
her selfish soul--suppose one day Turong brought not only those letters but the
writer as well? She shuddered, not because she feared it but because she knew
it would be.
"Why are
these dresses so tight fitting?" Her father wanted to know.
"In
society, women use clothes to reveal, not to hide." Was that a sneer or a
smile in his eyes? The gown showed her arms and shoulders and she had never
known how round and fair they were, how they could express so many things.
"Why do
these dresses have such bright colors?"
"Because
the peacock has bright feathers."
"They
paint their lips…"
"So that
they can smile when they do not want to."
"And
their eyelashes are long."
"To hide
deception."
He was not
pleased like her father; she saw it, he had turned his face toward the window.
And as she came nearer, swaying like a lily atop its stalk she heard the harsh,
muttered words:
"One
would think she'd feel shy or uncomfortable, but no… oh no… not a bit… all
alike… comes naturally."
There were
books to read; pictures, names to learn; lessons in everything; how to polish
the nails, how to use a fan, even how to walk. How did these days come, how did
they go? What does one do when one is so happy, so breathless? Sometimes they
were a memory, sometimes a dream.
"Look,
Zita, a society girl does not smile so openly; her eyes don't seek one's
so--that reveals your true feelings."
"But if
I am glad and happy and I want to show it?"
"Don't.
If you must show it by smiling, let your eyes be mocking; if you would invite
with your eyes, repulse with your lips."
That was a
memory.
She was in a
great drawing room whose floor was so polished it reflected the myriad red and
green and blue fights above, the arches of flowers and ribbons and streamers.
All the great names of the capital were there, stately ladies in wonderful
gowns who walked so, waved their fans so, who said one thing with their eyes
and another with their lips. And she was among them and every young and
good-looking man wanted to dance with her. They were all so clever and charming
but she answered: "Please, I am tired." For beyond them she had seen
him alone, he whose eyes were dark and brooding and disapproving and she was
waiting for him to take her.
That was a
dream. Sometimes though, she could not tell so easily which was the dream and
which the memory.
If only those
letters would not bother him now, he might be happy and at peace. True he never
answered them, but every time Turong brought him one, he would still become
thoughtful and distracted. Like that time he was teaching her a dance, a
Spanish dance, he said, and had told her to dress accordingly. Her heavy hair
hung in a big, carelessly tied knot that always threatened to come loose but
never did; its dark, deep shadows showing off in startling vividness how red a
rose can be, how like velvet its petals. Her earrings--two circlets of precious
stones, red like the pigeon's blood--almost touched her shoulders. The heavy
Spanish shawl gave her the most trouble--she had nothing to help her but some
pictures and magazines--she could not put it on just as she wanted. Like this,
it revealed her shoulder too much; that way, it hampered the free movement of
the legs. But she had done her best; for hours she had stood before her mirror
and for hours it had told her that she was beautiful, that red lips and tragic
eyes were becoming to her.
She'd never
forget that look on his face when she came out. It was not surprise, joy,
admiration. It was as if he saw somebody there whom he was expecting, for whom
he had waited, prayed.
"Zita!"
It was a cry of recognition.
She blushed
even under her rouge when he took her in his arms and taught her to step this
way, glide so, turn about; she looked half questioningly at her father for
disapproval, but she saw that there was nothing there but admiration too. Mr.
Reteche seemed so serious and so intent that she should learn quickly; but he
did not deceive her, for once she happened to lean close and she felt how
wildly his heart was beating. It frightened her and she drew away, but when she
saw how unconcerned he seemed, as if he did not even know that she was in his
arms, she smiled knowingly and drew close again. Dreamily she closed her eyes
and dimly wondered if his were shut too, whether he was thinking the same
thoughts, breathing the same prayer.
Turong came
up and after his respectful "Good evening" he handed an envelope to
the school teacher. It was large and blue and had a gold design in one comer;
the handwriting was broad, angular, sweeping.
"Thank
you, Turong." His voice was drawling, heavy, the voice of one who has just
awakened. With one movement he tore the unopened envelope slowly,
unconsciously, it seemed to her, to pieces.
"I
thought I had forgotten," he murmured dully.
That changed
the whole evening. His eyes lost their sparkle, his gaze wandered from time to
time. Something powerful and dark had come between them, something which shut
out the light, brought in a chill. The tears came to her eyes for she felt
utterly powerless. When her sight cleared she saw that he was sitting down and
trying to piece the letter together.
"Why do
you tear up a letter if you must put it together again?" rebelliously.
He looked at
her kindly. "Someday, Zita, you will do it too, and then you will
understand."
One day
Turong came from Pauambang and this time he brought a stranger. They knew at
once that he came from where the teacher came--his clothes, his features, his
politeness--and that he had come for the teacher. This one did not speak their
dialect, and as he was led through the dusty, crooked streets, he kept forever
wiping his face, gazing at the wobbly, thatched huts and muttering short,
vehement phrases to himself. Zita heard his knock before Mr. Reteche did and
she knew what he had come for. She must have been as pale as her teacher, as
shaken, as rebellious. And yet the stranger was so cordial; there was nothing
but gladness in his greeting, gladness at meeting an old friend. How strong he
was; even at that moment he did not forget himself, but turned to his class and
dismissed them for the day.
The door was
thick and she did not dare lean against the jamb too much, so sometimes their
voices floated away before they reached her.
"…like
children… making yourselves… so unhappy."
"…happiness?
Her idea of happiness…"
Mr. Reteche's
voice was more low-pitched, hoarse, so that it didn't carry at all. She
shuddered as he laughed, it was that way when he first came.
"She's
been… did not mean… understand."
"…learning
to forget…"
There were
periods when they both became excited and talked fast and hard; she heard
somebody's restless pacing, somebody sitting down heavily.
"I never
realized what she meant to me until I began trying to seek from others what she
would not give me."
She knew what
was coming now, knew it before the stranger asked the question:
"Tomorrow?"
She fled; she
could not wait for the answer.
He did not
sleep that night, she knew he did not, she told herself fiercely. And it was
not only his preparations that kept him awake, she knew it, she knew it. With
the first flicker of light she ran to her mirror. She must not show her
feeling, it was not in good form, she must manage somehow. If her lips
quivered, her eyes must smile, if in her eyes there were tears… She heard her
father go out, but she did not go; although she knew his purpose, she had more
important things to do. Little boys came up to the house and she wiped away
their tears and told them that he was coming back, coming back, soon, soon.
The minutes
flew, she was almost done now; her lips were red and her eyebrows penciled; the
crimson shawl thrown over her shoulders just right. Everything must be like
that day he had first seen her in a Spanish dress. Still he did not come, he
must be bidding farewell now to Father Cesareo; now he was in Doña Ramona's
house; now he was shaking the barber's hand. He would soon be through and come
to her house. She glanced at the mirror and decided that her lips were not red
enough; she put on more color. The rose in her hair had too long a stem; she
tried to trim it with her fingers and a thorn dug deeply into her flesh.
Who knows?
Perhaps they would soon meet again in the city; she wondered if she could not
wheedle her father into going earlier. But she must know now what were the
words he had wanted to whisper that night under the dama de noche, what he had
wanted to say that day he held her in his arms; other things, questions whose
answers she knew. She smiled. How well she knew them!
The big house
was silent as death; the little village seemed deserted, everybody had gone to
the seashore. Again she looked at the mirror. She was too pale, she must put on
more rouge. She tried to keep from counting the minutes, the seconds, from
getting up and pacing. But she was getting chilly and she must do it to keep
warm.
The steps
creaked. She bit her lips to stifle a wild cry there. The door opened.
"Turong!"
"Mr.
Reteche bade me give you this. He said you would understand."
In one bound
she had reached the open window. But dimly, for the sun was too bright, or was
her sight failing?--she saw a blur of white moving out to sea, then disappearing
behind a point of land so that she could no longer follow it; and then, clearly
against a horizon suddenly drawn out of perspective, "Mr. Reteche,"
tall, lean, brooding, looking at her with eyes that told her somebody had hurt
him. It was like that when he first came, and now he was gone. The tears came
freely now. What matter, what matter? There was nobody to see and criticize her
breeding. They came down unchecked and when she tried to brush them off with
her hand, the color came away too from her cheeks, leaving them bloodless,
cold. Sometimes they got into her mouth and they tasted bitter.
Her hands
worked convulsively; there was a sound of tearing paper, once, twice. She
became suddenly aware of what she had done when she looked at the pieces, wet
and brightly stained with uneven streaks of red. Slowly, painfully, she tried
to put the pieces together and as she did so a sob escaped deep from her
breast--a great understanding had come to her.