The Mats

For the Angeles family , Mr . Angeles’s homecoming from his periodic inspection trips was always
an occasion for
celebration. But his homecoming—from a trip to the South—was fated to be more memorable
than, say , of the
others.
He had written from Mariveles: “I have just met a marvelous matweaver—a real artist—and I
shall have a
surprise for you. I asked him to weave a sleeping-mat for every one of the family . He is using
many different colors and
for each mat the dominant color is that of our respective birthstones. I am sure that the children
will be very pleased. I
know you will be. I can hardly wait to show them to you.”
Nana Emilia read the letter that morning, and again and again every time she had a chance to
leave the kitchen.
In the evening when all the children were home from school she asked her oldest son, José, to
read the letter at dinner
table. The children became very much excited about the mats, and talked about them until late
into the night. This she
wrote her husband when she labored over a reply to him. For days after that, mats continued to
be the chief topic of
conversation among the children.
Finally , from Lopez, Mr . Angeles wrote again: “I am taking the Bicol Express tomorrow. I have
the mats with
me, and they are beautiful. God willing, I shall be home to join you at dinner .”
The letter was read aloud during the noon meal. Talk about the mats flared up again like wildfire.
“I like the feel of mats,” Antonio, the third child, said. “I like the smell of new mats.”
“Oh, but these mats are different,” interposed Susanna, the fifth child. “They have our names
woven into them,
and in our ascribed colors, too.”
The children knew what they were talking about: they knew just what a decorative mat was like;
it was not
anything new or strange in their experience. That was why they were so excited about the
matter . They had such a mat in
the house, one they seldom used, a mat older than any one of them.
This mat had been given to Nana Emilia by her mother when she and Mr . Angeles were married,
and it had
been with them ever since. It had served on the wedding night, and had not since been used
except on special occasions.
It was a very beautiful mat, not really meant to be ordinarily used. It had green leaf borders, and
a lot of gigantic
red roses woven into it. In the middle, running the whole length of the mat, was the lettering:
Emilia y Jaime
Recuerdo
The letters were in gold.
Nana Emilia always kept that mat in her trunk. When any one of the family was taken ill, the mat
was brought
out and the patient slept on it, had it all to himself. Every one of the children had some time in
their lives slept on it; not
a few had slept on it more than once.
Most of the time the mat was kept in Nana Emilia’s trunk, and when it was taken out and spread
on the floor
the children were always around to watch. At first there had been only Nana Emilia to see the
mat spread. Then a child—
a girl—watched with them. The number of watchers increased as more children came.
The mat did not seem to age. It seemed to Nana Emilia always as new as when it had been laid
on the nuptial
bed. To the children it seemed as new as the first time it was spread before them. The folds and
creases always new and
fresh. The smell was always the smell of a new mat. Watching the intricate design was an
endless joy . The children’s
pleasure at the golden letters even before they could work out the meaning was boundless.
Somehow they were always
pleasantly shocked by the sight of the mat: so delicate and so consummate the artistry of its
weave.
Now, taking out that mat to spread had become a kind of ritual. The process had become
associated with illness
in the family . Illness, even serious illness, had not been infrequent. There had been deaths...
In the evening Mr . Angeles was with his family . He had brought the usual things home with him.
There was a
lot of fruits, as always (his itinerary carried him through the fruit-growing provinces): pineapples,
lanzones, chicos, atis,
santol, sandia, guyabano, avocado, according to the season. He had also brought home a jar of
preserved sweets from
Lopez.
Putting away the fruit, sampling them, was as usual accomplished with animation and lively talk.
Dinner was a
long affair . Mr . Angeles was full of stories about his trip but would interrupt his tales with: “I
could not sleep nights
thinking of the young ones. They should never be allowed to play in the streets. And you older
ones should not stay out
too late at night.”
The stories petered out and dinner was over . Putting away the dishes and wiping the dishes and
wiping the table
clean did not at all seem tedious. Yet Nana and the children, although they did not show it, were
all on edge about the
mats.
Finally , after a long time over his cigar , Mr . Angeles rose from his seat at the head of the table
and crossed the
room to the corner where his luggage had been piled. From the heap he disengaged a ponderous
bundle.
Taking it under one arm, he walked to the middle of the room where the light was brightest. He
dropped the
bundle and, bending over and balancing himself on his toes, he strained at the cord that bound
it. It was strong, it would
not break, it would not give way . He tried working at the knots. His fingers were clumsy , they
had begun shaking.
He raised his head, breathing heavily , to ask for the scissors. Alfonso, his youngest boy , was to
one side of him
with the scissors ready .
Nana Emilia and her eldest girl who had long returned from the kitchen were watching the
proceedings quietly .
One swift movement with the scissors, snip! and the bundle was loose.
Turning to Nana Emilia, Mr . Angeles joyfully cried: “These are the mats, Miling.”
Mr . Angeles picked up the topmost mat in the bundle.
“This, I believe, is yours, Miling.”
Nana Emilia stepped forward to the light, wiping her still moist hands against the folds of her
skirt, and with a
strange young shyness received the mat. The children watched the spectacle silently and then
broke into delighted,
though a little self-conscious, laughter . Nana Emilia unfolded the mat without a word. It was a
beautiful mat: to her
mind, even more beautiful than the one she received from her mother on her wedding. There
was a name in the very
center of it: EMILIA. The letters were large, done in green. Flowers—cadena-de-amor—were
woven in and out among
the letters. The border was a long winding twig of cadena-de-amor .
The children stood about the spreading mat. The air was punctuated by their breathless
exclamations of delight.
“It is beautiful, Jaime; it is beautiful!” Nana Emilia’s voice broke, and she could not say any more.
“And this, I know, is my own,” said Mr . Angeles of the next mat in the bundle. The mat was
rather simply
decorated, the design almost austere, and the only colors used were purple and gold. The letters
of the name Jaime were
in purple.
“And this, for your , Marcelina.”
Marcelina was the oldest child. She had always thought her name too long; it had been one of
her worries with
regard to the mat. “How on earth are they going to weave all of the letters of my name into my
mat?” she had asked of
almost everyone in the family . Now it delighted her to see her whole name spelled out on the
mat, even if the letters were
a little small. Besides, there was a device above her name which pleased Marcelina very much. It
was in the form of a lyre,
finely done in three colors. Marcelina was a student of music and was quite a proficient pianist.
“And this is for you, José.”
José was the second child. He was a medical student already in the third year of medical school.
Over his name
the symbol of Aesculapius was woven into the mat.
“You are not to use this mat until the year of your internship,” Mr . Angeles was saying.
“This is yours, Antonia.”
“And this is yours, Juan.”
“And this is yours, Jesus.”
Mat after mat was unfolded. On each of the children’s mats there was somehow an appropriate
device.
At least all the children had been shown their individual mats. The air was filled with their excited
talk, and
through it all Mr . Angeles was saying over and over again in his deep voice:
“You are not to use these mats until you go to the University .”
Then Nana Emilia noticed bewilderingly that there were some more mats remaining to be
unfolded.
“But Jaime,” Nana Emilia said, wondering, with evident repudiation, “there are some more mats.”
Only Mr . Angeles seemed to have heard Nana Emilia’s words. He suddenly stopped talking, as if
he had been
jerked away from a pleasant fantasy . A puzzled, reminiscent look came into his eyes,
superseding the deep and quiet
delight that had been briefly there, and when he spoke his voice was different.
“Yes, Emilia,” said Mr . Angeles, “There are three more mats to unfold. The others who aren’t
here...”
Nana Emilia caught her breath; there was a swift constriction in her throat; her face paled and
she could not say
anything.
The self-centered talk of the children also died. There was a silence as Mr . Angeles picked up the
first of the
remaining mats and began slowly unfolding it.
The mat was almost as austere in design as Mr . Angeles’ own, and it had a name. There was no
symbol or device
above the name; only a blank space, emptiness.
The children knew the name. But somehow the name, the letters spelling the name, seemed
strange to them.
Then Nana Emilia found her voice.
“You know, Jaime, you didn’t have to,” Nana Emilia said, her voice hurt and surely frightened.
Mr . Angeles held his tears back; there was something swift and savage in the movement.
“Do you think I’d forgotten? Do you think I had forgotten them? Do you think I could forget them?
“This is for you, Josefina!
“And this is for you, Victoria!
“And this is for you, Concepcion.”
Mr . Angeles called the names rather than uttered them.
“Don’t, Jaime, please don’t,” was all that Nana Emilia managed to say .
“Is it fair to forget them? Would it be just to disregard them?” Mr . Angeles demanded rather
than asked.
His voice had risen shrill, almost hysterical; it was also stern and sad, and somehow vindictive.
Mr . Angeles had
spoken almost as if he were a stranger .
Also, he had spoken as if from a deep, grudgingly-silent, long-bewildered sorrow.
The children heard the words exploding in the silence. They wanted to turn away and not see the
face of their
father . But they could neither move nor look away; his eyes held them, his voice held them
where they were. They seemed
rooted to the spot.
Nana Emilia shivered once or twice, bowed her head, gripped her clasped hands between her
thighs.
There was a terrible hush. The remaining mats were unfolded in silence. The names which were
with infinite
slowness revealed, seemed strange and stranger still; the colors not bright but deathly dull; the
separate letters, spelling
out the names of the dead among them, did not seem to glow or shine with a festive sheen as
did the other living names.
Midsummer
Manuel Arguilla
He pulled down his hat until the wide brim touched his shoulders. He crouched lower under the
cover of his cart
and peered ahead. The road seemed to writhe under the lash of the noon-day heat; it swum from
side to side,
humped and bent itself like a feeling serpent, and disappeared behind the spur of a low hill on
which grew a
scrawny thicket of bamboo.
There was not a house in sight. Along the left side of the road ran the deep, dry gorge of a
stream, the banks
sparsely covered by sun-burned cogon grass. In places, the rocky , waterless bed showed aridly .
Farther , beyond the shimmer
of quivering heat waves rose ancient hills not less blue than the cloud-palisaded sky . On the
right stretched a land waste
of low rolling dunes. Scattered clumps of hardy ledda relieved the otherwise barren monotony of
the landscape. Far away
he could discern a thin indigo line that was the sea.
The grating of the cartwheels on the pebbles of the road and the almost soundless shuffle of the
weary bull but
emphasized the stillness. Now and then came the dry rustling of falling earth as lumps from the
cracked sides of the gorge
fell down to the bottom.
He struck at the bull with the slack of the rope. The animal broke into a heavy trot. The dust
stirred slumbrously .
The bull slowed down, threw up his head, and a glistening thread of saliva spun out into the dry
air . The dying rays of the
sun were reflected in points of light on the wet, heaving flanks.
The man in the cart did not notice the woman until she had rounded the spur of land and stood
unmoving
beside the road, watching the cart and its occupant come toward her . She was young,
surprisingly sweet and fresh amidst
her parched surroundings. A gaily stripped kerchief covered her head, the ends tied at the nape
of her neck. She wore a
homespun bodice of light red cloth with small white checks. Her skirt was also homespun and
showed a pattern of white
checks with narrow stripes of yellow and red. With both hands she held by the mouth a large,
apparently empty , water
jug, the cool red of which blended well with her dress. She was barefoot.
She stood straight and still beside the road and regarded him with frank curiosity . Suddenly she
turned and
disappeared into the dry gorge. Coming to where she had stood a few moments before, he pulled
up the bull and got out
of the cart. He saw where a narrow path had been cut into the bank and stood a while lost in
thought, absently wiping the
perspiration from his face. Then he unhitched his bull and for a few moments, with strong brown
fingers, kneaded the
hot neck of the beast. Driving the animal before him, he followed the path. It led up the dry bed
of the stream; the sharp
fragments of sun-heated rocks were like burning coals under his feet. There was no sign of the
young woman.
He came upon her beyond a bed in the gorge, where a big mango tree, which had partly fallen
from the side of
the ravine, cast its cool shade over a well.
She had filled her jar and was rolling the kerchief around her hand into a flat coil which she
placed on her head.
Without glancing at him, where he had stopped some distance off, she sat down of her heels,
gathering the fold of her
skirt between her wide-spread knees. She tilted the brimful jar to remove part of the water . One
hand on the rim, the
other supporting the bottom, she began to raise it to her head. She knelt on one knee resting, for
a moment, the jar onto
her head, getting to her feet at the same time. But she staggered a little and water splashed
down on her breast. The single
bodice instantly clung to her bosom molding the twin hillocks of her breasts warmly brown
through the wet cloth. One
arm remained uplifted, holding the jar , while the other shook the clinging cloth free of her
drenched flesh. Then not once
having raised her eyes, she passed by the young man, who stood mutely gazing beside his bull.
The animal had found
some grass along the path and was industriously grazing.
He turned to watch the graceful figure beneath the jar until it vanished around a bend in the path
leading to the
road. Then he led the bull to the well, and tethered it to a root of the mango tree.
“The under-part of her arm is white and smooth,” he said to his blurred image on the water of
the well, as he
leaned over before lowering the bucket made of half a petroleum can. “And her hair is thick and
black.” The bucket struck
with a rattling impact. It filled with one long gurgle. He threw his hat on the grass and pulled the
bucket up with both
hands.
The twisted bamboo rope bit into his hardened palms, and he thought how... the same rope must
hurt her .
He placed the dripping bucket on a flat stone, and the bull drank. “Son of lightning!” he said,
thumping the side
of the bull after it had drunk the third bucketful, “You drink like the great Kulantitao!” A low, rich
rumbling rolled
through the cavernous body of the beast. He tied it again to the root, and the animal idly rubbed
its horns against the
wood. The sun had fallen from the perpendicular , and noticing that the bull stood partly exposed
to the sun, he pushed
it farther into shade. He fanned himself with his hat. He whistled to entice the wind from the sea,
but not a breeze stirred.
After a while he put on his hat and hurriedly walked the short distance through the gorge up to
the road where
his cart stood. From inside he took a jute sack which he slung over one shoulder . With the other
arm, he gathered part of
the hay at the bottom of the cart. He returned to the well, slips of straw falling behind him as he
picked his way from one
tuft of grass to another , for the broken rocks of the path has grown exceedingly hot.
He gave the hay to the bull, Its rump was again in the sun, and he had to push it back. “Fool, do
you want to
broil yourself alive?” he said good-humoredly , slapping the thick haunches. It switched its long-
haired tail and fell to
eating. The dry , sweet-smelling hay made harsh gritting sounds in the mouth of the hungry
animal. Saliva rolled out from
the corners, clung to the stiff hairs that fringed the thick lower lip, fell and gleamed and
evaporated in the heated air .
He took out of the jute sack a polished coconut shell. The top had been sawed off and holes
bored at opposite
sides, through which a string tied to the lower part of the shell passed in a loop. The smaller
piece could thus be slipped
up and down as a cover . The coconut shell contained cooked rice still a little warm. Buried on
the top was an egg now
boiled hard. He next brought out a bamboo tube of salt, a cake of brown sugar wrapped in
banana leaf, and some dried
shrimps. Then he spread the sack in what remained of the shade, placed his simple meal
thereon, and prepared to eat his
dinner . But first he drew a bucketful of water from the well, setting the bucket on a rock. He
seated himself on another
rock and ate with his fingers. From time to time he drank from the bucket.
He was half through with his meal when the girl came down the path once more. She had
changed the wetted
bodice. He watched her with lowered head as she approached, and felt a difficulty in continuing
to eat, but went through
the motions of filling his mouth nevertheless. He strained his eyes looking at the girl from
beneath his eyebrows. How
graceful she was! Her hips tapered smoothly down to round thighs and supple legs, showing
against her skirt and moving
straight and free. Her shoulders, small but firm, bore her shapely neck and head with shy pride.
When she was very near , he ate more hurriedly , so that he almost choked. He did not look at
her . She placed the
jar between three stones. When she picked up the rope of the bucket, he came to himself. He
looked up—straight into her
face. He saw her eyes. They were brown and were regarding him gravely , without
embarrassment; he forget his own
timidity .
“Won’t you join me, Ading?” he said simply . He remained seated.
Her lips parted in a half smile and a little dimple appeared high upon her right cheek. She shook
her head and
said: “God reward you, Manong.”
“Perhaps the poor food I have is not fit for you?”
“No, no. It isn’t that. How can you think of it? I should be ashamed. It is that I have must eaten
myself. That
is why I came to get water in the middle of the day—we ran out of it. I see you have eggs and
shrimps and sugar . Why ,
be had nothing but rice and salt.”
“Salt? Surely you joke.”
“I would be ashamed...”
“But what is the matter with salt? Salt... salt... Makes baby stout,” he intoned. “My grandmother
used to sing
that to me when I complained of our food.”
They laughed and felt more at ease and regarded each other more openly . He took a long time
fingering his rice
before raising it to his mouth, the while he gazed up at her and smiled for no reason. She smiled
back in turn and gave the
rope which she held an absent-minded tug. The bucket came down from its perch of rock in a
miniature flood. He leaped
to his feet with a surprised yell, and the next instant the jute sack on which he lay his meal was
drenched. Only the rice
inside the coconut shell and the bamboo of tube of salt were saved from the water .
She was distressed, but he only laughed.
“It is nothing,” he said. “It was time I stopped eating. I have filled up to my neck.”
“Forgive me, Manong,” she insisted. “It was all my fault. Such a clumsy creature I am.”
“It was not your fault,” she assured him. “I am to blame for placing the bucket of water where I
did.”
“I will draw you another bucketful,” he said. “I am stronger than you.”
“No, you must let me do it.”
But when he caught hold of the bucket and stretched forth a brawny arm for the coil of rope in
her hands, she
surrendered both to him quickly and drew back a step as though shy of his touch. He lowered the
bucket with his back
to her , and she had time to take in the tallness of him, the breadth of his shoulders, the sinewy
strength of his legs. Down
below in the small of his back, two parallel ridges of rope-like muscle stuck out against the wet
shirt. As he hauled up the
bucket, muscles rippled all over his body . His hair , which was wavy , cut short behind but long
in fronts fell in a cluster
over his forehead.
“Let me hold the bucket while you drink,” she offered.
He flashed her a smile over his shoulders as he poured the water into her jar , and again lowered
the bucket.
“No, no, you must not do that.” She hurried to his side and held one of his arms. “I couldn’t let
you, a
stranger ...”
“Why not?” He smiled down at her , and noticed a slight film of moisture clinging to the down on
her upper lip
and experienced a sudden desire to wipe it away with his forefinger . He continued to lower the
bucket while she had to
stand by .
“Hadn’t you better move over to the shade?” he suggested, as the bucket struck the water .
“What shall I do there?” she asked sharply , as though the idea of seeking protection from the
heat were contemptible
to her .
“You will get roasted standing here in the sun,” he said, and began to haul up the bucket.
But she remained beside him, catching the rope as it fell from his hands, coiling it carefully . The
jar was filled,
with plenty to drink as she tilted the half-filled can until the water lapped the rim. He gulped a
mouthful, gargled noisily ,
spewed it out, then commenced to drink in earnest. He took long, deep droughts of the sweetish
water , for he was more
thirsty than he had thought. A chuckling sound persisted in forming inside his throat at every
swallow. It made him self-
conscious. He was breathless when through, and red in the face.
“I don’t know why it makes that sound,” he said, fingering his throat and laughing
shamefacedly .
“Father also makes that sound when he drinks, and mother always laughs at him,” she said. She
untied the
headkerchief over her hair and started to roll it.
Then sun had descended considerably and there was now hardly any shade under the tree. The
bull was gathering
with its tongue stray slips of straw. He untied the animal to lead it to the other side of the girl
who spoke: “Manong, why
don’t you come to our house and bring your animal with you? There is shade and you can sleep,
though our house is very
poor .”
She had already placed the jar on her head and stood, half -turned to him, waiting for his
answer .
“I would be troubling you, Ading.”
“No. You come. I have told mother about you.” She turned and went down the path.
He sent the bull after her with smart slap on its side. Then he quickly gathered the remains of his
meal, put them
inside the jute sack which had almost dried, and himself followed. Then seeing that the bull had
stopped to nibble the
tufts of grass that dotted the bottom of the gorge, he picked up the dragging rope and urged the
animal on into a trot.
They caught up with the girl near the cart. She stopped to wait.
He did not volunteer a word. He walked a step behind, the bull lumbering in front. More than
ever he was
conscious of her person. She carried the jar on her head without holding it. Her hands swung to
her even steps. He drew
back his square shoulders, lifted his chin, and sniffed the motionless air . There was a flourish in
the way he flicked the
rump of the bull with the rope in his hand. He felt strong. He felt very strong. He felt that he
could follow the slender ,
lithe figure to the end of the world.
Bonsai 2. Gisaha and sibuyas bombay ug ahos.
Edith Lopez Tiempo 3. Ilunod ang iyang kumo nga iya kunong
All that I love isumbag sa imong nawong
I fold over once 4. Isunod ang iyang mga tiil nga iyang ipatid
And once again nimo.
And keep in a box 5. Isagol’g apil ang ubang bahin sa iyang
Or a slit in a hollow post lawas.
Or in my shoe. 6. Pabukali.
All that I love? 7. Tuslok-tusloka sa tinidor . Mas maayo kon
Why , yes, but for the moment— kutsilyo.
And for all time, both. 8. Timplahi dayog pamalikas ug maldisyon.
Something that folds and keeps easy , 9. Tilawi
Son’s note or Dad’s one gaudy tie, 10. Hauna
A roto picture of a queen, 11. Kan-a. Kon way lami., ilawog sa iro.
A blue Indian shawl, even How to Sauté a Husband Who Berates His
A money bill. Wife Who Doesn’t Know How to Cook
It’s utter sublimation, 1. Heat oil in frying pan.
A feat, this heart’s control 2. Sauté onions and garlic.
Moment to moment 3. Immerse the fists that he will punch your
To scale all love down face with.
To a cupped hand’s size, 4. Do likewise with the feet that he will kick
Till seashells are broken pieces you with.
From God’s own bright teeth, 5. Mix in the other parts of his body .
And life and love are real 6. Bring to a boil.
Things you can run and 7. Pierce with fork. Better with a knife.
Breathless hand over 8. Season with curses and maledictions.
To the merest child. 9. Taste.
10. Remove from the fire.
Unsaon Paggisa sa Bana nga Manghulga 11. Eat. If no good, throw to the dogs.
sa Asawang Dili Kahibalong Moluto
Corazon Almerino Landscape II
1. Inita ang mantika sa kaha. Carlos Angeles
Sun in the knifed horizon bleeds the sky ,
Spilling a peacock stain upon the sand,
Across some murdered rocks refuse to die.
It is your absence touches my sad hands
Blinded like flags in the wreck of air .
And catacombs of cloud enshroud the cool
And calm involvement of the darkened
plains,
The stunted mourners here: and her , a full
And universal tenderness which drains
The sucked and golden breath of sky ,
comes bare,
Now, while the dark basins the void of space,
Some sudden crickets, ambushing me near ,
Discover vowels of your whispered face
And subtly cry . I touch your absence here
Remembering the speeches of your hair.