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Literature Text
II
Isabel was walking down the sidewalk; the trees standing at regular intervals were ablaze with gold and bronze, leaves racing each other to leap off their branches and sail towards the street. A pleasantly cool wind skipped through the trees and the shifting crowds of people, their footsteps clicking regularly on the concrete. Automobiles, their black curves cut to exact specifications, cruised with the smooth movements of steel and lubricating oil. The city moved like the efficient internal machinery of a clock, ticking continuously away.
Near her hand hovered the warmth of another; beside her walked a young man, who every now and then would adjust the felt hat on his head regardless of whether it stood correctly or not. A narrow, light-colored face with narrow eyes resting on top of carved cheekbones, steadily recording the world, peered out from below the brim. He seemed less affected by the cold and his legs moved with the city pace. Every now and then his eyes would settle on Isabel who would acknowledge his gaze.
"Unfortunately, he's got tuberculosis …" Isabel was saying. "Although how serious, I cannot really tell; before I left Manila, he seemed to still be in perfect health. Mama wrote to me that he started showing signs of it sometime around a week after I had gone." She was talking of her elder brother; the lilt in her voice faded, replaced by a quiet urgency.
"That is very sad," Akira replied—for that was his name. His voice was a soothing low tone, not necessarily what one might call smooth, but still soft. Beneath its strong accent it exuded a faint musical quality and managed to pronounce its l's with sufficient clarity. "What is your family doing to help him? I understand it is a dangerous disease he has caught—there doesn't seem to be an effective cure available yet, at least not that I know of."
"Honestly, I do not know how they will help," she admitted, lowering her head. "You are right; my parents are saying the same thing—that they will have to be very careful with my brother now, because so serious an illness will easily put him within reach of the grave. I am scared, Akira." She twisted her feet ever so slightly, bringing her footsteps to within an inch of Akira's as they continued walking.
"I have seen others suffer it before. Always the prescribed cure, or at least the next best thing to one, was a long rest in a sanatorium. Perhaps your brother should get such a rest cure; it should prove effective against most symptoms of tuberculosis, like the sustained cough."
"Oh, so you are a doctor now." Isabel gave a demure laugh and glanced at him. "But seriously, thank you for your help. I am sure they are thinking of that for him already."
"It's the least I can do." Akira stopped at a corner where the bright red awning of an ice cream parlor beckoned. "Well, the only thing I can do here is wish that your brother, uh—wait, how do you say it in your language?"
"Say what?"
"Uh—get well soon?"
"Hmm. Let me think." Isabel pouted her lips, stared up into the sky as if that were her thinker's pose. "Ahh—sana'y gumaling ka?"
"Whoa, please repeat. That went by too fast." Akira grinned as his hand flew up to his hat yet again.
Isabel repeated the Tagalog words. "Get well soon. Or actually, 'Hopefully, you will get well'. You say it directly to the person you want to get well, like you were visiting them in a hospital."
"Sana-i goumaren ka," Akira attempted. Isabel could not fully suppress a little laugh; she covered her mouth out of respect but her eyes flickered in amused delight.
"Close enough," she told him. In front of them, the parlor doors swung open to the chime of a little bell and out swaggered a little American kid holding his prize of an ice cream cone. Telltale drops in pastel colors marked the boy's trail as he licked the frozen ball perched precariously on its cone. "I will tell him you said that."
"I need practice," the Japanese protested playfully.
"Oh, you will get practice, I promise you. So," she continued, "shall we go in?"
"After you." Akira had so gallant a manner, evidenced further by his hands that gestured to give way. Yet it would be incorrect to say he was being obsequious or trying hard. Politeness, perhaps, just came naturally to him like his fluid gait and his hat-adjusting. Isabel smiled at him and stepped through the doors.
At the counter she fished for her purse, feeling the pockets of her coat. Akira stopped her. "That won't be necessary." In his turn he brought out a wallet and counted out an assortment of coins, methodically pulling them out with fingers like precise tweezers and counting them again before presenting them to the little, rotund mustachioed man running the counter; he looked rather Italian. The lights were left off in the brightness of the afternoon. "Two, please."
Options followed as the shop owner asked them with the exaggerated fluctuating tone characteristic of his Italian accent. Simple vanilla and chocolate for Akira and flamboyant caramel and coffee for Isabel. Both ice creams would come in glasses. He turned over his money and led Isabel to a table by the window half-lit by the golden sun; there they would wait for their ice creams. He carefully hung his coat on the back of his chair and took off his hat.
"It still surprises me you were not groomed to be a samurai," Isabel said as they settled into their seats. Drawn to the artistic arrangement of napkins on the little polished table, she started playing with it.
"I have already told you, we no longer have samurai," Akira laughed. "It is hard to believe, I understand." Isabel, like most of the world outside Japan, had been raised on images of kimono-clad warriors, slashing away with their sharp gleaming swords and defending the countryside from lawlessness.
"My grandfather, though, was a samurai once," he continued. "He still shows impressive skill with the katana. You must see him—sometimes, back home, I see him practicing in our garden." Akira mimed katana techniques, his arms and hands tracing wide circles followed by Isabel's interested eyes, and an invisible blade cut the air with intricate lines.
"Did you inherit any of his skills?" Isabel asked, the dare present in her voice. At this the Japanese grinned and demurred, saying no, he did not. His father had determined that wielding a sword was out of step with the times—that was why Akira was studying here in America in the first place. Or was he just humbling himself, hiding greatly understated katana prowess?
The ice creams arrived, two tall and elegantly sculptured glasses filled each with two gigantic scoops like mountains of brown rock and cream white snow. Isabel's ice cream was laced with intertwined rivers of caramel, pure sugary bliss. Both glasses were intensely cold to the touch, yet only warmth escaped through the paper napkin wrapped down the middle of each glass. Both had delicate little spoons stuck alongside bright cherries through the very tops of the scoops.
More on the subject of samurai and Japanese tradition for a couple more minutes, interspersed with tiny spoonfuls of paradisiacal sweet flavor, until Akira remembered. "Did you not say that your Filipino friend was good at math? I have come to ask a little help … do you think he will agree if I asked him?"
"Oh, yes indeed. From what I know, when it comes to math he is just short of a genius. Problem solving to him is no problem, or only a little so, at least."
"Quite impressive. I envy him already." Both laughed; Akira reached for a napkin in the middle of the table to wipe his mouth.
Isabel's hand also reached for the napkins, and in an unexpected turn, she felt his hand on her own. It happened quickly and without conscious thought. Like an electric spark but at the same time different—both hands remained motionless, flooded with the heat of dilating veins. A second later they disengaged but the contact had left its mark on both. The remaining color fled from Akira's face while a faint touch of red tried to claw its way out of Isabel's cheeks. Two sets of eyes locked on each other's gaze.
Somewhere inside, her heart awoke from its steady, languid pulsing and began to beat a rhythm against her ribs, tempo gradually escalating.
"I …" Akira stuttered. "I'm—sorry. I did not mean to—" He fumbled with his words and his eyes slid around in their sockets that had suddenly become slippery, as if some lubricant had leaked into them—tears, perhaps?
"No," Isabel stopped him from going any further. "No, you did not. It is all right."
"I have never held anyone's hand before," he admitted slowly. Slowly too did he finally reach for the napkin and wipe his mouth with it.
Isabel thought quickly and defused the tension. "Meaning you have not had a prior relationship with any girl? I want the truth, Akira," she said, tilting her head and staring him down out of the corner of her eye. The mischievous smile returned to her lips.
"But that is the truth, Isabel. Back in Japan, at one point there was maybe one or two girls, but—we never got much farther than being friends. I do not know—maybe, I felt I was not ready at the time. Too young."
With a little sigh, she continued gazing. "Indeed."
"Do you … mind if I try it out again?" he tried to find his footing on slippery words. His hand felt irresistibly drawn by a powerful magnet. Isabel too was hesitant. Outside the traffic rattled in the streets.
"I—"
Again, Akira found himself holding her hand. It was definitely not the heat of the sunlight now. The sun continued to slide further and further away, now a diagonal golden blade cutting across half their faces, rendering their eyes in shadow. Below, the buildings passed through gray, brown, purple, blue, succeeding darker shades. Soon the lights would come on in their myriad windows.
Was this it then, the start, the beginning? Of all places to find such, in the middle of a city where the hectic atmosphere, the air stirred up like a soup, left little time for much else—it had to be coincidence, then, the chance spin of a roulette wheel slowing in just the right slot, a rolled die resting on the right face. Yet in the very deepest of both their minds it occurred that maybe, Chance was not the sole judge. Fate too may have had a hand in the matter, rigging the dice, stopping the wheel with an invisible hand, but who could tell? Certainly not Akira nor Isabel, unwitting players pulled into the start of this vast and vastly complicated game that some would go so far as to call Romance, or even Love.
At length Akira felt his hand burn; he pulled back, the embarrassment still evident. "Ah—so—about my Math homework. What is his name, your friend?"
"Francisco. You can call him Kiko—that should not be hard to pronounce. He lives in the same apartment as I; go up the stairs, you know my room, right? His is the room across the landing from mine."
"Kiko. All right, I will come see him some time. And just in case, could you bring me there so I know I have the right room?"
She held a smile at bay, a crowd of thoughts in her head going off like fireworks set off by the heat still warming her hand. Her lips remained neutral.
"Sure."
Isabel was walking down the sidewalk; the trees standing at regular intervals were ablaze with gold and bronze, leaves racing each other to leap off their branches and sail towards the street. A pleasantly cool wind skipped through the trees and the shifting crowds of people, their footsteps clicking regularly on the concrete. Automobiles, their black curves cut to exact specifications, cruised with the smooth movements of steel and lubricating oil. The city moved like the efficient internal machinery of a clock, ticking continuously away.
Near her hand hovered the warmth of another; beside her walked a young man, who every now and then would adjust the felt hat on his head regardless of whether it stood correctly or not. A narrow, light-colored face with narrow eyes resting on top of carved cheekbones, steadily recording the world, peered out from below the brim. He seemed less affected by the cold and his legs moved with the city pace. Every now and then his eyes would settle on Isabel who would acknowledge his gaze.
"Unfortunately, he's got tuberculosis …" Isabel was saying. "Although how serious, I cannot really tell; before I left Manila, he seemed to still be in perfect health. Mama wrote to me that he started showing signs of it sometime around a week after I had gone." She was talking of her elder brother; the lilt in her voice faded, replaced by a quiet urgency.
"That is very sad," Akira replied—for that was his name. His voice was a soothing low tone, not necessarily what one might call smooth, but still soft. Beneath its strong accent it exuded a faint musical quality and managed to pronounce its l's with sufficient clarity. "What is your family doing to help him? I understand it is a dangerous disease he has caught—there doesn't seem to be an effective cure available yet, at least not that I know of."
"Honestly, I do not know how they will help," she admitted, lowering her head. "You are right; my parents are saying the same thing—that they will have to be very careful with my brother now, because so serious an illness will easily put him within reach of the grave. I am scared, Akira." She twisted her feet ever so slightly, bringing her footsteps to within an inch of Akira's as they continued walking.
"I have seen others suffer it before. Always the prescribed cure, or at least the next best thing to one, was a long rest in a sanatorium. Perhaps your brother should get such a rest cure; it should prove effective against most symptoms of tuberculosis, like the sustained cough."
"Oh, so you are a doctor now." Isabel gave a demure laugh and glanced at him. "But seriously, thank you for your help. I am sure they are thinking of that for him already."
"It's the least I can do." Akira stopped at a corner where the bright red awning of an ice cream parlor beckoned. "Well, the only thing I can do here is wish that your brother, uh—wait, how do you say it in your language?"
"Say what?"
"Uh—get well soon?"
"Hmm. Let me think." Isabel pouted her lips, stared up into the sky as if that were her thinker's pose. "Ahh—sana'y gumaling ka?"
"Whoa, please repeat. That went by too fast." Akira grinned as his hand flew up to his hat yet again.
Isabel repeated the Tagalog words. "Get well soon. Or actually, 'Hopefully, you will get well'. You say it directly to the person you want to get well, like you were visiting them in a hospital."
"Sana-i goumaren ka," Akira attempted. Isabel could not fully suppress a little laugh; she covered her mouth out of respect but her eyes flickered in amused delight.
"Close enough," she told him. In front of them, the parlor doors swung open to the chime of a little bell and out swaggered a little American kid holding his prize of an ice cream cone. Telltale drops in pastel colors marked the boy's trail as he licked the frozen ball perched precariously on its cone. "I will tell him you said that."
"I need practice," the Japanese protested playfully.
"Oh, you will get practice, I promise you. So," she continued, "shall we go in?"
"After you." Akira had so gallant a manner, evidenced further by his hands that gestured to give way. Yet it would be incorrect to say he was being obsequious or trying hard. Politeness, perhaps, just came naturally to him like his fluid gait and his hat-adjusting. Isabel smiled at him and stepped through the doors.
At the counter she fished for her purse, feeling the pockets of her coat. Akira stopped her. "That won't be necessary." In his turn he brought out a wallet and counted out an assortment of coins, methodically pulling them out with fingers like precise tweezers and counting them again before presenting them to the little, rotund mustachioed man running the counter; he looked rather Italian. The lights were left off in the brightness of the afternoon. "Two, please."
Options followed as the shop owner asked them with the exaggerated fluctuating tone characteristic of his Italian accent. Simple vanilla and chocolate for Akira and flamboyant caramel and coffee for Isabel. Both ice creams would come in glasses. He turned over his money and led Isabel to a table by the window half-lit by the golden sun; there they would wait for their ice creams. He carefully hung his coat on the back of his chair and took off his hat.
"It still surprises me you were not groomed to be a samurai," Isabel said as they settled into their seats. Drawn to the artistic arrangement of napkins on the little polished table, she started playing with it.
"I have already told you, we no longer have samurai," Akira laughed. "It is hard to believe, I understand." Isabel, like most of the world outside Japan, had been raised on images of kimono-clad warriors, slashing away with their sharp gleaming swords and defending the countryside from lawlessness.
"My grandfather, though, was a samurai once," he continued. "He still shows impressive skill with the katana. You must see him—sometimes, back home, I see him practicing in our garden." Akira mimed katana techniques, his arms and hands tracing wide circles followed by Isabel's interested eyes, and an invisible blade cut the air with intricate lines.
"Did you inherit any of his skills?" Isabel asked, the dare present in her voice. At this the Japanese grinned and demurred, saying no, he did not. His father had determined that wielding a sword was out of step with the times—that was why Akira was studying here in America in the first place. Or was he just humbling himself, hiding greatly understated katana prowess?
The ice creams arrived, two tall and elegantly sculptured glasses filled each with two gigantic scoops like mountains of brown rock and cream white snow. Isabel's ice cream was laced with intertwined rivers of caramel, pure sugary bliss. Both glasses were intensely cold to the touch, yet only warmth escaped through the paper napkin wrapped down the middle of each glass. Both had delicate little spoons stuck alongside bright cherries through the very tops of the scoops.
More on the subject of samurai and Japanese tradition for a couple more minutes, interspersed with tiny spoonfuls of paradisiacal sweet flavor, until Akira remembered. "Did you not say that your Filipino friend was good at math? I have come to ask a little help … do you think he will agree if I asked him?"
"Oh, yes indeed. From what I know, when it comes to math he is just short of a genius. Problem solving to him is no problem, or only a little so, at least."
"Quite impressive. I envy him already." Both laughed; Akira reached for a napkin in the middle of the table to wipe his mouth.
Isabel's hand also reached for the napkins, and in an unexpected turn, she felt his hand on her own. It happened quickly and without conscious thought. Like an electric spark but at the same time different—both hands remained motionless, flooded with the heat of dilating veins. A second later they disengaged but the contact had left its mark on both. The remaining color fled from Akira's face while a faint touch of red tried to claw its way out of Isabel's cheeks. Two sets of eyes locked on each other's gaze.
Somewhere inside, her heart awoke from its steady, languid pulsing and began to beat a rhythm against her ribs, tempo gradually escalating.
"I …" Akira stuttered. "I'm—sorry. I did not mean to—" He fumbled with his words and his eyes slid around in their sockets that had suddenly become slippery, as if some lubricant had leaked into them—tears, perhaps?
"No," Isabel stopped him from going any further. "No, you did not. It is all right."
"I have never held anyone's hand before," he admitted slowly. Slowly too did he finally reach for the napkin and wipe his mouth with it.
Isabel thought quickly and defused the tension. "Meaning you have not had a prior relationship with any girl? I want the truth, Akira," she said, tilting her head and staring him down out of the corner of her eye. The mischievous smile returned to her lips.
"But that is the truth, Isabel. Back in Japan, at one point there was maybe one or two girls, but—we never got much farther than being friends. I do not know—maybe, I felt I was not ready at the time. Too young."
With a little sigh, she continued gazing. "Indeed."
"Do you … mind if I try it out again?" he tried to find his footing on slippery words. His hand felt irresistibly drawn by a powerful magnet. Isabel too was hesitant. Outside the traffic rattled in the streets.
"I—"
Again, Akira found himself holding her hand. It was definitely not the heat of the sunlight now. The sun continued to slide further and further away, now a diagonal golden blade cutting across half their faces, rendering their eyes in shadow. Below, the buildings passed through gray, brown, purple, blue, succeeding darker shades. Soon the lights would come on in their myriad windows.
Was this it then, the start, the beginning? Of all places to find such, in the middle of a city where the hectic atmosphere, the air stirred up like a soup, left little time for much else—it had to be coincidence, then, the chance spin of a roulette wheel slowing in just the right slot, a rolled die resting on the right face. Yet in the very deepest of both their minds it occurred that maybe, Chance was not the sole judge. Fate too may have had a hand in the matter, rigging the dice, stopping the wheel with an invisible hand, but who could tell? Certainly not Akira nor Isabel, unwitting players pulled into the start of this vast and vastly complicated game that some would go so far as to call Romance, or even Love.
At length Akira felt his hand burn; he pulled back, the embarrassment still evident. "Ah—so—about my Math homework. What is his name, your friend?"
"Francisco. You can call him Kiko—that should not be hard to pronounce. He lives in the same apartment as I; go up the stairs, you know my room, right? His is the room across the landing from mine."
"Kiko. All right, I will come see him some time. And just in case, could you bring me there so I know I have the right room?"
She held a smile at bay, a crowd of thoughts in her head going off like fireworks set off by the heat still warming her hand. Her lips remained neutral.
"Sure."
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