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Literature Text
IV
Another letter had arrived.
Isabel glanced at the address. Yes, it was for her. She took it out of the box and made for the elevator. Back in her room, she slit open the envelope with a silver letter opener and carefully unfolded the sheet of cream-colored paper inside. The Tan family preferred to send correspondence on such letters, deemed symbols of social and economic standing back in Manila. She fixed the brass, art deco lampshade over the letter so it caught the full pool of yellow.
"Dearest Isabel," it began lightly enough; it was her mother again, speaking through her finely slanted and cultured handwriting, clear against the cream stationery. Yet not many lines into the letter, Isabel found herself holding back her breath in mounting shock. Her eyes locked onto each individual word in disbelief.
"I am very sorry to tell you that your beloved elder brother, Enciong, finally passed away this early morning," her mother had written. "I knew almost from the beginning that he would have little chance of quick recovery, seeing as how the tuberculosis soon spread to affect the entirety of his lungs. Yet you must understand that we cared for him to the full extent of our efforts; we fought for his survival and eventual recovery …"
The words went on to describe in earnest detail how Enciong, short for Inocencio, had grown steadily worse since the last letter. All of his parents' efforts, however, ultimately proved in vain. "In the end, I finally realized that perhaps, this was God's will, and that no amount of treatments or rest cures would save your dear Enciong, if he was scheduled to depart this world beforehand."
"No," she murmured. "No, no, no."
"… Almost as soon as Dr. Martinez pronounced his verdict, your father and I began making arrangements for the funeral, which will be held next Sunday, November 20, at the Binondo church. A week-long wake will precede it, as is customary. Enciong is to be buried in the Chinese cemetery, in the same place where all of our family members who have long since passed on now rest."
Her eyes glazed over.
"I deeply regret, as do your father, your brothers and sisters, that you will be unable to pay your last respects to your brother in person, as you are still studying there in America and, of course, a one-way trip by steamer takes nearly a month. Enciong will have long been in the earth by then, but I am sure even he would understand your absence. Perhaps you can just send your deepest condolences in a letter …"
Outside, the somber gray sky was tearing open.
"… God will always be there to guide you through the best and the worst that life may have to offer. Be thankful that you still have tomorrow to wake up to—Enciong died early in the morning, without seeing the sun rise over Manila. Still, I am sure that he will now pass on to much better things, for isn't that what heaven is for—eternal happiness, such as we can never really have while on this earth?"
A machine gun in the sky opened fire and raindrops began to assail the window panes, slowly at first then with an increasing fury.
"Again, my condolences to you and to our family as a whole; and when you have finished reading this, I hope you will not be too hard on yourself. It was not your fault, nor was it anyone's."
At long last the letter was finished.
She sat there, speechless. Any words or thoughts she might need were ten thousand miles away. Everything else was irrelevant now. The rain blew into the room, bypassing a gap between the window frames, but she didn't feel it. The only surprise came in that she had managed to finish reading.
All feeling drained from her suddenly frail body, she did not move a long time. With extreme effort, she finally wrenched herself up from her chair. The desk lamp, still on, caught the letter as it fluttered to the floor, crumpled at the edges where her shaking hands had gripped it. She had no strength left even to tear it up. Beyond the lamplight, as if beyond redemption, she threw herself onto the bed. It offered no comfort as she buried her face in the pillow, and cried.
"Isabel, what's the matter?"
She heard this voice that seemed to be coming from far away. She had no idea how long she had lain on her bed, but the pillow was almost soaked through. It is perhaps a touch inaccurate to say that tears are merely salty; obviously, they also contain some bitter substance.
"Huh?" went another voice. It took her a while to realize it was hers.
Her hands pushed against the bed, struggling enormously to lift her up. Slowly by degrees she raised herself even as each slight move triggered a shot of pain through her frame. At length she managed to sit up in bed. Through the blur of tears still rippling furiously across her eyes, she could see someone standing not three feet away, bending over her in what appeared to be a look of genuine concern.
"Your door was open. I heard …"
It was Akira.
"It's … nothing," she sobbed, although there was no use hiding the truth now. She peered at him from the sea of tears. Her body found itself at the mercy of violent spasms, strangling each breath that tried to fight its way out of her throat and resulting in painful gasps.
"Your brother?" he ventured a guess.
She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, but the tears came nearly as fast as she could wipe them away. Suddenly she felt something soft press against her hand. He was offering a silk handkerchief. Her fingers clutched it gratefully.
Isabel managed to look up at him with eyes chafed red as blood. So he knew. And more than that—he cared. Someone else might have needed her help identifying the problem. Akira had actually cared to remember what she had told him about Enciong.
"I am so sorry, Isabel," he continued. He sat down on the bed beside her and put a hand around her trembling shoulders.
"Don't be," she said. "It—wasn't—your fault."
"Still, I understand he was very close to you?"
Bitter brine flooded her eyes once again. "Close? He was not only a brother to me, Akira—he was someone more, someone much more. The only reason … we haven't been writing each other is that … Mama told him not to write anymore so he could rest … that she would send me his greetings, his messages … you understand? He was a very … dear friend—oh!" Overcome, she buried her face in Akira's chest. The tears continued to trace rivulets down her cheeks. He could feel their heat through his shirt and vest.
He circled his arms around her as her body shivered, distraught sobs still issuing from her throat. The barrage of rain continued relentlessly on the windows while the distant Tommy gun roared away through the iron skies. Stark gray lighting cast eerie shadows through the room, contesting the silence of the yellow beam resting on the desk. It was cold.
"Why did he have to die?" she cried. "Why did it have to be tuberculosis—God knows it has no known cure … why?"
"Hush," he rubbed her shoulders and pulled her closer. "It's all right now. Your brother would not prefer you to dwell on his death, I would think."
She stopped and again gazed up at him, wiping her eyes.
"Do you believe in angels?"
"Where I come from—not really," he admitted. "I have heard of them, though—it is what happens to people when they die, they grow wings and go up to heaven—am I right?"
She nodded. "People become angels when they die—but only if they've been good," she replied. "And when they get to heaven … they will always be happy."
"I am quite sure he will become an angel himself." He took the handkerchief and gently dried the last of her tears.
She was silent with the sullen atmosphere of the grave and something in the room stilled, as if a presence had blown into the room with the wind. Perhaps the spirit of Inocencio Tan, understanding how his sister would be stranded in far-off America, unable to see him off, had taken the time to visit her instead. One last act of compassion from her closest of brothers and friends, now on the other side of eternity.
"He's not the only one. Akira—"
"Yes?"
A hand reached for the bed to steady her as she spoke, in barely a faint whisper that all the world would easily have missed—yet no words escaped his ears.
"You are an angel too."
For a fleeting moment he looked surprised. "But—you just said only the dead can be angels—"
"I know, and that is what I forgot to tell you. No, angels are not necessarily those who have passed on. People fully alive, on this earth and of a good and compassionate nature—they qualify as well. In that case, I stand by what I said: you are an angel, Akira. Truly."
The two embraced, tight almost to the point of suffocation—but Isabel could now afford to lose herself in his embrace, the sole provider of her solace in this alien country, thousands upon thousands of miles from her family and all else who mattered.
"Thank you," he whispered into her ear.
"No, thank you … for everything."
"I don't know … what to say."
"You don't have to say anything."
Afraid of letting go, as if he too would disappear if she did, she clung to him, her hands finding comfort round his neck. The gaze returned, with the two mere insignificant inches apart; his vision, too, was largely focused on her depthless dark eyes. A tiny breath of air stirred their surfaces as the red faded and continued to fade, and the highlights in them flickered like candle flames. Again, her heart began knocking restlessly inside her, and she could feel the deep vibrations.
"This reminds me of something I have seen in some American movies …" He hesitated an impossibly long second. "We are together like this, and then—"
Realization dawned in her eyes like a spark, as she heard the words drop into her ears. "You mean—"
She never got farther than that, all her senses floored in that instant by a curious warmth on her lips. Her mind spun uncontrollably inside as she struggled to figure out what had just happened, then as the confusion settled down like a dying hurricane, the realization returned: he was kissing her. A profusion of nerves screamed beneath her skin as the contact continued, like that day they first held hands weeks ago, only on a far more intense scale this time. She closed her eyes and let go, surrendering to the feeling, and the few seconds the kiss must have actually lasted stretched away indefinitely like the gentle pulsations of a boundless sea.
A faint hint of a voice brought them back to their senses. The rain resumed its assault on the windows and the wind its incessant whistling. The door shivered as dull knocks sounded on its other side and the voice started up again.
They broke off as the door opened—revealing a young man in a sharp dark suit, gray overcoat and tilted hat, all dressed to go out. In his hand was an umbrella, in the other a cup of coffee and in his mouth the words: "Mind if I come—"
The coffee spilled onto the floor.
"—in?"
Outside a strong gust howled as if in protest or pain. The unforgiving lamp continued to illuminate the room like an interrogation chamber. The bleak gray surrounding it contributed to that effect, as Kiko—yes, it was him—stood in the doorway with a mouth agape in shock and a paralyzed hand gripping the very slightly shaking coffee cup. The last thing he expected was Akira's visit—and yet, barely five feet away sat the Japanese, with Isabel bent back in his arms. Right now both were staring back at him, but a second earlier their faces had been fixed on each other, mere inches to spare in between. Evidently they had been kissing or were about to.
The coffee splashed around in its cup, victim of the decreasing control he had over his hand. More of it dove headlong into the floor where it seemingly shattered into uncountable liquid fragments. Some stained and scalded his hand though beyond his notice. The steam tied itself into furious knots as it tried to escape the cup.
"Kiko?" Isabel began. "Wait! I can—"
By the time she could say "explain", he was gone. The doorway stood empty and cold as, somewhere out on the landing, another door echoed shut against its frame.
Another letter had arrived.
Isabel glanced at the address. Yes, it was for her. She took it out of the box and made for the elevator. Back in her room, she slit open the envelope with a silver letter opener and carefully unfolded the sheet of cream-colored paper inside. The Tan family preferred to send correspondence on such letters, deemed symbols of social and economic standing back in Manila. She fixed the brass, art deco lampshade over the letter so it caught the full pool of yellow.
"Dearest Isabel," it began lightly enough; it was her mother again, speaking through her finely slanted and cultured handwriting, clear against the cream stationery. Yet not many lines into the letter, Isabel found herself holding back her breath in mounting shock. Her eyes locked onto each individual word in disbelief.
"I am very sorry to tell you that your beloved elder brother, Enciong, finally passed away this early morning," her mother had written. "I knew almost from the beginning that he would have little chance of quick recovery, seeing as how the tuberculosis soon spread to affect the entirety of his lungs. Yet you must understand that we cared for him to the full extent of our efforts; we fought for his survival and eventual recovery …"
The words went on to describe in earnest detail how Enciong, short for Inocencio, had grown steadily worse since the last letter. All of his parents' efforts, however, ultimately proved in vain. "In the end, I finally realized that perhaps, this was God's will, and that no amount of treatments or rest cures would save your dear Enciong, if he was scheduled to depart this world beforehand."
"No," she murmured. "No, no, no."
"… Almost as soon as Dr. Martinez pronounced his verdict, your father and I began making arrangements for the funeral, which will be held next Sunday, November 20, at the Binondo church. A week-long wake will precede it, as is customary. Enciong is to be buried in the Chinese cemetery, in the same place where all of our family members who have long since passed on now rest."
Her eyes glazed over.
"I deeply regret, as do your father, your brothers and sisters, that you will be unable to pay your last respects to your brother in person, as you are still studying there in America and, of course, a one-way trip by steamer takes nearly a month. Enciong will have long been in the earth by then, but I am sure even he would understand your absence. Perhaps you can just send your deepest condolences in a letter …"
Outside, the somber gray sky was tearing open.
"… God will always be there to guide you through the best and the worst that life may have to offer. Be thankful that you still have tomorrow to wake up to—Enciong died early in the morning, without seeing the sun rise over Manila. Still, I am sure that he will now pass on to much better things, for isn't that what heaven is for—eternal happiness, such as we can never really have while on this earth?"
A machine gun in the sky opened fire and raindrops began to assail the window panes, slowly at first then with an increasing fury.
"Again, my condolences to you and to our family as a whole; and when you have finished reading this, I hope you will not be too hard on yourself. It was not your fault, nor was it anyone's."
At long last the letter was finished.
She sat there, speechless. Any words or thoughts she might need were ten thousand miles away. Everything else was irrelevant now. The rain blew into the room, bypassing a gap between the window frames, but she didn't feel it. The only surprise came in that she had managed to finish reading.
All feeling drained from her suddenly frail body, she did not move a long time. With extreme effort, she finally wrenched herself up from her chair. The desk lamp, still on, caught the letter as it fluttered to the floor, crumpled at the edges where her shaking hands had gripped it. She had no strength left even to tear it up. Beyond the lamplight, as if beyond redemption, she threw herself onto the bed. It offered no comfort as she buried her face in the pillow, and cried.
"Isabel, what's the matter?"
She heard this voice that seemed to be coming from far away. She had no idea how long she had lain on her bed, but the pillow was almost soaked through. It is perhaps a touch inaccurate to say that tears are merely salty; obviously, they also contain some bitter substance.
"Huh?" went another voice. It took her a while to realize it was hers.
Her hands pushed against the bed, struggling enormously to lift her up. Slowly by degrees she raised herself even as each slight move triggered a shot of pain through her frame. At length she managed to sit up in bed. Through the blur of tears still rippling furiously across her eyes, she could see someone standing not three feet away, bending over her in what appeared to be a look of genuine concern.
"Your door was open. I heard …"
It was Akira.
"It's … nothing," she sobbed, although there was no use hiding the truth now. She peered at him from the sea of tears. Her body found itself at the mercy of violent spasms, strangling each breath that tried to fight its way out of her throat and resulting in painful gasps.
"Your brother?" he ventured a guess.
She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, but the tears came nearly as fast as she could wipe them away. Suddenly she felt something soft press against her hand. He was offering a silk handkerchief. Her fingers clutched it gratefully.
Isabel managed to look up at him with eyes chafed red as blood. So he knew. And more than that—he cared. Someone else might have needed her help identifying the problem. Akira had actually cared to remember what she had told him about Enciong.
"I am so sorry, Isabel," he continued. He sat down on the bed beside her and put a hand around her trembling shoulders.
"Don't be," she said. "It—wasn't—your fault."
"Still, I understand he was very close to you?"
Bitter brine flooded her eyes once again. "Close? He was not only a brother to me, Akira—he was someone more, someone much more. The only reason … we haven't been writing each other is that … Mama told him not to write anymore so he could rest … that she would send me his greetings, his messages … you understand? He was a very … dear friend—oh!" Overcome, she buried her face in Akira's chest. The tears continued to trace rivulets down her cheeks. He could feel their heat through his shirt and vest.
He circled his arms around her as her body shivered, distraught sobs still issuing from her throat. The barrage of rain continued relentlessly on the windows while the distant Tommy gun roared away through the iron skies. Stark gray lighting cast eerie shadows through the room, contesting the silence of the yellow beam resting on the desk. It was cold.
"Why did he have to die?" she cried. "Why did it have to be tuberculosis—God knows it has no known cure … why?"
"Hush," he rubbed her shoulders and pulled her closer. "It's all right now. Your brother would not prefer you to dwell on his death, I would think."
She stopped and again gazed up at him, wiping her eyes.
"Do you believe in angels?"
"Where I come from—not really," he admitted. "I have heard of them, though—it is what happens to people when they die, they grow wings and go up to heaven—am I right?"
She nodded. "People become angels when they die—but only if they've been good," she replied. "And when they get to heaven … they will always be happy."
"I am quite sure he will become an angel himself." He took the handkerchief and gently dried the last of her tears.
She was silent with the sullen atmosphere of the grave and something in the room stilled, as if a presence had blown into the room with the wind. Perhaps the spirit of Inocencio Tan, understanding how his sister would be stranded in far-off America, unable to see him off, had taken the time to visit her instead. One last act of compassion from her closest of brothers and friends, now on the other side of eternity.
"He's not the only one. Akira—"
"Yes?"
A hand reached for the bed to steady her as she spoke, in barely a faint whisper that all the world would easily have missed—yet no words escaped his ears.
"You are an angel too."
For a fleeting moment he looked surprised. "But—you just said only the dead can be angels—"
"I know, and that is what I forgot to tell you. No, angels are not necessarily those who have passed on. People fully alive, on this earth and of a good and compassionate nature—they qualify as well. In that case, I stand by what I said: you are an angel, Akira. Truly."
The two embraced, tight almost to the point of suffocation—but Isabel could now afford to lose herself in his embrace, the sole provider of her solace in this alien country, thousands upon thousands of miles from her family and all else who mattered.
"Thank you," he whispered into her ear.
"No, thank you … for everything."
"I don't know … what to say."
"You don't have to say anything."
Afraid of letting go, as if he too would disappear if she did, she clung to him, her hands finding comfort round his neck. The gaze returned, with the two mere insignificant inches apart; his vision, too, was largely focused on her depthless dark eyes. A tiny breath of air stirred their surfaces as the red faded and continued to fade, and the highlights in them flickered like candle flames. Again, her heart began knocking restlessly inside her, and she could feel the deep vibrations.
"This reminds me of something I have seen in some American movies …" He hesitated an impossibly long second. "We are together like this, and then—"
Realization dawned in her eyes like a spark, as she heard the words drop into her ears. "You mean—"
She never got farther than that, all her senses floored in that instant by a curious warmth on her lips. Her mind spun uncontrollably inside as she struggled to figure out what had just happened, then as the confusion settled down like a dying hurricane, the realization returned: he was kissing her. A profusion of nerves screamed beneath her skin as the contact continued, like that day they first held hands weeks ago, only on a far more intense scale this time. She closed her eyes and let go, surrendering to the feeling, and the few seconds the kiss must have actually lasted stretched away indefinitely like the gentle pulsations of a boundless sea.
A faint hint of a voice brought them back to their senses. The rain resumed its assault on the windows and the wind its incessant whistling. The door shivered as dull knocks sounded on its other side and the voice started up again.
They broke off as the door opened—revealing a young man in a sharp dark suit, gray overcoat and tilted hat, all dressed to go out. In his hand was an umbrella, in the other a cup of coffee and in his mouth the words: "Mind if I come—"
The coffee spilled onto the floor.
"—in?"
Outside a strong gust howled as if in protest or pain. The unforgiving lamp continued to illuminate the room like an interrogation chamber. The bleak gray surrounding it contributed to that effect, as Kiko—yes, it was him—stood in the doorway with a mouth agape in shock and a paralyzed hand gripping the very slightly shaking coffee cup. The last thing he expected was Akira's visit—and yet, barely five feet away sat the Japanese, with Isabel bent back in his arms. Right now both were staring back at him, but a second earlier their faces had been fixed on each other, mere inches to spare in between. Evidently they had been kissing or were about to.
The coffee splashed around in its cup, victim of the decreasing control he had over his hand. More of it dove headlong into the floor where it seemingly shattered into uncountable liquid fragments. Some stained and scalded his hand though beyond his notice. The steam tied itself into furious knots as it tried to escape the cup.
"Kiko?" Isabel began. "Wait! I can—"
By the time she could say "explain", he was gone. The doorway stood empty and cold as, somewhere out on the landing, another door echoed shut against its frame.
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