JHOANNA CRUZ
Jhoanna Cruz is a graduate of the De La Salle University in Taft Avenue where she majored in creative writing.  She was the chairperson of the Literature Department of La Salle and taught there as well.

She won 2nd prize in the Palanca in 1999 for her full-length play "Halakata Ms. D". This was right after  the 35th U.P. National Writers Workshop in Baguio, where Joy was as Fellow for Fiction in English. Comadrona  was one of her workshop entries. Her lesbian-themed poetry and fiction have been published in several local publications.


COMADRONA

    All I have now are glass beads strung into a necklace from the camphor chest of Lumen's great-grandmother. She told me that it was handcrafted by a Tinguian woman from Abra who had come to their town bartering her family beads for rice. Inang, who saw the mud crusting on the woman's bear feet and the famine in her eyes, stole a ganta of rice from the family granary and refused the beads, knowing how valuable they were. But the woman did not want her charity and left the necklace on the ground, walked away without looking back, the rice wrapped safely in cloth sling her people use to carry babies. "It's at least a hundred years old. I want you to have it," she said. It is translucent blue with the memory of sea, or sky. It has no clasp to hint of where the string begins or ends. I keep it to invoke what is interminable.

     This is where the story I am telling seems to have begun --- in this town famous for its 400 year old Spanish houses that have survived many wars, even the carpet-bombing of desperate Japanese forces who knew that they had lost the war and thus desired nothing but destruction. It is called Vigan, through I prefer its old name, Ciudad Fernandina.

     I had come to Ilocos Sur looking for my father. No, not him, but his family, for I only had his mother's name, Sibayan. My mother had forgotten which town; she said it had been too long ago, and she, too old to remember such trivial details. I had one week off from work to scour the municipal files of each town, from Tagudin to Vigan. The journey led me only to Lumen. Which is just as well. Perhaps.

     I had heard of the Vigan clay jars called bumay and I wanted to buy one for my mother, knowing how sore she would be if I didn't bring her pasalubong. It was Good Friday and I had a feeling the factory would be closed, but I drove anyway, just in case. I saw her sweeping the yard, with the yellow leaves of the sampalok trees falling like soft rain. Some leaves caught in her curly hair which was carelessly tied in a bun. The sight reminded me of weddings -- the way the couple is showered with petals and rice grains as they leave the church. Charming. She had already started a fire with coconut fronds and the aromatic smoke made of screen for the sunlight filtering through the trees. Most noticeable were the coffee-colored jars, of different shapes and sizes, scattered around the yard.

     The gate was closed but I called her attention anyway. "Manang!  Naimbag nga aldaw!" She looked up and quickly said, "Sorry, we're closed". I was sure that my Ray Bans gave me away; she seemed irritated to see another tourist. I persisted and tried to convince her to let me in, which was difficult because I didn't know much Ilocano. Actually, I thought she might be disarmed by my silly effort to speak the dialect. I was hoping that her business sense would overcome her religiosity, but I didn't want her to think that I had no respect for the day of Christ's crucifixion. She was a stubborn woman, so I climbed the low gate, sat on top of it, and lit a cigarette. I was glad I was not wearing my usual stockings and heels. Halfway through the stick, she finally motioned for me to come down. Up close I saw that though she was not very pretty, she had lovely eyes, black as wet coal. On an impulse, I reached out to flick some leaves off her hair. She jerked away like a frightened cat and my fingers touched only the curls that fell on the right side of her face. I caught a glimpse of a scar on her temple. A keloid the colour of licorice, the size of my thumb. Gaining control immediately, she held me in her steady gaze, sizing me up, and said, "Please be quick."

     It was difficult to make a quick choice. There were hundreds of jars. I imagined that this must be how God feels when he looks upon His creatures and wonders how each one can be so different and yet so alike because we are fashioned from the same clay. I went around the display area twice and seeing that she was watching me, finally chose one which was tall, with rings around it. I loved it even when I discovered that it had a crack on its body that could not be repaired. I showed it to her and haggled for the sake of haggling. She said, "I'll give it to you for eighty pesos. If you don't like the price, leave." I wondered why she was so imprudent. I almost left just to spite her, but I wanted that jar, so I handed her one hundred pesos. As she wrapped the jar in old newspapers, she muttered to herself really, "It is the brokenness that makes this jar beautiful." 

     "Exactly. It reminds me of that poem by Keats which we took up in college. Have you read it?" I asked. I removed my shades to see her better, and she, me.

     "No. I got married right after I graduated from highschool. Papang thought it was best for me," she replied, handing me the jar.

     I felt then a dreadful desire to know this woman, to probe the brokenness which taught her to value this jar, the way I did. In my mind, I heard my friends warning me against this folly: "No, Eva. Go. Take the jar and go." It had only been three months since that other woman finally dumped me to go back to her perfect marriage. My friends had to endure my drinking, my crying, my endlessly, soliloquies. It was fair warning, I knew they were right. Instead, I sat on a big jar turned upside down and asked for her name.

     "Do you know that this jars will not break under your weight because they go through the fire twice as long as ordinary terra-cotta pots?" she asked.

     "Really? That's good. I hate those signs that go, Lovely to look at, nice to hold, but if you drop it, its considered sold. I never dare touch things that come with such warnings."

     She smiled and picked up a rock, using it to tap the jar I was sitting on. It produced a clinking sound like crystal goblets. The back of her hand slid back my calf and I sighed inaudibly, thankful that I had just shaved. I wondered if she had meant to touch me. Without dropping her hold on my eyes, she said, "That's how to tell if it's real bumay. Next time you should check first. My name is Lumen." The way her mouth rounded on the syllables of her name, I felt the sound swirling in my head, echoing, Lumen. I gave my name to her then. Wanting her to take it in her mouth and love it the way I thought she did hers. But she did not say my name until that evening, in the birthing room.

     I told her why I had to come to Ilocos and she offered to help me, explaining that her husband works in the office of the mayor and might be able to expedite my search. The voice again: "No, Eva. Go. Take the jar and go." Instead, I offered to drive her home. 

     "No. I'm sorry...thank you...but I cannot do that," she stammered.

     "Why not? I won't abduct you, I promise!", raising my right hand to emphasize the absurdity of the idea.

     "No...my husband...I..." She shut her eyes tightly and waved her hand in front of her face, as if to erase the thought, then decided, "O.K. I'll take a tricycle and you follow us home, if you want to." Then she quickly doused the fire with rainwater stored in a small jar.

     I followed her home, wanting to know what was between her elliptical phrases, because of the terror I sensed in her voice. Their house was on Crisologo street, not far from the factory. It was a post-card pretty avenue, with its rows of restored Vigan houses, the original red clay bricks interspersed with new hollow blocks and cement, the wooden doors still big enough for the entry of carriages. I had read that in the past, the ground floor of a Vigan house was used only as garage, granary, and servants' quarters. The "real" house was upstairs, to highlight the distance between the inhabitants, I supposed. The old cobblestone roads were restored too, but with limestone, because it is cheaper and easier to source. Still, the hooves of horses and their carretelas produced a plaintive melody broken only by the intrusive whirr of tricycles.

    I have never been inside these old houses and was jolted by how conveniently her antiques sat beside the amenities of our time. I loved the sheen and warmth of the capiz shell windows and how they have left untouched some broken squares from which one could peer at the treasures inside. Or outside. But the iron grills were anachronistic. And as if she had heard what I was thinking, Lumen explained, not looking at me, "it was my husband's idea. He thought the grills might deter thieves." Looking out the window I noticed that just across their house was a funeral parlor with a hearse parked right on the street. I shuddered at the thought of waking up to that scene everyday. 

     The family entertainment system was showcased in antique mahogany shelves which could have been once used for books. In her kitchen were a microwave oven, a ref, a freezer, but the sink was made of porcelain and her fish bagoong was still made and stored in bumay jars.

     "Why don't you stay and have dinner with us?" Lumen offered.

     I almost jumped at the opportunity, but to be sure, I had to ask her, "Wouldn't your husband mind having a stranger in his house?"

     "Miguel will be home late, anyway. He's going out with his boss. Besides, I'd be grateful for a real dinner conversation, for a change," she explained. "I'll make you pinakbet, kaya't mo?" she teased.

     "Wen, manang!" I exclaimed, grinning. 

     I watched her prepare the vegetables for the pinakbet: tarong, parya, otong,okra, kamatris, karabasa. She cut the vegetables in even pieces. So evenly, it seemed she was measuring and counting them -- like there had to be a certain number of pieces, or a certain size of a certain vegetable. The glossy purple of the eggplants were a counterpoint to the bitter green of the wrinkled ampalaya; the orange tint of the squash bounced prettily off the stringbeans. Lumen's fingers were moist with the juice of the okra when she was done and I blushed at my desire to take her hands in mine. She sautéed some garlic in a pan and fried the pork bagnet in its own fat. The hot oil sizzled and a sinful aroma filled the kitchen. I had to close my eyes, imagining the possibilities. She strained the bagoong in a woven sieve that looked like a dipper. "If you skip this step, the slivers of fish will ruin the texture of the sauce," she explained.  She placed the vegetables in a clay palayok and poured in the bagoong. She then covered the pot and waited. "The secret to this pinakbet is not using any aluminum utensils to mix the vegetables. You've got to shake the pot vigorously at the proper time so that the flavors of the vegetables are mixed without being bruised by the siansi," she explained as she held the pot firmly with both her hands, taking care not to burn herself.

     She added the bagnet and gave the pot one last shake. She lowered the fire and let the dish simmer as she set the table for four. I did not have time to wonder why because just then, a maid came in, carrying a child. Lumen took the boy and sat him on her lap. He had the same head of curly hair, and his dark eyes swallowed me, welling with questions. "My son, Nino," she explained. 

     "Hello, baby! I'm Tita Eva." I said a bit too joyfully.

     "I'm not a baby anymore. I'm four years old!" he said, getting off Lumen's lap. "You're sitting on my chair, Tita Eva."

     "That's very rude, Nino. Why don't you just take Daddy's seat?" Lumen suggested.

     "What if Daddy comes home?" Nino asked.

     "Don't worry. He won't," she replied in a tone I recognized from that afternoon at the factory.

     There was an awful silence as Lumen got up to serve the pinakbet. I felt that I had to fill the gap, though I was not sure if it was my place to do so.

     "Do you like pinakbet, Nino?"

     "I eat only Mom's pinakbet. Its the best best best! If you eat it, you will never want to leave!" he boasted.

     "You mean like in the kingdom of dwarves?" I asked, trying to hide my sudden urge to walk away while I still could -- not having yet partaken of the deadly feast.

     "Mommy said I shouldn't believe in duendes. But you know what? I think there are ghosts in our house!"

     "Stop that, Nino," Lumen glared. 

     "It's true! Sometimes, when its very late at  night and I'm supposed to be sleeping, I hear doors creaking and people agsar-sarita in Ilocano. Sometimes, there is a girl crying and I get really scared, I just hide under my blanket," he revealed.

     Lumen seemed surprised at Nino's story. With her elbow resting on the table, she absentmindedly fondled the scar on her temple and I wondered whether she was blinking away tears. She then kissed him gently on the forehead and assured him, "It's o.k., darling, they're not going to hurt you. Anyway, Yaya Belen is with you, so you don't have to be afraid."

     "Can I sleep in your room tonight, Mommy? I think the ghosts will come tonight," he pleaded.

     "No, darling. You're a brave boy, di ba? Now eat your food before it gets cold," she ordered.

     I, who never believed in supernatural phenomena, eagerly awaited the arrival of Nino's ghost, wishing despite myself that he would not come too early tonight.

     I was glad the pinakbet was really the best I had ever had. That way, I could gush about it between mouthfuls and not have to talk about what I thought really mattered. Husbands are one thing, but children? Watching Lumen with Nino reminded me of those Madonna and Child stampitas  we were given during First Communion. I was not sure whether it was right to disturb the finality of such a picture.

     After dinner, she gave me a grand tour of the house, pointed out her ancestors in the various portraits hung in the dining room which had two huge dining tables made of dark narra, with intricate carvings. I cringed at how much history her family must have in this town where everybody knows everybody. I asked Lumen why there were no portraits of her husband's family and she blushed, explaining, "They're in the town museum."

     "Oh. Perhaps he can really help me find my father's family then." I said, trying to make the best of a situation that I realized at that point, was already tragic.

     She showed me the guest rooms with the four-poster beds and asked if I wanted to stay overnight. I thought about the hotel I was billeted in and my boisterous Taiwanese neighbors, and the common toilet and bath... "I would love to. Let me just grab my backpack and check out."

     In the car I thought about why Lumen asked me to stay. Experience tells me that women like her are unhappy in their marriages and use women like me for entertainment. But her eyes told me a different story. Most of all, I had to admit, I wanted to lose myself in her depths. I wanted to be inside Lumen.

     When I returned to her house, she was holding a key. I thought it surprising because none of the rooms had doors with locks that needed keys. Instead, there were large wooden bolts that slide into slots on the door frames. "I want to show you where I was born," motioning me to follow her up the wide staircase.  The steps creaked ominously and I remembered a bedtime story an ex-girlfriend once told me about Bluebeard's wife.

     The birthing room was bare, save for a retablo of saints on one wall, right beside the birthing bed. On one end of the room was a bay window which Lumen opened for ventilation. She struck a match to light the gas lamp beside  the bed and I marveled at how burnished her skin was, the same earth-dark tones of the bumay.

    "Inang gave birth to my father and his five siblings on this bed."

     The bed is made of narra, the wood smooth as glass now because of time and use; its seat of wicker, solihiya, curved to follow the contours of a woman heavy with child, and angled to reveal the artisan's innate knowing of the principle of gravity. Its armrests are longer, the ends curled up to accommodate the legs spread wide for the passage  of new life.

     "In the old days, only women were allowed inside the birthing room, and only women assisted in the delivery, " she explained.

     She lay on the birthing bed then and staring me in the eye said, "I birthed Nino here."

     This is where I first loved her, birthed her pleasure with words. With a torrent of words I undressed her, kissed the marks on her belly where her skin once stretched taut, sucked on the dark nipples which to me still harbored the faint flavor of milk. The scar on her face, I realized, was not alone. I kissed each one and each time, she flinched. On her arm, her back, her thigh. I swallowed my questions about how she got these wounds. I did not want to pity her because she deserved much more than that. I named her body, her  beauty, to herself. My two fingers seemed lost inside her, so I put in one more, and still another, and yet another. I had never done this before and I was drunk with the exploration. I laved her with promises I had once lost the courage to utter. I plunged deep inside her. Kneeling on the floor, my mouth on her open sex, I called to here. "Come, Lumen, come. Come." And thus, she was born, weeping from the shock of being wrenched away from the protective sac, her self contained world. "Eva. Eva. Eva," she cried. I was the comadrona

     This birth-day remains real to me because I remember how it happened in the heart of summer and how the languid heat and the darkness of the room led droves of mosquitoes out of their dwelling-places to feast on our naked bodies. I still feel the opaque eyes of the saints burning into my flesh. Envious perhaps of the altar I had laid Lumen on, and the litany wet with worship.

     Her husband came home at around three in the morning. "Nabartek manen," she whispered. I noticed that despite his drunken stupor, he was quite a good-looking man, a tall Chinese mestizo. He swaggered in, singing loudly, "O naraniag a bulan! Un unnoy ko denggem man!"

     "Shh. You'll wake Nino." Lumen warned, locking the door quietly. I could see no expression on her face, quite like the stone statue of Leona Florentino in the town plaza.

     The smell of the alcohol in Miguel's breath was overpowering -- it mixed so well with the cheap Avon "Sweet Honesty" perfume that stayed on his crumpled shirt. He grabbed Lumen's breasts and forced her to sit on his lap, saying, "Napintas ka unay, Carina!" Lumen slapped him and got up. Her husband pulled her by the hair and slobbered her.

    "Diablo! I am not your whore! Ikkatem!" Lumen screamed. 

     Miguel hither on the face and shouted, "Okininam! I can do whatever I want with you, woman. I paid for you! If I didn't buy your stupid burnayan, how do you think you'd be able to pay your father's debts? Umaykad'toy!" Then he vomited and passed out.

     It was a tirade Lumen probably heard every night, for she washed him quickly and put him to bed, a ritual she did with the same precision she had in preparing the pinakbet. I watched her silently and waited. When she was done, she took my hand and led me to my room for the night. She game the beads then. Lying in bed, she wept and turned to face the wall. I held her like a sick child who might not live long enough to lose her innocence, and hummed, "O Naraniag a Bulan" the way I remembered my mother used to, when I had nightmares.

     I left for Manila in the morning, before he husband woke. She sent me away with a long string of home-made Vigan longganisa which reminded me of the rosary project I once tried to make in highschool, the one which constantly came undone because I could never twist wire number eight properly between decades. How clumsy I had always been with small things. I gave her my phone number and address because I did not anything else I thought she might need. She took my hand and kissed it gently, four, five times. "Thank you, Eva," she whispered. "I'll call you. When I can." In her eyes I saw a faint smoldering which I hoped she would feed with the same devotion she gave to her cooking and her jars. 

     Past the huge bridge over Abra de Ilog, I stopped by a roadside stall and bought a bottle of bagoong. My tongue tingling at the possibility of making my own pinakbet when I got home. I asked the merchant what the bridge is called. He didn't know, but he explained that "Abra" means gap. No estrangement is equal to the strength of desire, I thought. There are always portals through which people can be together. Or at least have safe passage, diay bangir.
 
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