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| Cristina
Pantoja Hidalgo
Ph. D., Comparative Literature, University of the Philippines, 1993 |
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A BOOK OF DREAMS |
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| The
Candle Woman’s Daughter
You will find the candle woman in the little market that stretches from the edges of the church patio down the length of the narrow lane, and spills over into the dusty patch where the idle young men of the neighborhood sometimes play ball. Her small stall is between the stall of the woman who sells rosaries and the man who sells old maps. The candle woman wears loose, faded, flower-printed dusters – large white flowers against olive green or bunches of purple blossoms against tangerine. She is a big woman, with frizzy black hair pulled back in a tight knot, and a gap between her two front teeth. Her candles are spread on the small wooden table in front of her, and on the makeshift shelves behind her. There is every kind of candle. Cheap yellow candles for lighting in front of saints in dim churches; sturdy white candles for standing on chipped dishes during power failures; slender tapers for silver candelabra lording it over the bone china and crystal on the hand-embroidered linen; Christmas candles trimmed with sequines and sprinkled with gold dust; candles shaped like apples and oranges and aubergines; candles shaped like horses’ heads, like marble pillars, like little gingerbread houses; candles speckled and flecked and striped and plain; citronelle-scented candles to keep insects away; jasmine-scented candles to soothe bruised spirits; rose-scented candles to nurture dreams; candles smelling of almonds and amaranth, of sandlewood and pine, of cherry and lemon, of lavender and cinnamon; slim candles and fat candles; candles in delicate ceramic pots and candles in small stained glass bowls. The candle woman treats them like her children, passing her brown hands over them lovingly, naming their qualities in tender tones: this one must be watched carefully, it burns too quickly… this one tends to drip… this one will last a long, long time… these little ones smell like paradise. Beside the wooden table is a small, three-legged stool on which sits a little girl of eight or nine years. She too wears faded, flower-printed shifts, miniature copies of her mother’s dresses. But unlike her mother, she is small-boned and delicate. She looks like a slightly grubby little angel, her curly light-brown hair, a dusty halo around her tiny, heart-shaped face. And she is blind. When the candle woman is not talking with customers about her candles, the child speaks to her mother. She has a clear, sweet voice, like a little silver bell. She speaks of a city in the middle of a desert, its golden domes and minarets winking and glinting under a burning sky, and a slow procession of dark men and veiled women mounted on camels passing beneath its arched gates… of a city perched on a jagged mountain, its slopes buried in snow, and a small trail winding and twisting precariously above deep ravines and precipices, over which some peasants trudge wearily, muffled almost to the eyes, bearing on their backs bundles of firewood and tea and pine nuts… of an ancient temple by a sluggish brown river, covered with millions of pieces of variegated glass arranged to form rosettes and lotus buds, which catch the rays of the sun as it rises, and gleam like a jeweled tapestry… of a little fishing village at the edge of the world, to which come swift boats with wide sails, dyed scarlet and violet and emerald and canary yellow, and naked little boys dive deep into the water and come leaping up with the waves, carrying pearls in their mouths… of the ruined walls and terraces of a castle in the middle of a dark forest, its nooks and crevices now filled with grasses and weeds, and, on moonlit nights a faerie band, which comes to sip wine from silver goblets and dance to the ghostly music of the wind blowing through the branches of the tall, tall trees… The words pour fourth in a steady, sparkling stream, telling of wondrous faraway places. People are drawn to the candle woman’s stall by the sound of that sweet, silvery voice. They stand around the child, marveling, their baskets forgotten on their arms, their bundles resting by their feet. How does she know of those things? someone asks the candle woman. Has she ever been to those places? Has she read of them? The candle woman shakes her head and sighs deeply. No, she says, of course not. The poor child was born blind. Then how? they ask, turning to each other in amazement. Perhaps someone told her of them?
The candle woman shakes her head again. No, she says, no one.
Who would know to tell her of such things? We are poor people. The child
says she sees them in her dreams.
The Bird Man He sits on the worn old steps of the little church – the bald man in the patched brown shirt, the beggar who isn’t really a beggar. Beside him is a handsome cage of exquisitely filligreed metal, and inside the cage are seven sparrows. The bird cage looks incongruous beside the man in his much-mended clothes. It looks incongruous beside the shabby old church and the makeshift stalls scattered about its patio. It belongs in a perfumed alcove inside a gilded palace, by the side of silk-robed mandarins or rajahs wearing turbans and turquoise rings. Perhaps the bald man was at one time a silk-robed mandarin or a rajah wearing a turban and turquoise rings? Perhaps he is a prince in disguise? No, it is more likely that he is a thief, and that he stole the wonderful bird cage. When someone walks up to the Bird Man and asks to buy a bird, the Bird Man tells him that the birds are not for sale. But, for a small donation, he may open the door of the bird cage and set the sparrows free. Why would I want to do that? the person might ask. To earn merit for your next life, the Bird Man would reply. That is the Buddhist way. There are days when no one comes to make a small donation and set the sparrows free. The Bird Man waits for the last echoes of the angelus bells to fade, and for the sun to sink behind the tamarind tree, which stands at the edge of the little clearing where the neighborhood lads go to play ball. Then he picks up his cage and shuffles off into the night. On the days when someone does walk up to the steps of the church, drops a few coins inside the little glass jar beside the filligreed bird cage, and releases the sparrows, the Bird Man watches them fly off in different directions. Some flap their wings a few times and land safely on the church patio. Others drift dreamily this way and that, as though freedom had made them giddy, until they find a perch on a telephone wire. And some sail smoothly up and disappear into the leaves of the nearby avocado trees, from where they begin to chirp triumphantly. Then the Bird Man leaves his post, and walks off with a lighter step. The next morning, he is back again, with seven sparrows inside the handsome filligreed cage. Some people say they are the same sparrows whom the Bird Man has trained to return to him after they have flown off into the sky. But others say that the Bird Man can call to any bird and it will come, for he knows their language. One time, a stranger walked up to the Bird Man where he sat on the worn old steps of the little church, and asked if the birds were for sale. They are not, the Bird Man replied, but if you would care to make a small donation, you may open the door of the cage and set them free. What for? asked the puzzled stranger. To earn merit for your next life, the Bird Man said. That is the Buddhist way. But this is a Catholic Church, the stranger protested.
The Bird Man nodded. That is true, he said. But we are all Buddhists,
whether we know it or not.
*** "A Book of Dreams" is the forthcoming book of Cristina Pantoja Hidalgo. |
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