Remembering a day from the distant past
I don’t know exactly how it happened, but by some strange alchemy, time and distance were spanned, and I was once again a child of seven living with my parents, siblings, aunts and uncles and grandfather under one roof (Chinese-style) in our huge house in Binondo. And seated beside my mother at breakfast, watching my Tia Mercedes, across from us, dunking her churros into a small cup of thick chocolate and hearing her voice addressing my mother: “Que dices, Ching?” (Mamang’s name was Consolacion, but her nickname was Ching) “Vamos a llevar estas criades esta tarde al Jardin Botanico?”
She was referring to two adolescent girls (the word “teenager” had not yet been coined), who had arrived the night before from Candon, Ilocos Sur. They arrived with Tio Kikoy, the municipal doctor of that town, my father’s cousin, and his wife Tia Carmen, my father’s sister. They were first cousins and childless. They periodically made the whole-day trip to Manila in their big Studebaker to visit my ailing grandfather and bring us sacks of rice and other produce from the farm as well as household help when needed. “Que dices Ching?” my aunt repeats because my mother is busy coaxing me to eat.
When Mamang assents, the matter is concluded.
And so, at three in the afternoon, our eight-seat Hudson is brought out with Andoy the driver at the wheel, Kikay the cook beside him (they would get married a year later), the two girls in the jump seats, and Tia Mercedes, Tia Caridad and Mamang in the back seat. I am wedged in between them and, since outside the house they are always in mestiza dress with starched butterfly sleeves and panuelo, I am feeling scratchy. But I always enjoy the tour, which is SOP for those who come from the provinces and are making their first trip to Manila.
We live on Juan Luna Street in the heart of Binondo and so, after passing the plaza in front of our historic church, we go down Rosario Street where traffic is heavy due to the electric cars, and the calesas and pushcarts bringing produce to Divisoria, cross Jones Bridge, and come to the area of Plaza Lawton, which is the nerve center for street cars. (This is where you stop and change street cars to go to your destination. The fare is three centavos for short distances, five centavos for average distances, and with eight centavos you can tour the city and go from Pritil in Tondo to Santa Ana.)
Rounding Plaza Lawton, we proceed to where the Metropolitan Theatre now stands and park the car some distance away (no problem with parking) at the Mehan Gardens. We get off the car, and take a leisurely walk to the Botanical Garden, admiring all the beautiful and strange-looking plants, and then cross to the Manila Zoo to gaze at the animals, spending some time with the monkeys and elephants. Once more in the car, we motor to the Luneta passing the two-story wooden City Hall, and visit the statue of Jose Rizal. As yet, there is no grandstand and the bay is close by, held back from the land by huge boulders on which people would sit and watch the ships on the bay and our famous sunset.
As soon as we get out of the car, the adults look for a comfortable bench under the tall, fully-leafed acacia trees to enjoy the cool breeze from the sea and watch people strolling by. I am assigned to be “tourist guide” for the new girls. We walk around the park as I point out to them Manila Hotel, Legazpi Landing, the dome of the Manila Cathedral, the Army and Navy Club, and identify the belfries of churches visible from where we are at the moment.
By the time we return to the adults, they are eating their favorite merienda: balut and peanuts. I am given my penoy (I have not yet graduated to eating balut) and the maids are coaxed to try the balut. “Ramanan yo, naimas, naimas (Taste them they’re good)” my aunts tell them in Ilocano. And what I always fear begins. The teasing is unleashed. Ticia, the balut vendor, is also in on the joke—which is, that I am not my mother’s girl but Ticia’s daughter. “Look at her,” the aunts say. “Que morena! Que morena!” Those are expressions I have heard several times because, unlike my brothers who have fair complexions and fairly straight noses, I don’t. My Tia Mercedes enjoys teasing me, and does she want to make me cry! I don’t give her the satisfaction. Not before, and not now.
The beautiful and radiant sun is beginning to sink and we leave. We enter Intramuros, and as we pass Calle Real, I rattle off the names of the churches—Recoletos, Nuestra Señora de Lourdes, San Francisco, San Agustin… “Let’s stop at Palma de Mallorca for surtidos,” one of the aunts says. I’m told to stay with the help, and when they get off the car I ask Mamang not to forget to get napoleon, my favorite pastry.
When they are away, doubts assail my mind. Is it true? Am I really a foundling? Why am I not like Maria Isabel, the young girl from Madrid who’s visiting our neighbors, the Matutes, always so clean and sweet-smelling, the ribbons in her hair ever in place, while I’m grubby, preferring to walk barefooted to shod, enjoying eating with my fingers the dinengdeng and unpolished rice with the help in the kitchen more than the rich fare on the dining table, and the Spanish conversation of my genteel kinsfolk? In my heart, I ask myself, am I plebeian? But again, what’s wrong with that?
The doors of the car open and the adults enter. My aunt asks me: “Do you want your napoleon now?” I decline the offer, saying that I would have it after dinner because I know that if I say yes, she’ll think I’m mal educada, and somehow that would be a reflection on my mother…We’re home in time for Angelus.
After dinner, the long table is cleared, and after Tia Mercedes has called the young maids, she begins the difficult task of teaching them how to read and write and spell out their names.
This is done by means of the Katon—the ABC’s. On the other hand, Tia Caridad already has the older help, including the drivers, around her. She is teaching them the Catechism.
That’s my cue to pick up La Vanguardia, the Spanish evening paper, and go to my Lolo Juan’s room. He is in bed and has been bedridden since a stroke a year ago. I approach him, kiss his forehead and, under a lamp, I read out the headlines to him. From the headlines, he tells me what news items to read further. After about 30 minutes, he begins to nod, then closes his eyes, and when I hear him snoring gently, I leave…
Lourdes Syquia-Bautista, 90, is a retired professor of the University of Santo Tomas.
