When it's dark, look for stars. - Oscar Wilde
I'm thirteen. I now have my own room. It's a scanty nine-by-eleven foot space reclaimed from the dining area.
Outside, above its doorway, is an unframed color print, faded and dusty, of Christ in the Garden of Gethsemane. The deity is offering an eternal prayer on my behalf, I've concluded vaguely but contritely. I find it comforting, given my discordant piety.
Entry is through a two-panel, saloon-like door made of particle board that stands full height and swings inward only. Just like in a bar, Carpenter Islao explains, his lips flattening into a two-dimensional smile. I open my mouth to respond, but then snap it shut, forcing a chuckle instead. He should know. He's a regular at the corner tuba palm-wine stand. I've chosen to keep one of the panels stationary, leaving only the other free to open.
The floor creaks, I say softly, as I walk on it. But better than the 'Three-Bunk Room,' I whisper gratefully. The walls, like all others in the house, are washed in one coat of light green. Para mas mura. Cheaper that way, Mum mumbles. It's her austere plan of saving on the Boysen paint expense.
Immediately against the right wall is an aparador, vibrant in orange shellac. It's an innovative all-in-one structure consisting of a closet that steps down into a mirrored dresser with drawers underneath. Neatly hung in the wardrobe space are handed-down dresses from Aunt Luz that Mum has re-styled to my petite size. They fit perfectly? she asks gently. I grin, nodding approvingly as I plant my elbows firmly on my tocador dresser, tossing my head toward the Pond's cream and Kokuryu powder that promise the 'super fabulous natural look' purported in Metro magazine.
A twin bed fits snugly, next and perpendicular to the aparador. Like domino pieces, I comment to myself playfully. The bed's cross arms are made of tightly-woven cane on top of which I've set a colorful mat. Removable corner rods hold up at nighttime the mosquito net. The latter is otherwise folded and tucked under a bumpy, kapok cotton-filled pillow and a rumpled blanket on the head of the bed.
The back wall is a partition made of tempered hardboard. It does not quite reach up to the ceiling. For ventilation, Mang Islao glibly reasons out, as though he were blowing a trumpet fanfare. I don't try to hide my smile. Its headrail, like a balance beam, has become the house lizards' favored spot to go traipsing around.
On the left wall, a window with shell-paned frames is almost always open, as the wood rails across secure it from outside entry. Its only backdrop is the sky. I like how the light plays through the window, I mutter to myself.
I delight in the privacy of my space, but what I love most is the small door that is set about a foot above the floor on the corner of the partitioned wall. It is a tight squeeze for a large adult, but is perfectly-sized for me.
Its use has puzzled me at first. What's that? I ask our carpenter, tilting my eyebrows. A secret door, he answers, gesturing extravagantly with a twinkle in his eyes. I shudder, or pretend to. He lets out an odd, choked laugh. With grudging respect, I tell him, I know. A back way to the kitchen and bathroom and out of the house.
Inwardly, I'm impressed. What a drunken, inventive spark of artisanship! I've tacked a nail on a strategic height above it, such that a hung vestida dress hides it from view. I can 'disappear' from my room when I choose to, and no one will be the wiser. I smile sheepishly at the ingenuity of my covert contraption.
At night, as I drift in and out of fitful sleep - my dreams an annoyance, like buzzing flies - I look at my secret door and murmur, To infinity... and beyond! (Okay, I know Buzz Lightyear comes several years after, but I like the bravado of his words, plus his catchphrase sounds pretty close to what I may have said at the time).
I imagine how it will lead me, not to back rooms but out into the night, soft as cashmere. The path will be unending, stretching peacefully like a blanket settling in around my shoulders.
My 'Room With The Secret Door' will be my gateway to the stars, looking like diamonds that dot the hemisphere, soothing me with their steadiness like pinpricks of hope.
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