The Plague

Books Of My Life

Monday has dawned gray and cold, matching my mood perfectly. Walking to my 20th Century Literature class, I feel like the sun has set and not risen for five days. I've just finished reading Camus' The Plague. This horrible morning after, what I need is refuge from my own thoughts and emotion.

When leaving his surgery on the morning of April 16, Dr. Bernard Rieux felt something soft under his foot. It was a dead rat lying in the middle of the landing.

This opening scene of the novel has been seared in my mind. The plague has just begun its onslaught on the French Algerian city of Oran. I step gingerly on the pavement, afraid that a big rodent might come toward me from the dark end of the street.

As I enter the classroom, I'm all ears, ready to hear that this haunting tale can't be all that literal. I want to be told that this story of unrelieved horror is a metaphor for something that can be overcome with human resilience. Forget the literal ganglias splitting open like an overripe fruit, men and rats dying on the street in a stench of corruption.

Prof begins reflectively, choosing his words. 'The Plague' is a representation of the philosophical notion of the absurd, a theory that Camus himself helped to define.

I lean forward with interest. I'm already loving it. Trust the European men of letters to come up with such erudite thoughts. 

The announcement of death is paramount in Camus' philosophy and his novels, Prof continues in quite a different tone of voice.

Yes, I do recognize that. An uneasy feeling settles in my stomach as I recall old Spaniard M. Michel, his face livid and grayish green, his limbs spread out by tumors, breathing his last in a sudden gasp. I hear it in his senile chuckle, looking at the fleeing vermin, They're coming out, they're coming out. Camus is proclaiming the death of many people in Oran where it has become evident that a real epidemic has set in.

Folding his arms, looking very satisfied, Prof explains, In existential absurdism, the world is senseless and indifferent to human suffering which is unceasing and often tortuous. 

Camus' view of life is depressing. He thinks that life has no meaning, and hence there is something deeply farcical about the human quest for such notion. My voice is feeble, as I muse. What is the point of living then if life is wildly illogical and can never have intention?

No answer comes to me. I feel deeply tricked. Stunned. And furious. I grimace at the thought of an almost empty town shrouded in darkness, palled in dust, seeming like a lost island of the damned.

Prof interrupts my languishing thoughts. Camus avers that individuals should embrace the preposterous condition of human existence while also defiantly continuing to explore and search for its essence. 

I get it. Indeed, in the novel, I recall that despite the discontent and hopeless days filled with dismay and darkness, the city residents have persisted in their long, heartrending struggle to survive - content to live if only for the day, feeling the minutes go by, leaden, heavy. Endless. Alone under the vast indifference of the sky. 

Prof echoes my thoughts, his voice now quiet and distant. The absurd hero doesn't despair. He clarifies, his lips slightly pursed like he's choosing his words carefully. Instead, he openly embraces the folly of his condition. 

I nod slowly. Of course. Dr. Rieux sums it up in his chronicle as the contagion lets up: To state quite simply what we learn in time of pestilence: there are more things to admire in men than to despise.

Looking indifferently at my watch, I suck in a deep breath. I have to pick up my reserved copy of Lord of the Flies. All brisk and business-like, Prof notifies us, as if reading my thoughts. Next week, Golding.

I feel lightheaded. The perplexity that has settled around me like a heavy fog is lifting now. I look straight ahead to the library, stumbling slightly over my feet. 

No Exit

Books Of My Life

So here we are, Garcin says as the Valet ushers him into a drawing room in the opening scene of Sartre's one-act play, No Exit.

The entire dramatic work takes place in this room with only four characters - Garcin, the Valet, Estelle, and Inez. 

As we read and discuss this work, put yourself in that drawing room with two people you hate the most in the world. My Professor in the 20th Century Literature class takes a deep breath and rubs his chin as he instructs us.

Visualization exercise? I give him a questioning look, as I wait for insight that doesn't come.

As I can't think of anyone whom I can claim to 'hate the most,' I decide to go in by myself, after taking one last look at the leaves skittering across the pavement outside, pushed along by an aimless wind. 

Think about the place you have chosen as your hell, the Professor darts a quick glance at us as he leans forward, putting his elbows on the desk, as if waiting for a magic trick.   

You, my reader, may say, Wait, what is this 'hell' thing? Just so there is no confusion as to where this is going - spoiler alert! This play contains the germinal existentialist thought that 'hell is other people,' so the word 'hell' will be referenced many times, though not in its traditional denotation, as you will shortly see.

How does it look? Professor continues to probe, almost in a whisper. 

Looking around, I feel a sense of strangeness and belonging all at once. This is what it looks like? I'm mouthing Garcin's words. I'm clearly surprised as well. Where are the instruments of torture? There are no racks and red-hot pinchers and other paraphernalia. The room, in fact, looks ordinary and bourgeois, and yet I've never felt so trapped in my entire life.  

The Professor's voice is mesmerizing as he further prompts us in our imagineering. Enter Sartre's space more fully and imagine how it would feel to live there endlessly, day and night.

I force a laugh and shake my head. Oh, I see. No mirrors, I notice. No windows. And nothing breakable. No toothbrush. And no bed, either. One never sleeps. I clear my throat gently against the back of my wrist. So one has to live with one's eyes open all the time.  

Can hell be described as too much of anything without a break?  Professor wrinkles up his face, folds his arms, and murmurs in a distant voice.

I suppose so. I gesture vaguely, like dispelling fumes. Looking sideways, I soon realize the presence of Inez, Estelle, and Garcin. Avoiding my glance, each has taken a seat on one of the three sofas. I sit there with them, feeling nothing. I can't breathe. It is as if time had stopped.

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to force my mind to go blank, when I hear Estelle's complaint. Everything here's so hideous; all in angles, so uncomfortable.

Garcin stares at her without blinking. He speaks briskly, hurrying over the words. Whew! How hot it is here! 

The pervading mood seems unreal. There I am, with all three damned souls struggling to understand what sin has led them to hell.

Now we have to pay the reckoning, Garcin says bitterly.

We all turn to face him, tipping our heads up to meet his eyes. Then a chilling realization dawns on us. There is no torturer. No executioner. No flames to burn the soul eternally. It’s just the three of them - and I with them! - trapped in a deadlock.

Each of us will act as torturer of the others, Inez blurts out loudly and coughs, her voice rusty.

But thinking that anything will be better than this agony of mind, this creeping pain that gnaws and fumbles and caresses and never hurts quite enough, they contemplate to find an exit.

Oh, yes! - and I'm bolting out with you, I mutter. 

Surprisingly, as the door opens, they won't go.

Alone, none of us can save himself or herself; we're linked together inextricably. Garcin shakes his head in a quick gesture of acknowledgment. 

I get it. Those in the room are the punishment. 

We're inseparables! Inez says, moving her hands expressively. It's no use trying to escape. Night will never come, her voice trails off.

His eyes sunken, hollows in the gloom, Garcin gives a weary nod as understanding emerges. So this is hell. I’d never have believed it. You remember all we were told about the torture-chambers, the fire and brimstone, the “burning marl.” Old wives’ tales! There’s no need for red-hot pokers. HELL IS OTHER PEOPLE!

SO here we are, forever, Inez says, her face taut. 

Forever. My God, how funny! Forever, Estelle repeats weakly.

Garcin's mouth expands into a sudden grin. Forever, and ever and ever. Well, well, let's get on with it...

But I'm out of here, I say under my breath, as I desperately catch the freedom of the open door and exit the drawing room.

Back in my reality, I feel something strange engulf me, an unknown sensation of despair and emptiness. I barely hear Prof's clipped tone, Class, next week, Camus. We'll be citizens of Oran in 'The Plague.'

I nod weakly. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for me, a sinner, now and at the hour of my death.

The Metamorphosis

Books Of My Life

As a literature major, I was a fugitive riding on the spine of books, eager to escape into the milieu of fiction and secondhand dreams.  

This series features four of my top memorable books and a reconstruction of those glory days in college during which we probed into the minds of great writers, relished ideas, followed intricate thematic rhythms and imagery, and discerned recurring leitmotivs. This was the time when great literature was my solace. Indeed, to this day, it may well be for me the only true magic.

When Gregor Samsa awoke from troubled dreams one morning, he found that he had been transformed in his bed into an enormous bug.

Such is the opening sentence in Franz Kafka's The Metamorphosis. It is the literal depiction of man as insect. 

I can picture Gregor, silent, alone in the dark. He rushes up from sleep, fleeing a dozen ugly dreams. The expression on his face is one of anguish. A cold sweat has broken out on his back, which is hard as armor. His squirming, numerous legs are flickering helplessly before his eyes. He wills his body to awake from this nightmare.  

The novella has become to me one of the most intriguing masterpieces of modern writing, a hybrid of realism and the fantastic. It is powerfully insane and symbolic, and I relish reading and parsing it to no end. 

Analyze and critique. Cooly raising one brow, my professor in the 20th Century Literature class eyes us thoughtfully.

Several are quick to offer their appraisal. Guilt and absurdity. My seatmate's voice is expressionless.

Someone in back of the class grimaces in distaste, Alienation. 

The acknowledged guru of the group chooses his words with painful consideration. Existential anxiety. I love this catch phrase. Existentialism is a philosophy that emphasizes individual existence, freedom and choice. 

I listen to my professor's affirmation, a faint frown coloring his brow. It is the view that humans define their own meaning in life and try to make rational decisions despite existing in an irrational universe.

Perhaps inspired by the thought, a delicate-faced female classmate clears her throat and ventures an explication in a hoarse voice, as if she hadn't spoken in days. Gregor's transformation is a kind of wish-fulfillment. An extended metaphor.

I could have said that. What else can the bizarre transformation of a person into a huge bug be but a metaphor, I mutter, but I keep my mouth shut. Lost in my own gloomy thoughts, I scan my trusty notes. Trapped in a meaningless job and isolated from the human beings around him, Gregor has been thought of as an insect by himself and by others, so he becomes one. 

Or maybe the metaphor here is the automated life that Gregor led, another comments. His voice, completely devoid of cheer, is low and blank, almost a mumble. 

I recall that at first, Gregor denies his transformation. He tries to find the best way to walk, the best place to sit and sleep, the best food to devour. Why does he not once wonder why he has become what he is now? My eyes warm up as I ask myself the question. At different points in the story, he starts to talk with a squeaking, animal-like voice, loses control of his legs, hangs from the ceiling, starts to lose his eyesight, and wants to bite his sister.

My thought process is halted by a junior who's trying not to betray the excitement of his pronouncement. Feeling of insignificance!

I concur. Gregor has been drifting along for so many years.

Prof interjects thoughtfully, nodding to himself like he has just imparted some deep wisdom. The process of metamorphosis completely breaks all connections between Gregor’s mind and his body. While his body is that of an insect, with all the bodily processes and requirements that a body of an insect would have, his mind remains that of a coherent human.

Someone follows up with an impassioned rant.  Gregor's existence is void of any humane appreciation. Cold emotions and failed communication have turned him already into an insect, a working vermin to satisfy basic and material needs, just to provide for himself and his family.

A budding student writer from The Philippine Collegian chimes in with utmost politeness, Isolation. Insecurity. 

Perhaps trying to lighten the moment, a non-English major offers with a grin. He's spiraling downward in darkness for a dizzying eternity, like a snowfall blown down a bottomless well.

I scoff at the imagery. A bit delicate, I'm thinking, given the cruel circumstance surrounding the protagonist's dilemma.

Hopelessness, a peer from my core class says in a whisper.

Of course. Gregor has lost control over everything, even the places in his head. 

Someone takes a shaky breath and the words stream out. The metamorphosis is a very wicked and harsh critique of human existence, how we run our lives meaninglessly.

By the story's end, the world has closed in, pressing down on Gregor from every side. The cleaning woman sees him on the floor, curled up into himself, his head involuntarily sank down altogether, and his last breath issued faintly from his nostrils. She tears open the bedroom door, whistles, and shouts into the darkness, It's croaked; it's lying there, a total goner. Indeed, Gregor has faded away like an afterthought. 

Next week, Sartre's 'No Exit,' Prof announces, patting the back of his chair slowly, like comforting a ghost. 

I stash the library copy of The Metamorphosis into my book bag, feeling both horrified and deeply amazed. I sense a chill in the room, pointed toward me. Feeling suddenly fragile, I wobble my way out the door.

Room With The Secret Door

Interior Spaces

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. 

Three-Bunk Room

Interior Spaces 

Great Spirit, help me always to remember the peace
that may be found in silence. - Cherokee Prayer

I'm twelve. The 'Room Of Three Mats' is no more. With Dadee's bonus as Erlanger's new manager, we're able to add a room to accommodate all six older children. Last Brother has taken his place with Mum in the heretofore only bedroom in the house.

The new space is blissfully plain except for a closet that's set against the front wall to hold our sundry wear. Next to it is a calendar, a promo from the corner Caltex gasoline station. Cafe-style curtains, salvaged from Erlanger, hang across the windows from a taut wire tacked to nails. In a corner are six pairs of shoes, black and brown (how dull is that?) and a wood container the size of a shoebox filled with assorted junk. The room's central area awaits the three double-decker beds from Homewise Furniture that are being delivered today.

We're brimming with eagerness. Are they here yet? Eldest Brother purrs, clasping his hands in delight.

After a seemingly unending vigil, we blurt out, Nandito na! They're here!

Bolting and chasing each other across the expanse of the room, we gasp in barely-contained chaos. Already, we've staked our spots and know who's bunking with whom. 

Third Brother and I always pair together. Being the most alert among the siblings, we always manage to get the choicest of anything. We've claimed the right side of the window that faces the front yard for our bunk's location. Eldest and Fifth Brothers' bunk will be against the far wall, also with a window. Second and Fourth Brothers feign disinterest. They get the leftover area by the left wall facing the back yard for their bunk.

After fattening ourselves at dinnertime with boiled rice and string beans sauteed with a sprinkling of ground pork, we get ready for bed and rush to our respective bunks. The arrangement looks rather neat, the tall beds taking up most of the height of the room. We cackle excitedly. The mosquito nets hanging overhead, one on top of the other, look like double-stacked translucent boxes rising up from wood floors to the white-washed ceiling. 

As usual, chatter pops and cracks irrepressibly even after the lights are out. Third Brother and I exchange stories of magic and witches in whispers. Remember that one with dark men turning into wolves?  I feign a choked panic. The other brothers are stomping and shouting with a cacophony that gives a combined effect somewhere between the Second Coming and Hannibal Crossing The Alps By Elephant. 

But as Dadee comes by to sleep with two-year-old Fifth Brother and hushes us softly, all becomes quiet on the Three-Bunk front.

Wrapped in a blanket, I cover my mouth with a slight flourish of my hand to hide a yawn. I gaze into the darkness, relishing the intimacy. I sense the camaraderie, the connection. I feel like I belong here. I roll over and watch my sleeping siblings. No one is stirring, not even the pesky mice that daily visit for their ration of crumbs under the dinner table. 

The long night has come in perfect peace.

Room Of Three Mats, Part II

Interior Spaces

Everything you can imagine is real. - Pablo Picasso

At exactly 8 pm, the radio is turned on. In curious expectation, we crane our neck, some of us embracing a pillow to our knees. A voice comes like a serrated edge in the silence of the room. DZBB Super Radyo presents...

We wait for the ominous fanfare. The announcer lets out the breath he has been holding, then continues dramatically - The stories of Lola Basyang!

A wind has come up. No one is talking.

Noong.Unang.Panahon. Lola Basyang starts to speak through clenched teeth, coming to a full stop after each word. Once.Upon.A.Time. Her garrulous voice complements the scraping of the alagao branches against the house. 

Tonight, the story is that of a half-man, half-horse. A tikbalang monster! we say, mesmerized. The air is brittle with silence as we cower in fear, dry-mouthed. 

Lips curled in a sneer, it comes galloping with pounding hoofbeats in search of human prey. In his basket, frail women, already captured, peek furtively. Others, still on the ground, are running, but it is like being in a wet bog, their every step an effort. They're calling for help with fluttering voices, Saklolo! 

What's going to happen? we ask breathlessly, swallowing hard. We try to catch our breath and slow our hearts thundering in panic. 

Lola Basyang weaves the story on and on until the moon falls between the rooftops. On nights like this, it is said that the gods are asleep. We keep hoping they've changed their schedule this year and are awake, worrying about the children.

Then comes out the winged goddess. Serena! we say with a relieved grin. She battles the tikbalang. The warfare lights up the skies. The dreaded enemy is defeated, and the prisoners set free. We draw a deep breath and slowly exhale simultaneously.

Tune in tomorrow for another adventure in...

The stories of Lola Basyang!

The last notes of the program's musical theme hang in the air, as if God were saying an Amen.

Tulog na, Mum's voice drifts, enjoining us to sleep, as the radio dial is clicked off. We sound out a peal of disappointed groans as the fluorescent light is dimmed. We reluctantly pull down the side flaps of the mosquito nets and lie down. But in the half-light, we chatter determinedly on.

On the First Mat, Third Brother and I continue to talk in hushed tones. He pulls out a matchbox filled with 'piglet' bugs. No, let's not play with those, I protest, fearing they may crawl out. Basa na lang tayo. Let's just read, I suggest in a conspiratorial whisper.  I pull a Pilipino komiks from behind my shorts pocket and start reading to him, squinting, our heads side by side.

On the Second Mat, we can hear raucous movements. Eldest Brother is tickling Second Brother. The latter protests, emitting a sharp, strained laugh, Stop it! I afterward hear them comparing shooter marbles from the small drawstring bag that they each carry around like a prized possession.

On the Third Mat, Fourth Brother wails for Mummie to lie down with him. I have to stay with Fifth Baby Brother, she answers from across the only bed in the adjacent room. Shh... Dadee shushes him, neatly tucking net flaps underneath. I'm right here with you, he says in a voice that sounds sleepy.

The secret whispers, private laughter, the babbling continue for a while, then fade away. Only a tranquil half-moon lights the dark sky. We're snuggled on the mats and sheltered under mosquito nets, surrounded by the prayers of the saints, safe from monsters hovering in the night.

Room Of Three Mats, Part I

Interior Spaces

This series recreates the sleeping areas in the house I grew up in on Fountain Street. The house still stands, remodeled, and has become Fourth Brother's residence in his adult years. In this entry, I'm ten years old, eldest of six siblings at the time. Last Brother, the final one in the brood, will be born two years after. 

The living room is small and sparse. 

Narra hardwood chairs with cane-covered seats and a glass-topped table are on its central space. On a floating shelf on the right wall is a Philcoa radio. On the adjacent wall are a small bookcase and a glass estante for showcasing a plate service inherited from Lola Maria. The latter's lower pane is cracked and badly mended with tape. The top-half of the opposite wall consists of a partition with shelves on which climbing philodendron in water-filled glass bottles thrive indoors year-round without complaint. 

Dadee has just gulped a cup of his after-dinner tsaa with an embarrassing slurp. Six children have been fed, a few curses said, hurts nurtured, dishes put away, and personal libations completed. 

Thereafter, the transformation begins. The living room becomes the 'Room Of Three Mats.' 

After shoving table and chairs aside, Dadee orders jovially, Get the mats, will you? Eldest Brother dutifully assents with a prim nod over his shoulder. He retrieves the rolled woven banig standing like sentinels from the corner of the room. With appropriate flourish, Second Brother and he spread them out - one, two, three! - on the wood floor, each arrowing toward the radio.

Mum offers lumpy pillows like a prize. Please put this blanket by Fourth Brother, she says softly to me. It smells like him.

Mosquito nets, looking like rectangular parachutes, are held up on each of their four corners. With pointy lips toward a nail on the wall, Eldest Brother tells Third Brother, articulating with precision, Hang this over there.

The netted sides are afterward temporarily rolled up, forming canopies. Underneath, in small groups on the mat, we sit like spectators in a theatre box or figures around a campfire about to reenact some ancient, complex ritual.

Is it time yet? we ask all at once, exchanging small anxious glances. Soon, Dadee says, with an airy wave of the hand. I fold my arms, leaning against him.

Then, we wait for the magic to begin. 

(To be continued)