Zita

Zita
One of the famous pre-WWII short stories, written by Arturo Rotor and also one of the finest
love stories in Filipino literature in English.
This story tells about a brokenhearted teacher who comes to the land of Anayat to teach his
student named Zita who coincidentally has the same name as his past lover.
Who is Arturo B. Rotor?

From the Philippines, Born in 1907 . Rotor is a practicing physician and former director of the
University of the Philippines, Post-Graduate of medicine and also in Conservatory of Music. He
is considered among the best Filipino short story writers of the 20 th century. During WWII,
Rotor served as Executive Secretary of the Philippine Commonwealth, government-in-exile.
Immediately after the war, he was appointed Secretary of the Department of Health and
Welfare.
His best-known literary work are “Confidentially, Doctor” published in 1965, “Selected stories
from the Wound and the Scar,” published in 1973, and the Men who play God” published in
1983. His first short story “The great Leveler” was published in 1925. He also discover a rare
form of jaundice known as “Rotor Syndrome”, a non-itching jaundice. He published the said
disease in 1948.
Characters
Zita- is the girl who fell in love with her teacher, tutor as well which is Mr. Reteche. She is the
daughter of Don Eleodoro. She has the same characteristics and the same name of the girl that
Mr. Reteche want to forget.
Mr Francisco B. Reteche- a mysterious guy with a mysterious past that became the teacher of
Zita.
Don Eleodoro- the municipal president, the parish priest who owned almost all the coconuts,
the herb doctor, the village character also the father of Zita who asked for Mr. Reteche to be his
daughter’s tutor.
Turong- owner of the house where Mr. Reteche stay in Anayat which also serves as the
messenger who delivers messages to Mr. Reteche.
Summary
Turong brought him from pauambang in his little sailboat, for the coastwise steamer did not
stop at any little island of broken cliffs and coconut palms. It was almost midday; they had been
standing in the white glare where the tiniest pebble and fluted conch had become points of
light, piercing bright. Their mild surprise over when he spoke in their native dialect, they saw
him more closely and his easy manner did not deceive them. His head was uncovered and he
had a way of bringing the back of his hand to his brow or mouth. They read behind that too;
was not a gesture of protection. “An exile has come to Anayat” and he is so young, lonely and
sufficient unto himself. They had prepared a room for him so that he would not have to walk far
every morning but he gave nothing more than a glance at the big stone instead he choose
Turong’s home, a shake hut near the sea.
The night Don Eliodoro had the story from his daughter of her first day in school. He asked for
the list of our names and as he read each one we looked at him long. When he came to my
name, Father, the most surprising things happened. He started pronouncing it and then he
stopped as if he had forgotten something and just stared at the paper in his hands. I heard my
name repeated three times through his half-closed lips. “Yes Sir, I am Zita”. He lloked
uncomprehendingly, and it seemed to me, Father, it was seemed that he was begging me to tell
him that was not my name, that I was deceiving him. He looked so miserable and sick. I felt like
sinking down or running away.
“Zita is not your name: It is just a pet name, No! ‘My father has always called me that, Sir.’ “It
can’t be: maybe it is Pacita or Luisa. “His voice was scarely above a whisper, Father, and all the
while he looked at me begging and begging. I shook my head determinedly. My answer must
have angered him, he must have thought I was so hard-headed, for he said, a thousand miles
Mother of Mercy…. It is not possible.’ He kept on looking at me; he was so hurt perhaps that he
should have such a stubborn pupil. But I am not really so, am I, father? Yes, you are, my dear.
But you must try to please him, he is so gentle man.
One day, he told Zita to dress accordingly as he teaches her Spanish dance. Zita hair was hung in
a big, carelessly tied knot that always threatened to get loose but never did, its dark, deep
shadows showing off in startling vividness how red a rose can be, how like velvet its petals. Her
earrings-two circlets of precious stones, red like pigeon’s blood- almost touched her shoulders.
The heavy Spanish shawl gave her the most trouble. Zita! It was a cry of recognition. She
blushed even under her rouge when he took her in his arms and thought her to step this way,
glide so, turn about. For once she happened to lean close and she felt how wildly his heart was
beating. It had frightened her and she had drawn away but when she saw how unconcerned he
was, as if he did not even know that she was in his arms, she smiled knowingly and drew close
again. Dreamily she closed her eyes and dimly wondered if his were shut too. Was he thinking
the same thoughts?, breathing the same prayer?
Turong came up after his respectful “Good evening” he handed an envelope to the school
teacher. It was large and blue and had a golden design in one corner, and the hand writing was
broad, angular, sweeping. “Thank you Turong” His voice was drawling, heavy, the voice of one
who had just awakened. With one movement he tore the unopened envelop , slowly,
unconsciously, it seemed to her. “I thought I had forgotten” he murmured dully. That changed
the whole evening. His eyes lost his sparkles, his gaze wandered from time to time, something
powerful and dark had come in between them. The tears came to her eyes, for she felt utterly
powerless. When her sight cleared she saw that he was sitting down and trying to piece the
letter together. “Why do you tear letters if you must put them together? He looked at her
kindly. “Someday, Zita, you will do it also, and then you will understand.
One day, Turong came from Pauambang and this time he brought a stranger. They knew at
once that he came from where the teacher came-his clothes, his features, his politeness- and
that he had come for the teacher. This one did not speak their dialect, as he was ever wiping his
face, gazing at the wobbly thatched huts, and muttering short, vehement phrases to himself.
Zita heard his knock before Mr. Reteche did and she knew it was he and for what he had come.
She must have been pale as her teacher, as shaken, as rebellious. And yet the stranger was so
cordial, there was nothing but gladness in his greeting, gladness at meeting an old friend. How
strong he was; even at that moment he did not forget himself; he turned to his class and
dismissed it for the day.
There were periods when they both become excited and talked fast and hard . She heard
somebody’s restless pacing, somebody sitting down heavily, the sharp intake of breaths. “I
never realize what she meant to me until I begin trying to seek from others what she cannot
give me.” She knew what was coming now, knew it before the stranger asked the question:
Tomorrow? She fled. She could not wait for the answer.
After a while, Zita realizes that her teacher will soon go. On the day that he will depart, she
tried to be in her very best. She was well-dressed, and made-up. She waited impatiently for her
teacher to come by her house and bid her farewell. Soon Turong arrives and gives her a letter .
She opened the window and sees Mr. Reteche’s silhouette disappearing, but was quite sure he
was looking at her. Suddenly she realize that the letter she was holding, she was unaware she
had torn apart. Slowly, painfully she picks them up and put it all together.
Moral Lesson
• The truth of our past hunts us, the memory of the past lovers makes feel all alone in our
life. But never forget that we will always find someone who loves us more than we
remember our past lovers.
• Past is a certainly nice place to visit, but not a nice place to stay.

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Who is Arturo B. Rotor?

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