ELT 314 REVIEWER 3RD EXAM

METALANGUAGE
In this section, the most essential terms relevant to the study of the literary pieces in the 21st
century ULOa will be defined that you can refer to whenever you encounter these terms as we go
through the study of curriculum.
•Fiction- Fiction generally is a narrative form, in any medium, consisting of people, events, or
places that are imaginary—in other words, not based strictly on history or fact. In its most
narrow usage, fiction refers to written narratives in prose and often specifically novels, though
also novellas and short stories.
•Literary Criticism- Refers to a genre of writing whereby an author critiques a literary text,
either a work of fiction, a play, or poetry. Alternatively, some works of literary criticism address
how a particular theory of interpretation informs a reading of a work or refutes some other
critics' reading of a work.
•Short story- a piece of prose fiction that typically can be read in one sitting and focuses on a
self-contained incident or series of linked incidents, with the intent of evoking a single effect or
mood. The short story is a crafted form in its own right.

1. WRITING SHORT STORY

A short story is one of the forms of fiction writing, and we all know that fiction is a series of
events made from the imagination of the author. It is a prose writing which does not depend on
verses, rhymes or meters for the organization and presentation of the narrative.

Elements of the Story

1. Setting: Where and when is the story set? Setting represents both the physical location but
also the time (i.e. past, present, future) and the social and cultural whether the conflict will be
resolved or not.
2. Character: A person or animal or really anything personified. There can be one main
character or many, and often there are secondary characters, but not always.

o Protagonist: The main character around whom the story revolves. The
protagonist often faces a central conflict that propels the narrative forward. They
can be relatable, heroic, or flawed, adding depth to their journey.
o Antagonist: The character or force that opposes the protagonist. The antagonist
can be another character, a group, or even an abstract force such as societal norms
or nature. Their conflict with the protagonist creates tension and drives the plot.
o Static Characters: These characters do not undergo significant changes
throughout the story. They remain the same from beginning to end, often serving
a specific function in the narrative, such as providing support or contrast to
dynamic characters.
o Dynamic Characters: These characters experience significant internal changes as
the story progresses. Their development often reflects the story’s themes,
showcasing how they adapt, grow, or regress in response to events.
o Flat Characters: Flat characters are one-dimensional and typically embody a
single trait or idea. They serve a specific purpose in the narrative but lack depth or
complexity, often serving as stereotypes or caricatures.
o Round Characters: Round characters are complex and well-developed,
exhibiting a range of emotions, motivations, and traits. They feel realistic to
readers and often have conflicting desires or goals, making them relatable.
 o Supporting Characters: These secondary characters support the protagonist or
antagonist and help to develop the plot and themes. They can provide background,
comic relief, or additional conflict.
o Foil Characters: Foil characters contrast with the protagonist or another
character to highlight particular qualities or traits. For example, a brave character
might have a cowardly foil to emphasize their courage.
o Symbolic Characters: These characters represent larger ideas or concepts
beyond their narrative roles. They may embody themes like love, sacrifice, or
betrayal, contributing to the overall meaning of the story.
o Character Development: How characters evolve is crucial to storytelling.
Authors may use various techniques to develop characters, including:
 Dialogue: What characters say can reveal their personalities, beliefs, and
relationships.
 Actions: A character's choices and behaviors can indicate their
motivations and growth.
 Reactions: How characters respond to challenges or conflicts can show
their development.
 Internal Monologue: This provides insight into a character’s thoughts
and feelings, helping readers understand their motivations and conflicts.

3.Plot: It is the narrative sequence on how the author arranged his or her ideas. This is a planned,
logical series of event that has its own beginning, middle, and end. There are five essential
components of the plot:
Introduction: It is the beginning of the story, in which the character and setting are described by
the author.
Rising action: It is where the events of the story have become a little complicated, and the
conflict of the story is revealed.
Climax: It is the highest point of the interest and the turning point of the story. A good climax
can make the readers wonder what will happen next, they will ask themselvesA good climax
makes the readers wonder and read more.
Falling action: The events and conflicts of the story begin to resolve of themselves. The readers
will have a hint of what will happen next and whether the conflict will be resolved or not.
Denouement: It is the final outcome of the story. The events and conflicts are untangled and
resolved.
4. Conflict: This is the vital element of a short story, without the presence of conflict, there will
be no plot. It is not merely a form of an argument between two characters, but rather it is a form
of opposition that faces the main character.
There are two types of conflict, external conflict, and internal conflict.
Moreover, there are four kinds of conflict, man against man or physical conflict; man against
society or social conflict; man against circumstances or classical conflict; and man against
himself or herself or psychological conflict.
5.Theme: Idea, belief, moral, lesson or insight. It’s the central argument that the author is trying
to make the reader understand. The theme is the “why” of the story.
2. CRITICAL APPROACHES TO READING LITERATURE
Described below are nine common critical approaches to the literature. Quotations are
from X.J. Kennedy and Dana Gioia’s Literature: An Introduction to Fiction, Poetry, and
Drama, Sixth Edition (New York: HarperCollins, 1995), pages 1790-1818.

1. Formalist Criticism: This approach regards literature as “a unique form of

human knowledge that needs to be examined on its own terms.” All the elements
necessary for understanding the work are contained within the work itself. Of
particular interest to the formalist critic are the elements of form—style, structure,
tone, imagery, etc.— that are found within the text. A primary goal for formalist
critics is to determine how such elements work together with the text’s content to
shape its effects upon readers.

2. Biographical Criticism: This approach “begins with the simple but central
insight that literature is written by actual people and that understanding an
author’s life can help readers more thoroughly comprehend the work.” Hence, it
often affords a practical method by which readers can better understand a text.
However, a biographical critic must be careful not to take the biographical facts of
a writer’s life too far in criticizing the works of that writer: the biographical critic
“focuses on explicating the literary work by using the insight provided by
knowledge of the author’s life.... [B]iographical data should amplify the meaning
of the text, not drown it out with irrelevant material.”

3. Historical Criticism: This approach “seeks to understand a literary work by

investigating the social, cultural, and intellectual context that produced it—a
context that necessarily includes the artist’s biography and milieu.” A key goal for
historical critics is to understand the effect of a literary work upon its original
readers.

4. Gender Criticism: This approach “examines how sexual identity influences the
creation and reception of literary works.” Originally an offshoot of feminist
movements, gender criticism today includes a number of approaches, including
the so-called “masculinist” approach recently advocated by poet Robert Bly. The
bulk of gender criticism, however, is feminist and takes as a central precept that
the patriarchal attitudes that have dominated western thought have resulted,
consciously or unconsciously, in literature “full of unexamined ‘male-produced’
assumptions.” Feminist criticism attempts to correct this imbalance by analyzing
and combatting such attitudes—by questioning, for example, why none of the
characters in Shakespeare’s play Othello ever challenge the right of a husband
to murder a wife accused of adultery. Other goals of feminist critics include
“analyzing how sexual identity influences the reader of a text” and “examin[ing]
how the images of men and women in imaginative literature reflect or reject the
social forces that have historically kept the sexes from achieving total equality.”

5. Psychological Criticism: This approach reflects the effect that modern

psychology has had upon both literature and literary criticism. Fundamental
figures in psychological criticism include Sigmund Freud, whose “psychoanalytic
theories changed our notions of human behavior by exploring new or
controversial areas like wish-fulfillment, sexuality, the unconscious, and
repression” as well as expanding our understanding of how “language and
 symbols operate by demonstrating their ability to reflect unconscious fears or
desires”; and Carl Jung, whose theories about the unconscious are also a key
foundation of Mythological Criticism. Psychological criticism has a number of
approaches, but in general, it usually employs one (or more) of three
approaches: An investigation of “the creative process of the artist: what is the
nature of literary genius and how does it relate to normal mental functions?” The
psychological study of a particular artist, usually noting how an author’s
biographical circumstances affect or influence their motivations and/or behavior.
The analysis of fictional characters using the language and methods of
psychology

6. Sociological Criticism: This approach “examines literature in the cultural,

economic and political context in which it is written or received,” exploring the
relationships between the artist and society. Sometimes it examines the artist’s
society to better understand the author’s literary works; other times, it may
examine the representation of such societal elements within the literature itself.
One influential type of sociological criticism is Marxist criticism, which focuses on
the economic and political elements of art, often emphasizing the ideological
content of literature; because Marxist criticism often argues that all art is political,
either challenging or endorsing (by silence) the status quo, it is frequently
evaluative and judgmental, a tendency that “can lead to reductive judgment, as
when Soviet critics rated Jack London better than William Faulkner, Ernest
Hemingway, Edith Wharton, and Henry James, because he illustrated the
principles of class struggle more clearly.” Nonetheless, Marxist criticism “can
illuminate political and economic dimensions of literature other approaches
overlook.”

7. Mythological Criticism: This approach emphasizes “the recurrent universal

patterns underlying most literary works.” Combining the insights from
anthropology, psychology, history, and comparative religion, mythological
criticism “explores the artist’s common humanity by tracing how the individual
imagination uses myths and symbols common to different cultures and epochs.”
One key concept in mythlogical criticism is the archetype, “a symbol, character,
situation, or image that evokes a deep universal response,” which entered literary
criticism from Swiss psychologist Carl Jung. According to Jung, all individuals
share a “‘collective unconscious,’ a set of primal memories common to the
human race, existing below each person’s conscious mind”—often deriving from
primordial phenomena such as the sun, moon, fire, night, and blood, archetypes
according to Jung “trigger the collective unconscious.” Another critic, Northrop
Frye, defined archetypes in a more limited way as “a symbol, usually an image,
which recurs often enough in literature to be recognizable as an element of one’s
literary experience as a whole.” Regardless of the definition of archetype they
use, mythological critics tend to view literary works in the broader context of
works sharing a similar pattern.

8. Reader-Response Criticism: This approach takes as a fundamental tenet that

“literature” exists not as an artifact upon a printed page but as a transaction
between the physical text and the mind of a reader. It attempts “to describe what
happens in the reader’s mind while interpreting a text” and reflects that reading,
like writing, is a creative process. According to reader-response critics, literary
texts do not “contain” a meaning; meanings derive only from the act of individual
readings. Hence, two different readers may derive completely different
interpretations of the same literary text; likewise, a reader who re-reads a work
 years later may find the work shockingly different. Reader-response criticism,
then, emphasizes how “religious, cultural, and social values affect readings; it
also overlaps with gender criticism in exploring how men and women read the
same text with different assumptions.” Though this approach rejects the notion
that a single “correct” reading exists for a literary work, it does not consider all
readings permissible: “Each text creates limits to its possible interpretations.”

9. Deconstructionist Criticism: This approach “rejects the traditional assumption

that language can accurately represent reality.” Deconstructionist critics regard
language as a fundamentally unstable medium—the words “tree” or “dog,” for
instance, undoubtedly conjure up different mental images for different people—
and therefore, because literature is made up of words, literature possesses no
fixed, single meaning. According to critic Paul de Man, deconstructionists insist
on “the impossibility of making the actual expression coincide with what has to be
expressed, of making the actual signs [i.e., words] coincide with what is
signified.” As a result, deconstructionist critics tend to emphasize not what is
being said but how language is used in a text. The methods of this approach tend
to resemble those of formalist criticism, but whereas formalists’ primary goal is to
locate unity within a text, “how the diverse elements of a text cohere into
meaning,” deconstructionists try to show how the text “deconstructs,” “how it can
be broken down ... into mutually irreconcilable positions.” Other goals of
deconstructionists include (1) challenging the notion of authors’ “ownership” of
texts they create (and their ability to control the meaning of their texts) and (2)
focusing on how language is used to achieve power, as when they try to
understand how some interpretations of a literary work come to be regarded as
“truth.”

3. TRADITIONAL PLOT VS. EN MEDIAS RES (STARTING IN THE

MIDDLE)
TRADITIONAL PLOT
The Traditional Plot is the structure behind most of the stories and movies you know.
Editors, filmmakers, sportscasters, song writers, fiction writers and biographers all know
that if a story has a compelling structure, it sells, it entertains, it mystifies. The
Traditional Plot just works.

EN MEDIAS RES (STARTING IN THE MIDDLE)

In medias res, (Latin: “in the midst of things”) the practice of beginning an epic or other
narrative by plunging into a crucial situation that is part of a related chain of events; the
situation is an extension of previous events and will be developed in later action. The
narrative then goes directly forward, and exposition of earlier events is supplied by
flashbacks.

4. FORESHADOWING AND FLASHBACKING

Flashback and Foreshadowing are literary devices that relate to time. Flashback
interrupts the chronological order of the plot to recollect an event in the past.
Foreshadowing gives clues and hints as to the fate of the characters. The main
difference between flashback and foreshadowing is that flashback refers to the past
whereas foreshadowing refers to the future.
Flashback
A flashback is a literary device that interrupts the chronological sequence of the plot in order to
recall an earlier happening. This method is often used in films and novels to share a
memory or an experience with the audience. For example, imagine a story
Foreshadow
Foreshadowing is a figure of speech in which the author gives hints and clues about the
events that are going to take place in the story. Authors often use indicative words and
phrases as hints without spoiling the suspense or revealing the story. However, they
may be subtle, and the readers will not be able to grasp them in the first reading itself.

FICTIONS
The word is from the Latin fictiō, “the act of making,fashioning, or molding.”
Basically, it talks about imaginary characters and events. Some are based on real
people and some are not. It includes the following: short story, novel, drama, fable,
parable, legend, myth, and fairy tale.

1. Short story- can be read on one sitting and has only single plot
2. Novel- Long story that has more characters with several sub-plots
3. Drama- A narrative prose intended to be played on stage. It is also called play
4. Fable- Brief story with animal characters that teaches lesson or moral
5. Parable- Illustrates a moral or spiritual lesson
6. Legend- Reflects the people’s identity or cultural values
7. Myth- Explains the action of gods and heroes
8. Fairy tale- A story featuring folkloric characters

6. ANNOTATING A TEXT AND WRITING ABOUT A PLOT AND

STRUCTURE
To annotate is to examine and question a text, to add critical notes. You can do this with
fiction and non-fiction. For example, with fiction, good readers do more than just read a
text for plot, they think about the text, interact with a text, make connections between
the text and the “real world.” The same is true for non-fiction except there is no plot. In
many cases, plot is substituted with a presentation of information (informational texts
like history books) or logic (persuasive pieces like editorials or essays).
Regardless of the type of text you encounter, you should always be engaging it (this
means you are thinking about it as you read it, not that you are asking for its hand in
marriage). If you do not engage a text, you run the risk of the information becoming
mental floss and you either have to reread it or sacrifice its meaning.
How do you go about doing this? One way to start is to learn through annotation. An
annotated text is often marked with underlines, highlights and symbols that mean
something to the reader. Of course, too many markings will make a text illegible, and
too few won’t help much at all.
What should you note in your annotations of fiction texts?
• Important plot details
• Point of view
• Character names and traits
• Setting
• Symbols
• Themes
 • Examples of literary elements: foreshadowing, irony, flashback, metaphor,
personification, etc.
• Unusual sentence structures or language features
• Vocabulary that needs defining
THE FENCE BY JOSE GARCIA VILLA
They should have stood apart, away from each other, those two nipa houses.
There should have been a lofty impenetrable wall between them, so that they should not
stare so coldly, so starkly, at each other—just staring, not saying a word, not even a
cruel word. Only a yard of parched soil separated them, a yard of brittle-crusted earth
with only a stray weed or two to show there was life still in its bosom.
They stood there on the roadside, they two alone, neighborless but for
themselves, and they were like two stealthy shadows, each avid to betray the other.
Queer old houses. So brown were the nipa leaves that walled and roofed them that they
looked musty, gloomy. One higher than the other, pyramid-roofed, it tried to assume the
air of mastery, but in vain. For though the other was low, wind-bent, supported without
by luteous bamboo poles against the aggressiveness of the weather, it had its eyes to
stare back as haughtily as the other—windows as desolate as the souls of the
occupants of the house, as sharply angular as the intensity of their hatred.
From the road these houses feared no enemy—no enemy from the length, from
the dust, of the road; they were unfenced. But of each other they were afraid: there ran
a green, house high, bamboo fence through the narrow ribbon of thirsty earth between
them, proclaiming that one side belonged to one house, to it alone; the other side to the
other, and to it alone.
Formerly there had been no bamboo fence; there had been no weeds. There had
been two rows of vegetables, one to each house, and the soil was not parched but soft
and rich. But something had happened and the fence came to be built, and the
vegetables that were so green began to turn pale, then paler and yellow and brown.
Those of each house would not water their plants, for if they did, would not water their
water spread to the other side and quench too the thirst of pechays and mustards not
theirs? Little by little the plants had died, the soil had cracked with neglect, on both
sides of the fence.
Two women had built that fence. Two tanned country-women. One of them had
caught her husband with the other one night, and the next morning she had gone to the
bamboo clumps near the river Pasig and felled canes with her woman strength. She left
her baby son at home, heeded not the little cries. And one by one that hot afternoon she
shouldered the canes to her home. She was tired, very tired, yet that night she could not
sleep. When morning dawned she rose and went back t the back of the house and
began to split the bamboos. Her husband noticed her, but said nothing. By noon,
AlingBiang was driving tall bamboo splits into the narrow ribbon of yard.
Pok, Pok, Pok, sounded her crude hammer. Pok, Pok, Pok-Pok, Pok, Pok.
When her husband asked her what she was doing, she answered, “I am building
a fence.”
“What for?” he asked. “I need a fence.”
And then, too, even Aling Sebia, the other woman, a child-less widow, asked
inoffensively, “What are you doing, Aling Biang?”
“I am building a fence.” “What for?”
“I need a fence, Aling Sebia. Please do not talk to me again.”
And with that Aling Sebia had felt hurt. Out of spite she too had gone to the bamboo
clumps to fell canes. After she had split them, tried though she was, she began to thrust
them into the ground, on the same straight line as Aling Biang’s but from the opposite
end. The building of the fence progressed from the opposite end. The building of the
fence progresses from the ends centerward. Aling Biang drove in the last split. And the
fence completed, oily perspiration wetting the brows of the two young women, they
gazed pridefully at the majestic wall of green that now separated them.
Not long after the completion of the fence Aling Biang’s husband disappeared
and never came back. Aling Biang took the matter passively, and made no effort to find
him. She had become a hardened woman.
The fence hid all the happenings in each house from those who lived in the other.
The other side was to each a beyond, dark in elemental prejudice, and no one dared
encroach on it. So the months passed, and each woman lived as though the other were
nonexistent.
But early one night, from beyond the fence, AlingBiang heard cries from
AlingSebia. Unwilling to pay any heed to them, she extinguished the light of the petrol
kinke and laid herself down beside her child. But, in spite of all, the cries of the other
woman made her uneasy. She stood up, went to the window that faced the fence, and
cried from there: “What is the matter with you, AlingSebang?”
Faintly from the other side came: “AlingBiang, please go the town and get me a
hilot (midwife).”
“What do you need a hilot for?” asked Aling Biang.
“I am going to deliever a child, Aling Biang, and I am alone. Please go, fetch a
hilot.”
Aling Biang stood there by the window a long time. She knew when child it was
that was coming as the child of Aling Sebia. She stood motionless, the wind brushing
her face coldly. What did she care of Aling Sebia was to undergo childbirth? The wind
blew colder and pierced the thinness of her shirt. She decided to lie down and sleep.
Her body struck against her child’s as she did so, and the child moaned:
Ummm—
The other child, too, could be moaning like that. Like her child. Ummm.From the
womb of Aling Sebia—the wrong womb.
Hastily Aling Biang stood up, wound her tapiz round her waist, covered her
shoulders with a cheap shawl.
Ummm.Ummm.The cry that called her.Ummm. The cry of a life She descended
the bamboo steps. They creaked in the night.
The fence grew moldy and inclined to one side, the child of AlingBianggrew up
into sickly boy with hollow dark eyes and shaggy hair, and the child that was born to
AlingSebia grew up into a girl, a girl with rugged features , a simian face, and a very
narrow brow. But not a word had passed across the fence since that night.
The boy Iking was not allowed to play by the roadside; for if he did, would he not
know were on the other side of the fence? For his realm he had only his home and the
little backyard. Sometimes, he would loiter along the narrow strip of yard beside the
fence, and peep surreptitiously through the slits. And he could catch glimpses of a girl,
dark-complex-ioned, flat-nosed on the other side. She was an ugly girl, even uglier than
he was, but she was full-muscled, healthy. As he peeped, his body, like a thin reed
pressed against the fungused canes, would be breathless. The flat-nosed girl
intoxicated him, his loose architecture of a body, so that it pulsed, vibrated cruelly with
the leap in his blood. The least sound of the wind against the nipa wall of their house
would startle him, as though he had been caught, surprised, in his clandestine passion;
a wave of frigid coldness would start in his chest and expand, expand, expand until he
was all cold and shivering. Watching that girl only intensified his loneliness—watching
that girl of whom he knew nothing except that form them it was not right to know each
other.
When his mother caught him peeping, she would scold him, and he would turn
quickly about, his convex back pressed painfully against the fence.
“Did I not tell you never to peep through that fence? Go up.”
And he would go up without answering a word, because the moment he tried to
reason out things, prolonged coughs would seize him and shake his thin body
unmercifully.
At night, as he lay on the bamboo floor, notes of a guitar would reach his ears.
The notes were metallic, clanking, and at the middle of the nocturne they stopped
abruptly. Who played the raucous notes? Who played the only music he had ever heard
in his life? And why did the player never finish his music? And lying beside his mother,
he felt he wanted to rise and go down the bamboo steps to the old forbidden? fence and
see who it was that was playing. But AlingBiang would stir and ask, “Are you feeling
cold, Iking? Here is the blanket.” Poor mother she did not know that it was she who was
making the soul of this boy so cold, so barren, so desolate.
And one night, after AlingBiang had prepared his bedding beside her, Iking
approached her and said: “I will sleep by the door, nanay. I want to sleep alone. I am
grownup. I am fifteen.” He folded his mat and tucked it under an arm carrying a
kundiman-cased pillow in one thin hand, and marched stoically to the place he
mentioned.
When the playing came, he stood up and went down the stairs and moved
towards the bamboo fence. He leaned against it and listened, enthralled, to the music.
When it ceased, he wanted to scream in protest, but a strangling cough seized him. He
choked, yet his neck craned and his eye strained to see who had been the player.
His lips did not move, but his soul wept, “It is she!”
And he wanted to hurl himself against fence to break it down. But he knew that
even that old, mildewed fence was stronger than he. Stronger—stronger than the
loneliness of his soul, stronger than his soul itself.

Pok, Pok, Pok—Pok, Pok, Pok.

The boy Iking, pallid, tubercular, watched his mother with sunken, hating eyes
from the window. She was mending the fence, because now it leaned to their side and
many of the old stakes had decayed. She substituted fresh ones for these, until finally,
among the weather-beaten ones, rose bold green splits like stout corporals among
squads of unhealthy soldiers. From the window, the boy Iking asked nervously: “Why do
you do that, mother? Why—why…”
“It needs reinforcing” replied his mother. Pok, Pok, Pok… “Why-why!” he
exclaimed in protest.
 His mother stopped hammering. She stared at him cruelly.
“I need it,” she declared forcefully, the veins on her forehead rising out clearly.
“Your mother needs it. You need it too.”
Iking cowered from the window. He heard again: Pok, Pok, Pok—Pok, Pok, Pok.
That night no playing came from beyond the fence. And Iking knew why.
PhthisicalIking.Eighteen-year-old bony Iking.Lying ghastly pale on the mat all the
time.Waiting for the music from the other side of the fence that had stopped three years
ago.
And tonight was Christmas Eve. Iking’s Christmas Eve. He must be happy
tonight— he must be made happy tonight…
At one corner of the room his mother crooned to herself. A Biblia was on the
table, but no one read it; they did not know how to read.
But they knew it was Christmas Eve. AlingBiang said, “The Lord will be born
tonight.” “The Lord will be born tonight,” echoed her son.
“Let us pray, Iking.”
Iking stood up. His emaciated form looked so pitiful that his mother said, “Better
lie down again, Iking. I will pray alone.”
But Iking did not lie down. He move slowly to the door and descended into the
backyard… His mother would pray. “Could she pray?” his soul asked… He stood
motionless. And then he saw the fence—the fence that his mother had built and
strengthened—to crush his soul. He ran weakly, groggily, to it—allured by its forbidding,
crushing sterness. He peeped hungrily between the splits—saw her…
His dry lips mumbled, tried to make her hear his word, “Play for me tonight!”
He saw that she heard. Her ugly faced turned sharply to the fence that separated
him and her. He wept. He had spoken to her—the first time—the first time…
He laid himself down as soon as he was back in the house. He turned his face
toward the window to wait for her music. He drew his blanket closer round him so that
he should not feel cold. The moonlight that poured into the room pointed at his face,
livid, anxious, hoping, and at a little, wet, red smudge on the blanket where it touched
his lips.
Cicadas sang and leaves of trees rustled. A gorgeous moon sailed westward
across the sky. Dark-skinned bats occasionally lost their way into the room. A pale
silken moth flew in to flirt with the flame of kerosene kinke.
And then the cicadas had tired of singing. The moon was far above at its zenith
now. The bats had found their way out of the room. The moth now lay signed on the
table, beside he realized now that the fence between their houses extended into the
heart of this girl.
“The Lord is born,” announced Aling Biang, for it was midnight.
“He is born,” said her son, his ears still ready for her music because the fence did
not run through his soul.
The moon descended… descended.
At two a.m. Iking’s eyes were closed and his hands were cold. His mother wept.
His heart beat no more.
 Two-three a.m.—only a few minutes after—and from beyond the fence came the
notes of a guitar.
The notes of a guitar. Metallic. Clanking. Raucous. Notes of the same guitar. And
she who played it finished her nocturne that mourn.
Aling Biang stood up from beside her son, approached the window, stared
accusingly outside, and said in a low resentful voice, “They are mocking. Who would
play at such a time of morn as this? Because my son is dead.”
But she saw only the fence she had built and strengthened, stately white
in the matutinal moonlight.

NANGKING STORE BY MACARIO TIU

I WAS only three years old then, but I have vivid memories of Peter and Linda’s
wedding. What I remember most was jumping and romping on their pristine matrimonial
bed after the wedding. I would learn later that it was to ensure that their first-born would
be a boy. I was chosen to do the honors because I was robust and fat.
I also remember that I got violently sick after drinking endless bottles of soft
drinks. I threw up everything that I had eaten, staining Linda’s shimmering satin
wedding gown. Practically the entire Chinese community of the city was present. There
was so music, and food that some Bisayan children from the squatter’s area were
allowed to enter the compound to eat in a shed near the kitchen.
During their first year of marriage, Linda often brought me to their house in
Bajada. She and Peter would pick me up after nursery school from our store in their car.
She would tell Mother it was her way of easing her loneliness, as all her relatives and
friends were in Cebu, her hometown. Sometimes I stayed overnight with them.
I liked going there because she pampered me, feeding me fresh fruits as well as
preserved Chinese fruits like dikiam, champoy and kiamoy. Peter was fun too, making
me ride piggyback. He was very strong and did not complain about my weight.
“A bad stock,” the toothless man said, shaking his head. “Ah Kong has no bones.
But Peter is a bad stock. A pity. After four years, still no son. Not even a daughter.”
“It’s the woman, not Peter,” said a man from a neighboring table. “I heard they
tried everything. She even had regular massage by a Bisayan medicine woman.”
“It’s sad. It’s very sad,” the toothless man said. “His parents want him to junk her,
but he loves her.”
When Father and I got home, I went to my First Brother’s room. “Why do they
say that Ah Kong has no bones?” I asked my brother. “Where did you learn that?” my
brother asked.
“At the barbershop.”
“Don’t listen in on adult talk,” he said. “It’s bad manners.” “Well, what does it
mean?”
“It means Ah Kong cannot produce a son.” “And what is a bad stock?”
My brother told me to go to sleep, but I persisted.
“It means you cannot produce any children. It’s like a seed, see? It won’t grow.
Why do you ask?” he said.
 “They say Peter is a bad stock.”
“Well, that’s what’s going to happen to him if he won’t produce a child. But it’s not
really Peter’s problem. It is Linda’s problem. She had an appendectomy when she was
still single. It could have affected her.”
Somehow, I felt responsible for their having no children. I worried that I could be
the cause. I hoped nobody remembered that I jumped on their matrimonial bed to give
them good luck. I failed to give them a son. I failed to give them even a daughter. But
nobody really blamed me for it. Everybody agreed it was Linda’s problem.
That was why Linda had moved in to Santa Ana.
But the problem was more complicated than this. First Brother explained it all to
me patiently. Peter’s father was the sole survivor of the Zhin family. He had a brother
but he died when still young. The family name was therefore in danger of dying out. It
was the worst thing that could happen to a Chinese family, for the bloodline to vanish
from the world. Who would pay respects to the ancestors? It was unthinkable. Peter
was the family’s only hope to carry on the family name, and he still remained childless.
But while everybody agreed that it was Linda’s fault, some people also doubted
Peter’s virility. At the New Canton Barbershop it was the subject of drunken bantering.
He was aware that people were talking behind his back. From a very gregarious man,
he became withdrawn and no longer socialized.
Instead he put his energies into Nanking Store. His father had retired and had
given him full authority. Under his management, Nanking Store expanded, eating up two
adjacent doors. It was rumored he had bought a large chunk of Santa Ana and was
diversifying into manufacturing and mining.
Once, I met him in the street and I smiled at him but he did not return my
greeting. He did not ruffle my hair. He had become a very different man. His mouth was
set very hard. He looked like he was angry at something.
The changes in Linda occurred over a period of time. At first, she seemed to be
in equal command with Peter in Nanking Store. She had her own desk and sometimes
acted as cashier. Later she began to serve customers directly as if she were one of the
salesgirls.
Then her personal maid was fired. Gossip blamed this on Peter’s parents. She
lived pretty much like the three stay-in salesgirls and the young mestizo driver who
cooked their own meals and washed their own clothes.
Members of the community whose opinions mattered began to sympathize with
her because her in-laws were becoming hostile towards her openly. The mother-in-law
made it known to everybody she was unhappy with her. She began to scold Linda in
public. “That worthless, barren woman,” she would spit out. Linda became a very jittery
person. One time, she served tea to her mother-in-law and the cup slid off the saucer. It
gave the mother-in-law a perfect excuse to slap Linda in the face in public.
Peter did not help her when it was a matter between his parents and herself. I
think at that time he still loved Linda, but he always deferred to the wishes of his
parents. When it was that he stopped loving her I would not know. But he had learned to
go to night spots and the talk began that he was dating a Bisayan bar girl. First Brother
saw this woman and had nothing but contempt for her.
“A bad woman,” First brother told me one night about this woman. “All make-up. I
don’t know what he sees in her.”
 It seemed that Peter did not even try to hide his affair because he would
occasionally bring the girl to a very expensive restaurant in Matina. Matina was
somewhat far from Santa Ana, but the rich and mobile young generation Chinese no
longer confined themselves to Santa Ana. Many of them saw Peter with the woman. As
if to lend credence to the rumor, the occasional night visits he made at Nanking Store
stopped. I would not see his car parked there at night again.
One day, Peter brought First Brother to a house in a subdivision in Mandug where he
proudly showed him a baby boy. It was now an open secret that he kept his woman
there and visited her frequently. First Brother told me about it after swearing me to
secrecy, the way Peter had sworn him to secrecy.
“Well, that settles the question. Peter is no bad stock after all. It had been Linda all
along,” First Brother said.
It turned out Peter showed his baby boy to several other people and made them swear
to keep it a secret. In no time at all everybody in the community knew he had finally
produced a son. People talked about the scandal in whispers. A son by a Bisayan
woman? And a bad woman at that? But they no longer joked about his being a bad
stock.
All in all people were happy for Peter. Once again his prestige rose. Peter basked in this
renewed respect. He regained his old self; he now walked with his shoulders straight,
and looked openly into people’s eyes. He also began to socialize at New Canton
Barbershop. And whenever we met, he would ruffle my hair.
As for his parents, they acted as if nothing had happened. Perhaps they knew about the
scandal, but pretended not to know. They were caught in a dilemma. On one hand, it
should make them happy that Peter finally produced a son. On the other hand, they did
not relish the idea of having a half-breed for a grandson, the old generation Chinese
being conscious of racial purity. What was certain though was that they remained
unkind to Linda.
So there came a time when nobody was paying any attention anymore to Linda, not
even Peter. Our neighbors began to accept her fate. It was natural for her to get scolded
by her mother-in-law in public. It was natural that she should stay with the salesgirls and
the driver. She no longer visited with Mother. She rarely went out, and when she did,
she wore a scarf over her head, as if she were ashamed for people to see her. Once in
the street I greeted her–she looked at me with panic in her eyes, mumbled something,
drew her scarf down to cover her face, and hurriedly walked away.
First Brother had told me once that Linda’s degradation was rather a strange case. She
was an educated girl, and although her family was not rich, it was not poor either. Why
she allowed herself to be treated that way was something that baffled people. She was
not that submissive before. Once, I was witness to how she stood her ground. Her
mother-in-law had ordered her to remove a painting of an eagle from a living room wall
of their Bajada house, saying it was bad feng shui. With great courtesy, Linda refused,
saying it was beautiful. But the mother-in-law won in the end. She nagged Peter about
it, and he removed the painting.
When the Bisayan woman gave Peter a second son, it no longer created a stir in the
community. What created a minor stir was that late one night, when the New Canton
Barbershop was about to close and there were only a few people left, Peter dropped by
with his eldest son whom he carried piggyback. First Brother was there. He said
everybody pretended the boy did not exist.
Then Peter died in a car accident in the Buhangin Diversion Road. He was returning
from Mandug and a truck rammed his car, killing him instantly. I cried when I heard
about it, remembering how he had been good to me.
At the wake, Linda took her place two rows behind her mother-in-law who completely
ignored her. People passed by her and expressed their condolences very quickly, as if
they were afraid of being seen doing so by the mother-in-law. At the burial, Linda stood
stoically throughout the ceremony, and when Peter was finally interred, she swooned.
A few weeks after Peter’s burial, we learned that Linda’s mother-in-law wanted her out
of Nanking Store. She offered Linda a tempting amount of money. People thought it was
a vicious thing to do, but none could help her. It was a purely family affair. However, a
month or two passed and Linda was still in Nanking Store. In fact, Linda was now taking
over Peter’s work.
I was happy to see that she had begun to stir herself to life. It was ironic that she would
do so only after her husband’s death. But at the same time, we feared for her. Her
mother-in-law’s hostility was implacable. She blamed Linda for everything. She knew
about the scandal all along, and she never forgave Linda for making Peter the laughing
stock of the community, forcing him into the arms of a Bisayan girl of an unsavory
reputation and producing half-breed bastard sons.
We waited keenly for the showdown that was coming. A flurry of emissaries went to
Nanking Store but Linda stood pat on her decision to stay. Then one morning, her
mother-in-law herself came in her flashy Mercedes. We learned about what actually
happened through our domestic helper who got her story from the stay-in salesgirls.
That was how the entire community learned the details of the confrontation.
According to them, Linda ran upstairs to avoid talking to her mother-in-law. But the older
woman followed and started berating her and calling her names. Linda kept her
composure. She did not even retaliate when the older woman slapped her. But when
the mother-in-law grabbed Linda’s hair, intending to drag her down the stairs, Linda
kicked her in the shin. The old woman went wild and flayed at Linda. Linda at first fought
back defensively, but as the older woman kept on, she finally slapped her mother-in-law
hard in the face. Stunned, the older woman retreated, shouting threats at her. She never
showed her face in Santa Ana again.
While some conservative parties in the community did not approve of Linda’s actions,
many others cheered her secretly. They were sad, though, that the mother-in-law,
otherwise a good woman, would become a cruel woman out of desperation to protect
and perpetuate the family name.
Since the enmity had become violent, the break was now total and absolute. This family
quarrel provided an interesting diversion in the entire community; we followed each and
every twist of its development like a TV soap opera. When the in-laws hired a lawyer,
Linda also hired her own lawyer. It was going to be an ugly fight over property.
Meanwhile, Linda’s transformation fascinated the entire community. She had removed
her scarf and made herself visible in the community again. I was glad that every time I
saw her she was getting back to her old self. Indeed it was only then that I noticed how
beautiful she was. She had well-shaped lips that needed no lipstick. Her eyes sparkled.
Color had returned to her cheeks, accentuating her fine complexion. Blooming, the
women said, seeming to thrive on the fight to remain in Nanking Store. The young men
sat up whenever she passed by. But they would shake their heads, and say “What a
pity, she’s barren.”
Then without warning the in-laws suddenly moved to Manila, bringing with them the two
bastard sons. They made it known to everybody that it was to show their contempt for
Linda. It was said that the other woman received a handsome amount so she would
never disturb them again.
We all thought that was that. For several months an uneasy peace settled down in
Nanking Store as the struggle shifted to the courts. People pursued other interests.
Then to the utter horror of the community, they realized Linda was pregnant.
Like most people, I thought at first that she was just getting fat. But everyday it was
getting obvious that her body was growing. People had mixed reactions. When she
could not bear a child she was a disgrace. Now that she was pregnant, she was still a
disgrace. But she did not care about what people thought or said about her. Wearing a
pair of elastic pants that highlighted her swollen belly, she walked all over Santa Ana.
She dropped by every store on our block and chatted with the storeowners, as if to
make sure that everybody knew she was pregnant.
There was no other suspect for her condition but the driver. Nobody had ever paid him
any attention before, and now they watched him closely. He was a shy mestizo about
Peter’s age. A very dependable fellow, yes. And good-looking, they now grudgingly
admitted.
“Naughty, naughty,” the young men teased him, some of whom turned unfriendly.
Unused to attention, the driver went on leave to visit his parents in Iligan City.
One night, I arrived home to find Linda talking with Mother.
“Hoa, Tua Poya! You’re so tall!” she greeted me. “Here are some oranges. I know you
like them.”
I said my thanks. How heavy with child she was! “How old are you now?”
“Twelve,” I said.
“Hmm, you’re a man already. I should start calling you Napoleon, huh? Well, Napoleon,
I’ve come here to say goodbye to your mother, and to you, too.”
She smiled; it was the smile I remembered when I was still very young, the smile of my
childhood.
“Tomorrow, I’m going to Iligan to fetch Oliver. Then we’ll proceed to Cebu to visit my
parents. Would you like to go with me?”
I looked at Mother. She was teary eyed. Linda stood up and ruffled my hair. “So tall,”
she said.
That was two years ago. We have not heard from Linda again. Nanking Store remains
closed. The store sign has streaked into pastel colors like a stale wedding cake. First
Brother says it is best for Linda to stay away. As for me, I am happy for her but I keep
wondering if she had given birth to a boy.
“A bad stock,” the toothless man said, shaking his head. “Ah Kong has no bones. But
Peter is a bad stock. A pity. After four years, still no son. Not even a daughter.”
“It’s the woman, not Peter,” said a man from a neighboring table. “I heard they tried
everything. She even had regular massage by a Bisayan medicine woman.”
“It’s sad. It’s very sad,” the toothless man said. “His parents want him to junk her, but he
loves her.”
When Father and I got home, I went to my First Brother’s room. “Why do they say that
Ah Kong has no bones?” I asked my brother. “Where did you learn that?” my brother
asked.
“At the barbershop.”
“Don’t listen in on adult talk,” he said. “It’s bad manners.” “Well, what does it mean?”
“It means Ah Kong cannot produce a son.” “And what is a bad stock?”
My brother told me to go to sleep, but I persisted.
“It means you cannot produce any children. It’s like a seed, see? It won’t grow. Why do
you ask?” he said.
“They say Peter is a bad stock.”
“Well, that’s what’s going to happen to him if he won’t produce a child. But it’s not really
Peter’s problem. It is Linda’s problem. She had an appendectomy when she was still
single. It could have affected her.”
Somehow, I felt responsible for their having no children. I worried that I could be the
cause. I hoped nobody remembered that I jumped on their matrimonial bed to give them
good luck. I failed to give them a son. I failed to give them even a daughter. But nobody
really blamed me for it. Everybody agreed it was Linda’s problem.
That was why Linda had moved in to Santa Ana. But the problem was more complicated
than this. First Brother explained it all to me patiently. Peter’s father was the sole
survivor of the Zhin family. He had a brother but he died when still young. The family
name was therefore in danger of dying out. It was the worst thing that could happen to a
Chinese family, for the bloodline to vanish from the world. Who would pay respects to
the ancestors? It was unthinkable. Peter was the family’s only hope to carry on the
family name, and he still remained childless.
But while everybody agreed that it was Linda’s fault, some people also doubted Peter’s
virility. At the New Canton Barbershop, it was the subject of drunken bantering. He was
aware that people were talking behind his back. From a very gregarious man, he
became withdrawn and no longer socialized.
Instead, he put his energies into Nanking Store. His father had retired and had given
him full authority. Under his management, Nanking Store expanded, eating up two
adjacent doors. It was rumored he had bought a large chunk of Santa Ana and was
diversifying into manufacturing and mining.
Once, I met him in the street and I smiled at him but he did not return my greeting. He
did not ruffle my hair. He had become a very different man. His mouth was set very
hard. He looked like he was angry at something.
The changes in Linda occurred over a period of time. At first, she seemed to be in equal
command with Peter in Nanking Store. She had her own desk and sometimes
acted as cashier. Later she began to serve customers directly as if she were one of the
salesgirls.
Then her personal maid was fired. Gossip blamed this on Peter’s parents. She lived
pretty much like the three stay-in salesgirls and the young mestizo driver who cooked
their own meals and washed their own clothes.
Members of the community whose opinions mattered began to sympathize with her
because her in-laws were becoming hostile towards her openly. The mother-in-law
made it known to everybody she was unhappy with her. She began to scold Linda in
public. “That worthless, barren woman,” she would spit out. Linda became a very jittery
person. One time, she served tea to her mother-in-law and the cup slid off the saucer. It
gave the mother-in-law a perfect excuse to slap Linda in the face in public.
Peter did not help her when it was a matter between his parents and herself. I think at
that time he still loved Linda, but he always deferred to the wishes of his parents. When
it was that he stopped loving her I would not know. But he had learned to go to night
spots and the talk began that he was dating a Bisayan bar girl. First Brother saw this
woman and had nothing but contempt for her.
“A bad woman,” First brother told me one night about this woman. “All make-up. I don’t
know what he sees in her.”
It seemed that Peter did not even try to hide his affair because he would occasionally
bring the girl to a very expensive restaurant in Matina. Matina was somewhat far from
Santa Ana, but the rich and mobile young generation Chinese no longer confined
themselves to Santa Ana. Many of them saw Peter with the woman. As if to lend
credence to the rumor, the occasional night visits he made at Nanking Store stopped. I
would not see his car parked there at night again.
One day, Peter brought First Brother to a house in a subdivision in Mandug where he
proudly showed him a baby boy. It was now an open secret that he kept his woman
there and visited her frequently. First Brother told me about it after swearing me to
secrecy, the way Peter had sworn him to secrecy.
“Well, that settles the question. Peter is no bad stock after all. It had been Linda all
along,” First Brother said.
It turned out Peter showed his baby boy to several other people and made them swear
to keep it a secret. In no time at all everybody in the community knew he had finally
produced a son. People talked about the scandal in whispers. A son by a Bisayan
woman? And a bad woman at that? But they no longer joked about his being a bad
stock.
All in all people were happy for Peter. Once again his prestige rose. Peter basked in this
renewed respect. He regained his old self; he now walked with his shoulders straight,
and looked openly into people’s eyes. He also began to socialize at New Canton
Barbershop. And whenever we met, he would ruffle my hair.
As for his parents, they acted as if nothing had happened. Perhaps they knew about
the scandal, but pretended not to know. They were caught in a dilemma. On one hand,
it should make them happy that Peter finally produced a son. On the other hand, they
did not relish the idea of having a half-breed for a grandson, the old generation Chinese
being conscious of racial purity. What was certain though was that they remained
unkind to Linda.
So there came a time when nobody was paying any attention anymore to Linda, not
even Peter. Our neighbors began to accept her fate. It was natural for her to get scolded
by her mother-in-law in public. It was natural that she should stay with the salesgirls and
the driver. She no longer visited with Mother. She rarely went out, and when she did,
she wore a scarf over her head, as if she were ashamed for people to see her. Once in
the street I greeted her–she looked at me with panic in her eyes, mumbled something,
drew her scarf down to cover her face, and hurriedly walked away.
First Brother had told me once that Linda’s degradation was rather a strange case. She
was an educated girl, and although her family was not rich, it was not poor either. Why
she allowed herself to be treated that way was something that baffled people. She was
not that submissive before. Once, I was witness to how she stood her ground. Her
mother-in-law had ordered her to remove a painting of an eagle from a living room wall
of their Bajada house, saying it was bad feng shui. With great courtesy, Linda refused,
saying it was beautiful. But the mother-in-law won in the end. She nagged Peter about
it, and he removed the painting.
When the Bisayan woman gave Peter a second son, it no longer created a stir in the
community. What created a minor stir was that late one night, when the New Canton
Barbershop was about to close and there were only a few people left, Peter dropped by
with his eldest son whom he carried piggyback. First Brother was there. He said
everybody pretended the boy did not exist.
Then Peter died in a car accident in the Buhangin Diversion Road. He was returning
from Mandug and a truck rammed his car, killing him instantly. I cried when I heard
about it, remembering how he had been good to me.
At the wake, Linda took her place two rows behind her mother-in-law who completely
ignored her. People passed by her and expressed their condolences very quickly, as if
they were afraid of being seen doing so by the mother-in-law. At the burial, Linda stood
stoically throughout the ceremony, and when Peter was finally interred, she swooned.
A few weeks after Peter’s burial, we learned that Linda’s mother-in-law wanted her out
of Nanking Store. She offered Linda a tempting amount of money. People thought it was
a vicious thing to do, but none could help her. It was a purely family affair. However, a
month or two passed and Linda was still in Nanking Store. In fact, Linda was now taking
over Peter’s work.
I was happy to see that she had begun to stir herself to life. It was ironic that she would
do so only after her husband’s death. But at the same time, we feared for her. Her
mother-in-law’s hostility was implacable. She blamed Linda for everything. She knew
about the scandal all along, and she never forgave Linda for making Peter the laughing
stock of the community, forcing him into the arms of a Bisayan girl of an unsavory
reputation and producing half-breed bastard sons.
We waited keenly for the showdown that was coming. A flurry of emissaries went to
Nanking Store but Linda stood pat on her decision to stay. Then one morning, her
mother-in-law herself came in her flashy Mercedes. We learned about what actually
happened through our domestic helper who got her story from the stay-in salesgirls.
That was how the entire community learned the details of the confrontation.
According to them, Linda ran upstairs to avoid talking to her mother-in-law. But the older
woman followed and started berating her and calling her names. Linda kept her
composure. She did not even retaliate when the older woman slapped her. But when
the mother-in-law grabbed Linda’s hair, intending to drag her down the stairs, Linda
kicked her in the shin. The old woman went wild and flayed at Linda. Linda at first fought
back defensively, but as the older woman kept on, she finally slapped her mother-in-law
hard in the face. Stunned, the older woman retreated, shouting threats at her. She never
showed her face in Santa Ana again.
While some conservative parties in the community did not approve of Linda’s actions,
many others cheered her secretly. They were sad, though, that the mother-in-law,
otherwise a good woman, would become a cruel woman out of desperation to protect
and perpetuate the family name.
Since the enmity had become violent, the break was now total and absolute. This family
quarrel provided an interesting diversion in the entire community; we followed each and
every twist of its development like a TV soap opera. When the in-laws hired a lawyer,
Linda also hired her own lawyer. It was going to be an ugly fight over property.
Meanwhile, Linda’s transformation fascinated the entire community. She had removed
her scarf and made herself visible in the community again. I was glad that every time I
saw her she was getting back to her old self. Indeed it was only then that I noticed how
beautiful she was. She had well-shaped lips that needed no lipstick. Her eyes sparkled.
Color had returned to her cheeks, accentuating her fine complexion. Blooming, the
women said, seeming to thrive on the fight to remain in Nanking Store. The young men
sat up whenever she passed by. But they would shake their heads, and say “What a
pity, she’s barren.”
Then without warning the in-laws suddenly moved to Manila, bringing with them the two
bastard sons. They made it known to everybody that it was to show their contempt for
Linda. It was said that the other woman received a handsome amount so she would
never disturb them again.
We all thought that was that. For several months an uneasy peace settled down in
Nanking Store as the struggle shifted to the courts. People pursued other interests.
Then to the utter horror of the community, they realized Linda was pregnant.
Like most people, I thought at first that she was just getting fat. But everyday it was
getting obvious that her body was growing. People had mixed reactions. When she
could not bear a child she was a disgrace. Now that she was pregnant, she was still a
disgrace. But she did not care about what people thought or said about her. Wearing a
pair of elastic pants that highlighted her swollen belly, she walked all over Santa Ana.
She dropped by every store on our block and chatted with the storeowners, as if to
make sure that everybody knew she was pregnant.
There was no other suspect for her condition but the driver. Nobody had ever paid him
any attention before, and now they watched him closely. He was a shy mestizo about
Peter’s age. A very dependable fellow, yes. And good-looking, they now grudgingly
admitted.
“Naughty, naughty,” the young men teased him, some of whom turned unfriendly.
Unused to attention, the driver went on leave to visit his parents in Iligan City.
One night, I arrived home to find Linda talking with Mother.
“Hoa, Tua Poya! You’re so tall!” she greeted me. “Here are some oranges. I know you
like them.”
I said my thanks. How heavy with child she was! “How old are you now?”
“Twelve,” I said.
“Hmm, you’re a man already. I should start calling you Napoleon, huh? Well, Napoleon,
I’ve come here to say goodbye to your mother, and to you, too.”
She smiled; it was the smile I remembered when I was still very young, the smile of my
childhood.
“Tomorrow, I’m going to Iligan to fetch Oliver. Then we’ll proceed to Cebu to visit my
parents. Would you like to go with me?”
I looked at Mother. She was teary eyed. Linda stood up and ruffled my hair. “So
tall,” she said.
 That was two years ago. We have not heard from Linda again. Nanking Store
remains closed. The store sign has streaked into pastel colors like a stale wedding
cake. First Brother says it is best for Linda to stay away. As for me, I am happy for her
but I keep wondering if she had given birth to a boy.