short story written by jenavictoria
for HUM 160
March 6, 2007--not exactly scientific, but a short story nonetheless. Miya is a small girl, dark skinned, small built, but her size is just perfect for the one-sized surplus clothes they sell in the nearby stores. But Miya is almost 25, old for a girl who begs for money, but young for a woman who’d sell fake magic to get money. Her hair is black, but brown when it hits the sunlight, long and sometimes difficult to manage when not in a bun fastened to her head by an assortment of pins. Its all in the look: mysterious. Miya’s eyes look smoked with make up only because of the late nights that keep her up. She has the face of a young graduate working at the central business district of Makati, but she is neither. Instead Miya wears rags to work – cloth over cloth, sometimes clean, sometimes not – with her Havana slippers, that cost 50 pesos at the market. Fake plastic Swarovski beads held by soft metal dangle down at her ears. A dozen or so cheap bangles ring against each other as she tucks a stray strand of hair behind it. Peasant gypsy is the sophisticated term for her style in the imported magazines, but in her line of work the only style is urban poor.
It is ten o’clock in the morning, on a Sunday. Most parishioners have just left Quiapo church after the last mass before lunch. They scatter along the streets to get home, or go straight to SM. Some scatter towards the marketplace, where streets have been converted to stalls of plywood and colorful plastic canvas. Vendors sell fruits from China and vegetables from La Trinidad. Other streets are scattered with stalls of ukay-ukay; used clothing sold at a low prices flock the side streets. Carts of pirated CDs stand temporarily at the sides of the streets, ready to run in case of a raid. The old buildings of Quiapo still remain, and it seems nothing much has changed, but the streets have different stories to tell.
In Plaza Miranda flowers are sold for ten to twenty pesos more than what you could get it at DangHua for. And along the walkway, right in front of the church, is only one of the many oxymoronic sites that one can see the Philippines: here is where religion meets astrology as a row of Manila’s fortune tellers flock the side entrance to Quiapo Church. Call it a mix of cultures and beliefs.
A young girl sits down opposite Miya at her personal table – a round wooden table covered with cloth. She looks young, and excited, her eyes gleamed at Miya. Miya had just shuffled a deck of ordinary cards from a previous client and had set them aside. She points to the piece of corrugated card hanging from a thumbtack at the edge of the table. In black marker ink it reads: “Fortune Telling: P100”. Miya takes out the deck of cards and begins to shuffle. She lays the deck on the table.
“Cut the cards,” Miya says. The young girl looks at her, her fair skin gleaming in the last hours of the morning sun. “Oh. Ok… Uhm…how many cuts?” she asks. “It’s up to you,” Miya replies.
The client cuts the cards in half, and brings the deck back together. Miya takes the deck in her hands and lays out four cards in front of the client. She flips them over, one by one: queen of clubs, jack of diamonds, seven of clubs, and nine of spades.
“What does this mean?” her client asks.
Miya clears her throat, “Take four more cards and place them on top of the ones already set.” she says in her most mystic voice. The client does just that: eight of hearts, queen of hearts, jack of spades, and nine of clubs.
“Let’s discuss this first pair,” Miya isolates the queen of clubs and eight of hearts.
The young girl takes a deep breath and shifts positions on the wobbly wooden chair.
“This is someone in your life,” Miya points to the queen, “a woman, a rich woman…”
“Yes, what about her?” The client replies motioning for Miya to continue. “Is there someone like this in your life?” The girl nods. “The cards tell me that she isn’t very pleasant. But that she is important in your life.” The girl thinks quietly. Miya smiles, she can’t help notice the parallelism of this card-told character in her own life.
“How, ‘bout this?” Miya refers to the jack of diamonds and queen of hearts pair. The cards tell of a tragic story: A woman, pretty, affectionate, but she is with an untrustworthy person, and he eventually leaves her. As Miya narrates the story she takes out another card from the deck and places it above the pair. “They have children.” she adds with the meaning of the ace of spades. It seemed like the story of her own mother, Miya thinks. But then again, it is a story of many; even the old woman may have had this story, or even her client.
“Oh…” The client frowns, and thinks again.
Miya is trying very hard to pull off as a mystic, she modulates her voice and speaks in the present tense, this adds to the mystery. Are these things that happened, are happening, or are yet to happen to her client? Her client nods, frowns, and smiles with every change to the card-told story. Miya hardly believes anything. Cards can’t tell a future, but their memorized meanings may as well paint a dramatic picture in a client’s life.
“This person,” Miya points to the jack of spades, “he is not so old, but he will bring you some terrible news. Be wary.” Miya adds a warning.
The client looks at Miya and smiles. “Yes, it seems very much like him… You’re good,” she interrupts the reading, “How can you tell these things? They’re exactly what’s happening to me!”
Miya is amused. Not many people who come to her table actually believe with as much enthusiasm as her present client. But she is young, Miya reasons out. “It’s not me, it’s you, you and the cards,” Miya smiles.
She continues. “This,” she points to the nine of spades, “is telling me of an illness, a failure, or misfortune. Miya brings out another card from the deck, and places it on top of the nines. The Ace of Clubs reveals that this is indeed a death. “But this,” she moves the top cards and reveals the nine of clubs, “is an unexpected financial gain, maybe through an inheritance.” Miya pauses to clear her throat. “Be wary, sometimes a big stroke of luck can leave you with the greatest sadness.” She pretends to be as mystic as she can, but she is not lying.
Miya continues to read the girl’s fortune. The cards tell of a tragic story of an ill fated woman, inheritances, and sadness. Miya could only guess if anything she read from the randomly spread out cards was real. But the girl was very responsive, she mentions names, and narrates short instances in her real life to Miya. It seems as real to her as the sunlight that hit her face. As Miya’s young client leaves, she smiles and hands Miya a five-hundred peso-bill. It seems she was near tears. Miya takes the bill and stuffs it in the metal cookie container she had tucked under the table as she shuffled the notes for four one-hundred peso bills.
“Thank you, have a nice day.” Miya said as she handed her client her change.
Miya couldn’t help but smile as the crystal ball in the shade beside her gave off a distinct blue glow.
Miya had never used the ball, but since she first set it down on her table the other day, the “magic” she cheaply sold seemed so real, believable that it came out of her without even looking at her codigo under the table. At a rate she was reeling in more money than her co-workers and rivals. It’s as if she were really doing magic, just as she had always wished she could. At this point, she’d already thought once or twice about buying a lottery ticket. What’s having magic without the chance for poverty alleviation?
She cups the ball in her hand. “It’s you isn’t it?” she asks it as if it could talk back. The blue glow dies down but gives a yellow spark just before the light goes out, as if saying yes.
Miya feels a cold chill run down her spine as she recalls the events of yesterday.
“You’re late again!” scolded Aling Aurora. Miya hurriedly ran from the metal gate towards the stone house as Aling Aurora fired her rants away. She quickly set her belongings in the floor beside the main door. “I’m sorry” she apologized, “Mom had another seizure.” She quickly ran to the kitchen to begin her chores.
Aling Aurora was a small plump lady. She was old, and it showed in the wrinkles on her face, hands, and arms. The rest of her body was clad in a modestly sewn terno. Her hair was wrapped in a tight bun fastened to her head. Her thick gold-framed glasses hid her graying eyes, but she was no mestiza. She was, however, rich. Although, unlike balikbayans from Saudi, Aling Aurora did not flaunt her old inherited wealth with adornments of jewelry. Hers was a simple gold chain and cross pendant. Religious is a very relative word.
Aling Aurora lived at Oroquieta St., a train and jeep ride away from the mystical Quiapo area. It was on old house set in the middle of the contrasting Manila downtown-uptown. A newly-built condominium stood beside the lot on the right, and a small time thrift bank to the left. Opposite the house stood a mechanical car repair shop among homes built from scrap roof material and plywood. The house was old legend that sat in the middle of the present reality.
The old ancestral house hid behind a low stone wall topped with new metal braces and a chicken wire fence. The exterior was old cement and stone. Visitors were welcomed by the front porch, its entrance at the left side. On the stone-floored porch sat a metal garden set newly restored with white paint. Aling Aurora sat there as Miya entered the house.
It was old and a bit dusty inside the house, but Miya came regularly to clean. Spanish inherited furniture covered by white sheets grazed in the living room, near the closed capiz windows on the right of the main door. Only the row of santos and the altar adjacent to the entrance were uncovered. Miya wiped the dust away with a cloth. At the corner of her eye the red electric candle lights flickered as if they were really passed by wind.
Later on she mopped the corridor, the small hallway lead to the rooms. Behind door number one was a bedroom. Miya didn’t know who or if ever anyone owned the room. It had been untouched for years. An adjacent bathroom led to the next room, door number three – another untouched room. Forming a corner was door number four, the master’s bedroom. The only living room inside the house is where Aling Aurora spent most of her days aside form the church.
The door was open, as if inviting her to come in, but that was forbidden ground, sacred, and untouchable. Miya went in. The room was cluttered, but it wasn’t messy. The floor had to be swept. Table tops had to be wiped. Things had to be kept in drawers…
She noticed a forgotten black leather box on top of the cabinet, it was heavy she felt as she carried the palm sized face of the box in her hand. Where could this belong? She wondered as she opened the box to find out. The red velvet interior revealed a gleaming spherical object…
…The bed had to be made. The sheets had to be folded. The items on the dresser had to be arranged…
Photographs in sepia, caged moments in wooden picture frames, were lined at the mirror: a mysterious young girl, a spirited young boy, the young girl and the young boy, the older girl and the older boy, the woman and the untrustworthy man, a woman and a man with their children, a lone mourning old woman. Miya took the photograph of the young girl in her hand. The girl held her most prized possession in her hand, the spherical object marked white on the paper. She brushed away the thin film of dust on the glass. The girl was in a familiar place, Miya could make out the façade of Quiapo church in the background.
“Miya!” she turned around. Aling Aurora standing in the doorway shocked she looked as if she had been stripped of her pride. “I told you never to come in here.” “But Ma’am the door was open…” Miya began to explain, only slightly expecting a simple thank you for tidying up the room. She set the frame back in its place. “You can go. Your work is done. If there’s one thing I don’t tolerate, its thieves and people who break rules.” …among other things, but Miya was one of either.
In the kitchen Miya returned the mop to the rack near the laundry area outside, the broom and the dustpan behind the door, and the dust cloth to the box of used rags. Miya washed her hands and dried them on her skirt. She noticed the two one-hundred peso bills neatly folded under the Paete crafted paperweight on the counter. Just as always, Aling Aurora never gave Miya her pay in person. As she left Miya locked the door from inside. In her bag she felt the smooth round object she had discovered earlier.
Miya sits impatiently at her table in Plaza Miranda, adjacent to the row of flower vendors, beside Quiapo Church. The cardboard advertisement hanging from the trailing of her table flashes at curious passers by. There is a mother who clutches tightly her young son’s hand so he would not stray far; there is a couple of young lovers: his arm around her shoulder, her hand at his waist; there is an old lady clutching her purse; an old man balancing his crooked walk with a wooden cane; a father looking for his daughter; a daughter; a wife; a child; a toy; flowers; coins; fake cobblestones.
Miya sees Aling Auring come out of Quiapo church. She is wearing a black terno; plastic gold-painted buttons fasten the suit together on her plump body. She makes the sign of the cross and walks out, clutching her leather handbag close to her. This is Quiapo, and the crowded streets always pose the danger of a snatcher.
Miya is quick to hide her face slightly with her hair, and the crystal ball with a stray cloth beside her. The old lady is highly religious, condemned heretics and shed out bible verses as if they were pieces of bread stuck to her teeth. "Sampaguita!" a child flower vendor calls out. He rushed toward Aling Aurora. "Please buy my sampaguita," he pleads to her. Miya sees her shoo the boy away. How ironic that the religious rich are all appearances.
But more, how ironic is it that Aling Aurora walks up to her table. She sits down and shells out a crumpled one-hundred peso bill from her purse. She sets the money down on the table. Miya fidgets in her chair and looks at the dirty purple bill in front of her. She casually takes her deck of cards and begins to shuffle them as she would in front of every client. At the corner of her eye, she sees the crystal ball hidden beneath the cloth flicker a dark red. “Would you hurry up, Miya?!” Aling Aurora says. There is no more point in hiding. “Yes, Ma’m.” Miya replies as if she were still at the Oroquieta house. She brushes away the strands of hair that cover her eyes. “Why are you here...” Miya inquires, “Ma’m?” she adds. “I thought you hated blasphemers?” she pries. After all this was her turf. “Because, my dear,” Aling Aurora says, “You have something that belongs to me.” Miya is surprised. How did she know? It’s not like the walls of her house could tell tail away. Miya takes four cards and places them on top of the table. Aling Aurora stops Miya from continuing, she places her hand over the cards. “Where is the ball? If it is here, then I advise you not to tell a fortune.” As if it heard its name being called, the ball beside Miya gleams a dark red and the cloth that hid it blows away. “Oh! No!” Aling Aurora screams. She takes the ball and leaves hurriedly. As she leaves, a gush of wind blows the cards and scatters them on the floor. Miya picks up one card. It is the Ace of Clubs. Something is not right, and Miya fears for her former employer.
“Are you Miya? They told me she was a young girl who would clean here every other day. ” The man wears a freshly pressed business suit, but the jacket hangs neatly folded over the porch railings. It seems that he is a man who would usually be seated at his chair in a cold high-rise Makati office building. But it is hot, as it usually is in Manila afternoons, when the sun would hit hard and no clouds could be seen, and he is nowhere near Makati. He is a tall man, probably middle-aged, but like someone younger, his white polo soils in sweat and the cartoon-printed necktie hangs loosely around his neck. The hem of his black slacks stains of gate rust, and his polished leather shoes hide soil and crushed leaves stuck to its sole. In his hands he clutches a bunch of legal papers protected by a thick leather jacket with a fastened leather strap for a pen, which he holds in his ear.
“Yes sir.” Miya meekly says. “Is Aling Aurora there? I was hoping I could ask for my job back.” she explains. “She fired me yesterday.” “Oh. But you are Miya Dimapilis? Her cleaning lady?” “Yes sir, you could say that.” The man had a gloomy look on his face, but it seemed that this was something usual for him. “Is Aling Aurora there?” Miya asks again. The man shakes his head, and then he holds out his hand for her to shake his hand. “I’m Atorney Canonizado.” He introduces himself firmly gripping Miya’s hand. “Mrs. Aurora Ballesteros passed away this morning. Apparently she had a severe illness that manifested recently, she had an attack. I was here when she died.”
Miya is dumbfounded. She doesn’t know how she would react. Ironic. The old lady had always been saying she wanted to die, leaving all her troubles and loneliness behind her. But then again she feared death so much: regular check ups at the doctor, maintained medicines, lots of prayer for good health and life. In another view Miya is devastated, not because she had grown attached to the bossy woman, but that she has permanently lost her job. How would she pay for her mother’s medicines now? “Oh.” Miya said, surprised, but not; sad but a bit.
“Miya,” Attorney Canonizado speaks to her in a more serious tone. “Mrs. Ballesteros left all her wealth to you.”
Her first response is not thanksgiving, nor grief or a spark of money-filled happiness, shock maybe yes but her first question is, “Why?” Why her? She despised the old lady for her arrogance, was she supposed to feel something for her in death, because she had been left money?
The air suddenly smells of death, of smoke, of leaves quickly being crippled, blackened and turned to dust; it smells of burnt paint thinner. It is coming from the back of the house. Miya quickly runs to the backyard, while Attorney Canonizado follows. The big pile of dried leaves quickly shrivels away, but among the black, grey, brown and green crumples is a shiny crystal ball unburnt and gleaming still among the orange and red flames, as if laughing. Miya remembers the fortune she told the other day.
