I remember those fitful dreams. But how and when exactly I had begun to lose the use of my rational senses, I cannot remember. What I remember is that it had been years past; all those abandoned days spent in a space that stank of ethanol and claustrophobia. I was not myself of course; that was the tragedy of it. All my delusions had seemed too real; I laughed and cried for all the false reasons, until those white-dressed morons at the asylum had to calm me with regular shots of sedatives.
But you were there. You were there even when you could not literally join me in my own little, convoluted world, a world where I had unwittingly become a part of. You were there in my darkest hours, in my dark mornings and even darker nights, talking to me as gently as you could, even when I would sputter chewed food on you, and just bore you with my endless and monotonous rocking.
Remember? You would tell me your name again, in an admirable effort at friendship; Josiah, a name taken from the Old Testament, you would say, King of Judah in the Biblical times. I knew then, from the moment you closed the door, that you were the private nurse the asylum director had assigned to me, but I never realized it would be somebody who spoke such lyrical metaphors. Your graceful ways were an evident contradiction to your huge, towering form, as you always stood at the foot of my bed, or fluffed my pillows at night so I might sleep better.
And then you would extend your hand forward, slowly, hoping I would receive it, while you asked for my name. At the back of my head I would answer Maris… my name’s Maris, but of course I would not say it, could not bring to say it, because I do not know where my name was taken from, or what part it played in history. Or maybe I could not tell you because I had, for the longest time, forgotten who I really was—sometimes I thought I was a nun in a convent; other times a legendary ballerina, and most often, the president’s young and beautiful daughter. Yes, you knew schizophrenia had a strange way of doing all that. I was scared you would laugh at me, or inject me with drugs if I began to speak so I would just say nothing, continue sitting in a fetal position at the head of my bed, glaring intently at your moving lips.
When exactly I was placed for confinement in that windowless room, I still fail to recall. But it must have been during the lazy days of summer because I now remember that the room had been exceptionally warm in the first few weeks of my stay, I often slept naked under the covers of my iron bed. I was forced away from home; my older sister, Madame Genevra having been advised by the family doctor that I needed aggressive treatment for the kind of condition I had: paranoid-catatonic schizophrenia. After father died, my sister insisted that I call her Madame Genevra; and seeing that she saw me more as an excess baggage rather than a younger sister, it was imperative for her that we converse whenever possible, in formal terms. Of course I resented her decisions—calling her Madame and sending me off to a lonely sanctuary. But as a young sibling who never quite found her voice in a household devoid of parents, I couldn’t do more than to stutter a silent protest.
Before I was sent for incarceration, however, I recall that I was a sixteen-year-old orphan who had no one else in the world except for a huge inheritance, an imperious sister, three private maids, a chauffeur, and a tutor. It was after my father’s death that I spoke even less, dismissing my servants with a simple raise of the brow or with a nod of the head. No one wanted to converse with me at school too, so I often brooded alone reading piles of books, or writing persistently in my journal. My books were all that mattered; I was someone who lived and breathed in the academic universe and was easily the master of it. Material wealth was something I could do away with and even loathed the fact that I had a considerable legacy at the bank. It merely reminded me of my father’s death, and the money in my name was its infamous, worthless consequence.
But as I said, you were there.
My father… yes, my gentle, well-mannered father. You reminded me of him, Josiah; you both had laughing eyes and quiet spirits. He was my childhood’s universe and I was the center of his, much to the resentment of green-eyed Genevra. It was my father who accepted my little idiosyncrasies for all their worth and marveled at them. He seldom talked about my mother, telling me once that she was a memory best forgotten. She broke his heart years ago and I hoped, with the little self that I had, that I could mend it back again.
And I succeeded, for a time. My father especially loved the level of my intellect, saying that I was his witty beauty. I was not the timid, little person that I was at school whenever I was with father; I even learned to laugh, and I gave all my emotions free rein. We would spend countless afternoons in his study, and sitting on his lap, I would recite poetry to him in all the requisite passion; from poets such as Shakespeare, Dickinson, Tagore, declaiming their prose until my father would wipe his eyes with his kerchief, kiss me on the forehead, and give me my favorite chocolate bar. The chocolate always had good things inside, like sweet nougat and almonds. I would kiss him back; grab my chocolate and start munching on it. Then sitting across him I would casually begin what I prefer to call as our silly memory game.
“It is public scandal that constitutes offence, and to sin in secret is not to sin at all.” I would begin to speak solemnly, licking melted chocolate off my lips.
My father would pretend to think deeply and then answer in a half-laughing voice. “Moliere. That was from his play, Tartuffe.”
Then I would smile, not doubting the genius of my father. “Now it is your turn Papa, give me a hard one.”
“Now Maris, who said this, ‘Beauty is truth, truth beauty – that is all ye know on earth and all you need to know?’”
“Father, that is easy. It’s by John Keats, Ode on a Grecian Urn.” I would address him in a haughty manner, mimicking the authority of a teacher. So… may I now please have my second chocolate?”
At that point, Papa would retrieve another piece of chocolate from his jacket and hesitantly give it to me. Of course I would receive it heartily, and peck him loudly on the cheek for gratitude. But I always hated seeing the look of defeat on his face, however feigned it was, and I would give him another chance at reclaiming his genius’ pride.
“Papa, will you tell me who said “God doesn’t play dice with the world”, whatever that meant?” I would say as if as an afterthought, while opening the chocolate’s wrapper and already licking at my stubby fingers.
He would laugh his honeyed laughter, knowing too well how I could not endure his mock frustration and he would answer as haughtily as I just did moments earlier.
“E-I-N-S-T-E-I-N. Albert Einstein.”
Afterward, I would clap both of my hands with exaggerated pleasure and end the afternoon’s session with one last hearty swallow of my favorite chocolate.
But a short month later he left me, Josiah. He succumbed to diastolic attacks three days after my sixteenth birthday, and died sitting on his favorite chair. When I saw the casket in our living room that same afternoon after school, I ran straight to his study and found three pieces of chocolate on his huge desk. Grabbing the confections, I dashed straight to my bedroom and stayed there for the entire week, not even attending his funeral. It was in my room that I talked to the walls, played that silly memory game all by myself, ate the last pieces of chocolate as thriftily as I could, and cried when there was nothing else left to do. Well, I would also bash my head on the wall every time I recollect the image of that white casket in the living room, and would often fall unconscious out of mere fatigue.
Now that I look back on it, I think I have already told you that story countless times during our therapy sessions. As always you had been very attentive, and I could tell you especially liked it whenever I said you remind me of father. I liked that part myself, and even now I remember wishing I could sit on your lap too and recite poetry, though not in the way that a daughter would do to her father but in a way that was more special and complicated than that, perhaps as a grown woman would to a man. Yet I knew I should not think as such, maybe even you would think me foolish.
Again, I do not know when exactly I started to lose my mind. When Madame Genevra caught me playing the silly memory game all to myself, she called me a hopeless madcap, and beat my head fiercely with a dictionary. I still played the game to myself, though clandestinely, and soon after that, I began to hear voices, loud voices, soft voices, and even my father’s own voice. I would shout back at all of them except for when I would hear Papa’s voice, which just made me weep for hours, as I listened to his faltering speeches, or so I thought.
And so I began to construct a reality where there were no Madame Genevra, and no traces of ennui, or bereavement. The voices continued to assail me even in my deepest sleep, but I soon realized that they were the company I never had, and rather than stifling their heavy omnipresence, I learned to listen to them as if theirs was the truth I had never known.
Madame Genevra found out all about my spells and I think she was more embarrassed for herself than concerned for her sister. I could still hear her telling the maids that I just needed to be driven away, before I would shame my family’s illustrious name. Yes, maybe I was the worst schizoid, recalling how I would scream for long hours in my room, mistaking my pink cloth slippers for huge roaches. Or when I would believe people’s voices to be the intermittent drones of crickets, telling me that they will be happy to eat me alive. I always ended up being such a misfit, even when several specialists would take turns diagnosing my condition. When I lost all appetite for food and began to nibble at the frayed hems of my nightclothes, I was finally sent to a private asylum, the most expensive in the country they told me, where the mentally sick from important families were kept for further treatment.
Or concealment.
And then you came, Josiah, you who were named after the biblical King of Judah; the therapist who was spirited enough to take charge on a bawling teenager who cried and laughed at the same time. You were tasked to try to feed me and make me swallow the pills, as the other nurses’ attempts had all failed. You also had to make me talk, to make me speak out for my own sake, so we could begin our therapy sessions. But I never spoke for a long time. At least I screamed though, but it was either that or nothing at all.
I saw you then as a wide mouth in the faintest pink, whispering soft nothings to me but I would start to scream nonetheless, scream for you to stop smiling as if you owned the whole damned world. I always tried to threaten your life by pointing a plastic spoon and fork right at your face. And when that did nothing to scare you, I would holler again and daringly press the fork to my throat to pressure you with a lousy attempt at suicide.
Yet you were easily the strong one, you with your huge, intimidating build, and you would evenly laugh at me and calm my spells of hysteria. Maybe it was with fear at your apparent strength that I would subsequently allow myself to fall into submission, to be fed with the rice porridge and the wonderfully colored pills, after much display of emotion, at any time you thought needed. Yes, you were patient, and I was fanatical. And I was, for a time, content with that, while I slept, or tried to, with all those voices screaming in my head.
You were always good at conversations and would often begin to tell me stories about mythology, and fairytales and world history, thinking perhaps that I was still a child, and you would exhaust all efforts at fine-tuning your voice so your stories would seem less dull. I knew all the stories by heart, naturally, what with all the books that I have read over the years, and I recall feeling slighted, no matter how I loved the quiet nuances of your voice, that you would think I still took interest with such gibberish. Of course I was no longer a child then, in fact my immaculate panties were already stained with blood for days each month, but perhaps because my actions did nothing to speak of my age, you often forget that I was already a budding woman.
But one day, you did something which inspired forgotten feelings in me, and so overwhelmed I was that I had to cry. Remember? You handed something, which was no more than three inches square in size and when I discovered it was the same chocolate father used to give me, I promptly took a bite; and when I began to taste all the good things—the nougat, raisins and almonds—I was both so happy and so sad that I began to weep like a child, and then to carelessly kiss you on one cheek, as if it was something that I would do on a usual basis.
And then surprisingly for the both of us, I began to talk; I talked without knowing what I was really saying, unable to stop myself because the chocolate just tasted so good.
“Actually, this is the best chocolate in the universe. I love it…and sometimes I hate it…actually I just love, love, love it. Someone used to give me this you know?”
And then I would wipe my tears with the back of my hand, suddenly embarrassed that I was weeping while eating chocolate. “And actually, he died already so no one gives me this anymore. You look so familiar to me actually. Have we met before? Really, actually, do I know you?”
Actually. I still do not understand why I was so obsessed with that word.
All I know is that I loved saying it and that time it was typical of me to always begin or end every sentence I uttered with “actually”. Yes you told me most schizophrenics had an eccentric fixation with misusing words, or repeating them. And more than that, I was always incoherent with my thoughts, and it often ended that I was disjointed with my speech as well. Yet your smile never left your lips, the smile that used to exasperate me, the smile that made it seem like you owned the whole world.
“My name’s Josiah. I am your therapist. What’s yours?” Again, you would extend your hand, and because of the chocolate, I would finally place my hand in yours, albeit hesitantly.
“My name’s Maris. And actually, I am the President’s daughter.”
“Oh. I’m glad to meet you Maris. I want to be your friend. Can we be friends?”
“Maybe. But you have to talk with my father first…actually. He is the President you know.”
“Okay…I’m sure he’ll consent with that. Would you like more chocolate?”
Silence.
“Yes.”
And that was how I began to talk; Josiah, and in my lucid moments, the truth of it both scared and comforted me. I was promptly thrust back into reality again, and began to see all its imperfections. Yet you reminded me of father, which pleased me greatly. And it was not just because you gave me my beloved chocolate; it was because of other things too. Like the laughter in your voice and your eyes; and your admirable persistence – all these were reminiscent of all the good things I used to have. Of course, I still had my intervals, such as when I would fancy myself as the presidential daughter, but there were times too when I would just be myself, Maris, the overweight girl with the skin allergies and the huge glasses. It was in such times when I would cry and realize how weak I was to lose my sense of self, in spite of the intelligence and wealth I wielded. You always allowed me to cry, over a cup of your own black coffee, and even encouraged me to do so, while I talked about the past, about the little person that never really fit into the neat standards of her own generation.
Gradually, I grew better by the day. I began to realize that I was not a nun, a ballerina or the President’s daughter. The therapy sessions made me understand that I was indeed Maris, the young daughter of a decedent film producer, someone who could be as good as or worse than anyone else. You always had a way, Josiah of saying all the words I needed to hear, you were more of a friend than a therapist. Then there were also the little things you used to lavish upon me too—like always bringing me my favorite chocolate, pulling together my dry tresses into one long braid so I looked more decent, or taking me to outside walks, so I could stretch my legs and breathe more naturally.
Yet even with my already apparent fluency at speech, there was one thing I could not tell you, because I believed that if I did, you would simply give me another chocolate and refuse to speak again. You were always like that, gallingly impassive, every time I started to ask you about affairs of the heart; if perchance you were already married, engaged, or even lonely. I never really knew you Josiah, never even realized who you were outside my convoluted little world. Of course I was still the same plump Maris you knew in the beginning, and with that, I was no more than a blundering child to you. But I had allowed myself to love you as a woman would love a man, in spite of your silence. I don’t even know if it was real, though it had seemed so.
For why else would I worship even the rising and falling of your breath if not for love?
Except perhaps that I was still an inpatient at a mental hospital, someone who was a slave to her distorted passions, a deviant who knew not the bounds of reason. A father’s death, a mother’s desertion and a sister’s contempt – all these compelled me to retreat even under my own skin, and eventually made the world believe I was actually insane.
The lunatics lived in their own flimsy and mechanical globes; while you and the beautiful nurses thrived in your own sturdy and rational one. And in my thinking moments, I knew that such worlds should never rotate in the same orbit, much less share under the same sun. Well, crazy people never really fall in love, do they? They shout, skip and tap, pray, and talk to themselves, but never really give in to love. Such emotion is beyond their understanding, as what everyone (including you, perhaps) had supposed; so how am I to prove at once that beneath my candor and naiveté, I finally have begun to see you with not so innocent eyes?
Ironically, everything that I had begun to feel embarrassed me greatly. I was suddenly so cognizant of every trifle thing I did with you, like touching your hand or smelling your hair every time you ruffled my pillows at bedtime. And perhaps, that was what led me to believe that I was already in full possession of my faculties; for I knew the insane understood neither restraint nor humiliation. It was clear to me too that I had earned my reason back and I realized it was only a matter of weeks before I would be declared emotionally well.
One lazy afternoon however, while I was whistling to myself and you seemed absorbed writing something in your little notebook, I decided to ask you a question, one which I could not just have asked you on any other day, but which I did, because the lethargic effect of the sunshine changed something in my mood. I was perched atop a huge rock, trying to find my balance every now and then as I ripped off, in stages, the petals from a white daisy I had picked earlier. You, in contrast, were seated on an old wooden bench, writing something, perhaps some observational comment on my progress, since I often saw you glancing in my direction from time to time. And then I spoke up without preamble.
“Josiah, do you love me?”
You seemed surprised at my having asked such a blunt inquiry. But I knew you supposed psychiatric patients were always thoughtless with questions, and with that knowledge I decided to play the role of a thoughtless lunatic. You looked at me, and then on the white petals strewn all about me and smiled.
“Of course. Just as I love my sister back home and that little house on the hill.”
That was not the answer I had wanted to hear, although that was precisely the answer I had expected. I slowly got down from my perch and seated myself primly on the smooth stone. I prodded again.
“Don’t you love anyone else?”
Silence. That was not the first time I had asked you the question, and always in such instances you would neither speak up nor even look at me. With the way you fidgeted in your seat and angled your head in the opposite direction, it was plain to me that I shall never get an answer. This time your impassivity began to irritate me. And so I decided to ask another, which was less personal and prying.
“Why do you think people fall in love?” I walked a few feet to pick another daisy and began to rip off its petals gradually as I seated myself again. This time I did not look at you.
“Why so suddenly do you want to talk about such things, Maris? Children should not mull over such complexities.”
At that point, I had cleaved the last petal so hard that the entire flower head went with it. I wanted to scream at your impervious face that sixteen-year-olds were adolescents, not children. That I ovulated every month, that there is every possibility that I would bear a child of my own. And that, yes, people my age always mull over such complexities.
But I stayed silent. And repeated myself.
“Just answer my question, Josiah. Why do people fall in love?”
This time, you let out a long sigh and decided to think over my question. I knew what you were thinking: it was pointless to argue with a mental patient, and a schizophrenic at that. It was clear that you had read something into my questions; it was the fact that no amount of passivity on your part could stifle my curiosity. So you faced me squarely and finally delivered your answer.
“There is no precise reason my dear. But I’d like to think that people fall in love so their coffee would taste less bitter.”
I wanted to laugh, but decided against doing it. “Coffee tastes less bitter because of sugar, Josiah. Not love. You cannot fool me.”
“Precisely. That was a joke.” There was half smile playing at your lips, making me feel like a blundering child yet again. Then you continued.
“You’ve been making a lot of progress Maris and that, I believe, is a positive sign.” You jotted something in your notebook again and smiled to yourself. After a while, you rose from your seat and came to take me by the arm.
“It’s time to dress up for dinner, my love. You don’t want to be late. Maybe they’ll serve some coffee afterwards”.
It was a week later when Madame Genevra came to the hospital to take me home. The resident psychiatrists had praised you for the good work you had done with me and I knew then that I was no more than a little accomplishment for you—I finally acted and conversed as any normal person would, after long months of madness and silence. Of course I should not have cried in front of you before leaving, unable to say even my goodbyes, thinking that perhaps, if I were still not in my right mind, I would have clung to your neck and ravaged you with kisses.
But I just stood there sobbing, while you seemed to understand everything so perfectly, carelessly patting my head and already giving me my chocolate bar. And after a short while, you turned your back and left me, like I was no more than an extra baggage you could do without.
Yes, Josiah, it was not sugar that made my coffee, and a lot of other people’s coffee less bitter. It was the truth that we can always prefer to share our steaming cups with someone else, even if it meant listening to the same old tales over again. I stood rooted to the spot, wanting to tell you how I would want to share your coffee with you, or sit on your lap and recite poetry, or still wait from you another piece of chocolate. But I was ashamed. In the tumult of it all, I realized that you were my nurse and I was your schizophrenic patient. The chocolate bar I was holding all along felt unusually hard under my grip. I had to see what was true: never will our worlds revolve around the same sun.
It had been eight long years. After you walked away, I ventured into the world and earned myself a college degree, a few friends, and a respectable life. The day that I left the asylum, I promised myself that to forget you was more logical than to plummet into lunacy again, and soon enough, I was able to pick up my life from where I left it. The world was so much kinder to me then; I met a few good friends, dated a few good times, and enjoyed a few good laughs.
Madame Genevra finally left me alone, and allowed me to become my own person. I learned to travel too and ultimately found a reason to be grateful for the huge legacy I inherited from my father. And although I still frequented my new psychiatrist for regular sessions, and on very rare occasions played that silly memory game to myself, I was already the one in control now. Yes, not Madame Genevra. Not schizophrenia.
And so the years passed.
It was a warm day in summer when I finally saw you again Josiah, eight long years after you gave me my last chocolate. I hid behind the talk stalks of lilies in a flower shop downtown as I silently observed you, wishing there was some way for us to recognize each other without effort. You see, I have changed much since the last time, for I was no longer the obese adolescent with the flaking skin allergies and the huge glasses. The passing years took off with my heaviness and the taciturn stare I used to give people, and by now I could look anyone else in the eye with confidence. And you’ve changed too, with your hair slightly longer and your shoulders evidently hunched over, and I would not have recognized you if it were not for your voice, as you asked the seller where the blossoms were imported. You looked older yes, but the laughter was still in your eyes, as you smiled and breathed in deeply the scent of the immaculate gardenias.
Then I heard you talk to your self when the vendor walked off, you staring at the clump of gardenias as if they had never existed before.
I was surprised of course, but I continued listening nonetheless, as you conversed with yourself. At that juncture, I decided to step forward and break my silence. But you just gazed at me without feeling or recognition, and when I asked you what your name was, you answered in a half-whisper.
“I’m Josiah. King of Judah in the Biblical times. The son of Amon and a worshipper of Jehovah. I was slain in Mesopotamia. Who are you?” Then you sniffed the gardenias again and stared off into the graying horizon.
I smiled to myself, inwardly pleased that you were still the poetic therapist that I always knew. Heaving a sigh, I was about to answer that my name was Maris, the same girl of eight years ago who almost lost herself and was resuscitated again by a single bar of chocolate; the same girl who fell in love with her therapist and patiently kept the last confectionery he gave her that final day. But I still did not know what part my name played in history, and for a moment I felt embarrassed saying it.
Unexpectedly, a middle-aged woman came from inside the shop and pulled you off to go with her. You neither resisted nor acquiesced; you just let yourself be dragged along, as your eyes never left the clusters. But when she called you by another name, I half-consciously stepped further and finally introduced myself. She was surprised, by all means. And after hearing out what I had to say, she replied in a small voice, a sound that was almost sad and almost empty.
“My brother’s name is not Josiah, my child, although he prefers to call himself such. And I remember he practiced as a therapist once; the doctors believing that had been completely cured of his condition and that he might be of help to others like him. But his frequent relapses took their toll on him, and he has not completely recovered since two years ago. He has had schizophrenia for fifteen years now.”
I stared at the woman long and hard, though not really seeing her. At that point, everything made perfect sense, although I felt the air gradually being sucked out of my lungs. We had come from the same convoluted world, Josiah and we had, after all, shared in the same sun. I looked at your eyes and saw the laughter in them; no not the laughter of someone who knew the ways of the world, but the innocent laughter of someone who was still trying to find his way back into it. Yet it was you who turned me back to myself eight years ago, and the least I could do was to pretend if I had to, that the world was the same, as we knew it. I extended my hand and when you took it, your smile still made it seem like you owned the whole damned world.
“Nice to meet you Josiah. My name’s Maris. And I am the President’s daughter.”
If the carabao is the Filipinos’ national animal owing to its industrious demeanor, then the pig might as well be a very good alternative, as a means to feed our very industrious appetites. No Filipino occasion is ever complete without a crispy lechon (roasted pig) exhibited in the middle of a buffet table, and the entrails, chopped and sautéed in shallots, ginger, and chilies, can be cooked with the pig’s blood, and end up as a relatively interesting dish called dinuguan. Pork brains can be scrambled together with eggs, salt, pepper, and onions, and then fried in heated fat. The tongue can be boiled, then stewed in tomato sauce and pineapple juice, while the pig’s cheek fat can be made into a sizzling creation, chopped finely of course, and drizzled over with soy sauce and tangy kalamansi.
