Manoy Tomas did not take another wife. He took care of Maria Elena. He knew
there was something special about his daughter. He was somewhat afraid of her.
Even Custan, the village mananambal who practiced witchcraft and who knew of
such things as engkantos and incantations said that her powers were far more
than his although he claimed he was possessed of telekinesis, clairvoyance, and
the ability to be in two places at the same time. The children were scared of
Custan, whose eyes were always bloodshot, from sleepless nights flying over the
villages or from the ever constant influence of the coconut tuba, or both, no
one knew. He did have that strong fermented smell when he talked. He waggled
when he walked, like someone whose means of mobility was flying and not
walking.
For some inexplicable reason, Manoy Tomas and Maria Elena never lacked of
material things. Although the father was only a mananguete, things came easy
for them. Even the parish priest from the Augustinian order, assigned to Butuan
direct from Sevilla, Spain, favored them, sending them gifts from Manila or
Cebu whenever he vacationed there. He gave Manoy Tomas a pregnant sow during
her baptism and they never had to buy their meat ever since. The priest would
always come to talk to the two when he came on Thursday mornings to celebrate
the weekly mass under the coconut trees. That was another proof for the
village women. Even the mighty "katsila" priest of the Church favored the
father and daughter above everyone else, although the gossip was that there is
another, more down to earth reason for his benevolence.
And so it came to pass that on the day of her sixteenth birthday, Fr. Juan
Antonio Carasco y Echeverria, lovingly known as Padre Itsi by the townspeople,
invited the prominent citizens of Butuan and Bansa, as well as the government
dignitaries of the nearby towns , to a celebration of his personal patron
saint, Santa Elena, in the residence of Alcalde Miguel Burdeous, which was the
biggest building in Butuan at that time, near the town square, in front of the
church.
The home of the mayor was huge. It was said that the courtyard alone could hold
three hundred guests and that the dining room table reserved for the most
honored guests could seat fifty. These honored guests were usually Spanish
insulares and mestizos. Among these on this special day were Manoy Tomas and
Maria Elena, the former looking very much out of place, a pained expression on
his face. He had a blister on his right foot. Masculine was he, a true
Lapaknon, but he was not used to wearing shoes.
He wore European pants and a pair of brand new leather boots , a gift from
Padre Itsi. The good father instructed him to tuck in his shirt, in defiance
of tradition, to show off his gold plated belt buckle, a gift from the great-
great-great grandson of an obscure encomiendero, a fervent admirer of his
daughter. Maria Elena wore white, except for a narrow light blue sash around
the waist. She had on a strip of white lace around her neck. All the guests
nodded in apparent wisdom and decided she looked like the Virgin Mary as if
they had seen the original version.
Maayo na 'apon ka ninion tanan, Padre Itsi could never lose his Toledo accent,
as he addressed the eager crowd. I have invited you all today in honor of my
patron saint to whom I owe all the good things that has happened in my life.
And I also wish to honor a true Christian, a true Catholic, a real servant of
the Church, and my closest friend of almost eighteen years. Tomas has been like
a brother to me, for my own family is so far away. And Maria Elena, today is
her birthday, his daughter, has become a niece, a sister, and a daughter to me,
too. Let us raise our glasses and drink to a toast, a salud, in their honor.
Even the servants had been instructed to follow suit and say Salud ! Every one
raised his goblet , drank the wine, and made polite comments on how sweet the
wine was, how gracious the host, and how beautiful Maria Elena was. Nobody
looked at Manoy Tomas, who promptly went to the guest room to nurse his foot.
And before we all get drunk, thanks to the wine, a generous offering from our
honorable Mayor Alcalde, let me introduce you to another friend, Don Arnulfo
Miranda, from my home town who came to visit with me, and his only son Diego,
now a student at the University of Madrid,. studying, I am sad to say, to be a
lawyer and not for the priesthood. Everybody laughed on cue as father and son
stood up, raised their glasses in acknowledgment of the introduction.
Maria Elena elected not to look at the dignified old Spanish gentleman, nor his
handsome son. Instead, she seemed distracted by a dragonfly that had flown in
and darted on the chair behind that pasty looking old mestiza. whose wrinkles
would not have been obvious had she not applied a generous amount of the
imported French cream that was supposed to hide the wrinkles. Instead, she
looked like a case of a poor embalming technique. But the poor boy, Diego, he
could not help but stare at Maria Elena and it was obvious to one and all that
Diego Miranda, son of the rich and powerful businessman from Spain, has become
a intrigued by this apparition. Not in the entire European continent had he
ever seen a creature as beautiful as this. I shall not go back home without
her, a resolve made by someone used to getting his way.
And then there was someone else. Standing by the door to her right, trying to
look inconspicuous, perhaps conscious of his height, he was taller than most of
those around him, a quarter-breed mestizo, Arturo, son of the registrar from
the municipality of Buenavista, another victim of this vision. He regarded
Maria Elena with such intensity that she felt, almost heard him calling out
her name. She felt compelled, no, commanded, to look towards him.
Their eyes locked for a few seconds that lasted like an eternity.
The sun refused to dip below the mountains,
quarreled with the moon and the stars that wanted to come
before their appointed time,
and a rainbow appeared in the west
and the birds sang,
and all the white colored flowers bloomed,
and filled the air with sweet perfume
of sampaguita.
All these as if orchestrated by an unseen hand.
That was on the third day of May 1868 and that day was the longest, most
beautiful day in Butuan, ever, so everybody claimed, but not knowing why.
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