Romance

Northbound

Sometime between the chews and sips, the occasional grins and blinks, the four horsemen of apocalypse stopped by the lair of the mortals, the yuppies, the kids dressed up in power suits and skirts, all too glamorous to be dripping and swimming in muddy filth, at exactly the time of the year when a white get-up is a total waste of, yes, detergent, since cleaning up is next to impossible, albeit the first, the White Horseman, seemed to have no trouble whatsoever in riding and galloping at the same time. He came in through that Capiz window, in gleaming porcelain white, matching the cups and the chinaware carefully stacked at the shop cupboard – an old one, indeed, very old and almost rustic, except for the newly varnished knobs, damp, still, and engulfing the whole section of the shop in all its odorous glory.

“How have you been?”

There she sat, across the table, three steps away from the cactus in a clay pot, more like an ashtray in green and spines, a massive fashion faux pas of summer 2008. One hand playing with a fork, tracing cup stains on the table cloth; the other, flicking a cigarette. She came in early, refused to call for a good twenty minutes or so; ‘said she could use some “quiet time”, whatever that is, in a place where “quiet” means “SORRY, WE’RE CLOSED.” Pensive, almost pompous, and romance has been immortalized innumerably through local commercial films – dare try to argue with a Marxist – but nevertheless, funny. And genuinely warm.

“Well?”

She is awfully quiet, clad in skirt and a black three fourth – sleeved blouse, long layered strands framing her round face, accentuating her soft cheeks, complementing that wistful stare, those eyes! – happy, almost happy, needing to be but not wanting. “Want” is such a strong word, too overbearing, too “unhero-like” for someone whose world revolves around telling people what to do. Giving orders. Obeying superiors. Walking last. Leaving no one.

“Most of the time… “

And this shop, this place, this two storey building would look good in wedding catalogues, given the appropriate repairs. This could be the next big thing of the city, the heart of the metropolis, the new IT place to meet the second horseman, the red horseman, wielding his sword for all the kids to see. The cracks on the wall, possibly left by the war, or could be man-made, enhance the legend and value of the whole relic. Sepia or monochrome would do the trick, given the ambiance of the street and the people, nothing flamboyant. There is no need to exaggerate what could pass for elegance 20, maybe even 30 years ago.

“I got lucky… “

She could live here, right here, right in the middle of this shop, this city, this hullabaloo they call progress. Right in the heart of this blood sucking, energy draining vampire they call city, along with the noise, the garbage, the pretentiousness one might assume as Life. She could sit in the middle of it all, take one sip at a time, while browsing through the day’s papers and contemplating on how to save the world.

“I have been busy, yes…”

Lightning struck once, then again, cutting the sky open, splitting the horizon in half, unequal yet powerful bouts of thunder, domineering, the first time, then the second, and finally, the third. The grounds shook – or was it just a mere nudge, a reminder why we are where we are – and lo, thereupon sprung the third horseman, the black guy with the balance, no more wheat nor barley to thresh.

“I don’t feel like going alone.”

The third horseman mounted his black, paisley horse, almost as black as the night, looked around, intuitively, and unleashed a banshee, screaming at the whole shop, the customers, at her, but no one heard a thing. Not a soul cared. Not even a single body stood to stop the madman from playing with The Balance, and the left became no more than a scale, a platform of the cups and the china and the cigarette stubs the poor shop has accumulated.

And where is Dumaguete? Perhaps the black horseman could give her a ride to Negros, even stop by Cebu for an hour or so. Much has been said about the beaches and the culture, but seldom about its sensibilities and people, and that’s where the problem is.

“I still think you should go.”

“I don’t know. We’ll see.”

Half past six, another streak of lightning. The third one, and lightning, they say, does not strike at the same place, twice. It is about to rain.

Why does it always have to rain?

There was the white horseman, then the red, and now the black. Where is the fourth?

Where is the fourth?

“I should get going.”

“Yeah, we should. Let me just pay for these.”

“I had a nice time.”

She smiled, fumbled for some change and placed it on the tab. She smoked the last of her cigarette, played with it as the ember glowed, bright orange, then red, then reddish, ‘til there was only the smell of a burning paper and filter, no more tobacco, fiddling with the remnants of an impending cancer.

She is a chimney. She is a blood sucking, energy draining multitasker in search of people to rescue and animals to adopt. She feeds on deadlines. She crawls on the floor and gets on your nerves. She asks and asks, unstoppable force running straight towards an immovable object.

And for what?

The black horseman accompanied her to the door - that cracked wooden door in desperate need of repair - and stepped outside with her, atop his paisley horse as the sky drizzled. How many cups, cigarettes, how many phone calls and nights did she spend thinking and wanting? “Want” is such a strong word.

She looked up to the clouds, caught a few raindrops with her mouth, soft, pinkish lips, eyes closed as the sky cried – the sky cried! – but the same wistful stare that never ceases to amaze almost anyone; happy, almost happy, needing to be but not wanting. The same eyes that told stories of the pink moonlight in Bohol, and the small hands, never without a pen, now wave goodbye.

As she stood there, her chin up, hands on her sides, eyes watching everything, every movement, every stride of the ones whose feet continue to clutter the streets, running to find a dry, safe spot, the fourth horseman arrived. He was pale; he was very pale, old, thin and weak, too grim to ride a horse that could barely walk. The black horseman disappeared, and the fourth, the last knight to have come, proudly stood where she rocked her heels back and forth. He patted his faithful horse on the head, and sat up straight, as the storm embraced his thin, naked body, and cradled him softly, lovingly, as she rubbed her palms together to feel warm.

And there came another lightning, haughtily flashed its splendor, mocking the lair of the mortals, the yuppie, the kids in power suits and skirts, the ones in white, the weaklings who run at the smell of an impending rainfall.

She will come pouring, and surely, Dumaguete will gladly receive her.