Part 16 (1/2)
”Do you think it will make people take you more seriously? It doesn't.” Miss Florentina looks at the letter again. ”I'm sorry, I don't mean to be unpleasant. Tell me, what's it like outside today? I observe the sky through the window, but that's very different. I miss the feel of the first drops of rain. When I'm drawing my last breaths, I want to be wheeled out under the rain and be left there. You know what else I miss dearly? Driving. I used to drive myself every where. I had the sweetest little BMW. A 1974 3.0S. Same model as Jacqueline Kennedy Ona.s.sis. See, I even know my cars! I sold it to a collector. It became such that I only used it to go to ma.s.s. One returns to the G.o.dfulness of youth when the end is in sight. But as soon as I rediscovered the Lord, my legs gave out. As did the building's elevator. The devil, when he makes himself known, always does it subtly. Now I spend my days looking for him in the quiet places. No, that's not true.”
”Miss Florentina, did Crispin visit you when he was here last?”
”As long as I engage myself in work, then I'm close to G.o.d. Simone Weil, have you read her? She said deep attention is like prayer. I think so is hope. I just had her book somewhere. When Weil was six she refused to eat sugar in solidarity with the soldiers on the front. Children sometimes know best and we chide them for being precocious. Then we grow aged and become again like children, and they call us wise. I did see Crispin the last time he was here. Before his speech at the CCP, that silly little provocateur. He came bearing takeout food from the Aristocrat. When I studied him sitting where you are now, I knew what was eating him. Despite my better judgment, I told him: Go find your Dulcinea. He pretended he was angry, but I knew he was only afraid.”
”Of what?” I discreetly take out my notebook and fountain pen.
”Afraid of ruining things. Or change. Altering your life is hard. I'm I'm the last person to criticize. But Crispy wasn't free. When you're unhappy with your life, you become more selfish with it.” the last person to criticize. But Crispy wasn't free. When you're unhappy with your life, you become more selfish with it.”
”Did he want to find her?”
”Of course. Though it was odd. We hardly ever spoke about her. Yet that last time he was here, he asked if I was in touch with her. I told him: Dear, go to her before it's too late. But it was always already too late.”
”Then will you help me find her? For him?”
She shakes her head and smiles sadly. With difficulty, Miss Florentina turns to push away the curtain from the window behind her. Light slants across the room, replacing the shadows with a Victrola in a corner and walls covered with bookshelves, framed photos, paintings by Galicano and Nuyda and Olmeda, and posters of her one-woman shows in Berlin and Barcelona and Buenos Aires. She must find comfort in these repositories of the outside world. Miss Florentina fishes a cigarette from the pocket of her skirt. With steady hands, she lights it.
”Simple pleasures,” she says, sighing smoke, ”you'll one day conclude, are the most enduring. Listen, child. I adore your persistence. But there are things that are not mine to tell.”
We sit quietly. My eyes adjust to the light. Behind her, the sky over Manila Bay remains profoundly white, like a page antic.i.p.ating your first mark.
”I think,” I finally say, ”that I understand what Crispin was going through.” I don't know why I say this.
”Let's just enjoy our chat and the wine, shall we? You did bring a bouteille bouteille?”
”I'm sorry? No, I didn't forget. It's only eleven in the morning and I thought-”
”Oh, you haven't changed a bit. Always forgetful.”
”Me? I don't understa-”
”What a shame! My two suitors bring me news and nourishment, but my third forgets the wine. You're jealous. Admit it, Crispinito. What do you want from me anyway?”
”Do you want me to go and get a bottle? ...”
”No! Please don't. Won't you spend the day with me?”
”I'm not sure I-”
”Crispin ... I mean, I'll tell you all about Crispin. Yes, I'll tell you about Crispin. I taught him the important things, you know? For example, the instant before something comes into focus is more exciting than any sharp certainty. You should write that in your notebook. Photography, child, is about the pa.s.sing of time. Capturing is the goal of literature. Timelessness is the task of music and painting. But a good photograph holds time just as a vase holds water. The water will evaporate and the vase becomes a memorial to it. What separates a snapshot from a masterpiece is that the latter is a metaphor for patience ...”
”Yes, but-”
”What is is your hurry, child?” your hurry, child?”
”It's really important that I find Dulcinea.”
”Can't you just have lunch with me? You'll stay, won't you? Let me see, what else can I entice you with? Crispin died, you know, not because the art left him, but because he gave up on love. Sounds like a romance novel, doesn't it? Angry men have little to live for when their rage becomes ineffective. But how they thrive otherwise.”
”So do you think Dulcinea had anything to do with his suicide?”
”You were dead long before you left this world.”
”Miss Florentina, I'm not-”
”I mean he he ... Oh, I don't know what I mean. What were we saying?” She looks fl.u.s.tered, suddenly withered and bent. Then she smiles. Her eyes spark with shrewdness. The cigarette smoke and that stench from her daybed make me nauseous. ... Oh, I don't know what I mean. What were we saying?” She looks fl.u.s.tered, suddenly withered and bent. Then she smiles. Her eyes spark with shrewdness. The cigarette smoke and that stench from her daybed make me nauseous.
”Tell me, child. Why do you need to find her?” She looks at me carefully. ”Do you even know why?”
”I do.” I match her gaze. ”Yes. I want to ask her what her father should have done.”
”Why?”
”Because I think it's important to know.”
”It has nothing to do with that infernal book of his?”
”I'm only doing this for Crispin.”
Miss Florentina pauses, inhales the silence. A bird flies in the sky behind her-the first sign of natural life I've seen since arriving. It hovers on a current of air, black like a letter on a new page-an m m. Miss Florentina smiles with painful sadness. ”Okay, child,” she says. ”I'll tell you where.” Actually, her smile looks triumphant.
”You will?”
”I believe in you. She lives near the Lingayen Gulf. On one of the Hundred Islands. One of the most beautiful places. Have you ever been?”
”I don't remember it. My grandparents brought me when I was in high school. That's where my parents died and there's a memorial. A big steel sculpture in the forest. An angel with broken wings.”
”All the more reason to go.”
”Thank you.” I realize I'm almost crying.
Miss Florentina nods and smiles. ”There is a figure in the Spoliarium Spoliarium that I think you should see. A woman in the background, just standing there. Wearing a red cloak half wrapped around her face. The way she looks, it's as if Juan Luna knew Dulcinea when he painted her.” that I think you should see. A woman in the background, just standing there. Wearing a red cloak half wrapped around her face. The way she looks, it's as if Juan Luna knew Dulcinea when he painted her.”
”Thank you.”
Miss Florentina digs through the junk around her and produces a little pad.
”Now where are my pencils?” she says.
”I have a pen.” I pa.s.s it to her.
”I remember this,” she says, looking at the Parker. She writes on the pad, like a doctor making a prescription. ”Now I have a question for you, Miguel,” she says. ”Why do you think Crispin didn't seek out his child?”
”He was afraid.”
”I think it was more than that. Forgive this a.n.a.logy, but I'm an old shutterbug. Sometimes one waits too long for the perfect moment before snapping the picture. You never realize that all you needed was to change perspective. That was it. Crispy mistook moving away for moving forward. He lived abroad, thinking it would let him write more honestly. He told me once that he wanted to make himself the best man he could be so that Dulcinea would want to find him. Look what happened.”
”What about the mother?”