Thinking about how I came to write hurls me to the bright and colorful summers of my youth.
I remember listening to Mawa’s soft and gentle voice as she led me along the hallowed corridors of our parish church in Tiwi, Albay.
“Stop running about on sacred ground and follow me. I’ll show you something”, she said to me during one of those bright summer mornings. “Mawa”, for some reason, was my erroneous version of “lola”—a name I never bothered to correct for it had already become a term of endearment.
And so I followed Mawa or at least the sounds of her bakya—the sound of wood tapping on the cold marble floor that echoed inside the church. I hopped, skipped and tiptoed, trying my best to imitate the tapping sound with my own rubber slippers but I never got close to the sound of her musical bakya.
The sound finally came to a halt and I saw Mawa’s figure. I went beside her and realized that we were both under the shadow of what seemed to be a very tall and strange man.
It wasn’t a man, not even human. It was a saint, I was told—or a statue of a saint.
I gripped Mawa’s hand and hid behind her. The statue really resembled the Bombays in our neighborhood in Makati—stern people whom I believe to be traders of delinquent children.
Mawa knew my fear. She smiled.
“He’s not what you think he is…”
I held Mawa’s hand with tighter grasp and looked up. I saw an image of man—bald and with such a tall nose. Despite his baldness, he got thick eyebrows, a thick moustache and a forest of a beard. He had deep set eyes that looked down on both of us with such intense ferocity.
He was wearing long and strange clothes. No different from the Bombays I held with so much dread. Except that this man did not have a turban and his robes were green and yellow instead of white.
In his hand were two keys, bigger than the ones we ever owned. He had a very big and thick black book on his other hand. Near his left foot was the figure of a rooster—its eyes and beak were hideous, its feathers like sparks of red fire.
“That’s San Pedro…”, she said.
Her voice, gentle and soft, was a real relief and comfort. Mawa was not afraid of the figure before us. Mawa knew the Bombay!
“The book in his hand is a list of names. Names of people who ever lived on this earth…” she continued.
“You mean like the yellow pages that we have in Makati?,” I asked.
Her eyebrows twitched a bit. She smiled and said, “Well, yes. Except that the names are listed under two columns—the good ones and the bad ones.”
Before I can even let out a question to clarify what she just said, she had already pointed a finger to the keys that the man was holding.
“Those are keys to the gates of heaven and hell. He was a trusted follower of God and those keys were entrusted to his care. When we die, our souls will go directly to his office. He will then look for our names on the book. If you have lived a good life, one that followed God’s commandments, your name will be listed under the column of good people. The gates of heaven will only be opened for these people. Otherwise, your name will be on the other column and this will merit life in hell,” she explained with gentle seriousness.
I don’t know if what she said really changed my perception of the figure before us. What she said was an important lesson for me for it made me understand some of the popular jokes I’ve been hearing on san Pedro and the souls of the Amerikano, Hapon and Pinoy who all tried to outwit each other.
What she told me made me guilty of the marbles I stole from my cousin’s trousers as he was sleeping. And the vase that I broke, whose shattered pieces I hid under the sofa.
This man had so much power. I tried to muster enough courage and tried to meet his gaze with mine. I looked past the hideous rooster, past the book in his hand, past the glistening keys. And so I met the stern gaze from his deep-set eyes. The feeling was terrifying; I began to sweat with cold beads of perspiration. Behind his head was a ring of gold. There I was, a small frail kid hiding behind his grandmother’s skirt.
It took me a minute or two before I realized that no matter how terrifying the figure in front of me was, it was just a statue. Yes, it looked stern but it was frozen. It may had eyes that seemed to penetrate my very soul, but it did nothing but remained standing in its corner—adorned with flowers and accompanied by the chirping of the church birds.
I did let go of my hand from Mawa’s and wiped the sweat off my palms. I felt Mawa smile and let out a deep breath of relief. Then I heard the music from her bakya once more. I followed it again with my rubber slippers and on to the other figures that stood along the long corridors of memory.
The following day, I was awoken by the sound of bells and murmurs. I was alone in bed and the lights were on. I went out of the room, searched the house and looked for Mawa. She was outside near the front porch with my cousins. It was still dark. They were holding candles.
“What are you doing?” I asked wiping the morning star in my left eye.
“A procession will come our way in a few minutes…Now, hold this…” she then carried and me and asked me to hold the lit candle.
And then I saw a flock of people in the streets. Some of them were carrying torches as the old women of the village began to howl their songs like werewolves. Soon, there was a cart of flowers and lamps. On top of it was figure that seemed so familiar—It was San Pedro!
Mawa seemed to look at me and studied my face. Perhaps, she was trying to see if I still had fear for this man. I saw his keys—ever glistening from the torchlights … and the thick book… symbols that really led me to believe that this man was for real.
I am mentioning this story as I trace the roots of my writing. It was when I first learned to make frozen saints move in my mind’s eye. It was when I first learned to look at things as symbols, as prompts to would lead to a story.
The figure went past our house. There were other figures too. I saw a man with a bag of coins and knew that it was Judas. I saw a beautiful maiden with a handkerchief bearing an imprint of a man’s face. I knew her—she was Veronica!
“Is that Zsa Zsa Padilla?” I asked Mawa, referring to a very beautiful woman with long golden locks and a bottle of perfume in her hand.
“That’s Maria Magdalena, ijo.”
And so the caravan of images went on and passed by our front porch. As I saw each statue, they seemed to began moving in my head—each telling their story, their own part in the big story of Jesus’ passion.
At the end of our street was a makeshift altar. The procession will end there in time for the Salubong. Mawa went down the azotea with me and followed the caravan. We heard mass as the sun began to slowly peek behind the morning clouds. The slopes of majestic Mayon can now be seen in the horizon.
The people beside us began to sing the alleluias. I heard a rooster crow.
That must be San Pedro’s pet, I thought.
