Preludes

Daryll Delgado

1.

A man died singing. He had sung a total of three songs before he heaved his last breath and
collapsed on a chair. It happened at the Municipal Hall. The time was three in the afternoon. The sun
was high. Heat seeped into people's bones. Tuba warmed their blood even more. Someone's ninth death
anniversary was being celebrated. Another man's life in that party ended. It ended on a high note.
At that exact moment, JM, his favorite grandson, was on his way to the city, a heavy bag in
hand, guitar slung on his back, rolled music sheets and wads of cash bulging his back pocket.
Earlier that day, JM had been restless. He barely slept the night before, despite the countless
rounds of tuba he had had with his cousins and uncles. He came home from the tagay session at around
five in the morning. When he got there, the only light that was on was in the kitchen behind the house.
He saw his grandmother illuminated by the halo created by the lightbulb right above her. She was bent
over a big pot, stirring what he could only guess was sticky rice with what smelled like anise, caramel,
and coconut milk. The smell made him retch.
He crawled to the nearest toilet and hugged the bowl, the ceramic cold against his chest a
surprising comfort. He found himself cursing a girl's name as his entire body was racked with
involuntary spasms wrenched from his stomach muscles. Finally, he expelled all the contents of his
stomach in one forceful stream. This cleared his head a little bit, but he was still pissed with this girl
from his band class, and he continued to curse her as he made his way to his bed.
He couldn't wait to go back to the city to see her again. He was going to sit right next to her.
He wasn't going to talk to her at all. He was going to ride in the same jeepney with her. Oh no, he wasn't
going to get down at the same corner with her. He wasn't even going to glance at her. Oh shit, now she
is looking at him, really looking. And now she is touching his arm, her fingers softly dropping on his
skin one by one, as though she were playing the last few notes of a piano piece. It moved him to the
very core. Is she inviting him to walk her to the corner?
Just when JM was getting down from the jeepney, hypnotized by the vision in front of him,
sunlight started streaming into the room and pulled him rudely out of the dream. JM shifted to the other
side of the bed, tried to get back into the dream, tried to trace the outline of the girl's hips, but his finger
was met with a hard wall instead.
JM got up from bed to cover the windows with a blanket. The place on his arm where she
touched him seemed to burn and he found himself caressing it. He closed his eyes and tried to catch the
last remnants of the dream. But the room was too bright. He couldn't get back to sleep. He wore
sunglasses, hid his head under a pillow, lay on his stomach. He could not get back to sleep, no matter
what he did. The bed, and then the room, started to spin again. JM gave up and got out of bed altogether.
The entire room was flooded with sunlight by then.
He headed to the kitchen. At the table were his grandparents, sharing breakfast in silence. JM
saw that they were having pan de sal, sumanlatik, and what looked like Nescafe for his grandmother
and salabat for his grandfather. What do you want for breakfast, his grandmother asked him in her
characteristic monotone. JM said he did not want any, he wanted to go to sleep. What is stopping you
then, his grandfather asked him mockingly. JM ignored his grandfather and left the kitchen.
 JM remembered that he was still supposed to be mad at his grandfather. It had been almost a
year since JM left Manila, his family, and his friends. He used to love spending vacations with his
grandfather as a kid. It was his grandfather who taught him how to play the guitar, after all. But being
with him for the better part of the year was a different story altogether, JM realized. If it weren't for the
girl in his band class, he would have returned to Manila after the first semester.
As the day grew even hotter, JM became restless, walked shirtless inside the house, looking for
something to occupy himself with. He picked up his guitar and started distractedly plucking out a tune,
to which his grandfather started humming. This irritated JM immensely. He put the guitar down and
stepped out of the house. Hoy, his grandfather yelled at him. Sorry, need to smoke, JM told his
grandfather, although he didn't find the prospect of walking to the store in the mid-morning heat too
appealing. And his head was still swimming.
His grandmother called him in for some herbal tea, to calm his nerves, counter his intoxication.
He tried to tell her that he wasn't, that he didn't get drunk, but she placed the cup of tea in his hands all
the same. JM took a sip. The liquid was warm but had a soothing, cooling effect somehow. He had more
sips and sat at the table as his grandmother prepared brunch around him.
His grandfather came out of his room all dressed up. Where's the funeral, Lolo, JM joked. His
grandfather slapped him in the back with a cane, and told him to get up, put on a shirt if he was going
to share a meal with his grandmother.
As JM was leaving the kitchen, he heard his grandfather say that the judge's widow was having
him picked up by a driver. He had been asked to sing for the good judge, on this very important occasion.
His grandmother did not answer for some time, and then she said, are you sure about this, remember
what happened the last time you sang in public? His grandfather said he was feeling really strong today,
that this was the last time he was ever going to sing, and that he owed the late judge a lot of things.
Really, Lolo, JM butted in, from his room. What is it that you really owe him? His grandfather
ignored him, and JM heard him walk a few paces closer to his grandmother. I want to do this, Nenita,
he told her. One last time, he said. You should drink this tea then, make sure that you do not run out of
breath again, keep your heart steady, his grandmother said.
From his room, JM butted in again, and told them that what his grandfather needed to do was
learn how to use the microphone. I do not need a microphone, come over here, tune that guitar of yours,
and help me loosen up my voice a little before the driver arrives, his grandfather bellowed at him.
JM had barely started tuning his guitar when a red pickup truck pulled up in front of the house.
His grandmother came to the sala with the remaining contents of his grandfather's tea. Here, finish this,
she instructed, even as she practically poured the contents down his grandfather's throat. After which,
she wiped his grandfather's mouth with the hem of her blouse, and JM thought he saw his grandfather
tear a little as he kissed his wife's forehead. Take a rest, Nenita, he told her. You barely slept last night,
leave the orders for a while, but don't waste the afternoon watching television, he added.
JM helped his grandfather climb into the front seat. Just as JM was about to close the door, his
grandfather reached into his pocket, took out his wallet, and handed JM several wads of bills. He told
JM to go to the city, take a girl to the movies. This is too much, Lolo, JM told him. Buy a new guitar,
or buy your grandmother something nice, go ahead, I have no use for it, his grandfather told him. Then
his grandfather pulled him in and whispered: There is an envelope under my bed. It contains some music
sheets. Your great-grandfather wrote them. You can have those too. Always worked with the girls.
By a half past two in the afternoon, JM was already at the terminal, waiting for a jeepney bound
for the city. He was already thinking of the new nylon guitar he was going to buy, the revisions he was
going to make to the sheet music in his pocket, and the movie he was going to bring the girl to. He stood
under the shade of the unmoving branches of an old jackfruit tree, and waited for a jeepney.
He tried to recall where he had previously heard the music his great grandfather had supposedly
written. But the heat was becoming even more unbearable, and he was getting sleepier by the minute.
JM started seeing mirages forming in the street in front of him. The church's façade started to melt and
detach from the main structure. Then he started hearing sounds, but not exactly what he would call
music, more like impressions and sketches of stillness, and nothingness, and absence. JM then saw his
grandfather standing by one of the posts, lifting his hat as though in a salute, and JM saw himself
walking to his grandfather. Upon reaching his grandfather, JM asked him if he was serious about this
music, and why the hell would the girls like it because, so far, it only makes him want to wreak havoc
or commit suicide, it is fucken depressing, JM told his grandfather, who remained mute, smiling very
ambiguously. And why is it called remnants, even if it is really a prelude, JM asked.
JM was jolted out of the dream by the sound of the jeepney backing up into the tree. He stood
up, and cowered involuntarily, convinced that his grandfather was behind him, ready to strike with his
cane. JM looked and realized there was not a single soul around him, save for the jeepney driver. He
could still feel the dream in his tongue, still taste lilt of the questions he had asked. They felt thick and
indefinable. Must have been important, JM thought, even as he tried to shake off the images still
clinging to his semi-consciousness.
He hailed the driver to stop for him. Just as he was about to board the jeepney, he heard his
grandfather's voice, his singing voice, very faintly at first, and then more clearly. His grandfather was
singing acapella a song JM was not familiar with. An Italian ballad, he recognized the lyrics. He told
the driver to stop the engine, just wait a minute, listen to the music, and the driver willingly obliged.
JM got down from the vehicle and faced the Municipal Hall, to better hear his grandfather. JM
found himself plucking an imaginary guitar, as his grandfather's voice soared and dipped, and soared
again. And then there was a brief applause before his grandfather launched into another song. JM
continued to pluck at his invisible guitar. He got so carried away he forgot about the driver who
applauded enthusiastically, if not mockingly, after the second song.
The driver started the vehicle again, still chuckling to himself. Great singer, that Lolo of yours,
good looking too, pang-telenovela, the driver said. I'd love to stay and listen but we run on a schedule,
the driver told him more pointedly. JM walked back to the car, just slightly embarrassed. As he was
boarding the car, he heard his grandfather singing the first notes of a rather cliché Spanish standard, a
cheap crowd-pleaser.
The jeepney rounded a corner, came close to the Municipal Hall before making another right
for the road leading to the next town. JM craned his neck and tried to catch a glimpse of his grandfather,
but he could not pick him out from the crowd of similarly dressed old men, even if he could still hear
him singing. This time his grandfather was singing something about kissing someone for the last time.
As the jeepney slowly progressed, his grandfather's voice started to fade. By the time the
jeepney entered the next town, leaving behind a trail of dust, JM's grandfather was ending his third song
and heaving his last breath.
 Preludes
Daryll Delgado

2.

A man died singing. He had sung a total of three songs before he heaved his last breath and
collapsed on a chair. It happened at the Municipal Hall. The time was three in the afternoon. The sun
was high. Heat seeped into people's bones. Tuba warmed their blood even more. Someone's ninth death
anniversary was being celebrated. Another man's life in that party ended. It ended on a high note.
At that very moment, Nenita, the wife, was at home, picking leaves for a medicinal brew.
Earlier that day, Nenita had been lying on the sofa, slipping in and out of an afternoon sleep
she should not have heeded, embracing Willy Revillame in her dreams. She had had no plans of taking
a nap.
She had just wanted to catch a glimpse of Willy after she sent off her grandson for the city, just
before she resumed her cooking.
At the sala, she opened the window to let some breeze in. But the air was so dry. Outside it was
very quiet. Everyone was at the Hall, to attend the ninth death anniversary of the juez. Most of them
bore the judge a grudge, but they were all there anyway, eager to see what kind of feast his children had
prepared. The children had all come home from America and Europe for this very important occasion
in the dead man's journey. Nenita herself did not mind the judge really, even if she had always found
him rather severe. It was the wife whom Nenita did not feel very comfortable with. There had been
some very persistent rumors involving the judge's wife that Nenita did not care so much for.
As soon as Nenita was certain that her grandson had left, she positioned the electric fan in front
of her, sat on the sofa, and turned on the TV to catch the last segment of her favorite show. The next
thing she knew, Willy Revillame was pulling her into his arms, soothing her with words of condolences,
before handing her some cash and offering his left cheek for a kiss. There was a huge applause from
the studio audience, even if they were all weeping with Willie, shaking their heads in amazement.
Nenita forced herself out of the dream and the motion brought her entire body up and out of the
sofa. She found herself standing in the middle of the sala, face-to-face with a teary-eyed Willy. Her
heart was beating wildly. Her armpits were soaked in sweat. Her hair bun had come undone. She looked
around guiltily, she thought she heard her husband swear at her. She felt her husband's presence in the
living room with her, even if she knew he was at the death anniversary party. She quickly turned off the
TV and made her way to the kitchen.
She should not have taken that nap, Nenita berated herself. There was an urgent order for ten
dozens of suman she had to deliver the next day, for the judge's daughters who were leaving right after
the anniversary. There was already a pile of pandan leaves on the kitchen table, waiting to be washed
and warmed, for wrapping the sweet sticky rice rolls with.
She had spent all night until early morning boiling the sticky rice and mixing it with anise,
caramel and coconut milk, until her hands trembled and the veins swelled. By the time she was almost
done, she had to prepare breakfast and brew a special tea concoction for her grandson who had spent
all night drinking. Her grandson had very barely made it home – drunk as a fish, crying out a woman's
name like a fool – early that morning.
 Nenita then remembered that she also had to prepare the medicinal tea her husband needed to
take with his dinner. She had yet to complete the five different kinds of leaves, Ampalaya, Banaba,
Bayabas, Dumero, Hierba Buena; the last one she purchases from a man who only comes to town on
Thursdays. She was getting ready to pick Ampalaya and Bayabas leaves from her garden when she
heard her husband's voice again, his singing voice. She realized that the sound was coming all the way
from the Hall. The sound was very faint, but more than perceptible, and certainly unmistakable to her.
It was the only sound she could hear when she stepped out of the house and started picking the
leaves. Everything else around her was quiet and still. It seemed as though the entire town – the dogs,
the frogs, and the birds included – had gone silent for this very rare event: her husband singing again.
She had not heard her husband sing this way in a very long time, ever since he became ill –
when the sugar and alcohol in his blood burned the sides of his heart, almost getting to the core of it.
Since then, he would get out of breath when he sang. And he also easily forgot the lyrics, especially to
the Italian classics, and some of the Tagalog Kundiman he used to be very well known for.
Nenita herself never understood all the fuss about her husband's singing, and the fuss his
brothers and sisters made when he stopped singing. She could not even understand half of the songs he
sang. They were mostly in Italian, Spanish, and Tagalog. He rarely sang Bisaya songs, the ones she
could understand, and actually liked, even if she herself could not carry a tune to save her life.
Thankfully, their grandson was there to indulge her husband in music talk. She was happier listening to
the two of them talk and sing, and strum guitar strings, from the kitchen.
She used to feel slighted whenever her siblings-in-law recalled with such intense, exaggerated
regret, the way their brilliant brother squandered his money and his talent, and oh, all the wrong
decisions he made along the way. Including, though they would never say directly, his decision to marry
Nenita. They liked to remind their brother, themselves, and anyone who cared to listen, of what their
brother used to be, what he could have been, whom he could have been married to. Nenita ceased to
mind this, and them, a long time ago. She had forgiven all of them. They were all dead now, save for
one brother who lived in the city. She never stopped praying for their souls, but she not very sorry that
they died.
Nenita knew that her husband was happy the way he was. She never heard him complain. He
had nothing to complain about. She took him back every time his affairs with other women turned sour.
She took care of him when he started getting sick, when the part of his heart that was supposed to beat
started merely murmuring and whistling. Thankfully, her friend, the herbalista, had just the right
concoction for this ailment. Even the doctors were delighted with her husband's progress.
Nenita took her husband back again when, with the money her in-laws sent for his medication,
he went away to be with one of his women. People say her husband went to Manila with the judge's
widow. Nenita never confirmed this. Nenita never asked. She just took her husband back. Nursed him
back to health again. After that, though, Nenita noticed that he spent more and more time alone, in the
toilet. And when she asked if he needed help with anything, he would just mumble incoherently. So she
let him be.
She could have prepared him then that other brew her herbalista friend had suggested at the
time, the one that would make his balls shrink, give him hallucinations, make his blood boil until his
veins popped. But she didn't, of course.
She did buy and continued to keep the packet of dried purple leaves said to be from a rare vine
found only in Mt. Banahaw. She didn't even know where Mt. Banahaw was, only that it was up there
in the North. She did know that she would never use the herbs, even if she wanted to keep, see, touch,
and feel the soft lump of leaves in her palm, every now and then. She derived some sense of security, a
very calming sense of power, in knowing that she had that little packet hidden in one of the kitchen
drawers.
She listened more closely to her husband's singing. She closed her eyes and trapped her breath
in her throat, the way she did when she listened to the beats and murmurs of her husband's heart at night.
Listening to the air that carried her husband's voice this way, she almost caught the sound of his labored
breathing, and his heart's irregular beating.
He was singing a popular Spanish song now, about kissing someone for the last time. Nenita
remembered being told by her husband that that was what it was about. Kiss me more, kiss me more,
that was what the man wanted to tell the woman he loved. Nenita found that she could enjoy this one;
the song was recognizable. She laughed lightly as she found herself swaying in slow, heavy movements,
to the music of her husband's voice.
She started imagining herself as a young woman, dancing with this beautiful, dark man who
eventually became her husband. And then she heard him choke, heave a breath before he sang: Perderte.
Long pause. Perderte. Another pause. Despues. And then there was applause, in which Nenita joined,
still laughing at her silliness
After that, all was quiet again.
Nenita gathered the leaves and went back inside the house. Just as well, because it was starting
to be very, intolerably, hot outside. Certainly hot enough to boil an old man's blood and pop his veins,
she thought.
 Preludes
Daryll Delgado

3.

A man died singing. He had sung a total of three songs beforehe heaved his last breath and
collapsed on a chair. It happened at the Municipal Hall. The time was three in the afternoon. The sun
was high. Heat seeped into people's bones. Tuba warmed their blood even more. Someone's ninth death
anniversary was being celebrated. Another man's life in that party ended. It ended on a high note.
At that exact moment, who could have known what was going on in his mind? Or in other parts
of his body, for that matter?
He was uncharacteristically quiet and somber the whole afternoon, sitting as far away from the
widow as he could, careful not to spark any more talk. This was the judge's ninth death anniversary,
after all. The final station in a dead man's long journey to his maker. The widow's last day of wifely
obligations. After this, she was free to do as she wants. With him, the singer, or with any other man.
The singer was merely paying his last respects, even if he never did that, he never respected the juez,
when the juez was alive. Everybody knew the judge hated his guts. Who was he kidding? Well, at least
he had had the decency to go to the anniversary, pay his respects, offer his songs, said the Councilor.
Oh no, he was uncharacteristically cheerful, rather loud, flirting openly with the widow.
Touching her elbow. Standing behind her chair the whole time he was singing. How disrespectful. This
was not about him. He was not the one being honored here! Who did he think he was? And where was
his wife? She should have been here. What kind of wife allows her husband to go off alone like this?
Well, what kind of woman did this man have for a wife, is more the question, Mrs. Delos Reyes
corrected her amigas, who enthusiastically agreed.
He looked surprisingly healthy. He was not supposed to be at the party. Wasn't he supposed to
be in bed, making himself well for the trip? Just the day before, he had gone to the clinic. And that was
when his friend knew about his condition. When the doctor checked, his heart had seemed good. His
lungs were still strong. His throat, obviously, was still clear. It was something else. At first, he could
not quite get himself to tell the doctor what it was, exactly, just that it had started over a year ago.
Initially, it was just difficulty pissing, until it became an unbearable pain in the midsection, as though
his very manhood was being sliced from the inside, by a dull, rusty blade. After that, he couldn't expel,
and much later, he couldn't even get it up altogether. That day he went to see the doctor, he said he was
alarmed to see that it, the thing, had turned purple and had started to shrink. It had practically
disappeared! The doctor made a few phone calls and arrangements at the hospital in the city, and then
the two of them agreed to make the trip the following day, late in the afternoon. That was why the doctor
was very surprised to see his friend at the party that very same afternoon.
It was one in the afternoon when he arrived at the party. In the widow's red car, no less. The
widow herself had stood up to welcome him, asked him to sit at the head of the table. He had seemed
to hesitate at first. This was rather brazen of her. But she was the host. He had no choice. He was there
to honor the juez, that and nothing more. He was also the guest of honor, in a sense. It was totally
acceptable for him to sit at the head of the table. He was the real reason why everyone was in the hall.
Who among these people truly cared about the juez? They had all come for the singer, they all came to
hear him sing. He had not sung in years. This was a rare opportunity. How many towns can claim to
have a world-class tenor for a resident? How many priests can claim to have a classically-trained
musician for a parishioner? How many confessors can claim to know the sins and secrets of a man who
had, once upon a time, dined with kings and queens, slept with princesses and first ladies, serenaded
presidents and heads of states, before he was bewitched by the town sorceress? This was the Messiah
with much grander vocal chords. And he has left us with a resounding, lasting echo, cried the Parish
Priest/Choir Master, who was most inconsolable.

From:
Mark Anthony R. Cayanan
Fine Lines: Writing Poetry, Fiction, and Drama
pp. 71 - 85