An Excerpt from Angel de la Luna
God’s house is a house of noise. I close my eyes and push away the magnified sounds of footsteps, of whispers, of pews squeaking and kneelers banging down on marble floors. The ceilings are high and there is plenty of room for sound to travel up to God, to bounce off stained glass windows, off golden domes and ornate pulpits. With no place to settle, the sounds keep moving, crashing one into the other, exploding into nothingness. Gigantic fans, stationed like palm tree groves between pews spin their blades, spit wind upon us, blur noise, hum. God’s ceiling rests on large pillars. There are no walls. Birds fly in and out, chase one another into heavenly frescos, blue windows and rafters. Beautiful white sampagita blossoms strung together by thread and needle drape the hands and hearts of Saints Francis, Theresa and Joseph. Mama Mary’s figure has been assaulted with flowers tossed at her feet, twisted onto her arms, hung like ornaments around her neck. In God’s house, the wind circulates freely throughout. So does the sound of traffic, of jackhammers, of Manila life. During rainy season, the faithful bring umbrellas and wear their plastic hoods. Open air mass, open to God and to His people. This is why, the other day, my mother said we could sneak in and nobody would notice. You can come at any time, shift your body between the masses and hide. The pews are orderly in front, but on the sides and in the back of the cathedral, pews are scattered, skewed as vehicles sprawled on the boulevards of Manila’s superhighways. People come and go, speaking in regular voices in the midst of the sermon, at the climax of the Eucharist and all their movement is magnified, echo against echo, distractions meant to test our faith.
The priest is yelling at us. He wants us to lead good lives. He yells into a microphone and his voice goes through a static-filled sound system, twists through wires and broken cables and releases itself, distorted and angry into our cathedral. The other sounds swallow up his hollow voice and it is hard for me to tell when he is speaking to us in English or switching to Tagalog, or when he mixes a little Castilla into his words. Anyway, it’s not a sermon, really. It’s a tirade and everyone else has shut him out too. That is why tsismís rises from the pews in loud whispers, why girls shift and text their friends from austere benches, why random figures saunter the aisles, as if they’re shopping at the mall.
When the choir sings, their angelic voices rise and are lost in the calamity. When we are asked to respond, we try, but it is difficult to make our voices to known to God. I stay silent. I close my eyes. I dream about a quiet place. I feel like swooning, I am so lost in prayer. I feel like floating off to heaven.
“Are you the de la Luna Coconut Plantation de la Luna?” says a voice. “My uncle owns the company that transports your family’s coconuts.” I hear movement behind me. Text phone messages beep intermittently into the air. I know the perfect girls from assembly are sitting behind me, waiting for me to turn around and say yes.
I pull my rosary closer to my heart, like I am deep in prayer. I pound a fist onto my chest. Maybe they will go away. I have learned that church is the perfect place to tune the world out, to go deep into your own thoughts and think about the things you cannot think about and share.
“Oh my God,” says one of the girls. “Are you actually praying?”
“I’m telling you she’s Manang Annie’s apo. She has that same crazy curly hair.”
I bow. I use my hands to mask my face. I shut their voices out too. I know it would be so easy just to tell them who I am. I could say, “Yes, she is my lola. Isn’t she a fabulous cook?” But they are daughters of rich families. They live in large cool houses with servants. I’m sure they’ve never had to clean their own bedrooms, take their own baths, wash their sinks and toilets. I’m sure that when I am sent to the palenke to buy a sack of rice on a motor tricycle, they are waiting for drivers like my dad to take them to Makati for manicures and facials. I don’t feel like answering them. I don’t feel like being their friend.
Katrina, who is sitting next to me, whispers so loudly, I jump. “Mind your business, God is watching.”
“God is watching you too, Katrina Lopez.”
One of the sisters has snuck up behind us and is hissing at all of us. The girls giggle and all around me there is the commotion of voices, of garments rustling and rosary beads knocking one into the other. I’m working on the fifth Glorious mystery. Mary is crowned Queen of heaven. I place an imaginary crown on the statue before us, and then I picture my mother and place a ruby crown on her head, and one of sapphire atop my Lola Annie’s mane of white, and on my head, I wear a crown of white and yellow blossoms. |
