The lady in black

There was a small wooden boarding house in a corner of a crossroad in Raymundo’s, a small community a stone’s throw away from one of the pocket entrances that led to the UP Los Baños campus. It was a two-story house and each floor had its own separate entrance. It would not take a second glance to see that the house was wobbly and rickety. But somehow its physical limitation was ably complemented by the big, robust acacia tree that provided shade to the house.  

It was June 1988. Wilfredo Tuso III, my childhood friend from Gulod and a genius classmate from grade school to high school, and I were incoming freshmen at UPLB. He would take up Agricultural Engineering and I qualified in the Communication Arts program. We procrastinated looking for a dormitory inside the campus and had to contend ourselves with occupying the first level of the boarding house by the crossroad when we could not find a room inside or around UPLB that would suit our budget. There were two rooms at the ground floor. The bigger one was occupied by Aling Ging, our landlady, who was always in black. The smaller room was just enough for Wilfredo and me. Right across our room was the communal bathroom. Many times, wild vines managed to creep into the bathroom as the house was bordered by patches of land that became the spawning ground for weeds and other wild flowers.

There was a small kitchen beside the bathroom but Wilfredo and I never used it. It was Aling Ging’s territory. Early in the morning, we would wake up to the scent of kerosene gas coming from her kusinilya. The aroma of kapeng barako, which Aling Ging boiled in a takure, would soon substitute the unpleasant and alerting smell of gas. Every morning, from Monday to Saturday, the days we would spend in the university, the routine repeated.

 It was always quiet in our boarding house. What did you expect from three people who hardly saw each other? The two couples living upstairs were mute-like in their silence, unless a utensil was accidentally dropped on the floor, that was the only time we knew they were there.

I tried to engage Aling Ging in a conversation many times but she was simply laconic. She was tongue-tied, almost a snob but never a curmudgeon. She would just smile and say a few words like “Okay lang,” “Ikandado ang pinto,” or “Good night.” Wilfredo opined that she hardly talked because she was not comfortable talking in Tagalog. She was from Davao.

I asked her once why she kept wearing an all-black ensemble every day but I only got a blank stare from her. Her sister-in-law, Aling Sonia, who lived a few houses down the road, explained to me that Aling Ging, the single lady with marble-like eyes, bob-cut hair and reed-thin physique, could easily get sick with the usual cold weather in Los Baños. Someone advised Aling Ging that wearing black would keep her warm. And that started her all-black sartorial style.

After two weeks, Wilfredo and I were already well-adjusted to our home in Raymundo’s. We would walk to our classrooms from the boarding house. Everything was a breeze.

Towards the middle of the semester, Wilfredo and I found our own separate group of friends. While he still went  home to our boarding house every night, I found myself in the house of a newfound friend in Malinta, a barrio in Los Baños that was away from the campus. But I still kept a few of my stuff and books at the boarding house and still paid my dues to Aling Ging.

On Sept. 16, 1988, a Friday, at 1 p.m., I came home to the boarding house after almost one straight month of not being home. I needed my book in Fil 20 and I knew exactly where to find it in our room in the boarding house.

I hastily opened the main door of the boarding house. It was a bit warm outside but the minute I entered the house, cool breeze and sepulchral silence welcomed me. Thanks to the acacia tree that always protected the house from the heat.

As usual it was quiet. I saw Aling Ging at our little sala in a rocking chair and managed to greet her. She acknowledged me for a while without bothering to lift the pages of a two-day-old issue of Manila Bulletin from her face. When she felt I was panicking in front of my room, she asked me, “Anong problema?”

“Naiwan ko ho yung susi ng kwarto sa bahay ng kaibigan ko. Importante hong makuha ko yung book sa kwarto,” I explained.

Without saying a word, she reached for her pocket and put a spare key on the left armrest of the rocking chair. I got the key and opened the room. I kept the door open. I could still see Aling Ging busily reading the paper.

“Akala ko ho, Aling Ging, uuwi kayo ng Davao,” I asked her while I was tiptoeing to look for my book. She mentioned to me before that she would go home to Davao sometime in August or September.

“Oo, Büm, iuuwi ako sa Davao sa Miyerkules,” she said.

“Next week na ho? Kailan kayo babalik?”

 “Hindi na. Sa Davao na ako.”

I found my book. Returned the key to Aling Ging by putting it back on the armrest. I left the boarding house, mindful that I was almost running late for my class.

That night, I found myself again in my friend’s house in Malinta.

The following morning, Saturday, at the CMT (Citizen Military Training) formation in the open field of UPLB, I saw Wilfredo looking lost and consumed in his fatigue uniform.

“What happened to you? I asked.

“Last night, when I came home to the boarding house,” Wilfredo started to explain,  “may naka-burol (there was a wake).”

“Who died?”

“Si Aling Ging.”

“Crazy! I was at the boarding house yesterday at 1 p.m. I got to talk to Aling Ging. She even spared me her duplicate key to our room.”

“Cannot be. Aling Sonia said they rushed Aling Ging to the hospital yesterday morning when she had chest pains. She died at 1 p.m. yesterday.”

 In disbelief, I literally fainted at the formation early in the morning. When I got back to my senses, Wilfredo and I hurried to our boarding house in Raymundo’s. A white casket welcomed us. In it was Aling Ging, wearing her favorite black long-sleeved shirt and her black cotton pants. Her bob-cut hair lost its shine but her lips were slightly parted, almost smiling. That was the first time I saw color in her lips.

“Dumating na ho ba ang ibang kamag-anak ni Aling Ging?” I asked Aling Sonia.

“Hindi na sila pupunta ng Los Baños, Büm,” Aling Sonia said. “Iuuwi namin siya sa Davao sa Miyerkules.”

Then I remembered Aling Ging’s last words to me: “Oo, Büm, iuuwi ako sa Davao sa Miyerkules (Yes, Büm. I will be brought home to Davao on Wednesday).

That day, after saying a prayer in front of Aling Ging’s coffin, Wilfredo and I left the boarding house in a corner of a crossroad in Raymundo’s. And never to return again.

(E-mail me at bumbaki@yahoo.com. I’m also on Instagram @bumtenorio. Have a blessed All Saints’ Day.)