He has been like that for almost a week, 5 days to be exact. Somber. Nostalgic. Constantly looking at the windows. As if waiting for a person to come over and visit him. As if enjoying the scenery… but his eyes stare blankly… so deep in thoughts…in his thoughts.
“He’s coming home… I know”, he said to himself, whispering words nobody cared to understand anyway. “I know…”, and then he stands by the window, glancing at the infiniteness. For it is night now and the stars started to appear way up high. And he sighs.
“Uncle wake up. It’s late… remember that you still have an appointment with Uncle John this morning”, I gently said to him, in a voice just enough not to rouse him. He’s my dear Uncle James. Not my uncle anyway. No relation at all. Am just an adopted kid who came from nowhere. I don’t even know who my parents were. I don’t care anyway. Uncle James had been my family since time immemorial. Now I am already pursuing my AB at the State University, on my last year in fact.
“What time is it?”, he asked gently, his eyes half opened, half shut. He begins to scratch them, as if itchy. Maybe due to the glaring sunlight that penetrated the curtains that covers his French windows.
Looking at my watch, a gift given by him when I entered college, I said it was already 30 minutes past six in the morning and I added that the breakfast had been set by Manang, ready to be gorged up by the hungry mammals.
“Gosh, I must been tired last night. Damn paper works”, said he as he moved to fix his bed. His pajamas crumpled, hair has been like a hen’s nest. An ugly sight to behold.
“Go to the bathroom Uncle. I will just be the one to fix your bed. Take a bath. Fix yourself and then we’ll go down to eat breakfast. Don’t be too sluggish old man,” we both laughed. Actually he’s not yet that old. He was just in his mid-20’s when I came to his life. Lola Andrea, his mother, was a social worker, when they have adopted me. They said that I was left by woman whom they don’t know, at the gate. A classic orphan story, I thought. When Uncle James was promoted as a full professor at the State University (at an unprecedented age of 27!), the adoption paper had been signed formally. I was just 3 years old then. Lola Andrea died eventually after 2 years and Uncle, together with Manang, took turns in taking care of me. Uncle James had become my father.
Uncle went to the bathroom in his room and I heard the shower opened. I started fixing his unkempt bed. It was not so hard for me to fix it. His room was clean. Extraordinary for a bachelor’s room. Clean to the very inch of it. The house, our house, his mana from Lola Andrea, was of Spanish architecture. One of the oldest in town. Uncle’s bedroom, on the second floor, has a terrace that overlooks a sprawling garden, well-sculptured and landscaped, and an oval-shaped swimming pool. A living witness to the so-many merriments the old folks had held when they are still alive. Lolo Tiago, a haciendero, had always loved nature. Being the owner of a hundreds of hectares of coconut plantation in Batangas, he had transformed the business into an ‘empire’ which Uncle was the sole heir. Above the headboard of his huge bed is the portrait of his beloved wife. Beautiful beyond words. Stunning. Alluring. Imposing. I always asked Uncle James when I was still young about her but he forbids me, and I always see the pain in his eyes whenever I ask. From then on, I didn’t ask the question. Never attempted to ask.
When I was through fixing his bed, I went down stairs. Went ahead to the grand piano near the foot of the stairs and popped open the lids, just to exercise my fingers, I thought. The same routine that I do every day of my life. The house suddenly turned in to concert hall every time I play. I was always so passionate about music, be it jazz or the music of the masters. I started tinkering at first, getting acquainted with the keys, to warm my fingers up. I played the etudes of Chopin, and when I had already the rhythm, I played his Revolutionary. Halfway in the composition is like a tormenting and stormy cadenza and I seemed to have mercurian fingers swift-shifting from one finger to the other. The lower keys to my left seemed like a tune of another brewing storm perhaps, or a tornado, or as the title has it, a coup d’ etat. Storm that is ready to shatter lives. A coup of revolutionary notes. When the music was over, I was it seemed on the ecstasy. I didn’t notice Uncle coming down from the stair, clapping.
“Bravo! Bravo!,” went Uncle’s words. “What’s the encore?,” he asked me.
I was so ashamed, although his praises made me in a swell-headed ecstasy, and somehow, praise coming from him, a critic that he was, respected at his own field, made me long for more. As if I was in cloud nine. In a dreamland. “What about the Flight of the Bumblebee?,” I said.
“The great Bard hath saith before ‘If music be the food of the soul, play on’, or the soup will get colder”, and he made a heartfelt laugh which I haven’t heard for probably decades.
While I was playing the music which I gleefully committed from my mind, I was deeply observing Uncle James. Although the laughter he had been soulful and hearty, there is still that look of loneliness in his eyes. Must be his age? Must it be someone from the past? Or something? I know for sure that Uncle was already an accomplished man. He has given lectures all over the world. Just recently, he went to University of Hawaii to deliver his contention on the life and works of Shakespeare viewed on Marxist approach. He became a national sensation because the Inquirer had given him a page one Sunday and he was honored to be given a dinner with the President of the Philippines no less. I was so proud of him. But where did his loneliness come from? I was awakened with my thought when Uncle tapped my shoulders. He gave me a hug and said that I was too good and someday, I will be performing at the Carnegie Hall with the New York Symphony no less. Of course, I shied the thoughts away. It was my ultimate dream though.
“Do you think we are late for your appointment Uncle?,” I asked him animatedly. He was already dressed in tattered jeans and checkered polo. He looked like a teenager. It was a rainy Saturday and we don’t have classes to attend to.
“Let your Uncle John wait. We still have plenty of time though. Why rush,” he said softly. Uncle’s voice was always that soothing. Magical. Whimsical. No wonder his students at the University like him so much that all his course are well-attended. He was really a crowd drawer.
“What’s the business with Uncle John ba Uncle?”, I asked.
“Nothing. Just personal matters I suppose,” he said.
“Okay then”. I need not ask more. “Aren’t we going to have a bite before we go?”, as I stood from the stool in front of the grand and held my Uncle’s shoulders and went to the 12-seater dining table, huge for just the two of us.
There is always a striking resemblance in us. Tall, muscular, aquiline nose, the manner we walk, which, people kept on noticing those features. Some say that we looked like brothers. Some say that we are like father and son. I have to laugh at the second thought. I tried to explain them that we are not related with each other. My story is an open book at the University. And people knew that I was just an adopted son since birth by Uncle’s family and aside form that, no more details came out.
“How is your studies Carlo?”, he asked me while mixing his coffee.
“It’s just okay Uncle. Prof. de la Rosa kept on pressing me to audition for the NAMCYA, you know, the festival for the musician wannabes”.
“And…”
“I told him that I have to tell you first”, I said half-smiling, the grin that says I know that you are going to give the blessing.
“Why not give it a shot then? Your playing is good. Much even better I suppose with Artur?”, he said referring to the great pianist Artur Rubenstein.
I laughed. But somehow it gave me an encouragement to prove my craft. I wanted to be a great musician someday. “You’re kidding Uncle, that’s the greatest joke that I ever heard this morning. Must it be the rain why you gave me the praise I suppose…”
He just looked at me smiling. The smile that I haven’t seen for years. A sweet smile from his lips. He gave me a pat in my hand.
“You can do it. I am giving you my blessing to join. That is for your enhancement kiddo.”
We arrived at Uncle John’s office at the private clinic that his family owns. He is Uncle James cousin and contemporary. Like true brothers, they went to the same school but took different courses. Uncle John finished his medical course while Uncle James pushed through with passion in creative writing (which was being opposed by Lolo Tacio, a doctor himself. He always tells, to discourage Uncle, that there’s no money in writing. Uncle won the case eventually, with Lola’s intervention.)
I was waiting outside the office, the two men inside, I don’t know what they are discussing. It must be a grave matter on the business; well I don’t have the slightest hint. But I thought deep down, must it be Uncle James’s health I should have noticed, he became paler these past few days.
The meeting ended after an hour. Uncle came out of Uncle John’s office. No trace of worry on their faces though. I was relieved. Uncle is so transparent. If he’s angry or he’s sad or happy, he doesn’t hide it from me. But how, he looks radiant and the paleness of him (I supposed to have seen from him) is gone. I must be wrong with my hunch though.
Instead of going home, it is still early in the morning, Uncle decided for us to go to the mall. I agreed. I needed some new socks and some pairs of underwear I said.
Life has always been good for both Uncle James and me. He was promoted to a full professor at the State University and I graduated summa.
I lived in Massachusetts for quite some time. Twenty years. Twenty long years. Leaving Uncle James in that old big house. I was already a naturalized citizen of America. Brown American as they always say. But in my heart, I am still a Filipino. I often came home to visit Uncle every now and then, but due to the very hectic and exhaustive work, I faltered. I was the resident pianist at Tanglewood. I held concerts here and there; the world had been my concert stage. I played so many times at the Carnegie Hall, the Royal Albert Hall in London with the Royal Symphony. In Germany, even in Pretoria for the AIDS victims. Most recently, I was awarded the Grammy for the best classical artist. But despite of the laurels that I was receiving, I longed, still longed for home. Uncle and I constantly exchanged letter. He was wired-up so to speak. I send him my latest pictures and the recordings that I made. He didn’t send me one however. He told me that it must be nice to see him personally that just in pictures. That made me long to see him. I miss him so much. I just can’t forget his face the last time I saw him. Pale. Somber. Nostalgic. But tranquil. He must be so proud of me the way that I had been so proud of him. The once vigorous and robust Uncle James that I know of… now has been eaten by age. How fast time flies. Suddenly it seems that I am visualizing another person from another time. I must go home.
It was my winter break at Tanglewood. An up and coming concert pianist from Japan would replace me for a while I am on vacation. The press wrote important news accounts for me. Touching.
“Ladies and gentlemen… let us give a warm applause to….”
I heard my name. I was in front of the audience. Was it… the CCP? With the Philharmonic? I was doing a Tchaikovsky Suite. Applause. A long standing ovation. But where’s Uncle…. I thought.
“Welcome home, Carlo”, a voice so familiar came to my ears still soothing.
“Uncle James…”, tears welling my eyes as I gave him a long embrace.
“Welcome home, my son”, he told me. “Look at them…”
“I was so touched by the gesture, Uncle… I owe them much to you.”
“You yourself made it until here son… You worked hard for it”.
We stood, man to man for quite some time, I couldn’t imagine the man who nurtured me, took care of me, looked so pale and old.
“What happened Uncle?”
“Meaning…?”
“Look at yourself”.
“Ahh… Time is ticking so fast boy”. He said with a sad look.
“Kalabaw lang ang tumatanda!”, I tried to laugh it off.
“Human beings, too Carlo”, he soft-spokenly said.
“By the way, are we not going to the reception?”
“Let us go then… and you’ll drive.”
The reception was held at the great hall of the Manila Hotel with no less than the President of the Philippines as the guest of honor. I was deeply honored at the thought that the Filipino people are really that so proud of me. A homecoming really. A homecoming. It was finished by twelve midnight. Uncle asked where I will be spending the night. I told him that the reception committee had booked me in advance at the hotel but I told him that I am going to stay at the old house, with my Uncle. He beamed. A look of satisfaction was seen on his face, his now-wrinkled face.
“Do I have apos already, Carlo?”, he asked me.
“Non at all eh. I was so busy engrossed with my career and I forgot about them, Uncle.” I told him with a laugh.
“Time is running by so fast, you should hurry. As the joke goes, you might be running off with a jet plane.” He said good-humoredly.
“I might not hear their laughter nor, watch them come out of this world and grow”, he continued.
“You are not going pa naman eh”, I stubbornly said to him.
“Who knows, maybe not now. Maybe later. Who knows really? Life is so full of surprises. It is magical. Mysterious. Now you have…” he paused, “then you don’t…”
“Ahem, you are getting sentimental old man”.
He just gives me a sigh.
“You must have missed my kakulitan Uncle. Why haven’t you got married by the way? I have asked you a million times over before but you were so hard-headed, you did not heed to my advice.”
I was talking like an old man now, as we headed home.
“I had only one love. My immortal love and that suffices. And besides…”, he stopped for a while, “…there is you and you are enough inspiration for me to go on”.
“And live…”, he continued, teary eyed as I gazed at him.
“Thank you so much Uncle. You just don’t know that I owe so much from you. I could have not reached the apex of my career if you were not the one who took care of me.”
“Now, you are the one who’s sentimental.” He laughed. The crisp laugh of my Uncle James returned. Was it because I came home? Was it because of me?
Along the way, we talked so much. About my life back in the United States. Whom I had been dating? And so on. I asked him what’s new with my old Uncle. He said nothing has changed except that his black hair now turned to grey, which suited him so much. Just the pale look in his aura worried him.
Now a new happiness came to his face. A little gladness once more. And I was happy with the thought.
I woke up early the following day. It was a Saturday, and Uncle is going to his perennial visit to Uncle John. I decided not to wake him up. It is still early. I went out and looked around. The house has not changed a bit. The grand is still placed there. Shining black. Dusted each day by the maids. I peeped at the garden. The plants and the Bermuda were all well-trimmed. I took a deep breath of the dewy air. Smelled so sweet, now I am balk to my roots. To where I was born. To where I was alive. Uncle must have prepared for my homecoming after all, I thought.
I sat down to the stool in front of the grand. Tinkered the keys. They still sound good. The sound brought me back to my younger years when my piano tutor would say that he doesn’t have any lesson for me because I knew the lessons already. I started playing a Chopin, Fantaisie Impromptu. Then some etudes. And there was the familiar clap clap clap descending the stairs. It was Uncle.
“Hear ye, hear ye…. A world class artist had arrived…”
“Uncle, don’t give me those praises again. Or I might get used to them. I am still your little boy Carlo, remember?”
“Well, thank you for coming back son.”
“Thank you so much, Uncle. Shall we go to Uncle John’s?”
“Let’s.”
I don’t know what transpired in their talk but somehow it already bothered me. I asked Uncle James when he got home and he said nothing. I began to notice his paleness once again. During daytime, I watched his sitting alone and somber beside the window, looking at the infiniteness. He has retired from teaching at the University and has been spending his time, if not talking with me, looking at the window, in deep thought. What might be he’s thinking? Does he suffer from illness that I don’t know of? I once asked Uncle John about Uncle James’s condition but he said, there’s nothing wrong with the man. Should I be angry with him that he hides me important matters? I respected their silence.
The morning was intensely cold. January morning. I could not sleep the night before. As if something’s bothering meI and I couldn’t discern what is it. Uncle must have been deep in sleep. Old men were by the way.
Nine o’clock. Still no Uncle coming out from his room. I decided to enter and wake him up but I thought he must be tired the whole evening.
Ten o’clock. Still no Uncle coming out. I went to his room. Softly knocked at the door. He must be at the shower taking his morning bath. I entered. The old man is sleeping still. But wait…
“Uncle…”
No reply.
“Uncle…” I repeated.
Still no reply and I uttered a subdued sob. I noticed an envelop on his side. Opened it. A letter came out, freshly written. It was by him, because I noticed the stroke. The letter reads:
Dear Carlo,
You have come back home my Son. My true
Son. My only son. The son that I have kept for such a
long time. I am your father. You ARE MY SON.
Forgive me for keeping this secret to you.
Papa.
“Hello, Uncle John….”
-Mario G. Barlolong
