Iguana, Short Story, English

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1) Title: Iguana 2) Author: Antonio Enriquez 3) Author’s Bio: Antonio Reyes Enriquez was born & raised in Zamboanga City & is da author of several books of short stories & novels. He has been published in his homeland, da Philippines, & abroad. His short stories have been included in anthologies & translated into Korean & German. It was his fearful & unforgettable experience in Liguasan Marsh in Mindanao dat lykly started his carer as a novelist. Liguasan Marsh was da setting of his first novel, Surveyors of da Liguasan Marsh, 1981. Other novels: Da Living & da Dead, Giraffe Books, Philippines, 1994; Subanons, University of da Philippines Press, Quezon City, 1999; most recent work: Samboangan: da Cult of War, (epic novel), University of da Philippines Press, 2007. However, his ‘happiest & memorable times’ in his grandfather’s land in Labuan, 35 kms. northwest of Zamboanga City, & da last coastal village reachable by land from der, wc prodded him to write about farmers, fishermen, & da rural folk. Labuan village is da setting of his stories in da collection, Dance a White Horse to Sleep & Other Stories, 1977. Da aforementioned novel & story collection wer published by UQP Press, Queensland, Australia. Other short story collections: Spots on Their Wings & Other Stories, Silliman University, Philippines, 1972; Da Night I Cry & Other Stories, New Day Publisher, Philippines, 1989; Da Unseen War & Other Tales from Mindanao, Giraffe Books, Manila, 1996; Da Voice from Sumisip & Four Short Stories, Giraffe Books, Manila, 2003. Hes a much awarded writer, among da notable awards: UMPHIL—Writers Union of da Philippines—; University of da Philippines National Fellow for Literature lifetime award; S.E.A. Write Award; Hawthornden International Retreat for Writers Fellowship; & Don Carlos Palanca Memorial Award for da short story & its grand prize for da novel His 2 books (Dance a White Horse to Sleep & Other Stories, UQP Australia, 1977, & novel Surveyors of da Liguasan Marsh, UQP, 1981, ar regarded as da first breakthrough by a Filipino writer writing from his homeland into internation publishing scene. He & his wife Joy, wid their five grandchildren, now live in Cagayan de Oro City. 4) No. of pages - 13 5) No. of words – 6,829

6) Attachment:

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IGUANA By Antonio Enriquez

WE HEARD da mother hen croak. ‘Get up, Macario,’ Ma said. ‘Da mother hen…’ ‘Wat?’ said Pa, awakening. We heard da hen croak again & den, all of a sudden, become quiet… ‘Da mother hen,’ Ma said. ‘Maybe da iguana has entered da chicken house. Quick.’ ‘Léche!’ Pa said. IM sitting on da top rung of da kitchen steps wid a .22-caliber rifle in my hands. I sit der waiting for da iguana to come out of da bamboo thickets across da river. It is morning, soft & light. Just den I hear mama call me from da flower garden. I lean da rifle against da wall of da kitchen & go down da wooden steps. Den I go around da back of da house & on to da footpath, worn smooth & scoured by countless interminable feet, & den across before da now useless, broken-down chicken house. I go on. Suddenly da path levels off as strayt as a plumb-line toward da garden. I walk a small way on da footpath before stopping in front of da garden. Ma is squatting on da ground before her flower bed of daisies. Her hands ar busy turning da soft black loam over & patting it gently around da stems. ‘Where is da water I asked you for?’ she says widout yet looking up @ me. ‘Did I not tell you to bring me some water?’ I hav forgotten all about da water. ‘You didnt tell me, Ma,’ I say. She stands up, her hands caked wid black loam & hanging rigid @ her sides. She turns toward me. Her eyes become locked wid mine, quiet & searching. But I still dont move. ‘You must help me in da garden, hijo–son,’ she says. ‘For your father wunt lift a finger to help me.’ As I look back @ her, I notice da reddish blotches on da balls of her eyes & da swelling around dem, & I think, She cried some mor after Pa left. She cried der in her room. Alone der in her room she cried as papa tramped angrily out of da house. Earlier Pa had shouted @ her & was very red behind da ears wid anger. I was den under da house, da bamboo-split floor not 3 feet above my bar head, & I was about to take da fodder to our pigs wen I heard him, in da sala, say: ‘Im not giving you even a centavo. Not one centavo, do you hear? Nothing for dat foolishness of a chicken house.’

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‘Da iguanawl kill all my chicks,’ said Ma. I suddenly stood stock-still under da house, not making any noise dat wud warn dem. Den she said, ‘Last night I lost my last chicken, da mother hen of those chicks. If you dont give me money to repair da coop, da iguana will eat all those chicks tonight. See if Im wrong.’ I cud hear dem talking loudly in da sala through da bamboo-split floor. I heard Pa say, almost hissing wid anger, ‘Dat wudnt hav happened if you had listened to me. But you wud not listen. Wat you listen to ar those foolish ideas wc go around in your head.’ ‘You dont car about da chicks,’ I heard mama say. ‘You wud rather see dem all eaten up by da iguana than give a centavo to repair da chicken house.’ Standing under da bamboo floor directly where dey both stood or sat I heard papa’s chair scrape as tho he wer about to rise, & den just as suddenly he changed his mind & remained seated, still & immobile. Wen papa spoke again, he was mincing his words carefully. ‘Dat is enough talk. Im telling you, you wunt get a centavo from me anymor for your foolishness.’ It was @ dis tym I heard mas feet scrape on da floor & hiss up toward da room. Yet I didnt even move, still standing stock-still, not even to look up through da splits of da bamboo floor, as she came into da room & stood by da window overlooking her flower garden. Now I heard papa’s chair scraping roughly on da floor, & den he stood up & walked out of da house, red behind da ears. I knew dey wer red widout seeing dem, because his ears always turned red wen he got angry. But dat wasnt wat I was thinking den. I wasnt even thinking, but listening to ma as she cried der by da window. Now sHes through crying, Im thinking. But her eyes ar red & swollen & da crying is till der, only deeper now in her eyes. Now I say, ‘Iwl get da water now, Ma.’ Her eyes suddenly become blank, turning inwardly into her sockets. SHes no longer looking @ me, her face bent down, but staring @ her brightly colored daisies. Her eyes seem to gape blankly. She turns to speak to me, but already Im going down to get da water from da well below da chicken house. After a whyl, I come back carrying a long bamboo tube over one shoulder. ‘Wen ar your city friends coming, Ma?’ I ask, emptying da water from da bamboo tube into a petrol can, wc papa had emptied & scrubbed hard wid soap & ashes some tym ago, & wc we now used as a water container. Den I go to da house & lean da bamboo container against da sawali–woven strips wall. Ma picks up a dipper, its bottom perforated wid nail-holes, & dips it into da water can, &, wid da dipper raised above dem wid one hand, she begins to walk up & down between da beds of daisies. ‘Maybe dis coming Saturday,’ she answers. She draws da dipper above da flower beds as she moves up & down between dem. With one hand cupped under its bottom, she sprinkles da water on da flower beds. ‘Are dey really coming here, Ma?’ I ask, thinking, But dat was da other-other Saturday yet. ‘Pa says dey’re not coming to buy your flowers.’ I see her stop den. Da hand, wid da dipper, is half-raised in a silent dumb gesture whyl da other is suspended midway between sprinkling da water & cupping da bottom of da dipper. Suddenly a cloud passes her face. ‘Did your papa tell you dat?’ she asks me, still & rigid, wid da now-empty dipper in her hand. ‘He must hav made fun of my garden, hijo.’ ‘He said dat those city women wer merely talking,’ I say. ‘& you believed dem.’ As you believed dat building your chicken house beside da river was da best place for da

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chickens. Den da flood came & drowned your chickens & washed away da bamboo poles & left holes in it as wide as a man’s chest for da iguana to come later & kill your chickens. I stop thinking now & say, ‘Pa said Mang Pedro wud grow hair on his pate if those city women wud come back. ‘Why wud dey come here,’ I say, imitating papa, ‘some fifty kilometers from da city just to buy one peso of flowers? Even @ half da price in da city or even for nothing, dey wudnt waste tym coming here.’ I watch her hand dat has begun to move above da flower beds, wid da perforated-bottom dipper raised above da daisies. Mama moves up & down between da beds of her daisies. ‘Dey will come,’ she tells me. ‘Dey told me dat if I sell dem daisies a half da price, dey wud come even from da city to buy dem. So why should dey not come?’ Now she moves rapidly. ‘Im selling da flowers to dem @ half da price. No, not for nothing, as your papa said.’ She doesnt say anything for a moment. ‘Oh, your papa,’ she says. ‘Sometimes I cannot understand him. He never does anything dat wud bring us some extra money.’ ‘Dat was Saturday,’ I tell her. ‘But da Saturday, Ma, of last 3 weeks, & still da city women hav not come.’ I watch her moving rapidly back & forth among da beds of her daisies, thinking, Even if dey come dis Saturday, da daisies wud be too old & wilted by den. Ma is watering da daisies to keep dem fresh wen all da water in da world cannot do it. She stops den. ‘Por favor,’ she says, straytening up & arching her back slowly, ‘wud you bring da can of water closer?’ I walk over & stoop down to pick up da can of water. I take it closer to her. Den I walk off down da feet-scoured path, not looking back @ her, following da path wc goes strayt as a plumb-line da same way I had come into ma’s flower garden. I return to da kitchen & sit back on da top rung of da steps. I reach out a hand & pick up da rifle leaning against da wall & lay it down across my lap. Across, da river is beginning to glitter under da new sun. I think, Poor mama. O, poor mama, dat da river should swell just @ da tym dat her mother hens wer having their chicks. Pa told her not to build her chicken house so near da river & she said to him, ‘Dey love to be near da river & to scratch in da sand.’ ‘Oo,’ said Pa. ‘& wen da July flood comes, your chickens will be finished, & even your chicken house will be washed away.’ & dat was exactly wat happened. Da flood came last week & drowned all of mama’s 75 chickens except for a rooster & a few hens & some 6 chicks. I think, Now sHes watering her daisy flower garden, wc will never sell a single flower, & Pa wud say wat he had said to her den: ‘How can you be so gaga, Isabel? Turning dat vegetable garden into a daisy-flower garden, da flowers no one wud buy, wc, in da first place, before it became a flower garden had not produced a single vegetable. Because you wer hard-headed & insisted on sowing it wid seeds you had bought from da city in small plastic packages. Da seeds wud not grow here in our land for dey wer not sowed here, no coming from here but from another country lyk American—yes, American seeds. Phhfft!’ Dat is wat Pa wud say. Den Ma wud say, ‘But da first lettuce crop was big-big. You saw it yourself, Macario, & you even ate some yourself. Only da second crop was small, & dat was because you wud not help me or Chu to carry da water up here from da river.’ & den Pa wud look @ her unbelievingly & say, ‘You mean those 2 or 3 tiny stalks of lettuce? You dont call dat a crop, Isabel. Not wen you spent mor than 10 pesos on

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seeds, watered it day & night—da American seeds needing mor water, you said, than our own—& using our entire vegetable lot for it.’ He wud be fuming & unbelieving, tho he’d sometimes laugh inwardly @ her. As he had laughed dat tym dey wer talking about da chicken house; only he wud be laughing in dat queer way. I think, O, pobrecita mama. Oo, muy pobrecita–poor woman mama. ‘You, Isabel,’ my father said, ‘wat crazy things get into your head. A whole river for da chickens to drink & all its shore for dem to scratch for pebbles & shells.’ He was getting bulbous & tomato-red around da face as he often got wen he fumed or laughed @ Ma’s ‘crazy’ ideas. Dey wer both standing on da vacant lot above da river bank. Here Ma wanted her chicken house to be built, because ‘da shells along da bank,’ she said, ‘will make dem hatch mor eggs.’ Ma gazed toward da river below da lot. Pa is hurting her, I was thinking den. Hes hurting her laughing @ her der, & why doesn’t he stop dat? Instead Pa said, ‘You must hav read dat in a revista--magazine. Wat do you call it, Farm Magazine? Perhaps it also tells you to build a chicken house beside a river.’ Only he wasnt serious, but getting mor bulbous & tomato-red around da face. O, pobrecita mama. To be laughed @, yet not rally laughing, laughing inwardly in da face, & he tomato-red, ridiculing her as she stood in da vacant lot der. ‘Da water of da flood doesnt reach up to here,’ she said. ‘It has never risen higher than up to dat rock der.’ I can see her even now. She, standing above da bank, pointing to da old rock, rigid & stiff beside papa. She seemed to break lyk da brittle, dry bark of datiles trees wc collapses @ da mere weight of one’s foot. Pa was quiet for a moment. ‘It rose once,’ he said. ‘Some seven years ago. You remember, Isabel, wen it reached even up to da front stairs of our house. Wudnt it be surprising if it does dat again now just to spite you?’ Only he wasnt serious, but even mama cud tell he was laughing inwardly behind his tomato-red face. & I think, Four months later da river did swell & almost all her chickens wer drowned. Léche! Come on, iguana, Im ready for you now. Léche, if Im not ready for léche y léche y léche! I grasp da rifle lying across my lap. Shifting da weight o da right of my haunch, I face toward da bamboo thickets wc explode & crack lyk coconut shells as dey clash & bend against each other in da wind. In da meantime, da light has become brighter & up along da river bank da dappled shadows ar thin & green on da thick mat of grass. I remember wat Pa had said: ‘O, hijo, dis rifle is yours now. It had been your papalolo’s—my papa—& he bequeathed it to me wen I was just 14 years old. So, as my papa before me had done, I now bequeath it also to you.’ I was looking @ some pictures in da magazine in da sala–living room, wc mama had given me, & he laid da rifle down in front of me. He had to bend over as he set it down, carfully, for I was sitting crosslegged on da floor, bent way over da pages of da magazine. ‘Take dis rifle, hijo,’ he repeated. ‘Go out & make use of it lyk a man. With dis rifle, not wid comic books & magazines.’ I said nothing. I had not killed anything den, much less wid a rifle, & now even wid da rifle I still haven’t killed anything. Not even a tanśi bird wc is da smallest of God’s creatures, so tiny & very friendly dat it is easy to kill one. ‘You must hav hate in you to do anything,’ he had said to me once. ‘If youve only all love you become a milksop, & da worst kind is one wid all ideas in his head, too. You see your mama. She

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has only ideas in her, & so she never gets anything done. But hate propels you. It is dat wc makes you do things; it makes you make wat you want of yourself.’ I remember dat tym he said he wud grow rice on da slope of his kaingin. Da folks in da barrio laughed @ him but whyl dey laughed he ordered some upland rice from a friend in Cotabato & den planted it beside da slope of his kaingin. & his upland rice grew in his hatred for da ignorant barrio people, who wer surprised dat rice cud grow widout water on da hillside. No one before dat had thought dat rice cud grow except in paddies in da lowland or in savannas. ‘It isnt enough to hav ideas,’ he told me after dis. ‘But hate makes dem practical; it makes dem work.’ I think, Still I’ve not killed anything wid dis rifle. Not even a tanśi wid dis rifle dat Pa has even killed a wild boar wid. Now I listen to mama. But I dont hear her moving in da garden anymor. I think, Maybe she’s @ da back of da garden, & da water can is almost empty & her city friends ar not coming back to buy flowers. Wat’s da use of watering dem? & my legs ar still twitchy wid da climbing in getting water from da river. ‘Oye–Listen, even nature has to assert herself,’ said my papa. ‘Why do you think she swells & overflows her banks, destroying your mother’s chicken house? Because der is hatred in herself; widout dis hatred, widout dis flood, she ceases to be: to assert & to exist.’ Da 2 of us wer standing before da debris & flotsam of da chicken house. We wer not even looking @ each other, standing der in da mire & slush dat da flooded river had dumped dat night until early morning onto da bank. ‘O, yes,’ he said, ‘a river dat has not swollen for almost seven years, but swelled just wen your mama’s hen had its very first brood. If dis isnt hatred, dont call me ‘Macario.’’ He was thinking as one thinking aloud to himself, & I listening to him as tho listening to myself; I who wud also perhaps speak so to myself as my pa did den. I still didnt say anything to him, listening: ‘Your ma has much love, but look wat happens to all her ideas. It is true dat she gets angry sometimes, just as da river swells in hatred to become itself, for nature–if she only has love–wud soon be ignored.’ I was truly listening to him, but I didnt understand wat he was saying den as I dont understand him even now. Thinking den to myself, It is 3 weeks now since, yet I hav not killed anything wid dis rifle. Not even a tanśi bird, da easiest thing to kill for it is da friendliest & it isnt wild…. ‘As I hated your papalolo,’ he went on, mor to himself than to anyone else. ‘My own papa, who was lyk your ma, who was full of ideas from books & who wud hav made all of us beggars. But I hated him enough to cheat him, to hide da copra money from him before he had tym to spend it all on any of his foolish ideas of planting tobacco dat wud nt grow near da sea, or put up, of all things, telephone lines in da barrio dat wer broken down by falling coconut trees in da wind.’ Still I listened to him, da 2 of us standing der in da mire & slush of da flooded river, & I didnt understand him den as I dont understand him now. I looked @ da 3 hens & several chicks & a rooster, da only rooster out of 10 dat was still alive, all dat was left of her 75 chickens, inside da chicken house–wet & soaked @ da same tym wid water & slush. A few days later der wud be only da mother hen & da 6 chicks. & den dis morning even da mother hen was gone, devoured by da iguana last night. & tomorrow da chicks too wud be gone, to be eaten alive & digested in da iguana’s stomach; for papa wudnt give mama a centavo to fix & cover da holes in da chicken house made by da flood a weeks & a half ago. Yet I wasnt thinking of dis @ dat tym nor of da fowls & da 6 chicks. I was den wriggling my toes in da mud & slush, watching da

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alluvial sand as it oozed between my toes. Den I heard his voice again, standing der wid his flat feet in an old pair of Marcelo rubber shoes, heavy & oozing wid mud, wc he had bought nearly 2 years ago during da Fiesta del Pilar in da city, & dey smelling now of athlete’s foot; he never wore dem, not even in da farm, except wen he got his feet wet, saying, ‘Dat was da ultimate. It was truly da last thing a man wud do to impoverish his own brood. Put up telephone lines through coconut land.’ Still I was listening to him & not understanding a word. ‘So I cheated him of his copra money, rather than see my own younger brothers & sisters wid nothing to eat later on.’ He stopped den whyl I went on listening, listening on to da silence, da hiatus after he had ceased talking. He went on, ‘It wasnt easy to do dis to da old man, my own father. But den der was enough hatred for me to cheat him, of wat is mine too–even to his death bed.’ I had now ceased listening to him, tho his words somehow wer droning in my head. I think now Not even a tanśi. A rifle dat has killed a wild boar already. ‘Chu,’ says Pa from da sala. He walks through da length of da sala & comes into da kitchen. I turn around on da step. Pa lifts up da matambaka fish dangling from a nawi string, swinging dem up in one swift complete motion into a bateya–basin. I watch his back & listen to da plop-sound dat each of da matambaka fish makes as he slides it from da nawi–rattan string into da basin. ‘Da fish ar already dead,’ I think aloud. ‘Yet dey ar now swimming around in da bateya, black & slimy.’ Pa says, ‘I dont understand your mother. Gardening from da first light of day.’ He bends sideward & reaches down into da water jar for a tabo–dipper of water. ‘Léche! She has not even done anything in da kitchen yet.’ ‘She went to see Piloy,’ I tell him, not even thinking about it. I repeat, ‘Mama went over to see Piloy after you had gone dis morning.’ He sets da dipper down beside da sink. ‘Piloy,’ he says grimly, pulling out da gills of da fish wid his forefinger. ‘Oh, yes…Piloy.’ Still he has his back toward me. ‘Has da carpenter come yet?’ ‘No,’ I answer, ‘not yet, Pa.’ I think, Piloy has fixed da roof several times already. Every tym it stops raining, Ma calls Piloy to fix da leak in da roof. ‘It is Ma’s fault dat da roof leaks,’ says Pa. He said, dat tym wen it rained for a week, ‘You, Ma. Look @ da rain pouring through our roof lyk it was a river.’ He stood before da sala wall, looking up between da joint where da roof edges against da wall. ‘Look @ your work,’ he said. ‘I told you, you can not hav dat type of modern roof wid nipa materials. But you ar so hard-headed, so see wat has happened.’ Wat Pa meant was dat you cannot build a roofless house wid nipa & sawali. Ma had seen da plan in a magazine & it was for a modern house, wc from da design showed da roof hidden from one’s sight, & she wanted our house to look exactly lyk it. So wen Pa built da new house, she also had her roof dat is invisible from da front. ‘It only leaks wen da rain is very strong,’ said Ma. She was standing behind him. Da water came pouring down da sides of da sawali wall as tho someone was overturning buckets of water up on da roof. Pa was standing before da wall. ‘I told you it wudnt work,’ he said. ‘But you wanted a roofless house. ‘It is da modern house,’ you said. Oh, yes, da plan wc you saw in a magazine, wc hid da roof from your view if you wer in front of da house.’

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He turned around & faced her. He wasnt really angry yet. He wud be very angry later on dat night. ‘It was all right,’ he went on, ‘maybe if you built it in da city wid concrete walls & iron roofing. But, no, you must also hav a house just lyk it, I mean, da front wid da invisible roof.’ He stopped, & I was thinking den Pa is breathing harder, as tho Hes trying to catch up wid his words, da words dat come pouring, raining lyk torrents. Dis tym Ma spoke before he cud catch his breath. ‘We will call da carpenter. Wen da rain stops we’ll call Piloy to fix da roof——’ But he didnt wait for her to finish. He said, ‘Only, da wall of your house is sawali & your roof is made of nipa.’ I think, & Pa got really very angry dat night. Even wen he went to da kaingin da next morning, he was still very angry. ‘Milk of your mother!’ he said to her. Because it had rained all night dat night & all da rain collected in a sag in da roof, & in da middle of da night, whyl Papa was sound asleep in his bed, da roof caved in & a ton of water came pouring down on him. Pa sprang up from da bed & fell on his rump on da floor. ‘Coñodeputamadre– Cunt of your mother!’ he swore. ‘Now, just look @ your work, Isabel. Do you see it now?’ as tho Ma wer also responsible for da rain. He was completely soaked wid da rain water. He looked even worse than da chickens wud wen da flood came later & drenched all of Ma’s chickens. & dat night, shivering wid cold, & Mama sitting silently on da edge of da drenched bed, Pa was very angry. Da carpenter is coming again to fix our roof. He will go up da roof wid buckets of water wc he will pour on da roof to see where it leaks leaks leaks…. ‘Look out you dont fall,’ said Ma. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No—ha ha ha—I wunt fall.’ Holding da fish in one hand, Pa slices each side on a block of wood & den sprinkles salt in da wounds. He puts da fish into da basin & goes over to da stove. ‘Go get some firewood, hijo,’ he tells me, ‘because your mama is eating only flowers.’ Da fish is bleeding now, Im thinking But dey wer already dead even before dey reached da fish vendors’ tables in da market. I lean da rifle against da wall, thinking, Dead & bleeding & swimming no longer but floating in da water. I stand up & go under da house only to find dat da woodpile is used up. So I go to da small forest beside da river & pick up some sticks & dry branches to carry back home in my arms. As I turn around da bend & pass da chicken house, I look into da garden. Mama is no longer der, tho da empty water can stands between da flower beds wid da dipper up-ended on its wooden handle. She must hav gone back into da house. I go on up da steps of da kitchen & roll da sticks of wood down from my arms under da stove. I hear Pa say in da sala, ‘A library. Wat wud we do wid a library, Señora Concha?’ I turn & look into da sala. Da woman is sitting wid her back to da window, facing toward da kitchen. Her husband Señor Felipe Santos sits beside her, legs crossed over, leaning stiffly against da back of his chair. Pa says, ‘We dont need…a waste of money.’ ‘Not really a library,’ Señora Concha answers. ‘It will be just a small reading center, where our boys can come & read.’ ‘It is a great opportunity for our boys,’ da man says. He sits upright on da chair, his back pressed against da back of da chair lyk a hot iron. ‘We hav so many intelligent

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boys here, Macario. Their agrarian minds will be greatly enriched by dis sort of opportunity.’ Pa bristles lyk a hog @ da long words, dat tell nothing of da man himself but only his university background. Maybe Pa is thinking, University people think dey know all da answers. Dey think dey’re even smarter than God. ‘Reading books will only make dem lazy pícaros–rascals,’ he says. ‘All dey need to know is how to plow–& dat God has already taught dem. It is enough.’ ‘No,’ says Señor Santos, ‘not in our modern world, Macario. Da competition for mor learning & mor knowledge is too great & demanding to be utterly ignored.’ ‘You talk wid your feet above da ground. Dat’s why, I think, dis library is a crazy idea,’ says Pa. Ma says quickly. ‘My husband doesnt really mean dat. He’s just against anything new, dat he has not seen put to practical use. You wud be very surprised how oldfashioned Hes.’ I see her trying to smile @ Señor Santos & @ da other woman. ‘I believe, Señora Concha, it will be nice to hav our own reading center. Every barrio should @ least hav a small one.’ ‘Your wife is right, Macario,’ Señor Santos says. ‘No, sHesnt…’ says Pa. ‘& dont tell me Im wrong. For I know my wife better than you do—ay, even mor so perhaps about her foolish dreams & her crazy ideas.’ ‘Please, Macario,’ Ma says. ‘Señor Santos & his wife ar our visitors & you must not talk dat way. You aronly showing your lack of breeding.’ ‘Your visitors,’ Pa tells her. ‘Dey’re not mine. I didnt ask dem to come to my house & ask money from me for their crazy ideas.’ &, fuming visibly, he turns away from da woman who had said to him: ‘It was your wife’s idea…‘Ñor Macario—’ & den, turning to Ma wid a sudden jerk of his head—’Your idea! Ah-ah-ah,’ he says as tho he was about to cough da words out. ‘& how did she…to hide dis idea behind you…to make use of you’—still facing Ma, not even turning to da other woman. ‘So dat you wud come here & solicit da money, cheat me of money by hiding da fact dat it was my wifes idea from da beginning!’ Señor Felipe Santos, who had been educated in da University, speaks wid a voice so soft even his wife can hardly hear him. ‘Señor Domingo, please keep calm. Your wife means very well, & her plan to put up dis library for da barrio is so generous.’ Pa jerks his head toward him. ‘Ah-ah-ah,’ he says to Señor Santos, ‘she has used you, too! Wat did she tell you? My wife, hah?’ He stops, looking strayt into da man’s eyes. ‘Did she tell you of da library house she put up before—der, behind da crazy flower garden?’ ‘Oh, you, Macario,’ says Ma. Still Pa looks into da man’s eyes. ‘Wc she built some 3 years ago,’ he tells da man. ‘You wer not here yet, Señor Santos. You wer nothing to us den, you & your city wife, not even a name yet—you who came only 2 years ago to inherit your papa’s vast yet already barren farm. So you wudnt know of our nice little library.’ ‘Stop it!’ cries Ma. Now he turns to her, slowly, not wid da same quick-jerky motion of his head. ‘Why not, Isabel?’ he asks her. ‘Deyve da right to know. Dey ar all da way in dis foolishness wid you, too, arnt dey?’ Pa now jerks his head back toward Señor Santos & his woman, wid dat same quick savagery, gazing @ dem @ one & da same tym. ‘Iwl tell

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you about my wife’s nice little library,’ he begins, filling da baleful voice wid his slow, droning voice. ‘Well, 3 years ago my wife had dis brilliant idea she has now. So, 3 years ago, she built her little library, not wid her own money, for her father had left her nothing, but wid money from my own pocket. She built it, just as you ar planning now, for da barrio. & den she stocked it up wid second-hand books & old magazines dat wer given to her by her friends from da city, or she bought dem herself in second-hand stores. ‘Wc you saw on your way here,’ Pa goes on. ‘You cudnt hav missed it. Dat old fallen-down building you passed coming here. Da same…dat looks lyk a church—once did anyway—behind her flower garden. Yes, dat was her nice little library.’ Da 3 ar all quiet, listening to him who doesnt care whether dey hate him or not, who speaks on, knowing dat once he begins, der will be no end to it, not even wen he knows dat da library building he speaks of no longer has any resemblance to either a library or to a church. He goes on, concluding now wid da same slow, droning voice: ‘But wc is now used by pigs & goats to litter or to throw off their excrement.’ Pa stops & looks around him. ‘Yes, Señor Santos,’ he says, ‘to litter & to throw their excrement.’ O pobrecita Mama, & dat isnt da end yet. ‘Oo, o, now filled wid excrement & stinking of pigs’ urine. & her daisy flower garden—dat will soon wilt & die before her city friends come to buy dem, or her flooded chicken house—she wudnt listen to me who knows about fowls mor than she can ever learn in a hundred years—wc cost us 250 pesos, & for wc she now asks mor money from me to repair as she wud want me to give my money to your foolish library.’ I listen on: ‘Even our own house leaks every tym it rains,’ says Pa. ‘Da house she wants wid an invisible roof, dat she had seen in a magazine, & dat now leaks & leaks & leaks.’ Wen Señor Santos & his wife leave by da front stairs, I sit back on da rung of da steps & cradle da rifle in my lap. I gaze across da river to da bamboo thickets, & I think: Come on out, iquana. You, lechery of your mother. Hen killer Dey ar going down da steps widout making any noise. I listen but even da second wooden slab of da last step doesnt squeak, wc it usually does wen anyone goes down da stairs & steps on it. Ma says in da sala, ‘You ar a beast!’ Pa, who has gone out to da porch, now comes back to da sala. He stops abruptly, halting in front of her as tho a horse had kicked him. Come, iguana. Dis tym Iwl kill you. Come now, hen killer He stands still, standing stock-still, & staring fixedly @ Ma. He says to her, ‘You baited dem. Do you think because Señor Felipe Santos went to da University, he wud awe me wid his presence? Insulted dem & he sat der cool as a cocoon. If da University makes you a coward, I wud rather be un ignorante.’ All dis tym Ma has sat up right on her chair & now she slumps down on it. ‘You didnt hav to tell dem,’ she says. ‘Oh, no, you didnt need to, Macario, but you wer deliberately cruel, so you wud embarrass me & keep your filthy money to yourself!’ ‘But I thought you wanted dem to know,’ Pa answers mockingly. ‘Isnt dat wat you brought dem here for? Dat deywud know about your nice little library & how generous youve always been?’ He starts to imitate Señor Santos: ‘‘Her plan for da barrio to put up a library is so generous, Macario,’’ & den he laughs, Ha ha ha ha. ‘& wen I insulted dem he says cool as anything, ‘Señor Domingo, please calm yourself…’ wasnt dat lyk a really educated university man, Isabel?’ ‘You told dem,’ she says. ‘You told dem to shame me! You didnt hav to tell dem anything! Of da poultry, da garden, da leak in da roof…not anything!’

ENRIQUEZ:Iguana/P11

He begins to laugh again, in dat same half-laughter. ‘Ha ha ha ha,’ he says. ‘‘It isnt really a library,’ Señora Concha says to me. ‘Just a little reading center.’’ Pa walks out of da sala & through da dining room into da kitchen. He stops before da kitchen door & peers over my shoulder. His eyes fly quickly across da river to da bamboo thickets on da crest of da bank. After a whyl he speaks as tho Hes speaking to himself: ‘Dont you know dat da price of copra, Isabel, has gone down to only 23 pesos a sack? If it keeps on going down some mor dis week, I dont know I can pay even my own laborers. Ay, it has never been dis low before. Yet weve to force da Chinese merchants to buy our copra practically for nothing.’ Hes quiet for a whyl. I feel him standing beside me, staring now over my shoulder & across da river to da bamboo thickets on da other side of da bank. ‘Youwl ruin us yet,’ Pa says seriously. ‘If you dont stop dis foolishness, youwl send me to jail for debt.’ Ma answers him from da sala, ‘It isnt dat youwl go to jail. You only wanted to embarrass Señor Santos too just because he favored my putting up a library!’ ‘Léche!’ says Pa in da kitchen. ‘You & Señor Santos ar not getting a centavo from me for your ‘crazy idea.’’ I sit on da top rung of da steps, da rifle half-raised to my chest in my hands. Pa walks over to da sink & peers into it. Suddenly, he swings up his hand @ da basin of fish, knocking it over on da sink wid a sweeping blow of his flat hand & spilling da matambaka fish all over da sink. Some of da fish plop down on da floor, & da basin clutters emptily. ‘Macario!’ I hear Ma cry shrilly in da sala. Yet I continue sitting der widout moving. Im holding da rifle in my hand, thinking, Come out, iguana. Show your natural ugly snout now, & I myself will erase it for you wid dis rifle. Ay, come out, ugly-snouted one Pa turns & looks through da dining room door into da sala where Ma sits alone. ‘Oo, Macario,’ she cries, ‘wat ar you doing?’ He doesnt say anything. He walks back to da sala. Ma sits slumped on her chair. He watches her for a minute widout saying anything, perhaps thinking, ‘If I listen to her, der wunt be anything even for da boy. But as da boy in me hated da father, so will der be enough hatred now in da man for da woman.’ He halts before Ma & looks oddly @ her as tho it wer da first tym he had seen her. I look over my shoulder into da sala. I see Ma’s face begin to twitch lyk a child’s. ‘You, Macario,’ she says, ‘you dont hav to be so mean & cruel!’ ‘Lechery of your mother!’ says Pa to her in da sala. Her face twitches & contorts lyk a child’s. ‘I hate you,’ she says. ‘Truly I hate you, Macario!’ Ma puts her face in her hands & cries. Her shoulders shake wid her crying, & she tries to stop it by clapping both her hands over her mouth; but her crying oozes out just da same through her fingers lyk vomit. Papa spins on his heels, & I look away & den I hear da heavy squeak on da second rung as Papa tramps out of da house Come out, iguana. Come, you hen killer. I raise da rifle against my shoulder, point it toward da bamboo thickets across da river & squint one eye through da sight of da rifle. In da meantime, Pa has crossed da river & is now climbing up da foot-worn path toward da bamboo thickets, & as he turns round da incline, da bamboo thickets between him & me, & is suspended briefly, as it wer, in da sight of da rifle, I draw da cock back & slowly pull da trigger. A quick report echoes across da river &, @ dat moment, Papa falls down on da ground & den lies quietly among da bamboo thickets…. -End-