My name is
Maximo D. Ramos, the author slash narrator of this story I’m about to tell you:
Patricia. In all honesty, I would describe Patricia as a girl who wishes for
adventures, and wishes to go back to the Green Hills, to the point of low-key
rebelling and going against her foster parents, who happened to be me and my
wife (Warning: Few Disney references
here and there).
When my
friend Jose Lactaotao lost his Muslim wife and his two sons and became a single
father, he quit his teaching job and returned to Luzon as a gay, at the same
time passing on to my wife a Tirurai orphan girl. Quite frankly, I believe,
that he didn’t want to be burdened with the responsibility of of raising a
random child his father-in-law presented to him on his wedding day back then.
My wife, the
self-proclaimed lady who called herself a “genius”, named the girl with a
simple name; because of all the various unique names to pick from, she had to
choose Patricia. The flamboyant
Lactaotao had named her Marcosa, though when she was first baptized in the
tribal cult, she was given the name Mary Cruz. Much fairer than the average
daughter of our town, Patricia was slender, graceful, and sensitive of face.
She was in the
rebellious prepubescent stage back then, with the young age of fourteen, and it
had been five years since she ditched her native green hills to the east of our
town. Her ancestors had been tillers of a small clearing at the edge of the
jungle, they claimed that they hunted wild boars and deers for centuries (I
mean, who wouldn’t wonder? They had no proof whatsoever to make us believe it
went on for centuries), because they were vegetarians and such.
Locking up the
doors for sure security doesn’t seem like a thing to do in the green hills,
because Patricia’s parents had been murdered by bandits one evening. And not
fixing the holes in the floor was for once, considered a good thing, because if
it weren’t for the hole, Patricia couldn’t have escaped the attack. As how
straight out of Disney movies this may sound, she was left alone in the world
by a young age of nine. And instead of some animals taking her in, Jose Lactaotao’s
father-in-law brought the little orphan to town.
Due to
laziness, Lactaotao’s wife taught nothing about cooking to Patricia, especially
dishes with pork in it. Now that Patricia was with us, however, she was taught
home economics in the house as well as school. And she learned so fast that
before school was out that year, she was cooking aromatic dishes, to the point
where my wife told her she should take part in Juniors Master Chef. And I too,
loved the simple dried meat Patricia knew so well.
Every two weeks
or so during the year, it was the practice of a Tirurai youth to come into town
peddling salted wild boar meat and venison. As stereotypical as I may sound, he
was a typical Indonesian, tall and hairy of womb and chest. He was sunburned to
a dark-brown, and he had muscles that rivaled John Cena’s, as he walked
peddling the meat in baskets he had woven out of rattan and bamboo strips.
Sadly, all his good looks went to waste, and no people in our town wanted to
make contact with him, for he looked like he had something against the world
itself.
It was the
meat peddled by this Tirurai youth which, broiled by Patricia as I said, found
extremely delicious.
In the
meantime, Patricia also learned how to operate the sewing machine my wife
bought enthusiastically for her (even if Patricia never asked for it). And
although she insisted buying the sewing machine herself, my wife does not know
the difference between a baste and a hem; which lead to Patricia taking
instruction from a neighbor was by way of being a modiste. And before long,
Patricia was making shirts and underwear.
She graduated
as a salutatorian in her elementary school where her class consisted of fifteen
students. In June, Patricia was going to high school, where the students’
logics were: Due tomorrow, do tomorrow. Her new dresses were made, we borrowed
Elena’s old first year books, and the three of us were ready to make a long
trip by river launch to the provincial capital, where the high school was located.
But on the
morning we were to start, Patricia leaned her back against the wall, and
started to have some dramatic breakdown about how she was through with
schooling. After I managed to calm her down from her tantrum, she sobbed, “I
hate books!”
“But why,
Patricia?” my wife wished to know. “And with everything ready! To books,
clothes, and the bills paid.”
“I am through
with school.” she repeated.
This
development did not come as a surprise to me. For Patricia had a pretty
annoying habit she couldn’t break – and no, it’s not drugs or cigarettes or
whatnot. It was about how she occasionally played truant with some of the
Muslim girls. On unexpected afternoons after school , Patricia would sneak out
and slip away and climb the hill paths with three or four of the native girls
(Fantastic Four) . And like I said, she was at the rebellious stage, and she
would have some girls’ night-out, slumber parties, and then spend the night at
one of her companions. Thank God, it’s Friday for her indeed, only that this
time it was “Thank God , it’s any-day” in her case. After she returns the next
day with the other girls, she usually gets a lecture from my wife as soon as
the F4ntastic were gone. She would cry to us and and apologize about her wrong
doings, and write some notes saying how she promised never to do it again.
Because after a promise is broken, it is always followed with a sorry. Anywho,
the new promissory slip would be laid away with the previous ones.
Unfortunately, there’s no such thing as forever, and this would only last for
two months. And as soon as we sigh and thank the heavens about how Patricia has
learned her lesson, she would slip away to the hills over again.
“Please give me
back the promises I have made, I cannot keep them.” Sounds like an excerpt from
a romance book, but she weeped as she came to my wife one night.
After that we
just hoped she would go to the hills with some more trustworthy girls. Being
considerate about her wants, we would take her along to the outskirts of town
whenever we went there. She would have a great time then, chasing moths,
picking flowers and ending up getting a poison ivy. She would climb to the top
branch of a tree, and sounding like a Tarzan-wannabe, she would yodel. “Patricia!”
my outraged wife would say, “You are a young lady now!”
My wife and I
often wished we had more time to the our dog – I mean, Patricia out, for the
passing months she grew more and more restive. In the evenings, after she would
read some Candy magazine and do a little of her sewing, she would turn off the
lights and gaze at the hills from her window, like some person in a dramatic
music video.
She was on the
back porch again one night, when I spoke to her. “Patricia,” I said.
She gave me a total silence, ignoring me.
“What seems to
be troubling you?” I said. “This is your home.”
Patricia turned
to me with a sigh. “That’s true,” she said. “This is like home to me. But in
the hills far out there – there, where the moon rose not long ago tonight and
where deep woods and wide grasslands are – that, is my home. There,” she went
on, warming up to the subject that I knew had been on her thoughts, “Home is
where the Wi-Fi connects automatically.”
“But Patricia, you
must know that your internet connection doesn’t even reach one bar, it is too
weak! Besides,” said my wife, perhaps joining too abruptly. “There are bandits
roaming wildly around there. You lost your parents there. You will find no
streets there, no books, no town lights, no internet. Slow Wi-Fi is even worse
than no Wi-Fi at all, for it is such a tease!”
“That’s the most
important thing of all,” Patricia replied, still gazing at the hills far away.
“No town lights there to drive away the moon. And the paths winding up the
hills are narrow and little walked upon. And the Chupacabras and Big Foot whose
calls one never hears in the town are not afraid to call there. There may be no
Wi-Fi in the forest, but I promise you will find a better connection.”
In the face of
such persuasive speaking, I gave a little side glance at my wife and,
understanding my look, she came away with me.
Our home was
not far from the river, this is why when the rain pours down too hard, we tend
to experience flood so quick. And like Ariel or Snow White, she would either
lie down in the graveled bank, or poke about in the reeds and flush the wading
birds.
The meat the
Tirurai hunter peddled was so good that I asked Patricia to watch for him and
buy a several kilos when he comes into town again. She usually got the best
portions at a slightly affordable price, and no wonder, for Patricia could
communicate to him with their native Tirurai language, and that naturally made
a big difference.
Then something
happened. One day when we came home from lunch, the maid followed us into our
room in a nervous flurry. “The wild
man,” she started. “I saw him talking to Patricia on the porch. They were so
focused on their conversation that they didn’t notice my presence at all.” She
cleared her throat and went on. “When the man saw me, his expression changed to
one of bitter look, then he left without a word.” This made me nervous, because
who knows? Some Sleeping Beauty romance might have blossomed between the two,
and she would have to return to their castle on her sixteenth birthday, for she
was the secret princess that went missing for years.
After supper,
my wife called Patricia aside and tried to reason with her (which ended as a
debate). Was her friendship with the hunter a serious matter? If she returned
to those barbaric hills, what would become of her talents and her look? What
was the use of having her education in the town school? And her dramatic
monologue on her first day of high school? What was the use it of all, if she
would only return to her hills after all?
Patricia
seemed to take an interest on the floor and kept her eyes down and sat down
weeping silently. He eyes were still swollen when she came out of her room next
morning. I, on the other hand, was slightly happy to see her like that, because
for once, she looked like an ugly mess instead of her usual stunning look.
The man did
not return to the town for some months after that, my wife hoped, that he had
realized his mistake in trying to win a fine girl like Patricia. I feared,
because it was the rainy time of the year again and the seed had to be sown in
his clearing.
When the
August rains were over and the new crops had to be harvested, the Tirurai
hunter came back. He had grown more mature, especially with his physical
appearance that consisted some change on his outfit. He made two trips to town
that week.
You know how
they say there are only two types of story endings: comedy and tragedy. I’m not
so sure myself if you found some parts of my story funny, but I hope you liked
it so far. But the ending can be quite the little twist, for the following
Saturday morning, we found out Patricia was gone. We waited for her all the
next week.
But the green
hills were far away.
