Paradiso Resort
By Rayji de Guia
I’ve been nursing the same bottle of Red Horse since one patron hogged the karaoke mic. In my youth, I’d taken a liking to this beer, even if others swore it tasted like piss. Well, I think there’s a certain charm, sexiness even, to seeing an old woman chug a drink most people won’t touch. Over the din, I can’t parse the lyrics of the song but the melody is something I’ve heard before, probably sometime in my late thirties, looped while I did some cleaning. It would have been easier to appreciate if the singer didn’t shriek at the highest notes.
The closest tables to mine are pushed together to accommodate ten or so bingo players, and at one end, continuously and noisily rolling the cage of numbers, stands the self-proclaimed announcer, yelling each of his draw, sa letrang I, dalawang madreng nakaluhod, bente-dos! As new people join in, more tables are added. Over and over a number is pulled, but no one has won the rounds yet.
In one corner, there are the crying ladies. I’ve never been a crying drunk, so when I arrived in the room however long ago, I can’t remember, I made it a point to sit as far away from them. From where I’m watching everyone, I can hear the sniffles, the sobbing standing out from everything else. They’re the most grating.
Blinking slowly, I see a shadow in the corner of my eye; I know Maya has come to my party.
I sense her as I turn my attention back to my drink, a sort of slithering presence, not wholly audible, and true enough, she slides into the seat across my table, as if she’s been there the whole time. For a second, I think she’s looking away, then I realize that she’s wearing a black mantilla over her face and hair. At this moment, I only have memory to serve me. Her voice is a whisper, barely there, when she tells me that she’s not supposed to be here. I resist the urge to voice out what’s in my head: since we’re breaking rules, won’t you let me see you? I imagine her deep-set eyes, intensely long lashes, and her lips tugged into that mysterious smile.
Unlike me, no one else spares her a glance, or any second thought. Her attire allows her to blend in with the crowd, as if she is just another of my guests. Straining my eyes, I try to commit what I can see to memory, knowing this won’t last. The brown of her neck is visible under the mantilla and disappears into the gold-embroidered collar of her black terno, a black ribbon around it secured by a tarnished brooch with dull, crimson beads—screaming with familiarity, but I can’t figure out from where, from which life.
I ask if she’s glad that I’m here, and when she doesn’t move or reply, I prompt, relieved? She starts, as if to shake her head, then nods, and for a split second, I get a glimpse of her eyes under the lace. How long has it been that, unlike her, my face is lined with all the years I’ve endured? My weariness shows, not just on my sagging skin and white hair, but in my voice, thin, uneven.
Did you have a happy life? she says instead, clasping her gloved hands together, gold threads sewn at the seams. I haven’t heard—I didn’t have to see you anymore.
I was fucking miserable, I answer with honesty. I laugh and shrug. No, it was great. I didn’t expect it to be. S’yempre I wanted to kill myself in the first years, sure ako you’d show up, but turns out I actually could live without you. I lived carefully enough.
Her chest rises as she inhales deeply. Did you have family?
Ah, we didn’t get married, but I referred to her as my wife, as I was hers. By the time we were allowed to marry, I was sickly—may taning na, they told me—by then, I didn’t deserve to marry her anymore. I try to meet Maya’s eyes beneath the veil, adding, I did love her but—you know. My hand twitches on the table, and I—
Don’t, she warns, not when you’re so close.
I pull it back and hold my bottle, for lack of anything to do; it’s always half-empty. We had more than twenty cats, I tell her, gazing elsewhere beyond the Tong-its players and their endless, heated argument. There were times I was convinced I made you up, I continue, still not looking at her, but then, you’d cross my mind, and my chest would hurt, like it was being squeezed out of air. Those moments, when I was certain of your realness, living felt like dying.
I turn to look at her again, but she’s already gone. I suppose that is more than I’m entitled to. With a sigh, I get to my feet and leave my drink at the table.
Here, things remain the same at all times: the decorative birdhouse upon the bookshelf; next to it, a set of encyclopedias, untouched but without dust; and a potted bamboo that never wilts despite being unwatered. Through the window, the horizon in a state of unrest, light and shadow steal from each other, a constant twilight. This place is both hostile and welcoming; suspended, everything a moment captured. I, like many others, am beholden to time and must simply pass through. I walk under the arched entrance that leads to the lobby and, turning, exit at the back, to the flagstone path of a covered patio. In between stone pillars, there is the unobstructed view of the sea, dark blue rippling into lilac, cradled by firmament, as if I’m watching from the heavens. The door to the washing chapel, which opens toward the frozen sun, is furnished with shell-and-bead curtains; from where I stand, brick steps lead down to the shore, lined with sampaguita and ilang-ilang shrubs on either side.
My lola said we all have to live a few more times before we can welcome death as an old friend and enter the afterlife. Not welcome her as a lover, but I’ve always been stubborn in whatever incarnation. In my last one, I let the tide of time take me until the end; I did it properly, like what Maya wanted.
The chapel is dimly lit by candles on the paneled walls. At the other end of the room is a raised platform built from the caramel hardwood of yakal, over which bedding is laid out for me. Climbing up, I admire the riser of each step, which showcases intricate carvings of frangipani blooms and leaves. The patterns of ecru threads gleam as I raise the blanket and sink into the softness. My head is crowned with white gerberas, mums, and roses, arranged against a fan of ferns and eucalyptus. I train my eyes on the ceiling. I inhale the scent of flowers around me, taste the salty breeze from outside. I don’t have to wait. Quiet feet approach. It’s about to begin.
When Maya comes into view, she’s wearing the same mantilla, all the more difficult to see, given the chapel’s lighting. No more gloves, I notice, eying her long fingers gripping a silver tray. Kneeling, she settles it next to my head, and in her movement, I catch the gilded folds of her terno. She dips her index and middle fingers into a basin and places them upon my chapped, aged lips, hot water moistening them before seeping into my mouth—our first contact, signaling the reality of my departure. I still can’t see her face. I want to see her. I stare at her brooch, the tension on her neck, the tightening of her throat. We’re both aware that this will be the closest act to consummation for us. My eyes prickle, but I cannot weep when, in all the lives I’ve lived, I’ve desired nothing more than to receive her touch. I relish the moment.
I will now commence the rite, she says, a quiver in her voice, and puts her palms together in prayer. She cradles my face, kneading the sides as if to smooth out my wrinkles, my sunken cheeks, the creases on my forehead, and when she withdraws her hands, I almost rise to chase them. Underneath the blanket, she unties my robes, then moves up the collars to push them down my shoulders. When the blanket moves to reveal my skin, she immediately covers it; the body is holy and must not be exposed. I suppose the gentle manner with which Maya proceeds with the rite lulls the dead into a calm, peaceful disposition; by contrast, I am enormously aware of every contact—her fingertips like feathers, how she lifts my back with an arm to pull my robes off, how I recall ancient intimacy, what has been refused to us until this very moment. She neatly settles the robes on top of the blanket, tucks me in before removing the blanket altogether in one swift motion. She folds it and places it on her other side. Her breathing turns erratic, I hear it at once, and I beg in my mind, please, let me see you, look at me. She holds my face again, leveling hers with mine, and searing tears splash upon my jaw. She’s crying. Leaning back, she pours a jar in the water, releasing the aroma of coconut, myrrh, and cassia, and then soaks a towel in the basin. I let my own tears loose.
I will now cleanse you, she says, her voice breaking at the last syllable. After wringing, she slips the towel under the robes; she wipes the hollow of my shoulders, down my arms, and hands. She soaks and wrings it again. It rests upon one breast, but she doesn’t move; with a shivery intake of breath, she breaks into a sob. She hides her face in an arm and wails. After a while, once she’s regained her composure, she resumes the washing. She rubs over my nipples, in between the mounds, and in the crevices beneath. As she makes her way down my stomach, I shudder. She is attentive, cleaning all of me, despite both of us crying still. Around my pelvis, the tremors of her hands induce a thrill up my spine. But nothing. When she pushes me to my side so she can work on my back, tears spill down my cheek. Laying me down again, she takes a handkerchief from her pocket and dabs my face dry.
I will now dress you for your departure, she tells me, brushing my hair with a peineta; she carefully sifts through my brittle white strands, the streaks of gray, before gathering them into a bun. Under the robes, she slips my garments on me, unseen, only generous hands felt sweeping all over my body. After she puts my shoes on, she discards the robes. With an arm behind me, she sits me up, and with another arm, she moves as if to embrace me, so once more I cry, but she keeps her distance, merely buttons the piña camisa down my back. She reaches for her own neck and the ribbon loosens. Breathing shakily, she wraps a pañuelo upon my shoulders and fastens it with the brooch on my chest. Rising to her feet, she retreats and alights the platform. With less grace, I follow her.
Outside the chapel, we stand, face to face, she in black and I in white. Somewhere, I hear brass instruments play a lively tune to celebrate the end of my journey. Maya holds out a hand, and I grasp it with desperation—longing and grief. She leads me down the steps to the shore, in between the sampaguita and ilang-ilang. We trudge through the sand until we reach the wooden jetty, wide enough for two, each plank creaking under our feet. Waiting for me on the waters, tied to a pole, is a small banka for one; its sides are stained, and whatever decoration it used to have has faded through eons. How many souls has it taken across, I wonder. Our hands clasped tightly, Maya assists me into the banka. I hold her gaze from under the mantilla, searching to meet her eyes, as I settle in my seat. The sun, always on the verge of setting, casts an orange glow upon us.
Rayji de Guia is a fictionist, poet, and illustrator. Her work can be found in Asian Cha, The Deadlands, harana poetry, Journal of English Studies and Comparative Literature, The Pinch, Makiling Review, Likhaan 17, and elsewhere. She has received recognition from the Gémino H. Abad Awards for Poetry and for Literary Criticism and the Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature. In 2021, she was a fellow for fiction in the Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference. She was a writer resident at Sangam House in 2019, Rimbun Dahan in 2022, and CMI Arts Initiative in 2023. She is from Maragondon, Cavite.
A meeting at a bar, rites for departure: a short story by Rayji de Guia.