The Loudest Unspoken

The Loudest Unspoken

  A tale by M. Protacio-De Guzman

  Text Copyright 2012 M. Protacio-De Guzman

  License Notes

  AT FIRST SHE DIDN’T understand. Why would someone withdraw from a relationship just when it was starting to feel like a real one? Why would someone go to the trouble of months of coming and going, spending thousands of hours together, piecing the stories of each other’s lives, discovering the things that delighted and repulsed them? Time, energy and emotions distilled into a knowledge that is brought only by the strongest of intimacy. She couldn’t comprehend how anybody could just let all of that go to waste.

  She met him on a bright sunny day. It was almost like the lyrics of a song her older brother used to sing when he himself was a teen-ager. She was staring at the new variety of orchids the show had brandished in the press releases that her PR agency churned while he was looking for his friend who somehow got lost in the exhibit hall. Dressed in scruffy faded jeans, black shirt and jacket, he asked her if she knew where the information center was and she pointed the way, as good Christians are wont to do. She went back to the orchids—contemplating purchase while he half-ran to the only place where he could be helped in his search.

  It seemed that he was always looking for something. The next time they saw each other was when she attended a poetry reading at a café that was famous for its Caribbean cuisine. Her friend’s husband, who had lived in London since the peaceful revolution, went back home with a book of poems that drew quite a notice when it was published there. The affair was to launch the Philippine edition of the book. A rock band was supposed to back the poet as he read, if only the bassist would find his piece. He smiled apologetically as he rifled through his worn knapsack, pushing his wire-rim glasses up his nose and tucking his shoulder-length hair behind his ears as he bent. She was the one who noticed—and pointed out quickly, the sheaf of paper under the stool where the lead guitarist sat tuning his guitar.

  After the reading he stopped her, as she was about to descend the spiral staircase. “It’s all right,” she replied when he thanked her for saving him.

  “Twice in a row,” he said, “I wonder what’ll happen the next time we see each other.”

  She nodded, finally realizing why his face seemed familiar. “Well,” she managed, “any situation would be okay as long as it didn’t involve crushed cars and blood.”

  When he laughed she thought of tucking that laughter under her pillows so she would have a nice, peaceful sleep. But she didn’t tell him that, not that night. He invited her for a post-prandial cup of espresso. “Just one cup,” he emphasized, “we’d have to share it because it’s expensive here and my money’s just good enough for one.” Within her own laughter she found neither reason nor purpose in declining.

  That cup was not to be the last they would share. They saw each other many times since, as much as their schedules allowed. She learned that he’d given up on the corporate world three years earlier, largely to spite his father who—in his words, measured someone’s humanity through the money and property he had. “I’d set myself free,” he declared confidently.

  “From what?” she asked. “Money?”

  “Not entirely. I know I need it to live. But I need so little only.”

  He accepted few jobs from friends. Writing, organizing a street play, ushering in an exhibit, playing music in poetry and story readings, all sorts of things. She wanted to know how he managed to love the arts with the way he was raised. He spoke only three words. “My late mother.”

  She was immediately fascinated with him, she who’d been brought up to value and aspire for academic and professional excellence. She who’d been drawn to people who evoked a sense of power over others, something she knew she also exuded. His power, she perceived, was subtle yet strong just the same. When they met, she’d been on a steady rise up the corporate ladder as creative director for an advertising agency. Her car was brand new, she shopped for nothing but designer clothes and things and she lived alone in a condominium. Her last lover—an executive himself—frowned at what he called her avarice, which she quickly branded as his envy.

  In him she saw a part of life that was totally alien to her, hence the fascination. Her friends, with a degree of cynicism much greater than her own, were quick to warn her. “He might be after your money,” one said. Another just told her to be careful around him. She never saw an ounce of malice in him, though. When they went out, he would insist they go to a cheap place, so as not to undermine his meager finances. As for the use of her car, she thought it was already a given in the equation since she brought it with her whenever she went anyway.

  With him she was able to visit haunts of artists who were not as famous as the ones she knew. Artists who were truly living a hand-to-mouth existence in the pursuit of their art. She had always thought that the concept of starving artists was a myth, nothing more. “There is no greater sacrifice,” he said once. She wanted to know if he made that sacrifice as well but didn’t ask for fear he might be offended. Then, as if reading her mind, he told her he probably wouldn’t be able to make that kind of noble decision.

  Together they visited ancient ruins, a quiet patch of huge, gnarled trees in the middle of the city, a petting zoo owned by an elderly American and his young, wheelchair-bound Filipino wife. Places that existed only in the fringes of her existence.

  Once they even went to a palm reader who told her she is no stranger to love but remains unrecognized by loving. The statement was filled with contradictions but somehow she understood, and felt sad. As they drove back to the city he fervently told her not to be saddened by the old lady’s pronouncement. “When you think on it,” he continued, “all of us are strangers treading our own paths.” His steady gaze held her in place, “We should be thankful for knowing people and things, even if we do so for just a short period of time. Even if we stop seeing each other, I’ll always be glad I met you.” She understood perfectly and before the ride was over she took the gamble of rolling a dice of a statement in his direction.

  “I think it’s happening,” she said. “It’s finally happening.”

  “What is?”

  “Our relationship.”

  He smiled, his eyes turning from the road to her and back. That should’ve given her a sign, but it was lost beneath the afterglow of affection. It was then that she realized how young he looked. He was older than she by two years. His skin was stretched thin across the prominent bones of his face, the side of his eyes wrinkled only slightly when he smiled while the eyes themselves—mere slits to begin with—seemed to vanish in laughter.

  She glanced at the rearview mirror to check the lines on her face and smiled shyly when he saw her doing so. It would be easy to surmise that he looked this way because he lived a life devoid of responsibilities. But she didn’t go in that direction. When he held her hand she noticed how clean his fingernails were. They looked manicured and she was mildly thankful they weren’t lacquered.

  However, she felt he had been holding something back, even later on in their relationship, when they had been intimate. This feeling would usually come when they were talking. Midway in these conversations, he would suddenly fall silent then look at her as if she’d just said the cleverest thing. She would ask him why or what and he would just smile. She wasn’t a secretive person, especially to those she trusted but with him she always felt there was something more that was to be said or to be disclosed but she didn’t know what. Her friend told her not to mind it. “A little mystery’s good in a relationship,” her friend said. “It’ll keep you both on your toes.”

  Talking gave her comfort when she felt insecure. It had become an integral part of their relationship. It seemed they both shared an almost avi
d need for articulation. Whatever they needed to express, they expressed verbally. Sweet nothings, arguments, disappointments. They burned away hours engaging in nuncupative tussles that exercised their minds and emotions. This was where we probably went wrong, she thought, in retrospect. We should’ve given attention to other means of expressing ourselves. Words are good, she’d decided. They can soothe the most inflamed soul, flatter a cynical heart into submission, and quench the thirst of a parched mind. Words can make you do anything. But then again, she thought, talk is cheap. That’s the painful truth.

  Did he ever love me? The question rose out of her mind and confronted her like a belligerent child. And her mind was too divided to answer. He at least said it in a number of occasions. He would pull her close to him then this