She holds his hands while he sleeps and talks of life in
Turino, Italy.
As the airplane skimmed through fat clouds of darkening blue tinged with the melting gold light of a spent day, she orders red wine from a frosty Nordic waitress and speaks with no shyness, nor pride.
Alyssa was born to a destitute family along the shorelines of Dumaguete. For seventeen years, she was raised as best as parents who produced in quick succession five other gaping mouths to feed could. Until she graduated from high school and met the 60-year old Italian “vacationing” in their remote fishing village, her father, an alcoholic, was never proud of her. He was the first to be thrilled when the Italian asked to take his daughter to his home in
Europe.
To take home is not the same as to marry, Alyssa was to find out. For the Italian had a wife he had yet to divorce and children he had yet to introduce her to.
Still, she lived in a big house and watered bright flowers. She cooked pasta and became master of a particular blend of fresh tomato and basil that the Italian loved well. She wore a gold ring and during winter, wrapped herself in warm coats that she knew once belonged to an elegant woman. She watched television on a large LCD though she barely understood a thing. And always, she watched the sunset, remembering what it was like to have a family that you snuggled with in the dark.
Alyssa wanted to study but could never leave. She was made to believe she was held captive of her own native beauty—her full lips, her healthy bosom, her bronze skin—that would surely engage someone else if allowed to wander around. She was taught that she was dangerous especially if allowed to do something else but cook and clean and bathe and smell good.
They are on their way to the
Philippines for a visit. The Italian was craving for the sun and a splash of salt water on his pouched body. Since he hated fish and poverty and Filipino food, he had to be where there are restaurants for foreigners. They will not stay long in Alyssa’s village in Dumaguete, maybe even not at all.
Candidly, she asks her seatmate in the airplane, someone she could have gone to school with, if her own boyfriend was Italian, French, German, or perhaps Dutch. She was instead given the shock of her life. So not all Filipinas went abroad for the same dreams. Not all Filipinas stayed home for the same reasons.
How was it possible, Alyssa thought, while the Italian beside her snorts in his sleep, untangles his fingers from hers, and turns on his broadside.
