The Angelic Conflict (Extended Published Version)

Untitled Part 8

THE BOY has only one class on Saturdays: Koine Greek inflections in the evenings at seven to eight. Usually he would wake up at noon; but that morning he woke up early to the soft love songs of sparrows nesting in between the jalousies of his attic room's window. Already feeling fully rested, the boy rose, wore his sando, and conducted his routine quiet time before kneeling by the foot of the bed for forty minutes.

The smell of poached egg and steamed cured beef and fried rice ascends the stairs as the boy climbed down to the second floor, then to the ground. He found his mother in the kitchen, eating tapsilog on the table. The boy took a dish and a pair of utensils from the plate rack and sat beside his mother. Just like on weekday nights during dinner, they talked of the passing week: of the flickering florescent lights above the dining table6, and of the Siberian husky puppy their neighbor Mr Batak sold for only fifteen thousand pesos7; they talked of why Dinah was reprimanded and her brothers cursed8, and of Pastor Yoo-Han's visit last Tuesday— was he starting to court her her? The mother only laughed out loud at this; and she and the son twittered and whispered, grateful for each other's company.

By half past eight the boy had showered. He wore his usual jeans and plain white shirt, fixed his bag, and left the house.

May You deliver me from the Evil One, he prayed as he drove his motorcycle to the café where he stays to read and write and drink coffee. Protect me. Shield me. Shower me in Your mercies anew.

The boy is a great believer in Purpose— that everything is the doing of Fate, and that every little thing happens for a Reason. Take for example last week, he had a few free theological e-books copied at Copytrade, and while he sat in one of the chairs, waiting for his turn, a stranger of his peer initiated conversation. The boy soon learned that his new acquaintance, Ace, studied at a seminary, too, as himself, and the boy got to share his references. "Foreordained," Ace had claimed when the boy had promised to lend some of his books that Ace immediately needed for an assignment yet had found out were either unavailable in local bookstores or expensive online. "Divinely decreed, brother!"

The boy sped through the highways. Past the pewter-colored buildings and the crowded billboards and the dusty buses and the creaky passenger jeepneys— the boy prayed, May this day be fruitful. Not only for me, but for the people I would encounter today. May I be a blessing to whomever I would meet. May I be an instrument— a little shower of Your grace and love.

And so the boy wonders, as he sets the café's table number stand in place of the missing shirt, if the girl he has met is the indefinite stranger he has prayed for earlier. A smile arrests his lips as he sits down in his chair. He deposits his bag on his lap and hugs it. He stares, wide-eyed and giddy, at the opposite seat in front of him, which cradles the small khaki body bag of the girl.

The girl reappears no longer than ants surface around a drop of honey on the ground in late March. She is afresh in a new white cotton shirt, too big the sleeves fall past her elbows, the hem past her hips. She takes her time in reclaiming her seat, slinging her bag and her wet shirt against the chair rest. Once seated the girl brings up her feet again. This time without taking off her shoes. She tucks her skirt in her kneepits, and hugs her shins.

"So where do you come from?" the boy rather spurts out, a little bit too rashly he thinks.

The girl does not look at him. She instead runs a hand through her pixie hair all puffed up the boy is led to suppose she had placed her head under the hand dryer in the comfort room.

The boy's gaze falls down to his lap. His forefinger plays with his bag's strap. "Sorry, I'm being a weirdo again."

"I'm from Cainta," she says, her voice soft and hoarse.

"Oh, cool." He looks at her. "I grew up there. And what brings you here?"

"I have a meeting with a talent scout. We're supposed to meet somewhere in this area. At around 1 p.m."

"Oooooh..." the boy begins again. "What kind? Music? Commercial photography?"

"Film acting."

"Oh..." the boy murmurs reflectively.

"I wanna be a professional actress someday," the girl says. A sad smile escapes her lips.

"That's nice." The boy nods, rather too enthusiastically. "If that's your passion, then you should pursue it. That's what everyone should do. Yeah..."

And the girl smiles again, a little longer than the first and with a dab of actual cheerfulness, before it fades. Then it is the boy's turn to pout once he realizes he has indeed seen that smile somewhere before.

***

  6. Which hadn't been changed for almost six years.  

  7. Didn't it cost only twelve on a Buy and Sell advertisement they saw last month? 8. And how there was a novel about her published under Picador, written by a Jewess.