Dusk: A Novel (Modern Library Paperbacks) by F. Sionil Jose Page A

have to wash his feet with warm water in the earthen pot laid at the foot of the stairs to cleanse his body and protect the house from the wandering ghost. There might be no such water waiting for him, so Istak said he would go to the river to bathe himself instead. He asked if she wanted to join him and she nodded. He sought privacy behind a screen of grass, where he stripped. Cupping his genitals with his hand he waded into the water and immersed himself quickly. The water was waist-deep, a soothing coolness in the heat. Somewhere, behind some tall reeds, Dalin was splashing. Like all the women who bathed in the river, she did not take off her clothes. Her wet chemise would now be clinging to her body, outlining her shoulders, her breasts. He had reproached himself for such lascivious thoughts—very disturbing but pleasurable—many times in the past, particularly when he conducted those lessons for Capitán Berong’s pretty daughters. The delicious yet forbidden urge would ride down his whole being and flood him with warmth. He was past twenty and still a virgin. For how much longer? When would he finally know a woman?
    He let the feeling subside, and after a while, he rose from the water, and cupping his limp manhood in his palm again, he hurried to the tall grass and, still dripping, put on his clothes, which were damp with sweat. He waited till Dalin called out to him that she was ready.
    When he returned to the cart, it was still unhitched. In the shade of a camachile tree, Dalin had already laid on the stubbygrass a palm-leaf mat with their food—chunks of leftover rice that she had cooked the night before, scraps of salted meat cooked in vinegar, salt, and oil, and small peanut cakes. Her hair was loose and wet and she looked even younger.
    “Will you pray the nine-day novena by yourself and keep the year of mourning?” he asked.
    She nodded. “Everything else that must be done I will do.”
    When they were through eating, she gathered the leftovers carefully and placed the pots back in the cart. “Please,” she reminded him. “If they ask …”
    He nodded. He did not want to lie but he had to.
    “I will leave you at the fork of the road,” she said. “I will travel only in the day. At night, I will try to find a place where I can be safe. Then when I reach the sea, I will sell this cart and bull and return home by boat.”
    “You are very brave.”
    “I wish I had more knowledge,” she said. “Not just writing my name and counting. I wish I had a little of what you know.”
    “Who told you about me? I am just a farmer.”
    “Your brother,” she said. “On the way to your village last night he spoke about you, how learned you are and how you should be in Vigan, or even Manila.”
    “There are people who cannot even write their names,” Istak said. “But they are wiser than most who can read.” He turned to her; her skin, freshly scrubbed, was smooth and clear. She was really no more than eighteen—he could see that clearly now.
    She bowed and said softly, “I am ignorant, I know.” Then she turned to him, pride in her eyes. “But at least I can write my name.”
    “That is good, a beginning,” Istak said quickly. “I was thinking, here in our village many cannot read. I can be a teacher. The
catón
. And the neighbors will pay not with money but with grain.”
    “Is that what you are planning to do?”
    “Yes, but I’ll farm, too.”
    “What was it like living with a priest?” she asked.
    “It was not easy,” he explained. “My time was well divided between my chores and my efforts to improve myself. The work was tiring, too—cleaning the
kumbento
, chopping firewood, looking after the horses, six of them. The easier tasks, keeping the files, the registry of births, marriages, deaths. And after that, the lessons the old priest gave—science, some botany …” He realized quickly that she did not understand.
    Istak turned away as they came creeping back—memories of all