Hysteria on the first night of August

This is a photo of Montojo Street taken with a camera phone at 11:11 p.m.
of August 1, 2012. More than an hour ago, something happened.

 

Montojo Street, Makati City—Few minutes before 10 p.m.

A RANTING FEMALE VOICE was talking in high pitch, making each syllable sound like a squeak. “Walang hiya ka! May asawa na yung tao kinakabitan mu pa! Ako ang asawa niya! Walang hiya ka! Pamilya ko damay dito at mga anak namin.... Gusto lang kita makita, at ngayong nakita na kita, okay lang pala! Di pala ko dapat ma-insecure sa’yo! Baboy ka pala!”

 

It was a wife-versus-mistress quarrel. The wife called her husband’s other woman a vamp, fat and ugly, undeserving of attention and unworthy of admiration, and compared her to a pig.

Hearing a woman sound like a madly driven android made me peek through the barricades of our gate, gingerly stealing glances. My eyes edged around the bars, until I could see the face of the ferocious wife and the back of the other woman whom she was accusing of immorality. A little stout, the mad wife had pale skin and wavy hair, which was coming up to her chest. I hadn't noticed her face. The woman whom she accused as her husband’s bedmate had a somehow podgy body. I saw her just from behind because she was about-faced from me. Her hair that was then tied in a bun concealed whatever hair type she had.

 

Near the scene were people piled around the two women. They were doing nothing, except for watching them mock each other, exchanging words children shouldn’t hear. A couple was also passing by. The guy seemed like in his twenties or early thirties, with a lean and hard build. The woman had olive skin and her arms gave me the idea that she was once thin until she got pregnant. If memory serves me, they are the artists I’ve always seen playing the role of a husband and a wife in an indie miniseries, in which I’ve often seen them in their undergarments, sometimes half-naked, and always gently caressing each other. The miniseries is shown every other night on a TV called “window,” in a two-story house, nearby our apartment, I recalled. Then I was bored. I returned to my seat, getting ready for my workout routine. I overheard more words. And more words.

 

“Wala akong pakialam. Sa’yo na siya!” screeched the wife. I heard sounds of feet stomping away from the scene, gradually becoming inaudible. She is walking away, I thought. The wife is walking away, giving away her husband. Seconds later, she screamed again. “Idedemanda ko kayo!” she said, the sound of her feet rashly returning, sounding more dominating.  She has changed her mind. She won’t be giving her husband to anyone. She’ll fight for him—whoever he is. She was hysterical.

 

The catfight seemed nonstop until some disembodied voices were shouting, demanding their rights for a quiet sleep. And I heard other people trying to reconcile them, trying to help, to straighten out the misunderstanding. Or to worsen it. I supposed the fighters were half-settled, determined to delay the final match. I knew that when I glanced at them again.

 

I peered through the bars one more time. It was out of curiosity. The spouse has the gall to attack someone in terms of physique. She must be beautiful. But why can’t I remember her face? At second glance, the angry android had nothing special in her looks but being a little fat Plain Jane, who hated someone for, probably, looking like her. She headed to the left, far-flung from where the alleged mistress stood—composed, laughing, and grateful for being called fat. “Thank you. Goodbye!” the mistress teased the hysterical witch.

 

The street was all cleared.

 

The sky was dark, touched by fading violet light. The massive trees were like murky gray shadows painted on a velvet canvas. It was serene. The wind was blowing—cool, gentle, and caressing. I felt the breeze probing my body. It was a tranquil feeling. That was until the current of air began gusting stronger. It started from the tree branches swaying mildly to monstrous silhouettes dancing in the rhythm of requiem. The velocity increased, faster and faster, as though there was an invisible jet plane that had gone out of control, spinning in the air over and over. Even the electric wires seemed vulnerable of flopping. The bulbs in lampposts were close to sparking. The heavens lit up—flashing, blinding, and frightening. And there was a loud clap of thunder. Lightning. And thunder again. There came strong torrents of rain gushing from the atmosphere, thumping on the rooftops like artillery metal, sharp enough to slay. End of the world, I thought.

 

Though a little startled, I continued my routine. And the next thing I knew was taking a photo of our street when nature had settled down. This street was once called “the street of sin.” I hope these occurrences weren’t part of the curse. That night, before I slept I kept thinking about the day of reckoning and the fires of hell.