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What was this funny currency, anyway? It was like play money, Juan Diego thought. He had no change, and only two small bills. He gave the twenty-piso note to the first outstretched hand; he had nothing smaller than a fifty for the second small hand.
"Dalawampung piso!" the first kid cried.
"Limampung piso!" shouted the second child. Was that Tagalog they were speaking? Juan Diego wondered.
Bienvenido stopped him from handing out the one-thousand-piso bill, but one of the beseeching children saw the amount before Bienvenido could block the young beggar's hand.
"Sir, please--that's too much," the driver told Juan Diego.
"Sanlibong piso!" one of the beseeching children cried.
The other kids quickly took up the cry. "Sanlibong piso! Sanlibong piso!"
The light turned green, and Bienvenido slowly accelerated; the beggar children withdrew their skinny arms from the car.
"There's no such thing as too much for those children, Bienvenido--there's only not enough for them," Juan Diego said. "I'm a dump kid," he told the driver. "I should know."
"A dump kid, sir?" Bienvenido asked.
"I was a dump kid, Bienvenido," Juan Diego told him. "My sister and I--we were ninos de la basura. We grew up in the basurero--we virtually lived there. We should never have left--it's been all downhill since!" the dump reader declared.
"Sir--" Bienvenido started to say, but he stopped when he saw that Juan Diego was crying. The bad air of the polluted city was blowing in the open windows of the car; the cooking smells assailed him; the children were begging in the streets; the women, who looked exhausted, wore sleeveless dresses, or shorts with halter tops; the men loitered in doorways, smoking or just talking to one another, as if they didn't have anything to do.
"It's a slum!" Juan Diego cried. "It's a sickening, polluted slum! Millions of people who have nothing or not enough to do--yet the Catholics want more and more babies to be born!"
He meant Mexico City--at that moment, Manila was forcefully reminding him of Mexico City. "And just look at the stupid pilgrims!" Juan Diego cried. "They walk on their bleeding knees--they whip themselves, to show their devotion!"
Naturally, Bienvenido was confused. He thought
Juan Diego meant Manila. What pilgrims? the limousine driver was thinking. But all he said was: "Sir, it's just a small shantytown--it's not exactly a slum. I will admit the pollution is a problem--"
"Watch out!" Juan Diego cried, but Bienvenido was a good driver. He'd seen the boy fall out of the overfull and moving jeepney; the jeepney driver never noticed--he just kept going--but the boy rolled (or he was pushed) off one of the rear rows of seats. He fell into the street; Bienvenido had to swerve the car not to run over him.
The boy was a dirty-faced urchin with what appeared to be a ratty-looking stole (or a fur boa) draped over his neck and shoulders; the shabby-looking garment was like something an old woman in a cold climate might wrap around her neck. But when the boy fell, both Bienvenido and Juan Diego could see that the furry scarf was actually a small dog, and the dog, not the boy, was the one injured in the fall. The dog yelped; the dog could not put weight on one of its forepaws, which it tremblingly held off the ground. The boy had skinned one of his bare knees, which was bleeding, but he seemed otherwise unhurt--he was chiefly concerned for the dog.
GOD IS GOOD! the sticker on the jeepney had said. Not to this boy, or his dog, Juan Diego thought.
"Stop--we must stop," Juan Diego said, but Bienvenido just kept going.
"Not here, sir--not now," the young driver said. "The checking-in part at the airport--it takes longer than your flight."
"God isn't good," Juan Diego told him. "God is indifferent. Ask that boy. Speak to his dog."
"What pilgrims?" Bienvenido asked him. "You said pilgrims, sir," the driver reminded him.
"In Mexico City, there is a street--" Juan Diego began. He closed his eyes, then quickly opened them, as if he didn't want to see this street in Mexico City. "The pilgrims go there--the street is their approach to a shrine," Juan Diego continued, but his speech slowed, as if the approach to this shrine was difficult, at least for him.
"What shrine, sir? Which street?" Bienvenido asked him, but now Juan Diego's eyes were closed; he may not have heard the young driver. "Juan Diego?" the driver asked.
"Avenida de los Misterios," Juan Diego said, with his eyes closed; the tears were streaming down his face. "Avenue of Mysteries."
"It's okay, sir--you don't have to tell me," Bienvenido said, but Juan Diego had already stopped talking. The crazy old man was somewhere else, Bienvenido could tell--somewhere far away or long ago, or both.
It was a sunny day in Manila; even with his eyes closed, the darkness Juan Diego saw was streaked with light. It was like looking deep underwater. For a moment, he imagined he saw a pair of yellowish eyes staring at him, but there was nothing discernible in the light-streaked darkness.
This is how it will be when I die, Juan Diego was thinking--only darker, pitch-black. No God. No goodness or evil. No Senor Morales, in other words. Not a caring God. Not a Mr. Morals, either. Not even a moray eel, struggling to breathe. Just nothing.
"Nada," Juan Diego said; his eyes were still closed.
