DESIRE

 
by Paz Latorena


She was homely. A very broad forehead gave her face an unpleasant, masculine look. Her eyes, which were small, slanted at the corners and made many of her acquaintances wonder if perchance she had a few drops of celestial blood in her veins. Her nose was broad and flat, and its nostrils were always dilated, as if breathing were an effort. Her mouth, with its thick lips, was a long, straight gash across her face made angular by her unusually big jaws.

But nature, as if ashamed of her meanness in fashioning the face, moulded a body of unusual beauty. From her neck to her small feet, she was perfect. Her bust was full, her breast rose up like twin roses in full bloom. Her waist was slim as a young girl’s, her hips seemed to have stolen the curve of the crescent moon. Her arms were shapely, ending in small hands with fine, tapering fingers that were the envy of her friends. Her legs with their trim ankles reminded one of those lifeless things seen in shop windows displaying the latest silk stockings.

Hers was a body a sculptor, in a thirst for glory, might have dreamed of and moulded in a feverish frenzy of creation, with hands atremble with vision of the fame in store for him. Hers was a body that might have been the delight and despair of a painter whose faltering brush tried in vain to depict on the canvas such a beautiful harmony of curves and lines. Hers was a body a poet might have raved over and immortalized in musical, fanciful verses. Hers was a body men would gladly have gone to hell for.

And they did. Men looked at her face and turned their eyes away; they looked at her body and were enslaved. They forgot the broad masculine forehead, the unpleasant mouth, the aggressive jaws. All they had eyes for was that body, those hips that had stolen the curve of the crescent moon.

But she hated her body—hated that gift which Nature, in a fit or remorse for the wrong done to her face, had given her. She hated her body because it made men look at her with an unbeautiful light in their eyes—married eyes, single eyes.

She wanted love, was starved for it. But she did not want the love that her body inspired in men. She wanted something purer…cleaner.

She was disgusted. And hurt. For men told other women that they loved them, looking into their eyes to the souls beneath, their voices low and soft, their hands quivering with the weight of their tenderness. But men told her that they loved her body with eyes that made her feels as if she were naked, stripped bare for their sinful eyes to gaze upon. They told her with voices made thick by desire, touched her with hands afire, that seared her flesh, filled her with scorn and loathing.

She wanted to be loved as other women were loved. She was as good, as pure as they. And some of them were as homely as she was. But they did not have beautiful bodies. And so they were loved for themselves.

Deliberately she set out to hide from the eyes of men the beautiful body that to her was a curse rather than a blessing. She started wearing long, wide dresses that completely disfigured her. She gave up wearing Filipino costume which outlined her body with startling accuracy.

It took quite a while to make men forget that body that had once been their delight. But after a time they became accustomed to the disfiguring dresses and concluded that she had become fat and shapeless. She accomplished the desired result.

And more. For there came a time when men looked at her and turned their eyes away, not with the unbeautiful light of former day but with something akin to pity mirrored there—pity for a homely face and a shapeless mass of flesh.

At first she was glad. Glad that she had succeeded in extinguishing that unbeautiful light in the eyes of men when they looked at her.

After some time, she became rebellious. For she was a woman and she wanted to be loved and to love. But it seemed that men would not have anything to do with a woman with a homely face and an apparently shapeless mass of flesh.

But she became reconciled to her fate. And rather than bring back that unbeautiful light in men’s eyes, she chose to go on…with the farce.

She turned to writing to while away the long nights spent brooding all alone.

Little things. Little lyrics. Little sketches. Sometimes they were the heart-throbs of a woman who wanted love and sweet things whispered to her in the dark. Sometimes they were the ironies of one who sees all the weaknesses and stupidities of men and the world through eyes made bitter by loneliness.

She sent them to papers which found the little things acceptable and published them. “To fill space,” she told herself. But she continued to write because it made her forget once in a while how drab her life was.

And then he came into her life—a man with white blood in his veins. He was one of those who believed in the inferiority of colored races. But he found something unusual in the light, ironic, tirades from the pen of the unknown writer. Not in the little lyrics. No, he thought those were superfluous effusions of a woman belonging to a race of people who could not think of writing about anything except love. But he liked the light airy sketches. They were like those of the people of his race.

One day, when he had nothing to do, he sent her, to encourage her, a note of appreciation. It was brief. But the first glance showed her that it came from a cultured man.

She answered it, a light, nonsensical answer that touched the sense of humor of the white man. That started a correspondence. In the course of time, she came to watch for the mail carrier, for the grey tinted stationery that was his.

He asked to see her—to know her personally. Letters were so tantalizing. Her first impulse was to say no. A bitter smile hovered about her lips as she surveyed her face before the mirror. He would be so disappointed, she told herself.

But she consented. They would have to meet sooner of later. The first meeting would surely be a trial and the sooner it was over, the better.

He, the white man, coming from a land of fair, blue-eyed women, was shocked. Perhaps, he found it a bit difficult to associate this homely woman with the one who could write such delightful sketches, such delightful letters.

But she could talk rather well. There was a light vein of humor, faintly ironical at times, in everything she said. And that delighted him.

He asked her to come out with him again. By the shore of Manila Bay one early evening, when her homely face was softened by the darkness around them, he forgot that he was a white man, that she was a brown maiden homely and to all appearance, shapeless creature at that. Her silence, as with half-closed eyes she gazed at the distance, was very soothing and under the spell of her understanding sympathy, he found himself telling her of his home away over the seas, how he loved the blue of the sea on early mornings because it reminded of the blue of the waves that dashed against the rocks in impotent fury, how he could spend his life on the water, sailing on and on, to unknown and uncharted seas.

She listened to him silently. Then he woke up from the spell and, as if ashamed of the outburst of confidence, added irrelevantly: “But you are different from the other women of your race,” looking deep into her small eyes that slanted at the corners.

She smiled. Of course she was, the homely and shapeless mass of flesh that he saw her to be.

“No, I do not mean that,” he protested, divining her thoughts, “you do not seem to care much for conventions. No Filipino girl would come out unchaperoned with a man, a white man at that.”

“A homely woman can very well afford to break conventions. Nobody minds her if she does. That is one consolation of being homely,” was her calm reply.

He laughed.

“You have some very queer ideas,” he observed.

“I should have,” she retorted. “If I didn’t, nobody would noticed my face and my…my…figure,” she hated herself for stammering the last words.

He looked at her impersonally, as if trying to find some beauty in her.

“But I like you,” was his verdict, uttered with the almost brutal frankness of his race. “I have not come across a more interesting girl for a long time.”

They met again. And again. Thoughts, pleasant thoughts, began to fill her mind. Had she at last found one who liked her sincerely? For he liked her, that she was ready to believe. As a friend, a pal who understood him. And the thought gave her happiness—a friend, a pal who understood him—such as he had never experienced before.

One day, an idea took hold of her—simply obsessed her. He was such a lover of beautiful things—of beauty in any form. She noticed that in all his conversations, in every look, every gesture of his. A desire to show him that she was not entirely devoid of beauty which he so worshipped came over her.

It would not do any harm, she told herself. He had learned to like her for herself. He had learned to value their friendship, homely as she was and shapeless as he thought her to be. Her body would matter not at all now. It would please the aesthete in him perhaps, but it certainly would not matter much to the man.

From the bottom of a very old trunk she unearthed one of those flimsy, shapely things that had lain there unused for many years. She looked at herself in the mirror before the appointment, she grudgingly admitted that her body had lost nothing of its hated beauty.

He was surprised. Pleasantly so.

Accustomed as he was to the beautiful bodies of the women of his race, he had to confess that here was something of unusual beauty.

“Why have you been hiding such a beautiful figure all this time,” he demanded in mock anger.

“I did not know it was beautiful,” she lied.

“Pouf! I know it is not polite to tell a young lady she is a liar so I won’t do it.”

“But…but…”

“But…” fear was beginning to creep into her voice. “Well…let us talk of something else.”

She heaved a deep sigh. She was right. Se had found a man to whom her body mattered little, if anything at all. She need not take warning. He had learned to like her for herself.

At their next meeting she wore a pale rose of Filipino dress that softened the brown of her skin. His eyes lighted up when they rested on her, but whether it was the unbeautiful light that she dreaded so much, she could not determine for it quickly disappeared. No, it could not be the unbeautiful light. He liked her for herself. This belief she treasured fondly.

The had a nice long ride out in the country, where the winds were soft and faintly scented and the bamboo trees sighted love to the breeze. They visited a little out of the way nipa chapel by the roadside where naked man, nailed to the Cross, looked at them with eyes which held at the tragedy and the sorrow of the world—for the sins of sinning men.

She gazed at the figure feeling something vague and incomprehensible stirring within her. She turned to him for sympathy and found him staring at her…at her body.

He turned slightly red. In silence they left the little chapel. He helped her inside the car but did not start it at once.

“I …I…love…” he stammered after some moments, as if impelled by an irresistible force. Then he stopped.

The small eyes that slanted at the corners were almost beautiful with a tender, soft light as she turned them on him. So he loved her. Had he learned not only to like her but to love her? For herself? And the half-finished confession found an echo in the heart of the woman who was starved for love.

“Yes…” there was a pleading note in her voice.

He swallowed hard. “I love…your body,” he finished with a thick voice. And the blue eyes flared with the dreaded, hateful light.

She uttered an involuntary cry of protest, of pain, of disillusion. And then a sob escaped her.

And dimly the man from the West realized that he had wronged this little brown maiden with the homely face and beautiful body as she never had been wronged before. And he felt sorry, infinitely so.

When they stopped before the door of her house, he got out to open the door for her.

“I am sorry,” was all he said.

There was a world of regret in the eyes she turned on him. “For what?” she asked in a tired voice. “You have just been yourself…like other men.” He winced.

And with a weary smile she passed within. 

The end.

Analysis:

The story is about the inferiority complex of a woman, and men’s endearment for women curves. The story is not a typical one, because most of the stories I’ve read always circles on love and the madness of society. But this particular story is very unique, because it bravely tackles the nature of men for women curves. And I think only few women writer can be so brave enough to have this kind of story, and Paz Latorena belongs to them. She is brave enough to step out and be bold enough to let people, regardless of which gender you belong, be aware of men’s nature.

This story belongs to school of feminism, aside from the writer is a woman, the story is also about the suffering a woman has to endured in order to escape from the malicious eyes of men.

The story is in the first-person point of view, because the “I” is directly involved in the story. She is the protagonist, and is static in character, because, of the changes she had undergone as the story goes on.

The conflict between self; and between characters can be evidently seen in the story. In this story the woman has inferiority complex over her face, and considers her beautiful figure a curse and hiding her figure through wearing long and massive dresses is a conflict vs. self. Hating men for endearment for curves and her disappointment to the blue-eyed man is a conflict vs. characters.

The theme of the story is about being loved despite one’s imperfections; though it wasn’t achieved by the woman at least she felt she was loved once. And the author implicitly tells us that we are all beautiful despite our flaws.