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The Mats

By Francisco Arcellana

Narrator:
For the Angeles family, Mr. Angeles'; homecoming from
his periodic inspection trips was always an occasion for
celebration. But his homecoming--from a trip to the South--was
fated to be more memorable than, say, of the others.
Nana Emilia read the letter that morning, and again and
again every time she had a chance to leave the kitchen. In the
evening when all the children were home from school she
asked her oldest son, Jos, to read the letter at dinner table.
Nana Emilia: Children, your father wrote us a letter from Mariveles
that I receive today.
Children: What does it say mother?
Nana Emilia: Well, I would like Jose to read it to all of you this
evening. (Gave the letter to Jose)
Jose: (Opens the letter) Well, heres what it says:
"I have just met a marvelous mat weaver--a real artist-and I shall have a surprise for you. I asked him to weave a
sleeping-mat for every one of the family. He is using many
different colors and for each mat the dominant color is that of
our respective birthstones. I am sure that the children will be
very pleased. I know you will be. I can hardly wait to show
them to you."
(Children becomes excited)
Narrator:

The children became very much excited about the mats,


and talked about them until late into the night. This she wrote
her husband when she labored over a reply to him. For days
after that, mats continued to be the chief topic of conversation
among the children.
Finally, from Lopez,
Nana Emilia: I have good news! Your father just me a reply.
Children: What did he say?
Nana Emilia: Well, it say:
"I am taking the Bicol Express tomorrow. I have the mats
with me, and they are beautiful. God willing, I shall be home to
join you at dinner."
Narrator:
The letter was read aloud during the noon meal. Talk
about the mats flared up again like wildfire.
Antonio (the third child):
I like the feel of mats. I like the smell of new mats.
Susanna (the fifth child):
Oh, but these mats are different .They have our names
woven into them, and in our ascribed colors, too.
Narrator:
The children knew what they were talking about:
they knew just what a decorative mat was like; it was not
anything new or strange in their experience. That was
why they were so excited about the matter. They had
such a mat in the house, one they seldom used, a mat
older than any one of them.

This mat had been given to Nana Emilia by her


mother when she and Mr. Angeles were married, and it
had been with them ever since. It had served on the
wedding night, and had not since been used except on
special occasions.
It was a very beautiful mat, not really meant to be
ordinarily used. It had green leaf borders, and a lot of
gigantic red roses woven into it. In the middle, running
the whole length of the mat, was the lettering: Emilia y
Jaime Recuerdo
The letters were in gold.
Nana Emilia always kept that mat in her trunk. When any
one of the family was taken ill, the mat was brought out
and the patient slept on it, had it all to himself. Every one
of the children had some time in their lives slept on it; not
a few had slept on it more than once.
Most of the time the mat was kept in Nana Emilia's trunk,
and when it was taken out and spread on the floor the
children were always around to watch. At first there had
been only Nana Emilia to see the mat spread. Then a
child--a girl--watched with them. The number of watchers
increased as more children came.
The mat did not seem to age. It seemed to Nana Emilia
always as new as when it had been laid on the nuptial
bed. To the children it seemed as new as the first time it
was spread before them. The folds and creases always
new and fresh. The smell was always the smell of a new
mat. Watching the intricate design was an endless joy.
The children's pleasure at the golden letters even before
they could work out the meaning was boundless.
Somehow they were always pleasantly shocked by the
sight of the mat: so delicate and so consummate the
artistry of its weave.
Now, taking out that mat to spread had become a kind of
ritual. The process had become associated with illness in

the family. Illness, even serious illness, had not been


infrequent. There had been deaths...
Narrator:
In the evening Mr. Angeles was with his family. He had
brought the usual things home with him. There was a lot
of fruits, as always (his itinerary carried him through the
fruit-growing provinces): pineapples, lanzones, chicos,
atis, santol, sandia, guyabano, avocado, according to the
season. He had also brought home a jar of preserved
sweets from Lopez.
Putting away the fruit, sampling them, was as usual
accomplished with animation and lively talk. Dinner was a
long affair. Mr. Angeles was full of stories about his trip
but would interrupt his tales with: "I could not sleep
nights thinking of the young ones. They should never be
allowed to play in the streets. And you older ones should
not stay out too late at night."
The stories petered out and dinner was over. Putting away
the dishes and wiping the dishes and wiping the table
clean did not at all seem tedious. Yet Nana and the
children, although they did not show it, were all on edge
about the mats.
Finally, after a long time over his cigar, Mr. Angeles rose
from his seat at the head of the table and crossed the
room to the corner where his luggage had been piled.
From the heap he disengaged a ponderous bundle.
Taking it under one arm, he walked to the middle of the
room where the light was brightest. He dropped the
bundle and, bending over and balancing himself on his
toes, he strained at the cord that bound it. It was strong,
it would not break, it would not give way. He tried working
at the knots. His fingers were clumsy, they had begun
shaking.

He raised his head, breathing heavily, to ask for the


scissors. Alfonso, his youngest boy, was to one side of
him with the scissors ready.
Nana Emilia and her eldest girl who had long returned
from the kitchen were watching the proceedings quietly.
One swift movement with the scissors, snip! and the
bundle was loose.
Mr. Angeles (Turning to Nana Emilia): These are the mats,
Miling." (Mr. Angeles picked up the topmost mat in the
bundle.)
"This, I believe, is yours, Miling."
Narrator:
Nana Emilia stepped forward to the light, wiping her still moist
hands against the folds of her skirt, and with a strange young
shyness received the mat. The children watched the spectacle
silently and then broke into delighted, though a little selfconscious, laughter. Nana Emilia unfolded the mat without a
word. It was a beautiful mat: to her mind, even more beautiful
than the one she received from her mother on her wedding.
There was a name in the very center of it: EMILIA. The letters
were large, done in green. Flowers--cadena-de-amor--were
woven in and out among the letters. The border was a long
winding twig of cadena-de-amor.
The children stood about the spreading mat. The air was
punctuated by their breathless exclamations of delight.
Nana Emilia: "It is beautiful, Jaime; it is beautiful!"
Mr. Angeles: "And this, I know, is my own," (of the next mat in the
bundle.)
Narrator:

The mat was rather simply decorated, the design almost


austere, and the only colors used were purple and gold. The
letters of the name Jaime were in purple.
Mr. Angeles:
And this, for your, Marcelina."
Narrator:
Marcelina was the oldest child. She had always thought her
name too long; it had been one of her worries with regard to
the mat. "How on earth are they going to weave all of the
letters of my name into my mat?" she had asked of almost
everyone in the family. Now it delighted her to see her whole
name spelled out on the mat, even if the letters were a little
small. Besides, there was a device above her name which
pleased Marcelina very much. It was in the form of a lyre, finely
done in three colors. Marcelina was a student of music and was
quite a proficient pianist.
Mr. Angeles: "And this is for you, Jos."
Narrator:
Jos was the second child. He was a medical student
already in the third year of medical school. Over his name the
symbol of Aesculapius was woven into the mat.
Mr. Angeles: "You are not to use this mat until the year of your
internship,"
"This is yours, Antonia."
"And this is yours, Juan."
"And this is yours, Jesus."

Narrator:
Mat after mat was unfolded. On each of the
children's mats there was somehow an appropriate
device.
At least all the children had been shown their individual
mats. The air was filled with their excited talk.
Mr. Angeles: "You are not to use these mats until you go to the
University."

Narrator:
Then Nana Emilia noticed bewilderingly that there were
some more mats remaining to be unfolded.
Nana Emilia: "But Jaime," "there are some more mats."
Narrator:
Only Mr. Angeles seemed to have heard Nana Emilia's
words. He suddenly stopped talking, as if he had been jerked
away from a pleasant fantasy. A puzzled, reminiscent look
came into his eyes, superseding the deep and quiet delight
that had been briefly there, and when he spoke his voice was
different.
Mr. Angeles:
"Yes, Emilia, There are three more mats to unfold. The others
who aren't here..."
Narrator:
Nana Emilia caught her breath; there was a swift constriction in
her throat; her face paled and she could not say anything.
The self-centered talk of the children also died. There was a

silence as Mr. Angeles picked up the first of the remaining mats


and began slowly unfolding it.
The mat was almost as austere in design as Mr. Angeles' own,
and it had a name. There was no symbol or device above the
name; only a blank space, emptiness.
The children knew the name. But somehow the name, the
letters spelling the name, seemed strange to them.
Then Nana Emilia found her voice.
Nana Emilia (her voice hurt and surely frightened):
"You know, Jaime, you didn't have to,"
(Mr. Angeles held his tears back; there was something swift
and savage in the movement.)
Mr. Angeles:
"Do you think I'd forgotten? Do you think I had forgotten them?
Do you think I could forget them?
"This is for you, Josefina!
"And this is for you, Victoria!
"And this is for you, Concepcion."
(Mr. Angeles called the names rather than uttered them.)
Nana Emilia:
"Don't, Jaime, please don't,"
Mr. Angeles:

"Is it fair to forget them? Would it be just to disregard them?"


(His voice had risen shrill, almost hysterical; it was also stern
and sad, and somehow vindictive. Mr. Angeles had spoken
almost as if he were a stranger.
Also, he had spoken as if from a deep, grudgingly-silent, longbewildered sorrow.)
Narrator:
The children heard the words exploding in the silence. They
wanted to turn away and not see the face of their father. But
they could neither move nor look away; his eyes held them, his
voice held them where they were. They seemed rooted to the
spot.
(Nana Emilia shivered once or twice, bowed her head, gripped
her clasped hands between her thighs.)
There was a terrible hush. The remaining mats were unfolded
in silence. The names which were with infinite slowness
revealed, seemed strange and stranger still; the colors not
bright but deathly dull; the separate letters, spelling out the
names of the dead among them, did not seem to glow or shine
with a festive sheen as did the other living names.

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