Bamboo in the Wind

Homecoming

FROM the plane at twenty thousand feet, all that Larry Esteva could see of Manila was a cluster of lights like diamonds on black velvet. He had been away two years, and two hours out of Tokyo he had begun searching the horizon, finally pressing his face against the glass of the porthole, hoping to catch the first sight of the city. For over an hour he could see nothing but the blackness of the evening, and with some amusement he smiled inwardly as he felt his heart quickening at the thought of coming home.

   The pressure in his ears told him that the plane was descending, and he sat back, seat belt fastened. Well, that was over, he thought with relief. America was behind him. Thoughts and memories now came like strands if thread, a colourful skein long ago dropped and now picked up again.

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He had been eager to leave at first, excited over the prospect of travelling and living in America. But when the time drew near, he wanted to give it up, preferring to stay and work. But his father prevailed upon him, and he had obediently gone, though his heart was not in it. In the U.S., he worked for a while after getting his degree but found no point in prolonging his stay in a foreign land. His place was home. And here he was, he thought happily, home at last, starting a new life, like a rebirth.

    It had been easy enough to drift into the lifestyle of America. It was so much like home in a certain sense. But he missed the social participation, and he felt adrift, cut off from his moorings. He saw how his countrymen in America lived, moving but on the periphery of society, clinging to each other for comfort and safety, and yet victims of each other's bickerings and intrigues. And there was not a day when he did not long to come home. 

    At last he heard the bump of wheels that told him they were on land again. And he felt a sudden up-swelling of joy, like a traveler gazing upon familiar rooftops. Quickly reaching for his bag, he joined the line of passengers on the aisle, impatient to get out of the plane.

   The cold January air greeted him as he reached the plane's door, as he started down, he noticed that it was drizzling. Why, it had been drizzling too, he recalled, the day he left in 1969, right after the bar exams. He had not stayed to wait for the results . His father had called him later, jubilantly yelling his congratulations on the phone.

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From the foot of the stairway, someone was calling his name: "Lorenzo Esteva, Jr." He peered into the darkness, trying to locate the man who was calling out to him, thinking it funny that anyone should call him Junior. He hadn't heard that for two years and realized he was truly home. 

    "Lorenzo Esteva, Jr." the voice called again. And now, as he neared the foot of the stairway, he saw a tall, dark man oh heavy build whose eyes picked at every face, trying to identify him.

   "Here," he called out to the man, "I am Esteva. Is anything the matter?"

    The man took his bag. "I was sent by your father's office," he explained as they trudged quickly through the drizzle, making for the Customs building. 

    Was the man his father's employee, he wondered with some alarm.  Then what was he doing within the restricted Customs area? But the man old him before that he could ask. "I'm with the Customs police, and I've come to see you through Customs," the man mumbled, keeping his voice low. 

    Larry suddenly felt the urge to laugh. To see him through Customs? Why, did his father think he was smuggling home some contraband? He was about to remonstrate and retrieve his bag when the man spoke again. 

   "What did you declare in the Customs Form?" he asked.

   "Nothing, just my personal effects, he said,