By Ariel Presbitero

Japanese Filipino

On her favorite porch in front of her little two-room house, day after day, 78 years old Donna Cypriana sits quietly and watches as the streams of people pass along her street. I sense a little flicker of joy in her face ad she spots me, her ‘Japanese’ friend, approach. (For some reason, Donna Cypriana and most of the folk in this part of Brazil think we Filipinos are Japanese.)

Keeper of the Keys

Becoming Donna Cypriana’s friend didn’t come easy. Her little world is this little front space and her sparsely furnished sala and kitchen. Her son, Honesto, a cook in the nearby naval base lodges with her at night and on an occasional weekend, a grandson comes to stay with her. Her most important office is ‘Keeper of Church Keys’.

No Priest, No Key!

Saturday is ‘catechese’ day in the Nova Canna community chapel. As the local lay missionary, I have been assigned the weekly catechetical class for the children. This, of course, involves using the chapel; using the chapel demands opening the chapel; opening the chapel necessities acquisition of the chapel key. Until I came on the scene, only the priest was permitted this privilege. Requests from anyone else fell on deaf ears. The spacious chapel building would be just the place for the local youngster to practice different games and pastimes, especially the “Capoiera” the African dance famous through out Brazil. But Donna Cypriana stands firm. No priest no key!

I Don’t Like Anybody

Having been appointed by the pastor to handle the ‘Catechese’, I should have little trouble prying the key out of Donna Cypriana’s possession. But that’s not the case. To her way of thinking only an ordained minister of God could hope to handle the boisterous ‘maleducado’ youngster of the locality. Later, as I got to know they young rascals. I could sympathize with the good lady. In my approaches to her, however, I had to summon all my diplomatic and charismatic skills to persuade her that I was genuinely ‘bonifide’ and that I really had been trusted with the ‘Catechese portfolio. At last, however, I could sense that she was beginning ever so slowly to trust me. Her pessimism persisted nevertheless. “I’m old,” “I’m sick” “I don’t’ like anybody.” “I dying.” “You are wasting your time here trying to knock religion into those ill-mannered ruffians.” Apparently, it’s only since coming here that she encountered this segment of Brazilian youth. Most whom come from very poor family backgrounds and live in appalling conditions. Only rarely do they attend school and their education’ is acquired for the most part on the streets. 

Too Young To Be Sad

Though Donna C. and I had more or less reached a state of ‘détente’ and mutual acceptance, this does not mean that weekly access to the keys became any simpler. Every Saturday, the deal had to be renegotiated. I think both of us saw through this little charade. The time taken over negotiations provided her with a longer interlude of ‘company’ to relieve the loneliness and monotony of just sitting and watching the passers-by as she patched odds and ends of tattered clothing. The bit of chat and the little jokes I managed to produce gradually started to bring a smile to her old face and I found her confiding in me more and more. Still, though, she continued to greet me with “I’m sick. I’m sad.” “Me too,” I kept replying. At first, this look her by surprise; “You sad?” she asked, somewhat crossly. “What have you to be sad about? You’re too young to be sad.” Gradually that became our regular exchange of greetings. She began to realize that she wasn’t the only one who could be sad. The mood of her life, as if a mini-miracle, seemed to change.

I Am Dying

One day word reached us that Donna was very sick and unable to keep her food down. She wanted a priest. My Pastor, Fr. Cyril Lovett, and I immediately rushed to her bedside and found her very weak. Before she would draw her last breath, she said, she wanted to confess and receive Holy Communion. As Father Lovett saw to her spiritual needs, the assembled neighbours through that she was about to leave them forever, when I approached her bed, she grasped my hand and drew me close to her, “Meu filho.” You think that she whispered, “Voce nao vai me-ver amanha porque estou morrendo.” (My son, you will not see me tomorrow because I am dying.) My heart began to break and tears welled up in my eyes. All I could do was sit weeping in a corner by her bed and gazing at her serene face as she fixed her tired old eyes on her favorite altar that bore the statue of the Virgin Mary and a picture of her Son, Jesus.
 
As I made my way home, I felt the deepest sorrow. I couldn’t reconcile myself to losing the precious friend I had so recently made. I had always thought that she still had some happy days in store for her with her loyal son Honesto. I begged God to give her a little more time.
 
Well, it seems that for once, Cypriana’s pessimism let her down. Two days later, when I got to visit her again, she was sitting up in bed and greeted me with a broad smile. The color had returned to her cheeks and her rebellious stomach had decided to call off the attack. The old Donna was back and looked like she would be with us for some time to come. 

God’s Joke

I have never had a problem believing in miracles and this very real one in particular reinforces my conviction. God had played a joke on Donna Cypriana. 

Japanese Friend Forever

I now look forward again to my Saturday meetings with Donna. I shall be disappointed if she is any less cantankerous than before. It will still take a lot of wheedling to pry the keys out of her possession. Somehow, though, I feel that her pessimism will have mellowed somewhat and her view of life and especially youth will be a trifle less jaundiced. One thing I am sure of is I will be her ‘Japanese’ friend.