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For Francisco Arcellana, National Artist
by Gilda Cordero-Fernando

When I last talked to Emmy, I told her, “Did you know that I had a crush on Franz?” And she said, “Of course. But all the kids who took that dratted short story writing class under him fell in love with Franz. It’s part of the course. There were scads of you.”

That put me in place. And Ninotchka Rosca and the host of other writers whom I’m afraid to name. What Emmy didn’t know, but maybe suspected, was that he loved us back, all of us. Franz was always falling in love, at the drop of a raindrop, with all the young girls, all at the same time. Sex? Probably not. But romance—ah, that was Arcellana’s middle name.

We young women of the 50s saw him differently. To us he was a wandering soul, a tortured artist who would never be happy, an outcast who didn’t feel loved. It made us want to take care of him. I think he was even an atheist or an agnostic (although I was a colegiala and didn’t know the difference).
We knew he had once written an ascerbic column on literature and art, feared by all. But at that time he was producing exquisite short stories, bursting with feeling. Divide by Two had just come out and Wing of Madness II was cooking up.

Those days Franz was in his 40s and very thin. He had an emaciated look, so of course that helped the image. His hair was every which way, his collar wrinkled, his brown shoes last season’s. But he had a good face, with a gentle mouth.

The flower children weren’t born then yet. I associated him maybe with the angst of the Lost Generation of Scott Fitzgerald (popular literature of the day) which their group, the Veronicans, certainly acted out. I think his biggest crush was Estrella Alfon. Somebody wrote that when the Veronicans visited Nanding Ocampo’s house Estrella and Franz shared the same toothbrush.

So me, where did I belong in that interminable love story that is Franz? Or where did he belong in mine? NVM Gonzales was my daddy. He was my beloved, warm-hearted Papa Bear who helped me find better paying venues for my stories, introduced me to other writers and fixed me up with publishers. But to me, Franz had no practical use. He was just somebody to admire and be heartbroken about.

For an outsider like me Arcellana stood for everything perfect that I thought the UP writer was, all the things I could not be because I had studied in the wrong school and didn’t know “life.” So, to learn, I took up a writing seminar in Padre Faura under Leonard Casper who was the resident UP professor then. Franz was my classmate as well as other professors.

I don’t know if Franz liked my stories because I never did take up a class under him and get a grade. But I do know from my scrapbooks that my stories improved considerably after I met Franz. Inspired, I began to win a few prizes. I wrote a number of stories for Franz and about him which did not carry a shred of truth and so were never associated with him (like A Secret Aging, parts of People in the War, The Dust Monster). I just wanted to capture feelings. I think the only thing that’s similar between this National Artist and me is that we were both romantics. We could create endless castles in the air and make love stories out of nothing.

He was fond of his children. The precious few times I saw him after that he was always talking about the ten little ones—Beth and Mai and Juaniyo. He said he drove Mai to school every day because he wanted to feel needed. He was beginning to get old.

Ten years ago during Danny Dalena’s wedding Franz and I had an accidental heart-to-heart talk. He said he was still unhappy about the world and his life. He was still a walking tragedy. I told him to stop being such a fiction writer, always inventing misery in his life and sometimes about his wife. He said “Because I’m dying inside.” So I reminded him that in the sixties he was already saying that he was dying inside. He smiled and his eyes twinkled. “It’s the longest dying scene,” he said.

After that he knew I was on to his drama and he admitted that Emmy was indeed the only, and best possible mate for a romantic like him.
And I know it’s true, because his and my generation are now old. I know we have married the best possible mates but we’re romantic so we complain and complain. We say we can’t stand them, but we can’t live without them, which could be just another definition of love.

Many people love you, Franz, because you’re so human. You hurt and you bleed. All the time. I think you are a very beautiful man. I just wanted to tell you that.

Franz by Dr. Francisco Nemenzo
Tribute to a Writer and Teacher by Cristina Hidalgo
The realest Franz by Jose Dalisay
For Francisco Arcellana, National Artist by Gilda Cordero-Fernando
Memories of Franz by Marra PL Lanot

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