The last message

My friend Jopee Valencia-Gueco sent me a couple of text messages that confirmed I was finally back in Manila, tired and groggy perhaps, but definitely happy to be home.

She wrote, "Tell me abt the wedding. m sure u hv lots of stories. We should c each other on your BIRTHDAY!"

When I replied in the affirmative, she again wrote, "Wowie…ok your bday is next Sat. Where do we eat?"

I laughed at the last sentence because that’s what most of us seemed to be concerned about: Where (and what) to eat. Who was it who said that Filipinos always find a good excuse to eat, and the occasion becomes only secondary – frivolous, in fact?

A few minutes passed and another message appeared on my cell phone. It was from Jopee’s sister, Evelyne. She wrote, "Are you busy? I need to talk to you. I have sad news."

My heart gave a start, a warning of impending gloom. I texted Evelyne back, "I’ll call you NOW."

Evelyne lifted the receiver on the first ring. In a sober tone she said, "Lets, Jundy is dead, and Jopee doesn’t know about it yet."

I gasped in disbelief. "Oh no! Jopee was just texting me, and she was so happy. What are we going to do?"

Evelyne replied, "You must go to her house and be there when we break the news to her or maybe even tell her yourself if I can’t be there fast enough. You’re closer in distance than I am."

In the car, my mind was in a whirl. Jopee lost her youngest son about five years ago, just after the 9/11 tragedy – and now this? I recalled what Jopee once told me in jest: "I warned Jundy to live long and healthy because I don’t want to bury another son." It was a mild scolding from an anxious mother.

Jopee’s house was far, and it gave me time to rehearse what I might say without hopefully arousing her suspicion sooner than we wanted. I could say, "Ah, Jopee, I happened to be in the vicinity so I thought I’d drop by…." (Nah. Reject, reject. Pronto, hello? You live 30 kilometers away from Jopee. She’d definitely sense it.) What if I said, "Hi, Jopee! I just came from the memorial park to lay flowers on the tombs of Nanay and Itay and thought I’d drop by and say hello…" (Are you nuts? All Saints’ Day and All Souls’ Day had come and gone.)

There was no easy way to break the news to her, I realized. I needed heaven’s help fast: "Please, please God, let someone else break the news to Jopee. I would be a total wreck even before I could find my voice." Just then, my cell phone beeped. It was another message from Evelyne, "Jopee already knows, (cousin) Mike told her. Please proceed direct to her house."

My heart calmed a bit only to be pierced by a fresh, deep cut. I am a mother and yet I feel I cannot grasp the depth of my friend’s shock and sorrow. Who would?

When I entered the house, Jopee was hooked to her ventilator and she was on the phone trying to establish some order everywhere, anywhere. She was trying to arrange the funeral. From the body of Jundy being flown to Manila to choosing the memorial plan to fixing something in the kitchen to feed the droves of friends and relatives who were already showing up, offering sympathy or simply to be there.

Seeing familiar faces anesthetized Jopee. We tried to make light of her great loss (was that ever possible?) and she’d laugh along. She’d let out a deep sigh and strike her chest, almost like a primeval, instinctive attempt to jumpstart a heart that had been dulled by grief, if not drained of life already. Once, she even turned towards me, pleading to me to help her see past her tears. I could only rub her arm, her back and hold her tight. Goodness, why did I feel so useless?

My daughter texted me: "How’s Tita Jopee taking it?"

I replied: "As well as can be expected."

The following nights, at the vigil, she sat calmly, well-coiffed and impeccably dressed and always ready to wrap her arms around every person who came to condole her. For a moment I thought that the roles had been reversed. Jopee was consoling us?

One night, a young man stood in front of the casket and began to sob uncontrollably. Jopee approached him and asked, "Are you a classmate of Jundy?"

The man replied, "No, Ma’am, I am the executive chef of one of the major hotels close to the Bay Area. I owed everything I know to your son."

Jopee was startled and asked, "Oh, are you also a graduate of CCA (California Culinary Academy )?"

The man shook his head, and said, "No, Ma’am, I used to be a janitor. Your son saw the potential in me and did not hesitate to teach me everything he knew about cooking."

Jopee got the surprise of her life. In the succeeding days, she was beguiled by stories of Jundy’s humor, his infectious and gung-ho attitude, his we-can-do-it-okay-lang-yan thumbs-up exuberance, his willingness to share his time, talent and passion with friends, colleagues, mentors and icons in the food industry, and his ceaseless love for his family, particularly for his mother. On a higher, more personal level, he was the best friend, lover, confidante and pillar of strength to the woman of his dreams, Pia, his wife.

His godfather Mike Valencia spoke of how Jundy always weighed matters, treading softly and cautiously and thinking hard before making his decisions. Hmm… This made Mike’s role as a mentor and counsel a piece of cake? (Here I go again, making reference to food).

I was his godmother, but Jundy never sought my advice. Maybe, in good humor, Jundy thought that I needed more protecting than anyone else given my tiny and delicate frame. On bare foot, if I stood next to Jundy, he was the jolly green giant and I was the miniscule pea.

At the vigil, I noticed young men dressed in chef’s uniforms mingling with other colleagues in the food and service industry. Every night, there was a sumptuous buffet prepared by the restaurants where Jundy had served as food consultant. Every night was a feast.

Every time we came across a dish that had the right mixture of flavor and spices with Jundy’s own culinary magic, we felt a surge of pride for this big hunk of a man. Jundy was lucky to have reached the peak of his potential and served it up on a silver plate. Unwittingly, we were honoring Jundy’s philosophy: Life is a banquet to celebrate with fond remembrance and warm laughter.

And everybody laughed and sang and thought of Jundy as just a blink away, whistling in his warm kitchen, cooking and planning another full-course meal. More importantly, Jundy kept his music inside of him.

To Pia, to Jopee and Eddie and Mymy, there is comfort in the thought that Jundy had indeed been "called by the Almighty Executive Chef to the big buffet in the sky to feast with Him and his brother, Jody, in eternity."

Someday, in God’s right time, I will probably tap Jundy on his shoulder and ask, "Hey, Godson, whaddya got cooking for your godmother this time?" He’ll laugh and say, "It’s heavenly, Tita."

A passage from Dostoyevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov came to my mind: "In sorrow, seek happiness."

Look up, Jopee. You now have two chef angels in heaven.