Ilustrado Part 1

Il.u.s.tRADO.

by MIGUEL SYJUCO.

PROLOGUE.

The Panther lurks no longer in foreign shadows-he's come home to rest. Crispin Salvador's fitting epitaph, by his request, is merely his name.

-from an unattributed obituary, The Philippine Sun The Philippine Sun, February 12, 2002.

When the author's life of literature and exile reached its unscheduled terminus that anonymous February morning, he was close to completing the controversial book we'd all been waiting for.

His body, floating in the Hudson, had been hooked by a Chinese fisherman. His arms, battered, open to a virginal dawn: Christlike, one blog back home reported, sarcastically. Ratty-banded briefs and Ermenegildo Zegna trousers were pulled around his ankles. Both shoes lost. A crown of blood embellished the high forehead smashed by crowbar or dock pile or chunk of frozen river.

That afternoon, as if in a dream, I stood in the brittle cold, outside the yellow police tape surrounding the entrance of my dead mentor's West Village apartment. The rumors were already milling: the NYPD had found the home in disarray; plainclothes detectives filled many evidence bags with strange items; neighbors reported having heard shouts into the night; the old lady next door said her cat had refused to come out from under the bed. The cat, she emphasized, was a black one.

Investigators quickly declared there was no evidence of foul play. You may recall seeing the case in the news, though the coverage was short-lived in the months following September 11, 2001. Only much later, during lulls in the news cycle, was Salvador mentioned at any length in the Western media-a short feature in the arts section of The New York Times The New York Times,* a piece in a piece in Le Monde Le Monde on anticolonial expatriates who lived in Paris, and a negligible reference at the end of a on anticolonial expatriates who lived in Paris, and a negligible reference at the end of a Village Voice Village Voice article about famous New York suicides. article about famous New York suicides. After that, nothing. After that, nothing.

At home in the Philippines, however, Salvador's sudden silencing was immediately autopsied by both sides of the political divide. Both The Philippine Gazette The Philippine Gazette and the and the Sun Sun traded blows with Salvador's own traded blows with Salvador's own Manila Times Manila Times, debating the author's literary, and indeed social, significance to our weary country. The Times Times, of course, declared their dead columnist the waylaid hope of a culture's literary renaissance. The Gazette Gazette argued that Salvador was not "an authentic Filipino writer," because he wrote mostly in English and was not "browned by the same sun as the ma.s.ses." The argued that Salvador was not "an authentic Filipino writer," because he wrote mostly in English and was not "browned by the same sun as the ma.s.ses." The Sun Sun said Salvador was too middling to merit murder. Suicide, each of the three papers concluded, was a fitting resolution. said Salvador was too middling to merit murder. Suicide, each of the three papers concluded, was a fitting resolution.

When news emerged of the missing ma.n.u.script, every side discarded any remaining equipoise. The legend of the unfinished book had persisted for over two decades, and its loss reverberated more than its author's death. Online, the blogosphere grew gleeful with conjecture as to its whereabouts. The literati, the career journalists foremost among them, abandoned all objectivity. Many doubted the ma.n.u.script's existence in the first place. The few who believed it was real dismissed it as both a social and personal poison. Almost everyone agreed that it was tied to Crispin's fate. And so, each trivial tidbit dredged up during the death investigation took on significance. Gossip cycloned among the writing community that Salvador's pipe was found by the police, its contents still smoking. A rumor circulated that he long ago fathered and abandoned a child, and he'd been maddened by a lifetime of guilt. One reputable blog, in an entry t.i.tled "a.n.u.s Horribilis," claimed extra-virgin olive oil was found leaking out of the corpse's r.e.c.t.u.m. Another blog surmised that Salvador was not dead at all: "Dead or alive," wrote Plaridel3000, "who would know the difference?" None among Salvador's colleagues and acquaintances-he had real no friends-questioned the suicide verdict. After two weeks of conjecture, everyone was happy to forget the whole thing.

I was unconvinced. No one knew what I knew. His great comeback was scuppered; the masterpiece that would return him to the pantheon was bafflingly misplaced and the dead weight of controversy buried in his casket. The only remaining certainty was the ritual clutter inherited by those left behind-files to be boxed, boxes to be filled, a life's worth of stuff not intended as rubbish to be thrown out for Monday morning pickup. I just about ransacked his apartment searching for the ma.n.u.script of The Bridges Ablaze. The Bridges Ablaze. I knew it was real. I had witnessed him typing away at it at his desk. He had spoken of it, puckishly, on many occasions. "The reason for my long exile is so that I could be free to write I knew it was real. I had witnessed him typing away at it at his desk. He had spoken of it, puckishly, on many occasions. "The reason for my long exile is so that I could be free to write TBA TBA," Salvador had said, that first time, spitting out the bones of chicken feet we were eating in a subterranean Mott Street restaurant. "Don't you think there are things that need to be finally said? I want to lift the veil that conceals the evil. Expose them on the steps of the temple. Truly, all those responsible. The pork-barrel trad-pols. The air-conditioned Forbes Park aristocracy. The aspirational kleptocrats who forget their origins. The bishop.r.i.c.ks and their canting church. Even you and me. Let's all eat that cake." But what remained of the ma.n.u.script was only crumbs: the t.i.tle page and a couple of loose leaves scrawled with bullet points, found sandwiched and forgotten in his disintegrating Roget's Thesaurus Roget's Thesaurus. Missing was twenty years of work-a glacial accretion of research and writing-unknotting and unraveling the generations-long ties of the Filipino elite to cronyism, illegal logging, gambling, kidnapping, corruption, along with their related component sins. "All of humanity's crimes," Salvador said, spitting a bone atop the pyramidal pile in his bowl, "are only degrees of theft."

I, of course, believe the conspicuous lack of clues is stranger than the disarray of the domestic scene from which he was mysteriously absented. Ockham's razor is chipped. Every bone in my body recoils at the notion Salvador killed himself. Walking through his apartment afterward, I saw his viridian Underwood typewriter loaded, c.o.c.ked, and ready with a fresh blank page; the objects on his desk arranged in antic.i.p.ation of writing. How could he have brought himself to the river without pa.s.sing his conscience reflected in that Venetian mirror in the hall? He would have seen there was still so much to do.

To end his own life, Salvador was neither courageous nor cowardly enough. The only explanation is that the Panther of Philippine Letters was murdered in midpounce. But no b.l.o.o.d.y candelabrum has been found. Only ambiguous hints in what remains of his ma.n.u.script. Among the two pages of notes, these names: the industrialist Dingdong Changco, Jr.; the literary critic Marcel Avellaneda; the first Muslim leader of the opposition, Nuredin Bansamoro; the charismatic preacher Reverend Martin; and a certain Dulcinea.

That you may not remember Salvador's name attests to the degree of his abysmal nadir. Yet during his two-decades-long zenith, his work came to exemplify a national literature even as it unceasingly tried to shudder off the yoke of representation. He set Philippine letters alight and carried its luminescence to the rest of the world. Lewis Jones of The Guardian The Guardian once wrote: "Mr. Salvador's prose, belied by the rococo lyricism and overenthusiastic lists of descriptions, presents a painfully honest picture of the psychosocial brutality, actual physical violence and hubris so acute in his home country ... His vital works will prove timeless." once wrote: "Mr. Salvador's prose, belied by the rococo lyricism and overenthusiastic lists of descriptions, presents a painfully honest picture of the psychosocial brutality, actual physical violence and hubris so acute in his home country ... His vital works will prove timeless."*

In its efflorescence, Salvador's life projected genius and intellectual brazenness, a penchant for iconoclasm, and an aspiration to unsparing honesty during obfuscated times. He was, even until his death, touted as "the next big thing"-a description he could never transcend. "From the early age of self-consciousness, I was told I'd been gifted gifts," he wrote in his memoir Autoplagiarist Autoplagiarist. "I spent the rest of my life living up to expectations, imposed by others but more so by myself." "I spent the rest of my life living up to expectations, imposed by others but more so by myself."

Such pressure, and a strong belief in living a life worth writing about, led him through many roles and adventures. His autobiography read so much like a who's who of artistic and political icons that readers wondered whether it was fiction. "I've lived nearly all my nine lives," Salvador wrote. His work borrowed liberally from and embellished each of those lives: his upbringing as the son of a sugar plantation owner, the sentimental education in Europe, Mediterranean evenings spent womanizing with Porfirio Rubirosa or drinking zivania with Lawrence Durrell, the meteoric fame from his scoops as a cub reporter, training with communist guerrillas in the jungles of Luzon, the argument with the Marcoses during dinner at Malacanang Palace. The group of influential artists Salvador co-founded, the Cinco Bravos, dominated the Philippine arts scene for years. Yet it was the internecine intensities of the local literati that gossiped Salvador's life into chimerical proportions. Among the stories: he gave Marcel Avellaneda that scar on his face during a duel with b.u.t.terfly knives; he drunkenly, though surrept.i.tiously, vomited in the seafood chowder bowl at a George Plimpton garden party in East Hampton; he danced a naked moonlit tango at Yaddo, with, depending on who is telling the story, Germaine Greer, Virgie Moreno, or a dressmaker's dummy on casters; Salvador was even said to have insulted conductor Georg Solti after a performance at the Palais Garnier (it's alleged he shook the maestro's hand and chummily called him "a smidge off at the start of the second movement of Rach Two." Note: I've been unable to confirm that Solti ever conducted the Second Piano Concerto at the Garnier).

Salvador's early work-most agree-possessed a remarkable moral vigor. Upon his return from Europe in 1963, he began building his name with reportage focusing on the plight of the poor-producing subversive stories famously at odds with his father's philosophy of political toadyism as a means to the greatest social good. In 1968, Salvador declared his international literary ambitions with the publication of his first novel, Lupang Pula Lupang Pula ( (Red Earth).* The story of the charismatic Manuel Samson, a farmer who joins the communist Huk Rebellion of 1946 to 1954, the book earned some acclaim and was later translated for publication in Cuba and the Soviet Union. (Salvador's true first novel, The story of the charismatic Manuel Samson, a farmer who joins the communist Huk Rebellion of 1946 to 1954, the book earned some acclaim and was later translated for publication in Cuba and the Soviet Union. (Salvador's true first novel, The Enlightened The Enlightened,* released in the United States three years earlier, won prizes before it was published but could not live up to the fairy-tale hype. About his grandfather's role in the 1896 Philippine Revolution and the subsequent war against American invaders, it was a work Salvador hoped would be forgotten. He once told me his portrayal of his grandfather had created "shoes too big for me to fill.") released in the United States three years earlier, won prizes before it was published but could not live up to the fairy-tale hype. About his grandfather's role in the 1896 Philippine Revolution and the subsequent war against American invaders, it was a work Salvador hoped would be forgotten. He once told me his portrayal of his grandfather had created "shoes too big for me to fill.") Despite his having been unanimously awarded the Manila Press Club's coveted Mango de Oro Trophy for his expose of police brutality during the Culatingan Ma.s.sacre, it was the young writer's milestone essay in the January 17, 1969, edition of The Philippines Free Press The Philippines Free Press, t.i.tled "It's Hard to Love a Feminist," which incited uproarious controversy. To his own surprise, the attention thrust him into the consciousness of Philippine pop culture. Radio talk shows nationwide carried his voice, its studied enunciations characteristically losing form and rising in pitch when excited; television screens bore the images of his lanky frame seated insouciantly with a leg tucked beneath him, black pomaded hair parted severely, finger wagging at the other members of the panel discussion-a grab bag of effeminate academic men and thick-waisted female activists. He energetically debated with feminists on the television and radio, delivering froths of invectives that at times required intervention by the host. Salvador justified his work as "not chauvinistic, but realistic for a poor country with greater betes noires than those raised at that recent symposium, 'Changing His Hisstory into Her Herstory.'" In October 1969, in the same magazine, Salvador published an essay, "Why Would a Loving G.o.d Make Us Fart?" This earned him the ire of the Catholic Church and further enshrined his intellectual infamy.

Salvador left Manila in 1972, a day before Marcos declared martial law. He hoped to make a name for himself in New York City, but success there was more coy than he would have liked, or was used to. He lived in h.e.l.l's Kitchen, in a coldwater studio "so sordid even the buzzing neon sign outside my window no longer lighted up." To make ends meet he took a job at the Pet.i.te and Sweet Bakeshop in Greenwich Village. At night he wrote short stories, some of them finding print in small magazines like Strike, Brother! Strike, Brother! and and The Humdrum Conundrum. The Humdrum Conundrum. His next milestone came with publication in the March 12, 1973, issue of His next milestone came with publication in the March 12, 1973, issue of The New Yorker The New Yorker, of the short story "Matador," a piece reportedly "not disliked" by the magazine's editor, William Shawn, but pointedly chosen for its relevance to the ongoing war in Vietnam. An allegory about the toll of neocolonialism, "Matador" drew on Salvador's experiences as a banderillero in Barcelona during his youth, presenting the United States as the matador and the Philippines as the brave but ultimately doomed bull named Pitoy Gigante.* After this success, Salvador had hoped closed doors would open, but his agent and publisher queries returned slowly, each demurring, though expressing interest if he should happen to have a novel. He started work on a new ma.n.u.script. A book attempting to provide a vivisection of loneliness, it was to be based on the unwitnessed drowning of a close friend and the effect the death had on the Salvador family. After this success, Salvador had hoped closed doors would open, but his agent and publisher queries returned slowly, each demurring, though expressing interest if he should happen to have a novel. He started work on a new ma.n.u.script. A book attempting to provide a vivisection of loneliness, it was to be based on the unwitnessed drowning of a close friend and the effect the death had on the Salvador family.

In May of 1973, Salvador fell into a tempestuous relations.h.i.+p with Anita Ilyich, a Belarusian ballerina, disco queen, and early advocate of the swinging lifestyle. One stormy autumn morning following a party at The Loft, the couple, each of them reportedly under the influence of one too many gimlets and Quaaludes, had a jealous and theatrical fight there on Broadway in front of David Mancuso's apartment building. Salvador, convinced it was "just another one of those tiffs," returned to their home after a palliative walk to find his possessions dumped on the sidewalk to soak. Among his stuff were the translucent pulpy pages of his nearly completed novel.

That afternoon, Salvador quit New York for Paris, a city he'd frequented during his university studies. He swore off both women and literature, settled in a leaky chambre de bonne chambre de bonne in the Marais, and worked as an a.s.sistant to a pastry chef's a.s.sistant. Soon after, he broke his vow to teetotal the comforts of the softer s.e.x, but it would be two full years before he returned to literature. Ultimately, both poverty and his restless spirit brought him back to writing in the summer of 1975; he took freelance a.s.signments for in the Marais, and worked as an a.s.sistant to a pastry chef's a.s.sistant. Soon after, he broke his vow to teetotal the comforts of the softer s.e.x, but it would be two full years before he returned to literature. Ultimately, both poverty and his restless spirit brought him back to writing in the summer of 1975; he took freelance a.s.signments for The Manila Times The Manila Times and and The The International Herald Tribune International Herald Tribune and began work on what would become his popular and began work on what would become his popular Europa Quartet Europa Quartet ( (Jour, Night Night, Vida Vida, and Amore Amore).* Written one after the other between 1976 and 1978, the quartet follows the life of a young mestizo gadabout in 1950s Paris, London, Barcelona, and Florence. It was a hit with housewives in three countries. Written one after the other between 1976 and 1978, the quartet follows the life of a young mestizo gadabout in 1950s Paris, London, Barcelona, and Florence. It was a hit with housewives in three countries.

b.u.t.tressed by new success, Salvador returned periodically to the Philippines to undertake research, appear on panel discussions, stump for election campaigns, and work with other artists. In 1978, he began "War & p.i.s.s," his long-running weekly column in The Manila Times. The Manila Times. His recently out-of-print travel guide, His recently out-of-print travel guide, My Philippine Islands (with 80 color plates) My Philippine Islands (with 80 color plates), despite its unabashed subjectivity, was described by despite its unabashed subjectivity, was described by Publishers Weekly Publishers Weekly as "the definitive book on the Philippines [ as "the definitive book on the Philippines [sic] people ... entertaining and brave, chock-full of vivid anecdotes infused with a local's intimate knowledge ... It situates the tropical country in the context of the rest of the world, retrieving it from the isolation and exoticization it is oftentimes suffered to endure." Later, in 1982, Salvador published Phili-Where? Phili-Where?, a satirical travel guidebook that charted his country's fall from "gateway to Asia" and proud U.S. colony to a plutocracy ruled by an "incontinent despot." The book was banned in the Philippines by the Marcos regime and thereupon enjoyed decent sales abroad. a satirical travel guidebook that charted his country's fall from "gateway to Asia" and proud U.S. colony to a plutocracy ruled by an "incontinent despot." The book was banned in the Philippines by the Marcos regime and thereupon enjoyed decent sales abroad.

The 1980s-the decade of global stock market greed, of beehived matrons meeting for weekly Jane Fonda workouts, of Corazon Aquino's People Power Revolution-was a new dawn for the Philippines. It was in that climate of moral contrasts that Salvador finally found the respect for which he'd intensely yearned. He published widely and often. His career peaked in 1987 with the publication of Dahil Sa'Yo Dahil Sa'Yo ( (Because of You), an epic account of the Marcos dictators.h.i.+p that included a pointed indictment of the opportunistic cronies responsible for the couple's rise and fall, epitomized by Ding-dong Changco, Jr. an epic account of the Marcos dictators.h.i.+p that included a pointed indictment of the opportunistic cronies responsible for the couple's rise and fall, epitomized by Ding-dong Changco, Jr.* Salvador re-created the tumultuous era through a mixture of press clippings, radio and TV transcripts, allegories, myths, letters, and vignettes from the various points of view of characters, factual and fictional, intended to represent Filipinos from all walks of life. The book spent two weeks at the bottom of the Salvador re-created the tumultuous era through a mixture of press clippings, radio and TV transcripts, allegories, myths, letters, and vignettes from the various points of view of characters, factual and fictional, intended to represent Filipinos from all walks of life. The book spent two weeks at the bottom of the New York Times New York Times bestseller list; it was reprinted three times and translated into twelve languages. It earned acclaim abroad, and therefore also in the Philippines, and placed him on the long list for the 1988 n.o.bel Prize in Literature (he thereafter often said: "I'm the first and only Filipino to be in contention for a little award called the n.o.bel Prize for Literature"). bestseller list; it was reprinted three times and translated into twelve languages. It earned acclaim abroad, and therefore also in the Philippines, and placed him on the long list for the 1988 n.o.bel Prize in Literature (he thereafter often said: "I'm the first and only Filipino to be in contention for a little award called the n.o.bel Prize for Literature"). The award went to Naguib Mahfouz. The award went to Naguib Mahfouz.

Salvador, like other prolific writers of extraordinary breadth and reach, was well acquainted with such disappointments, as exemplified by the various publications that made the literati doubt his abilities. Critics consistently judged the less successful works to be long-winded, messianic, or derivative. (Avellaneda called his oeuvre "a dirty cistern filled with feces that has not been well formed. Objectively speaking, it's the sort of c.r.a.p that sparks fears of outbreaks of amoebic dysentery.") The most memorable of these unmemorable works were: the 43,950-word essay Tao Tao ( (People), which Salvador meant as "a catalog and homage to the glorious diversity of our race, our rich customs, and our beautiful women"; which Salvador meant as "a catalog and homage to the glorious diversity of our race, our rich customs, and our beautiful women"; Filipiniana Filipiniana, an ambitious but idiosyncratic survey of Philippine literature in English, which included most of Salvador's short works, but only one each from other writers; and an early book-length epic poem about Magellan's cartographer and translator, Antonio Pigafetta, ent.i.tled an ambitious but idiosyncratic survey of Philippine literature in English, which included most of Salvador's short works, but only one each from other writers; and an early book-length epic poem about Magellan's cartographer and translator, Antonio Pigafetta, ent.i.tled Scholarly Plunder Scholarly Plunder. Attempts to justify the latter in 1982 by transforming it into Attempts to justify the latter in 1982 by transforming it into All Around the World All Around the World, a disco opera, resulted in bankrupting failure.

What irked Salvador most-more even than Avellaneda calling his life abroad "a metaphor for an anonymous death"-was the critics' claim that Because of You Because of You was his literary swan song. And so began whispers about an epic book that had been in the works since the early 1980s: was his literary swan song. And so began whispers about an epic book that had been in the works since the early 1980s: The Bridges Ablaze The Bridges Ablaze. But what Salvador published next surprised the country, establis.h.i.+ng him as a much-read writer but giving credence to what local books columnists called his "flimsy literary prowess." Manila Noir Manila Noir,* the most popular of his crime novels, presented Antonio Astig, a swashbuckling mystery author investigating Jack the Ripperstyle killings of pretty women from shantytowns (the real-life murders were a sensation in 1986 and '87: the police investigation was regarded as a sham and the murderer rumored to be a prominent "confirmed bachelor" politician). the most popular of his crime novels, presented Antonio Astig, a swashbuckling mystery author investigating Jack the Ripperstyle killings of pretty women from shantytowns (the real-life murders were a sensation in 1986 and '87: the police investigation was regarded as a sham and the murderer rumored to be a prominent "confirmed bachelor" politician). The b.l.o.o.d.y Sea The b.l.o.o.d.y Sea, a five-hundred-page rip-roaring nautical saga set in the Philippines of the 1500s, pitted the dastardly Chinese pirate Limahong against the das.h.i.+ng Spanish captain Juan de Salcedo, and proved to be amazingly successful at home and in Britain. (The book, along with rumors of a sequel and prequel, fueled, to Salvador's delight, public disdain from Patrick O'Brian.) And aiming to reach younger Filipinos, Salvador wrote the a five-hundred-page rip-roaring nautical saga set in the Philippines of the 1500s, pitted the dastardly Chinese pirate Limahong against the das.h.i.+ng Spanish captain Juan de Salcedo, and proved to be amazingly successful at home and in Britain. (The book, along with rumors of a sequel and prequel, fueled, to Salvador's delight, public disdain from Patrick O'Brian.) And aiming to reach younger Filipinos, Salvador wrote the Kaputol Kaputol ( (Siblings) trilogy, trilogy, a magic-infused offshoot of the YA tradition of Franklin W. Dixon. Following the adventures and coming of age of Dulce, the tomboyish leader of a group of young boys in martial lawera Quezon City, the trilogy became his most enduring work, remembered and loved by a new generation of readers. a magic-infused offshoot of the YA tradition of Franklin W. Dixon. Following the adventures and coming of age of Dulce, the tomboyish leader of a group of young boys in martial lawera Quezon City, the trilogy became his most enduring work, remembered and loved by a new generation of readers.

That period of his life, full of prolificacy but lacking in gravitas, plunged Salvador into a deep depression that made him lash out indiscriminately, though his behavior during both defeat and success had long elicited eager mockery. His mania for collecting subjected him to accusations of being "a closet bourgeois." He famously wrote letters in purple ink, in grandiose longhand. With the advent of e-mail, to which he took early with extreme enthusiasm, he began sending long tirades to newspapers-intent on skirting the judgment of the editors of his column at The Manila Times The Manila Times-placing in his crosshairs such targets as our cultural crab mentality, or the hope that expatriate Filipinos will help rather than abandon their country, or the bad service at the Aristocrat restaurant and how in such an old inst.i.tution it represented the pa.s.sing of a more genteel society. The periodicals refused to run his missives, so he collected and self-published them in the book All the News the Papers Are Afraid to Print All the News the Papers Are Afraid to Print.* Salvador's fastidiousness of manner also opened him to rumors of h.o.m.os.e.xuality, yet he was criticized for being a womanizer "with the lascivious energy usually found in defrocked clergymen." And he could never live down his 1991 TV commercial which showed him being served lunch in a book-lined study, shaking a cruet over his food before turning to the camera to deliver the now immortal words: "Silver Swan Soy Sauce, the educated choice." Salvador's fastidiousness of manner also opened him to rumors of h.o.m.os.e.xuality, yet he was criticized for being a womanizer "with the lascivious energy usually found in defrocked clergymen." And he could never live down his 1991 TV commercial which showed him being served lunch in a book-lined study, shaking a cruet over his food before turning to the camera to deliver the now immortal words: "Silver Swan Soy Sauce, the educated choice."

On June 2, 1994, Salvador held a book launch at La Solidaridad Bookstore in Manila. The event had been wrapped in secrecy, and excited literary watchers expected The Bridges Ablaze The Bridges Ablaze. Salvador instead unveiled Autoplagiarist Autoplagiarist, yet another self-published book, a memoir that refracted through his life's story a history of the Philippines from the start of the Second World War to the end of the millennium. The 2,572-page volume, perhaps the most ambitious and certainly the most personal of his books, won him angry responses. One local critic said: "The Oedipal impulse was so ambrosial, [Salvador] f.u.c.ked his father and killed his mother." Another said: "Dear old Crispin might have done better had he put his money where his mouth is and cleaned up Smokey Mountain [garbage dump]." Abroad, Salvador's literary agent could not sell Autoplagiarist Autoplagiarist to publishers, and even ultimately terminated their professional affiliation. Worst of all, the memoir's frankness destroyed what had long been a tenuous relations.h.i.+p with his family and friends at home. Salvador was suddenly a true exile. "You're lucky your parents are dead," he once told me. "The people who love you," he said, while moving his bishop to take my queen, "will only see their deficiencies in your work. That's the strength of good writing and the weakness of the human ego. Love and honesty don't mix. To be an honest writer, you have to be away from home, and totally alone in life." to publishers, and even ultimately terminated their professional affiliation. Worst of all, the memoir's frankness destroyed what had long been a tenuous relations.h.i.+p with his family and friends at home. Salvador was suddenly a true exile. "You're lucky your parents are dead," he once told me. "The people who love you," he said, while moving his bishop to take my queen, "will only see their deficiencies in your work. That's the strength of good writing and the weakness of the human ego. Love and honesty don't mix. To be an honest writer, you have to be away from home, and totally alone in life."

The cut ties saw Salvador settle permanently in New York, and inexorably into a period of deep silence. He dropped his newspaper column. He gave up writing. That he became well known as a teacher attests to his oh-so-very-Filipino resilience. As he said in "War & p.i.s.s" on many an occasion: "If life gives you lemons, have your maid make some lemonade."

Much of his life was apocryphal, so it may well be that this next bit was, too. Shortly after clipping the last review panning Autoplagiarist Autoplagiarist and pasting it into an alb.u.m, Salvador went out by the Hudson River and burned the sc.r.a.pbook, along with his diaries, in a public trash receptacle. It was in the wee hours of a summer night. Two policemen happened upon him while he was relieving himself into the conflagration. "I'm just trying to put it out," he told them. Salvador was taken downtown and charged with misdemeanors for drunkenness and public urination. The event was somehow reported in the Manila papers and elicited the habitual snickers from those who remembered him. and pasting it into an alb.u.m, Salvador went out by the Hudson River and burned the sc.r.a.pbook, along with his diaries, in a public trash receptacle. It was in the wee hours of a summer night. Two policemen happened upon him while he was relieving himself into the conflagration. "I'm just trying to put it out," he told them. Salvador was taken downtown and charged with misdemeanors for drunkenness and public urination. The event was somehow reported in the Manila papers and elicited the habitual snickers from those who remembered him.

But it was in that fire, Salvador later told me, that he rediscovered what it is like to be intoxicated by your own anger, to find the solace of destruction. The following morning saw him returned to his desk with frightening intensity. He had retrieved, from a locked drawer, the three black cardboard boxes containing the unfinished ma.n.u.script of The Bridges Ablaze The Bridges Ablaze.

At the end of the first week of last February, Salvador left for home. The purpose of the visit, his first in years, was for him to accept the Dingdong Changco, Sr., Memorial National Literary Lifetime Recognition Prize, or, as it is widely known, the DCSMNLLR Prize. The afternoon he arrived in Manila, Salvador ate a late lunch at the Aristocrat restaurant before going to their comfort room to change clothes. In front of the mirror, he adjusted the collar of his formal barong and practiced his speech. Outside it was raining heavily, and he took a taxi to the Cultural Center of the Philippines. The audience was composed of the old guard, mostly members and officers of PALS, the Philippine Arts and Letters Society. They leaned back in their plastic mon.o.bloc chairs, smirking magnanimously, faces serene and satisfied, as if at a much-awaited funeral. (The DCSMNLLR Prize is historically given to writers at the end of their careers.) Salvador bounded up the steps onto the stage, shook hands, posed for a picture with PALS deputy vice president Furio Almondo, and stepped to the podium. He looked admiringly at his gold medal-an ornately filigreed circle made of sterling silver. He poured himself a gla.s.s of water and drank it. Finally, he spoke. "Literature," he declared, "is an ethical leap. It is a moral decision. A perilous exercise in constant failure. Literature should have grievances, because there are so many grievances in the world. Let us speak frankly, because we're all peers here. Your grievances with me are because you say I have failed. Though I only failed because I extended myself further than what any of you have ever attempted." The boos and jeers came suddenly, then peaked savagely, as at a crucifixion. "I accept this award," Salvador continued, shouting to be heard, "ahead of what I will achieve. Next year, I will publish my long-awaited book. Then you will see the truth of our shared guilt." The boos and jeers turned into laughter. "History is changed by martyrs who tell the tru-" The microphone was disconnected.

The author walked through the audience and out of the CCP building. When there was n.o.body to see him, he began to run, splas.h.i.+ng headlong into the torrential rain. He caught a flight out that evening-just missing the unseasonable supertyphoon that would flood vast swaths of the city-and returned to New York via Narita, Detroit, and Newark. I saw him the morning of his arrival, the day before Valentine's Day, when I rushed to his apartment on the pretense of dropping off a folderful of students' essays from his missed cla.s.ses. He was seated in his study, bedraggled but radiant, banging away at his typewriter. It sounded like machine-gun fire. He had not even bothered to change out of his ruined barong. Beside him, there it was: yesterday's Philippine Sun Philippine Sun, turned to the deaths and births page. Though the paper's website had run an erratum, blaming an intern for accidentally running Crispin's from their stock of prepared obituaries, you could almost hear the self-satisfied chuckles swooping in on the westerly tradewinds. I didn't know how Crispin had taken it, so I asked if he'd had a good flight. And what had got him all fired up. Crispin smiled at me brightly. "Death," he said, "in Manila. I apparently have nothing more to lose."

That was the second-to-the-last time I saw him.

Then silence too soon for one whose most pernicious enemy was silence.

If our greatest fear is to sink away alone and unremembered, the brutality that time will inflict upon each of us will always run stronger than any river's murky waves. This book therefore shoulders the weighty onus of relocating a man's lost life and explores the possible temptations that death will always present. The facts, shattered, are gathered, for your deliberation, like a broken mirror whose final piece has been forced into place.

-Miguel Syjuco, en route to Manila, December 1, 2002

* Natalia Diaz, "Filipino Footnote," Natalia Diaz, "Filipino Footnote," The New York Times The New York Times, May 6, 2002.

Carla Lengelle, "Les guerilleros de Paris: de Ho Chi Minh a Pol Pot," Carla Lengelle, "Les guerilleros de Paris: de Ho Chi Minh a Pol Pot," Le Monde Le Monde, July 22, 2002.

Anton Esteban, "Grand Central Terminus," Anton Esteban, "Grand Central Terminus," The Village Voice The Village Voice, August 15, 2002.

* Lewis Jones, "The Salvador of Philippine Literature," Lewis Jones, "The Salvador of Philippine Literature," The Guardian The Guardian, September 21, 1990.

Crispin Salvador, Crispin Salvador, Autoplagiarist Autoplagiarist (Manila: Pa.s.separtout Publis.h.i.+ng, 1994). (Manila: Pa.s.separtout Publis.h.i.+ng, 1994).

* Lupang Pula Lupang Pula (Manila: People's Press, 1968). (Manila: People's Press, 1968).

* The Enlightened The Enlightened (New York: Farrar, Straus and Cudahy, 1965). (New York: Farrar, Straus and Cudahy, 1965).

* The story is renowned as the first fiction published by a Filipino in the magazine since Carlos Bulosan's "The End of War" in the September 2, 1944, issue. Marcel Avellaneda called "Matador" "over-earnest faux Ernest" and "a chapter edited judiciously from The story is renowned as the first fiction published by a Filipino in the magazine since Carlos Bulosan's "The End of War" in the September 2, 1944, issue. Marcel Avellaneda called "Matador" "over-earnest faux Ernest" and "a chapter edited judiciously from The Sun Also Rises. The Sun Also Rises."

* Jour Jour, Night Night, Vida Vida, and Amore Amore (New York: Grove Press, 19771981). (New York: Grove Press, 19771981).

My Philippine Islands My Philippine Islands (with 80 color plates) (with 80 color plates) (New York: Macmillan, 1980). (New York: Macmillan, 1980).

Phili-Where? Phili-Where? (London: Faber and Faber, 1982). (London: Faber and Faber, 1982).

Because of You Because of You (New York: Random House, 1987). (New York: Random House, 1987).

* Dingdong Changco, Jr., sued for libel. Salvador famously told the court: "Whatever truths you find in my fiction are only universal ones." The book was banned in the Philippines after only 928 copies were sold nationally. Dingdong Changco, Jr., sued for libel. Salvador famously told the court: "Whatever truths you find in my fiction are only universal ones." The book was banned in the Philippines after only 928 copies were sold nationally.

Interview by Clinton Palanca, Interview by Clinton Palanca, The Paris Review The Paris Review, winter 1991.

Tao (People) Tao (People) (Manila: Pa.s.separtout Publis.h.i.+ng, 1988). (Manila: Pa.s.separtout Publis.h.i.+ng, 1988).

Filipiniana Filipiniana (Quezon City: Ateneo de Manila University Press, 1990). (Quezon City: Ateneo de Manila University Press, 1990).

Scholarly Plunder Scholarly Plunder (Manila: Ars Poetika, 1981). (Manila: Ars Poetika, 1981).

*Manila Noir (Quezon City: University of the Philippines Press, 1990). (Quezon City: University of the Philippines Press, 1990).

The b.l.o.o.d.y Sea The b.l.o.o.d.y Sea (London: Chatto & Windus, 1992). (London: Chatto & Windus, 1992).

Kapatid Kapatid, QC Nights QC Nights, and Ay Naku! Ay Naku! (Manila: Adarna House, 19871990). (Manila: Adarna House, 19871990).

* Crispin Salvador, Crispin Salvador, All the News the Papers Are Afraid to Print All the News the Papers Are Afraid to Print (Manila: Pa.s.separtout Publis.h.i.+ng, 1993). (Manila: Pa.s.separtout Publis.h.i.+ng, 1993).

1.

A battered wooden chest in the bedroom, its inlay shedding, its key finally found in a locked desk drawer. Inside: A recent diary (orange suede cover, hand-burnished a smooth caramel [inside: translations, riddles, jokes, poems, notes, other]). First editions (Autoplagiarist, Red Earth Red Earth, The Collected Fictions The Collected Fictions, The Enlightened The Enlightened, et cetera). A dilapidated overnight suitcase (white Bakelite handle; stickers from hotels long shuttered [the lock is forced open with a table knife: the scent of pencil shavings and binding glue, a sheaf of photographs {slouching at the edges}, his sister's childhood diaries held together by a crumbling rubber band, pregnant manila envelopes {transcripts, newspaper clippings, red-marked drafts of stories, official doc.u.ments }, a canvas portfolio {charcoal, graphite, ink sketches }, a battered set of Russian nesting dolls {the innermost missing}, other a.s.sorted miscellany {a Parker Vac.u.matic fountain pen, inherited medals from the Second World War, a lock of amber hair, et cetera}]).

My friend and mentor was quite alive the night before. The door cracked open, only his nose and eye visible. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm sorry." The blue door clicked shut, unapologetically. The dead bolt slid in with a finality I did not at the time recognize. I left and had a bacon cheeseburger without him, irritated by his uncharacteristic rudeness.

What could I have said to him? Should I have forced open the door? Slapped him twice across the face and demanded he tell me what was wrong? Days, weeks later, all the fragments still would not click together. The events seemed unreal, confusing. Some nights I'd tiptoe quietly out of bed, cautious not to wake Madison and risk igniting her anger; I'd sit on the couch, deep in thought until the sky turned lilac. Both suicide and murder seemed like two sides of the same prime-time seduction. In retrospect, this was healthy for me to feel. Cliches remind and rea.s.sure us that we're not alone, that others have trod this ground long ago. Still, I could not understand why the world chose to take the easy way out: to write him off simply, then go home to watch TV shows with complicated plots. Maybe that's the habit of our age.

Then, at four weeks after Crispin's death, I was telephoned by his sister (her voice as thin and pale as a piece of string) and asked to divest his life's possessions; I entered his musty apartment as if it were a crypt.

At four months, I found myself unable to sleep at night; I'd sit and listen to Madison's breathing, thinking, for some reason, of the parents I never got to know, and how I missed Crispin, with his stupid fedora and strong opinions.

At six months, I began Crispin's biography; the long hours in the library, the idea that his life could help me with mine, somehow kept me sane.

At eight months and one week, Madison left me for good; I hoped she'd call but she didn't.

Late in the night of November 15, 2002, nine months to the day after Crispin's death, I was watching my in box for any e-mail from Madison. With a bing, three new messages appeared. The first was from [email protected] It said, in part: "Sharpen your love-sword rubadub soundess. Help that breeds arousal victories. How to last longer making love and have more feelings." The second was from [email protected] It said, in part: "GET DIPLOMA TODAY!If you're looking for a fast way to next level,(non accredited) this is the way out for you." The third e-mail was about to be trashed when I noticed who sent it. The message said, in part: "Dear Sire/Madame ... I was informed by our lawyer, Clupea Rubra, that my daddy, who at the time was government whistleblower and head of family fortune, called him, Clupea Rubra, and conducted him round his flat and show to him three black cardboard boxes. Along the line, my daddy died mysteriously, and Government has been after us, molesting, policing, and freezing our bank accounts. Your heroic a.s.sist is required in replenis.h.i.+ng my father's legacy and masticating his despicable murderers. More information TBA." The sender was I brought up a blank message to respond. I wrote: "Crispin?" The cursor winked at me. I hit "send" and waited.

The next morning, I bought my plane ticket.

See the boy getting on an airplane. He's not a young boy, but a boyish man, as he would describe himself. He sits in his middle seat, notebook open, pen in hand, en route to Manila (I almost wrote "home," he thinks with a smile). It is a trip he hates, both the voyage and arrival. He writes at this moment, "the limbo between outposts of humanity."

As the airplane is towed backward, he thinks of what he is leaving. Thinks of his lost friend and mentor, seated at the typewriter, working away in a slow accrual of letters, words, sentences, puzzling together pieces shed like bread crumbs on the path behind him.

The boy will return, heartbroken, lonely, dejected. His three brothers and two sisters are all abroad, free from home-atop a hill in San Francisco, washed under the big Vancouver sky, hidden amid the joyful noise of New York City. His parents, whom he cannot remember, are in graves he cannot bring himself to visit because he knows their bodies are not there. The grandparents, who raised him as best they could, are in Manila, though he no longer has contact with them because of the emotional violence of their last departure. He is coming home, though he doesn't dare admit it. He knows well what empty houses are and the mischief memories can play when cast among unfamiliar echoes.

In the long hours spent in the airplane, he tries not to think about how his parents died, and therefore that is all he can think of. He flips through the Philippine newspapers, obsessively. He studies his files of notes, clippings, drafts. He unscrews the fountain pen he took from his dead friend's possessions. Tries to write the prologue for Eight Lives Lived Eight Lives Lived, the biography he wants to write about his mentor. He fidgets. Thinks. Observes his fellow pa.s.sengers. Judges everyone, in the traditional Filipino sport of justifying both personal and shared insecurities. He reads some more, searching for a point of reference in a world that has never felt entirely his. He writes some more, trying to explain things to himself. He scribbles an asterisk. reference in a world that has never felt entirely his. He writes some more, trying to explain things to himself. He scribbles an asterisk.

Salvador was born to Leonora Fidelia Salvador in a private room at the Mother of Perpetual Help Hospital in Bacolod. Present were his eight-year-old sister, Magdalena (nicknamed Lena), his six-year-old brother, Narciso the Third (shortened to Narcisito), and their yaya, Ursie (no record of her real name). Their father, Narciso Lupas Salvador II, known to family and friends as Junior, was aboard the De La Rama Steams.h.i.+p Company's M/V Don Esteban Don Esteban, en route from Manila, where he had been engaged with the Commonwealth Congress.

The newest Salvador came into the third generation of family wealth, acquired through a blend of enterprise, sugar, politics, and celebrated stinginess. The four years before the j.a.panese invaded would prove formative: throughout his life the familial roots in the Visayan region represented something promising and pure.

-from the biography in progress, Crispin Salvador: Crispin Salvador: Eight Lives Lived, by Miguel Syjuco *

... eyewitnesses reported two explosions, the second occurring thirty seconds after the first, both on the third floor of McKinley Plaza Mall in Makati. According to a spokesperson for the Lupas Land Corporation, there were no fatalities. No group has claimed responsibility for the ...

-from Philippine-Gazette.com.ph, November 19, 2002 *

INTERVIEWER:.

You wrote in the late 1960s, "Filipino writing must be the conquest of our collective self divorced from those we fear are watching." Do you still think this true?

CS:.

I used to believe authenticity could be achieved solely by describing, in our own words, one's own fragment of experience. This was of course predicated on the complete intellectual and aesthetic independence of the "I." One eventually realizes such intellectual isolationism promotes style, ego, awards. But not change. You see, I toiled, but saw so little improving around me. What were we sowing? I grew impatient with the social politics that literature could address and alter but had until that time been insufficient in so doing. I decided to actively solicit partic.i.p.ation-you know, incite readers to action through my work. I think of the effect of Jose Rizal's books in our own revolution against Spain a century ago. I think of the poetry of Eman Lacaba, who traded his pen for a gun and lived and died in the jungles with the communists in the seventies. "The barefoot army in the wilderness," his famous poem called them. The epigraph of that piece was wonderful. Ho Chi Minh. "A poet must also learn how to lead an attack."

INTERVIEWER:.

Was there something that made you want to lead that attack?

CS:.

Pride and fear of death. Truly. You smile but I kid you not.

INTERVIEWER:.

Your return to the polemical is a criticism often cited. Did you ...

CS:.

It's viewed as two steps backward. Erroneously. When you reach farther and farther, sometimes you come full circle. The task then becomes all the more difficult, false steps more likely-though the eventual outcome may become more pertinent. This of course opens you up to accusations of being quixotic or, worse-or perhaps better-messianic. Mind you, pretension and ambition are different words for the same thing. Truly, it's the artist's-the true artist's-desire for causality that trips critics up.