Ilustrado Part 17

... metaphor for the condition of the Philippines under Imperial Spain. The Spoliarium Spoliarium is considered a paragon ... is considered a paragon ...

The boy pauses. He crosses out "paragon."

... a sine qua non ...

He stops, thinks. Reminds himself to check whether he's using the phrase correctly. Resumes.

... of Philippineness, though most Filipinos, including myself, have not seen it in person, with it either in Spanish custody or hidden away in our own National Museum ...

Sculptural letters land in quick succession, the blur of type bars, an old pair of veinous hands move, like a conjurer's, over the keys, the carriage reaches its limit. A bell sounds.

... Indeed, the Spoliarium Spoliarium is an icon whose inscrutability most Filipinos do not care for or truly understand. Its success is its insolence: the thirteen-by-twenty-two-foot painting won the gold medal in the 1884 Exposicion Nacional de Bellas Artes in Madrid, beating the Spaniards at their own game-they who considered us indios and savages ... is an icon whose inscrutability most Filipinos do not care for or truly understand. Its success is its insolence: the thirteen-by-twenty-two-foot painting won the gold medal in the 1884 Exposicion Nacional de Bellas Artes in Madrid, beating the Spaniards at their own game-they who considered us indios and savages ...

The ink flow lessens and he shakes his pen. It runs smoothly again.

... This morbid view of the depths of a lost civilization is our great keeping-up-with-the-Joneses. In this-its historicity, its infamy, the blank wall where it should be hanging, the blurry facsimile and ungrammatical accompanying blurb-within these, in toto, one sees the allegory for the current state of Salvador's nation. Yet in its center, there stands a quiet figure that may have been of profound meaning to the Panther in exile.

A bell sounds again. The letters continue their staccato pace and on the page appears an asterisk.

I hop on a bus heading toward the Lupas Place Mall. I want to find an Internet cafe to check my e-mail before meeting with Avellaneda. My spam box has been filled with c.r.a.p and I still haven't received an answer from

The bus is crowded and smells like soggy trouser hems. A pudgy young man holds a handkerchief over his mouth and nose and stares at his high-tech cell phone. It goes boing-boing boing-boing. He presses a b.u.t.ton and the screen lights up. The man starts making squeaking noises, bubbles over, and shouts: "Hoy! Listen to this!" He reads from his phone. "Breaking news. Arrests at Lakandula siege. Be the good Lord's vessels for change and stand with brothers and sisters. Tune to AM stations for unfolding events." Somebody calls out, "A radio, who has a radio?" We all turn to the bus driver, who shrugs and points at a brand-new six-disc CD changer duct-taped to the dashboard. The pudgy young man holds up his phone like the Statue of Liberty. It's switched to speaker and a radio commentator says something about the Changco couple. Pa.s.sengers shush each other until the bus is so filled with shushes that n.o.body can hear the radio.

Finally, silence, and the reporter's tinny baritone rings loudly: "... crowd erupted after a young woman ran in front of the battering ram and was the third person forcibly detained by authorities. During the commotion, shots were heard from within the house. We are awaiting word of any casualties. It is believed Mr. Lakandula still controls the hostages. Police have done their best to calm the crowd. In other news, the Chinese influenza continu-"

The pa.s.sengers moan in unison and a woman begins to cry hysterically: "My G.o.d, my Jesus, my Mary, have pity on poor Wigbert.i.to!" An old office worker in a Christmas-themed Bart Simpson necktie pats her shoulders. A meticulously dressed man shouts: "But he's so handsome!" Another fellow up front tells the driver to let him off at the curb. Five others stand to join him. One raises his arms and cries: "Free Lakandula!" The whole bus cheers as the six of them run into the storm, their hands placed atop their heads in utter futility.

When Boy Bastos was still a sperm in Erning's t.e.s.t.i.c.l.e, he was already precocious. One day, he tells his fellow sperms to get ready because he feels the current moving them forward. Boy Bastos, being Boy Bastos, leads the pack. As he is about to shoot forth from Erning's shaft, he shouts, "Go back, go back, it's only tonsils!" The next day, he feels the current moving again and leads the pack once more, this time imbued with an exuberant sense of purpose. At the last instant, he shouts again, "Go back, go back! It's only condom!" The following day, the current flows, and Boy swims forward with temerity, convinced this must be his time to fly forth. Suddenly, he turns back, shouting desperately, "Go back, go back! It's s.h.i.+t!"

Overheard on the bus: "Pare, have you heard the latest news?"

"Jellyfish ate Vita Nova?"

"No! Nuredin Bansamoro met with President Estregan."

"Are you kidding? They're sworn nemeses."

"Well, Bansamoro says to him: Mr. President, please accept this Mercedes-Benz as a peace offering. I hope you'll make me your vice president in the coming election."

"And?"

"Estregan says: Sorry, I don't accept bribes."

"No way!"

"And Senator Bansamoro says: Okay. Then I'll just sell it to you for one peso."

"Wait! Wait! I can guess the punch line! Estregan tells Bansamoro: Fine. At that price, I'll take two!"

Thanks for the e-mails guys. Things are well, though lots of rain, and the Christmas season's made the traffic nightmarish. I'm safe and sound, so quit worrying about the bombings. Thanks, Charlotte, for cc'ing everyone re the advice about my feet. I'm pretty sure it has something to do with my insoles getting wet. I appreciate your suggestion, but I can't believe peeing on my feet in the shower will make them smell better. I'll let you know how that goes. (This better not be a prank!) Honestly, I don't give a sheezy about what's going on with Grapes. It figures that he would get caught up in something like this Philippines First c.r.a.p. (BTW, did you see his picture with Reverend Martin?) His link to PhilFirst isn't in the papers yet (bet he's paying a shedload to keep it out), but we all know his allegiance with d.i.n.kdong Changco runs deep-PhilFirstCorp's biggest factory is in his province, for pete's sake. Yeah, I know politics shouldn't surprise me. But sometimes I still hope-sometimes when I write about a grandfather (or any father figure) based on Grapes and his crazy ways, I try, for the sake of creating a three-dimensional character, to see things his way. I see him as a patriarch who funded his children and their children (sure, sometimes grudgingly) in anything they wanted to study, become, and do. I see the man whom I played with when I was a child, who was proud of me and wanted the best for me (despite all our differences, that that was never in doubt). I see someone who, no matter what we did, took us back in the end (sure, he screamed, of course he screamed). I see a man who had big dreams but failed in most through his own hubris. I find myself crying when I write those fict.i.tious father figures into life on the page, and yet I've never been able to allow myself to cry for Grapes. And when I'm done writing, I'm surprised I feel compa.s.sion for him, and yes, even sympathy. was never in doubt). I see someone who, no matter what we did, took us back in the end (sure, he screamed, of course he screamed). I see a man who had big dreams but failed in most through his own hubris. I find myself crying when I write those fict.i.tious father figures into life on the page, and yet I've never been able to allow myself to cry for Grapes. And when I'm done writing, I'm surprised I feel compa.s.sion for him, and yes, even sympathy.

Sorry I'm rambling. Thing is, while I try to disconnect myself (as I have), while I try to forget that fight in the hotel room when they kicked me out, and forget my hate, and turn it into empowering disinterest, I find that what returns with the sympathy is this odd feeling of hope. I try to disconnect myself, but I know that when I one day earn my PhD, instead of being proud (though he'll say he is), he'll instead remark: "Oh, I have four," even if they are all honoris causa honoris causa from provincial schools. I know that when I write my book, instead of being proud of my years of hard work (though he'll say he is), he'll remark: "Oh, I've written five," even if someone ghostwrote them and public funds were used to publish them. I know that it's not a compet.i.tion-and if it was, I'd win by default by simply not caring. And so I try not to care. How can someone from provincial schools. I know that when I write my book, instead of being proud of my years of hard work (though he'll say he is), he'll remark: "Oh, I've written five," even if someone ghostwrote them and public funds were used to publish them. I know that it's not a compet.i.tion-and if it was, I'd win by default by simply not caring. And so I try not to care. How can someone try try not to care? not to care?

I'd rather see our grandfather fail with dignity than succeed with such toadying. My view of politics and the opportunities he extended to me would be very different had he ever made a public stand for something n.o.bler than his vested interest and good intentions. Seeing him dragged into this PhilFirst stuff, seeing him drag Granma into politics by making her take over the governors.h.i.+p when none of us wanted it, seeing him drag our good name through the mud by allying one year with Estregan and Changco and the next year with Reverend Martin and Bansamoro, or whoever the revolving door has connected him with over the decades-it all makes me doubt him even more. I think his helping the country is just a way to satisfy his own view of self (Is a selfless act ever unselfish? Can a selfish man never be selfless?). Sure, he's rich enough not to steal, so Granma says. But still. Once, Grapes was a just man of promise. Now, he's just a man of compromise.

No, Mario, I can't, as you say, "fix things for the sake of peace." I don't want to be a hypocrite. (Though, of course, there's our guilt that his failure stems from all those years exiled abroad as he raised us.) I have sympathy, and therefore I have sadness. But what will happen to him when all this PhilFirstCorp business blows up? Probably not a thing. The thing is, we'll we'll know about the stands he didn't take. know about the stands he didn't take.

I'm sorry for this rant. But you guys asked how things are going.

-e-mail from me to my siblings, December 7, 2002 *

The balimbing, known in Spanish as the carambola carambola and in English as the star fruit, is a gra.s.s green to straw yellow fruit with almost luminescent, rubbery flesh. Growing to about four inches long, it has five longitudinal angular lobes and, when sliced, its pieces form perfect star shapes. The fruit tastes tart and clean and contains iron, vitamins B and C, oxalate, and pota.s.sium. A poultice of its leaves is often used to treat ringworm, while a tea of its seeds is a tonic for asthma and intestinal gas. Due to the fruit's many sides, or faces, the term "balimbing" is often used disparagingly to refer to politicians and traitors, though in my mind it can also refer to the versatile, Ja.n.u.s-like character of the Filipino. While our national fruit is officially the mango, arbitrarily mandated by the Americans during their occupation, it is not a long bow to draw to propose the balimbing as the country's unofficial fruit, due to its metaphoric significance. and in English as the star fruit, is a gra.s.s green to straw yellow fruit with almost luminescent, rubbery flesh. Growing to about four inches long, it has five longitudinal angular lobes and, when sliced, its pieces form perfect star shapes. The fruit tastes tart and clean and contains iron, vitamins B and C, oxalate, and pota.s.sium. A poultice of its leaves is often used to treat ringworm, while a tea of its seeds is a tonic for asthma and intestinal gas. Due to the fruit's many sides, or faces, the term "balimbing" is often used disparagingly to refer to politicians and traitors, though in my mind it can also refer to the versatile, Ja.n.u.s-like character of the Filipino. While our national fruit is officially the mango, arbitrarily mandated by the Americans during their occupation, it is not a long bow to draw to propose the balimbing as the country's unofficial fruit, due to its metaphoric significance.

-from My Philippine Islands My Philippine Islands (with 80 color plates) (with 80 color plates), by Crispin Salvador *

INTERVIEWER:.

You've written about regret. It seems to be a touchstone for you. What is your biggest regret?

CS:.

What a question! The deepest regrets are the most personal. If I haven't sufficiently shared it via my writing, then maybe it should remain unspoken. INTERVIEWER:.

There must be something you wish you could have done better.

CS:.

Fine. Perhaps speaking of it here will help absolve me. My father had an opponent-a nemesis-Respeto Reyes. A good man, it turns out. Very influential, except his uncompromising morals made his political career difficult. If he had not been such a good man he would have become president. Such is our country. But when I started my career as a journalist-this was shortly after I left my parents' home, 1964 I think-part of me wanted to please my father still. You see, it had always been Junior Salvador versus Respeto Reyes, an ongoing Thrilla in Manila. And don't we spend our lives trying to please our parents, even when we're trying to stick it to them? My father raised me to hate his enemies. My first writing job was helping my father with his speeches. We used all sorts of dirty tricks. Insinuated Reyes's h.o.m.os.e.xuality, which was something completely unfounded. Purported that since Reyes had never been linked to any shadiness or wrong-doing, then he must be particularly vile, better at hiding his own dirt than anyone else. You see the skewed logic, no? Even after I left home, I still still wrote articles against Reyes. For example, when he was imprisoned and tortured by Marcos in the seventies, I wrote that sometimes even a bad dictator has a good day. I just couldn't understand. Couldn't see, for decades, what a statesman Reyes was proving to be. I tell you, even when you hate your parents, you still end up defending them to the end. It's a hopeful act more than it is dutiful or conciliatory. The truth is that the disappointment you feel toward your parents testifies to the excess of faith you always had in them. wrote articles against Reyes. For example, when he was imprisoned and tortured by Marcos in the seventies, I wrote that sometimes even a bad dictator has a good day. I just couldn't understand. Couldn't see, for decades, what a statesman Reyes was proving to be. I tell you, even when you hate your parents, you still end up defending them to the end. It's a hopeful act more than it is dutiful or conciliatory. The truth is that the disappointment you feel toward your parents testifies to the excess of faith you always had in them.

Alas, I've never been able to rectify my actions against Reyes. That is the one and only thing I've ever truly regretted in my life.

-from a 1988 interview in The Paris Review The Paris Review *

My final meeting is in fifteen minutes. Then all that's left is to seek out Dulcinea.

This interview with Marcel Avellaneda may be a scoop. n.o.body's ever said what sparked his animosity toward Crispin. They feuded as only former best friends can.

I took the wrong jeepney to the theater and had to walk. After wandering the labyrinthine streets, my feet really starting to kill me, I found the theater. First I saw its spires and pinnacles, and then its facade, pink and white like a seash.e.l.l amid the gray flotsam of buildings. I couldn't get in, its birds-of-paradise grillwork was shut tight. Finally, I found a gate with a rusted lock that opened.

I turn on my cell phone to use as a flashlight.

Inside the lobby, it is like stepping into sepia, with sunlight filtering through stained-gla.s.s windows and lingering on the soaring ceiling and Art Deco embellishments. But exposed wiring hangs where fixtures should be, and debris is piled high enough to block entrances to rooms that may well never be visited again. A strange place for a meeting. Thick dust has gathered like snow on the black skin of a reclining statue. I hear something beyond some double doors. An old man's voice.

I go quietly into the main performance hall. In the darkness, the doorways to the lobby are like obelisks of light. Their reach is just enough to frost the proscenium arch with gray. My cell phone, no brighter than a candle, gives the room a sanctified atmosphere more befitting a memorial. A set of footprints in the dust leads to the front of the room. I follow them and stand before the famous arch, the inspiration for Crispin's Palanca Awardwinning short story, "One-Act Play." Taking off from the work of Alain Robbe-Grillet, the piece is about a murder committed on this stage and the innumerable possibilities of how the scene could have played out. Framing the drama is Crispin's description of the setting. I've always remembered: "1001 scenes by 1001 woodcarvers, each instructed to succ.u.mb to his imagination and recall the stories of his youth. The result is a soaring frieze filled with un.o.btainable young women, every variety of native fruit, nationalistic flags, a stallion pulling an ornate kalesa, the epic battle in which Lapu Lapu slew Magellan, the two tablets of the Ten Commandments, the flora and fauna of the islands, upheld fists, churches, Intramuros, chubby-bubby sons and roly-poly daughters, Andres Bonifacio leading a revolutionary charge, a roast suckling pig with an apple in its mouth, Jesus on the cross, a woman planting rice in a polished paddy, a crescent moon embracing a single star, a giant spoon and fork, so many other et ceteras and et ceteras."

Fiction, however, sometimes ensures disappointment with reality. The arch only sports carvings of the four Muses-Poetry, Music, Tragedy, Comedy-nothing more. The sobriety of fact. Here, too, was where Crispin had his short run for his disco opera, All Around the World. All Around the World. I've seen photos of opening night-the set a stylized deck of Magellan's frigate, the I've seen photos of opening night-the set a stylized deck of Magellan's frigate, the Victoria Victoria; singing conquistadors in tight polyester pants dangling from the rigging; a dis...o...b..ll representing the moon in the sky behind the mizzenmast.

I get onto the stage and wait for Avellaneda. The doorways dim. Something rustles among the debris. I call out his name. Dr. Avellaneda! My voice echoes into voices. Like someone's watching. I call his name again.

What was that?

The four faces stare at me. Tragedy and Comedy in equal measure, while Poetry and Music seem indifferent, caught up in themselves.

I don't think Avellaneda's coming.

Nothing-not the years, not Salvador's death-ever seems to satiate the anger. I wait longer than I should. He said he was going to show me what Crispin did. When the darkness is complete, I go my own way.

8.

There are only three truths. That which can be known. That which can never be known. The third, which concerns the writer alone, truly is neither of these.

-from the 1987 essay "Crucifictions," by Crispin Salvador *

Boy Bastos is four years old and quite the talker. Because of his parents' broken marriage, he's a constant source of aggravation to his mother, though she's pleased he's finally taken to calling her lover, the congressman, "Papa." One day Boy sees his mother dressing.

"Mama, what are those things on your chest?"

"Those are my life preservers for swimming."

"Great! Since I can't swim, can I have them for the pool?"

"No, Boy. I need them."

Then, referring to his pretty nanny, Boy asks: "Then can I use my yaya's?"

His mother replies scornfully: "No, son, hers have no air in them."

"But how can that be?" says Boy. "Last night while you were at mahjong I saw Papa blowing them up!"

I have dinner near the theater at a canteen called Beery Good. Rice cakes, a bowl of blood stew, and a can of Sarsi from a dour lady who stands fanning a charcoal grill. You can smell the skewers of a.s.sorted things slowly roasting. I'm trying to reach Avellaneda on my cell phone but he's not picking up. The TV in the corner is too loud anyway.

The only patrons are me and a pair of cops. A variety show is on, hosted by a gorgeous Filipina-American actress with a whining Californian accent. She tries speaking Taglish but it's really much less Tagalog than it is English. She mixes up her verb tenses.

Four members of the studio audience are competing to see who can drink the most shot gla.s.ses of Datu Puti vinegar. Their faces are contorted and the crowd is laughing. Finally, all but one gives up and she-Queenie, a middle-aged canteen cook from Barangay Quijote, Quezon City-is given the choice between a cash prize of up to ten thousand pesos (three months' salary) or the mystery reward inside the bayong, a woven bag for market produce or the transport of fighting c.o.c.ks.

The dour lady comes and stands beside me to watch. She clasps her hands and shakes them like she's about to throw dice. I'm worried she'll grab my arm. Queenie chooses the bayong. Camera zooms onto her lips. She's praying. She opens the bag. Pulls out a lollipop. The crowd squeals in delight. Queenie, holding back tears, smiles gamely.

The dour lady wails. "Jesusmariajosep!" She storms into the kitchen. Plates are banged. Her outburst has twisted the cops around. They look at me. One has a hungry face and squints while finis.h.i.+ng his Red Horse beer. Bottles litter their table like spent sh.e.l.l casings or illegitimate children. The other cop, dark and movie-star handsome, is contorting his mouth, trying to free with his tongue bits of food from between his gums and cheek.

Cold sweat trickles down my sides.

The gaunt one stands. Stretches. Adjusts his gun belt. He approaches. His smile is strange, as if designed to show off his gold tooth. He stands above me as I look at my food. "Sir," he says, "do you mind?" He speaks with a fake American accent. "Can we change the channel?" He points with his lips at the television. I nod and smile. He smiles back. "You should be getting home," he says. "Something bad is going to happen tonight." He adjusts his gun belt and looks out at the sky.

The channel is switched to a popular news show. A talking head complains: "It's environmental terrorism. Green imperialism." He is a bald man with huge eyegla.s.ses. "How are they so concerned with the habitats of fish, when people-people!-in this country can't afford regular meals? Imagine how poor this nation would be without the leaders.h.i.+p of the PhilFirst Corporation! These foreigners should be tried under the laws of our our country. Instead, they are confined to their s.h.i.+p. Drinking wine and playing games! Is that justice?" country. Instead, they are confined to their s.h.i.+p. Drinking wine and playing games! Is that justice?"

A woman with frizzy hair replies: "What about extradition treaties?"

The man shakes his head. "Inapplicable! In fact, my client is launching an investigation for the public's interest and safety, and will prosecute these so-called World Wardens to the furthest extent possible. That is what laws are for."

It had been a long time since she'd done it. Dulce wondered if she believed enough anymore. All those times before, she was younger. Now, she even felt felt older. The difference between eleven and fifteen is huge, nearly a third of her life! It seemed that with every year the colors of the world faded little by little. Besides, Kap wouldn't be there to catch her. older. The difference between eleven and fifteen is huge, nearly a third of her life! It seemed that with every year the colors of the world faded little by little. Besides, Kap wouldn't be there to catch her.

Dulce did remember the laws of magic, but she'd also been taught the laws of physics in school. Those were immutable laws. Gravity would always be gravity. But maybe, if one believed enough, one could slow it. Control her fall. Because falling, if you live in the moment, is really just flying, at least until you reach the ground. That's what Kap always said. So what was Dulce so afraid of? It was just an act of will. Like getting up to go to school when you're too sleepy.

As she'd done so many times with Kap, Dulce stepped off the branch. She believed she hadn't outgrown the things that mattered. She believed she could be lighter than air again. She believed she wouldn't fall. She believed.

Dulce fell. She slowed. She sank, gently, like a feather, downward. She reached the ground. The soles of her feet on the soil finally took all of her weight, yet Dulce felt strangely lighter than she'd ever been. She looked at her shoes. Yes, they were firmly planted on the ground. But she felt likse a brand-new person.

The stars above shone as if they were applauding.

-from Ay Naku! Ay Naku!, Book Three of Crispin Salvador's Kaputol Kaputol trilogy trilogy *

On the way back to the hotel, my taxi is stopped at a roadblock. The elderly driver, shaking visibly, rolls down his window. He tugs and twirls the long hairs growing from a mole on his cheek. A soldier, water pouring off his s.h.i.+ny green raincoat, bends to s.h.i.+ne a flash-light in our faces. He's wearing a painter's mask over his mouth and nose. "License please." He and the driver exchange quiet words. The soldier goes to the back, knocks on the trunk. It clicks open. The driver turns to smile at me. "It's nothing," he says. "They search taxis tonight. One exploded today near Malacanang Palace." The soldier bangs the trunk shut. Returns.

"Your spare tire is bald," he says. He bends to look at us, his face lacquered with rain.

"If I needed it, it would work," says the driver. "I can't afford a new one."

"I'll have to issue you a ticket and confiscate your license."

"Can I pay the penalty now?"

"You can instead."

"How much?"

"One hundred pesos."

I pipe up from the backseat: "Are you authorized to be giving traffic tickets?"

"Two hundred pesos," the soldier says, not looking at me.